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safety net

summary: Wayne Enterprises Metropolis' branch has some numbers that aren't adding up. Your older brother Bruce wanted to send one of his accountants to clean it up, but you insisted you could handle it. Enter Clark Kent, a reporter who is investigating the very same thing you are. word count: 26.7k+ pairing: clark kent x wayne!fem!reader notes: this has been sitting in my drafts since AUGUST. and here it finally is :) i hope y'all enjoy this long awaited fic warnings/tags: reader is bruce wayne's younger sister, implied battinson, no use of y/n, mystery, money laundering, some dc universe/comic references, soft!clark, flustered!clark, clark really is just a cutey in this, light violence, mentions of blood, bamf!reader, very very very slight sugar mama energy, fluff, slow burn - would it be me if it wasn't slow burn? that's how you'll know if i'm replaced by an alien because i LIVE AND BREATH SLOW BURN

The city looks different from Gotham. Cleaner at first glance, brighter, though you can already sense the rot humming beneath the surface. Metropolis wears its optimism like a polished glass tower, but you know enough about shadows to recognize them even when they’re hidden in broad daylight.

Your heels click steadily against the marble floor of the Wayne Enterprises Metropolis branch office, the sound deliberate, carrying authority. You’re not here to play the silent shadow to Bruce’s brooding. This is your assignment—your investigation. One of the research subsidiaries has numbers that don’t add up, contracts routed through shell companies, money flowing somewhere it shouldn’t. Bruce wanted to send Lucius or one of his accountants. You told him no. You’ll handle it.

The young receptionist looks up from behind a glossy desk, nerves flickering across his face when he catches the Wayne crest pin on your lapel. He stumbles over his words, offering you coffee, water, anything at all. You smile—warm, practiced, and sharper than he realizes. A Wayne doesn’t need to be cold to be intimidating. Sometimes kindness disarms people far more effectively.

By the time you leave the office with a slim folder tucked under your arm, you have what you came for: proof that something is feeding into LexCorp’s pocket. Not just a bad contract, but a deliberate arrangement. And if Lex Luthor has his hands in Wayne Enterprises, it isn’t something you can ignore.

Outside, the wind whips against you, carrying the noise of Metropolis—car horns, chatter, a faint hum of construction. You’re adjusting the strap of your bag when a voice stops you.

“Excuse me, miss—Wayne, isn’t it?”

You turn. A tall man with dark hair, glasses sliding down his nose, is holding up a press badge that reads Daily Planet. The way he approaches is careful, almost shy, but there’s something steady in his eyes, a quiet gravity. “Yes,” you answer smoothly, weighing him in a glance. Not the slick predator type you’re used to back home. He radiates an earnestness that feels almost… provincial. “And you are?”

“Clark Kent. Reporter.” His voice is soft, polite. “I don’t mean to intrude, but I couldn’t help noticing—you’ve been looking into LexCorp’s connections here, haven’t you?”

You arch an eyebrow. That’s not the kind of thing a reporter should know unless he’s already digging into the same trail. “I don’t recall making a press statement.”

He shifts, flustered but holding his ground. “You didn’t. It’s just… some of the pieces line up. Missing funds, off-shore accounts, shell corporations. I’ve been following the same story for the Planet.”

Interesting. You cross your arms, not defensive, but curious. “So you’re investigating, too.”

He nods, lips pressing together as though he’s unsure how much to say. The hesitation only makes you study him closer. He doesn’t read like the aggressive reporter type. There’s a gentleness, almost awkward, as if he’s more comfortable listening than demanding answers. Strange for a man in his profession. “Well, Mr. Kent,” you say finally, tilting your head, “I don’t usually share my work with strangers. But it seems we’re walking the same road. Perhaps we’ll run into each other again.”

A faint smile tugs at his mouth, subtle but genuine. “I’d like that.”

You move past him, deliberately letting your heels strike the pavement with the rhythm of someone who knows exactly where she’s going. But you can feel his gaze lingering, not predatory, not calculating—curious. Watchful. Almost as though he sees something more than what you’re presenting to the world.

You tell yourself it doesn’t matter. You have a job to do. You don’t need a polite, soft-spoken reporter complicating it. Still, when you slide into the backseat of the waiting car and glance out the window, you catch sight of him again—Clark Kent, disappearing into the crowd, shoulders set like a man carrying more than anyone realizes.

---

The next morning, you’re already halfway through a cup of burnt Metropolis coffee when the elevator doors slide open on the top floor of the Daily Planet. It hadn’t been on your original schedule, but the numbers in that slim folder wouldn’t leave you alone last night, so you’d decided to see who else was pulling on the same threads.

The newsroom buzzes with the chaotic symphony of phones ringing, reporters shouting across desks, and the endless clatter of keyboards. Gotham’s newsrooms always carried an edge of cynicism; this place feels almost idealistic by comparison. Almost.

“Miss Wayne.”

You turn, expecting some overeager intern. Instead, it’s Clark Kent—jacket a little too big, tie slightly crooked, but with that same unshakable steadiness in his eyes. He looks surprised to see you, though not displeased.

“Mr. Kent,” you answer, tilting your head. “I thought reporters usually chased their leads, not waited for them to walk through the door.”

The corner of his mouth twitches—somewhere between a smile and an admission. “Sometimes they do both.”

You follow him to his desk, stacked with folders, printouts, and a battered notebook filled with looping handwriting. He pushes his glasses up nervously as you glance over the mess. “You’re investigating Wayne Enterprises’ connection to LexCorp,” you say evenly, “yet you don’t look like a man who hates dead ends.”

“I don’t,” he admits softly, “but I don’t like coincidences either. Lex Luthor doesn’t do anything without a reason.”

You watch him for a moment, this mild-mannered man who speaks with the certainty of someone who sees deeper than he lets on. He doesn’t posture, doesn’t flash credentials, doesn’t try to impress you—he simply lays out his truth like it’s as solid as bedrock. It’s disarming. “Do you always trust strangers with your work?” you ask finally.

His gaze lifts to yours, and the weight in it makes you blink. Not heavy, not menacing—just… unflinchingly honest. “Not usually. But I think you’re not here by accident either.” You laugh lightly, a spark of admiration threading through the sound. He’s not wrong.

Before you can reply, Perry White barrels past, barking orders. “Kent! I want something I can print before noon!” Then he notices you. “And who the hell are you?”

“Wayne,” you say crisply, extending your hand. “Bruce Wayne’s sister.”

The newsroom goes still for a heartbeat. Perry blinks, takes your hand, mutters something about Gotham’s shadow bleeding into Metropolis, and storms off. Clark gives a faint, apologetic shrug.

“I see your editor runs a tight ship.”

“You could say that,” Clark murmurs, lips curving just slightly.

You leave a card on his desk. “If you come across something you think I should see, call me. If you’re right about Lex, I don’t intend to sit idle.”

He studies the card as though it holds more weight than paper should. “And if you find something first?”

You pause at the edge of the bullpen, letting the hum of the newsroom wash around you. “Then you’ll be the second to know.” When you step into the elevator, you glance back once. Clark is still at his desk, glasses low on his nose, but his eyes are fixed on you. Not curious this time—watchful. Protective, even.

---

Metropolis at night doesn’t breathe the same way Gotham does. Gotham thrives in its darkness; Metropolis tries to push it back with neon, glass, and relentless electricity. Still, even here, the shadows creep in around the edges, and you’ve always been good at slipping into them.

The Wayne Enterprises folder is open across your hotel desk, scattered with photocopies of contracts and red-ink annotations you’ve been scratching down for hours. Every line you trace circles back to the same name: LexCorp. It’s obvious, but too clean. Almost as if someone wanted you to find it.

You sigh, shove the papers into a leather satchel, and decide a walk might clear your head. The streets hum quieter at this hour, though Metropolis never truly sleeps. You’ve made it three blocks before you hear it—footsteps, just slightly out of rhythm with yours.

You stop at a streetlight, pretending to check your phone, and glance at the glass storefront reflection. Two men, trying too hard to look casual. Too close.

Amateurs, you think, though that doesn’t make them less dangerous.

When the first one closes the gap, you’re already turning, shoulder slamming into his chest. He staggers back, surprised by the force, and you use that heartbeat to pivot, heel cracking down on the second man’s instep. He yelps. You don’t hesitate—your elbow finds his ribs.

The first man recovers faster than you like. He grabs for your arm, but you twist out, the satchel slung tight against your side, and drive your knee up toward his stomach. He curses, doubles over, and that’s when you hear it—an unmistakable rush of air, like a gust of wind slashing the night.

In the space of a blink, both men are gone. One dangles from a lamppost, unconscious, the other groans faintly from where he’s been pinned high against a brick wall with steel piping bent around him like makeshift cuffs.

And standing between you and the wreckage is him. Superman.

You’ve seen him on television, of course. Who hasn’t? The cape, the crest, the impossible presence that seems more myth than man. But seeing him in the flesh, a living wall of calm power, feels different. There’s a weight in the air that wasn’t there before, a quiet certainty that the world is, for one rare moment, safe.

“Are you hurt?” His voice is rich, steady, and absurdly gentle for a man who just bent steel like wire.

You straighten, brushing dust from your coat, your pride intact. “No. I was handling it.”

His mouth curves slightly, not mocking, not indulgent—just faint amusement. “I could see that. But two against one isn’t fair odds, even for a Wayne.”

Your eyes narrow. “So you do know who I am.”

“Metropolis isn’t Gotham,” he says simply, as though that explains everything. And maybe it does. Here, people notice names.

You study him—impossibly broad shoulders, the way his cape stirs in a wind you can’t feel, the almost otherworldly calm radiating off him. Everyone talks about his power, but standing here, you realize it isn’t his strength that’s disarming. It’s the way he looks at you, like he genuinely cares what your answer will be. “Thank you,” you say finally, because you were raised with enough grace not to ignore it. “But don’t expect me to call for backup every time I walk down the street.”

That faint smile again. “I wouldn’t expect anything less.”

With that, he’s gone—vanished upward into the stars with another rush of air. You stand there for a long moment, heart hammering not from fear but from the sheer velocity of his presence.

When you finally make it back to the hotel, you catch yourself in the mirror, hair disheveled, adrenaline still buzzing through your veins. And you think about Clark Kent—the reporter with the too-big jacket and earnest eyes.

For just a second, the two images overlap.

You shake it off, annoyed at yourself. Clark Kent is a mild-mannered journalist. Superman is… Superman. There’s no sense in imagining a bridge between them.

And yet, you can’t help it—the idea lodges somewhere deep, stubborn as a seed.

---

You stare at the folder spread across your hotel desk, contracts lit by the yellow glow of the bedside lamp. The hum of the city outside is faint through the thick glass, but it’s there, a reminder that Metropolis never truly sleeps. Neither do you, apparently.

Your phone vibrates against the wood. The name glowing on the screen makes your shoulders sink and soften all at once. “Alfred,” you say when you answer, your voice quieter than you meant.

“You sound tired,” he replies, that familiar dry lilt wrapping around you like a worn blanket. “I would remind you that even Wayne's must occasionally close their eyes, but I suspect you’d ignore me as you always have.”

A small laugh escapes you despite yourself. “You’re not wrong.”

There’s a pause, then the subtle shuffle of papers on his end. “Master Bruce mentioned you’d taken it upon yourself to look into matters in Metropolis.”

“Of course he did,” you mutter, pinching the bridge of your nose. “And let me guess—he doesn’t approve?”

Alfred exhales, and it’s the closest thing he ever gives to a sigh. “He worries. About the company. About you.”

“I can handle myself,” you say firmly, perhaps too quickly. Your eyes flick to the faint scuff on your coat where one of the men grabbed you earlier. “I did handle myself.”

Alfred’s silence tells you he hears more in your words than you wanted to give away. “Then I trust you,” he says finally. “But perhaps tell me what precisely you’ve uncovered before you vanish into another mess, hmm?”

You tap your hand against your thigh, pacing the room as you explain: the paper trail, the shell companies, the money that all flows back to Lex Luthor. And then, lower, almost reluctant, “someone tried to stop me tonight. Two men. They weren’t expecting me to fight back.”

“Two men?” Alfred repeats, and there’s an edge beneath his calm now.

“They’re handled,” you reassure. Your throat tightens, memory flickering with the sudden rush of air, the cape, the impossible strength. “Superman intervened.”

There’s another pause. “And what did you think of him?” Alfred asks carefully.

You sink onto the edge of the bed, the weight of the question heavier than you’d like to admit. “He’s… not what I expected. Everyone talks about the power, the spectacle. But he’s—” You hesitate, searching for the right word. “—gentle. Too gentle for what this city will throw at him, maybe. But steady. It’s strange, Alfred. He felt… safe.”

There’s the faintest hum on the line, Alfred’s version of a thoughtful noise. “Strange,” he says softly, “that you’d trust a stranger in a cape more easily than your own brother.”

“Don’t start,” you warn. But there’s no heat in it.

The line clicks faintly, and then another voice cuts in—quieter, lower, brooding even through the distortion of the speaker. “You should come home.”

You close your eyes. “Hello to you too, Bruce.”

“You’re exposed,” he says, no preamble. “Metropolis isn’t Gotham. Their games are different, but the rules are the same—you make enemies when you start digging. If Luthor’s involved, he won’t stop at intimidation.”

“I know,” you answer steadily. “That’s why I’m here. This isn’t just corporate sabotage—it’s deliberate. Someone wanted me to see the trail. I need to find out why.”

“You’ll get yourself killed.” The words are sharper than he means them to be, you know that. It’s his way of saying I can’t lose you.

“I’m not reckless,” you counter. “Not like you. And I’m not alone.”

There’s a beat of silence. You wonder if he hears what you mean, if he catches the flicker in your voice when you say it. Finally, he mutters, “don’t trust him too easily. That’s all I’ll say.”

Before you can reply, the line goes dead. You lower the phone slowly, staring at the city lights through the window. Bruce will stew in his cave, Alfred will sigh in the manor, and you—well, you’ll keep walking the line you’ve chosen.

Still, you can’t stop your mind from replaying Superman’s face, the steadiness in his eyes, and the way Clark Kent’s gaze in the newsroom had felt exactly the same.

You shake the thought away, burying it under contracts and red ink. Tomorrow, there will be more questions to chase. Tomorrow, you’ll see Clark Kent again. And tomorrow, you’ll decide if you’re ready to test just how many secrets Metropolis is keeping.

---

The Daily Planet lobby smells of ink and old coffee—comforting in a way, a heartbeat beneath the city’s glittering glass. You walk in with your satchel over one shoulder, folder tucked tight against your ribs. There’s a steeliness in your step, sharpened by last night’s attempted ambush and the memory of a cape cutting through the air.

When the elevator doors open onto the newsroom, the chaos greets you like an old acquaintance—reporters shouting across desks, the hum of a dozen phone calls happening at once. And right there, in the middle of it all, Clark Kent, hunched slightly at his desk with his glasses slipping low as he types with the deliberation of a man weighing every word. “Back again?” he says when he notices you, voice warm, carrying just enough surprise to make you smirk.

“Don’t sound so shocked,” you reply. “Wayne Enterprises’ money isn’t going to untangle itself, and you’ve got half the city wired into your phone lines. Seems efficient.”

He chuckles softly, rising with an awkward grace that still manages to take up all the space around him. “Efficient isn’t usually how people describe this place.”

He offers coffee—he doesn’t ask, just picks up a second mug from the counter and places it in front of you. The steam curls upward, rich and bitter. You lift it carefully, studying him over the rim. “Careful, Kent. People will start to think you’re charming.”

A faint flush creeps across his cheeks, though his eyes hold yours, steady. “And what would you think?”

You pause, savoring the taste of the coffee and the way he asked that as though he truly wanted the answer. “I’d think you’re harder to read than you look.”

The two of you sit side by side at his cluttered desk, spreading papers between you—his notes, your contracts, diagrams of shell companies. Your handwriting scrawls sharp in red ink beside his looping cursive. Piece by piece, the picture forms: LexCorp subsidiaries tied to construction bids, energy grids, political donations. It’s intricate, deliberate.

“Someone wanted this to be seen,” Clark says finally, leaning forward, his voice low so it doesn’t carry over the newsroom.

Your head tilts slightly. “Exactly what I told Bruce.”

“You don’t strike me as someone who waits for permission,” he says.

“Good instincts,” you murmur, lips curving.

A comfortable silence stretches—papers between you, the hum of the newsroom around you, but his presence grounding the moment. You shouldn’t feel at ease here, with someone you barely know, but you do.

The silence is broken by Perry White storming past, barking about deadlines. Clark straightens quickly, fumbling with his notes. You press a hand lightly to the paper stack, steadying it before it scatters.

He looks at you then, glasses sliding just enough for his eyes to be clear, earnest and startlingly familiar. You freeze, breath caught for a fraction of a second. There’s something in that gaze—something that tugs at the edge of memory.

You cover it with a smooth smile, withdrawing your hand. “You’d better get back to work, Kent. Wouldn’t want your editor to bite your head off.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” he admits, sheepish, though the corners of his mouth curve like he’s glad you noticed.

You gather your things, sliding the satchel back over your shoulder. “Send me anything you find. And Clark—” you pause just long enough to make sure his attention is yours— “don’t keep me waiting.”

When you leave the newsroom, you don’t glance back. But if you had, you’d see Clark standing at his desk, watching the elevator doors close with the same quiet intensity Superman carried when he asked if you were hurt.

And though you bury yourself in contracts and calculations for the rest of the afternoon, a truth nags at the edge of your mind. You are circling something dangerous—not just Lex Luthor’s schemes, but Clark Kent himself.

Because somehow, against every ounce of your better judgment, you are beginning to trust him.

---

Metropolis hums differently at night than it does in the day. The skyscrapers glow like beacons, the sidewalks pulse with energy, and the cafés on the corner spill golden light out onto the street. Gotham’s nightlife was smoke and shadows; here it’s neon and glass.

You push open the door of a small café tucked between a bookstore and a dry cleaner, the kind of place that tries to be inconspicuous and fails because it’s too charming. Clark had suggested it—quiet, off Perry White’s radar, a place where you could talk without the Planet’s chaos humming around you.

He’s already there when you arrive, seated at a small table near the window. Jacket folded neatly over the chair, tie still slightly crooked, glasses catching the soft lamplight. When he looks up, that unshakable steadiness in his eyes makes your steps falter for just a second. “Miss Wayne,” he says warmly, standing to pull out your chair. His manners are almost old-fashioned, but not in a rehearsed way—like it simply never occurred to him to be anything but considerate.

“Clark,” you return, settling into the chair. “I’m starting to think you have a habit of finding me before I find you.”

He chuckles, sitting across from you. “Reporters tend to chase things. Sometimes people, too.”

A waitress appears, drops menus, takes your drink orders. When she’s gone, Clark leans forward, lowering his voice. “I looked into those contracts again. There’s a pattern. The shell companies trace back to energy infrastructure—power grids. If Luthor’s behind this, he isn’t just funneling money. He’s building leverage.”

You sip your coffee slowly, meeting his gaze over the rim. “You think he’s trying to control the city’s power?”

“I think he’s already started.” His jaw tightens for the briefest moment, and you catch it—the flicker of something deeper, almost personal. But he covers it quickly, adjusting his glasses. “It’s not just about money with Luthor. It never is.”

You study him. He talks about Lex not like a reporter chasing a billionaire but like someone who’s been watching him for far longer than an article would require. “Tell me something, Clark,” you say, leaning back. “Why are you chasing this story so hard? Luthor’s a titan here. He can bury journalists for breakfast. What makes you keep poking?”

His eyes meet yours, unwavering. “Because if people like him aren’t held accountable, then no one is safe. Not in Metropolis, not anywhere.”

The simplicity of the answer hits harder than any grand speech could. You’re used to Gotham’s cynicism, where everyone has an angle. Clark’s sincerity feels like standing in sunlight after too long underground.

You force a smirk to cover the warmth blooming in your chest. “Careful, Kent. That sounded almost heroic.”

This time his smile is small but genuine, reaching his eyes. “I wouldn’t go that far.”

The waitress brings your food—two sandwiches, fries to share. You dig in, letting the conversation drift. He asks about Gotham; you paint it honestly—gritty, relentless, a city that eats its own but occasionally spits out someone strong enough to fight back. He listens, really listens, not just waiting for his turn to speak. When he talks about Smallville—cornfields, Friday night football, a life so simple it feels like fiction—you find yourself laughing at the mental image of him awkwardly towering over high school classmates.

There’s a pause between bites, a lull in conversation. You catch him watching you again, not in the way men in boardrooms do, calculating or hungry. Clark looks at you like he’s cataloguing details—your laugh, the way you tap your fingers against your cup, the slight arch of your brow when you’re skeptical. It’s a gaze that makes you feel seen rather than inspected.

You clear your throat, breaking the moment before it settles too deep. “If we’re working together on this, Kent, I should warn you—I don’t play well with others.”

His smile deepens, soft and unshaken. “I think you do better than you think.”

For a second, you forget the contracts, forget the danger, forget the cape that swept down from the sky the night before. There’s just the quiet clink of dishes, the glow of lamplight, and a man who feels far steadier than anyone you’ve met in either Gotham or Metropolis.

You lean back, finishing the last sip of coffee. “Don’t get used to dinners like this. I’m not here to make friends.”

He nods, though the warmth in his eyes betrays him. “Understood.”

But as you both step out into the city night, side by side, you catch yourself thinking that maybe—just maybe—you don’t mind making one exception.

---

The Wayne Enterprises Metropolis tower gleams against the skyline, its steel-and-glass façade polished to an almost smug shine. To the average passerby, it’s just another symbol of wealth and stability. But to you, it’s a puzzle box. And tonight, you intend to pry it open.

The lobby is quiet at this hour. A single security guard sits behind the marble desk, his eyes glued to a muted television. You stride across the floor, ID clipped to your jacket, heels clicking just enough to sound official but not confrontational. The guard barely glances up before waving you through.

Elevators whisk you up thirty floors to the research subsidiary’s wing—biotech, officially. But the numbers you pulled last week didn’t match. This wasn’t about cell cultures or prosthetic trials. Someone had been rerouting funds, slipping them into shell corporations with clinical precision.

Your keycard slides into the lock. The office opens with a soft chime, fluorescent lights flickering awake. It smells faintly of disinfectant and stale paper. You move quickly, scanning desks, rifling through files. Paperwork tells a story far more clearly than corporate press releases.

And there it is. A folder marked innocuously as energy grant allocations. Inside: transfers to companies with forgettable names—Silverbrook Holdings, Astra Limited, Convergent Systems. On paper, they’re nothing. But you’ve seen enough Gotham shell companies to recognize the sleight of hand.

You snap photos with your phone, flipping page after page. The numbers don’t just disappear; they converge. And when they do, the name at the center gleams like a rot beneath the glass: LexCorp Energy Division.

You exhale sharply, leaning back in the chair. It’s deliberate. Someone inside Wayne Enterprises is feeding Luthor. And worse, they want you to know it. The trail is too neat, too clean. A noise pulls you from your thoughts—the faintest creak in the hallway outside. You freeze. The office is supposed to be empty at this hour.

Closing the folder, you slip it back into the cabinet, phone clutched in your hand. You step quietly to the door, ears straining. Footsteps. Slow, measured, coming closer.

You move into the shadow between the filing cabinets, waiting. The door opens. A man steps inside—tall, sharp suit, eyes sweeping the room with the cool precision of someone who doesn’t believe in coincidence. He doesn’t see you at first. His attention is fixed on the cabinet you just closed.

You recognize him from corporate briefings—Wayne Enterprises’ Metropolis liaison, a man meant to be overseeing this very branch. Which means either he’s oblivious to the rerouted funds, or he’s the one holding the knife.

You could confront him. Call his name, demand an explanation, make it a matter of authority. But your instincts whisper otherwise. Gotham taught you well—sometimes it’s better to watch before you strike. You remain in the shadows, silent, as he pulls the same folder, flicks through it with a faint smirk, then tucks it under his arm. And when he leaves, you let out the breath you’d been holding.

You step back into the light, pulse hammering. If he’s taking that folder, he knows someone else has been sniffing. Which means you’ve just painted a target on yourself.

Your phone buzzes. A message; unknown number.

Stop digging. Or you’ll regret it.

The words glare back at you, simple and ugly. You stare at them for a long moment before tucking the phone away, jaw set. Whoever sent it underestimated the one thing Bruce never could beat out of you: stubbornness.

---

The newsroom is louder than usual when you step off the elevator the next morning—phones ringing nonstop, the click of keyboards faster, voices pitched higher. You scan the floor, folder tucked under your arm, and spot Clark at his desk. He looks up as though he felt you coming before you spoke. His glasses catch the light, but his eyes are steady, calm, maybe even relieved. “You’re here early,” he says, standing halfway as you cross to him. His tone is mild, but there’s something beneath it—a weight, an edge. Concern.

“So are you,” you answer, sliding the folder onto his desk. “I thought journalists slept until noon.”

The corner of his mouth tugs. “Depends on the story.” You don’t sit right away. Instead, you watch him. He’s too composed for someone who’s been running himself ragged on a story with this many teeth. No late-night exhaustion, no bleary haze. If anything, he looks sharper than yesterday. And yet when he asks, “rough night?” it’s soft, careful, like he’s stepping onto thin ice.

You freeze a fraction too long. “Define rough.”

Clark leans forward, lowering his voice so it doesn’t carry. “Define however you want. Just… you don’t look like someone who got eight hours of sleep.”

You huff a quiet laugh, dropping into the chair across from him. “I wasn’t attacked, if that’s what you’re fishing for.” Not exactly. “But you were right about the pattern. I went back to Wayne Enterprises last night. Their Metropolis liaison, Richard Halvorsen? He’s involved. I watched him pull the very file I’d been digging through.”

Clark’s brow furrows, the shift almost imperceptible but not lost on you. “Did he see you?”

“No. But I got this before he took it.” You push the copied documents across the desk. “Funds routed through shell companies, infrastructure bids that don’t exist, all ending up with LexCorp’s Energy Division. It’s a straight line if you know how to look.”

He flips through the pages, jaw tightening. “Halvorsen’s just the beginning. Someone’s cleaning this money before it reaches Lex. That’s why it’s so hard to trace.”

You study him, the way his hand lingers just a little too long on the paper, knuckles pale from pressure. “You talk about Luthor like you’ve been chasing him for years.”

Clark doesn’t flinch, but he doesn’t answer either. His silence speaks louder than words.

You tilt your head. “You’ve got personal skin in this, Kent. Don’t bother denying it.”

His eyes meet yours, steady as stone. “Does that bother you?”

The question hangs there, heavier than it should be. You want to say yes—that a journalist with an angle is dangerous. But what comes out is, “not if it means you’ll fight harder to get it right.”

The space between you goes quiet, but not empty. His gaze holds yours a heartbeat too long before he finally exhales, setting the papers down with deliberate care. “Then we keep going,” he says, voice quiet but certain.

A shadow falls across the desk—Perry White, barking orders as usual. “Kent! Lane’s tearing up half the mayor’s office, and I need you two—” His eyes flick to you. “Wayne? What the hell are you still doing here?”

“Just making sure your boy doesn’t bury himself in a bad story,” you reply smoothly.

Perry snorts, unimpressed. “Good luck with that.” He storms off.

You and Clark exchange a look, laughter caught at the corners of your mouths. For the briefest moment, the weight of shell companies and billionaires and late-night ambushes lifts, replaced by something light, almost easy.

But when the laughter fades, the intensity in his gaze remains. You can feel it—unspoken, steady, protective.

And for the first time in a long while, you realize you’re not just chasing a trail. You’re walking it alongside someone who might actually see you, even in the shadows.

---

By late afternoon, the sun slants through the Daily Planet’s windows, gilding the newsroom in warm light. Reporters are still shouting across desks, but the chaos feels muted when you and Clark are tucked away in a small conference room, papers spread like a map across the table. Clark pushes a sandwich across to you—quiet, unassuming. “You haven’t eaten.”

You glance at it, then at him. “What are you, my secretary?”

His smile is faint, almost shy, but it doesn’t fade. “Call it professional courtesy.”

You roll your eyes but unwrap it anyway, taking a bite to shut him up. The truth is, he’s right. You lose track of hours when you’re chasing something like this.

Clark’s notebook sits open between you, looping handwriting spelling out names: Richard Halvorsen at the top, then a branching web of shell companies, subsidiaries, false addresses. You add your own notes in sharp red ink, arrows and exclamation marks where the money jumps too neatly to be coincidence.

“See this?” you say, pointing to one of the entries. “Astra Limited. It doesn’t exist. At least, not in any real capacity. No staff, no offices, no payroll.”

Clark leans closer, the smell of coffee clinging faintly to him. “Then why route millions through it?”

“Because someone needed a buffer.” You tap the paper. “Halvorsen’s the one signing off the contracts. But whoever’s really pulling the strings doesn’t want his name tied directly to LexCorp. So they use Astra.”

Clark’s brow furrows, concentration etched across his face. You watch him work—how his focus sharpens, how his quiet intensity cuts through the noise. He isn’t just playing reporter; he’s tracking patterns with the precision of someone who understands how dangerous these games are.

For a while, you’re silent except for the scratch of pens and the shuffle of papers. It feels almost… companionable. You don’t let people in easily—Gotham taught you better—but Clark’s presence doesn’t feel invasive. It feels steady, grounding.

At some point, you lean back, stretching your shoulders. Clark glances up, eyes flicking from your face to the clock on the wall.

“You don’t have to keep running yourself ragged,” he says softly. “This isn’t all on you.”

A laugh escapes you, low and humorless. “That’s where you’re wrong. I carry the Wayne name. If my company’s feeding Luthor, that’s on me whether I signed the papers or not.”

His gaze doesn’t waver, calm and unshaken. “It’s not on you. It’s on the people abusing the name.”

The way he says it makes you pause. Like he knows something about carrying a legacy he didn’t ask for.

You tilt your head. “You talk like someone who knows what that feels like.”

For the first time, he looks away. “Maybe I do.”

The silence stretches, not awkward but heavy with things unsaid. You study him—the set of his jaw, the flicker of something almost vulnerable in his eyes. And for a dangerous heartbeat, you want to press. To see what secrets he’s keeping.

Instead, you smirk, breaking the weight of it. “You’re a mystery, Kent. Mild-mannered reporter one second, philosopher the next.”

He chuckles, soft and genuine. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

The conference room door bangs open. Jimmy Olsen pokes his head in, eyes flicking between the two of you with undisguised curiosity. “Uh, Perry’s looking for you, Clark. Something about the mayor’s office meltdown.”

Clark gathers his notes quickly. You slide your papers back into your satchel, rising smoothly.

“Guess we’re not done here,” you say, slipping past Jimmy.

Clark falls into step beside you, his voice low enough only you hear. “We’ll keep pulling the threads. Whoever’s behind this—Halvorsen, Luthor, whoever else—they’ll slip up.”

You glance at him, lips curving faintly. “Then let’s be there when they do.”

For just a second, the chaos of the Planet fades—the phones, the shouting, Jimmy watching curiously from behind. There’s only Clark beside you, solid as stone, and the quiet certainty that you’ve found a partner worth trusting.

---

The address on the contract looks legitimate on paper: Astra Limited, Suite 405, Weston Financial District. On a spreadsheet, it’s just another line item. In reality, it’s the kind of lead you know will either dissolve into nothing or crack everything wide open.

Clark insists on coming along. He frames it as professional interest—two sets of eyes are better than one—but the way he hovers just a step closer than necessary, the way he keeps glancing at the street around you, tells another story. He’s not just reporting. He’s making sure you’re safe.

“Suite 405,” you murmur as the elevator dings and you step into the stale, fluorescent-lit hallway. The carpet is worn, the directory outdated. Offices here are the kind that don’t get visitors.

Clark follows you down the hall, notebook in hand, though you notice he hasn’t written a word. His shoulders are taut beneath his ill-fitted jacket, posture too alert for a man out chasing a corporate paper trail.

You stop in front of the door marked 405. The brass plate is scratched, the lock scuffed from years of use—or maybe forced entries. You try the handle. It turns easily. The office beyond is bare. No desks, no chairs, no computers humming in the background. Just four walls, a thin layer of dust, and the faint smell of old paint.

“Empty,” Clark says softly, stepping inside. His voice echoes faintly off the walls.

You pace the room slowly, fingers trailing the plaster, scanning for any sign of life. “Shell company. They never meant for anyone to walk through this door.”

Clark crouches near the window, eyes scanning the sill. “Except someone’s been here recently.” He brushes a finger across the dust—leaving a clear streak where someone else had leaned not long ago.

You join him, gaze narrowing. “Cleanup crew. They pull files, wipe hard drives, then leave the shell behind.”

“Which means,” Clark says, standing again, “whoever was here knew someone would come looking.”

The words hang in the air. You both glance at the lock again—no forced entry, no signs of resistance. Too easy. Deliberate. You exhale sharply. “Halvorsen wanted me to find this. Or at least, wanted someone to.”

Clark’s eyes meet yours, steady as always. “That doesn’t scare you?”

A smirk flickers across your lips. “Scares me? No. Annoys me? Absolutely. I don’t like being played.” For a moment, the smirk softens into something quieter when you notice the way he’s watching you—concern threaded through the calm. You cover it quickly, stepping back toward the door. “Nothing more to see here. Let’s get out before the dust gives us tetanus.”

Clark chuckles faintly, following you out. But as the door clicks shut behind you, he glances back once more, expression shifting into something far heavier than humor.

Back on the street, you slip your sunglasses into place, tucking the satchel tighter under your arm. Clark matches your stride, his long frame keeping an easy pace beside you. “You realize,” you murmur, “that walking into empty offices isn’t exactly Pulitzer material.”

“Maybe not,” he admits, smile small, “but it’s part of the story. And so is whoever’s leaving breadcrumbs for you to follow.”

You glance at him sidelong. “For me? Not you?”

His gaze lingers on yours a second longer than necessary. “They know your name carries weight. Mine doesn’t. Not yet.”

You want to argue, but you don’t. Instead, you find yourself strangely comforted by the way he said it—like he has no doubt your path is the one that matters, and his role is to walk it beside you.

---

The hotel room feels too quiet when you close the door behind you. After the empty office on Weston and the way Clark walked you back—steady, deliberate, as though making sure you’d reach the hotel unscathed—the silence is almost jarring.

You drop the satchel onto the desk, shrug out of your jacket, and sink into the chair. The glow of Metropolis lights filters through the curtains, a softer brightness than Gotham’s endless neon haze. For a while, you just sit, fingers idly tracing the edge of the phone on the desk, debating.

Finally, you dial. Alfred picks up on the second ring. “You’ve called sooner than I expected,” he says dryly. “I was just preparing myself for another day of silence.”

You lean back in the chair, the corner of your mouth quirking. “You sound disappointed.”

“Merely surprised,” Alfred replies. “I assumed you were too busy gallivanting about Metropolis to bother with old men like me.”

You laugh softly, but it fades quickly. “It’s not gallivanting. The trail is deeper than we thought. Halvorsen isn’t just sloppy—he’s deliberate. There’s an entire web of companies feeding into LexCorp. Someone wanted me to find it.”

Alfred hums low, the kind of sound that usually means he’s filing information away for Bruce. “And you’re quite certain you should be following this web on your own?”

You hesitate, glancing toward the jacket you’d just draped over the chair. There’s a faint smell of coffee clinging to it—Clark’s choice of café, his quiet voice echoing in your memory. You shift in your seat. “I’m not alone,” you say carefully.

There’s a pause, then the faint rustle of movement on Alfred’s end. “Ah,” he says finally, with all the weight of someone who’s seen a hundred things you haven’t said out loud. “And this not-alone… would his name happen to be Kent?”

You blink. “How—”

“Master Bruce has people who read the Daily Planet, you know. The name was mentioned. A journalist. You didn’t think you’d be subtle, did you?”

Your mouth tightens. “Clark’s been useful. He knows how to dig. He knows Luthor. He’s—” You stop yourself. Too much truth pressing at the edges of your throat. “He’s good at this.”

There’s another pause, longer this time. Then a new voice cuts in, lower, gruffer, immediately recognizable. “Good, or good at distracting you?”

You close your eyes. “Bruce.”

“You knew I’d hear,” he says. “If Halvorsen’s compromised, you don’t know how deep this goes. You can’t trust anyone outside the family.”

“I can trust him,” you snap before you can stop yourself.

The silence on the line sharpens. Then Bruce says, cool and certain, “you barely know him.”

You lean forward, fingers digging into the arm of the chair. “I know enough. He doesn’t play games. He doesn’t posture. He—” You cut yourself off, pressing your lips together hard.

Alfred’s voice slides gently back in, smoothing over the sharp edges. “We only worry, miss. Especially when Luthor’s name is involved. He plays for keeps, and so do his people.”

You take a slow breath. “I know the risk. But I’m not backing down. And I’m not cutting Clark out, either.”

For a moment, you think Bruce will argue, but all you hear is the faint click of him leaving the call. Alfred sighs softly on the other end. “He doesn’t like it,” Alfred says quietly.

“He never likes anything,” you mutter, though your chest tightens anyway.

There’s a rustle, then Alfred’s voice gentler than before. “Just… promise me you’ll be careful. With Luthor. With Kent. With all of it.”

You close your eyes, exhaling slowly. “I promise.”

When the call ends, you sit for a long time in the dim light, staring at the city beyond the window. You should feel steadier, anchored by the familiar rhythm of Alfred’s concern and Bruce’s suspicion. Instead, you feel the opposite—off-balance, unsettled. Because the truth is, when you said I can trust him, you weren’t just convincing them. You were trying to convince yourself.

---

The following day, the newsroom is its usual storm of ringing phones and shouted copy edits, but you’re quieter than usual when you step in. The weight of last night’s call lingers like a stone in your chest—Bruce’s suspicion, Alfred’s concern, your own too-quick defense of Clark.

Clark notices immediately. Of course he does. “Morning,” he says gently, voice low enough that it doesn’t get swallowed by the newsroom’s chaos. He sets a fresh coffee on the edge of your borrowed desk before you can even sit down. “Thought you might need it.”

You take the cup, fingers brushing his for the briefest second. Warmth flares there, unwanted but undeniable. “Thanks,” you murmur, keeping your tone even.

He studies you as you open your satchel, spreading papers across the desk with more force than necessary. “Something wrong?”

“No.” The word comes sharper than intended. You force a breath, softening it. “Just tired.”

Clark doesn’t press. He never does. Instead, he slides into the chair across from you, notebook already open, pen resting lightly between his fingers. He’s patient, giving you room, but his gaze is steady—like he’ll wait all day for the truth if he has to.

You busy yourself with the files, flipping to the copies you made of Halvorsen’s contracts. “I went through the numbers again. Astra Limited isn’t the only shell. There’s Silverbrook Holdings too—registered in Coast City, but it doesn’t exist. Same pattern. Money routed, laundered, cleaned, then deposited into LexCorp’s Energy Division.”

Clark leans in, scanning the figures, his brow furrowing. “Halvorsen’s the start. But someone else is moving the money after him.”

You nod. “Whoever it is, they’re good. They’re using people with enough influence to make it all look legitimate. I wouldn’t be surprised if this stretches across multiple cities.”

His pen stills on the page, then he looks at you again. “And you’re carrying it like it’s your responsibility alone.”

The words make your chest tighten. You set the paper down, meeting his gaze. “It is my responsibility. Wayne Enterprises is mine as much as Bruce’s. If someone’s using our name to feed Luthor, it’s on me to stop it.”

Clark doesn’t argue. Instead, he says quietly, “then let me help.”

It’s simple, unadorned. No speeches, no conditions. Just steady sincerity.

You search his face, half-expecting to find calculation, some hidden angle. But there’s nothing except that unflinching honesty. It disarms you more than the cape ever could. “You don’t even know what you’re signing up for,” you say finally.

His mouth curves, small but certain. “I think I do.”

The silence stretches, weighted but not uncomfortable. You sip the coffee he brought you, letting the warmth settle in your hands. For a fleeting moment, you let yourself believe you don’t have to carry this alone.

But then your phone buzzes on the desk. A new message, unmarked number. Just like last time.

Walk away, Wayne. Last warning.

Clark notices the way your hand stills on the phone. He doesn’t ask, doesn’t push. But his eyes sharpen, just slightly, behind the glasses.

And you realize—with an odd, unexpected sense of relief—that whoever’s sending threats may not understand one thing: you’re not walking away.

Not now. Not with Clark beside you.

---

Morning sunlight gleams off the hood of the car waiting at the curb outside the Daily Planet. The engine hums low, sleek lines catching the eye of every passerby. A Wayne Enterprises-issued Aston Martin, deep navy with polished chrome trim.

You lean against it casually, sunglasses perched on your nose, satchel resting by your side. If you’re going to chase leads across state lines, you might as well do it in comfort.

Clark arrives right on time—though from the look on his face, he hadn’t expected this. He stops short on the sidewalk, blinking between you and the car like he’s stumbled into the wrong movie. “You drive this?” he asks, voice caught somewhere between bewildered and impressed.

You smirk. “Would you rather we take the bus?”

He opens his mouth, then closes it again, fluster tugging at his features. Finally, he settles on, “I usually just… take the train.”

“Of course you do,” you tease, sliding into the driver’s seat. “Get in, Kent. Coast City’s not going to drive to us.”

Clark circles to the passenger side, moving with that careful, slightly too-large grace of his. When he sinks into the leather seat, he shifts uncomfortably, as if the car itself might protest having him in it. “This probably costs more than my apartment,” he mutters under his breath.

You glance at him, amused. “Relax. It’s just a car.”

He looks at you then, glasses sliding just low enough that you catch the barest glimmer of something familiar in his eyes. “It’s not just a car. At least, not to people like me.”

That makes you pause, just for a heartbeat. You grip the wheel, then gun the engine. The car leaps forward, smooth as silk onto the highway.

For the first few miles, silence fills the space between you—comfortable, almost. Clark watches the cityscape give way to open stretches of road, the sunlight catching in his hair. You catch him sneaking glances at you, as though trying to reconcile the Gotham confidence with the woman who just asked if he wanted the bus.

Finally, he says, “you and Bruce… you come from this world of wealth and power. But you don’t act like it.”

“Maybe that’s because I’ve seen what it does to people,” you answer easily. “Money’s a tool. Power’s a liability. You don’t survive Gotham if you believe otherwise.”

Clark considers that, quiet for a long time. “In Smallville, if someone’s truck broke down, the whole town would come help push it. No one thought twice about it. We didn’t have much, but… we had each other.”

You glance at him sidelong, lips twitching. “You really are a farm boy.”

A flush creeps across his cheeks, but he smiles anyway. “Guilty.”

The miles roll by, city fading to countryside, countryside to the glittering coast. The contrast between you is stark—leather seats, designer sunglasses, precision-engineered horsepower versus his rumpled tie, notebook balanced on his knee, quiet earnestness. And yet, it doesn’t feel like distance. It feels like balance.

Somewhere near the state line, Clark breaks the silence again. “Do you ever wish you’d had that? The small-town kind of life?”

You keep your eyes on the road, lips curving into a faint smile. “Sometimes. But then I remember—I wouldn’t be me if I had. And honestly? I like who I am.”

His gaze lingers on you, steady and unflinching. “I do too.”

For once, you don’t have a retort. You just drive, the hum of the car filling the silence, his words hanging between you like something unspoken but undeniable.

---

The drive stretches long, but by the time the car crests the last ridge and the skyline of Coast City comes into view, the sun has already begun to dip. The city sprawls smaller than Metropolis but brighter than Gotham—its streets cleaner, its edges softer. To most people, it looks like opportunity. To you, it looks like a mask.

Silverbrook Holdings sits at the far edge of the financial district in a pale stone building that could belong to a dozen other companies. From the street, it looks respectable: glass windows, discreet signage, the kind of place no one thinks twice about.

Clark steps out of the car, squinting up at it with his hands in his pockets. “Doesn’t exactly scream criminal empire.”

You shut the door with a firm click. “It’s not meant to. That’s the point.”

Inside, the building lobby is clinical—white walls, polished floors, fluorescent lights humming faintly overhead. A receptionist desk sits in the middle, unmanned. The silence is sharp, too neat.

Clark glances at you, his expression shifting just enough to betray unease. “Not even a secretary?”

“Not even a potted plant,” you mutter, scanning the room.

The elevator works, but the directory by the door lists only two tenants: Silverbrook Holdings and a generic-sounding “West Coast Trade Consultants.” You press the button for Silverbrook’s floor, the car humming softly as it rises.

When the doors slide open, you both step into another empty hallway. Offices line either side, blinds drawn tight, doors locked. At the end of the corridor, the nameplate reads Silverbrook Holdings – Suite 700.

You pull a lockpick kit from your satchel—sleek, efficient, something Bruce always pretended not to know you owned. Clark raises his brows. “What?” you say, kneeling at the lock. “Did you think growing up with Bruce Wayne meant I don’t know how to open doors?”

His lips twitch, amusement barely contained. “I’m just… impressed.”

The lock clicks and you push the door open. Like Astra Limited, the office is empty—but not in the same way. Desks sit abandoned, chairs tucked neatly in place, filing cabinets bolted against the walls. There are papers here, scattered across one desk, though the dust is thick enough to suggest no one’s touched them in months.

Clark moves toward the window, scanning outside. “No lights on in the building across. No signs of recent visitors.”

You sift through the papers. Receipts, delivery slips, blank forms. All signed with the same name: Morgan Edge.

You freeze, holding one up. “Edge,” you mutter. “Halvorsen routes the money here, Edge disguises it as development bids. Then it gets passed along.”

Clark steps closer, reading over your shoulder. His voice is quiet, steady. “Whoever’s pulling the strings, they’re not hiding anymore. They’re daring us to follow.”

You set the paper down, looking at him. “You don’t sound surprised.”

He meets your gaze without flinching. “I’m not.”

Something in the way he says it makes your chest tighten. He knows more than he’s saying—you can feel it in the steady calm of his voice, the way he keeps himself perfectly measured. You want to push. To demand answers. But instead, you tuck the papers into your satchel and straighten. “Then we keep following. Until we know where it really ends.”

Clark nods, and for a second, the weight of the world seems to settle in his shoulders. But when he looks at you again, there’s that familiar warmth in his eyes—quiet, steady, unshaken.

And in that moment, standing in an empty office hundreds of miles from Gotham, you realize the trail isn’t the only thing you’re chasing.

By the time you and Clark leave the Silverbrook office, the sun has dropped low, casting the city in golden haze and deepening shadows. The air smells of salt and exhaust, Coast City’s streets alive with evening crowds heading to dinner, bars, and late shifts.

Your stomach growls—loud enough that Clark tilts his head, smiling faintly. “Don’t say it,” you warn, locking the car.

“I wasn’t going to,” he replies, though his tone is soft, teasing. “But there’s a place around the corner—family-owned diner. Not much to look at, but the food’s good.”

You arch a brow. “Of course you’d know the diner.”

He shrugs, sheepish. “Reporters travel. And I like to eat.”

Against your better judgment, you follow him. The diner is exactly what you expect: cracked leather booths, buzzing neon sign, the faint smell of grease clinging to the air. But it’s warm, full of noise and chatter, and somehow comforting.

You slide into a booth. Clark sits opposite, folding his long frame into the narrow space with practiced ease. He orders black coffee and a burger; you order something small, though you’re hungrier than you admit.

For a while, you talk about the case—Edge, Halvorsen, how cleanly the money jumped through hands. But the conversation drifts as the food comes, slipping into quieter territory. “You know,” you say around a fry, “this isn’t what I expected Metropolis’s golden boy reporter to be doing. Chasing shell companies and dirty money trails. Don’t you have city council scandals to write about?”

Clark smirks, sipping his coffee. “Those are easier. Luthor’s harder. And people need harder.”

You study him across the booth. “You talk like someone who’s been fighting him longer than you let on.”

He doesn’t flinch, but he doesn’t answer either. Instead, he sets his coffee down and says, “what about you? Gotham’s not exactly a city that forgives idealists. Why keep fighting?”

You lean back, shrugging lightly. “Because if I don’t, who will? Bruce carries his war one way, I carry mine another. Gotham eats people alive, Clark. The only way to survive it is to push back.”

His gaze lingers on you—quiet, steady, almost admiring. “You sound like someone who doesn’t know how to quit.”

“Wouldn’t be much of a Wayne if I did,” you reply, smirking.

There’s a beat of silence. Then he says softly, “I like that about you.”

The words settle in your chest like an unexpected warmth. You look down at your plate, smirk fading into something quieter. For a moment, the investigation, the threats, the empty offices—all of it fades under the glow of neon and the steady way Clark looks at you, like he’s cataloguing every detail without judgment.

When the bill comes, you reach for it. Clark beats you to it. “Reporter’s salary, Kent,” you remind him dryly. “This booth costs more than your paycheck.”

His smile is sheepish, but unyielding. “Then consider it a small rebellion. Let me have this one.”

You let him, watching as he tucks his wallet back into his jacket. He looks proud of himself in the simplest way, like buying dinner in a diner is some kind of victory. And to your surprise, it makes you smile. As you step out into the night, the city lights reflecting in the dark ocean nearby, you catch yourself thinking—not for the first time—that maybe you trust him more than you should.

---

The highway stretches long and dark as you steer the car back toward Metropolis, the dashboard lights casting a soft glow over the leather interior. The road hums beneath the tires, steady and hypnotic. Clark sits in the passenger seat, jacket draped across his lap, tie loosened at his collar. He’s relaxed in a way you haven’t seen before, one arm resting on the window ledge, the other idly flipping a pen between his fingers. Every so often, he sneaks a glance at you, like he’s checking to see if you’re still real in this moment of quiet. “You drive like someone who doesn’t believe in speed limits,” he says finally, his voice low but laced with humor.

You smirk, eyes still on the road. “Speed limits are suggestions. Besides, this car was built for it.”

Clark chuckles, shaking his head. “You and your cars…”

“What about them?” you ask, glancing at him sidelong.

“You talk about them like they’re extensions of you,” he says. “Like they’re armor.”

The words catch you off guard more than you want to admit. He isn’t wrong. Cars have always been both luxury and shield—a way to control your environment, to feel untouchable even when everything else felt like a fight. You cover the pause with a dry, “better than talking about them like they’re trophies.”

Clark smiles faintly. “I wasn’t criticizing. Just… noticing.” You grip the wheel a little tighter. He notices too much, sees too much. And yet you don’t feel defensive the way you usually do. Not with him. A few miles pass in silence, the hum of the road the only sound. Then, softly, Clark says, “you don’t have to carry all of this by yourself.”

You glance at him again. He’s not looking at you, but out the windshield, eyes fixed on the horizon. His voice is steady, but there’s a gentleness in it that disarms you. “I’ve been getting threats,” you admit before you can stop yourself.

That makes him look at you, sharply. “Threats?”

“Text messages. Anonymous.” You force your voice steady. “They want me to walk away.”

“And you won’t.” It isn’t a question.

You shake your head. “No.”

His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t argue. He just says quietly, “then I’ll be there.”

The words hang between you, simple but absolute. You grip the wheel harder, pulse quickening in ways that have nothing to do with the car’s speed. For a long time, neither of you speaks. The city lights finally appear on the horizon, a glowing crown against the dark. And though you know what waits—Halvorsen, Edge, Luthor, threats in the shadows—you let yourself sink into the quiet certainty of Clark’s words. Then I’ll be there.

---

The Daily Planet hums louder than usual when you and Clark return, the newsroom alive with reporters buzzing over fresh leads. You drop your satchel onto the desk, sliding the Silverbrook papers across the surface, while Clark flips through his notes. “Morgan Edge,” you say flatly. The name tastes sour. “Halvorsen routes the funds, Edge launders them. He’s the bridge to Lex.”

Clark nods, adjusting his glasses. “And he doesn’t hide well. Edge likes attention. He likes being seen.”

Before you can answer, Perry White barrels past, barking orders. “Kent! Where’s that city hall piece? Lane’s running circles around you—again!” He slaps a stack of papers onto a nearby desk, muttering something about journalists who move at the speed of glaciers.

As he storms off, Lois sweeps in from the other side of the bullpen, heels sharp against the floor. She doesn’t slow as she calls out, “Edge is hosting a gala tomorrow night at the Metropolitan Grand. Whole city elite’ll be there. Half the council, Luthor, probably even the mayor. I’ll be covering it.” She disappears into Perry’s office before you can get a word in, leaving the words hanging in the air.

You turn to Clark. “A gala?”

He sighs, shoulders sinking just slightly. “That’s Edge. When he wants to remind people he’s untouchable, he throws a party. Charities, business expansions, new investments—always a cover for something else.”

You smirk faintly. “Then it’s our invitation to get closer.”

Clark shifts, uncomfortable. “You make it sound simple.”

“Not simple,” you correct, gathering the Silverbrook papers into your satchel. “Necessary. People talk at galas. Especially people who think no one’s listening.”

His eyes meet yours—steady, reluctant, but with that familiar undercurrent of he’ll follow you anywhere, no matter the risk. “You do realize Edge will recognize you,” Clark says carefully.

You tilt your head. “Good. Let him. He already knows I’m digging. Might as well look him in the eye while I do it.”

For a long moment, Clark studies you across the desk. Finally, his mouth curves, faint and rueful. “You don’t play small, do you?”

“Never,” you say, slipping on your jacket.

And as you walk past him, you hear the quietest chuckle, warm and steady, like he’s resigned to whatever storm you’re dragging him into next.

---

The idea comes up the next morning in the Planet conference room, papers and coffee cups scattered between you. You’re running through the guest list for Edge’s gala when the thought strikes you like lightning. “Wait,” you say suddenly, narrowing your eyes at Clark across the table. “Do you even own a nice suit?”

He blinks at you. “Of course I do.”

You arch a brow. “Define nice.”

There’s the faintest flush creeping up his neck. “...It’s clean.”

Your laugh bursts out before you can stop it. “Oh my god. Clark Kent, the man planning to sneak into one of the most exclusive galas in Metropolis, thinks ‘clean’ is the requirement for a tux.”

His ears turn pink. “It’s not a tux—I mean, I have a suit. It’s… fine.”

You lean across the table, smirk tugging at your lips. “Fine doesn’t cut it. You’re walking into a ballroom full of sharks, billionaires, and politicians. You’ll stick out like an intern at a shareholders’ meeting.”

“I don’t need to impress anyone,” he mutters.

“Wrong,” you counter smoothly. “You need to blend in. There’s a difference.”

Clark fumbles for a rebuttal, but you’re already sliding the last of the papers into your satchel. “Come on, farm boy. We’re going shopping.”

The tailor’s boutique smells faintly of cedar and pressed wool, a world of dark-paneled walls and gleaming mirrors. You move through the racks with ease, pulling suits in navy, charcoal, and black with practiced fingers. Clark follows like a man led to the gallows. “This really isn’t necessary,” he tries again as you shove a hanger into his hands.

“Try it,” you say firmly, pushing him toward the fitting room.

The curtain swishes shut, and for a moment, silence. “This is… tight.”

“Tailored,” you correct through the curtain, grinning. “It’s supposed to fit you.”

A pause. Then, more flustered, “I think this costs more than my car.”

You lean against the wall, arms crossed. “Consider it equal.”

The curtain rustles. “Equal?”

“You bought dinner in Coast City,” you remind him lightly.

“That was twenty bucks,” he says, voice strangled.

“And this is balance,” you insist. “Stop arguing.”

There’s a sigh. Then the curtain pulls back—and for a heartbeat, you forget to breathe. The suit frames him perfectly: charcoal wool, sharp lines, shoulders squared. The tie is crooked—of course—but the effect is devastating nonetheless. Clark shifts uncomfortably under your gaze, tugging at the cuffs. “Well?” he asks, eyes flicking nervously to yours.

You swallow, recovering quickly. “You clean up… better than fine.”

His flush deepens, but the corner of his mouth curves. “I still don’t think it’s equal.”

You step closer, fingers brushing against his collar as you fix the knot of his tie. “It is if I say it is.”

The air shifts—suddenly charged, closer than it should be. His eyes hold yours, steady but uncertain, like he’s caught between stepping back and leaning forward. For a dangerous moment, the investigation, the gala, the entire city disappears. There’s just the quiet sound of your breath and the heat of his presence. You clear your throat, stepping back. “Good. You’ll pass.”

Clark exhales, almost like he’d forgotten how. He glances at the mirror, then back at you, and that small, quiet smile lingers. And for the first time, you realize that while the gala may be full of sharks, the real danger might be standing right in front of you.

---

The Metropolitan Grand Hotel gleams like a jewel against the city skyline, its chandeliers blazing through wide glass windows, music drifting out onto the steps. Cars line the curb—sleek, expensive, the kind that only make sense to people who measure wealth in billions. You step out of yours first, heels clicking on polished stone. The dress you’d chosen hugs your frame with understated elegance—charcoal silk with clean lines, its sheen catching the light. It matches Clark’s suit exactly, the two of you paired so seamlessly it looks intentional. Which, of course, it is.

When Clark rounds the car, smoothing his jacket self-consciously, his eyes flick to you—and for once, words fail him. His usual steady calm wavers, his mouth opening and closing like he’s trying to remember how to speak. “You…” he clears his throat, tugging at his tie. “You look…”

You smile faintly, saving him from himself. “So do you. It almost looks like we planned this.”

The flush creeping up his neck gives him away, but he offers his arm anyway, old-fashioned, earnest. You slip your hand against it, and together you ascend the steps into the lion’s den. Inside, the ballroom is a storm of glittering gowns, sharp tuxedos, and too-bright smiles. Champagne flutes clink, laughter echoes beneath the string quartet’s music, and deals are being made with every handshake.

“Morgan Edge loves these events,” Clark murmurs beside you, scanning the crowd. “He feeds off the attention.”

“Good,” you reply smoothly, eyes sweeping over the guests. “Makes him easier to find.”

It doesn’t take long. Edge stands near the center of the room, broad-shouldered in a dark suit, his grin wide and wolfish as he charms a knot of councilmen. His hand gestures are broad, his voice carrying just enough to remind everyone he’s the loudest in the room. You and Clark linger at the edge of the crowd, sipping champagne you don’t intend to finish. Your eyes narrow as you watch Edge lean in, laughing too loudly at some councilman’s joke. “He knows we’re here,” you murmur.

Clark glances down at you, brow furrowing. “You’re sure?”

“Look at his shoulders,” you whisper. “He’s performing. Too much. He’s showing off because he wants us to see him do it.”

Clark studies Edge a moment longer, then nods slightly. “You’re right.”

Your lips twitch. “Of course I am.” You mingle, keeping your distance, trading polite smiles with Metropolis elite. Clark moves with you, just slightly behind, quiet but steady. He doesn’t need to speak—his presence is enough to make you feel anchored even as you tread among sharks.

At one point, Perry White brushes past, eyebrows climbing as he takes in Clark at your side. “Kent,” he mutters, voice like gravel. “Didn’t know you owned a tie that straight.”

Clark stammers something half-coherent, cheeks pink, and Perry just shakes his head, moving on. You bite back a laugh, murmuring, “you really don’t blend in as badly as you think.”

His eyes flick to you, soft and steady. “That’s because of you.”

For a second, you forget to breathe. You cover it by sipping champagne, pretending not to notice the warmth in your chest. Edge finally moves toward the balcony, peeling away from his councilmen. You and Clark exchange a glance. Without words, you follow. The night air outside is cooler, the hum of the city a low thrum beneath the gala’s music. Edge stands at the railing, staring out as though he’s been waiting. “Well,” he says, voice smooth as silk, “if it isn’t Gotham’s other Wayne. And a reporter.” He turns, grin sharp. “Quite the pair.”

You don’t flinch. “Silverbrook Holdings,” you say evenly. “It all runs through you.”

Edge’s grin widens, as though you’ve just told him a joke. “Careful, Miss Wayne. Accusations like that don’t play well at parties.”

Clark steps closer, quiet but firm. “You’ve made it obvious. Too obvious.”

Edge’s eyes flick between you, sharp and calculating. Then he chuckles. “Maybe I wanted to. Maybe I wanted you to follow the trail. Funny thing about curiosity…” His smile turns wolfish. “It tends to get people killed.” The threat hangs in the cool night air, sharp and deliberate.

Clark’s jaw tightens, but he doesn’t speak. You hold Edge’s gaze, your expression cool, controlled. You don’t give him the satisfaction of flinching. And when Edge finally brushes past you back into the ballroom, his laughter low and mocking, you and Clark are left standing on the balcony, the tension between you sharp as glass. “He’s daring us,” you murmur.

Clark’s voice is steady, low. “Then we’ll call his bluff.”

Your eyes meet his in the moonlight. And for the first time tonight, the danger feels less heavy, less suffocating—because Clark is there, steady and unflinching. The gala winds down, champagne flutes emptied, laughter thinning as the night stretches long. You and Clark keep your eyes open, drifting through the crowd like smoke.

Then you spot him—one of Edge’s men, not Edge himself but someone who lingered too close to him on the balcony. Short conversation, hushed but sharp, then a quick exit through the side doors. You glance at Clark. “Follow him.” He nods once, steady. The streets outside are quieter, the city humming under a velvet sky. You trail the man through backstreets, keeping just far enough behind that he doesn’t turn. Clark walks at your shoulder, his frame blending into shadows more easily than you expect.

The man slips into an alley between two shuttered shops. You follow—and that’s when you hear it. The shuffle of feet, the scrape of metal, too many breaths for one man. You stop short. “We’re not alone.” Shapes emerge from the dark—four men, broad and heavy, eyes glittering under the streetlamps. They fan out slowly, cutting off the exit. Clark stiffens at your side, but before he can move, you put a hand against his chest. “Get behind me.”

“What?” He sounds almost scandalized.

“Do it,” you snap, slipping a heel off your foot. The other follows, and with a quick twist, the steel spike embedded in the sole slides free. A flick of your wrist sends it spinning through the air—embedding itself in the shoulder of the closest thug. He howls, stumbling back.

Clark blinks, wide-eyed. “Your shoes—?”

“Gotham fashion,” you mutter, already pulling another gadget from your satchel—a compact baton that telescopes with a flick. You drop into a fighting stance. “Still standing there, Kent?”

The goons charge. You meet them head-on, baton cracking across one jaw, then slamming into another’s ribs. A booted foot swings at your midsection—you pivot, slashing with the knife-heel you’d kept in your hand. It bites fabric, then skin.

Behind you, Clark finally moves. One thug lunges with a pipe—Clark catches his arm mid-swing. For a moment, it looks almost comical: Clark, wide-eyed, holding the man frozen like he doesn’t know his own strength. Then—wham—he drives a single punch into the thug’s chest. The man flies backward, crumpling into a heap against the wall. Clark winces. “Sorry!”

The absurdity almost makes you laugh—but you’re busy jamming your baton into the last thug’s gut, twisting it sharply. He groans, drops, and you stand barefoot amid the wreckage, chest heaving, baton dripping with sweat and blood. Clark looks around at the groaning men, his tie crooked, his knuckles reddened from one punch. “You… you’re barefoot.”

You glance down at the ruined heels embedded in the thugs, then back at him. “Occupational hazard.” For a long moment, you just stand there together in the alley, the night humming around you. Four men groaning on the ground. Your chest rising and falling. Clark watching you like he doesn’t quite know whether to be impressed or terrified. Finally, you smirk, tucking the baton back into your satchel. “Guess you can throw a punch after all, Kent.”

His lips twitch into the faintest smile. “Guess so.” And though your feet are bare against the cold pavement, with Clark steady beside you, you’ve never felt more firmly planted.

The valet stand glows beneath golden lights when you and Clark emerge from the alley, both of you rumpled but steady. You’re barefoot, clutching your satchel like a lifeline, soot streaked along your arm where one of the thugs grabbed you. Clark, impossibly, still looks almost put together—except for the tie hanging askew.

The valet spots you from across the driveway and rushes to open your car door. He flashes a polished smile—right until the ignition turns over and the world erupts. The explosion tears through the night, a roar of fire and twisted steel. Heat blasts across your face, glass shatters like gunfire, and the once-pristine Aston Martin blossoms into a fireball, pieces of metal raining down onto the pavement. Guests at the gala scream, scattering back inside, alarms shrieking in the distance.

Clark’s arm is instantly across your shoulders, pulling you into his chest, shielding you from the spray of debris. For a heartbeat, you’re frozen there—your ear pressed against the steady hammer of his heart, your breath caught against the wall of his chest. When the flames settle into a crackling wreck, you push back, jaw clenched. “Of course,” you mutter, brushing ash off your dress. “Of course they’d torch my car.”

Clark doesn’t move his arm right away, still standing close, his eyes fixed on the wreck. “We should get you out of here,” he says quietly, voice edged with something tighter than usual.

You shake him off gently, though part of you doesn’t want to. “No car. Taxis won’t stop near an active fireball. Your place?”

He hesitates, then nods once. “It’s close enough to walk.”

You both set off down the block, the noise of sirens swelling behind you. The night air is cool against your bare feet, every step jarring against rough pavement. You keep your chin high, refusing to let discomfort slow you, but Clark notices anyway. After a few minutes, he stops. “What are you—”

Before you can finish, he bends, unlaces his shoes, and slips them off. He’s still in his socks when he sets them down in front of you. “Here.”

You stare at him. “Clark…”

“They’ll fit badly,” he admits, ears going pink. “But pavement’s worse.”

You glance at the shoes, polished leather, easily at least two sizes too big. “You’re serious?”

He shrugs, faintly sheepish but unyielding. “You’ll walk easier. Please.”

You sigh, slipping your feet into them. They flop comically with every step, making you look more like a child playing dress-up than the sister of Gotham’s most infamous billionaire. But the relief from broken glass and asphalt is undeniable. Clark falls into step beside you, long strides careful to match yours. “Don’t get used to this,” you say dryly, glancing down at the clownish effect.

His mouth curves faintly. “I won’t.” A pause. “But I’d do it again.”

Your chest tightens unexpectedly, and you cover it with a smirk. “You’re absurd, Kent. But you know what actually sounds good right now?”

“What?”

“A Big Belly Burger.”

Clark blinks at you, as if he didn’t expect that. Then he laughs—full, warm, unguarded. “In those shoes? In that dress?”

You gesture at his socks. “In those?” The two of you veer off the main street, following the neon glow of the fast-food chain. The line inside stops dead when you walk in—two soot-streaked figures, you barefoot-in-shoes four sizes too big, Clark in his tuxedo shirt and rumpled tie. You ignore the stares, stepping up to the counter with all the authority of a Wayne and ordering two burgers, fries, and a shake.

When you slide into the booth across from Clark, the vinyl squeaking under your gown, he’s already laughing softly again. “This… this isn’t exactly how I thought the night would end.”

You take a long sip of the milkshake, deliberately ignoring the way people are still gawking. “Welcome to my world.”

Clark takes a sip of his chocolate shake, still grinning faintly at the absurdity of the two of you sitting there in gala clothes streaked with soot. “You really don’t care what people think, do you?”

You shrug, dipping a fry into your vanilla shake. “Why should I? Let them stare. Half of them have probably never seen a Wayne eat fast food before.”

He chuckles, shaking his head. “Never thought I’d see it either.”

The corner of your mouth curves. “Don’t get used to it.”

For a moment, you eat in companionable silence. Then, almost absently, you say, “I once brought a stray cat into the manor. Alfred nearly had a heart attack.”

Clark looks up, eyes warm with curiosity. “A cat?”

“Scrawny little thing,” you say, smiling faintly at the memory. “Gray fur, torn ear, the meanest hiss you’ve ever heard. I was maybe ten? I snuck him in through the kitchen and tried to hide him in my room. Alfred caught me when the cat clawed its way into the study and knocked over one of Bruce’s model airplanes.”

Clark laughs quietly, picturing it. “What happened?”

“I got scolded, obviously. But then Alfred sat down with this ridiculous look on his face because the cat wouldn’t stop staring at him. Next thing I know, he’s feeding it scraps of roast chicken under the table.” You lean back, grinning. “We found out later the little monster had a sweet tooth. Wouldn’t touch regular milk, but strawberry milkshakes? He’d lap them up until his whiskers were pink.”

Clark laughs outright now, low and warm. “You’re kidding.”

“I am absolutely not. Bruce hated it—claimed the cat would ‘compromise security.’ But Alfred kept sneaking it strawberry shakes until it wandered off one day and never came back.”

Clark shakes his head, still smiling. “I think I like the idea of Alfred, legendary butler, smuggling milkshakes to a stray cat.”

“You would like him,” you say softly.

His smile gentles, fading into something quieter. He stirs his shake idly with the straw. “I had a dog. Shelby. Big, golden, sweet as anything. I used to sit out on the porch with her after chores and tell her everything I couldn’t tell my parents. She’d just sit there, tail thumping, like she understood every word.”

You watch him, the way his eyes soften at the memory, the way his voice drops just slightly, rich with fondness. “What happened to her?” you ask.

“She lived a long time,” he says quietly. “Saw me through high school. One winter, she just… slowed down. Fell asleep by the fire and didn’t wake up.”

There’s a lump in your throat you didn’t expect. “I’m sorry.”

He shakes his head. “She was happy. That’s all I could ask for.”

The two of you sit there in the glow of neon, soot still streaking your clothes, shoes mismatched under the table, sharing stories about long-gone pets like it’s the most natural thing in the world. For a brief, fragile moment, the weight of Wayne Enterprises, Lex Luthor, and Morgan Edge feels distant—something for tomorrow.

Tonight, there’s just Clark, the warmth in his eyes, and the lingering sweetness of milkshakes on your tongue. By the time you reach Clark’s building, the city has gone quiet, the chaos of the gala and the explosion reduced to sirens fading into the distance. His apartment sits on the top floor of an older building—no grand lobby, no valet, just a narrow staircase and the hum of a neighbor’s television spilling through thin walls. He unlocks the door with a sheepish look, holding it open for you. “It’s not… much.”

You step inside, and it’s exactly what you expected. Small, tidy, lived-in. A bookshelf lined with dog-eared paperbacks. A couch that’s seen better days. A desk stacked with notes and clippings. The faint smell of coffee and laundry soap lingers in the air. “It’s very… you,” you say softly, turning in the space.

Clark smiles faintly, setting his jacket over the back of a chair. “That’s one way to put it.”

When you glance at your reflection in the window, soot smudges stare back at you, streaking your gown and arms. “I need a shower before I set this place on fire,” you mutter.

Clark clears his throat, rubbing the back of his neck. “There’s only one. But—you can go first. I’ll find you something to wear.”

You arch a brow. “Something of yours?”

His ears pinken, but he nods. “Shirt. Sweatpants. They’ll be… big.”

“Better than walking around in an ash pile,” you concede.

He disappears into his bedroom, returning with folded clothes—gray sweatpants, a soft plaid shirt, and a T-shirt that looks like it’s been washed a hundred times. He holds them out with both hands, like an offering. “Thanks,” you say, brushing his fingers as you take them.

The bathroom is small, steam curling quickly once you turn on the water. You peel off the ruined gown, streaked with smoke and dust, and step under the spray. The heat burns away the grit, loosening muscles you didn’t realize were tight. For the first time since the explosion, you breathe. When you emerge, hair damp, wrapped in Clark’s shirt and sweats, you catch sight of yourself in the mirror: bare feet lost in fabric, the plaid hanging loose across your shoulders. Somehow, it feels more like armor than the dress ever did.

Clark glances up from the couch when you step out. His mouth opens—then closes. His eyes flick away quickly, but not before you catch the flush blooming across his cheeks. “Shower’s free,” you say lightly, settling onto the edge of his couch. He nods, almost too quickly, and disappears down the hall.

You sit back, tugging at the sleeve of his shirt, listening to the water run. The apartment feels quiet, warm, safe. And for the first time in a long time, you wonder what it would be like if this were normal—if nights ended not with fire and threats, but with milkshakes and borrowed clothes in a space that feels like home.

The sound of running water drifts faintly from the bathroom down the short hallway. You curl deeper into Clark’s couch, damp hair clinging to your shoulders, his shirt soft against your skin. For the first time all day, your body feels clean, though exhaustion still hums beneath your skin.

Your phone buzzes on the coffee table. Alfred. You hesitate, then swipe to answer. “You’ve been busy,” he says before you can speak, his tone clipped, but edged with that familiar warmth. “Care to explain why one of the Aston Martins just disappeared from my tracking feed? Its transponder went dark an hour ago.”

You close your eyes briefly. “About that.”

“Oh, don’t tell me.” His sigh is heavy enough to carry across the line. “The car, Miss, please don’t say the car.”

“It exploded,” you admit flatly.

A pause. Then, dry as bone, “of course it did. I suppose I should be grateful you weren’t still inside it.”

“I wasn’t. Relax.”

“You know very well that relaxation is beyond my skill set where you’re concerned.” His voice softens, the bite easing. “And what happens when Master Bruce discovers this in the morning?”

Your head tips back against the couch cushion. “He’ll brood. He’ll growl. He’ll say I should’ve walked away. Same old song, Alfred.”

“This time the song has teeth,” Alfred replies sharply. “Your brother’s already out there tonight. When he comes home and learns his sister’s car has been reduced to ash in Metropolis of all places, I daresay the manor’s walls will quake from his temper.”

A faint smile tugs at your lips despite yourself. “He’s not my keeper.”

“No, but he is your brother. And he does care, even when he refuses to admit it.” Alfred pauses. “You’d best prepare yourself for the storm that’s coming.”

Your gaze drifts toward the bathroom door, where water still runs steady. Clark’s voice hums faintly in the background, low and indistinct, as if he’s humming to himself. Something about it—gentle, grounded—settles your nerves. “I’ll handle Bruce,” you say finally. “Like I always do.”

Alfred exhales slowly, as if resigning himself. “Very well. But promise me this: don’t mistake allies for shields. Especially ones you’ve only just begun to know.”

You bite your tongue, unwilling to give him the reassurance he wants. “Goodnight, Alfred.”

“Goodnight, Miss. Try not to reduce any more property to rubble before sunrise.” The line clicks dead. You set the phone down, running a hand over your face. The apartment smells faintly of steam and soap, a world away from Gotham’s endless tension. You tell yourself Alfred’s right, that Bruce’s fury will be swift and inevitable. But right now, you don’t want to think about Gotham. Right now, all you can think about is Clark Kent, and how close his voice is behind that bathroom door.

The bathroom door clicks open, and a wave of steam rolls into the apartment. Clark steps out barefoot, hair damp, dressed down in a plain T-shirt and sweatpants. The sight of him like this—no tie, no blazer, no armor of mild-mannered reporter—hits harder than you expect. He rubs the back of his neck, sheepish. “Sorry it took so long. Hot water’s… temperamental.”

You smirk faintly from the couch. “After tonight, you’ve earned it.”

His gaze flicks over you briefly—the sight of you in his shirt, sleeves hanging loose past your wrists, your bare feet tucked under you on the couch. His throat works as he swallows, and he looks away quickly, moving to sit in the chair opposite. For a while, silence settles between you, broken only by the faint hum of traffic outside. Clark runs a hand through his damp hair, the movement so unselfconscious it feels like something you weren’t meant to see. “You okay?” he asks finally, voice low.

You shrug, though the weight of Alfred’s words still presses at the back of your mind. “Better than the car.”

That earns a soft chuckle from him, though his eyes stay serious. “It’s not nothing. Someone wanted you gone tonight.”

“They’re going to have to try harder,” you reply evenly.

His mouth curves, not quite a smile but close. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

You study him for a long moment, the way the lamplight warms his features, the steady calm that never seems to waver. You wonder—not for the first time—what it would take to break through that composure, what secrets lie under the surface. Instead, you lean back, tugging at the hem of his shirt. “You know, your wardrobe isn’t half bad. Comfy.”

He raises a brow, faintly amused. “Not quite gala attire, though.”

“Please,” you scoff. “If anyone saw us at Big Belly Burger, they know we’re trendsetters.” That draws a real laugh from him—quiet, warm, the kind that lingers in your chest long after it fades. The apartment goes still again, but this time it’s not uncomfortable. The storm outside—Lex, Edge, the explosion—feels distant here, held at bay by four thin walls and the steady presence of Clark. You don’t say it, but part of you already knows: Alfred was right. Bruce will rage when he finds out. But sitting here, wrapped in borrowed clothes and the quiet strength of the man across from you, you don’t care. For tonight, this is enough.

---

Morning sunlight seeps weakly through Clark’s curtains, catching on the cluttered desk and the dog-eared books. The apartment smells faintly of coffee—brewed hours earlier, if the pot’s warmth is anything to go by.

You’re half-asleep, face buried in Clark’s pillow. Last night you’d muttered something about “not sleeping on the couch” and somehow ended up here, stretched diagonally across the bed. Clark had taken the edge, back stiff and deliberate, as though he was afraid to move a muscle. The sharp buzz of your phone breaks the silence. You groan into the pillow, flopping an arm blindly toward the nightstand. Clark beats you to it, scooping up the phone with sleep-heavy fingers. “Hello?” His voice is low, rough with morning.

A pause. Then a voice sharp enough to slice through glass, “who is this?”

Clark blinks, suddenly more awake. “Uh… Clark Kent.”

The pause lengthens. “Clark Kent,” the voice repeats, heavy with suspicion. “And where is my sister?”

You groan again, rolling onto your back and prying one eye open. “Give me that,” you mutter, snatching the phone from Clark’s hand. “Good morning, Bruce,” you rasp, still thick with sleep.

“Don’t ‘good morning’ me,” he snaps. “Alfred informed me your car was destroyed last night, that you ignored direct threats, and now—now some strange man answers your phone in the morning?”

Clark sits frozen at the edge of the bed, wide-eyed, hands folded like a schoolboy caught in church. You rub your temple. “First of all, he’s not strange. Second of all, I’m fine. Third of all, stop spying through Alfred.”

“I don’t need to spy,” Bruce growls. “You’re in over your head.”

“Bruce—”

“You’re stubborn. You think you can handle this alone. But if someone put a bomb in your car, it means they’ve marked you. And whoever this Clark Kent is, he won’t keep you safe.”

Your eyes flick toward Clark. He looks everywhere but at you, jaw tight, glasses askew from where he must’ve grabbed them half-asleep. The irony almost makes you laugh. “Bruce, I can handle myself. And I don’t need you swooping in to drag me back to Gotham like a disobedient child.”

“You need backup,” he says flatly.

“I have backup,” you shoot back, glancing pointedly at Clark.

There’s silence on the other end, weighted and disbelieving. Then Bruce exhales sharply. “We’ll talk later.”

The line clicks dead before you can reply. You drop the phone onto the blanket, dragging your hands over your face as you fall backwards back onto the pillow. “He’s going to kill me.”

Clark clears his throat gently. “So that was… your brother.”

“Mm,” you grumble into the pillow. “In all his brooding glory.”

Clark hesitates, then says softly, “He doesn’t like me.”

That earns a laugh from you, muffled but real. “He doesn’t like anyone. Don’t take it personally.”

Clark smiles faintly, though you catch the flicker of something deeper behind it. Then, quietly, he says, “still. I’ll prove him wrong.”

You pause, lifting your head to look at him. His hair’s still damp from last night, sticking up in uneven tufts, and yet his eyes are steady, unshaken.

The apartment is hushed after Bruce’s call, sunlight spilling through the blinds in uneven stripes. For a while, neither of you speaks. You lie back against Clark’s pillow, eyes half-closed, listening to the shuffle of him moving around the kitchen. The smell of coffee soon fills the air, rich and grounding. When you drag yourself out of bed, Clark’s already at the small counter, pouring two mugs. He looks up when you pad in barefoot, sleeves of his plaid shirt still hanging long over your hands. “You don’t have to—” you start.

He smiles faintly. “It’s coffee. I can handle it.”

You slide onto the stool at his counter, wrapping your hands around the warm mug he sets in front of you. The place is cramped, but there’s something about the way sunlight cuts across the small table, the way Clark moves quietly in his own space, that makes it feel… steady. “You’re domestic,” you say finally, sipping.

He raises a brow. “That a compliment?”

You smirk over the rim of the mug. “Depends who you ask.”

His mouth curves into that shy half-smile again, but his eyes don’t leave yours. For a few minutes, you both just sit there, sipping coffee in silence. The world outside feels far away, muted. No Luthor, no Edge, no Gotham waiting to demand explanations. Just two people in a sunlit kitchen, pretending for a heartbeat that this is normal. Then Clark says softly, “your brother’s worried. That much was obvious.”

You grimace. “He’s always worried. He turns it into anger so he doesn’t have to admit it out loud.”

Clark nods slowly, his fingers tapping the side of his mug. “Maybe. But he’s not wrong about one thing.”

You tilt your head, wary. “Which is?”

“You are in danger.” His tone is gentle, but it lands heavy. “Last night proved that. Whoever’s behind this—they’re not bluffing.”

You set the mug down a little too hard. “So what? I should run back to Gotham with my tail between my legs? Let Bruce lock me in the manor and scowl at me across the dining room table?”

Clark’s brow furrows. “That’s not what I’m saying.”

“Then what are you saying?”

He hesitates, eyes steady on yours. “That you don’t have to face it alone.”

The words hang between you, heavier than anything Bruce said last night. You want to argue, to push back the way you always do when someone tries to share your burdens. But the way Clark looks at you—earnest, unflinching—makes it harder. You break eye contact first, muttering, “you’re infuriating, Kent.”

His smile is small, but it lingers. “So I’ve heard.” The moment passes, but not completely. You finish your coffee in silence, rinsing your mug in his sink, deliberately ignoring the way he watches you like he’s memorizing every detail. By the time you grab your satchel, Gotham feels closer again, shadows pressing at the edges. The investigation waits—Halvorsen, Edge, Mercy, Luthor. Bruce’s storm looms on the horizon. But for now, as Clark locks the apartment door and falls into step beside you, you let yourself breathe in the quiet certainty of his presence.

By the time the two of you step out of Clark’s apartment, the city is already humming with morning traffic. People hurry to work, taxis weave between lanes, vendors open their carts. You tug Clark’s shirt a little closer around yourself, the hem nearly brushing your thighs. The sweatpants drag along the pavement with every barefooted step into his oversized sneakers. Clark glances at you, lips twitching like he’s holding back a laugh.

“Don’t,” you warn, narrowing your eyes.

“I wasn’t going to say anything,” he says, though his voice is warm with amusement.

You smirk. “You were thinking it, though. Just remember, Kent—I can weaponize heels. Imagine what I could do with your sneakers.” That earns you a quiet laugh, soft enough that it almost gets lost in the morning bustle.

The hotel lobby feels like stepping back into another world. Crystal chandeliers glitter overhead, marble floors polished to a mirror sheen, staff in pristine uniforms glancing curiously at the sight of you and Clark walking in together. Your satchel bounces against your hip as you stride toward the elevator, ignoring the stares.

In the mirrored walls of the lift, you finally get a good look at yourself: damp hair, Clark’s plaid shirt hanging loose, his shoes at least two sizes too large. He looks at you in the reflection too, but quickly drops his gaze to the floor, cheeks faintly pink. “You don’t blend in,” he murmurs.

“Neither do you,” you shoot back, watching his tie-less, clean-shirted figure stand out against the sea of businessmen.

The corner of his mouth curves. “Fair point.”

Your suite is exactly as you left it: neat, impersonal, expensive in the way only hotels can be. You toss your satchel onto the desk and dig through the closet for fresh clothes. Clark lingers by the door, his frame too large for the space, his hands shoved awkwardly into his pockets. “I’ll wait outside—”

You glance over your shoulder, arching a brow. “You’re fine. Unless you’re scandalized by the idea of a woman changing clothes.”

His ears turn red immediately. “I’ll—uh—I’ll just… look away.”

You laugh under your breath, pulling a dress from the closet and ducking into the bathroom anyway. A few minutes later, you emerge in clean clothes—your own this time—heels clicking against the floor. The transformation is stark: no soot, no borrowed flannel, just sharp lines and effortless poise. Clark looks up, startled. His eyes linger just a second too long before he clears his throat. “Better,” he says softly.

You smirk. “Don’t get too comfortable. I can ruin a dress just as easily as your shoes.”

He chuckles, shaking his head. But as you slip past him to grab your satchel again, you catch the faintest shift in his gaze—like he hasn’t quite decided if seeing you in his clothes or your own unsettles him more. And you don’t let yourself admit which of those two options you prefer.

By mid-afternoon, the Daily Planet’s conference room looks like a war room. Papers are spread across the long table—contracts, receipts, copies of copies—scrawled through with Clark’s careful notes and your sharper red ink. Lois pokes her head in once, curious, but Perry bellows something about deadlines and she disappears again, leaving you and Clark to your own quiet storm. Clark flips through a ledger, brow furrowed, glasses slipping low on his nose. “Here—look. After Edge, the money shifts again. To Hobbs Imports. Registered under an address in the Narrows.”

You take the page from him, scanning the columns. Hobbs Imports. A shipping company that’s supposed to deal in construction materials. Except the numbers are bloated, padded with transactions that don’t line up. “The Narrows?” you echo.

Clark nods. “Bad neighborhood. Drugs, gangs, extortion rackets. The cops barely touch it. If Hobbs is operating there, it’s a front.”

You lean back in your chair, fingers drumming against the edge of the paper. “So that’s where the trail goes next.”

Clark glances up, meeting your eyes. “You’re not suggesting—”

“I’ll check it out tonight,” you cut in smoothly, sliding the papers into your satchel.

His head snaps up. “Alone?”

You arch a brow. “Yes.”

For once, Clark actually stammers. “That’s—no, that’s—absolutely not safe. You can’t just—” He stops himself, words tangled, frustration clear in the flush rising up his neck.

“Clark,” you say evenly, “it’s safer if you stay out of this one. You’re a reporter. Not a fighter.”

His jaw works, eyes narrowing slightly behind his glasses. “That didn’t stop me last night.”

“You threw one punch,” you remind him, smirking faintly. “And apologized to the man after.”

His ears go pink, but he doesn’t back down. “I still helped.”

“You did,” you admit. “But Hobbs isn’t a gala. It’s not champagne and marble floors. It’s alleys and knives. I don’t need to worry about you on top of everyone else trying to kill me.”

The words hang heavy in the air. Clark’s fingers curl against the papers in front of him, knuckles whitening as though he’s holding something back. For a second, you wonder if he’ll push harder, if he’ll demand to come anyway. But finally, he exhales, steady but reluctant. “Fine. But if you’re not back by morning—”

You tilt your head. “You’ll what? Call Bruce?”

His mouth curves, small and humorless. “I’ll find you myself.”

The certainty in his voice makes you pause, even as you sling your satchel over your shoulder. His eyes meet yours, unflinching, and for a heartbeat the room feels smaller, closer, charged with something unsaid. You break it with a smirk. “Try not to lose sleep, Kent.” And with that, you leave him at the table, his notebook still open, his jaw tight, his gaze following you until the door swings shut.

---

Night drapes the Narrows in a blanket of shadow and neon rot. Hobbs Imports squats at the edge of a crumbling dockyard, its sign half-lit, its windows black. Shipping crates stack like monoliths around the building, graffiti scrawled across their sides, the smell of salt and rust hanging in the damp air.

You move like smoke, hood up, shadows swallowing you whole. The fabric of your jacket conceals slim compartments—grapnel line coiled at your hip, collapsible baton tucked against your thigh, a small EMP charge nestled in a pocket. Not Bruce’s level of arsenal, but Alfred had made sure you weren’t walking into fights with nothing but sharp words and sharper heels. The chain-link fence around Hobbs Imports is rusted, padlock brittle. A thin device from your pocket hums once, and the lock pops open. You slip inside, every footstep deliberate, quiet, measured.

Inside the warehouse, the air is colder. Empty crates line the walls, but the center floor isn’t empty. Stacks of ledgers sit atop a folding table, papers scattered, the faint smell of ink sharp even in the dark. You tug your hood lower and cross to the desk. The papers tell the story clearly—funds rerouted from Silverbrook through Hobbs, then washed again through “West Point Traders.” Another shell. Another mask. Another layer feeding upward into LexCorp’s Energy Division.

You snap quick photos with the slim camera hidden in your cuff, tucking the device away before slipping the top ledger into your satchel. A sound pricks your ears—footsteps. Not heavy enough for a patrol. Not hurried enough to be panicked. Steady, careful. You freeze in the shadow of a crate, baton sliding soundlessly into your hand. The footsteps pause, then shift, moving closer. And then a whisper. “You really weren’t going to let me stay behind, were you?” Your jaw tightens. Clark. He emerges from the dark, tie long gone, jacket discarded, the outline of his glasses faint in the warehouse gloom. He looks… out of place here, but not uncertain. His eyes find yours under the hood, steady even as his voice drops to a murmur. “This isn’t safe.”

You step out of the shadows, scowl sharp. “I told you—this isn’t your fight.”

“I know,” he says, quietly but firmly. “But you’re here anyway. And if something happens…” He hesitates, words catching before he steadies them. “If something happens, I need to be here.”

For a heartbeat, you can’t look at him. Anger flares—at his stubbornness, at his recklessness—but underneath it, something you don’t want to name hums in your chest. “You’re impossible,” you mutter.

A faint smile curves his mouth. “So you've said.”

Before you can retort, the sound of heavy boots echoes from the far end of the warehouse. Flashlights slice through the dark, voices barking orders. The ledgers on the desk weren’t abandoned—they were bait. You slip back against the crates, Clark close beside you. Four men stalk into the warehouse, weapons glinting faintly under the beams of light. They fan out, boots clanging against the metal floor. Clark leans down, whispering, “what’s the plan?”

You draw your baton with a soft click, hood still shadowing your face. “You stay behind me.”

He opens his mouth—then shuts it, sighing through his nose. “Fine. But I’m not apologizing if I hit someone this time.” Despite yourself, a smirk tugs at your lips.

The first thug’s flashlight cuts across your hood, and the shout comes instantly, “there! By the crates!”

You move before the beam steadies. The collapsible baton snaps out with a metallic crack as you swing low, knocking the man’s legs from under him. He crashes into a stack of pallets, light skittering across the floor. Another one charges, pipe raised. You flick your wrist, and a small disk—an EMP charge the size of a coin—snaps from your palm and clings to the metal. It sparks once, discharging, and the pipe sears hot. The thug yelps, dropping it with a curse.

Clark, beside you, stiffens when the man lunges barehanded. With a soft, almost apologetic grunt, Clark steps in and delivers a single, straight punch. Wham. The guy goes airborne, crashing into a crate hard enough to rattle its bolts. Clark blinks at his own hand, then mutters under his breath, “...golly.”

“Golly?” you hiss, ducking under a swing from the third man.

“It slipped out!” he says defensively, catching another thug’s arm and tossing him—just a little too far—into the side wall. The impact echoes like a thunderclap.

You slam your baton into your attacker’s ribs, then sweep his legs. He groans, sprawling across the cold concrete. Two men still stand. They hesitate now, watching Clark adjust his glasses calmly, as though he hasn’t just sent two of their friends flying. You flick another gadget from your belt—a smoke capsule. It bursts at your feet, curling white haze through the warehouse. Shadows leap and twist. The two thugs panic, swinging blindly. You move through the fog like a blade, baton snapping against jaw and shoulder until they crumble.

When the haze clears, six men are groaning on the floor. The warehouse is littered with broken flashlights and dented crates. You stand barefoot on the concrete, chest heaving, baton dripping sweat. Clark straightens his glasses, cheeks pink. “I, uh… might’ve hit them harder than I meant to.”

You plant your hands on your hips, smirking despite the adrenaline still humming in your veins. “I noticed.”

He glances at the wreckage, then back at you, voice low. “You okay?”

You nod, tugging your hood back. “Better than they are.”

Clark exhales slowly, rubbing the back of his neck. “Well… that wasn’t subtle.”

“No,” you admit, sliding the baton back into your belt. “But it was effective.”

His mouth twitches into the faintest smile, though his eyes stay serious. “You know this means they’ll escalate.”

“They already blew up my car,” you remind him dryly. “Not sure there’s much left to escalate to.”

Clark’s jaw tightens, but he doesn’t argue. Instead, he steps closer, lowering his voice until it’s only for you. “Then we make sure you stay ahead of them.”

You wipe the sweat from your brow, the adrenaline still buzzing in your veins, and stride back to the desk where the ledgers sit. Clark follows, silent, though his presence looms steady and close at your back. You flip through the pages with brisk, practiced hands. The trail runs clear—Halvorsen to Edge, Edge to Hobbs, Hobbs Imports into yet another pipeline. But this time, the signature at the bottom of half the transactions stops you cold. “Bruno Mannheim,” you murmur.

Clark leans closer, brow furrowing behind his glasses. “Intergang.”

You glance up sharply. “You know them.”

“Everyone in Metropolis knows them,” he replies, voice low but even. “Mannheim’s been a ghost for years, but his people… they run the Narrows. Weapons, drugs, extortion. They have their hands in every dark corner of the city.”

You tap the page, lips pressed tight. “Which means the men we fought tonight weren’t just hired thugs. They were Mannheim’s.”

Clark exhales slowly, the weight of it heavy in the dim air. “That puts this on a whole different level.”

The name feels heavy in your chest, a chain tightening. Edge is dangerous. Luthor is worse. But Mannheim is chaos in human form—unpredictable, vicious, with an army behind him. “Halvorsen to Edge. Edge to Hobbs. Hobbs to Mannheim,” you mutter, stringing it together. “And from there, straight to LexCorp’s Energy Division. Every step dirtier than the last.”

Clark studies you, steady, thoughtful. “You’re not walking away from this, are you?”

You meet his eyes. “Would you?”

His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t answer. Instead, his gaze drops back to the ledger, tracing the name with quiet intensity. “Mannheim doesn’t show up unless he wants to be seen,” Clark says softly. “If his name is here, it’s because he doesn’t care who finds it. That means he’s planning something bigger.”

You close the ledger with a sharp snap, tucking it into your satchel. “Then we find out what. Before he makes his move.”

Clark’s eyes linger on you for a long moment, something unspoken flickering behind them. Then he nods, quiet and firm. “Together.” The word lands heavier than you expect. You let it settle in the silence of the warehouse, the thugs groaning faintly on the floor. And though you won’t say it out loud, the thought curls tight in your chest: Bruno Mannheim may have an army, but you’ve got something he’ll never see coming. Clark Kent.

---

The Daily Planet newsroom is alive when you arrive: the phones are already ringing, Lois is barking at someone over a deadline, and Perry White is storming across the bullpen with a cup of coffee like it personally wronged him. You weave through the chaos, satchel heavy on your shoulder, and slide into the small conference room where Clark is waiting. He’s already there, of course—tie straight, glasses perched carefully, notebook open with neat lines of writing. He looks up when you enter, eyes softening almost imperceptibly. “Morning,” he says gently.

“Barely,” you mutter, tossing the ledger you pulled from Hobbs onto the table. “I hope you had more coffee than I did.”

His lips twitch, amused, but he gestures at the steaming paper cup waiting at your seat. “Figured you might need it.”

You raise a brow, but take it anyway, sipping gratefully before flipping open the ledger. “So. Mannheim.”

Clark leans forward, elbows resting on the table. “Half the city’s been whispering about him for months. Drugs, weapons, rackets—you name it. But if he’s tied to Edge and funneling to Lex, then this isn’t just crime. It’s infrastructure. Mannheim’s making himself the pipeline.”

You tap your pen against the page, mind sharp. “Which means if we cut him off, the whole system stumbles.”

Clark nods slowly, his brow furrowed. “But Mannheim won’t go quietly. He’ll fight to keep his grip. And if last night was any indication, he already sees you as a threat.”

You smirk faintly. “Good. That means I’m doing something right.”

His gaze lingers on you, steady and unblinking, and for a moment the weight in his eyes makes your chest tighten. “Or it means you need to be careful.”

“Careful doesn’t get results,” you say evenly.

He exhales, quiet but firm. “Neither does reckless.”

The tension hums between you, sharp but not hostile. You break it by flipping another page, tracing the columns of signatures. “He’s sloppy here,” you murmur. “Too many names, too many shells. If I follow this—”

“We,” Clark corrects softly. You glance up. “We follow it,” he says again, voice steady. Something in his tone—quiet, unyielding—makes you pause. For once, you don’t argue.

The door swings open suddenly. Lois pokes her head in, sharp-eyed and curious. “You two playing detectives again? Perry’s gonna blow a vein if you keep hogging the conference room.”

“We’re working,” Clark says smoothly, his mild tone hiding the iron in his spine.

Lois’s gaze flicks between you, narrowing slightly. “Uh-huh. Just don’t forget who the real investigative team around here is.” She points to herself, then disappears back into the noise.

Clark chuckles softly under his breath. You shake your head, hiding a smile behind your coffee. By the time the morning rush slows, you’ve sketched out the next link in the chain: Mannheim’s logistics. A shell trucking company tied to Hobbs, operating out of the docks. It’s dirty, dangerous, and screaming for a closer look. Clark looks at the map you’ve drawn, then back at you. “You’re already planning to go there tonight, aren’t you?”

You shrug, nonchalant. “Maybe.”

He sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Of course you are.” And though he doesn’t say it outright, you know: he’ll be there too.

---

The air at the docks is thick with salt, oil, and rust. The water slaps against pylons in uneven rhythms, chains creak in the wind, and shadows spill long across the cracked pavement. Hobbs Imports’ trucks are lined up in rows, their engines cold, but faint lights flicker inside the warehouse. You adjust your hood, scanning the perimeter. “Too quiet.”

Clark stands beside you, his tie long gone again, glasses fogged slightly from the damp. “That’s supposed to be good, isn’t it?”

You smirk faintly. “Not when you’re walking into Mannheim’s backyard.”

You slip inside first, Clark close on your heels. The warehouse is cavernous, rows of shipping containers stacked to the rafters. At first glance, it looks like any other smuggling operation—but then you spot them. Weapons. Not rifles, not pistols. Sleek, angular guns with glowing coils, crates stamped with foreign markings. Energy weapons. “Lasers,” Clark murmurs, eyes wide.

“Not the kind you buy off the street,” you reply tightly, crouching to pry open a crate. Inside, rows of compact handheld blasters gleam under the faint light. Military-grade. Black-market tech. Far beyond what local gangs should be carrying.

Clark swallows, adjusting his glasses. “Intergang’s upgrading.”

Before you can answer, the warehouse lights blaze on all at once. A dozen thugs step out from between the crates, weapons raised. Their leader smirks from the catwalk above. “Cute of you to show up. Mannheim said you’d sniff your way here sooner or later.”

You grit your teeth, baton snapping out in your hand. “Figures.”

The first volley of energy blasts shrieks through the air, slamming into steel. Sparks rain down, the walls rattling with heat. You dive behind a crate, Clark stumbling after you, the air crackling with sizzling beams. “We’re pinned,” he hisses.

“No kidding,” you snap, tossing a smoke capsule. The fog billows, masking the next wave of fire—but before you can move, the floor beneath you shifts. A hiss, a groan of metal—and then the section of warehouse you’re on shudders downward. Panels snap shut above, walls rising around you, forming a box. “Trap,” you breathe, springing up just as the last panel seals overhead. The thugs’ laughter echoes faintly from outside the steel walls.

The room is small, barely larger than an elevator. The air feels wrong already, heavy and thin, and vents rattle faintly overhead. You press a hand against the wall—it’s reinforced. Clark runs a hand over the seams, eyes narrowing. “They’re drawing the air out.”

Your chest tightens at the realization. Not spikes, not fire. Suffocation. You whip out a device from your belt, a compact charge, and slap it against the wall. It sparks once, fizzles out, and dies. Reinforced, too thick. “They planned this,” you mutter, pacing the perimeter. “No weapons, no gadgets. Just… wait for us to choke.” Clark’s face is grim, his breath steady despite the thinning air. He looks at you, and for a heartbeat his expression softens—like he’s on the edge of a choice he doesn’t want to make. You glare, refusing the creeping panic. “Don’t look at me like that. We’re not done yet.” But even as you say it, the vents hiss louder, the air sharper in your lungs, and the walls feel like they’re closing in.

The hiss of air being siphoned out of the trap grows sharper, each breath thinner than the last. You press your palm against the wall, trying to find a seam, some weakness you could exploit. Your mind races—grapnel too short, charges too weak, EMP fried on contact. You’re a Wayne. There’s always a solution. But for the first time, the calculations spiral into dead ends. “Think,” you mutter under your breath, pacing the small enclosure. “There has to be—”

“Stop.” Clark’s voice cuts through the panic. He’s calm—too calm. His eyes fix on you with something heavier than resolve. “There isn’t another way.”

You whip around, glare sharp even through the haze. “Don’t you dare—”

But he doesn’t let you finish. His arms are around you in a sudden, startling sweep, and before you can protest, the ground disappears. The air rushes in your ears, steel walls giving way to open sky. The trap shrinks behind you, swallowed by the warehouse roof as you soar upward—weightless, breathless, the city sprawling in lights beneath your feet. You clutch instinctively at his shoulders, the wind whipping your hood back.

And then—just as suddenly—he descends. His boots hit pavement outside the warehouse with barely a sound, the impact absorbed like it’s nothing. He lowers you carefully, steadying you until your feet touch solid ground again. Your pulse thrums in your throat, lungs dragging in sweet, clean air. You stumble back a step, staring at him.

But it’s not Clark standing there. It’s Superman. The glasses are gone. The tie, the shirt—gone. In their place: a suit of deep blue, the red crest blazing against his chest, cape catching the wind like fire. The same man, but impossibly more. You blink at him, breathless. “How—how the hell did you—” You gesture wildly at the air, the cape, all of him. “You picked me up, you flew us out, and you changed clothes in the middle of it? How is that even—”

He winces, sheepish, the corners of his mouth tugging in a nervous half-smile. “It’s… complicated.”

You stare at him, heart hammering, every line of his frame radiating something you can’t quite put into words. You want to demand answers, to yell, to shake him. Instead, you hear yourself whisper, almost dazed, “Clark?”

And the way he looks at you—gentle, unshaken, utterly himself beneath all that impossible power—tells you everything before he even nods. The realization still hangs heavy in your chest—Clark Kent, the quiet, steady reporter at your side, is Superman. But there’s no time to untangle it. Because when your eyes snap back to the warehouse, you see the shadows moving. The trap was only the opening act.

Figures pour out from between the stacked containers—Mannheim’s men, a dozen or more, and every one of them armed. Not handguns, not knives, but sleek rifles glowing at the seams with humming energy coils. Upgraded tech, smuggled in through Hobbs. They spread across the dock, forming a semicircle around you and Clark. The leader steps forward—tall, scarred, a grin like a predator. “Well, well,” he drawls. “The Wayne brat. And a… friend. Mannheim figured you wouldn’t take the hint. Guess we’ll send the message louder.” He raises his hand. The rifles charge, light building in their cores.

Clark’s body tenses beside you. For the first time since the reveal, you see him as both parts at once—the farmboy with too-big shoes and the impossible figure standing in the cape. He shifts forward, just slightly, instinctively putting himself between you and the weapons. Your own hand darts into your belt pouch. Smoke pellets. Flashbangs. Grapnel line. Alfred would kill you for blowing through so many in a week, but Bruce would approve. “Don’t just stand there,” you mutter, flicking a pellet to the ground. Smoke blooms across the dock, curling thick in the damp air.

The thugs fire anyway—beams shrieking through the fog, scorching holes through metal. You dive low, baton snapping out, and strike the closest man across the wrist. His weapon clatters away. Another swings his rifle like a club—you duck under it and drive your knee into his gut, sending him sprawling. Behind you, a whump echoes—Clark catching a blast square in the chest and barely flinching. The thug gawks, frozen, right before Clark gently, almost too gently, taps him across the jaw and drops him cold. “Golly,” he mutters again, shaking his head.

“Stop saying that!” you hiss, slamming your baton into another man’s knee.

The dock becomes chaos—energy beams slicing through the smoke, crates exploding into splinters, men shouting in panic as their weapons misfire. You move with precision, every strike calculated, every gadget deployed at just the right moment. And Clark—no, Superman—moves differently. Not flashy, not reckless, but efficient. A blur of motion here, a blurred fist there, weapons twisted in half, men disarmed with the ease of swatting flies. He doesn’t look like he’s fighting so much as containing the fight, careful not to break the men in half when he could.

By the time the smoke clears, the dock is a ruin. Thugs groan on the concrete, weapons sparking uselessly. The leader is pinned to a container wall by Clark’s hand, feet kicking a few inches off the ground. Clark’s voice is calm, even. “Tell Mannheim this doesn’t scare her off.” He pauses, eyes narrowing. “And tell him I’m watching.” The man sputters, terror washing over his earlier bravado. Clark lowers him gently—deliberately—and he collapses, scrambling away before limping into the shadows.

The dock is silent again. You stand there, chest heaving, baton still in hand. Smoke drifts in thin curls around you. Clark turns to you, cape brushing against the wind, eyes steady and—God help you—still gentle. You lower your baton slowly. “I don’t know what to say.”

He hesitates, looking almost… nervous. “Then don’t. Not yet.”

For a long moment, you just stare at each other, the wreckage of Mannheim’s men around you. Your world has shifted on its axis, and yet somehow, Clark still feels like the anchor at the center of it. And you’re not sure if that steadies you—or terrifies you more. You sling your baton back onto your belt and exhale hard, pulling the last ledger from your satchel. The adrenaline in your veins hasn’t burned off yet, but your mind pushes forward—there’s still a trail to follow.

Clark kneels by one of the smashed crates, lifting the charred remains of a weapon. “These aren’t homemade. Mannheim didn’t build this kind of tech.”

You flip through the ledger pages, scanning the faded ink under the glow of Clark’s eyes—he seems to emit a kind of light just by being near. The transactions string out like barbed wire, looping through shell after shell, until finally one name stands out: Graves Incorporated. “Mercy Graves,” you say aloud, tapping the signature at the bottom of a shipping manifest. “Lex Luthor’s right hand.”

Clark looks up sharply. “You’re sure?”

“Positive. This isn’t Mannheim’s endgame. He’s the middleman, just like Edge. The money and weapons flow through him, but they’re funneled upward.” You close the ledger with a snap. “And that funnel leads straight to LexCorp.”

Clark’s jaw tightens. “Luthor likes to keep his hands clean. If Mercy’s name is here, he’s making sure the paper trail points everywhere but him.”

“Which means we’re close,” you say, eyes narrowing. “Too close.”

Clark rises, cape brushing the ground, the weight of him filling the space in a way Clark Kent never could. Yet his voice is the same—gentle, steady. “Close enough that Luthor will notice. And he won’t take it lightly.”

You shove the ledger into your satchel, the wordless understanding sinking between you. Mannheim’s men had weapons far beyond street-grade. Someone supplied them. Someone paid for them. And only one man in Metropolis has the ego, the money, and the reach to orchestrate something this vast: Lex Luthor. Clark steps closer, his shadow folding over yours. “We should leave before Mannheim sends reinforcements.”

You meet his gaze, forcing steel into your voice. “We’ll follow the trail in the morning. Graves first. Then Lex.” He hesitates, eyes softening like he wants to argue. But instead, he just nods. And as you both walk away from the smoking ruin of the docks, satchel heavy on your shoulder, one truth settles deep in your bones: you’ve just crossed the line between investigating Luthor and declaring war.

The walk from the docks is quiet, both of you wrapped in the aftermath of what just happened. The night air smells of smoke and brine, heavy with the hum of the city. You keep glancing sideways at him—at Superman, cape trailing behind him, shoulders broad against the skyline. And yet, every time you catch his profile, you see Clark. The glasses may be gone, the tie and shirt traded for something impossible, but the man is the same.

Finally, you stop walking. He slows, turning back to you, the cape brushing lightly in the wind. There’s tension in the set of his jaw, in the way his hands flex at his sides like he doesn’t quite know what to do with them. “Are you mad?” he asks softly.

The words hang there, simple but heavy. You almost laugh—after everything tonight, that’s what he’s worried about? You take a step closer, tugging your hood down so he can see your face. “I should be. God, I should be furious. I should be cursing you out, calling you an idiot for keeping this from me.” His throat works as he swallows, eyes never leaving yours. “But…” you continue, voice softening. “That would make me a hypocrite. Wouldn’t it? You’ve been hiding who you are. I’ve been doing the same. You’re not the only one with masks.”

For a heartbeat, neither of you speak. The city hums around you, a thousand lives unfolding in windows and streets, but the world feels narrowed down to just the two of you. Clark exhales slowly, some of the tension slipping from his shoulders. “I didn’t want you to think I was… lying. Not really. I just… I wanted you to know me as me. Not as him.” He gestures vaguely to the crest on his chest, almost sheepish. “I wanted to earn that on my own.”

You study him, searching his face, and find nothing but raw sincerity there. No games, no angles. Just Clark, the man who buys you coffee and apologizes when he throws a punch too hard. “You did,” you say finally. “You already did.” His eyes flicker, like he hadn’t expected that answer. Then he smiles—small, warm, almost shy, the way he always does. It’s Clark’s smile, not Superman’s. And standing there in the glow of the city lights, you realize the lines between the two aren’t as sharp as you thought. He isn’t two people. He’s one. And you trust him.

---

The two of you end up back in the Planet’s conference room, the table once again covered in papers, ledgers, and your sharp red notes. Morning bleeds into afternoon as you and Clark map the threads one more time, following each dollar, each signature, until the picture is undeniable. Halvorsen. Edge. Mannheim. Mercy. And finally, Lex. You lean back in your chair, stretching your sore shoulders. “It all starts with Halvorsen. He’s the keystone. Fire him, and the bridge collapses.”

Clark nods, jotting it down in his neat, looping hand. “Wayne Enterprises cuts him loose. That sends the message that the money trail isn’t buried anymore.” He taps his pen against the page. “I’ll write the article. Public, clear, every name along the chain spelled out. Edge, Mannheim, Halvorsen. People need to see the scope.”

You smirk faintly. “You’re going to expose Lex Luthor in print? Brave.”

His eyes meet yours, steady. “Truth has teeth. That’s the only weapon I’ve got.”

“And it’s a good one,” you admit, pulling your phone out. “I’ll call the board, get Halvorsen’s dismissal pushed through. By the time your article runs, he’ll already be out on his ass.”

There’s a long pause as you both stare at the mess of papers—the wreckage of a conspiracy stretching from Gotham to Metropolis. Then Clark says softly, “and Mercy?”

You exhale, grim. “That’s trickier. She’s Luthor’s blade. She doesn’t flinch. If Mannheim’s thugs had energy rifles, she put them in their hands.”

Clark frowns. “We can’t handle her the way we handled Mannheim’s men.”

“No,” you agree, lips tightening. “But the authorities can. Once your article lands, the feds will have no choice but to open an investigation. And when they do…” You let the words trail off, imagining the image: Mercy Graves standing in a pristine corporate lobby, FBI swarming around her, cool gaze finally cracking.

Clark leans back in his chair, arms crossed. “You’ll be there.”

“Of course,” you say evenly. “Wayne money funded those subsidiaries. If the feds are raiding her, I’ll be standing right there when they put the cuffs on.”

He studies you for a long moment, something unspoken passing through his eyes. Finally, his mouth curves into the faintest smile. “Then I’ll be standing there too.” For a while, the room is quiet. You sip cold coffee, he scratches another note into his notebook. The plan is sharp in its simplicity: sever Halvorsen, expose the network, let the government drag Mercy into the light. But beneath it all hums a darker truth—that Luthor himself will still be sitting behind his desk, untouchable, watching.

---

The Wayne Enterprises tower in Metropolis gleams under the midday sun, its glass walls polished, its lobby bustling with employees who glance nervously toward the boardroom on the mezzanine floor. You stand at the window above it all, phone pressed to your ear, watching as Richard Halvorsen—sweating, red-faced—argues with security. His tie is loosened, his hands flailing in protest, but the two guards are unmoved. They flank him like statues as they march him toward the revolving doors. “Tell me I’m not mistaken,” Alfred’s dry voice murmurs in your ear, a grounding constant against the noise of the lobby.

“You’re not,” you reply smoothly, eyes tracking Halvorsen as he stumbles over his own briefcase. “Our esteemed liaison is being escorted out as we speak.”

Below, Halvorsen twists mid-stride, pointing upward as though he knows you’re watching. His voice doesn’t carry through the glass, but the venom in his expression is clear. You don’t flinch. Alfred exhales softly on the other end. “Your father always said—money leaves a trail, but arrogance leaves footprints. I suppose Halvorsen couldn’t resist stomping around in both.”

You smirk faintly, lips curling at the edges. “Arrogance got him caught. Arrogance just cost him his career.”

Outside, Halvorsen is shoved through the glass doors into the street. A few onlookers gather, whispering, but he only straightens his suit jacket and storms off into the crowd like a man unwilling to admit his fall. “Master Bruce is still pacing,” Alfred continues, voice softer now. “He’s half-convinced you’ll be next in the papers if you keep dancing with men like Mannheim.”

“Bruce always thinks I’ll fall,” you murmur, gaze lingering on the revolving doors as they settle back into place. “But I don’t. Not yet.”

“Not ever, if I can help it,” Alfred replies. “Just promise me one thing, Miss. If you insist on shouldering this crusade—don’t carry it alone.”

Your mind flickers—Clark in the cape, the ledger in his hands, his steady voice promising, together. You clear your throat softly. “I’ll try, Alfred,” you say.

“You’ll do more than try,” he corrects, but his tone is gentler. “Now, go on. Let the papers have their story.” The line clicks dead. You tuck the phone into your satchel, exhaling slowly as the last trace of Halvorsen vanishes into the city. The keystone is gone. The bridge is collapsing. And Lex Luthor—wherever he is—knows it. And for the first time, you feel the weight of the storm shifting in your direction.

---

The Daily Planet is quieter in the evening. The newsroom hum is reduced to a handful of clacking keyboards and the occasional ring of a phone. The harsh fluorescent lights seem softer, shadows long across desks littered with papers and empty coffee cups. Clark is still at his, sleeves rolled up, tie loosened at his throat, glasses slipping low on his nose as he types steadily. His expression is focused, brow furrowed in concentration, but there’s something unassuming about it—like he doesn’t realize how he looks framed in the warm lamplight of his desk.

You lean against the edge of the doorway for a moment, watching him, before stepping forward. “You ever stop working, Kent?”

His head jerks up, startled, eyes widening slightly when he sees you. Then his mouth curves into that soft, shy smile that always sneaks past your defenses. “Guess not,” he says lightly. “At least not until Perry kicks me out.”

You drop into the chair across from him, crossing your legs, eyes on him. “Good thing I’m here to do it first.”

He blinks. “You are?”

You smirk. “Tomorrow night, I’m taking you out. A real dinner this time. Not greasy burgers at midnight.”

Color creeps up his neck almost instantly, the pen in his hand stuttering against the notebook. “Oh. Uh—dinner. With you.” He clears his throat. “That… sounds nice.”

“Relax,” you tease, leaning forward. “You don’t have to sound so shocked. I do eat food other than fries, you know.”

His laugh is soft, awkward, but genuine. “No, I—it’s not that. I just… wasn’t expecting…” He trails off, words tangling hopelessly.

You reach across the desk, fingers brushing against his loosened tie. His breath hitches as you straighten it with deliberate precision, tugging the knot snug against his collar. Your voice drops, low and even. “It’ll be somewhere nice. Somewhere worth putting a tie on properly.”

He swallows hard, eyes fixed on you like he’s afraid to blink. “Right. A tie. Got it.”

You let the fabric slip from your fingers, satisfied, then lean back in your chair. “I’ll pick you up here after work tomorrow. Don’t make me drag you out of the building.”

His smile turns sheepish, almost boyish. “I wouldn’t dare.”

For a moment, the silence stretches between you, charged but not uncomfortable. The newsroom feels smaller, the world outside distant. Just him, you, and the faint hum of a lamp over his desk. Then you push to your feet, grabbing your satchel. “Don’t stay up too late, Kent. You’ll want to look sharp.”

His gaze follows you to the doorway, lingering, warm. “I’ll try.”

You flash him a faint smile over your shoulder. “Good.” And when you leave the Planet that night, you’re already looking forward to tomorrow.

---

The newsroom is its usual madhouse—phones ringing, Perry White bellowing at some poor intern, Lois tossing papers onto desks with the precision of a grenade. In the middle of it all sits Clark, staring at his reflection in the darkened screen of his monitor as if it might offer him answers. He tugs at his tie, loosens it, retightens it, loosens it again. Then he frowns, adjusts his glasses, and sighs audibly.

Jimmy, sliding into the seat across from him with a camera bag slung over his shoulder, notices immediately. “Okay, what’s up with you, big guy? You look like you’re about to testify in front of Congress.”

Clark shakes his head quickly, lowering his voice. “It’s nothing. Just… dinner.”

Jimmy perks up, grin spreading wide. “Dinner? Like, dinner-dinner? With a girl?”

Clark gives him a look over his glasses. “Yes, Jimmy. With a woman.”

“Whoa.” Jimmy leans back, hands raised. “Didn’t know Boy Scout Kent was capable of asking someone out.”

“I didn’t,” Clark mutters, flustered. “She asked me.”

Jimmy’s grin nearly splits his face. “Even better. Okay, you came to the right guy. Jimmy Olsen knows dates. Trust me.”

Clark looks instantly doubtful. “Do I?”

Jimmy waves him off. “First rule—you gotta show confidence. Women can smell nerves like sharks smell blood.”

Clark frowns. “I’m not… nervous.” Jimmy just stares at him until Clark sighs and admits, “okay. Maybe a little.”

“Right. So,” Jimmy says, ticking points off on his fingers, “lose the glasses.”

Clark stiffens. “What? No, I can’t—”

“Trust me. Women love eye contact. Full, unfiltered, soul-to-soul.” Jimmy leans across the desk and dramatically removes Clark’s glasses, holding them aloft like he’s discovered buried treasure. “Boom. Instant smolder.”

Clark takes his glasses back immediately. “That’s terrible advice, Jimmy.”

“Fine, fine,” Jimmy says, undeterred. “Next rule—don’t talk about work. Journalists are boring. You start rambling about ledgers or corruption scandals, her eyes glaze over. You gotta go personal. Deep personal. Like childhood trauma. Or embarrassing nicknames.”

Clark stares at him, horrified. “That’s… that’s not first-date conversation.”

Jimmy shrugs. “Worked for me last week.”

“You don’t even have a girlfriend.”

Jimmy grins sheepishly. “Not currently, but that’s just because I’m keeping my options open.”

Clark sighs heavily, dragging a hand down his face. “Jimmy, I don’t think any of this is helping.”

Jimmy smirks. “Hey, at least wear cologne. Like… a lot of cologne. Enough that she knows you walked in the room before you even sit down.”

Clark pinches the bridge of his nose. “You’re going to get me killed.”

Jimmy leans back, utterly unbothered. “Or you’re going to get kissed. Either way, you’re welcome.”

From her desk, Lois glances over, one eyebrow raised. “For the love of God, Kansas, don’t listen to him.”

Clark exhales, relieved. “Thank you.”

Lois points her pen like a dagger. “Just be yourself. That’s the only advice that isn’t complete garbage.”

Jimmy looks wounded. “My advice is great.”

“Your advice is why you’ve been ghosted three times this month,” Lois snaps. Clark can’t help it—he laughs, the sound easing some of the nerves twisting in his chest. He adjusts his tie one more time, ignoring Jimmy’s theatrical sigh. Tonight, he’ll find out whether “being himself” is enough.

The sun has barely dipped behind the skyline when you pull up outside the Daily Planet in a sleek black Maserati Quattroporte. The car hums low and sharp, polished to a mirror shine, its presence turning heads even before you step out. A far cry from the Aston Martin that burned to ash, but still distinctly Wayne. Inside the lobby, the security guard nearly trips over his words greeting you, but you don’t break stride. Heels click against the marble floor, your dress a clean silhouette of confidence, satchel slung effortlessly over one shoulder.

The newsroom upstairs is still buzzing—phones ringing, Lois arguing with Perry, Jimmy trying—and failing—to juggle two cameras at once. But all the noise dulls when you spot Clark. He’s standing by his desk, tie neat, suit pressed, hair combed carefully into place. He looks almost painfully self-conscious, adjusting his cuffs as though he doesn’t quite know what to do with himself. When he sees you, his breath catches—just slightly—and he pushes his glasses up his nose with a nervous hand. “You clean up well, Kent,” you say, leaning casually against his desk.

He flushes immediately, tugging at his tie. “You… look… uh—” He clears his throat. “Incredible.”

You smirk, stepping closer. “That’s more like it.”

Jimmy pops up from behind his chair, grinning wide. “Hot date, Kent?”

Clark fumbles, “It’s not—well, I mean—it’s just—”

You cut him off smoothly, looping a finger under Clark’s perfectly straightened tie and tugging it just enough to make him stumble closer. “Dinner. Somewhere nice. Somewhere worth putting this to good use.”

Clark’s ears burn red. “Right. Dinner.”

Lois glances up from her desk, eyes sharp, amused. “Try not to faint, Kansas.”

Clark shoots her a mortified glance, but you just grin, tugging him toward the elevator. “Ignore her. Come on. We’ve got reservations.”

As the two of you walk through the lobby and out onto the street, Clark slows when he sees the Maserati waiting at the curb. His jaw slackens just slightly. “This is yours?”

You nod. “For now. The Aston’s gone, remember?”

He runs a hand along the glossy paint, looking both impressed and bewildered. “I… usually just take the bus.”

You arch a brow, sliding into the driver’s seat. “I know. But tonight, you’re riding with me. Get in, Kent.” Clark hesitates only a second before obeying, moving awkwardly in the tailored suit, ducking into the car with all the grace of someone who doesn’t think they belong in leather seats that expensive. You watch him settle in, flustered, hands folded neatly in his lap like he’s afraid to touch anything. It makes you smirk, heat curling low in your chest. “Relax,” you murmur, starting the engine. “It’s just dinner.” But both of you know it’s more than that.

The Maserati slips into Metropolis traffic with a low growl, the city lights glittering across the windshield. You ease the car into the avenue’s flow with the kind of confidence that comes from practice, one hand steady on the wheel, the other resting easily on the gearshift. Beside you, Clark sits rigid in his seat, shoulders squared, hands clasped in his lap. His tie is perfect, his suit immaculate—but the expression on his face is priceless. Wide-eyed, caught somewhere between awe and sheer discomfort. You glance over, smirking. “Relax, Clark. You’ve been in one of my cars before.”

His head tilts, eyes still on the blur of neon streaking past the windows. “That was different.”

“Different how?”

Clark hesitates, shifting uncomfortably. “The Aston felt like… well, like it was yours. You were comfortable in it. Like it fit you.” He gestures vaguely at the Maserati’s gleaming console. “This one feels… newer. Like it doesn’t quite belong to you yet.”

You raise a brow, amused. “You’re saying my car has to match my personality?”

He gives you a sheepish half-smile. “Something like that.”

“Interesting,” you muse, downshifting smoothly at a light. “What does that make you, then? Bus passes and worn-out shoes?”

Clark laughs under his breath, warm and quiet. “Something like that, yeah.”

You let the silence linger for a moment, the car humming beneath you, before you say, “for the record, you handled the Aston better than most.”

That makes him glance at you sharply. “I didn’t even drive it.”

“You didn’t need to,” you say with a shrug. “Some people panic just being a passenger. You didn’t. You belonged in it.” His ears flush pink, and he turns to look out the window, clearly unsure what to do with that. The faintest smile tugs at his mouth despite himself. The city rolls past—neon signs, sharp glass towers, the occasional honk of impatient traffic—but the cabin of the car feels like its own pocket of stillness. You catch Clark stealing another glance at you, his eyes lingering a little longer this time before he quickly looks away. “You’re nervous,” you tease softly.

“I’m not nervous,” he insists, though the way he tugs at his cuff immediately betrays him.

Your smirk widens. “Good. Because where we’re going? You’ll want to look like you belong.”

That earns you a puzzled look. “And where’s that?” You don’t answer, just let the car glide into the city’s wealthier district, where the restaurants glitter like jewels above the streets. Clark shifts again in his seat, tugging his tie like it’s suddenly too tight. You smile to yourself, eyes fixed on the road. If he thought the Aston was intimidating, he has no idea what’s waiting for him tonight.

The Maserati purrs to a stop in front of La Terrasse, one of Metropolis’s most exclusive restaurants. Its glass façade gleams in the evening light, chandeliers glittering inside, the sort of place where the air itself seems to whisper wealth and power. Valets in sharp uniforms step forward instantly, one opening your door with a polite bow while another moves to Clark’s side.

You step out with effortless grace, heels striking marble, the kind of entrance you’ve perfected since childhood. Clark, however, unfolds himself from the car with far less elegance, tugging self-consciously at his jacket while trying not to look like a farm boy dropped in the middle of high society. “Good evening, Ms. Wayne,” the maître d’ says at once, recognizing you. “Your table is ready.”

Clark’s head jerks slightly toward you. “They… they just know you?” he whispers, startled.

You smirk faintly, sliding your arm through his. “Perks of the family name.”

Inside, the restaurant glows with golden light. Waiters glide between tables carrying silver-domed trays, champagne flutes sparkle on white linen, and the low murmur of conversation hums like an orchestra. It’s a world Clark clearly doesn’t set foot in often. His shoulders tighten as a server whisks his coat away, leaving him standing in his perfectly pressed suit. You catch the stiffness in his posture, the way his eyes flick across the room like he’s searching for an escape. “Breathe, Clark,” you murmur, steering him toward your table. “You look like you’re about to get grilled by Perry.”

“That’s not far off,” he mutters, tugging at his cufflink.

You lean in slightly as you sit, voice pitched low just for him. “Relax. You belong here. Trust me.”

His eyes meet yours across the table, uncertain but softening. “I don’t know if I’ll ever get used to this.”

“Good,” you reply, taking your menu. “Means I won’t have to worry about your ego.” That earns you a quiet laugh, genuine and warm. The tension in his shoulders eases just a fraction.

When the waiter arrives, you order without hesitation—something rich, something indulgent, paired with wine that makes the waiter’s eyes widen in appreciation. Clark stammers slightly over his choice, nearly ordering meatloaf before you nudge him toward the steak. “You’re trying to bankrupt me,” he jokes weakly once the waiter leaves.

“Please,” you scoff. “This is pocket change.”

He shakes his head, chuckling. “You and I live on different planets.”

“Maybe,” you say, sipping your water. “But tonight we’re at the same table.” The words hang between you, heavier than they should. Clark looks at you for a long moment, something in his gaze shifting—like he’s seeing past the name, past the armor, down to the person sitting across from him. And for the first time, you let him. The first course arrives—perfectly plated, an art piece more than a meal. The waiter sets it down with quiet precision, and you thank him smoothly before turning your attention back to Clark. He sits straight in his chair, fork in hand, staring at his plate like he’s not entirely sure he belongs in front of it. “Relax,” you murmur with a smirk, lifting your glass. “It’s just food. You won’t break it.”

His cheeks flush pink as he cuts into the dish with careful precision. “I’m used to diners and home cooking. This is… something else.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

He looks up at you, his expression softening. “It’s not. Just different. I grew up on meatloaf and mashed potatoes. My ma used to can vegetables every summer—shelves of them, stacked floor to ceiling in the cellar. My pa would roast corn in the back field and swear it tasted better than anything from the store.” There’s a warmth in his voice when he talks about it, like each memory is a thread pulling him back to Kansas, to a place that shaped him.

You sip your wine, studying him over the rim of the glass. “Sounds… comforting.”

He smiles faintly, shy. “It was. Not glamorous, but real.”

You set your glass down. “Not everything has to be glamorous.” His gaze lingers on you a beat longer than necessary, and you feel the weight of it before he looks away, adjusting his glasses like he’s embarrassed for being caught.

By the time the main course arrives, the air between you feels easier, less like a tightrope and more like a current pulling you both forward. Clark asks about Gotham—about the differences between the two cities—and you answer honestly, though you skip the darker details. You counter by asking about the Planet, about what drew him into journalism in the first place.

“I wanted to give people a voice,” he admits, twirling his fork absentmindedly. “When I was a kid, I couldn’t always stop bad things from happening. But if you tell the truth—if you shine a light on it—sometimes that’s enough to change things.” There’s no bravado in his tone, just quiet conviction. It hits you harder than you expect, how much of himself he’s willing to lay bare without realizing it.

You lean in slightly, chin resting on your hand. “That’s very noble of you. But also dangerous.”

He shrugs, smiling faintly. “I don’t mind dangerous.”

That makes you laugh softly, the sound surprising even yourself. “Careful. I might hold you to that.” His smile widens just a fraction, boyish and earnest. Dessert comes and goes—something decadent you ordered without asking him, and something he sheepishly admits is the best thing he’s ever tasted. When the plates are finally cleared and the check discreetly handled before Clark can even think to protest, you rise from your chair, smoothing your dress. “Come on, Clark. I’ll drive you home before you combust from too much sugar.”

He stands quickly, ever the gentleman, pulling your chair in before following you out. And as you walk through the golden glow of the restaurant’s chandeliers toward the waiting Maserati outside, you realize that for all the chaos surrounding Mannheim and Luthor, tonight has been something rare. Normal. Almost like the world could pause, just for the two of you.

The Maserati rolls to a stop in front of Clark’s apartment building, the engine purring low before you cut it off. The city is alive around you—neon signs blinking, sirens in the distance, the low thrum of Metropolis never really sleeping. Clark shifts in the passenger seat, hands folded neatly, nervous energy clinging to him even now. Before you can reach for the handle, he’s already out of the car, circling quickly to your side. He pulls your door open with a tentative smile, offering his hand. “Gentlemanly,” you tease, sliding out.

“Just manners,” he says softly, ears a little pink. You’re about to reply when the sound of shouting cuts down the block. A car alarm blares, followed by the unmistakable crash of glass. You both turn—three men sprinting out of a corner store, bags slung over their shoulders, weapons flashing in the streetlights. Clark exhales quietly, shoulders straightening. He shrugs off his suit jacket, stepping close enough to drape it around your shoulders. His voice is gentle, firm. “Wait here.”

Before you can answer, he’s gone—a blur that the human eye shouldn’t be able to track. The jacket still carries his warmth, heavy and grounding against you as you lean against the car and watch. It doesn’t take long. A gust of air, a flicker of blue and red across the street, and in moments the men are disarmed and pinned against a squad car that wasn’t even there a heartbeat ago. By the time the bewildered police arrive, Superman is already striding back toward you, cape catching in the breeze. He lands lightly on the pavement, face unreadable for a moment as he stops a few steps away.

You tilt your head, smirking faintly despite your racing pulse. “Put the glasses back on.”

He blinks, thrown. “What?”

“The glasses,” you repeat, tugging the jacket closer around you. “Put them back on.”

Confusion flickers in his eyes, but he reaches into his pocket and slides them into place. “Why?”

You step forward, closing the distance until you’re right in front of him, your voice low. “Because I want to kiss Clark Kent. Not Superman.”

His hands hover at his sides, trembling slightly like he’s fighting the urge to touch you. You don’t give him the chance to decide—you lean in first, closing the gap, lips brushing his in a kiss that’s softer and deeper than you imagined. He stills for only a heartbeat before his hands finally move—hovering near your waist, then slowly rising to cup your face with reverence, thumbs brushing your cheekbones as though you’re something fragile, priceless. His kiss deepens cautiously, warm and steady, grounding you even as the world tilts.

When you part, the city noise floods back in. His forehead rests lightly against yours, breath shaky behind the glasses you insisted he wear. “Golly,” he whispers.

You laugh against his mouth, shaking your head. “You’re impossible, Clark.”

“Guess I am,” he murmurs, but his smile is brighter than the neon glow above you both. Finally, you step back just enough to breathe. His hands hover awkwardly at your sides, like he doesn’t want to let go but isn’t sure he’s allowed.

You smooth the lapel of his suit jacket where it rests on your shoulders and murmur, “according to my sources, Mercy Graves is going to be arrested tomorrow. Early morning raid.”

Clark blinks, surprise flickering behind his lenses. “That soon?”

“Mm.” You tilt your head, watching him. “You’ll want to be there. After all, it’s your article that kicked the door open.”

Something flickers across his face then—something between humility and pride. “I just… wrote the truth.”

You smile faintly. “Sometimes that’s enough to start a war.”

For a moment, the weight of what’s coming presses between you—the inevitable clash with Luthor, the storm that Mercy’s arrest will unleash. But instead of flinching, Clark steadies, eyes softening as they meet yours. “I’ll be there,” he says simply.

You believe him without question. You step closer again, your hand brushing against his tie. “Good. Because I’d hate to have to stand next to the feds alone. Terrible photo opportunity.” That earns you a laugh—quiet, genuine, the kind that tugs at something warm in your chest.

Before he can say more, you lean in again, kissing him once more—not hurried, not desperate, but deliberate. His breath catches against yours, and though his hands hover uncertainly at first, they eventually find your waist, light and careful, like he’s still afraid of holding too tightly. When you part, his forehead rests against yours, glasses cool against your skin. “Goodnight,” he whispers.

“Goodnight,” you murmur, tugging his tie lightly before slipping back toward the driver’s side of the Maserati. You watch him linger at the curb as you pull away, suit jacket still around your shoulders, his figure shrinking in the rearview mirror but never once stepping back inside until your taillights disappear into the Metropolis night.

---

Morning in Metropolis comes too fast. The Maserati idles at the curb near LexCorp’s Energy Division headquarters, its polished façade now swarming with federal vehicles. Black SUVs block the entrances, agents in jackets spill into the glass lobby, and the usual parade of perfectly coiffed executives scatter like startled pigeons.

You step out, heels striking against the pavement, Clark’s suit jacket draped over your shoulders. The tailored lines don’t quite match your dress, but they add a kind of edge, a piece of him carried with you into the storm. Cameras flash immediately, reporters jostling for position, their voices rising above the chaos.

Clark is already there, notebook in hand, glasses catching the morning light. He looks different than he did last night—more composed, every inch the journalist, pen moving quickly as he notes every detail. Yet his eyes soften when they find you, his smile brief but steady.

“Wayne,” one of the agents calls as you approach. “Appreciate your cooperation. Your testimony’s on file, and the board’s documents helped fast-track this warrant.”

You nod coolly. “Halvorsen handed us the thread. All we had to do was pull.”

Inside, the lobby is a battlefield of a different kind—sleek glass and chrome disrupted by agents rifling through files, seizing hard drives, barking orders. And in the middle of it all, standing like a blade unsheathed, is Mercy Graves. Her suit is flawless, hair sharp, expression unreadable as two agents flank her. She doesn’t resist, doesn’t even blink, as they produce cuffs. Her gaze flicks upward, scanning the crowd until it lands on you. And for a brief, breathless moment, you feel the weight of her stare—calm, calculating, promising this isn’t over.

Clark steps closer, voice low at your side. “She’s not afraid.”

“She doesn’t have to be,” you murmur. “She thinks Luthor will dig her out.” Mercy tilts her chin, lips curving into the faintest smirk, even as the cuffs click into place. Then the agents lead her away, cameras flashing in a frenzy, the hum of shouted questions filling the air.

You stand shoulder to shoulder with Clark as it unfolds, his pen moving quickly, his presence solid beside you. When the lobby finally clears, leaving only the echo of footsteps and the faint scent of ozone from the electronics being carted off, you glance at him. “You did this,” you say quietly.

He blinks, startled. “We did.”

You shake your head. “It was your article that turned whispers into evidence. Your words lit the match.”

Clark looks down at his notebook, flustered. “I just told the truth.”

“And that,” you reply, tugging his jacket tighter around your shoulders, “is more dangerous than any weapon Mannheim could get his hands on.” The silence that follows hums with something unspoken. He shifts slightly closer, the warmth of him brushing against you even in the chaos. And before you can second-guess yourself, you lean in, pressing a brief, certain kiss against his lips. Cameras flash in the distance, but you don’t care. When you pull back, his eyes are wide behind the glasses, his hand hovering uncertainly before rising to cup your cheek. You smirk. “Told you I wanted Clark Kent. Not Superman.”

His smile is small but steady, his voice almost a whisper. “Then that’s who you’ll always have.”

---

Late morning sunlight filters through the tall windows of your hotel suite, casting gold over the marble floor and the faint mess of files spread across the desk. You’ve kicked off your heels, Clark’s suit jacket still draped over your shoulders as you sit with your laptop open, replaying Mercy’s arrest through endless angles from the morning news cycle. Your phone buzzes sharply across the table. Alfred. You answer, leaning back in your chair. “Alfred. You’re calling early.”

His voice comes steady, polite as ever, though you know the weight behind it. “I thought perhaps I’d catch you before you entangled yourself in another… eventful morning.” A pause, then, “imagine my surprise when the news was filled with Miss Graves being escorted in handcuffs, with you standing beside Mr. Kent like a pair of proud prosecutors.”

You exhale, rubbing your temple. “It was bound to happen sooner or later. Better we controlled the narrative.”

“You do realize your brother is pacing the manor like an agitated tiger?” Alfred says, calm but clipped. “I’m told he’s read Mr. Kent’s article three times, and each time muttered your name as though invoking it might summon you for an explanation.”

You smirk faintly. “Then it worked. The article landed exactly where it needed to.”

“Indeed,” Alfred murmurs. “Though Master Bruce has expressed… curiosity.” His tone sharpens just slightly. “About Mr. Kent.”

Your lips curve. “Of course he has.”

“You mentioned him before, in passing. A reporter. A colleague. Your… ally.” Alfred’s hesitation is almost imperceptible, but you catch it. “And now his name is attached to federal raids and headlines of corporate scandal. You must realize what conclusion Bruce will draw.”

You lean forward, voice low. “That I finally found someone who’s not afraid to put his neck on the line.”

Alfred is silent for a beat, then sighs. “I suspect Bruce will want to verify that for himself.”

“Let him,” you say, smirking. “Clark can handle it.”

“Mm. That may be so. But allow me to offer you one small warning.” Alfred’s voice softens again, threaded with something fatherly. “Secrets have a way of bleeding into the open. Be certain you’re prepared when they do.”

You glance toward the jacket draped over your shoulders—Clark’s jacket, still faintly smelling of him, steady and warm.

Your lips curve faintly. “I’ll be ready.”

“Of that,” Alfred says, and you can hear his smile, “I have no doubt.”

The call ends, leaving you alone with the morning sun and the faint echo of Alfred’s warning. And you realize—when Bruce finally comes storming into Metropolis, Clark Kent will be at the center of it.

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