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A Way To A Heart

The Gravity Between Us Ch 5 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 6

Pairing: David!Clark Kent x BestFriend!Female!Reader Summary: When your shift ended and the city went quiet, you felt it. That sharp ache of being alone in a crowd. The quiet jealousy when friends gushed over their partners. The whispered thought: When is it my turn? You told yourself you weren’t that kid anymore—not the girl waiting to be picked. You were the woman who had learned to keep her head up, her heart guarded, her hands busy. But when Clark stood in that hospital lobby and asked for an interview, something in you cracked. Tags: Childhood Friends to Lovers, Slow Burn, Reader Knows Clark Kent is Superman, Fluff and Angst, Jealousy, Mutual Pining, Superman Played by David Corenswet, Clark Kent is a Ray of Sunshine, Slice of Life (Original 7/31/25, rewritten 11/2/25 - MORE CLARK, TEXTING, COOKING TOGETHER, FLIRTING, teasing from Lois/Jimmy/coworkers, slight jealousy)

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.

It started young.

You had always been the one people leaned on, not the one they leaned toward. You were the dependable one. The helper. The reliable friend. You were funny when someone needed cheering up, gentle when someone was hurt, smart when answers were needed. Invisible the second the world looked for someone to love.

Not to Clark.

Not when you were kids.

He saw you. That’s what made it different. What made it bearable. Even when he was faster than the wind, stronger than anyone should’ve been — even before you had the words for what he was — he never made you feel small. Never made you feel second. He made you feel chosen, in a world that rarely made space for you.

You didn’t say it back then, but you loved him for it.

Maybe that’s why, when high school ended and life stretched in two different directions, you didn’t fight to stay in touch. Because it was easier to let go of a perfect thing than watch it get weathered by time, distance, and the curse of growing up.

You built your life. You went to school. You learned how to survive on your own, to care for others without ever needing anyone yourself. It wasn’t strength, not really... it was armor.

It grew heavier with every year. You told yourself it was better that way. You moved for work, for growth. For something new. And in your first week, you looked up at the sky and saw a red cape flicker past a high-rise. Just like everyone else, you fell a little in love with Superman. But not the way they did. Because you knew it was him. You would have known him anywhere.

You didn’t reach out. You didn’t chase it. Maybe part of you believed he was too far removed from who he used to be. Maybe the other part feared that reconnecting would mean finding out he’d forgotten you.

You told yourself it didn’t matter. That your work mattered more. That the lives you saved in trauma bays and ER hallways were enough. That you were fulfilled.

But when your shift ended and the city went quiet, you felt it.

That sharp ache of being alone in a crowd. The quiet jealousy when friends gushed over their partners. The whispered thought: When is it my turn?

You told yourself you weren’t that kid anymore—not the girl waiting to be picked. You were the woman who had learned to keep her head up, her heart guarded, her hands busy.

But when Clark stood in that hospital lobby and asked for an interview, something in you cracked.

And now, as you lay in bed with the soft glow of your phone screen fading and the ghost of his voice still curling in your ears from hours earlier, you wondered if this was what healing felt like.

Slow. Uneven. Terrifying.

But possible.

And for the first time in a long while, you let yourself hope that maybe—just maybe—you wouldn’t always be second.

Maybe someone would stay.

.

The Daily Planet bullpen was already awake by the time Clark arrived. He slipped into his desk with his usual quiet grace, setting his messenger bag down beside his chair. He’d barely opened his notebook before Lois’s voice cut through the noise.

“So,” she said, leaning on the partition that separated their desks, coffee in one hand, phone in the other. “How’d your date go?”

Clark froze, mid-page turn. “It wasn’t a date.”

Lois arched a brow, amused. “Right. Just two old friends reconnecting at a candle-lit café after work hours. Totally professional.”

"There was no candle," he corrected, then sighed. “You knew it was an interview.”

“Uh-huh. And did this interview involve heart eyes and nervous stammering?”

Clark opened his mouth, found no suitable defense, and shut it again. “It went well,” he said finally, adjusting his glasses. “That’s all.”

Before Lois could needle him further, Jimmy appeared, juggling his camera and a breakfast burrito. “Wait, what’s this about a date? Kent went on a date?”

Clark groaned. “Not a date.”

Jimmy grinned, delighted. “Lois, you’re telling me our guy finally shot his shot?”

“Apparently, it was an interview,” Lois said, smirking as she sipped her coffee.

Clark rubbed the back of his neck, trying to look unbothered. “It was an interview. She’s the nurse who helped during the 7th and Hamilton collapse. Perry approved a piece to cover her.”

That caught Jimmy’s attention. “Wait—the one the EMTs were talking about? The woman who patched up half the site before medics even arrived?”

Clark nodded, a faint, almost-proud smile tugging at his lips. “Yeah. That’s her. She’s… she’s an old friend. From back home.”

Lois glanced up from her phone, eyes glinting with mirth. “Old, you say? What'd you say her name was?”

He smiled then, the words softening. “She's my best friend.” He said your name, and something in the way he said it made Lois’s head tilt.

“Well, well,” she murmured, thumbs moving fast over her phone screen. “Let’s see what Smallville’s prodigal nurse has been up to all these years.”

“Wait! Lois—” Clark warned, but she was already scrolling through your social media.

“Graduation photos… okay, cute dress. Dinner pictures. Oh—gym selfies, damn! Beach trip—so, tan looks good on her. Star City hospital fundraiser… here, look.”

Before Clark could object, she spun her screen around toward him and Jimmy.

Jimmy leaned in first. “She’s cute,” he hummed with an approving nod and a mouthful of breakfast burrito.

Clark blinked, unprepared for the small, aching tug in his chest. “Yeah,” he said softly, the word almost lost beneath the hum of the newsroom. “She always has been.”

Lois, still scrolling, smirked. “I think our boy’s got it bad.”

Clark shot her a look that was meant to be reproachful but landed somewhere closer to flustered. “Lois.”

“Oh, relax, Kent. It’s really sweet. Bit tragic, even.”

He looked away, but his eyes caught on the photo still glowing from Lois’s screen—a picture you’d posted a few years back. You were sitting at a kitchen table, laughing, a pie cooling in front of you.

He recognized it instantly.

The lattice crust. The blue ceramic dish. The faint, uneven heart you’d cut into the center. Martha’s recipe.

His throat went tight. He remembered the first time you’d baked one together. How he’d gotten flour on your cheek, how you’d accused him of burning the edges when he wasn’t watching the timer.

“Clark?” Jimmy asked, waving a hand in front of him. “You good, man?”

Clark blinked, forcing a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “Just… remembering something.”

Lois studied him for a beat longer, the teasing softening at the edges. “You’re thinking about her, aren’t you?”

He didn’t answer, not really. He just glanced toward his monitor, fingers hovering over his keyboard, your name still echoing somewhere between his ribs and his notebook.

.

The afternoon light slanted through the tall newsroom windows, cutting the chaos into tidy streaks of gold and dust. By then, the Planet had thinned out a little—half the staff off chasing stories, the rest sipping cold coffee and pretending their deadlines didn’t exist.

Clark sat at his desk, drumming his fingers along his desk. The screen in front of him was half-filled with words he didn’t remember typing. By now, he should’ve been editing the final paragraph of his article, tightening quotes, trimming transitions, but his cursor blinked unmoving.

Instead, the recorder sat just beside his keyboard. The one Lois had slipped into his hand days ago.

He pressed play.

Your voice came through, low and clear, soft around the edges from the café noise in the background.

“—there’s always a moment where your brain tries to talk you out of it. ‘What if you make it worse? What if you get hurt? What if you’re not enough?’ But then you look around and someone’s bleeding, someone’s crying, and no one else is moving. And suddenly, none of that matters.”

He knew the words by heart already, having played it more times than he cared to admit, but hearing them again did something to him. It quieted the world, stilled the noise. You had always spoken like that. With conviction. Not for show. Not for praise. Just truth.

He kept listening.

The recorder clicked faintly as you laughed at something he’d said. The sound, light, effortless, unguarded, made his heart flutter, especially knowing he was the cause of it.

He leaned back in his chair, eyes half-closed, the city hum bleeding in through the glass. For a moment, it wasn’t Superman sitting there, just Clark. The boy who used to ride his bike down dusty Kansas roads, thinking about the girl who made him feel like the world was small enough to hold.

When the recording ended, he sat still. The quiet felt heavier than before.

His gaze shifted to his phone.

The cursor blinked again on his screen, waiting for him to return to his article, but his hand moved toward his phone instead. The impulse was quiet but insistent—like muscle memory.

He opened your contact, gazing at your name. He hadn’t changed it since he got a phone.

He never could.

He typed, deleted, retyped.

CLARK: Hey, good afternoon.

CLARK: Just wanted to thank you again for meeting me last night. I keep coming back to what you said about helping people because no one else was moving. That line stayed with me.

He hovered over send for a full minute before pressing it.

The message went through. He exhaled, immediately regretted sending it, and turned back to his computer, trying to look busy even though no one was watching.

A few minutes passed. Maybe more. Then his phone buzzed softly against the desk.

YOU: Hey, Clark!

YOU: It was good seeing you again. And talking. Thank you for the coffee. You always had a way of asking the hard questions!

He smiled, faint but real. His fingers hovered over the screen again.

CLARK: Occupational hazard. How’s your day going?

There was a pause. He pictured you at the hospital, hair tied up, badge clipped to your scrubs, phone propped beside a cooling cup of coffee.

YOU: Busy. Tired. Same as usual. But better.

He leaned back in his chair again, that small, unstoppable grin tugging at his mouth.

CLARK: I’m glad.

Another pause. Then:

YOU: You?

CLARK: Also busy. But… better.

He stared at the screen for a long moment, thumb brushing the edge of his phone like he was afraid to put it down. The weight in his chest that had been there for years—the regret, the distance—felt lighter somehow.

.

Your phone buzzed again against the counter just as you finished charting vitals on your last patient before your assigned lunch break.

CLARK: Occupational hazard. How’s your day going?

You exchanged a string of texts, smiling to yourself before you could stop it. It was the kind that pulled at the corners of your mouth and gave you away instantly.

“Ohhh, somebody’s grinning at their phone again,” Danielle sing-songed from across the nurses’ station, balancing a pink basin of skin cleaners and packing gauze.

You startled a little too quickly. “What? No—it’s nothing.”

Kiera joined in, sliding beside her. “Oh, it’s something. We saw that smile. That’s a text smile. Who’s got you looking like that mid-shift?”

You hesitated, immediately regretting it when the truth slipped out. “Clark.”

Both girls froze, looked at each other, then at you, “Clark? The Clark? As in tall, polite, jawline-for-days Clark from the lobby?”

You sighed, trying to sound bored. “Yes. The reporter. From the Planet. I, um, ended up doing the interview.”

Danielle practically lit up. “Already?”

You blinked, realizing too late that you’d never told them when it happened. “I—yeah. Last night.”

Danielle gasped, hand to her chest like she’d just been told a scandal. “At night? You did an interview at night?”

“It wasn’t—” you started, but Kiera was already grinning.

“Oh my God, was it, like, dinner and discourse? Questions and candlelight?”

“Stop,” you said, heat rising to your cheeks. “It was a café. Not a restaurant. We talked about the article, that’s it.”

“Uh-huh,” Danielle said, unconvinced. “And you’re smiling about it now.”

You turned back to your clipboard, trying for professional dignity. “Because it went well. Professionally.”

“Sure you aren’t,” Danielle teased. “Tell that to your cheeks.”

Before you could defend yourself further, Justin stepped out from the medication room, hands full of discharge paperwork. “You’re talking about that reporter again?”

You blinked. “Again?”

He shrugged. “Saw him in the lobby the other day. You looked ready to throw hands when I offered to walk him out.”

You almost scoffed, the visual of your coworker walking Superman out, but frowned. “Hey! I wasn’t going to throw hands.”

Danielle snorted. “You definitely had the stance.”

Justin leaned against the wall, curious. “So, how deep’s this friendship anyway? You never mentioned the guy before, and now he’s suddenly showing up?”

You busied yourself tidying the counter, focusing on anything that wasn’t his question. “We grew up together,” you admitted as you bit your lip. “Smallville. Long time ago.”

“Long time, huh?” Justin asked with a raised brow, then thoughtfully: "The way he looked at you, though. That wasn’t casual.”

You spun toward him. “What does that mean?”

He shrugged. “Means the guy’s interested. Or at least, he used to be. You don’t stand in a lobby like that unless you’re trying to make a good impression.”

Danielle elbowed Kiera triumphantly. “See? Even he saw it.”

You pointed at him accusingly. “And this is why male opinions are overrated.”

Justin just grinned, leaning against the wall. “I’m just saying. From a guy’s perspective, if you’ve got history with someone like that—and I mean real history, not small talk—you don’t show up at their job just for an interview. He’s trying to reconnect.”

You crossed your arms. “You all have such wild imaginations. Why can’t a girl and a guy just be friends without everyone assuming it’s romantic?”

Danielle raised an eyebrow. “Because you’re smiling while you say his name.”

You glared at her, but your pulse betrayed you, quick and fluttery. “He’s writing an article!” you exclaimed instead. “It’s for his work. That’s all, guys.”

They all exchanged a knowing look that made you want to melt into the tile.

Before they could start again, your phone buzzed a second time. It was a photo.

Clark’s desk at the Planet, cluttered and lived-in: two coffee cups, a half-finished notepad full of his looping handwriting, a small blue toy plane sitting atop a stack of newsprint, and a muffin—half-eaten—on a napkin. Scribbled in black ink on the edge of that napkin were five words:

Next time’s on me.

You felt your throat go a little tight, warmth prickling behind your ribs.

Kiera peered over your shoulder before you could tilt your screen away. “Oh, he texts you pictures now? That’s it, we’ve lost her.”

“Okay, everyone, go check your vitals before I report you to Reyna,” you threatened with a sharp point, grabbing your stethoscope and fleeing toward the hallway.

Their laughter followed you down the corridor.

You ducked into an empty supply room, leaned against the counter, and looked at the photo again. The muffin. The mug. His handwriting on the corner of the napkin—he’d scrawled, Next time’s on me.

You typed back, your fingers hovering before you hit send:

YOU: Last time was on you too. Next time, how about it’s on me?

The message whooshed away, and you stared at it for a moment, realizing your pulse hadn’t slowed.

You told yourself it was harmless. Just banter. Just two old friends catching up. But truly you wanted there to be a next time.

For the rest of the shift, no matter how many patients you checked on or forms you filled, that quiet, secret smile kept tugging at your mouth.

And every time your phone buzzed in your pocket, your heart skipped the same way it used to when a boy from Kansas knocked on your window and asked if you wanted to listen to The Mighty Crabjoys.

.

Two days after the interview, your name was in the Daily Planet.

Not just your name. Your face, your voice—your work.

A full-page feature headlined “Hands That Heal: A Nurse at the Heart of Metropolis,” by Clark Joseph Kent.

A masterful portrait of compassion in crisis. Quotes from EMTs and doctors. Testimonies from survivors. Details that painted the collapse not as a tragedy, but as a testament to what ordinary people could do when faced with extraordinary moments.

But the center of it all—the quiet heartbeat of the story—was you.

He never once mentioned Smallville. Never alluded to your shared history or the walk through Metropolis that night. But his admiration was there, woven into every line like Kansas sunlight through linen.

By midmorning, it went viral.

You were stopped in the hallway three times that morning. Someone brought you coffee the next day. Someone else brought you a donut that same evening. Olivia had the newspaper pinned to the breakroom bulletin board with glitter stickers.

“Subtle,” you told her when you saw it.

She grinned. “It’s called recognition, sweetheart. Your boyfriend made you famous.”

You groaned, mumbling under your breath,"not my boyfriend," and tried to walk away, but Danielle intercepted you at the counter. “You got a gift basket, by the way. From the mayor’s office.”

You blinked. “You’re kidding.”

“Partially expired chocolates,” Kiera added. “But still counts.”

They were all smiling at you like proud, meddling sisters.

You blushed so hard you had to excuse yourself to the supply room.

You had never received this kind of attention before—praise, care, warmth. It was overwhelming in the best and strangest ways.

Still, you folded a copy of the paper and slipped it into your locker, tucked behind your emergency gum stash. Just in case.

When you finally got home, you sat on the edge of your bed with your phone in hand. You typed, deleted, retyped. Then you hit send.

YOU: Incredible article.You made me sound taller than I really am.

He replied within seconds:

JOSEPH: Now did I earn my name back?

You laughed and decided to finally edit his contact info, taking a screenshot from 'Joseph' to 'Clark' and sent it to him.

YOU: This is a trial period, bub.

CLARK: I'll make sure you won't regret it.

You stared at your phone for a while after that.

A new text

CLARK: Can I call you?

You hesitated only a moment before replying.

YOU: It’s late.

CLARK: I know. Just… wanted to.

Your heart did that stupid, fluttering thing again. You sighed and hit the call icon.

He picked up on the first ring.

“Hi,” he said, voice low and warm through the receiver. That single syllable carried something you hadn’t realized you’d been missing.

“Hi yourself,” you said quietly, curling onto your side. “Shouldn’t you be sleeping? Or writing another life-changing article? Saving the world?”

“I could ask you the same thing,” he said, a faint smile in his tone. “Long day?”

“Yeah, but it was good,” you said honestly. “Good weird. Everyone keeps bringing me food. Even the major sent something! I think I’ve hit my yearly quota for baked goods.”

He laughed. “That’s a high compliment in this city.”

You hummed. “You didn’t have to write it the way you did, Clark.”

“I wanted to,” he said simply. “You deserve to be seen.”

Your throat tightened. “You’ve always said that.”

“Because it’s always been true.”

The silence that followed wasn’t empty—it was full, threaded with everything you couldn’t yet say. You could hear the faint hum of city traffic through his receiver, the rustle of paper on his desk.

“You’re still at the Planet?” you asked softly, surprised.

He chuckled, caught. “Guilty. I'm packing up, though. Lois says I talk to my keyboard like it’ll answer back when it's like like this.”

“Maybe it does,” you teased. “Maybe it tells you to go home, stop overworking.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time I’ve ignored good advice.”

You smiled into the dark. “You really haven’t changed much.”

“Neither have you,” he said above the faint noises of a drawer opening and closing and the squeal from a chair, “Still keeping everyone together. Even when you’re exhausted.”

You exhaled slowly, thumb brushing your pillowcase. “Clark?”

“Yeah?”

“I...I really did miss you. I can't stop saying it.”

There was a pause on his end. Then, softly: “I know. I missed you, too.”

Your eyes burned, but the tears didn’t fall. You pressed your phone closer to your ear, like proximity could close the gap between you.

He spoke again, quieter now. “I meant what I said in the article. You make people believe in good things.”

You laughed weakly. “That’s ironic, coming from the guy who literally is one of the good things in the world.”

“Eh, you give me too much credit,” he said. “But you’re the one who makes it feel real.”

That line lingered long after the call ended—after the quiet “goodnight,” after you set your phone facedown on your nightstand, heart pounding.

You told yourself it was just a call. Just a friend reaching out.

But as you drifted toward sleep, Clark’s voice stayed in your head. Warm. Familiar. Hopeful.

.

The next two weeks blurred into something soft and steady—an easy rhythm you hadn’t realized you’d been missing.

Days were filled with hospital rounds, charting, and the familiar hum of machines, occasional gym sessions. Evenings, though, belonged to him.

You and Clark had fallen into a quiet cadence of conversation that neither of you dared to name.

It started with a goodnight text here and there.

CLARK: Hope you’re getting some rest tonight. Try not to save the world all by yourself.

YOU: Says the man who literally saves the world.

CLARK: To-may-toe, to-mah-toe. Still—take care of yourself, okay?

Then it became daily.

You sent him photos of your coffee from the cafe downstairs at six in the morning; he sent you snapshots of the Planet bullpen later on—his cluttered desk, fellow reporters mid-arguing, a young man named 'Jimmy' passed out on the couch.

YOU: Tell your friend Jimmy to stop drooling. It'll ruin the fabric.

CLARK: It’s his natural state.

It was easy, effortless, addictive. You told yourself it was friendship rekindled. You didn’t admit—even to yourself—that you checked your phone more often than you should.

The nurses noticed.

Of course they did.

Olivia claimed your “post-text glow” was obvious. Kiera started humming love songs whenever your phone buzzed. Danielle began making kissy faces whenever you smiled at a notification.

You denied everything. Every. Single. Time.

And then, one evening near shift change, as you stepped out of the staff lounge, Danielle’s voice rang down the hall.

“Your hunky reporter’s here!"

You blinked. “My what now?”

She smirked, spinning in her chair. “Front desk. Big coat, blue tie, puppy eyes. Looks like he walked off a movie set. Mr. Clark Kent.”

You blinked, pulse racing. You excused yourself, checking on your patients quickly before heading to the front desk. By the time you reached the reception area, Olivia was very pointedly not looking at you. Which was how you knew she’d already seen him. She ducked behind her monitor, biting her lip to hide a grin. Oliva gave you one sly glance and ducked after catching a heated glare from you.

And there he was.

Clark stood in the middle of the hospital lobby, looking slightly out of place and unfairly handsome. His gray suit was a little rumpled, his blue tie slightly crooked, his black curls wind-tossed like he’d run the last few blocks. Three overstuffed grocery bags hung from one massive hand, the paper handles straining against his grip.

"Clark?"

“Hey!" he started, a bright smile on his face, "I missed you."

You tried not to smile back too hard. The way he said 'I missed you' was so honest and easy. He never missed a chance to say it recently.

You tried not to mirror the grin tugging at your own lips. “Missed me? We talked last night.”

“Doesn't count,” he said, unbothered, then lifted the grocery bags with one hand like they weighed nothing. Your eyes flicked to the bags, tilting your head. “Also, I owe you.”

You crossed your arms, pretending to be calm while your chest fluttered. “Owe me for what?”

You thought maybe he still felt like he had to still redeem himself after all these years of absence. That night at the coffee shop, all these evenings texting and calling were so...cathartic, it patched a part of a void in your life, and you no longer felt angry.

It wouldn't be fair for him to still earn your forgiveness, you thought. You were also part of the problem.

He tilted his head, that same sheepish smile from when he used to get caught sneaking extra pie at the Kent farmhouse. “I want to save the news over dinner tonight.”

You stared for a full second before your brain caught up.

News?

Oh no. News.

You immediately thought of every possibility. Promotion? New apartment? Some secret engagement? Maybe—God forbid—he was moving.

You forced your brain to bury deep the fear of you two separating again, and instead pondered your messages with Clark in the past two weeks. "Did we already have plans?”

“Not exactly,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “I was going to cook for myself, but then I thought… it’d be nice to cook for someone else. If they're free.”

The way he said it—quiet, hopeful—sent a shiver down your spine. His voice dipped low on someone else, like it meant more than he wanted it to.

You felt Olivia's eyes piercing through the back of your skull, curious to hear what you'd say.

You blinked, trying to keep up with your pulse. “Wait,” you said before you could stop yourself, “you’re still talking about me, right?”

That earned you a startled laugh, the kind that escaped him before he could think better of it. His eyes softened. “Gosh, you’re so—” he stopped, biting the inside of his cheek, almost embarrassed. “You’re so you.”

You tilted your head, half-teasing, half-flustered. “That’s not an answer.”

He smiled—crooked, warm, devastating. “Yeah,” he said, quieter now, “I’m talking about you.”

For a second, the lobby seemed to shrink around you. You became hyper-aware of how close he stood—how his coat brushed your arm, how the height difference forced you to look up to meet his blue eyes. He could’ve said anything then, and you probably would’ve agreed.

“Actually,” Clark continued, clearing his throat, “I was thinking my place. I bought stuff we could make together. Something simple. Not just breakfast food this time.”

You blinked, his words taking a beat to sink in. “Your place?”

He nodded, nervous but determined. “Only if you want to. I can drop you off after.”

You choked on a breath at his invitation. Dinner with Clark. Dinner with Clark at his apartment. Making dinner with Clark at his apartment.

Olivia, who had been pretending to type at the front desk, nearly dropped her pen. You didn’t need to turn around to know the nurses were practically holding their breath, waiting for your answer.

“Yeah,” you managed finally, voice softer now. “That’d be… alright.”

He smiled—slow, bright, boyish—and it hit you how easily he filled the space around you. When he bent a little to look at you properly, it felt like being under a spotlight.

Behind you, someone cooed “Oh my god, I didn’t realize how short she is.”

Another voice chimed in immediately, “That’s actually really adorable.”

You closed your eyes, already dreading what was coming.

Danielle, never one to waste an opportunity, leaned over the desk and whispered much too loudly, “Oh, he's huge.”

Clark blinked, caught completely off guard. “I’m—uh—what?”

You spun halfway toward them, face heating. “Nothing! She’s delirious. Long shift."

Danielle giggled into her sleeve. Kiera elbowed Olivia, grinning. “He’s definitely her type.”

That earned a snort from somewhere farther back, followed by a bold, sing-song voice—probably from one of the incoming night-shift techs. “Bet he could bench-press her and the bed.”

A chorus of scandalized laughter erupted down the hall. Your jaw dropped, and nearly screamed.

“Okay!” you hissed, mortified. “That’s enough HR violations for one night!”

Clark glanced between you and the growing audience, bewildered and pink around the ears, trying very hard not to smile. “Everything okay back there?” he asked, voice barely steady.

“Perfectly fine,” you muttered through gritted teeth. “Totally normal. This place is so professional.”

He looked like he was fighting a laugh, dimples threatening. “Should I wait here or…?”

“Outside,” you said quickly, pinching the bridge of your nose. “I’ll meet you outside once I finish rounds. Safer for everyone.”

He gave a small nod, still biting back a smile. “Alright. I’ll be out front.”

And as he turned toward the doors, the entire nursing station broke into a chorus of muffled laughter, Olivia calling after him sweetly, “Bye, Clark!”

"Traitors!" You hissed as you hurried past them, then stopped short at the double doors. You placed your hands on your hips and glared at the desk. “Not. Another. Word.”

But you could already hear Danielle whisper to Kiera, “Oh, she’s gone.”

You ignored them, cheeks on fire, and told yourself you weren’t smiling as you hurried off to finish your shift.

.

You always kept a spare change of clothes in the back of your locker—insurance for spontaneous nights out or post-shift gym sessions. Tonight, you were grateful for it. You changed out of your scrubs and into black leggings and a beige fitted T-shirt, ran cool water over your face, and tried to ignore the way your pulse jumped every time you thought of seeing Clark just outside the doors.

When you stepped through the sliding ER doors, the evening air hit you like relief. Clark was waiting near the entrance, one hand shoved in his pocket, the other clutching those grocery bags from earlier. The streetlight caught in his hair, throwing copper glints through the dark waves. He looked too much like memory—shirt sleeves rolled, tie loosened, all tall warmth and patient gravity.

He spotted you instantly, smile spreading wide and unguarded. “Hey.”

“Hey.” You adjusted the strap of your workbag, but he was already reaching for it. His fingers brushed yours as he took it easily, the weight of it nothing to him.

“Let me,” he said, tone leaving no room for argument.

Your lips twitched. “So how do we get to your place? Metro? Should I book a rideshare?”

Clark hesitated, glanced at his surrounding—then took a slow step closer, dipping his head and lowering his voice.

He hesitated, scanning the area, then took a small step closer. The world seemed to contract around his height, his presence. He bent his head until his voice was a low, conspiratorial rumble near your ear.

“Fly?”

You blinked then laughed. “Clark. No. Absolutely not.”

“Why not?”

“I hate heights,” you hissed. “I’ll scream the whole time. I’ll have a mid-air cardiac event and haunt you forever.”

“You won’t,” he promised softly, amusement tugging at his mouth. “Not with me.”

And there it was—that steady, grounding look that made people believe they’d be okay just by standing near him.

“C’mon,” he coaxed, voice dipping lower. “You’ve seen me catch a city bus with one hand. I think I can manage one nurse after a long shift.”

You crossed your arms, pretending to glare, though you were fighting a smile. “Clark. Joseph. Kent.”

“I’ll go slow,” he vouched. “No acrobatics. Just a lift. The faster we get to my place, the faster you get to eat.”

You wavered. That was an unfairly good argument. God, you wanted to say no. Your stomach growled in agreement.

You looked up at him—way up—and groaned. His eyes. Those big, blue farmboy eyes!

“Fine, you win. But only because I’m starving.”

His grin was boyish and triumphant. “I’ll take it.”

“Fine, you win” you muttered, sighing. “But only because I'm starving.”

.

The rooftop terrace was nearly deserted, just a patchwork of gravel, faint lamplight, and the quiet hum of the city below. Clark shrugged off his coat, folding it neatly over his arm, then slipped his glasses into his shirt pocket. Without them, he looked impossibly more himself—open, bright, a little dangerous in the soft glow of the skyline.

He balanced your workbag and the grocery bags effortlessly in one arm, then turned to you and held out his hand.

“You’re not going to drop me,” you said carefully. “Right?”

“Never.”

You exhaled hard through your nose. “Okay. Okay.”

And then you grabbed his hand and stepped forward.

His palm was warm, steady. Then, before you could overthink it, his arm slid around your waist, and the other hooked gently under your knees. Not tight—just secure. Your arms were tucked between you and your flushed face was pressed against his sternum, smelling the faint spice of his cologne. It was enough to feel the steady rise and fall of his chest, to smell

“You ready?” he asked, studying your face.

“N-no.”

He smiled. “Good enough.”

And then—he lifted.

Your buried your face into his shoulder, fingers instinctively curling into the cotton of his dress shirt, holding your breath as your feet left the ground. The wind caught your dark hair, your stomach swooped—definitely not okay—but Clark’s arm tightened just slightly, anchoring you. The city dropped beneath you like a slow unraveling thread.

“Open your eyes,” he said gently.

You hesitantly opened them.

The skyline spread around you like a watercolor—muted blues, oranges smudged behind buildings, the shimmer of riverlight beneath the bridges. It was quiet up here. Peaceful. Removed.

You didn’t even realize you’d let out a sound—a soft, disbelieving little laugh.

Metropolis felt distant. Manageable. Like something you could hold in your hands.

“I told you,” he murmured close to your ear, his voice vibrating against your skin. “It’s not so bad.”

“You’re weird and this is terrifying,” you whispered back, ignoring the tingling at the nape of your neck. “But this is... beautiful.”

“I get that a lot.”

You huffed a laugh against his collarbone. “Shut up.”

.

He landed with the gentlest jolt in an alley beside his apartment building, lowering you slowly until your feet met pavement again. His hands lingered just a moment longer than necessary before he stepped back, watching to make sure your balance returned.

You were quiet for a long moment, willing your shaky knees to work properly again.

“Next time,” you managed, “we take the train.”

He chuckled. “Noted.”

“Dinner better be amazing.”

“It’ll be edible.”

You snorted, finally catching your breath. “You risked my life for edible?”

He rolled his eyes and started toward the door, still holding your workbag and groceries in one hand, your hand in the other. “Come on, nurse. Let me feed you before you call in an airstrike.”

You fell into step beside him, his long strides forcing you to hurry a little to keep up. Every few paces, his sleeve brushed your shoulder, and the space between you buzzed with that same fragile, rebuilding energy—familiar but new.

.

You hadn’t known what to expect when Clark invited you over for dinner after your shift—especially so spontaneously. Certainly not a high-rise wedged between a bodega and a shuttered laundromat on the edge of the East End.

“This isn’t exactly safe,” you said, stepping out from the alley behind him, squinting up at the building.

Clark was already three steps ahead, grocery bags in hand and grinning like you’d just insulted his favorite flannel. “I like the neighborhood. Good people. Mostly.”

A siren wailed somewhere in the distance.

You arched a brow.

He winced good-naturedly. “Okay—sometimes it’s loud.”

His apartment, however, was... unexpected.

The last sliver of sunset pooled from wide floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the skyline. Hardwood floors, exposed brick, a kitchen that looked like it came from a cooking show set. The furniture was modern and minimalist—clean lines, warm wood tones, the occasional secondhand charm in a worn leather reading chair, and a bookshelf filled with dog-eared paperbacks.

You stepped in slowly, eyes sweeping across the space.

It was neat but not sterile. There was life here. Thought. A soft throw blanket folded over the couch. A mug left half-forgotten on a side table. A faint smell of coffee and something sweet like chocolate.

You drifted toward the bookshelf without meaning to. Your fingers traced a framed photo of two smiling farmers standing in front of a red barn, and your heart ached. Jonathan and Martha Kent. They looked exactly as you remembered them: kind eyes, calloused hands, open hearts.

“Ma and Pa,” Clark said softly behind you. His voice was gentle in the space, reverent. “They call almost every morning.”

You smiled at the photo. “She still makes those lemon bars?”

He chuckled. “Only when she’s trying to bribe me home.”

There was another frame nearby: a photo of a younger Clark, mid-twenties maybe, standing in front of the Planet building, shirt wrinkled, smile awkward but proud. Behind it sat a collection of worn paperbacks—Steinbeck, Toni Morrison, a first edition of To Kill a Mockingbird, and several classic journalism anthologies.

“Clark,” you murmured, turning to take in the full apartment again. “This is… really nice.”

He set the grocery bags on the counter, loosening his tie and hanging his jacket on a hook. “Planet pays decent,” he said with a shrug, then grinned over his shoulder. “And Superman doesn’t exactly need a gas budget.”

You smirked. “Right. Benefits of flight.”

He opened the fridge, already pulling out ingredients. “Tonight’s menu: chicken penne pasta, roasted garlic flatbread, salad, and... cookies. From scratch."

He’d already rolled up his sleeves and started unpacking ingredients. He moved with the kind of easy rhythm that told you he’d done this a hundred times before, despite the clumsiness you've occasionally witnessed.

You leaned against the kitchen island, watching him fill a pot with water. “So,” you said, chin resting on your palm, “are you going to tell me the mysterious ‘big news,’ or am I just here for free dinner?”

He paused mid-pour, looking suddenly shy. “Right. That.”

You raised an eyebrow.

“The article,” he said finally, rubbing the back of his neck. “The one about you—it got nominated. For a Human Interest Award. From the city press guild.”

You almost screamed, excitement bubbling over. “What?”

He laughed at your expression, cheeks pink. “Yeah. Perry told me this morning. Lois printed out the email and taped it to my monitor before I could even process.”

“Clark, that’s incredible!” You reached out and squeezed his arm, the warmth of his skin startlingly solid beneath your hand. “That’s huge! Congratulations!”

He ducked his head, trying and failing to hide a grin. “It’s not the Pulitzer. But it’s something.”

“It’s more than something.” You shook your head, smiling. “You deserve this. When do you find out if you won?" Your eyes lingered on his back as he tossed salt into the boiling water.

"Not until a few months from now. But I figured I’d rather tell you now without cameras and confetti involved."

“That's so thoughtful,” you said, voice soft.

"Well, I couldn’t have done it without you," he said softly, adjusting the dial on the stove. He broke another one of your walls without much effort.

The sincerity in his voice hit you square in the chest. He didn’t even look at you when he said it, like it wasn’t meant to be flattery—it was just the truth.

You tried to swallow past the sudden tightness in your throat. “I just… did my job,” you said quietly.

Clark looked over his shoulder then, blue eyes warm. “That’s what makes it remarkable.”

For a moment, the only sounds were the gentle boil of water and the faint hum of the city beyond the windows.

You leaned against the counter, watching him turn to chop garlic with quiet precision. The sleeves of his shirt were rolled to his forearms, his hair still faintly mussed from the flight. He looked domestic in a way that made your heart ache—a glimpse of a life you didn’t realize you’d missed wanting to be there for.

He turned, catching your gaze mid-thought. “What?” he asked, half-smiling.

You shook your head, biting your lip. “Nothing. It’s just weird seeing you like this.”

“Like what?”

"Like...so adult. At home."

“Adult, huh?” Clark chuckled under his breath, glancing around the apartment like he was seeing it for the first time.

“Guess I finally had to grow up sometime,” he said, then looked back at you with that quiet, familiar fondness. “Didn’t stick the landing until now, though.”

You didn’t answer, but the smile you gave him was enough.

.

Cooking with Clark was... chaotic.

It began innocently enough — two grown adults assembling dinner like functional human beings — and descended into culinary anarchy within ten minutes.

Clark moved through the kitchen with a kind of deliberate clumsiness, sleeves rolled to his elbows, shoulders stretching the fabric of his white shirt as he leaned to grab a pan from the lower cabinet. You tried not to stare and failed a little.

He then insisted on measuring spices by instinct, the “farm-boy way,” which turned your vinaigrette into a full-blown garlic assault.

You coughed, waving the spoon under his nose. “Clark. This is a chemical weapon.”

He dipped a pinky into the dressing, tasted it, and grinned. “What! That’s flavor. It's good for the heart!"

“That’s aggression.”'

He tilted his head, grinning. “You’d know. You’ve been bossing me around since I was seven."

“Because you always needed it!”

“Still do,” he said under his breath, almost too quiet. You weren’t sure you were meant to hear it.

He dropped a spatula mid-flip and caught it an inch from the floor without even glancing. You raised a brow.

“Reflexes,” he said quickly, sheepish. “Farm-boy reflexes.”

“Uh-huh.”

When it came time to check the chicken, you demanded a food thermometer.

“Not everyone’s stomach is made of steel,” you scolded.

The pasta was a joint effort — you both leaned over the pot, arguing over how to tell when it was al dente. You both burned your tongues testing it. Then both laughed so hard you had to lean against the counter for balance.

He was still laughing when he reached past you to grab a towel, his arm brushing your shoulder. The heat of him lingered; your breath caught.

You stepped aside, a little too quickly, trying to focus on the cookies instead.

A strand of hair fell into your face as you reached for the whisk. Before you could tuck it back, his hand moved first — gentle, quick — brushing it behind your ear. His thumb lingered a second longer than necessary against your jaw. You blinked, startled.

“Sorry,” he murmured, already turning back to the counter. “Reflex.”

You tried to play it off, but your pulse betrayed you, drumming in your throat.

He then debated the amount of chocolate chips while you leaned your elbows on the counter, watching the muscles in his forearms shift as he stirred to give you respite. “If you add any more,” you said, “we’re both leaving here with cavities.”

He grinned at the bowl. “Worth it.”

You rolled your eyes, hiding your smile.

By the time you both sat at the small dining table near the window, the apartment smelled like roasted garlic and sugar. The city glowed beyond the glass, soft and forgiving. Your sides ached from laughing.

A half-empty wine bottle sat between you — your glass poured halfway, his barely a third. He claimed alcohol didn’t do anything for him under the yellow sun, but he’d bought it anyway, just for you.

“Thank you,” you said after a while, quieter now. “For this.”

He looked up from his plate, fork halfway to his mouth. “For dinner?”

"For… everything. For showing up. For trying. I'm... not mad anymore, you know.”

The easy smile that always came so naturally to him faltered, gentled into something smaller, more vulnerable.

“I’m glad,” he said, voice low. Then after a pause, steadier: “But that doesn’t mean I’ll stop trying. I lost a lot of time with you. I don’t get to take that for granted now.”

You blinked, caught off guard by the weight behind his tone.

“Clark—”

He shook his head, a faint, earnest smile curving his lips. “It’s not about guilt. It’s just… I don’t want to spend another decade wondering if I should’ve tried harder.”

Your chest tightened. For a heartbeat, you couldn’t look at him. The light from the window pooled across his face — soft gold on the curve of his jaw, the crinkle of his smile. You took a sip of wine just to have something to do with your hands.

The conversation shifted after that — safer ground, easier laughter. You told him about the ER, about your coworkers and their relentless teasing. He told you about the Planet, about Lois’s constant caffeine wars with Perry, and Jimmy’s new camera obsession.

It felt like coming up for air.

At one point, you realized your feet had found his under the table — a casual touch that neither of you acknowledged, but neither of you pulled away from.

When your plates were empty, you leaned back, a faint, tipsy warmth in your chest. “I’m serious,” you said, smiling. “I’m proud of you.”

Clark looked at you then, blue eyes catching the soft amber of the lamp. “I’m proud of you, too.”

The words settled between you — simple, true, and heavier than they should’ve been.

.

Cleaning up afterward felt strangely easy. Familiar.

He took the dishes, you handled the rinse. The rhythm between you was unspoken — you passed him a plate; he took it before your fingers even let go. Warm water ran over your hands, steam rising between you.

When he reached around you to grab another dish towel, his chest brushed your shoulder; you felt it through the thin fabric of your shirt, the solid heat of him radiating close.

“Sorry,” he murmured.

You shook your head, pretending to focus on the pan. “You’re terrible at staying on your side of the sink.”

“I’m six-four,” he said, mock-offended. “Every side is my side.”

That pulled a laugh from you, and the sound made his eyes crinkle. You felt his gaze, lingering, the kind of look that stayed even after he turned away to stack the plates.

When he reached to put the skillet on the drying rack, his arm brushed yours again. You didn’t move. It wasn’t exactly an accident anymore.

“Thanks for helping,” he said quietly. “I’m not used to the help with clean-up.”

You bumped his hip with yours, playful. “Then you should invite people over more often.”

By the time the counters were wiped down, leftovers stored away, and the last pan set to dry, the apartment had softened into stillness.

Clark poured the last of the wine into your glass and motioned toward the couch. “Sit. You earned it.”

.

Now, the apartment was quiet.

The lights were dimmed low, casting a warm gold over Clark’s open-plan living room. Outside, the city blinked with tired eyes—neon signs, streetlights, a passing train humming in the distance.

You sat curled sideways on his couch, knees tucked beneath you, one hand loosely cradling the stem of your glass and the other still holding a half-eaten cookie. Your eyes were heavy-lidded, voice slow from the wine and the long shift behind you.

“You ever get tired of the view?” you asked mid-chew, nodding toward the skyline.

Clark sat next to you, one arm draped along the back of the couch. His fingers rested inches from your shoulder. You tried not to think about how easy it would be to lean back, just enough to fit under the curve of his arm, rest your head on his bicep.

He smiled faintly, eyes on the window. “Never. Every day it looks a little different. Every night feels new.”

You hummed in reply, fighting the tug of sleep. “That’s poetic, Kent.”

"Shakespeare's influence."

“Uh-huh.”

You shifted slowly to stand, setting your wine glass on the table. Your fingertips brushed his knee for balance — light, unthinking, but he felt it. He watched as you licked a bit of melted chocolate from your thumb and your lips, eyes soft and unreadable.

“It’s late,” you said, voice barely above a murmur. “I should go. If I sit here any longer, I’ll pass out. Then you’ll have to carry me.”

He stood almost immediately, the movement smooth, quiet, as if his body reacted before his mind. “Then I’ll carry you,” he said lightly. “But maybe I should just take you home.”

You blinked up at him. “Like… fly? Again?”

His eyes met yours, steady and careful. “If you’re okay with it.”

You hesitated, the air between you taut with something fragile.

He stepped a little closer, voice dropping. “You’ve trusted me before.”

Your heart stuttered — part nerves, part something far more dangerous. You searched his face, that impossible mixture of warmth and certainty.

“…Yeah,” you whispered finally. “Okay.”

.

On the roof, the night air was cool against your flushed skin, waking you slightly.

Clark set your workbag down beside his feet for a moment, loosening his shoulders, rolling the stiffness from his neck. When he looked at you, his eyes softened — that familiar, impossible blue, steady even in the dark.

“Ready?” he asked quietly.

You hesitated. “Define ready.”

His mouth curved. “You’ll be fine. I’ll go slow this time — you won’t even feel the drop.”

You arched a brow. “That’s supposed to be comforting?”

He laughed under his breath. “Guess I’ll have to prove it.”

The next moment came almost too naturally — the space between you closing, his hands finding you with a care that made your stomach flutter. One arm slid beneath your knees, the other wrapped around the small of your back, drawing you in until your chest brushed his. His warmth radiated through the thin cotton of your shirt, a quiet reminder that for all the power in his body, his touch was deliberate — gentle.

Your hands rose instinctively, gripping his shoulders, fingertips brushing the solid line of muscle beneath his shirt. The scent of him — soap, wind, and something faintly electric — filled your lungs.

“Are you okay?” he murmured.

“...Yeah.”

He grinned. “Hold on tight.”

The lift was so smooth you barely felt it. One moment, your sneakers pressed against the concrete; the next, the ground slipped quietly away, replaced by the hush of air rushing past your ears. You pressed your face into his chest to block the wind, feeling the low rumble of his heartbeat beneath your cheek.

When his arm wrapped tighter around you, it wasn’t dramatic. Just… natural. Like muscle memory. Like something you’d done a hundred times before, in another lifetime.

Below, the city stretched out like a blanket of stars. You exhaled slowly.

Clark’s voice rumbled quietly, close to your ear. “Still scared?”

“No,” you murmured, “I feel... safe.”

Something in him stilled — a single, sharp breath before he exhaled, slow, steady. He didn’t answer, but his arm tightened just slightly around you, his thumb tracing an absent-minded arc across your hip before falling still again.

Below, Metropolis unfurled like a map of stars. Highways glimmered in ribbons of gold. The river caught the moonlight and scattered it. The whole world seemed to hush, holding its breath around you.

He tilted his head down to look at you, but your eyes were closed, your hair whipping gently against his jaw. A smile ghosted across his mouth — not for show, not the press smile — but something small and private, almost reverent.

By the time your building came into view, your weight had gone soft against him.

As he descended toward your balcony, your breathing had evened into something steady, trusting. Asleep.

Clark landed silently on your balcony, his shoes light against the concrete. He didn’t wake you right away. Just stood there under the moonlight a moment longer. He watched the top of your forehead nestle into the crook of his neck, hair tickling his jaw. He watched the way your breathing slowed, the curl of your eyelashes against your cheekbones, and the feel of your hand still loosely clutching his shirt collar.

When you stirred, blinking groggily, your voice was small and husky. “M’sorry,” you murmured, pulling back. “Did I drool?”

His grin was immediate, soft. “Just a little.”

You laughed, the sound lazy and quiet. “Guess that’s what you get for midair naps.”

“Worth it,” he said simply, shifting his hold so your feet touched the ground.

You swayed, steadying yourself on his arm, and suddenly the world felt too still, too intimate.

“Thank you,” you said finally. “For the lift.”

His reply came low, almost under his breath. “Anytime.”

Something passed between you in that quiet pause, like the lingering of a dream right before morning.

You hesitated at the door, turning to look at him once more. The light from your apartment spilled over his face — that impossible mix of strength and gentleness, the curve of a man who could hold up the sky but still look at you like you were the fragile thing worth protecting.

“Goodnight, Clark.”

His mouth twitched into that half-smile, soft and sure. “Goodnight.”

You slipped inside, the door clicking shut behind you. But Clark stayed where he was, eyes tracing the outline of your shadow as it moved across the room. Only when your bedroom light flickered on did he finally turn toward the edge of the balcony lifting into the dark.

The city swallowed him up, but the sound of his heartbeat — faint, steady, almost echoing in your memory — lingered long after he was gone.

.

That night became a beginning — not of something defined, but something alive. A rhythm. A ritual.

Texting turned into dinners. Dinners turned into habits.

Sometimes you met at little hole-in-the-wall restaurants tucked between Metropolis’s endless glass and steel — ramen shops, diners that smelled of butter and rain, rooftops with flickering string lights where you’d sit too long after the plates were cleared. Sometimes you cooked at his place again, falling back into the unspoken choreography of shared kitchens.

When Clark finally came to your apartment for the first time, it was on a quiet Sunday. The city was wrapped in that sleepy afternoon haze.

He stepped inside, still holding the container of take-out he’d insisted on bringing, and stopped in the middle of your living room. His gaze moved slowly — the photos on your fridge, the books lining your shelf, the soft mess of your throw blanket and coffee mugs on the table.

“This looks like you,” he said finally, voice low. “All of it.”

You smiled, half-teasing. “That a compliment or an assessment?”

“Both,” he admitted, still looking around. “I feel like I’m seeing the last twelve years I missed.”

That hit harder than you expected. You swallowed the ache in your throat. “They weren’t all exciting.”

“I would’ve liked to see them anyway.”

Something quiet passed between you. Then you broke it with a laugh, leading him to the couch. “Well, you’re here now. And you brought dumplings. That earns forgiveness.”

He smiled, taking his seat — a little too close, but you didn’t shift away.

Movie nights became their own kind of ritual.

At his place, he’d sprawl comfortably, one arm along the back of the couch, and you’d curl into your corner pretending not to notice when your knees brushed. At yours, he’d sit cross-legged on the floor, back against your couch, passing you popcorn without looking away from the screen.

He was warm, always — even when the air conditioner hummed too high. Sometimes you’d catch yourself leaning closer without realizing it until he’d turn, meet your eyes, and both of you would look away too quickly.

It felt alarmingly natural. Like you were teenagers again, not a care in the world - just with money and your own homes.

Two months slipped past almost without notice.

Summer burned itself out in slow gold. Autumn drifted in — red leaves spinning through the streets, the air cool enough to see your breath when you laughed too hard.

Since then, there’d been... something. A shift. It wasn’t dramatic, the shift between you. Just a recalibration — a quiet awareness that hadn’t been there before. How your thumbs lingered longer over each text. How every silence hummed a little too loud. How his laugh found you easier now, softer, warmer.

He talked about his Ma and Pa, how they were doing, how his mom still sent care packages he didn’t need. A deep ache bloomed in your chest when he mentioned her apple pie, when he said you’d always been welcome at the farm. You wondered when it would ever feel right to visit again.

He talked about his work — deadlines, the tug between truth and spectacle, Jimmy’s relentless photography, Perry’s shouting matches that always ended with pride in disguise. He talked about Metropolis, about saving who he could, about the exhaustion that came from trying to keep up with a world that never stopped moving.

And sometimes, he talked about her.

Lois Lane, his fellow reporter. Lois, who took no shit and told the truth like it was a weapon. Lois, who saved his articles with her edits and fought him over semicolons. Lois, who Perry always paired him with. Lois, who seemed to get the job done in ways few others did. Lois, who called him “Smallville” in that teasing way only she could.

You smiled politely when he mentioned her. Nodded in the right places. Even teased him once about their arguments. But every time he said her name, something in your chest tugged. It’s innocent. Friendly. Clark and Lois are just coworkers. He's allowed friends outside of you. He's had these friends before your reconnection.

Because this — you and Clark, dinners and laughter and movies that ended too late — this was about rebuilding. About finding friendship again in the ashes of everything you’d lost.

It was healing, not longing. Companionship, not want.

You told yourself that enough times, you almost believed it.

But some nights, when he laughed at something on screen and the corners of his eyes crinkled just like they used to, when he said your name in that low, unguarded way that made you feel sixteen again — your heart didn’t listen.

You laughed louder than necessary whenever Lois’s name came up. Smiled wider. Tried to prove to yourself that it didn’t sting. And when Clark wasn’t looking, your hands clenched quietly in your lap.

Keep your head up, heart guarded, hands busy.

But every time his fingers brushed yours, it got a little harder to remember why.

.

It was a late Sunday night — the kind that felt suspended between seasons, between everything you had and everything you didn’t dare reach for.

Neither of you had worked that day. For once, there was no hospital pager buzzing at your hip, no breaking headline at the Planet demanding Clark’s attention, no city crisis that needed Superman's intervention. Just rain — steady and patient — tapping against the windowpane like a lullaby.

The city outside glowed in watercolor blues and muted golds. A train hummed past a few blocks away, the sound low and comforting.

You made hot chocolate. Clark brought cookies.

You’d fallen into a familiar sprawl on the couch: you in loose shorts and an old Star City University t-shirt, legs tucked under a blanket; Clark on the floor in front of you, leaning against your coffee table, notebook propped on his knee. He’d kicked off his shoes hours ago. His socks didn’t match — one black, one gray — and somehow that small imperfection made your chest hurt in the best way.

He was wearing a navy t-shirt and dark joggers, soft cotton stretched across his shoulders, casual in a way you rarely got to see him. You couldn’t remember the last time you’d seen him without some version of the world’s weight pressing on his posture.

You were watching a sci-fi movie you’d never seen before, one he’d insisted was required viewing for cultural literacy. You didn’t really follow the plot, but you did follow his smile — wide, unguarded, the kind that crinkled at the edges.

He’d laughed at every small joke, leaning forward like he could will you into liking it too.

And you did. Not because of the movie. Because of him.

Now, the movie was long over. Your speaker played an old playlist from your shared teenage years — fuzzy guitars, earnest lyrics, songs about heartbreak that used to feel like the end of the world.

Clark claimed he didn’t recognize half of them, but listened anyway, head tilted slightly toward the sound like he was cataloguing your memories by melody.

When it was your turn to pick the next song, you rambled about the story behind it — the concert you never made it to, the friend who introduced it, the summer that song lived on repeat — and Clark smiled softly, eyes never leaving you.

ou caught him staring once, chin resting on his knuckles, that same look he used to get when you said something unexpectedly kind. The one that made you look away before your heart gave you away.

By the time the clock on your microwave blinked close to midnight, the rain had softened to a mist outside.

Clark went still mid-page, pen paused against the paper. You knew that look before he even spoke — the faint furrow in his brow, the way his breath slowed as if listening to something distant only he could hear.

You knew the look before he said it.

You turned the dial on the stereo down, the music fading into background hum.

“Go,” you said quietly. “It’s okay.”

He looked up, guilt already written in the set of his jaw. “I’ll be back,” he promised, voice low. "I'm sorry."

You smiled softly. “You never have to apologize for helping someone, Superman.”

The name came out half a tease, half a truth you wished you didn’t always have to acknowledge.

He huffed a quiet laugh, but it didn’t reach his eyes. He stood, tall enough that he nearly brushed your hanging plant, gathering his jacket and messenger bag from beside the couch. The bag thudded lightly as he slung it over his shoulder — you knew what was folded inside it. The suit. The cape. The weight he never took off, not really.

Still, for a heartbeat, he didn’t move toward the door.

You watched him hesitate, fingers flexing once at his side like he wanted to reach for something — you, maybe, or the moment — but couldn’t.

“Clark,” you said softly, not sure if it was a question or a reassurance.

He met your gaze, and the quiet between you grew heavy. “I really like this,” he said finally. “Just… being here. You. Me.”

The words were simple, but they landed deep.

Your throat tightened.

“I forget what it feels like — to just sit still. To feel normal.”

You smiled, small and aching. “You don't need to be normal around me, Clark.”

He stepped closer, enough that you could feel the warmth radiating off him, the faint hum that always clung to his skin like static. “Gosh,” he murmured. “you are so...you.”

His hand twitched at his side again before he shoved it into his pocket. “I’ll come back,” he said, softer now, like the words belonged to someone younger, someone still learning how to hold a goodbye without breaking it.

You wanted to tell him to stay, even just five more minutes. You wanted to tell him that nights like this — this simple, stupid normalcy — mattered more than any headline, any act of heroism. But the words stayed caught somewhere between your chest and your throat.

So instead, you just whispered, “Be careful.”

He smiled, a small cheeky thing, and nodded. “Yes, ma'am.”

And then he was gone, the air rippling faintly in his wake, the rain barely disturbed by his exit.

His mug still sat on your coffee table, half-drunk, the rim smudged with the ghost of his thumbprint.

You stared at it for a long time.

.

Clark didn't come back that night.

You woke on the couch sometime past dawn, neck aching, blanket half-slid to the floor. The city outside your window was pale and silver, rain having scrubbed the streets clean overnight. The only sounds were the slow hum of traffic and the faint creak of your radiator.

It wasn’t until morning—midway through cleaning your apartment—that you noticed it. There, on the coffee table next to a cold, forgotten mug of what was once hot chocolate.

Clark’s notebook.

Plain black cover. Frayed edges. A pen tucked loosely in the center crease.

Your heart sank. He really had meant to come back. Didn't. Couldn't.

You reached for it, thumb tracing along the spine, feeling the faint texture of worn cardboard. Inside, you caught glimpses of sharp, careful handwriting — neat rows of thought that belonged to someone who was always trying to make sense of the world. A margin note about a lead on a story. A scribbled list of Metropolis street closures. Between them, your handwriting curved across the page in faded blue ink: flatbread recipe. You smiled faintly.

The domesticity of it, your words tangled with his, felt strangely intimate.

You didn’t read further. You didn’t need to. The half-finished sentence on the open page was enough to make you close it gently. Whatever was written there wasn’t meant for you. Not yet.

You stood at the edge of your living room for a long while, arms crossed, staring at that notebook like it was a decision waiting to be made.

He hadn’t texted. Hadn’t called. Probably caught up in something impossible. He’d always been a thousand things at once — the man who saved the world and still apologized for leaving mid-movie.

But still, the ache was there. The small, unreasonable one that whispered he could’ve come back.

You sighed, shaking your head at yourself. “It’s fine,” you muttered into the empty room. “He’s fine.”

You tucked the notebook into your tote bag, right between your water bottle and wallet. It felt heavier than it should.

It was Monday. He was most likely at work.

You showered, trying not to overthink. Tried to ignore the way your hands hesitated at your closet, skimming past scrubs and sweaters before landing on a soft gray knit that framed your collarbone. Jeans, not your usual work pair — the ones that fit better, the ones that made you stand a little taller.

You told yourself you were just dressing decently. That this wasn’t for him.

But then came the eyeliner. The blush. The light contour along your cheeks. A hint of gloss. Just enough to look awake.

And maybe — if you were being honest with yourself — enough to look like someone whose heart hadn’t fluttered every time his name lit up her phone these past two months.

You grabbed your tote and keys, glancing once at the window where morning light spilled through your curtains, catching on dust motes and the faint reflection of your face.

“He probably hasn’t even noticed it’s missing yet,” you said aloud, trying to convince yourself.

Still, you checked your phone before leaving. No new messages.

Right. Fine.

If he wasn’t going to come back soon, then maybe you’d go to him.

.

TBC!

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