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hiii!!!!

I really love your writing and I have a request- what if clark kent was dating a younger person and her dad was lex luthor. now this is NOT one of those creepy relationships, like idk maybe clark is like 30, ,reader is 20, and lex is 40... I dunno! sorry if that doesn't work but i love your writing so much!!!

UNDER THE SAME SKY

pairing: clark kent x lex luthor's daughter!reader word count: 8.1k summary: A Luthor back in Metropolis — but not the one the city fears. Smart, confident, and nothing like her father. And somehow, she’s the one name Clark Kent can’t get out of his head. warnings: flirty banter, mentions of danger/injury, light violence (superhero stuff), soft romance, public kiss, chaos in Metropolis, emotional damage (mild) a/n: took me long but here it is, hope is what you were thinking abt somehow, i had a lot of fun writting this my masterlist - my askbox dividers by @uzmacchiato

You. The good Luthor.

The one who didn’t just like Superman — you believed in him. You encouraged what he stood for, and somehow, you gave people hope to believe in him too.

Society, of course, had its doubts when your name first started showing up in headlines.

“Will she be just like her father?”

“Is she going to take over his empire?”

Everyone expected another Luthor obsessed with power and legacy — and yet, you proved them wrong.

You loved your father, of course you did. Lex Luthor had always been affectionate with you in his own way, giving you everything you could ever want, even if you weren’t exactly part of his grand plan. But love didn’t mean agreement. You admired his mind, not his methods.

It started small — quiet donations to hospitals, charity events hidden behind anonymous cheques, funding schools in forgotten corners of Metropolis. You wanted to make things better, even if it was just a drop in an ocean your father helped pollute.

And then, Jarhanpur happened.

The scandal hit the world like a thunderstorm, but it hit you like a personal wound. The corruption, the lies, the suffering — all tied to the name Luthor.

So you did something about it.

You packed your bags, left your penthouse, and flew halfway across the world. You went to Jarhanpur yourself. Not as a billionaire’s daughter — but as someone who wanted to fix what had been broken.

You built clinics, funded reconstruction projects, stood under the burning sun alongside the people your father’s company had failed. The media called you “the Redeemed Luthor,” the “Good Heiress,” the “Saint with a Trust Fund.” You hated all of it, but you kept going. Because for the first time, the world wasn’t just seeing your last name — it was seeing you.

Your voice echoed through the walls of the Daily Planet.

Clark, Lois, and Jimmy stood frozen in front of the TV, eyes glued to the screen — to you.

The interview was supposed to be simple. A quick segment, a few soft questions, something the media could twist into a neat headline later. But you had a way of turning even the simplest prompt into something that sounded alive.

The reporter would ask, “What inspired you to go to Jarhanpur personally?” — and you’d answer with warmth and conviction, your tone steady but full of emotion.

“Because hope means nothing if it’s only spoken from behind a glass wall,” you said, smiling softly. “Sometimes you have to stand where the world is breaking — to remember why it’s worth saving.”

Every word was carefully chosen, every gesture deliberate yet natural. The cameras loved you. The people watching at home loved you. Even Lois, arms crossed and skeptical as always, seemed impressed.

Jimmy was the first to break the silence.

“Wow. She’s… good.”

Lois scoffed, though her eyes didn’t leave the screen.

“She’s a Luthor. Of course she’s good. They’re born knowing how to charm a crowd.”

Clark didn’t say anything. He just stood there, glasses catching the flickering light of the broadcast, watching the way you smiled when you spoke about rebuilding hope, rebuilding trust. Something about you didn’t feel rehearsed. Something about you felt real.

And that was exactly what made you dangerous — not in the way your father had been, but in a way Clark couldn’t quite put into words yet.

Perry’s voice cut through the newsroom like thunder. Clark barely had time to blink before the TV was turned off and the room snapped back into motion.

“Kent!” White’s tone was sharp, but his grin said he’d already decided something. “Since you’re already standing there looking like you’ve seen a ghost, how about you turn that into a story?”

Clark frowned. “A story, sir?”

“That Luthor girl.” He pointed toward the blank screen. “The good one. The world’s been eating her up lately — all smiles, charity, and shiny headlines. I want to know if it’s the real deal or just another Luthor publicity stunt.”

Lois chuckled. “You’re sending Boy Scout to interview a Luthor? That’s either brave or stupid, chief.”

Perry smirked. “Maybe both. But Kent’s got that honest face people open up to. Go find out who she really is.”

Clark opened his mouth to argue, but stopped. The idea lingered — her name, her words, the conviction in her voice. He adjusted his glasses, pretending not to care as much as he did.

“Right. I’ll see what I can do.”

As Perry walked away barking new orders, Lois leaned closer, her voice low enough for only him to hear.

“Don’t get too starry-eyed, Smallville. She’s still a Luthor.”

Clark smiled faintly, though his thoughts were already elsewhere. He wasn’t sure what he’d find once he met you — another product of Lex’s empire, or something entirely different.

Clark spent the next few nights doing what he did best — researching.

The name Luthor opened thousands of files, headlines, and opinion pieces, most of them more gossip than truth. But beneath all the noise, he found you — articles about rebuilding projects, clinics, scholarships, and sustainable housing programs across continents. Every initiative carried your signature — quiet, intentional, human.

He leaned back in his chair, watching a video clip where you were surrounded by children in Jarhanpur, the air thick with dust and sunlight. You were laughing, hair tied loosely, sleeves rolled up. There was nothing staged about it.

“Not like him,” Clark murmured under his breath, though he wasn’t sure who he was trying to convince.

Your schedule was public — at least, the parts your PR team allowed the world to see. One more week in Jarhanpur. Then a return to Metropolis for a press conference about your new partnership with the UN.

A week. That would be enough time to prepare, to build the right questions, and to contact LuthorCorp for a formal interview request. He told himself it was just work — just another story — but there was something about this one that made him care a little too much.

Lois noticed, of course. She always did.

“Careful, Smallville,” she teased from behind her desk when she caught him reading another article about you. “You’re starting to look like one of her fans.”

Clark chuckled softly, closing the tab. “Just doing my homework.”

But deep down, he already knew this story wouldn’t be like the others. Because for the first time, he wasn’t chasing a headline.

He was chasing you.

Getting through to LuthorCorp was easier than Clark had imagined — too easy, almost. The polished walls of the company that once carried a shadow now gleamed with new purpose, new leadership. And at the center of it all, your name.

He had sent the request half expecting silence, or at best a polite refusal from a faceless assistant. Instead, the confirmation came within hours. The interview was set. You had personally approved it.

That detail lingered in his thoughts longer than it should have.

The next few days moved in a blur of research and restless anticipation. Clark found himself reading more about you than he ever had about any other subject — scrolling through reports, interviews, photos of you in places where hope barely survived. You weren’t like Lex. There was no coldness in your expression, no hunger for control behind your eyes. There was something gentler, but no less powerful — the quiet kind of conviction that couldn’t be faked.

By the time the official email arrived confirming the date and location, he’d memorized the address of the LuthorCorp Tower without meaning to. The thought of walking through those glass doors stirred something complicated inside him. It wasn’t fear, exactly — more like curiosity laced with something softer.

The morning of the meeting, Metropolis was bathed in a gray light that made the city feel suspended in time. From the street, the LuthorCorp building stood tall, clean, reborn from the ashes of its own reputation. People still whispered when they passed it — the name Luthor would never stop carrying weight — but for the first time, it didn’t sound like a warning.

And as Clark stepped through the revolving doors, notebook in hand, he couldn’t help but think that maybe this story wasn’t about redemption at all. Maybe it was about someone who had never needed to be redeemed — only seen.

The elevator doors opened with a soft chime, spilling a faint reflection of light across the floor. The higher he went, the quieter everything became — as if the noise of the city couldn’t quite reach this far up.

LuthorCorp’s top floor wasn’t what Clark expected. He had imagined the sharp, sterile aesthetic of a corporate empire — glass walls, marble, the echo of ambition. But instead, it felt alive. Plants lined the corners, sunlight poured through wide windows, and the air smelled faintly of coffee and something floral, like jasmine.

Different from the last time he’d been here — the day he’d blown through Lex’s office door as Superman looking for Krypto. Back then, the place had felt hollow, built on secrets and ego. Now, it carried something else entirely. Life. Warmth. Humanity.

Standing by the window, you looked nothing like the photos that had flooded every headline for the past month. The camera never caught the stillness in your movements, the calm way you seemed to take in the world before you spoke. The city stretched endlessly behind you, a thousand lives moving below — and yet, in that moment, you seemed completely at peace.

Your presence filled the room, quiet but magnetic. It wasn’t about power — it was about certainty. The kind that came from surviving your own name, your own bloodline, and still managing to believe in something good.

Clark hesitated for a moment at the threshold, his reflection ghosted faintly against the glass. He wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting — someone colder, maybe, or carefully constructed for the public eye. But there was something disarming about the way you turned to face him, the way your gaze met his without hesitation.

There was recognition there — not familiarity, but understanding. Two people who had seen the same world fall apart, and were still trying, stubbornly, to build it back up.

“Mr. Kent.”

Your voice pulled him from his thoughts — soft, confident, familiar in a way that made him straighten without meaning to. You smiled as you walked toward him, every movement calm and deliberate, the kind of grace that came from being watched by the world and never letting it see you flinch.

“May I say first,” you continued, stopping just close enough for him to catch the faint scent of jasmine and paper — “I love your articles. The way you put your ideas into words is… magnificent.”

For a moment, he forgot how to breathe. Compliments weren’t unusual for Clark, but coming from you — a Luthor — they carried a strange weight. There was no irony in your tone, no attempt to charm. You simply meant it.

He managed a small smile, adjusting his glasses to buy himself a second.

Clark smiled, the kind of small, genuine smile that never quite reached his eyes but carried warmth all the same.

“Thank you,” he said softly, voice a little steadier than he felt. “That means a lot — especially coming from you.”

You tilted your head slightly, studying him, as if trying to decide whether he was always this sincere or if it was just part of the journalist charm.

“I’ve read your pieces on the reconstruction efforts in Coast City,” you said, folding your arms lightly. “You see people the way most reporters don’t. You don’t write about them — you write for them.”

He looked almost embarrassed at that, gaze flicking to the notebook in his hand before finding yours again. “I try to,” he admitted. “Stories only matter if they make someone feel less alone.”

Something in that answer made you smile — a real smile, softer, unguarded. The kind that disarmed him completely.

For a few seconds, neither of you spoke. The city buzzed quietly beyond the glass, distant and small, as if time had given you both a moment of silence before everything that would come after.

Then, you gestured toward the small seating area by the window, a notebook and two cups of coffee already waiting. “Shall we begin?”

And just like that, the air between you shifted — professional on the surface, but something unspoken lingered underneath, steady and electric.

“Well, follow me,” you said, gesturing lightly toward the hallway as you pressed the elevator button. “I don’t like to do interviews inside my office. I feel like I need to be sharp all the time. Let’s go to the patio — near the tulips. I love it there.”

Clark followed without a word, notebook tucked under his arm, curiosity flickering behind his calm expression. The elevator doors closed with a soft hum, and for a moment, it was just the two of you — the quiet buzz of the city far below, and the soft sound of your heels against the floor.

You leaned slightly against the mirrored wall, arms crossed, looking out at the skyline as it began to open up through the glass. There was something almost fragile about the silence, the kind that invited thoughts instead of pushing them away.

When the doors opened again, sunlight poured in like water. The patio was a contrast to everything he’d imagined a new Luthor space to be — wide and green, alive with color and movement. Tulips stretched across the edges of the terrace, their petals shifting gently in the wind.

You stepped out first, inhaling the air like someone who hadn’t had a real breath in weeks. “Much better,” you said, almost to yourself, before turning back to him with a small, knowing smile.

Clark couldn’t help but think that he’d just stepped into your world — one built not of steel and glass, but of intention and light.

You sat on the edge of the stone bench, the tulips swaying behind you like a painted backdrop. The wind carried fragments of the city’s sounds — car horns, distant chatter, the low hum of traffic — yet here, it all felt muted, softened. Clark took the seat opposite you, his notebook open but forgotten for a moment.

He started with the usual questions. The ones meant to warm the air.

“What made you choose Jarhanpur?” he asked finally, pen poised above the page.

You smiled, eyes flicking toward the skyline before finding his again. “Because no one else wanted to,” you said simply. “It was easier to pretend the damage didn’t exist — but I couldn’t do that anymore.”

Your tone wasn’t rehearsed, not carefully shaped for headlines. It was honest, in the quiet kind of way that disarmed him. Clark wrote the words down, but they didn’t feel like notes — they felt like something he’d remember long after this day.

He asked about your projects next, about rebuilding, education, the future. Each question came out calm and measured, but underneath, he was trying to see you — the person behind the last name, behind the legacy.

And you answered each one thoughtfully, your words painting pictures instead of just facts. You spoke about small victories: children going back to school, families having clean water again, laughter returning to places that had forgotten the sound of it.

When he finally looked up, he found you already watching him, eyes full of something unreadable.

“You really believe in what you write,” you said quietly. “I can tell.”

He smiled, just a hint of it, and the city seemed to fade around you both. For a fleeting moment, the interview didn’t feel like an exchange between journalist and subject. It felt like a conversation between two people who still believed the world was worth saving — even when it wasn’t easy to.

The questions kept coming — smart, complex, layered — the kind that most people would need a full PR team to navigate. But you didn’t. Every word you spoke came with intention, calm and precise, like you’d rehearsed them your whole life — only you hadn’t. You simply knew.

There was a rhythm between the two of you now — his questions and your answers falling into place like steps in a dance neither of you had planned.

Then came the pause.

The kind that wasn’t awkward, but almost cinematic — soft wind brushing against the tulips beside you, sunlight cutting through the air in golden threads. You tilted your head, gaze lingering on the flowers for a moment before breathing in deeply. The scent of earth and spring lingered on your skin.

When your eyes found his again, they lingered — longer than before. His pen hovered over the page, but he didn’t write.

“Your eyes are really blue,” you said, voice quiet but steady, a grin tugging at your lips. “I didn’t notice it when you got that front page with the Superman piece — your photo was in the corner.”

He blinked, startled, the faintest flush of pink rising to his cheeks. The sunlight caught in his glasses, reflecting a flicker of warmth back at you.

“Well,” he murmured, his smile slow and a little shy, “I try not to compete with my own headlines.”

You laughed softly, the sound catching the air like something lighter than gravity. “You’re doing a terrible job at it,” you teased.

And for a moment — just a moment — the interview wasn’t an interview anymore. It was two people sitting under the sun, the hum of the city far below, the world holding its breath while something new and unspoken started to form.

The recorder on the table kept its little red light blinking, but neither of you noticed.

“Well… I like your eyes too,” Clark said, almost too quietly — the words slipping out before he could think twice.

You looked at him for a heartbeat, the kind of silence that feels heavier than sound hanging between you. Then you smiled — not the polite, practiced kind you used in board meetings or on live television, but a real one. The kind that reached your eyes and made something in his chest go soft.

“Thank you, Mr. Kent,” you said, your voice low, playful. “I’ll take that as a professional compliment.”

He huffed a small laugh, rubbing the back of his neck as if trying to shake off the sudden warmth creeping up his skin. “Right. Strictly professional.”

But your gaze lingered, and he knew you’d both heard the way his voice wavered — just slightly. The moment stretched, sunlight spilling across the patio floor, catching on the tulips and painting the scene in gold.

You turned back to the flowers, resting your hands on the table, trying to steady your thoughts. For the first time in a long while, someone had looked at you and not seen a Luthor. They’d seen you.

And for him — it was strange how easy it felt, how natural it was to be there with you, talking about everything and nothing at once. The city below carried on, but up here, time had slowed.

He glanced at his notebook — pages filled, the recorder still blinking red — and exhaled. “I think that’s all I needed for the piece,” he said, though his tone betrayed him. He didn’t want it to be.

“Already?” you asked, leaning back, pretending not to sound disappointed.

“Yeah,” he replied, smiling faintly. “Though I might need a follow-up interview.”

You grinned, meeting his eyes once more. “I’m sure we can arrange that, Mr. Kent.”

And somehow, you both knew — you weren’t talking about the article anymore.

You watched as Clark stood, carefully slipping his notebook and recorder back into his bag — every motion deliberate, like he was trying not to look as hesitant as he felt. The chair scraped softly against the stone floor, and the breeze caught the edge of his jacket.

“Oh, and… Kent?” you called just as he was about to turn toward the elevator.

He looked back, brows raised, that polite curiosity in his eyes again.

“Maybe this next interview doesn’t need to go into The Planet,” you said, your tone light but laced with something else — a quiet daring, a hint of mischief. You smiled, tilting your head slightly. “Just you and your head.”

You winked.

For a moment, he forgot how to move. His mouth opened like he might say something — a question, a joke, anything — but nothing came out. Instead, he just smiled, that small, shy curve of his lips that made you wonder what exactly was going through his mind.

He nodded once, slow. “I’ll… keep that in mind,” he said, voice a touch rougher than before.

You didn’t look away until the elevator doors closed, and even then, the faint reflection of his blue eyes lingered in the glass.

Buried between press releases, Planet deadlines, and Perry’s reminders written in all caps.

Clark almost missed it. The email with the day of the next interview — but when Clark checked his inbox, the address wasn’t the same as before.

No official LuthorCorp header, no assistant’s signature, no polished corporate format.

Just an email.

From you.

from: [email protected] to: [email protected] subject: about that “next interview” Hey Mr. Kent, I’ve been thinking about our next interview (I’d like to call it a date, if possible). I don’t know about you, but I really like shrimp — and I know a place that’s specialized in it. It’s called Azure Tide, a quiet little restaurant by the riverfront. The view is beautiful this time of year, and they have this lemon-butter shrimp pasta that could probably solve world peace. How about Friday, 7:30 p.m.? Hope you say yes!

He read it twice. Then a third time.

The corners of his mouth pulled into a slow, uncontrollable smile as he leaned back in his chair. Lois was talking to Perry about something across the room — a new lead, another headline — but her voice sounded distant, like it belonged to another world entirely.

His cursor hovered over the reply button longer than it should have.

He could already hear Lois teasing him. “A Luthor, Clark? Seriously?” Jimmy would probably try to play matchmaker. Perry would call it a conflict of interest.

And yet, none of that mattered right now. Because all he could think about was you — sunlight and tulips, that grin, the way your voice had softened when you said just you and your head.

So he started typing.

from: [email protected] to: [email protected] subject: Re: about that “next interview” Hey, I have to admit, I wasn’t expecting this email to come from your personal account — but I’m not complaining. Shrimp sounds great, and I think I’ve heard of Azure Tide. Someone at the office mentioned it once — said the view alone was worth the trip. (Though I’m guessing the company will make it even better.) So, Friday at 7:30 works for me. I’ll be there — notebook closed this time, promise. — Clark

He hovered over the Send button for a moment, his pulse steady but fast, thumb hesitating just before the click. Then he hit send.

And as the message whooshed away, he caught his reflection in the dark screen — glasses slightly crooked, smile he couldn’t quite hide.

Friday suddenly felt very far away.

“Oh, you are so whipped,” Lois’s voice came from right behind him, teasing and sharp as ever.

Clark nearly jumped, the screen of his computer flashing back to the homepage as he closed the email way too fast. “Lois,” he said, his tone a mix of warning and embarrassment.

“I already got a glimpse of it,” she sing-songed, grinning like she’d just uncovered the world’s biggest secret. “Azure Tide, huh? How romantic.”

Clark sighed, shoulders tensing as a faint blush crept up his neck. He looked down, then sideways at her through the corner of his glasses. “It’s strictly professional, Lois.”

“Right…” she dragged out the word, crossing her arms. “A date interview type, with no interview at all?”

“Lois,” he said again, quieter this time, as if the repetition might make her stop. It didn’t.

She leaned against his desk, smirking. “You realize what Perry’s gonna say if he finds out you’re fraternizing with a Luthor, right? The man still has nightmares about Lex buying ad space in The Planet.”

Clark exhaled through his nose, tapping his pen against the desk. “She’s not like Lex,” he said simply — and the way he said it made Lois blink. There wasn’t hesitation in his voice. Just certainty.

“Yeah,” she murmured, straightening up, a rare softness slipping into her tone. “I can tell.”

Jimmy appeared from the next cubicle, holding his camera and a half-eaten donut. “Wait, are we talking about that Luthor? The pretty one on TV?”

Clark groaned. Lois grinned wider.

“Clark’s got a date,” Lois announced loud enough for half the bullpen to hear.

Jimmy’s head snapped up instantly, donut forgotten midair. “No way!” he grinned, stepping closer and giving Clark a playful slap on the arm. “You actually pulled her? It must be the nerdy vibes, man.”

Clark blinked, trying — and failing — to hide the embarrassed smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “I didn’t ‘pull’ anyone, Jimmy. It’s not like that.”

“Oh, sure,” Lois chimed in, leaning on his desk with a smirk. “A Luthor invites you, of all people, to a restaurant by the river — says it’s a ‘date interview’ — and you think it’s not like that?”

Clark rubbed the back of his neck, his glasses slipping slightly down his nose. “It’s… complicated.”

Jimmy laughed. “Bro, you’re blushing. The last time you blushed was when that intern called you cute for holding the elevator.”

Lois snorted, leaning closer. “And this time it’s over a woman who could probably buy The Planet three times over.”

“Can we not?” Clark muttered, though his tone was soft — no real bite in it.

Lois smirked. “Hey, relax, Smallville. I’m rooting for you. Just… maybe don’t let Perry catch wind of it until after the story runs, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Jimmy added, grinning wide. “And if you guys end up together, I better get to shoot the wedding.”

Clark shook his head, chuckling quietly, cheeks still faintly pink. “You two are impossible.”

As Lois walked off still laughing and Jimmy returned to his camera, Clark leaned back in his chair. His gaze flicked to the corner of his screen where her email still sat — unread no more, but definitely unshakable.

Friday, 7:30 p.m.

He could already feel the clock ticking slower.

Clark had been excited all day — too excited, if Lois’s teasing was anything to go by. He’d gone through three different ties that morning, checked his watch more times than the newsroom clock ticked, and even managed to rewrite the same article twice because he couldn’t focus.

By 7:10 p.m., he was already dressed — crisp white shirt, sleeves rolled once, hair perfectly in place. He glanced at himself in the mirror, adjusted his glasses, and allowed the smallest, nervous smile to slip through.

Then the call came.

A portal ripping open above downtown Metropolis. A dimensional imp, laughing, tossing cars around like toys. The Justice Gang was already assembling.

Clark’s heart sank. He didn’t think twice.

By 7:15, the shirt was gone, and Superman was in the sky.

Meanwhile, you were already at Azure Tide. The restaurant was bathed in warm amber light, jazz humming softly in the background, the river outside shimmering under the city glow. You’d chosen a seat by the window, the view almost enough to make you forget the time. Almost.

At first, you told yourself he’d be five minutes late. Maybe ten. Traffic, maybe. But when your phone hit 8:00 p.m., your smile faded.

You sighed, fingers brushing the stem of your glass. “Unbelievable,” you muttered under your breath, shaking your head. Clark Kent — the polite, punctual journalist who looked like he’d apologize for breathing too loud — had just stood you up.

You gathered your purse, pushing your chair back with a quiet scrape. The waiter glanced at you sympathetically. You forced a smile and turned toward the door.

“Wait!”

The voice made you freeze.

You turned, and there he was — slightly breathless, shirt wrinkled, a single curl falling rebelliously over his forehead. His white dress shirt was half untucked, one button open, and his tie was stuffed hastily into his pocket.

“Sorry,” he said, still catching his breath. “I’m really sorry. I know I’m late, I… had a bit of an emergency on the way.”

He looked so genuinely disheveled — and so sincere — that the irritation in your chest faltered.

You crossed your arms anyway, tilting your head with a faint smirk. “An emergency?”

Clark nodded, hand still on the door, his glasses slightly crooked and his hair glinting faintly under the restaurant lights. “Yeah,” he said softly, the corner of his mouth twitching into a half-smile. “You could say that.”

He sat down across from you, still a little out of breath, running a hand through his already-messy hair in a hopeless attempt to tame it. You hesitated for a second before sitting back down too — not because you’d forgiven him yet, but because, somehow, he looked too endearing to stay mad at.

“I was going to bring flowers,” he said after a moment, his voice carrying that sheepish warmth that was so him. Then, with a crooked smile that reached all the way to his eyes, he added, “But… emergency.”

You couldn’t help it — the corner of your lips twitched upward despite yourself. “Right. The kind of emergency that wrinkles shirts and ruins perfectly good first impressions?”

He laughed quietly, a low sound that made you look up again. “Something like that,” he admitted. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

You tilted your head, pretending to think. “Try me.”

Clark met your gaze then, and for a brief second, the world outside — the music, the clinking glasses, the city lights — blurred out of focus. He looked at you like someone who wasn’t used to being seen this closely, and it made his next words softer.

“Let’s just say I had to… help someone.”

And though it was vague, there was something in his tone — gentle, honest — that made you decide not to push it. Not tonight.

“Well,” you said, leaning forward, your voice light again, “I’m glad whoever it was got their hero.”

His smile faltered for just a moment — not in sadness, but in surprise — before coming back, even warmer this time. “Me too.”

You studied him quietly as he settled back into his chair, finally starting to look a little less chaotic. His breathing had evened out, his hair still a little wild but charmingly

He was talking about something — the menu, maybe — when something caught your eye. Just for a second, as he moved, the collar of his shirt shifted, and a glimpse of blue peeked through beneath the white fabric.

Your brows furrowed, curiosity winning over caution.

“Why do you have a blue shirt underneath?” you asked, pointing lightly toward his chest.

Clark froze — just a heartbeat, just long enough for you to notice. Then he looked down quickly, adjusting his collar as if he could hide the evidence.

“Oh,” he said, that nervous smile finding its way back onto his lips. “It’s, uh— old habit. I tend to layer up. Never know when the weather’ll change, right?”

You raised an eyebrow, unconvinced. “A bright blue shirt under a white one? You planning on becoming a fashion icon or something?”

He chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck, eyes darting briefly to the window — anywhere but your gaze. “Something like that,” he murmured.

You tilted your head, smiling now. “You’re a strange one, Mr. Kent.”

Clark looked back at you then, his grin turning softer, almost fond. “Yeah,” he said, voice low, “I’ve heard that before.”

The waiter appeared just in time to break the tension, asking about drinks — but as Clark placed his order, you couldn’t help glancing again at that hint of blue under his shirt.

Something about it — about him — didn’t quite fit into the neat, polite image of a reporter who always showed up on time.

And you weren’t sure if that thought excited you or scared you just a little.

Your heart skipped a beat.

It was subtle — almost too subtle. Just the faintest shadow beneath the thin white fabric of his shirt, like an imprint that didn’t belong there. You squinted, leaning forward slightly, trying to make sense of it. A curve. A line. The hint of a symbol.

Clark noticed. He straightened instantly, hands fidgeting on the table, voice breaking the silence. “Is… is something wrong?”

Your eyes widened, your pulse hammering. You mouthed the word before you could even think about it. “Superman?”

He froze — a deer caught in headlights. Then, just as fast, he tried to laugh it off, shaking his head, his voice an octave higher than usual. “You’re… you sure you don’t need glasses? You’re seeing things, darling.”

You blinked, leaning in closer, your voice barely above a whisper. “No, I can see it clear as the day, Clark… You… no…”

Your breath caught in your throat as you looked at him again — the messy curl falling onto his forehead, the nervous hand rubbing at the back of his neck, the impossibly calm eyes that now looked anything but calm.

“Yes you are,” you whispered, half in disbelief, half in awe.

And then it happened. The faint shimmer that had always clouded your vision when you looked at him — the hypnoglasses — flickered, then went completely still. Their effect was gone. As soon as you recognized the truth, the illusion shattered, and the disguise no longer held.

You could see him now. Not just Clark Kent — but Superman. The world’s hero sitting across from you at a seafood restaurant, looking guilty, human, and more nervous than you’d ever seen anyone look in your life.

For a long, fragile second, neither of you said anything. The chatter around you faded, the soft hum of the restaurant disappearing under the weight of your realization.

Clark finally broke the silence, voice low, resigned. “…You weren’t supposed to figure that out.”

“Oh really?” you say, your voice dripping with sarcasm as you cross your arms and lean back on the chair, eyes never leaving him.

Clark lets out a soft, almost helpless laugh — the kind of laugh people make when they know they’ve been caught red-handed. His shoulders sink a little, and that damn curl falls again over his forehead. “Yeah,” he murmurs, looking at you with that half-smile that could probably convince anyone of anything. “Really.”

You shake your head slowly, still half-stunned, half-amused. “So let me get this straight,” you start, leaning forward now, elbows on the table. “You, Clark Kent, the guy who can’t take a compliment without getting shy, who apologizes to printers and thanks elevators for their service—”

“—they do a lot of work,” he tries to interrupt, voice sheepish.

“—you’re Superman,” you finish, eyebrows raised, staring at him like you were looking at some kind of cosmic joke.

Clark runs a hand through his hair, embarrassed. “I, uh… yeah. I guess when you put it like that it sounds… weird.”

You let out a disbelieving laugh, covering your mouth with your hand. “Weird? Clark, that’s insane! You save the world on Tuesdays and then turn in coffee orders on Wednesdays! Do you realize how— how ridiculous that sounds?”

He looks up at you, eyes soft, voice quieter. “You were never supposed to find out like this.”

You tilt your head, still staring him down, but there’s a faint smile tugging at your lips now. “And how was I supposed to find out? You were gonna write a Pulitzer piece about yourself?”

He chuckles under his breath, shaking his head. “No, I was… I was going to tell you. Eventually.”

“Eventually,” you repeat, raising an eyebrow. “Before or after you flew off mid-date again?”

That earns you a genuine laugh, the kind that reaches his eyes. For a moment, the tension melts — replaced by that strange warmth he always carried around him.

You sigh, leaning back again, trying not to smile too much. “You’re lucky I like heroes, Kent.”

“Yeah?” he asks, finally relaxing, that smile turning crooked again.

“Yeah,” you say, a playful glint in your eyes. “But don’t ever stand me up again, or I’ll call Batman instead.”

Clark laughs, shaking his head, the relief visible on his face. “Noted.”

The rest of the night unfolded more gently than either of you expected.

Once the initial shock had faded — the revelation, the teasing, the nervous laughter — things settled into a strange, effortless calm. The kind that only happens when two people stop pretending.

The waiter came by, finally breaking the tension, and you both ordered — shrimp, of course — with a few lingering smiles exchanged across the table. Clark’s posture slowly relaxed, shoulders no longer tight with guilt or nerves. He even laughed — really laughed — when you joked about how the world’s greatest hero still managed to get sauce on his sleeve.

Conversation flowed easily after that. You talked about Jaharnpur, your projects, the changes you wanted to see in Metropolis. Clark listened the way only he could — with full attention, like every word mattered. And when he spoke, it wasn’t the reporter or the superhero talking. It was just him.

There was a warmth in his voice when he told you about Kansas, about Ma’s pies and the endless skies that always made him feel small in the best way. You could see the softness behind the symbol now — the humanity that made him him.

The restaurant lights dimmed as the night deepened, casting golden shadows across the table. You caught yourself smiling more than once.

The rest of dinner passed like that — laughter, easy silences, and the quiet rhythm of something new beginning.

By the time you both stood to leave, the city outside was wrapped in soft moonlight. He held the door for you, and as you stepped out, you turned to him with that same teasing smile.

“So… do I get a second date, or do I need to send a signal into the sky for that too?”

Clark chuckled, scratching the back of his neck. “No signals needed. I’ll be there — on time, this time.”

You smirked, stepping a little closer. “You’d better be, Superman.”

After weeks of calm — the kind of odd, perfect peace Metropolis rarely got — the city finally remembered who it was.

The headlines had grown quiet. Superman sightings turned into lighthearted posts, the Daily Planet had been publishing stories about charity galas and infrastructure recovery, and you — for once — had been able to breathe. Your projects were stable, your name in the press came with admiration instead of controversy, and even Clark had been able to visit without some crisis tearing through the skyline.

But calm never lasts long in Metropolis.

News broke in whispers before it hit the screens — rumors spreading through encrypted channels, a faint pulse of tension that made even the air feel heavier. Vasil Ghurkos, the ex-president of Boravia, still managed to move pieces from behind prison bars. Despite being locked away for his crimes, his loyalists hadn’t forgotten him.

From the shadows of the crumbling regime, something new was taking shape. Not another “Hammer of Boravia,” not a weapon of mass destruction — this time, it was smaller, crueler. A message, not a war.

And the message had a name.

Yours.

The reports came in pieces. A smuggled prototype. A mercenary engineer. A convoy entering the city’s industrial zone under a false license. Perry White’s office went silent the moment the first classified file hit his desk. Lois’s tone turned sharp again, the same way it did before chaos. And Clark — Clark’s jaw tightened the instant he saw the footage.

It wasn’t random. It wasn’t political. It was personal.

You were the target.

Every screen in Metropolis flickered at once — a sudden hijack, replacing commercials and sitcoms with chaos.

Smoke curled against the sunset sky. The camera shook violently, the feed catching glimpses of terrified bystanders pointing upward. And there you were.

High above the city, suspended in the cold grip of a metallic arm, the hum of jet thrusters echoing through the air. The machine looked eerily familiar — sleek lines, reinforced plating, the same cruel design language as the “Hammer of Boravia,” only smaller, more agile. But this wasn’t just tech. It was theater.

And then came the voice.

“Metropolis,” it drawled through distorted speakers, mocking, childish, and cold all at once. “You build idols, you build hope — but you forget the monsters under the bed still play with toys.”

There was no mistaking it. Toyman.

Clark froze in the middle of the newsroom. His coffee mug slipped from his hand, shattering on the floor — no one even noticed. Lois was already grabbing her phone, shouting something about police frequencies, while Jimmy fumbled with his camera, trying to catch the live feed.

On the screen, the camera zoomed just enough to catch your face — hair tangled from the wind, your expression a mix of fury and disbelief. The armor holding you turned slowly in the air, as if showing you off like a prize.

Clark’s pulse quickened. He could hear it — the mechanical whine of the suit’s jets, the faint strain in the metal. Toyman’s voice still echoed:

“Tell your precious Superman to come out and play. Or I drop the pretty little Luthor right where she belongs — with the rest of the broken toys.”

“Clark—” Lois’s voice cut through the tension, but he was already moving.

“I— I have to go,” he stammered, already loosening his tie, his tone rushed. “I need to get closer. I can get better footage for the article, I’ll— I’ll send it back through the Planet’s feed.”

“Clark, wait—!” she started, but the elevator doors were already closing behind him.

By the time they reopened on the roof, the mild-mannered reporter was gone — and Metropolis’s sky cracked with a sonic boom.

Superman was already in flight.

The clang of metal echoed across rooftops as Superman collided mid-air with Toyman’s machine. Sparks rained down like gold dust, lighting up the skyline. The armor holding you jerked violently as Toyman tried to steady his control, his laughter now cracking through the comms, distorted and frantic.

“Oh, come on, Boy Scout!” he jeered through the speaker, the shrill sound of his voice grating. “Don’t you ever get tired of saving everyone?”

Clark didn’t answer. His jaw was tight, his eyes locked on the suit’s power core. He moved faster than the human eye could follow — a red and blue blur tearing through smoke and heat.

“Hang on!” he shouted — the sound barely reaching you through the roaring wind.

You were still trapped in the machine’s grip, the metal claw wrapped around your waist, the cold biting through your clothes. The city lights spun below in dizzying blurs as the suit twisted and swerved, trying to shake Superman off.

Toyman’s creation unleashed a barrage of drones, mechanical things that buzzed like angry hornets. Superman shot upward through them, his heat vision slicing through the swarm in a blaze of red. Explosions bloomed in the air — flashes of orange against the dark — and for a brief second, you could see him clearly again, framed by fire and moonlight, unstoppable.

“Enough games, Toyman,” his voice boomed through the night, calm but thunderous.

“Games?!” Toyman’s voice crackled, growing more erratic. “Oh, this isn’t a game, Superman — it’s a reminder! You can’t save everyone!”

The suit’s claw suddenly tightened around you, stealing your breath. Then — with a sharp, stuttering laugh — the grip released.

You were falling.

The scream never left your throat. The city rushed up in a blur of lights and glass — wind tearing at your hair, your heartbeat roaring louder than the engines fading above.

And then, a flash of red and blue.

He caught you mid-air, arms steady, the world slowing to a stillness that didn’t feel real. His chest rose and fell against yours, the faint scent of smoke and ozone clinging to him. For a moment, the two of you were suspended in silence — the chaos above fading into distant echoes.

Toyman’s voice came one last time, faint and crackling through static:

“Tell her… that was just a warning…”

The feed cut.

Above, the damaged armor burst into flame before disappearing into the clouds — Toyman gone, retreating before Superman could reach him again.

Clark landed gently on a nearby rooftop, still holding you close, eyes scanning the skyline for any trace of the fleeing machine. Nothing. Just the quiet hum of the city trying to recover from another night of madness.

“Are you hurt?” he asked softly, his voice low and rough from the fight.

You shook your head slowly, still catching your breath. “No… but… he really dropped me, didn’t he?”

Clark gave a small, almost incredulous laugh, looking at you with a mix of relief and lingering fear. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “And I wasn’t about to let him finish the game.”

When Superman finally touched down, it wasn’t quiet. It was chaos — sirens screaming, smoke rising in thin curls from shattered concrete, pieces of Toyman’s machine sparking and hissing where they’d crashed into the street.

He landed right in the middle of it, boots hitting the cracked asphalt with a heavy thud, you still in his arms. The rush of air from his descent rippled through the crowd, sending loose papers and dust swirling.

People gasped, cheered, some just stood frozen — a mix of awe and panic in their faces.

He set you down gently on your feet, his hands steadying your arms as if the world could still fall apart if he let go too soon. “It’s alright,” he said quietly, the noise of everything else fading for just a second. “You’re safe now.”

You exhaled, your pulse still racing, eyes darting between the burning wreckage, the flashing police lights, the cameras everywhere. The metallic smell of ozone and fuel filled the air, heavy and sharp.

“Safe?” you said, breathless, a shaky laugh escaping. “That’s a word that’s starting to lose meaning around you.”

Superman’s lips twitched, just slightly, the ghost of a smile. “I’ll work on that.”

But there was no time for calm — the press had already arrived. Reporters spilled into the blocked-off street, some standing on car hoods to get a better view, microphones raised high. Photographers were snapping like mad, the sound of shutters clicking blending with the sirens.

“Superman! Over here!” “Miss Luthor, were you targeted because of your name?” “Is this connected to the Boravian conflict?” “Was this another attack from Toyman’s network?”

You turned your head, dazed, as a dozen voices shouted over each other. The crowd kept pressing closer until a wall of police officers pushed them back, shouting, “Clear the area!”

Superman shifted slightly, his body angling between you and the chaos, protective without being obvious about it. His cape whipped in the wind, half-burned debris glowing behind him like embers.

He looked down at you again, voice calm but firm. “You’re hurt?”

You shook your head. “No. Just… shaken. And angry.”

“Good,” he said softly. “Angry means you’re still fighting.”

Before you could respond, the reporters broke through again — one yelling, “Superman! Is this another warning from Ghurkos’s loyalists?”

Superman turned his head toward them, eyes narrowing slightly, voice strong and steady. “Yes. And it ends tonight.”

The declaration hit the crowd like thunder. Cameras flashed brighter. Microphones thrust closer. But he didn’t elaborate — he turned back to you, softer now.

“You should let the medics check you,” he murmured, the wind carrying his words only to you.

You gave him a half-smile, voice low. “And what about you? Planning to vanish again before I can thank you properly?”

His expression softened — the faintest trace of humor crossing his features. “I’m not great at goodbyes.”

“Then don’t make this one,” you said quietly.

You didn’t think. You just moved.

You reached up, cupping his face between your hands, feeling the faint warmth of his skin against your palms — not alien, not untouchable, just him.

Your fingers brushed the edge of his jaw, the line where the mask of heroism met the man underneath.

You rose on your tiptoes, the chaos fading like static behind glass.

“My hero,” you whispered, voice trembling somewhere between gratitude and something you didn’t dare name.

And then you kissed him.

Not Clark — the man who’d walked you home after long nights working in your office, who laughed at your sarcasm and had lunch with you almost every day.

But Superman.

The man of steel. The symbol the world worshipped — and right now, he was kissing you back.

For a second, the city forgot to breathe.

The press froze, microphones half-raised. Then the shutter clicks began, frantic, overlapping, a storm of flashes exploding in white light.