Welcome to my little corner of Tumblr. Here you'll find Clark Kent / Superman x Reader stories, series, headcanons, and more. Everything is organized below to make it easier to navigate.
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🤍 Thank you so much for reading, liking, commenting, and especially for reblogging my work. Every interaction truly means a lot to me and motivates me to keep writing.
Welcome to my little corner of Tumblr. Here you'll find Clark Kent / Superman x Reader stories, series, headcanons, and more. Everything is organized below to make it easier to navigate.
📖Navigation
📚 Masterlist | 📩 Requests
⚠️ Blog Rules | ♡ About Me
🌐 Find me here
📚 AO3: One Shots Superman
📖 Wattpad: Superman One Shots
🤍 Thank you so much for reading, liking, commenting, and especially for reblogging my work. Every interaction truly means a lot to me and motivates me to keep writing.
I'm still updating the latest stories, but here it is—there are blog rules, like how to place an request, if you want to get to know me a little better :)
I'm 24 years old (25 soon!), a Libra ♎, and somehow an INTP who's mysteriously extroverted whenever I'm surrounded by introverts.
I honestly think I'd be way too shy to talk to Clark Kent in real life... so I guess that's why I write about him instead. ♡
Before Superman (2025), I always thought my type was the quiet, mysterious guy. Then Clark Kent happened, and I realized I completely fell for the kind, awkward, loyal man who would do anything for the people he loves. Seeing such a warm and human version of Clark is probably what inspired me to start writing these stories.
When I'm not writing, you'll probably find me drinking tea (I'm trying to win my battle against insomnia ☕🍵), taking photographs, or listening to music.
My favorite colors are purple and yellow. 💜💛
Some of my favorite fictional characters are Clark Kent, Bucky Barnes, Peter Parker, Steve Rogers, and Bob from Thunderbolts.
I'm also an ARMY. My bias is Namjoon (RM), and I admire the way he sees the world. His music often feels like it puts my own thoughts into words.
One day I'd love to learn more about astronomy. 🌌
Writing became a huge part of my life during university. Spending years writing essays and studying the real world somehow made my imagination grow even bigger... and maybe that's why I love creating little worlds where hope, kindness, and love still exist.
Thank you for visiting my little corner of Tumblr. I hope my stories can make you smile, even if it's just for a little while. 🤍
Sinopsis: Three weeks into their fake relationship, the line between acting and reality begins to blur. As feelings grow stronger and the truth becomes impossible to ignore, both you and Clark must decide whether to let the lie end—or finally admit what has been real all along.
Warnings: Workplace Harassment, Stalking Behavior, Emotional Distress, Anxiety, Self-Doubt, Fear of Rejection
WC: 8,400 words approx.
Three weeks.
They had been doing this for three whole weeks.
And Clark had made those weeks so charming that sometimes you forgot it was all a lie.
For a moment, when he smiled at you from across the desks, or handed you a freshly made coffee without you even having to ask, or when his fingers laced with yours as you walked down the stairs, it felt real.
Like you were actually dating.
Like you actually cared about each other.
Like all of this would actually last forever.
But then you remembered it was a favor.
That Clark was kind to everyone.
That there was nothing special about the way he treated you.
And the cold returned.
They had thought a month would be enough.
One month of lies.
One month of fake kisses and intertwined hands.
And Benjamin would get bored and finally leave you alone.
That had been the plan.
But Benjamin didn't get bored.
Benjamin didn't give up.
If anything, the lie seemed to entertain him even more.
Because now he wasn't just bothering you.
Now he was making jokes.
And his jokes weren't funny.
They were the kind of jokes that made you freeze.
The kind that stole the air from your lungs.
The kind that made you grit your teeth to stop yourself from saying something you'd regret later.
One day, while everyone was at their desks, you and Clark were drinking coffee and Lois was flipping through a newspaper a few desks away, Benjamin approached with his mug in hand and that smile you hated with every fiber of your being.
He leaned casually against your desk.
Right in front of you.
And spoke loudly enough for everyone nearby to hear.
"Well, when Clark breaks your heart, please come to me. I actually know how to treat a woman."
He laughed as if he had said something incredibly clever.
And your blood ran cold.
Lois looked at him with such obvious irritation that it seemed like sparks might shoot from her eyes.
She opened her mouth, undoubtedly preparing a very colorful insult.
But she never got the chance.
Because at that moment, you felt your chair move.
Clark had grabbed the backrest and gently pulled you closer to him, as though it were the most natural thing in the world.
Then you felt his hand settle against your waist.
His palm rested there, fingers spread, firm but never tight.
The warmth of his touch traveled through your clothes and straight to your skin.
It was a calm touch.
The kind that didn't say you're mine.
The kind that said,
It's okay. I'm here.
And it worked.
Every time Benjamin tried to make you uncomfortable, Clark appeared with a gesture like that.
And it felt as though the fear slowly dissolved.
Like a reward after a long week.
Like an unexpected gift that made you smile inside.
But it wasn't a possessive touch.
Clark never took advantage.
Never put his hands where they shouldn't be.
Never held you too tightly.
Never lingered longer than necessary.
It was simply a hand on your waist.
Steady.
Comforting.
The kind of touch that said,
I'm here. You're not alone.
And even though you knew it was part of the act—
Even though you knew he was only doing it to make Benjamin leave—
You still liked it.
Far too much.
"Then you'll have to wait a little longer," Clark said.
His voice was so calm it sounded as though he were discussing the weather.
"Maybe a few more months. Or years. Unless we end up getting married, of course."
The sentence made you go pale.
Married.
He had said married.
Your heart lurched so violently you thought it might leap right out of your chest.
You stared at Clark with wide eyes.
But he was still looking at Benjamin with that polite smile that wasn't entirely polite.
From Jimmy's desk came an explosive coughing fit, as if someone had choked on their own breath.
Benjamin's eyes widened too.
And for a second—
Just one second—
You saw him caught completely off guard.
Speechless.
Clark didn't give him time to recover.
He turned toward you.
Leaned slightly closer.
And looked at you with such gentle eyes that they almost hurt.
"Ready for lunch?" he asked.
With his free hand, he brushed a loose strand of hair away from your face.
Then tucked it behind your ear with a tenderness that sent a shiver across your skin.
"Yes," you answered.
Your voice came out much higher than you intended.
But you smiled.
A real smile.
The kind that appeared without permission.
You grabbed your purse with trembling hands.
Clark took your hand.
He held it as naturally as though he'd done it a thousand times before.
And perhaps he had.
Three weeks of holding your hand had already turned into habit.
The habit of taking your hand.
The habit of walking beside you.
The habit of making you feel safe.
He pulled you gently to his side and draped an arm across your shoulders in a loose embrace.
Then he walked away with you toward the elevator.
Benjamin remained behind.
Coffee mug still in hand.
Expression twisted.
But you didn't look back.
You didn't want to see him.
You only wanted to leave with Clark.
When the elevator doors closed behind you and you were finally alone, Clark immediately stepped away.
It was almost as though he had been waiting for privacy to drop the act.
One step.
Then another.
He adjusted his glasses with a finger.
His cheeks were slightly pink.
And his smile looked much more shy than before.
"I hope I didn't overwhelm you," he said immediately, speaking a little faster than usual.
"The marriage thing, I mean. That was too much, wasn't it? I'm sorry. It just slipped out. I wanted him to leave already, and I couldn't think of anything else to say, and—"
"If this lie keeps going," you interrupted, a laugh escaping your chest, "we're going to have to adopt children and pretend they're ours."
Clark looked at you with wide eyes.
For a second, you worried you had said something incredibly stupid.
But then he laughed too.
A soft, warm laugh.
And his entire face relaxed.
"We could name the girl Sophia," he suggested, as though he were being completely serious.
You laughed.
A real laugh.
The kind that bent your body forward and made your stomach hurt.
"Sophia?" you repeated between giggles.
"It's a pretty name," Clark said with a shrug.
"And if it's a boy," you replied, wiping a tear of laughter from your eye, "we can name him Derek. Like Derek Shepherd."
Clark nodded.
His smile was so wide that dimples appeared in his cheeks.
"Derek Kent," he said, testing the name despite the fact that it didn't sound quite right.
He was obviously lying.
And you laughed again.
"Sounds good."
"We still have time to think about it," you suggested.
And both of you smiled.
Neither of you willing to admit how frighteningly easy it was becoming to imagine a future that was supposed to be fake.
Then came the newsroom party.
Clark told you about it the day before, during your "fake couple dinner", because that was normal now, wasn't it?
It was normal for the two of you to leave work together and go to the Italian restaurant afterward, to ask for the same table as always, to share pasta and talk about your days as if you had been doing it for years.
It didn't even feel strange anymore.
It was part of the routine, like going down to the editors' floor or getting coffee from the machine in the hallway.
But that night, while you watched Clark move the silverware with his large hands, something wouldn't leave you alone.
Something had been eating away at you from the inside for days, and you knew you had to say it.
"Clark," you began, letting your fingers fall onto the table, gently tapping the checkered tablecloth. "Do you think this is still okay?"
He lifted his gaze from his plate.
There was a little sauce at the corner of his mouth, barely visible, and you thought you should tell him so he could wipe it away, but you didn't.
You just kept looking at him.
Waiting.
"Because at the end of the day, we're..." You tried to find the right words, the ones that wouldn't sound so harsh, the ones that wouldn't make him defensive.
But you couldn't find them.
So you told the truth, even though the truth hurt a little.
"Lying."
Clark didn't say anything at first.
He only placed his silverware on the table, slowly, and leaned back against his chair.
He looked at you with those clear eyes that seemed to see beyond what you wanted to show him.
And you felt your stomach twist, because yes, of course you were lying.
Pretending was hard.
It was hard to wake up every morning and remember that everything you did, every kiss on the cheek, every hand held, every time he brushed your hair away from your face, was part of a show.
The hard part wasn't acting for everyone else.
The hard part was acting for yourself.
Because that lie was starting to make you feel strange around Clark.
But not strange in an uncomfortable way.
Not the kind that made you want to run away.
It was a different kind of strange.
The kind that made you wonder things you shouldn't be wondering.
Like whether Clark could ever truly fall in love with someone like you.
Because sometimes, in the way he looked at you, in how gentle his voice was when he asked how you had slept, in how natural it felt to have his hand on your waist, for one second you believed it was real.
You believed he felt something too.
But then came the question.
The question that always arrived like a cold shower:
And you? Did you believe Clark could fall in love with you?
The answer was no.
You didn't believe it.
Because Clark was kind to everyone.
Because Clark treated the cleaning lady with the same sweetness he showed you.
Because Clark didn't see you as someone special, only as one more person on his list of people to help.
And you weren't a reporter.
You didn't have interesting opinions like the people who wrote articles did.
You didn't know how to talk about politics or economics or the important things happening in the world.
You only took pictures.
You hid behind a camera and captured moments, but when someone asked for your opinion, when someone asked what you truly thought, your words got tangled and you either said something silly or stayed quiet.
You didn't have a well-formed opinion, and that made you feel strange.
As if you didn't quite fit there.
As if you were a guest who had stayed longer than she should have.
So continuing with that lie could only hurt you.
You knew that.
Every day you spent with Clark, every kind gesture he made for you, every time you laughed together, you were digging a deeper hole.
A hole that would hurt to climb out of later.
Because the lie was going to end.
It had to end.
And when it ended, Clark would still be Clark, kind to everyone, and you would be just another coworker.
A photographer he had once pretended to date.
And nothing more.
Clark smiled.
Despite everything, he smiled.
And that smile broke your heart a little because you couldn't read what he was feeling.
It was impossible.
His face was like a closed book, one with no title on the cover.
Did he feel anything after pretending for so long?
Or was this just another favor to him, like helping Steve with an article or walking Zoe to the printer?
You didn't know.
And not knowing was the worst part.
"Then we won't go to the party together," Clark said, and his voice sounded different, lower, as if he had made a decision that cost him something.
You stared at him with wide eyes.
You hadn't expected that.
You thought he would say you should keep pretending a little longer, that you should endure it until Benjamin finally got tired.
But no.
He chose the first option.
Separation.
And that hurt more than you wanted to admit.
"Well..." you began, but the words got stuck in your throat.
And then you knew.
You knew that what you were about to say was probably the reason you had decided to end all of this.
Because you couldn't keep going.
Because every day you spent falling a little more in love with him, every fake caress that made your heart race, was a broken promise.
And you didn't want to reach the point where you couldn't look at him without crying.
So you took a deep breath, clenched your hands under the table so he wouldn't see them trembling, and said it.
"I heard Sarah say she liked you."
Clark went still.
He blinked twice.
Three times.
As if he hadn't heard you correctly.
His lips parted slightly, but no words came out.
You felt your throat burn, but you continued, even though it hurt to say, even though every syllable felt like swallowing ground glass.
"The other day, in the break room. She was talking to Marta and said she's wanted you for a while."
You lowered your gaze to your plate, to the pasta you barely wanted to eat anymore.
"Maybe you should invite her. To the party, I mean. Or out. Whatever you want."
Clark didn't answer right away.
He looked at you with an expression you couldn't decipher, something between confusion and surprise.
Then, after a silence that felt eternal, he spoke.
"So soon?" he asked, his voice strange, as though he were thinking out loud.
You lifted your head and looked at him in confusion.
"Soon?"
"Yes," Clark said, shaking his head as though what you had just said was absurd. "We're supposed to be breaking up today, aren't we? So... finding a date for Saturday's gathering wouldn't be very appropriate. Especially if I'm going to be devastated over you."
You laughed.
You couldn't help it.
A small, trembling laugh that came from deep inside your chest.
It made you laugh that he said "devastated," as if he were a character in an old movie, as if it truly mattered to him that people didn't think badly of him.
But you also laughed because it was sweet.
Because even though everything was fake, even though there were no real feelings behind his words, he wanted to be loyal to you.
He wanted to protect the lie until the very last moment, for you, so you wouldn't look bad.
And somehow, that hurt more than if he had said yes, that he was going to invite Sarah.
"Are you going with someone?" Clark asked, tilting his head to one side.
You shrugged, pretending you didn't care, even though inside you felt as if something you couldn't name was collapsing.
"Well, I can be the one who cries over you. That way you can invite whoever you want without it looking bad."
Clark frowned slightly, as though he didn't like the idea.
"Besides," you continued, speaking faster so you wouldn't have time to regret it, "I've already interfered enough in your life. Sarah probably wanted to go out with you for a while, and because of me, because of my lie, she couldn't. It isn't fair to her. Or to you."
"No," Clark said suddenly, with a firmness that surprised you.
He shook his head from side to side, and his eyes locked onto yours with an intensity that stole the air from your lungs.
"You can't cry over a man. I mean... you're far too beautiful to cry over anyone."
He fell silent as soon as he finished the sentence, as though he had only just realized what he had said.
His cheeks turned red.
Truly red.
He pushed his glasses up with a trembling finger.
Looked down.
Looked up.
Looked down again.
And a quiet, awkward "right?" escaped his lips in a whisper.
You laughed.
Again.
But this laugh was different.
Softer.
Warmer.
You laughed because Clark had blushed like a teenager, because he had said something so lovely without meaning to, because for one second, just one second, it seemed like his words weren't part of the show.
But then you thought you were exaggerating.
That surely he was just being kind.
That you shouldn't read more into it than there was.
So you stored that sentence in a secret place inside your heart, in that little drawer where you kept the things that made you happy but that you couldn't take out.
"Then we'll just go separately," you said, shrugging again as if it were the simplest thing in the world. "That way everyone will know we've broken up. And that's it. End of the lie."
"And what will happen with the editor?" Clark asked, his voice turning serious again. "Benjamin. Once he knows we're no longer together, he'll start bothering you again."
"I guess I'll face it," you said, and this time you didn't laugh.
Because that wasn't funny.
"And if it gets worse, I'll tell Perry. I don't know if anything will come of it, I don't know if they'll believe me, but maybe that's better than always dodging him, hiding behind other people, feeling afraid all the time."
Clark nodded slowly, his face serious.
He said nothing, but his eyes stayed fixed on yours for a long while, as if he were committing your face to memory.
"Thank you, Clark," you said, and this time your voice came out steadier.
A smile formed on your lips, the kind that appears when something hurts but you're still grateful.
"It was the best fake relationship I've ever had. Better than the real ones, even."
Clark smiled too, and that smile reached your soul.
It was sincere, the kind that crinkled his eyes and made people look even more beautiful.
"I only did the basics," he said, shrugging as if it wasn't a big deal. "What every man is supposed to do. Treat a woman well, take care of her, listen to her. I didn't do anything extraordinary."
You laughed softly and shook your head.
"To you, it's basic. To others, it isn't. To others, that's too much."
Neither of you said anything else after that.
You finished dinner in silence, but it was a comfortable silence, the kind that didn't need words.
Clark paid the bill, as always, and walked you to the entrance of your building.
You walked slowly, without rushing, your hands tucked into your pockets so you wouldn't be tempted to hold them.
Because there was no need anymore.
The lie had ended.
When you arrived, Clark stopped on the sidewalk, right before the steps leading up to your door.
He slid his hands into his pants pockets and looked at you with a slightly sad smile.
Or maybe that was your imagination.
Maybe you were only seeing what you wanted to see.
"Well," Clark said, moving his head as though he didn't quite know what to do with his body now that he couldn't kiss you goodbye. "Take care. And if anything happens, if Benjamin bothers you again, tell me. It doesn't matter if we're not a fake couple anymore. Tell me anyway."
"Okay," you said, a knot in your throat making it hard to speak properly. "Thank you for everything, Clark. Truly."
Clark nodded.
He took one step back.
Then another.
And turned to leave.
He walked a few meters away, hands still in his pockets, head lowered.
You stayed there watching him, watching as he moved farther away, as he became smaller in the empty street.
Your heart was beating hard.
Too hard.
And something in your chest begged you to call out to him, to tell him not to leave, to tell him you didn't want it to end.
But you didn't.
You stayed silent, arms crossed over your chest, watching Clark disappear around the corner.
And when he finally vanished, when only the echo of his footsteps remained on the asphalt, you felt the cold again.
The same cold as always.
Only bigger.
Heavier.
As if the entire winter had settled inside you.
You climbed the stairs on unsteady legs, opened the door to your apartment, locked it behind you, and collapsed onto the couch without even turning on the light.
The darkness wrapped around you like a blanket.
And you stayed there, staring at the ceiling, thinking about Clark.
About his smile.
About his hand on your waist.
About the way he said your name.
About how he had told you that you were far too beautiful to cry over anyone.
And then, before you could do anything to stop it, one tear slipped from your eye.
Then another.
And another.
You cried over Clark, even though he had told you not to.
You cried because the lie had ended, but the real feelings were still there, large and heavy and impossible to ignore.
You cried because you liked Clark.
Because you had liked him since the first coffee he offered you.
And now, after a month and two weeks of fake kisses and held hands, you liked him even more.
The next day, you arrived at the Planet.
The building looked the same as always, with those high walls and that smell of paper and coffee you already knew by heart.
You rode the elevator up, clutching your purse against your chest, feeling the eyes of people coming in and out on every floor.
You were calm.
Or at least, you were trying to be.
Inside, you still had that knot in your stomach, the one that didn't go away no matter how deeply you breathed or how hard you tried to think of pretty things.
The elevator opened on the top floor.
That was where they usually placed the crowded tables for social events, those folding metal tables that were always scratched and covered in coffee stains.
But not today.
Today, everything was different.
The tables were large and round, covered with white tablecloths that fell all the way to the floor.
There were flowers in the center.
Real flowers.
The kind that smelled lovely and clearly cost money.
The chairs had fabric covers and bows tied around the backs, and small lights had been hung on the walls, twinkling like stars.
Everything looked elegant.
Beautiful.
As if someone had spent the entire night decorating the room.
You walked through the entrance, and everyone looked at you.
There was curiosity in their eyes.
It was obvious from miles away.
Some people arched their brows.
Others whispered something into the ear of the person beside them.
And a woman from accounting looked you up and down as though she were doing mental calculations.
You knew why.
You knew it was obvious what had happened when they saw Clark hadn't arrived with you.
It gave the impression that a breakup had occurred.
So you sighed, squared your shoulders, and walked toward the table with the drinks and food.
You weren't going to hide.
You weren't going to give them the satisfaction of seeing you uncomfortable.
There was everything on the table.
Sandwiches cut into triangles, cups filled with colorful juices, trays of cookies and little cakes, and a pile of fried things you absolutely loved.
You grabbed a plastic plate, one of those thin white ones that bends if you put too much weight on it, and served yourself some chopped fries.
You looked at them for a moment, took a bite of one, and chewed slowly as you watched the people around you laugh and talk.
"I knew it," a voice said beside you.
Your heart dropped straight into your stomach.
You knew that voice.
You hated it with your entire soul.
You turned your head, and there was Benjamin, wearing his gray suit and that crooked smile, leaning against the table as if he owned the place.
You looked at him without speaking, only with your eyes, and felt the fries get stuck in your throat.
"It's just that you weren't Kent's type," he said.
His eyes moved over your face, up and down, as though he were measuring you, as though you were a trophy he had lost.
"You're more... I don't know. He seems nerdier, more boring. I told you I could be more fun."
He took one step closer.
Then another.
His voice became lower, more intimate, as if the two of you were alone in the room despite the hundreds of people around you.
You felt your skin prickle.
Felt your hands begin to tremble.
But this time, you didn't freeze.
This time, you moved your foot.
One step back.
Then two.
You moved away from him as if he were fire that could burn you.
"Benjamin," you said, and your voice came out firmer than you felt, "even if I left Clark and every man in the world disappeared, I would never, not even if I were born again, go out with you. So please, be more professional."
The man stared at you.
He blinked twice, as if he couldn't believe what he had just heard.
Around you, a few people turned to look.
A girl from human resources stopped eating her little cake and stared.
A guy from sports raised an eyebrow.
You had drawn attention.
But you didn't care.
You weren't going to stay quiet this time.
"You've become quite insolent," Benjamin said, and his voice was no longer soft.
It had an edge now.
A sharpness that made you clench your teeth.
"Do you call a woman insolent for trying to stop being harassed by a man who refuses to leave her alone?" you asked.
And even though you were trembling with fear inside, even though you felt like your legs might give out beneath you, you kept talking.
He couldn't do anything to you.
Not with so many people around.
Not in the middle of the party.
Maybe on Monday.
Maybe on Monday, when you were alone, he would find a way to retaliate.
But not today.
Today, you were safe.
"What a strange concept of kindness you have."
Benjamin smiled.
But it wasn't a pleasant smile.
It was the kind of smile people wear when they're planning something ugly.
He crossed his arms and leaned slightly toward you, just enough for you to feel his breath.
"Did creating a fake relationship with Clark Kent make you think you could make me jealous?" he asked, his voice a venomous whisper. "You're a—"
He never finished the word.
"Corvin."
Clark's voice arrived like thunder in the middle of the silence.
You turned your head and saw him walking toward you with long, firm steps.
He was wearing his blue suit, the one that suited him best, and his glasses caught the light from the party.
He wasn't smiling.
His face was serious.
More serious than you had ever seen it.
He came to your side, and his hand found your waist, right where he always placed it, but this time the touch wasn't for pretending.
It was to protect you.
You felt it in the way his fingers tightened slightly.
In the way he pulled you against his side as if to say,
This girl is with me.
"It's rude to disrespect a woman," Clark said, his voice calm but firm.
He wasn't shouting.
He didn't need to.
His height and serious expression were enough.
"Disrespect her with the truth?" Benjamin asked, shrugging one shoulder as if he couldn't care less. "I was only telling her things as they are."
"Well," Clark said.
And then he smiled.
But it wasn't a kind smile.
It was a knowing smile.
The kind of smile someone wears when they have an ace up their sleeve.
"You said the same thing to your secretary. And to the editor under your supervision. And to Lily's photographer. And to the receptionist downstairs."
Benjamin went pale.
His eyes widened slightly, and his mouth twisted as though he had bitten into a lemon.
"And it seems the complaints increased since yesterday," Clark continued, without dropping his smile. "Perry received all of them. Every single one. Signed and dated."
You looked at him in confusion.
Complaints?
What was he talking about?
Benjamin clenched his fists and opened his mouth to say something, but Clark didn't give him the chance.
"Now, please," he said, his voice turning colder, "show some respect to my girlfriend."
He held you by the waist and guided you away from there.
You walked quickly toward a corner of the room, behind a column where the others' gazes couldn't reach.
You were silent, your heart pounding in your ears, trying to process what had just happened.
"Clark..." you said when you finally stopped.
He positioned himself in front of you, blocking your body with his, and although his face was serious, his eyes held a different kind of brightness.
He was still looking toward where Benjamin had remained, with an anger he could barely contain.
"They're going to fire him," Clark said, his voice lower now, as though he didn't want anyone else to hear. "Starting tomorrow. Perry received the complaints from every woman he harassed. Not just the ones from the Planet, but also from other places where he worked before."
You stared at him, unable to understand.
Your eyes widened, and your mouth went dry.
"I spoke to each of them," Clark continued.
And now he did look at you, directly in the eyes.
"I convinced them to file harassment complaints. I told them they weren't alone, that if they all spoke together, nobody would be able to silence them. Cat and Lois are handling all the paperwork for the formal reports."
You drew in a breath.
The air entered your lungs as though you were breathing for the first time in months.
"Yours is still missing, of course," Clark said, his voice softening a little. "Only if you want to file it. I'll be your witness. I saw everything. I heard everything. I was there."
"Thank you, Clark," you whispered.
The words came out small, almost voiceless, because your throat had tightened again.
But this time, it wasn't from fear.
It was from relief.
From a happiness so enormous it almost hurt.
"I guess there's no need to pretend anymore."
Clark nodded.
A small smile appeared on his face, but his eyes were still serious, as if he were waiting for something else.
"Now you can go out with Sarah," you added.
And you meant it.
It hurt to say, but it was the right thing.
The lie was over.
Clark no longer had any obligation to you.
He could live his life.
Go out with whoever he wanted.
Be happy without having to worry about inventing fake kisses and embraces.
But Clark tilted his head.
He wrinkled his nose as though he had smelled something unpleasant, and his brows drew together in a small gesture of confusion.
"Pretend?" he asked, as if the word didn't make sense.
You stared at him, not understanding.
And then he took a deep breath, pushed his glasses up with a trembling finger, and continued speaking.
"I... didn't pretend."
Your heart stopped.
Or maybe it started beating far too fast.
You weren't sure.
"We pretended to have a three-month relationship," Clark said, his words coming slowly, as if he were choosing each one carefully. "That's true. But I didn't pretend when I said I liked you in front of everyone. That... that was true."
You opened your mouth, but no sound came out.
Clark looked down for a moment. He adjusted his glasses again even though they didn't need adjusting, and when he looked back at you, his cheeks were red.
Red like the flowers decorating the tables.
"I just didn't want you to feel uncomfortable," he continued, his voice so quiet it was almost impossible to hear. "I waited for all of this to be over so I could... so I could tell you. So you'd know it wasn't just a favor. At least not for me. That I..."
He paused.
Swallowed hard.
You watched his lips move, and suddenly it felt impossible to breathe.
"I like you," he finally said. "Not since a month ago, when we started all of this. No. I..."
He closed his eyes for a moment, as if remembering something.
When he opened them again, there was a light in them you had never seen before.
"Four months ago," he said precisely.
The certainty in his voice stole your breath away.
"Exactly. Monday, June 5th. You were sitting at your desk, and I was walking by to take some paperwork to printing. You looked at me and said you liked my glasses."
A smile slipped onto your face.
You remembered that day.
It had been a rainy Monday, one of those days when everything seemed to go wrong. You had arrived soaked and in a terrible mood.
But Clark had walked over with his glasses slightly crooked, and without thinking, you had told him they looked good on him.
That they suited him.
That was all.
Just a silly comment, the kind people make without giving it any importance.
But he had remembered it.
Four months later.
With the exact date and everything.
"I wasn't sure if you were just being nice," you said, your voice rough, as though you were about to cry, but not from sadness. "I thought there was no way you could like me. That you were too good for someone like me."
"Oh, Clark."
This time your eyes filled with tears.
Good tears.
"I like you so much. So, so much."
Clark's eyes lit up.
They became bright, as though someone had switched on a little light inside them.
His hands trembled slightly at his sides, as if he didn't know what to do with them.
Carefully.
So incredibly carefully.
As though you were touching something fragile.
You tugged lightly on his jacket.
Your fingers curled around the lapels, pulling him gently toward you.
Clark understood.
Clark leaned down.
Slowly.
Very slowly.
Until his nose brushed against yours.
His eyes were still open, staring at you as though he couldn't quite believe this was happening.
And then his lips touched yours.
It wasn't one of the quick kisses you exchanged for Benjamin's benefit.
It wasn't a polite brush against your cheek.
It was a real kiss.
The kind of kiss given wholeheartedly.
The kind that carried every feeling that had been left unsaid.
Clark's hand returned to your waist, but this time it wasn't to protect you from a harasser.
It was to keep you close.
To hold on to you.
And you wrapped your arms around his neck, threading your fingers through the short hair at the nape of his neck, letting yourself melt into him.
Maybe, after all, neither of you had ever been pretending.
Maybe all this time, without realizing it, you had been building something real.
A relationship that had begun quietly.
The kind that grows slowly, like a plant putting down roots long before anyone notices the flowers.
A relationship that was now, finally, more real than any relationship you had ever had before.
Clark pulled back just enough to catch his breath.
Then he looked at you with a smile so wide that dimples appeared in his cheeks.
"So," he said, his voice slightly rough, "am I still your boyfriend?"
You laughed.
A laugh that came straight from your soul.
Bright.
Free.
"Yes," you said.
And then you kissed him again.
"Yes. Of course you are."
And behind the column, while the lights twinkled overhead, while people laughed and music played softly in the background, the two of you stayed wrapped in each other's arms for a long time.
Sinopsis: A harmless lie told to escape an unwanted coworker forces a Daily Planet photographer and Clark Kent into a fake relationship. What begins as a simple favor soon becomes far more complicated when real feelings start getting involved.
Your heart pounded as you walked toward your floor. You felt nervous, very nervous, because you knew what you had to do. You had made the decision the night before, when you couldn't sleep from thinking about everything that had happened. You were going to do it, even though you couldn't guarantee that everything would turn out well. It wasn't that you liked lying—not at all. You were an honest person, the kind who says exactly what's on her mind, but lately you had been feeling very uncomfortable. Very uncomfortable every time you had to go down to the editors' floor. Every time you had to run into Benjamin Corvin. And that bothered you, because your job was something you genuinely enjoyed.
You had started working at the Daily Planet exactly six months ago. You were hired as a photographer, and from the very first day, you knew you had arrived somewhere special. The walls were tall, covered with framed old newspapers, awards, and photographs that told stories from decades past. The building smelled like paper and freshly brewed coffee, and the sound of typewriters and keyboards was like a background song that never stopped playing. You liked that noise. It made you feel like you were part of something important.
Your job was divided into two parts. Sometimes you were assigned to work with Cat Grant, the newspaper's most famous interviewer, the woman who could always get even the quietest artists and the most arrogant actors to talk. You accompanied her to interviews and took photographs of those stars who appeared in magazines and on television. You met singers who filled stadiums, actors who won awards, and film directors admired by everyone. And although being around them made you a little nervous at first, Cat taught you how to stay calm, how to find the perfect angle, how to wait for the right moment to press the shutter. She was demanding, but she was always fair with you, and you appreciated that.
Other times, you were assigned to Clark Kent.
And that was completely different.
But also much better.
Because Clark didn't interview artists or singers. Clark interviewed presidents, diplomatic agents, important people who made decisions that changed the country. And you went with him, taking pictures of those men and women in suits and ties, of those people who spoke in complicated terms and always seemed to be in a hurry.
But the best part of working with Clark wasn't the type of interviews.
It was him.
Clark was kind. Far too kind.
He always smiled at you. Always asked how you were doing. Always worried about whether you were too cold or too warm, or whether you were getting too tired.
And whenever you were assigned to work with him, you knew free pastries were waiting for you.
Clark loved buying sweet things. He said sugar helped people think better. And he always carried a little bag filled with cookies, donuts, or those cake pops covered in colorful sprinkles that you loved so much. He would place them on your desk without saying anything, simply leaving them there like a silent gift.
And at the end of the day, you always ended up at an Italian restaurant Clark knew, one located just a few blocks from the newspaper building. He claimed it was the best restaurant in the city, that the pasta was handmade and the tomato sauce was based on the owner's grandmother's secret recipe.
At first, you thought he was simply being polite. That he invited you out of obligation.
But one day, you told him it wasn't necessary, that you could eat alone at home.
And he looked at you with those big, clear eyes and said,
"It was a team effort. I'd feel bad eating alone."
So you smiled and accepted, because with Clark, everything was easy.
Everything felt simple.
Natural.
As if you had known him your entire life.
But not everything was like that.
As much as you wished everything could be like working with Cat or Clark, it wasn't.
Because the problem was downstairs.
That's where the editors worked. The people who corrected the writers' work, who reviewed every word, who changed commas and periods and sometimes entire headlines. It was also where the people who evaluated photographs worked, the ones who decided whether an image was blurry, whether the framing was wrong, or whether the lighting didn't flatter the interviewee.
That floor was quieter than the one above. People spoke in low voices. The phones rang with deep tones. Everyone moved quickly without making noise.
Honestly, it was a little intimidating.
At first, you didn't think much of it.
You would go downstairs, hand over the memory cards they gave you, and come back up.
Simple as that.
The memory cards were always requested so the files could be transferred into the newspaper's archive and historical records, ensuring nobody could plagiarize them. The newspaper took that very seriously. They didn't want another outlet stealing their photographs or articles.
So every time an interview or an important story was completed, someone had to bring the memory cards down to the editors' floor.
And at first, you did it because you had told Clark,
"No problem, I'll take them down. It'll give me a chance to stretch my legs."
And he smiled that calm, warm smile of his and said,
"Alright. Thank you very much."
Because that day he had to finish an extremely long article. He looked so stressed, surrounded by the clock, stacks of papers, and his computer, that helping him felt like the least you could do.
So it became routine.
Something you did without thinking.
You walked down the stairs, crossed the long hallway, greeted the people at their desks, dropped the memory cards into the editing intake tray, and headed back upstairs.
You did it many times.
Again and again.
Sometimes Clark was in meetings and couldn't go himself.
Other times he was transcribing interviews that had lasted for hours, his fingers moving rapidly across the keyboard while his eyes remained fixed on the screen.
You never complained, especially because your photographs were always ready.
You kept them organized in folders, clearly labeled and properly arranged, waiting to be used.
You knew your images brought Clark's articles to life.
That they helped people stop and read.
That they caught attention.
And you liked that.
You liked knowing your work mattered.
But that was the mistake.
You never knew exactly when everything started.
Or whether it was because of a professional smile you accidentally gave one day.
Or a particularly cheerful "good morning."
Or maybe a "thank you" that sounded kinder than it should have.
But Benjamin Corvin, the editor who always sent your emails, began to change things.
At first, it was small.
He stopped tagging Clark in the emails.
He would send a message saying the memory cards were needed, but Clark's name wouldn't appear.
Only yours.
You assumed it was a mistake.
Anyone could make an error while writing an email.
But it happened again.
And again.
And after a few more messages, he stopped calling you down only for the memory cards.
He called because he claimed the photos hadn't been saved correctly.
That there was an error.
That the memory card was empty or corrupted.
But you knew it wasn't.
You always checked before going downstairs.
You connected the card to your computer, opened the folder, and looked through the photographs one by one.
Everything was there.
Everything was fine.
But he insisted otherwise.
Insisted that you come downstairs again.
Insisted that you stay for a moment while he "reviewed" the files.
And then it got worse.
One day, you went downstairs with the memory cards as usual. You greeted everyone, smiled politely, and watched him walk toward you with a cup of coffee in his hand. He moved slowly, as if he had all the time in the world, as if you had nothing more important to do. The other editors remained at their desks, typing or reading papers, and even though they were all nearby, it seemed like nobody was looking.
Or maybe they were.
Maybe they were simply used to it.
Maybe Benjamin did this all the time, and they had learned to keep their heads down and stay out of it.
"What are you doing after work?" he asked.
His voice was calm, but there was something in his tone that made you feel small. As if he was above you and you were beneath him, and that was how things were supposed to be.
You tightened your grip on the memory cards and searched for a quick answer. You didn't want to tell him the truth. You didn't want to say that maybe you were going home to watch television, or that you simply wanted to be alone.
So you made up an excuse.
The first thing that came to mind.
"I have a doctor's appointment," you said.
The lie tasted bitter in your mouth, but you felt relieved to have said something.
Benjamin nodded, but he didn't leave.
He stayed right there, standing in front of you with that crooked smile you disliked so much. It was the kind of smile that never reached his eyes, remaining only on his lips as though it had been carefully practiced.
Then he stepped a little closer.
Close enough for you to smell his cologne, a strong scent that seemed to fill the air around him.
"Mmm... sure," he said, sounding as though he didn't entirely believe you. "If you're ever free one day, let me know, alright?"
You didn't know what to say.
The words got stuck in your throat.
You wanted to tell him no.
You wanted to tell him that you weren't going to let him know anything.
That you'd rather stay busy forever.
But your mouth wouldn't move.
You remained frozen, your palms beginning to sweat, your heart beating faster than usual.
And at that exact moment—at the precise moment when you had no idea what to do—your phone rang.
The sound felt like a lifeline thrown into deep water.
You glanced at the screen and saw Clark's name.
You answered immediately, barely looking.
His voice came through clear and hurried.
"Hey, are you still downstairs?" Clark asked. "Come back up when you can. We just got assigned a new task. It's urgent."
You ended the call and looked at Benjamin.
He was still standing there, holding his coffee and wearing that smile.
You took a breath.
Let it out slowly.
And without saying another word, you turned around.
You walked toward the stairs with firm steps, feeling his eyes on your back.
You didn't look behind you.
You didn't want to see him.
You just wanted to go upstairs, see Clark, and feel safe again.
But he kept insisting.
He took advantage of every opportunity he could find to smile at you, approach you, run into you in the hallway, in the cafeteria, or even on your own floor.
Sometimes he came upstairs with some excuse—a document that needed your signature or a last-minute review.
You would see him approaching and immediately feel a knot tighten in your stomach.
The kind of knot that squeezes so hard it makes it difficult to breathe.
Sometimes you hid behind Clark so Benjamin wouldn't look at you.
And with how tall Clark was, you completely disappeared behind him.
You stayed there as though he were a wall.
A wall made of suits and ties that shielded you from Benjamin's gaze.
Clark never asked why you did it.
He simply continued talking as though nothing unusual was happening.
And you appreciated his silence.
You also stopped leaving the building alone.
Before, you hadn't minded walking out peacefully, listening to music through your headphones or scrolling through your phone.
Now you did.
Now you were afraid of running into him outside.
At the entrance.
In the parking lot.
Anywhere.
You were afraid there would be nobody around.
That it would be just you and him.
And that he would say something.
Or do something.
And you wouldn't know how to react.
One afternoon, everything you feared happened.
Clark had an unexpected obligation and left work early.
He apologized, saying he had to rush out and that he'd see you the next day.
You smiled and told him it was fine, that you were about to leave too.
But when you reached the elevator and the doors opened, you saw him.
Benjamin was inside.
Alone.
Leaning against the wall with that smile you had come to hate.
Your heart jumped.
Not from excitement.
Not from anticipation.
Not from the kind of nervousness that could sometimes feel pleasant.
Your heart jumped because of fear.
You were trapped inside a small metal box with a coworker who refused to leave you alone.
A place you couldn't escape until the doors opened again.
You stood frozen for a moment, wondering whether you could simply wait for the next elevator.
But Benjamin had already seen you.
He had already placed his foot between the doors to keep them from closing.
He was already smiling at you as though everything were perfectly normal.
So you stepped inside.
You positioned yourself in the opposite corner, as far away from him as possible, and stared straight ahead without speaking.
"Got plans tonight?" he asked in that calm voice that always sounded fake to you. "We could grab a drink. I know a good place nearby."
You shook your head without looking at him.
But he moved closer.
One step.
Then another.
Now he was closer than before.
Far too close.
He slowly raised one hand.
And you watched his fingers move toward your arm.
He was going to touch you.
He was going to put his hand on you.
And you didn't know whether you would be able to move or if you would freeze like a statue.
And then—
Just as Benjamin's hand was about to brush against your skin—
The elevator doors opened.
Lois was standing there.
Her purse hung from one shoulder, her keys in her hand.
She had been heading upstairs to grab her things before going home.
But the moment she looked at you and then at Benjamin, her expression changed completely.
She frowned.
Her jaw tightened.
And her eyes became small and hard as stone.
"Acting like a creepy fucking stalker again, Corvin?" Lois asked.
Her voice wasn't a shout.
Yet somehow it sounded louder than any shout could have.
You were incredibly pale.
You could feel it in your face.
In your hands.
Throughout your entire body.
And you knew Lois had noticed because she looked you up and down, and her frown deepened even more.
Benjamin let out a short laugh, as if Lois had told a bad joke.
He slipped one hand into his pocket and looked at her with those eyes that had always seemed cold to you.
"I was just inviting her out for a drink, Lane," he said, shaking his head as though she were the unreasonable one. "Not everyone is as bitter as you."
You felt your legs tremble slightly.
You didn't want to stay there.
You didn't want to hear another word.
You searched for something to say.
Anything that would get you out of that elevator and away from that situation.
"I have to see my brother," you blurted out.
Even though you were an only child, and everyone knew it except him.
But he didn't care.
Because he didn't know anything about you.
He only saw you as something pretty to look at.
"I'm sorry," you added.
Then you looked at Lois.
Lois met your gaze and nodded once.
A small, quick gesture that clearly meant:
"Get out of here. I'll handle this."
So you left.
You walked quickly toward the building's exit, your heart lodged in your throat.
And before stepping outside, you turned your head for just a second.
"Good night," you said.
Then you left.
Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Benjamin make a move to follow you.
To go after you.
But Lois stopped him.
She grabbed his arm firmly, with the kind of strength nobody expected from someone as slender as her.
"We need to talk about my article, Corvin," Lois said, her voice filled with fury. "And your edits. Right now."
She was saving you.
She was genuinely saving you.
You walked toward the street.
Toward the cool evening air.
Toward the people passing by who had no idea what had just happened.
And you made it home alone.
But safe.
That night, you couldn't sleep well.
You tossed and turned in bed, staring at the ceiling and thinking about the fact that tomorrow, you'd have to go back.
But he continued.
He didn't stop.
As if nothing had happened.
As if Lois had never confronted him.
As if you hadn't left that elevator trembling.
The next day, there was the smile again.
Another day with a coffee cup in his hand and those slow steps heading toward you.
And then another day.
And another.
He was like a shadow that refused to leave.
Like a fly buzzing near your ear that you couldn't swat away.
Maybe that was why you hurried after Clark whenever he left.
Because if Clark was with you, Benjamin only watched from a distance and smiled, while you deliberately looked away.
You didn't want to see him.
Clark walked with you to the elevator or the building's exit, and Benjamin never dared approach when Clark was around.
Maybe because Clark was big.
Tall.
And even though he was kind, he was also intimidating without meaning to be.
Maybe that was why you were hurrying toward the floor's printer that day.
Because you knew Clark was there, standing near the machine making copies, and you needed to be close to him.
You needed to feel like you weren't alone.
Because your interactions with the editor were suffocating you.
You felt cornered.
Like a small animal being slowly trapped, leaving you with less and less room to move or breathe.
And yesterday, the stupidest lie in the world had slipped out of your mouth.
A lie you hadn't planned.
One that had come out on its own because you were so afraid.
You didn't like lying.
You never had.
But you were scared.
Scared that you'd be fired if Benjamin became angry because you rejected him.
Scared that if he made something up—something false about you, something awful you had never done—everyone would believe him because he had worked there for four years.
Four years.
Four years of knowing everyone.
Of making friends.
Of earning the trust of the bosses.
And you only had six months.
Almost seven.
But six months were nothing compared to four years.
That's why the lie came out.
A stupid little thing.
You said something that wasn't true just to make him go away.
Just to gain one minute of peace.
But it didn't work.
Nothing worked with him.
So that morning, as you walked toward the printer and saw Clark standing with his back to you, waiting for a stack of pages to finish printing, you felt your legs trembling again.
You hesitated when you were only a few steps away.
Lois had told you Clark would be there. That it would be a good time to talk to him.
But everyone said asking Clark for favors was easy.
That he never said no.
Except that over the past few weeks, you had heard the exact opposite.
You had overheard it in the break room when Steve was complaining.
Clark hadn't been there at the time.
"He actually told me no," Steve said, his voice high-pitched with outrage. "When he always helps me. Always. And now he suddenly tells me he can't."
You raised an eyebrow and looked at him.
Steve was the type of person who asked for favors constantly, as if everyone else existed solely to help him.
"How strange," you said, a hint of sarcasm in your voice. "Maybe because you've asked him about three hundred times."
Lois, who was drinking coffee nearby, burst out laughing.
The kind of laugh that came naturally.
Not out of politeness.
"Well," Zoe said, crossing her arms, "Clark used to be nicer. He told me no too. I asked if he could stay a few extra hours to help me with some edits. I know it was already quitting time, but we're coworkers, right? Coworkers help each other."
A spark of irritation flared in your chest.
You didn't like the way they talked about Clark.
As if he was obligated to help them.
As if his time mattered less than theirs.
"I'm happy about it," you said, crossing your arms and leaning against the table. "Maybe when someone is kind, people mistake that for being a fool. And Clark isn't a fool. You should appreciate his help when he gives it instead of complaining when he doesn't."
Everyone fell silent for a moment.
Lois looked at you with a small smile, as if she agreed.
"Well, maybe you won't be getting it anymore," Lois said, lifting her coffee cup. "Or any more favors. He's taking it seriously, it seems."
You remembered all of that as you walked toward the printer.
And you felt like a hypocrite.
A complete hypocrite.
Because there you were, on your way to ask Clark for an enormous favor.
A gigantic favor.
The kind of favor you didn't ask a coworker for.
And he would probably reject you, just like he had rejected Steve and Zoe.
Because Clark didn't do favors anymore.
Clark was setting boundaries.
And you were about to cross every single one of them.
You reached the printer.
There were people nearby, two employees you didn't know very well, sorting through folders.
Clark stood beside the machine, waiting for his copies.
You moved to stand beside him.
Very close.
And glanced at him from the corner of your eye without saying anything.
Your heart was beating so loudly you thought he might actually hear it.
Clark turned his head and looked at you.
He had those big, clear eyes that always made you feel calm.
But now there was a question in them too.
"Everything alright?" he asked, tilting his head slightly.
You knew you were being obvious.
You couldn't hide anything from Clark.
He always noticed when something was wrong.
"Yes," you said quickly.
Then you shook your head.
"No."
You looked at the other people still standing nearby.
You couldn't talk while they were listening.
You couldn't say what needed to be said with strangers around.
"I need... I..." you stammered, feeling the words tangle together. "Can we wait until everyone leaves?"
You whispered it so quietly that it was almost inaudible.
But Clark heard you.
Clark always heard you.
He nodded without asking any questions.
And you released some of the breath trapped inside your lungs.
You gave him a tired smile.
One of those smiles people make when they're too exhausted to keep pretending.
And Clark noticed it.
Of course he noticed it.
His expression became a little more serious.
A little more attentive.
The two people nearby finished gathering their things and left.
First one.
Then the other.
And when they were finally alone in that part of the hallway, you stopped pretending.
You stopped rearranging copies that didn't need rearranging.
Stopped looking away.
You took a breath.
And looked at him.
"Did something happen?" Clark asked.
His voice was gentle.
So gentle it almost hurt.
You fidgeted with your hands.
Squeezing them together.
Letting go.
Then squeezing them again.
You couldn't look him in the eyes.
If you looked at him, maybe you wouldn't be able to say what you needed to say.
"I know we have a professional relationship," you began, your voice sounding smaller than you wanted it to. "And I don't want to ruin it."
Clark said nothing.
He simply waited.
"I need a huge favor."
This time you lifted your head.
You saw him listening carefully.
Saw that he wasn't judging you.
But you didn't let him speak because you were afraid that if he said anything before you finished, you would lose your nerve.
"I need you to pretend to be my boyfriend."
You blurted it out all at once.
Like throwing a stone into water and waiting for the ripples.
Then you fell silent.
Waiting for his reaction.
But Clark didn't say anything.
He remained perfectly still, looking at you, his copies tucked under one arm.
"In the newsroom," you added, just in case it hadn't been clear. "Only in the newsroom. I need you to pretend to be my boyfriend in the newsroom."
He still didn't speak.
You bit your lip and felt your eyes sting.
But you weren't going to cry.
Not there.
Not in front of him.
"I know you said you don't do favors anymore," you continued, speaking faster now, as if all the words were trying to escape at once. "You told everyone. You turned everyone down. And I know this isn't professional. I know what I'm asking is wrong. That I shouldn't ask. That it's a lot, but Clark—"
"Okay," Clark said.
You stopped.
Your eyes widened.
You stared at him in confusion.
"Okay?" you repeated, your voice coming out so high-pitched that you barely recognized it.
"Yes," Clark said again with that calmness he always seemed to have, as though nothing could surprise him.
"You probably didn't hear me correctly," you said, gesturing with your hands as your fingers trembled. "The favor I want breaks professionalism a little. Actually, a lot. I want you to pretend that—"
"That I'm your boyfriend," Clark interrupted.
You nodded.
And just stared at him.
You hadn't thought he would say yes.
In your head, you had rehearsed this conversation dozens of times.
But every version ended the same way.
With Clark saying no.
Every single one.
Which was why you had never planned what happened afterward.
Because in every rehearsal, he said no.
But he had said yes.
And now you were standing there with your mouth slightly open, completely unsure what to do with that answer.
"Well..." you said, trying to continue with what you had prepared.
You were going to explain everything.
Tell him exactly what you had made up.
Give him every detail so he would know how to act.
But then you heard a voice outside.
A voice you already knew.
A voice that irritated you so much it made you clench your teeth.
Benjamin.
He was close.
Very close.
And at any moment he was going to open the door and see you standing there talking to Clark.
So you spoke quickly.
As quickly as possible.
Whispering so only he could hear.
"I told Editor Benjamin that we've been dating for two months," you whispered, glancing toward the door while your heart practically jumped out of your chest. "I told him we have a good relationship and that's why I can't go out with him. That's what I made up. I'm sorry. I know I should've asked first, but I was scared and it just came out and—"
You never finished the sentence.
The door opened.
And in that moment, without thinking, without planning it, your hands moved on their own.
They landed on Clark's jacket.
Right on the lapels.
And you started smoothing them down as though it were something you did every day.
As though you were really his girlfriend.
As though you genuinely cared whether his suit had wrinkles.
You moved a little closer to him.
Just a little.
Enough to make it look natural.
"So we're having dinner at my apartment tonight..." you said.
Your voice came out slightly louder than usual so Benjamin would hear.
You lifted your head and looked at Clark.
And even though you felt embarrassed, even though you could feel heat rising to your cheeks, you stayed in character.
"Sweetheart?"
Clark blushed.
You saw it clearly.
His cheeks turning a shade of pink you had never seen before.
He opened his mouth.
Then closed it again.
As though he had suddenly forgotten how words worked.
"Yes," he finally said. "Yes, that's fine."
Then he fell silent for a second.
A second that felt incredibly long to you.
Until he spoke again.
"Sweetheart," he said.
The word sounded a little stiff.
A little forced.
But you smiled.
Well.
It was a good effort.
Clark wasn't the type to throw around pet names.
And that was one of the things you liked about him.
But right now, you needed him to.
"So Kent managed to get himself a girlfriend?" Benjamin said from the doorway.
You looked at him.
He was leaning against the frame with his arms crossed and that smile that always made your skin crawl.
But this time, you didn't feel quite so alone.
This time, Clark was beside you.
Large.
Steady.
Like a mountain.
You smiled, even though you were still trembling a little inside.
You hid slightly against Clark's arm and wrapped both hands around it.
So Benjamin would see.
So he would understand.
"We prefer to keep things private," Clark said.
And his voice sounded different.
Firmer than you expected.
He smiled, but it wasn't his usual friendly smile.
It was calmer.
More confident.
He looked at you for a second.
Then looked back at Benjamin.
"She asked for it that way. And a man does whatever he can for his girlfriend."
You nodded eagerly.
Making it look like you agreed.
Like it was true.
Like Clark was a wonderful boyfriend, even if he was only pretending.
And for a moment—
Just a moment—
You wondered whether he was feeling something strange in his chest too.
But no.
You couldn't think about that now.
"Oh, sure," Benjamin said with a short laugh. "Then I apologize. I asked her out without knowing you were together."
His eyes traveled up and down your body.
And a chill ran through you.
"You won the lottery, Kent."
You trembled.
It was only a small tremor.
The kind most people wouldn't notice.
But Clark felt it.
Because his arm pressed slightly closer against his side.
Not much.
Just enough to remind you he was there.
"I won the lottery, actually," you said.
And your voice sounded braver than you felt.
You lifted your chin slightly and looked directly at Benjamin.
"He made me fall in love without any pressure."
It was a good jab.
Although you knew Benjamin probably wouldn't understand it.
Or maybe he would.
Maybe he understood perfectly and simply didn't care.
Either way, you said it.
Because it made you feel better.
"I need to get back to work," you continued, carefully letting go of Clark's arm as though it were the most natural thing in the world. "I'll leave you two. So... I'll see you later?"
You looked at Clark.
He looked back at you.
His eyes seemed slightly brighter than usual.
Or maybe it was just the office lighting.
"Yes," Clark said.
You smiled.
The kind of smile that appears all on its own.
You were about to leave.
You already had one foot halfway toward the door.
When you realized Clark wasn't moving.
He was still standing there.
Looking at Benjamin.
And Benjamin was still standing there.
Looking at both of you.
You didn't understand why Clark wasn't turning to leave.
Why he wasn't taking the first step.
Until he turned.
But not toward the door.
Toward you.
He moved closer.
One step.
Then another.
Until he was standing right in front of you.
So close that you could see the tiny flecks of color in his eyes.
So close that you could feel the warmth radiating from his body.
Your pulse completely spiraled out of control.
Your heartbeat rushed into your throat.
Your temples.
The tips of your fingers.
Your entire body went on high alert.
As though something important was about to happen.
Clark looked at your lips.
You watched his gaze drop.
Then rise.
Drop again.
Then rise.
As though he were asking permission without saying a word.
"May I?" he asked.
You looked at him.
Swallowed hard.
You knew Benjamin was still there watching.
You knew you had to keep up the act.
That if you said no, the entire performance would fall apart.
But deep down—
In the deepest part of your heart—
You also knew you didn't want to say no.
And it would make Benjamin believe it completely.
"Yes," you whispered.
And then Clark kissed you.
It was a small kiss.
A brief one.
Barely more than a brush of lips.
But it echoed through the room.
That soft, intimate sound reached your ears.
And your cheeks immediately turned red as tomatoes.
When he pulled away—
When you opened your eyes, which you didn't even remember closing—
You saw Benjamin laughing.
Laughing as he shook his head.
As though he couldn't believe what he had just witnessed.
As though it were some elaborate joke.
You sighed.
A long sigh.
The kind that escapes after holding your breath for far too long.
"Goodbye," you said without looking at him.
You didn't want to look at Benjamin.
You didn't want to look at anyone.
You walked away quickly.
Your legs felt unsteady.
And your lips still tingled from the kiss.
Maybe it had been a good idea.
Of course it had.
You felt uncomfortable.
Clark helped you.
And that was all.
It didn't have to mean anything more.
It was a favor between coworkers.
A lie meant to scare off an annoying man.
Nothing more.
But there was something you had forgotten.
Something you hadn't thought about in that moment.
Something that completely slipped your mind because you were genuinely frightened.
Frightened that Benjamin would claim you had invented the boyfriend story.
Frightened that you would tell Clark and he would deny it.
Frightened that everything would go wrong and you'd be left alone with the problem all over again.
In the middle of all that fear, you forgot something.
Something very small.
Very small.
And yet very, very big.
You liked Clark.
You had liked him since the day you started working there.
It wasn't something new. It wasn't something that had been born from the fake kiss.
No.
It was older than that.
It was one of those feelings that grows slowly, without you noticing, like a plant taking root long before you ever see the leaves.
You had been watching Clark since the first day, from the moment he smiled at you and offered you coffee.
Not like a stalker.
Don't misunderstand.
You weren't the kind of person who stared or followed people around.
It was simply something you did.
Something that came naturally.
You worked with him.
He bought you coffee.
He bought you pastries.
He took you to dinner at the Italian restaurant and told you that you were an excellent photographer, even though you knew he only said that so you wouldn't feel less than anyone else.
But you liked it.
You liked his voice when he spoke softly.
You liked the way his eyes crinkled when he laughed.
You liked that he was tall enough to cover you when you hid behind him.
You liked that he was kind without expecting anything in return.
He was a gentleman.
The kind of man you only found once in a century.
And for that very reason, because he was so good, because he was so special, it had become difficult for you.
Because you couldn't tell him anything.
You couldn't ruin what you had.
You couldn't risk him pulling away.
Risk him feeling uncomfortable.
Risk him stopping the coffee invitations and the little pastries.
You preferred having him as a friend over not having him at all.
But now you had kissed him.
Well, he had kissed you.
But it was the same thing, wasn't it?
The kiss had been for Benjamin.
To make him leave.
To make him stop bothering you.
But your lips didn't understand excuses.
Your lips only knew that Clark had touched them.
And that it had felt good.
Too good.
The lie escalated on its own, without you being able to do anything to stop it.
The second week arrived, and there was no turning back.
Because, of course, how were you supposed to say from one day to the next that you were going to break up?
That would look strange.
It would raise suspicions.
And Benjamin wasn't stupid.
If Clark suddenly stopped acting like your boyfriend, the man would realize instantly that the whole thing had been staged.
So you had to keep playing the part.
There were necessary kisses.
Kisses you had to give so people would believe it, so Benjamin would see you and be convinced.
Kisses on the cheek when you ran into each other in the morning.
Quick kisses on the forehead when you said goodbye.
Kisses that lingered on your skin as though they were real.
But they weren't.
They were part of the lie.
Only that.
Clark had apologized for the first one.
You remembered that moment perfectly.
He had looked at you with wide, remorseful eyes, like a puppy that had done something wrong without meaning to, and said,
"I'm so sorry. I shouldn't have done that without asking first."
But you told him it had been the right thing to do.
That it had to happen that way if you wanted it to look real.
That he shouldn't worry.
Clark nodded.
But he still looked uncomfortable.
Then he added that if the kisses ever made you feel bad, if they ever made you uncomfortable, he wouldn't do it again.
He said it very seriously.
Very firmly.
As if making sure you were okay was the most important thing in the world to him.
But you didn't want him to stop.
And that was the problem.
Because you said you wanted everyone to think you were dating.
You told him that the more natural you looked, the easier it would be for Benjamin to leave you alone.
But the truth—
The truth you never told him—
Was that you didn't want to admit how much you loved them.
Those little kisses.
Those brushes of lips against your cheek.
Those hand squeezes you now exchanged in public.
You liked them far more than you should have.
And if you told him, if he knew you felt something, everything would become complicated.
It would become awkward.
It would ruin the friendship you had.
So you stayed quiet and kept pretending, even though every tiny kiss made your stomach flutter like it was full of butterflies.
That day, you invited him to dinner.
It wasn't a real date.
Don't get excited, you told yourself.
It was a necessity.
Because Benjamin had followed you both all the way to the bus stop.
You saw him out of the corner of your eye, standing there as though nothing was wrong, hands in his pockets and that smile you hated on his face.
He had stayed there watching you say goodbye, watching Clark kiss your cheek before you got on the bus.
And when the bus pulled away, Benjamin was still there, watching you leave.
So you couldn't go home alone.
You couldn't risk him waiting for you on some corner.
You suggested Clark go to dinner with you, only to buy time, only so Benjamin would lose track of you.
Clark accepted without hesitation.
As always.
At the restaurant, after ordering your food, you fell silent for a while.
You stared at your plate without really seeing it, turning the silverware between your fingers.
Clark didn't rush you.
Clark waited.
Patient as always.
His large hands resting on the table, his clear eyes fixed on you.
Until you gathered your courage and started talking.
You told him everything.
Everything you had felt.
Everything you had thought.
All the fear you had kept inside for weeks.
When you finished, you lowered your gaze and felt your eyes fill with tears.
"I'm sorry," you said, your voice tiny, as if all the blame belonged to you.
Clark was silent for a moment.
You saw him shake his head slowly, as though he was processing what you had told him.
"Why didn't you tell me sooner?" he asked.
His voice didn't sound angry.
Only a little sad.
A little worried.
You looked at him, and he looked back at you with those eyes that seemed to see everything.
"I could have gone downstairs with you. I could have come looking for you. I could have walked with you every time you had to go to the editors' floor. You didn't have to do it alone."
"I thought I'd cause problems for you," you said, looking back down at your untouched plate.
The food was getting cold, but you weren't hungry.
"Even though I'm basically going to cause you worse problems than I would have if I'd just told you. Because now you're caught up in a lie, and if Benjamin finds out, he'll hate you too."
Clark didn't say anything, so you kept talking.
You told him what Benjamin had said many times, almost like a broken record.
That he had worked at the newspaper for four years.
That he knew everyone.
That the bosses trusted him.
One year longer than Clark.
Three years longer than you.
And you had thought that if he got angry, if you rejected him directly, he would file a false complaint.
That he would make something up about you.
And everyone would believe him because he had been there longer.
Because people knew him.
Because he had spent more time drinking coffee from the same machine and greeting the same coworkers.
"But if you didn't feel comfortable, you should have told me," Clark said again, as if it were the simplest thing in the world.
You looked at him.
And then your eyes blurred.
You didn't cry, because you didn't want to cry in a restaurant, but the tears were there, rising without permission.
"And what was that supposed to do?" you asked, your voice sounding a little higher than usual.
Clark looked at you without understanding, so you continued.
"I... I always thought about what I would do if something like this ever happened to me. Always. Since I was a little girl, since I started working, I had thought about it thousands of times. I told myself I would defend myself. That I wouldn't stay silent. That I wouldn't let anyone make me feel small. That if a man ever crossed a line with me, I would stand firm and tell him no."
You took a breath and felt your hands trembling.
You placed them on the table, hiding them behind the plate so Clark wouldn't see.
But he had already seen them.
He saw everything.
"But when it started, when he came close to me, when he took advantage of the chance to get into the elevator when there was no one else around, I just froze," you said, your voice cracking slightly at the end. "I didn't know what to do. I was afraid. Afraid he would do something to me. Afraid I'd get fired. Afraid nobody would believe me. And it was a miracle that every time something happened, someone appeared at just the right moment. Lois, Cat, Jimmy, even you... even you. Someone always appeared, and he would back off. But if nobody had appeared... I don't know what would have happened."
"I'm sorry," you repeated again.
As if it were all your fault.
As if being frightened had been a mistake.
Clark shook his head.
Firmly.
From side to side.
Then his hands reached across the table to touch yours.
He took them carefully, with that gentleness he seemed to carry into everything, and squeezed them lightly.
"It's not your fault," Clark said.
His voice was firm.
Certain.
As if there was no room for doubt.
You looked at him, and he held your gaze without blinking.
"What he's doing has no justification. It's disrespectful, and he knows very well that he's making you uncomfortable. It's easy to tell when someone doesn't feel safe around you. He knows. He chooses to ignore it."
"Yes," you whispered, your throat tight.
"If you asked me for help, it's because you feel safe with me," Clark said, a small smile appearing on his face. "And I won't hesitate to protect you. For as long as you need me to pretend, I'll pretend. For as long as you need me by your side, I'll be there. I'm not leaving you alone with him again."
Your cheeks turned red.
You couldn't help it.
Clark's words entered through your ears and went straight to your heart, and your heart began beating faster, as if it had swallowed an entire cup of strong coffee.
You smiled.
A small but genuine smile.
And you thanked him with your eyes because, in that moment, the words wouldn't come.
And Clark followed through.
Clark had absolutely no problem pretending.
The very next morning, when you reached the corner before entering the Planet, he was already there waiting for you.
He saw you approaching and immediately straightened up, as if he had been rehearsing something in his head.
"Should we go in holding hands?" he asked.
His voice sounded slightly uncertain.
Slightly nervous.
You looked at him, and he fell silent for a moment, as though he were searching for the right words.
"It's just that I've never..." He paused awkwardly. "Well, I have. Years ago. But it's been a very long time."
That was how you learned Clark hadn't been in a serious relationship for quite a while.
You couldn't really picture Clark dating anyone.
He was so private.
So quiet about his personal life.
It almost felt as though he had always been alone.
And that made you feel a little sad for him.
But it also gave you a little hope.
Though you buried that hope deep inside yourself, where it wouldn't cause trouble.
"That's fine," you said, offering him your hand.
Clark took it.
His hand was warm.
Large.
His fingers wrapped carefully around yours as though you were something fragile that could break.
They entered the Daily Planet that way, hand in hand, walking together through the lobby.
They rode the elevator together, and every pair of eyes immediately landed on the two of you.
Some people smiled.
Others raised their eyebrows in surprise.
One of the receptionists even congratulated you as if you'd gotten engaged.
You blushed.
But you didn't let go of his hand.
You acted as usual.
You reached your floor.
Each of you went to your desk.
You focused on sending the photographs you had edited the previous day.
But it didn't take long before an email arrived.
The moment you saw it appear on your screen, that familiar knot tightened in your stomach.
"Is it him?" Clark asked from his desk, as though he had somehow felt your fear from across the room.
You looked at him and nodded silently.
Clark stood up.
He walked over and offered you his hand again.
You took the memory card containing the photographs.
He took the memory card with his article.
And together, you went downstairs to the editors' floor.
The moment they arrived, Benjamin almost turned in his chair.
He made a motion as though he were about to stand and approach them.
But he stopped himself.
Instead, he remained seated, fingers resting on his keyboard, watching them through narrowed eyes.
You could practically feel him judging.
Feel his gaze moving to Clark's hand wrapped around yours.
Feel the way he rolled his eyes as though the whole thing were ridiculous.
Clark paid him no attention.
He walked over to the submission desk, placed his memory card beside yours, and with a polite smile that didn't quite reach his eyes, said,
"I'd appreciate receiving the emails as well. I think they've only been going to my girlfriend."
Benjamin's jaw tightened.
He didn't say anything.
He simply nodded once.
Quickly.
As though he wanted you both gone as soon as possible.
You squeezed Clark's hand.
Then the two of you walked away at an unhurried pace.
Not rushing.
Not giving Benjamin the satisfaction of seeing you flee.
When you reached the hallway, when nobody was watching anymore, you finally released a breath you hadn't realized you'd been holding.
You looked at Clark.
He looked back at you.
And for a second—
Just one second—
His eyes lingered on yours as though there was something else he wanted to say.
But he didn't.
He simply smiled.
Gave your hand one more gentle squeeze.
And together, you walked back upstairs.
After that, everything seemed calmer.
The weeks passed.
And the lie slowly became routine.
Like a new piece of clothing that feels strange at first but eventually becomes so familiar that you forget you're wearing it.
The two of you started going to lunch together.
You sat at the table in the back where fewer people gathered.
You shared your lunches without anyone bothering you.
You left the building hand in hand.
And Clark would stay with you at the bus stop, glancing around carefully, making sure Benjamin didn't suddenly appear.
Sometimes he even walked part of the way home with you.
Only for a few blocks.
Never all the way.
Because he didn't want Benjamin to know exactly where you lived.
He said Benjamin might follow you.
That it wasn't worth the risk.
You thanked him every time.
And Clark would simply smile and tell you it wasn't a problem.
But when his hand slipped from yours—
When it was time to separate at the corner—
When he walked toward his apartment and you headed toward yours—
You felt the cold.
The cold in your fingers.
The cold in your palm.
The cold of being alone again after spending the entire day with him.
It was a strange kind of cold.
The sort that didn't come from the air.
The sort that came from somewhere deep inside.
And it made you press your hand against your chest as though you could somehow keep Clark's warmth trapped between your fingers.
Because you had learned how to be with him.
Because the thought that the lie would eventually come to an end left you frozen.
And that happened because, perhaps, you longed for it to be real.
Sinopsis: You discovered Clark Kent's biggest secret long before he ever confessed it. But being Superman isn't what surprises you most. It's the fact that the strongest man in the world completely falls apart whenever you're around.
Warnings: Romance, Humor, Established Relationship, Slice of Life, Domestic Fluff
WC: 5,200 words approx.
You knew Clark had a secret. One that was very big and very precious to him. In fact, you had known it long before you officially started dating him, long before he even dared to ask you out for coffee without his hands trembling as if he were holding a bomb ready to explode.
You worked at the Planet as a photographer. And you were far too observant. It wasn't something you could help. You had a separate website, a small corner of the internet where you uploaded your favorite photographs, the ones that told a story beyond what could be seen at first glance. You had won awards through the Planet and as an independent photographer as well. It was a gift, something that came naturally from deep within you, and you loved it. You didn't just take pictures—you looked at them, studied them, searched for their meaning, for the impact they could have on whoever saw them. To you, every photograph was a frozen piece of history.
That was how it happened, in such a simple way that it almost felt like a joke from fate. You had been taking pictures around work in silence, as you always did. One day, you captured Lois tilting her head while reading an interesting article. The light from the window hit her hair perfectly, making her look like she belonged on the cover of an old magazine worthy of being framed. You uploaded the picture to your website with her permission, and it gained a few new followers. It was beautiful, yes, but it also said something: "Look, this woman is thinking, and she cares about what she's reading."
Later, you took a photo of Jimmy. He was studying what shot to take next, his camera pressed against his face as though it were a part of him. You had captured a photographer in the middle of doing what he loved, and the image conveyed the passion shining in his eyes. He looked at the scene with the excitement of someone who truly loved his work, just moments away from lifting the camera to take the shot. You uploaded that photo too. And just like those, there were many others you kept to yourself like private treasures, while some you shared with the world.
Clark wasn't really into photography. Or rather, he wasn't fond of posing for it. But you loved taking pictures of him when he wasn't paying attention. You photographed him smiling at Cat's little dog, the one she sometimes brought to the office wrapped in a pink blanket. Clark would instantly turn into a child, crouching down and speaking to it in a cartoonish voice. You also captured him once staring at his sandwich as if it were the most beautiful thing in the world. His eyes were wide behind his glasses, and he looked as though he'd never seen ham and cheese between two slices of bread before. It was ridiculous, but adorable.
Among all those pictures, there was one where the main focus was Perry speaking in front of the interns. It was the kind of formal photo that would later be displayed as part of the Planet's history. You took several shots to make sure at least one turned out perfectly. But in one of them, Clark was looking around as if he were searching for something. In another, he was taking off his glasses. Your eyes widened when you looked at the next one: in that photo, he was staring straight ahead with a completely different expression. He didn't seem aware of the camera at all. He was focused, but not on Perry. He was listening to something far away, something no one else could hear.
And that was when you discovered it.
The rest is history, as they say. But what nobody told you before you started dating Clark was that beyond being a hero, he was a man hopelessly in love. Ridiculously in love. The kind of man who would trip over his own feet just because you looked at him. Robert from meteorology thought Clark was obsessed with you. One day, he even said it in the break room.
"That guy looks at her like she's about to disappear."
And maybe humans weren't ready to see how a Kryptonian loved. Humans were used to loving for a little while. Some—only a handful—might love their partners until death did them part. But there was always someone looking elsewhere, always an "I'll call you later" that never came. Clark heard it over and over again with his super hearing. Every night, he listened to hearts breaking all across the city. But he never feared that with you. Maybe because you loved with the same intensity he did. And for a man who could fly, that was stronger than gravity.
And Clark's love extended all the way to Superman.
Literally.
Superman—the serious, kind, funny superhero who always maintained the image of a dependable hero—completely fell apart around you. He became a mess. You knew it because it was absolutely delightful to watch whenever you had the chance. It made you laugh inside to see the Man of Steel turn into jelly simply because you were nearby.
One day, Superman had just rescued a little girl who had climbed onto a building under construction. People crowded around him immediately.
"I'm glad you're all safe," Superman said in his strong, steady voice while holding the little girl with a level of care that seemed impossible for a man so large.
The crowd surrounded him gratefully. Some older men patted him on the back. A woman cried from relief and excitement. Superman nodded seriously, as though it were just another ordinary day. He radiated confidence simply by standing there.
Then his eyes met yours.
You were standing toward the back, your camera hanging around your neck, simply watching. You hadn't taken a single picture of the scene. You preferred seeing it with your own eyes.
Superman's cheeks turned red.
You smiled at him, and he swallowed hard.
It was the kind of dry swallow that could probably be heard three blocks away.
He almost took a step toward you, but people were still surrounding him, waiting for more heroic words.
"Uh... well..." he said, letting out a nervous laugh.
Everyone looked at him strangely.
It was normal for Superman to speak.
It was not normal for Superman to smile like a little boy who had just been handed a cake.
His nervousness did not go unnoticed.
He huffed softly and nearly shifted his hips in embarrassment, like a flirtatious duck who didn't realize he was being flirtatious.
Your lovestruck man became nervous simply because your eyes were on him.
"I... I'll make sure everything stays under control," he finally said, carefully setting the little girl down.
You stepped a little closer, just to make him suffer a tiny bit more.
Superman turned even redder than an apple.
"Hello, Superman," you said with a smile.
"H-hello," he replied, and his voice cracked as though he were going through puberty all over again.
He cleared his throat and looked toward the sky as if searching for an excuse to fly away.
"Nice rescue," you said, crossing your arms. "The little girl was really scared."
"Y-yeah... yeah, honestly..." He rubbed the back of his neck, something Clark did all the time. "She... well, she was in a dangerous place. And I... I saw her. And I thought... I have to help her."
And that wasn't all.
He had always tried not to let people see just how in love he was.
Superman, Clark, or both of them with you.
Because if you were Clark's girlfriend and someone saw Superman looking at you with those abandoned-puppy eyes, people would get the wrong idea. It would look like cheating. People would think you were betraying your boyfriend with the most famous hero in the world.
And of course, that couldn't happen.
Clark knew that.
But Clark was weak when it came to his woman.
Weak.
Weak.
Weak.
Like a chocolate cake sitting in front of a child.
Like that time there was a fire in an apartment building on the north side of the city.
Superman arrived, as always, flying faster than lightning. He put out the flames with his super breath, rescued three people from the fifth floor.
Very heroic.
Very professional.
People applauded.
Reporters took pictures.
And then he saw you in the crowd.
You had only come to see if anyone needed help because that was just who you were—always looking out for others.
But the moment your eyes met his, Superman froze in midair.
Literally.
Floating there like a balloon someone forgot to let go of.
One of the firefighters shouted, "Everything okay?"
And Superman could only manage, "Y-yes, yes, everything's fine. I'm just... checking... the clouds."
There wasn't a single cloud in the sky.
It was a completely clear day.
He slowly floated down.
Far too slowly.
As if he wanted to stretch out every second he got to look at you.
His feet touched the ground, and he started walking toward you, but his legs looked like jelly.
He tripped.
Yes.
Superman tripped over a hose.
A hose.
The guy who could lift a building with one hand nearly fell flat on his back because of a garden hose.
A little boy looked up at him and asked, "Did you get hurt?"
And Superman replied, "No, no. I was... testing the ground. It's solid. Very solid. Good ground."
You had to bite your lip to keep from laughing.
"Superman," you said with a smile, "good job with the fire."
"Thank you," he replied, and his voice sounded slightly higher than usual.
He cleared his throat.
"I'm glad that... that you're okay. I mean, that you're here. Not that there's a fire. That's bad. But you... you're okay. Are you okay?"
"I wasn't even in the fire, Superman, but I'm fine," you answered.
"Good," he said.
And then he just stared at you.
Without saying anything.
Just staring.
Five seconds passed.
Ten.
One of the firefighters had to tap him on the shoulder to tell him there was a column of smoke a block away.
Superman blinked as if he had just woken up from a dream, nodded very seriously, and flew away in a perfectly straight line.
That was how he gave himself away.
Because you didn't look at Superman.
To you, he was still Clark, no matter how hard he tried.
No matter how tight the suit was.
No matter how dramatically the red cape billowed in the wind.
No matter how much he tried to use that deep, confident voice that ended up quoted in every newspaper.
You looked at him and only saw the clumsy guy who got tangled in the cords of his own cape, the one whose glasses slipped off every time you laughed too hard.
He could fly faster than a speeding bullet.
But around you, he moved as if his feet were glued to the floor with school glue.
That night, he flew up to the window of your apartment.
It wasn't the first time, of course.
But that night, you were in the kitchen, wearing an apron and covered in flour because you were making dinner.
The window made that familiar little sound, that soft clack that happened whenever Clark misjudged his speed and bumped his shoulders against the frame.
You heard the scrape of his cape against the glass and smiled without turning around.
"Miss, are you busy?" Clark's voice asked.
But it wasn't Clark's voice.
It was his Superman voice—deeper, firmer.
Like he was auditioning for an action movie.
You turned around, pausing your cooking.
You had a wooden spoon in one hand and a bit of sauce on your cheek.
You smiled and frowned slightly when you saw him standing in the window frame with his arms crossed and his legs spread apart, trying to look imposing.
His red boots gleamed beneath the kitchen lights.
His cape fluttered dramatically behind him because he kept shifting one shoulder to make it look like there was wind.
It was quite a show.
"Why didn't you come through the door, Superman?" you asked, raising an eyebrow as you set the spoon down on a plate.
Clark sighed as though he didn't want to break character.
He was trying.
He really was.
His jaw was clenched, and his gaze was fixed on a point somewhere behind your shoulder, as if he were watching an invisible threat.
But his eyes moved around too quickly, and his cheeks were already starting to turn pink.
You could see it perfectly.
He was trying with all his might, but the way your eyes lit up when you looked at him completely ruined all of his effort.
"I... the window... I can fly," he said.
And his voice cracked a little at the end.
You laughed.
You couldn't help it.
It was too funny seeing Superman explain why he'd entered through the window as though he were a lost pizza delivery guy.
"No... I'm trying, sweetheart," he said with an enormous pout, dropping his arms and letting his shoulders sag.
He looked like a child who had just been told there would be no dessert.
You smiled wider and nodded, walking over to him.
"You're doing great, honey," you said before wrapping your arms around him.
His suit was softer than it looked in pictures.
And he smelled like the sky, as always.
Like that clean air above the clouds.
You rested your cheek against his chest and felt his heart racing.
Fast.
Very fast.
As if he had just finished running a marathon.
"Is there a reason for all this?" you asked, pulling back slightly so you could look him in the eyes.
Clark immediately became nervous.
He ran a hand through his hair.
His hands went to his hips.
Then behind his back.
Then back to his hips.
He had no idea what to do with them.
Eventually he crossed them over his chest, but he looked so uncomfortable that it seemed physically painful.
He tried to put on one of those serious expressions that ended up in newspapers whenever he saved a building.
He pressed his lips together.
Furrowed his brow.
Hardened his gaze.
But his eyes couldn't stay still.
Every few seconds they drifted back to you and softened like a puppy begging for food.
"I read that women are attracted to men who show confidence," he began, swallowing hard.
He tried to keep a serious face, but his lower lip trembled slightly.
He bit it so you wouldn't notice, which only made it seem as though he was concentrating very hard on a complicated problem.
"And men who..." he continued.
Then he looked at you again, and his gaze immediately slipped away.
He was turning red as a tomato.
He clenched his jaw to look more intimidating, but his puffed cheeks made him resemble an angry hamster.
"Very strong men and..." his voice grew smaller, "...also... cold."
He practically whispered the last word.
The blush had spread all the way from his cheeks to his ears.
His ears.
His ears had turned red.
You didn't even know ears could get that red.
He tried to recover his composure.
He straightened his back.
Lifted his chin.
Put his hands on his hips again.
But his cape had gotten caught on the window frame.
When he stepped forward, the cape tugged backward and nearly knocked him flat onto his back.
He did an awkward little hop to regain his balance, his arms flailing in a strange motion as though he were swimming through the air.
Then he froze, eyes wide, pretending none of that had happened.
He coughed a couple of times and crossed his arms again.
Except this time they were crossed backward, like he was hugging himself.
When he noticed, he uncrossed them and tried again.
Then he didn't know what to do with his head, so he tilted it slightly to the side like he was posing for a statue.
He looked so stiff he resembled a cardboard cutout.
"Where did you read that?" you asked, taking another step closer.
You took the grocery bag from his hands—the same bag he'd been clutching the entire time as though it were a life raft.
You stood there with your arms crossed, waiting.
"In The Latest Things You Need to Know About Women," Clark said.
One foot slid backward.
The other moved forward.
It looked like he was secretly practicing a dance routine.
He tried to stand still to appear more confident, but his feet seemed to have a life of their own.
"Steve emailed it to me this morning. He said I needed it."
He attempted a serious smile.
Instead, it came out as a strange expression halfway between a smile and a grimace, as though he'd suddenly gotten a cramp in his cheek.
He remembered what had happened earlier that morning at the office.
Steve had walked up behind him while Clark stared at a photo of you taped beside his computer.
"Buddy, you need this," Steve had said with a rabbit-like grin.
Clark had opened the link and read things like "women want a man who doesn't show emotions" and "don't smile too much, it makes you look weak."
Since then, he'd been practicing in front of the mirror.
He had even put on the Superman suit because he thought it would make him seem more authoritative.
Nothing could have been further from the truth.
"That website was written by a man, Clark," you said, brushing your fingertips against his suit.
The red-and-blue suit that had saved the world dozens of times.
And there he was, shifting from side to side as though he were standing on hot coals, his fists clenched behind his back and his gaze fixed on the floor.
He tried once more to look serious.
He furrowed his brow so hard wrinkles appeared on his forehead.
Pressed his lips together until they became a thin line.
But then you smiled.
Just a little.
And all that seriousness melted away like ice cream under the sun.
His entire face softened.
His eyes turned gentle again.
With a defeated sigh, he let his shoulders drop.
"I'm not saying men can't understand us, but most of them don't," you added.
And he nodded like a puppy being told why he wasn't allowed to eat chocolate.
"I like you the way you are, Clark. You don't need to change," you said softly.
You stepped a little closer.
He immediately stopped moving altogether, as if someone had pressed a pause button.
"It's cute seeing you get nervous even while wearing the suit," you said as you looked down into the grocery bag.
Bread.
Lettuce.
Cheese.
Everything was there.
Except for one thing.
"I don't get nervous," he said.
His voice came out high-pitched.
Almost squeaky.
He tried to look serious again, but one eyebrow had started twitching uncontrollably.
He touched it with a finger to stop it.
Then the other eyebrow started twitching.
It looked like a tiny storm was happening on his face.
You looked at him.
His cheeks were so red that it looked as though he'd spent an hour standing directly beneath the sun.
"You forgot the tomato sauce, Clark," you said, lifting the empty bag that should have contained the jar.
He smiled.
A huge, awkward smile.
The kind a child gives after accidentally breaking a vase and hoping to be rewarded for admitting it.
Every trace of seriousness vanished instantly.
His entire face lit up.
His eyes squinted from smiling so hard.
"Yeah... I... uh... forgot it," he admitted, scratching the back of his neck with one giant hand.
You laughed and nodded.
Because you already knew exactly how this story ended.
"I have to go get it, don't I?" he asked.
You nodded.
"Okay," Clark said.
His eyes immediately lit up as though you'd just given him the best news in the world.
"Can I buy those Japanese mochi I showed you at the store the other day?" he asked, rocking back and forth on his feet like he was about to take off.
Literally.
"The soft ones with sugar inside. The pink ones," he added, unable to stop a small excited bounce.
"They're the sweetest ones, sweetheart. You're going to love them."
"Yes, but only one box, Clark," you said, raising a finger in warning.
"Do you remember what happened when you ate two entire boxes last time? I don't want to see you flying around the world five times in a row because of a sugar rush you couldn't control."
You said it completely seriously.
Very seriously.
Because he had literally done exactly that the week before.
He had flown from Metropolis to Japan in three seconds, bought the mochi—even though they were sold five blocks from your apartment—and eaten an entire box on the way home.
When he arrived, his pupils were so wide he looked like an excited owl.
Then he'd eaten the second box and taken off flying again because:
"Sweetheart, I feel like I can touch the stars with my fingers."
"Okay," Clark said.
Then he leaned down and kissed you.
It was a soft kiss.
Quick.
Nervous.
He smiled against your lips and whispered,
"I promise I won't buy two boxes."
You smiled and nodded.
His promise was worth less than the paper it wasn't written on.
But you still liked hearing him say it.
When you pulled apart, he looked at you as he backed away toward the door.
He walked backward with a level of clumsiness that seemed impossible for a man who could catch an airplane out of the sky.
His hand waved from side to side in farewell, fluttering like a little flag in the wind.
And the smile never left his face.
He was so nervous.
So excited about going to buy the mochi.
His feet practically carried him toward the exit on their own.
"Sweetheart, you're not actually going in your suit, are you?" you asked, resting a hand on your hip.
Clark took three steps outside the apartment.
Then four.
Then he stopped dead in his tracks.
He looked down at himself.
Touched his chest.
Looked at his cape.
Looked at his boots.
As if he had only just realized he was dressed in bright blue and red with a giant emblem on his chest.
His eyes widened.
"Right... the suit," he muttered to himself, blushing all over again.
At that point, you weren't sure if his cheeks would ever return to their normal color.
He spun around so quickly that he nearly got tangled in his own cape and fell flat on his face.
Then he hurried back into the apartment, cheeks burning and eyes wide.
"I'd be a complete failure on that website," he said as he walked toward the bedroom, dragging his feet as though he were wearing oversized slippers.
"If I go to the store looking like this, Steve was right. I don't know anything about women," he muttered to himself, his voice full of concern.
You laughed.
A laugh that filled the entire kitchen.
"And don't fly out the window again!" you called after him from the kitchen.
"The door, sweetheart, I promise!" he shouted back from the bedroom.
A loud thud echoed through the apartment.
Something hit the floor.
Then came an "I'm okay!" that sounded far more annoyed than convincing.
A few seconds later, Clark emerged from the bedroom wearing his normal clothes.
His jeans were slightly crooked.
His shirt was buttoned wrong.
And his hair was a complete mess.
He smiled sheepishly and pointed toward the door.
"Okay, now I'm really going," he said.
He took one step.
Then turned around again.
"The pink mochi, right?" he asked.
"Yes, Clark. The pink ones," you replied, shaking your head with a smile.
"Just one box," he said, holding up a finger.
"That's what you said last time."
"This time I mean it," he replied.
And before you could answer, he walked out the door like a normal person.
Even though it was painfully obvious he wanted to fly instead.
You remained in the kitchen, wooden spoon still in hand, laughing to yourself.
And you thought that you wouldn't trade that lovestruck fool for anything in the world.
Sinopsis: After Clark pulls away, you try to convince yourself you can live without him. But jealousy, fear, and one emergency with Eloise finally force both of you to confess what has been left unsaid.
Maybe you decided too quickly. You didn't realize it until the third day.
The first day without Clark was fine. You tidied up the apartment a little, the baby slept most of the day, and you thought that maybe it was nice having the space all to yourself.
The second day started to feel strange.
The couch was empty.
There was no freshly brewed coffee in the morning.
The kitchen was clean but quiet, without the sound of Clark moving pots around.
The third day was worse.
You missed his presence already.
Not just his help, but his company.
The sound of his breathing from the other room.
The way he held the baby and spoke to her softly, as if she could understand him.
The way he glanced at you when he thought you weren't looking.
You told yourself it was pregnancy sensitivity.
Or postpartum hormones.
That you were emotional, that everything felt bigger than it really was.
But no matter how many times you repeated that to yourself, the sadness wouldn't leave.
It was a small thing, but irritating, like a pebble trapped inside your shoe.
You missed him.
And you didn't know whether it was love or habit, but you missed him.
That night, the baby cried through the early hours of the morning.
It wasn't the kind of soft cry that could be soothed with a lullaby.
It was loud.
Desperate.
The kind of cry that breaks your heart because you don't know what else to do.
You picked her up and rocked her.
You sang to her.
You nursed her.
You changed her diaper.
Nothing worked.
The baby kept crying, and you felt like you were about to cry too.
It was two in the morning.
You hadn't slept at all.
Every time you closed your eyes, she started screaming again.
Moonlight streamed through the window, illuminating your exhausted, desperate face.
You sat on the bed with the baby in your arms, and suddenly, unable to stop yourself, you started crying.
Heavy tears rolled down your cheeks and fell onto the little girl's head.
With a trembling hand, you grabbed your phone from the nightstand.
You unlocked it and searched for Clark's name.
You typed quickly, without thinking:
"Can you come over?"
But before you could send the message, you heard a noise at the window.
You looked up and saw him.
Clark was already there, floating outside your window in the blue-and-red suit he wore when he flew.
He slipped through the frame like a shadow, barely making a sound.
You stared as he stepped inside, concern written all over his face, his eyes immediately searching the baby, then you, then any sign of danger.
"What happened? Are you both okay?" he asked hurriedly, still adjusting his cape.
"The baby's fine," you said, and the moment the words left your mouth, you cried even harder. "She won't stop crying, Clark. I don't know what to do. I barely got her to sleep a little while ago, and now she's awake again. I think I'm not good at this."
Clark smiled.
It wasn't a mocking smile.
It wasn't pity.
It was the kind of gentle smile that says, It's okay. Everything's going to be alright.
He approached slowly so he wouldn't startle you and wrapped his arms around you.
He held you carefully, as if you were a crystal glass that could shatter.
One hand rested against your back while the other gently stroked the baby's head.
"It's part of the process," he said in his calm voice. "Babies cry. They don't know how to talk, they don't know how to point at things. They only know how to cry when something feels wrong. It's not your fault."
"But I don't know what's wrong with her," you sobbed against his chest.
"I'm going to buy everything that might help," Clark said. "A wipe warmer, some drops for colic, one of those pacifiers everyone recommends, a white-noise machine. Don't worry. I'll take care of it."
And while he said that, he was already thinking about everything he had read online during those two weeks, every product parents recommended for babies who cried for no apparent reason.
Clark pulled away just enough to cup your cheeks in his large, gentle hands.
Slowly, with his thumbs, as if he had all the time in the world, he wiped away your tears.
His fingers were warm, and the touch made you feel a little less alone.
"Actually," he said, "I'll leave when she starts sleeping through the night and you're able to get proper rest. Until then, I'm staying."
You looked at him, your eyes still wet.
Meanwhile, the baby had calmed down a little, only whimpering softly against your chest.
You knew Clark was doing a lot for you.
Maybe too much.
And it hurt to say it, but you said it anyway.
"But it's not your responsibility. You're only the donor."
Clark nodded because it was true.
He was only the donor.
But he was also something more.
Something he didn't dare say out loud.
The father.
The man hopelessly in love with you.
"But I'm your friend," he said instead, "and I'd love to help you. Really. Not because I feel obligated. Because I want to."
That word—friend—settled in your chest like a warm coat in winter.
It wasn't what you might have wanted to hear.
But it was exactly what you needed in that moment.
Someone who would stay without asking for anything in return.
You hugged him, squeezing the baby safely between the two of you, and Clark closed his eyes and took a deep breath.
I wish this moment would never end.
I wish I could stay like this forever.
Clark guided you gently back to bed.
First, he made sure the baby was completely asleep and settled her into her bassinet with a small blanket wrapped around her.
Then he returned to you.
"Let me check your incision," he said.
Even though it made you a little embarrassed, you nodded because you knew he only wanted to help.
You lay back against the mattress and lifted your shirt slightly.
Clark knelt beside the bed and, with extreme care, examined the C-section scar with the tips of his fingers.
It was pink.
Healing well.
No signs of infection.
"It's better than last week," he said quietly, almost as if he were speaking to himself.
He took the opportunity to use his special vision, just in case there was something that couldn't be seen with the naked eye.
Everything looked fine.
Clark also started hugging you more.
At first, they were quick hugs, the kind people give when saying hello or goodbye.
But then they became longer.
Tighter.
More necessary.
He knew you were still sensitive from the C-section, that sometimes your back hurt or you felt tired for no reason.
And he had discovered that when he hugged you, you relaxed.
That your body softened against his, as if his arms were the only place where you could finally lower your guard.
So he started hugging you for no reason.
In the kitchen, while you waited for the food to heat up.
In the living room, while the baby napped.
By the entrance, before he went out to buy something.
And you, without thinking too much about it, leaned into his chest.
Closing your eyes and resting your head against his shoulder had become a habit.
And many times, without even realizing it, you fell asleep like that.
Standing.
Wrapped in Clark’s arms.
He would feel you grow heavier against him, hear your breathing become slower and deeper, and then he would carefully carry you to the couch or the bed.
He would lay you down gently, cover you with a blanket, and stay there for a while, watching you sleep.
He used those moments to stroke your hair, running his fingers through your strands as if they were silk.
It was his favorite moment of the day.
When you didn’t have to pretend anything.
When you didn’t have to be strong.
When you were just you, sleeping peacefully, and he could love you without anyone seeing.
That was when Clark realized that maybe Clark Kent could have the life he had always longed for.
The life of a normal man.
A home.
A woman waiting for him.
A daughter who smiled at him when he came back from work.
The kind of life people had in movies, with family dinners and unhurried weekends.
And he could hide it.
He could keep being Superman when the world needed him, and still come home before dawn.
He could have both.
Because seeing you there, with the baby in your arms, was enough to make him want to try everything.
But he was afraid.
That fear wouldn’t leave, no matter how hard he pushed it away.
It was like a shadow following him everywhere.
And it wasn’t a small fear.
It was a large, heavy fear that tightened around his chest when he least expected it.
The little girl was growing.
Every day, she was stronger.
More alert.
More beautiful.
She learned how to smile.
How to crawl.
And as he watched her grow, he thought about all the terrible things that could happen.
A villain discovering he had a daughter.
Someone following them to your apartment.
The little girl inheriting his powers and not knowing how to control them.
Hurting herself.
Or worse, hurting someone else by accident.
Those images haunted him at night, when everything was dark and his mind refused to stop spinning.
One day, without saying anything, Clark made a decision.
He went back to his apartment.
It wasn’t a goodbye.
It wasn’t a fight.
It wasn’t a door slammed shut.
It was an, “I’m going home to sleep, I’ll be back tomorrow,” that turned into, “I stayed behind to take care of a few things, I’ll come by over the weekend.”
And then into an entire week without him crossing your doorway.
You didn’t say anything to him, because what could you say?
It was his home.
He had every right to be there.
But you missed him.
You missed him the way people miss the sun in winter.
The bed felt bigger and colder.
The empty couch seemed to stare back at you accusingly.
The baby turned her head toward the door every time she heard a sound, as if she were waiting to see him walk in.
And so did you.
Even if you refused to admit it.
You knew he had to keep living his life.
You couldn’t keep him locked inside your apartment forever.
It wasn’t fair.
Besides, you started thinking things that hurt.
What if he truly loved someone else?
What if, someday, he met a woman who didn’t have a recent C-section scar and a crying baby at two in the morning?
What if he wasn’t afraid of anything with someone else?
And then forgot about you?
That thought pierced your chest like a thorn.
You tried to pull it out, but it kept coming back again and again.
You shouldn’t be angry if that happens, you told yourself.
He was only a donor.
He wasn’t your boyfriend.
He wasn’t your husband.
He hadn’t promised you anything.
He was just a friend who had been very generous.
And if one day he fell in love with someone else and left, you would have to accept it.
You would have to smile and wish him the best.
Even if your whole world collapsed inside you.
Even if you didn’t want that.
Even if you wanted the exact opposite.
When the little girl turned seven months old, you went back to work.
Not at the Daily Planet.
Not yet.
You worked from home.
Editing articles.
Correcting drafts.
Sending emails to journalists so they would rewrite entire paragraphs.
It was tedious work, invisible work, but someone had to do it.
Perry valued your work because it was still excellent, even if you were doing it from the dining table with the baby crawling between your feet.
He called you once a week to ask how you were, and he always ended up saying, “Whenever you want to come back, your position is here.”
That made you feel good.
It reminded you that you weren’t just a mother.
You were also an editor.
You also had a life.
Clark, for his part, didn’t disappear completely.
He was still present, but in a different way.
On Fridays, after work, he knocked on the door.
He didn’t knock loudly.
He didn’t make noise with the knocker.
Just two gentle taps with his knuckles, as if he didn’t want to disturb you.
You opened the door and he was there, with a tired but sincere smile, his hands full of things.
He picked up the little girl immediately.
He took her into his arms as if it were the most natural thing in the world, lifted her above his head, and the baby let out a contagious laugh.
A laugh that made even the plants in the apartment want to dance.
The little girl knew him very well.
She recognized his scent, his voice, the tickle of his beard when he brought her close to his cheek.
And Clark loved that child with an intensity he could barely contain.
His entire face lit up when she grabbed one of his fingers with her tiny hand.
You hesitated whenever you watched him holding her.
Whenever you saw him laughing with her, spinning her in the air, blowing raspberries against her little belly.
Something moved inside you.
Something you didn’t know how to name.
You wanted him there every night.
Not just on Fridays.
Not just once in a while.
You wanted him every day.
Every hour.
Every minute.
But you knew that wouldn’t happen.
You couldn’t ask that of him.
It wasn’t fair.
And besides, what were you supposed to say?
Stay with me because I can’t bear it when you leave?
It sounded insane.
It sounded like someone in love.
Clark looked at you and smiled.
That quiet smile of his, the one that always disarmed you.
But there was something in his eyes too.
Something you didn’t know how to read.
Something that seemed to say, I miss you too, but in a language neither of you dared to speak.
He never arrived empty-handed.
He brought gifts for the little girl.
A new rattle.
A cardboard book with animals.
A soft stuffed toy the baby sucked on until it was soaked with drool.
And for you, dessert.
Always something different.
Flan.
Rice pudding.
A slice of apple pie.
Bread pudding.
Or sometimes, when it wasn’t dessert, he brought flowers.
A small bouquet, the kind sold on the corner, tied with a simple ribbon.
You placed them in a glass cup because you didn’t have a vase, and you looked at them for days, until they withered.
You never said anything to him.
But every time you saw those flowers, your chest filled with something warm and sweet.
And then, as if it were nothing, Clark stayed.
He stayed to clean up the kitchen.
He washed the dishes from lunch, wiped down the counter, put the milk back in the fridge.
Or he went to pick up something from the dry cleaner’s that you had left there because you hadn’t had time to go.
Or he fixed the squeaky closet door.
Or changed a lightbulb.
Always with an excuse.
Always with something to do.
Because the truth was that he looked for any reason to come back to you.
Any excuse to be near you.
He didn’t know how to tell you.
He didn’t dare stay completely.
But he couldn’t leave entirely either.
So he lived in that middle place.
That limbo of Fridays, desserts, and flowers.
And you let him.
Because even though you never said it, you also looked for excuses to make him stay a little longer.
Just a little longer.
Always a little longer.
Until the night grew late and he said, “Well, I should go,” and put his shoes on by the entrance.
And you, sitting on the couch with the baby asleep on your chest, could only manage to say, “Take care.”
When what you really wanted to say was, Don’t go.
You found a caregiver to look after little Eloise.
That was the girl’s name.
Eloise.
A soft name, like something from a fairytale princess, one you had chosen because it sounded beautiful and because you didn’t know anyone else with that name.
Clark had nodded when you told him.
And later, when she was already a few months old and you called her by name, he would say, “Eloise,” in a voice so tender it was as if the name melted in his mouth.
The caregiver was an older woman, the kind with gray hair gathered into a bun and hands that were soft but firm.
Her name was Rosa, and she had years of experience taking care of babies.
She had raised five children of her own and nine grandchildren, so she knew more about diapers and colic than all the books in the world.
Clark found her after interviewing seven people.
He investigated her without her knowing.
He used his hearing to listen to her conversations from far away and his eyes to see if she was hiding anything bad.
He made sure she was truly a good woman, not just someone who appeared to be one.
And Rosa was.
She arrived on time every morning, wearing her white apron and her grandmotherly smile, and stayed with Eloise while you went to work.
The baby loved her from the first day, maybe because Rosa smelled like bread and lavender soap, or maybe because babies know how to recognize good people.
So you went back to the Daily Planet.
On the first day, you woke up nervous, as if it were your first day at work instead of your return after many months away.
You put on a shirt that fit you well, a pair of pants you could finally button again, and stared at yourself in the mirror for a long while.
“I’m the same person I was before,” you told yourself. “I’m a good editor. I can do this.”
You kissed Eloise on the forehead, left a bottle ready for Rosa, and walked out the door with your heart pounding in your chest.
But the first day wasn’t what you expected.
You arrived at the Daily Planet, and the smell of paper, ink, and old coffee hit you like a hug from a friend you hadn’t seen in a long time.
Typewriters clattered.
Phones rang.
Journalists rushed from one side to the other with papers in their hands.
Everything was the same.
Everything was exactly as you remembered it.
Lois welcomed you the way she always did, with a big smile and a shove to the shoulder.
“Finally! I was getting tired of being the only sensible woman in this place,” she said, and you laughed because Lois was anything but sensible.
Jimmy hugged you, a strong and quick hug, and then looked you in the eye and said, “Where’s the baby? I miss her more than I miss you.”
And you laughed again.
They both knew your little girl, and they loved her.
They had visited her several times.
They had fought over who got to hold her longer.
They had bought her dresses and stuffed animals and books she still couldn’t read.
They were family too.
They made coming back feel safe.
But then Perry called you into his office.
It wasn’t his usual desk anymore, because now he had a bigger office, with windows overlooking the street and a plant dying in the corner because no one watered it.
You sat across from him, and he smiled at you with that grumpy old-man face that, deep down, belonged to someone good.
“I have a surprise for you,” he said, and pressed a button on his phone. “Send her in.”
The door opened, and a woman walked in.
A blonde woman.
The kind of blonde who looked as if she had stepped out of a magazine, with long, shiny hair that seemed like it had been straightened that very morning.
She had green eyes, a pale green like moss after the rain, and a beautiful smile.
The kind of smile that made you want to smile too, even when you didn’t feel like it.
Perry introduced her to you.
“This is Lexie. A new editor,” he said.
And you looked at her.
Measured her from head to toe without meaning to.
And something in your stomach tightened without you knowing why.
Perry kept talking, but you were no longer fully listening.
“She’s been working with Clark these past few months,” he said, as if it were an insignificant detail. “I placed her as a staff writer first, but I think she has editor potential.”
You smiled.
You made the automatic gesture of nodding and extending your hand to greet her.
“Nice to meet you,” you said.
And your voice sounded normal, even though inside, you felt very far from normal.
Because then you remembered something.
You remembered how Clark, in the last few weeks before you returned to work, sometimes spent time on his phone with a smile.
A strange smile.
One that wasn’t for you, or for Eloise, or for anyone you knew.
He would be sitting on the couch in your apartment, the baby asleep against his chest, and suddenly his phone would vibrate.
He would look at it and let out a tiny smile, the kind that slips out before someone can stop it.
You hadn’t given it any importance then.
You thought maybe it was a message from Lois, or an article that had turned out well.
But now, with Lexie standing in front of you, blonde and beautiful and smiling, Clark’s smile took on another meaning.
Clark had never mentioned there was someone new.
Of course, he didn’t have to.
You weren’t a couple.
You didn’t owe each other anything.
He could work with whomever he wanted.
Talk to whomever he wanted.
Smile at whomever he wanted.
There was no agreement.
No promise.
No rule saying he had to tell you about every new person who showed up at the newspaper.
Although he did know you were coming back.
He knew you would return.
And still, he hadn’t said anything.
Maybe because it wasn’t important.
Maybe because it meant nothing.
Or maybe because it did mean something, and he didn’t want you to know.
You lowered your gaze for a moment.
Your shoes, black ones you had worn to feel more serious, suddenly seemed ridiculous.
You went back to your place, the desk you had left empty for so many months.
Someone had cleaned it.
There was no dust, no old papers.
Everything was tidy, as if they had been waiting for you.
But something had changed.
Lexie was seated in front of you now, at the desk across from yours, right where there had been no one before.
Now she was there, with her blonde hair and her smile and her green eyes, arranging her things as if she had belonged there all her life.
You looked at Clark.
He was standing beside his desk, a few feet away.
He saw you looking at him and smiled at you, that smile of his that used to calm you and now did something strange to your chest.
“Welcome home,” he said softly, as if nothing had changed.
As if you were still the same people you used to be.
You nodded.
“Thank you,” you said, and turned back to your chair.
But everything felt different.
More distant.
As if there were an invisible pane of glass between you and the rest of the world.
The sounds of the newsroom seemed muffled, the familiar faces blurred, and every time you looked up, Lexie was there.
Typing.
Laughing.
Leaning over to speak to someone.
And you had no right to any of it.
You had no right to feel jealous.
No right to be angry.
No right to ask Clark why he hadn’t told you anything.
Because he didn’t owe you explanations.
Because he was free to live his life.
Because you yourself had told him, through your actions, that you didn’t need him.
When he left your apartment after the birth.
When you let him pull away.
When you did nothing to keep him there.
You had told him without words that it was fine for him to leave.
And he had left.
Not completely.
But enough for there to be room now for someone else.
You watched them joke around.
Clark and Lexie.
They were standing near the coffee machine, she with a cup in her hand, he with his arms crossed.
Lexie said something.
Clark laughed.
And you saw the way he tilted his head toward her, as if to hear her better.
Inside jokes?
Jokes only the two of them knew?
The weeks she had spent working with him, those months when you hadn’t been there, had created something.
Something you hadn’t watched grow.
Something that was now right there, in front of your eyes, and you couldn’t ignore it.
You looked away.
You looked at your computer, the screen glowing white, the cursor blinking as it waited for you to write something.
Anything.
A headline.
A correction.
Whatever.
You told yourself it was foolish.
That Clark had left your apartment because maybe he felt too obligated.
Maybe he felt trapped.
Maybe he didn’t want to be the donor who stayed forever because that wasn’t what you had agreed on.
Maybe he needed his space.
His life.
His friends.
Maybe you had been a burden without realizing it, and he had simply been too kind to tell you.
Maybe Lexie was everything you couldn’t be.
Lighter.
Easier.
Without a baby waiting for her at home every night.
Without a C-section scar that still hurt sometimes.
Without a pile of diapers and bottles and sleepless nights.
So you focused on your work.
You opened your pending emails, reviewed the articles that had been assigned to you, and began correcting the first one.
It was a piece about a gas leak in the south of the city.
You read every word.
Corrected commas.
Rearranged a few paragraphs.
You did everything right.
Everything professionally.
But every two or three minutes, unable to help yourself, you looked up.
Clark was still there, talking to Lexie.
She was laughing, running a hand through her hair, and Clark was smiling.
It wasn’t a huge smile.
It wasn’t a burst of laughter.
It was a comfortable smile.
The kind someone gives to a person they know.
To someone who doesn’t make them feel self-conscious.
And from your desk, you felt like a stranger in your own place.
As if the months you had spent away had erased something that used to exist.
Something that maybe had only existed in your head.
You said nothing.
You couldn’t.
You had no right.
Clark wasn’t yours.
He never had been.
He was only the friend who had donated his sperm to you.
The friend who had stayed for two weeks taking care of you.
The friend who was now smiling at another woman while you watched from far away.
And that empty feeling in your chest was nothing more than the memory of something that had never happened.
Or that was what you tried to make yourself believe as you typed “revise” beside the article’s headline and pressed your lips together to keep a sigh from escaping.
The weeks passed.
And it wasn't easy.
You couldn't stop yourself from crying, and you hated yourself a little for it.
Because you cried in the newspaper's bathroom, with the water running so no one would hear.
You cried in your car before starting the engine.
You cried in the shower, when no one could see you.
It was stupid, you knew that.
It was stupid to cry over someone who had never been yours.
Now you had your daughter, a beautiful little girl who looked at you with those huge eyes and filled your heart in a way no one else ever could.
You couldn't compare yourself to Lexie.
You couldn't compete with her.
Because this had been your decision.
You had decided that Clark was only a donor.
You had decided that the two of you wouldn't be a couple.
You had decided that he could leave whenever he wanted.
So you had no right to feel bad about seeing him with someone else.
And yet, you felt terrible.
You felt so terrible that sometimes it was hard to breathe.
So you focused on the only thing you could control: your daughter.
Every afternoon when you got home, happiness hit you in the face the moment you opened the door.
Because Eloise would see you, stretch her little arms toward you, and make that sound that was almost "ma-ma," though she still couldn't quite pronounce the "m."
You would pick her up, hold her tightly against your chest, and for a few seconds, everything else disappeared.
Lexie disappeared.
Clark disappeared.
The office, the looks, the inside jokes—everything faded away.
There was only you and her and the baby scent that had soaked into your clothes.
Clark still came to your apartment.
But not like before.
Not with the same frequency.
He showed up on Fridays, sometimes Wednesdays, always with some excuse.
He brought something for Eloise: a new book, a toy, a blanket.
But you no longer looked at him the way you used to.
Before, whenever he walked through the door, your whole face lit up.
Now you greeted him with a short, "Hi," and went back to whatever you were doing.
You didn't offer him coffee.
You didn't sit beside him on the couch.
You didn't rest your head on his shoulder while the baby slept.
You had built yourself a shell.
An invisible suit of armor that wouldn't let him get close.
He noticed, of course.
Clark noticed everything.
But he didn't say anything, because he didn't know what to say either.
And the worst part was that you had started cutting phone calls short too.
When he called, you let it ring a few times before answering with a curt, "What is it?"
You talked only about what was necessary.
The baby.
The caregiver.
Some paperwork.
And when there was nothing left to discuss, you would say, "Alright, see you..." and hang up before he could answer.
You didn't want to hear his voice any longer than necessary.
Because if you listened to his voice, your heart softened.
And you couldn't allow that.
Not again.
You felt guilty.
Terribly guilty.
Because Clark hadn't done anything wrong.
He had simply continued living his life.
He had simply gone to work and met someone new.
He wasn't a traitor.
He hadn't betrayed you because he had never belonged to you in the first place.
Because you had never been together.
And yet, you treated him as if he had stabbed you in the back.
Every time you hung up without a proper goodbye, you stared at your phone afterward and thought:
I'm an idiot.
But you couldn't stop yourself.
Something stronger than you kept pushing you away from him.
Kept telling you to protect yourself.
To avoid giving him the chance to hurt you.
Even though he wasn't even trying to hurt you.
At the Daily Planet, no one besides the people closest to you knew that Clark was Eloise's father.
To the rest of the newspaper, you were simply a woman with a baby.
The father was a mystery.
An anonymous donor.
A "none of anyone's business."
Lois and Jimmy protected the secret as if it were treasure.
They never mentioned it out loud.
Never made comments that could raise suspicion.
So when Lexie arrived, she had absolutely no idea what had happened between you and Clark.
She didn't know he had slept on your couch.
She didn't know he had bought the crib.
She didn't know he had wiped your tears away in the middle of the night.
To Lexie, you were simply the editor who had returned after maternity leave.
And Clark was simply her coworker, the one who had shown her how everything worked during those first few months.
But Lexie, without knowing any of that, began making you feel awful.
You didn't know whether it was intentional or simply her personality, but her words pricked at you like tiny needles.
The kind you barely notice until your skin is covered in punctures.
One afternoon, in the newspaper kitchen, while you were heating water for tea, she approached with her mug and her perfect smile.
"So you really have a baby?" she asked, as though she had only just found out.
You nodded, smiling as politely as possible.
"Yes. Her name is Eloise," you said.
Because she was your daughter, and you were proud of her, even if talking about her with Lexie made you uncomfortable.
Lexie nodded, wearing an expression that suggested she was thinking something over.
"Hmm... and if you have a baby, wouldn't it be better to stay home?" she asked. "I mean... I feel like women who become mothers aren't as dedicated to work as they used to be because they have other things to focus on."
She said it softly.
As if it were a sincere concern.
As if she were doing you a favor by saying it.
You looked at her.
You felt the blood rush into your face, but you refused to let it show.
You stood there with your mug in your hand and took a slow breath before answering.
"I used to think the same thing," you said, with a calmness you didn't actually feel, "until Perry called and told me he needed me back. I guess he still hasn't found anyone better than me."
Then you smiled.
But it was a sharp smile.
The kind that cuts.
And you walked away before she could respond.
You didn't want to hear another word.
You moved quickly down the hallway, your eyes burning.
You didn't want to cry in front of her.
You didn't want to give her that satisfaction.
You entered the women's restroom, locked the door behind you, and leaned against the wall while taking deep breaths.
The tears came on their own.
Just like they always did these days.
You wiped at your eyes with the back of your hand, but more tears followed.
"I'm a professional," you repeated to yourself.
"What that woman said is ridiculous."
"I'm good at what I do."
"I have a daughter, and I'm good at what I do."
But tears never listened to reason.
That was when your phone rang.
It vibrated in your pocket, and you pulled it out quickly, assuming it would be Lois or Jimmy.
But it was Rosa's number.
“Rosa? Yes?” you said, trying not to let it sound like you'd been crying.
Rosa's voice was worried.
She didn't waste time getting to the point.
The baby had a fever.
Not a very high one, but she was restless, crying more than usual, and Rosa thought she should be seen by a doctor.
Your heart dropped straight to the floor.
You hung up without a proper goodbye, shoved your phone back into your pocket, and hurried out of the restroom, almost running.
You went straight to Perry's office.
You didn't look around.
You didn't notice Clark and Lexie in the distance, laughing about something again.
You didn't care.
Nothing mattered more than your daughter at that moment.
You reached Perry's door and knocked.
“Come in,” he called from inside.
You entered and explained what was happening, your voice shaky but determined.
Eloise had a fever.
Rosa was worried.
You needed to leave.
Perry looked at you over the rim of his glasses, frowned for a moment, then nodded.
“Go,” he said. “You've been doing good work since you came back. Don't worry about things here.”
You thanked him and left without looking back.
As you walked down the hallway toward the exit, you heard hurried footsteps behind you.
“What happened?”
Clark's voice.
He had followed you.
Of course he had.
He always noticed when something was wrong, even when you didn't want him to.
You stopped.
Closed your eyes for a second.
You could have told him the truth.
You could have accepted his help.
You could have let yourself fall into his arms the way you had so many times before.
But no.
Something inside you hardened.
Hardened like stone.
No.
No, no, no.
You couldn't keep doing this.
You couldn't keep depending on him.
You couldn't keep needing him.
You couldn't keep feeling like he was the only person capable of holding you together when everything was falling apart.
Because he wasn't yours.
He belonged to no one.
Or maybe he belonged to Lexie.
Or maybe to whoever he wanted.
But not to you.
“Nothing,” you said, your voice sounding angrier than you intended.
But angry was better than broken.
Angry was better than letting him see how badly you were falling apart.
Clark took a step closer.
His face was full of concern, the kind of expression he wore whenever something happened to you and he didn't know how to fix it.
“But something happened. I saw you leave Perry's office with—”
You paused.
Took a deep breath.
And in that moment, you understood that this wasn't fair.
He didn't owe you anything.
You had no right to treat him badly just because you were hurting.
Clark had been good to you.
Kinder than anyone had ever been.
And you were repaying him with silence and slammed doors.
But even then, you couldn't let him get close.
Not again.
Because if he got close, you would fall again.
And falling a second time hurt too much.
You looked into his eyes.
Those blue eyes you had always liked.
Those blue eyes you still liked.
“Eloise has a fever. I'm going home,” you said.
More calmly this time.
But with a distance that hit him like a punch.
“I'll come with you,” Clark said instantly.
He didn't hesitate for even a second.
His body was already moving toward the exit as if accompanying you was the most natural thing in the world.
But you stopped him.
You lifted a hand between the two of you, as if that gesture alone could keep him away.
“No,” you said.
And the word came out stronger than you intended.
“You keep living your life. I'll take care of my daughter.”
My daughter.
Not ours.
It wasn't a mistake.
You did it on purpose.
Because you needed him to understand that boundaries existed.
That the two of you had created them.
And that they had to be respected.
You walked away.
You headed for the exit without looking back.
But if you had looked back, you would have seen Clark standing in the middle of the hallway with his arms hanging limply at his sides and his expression shattered.
You would have seen him drag a hand over his face as if sadness could be wiped away like dust.
You would have seen him open his mouth to say something.
And then close it again because he couldn't find the words.
You would have seen a man in love.
Alone.
Standing in an empty hallway.
Watching the woman he loved and his daughter walk away from him without being able to do anything to stop them.
Because he knew he had no right.
Because he felt guilty too.
Because every night he told himself the same thing.
You can't put them in danger.
You can't love them the way you want to.
Keeping your distance is what's best for them.
And now that you were giving him that distance, it hurt as though someone had ripped a piece of his chest away.
But you didn't look back.
You walked out of the Daily Planet, the afternoon sun warming your face, and got into your car.
And as you drove home, toward Eloise, you cried again.
You cried because your daughter had a fever.
You cried because of what you'd said to Clark.
You cried because you missed him.
You cried because you didn't know how to be angry and heartbroken at the same time.
You cried until there were no tears left.
You arrived home with your heart lodged in your throat.
You climbed the stairs without even feeling your feet, your keys clenched tightly in your hand so no one would see them shaking.
You opened the door, and the first thing you did was search for Eloise.
Ready to run to her.
Ready to pick her up.
Ready to hold her until the fever broke.
But you didn't see her.
She wasn't in her bassinet.
She wasn't on the blanket where you usually let her crawl.
She wasn't anywhere.
The silence frightened you even more.
“Rosa,” you called, your voice trembling.
The caregiver appeared from the kitchen wearing a calm smile that made no sense.
She didn't look worried.
She didn't look frightened.
She looked calm.
Far too calm.
“She’s already with her father,” Rosa said, as though it were the most normal thing in the world.
“Mr. Clark calmed her down.”
You froze.
Clark.
He had arrived first.
Of course he had arrived first.
He must have used his speed to get there before you.
To be there while you were still in your car, driving through your tears.
He had flown.
Or run.
Or whatever it was he did to move faster than any normal human being.
And instead of feeling angry, you felt a wave of relief so intense it almost hurt.
Because he was there.
Because he had come.
Because he always came.
You entered Eloise's room quietly.
The door was slightly open, and you pushed it wider with your fingertips.
There was Clark.
Standing beside the crib.
His eyes fixed on the baby.
He saw you enter, and his face immediately filled with sadness.
Not guilt.
Not pride.
Only sadness.
As if he already knew you wouldn't welcome his help, but had given it anyway.
“I heard her heartbeat from the Planet,” he said softly, almost whispering.
“It was too fast.
Much too fast.”
You looked at him, not fully understanding.
Rosa hadn't realized it, but things had been more serious than they appeared.
The temperature had been very high.
Dangerously high.
The kind of fever that could become dangerous in a baby.
The kind that could rise quickly and cause harm before anyone noticed.
Clark had arrived just in time.
“I... used the cold to help regulate it,” he said, gesturing gently toward Eloise.
“My breath. Ice. Things like that.”
And she fell asleep.
He looked at her for another moment.
Those eyes of his swollen from worrying.
From watching.
From feeling too much.
Then he carefully settled her into the crib and tucked a thin blanket around her so she wouldn't be too cold or too warm.
The baby took a deep, peaceful breath.
As if the danger had never existed.
Clark turned toward you.
He took a step forward.
Just one.
With the intention of getting closer.
Maybe to hug you.
Maybe to say something.
But you lifted your hand.
And placed an invisible wall between the two of you.
“Go back to the Planet,” you said.
Your voice came out harsher than you intended.
“I can handle this on my own.”
You left the room before he could answer.
You needed air.
You needed space.
You needed not to fall apart in front of him.
In the living room, Rosa was waiting with her purse in hand, ready to leave.
You gathered what little strength you had left, wiped your face with your sleeve even though you weren't crying yet, and smiled at her.
A fake smile.
The kind that hurts because it takes so much effort to hold in place.
"See you tomorrow," you said, trying to make your voice sound normal. "Clark already calmed her down, and we'll take her to the doctor."
Rosa smiled in relief, nodding.
"That's good."
She blew a kiss into the air in farewell.
You opened the door, watched her disappear down the stairs, and when the sound of her footsteps faded away, you closed it again.
You rested your forehead against the cool wood of the door and closed your eyes.
Behind you, Clark was still there.
You could feel him.
You could feel him without looking at him, the same way you can feel someone's gaze on the back of your neck.
"I don't understand," he said.
His voice wasn't angry.
It wasn't even sad.
It was tired.
The voice of someone who had spent days, weeks, months trying to understand what had happened.
"What did I do wrong for you to treat me like this? What do you want from me?"
You turned around.
You looked at him angrily, but it was the kind of anger that hurt more than sadness.
There were so many things you wanted to tell him that they all crashed together in your throat.
You lowered your gaze to the floor because you couldn't hold his.
Your shoes—the same ones you'd worn to work that day—suddenly felt like the only real thing in the middle of all that chaos.
"You're not the problem," you said.
And your voice cracked.
"It's me. Just... go away, Clark."
Clark took a step forward.
Not a threatening step.
The step of someone who wasn't willing to leave without fighting for an answer.
"Why?" he asked.
And that single word carried more weight than any other word he'd spoken in his life.
You looked at him.
You couldn't hold it back anymore.
Tears filled your eyes, and one escaped, warm against your skin, rolling down your cheek to your chin.
"Because it was a mistake," you said.
The words barely made it out of your mouth.
A mistake.
Two words capable of changing everything.
"Eloise is the best thing that's ever happened to me in the entire world, but... having your genes..." You swallowed hard. "At first, I thought it would be the most beautiful thing in the world."
You looked at him angrily.
But it wasn't anger directed at him.
It was anger at yourself.
At your own stupidity.
At believing you could have him without actually having him.
"My God," you continued.
The words rushed out as though you were afraid time was running out.
"The only reason I even had that thought was because I liked you. Having a child with the person you're in love with is a dream. But... I can't demand anything now that Lexie is there. God, that woman is..."
You stopped.
Took a deep breath.
Tried to calm yourself.
"I can't even insult her because I'm the one who said we were nothing. That nothing would happen. That you'd only be a donor. And now I'm jealous because you acted like we were something ever since I got pregnant and..."
Your voice broke completely.
You couldn't continue.
You covered your face with your hands as if you could hide from him.
From your own words.
From everything you had just confessed.
You cried openly now.
Your shoulders trembling.
Your fingers pressed tightly against your face.
"You didn't tell me about Lexie," you managed between sobs. "And I know that's your right, and... it hurts so much. Just... please go away, Clark."
And then you felt arms wrapping around you.
His arms.
Clark hugged you.
It wasn't a hesitant hug.
It wasn't brief.
It was a full embrace.
The kind that completely surrounds you.
The kind that presses you against a warm chest and makes the entire world stop for a moment.
You cried against him, soaking his shirt with every tear you'd spent weeks holding back.
And he didn't let go.
He didn't tell you to stop crying.
He didn't tell you to calm down.
He simply held you.
One hand cradling the back of your neck.
The other resting against your back.
As if he wanted you to know that he would never let you fall.
"Are you jealous of Lexie?" he asked softly.
His voice was so close that you felt his chin brush the top of your head.
You didn't answer.
You couldn't.
All the words were gone.
But he didn't need an answer.
He already knew.
"If you had told me you wanted me to stay, I would have."
Clark's voice trembled slightly.
"I would've done it without hesitation."
You looked up at him through tear-filled eyes.
Your vision was blurry.
But you could still see him clearly.
As if the rest of the world had turned gray and only he still had color.
"You said it yourself two years ago, Clark. You didn't want anything serious."
The words came out wrapped in a knot of pain.
You had carried them for so long.
Turning them over and over in your mind.
Trying to understand them.
Trying to accept them.
Clark cupped your face in both hands.
Slowly, he wiped away your tears one by one with his thumbs.
His fingers were warm.
Gentle.
The touch made you tremble.
"I didn't want to hurt the woman I love," he said.
And those words, spoken so plainly, struck your chest like lightning.
You stared at him.
Confused.
"What?" you whispered.
Because your brain couldn't process what it had just heard.
Clark smiled.
A sad smile.
A tender smile.
The smile of someone who had waited a very long time to say something and had finally found the courage.
"I thought having a child with you would at least give me the chance to stay close to you."
His thumb brushed away another tear.
"Without having to fear someone hurting you just to find out where Superman is."
Another tear.
Another gentle touch.
"Just to stay close to you."
You stared at him, eyes wide.
"What?" you repeated.
Because there was no other word left in your mind.
Clark laughed.
A small laugh.
A nervous laugh.
The laugh of someone risking everything.
"If you tell me to stay right now, I will."
His voice softened.
"Because there hasn't been a single woman I've loved since the day you walked into the Planet who wasn't you."
He paused.
Swallowed hard.
"And Lexie is just another person who works in the same building, just like the dozens of women I pass in the hallway. And I haven’t even glanced at any of them, because my head is filled with thoughts of you. I haven’t done anything with anyone else. I haven’t wanted to do anything. I’ve just been working, and I’ve stayed at the office until my eyes hurt, because coming home without you breaks my heart. I prefer the noise of the office to the silence of a house that no longer feels like mine."
His eyes locked onto yours.
Blue.
Deep.
Like entire oceans.
"Because at the end of the day, you are and always will be the woman I’ve loved and will love for the rest of my life."
The words settled between you.
Heavy.
Certain.
Real.
"And if you want me to stay, I'll do everything I can to protect you. I'll never let anyone hurt you. I won't be afraid of having a family anymore."
His voice almost broke.
"But I need to know."
He waited.
Silence stretched between the two of you.
Growing larger.
"Do you want me to stay?"
You looked at him.
And you cried.
But these weren't tears of sadness anymore.
They were the kind of tears that come when something broken for a very long time finally begins to heal.
Clark saw you crying.
And something in his face dimmed slightly.
As if he thought you were going to say no.
As if he were already bracing himself for the impact.
But you weren't going to say no.
You could never say no.
"Don't leave again," you whispered.
Barely louder than a breath.
And you threw yourself into his arms as if your life depended on it.
You clung to him.
His arms.
His back.
His shirt.
Everything.
Clark let out a breath.
Not an ordinary breath.
A huge one.
A breath of relief.
The kind released by someone who has been holding it for years.
He took your face in his hands again with a tenderness so overwhelming it nearly broke you apart.
And he kissed you.
Not on the lips.
Not yet.
He kissed your tears.
Your wet cheeks.
Your closed eyelids.
He kissed every tear as if he could erase them with his mouth.
And while he kissed you, he spoke between each kiss.
His voice broken.
But steady.
"No. I'm not leaving."
A kiss.
"I'm not leaving anymore."
Another kiss.
"Never again."
Another.
"I'm staying."
His forehead rested against yours.
"With you."
A kiss.
"With Eloise."
Another.
"I'm staying for as long as you'll let me."
His voice shook.
"And if you throw me out, I'll come back."
A kiss against your temple.
"And if you push me away, I'll crawl back."
Another.
"But I'm not leaving."
His eyes closed.
"Not again."
His hand trembled against your cheek.
"Not you."
And you held him tighter through your tears and uneven breaths.
And for the first time in months—
For the first time in so many months—
You felt like you could breathe.
Because Clark was there.
Because Clark was staying.
Because Clark—the good, quiet man who had loved you in silence for so long—had finally said everything he needed to say.
Note: This fanfic just popped into my head, and I don't know—it feels like something new, haha—angst and weird.
Part II
Clark Kent x female reader
Sinopsis: You decide to become a mother on your own, and Clark offers to be your donor. What begins as an unexpected arrangement slowly becomes something neither of you is brave enough to name.
Your hands played with the Rubik’s Cube you had picked up from Clark’s coffee table. You twisted it absentmindedly, more to keep your fingers busy than out of any real interest in solving it. The colored pieces shifted over and over while your gaze wandered around Clark’s apartment living room.
It was Saturday, and like every week, Lois and Jimmy had gathered at Clark’s apartment. It was the kind of work ritual they had created without meaning to, something that had started by chance and slowly became a tradition. Every Saturday, one of you hosted dinner—pizza, burgers, wine, whatever was available to unwind after a long week.
Tonight, it was Clark’s turn, and the atmosphere felt warm, as always. Jimmy’s laughter, Lois’s clever remarks, and Clark’s calm presence as the host. Everything was the same as every other gathering, but something inside you felt different.
You quietly looked at your friends. You watched them eat and laugh, and for a moment it struck you that you had already spent three years working at the Daily Planet as an article editor.
It was demanding work, of course. Correcting texts, dealing with impossible deadlines, and putting up with the bad moods of certain reporters was no easy task. But you enjoyed it. You loved the newspaper, the scent of ink, the clatter of typewriters, the last-minute rushes.
You had lived with Lois for a few months when you first moved to Metropolis. She had opened the doors of her apartment to you despite barely knowing you, simply because you were new and needed a place to stay.
That was how you met Jimmy, who worked at the paper as a photographer, and eventually Clark, who arrived later as a reporter.
Jimmy had been the one who approached you without hesitation. You barely remembered how it happened—whether it was a silly joke or a comment about something you had seen on the street—but somehow you ended up talking about his life and yours.
With Clark, things had been different.
He was the last one to speak to you.
At first, he only watched whenever you talked with Jimmy or Lois. He was kind, of course. A “good morning,” “good night,” or “good job” was all you exchanged in those early days. Nothing more.
Until Lois invited you to the famous “work-free Saturday” gathering at Jimmy’s apartment.
Then it was at Clark’s.
Then at the apartment you shared with Lois.
And once you got your own place, they started coming over too.
Without realizing it, the four of you had become a group.
After spending so much time together, Clark had accidentally revealed his biggest secret.
It happened one day that still sent chills down your spine whenever you remembered it.
You had been accompanying him during an interview assignment. A powerful earthquake struck without warning, the kind that made walls groan and windows shatter.
You and Clark had been waiting for Lois on the top floor of a bank while preparing to interview some of the staff. You had only gone along for the experience because you enjoyed watching reporters work up close.
But you leaned a little too far over the edge.
When the earthquake hit, you nearly fell from the building.
If Clark hadn’t grabbed your hand, you would have plunged straight into the void.
Before either of you could say anything, the building shook again, and both of you fell.
You genuinely thought you were about to die alongside Clark.
You squeezed your eyes shut, clenched your teeth, and waited for the impact.
But it never came.
When you opened your eyes, both of you were completely unharmed.
Far away from the building.
As if someone had carried you through the air and gently set you down.
You stared at him in confusion.
Clark looked back with an expression that clearly screamed, Oh no.
Then he said, “I’ll explain.”
And a second later, he disappeared.
That was how you discovered his secret.
There had been no explanation that day. Only the image of him flying away while you stood in the middle of the street with your mouth hanging open.
After that, everything changed between you.
You asked him endless questions, but he never seemed bothered by them.
Quite the opposite.
It almost seemed as though he enjoyed having someone who knew the truth and allowed him to talk without pretending.
“So you can’t get drunk? Ever? Like, never ever?” you asked one day while the two of you walked to work.
He shook his head with a smile, hands tucked into his pockets.
What you didn’t know was that every time you asked questions like that, Clark’s heart beat a little faster.
Because he loved when you talked to him that way.
So close.
So easily.
Later, while everyone worked at their desks, you would quietly slide your chair closer to his.
You leaned in slightly and lowered your voice.
“Can you hear the nonsense rattling around inside Steve’s empty head?” you whispered.
A laugh almost escaped him, but he bit his lip to stop himself.
“No, not that,” he whispered back.
You laughed softly, careful not to let anyone notice.
Clark treasured those laughs like precious gifts.
“And can you fly from here to Japan in a second?” you asked another time while buying coffee from the office machine.
He laughed, that gentle laugh of his.
“No. Half a second.”
Your eyes widened immediately.
Clark stared at you for a second longer than he should have.
That second where he thought, I wish I could spend the rest of my life looking at you like this.
But he never said it.
He couldn’t.
Time passed that way, through curious questions and answers that always left you thinking.
The closeness became natural within your little group.
That was why you loved spending time with them.
Because around them, you could simply be yourself.
No masks.
No pretending everything was fine when sometimes it wasn’t.
But what you never saw, what you never noticed, was the way Clark looked at you when you weren’t paying attention.
When you laughed at one of Jimmy’s jokes, he watched you and let out a quiet sigh.
When you said goodbye and walked down the newspaper hallway, he kept staring at the door you had disappeared through for several seconds after you were already gone.
Clark had been in love with you for a long time.
But he couldn’t do anything about it.
Not because he didn’t want to.
Because he couldn’t.
He knew that if he got too close, if he dared to love you the way he wanted to, the villains he faced every day could come after you.
Lex Luthor, and every other criminal who wanted to hurt Superman, knew the best way to do it was through the people he loved.
Clark couldn’t bear the thought of you being kidnapped one day.
Of you being hurt.
Of something happening to you simply because he cared about you.
So he stayed silent.
That was why he only smiled whenever you spoke to him.
Why he only helped when you needed him.
Why he never took that step forward.
Because he would rather watch you be happy from a distance than see you crying because of him.
And so, night after night, he watched you while biting back the words he longed to say.
The evening continued.
The pizzas gradually disappeared.
The laughter slowly faded too.
Then Jimmy glanced at his watch and suddenly jumped to his feet.
“I’m heading out. I’ve got a date,” Jimmy said, springing up from the couch and stretching his arms overhead.
Lois raised an eyebrow.
“You’re leaving?” she asked, sounding surprised that he was going so early.
“Yep,” Jimmy replied as he slipped on his jacket. “You coming, Lane?”
“Yeah. I have a medical appointment tomorrow. They’ll probably tell me to stop drinking coffee,” Lois commented before looking at you expectantly.
“Alright. I’ll help Clark clean up,” you said without thinking much about it, simply because it seemed like the right thing to do.
Jimmy and Lois smiled at the exact same moment, as if they knew something you didn’t.
Clark, meanwhile, grew slightly nervous, though he hid it well.
His heart pounded at the thought of being alone with you.
Jimmy walked toward the door, and just before leaving, he said,
“We promise you can leave everything exactly like this when you come over to my apartment.”
Lois let out a short laugh and shook her head.
The two of them said their goodbyes with a quick hug.
Jimmy gave Clark a friendly pat on the back.
Lois blew an air kiss to both of you.
The door closed with a soft click, and suddenly the apartment felt bigger, emptier. The noise of the city drifted in through the window, but inside, only silence remained—and the two of you.
You grabbed a slice of pepperoni pizza from the box, the one that had already gone a little cold, and took a bite without much enthusiasm.
You looked down at the Rubik’s Cube in your hand.
The pieces were still scrambled, just like your thoughts.
Clark glanced at you from the corner of his eye while wiping down the table with a dishcloth, but you didn’t notice. He watched the way your hair fell across your face, the way your fingers turned the cube over and over again.
Clark sat down beside you on the couch.
He began fidgeting with his hands, lacing his fingers together and pulling them apart again. Then he adjusted his glasses with one finger, that habit he always had.
“You don’t need to wear those around me, Clark,” you said, pointing at his glasses.
You had noticed that he still wore them even though you already knew who he was, and it always made you smile a little.
I wear them because when I have them on, I feel more like Clark and less like Superman. And I want to be Clark with you. I want you to see me, not him.
But all he said was, “Yeah, you’re right,” before taking them off.
He looked at you for a moment.
His hands were trembling on the inside, though outwardly he seemed calm. He always tried to appear calm around you, even when he was falling apart inside.
“You were quiet tonight. You didn’t joke around,” he said.
He had noticed it from the moment you arrived.
A smile when you walked in, yes.
But after that, distant stares. No laughter. No jokes. No stories.
Nothing.
Just you listening to everyone else, nodding when appropriate, but never really joining in the way you usually did.
And it worried him.
Because you worried him all the time.
Every time you frowned, he found himself wondering what he could do to fix it.
But once again, he kept those thoughts to himself.
You lowered your head and played with the hem of your shirt.
“I’m thirty,” you admitted, as if that explained everything.
And in a way, it did.
Because turning thirty had made you think about a thousand things that had never mattered before.
He smiled.
That soft smile of his, the one that always managed to undo you.
What you didn’t know was that smile hurt a little on the inside, because he had spent the last two years wanting to tell you something, and every time he saw you, a knot formed in his throat.
“I know. You turned thirty a month ago,” he said.
You looked at him.
Of course he knew.
He had been the one who bought the balloons and decorations Lois had suggested for your surprise party.
He had gone to three different stores searching for balloons in your favorite color.
You remembered that day.
Coming home to find your apartment filled with colors and streamers.
You had suspected Lois.
Now you knew Clark had helped too.
What you didn’t know was that he had blown up every single balloon himself, one by one, because he wanted everything to be perfect for you.
You paused.
Bit your lip.
Then finally gathered your courage.
“I think... I’ve been thinking about some things,” you said.
“Things?” Clark asked, staring directly at you, barely blinking.
Inside, he was dying from curiosity and fear at the same time.
Because every word that came out of your mouth mattered to him.
“Yeah. I feel lonely, Clark... not in a ‘I need a man’ kind of way or anything. Just...” You hesitated. “Well... I... I’ve decided I want to get pregnant.”
Heat rushed into your cheeks.
Saying it out loud had been difficult.
But now it was out there.
Clark stared at you in surprise.
His lips parted slightly, and a small frown appeared on his face, as though he wasn’t entirely sure he had heard you correctly.
“I’m not pregnant,” you quickly clarified, raising a hand before he could misunderstand.
He nodded, visibly relieved.
But inside, he was anything but relieved.
His mind was racing.
Calculating.
Imagining.
“Oh,” he said quietly, waiting for you to continue.
“I’m going to look for a sperm donor. I’ve researched the clinic and...” You swallowed. “I think I want to do it. I want to be a mom.”
You blushed.
It was hard to look him in the eye, but you did anyway.
Clark didn’t laugh.
He didn’t make a face.
He simply listened, focused on you the same way he listened to an important source for a story.
Except there was something else in his gaze.
Something you couldn’t quite read.
“Oh,” Clark repeated.
Then silence settled between you.
The distant traffic below.
The hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen.
Seconds passed that felt like minutes.
His heart started pounding.
Pregnant?
She wants a child?
And immediately, something shifted inside him.
A longing he hadn’t known he possessed.
Because Clark had always believed he could never have a normal family.
That he would never get married.
Never have children.
Never live the quiet life everyone else seemed to have.
But if you had his child...
It would be like leaving a piece of himself with you forever.
And maybe, just maybe, that would be his way of loving you without putting you in danger.
A child wouldn’t draw attention the way a girlfriend would.
A child could remain a secret between the two of you.
A child would be like saying I love you without ever having to say the words.
If I offer and she accepts, I’m going to have a child.
A child with her.
I’ll get to watch them grow up.
I’ll get to be there without having to explain why.
And every time I look at that child, I’ll see her face and mine.
Finally, he spoke.
“Have you found a donor yet?”
“No. It’ll probably be one of those anonymous donors who go to the clinic and leave their sample,” you said casually, as though you were talking about borrowing a book.
But your voice trembled ever so slightly.
Clark took a deep breath.
It was now or never.
His hands shook a little, so he hid them between his knees before you could notice.
“I could donate,” he said simply, as though he were offering to help you move furniture.
The two of you fell silent.
You laughed.
A nervous laugh.
The kind that escaped when you didn’t know what else to do.
“Oh my God, Clark. We don’t even know how Kryptonian sperm works. What if it starts shooting lasers inside my uterus?” you joked, trying to ease the tension.
But Clark didn’t laugh.
His face remained serious.
His lips pressed together.
His eyes locked on yours.
This wasn’t a joke to him.
It was the biggest opportunity he’d had in years to be close to you without putting up another wall.
You looked at him more seriously now.
The joke died on its own.
“Are you serious?” you asked, your voice softer than you intended.
You swallowed hard.
Having a baby was something you had dreamed about for a long time.
But a child carrying Clark’s genes...
Maybe it wasn’t just because he was your coworker.
Maybe it was because he was Superman.
Because he was Kryptonian.
And...
God.
You loved him too.
You had been in love with Clark for a long time.
But you stopped yourself after a conversation you’d had one night.
He had said it so clearly:
“Loving someone hurts when that person ends up being destroyed. That’s why I stay away from those things.”
You had heard those words and assumed he didn’t want anything serious with anyone.
What you never knew was that those words had never been meant for you.
They were meant for himself.
He repeated them every night in front of the mirror so he wouldn’t call you.
So he wouldn’t get closer.
So he wouldn’t give in.
Loving someone hurts, he reminded himself.
And I don’t want her to suffer because of me.
And now, a year later, he was sitting here offering to donate his sperm so the two of you could have a child together.
Your heart was beating too fast.
Far too fast.
“I don’t know if...” You shifted uncomfortably on the couch, struggling to find the right words.
“I don’t know if we’re compatible,” you finally said without looking at him, your eyes fixed on the Rubik’s Cube.
“The Fortress can help. They can run tests. Their technology is advanced,” Clark replied with the confidence he always seemed to have whenever he talked about his world.
But the truth was that he wasn’t confident at all.
He was terrified.
Terrified you would say no.
Terrified you would say yes.
Terrified of everything.
But even more terrified of never knowing.
“If you’re okay with it, of course,” Clark added.
Then he waited.
You looked at him.
The seconds stretched on.
“It’s a baby, Clark,” you said, as though he didn’t understand the magnitude of what he was suggesting.
“A... no... this...” You waved your hands helplessly, unable to find the right gesture.
“Don’t you think it would be awkward?”
Clark took a deep breath.
He shifted a little closer without you noticing.
He wanted to be near you, even if it was only by a few inches.
“I’m thirty-three years old. I don’t think I’m ever going to marry anyone. And I can’t imagine a better person than you to have a baby with,” he said.
His voice sounded calm, but there was something in his eyes that suggested he wasn’t being entirely honest.
Or maybe he was.
You weren’t sure anymore.
What he didn’t say—what he kept to himself—was:
I’m not going to get married because the only person I want to marry is you, and I can’t ask you because I’d be putting you in danger. But a child... a child is something nobody can take away from you. Something that will always connect you to me. And every time you look at them, I’ll be there, even if you can’t see me.
“No... having a baby doesn’t make us a couple,” you said carefully, emphasizing every word so there would be no misunderstanding.
He nodded slowly.
He knew that.
He knew a child wouldn’t change things.
But to him, it meant everything.
It meant a piece of him would live with you.
It meant he would get to watch you become a mother, watch you be happy, watch you laugh while holding a little piece of him in your arms.
It meant he could finally love you without saying it out loud, without exposing you, without having to wear a cape and fly in front of enemies.
A child would become his silent I love you.
His way of saying I care about you without words.
Clark looked at you.
Loving someone in silence was torture.
He knew that better than anyone.
Every night he went to bed thinking about you.
Every morning he woke up wanting to call you.
Every time he saw you laughing with someone else, it felt like a punch to the chest.
But he always stayed quiet.
Always kept everything locked away.
Having a child while pretending he felt nothing would be a sacrifice he was willing to make, because at least it would give him a bond with you that no one could break.
Something that would tie you together forever, even if you never understood how deeply he loved you.
He tilted his head slightly and smiled.
That smile that always made you forget why you were afraid.
But behind it was a man who had loved you for years and had finally found one way—one single way—to love you without risking your safety.
“You want a baby. I can give you one,” he said.
And something shone in his eyes.
You couldn’t tell if it was friendship.
Or tenderness.
Or the silent love he carried like a secret no one else knew.
Something that seemed to say I love you without actually saying the words.
Something you failed to see that night.
Clark did it.
He donated his sperm.
For you, it was awkward.
For him, it wasn’t.
You felt embarrassed being there, in such a strange place, surrounded by robots that looked like they belonged in a science-fiction movie.
But Clark was calm, as though the entire thing were perfectly normal.
Inside the Fortress, several unusual robots equipped with advanced technology examined you from head to toe.
They didn’t talk much.
Mostly metallic sounds and blinking lights that left you confused.
They guided you into a spotless white room.
Clean.
Cold.
One of them approached carrying a device unlike anything you had ever seen.
“Fertile,” one of the robots declared, as though delivering a verdict.
Then the procedure was performed.
It was quick.
It didn’t hurt.
But afterward, a strange feeling settled in your stomach.
Clark held your hand the entire time.
Without saying a word.
Only squeezing your fingers every now and then to remind you that you weren’t alone.
The robots explained that it would take time before anyone knew whether it had worked.
There were no guarantees.
It was Superman’s sperm and a human woman.
Something that had never been attempted before.
Not even the Kryptonians knew whether it was possible.
But the idea of becoming pregnant and having a son or daughter who carried something of Clark inside them secretly made you happy.
Happier than you were willing to admit.
Because even though you kept telling yourself he was only a donor, that there were no feelings involved, deep down you knew that having his child would make you happy.
And Clark, as silent as ever, simply smiled at you when you left the Fortress.
“It’s done,” he said.
As though it were the simplest thing in the world.
Meanwhile, inside, he was trembling with excitement and fear all at once.
The weeks passed.
Every morning you arrived at the office with your nerves stretched thin, uncertain whether your body had changed or not.
Whenever you came in, Clark would find a reason to approach without making anyone suspicious.
He would stop by your desk carrying a cup of coffee as if it were completely ordinary, as if he simply wanted to chat for a moment.
But then he would lean in slightly.
Lower his voice.
And his eyes would settle on yours with a mixture of hope and fear.
“Nothing?” he would whisper while sipping his coffee.
You would look at him.
“Nothing.”
And he would smile.
But it was a smile that faded quickly, as though he didn’t want to hope too much.
“We have to wait,” he would say.
And you nodded.
So you waited.
And waited.
Every day became a sweet kind of torture.
A mixture of wanting something to happen and being terrified that, in the end, nothing would.
It wasn’t until the following month.
You were sitting at the office, quietly eating while you worked.
Lois sat across from you with an enormous sandwich that looked as though it might fall apart in her hands at any moment.
You glanced at it.
The mayonnaise dripped from the edge.
Thick.
Glossy.
Slowly sliding onto the wrapping paper below.
The smell reached you in a way it never had before.
It wasn’t a bad smell.
But something inside your stomach suddenly twisted.
Without warning.
Without any chance to stop it.
Your mouth flooded with saliva, and your throat tightened.
You bolted for the restroom.
You barely made it before throwing up.
Bent over the toilet, you emptied everything you had eaten that morning.
Just indigestion, you told yourself while wiping your mouth with a paper towel.
Just that.
You refused to let yourself get your hopes up.
But when you stepped out of the women’s restroom, Clark was waiting for you, leaning against the wall.
He looked at you with those blue eyes that seemed to see everything, and there was something on his face that you couldn’t quite read.
He didn’t say a word.
Instead, he held out a black bag, one of those opaque ones that hid whatever was inside.
You took it with trembling hands, unsure of what it contained.
You had asked him for toothpaste and a toothbrush because your mouth tasted awful after throwing up, and you assumed that was what he had brought.
But when you opened the bag, your fingers found a small box.
A pregnancy test.
You looked at him with wide eyes.
“Just... in case,” Clark said in that calm voice he always used whenever he didn’t want to overwhelm you.
But his hands were buried deep in his pockets, clenched tightly.
Very tightly.
You nodded.
There was nothing else to say.
You slipped back into the restroom, locked the door, and stood there for a moment staring at yourself in the mirror.
You looked pale.
Carefully, you brushed your teeth.
Up.
Down.
The fresh taste of mint filled your mouth.
Then you opened the box.
You read the instructions twice, even though you already knew how the test worked.
You followed every step and laid it face-up on the sink.
Then you waited.
The seconds stretched endlessly.
One minute.
Two.
Your heart pounded so hard you could hear it in your ears.
You couldn’t bring yourself to look.
Instead, you left the restroom with the test hidden in your hand, still refusing to see the result.
Clark was still there.
He hadn’t moved an inch.
He looked at you, and the same fear you felt was written across his face.
“I did it, but I haven’t looked yet and... I’m scared, Clark. What if it didn’t work?” you whispered, your voice barely audible.
Clark stepped closer.
He placed a gentle hand on your shoulder, as though he were afraid you might break.
“If it didn’t, then I’m the problem, not you. You can still find another donor. I won’t let you go through this alone,” he said.
And he meant it.
Because he was willing to stay by your side even if he wasn’t the father.
Even if watching you have another man’s child would shatter his heart.
He would rather endure that than see you unhappy.
You nodded.
Then handed him the bag with the test inside.
You couldn’t look at it.
You left the responsibility of reading it to him.
Clark took the bag and carefully pulled out the test.
He stared at it in silence.
One second.
Two.
His expression changed.
His eyes grew slightly glassy, though he pressed his lips together to stop himself from crying.
“You’re one month along,” he whispered, his voice breaking.
He looked directly at you without blinking.
“You’re pregnant.”
“It worked,” you said.
And you nearly shouted it.
You clapped both hands over your mouth to keep from causing a scene in the middle of the newsroom hallway.
But inside, you were practically jumping with joy.
Clark smiled.
A wide, genuine smile he almost never showed anyone.
He stepped forward and wrapped you in a brief, tight hug.
One of those hugs that said more than a thousand words ever could.
Then he quickly pulled away before anyone could see.
But while holding you, he whispered something against your hair.
Something so quiet you almost didn’t hear it.
“Thank you.”
And he meant it for everything.
For giving me this chance.
For letting me be part of your life this way.
For finding me.
You told Perry you were pregnant.
You didn’t tell him who the father was.
You only asked for discretion.
No questions.
No strange looks.
Perry, gruff as ever but kind at heart, simply nodded.
He congratulated you with a firm handshake and never mentioned it again.
Lois and Jimmy found out one evening when you refused to drink alcohol.
You were all gathered at your apartment, just like so many times before.
Lois had brought red wine.
Jimmy had brought whiskey.
You sat there holding a glass but never took a sip.
Clark was seated beside you, as he had been increasingly often lately.
You were wearing looser shirts now that you were three months pregnant.
Your stomach was beginning to show.
Just a small bump.
Easy to hide beneath oversized clothes.
“Come on, have a drink. You’re making me feel like an alcoholic,” Jimmy joked, raising his glass of whiskey.
“Hey, leave her alone. If she doesn’t want to drink, she doesn’t have to,” Lois said.
But one eyebrow was raised.
As though she already suspected something.
“Yeah, it’s almost like you’re pregnant and don’t want to drink,” Jimmy said suddenly.
There was no malice behind it.
Just one of those random comments that slipped out.
The expressions on both your face and Clark’s gave everything away.
Your masks fell instantly.
Your cheeks turned bright red.
Clark went pale as a sheet.
The two of you froze like statues.
Jimmy spit out his wine.
A spray of red splattered across the table as he began coughing violently.
Lois dropped her pizza.
The slice landed face-down on her plate, and she didn’t even notice.
She only stared at you with eyes as wide as saucers.
“Why is... Clark... pale?” Jimmy asked, still wiping his mouth with his sleeve.
Lois pointed at you, her hand trembling.
“You’re pregnant?” she practically shouted.
Then she looked at Clark.
Then back at you.
Then at Clark again.
Her finger slowly shifted toward him.
“By Clark?”
You took a deep breath.
You knew this moment would eventually come.
That didn’t make it any easier.
You raised both hands in a calming gesture.
“It’s not what you think. We... we didn’t... he donated sperm,” you blurted out, the words tumbling over one another.
Clark blushed.
Actually blushed.
Something that almost never happened.
He buried his face in his hands and covered his eyes, looking like a child caught doing something forbidden.
“What? It wasn’t the natural method?” Jimmy asked, looking as though someone had hit him over the head.
His eyes widened dramatically.
He shook his head from side to side, unable to process what he was hearing.
You shook your head.
“No. Nothing like that. We went somewhere... it’s complicated. But nothing happened between us. It was just a medical procedure.”
Lois released a long breath, as though she had been holding it the entire time.
Her eyes filled with tears.
“Oh my God. You’re going to be a mom,” she said, crying as she stood up and wrapped her arms around you.
You smiled.
And her tears made your own eyes sting.
You explained everything.
That you and Clark lived in separate apartments because being a donor didn’t create obligations.
That you weren’t a couple.
That there was nothing romantic between you.
Just...
Well.
Just that.
But while you spoke, Clark kept stealing glances at you.
And in those glances there was something Lois and Jimmy noticed immediately.
Something you never did.
That unmistakable look of someone who wanted far more than he dared ask for.
Of course, Clark took care of you constantly.
Meals.
Cravings.
Medicine.
Everything.
If you got hungry at three in the morning, he appeared at your door carrying whatever you wanted.
If your back hurt, he arrived with a heating pad.
If you forgot your vitamins, he reminded you through text messages.
Always.
And every single time, he used the same excuse.
“I’m the donor. I feel responsible.”
But deep down, that wasn’t the truth.
He simply wanted to be close to you.
He wanted to take care of you.
He wanted, for a few hours each day, to pretend you were a family.
You stopped going to the Planet when your fifth month arrived and your stomach finally rounded into that unmistakable shape.
Now you truly looked pregnant.
You walked more slowly.
Got tired more easily.
And Clark drove you everywhere.
To appointments.
Back home.
Anywhere you needed to go.
At the Fortress, Clark monitored your pregnancy using Kryptonian technology and the robots’ advanced equipment.
Week after week, they examined you.
Nothing was wrong.
The baby appeared perfectly healthy.
The robots reported that the child—a girl, though you hadn’t wanted to know at first—was growing strong and healthy.
A strange blend of human and Kryptonian genetics.
But with no signs of danger.
So your life was never at risk.
One thing, however, was already certain.
The birth would require a cesarean section.
The baby was large.
Far too large to be delivered naturally.
And every time the robots displayed her image on their screens, Clark found himself staring a little longer than he should.
Because every heartbeat he heard reminded him of something he never allowed himself to say.
She’s ours.
And that thought terrified him just as much as it made him happy.
And it was.
A girl.
The moment you saw her, your heart nearly stopped from how beautiful she was.
Clark’s eyes lit up when he held her for the first time.
You gave birth at the Fortress, surrounded by white robots and glowing blue lights.
There was no danger.
Everything went well.
It was simply a long process.
Hours of waiting.
Pushing.
Crying.
Laughing.
And at the end of it all, a tiny little girl with brown hair like yours and blue eyes like Clark’s.
As much as you wanted to hide who her father was, the resemblance was impossible to miss.
Anyone who looked at her could see Clark in her eyes.
And you in her smile.
You returned to your apartment two days later.
Clark helped you into bed, carefully arranging the pillows behind your back so you would be comfortable.
Then he placed the crib beside your bed.
A beautiful crib made of light-colored wood, with smooth railings and a mattress that looked soft enough to be a cloud.
A crib he had purchased weeks earlier while you were taking a nap.
When Lois had asked him why there was a crib in his apartment, he had simply replied,
“It’s just a gift for my friend.”
And Lois had looked at him with a sad smile.
Because she knew.
She had always known.
He stayed with you that night.
And the next.
And the next.
He handed you the baby whenever it was time to nurse her.
Prepared meals while you rested.
Washed dishes.
Tidied the living room.
Whenever you fell asleep, Clark would sit in a chair beside the crib and watch the baby sleep.
For hours.
Without moving a single muscle.
His forearms resting on his knees.
Every hour, without fail, he used his X-ray vision to make sure both of you were sleeping peacefully and breathing normally.
Once every sixty minutes, just when you had fallen into a deep sleep, he would tilt his head slightly and look through the walls.
Through your body.
Through the crib.
Checking that both hearts were beating exactly as they should.
Only then would he allow himself to relax.
One evening, he pulled a wooden chair next to the crib and opened his laptop while darkness settled outside.
He began researching everything a newborn baby could possibly need.
Then he ordered it all for delivery.
Items scheduled to arrive the next day.
Or the day after.
Clothes he knew you hadn’t bought because you only owned the basic outfits Lois had gifted you.
He ordered long-sleeved onesies.
Cotton pajamas.
Tiny hats.
Little booties.
And several small dresses decorated with animals because he thought they were unbearably adorable.
He found a comfortable breast pump after reading thousands of reviews claiming it didn’t cause mothers discomfort.
He spent three hours comparing opinions before making his decision.
Soft-colored blankets.
Fleece throws for colder days.
A lightweight stroller that could be folded with one hand because he imagined you carrying the baby while trying to manage everything else.
A strange little device that gently rocked a baby on its own without needing someone to bounce it with a foot.
He found it in a baby store and thought it was incredible.
A large baby wrap designed to keep an infant snug against a parent’s chest while leaving both hands free.
He bought one for you.
And another for himself.
In case I ever babysit her, he told himself.
But the truth was that he bought it because he wanted something that would smell like her.
Glass baby bottles because he had read they were healthier.
A steam sterilizer.
More things than he could count.
The packages arrived slowly throughout those first days.
Box after box appeared at your doorstep.
Clark quietly carried them inside while you slept.
Clark never left.
He stayed for two straight weeks.
Sleeping on the couch.
Waking in the middle of the night at the slightest sound from the baby.
Bringing you water while you nursed.
Changing diapers without being asked.
And every time he saw you holding her, something in his expression softened.
He never said anything.
Because Clark never said anything.
But he was there.
Every night.
Every morning.
Every single day.
And while he watched his daughter sleep...
And while he listened to you breathing nearby...
Clark thought that this was the greatest I love you he could ever give you.
Because staying.
Being present.
Taking care of both of you without asking for anything in return.
That was his way of loving you.
The only way he believed he was allowed to.
If I can't be the man who holds her hand as your husband, then I'll be the man who shows up every day.
If I can't tell you that I love you, then I'll spend the rest of my life proving it.
And so, long after both of you had fallen asleep, Clark remained there beside the crib.
Watching over his daughter.
Watching over you.
Guarding the two people he loved most in the world.
Silently.
Just as he always had.
The days passed.
One week.
Then another.
Clark was still there, in your apartment, never leaving.
He slept on the couch every night, and every morning he woke up before you to make breakfast.
He learned how to prepare coffee with milk.
He learned how to heat food without burning it.
He learned how to change diapers with one hand while holding the baby with the other.
He had become part of the apartment.
Like another piece of furniture.
Like the light inside the refrigerator—something that was always there without you really noticing.
But one day, after nearly a month, something felt strange.
It wasn't that you didn't want him there.
It was that you started wondering whether you were letting him get too used to it.
Whether he felt obligated to stay.
Whether he was remaining out of kindness.
Out of pity.
Or simply because he was too good-hearted to tell you that he wanted to leave.
And you hated that thought.
You didn't want Clark staying because he felt sorry for you.
That afternoon, while he washed baby bottles in the kitchen and the baby slept peacefully in her bassinet, you leaned against the doorway and watched him.
His broad shoulders.
His slightly messy hair.
His bare feet against the cold floor.
He looked so natural there.
As though he had always lived with you.
And that was exactly what frightened you.
Because he was only the donor.
He wasn't your partner.
He wasn't the baby's father in the sense that the three of you lived together.
You couldn't allow yourself to get used to having him there.
"Clark."
He turned his head toward you with a small smile.
"I've been thinking..." you began. "You've been here for almost a month now. You don't have to stay anymore. You can go back home."
Clark stopped moving the dish towel he had been using to dry a bottle.
He froze for a second.
Barely the length of a heartbeat.
Then he nodded.
He placed the bottle on the counter and dried his hands on a kitchen towel.
"Yeah, you're right," he said.
His voice sounded normal.
Calm.
"I've been getting a little too comfortable around here."
And he smiled.
But it was a smile that never reached his eyes.
You didn't notice.
He was very good at hiding things.
He agreed to leave.
He packed his belongings into a small backpack.
A couple of shirts.
His toothbrush.
His phone charger.
He put on his shoes by the front door and looked at you for a moment.
"If you need anything, call me. Doesn't matter what time it is."
You nodded.
Thanked him.
And then he walked out the door.
He made his way down the hallway.
Down the stairs.
And when he finally reached the street, he stopped on the sidewalk and looked up at the window of your apartment.
And there, alone in the darkness, he finally allowed himself to be sad.
Because during the month he had spent with you, he had experienced the closest thing to a family he had ever known.
Waking up to the sounds you made in the morning.
Hearing the baby cry in the middle of the night.
Making dinner for three, even when one of them only drank milk.
All of it.
It was everything he had dreamed about without ever allowing himself to dream.
And now he was returning to his empty apartment.
His cold bed.
His silence.
His loneliness.
This was never supposed to feel like home.
So why does leaving hurt this much?
He could still hear the baby's heartbeat from where he stood.
Could still hear yours.
Two steady rhythms above him.
Safe.
Together.
Without him.
The thought settled heavily in his chest.
Don't be selfish.
She's happy.
That's what matters.
She's happy.
He repeated it like a prayer.
Like something he needed to believe.
Because loving you had always meant putting your happiness before his own.
Even when it hurt.
Especially when it hurt.
But Clark Kent was not the kind of man who stood around crying over what he couldn't have.
He took a slow breath.
Straightened his shoulders.
And tucked his hands into his pockets.
Then he started walking home.
He told himself he had enjoyed every second of it.
Every midnight feeding.
Every sleepy conversation.
Every moment spent watching you hold your daughter.
Their daughter.
Though he would never dare say those words aloud.
For a little while, I got to pretend.
For a little while, I got to know what it felt like.
And maybe that was enough.
You had told him he was always welcome.
That he could come back whenever he wanted.
That had to be enough.
It needed to be enough.
Because it was all he was ever going to have.
Or at least, that's what Clark convinced himself as he disappeared into the night and walked back toward an apartment that had never felt emptier.
Sinopsis: After years of believing something was wrong with her, you finally confess your deepest insecurity to Clark Kent. Instead of judgment, he offers patience, understanding, and a chance to discover that the people who hurt you may have been wrong all along.
Warnings: Mature content, explicit sexual scenes, oral sex, penetrative sex, strong sexual language.
WC: 4,400 words approx.
When did that "problem" happen? When did that problem decay into the fact that you were actually that problem?
Talking about "it" was uncomfortable. You couldn't tell your mother or your friends. Because how would you just come out and say? You know what? In my two relationships, never, never once did I have an orgasm. And the worst part is that both men told me I was the problem. No, just thinking about it would make you sink with shame. You would want to disappear, to never have opened your mouth. Even worse when you heard everyone saying they had an orgasm with their boyfriend. They commented on it as if it were the most normal thing in the world, as if it were something that always happened. And even though you knew that men only seek their own satisfaction, not yours, you also knew very well, maybe the problem was you. Because two different men repeating it to you, over and over again, had to mean something, right?
"Ah, of course it's not me, you must have problems," one said when you had confessed that you only felt a little warmth, but an orgasm, nothing. He lay there calmly, lying back on the bed, not even looking at you. As if what you had just told him was an annoyance, your own mistake that he didn't have to fix.
"Now you want everything to be dedicated to you, please, you must have a problem," said the other, looking at you with those eyes that you used to like and that now only made you feel small. "I have made thousands of women come," he boasted, crossing his arms as if he were a prize. As if you were the only one who didn't work right.
So you stopped trying. Maybe it was work stress, maybe the nerves of being with someone new, maybe the discomfort of seeing how a man could finish in bed with you, ejaculate and that's it. No more work, no more caresses, no more nothing. Because he had already gotten his part. And you stayed there, looking at the ceiling, wondering what was wrong with you.
But now the fear had returned. You had been two years without a boyfriend, two years without having to worry about this. And when you started dating Clark, you didn't mention it to him. Of course, you were just going on dates, it wasn't anything formal. Besides, he didn't seem like the man who takes you to bed on the first date. He was slow, everything about him was slow: his way of speaking, his way of looking at you, his way of getting close to you. And that slowness also made your heart race. You didn't want him to get annoyed and end up leaving your life like the other two.
Clark was cute. Too cute, even for your taste. You had always said your type were serious men, with few friends, who looked like a block of ice and were intelligent. But you ended up with an intelligent man, yes, but with the prettiest shyness you had ever seen and the loveliest smile anyone had ever given you. A man so tall and so big that to you, who wasn't small, he made you feel protected. You loved holding his hand everywhere, feeling his fingers intertwine with yours. You loved it when he pushed the stray locks of hair behind your ear and smiled at you as if you were the prettiest thing he had seen all day.
But you knew the next step was coming. Or maybe you only thought it one day, while he laughed at something silly you had said. Clark was a gentleman, truly. He wouldn't continue doing something if you told him you felt uncomfortable. Never. That was clear. But interrupting him mid-kiss was awkward. You would make him feel uncomfortable. And he would pull away. Like the others. Or worse, he would stay out of pity.
It wasn't planned. You had only agreed to eat at your apartment, but nothing more. It was after the movie. You kissed him first, almost without thinking, and from there you had been kissing for almost thirty minutes. Your lips were swollen, your breathing uncontrolled, your hands on his chest feeling his heart beat. His curls tangled between your fingers. He was squeezing your waist slowly, as if he had all the time in the world. But then that thought returned. You pulled away to breathe more air. He leaned in as if wanting to let you know he wanted to keep kissing you, but not finding your lips, he buried his face in your neck. You sighed, caressing his curls. You longed to feel him so much, but your fear invaded you. Should you fake an orgasm again? You remembered how ridiculous you felt doing that, those fake moans, that lie that only served to make him finish faster.
"Do you want to stop?" Clark whispered in your ear when he saw that you were only touching his curls without saying anything.
He looked at you. His cheeks were red, but his blue eyes were dilated, dark. Lips swollen like yours. You pressed your lips together. If you were the problem, you repeated to yourself, you'll ruin it. Again.
"No," you said. But you lowered your gaze to his shirt, playing with his button.
Clark tilted his head. He waited for your answer. You knew he didn't want a kiss to continue. He didn't want you to just keep going as if nothing was wrong. He wanted to know why you were nervous. And it wasn't normal nerves, he noticed it. There was something behind your trembling hands, behind the way you avoided his eyes.
"It's just that… I… have a problem," you whispered. And you felt your cheeks burn with shame.
"Problem?" said Clark. He moved on the couch to see you properly. Very carefully, he moved the lock of hair that covered your face and put it behind your ear. "Is it serious?" he asked, and his voice sounded genuinely worried.
"No… no… nothing like that," you said quickly, shaking your head. "It's just… well… I have problems with… that." You made a vague gesture with your hand, not daring to look at him.
Clark frowned, confused.
"I… never… well…," you tried to say, but the words got tangled.
"Hey, pretty, it's okay," he said, and his voice was soft, calm. He caressed your cheek with the back of his fingers. "Do you want to tell me? Go ahead. If you don't feel ready, nothing will happen." There was no anger in his eyes, no contempt. It was just Clark smiling with those dimples that appeared on his cheeks.
"I've never had an orgasm," you finally said.
You watched him blush. He nodded without saying anything. And your heart sank. You thought he would start to hate you. You thought you should have kept quiet and just faked it like you had done so many times before. The silence grew long, too long.
"No… but it's my problem," you blurted out, the words coming out fast, barely breathing. "I really enjoy it, it's just that… I won't reach that point. But we can keep going, don't worry about me." You said all that with the intention of making him forget, of him kissing you again and that's it.
Clark looked at you fixedly. "Not worry about you?" he asked, as if he hadn't understood correctly.
He guided you onto his lap gently. You sat on him. The friction was evident, noticeable, but he was focused on you, not on himself. His hands remained still on your hip, not squeezing, just resting.
"It's not just your problem," he said slowly. "Is it a problem? I mean… why do you say it's a problem? Did a gynecologist tell you that?" he asked, and he said it wanting to understand, not to judge.
"No," you played with his shirt again, not looking at him. "It was the… people I was with before," you said, and the word people tasted ugly in your mouth.
"Or they were the problem," Clark said simply.
You looked at him. How could he say it like that, so easily, as if it were obvious?
"But it's two people saying the same thing," you said, and you felt your throat close up. "Two, Clark. It's not a coincidence."
Clark nodded. He had left his glasses on the table an hour ago, since he started kissing you. Now his blue eyes looked at you without a filter.
"We can try it right now," he said simply, like someone says let's have a drink or let's watch another movie. He looked at you with that calm that only he had. "And we'll check if it's true or if you just had two people with low resistance next to you." He smiled a little. "You know I'm very resistant, don't you?" Clark asked.
And you, despite the fear, despite the shame, smiled blushing.
And then you kissed him.
You didn't think anymore. You didn't give yourself time to think. You just leaned your face in and your lips found his again. Clark made a small sound, a low moan that was lost between you two. Your hands went up to his neck. You felt his hot skin, his rapid pulse under your fingers. His hands were on your hip at first, still, as if he was afraid of squeezing too hard. But then they went down to your thighs and there they did squeeze, with desire. He went back to your neck, stopped kissing your mouth to go down to that soft spot right under your ear. He stayed there for a while. Just kissing, just sucking a little, just breathing against your skin. You felt him so good that you moaned uncontrollably. It wasn't a low or subtle moan. It was a moan that came from deep within, without you being able to do anything to stop it.
"Oh, Clark!" you said. And your hands clenched his curls tightly, as if you were about to fall and he was the only thing holding you up.
You took off his shirt. It wasn't easy because he wouldn't stop kissing you, but you managed. The fabric went up his back and he let go of your lips just long enough to take it off completely. Then you took off yours with his help. His hands were large and trembled a little as they unbuttoned the buttons. You didn't know if it was nerves or desire, maybe both. When your shirt fell to the floor, Clark looked at you for a second. Just a second. His blue eyes ran over your face, your neck, your shoulders. And then he kissed you again as if he had been waiting for days to do it.
Clark took your waist and sat you on the couch. But he didn't sit next to you. He did something strange. He crouched down, lowered his body in front of you. A movement you didn't understand. What did he intend to do? He pulled away from your lips, very slowly, as if it cost him effort. He kissed your neck again. Then went lower. He kissed your chest, the top part, right where the heart beats strongest. Then lower down. He kissed your abdomen, right in the center, and you felt your skin pucker from how soft it was. You looked at him. The living room lamp let you see little, just shadows and glints. But the sighs came out of you as soon as you felt him remove your pants. He unbuttoned them, lowered them slowly, looking at you as he did so. Then he took off your panties. Also slowly. His fingers hooked the fabric and lowered it down your legs. Your hands were trembling. Everything was trembling.
His huge hands parted your legs. Gently but firmly, as if he knew exactly what he was doing. You opened your legs more for him, without thinking. Your pupils were so dilated you could barely see. But when you looked at his face, he was looking directly at your center. You threw your head back. You couldn't look. You were embarrassed and yet you didn't want to stop looking.
"Clark," you moaned. His name came out broken, like a long sigh.
He leaned in. He kissed your vaginal lips as if they were your regular lips. With the same softness, the same calm. Your mouth fell open. You couldn't believe what he was doing. No one had kissed you there before. No one had taken that time. You felt his tongue lick your line, that little opening you had been so afraid to show. Then he opened it more with his tongue, carefully, and even penetrated you a little with it. The sounds coming from below were wet, lewd, shameful. But you didn't want him to stop. Everything was different. Everything was so strange and so good at the same time. Your hands tangled in his curls again. Your hips lifted on their own, as if your body came to life and wanted more from Clark. More of his mouth, more of his tongue, more of everything.
"Do you like it?" you heard him say. His voice came out hoarse, low, and he was still between your legs. "My pretty girlfriend, you taste so good," he said. Then he pulled away slightly. You looked down and saw a line of saliva hanging from his lips to you. You smiled, blushing, and thrust your hip towards him. He understood. He didn't protest. Oh, he never would. Clark found that exquisite, you could see it in his eyes. To see how his mouth could melt you. He just thought how you must have felt when they pointed out that you didn't have orgasms. When they told you that you were the problem. Surely they were the problem, Clark thought. And he set out to do it the second you told him the reason for that fear. He would show you. He would show you they were wrong.
"Oh, Clark!" you said again. But this time it wasn't just pleasure. It was something else. A strange tremor ran through your body, started in your belly and went up your back. Your legs contracted on their own. Your hands in his curls pushed his face further against you, even though he didn't need you to push him. "God, I… no… Clark," you said. And then it happened.
A strange sensation ran through your entire body. It wasn't like anything you had felt before. It was as if something inside you broke but in a good way. As if you let go of something you had been holding onto for years. Slow spasms, undulations that went up and down your legs, your belly, your chest. You breathed as soon as you could, but it was hard. The air didn't come in well because your whole body was shaking. Clark approached slowly. He kissed your thigh, then your abdomen, then your neck. He kissed softly, very softly, while your body still shook a little.
"My beautiful girlfriend was treated so badly," he said. He gave you kisses on your neck, one after another, while you recovered from the previous wave. You didn't have the strength to even speak. Then he kissed you on the mouth. His saliva and your juices mixed with your own saliva and you didn't care. Nothing mattered more than continuing to feel what you had just felt.
Clark pulled away just enough to take off his pants. He lowered them quickly, this time without calm, and kicked them off completely. He looked at you. His eyes were dark, almost black with desire.
"I don't have a condom," he whispered. And his voice sounded almost apologetic.
You shook your head. "It's okay," you nodded. You said it so fast you barely thought about it. You were lost. Needy for him. Not just anyone. For him.
Clark smiled looking at you. "Good," he whispered. But nothing happened. Not at first.
Until you felt something enter you. You moaned, brushing your lips against Clark's. It wasn't what you thought. It wasn't him. It was his two fingers. He inserted them slowly, one first, then another. He needed to stretch you a little more so you would adjust to him later. But the simple position had already warmed you up more than you thought. His swollen lips close to yours. His hand working below, inside, moving with a rhythm you didn't know. His other hand on your waist, squeezing gently. Your hands on his shoulders, clinging to him. The closeness of his face, the warm air coming from his mouth mixing with yours. The dilated pupils of both of you, so large you could barely see the color of his eyes.
You opened your lips to say something but no words came out. He moved closer, their teeth clashed a little, and he kissed you. It was a messy kiss, wet, with both of them breathing poorly. They moaned between kisses. His fingers entering and exiting you, faster each time. Your tongue playing with his. A third finger entered and you felt everything stretch down there. You closed your eyes tightly. You pulled away from his mouth just to breathe, just to not suffocate. He took your neck with his free hand, very gently, and pulled you close again. And then…
"Damn it… again," you said. Your voice trembled. Everything trembled. "I… oh," you said. You couldn't finish the sentence.
Your body shook entirely. A new wave, stronger than the first, shook you from head to toe. Your hands squeezed Clark's shoulders as if you were sinking. Your legs trembled uncontrollably. Clark held you tight, pressed his chest to yours and held you while you shook. You breathed with difficulty, your face buried in his neck. He didn't move. He just held you. With one hand he massaged your leg with fingers stained with you, and that soft caress helped you come back. Little by little. Very little by little.
And then he carried you.
You didn't even have time to say anything. Clark put his arms under your body, one behind your back and the other behind your knees, and lifted you as if you weighed nothing. Your arms circled his neck by reflex, and you pressed your face against his shoulder. You felt his hot skin, his smell, his agitated breathing. He walked towards your room. He knew the way. He had learned every step of your house when he came to visit you and helped you leave something in your room. A jacket, a bag, a book. He always noticed everything, even if you didn't realize it. He knew where the bed was, where the door was, where the lamp was. When they arrived, he entered without bumping into anything. He placed you on the bed gently, as if you were something fragile. The sheet was cold against your back and that contrasted with the heat of his body on top of you.
You felt his member brush against your entrance. Barely touching you. Just a graze. And you, without thinking, lifted your hip towards him. Your body moved on its own. You were no longer afraid. You no longer wanted to hide. You just wanted to feel him inside you.
"That's it," Clark said, his voice hoarse, barely a whisper. His member became stained with your juices as he rubbed against you, barely entering and exiting, just the tip. You moaned every time he brushed against that place that needed him so much. "We're going to show them who the real problem was," he said. And then he gave you a kiss on the jaw, right where your face ends and your neck begins. That kiss was soft, but he said it with a certainty that made you believe him. That was enough for him to insert himself into you. Not all at once. It was slow. Very slow. You felt him fill you little by little, centimeter by centimeter. You opened your mouth but no sound came out. Just air.
Then the thrusts began. Slow at first. Very slow. Every time he entered, your breasts bounced to the rhythm of his movement. They went up and down like small waves. Clark's lips went straight to them. He kissed the tip of your nipple, which was already hard, very hard. He kissed it softly, with closed lips, then with his tongue. His mouth was hot and wet. Your hand tangled in his curls again, squeezing gently, pulling a little. His hot breath lingered on your skin every time he parted his lips to breathe.
"Oh, Clark," you said. Your voice came out choppy, broken by moans. "You feel so good," you admitted. It wasn't a lie. You had never felt anything like it. He filled every empty space you had inside.
"No," Clark said, shaking his head while continuing to move inside you. "You are the one who feels so good." He bit your nipple carefully, barely a pinch with his teeth. "So adapted to me," he said, and then he took your entire nipple into his mouth, sucking gently, playing with his tongue around it.
You stayed underneath him on your back for a good while. Then he turned you over gently and you were face down. He penetrated you again and again, from behind, and you buried your head in the pillow to keep from screaming too loudly. Clark's fingers dug gently into your hip, guiding you, moving you to his rhythm. Then he took you and arranged you on top of him. You sat on his stomach and he looked up at you from below. You set the pace yourself. Your hands trembled as they rested on his chest. You bent down from time to time to kiss him, and he took that moment to grab your buttocks with his large hands. He gently spread them to sink deeper into you. That made you moan louder. But you kept your rhythm. Your hips made slow circles. Your breasts moved in a back-and-forth sway, left and right. Clark squeezed them with his hands, massaged them while you moved on top of him. You moaned, but this time it wasn't just any moan. You were almost singing to him, letting your voice out with each rise and each fall. You felt so close. Clark noticed it because your rhythm began to get slower, clumsier. You were tired but you didn't want to stop.
"I… Clark, help me," you whispered. Your voice was barely audible.
He didn't need you to repeat it. You leaned on his shoulders and he lifted your body with force. Clark began to penetrate by lifting and lowering his hips. He led the rhythm now. Both moaned together, at the same time, as if their bodies were one. They were both so close. Clark grabbed your bottom with one hand, with the other he grabbed your hip, and penetrated deeper. Your eyes became moist. You didn't know if it was from pleasure or something else. You looked at him blurry, because the tears hadn't fallen but they fogged everything up. Clark's senses heated up seeing you like that. You breathed so fast you almost felt dizzy. And then you trembled. In the last thrust, your body contracted entirely. You trembled like a leaf in the wind. And you felt Clark fill you, hot, inside. Enough for you to fall onto his chest without strength. Still trembling. Still shuddering when Clark's arms hugged you tight.
He didn't let you go. He didn't push you away. He didn't turn his face to the wall like the others did. Clark kept you on his chest, with an arm around your back and the other hand caressing you gently. He waited for your breathing to normalize. He didn't speak. There was no need. He just held you. And you sank into his chest tired, happy, calm. Hugging him too. With your eyes closed. With a smile he couldn't see but surely felt.
"Confirmed," Clark said after a while, his voice still hoarse but with a laugh hidden in the words. "You are not the problem."
You laughed. A small, trembling laugh, but real. He felt your laugh on his chest, the vibrations of your throat against his skin. And he also laughed. His laugh was low, soft, like everything about him.
You pulled away slightly, just enough to look at him. You gave him a short, quick kiss on the lips. And then you hugged him again, burying your nose in his neck.
"I really like you, Clark," you admitted. Your voice came out small, as if you were still embarrassed to say it.
Clark blushed. You felt him get warm under your lips. "I am in love with you," he said. He paused, as if thinking the word embarrassed him too. "A lot," he added, so there was no doubt.
You hugged him tighter, not looking at his smile, but you knew it was there. You felt it in how his chest moved as he breathed.
"Let's clean ourselves up," Clark whispered after a while, running a hand through your messy hair. "We'll take a shower."
Clark did it. He got out of bed, took your hand and led you to the bathroom. He turned on the hot water tap and waited for the temperature to be right. Then they got in together. You curled up against his chest, stuck to him as if it were the safest place in the world. He soaped your hair first, carefully, undoing the knots with his fingers. Then he soaped your body, slowly, running the sponge over your back, your shoulders, your arms, your legs. There was no hurry. The water fell over both of them and the bathroom filled with steam. Then he soaped himself, with your eyes watching him. In the end they dried off with a large towel that Clark ran over your body first before running it over his. Then they went back to bed, still with damp skin and the smell of soap.
Clark already had his purpose for every night. He wouldn't let you think again that you were a problem. He would show you whenever necessary. With kisses. With caresses. With patience. With that very way of his of looking at you as if you were the best thing that had ever happened to him. That night, when he turned off the light and hugged you from behind, with his nose buried in your nape and his arm crossed over your waist, you knew you weren't alone. That you would never have to pretend again. That Clark would stay. And you, for the first time in a long time, closed your eyes and felt calm.
Note: Has anyone seen The Office? Well, this fanfic is inspired by the scene where Pam’s mom visits her at work and asks, “Which one’s Jim?” It’s so magical it makes you want to kick your feet in the air, hahaha, so I just thought, “Why not?” And if you’ve never seen it, then read this fanfic and experience the magic.
Clark Kent x female reader
Sinopsis: When your mother visits the Daily Planet for the first time, she only has one question: Which one is Clark? Unfortunately for you, Clark Kent hears the question.
Warnings: Fluff, Romantic Comedy, Workplace Romance, Mutual Pining, Friends to Lovers Vibes, Slice of Life
WC: 3,000 words approx.
Your hands flew across the keyboard without stopping, that familiar click click click sound that you didn’t even notice anymore because it had become so ingrained in your mind it was like breathing. Every now and then, you clicked your mouse once, then again, then again, as if that would somehow make the words come faster. But it didn’t. You were still stuck on the same sentence you’d been wrestling with for the last fifteen minutes.
You stretched your neck from side to side, feeling it crack slightly, and the small relief was enough to keep you going. You shifted in your chair because you could no longer feel your butt; honestly, you’d lost all sensation after sitting there for so many hours in a chair that was clearly begging to be replaced.
You adjusted the glasses you only wore for computer work. They were uncomfortable, always slipping down your nose or pressing painfully behind your ears, but without them the screen blurred and you’d end up with a headache.
You let out a deep sigh and looked over your monitor, directing your gaze toward the office elevator.
No one important.
Just familiar faces. Coworkers carrying coffee cups or folders.
But not the person you’d been waiting for since yesterday.
Since this morning.
Since the moment you arrived.
“Waiting for someone special?” Lois asked, watching you glance toward the elevator for what had to be the tenth time.
One eyebrow was raised, and she wore the mischievous smile you knew all too well.
You looked at her and shook your head, feeling your cheeks warm slightly.
“No... well... no,” you said shyly, smiling as you lowered your gaze to your keyboard as though the letters had suddenly become the most fascinating thing in the world.
You didn’t type a single word.
You simply stared while your fingers remained frozen above the keys.
“No?” Lois leaned toward you like a curious puppy. “Is someone coming to pick you up? A guy, maybe?” she asked, her voice quiet but excited, as though she already knew the answer and simply wanted to hear you say it.
You laughed.
A nervous laugh.
The kind that slipped out when someone caught you doing something you hoped they wouldn’t notice.
Eventually, Lois gave up and returned to her article, though that little smile remained firmly planted on her face.
The smile that clearly said, I know something you’re not telling me.
“A guy?”
Jimmy’s voice sounded directly behind Clark, causing the poor man to nearly drop his coffee.
It was strange because, well, Clark could normally sense anything approaching him from yards away. Hear footsteps. Feel vibrations. All those things that came with his abilities.
But something about being Clark Kent seemed to interfere with those hidden Kryptonian instincts.
When he was in the office, he wasn’t the man with the cape.
He wasn’t Superman.
He was just Clark.
And somehow that made things weird.
One moment he could hear a sigh from across the city.
The next, he failed to notice his best friend standing directly behind him.
He jumped, nearly spilling his coffee, surprising even himself with how startled he’d become.
You and Lois looked over briefly before returning to your work, as though Jimmy sneaking up on Clark had become a perfectly normal part of office life.
Of course, Jimmy didn’t know.
No one did.
Jimmy was interested in Clark, but not in the way Clark was interested in you.
Jimmy simply enjoyed teasing his friend.
It was entertaining watching Clark turn red whenever someone mentioned you.
Clark glanced in your direction while you continued typing, and the moment Lois whispered something to you, his attention abandoned his article entirely.
If anyone were being honest, Clark could probably be called nosy.
Or perhaps, to him, invading someone’s privacy wasn’t really a crime if the intentions were good.
And you were the girl he liked.
The girl who stole his attention every chance she got.
The girl who made him forget how to breathe whenever you smiled.
Listening a little wasn’t so terrible, right?
Right?
Clark looked at Jimmy, blushing.
How had his powerless friend gathered all that information so easily?
It seemed Jimmy possessed the superpower of overhearing other people’s conversations.
Or maybe Jimmy had only pretended to use Lois’s printer so he could come directly to Clark and extract information.
Jimmy leaned against Clark’s desk expectantly.
“I don’t know,” Clark said casually, though his voice came out tighter than usual.
“They’re stealing your girl, buddy,” Jimmy said, shaking his head as though he’d already accepted his friend’s inevitable suffering.
“She’s not... Jimmy, she’s not my girl,” Clark replied, raising a finger like a teacher delivering an important lesson. “She’s not an object that belongs to someone.”
Then he glanced at you.
Just for a second.
Long enough to see you laughing at something Lois had said.
“Besides...” he added quietly, “she’s allowed to date other people.”
His voice softened as though hope itself were slipping away.
As though the words weighed heavily on his tongue.
“Sure. Because you never actually ask her out,” Jimmy said, shaking his head.
There was equal parts affection and frustration in his expression, as though he’d already had this conversation a thousand times in his head.
“You heard Lois say she liked Andrew. Steve’s coworker,” Clark said, directing his gaze toward the man standing a few desks away.
Andrew.
The guy currently showing off his gym routine with his hands on his hips and his chin raised as though he owned the world.
“I wasn’t going to tell you,” Jimmy said with a shrug. “But I heard it. Sorry. Couldn’t keep it in.”
Then he looked toward Andrew.
“But come on. The guy is basically ‘Look at my biceps’ or ‘Yesterday I worked out for three hours’ or ‘I drink disgusting spinach smoothies every morning.’”
Jimmy imitated him in a ridiculous voice while flexing his skinny arms.
Clark couldn’t help smiling.
The day continued that way.
People coming and going.
Lois disappearing to discuss an important article with Cat.
Jimmy working through his fourth cup of coffee while flirting with the woman from the Culture section—the one who always wore enormous earrings and laughed loudly.
Clark looked at you.
Then at Andrew.
Andrew picked up a folder and smiled at you.
You smiled back while continuing to type, nodding as he walked away at an annoyingly leisurely pace.
Clark lowered his eyes to his keyboard.
A heaviness settled in his chest.
Maybe it simply wasn’t his time.
Maybe he was destined to be the supporting character.
The one who never got the girl.
The one who stood by and watched the person he loved fall for someone else.
Maybe under different circumstances.
Maybe in another life.
Things would be different.
“You’re here!”
You jumped up from your chair so quickly that you nearly sent it crashing backward.
Clark’s head snapped up immediately, his spine straightening without him realizing it.
You hurried toward the elevator, excitement radiating from every step.
For one terrifying second, Clark thought you were already spoken for.
That the guy you’d been talking about had finally arrived to take you away.
Then he looked closer.
The person stepping out of the elevator was a woman.
Shorter than you, but undeniably similar.
The same smile.
The same eyes.
The same lightness in her walk.
Clark tilted his head, confused.
Then he smiled.
Your mother.
There was no doubt.
Not after the way you hugged her.
Not after she lovingly brushed your hair back.
“Sorry, sweetheart. I couldn’t find the right floor. I got off on the fifth floor, and they told me you didn’t exist. I said, ‘What do you mean my daughter doesn’t exist?’ Then they finally realized who I was talking about,” your mother said as she walked beside you toward your desk, looking around with fascination as though the office were a museum filled with treasures.
You smiled.
That big smile that only ever appeared around her.
“I told you I could come get you, Mom,” you whispered, kissing her cheek.
Meanwhile, Clark kept his eyes glued to his computer screen while paying absolute attention to every word.
Every laugh.
Every touch of your mother’s arm.
“This is my desk,” you said, sitting down and gesturing toward the chair beside you so she could see where you worked. “I’m writing an article.”
You pointed toward the screen filled with words you’d written and deleted a hundred times.
Your mother nodded seriously.
“Mhm.”
She looked around.
Then leaned closer.
Without taking her eyes off the office.
“Which one is Clark?” she whispered, scanning the room like a spy in a movie.
You blushed instantly.
Heat rushed up your neck and into your ears.
“Mom,” you whispered, practically sinking beneath your desk.
Even though she’d spoken quietly.
Even though it was barely audible.
“What?” your mother replied with a knowing smile, leaning closer. “You spend hours talking about him on the phone. I deserve to meet the man my daughter is in love with.”
Those words echoed through your mind like they’d been shouted through a megaphone.
Across the room, Clark felt his heart somersault.
“It’s him,” you whispered, barely moving your head toward Clark.
Just a tiny gesture.
Your mother followed your gaze.
Clark wasn’t sure whether it was your heart beating that loudly or his own.
He could hear two racing heartbeats.
One closer than the other.
And he couldn’t tell which belonged to whom.
He licked his lips, trying to suppress the enormous smile threatening to spread across his face.
He lowered his gaze to the keyboard.
Tilted his head.
Tried to hide it.
Oh, sure.
This was definitely one of the advantages of super hearing.
Listening to the entire city wasn’t always enjoyable.
But moments like this?
Hearing your voice whisper that you were in love with him?
That made every second worthwhile.
“So you’re the beautiful mother of my best friend.”
Lois interrupted with her brightest reporter smile.
She approached with her hand extended and a sparkle in her eyes.
You stood so quickly you nearly knocked into your chair.
“Lois Lane, right? Of course. Black hair. Eyes capable of making any man fall in love. Gorgeous. That’s you,” your mother said, shaking her hand firmly while looking her up and down as though she’d just met a celebrity.
You laughed and shook your head.
Embarrassed.
Happy.
Both at once.
Lois looked at you with curiosity, one eyebrow raised.
You shrugged with a mischievous smile.
“She’s the one who gives me all the advice I give you.”
Lois laughed loudly before pulling your mother into a hug as though they’d known each other for years.
From his desk, Clark stared at his keyboard with an idiotic smile he couldn’t erase, listening to the laughter of the three of you blend into the sounds of the office.
Then Clark stood up.
Not gracefully.
Not remotely.
It was the kind of standing up that happened when someone’s legs suddenly forgot how to function.
His hands trembled around a sheet of paper.
His eyes shifted from you.
To the floor.
Back to you.
As though he couldn’t decide where it was safest to look.
Thankfully, Perry had asked Clark to print an article and deliver it to you so it could be passed along to the editors, just like always.
A real reason to approach you.
A legitimate excuse.
Not one he’d invented.
Yet even with that perfectly reasonable excuse, Clark felt as though his knees might give out at any moment.
He walked toward you in short steps, clutching the paper against his chest like a shield.
With every step, his heart climbed higher into his throat.
You looked up as he approached.
Your heart stopped.
Or maybe it stopped twice.
Or maybe it stopped altogether.
Your mother glanced at you from the corner of her eye, wearing that familiar smile.
You looked at her.
Or maybe you swallowed.
You honestly couldn’t remember which came first.
You only knew that the office suddenly felt warmer.
And your palms had started sweating for absolutely no reason.
“Sorry to interrupt,” Clark said quietly.
So quietly it sounded as though he were asking permission to exist within your space.
He smiled at you.
A trembling smile.
The kind that escaped before he could stop it.
His fingers continued squeezing the paper as though it were the only thing keeping him upright.
“No, no,” you replied immediately.
Far too quickly.
Then you looked at your mother with eyes that clearly pleaded, Please don’t say anything weird.
“I... this is my mother, Clark... no... what’s wrong?” you said, realizing halfway through the sentence that none of those words made sense.
You sounded as though you were apologizing.
Or answering a question he’d never asked.
He only wanted to hand you a paper.
Not meet your mother.
At least, that’s what you assumed.
But your mouth had sprinted ahead of your brain.
And it was far too late to catch up.
Clark smiled anyway, despite not fully understanding what you’d just said.
He extended a hand toward your mother.
Then immediately pulled it back.
Wiped it on his jacket.
Then offered it again more carefully.
As though presenting something fragile.
“Clark Kent, ma’am. It’s a pleasure.”
His voice came out slightly higher than usual.
The unmistakable sound of someone who was desperately nervous.
You smiled at your mother.
The kind of smile that hurt because of how hard you were forcing yourself to appear calm.
“Clark Kent,” your mother repeated, savoring the name like candy. “I’ve heard so much about you.”
She dropped the words casually.
Like someone tossing a grenade and waiting to see the explosion.
“About everyone,” you corrected quickly.
Far too quickly.
Far too obviously.
Your voice sounded rushed.
Artificial.
You fooled absolutely no one.
It was as obvious as the sky being blue.
As obvious as coffee being hot.
Your mother gave you a look that clearly said, Oh, my sweet foolish daughter.
Clark turned as red as a tomato.
“Yes, well, I hope my daughter does a good job and is a good coworker to everyone,” your mother said, releasing Clark’s hand after holding it a second longer than necessary.
Then she turned toward Lois as though she hadn’t just left her daughter internally screaming.
“She is. She’s the best.”
Clark’s words came out instantly.
Purely.
Directly from his heart before his brain had a chance to intervene.
Even he looked surprised.
You stared at him.
Speechless.
Your mother stared at him.
One eyebrow raised.
A huge smile spreading across her face.
Lois stared at him too.
Barely managing not to laugh.
Her expression practically screamed, These two are hopeless.
You smiled without entirely understanding why.
Then looked at your mother with a mixture of embarrassment and happiness you couldn’t conceal.
“I’m glad to hear that. I won’t take up any more of your time. Your work is important,” your mother said, waving a hand as though dismissing an entire army. “I’ll wait for my daughter downstairs.”
She paused for a moment.
Thinking.
“I’ll look for a restaurant while I wait. I hear Metropolis has excellent restaurants.”
She looked around as though expecting someone to hand her a map.
“The Italian restaurant next to the park is amazing,” Clark recommended.
The moment he finished speaking, he blushed so intensely it looked like he’d suddenly developed a fever.
He adjusted his glasses with a trembling finger.
A habit he always had when he was nervous.
Though he had no idea he did it.
“I think,” he added quietly, suddenly uncertain of his own recommendation.
You smiled.
One of those smiles that appeared without permission.
The kind you couldn’t stop even if you tried.
“Of course. When we went there with Jimmy,” you said, remembering.
Clark nodded, relieved that someone had confirmed he hadn’t imagined the place.
You turned to your mother, your eyes shining.
“It really is good.”
Your voice carried far more conviction than one would expect from a conversation about food.
“Oh, then you should come with us, Clark. You seem to know the city well,” your mother said casually, as though inviting an old family friend to dinner.
You shook your head so quickly your neck nearly hurt.
“He’s lived here exactly as long as I have,” you tried to point out, as though that were a perfectly reasonable argument against him joining.
Your mother didn’t even look at you.
Her eyes remained fixed on Clark with the determination only mothers possessed when arranging something their children never requested.
“It would be my pleasure to join you. I... yes... Perry said...” Clark began.
Then immediately tangled himself in his own words.
He pointed at the paper still clutched in his hands as though he’d only just remembered it existed.
“This is for you,” he said finally, extending it toward you with the care of someone presenting an important trophy.
His fingers brushed yours.
Just for a second.
Both of you pulled away at exactly the same time.
As though the contact had shocked you.
“I... I’ll leave on time so I can take you both,” Clark said.
Then he retreated so quickly it looked like he was escaping a fire.
He nearly tripped over a chair.
Caught himself at the last second.
Then walked straight into a doorway that had been there forever.
And kept going.
His cheeks were so red they looked like two apples hanging from either side of his face.
You looked at your mother with wide eyes, having absolutely no idea what expression you were supposed to make. Whether you should be offended, laugh, or simply crawl under your desk and never come out again.
Lois smiled at your mother, shaking her head from side to side with the expression of someone who had seen this story before and already knew how it ended.
“See, ma’am?” Lois teased, crossing her arms and leaning against the desk as though she were watching her favorite television show. “Those two are complete lovebirds. It’s only a matter of time before they end up together.”
You rolled your eyes, but you couldn’t stop the silly smile that slipped onto your lips.
Your mother simply nodded.
Serious.
Thoughtful.
As though she were mentally documenting every single thing she had witnessed.
Saving every detail for later.
For one of those phone calls when the two of you were alone.
When she could finally interrogate you properly and you would end up confessing everything you felt for Clark Kent.
Sinopsis: Clark Kent has spent months trying to get your attention in the only way he knows how: quietly, sweetly, and awkwardly. But when Superman saves your life and begins visiting your apartment at night, Clark realizes he may have accidentally made things far more complicated for himself.
If Clark counted the times he tried to flirt with you, they would be in the thousands. But the funny thing was that his way of flirting was so subtle that it almost always got mistaken for his everyday kindness. Clark was affectionate with everyone; that was how he had been raised back home in Smallville, where being gentle and thoughtful was as natural as breathing.
That was why, when he bought coffee in the mornings, he never arrived with just two cups, but four: one for Lois, one for Jimmy, one for himself, and an extra one that he always handed to you. And of course, you were his coworker, even if your desk was nowhere near his the way Lois’s was. Yours sat almost four meters away, far enough for anyone to think there was no reason to include you in his coffee runs. But Clark always found an excuse.
He said Perry, the boss, had mentioned that you did excellent work whenever you collaborated with him, and that was why he wanted to get along with you. You never turned down the coffee, because there was always a smile on your face whenever he walked over to hand it to you.
Still, you were a serious person at work, the kind who avoided talking about your private life, your weekend plans, or whether you had a date on Friday night. But that did not mean you were rude. On the contrary, you carried that same warm professionalism with everyone: you greeted people politely, asked how they were doing, remembered birthdays. And that exact mix of seriousness and warmth was what intrigued Clark the most.
Because he noticed that when you laughed with Lois, it was not a professional laugh or a polite one. It was genuinely friendly, the kind of laugh that slipped out unexpectedly, the kind that made you blush a little and lower your gaze while absentmindedly touching your hair. Clark kept asking himself over and over again: what did you talk about with Lois that made you laugh like that? What topic made you let go of that professional armor you guarded so carefully?
And even though Clark had that other side, that side of Superman who flew between buildings and saved people, he never wanted to mix it with you. He did not want you to meet Superman first, nor did he want you to mistake grand heroic actions for something heartfelt. He wanted you to see only Clark: the clumsy but kind reporter, the one who sat next to Lois and handed you coffee every morning.
He did not want to compete with his own other self, because he knew perfectly well that many women mistook Superman’s idealism for love. They saw the red cape and the muscles beneath the blue suit, and they never looked beyond that. The mere thought made Clark sick, the idea of having to compete against himself just to make you like him.
Because if you did not like Clark as he was, with his sleeves half rolled up and his glasses sitting slightly crooked on his nose, then you would never like what he truly wanted you to love about him. And the worst part was that he had no idea whether you were capable of seeing beyond that. Whether you could look at the Daily Planet reporter who worked with you from time to time and find something special in him, something that did not need a cape to shine.
But anyway, that was not the point right now.
The point was that you ended up meeting him, and not in the quiet way he would have wanted. Of course not, because you specifically had to be on that bus heading toward the Daily Planet.
The very same bus that would derail when the bridge was struck by something nobody was sure about: maybe a bomb, maybe an attempted attack. The only thing anyone knew for certain was that the explosion caused the bus to fall and hang dangerously off one side, suspended over empty air.
While everyone scrambled out screaming and shoving each other, Clark could hear your heartbeat. He had memorized it without meaning to during the investigation you had been working on together over the past few weeks. He remembered exactly what your heart sounded like whenever you leaned closer to him and shook your head while the two of you reviewed documents together.
“No, I actually think we should go after the drone company,” you had whispered that time, without looking at him, your eyes fixed only on the investigation papers.
“Why?” Clark asked, leaning slightly closer to your desk.
“Because they have more connections than they seem to,” you replied, sliding a page in front of him.
“Connections to who?”
“To Luthor,” you added, and that was when you finally looked up. Your eyes met his for only a second, and Clark felt warmth spread through his chest.
That was when he blushed, but he loved the sound of your confident voice, the way your mind worked. That was why finding you in the middle of a crisis was the last thing he wanted. He did not want to see you frightened. He did not want to see you hanging from a broken bus.
But that was exactly what happened.
Clark saved people as best he could, helping down those who stumbled, those who lagged behind. In the middle of the chaos, you helped an elderly woman who could not climb through the emergency window. Everyone else was too terrified, thinking only about saving themselves, but you took the woman’s hand and helped her climb out.
Then the bus jerked violently, and you nearly fell, but you managed to grab onto the edge of the window frame. When the woman finally made it out, you reached your hand toward a man standing outside, waiting to help pull you up.
But then the bus shifted again, this time even harder. You felt the floor tilt beneath your feet, and you closed your eyes. You thought it would be the last time you ever saw the world. You thought about your family, about your empty desk at the Planet.
But Clark was never going to let anything happen to you.
He moved so fast you did not even hear the wind. In a single second, his firm hands were around your waist, holding you safely in the air. You opened your eyes on instinct and wrapped your arms around him as tightly as you could, without thinking, without hesitation.
When you looked down, you saw solid ground beneath your feet. The people around you began cheering and clapping excitedly. Slowly, you pulled away from him, still trembling slightly, and lifted your gaze.
Superman stood in front of you.
Your eyes shone like two coins beneath the sunlight. You looked at the dark blue suit, the red and yellow emblem across his chest, the red cape flowing in the wind. It was him. It was really him.
“Are you alright?” Superman asked, his voice deep yet calm.
You simply nodded without saying a word. You could not speak. You could not stop staring at him.
“Are you sure?” he insisted, tilting his head slightly.
You nodded again, but this time with a small smile you could not hold back.
Superman smiled too, quick but genuine. “Good,” he said, and with a soft rush of air, he lifted into the sky, turning before flying away between the buildings.
You remained standing there, your heart still pounding, watching the blue-and-red figure grow smaller and smaller until he disappeared completely.
No one was injured. Nothing terrible had happened. Superman had saved the day once again.
Little by little, the people on the street stopped screaming, the children stopped crying, the cars began moving again as though nothing had happened. The damaged bus was already safely on the ground, and all the passengers were unharmed, hugging one another or calling their families to tell them they were okay.
You stayed there for another moment, your hands still trembling slightly from the shock, but quickly you did what you knew best: being a journalist.
You approached people, pulled a small notebook from your jacket pocket, and began asking questions.
“How did it feel when the bus tilted?” you asked an older woman with gray hair.
“Did you see how Superman arrived?” you asked a young man who was still shaking.
You moved from person to person, taking notes, listening to every testimony, and once you had gathered enough information, you practically ran back to the Daily Planet.
There, in the newsroom, you stood before all your coworkers and recounted everything in vivid detail. You told them about the bridge, the explosion, the hanging bus, and you also told them how Superman had appeared out of nowhere to catch you in midair and bring you safely down.
Clark listened to you from his desk, his elbows resting on scattered papers and his beard pressed against one hand. He watched you gesture excitedly, watched you smile whenever you mentioned Superman, and he thought everything was fine.
It was only one interaction, he told himself. Sooner or later Superman was going to save you. I should not be afraid. I should not worry.
You were just his coworker. Nothing more.
But maybe what happened afterward was his own fault.
Because that same night, Clark could not help himself.
After finishing his shift at the Planet, after waving goodbye to Jimmy, after walking several blocks until he reached a dark alley where nobody could see him, he removed his glasses, straightened his back, pulled open his shirt, and revealed the blue suit hidden underneath.
A second later, he was already flying above the rooftops of Metropolis.
The cool night wind brushed against his face, the city lights glowing below like countless tiny stars. But he did not patrol the city the way he usually did. He did not go searching for trouble or stopping thieves.
He went straight to your building. Straight to your window.
He hovered there in the air, his boots barely grazing the ledge, and looked at you through the glass.
You were inside, holding a cup of tea, still dressed in your work clothes. You looked up and saw him. Your body tensed slightly at first, but you did not scream or panic. You only stared at him with curiosity, as though you were trying to understand why the most powerful man in the world was floating outside your window on a Tuesday night.
You slowly opened the window and remained standing in the frame, the cool air moving through your hair.
“What are you doing here, Superman?” you asked nervously.
Of course you were nervous. Your voice sounded slightly higher than usual, and your fingers tightened around the tea cup more than necessary.
Superman looked directly into your eyes. He tried to smile calmly, confidently, even though inside his heart was pounding like a drum.
“I… always make sure the people I save are truly alright and get home safely,” Superman said, using that firm yet kind voice he always used.
You nodded slowly, never taking your eyes off him. Your nervousness gradually shifted into something closer to amusement. Tilting your head slightly, the same way you did whenever you cornered someone with questions at the Planet, you asked:
“And… have you already visited the nearly twenty people you saved besides me?”
One eyebrow lifted slightly.
Of course you were not easy to fool.
She’s a journalist, Clark thought. She questions everything. She finds logic where everyone else sees coincidence. She likes being right and uncovering the truth, even when it hurts.
But right now, with Superman floating outside your window, you did not seem to be in investigation mode.
You only seemed curious.
You only seemed… interested.
“Yes,” Superman answered quickly, maybe too quickly.
Your eyes widened slightly in surprise. You had not expected that answer.
“Really?” you asked skeptically.
“Really,” Superman insisted, although inside Clark thought, I’m such a liar.
He had not visited anyone else. He had flown directly to your window without thinking about anything else. But he could not tell you that. He could not tell you that your heartbeat was the only one he wanted to hear that night.
Three days passed. Clark thought it would not happen again, that the visit had been a mistake, a foolish impulse he should not repeat. But then the thing he feared most and wanted most at the same time happened.
He came back.
He could not help it. Once again, he was floating outside your window, another night, once again wearing the blue suit and the red cape flowing behind him. You opened the glass as if you had already been expecting him, and in your hand you held a small plate with a slice of chocolate cake, a shiny metal fork resting beside it.
“Come in,” you said, nodding toward the inside. Superman stayed floating for a moment, not knowing what to do.
“Don’t just stay out there. It’s cold. Well, I suppose you don’t feel cold, but it still looks weird. Come in.”
Superman entered slowly, almost fearfully, as if it were the first time he had ever stepped into a normal place. He stood in the middle of your living room, still wearing the suit, not daring to sit on the couch or touch anything. He looked as if he did not want to be in the way, as if he were afraid of breaking something just by existing.
You laughed a little at how stiff he looked.
“Sit down, Superman,” you told him, placing the plate with the cake in his hand. “It’s to thank you. For the bus.”
He took the plate carefully.
“Thank you,” he said softly. “You didn’t have to.”
“Of course I did,” you replied, sitting across from him on the couch with your legs crossed. “A flying man doesn’t save your life every day. That deserves at least some cake.”
Clark, disguised as Superman, felt his chest fill with warmth. It was so easy to be like this with you. He did not stutter or say ridiculous things that made him look foolish, the way he did when he was Clark at the office. With the suit, with the deeper voice, with the confidence that came from not having to hide, he could smile for real. He could joke. He could make you laugh.
And you liked it. He could see it in your eyes. He could see it in the way you relaxed around him.
The following week, you invited him inside again. You no longer asked why he was there. You simply opened the window, he came in, and you continued doing your own thing while he stood nearby or sat on the edge of the couch without bothering you.
One night, you were cooking, and the aroma filled the whole apartment. Superman was floating near the window, looking outside, when you called him.
“Hey, Superman, since you’re here, do you want dinner? I made extra. It’s incredible having Superman as a friend. Not everyone can say that.”
Clark smiled inwardly.
Friend, he thought. Friend is fine. It’s a good start.
So he walked over to the table, sat down on a chair that creaked slightly under his weight, and you served him a plate of your dinner: rice, beans, a warm tortilla, and some shredded chicken. He ate slowly, enjoying every bite, not so much because of the food, but because of the moment. Because he was there with you, in your small kitchen, with the sound of the television in the background and the sound of your laughter every time he said something funny.
After two months, you were already joking with Superman as if he were your lifelong best friend. You let him see that side of you that you only showed Lois: the funny side, the one that teased affectionately, the one that made bad jokes and laughed at them before even finishing them.
And now you shared that with Clark.
Well… with Superman.
But to Clark, that was fine. As long as it was with you, he did not care what name you used for him.
One night, after dinner, you were washing the dishes and Superman was leaning against the kitchen wall, his arms crossed over his chest. You had a stain of sauce on the sleeve of your sweater and were scrubbing it with a cloth using your “secret cleaning recipe for small stains.”
“Please, Superman,” you said, turning to look at him with a teasing smile, “I can’t believe Superman doesn’t know this secret for removing stains from clothes. What, do you use your laser vision to get stains out and then just buy new clothes?”
Superman placed a hand over his chest, pretending to be offended.
“Miss, I also have a life of my own. I have to wash my clothes from time to time too.”
“Really?” you asked, laughing. “With what? Rainwater from the clouds? Kryptonite soap?”
“You’re very funny,” Superman said, shaking his head. He took one step closer to the kitchen and rested one hand on the counter. “My apologies, Miss Perfect. Although weren’t you the one who said you had never burned a tortilla in the pan…”
Your eyes widened.
“What?”
“…while you were burning a tortilla in the pan,” Superman finished, nodding toward the stove. In the pan you had left on the burner, a tortilla was slowly smoking, its edge already black as coal.
“Ah!” you shouted, rushing toward the stove to turn off the flame. You grabbed a spatula and lifted the tortilla, which crumbled into black pieces over the pan. You stared at the remains and let out a laugh. “This… this doesn’t count. I was distracted.”
“Of course it doesn’t count,” Superman said, his smile growing wider.
“Shut up!” you replied, throwing a wet cloth at him, which he caught in midair without even looking.
The two of you ended up laughing.
You stood there with your hands on your waist, pretending to be angry but unable to hold back your laughter. He kept his head lowered, laughing softly, enjoying every second as if it were a treasure.
That became his favorite part of every day.
Because Clark did not talk much at the office. When he was near you as Clark, the words got tangled on his tongue, his hands sweated, and he always ended up saying something awkward like “what nice weather,” even if it was raining.
But in the evenings, when he put on the suit and flew over the buildings of Metropolis, everything changed. After patrolling the whole city, after making sure there were no thieves in the streets or fires in the buildings, he always ended up in the same place: outside your window.
And you were always there waiting for him, with a ready smile, with a plate of warm food or a steaming cup of tea. Sometimes you told him how your day at work had gone. Sometimes you read him some bad joke you had found online. Sometimes you simply stayed in silence watching television, and that silence was better than any conversation.
Clark had never felt so lucky in his entire life.
Because he had someone waiting for him.
And that someone was you.
That was how, in the third month, the night Clark would never forget finally arrived.
You were working on something for the Planet, your laptop resting on the dining table and a pile of messy papers scattered around you. Superman sat on your couch, even though the hero was enormous and his broad shoulders barely fit between the cushions. He had to arrange his red cape to one side so he would not sit on it, then crossed one leg over the other as if he were just another guest in an ordinary home.
In one hand, he held the little bun you had given him, the warm bun with jam that you always prepared for him when he arrived. He took a slow bite while watching you curiously from the couch. He saw the way you frowned while reading a document, the way you bit your lip when something did not convince you, the way you turned the pages quickly.
And then, in the middle of that comfortable silence, an idea lit up in Clark’s mind.
Oh, God, he thought.
He had the chance to do what he had been thinking about for months. He wanted to see if Superman could make you jealous. Of course it would hurt to know that you were in love with Superman, because that would mean you, like so many others, only saw the cape and the emblem.
But he still wanted to test it.
He needed to know.
So he cleared his throat, a dry sound that broke the silence in the room.
“What’s wrong?” you asked, glancing at him for only a second before lowering your gaze back to your computer. Your fingers kept typing quickly, without stopping.
Superman straightened slightly on the couch. He placed the bun on a plate sitting on the coffee table and clasped his hands over his knees. He tried to sound casual, as if your answer did not matter too much, even though inside, his heart was pounding.
“Well… today, a woman I saved from a money robbery told me that… I was the most handsome man of all,” he said, looking directly at you, waiting for your reaction.
His blue eyes did not blink. They observed every small movement of your face, every shift in your expression.
You looked up and laughed. A short, sincere laugh, as if you had just heard the silliest joke in the world. You shook your head and looked back at the screen.
“Oh, really? How nice,” you said, giving it no more importance.
Clark felt his hope deflate like a punctured balloon.
He began to think it had all been his imagination. Maybe nobody caught your attention at all. Maybe neither Superman nor Clark could ever reach your heart. Maybe you were too focused on your work, your reports, your investigations, to notice anyone. That thought tightened around his chest with a cold sadness.
Then you sighed, pushed your computer slightly to the side, and removed your glasses to look at him better. You folded them carefully and placed them on the table. You leaned back in your chair and crossed your arms, your expression relaxed, almost amused.
“Although I don’t believe that,” you said, tilting your head as if analyzing him without any shame, thanks to the trust you already had in Superman.
You picked up your glass of soda, took a long sip, and then set it down beside the laptop.
“I know someone more handsome than you,” you added, and your eyes shone with something almost tender.
Superman felt disappointed inside, but he did not show it. His face remained the same: calm, confident, with that faint smile he always wore. Although inside, Clark was dying of curiosity and fear at the same time.
“Really? Who?” Superman asked, leaning slightly forward. His voice sounded calm, but in reality, every fiber of his being was on alert.
He would finally know who you were in love with. It had to be someone from the Daily Planet, he was sure of it. Lois had said it once; he had heard her when she told you in the newsroom, “If you don’t speak, he won’t know you like him either. Looks aren’t enough.”
Clark remembered those words as if it had been yesterday. So he waited for your answer slowly, holding his breath without realizing it.
“Man, he interviewed you. You’ve seen him up close. Clark Kent, of course,” you said with complete certainty, and a smile appeared on your lips. “He’s handsome, isn’t he? More than you.”
Superman lowered his gaze.
He could not look at you. If he looked at you in that moment, he would give himself away. He would smile like an idiot or say something stupid that would ruin everything. So he kept staring at his own red boots, his hands clenched over his knees.
You noticed his silence, and your tone softened a little.
“Don’t feel bad,” you said, your voice kind, almost affectionate. “You have to understand that I’m always going to put the person I like first. And I like Clark.”
That made everything worse.
Because just as you finished saying those words, Clark felt his throat close up. The piece of bun he had been nibbling on a moment ago went straight down his throat, making him choke. It was not truly dangerous, of course; his lungs could handle far more than that. But the shock, the emotion, and the surprise made him cough like a normal person. A dry, strong cough that shook his whole body.
Your eyes widened, and you immediately stood up. You grabbed your glass of soda and brought it to his mouth without hesitating for even a second.
“Drink, drink!” you said, panic in your voice.
Superman took the glass with trembling hands and drank a couple of long sips. The cold liquid slid down his throat, and the bun finally went down. He coughed twice more and then took a deep breath.
You looked at him with a frown, still worried.
“Are you okay?” you asked, your hand still close to his shoulder, as if you wanted to hold him but did not quite dare.
Superman nodded slowly.
“Too many buns,” he said in a hoarse voice, touching his chest with one hand.
You smiled and nodded, relieved. You sat back down in your chair, but you no longer looked as relaxed as before. Something in your gaze had changed.
Superman, or rather Clark inside the suit, stayed silent for a moment, thinking quickly. He had to ask. He had to know more. He could not leave without understanding how it was possible that you, such an intelligent journalist, so observant, so good at your job, had not realized he was the same man who sat at the desk nearby.
“Hey… but… how…” Superman began, then stopped. He ran a hand over the back of his neck, pretending to be confused. “Clark Kent… I didn’t think he was your type,” he said, trying to sound like a curious friend and not like Clark himself, dying to hear your answer.
You laughed, soft and sincere, and closed your laptop with a gentle tap. You leaned back in your chair again, your arms crossed over your chest, and looked at him with a calmness that made his knees tremble inwardly.
“He is my type,” you answered, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.
Then your gaze turned a little sad, a little embarrassed.
“But… I’m bad at showing someone I like them. I don’t speak. I don’t make the first move. I think a look can be enough. Lois scolded me… surely you know Lois. She’s the only one who knows at work.”
Superman’s eyes opened a little wider than usual.
“Lois knows?” he said, almost startled, his voice coming out higher than he intended. He cleared his throat again. “And she never…?”
He stopped himself just in time. He swallowed and lowered his eyes to his hands.
“I never imagined,” he said quietly.
You tilted your head, studying him with that journalist’s gaze of yours that noticed everything.
“Are you okay?” you asked, and then your voice became more serious, almost a whisper. “Hey, don’t tell him. Clark, I mean. He seems intimidated by my presence, and I don’t want him to pull away from me. At least this way, I can keep him close, even if it’s only through work.”
Clark felt his stomach flip.
“Intimidate him?” Superman asked, his voice louder than he intended, almost a strangled shout.
You nodded slowly, your lips pressed together.
“Clark… well… I don’t know. I feel like maybe he thinks I’m weird. He always pulls away and then he’s kind. It’s confusing. He’s always kind. It would be bad to mistake him doing something because he likes me. Maybe that’s just how he acts with everyone,” you admitted, and for the first time all night, your gaze became uncertain.
You played with the edge of your shirt without realizing it.
Superman shook his head slowly, with a smile he could not completely hide.
“No…” he said, and you lifted your gaze toward him. “Clark… he’s actually… weird.”
You let out a short laugh.
“I already know that.”
“But he might like you,” Superman said, and the sentence left his mouth before he could stop it.
He stood up abruptly, almost tripping over his own cape.
“I… I’m leaving. I think… something is happening,” he said, walking toward the window with long steps.
“Suddenly?” you asked, standing up too, one hand on your hip and one eyebrow raised.
Superman nodded without looking at you. He was nervous. Too nervous. If he stayed one second longer, he would tell you everything. He would remove his imaginary glasses and say, It’s me. I’m Clark. The one you like.
So he simply nodded again, harder this time.
“Fine,” you said, your voice calm, confident. “Then save the city.”
Superman smiled, a huge smile that filled his face and carved dimples into his cheeks.
“I will,” he said, and before you could answer, he was already jumping through the window, floating into the dark air of Metropolis.
Clark flew as fast as he could. He left all of Metropolis behind in a second, then the entire state, then the whole country. He flew around the world. Literally.
He felt the cold air strike his face, felt the wind whistle between the folds of his cape, felt his cheeks burning from emotion and not from speed. He reached space, where Earth looked small and blue and beautiful, and there, where no one could hear him, he screamed.
He screamed with all his strength, a cry of happiness with no end.
He dropped back into the atmosphere with a smile so wide his cheeks hurt, his dimples marked like two little lines on his face.
Nothing else mattered.
Only you.
Only you saying Clark was handsome, more than Superman. Only you saying you liked Clark.
Now he knew what to do. It did not matter how foolish he acted. It did not matter if he stuttered or said something ridiculous. It did not matter if his hands sweated or if he turned as red as a tomato.
He was going to ask you out.
That was a fact.
He only needed to find the courage, and right now, after hearing your voice say his name with so much certainty, he felt like he could move mountains.
Sinopsis: After disappearing without a trace for thirty-one days, the woman Clark Kent loves becomes nothing more than a ghost haunting every corner of his life.
Thirty days since the last time he saw her. Thirty days since he was left alone.
Thirty sleepless nights. Or almost sleepless. Sometimes he closed his eyes out of exhaustion, out of pure physical fatigue, because the human body had limits and his, even if it was stronger than anyone else’s, had them too. But sleeping was not resting. Sleeping was dreaming of her again. Sleeping was waking up with her name on his lips and an emptiness in his chest. Sleeping was worse than being awake.
Thirty dawns in which Clark opened his eyes and, for one second, just one, he did not remember what had happened. He did not remember that she was gone. He did not remember the night at the restaurant. He did not remember the hours spent waiting. He did not remember the unanswered messages. For one second, just one, the world was still the same as before. The world where she existed. The world where she was going to arrive at the restaurant with that shy smile, as if she were not used to smiling. The world where he was going to give her the key to his apartment and say those words he had rehearsed so many times in the men’s bathroom.
And then everything came crashing down on him like a wave of cement. His chest caved in. His throat closed up. And he had to remember how to breathe again. Every morning. As if it were the first time he was learning. As if his lungs had forgotten how air worked. He inhaled deeply. Exhaled slowly. And again. And again. Until the knot in his throat loosened a little. Until he could get out of bed. Until he could look at himself in the mirror and see his red, swollen eyes, and not recognize himself.
Your memory was branded into him like a hot iron. In every corner of his apartment. In every street you had walked together. In every coffee you had shared. In every laugh, in every kiss. He could not get rid of you. And the worst part was that he did not want to. Because if he got rid of your memory, he would have nothing left. Because you were everything he had. Because without you, without the hope that you would come back, he did not know who he was.
It was strange. Clark thought about it many times, during those long hours before dawn when he could not sleep and simply stared at the ceiling, his empty hands resting over his chest. It was strange because when a person says goodbye to you, when they sit in front of you and say, “It’s over,” “I’m leaving,” “I don’t want to continue,” it hurts. It hurts a lot. But at least you understand. At least you know what happened. At least you have an explanation, even if it is a bad one. And then you slowly walk away, healing with time, learning to live without that person. It hurts, but it is possible. You can go on.
But what happens when someone leaves without saying anything? What happens when one day they are there and the next they are not? What happens when you never knew what you did wrong, or whether you did anything wrong at all, or whether she was okay, or whether something happened to her, or whether she simply decided she no longer wanted anything to do with you? How do you heal from that? How do you close a wound that has no shape? How do you bury someone when you do not know if they are dead or alive?
Clark went over everything he had lived with you, day and night. He could not help it. It was as if his brain were trapped in a circle he could not escape. The things you said to him. The things he said to you. The times you laughed. The times you looked sad and he did not know why. The times your eyes drifted into emptiness and he thought you were only tired. The times your smile faltered for one second and he did not ask anything because he did not want to make you uncomfortable.
Had something about him disappointed you? Had he said something wrong? Had he done something wrong? Had he failed you somehow without realizing it? Had he not given you enough attention? Had he not told you enough that he loved you? Why had you not told him? Why had you said nothing? Why had you left him like that, without a word, without an explanation, without a goodbye? Did he deserve that? Had he done something so terrible that it justified you disappearing without a trace?
Those were the questions circling his mind as he looked out the window of his apartment, watching the city lights, watching how people continued with their lives while his had stopped completely. Or while he remained suspended above the city, so high the cold sank into his bones, so high he could barely breathe, sharpening his hearing, his super hearing, the one that could hear a sigh from miles away, the one that could distinguish one heartbeat among millions. He listened for something, anything, something he recognized, something that belonged to you. Your laugh. Your voice. Your heart beating. Something. Anything.
But he heard nothing. Only the noise of the city. Only other people’s lives. Only the silence of not finding you.
He was waiting for you. Even though he knew nothing about you, even though he had not heard from you in a month, even though every day he woke up hoping that this would be the day and every day he went to bed with the same disappointment, he was waiting for you. He searched for you in every face, in every person as he walked to or from home. He looked at women who resembled you in the way they walked, in the way they wore their hair, in the way they lowered their gaze when someone looked at them. But it was not you. It was never you. You were not there. There was nothing of you. As if you had vanished. As if you had never existed.
At the Daily Planet, things continued as usual. That was the cruelest part of all. That the world kept turning when yours had shattered. People worked, laughed, published new articles, complained about the coffee, talked about politics, sports, the weather. Everything was the same. Everything kept going the same way. But to Clark, everything looked different. The colors were duller, as if someone had lowered the brightness of the world. The lights dimmer, as if it were always night. The voices crossing his ears, the ones that once seemed interesting or amusing or annoying, now sounded so distant, as if he were behind thick glass he could not break. As if he were inside a bubble and the rest of the world were outside, and he could not get out, and no one could come in.
His gaze never went farther than his desk and your desk. Empty. The things that belonged to you were no longer there. The company had removed them, stored them in an inventory box as if they were ownerless objects. Well, almost all of them. There was still a star-shaped coaster you had used so many times. You had left it there one afternoon, after he brought you coffee, and you never took it with you. Clark had it on his desk. It was yours. And that was the little that remained of you in that place where you had once worked together, where you used to look at each other over the screens, where you used to pass handwritten notes in secret, where he used to steal kisses from you when no one was watching.
Now only a coaster remained. A cardboard circle with a star drawn on it. And Clark looked at it sometimes, touched it, turned it between his fingers, as if he could still feel your warmth. As if he could find you in its worn edges.
Perry called him into his office a week after you disappeared without a trace. Clark entered with slumped shoulders, lost eyes, a little unkempt. He had not shaved that day. Nor the day before. Nor the day before that. His shirt was badly ironed, his hair messy, the dark circles beneath his eyes so marked they looked like bruises. Perry looked at him in silence for a moment, with those eyes of his that had seen everything in this newspaper, and something in his gaze softened. But he said nothing. It was not his style.
“Clark, sit down,” Perry said, pointing to the chair in front of him.
Clark sat. He said nothing. He could not. He felt that if he opened his mouth, a sound would come out that he did not want anyone to hear. A moan. A whimper. A contained sob he had been keeping to himself for days, for the lonely nights, for when no one could see him. So he only nodded and waited.
Perry took a white envelope from his desk and placed it in front of Clark. It was a normal envelope, the kind used in offices, with no decoration, no return name. Only the recipient: Daily Planet. Attention: Perry White.
“Kent, this arrived a few days ago,” Perry said, his voice grave, serious. “No return address. Nothing. Just the envelope and what was inside. It’s a resignation letter.”
Clark lifted his gaze. His eyes, which had not shone in days, opened a little wider. The resignation letter. Your resignation letter. So you had resigned. So you were not planning to come back. So it was official. It was not only that you had not arrived at the restaurant. It was that you had left. Forever.
“The problem is that I tried calling the number we had for her in her file,” Perry continued, taking off his glasses and cleaning them with his tie, a nervous gesture Clark knew well. “No one answered. I tried several times. Different days, different hours. No one ever answered. As if that number didn’t exist. As if she had never existed.”
Clark stared at him without understanding. Or understanding too much. Because you did not answer him either. Because he had also tried calling you. Hundreds of times. Thousands. From his phone. From other phones, just in case you had blocked his. And never, not once, did you answer. Never. Not a message. Not a sign of life.
“She doesn’t answer you either?” Clark asked, and his voice sounded hoarse, as if he had not used it in days. Because yes, he had gone days without talking to anyone. Without wanting to talk to anyone. Without having anything to say.
Perry shook his head. “No. So we closed her file. It’s protocol. No return address, no way to contact her... there’s nothing else we can do. I’m sorry, Kent. I know you and she... well, I know you were close.”
Close. What a small word to describe what you felt for her. Close was nothing. Close was not staying awake all night thinking about her. Close was not searching for her in every face. Close was not crying in the shower so no one would hear you. Close was not feeling empty inside because someone had taken a part of you that you did not know how to recover.
Clark left Perry’s office slowly that day. His feet barely touched the floor. His mind was somewhere else. And as he passed by what used to be your desk, he saw Sarah, the intern, a young girl with brown hair and a frightened face, gathering your things. The last ones left. The pens. The paper clips. A spiral notebook. Some colored sticky notes. Sarah was placing them carefully into a cardboard box, as if handling something fragile. And when she looked up and saw Clark, she froze.
“Mr. Kent,” Sarah whispered. Her hands trembled a little. She did not know whether what she was about to do was right or wrong. “I... Miss Lane told me that before sending all of this to the inventory box, I should... I should stop by your desk.”
Clark looked at the box. A brown cardboard box, the kind they used for filing documents. Inside were the remains of your life at the Daily Planet. The little that was left of you in that building. He nodded with a lopsided smile. It was not his usual one. It was not that wide, warm smile he had once shown with pride, the one that revealed the two dimples in his cheeks and made everyone feel welcome. No. It was only a lopsided, sad, tired smile. The smile of someone who has lost something and does not know how to get it back.
Sarah stepped away a little, pretending to organize the empty desk, though in reality she was glancing over, worried. Everyone at the newspaper knew Clark was not okay. Everyone had noticed. But no one knew what to say to him. No one knew how to help him.
Clark took the box and carried it to his desk. He sat down slowly, as if it were hard for him to remain standing. And he began to empty it, object by object, like someone unearthing a memory.
First he found a small brown wallet. It was leather, worn at the corners, with a metal clasp that did not close all the way. He opened it with trembling fingers. Inside was your ID badge to enter the Planet. The photo was the one they had taken of you on your first day, when you arrived with that serious expression of someone who was not used to having their picture taken. You must have left it that night. That night he walked you to your apartment. That night that was the last time he saw you alive, though he did not know it.
Then he found small papers, interview notes you had both made together. He recognized his own handwriting on some of them. On others, yours. Tight, tiny handwriting, as if you wanted to take up as little space as possible. As if you were afraid of bothering anyone. There were lists of questions. There were badly written addresses. There were doodles in the margins, small drawings you made when you were bored. Stars. Many stars. Like the one on the coaster.
And then, at the bottom of the wallet, behind the Planet badge, he found a photo. Carefully kept, like a treasure. Like something you never wanted to lose.
He recognized it instantly.
It was your face. Not the badge photo, serious and formal. The real you. Smiling. But not at the camera. At him.
He remembered that time. He had invited you to the movies, one of your first dates, when you were still getting to know each other, when he still did not know he was going to fall in love with you down to the bone. As you left, you saw a photo booth, one of those in shopping malls, with the red curtain and the flash that blinded you.
“I don’t have pictures of myself,” you said, looking at the booth, and he noticed something in your voice. It was not just an observation. It was a confession. As if you were saying that no one had ever wanted to take a picture of you.
Clark smiled, that smile you liked so much. “Then let’s go,” he said, taking your hand. And you looked at him with those eyes that sometimes drifted into emptiness, but that at that moment were filled with something close to hope. “We should have pictures of us from now on,” he suggested. And you nodded, holding his hand. The hand you always held. The hand he believed you loved holding because it made you feel safe.
There was the photo. He was holding the popcorn with one hand, and with the other he had his arm around your waist, pulling you close to him. At first, you were looking at the camera, posing, serious. But the photographer, a young impatient girl, pressed the button too soon. Without giving you time to pose. Maybe Clark did have time. He was smiling at the camera, happy, carefree, with that enormous smile everyone liked so much. But you... you were not looking at the camera. You were looking at him. With a smile that remained captured in the photo forever. A smile he did not remember ever seeing on you before. A smile that said “I love you” without using words. A smile that now, one month later, broke his heart into a thousand pieces.
Then why? Why, if you seemed so happy, had you left him? Why was there no farewell voicemail from you, crying and telling him not to look for you anymore? Why had you not shown up at his apartment one night, knocked on the door, sat in front of him, and said, “I don’t want to continue,” “Don’t look for me anymore,” “This is over”? Why had you not given him that chance? Why had you not allowed him at least to say goodbye? Why had you left him with so many questions? Why was his last memory of you that smile in the photo, and not a farewell? Why was his last memory a happy one, and why did that make everything hurt even more?
Clark sighed. A long, deep sigh that rose from the very bottom of his chest. And he placed the little he had of you back into the box. The wallet. The notes. The photo. The badge. Everything. He stored it carefully, like someone guarding a treasure. Then he closed the box and placed it beneath his desk. He could not take it home. Not yet. Because if he took it home, it would be real. It would mean accepting that you would not come back. And he was not ready for that.
Maybe that was why he stopped searching. Not completely, never completely. But he did stop calling. He did stop going to your apartment every night. He did stop asking the neighbors, the doormen, the people on the street. Because he believed it was for the best. Because he thought you must be better off that way. Because he did not want to bother you. Because if you had left without saying anything, maybe it was because you did not want him to find you. Maybe it was because you had decided he was no longer part of your life. And even if it hurt more than anything, even if he felt like he was dying inside, he had to respect it. He had to let you go.
But even so, he could not stop looking for you. He could not stop sharpening his hearing at night, when the city fell asleep and the silence grew deeper, just in case he heard something of yours. He could not stop looking at blonde women on the street, just in case one of them was you. He could not stop dreaming of you and waking up with his heart broken.
How do you stop looking for the woman you love? How do you stop waiting for the person you long to have by your side? How do you tell your heart to be quiet, to stop crying, to stop hoping, to stop dreaming? How do you do that when the love you feel is so great it does not fit inside you?
He did not know. Maybe he would never know. Maybe he would spend the rest of his life looking for you. Maybe he would grow old with the hope of finding you on some corner, in some café, in some place where you had once been happy. Maybe he would never stop wondering why you left. Maybe he would never get an answer.
That day, he came home after work. The silence in his home was so vast he could hear it, as if the walls had learned not to make noise so they would not disturb him. He took off his jacket and let it fall over the back of a chair, without the strength to hang it where it belonged. He did not even turn on the lights. He preferred the gloom, that gray light coming through the windows that did not demand he see clearly. He preferred to sit on the sofa, in the same place where so many nights he had sat with you, with your head resting on his shoulder, with your legs tangled around his, with your soft breathing brushing against his neck. Now it was only him. Alone. Empty. Like a building from which all the furniture had been removed, leaving only bare walls.
He stayed there, staring at the wall in front of him without seeing it, for minutes that felt like hours. He did not know how much time passed. He had lost track of time weeks ago. The days blended into one another like wet paint, without edges, without differences. They were all the same. They were all gray.
Until the doorbell rang.
The sound struck him like a whip. He blinked, confused, as if he had been sleeping with his eyes open. He stood slowly, his legs numb from being still for so long, and walked toward the door. He opened it.
Lois and Jimmy were there.
They both looked at him with eyes full of something Clark already knew too well: concern. They had been so worried about him throughout that entire month. Lois had left him messages, brought him food he did not eat, sat beside him at work without saying anything, just to keep him company. Jimmy had tried to take him out for drinks, to see a movie, to do anything that might distract him. But Clark always said no. Always. Because going out meant facing a world where she was not there. Because distracting himself felt like betraying the memory. Because he did not want to forget even one second of what he had felt.
When his friends looked at him from the doorway, Clark said nothing. He only stepped away and returned to the sofa. He did not invite them in. He did not ask why they had come. He simply sat down again, in the same place, and went back to staring at the wall. As if they were not there. As if nothing mattered.
Lois and Jimmy exchanged glances. That kind of glance that says everything without words. The he’s worse than we thought. The we have to do something. The if we don’t help him now, he’ll never get out of this.
They entered without waiting for an invitation. Lois closed the door behind her. Jimmy remained standing, not knowing where to place himself, playing with the car keys in his pocket. Lois, on the other hand, went straight to him. She sat in front of Clark, on the coffee table, lowering herself to his level. She looked into his eyes, those eyes that once shone with a warm light and now looked like two stagnant pools of water.
“Clark,” Lois said carefully, with that soft voice she used very rarely, the one she saved for truly difficult moments. “I know you probably don’t want to talk about... her.”
Clark raised his gaze. Just a little. Just enough to meet Lois’s eyes, which watched him with a tenderness he felt ashamed to receive.
“We’re sorry to reopen your wound,” Lois continued, and her voice trembled slightly, because it hurt her too to see him like this. Lois Lane did not like watching the people she loved suffer. And Clark was one of the people she loved most. “But it’s just... it’s not normal, Clark. There’s... there’s nothing about her.”
Clark frowned. What did she mean, there was nothing about her?
Lois shifted on the coffee table, crossing her arms. “I asked Perry for her file. I wanted to see where she had worked before, what she had studied, where she came from. Jimmy got the numbers of the newsrooms where she supposedly worked. He called all of them.”
Jimmy nodded, taking a step forward. “We wanted you to at least have one final explanation so you could move on, Clark. Something. A clue. An address. A friend to call. Anything.”
“And every number,” Lois continued, “was either wrong, or no one answered, or they simply said no one with that name had ever worked there. We showed them the photo from her badge. The Planet one. The one they took on her first day. Do you know what happened? Nothing. There’s nothing. No one recognizes her. No one knows who she is. Doesn’t that seem strange to you?”
Clark blinked. Strange. Yes, it was strange. But until that moment, he had been so busy suffering, so busy wondering why you had left, that he had not stopped to think about those things. About the details. About the inconsistencies.
“Besides,” Jimmy added, moving a little closer, his hands in his pockets, “I also checked universities. Where she was supposed to have studied, according to her résumé. There’s nothing. No classmates who knew her from the year she supposedly graduated. It’s like... I don’t know, like she didn’t exist before coming to the Planet.”
Clark looked at them. First at Lois. Then at Jimmy. Then back into the emptiness. His lips moved, but at first no sound came out. He had to make an effort, gather the little strength he had left, to speak.
“I don’t know,” he said in a whisper. His voice came out hoarse, broken. Like someone who had been screaming in silence for a long time.
Lois leaned toward him, closing the distance. “I know you think she left you because she didn’t love you anymore,” she said, and Clark looked at her with wet eyes. “But I’m sure she loves you. Even now. Wherever she is.”
Jimmy nodded fervently. “You can tell when someone is in love, Clark. And she gave herself away with her eyes every time she looked at you. Leaving just like that, without a word, without a fight, without anything... doesn’t that seem odd to you? Doesn’t it seem like something was wrong?”
Lois gently placed a hand on Clark’s knee. “Clark, did she ever say anything strange to you? Did she ever mention being afraid of something? Of someone?”
Clark looked at them. And then, for the first time in a month, his mind began to work differently. It stopped repeating the same questions over and over, and started remembering. Truly remembering. Remembering the details he had let pass because, at the time, they had not seemed important.
He went over everything he had lived with you. There were so many things. The times you often looked out the window, as if expecting to see someone who should not be there. The times when, walking down the street, you turned your head to look behind you, as if afraid someone was following you. The times your smile faltered, only for one second, and then you smiled again as if nothing had happened. The times you suddenly went quiet, your eyes lost somewhere he could not see.
There were so many things. So many small moments that now, seen from another perspective, formed a pattern. A pattern he did not like.
Then he thought of you. He thought that maybe he had not searched enough. That he had given up too soon, carried away by sadness and self-pity. That he had never entered your apartment to look for some sign, some paper, some clue as to where you might be. He had to go in, didn’t he? Even if it was illegal. Even if it was not right. He had to know.
But the last time he went to your building, your apartment already had a “For Rent” sign taped to the door. The windows were empty. The curtains had disappeared. There was nothing. As if you had never lived there. As if everything had been a dream.
Then he thought of the neighbors. Where had your things gone? Who had taken them? Had someone kept them? Or had they simply... disappeared, like you?
Clark stood immediately. The movement was so abrupt that Lois had to move aside to keep from falling off the coffee table. Jimmy took a step back, startled.
“Clark?” Lois asked. “What is it?”
But Clark did not answer. He could not. The words crashed together in his throat. He only knew he had to go. He had to go now. He could not wait another minute.
He ran out of the apartment, leaving Lois and Jimmy in the middle of the living room, staring at each other without understanding what had happened. He heard Lois shout his name, heard Jimmy say, “Should we follow him?” but he no longer cared. He no longer listened. He only felt an enormous urgency, a fire in his chest he had not felt in weeks.
He ran to the roof of the building. The afternoon air struck his face, cold and sharp. He stopped for a second, looking at the horizon, searching among the buildings for the one that had been yours. He found it. He always found it. It was a gray, ordinary building, the kind there were hundreds of in the city. But he knew which one it was. He had stood in front of its door so many nights. He had waited there for so many hours.
And then he flew.
He rose between the buildings with a stealth only he could possess. He did not want anyone to see him. He did not want explanations. He did not want to be Superman. He only wanted to be Clark. The man who had loved you. The man who needed answers.
Landed on the rooftop of your building. They would no longer let him in through the main entrance. He had gone so many times, called the doorman so many times, asked the neighbors so many times, that in the end they had forbidden him from entering. “She doesn’t live here anymore, young man,” they would tell him. “Let it go. You’re going to get in trouble with the police.” And he would leave, with his tail between his legs, feeling like a stalker. But not now. Now he did not care. Now he needed to know.
He went down the stairs carefully, keeping close to the walls, moving through the shadows. He did not want anyone to see him. He did not want to have to explain why he had come back. He heard a neighbor’s television, a baby crying, someone’s footsteps moving down the hallway. He waited. Held his breath. And when the hallway was empty, he moved forward.
Then he stopped.
In front of your door.
The door where he had left you so many times. Where he had said goodbye to you so many times with a kiss on the lips and a “see you tomorrow.” Where he had seen you smile so many times before closing the door. Where he had stayed a few seconds longer so many times, only to listen as you walked inside, turned on the light, and began that nighttime life of yours he never saw.
He had left you there so many times. Why had he not done it that night? Why had he not insisted on staying a little longer? Why had he not gone upstairs with you? Why had he not made sure you were okay before leaving?
He stayed there for a moment with his hand against the wood, as if he could feel you on the other side. As if something of you still remained inside those empty walls. He tried to open it. It was locked. With his vision, he looked through the door and into the apartment. Empty. Just like the first week he had gone to see you, to see if you could talk, to see if you had come back, to see if there was any trace of you. Bare walls. Naked floor. Curtainless windows. But it was strange. Because if you had left of your own free will, if you had decided to disappear from his life, why was everything so clean? Why were there no old pieces of furniture, broken things, remnants proving someone had once lived there? It looked as if someone had erased your existence on purpose.
“She’s not in there.”
A woman’s voice sounded behind him. Clark turned quickly, his heart leaping in his chest. A neighbor. An older woman, the kind who sees everything from behind the curtains. She was peeking out from her doorway, wearing a floral robe and her hair tied in a messy bun. She looked at him with tired eyes, but also with fear. As if she were doing something she should not.
“Don’t look here,” she said, her voice a whisper. “You’re the boyfriend, aren’t you? The one who came so many times. The one who knocked on her door late at night.”
Clark kept staring at the door of your apartment, but his ears were attentive to every word the woman said.
“They’re watching me,” the neighbor said, her eyes moving toward the stairs, toward the windows, toward any place danger might come from. “I shouldn’t be talking to you. They told me to keep quiet. That if I spoke, something bad would happen. But... the girl was good. She never bothered anyone. She always said hello. And you...” She paused, looking at him. “You looked so desperate those nights. Knocking and knocking. Calling and calling. I felt sorry for you. So I’m going to tell you something, but after this, you don’t know me, understood?”
Clark nodded. He could barely breathe.
“A month ago,” the neighbor continued, lowering her voice until it was nothing more than a thread, “I heard noises. It was around ten at night, more or less. A loud crash. Like something had hit the wall. And then footsteps. A lot of footsteps. And when I looked through the peephole, I saw a man. A big man, very big, carrying a woman in his arms. The woman wasn’t moving. Her head was hanging down, her arms were hanging down. I don’t know if she was... I don’t know if...”
She fell silent. Swallowed.
Clark clenched his fists. So tightly that his nails dug into his palms. They had hurt you. Someone had hurt you. They had carried you like a sack. And he had not been there. He had not been able to protect you.
“Do you know where she is?” Clark asked in a whisper. His voice trembled. All of him trembled.
“No,” the neighbor said. “But I know who that man was. I’ve seen him in pictures, on the news. His face stayed with me. It was Lex Luthor. I’m sure. It was him. The one who came out of her door. The one giving orders. Then, the next day, they came to threaten me. Men in suits came and told me that if I said anything, I’d regret it. That they knew where my daughter lived. That they knew where my grandchildren lived. That’s why I said nothing. That’s why I kept quiet. That’s why, when you came asking, I told you I didn’t know anything. But... but you looked so desperate. So...”
The neighbor took one step closer. She looked from side to side, terrified, as if someone could appear at any moment.
“On the first floor,” she said, “there’s a locker for each resident. To keep valuables, documents, whatever. When the girl moved in, the woman who rented the apartment to her told me she had asked to use the locker. That if something happened to her, if one day she didn’t come back, someone should go there. That she had stored something inside. I don’t know what it is. I didn’t open the locker. I didn’t want to get involved. But you... you probably need it more than I do. The password is 2902. That’s what the landlady told me before leaving. She said the girl gave it to her like that, with those numbers. Good luck.”
And the neighbor slammed the door shut. Clark heard her lock it. Heard her walk away. Heard her disappear.
He stood in the hallway for one second, his heart beating so hard he could barely hear anything else. 2902. His birthday. February 29th. A day that only existed every four years. A day he hated as a child because the other kids made fun of him. A day only you had celebrated with him as if it were special. You remembered his birthday. You remembered it. If you remembered it that much, then you had not left because you wanted to. Then someone had forced you to leave. Someone had torn you away from his side.
He moved his feet. He went down the stairs quickly, no longer caring if he made noise. He passed by the doorman, who opened his mouth to say something, but Clark ignored him. He walked straight to the lockers. They were in a narrow hallway in the back, beside the mailboxes. Small gray metal lockers, numbered. He looked for yours. The one from your floor. The one that matched your apartment number. It was there. Closed with a combination lock.
With trembling fingers, Clark turned the wheels. 2. 9. 0. 2. The lock clicked. It opened.
His heart sped up even more. If you remembered him that much, if you had used his birthday as the password, then you had not left because you wanted to. Then something had happened to you. Someone had hurt you. And he had not been there. He had not been able to protect you.
He opened the locker. Inside, there were two things. An old laptop, one of those large, heavy ones, with a scratched casing and stickers on the lid. And envelopes. Several yellow manila envelopes, the kind used to store important documents. He took them out immediately, his hands shaking. He pressed them against his chest. Closed the locker. And without looking back, without greeting the doorman, without thinking of anything else, he went back up the stairs, reached the rooftop, and flew.
That was the sign. That was the precise moment when he arrived at his apartment and opened everything. When he looked at your file. When he realized your life had been spent surrounded by people who studied you, who looked at you as if you were some strange creature, who measured and weighed you and injected you and wrote everything down in cold notebooks, without names, only numbers. Everything you had gathered from Luthor while you went to see him to give him your “progress.” But you never gave him anything real. Clark saw it in your notes. In the reports you wrote for Luthor but never delivered. Page after page of carefully constructed lies. False dates. False locations. Invented conversations. You lied to Luthor. For months. You lied to protect him. So he would not know that Clark Kent was not just a journalist. So he would not know that the man you were supposed to spy on was the same man who kissed you in apartment doorways.
And there were also the recordings you had recovered from your training sessions. Clark played them on the laptop, one by one, with frozen fingers and a constricted heart. He saw images of you when you were little. So little. A girl with wide, frightened eyes, standing in the middle of a white room, surrounded by men in white coats who spoke to you as if you did not understand. They hit you. Injected you. Made you cry. And then, when you grew older, the recordings became darker. More violent. They put you against other people. Made you fight. Forced you to use your powers until your nose bled, until you fell to the floor, until you could not lift your arms. And always, at the end of each recording, the same voice. Luthor’s voice. Saying, “Again,” “Do better,” “You’re useless.”
Clark could not watch them all. He had to stop several times. He had to close the laptop, press his forehead against the table, breathe deeply, very deeply, so he would not break something. So he would not fly out at that very moment and kill Luthor with his own hands. Lois placed a hand on his shoulder. She said nothing. No words were necessary. Jimmy was pale, his fists clenched, biting his lips so he would not cry.
And then, at the bottom of one of the envelopes, he found the note. A sheet of paper folded in four, wrinkled at the edges, as if you had carried it with you for a long time. He opened it carefully, fearfully, as if there were something inside that could hurt him more than he was already hurt.
Your handwriting. Small. Tight. Trembling in some letters, as if you had cried while writing.
“If I am in the right hands, then I only want you to know that I know your secret. That is why I kept it as if it were my own. Thank you for teaching me what seemed impossible to live.”
That was all. There was nothing else. It did not say where you were going. It did not say why you were leaving. It did not say whether you planned to come back. Only that. A thank you. An I love you disguised in simple words. An “I know who you are, and I am protecting you.”
Clark trembled. His entire body trembled. They had done something to you. Someone had hurt you. You had not left of your own will. Someone had torn you from his side. And he had done nothing. He had spent a month crying, grieving, blaming himself, when what he should have done was search. Investigate. Fight. Find you.
He rose from the chair so quickly that it fell backward. Lois took a step back, startled. Jimmy opened his mouth to say something, but Clark was already gone. He had shot toward the window, toward the balcony, toward the sky. He flew with such force that the air whistled around him, that the windows of nearby buildings trembled in his wake. He did not think. He did not plan. He only flew. Straight to Luthor.
That was his mistake. Acting on impulse. Not thinking. Not waiting. Not gathering more evidence. Only allowing rage, fear, and desperation to guide him. Because when you love someone, when that person is everything to you, when you have lost them and finally have a clue as to where they might be, you do not think. You simply act. And Clark acted.
He put on the suit midair, with that movement he had done thousands of times. The cape billowing behind him. The red crest on his chest. But inside, he did not feel like Superman. Inside, he felt like a frightened man. A man who had failed the only person who truly mattered.
He reached Luthor’s tower in less than a minute. He did not knock on the door. He did not ask permission. He shattered the entrance window with his shoulders, feeling the glass burst into a thousand pieces around him, feeling the alarms begin to blare. He walked through the hallways with firm steps, his gaze fixed ahead, his fists clenched. The guards tried to stop him. He pushed them aside effortlessly, without even looking at them. He was not there for them. He was there for Luthor. To find out where you were. To bring you back.
Luthor received him in his office. He was sitting behind his enormous dark wooden desk, his hands clasped on the surface, a victorious smile on his lips. He did not stand when Superman entered. He did not flinch when the glass door shattered into pieces. He only looked at him, with those cold eyes, with that false calm Clark hated so much. The way inside was imposing, full of technology, blinking lights, screens showing graphics and maps and things Clark could not quite understand. But Lex was not afraid. That was the worst part. That he was not afraid. That he had been waiting. That all of this was part of his plan.
“So Clark Kent finally managed to get you to come,” Lex said, tilting his head as if admiring a work of art. “Surely it was because of the project he himself made me discard, wasn’t it? How ironic. She, who was my best creation, my masterpiece, ruined by a shitty journalist. By a man who did not even know what he had in his hands.”
Clark looked at him. If she knew his secret, if she knew he was Superman, then that meant she had revealed nothing to Luthor. Despite everything, despite the orders, despite the years of training, despite the punishments and the injections and the nights of pain, she had not betrayed him. She had protected him. The way you protect something fragile. The way you protect something worth more than your own life.
He kept staring at Luthor, saying nothing, waiting. The alarms were still blaring in the distance, but here, in this office, there was only silence and Lex’s ugly smile.
“What did you do to her?” Clark asked. His voice sounded deep, hoarse, as if it came from the bottom of a well. He took one step closer. Luthor did not move. “Where is she?”
Desperation trembled in his voice. He tried to hide it, tried to wear the face of a hero, of Superman, of someone who was not afraid.
“Where she always should have been,” Lex said, his voice calm, as if he were talking about the weather. “It was difficult, I won’t deny it. Getting rid of what I created with so much effort... it hurts, you know? Like losing a child. But sometimes it has to be done. Sometimes children become rebellious. They forget who they are. They forget who they owe everything to.”
Clark clenched his fists. “Where is she, Luthor?”
Lex lifted one hand, calm. “If you do anything to me, I won’t tell you. And you’ll gain nothing. You can kill me, Superman. You can break my bones one by one. You can do whatever you want to me. But if you do that, you’ll never know where she is. You’ll never know whether she’s alive or dead. And you’ll live with that for the rest of your life. Is it worth it?”
Clark stopped. Rage burned through his insides, but Luthor was right. He could not do anything to him. Not until he knew where you were.
Lex smiled, satisfied. He continued speaking as if he were telling a story. “She was the best. They raised her well. Obedient. Strong. She never asked questions. Never complained. She did what she was told and stayed silent. She was perfect. But her mistake was remembering she had a heart. She was not supposed to love. I designed her so she couldn’t. Love is a weakness, Superman. You know that better than anyone. Love makes you weak. It makes you make mistakes. It makes you forget who you are. And she fell in love. With him. With Clark Kent. With that useless friend of yours. She dared to love, and that is wrong, isn’t it? Isn’t it wrong when something that belongs to you forgets that it is yours?”
Lex stood slowly, walked around the desk, and approached Superman without fear. He knew he would not hurt him. Not until he spoke.
“In the end, she said nothing. She lied to me. She lied to the man who gave her a home. Who gave her a reason to exist. Do you know how much time I invested in her? How much money? How many resources? And she repaid me by lying to me. And I knew, Superman. I knew because she can read minds. Because it was easy to fool that idiot Kent, she could read him like an open book. But she did not want to. She preferred lying to me over hurting him. Is that love? Is that what you call love? Betraying the one who created you for someone you met five minutes ago?”
“Where is she, Luthor?” Superman asked again. His voice was louder now. More dangerous. The lights in the office flickered. The windowpanes trembled.
Lex smiled. And pointed to the side. Toward a corner of the office where Clark had not seen anything before. But now he saw it. A portal. A metal cube suspended in the air, surrounded by green and purple lights, with a surface that looked liquid and solid at the same time. Vibrant. Threatening.
“There,” Lex said, pointing with a long, pale finger. “Go ahead, Superman. You’re strong. If you go in there, no one will hurt you. Because you’re the strongest of all, aren’t you? The invincible hero. The one who never falls. The one who always wins. Go in. Go look for her. If she’s still alive, of course.”
Clark looked at him, doubtful. It was a trap. It had to be a trap. But you were there. Or you could be. And he could not just stand there with his arms crossed.
“Go ahead,” Lex repeated, arms open. “Don’t be afraid. Is Superman afraid? Does the Man of Steel hesitate? Go in. It’s only a portal. It will take you to her. Or maybe it won’t. Maybe it will take you somewhere else. You won’t know until you enter. Will you risk it? Or would you rather stay here with me, listening to me talk about her?”
Clark did not think any longer. He flew toward the portal. He could not help it. It was his only clue. His only chance. He had to find you. He had to know if you were all right. He had to bring you back.
“Honestly,” Lex said when Superman entered and the cube closed behind him with a deep, metallic, definitive sound. “A stupid alien. Just like all the rest. And do you know what the funniest part is?”
Lex stood in front of the cube, looking through the glass surrounding it, hands in his pockets, with a wide, happy smile, like a child who had just broken a toy he did not like.
“You know, she was excellent,” he said, speaking as if Superman could hear him. As if he were enjoying every word. “She had everything she needed to be the best. She had fought so much. So much. Since she was a child. I broke her bones, made her cry, lifted her back up, broke her again. I made her strong. I made her perfect. And your friend, that Clark Kent, that stupid shitty journalist, decided to turn her into a failure. He filled her head with foolish ideas. With love. With freedom. With things that do not exist. And she believed them. Like an idiot. Like all of you.”
Lex sighed, as if he were tired. Tired of having to explain the obvious.
“But don’t worry. This time no one died because of Superman. No, no. This time was different. This time it was because of his friend. Because of Clark Kent. That useless man who does not even know what he lost. Because of him, she died. Because if she had not fallen in love with him, if she had not tried to protect him, if she had not lied to her owner... she would still be here. Obeying. Being useful. Being my perfect project. But no. Your friend made her weak. And weak things break. And broken things get thrown in the trash.”
Lex moved closer to the glass. Superman was inside, on his knees, panting, struggling to breathe. The cube glowed. Something moved in the gloom.
“Do you know the best part?” Lex said, almost whispering. “She never told him who she was. Clark Kent never knew the truth. He never knew she was a weapon. He never knew they were spying on him. He never knew she could read his mind. He never knew anything. And now, she’s gone. And he was left with no answers. No goodbye. Nothing. Because that’s what happens when you fall in love with a monster, Superman. You end up empty. And you don’t even know why.”
Superman lifted his gaze. From inside the cube, he could see Lex on the other side of the glass, smiling. He wanted to strike it. Wanted to break it. But something was happening. His body felt weak. So weak. As if he had suddenly lost all his strength. His legs trembled. His arms felt heavy. He fell to his knees with a dull thud, panting, struggling to breathe, as if the air had suddenly become too thick to inhale. As if the power inside him had vanished. As if he were no longer Superman. Only a man on his knees, trembling, afraid.
Lex approached the glass, looking at him from the other side, with that blood-chilling smile.
“By the way,” he said, as if remembering something important, “meet Metamorpho. That hideous thing you see in there with you. A metahuman. He has the ability to transform his body into anything. Even kryptonite. So enjoy your stay, Superman. Because you are not getting out of there. And she... well, she didn’t get out either.”
Clark looked at the man. Metamorpho was sitting inside the cube too, in the corner, his gaze lost on the floor, as if he did not want to see what was in front of him. He did not look at him. He avoided him. As if he were ashamed. As if he knew what he was doing was wrong, but had no other choice. Lex Luthor watched from outside, arms crossed, that wide, ugly smile still plastered across his face. He was enjoying every second. Seeing Superman weak, trapped, unable to do anything, was his greatest pleasure.
Superman stared at him. At Metamorpho. At that being who could become anything, any weapon, any poison. And for a moment, for an instant, Metamorpho lifted his eyes. He looked at him. And there was no hatred in his eyes. No desire to fight. Only exhaustion.
“Even so, she fought,” Lex said from outside, in a singsong voice, as if narrating a film. “Really. She fought. I don’t know if it was to protect Kent or to protect you. Maybe both. Maybe she wanted to save everyone. How foolish. How stupid. Don’t you think? Giving your life for people who don’t even know you exist.”
Lex touched something on a floating panel beside him, and an enormous screen appeared in the air, inside the cube, in front of Superman. A floating screen that began to play a recording. The battle from that day. Superman watched weakly, his chest tight, his breath cut short by the kryptonite Metamorpho released unintentionally, or perhaps intentionally.
He saw you fight. He saw you fall. He saw you throw green balls of energy, raise walls from the ground, try to protect yourself. He saw that man whose face he could not make out, that monster called Ultraman, attack you again and again. He saw how you fell to the ground. How you bled. How you got back up, even though you could barely do it anymore. How you fell again. How you kept fighting. How you did not give up. How, even when you had no strength left, even when blood ran from your nose and mouth, you kept fighting.
Tears welled in his eyes. He could not stop them. They were hot, heavy, and rolled down his cheeks as he watched the screen. Maybe while he had been on his way to the restaurant, tulips in his hand and the velvet box in his pocket, rehearsing the words he was going to say to you, you had been there. Somewhere dark. In some cold laboratory. Fighting for your life. For his. To protect his secret. So he could keep being Superman. So Clark could keep being Clark.
He saw Ultraman drive the dagger into you. How your body shuddered. How your eyes widened in pain. How Luthor approached, caressed your cheek, whispered something in your ear. How he pulled out the dagger. How the blood spilled out. How you fell. How you went still. How you went silent. How you stayed...
And then Luthor stopped the recording. The screen went dark. The cube returned to gloom. Only Metamorpho’s green glow remained, Superman’s ragged breathing, and Lex’s smile on the other side of the glass.
“Dying was probably the best thing for her, don’t you think?” Lex said, tilting his head as if asking an honest question. “Clark Kent would have hated her if he had found out. If he knew she was a weapon. If he knew they were spying on him at first. If he knew she could read his mind. Do you think he would have forgiven her? Do you think he would have kept loving her after knowing everything was a lie? No. He would have hated her. He would have left her. He would have made her feel worse than she already did. So yes, death was the best thing. That way she spared herself all of that. That way she left without having to see the disgust on Kent’s face when he learned the truth.”
No.
Clark knew it. From inside the cube, with his body weak, with almost no strength left, he knew it. He would not have hated her. Never. Not even when she stood him up at the restaurant. Not even when he stopped receiving messages from her. Not even when his calls went unanswered. Not even when he found out everything she was. Her number. Her past. The recordings. The lies. Everything.
He did not hate her. He never hated her. The only person he hated was himself. For not having seen the signs. For not having asked. For not having stayed that night. For not having protected her. For being so blind. So stupid. So trusting.
If he could go back, if he could have her here, in front of him, he only wanted to tell her one thing. Just one. That it would be all right. That he could take care of her. That he could accept her. That he did not care where she came from, or what she had done, or what had been done to her. That only she mattered to him. That he wanted to heal every scar life had left on her. That he wanted to erase the number on her shoulder with kisses. That he wanted to give her a home. A real home. Not a laboratory. Not a cell. Not a cage. A home. With him. With his smile. With his arms. With his kisses on her forehead.
But he could not. Because she was no longer there. Because he had arrived too late. Because while he was going to the restaurant with tulips in his hand, she was dying. And he could not save her. He could not even say goodbye.
Superman lowered his gaze. He could no longer look at Lex. He could no longer look at Metamorpho. He could only look at the floor of the cube, cold and gray, and feel the tears continue to fall, silent, hot, endless.
Lex enjoyed it. It showed in his posture. In the way he leaned back in his chair, in the way he crossed his legs, in the way he placed his hands behind his head. He did not know Superman was Clark. He did not know that the man crying inside that cube was the same journalist you had kissed. To him, Superman was only an alien. A hero. Someone who always hated not being able to save someone. And seeing him suffer, seeing him cry, seeing him crumble... that was better than any victory.
“Metamorpho will watch over you while I decide what to do with you,” Lex said with a low, amused laugh. “Don’t get bored, all right? We have plenty of time. I can wait. So can you. After all, she’s in no hurry anymore. She has nothing anymore.”
He stood, adjusted his jacket, and walked toward the door of his office. Before leaving, he looked back one last time and smiled.
“Enjoy the company,” he said. “Metamorpho is very quiet, but he doesn’t bite. Well, sometimes he does. But don’t worry. The kryptonite he gives off isn’t enough to kill you. Only enough to make you feel... the way she felt. Weak. Alone. Afraid. You know? I think that’s fair.”
And he left. The door closed behind him. The office lights went out, one by one, until only the green glow of the cube and the breathing of two trapped men remained. Two projects. Two weapons. Two beings who never asked to be what they were.
The cube remained floating in the middle of the room, suspended in the air, turning slowly. Metamorpho did not move. He said nothing. He only stayed in his corner, his gaze lowered, his hands on his knees, like a domesticated animal that no longer remembers what it is to be free.
And Clark finally let the tears fall. He did not hold them back anymore. He did not pretend anymore. He let them all come out. One after another. Hot, fast, endless. He trembled slightly, his shoulders hunched, his head bowed, his hands shaking on his legs. He made no sound. He did not cry out loud. He did not scream. He only cried in silence, the way you had learned to cry when you were little. He only cried, because he had nothing else left.
He had finally realized he had arrived too late. That she had been alone. That she had been afraid. That she had tried to tell him, maybe, but had not been able to. Or had not wanted to. Or had not found the right moment. And he had not been there. He could not save her. He could not protect her. He could not do anything.
But she had protected him. Protected his secret. That was what hurt the most. That she, who had suffered so much, who had been used and beaten and discarded, who had every reason in the world to hate, to betray, to seek revenge... she had protected him. She had given her life for him. For Clark.
And he had not been able to do the same. He had not been able to protect her. He had not been able to save her. He had arrived too late.
Clark finally mourned your death. That was what hurt the most. That you were dead. That you would not come back. That you would never smile at him again, or take his hand, or say “see you tomorrow.” That he would never again feel your lips, your laughter, your gaze. That you were gone forever. And he had not been able to say goodbye.
Thinking about it sent chills through him. More than the kryptonite did. Because the kryptonite took away his strength, burned in his blood, hurt him. But thinking about you, about the fact that you would not return, that there was nothing he could do to bring you back... that was worse. That broke his soul. That made him want to stop existing.
It did not matter that someone else was there. It did not matter that Metamorpho watched him out of the corner of his eye, that he saw him crying and said nothing, that maybe he also wanted to cry but no longer remembered how. It did not matter that Lex might be watching from some camera, enjoying every tear. Nothing mattered. He cried because he could feel you. Because somewhere, in some corner of his heart, you were still there. He still felt you. He still loved you. And he wanted you back. He wanted to hold you. He wanted to tell you everything was going to be all right. He wanted to heal your wounds. He wanted to give you the key to his apartment. He wanted to tell you he loved you. He wanted to spend the rest of his life with you.
But he could not. Because you were gone. Because you had died. Because he had arrived too late. And now all he had left was to cry inside a floating cube, surrounded by kryptonite, with a killer beside him, while the man who had killed you went home calmly to have dinner.
“I’m sorry,” Clark whispered through his tears, even though he knew you could not hear him. Even though he knew you were dead. Even though he knew you would never hear his voice again. “I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have let you go. I shouldn’t have left that night. I shouldn’t have... I shouldn’t have...”
The words drowned in his throat. He lowered his head. Closed his eyes. And kept crying. In silence. In the dark. In the center of that cube that was his own tomb, because without you, without your smile, without your hand, without your love... what was the point of still being Superman? What was the point of still being Clark?
Because there is nothing sadder than a hero who arrives too late. There is nothing sadder than a love that is not enough. There is nothing sadder than a life that goes out in silence, with no one to say goodbye to it, with no one to say “I love you” one last time.
Clark heard the voice. Weak, trembling, as if every word required an enormous effort. It came from the opposite corner of the cube, where Metamorpho was still sitting, his gaze lowered, his hands twisting over his knees. He was not looking at him. He was looking at the floor. As if speaking to him were already a crime. As if saying those words put him in danger.
“Was she your friend?” Metamorpho asked.
Clark was on the floor, his back against the wall of the cube, his legs stretched out and his arms hanging limply. He stared at nothing. At the gray emptiness before him. He was no longer crying. He had run out of tears. But inside, he was destroyed. Shattered. As if someone had taken his heart and squeezed it until it broke into pieces. He did not answer. He could not. Saying “yes” would have been too much. Saying “she was more than my friend” would have been worse. So he remained silent, his gaze lost, his breathing slow and heavy because of the kryptonite still floating in the air.
Metamorpho glanced at him from the corner of his eye. He saw his red eyes. Saw his wet cheeks. Saw how his hands trembled. And something inside him moved. Something Luthor had not been able to tear out completely.
“I heard about her,” Metamorpho continued, looking toward the door, toward the sides, as if someone could appear at any moment. “Everyone heard and... I shouldn’t talk about it. I shouldn’t. But... I... I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. My son is here. He’s in this place. And I don’t want them to hurt him. That’s why I do what they tell me. That’s why I am this. That’s why I turn into... into this. So they won’t touch him.”
Clark lifted his gaze heavily. The kryptonite made even his eyelids hurt. But he listened. He listened to every word.
“They’re studying her,” Metamorpho whispered, his voice dropping even lower. Almost inaudible. “Her. The girl. I saw her. I saw her when they brought her in. She was so pale... so still... I thought she was dead. But no. That white light you can see from here, do you see it? That light glowing in the distance. That’s the laboratory. Luthor has laboratories inside the pocket universe. In there, everything floats, but it has real floors, real walls, everything is real. But no one knows it exists. No one knows it’s there. It’s like a secret. A secret Luthor keeps only for himself. So no one finds out what he does.”
Clark blinked. The white light. Yes, he had seen it. At the end of the corridor, beyond the walls of the cube, beyond the glass and the armored doors. A faint, constant light, like a beacon in the middle of the darkness. She was there. Somewhere inside that light. Somewhere inside that hidden laboratory.
“They say they healed her, but that isn’t true,” Metamorpho continued, and his voice trembled a little. “They say her heartbeat is strong. That her body doesn’t want to die. That it’s holding on. Luthor wants to reboot her. Like a machine. Like all his projects. He wants to erase everything she feels, everything she remembers, everything she learned. He wants to make her new again. With no humanity left. Without the love she felt for... for that journalist. Without fear. Without rage. Without anything. Only obedience. Only orders. Only an empty weapon.”
Clark felt a shiver run through him. Not from cold. From horror. From rage. From desperation.
“But they say she protected her memories well,” Metamorpho said, and for the first time, his eyes met Clark’s. There was something in them. Something almost like hope. “They’ve tried to wake her. Many times. Every time they try to open her up to operate on her, to experiment on her brain, to erase her memory... something happens. Something throws them back. As if she had put up a barrier. As if her own mind had protected itself without realizing it. They don’t know how she does it. But they can’t get in. They can’t touch her memories. It’s like she’s asleep, but fighting. Dreaming, but struggling.”
Clark’s hands trembled. Not because of the kryptonite. Because of the emotion. Because of the hope beginning to bloom in his chest, small, fragile, but alive.
“They say she’s regenerated,” Metamorpho continued, looking toward the door again, afraid. “That her body is healing on its own. That the dagger they stabbed her with... that poisoned kryptonite dagger... didn’t kill her completely. It left her on the edge, but it didn’t kill her. And now her body is healing. Little by little. Luthor knows that if she regenerates completely, she’ll be stronger than before. That’s why he’s in a hurry. That’s why he wants to erase her memory before she wakes up. Because if she wakes up and remembers everything... if she remembers who she is and who she loves... they won’t be able to control her. Never again.”
Metamorpho paused. Swallowed. He seemed to be making a decision. A decision that could cost him everything.
“If I help you,” he said, his voice barely a whisper now, “if I help you get out of here, if I help you reach her... will you get my son back? Will you help me get him out of this place? I don’t want them to put their hands on him. I just want him to be safe. Can you do that? Can you promise me?”
Clark looked at him. He saw the monster, yes. He saw the shining skin, the strange eyes, the shape that was not entirely human. But he also saw a father. A man who would do anything for his son. Just as he would do anything for her.
“Yes,” Clark whispered. His voice sounded weak, broken, but firm. “I promise you. Where is she? Where is she?”
Metamorpho nodded. And then, with a gesture that seemed to cost him an enormous effort, the kryptonite began to disappear from his hand. The green light started fading, retreating like an ebbing tide. Clark felt air enter his lungs again, felt his muscles stop burning, felt strength return to his veins. Not all of it. Not all. But enough. Enough to fight.
“She’s in the next room,” Metamorpho said, pointing toward the white light. “Where she is. My son is there too. In a cell. They haven’t done anything to him yet. They haven’t experimented on him. But Luthor threatened to. He told me that if I didn’t obey, if I didn’t become what he wanted, he would do the same thing to him that he did to her. That’s why I do this. That’s why I am this. I don’t have another choice.”
Clark stood. His legs trembled, but he remained upright.
“I’m sure she’s there,” Metamorpho said, and his voice sounded almost human. “Alive. Fighting. Like always. Like her whole life. She doesn’t give up. She never gives up. She learned that somewhere. Maybe from you. Maybe from your friend. I don’t know. But she doesn’t give up. And neither should you.”
Clark looked at the white light. If he still had a chance to get you back, to see you one last time, to tell you everything he had not told you... he was going to do it. He was going to fight. He was going to reach you. Even if it cost him his life.
Then Metamorpho did something. Something Clark did not expect. He raised his hand, the one that no longer glowed green, and concentrated his energy. Not into kryptonite. Into light. Into heat. Into something like the sun. A replica. Weak, small, but real. A miniature sun that shone inside the cube and bathed Clark in its glow. It was not enough. Not enough for him to fully recover. But it was something. A little strength. A little hope.
Clark breathed deeply. He felt the warmth enter through his skin, felt his cells awaken, felt his body respond. He was not at one hundred percent. Far from it. But he could move. He could fight. He could try.
He rose from the floor. Took a step toward the wall of the cube. The kryptonite was gone. Metamorpho had absorbed it, or dissolved it, or pushed it away. It did not matter how. What mattered was that it no longer burned him. What mattered was that he could.
Clark struck the glass, and the crystal shattered into a thousand pieces. No alarms sounded. Metamorpho had disabled something, or he knew how to move without being detected. It did not matter. Clark stepped out of the cube, staggering, his head spinning, his vision blurred. He landed on the floor of Luthor’s office, stumbled, and grabbed onto a table so he would not fall. He shook his head, trying to clear it. Trying to focus.
Metamorpho floated beside him, half of his body turned into something like a cloud, something translucent, something that did not seem solid. He looked at him with those sad eyes, waiting.
“My son is here,” Metamorpho said, pointing to a door at the end of the hallway. “In that room. Please. Get him out. Take him far away from here. Somewhere Luthor can’t find him.”
Clark nodded. He walked toward the door. Inside, there was only one guard, a large armed man, who turned when he saw him enter. He did not even manage to lift his weapon. Clark knocked him out with a single blow, quick, clean, silent. And there, in a small crib, wrapped in a blue blanket, was Metamorpho’s son. A baby barely a year old. Big-headed, with wide frightened eyes, his little arms trembling.
Clark picked him up carefully, his hands shaking, his heart tight. He pressed him against his chest, feeling his warmth, his fragility. He was so small. So defenseless. Just like you when you were little. Just like all of Luthor’s projects.
He left the room and handed the baby to Metamorpho. The man received him with open arms, tears in his eyes, a sob he could barely contain. He hugged him tightly, so tightly, as if he would never let him go.
“Wait for me here,” Clark said. “I’m going for her. When I come back, I’ll get all of you out. I promise.”
Metamorpho nodded, holding his son against his chest. Clark walked toward the other door. The one that led to the laboratory. The one separating your cold body from his arms.
It was restricted. Locked with codes, with bolts, with technology no ordinary human could open. But Clark was not an ordinary human. With one pull, he tore the door from its hinges. Threw it aside. Entered.
There were no alarms. It seemed like the people inside could not hear anything. Or maybe Luthor had disconnected everything out of his own arrogance. But Clark could hear. He heard the doctors’ voices through the walls. Heard their conversations. Heard their plans. Heard the machine marking your heartbeat. Slow, but firm.
“Prepared for the operation,” one of them said, the lead doctor, a bald man with round glasses and a white coat.
“Attempt number ten of the day,” a tired woman reminded him, with dark circles under her eyes and fingers stained with something Clark did not want to identify. “We haven’t been able to access her, not in the previous attempts either. I think the tools aren’t working. That’s what Mr. Luthor said.”
The lead doctor nodded, looking at the inert body on the operating table. Your body. Clark saw it from the entrance, and his heart stopped for a second. You were there. Pale. Still. With your arms at your sides, wearing a white gown that covered you down to your feet. Wires came out of your chest, your arms, your head, connected to machines that beeped and blinked. The heartbeat monitor marked something weak, almost imperceptible, but there. Still there.
“I’ve been thinking,” the doctor said, touching his chin, “and maybe they’re right. Maybe what she needs is a powerful laser. Like Ultraman’s. To get inside her. To break that barrier she has. To reach her brain and erase everything.”
The woman smiled. An ugly, tired smile, without joy. “Good idea. That way we can get in and eliminate everything to leave her like new. She won’t cause any more trouble. She’ll be useful again. Like before. Like when she was good.”
“That’s not going to happen,” Clark said.
Everyone turned. Their faces filled with fear. The doctor took a step back. The woman dropped the tool in her hand. The others, the assistants, the nurses, pressed themselves against the walls as if they wanted to disappear.
“It’s Superman,” one whispered.
“How did he get in?” another asked.
But before they could do anything, green energy burst from your body. A bright, intense layer that covered you completely and expanded outward like ripples in water. The energy seized all the doctors. Lifted them into the air, shook them, made them scream. The woman pressed a panic button, but it was too late. The alarm sounded, yes, but the energy already had them. The doctors twisted, kicked, begged for help no one was going to give them. And at the same time, Clark saw it. Your heartbeat on the machine grew stronger. Faster. Your color improved. Your cheeks, once pale as wax, now had a faint rosy tone. The green energy was giving you life. It was draining their strength to give it to you.
The doctors fell to the floor, unconscious, trembling. The green energy retreated back into your body, like a tide returning to the sea. And then, a blow. Hard. Brutal. Clark felt something hit him in the back and send him flying, crashing into the opposite wall. The infamous Ultraman had appeared.
Clark had not fully recovered from the kryptonite. He could barely stay on his feet. His muscles trembled, his breathing was short and ragged, and every movement required an enormous effort. But he saw you there, on the table, pale and still, and that gave him strength. He had to reach you. He had to get you out of there.
Ultraman launched himself at him again. Blow after blow. Direct, merciless, relentless. Clark dodged the first ones, but the third hit him in the stomach and folded him in two. The fourth grazed his jaw. The fifth struck his chest and sent him into the wall. The impact was so strong that the glass on the medical equipment shattered, and the pieces flew through the air like blades.
Clark fell to the floor, panting, his head spinning. He spat blood. He got up again, bracing himself on his knees, his arms shaking. He tried to move toward you, but Ultraman was already on him. He grabbed him by the throat and lifted him into the air. Clark struggled, kicked, but his strength was not enough. Ultraman threw him against a stone column, and the impact echoed throughout the laboratory. Debris fell over him. The column cracked. Clark felt something crunch in his back, felt pain run down his spine like a lash. He gasped, coughed, spat more blood.
He tried to stand. Again. Always again. But Ultraman gave him no time. He grabbed him by the hair and lifted him from the floor, then began to hit him. Once. Twice. Three times. Four. Each blow drove Clark deeper into the ground, each blow stole a little more air from him, each blow blurred his vision more. Ultraman’s fists were like hammers, hard, cold, relentless. And Clark could not defend himself. Could not fight back. Only take it. Only endure. Only stay alive.
Ultraman let him fall to the floor. Clark lay on his back, staring at the ceiling, his arms spread open, blood running down his forehead and along his temples. He could not even lift his arms to protect himself. Ultraman raised his fist. One more. One more and maybe he would not get up again. One more and maybe everything would end there.
But something stopped him.
Green energy. Bright. Intense. It wrapped around Ultraman’s fist and froze it in the air. Ultraman struggled, but he could not move. The energy surrounded him, squeezed him, suspended him like a fly in a web.
“We have an unfinished fight, don’t we?” a voice asked behind Ultraman. Your voice. Clark recognized it instantly. He had heard it in dreams, in memories, during sleepless nights where he repeated over and over the things he had said to you and the things he never got to say. It was your voice. You were alive. You were speaking. You sounded tired, yes, but firm. Like someone who had returned from death and was not willing to leave again.
Ultraman flew backward. Your energy had thrown him as if he were a rag doll. Clark lifted his head with effort, looking toward the room you had come out of. The wall was broken, shattered into pieces, and through the opening he saw you. There you were. Standing. In the white hospital gown, barefoot, your hair loose and disheveled. Your gaze moved around the place, confused, as if you did not fully understand what was happening. As if you had just awakened from a very long dream and the world looked blurry, strange, out of focus.
But then you looked at Ultraman. You saw him heading straight toward you, fists clenched, with the clear intention of hurting you. And something changed in your face. Your eyes hardened. You pushed yourself forward, flying, and your fist, covered in green energy, met Ultraman’s chest. The impact was so strong that he fell to the floor, dragging across it, coughing. He had not expected you to have so much strength. No one had.
Your hands moved toward him. Green energy poured from your palms like rivers of light, wrapping around him, draining his strength. The same thing you had done to the doctors. You were absorbing his energy, Ultraman’s energy, the energy of everyone who had hurt you. And as you did, your eyes grew brighter, more luminous, like two small suns. The white gown billowed around you. You looked like an avenging angel. Or something else. Something Luthor had never anticipated.
“Clark, we have to go.”
Metamorpho’s voice sounded behind Clark, who was still on the floor, barely conscious. Metamorpho stood at the door with his son in his arms, looking everywhere, frightened. His son cried softly, clinging to his neck. “More guards are coming. I can hear their footsteps. If we don’t leave now, we’ll never get out.”
You stopped. The green energy went out in your hands. You lowered your trembling arms and looked at Metamorpho. Then at Clark. And then, in the middle of the chaos, the rubble, the alarms ringing in the distance, your eyes found his.
Clark was leaning against the wall, barely holding himself up. Blood ran down his forehead, from the corner of his lips. The red suit was torn, dirty, covered in dust. But he was looking at you. Only at you. And in his eyes, there was a question he did not dare ask out loud.
Did you remember him?
You had protected your mind and your body. For him. For Clark. For the man who had taught you what love was. That was why, even after death, you protected him. Your body had created a barrier, a shield, something neither Luthor nor his scientists had been able to break. But what if that protection had done something else? What if it had pushed you out of your own mind? What if you had lost your memories in order to protect them? What if you did not even remember his name?
Clark swallowed. His heart beat hard, not because of fear, but because of hope. Fear that you would look at him like a stranger. Fear that you would ask who he was. Fear that everything you had lived together had been erased from you forever.
You approached him. You walked slowly, staggering a little, as if your legs were not responding well. The white gown was too big on you. Your bare feet left prints on the dust-covered floor. You stopped in front of him. Looked at him.
And then, something happened. Something Clark felt in the deepest part of his being. His mind opened. Like that first time you kissed him in the office, when his memories flowed toward you without him being able to stop them. But now you were the one opening the door for him. Now you were the one who wanted him to see. Not only your heart. Your entire soul.
“Of course I remember you, Clark,” you said.
Your voice was a whisper. But to him, it was like a scream. Like thunder. Like the most beautiful thing he had ever heard in his life. Because there was no confusion in your eyes. No emptiness. There was memory. There was love. There were all the days you had spent together, all the laughter, all the silences, all the kisses at apartment doors. It was all there. You had forgotten nothing. Your mind had clung to him the way a castaway clings to a life preserver. Even when your body was dying, even when your blood was slipping away, even when the darkness wanted to swallow you, your mind had kept him. Him. Clark. His name. His face. His smile.
Clark smiled. His lips were split, his face covered in blood, his eyes swollen from crying so much. But he smiled. A trembling, fragile smile, like someone who had recovered something he believed lost forever. He smiled because you remembered him. Because you tilted your head as you looked at him, the way you always did, as if you were trying to understand something that did not quite make sense, as if you thought this was a dream you would wake up from at any moment.
But it was not a dream. It was real. You were there. Alive. In front of him.
And he smiled too because he felt your heart beat when you saw him. He heard it. That heartbeat the machine had marked as weak, almost extinguished, was now strong, fast, full of life. Your heart beat for him. Even after everything. Even after death. Even after they drove a poisoned dagger into you and left you lying on the cold floor. Your heart was still beating for him. Because you loved him. Because despite everything, despite him thinking that you had left him, that you no longer loved him, that you did not care... your body and your heart said otherwise.
And after a month of being unable to breathe, after entire nights without sleeping, after gray and empty days, Clark was finally able to breathe. He inhaled deeply. Air filled his lungs. He did not care about the dust, the blood, the smell of burning. He breathed because you were there. Because you were in front of him. Because you had not left.
He moved closer to you. Or rather, he let himself fall toward you. His arms wrapped around you and pressed you against his chest. It was an awkward hug, trembling, messy. He was not the invincible hero. He was not Superman. He was only a man who had spent an entire month mourning the woman he loved and suddenly had her in his arms again. He held you without hurting you, but tightly, as if he were afraid you would disappear. As if you were made of smoke and one wrong movement could make you vanish.
Your face rested against his chest. Right where you could hear his heart. And you hugged him too. Your arms wrapped around his waist and held him. You closed your eyes. Felt his pulse. Felt his warmth. Felt life returning to you, not because of the energy you had absorbed from the doctors, but because of him. Because he was your energy. He always had been.
“I’m sorry I didn’t make it to the restaurant on time,” you whispered.
Your voice sounded distant, as if your consciousness had remained trapped in that day. The day you left. The day Luthor took you. The day you locked yourself inside your mind to protect yourself. The day you begged to live a little longer, just a little longer, to see him again. The day your powers yielded to you, covered you like a blanket, and protected you from the cold of death. The day Luthor left you lying on the floor as your blood slipped away, but your blood returned to you, as if it had mercy, as if it also knew you could not die without saying goodbye.
You had thought only a few days had passed. A handful of days. That time had stopped while your body healed. You did not know a month had gone by. You did not know Clark had cried for you for thirty nights. You did not know he had stopped eating, stopped sleeping, stopped living. The first thing you saw when you woke up was him. The first thing you remembered was your date. The date you thought about until your last breath. The date when you were going to tell him you loved him. And your first thought, the first one after coming back from death, was him. Always him.
Clark held you tighter. But without hurting you. Always carefully. Always afraid of breaking you.
“No, no, it’s okay,” he said. His voice broke. He was choking on his own tears. “It’s okay. It doesn’t matter. The restaurant doesn’t matter. Nothing matters. The only thing that matters is that you’re here. That you’re alive.”
He pulled back a little to look into your eyes. He was afraid. Afraid of what you were going to say. Afraid that you would blame him. Afraid that you would hate him for not being there.
“You don’t hate me, do you?” he asked. His voice was small, fragile. Like a child asking for forgiveness without knowing what he had done wrong.
You tilted your head. You smiled. That smile of yours, the one he loved so much. The one that appeared suddenly, without warning, and brightened his entire day. There it was. It had not gone away. It was still with you, on your face, in your eyes.
“Hate you?” you asked, as if the idea were ridiculous. You raised your hand and caressed his cheek. Your hand was cold, trembling, but it was your hand. Your touch. After a month of emptiness, after a month of feeling nothing, you were finally touching him again. “How could I hate you when I wanted so badly to see you just to tell you how much I love you?”
Clark smiled. Cried. Both at the same time. And he leaned toward you. He kissed you.
The kiss was soft at first, almost shy, as if you were both afraid of breaking something fragile. As if you were not sure it was real. As if at any moment you would wake up in your beds, alone, with emptiness in your chests. But then it became firmer. More certain. Because it was real. Because you were there. Because after a month of thinking you would never see each other again, you had each other. And nothing else mattered.
“I know I shouldn’t interrupt because you’re having your moment,” Metamorpho said from the doorway, his son in his arms, his eyes shining with hope. “But we have to leave or they’re going to catch us.”
Clark nodded. He reluctantly pulled his lips away from yours. But when he tried to take a step, his body failed him. His legs trembled. He staggered. He would have almost fallen to the floor if you had not held him.
You looked at him, not understanding. Then you looked at Metamorpho. Then back at Clark.
“The kryptonite affected him,” Metamorpho said, lowering his head. “I’m sorry. I... I didn’t want to. They forced me. But he helped me with my son. He gave me a chance. And now... now I want to help him. But he’s weak. Very weak. He can’t fly properly. He can’t fight. He needs to get out of here before...”
He did not finish the sentence. He did not need to.
You pressed your lips together. Your eyes traveled over Clark’s body. You saw everything. The wounds. The blood. The dark circles beneath his eyes. The way he could barely stand. Something ignited inside you. Something that was not only love. It was protection. It was rage. It was the same force that had made your body heal itself, that had created a shield around your mind, that had thrown Ultraman through the air.
Leaving was easy. Your powers, though weakened by everything you had endured, still answered your call. You opened every door with a movement of your hand, making the locks burst, bending metal as if it were paper. Even the door separating the world from the pocket universe, that invisible border Luthor had created to hide his nightmares, opened before you as if it recognized you, as if it knew you no longer belonged in that place. You stepped out unharmed. The fresh night air struck your face and, for a moment, you closed your eyes, breathing deeply, feeling that you were finally outside. Metamorpho came out with you, his son pressed to his chest, his eyes wide, looking at the sky for the first time without knowing that this was freedom. He said goodbye with a gesture, a nod, and ran off between the shadows, disappearing into the empty streets of Metropolis. You did not know if you would ever see him again. But you had given him a chance. And that was more than he had ever had.
You left with Clark. You carried him in your arms, flying low, close to the rooftops, hiding from the lights, from the cameras, from any eyes that might see you. He was heavy. Not because of his body, but because he was weak, because the kryptonite was still running through his veins, because he could barely stay conscious. But you held him. You did not let him go. You were never going to let him go again.
Luthor would look for you. You knew that. His best project had come back to life. The one he had discarded, the one he had given up for dead, the one he had left lying on the cold floor of his laboratory like a dirty rag, had returned. And worse, you would join the battle. He knew you had already chosen a side. And that side was not his. That side was Superman. It was Clark. It was everything Luthor hated. And that would make him more dangerous. But you no longer cared. You were no longer afraid. Because now you had something worth being afraid for, and at the same time, something worth being brave for.
You arrived at Clark’s apartment. Your body trembled, not from cold, but from exhaustion, from the energy you had spent, from everything you had absorbed to heal and escape. But you laid him carefully on the sofa, as if he were made of glass, as if any sudden movement could break him. You sat him down, adjusted his head on a cushion, and then looked around.
You saw the sheets. The papers. The videos. Your laptop was open on the table, with the recordings you had saved, with the files you had stolen, with all the evidence you thought no one would ever see. Clark had found everything. He had seen your past. He had seen the recordings from when you were little, the training sessions, the blows, the injections. He had read your false reports, the lies you wrote to Luthor to protect him. He had seen the photo booth picture, the one you kept in your wallet, the one you looked at every night before sleeping. He had seen everything. And still, even after knowing who you truly were, even after discovering that you had been a weapon, that you had been created to destroy, that at first you had been spying on him... he had looked for you. He had not hated you. He had looked for you.
Then you knew. You knew he had searched for you. For days. While you were there, unconscious, floating between life and death, he had been out there, knocking on your door, calling your phone, asking everyone, losing his mind with worry. And a question formed on your lips before you could stop it.
“Don’t leave,” Clark said. His voice was a whisper, fragile, like someone who had cried until he had no tears left. “I’ve already spent thirty-one days without you. One more day... I couldn’t bear one more day.”
You looked at him. Thirty-one days. An entire month. You had been dead to him for an entire month. Or not dead, but gone. He had lived a month without knowing anything about you. A month thinking you had left him. A month blaming himself, wondering what he had done wrong. And still, he had not stopped looking for you. He had not stopped loving you.
“Thirty-one,” you whispered, lowering your gaze. Guilt weighed on your shoulders. It was not your fault, you knew that. It had been Luthor. It had been Ultraman. It had been that damned laboratory. But he had suffered. He had suffered because of you. And that broke your heart.
You raised your hand and placed it on his cheek. His skin was cold, dirty, stained with dried blood. But it was him. It was Clark. It was your home.
“I’m not going to leave, Clark,” you said, and your voice trembled a little, but not from fear. From emotion. From something you did not know how to name but that filled your chest until it nearly burst. “Never again. I don’t want to be away from you again. I don’t want to wake up without knowing if you’re okay. I don’t want to spend a single day without seeing you again. Never again, Clark. Never again.”
Clark hugged you. He did not have the strength to hold you tightly, but he hugged you. He buried his face in your neck, and you felt his lips tremble, felt his wet lashes against your skin, felt his whole body relax, as if he had been tense for thirty-one days and only now, only in your arms, could he finally release all the air he had been holding.
He settled you onto the sofa, the two of you together, wrapped around each other. He did not want to let you go. Not even to look at your face. He held you as if you were a dream, as if he were afraid that if he opened his eyes, you would disappear. And you held him because it felt as if life had given you what you had begged for so desperately. For years. For your entire existence. You had pleaded in silence, in the cold nights of the laboratory, in the moments when the blows would not stop and the pain would not let you sleep. You had begged for someone to see you. For someone to love you. For someone to save you. And now, here, in Clark’s arms, you understood that your plea had been heard. Not by a god. Not by fate. By him. By Clark. By the man who had taught you that you were not a project, that you were a person, that you deserved to be loved.
Luthor no longer mattered. You would defeat him. You knew you would. It would take time, but you would. Because now you were not alone. Because now you had Clark. Because now there were no secrets between you. He knew everything. He knew where you came from, knew what you had done, knew the lies you had told, knew the number on your shoulder, knew you could read minds, knew that at first you had been a weapon. And still, he had searched for you. And still, he had waited for you. And still, he loved you.
You could be free. For the first time in your life, you could be free. You did not have to hide. You did not have to pretend. You did not have to be afraid of someone discovering your past, because he already knew it and did not care. You could defeat them all with Clark by your side. You could fight. You could win. You could live.
At last, you could have a happy ending. That ending you had never believed you deserved. That ending you thought was only for real people, for those who had families, for those who did not have numbers tattooed on their shoulders. That ending was yours now. And you were not going to let it slip away.
Clark knew it. He confirmed it as he held you tighter, as he felt your heart beating against his, as he breathed in your scent and convinced himself it was not a dream. He knew it because he felt it. Because in that embrace, in that shared silence, the two of you understood that everything was going to be all right. That it had been difficult, that it had hurt, that it had almost destroyed you both, but in the end, you were together. And that was all that mattered.
Of course, you defeated Luthor. It was not easy. It took months. There were fights, entire sleepless nights, moments when you thought you would not make it. Luthor was cunning, he had resources, allies, other creations like Ultraman and Metamorpho. But you were no longer the same. You were no longer afraid. You no longer hesitated. And Clark was no longer alone. You fought together. Superman and you. You flew together, fought together, fell together, and rose together. And in the end, Luthor fell. His laboratories were discovered. His crimes came to light. And he, the man who believed himself owner of the world, ended up in a cell. A real cell. Not the kind he built for others. A cell he could not escape. And for the first time in his life, he learned what it felt like to be locked away. For the first time, he learned what it felt like to be a project. And you, from the outside, looked at him one last time. And you felt nothing. No hatred. No rage. Not even pity. Only peace. Because you no longer belonged to him. Because you were already free.
You returned to your name. Not to the number they had tattooed on your shoulder, not to the false name you used at the Daily Planet. You returned to yourself. To the story you already had, but with one difference. The difference was that now Clark walked beside you. That now your work was real. That you were no longer pretending to be a writer, you were one. You had learned it, lived it, worked for it. You earned that position. You earned that name. You earned that life.
Your loneliness had been replaced. In the morning, when you woke up, you were no longer alone. Clark was there, sleeping beside you, with messy hair, his mouth slightly open, one hand stretched out searching for you even while he slept. There were no longer two apartments. There was one. His. Yours. You had brought your things, which were not many, and placed them beside his. The books on the same shelves. The plates in the same cabinets. The laughter on the same walls.
There were no secrets. You did not have to hide anything. If a nightmare woke you in the night, Clark was there to hold you. If he had to leave as Superman, you knew, and you waited, and when he came back, you asked him how it had gone, and he told you everything. Because there were no more lies. Because there was no more fear. Because finally, after so long, you could both be yourselves.
There were shared mugs. Two mugs in the sink every morning, one red and one blue, side by side, like two people who had found each other after being lost. There were two scarves on the coat rack by the entrance, yours and his, sometimes tangled together as if they were embracing. There were two coats hanging by the door, the large one and the small one, the one that kept you warm and the one that kept him warm. There were two keys. One in his pocket, one in yours. The same door. The same home.
At last, you had everything you never believed you deserved. At last, you had a family. At last, you had a place where you belonged. At last, you had love. Real love. The kind that does not hurt. The kind that is not paid for with blows. The kind that makes you stronger, not weaker.
And one night, while you were having dinner together on the sofa, watching a movie neither of you was really watching, Clark rested his head on your shoulder and whispered something you could barely hear.
“Thank you for coming back.”
Your eyes filled with tears. But they were not sad tears. They were the kind you wipe away while smiling.
“Thank you for waiting for me,” you answered.
Because in the end, after everything, broken souls can heal too. Those born in hell can also walk out of the fire. And villains, those who never had a chance, those who were created to be bad... can also have a happy ending.
You deserved it. You always deserved it.
And Clark, your Clark, the man who found you among the shadows and taught you there was light, proved it to you every day. With every hug. With every kiss. With every morning you woke up beside him and he smiled at you as if it were the first day.
At last, after so long... at last, you were alive. Truly alive. And there was nothing, and no one, that could change that.
I'm pretty sure someone asked me for such a sad story, but I can't find their request. If you're reading this, here it is. I ended up crying, so I don't know if I should thank you, haha. A part two?
Part II
Clark Kent x female reader
Sinopsis: She was created to destroy Superman, but meeting Clark Kent changes everything. What begins as a mission inside the Daily Planet slowly turns into something dangerously human—something she was never meant to feel.
Warnings: Emotional abuse, physical abuse, manipulation, conditioning, human experimentation, violence, blood, trauma, torture mentions, toxic power dynamics, captivity, identity issues, heavy angst
WC: 14,000 words approx.
They say broken souls are born broken.
That there is no way to fix them, no matter how hard you try.
That villains are villains forever, that they can never change, that the evil inside them is like a stain nothing can wash away.
They also say that those born in hell are consumed by the same fire, that there is no escape, that pain is the only thing they know and the only thing they will ever have until the very end.
And you heard those words so many times that eventually, you believed them. You carried them carved into your bones, into the way you learned to stay quiet, into the way you lowered your gaze whenever someone spoke to you. Because for you, kind words never existed. There were only orders, blows, experiments, and the cold silence of the laboratories where you spent almost your entire life.
You should have known your life would be like this. From the very beginning. From before you opened your eyes for the first time. You should have known your destiny was to be called nothing more than a project, a thing, a number. Labeled as a machine created to obey, to do what it was told, to bow its head and never ask questions.
But the saddest part, the part that hurts the most, is that your first cry had been more human than any other baby's. Your first breath was just as fragile, just as small. Your wounds were as visible as anyone else's. The blood running across your skin was red, just like everybody else's. But the only difference, the only damned difference, was that you had not been born from a family. You had been born from studies, from numbers, from a project no one asked if you wanted.
No one asked for your permission to bring you into the world.
No one asked if you wanted to feel pain.
They just used you.
They injected things into you ever since you were so small that you cannot even remember a single day without needles. They pierced your skin over and over again, until the memories from when you were tiny disappeared completely.
The pain was so overwhelming that your mind chose to forget. Only the scars remained. Those pale marks on your skin that follow you everywhere. And the number on your shoulder. As if you were an animal. As if you were something that could be branded and locked inside a cage. “L008L.” That was what they called you. That was how they knew you. A code. A label.
Maybe you once had a family. Maybe someone loved you before you were ripped away from their arms. But you do not know. You cannot know. Because you had no father or mother. You only had an owner. Someone who created you, designed you, decided that you would exist only to serve him.
Your oldest memory, the only one that survived all that pain, was when you arrived at the laboratories. You were nine years old. Luthor was not in charge yet. But years later, he arrived. He was the one who, once you grew older, made you his. One day, he placed a hand on your shoulder and told you, “You are my project.” And he named you that way. As if you were a brand-new car or a weapon he had just purchased.
The other scientists used to say they had never managed to get anything useful out of you, that they had wasted years without using you properly, that you were a failure. But Lex Luthor looked at you differently. He gave you something that, in your ignorance, you called affection. Because you did not even know what that word meant. No one had ever taught you. No one had ever shown you what it felt like to truly be loved.
So when Luthor’s hand brushed through your hair after they broke your nose during a fight, after you collapsed onto the floor with blood dripping down your face, you felt it as if it were praise. Like a caress. Like something good.
“You passed the test,” he would say in that serious voice of his while wiping the blood from your lip with a white handkerchief. “You are strong. You are the best. But you are still lacking.”
And you would look at him with swollen eyes from crying so much, even though by then you could barely cry anymore. And you felt proud. Proud that he approved of you. Proud that he had not thrown you aside like garbage.
During those tests, they would pit you against two gifted subjects at the same time. They had families, real names, people waiting for them outside. You only had the cold laboratory floor and Luthor’s gaze watching from the other side of the glass.
The tears disappeared when you turned sixteen. You could no longer cry. Something inside you had broken completely, or perhaps it had simply dried out. You were only a project. They had told you that so many times that it no longer hurt. Or at least, that was what you wanted to believe.
They had carved it so deeply into you that nobody even had to deny you anything anymore, because you accepted it yourself. You never intended to resist what Luthor did to you. The thought of saying “no” never even crossed your mind. You were never taught that you could say that word.
At first, you were just another project. One among many. A strange little girl in a white room. But when Superman appeared in the world, when that flying man started saving people and being loved by everyone, then you stopped being “just another project.”
You became the one.
The one who needed to improve. The one with the power to manipulate things with her hands, to release energy like green rays of sunlight, to read minds. Necessary things. Useful things. Things meant to defeat Superman.
Luthor wanted you strong. Even when your hands burned from moving objects with your mind. Even when your head felt like it would explode from hearing other people’s thoughts. Even when it felt like your skull was splitting in half. He would only glance at the clock and write numbers into a notebook.
“Again,” he would say. “Do it again.”
And you obeyed.
You always obeyed.
One time, when you failed, when you could not raise the energy barrier quickly enough and they hit you so hard you collapsed onto the floor gasping for air, Luthor approached you with fury in his eyes. Not the fury of concern.
The fury of disappointment.
He grabbed your arm and yanked you upright before snarling through clenched teeth:
“If you are not stronger than Superman, then you are nothing. NOTHING. Do you understand me? You are worthless if he is stronger than you.”
He did not ask if you were okay. He did not take you to get treated. He simply let go of you and walked away, leaving you there on the floor, coughing up blood and feeling like you were dying from the inside out.
Luthor shaped you as if you were a sword. He sharpened you with pain. Hardened you with blows. And you let him do it because you knew no other way to live.
Maybe the flaw in Luthor’s plan was not assigning you to fight Superman directly. Maybe the real mistake was assigning you to go after Clark Kent. That clumsy journalist with thick glasses and wrinkled suits who always seemed to stick his nose where it did not belong. The one who looked so ordinary, so normal, so weak.
But Luthor knew something many others did not.
And one night, inside his office, with the lights turned off and only the city glow behind him, he called you in and said:
“Clark Kent is the idiot who knows everything about Superman. Everything. If we have him, we have that alien. You capture him, bring him to me, and put him on his knees in front of me.”
You nodded, just like always. You did not ask why. You did not ask how.
You only said:
“Alright.”
And he smiled. That cold smile he gave you whenever he was pleased with you. And for one second, just one second, you felt something close to happiness. Because he had looked at you. Because he had spoken to you. Because he had chosen you for that mission.
Of course he would send you. You had turned twenty-six a few days ago. An age where other women think about marriage, children, careers they enjoy. An age where people celebrate with cake and candles.
You had none of that.
Only a new number added to your file and another order.
Infiltrate the Daily Planet, that enormous newspaper where Clark Kent worked. Pull strings, forge documents, create an entire fake identity. For a man with the kind of money that swarmed around Luthor like ants, it was effortless. One check here, one phone call there, and suddenly you had a false name, a false story, a false life.
That was all.
You never intended to know Clark Kent. Your objective was something else. Your objective was to kill him once he told you where Superman was hiding. That was what you were supposed to do. What you had been ordered to do.
But that was the thing.
No.
You never truly had the intention.
Because to have intention, to want to do something, you first have to desire it. And you desired nothing. You only complied. You only obeyed. You only did what you were told, like a machine, like a trained dog, like a weapon someone loads and fires without asking.
You had an order. That was all.
The order of your owner.
That man who waited for you every single day with questions, demands, and that cold stare asking for results.
“What did you find out?”
“Did you talk to him?”
“Did you get information out of him?”
“Do you already know where the alien is hiding?”
And you had to answer. You always had to answer. You always needed to have something to say, something to show, something to prove that you were not wasting time, that you were not a failure, that you were worth something.
That pressure crushed your shoulders as though you carried a massive stone all day long.
And at the same time, you had to pretend you were a normal employee at the Daily Planet. You had to smile, greet people, learn names, remember birthdays, laugh at jokes that were not funny to you. You had to act like you were a real person, like you had a life, like you had gone to school, like you had friends.
Pretending exhausted you more than any fight ever had.
Pretending hollowed you out in a way you did not know how to explain.
And all of it together—the pressure from Luthor and the pressure of pretending—squeezed you tighter than ever before. You felt trapped. Suffocated. As if your chest were collapsing inward and you could no longer breathe.
Maybe that was why you never saw it coming. Maybe that was why Clark Kent took advantage of that gap. That small space between the pressure of work and the pressure of Luthor, that moment when you were so exhausted you could no longer keep your defenses up. And he slipped straight into your soul.
No blows. No orders. No violence.
Just by being himself.
That clumsy man who wore suits too big for him, who tripped over chairs, who blushed whenever someone spoke too loudly to him. That man who stopped being just “the target” and became “the one teaching you.” Because at first, when you arrived at the Daily Planet with your false identity and your invented name, Perry White, the boss, looked at you over his glasses and said:
“She’s new. Clark, help her settle in. Make sure she learns how everything works around here.”
And Clark smiled at you. A shy smile, with his cheeks slightly flushed, and said:
“Of course, Perry. Don’t worry.”
It was simple at first.
You hated him.
Of course you hated him. And not because you wanted to hate him. Not because he had done anything wrong to you. You hated him because that was what you were supposed to do. It was the order. It was the plan. You had to keep your distance, keep the hatred, keep your mind cold.
But when you realized that hating him was not working, it was because of something so small, so simple, that you were almost ashamed to admit it. It happened a month after you started working there. An entire month of watching him arrive every morning with his coffee thermos, of hearing him murmur to himself while he wrote, of seeing how he laughed at the jokes from the other employees.
A month of trying to read his mind and finding yourself met with a wall. A month of failing your mission because you could not get close enough, because something about him made you lower your guard without meaning to.
That morning, the coffee burned your hand.
You had been distracted. You filled your cup too much, and the hot liquid splashed over your fingers. It was a small pain. Nothing compared to what you had felt before. A simple sting in your body. One among the thousands you had already endured.
But Clark’s eyes widened as if you had screamed, and quickly, very quickly, he took the cup from your hands. Carefully. Without roughness. As if he were afraid of hurting you even more.
You looked at him. You had been hurt before. Many times. For much less. You had been hit for spilling things, for breaking things, for simply existing. But he only looked at you with concern, those clear eyes behind his glasses, while he held the steaming cup away from you.
“I can do it, Clark,” you said.
And your voice sounded different. Softer. More human. The voice you had been using there, in that place full of normal people, had stuck to you without you realizing it. You no longer sounded like a weapon. You sounded like a person.
Clark did not give the cup back to you. Instead, he took your hand very gently and looked at the burn. A red mark on your skin. Nothing serious. But he frowned as if it were something terrible.
“I know,” he told you, without letting go of your hand. “I know you can do it. But I’m supposed to take care of you. You’re assigned to me. Besides...” He paused and looked at you with those eyes that seemed to understand things you had never told him. “You’ve been working very hard. Really hard. Let me do it. I don’t mind.”
He said it and looked at you with a smile. His cheeks were red. You looked away.
You looked at your hand, the one he had carefully released, and felt something strange inside your chest. You had never looked away from anyone. Never. Not even when Luthor yelled at you. Not even when they hit you. You always stared straight ahead, like an animal that could not show fear.
But with Clark, you couldn’t.
You could not hold his gaze when he smiled at you like that. And the worst part, the strangest thing of all, was that you had never been able to read his mind. It was as if a simple human had a strong mind. And Clark did. But not a hard kind of strength, like a wall. It was a soft strength, like a deep current you could not cross.
And that confused you.
It scared you.
Because if you could not read him, you could not control him. And if you could not control him, you could not hate him. And if you could not hate him, what did you have left?
It was the strange things he did.
Strange to you, of course. Because you had never been treated that way. Never. Not once in your entire life. You had never felt what it was like for someone to buy you coffee without you asking. Because you were used to begging. Begging for food when they punished you. Spending entire days with your stomach empty, hearing it growl inside you, while the scientists ate in front of you as if you did not exist.
And of course, despite being named a project, despite being called L008L as if you were a box, your powers did not take away your hunger. Because despite everything, despite the way they had discarded you like trash, despite the fact that you never had a family who loved you, despite the way they treated you like a thing... you were human.
You had a human body.
You needed to eat. You needed to sleep. You needed someone to see you for what you were.
And Clark gave you coffee. Sometimes a pastry. He always said the same thing, with that silly smile and those red cheeks:
“Oh, I stopped by the bakery on my way to work. Bought too much. Want one?”
And you accepted it.
Because you were hungry. Because the hot coffee warmed your hands and your chest. Because the pastry tasted like something you did not remember ever tasting before. Something like... affection? You did not know. You did not know what that was called.
But you liked it.
And it scared you that you liked it.
Clark carried the papers for you. When you came back from an interview and had piles of documents with you, he took half of them or more, just so you would not have to carry so much. Sometimes, when they received small gifts at events or press conferences, bags with notebooks, pens, brochures, he took those too.
“So you don’t have to carry them,” he would say.
As if it were the most normal thing in the world. As if taking care of you were not an effort.
And he smiled. Every chance he got. When he saw you arrive in the morning, he smiled. When you finished a difficult article, he smiled. When you made a mistake while writing something and he corrected you in a low voice so no one else would hear, he smiled.
And he got so nervous.
So much that sometimes he stuttered. So much that things fell from his hands.
And you had never felt it until that day in the elevator. Never in your whole life. Not when they treated your wounds. Not when they said “good job.” Not when Luthor ran his hand through your hair after a fight. None of that had made your heart beat.
You thought you did not have a heart. Or that you had forgotten you had one. Because after so many years of pain, something inside you had fallen asleep. Or died. You did not know which one.
But that day, in the elevator, something woke up.
It happened so soon. So quickly that you almost did not notice it. The two of you were alone, going up to the office after coming back from an interview outside. The elevator was small, one of those old ones that made noise and moved slowly.
You were looking at the floor, as always, thinking about nothing and everything at once. Clark’s hand brushed yours by accident. A small touch. Nothing. Almost nothing.
But he looked at you. And he pointed at your face with a trembling finger.
“You have a... paper,” he whispered.
His voice sounded low, soft, as if he did not want to scare you. As if speaking too loudly would break something fragile.
You looked at him without understanding. You did not feel anything on your face. You did not know what paper he was talking about. You had worn your hair loose all day, and sometimes things stuck to it without you noticing.
But when you were about to raise your hand to your face to find it, he stopped. Clark lifted his hand, but froze in the air, halfway between you and him.
“May I?” he asked.
And that question went through you like a knife.
Because no one had ever asked you “may I?” No one. Not to touch you. Not to treat your wounds. Not for anything. They simply grabbed you, moved you, put needles in you, hit you, lifted you from the floor when you fell.
Never, never had anyone asked for your permission to come close to you.
That was when you felt it for the first time.
Your heart.
It was there. Waiting. And it began to beat hard, fast, like a bird trapped between your ribs. You had spent days wanting to feel him. Not just see him, not just observe him from a distance the way you did with everyone else. You wanted to feel Clark. You wanted to know what it was like for someone to touch you without it hurting.
And you nodded. You moved your head up and down, only slightly, because your throat had closed and you could not speak.
He came closer. Very slowly. Very carefully. His hand rose to your head and removed a small piece of paper hanging from your hair, the kind that comes from notebooks when you tear out a page.
But along the way, his fingers brushed your cheek.
A small touch.
Perfect.
So soft you almost did not feel it.
But you did.
You felt it down to your bones. It was as if that touch had lit something inside you, something that had been turned off for as long as you could remember.
Clark looked at the paper in his hand and then looked at you. His eyes were bright behind his glasses. And he smiled. That smile you were beginning to recognize, the one that made you feel less alone.
“That makes you officially a full-time newsroom employee,” he joked gently.
He tried to make a joke. He tried to say you had passed the test of having papers stuck in your hair. And something happened inside your chest. Something you could not control.
You smiled for real.
Not like the rehearsals you did to behave human, even though you were. Not like those fake smiles you practiced in front of the Daily Planet bathroom mirror so no one would suspect anything.
No.
This smile came out on its own. Without permission. Without an order. Without practice. Because Clark’s smile reached you, touched you, and you could do nothing but return it.
You lowered your gaze with red cheeks. They burned. They stung. But it was not a bad pain. It was a pain you wanted to keep feeling. You felt so much that you never wanted to stop feeling it.
Never again.
But outside, in the real world, in the cold world that waited for you every night, Luthor wanted proof. He wanted something. Anything. You had been at the Daily Planet for weeks and you had given him nothing useful.
Only silly things, things from Clark’s daily life, things that were useless for capturing Superman. Luthor was giving you time. Of course he was. He knew it was not an easy job. He knew you had to earn people’s trust, that you had to pretend, that you had to wait.
But time was running out.
And every day you spent beside Clark, Luthor’s orders weighed more heavily on you. Because what you had were not secrets or plans or Superman’s weaknesses. What you had were irrelevant things. Things about Clark’s parents. Stories from his childhood in Kansas. Names of his friends. Places he visited.
Nothing.
Absolutely nothing about Superman.
And maybe, deep inside, you already knew. You were already beginning to understand why Clark never mentioned Superman. Why, whenever people in the office talked about the hero, Clark stayed quiet or changed the subject. Why he never, not once, said anything bad about him, but never anything good either.
It was as if he avoided the topic carefully, like someone walking over thin ice.
And that made you afraid.
Because if your theory was right, if what you were starting to suspect was true, then your mission became impossible. Then you had to choose.
And you had never chosen anything in your life.
One night, after a long day of pretending, you returned to the laboratory. Luthor was waiting in his office, the lights turned off, illuminated only by the reflections of the city outside. He did not greet you. He did not ask how you were.
He only said:
“What do you have?”
“There’s nothing related to Superman and Clark,” you replied without expression. Your voice sounded flat, empty. Maybe because you wanted to hide what was already beginning to fall into place deep inside your mind. Maybe because you were afraid he would see in your eyes what you could barely believe yourself.
Luthor nodded. Slowly, he rose from his chair and walked toward you. You did not run. You did not step away. You knew what was coming. It was part of life. Part of being a project.
A harsh slap struck across your face, so violent it forced your gaze down to the floor. Your cheek burned. The same cheek Clark’s fingers had brushed days before. And that contrast hurt more than the blow itself.
“I need that stupid flying man in the grave,” Luthor hissed, his voice dripping with venom as he stood so close you could feel his breath against your forehead. “Do you understand me? In the grave. And if that doesn’t happen, you’ll kill Clark Kent. Maybe then Superman will come to claim him. Maybe then he’ll crawl out of hiding to save his little journalist friend.”
You nodded.
You were used to it. The blows were part of you. The orders too. But something twisted painfully inside your chest when you heard his name.
Clark.
Kill Clark.
The words sounded different when you repeated them inside your head. It was not like killing a target. It felt like killing something you were beginning to love.
And no one had taught you how to survive that.
That was not part of the project.
You wanted to push him away. To tell Clark to leave. To run. To leave the country. To never come near you again.
So, in the following days, you started giving him options without him realizing it. You left papers on his desk. Job offers in other countries.
A job in Germany, you thought. He would be perfect there.
Clark would read them and look at you with a smile, not understanding what you were truly trying to tell him.
“Are you thinking about changing jobs?” he would ask with that innocent tone of his, with that way he had of looking at the world as if everyone in it were good.
You would smile and shake your head. Then you would leave more offers. New Zealand. A journalism exchange program in London. Good opportunities, the kind any reporter would accept without hesitation.
But he did nothing.
He read the papers, stared at them for a moment, and then set them aside. As if they did not matter. As if where he already was had become enough for him.
One night, while you were gathering your things to leave, being among the last people left in the office alongside Clark, he finally spoke. His voice sounded different. More serious. As if he had been thinking about it all day.
“I don’t want to change jobs,” he said suddenly.
Clark stood near the door, his jacket hanging from one hand.
“Did I make you think that?”
You shook your head quickly, maybe too quickly.
“No, I just... think you’re very good at what you do. That you could become a great international journalist.”
You played with your bag strap without looking him in the eyes. Your fingers trembled slightly.
Clark stayed silent for a moment. Then he nodded.
“That would be a big step, I admit.”
You nodded too, your head lowered. But he kept speaking.
“But I think I’m happy here. I have a good job. Good friends.” He paused, and when you finally looked up at him, his cheeks were red again. “And this job gave me the chance to meet you.”
Your eyes widened slightly.
Clark swallowed nervously and rubbed the back of his neck.
“I think you’re... a great journalist,” he corrected awkwardly, as if he had realized he had already said too much.
But it was too late.
You had already heard him.
You swallowed hard. Your heart was beating again, just like it had that day in the elevator. And for the first time, for the first time in your entire life, you decided to be honest.
Not because someone ordered you to.
Not because you had to pretend.
But because you wanted to.
Because you needed him to know.
“I’m happy here too,” you admitted softly, your voice barely above a whisper. “The difference between you and me is that... I don’t care whether I have friends or a good job. Working beside you somehow feels like enough.”
The words lingered in the air.
Silence followed. A deep, endless silence that filled the empty office. Through his glasses, you could see something shining in Clark’s eyes. Something you had never seen there before.
And then, without either of you planning it, you stepped closer.
He did too.
As if your bodies already understood what words could not say. As if both of you had realized that somehow, impossibly, you seemed to need each other. Ever since the moment you met, something in the world had changed for both of you.
Clark kissed you.
And you rose onto your tiptoes just to reach him.
His lips were soft. Warm.
You did not know how to kiss. No one had ever taught you. You had never kissed anyone before. But your body knew what to do. As if it had been waiting for this moment your entire life.
As if every blow, every wound, every night filled with pain had only been the path leading you here.
To this kiss.
To Clark.
And that was enough for you to realize that another life existed. A different kind of life. One where nobody demanded that you be the best. One where you did not have to beg for food. One where affection was not something you earned only after winning a fight.
A life without humiliation. Without blows. Without numbers tattooed into skin. Without laboratories, owners, or orders.
There was only Clark.
Clark with his glasses.
Clark with his flushed cheeks.
Clark with his gentle hands and tender voice.
Clark, who had unknowingly taught you that you were not a project.
That you never had been.
Clark was strangely adorable.
You did not say it lightly. It was not a word you used carelessly. But he truly was. Everything he did felt sweet in a way you could not explain.
The good morning hugs, when he arrived at the office and saw you sitting at your desk, and he would walk toward you slowly as if he did not want to bother you, only to wrap his arms around you and squeeze you just a little, whispering “good morning” against your hair.
The goodnight hugs, when he walked you to your apartment building after the two of you wandered through the dark streets together, and he stayed standing outside until you went inside, just to make sure you were safe.
Holding your hand while walking, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, as if his fingers needed yours to feel complete.
Kissing your forehead. Your cheek. Sometimes your nose, whenever he was being silly and trying to make you laugh.
Kissing you.
That.
The kisses he pressed against your lips, soft and slow, as if he had all the time in the world and nowhere else he would rather be except there, with you.
And that life, the one you had created with a name that was not a number, with someone who did not scream at you that you belonged to him as if you were an object... that was the life you wanted to live.
For the first time in your life, you wanted to wake up the next morning.
For the first time, you were not afraid of what would happen next. You wanted to get up just to see him, to hear his voice, to feel his hands. You wanted to keep pretending to be a normal employee, but not because you had been ordered to. Because that disguise allowed you to stay by his side.
That life was a dream.
A dream you never wanted to wake up from.
But the code carved into your shoulder, those letters and numbers you had carried for as long as you could remember—L008L—always reminded you of reality. They burned against your skin like a brand. Whispering into your ear that you were not real, that you were not a person, that you were only a project.
Reality waited for you outside.
Outside of Clark’s arms. Outside of his kisses. Outside of that bubble of affection that had wrapped itself around you without you even noticing.
One night, Clark invited you to his apartment for dinner. He said he was tired of restaurants, that he wanted to be alone with you, without people around, without noise, without anything except the two of you.
You accepted.
Of course you did.
You would have accepted anything he offered you.
When you arrived at his apartment, it felt so... him. Cozy. Messy but clean. With books stacked on tables and plants resting by the windows. It smelled like homemade food, like something cooked slowly and lovingly.
Clark was chopping tomatoes in the kitchen, wearing an apron that was slightly too small for him. You laughed seeing him so focused, his tongue peeking out a little while he cut them.
And suddenly, without stopping, he said:
“I think shaving your head during hot weather is actually a pretty smart strategy. I wouldn’t do it myself, but it’s a good strategy.”
You laughed. A genuine laugh, the kind that came more easily every time you were with him.
“But if you lost all your hair, you’d end up...” You gestured toward your head playfully. “That would hurt more, wouldn’t it?”
Then you handed him the onion you had chopped. He took it carefully and dropped it into the pot where something bubbled softly, releasing steam that smelled incredible.
“Well, that is an excellent point,” Clark admitted, turning to look at you with that smile of his. The one that completely unraveled you.
You smiled back.
But maybe your smile wavered a little. Just slightly.
Because deep inside your mind, in that dark corner you kept trying to ignore, you knew you had spent days ignoring Lex. You were not answering his calls the way you were supposed to. You were not giving him full reports. You kept telling him there were no updates, that Clark knew nothing, that you were still investigating.
You lied.
You lied every single time you opened your mouth in front of him.
And that lie sat inside your chest like a stone. But you could not stop. You did not want to stop. Because every time Clark looked at you, every time he touched you, you forgot Luthor existed. You forgot you had a mission. You forgot you were a project.
There was only him.
Only this moment, in this kitchen, with the steam rising from the pot and the smell of tomatoes and onions filling the air.
His hands were skilled and steady, even though he always pretended to be clumsy at the office. And you only helped when necessary, because he kept telling you to sit down, to rest, that you already did enough during the day.
“All I need is for you to kiss me every once in a while,” Clark would say whenever you complained about not helping enough.
He always said it with a mischievous smile, those flushed cheeks you loved so much coloring pink again.
And you would laugh.
And kiss him.
And he would continue cooking as if nothing had happened, though you could see the foolish smile spreading across his face every single time you did it.
At some point, your gaze drifted away.
You did not know how long you stayed like that, staring into nothing while thinking about everything. About Luthor. About the mission. About what would happen once all of this ended. About what would happen if he discovered you no longer wanted to obey him.
Clark noticed.
He always noticed everything about you.
Slowly, he walked closer, his hands still slightly damp from washing vegetables, and carefully tucked your hair behind your ear. His fingers brushed your skin, and you felt that familiar shiver running through your body every time he touched you.
“Everything okay?” he asked softly, concern filling his voice.
You nodded, even though it was not entirely true.
But you could not tell him the truth. Not yet. Maybe not ever.
He smiled, as if he had decided to believe you, and said:
“You’re my main assistant. Without your kisses, I can’t continue. Dinner will burn if you don’t give me one right now.”
“So dramatic,” you whispered.
But you stepped closer and kissed him anyway. Short. Quick. But filled with everything you did not know how to put into words.
Clark nodded in satisfaction.
“That’s better,” he said, continuing to cook as if nothing had happened.
If only he could hear you.
If only he were the one reading your mind and knew the guilt you carried.
That heavy, dark guilt crushing your shoulders every night when you were alone. The guilt of knowing you were supposed to obey, that Luthor was waiting for you, that the mission still existed even if you no longer wanted to complete it.
Because you did not want to anymore.
You did not want to obey.
You did not want to hurt anyone.
You did not want to return to that cold laboratory, to those needles, to those beatings, to those sleepless nights listening to the scientists’ footsteps echoing down the hallway.
You only wanted to stay with him.
You only wanted this forever.
This kitchen. This smell of homemade food. Clark’s hands holding yours.
But you were certain the world would still point at you and call you the villain.
Because that was what you were, wasn’t it?
That was what you had always been. A project built to hurt people. A weapon. A thing.
People never understand that sometimes villains do not choose to become villains. Sometimes they are placed on that road from the moment they are born and never given another choice.
And you had never been given a choice.
Not until Clark arrived.
You watched him smile while stirring the pot.
And then you remembered.
You remembered that night after the kiss in the office. The night he walked you home and stayed by your door because neither of you wanted to say goodbye. You remembered how he kissed you again, slower this time, deeper, as if he were trying to tell you something he could not put into words.
And during that kiss, in that moment when his lips touched yours and the world stopped moving, his mind opened to you.
Not intentionally.
Not because you searched for it.
It was as if the kiss had broken down a wall. Or as if, for the first time, he had lowered his guard completely.
That was how you found out he was Superman.
You discovered the truth you had spent months suspecting, the one spinning around inside your head like a knife that refused to sink all the way in.
Clark was Superman.
The man who flew. The hero Luthor wanted dead. The alien your owner claimed needed to be destroyed.
And you held him there in your arms while he kissed you as if you were the most important thing in the world.
Your suspicions were confirmed.
But not because you used your powers.
Because he revealed himself without meaning to.
Inside his mind, in that moment of tenderness, you saw everything. You saw the child arriving in a spaceship. You saw the parents who raised him in Kansas. You saw the first time he flew. You saw the symbol on his chest.
You saw Superman.
And you saw him smile, and cry, and love.
You saw him be more human than anyone who called him an “alien.”
Your mission was complete.
That moment should have been the end of everything. You had what Luthor wanted. The final proof. The connection between Clark Kent and Superman. You could have gone back that same night and told him everything.
And he would have smiled at you. Congratulated you. Given you that twisted version of affection you once mistook for love.
But you did not do it.
You could not.
You did not want to.
So you kept it to yourself.
Like a secret.
Like a treasure.
Because you wanted it to last a little longer. You wanted that night to never end. You wanted to keep feeling his lips, his hands, his warmth. You wanted to keep being the girl from the Daily Planet, the one with the fake name and the invented life who, for the first time, finally felt real.
You were afraid Luthor would grow tired of waiting. Afraid he would train you until you were capable of fighting Superman yourself.
And not only him.
You knew Luthor had other creations. Other projects. Other weapons. You knew that if you failed, he would use someone else.
And that terrified you.
Terrified for Clark.
Terrified for yourself.
Terrified for everything you had started to build.
But good things always come to an end.
You knew that. You had known it from the beginning, even if you had tried to cover it up with kisses and dinners at his apartment. Because a villain never got a happy ending.
Villains did not deserve one.
And at the end of the day, no matter how Clark looked at you as if you were a person, no matter how his hands treated you as if you were made of porcelain, you were still a project.
And projects were only carried out.
Or, if they did not work, they were discarded. Sometimes, they were useful until they fulfilled their purpose, and then the same thing happened.
They were discarded anyway.
Like trash. Like something useless. Like a broken toy no one wanted to fix.
You looked at Clark that day.
It was a night like many others, one of those nights you had started treasuring like someone saving coins in a jar, knowing that sooner or later, they would run out. You were standing at the door of your apartment after walking together through streets lit by lampposts.
He was saying goodbye with a kiss on your lips, one of those slow kisses that left you breathless. Your hands were on his shirt, tucked beneath his jacket, feeling the warmth of his chest through the fabric.
You were smiling.
You could not help it.
And your eyes shone like they had never shone before. As if, somewhere inside you, tiny lights had been switched on and no one had managed to put them out yet.
“We should go out tomorrow,” Clark whispered close to your lips, with that voice that made you shiver.
It was not an order.
It was never an order with him.
It was an invitation. An I want to be with you disguised as simple words.
“We’ve been dating for three months. I think I want to surprise you for the fourth.”
You smiled. But inside, something shifted. Something uncomfortable.
Because surprises were not meant for you. Gifts were not meant for you. Beautiful things had never reached your hands without you having to pay a price first.
“A surprise?” You looked at him, searching for his eyes behind his glasses. You swallowed before speaking. “I don’t think I deserve a surprise.”
The truth escaped your mouth before you could stop it. Because deep down, in that dark place Clark could not see, you believed it.
You did not deserve anything good.
Projects did not deserve.
Projects only received orders and punishments.
But Clark did not understand the depth of your words. He couldn’t. Because he did not know what you were. He did not know where you came from. He did not know what you had done, what had been done to you, what you still had to do.
He only saw you.
The girl from the Daily Planet. The shy reporter who blushed whenever he held her hand.
And he smiled at you with that wide, sincere smile of his, the one that broke something inside you every time you saw it.
“You deserve it more than anyone,” he whispered.
His hand rose to your face, and he tucked that same rebellious strand of hair behind your ear. The same gesture as always.
The one you loved so much.
“I’ll see you tomorrow at that Italian restaurant you like so much. Eight o’clock, after work.”
“Alright, then I’ll see you tomorrow... even though we’ll see each other at work,” you said, and your voice sounded happier than you felt inside.
Clark laughed again. That laugh that soothed your soul.
“Well, I’ve realized that seeing you at work isn’t enough.” He smiled, soft and impossibly fond. “I want to have you for my whole life.”
You looked at him with flushed cheeks. They burned. They stung. But it was a beautiful warmth, the kind you wanted to last forever.
You hugged him. Pressed your body against his and felt the way he wrapped his arms around you, holding you as if you were fragile, as if he were afraid of breaking you.
He had no idea.
No idea that you wanted to leave your real secret behind too.
No idea that while he was planning a surprise for your fourth month together, you were planning something much bigger.
Something that terrified you and gave you hope at the same time.
You looked into his eyes. Took a breath. And spoke from the deepest part of your heart, from that place you had believed empty until he filled it without asking permission.
“I want to have you for my whole life too, Clark,” you whispered.
The words came out trembling, but firm. It was the first time you had ever said something like that. The first time you had wanted something for yourself.
Not for Luthor.
Not for the mission.
For you.
And in that moment, you decided.
You would tell him.
Everything.
The laboratory. The experiments. The number on your shoulder. Luthor. The mission. Superman.
Everything.
If he could help you, if he could love every part of you, even with your past, with your scars, with the terrible things you had done and the terrible things that had been done to you, then you would help him defeat Lex.
Together.
Because you no longer wanted to be a weapon. You no longer wanted to be a project. You no longer wanted to be L008L.
You only wanted to be the girl Clark kissed in apartment doorways.
Clark kissed you one last time that night.
A long, soft kiss, filled with promises neither of you knew if you could keep. His lips parted from yours slowly, as if leaving was difficult for him, as if he knew something terrible was going to happen.
But he did not know.
He could not know.
“Tomorrow,” he said with a smile.
“Tomorrow,” you replied.
And he walked away down the sidewalk, looking back every few steps, smiling each time he saw you still standing in the doorway.
Until he turned the corner and disappeared.
You remained there, alone on the threshold, your heart beating so hard you could feel it in your ears.
Could you have a dignified life?
Was it possible?
Could someone like you, born in a laboratory, raised among needles and blows, trained to kill, have a happy ending?
You wondered that while climbing the stairs to your apartment. The building was old, the hallway lights flickered, and your steps sounded hollow against the concrete.
Maybe it was your illusion that blinded you.
Maybe it was hope, that new thing Clark had planted in your chest without you realizing it, that made you lower your guard.
Because as you climbed, you did not think to check the door. You did not think to listen before going inside. You did not think about anything except him, his smile, his I want to have you for my whole life.
You climbed the steps with a foolish smile on your face, your hands tucked inside the pockets of your jacket, feeling almost normal.
Almost happy.
You opened the door to your apartment.
The one you rented.
Or rather, the one Luthor rented.
Because nothing was truly yours. Not the walls, not the furniture, not the name you used, not even the clothes on your body. He had given you everything.
And everything had a price.
When you opened the door, your heart froze.
Lex Luthor was standing there, staring out the window as if nothing were wrong. As if it were his apartment. As if you belonged to him. As if nothing had happened.
His hands were clasped behind his back, shoulders straight, head slightly tilted. The streetlight filtered through the glass and painted his long, slender silhouette across the floor.
You walked forward slowly.
Every step took enormous effort, as if your legs had been filled with lead. The door behind you closed by itself.
Or not by itself.
You barely turned your head and saw one of his projects. One you had heard of, though you knew very little about him. Only that he was strong.
Very strong.
He was covered entirely in black, from head to toe, like a breathing shadow. He did not move. Did not speak.
He only watched.
Waited.
You looked at Luthor.
At last, he slowly turned around, wearing that false calm he always used when he was truly furious. His eyes traveled over you from head to toe, as if he were inspecting a defective product.
As if he had already decided you were useless.
“I don’t know what bothers me more,” he said, his voice low and dangerously calm. “That Clark Kent took advantage of my project, or that my project, the one that took me the longest to build, now has to be discarded.”
He stepped closer to you.
You stepped back.
One step.
Then another.
Your back hit the wall, but there was no way out. The man in black stood by the door. You could not escape.
“It’s part of the plan,” you said.
But this time, you did not manage to stay calm. Your voice trembled. Your hands trembled. You could not hold his gaze.
You lowered your eyes.
And that was the sign.
He knew that gesture perfectly.
He knew what it meant.
It meant you were lying.
It meant you were afraid.
It meant you were no longer his.
Luthor seized your chin harshly, his fingers cold as ice, and forced your face closer until his breath struck your skin.
You looked at him.
His eyes were full of rage. Disappointment.
Something worse.
“Part of the plan?” he spat the words like poison. “What the fuck is your plan?”
You trembled.
Your whole body trembled.
But you had to keep going.
You had to protect Clark.
Even if they killed you.
Even if they discarded you.
Even if they dragged you back to the laboratory and injected you until you forgot his name.
“Mr. Lex,” you said, your voice barely more than a thread.
He released your chin abruptly, as if you disgusted him. You stayed pressed against the wall, breathing fast, feeling as if your heart were trying to claw its way out of your chest.
“Clark Kent knows nothing about Superman,” you lied.
You wished it were true.
Wished he were not the flying man.
Wished he were only a clumsy, loving reporter who had nothing to do with the hero Luthor wanted to destroy.
“He doesn’t actually know where he is or where he lives. He thinks he comes to the planet whenever he wants.” Another lie. Your throat dried. “Clark Kent is just a... puppet. He is.”
Luthor stared at you in silence.
A long, heavy silence that crushed your shoulders.
He knew.
He knew something.
You could see it in his eyes. He did not believe you. He had never fully believed you. But he needed to hear you say it.
He needed you to condemn yourself.
“And what was my order if Clark Kent got in the way?” Luthor asked, his voice so cold it seemed to come from somewhere else.
You stayed silent.
The words stuck in your throat like thorns.
“What was it?” he shouted suddenly, and the sound bounced off the empty apartment walls.
You flinched.
The man in black did not move.
“To kill him and bring Superman down to earth,” you whispered.
The words tasted like blood. Like betrayal. Like everything you did not want to be.
Luthor nodded slowly, as if savoring your confession.
“Kill him,” he said.
It was not a suggestion.
It was an order.
Perhaps the last one he would ever give you.
“I want Clark Kent dead. Tonight.”
“I can’t,” you said.
And this time, you did not tremble.
This time, your voice came out firm, even as you were falling apart inside.
Luthor looked at you with a smile.
A small, ugly smile that did not reach his eyes.
And then came the slap.
Hard.
So hard it snapped your face to the side and made stars burst across your vision.
Before you could react, before you could raise your arms to protect yourself, the man in black grabbed you. He lifted you without any effort at all, as if you were a feather, as if you weighed nothing.
And hurled you against the wall.
The impact was brutal. The wall split open slightly, a long, ugly crack running through the plaster from top to bottom. The framed pictures hanging there crashed down over you, their frames breaking, glass exploding into shards that cut your face and arms.
You fell to the floor among the debris, your head spinning, blood running down your cheek, your ear ringing as if a bee were trapped inside it.
Luthor wiped his hand with a handkerchief, as if touching you had dirtied him.
He looked down at you from above, from that godlike height he had always held over you. And there was nothing in his eyes.
No rage.
No disappointment.
Not even hatred.
Only indifference.
As if you no longer existed.
As if he had already thrown you in the trash.
“Another damned failed project,” he said, sounding tired, as if even despising you bored him. “Take her.”
That was the last thing you heard.
The man in black approached you.
You felt a sharp sting in your neck, something cold, something metallic.
An injection.
The liquid entered your veins like liquid fire. Your body went numb. Your head filled with cotton. Your eyes closed without you being able to stop them.
And as you fell asleep, as the darkness wrapped itself around you like a cold blanket, you thought of only one thing.
Him.
Clark.
His smile.
His "You deserve it more than anyone".
The Italian restaurant.
The surprise you would never get to see.
His arms.
His warmth.
Everything you had wanted to have, now falling apart between your fingers like wet sand.
You did not need to open your eyes. The smell told you everything.
That cold, clean scent, like a hospital but worse, like something that had never seen the sun. That smell of disinfectant and metal and fear. The sound told you too. That low hum of machines, that heavy silence of empty hallways, that echo of your own heartbeat bouncing off white walls. You were in your cell. The one you used to call a room because you had not known it could be called anything else. Because they told you it was your room, and you believed them.
But now you knew. Now you knew it was a cage. It always had been.
You opened your eyes slowly. Your gaze scanned everything, just as they had taught you to do, like a weapon activating after being shut down. The narrow bed. The padded walls. The metal door with no handle on the inside. The large mirror on the far wall, behind which you knew someone was always watching. And the clock.
You looked at the time. Twelve noon.
They had sedated you. Most likely so you would sleep as long as possible, so you would be weak when you woke, so you would not be able to fight. But you had to get out of there. You had to see Clark. You had promised yourself. You were going to tell him the truth. You were going to ask for his help. You were going to start a new life. A real life.
You stood. Your legs trembled slightly, but you managed to stay upright. You ran to the door with your hand outstretched, hoping it might be open, hoping it had all been a mistake, hoping they had not locked you in again.
But the moment you touched it, an alarm went off. A sharp, violent beeping pierced your ears like a needle, and before you could pull your hand away, an electric current shot through your arm, your shoulder, your chest.
You gasped. The pain forced you back, stumbling until you fell to your knees on the cold floor. Your fingers still trembled from the shock.
“I thought I could trust you.”
Luthor’s voice echoed through the room, coming from speakers you could not see. You looked at him through the large mirror. He was on the other side, as always, arms crossed, wearing that godlike posture of a man who believed he owned the world.
“And my most... valued project,” he said, pausing dramatically as if saying it wounded him, “betrayed me for one of Superman’s friends.” He nodded slowly, as though processing something tragic. “How painful.”
But all you saw in his eyes was irritation. Not pain. Not sadness. Irritation. Like when a favorite toy breaks. Like when something that belongs to him stops working the way he wants it to.
You stared at the mirror and frowned. Your mind focused on the glass. You could break it. You could tear through it with your energy. You could reach him.
The glass trembled a little, barely at all, but Luthor noticed.
And he smiled.
“No scenes,” he said calmly, dangerously. “Or I’ll be forced to sedate you again. And this time, you won’t wake up in twelve hours. Do you understand?”
You stopped. Lowered your hand.
Rage burned inside you, but fear was stronger. Not fear of being hurt. You already knew that one. Fear of never seeing Clark again. That was new. That paralyzed you.
Luthor left. The screen went dark.
You stayed alone in the white room, sitting on the floor, your arm still tingling from the shock. You looked at the clock again. One in the afternoon. You had to get out. You had to see Clark.
The restaurant. Eight o’clock.
You had seven hours.
Seven hours to find a way to escape, to slip past the guards, to reach him. But you needed to be patient. You could not throw yourself against the door again. You could not hurt yourself. You had to think.
And then it happened.
Five in the afternoon.
Footsteps sounded in the hallway. Doors opening. Low voices. A man entered, deactivating the electric lasers with a remote control. You knew him. You had seen him before. One of the usual guards, the kind who looked without seeing, who spoke to you as if you were an animal.
Behind him came a woman you also recognized, holding a metal tray. On the tray was a syringe filled with a transparent liquid you knew very well.
Punishment.
The reward for misbehaving. For disobeying. For thinking for yourself.
“Hello, pretty thing,” the guard said with an ugly smile that turned your stomach. “We were told you behaved badly.”
You looked away. You did not want to see him. You did not want to give them the satisfaction of watching you tremble.
The guard stepped closer, confident, as if you were the same as before. The one who stayed still. The one who endured.
“You decide,” he said, his voice almost amused. “Do you want to do this sedated or conscious?”
The woman stepped forward too, the syringe ready.
You knew what “conscious” meant. It meant feeling everything. It meant they would not put you fully to sleep, only weaken you, only strip away enough of your strength so you could not fight, but you would feel every needle, every blow, every humiliation.
And Luthor always punished that way.
It was not enough to hurt you. You had to know you deserved it. You had to feel it.
But something had changed.
Something inside you was no longer the same.
You stood slowly. Both guards froze, surprised. You never stood. Never defended yourself. Never spoke. You only knelt and waited.
“I decide,” you said, and a smile spread across your face. A smile they had never seen before. “That I want to kill you.”
Your hand moved so lightly they did not even see it. A quick, precise movement, one they had drilled into you through years of training. The needle on the tray flew through the air, and before the guard could blink, it buried itself in his neck. His eyes went wide. His mouth opened to scream, but only a choked sound came out.
He dropped to the floor like a stone.
The woman screamed and stepped back, but you were already on her. You struck her in the head with the metal tray, and she collapsed too. Both of them fell to the floor.
It had all lasted only a few seconds.
Before, you had done nothing. Of course you had the strength. Of course you could. But it had been carved into your mind that it was your fault. That you had to endure everything, even if you hated it, even if you had nightmares.
Because Lex said it was your punishment.
Because Lex said you deserved it.
And you believed him. You believed him for so long that you forgot you could say no.
But not anymore.
Now you had Clark.
Now you had a reason to fight.
You stepped over the guards’ bodies and left the cell. The hallway was long and white, just as it had always been. The alarm activated immediately. Red lights flashing. A loud, irritating sound filling the entire place.
You ran.
Most of the doors were locked, sealed by security. So you used your powers. You pushed with your mind, with the energy flowing from your hands, and the doors burst open by force, shattering locks, ripping metal frames apart.
Corridors. More corridors.
Then came the guards. They fired. Bullets flew toward you. You deflected them effortlessly with a movement of your hand, sending them ricocheting into the walls.
You kept running.
And then, as you were deflecting those bullets, a blow slammed into your body. Something enormous, something unstoppable, lifted you off the ground and smashed you against the wall. The impact was so brutal you felt the air leave your lungs.
You fell to the floor, coughing, your vision blurred.
“Bad, bad, bad.”
Luthor’s voice came from speakers mounted in the corners of every hallway. Your head hurt. Your ribs hurt. You lifted your eyes and saw the man standing before you, the same one who had knocked you unconscious in the apartment.
He did not move.
He only stared at you, waiting.
“Did you think it would be easy?” Luthor continued, his voice almost cheerful, as if he were enjoying the spectacle. “No one betrays Luthor, my dear project. Never.” A pause followed. A silence that froze your blood. “Besides, you couldn’t leave without being properly introduced to my newest creation. The one who is going to replace you.”
The man in front of you slowly lifted his hands, calm, as if he were in no hurry.
Then he removed his mask.
Your pulse stopped for a second.
Maybe longer.
Your lips trembled. Your heart stopped beating, then began again harder, faster, more afraid. Because it was like looking at Superman. A corrupted version of him, yes, but still. The same strong face. The same jaw. The same dark hair, though longer, more unkempt.
But no.
It was not Superman.
It was worse.
It was like looking at Clark.
Clark without the glasses. Clark with dark, empty eyes, without a soul, without love. Clark the way you had once been. The way they had raised you to be.
A project.
A weapon.
A thing without feelings.
“Meet Ultraman,” Luthor said, pride overflowing in his voice. “Isn’t he nearly perfect? A few small defects, perhaps, but better than you. Much better.”
You shook your head. It could not be. There could not be another like him. There could not be another like you.
“I’m certain he would kill Clark Kent,” Luthor continued, as if thinking out loud. “But first, he has to kill you. A little training exercise, don’t you think? A warm-up.”
And then Ultraman attacked.
You had no time to react. His enormous hand closed around your throat and lifted you off the ground. He flew with you, squeezing your airway, crashing you through the hallway walls.
Wall after wall.
Your back hit concrete. Your head struck hard. The pain was immense.
Then he released you.
You dropped to the floor like a rag, groaning, blood running down your forehead. Before you could stand, he lunged again.
But this time, you flew upward, covering your body in green energy to escape. The energy shielded you, strengthened you. You shot through the hallway, but he followed.
He was fast.
Too fast.
He caught you, seized your wrist, and when he lifted his other arm to strike you, your energy stopped him for one second.
Only one.
He shoved you back, and before you could see it coming, he hurled you downward. You gasped as you hit the floor. Something cracked inside you.
A rib, maybe.
Or something worse.
“And one more thing,” Luthor said through the speakers, like a narrator enjoying his own show. “He knows Superman’s movements as well as yours. He studied you just as much as he studied Superman. There are no secrets from him. No tricks.”
You swallowed, staring up.
Ultraman watched you from above, floating in the air with his arms crossed. He was in no hurry.
He knew he was going to win.
You began to attack him. Green spheres of energy shot from your hands straight toward him. Entire walls wrapped in your energy rose from the floor to trap him. But he was strong. Too strong. He broke through everything with his laser vision, like Superman. Like Clark. You fell once. Then again. Then again. Blood dripped from your nose. Your entire body hurt. There were only minutes left before eight. Clark had to be at the restaurant by now. Because whenever you had dates, he always arrived early. Always. It was his way of saying he did not want to lose a single second with you. But this time, you did not even know if you would ever see him again. If you were going to get out of there. If you were going to stay alive.
He threw another massive wall at you. He lifted it from the ground and hurled it in your direction. You stopped it before it could crush you, your hands trembling, your arms on the verge of breaking. The effort was titanic.
You shoved the wall off you with a cry of effort. You stood. You were going to attack him. You were going to give everything you had. But he moved with a speed your eyes could not follow. Everything happened too fast. His hand appeared at your back. He was close to you. For one second, only one second, you looked into his eyes. And you saw Clark’s eyes. The same ones. The same color. The same shape. But empty. Like a broken mirror.
You gasped. He held you still without expression, watching your reaction as if he were barely learning what it meant. As if he did not know what tears were.
You placed your hand over Ultraman’s other one. The same hand where he had buried a dagger. A strange dagger, glowing green and purple at the same time. You looked at him with tears in your eyes. You did not want to cry. But you could not stop it. He drove it in deeper. You trembled. Gasped. You felt the poison entering your blood, spreading through your body like frozen fire.
And then you felt your body move. The dagger was no longer in his hand. It was Lex. Lex Luthor had arrived, had stepped close without you seeing him, and now he held your body and the dagger’s handle in his hand. You looked at him without understanding. Your vision blurred. Everything became hazy.
“I’m sorry, Clark,” you thought. The words formed inside your head like a prayer, like a whisper he would never hear. “I’m sorry I won’t make it to the restaurant. I’m sorry I never told you how much I love you. Not even my first ‘I love you.’ I’m sorry I wasn’t honest. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you everything from the beginning. I’m sorry I lied to you, even if it was through silence. I’m sorry I didn’t kiss you one more time before leaving. I’m sorry I didn’t stay that night. I’m sorry for everything. I’m sorry for everything, Clark. Everything.”
“My sweet, sweet project,” you heard Luthor’s voice pull you back to the present. He caressed your cheek with his cold hand, with a softness that disgusted you more than any blow ever could. His fingers traced your skin as if you were a pet, as if you were something pretty that belonged to him. “Do you know the best part?” he said, leaning close to your ear. His voice was a poisonous whisper, so close you could feel his warm breath against your skin. “How were you supposed to tell the man who was in love with you that sooner or later, you were going to betray him so I could stand face-to-face with Superman? How were you going to look him in the eyes and say, ‘I love you, but I was going to hand you over too’? See? This was better. I did you a favor. I spared you the shame. I spared you from having to see his face when he learned the truth.”
You looked at him in desperation. Your eyes, already fading, tried to throw hatred at him, but only sadness came out. You did not want his words to be true. But something inside you knew he was right. Not because of what you wanted. Because of what you were. Because of what they had made you into. Because you had been created to betray. Created to hurt. And even if you had wanted to change, even if you had wanted to be different, your fate had been written before you were even born.
“Don’t worry,” Luthor continued, straightening up and wiping his hand on his jacket as if he had touched something filthy. “Ultraman can finish your work for you. That dagger was necessary. Created from flowing energy and poisoned kryptonite. I just want you to know...” He paused. He looked at you with his cold eyes, without mercy, without a single trace of humanity. “Just as I created you, I can discard you. You are not the first. You will not be the last. You are only another number, L008L. That is all. You were never anything more.”
Those were his last words. He pulled the dagger out in one brutal motion. Blood spilled from your body, hot, too hot, and yet you felt cold. So cold. Your eyes slowly dimmed. The white ceiling blurred above you. The edges of your vision darkened. You could barely feel the pain anymore. Only an immense exhaustion. A deep sleep calling to you from the very core of your being. Your body fell to the floor with a dull thud. Blood spread beneath you like red wings. Your lips tried to form one word. Just one. The most important one.
Maybe it was not the life I wanted, you thought as the light went out forever. But I will never regret meeting you, Clark. Never. Not one day. Not one second. In the end, you freed me. You made me feel human. You gave me something no one had ever given me before: a reason to want to live. And even though I couldn’t stay... I leave peacefully. Because I had you. Because I felt you. Because for a few months, I was yours. And you were mine.
Maybe in another life, Clark. Maybe in another life I can have a better life. Maybe in another life I can be a real person. Someone who deserves you. Someone who can stay by your side forever. Maybe in another life, when you arrive at the restaurant, I will already be waiting for you with a smile. Maybe in another life I can tell you ‘I love you’ every morning. Maybe in another life, Clark... maybe in another life.
I love you, I love you, Clark...
And then, nothing. Silence. Darkness. Cold. Your heart, the one you believed you did not have, the one Clark had awakened with a touch inside an elevator, stopped. The heartbeats that had leapt with happiness when he kissed you, that had trembled with fear when Luthor caught you, that had cried with sorrow when you thought of never seeing him again... faded. One after another. Until none were left.
You never found out that Clark waited for you with a bouquet of purple and yellow tulips, the ones you liked because you said they looked like little suns. He had chosen them one by one at the flower shop, asking which were the prettiest, which would last the longest. The florist had laughed at him because he kept changing his mind. “They’re for someone special,” Clark had said with flushed cheeks. “For someone very special.”
You never knew that inside a small box lined with blue velvet was the key to his apartment. The one he was going to give you so you could spend more time with him. So you could stay. So you would know his home was yours too. He had gone to the hardware store that very morning, made a copy of his key, and placed it inside the little box as if it were a treasure. “I hope she likes it,” he had told the locksmith, who looked at him strangely. “I’m sure she will,” Clark replied, though he was not sure of anything.
You never knew he had rehearsed again and again in the men’s bathroom at work, standing in front of the mirror with a crumpled paper in his hand. That he had repeated the words until he memorized them, though he had written them down too, just in case. He had locked himself in the bathroom five times that day. His coworkers wondered what was wrong with him. Lois asked if he was sick. “No, no,” Clark said, “I’m just nervous.” “Nervous about what?” Lois asked. “Nothing,” Clark lied. And then he went back to rehearsing.
“I thought I would never meet the love of my life,” he whispered in the bathroom, looking at himself in the mirror, holding the crumpled paper he could barely read anymore after folding and unfolding it so many times. “And then you appeared as if it were nothing. And I thought it was a dream. But I love you. I love you so much that keeping it to myself any longer would be bad for my heart, because I don’t like lying, and lying to you would be not telling you this. So here I am. Here I am, telling you that I love you. That I love you and I want to spend the rest of my life with you. If you want that, of course. I don’t want to pressure you. But if you want to... I do.”
You never knew that he kept watching every time the restaurant door opened. That his heart jumped at every sound. That he ordered a glass of water just to have something in his hands, because he did not know what to do with his nerves. That he checked the clock every two minutes. That the tulips began to wilt on the table, their yellow and purple petals losing color, falling one by one like silent tears. That the waiter asked if he wanted to order something and he said, “No, not yet. She’s about to arrive.” That the waiter came back half an hour later and said, “Are you sure you don’t want to order something while you wait?” And Clark said, “No, thank you. She’ll be here any minute.” That the waiter walked away with a pitying smile, looking at him with sadness.
You never knew that the hours passed. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten. The restaurant slowly emptied. Couples left hand in hand. Groups of friends said goodbye while laughing. The lights were turned off one by one. And Clark stayed there, sitting in the same chair, with the wilted tulips and the velvet box in his pocket, warm against his leg because he had touched it a thousand times to make sure it was still there.
You never knew he was the last customer in the restaurant. That the waiter had to tell him, regretfully, that they were closing. That Clark lifted his face, and for one second, the waiter saw something in his eyes he could not explain. An enormous sadness. An emptiness too vast to fit inside one person.
“Sir,” the waiter said gently, “I’m very sorry, but we’re closing now. We’ve actually been closed for an hour. We didn’t want to bother you, but...”
Clark blinked. He looked around. The restaurant was empty. Chairs were stacked on top of tables. The floor had been swept. Almost all the lights were off, except the one above his table. He had been waiting so long that he had not noticed everything slowly going dark around him.
“I’m sorry,” Clark said, his voice hoarse. He stood slowly, as if moving hurt. He took money from his pocket and left it on the table. Much more than necessary. He took the tulips and walked out slowly, aimlessly, with his heart heavier than ever. The streets were empty. The wind blew cold. Clark walked without knowing where he was going. He just walked. And walked. Until he reached the door of your apartment without knowing how.
You never knew that he did not sleep that night. That he called your phone again and again. Once. Ten times. Thirty. A hundred. That the phone rang and rang and no one answered. That he left messages at first, nervous, worried messages. “Hi, it’s me. Are you okay? I got to the restaurant. I waited for you. Did something happen? Please call me.” Then sadder messages. “Hey, it’s already eleven. Where are you? I’m worried because you’re not answering. Please call me when you get this.” Then more desperate ones. “It’s two in the morning. I called everywhere. No one knows where you are. Please, please answer me. Don’t do this to me. Don’t disappear like this. I’m begging you.” And then, near dawn, there was only one blank message. Thirty seconds of silence. Because he no longer had any words left.
You never knew that he went to your apartment and knocked on the door until his hand hurt. That he called the neighbors. That he asked people on the street. That no one had seen anything. That no one knew anything. That he sat on the hallway floor with his back against your door and waited until the sun came up. And when the sun rose, he was still there. With dead tulips in his pocket and the key he never got to give you. And he stayed there for much longer, until the building doorman had to ask him to leave because the neighbors were complaining.
You never knew that Clark returned the next day. And the next. And the next. That he searched hospitals, police stations, everywhere. That he used his powers, his superhero hearing, to listen for your voice somewhere. But he did not hear you. Because you could no longer speak. Because your voice had gone with your blood, with your heart, with your final breath. And Clark, no matter how hard he listened, no matter how much he flew across the city, no matter how many numbers he called... never found you. Because Luthor had erased you. Because the laboratories were hidden. Because the walls were thick and shielded. And because you were no longer anywhere.
You never knew that Clark never found out what happened. He never knew you had a number on your shoulder. He never knew you were a project. He never knew Luthor had created you. He never knew you had been sent to kill him. He never knew you protected him until the end. He never knew you died without telling him the truth. He never knew your final thought was him. He never knew you loved him. Because you never told him. Because you never had time. Because death arrived before your words could.
You never knew that you protected his secret with your soul. That not once, not even when the dagger was inside you, not even when you could feel death so close you could almost touch it, did his name escape your lips. You did not say that Clark was Superman. You did not betray him. You protected him. With your final breath. With your final thought. With the last beat of your heart. You protected him. And he never knew. He never knew that the girl who arrived at the Daily Planet with a false name and a rehearsed smile, the girl who blushed when he held her hand, the girl who kissed as if every kiss might be the last... had saved him. Without him doing anything. Alone. With her silence. With her death.
Maybe in another life, Clark would not have let you go that night. Maybe he would have stayed one more minute. Maybe he would have held you tighter, longer, as if something inside him told him it was the last time. Maybe he would have said, “Don’t go alone,” and walked you to your door. Maybe he would have gone upstairs with you. Maybe he would have been there. Maybe he would have heard Luthor. Maybe he would have seen Ultraman. Maybe he could have done something. Maybe he would have saved you. Maybe everything would have been different.
But this life was not made of maybes. This life was made of pain. Of projects. Of numbers on shoulders. Of owners who create you and discard you as if you were trash. And sometimes, only sometimes, it was made of loves that arrive too late. Loves that arrive right when there is no time left. Loves that teach you what it means to be human just before you stop being one.
And maybe that, even if it hurts more than any dagger, is enough. Maybe for Clark, it will not be. Maybe he will spend the rest of his life wondering what happened, why you left, why you disappeared without saying anything, why you did not answer the phone, why you never arrived at the restaurant, why the tulips wilted alone on the table while he waited for you with a velvet box in his pocket. Maybe he will never find answers. Maybe he will always wonder. Maybe he will always look for you without knowing there is nothing left to find.
Because you are no longer here. Because you left the same way you arrived: in silence, without anyone seeing it, without anyone knowing. Alone. Like a project that stopped working one day. Like a light going out, and no one noticing it was gone.
A nice fanfic because the next one might be a bit too much…
Clark Kent x female reader
Sinopsis: Clark Kent never gets sick. At least, that’s what he always tells you. But after a brutal battle leaves Superman weakened in ways no one expected, you’re suddenly forced to take care of the strongest man in the world through a fever that shakes buildings, freezes floors, and leaves him trembling in your arms.
Warnings: Fluff and romance
WC: 2,900 words approx.
The work trip had only one goal: It was normal that when people transitioned from the spring to the autumn season, they got sick. You, more than anyone, knew that very well. That was why you took care of yourself as best you could, because you hated injections. It was a trauma you'd had since you were a child, due to your weak immune system. They had to give you shots for almost two full weeks, and for a twelve-year-old girl, you had to admit it was a real trauma. So, to avoid going through the same thing again, you took a packet of vitamin C every morning. And there was no problem with that, because that way you managed not to get sick.
Now that you had a boyfriend like Clark, it was clear that you always sought to take care of both of you. Ever since you moved in with him, you kept up your morning vitamin routine. And even before you found out his big secret—that he was Superman and led a double life—Clark took his vitamin with you. So you would prepare two glasses with the dissolved vitamin powder, and he would drink it without complaint. He never said anything, never grumbled. He just smiled and drank it while looking at you affectionately.
That lasted until he told you his secret, in the middle of the living room, sitting together on the sofa. He looked at you with fear, having revealed something so monumental, as if he thought you might get scared or angry. But you just stayed silent for a moment, thinking.
"So you can't get sick?" you asked, staring at him.
Clark smiled, feeling very relieved to be able to tell his secret to the most special person in his life. "No," he said, and very carefully tucked your stray hair behind your ear.
You frowned, a little confused. "And if you can't get sick, why do you take the vitamin I give you to prevent getting sick?" you asked, looking at him curiously.
His cheeks flushed deeply, so much so that he hesitated a bit before answering. "Well… it's a routine I enjoy sharing with you," he admitted with a slightly shy smile.
You smiled too, because you found it very endearing. From that moment on, Clark stopped taking the vitamin, since he truly didn't need it. But that didn't stop you from still taking care of him just the same. If you went out and it started to rain, you would take off your coat and give him his to put on.
"Beautiful, I don't get sick," he would say, laughing a little.
But you would look at him with those eyes he could never refuse. "But we match," you would tell him. And it was true, because you both had blue coats, so he would put it on just to keep you at ease.
In winter, when the cold was too harsh, you would wrap his scarf around his neck before going out. And on sunny days, you would put on your cap and he would do the same, because you had bought an identical one for him. He always told you the same thing: "I can't get sick. I'm strong." But you still weren't entirely sure. To you, he was still Clark, your boyfriend, and you wanted to protect him just as he protected you.
Even so, for several days you had known that the Justice League was facing a very powerful enemy. The news said Superman was having difficulties, and that left you on edge, very nervous. You worked in a call center office, and whenever you could, you checked your phone. But there was no message from Clark. He had gone three days without rest, and you were very worried about his health. When you got home that night, you realized it would be your fourth night without sleeping beside him. You missed him terribly.
You sighed and paced back and forth across the living room, not knowing what to do. The sun set completely and everything went dark. Then you heard a thud at the window. You saw Green Lantern helping Clark inside, stumbling, almost falling.
"Here's your woman, Clark," said Guy Gardner, the Green Lantern, and then he looked at you.
"Guy? What happened?" you asked, running toward Clark, who was moving very slowly, as if struggling to put one foot in front of the other.
"I'm fine," Clark said, but you heard something off in his voice. You noticed he didn't pronounce the letter 'e' correctly.
"You're not fine," Guy said. "His exposure to the enemy—by the way, we already defeated him—weakened him a lot." Guy placed him on the sofa you pointed to. "And you could say, in human terms, he has a fever."
You looked at Clark, who was pale and shaking slightly. You were about to touch him, but Gardner stopped you with his hand. "He's boiling. He can't cool down on his own until the sun rises in about eight hours," he explained.
You nodded, looking at Clark with concern. "I suppose it's like a human cold, right?" you said.
Gardner nodded. Just then, Clark sneezed. It was such a powerful sneeze that the whole apartment shook, and even your crystal vase fell to the floor and shattered.
"Sorry," Clark said, sniffling hard.
"I'll handle it," you told the Green Lantern, your voice firm.
"You sure?" Guy asked. You nodded again. "Anything happens, you know how to contact us. Good luck with your man and his sudden changes," he said, and flew off swiftly through the window.
You closed the window and started thinking. "First, we'll bring your temperature down," you announced, moving quickly. "I'll get the blankets out here, and we'll change your clothes."
"I'm fine," Clark said again, but his voice sounded weak. Then another sneeze shook the air, and this time a picture hanging on the wall fell down, making you jump. "Sorry," he whispered, sniffling again, a small pout on his lips. He looked like a big child who didn't want to cause trouble.
You ran to the bedroom and brought everything to the living room: blankets, a pillow, his pajamas. First, Clark lay down on the sofa with a pillow, with nothing covering him. You placed a large bucket with water and a lot of ice, too much ice. You reached out to touch his forehead, and barely grazing his skin, you had to pull away immediately. It burned as if you had touched a lit stove.
"Oh, Clark," you said, your eyes wide. "You're super hot. I can't even touch you."
He groaned, squeezing his eyes shut. "I know… it hurts," he whispered, and another sneeze made the windows rattle. This time, a glass on the table fell and rolled across the floor, but luckily it didn't break.
You carefully took the cloth, dipped it in the ice water, and brought it close to his skin. The moment the cold cloth touched his forehead, it started to steam slightly. The ice melted instantly. You had to wet the cloth again and again, nonstop. Every time you placed it, he sighed in relief for a second, but then groaned again as the heat returned.
"Again," he asked, his voice broken. "Put it on again, please." And you did, over and over, without tiring. Your hands were already red from constantly plunging them into the icy water, but you didn't care.
Nearly an hour passed like this. Clark sneezed every few minutes, and each sneeze made the furniture shift slightly or caused something to fall. At one point, he sneezed so hard that the ceiling lamp swayed as if an earthquake had hit.
"Sorry, I'm sorry," he said, his eyes teary, pouting again. His lower lip trembled. "I don't want to break anything, love. I don't want to…"
"It's okay," you told him, gently wiping the cloth across his face. "The things don't matter. You're the one who matters."
When the cloth finally started to stay cold on his skin for longer, you felt brave enough to remove his suit. Very carefully, you began taking it off him. He could barely move, so you had to help him by lifting his arms little by little. You left him in just his underwear, and at that moment, his skin changed completely. Suddenly, the heat vanished as if someone had extinguished a fire.
"I'm cold," Clark whispered, and his voice sounded so small it broke your heart. "So cold, love."
He began to tremble uncontrollably. His teeth chattered together, making a tiny sound. His lips turned purple, and his face became as pale as snow. You touched him, and this time it was like touching a block of ice. You were a little frightened, but you remembered what Guy had told you: sudden changes.
"I'm coming, I'm coming," you said, rushing to get more blankets. You grabbed every single one you had in the closet, even the oldest and thinnest. You piled them on him one by one. First one, then another, then another. Clark was still shivering, so you added two more. You lay down beside him on the sofa and held him tight, rubbing his arms and back to warm him up.
"Don't let go," he said, his voice breaking. "Please, don't let me go."
"I won't let you go," you promised, squeezing him tighter.
Several minutes passed until he finally stopped trembling. He sighed deeply and buried his face in your neck. "Stay with me," he whispered. And you stroked his hair, kissing his head every so often.
Suddenly, Clark coughed. It was a dry, harsh cough, and as he coughed, a blast of icy wind came from his mouth, freezing a patch of the floor. You looked at the ice, then at him. His eyes were wide, frightened.
"I'm so sorry," he said, and again he made that pout with his lips, like a child who has just accidentally broken something. "I don't want to hurt anything."
"It's nothing, Clark," you told him with a calm smile. "I'm going to make you soup and tea for the cough. But first, I need you to blow your nose."
You handed him a clean cloth, and he blew his nose. It was a very loud sound, like a trumpet, and as he did, another sneeze shook the living room. This time, the vase on the shelf fell and shattered into a thousand pieces.
"Oh no," Clark moaned, and a tear escaped down his cheek. "Everything breaks. I'm a wreck when I'm sick, and the neighbors are going to come and complain to you."
You knelt in front of him and wiped the tear away with your finger. "Hey, look at me," you said, affectionate but firm. "You take care of everyone, all the time. Now it's my turn to take care of you. If things break, that's fine. If the neighbors complain, I'll find an excuse. Do you understand?"
Clark nodded, but he was still pouting. "Do you still love me even if I break all your things?"
"I love you even if you break the whole building," you told him, and he let out a weak laugh that ended in another cough.
You went to the kitchen and prepared a hot soup and some tea. When you returned with the bowl and the cup on the small table, Clark was calmer, but still very weak. You helped him sit up a little, placing a pillow behind his back.
"Here, eat slowly," you told him, bringing the spoon closer.
He ate very slowly. Every other spoonful, he would sneeze or cough, and you already had the cloth ready to cover his mouth or wipe his nose. At one point, while eating, he started talking to himself, his eyes half-closed.
"My mom… my mom makes soup like this," he murmured, and then smiled goofily. "But you make it better… don't tell her."
You smiled, knowing he was delirious again. "I won't tell her," you whispered.
"And flowers… you like yellow flowers," he continued, moving his head from side to side. "I'm going to buy you a whole field of them. An entire field just for you. Would you like that?"
"I would love that," you replied, giving him another spoonful of soup.
"And peaches," he added, his eyes glossy and unfocused. "You like peaches. I'm going to bring you peaches from space. The peaches from Krypton are the best… though I don't know if there are peaches on Krypton." He paused, confused. "I don't think there are. But I'll get you some anyway."
You couldn't help but laugh softly. He was so adorable, talking in his sleep. He finished the soup and drank all the tea. Then you used your last remedy: two packets of vitamin C. He took them whole, and as he swallowed them, he made a face like a child given bad-tasting medicine.
"Disgusting," he protested, frowning. "Why do I have to take this if I'm already getting better?"
"Because I said so," you answered, and he made another pout, but this time softer, more like a pretend one.
Finally, he managed to half-open his eyes. They were teary and blue, and they looked at you weakly. He was very depleted. You had never seen him like this, so sick.
"I never get sick because I'm strong," you repeated what he always said, but this time with tenderness.
He sniffled, and that made you smile. "When the sun rises, you'll get better," you whispered, stroking his cheek again.
"I hate being like this," he said in a small voice. "I hate not being able to hug you tight because my arms are shaking. I hate sneezing and breaking things. I hate you seeing me so weak."
"You're not weak," you told him, taking his hand in yours. "You're sick. It's different. And I don't mind seeing you like this, because I've looked like this many times myself, and you never left me alone."
Clark looked at you with his big, wet eyes. "Will you stay with me until the sun comes out?"
"I'll stay," you said without hesitation.
"And do you still love me even when I pout?"
You smiled and touched his nose with your finger. "I love you more when you pout."
He smiled weakly and then yawned. "Take the vitamins again," you said confidently, leaving no room for doubt.
"I just need a little sunlight," he replied, shaking his head slightly, but without letting go of your hand.
"And vitamins," you said, and then yawned without being able to stop it.
"Go to sleep, you're tired," he said, his tone a little ashamed.
You shook your head. "You're here. I've spent three days alone in the bedroom. I want to be with you," you admitted, looking into his eyes.
He nodded, understanding. Then you stayed by his side, curled up next to him on the sofa, one hand on his chest to feel his breathing. Clark sneezed two more times, but they were softer now, and you wiped the cloth without saying anything, just kissing his shoulder. He made a small pout each time, as if apologizing, and you just smiled at him.
The hours passed like that, until four-thirty in the morning, when he finally managed to fall asleep. You fell asleep on the small sofa, with a blanket over you, but without letting go of his hand.
When you woke up, you turned over and felt that you were in your bed. You opened your eyes and sat up immediately, so fast that you felt a little dizzy. You looked at the clock: it was eight-thirty in the morning. You had barely slept four hours. You blinked, trying to wake up properly, and walked to the kitchen. Things were already prepared: bread, juice, everything tidy. Then you turned and saw Clark sitting on a chair, looking out the window. The sun was shining directly on his face, and he looked rested.
You smiled and approached without making a sound. You placed yourself behind him, without moving him. He tilted his head back to see you, and you kissed his forehead. It was normal, no fever.
"Did I wake you?" he whispered, his voice calm.
"No, I just got up and you weren't in the living room anymore," you said, wrapping your arms around him.
"As soon as the sun came up, I carried you to bed and came here to recharge. I didn't want you to sleep badly," he explained. He pulled back slightly and stood up to come closer to you. "Let's go sleep. Yesterday was a very long night for you," he said as his thumb gently traced the dark circles under your eyes. "Thank you for taking care of me," he added, holding your cheeks in his large, warm hands.
You smiled, your cheeks squished by his hands. "I would do it my whole life," you admitted without hesitation.
He smiled and kissed you softly. "Now you have to listen to me when it rains or gets cold, and always take your vitamins," you said, pointing to the spot where the vase and the pictures used to be, which were gone now because they had broken. "Otherwise, next time you'll end up destroying the whole apartment."
"Yes, sorry," he said, laughing softly as he took your hand and led you toward the bedroom.
They lay down together, and he hugged you tightly. You closed your eyes, feeling at peace, and the two of you slept again, finally resting.
Could we have like a ‘at work’ nsfw thing, or a drunk reader or maybe like a work trip? not sure but im so glad requests at open!
Heatwave in Montana (+18)
Clark Kent x female reader
Sinopsis: A work trip to Montana was supposed to be simple: secure an impossible interview for the Daily Planet. But after too much wine, one hotel room, and months of unresolved tension, you realize Clark Kent has become far more dangerous to your heart than any assignment ever could.
Warnings: 18+ Explicit Sexual Content, Unprotected Sex, Explicit Language, Multiple Orgasms, Heavy Sexual Tension
WC: 11,100 words approx.
The work trip had only one objective: to get businessman Jonathan Hitman to grant an interview to discuss the massive investment he had made for technological advancement in Metropolis. This was no ordinary investment—we're talking about millions of dollars allocated to improving communication networks, smart transportation systems, and even clean energy for the entire city. That was why Perry White, the editor-in-chief of the Daily Planet, had placed all his bets on this mission. Hitman was a difficult man, the kind who rarely agreed to speak with the press, and when he did, it was because he himself chose the journalist. So the only way to get close to him was to travel to Montana, where an extremely exclusive conference of businessmen was taking place—the kind that not just anyone could attend. And there you would be, waiting for the right moment to ask him for a few minutes.
Perry was very direct, as he always was. He didn't beat around the bush or use pretty words; he got straight to the point because time at the newspaper was gold. He called you into his office, with that desk always littered with papers and half-empty coffee cups, and said without even fully looking up:
"An interview—that will put it on the front page, and it needs to be there," he said before sending you off, in that tone that left no room for a "no" in response.
You accepted, because after all, it was work. And work paid the bills, the rent on your apartment, the food, and those little indulgences you treated yourself to from time to time. Besides, it wasn't the first time they had sent you on a complicated mission. You had already done harder things, like interviewing furious politicians or covering protests where people threw things at you. So you steeled yourself with patience, packed your suitcase, and flew to Montana. Somehow, after hours of travel, boring conferences, and handshakes with people you would forget by the next minute, you ended up in an elegant restaurant after dinner. It was one of those places with dim lighting, white tablecloths, and crystal glasses so thin they looked like they would shatter with just a breath. There were many people there, all of them major businessmen, company owners, men and women in expensive suits with measured smiles. And of course, Jonathan Hitman was there, at the center of it all, surrounded by people who wanted to sell him something or ask for a favor. You had also been invited, like all the conference attendees, but you had the luck to be seated at that table, right next to the man you needed to convince. It was pure chance, or perhaps a sign that things might go well.
But that wasn't the real problem. Oh no, of course not. The real problem had arrived much earlier, and it had nothing to do with interviews or important businessmen. Your problem had arrived yesterday—well, actually a few days ago, when you had your period. And now, to your misfortune, your phase was ovulation. You knew that phase wasn't good for you; it never had been. You were single, you lived alone, you had a huge king-size bed all to yourself, and normally you could take advantage of those days to come home, take off your clothes as soon as you walked in, put on something comfortable, and "relieve stress" without anyone seeing you. But you hadn't been able to do that because of the work trip. You had been in hotels, on planes, in conference rooms, sharing a room with a colleague or sleeping poorly due to the time change. And somehow, you hated that stage of the month with all your soul. You believed that women found men attractive even when they really weren't. You had read piles of articles on evolutionary psychology, like the ovulatory shift hypothesis, which said that during those days, women felt more attracted to men with pronounced masculine traits—strong jaws, broad shoulders, and deep voices. Even men who had previously seemed plain to you, with nothing special, now had marked features, as if someone had passed a beauty filter over them. But to your bad luck, only one woman shared the table with you in that restaurant. The other six were men, pure businessmen in elegant suits and expensive wedding rings, including the big one, the important one, the one you had to convince for the interview. And despite that, despite there being so many men around, your gaze was only on the man beside you. The man who adjusted his glasses from time to time, pushing them up with a finger. The man whose arm brushed against yours when he leaned over to get wine, or when he laughed at some bad joke. The man who smiled and quickly lowered his gaze, as if embarrassed to be seen smiling.
Your gaze was on Clark. And that made things worse.
It was your second year at the Daily Planet. You had been there a while now, long enough to know almost everyone in the newsroom. And in fact, it wasn't the first time something like this had happened with him. Before working at the Planet, you had a clear rule: no getting involved with people from work. It was a rule you had set for yourself after a bad experience at a previous newspaper, where things got complicated and you ended up changing jobs. So when you arrived at the Planet, you decided you would just ignore everyone in that sense, that they would be only colleagues, nothing more. But then a month passed, and one day Clark approached you. He told you that Perry had asked for you both to collaborate on a series of articles about scientific topics. You looked at him, looked at his features, his square jaw, his eyes so clear a blue that they seemed to shine under the fluorescent light of the office, and you swore your own eyes lit up when you saw him. You don't know if it was real or just your imagination, but something happened. You didn't stop thinking about him for days. You smiled for no reason, got distracted staring at the ceiling, remembering how he had said your name. Until your ovulation passed, and then everything went back to normal. You looked at him, and he was just Clark, the kind colleague, the shy guy with glasses. But the assignments kept bringing you together. Perry paired you up often because, according to him, you made a good team. You stayed late at the office, drinking coffee while editing notes. He helped you with the science topics that sometimes got complicated for you, and you helped him with writing interviews, which he wasn't as good at. And then another month came, and another, and Clark owned your thoughts during those days. Only during those days. But it felt so real, so intense, that it seemed like it would last forever.
So that day was the same. It started from the moment you took the flight to Montana. Clark sat next to you, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. You watched his profile as he read a document—his defined jaw, that little dimple that formed on his cheek when he smiled. Then, when he crossed glances with you, you noticed a slight blush on his cheeks, a rosy color that was barely visible but that you caught instantly. That always happened; you noticed the little things about Clark. No one else saw them, surely, but you did. Now, seated beside you after the conference, in that luxurious restaurant, he brushed his shoulder against yours again, and a shiver ran down your spine. You took your wine glass with a trembling hand, trying to hide it, and saw how he also took his with his large hand, veins visible under the skin, long and careful fingers. He was a man with such an innocent face, with that way of adjusting his glasses and laughing softly, but with a body so... perfect, so broad-shouldered, that you couldn't think only good things about him. Your mind wandered to other places, to other things, to images that made you press your legs together under the table.
He was smiling, laughing, even though you yourself knew the jokes at that table weren't really that funny. They were rich men's jokes—about money, about yacht trips, about things you couldn't care less about. But you had to laugh if you wanted that interview, so you put on a fake smile and nodded along, while inside you could only think about Clark, about his leg so close to yours, about his elbow brushing your arm.
"So you both work for the Daily Planet," said businessman Hitman, looking intently at the two of you. He had a well-trimmed beard and a gold ring on his pinky finger. His gaze was intense, the kind that makes you feel like he's reading your mind.
You inwardly lamented. You had drunk nearly six glasses of wine to control your thoughts about Clark, but it hadn't worked. If anything, the alcohol had only made you hotter, made your skin more sensitive, made every brush from Clark feel like a small explosion. Even so, you made an effort. You looked professional—after all, you worked at the newsroom and they spoke your name with recognition because you had built a career before arriving at the Planet. You had worked at small newspapers, at local magazines, until a year after joining the Planet, you had already made a name for yourself in journalism.
"Yes, of course," you answered with a polite smile, trying to keep your voice from trembling. Beside you, Clark also nodded, adjusting his glasses with that characteristic gesture of his.
"I remember you now," a man on the other side of the table suddenly said. He was a gray-haired gentleman with two days' worth of stubble and a curious look. He stared at you, and you looked back without understanding at first, raising an eyebrow. The man smiled, as if he had found a piece of a puzzle. "You're the woman who interviewed the president of Wayne Industries, Bruce Wayne, two years ago. Right after he announced that multimillion-dollar investment in renewable energy. It was a very long interview; it came out in all the international newspapers."
Jonathan Hitman, who until that moment had been looking at his wine glass with boredom, lifted his head and looked at you with interest. His eyes settled on you in a new way, as if he were only now truly seeing you.
"Wayne Industries?" Hitman asked, leaning forward slightly. "That man never gives interviews. How did you get him to agree?"
You took a sip of wine to buy time, to calm your nerves. You could feel Clark's gaze beside you, also attentive, also curious. You nodded gently, trying to seem modest but confident.
"That was me," you said, and your voice came out firmer than you expected. "I did that interview when I was working in Italy, at a newsroom there. It took me three months to get it, but in the end Bruce Wayne agreed because he was interested in the angle I wanted to take—no scandals, no talk about his personal life, just the technological side and social investment."
"Incredible," said another businessman, a young one in a blue suit. "I read that interview too. It was very well written, very detailed. You asked questions no one else had dared to ask."
"And with very few words, you got him to explain complicated things in a simple way," added a woman at the far end, the only other woman at the table. She smiled at you with respect.
Hitman nodded slowly, as if he were evaluating you. He had his arms crossed over his chest, and his gaze was no longer bored but curious. You were achieving something; you could feel it.
Then the woman who had spoken earlier, the only other woman besides you at the table, pointed at Clark with a nod of her head. She wore an elegant black dress and a pearl necklace that reflected the candlelight.
"And you," she said, looking at Clark, "you're the one who interviews Superman, right? The Daily Planet journalist who always gets the exclusive stories about the man of steel. I've seen your byline on several articles."
There was a silence at the table. Hitman looked at both of you, first at you, then at Clark, with an expression that mixed surprise and skepticism. He raised an eyebrow, as if he didn't quite believe it.
"Really?" Hitman asked, and his tone was questioning, as if he were testing your word. "You interview Superman? The one who flies through the skies of Metropolis that no one can pin down for more than five minutes?"
Clark adjusted his glasses with a quick motion, and for a second you thought you saw something strange in his eyes, like an odd glimmer that vanished instantly. He nodded calmly, with that tranquil way he had of doing things.
"Yes, I've been fortunate enough to interview him several times," Clark said, in his soft, measured voice. "He's someone who… trusts me, for some reason. I suppose he likes the way I tell the stories."
You nodded as well, without hesitation. It was true; Clark was the only journalist who could get Superman to speak. No one knew how he did it, but he did it. And that had earned him considerable fame within the newspaper, though he never boasted about it.
Hitman looked at both of you in silence for a moment. The noise of the restaurant continued around you—the clinking of glasses, the laughter from other tables—but in that moment, all of it seemed to disappear. The businessman had his fingers interlaced on the table, and his expression shifted from skepticism to something resembling decision.
"Then you have your interview," he said finally, in a firm voice. "Tomorrow, my assistant will send you the address of my hotel. We need to meet and get this interview done. But I want it to be long, I want it to be detailed—none of those half-page pieces other newspapers run."
He said all of this while looking at both of you, but his gaze lingered on you a couple of seconds longer than on Clark. Especially on you. As if you were the one who had truly convinced him. Maybe it was the Bruce Wayne thing, maybe it was your way of speaking—you didn't know. But you smiled, professionally, nothing more. Without showing the immense relief you felt inside, nor the way your heart was beating fast, nor the heat you still felt in your chest from having Clark so close.
"Thank you very much, Mr. Hitman," you said, and your smile was perfect, trained by years of dealing with difficult people. "We won't let you down."
Hitman nodded one last time, stood up, and the other businessmen did the same. They said goodbye with handshakes and polite phrases, and then he left, accompanied by an assistant carrying a black briefcase. The others at the table started talking among themselves, complimenting you because Hitman never granted interviews, telling you it was the first time in years he had agreed to speak with the press. Someone said you must be very talented; another said it was a matter of luck. But you only nodded without really listening. Because Clark had brushed your arm again, this time unintentionally, as he stood up from his chair, and all your attention was on that small point of contact, on that spark you felt on your skin, and you knew the night was not yet over.
Clark rose from his chair with a smooth motion, stretching his legs a bit after so many hours of sitting. He adjusted his glasses with that familiar gesture, running a finger over the bridge of his nose, and then leaned slightly toward you. His mouth drew close to your ear, so close that you felt his warm breath graze your skin, and when he spoke, it was in a whisper, low, only for you, as if what he was about to say were a secret he couldn't share with anyone else at that table full of people.
"I think it's late; we should get some rest, don't you think? We'll get what Perry wants," Clark said, and his voice sounded so near that it sent a shiver down your entire spine, from the nape of your neck to the base of your back.
He was already standing, looking down at you with those blue eyes that seemed to shine even in the restaurant's dim light. You looked up to see him, and his closeness made you blush instantly. You felt the heat rise up your neck, up your cheeks, to the tips of your ears. You nodded, quickly—perhaps too quickly—because you didn't trust your voice at that moment. You knew that if you opened your mouth, what would come out would be a nervous stammer or something worse, something that would betray everything running through your mind.
When Clark turned to retrieve his jacket from the back of his chair, you saw your opportunity. You took advantage of the fact that no one was watching you. The others at the table were too busy talking among themselves, laughing at something a bald businessman had said, exchanging business cards. So you downed the wine glass still in front of you in one gulp, feeling the cool liquid go down your throat. But it wasn't enough. Next to it was another glass, the one you had ordered for a toast at the beginning of dinner and had barely touched. Without thinking twice, you drank that one entirely as well. Bad idea. Very bad idea. The wine hit you all at once, like a hot wave that blurred your vision slightly and made your legs feel a bit weaker than usual.
You stood up from your chair and felt even more nervous. The alcohol hadn't calmed you; it had only made everything more intense: the restaurant lights seemed brighter, the sounds of conversations louder, and Clark's presence—waiting for you a couple of steps away—more overwhelming. You wobbled for just a second as you got to your feet, but long enough for Clark to look at you with a small smile, as if he had noticed your two extra glasses. He didn't say anything; he just waited for you patiently, with that tranquil way he had of being in the world, as if nothing ever rushed him.
You left the restaurant and the Montana night enveloped you. The air was cool, much cooler than inside, and it helped clear your head a little. But only a little. You began walking down the sidewalk toward the hotel, and you saw some people ahead and others behind. All the guests would be going to the same hotel, of course. That hotel was close to where the conference was held and also close to where businessman Hitman was staying. Hitman was staying at a luxury hotel, one of those exclusive places not just anyone could enter, with a private entrance and black cars parked outside. Unlike where you were staying. As you walked, with the sound of footsteps on the pavement and the occasional laughter from the people around you, you remembered the hotel Perry had booked for you. It wasn't the best, that was for sure. It was expensive—yes, because Montana during conference season wasn't cheap—but it had few amenities: small rooms, thin walls, and worst of all, you only had one room with two beds, not two rooms with each person having their own space. At first, it hadn't bothered you. When Perry told you that you would be sharing a room, you were more focused on getting the interview, on impressing Hitman, on doing your job well. You had nodded without giving it much thought, thinking that after all, you were coworkers, two adults, nothing out of this world. But that was before. Before your ovulation became this monster you felt inside you, before every brush from Clark burned your skin, before you couldn't stop looking at his hands, his neck, the way he moved.
Your sensitivity had sharpened so much that you blushed again just thinking about it. You walked beside Clark, a step apart, but that step felt like an eternity. He glanced at you from the corner of his eye; he surely noticed your red face, but he didn't say anything about it. Instead, he smiled that wide, genuine smile that appeared on his face so rarely, the one that brought out that little dimple on his left cheek.
"We did it," Clark said, and his voice sounded proud, happy, as if he truly valued what they had accomplished together at that dinner.
You smiled, nothing more, nodding as you continued walking. The cool air moved your hair, and for a second you managed to think clearly.
"Yes, I think… now we just need to focus on doing it well," you added, and your voice came out a little shaky, but not as much as you expected. You were proud of yourself for having maintained your composure during dinner, for having said the right things, for having gotten Hitman to agree. That was what mattered, that was what you would remember tomorrow. Or so you tried to tell yourself.
Clark nodded, and for the rest of the walk, he talked about unimportant things. The weather, how the cold in Montana felt different than in Metropolis. The conference, some speaker who had said something funny. You listened without really hearing, because your mind was elsewhere. You watched his profile as he walked, the way the streetlights illuminated his face, and you realized he had no idea how you felt. He spoke so calmly, so unaware of the storm inside you, that you felt guilty. Guilty for thinking of him that way, for wishing his arm would brush yours again, for imagining things you shouldn't imagine about a coworker. He was just being kind, just doing his job, and there you were, cheeks burning and heart pounding as if you had run a marathon.
You arrived at the hotel. It wasn't the luxury of where Hitman was staying, but it wasn't bad either. It had a wide entrance with a slightly worn red carpet and a neon sign that flickered softly. You entered and looked around. In the lobby there were several people; most had attended the conference. You recognized them by their suits and the credentials some still wore around their necks. There was a group of older men laughing near a small fountain, and a woman in a shiny dress talking on the phone in a corner. The noise of conversations bounced off the faux marble walls, creating a soft echo.
You entered with Clark, and he walked toward the elevators. He pressed the button with one long finger, and they waited in silence. The lobby hallway felt warm after the cold outside, and the heat made the wine feel stronger in your head. When the elevator door opened with a chime, you stepped inside with him, and more people started getting in behind you. There were many, too many for the size of the cab. Hurried people, tired people, people who just wanted to get to their rooms and sleep. They piled in, crowding together, and you felt the space grow smaller by the second.
Then Clark acted. Without saying a word, without making any fuss, he took your waist with one hand. But it wasn't just any touch. His fingers settled on your hip with a gentle firmness, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, and he positioned you in front of him, carefully turning you so that the people still entering wouldn't hurt you. You ended up facing his chest. So close that you could see the fabric of his shirt—a dark blue that fit him perfectly—and beneath the fabric you could guess the shape of his muscles. Your heart beat so hard, so fast, that you couldn't even hear the sounds of the elevator. Everything was a dull throb in your ears.
His perfume flooded your nostrils. It wasn't a strong scent, the kind you could smell from yards away. It was something softer—like real soap, clean, fresh. But mixed with something that could only be him, something that made you close your eyes for a second to breathe deeper. It got worse when he tilted his head down, close to your ear again, and whispered:
"Carefully."
Two words. Just two. But your senses got lost there. In his low voice, in his warm breath, in the way his hand still rested on your waist as if it were the most natural place in the world. You kept your eyes open by sheer force of will, but you saw nothing other than his chest, the rhythm of his breathing, the way it rose and fell gently. You were supposed to be thinking about the interview, about Hitman, about Perry, about everything you had accomplished. But you couldn't. The only thing that existed was Clark, his hand on your hip, the heat seeping through the fabric of your dress.
You were on the eighth floor of the hotel. The elevator climbed slowly, stopping at each floor to let someone off. At every stop, the little jolt of the elevator made Clark squeeze your waist a bit tighter, as if to steady you, to keep you from moving. And you wished that ride would last forever, while at the same time wanting to run away so your heart would stop beating so wildly.
When the elevator reached the fourth floor, where several people were getting off, there was a sudden jolt. Nothing dangerous, nothing serious—just that little jerk that old elevators sometimes make when braking. But that movement made Clark squeeze your waist harder, pulling you a little closer against him. You closed your eyes. You closed them tightly, biting your lower lip to keep from making any noise, to keep from gasping, to keep from betraying what was happening inside you. The heat of his body enveloped yours, and you felt every inch where he touched you as if it were a brand of fire.
Then the woman standing next to you—an older woman in a fur coat with dyed blonde hair—started moving to get out. She was getting off on that same floor, seeming to be in a hurry. She pushed her way through the crowd without much courtesy, and to get out quickly, she bumped Clark with her shoulder. Clark, who was holding you, shifted slightly from the shove, and in that movement, his hand slipped down. It wasn't intentional. You knew that. It was the woman's push, the jostling, the lack of space. But his hand slid from your waist downward, grazing your backside for barely a second. One second. That was all. But that second felt like an hour.
You opened your eyes and felt them fill with tears. Not from sadness, but from everything. From the shame, the guilt, the longing, the wine in your head, the exhaustion—everything you had been holding in for hours. Your eyes were glassy, bright, and you felt a lump in your throat. You gasped involuntarily, a small sound that escaped your mouth before you could stop it. Quickly, very quickly, you pretended to cough. You brought a fist to your mouth and coughed twice, hard, to cover the gasp, so that no one would notice, so that Clark would think it was just a tickle in your throat.
Clark didn't say anything at first. His hand returned to your waist, but this time with less firmness, as if he weren't sure whether he should keep touching you. His fingers trembled slightly—or maybe that was your imagination. Then he lowered his head to your ear again, and his voice came out in a whisper so low you could barely hear it over the noise of the elevator.
"Sorry," he whispered, and his voice sounded strange. It wasn't the calm Clark of always. There was something in his tone, something tense, something restrained. As if he, too, were feeling things he didn't know how to name.
The elevator kept climbing. On the fifth floor, two men got off. On the sixth, no one. On the seventh, a young couple pecking each other on the cheek. And you were still there, pressed against Clark, with his hand on your waist, with his apology floating in the air between you.
The elevator doors opened with a soft chime on the eighth floor. The metallic sound traveled down the empty hallway as the white ceiling lights flickered faintly, as if the hotel were also tired at this hour of the night. You stepped out first, with quick but slightly unsteady steps, because the wine was still doing its work in your system. You walked down the carpeted hallway, feeling the soft texture under your shoes, and reached the room you had been assigned. You inserted the key—that plastic card that sometimes failed—and had to try twice until the little light turned green and you heard the click of the lock.
You walked in and brought your hands to your head for a second, just to organize your thoughts, just to remember that you had to breathe. You left your things on the bed—your bag fell onto the white bedspread with a dull thud—and you wobbled slightly as you released the weight. But you were perfectly sober, you knew that well. The wine hadn't clouded your judgment, not entirely. What was happening was that your senses were running at a thousand miles an hour, as if someone had turned up the volume on everything you felt. Every noise, every light, every brush of your clothes against your skin felt amplified, more real than it should have been. You sighed deeply, bringing a hand to your chest, and out of the corner of your eye, you looked at Clark.
He was behind you, closing the door carefully so it wouldn't make noise. He was taking off his jacket—that dark blue suit that fit him so well—and hung it on the coat rack by the entrance. His shoulders looked so broad without the jacket on, and the long-sleeved shirt he wore underneath clung to his arms in a way that made you have to look away. You couldn't look. You couldn't. You approached the mirror that was above the room's desk—a large mirror with a dark wooden frame—and looked at your face. Nothing out of place. Your cheeks were flushed, yes, but that could be the wine or the heat of dinner. Your hair was a little messy, but nothing serious. You bit your lip, something you did when you were nervous, and told yourself that you had to get control of yourself. That you were a professional. That the next day you had a very important interview with Hitman. That you couldn't let a simple phase of the month ruin everything you had built.
You turned to say something to him, to break the uncomfortable silence that had settled between you, and then you saw him. Clark was standing a few steps away, staring at you. But it wasn't just any look. His cheeks were red, very red, as if he too had drunk too much wine, even though you knew he had only had two glasses. His blue eyes shone behind his glasses, and his hands were still at his sides, as if he didn't know what to do with them. You didn't understand why he was looking at you like that, with such intensity, as if he were studying every one of your movements, every little gesture you made.
You smiled, trying to show him that everything was fine. That nothing was wrong. That the thing in the elevator had been an accident and was already forgotten. A wide smile, the best you could muster at that moment, even though inside you felt like the butterflies in your stomach were about to fly right out of your mouth.
"I'll put on my pajamas," you said, pointing toward the bathroom with your finger. The finger was trembling. You saw it tremble, and you hoped Clark hadn't noticed, but of course he noticed. He noticed everything. He always noticed everything.
You took a step toward the bathroom, intending to lock yourself in there for a few minutes, breathe deeply, splash water on your face, remember who you were and what you were doing there. But you didn't get far. Clark reached out his arm and gently took your arm. He didn't hold you tightly, it wasn't a rough grip, it was just a touch, but that touch stopped you cold. His fingers encircled your wrist, and you could feel the warmth of his skin even through the fabric of your blouse. You looked at him without understanding, raising an eyebrow.
"Are you drunk?" Clark asked. His voice sounded strange, deeper than usual, as if the words had difficulty coming out. His eyes didn't leave yours.
You looked at him without understanding at first. The question seemed odd, out of place. You had drunk, yes, but you weren't drunk. You were perfectly aware of everything: the beating of your heart, the way his hand was still on your arm, the silence that had become so heavy you could almost touch it.
"What?" you asked, and your voice came out higher than usual, like a squeak.
Clark took a deep breath, as if he were preparing to say something important. His chest inflated and deflated slowly, and when he spoke again, he did so carefully, measuring every word.
"I need to know if you're drunk," he said again. His tone was strange, tense, and you looked at him more closely. Then you saw him blush. Not just his cheeks—his ears too, even a little of his neck. He smiled, but it was a nervous, trembling smile, nothing like the calm smile he usually had. "No… don't misunderstand. I want to make sure that… I don't… confuse things," he said, as if it cost him effort, as if he were building the sentence brick by brick in his head before releasing it.
"Confuse the…? I'm not drunk," you answered, and you looked at him with wide eyes. You could feel your pulse in your wrist, where he was still touching you, and you knew he could feel it too. It was impossible that he couldn't.
Clark nodded, but he didn't let go of your arm. Instead, his thumb traced a small circle on your skin, almost unintentionally, as if it were an automatic gesture. Then he lowered his gaze for a moment, as if gathering courage, and when he looked up again, his eyes had a different gleam.
"No… I'm sorry about what happened in the elevator… don't think that… I… the woman bumped me and my hand slipped," Clark assured you, and his voice sounded hurried, as if he were afraid you might think badly of him. He brought his free hand to the back of his neck, a gesture he made when he was nervous, and ran his fingers through his hair.
You shook your head. A quick, almost abrupt motion.
"I know, Clark. You don't have to… even if it had been… I… that's the least of it," you said, and you felt the words tripping over each other, all wanting to come out at once. You swallowed and continued, without thinking, because if you thought too much you would regret it. "What you did, I mean, I'm worse because I've been thinking about other versions of you."
The silence that followed was so deep that you could hear the hum of the minibar under the desk. You realized in the very second the words left your mouth that you shouldn't have mentioned that. Your eyes opened wide as saucers, and you felt the blood rush to your face all at once, from your chest to the roots of your hair.
"Maybe I am a little drunk," you corrected quickly, raising your free hand as if you were defending yourself from something, "but I'm of sound mind, and I know you're a good person, and… don't make me talk… God, I'm talking too much," you said, and your voice sounded nervous, almost on the verge of hysterical laughter.
Clark didn't smile. On the contrary, his expression became more serious, more intense. He took a step toward you, and without realizing it, you took one step back. He didn't let go of your arm, and his other hand also lifted, as if he wanted to hold you but didn't dare.
"What are you talking about?" Clark asked, and his voice was now a deep whisper. He interrogated you with his gaze, with those blue eyes that seemed to look inside you, that seemed to want to pull the truth out of you by force but with tenderness. "What other versions… of me? What have you been thinking?"
You stepped back again, and another step, as he advanced slowly, as if he were following a trail. You didn't realize where you were going because you were too focused on his eyes, on his mouth, on the way he moved toward you. Your back hit something cold and hard. The wall. You had backed up to the far wall of the room, right next to the bed that had been assigned to you. You were trapped between the beige wallpaper and Clark's body, which was now so close you could feel the heat radiating off him.
You looked at him. You couldn't help looking at his lips, parted, moist, so close that if you tilted your head a little you could…
No.
You couldn't.
You shouldn't.
"I… it's work… it's work," you repeated, as if it were a mantra, as if you didn't want to forget it. The words came out on their own, mechanical, while your mind filled with images you shouldn't have. Your voice trembled. "It's work and…"
You didn't finish the sentence. You couldn't. Because Clark did something you had never seen him do. He brought his hands to his face, slowly, as if he were making an important decision, and took off his glasses. He folded them carefully, with those long, firm fingers, and set them on the nightstand a step away. Without his glasses, his eyes looked bigger, brighter, and his face seemed more open, more vulnerable. He looked at you intently, without filters, without the little glass shield he always wore. And in that gaze, there was something that chilled your blood and boiled it at the same time.
You didn't think. You couldn't think. Your body moved before your head. You clasped your trembling hands together and took hold of the fabric of his shirt. You grabbed it tightly, making a fist against his chest, and pulled him toward you. There was no time to hesitate, to ask, for anything. Your lips found his, and you kissed him.
It was a messy, clumsy kiss, full of an urgency you didn't know you had. Your teeth clashed with his at first, because neither of you had calculated the angle well, but quickly you found a rhythm. His lips were soft, softer than you had imagined, and they tasted slightly of wine and something else, something that could only be him. You slipped your tongue in without thinking, and he responded immediately, as if he had been waiting for that signal all night. The kiss became wet, hot, full of little gasps that escaped your throat without you being able to control them. His hands found your waist again, but this time it wasn't an accidental brush. He held you firmly, pressing you against the wall, and you felt his entire body against yours: his firm chest, his legs against yours, the way his heart beat as fast as yours.
Suddenly, Clark separated his lips from yours. The cold air of the room hit your wet mouth and made you shiver. He was agitated, breathing heavily, and his eyes were half-closed, lost, as if he had just woken from a dream. His cheeks were burning, and his lips were red, shiny.
"I think you're drunk," Clark said, his voice broken, barely a thread of sound. It didn't sound like an accusation; it sounded like a desperate attempt to find an excuse, to put on the brakes, to remind himself that he couldn't do what he so badly wanted to do.
You didn't let go of him. Your hands were still clutching his shirt, and you could feel the fabric wrinkling under your fingers. You kissed him again, shorter this time, just a quick brush, but with the same intensity. When you separated your lips, you spoke quickly, before fear could get the better of you, before you could regret it.
"Clark, it was because of you," you said, and your voice was a hoarse whisper, different from how you had sounded before. Your eyes filled with an honesty that hurt. "I haven't stopped thinking about you since we arrived, and I decided to drink, but the alcohol just messed me up and…"
You were trembling. Your whole body was trembling. You couldn't finish the sentence because you didn't know how to explain what you were feeling—that mix of shame and desire, of wanting to run and wanting to stay glued to him forever. You looked at him, and there was a strand of saliva between you, a little shiny bridge that broke when he moved his face slightly further away. It was intimate, too intimate, and you felt like you were dying of embarrassment, but you also felt like there was nowhere else in the world you wanted to be.
Clark looked at you. He truly looked at you, with those blue eyes that were now dark, dilated, full of something you had never seen in him. Something that was not the kind coworker, the shy boy, the serious journalist. It was something else. It was hunger. It was desire held back for too long. Without saying a word, he brought his face close to yours again, but this time slowly, giving you time to pull away if you wanted. You didn't pull away. His lips brushed yours once, softly, like a question. You answered by pressing against him, and then the kiss changed.
It wasn't messy this time. It was deep, confident, full of something you had both been keeping inside. His hands traveled up your back; one tangled in your hair, and the other settled on your hip, squeezing. The kiss proved that his desire was mutual, that it wasn't just in your head, that all those times you had thought that maybe he felt something too, it wasn't your imagination. Clark kissed you as if he had been waiting for you, as if he had wanted to do it for months, since that first time Perry had put you both together on a project. His tongue found yours, and the kiss grew deeper, wetter, and you let out a low moan that was lost between his lips. It was real. It was all real.
Clark kissed your neck. It wasn't a shy or quick kiss; it was something slow, deep, as if he wanted to savor every little piece of your skin. His lips settled right where your neck meets your shoulder—that sensitive area you didn't even know you liked so much—and he sucked gently. Your body reacted before your mind could process it: a shiver ran from the nape of your neck to the tips of your toes, and your hands rose on their own, searching for something to hold onto. They found his hair. Your fingers tangled in his dark curls—those curls you had so often glanced at sideways in the office, wondering how they would feel to the touch. They were soft, much softer than you had imagined, and they had a texture that made you want to squeeze them, mess them up, lose yourself in them.
You enjoyed everything. Every caress, every brush, the way his mouth moved across your neck, leaving a wet, hot trail. You gasped near his ear, unable to contain yourself, and felt him tremble at the sound. Your breath hit his skin, and every little moan that escaped your mouth made Clark hold you tighter, as if he were afraid you would disappear.
Clark wasn't just in love with you. You knew that somehow; you felt it in the way he looked at you, in how his hands trembled when he touched you. But there was something else—something he knew and you didn't. Clark could smell your ovulation. He had done so from the first moment you met at the airport, before taking the flight to Montana. His sense of smell was a thousand times better than a human's, thanks to his Kryptonian origin—something you had no idea about.
Ever since you arrived at the Daily Planet, he had noticed that there were certain days when you looked prettier. Your hair looked neater, shinier, as if it had its own light. Your eyes sparkled differently, and there was something about your skin, your scent, that drew him like a magnet. He couldn't explain it, but he knew it. Your body spoke a language that only he could hear, and that language told him you were in your fertile days, that something inside you was calling to his most primal instinct.
It must have been his Kryptonian gene, the one that made him different from all humans, the one that sharpened his senses to impossible levels. You had cast a spell on him just by standing there in front of him, with your suitcase in one hand and your ticket in the other, smiling nervously because the flight had been delayed. That night, when he saw you in that red dress—that dark wine red that clung to your skin as if it had been made for you—he couldn't help but see you as so beautiful. His eyes involuntarily dropped to the curve of your breasts, to the way the fabric marked every one of your movements, and he felt guilty. He felt bad for looking at you like that, for thinking of you that way when you were only coworkers. But now, with his hand beneath your breasts as he sighed, with you so close he could feel every beat of your heart, he didn't care about anything. Nothing he had thought before, none of the rules, none of the warnings he had given himself.
"Oh, Clark," you said, and your voice was a hoarse whisper, full of a need you barely recognized. "How much I've needed you."
The words came out on their own, unfiltered, without thinking. You didn't care how they sounded, didn't care if it was too soon or if you should hold something back. Because in that moment, with his arms around you and his mouth on your skin, everything you hadn't said for months collapsed like a house of cards. You had needed him. On every one of those ovulation days when you couldn't stop thinking about him, on every night when you were alone in your king-size bed imagining what it would feel like to have him beside you. You had needed him and hadn't known how to tell him.
Clark pulled his mouth away from your neck just enough to look at you. His eyes were dark, bright, and his cheeks were still red. He brought one hand to your back, sliding his fingers until he found the zipper of your dress. The little metal clasp—the one you had pulled up so carefully before dinner—now gave way under his fingers. He pulled back a little more to look at you, to ask you without words if what he was about to do was okay. You nodded. You didn't hesitate for a second. There was nothing in the world you wanted more than that.
You felt the zipper go down your back. The metallic sound was small, but in the silence of the room it sounded enormous. His fingers traced your spine as the zipper opened, and you felt each one of his knuckles brush your skin. The dress began to loosen, to lose its shape, and then Clark ran his hands over your shoulders, sliding the fabric down with a slowness that drove you crazy. The curve of your back was exposed first, feeling the cool air of the room on your hot skin. Then the dress fell, sliding over your shoulders, and your breasts were revealed. The red fabric bunched at your waist, and you stood there, in front of him, torso bare and heart beating so hard that surely he could hear it.
Clark nearly lost his breath. His eyes traveled over your body as if it were the first time he had ever seen a woman, as if he had never seen anything so perfect. His mouth opened slightly, and he had to swallow before he could do anything. The dress fell completely, forming a red circle at your feet, and Clark kissed you again, but this time it was different. He kissed you while lifting you, picking you up off the floor as if you weighed nothing, as if you were made of feathers. You wrapped your legs around his waist without thinking, as if your body knew exactly what to do. And then you felt it. The bulge in his pants, pressed against your intimate area, so close you could feel his warmth even through the fabric. You moaned at the feeling—a low moan lost in the kiss—and squeezed him tighter with your legs, pulling him even closer, seeking more contact, more pressure.
Clark walked toward the bed without letting you go, without stopping kissing you. You felt his chest against yours, the warm skin of his arms around you, and when he felt the edge of the mattress against his legs, he let you fall gently onto the bed. The white bedspread wrinkled beneath your back, and Clark stood in front of you for only a second—long enough to bring his hands to the collar of his shirt and undo the buttons. He did it quickly, almost desperately, and when the fabric fell away to reveal his chest, you lost your breath. It wasn't just that he had muscles; it was the way they were shaped, the perfection of every line, every curve.
He leaned over you, and his mouth found yours again, but only for a moment. Then he began to move lower, kissing your chin, your jaw, the base of your neck. He kept going down until he reached your breasts, and when his mouth enveloped one of them, you closed your eyes tightly. His tongue made slow circles around your nipple, and his lips sucked gently, sending waves of pleasure from your chest to the rest of your body. While his mouth worked on your breast, you felt his fingers. They traveled down your stomach, brushed the waistband of your underwear, and then kept going down until they found your entrance. You were so wet that you felt your vaginal lips parting easily, welcoming his fingers. He didn't insert one, didn't insert two. He ran three fingers over your entrance, brushing it, playing with it, feeling how wet you were without actually entering. The mere brush of his fingers against your sensitive skin made you arch your back, spread your legs a little more, seek more. You gasped. A hoarse gasp that filled the room.
Then Clark inserted his fingers. One first, slowly, feeling how he opened you up. You were so wet that he entered without resistance, and you felt every centimeter of his finger inside you. Then a second, and the stretch was delicious, exactly what you needed. He moved them slowly at first, preparing you, getting you used to the sensation. His mouth was still on your breast, sucking, gently biting, and his fingers moved inside you in small circles, searching for that spot that would make you tremble. He found it quickly. When his fingers touched that place, your entire body tensed, and a long, sharp moan escaped your mouth.
He kept moving, faster now, in and out, and you felt your whole body tighten like a string about to snap. The pressure grew and grew, and you couldn't think, you could only feel.
"So wet for me," you heard him whisper.
His fingers inside you, his mouth returning to your breast, his other hand on your hip holding you tight. Then it came. Your climax exploded like a giant wave that swept you away, shaking you entirely. You gasped so much you ran out of air, your back arched off the bed, and your legs trembled around Clark's waist. You lost track of time, of space, of everything. There was only that immense pleasure that traveled from the tips of your toes to the crown of your head, making you vibrate from within.
Clark left your breast, pulled his fingers slowly out of you, and you watched as he looked at them, shiny with your juices. Your body was still trembling, shaken by small contractions, lost in ecstasy, when you saw his mouth go lower. You didn't think he would do that. But Clark went lower, and lower, until his face was between your legs. His mouth went straight to your entrance, and the sensation of his hot, wet tongue touching that sensitive area made you moan so loudly that you had to put your trembling hand over your mouth. You bit the palm of your hand to keep from screaming, because the walls of that hotel were very thin, very simple, and the last thing you wanted was for someone to come interrupt you. Not now. Please, not now.
His tongue licked from your entrance to your center, slowly, as if he were tasting something delicious. He closed his eyes as he did it, as if he wanted to concentrate on the flavor, on the sensation, on you.
"You taste so good, better than I imagined," Clark said.
You put your free hand in his hair, tangling your fingers in his curls again, and squeezed when his tongue entered. He sucked your juices, drank from you as if he were thirsty, and he didn't stop. You were still trembling from the previous climax, but you felt another one approaching. Another one. Your hips trembled uncontrollably, moving on their own against his mouth, seeking more.
His tongue made circles, sometimes entering, sometimes licking, and his lips sucked that small part that made you see stars. You trembled when his tongue entered again, deeper, sucking everything you could give him, and the second climax came faster than you expected. Your thighs closed around his head involuntarily, and you felt your body shake again—another wave of pleasure that left you breathless, thoughtless, with nothing but his name on your lips.
"Clark," you said against your hand, just a whisper, but he heard you. He always heard you. And he kept sucking, kept licking, until you felt the third one approaching, and you couldn't take any more, but you also didn't want him to stop.
You didn't realize when Clark took off his pants and his underwear. You were too lost in the pleasure, in the way his tongue kept moving between your legs, in how your hips trembled on their own against his mouth. The third climax came like a wave that completely swept you away, shaking your entire body, making you squeeze your thighs around his head while you bit your hand to keep from screaming. Your eyes squeezed shut and stars exploded behind your eyelids. When you managed to open them again, Clark was above you, and you didn't remember seeing him move.
But you felt him. You felt him very clearly.
His member was hard, brushing your entrance. The tip was red, shiny, dripping, needy. Every time he moved slightly, the head of his penis brushed your vaginal lips and made you shudder. He was so hot, so close, that you could feel every beat of his blood against your skin. Clark gasped, and that gasp mixed with yours as he leaned in to kiss you. His lips found yours in a deep, messy kiss, and you moaned as you felt his member move again, brushing your entrance, teasing you, making you want more. But you kept kissing him, your tongue intertwined with his, tasting the trace of you that still lingered on his lips.
You reached your hand down without thinking, without hesitating. You slid it between his body and yours, and your fingers found his member. It was thick, thicker than you had imagined. Hot, hard, and so wet at the tip that your hand slipped easily. Clark felt your hand around him and moaned against your lips. It was a low, hoarse moan that you felt vibrate from his chest to your mouth. His hands, which were braced on the sheet on either side of your head to keep his body from falling completely onto you, gripped the fabric so hard his knuckles turned white. He was holding back; you could feel it. He was making an enormous effort not to let go completely, not to crush you against the mattress and take what he wanted.
But you didn't want him to hold back.
You moved your hand up and down slowly, feeling every centimeter of him, the texture of his skin, the veins that stood out under your fingers. You caressed him slowly, enjoying how he trembled every time you reached the tip, the little sounds that came from his throat. Then you brought his member to your entrance. You didn't insert it; you just played with it. You ran the hot red tip between your vaginal lips, up and down, feeling how it got wet with your juices, how it slipped easily. You had it right there, at the door, and every time it brushed your clitoris, you trembled all over. You were the desperate one. You were the one who couldn't wait a second longer.
You positioned his member at your entrance. The head barely pressed, and you already felt your body welcoming it, your muscles opening to receive him. Clark looked at you. His eyes were dark, bright, and in them was something you had never seen before. Fear, perhaps. Or concern. Or both.
"I don't have a condom," he said in a whisper. His voice trembled, and it wasn't from cold.
You looked at him. You didn't hesitate. There were no doubts in your body, no doubts in your mind. You had waited for this moment without knowing it; you had desired it for so long, and now that you had it there, brushing against you, hot, needy, you weren't going to let a piece of plastic get in the way. Not tonight. Not with him.
"Fuck me, Clark," you begged, and your voice sounded so needy you barely recognized yourself. You brushed his member against your entrance again, soaking it even more, feeling the tip sink in barely a centimeter. "Fill me tonight, please. I need it. I've needed you so much."
You guided him. You took his member in your hand and directed it toward your entrance, squeezing gently to let him in. The head pressed, and your body opened for him. When he entered you, both of you gasped at the same time. You felt him fill you, how every centimeter entered slowly, opening you, getting used to you. He felt how you squeezed him, how your walls enveloped him, hot and wet. And in that moment, Clark kissed you. His lips found yours in a deep, slow kiss, as if time had stopped. Both of you kissed while he sank completely into you, while you felt him reach the deepest part, unable to go further. You ran out of air, but you didn't want to separate your mouth from his.
He began to move. At first it was slow, unhurried, giving you time to adjust to his size, to get used to how he filled you. Each thrust was gentle, measured, as if he feared breaking you. But you didn't want gentle. You didn't want slow. You wanted everything. You wanted to feel sore the next day, you wanted bruises on your hips from how tightly he had held you.
"That's it, you can take it," Clark said in your ear, and his voice was a deep whisper that ran through your entire body. His hot breath hit your skin, and every word he said made you squeeze him tighter.
"Oh, Clark," you moaned, and your hands went up to his back, scratching him gently, feeling the muscles moving under his skin. "Give me everything. I've wanted it so much. So much."
Then he started. It wasn't slow, it wasn't gentle. Clark began to thrust harder, faster, deeper. Each slap of his hips against yours made the bed creak, the headboard hit the wall, your body move upward with each thrust. He took your jaw with one hand, squeezing gently so you would look at him, and kissed you again. It was a messy kiss, full of teeth and tongue, while he kept moving inside you. Then he lowered his face to your neck and kissed you there, right where you had dreamed of him kissing you, and the pleasure was so much that you didn't know whether to laugh or cry.
One of your legs was stretched out to the side, foot planted on the bed, and the other leg Clark had. His hand circled your thigh, squeezing, lifting it a little higher so he could bury himself deeper, reach that spot that made you see stars. The scene was exquisite. You looked up at him from below, his body covering yours, his face buried in your neck, his hips moving in a rhythm that drove you crazy. You moaned so much you went hoarse, each moan mixing with the sound of bodies colliding, with the wetness trickling down your thighs, with the smell of sweat and sex that filled the room.
You had an orgasm in the middle of that fierce onslaught. It came without warning, like a lightning bolt that split you in two. Your walls tightened around him, your legs trembled, and a muffled cry escaped your mouth before you could cover it. Clark felt you squeeze him, felt you come around him, and he slowed down. His thrusts became slower, gentler, just to let you tremble, to let you enjoy every second of your orgasm without it being too much. His lips kissed your forehead, your nose, your cheeks, while your body shook in small spasms.
When you were ready, when the tremors calmed and you were breathing normally again, Clark began to move again. He started over, first slow and then faster and faster. His hips slapped against yours in a rhythm that hypnotized you. He hid his face in your breasts or your neck—you weren't sure—you only felt his hot breath against your skin, his muffled moans vibrating in your chest. You felt him tense. His body went rigid on top of yours, his muscles hardened, and his thrusts became shorter, faster, more desperate. He moaned your name. It wasn't a normal moan; it was deeper, hoarser, as if he were using the last drop of air left in his lungs. That sound, that way of saying your name, made you feel another orgasm. The fourth, the fifth—you had lost count. But you felt it approaching, growing from the deepest part of your belly.
Then it happened. Clark held you so tightly you could barely breathe. His arms wrapped around you and pressed you against him as if he wanted you to be one person. He sped up so much that his movements became blurry, fast, chaotic. And at the last moment, when you felt you couldn't take any more, that the orgasm was about to explode, Clark buried himself in you to the deepest point. He stayed there, pressed against you, not moving, and you felt him fill inside you. Warm, liquid, abundant. His body trembled on top of yours, and that tremor triggered yours. You shared the orgasm. You came around him while he came inside you, and it was so intense, so perfect, that for a second the entire world disappeared. Only the two of you existed—your bodies pressed together, your ragged breathing, and the sensation of having arrived somewhere neither of you had ever been before.
The orgasm slowly dissolved, like a wave that reaches the shore and recedes, leaving only a deep calm. Your body was still trembling with small spasms—those you can't control—and you felt everything: Clark's heat on top of you, the weight of his body pressing you gently against the mattress, the way his ragged breath hit your neck. Little by little, his chest rose and fell more slowly, and his arms, which had held you so tightly before, gradually relaxed.
Clark didn't move. He didn't want to separate from you. Instead, he held you as if you really were a couple, as if you had been sleeping together for years and not just hours earlier being coworkers who exchanged awkward glances in the office. He buried his head in your neck, right in that hollow where your shoulder meets your neck, and stayed there. His nose brushed your skin, and you felt his warm, calm breath. He didn't say anything. There was no need. His arms wrapped around you completely; one of his arms went under your neck like an improvised pillow, while the other hand rested on your hip, caressing you with slow, gentle thumb strokes.
You were tired. Very tired. Your legs were still trembling a little, and you felt the muscles in your belly slightly sore from all the squeezing, from moving in rhythm with him. But it was a good pain—the kind that reminds you that you've done something you've wanted to do for a long time. You closed your eyes and curled up against Clark, feeling his arms around you, feeling his warmth envelop you like a blanket. Your head rested against his chest, and you could hear the beats of his heart—slow and strong, like a drum lulling you.
Your mind began to wander, as it does when you are about to fall asleep. You thought about the work trip, about the interview with Hitman the next day, about everything you had accomplished that night. And you thought about what had just happened. Maybe it wasn't so bad, you told yourself. Maybe that was also part of the trip—a way to relieve stress amid all the pressure. Perry always said you had to relax to perform better, and you had certainly relaxed. A small smile formed on your lips as you thought that. It wasn't an excuse, not really, but in that moment, with the heaviness of sleep on your eyelids, it seemed like a reasonable way to look at things. It wasn't love, it wasn't anything complicated. Just two people who needed each other at a given moment, who found each other and gave each other what the other was asking for without words. That was all. Or that's what you tried to believe so you wouldn't be scared by how intense everything had been.
Clark kissed your shoulder. It was a soft kiss, barely a brush of lips on your skin, and then another, and another, on the same spot. His kisses were slow, lazy, as if he were savoring the moment without hurry. After a few seconds, his mouth went still on your skin, and you felt his breathing become deeper, more regular. He had fallen asleep. He had fallen asleep on top of you, with his head buried in your neck and his arms around you as if he never wanted to let you go.
You didn't move. You didn't want to wake him. Besides, you were too comfortable to think about moving. The heat of his body kept you warm, and the darkness of the room enveloped you like a caress. Exhaustion won, and as you listened to his calm breathing, you felt your own eyes closing on their own. You no longer thought about anything. Not about the interview, not about Perry, not about Hitman. Only about the weight of Clark on your body, his arms around you, the scent of his skin, the softness of his breathing. And so, little by little, you let yourself be carried off to sleep, curled up against him, feeling safer than you had felt in a long time.
