Chapter Text
The door opened.
There was a shift in the crowd — the kind that happens when gravity itself changes. Reporters turned, camera flashes burst, a dozen voices started shouting at once.
Bruce Wayne stepped out of the bookstore.
He looked irritated. No, furious. His coat was immaculate, the lapels pressed within an inch of their life, and in one hand he held a bouquet that could’ve paid rent. White orchids. Sprigs of lavender. And right in the middle—like a match to kindling—was a sunflower.
Clark stared at it, dumbstruck. His fingers tightened reflexively on his own much smaller bouquet.
Wayne scanned the crowd—and then his gaze snagged.
Locked.
On Clark.
For a moment, Clark forgot where he was. He forgot the flashing lights and Cat calling questions and the press elbowing for position. Because Bruce Wayne was looking at him like he knew him. Like something that had been missing just slid into place.
Then—
“Mr. Wayne! Are you here to comment on—”
Bruce moved.
He didn’t answer. Didn’t smile. Just cut straight through the crowd like a storm front, fast and focused, eyes never leaving Clark.
And before Clark could blink, before he could form a word—
A hand closed around his wrist.
“Hey—!” Clark yelped, stumbling.
“Walk,” Bruce Wayne muttered, already pulling him through the chaos. “Now.”
“What the hell—?”
“Just trust me.”
Then the door of the sleek black car opened—and before Clark could blink, Bruce Wayne grabbed his arm and shovedhim inside.
The air shifted.
The moment the door slammed shut behind them, everything went muffled—no more questions, no flashing bulbs, no press chaos. Just the hush of leather and low engine hum, and Clark, crumpled against the far seat with a squashed bouquet in his lap and his heart somewhere in his throat.
“What—what was that?” he burst out, half-breathless, twisting in his seat. “Did you just—Did you seriously abductme?!”
Bruce didn’t answer right away.
He was sitting rigidly, elbows braced on his knees, hands white-knuckled and still. His jaw was clenched so tight it looked like it hurt. The bouquet he held—oversized and elaborate—was clutched awkwardly in one hand, sunflower off-center, stems crushed a little.
He turned the key, pulled the car into motion.
“I’m sorry,” Bruce said, immediately. His voice was tight and low, like it had been waiting under pressure. “Clark—I didn’t mean for this to happen, I just—I thought—”
“You thought?” Clark hissed as Bruce’s hand latched onto his arm. “You thought dragging me out of the middle of a public sidewalk—in front of reporters—was a good idea? Are you kidding me right now?”
Bruce flinched. Actually flinched.
“I didn’t know they’d be there,” he said, softer this time. Honest. Gutted. “I didn’t plan this, I swear—”
“Oh, so this—this is you not planning?” Clark shot back, voice sharp with disbelief. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you hijacked my night, ruined my date, and dragged me into some ridiculous mess where now everyone thinks Bruce Wayne threw a tantrum and stole a guy off the sidewalk!”
“I know,” Bruce said quickly. “I know, and I’m sorry—Clark, I never wanted to hurt you, I just—God, I was trying to fix it, I didn’t know you’d be mad—”
“You didn’t—of course I’m mad!” Clark burst out. “You just kidnapped me away from my date!”
That stopped Bruce cold. “…What?”
“What?!”
Bruce said again, voice confused. “But you’re on a date. With me.”
Clark gawked at him. “Are you serious right now?”
Bruce looked genuinely lost. “Aren’t you?”
There was a pause.
A long, stunned, dead-silent pause.
“…Bruce?”