Note: Has anyone seen The Office? Well, this fanfic is inspired by the scene where Pam’s mom visits her at work and asks, “Which one’s Jim?” It’s so magical it makes you want to kick your feet in the air, hahaha, so I just thought, “Why not?” And if you’ve never seen it, then read this fanfic and experience the magic.
Clark Kent x female reader
Sinopsis: When your mother visits the Daily Planet for the first time, she only has one question: Which one is Clark? Unfortunately for you, Clark Kent hears the question.
Warnings: Fluff, Romantic Comedy, Workplace Romance, Mutual Pining, Friends to Lovers Vibes, Slice of Life
WC: 3,000 words approx.
Your hands flew across the keyboard without stopping, that familiar click click click sound that you didn’t even notice anymore because it had become so ingrained in your mind it was like breathing. Every now and then, you clicked your mouse once, then again, then again, as if that would somehow make the words come faster. But it didn’t. You were still stuck on the same sentence you’d been wrestling with for the last fifteen minutes.
You stretched your neck from side to side, feeling it crack slightly, and the small relief was enough to keep you going. You shifted in your chair because you could no longer feel your butt; honestly, you’d lost all sensation after sitting there for so many hours in a chair that was clearly begging to be replaced.
You adjusted the glasses you only wore for computer work. They were uncomfortable, always slipping down your nose or pressing painfully behind your ears, but without them the screen blurred and you’d end up with a headache.
You let out a deep sigh and looked over your monitor, directing your gaze toward the office elevator.
No one important.
Just familiar faces. Coworkers carrying coffee cups or folders.
But not the person you’d been waiting for since yesterday.
Since this morning.
Since the moment you arrived.
“Waiting for someone special?” Lois asked, watching you glance toward the elevator for what had to be the tenth time.
One eyebrow was raised, and she wore the mischievous smile you knew all too well.
You looked at her and shook your head, feeling your cheeks warm slightly.
“No... well... no,” you said shyly, smiling as you lowered your gaze to your keyboard as though the letters had suddenly become the most fascinating thing in the world.
You didn’t type a single word.
You simply stared while your fingers remained frozen above the keys.
“No?” Lois leaned toward you like a curious puppy. “Is someone coming to pick you up? A guy, maybe?” she asked, her voice quiet but excited, as though she already knew the answer and simply wanted to hear you say it.
You laughed.
A nervous laugh.
The kind that slipped out when someone caught you doing something you hoped they wouldn’t notice.
Eventually, Lois gave up and returned to her article, though that little smile remained firmly planted on her face.
The smile that clearly said, I know something you’re not telling me.
“A guy?”
Jimmy’s voice sounded directly behind Clark, causing the poor man to nearly drop his coffee.
It was strange because, well, Clark could normally sense anything approaching him from yards away. Hear footsteps. Feel vibrations. All those things that came with his abilities.
But something about being Clark Kent seemed to interfere with those hidden Kryptonian instincts.
When he was in the office, he wasn’t the man with the cape.
He wasn’t Superman.
He was just Clark.
And somehow that made things weird.
One moment he could hear a sigh from across the city.
The next, he failed to notice his best friend standing directly behind him.
He jumped, nearly spilling his coffee, surprising even himself with how startled he’d become.
You and Lois looked over briefly before returning to your work, as though Jimmy sneaking up on Clark had become a perfectly normal part of office life.
Of course, Jimmy didn’t know.
No one did.
Jimmy was interested in Clark, but not in the way Clark was interested in you.
Jimmy simply enjoyed teasing his friend.
It was entertaining watching Clark turn red whenever someone mentioned you.
Clark glanced in your direction while you continued typing, and the moment Lois whispered something to you, his attention abandoned his article entirely.
If anyone were being honest, Clark could probably be called nosy.
Or perhaps, to him, invading someone’s privacy wasn’t really a crime if the intentions were good.
And you were the girl he liked.
The girl who stole his attention every chance she got.
The girl who made him forget how to breathe whenever you smiled.
Listening a little wasn’t so terrible, right?
Right?
Clark looked at Jimmy, blushing.
How had his powerless friend gathered all that information so easily?
It seemed Jimmy possessed the superpower of overhearing other people’s conversations.
Or maybe Jimmy had only pretended to use Lois’s printer so he could come directly to Clark and extract information.
Jimmy leaned against Clark’s desk expectantly.
“I don’t know,” Clark said casually, though his voice came out tighter than usual.
“They’re stealing your girl, buddy,” Jimmy said, shaking his head as though he’d already accepted his friend’s inevitable suffering.
“She’s not... Jimmy, she’s not my girl,” Clark replied, raising a finger like a teacher delivering an important lesson. “She’s not an object that belongs to someone.”
Then he glanced at you.
Just for a second.
Long enough to see you laughing at something Lois had said.
“Besides...” he added quietly, “she’s allowed to date other people.”
His voice softened as though hope itself were slipping away.
As though the words weighed heavily on his tongue.
“Sure. Because you never actually ask her out,” Jimmy said, shaking his head.
There was equal parts affection and frustration in his expression, as though he’d already had this conversation a thousand times in his head.
“You heard Lois say she liked Andrew. Steve’s coworker,” Clark said, directing his gaze toward the man standing a few desks away.
Andrew.
The guy currently showing off his gym routine with his hands on his hips and his chin raised as though he owned the world.
“I wasn’t going to tell you,” Jimmy said with a shrug. “But I heard it. Sorry. Couldn’t keep it in.”
Then he looked toward Andrew.
“But come on. The guy is basically ‘Look at my biceps’ or ‘Yesterday I worked out for three hours’ or ‘I drink disgusting spinach smoothies every morning.’”
Jimmy imitated him in a ridiculous voice while flexing his skinny arms.
Clark couldn’t help smiling.
The day continued that way.
People coming and going.
Lois disappearing to discuss an important article with Cat.
Jimmy working through his fourth cup of coffee while flirting with the woman from the Culture section—the one who always wore enormous earrings and laughed loudly.
Clark looked at you.
Then at Andrew.
Andrew picked up a folder and smiled at you.
You smiled back while continuing to type, nodding as he walked away at an annoyingly leisurely pace.
Clark lowered his eyes to his keyboard.
A heaviness settled in his chest.
Maybe it simply wasn’t his time.
Maybe he was destined to be the supporting character.
The one who never got the girl.
The one who stood by and watched the person he loved fall for someone else.
Maybe under different circumstances.
Maybe in another life.
Things would be different.
“You’re here!”
You jumped up from your chair so quickly that you nearly sent it crashing backward.
Clark’s head snapped up immediately, his spine straightening without him realizing it.
You hurried toward the elevator, excitement radiating from every step.
For one terrifying second, Clark thought you were already spoken for.
That the guy you’d been talking about had finally arrived to take you away.
Then he looked closer.
The person stepping out of the elevator was a woman.
Shorter than you, but undeniably similar.
The same smile.
The same eyes.
The same lightness in her walk.
Clark tilted his head, confused.
Then he smiled.
Your mother.
There was no doubt.
Not after the way you hugged her.
Not after she lovingly brushed your hair back.
“Sorry, sweetheart. I couldn’t find the right floor. I got off on the fifth floor, and they told me you didn’t exist. I said, ‘What do you mean my daughter doesn’t exist?’ Then they finally realized who I was talking about,” your mother said as she walked beside you toward your desk, looking around with fascination as though the office were a museum filled with treasures.
You smiled.
That big smile that only ever appeared around her.
“I told you I could come get you, Mom,” you whispered, kissing her cheek.
Meanwhile, Clark kept his eyes glued to his computer screen while paying absolute attention to every word.
Every laugh.
Every touch of your mother’s arm.
“This is my desk,” you said, sitting down and gesturing toward the chair beside you so she could see where you worked. “I’m writing an article.”
You pointed toward the screen filled with words you’d written and deleted a hundred times.
Your mother nodded seriously.
“Mhm.”
She looked around.
Then leaned closer.
Without taking her eyes off the office.
“Which one is Clark?” she whispered, scanning the room like a spy in a movie.
You blushed instantly.
Heat rushed up your neck and into your ears.
“Mom,” you whispered, practically sinking beneath your desk.
Even though she’d spoken quietly.
Even though it was barely audible.
“What?” your mother replied with a knowing smile, leaning closer. “You spend hours talking about him on the phone. I deserve to meet the man my daughter is in love with.”
Those words echoed through your mind like they’d been shouted through a megaphone.
Across the room, Clark felt his heart somersault.
“It’s him,” you whispered, barely moving your head toward Clark.
Just a tiny gesture.
Your mother followed your gaze.
Clark wasn’t sure whether it was your heart beating that loudly or his own.
He could hear two racing heartbeats.
One closer than the other.
And he couldn’t tell which belonged to whom.
He licked his lips, trying to suppress the enormous smile threatening to spread across his face.
He lowered his gaze to the keyboard.
Tilted his head.
Tried to hide it.
Oh, sure.
This was definitely one of the advantages of super hearing.
Listening to the entire city wasn’t always enjoyable.
But moments like this?
Hearing your voice whisper that you were in love with him?
That made every second worthwhile.
“So you’re the beautiful mother of my best friend.”
Lois interrupted with her brightest reporter smile.
She approached with her hand extended and a sparkle in her eyes.
You stood so quickly you nearly knocked into your chair.
“Lois Lane, right? Of course. Black hair. Eyes capable of making any man fall in love. Gorgeous. That’s you,” your mother said, shaking her hand firmly while looking her up and down as though she’d just met a celebrity.
You laughed and shook your head.
Embarrassed.
Happy.
Both at once.
Lois looked at you with curiosity, one eyebrow raised.
You shrugged with a mischievous smile.
“She’s the one who gives me all the advice I give you.”
Lois laughed loudly before pulling your mother into a hug as though they’d known each other for years.
From his desk, Clark stared at his keyboard with an idiotic smile he couldn’t erase, listening to the laughter of the three of you blend into the sounds of the office.
Then Clark stood up.
Not gracefully.
Not remotely.
It was the kind of standing up that happened when someone’s legs suddenly forgot how to function.
His hands trembled around a sheet of paper.
His eyes shifted from you.
To the floor.
Back to you.
As though he couldn’t decide where it was safest to look.
Thankfully, Perry had asked Clark to print an article and deliver it to you so it could be passed along to the editors, just like always.
A real reason to approach you.
A legitimate excuse.
Not one he’d invented.
Yet even with that perfectly reasonable excuse, Clark felt as though his knees might give out at any moment.
He walked toward you in short steps, clutching the paper against his chest like a shield.
With every step, his heart climbed higher into his throat.
You looked up as he approached.
Your heart stopped.
Or maybe it stopped twice.
Or maybe it stopped altogether.
Your mother glanced at you from the corner of her eye, wearing that familiar smile.
You looked at her.
Or maybe you swallowed.
You honestly couldn’t remember which came first.
You only knew that the office suddenly felt warmer.
And your palms had started sweating for absolutely no reason.
“Sorry to interrupt,” Clark said quietly.
So quietly it sounded as though he were asking permission to exist within your space.
He smiled at you.
A trembling smile.
The kind that escaped before he could stop it.
His fingers continued squeezing the paper as though it were the only thing keeping him upright.
“No, no,” you replied immediately.
Far too quickly.
Then you looked at your mother with eyes that clearly pleaded, Please don’t say anything weird.
“I... this is my mother, Clark... no... what’s wrong?” you said, realizing halfway through the sentence that none of those words made sense.
You sounded as though you were apologizing.
Or answering a question he’d never asked.
He only wanted to hand you a paper.
Not meet your mother.
At least, that’s what you assumed.
But your mouth had sprinted ahead of your brain.
And it was far too late to catch up.
Clark smiled anyway, despite not fully understanding what you’d just said.
He extended a hand toward your mother.
Then immediately pulled it back.
Wiped it on his jacket.
Then offered it again more carefully.
As though presenting something fragile.
“Clark Kent, ma’am. It’s a pleasure.”
His voice came out slightly higher than usual.
The unmistakable sound of someone who was desperately nervous.
You smiled at your mother.
The kind of smile that hurt because of how hard you were forcing yourself to appear calm.
“Clark Kent,” your mother repeated, savoring the name like candy. “I’ve heard so much about you.”
She dropped the words casually.
Like someone tossing a grenade and waiting to see the explosion.
“About everyone,” you corrected quickly.
Far too quickly.
Far too obviously.
Your voice sounded rushed.
Artificial.
You fooled absolutely no one.
It was as obvious as the sky being blue.
As obvious as coffee being hot.
Your mother gave you a look that clearly said, Oh, my sweet foolish daughter.
Clark turned as red as a tomato.
“Yes, well, I hope my daughter does a good job and is a good coworker to everyone,” your mother said, releasing Clark’s hand after holding it a second longer than necessary.
Then she turned toward Lois as though she hadn’t just left her daughter internally screaming.
“She is. She’s the best.”
Clark’s words came out instantly.
Purely.
Directly from his heart before his brain had a chance to intervene.
Even he looked surprised.
You stared at him.
Speechless.
Your mother stared at him.
One eyebrow raised.
A huge smile spreading across her face.
Lois stared at him too.
Barely managing not to laugh.
Her expression practically screamed, These two are hopeless.
You smiled without entirely understanding why.
Then looked at your mother with a mixture of embarrassment and happiness you couldn’t conceal.
“I’m glad to hear that. I won’t take up any more of your time. Your work is important,” your mother said, waving a hand as though dismissing an entire army. “I’ll wait for my daughter downstairs.”
She paused for a moment.
Thinking.
“I’ll look for a restaurant while I wait. I hear Metropolis has excellent restaurants.”
She looked around as though expecting someone to hand her a map.
“The Italian restaurant next to the park is amazing,” Clark recommended.
The moment he finished speaking, he blushed so intensely it looked like he’d suddenly developed a fever.
He adjusted his glasses with a trembling finger.
A habit he always had when he was nervous.
Though he had no idea he did it.
“I think,” he added quietly, suddenly uncertain of his own recommendation.
You smiled.
One of those smiles that appeared without permission.
The kind you couldn’t stop even if you tried.
“Of course. When we went there with Jimmy,” you said, remembering.
Clark nodded, relieved that someone had confirmed he hadn’t imagined the place.
You turned to your mother, your eyes shining.
“It really is good.”
Your voice carried far more conviction than one would expect from a conversation about food.
“Oh, then you should come with us, Clark. You seem to know the city well,” your mother said casually, as though inviting an old family friend to dinner.
You shook your head so quickly your neck nearly hurt.
“He’s lived here exactly as long as I have,” you tried to point out, as though that were a perfectly reasonable argument against him joining.
Your mother didn’t even look at you.
Her eyes remained fixed on Clark with the determination only mothers possessed when arranging something their children never requested.
“It would be my pleasure to join you. I... yes... Perry said...” Clark began.
Then immediately tangled himself in his own words.
He pointed at the paper still clutched in his hands as though he’d only just remembered it existed.
“This is for you,” he said finally, extending it toward you with the care of someone presenting an important trophy.
His fingers brushed yours.
Just for a second.
Both of you pulled away at exactly the same time.
As though the contact had shocked you.
“I... I’ll leave on time so I can take you both,” Clark said.
Then he retreated so quickly it looked like he was escaping a fire.
He nearly tripped over a chair.
Caught himself at the last second.
Then walked straight into a doorway that had been there forever.
And kept going.
His cheeks were so red they looked like two apples hanging from either side of his face.
You looked at your mother with wide eyes, having absolutely no idea what expression you were supposed to make. Whether you should be offended, laugh, or simply crawl under your desk and never come out again.
Lois smiled at your mother, shaking her head from side to side with the expression of someone who had seen this story before and already knew how it ended.
“See, ma’am?” Lois teased, crossing her arms and leaning against the desk as though she were watching her favorite television show. “Those two are complete lovebirds. It’s only a matter of time before they end up together.”
You rolled your eyes, but you couldn’t stop the silly smile that slipped onto your lips.
Your mother simply nodded.
Serious.
Thoughtful.
As though she were mentally documenting every single thing she had witnessed.
Saving every detail for later.
For one of those phone calls when the two of you were alone.
When she could finally interrogate you properly and you would end up confessing everything you felt for Clark Kent.
Sinopsis: You discovered Clark Kent's biggest secret long before he ever confessed it. But being Superman isn't what surprises you most. It's the fact that the strongest man in the world completely falls apart whenever you're around.
Warnings: Romance, Humor, Established Relationship, Slice of Life, Domestic Fluff
WC: 5,200 words approx.
You knew Clark had a secret. One that was very big and very precious to him. In fact, you had known it long before you officially started dating him, long before he even dared to ask you out for coffee without his hands trembling as if he were holding a bomb ready to explode.
You worked at the Planet as a photographer. And you were far too observant. It wasn't something you could help. You had a separate website, a small corner of the internet where you uploaded your favorite photographs, the ones that told a story beyond what could be seen at first glance. You had won awards through the Planet and as an independent photographer as well. It was a gift, something that came naturally from deep within you, and you loved it. You didn't just take pictures—you looked at them, studied them, searched for their meaning, for the impact they could have on whoever saw them. To you, every photograph was a frozen piece of history.
That was how it happened, in such a simple way that it almost felt like a joke from fate. You had been taking pictures around work in silence, as you always did. One day, you captured Lois tilting her head while reading an interesting article. The light from the window hit her hair perfectly, making her look like she belonged on the cover of an old magazine worthy of being framed. You uploaded the picture to your website with her permission, and it gained a few new followers. It was beautiful, yes, but it also said something: "Look, this woman is thinking, and she cares about what she's reading."
Later, you took a photo of Jimmy. He was studying what shot to take next, his camera pressed against his face as though it were a part of him. You had captured a photographer in the middle of doing what he loved, and the image conveyed the passion shining in his eyes. He looked at the scene with the excitement of someone who truly loved his work, just moments away from lifting the camera to take the shot. You uploaded that photo too. And just like those, there were many others you kept to yourself like private treasures, while some you shared with the world.
Clark wasn't really into photography. Or rather, he wasn't fond of posing for it. But you loved taking pictures of him when he wasn't paying attention. You photographed him smiling at Cat's little dog, the one she sometimes brought to the office wrapped in a pink blanket. Clark would instantly turn into a child, crouching down and speaking to it in a cartoonish voice. You also captured him once staring at his sandwich as if it were the most beautiful thing in the world. His eyes were wide behind his glasses, and he looked as though he'd never seen ham and cheese between two slices of bread before. It was ridiculous, but adorable.
Among all those pictures, there was one where the main focus was Perry speaking in front of the interns. It was the kind of formal photo that would later be displayed as part of the Planet's history. You took several shots to make sure at least one turned out perfectly. But in one of them, Clark was looking around as if he were searching for something. In another, he was taking off his glasses. Your eyes widened when you looked at the next one: in that photo, he was staring straight ahead with a completely different expression. He didn't seem aware of the camera at all. He was focused, but not on Perry. He was listening to something far away, something no one else could hear.
And that was when you discovered it.
The rest is history, as they say. But what nobody told you before you started dating Clark was that beyond being a hero, he was a man hopelessly in love. Ridiculously in love. The kind of man who would trip over his own feet just because you looked at him. Robert from meteorology thought Clark was obsessed with you. One day, he even said it in the break room.
"That guy looks at her like she's about to disappear."
And maybe humans weren't ready to see how a Kryptonian loved. Humans were used to loving for a little while. Some—only a handful—might love their partners until death did them part. But there was always someone looking elsewhere, always an "I'll call you later" that never came. Clark heard it over and over again with his super hearing. Every night, he listened to hearts breaking all across the city. But he never feared that with you. Maybe because you loved with the same intensity he did. And for a man who could fly, that was stronger than gravity.
And Clark's love extended all the way to Superman.
Literally.
Superman—the serious, kind, funny superhero who always maintained the image of a dependable hero—completely fell apart around you. He became a mess. You knew it because it was absolutely delightful to watch whenever you had the chance. It made you laugh inside to see the Man of Steel turn into jelly simply because you were nearby.
One day, Superman had just rescued a little girl who had climbed onto a building under construction. People crowded around him immediately.
"I'm glad you're all safe," Superman said in his strong, steady voice while holding the little girl with a level of care that seemed impossible for a man so large.
The crowd surrounded him gratefully. Some older men patted him on the back. A woman cried from relief and excitement. Superman nodded seriously, as though it were just another ordinary day. He radiated confidence simply by standing there.
Then his eyes met yours.
You were standing toward the back, your camera hanging around your neck, simply watching. You hadn't taken a single picture of the scene. You preferred seeing it with your own eyes.
Superman's cheeks turned red.
You smiled at him, and he swallowed hard.
It was the kind of dry swallow that could probably be heard three blocks away.
He almost took a step toward you, but people were still surrounding him, waiting for more heroic words.
"Uh... well..." he said, letting out a nervous laugh.
Everyone looked at him strangely.
It was normal for Superman to speak.
It was not normal for Superman to smile like a little boy who had just been handed a cake.
His nervousness did not go unnoticed.
He huffed softly and nearly shifted his hips in embarrassment, like a flirtatious duck who didn't realize he was being flirtatious.
Your lovestruck man became nervous simply because your eyes were on him.
"I... I'll make sure everything stays under control," he finally said, carefully setting the little girl down.
You stepped a little closer, just to make him suffer a tiny bit more.
Superman turned even redder than an apple.
"Hello, Superman," you said with a smile.
"H-hello," he replied, and his voice cracked as though he were going through puberty all over again.
He cleared his throat and looked toward the sky as if searching for an excuse to fly away.
"Nice rescue," you said, crossing your arms. "The little girl was really scared."
"Y-yeah... yeah, honestly..." He rubbed the back of his neck, something Clark did all the time. "She... well, she was in a dangerous place. And I... I saw her. And I thought... I have to help her."
And that wasn't all.
He had always tried not to let people see just how in love he was.
Superman, Clark, or both of them with you.
Because if you were Clark's girlfriend and someone saw Superman looking at you with those abandoned-puppy eyes, people would get the wrong idea. It would look like cheating. People would think you were betraying your boyfriend with the most famous hero in the world.
And of course, that couldn't happen.
Clark knew that.
But Clark was weak when it came to his woman.
Weak.
Weak.
Weak.
Like a chocolate cake sitting in front of a child.
Like that time there was a fire in an apartment building on the north side of the city.
Superman arrived, as always, flying faster than lightning. He put out the flames with his super breath, rescued three people from the fifth floor.
Very heroic.
Very professional.
People applauded.
Reporters took pictures.
And then he saw you in the crowd.
You had only come to see if anyone needed help because that was just who you were—always looking out for others.
But the moment your eyes met his, Superman froze in midair.
Literally.
Floating there like a balloon someone forgot to let go of.
One of the firefighters shouted, "Everything okay?"
And Superman could only manage, "Y-yes, yes, everything's fine. I'm just... checking... the clouds."
There wasn't a single cloud in the sky.
It was a completely clear day.
He slowly floated down.
Far too slowly.
As if he wanted to stretch out every second he got to look at you.
His feet touched the ground, and he started walking toward you, but his legs looked like jelly.
He tripped.
Yes.
Superman tripped over a hose.
A hose.
The guy who could lift a building with one hand nearly fell flat on his back because of a garden hose.
A little boy looked up at him and asked, "Did you get hurt?"
And Superman replied, "No, no. I was... testing the ground. It's solid. Very solid. Good ground."
You had to bite your lip to keep from laughing.
"Superman," you said with a smile, "good job with the fire."
"Thank you," he replied, and his voice sounded slightly higher than usual.
He cleared his throat.
"I'm glad that... that you're okay. I mean, that you're here. Not that there's a fire. That's bad. But you... you're okay. Are you okay?"
"I wasn't even in the fire, Superman, but I'm fine," you answered.
"Good," he said.
And then he just stared at you.
Without saying anything.
Just staring.
Five seconds passed.
Ten.
One of the firefighters had to tap him on the shoulder to tell him there was a column of smoke a block away.
Superman blinked as if he had just woken up from a dream, nodded very seriously, and flew away in a perfectly straight line.
That was how he gave himself away.
Because you didn't look at Superman.
To you, he was still Clark, no matter how hard he tried.
No matter how tight the suit was.
No matter how dramatically the red cape billowed in the wind.
No matter how much he tried to use that deep, confident voice that ended up quoted in every newspaper.
You looked at him and only saw the clumsy guy who got tangled in the cords of his own cape, the one whose glasses slipped off every time you laughed too hard.
He could fly faster than a speeding bullet.
But around you, he moved as if his feet were glued to the floor with school glue.
That night, he flew up to the window of your apartment.
It wasn't the first time, of course.
But that night, you were in the kitchen, wearing an apron and covered in flour because you were making dinner.
The window made that familiar little sound, that soft clack that happened whenever Clark misjudged his speed and bumped his shoulders against the frame.
You heard the scrape of his cape against the glass and smiled without turning around.
"Miss, are you busy?" Clark's voice asked.
But it wasn't Clark's voice.
It was his Superman voice—deeper, firmer.
Like he was auditioning for an action movie.
You turned around, pausing your cooking.
You had a wooden spoon in one hand and a bit of sauce on your cheek.
You smiled and frowned slightly when you saw him standing in the window frame with his arms crossed and his legs spread apart, trying to look imposing.
His red boots gleamed beneath the kitchen lights.
His cape fluttered dramatically behind him because he kept shifting one shoulder to make it look like there was wind.
It was quite a show.
"Why didn't you come through the door, Superman?" you asked, raising an eyebrow as you set the spoon down on a plate.
Clark sighed as though he didn't want to break character.
He was trying.
He really was.
His jaw was clenched, and his gaze was fixed on a point somewhere behind your shoulder, as if he were watching an invisible threat.
But his eyes moved around too quickly, and his cheeks were already starting to turn pink.
You could see it perfectly.
He was trying with all his might, but the way your eyes lit up when you looked at him completely ruined all of his effort.
"I... the window... I can fly," he said.
And his voice cracked a little at the end.
You laughed.
You couldn't help it.
It was too funny seeing Superman explain why he'd entered through the window as though he were a lost pizza delivery guy.
"No... I'm trying, sweetheart," he said with an enormous pout, dropping his arms and letting his shoulders sag.
He looked like a child who had just been told there would be no dessert.
You smiled wider and nodded, walking over to him.
"You're doing great, honey," you said before wrapping your arms around him.
His suit was softer than it looked in pictures.
And he smelled like the sky, as always.
Like that clean air above the clouds.
You rested your cheek against his chest and felt his heart racing.
Fast.
Very fast.
As if he had just finished running a marathon.
"Is there a reason for all this?" you asked, pulling back slightly so you could look him in the eyes.
Clark immediately became nervous.
He ran a hand through his hair.
His hands went to his hips.
Then behind his back.
Then back to his hips.
He had no idea what to do with them.
Eventually he crossed them over his chest, but he looked so uncomfortable that it seemed physically painful.
He tried to put on one of those serious expressions that ended up in newspapers whenever he saved a building.
He pressed his lips together.
Furrowed his brow.
Hardened his gaze.
But his eyes couldn't stay still.
Every few seconds they drifted back to you and softened like a puppy begging for food.
"I read that women are attracted to men who show confidence," he began, swallowing hard.
He tried to keep a serious face, but his lower lip trembled slightly.
He bit it so you wouldn't notice, which only made it seem as though he was concentrating very hard on a complicated problem.
"And men who..." he continued.
Then he looked at you again, and his gaze immediately slipped away.
He was turning red as a tomato.
He clenched his jaw to look more intimidating, but his puffed cheeks made him resemble an angry hamster.
"Very strong men and..." his voice grew smaller, "...also... cold."
He practically whispered the last word.
The blush had spread all the way from his cheeks to his ears.
His ears.
His ears had turned red.
You didn't even know ears could get that red.
He tried to recover his composure.
He straightened his back.
Lifted his chin.
Put his hands on his hips again.
But his cape had gotten caught on the window frame.
When he stepped forward, the cape tugged backward and nearly knocked him flat onto his back.
He did an awkward little hop to regain his balance, his arms flailing in a strange motion as though he were swimming through the air.
Then he froze, eyes wide, pretending none of that had happened.
He coughed a couple of times and crossed his arms again.
Except this time they were crossed backward, like he was hugging himself.
When he noticed, he uncrossed them and tried again.
Then he didn't know what to do with his head, so he tilted it slightly to the side like he was posing for a statue.
He looked so stiff he resembled a cardboard cutout.
"Where did you read that?" you asked, taking another step closer.
You took the grocery bag from his hands—the same bag he'd been clutching the entire time as though it were a life raft.
You stood there with your arms crossed, waiting.
"In The Latest Things You Need to Know About Women," Clark said.
One foot slid backward.
The other moved forward.
It looked like he was secretly practicing a dance routine.
He tried to stand still to appear more confident, but his feet seemed to have a life of their own.
"Steve emailed it to me this morning. He said I needed it."
He attempted a serious smile.
Instead, it came out as a strange expression halfway between a smile and a grimace, as though he'd suddenly gotten a cramp in his cheek.
He remembered what had happened earlier that morning at the office.
Steve had walked up behind him while Clark stared at a photo of you taped beside his computer.
"Buddy, you need this," Steve had said with a rabbit-like grin.
Clark had opened the link and read things like "women want a man who doesn't show emotions" and "don't smile too much, it makes you look weak."
Since then, he'd been practicing in front of the mirror.
He had even put on the Superman suit because he thought it would make him seem more authoritative.
Nothing could have been further from the truth.
"That website was written by a man, Clark," you said, brushing your fingertips against his suit.
The red-and-blue suit that had saved the world dozens of times.
And there he was, shifting from side to side as though he were standing on hot coals, his fists clenched behind his back and his gaze fixed on the floor.
He tried once more to look serious.
He furrowed his brow so hard wrinkles appeared on his forehead.
Pressed his lips together until they became a thin line.
But then you smiled.
Just a little.
And all that seriousness melted away like ice cream under the sun.
His entire face softened.
His eyes turned gentle again.
With a defeated sigh, he let his shoulders drop.
"I'm not saying men can't understand us, but most of them don't," you added.
And he nodded like a puppy being told why he wasn't allowed to eat chocolate.
"I like you the way you are, Clark. You don't need to change," you said softly.
You stepped a little closer.
He immediately stopped moving altogether, as if someone had pressed a pause button.
"It's cute seeing you get nervous even while wearing the suit," you said as you looked down into the grocery bag.
Bread.
Lettuce.
Cheese.
Everything was there.
Except for one thing.
"I don't get nervous," he said.
His voice came out high-pitched.
Almost squeaky.
He tried to look serious again, but one eyebrow had started twitching uncontrollably.
He touched it with a finger to stop it.
Then the other eyebrow started twitching.
It looked like a tiny storm was happening on his face.
You looked at him.
His cheeks were so red that it looked as though he'd spent an hour standing directly beneath the sun.
"You forgot the tomato sauce, Clark," you said, lifting the empty bag that should have contained the jar.
He smiled.
A huge, awkward smile.
The kind a child gives after accidentally breaking a vase and hoping to be rewarded for admitting it.
Every trace of seriousness vanished instantly.
His entire face lit up.
His eyes squinted from smiling so hard.
"Yeah... I... uh... forgot it," he admitted, scratching the back of his neck with one giant hand.
You laughed and nodded.
Because you already knew exactly how this story ended.
"I have to go get it, don't I?" he asked.
You nodded.
"Okay," Clark said.
His eyes immediately lit up as though you'd just given him the best news in the world.
"Can I buy those Japanese mochi I showed you at the store the other day?" he asked, rocking back and forth on his feet like he was about to take off.
Literally.
"The soft ones with sugar inside. The pink ones," he added, unable to stop a small excited bounce.
"They're the sweetest ones, sweetheart. You're going to love them."
"Yes, but only one box, Clark," you said, raising a finger in warning.
"Do you remember what happened when you ate two entire boxes last time? I don't want to see you flying around the world five times in a row because of a sugar rush you couldn't control."
You said it completely seriously.
Very seriously.
Because he had literally done exactly that the week before.
He had flown from Metropolis to Japan in three seconds, bought the mochi—even though they were sold five blocks from your apartment—and eaten an entire box on the way home.
When he arrived, his pupils were so wide he looked like an excited owl.
Then he'd eaten the second box and taken off flying again because:
"Sweetheart, I feel like I can touch the stars with my fingers."
"Okay," Clark said.
Then he leaned down and kissed you.
It was a soft kiss.
Quick.
Nervous.
He smiled against your lips and whispered,
"I promise I won't buy two boxes."
You smiled and nodded.
His promise was worth less than the paper it wasn't written on.
But you still liked hearing him say it.
When you pulled apart, he looked at you as he backed away toward the door.
He walked backward with a level of clumsiness that seemed impossible for a man who could catch an airplane out of the sky.
His hand waved from side to side in farewell, fluttering like a little flag in the wind.
And the smile never left his face.
He was so nervous.
So excited about going to buy the mochi.
His feet practically carried him toward the exit on their own.
"Sweetheart, you're not actually going in your suit, are you?" you asked, resting a hand on your hip.
Clark took three steps outside the apartment.
Then four.
Then he stopped dead in his tracks.
He looked down at himself.
Touched his chest.
Looked at his cape.
Looked at his boots.
As if he had only just realized he was dressed in bright blue and red with a giant emblem on his chest.
His eyes widened.
"Right... the suit," he muttered to himself, blushing all over again.
At that point, you weren't sure if his cheeks would ever return to their normal color.
He spun around so quickly that he nearly got tangled in his own cape and fell flat on his face.
Then he hurried back into the apartment, cheeks burning and eyes wide.
"I'd be a complete failure on that website," he said as he walked toward the bedroom, dragging his feet as though he were wearing oversized slippers.
"If I go to the store looking like this, Steve was right. I don't know anything about women," he muttered to himself, his voice full of concern.
You laughed.
A laugh that filled the entire kitchen.
"And don't fly out the window again!" you called after him from the kitchen.
"The door, sweetheart, I promise!" he shouted back from the bedroom.
A loud thud echoed through the apartment.
Something hit the floor.
Then came an "I'm okay!" that sounded far more annoyed than convincing.
A few seconds later, Clark emerged from the bedroom wearing his normal clothes.
His jeans were slightly crooked.
His shirt was buttoned wrong.
And his hair was a complete mess.
He smiled sheepishly and pointed toward the door.
"Okay, now I'm really going," he said.
He took one step.
Then turned around again.
"The pink mochi, right?" he asked.
"Yes, Clark. The pink ones," you replied, shaking your head with a smile.
"Just one box," he said, holding up a finger.
"That's what you said last time."
"This time I mean it," he replied.
And before you could answer, he walked out the door like a normal person.
Even though it was painfully obvious he wanted to fly instead.
You remained in the kitchen, wooden spoon still in hand, laughing to yourself.
And you thought that you wouldn't trade that lovestruck fool for anything in the world.
Sinopsis: Clark Kent has spent months trying to get your attention in the only way he knows how: quietly, sweetly, and awkwardly. But when Superman saves your life and begins visiting your apartment at night, Clark realizes he may have accidentally made things far more complicated for himself.
If Clark counted the times he tried to flirt with you, they would be in the thousands. But the funny thing was that his way of flirting was so subtle that it almost always got mistaken for his everyday kindness. Clark was affectionate with everyone; that was how he had been raised back home in Smallville, where being gentle and thoughtful was as natural as breathing.
That was why, when he bought coffee in the mornings, he never arrived with just two cups, but four: one for Lois, one for Jimmy, one for himself, and an extra one that he always handed to you. And of course, you were his coworker, even if your desk was nowhere near his the way Lois’s was. Yours sat almost four meters away, far enough for anyone to think there was no reason to include you in his coffee runs. But Clark always found an excuse.
He said Perry, the boss, had mentioned that you did excellent work whenever you collaborated with him, and that was why he wanted to get along with you. You never turned down the coffee, because there was always a smile on your face whenever he walked over to hand it to you.
Still, you were a serious person at work, the kind who avoided talking about your private life, your weekend plans, or whether you had a date on Friday night. But that did not mean you were rude. On the contrary, you carried that same warm professionalism with everyone: you greeted people politely, asked how they were doing, remembered birthdays. And that exact mix of seriousness and warmth was what intrigued Clark the most.
Because he noticed that when you laughed with Lois, it was not a professional laugh or a polite one. It was genuinely friendly, the kind of laugh that slipped out unexpectedly, the kind that made you blush a little and lower your gaze while absentmindedly touching your hair. Clark kept asking himself over and over again: what did you talk about with Lois that made you laugh like that? What topic made you let go of that professional armor you guarded so carefully?
And even though Clark had that other side, that side of Superman who flew between buildings and saved people, he never wanted to mix it with you. He did not want you to meet Superman first, nor did he want you to mistake grand heroic actions for something heartfelt. He wanted you to see only Clark: the clumsy but kind reporter, the one who sat next to Lois and handed you coffee every morning.
He did not want to compete with his own other self, because he knew perfectly well that many women mistook Superman’s idealism for love. They saw the red cape and the muscles beneath the blue suit, and they never looked beyond that. The mere thought made Clark sick, the idea of having to compete against himself just to make you like him.
Because if you did not like Clark as he was, with his sleeves half rolled up and his glasses sitting slightly crooked on his nose, then you would never like what he truly wanted you to love about him. And the worst part was that he had no idea whether you were capable of seeing beyond that. Whether you could look at the Daily Planet reporter who worked with you from time to time and find something special in him, something that did not need a cape to shine.
But anyway, that was not the point right now.
The point was that you ended up meeting him, and not in the quiet way he would have wanted. Of course not, because you specifically had to be on that bus heading toward the Daily Planet.
The very same bus that would derail when the bridge was struck by something nobody was sure about: maybe a bomb, maybe an attempted attack. The only thing anyone knew for certain was that the explosion caused the bus to fall and hang dangerously off one side, suspended over empty air.
While everyone scrambled out screaming and shoving each other, Clark could hear your heartbeat. He had memorized it without meaning to during the investigation you had been working on together over the past few weeks. He remembered exactly what your heart sounded like whenever you leaned closer to him and shook your head while the two of you reviewed documents together.
“No, I actually think we should go after the drone company,” you had whispered that time, without looking at him, your eyes fixed only on the investigation papers.
“Why?” Clark asked, leaning slightly closer to your desk.
“Because they have more connections than they seem to,” you replied, sliding a page in front of him.
“Connections to who?”
“To Luthor,” you added, and that was when you finally looked up. Your eyes met his for only a second, and Clark felt warmth spread through his chest.
That was when he blushed, but he loved the sound of your confident voice, the way your mind worked. That was why finding you in the middle of a crisis was the last thing he wanted. He did not want to see you frightened. He did not want to see you hanging from a broken bus.
But that was exactly what happened.
Clark saved people as best he could, helping down those who stumbled, those who lagged behind. In the middle of the chaos, you helped an elderly woman who could not climb through the emergency window. Everyone else was too terrified, thinking only about saving themselves, but you took the woman’s hand and helped her climb out.
Then the bus jerked violently, and you nearly fell, but you managed to grab onto the edge of the window frame. When the woman finally made it out, you reached your hand toward a man standing outside, waiting to help pull you up.
But then the bus shifted again, this time even harder. You felt the floor tilt beneath your feet, and you closed your eyes. You thought it would be the last time you ever saw the world. You thought about your family, about your empty desk at the Planet.
But Clark was never going to let anything happen to you.
He moved so fast you did not even hear the wind. In a single second, his firm hands were around your waist, holding you safely in the air. You opened your eyes on instinct and wrapped your arms around him as tightly as you could, without thinking, without hesitation.
When you looked down, you saw solid ground beneath your feet. The people around you began cheering and clapping excitedly. Slowly, you pulled away from him, still trembling slightly, and lifted your gaze.
Superman stood in front of you.
Your eyes shone like two coins beneath the sunlight. You looked at the dark blue suit, the red and yellow emblem across his chest, the red cape flowing in the wind. It was him. It was really him.
“Are you alright?” Superman asked, his voice deep yet calm.
You simply nodded without saying a word. You could not speak. You could not stop staring at him.
“Are you sure?” he insisted, tilting his head slightly.
You nodded again, but this time with a small smile you could not hold back.
Superman smiled too, quick but genuine. “Good,” he said, and with a soft rush of air, he lifted into the sky, turning before flying away between the buildings.
You remained standing there, your heart still pounding, watching the blue-and-red figure grow smaller and smaller until he disappeared completely.
No one was injured. Nothing terrible had happened. Superman had saved the day once again.
Little by little, the people on the street stopped screaming, the children stopped crying, the cars began moving again as though nothing had happened. The damaged bus was already safely on the ground, and all the passengers were unharmed, hugging one another or calling their families to tell them they were okay.
You stayed there for another moment, your hands still trembling slightly from the shock, but quickly you did what you knew best: being a journalist.
You approached people, pulled a small notebook from your jacket pocket, and began asking questions.
“How did it feel when the bus tilted?” you asked an older woman with gray hair.
“Did you see how Superman arrived?” you asked a young man who was still shaking.
You moved from person to person, taking notes, listening to every testimony, and once you had gathered enough information, you practically ran back to the Daily Planet.
There, in the newsroom, you stood before all your coworkers and recounted everything in vivid detail. You told them about the bridge, the explosion, the hanging bus, and you also told them how Superman had appeared out of nowhere to catch you in midair and bring you safely down.
Clark listened to you from his desk, his elbows resting on scattered papers and his beard pressed against one hand. He watched you gesture excitedly, watched you smile whenever you mentioned Superman, and he thought everything was fine.
It was only one interaction, he told himself. Sooner or later Superman was going to save you. I should not be afraid. I should not worry.
You were just his coworker. Nothing more.
But maybe what happened afterward was his own fault.
Because that same night, Clark could not help himself.
After finishing his shift at the Planet, after waving goodbye to Jimmy, after walking several blocks until he reached a dark alley where nobody could see him, he removed his glasses, straightened his back, pulled open his shirt, and revealed the blue suit hidden underneath.
A second later, he was already flying above the rooftops of Metropolis.
The cool night wind brushed against his face, the city lights glowing below like countless tiny stars. But he did not patrol the city the way he usually did. He did not go searching for trouble or stopping thieves.
He went straight to your building. Straight to your window.
He hovered there in the air, his boots barely grazing the ledge, and looked at you through the glass.
You were inside, holding a cup of tea, still dressed in your work clothes. You looked up and saw him. Your body tensed slightly at first, but you did not scream or panic. You only stared at him with curiosity, as though you were trying to understand why the most powerful man in the world was floating outside your window on a Tuesday night.
You slowly opened the window and remained standing in the frame, the cool air moving through your hair.
“What are you doing here, Superman?” you asked nervously.
Of course you were nervous. Your voice sounded slightly higher than usual, and your fingers tightened around the tea cup more than necessary.
Superman looked directly into your eyes. He tried to smile calmly, confidently, even though inside his heart was pounding like a drum.
“I… always make sure the people I save are truly alright and get home safely,” Superman said, using that firm yet kind voice he always used.
You nodded slowly, never taking your eyes off him. Your nervousness gradually shifted into something closer to amusement. Tilting your head slightly, the same way you did whenever you cornered someone with questions at the Planet, you asked:
“And… have you already visited the nearly twenty people you saved besides me?”
One eyebrow lifted slightly.
Of course you were not easy to fool.
She’s a journalist, Clark thought. She questions everything. She finds logic where everyone else sees coincidence. She likes being right and uncovering the truth, even when it hurts.
But right now, with Superman floating outside your window, you did not seem to be in investigation mode.
You only seemed curious.
You only seemed… interested.
“Yes,” Superman answered quickly, maybe too quickly.
Your eyes widened slightly in surprise. You had not expected that answer.
“Really?” you asked skeptically.
“Really,” Superman insisted, although inside Clark thought, I’m such a liar.
He had not visited anyone else. He had flown directly to your window without thinking about anything else. But he could not tell you that. He could not tell you that your heartbeat was the only one he wanted to hear that night.
Three days passed. Clark thought it would not happen again, that the visit had been a mistake, a foolish impulse he should not repeat. But then the thing he feared most and wanted most at the same time happened.
He came back.
He could not help it. Once again, he was floating outside your window, another night, once again wearing the blue suit and the red cape flowing behind him. You opened the glass as if you had already been expecting him, and in your hand you held a small plate with a slice of chocolate cake, a shiny metal fork resting beside it.
“Come in,” you said, nodding toward the inside. Superman stayed floating for a moment, not knowing what to do.
“Don’t just stay out there. It’s cold. Well, I suppose you don’t feel cold, but it still looks weird. Come in.”
Superman entered slowly, almost fearfully, as if it were the first time he had ever stepped into a normal place. He stood in the middle of your living room, still wearing the suit, not daring to sit on the couch or touch anything. He looked as if he did not want to be in the way, as if he were afraid of breaking something just by existing.
You laughed a little at how stiff he looked.
“Sit down, Superman,” you told him, placing the plate with the cake in his hand. “It’s to thank you. For the bus.”
He took the plate carefully.
“Thank you,” he said softly. “You didn’t have to.”
“Of course I did,” you replied, sitting across from him on the couch with your legs crossed. “A flying man doesn’t save your life every day. That deserves at least some cake.”
Clark, disguised as Superman, felt his chest fill with warmth. It was so easy to be like this with you. He did not stutter or say ridiculous things that made him look foolish, the way he did when he was Clark at the office. With the suit, with the deeper voice, with the confidence that came from not having to hide, he could smile for real. He could joke. He could make you laugh.
And you liked it. He could see it in your eyes. He could see it in the way you relaxed around him.
The following week, you invited him inside again. You no longer asked why he was there. You simply opened the window, he came in, and you continued doing your own thing while he stood nearby or sat on the edge of the couch without bothering you.
One night, you were cooking, and the aroma filled the whole apartment. Superman was floating near the window, looking outside, when you called him.
“Hey, Superman, since you’re here, do you want dinner? I made extra. It’s incredible having Superman as a friend. Not everyone can say that.”
Clark smiled inwardly.
Friend, he thought. Friend is fine. It’s a good start.
So he walked over to the table, sat down on a chair that creaked slightly under his weight, and you served him a plate of your dinner: rice, beans, a warm tortilla, and some shredded chicken. He ate slowly, enjoying every bite, not so much because of the food, but because of the moment. Because he was there with you, in your small kitchen, with the sound of the television in the background and the sound of your laughter every time he said something funny.
After two months, you were already joking with Superman as if he were your lifelong best friend. You let him see that side of you that you only showed Lois: the funny side, the one that teased affectionately, the one that made bad jokes and laughed at them before even finishing them.
And now you shared that with Clark.
Well… with Superman.
But to Clark, that was fine. As long as it was with you, he did not care what name you used for him.
One night, after dinner, you were washing the dishes and Superman was leaning against the kitchen wall, his arms crossed over his chest. You had a stain of sauce on the sleeve of your sweater and were scrubbing it with a cloth using your “secret cleaning recipe for small stains.”
“Please, Superman,” you said, turning to look at him with a teasing smile, “I can’t believe Superman doesn’t know this secret for removing stains from clothes. What, do you use your laser vision to get stains out and then just buy new clothes?”
Superman placed a hand over his chest, pretending to be offended.
“Miss, I also have a life of my own. I have to wash my clothes from time to time too.”
“Really?” you asked, laughing. “With what? Rainwater from the clouds? Kryptonite soap?”
“You’re very funny,” Superman said, shaking his head. He took one step closer to the kitchen and rested one hand on the counter. “My apologies, Miss Perfect. Although weren’t you the one who said you had never burned a tortilla in the pan…”
Your eyes widened.
“What?”
“…while you were burning a tortilla in the pan,” Superman finished, nodding toward the stove. In the pan you had left on the burner, a tortilla was slowly smoking, its edge already black as coal.
“Ah!” you shouted, rushing toward the stove to turn off the flame. You grabbed a spatula and lifted the tortilla, which crumbled into black pieces over the pan. You stared at the remains and let out a laugh. “This… this doesn’t count. I was distracted.”
“Of course it doesn’t count,” Superman said, his smile growing wider.
“Shut up!” you replied, throwing a wet cloth at him, which he caught in midair without even looking.
The two of you ended up laughing.
You stood there with your hands on your waist, pretending to be angry but unable to hold back your laughter. He kept his head lowered, laughing softly, enjoying every second as if it were a treasure.
That became his favorite part of every day.
Because Clark did not talk much at the office. When he was near you as Clark, the words got tangled on his tongue, his hands sweated, and he always ended up saying something awkward like “what nice weather,” even if it was raining.
But in the evenings, when he put on the suit and flew over the buildings of Metropolis, everything changed. After patrolling the whole city, after making sure there were no thieves in the streets or fires in the buildings, he always ended up in the same place: outside your window.
And you were always there waiting for him, with a ready smile, with a plate of warm food or a steaming cup of tea. Sometimes you told him how your day at work had gone. Sometimes you read him some bad joke you had found online. Sometimes you simply stayed in silence watching television, and that silence was better than any conversation.
Clark had never felt so lucky in his entire life.
Because he had someone waiting for him.
And that someone was you.
That was how, in the third month, the night Clark would never forget finally arrived.
You were working on something for the Planet, your laptop resting on the dining table and a pile of messy papers scattered around you. Superman sat on your couch, even though the hero was enormous and his broad shoulders barely fit between the cushions. He had to arrange his red cape to one side so he would not sit on it, then crossed one leg over the other as if he were just another guest in an ordinary home.
In one hand, he held the little bun you had given him, the warm bun with jam that you always prepared for him when he arrived. He took a slow bite while watching you curiously from the couch. He saw the way you frowned while reading a document, the way you bit your lip when something did not convince you, the way you turned the pages quickly.
And then, in the middle of that comfortable silence, an idea lit up in Clark’s mind.
Oh, God, he thought.
He had the chance to do what he had been thinking about for months. He wanted to see if Superman could make you jealous. Of course it would hurt to know that you were in love with Superman, because that would mean you, like so many others, only saw the cape and the emblem.
But he still wanted to test it.
He needed to know.
So he cleared his throat, a dry sound that broke the silence in the room.
“What’s wrong?” you asked, glancing at him for only a second before lowering your gaze back to your computer. Your fingers kept typing quickly, without stopping.
Superman straightened slightly on the couch. He placed the bun on a plate sitting on the coffee table and clasped his hands over his knees. He tried to sound casual, as if your answer did not matter too much, even though inside, his heart was pounding.
“Well… today, a woman I saved from a money robbery told me that… I was the most handsome man of all,” he said, looking directly at you, waiting for your reaction.
His blue eyes did not blink. They observed every small movement of your face, every shift in your expression.
You looked up and laughed. A short, sincere laugh, as if you had just heard the silliest joke in the world. You shook your head and looked back at the screen.
“Oh, really? How nice,” you said, giving it no more importance.
Clark felt his hope deflate like a punctured balloon.
He began to think it had all been his imagination. Maybe nobody caught your attention at all. Maybe neither Superman nor Clark could ever reach your heart. Maybe you were too focused on your work, your reports, your investigations, to notice anyone. That thought tightened around his chest with a cold sadness.
Then you sighed, pushed your computer slightly to the side, and removed your glasses to look at him better. You folded them carefully and placed them on the table. You leaned back in your chair and crossed your arms, your expression relaxed, almost amused.
“Although I don’t believe that,” you said, tilting your head as if analyzing him without any shame, thanks to the trust you already had in Superman.
You picked up your glass of soda, took a long sip, and then set it down beside the laptop.
“I know someone more handsome than you,” you added, and your eyes shone with something almost tender.
Superman felt disappointed inside, but he did not show it. His face remained the same: calm, confident, with that faint smile he always wore. Although inside, Clark was dying of curiosity and fear at the same time.
“Really? Who?” Superman asked, leaning slightly forward. His voice sounded calm, but in reality, every fiber of his being was on alert.
He would finally know who you were in love with. It had to be someone from the Daily Planet, he was sure of it. Lois had said it once; he had heard her when she told you in the newsroom, “If you don’t speak, he won’t know you like him either. Looks aren’t enough.”
Clark remembered those words as if it had been yesterday. So he waited for your answer slowly, holding his breath without realizing it.
“Man, he interviewed you. You’ve seen him up close. Clark Kent, of course,” you said with complete certainty, and a smile appeared on your lips. “He’s handsome, isn’t he? More than you.”
Superman lowered his gaze.
He could not look at you. If he looked at you in that moment, he would give himself away. He would smile like an idiot or say something stupid that would ruin everything. So he kept staring at his own red boots, his hands clenched over his knees.
You noticed his silence, and your tone softened a little.
“Don’t feel bad,” you said, your voice kind, almost affectionate. “You have to understand that I’m always going to put the person I like first. And I like Clark.”
That made everything worse.
Because just as you finished saying those words, Clark felt his throat close up. The piece of bun he had been nibbling on a moment ago went straight down his throat, making him choke. It was not truly dangerous, of course; his lungs could handle far more than that. But the shock, the emotion, and the surprise made him cough like a normal person. A dry, strong cough that shook his whole body.
Your eyes widened, and you immediately stood up. You grabbed your glass of soda and brought it to his mouth without hesitating for even a second.
“Drink, drink!” you said, panic in your voice.
Superman took the glass with trembling hands and drank a couple of long sips. The cold liquid slid down his throat, and the bun finally went down. He coughed twice more and then took a deep breath.
You looked at him with a frown, still worried.
“Are you okay?” you asked, your hand still close to his shoulder, as if you wanted to hold him but did not quite dare.
Superman nodded slowly.
“Too many buns,” he said in a hoarse voice, touching his chest with one hand.
You smiled and nodded, relieved. You sat back down in your chair, but you no longer looked as relaxed as before. Something in your gaze had changed.
Superman, or rather Clark inside the suit, stayed silent for a moment, thinking quickly. He had to ask. He had to know more. He could not leave without understanding how it was possible that you, such an intelligent journalist, so observant, so good at your job, had not realized he was the same man who sat at the desk nearby.
“Hey… but… how…” Superman began, then stopped. He ran a hand over the back of his neck, pretending to be confused. “Clark Kent… I didn’t think he was your type,” he said, trying to sound like a curious friend and not like Clark himself, dying to hear your answer.
You laughed, soft and sincere, and closed your laptop with a gentle tap. You leaned back in your chair again, your arms crossed over your chest, and looked at him with a calmness that made his knees tremble inwardly.
“He is my type,” you answered, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.
Then your gaze turned a little sad, a little embarrassed.
“But… I’m bad at showing someone I like them. I don’t speak. I don’t make the first move. I think a look can be enough. Lois scolded me… surely you know Lois. She’s the only one who knows at work.”
Superman’s eyes opened a little wider than usual.
“Lois knows?” he said, almost startled, his voice coming out higher than he intended. He cleared his throat again. “And she never…?”
He stopped himself just in time. He swallowed and lowered his eyes to his hands.
“I never imagined,” he said quietly.
You tilted your head, studying him with that journalist’s gaze of yours that noticed everything.
“Are you okay?” you asked, and then your voice became more serious, almost a whisper. “Hey, don’t tell him. Clark, I mean. He seems intimidated by my presence, and I don’t want him to pull away from me. At least this way, I can keep him close, even if it’s only through work.”
Clark felt his stomach flip.
“Intimidate him?” Superman asked, his voice louder than he intended, almost a strangled shout.
You nodded slowly, your lips pressed together.
“Clark… well… I don’t know. I feel like maybe he thinks I’m weird. He always pulls away and then he’s kind. It’s confusing. He’s always kind. It would be bad to mistake him doing something because he likes me. Maybe that’s just how he acts with everyone,” you admitted, and for the first time all night, your gaze became uncertain.
You played with the edge of your shirt without realizing it.
Superman shook his head slowly, with a smile he could not completely hide.
“No…” he said, and you lifted your gaze toward him. “Clark… he’s actually… weird.”
You let out a short laugh.
“I already know that.”
“But he might like you,” Superman said, and the sentence left his mouth before he could stop it.
He stood up abruptly, almost tripping over his own cape.
“I… I’m leaving. I think… something is happening,” he said, walking toward the window with long steps.
“Suddenly?” you asked, standing up too, one hand on your hip and one eyebrow raised.
Superman nodded without looking at you. He was nervous. Too nervous. If he stayed one second longer, he would tell you everything. He would remove his imaginary glasses and say, It’s me. I’m Clark. The one you like.
So he simply nodded again, harder this time.
“Fine,” you said, your voice calm, confident. “Then save the city.”
Superman smiled, a huge smile that filled his face and carved dimples into his cheeks.
“I will,” he said, and before you could answer, he was already jumping through the window, floating into the dark air of Metropolis.
Clark flew as fast as he could. He left all of Metropolis behind in a second, then the entire state, then the whole country. He flew around the world. Literally.
He felt the cold air strike his face, felt the wind whistle between the folds of his cape, felt his cheeks burning from emotion and not from speed. He reached space, where Earth looked small and blue and beautiful, and there, where no one could hear him, he screamed.
He screamed with all his strength, a cry of happiness with no end.
He dropped back into the atmosphere with a smile so wide his cheeks hurt, his dimples marked like two little lines on his face.
Nothing else mattered.
Only you.
Only you saying Clark was handsome, more than Superman. Only you saying you liked Clark.
Now he knew what to do. It did not matter how foolish he acted. It did not matter if he stuttered or said something ridiculous. It did not matter if his hands sweated or if he turned as red as a tomato.
He was going to ask you out.
That was a fact.
He only needed to find the courage, and right now, after hearing your voice say his name with so much certainty, he felt like he could move mountains.
Sinopsis: After years of believing something was wrong with her, you finally confess your deepest insecurity to Clark Kent. Instead of judgment, he offers patience, understanding, and a chance to discover that the people who hurt you may have been wrong all along.
Warnings: Mature content, explicit sexual scenes, oral sex, penetrative sex, strong sexual language.
WC: 4,400 words approx.
When did that "problem" happen? When did that problem decay into the fact that you were actually that problem?
Talking about "it" was uncomfortable. You couldn't tell your mother or your friends. Because how would you just come out and say? You know what? In my two relationships, never, never once did I have an orgasm. And the worst part is that both men told me I was the problem. No, just thinking about it would make you sink with shame. You would want to disappear, to never have opened your mouth. Even worse when you heard everyone saying they had an orgasm with their boyfriend. They commented on it as if it were the most normal thing in the world, as if it were something that always happened. And even though you knew that men only seek their own satisfaction, not yours, you also knew very well, maybe the problem was you. Because two different men repeating it to you, over and over again, had to mean something, right?
"Ah, of course it's not me, you must have problems," one said when you had confessed that you only felt a little warmth, but an orgasm, nothing. He lay there calmly, lying back on the bed, not even looking at you. As if what you had just told him was an annoyance, your own mistake that he didn't have to fix.
"Now you want everything to be dedicated to you, please, you must have a problem," said the other, looking at you with those eyes that you used to like and that now only made you feel small. "I have made thousands of women come," he boasted, crossing his arms as if he were a prize. As if you were the only one who didn't work right.
So you stopped trying. Maybe it was work stress, maybe the nerves of being with someone new, maybe the discomfort of seeing how a man could finish in bed with you, ejaculate and that's it. No more work, no more caresses, no more nothing. Because he had already gotten his part. And you stayed there, looking at the ceiling, wondering what was wrong with you.
But now the fear had returned. You had been two years without a boyfriend, two years without having to worry about this. And when you started dating Clark, you didn't mention it to him. Of course, you were just going on dates, it wasn't anything formal. Besides, he didn't seem like the man who takes you to bed on the first date. He was slow, everything about him was slow: his way of speaking, his way of looking at you, his way of getting close to you. And that slowness also made your heart race. You didn't want him to get annoyed and end up leaving your life like the other two.
Clark was cute. Too cute, even for your taste. You had always said your type were serious men, with few friends, who looked like a block of ice and were intelligent. But you ended up with an intelligent man, yes, but with the prettiest shyness you had ever seen and the loveliest smile anyone had ever given you. A man so tall and so big that to you, who wasn't small, he made you feel protected. You loved holding his hand everywhere, feeling his fingers intertwine with yours. You loved it when he pushed the stray locks of hair behind your ear and smiled at you as if you were the prettiest thing he had seen all day.
But you knew the next step was coming. Or maybe you only thought it one day, while he laughed at something silly you had said. Clark was a gentleman, truly. He wouldn't continue doing something if you told him you felt uncomfortable. Never. That was clear. But interrupting him mid-kiss was awkward. You would make him feel uncomfortable. And he would pull away. Like the others. Or worse, he would stay out of pity.
It wasn't planned. You had only agreed to eat at your apartment, but nothing more. It was after the movie. You kissed him first, almost without thinking, and from there you had been kissing for almost thirty minutes. Your lips were swollen, your breathing uncontrolled, your hands on his chest feeling his heart beat. His curls tangled between your fingers. He was squeezing your waist slowly, as if he had all the time in the world. But then that thought returned. You pulled away to breathe more air. He leaned in as if wanting to let you know he wanted to keep kissing you, but not finding your lips, he buried his face in your neck. You sighed, caressing his curls. You longed to feel him so much, but your fear invaded you. Should you fake an orgasm again? You remembered how ridiculous you felt doing that, those fake moans, that lie that only served to make him finish faster.
"Do you want to stop?" Clark whispered in your ear when he saw that you were only touching his curls without saying anything.
He looked at you. His cheeks were red, but his blue eyes were dilated, dark. Lips swollen like yours. You pressed your lips together. If you were the problem, you repeated to yourself, you'll ruin it. Again.
"No," you said. But you lowered your gaze to his shirt, playing with his button.
Clark tilted his head. He waited for your answer. You knew he didn't want a kiss to continue. He didn't want you to just keep going as if nothing was wrong. He wanted to know why you were nervous. And it wasn't normal nerves, he noticed it. There was something behind your trembling hands, behind the way you avoided his eyes.
"It's just that… I… have a problem," you whispered. And you felt your cheeks burn with shame.
"Problem?" said Clark. He moved on the couch to see you properly. Very carefully, he moved the lock of hair that covered your face and put it behind your ear. "Is it serious?" he asked, and his voice sounded genuinely worried.
"No… no… nothing like that," you said quickly, shaking your head. "It's just… well… I have problems with… that." You made a vague gesture with your hand, not daring to look at him.
Clark frowned, confused.
"I… never… well…," you tried to say, but the words got tangled.
"Hey, pretty, it's okay," he said, and his voice was soft, calm. He caressed your cheek with the back of his fingers. "Do you want to tell me? Go ahead. If you don't feel ready, nothing will happen." There was no anger in his eyes, no contempt. It was just Clark smiling with those dimples that appeared on his cheeks.
"I've never had an orgasm," you finally said.
You watched him blush. He nodded without saying anything. And your heart sank. You thought he would start to hate you. You thought you should have kept quiet and just faked it like you had done so many times before. The silence grew long, too long.
"No… but it's my problem," you blurted out, the words coming out fast, barely breathing. "I really enjoy it, it's just that… I won't reach that point. But we can keep going, don't worry about me." You said all that with the intention of making him forget, of him kissing you again and that's it.
Clark looked at you fixedly. "Not worry about you?" he asked, as if he hadn't understood correctly.
He guided you onto his lap gently. You sat on him. The friction was evident, noticeable, but he was focused on you, not on himself. His hands remained still on your hip, not squeezing, just resting.
"It's not just your problem," he said slowly. "Is it a problem? I mean… why do you say it's a problem? Did a gynecologist tell you that?" he asked, and he said it wanting to understand, not to judge.
"No," you played with his shirt again, not looking at him. "It was the… people I was with before," you said, and the word people tasted ugly in your mouth.
"Or they were the problem," Clark said simply.
You looked at him. How could he say it like that, so easily, as if it were obvious?
"But it's two people saying the same thing," you said, and you felt your throat close up. "Two, Clark. It's not a coincidence."
Clark nodded. He had left his glasses on the table an hour ago, since he started kissing you. Now his blue eyes looked at you without a filter.
"We can try it right now," he said simply, like someone says let's have a drink or let's watch another movie. He looked at you with that calm that only he had. "And we'll check if it's true or if you just had two people with low resistance next to you." He smiled a little. "You know I'm very resistant, don't you?" Clark asked.
And you, despite the fear, despite the shame, smiled blushing.
And then you kissed him.
You didn't think anymore. You didn't give yourself time to think. You just leaned your face in and your lips found his again. Clark made a small sound, a low moan that was lost between you two. Your hands went up to his neck. You felt his hot skin, his rapid pulse under your fingers. His hands were on your hip at first, still, as if he was afraid of squeezing too hard. But then they went down to your thighs and there they did squeeze, with desire. He went back to your neck, stopped kissing your mouth to go down to that soft spot right under your ear. He stayed there for a while. Just kissing, just sucking a little, just breathing against your skin. You felt him so good that you moaned uncontrollably. It wasn't a low or subtle moan. It was a moan that came from deep within, without you being able to do anything to stop it.
"Oh, Clark!" you said. And your hands clenched his curls tightly, as if you were about to fall and he was the only thing holding you up.
You took off his shirt. It wasn't easy because he wouldn't stop kissing you, but you managed. The fabric went up his back and he let go of your lips just long enough to take it off completely. Then you took off yours with his help. His hands were large and trembled a little as they unbuttoned the buttons. You didn't know if it was nerves or desire, maybe both. When your shirt fell to the floor, Clark looked at you for a second. Just a second. His blue eyes ran over your face, your neck, your shoulders. And then he kissed you again as if he had been waiting for days to do it.
Clark took your waist and sat you on the couch. But he didn't sit next to you. He did something strange. He crouched down, lowered his body in front of you. A movement you didn't understand. What did he intend to do? He pulled away from your lips, very slowly, as if it cost him effort. He kissed your neck again. Then went lower. He kissed your chest, the top part, right where the heart beats strongest. Then lower down. He kissed your abdomen, right in the center, and you felt your skin pucker from how soft it was. You looked at him. The living room lamp let you see little, just shadows and glints. But the sighs came out of you as soon as you felt him remove your pants. He unbuttoned them, lowered them slowly, looking at you as he did so. Then he took off your panties. Also slowly. His fingers hooked the fabric and lowered it down your legs. Your hands were trembling. Everything was trembling.
His huge hands parted your legs. Gently but firmly, as if he knew exactly what he was doing. You opened your legs more for him, without thinking. Your pupils were so dilated you could barely see. But when you looked at his face, he was looking directly at your center. You threw your head back. You couldn't look. You were embarrassed and yet you didn't want to stop looking.
"Clark," you moaned. His name came out broken, like a long sigh.
He leaned in. He kissed your vaginal lips as if they were your regular lips. With the same softness, the same calm. Your mouth fell open. You couldn't believe what he was doing. No one had kissed you there before. No one had taken that time. You felt his tongue lick your line, that little opening you had been so afraid to show. Then he opened it more with his tongue, carefully, and even penetrated you a little with it. The sounds coming from below were wet, lewd, shameful. But you didn't want him to stop. Everything was different. Everything was so strange and so good at the same time. Your hands tangled in his curls again. Your hips lifted on their own, as if your body came to life and wanted more from Clark. More of his mouth, more of his tongue, more of everything.
"Do you like it?" you heard him say. His voice came out hoarse, low, and he was still between your legs. "My pretty girlfriend, you taste so good," he said. Then he pulled away slightly. You looked down and saw a line of saliva hanging from his lips to you. You smiled, blushing, and thrust your hip towards him. He understood. He didn't protest. Oh, he never would. Clark found that exquisite, you could see it in his eyes. To see how his mouth could melt you. He just thought how you must have felt when they pointed out that you didn't have orgasms. When they told you that you were the problem. Surely they were the problem, Clark thought. And he set out to do it the second you told him the reason for that fear. He would show you. He would show you they were wrong.
"Oh, Clark!" you said again. But this time it wasn't just pleasure. It was something else. A strange tremor ran through your body, started in your belly and went up your back. Your legs contracted on their own. Your hands in his curls pushed his face further against you, even though he didn't need you to push him. "God, I… no… Clark," you said. And then it happened.
A strange sensation ran through your entire body. It wasn't like anything you had felt before. It was as if something inside you broke but in a good way. As if you let go of something you had been holding onto for years. Slow spasms, undulations that went up and down your legs, your belly, your chest. You breathed as soon as you could, but it was hard. The air didn't come in well because your whole body was shaking. Clark approached slowly. He kissed your thigh, then your abdomen, then your neck. He kissed softly, very softly, while your body still shook a little.
"My beautiful girlfriend was treated so badly," he said. He gave you kisses on your neck, one after another, while you recovered from the previous wave. You didn't have the strength to even speak. Then he kissed you on the mouth. His saliva and your juices mixed with your own saliva and you didn't care. Nothing mattered more than continuing to feel what you had just felt.
Clark pulled away just enough to take off his pants. He lowered them quickly, this time without calm, and kicked them off completely. He looked at you. His eyes were dark, almost black with desire.
"I don't have a condom," he whispered. And his voice sounded almost apologetic.
You shook your head. "It's okay," you nodded. You said it so fast you barely thought about it. You were lost. Needy for him. Not just anyone. For him.
Clark smiled looking at you. "Good," he whispered. But nothing happened. Not at first.
Until you felt something enter you. You moaned, brushing your lips against Clark's. It wasn't what you thought. It wasn't him. It was his two fingers. He inserted them slowly, one first, then another. He needed to stretch you a little more so you would adjust to him later. But the simple position had already warmed you up more than you thought. His swollen lips close to yours. His hand working below, inside, moving with a rhythm you didn't know. His other hand on your waist, squeezing gently. Your hands on his shoulders, clinging to him. The closeness of his face, the warm air coming from his mouth mixing with yours. The dilated pupils of both of you, so large you could barely see the color of his eyes.
You opened your lips to say something but no words came out. He moved closer, their teeth clashed a little, and he kissed you. It was a messy kiss, wet, with both of them breathing poorly. They moaned between kisses. His fingers entering and exiting you, faster each time. Your tongue playing with his. A third finger entered and you felt everything stretch down there. You closed your eyes tightly. You pulled away from his mouth just to breathe, just to not suffocate. He took your neck with his free hand, very gently, and pulled you close again. And then…
"Damn it… again," you said. Your voice trembled. Everything trembled. "I… oh," you said. You couldn't finish the sentence.
Your body shook entirely. A new wave, stronger than the first, shook you from head to toe. Your hands squeezed Clark's shoulders as if you were sinking. Your legs trembled uncontrollably. Clark held you tight, pressed his chest to yours and held you while you shook. You breathed with difficulty, your face buried in his neck. He didn't move. He just held you. With one hand he massaged your leg with fingers stained with you, and that soft caress helped you come back. Little by little. Very little by little.
And then he carried you.
You didn't even have time to say anything. Clark put his arms under your body, one behind your back and the other behind your knees, and lifted you as if you weighed nothing. Your arms circled his neck by reflex, and you pressed your face against his shoulder. You felt his hot skin, his smell, his agitated breathing. He walked towards your room. He knew the way. He had learned every step of your house when he came to visit you and helped you leave something in your room. A jacket, a bag, a book. He always noticed everything, even if you didn't realize it. He knew where the bed was, where the door was, where the lamp was. When they arrived, he entered without bumping into anything. He placed you on the bed gently, as if you were something fragile. The sheet was cold against your back and that contrasted with the heat of his body on top of you.
You felt his member brush against your entrance. Barely touching you. Just a graze. And you, without thinking, lifted your hip towards him. Your body moved on its own. You were no longer afraid. You no longer wanted to hide. You just wanted to feel him inside you.
"That's it," Clark said, his voice hoarse, barely a whisper. His member became stained with your juices as he rubbed against you, barely entering and exiting, just the tip. You moaned every time he brushed against that place that needed him so much. "We're going to show them who the real problem was," he said. And then he gave you a kiss on the jaw, right where your face ends and your neck begins. That kiss was soft, but he said it with a certainty that made you believe him. That was enough for him to insert himself into you. Not all at once. It was slow. Very slow. You felt him fill you little by little, centimeter by centimeter. You opened your mouth but no sound came out. Just air.
Then the thrusts began. Slow at first. Very slow. Every time he entered, your breasts bounced to the rhythm of his movement. They went up and down like small waves. Clark's lips went straight to them. He kissed the tip of your nipple, which was already hard, very hard. He kissed it softly, with closed lips, then with his tongue. His mouth was hot and wet. Your hand tangled in his curls again, squeezing gently, pulling a little. His hot breath lingered on your skin every time he parted his lips to breathe.
"Oh, Clark," you said. Your voice came out choppy, broken by moans. "You feel so good," you admitted. It wasn't a lie. You had never felt anything like it. He filled every empty space you had inside.
"No," Clark said, shaking his head while continuing to move inside you. "You are the one who feels so good." He bit your nipple carefully, barely a pinch with his teeth. "So adapted to me," he said, and then he took your entire nipple into his mouth, sucking gently, playing with his tongue around it.
You stayed underneath him on your back for a good while. Then he turned you over gently and you were face down. He penetrated you again and again, from behind, and you buried your head in the pillow to keep from screaming too loudly. Clark's fingers dug gently into your hip, guiding you, moving you to his rhythm. Then he took you and arranged you on top of him. You sat on his stomach and he looked up at you from below. You set the pace yourself. Your hands trembled as they rested on his chest. You bent down from time to time to kiss him, and he took that moment to grab your buttocks with his large hands. He gently spread them to sink deeper into you. That made you moan louder. But you kept your rhythm. Your hips made slow circles. Your breasts moved in a back-and-forth sway, left and right. Clark squeezed them with his hands, massaged them while you moved on top of him. You moaned, but this time it wasn't just any moan. You were almost singing to him, letting your voice out with each rise and each fall. You felt so close. Clark noticed it because your rhythm began to get slower, clumsier. You were tired but you didn't want to stop.
"I… Clark, help me," you whispered. Your voice was barely audible.
He didn't need you to repeat it. You leaned on his shoulders and he lifted your body with force. Clark began to penetrate by lifting and lowering his hips. He led the rhythm now. Both moaned together, at the same time, as if their bodies were one. They were both so close. Clark grabbed your bottom with one hand, with the other he grabbed your hip, and penetrated deeper. Your eyes became moist. You didn't know if it was from pleasure or something else. You looked at him blurry, because the tears hadn't fallen but they fogged everything up. Clark's senses heated up seeing you like that. You breathed so fast you almost felt dizzy. And then you trembled. In the last thrust, your body contracted entirely. You trembled like a leaf in the wind. And you felt Clark fill you, hot, inside. Enough for you to fall onto his chest without strength. Still trembling. Still shuddering when Clark's arms hugged you tight.
He didn't let you go. He didn't push you away. He didn't turn his face to the wall like the others did. Clark kept you on his chest, with an arm around your back and the other hand caressing you gently. He waited for your breathing to normalize. He didn't speak. There was no need. He just held you. And you sank into his chest tired, happy, calm. Hugging him too. With your eyes closed. With a smile he couldn't see but surely felt.
"Confirmed," Clark said after a while, his voice still hoarse but with a laugh hidden in the words. "You are not the problem."
You laughed. A small, trembling laugh, but real. He felt your laugh on his chest, the vibrations of your throat against his skin. And he also laughed. His laugh was low, soft, like everything about him.
You pulled away slightly, just enough to look at him. You gave him a short, quick kiss on the lips. And then you hugged him again, burying your nose in his neck.
"I really like you, Clark," you admitted. Your voice came out small, as if you were still embarrassed to say it.
Clark blushed. You felt him get warm under your lips. "I am in love with you," he said. He paused, as if thinking the word embarrassed him too. "A lot," he added, so there was no doubt.
You hugged him tighter, not looking at his smile, but you knew it was there. You felt it in how his chest moved as he breathed.
"Let's clean ourselves up," Clark whispered after a while, running a hand through your messy hair. "We'll take a shower."
Clark did it. He got out of bed, took your hand and led you to the bathroom. He turned on the hot water tap and waited for the temperature to be right. Then they got in together. You curled up against his chest, stuck to him as if it were the safest place in the world. He soaped your hair first, carefully, undoing the knots with his fingers. Then he soaped your body, slowly, running the sponge over your back, your shoulders, your arms, your legs. There was no hurry. The water fell over both of them and the bathroom filled with steam. Then he soaped himself, with your eyes watching him. In the end they dried off with a large towel that Clark ran over your body first before running it over his. Then they went back to bed, still with damp skin and the smell of soap.
Clark already had his purpose for every night. He wouldn't let you think again that you were a problem. He would show you whenever necessary. With kisses. With caresses. With patience. With that very way of his of looking at you as if you were the best thing that had ever happened to him. That night, when he turned off the light and hugged you from behind, with his nose buried in your nape and his arm crossed over your waist, you knew you weren't alone. That you would never have to pretend again. That Clark would stay. And you, for the first time in a long time, closed your eyes and felt calm.
Note: This fanfic just popped into my head, and I don't know—it feels like something new, haha—angst and weird.
Part II
Clark Kent x female reader
Sinopsis: You decide to become a mother on your own, and Clark offers to be your donor. What begins as an unexpected arrangement slowly becomes something neither of you is brave enough to name.
Your hands played with the Rubik’s Cube you had picked up from Clark’s coffee table. You twisted it absentmindedly, more to keep your fingers busy than out of any real interest in solving it. The colored pieces shifted over and over while your gaze wandered around Clark’s apartment living room.
It was Saturday, and like every week, Lois and Jimmy had gathered at Clark’s apartment. It was the kind of work ritual they had created without meaning to, something that had started by chance and slowly became a tradition. Every Saturday, one of you hosted dinner—pizza, burgers, wine, whatever was available to unwind after a long week.
Tonight, it was Clark’s turn, and the atmosphere felt warm, as always. Jimmy’s laughter, Lois’s clever remarks, and Clark’s calm presence as the host. Everything was the same as every other gathering, but something inside you felt different.
You quietly looked at your friends. You watched them eat and laugh, and for a moment it struck you that you had already spent three years working at the Daily Planet as an article editor.
It was demanding work, of course. Correcting texts, dealing with impossible deadlines, and putting up with the bad moods of certain reporters was no easy task. But you enjoyed it. You loved the newspaper, the scent of ink, the clatter of typewriters, the last-minute rushes.
You had lived with Lois for a few months when you first moved to Metropolis. She had opened the doors of her apartment to you despite barely knowing you, simply because you were new and needed a place to stay.
That was how you met Jimmy, who worked at the paper as a photographer, and eventually Clark, who arrived later as a reporter.
Jimmy had been the one who approached you without hesitation. You barely remembered how it happened—whether it was a silly joke or a comment about something you had seen on the street—but somehow you ended up talking about his life and yours.
With Clark, things had been different.
He was the last one to speak to you.
At first, he only watched whenever you talked with Jimmy or Lois. He was kind, of course. A “good morning,” “good night,” or “good job” was all you exchanged in those early days. Nothing more.
Until Lois invited you to the famous “work-free Saturday” gathering at Jimmy’s apartment.
Then it was at Clark’s.
Then at the apartment you shared with Lois.
And once you got your own place, they started coming over too.
Without realizing it, the four of you had become a group.
After spending so much time together, Clark had accidentally revealed his biggest secret.
It happened one day that still sent chills down your spine whenever you remembered it.
You had been accompanying him during an interview assignment. A powerful earthquake struck without warning, the kind that made walls groan and windows shatter.
You and Clark had been waiting for Lois on the top floor of a bank while preparing to interview some of the staff. You had only gone along for the experience because you enjoyed watching reporters work up close.
But you leaned a little too far over the edge.
When the earthquake hit, you nearly fell from the building.
If Clark hadn’t grabbed your hand, you would have plunged straight into the void.
Before either of you could say anything, the building shook again, and both of you fell.
You genuinely thought you were about to die alongside Clark.
You squeezed your eyes shut, clenched your teeth, and waited for the impact.
But it never came.
When you opened your eyes, both of you were completely unharmed.
Far away from the building.
As if someone had carried you through the air and gently set you down.
You stared at him in confusion.
Clark looked back with an expression that clearly screamed, Oh no.
Then he said, “I’ll explain.”
And a second later, he disappeared.
That was how you discovered his secret.
There had been no explanation that day. Only the image of him flying away while you stood in the middle of the street with your mouth hanging open.
After that, everything changed between you.
You asked him endless questions, but he never seemed bothered by them.
Quite the opposite.
It almost seemed as though he enjoyed having someone who knew the truth and allowed him to talk without pretending.
“So you can’t get drunk? Ever? Like, never ever?” you asked one day while the two of you walked to work.
He shook his head with a smile, hands tucked into his pockets.
What you didn’t know was that every time you asked questions like that, Clark’s heart beat a little faster.
Because he loved when you talked to him that way.
So close.
So easily.
Later, while everyone worked at their desks, you would quietly slide your chair closer to his.
You leaned in slightly and lowered your voice.
“Can you hear the nonsense rattling around inside Steve’s empty head?” you whispered.
A laugh almost escaped him, but he bit his lip to stop himself.
“No, not that,” he whispered back.
You laughed softly, careful not to let anyone notice.
Clark treasured those laughs like precious gifts.
“And can you fly from here to Japan in a second?” you asked another time while buying coffee from the office machine.
He laughed, that gentle laugh of his.
“No. Half a second.”
Your eyes widened immediately.
Clark stared at you for a second longer than he should have.
That second where he thought, I wish I could spend the rest of my life looking at you like this.
But he never said it.
He couldn’t.
Time passed that way, through curious questions and answers that always left you thinking.
The closeness became natural within your little group.
That was why you loved spending time with them.
Because around them, you could simply be yourself.
No masks.
No pretending everything was fine when sometimes it wasn’t.
But what you never saw, what you never noticed, was the way Clark looked at you when you weren’t paying attention.
When you laughed at one of Jimmy’s jokes, he watched you and let out a quiet sigh.
When you said goodbye and walked down the newspaper hallway, he kept staring at the door you had disappeared through for several seconds after you were already gone.
Clark had been in love with you for a long time.
But he couldn’t do anything about it.
Not because he didn’t want to.
Because he couldn’t.
He knew that if he got too close, if he dared to love you the way he wanted to, the villains he faced every day could come after you.
Lex Luthor, and every other criminal who wanted to hurt Superman, knew the best way to do it was through the people he loved.
Clark couldn’t bear the thought of you being kidnapped one day.
Of you being hurt.
Of something happening to you simply because he cared about you.
So he stayed silent.
That was why he only smiled whenever you spoke to him.
Why he only helped when you needed him.
Why he never took that step forward.
Because he would rather watch you be happy from a distance than see you crying because of him.
And so, night after night, he watched you while biting back the words he longed to say.
The evening continued.
The pizzas gradually disappeared.
The laughter slowly faded too.
Then Jimmy glanced at his watch and suddenly jumped to his feet.
“I’m heading out. I’ve got a date,” Jimmy said, springing up from the couch and stretching his arms overhead.
Lois raised an eyebrow.
“You’re leaving?” she asked, sounding surprised that he was going so early.
“Yep,” Jimmy replied as he slipped on his jacket. “You coming, Lane?”
“Yeah. I have a medical appointment tomorrow. They’ll probably tell me to stop drinking coffee,” Lois commented before looking at you expectantly.
“Alright. I’ll help Clark clean up,” you said without thinking much about it, simply because it seemed like the right thing to do.
Jimmy and Lois smiled at the exact same moment, as if they knew something you didn’t.
Clark, meanwhile, grew slightly nervous, though he hid it well.
His heart pounded at the thought of being alone with you.
Jimmy walked toward the door, and just before leaving, he said,
“We promise you can leave everything exactly like this when you come over to my apartment.”
Lois let out a short laugh and shook her head.
The two of them said their goodbyes with a quick hug.
Jimmy gave Clark a friendly pat on the back.
Lois blew an air kiss to both of you.
The door closed with a soft click, and suddenly the apartment felt bigger, emptier. The noise of the city drifted in through the window, but inside, only silence remained—and the two of you.
You grabbed a slice of pepperoni pizza from the box, the one that had already gone a little cold, and took a bite without much enthusiasm.
You looked down at the Rubik’s Cube in your hand.
The pieces were still scrambled, just like your thoughts.
Clark glanced at you from the corner of his eye while wiping down the table with a dishcloth, but you didn’t notice. He watched the way your hair fell across your face, the way your fingers turned the cube over and over again.
Clark sat down beside you on the couch.
He began fidgeting with his hands, lacing his fingers together and pulling them apart again. Then he adjusted his glasses with one finger, that habit he always had.
“You don’t need to wear those around me, Clark,” you said, pointing at his glasses.
You had noticed that he still wore them even though you already knew who he was, and it always made you smile a little.
I wear them because when I have them on, I feel more like Clark and less like Superman. And I want to be Clark with you. I want you to see me, not him.
But all he said was, “Yeah, you’re right,” before taking them off.
He looked at you for a moment.
His hands were trembling on the inside, though outwardly he seemed calm. He always tried to appear calm around you, even when he was falling apart inside.
“You were quiet tonight. You didn’t joke around,” he said.
He had noticed it from the moment you arrived.
A smile when you walked in, yes.
But after that, distant stares. No laughter. No jokes. No stories.
Nothing.
Just you listening to everyone else, nodding when appropriate, but never really joining in the way you usually did.
And it worried him.
Because you worried him all the time.
Every time you frowned, he found himself wondering what he could do to fix it.
But once again, he kept those thoughts to himself.
You lowered your head and played with the hem of your shirt.
“I’m thirty,” you admitted, as if that explained everything.
And in a way, it did.
Because turning thirty had made you think about a thousand things that had never mattered before.
He smiled.
That soft smile of his, the one that always managed to undo you.
What you didn’t know was that smile hurt a little on the inside, because he had spent the last two years wanting to tell you something, and every time he saw you, a knot formed in his throat.
“I know. You turned thirty a month ago,” he said.
You looked at him.
Of course he knew.
He had been the one who bought the balloons and decorations Lois had suggested for your surprise party.
He had gone to three different stores searching for balloons in your favorite color.
You remembered that day.
Coming home to find your apartment filled with colors and streamers.
You had suspected Lois.
Now you knew Clark had helped too.
What you didn’t know was that he had blown up every single balloon himself, one by one, because he wanted everything to be perfect for you.
You paused.
Bit your lip.
Then finally gathered your courage.
“I think... I’ve been thinking about some things,” you said.
“Things?” Clark asked, staring directly at you, barely blinking.
Inside, he was dying from curiosity and fear at the same time.
Because every word that came out of your mouth mattered to him.
“Yeah. I feel lonely, Clark... not in a ‘I need a man’ kind of way or anything. Just...” You hesitated. “Well... I... I’ve decided I want to get pregnant.”
Heat rushed into your cheeks.
Saying it out loud had been difficult.
But now it was out there.
Clark stared at you in surprise.
His lips parted slightly, and a small frown appeared on his face, as though he wasn’t entirely sure he had heard you correctly.
“I’m not pregnant,” you quickly clarified, raising a hand before he could misunderstand.
He nodded, visibly relieved.
But inside, he was anything but relieved.
His mind was racing.
Calculating.
Imagining.
“Oh,” he said quietly, waiting for you to continue.
“I’m going to look for a sperm donor. I’ve researched the clinic and...” You swallowed. “I think I want to do it. I want to be a mom.”
You blushed.
It was hard to look him in the eye, but you did anyway.
Clark didn’t laugh.
He didn’t make a face.
He simply listened, focused on you the same way he listened to an important source for a story.
Except there was something else in his gaze.
Something you couldn’t quite read.
“Oh,” Clark repeated.
Then silence settled between you.
The distant traffic below.
The hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen.
Seconds passed that felt like minutes.
His heart started pounding.
Pregnant?
She wants a child?
And immediately, something shifted inside him.
A longing he hadn’t known he possessed.
Because Clark had always believed he could never have a normal family.
That he would never get married.
Never have children.
Never live the quiet life everyone else seemed to have.
But if you had his child...
It would be like leaving a piece of himself with you forever.
And maybe, just maybe, that would be his way of loving you without putting you in danger.
A child wouldn’t draw attention the way a girlfriend would.
A child could remain a secret between the two of you.
A child would be like saying I love you without ever having to say the words.
If I offer and she accepts, I’m going to have a child.
A child with her.
I’ll get to watch them grow up.
I’ll get to be there without having to explain why.
And every time I look at that child, I’ll see her face and mine.
Finally, he spoke.
“Have you found a donor yet?”
“No. It’ll probably be one of those anonymous donors who go to the clinic and leave their sample,” you said casually, as though you were talking about borrowing a book.
But your voice trembled ever so slightly.
Clark took a deep breath.
It was now or never.
His hands shook a little, so he hid them between his knees before you could notice.
“I could donate,” he said simply, as though he were offering to help you move furniture.
The two of you fell silent.
You laughed.
A nervous laugh.
The kind that escaped when you didn’t know what else to do.
“Oh my God, Clark. We don’t even know how Kryptonian sperm works. What if it starts shooting lasers inside my uterus?” you joked, trying to ease the tension.
But Clark didn’t laugh.
His face remained serious.
His lips pressed together.
His eyes locked on yours.
This wasn’t a joke to him.
It was the biggest opportunity he’d had in years to be close to you without putting up another wall.
You looked at him more seriously now.
The joke died on its own.
“Are you serious?” you asked, your voice softer than you intended.
You swallowed hard.
Having a baby was something you had dreamed about for a long time.
But a child carrying Clark’s genes...
Maybe it wasn’t just because he was your coworker.
Maybe it was because he was Superman.
Because he was Kryptonian.
And...
God.
You loved him too.
You had been in love with Clark for a long time.
But you stopped yourself after a conversation you’d had one night.
He had said it so clearly:
“Loving someone hurts when that person ends up being destroyed. That’s why I stay away from those things.”
You had heard those words and assumed he didn’t want anything serious with anyone.
What you never knew was that those words had never been meant for you.
They were meant for himself.
He repeated them every night in front of the mirror so he wouldn’t call you.
So he wouldn’t get closer.
So he wouldn’t give in.
Loving someone hurts, he reminded himself.
And I don’t want her to suffer because of me.
And now, a year later, he was sitting here offering to donate his sperm so the two of you could have a child together.
Your heart was beating too fast.
Far too fast.
“I don’t know if...” You shifted uncomfortably on the couch, struggling to find the right words.
“I don’t know if we’re compatible,” you finally said without looking at him, your eyes fixed on the Rubik’s Cube.
“The Fortress can help. They can run tests. Their technology is advanced,” Clark replied with the confidence he always seemed to have whenever he talked about his world.
But the truth was that he wasn’t confident at all.
He was terrified.
Terrified you would say no.
Terrified you would say yes.
Terrified of everything.
But even more terrified of never knowing.
“If you’re okay with it, of course,” Clark added.
Then he waited.
You looked at him.
The seconds stretched on.
“It’s a baby, Clark,” you said, as though he didn’t understand the magnitude of what he was suggesting.
“A... no... this...” You waved your hands helplessly, unable to find the right gesture.
“Don’t you think it would be awkward?”
Clark took a deep breath.
He shifted a little closer without you noticing.
He wanted to be near you, even if it was only by a few inches.
“I’m thirty-three years old. I don’t think I’m ever going to marry anyone. And I can’t imagine a better person than you to have a baby with,” he said.
His voice sounded calm, but there was something in his eyes that suggested he wasn’t being entirely honest.
Or maybe he was.
You weren’t sure anymore.
What he didn’t say—what he kept to himself—was:
I’m not going to get married because the only person I want to marry is you, and I can’t ask you because I’d be putting you in danger. But a child... a child is something nobody can take away from you. Something that will always connect you to me. And every time you look at them, I’ll be there, even if you can’t see me.
“No... having a baby doesn’t make us a couple,” you said carefully, emphasizing every word so there would be no misunderstanding.
He nodded slowly.
He knew that.
He knew a child wouldn’t change things.
But to him, it meant everything.
It meant a piece of him would live with you.
It meant he would get to watch you become a mother, watch you be happy, watch you laugh while holding a little piece of him in your arms.
It meant he could finally love you without saying it out loud, without exposing you, without having to wear a cape and fly in front of enemies.
A child would become his silent I love you.
His way of saying I care about you without words.
Clark looked at you.
Loving someone in silence was torture.
He knew that better than anyone.
Every night he went to bed thinking about you.
Every morning he woke up wanting to call you.
Every time he saw you laughing with someone else, it felt like a punch to the chest.
But he always stayed quiet.
Always kept everything locked away.
Having a child while pretending he felt nothing would be a sacrifice he was willing to make, because at least it would give him a bond with you that no one could break.
Something that would tie you together forever, even if you never understood how deeply he loved you.
He tilted his head slightly and smiled.
That smile that always made you forget why you were afraid.
But behind it was a man who had loved you for years and had finally found one way—one single way—to love you without risking your safety.
“You want a baby. I can give you one,” he said.
And something shone in his eyes.
You couldn’t tell if it was friendship.
Or tenderness.
Or the silent love he carried like a secret no one else knew.
Something that seemed to say I love you without actually saying the words.
Something you failed to see that night.
Clark did it.
He donated his sperm.
For you, it was awkward.
For him, it wasn’t.
You felt embarrassed being there, in such a strange place, surrounded by robots that looked like they belonged in a science-fiction movie.
But Clark was calm, as though the entire thing were perfectly normal.
Inside the Fortress, several unusual robots equipped with advanced technology examined you from head to toe.
They didn’t talk much.
Mostly metallic sounds and blinking lights that left you confused.
They guided you into a spotless white room.
Clean.
Cold.
One of them approached carrying a device unlike anything you had ever seen.
“Fertile,” one of the robots declared, as though delivering a verdict.
Then the procedure was performed.
It was quick.
It didn’t hurt.
But afterward, a strange feeling settled in your stomach.
Clark held your hand the entire time.
Without saying a word.
Only squeezing your fingers every now and then to remind you that you weren’t alone.
The robots explained that it would take time before anyone knew whether it had worked.
There were no guarantees.
It was Superman’s sperm and a human woman.
Something that had never been attempted before.
Not even the Kryptonians knew whether it was possible.
But the idea of becoming pregnant and having a son or daughter who carried something of Clark inside them secretly made you happy.
Happier than you were willing to admit.
Because even though you kept telling yourself he was only a donor, that there were no feelings involved, deep down you knew that having his child would make you happy.
And Clark, as silent as ever, simply smiled at you when you left the Fortress.
“It’s done,” he said.
As though it were the simplest thing in the world.
Meanwhile, inside, he was trembling with excitement and fear all at once.
The weeks passed.
Every morning you arrived at the office with your nerves stretched thin, uncertain whether your body had changed or not.
Whenever you came in, Clark would find a reason to approach without making anyone suspicious.
He would stop by your desk carrying a cup of coffee as if it were completely ordinary, as if he simply wanted to chat for a moment.
But then he would lean in slightly.
Lower his voice.
And his eyes would settle on yours with a mixture of hope and fear.
“Nothing?” he would whisper while sipping his coffee.
You would look at him.
“Nothing.”
And he would smile.
But it was a smile that faded quickly, as though he didn’t want to hope too much.
“We have to wait,” he would say.
And you nodded.
So you waited.
And waited.
Every day became a sweet kind of torture.
A mixture of wanting something to happen and being terrified that, in the end, nothing would.
It wasn’t until the following month.
You were sitting at the office, quietly eating while you worked.
Lois sat across from you with an enormous sandwich that looked as though it might fall apart in her hands at any moment.
You glanced at it.
The mayonnaise dripped from the edge.
Thick.
Glossy.
Slowly sliding onto the wrapping paper below.
The smell reached you in a way it never had before.
It wasn’t a bad smell.
But something inside your stomach suddenly twisted.
Without warning.
Without any chance to stop it.
Your mouth flooded with saliva, and your throat tightened.
You bolted for the restroom.
You barely made it before throwing up.
Bent over the toilet, you emptied everything you had eaten that morning.
Just indigestion, you told yourself while wiping your mouth with a paper towel.
Just that.
You refused to let yourself get your hopes up.
But when you stepped out of the women’s restroom, Clark was waiting for you, leaning against the wall.
He looked at you with those blue eyes that seemed to see everything, and there was something on his face that you couldn’t quite read.
He didn’t say a word.
Instead, he held out a black bag, one of those opaque ones that hid whatever was inside.
You took it with trembling hands, unsure of what it contained.
You had asked him for toothpaste and a toothbrush because your mouth tasted awful after throwing up, and you assumed that was what he had brought.
But when you opened the bag, your fingers found a small box.
A pregnancy test.
You looked at him with wide eyes.
“Just... in case,” Clark said in that calm voice he always used whenever he didn’t want to overwhelm you.
But his hands were buried deep in his pockets, clenched tightly.
Very tightly.
You nodded.
There was nothing else to say.
You slipped back into the restroom, locked the door, and stood there for a moment staring at yourself in the mirror.
You looked pale.
Carefully, you brushed your teeth.
Up.
Down.
The fresh taste of mint filled your mouth.
Then you opened the box.
You read the instructions twice, even though you already knew how the test worked.
You followed every step and laid it face-up on the sink.
Then you waited.
The seconds stretched endlessly.
One minute.
Two.
Your heart pounded so hard you could hear it in your ears.
You couldn’t bring yourself to look.
Instead, you left the restroom with the test hidden in your hand, still refusing to see the result.
Clark was still there.
He hadn’t moved an inch.
He looked at you, and the same fear you felt was written across his face.
“I did it, but I haven’t looked yet and... I’m scared, Clark. What if it didn’t work?” you whispered, your voice barely audible.
Clark stepped closer.
He placed a gentle hand on your shoulder, as though he were afraid you might break.
“If it didn’t, then I’m the problem, not you. You can still find another donor. I won’t let you go through this alone,” he said.
And he meant it.
Because he was willing to stay by your side even if he wasn’t the father.
Even if watching you have another man’s child would shatter his heart.
He would rather endure that than see you unhappy.
You nodded.
Then handed him the bag with the test inside.
You couldn’t look at it.
You left the responsibility of reading it to him.
Clark took the bag and carefully pulled out the test.
He stared at it in silence.
One second.
Two.
His expression changed.
His eyes grew slightly glassy, though he pressed his lips together to stop himself from crying.
“You’re one month along,” he whispered, his voice breaking.
He looked directly at you without blinking.
“You’re pregnant.”
“It worked,” you said.
And you nearly shouted it.
You clapped both hands over your mouth to keep from causing a scene in the middle of the newsroom hallway.
But inside, you were practically jumping with joy.
Clark smiled.
A wide, genuine smile he almost never showed anyone.
He stepped forward and wrapped you in a brief, tight hug.
One of those hugs that said more than a thousand words ever could.
Then he quickly pulled away before anyone could see.
But while holding you, he whispered something against your hair.
Something so quiet you almost didn’t hear it.
“Thank you.”
And he meant it for everything.
For giving me this chance.
For letting me be part of your life this way.
For finding me.
You told Perry you were pregnant.
You didn’t tell him who the father was.
You only asked for discretion.
No questions.
No strange looks.
Perry, gruff as ever but kind at heart, simply nodded.
He congratulated you with a firm handshake and never mentioned it again.
Lois and Jimmy found out one evening when you refused to drink alcohol.
You were all gathered at your apartment, just like so many times before.
Lois had brought red wine.
Jimmy had brought whiskey.
You sat there holding a glass but never took a sip.
Clark was seated beside you, as he had been increasingly often lately.
You were wearing looser shirts now that you were three months pregnant.
Your stomach was beginning to show.
Just a small bump.
Easy to hide beneath oversized clothes.
“Come on, have a drink. You’re making me feel like an alcoholic,” Jimmy joked, raising his glass of whiskey.
“Hey, leave her alone. If she doesn’t want to drink, she doesn’t have to,” Lois said.
But one eyebrow was raised.
As though she already suspected something.
“Yeah, it’s almost like you’re pregnant and don’t want to drink,” Jimmy said suddenly.
There was no malice behind it.
Just one of those random comments that slipped out.
The expressions on both your face and Clark’s gave everything away.
Your masks fell instantly.
Your cheeks turned bright red.
Clark went pale as a sheet.
The two of you froze like statues.
Jimmy spit out his wine.
A spray of red splattered across the table as he began coughing violently.
Lois dropped her pizza.
The slice landed face-down on her plate, and she didn’t even notice.
She only stared at you with eyes as wide as saucers.
“Why is... Clark... pale?” Jimmy asked, still wiping his mouth with his sleeve.
Lois pointed at you, her hand trembling.
“You’re pregnant?” she practically shouted.
Then she looked at Clark.
Then back at you.
Then at Clark again.
Her finger slowly shifted toward him.
“By Clark?”
You took a deep breath.
You knew this moment would eventually come.
That didn’t make it any easier.
You raised both hands in a calming gesture.
“It’s not what you think. We... we didn’t... he donated sperm,” you blurted out, the words tumbling over one another.
Clark blushed.
Actually blushed.
Something that almost never happened.
He buried his face in his hands and covered his eyes, looking like a child caught doing something forbidden.
“What? It wasn’t the natural method?” Jimmy asked, looking as though someone had hit him over the head.
His eyes widened dramatically.
He shook his head from side to side, unable to process what he was hearing.
You shook your head.
“No. Nothing like that. We went somewhere... it’s complicated. But nothing happened between us. It was just a medical procedure.”
Lois released a long breath, as though she had been holding it the entire time.
Her eyes filled with tears.
“Oh my God. You’re going to be a mom,” she said, crying as she stood up and wrapped her arms around you.
You smiled.
And her tears made your own eyes sting.
You explained everything.
That you and Clark lived in separate apartments because being a donor didn’t create obligations.
That you weren’t a couple.
That there was nothing romantic between you.
Just...
Well.
Just that.
But while you spoke, Clark kept stealing glances at you.
And in those glances there was something Lois and Jimmy noticed immediately.
Something you never did.
That unmistakable look of someone who wanted far more than he dared ask for.
Of course, Clark took care of you constantly.
Meals.
Cravings.
Medicine.
Everything.
If you got hungry at three in the morning, he appeared at your door carrying whatever you wanted.
If your back hurt, he arrived with a heating pad.
If you forgot your vitamins, he reminded you through text messages.
Always.
And every single time, he used the same excuse.
“I’m the donor. I feel responsible.”
But deep down, that wasn’t the truth.
He simply wanted to be close to you.
He wanted to take care of you.
He wanted, for a few hours each day, to pretend you were a family.
You stopped going to the Planet when your fifth month arrived and your stomach finally rounded into that unmistakable shape.
Now you truly looked pregnant.
You walked more slowly.
Got tired more easily.
And Clark drove you everywhere.
To appointments.
Back home.
Anywhere you needed to go.
At the Fortress, Clark monitored your pregnancy using Kryptonian technology and the robots’ advanced equipment.
Week after week, they examined you.
Nothing was wrong.
The baby appeared perfectly healthy.
The robots reported that the child—a girl, though you hadn’t wanted to know at first—was growing strong and healthy.
A strange blend of human and Kryptonian genetics.
But with no signs of danger.
So your life was never at risk.
One thing, however, was already certain.
The birth would require a cesarean section.
The baby was large.
Far too large to be delivered naturally.
And every time the robots displayed her image on their screens, Clark found himself staring a little longer than he should.
Because every heartbeat he heard reminded him of something he never allowed himself to say.
She’s ours.
And that thought terrified him just as much as it made him happy.
And it was.
A girl.
The moment you saw her, your heart nearly stopped from how beautiful she was.
Clark’s eyes lit up when he held her for the first time.
You gave birth at the Fortress, surrounded by white robots and glowing blue lights.
There was no danger.
Everything went well.
It was simply a long process.
Hours of waiting.
Pushing.
Crying.
Laughing.
And at the end of it all, a tiny little girl with brown hair like yours and blue eyes like Clark’s.
As much as you wanted to hide who her father was, the resemblance was impossible to miss.
Anyone who looked at her could see Clark in her eyes.
And you in her smile.
You returned to your apartment two days later.
Clark helped you into bed, carefully arranging the pillows behind your back so you would be comfortable.
Then he placed the crib beside your bed.
A beautiful crib made of light-colored wood, with smooth railings and a mattress that looked soft enough to be a cloud.
A crib he had purchased weeks earlier while you were taking a nap.
When Lois had asked him why there was a crib in his apartment, he had simply replied,
“It’s just a gift for my friend.”
And Lois had looked at him with a sad smile.
Because she knew.
She had always known.
He stayed with you that night.
And the next.
And the next.
He handed you the baby whenever it was time to nurse her.
Prepared meals while you rested.
Washed dishes.
Tidied the living room.
Whenever you fell asleep, Clark would sit in a chair beside the crib and watch the baby sleep.
For hours.
Without moving a single muscle.
His forearms resting on his knees.
Every hour, without fail, he used his X-ray vision to make sure both of you were sleeping peacefully and breathing normally.
Once every sixty minutes, just when you had fallen into a deep sleep, he would tilt his head slightly and look through the walls.
Through your body.
Through the crib.
Checking that both hearts were beating exactly as they should.
Only then would he allow himself to relax.
One evening, he pulled a wooden chair next to the crib and opened his laptop while darkness settled outside.
He began researching everything a newborn baby could possibly need.
Then he ordered it all for delivery.
Items scheduled to arrive the next day.
Or the day after.
Clothes he knew you hadn’t bought because you only owned the basic outfits Lois had gifted you.
He ordered long-sleeved onesies.
Cotton pajamas.
Tiny hats.
Little booties.
And several small dresses decorated with animals because he thought they were unbearably adorable.
He found a comfortable breast pump after reading thousands of reviews claiming it didn’t cause mothers discomfort.
He spent three hours comparing opinions before making his decision.
Soft-colored blankets.
Fleece throws for colder days.
A lightweight stroller that could be folded with one hand because he imagined you carrying the baby while trying to manage everything else.
A strange little device that gently rocked a baby on its own without needing someone to bounce it with a foot.
He found it in a baby store and thought it was incredible.
A large baby wrap designed to keep an infant snug against a parent’s chest while leaving both hands free.
He bought one for you.
And another for himself.
In case I ever babysit her, he told himself.
But the truth was that he bought it because he wanted something that would smell like her.
Glass baby bottles because he had read they were healthier.
A steam sterilizer.
More things than he could count.
The packages arrived slowly throughout those first days.
Box after box appeared at your doorstep.
Clark quietly carried them inside while you slept.
Clark never left.
He stayed for two straight weeks.
Sleeping on the couch.
Waking in the middle of the night at the slightest sound from the baby.
Bringing you water while you nursed.
Changing diapers without being asked.
And every time he saw you holding her, something in his expression softened.
He never said anything.
Because Clark never said anything.
But he was there.
Every night.
Every morning.
Every single day.
And while he watched his daughter sleep...
And while he listened to you breathing nearby...
Clark thought that this was the greatest I love you he could ever give you.
Because staying.
Being present.
Taking care of both of you without asking for anything in return.
That was his way of loving you.
The only way he believed he was allowed to.
If I can't be the man who holds her hand as your husband, then I'll be the man who shows up every day.
If I can't tell you that I love you, then I'll spend the rest of my life proving it.
And so, long after both of you had fallen asleep, Clark remained there beside the crib.
Watching over his daughter.
Watching over you.
Guarding the two people he loved most in the world.
Silently.
Just as he always had.
The days passed.
One week.
Then another.
Clark was still there, in your apartment, never leaving.
He slept on the couch every night, and every morning he woke up before you to make breakfast.
He learned how to prepare coffee with milk.
He learned how to heat food without burning it.
He learned how to change diapers with one hand while holding the baby with the other.
He had become part of the apartment.
Like another piece of furniture.
Like the light inside the refrigerator—something that was always there without you really noticing.
But one day, after nearly a month, something felt strange.
It wasn't that you didn't want him there.
It was that you started wondering whether you were letting him get too used to it.
Whether he felt obligated to stay.
Whether he was remaining out of kindness.
Out of pity.
Or simply because he was too good-hearted to tell you that he wanted to leave.
And you hated that thought.
You didn't want Clark staying because he felt sorry for you.
That afternoon, while he washed baby bottles in the kitchen and the baby slept peacefully in her bassinet, you leaned against the doorway and watched him.
His broad shoulders.
His slightly messy hair.
His bare feet against the cold floor.
He looked so natural there.
As though he had always lived with you.
And that was exactly what frightened you.
Because he was only the donor.
He wasn't your partner.
He wasn't the baby's father in the sense that the three of you lived together.
You couldn't allow yourself to get used to having him there.
"Clark."
He turned his head toward you with a small smile.
"I've been thinking..." you began. "You've been here for almost a month now. You don't have to stay anymore. You can go back home."
Clark stopped moving the dish towel he had been using to dry a bottle.
He froze for a second.
Barely the length of a heartbeat.
Then he nodded.
He placed the bottle on the counter and dried his hands on a kitchen towel.
"Yeah, you're right," he said.
His voice sounded normal.
Calm.
"I've been getting a little too comfortable around here."
And he smiled.
But it was a smile that never reached his eyes.
You didn't notice.
He was very good at hiding things.
He agreed to leave.
He packed his belongings into a small backpack.
A couple of shirts.
His toothbrush.
His phone charger.
He put on his shoes by the front door and looked at you for a moment.
"If you need anything, call me. Doesn't matter what time it is."
You nodded.
Thanked him.
And then he walked out the door.
He made his way down the hallway.
Down the stairs.
And when he finally reached the street, he stopped on the sidewalk and looked up at the window of your apartment.
And there, alone in the darkness, he finally allowed himself to be sad.
Because during the month he had spent with you, he had experienced the closest thing to a family he had ever known.
Waking up to the sounds you made in the morning.
Hearing the baby cry in the middle of the night.
Making dinner for three, even when one of them only drank milk.
All of it.
It was everything he had dreamed about without ever allowing himself to dream.
And now he was returning to his empty apartment.
His cold bed.
His silence.
His loneliness.
This was never supposed to feel like home.
So why does leaving hurt this much?
He could still hear the baby's heartbeat from where he stood.
Could still hear yours.
Two steady rhythms above him.
Safe.
Together.
Without him.
The thought settled heavily in his chest.
Don't be selfish.
She's happy.
That's what matters.
She's happy.
He repeated it like a prayer.
Like something he needed to believe.
Because loving you had always meant putting your happiness before his own.
Even when it hurt.
Especially when it hurt.
But Clark Kent was not the kind of man who stood around crying over what he couldn't have.
He took a slow breath.
Straightened his shoulders.
And tucked his hands into his pockets.
Then he started walking home.
He told himself he had enjoyed every second of it.
Every midnight feeding.
Every sleepy conversation.
Every moment spent watching you hold your daughter.
Their daughter.
Though he would never dare say those words aloud.
For a little while, I got to pretend.
For a little while, I got to know what it felt like.
And maybe that was enough.
You had told him he was always welcome.
That he could come back whenever he wanted.
That had to be enough.
It needed to be enough.
Because it was all he was ever going to have.
Or at least, that's what Clark convinced himself as he disappeared into the night and walked back toward an apartment that had never felt emptier.
Sinopsis: When the world discovers that Superman wears a wedding ring hidden around his neck, Metropolis becomes obsessed with uncovering the identity of the mysterious woman who captured the Man of Steel’s heart. Meanwhile, you only want to survive another normal workday while hiding the truth: Superman’s wife has been sitting behind a bank desk this entire time.
Warnings: Mentions of media invasion/privacy concerns, Anxiety over secret identity
WC: 2,600 words approx.
The news broke the internet. Not slowly, not like those stories that start small and then grow over time. This was like someone had pressed a button, and suddenly the entire world was talking about the same thing. The Daily Planet had the first image, and that was no small matter, because thanks to Jimmy capturing Superman in the photograph, it wasn’t just some blurry pixels that said nothing. No, it was the photograph everyone needed to explode with speculation. In the picture was Superman, the Man of Steel, the most powerful hero on the planet, smiling while carrying a little girl in his arms. But what made the image special was a tiny detail that Jimmy, with his camera always ready, had managed to catch: a thin necklace hanging around the hero’s neck, and from that necklace hung a ring. An engagement ring. At first glance, anyone could think it was just a normal piece of jewelry, but the people who truly knew Superman knew he never wore accessories. Never. So why was he carrying that ring so close to his chest, right above his heart? The question spread faster than Superman himself.
“That can’t be real,” you heard one of your coworkers shout. You looked over curiously toward where he was standing, because his voice sounded genuinely shocked, as if he had seen a ghost or something equally unbelievable. He had his phone in hand and couldn’t stop darting his eyes back and forth, reading something that had him completely captivated.
“This is impossible,” said another woman who was being helped by one of your coworkers. She also had her phone out, and even though she was in the middle of paperwork, she couldn’t take her eyes off the screen. Her voice trembled slightly, as if whatever she was seeing had stolen the air from her lungs for a second.
“Oh my God, I knew that man had a woman,” your coworker said, and you almost blushed without really understanding why. It wasn’t that serious, you thought, but something about the way she said it—with that certainty and poorly hidden envy—made a strange warmth curl in your stomach.
At the bank where you worked, your job was to assist people who came in looking to sign up for the bank’s benefits, like credit cards or medical insurance. Most of the time it was a calm job, although sometimes the place got crowded and everyone had to rush around. Luckily, that day there still weren’t many customers to attend to. In fact, you had been filling out information for an insurance case that required endless paperwork and documents, and that had kept you busy all morning. You were about to stretch out your arm to grab your hot chocolate—the one you always made yourself halfway through the day to recharge your energy—when suddenly you froze. Something in the atmosphere had changed. It wasn’t noise, it wasn’t movement, it was more like a wave of excitement coming from all your coworkers at once. Everyone was glued to their phones, and some had even stood up from their chairs to gather around others and show them something.
“I’m so jealous, Superman has a wife,” said Thaeli, your coworker on your left. She was always dramatic, you knew that, but this time she took it further than ever: she stretched her hands toward the ceiling as if begging for a miracle and made an exaggerated expression that usually would have made you laugh. But this time it didn’t. You stared at her, feeling something tighten inside your chest.
“What?” you asked, almost nervously, though you tried to keep your voice sounding normal. You didn’t want Thaeli noticing anything strange about you, because she could be very observant when she wanted to.
“It’s everywhere, look,” Thaeli said, handing you her phone. The screen was already on, showing the exact picture everyone was talking about.
You looked at the image. There was Superman, smiling the way he always did in photographs, with that confidence that made people trust him so easily. He was carrying a little girl in his arms, a dark-haired child laughing while he lifted her as if she weighed nothing. But what truly mattered was what hung against his chest. A red circle on the photo pointed directly at it: a thin necklace with a ring dangling from it. You recognized it instantly. You knew Clark carried it with him when he worked at the Daily Planet. He had told you he needed to keep it with him while he worked because he couldn’t stand the idea of leaving it at home.
“It’s a necklace made from a strange material, it won’t let the ring fall off even if there’s a bomb,” he had explained the first time he showed it to you. “I don’t think anyone will notice it, I move too fast.”
Well, apparently not, Clark. Jimmy moves faster than you thought. And now the entire world was seeing what was only supposed to belong to you.
You handed Thaeli’s phone back carefully, trying not to let your hand shake. Barely managing it. Thaeli took it without taking her eyes off the picture, and you took the opportunity to breathe deeply once.
“Lucky woman, huh?” Thaeli said, shaking her head from side to side as if she still couldn’t believe it. You nodded, though inside you felt something very different from luck.
“Definitely,” you agreed, and without meaning to, you glanced at your ring. Yours. The one Clark had slipped onto your finger the day he knelt in front of you in the tiny kitchen of his apartment, his hands trembling and his smile bigger than the entire city.
No… no one would figure it out, you thought quickly. There were thousands of women in the world wearing wedding rings. Millions, probably. Your ring wasn’t special, it wasn’t unique. Even so, you lowered your hand and hid it beneath the desk, as if that small piece of jewelry could somehow betray you.
You picked up your own phone. There were even more images now, different angles, all taken by people who had happened to be in the right place at the right time. Every photograph showed Superman from a different perspective, but in all of them the ring hanging from the strange necklace was visible. The headlines were getting crazier by the minute.
“Superman: who is his superwoman?” one article read.
And underneath it, another one asked, “Is the woman even from this planet?”
You smiled despite yourself. Of course she was from this planet, you thought. She was from Metropolis, actually. But they didn’t know that.
Even so, nerves floated inside you like untied balloons. You knew Clark was extremely careful with you and with your marriage. Both of you were. His friends knew about his marriage to you, just as your friends knew about your marriage to the Daily Planet reporter. But the world didn’t know. The world saw Superman as a hero without attachments, someone who belonged to everyone and no one at the same time. And now, suddenly, that ring said otherwise. It said Superman belonged to someone. It said someone had won his heart. And that someone was you.
The day at the bank felt endless. Every minute dragged on like an hour, and every time someone mentioned the word “Superman,” you felt a small twist in your chest. Your coworkers couldn’t stop talking about the ring, about the lucky woman, about how she could have possibly captured the Man of Steel’s heart. Thaeli had even started making bets on whether the mysterious wife was a superhero or just a normal person.
You only nodded, smiled whenever you were supposed to, and kept your left hand hidden beneath the desk most of the time. You hadn’t taken the ring off—not once. Never. Clark loved seeing it on your hand, and you loved feeling it there, warm against your skin, like a beautiful secret shared only between the two of you. He never took his off either, you knew that well. When he was at the Daily Planet, he wore it on his finger like any normal reporter. And when he put on the cape to become Superman, he slipped it onto that necklace he insisted was invisible.
“No one’s going to notice it,” he had told you more than once, with that confidence of his that sometimes made you laugh and sometimes worried you.
Well, now it was everywhere. On the televisions inside the bank, on everyone’s phones, on the giant screens out on the street when you stepped outside for lunch. There wasn’t a single place where people weren’t talking about it.
When it was finally time to leave, you let out a deep breath. The evening air hit your face, and you felt your shoulders relax slightly. You walked home with slow but steady steps when you suddenly felt the soft buzz of your phone.
It was a message from Clark.
“See you at home,” the first one read.
Then another message appeared:
“I’ll keep pace with you until I know you’ve made it safely.”
You smiled. You knew he followed your heartbeat, that no matter where he was, he could hear the rhythm of your heart among the millions of people in Metropolis. It made you feel protected, as if he were holding your hand even from far away. So you kept walking calmly, without rushing, letting the cool evening air clear your mind a little. The streets were full of people staring at screens and discussing the news, but you simply kept going until you reached your building.
You climbed the stairs the way you always did, step by step, and when you reached the apartment, you pulled out your keys. You opened the door and stepped inside. The first thing you saw was Clark. He was standing by the window, looking outside, though not at the city skyline. He was staring at the glass, or maybe at his own reflection, or maybe at none of those things at all. His shoulders were slightly slumped, something rarely seen on him. The moment he heard your first step inside the apartment, just the sound of your shoe against the floor, he turned around quickly. His eyes met yours for a second before dropping to the floor, as if he felt embarrassed or didn’t know how to look at you after what had happened.
“I don’t know what to do,” he said. His voice sounded tired, more tired than when he came back from stopping a fire or holding back an earthquake.
You closed the door carefully, without making much noise. You left your bag on the living room chair, hung your coat on the rack the way you always did, and walked toward him with soft steps. You nodded once and said, in the calmest voice you could manage,
“Come here.”
Clark didn’t need to be told twice. He took one long step and wrapped you in a tight embrace, though not in the way he sometimes did when he wanted to lift you into the air. No. This was a tired hug, one where he leaned on you more than you leaned on him. He buried his face in your neck, right where your shoulder met your throat, the place he always said smelled like home. And before going still, he pressed a quick kiss to your cheek.
“Hi,” he greeted softly, before hiding in your neck again like an oversized child.
You smiled at his behavior. Despite everything, despite the chaos outside, he was still that huge man who curled up against your shoulder whenever something worried him. You ran a hand along his back, feeling the fabric of his shirt beneath your fingertips, then whispered close to his ear,
“What happened, big guy?”
He sighed against your skin, his voice coming out muffled.
“You told me. They were going to see it.”
You nodded even though he couldn’t see you from where he was.
“I told you,” you said, not as a reproach, only as a gentle reminder.
Clark lifted his head slightly to look at you, just enough for you to see his blue eyes behind the glasses he wore as a disguise.
“You’re developing that mother ability to say ‘I told you so,’” he said, and a small smile appeared on his lips, the kind that only came out when he was nervous or emotional.
And then, suddenly, as if the thought had been floating around in his head and he had only just gathered the courage to say it out loud, he added,
“Maybe it’s a sign for us to have a baby.”
You stared at him. Your heart jumped in a way you couldn’t control, and Clark tilted his head slightly, like a large dog waiting for your reaction. He didn’t say anything else. He only looked at you with those eyes that sometimes seemed to ask permission for everything.
A few seconds passed. You still had one hand resting on his back, and he still had his long arms wrapped around you. Then you spoke carefully, the way someone touches something fragile.
“Have you thought about the fact that maybe the best option would be not wearing the ring?”
Clark’s eyes widened slightly. He shook his head immediately, not slowly but firmly, like he had thought about that possibility many times already and had his answer prepared.
“What?” he said, and his voice sounded almost offended, as though you had suggested something impossible.
He loosened his hold on you just enough to raise his right hand. There it was. The ring. On his finger. Just like always. You looked at it for a moment, the metal gleaming softly under the afternoon light spilling through the window. Clark kept talking, and his voice filled with something softer than tenderness but somehow stronger.
“It’s my treasure. The greatest one of all.”
You smiled. You couldn’t help it. He always found a way to make you smile even when the world outside was losing its mind.
“I’ll wear it here, on my finger, or on my necklace,” he said, curling his hand slightly where the ring rested. “I’m not taking it off.”
You nodded. You knew. You had known from the very beginning, even before asking. Clark wasn’t the kind of person who hid the things he loved, even if it caused him trouble. That was why you loved him. That was why you had married him.
“So what are you going to do about people?” you asked while lifting your hand to gently caress his cheek.
He leaned slightly into your touch, closing his eyes for a second as though something as simple as that gave him strength. When he opened them again, that mischievous smile you loved so much had already appeared.
“People love Superman,” he said slowly, “not Superman’s life.”
You raised an eyebrow, waiting for him to finish.
“If I don’t talk, they’ll never know anything. I’ll never tell them.”
You laughed softly at his words. Because it was so him, so incredibly Clark, to say something like that with the calm confidence he always had when it came to impossible things. As if it were easy. As if the entire world wasn’t desperately searching for answers right now.
“Okay,” you said, leaning in to kiss his cheek, right where a small dimple sometimes appeared when he smiled for real.
And there, in the living room of his apartment, with the news screaming outside and the ring shining on Superman’s hand, everything felt just a little more peaceful.
Sinopsis: A harmless lie told to escape an unwanted coworker forces a Daily Planet photographer and Clark Kent into a fake relationship. What begins as a simple favor soon becomes far more complicated when real feelings start getting involved.
Your heart pounded as you walked toward your floor. You felt nervous, very nervous, because you knew what you had to do. You had made the decision the night before, when you couldn't sleep from thinking about everything that had happened. You were going to do it, even though you couldn't guarantee that everything would turn out well. It wasn't that you liked lying—not at all. You were an honest person, the kind who says exactly what's on her mind, but lately you had been feeling very uncomfortable. Very uncomfortable every time you had to go down to the editors' floor. Every time you had to run into Benjamin Corvin. And that bothered you, because your job was something you genuinely enjoyed.
You had started working at the Daily Planet exactly six months ago. You were hired as a photographer, and from the very first day, you knew you had arrived somewhere special. The walls were tall, covered with framed old newspapers, awards, and photographs that told stories from decades past. The building smelled like paper and freshly brewed coffee, and the sound of typewriters and keyboards was like a background song that never stopped playing. You liked that noise. It made you feel like you were part of something important.
Your job was divided into two parts. Sometimes you were assigned to work with Cat Grant, the newspaper's most famous interviewer, the woman who could always get even the quietest artists and the most arrogant actors to talk. You accompanied her to interviews and took photographs of those stars who appeared in magazines and on television. You met singers who filled stadiums, actors who won awards, and film directors admired by everyone. And although being around them made you a little nervous at first, Cat taught you how to stay calm, how to find the perfect angle, how to wait for the right moment to press the shutter. She was demanding, but she was always fair with you, and you appreciated that.
Other times, you were assigned to Clark Kent.
And that was completely different.
But also much better.
Because Clark didn't interview artists or singers. Clark interviewed presidents, diplomatic agents, important people who made decisions that changed the country. And you went with him, taking pictures of those men and women in suits and ties, of those people who spoke in complicated terms and always seemed to be in a hurry.
But the best part of working with Clark wasn't the type of interviews.
It was him.
Clark was kind. Far too kind.
He always smiled at you. Always asked how you were doing. Always worried about whether you were too cold or too warm, or whether you were getting too tired.
And whenever you were assigned to work with him, you knew free pastries were waiting for you.
Clark loved buying sweet things. He said sugar helped people think better. And he always carried a little bag filled with cookies, donuts, or those cake pops covered in colorful sprinkles that you loved so much. He would place them on your desk without saying anything, simply leaving them there like a silent gift.
And at the end of the day, you always ended up at an Italian restaurant Clark knew, one located just a few blocks from the newspaper building. He claimed it was the best restaurant in the city, that the pasta was handmade and the tomato sauce was based on the owner's grandmother's secret recipe.
At first, you thought he was simply being polite. That he invited you out of obligation.
But one day, you told him it wasn't necessary, that you could eat alone at home.
And he looked at you with those big, clear eyes and said,
"It was a team effort. I'd feel bad eating alone."
So you smiled and accepted, because with Clark, everything was easy.
Everything felt simple.
Natural.
As if you had known him your entire life.
But not everything was like that.
As much as you wished everything could be like working with Cat or Clark, it wasn't.
Because the problem was downstairs.
That's where the editors worked. The people who corrected the writers' work, who reviewed every word, who changed commas and periods and sometimes entire headlines. It was also where the people who evaluated photographs worked, the ones who decided whether an image was blurry, whether the framing was wrong, or whether the lighting didn't flatter the interviewee.
That floor was quieter than the one above. People spoke in low voices. The phones rang with deep tones. Everyone moved quickly without making noise.
Honestly, it was a little intimidating.
At first, you didn't think much of it.
You would go downstairs, hand over the memory cards they gave you, and come back up.
Simple as that.
The memory cards were always requested so the files could be transferred into the newspaper's archive and historical records, ensuring nobody could plagiarize them. The newspaper took that very seriously. They didn't want another outlet stealing their photographs or articles.
So every time an interview or an important story was completed, someone had to bring the memory cards down to the editors' floor.
And at first, you did it because you had told Clark,
"No problem, I'll take them down. It'll give me a chance to stretch my legs."
And he smiled that calm, warm smile of his and said,
"Alright. Thank you very much."
Because that day he had to finish an extremely long article. He looked so stressed, surrounded by the clock, stacks of papers, and his computer, that helping him felt like the least you could do.
So it became routine.
Something you did without thinking.
You walked down the stairs, crossed the long hallway, greeted the people at their desks, dropped the memory cards into the editing intake tray, and headed back upstairs.
You did it many times.
Again and again.
Sometimes Clark was in meetings and couldn't go himself.
Other times he was transcribing interviews that had lasted for hours, his fingers moving rapidly across the keyboard while his eyes remained fixed on the screen.
You never complained, especially because your photographs were always ready.
You kept them organized in folders, clearly labeled and properly arranged, waiting to be used.
You knew your images brought Clark's articles to life.
That they helped people stop and read.
That they caught attention.
And you liked that.
You liked knowing your work mattered.
But that was the mistake.
You never knew exactly when everything started.
Or whether it was because of a professional smile you accidentally gave one day.
Or a particularly cheerful "good morning."
Or maybe a "thank you" that sounded kinder than it should have.
But Benjamin Corvin, the editor who always sent your emails, began to change things.
At first, it was small.
He stopped tagging Clark in the emails.
He would send a message saying the memory cards were needed, but Clark's name wouldn't appear.
Only yours.
You assumed it was a mistake.
Anyone could make an error while writing an email.
But it happened again.
And again.
And after a few more messages, he stopped calling you down only for the memory cards.
He called because he claimed the photos hadn't been saved correctly.
That there was an error.
That the memory card was empty or corrupted.
But you knew it wasn't.
You always checked before going downstairs.
You connected the card to your computer, opened the folder, and looked through the photographs one by one.
Everything was there.
Everything was fine.
But he insisted otherwise.
Insisted that you come downstairs again.
Insisted that you stay for a moment while he "reviewed" the files.
And then it got worse.
One day, you went downstairs with the memory cards as usual. You greeted everyone, smiled politely, and watched him walk toward you with a cup of coffee in his hand. He moved slowly, as if he had all the time in the world, as if you had nothing more important to do. The other editors remained at their desks, typing or reading papers, and even though they were all nearby, it seemed like nobody was looking.
Or maybe they were.
Maybe they were simply used to it.
Maybe Benjamin did this all the time, and they had learned to keep their heads down and stay out of it.
"What are you doing after work?" he asked.
His voice was calm, but there was something in his tone that made you feel small. As if he was above you and you were beneath him, and that was how things were supposed to be.
You tightened your grip on the memory cards and searched for a quick answer. You didn't want to tell him the truth. You didn't want to say that maybe you were going home to watch television, or that you simply wanted to be alone.
So you made up an excuse.
The first thing that came to mind.
"I have a doctor's appointment," you said.
The lie tasted bitter in your mouth, but you felt relieved to have said something.
Benjamin nodded, but he didn't leave.
He stayed right there, standing in front of you with that crooked smile you disliked so much. It was the kind of smile that never reached his eyes, remaining only on his lips as though it had been carefully practiced.
Then he stepped a little closer.
Close enough for you to smell his cologne, a strong scent that seemed to fill the air around him.
"Mmm... sure," he said, sounding as though he didn't entirely believe you. "If you're ever free one day, let me know, alright?"
You didn't know what to say.
The words got stuck in your throat.
You wanted to tell him no.
You wanted to tell him that you weren't going to let him know anything.
That you'd rather stay busy forever.
But your mouth wouldn't move.
You remained frozen, your palms beginning to sweat, your heart beating faster than usual.
And at that exact moment—at the precise moment when you had no idea what to do—your phone rang.
The sound felt like a lifeline thrown into deep water.
You glanced at the screen and saw Clark's name.
You answered immediately, barely looking.
His voice came through clear and hurried.
"Hey, are you still downstairs?" Clark asked. "Come back up when you can. We just got assigned a new task. It's urgent."
You ended the call and looked at Benjamin.
He was still standing there, holding his coffee and wearing that smile.
You took a breath.
Let it out slowly.
And without saying another word, you turned around.
You walked toward the stairs with firm steps, feeling his eyes on your back.
You didn't look behind you.
You didn't want to see him.
You just wanted to go upstairs, see Clark, and feel safe again.
But he kept insisting.
He took advantage of every opportunity he could find to smile at you, approach you, run into you in the hallway, in the cafeteria, or even on your own floor.
Sometimes he came upstairs with some excuse—a document that needed your signature or a last-minute review.
You would see him approaching and immediately feel a knot tighten in your stomach.
The kind of knot that squeezes so hard it makes it difficult to breathe.
Sometimes you hid behind Clark so Benjamin wouldn't look at you.
And with how tall Clark was, you completely disappeared behind him.
You stayed there as though he were a wall.
A wall made of suits and ties that shielded you from Benjamin's gaze.
Clark never asked why you did it.
He simply continued talking as though nothing unusual was happening.
And you appreciated his silence.
You also stopped leaving the building alone.
Before, you hadn't minded walking out peacefully, listening to music through your headphones or scrolling through your phone.
Now you did.
Now you were afraid of running into him outside.
At the entrance.
In the parking lot.
Anywhere.
You were afraid there would be nobody around.
That it would be just you and him.
And that he would say something.
Or do something.
And you wouldn't know how to react.
One afternoon, everything you feared happened.
Clark had an unexpected obligation and left work early.
He apologized, saying he had to rush out and that he'd see you the next day.
You smiled and told him it was fine, that you were about to leave too.
But when you reached the elevator and the doors opened, you saw him.
Benjamin was inside.
Alone.
Leaning against the wall with that smile you had come to hate.
Your heart jumped.
Not from excitement.
Not from anticipation.
Not from the kind of nervousness that could sometimes feel pleasant.
Your heart jumped because of fear.
You were trapped inside a small metal box with a coworker who refused to leave you alone.
A place you couldn't escape until the doors opened again.
You stood frozen for a moment, wondering whether you could simply wait for the next elevator.
But Benjamin had already seen you.
He had already placed his foot between the doors to keep them from closing.
He was already smiling at you as though everything were perfectly normal.
So you stepped inside.
You positioned yourself in the opposite corner, as far away from him as possible, and stared straight ahead without speaking.
"Got plans tonight?" he asked in that calm voice that always sounded fake to you. "We could grab a drink. I know a good place nearby."
You shook your head without looking at him.
But he moved closer.
One step.
Then another.
Now he was closer than before.
Far too close.
He slowly raised one hand.
And you watched his fingers move toward your arm.
He was going to touch you.
He was going to put his hand on you.
And you didn't know whether you would be able to move or if you would freeze like a statue.
And then—
Just as Benjamin's hand was about to brush against your skin—
The elevator doors opened.
Lois was standing there.
Her purse hung from one shoulder, her keys in her hand.
She had been heading upstairs to grab her things before going home.
But the moment she looked at you and then at Benjamin, her expression changed completely.
She frowned.
Her jaw tightened.
And her eyes became small and hard as stone.
"Acting like a creepy fucking stalker again, Corvin?" Lois asked.
Her voice wasn't a shout.
Yet somehow it sounded louder than any shout could have.
You were incredibly pale.
You could feel it in your face.
In your hands.
Throughout your entire body.
And you knew Lois had noticed because she looked you up and down, and her frown deepened even more.
Benjamin let out a short laugh, as if Lois had told a bad joke.
He slipped one hand into his pocket and looked at her with those eyes that had always seemed cold to you.
"I was just inviting her out for a drink, Lane," he said, shaking his head as though she were the unreasonable one. "Not everyone is as bitter as you."
You felt your legs tremble slightly.
You didn't want to stay there.
You didn't want to hear another word.
You searched for something to say.
Anything that would get you out of that elevator and away from that situation.
"I have to see my brother," you blurted out.
Even though you were an only child, and everyone knew it except him.
But he didn't care.
Because he didn't know anything about you.
He only saw you as something pretty to look at.
"I'm sorry," you added.
Then you looked at Lois.
Lois met your gaze and nodded once.
A small, quick gesture that clearly meant:
"Get out of here. I'll handle this."
So you left.
You walked quickly toward the building's exit, your heart lodged in your throat.
And before stepping outside, you turned your head for just a second.
"Good night," you said.
Then you left.
Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Benjamin make a move to follow you.
To go after you.
But Lois stopped him.
She grabbed his arm firmly, with the kind of strength nobody expected from someone as slender as her.
"We need to talk about my article, Corvin," Lois said, her voice filled with fury. "And your edits. Right now."
She was saving you.
She was genuinely saving you.
You walked toward the street.
Toward the cool evening air.
Toward the people passing by who had no idea what had just happened.
And you made it home alone.
But safe.
That night, you couldn't sleep well.
You tossed and turned in bed, staring at the ceiling and thinking about the fact that tomorrow, you'd have to go back.
But he continued.
He didn't stop.
As if nothing had happened.
As if Lois had never confronted him.
As if you hadn't left that elevator trembling.
The next day, there was the smile again.
Another day with a coffee cup in his hand and those slow steps heading toward you.
And then another day.
And another.
He was like a shadow that refused to leave.
Like a fly buzzing near your ear that you couldn't swat away.
Maybe that was why you hurried after Clark whenever he left.
Because if Clark was with you, Benjamin only watched from a distance and smiled, while you deliberately looked away.
You didn't want to see him.
Clark walked with you to the elevator or the building's exit, and Benjamin never dared approach when Clark was around.
Maybe because Clark was big.
Tall.
And even though he was kind, he was also intimidating without meaning to be.
Maybe that was why you were hurrying toward the floor's printer that day.
Because you knew Clark was there, standing near the machine making copies, and you needed to be close to him.
You needed to feel like you weren't alone.
Because your interactions with the editor were suffocating you.
You felt cornered.
Like a small animal being slowly trapped, leaving you with less and less room to move or breathe.
And yesterday, the stupidest lie in the world had slipped out of your mouth.
A lie you hadn't planned.
One that had come out on its own because you were so afraid.
You didn't like lying.
You never had.
But you were scared.
Scared that you'd be fired if Benjamin became angry because you rejected him.
Scared that if he made something up—something false about you, something awful you had never done—everyone would believe him because he had worked there for four years.
Four years.
Four years of knowing everyone.
Of making friends.
Of earning the trust of the bosses.
And you only had six months.
Almost seven.
But six months were nothing compared to four years.
That's why the lie came out.
A stupid little thing.
You said something that wasn't true just to make him go away.
Just to gain one minute of peace.
But it didn't work.
Nothing worked with him.
So that morning, as you walked toward the printer and saw Clark standing with his back to you, waiting for a stack of pages to finish printing, you felt your legs trembling again.
You hesitated when you were only a few steps away.
Lois had told you Clark would be there. That it would be a good time to talk to him.
But everyone said asking Clark for favors was easy.
That he never said no.
Except that over the past few weeks, you had heard the exact opposite.
You had overheard it in the break room when Steve was complaining.
Clark hadn't been there at the time.
"He actually told me no," Steve said, his voice high-pitched with outrage. "When he always helps me. Always. And now he suddenly tells me he can't."
You raised an eyebrow and looked at him.
Steve was the type of person who asked for favors constantly, as if everyone else existed solely to help him.
"How strange," you said, a hint of sarcasm in your voice. "Maybe because you've asked him about three hundred times."
Lois, who was drinking coffee nearby, burst out laughing.
The kind of laugh that came naturally.
Not out of politeness.
"Well," Zoe said, crossing her arms, "Clark used to be nicer. He told me no too. I asked if he could stay a few extra hours to help me with some edits. I know it was already quitting time, but we're coworkers, right? Coworkers help each other."
A spark of irritation flared in your chest.
You didn't like the way they talked about Clark.
As if he was obligated to help them.
As if his time mattered less than theirs.
"I'm happy about it," you said, crossing your arms and leaning against the table. "Maybe when someone is kind, people mistake that for being a fool. And Clark isn't a fool. You should appreciate his help when he gives it instead of complaining when he doesn't."
Everyone fell silent for a moment.
Lois looked at you with a small smile, as if she agreed.
"Well, maybe you won't be getting it anymore," Lois said, lifting her coffee cup. "Or any more favors. He's taking it seriously, it seems."
You remembered all of that as you walked toward the printer.
And you felt like a hypocrite.
A complete hypocrite.
Because there you were, on your way to ask Clark for an enormous favor.
A gigantic favor.
The kind of favor you didn't ask a coworker for.
And he would probably reject you, just like he had rejected Steve and Zoe.
Because Clark didn't do favors anymore.
Clark was setting boundaries.
And you were about to cross every single one of them.
You reached the printer.
There were people nearby, two employees you didn't know very well, sorting through folders.
Clark stood beside the machine, waiting for his copies.
You moved to stand beside him.
Very close.
And glanced at him from the corner of your eye without saying anything.
Your heart was beating so loudly you thought he might actually hear it.
Clark turned his head and looked at you.
He had those big, clear eyes that always made you feel calm.
But now there was a question in them too.
"Everything alright?" he asked, tilting his head slightly.
You knew you were being obvious.
You couldn't hide anything from Clark.
He always noticed when something was wrong.
"Yes," you said quickly.
Then you shook your head.
"No."
You looked at the other people still standing nearby.
You couldn't talk while they were listening.
You couldn't say what needed to be said with strangers around.
"I need... I..." you stammered, feeling the words tangle together. "Can we wait until everyone leaves?"
You whispered it so quietly that it was almost inaudible.
But Clark heard you.
Clark always heard you.
He nodded without asking any questions.
And you released some of the breath trapped inside your lungs.
You gave him a tired smile.
One of those smiles people make when they're too exhausted to keep pretending.
And Clark noticed it.
Of course he noticed it.
His expression became a little more serious.
A little more attentive.
The two people nearby finished gathering their things and left.
First one.
Then the other.
And when they were finally alone in that part of the hallway, you stopped pretending.
You stopped rearranging copies that didn't need rearranging.
Stopped looking away.
You took a breath.
And looked at him.
"Did something happen?" Clark asked.
His voice was gentle.
So gentle it almost hurt.
You fidgeted with your hands.
Squeezing them together.
Letting go.
Then squeezing them again.
You couldn't look him in the eyes.
If you looked at him, maybe you wouldn't be able to say what you needed to say.
"I know we have a professional relationship," you began, your voice sounding smaller than you wanted it to. "And I don't want to ruin it."
Clark said nothing.
He simply waited.
"I need a huge favor."
This time you lifted your head.
You saw him listening carefully.
Saw that he wasn't judging you.
But you didn't let him speak because you were afraid that if he said anything before you finished, you would lose your nerve.
"I need you to pretend to be my boyfriend."
You blurted it out all at once.
Like throwing a stone into water and waiting for the ripples.
Then you fell silent.
Waiting for his reaction.
But Clark didn't say anything.
He remained perfectly still, looking at you, his copies tucked under one arm.
"In the newsroom," you added, just in case it hadn't been clear. "Only in the newsroom. I need you to pretend to be my boyfriend in the newsroom."
He still didn't speak.
You bit your lip and felt your eyes sting.
But you weren't going to cry.
Not there.
Not in front of him.
"I know you said you don't do favors anymore," you continued, speaking faster now, as if all the words were trying to escape at once. "You told everyone. You turned everyone down. And I know this isn't professional. I know what I'm asking is wrong. That I shouldn't ask. That it's a lot, but Clark—"
"Okay," Clark said.
You stopped.
Your eyes widened.
You stared at him in confusion.
"Okay?" you repeated, your voice coming out so high-pitched that you barely recognized it.
"Yes," Clark said again with that calmness he always seemed to have, as though nothing could surprise him.
"You probably didn't hear me correctly," you said, gesturing with your hands as your fingers trembled. "The favor I want breaks professionalism a little. Actually, a lot. I want you to pretend that—"
"That I'm your boyfriend," Clark interrupted.
You nodded.
And just stared at him.
You hadn't thought he would say yes.
In your head, you had rehearsed this conversation dozens of times.
But every version ended the same way.
With Clark saying no.
Every single one.
Which was why you had never planned what happened afterward.
Because in every rehearsal, he said no.
But he had said yes.
And now you were standing there with your mouth slightly open, completely unsure what to do with that answer.
"Well..." you said, trying to continue with what you had prepared.
You were going to explain everything.
Tell him exactly what you had made up.
Give him every detail so he would know how to act.
But then you heard a voice outside.
A voice you already knew.
A voice that irritated you so much it made you clench your teeth.
Benjamin.
He was close.
Very close.
And at any moment he was going to open the door and see you standing there talking to Clark.
So you spoke quickly.
As quickly as possible.
Whispering so only he could hear.
"I told Editor Benjamin that we've been dating for two months," you whispered, glancing toward the door while your heart practically jumped out of your chest. "I told him we have a good relationship and that's why I can't go out with him. That's what I made up. I'm sorry. I know I should've asked first, but I was scared and it just came out and—"
You never finished the sentence.
The door opened.
And in that moment, without thinking, without planning it, your hands moved on their own.
They landed on Clark's jacket.
Right on the lapels.
And you started smoothing them down as though it were something you did every day.
As though you were really his girlfriend.
As though you genuinely cared whether his suit had wrinkles.
You moved a little closer to him.
Just a little.
Enough to make it look natural.
"So we're having dinner at my apartment tonight..." you said.
Your voice came out slightly louder than usual so Benjamin would hear.
You lifted your head and looked at Clark.
And even though you felt embarrassed, even though you could feel heat rising to your cheeks, you stayed in character.
"Sweetheart?"
Clark blushed.
You saw it clearly.
His cheeks turning a shade of pink you had never seen before.
He opened his mouth.
Then closed it again.
As though he had suddenly forgotten how words worked.
"Yes," he finally said. "Yes, that's fine."
Then he fell silent for a second.
A second that felt incredibly long to you.
Until he spoke again.
"Sweetheart," he said.
The word sounded a little stiff.
A little forced.
But you smiled.
Well.
It was a good effort.
Clark wasn't the type to throw around pet names.
And that was one of the things you liked about him.
But right now, you needed him to.
"So Kent managed to get himself a girlfriend?" Benjamin said from the doorway.
You looked at him.
He was leaning against the frame with his arms crossed and that smile that always made your skin crawl.
But this time, you didn't feel quite so alone.
This time, Clark was beside you.
Large.
Steady.
Like a mountain.
You smiled, even though you were still trembling a little inside.
You hid slightly against Clark's arm and wrapped both hands around it.
So Benjamin would see.
So he would understand.
"We prefer to keep things private," Clark said.
And his voice sounded different.
Firmer than you expected.
He smiled, but it wasn't his usual friendly smile.
It was calmer.
More confident.
He looked at you for a second.
Then looked back at Benjamin.
"She asked for it that way. And a man does whatever he can for his girlfriend."
You nodded eagerly.
Making it look like you agreed.
Like it was true.
Like Clark was a wonderful boyfriend, even if he was only pretending.
And for a moment—
Just a moment—
You wondered whether he was feeling something strange in his chest too.
But no.
You couldn't think about that now.
"Oh, sure," Benjamin said with a short laugh. "Then I apologize. I asked her out without knowing you were together."
His eyes traveled up and down your body.
And a chill ran through you.
"You won the lottery, Kent."
You trembled.
It was only a small tremor.
The kind most people wouldn't notice.
But Clark felt it.
Because his arm pressed slightly closer against his side.
Not much.
Just enough to remind you he was there.
"I won the lottery, actually," you said.
And your voice sounded braver than you felt.
You lifted your chin slightly and looked directly at Benjamin.
"He made me fall in love without any pressure."
It was a good jab.
Although you knew Benjamin probably wouldn't understand it.
Or maybe he would.
Maybe he understood perfectly and simply didn't care.
Either way, you said it.
Because it made you feel better.
"I need to get back to work," you continued, carefully letting go of Clark's arm as though it were the most natural thing in the world. "I'll leave you two. So... I'll see you later?"
You looked at Clark.
He looked back at you.
His eyes seemed slightly brighter than usual.
Or maybe it was just the office lighting.
"Yes," Clark said.
You smiled.
The kind of smile that appears all on its own.
You were about to leave.
You already had one foot halfway toward the door.
When you realized Clark wasn't moving.
He was still standing there.
Looking at Benjamin.
And Benjamin was still standing there.
Looking at both of you.
You didn't understand why Clark wasn't turning to leave.
Why he wasn't taking the first step.
Until he turned.
But not toward the door.
Toward you.
He moved closer.
One step.
Then another.
Until he was standing right in front of you.
So close that you could see the tiny flecks of color in his eyes.
So close that you could feel the warmth radiating from his body.
Your pulse completely spiraled out of control.
Your heartbeat rushed into your throat.
Your temples.
The tips of your fingers.
Your entire body went on high alert.
As though something important was about to happen.
Clark looked at your lips.
You watched his gaze drop.
Then rise.
Drop again.
Then rise.
As though he were asking permission without saying a word.
"May I?" he asked.
You looked at him.
Swallowed hard.
You knew Benjamin was still there watching.
You knew you had to keep up the act.
That if you said no, the entire performance would fall apart.
But deep down—
In the deepest part of your heart—
You also knew you didn't want to say no.
And it would make Benjamin believe it completely.
"Yes," you whispered.
And then Clark kissed you.
It was a small kiss.
A brief one.
Barely more than a brush of lips.
But it echoed through the room.
That soft, intimate sound reached your ears.
And your cheeks immediately turned red as tomatoes.
When he pulled away—
When you opened your eyes, which you didn't even remember closing—
You saw Benjamin laughing.
Laughing as he shook his head.
As though he couldn't believe what he had just witnessed.
As though it were some elaborate joke.
You sighed.
A long sigh.
The kind that escapes after holding your breath for far too long.
"Goodbye," you said without looking at him.
You didn't want to look at Benjamin.
You didn't want to look at anyone.
You walked away quickly.
Your legs felt unsteady.
And your lips still tingled from the kiss.
Maybe it had been a good idea.
Of course it had.
You felt uncomfortable.
Clark helped you.
And that was all.
It didn't have to mean anything more.
It was a favor between coworkers.
A lie meant to scare off an annoying man.
Nothing more.
But there was something you had forgotten.
Something you hadn't thought about in that moment.
Something that completely slipped your mind because you were genuinely frightened.
Frightened that Benjamin would claim you had invented the boyfriend story.
Frightened that you would tell Clark and he would deny it.
Frightened that everything would go wrong and you'd be left alone with the problem all over again.
In the middle of all that fear, you forgot something.
Something very small.
Very small.
And yet very, very big.
You liked Clark.
You had liked him since the day you started working there.
It wasn't something new. It wasn't something that had been born from the fake kiss.
No.
It was older than that.
It was one of those feelings that grows slowly, without you noticing, like a plant taking root long before you ever see the leaves.
You had been watching Clark since the first day, from the moment he smiled at you and offered you coffee.
Not like a stalker.
Don't misunderstand.
You weren't the kind of person who stared or followed people around.
It was simply something you did.
Something that came naturally.
You worked with him.
He bought you coffee.
He bought you pastries.
He took you to dinner at the Italian restaurant and told you that you were an excellent photographer, even though you knew he only said that so you wouldn't feel less than anyone else.
But you liked it.
You liked his voice when he spoke softly.
You liked the way his eyes crinkled when he laughed.
You liked that he was tall enough to cover you when you hid behind him.
You liked that he was kind without expecting anything in return.
He was a gentleman.
The kind of man you only found once in a century.
And for that very reason, because he was so good, because he was so special, it had become difficult for you.
Because you couldn't tell him anything.
You couldn't ruin what you had.
You couldn't risk him pulling away.
Risk him feeling uncomfortable.
Risk him stopping the coffee invitations and the little pastries.
You preferred having him as a friend over not having him at all.
But now you had kissed him.
Well, he had kissed you.
But it was the same thing, wasn't it?
The kiss had been for Benjamin.
To make him leave.
To make him stop bothering you.
But your lips didn't understand excuses.
Your lips only knew that Clark had touched them.
And that it had felt good.
Too good.
The lie escalated on its own, without you being able to do anything to stop it.
The second week arrived, and there was no turning back.
Because, of course, how were you supposed to say from one day to the next that you were going to break up?
That would look strange.
It would raise suspicions.
And Benjamin wasn't stupid.
If Clark suddenly stopped acting like your boyfriend, the man would realize instantly that the whole thing had been staged.
So you had to keep playing the part.
There were necessary kisses.
Kisses you had to give so people would believe it, so Benjamin would see you and be convinced.
Kisses on the cheek when you ran into each other in the morning.
Quick kisses on the forehead when you said goodbye.
Kisses that lingered on your skin as though they were real.
But they weren't.
They were part of the lie.
Only that.
Clark had apologized for the first one.
You remembered that moment perfectly.
He had looked at you with wide, remorseful eyes, like a puppy that had done something wrong without meaning to, and said,
"I'm so sorry. I shouldn't have done that without asking first."
But you told him it had been the right thing to do.
That it had to happen that way if you wanted it to look real.
That he shouldn't worry.
Clark nodded.
But he still looked uncomfortable.
Then he added that if the kisses ever made you feel bad, if they ever made you uncomfortable, he wouldn't do it again.
He said it very seriously.
Very firmly.
As if making sure you were okay was the most important thing in the world to him.
But you didn't want him to stop.
And that was the problem.
Because you said you wanted everyone to think you were dating.
You told him that the more natural you looked, the easier it would be for Benjamin to leave you alone.
But the truth—
The truth you never told him—
Was that you didn't want to admit how much you loved them.
Those little kisses.
Those brushes of lips against your cheek.
Those hand squeezes you now exchanged in public.
You liked them far more than you should have.
And if you told him, if he knew you felt something, everything would become complicated.
It would become awkward.
It would ruin the friendship you had.
So you stayed quiet and kept pretending, even though every tiny kiss made your stomach flutter like it was full of butterflies.
That day, you invited him to dinner.
It wasn't a real date.
Don't get excited, you told yourself.
It was a necessity.
Because Benjamin had followed you both all the way to the bus stop.
You saw him out of the corner of your eye, standing there as though nothing was wrong, hands in his pockets and that smile you hated on his face.
He had stayed there watching you say goodbye, watching Clark kiss your cheek before you got on the bus.
And when the bus pulled away, Benjamin was still there, watching you leave.
So you couldn't go home alone.
You couldn't risk him waiting for you on some corner.
You suggested Clark go to dinner with you, only to buy time, only so Benjamin would lose track of you.
Clark accepted without hesitation.
As always.
At the restaurant, after ordering your food, you fell silent for a while.
You stared at your plate without really seeing it, turning the silverware between your fingers.
Clark didn't rush you.
Clark waited.
Patient as always.
His large hands resting on the table, his clear eyes fixed on you.
Until you gathered your courage and started talking.
You told him everything.
Everything you had felt.
Everything you had thought.
All the fear you had kept inside for weeks.
When you finished, you lowered your gaze and felt your eyes fill with tears.
"I'm sorry," you said, your voice tiny, as if all the blame belonged to you.
Clark was silent for a moment.
You saw him shake his head slowly, as though he was processing what you had told him.
"Why didn't you tell me sooner?" he asked.
His voice didn't sound angry.
Only a little sad.
A little worried.
You looked at him, and he looked back at you with those eyes that seemed to see everything.
"I could have gone downstairs with you. I could have come looking for you. I could have walked with you every time you had to go to the editors' floor. You didn't have to do it alone."
"I thought I'd cause problems for you," you said, looking back down at your untouched plate.
The food was getting cold, but you weren't hungry.
"Even though I'm basically going to cause you worse problems than I would have if I'd just told you. Because now you're caught up in a lie, and if Benjamin finds out, he'll hate you too."
Clark didn't say anything, so you kept talking.
You told him what Benjamin had said many times, almost like a broken record.
That he had worked at the newspaper for four years.
That he knew everyone.
That the bosses trusted him.
One year longer than Clark.
Three years longer than you.
And you had thought that if he got angry, if you rejected him directly, he would file a false complaint.
That he would make something up about you.
And everyone would believe him because he had been there longer.
Because people knew him.
Because he had spent more time drinking coffee from the same machine and greeting the same coworkers.
"But if you didn't feel comfortable, you should have told me," Clark said again, as if it were the simplest thing in the world.
You looked at him.
And then your eyes blurred.
You didn't cry, because you didn't want to cry in a restaurant, but the tears were there, rising without permission.
"And what was that supposed to do?" you asked, your voice sounding a little higher than usual.
Clark looked at you without understanding, so you continued.
"I... I always thought about what I would do if something like this ever happened to me. Always. Since I was a little girl, since I started working, I had thought about it thousands of times. I told myself I would defend myself. That I wouldn't stay silent. That I wouldn't let anyone make me feel small. That if a man ever crossed a line with me, I would stand firm and tell him no."
You took a breath and felt your hands trembling.
You placed them on the table, hiding them behind the plate so Clark wouldn't see.
But he had already seen them.
He saw everything.
"But when it started, when he came close to me, when he took advantage of the chance to get into the elevator when there was no one else around, I just froze," you said, your voice cracking slightly at the end. "I didn't know what to do. I was afraid. Afraid he would do something to me. Afraid I'd get fired. Afraid nobody would believe me. And it was a miracle that every time something happened, someone appeared at just the right moment. Lois, Cat, Jimmy, even you... even you. Someone always appeared, and he would back off. But if nobody had appeared... I don't know what would have happened."
"I'm sorry," you repeated again.
As if it were all your fault.
As if being frightened had been a mistake.
Clark shook his head.
Firmly.
From side to side.
Then his hands reached across the table to touch yours.
He took them carefully, with that gentleness he seemed to carry into everything, and squeezed them lightly.
"It's not your fault," Clark said.
His voice was firm.
Certain.
As if there was no room for doubt.
You looked at him, and he held your gaze without blinking.
"What he's doing has no justification. It's disrespectful, and he knows very well that he's making you uncomfortable. It's easy to tell when someone doesn't feel safe around you. He knows. He chooses to ignore it."
"Yes," you whispered, your throat tight.
"If you asked me for help, it's because you feel safe with me," Clark said, a small smile appearing on his face. "And I won't hesitate to protect you. For as long as you need me to pretend, I'll pretend. For as long as you need me by your side, I'll be there. I'm not leaving you alone with him again."
Your cheeks turned red.
You couldn't help it.
Clark's words entered through your ears and went straight to your heart, and your heart began beating faster, as if it had swallowed an entire cup of strong coffee.
You smiled.
A small but genuine smile.
And you thanked him with your eyes because, in that moment, the words wouldn't come.
And Clark followed through.
Clark had absolutely no problem pretending.
The very next morning, when you reached the corner before entering the Planet, he was already there waiting for you.
He saw you approaching and immediately straightened up, as if he had been rehearsing something in his head.
"Should we go in holding hands?" he asked.
His voice sounded slightly uncertain.
Slightly nervous.
You looked at him, and he fell silent for a moment, as though he were searching for the right words.
"It's just that I've never..." He paused awkwardly. "Well, I have. Years ago. But it's been a very long time."
That was how you learned Clark hadn't been in a serious relationship for quite a while.
You couldn't really picture Clark dating anyone.
He was so private.
So quiet about his personal life.
It almost felt as though he had always been alone.
And that made you feel a little sad for him.
But it also gave you a little hope.
Though you buried that hope deep inside yourself, where it wouldn't cause trouble.
"That's fine," you said, offering him your hand.
Clark took it.
His hand was warm.
Large.
His fingers wrapped carefully around yours as though you were something fragile that could break.
They entered the Daily Planet that way, hand in hand, walking together through the lobby.
They rode the elevator together, and every pair of eyes immediately landed on the two of you.
Some people smiled.
Others raised their eyebrows in surprise.
One of the receptionists even congratulated you as if you'd gotten engaged.
You blushed.
But you didn't let go of his hand.
You acted as usual.
You reached your floor.
Each of you went to your desk.
You focused on sending the photographs you had edited the previous day.
But it didn't take long before an email arrived.
The moment you saw it appear on your screen, that familiar knot tightened in your stomach.
"Is it him?" Clark asked from his desk, as though he had somehow felt your fear from across the room.
You looked at him and nodded silently.
Clark stood up.
He walked over and offered you his hand again.
You took the memory card containing the photographs.
He took the memory card with his article.
And together, you went downstairs to the editors' floor.
The moment they arrived, Benjamin almost turned in his chair.
He made a motion as though he were about to stand and approach them.
But he stopped himself.
Instead, he remained seated, fingers resting on his keyboard, watching them through narrowed eyes.
You could practically feel him judging.
Feel his gaze moving to Clark's hand wrapped around yours.
Feel the way he rolled his eyes as though the whole thing were ridiculous.
Clark paid him no attention.
He walked over to the submission desk, placed his memory card beside yours, and with a polite smile that didn't quite reach his eyes, said,
"I'd appreciate receiving the emails as well. I think they've only been going to my girlfriend."
Benjamin's jaw tightened.
He didn't say anything.
He simply nodded once.
Quickly.
As though he wanted you both gone as soon as possible.
You squeezed Clark's hand.
Then the two of you walked away at an unhurried pace.
Not rushing.
Not giving Benjamin the satisfaction of seeing you flee.
When you reached the hallway, when nobody was watching anymore, you finally released a breath you hadn't realized you'd been holding.
You looked at Clark.
He looked back at you.
And for a second—
Just one second—
His eyes lingered on yours as though there was something else he wanted to say.
But he didn't.
He simply smiled.
Gave your hand one more gentle squeeze.
And together, you walked back upstairs.
After that, everything seemed calmer.
The weeks passed.
And the lie slowly became routine.
Like a new piece of clothing that feels strange at first but eventually becomes so familiar that you forget you're wearing it.
The two of you started going to lunch together.
You sat at the table in the back where fewer people gathered.
You shared your lunches without anyone bothering you.
You left the building hand in hand.
And Clark would stay with you at the bus stop, glancing around carefully, making sure Benjamin didn't suddenly appear.
Sometimes he even walked part of the way home with you.
Only for a few blocks.
Never all the way.
Because he didn't want Benjamin to know exactly where you lived.
He said Benjamin might follow you.
That it wasn't worth the risk.
You thanked him every time.
And Clark would simply smile and tell you it wasn't a problem.
But when his hand slipped from yours—
When it was time to separate at the corner—
When he walked toward his apartment and you headed toward yours—
You felt the cold.
The cold in your fingers.
The cold in your palm.
The cold of being alone again after spending the entire day with him.
It was a strange kind of cold.
The sort that didn't come from the air.
The sort that came from somewhere deep inside.
And it made you press your hand against your chest as though you could somehow keep Clark's warmth trapped between your fingers.
Because you had learned how to be with him.
Because the thought that the lie would eventually come to an end left you frozen.
And that happened because, perhaps, you longed for it to be real.
Strands of hair clung to your face, sticky with sweat and the tears that refused to stop falling. You stared straight ahead, into the void that stretched far beyond the edge of the building, but in truth, you saw nothing. Your eyes were wide open, yet your mind was elsewhere—trapped in that dark place you had reached after feeling utterly alone for so long. Your hands trembled uncontrollably, as though the night chill had seeped deep into your bones; however, it wasn’t cold, it was fear. But not the kind of fear that paralyzes you; rather, it was that other kind, the one that pushes you to do things you know can never be undone.
Your feet were barely on the ledge, sensing the wind rising from the street below—that wind that seemed to call your name, whispering that everything would be so much easier if you simply stopped fighting. Your eyes were swollen from crying, red and burning, but even so, amidst all that agony, you smiled. You smiled at your own predicament because it seemed almost laughable to have reached this point, so humorous and yet so profoundly tragic all at once.
And then you wondered how you had ended up here. You didn’t know for certain—or perhaps you did—but so many things had accumulated over time that you could no longer pinpoint the exact moment. Perhaps it was that time no one listened to you, or that other instance when you felt entirely invisible in a crowd of people. The truth was, you were accustomed to feeling this way, so used to it that you had stopped noticing. Until the day came when exhaustion reached its limit—that threshold you believed you would never cross. But it arrived, and when it did, you realized the weariness was no longer merely physical, the kind you can wash away with a good night's sleep. This was different; it had become mental, and that was the absolute worst kind. Physical exhaustion allows you to rest, but mental fatigue haunts you even in your dreams, refusing to grant you a single second of peace, always lingering there, whispering cruel things and reminding you of everything that went wrong.
That very same exhaustion had stripped away your appetite. You no longer felt hunger; food had lost its flavor, and you only ate because you knew you had to, though chewing felt like a grueling chore, like something unworthy of the effort. It had also robbed you of the desire to smile; those smiles that used to surface effortlessly were gone forever, replacing a vast portion of your day with tears that welled up without warning. It screamed at you that you were useless at everything, that you were good for nothing, and that everything you touched shattered.
And the worst part was that you began to believe it, because when you hear something enough times, you eventually internalize it as truth. It made you view life in shades of gray, colorless and devoid of purpose, as if someone had extinguished the sun and you were trapped in a cloudy day that would never end.
Is this the right thing to do? Could anyone even notice this? Could someone just see me for once?
These questions whirled around in your head like a broken record, yielding no answers, only breeding more questions. And then, just as you were ready to take that final step, a voice shattered the silence.
"Do you want to talk?"
The voice arrived softly, yet with enough resonance to pull your mind back to the present. You blinked several times, trying to focus your vision because the tears prevented you from seeing clearly.
Looking through a blur of tears, you caught sight of a figure you never expected to see. It was a tall man, with a red cape billowing in the wind, wearing a blue suit with a symbol emblazoned on his chest.
Superman stood before you, his head slightly tilted, gazing at you with a serenity that made you feel strange. There was no judgment in his eyes, no haste, only patience.
"I don't want you to stop me," you whispered, your voice emerging so faintly that you could barely hear yourself.
But he didn’t budge from his spot. He remained there, steadfast, as though he harbored no fear of what you might do.
"Whatever reason you have for doing this, it has a solution," Superman said, and his words carried such conviction that, for a fleeting moment, you almost believed him.
But then the exhaustion rushed back, and you looked at him with eyes brimming with tears.
"And what if I've already tried everything?" you asked, your voice breaking at the end.
You truly had tried everything; you had spoken up, you had wept, you had silently begged for help, but no one seemed to listen. Or perhaps you just didn’t know how to ask properly. He nodded slowly, understanding the weight of your words.
"You can try again. Perhaps you think that dying is easy and that... you won't be afraid," he said, his voice so gentle it made your chest ache.
You shook your head, because as much as you wanted to be brave, the truth was that you were terrified.
"I am afraid, but I am just so... tired," you said, your voice trembling in tandem with your hands. You looked into his eyes, searching for something you couldn't quite define. "I just want... I want to rest," you stated, and that word, rest, sounded so sweet and yet so distant at the same time.
But he shook his head.
"I know you must be tired, and that the world surely hasn't been kind to you." You looked at him, and Superman smiled—a warm smile that illuminated his entire countenance. He continued speaking, his voice acting like a soothing hand caressing your soul. "But you must step out of the world that is drowning you in order to breathe. You cannot see it right now, but there is air out there waiting for you, colors you haven’t yet beheld, people you have yet to meet. You just need a little help to reach them."
And then, he extended his hand toward you, palm open, offering you something you never anticipated. "If you take it, I will dive into the depths with you, and we will surface together," he said, and those words were so wild and so beautiful that you didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. He, Superman, everyone's hero, was willing to descend with you to the very bottom of the pit just to pull you out.
"You're a hero, thousands of people depend on you. Why would you stop for a life that... a life that does little more than get in the way?" you inquired, your voice reduced to a mere thread. You genuinely could not comprehend why someone like him would dedicate his time to someone like you.
Superman sighed, and for a brief moment, his shoulders seemed to relax.
"Because I believe that every life is important, that it is worth living even when it seems bleak. Because as long as there is hope, even a shred of hope, then there is a willingness to live. And I can see that hope in you. It's there, even if you can't see it yourself. It's in your tears, in your fear, and in the fact that you are still here listening to me."
And when he said that, you could no longer contain it. You wept like you had never wept before, your entire body convulsing. You were about to step down, to take that pace you thought would end everything, but your foot faltered, slipping on the edge. Your body pitched forward, and you closed your eyes, accepting your fate. Even with Superman right there, you thought perhaps dying was your destiny, that there was no turning back.
But then, as you fell, your body collided with Superman's. He had flown to you in an instant, so swiftly that you didn't even see him move. His arms wrapped tightly around you, and you felt his warmth, his strength, and his scent of the sky and the wind. When you were back on the roof of your apartment building, you didn't let go. Your arms clung to him as if he were the sole piece of solid ground in a turbulent sea.
I would have let go if he hadn't asked, if he hadn't been so patient.
"Seriously, are you okay?" he murmured against your ear, his voice so soft it shattered you from within.
And then you cried like a small child who had never been embraced, like someone who had harbored all the agony of the world in their chest and had finally found a sanctuary to let it pour out. Your entire body shook, and you couldn't speak; you could only sob and sob.
"I don't want to die," you managed between sobs, those words wrenching from the deepest recesses of your being. "But everything... everything is so difficult," you whispered, pressing yourself against his chest, feeling his heartbeat steady and strong.
And he merely held you tighter, never releasing you, never rushing you, allowing you to weep for as long as you needed. Superman did not pull away. He didn't let go for a single second, not even when your tears soaked his suit and your hands gripped him as though he were the only life jacket in the middle of a dark ocean. He held you firmly, his arms enveloping you with a tranquility you hadn't felt in ages.
And within that embrace, you felt it. It was that hope you had heard so much about, the kind you always believed was reserved for others—for stronger, braver people. But there it was, in the warmth of his chest, in the rhythmic thud of his heart, and in the way his hand gently caressed your back without haste, never wishing for you to stop crying before your time. He didn't push you away, and that was precisely what you needed most in that moment: someone who wasn't afraid of your tears.
You cried until your eyes burned and your throat turned dry. You cried until there were no tears left inside you, leaving only a void that slowly began to fill with something entirely different. And then, when the tears finally ceased, he gently took you by the shoulders and guided you toward one of the benches on the building's rooftop—the ones used for events or when the neighbors gathered to watch the sunset. He seated you carefully, as if you were made of glass, and sat down beside you, leaving just enough space for you to feel accompanied without feeling crowded.
"Tell me, I will listen to everything," Superman said, his voice so peaceful it inspired confidence. There was no rush in his words, no judgment, only the promise to remain there for as long as necessary.
"Isn't there anyone else to save?" you asked without looking at him, staring down at your hands which were still trembling slightly. Your fingers intertwined, playing with the hem of your clothes, searching for something to do to avoid feeling so utterly exposed.
"Yes, I have to save you," he said, and when you looked up at him, you saw a smile on his face, as if he were entirely unacquainted with sorrow. He had deep dimples in his cheeks that appeared whenever he smiled, and that small expression of his caused an involuntary smile to grace your face amidst all the chaos. It was tiny, barely a twitch of the lips, but it was there.
"My job is overwhelming," you whispered, your voice sounding exhausted, as though you were carrying a weight that wouldn't allow you to breathe. "I work from Monday to Saturday, even Sundays, even though they don't pay overtime. But it's not just the work, it's the people. They are so... so cruel," you admitted, feeling the words pour out uncontrollably, as if you had unlocked a door that had been sealed shut for a very long time. "Adults behaving like teenagers. They've fabricated so many things about me—rumors, lies, things that aren't even true. And I just stayed quiet, I didn't say anything, thinking that if I ignored it all, it would go away. But it didn't. Everything became so monotonous, so heavy, and now I can't escape the very hell I chose to fall into."
Superman nodded slowly, processing every word that came out of your mouth. He didn't interrupt you, nor did he try to offer quick solutions. He simply listened, and that alone was more than most people ever did.
"Have you seen a psychologist or a psychiatrist to get treatment?" he asked carefully, as though every word was a delicate step, afraid of hurting you. His voice was gentle, but his eyes remained fixed on you, watching every change in your expression.
"I did," you said, your voice cracking slightly as the memory resurfaced. "But my mother scolded me. She thinks that's only for crazy people, that anyone who goes to therapy is mentally unstable. She won't let me take medication, even though I've already been diagnosed with severe depression and anxiety. She thinks I just need to try harder, that my exhaustion is nothing but laziness, and that I'm just being dramatic."
Your hands tightened against your legs, and you felt anger and sadness collide inside your chest.
"And what is it that you want?" Superman whispered, his question so sincere that it made you look him straight in the eyes. There wasn't a trace of judgment in his gaze, only genuine curiosity, as if what you had to say truly mattered to him.
You looked back at him honestly, your heart completely laid bare.
"I want to be happy," you said, your voice breaking as those two words left your lips. They sounded so simple, yet they felt impossibly out of reach. "I just want to be happy. I want to feel like my life has meaning, like I'm not wasting my time, like I'm not a mistake."
He nodded with the kind of calmness that made it seem as though he understood everything.
"Then pursue happiness, even if it means leaving everything behind. Sometimes we have to let go of the things that weigh us down, even when it hurts, even when we're afraid. It's better to live alone than to die for everyone else. It's better to start over than to remain in a place that slowly extinguishes you."
His words were simple, yet they carried a weight that made you stop and think.
"What if I'm not good enough?" you asked, your voice small, like that of a little girl terrified of never being enough. "What if I only ruin myself even more? What if I try to change and end up worse than I already am?"
"The people who humiliate you are the ones hurting you, not yourself," Superman said, his voice so certain that you almost believed him instantly. "Your true light doesn't need anyone else to shine. I can see it. It's still there, beneath all that pain, beneath every layer that was forced onto you without your permission. If nothing changes, then make it change. Do it so you can be free. And I promise you, I'll be there listening to your heartbeat, and every time you want to return to the top floor of a building, I'll always be there to take your hand. I won't let you fall."
You nodded because his words felt like a soothing balm over an open wound. You didn't know if you could trust completely, but at that moment, with him sitting beside you and the warmth of his presence surrounding you, you wanted to try.
And that was exactly what happened.
Superman didn't leave.
He walked you all the way to the entrance of your apartment building and waited until you had gone inside. Even though you thought he would leave afterward, he didn't. He stayed for hours on the rooftop of the building across the street, watching your window because he was afraid his words had been nothing more than empty promises and that you might change your mind.
Then, after drinking the tea he had recommended, you walked over to the window to close it before going to bed. You looked outside and saw him. He was sitting on the rooftop across from your building, absentmindedly swinging his feet back and forth. The moment he noticed you, he looked directly at you and immediately started making gestures. He stretched his arms out before bringing them together, mimicking someone closing a curtain. Then he pointed at his head while shaking it from side to side, as though he were saying, "Don't think bad thoughts." After that, he rested both hands against his cheek and tilted his head, pretending to be asleep, and you smiled because you understood exactly what he meant. "Go to sleep."
"Thank you, Superman," you whispered, even though you knew he couldn't possibly hear you from that far away.
Yet somehow, he understood immediately. He nodded with a warm smile and lifted one hand in greeting. You closed the curtain, and for a brief moment, the world didn't feel quite so dark.
Behind the suit, Clark couldn't stop thinking about you. About the way you cried. About how your hands trembled. About how your eyes searched desperately for something they couldn't find. He had witnessed suffering like yours countless times. He had seen so many people standing on the edge of the abyss, yet human sadness always hurt him in a way he could never fully explain. He couldn't save everyone—that much he knew—but there was something different about you. Maybe it was the honesty with which you had spoken, or maybe it was the way you had clung to him as though you truly wanted to keep living. As the wind swept through his cape, Clark silently promised himself that he would stay, that he wouldn't leave you alone, that he would remind you there was still hope, even on the grayest days.
Clark believed he would never see you again. Of course, he continued watching over you from afar, always making sure you were okay, but you never returned to the top floor of the building where he had found you that night. Sometimes he would hear your heartbeat quicken, and his own heart would tighten in fear, convinced that something terrible had happened. But every time he checked, it wasn't danger. You must have been doing exactly what he'd told you to do: walking away from everything that had been hurting you and searching for the fresh start you so desperately needed. Even though he never approached you, he left behind little signs that he was still there, small things he knew you would find. They were Superman stamps he had bought from a souvenir shop. Whenever he flew past your apartment, he would leave one on your window. If he saw your car parked somewhere, he would tuck one beneath the windshield wiper. Sometimes he left one on your apartment railing, certain you would notice it. He simply wanted you to know that you weren't alone, even if he couldn't always be by your side.
Two months passed that way, and your heartbeat became steady and calm, like the heartbeat of someone who was finally beginning to find peace. Clark smiled to himself the first time he noticed. He didn't know exactly what had changed in your life, but hearing your heart beat without the anguish he had felt that night was enough to make him feel at ease.
That morning at the office, Clark was simply following his usual routine. He was reviewing articles, taking notes, and doing what he always did when suddenly he heard a familiar heartbeat. It was the very heartbeat he had quietly followed over the past two months, the one he had learned to recognize among millions of others. When he looked up, his eyes widened in surprise.
You were walking beside Perry, the editor-in-chief, clutching your bag against your side with a notebook in your hand while listening carefully as he showed you around.
A smile spread across Clark's face before he could stop it.
What are you doing here?
He wondered as he watched you walk confidently through the newsroom, your hands still slightly clenched. They were the same hands he remembered trembling that night. You were nervous—he could tell from the way your fingers tightened—but there was something undeniably different about you.
Your hair had grown longer, and you wore it in a style that made you look calmer, more comfortable with yourself. You looked around the newsroom with quiet curiosity, like someone discovering an entirely new world. There wasn't a trace of tears in your eyes anymore. None of that deep sadness he had seen the night you met.
Perry introduced you to Lois, the Planet's most renowned reporter, and to Jimmy, the photographer who was always running from one assignment to the next.
Finally, your eyes met Clark's.
He felt his heart skip a beat.
"This is Clark Kent," Perry said.
You nodded with a small smile.
"It's nice to meet you," you said nervously, your voice sounding lighter than it had that night.
"She'll be joining the photography team. Your desk will be next to Jimmy's, so go ahead and get settled," Perry said.
You nodded again before following him toward the work area.
Clark followed you with his eyes, unable to stop himself from watching you. He had so many questions he wanted to ask. Had you sunk beneath the surface and fought your way back up for air, just like he'd told you to? Had you found the courage to walk away from everything that had been hurting you? Were you happy now, even if only a little? But he held himself back, because those weren't questions he had the right to ask. That night, you hadn't met Clark Kent—you had met Superman. And even though he was both, he didn't know whether he had the right to bring any of it up.
"It's her," Lois whispered to Jimmy.
Clark glanced at them curiously. Lois showed Jimmy something on her phone, and he leaned in for a closer look. It was a photograph of two people, followed by another picture of you.
"The photographer who sued her former company, right?" Jimmy said, staring at the screen with wide eyes. "I heard they kept stealing her photo credits just because she'd only been working there for a short time."
"And she also won the lawsuit for workplace abuse and harassment," Lois added, genuine respect evident in her voice. "If Perry hired her, she must be incredibly talented. Not everyone has the courage to stand up to a company like that and actually win."
Then she looked at Clark with a teasing grin.
"So, what's the matter, Smallville?" Lois asked. "Do you already have a crush on the new girl?"
Jimmy immediately burst into laughter the moment he saw the blush spreading across Clark's face.
Clark didn't answer. He simply lowered his gaze and tried to focus on his work.
But his mind was already somewhere else.
During your first month, Clark approached you professionally, only when work required it. Perry even paired the two of you on a few assignments, and Clark treated you with the same kindness he showed everyone else, careful not to make you uncomfortable.
But he watched you.
Of course he did.
He couldn't help noticing the way you moved, the way you spoke, the way you smiled.
Were you really happy now?
It was a question he found himself asking often, and part of him feared you were pretending—that beneath that newfound calm, the very same storm was still raging.
It was at the beginning of the second month that something changed.
Clark was standing in the office kitchenette with a cup of coffee in his hands when he saw you walk in to pour yourself a glass of water. He looked at you and swallowed hard, feeling his words catch in his throat.
"The coffee here is really bitter," Clark said.
The moment you looked at him, he realized how ridiculous that sounded.
"I mean... I know you've started drinking coffee, but... just in case... you forgot," he added awkwardly, his cheeks growing warm.
"I don't drink coffee, Clark," you replied with a smile. As you pulled a tea bag from your pocket, you added, "My psychiatrist thinks it's unhealthy for me and that it could interfere with my sleep schedule."
Your voice was calm, carrying a sense of peace he had never heard from you before.
"So you did end up seeing a psychiatrist," Clark said aloud.
When you looked at him in confusion, he immediately realized his mistake.
He cleared his throat and hurried to recover.
"I mean... it's good that you're taking care of your mental health. Everyone here believes that's important," he said.
You smiled warmly.
"Yeah," you replied, your eyes settling on the tea as you prepared it.
"Do you like working here?" Clark asked carefully, never taking his eyes off you. "I mean... does it feel comfortable for you? Are you... happy?"
The question slipped out before he could stop it, and he felt his heartbeat quicken.
"It's much better than my previous job," you admitted before looking him straight in the eyes. "I try to be happy every day. My work is... I don't know... I think I finally found where I belong."
Then you let out a soft laugh.
"Sorry. I ended up talking too much."
"Not at all," Clark answered immediately, his words coming out with far more enthusiasm than he'd intended.
You nodded, picked up your tea, and walked away.
But just before leaving the kitchenette, you stopped.
"I know you interview Superman," you said, looking back at him.
Clark felt the air leave his lungs.
"You probably see him pretty often. If you ever see him again... please tell him thank you. He probably doesn't remember me or even know who I am, but... I never got the chance to thank him properly that night. He truly gave me the hope I needed."
Then you walked away with your tea in hand, leaving Clark standing alone in the middle of the kitchenette, his heart racing.
Clark felt his chest fill with something warm, something he couldn't put into words.
Maybe Superman hadn't just saved a life that day.
Maybe Superman had made it possible for Clark to meet the woman who would never leave his mind.
As he looked at the place where you had been standing only moments before, he realized that it didn't matter if you had no idea who he really was.
