Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The first thing you notice is the sunlight—not soft or gentle, but sharp and assertive, slicing through half-drawn blinds like it owns the place. You groan, dragging a hand across your eyes. The sheets aren’t yours. The mattress isn’t yours. And the ceiling above you? Definitely not the one you fell asleep staring at.

Panic doesn’t hit right away. It lingers in the background like static. You sit up slowly, brushing hair out of your face, and take stock. The bedroom is small, unfamiliar, but lived-in. There’s a sleek desk across from the bed, cluttered with scattered notepads, crumpled outlines, and a laptop still glowing faintly on sleep mode. A corkboard hangs above it, cluttered with reminders, sticky notes, and newspaper clippings—all of them marked in your handwriting.

You stand up, trying to suppress the rising panic. This could be, after all, nothing more than a dream. The hardwood floors are warm beneath your feet. You pass a mirror on the way to the kitchen and pause—your reflection looks like you, but different. Confident. Poised. You look…well, much better than you normally do when you wake up. If it’s a dream, it’s very vivid, you think as you walk into the kitchen. The apartment is nice -- the exact kind of apartment you would want to live in, with a decorated but compact and modern kitchen. 

On the counter sits a press badge. You pick it up with slow, disbelieving fingers. Your photo. Your name. Senior Reporter – Daily Planet. You frown and set it down, making your way to the fridge for food but then come up short. A clipped front page is taped to the fridge. The headline reads:
“Wayne Foundation to Partner with S.T.A.R. Labs on Citywide Clean Energy Project.”

Beneath it: By [Your Name].

You’d read somewhere that people couldn’t read in dreams, that our brains are not developed enough to imagine the individual letters but as you stare at the page, they don’t get blurry or unclear. You bolt back to the desk, flipping open the laptop. The desktop wallpaper is a photo of the Daily Planet globe, that iconic rooftop orb gleaming in the morning light. Your email is open. Your name again. Assignments. Correspondence. Meeting reminders. An office-wide email with the subject line “Superman Assignments.”  

This isn’t a prank. It’s not a dream. You think you might be sick. 

This is Metropolis . Real Metropolis. The one with Superman. With Lex Luthor and Lois Lane and alien invasions. And somehow, you’re not playing a character. You’re not possessing someone else’s life. You’re… you. Dropped into this world like ink spilled across the wrong page.

There’s a knock at the door.

You jump.

Moving slowly, you check the peephole. It’s some guy —short, grinning, camera bag slung over one shoulder.

“Hey,” he calls. “You ready? Perry’s gonna kill us if we’re late again.”

Your mouth opens. No sound comes out. You shut your mouth and take a deep breath, then try again. 

“-Oh - sorry! I’m almost ready!” 

“Well, can you let me in?” the guy, still smiling, says. You decide that this universe you seems to know him and you swing open the door and watch his face fall immediately.

“That’s not almost ready, Y/N,” The guy says, brushing past you. His eyes are wide and blue and he looks cheerful -- and nice. Like he is exactly the sort of guy who would stop and give directions to a stranger. “You say ‘I’ll be ready at 7:15, Jimmy,’ and I always show up at 7:15, and you haven’t been ready once so far,” Jimmy shakes his head. “I’m going to start making you walk alone to work. Just because we live in the same building and this is a new job doesn’t mean I gotta wait for you,” 

You follow him with your eyes as he moves through the apartment like he’s done it a dozen times before. He tosses his camera bag on the couch, snags an apple from a fruit bowl you didn’t realize was real until just now, and starts flipping through the mail stacked neatly by the door.

“You get your press pass back from security yet?” he asks through a mouthful of apple. “Don’t forget again. Perry flipped his lid last time. Thought you were trying to sneak Lois’s sources from the inside.”

“Right,” you manage, brain spinning. “Totally. It’s on the counter.”

Jimmy doesn’t seem to notice the hesitation—or if he does, he chalks it up to your usual morning fog. He glances at his watch, sighs dramatically, and gives you a look that says I do this because I care, but I will throw you to the wolves.

“Seriously, Y/N. Five minutes. Max. I’m giving you five, then I’m out the door.”

You nod, stumble back into the bedroom, and shut the door behind you, heart pounding. Jimmy. It’s Jimmy Olsen.  You press your back against the door and squeeze your eyes shut, like that might help the world make more sense. But it doesn’t. Jimmy Olsen just rifled through your mail and complained about your punctuality like it’s the most ordinary thing in the world.

Because apparently, here—it is . You press your palms to your face and try to breathe. Five minutes. You have five minutes to become this version of yourself—the one who works at the Daily Planet , who flags anomalies in data even Lois Lane doesn’t catch, who lives in Metropolis and is casually late for work with Superman’s best friend.

You stare at the closet, half-expecting to open it and find nothing, or worse, someone else’s wardrobe. But it’s your size. Your style. Slightly more polished than you’re used to, sure, but you can see a version of yourself picking out these outfits. Button-ups. Blazers. A drawer of sensible shoes. It’s surreal—like someone took your life, upgraded it, and dropped you into the deluxe version without instructions. There’s a tan trench coat on a hook. A press badge clipped to your favorite blazer. You choose the simplest outfit you can find: high-waisted slacks, a cream blouse, and loafers that feel broken-in. It’s like someone planned this for you. No digging. No question about where things are. You were meant to wake up and go .

You grab the press badge off the counter on your way back out— Reporter – Daily Planet —and slip it into your pocket. Jimmy’s already at the door, tapping his foot and munching the last of the apple.

“Three minutes,” he says, clearly impressed. “You’re growing as a person.”

You shrug. “New day, new me?”

He grins, and for a moment, the tension in your chest eases. Jimmy Olsen has a kind face. The kind that tells you if everything falls apart, he’ll still crack a joke and offer you a granola bar. You follow him into the elevator, double checking to make sure you have your keys and surreptitiously write your apartment number down on your phone’s note app. The elevator doors slide shut with a soft hiss, and you feel the faint jolt as it begins its descent. You steal a glance at Jimmy beside you. He’s humming under his breath, flipping through something on his phone, completely at ease—as if this is just another ordinary morning. For him, it is. For you, it’s the unraveling of everything you thought was possible.

You glance down at your own phone, grateful to see a familiar lock screen image— your real apartment, from the life you actually remember. It’s like a little anchor in the chaos. The passcode works too. That alone nearly makes your knees buckle.

You open your notes app and quickly type:
Apartment 5B. Top left drawer: key. Jimmy = friend. Planet = work. Clark??

You hesitate, then add one more line.
Don't freak out. Smile. Nod. Survive.

The elevator dings.

The moment the doors open, you’re hit with a wave of noise—honking cars, snippets of conversation, distant sirens. It’s Metropolis , and it’s alive in a way no page or screen could ever convey. Skyscrapers rise like monuments to ambition. Glass and steel catch the morning light. It feels a little like Chicago meshed with New York but with a different sort of air. The city feels alive . And two blocks down, dominating the skyline with bold letters and even bolder legacy, is the Daily Planet building.

You and Jimmy walk in a comfortable silence as you approach the building, which you stare at like it might disappear if you blink.

Jimmy notices. “First week jitters still?”

You nod quickly. “Yeah. Still wrapping my head around everything.”

He laughs. “You’ll get used to it. Planet eats people alive the first month, but if you survive that, Perry stops yelling at you and starts yelling because he likes you .”

“Comforting,” you mutter.

But he just grins and holds the door open for you.

“Welcome to the circus, partner.”

The lobby is a flurry of motion—reporters rushing in with coffee in one hand and dictaphones in the other, editors barking headlines into phones, interns trying not to drop armfuls of file folders. It’s chaos, but it’s organized chaos. Like everyone here is chasing the same high: the next story, the next scoop, the next byline.

You follow Jimmy past the security desk, flashing your press badge with a confidence you absolutely do not feel. The guard gives you a nod of recognition—casual, familiar—and you wonder at this version of you. In a week, you’ve ben here long enough to be recognized. Long enough to have made an impression.

The elevators in the back are framed by sleek brass and etched with the iconic Daily Planet globe. You can’t stop staring. You’re inside the Daily Planet . Your dreams never looked this real.

Inside the elevator, Jimmy leans against the wall and pulls up his calendar. “Morning meeting with Perry at 8:30. You’re supposed to be covering STAR Labs again, remember? Something about a new containment prototype—Lois wants to talk to you before that.”

“Right,” you say, feigning confidence, even as your stomach twists into a nervous knot. You don’t know what Lois wants. You don’t know what STAR Labs is working on. You don’t even know what floor the bullpen is on.

“I think she’s jealous you got a front page story your first week in, but you didn’t hear that from me,” Jimmy adds.

The elevator dings again.

The doors slide open with a soft chime, and Jimmy strides out without hesitation. You follow close behind, heart pounding like it’s trying to punch its way through your ribs.

The bullpen is everything you imagined—and more.

It’s wide and open, buzzing with urgency. Rows of desks stretch across the floor like a battlefield of caffeine and deadlines. Phones ring, printers whir, keys clack in a frenetic rhythm. The ceiling is high, the windows huge, pouring golden morning light across a sea of half-drunk coffee cups and crumpled legal pads. There’s a monitor wall cycling through news footage—Gotham’s mayoral scandal, stock updates, a live press conference from STAR Labs—all of it moving too fast for you to process.

And then there’s her.

Lois Lane.

She’s pacing in front of Perry White’s glass-walled office, speaking rapidly into her phone, one hand already rifling through a thick stack of paper. She’s dressed like she means business, hair twisted into a no-nonsense updo, heels clicking with purpose. She looks exactly like someone who’s been at the top of this game for years—and intends to stay there.

She doesn’t notice you yet. That’s probably for the best.

Jimmy nudges you toward a row of desks to the left. “C’mon. You’re still next to Clark. That hasn’t changed in the three days you’ve been here.”

Your stomach flips. Clark Kent . You pass by a desk with a little Superman bobblehead and pause. Jimmy gives you a strange look, but you keep walking.

And there he is. Clark Kent sits at his desk like he’s exactly where he’s meant to be—typing something with calm efficiency, brow furrowed slightly in focus. Blue shirt. Glasses. A cup of coffee in one hand.

He glances up just as you freeze. And smiles.

“Morning,” he says, friendly, familiar. “Rough start?”

You force a smile that feels more like a grimace. “You could say that.”

It’s Clark Kent. Even sat at the desk, he looks tall and broad shouldered. And he has the same striking blue eyes and soft, rumpled curly black hair that endeared him to America in the comics. Clark’s brow furrows, but only slightly. You realize you’re staring. 

“Well, you’re here,” he says, setting his coffee down. “That’s half the battle. And Perry hasn’t started yelling yet, so you might even be ahead of schedule.”

You let out a weak laugh. He gestures toward the desk next to his— your desk. “You left your notebook here last night. I figured you’d be back early for the STAR Labs follow-up.”

You nod, walking slowly toward the desk and sinking into the chair like it might vanish under you. Sure enough, a slim reporter’s notebook lies beside the keyboard, your name scribbled across the front in your own handwriting.

“I, uh... was up late going over notes,” you improvise, flipping through the pages with faux purpose. There are bullet points. Circled phrases. You understand about half of it.

Clark doesn’t question you. Just smiles again—warm, unbothered. “Lois said she wants to compare drafts with you before the meeting. She was impressed, by the way. Not many people catch something she misses.”

Your heart rate spikes. You must’ve been sharp before you arrived—whoever the original version of you was here, she didn’t mess around. You’re not just here. You’re good.

“I’ll stop by her desk in a second,” you say, trying to sound casual, competent. “Just need to—get my bearings.” In more ways than one. Because the idea of talking to an excellent journalist and not having any clue what’s going on sounds like the start of a horror movie. 

Clark nods like that makes perfect sense. “I get it. First few weeks are like getting dropped into a tornado. But if you need anything—background research, sources, someone to keep Perry distracted—just ask.”

You glance at him. He means it, holding your eyes for a moment before going back to working. You try to ignore your heartbeat speeding up, instead turning your attention back to your desk, hoping the flurry of motion around you will help drown out the sudden static in your brain. You’re lucky -- its sheer grace of God that Lois isn’t already here. The computer’s already on—tabs open, documents halfway typed, your email blinking with unread messages. All of it is familiar. All of it is foreign .

You click through the open tabs like you’re reviewing your own life. Notes about STAR Labs, a draft headline—*“Containment Tech Could Redefine Metropolis Safety Standards”—*and an outline that includes an interview with someone named Dr. Hamilton scheduled for this afternoon.

Dr. Hamilton. STAR Labs. You’ve heard those names before. In comics. In shows. Not in your inbox.

You skim the email again. Whoever you were before you woke up here had this under control. Which means, if you can just act like her long enough, maybe no one will notice you’ve got no idea what you’re doing.

“Y/N!” a voice barks across the bullpen.

You jump, just barely managing not to spill your coffee.

It’s Perry White, standing at the threshold of his office like a man who’s been yelling since birth and has no plans to stop.

“You and Kent—my office. Five minutes ago.”

Your eyes snap to Clark’s. He’s already standing, gathering his notes, completely unfazed. He offers you a small, encouraging smile.

“C’mon,” he says gently. “He probably just wants an update on STAR. You’ll be fine.”

You’re not so sure. But you stand anyway, grabbing your notepad and trying to look like someone who belongs in a meeting with Perry White and Clark Kent. As you stand you try to remind yourself that you are not a damsel in distress, even though at the moment you are both a damsel and very much in distress, or possibly just having the psychotic break to end all psychotic breaks. 

You follow Clark through the maze of desks, doing your best to breathe like a normal human and not someone spiraling into a dimension-spanning identity crisis. The bullpen seems to buzz louder with every step, like the building knows you don’t belong. You grip your notepad a little tighter.

You remind yourself, again, that panicking won’t help. That you’ve been in high-stakes situations before—okay, maybe not alternate universe, front-page journalist with amnesia high-stakes—but pressure is pressure, right?

Clark walks just ahead of you, his calm presence like a buffer against the storm. People nod at him as he passes—junior reporters, photographers, even grumpy copy editors—and you realize with a jolt that they nod at you , too. Not in a who’s the new kid? way, but with the casual familiarity of colleagues. Like you’re part of the Planet family. Like you belong here.

You reach Perry White’s office just as Lois strides by, phone tucked between her shoulder and ear, and murmurs in passing, “Don’t let him derail you. He’s been on edge since the LexCorp press blackout. Just stick to STAR and don’t flinch.”

Before you can respond, she’s gone—swallowed by the chaos of the bullpen, already mid-sentence again.

Clark opens the door with a practiced knock-knock-push combo and gestures for you to enter first.

“Inside,” Perry barks without looking up, flipping through a printout and wielding a red pen like a weapon. “Close the door. Sit down. Don’t waste my time.”

You do as you’re told, sinking into the chair beside Clark and pretending like your hands aren’t clammy and your mind isn’t blank.

“STAR Labs,” Perry grunts, peering at you over his glasses. “Containment prototype. Hamilton. Interview. What’ve you got?”

Your mouth opens before your brain catches up.

And then—miraculously—your brain catches up.

“Well,” you begin, flipping open your notepad to buy time, “Hamilton’s team is finishing phase two of stress testing. The preliminary results suggest the tech could double the city’s resilience to high-energy impacts, especially in... post-Kryptonian event scenarios.”

Perry’s eyebrows rise. Clark glances sideways at you, impressed.

You stare at the notepad like it’s your lifeline.

Somehow— somehow —you’re still in the game.

Perry leans back in his chair, chewing on the end of his red pen like it’s a cigar. “Post-Kryptonian event scenarios,” he echoes, squinting at you. “You mean alien attacks.”

You nod, trying to channel some version of authority. “Yes. The containment field stabilizes against energy fluctuations well above Earth-normal baselines. Hamilton said it could theoretically hold against something even stronger than a boom tube pulse.”

You don’t even know what that means, not exactly, but it was scribbled in the margins of your notebook and said with enough confidence, it sounds real.

Perry grunts. “Lois said you flagged something in the test footage?”

You freeze— did you?

Clark, without missing a beat, speaks up. “Y/N noticed a timecode irregularity in the report log—there’s a full minute unaccounted for in the stress test readout. Hamilton downplayed it, but I’d be surprised if STAR wasn’t quietly re-running the test off-record.”

You glance at Clark in disbelief.

He just gives you a small smile, like I’ve got you.

You could hug him. You won’t, but you could.

Perry, meanwhile, nods slowly. “Good. That’s good. I want the follow-up on my desk by four, and see if you can get someone at LexCorp to comment on the implications. Off the record if you have to. Something’s shifting in this city.”

You nod sharply, writing down words you barely understand, and stand when Clark does.

As you both head toward the door, Perry calls after you: “Kent—don’t let her get scooped. She’s got fire. Keep her in the race.”

Clark shoots you a sideways glance as the door shuts behind you. “He likes you,” he says.

You blink. “That was liking me?”

Clark laughs. “You’ll learn the signs.”

“Thank you, in there,” You say.

Clark glances at you, his expression softening. “You were holding your own.”

You give a breathy laugh, hugging your notepad to your chest. “Barely.”

“But you did,” he says simply, like it’s not even up for debate. “And you were right about the timecode thing, by the way. I noticed it too, just hadn’t brought it up yet.”

You blink at him, surprised. “You’re serious?”

He nods. “Yeah. You’ve got good instincts.”

There’s no teasing in his tone, no patronizing reassurance—just calm, grounded sincerity. The kind that makes your chest ache a little, because no one looks at you like that where you’re from. Clark is -- just as wholeheartedly good as the comics and movies have made him out to be.

You manage a small smile. “You’re kind of annoyingly nice, you know that?”

Clark chuckles. “That’s the second time someone’s said that to me today.”

“Was the first Lois?”

He raises an eyebrow. “Of course it was.”

You step back into the bullpen together, and for a moment, the noise feels a little less overwhelming. You’re still overwhelmed, of course—you’ve somehow landed in a universe with superheroes and front-page deadlines—but you’re not drowning. Not entirely.

You follow Clark back to your desks, the hum of the newsroom buzzing all around you—phones ringing, printers whirring, conversations clipped and fast-paced. But there’s a rhythm to it now, one you can start to hear under the chaos. A beat. A pulse. Like the Planet is alive and you think that -- with some time -- you might learn how it moves.

Clark settles back at his desk with a practiced ease, already scanning the notes from the meeting. You sink into your chair, letting the cool vinyl and familiar click of your keyboard anchor you.

This is wild. Unreal. Impossible.

And yet… you’re still here.

You glance over at Clark. He’s typing, but you can tell he’s aware of you watching—his lips twitch like he’s holding back a smile.

You clear your throat, flipping open your notebook and trying to focus. “So… STAR Labs follow-up. You said you had some background notes?”

He nods, reaching over to a small stack of folders. “Yeah. I pulled some archived statements from their press department after the last blackout incident. Plus, I’ve got a few source quotes they tried to bury in footnotes—Hamilton has a habit of being honest where no one’s looking.”

He hands you the file, and your fingers brush his for half a second—nothing dramatic, just enough to feel the warmth there. The quiet steadiness.

“Thanks,” you say, meaning it more than he probably knows.

“No problem, Y/N,”

Chapter Text

You step into Apartment 5B, takeout bag in hand, and listen for the click of the lock behind you. The scent of garlic noodles and stir-fry drifts through the air as you drop the bag on the kitchen counter, shrug off your blazer, and make a beeline for the desk. Your laptop hums to life with the familiar startup chime—you even find your real email address, bank account details, and social media logins waiting in the cloud.

Of course, none of the names match anyone you’ve ever known; in this universe, “you” apparently have no friends. A quick scroll through your inbox reveals only business notifications, unfamiliar work requests, and a calendar crammed with recurring Daily Planet deadlines. A folder labeled “ID Documents” holds a scanned license and birth certificate with your face and birthday— and it's mostly the same but the birthplace reads Cleveland, Ohio, and your degree comes from a college you’ve never heard of. Even your career has shifted: here, you’re a reporter, not an attorney.

Still, the essentials are all intact: your face, your date of birth, your credentials. Somehow, nearly your entire identity made the jump with you. You sink onto the edge of the bed, letting the realization settle in. You have your papers, your passwords, and proof that this Metropolis version of you is, in fact, you. Now all that’s left is to carve out the time—between stories, briefs, and Superman rescues—to figure out exactly how you got here..

You order takeout most nights, but tonight you savor the rice, the spice, the normalcy. The food in Metropolis is good, at least.You spread out notebooks and pens on the coffee table, jot down every detail you can: apartment number, Jimmy’s routines, the route to the takeout place and back. It feels like mapping a foreign city on an atlas you’ve never seen—and tomorrow, you’ll follow these trails to see where they lead.

Shaking your head, you settle onto the couch, press power on the flatscreen, and let the evening broadcast wash over you. Admittedly, you knew about Superman the way everyone in the your world did -- but you didn't know how "deep" into the stories of Superman. The chyron reads: “Metropolis Now—Your City, Your News.” The anchor, slick in a navy blazer, glances up from her script. “Superman touched down again this afternoon—this time to prevent a boiler explosion at LexCorp Tower,” she says, voice steady. You riffle for the remote, muted questions tumbling through your mind: What do they know about him? How close are people to uncovering Clark’s secret?

The anchor segues into a deeper report: “Tonight at ten, we’ll sit down with LexCorp’s CEO to discuss safety protocols—and we’ll have a live feed from STAR Labs on their containment prototype, following up on yesterday’s exclusive from the Daily Planet.” The words land with a thud. STAR Labs. LexCorp. Your ears perk up -- everything ties back to the story you’re already chasing. You pause the broadcast and lean forward, fingers hovering over your notebook. You need to know who’s funding what, which sources to call tomorrow, and whether STAR Labs ever even tested that prototype under Kryptonian-level stress.

You grab your phone and flick through your contacts—no familiar names, but your Planet directory is here, too. You tap “STAR Labs PR” and see an email draft already addressed to “[email protected],” complete with a polite request for comment on the timecode anomaly you flagged. You shrug—if this “you” already started that conversation, you may as well follow through. You hit send, and then you spend the next two hours going through all your notes and trying to piece together the work you’d already done in the last few days. 

A quick internet search reveals that “Superman” only started appearing three weeks ago. A search for Gotham reveals that the Batman is in fact active. And you spend the next several hours reading about the history of Metropolis and Gotham. It turns out that the first metahuman emerged about three hundred years ago, and that has created a fairly sharp divergence in the history that you know. AVOID TALKING ABOUT HISTORY -- you add to your running note, because clearly you don't know the same history. 

Finally,  you open a new note:

• Morning: Coffee with Jimmy? Ask about hidden spots in the city.
  
  
• Before 9: Check archives on last LexCorp blackout.
  
  
• By 11: Meet Clark at Centennial Bridge eyewitness interviews.
  
  
• Afternoon: STAR Labs follow-up. Obtain Hamilton’s off-record contact.
  
  

Your phone buzzes—a single reply from [email protected]: “Thank you for your inquiry. We’ll get back to you by tomorrow morning. —S.T.A.R. Labs Communications.” You tuck the phone beneath your notebook, heart pounding with cautious optimism: you’re already making progress.

Finally, you stand and stretch, the buzz of the news still humming in your ears. It’s late—later than you planned—but the city never stops, and neither can you. You sweep the coffee cups into the sink, flick off the lights, and pad down the hallway to your bathroom. A quick shower later, you slip between the sheets, and realize that playing catch-up isn’t enough. You’ll need to figure out how and why you came here. Once you’ve settled, you remind yourself, the real investigation begins.

 You wake to the soft glow of your phone screen—5:40 a.m. on the dot. You'd half expected to wake back up in your normal bed in your normal bedroom. But no, you're still waking up in Metropolis. You swing your legs over the side of the bed, stretch, and glance at your outfit laid out on the chair: high-waisted slacks, louse, and loafers. It’s basically yesterday’s look, but still crisp. You slip into it, smooth your hair, and freshen up—no makeup needed beyond a swipe of lip balm, and then you double back and grab a cardigan in case it’s cold.

Before you grab your press badge, you pull your phone from the nightstand and thumb-type a quick message to Jimmy:

“Walking in alone today. Might be 15 min late. See you at the Planet!”

You hit send. It’s a mild fib—you’re actually heading out early to absorb the city before the bullpen craziness—but you need those extra streets under your feet. Downstairs, the lobby is deserted. The security guard gives you a curt nod as you breeze past. Outside, you inhale the mingled scents of fresh-baked bagels from the corner café and diesel from idling buses. You’ve got a solid hour and a half before your first meeting, so you resolve to loop the blocks between your apartment and the Daily Planet building.

Stepping off the curb, you follow the sidewalk, past murals with street-art flourishes, and the beginning of daily commuters starting to make their way onto the city streets. You pause at a newsstand to thumb through today’s papers: “Superman Intervenes Again,” and “LexCorp’s Next Move.” You tuck a copy under your arm—tonight’s bed-time reading—and keep walking. You duck into a coffee shop and get a quick cup before making your way out. There is something romantic, you think, about being in the fictional city just before the sun rises, and then you continue your exploration.

Two avenues later, you round a corner, coffee in hand, and nearly run head-long into a familiar figure coming the other way. Your latte wobbles in its cup sleeve—steam drifting off the lid—and you catch yourself just before it tips over.

“Whoa—sorry!” you exclaim, pressing the cup back upright. A drop of espresso beads on the rim. The figure holds up his hands, stepping back. “No harm done,” he says, flashing a quick, apologetic smile. “I should watch where I’m—”

“No it’s okay --” you say as you look up -- and realize, it’s Clark. “Oh, hi, Clark,”

“Hi, Y/N,” He glances down at your coffee. “Blue Star Diner?”

You nod, relief flooding you. “Yeah. Needed the caffeine fix before the day.” You tuck your press badge into view. “Walking in today?”

Clark ducks his head in a deliberate nod. “Thought I’d get my steps in. Besides, the streets are nicer before the rush.”

Your breath catches. Clark Kent: tie loosened, glasses sliding down his nose, a dimpled smile in place. “Yeah,” you manage. “It’s nice to just be enjoying the city.”

Clark chuckles, tucks his coffee under one arm, and gestures a muscular arm down the street. “I know a great spot for sunrise views. Want company?”

You nod, feeling a warmth spread through your chest that has nothing to do with the coffee. “I’d love that.”

Clark falls into step beside you, and together you weave through the waking city. The sunrise paints glass towers gold as you stroll toward the Planet building.

“Thanks for showing me this,” you say, pulling your cardigan tighter against a sudden morning breeze.

He glances over, coffee swinging gently at his side. “No problem. Everyone needs a good vantage point now and then.” He pauses at the corner, where a small pocket park opens onto the river. “This is it.”

You step into the park, where wrought-iron benches face the water, and settle onto one.

“This is perfect,” you murmur, watching barges drift below.

Clark watches you watch the river for a few moments in silence, then checks his watch. “We should head in soon—Perry’s morning briefing is at 8:30,” he reminds you.

You nod, finishing the last sip of your latte. “Right. Almost time.” You stand and dust off your slacks.

Before you leave, Clark tucks a folded City Guide into your pocket—a small booklet stamped with the Daily Planet globe. “For lunch breaks and weekends,” he says. “Trust me, you’ll find it useful.”

You slip the guide into your bag, gratitude blooming. “Thank you, Clark. For this—and the coffee tour.”

He offers that easy grin again. “Anytime. I’m from Kansas, so I know how overwhelming a big city can be,”

You pretend to be surprised.

“Oh, really? Where in Kansas?”

Clark laughs, tilting his head back. 

“Small town -- literally called Smallville,” 

You raise an eyebrow, trying (and failing) to mask your amusement. “Smallville?” you echo. “That’s… delightfully on the nose.”

Clark shrugs, cheeks flushing just the slightest pink. “Yeah. Cornfields for miles. Population under five thousand. No skyscrapers, just silos.”

You smile, picturing endless plains and tractors instead of traffic and taxis, and try to imagine the town that made superman. “Sounds peaceful.”

“It was,” he admits, slipping his coffee cup into a nearby trash bin. “But I needed a place with… more going on. Metropolis is a shock, but a good one.”

You nod, smoothing a crease in your blouse. “I can see why. But hey, if you ever miss the quiet life, I hear the Planet bullpen has a pretty steady hum—minus the crickets.”

He laughs, and it feels like sunshine. “True. Though I wouldn’t mind seeing a few crickets right about now. Where are you from?”

“Oh I’m from Con--” you trip, pausing, and then remembering that here, you’re not from there at all. “Cleveland,” you finish. 

“Cleveland,” you say, voice steady. “A lake city—on Lake Erie.” You tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “Not nearly as… dramatic as Smallville.”

Clark’s eyebrows lift, genuine interest in his gaze. “Cleveland’s great. Rock ‘n’ Roll Hall of Fame, that amazing pier. You miss it?”

You consider the question. You’d never actually been to Cleveland. “Sometimes. But I’m learning to love Metropolis.”

He nods, eyes on the skyline. “Good. This city takes some getting used to.” He shifts his weight, then glances at your watch. “Perry’s expecting us in soon. Ready to face the morning briefing?”

You straighten your cardigan and slip a hand into your bag, feeling the City Guide there like a secret talisman. “Absolutely. Let’s see what today brings.”

Together you fall into step again, retracing your route toward the Planet building. The streets have filled with the rush of commuters, but you feel calm—anchored by Clark’s easy company and the quiet confidence that comes from getting to know your way around a new city, one block at a time.

As you walk into the bullpen, Perry’s voice booms from the lobby beyond. “Kent! Y/N! Get in here!”

You take a steadying breath and follow Clark through the bullpen. Phones ring and keyboards click in rapid-fire rhythm—reporters darting between desks and copy editors poring over headlines. Perry White stands at the threshold of his office, arms folded, eyes blazing with deadline fire.

“About time,” he growls as you and Clark approach. “Kent, the Justice Gang press conference notes are on my desk. Y/N, that follow-up on the LexCorp boiler incident—where’s your angle?”

You flip open your notebook and meet Perry’s gaze. “I’m focusing on the energy signature,” you say, voice steady. “Witnesses reported a sudden spike in heat just before the boiler went critical—almost like a containment field flicker. I want to compare that with the timecode gap in the STAR Labs stress test footage to see if there’s a pattern.”

Perry’s scowl eases into a sharp nod. “Good angle. But you’re not chasing this alone.” He turns to Clark. “Kent, you’re going with her. I want video of the site, statements from LexCorp’s PR team, and any footage of the explosion’s aftermath. Y/N, you handle the technical side: interview the engineers on duty and cross-check maintenance logs against those fluctuations.”

Clark steps forward, already tapping reminders into his phone. “We’ll coordinate—bridge the human element and the hard data.”

Perry folds his arms. “You two have an hour. Get out there, split the work, and go live by four. I want a tight package for the six-o’clock edition—graphics, sound bites, everything. Dismissed.”

Dread boils in your stomach. You may have spent the last few hours of your night reviewing your notes but --

An elbow gently nudges into you.

“It’s your first week, Y/N,” Clark murmurs, sending a soft dimpled smile your way. “Perry expects perfection but that’s just Perry. You’ve got the technical angles down. I’ve got the people side. We’ll check in at the site."

In the elevator, you flip open your notebook again, heart thudding. You outline the plan in rapid bullets:

• Y/N: Interview boiler engineers at LexCorp facility; request maintenance logs; capture detailed temperature readings from witnesses.
  
  
• Clark: Gather on-camera statements from commuters evacuated nearby; film general atmosphere for B-roll; press LexCorp PR for official comment.

You glance up at Clark, who’s already typing into his phone. “Sound good?”

“Perfect,” he says. “And if you get stuck, call me. I’ve got your back.”

The doors open with a soft ding, and you step into the lobby swirl—security guards nodding, interns hauling camera gear, copy editors barking last-minute headline tweaks into headsets. You and Clark weave through the motion toward the rear exit.

Outside, the morning sun feels sudden and bright against the LexCorp tower’s mirrored façade. Steam still coils from the sidewalk grate where the boiler incident occurred. You both split off naturally: Clark strides toward a small crowd of bystanders clustered behind yellow tape, while you head for the logistics entrance where a uniformed engineer stands guard.

You lift your voice, professional and steady. “I’m Y/N of the Daily Planet—do you mind if I ask a few questions about yesterday’s boiler malfunction?” The engineer, a woman in navy overalls named Reyes, straightens and nods, gesturing toward the maintenance shack.

Reyes leads you through a side door into the dimly lit maintenance shack. Rows of control panels hum softly, and the air smells faintly of oil and metal.

“Right this way,” Reyes says, guiding you to a workstation strewn with print-out logs. She taps the screen. “Here’s the pressure data from last Tuesday through yesterday.”

You crouch beside her, scanning the numbers. “So this spike at 14:37—was that when the alarm went off?” you ask, pointing to the jagged red line that soars past the safe threshold.

She nods. “Exactly. We’ve never seen energy readings like that—like someone cranked the heat dial straight to eleven.”

You tap your pen against your notepad. “Did you run any secondary diagnostics? A chemical test? Anything out of the ordinary?”

Reyes shakes her head. “No. The automatic shutdown kicked in after twenty seconds. But by then, the shell was already compromised. We thought it might be a wiring fault—until I heard about that test footage you guys mentioned.”

Your pulse quickens. “The STAR Labs timecode gap?”

“Same minute,” she confirms, gesturing to the log. “They reported a blackout in the readings at 14:36. We see a flash in our system at 14:37. Whatever hit you guys must’ve reverberated here.”

You scribble furiously. “Thank you—that’s exactly the pattern we need.” You slip a micro-recorder into your pocket. “Mind if I grab a quick quote on camera?”

She glances at the fuel-stained floor. “Sure—just no glare off the panels, please.”

You set up your phone, angle it to catch both Reyes and the control board. “Ms. Reyes, can you summarize what you saw, and what you think caused the catastrophic spike?”

Reyes clears her throat. “At precisely 14:36, our instruments went dark. One second later, a pressure surge exploded through the system—nothing we’ve ever been trained to handle. It’s like someone turned on a hyper-dimensional heater.”

You snap off recording, thank her, and slip the logs into a protective sleeve. Just then Clark strides in through the open door, phone in hand.

“Y/N,” he says, breathless. “I’ve got three solid witness statements—one commuter said the ground shook right before the boiler blew.”

You look up, meeting his eye. “Perfect. Let’s cross-check the timestamps and head back to the Planet.”

Clark grins. “Race you?”

And he says it so joyfully, so unabashedly excited that you have to smile back. It’s cute, Superman offering to race you and you can’t help yourself.

You tuck the logs under your arm. ““No, I prefer flying, Smallville,” 

He throws back his head and laughs—full, easy, infectious. “Show-off,” he teases.

“I ran track in college,” you blurt before thinking better of it. It’s true -- you did, and you do love beating men in things, but this is Superman. But Clark Kent just winks and before you can say another word, he’s bolted past you and out the door. You straighten your shoulders, drop into a sprinter’s stance, and take off after him, your loafers clicking on the pavement as you weave between pedestrians.

Clark glances over his shoulder, his stride long and graceful. “You’re on!” he calls out, voice light. You push harder, adrenaline burning in your lungs, and for a few glorious seconds, you both blur through Metropolis as if the world itself is your track.

You reach the curb first, skidding to a stop with a triumphant grin—and Clark barely eases up, crossing beside you a heartbeat later. He holds out a hand to help you steady yourself.

You grasp his hand, and his warm palm steadies you against the swirl of pedestrian traffic.

“Nice sprint,” he says, a playful spark in his eyes. “For an Ohioan.”

“I don’t identify with that,” you huff, rolling your shoulders. “Guess all that track payed off.” You pause, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “Though I admit, when you said you wanted to get your steps in, I hadn’t anticipated you meant like this,” 

Clark chuckles, brushing a loose curl from his forehead. “Fair enough. But hey, beating me at a sprint is nothing to sneeze at.”

You smirk, dropping his hand. “Oh I'm sure.” Beating when we take out the unfair advantage of knowing you would not try to beat me and make me suspicious, you think wryly as you make your way back to the Planet.

He nods, glancing up at the Planet’s revolving doors. “Mission accomplished, then?”

You tuck the logs more securely under your arm. “Mission accomplished.” You check your watch. “And we have time to get back before Perry has a coronary,” 

“Good mission, then,” Clark says, as you two make it back into the Bullpen. 

“Kent! Y/N! You two back so soon?” Perry’s booming voice greets you from where he stands by Jimmy.

“Back and loaded, sir,” you reply, flipping open your notepad. “We’ve got timestamped data from the maintenance logs, three eyewitness accounts—”

“And B-roll footage of the aftermath,” Clark interjects, handing over his phone. “Plus ambient sound bites from the crowd.”

Perry peers at the printouts and videos with a critical eye. After a tense beat, he cracks a rare smile. “Good work. I want that package by four sharp. You two know what to do.” And then he turns back to Jimmy. Lois is at her desk, but she’s focused on something, brows narrowed, earbuds in. 

Turning to Clark you quickly divvy up the work and spend the remainder of the morning quietly drafting the article.

You and Clark exchange a quick glance, then fall into step toward your respective desks.

“Okay,” Clark murmurs, settling at the computer next to you. “I’ll pull the quotes and lay in the B-roll. You handle the technical narrative—tie in the timecode gap and the boiler spike. I’ll weave in the human element.”

You nod and open a fresh document, the blinking cursor promising order amid the morning’s chaos. Your fingers hover over the keys as you outline:

1. Lead: Yesterday’s boiler explosion at LexCorp Tower traced to the same unexplained energy spike flagged in STAR Labs footage.
   
   
2. Data Point: Timestamped maintenance logs showing a 14:37 surge.
   
   
3. Expert Voice: Quote from Engineer Reyes on the hyper-dimensional “heater” analogy.
   
   
4. Human Angle: Evacuee reactions—ground tremors, sudden heat.
   
   
5. Next Steps: What LexCorp and STAR Labs officials are saying (or refusing to say).
   
   

Across the aisle, Clark is already clicking through his clips. Every so often he leans over with a snippet: “This commuter said she felt the ground rumble ‘like a freight train.’ Want to lead with that?”

You tap it into the draft, then glance up at the bullpen. Perry’s back is to you as he leans over Jimmy’s shoulder, reviewing Lois’s latest pages. She’s still utterly absorbed—eyebrows furrowed, finger scrolling—earbuds in place, world tuned out. You wonder if she’s onto a separate lead, or simply editing copy for tomorrow’s scoop.

Returning to your screen, you settle into the rhythm of writing: rolling data into narrative, peppering in Clark’s human moments, refining syntax until each sentence snaps. The bulletin board by your desk ticks “9:30 a.m.,” and the bullpen’s swell of noise—the whirr of printers, the hum of overhead lights, the occasional shout of “Copy!”—feels more like a pulse you’re synchronized with, rather than a distraction.

When you pause to save, Clark slides a pair of headphones over. “Sound bites are organized by level of urgency,” he says with a grin. “I’ll cue you when it’s time to drop the chorus.”

You smile, heart light. Together, you’re turning scattered logs and street interviews into a seamless story that will anchor the Planet’s six-o’clock edition—and prove that, in Metropolis, two bylines are better than one.

At lunch, Jimmy coaxes you, Lois, and Clark out of the office and to a nearby sandwich joint. 

Lois glances up from her screen, earbuds still dangling. “I’m on a deadline—”

“You need fuel if you want to run with us,” Jimmy interrupts, looping an arm around her chair and nudging her up. “Besides, Jake’s Deli has the best pastrami in town.”

Clark stands immediately, gathering his phone and notebook. He gives you an apologetic grin. “Duty calls. And I’m starving.”

Lois looks up at Clark and rolls her eyes before turning to you.

“Boys,” she sighs dramatically. “If they spent half as much time on deadlines as we women do racing through them, we’d have the front page locked and loaded.”

You flash Lois a grin. “Hey, you’ve got to keep your legs fresh if you’re going to outrun tomorrow’s deadlines while the boys are busy stuffing their faces,”

Jimmy’s nose crinkles. 

“I was just trying to invite everyone for lunch, man,” he groans. 

“Okay, okay,” Lois stands. “I’m coming. For the pickles.”

You lean against your desk. “Hey, a balanced journalist needs protein—especially if they’re expected to sprint through copy.”

Jimmy waves his hands. “All I hear is my stomach growling in solidarity.”

“I’m seconding Jimmy,” Clark says, raising a hand. 

Chapter Text

“It’s a Metropolis classic,” Lois nods at the sandwiches. “The boys think that this classic is an excuse to see who can eat the most.”

The first bite sends Jimmy’s eyes wide. He chomps through half the sandwich in record time, then pauses, patting his stomach. “I might regret this,” he groans, struggling to finish.

Clark just smiles, leaning back with effortless grace.

You take a bite of your own sandwich—less ambitious than theirs, but perfectly seasoned. The pastrami is smoky and tender, the rye bread soft yet sturdy beneath the heft. Lunch is -- nice. Lois is nice, you realize. A little up her own ass, but that’s to be expected; the best women usually are. 

Jimmy burps discreetly. “And I’m learning not to challenge Clark at a pastrami eating contest.”

Clark raises his sandwich in mock salute. “I never said it was a fair fight.”

After lunch, you make your way back to your desk and finish your assignment. At around 3, Lois Lane emerges from Perry’s office, phone still clamped between shoulder and ear. She spots you and offers a tired but triumphant smile. “You alive?” she calls across the din.

“Barely,” you grin, leaning against her desk. “Got caught in a timecode tangle this morning—good thing I remembered my notebook.”

Lois laughs, endearing in its rarity. She tucks an errant curl behind her ear. “You’ve got nerve, reporter. That might be my line. But I’ll give it to you—it was a solid catch. Perry was actually impressed.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Impressed? And here I thought Perry only yelled at people he liked.”

Lois shoves papers toward you. “Consider this payback: I need an extra set of eyes on my LexCorp piece. Grab a coffee and we’ll compare notes before the press briefing.”

You head out to the little espresso cart tucked in the hall behind Perry’s office. Lois steers you to a high-top table, balancing her latte in one hand, your own cup in the other.

“LexCorp spin,” she says, spreading her pages out like a map of scandal. “They’re touting safety upgrades, but those maintenance logs say otherwise.” She glances up at you. “So: timecode blackout and boiler spike—same minute, two different facilities. You see it?”

You lean in, fingertips brushing hers as you point. “Exactly. If we stitch those together, it looks less like coincidence and more like deliberate cover-up. My angle: ‘When the lights go out, who’s watching the shadows?’”

Her eyes flicker with approval. “I like it. Alright, rookie—let’s mash that headline up.”

A familiar chuckle draws your gaze to the alley entrance: Clark, arms full of steaming cinnamon rolls. “Thought you might need a sugar boost,” he says with a crooked smile.

Lois smiles at him cheerfully, and says “You know me so well.”

“What else are you working on right now?” You ask Lois.

“Ugh, this new Superman guy who’s flying around saving Metropolis.” Lois says, blowing a hair out of her face. Unwillingly, your eyes slide to Clark’s face, which is blank.

“I saw some of the news -- he’s been here around three weeks, right?”

“Yup,” Lois sighs. “And not once has he stopped to give an interview or any insight into where he came from or why,” 

Clark shrugs. “Maybe Superman’s not big on press conferences.”

Lois snorts. “That’s one way to stay mysterious. But until he talks, the city’s left to rumor—alien invader, government experiment, you name it.”

You take a slow sip of your latte. The rich bitterness grounds you. “Sounds like a story waiting to be told,” you say, eyes flicking back to Clark. “Maybe you have a lead?”

Clark arches an eyebrow, amusement dancing in his blue eyes. “Me? I’m just the guy who apologizes for bumping into you on the street.”

Lois rolls her eyes. “Aint that the truth,” She looks down mournfully at her cinnamon bun. “Perry’s on my ass about it, though. He wants to know everything about him,” 

You offer Lois a sympathetic nod. “Perry’s right,” you say, lowering your voice so only they hear. “Superman’s origin as an exclusive would probably sell out every paper and dominate headlines,”

Lois snorts between sips. “You got that right. I’ve been on this beat since day one—and trust me, tracking down a flying dude in spandex is easier than pinning down his backstory.” She pops the last bite of her cinnamon bun, sauce on her lip.

Clark leans forward, one elbow on the table. “If you want a lead, start with who he helps the most. Superman shows up where the shadows are deepest.” His tone is casual, but you catch the spark behind his words.

“Thanks, Kent. I’ll follow that trail.” Lois sighs again and you swirl the dregs of your latte. 

“Speaking of trails—Cat Grant’s hosting drinks at the Planet lounge tonight. Jimmy’s dragging me there.” You say casually. 

Lois raises an eyebrow. “Cat’s infamous for her one-liners, but she can’t bury a story for the next day’s edition,”

“You’re not going to go?” You ask Lois. She shakes her head.

“No, I’ve got bigger fish to fry,” 

You nod amicably and wander back to your desk. Clark catches you as you sit down.

“I notice you didn’t ask me if I was going,” He says playfully.

“Something tells me you’ll be busy tonight, anyhow,” you say archly. 

He grins, the corner of his mouth tugging up. “Busy is one way to put it.” He taps the temple of his glasses. “I’ve got a…prior engagement of my own.”

Your heart flutters, but you play it cool. “Oh, I’m sure, Smallville,” You think about all the shadows and people he’ll be swooping into save tonight. “Do you think Superman sleeps?” You blurt. Clark pauses, one brow arching higher than the other. The hustle of the newsroom fades around you as he considers your question. Finally, he lets out a soft chuckle. “Im’ sure even Superman needs rest,” he says quietly, voice surprisingly warm. “I’ve heard he finds a quiet rooftop somewhere, looks out over the city, and… just breathes.”

Your chest tightens at the image—Superman, alone above the skyline, stealing a moment of peace between rescues. “You’ve heard he finds a rooftop, huh?” you murmur. “Sounds nice.”

Clark meets your gaze and for a heartbeat there’s something almost vulnerable in his smile. “Yeah. Nice,” he agrees. Then he straightens, slipping his notebook into his jacket. 

“Where’d you hear that?” you ask, just to see what he’ll do.

“A good journalist never reveals their sources, Y/N,” He rolls his eyes, turning back to his desk screen. 

You blink at him as he turns back to his screen, pretending to be absorbed in an endless column of copy. For a moment you consider pressing further— tugging at that thread until he gives you something more—but instead you let it drop.

“Fair enough,” you say, sliding into your chair. The late-afternoon lull settles over the bullpen: phones ticking into voicemail, keyboards tapping their last urgent sentences, and the golden slant of sun warming every surface. You pull your notes together and cross off the timecode blackout angle that just went to print.

Jimmy pops up beside you, grinning. “You ready?” he asks, nodding toward the elevators. You button up your cardigan and scoop your bag from the floor.

Clark glances up, offering you a lopsided smile as you head for the door. “Have fun tonight,” he calls softly, voice carrying just enough over the newsroom hum.

“Enjoy your ‘prior engagement,’ Clark,” you wink back and follow Jimmy outside.

You step out of the bullpen into the warm glow of the lobby lights and fall into step with Jimmy. The elevator doors close behind you, and the soft hum carries you down to the street. Outside, Metropolis has traded its midday frenzy for the gentle pulse of evening: headlights carving ribbons of light across asphalt, storefronts glowing like constellations.

Jimmy flags a cab. “Ready for the world’s snappiest one-liners?” he asks, grinning.

You slip in beside him. “Bring it on.”

The bar and lounge is humming when you arrive—low jazz drifting from hidden speakers, clusters of reporters holding half-drowned cocktails, and Cat Grant at the center, commanding the room the way she commands headlines. She’s a pretty woman, you think. With that platinum hair and low cut shirt -- she does look like a comic book caricature, you think. She spots you, slipping off her stilettos to perch on the edge of the bar. In one fluid motion she waves you over.

“Well, look who made it,” she purrs. “Survived week one without being vaporized by Perry White. Impressive.”

You laugh, sliding onto a nearby stool. “I’m nothing if not persistent.”

Cat’s eyes flick to Jimmy. “And you’re the moral support?”

He bows theatrically. “I’ll take that responsibility.”

She nods toward the buffet table. “Help yourselves—truffle fries, coconut shrimp, mini sliders. Fuel for the true ambassadors of truth.”

You pass a fry to Jimmy, then turn back to Cat. “So, tell me—what’s the secret of surviving Cat Grant’s party?”

She sips her cocktail thoughtfully. “Two rules: one, don’t take anything she says to heart; two, whisper everything you want everyone to hear.” She leans in, voice dropping conspiratorially. “Oh—and keep an eye on the bar for surprise awards. I might just give one tonight.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Awards?”

Cat’s grin is wickedly pleased. “Planet’s ‘Rookie of the Week.’ It’s technically unofficial, but it carries weight.” She winks. “You’re a shoo-in.”

You press a hand dramatically to your chest. “Who, me? The only new reporter starting this week? No! Impossible!”

Cat tilts her head, eyes twinkling. “Humble too? Perfect.” She signals to a passing server. “Here you go.” The server sets a small piece of cardstock beside your cocktail— “Rookie of the Week: Y/N” —and slips away before anyone can protest.

Jimmy whoops and claps both hands together. “That’s my favorite rookie!” He grabs a mini slider and raises it in a mock toast. “To the new ace in the bullpen!”

You laugh, tucking the cardstock into your purse.

Jimmy nudges you with his elbow. “All it took was one data catch, huh?”

You smirk, lifting your glass. “One minute of missing time and a single spike—that’s all it took to get Perry’s attention.”

Cat Grant lounges back, observing you like a proud mentor. “Never underestimate the power of connecting dots, Y/N. You saw what everyone else missed.”

You glance around the lounge: colleagues chatting, reporters unwinding, Cat’s approving gaze anchoring the moment. “Feels good to be seen,” you admit.

Jimmy raises his slider in salute. “To being seen—and to even bigger stories.”

You clink your champagne flute against his slider, grinning. “Here’s to that.”

You lean back, champagne in hand, surrounded by new friends and mentors. The city beyond the windows sparkles with possibility— for the first time in a long time,you feel content. As the evening winds down, you realize the room has thinned. Jimmy is already rallying a group for one last drink, but you find your attention drifting to the clock on your phone—1:07 a.m.

“Hey Jimmy,” you say, lowering your voice. “I think I’m going to head out.”

He blinks, mid-gesture. “Are you sure? It’s barely past one.”

You smile gently. “I need the quiet. And I want to see the city at night before I crash.”

He nods slowly, respect in his eyes. “Alright. Want me to see you home?”

You shake your head. “I’ve got this. Solo recon mission.”

He shrugs and clasps your shoulder. “Okay, Rookie. Call me when you’re in. And be careful, it is probably smarter to call a cab.”

You stand, adjusting your cardigan, and slip past the bar. The cool night air hits your face as you step outside. The neon glow of the lounge fades behind you, replaced by the pale streetlights guiding your path.

You walk without hurry, the city’s pulse now a steady, soothing rhythm. Storefronts closed for the night, alleys quiet but for the distant hum of a lone taxi. You savor the hush, window reflections dancing on wet pavement where an earlier drizzle left faint trails.

Memories of your old life flicker—bright offices, familiar sidewalks—but this night belongs to Metropolis. These streets, these shadows, this promise of stories in every corner.

You round a bend and catch sight of the Planet globe glowing softly in the distance, a beacon pointing the way home. You hug your cardigan tighter and continue down the deserted street, lantern-lit windows offering the last warmth of the evening. The hush settles into your bones—quiet, but never empty. The night air echoes ,and suddenly you hear footsteps behind you—quick, uneven. You pause, heart fluttering. The click of a heel echoes, then a shuffling closer.

“Hey,” a low voice calls. “Your purse—hand it over.”

Your breath catches. A shadow detaches from the alley’s entrance: a tall figure, face obscured beneath a hoodie. Your pulse hammers in your ears.

“Don’t make a scene,” the mugger warns, stepping forward, gloved hand reaching for your bag. You suddenly feel very foolish indeed for opting to walk home alone, in a city you don’t know. Just because it wasn’t Gotham didn’t mean that this wasn’t still a city filled with all the people cities are filled with. 

You swallow, voice trembling. “Please—just take it.” You knew better than to try and fight. Hopefully, all he wanted was your purse and nothing more. Your purse slides from your shoulder, and you release it to the ground. The thief scoops it up and spins—only to freeze.

“Enough,” a deep voice intones. Superman stands tall, cape billowing. “Return the purse to the lady, and go home,” 

His Superman voice is deeper, more authoritative, but when you look at him, you see Clark, plain as day.The thief, however, just nods wordlessly, drops your purse, and turns and sprints back into the alley. 

Superman steps forward, concern softening his gaze as he approaches you. “Are you hurt?” he asks, voice gentler.

You manage to shake your head. “No—thank you.”

“You shouldn’t walk these streets alone at night, you know,” he says, mildly reproachful. “It could be dangerous,”

“So I see,” you snort, shaking your head. “Call it a city adjustment,”

“I’d offer to walk you back but that may take some time,”Superman says, frowning. “How are you with heights?”

You blink at him, surprised by the question. “Heights?” you echo, rubbing your palms together. “I—well, let’s just say I’m not training for any high-wire acts.”

He offers you a small, lopsided grin. “That’s fine. I’ll go slow.”

Before you can protest, he steps forward and lifts you effortlessly into his arms. Your heart thunders in your chest as you realize you’re leaving the pavement. Clark folds his arms around you, stabilizing you against his broad chest, and with a gentle thrust he rises.

The city falls away beneath you in a heartbeat. Streetlights shrink to pinpricks of gold, and the Planet globe becomes a glowing orb in the distance. Your breath catches as you hover over rooftops—so close you can see the rippling tar beneath your fingertips.

“Sorry about the sudden flight,” he says, voice calm against your ear. “I’ll get you home safely.”

You force your voice steady. “Thanks, You lean your head back against his shoulder and let the wind whip through your hair. Below, the night is a blur of lights and shadows, but up here, everything is still—with only the two of you suspended between earth and sky.

After a few tense seconds, he banks gently to the east, steering toward your apartment’s familiar brick façade. Your pulse slows, and adrenaline unspools from your limbs. You realize you’re smiling, that this—this impossible moment—is real.

“Almost there,” he murmurs. You feel his arms shift, preparing to set you down.

Your feet touch solid rooftop, and Clark lowers you as carefully as if you were made of glass. Behind you, the city hums, but up here it’s peaceful—just the two of you sharing a secret that no headline could ever capture.

“Thank you,” you whisper, brushing a strand of hair from your face.

He tucks your notebook into your coat pocket. “Anytime. Be careful on these streets… and maybe take the cab next time.”

You laugh softly. “Deal.”

He offers a brief, warm smile, then with a quiet “Good night, Y/N,” he folds his cloak around him and steps back into the shadows. For a moment you watch him go, then turn toward the entry back into your building. It occurs to you that Clark -- Superman -- didn’t ask where you lived. How did he know where to bring you? 

The door sighs as you push it open. Inside, the stairwell is dim and narrow, the metal steps cool beneath your feet. Each echoing footfall brings you further from Clark’s warm presence and closer to the everyday world— where you’re just another reporter heading home.

Halfway down, you stop. Your heart still races with the thrill of flight. You trace the faint imprint of rooftop gravel on your palm, wishing you could hold onto that moment forever. But reality tugs gently at your sleeve: deadlines wait, stories need telling, and the world will keep turning—even if Superman barely pauses to notice.

Reaching your door, you fish your keys from your pocket and slip inside. The apartment is dark and quiet. You drop your bag, kick off your shoes, and pad to the window overlooking the alley where it all began. Below, the city’s pulse continues unnoticed—taxis glide by, neon signs hum, and distant sirens hint at trouble unseen. And somewhere out there, Clark Kent in a cape is saving lives. You hope that when you wake up you’ll still be here. 

Chapter Text

You wake groggily -- and late. That hasn’t changed since being transported into a new world. You rush through your morning. You rush through your morning routine in a blur: shower, dress, grab yesterday’s half-eaten granola bar from your desk drawer. Your outfit is slightly wrinkled, but you hope no one will notice. It’s Friday, after all. You sprint down the hallway, keys jingling, phone tucked between shoulder and ear.  Jimmy has texted you to let you know that he knocked but you didn’t answer, so he went ahead to the office.

By the time you make it to the bullpen, the newsroom is alive again: phones ringing, printers whirring, and the Planet globe glowing bright beyond the window. Jimmy gives you a curious look as you settle at your desk.

“Rough night?” he asks, eyebrows raised. “For someone who went home early, you look exhausted.”

You wrinkle your nose. “I can’t believe you heathens stay out that late on a Thursday,” you grouse, dragging your chair closer and cracking open your notebook.

Jimmy snorts. “Thursday? Rookie, you missed the best one-liners of the week.”

“How are you not exhausted?” You accuse. Jimmy shrugs. 

“Caffeine, high on life,”

“Ugh,” you groan, before turning on your screen and getting to work. Clark’s chair is empty and you wonder if he’s recovering from his night out. Before you get too into the work, though, Perry calls an office meeting. 

“I’m sick of this -- another night of Superman sightings -- and another day without a piece about it. I want to know everything there is to know about this guy! We have at least seven incidents of sightings last night,” he says. “An attempted mugging on Maple, a gas-line rupture in Old Town, a roof collapse at Sixth and Pine, a runaway car on the freeway ramp, a ten-alarm fire at the warehouse district, a child stuck atop the Ferris wheel at Joyland Park, and a commuter train derailment this morning,” Perry rumbles, eyes blazing. “Seven miracles in one night—and not one byline in this paper! Unacceptable!”

A charged silence follows Perry’s roar. You feel the weight of those seven miracles pressing down on your desk like boulders. Across the bullpen, reporters clutch notepads and line up by phones, ready to pounce.

Perry’s finger sweeps the room like a spotlight. “Grant! I want every bit of information you can find on the attempted mugging and the gas-line rupture. Lane, you cover that commuter train derailment and the runaway car. Y/L/N!”—he levels you with a look—“you get the roof collapse at Sixth and Pine and the ten-alarm warehouse fire. Dig into inspection records, building permits, fire-crew logs—everything. I want side-by-side timelines for each rescue, cross-checked against Superman’s flight path. Understood?”

You nod, adrenaline snapping awake every nerve. “Yes, sir,” you reply, already picturing a spreadsheet in your head: columns for location, time, witness, official reports, and any “Superman” connection. You try to ignore the comedy of knowing that Grant will be searching for -- you, the would-be mugging victim. Lois gives you a quick, fierce smile before spinning to the phone on Perry’s desk. Jimmy offers you a thumbs-up as he ducks under the bullpen’s low-hanging ceiling lights to get on the line with Metro PD.

“And WHERE is Kent?” Perry yells, throwing his hands up. You glance across the bullpen—no Clark. His monitor is dark, his phone unanswered. Even Jimmy pauses mid-dial to glance your way.

Before you can answer, the bullpen’s chatter dies again. Lois steps forward, voice cool but firm. “Kent signed out for the morning after covering the fire. Said he had some leads to follow up.” She checks her phone. “Last ping was near Joyland Park around dawn.”

Perry seethes. “Joyland? That kid rescue was two hours before the mugging! He should’ve been here for assignments.”

“I’m sure Clark is chasing some lead -- I’ll call him,” Lois says confidently.

You dip your chin in agreement, scanning the bullpen as everyone scrambles. “Meanwhile, I’ll keep digging on the Sixth and Pine collapse. I’ve got the inspection records queued up and a maintenance crew interview set for ten.” Your pen taps out the beat of urgency against your notebook’s spine.

Lois presses the call and holds it to her ear. You steal a moment to swap your coffee for water—today demands clear thinking, not caffeine jitters. Across the room, Jimmy returns from the Metro PD line with names and badge numbers. You exchange a tight-lipped nod: everyone’s pieces are falling into place, except for Kent’s.

Lois lowers her phone, brow furrowed. “No answer. Voicemail picks up.” She tucks her phone back into her coat. “He’s good at disappearing when you most need him.”

You let out a low breath. “Then we’ll cover for him.” You grab your notebook and tap open your laptop, pulling up city permit databases and fire department feeds. Your fingers hover over the keys as you map out your approach:

Sixth & Pine Roof Collapse

• Pull building inspection history (last safety review: June 2024; any violations filed?)
  
  
• Interview on-scene tenants and maintenance crews (ask about unusual noises, prior complaints)
  
  
• Request security-camera footage from the liquor store next door
  
  

Warehouse District Fire

• Obtain fire-marshal’s preliminary report (cause, timeline, point of origin)
  
  
• Track emergency dispatch audio (time of call, units dispatched, arrival times)
  
  
• Interview first-response firefighters (ask when and where Superman appeared)
  
  

You glance up at the bullpen’s frenetic dance: Grant furiously scrolling through mugging reports, Lane pacing with phone pressed to her ear for train-derailment witnesses, Jimmy back on Metro PD trying to snag the 911 tapes. Perry’s globe gleams behind you, as if reminding everyone why you race against the clock.

You exhale, straightening your shoulders. You don’t need Kent’s help—today, you’ll piece together the story from the documents and eyewitness accounts you’re gathering. One by one, you’ll stitch these “miracles” into a coherent timeline. And by tonight’s edition, the Planet will have its byline.

With a final nod, you hit “send” on your inspection-records request and dial the number for Building Safety and Permits. And then Clark comes flying in -- suit a little rumpled, curls a mess.

“Kent!” Perry roars.

“I was chasing a lead—on the gas-line rupture,” Clark says, voice breathless. He holds up a slim tablet, screen glowing with scanned maintenance logs. “These are the inspection records from Old Town. See here?”

You lean forward, eyes flicking over the entries. “They marked the valves ‘in service’ last month—but the notes say ‘access sealed pending upgrade.’”

Perry frowns. “How’d you get these?”

“Plant night manager—I called earlier but he thought I was a prank caller. Finally believed me when I showed up in person at dawn,” he answers, running a hand through his mussed curls. “He admitted he was told to lock the controls, but never told why. He gave us a statement on Superman’s appearance and what direction he headed in after, too,”

Perry’s stern expression cracks into a grin as he swipes through the logs. “Well done, Kent. That’s exactly what I needed. Lane, any update?”

“It’s been all of five minutes, Perry,” she replies dryly.

You tap the edge of the tablet, feigning exasperation. “Nice of you to drop by with the goods, Kent. Thought I’d have to file a missing person report.”

He offers a sheepish half-smile. “Sorry. Traffic was… complicated.”

Traffic. Right. You suppress a grin. “Next time let me know you’re late—I might save a call to Metro PD.”

Lois rolls her eyes at your tease, but Perry is already barking orders: “Y/L/N, weave Kent’s information into your timeline. Grant, mugging footage—now. Lane, your derailment and runaway car angles. Kent, stay put until we wrap this up.”

As Clark settles next to you, you catch his nervous glance. Gotcha. You lean in, voice low enough that only he hears. “I hope you grabbed a coffee on your way here—there’s a long day ahead, reporter to reporter.”

He tucks the tablet under his arm and straightens his jacket—a subtle superhero stance. “I’ll get it,” he promises, turning to fetch caffeine. You tuck the tablet under your arm, taking it from Perry, and swivel your chair back to your screen.

He really is good at both jobs, you think, scrolling through the logs to line up the exact timestamp of the valve seal. Reporter by day, hero by night—and still manages to look like he just stepped out of a shampoo commercial.

Across the bullpen, you overhear Jimmy volleying Metro PD names and Grant waving mugging photos toward Perry’s desk. You lean in close to your keyboard and begin typing:

2:07 AM – Possible valve malfunction reported at Old Town Gas Facility.
2:09 AM – Superman appears at rupture site, guides crews to safety.

Then you pause, fingers hovering. You tap out a quick note to yourself: Include Manager Flores quote about “freakishly fast help” —a playful nod to Clark’s signature speed.

Your eyes flick toward the coffee cart down the hall. Should we race him there? you muse, the idea making you grin. Instead, you pop open a new tab: interview requests. Subject: Plant Night Manager Vargas. Deadline: ASAP.

A minute later, Clark returns, balancing two steaming lattes—one black, one with skim and two sugars. He sets them before you and pats the back of your chair.

“Didn’t know if you needed—” he hesitates, then smirks. “—a hero and a caffeine boost.”

You lift your cup, clinking it against his. “To teamwork,” you say lightly. And then focus in on the work. 

By five, you’re beat. Your fingers ache from typing, and the sheen of stress still glitters on your forehead, but the timeline is locked and the quotes are in. You lean back, sipping the last of your latte, and watch the bullpen slow to a Friday-footed crawl: phones quieting, printers winding down, and Perry finally easing back into his chair with a rare satisfied sigh.

Clark slides into the empty chair next to yours, curling his legs beneath him. He glances at your screen—two columns of carefully cross-checked times and sources—and gives you a small, approving nod. “Looks good,” he murmurs, voice low.

You flash him a tired grin and tap the final comma into your draft. “Couldn’t have done it without you,” you say, and it’s half-tease, half-truth. He pretends to puff up his chest, but you catch the faintest glow of pride in his eyes.

Lois stands, stretching like a cat. “Let’s call it a success.” She claps you both on the shoulders.

Jimmy appears with a pair of cold sodas. “Celebratory sugar—minus the caffeine crash.”

You take the can, pop the tab, and clink it against Clark’s. “To Friday,” you toast, voice cheerful.

He meets your gaze. “And to the next story,” he replies.

Lois and Jimmy leave soon after. Lois has a date with a tall dark and hot someone, and Jimmy has -- some type of date, you suppose. Date may be a generous term for it. You loiter at your desk, stomach twisting uneasily. You still don’t actually know anyone here. Clark looks up from his desk, leaning back in his chair. 

He folds his hands behind his head and glances your way, that easy half-smile tugging at his lips. “You okay?” he asks.

You tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear, eyes drifting to the glowing globe beyond the window. “Yeah,” you lie, pulling your cardigan tighter. “Just… thinking.”

Thinking how, in a city of eight million people, it still feels like you’ve only found two friends—one who races off into the night saving lives, and another who chases a copy and photographs until his desk is buried in papers. You tap your soda can against the desktop, staring at the dent in the aluminum. “I still don’t really know anyone here,” you admit, voice laced with something like homesickness.

Clark’s gaze softens. He swivels his chair until his knees brush yours. “You’ve got me,” he says, then catches himself and clears his throat. “Well, another transplant,” he laughs.

“How long have you been here?” you ask curiously.

“Mmm, two months or so,” 

You trace the rim of your soda can. “Sounds like just long enough to feel settled,” you say gently. “And still new enough to remember what it’s like to start over.”

He offers you a small, thoughtful smile. “Exactly. Some days I still wake up half-expecting to be back on the farm.” He glances out the window, the Planet globe glowing in the dusk. “This city grows on you, though. People here—they lean in. They care.”

You consider his words.“I’m glad you’re here,” you admit, surprising yourself. Maybe the more accurate thing to say is ‘I’m glad I’m here’ but he doesn’t need to know that. 

“Have you had time to unpack and settle into your apartment?” Clark asks suddenly, standing. 

You swallow a laugh and set your soda aside. “Unpack? I—” You think about the stack of half-flattened boxes by the window, the one you never got around to opening. “Let’s just say my living room is still auditioning for an episode of ‘Hoarders.’”

Clark’s eyes crinkle with amusement. “I could help,” he offers. “I’m pretty good at folding shirts—faster than a speeding bullet, even.”

You shake your head, laughter bubbling up again. “I don’t know if Metropolis is ready for that level of domestic heroics. But… thank you.”

“Well, fair enough,” Clark says, folding his arms. “But I’m guessing that also means you haven’t had a home-cooked meal in Metropolis.”

You raise an eyebrow, amusement flickering through your fatigue. “When you put it that way, I suppose takeout Ramen doesn’t count.”

He grins, eyes warm. “Then let me remedy that. There’s a little diner on Hanover Street—family-run, the sort of place where the biscuits practically cling to your fork.”

Your heart lightens at the thought. “That sounds amazing,”

He offers you his arm. “Shall we call it a trade? I fold your shirts, you let me buy you dinner.”

“Clark… that’s not a trade,” you say with a playful smirk, looping your arm through his. “That’s me getting the better end of the deal.”

He chuckles, giving your elbow a gentle squeeze. “All right, you got me there. Call it chivalry, then.”

“That died last century,” you say drily.

“Not in small towns,”he says reproachfully, voice light. “You should know that small towns are always behind on the trends.” 

You roll your eyes, but can’t hide the smile tugging at your lips. “Well, who am I to rain on the parades on the bright-eyed beliefs of the smalltowners?

Clark laughs, the sound soft and warm against the din of the quieting bullpen. “Exactly,” he says, stepping off the carpeted floor into the concrete lobby. “Bright-eyed believers unite.”

You follow him through the swinging door and out onto the sidewalk, the city’s evening lights painting every surface in gold and neon. The air smells faintly of rain—earlier drizzle leaving slick ribbons on the pavement—and the distant rumble of traffic feels oddly musical.

“Here we are,” Clark announces a few blocks later, pausing beneath a red-and-white striped awning that reads Mabel’s Diner in cheerful script. Steam curls from the exhaust vent by the door, promising warmth inside.

He holds the door for you, and you step into a world of clinking mugs, vinyl booths, and the comforting aroma of gravy and fresh-baked bread. A waitress greets you both with a practiced smile and leads you to a corner table bathed in soft lamplight.

As you slide into the booth opposite Clark, you take a moment to soak it all in: the checkered floor, the faces of regulars catching up over pie, the jukebox in the corner humming a slow tune you half-recognize. Here, in this cozy diner, Metropolis feels smaller—more welcoming, somehow.

Clark settles across from you, folding his hands on the table. “So,” he says, voice low, “what do you think? Home-cooked enough for a transplanted reporter?”

You catch his eye and smile, the last of your lingering fatigue melting away. “I think,” you reply, lifting your menu, “that I’m exactly where I need to be.”

Chapter Text

Saturday’s sunrise finds you curled beneath a mountain of blankets, the morning light filtering softly through your curtains. You lie still for a moment, letting the hush of your apartment settle around you—no newsroom buzz, no deadlines screaming for your attention. For once, the only thing on your agenda is breakfast.

Rolling onto your side, you glance at your phone: 8:14 AM. A small victory. No frantic texts from Perry, no missed calls from Metro PD. You stretch, toes brushing the cool hardwood floor, and swing your legs over the side of the bed. Today, you decide, you’ll explore a bit of Metropolis outside the Planet’s walls—and maybe find a little more of yourself, too.

Pulling on jeans and a soft sweater, you pad to the kitchen where your now-tamed stack of boxes stands sentinel. With a shrug, you grab a granola bar (managing to finish the one you started) and tiptoe out the door, key in hand. The city greets you with gentle warmth: vendors setting up carts, newspaper hawkers shouting headlines you already know, and the distant echo of traffic humming beneath a sky newly washed clean by last night’s drizzle.

Dinner with Clark had been nice. You enjoyed spaghetti and talked about your childhoods—him, on the family farm under endless Kansas skies; you, backyard adventures behind a suburban house where scraped knees were badges of honor. His easy laughter over your stories of makeshift tree forts warmed you more than any diner pie. And at the end of the night, he politely walked you back to your apartment building. It was much slower than flying, you realized. He’d given you a warm half-hug at the end of the night and told you to have sweet dreams. When you returned the comment, he’d only smiled and turned away.

Now, with the morning sun warming your back, you set off down Orchard Avenue, intent on finding a proper breakfast joint. The smell of freshly baked bagels guides you to a tiny cart with a rainbow of schmears—a man in a Mets cap cheerily spinning plate after plate. You order a toasted everything bagel with honey-maple cream cheese, slide onto a nearby bench, and take a deliberate, unhurried bite.

You close your eyes as the warm bagel and sweet cream cheese melt together, letting the city’s morning rhythm wash over you. A cyclist whizzes past, narrowly missing a paper fluttering across the pavement. An elderly couple shuffles toward the newsstand, debating the merits of each headline. Metropolis feels vast—and yet, right here on this bench, it feels intimate.

Finishing the last crumb, you wipe your fingers on a napkin and stand, sliding your phone from your pocket. A quick text to Clark: “Bagel success. Meet you at Fifth & Main at noon?”

He replies almost immediately: “Sounds good. See you soon—don’t fall for any suspicious salesmen.”

You frown at your phone as the screen goes blank—Clark’s message sent, but his bubble never appears again. He’s already off somewhere, you think, a smile tugging at your lips. Of course.

Rather than wait at Fifth & Main, you wander east along the avenue, scanning for the smallest hint of superhero business: a crowd gathering in an alley, a stray flash of blue, or even a distant whoosh of wind. But the morning unfolds peacefully—market stalls, dog walkers, and the occasional street performer coaxing tunes from a battered violin.

At 11:50, you finally settle on a lamp-post outside the café where you two agreed to meet. You tuck your hands into your sweater pockets, humming softly to yourself. The minutes stretch, and you begin to wonder if Superman’s “leads” include scouting the city for trouble before joining you.

Just as you check your watch again, a blur of crimson and cobalt swoops down the street, blurring past you. People gasp and follow him with their phones. Your heart skips as the figure streaks by—cape fluttering, feet barely seeming to touch the pavement. Phones go up, shutters click, and a ripple of excitement rolls down the street. You can’t help it: you grin, caught between astonishment and amusement.

And then three minutes later, Clark’s there, in a t-shirt and jeans, skidding to a stop just past the café’s neon sign. Clark brushes a stray leaf from his shoulder, hair tousled from the sprint. His eyes find yours, and he offers a lopsided, apologetic smile.

“Sorry I’m late,” he calls. “There was a -- um -- superman sighting. I had to investigate,” his cheeks almost flush. You have to actively work to prevent yourself from rolling your eyes.

“Naturally,” you say instead. “What was he sighted doing?”

“Clark shrugs, running a hand through his hair as if he’s trying to smooth out the morning’s chaos. “Apparently,” he says, glancing down the block as though half expecting to see a flash of red and blue materialize, “he stopped a runaway delivery truck that lost its brakes on Fourth Street. Nobody was hurt, but… the truck was loaded with—get this—rubber ducks. Hundreds of them. It was… weirdly adorable.” He offers you a sheepish grin. “I couldn’t just let that go undocumented.”

You suppress a laugh. “Of course. A rubber-duck avalanche in downtown Metropolis. Typical.” You tap your watch. “Well, hero work before brunch is commendable, but I was starting to worry you’d been lured away by a suspicious bagel cartel.”

Clark’s eyebrows shoot up. “Bagel cartel? Metropolis has a bagel cartel now?” He steps closer, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “I did hear rumors of a shadowy group trading limited-edition schmears on the black market. Maybe I should look into that next.”

You feign seriousness, narrowing your eyes. “That, or you’ll uncover the great cream-cheese conspiracy of 2025.”

He laughs, the sound warm and easy. “You know, I think I like this assignment.” He offers you his arm. “Shall we rescue a café table before the lunch rush?”

Sliding your arm through his, you let yourself relax into the familiar weight of his presence. Together, you cross the street, the neon sign humming overhead, and claim two chairs by the window. As you settle in, you realize how ordinary—how perfect—this moment feels: no capes, no breaking news, just two people sharing pancakes and the comfortable silence of mutual understanding.

Clark catches your eye. “So,” he says, leaning forward, “after truck-saving and rubber-duck heroics, what’s on your agenda for today?”

“I’m not sure,” you pause. “Honestly, Clark, I’m kind of surprised you showed up when I texted,”

Clark frowns.

“What do you mean?”

“Well,” you gesture at the space between the two. “I mean -- I know I don’t have any friends here and nothing else to do but -- I guess I’m surprised you don’t have other, more important things to handle than, like, spending your Saturday with some random and brand-new coworker.”

“Hey! I don’t think you’re random,” Clark protests, “But I do think you’re coming from a much smaller place than Metropolis, And you’re definitely not some obligation I have to tick off my list.” He reaches across the table, brushing your knuckles with his thumb. “I chose to spend my morning with you, because… well, becaus -- you’re nice to be around.”

You feel a warmth bloom in your chest. For a moment, the hum of the café and the chatter of strangers recede, and it’s just the two of you. You trace the grain of the wooden tabletop with your fingertip. 

Clark tilts his head. “You deserve good things,” he says. “And I want to show you that Metropolis isn’t only deadlines and danger, after the week you had and the other night -- There are small wonders, too. That mural alley I mentioned—no crowds, no flashing cameras, just art you can touch and stories you can read with your eyes.”

He stumbles at the end, realizing, as you do, that he isn’t supposed to know about the other night. Because he wasn’t there; Superman was, and you hadn’t told anybody about it. Before you can think better of it, the words are out of your mouth.

Your fork hovers mid-air as you meet his gaze, confusion and something sharper—dread—flaring in your chest. “Clark,” you say softly, wondering what he’ll say,“how did you know about… the other night?”

He freezes, eyes flicking away to the steam rising from his coffee cup. His Adam’s apple bobbles, and he clears his throat. “I—I guess I pieced it together,” he stammers. “I heard something on the scanner…you know, a report of unusual energy readings at the docks. And then…” He exhales as if gathering courage. “I thought you might’ve been involved.”

Your heart thumps so loudly you swear the entire café can hear it. You set your fork down, the clatter echoing in the sudden hush between you. “You’re a bad liar,” you finally say. “For the record,” you push your plate away. “I was busy getting mugged,” 

Clark’s eyes widen as your words land. His shoulders slump, and he clasps his hands around his coffee cup, as if tethering himself to something solid. “Mugged?” he repeats, voice tight. “You… you were mugged?”

You nod, pulling a napkin from the dispenser and folding it into a neat square. “I didn’t want to ruin the morning,” you admit, tucking a lock of hair behind your ear. “But yeah—someone tried to grab my bag, and I wound up on the ground before Superman showed up.” You shrug, attempting a light tone. “He left before I could properly thank him, which is a shame, but maybe I’ll see him again under better circumstances,” you finish wryly, smiling internally.

“Oh,” Clark relaxes suddenly, shoulders dropping. “I’m sure he knows,” 

You let the silence stretch for a moment, savoring the ease between you. Clark’s lips curl into that familiar, slightly crooked smile, and you can’t help but return it.

“I’d like to thank him properly sometime,” you tease, slipping your napkin into your pocket. “Maybe over coffee—if he’s into that sort of thing.” 

Clark chuckles, the sound warm and genuine. The conversation lulls and you both enjoy a private joke -- though yours is funnier, because you already know his.  He stands and offers you his hand. “Come on. Small wonders of Metropolis still await,” 

You follow him out and wonder how long this will go on -- you pretending you don’t know, him making all these tiny slips. The thought of telling Clark -- of telling him how you know makes you feel sick.

What do you even say? Hey I know you’re superman because i’m from another dimension and in my dimension you’re a comic book character. Or what about hey clark! “So, funny story… I actually know a guy who looks exactly like you—cape and all—in a comic back home. And in that story, he’s… well, let’s just say he always shows up at the last second.” Or maybe you try the casual way --“ I don’t know how, but—something about you feels… extraordinary. Call it intuition, or crazy dreams, but I’ve suspected you’re more than just a really nice guy from Smallville.”

Instead, you swallow your words and pad silently along Clark, who is pointing out spots you’re passing that he’s visited.

You fall into step beside him, matching his pace as he gestures toward a low brick façade splashed with cobalt spirals. “This used to be an old shipping crate company,” he says. “They abandoned it a decade ago, and artists reclaimed it, now it’s a gallery.”

“You’ve visited it?” you tilt your face up to him. Clark nods, shooting a grin down.

“I can’t claim it’s because I’m cultured though -- it was just that the reporter who was supposed to cover a showing called in sick, so I stepped in.”

“Hmmm,” you hum. “I guess you can be forgiven, but only if you can name the artist who was showing their work. 

Clark’s grin falters for a beat before he recovers with a half‑shrug. “Jimmy Lee,” he repeats, a little too confidently. “The one who paints cityscapes in neon tones?”

You arch an eyebrow, folding your arms. “You’re close,” you tease, “but his signature style is those shattered‑glass motifs. The gallery’s retrospective last month was all about fragmentation—remember?” You know this because it’s also right on the window sign in the gallery. 

He runs a hand through his hair, eyes darting to the window. “Right, right—shards of light and color. That was Lee,” he concedes, offering you a sheepish smile. “Okay, you got me.”

You laugh, the sound bright in the narrow alley, and reach out to bump his shoulder. “I’ll forgive you, but only if you promise to let me quiz you on every artist from here on out.”

He sweeps an arm out to encompass the riot of murals. “Deal,” he declares. “But next time, I pick the subject, and you have to guess the hero in the story.”

You tilt your head, intrigued. “A hero?”

He nods, voice softening as he steps closer. “Because every great mural has one—even if it’s hidden in the lines and colors. And I have a feeling you’re better at finding them than anyone I know.”

“Oh you have no idea,” you chuckle.

Chapter Text

Clark wound up leaving just a few minutes later. When his gaze flicks past you—to the street beyond the gallery doors—and he clears his throat, you know what he’s about to do.

“Hey, I—I just realized the time,” he stammers, running a hand through his hair. “I’ve got a prior engagement I can’t miss.”

You pause mid-breath -- he really needs a new excuse.

“Do you?”

He gives you that rueful Clark Kent smile. “Sorry. I’d offer to walk you back, but…” He shrugs apologetically. “I’ve got to go.”

You want to argue— for the sake of being someone who doesn’t know who he is, but instead, you nod. “Okay. Stay safe?”

He steps closer and brushes his fingers against yours—so lightly you almost miss it. “Always,” he whispers. And then he’s gone, melting into the blur of Metropolis traffic. You lean against the gallery’s cool brick wall, fingers tingling where his brushed yours, and watch the ebb of foot traffic through the glass doors. The chatter of late–evening visitors drifts faintly, punctuated by the distant wail of a siren.

Then you catch exactly what you’re expecting to see -- a flash of red darting between the high–rises across the street. A streak of crimson and cobalt, cutting a perfect arc against the steel and glass skyline. Superman, off to save the world. How exactly, you suppose you’ll learn on tonight’s evening news. 

You stay pressed against the wall long after his red-and-blue blur vanished, as if the brick itself might dissolve and let you follow. At some point, your phone buzzes in your pocket—a news alert, no doubt. Or Perry, demanding you find the news. You fish out your phone from your pocket and find the headline you’d half-expected: “Superman Intercepts Intergalactic Imp  Downtown—No Injuries Reported.”

With that, you begin to head back to your apartment.  It isn’t lost on you that in your first Saturday here in this new world, you wound up spending it with Clark. 

You step off the curb and into the glowing hum of Metropolis’s night, feet carrying you down familiar sidewalks that somehow feel new. Streetlights pool golden circles at your ankles as you weave past shops and cafés. In your mind, Clark’s laugh echoes against the gallery walls, and the memory of his fingers brushing yours sparks warmth in your chest. As you near your apartment building, you realize you’ve been holding your breath and let it go in a soft sigh. The lobby’s fluorescent lights flicker over the tile floor, and the doorman offers a sleepy nod. You return it with a small smile—your first here, perhaps. With a click of your key, the door swings open to the hush of your own space.

Inside, you shrug off your coat and drape it across a chair. The city’s distant roar is muffled through double-pane windows, replaced by the gentle hum of your refrigerator. You pad to the kitchen, pour yourself a glass of water, and stand at the counter for a moment, letting cool liquid slide down your throat.

You glance at the clock: still hours before you can reasonably go to bed. Tomorrow promises deadlines and bylines, but tonight is yours. You fetch your journal from the coffee table—its pages already marked with mural sketches and half-written questions—and set it on your lap. Flicking to a blank page, you jot a single line: First Saturday in Metropolis: museum tours, strangers’ art, and one unexpected goodbye. Beneath it, you sketch a tiny heart, half-hidden among cobalt spirals.

A soft smile tugs at your lips. In this new world, where headlines chase heroes across dimensions, you’ve found a moment that’s yours—and Clark’s—in equal measure. You close the journal, tuck it beside your bed, and stand by the window, gazing at the skyline where Superman soared tonight.

The weekend stretches quiet before you, full of possibility and unasked questions. You let yourself believe that maybe, just maybe, this Saturday was only the beginning. And with that comforting thought, you turn off the lights and let sleep carry you into Sunday’s dawn.

The rest of the weekend drifts by in a gentle blur of routine. Sunday morning, you fold laundry in your living room, the soft hum of the washer a comforting lullaby. You wander to the corner market for groceries—avocados for breakfast toast, a bottle of red for dinner—and carry the bags home as if you’ve lived here forever.

By Monday, you find yourself back at Perry’s desk, pitching your first big story: “Undercover at the Metropolis Docks.” He grunts approval, and Wednesday evening you’re on the waterfront, notebook in hand, waiting for your contact. The salt breeze tangles your hair as container ships loom like silent giants. You watch dockworkers unload crates marked “Biohazard” with narrowed eyes. Something about the operation feels off.

You tail a lanky figure in a grease-stained jacket—your lead—down a side alley. You duck behind a stack of pallets and press record on your phone. He meets with two burly men who scan the water’s edge, then hand over a sealed envelope. You edge closer, heart thundering.

A sudden shout: “Hey! You!” The tallest henchman grabs your arm. Before you can scream, the other lunges to snatch your phone.

Panic spikes. You struggle, but they’re stronger. One hauls you further into the shadows. “We can’t have witnesses,” he growls.

You slam a fist against a crate. “Let me go!”

Your world narrows to the scent of diesel and the click of the sealed envelope falling to the ground. Then—light. A whirr of wings, a blur of crimson.

In an instant, the henchmen go flying, skidding across the concrete as Superman—cape snapping like thunder—lands between you and danger. His eyes flick to you, concern and relief mingling in his gaze.

“Are you okay?” His voice is calm but urgent. He offers you a gloved hand. You step forward and take it.

“I—I am, thanks to you,” you stammer, voice catching.

He nods, turning to the crumpled henchmen. With a single gesture, he lifts them by their collars and deposits them gently against a far wall, unconscious but safe. Then he’s back, standing just inches away.

Your pulse races, and without thinking, you whisper, “Thank you, Clark.”

His head snaps up, eyes widening in surprise. The name escapes you before you realize—Clark. The same man whose fingers you felt against yours in the gallery.

He straightens, clearing his throat. “You’re welcome,” he says, voice a shade too quiet. His cheeks flush beneath the cape.

You clear your throat, heart hammering. “I—uh—should call the police.”

Superman nods and vanishes in a blur, leaving you alone on the docks with the envelope at your feet and your world tilted on its axis.

You scoop up the evidence—and your phone—then stand in the moonlight, staring at the spot where he disappeared.

Chapter Text

Clark is quiet the next morning. In the last week, he’s built a habit of greeting you the moment he sits down, some easy hello or a half-joke about the coffee machine sputtering again. Sometimes he’ll ask how your evening was, in that steady way that makes the newsroom feel a little less chaotic. Today, though, he doesn’t look up. His shoulders are hunched, his focus pinned to the pages on his desk, and he writes as if the ink itself might keep him anchored.You wait, certain he’ll glance over, certain the familiar rhythm will return. But the silence stretches on, thin and uncomfortable.

It’s a little awkward, given everything, you suppose -- but still. You can’t help that you know.

Finally you lean forward, trying to sound casual. “Want to grab a coffee before the morning meeting?”

For just a second, his pen stills. His eyes flicker up to yours, quick and guarded, before sliding away again. “Can’t. Deadlines. Not enough time.” The words are even, but they land with a sharp edge.

You nod like it doesn’t matter, and you ignore the way your chest aches at the distance in his voice. After last night, after the way your heart had thundered in his hands, you thought maybe something had shifted. Now it feels like a door shutting in your face.

Clark bends back over his notes, jaw set, shoulders rigid. He’s not very good at pretending everything is normal, you note. In fact, you’re surprised he’s kept his secret this long, if this is how he acts. It is your fault, you suppose, because you slipped up -- but still. He should be better at pretending. The Comicbook Clark is, you think with resentment.
This Clark -- the real Clark -- is quiet, awkward -- and when he’s out of the suit, more than a little unsure.

The thought still lingers when the elevator dings. Lois strides out like she owns the place, heels sharp against the floor, her bag slung over one shoulder and a stack of papers under her arm. She barely glances at you before tossing them down onto her desk with a flourish.

“Morning,” she says, not waiting for an answer. Her eyes are already bright, scanning the room for someone to listen. “So, I’ve been thinking. Superman always shows up in the middle of a catastrophe, right? Fires, crashes, collapsed bridges—you name it. If I can get there first, I can cut him off before he disappears. Corner him. Finally get the interview.”
She’s pacing now, animated, her words like flint. “No one else has done it. Not really. But I can. I know I can.”

You steal a glance at Clark. He doesn’t look up, but his pen stops moving for the briefest moment before he forces it back across the page.
Lois doesn’t notice. “You’re coming with me,” she declares, jabbing a finger in your direction. “I need someone who doesn’t scare easy, and let’s face it, Smallville here—” she nods at Clark “—would probably faint dead away if he saw Superman up close.”

“I’m not sure that’s the best idea, Lois,” you try half-heartedly.

“Of course it’s the best idea,” she snaps back without missing a beat, already rifling through her bag for her notebook. “What, you think Superman’s going to just knock on the door of the Planet one day and ask for an appointment? Please. You have to chase the story if you want it. And this—” she waves a hand toward the skyline outside the windows—“is the biggest story of our lives.”

You open your mouth to argue, but she barrels on, already mapping out her ambush. “I’ll get the quote, the angle, the human side. I’ll get him.”

Across the aisle, Clark finally sets his pen down. “Lois—” His voice is soft, careful.

But she doesn’t even look at him. “Save it, Smallville. You can stick to council meetings and crop reports. This one’s mine.”

His jaw flexes, but he says nothing more, and the silence between you all prickles. Lois doesn’t notice. She’s already moving again, sketching her plan in wide, sweeping gestures, her words sparking like kindling.

You glance at Clark, half-expecting him to meet your eyes, to share some flicker of humor or exasperation. Instead, his gaze is fixed on his desk, shoulders rigid, as if holding something in place that might otherwise crack wide open.

“Well, here’s to hoping she doesn’t manufacture her own crisis,” you try for a joke.

For a moment, nothing—then the corner of Clark’s mouth curves, faint but real. “Wouldn’t put it past her,” he murmurs, the sound almost lost under the shuffle of papers.
It’s not much, but it feels like a thread tugged loose in the wall he’s been holding up all morning. His eyes stay down, though, his fingers tapping once against the pad of notes before stilling again.

Across the bullpen, Lois is already on the phone, barking at some source or maybe a cab company—you can’t tell which. The newsroom hums around her, alive and oblivious.
You lean back in your chair, watching Clark’s shoulders, the rigid line of him. He gave you a smile, yes, but it feels like he’s still bracing for impact, like he knows something’s coming.

And maybe, you think uneasily, he’s right.

****

As luck would have it, a monster is spotted in Central Square that afternoon.

The news filters in the way it always does—first a murmur across the bullpen, then the ringing of phones, then the frantic chatter of voices piling over one another. Within seconds, the room is alive with it: a winged shadow blotting out the sky, pedestrians screaming, smoke rising over the rooftops.

Lois is already on her feet. “That’s it—that’s him!” She snatches her notebook and camera, the grin on her face electric. “Come on, we’ll miss it!”

Before you can even form a protest, she’s halfway to the elevator.

Your pulse stutters. You glance at Clark—his face is pale, drawn tight—but the moment your eyes find his, he looks away, fumbling with the papers on his desk as though deadlines still matter in a world where monsters walk the streets.

You hesitate for half a breath too long, then you’re running after Lois, caught in her slipstream, swept toward chaos. It’s your life, but it also feels like the comics -- a little unreal, a little curious, and a little like you’re stepping into the shoes of someone who doesn’t exist.

But the grit of the sidewalk under your loafers feels real as you keep pace beside Lois. The air outside is sharp with sirens and smoke, the crowd funneling in the opposite direction—faces wide-eyed, voices breaking in panic. You’re moving against the tide, following Lois as she weaves through bodies with single-minded purpose, her pen already clutched like a weapon.

The square looms ahead, and so does the monster. Its wings beat the air heavy and uneven, scattering debris in every direction. It looks like nothing you've ever seen -- or imagined. Cars lie overturned like discarded toys, glass shatters underfoot, and somewhere in the din a child wails.

Lois doesn’t slow. She’s shouting questions no one hears, elbowing past a knot of terrified pedestrians, her eyes locked on the story like it’s the only thing that matters.
You’re less certain. Each step feels borrowed, each breath threaded with smoke and doubt, but you can’t stop—not with Lois pulling you deeper, not with the sky itself seemingly split by something out of a nightmare.

It’s shadowy and strange, and you wish for a moment that you’d read more Superman comics as a child so you might have some idea what this is. Some name to pin on it, some frame that makes sense. But all you have are fragments—the screech of metal twisting, the smell of smoke and ozone, the hot gust of air as its wings churn.
Lois surges forward again, ducking under a police barricade like it isn’t even there.

“Lois—” you call, but your voice is swallowed by the noise.

The creature’s head swings, eyes glowing like coals, and for one raw heartbeat you’re sure it sees you. Its mouth opens, jagged and wrong, and the sound that rips out isn’t anything human.

You freeze. Your body knows before your mind catches up—you are too close, and this thing doesn’t care who you are. You think it lunges for you—and you stumble back, heart clawing at your ribs—but before its shadow can swallow you whole, the air cracks.

A blur of red and blue collides with the monster, slamming it off its trajectory and into the husk of a storefront. Brick and glass explode outward. The ground shudders beneath your feet, and for a moment the world tilts, caught between nightmare and comic panel.

Superman rises from the wreckage, cape torn loose in the gale of the creature’s wings. He moves fast—faster than you can track—his hands seizing the thing’s throat, driving it down again and again as if sheer force can pin it to the earth.

Around you, the crowd is chaos. People scream, scatter, clutch children to their chests. Sirens wail closer, lights ricocheting off shattered glass. You stand frozen, caught between the instinct to flee and the terrible magnetism of the fight unfolding yards away.

The monster bucks, sending Superman sprawling across the pavement in a spray of concrete. He lands hard, but he’s on his feet again in the same instant, jaw set, eyes burning with something you can’t quite name.

And then—his gaze flickers, just for a breath, to you. Beside you, Lois whoops excitedly, like she’s courtside at a championship game instead of standing twenty feet from a monster tearing the city apart.

“Did you see that?” she yells, fumbling for her camera. Her grin is feral, her eyes alight with the story already writing itself in her head. “God, this is it! This is the front page for the next month!”

You don’t answer. Your throat is too tight, your pulse thundering as Superman squares himself again, shoulders coiled like a spring. The creature’s wings thrash, sending another wave of debris across the square. A lamppost snaps like a twig. You throw your arms up against the rain of glass.

She shakes her head wildly, eyes never leaving the fight. “Don’t you see, Y/N?” Her arm cuts a sharp gesture toward Superman as he barrels back at the shadowy monster. “This is it. This is the story. The moment.”

Her voice is almost reverent, caught somewhere between triumph and obsession. Around you, the square is splitting open—glass breaking, concrete cracking, sirens bleeding into the shriek of the creature. People are still running, shoving past you in a tide of panic, but Lois stands rooted, grinning like she’s been waiting for this her whole life.
Your stomach twists. “Lois—” You try again, but your voice falters when the monster’s wings sweep wide, blotting out the sun for a breath before crashing down toward the street.
And in that instant, you realize you’re standing far, far too close. Lois may not be afraid, but by God, you are—and your body finally catches up to what your mind has been screaming. You stumble back, heart thudding so hard it rattles your ribs. The scream that leaves your mouth sounds inhuman. The shadow of the monster’s wings cuts across you, swallowing the square in darkness.

“Lois, move!” you cry, grabbing for her arm. She jerks free, too intent on snapping her shot, too certain the story matters more than survival.
The creature crashes down, claws raking the pavement where seconds ago you stood. The ground splits, concrete exploding into jagged shards. You’re thrown sideways, the air punched from your lungs. You don’t see where Lois is. Panic rises in your chest as you groan, the world tilting sideways. Dust burns your throat, stings your eyes. Somewhere close, people are still screaming, but you can’t tell if Lois is one of them.

You push yourself up, palms scraping over broken concrete, but the square is a blur of shadow and flame. The monster’s wings blot out what little light remains, and its claws tear into the street with a force that makes the ground tremble.

You’re too slow. Too close.

The shadow looms again—and before you can even raise your arms to shield yourself, a rush of wind tears past. Red and blue cut across your vision.
Superman hits the ground in front of you, the impact cracking the pavement under his boots. His hand finds your shoulder, steadying you with a grip that’s firm but careful, impossibly gentle in the middle of chaos.

“Stay down,” he says, low but commanding, before launching himself back at the beast.

Your heart is a wild, hammering thing. You can’t breathe, can’t think—except that for the second time in as many nights, he’s saved you, and you don’t know whether to thank him or run.

“I can’t—” you manage, voice breaking, but he cuts you off with a sharp glare.

It’s not cruel, not dismissive—just fierce. A warning, a promise, a command all wrapped into one look that sears through the smoke and noise.

The monster screeches, the sound rattling your bones, and Superman is gone in the next breath, hurling himself skyward. The air splits with the force of his flight. He collides with the creature mid-air, driving it back in a thunderous crash that makes the windows around the square implode.

You throw your arms over your head, heart slamming, every instinct begging you to crawl away—but you can’t. Your legs feel locked in place, your gaze pulled back to the streak of red and blue, to the impossible weight of knowing his hand was just on your shoulder.

Somewhere in the smoke, Lois is still shouting, still chasing her story. You can’t find her. You can barely find yourself.

But you know one thing: Superman—Clark—told you to stay down. And part of you—terrified and trembling—wants to obey.

The name catches in your mind like a spark. Clark. You hadn’t meant to think about it, but now you can’t stop. The way he steadied you, the flash of his eyes through the smoke, the sound of his voice pitched low but unmistakable. Clark. It’s a miracle other people haven’t figured it out. The glasses really don’t do him justice -- and then a giant piece of concrete slams into the ground beside you, bringing you back to the present.

Above you the battle rages, a blur of wings and fists and thunderclaps. Chunks of masonry rain down, skidding across the street. One smashes into the ground a few feet from you, spraying dust up into your face. You cough, eyes watering, trying to will your body to move, but your limbs feel like they’ve been poured full of cement.

Another crash. The monster slams into the pavement hard enough to shake the ground; Superman is on it in the same instant, pressing it down, cape snapping in the gale. He glances back—only for a heartbeat—but it’s enough. His gaze hooks into you, and the next second he’s moving again, faster than thought.

You barely register the movement before he’s there, scooping you up off the broken street with a single arm, the other braced against flying debris.

“Hold on,” he says, voice rough but steady.

And then you’re airborne, pressed against the impossible solidity of his chest as the world drops away in a blur of smoke and sirens.

“You shouldn’t—” you start, shaking your head, words tumbling out between gasps. “There’s other—more important people—”

His grip tightens, not enough to hurt, but enough to silence the thought. His eyes flick down to you for a single, searing instant, then forward again, scanning the chaos below.
“Everyone’s important,” he says, the words clipped but certain, carried on the rush of air as he flies.

The city blurs beneath you—smashed cars, fractured glass, people scattering like ants from the square. The monster bellows somewhere behind, shaking the air itself, but Superman doesn’t falter. His arm is iron around you, his heartbeat steady against your shoulder even as the world cracks open below.

You clutch tighter against him despite yourself, lungs burning with dust and adrenaline. For all the terror, there’s something achingly human in his hold—like he’s not carrying a stranger at all.

You land hard on the gravel of a rooftop, his boots striking the surface with barely a sound. Before you can catch your breath, before you can even form a word, he’s gone again—a blur of red and blue streaking back toward the smoke.

You’re left alone, knees weak, dust clinging to your clothes. The city roars beneath you, sirens wailing, glass still shattering somewhere far below. You press a hand to your chest, as if you can steady the rhythm of your heart, but it keeps hammering, wild and unrelenting. Superman — Clark — was just here. His voice is still in your ears. His arms still feel like they’re around you. You wonder for a moment if he went to save Lois.

When Lois doesn’t appear on the same rooftop as you after a few moments, you decide to move. Your legs still tremble, but you force them to carry you down the narrow fire escape, each step rattling the metal beneath your shoes. The city below is chaos—sirens converging on Central Square, smoke curling into the sky, police cordoning off the streets. You push through the crowd, head ducked, your ears ringing with the monster’s screech and Superman’s voice tangled together.

By the time you make it back to the Planet, the newsroom is buzzing with chaos—phones ringing off the hook, reporters shouting over one another, Lois already halfway through dictating her lede to a secretary. Her hair is wild, her jacket torn, but her grin is sharp as a blade. She’s in her element, spinning the disaster into headline gold before the ink is even dry.

You wonder—with a surprising pang of jealousy—if she got her interview. Maybe he lingered long enough for her, maybe she caught the words you couldn’t. The thought twists in your chest, sharp and uninvited.

You sink into your chair, dust still clinging to your clothes, hands trembling as you shuffle aimlessly through papers. Everyone else is alive with adrenaline, shouting deadlines and copy edits, riding the wave Lois brought barreling through the door. You feel stranded, still half on that rooftop, still half in his arms. And then Clark walks in.
He looks disheveled, shirt wrinkled and collar smudged with soot, his tie hanging loose around his neck. He doesn’t announce himself, doesn’t move with Lois’s electric urgency—he just slips in quietly, like he’s hoping to fold back into the noise without drawing attention.

But when his eyes find yours, he falters. For a fraction of a second the noise of the bullpen fades, and all you can hear is the echo of his voice: Everyone’s important.
He swallows, jaw working, and when he speaks, it’s softer than the chaos around you. “Are you alright?”

You nod, though your throat is too tight for words. There are a hundred things you want to say—thank you, I know, don’t leave me like that again—but none of them fit in the crowded newsroom. Lois barrels on behind him, spinning the monster’s fall into a headline, and Clark just stands there, quiet and uncertain, like he’s waiting for something you can’t give him here.

The moment passes, swallowed by the clatter of typewriters and the shrill ring of phones. But it lingers. All afternoon, you catch him watching you out of the corner of his eye, and every time your chest flutters with the memory of his hand on your shoulder, his voice in your ear.

****

That night, you find yourself on the roof of your apartment, needing air, needing space to think. The city sprawls beneath you, still humming from the day’s chaos. And then, without warning, he’s there—Superman, dropping out of the sky like he belongs to it.

He lands a few feet away, boots silent on the concrete. For a moment, neither of you speak. His cape ripples in the night breeze, his eyes searching yours with that same fierce, careful intensity.

“I never got to thank you,” you say at last, voice catching. You step closer, heart hammering, and press a quick kiss to his cheek. “For today. For—everything.”

He exhales, a sound almost like a sigh, and for once his composure slips. His hand lifts, hesitant, then sure, fingers brushing your jaw. And before you can think, before you can second-guess, he leans in and kisses you—on the lips this time.

Chapter Text

You wake with the kiss still pressed against your lips. The warmth of it lingers, sharp as a bruise. It wasn’t Superman you’d felt in it—not really. It was Clark. The same Clark who sits two desks away and can’t seem to meet your eyes.

By the time you get to the Planet, you’ve rehearsed a dozen ways to act normal. None of them stick. Clark hovers near your desk, hands shoved in his pockets, shifting like he’s waiting for an opening. His mouth parts once, twice, but no words come out.

You duck your head, shuffle papers that don’t need shuffling, and bury yourself in copy like the fate of the newsroom depends on it. If you don’t look at him, maybe you won’t think about last night. Maybe the kiss won’t feel so heavy.

Lois breaks the silence before it cracks you both open. She’s already halfway through her second cup of coffee, leaning across her desk with the energy of a storm. “You wouldn’t believe how close I was. Two more steps and I’d have had him—Superman, right there in the notebook.”

Her voice cuts through you, sharp as glass. Every time she says his name, your shoulders tighten, your pulse skipping. Your eyes inadvertently skirt to Clark—you want to talk about last night, but he still doesn’t know you know. Or maybe he does know you know. But you don’t know that he knows that you know. The whole thing twists around in your head until it’s unbearable. You shake your head, frustrated, and stab at the keyboard like the keys have personally offended you.

Clark shifts again, the scrape of his chair loud in your ears. For a second you think he’ll finally speak, but he just exhales, soft and uneven, and pretends to study the notes on his desk.

Lois doesn’t notice. She’s still in her own orbit, riding the high of almost catching him. “I swear, he was right there,” she says, tapping her pen against the desk like a drumbeat. “Next time, I’ve got him. Just need to move faster, think smarter. He can’t keep dodging me forever.”

Clark’s jaw tightens. You see it even from across the aisle, the way his pen stills in his hand. He doesn’t look at her, but he doesn’t look at you either.

The silence between you stretches, thin as glass. You want to break it—God, you do—but the words knot in your throat. So you stay quiet, both of you pretending, while Lois fills the air with her chase for a man you already kissed.

Lois barrels on, oblivious. “The monster, the panic, the chaos—front page material, all of it. Perry’s going to have a field day. Honestly, I should be halfway to a Pulitzer already.”

You manage a weak laugh, more out of habit than amusement. Your chest is tight, your mind still half on that rooftop, still half on Clark’s lips.

Clark clears his throat. Quietly. Hesitant. You glance up, startled, but he looks away just as quickly, eyes fixed on his notes. 

“How do you plan on pinning him down for an interview?” you interrupt, your voice sharper than you meant.

Lois lights up, glad for the opening. She spins toward you, pen flashing like a conductor’s baton. “Simple. You don’t chase him—you predict him. Fires, accidents, disasters… he shows up every time. All I need is the right lead and the right timing, and then—bam—exclusive. Front page. He won’t wriggle out of me.”

Her grin is wide, hungry, like the chaos itself is her hunting ground. You nod faintly, though your stomach knots tighter with every word.

Across the aisle, Clark’s hand clenches around his pen until it creaks, plastic straining. He drops it before it snaps, shoving it into his drawer with a quiet clatter.

Lois doesn’t notice, already sketching headlines on her notepad. “The world wants to know who Superman is. What he stands for. And I’m going to be the one who tells them.”

You chance another glance at Clark. His shoulders are hunched, his eyes fixed hard on the desk, as though sheer focus could drown her out—or maybe drown you out.

And you can’t help thinking that Lois is right. The world does want to know. And you do, too. Maybe too much.

The newsroom carries on around you—phones ringing, typewriters clacking, Lois scribbling furiously—but Clark feels like the only still point in the room. His shoulders slope forward, head bent, as though the desk could swallow him whole.

Then he moves. A small thing: the scrape of his chair, the shift of his weight as he leans toward you.

“Hey,” he says softly, so quietly you almost miss it under the noise. “You… you doing alright?”

It’s Clark’s voice, warm and careful, stripped of the cape and the command. Just Clark, trying to reach you.

Your throat goes dry. You want to answer. You want to tell him you know—that you see him—but the words knot in your chest. How do you bridge that gap? How do you look your friend in the eye and admit you’ve recognized the world’s greatest secret in the curve of his jaw, the timbre of his voice?

So you nod. Too fast, too shallow. “I’m fine,” you manage, eyes skittering back to your papers.

Silence blooms again, awkward and raw. He lets it sit there, doesn’t push, but you can feel it in the air between you: the truth pressing in, waiting to break.

You keep your eyes fixed on the stack of copy in front of you, words blurring into nonsense. Your pulse is too loud in your ears. Clark doesn’t move right away, but you can feel him there—his presence heavy, his attention trained on you.

Finally, he clears his throat again. “I mean it,” he says, a little stronger this time. “Yesterday was… a lot. Just wanted to make sure you’re okay.”

You look up before you can stop yourself. His face is open, earnest, framed by the lamplight from his desk. No cape. No impossible strength on display. Just Clark Kent—quiet, careful, almost painfully human.

Your mouth goes dry. You could say it. I know who you are. I know what you are. The words crowd your throat, but when you try to push them out, they collapse into nothing.

“I’m—” You stop, shake your head, try again. “I’m fine.”

He studies you for a beat too long, like he doesn’t believe you, then nods anyway. “Good,” he says, and sits back, adjusting his glasses. The moment slips away, neat as paper sliding back into a drawer.

But your chest still burns. Because you know, and he doesn’t know you know. Or maybe he does. And you don’t know how long the two of you can keep circling this silence without something breaking.

Chapter Text

You barely get the door closed before he’s there—larger than life in the dim light of your apartment, the latch clicking shut behind him. He looms without looming, takes up space without trying.

Clark Kent has always been careful with you. Polite. Thoughtful. Gentle in the way a man like him has to be. But tonight there’s an edge under it, sharp and unsettled, like he’s finally stopped holding himself together.

“I can’t keep—” He breaks off, runs a hand through his hair, glasses glinting in the half-light. His chest rises and falls once, heavy, before he finds the words again. “I can’t keep pretending nothing happened. Not after last night.”

Your pulse kicks, wild. You grip the strap of your bag a little tighter, as if that can anchor you. “Clark—”

“Don’t,” he says, too fast, too rough. He softens instantly, but the word still hangs between you, heavy and undeniable. “Please. Just… don’t shut me out this time.”

There it is. The crack in him. The truth pressing at the seams.

And you know this is it—the moment everything tips.

His coat is already off, dropped unceremoniously on the back of your chair. You’re still catching up—heart racing from the moment you saw him standing outside your building, expression unreadable under the glow of the streetlamp. He didn’t call. Didn’t text. He just showed up.

“You’ve been ignoring me,” he says, voice low and rough, not asking. Not accusing, either. Just stating.

Your back hits the hallway wall.

You open your mouth to reply, but the words die when he steps closer—towering over you, his hand pressing flat against the wall beside your head. Not trapping you, not quite, but you feel it all the same. The heat. The command in his presence.

“I’ve been busy,” you say—stupidly, breathlessly.

He leans in, dark eyes fixed on you. “Don’t lie.”

You swallow, caught. You have been avoiding him—ducking out of meetings early, pretending not to see him in the bullpen, hiding behind the fiction that you could go back to normal after what happened on that rooftop.

That kiss.

Your back hits the hallway wall. The plaster is cool against your shoulders, but it does nothing to steady you.

Clark stops just short of touching, hands fisting at his sides like he’s holding himself back by sheer will. His glasses have slipped a fraction down his nose, and for the first time, you realize how useless they are at hiding him.

“You’ve been ignoring me,” he repeats, quieter this time. “All day. Like you couldn’t even look at me.”

You open your mouth, but nothing comes. Not I know who you are. Not I kissed Superman. Just silence, your heart pounding against your ribs like it’s trying to get free.

His jaw tightens. He leans in, close enough that you can see the flecks of gold in his eyes. “If I did something wrong—if I crossed a line—tell me. Don’t just… vanish on me while you’re standing right there.”

You swallow hard. The truth is a storm behind your teeth.

“I wasn’t ignoring you,” you manage. Your voice is thin, brittle. “I just—I didn’t know what to say.”

His brow furrows, confusion shading into something softer. “Then say anything. Yell at me, hate me, I don’t care. Just don’t—don’t lock me out.”

And for a moment, you see it—the man under all the masks, raw and afraid, waiting for you to shatter the silence first.

Clark’s hand brushes your jaw, his thumb dragging slowly across your lower lip. “You kissed me like you meant it,” he says. “Then you disappeared.”

Your breath catches. “I didn’t disappear. I just—needed time.”

“To figure out what?”

“To think.”

He leans in closer, nose nearly brushing yours. “Then let me help.”

You should push him back. Say something snarky. Diffuse the heat building between you. But all you can do is stare up at him, locked in the intensity of his gaze—like he’s seeing through every excuse, every barrier, right to the center of you.

You whisper, “What are you doing here, Clark?”

His smile doesn’t come. Not the easy one he gives in the office, not the sheepish one he hides behind when Lois teases him. His expression is bare, stripped down to something raw.

“What I should’ve done this morning,” he says, his voice low, steady. “What I should’ve done the second you walked away from me last night.”

Your pulse hammers. “And what’s that?”

His hand slides from your jaw to your neck, feather-light, careful in the way he always is, but enough to tilt your chin just a little higher. His thumb grazes the frantic beat of your pulse.

“Be honest,” he says. “With you. With myself.” His throat works as he swallows. “I can’t keep pretending I’m just—just Clark Kent with you. Not when you look at me like that. Not after last night when you kissed me back like—” He breaks off, breath catching. “Like you knew.”

The word hangs there, loaded, dangerous.

Your heart stops. He doesn’t know what you know—not entirely. But in this moment, he’s close. Too close.

And you realize this is the edge you’ve both been circling: the place where his secret and your silence crash together, where one of you has to leap first.

“Clark,” you hum softly, the name trembling out of you more like a confession than a call.

His eyes search yours, frantic in their stillness, like he’s waiting for you to give him permission to fall apart. The hand at your neck tightens just slightly, enough that you can feel the strength he’s holding back.

“I can’t…” Your words catch, twist in your throat. The truth burns there, heavy and unstoppable. I know who you are.

But he leans closer before you can finish, his breath brushing yours. “Tell me,” he whispers, desperate. “Tell me you meant it when you thanked me. Tell me I didn’t imagine—”

“I did,” you blurt, your voice breaking. “I meant it. I knew it. I knew you.”

The admission lands between you like lightning, sharp and irrevocable. His jaw slackens, relief and hunger sparking at once, and for a heartbeat you think he’ll kiss you—hard, certain, like the world isn’t listening.

Instead, he presses his forehead to yours, breath shuddering. “Then stop running from me,” he murmurs.

His hand closes gently around your wrist—not hard, just firm—guiding your hand up and pressing it against his chest, over the hammering of his heart. “Who I am when I’m not pulling punches.”

Then he kisses you.

It’s not the gentle brush from the rooftop. It’s not soft or hesitant or sweet. It’s heat and hunger and frustration finally let loose. He tastes like coffee and clean wind, and when his mouth slants over yours, you gasp—giving him the opening he wants. His tongue finds yours, and you’re lost.

His other hand slides around your waist, pulling you flush against him. There’s no mistaking the strength in his arms, the way he can cage you in without ever making you feel unsafe. He kisses you like he’s claiming you. Like he’s tired of pretending you don’t want this just as badly.

By the time he pulls back, you’re dizzy. Your back is still pressed to the wall, your hand still trapped against the pounding heat of his chest. His forehead rests against yours, breaths ragged, glasses askew.

“This is me,” he whispers, voice rough. “Not the suit. Not the mask. Just—me.”

You search his face, every line of it suddenly bare. No disguise. No distance. Just Clark—too close, too much, and somehow not enough.

“Clark,” you breathe, though it feels more like a plea than a name.

His hand slides down your arm, fingers threading through yours. He squeezes once, grounding you, before pulling back just far enough to look at you—really look.

“I can’t take it back,” he says. “And I don’t want to. But if you don’t—” He falters, jaw clenching. “If you don’t want this, you have to tell me now.”

“Say it,” he murmurs against your jaw.

You blink. “Say what?”

“That you want me to stop.” His thumb brushes the hollow of your throat. “Say the word, and I’ll leave right now.”

You open your mouth—and close it again. Because he would leave. You know that. He means it.

But you don’t want him to.

Your hands fist in his shirt. “Don’t.”

His mouth curves in the barest hint of a smile, like the sun just broke through his storm. “Good.”

The word vibrates against your skin, low and warm. He exhales, some of the tension draining from his shoulders, but his eyes never leave yours. They’re still dark, still searching, still waiting for you to flinch or pull away.

You don’t.

Instead you’re the one who moves, closing the inch of space left between you. Your palms flatten against his chest, feeling the thrum of his heartbeat beneath the fabric, and when you tilt your face up, he meets you halfway.

This kiss is slower, steadier. Still hungry, but no longer a challenge—an answer. His hands frame your face like he’s afraid you’ll vanish, thumbs brushing away whatever’s left of your hesitation.

For the first time all day you let yourself lean into him, let yourself stop thinking, stop pretending. The world beyond the four walls of your apartment goes silent. There’s only his breath and yours, his pulse and yours, everything else falling away.

When he finally pulls back, it’s only far enough to rest his forehead against yours again. His breath is unsteady, stirring the stray strands of your hair, and for a long moment neither of you speaks.

You close your eyes, letting the weight of him steady you—the heat of his chest, the slow drag of his thumb still circling the back of your hand. Every part of you is alive, aware, trembling with the knowledge that this is real.

“Clark,” you whisper, the name slipping out before you can catch it.

He hums softly in response, almost a question, almost a prayer.

You open your eyes. He’s looking at you like he’s waiting for something, like you’re the only one who can decide where this goes. You brush your fingers along the line of his jaw, memorizing the rough warmth of him. He leans into the touch, eyes fluttering shut, and exhales like it’s the only permission he needs to stay. The silence stretches—not empty, not brittle, but full, alive, teetering on the brink of something you can’t take back.

He lifts you like you weigh nothing, carrying you into the living room and sitting down on the couch with you straddling him. His hands settle on your hips, thumbs dragging slow circles as he looks up at you, expression serious.

“I need you to understand something,” he says, voice quieter now—but no less intense. “I don’t do this halfway. Not with you.”

You nod, trying to catch your breath. “Okay.”

“I’m not just looking to scratch an itch. This isn’t a one-night thing for me.”

“I know.”

His gaze sharpens. “Do you?”

You pause. “I’ve always known. That’s why I was scared.”

His grip tightens on your hips, possessive—but steady. “Don’t be scared of me.”

“I’m not scared of you. I’m scared of this.”

He nods slowly, as if accepting that. His hand slides up your back, spreading over your spine, holding you there. “Then let’s stop pretending. Let’s stop pulling punches.”

You shift, feeling the solid weight of him beneath you, the way his body responds to yours. There’s something heady about being this close to someone so powerful—someone who could break buildings and bend steel but touches you like you’re precious.

Clark’s mouth trails down your neck, his teeth grazing your skin just enough to make you arch. You gasp, grabbing his shoulders for balance.

“Still with me?” he murmurs, lips brushing your collarbone.

“Yeah,” you whisper.

His hands slide under your shirt, pushing it up and over your head in one fluid motion. He pauses, just long enough to look—really look—at you.

“Beautiful,” he says, like it’s the simplest truth in the world.

You’re trembling, just slightly, but it’s not from fear. It’s from the way he sees you, the way he holds you like something he’s choosing. Not saving. Not protecting. Wanting.

And when he kisses you again, it’s deeper. Slower. Dominant in the way he knows he has you now, and doesn’t need to rush. Like the tension’s been broken and now he can savor what’s his.

When he lays you back on the couch, there’s no hesitation. No faltering. His hands are sure. His eyes never leave yours. And you realize—maybe for the first time—that you’re not in control here.

But you’ve never felt safer.

Clark’s hands are on either side of your head now, braced against the cushions. The way he looks at you—like you’re the only thing anchoring him—steals the breath right out of your lungs.

His voice is rough when he speaks again. “I’ve been trying to be patient.”

Your fingers slip beneath his shirt, dragging over firm muscle. “You’ve done a terrible job. It’s only been a week.”

His laugh is low, shaky, caught somewhere between relief and hunger. “Feels like a lifetime.”

You smile despite yourself, fingers pressing more firmly into his skin. “Guess we’re both terrible at pretending.”

Clark dips his head, kissing you again, slower this time, more deliberate—like he’s tasting the truth in your words -- and then he strips his shirt off in one smooth motion. His body is sculpted, but not in some exaggerated, comic-book way. This is earned strength. Kyptonian He’s the strongest man in the world, and somehow the tension in your body only breaks once he’s settled on top of you.

His lips find yours once more, slower this time, reverent. After all the restraint, all the patience, all the silence—you’re both suddenly choosing the same thing. When he pulls back, it’s only to rest his forehead against yours, his breath warm and unsteady. His hands cradle your face like he’s memorizing the shape of you, anchoring himself in the one place he’s allowed to let go.

You press your hand to his chest, feeling the steady hammer of his heart beneath your palm. Strong. Unstoppable. And still—achingly human. The silence that follows is different now. Not brittle. Not dangerous. Full. Heavy. Alive.

When he kisses you again, it’s unhurried. Gentle. A promise.

And this time, you let yourself believe it.

Chapter Text

You tell yourself it will be simple. Get dressed. Show up. Be normal.

But when you step into the bullpen the next morning, nothing feels simple. The newsroom hums with its usual chaos—phones shrilling, typewriters clacking, Perry barking from his office—but beneath it all, your pulse won’t slow.

Clark is already at his desk. Jacket on, tie neat, glasses firmly in place. The picture of Smallville reliability. If you hadn’t felt his heartbeat under your hand last night, if you hadn’t kissed him until the world went quiet, you might almost believe nothing had changed.

Almost.

His eyes lift as you pass, the briefest flicker of something warm sparking in them before he ducks his head back to his notes. Just enough to remind you that it happened. Just enough to undo the whole idea of normal.

“Morning!” Lois breezes in behind you, balancing a coffee in one hand and a stack of papers in the other. She’s already mid-sentence before she even reaches her desk. “—because I swear, Perry can’t ignore me forever. My Superman piece is this close to going to print.”

You manage a tight smile, sliding into your chair, forcing your voice steady. “Morning.”

It’s all you can do not to glance across the aisle again, not to get caught staring at Clark Kent pretending to be Clark Kent. Clark, who is as much human as he seems to be god. Clark -- whose eyes flickered to yours when you felt your heartbeat speed up. 

Clark—whose eyes flickered to yours the moment your heartbeat stuttered, like he could hear it, like he always could.

You shove the thought down, flipping open your notepad with more force than necessary. Ink smudges across your thumb. Normal. You are going to be normal.

Lois, oblivious, keeps talking. “The city’s hungry for Superman, and if Perry doesn’t see that, then maybe I should just take the story somewhere else. People don’t want council minutes and zoning disputes, they want fire and flight and mystery.”

Across the aisle, Clark’s pen halts mid-scratch. He doesn’t look up, but you see the faint set of his jaw, the way he exhales slowly through his nose before returning to his notes.

You fight the urge to say something, to catch his eye, to prove you can still talk to him the way you did before. But what would you say? “Hi, Clark, nice save last night. Also, your kiss is still living rent-free in my head.”

Instead, you clear your throat and lean toward Lois. “So what’s your angle this time?”

“I think he could be a hoax,” Lois says thoughtfully. “I mean a well-meaning seemingly almost god? Please,” 

“You’re just annoyed you haven’t caught him for an interview,” you tease, letting your pen tap against the margin of some notes.

Lois scoffs, rolling her eyes. “Annoyed? Please. I’m motivated.” She leans back in her chair, crossing one leg over the other with a self-satisfied smirk. “Superman’s hiding something, and I’m the only reporter in this city with the guts to find out what it is.”

Across the aisle, Clark’s jaw flexes. He keeps his head bent, but the pen in his hand has stilled completely.

“Maybe he just doesn’t want to talk,” you offer carefully.

Lois snorts. “Everyone wants to talk. You just have to ask the right questions—or be in the right place when they slip. He’s no exception.”

Her certainty cuts through you. You sneak another glance at Clark, and this time he does look up. Just for a second. His eyes meet yours, steady, unreadable.

“Well, I suppose it’s up to the Planet’s most diligent reporter to figure out the right questions.” You mock-salute Lois with your pen.

She grins, all teeth. “Exactly. Glad someone around here recognizes talent when they see it.”

The conversation moves on easily enough—Lois sketching out theories in rapid-fire bursts, spinning headlines in the air like she’s juggling knives—but you feel Clark’s gaze linger a beat longer before it drops back to his desk.

You tap your pen against your notepad, trying not to fidget. To Lois, this is just another story, another chase. To Clark, it’s a target painted on his back. And to you… it’s both.

Lois slams her coffee down with finality. “Mark my words, I’ll get him. And when I do, it’ll be front-page, banner headline. ‘Lois Lane, First Interview with Superman.’”

Across the aisle, Clark lets out a low sigh—quiet enough that only you catch it.

“What if someone else gets the first interview?” Clark unexpectedly pipes up, his voice calm, almost offhand.

Lois blinks, caught off guard, then scoffs. “Please. As if. No offense, Smallville, but Superman’s not exactly going to sit down with you to talk crop rotation.”

Clark only shrugs, adjusting his glasses, pen rolling idly between his fingers. “Stranger things have happened.”

You stare at him. And somewhere—buried deep in memory, half-forgotten panels and pages—you remember the story you once read. The one where Clark Kent landed his job at the Planet by being the only reporter to score an interview with Superman.

Your pulse spikes, irrationally, as if the fiction and the reality are about to collide right in front of you. Lois shakes her head, already dismissing it, muttering something about “lucky breaks” and “rookie dreams.” But you can’t stop looking at Clark, the faintest curve tugging at the corner of his mouth, a secret almost-smile.

****

Clark, you realize some hours later—after alarms, after a sudden rush, after Superman has pulled half the city back from the brink—is not subtle.

Because while the newsroom still buzzes with the chaos of breaking news -- of another unexpected chaotic event, while Lois fumes about being one step behind yet again, Clark Kent strolls back in with his tie askew, dust clinging faintly to his cuffs, and an exclusive interview tucked neatly in his notebook.

Your jaw nearly drops. It’s like he’s asking to be discovered.

Lois’s does. “What—how—” She splutters, eyes wide. “You?”

Clark ducks his head, sheepish in that infuriating way only he can manage, mumbling something about being in the right place at the right time.

But you know better.

You know the truth humming under his skin, the secret folded into every carefully chosen word, every not-so-innocent shrug.

Clark Kent is not subtle.

And the worst part is, no one seems to notice but you. Perry’s already barking for copy, Lois is pacing with the fury of a storm cloud, the bullpen humming like nothing out of the ordinary has happened. But you can’t take your eyes off him—off the easy slump of his shoulders, the way his glasses catch the light, the faint smudge of ash still clinging to his sleeve.

It would be laughable if it weren’t so dangerous. Superman sits three feet from you, scribbling in his notebook, hiding in plain sight.

And maybe you’re the only one who sees him.

Chapter Text

The rest of the week passes in a blur of writing and deadlines and bullpen chaos. You don’t actually see much of Clark—or Superman—beyond the usual glimpses across the desks. He’s quieter than usual, even for him. Focused. Vanishing for hours at a time under the convenient excuse of fieldwork or breaking news. You figure he’s busy. Maybe that’s safer for both of you.

But the space between you doesn’t stay empty. Every time his gaze catches yours across the bullpen, every time your shoulders brush in the elevator, every time Lois says “Superman” a little too loudly—your pulse jumps, and you’re right back in your apartment with his mouth on yours.

By Friday, the tension is unbearable. The newsroom has finally started to empty. Phones go quiet, typewriters fall silent, and the energy that’s carried you all week drains out like air from a balloon. Lois is the last to leave, muttering about leads and late nights as she slings her bag over her shoulder.

That leaves just you and Clark.

You try to look busy, shuffling notes you don’t actually need, telling yourself not to feel the weight of his presence across the bullpen. But when you glance up, he’s already watching you. Not guarded, not sheepish—just steady.

“Long week,” he says, rising from his chair, slipping his jacket on.

You laugh softly, tired. “That’s one way to put it.”

For a moment you think that’s it—that he’ll give you his usual polite smile and head out the door. Instead, he lingers by your desk, hands in his pockets, eyes searching yours like he’s making a decision in real time.

“Have dinner with me,” Clark says finally. His voice is low, certain. Not a question.

Your heart stutters.

You set your pen down slowly, pulse thrumming in your ears. “Dinner?”

He nods once. No fumbling, no nervous laugh to soften it. Just Clark, looking at you like he’s been waiting all week to say the words out loud.

You should stall, make a joke, buy yourself some space. Instead, what slips out is the truth. “Okay.”

Something in his posture shifts at that—subtle, but unmistakable. Relief. Satisfaction. The tension humming between you all week sharpens into something clearer, more deliberate.

“Good,” he says simply, and the corner of his mouth curves, not quite a smile but close.

And before you can think too hard about it, before you can second-guess, he’s already holding the door open for you.

Dinner with Clark Kent. The words echo in your head like a bell you can’t unring.

You gather your things with hands that feel clumsy, too aware of his presence as he waits by the door. He doesn’t rush you, doesn’t fidget—just stands there steady, jacket slung over one arm, like this is the most natural thing in the world.

The elevator ride is quiet. Not awkward, not exactly—just charged, full of everything neither of you is saying. His shoulder brushes yours once, and the silence deepens.

Outside, Metropolis hums with its usual Friday night chaos: neon signs, traffic horns, the distant wail of a siren. You fall into step beside him, the city swallowing your nerves with its noise.

“Anywhere you’d like to go?” Clark asks, glancing down at you. His tone is calm, almost casual, but his eyes are intent, waiting.

You shrug lightly. “Surprise me. God knows I don’t know Metropolis.”

Clark’s mouth curves—not quite a smile, not quite a smirk. “Then it’s my job to make sure your first proper dinner here sets the bar high.”

There’s something in the way he says it—quiet confidence, not showy but certain—that knots your stomach in a new way.

He leads you off the main avenue, past the glow of neon diners and crowded bars, down streets you wouldn’t have thought to take. He doesn’t check a map, doesn’t hesitate. Just moves with that same deliberate calm, like he’s already scouted every corner of this city from a vantage no one else has.

And you keep pace beside him, nerves threading tighter with every step.

“Do you always know where you’re going?” you ask lightly, trying for humor.

“Most of the time,” he answers. His eyes flick to yours, steady, unreadable. “At least when it matters.”

Your chest tightens. The noise of the city fades just a little, replaced by the weight of that simple, certain promise.

Clark leads you a few blocks off the main drag, where the neon gives way to soft lamplight and the chatter of smaller storefronts. He stops in front of a narrow brick building with fogged-up windows and the smell of garlic and fresh bread spilling out onto the street.

“Here,” he says simply, holding the door.

Inside, the place is cozy—low ceilings, mismatched chairs, a handful of tables all packed close. Not the glossy kind of spot Lois brags about, but lived-in, loved. The kind of restaurant that doesn’t need a sign because everyone who matters already knows it.

“You’ve been holding out on me,” you murmur as the host leads you to a table tucked against the wall.

Clark chuckles, settling across from you. “Figured you’d appreciate something quieter. Less spectacle.”

He’s right. The din is soft, the clatter of plates and hum of conversation a gentle backdrop. For once, you don’t feel like the city is spinning too fast around you.

Dinner is easy. Easier than you expect. Clark listens more than he talks, but when he does speak, it’s with that steady focus that makes you feel like the only person in the room. And every time your laughter slips out—real, unguarded—you catch the flicker of it in his eyes, like he’s memorizing the sound.

By the time you step back outside, the city has quieted. The streets glisten faintly from a passing rain, and the air hums cool against your skin. Clark falls into step beside you, his hands tucked in his pockets, jacket brushing your sleeve every few strides.

When you reach your building, you hesitate at the bottom step, the weight of the evening pressing in. Clark lingers too, his gaze fixed on you in a way that’s steady but not demanding.

“Thank you,” you say softly.

“For dinner?”

“For… all of it.” You pause, uncertain. “Do you want to come in?”

For a second, the question just hangs there, fragile in the night air. His brows lift a fraction, like he wants to be sure you mean it, and then the corner of his mouth tilts—small, but certain.

“Yeah,” he says, low. “I do.”

You unlock the door with clumsy fingers, pulse racing. Inside, the apartment is dim, shadows stretched long across the walls. You drop your keys in the bowl by the door, suddenly hyperaware of every sound, every breath. Clark closes the door behind him, the latch clicking shut with quiet finality.

He doesn’t rush. Doesn’t fill the silence with nervous chatter the way other men might. He just stands there, steady as gravity, watching you with that intent, unblinking focus that makes your stomach twist.

You fidget with your jacket, half-turning toward the couch, but Clark steps forward, closing the space with deliberate ease. One hand comes up—not to grab, not to demand—just to brush a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

“Thank you,” he says again, but this time it’s not about dinner. His voice is softer, deeper, the words thrumming in your chest. “For letting me in.”

Your breath stutters. The way he says it—it doesn’t sound like he’s only talking about your apartment.

“Of course,” you murmur. His lips look so close -- did they always look that good? You see as his gaze drops to your mouth, lingering just long enough that your knees weaken. You swear the air between you shifts, heavy with everything you’ve both been skirting around.

“Clark…” You whisper his name without meaning to, like your body remembers it before your mind catches up.

His hand stays light at your temple, thumb brushing the line of your jaw. “You don’t have to—” he starts, voice hoarse.

You cut him off, barely shaking your head. “I know.”

The faintest smile curves his lips, not playful—knowing. He leans in, slow enough that you could stop him, sure enough that you don’t. And when his mouth finally brushes yours, it’s nothing like the clumsy rooftop kiss. This one is deliberate. Certain. A kiss that knows exactly what it’s asking, and exactly what it’s offering.

Heat curls through you as his other hand slides to your waist, pulling you flush against him. He kisses you deeper, firmer, until your fingers clutch at his shirt just to keep steady.

When he finally pulls back, you’re breathless, your forehead pressed to his chest. His heartbeat is thunder beneath your palm.

“Still sure?” he murmurs into your hair.

“Yes,” it sounds more like a prayer than anything else. 

Your breath stutters as he kisses you again—deeper this time, slower. His lips drag over yours like a promise he intends to keep. One hand trails down your side, tracing the curve of your waist, slipping just beneath the band of your pants.

“Clark,” you gasp.

His eyes flick up, catching yours—checking. Always checking.

“Tell me what you want,” he says. Not a request. A command.

Your stomach flips. “I want you.”

“Then say it like you mean it.”

You stare up at him—flushed, pinned, trembling—and nod once. “I want you. I want this. I want you.”

His mouth finds your neck again, sucking just below your ear until you gasp. “That’s better.”

He moves slowly but deliberately—undressing you piece by piece, lips chasing every new inch of exposed skin like he’s cataloguing you by memory. You shift, moaning softly as his fingers graze your inner thigh, teasing but not giving in yet. He watches your face the whole time, gauging every sound, every flicker of your expression.

“You’re not nervous anymore,” he murmurs, voice like dark velvet.

You bite your lip. “Not about you.”

That earns another low, satisfied sound from deep in his throat. “Good.”

And then he’s kissing lower—his mouth tracing a heated path down your stomach, over the softness of your hips, until you’re writhing beneath him. His hands keep you still, strong fingers gripping your thighs as he eases them apart.

You’re breathless. Bare. Wide open.

He doesn’t rush. He savors.

His mouth is hot, steady, focused—like he’s been thinking about this for far too long, and now he’s going to do it right. The noise that escapes you isn’t even fully human, and your hips jerk, but his hands keep you grounded.

“Clark—please—”

His voice is low against your skin. “I told you. I’m not pulling punches.”

Your vision blurs. Heat spirals through you, winding tighter and tighter as he works you open with maddening precision—like he knows your body better than you do. Your fingers tangle in his thick hair, hips trembling with every flick of his tongue, every growl of satisfaction he lets loose when you cry out his name.

And then, when you’re right on the edge, gasping, clinging—he stops.

You whimper in protest, but he’s already moving, crawling back up your body, kissing you breathless again.

“You’ll come when I say,” he says, voice low and hoarse and possessive. “Not a second before.”

You shiver—every nerve buzzing, aching. “You’re infuriating.”

His hand wraps around your throat—not tight, just enough pressure to tilt your chin up. “You like it.”

You do. You do.

He kisses you again, deep and claiming, and then he finally sheds the last of his clothes. You feel him press against you—hot, heavy, ready—and instinctively wrap your legs around his hips.

“Clark,” you whisper, need thick in your voice. “Please.”

“Look at me.”

You do.

“This isn’t just heat,” he says, positioning himself. “This is me telling you that you’re mine. You run, I’ll come find you.”

You nod, frantic. “Yes. Okay.”

He slides into you in one long, slow stroke.

You moan—loud, raw—and he groans low in response, burying his face in your neck as he begins to move. The stretch is perfect, overwhelming. Every thrust is deep, controlled, intentional—his hands gripping your hips, holding you where he wants you.

You meet each thrust, gasping with each one, your nails dragging down his back. He’s barely holding on—his control razor-thin—but he doesn’t let go. Not yet.

“Touch yourself,” he growls.

You hesitate, dazed.

“Now.”

You obey—fingers finding your clit as he drives into you. The sensation is too much, the rhythm of his hips matched to the rough press of your own hand. Your body arches, heat crashing over you like a tidal wave.

“That’s it,” he growls. “Come for me.”

You do—shattering around him with a cry, your body pulsing, clenching tight. The sight of it undoes him. His hips stutter, and he groans your name like a prayer as he follows, his release spilling inside you as he thrusts deep one last time.

Then, silence.

He stays above you, breathing hard, forehead resting against yours. For a moment, neither of you speaks.

Finally, he brushes your hair back, cupping your cheek. “You okay?”

You nod, still reeling. “Yeah. That was… unexpected.”

His smile is soft now. “That was just the beginning.”

Your head rests on his chest, the rise and fall of his breath slowly evening out beneath your cheek. One of his arms wraps around your back, the other smoothing up and down your spine like he’s memorizing the shape of you through touch alone.

He’s quiet.

So are you.

The hum of the city filters through the window—horns in the distance, a faint breeze. But here, in the space between Clark’s heartbeat and the soft weight of the blanket draped over you both, it’s peaceful. Grounded. Real.

“You’re still here,” you murmur, lips brushing his collarbone.

He shifts beneath you slightly so he can glance down. “Should I not be?”

You grin into his skin. “I don’t know -- would you here be if I’d run after you kissed me that first time on the rooftop?”

 “If you ran, I’d find you,” Clark hums, his fingers dancing down your back.

“Is that a threat?”

His fingers pause on your back, then start moving again, slower this time. “That wasn’t a threat,” he says, voice low and amused. “That was a promise.”

You lift your head just enough to see him. His hair’s a little wild, lips kiss-bitten, and his eyes—God, his eyes—are so full of warmth and quiet certainty it makes your chest ache.

“You’re so cocky when you get your way,” you tease, tracing a lazy circle on his chest.

“I wasn’t aware I had gotten my way,” he replies, raising an eyebrow. “Are you saying this was a one-time thing?”

You narrow your eyes playfully. “Depends. Are you planning on being this bossy every time?”

He flips you over before you can blink—gentle but fast, all that strength hidden in the unassuming Clark Kent facade suddenly on full display again.

“You didn’t seem to mind when I was bossy ten minutes ago,” he says, smirking down at you.

Your laugh comes out in a breathless burst. “Clark—!”

“Say it again.”

You blink. “Say what?”

“That you want me. That you’re mine.” He dips his head, brushing your nose with his. “I like hearing it.”

You press your palms to his shoulders, pretending to push him off even though you don’t try very hard. “You already know I do.”

He kisses you—just once, soft and lingering. “Still want to hear it.”

You sigh dramatically. “Fine. I want you. I’m yours. Happy?”

“Mm.” Another kiss, slower this time. “Getting there.”

You wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him close. “You’re kind of insufferable.”

“You like it.”

Unfortunately, you do.

He rolls to the side, tucking you back against him like it’s second nature—one leg thrown over yours, your face tucked beneath his chin. His hand finds yours beneath the blanket, fingers threading together like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

You lie there in the hush for a while, until curiosity tugs.

“So… you came here last night to confront me. Was that the plan all along? March into my apartment as a nightcap, kiss me senseless, and—what—hope for the best?”

Clark hums. “Something like that.”

You squint up at him. “That doesn’t sound like the famously mild-mannered Clark Kent.”

“Maybe mild-mannered Clark Kent got tired of being patient.”

Your breath hitches—not at the words, but the weight behind them. “Are you saying you’ve been… thinking about this? For a while?”

He turns his head toward you, eyes serious now. “I haven’t stopped.”

Oh.

You weren’t ready for that.

You shift, fingers tightening in his. “You could’ve said something sooner.”

“I tried,” he says softly. “But you weren’t ready. I could feel it.”

You look up at him, heart thudding. “And now?”

“Now you’re here. With me.” He brushes his lips against your temple. “And I’m not letting go.”

For a second, all the noise in your head—the excuses, the fear, the what-ifs—just… fades. Clark has always made you feel like you could be honest. Safe. Brave, even.

You whisper, “Okay.”

“Okay?”

You smile. “I’ll stay. If you want me to.”

His thumb strokes along the side of your hand. “I want you to stay,” he says quietly. “But I also want breakfast. Eventually.”

You laugh. “Is this you trying to be romantic and practical at the same time?”

“I can multitask.”

“Well,” you say, propping yourself up slightly, “if you’re staying for breakfast, I feel like I should warn you—I don’t actually cook. My entire fridge is string cheese and regret.”

Clark chuckles. “I have eggs. And a stove. And a kitchen that wasn’t designed by raccoons.”

You raise an eyebrow. “So you’re inviting me over after all this?”

He gives you a look. “You’re not leaving me hungry after all this.”

You grin. “Bossy.”

His smile softens. “Only with you.”

You fall quiet again, fingers still linked, heart no longer racing—just settling. Like it’s found something solid to rest against.

After a long beat, you murmur, “I still can’t believe you’re Superman.”

Clark exhales a laugh, pressing a kiss to your shoulder. “Right now I’m just a man in your bed.”

“Mm. A very smug, bossy, annoyingly attractive man.”

“And you like that.”

“…Yeah. I really do.”

He grins into your skin. “Good. Because I’m not done with you yet.”