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Clark had gotten used to pretending.
Pretending he wasn’t listening for the sound of her typing. Pretending he didn’t know the exact moment she walked into the bullpen every morning. Pretending he didn’t feel it, every time their desks faced each other just right, every time her gaze tugged as his like gravity.
It was the little moments that killed him.
He was typing, half focused on a city council report, when he felt her look up. Instinctually, he looked back, despite trying not to. Lois smiled; small, warm, unguarded.
Clark smiled before he could stop himself. His heartbeat stuttered, just for a second. He hoped she didn’t hear it. He knew she didn’t.
She went back to her screen as nothing had happened, but Clark lingered just for a moment more, memorizing the line of her jaw, the way her hair fell when she leaned down towards her notes.
He dragged his eyes away only when he realized he wasn’t breathing.
Moments like this weren’t supposed to matter; they weren’t allowed. He made that choice for himself when he sent her that text message from across the street on that fateful night, when she was waiting for him at the coffee shop.
That message had been the final nail in the coffin to their…whatever you’d call their relationship.
The pain of his once again failed attempt at a healthy relationship with Lana, blowing up in his face, still lingered in his heart. Whether he’s actually mourning the loss of Lana herself or rather the falsified image he created of her is something he’s still grappling with.
He was wrong to think that he could have it all, that he could share his life with someone. If he tried to move forward with Lois, he would only screw it up. Of all the people he’s hurt in his life, the people he’s let walk away, Lois is a presence in his life he isn’t willing to risk losing.
He can’t let her get any closer, but he can’t bear the idea of her going anywhere.
How selfish is that?
—
Clark was still dusted with ash when she stepped off the elevator. He’d changed clothes, showered at superspeed, run a hand through his hair to make it look less wind-torn.
The bullpen hummed with the midday rush, reporters shouting leads over desks, printers whirring. And then, there she was.
Lois Lane, leaning on his desk like she owned half the city and the other half owed her a favor.
Her eyes flicked up when she heard him. A smile spread across her face, bright, effortless, and so painfully familiar that Clark felt something inside him loosen and tighten all at once.
“Look who finally decided to show up,” she said, crossing her arms. “It’s been what, a week?”
Clark tried to smile back like it was all normal. “Family business.”
She didn’t quiz him, didn’t prod, didn’t narrow her eyes and push. He always hated it when other people in his life, such as Lana, Chloe, and Lex, tried snooping in his business. So when Lois didn’t, it should’ve been a relief. It wasn’t.
Lois was a world-class reporter. A bloodhound. A human lie detector with the survival instincts of a grenade. But when it came to him, she just…let it go.
Because she didn’t think he mattered enough to push for the truth? Or because she didn’t think anything he did was about her?
Clark didn’t know which of those possibilities hurt more.
She hopped onto the edge of his desk like she usually did, legs swingly lightly as she launched into detailing her latest escapade, something about a corrupt councilman, a goat, and a very illegal lockpick she claimed she didn’t steal.
He listened, he always did.
Not with super hearing, or the way he listened for police scanners or distant cries. But with that awful, aching, human part of himself that wanted to preserve every word she said.
“Clark, are you even listening?” she teased, nudging him with her foot.
More than you know, he thought.
“Yeah,” he managed. “Every word.”
Her eyes softened, and she faltered for just a moment before she took a sip of his coffee like it belonged to her.
Perry strode past them, barking orders, and muttered, “I swear, you two act like you’ve been married ten years.”
They both froze until Lois laughed it off, punching his arm and walking away, saying that marriage would be a sham.
He didn’t laugh. Instead, he swallowed hard, forcing himself not to wince.
—
For a man with X-ray vision, he really should’ve caught on to the moment his life started going to shit.
The Daily Planet was buzzing. Phones ringing, reporters shouting leads, printers spitting out freshly inked pages. And threaded through all of it were the excited murmurs about him.
The Blur.
Clark kept his head down as he typed, pretending not to hear every heated retelling of the morning’s rescues. Pretending not to hear his own name disguised behind a nickname. Pretending not to wonder if Lois was listening too.
He’d thought about calling her. She made it easy, too easy, to forget why he shouldn’t.
He heard her footsteps long before she reached her desk. Her heartbeat, her soft exhale as she set down her bag, the faint smile in her voice when she muttered something under her breath about “big news days.”
She moved with purpose, the kind of determined stride that said she was itching to dive into a story. Clark looked up, unable not to. The second their eyes met, his chest tightened in that familiar, maddening way.
He smiled, the kind of smile he never managed to give anyone else.
She opened her mouth to greet him—
“Lane!”
The sound cut through the noise like a whip crack.
Lois turned toward Perry’s voice. Clark didn’t. He already knew Perry wasn’t calling him; he rarely said his name that loudly unless something was wrong.
But he couldn’t stop his eyes from flicking up when he heard the unfamiliar second heartbeat beside their editor.
Perry stood with a man Clark had never seen before. Confident stance. Clean-cut. Polished. The kind of guy who looked like he belonged in a campaign ad.
“Meet Richard White, your new—if he can keep up—coworker. Richard, meet my top reporter: Lois Lane.”
Lois arched a brow at the man, and Clark knew that look. Interested. Professional, but curious.
“We’ll see if he survives the week,” she said, extending a hand.
Richard took it without hesitation. “Looking forward to it.”
Clark’s fingers froze on his keyboard, mid-keystroke.
Whatever, Lois could shake anyone’s hand, and it meant absolutely nothing.
He told himself a lot of things.
None of them made the tightness in his chest go away.
He forced himself to resume typing, eyes on his screen, ears painfully aware of Lois’s laugh, Richard’s calm confidence, Perry’s approving grunt.
Clark didn’t look up again, but he didn’t need to. The moment had already carved itself into him. Sharp and unwelcome.
—
It was nearly midnight when they ended up at the diner. It always happened this way: long days turning into longer nights, deadlines bleeding into exhaustion until Lois would slap his arm and say, “C’mon, Smallville, I need food before the letters on my screen turn into alphabet soup.”
And Clark would follow her, as always. It was a tradition, routine—a harmless, comfortable habit. But every time they slid into their usual booth, the one half-lit one in the back, and Lois would steal his fries without asking, something inside Clark steadied.
He was staring out the window when he saw the couple outside. Locked together in an embrace beneath the streetlamp, their bodies silhouetted in warm gold. Laughing quietly. Holding each other like the world wasn’t about to break apart.
For a moment, Clark forgot to breathe. He didn’t envy them. Not exactly.
But he wondered, just for a heartbeat, what it felt like to be held without fear. Without secrets. Without the universe tugging you away every time you reach for something good.
“You okay?” Lois asked around a mouthful of fries.
“Yeah,” he murmured. “Just thinking.”
She followed his gaze. He didn’t look at her, but he felt the moment she understood what he was looking at.
“Do you miss her?”
Her question startled him. He blinked back to her, heart knocking harder than it should’ve.
“Who?”
“Lana,” she said simply.
The name landed between them like a soft weight. Familiar. Old. A little dusty around the edges.
“I mean…” He scratched the back of his neck. “Everyone misses their first love, right?”
He wasn’t sure how much truth there was to that statement.
He missed what Lana represented: normalcy. Simplicity. A future he’d once imagined for himself without truly understanding what or who he was.
But did he miss her?
He wasn’t sure anymore.
Lois’s next question cut in before he could find the right words.
“Would you go back to her if you could?”
Clark’s eyes widened. The booth suddenly felt too small. He sat up straighter, trying to formulate an answer that didn’t sound like a confession he wasn’t ready to give.
“I… I don’t know,” he managed.
And he didn’t.
He didn’t know how to explain that every version of his life with Lana felt like a faded photograph now. Something warm, yes, but no longer his. And every time he tried to force that photograph to fit into the frame of his life, all it did was cause further damage.
Lois nodded once, eyes dropping to the smeared ketchup bottle between them.
Clark leaned forward slightly before he realized he was doing it.
“What about you?” he asked, trying to sound casual. Failing.
Lois’s face shifted to thoughtful, distant. He knew she was thinking about Oliver. She didn’t have to say anything; Clark could hear the faint change in her heartbeat when she thought about past hurts.
He knows it’s hypocritical of him to be concerned about whether or not Lois has any lingering feelings for her ex, but he just can’t help himself. He needs to know that it’s over between her and Oliver (he’s choosing to ignore unpacking the why part of that).
“No,” she said quietly, but firmly. “I don’t like to look back, hold onto things.”
And that’s that. Clark can’t stop the feeling of admiration and envy circling within him. Lois has always been stronger concerning areas where Clark falls weak. She doesn’t repeat the past, make the same mistakes over and over.
But he also knew Lois better than she thought he did. He knew she kept things that mattered. He knew she buried feelings deep because she didn’t trust what they might do if she let them breathe.
He knew she lied sometimes—not to deceive, but to protect.
And the look in her eyes now…it was familiar.
He wondered who she was really thinking about. He wondered if she’d ever kept anything that belonged to him.
Lois stole another fry. Clark let her. Outside, the couple had disappeared down the street.
Inside, Clark felt something shift again. Small, subtle, unnameable, settling into the quiet spaces between them.
He didn’t notice it yet. Not really.
But something in him had already begun to change.
—
The bullpen was louder than usual—phones ringing, printers jamming, Perry barking at a junior copyeditor who had clearly pushed his luck. Clark tried to focus on his article draft, but the words kept blurring into each other.
He heard the elevator ding before he saw her. Lois always stepped into the room like she was arriving at the climax of a movie—energy first, body second. She wove through desks with her bag slung over one shoulder, pulling a pen from behind her ear as she walked. There was a crease in her blouse; he knew she hadn’t noticed, and a faint smear of ink near her wrist.
He smiled without meaning to. It just happened, the same way breathing did.
Lois didn’t look his way yet. Someone else got to her first.
“Morning, Lois.”
Richard was standing near her desk, posture relaxed but purposeful. Clark recognized the type; someone who wanted to seem casual, but kept straightening his shirt sleeve every few seconds as if silently rehearsing something.
Lois slowed. “Hey, White. You’re in early.”
Richard shrugged. “Thought I’d get ahead on the city hall follow-up.”
He wasn’t lying. But he wasn’t entirely telling the truth either. Clark could hear it in the way his heart beat a little too quickly to match his tone, in the small shifts of weight from foot to foot. He didn’t sift through those details on purpose; they just rose unbidden, like radio static he couldn’t tune out.
Lois, oblivious, tossed her bag onto her chair and flipped open a file like she’d been here for hours already.
“What’s up?” she asked, skimming a page.
Richard gave a polite, controlled laugh. “Nothing. Just… seeing if you needed help on your end.”
Clark frowned down at his keyboard. Help? Lois hated help. She’d told Clark that herself—verbatim—more than once.
Lois didn’t catch the oddness. “Unless you’re planning on ghostwriting this for me, I’m good.”
Richard grinned at that, and Clark felt something unwelcome nudge inside him.
He tried to shake it off.
But then Richard lingered.
He hovered beside her desk as she typed, watching her with a kind of attentive patience Clark didn’t know what to make of. Lois joked about filing a restraining order if interns hovered that close. But she didn’t notice Richard doing it.
Or maybe she noticed and didn’t mind.
Clark’s fingers paused on the keys. He wasn’t bothered. He wasn’t. He was just curious. And maybe confused.
Lois leaned back, scribbling something in the margin of her notes. Her ponytail bounced slightly with the motion, and Clark’s eyes followed before he could stop them.
“By the way,” Richard said suddenly, reaching into a small paper bag. “The café downstairs started carrying those donuts you like.”
Lois blinked. “Maple?”
He held one out to her. “Figured you could use the sugar.”
Lois took the donut with a small, surprised smile. “Thanks. That’s…actually nice of you.”
Richard chuckled softly. “Don’t sound so shocked.”
She rolled her eyes and turned back to her screen. Richard stayed where he was for another moment—an unnecessary one in Clark’s opinion—before finally stepping away.
Clark looked down at his article again, but saw none of it.
He wasn’t bothered.
He repeated it in his mind, once, twice, matching it to the soft click of Lois biting into her donut.
He wasn’t bothered.
But when Lois murmured, “Damn, that’s good,” and smiled to herself—
Clark realized he’d stopped typing altogether.
—
Clark will swear up and down he wasn’t trying to listen. The bullpen was a noisy place, and some sounds of hushed whispers, stifled giggles, the scrape of chairs swiveling toward the latest rumor rose above the rest, whether he wanted them to or not.
Still, he managed to ignore most of it. He always did. Except when Lois was involved.
He noticed things changing before anyone said anything. Small, barely-there things.
Richard stopping by her desk more often. Lois reaching for her bag a little earlier than usual.
The way she smoothed her hair in the reflection of the elevator doors without realizing she was doing it.
The way she genuinely laughed when Richard said something mildly charming and completely harmless.
Things really took a turn one afternoon when he caught the tail end of a conversation behind the copy desk. He didn’t mean to. He just happened to walk past at the exact moment two reporters leaned in close.
“—so they went out again last night.”
“No way. That’s three times this week.”
“I’m betting they’ll make it official within the month.”
Clark stopped mid-step. The stack of papers in his hands suddenly felt like it weighed a hundred pounds.
He didn’t know who they were talking about.
He didn’t want to know.
But then someone laughed and said, almost sing-song:
“Lane and White. Who would’ve thought?”
His heartbeat jumped before he could stop it.
Lois. And Richard.
He swallowed once, forcing the tension down his throat, trying to make it settle. It didn’t.
Another voice chimed in, amused and nosy:
“She hasn’t said a word, but come on. He’s always staring at her, and she hasn’t told him off for it.”
Clark’s hand tightened around the papers until the edges bent. He kept walking, because stopping would’ve made it obvious he was listening. Because stopping would’ve made it real.
He reached his desk and sat down carefully, as if the chair might break under sudden weight.
He didn’t want to think about it. He shouldn’t be thinking about it.
Lois could date whoever she wanted. That was obvious. Logical. Fair.
“Back to basics, keep the game on the field.”
And yet—
From across the bullpen, he heard her laugh at something Richard said. Clark felt something twist low in his ribcage. A flicker of something he didn’t want to acknowledge. He tried to work. Typed half a sentence. Deleted it. Tried again.
No good.
He should’ve been happy for her. He wanted to be happy for her. But later that night, when she stood, grabbing her bag, brushing a strand of hair from her cheek, Clark’s breath stuttered.
And before he could stop himself, he said, “Big night?”
It came out lighter than he felt. Almost teasing. Almost normal.
She looked back at him. And for a single, suspended moment, Clark hoped.
Hoped she’d shake her head. Hoped she’d say no. Hoped for something he had no right to hope for.
“Yeah,” she said.
Just that.
A simple word.
But it hit him harder than anything the office gossip had whispered.
She gave him a small smile before walking towards the elevator. The doors began to close, and Clark watched her go, throat tightening. His heart did something painful and unsteady.
And as the elevator pinged down the shaft, His eyes drifted toward her empty desk, suddenly feeling like it was 1,000 miles away.
—
Watchtower hummed with the soft whir of servers and the rapid-fire tapping of Chloe’s typing. Screens glowed blue across her face, casting her in that familiar “digital oracle” aesthetic she liked to pretend wasn’t intentional.
Clark stood behind her chair, hands in his pockets, pretending he wasn’t waiting to speak.
“So,” Chloe said without looking away from the screens, “either you’re here to check on the new satellite feed, or you’re about to ask me something incredibly awkward.”
Clark blinked. “Why would you assume that?”
“You’ve been standing there for three minutes without moving,” she replied dryly. “That’s usually your ‘should I admit this out loud?’ stance.”
He shifted his weight. “I don’t have a stance.”
“You have so many stances, Clark,” a beat passes. “So? What’s up?”
“Nothing,” Clark replied, doing the worst impression of casual in the history of casual. He leaned against the desk but misjudged the angle and had to catch himself on the edge. “Just checking in. Doing a friend check. Friendly friend things.”
Chloe slowly stopped typing.
She swiveled her chair around with the slowest, most suspicious pivot known to humankind.
“Clark,” she said slowly, “what’s wrong?”
He scratched the back of his neck, trying not to cringe at his failed aloofness. “Nothing’s wrong.”
“So something’s wrong.”
“No.”
“Clark.”
He sighed, defeated by her tone alone. “I just…I heard Lois has been…going out. With…you know.”
“Richard?” Chloe offered. She almost smiled at the way Clark avoided saying his name like Voldemort.
Clark tried to act like that didn’t hit him square in the chest. “Yeah. Him.”
Chloe blinked at him. Slowly. Twice. “You mean the thing everyone knows?”
Clark stiffened. “I mean, I wasn’t keeping track or anything.”
“Yes, you were.”
“Okay, but—not intentionally.”
Chloe raised a brow. “You asked me last week if I thought Richard was ‘a dependable guy’ and then pretended it was for a survey article.”
Clark rubbed his forehead. “I panicked.”
Chloe leaned back in her chair, arms folded. “So what’s the panic this time?”
He shrugged in a way that fooled absolutely no one. “Just wondering if she’s…happy.”
Chloe’s eyes softened instantly. “You could always ask her.”
He shook his head so quickly it bordered on superhuman. “No. No. Definitely not. That would be weird. Invasive. Weirdly invasive.”
“Clark, you ask her if she’s had breakfast every day. You told me she tells you the color of her underwear. I’m pretty sure you’re allowed to ask if she’s okay.”
“That’s completely different,” he muttered.
“How?”
“Breakfast and—underwear—are neutral.”
Chloe’s mouth twitched. “Right. And asking about her boyfriend is a diplomatic crisis.”
Clark didn’t answer. He stared at one of Watchtower’s consoles like it held his dignity somewhere between the USB ports.
Chloe sighed. “Okay. Look. She seems…good. Actually good.”
Clark’s throat tightened. He nodded once, eyes dropping. “That’s—that’s great. I’m glad.”
“You don’t sound glad.”
“I am glad,” he insisted, far too earnestly to be convincing. “I’m very glad. So glad. Peak gladness.”
Chloe rested her cheek on her fist. “Clark.”
He winced. “Yeah?”
“You know you’re terrible at pretending you don’t care, right?”
His mouth opened. Closed. He looked away.
“I care because she’s my friend,” he said quietly.
Chloe’s smile was gentle, not mocking. “You care because she’s Lois.”
Clark didn’t respond. He didn’t have to.
Chloe stood, placing a hand on his arm. “Look…if she ever needs advice, I’m here. But as far as I can tell? She’s figuring things out.”
Clark nodded slowly. Stiffly. The way a person nods when their heart is somewhere near their shoes.
“Right,” he said. “That’s good.”
“And for the record?”
He looked at her.
Chloe pointed at his face. “If you’re going to keep pretending you’re not jealous, maybe stop sighing every time you hear Richard’s name.”
Clark sputtered. “I don’t—Chloe, I do not sigh.”
From her desk, a recording device played back a very distinct, defeated sigh.
Clark stared at it, betrayed. “You recorded me?”
“You sighed directly into my mic.”
He exhaled again. Loudly.
Chloe pointed triumphantly. “That! You just did it again!”
Clark dropped his face into his hands. “I’m going home.”
He blurred away before she could tease him more.
Chloe smiled fondly at the empty air. “Oh, Clark,” she murmured. “You’re doomed.”
—
Clark had happened to be patrolling near the restaurant when he first picked up the nasty habit.
He told himself it wasn’t on purpose; he had a whole city to cover. Millions of people, countless emergencies. A break-in on the East side, a drunk driver on 12th, and two cats stuck in entirely preventable situations.
So it was merely a coincidence that his route kept curving just a little too close to where he knew Lois and Richard were having dinner tonight.
They’ve been going steady for a couple of months now, and Clark is on the verge of having a conniption. He’s long since accepted the fact that he would give quite literally anything to be in Richard’s position. To be the one occupying Lois’s nights, be the object of her affection.
But he isn’t, he can’t be. He lost that right a long time ago, if he ever had it in the first place.
Except…there is another man in Lois’s life who always managed to grab her attention, above anything and anyone else—even above Clark Kent himself.
He watched alone on the rooftop as Richard’s hand brushed Lois’s across the table, lightly. Without hesitation, as if he’s done that a million times before. And something in Clark snapped.
Without even realizing it, he pulled out his phone, the one he only uses for Blur duties, and quickly dialed Lois’s phone number.
He watched with a sick satisfaction as Lois’s eyes darted to her phone, her breath hitching while she immediately let go of Richard’s hand and answered the phone.
“Hello?” she greeted. His mouth curved upwards at the slight breathlessness in her tone.
“Miss Lane.”
Yeah, Chloe was definitely going to kick his ass for this.
—
Clark tells himself he’s calm. He tells himself this as he staples a stack of papers so hard the metal bends. He tells himself this as he rearranges his desk for the third time that morning.
He’s calm.
Or he would be, if Richard White would stop existing within a five-mile radius.
Clark stared at the stack of articles on his desk, but he wasn’t reading them. He couldn’t. Every laugh drifting across the bullpen from Lois and Richard was a jab he didn’t have the right to feel but couldn’t stop feeling. He told himself it was ridiculous, that he had no claim, no reason to be resentful—but the sensation was there anyway: a twisting, petty knot that made him want to shrink Richard out of existence.
It was hard to admit—to himself, to anyone—that he even noticed when Richard touched her shoulder, leaned too close over her notes, or made her laugh in that way that used to be his alone. He could see the logic. He should be happy for her. She deserved someone who wasn’t carrying the weight of the entire planet on his back. She deserved normal, uncomplicated, safe.
And yet…he felt the sting.
He thought about the little things he missed out on: dinners they used to share after deadlines, quiet walks between newsstands and coffee shops, conversations that ran too late into the night. Moments that had been theirs, or at least had felt like theirs. Now Richard occupied that space, filling it with his easy charm, his polished attentiveness, his presence that Clark hadn’t known how to compete with.
He didn’t want Richard to fail (maybe a little). But he did want Lois to notice him. Just him.
He sometimes found himself phrasing sentences just so, leaving little verbal breadcrumbs, half-jokes meant to make her glance at him a second longer, or catch a subtle meaning that only he could convey. He would allow himself small moments with her, where he could catch a whiff of her shampoo, or touch the small of her back as they’re crossing the street.
It was childish. Immature. Pathetic. And yet, in the quiet moments when the office faded into background noise, and the only thing he could hear was her laughter echoing in his chest, it felt like survival.
He caught himself in the mirror of the elevator one afternoon. He had paused to adjust his tie, as if that would somehow fix the tangle in his stomach, and the reflection looked tired. Wearier than anyone around him would ever see. Not from work. Not from patrols. From wanting. From waiting. From trying not to interfere in a life that he desperately wanted to be part of, even if he didn’t deserve to be.
He imagined telling her. Just blurting it out in a moment of weakness. How easy it would be, how satisfying, to make her pause and question—if only for a heartbeat—whether Richard was truly the better choice. But he didn’t. He couldn’t. Because that wasn’t his place. And because he knew, in some quiet corner of his mind, that if he did, he’d be crossing a line he couldn’t come back from.
And yet, he waited. He lingered. He watched her from his desk when she didn’t know, following the subtle rhythms of her day. Not to spy, not to manipulate. Just to remember what it was like when the world was quiet enough for them to notice each other.
—
Clark stepped out into the night, the cool air brushing against his face, but he barely noticed it. Every instinct he had—super hearing, enhanced reflexes—was on autopilot. His mind, though…his mind was entirely elsewhere.
Lois.
He had rehearsed it all morning.
I’ll just swing by. Bring the cuff links. Offer to help with the dress. Nothing more.
It sounded simple enough in theory, but in practice, it had been a day-long battle between reason and desire. He knew why he was going. He didn’t need to admit it out loud: he wanted to see her. To be near her. To be the one helping her get ready, even if it was just for a few hours.
Richard was off doing an international story, leaving Lois without a date. Tonight wasn’t about anyone else. Tonight was about Lois—and oh yeah, being the best man at Ollie and Dinah’s wedding, but that priority is gonna have to take the backseat for now.
And maybe, just maybe, tonight he could rewrite a failure of his past. The last time he was at a wedding, he stupidly pulled away from Lois. Tonight, the moon could fall out of the sky, and he still wouldn’t pull away.
The city lights blurred as he moved, feet faster than normal but not superhuman. He wanted to arrive like a man, not a blur. Hands shoved into his pockets, he ran through the mental checklist: cuff links? Check. Smile that looks casual, approachable, but not too eager? Check. Breathing under control? Mostly.
His thoughts wandered to her. How she’d frown when trying to reach the zipper on her dress, how she’d probably mutter under her breath about shoes or hair or some small frustration that meant nothing to anyone else but would somehow make him grin. He wanted that. Not just the sight of her, but the tiny moments.
By the time he reached her apartment, he was practically vibrating with anticipation. He paused at the door, breathing in, steadying himself. One knock. Two knocks.
And when she opened the door, there she was. Stunned, hair perfectly arranged, a deep purple gown that made his chest tighten, and a smile that made the air around him feel electric. She was unbelievably gorgeous.
“Clark?”
He stepped in, grin automatic. “I come bearing a formal emergency.”
And just like that, everything else—the city, the worries, the past mistakes—they fell away.
Tonight, there was only this: Lois, a dress, cuff links, and the quiet, perfect chance to be there for her.
—
Clark stood frozen in the middle of the dance floor, the faint echo of the music curling around him like smoke. Lois’s heels clicked across the tile, leaving him in sudden silence. For a long moment, he just watched her walk away, letting the memory of her hands on his shoulders, the warmth of her body against his, the faint brush of her hair against his cheek, hang in the air like a ghost.
He closed his eyes and drew in a slow breath. He had said it. The words had left his lips before he could second-guess himself.
“I wouldn’t go back. “At the diner. When you asked me if I’d go back to Lana, and I said I didn’t know. Well, now I do. I wouldn’t.”
In hindsight, bringing up his ex probably wasn’t the smartest move, but he needed her to know. Lana is his past.
At first, he’d thought it was just the moment, the intimacy of Lois and him swaying together on the dance floor. He’d thought he was speaking to the memory of a past he’d wanted to fix, a “redo” of all the times he’d faltered, the moments he’d missed when she’d slipped through his fingers.
But now, standing alone, he realized it wasn’t just about past mistakes. Not anymore. He’d said it because he meant it. Because he didn’t want to go back to uncertainty or half-measures. Because he didn’t want just a few stolen moments with her, or a dance in the corner of a crowded reception.
He wanted everything.
The thought hit him so hard it made his chest ache. He wanted her. Not in fragments or fleeting glimpses, not in stolen laughter over coffee or a shared file at the Daily Planet. He wanted all of her mornings, all of her evenings, all of the mundane and spectacular parts of life she might never even notice.
He swallowed, his heart hammering in a way that had nothing to do with running or lifting buildings. He was done pretending that he could settle for less. He was done telling himself that being close in small, safe increments was enough. It wasn’t. He wanted forever with her, and he finally had the clarity—and the courage—to admit it to himself.
And yet, she was already walking away. He could feel the weight of time and hesitation pressing against him, reminding him that words alone wouldn’t bridge the distance there. But he didn’t care about the risks anymore. He didn’t care about missteps or guarded hearts or past failures.
He wanted her. Every part of her. And he would find a way to make her see that.
Clark lifted his hands slowly, as if reaching for her once more, and felt the quiet ache of absence settle around him. But beneath that ache was determination, fierce and unshakable. He wasn’t going to dance around his feelings anymore. He wouldn’t. He couldn’t.
Tonight had shown him the truth. He didn’t want moments. He wanted forever. And he was done pretending he could live without it.
—
Things between them had been tense in the weeks following the wedding. Clark understood, and he didn’t push. He figured once things had settled, he could broach the topic of their unresolved feelings, and maybe start moving forward with Lois. Richard be damned.
It wasn’t until his conversation with Chloe that Clark realized he was running out of time.
They were at the watchtower, debriefing his latest mission when Chloe had dropped a bomb on him.
“Richard asked Lois to move in with him,” she says, not even bothering to look up from her computer.
Clark blinked. “What?”
Chloe glanced up from her screen, eyes expectant. “It’s been almost a year since they started dating, and…well, he was ready to take the next step,” her eyebrows raised slightly. “Thought you should know.”
The rest of her sentence is left unsaid, but based on the look Chloe is giving him, she’s essentially saying Oh my fucking god, will you please stop brooding in the corner and go after what you want for once?
“Chloe,” he said finally, his voice low. “Thanks,” and he leaves.
His boots hit the ground at a normal walking pace, hands clenching and unclenching. He could’ve super sped, but he needs to gather his thoughts.
Rain had started to fall over the city, but he barely noticed it, barely noticed the wind tugging at his coat, the blur of neon and streetlights around him. There was only Lois.
He ran through his mind everything he wished he could say. How he felt when she laughed at the newsroom, when she snapped at him, but only because she trusted him enough to be real.
How he hated that she was pretending to be content with Richard when he could see, so clearly, that her heart wasn’t fully in it. How he wanted to be the one she came home to every night. He couldn’t stand the thought of her building a life with someone else.
For Christ’s sake, he didn’t even feel this way when Lana was getting engaged to a psychopath. Lois moving in with a nice, normal guy shouldn’t be any cause for alarm. But that didn’t stop panic like no other from fully seizing him.
By the time he reached her door, he paused, taking a deep breath. The rain had soaked him to the bone, and every nerve in his body was coiled, electric with the thought of what he might find—or what he might lose if he didn’t act.
He knocked, and Lois immediately opened the door.
Her eyes caught his before words could form. Soaked coat, hair plastered to his forehead, hands still trembling slightly from the run and the panic that wouldn’t quit. He could see everything in her face at once: surprise, confusion, that little spark of something else he’d always been chasing.
“Don’t do it,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper, but firm enough to carry the weight of every thought, every sleepless night, every moment he’d spent imagining her with anyone else.
She rolled her eyes, stalked toward the kitchen, but even in motion, she was Lois. He followed, closing the door behind him, letting the sound click shut like a final boundary against the world outside.
She was pouring water, oblivious to him stepping closer, and yet, he felt every inch of the distance between them. His senses hummed with her presence—the scent of her shampoo, the faint trace of perfume, the warmth of the room.
“Wanna back up a bit?” she said, eyes narrowing. “You’re gonna drip rain into my filtered Brita water.”
Clark only moved closer. “Don’t move in with him,” he said, voice low, steady.
Her laugh was humorless, sharp, and it twisted his chest. “Why? Because he doesn’t like monster trucks?”
“No. Because you don’t love him.”
The words hung between them, taut, undeniable. Her eyes snapped up, sharp and unguarded, and for a heartbeat, Clark could see it all, the way she’d looked at him in the newsroom, the way she’d held herself back, the way she’d loved in fits and starts but never fully.
“You don’t know what I feel,” she snapped, but even in anger, he could feel the tremor beneath her words.
“I know you,” he said softly. “I know how you are when you love something. It scares you. So you run away from it.”
Her gaze flicked away, and the silence stretched, thick and heavy.
“You run from me,” he added, quieter now, almost a confession.
Her eyes cut back to him, sharp, defiant. “Don’t,” she gritted.
“Lois—”
“You should leave.”
The words were a shield, and he saw it, understood it, and yet he didn’t move. He didn’t want to. Not then. Not ever. Almost chest to chest, he lifted a hand and brushed a stray strand of hair from her face. The simplest gesture carried all the restraint, all the longing, all the time he’d wasted pretending he could be satisfied standing in the wings.
“Okay,” he said softly, finally moving, finally respecting the line she drew, but not without hesitation. Not without the sharp ache of knowing how close he’d been to undoing every doubt she’d built around herself.
Hand on the knob, he lingered, the rain still dripping from his jacket, the city humming faintly beyond the door. “I’ll see you at work,” he said.
The door closed behind him, and with it, a sliver of hope and a rush of fear. Even as he stepped back into the rain, every fiber of him pulsed with the truth he had finally embraced: he needs her, and he thinks she needs him too.
—
So.
Soon after his rain-soaked confession, Clark learned from Chloe that Lois had actually broken up with Richard two whole days before Clark even showed up at her apartment, practically begging on his knees for her not to move in with him.
When Clark exasperatedly asked why the hell she didn’t feel the need to mention that at the Watchtower—when she initially broke the news of Richard asking Lois to move in with him—she simply smirked and said, “You didn’t stick around long enough to find out.”
A week has passed since the whole ordeal. He and Lois have been skirting around each other at work. He thinks back to that night, rain drenching him through and through, standing at her door with that impulsive confession. He remembered the weight of his words, the way they hung in the air, unanswered. And then he remembered finding out afterward that she’d already ended things with Richard at that point. He’d felt a twinge of sheepishness. Maybe it was a little redundant, maybe it was clumsy. But he didn’t regret it. Not for a second.
He heard the news today: Lois is taking an international assignment for 3 months. Initially, Clark was ready to book the next international flight to follow her wherever she went. But Clark knew better.
She needs this time to clear her mind, process her breakup, and figure out what she really wants (he hopes it's him). This isn’t the end between them. He’s waited this long to be with her, what’s a couple more months?
So, when he sees her waiting by the elevator, he walks up to her, feeling content.
The numbers on the elevator ticked slowly, painfully slowly. Clark kept his hands relaxed at his sides, trying not to reach for her, trying not to make it obvious that just standing near her was already enough to make his chest feel tight.
“Place is a zoo today,” she said after a beat.
“Yeah,” he replied, eyes flicking back to the elevator panel, then to her. Another small smile, careful.
“I think one of the interns accidentally locked themselves in the records room,” she said.
“Second time this month,” he replied. His gaze lingered on her, catching the tilt of her head, the way her eyes narrowed in thought.
The numbers ticked down slowly.
“I heard from Perry,” he said finally. “You’ve got two weeks left.”
She hummed, pressing the folder lightly to her chest, the corners worn from handling it too often. “Just tying up loose ends before I go. Making sure the bullpen doesn’t burn down in my absence.”
He chuckled. “They’ll survive. Barely.”
And by them, I mean me.
Another pause. He glanced at her, catching the faint curve of her mouth, the way her eyes flicked to the elevator, then back to him. There was something lighter about her now, something that made his chest ache and expand all at once.
“You taking the stairs or waiting for it?” she asked.
“Waiting for it,” he said, glancing back at the elevator doors. Then back to her, letting the unspoken words hang between them.
For you. I’ll wait for you.
The elevator finally dinged on their floor. Lois stepped forward, then paused, glancing back at him.
“You know waiting gets you nowhere unless you speak up, right?” she said.
Clark met her eyes, steady, certain. “I know,” he said. Not a boast. Not a challenge. Just the truth.
She stepped into the elevator. He followed, letting the doors slide closed behind them.
He’s done holding back.
—
They keep in close touch during those three months. She sends him cute little postcards, not realizing they’re practically his lifeline during their time apart.
They call constantly, and Clark finds himself rearranging his day around her voice.
When he picks up the postcards and reads the tiny marginal notes, he feels like he’s there with her, laughing at a terrible coat or grimacing at bad motel coffee. Each card, each message, is like a thread pulling him closer, even across the thousands of miles.
Sometimes he imagines her sprawled on a bed in a cramped motel room, pen tapping lightly on paper, her hair damp from a shower, the soft glow of a flickering lamp casting her shadow across the wall. And every time, he hears her voice—teasing, tired, alive—and it makes the ache of missing her almost bearable. Almost.
He thinks about how different this is from every other time he’s been apart from her. No walls, no avoidance, no pretending he isn’t there. She calls him, she tells him little stories, she sends pieces of herself without even knowing it. And he answers, not because he has to, not because someone told him to, but because he wants to. Because he can’t imagine not hearing her thoughts, not sharing a small moment of her day, even from a distance.
Late at night, after everyone else has gone to bed, he lets himself linger in the quiet after a call ends. The room is empty, the city lights faint against the darkness, and he traces the lines of her handwriting on a postcard again. It’s not a replacement for her presence, but it’s a promise: she’s out there, thinking of him, just as he thinks of her every single second he can.
He smiles softly, a quiet, almost imperceptible curve of lips. For the first time in a long time, he’s not counting the hours until he sees her again; he’s living in the moments they create, even over a phone line. Not just surviving the distance, he thinks, but building something that can’t be broken by miles or time zones. Something real.
And he knows, with absolute certainty, that when she finally comes home, when they finally close the gap, he’s not going to let go. Not ever.
—
The airport is noisy, chaotic, a swirl of sound and movement that he barely registers. Families hug, children scream, phones bark into the air, luggage rolls across the floor. He’s planted near the barrier, flannel in hand, the cardboard sign balanced awkwardly but with care. Miss Lane.
He tries not to fidget, tries not to pace. He’s been waiting for this moment, and every instinct in him is coiled tight with anticipation.
His eyes scan the crowd over and over, looking for her, memorizing the way people move, searching for that familiar stride, that familiar energy. Every person he passes is a blur. Every movement that isn’t hers makes his chest tighten.
Then he sees her.
Sunlight glints off her sunglasses, her hair falling just so. She’s tired, sure—he can see it in the way her shoulders slope—but there’s that unmistakable spark, the energy, the hum that he’s been carrying in his chest all this time.
His smile bursts before he even realizes it, wide, uncontainable, because there she is. Lois. And suddenly the chaos around him fades. Every late-night call, every postcard, every laugh across the line, all leads here. To this.
Her eyes meet his.
Relief floods through him, but so does something deeper: a quiet, fierce certainty. He won’t let this go. He won’t let anything get between them again. Not time, not distance, not fear.
When she takes that first step toward him, he feels it in his chest, that same impossible feeling he’s carried all these months: home, finally.
—
“Clark,” she gasps against his mouth. “Right there!”
The headboard is pounding against the wall, on beat with the way he’s fucking her into the mattress.
When they made it back to the farmhouse, they barely wasted any time before they jumped each other.
He thinks he might’ve offered her something to eat or drink at first. He doesn’t really remember, and he really doesn’t care.
All he can focus on is the feel of her lips on his, placing dirty, tongue-filled kisses on each other's mouths. How soft her skin feels beneath his hands. How her hands feel as they scratch down his back in ecstasy.
She demanded that he prove how much he missed her, and damn if he didn’t deliver.
He speeds up his thrusts and watches as she lets out a broken moan while her body starts to seize up, clenching around him. Next thing he knows, they’re rolling over while she rides him to completion, his hands gripping her waist to help guide her movements as she comes around him.
She collapses onto him, and Clark rubs a soothing hand up and down her sweaty back. After a few moments, he lightly grips her hair and drags her up to his mouth for a kiss.
“Do you believe me now?” he whispers against her mouth.
She smiles, pretending to ponder for a moment. “Hmm…I don’t know Smallville,” she sits up and starts swiveling her hips over his. “I think you need to provide more evidence to back up your claim.”
He simply grins before rolling them over again. He kisses all the way down her body, making paintings with his tongue, until his head is placed right between her thighs. He looks up at her; her hair tussled, her lips red and swollen, skin covered in a sheen of sweat.
He grins, “Yes, Miss Lane.”