Archive of Our Own ^beta

Your desk was already crowded with half-finished drafts, a stack of sticky notes you swore you’d sort later, and the empty coffee cup you’d been nursing since nine a.m. So when the delivery guy stopped at your cubicle holding a glass vase filled with a ridiculously perfect bouquet of pink lilies and yellow roses, you almost thought he’d gotten the wrong floor.

“Delivery for… you,” the man said, squinting at the tag before pronouncing your name. He placed the vase down amid your mess of papers, the flowers instantly outshining everything else on your desk. Around you, the newsroom erupted into a mix of whistles and knowing laughter. A few of your coworkers leaned over their monitors to get a better look.

“Wow,” someone muttered. “Somebody’s got a keeper.”

You could feel the heat creep up your cheeks as you plucked the little card tucked into the blooms. Sorry I couldn’t walk them over myself. Don’t work too hard today. —C.

Clark.

The silly grin broke across your face before you could stop it. You slid the card back into the arrangement and tried to refocus on your monitor, but the words blurred. A coworker nudged your shoulder. “Is this, like, the third time this month? Flowers at the office? You sure he’s real and not, like, some romance novel you manifested?”

You laughed softly, ducking your head. “He’s real. Trust me.”

And he was. Clark Kent. Sweet, impossibly polite Clark, who had held the door open for you the first day you’d met, who walked you home after dinner even though his apartment was in the opposite direction, who never forgot to ask about your day and actually listened to the answer.

He was the kind of guy who remembered that you liked sugar in your coffee but hated cream, who called his mom once a week without fail, who looked you in the eyes like there was nowhere else in the world he’d rather be.

It felt absurdly… easy with him. No guessing games, no disappearing acts, none of the constant anxiety you’d carried from relationships past. Just Clark, steady and warm as the Kansas summer he came from.

That night, he showed up at your apartment door holding a bag that smelled like takeout pad thai. “Dinner,” he said with a sheepish grin, adjusting his glasses with one hand. “I thought maybe you hadn’t eaten yet.”

You leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. “Flowers at my office and pad thai at my door? You know you’re setting the bar way too high, right?”

Clark tilted his head, his smile spreading slow and easy. “Then I’ll just have to keep meeting it.”

It wasn’t the grand words that melted you. It was the way he said them, simple and honest, as though they were the most obvious thing in the world. You let him in, taking the bag from his hands as he shrugged off his coat. “One day, my coworkers are going to make a betting pool about you,” you teased, placing the food on the counter. “Half of them are convinced you’re secretly a model.”

Clark actually laughed at that, low and warm. “A model? That’s new. Usually people just assume I’ve got hay stuck to my boots.”

“Don’t tempt me, Kent. I’d pay to see you in a cowboy hat.”

He shot you a mock-stern look over his glasses, but the corners of his mouth twitched upward anyway.

You were used to sweet gestures from Clark now—flowers, food, the way he carried your groceries as though they weighed nothing. But it wasn’t just that. It was how he never seemed to be playing a part, never doing it for show. His kindness wasn’t performative. It was him.

And that, more than the lilies and roses sitting on your desk, terrified you in the best possible way. Because for the first time in a long time, you believed you’d found someone who really was too good to be true.

---

The rain had started sometime around eight, soft at first and then pounding against the windows in steady sheets. You were curled on the couch with a blanket draped over your lap, the faint glow of the TV screen painting the living room in flickering light. The scent of popcorn filled the air, warm and buttery, though you hadn’t touched it yet because Clark had insisted on being the one to make it.

You watched him in the kitchen as he moved about with an almost comical level of focus, peering down at the stovetop pan like it held the secrets of the universe. The sound of kernels popping filled the silence, punctuated every so often by his quiet hum—something you had noticed he did when he was comfortable. A little tune, off-key but charming, that made the apartment feel more like home than it ever had before. “Clark,” you called, smiling when he glanced over his shoulder at you with that earnest look that always knocked the air right out of your lungs. “You know we could’ve just microwaved a bag, right?”

He blinked, adjusting his glasses with the back of his wrist. “But this way’s better.”

“Better, or just an excuse to hover over a pan like a mad scientist?”

His grin broke through, bright and boyish. “Maybe both.”

By the time he brought the bowl over, full to the brim, you’d already queued up the movie. He sat down beside you, close enough that your shoulders brushed, the couch dipping under his weight. You pulled the blanket over both of your laps, and his hand slipped under it almost instantly, warm and calloused against your own. He gave your fingers a gentle squeeze without even looking, eyes fixed on the opening credits. “You always do that,” you said softly, leaning your head against his shoulder.

“Do what?”

“Hold my hand like you’ve been waiting all day just to do it.”

Clark was quiet for a moment, then angled his head to glance at you. His blue eyes caught the light of the TV, clear and startling even in shadow. “Maybe I have been.”

You rolled your eyes, though your chest tightened in the best way. “Dangerously close to cheesy, Kent.”

“Mm. But you like cheesy.”

You couldn’t argue with that, so you only smiled, turning back to the movie as you dug a handful of popcorn out of the bowl. Clark let you, though you noticed he hadn’t touched any yet.

Half an hour in, you caught yourself watching him more than the screen. He was invested in the film, brows furrowed slightly, mouth parted just enough to show he was completely drawn in. You’d seen that expression before—whether you were talking about your day, whether he was leafing through a book at your apartment, whether he was holding a conversation with a stranger on the subway. He paid attention. Real attention. The kind that was so rare it felt almost like a miracle. When he caught you staring, his lips curved into a small, crooked smile. “What?” he whispered, the word almost swallowed by the movie’s dialogue.

“Nothing.” You shook your head, settling back against him. “Just… you’re kind of perfect, you know that?”

He chuckled under his breath, pressing a kiss to your temple like it was second nature. “I don’t know about perfect.”

“Well, I do,” you murmured, and you meant it. Every silly, sappy word. You stayed like that for the rest of the night, tangled under the blanket, Clark’s arm warm around you. The rain kept on against the windows, the popcorn slowly dwindled, and you thought—not for the first time—that if this was all there ever was, it would be enough.

---

Saturday mornings with Clark had become something of a tradition, though you couldn’t remember when exactly it started. Maybe it was the first time he’d shown up outside your building with two coffees in hand and said, “come on, there’s a farmer’s market a few blocks over,” like it was the most obvious idea in the world. Since then, it had become your ritual: wake up late, wander through the market together, buy things you didn’t really need, and eat pastries that were too sweet for breakfast but somehow perfect anyway.

That morning was no different, except that the sun was shining in the kind of way that made the city look alive—golden light glancing off windows, air already warm but softened by a breeze that carried with it the smell of bread, flowers, and fruit.

Clark walked beside you with the easy confidence of someone who seemed made for sidewalks and crowded streets, though he still had that Kansas farm-boy way of greeting everyone. A smile here, a nod there, the occasional “good morning” to a vendor who looked half-asleep. You carried a tote bag slung over your shoulder, already heavy with apples and a jar of honey Clark had insisted you try because “the bees here are different, you can taste it.”

He reached over to lightly brush the back of your neck as you stopped at a stall bursting with sunflowers. “These look like you,” he said, just as casually as if he’d said these are yellow.

You raised a brow, half teasing, half flustered. “Tall and prone to wilting in the heat?”

Clark laughed, the sound warm and unguarded, and shook his head. “Bright. You make people stop and smile.”

You didn’t have a good comeback for that, so you busied yourself pretending to examine the flowers. The vendor, an older woman with silver hair pulled into a bun, caught the exchange and grinned knowingly. “You’ve got yourself a sweet one,” she said to you, as though Clark wasn’t standing right there.

“He’s alright,” you replied, fighting your smile as you glanced up at him. Clark ducked his head, clearly embarrassed, and you felt a rush of affection for the way his ears turned pink when someone complimented him.

Eventually, you moved on, weaving through stalls filled with homemade jams and colorful scarves. Clark stopped to taste every sample offered to him—bits of cheese on toothpicks, slices of peach, small cups of cider—and made thoughtful little comments to each vendor. You teased him for it, whispering, “you know you don’t have to write a review for every single one, right?”

“I just think they should know their work’s appreciated,” he said earnestly, handing a few dollars over for a small loaf of bread you weren’t sure you needed. “It’s not easy, making something with your own hands and putting it out here for people to judge.”

The sincerity in his voice made your heart twist in that way it always did when you realized, again, that this was who he was. Not an act. Not something he put on to impress you. Just Clark—kind in ways that were almost disarming. At one point, you both stopped at a stand selling handmade candles. The vendor had arranged them in neat little rows: lavender, vanilla, cinnamon, pine. Clark picked one up and held it under your nose, his hand brushing against your cheek as he said, “this one smells like Christmas.”

You inhaled, smiling. “You’re right. We should get it.”

“You sure? You already have three candles on your coffee table.”

“And now I’ll have four.”

He chuckled and set the jar in your tote bag without further argument. As you made your way back toward the end of the market, your bag now heavier with bread, fruit, honey, and candles, Clark reached over and laced his fingers through yours. It wasn’t a dramatic gesture; he just did it in that simple, steady way of his, like holding your hand was as natural as breathing.

And you thought about how easy it was, walking with him. How different it felt from every other relationship you’d had—no guessing, no waiting for the other shoe to drop. Just warmth, laughter, little touches, and the steady certainty that he wanted to be there, with you, exactly in that moment. You let yourself believe, just for a little longer, that maybe he really was too good to be true.

---

You checked your watch for the third time in ten minutes, the ticking second hand making you more aware of the quiet hum of the restaurant around you. The host had already come by twice, asking gently if you were still waiting on someone. You’d smiled politely, insisting your date would be there any minute. But you couldn’t ignore the way the waiter glanced at your empty water glass, or the way a couple at the next table whispered, eyes darting in your direction.

Clark was late. Not a little late, either—forty-five minutes.

You shifted in your seat, trying not to let the disappointment settle too heavily in your chest. Up until now, Clark had been impeccable. The kind of boyfriend who texted if he thought he’d be five minutes behind, who apologized for sneezing too loudly during a movie. It wasn’t like him to leave you sitting alone at a table while the evening dimmed outside and strangers quietly wondered if you’d been stood up.

Finally, just when you were considering asking for the check and slipping out before you embarrassed yourself further, the front door swung open. Clark stumbled in with his hair windblown and his tie loosened like he’d sprinted the last few blocks. His glasses slid slightly down his nose, and he looked both breathless and guilty as his gaze found you immediately.

“I’m so sorry,” he said, hurrying over to the table. His large frame seemed awkward as he tried to shrink into the small space, sliding into the seat across from you. “I—Perry kept me late. He wanted edits on an article and I couldn’t leave until I turned it in.”

You raised an eyebrow, masking the sting with practiced calm. “An hour late?”

Clark winced, pushing his glasses up with one finger. “I know. I should’ve called. I didn’t mean to leave you waiting.”

You studied him across the table. He looked tired, yes, but not in the way you’d seen him before after a long day at the Planet. There was something else in his eyes—something sharp, like adrenaline fading, like he’d just been somewhere else entirely. Still, you told yourself not to overanalyze. You weren’t going to be that person, the one who jumped on the first misstep. “It’s fine,” you said finally, your voice softer than you felt. “Just… next time, a text would be nice.”

Relief washed across his face, his shoulders sagging as though you’d lifted a weight off of them. “You’re right. You’re absolutely right. It won’t happen again.”

The waiter came by to take your order, and you tried to settle back into the rhythm of the evening. Clark smiled, made jokes, asked about your day. He reached across the table and brushed his thumb over your knuckles, that warm, steady touch that usually melted every trace of frustration from you.

But even as you laughed at one of his self-deprecating stories, you couldn’t shake the image of him rushing in with his hair askew, looking like he’d just stepped out of a storm. Perry White might have been demanding, sure—but you’d never seen editing an article leave someone looking like they’d run through a war zone.

You pushed the thought aside. One late night didn’t erase the flowers, the movie nights, the mornings at the farmer’s market. Everyone slipped up eventually. Everyone had flaws. Still, as you lifted your wine glass and forced another smile, a whisper curled in the back of your mind.

Maybe he isn’t as perfect as I thought.

---

By Tuesday afternoon, you had almost managed to let the sting of Friday’s date fade. Almost. The office was loud enough to distract you—phones ringing, printers whining, keyboards clattering—but every now and then, your mind circled back to that long hour you’d spent alone at the restaurant table, pretending you weren’t being pitied by strangers.

That was when one of the interns appeared at your desk, a little nervous and balancing a cardboard tray in both hands. “Uh—delivery for you,” he said, carefully setting it down beside your computer.

You blinked, surprised. Nestled in the tray was a perfectly iced cup from your favorite café across town. Not just your favorite café, but your favorite order—the one so specific and overly complicated you barely asked for it unless you were in a mood brave enough to risk the barista’s side-eye. And next to the drink, a small paper bag with the café’s logo stamped on the front. You opened it to find a sandwich wrapped neatly in parchment, exactly the way you liked it.

A folded napkin slipped out, and tucked into it was a note, written in Clark’s careful handwriting: Sorry for Friday. Thought lunch might buy me forgiveness. —C

You couldn’t stop the smile that tugged at your mouth, even as you tried to shake your head at the audacity of him. He hadn’t just sent flowers this time. He’d remembered the drink you always rambled about, the sandwich you’d ordered once when you dragged him across town, swearing it was worth the hike. He hadn’t teased you for your oddly specific preferences, hadn’t forgotten. He’d remembered.

“Wow,” one of your coworkers muttered, leaning against your cubicle wall. “The flower guy’s leveling up.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t deny the warm flutter in your chest. “It’s just lunch.”

“Mm-hm.” The coworker raised a brow. “He’s spoiling you. Admit it.”

You didn’t answer, instead sipping your drink and savoring how perfectly made it was. Later that evening, Clark showed up at your apartment, looking sheepish as he shifted from one foot to the other in your doorway. He carried a small, battered notebook in his hand, though he quickly tucked it into his coat pocket when he saw your curious glance. “Did the bribe work?” he asked lightly, but there was an edge to his tone—a carefulness, like he wasn’t sure if he’d been forgiven yet.

You crossed your arms, pretending to deliberate. “Well, the sandwich was a strong move. And the drink didn’t hurt.”

His smile softened, relief flickering across his face. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

You stepped aside to let him in. He shrugged out of his coat, but instead of settling onto the couch like he usually did, he came right up to you and cupped your cheek with one broad, warm hand. The earnestness in his expression made it hard to hold onto even a thread of irritation. “I really am sorry,” he said quietly. “Leaving you waiting like that—there’s no excuse.”

You wanted to ask again about Perry, about why exactly editing an article had left him looking like he’d run a marathon, but the words stuck in your throat. Instead, you let yourself lean into his touch, the steady strength of him grounding you. “You could’ve just texted me,” you murmured. “That’s all I needed.”

“I know,” he admitted, thumb brushing gently across your skin. “I’ll do better.”

And maybe it was the way he said it—soft but so utterly sure—that made you believe him. Clark wasn’t like the others. He didn’t forget birthdays, didn’t leave you guessing, didn’t brush things off with half-hearted excuses. When he said he’d do better, you thought maybe he actually would.

The two of you ended up eating takeout on your couch that night, watching a rerun of a show neither of you particularly liked, just because it was background noise to your laughter. Clark insisted on carrying your empty cartons to the trash, then washed the few dishes in your sink like he lived there. And as you watched him hum off-key while rinsing a mug, you wondered how anyone could ever doubt he was everything he seemed.

But later, when he kissed you goodnight at your door and left just before midnight, you found yourself lingering in the quiet, staring at the empty hallway. The sandwich, the drink, the apology—they’d smoothed over the rough patch. For now. And yet, a small, nagging thought twisted at the back of your mind: Why does he always leave before midnight?

---

By Wednesday afternoon, the office was thick with the smell of burnt coffee and too many spreadsheets. You sat hunched over your keyboard, trying to make sense of your notes, but your brain kept circling back to one thought: Clark always left before midnight. Always.

It wasn’t just the restaurant, or the way he’d duck out of your apartment after movie nights. Even on weekends, when neither of you had to be up early, he’d kiss you softly, make some excuse about getting rest, and disappear into the night like Cinderella running from a ball.

“Alright,” your friend and coworker Marcy said, sliding into the chair beside your desk with her second coffee of the day, “spill it. You’ve had that scrunched-up forehead look for an hour. And don’t even try to tell me it’s about your work. You get that look when it’s about a guy.”

You gave her a flat look, but she only smirked. She wasn’t wrong. “It’s nothing,” you tried.

“Mm-hm. Nothing. Which is why you’re staring at your monitor like it insulted your mother.” She took a loud sip of her coffee. “It’s Clark, isn’t it?”

You sighed, setting your pen down. “It’s just… he’s perfect. Like, actually perfect. Which is why this is starting to drive me crazy.”

Marcy perked up immediately. “Go on.”

“He always leaves before midnight,” you admitted in a low voice, glancing around as though confessing a crime. “No matter what we’re doing, no matter how late the night is already, he’ll kiss me, say goodnight, and go. Like clockwork.”

Marcy leaned back, considering. “And you’ve asked him about it?”

“Not directly.” You fiddled with your pen, spinning it between your fingers. “I don’t want to be clingy. I just… I don’t get it. It’s like he turns into a pumpkin if he stays past twelve.”

Marcy snorted. “Maybe he’s got some weird sleep schedule. Or maybe—” she lowered her voice dramatically “—he’s secretly Batman.”

You laughed, tension easing for a moment. “Clark? Please. He apologizes when he bumps into strangers on the subway. He’d last two seconds in Gotham.”

“Fair point.” She tilted her head, smirking again. “So, what are you gonna do about it?”

“I don’t know,” you muttered. “Part of me thinks I should just let it go. The other part wants to… I don’t know. Test him.”

Marcy’s grin widened like she’d been waiting for that. “Oh, I have ideas.”

You groaned. “Why do I feel like I’m not gonna like this?”

“Because you’re a coward when it comes to confrontation, and I’m not.” She tapped her nails against her cup. “Okay. Scenario one, you straight-up ask him why he keeps bailing before midnight. Direct, efficient, no games.”

You raised a brow. “And scenario two?”

She leaned in, eyes glinting mischievously. “You lure him into staying. Cute pajamas. Or better yet—slutty pajamas. Make it hard for him to walk away.”

Your face went hot instantly. “Marcy!”

“What? I’m just saying! If he still bolts after that, then something’s definitely up.”

You buried your face in your hands. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet, I’m brilliant.” She patted your shoulder before standing, her coffee already half gone. “Think about it. Cute pajamas or straight-up honesty. Either way, you’ll get your answer.”

As she walked off, you sat staring at your blank screen, trying not to imagine Clark’s face if you ever actually tried Marcy’s suggestion. Still, the thought of him leaving you at your door again, just before midnight, with that soft smile and some vague excuse—

It made your stomach twist. You didn’t want to lose him. But you couldn’t help wondering: was there something he wasn’t telling you?

---

It was a Thursday night, nothing special. Clark had shown up at your door with his usual soft smile and a grocery bag in hand. Inside were the makings of pasta—fresh basil, tomatoes, a loaf of bread from the corner bakery. He’d insisted on cooking, which really meant you sat on the counter with a glass of wine while he did most of the work, sleeves rolled to his elbows, tie loosened but not quite discarded.

Dinner was easy, the kind of rhythm you’d slipped into months ago. You teased him for chopping garlic too slowly, he teased you for drinking more wine than you ate pasta. Afterwards, he helped you wash the dishes, humming under his breath as he scrubbed a pot, bubbles clinging to his forearms. The domesticity of it all made your chest ache in the best possible way.

But the entire time, a thought lingered in the back of your mind—Marcy’s voice echoing, sing-song and mischievous: Cute pajamas. Or slutty pajamas.

By the time the two of you moved into the living room, the weight of it was almost unbearable. You sat with him on the couch, his arm slung around you, the low murmur of a late-night talk show filling the space. It was perfect, comfortable… but you knew what would happen soon. He’d check his watch, give you that apologetic look, and head out into the night before the clock hit midnight.

Not tonight, you told yourself. Tonight, you were going to see if he’d stay. You stretched, feigning a yawn, and stood. “I’m gonna go change. These jeans are killing me.”

Clark looked up at you with that gentle concern that was so him. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” you said quickly, heart hammering a little too fast. “Just… more comfortable clothes.”

You slipped into your bedroom, closing the door behind you. Your pulse roared in your ears as you opened your dresser drawer and pulled out the pajamas Marcy had planted in your head all week. Not quite slutty—but close enough. The soft silk clung in ways your usual oversized t-shirt didn’t, the hem riding a little higher on your thighs than you were used to. You checked yourself in the mirror, cheeks warm. This was either going to work spectacularly… or blow up in your face.

When you opened the door, Clark was standing in the hallway, one hand tugging at his tie like he’d been debating loosening it further. His other hand held the hem of his button-up, as if he’d been considering changing into something more relaxed. He froze when he saw you. “Oh,” he said, his voice catching just slightly. His eyes widened, and for once, he didn’t immediately mask his reaction.

You bit your lip, pretending nonchalance as you crossed the short distance between you. “Thought I’d get comfortable,” you said, fingers brushing against the knot of his tie.

Clark swallowed hard. “You look… uh—” His voice trailed off, his usual eloquence deserting him. His gaze flickered away, then back again, like he couldn’t quite decide where to rest his eyes.

The corner of your mouth curved as you caught the edge of his tie and gave it a playful tug, guiding him a step closer. “Cat got your tongue, Kent?”

His laugh was nervous, breathless. “Just wasn’t expecting—”

“Me?” you teased, leaning up slightly so your faces were closer.

Clark’s hand twitched at his side, like he wanted to reach for you but wasn’t sure if he should. You tugged lightly on his tie again, coaxing him toward the bed. “You can change later,” you murmured.

That did it. His ears turned bright red, and the tips of them peeked through his dark hair. His flustered expression was so achingly adorable you almost laughed. But he didn’t pull away. Not this time.

Instead, he let you guide him, his tie slipping through your fingers as he leaned down. His lips brushed against yours, tentative at first, then with a hunger he usually kept tightly reined in. His hand came up to your waist, steady and warm, the other bracing against the doorframe as though he needed something solid to keep himself grounded.

You smiled against his mouth, relief and satisfaction curling through you. For once, he wasn’t leaving. He wasn’t glancing at the clock, wasn’t making excuses. He was here—with you.

And when you tugged him down to the bed, his flustered laugh turned into something deeper, something that made your pulse skip. Whatever midnight rule he’d been living by, it didn’t matter tonight. Because tonight, Clark stayed.

---

The first thing you registered was warmth. The second was weight—the solid, steady press of an arm curled around your waist, pulling you against a chest that rose and fell in the slow rhythm of sleep. Your sheets smelled faintly of detergent and basil, a reminder of last night’s pasta dinner. And underneath it all, the more distinct, grounding scent of Clark.

Your eyes blinked open slowly, adjusting to the thin morning light spilling through your curtains. It took you a moment to realize the full reality: your bare skin against his, tangled legs, the soft mess of clothes scattered across the floor.

You turned your head slightly. Clark was still asleep, or something close to it. His face was relaxed, mouth parted slightly, hair mussed in a way you’d never seen before—wild and unpolished, no trace of the neat reporter who always seemed so put-together. His glasses, of course, weren’t on. They lay folded on your nightstand, lenses glinting faintly in the sun.

Without them, there was something startling about his face. You couldn’t put your finger on it—just that the edges of him looked… sharper. His eyes, though closed, seemed framed differently, as though the glasses softened more than just his appearance. For a strange, fleeting second, you almost didn’t recognize him. Then he shifted, tightening his arm around you, his breath brushing against the back of your neck. And he was Clark again—your Clark, warm and steady and achingly gentle even in sleep.

You smiled into the pillow, letting yourself melt into the moment. For weeks you’d watched him slip away at the stroke of midnight, offering excuses that never quite added up. But last night had been different. Last night he stayed. Not just for dinner, not just for movies and laughter—he stayed all the way through. Stayed long enough that now you were wrapped in his arms, your heartbeat syncing with his.

“Mm,” he hummed softly, the vibration in his chest making you shiver. “You awake?”

You turned slightly, enough to catch the half-lidded way he looked at you. His voice was rough with sleep, lower than you’d ever heard it. “Yeah,” you whispered.

His mouth curved, slow and drowsy. “Morning.”

You couldn’t help laughing. “That’s all you’ve got? Just morning?”

He groaned, burying his face in your shoulder for a moment, then pressed a lazy kiss to your skin. “Sorry. Not exactly awake yet. You… you’re distracting.”

Your cheeks flushed, though you tried to keep your tone light. “Pretty sure you’re the distracting one, Kent.”

He chuckled, but his hand skimmed softly across your side, drawing absent patterns against your skin. The tenderness of it made your throat tighten. It was almost unfair, how he could make something so casual feel so intimate.

For a long while, you lay there like that—no rush, no ticking clock, no excuse waiting at the edge of his tongue. Just him, his heartbeat under your palm, his breath warm against your hair. At last, Clark shifted, reaching blindly toward the nightstand. His hand brushed the edge of his glasses, and in a practiced motion, he slid them back onto his face.

The change was subtle but immediate. It was as if the air between you shifted slightly. The Clark without glasses—the one who looked like a stranger and yet more himself than ever—was gone. In his place was the Clark you knew, mild and unassuming, the gentle reporter who said sorry when he sneezed too loud. “Better,” he said softly, like the glasses anchored him somehow.

You tilted your head, curious. “You don’t need those in bed, you know.”

He hesitated just a fraction too long before chuckling. “Force of habit.”

You hummed, letting it slide, though the little pause tucked itself away in the back of your mind. Instead, you pressed a kiss to his jaw and smiled. “Well, I’m glad you stayed.”

His arms tightened around you, his voice low and steady in your ear. “So am I.”

And maybe he meant it. Maybe he wanted to mean it. But as you felt him hold you, you couldn’t shake the faint, lingering thought: what was it, exactly, that had kept him away every other night until now?

You fell asleep again until the smell of coffee coaxed you out of bed more than the alarm on your phone ever could. You padded into the kitchen barefoot, tugging his button-up shirt—the one that had landed on your floor the night before—over your shoulders like a robe. The sleeves were too long, brushing your wrists, and the fabric still held the faint warmth of his skin.

Clark was already there, moving quietly as though he belonged in your space. His tie was draped over a chair, his white undershirt soft and clinging, his glasses fogged slightly from leaning over the steaming coffee pot. He hummed under his breath, the same little tune you’d noticed he always carried when he was content. When he noticed you, his face lit up, boyish and unguarded. “Morning again,” he said, like he’d been waiting for you.

“Morning,” you echoed, fighting back a smile as you leaned against the counter. “You’re entirely too chipper for someone who didn’t get much sleep.”

His ears went pink immediately, and he turned back to the mugs. “I, uh—sleep better here.”

That pulled a laugh out of you, soft and genuine. “You’re such a terrible liar.”

“I’m serious,” he said, handing you a mug. His big hands dwarfed the ceramic, and you noticed the way his thumb lingered against the rim as he passed it to you. “You don’t believe me?”

You took a slow sip, watching him over the edge. “I believe you slept well. I just don’t think it had much to do with the bed.” Clark coughed into his own cup, so flustered you almost felt bad for him. Almost.

You sat together at your small kitchen table, the morning light spilling through the blinds in golden stripes across his face. He buttered a piece of toast like it was the most important task in the world, then slid it onto your plate before making another for himself. That was Clark in a nutshell: always making sure you were fed first.

As you ate, you realized how easy it felt. No clock watching, no excuses lined up in his throat. Just breakfast, quiet conversation, and the clink of silverware against mismatched plates. It was so normal you almost forgot last night had been the first time he’d ever stayed. “You’re going to work today, right?” you asked between bites.

He nodded, sipping his coffee. “Perry’s probably got three assignments waiting for me already.”

“Does he always ride you that hard?”

Clark shrugged, unbothered. “That’s just Perry. He pushes because he knows we can handle it. And I… I don’t mind. I like the work.”

You studied him for a moment, the curve of his mouth around the rim of his mug, the way his tie still sat neglected on the chair instead of knotted neatly at his throat. There was something softer about him this morning—unguarded in a way you didn’t see often. Maybe it was the fact that he’d stayed, or maybe it was just the quiet light of a weekday morning shared over burnt toast and coffee. Either way, you liked it. “You’re dangerous, you know that?” you said suddenly.

Clark frowned, startled. “Dangerous?”

“Yeah.” You nudged his foot under the table. “You make this look way too easy. Breakfast, coffee, staying the night… it’s like you’ve been doing this with me for years.”

His expression softened, a slow smile spreading across his face. “Maybe I’ve been waiting years to do this.”

Heat crept into your cheeks at the honesty in his tone. He wasn’t teasing, wasn’t joking. He meant it. And that—that was more dangerous than anything. You stood finally, setting your mug in the sink. “We’re going to be late if we don’t get moving.”

Clark followed suit, slipping his tie back over his neck and knotting it with practiced ease. You watched him, amused at how he went from flustered and boyish to polished reporter in the span of a few minutes. Glasses in place, tie tightened, hair smoothed back—your Clark, the one the world saw, stood in your kitchen. But when he looked at you, his gaze softened again, as though none of the armor mattered here. He stepped close, kissed your forehead, then your lips. “Thank you,” he murmured.

“For what?”

“For last night. For this morning. For… all of it.”

Your chest squeezed, and you touched his tie lightly, smoothing it against his chest. “You don’t have to thank me for staying, Clark.”

“I know,” he said softly, eyes searching yours. “But I want to.”

And as you walked out the door together, hand in hand, you thought maybe Marcy had been wrong. Maybe there wasn’t a mystery to solve, no midnight secret pulling him away. Maybe it had just been nerves, bad timing, work stress. Because for the first time, he’d stayed. And that had to mean something.

By the time you made it into the office, the elevator ride up had already convinced you of two things: one, coffee was the only thing keeping you upright, and two, walking in heels after last night was not your smartest decision. Every step carried just the faintest reminder of Clark’s strength, a dull ache hidden in your thighs that no amount of stretching on the commute had shaken off.

You slid into your cubicle as quietly as possible, hoping to disappear behind your monitor. But of course, Marcy had radar for these things. She popped up in your doorway like a jack-in-the-box, her coffee in hand, one brow raised. “Well, well, well,” she said, drawing the words out as though savoring them. “Look who’s late and walking funny.”

You froze mid-shuffle with your bag, glaring at her. “I’m not walking funny.”

She leaned on the frame of your cubicle, smirk widening. “Sweetheart, I could spot that limp from the elevator. Guess it worked.”

Heat rushed to your face immediately. “Marcy—”

“I told you,” she interrupted gleefully, wagging her coffee cup at you like it was proof. “Slutty pajamas. Works every time.”

You buried your face in your hands, muffling a groan. “You are the worst.”

“The worst, but right.” She perched on the edge of your desk like she owned it. “So? Spill. Did our boy wonder finally stay past midnight?”

You dropped your hands and glared, though you couldn’t quite wipe the reluctant smile off your lips. “Maybe.”

“That’s a yes.” She grinned like the cat that got the cream. “And?”

“And what?”

Marcy tilted her head. “And how was it? Come on, you can’t dangle that limp around the office and not share at least one detail.”

You picked up the nearest stack of papers and swatted lightly at her knee. “Get out of my cubicle.”

She laughed, unbothered, sipping her coffee as though she had all the time in the world. “Fine, fine. You don’t have to give me details. But let me just say, I’m very proud. About time Mr. Perfect dropped the Cinderella act.”

Her words hit a little closer than she realized. You forced a light smile, hoping she wouldn’t notice the hesitation. “Yeah. About time.”

Marcy hopped off your desk, smoothing her skirt. “See you at lunch. And don’t worry—I won’t tell anyone about the limp. Your secret’s safe with me.”

You rolled your eyes, but as she sauntered away, you exhaled slowly. Yes, Clark had stayed. Yes, it had been everything you didn’t realize you’d been craving. But the whisper lingered in your mind even as you logged into your computer: what had changed? What made last night different from every other night before it? And more importantly—would he stay again?

By the time work let out, the city was drenched in that golden hour glow that made everything softer—warm light spilling between buildings, the sidewalks humming with people headed home. You were halfway through debating if you had the energy to cook or if you’d end up with takeout again when your phone buzzed. Clark: Dinner? My treat. Don’t make other plans.

You couldn’t help but smile, typing back a quick bossy before slipping the phone into your bag.

When he knocked on your door later, he was balancing a pizza box in one hand and a paper bag in the other. “Figured we’d save the fancy restaurants for when I’m not keeping you waiting,” he said sheepishly, lifting the box like an offering.

The sight of him—tie loosened, hair slightly mussed from the breeze, that impossibly earnest smile—made your heart skip the way it always did. “You’re forgiven,” you said, stepping aside to let him in.

Dinner was simple, pizza, a salad he insisted on making because “we can’t live on bread and cheese alone,” and the bottle of wine you’d been saving for some hypothetical occasion. Clark poured carefully, like the stemware might shatter under his touch, and you teased him for being overcautious until he laughed and handed you your glass.

You ate cross-legged on the couch, the box open between you, your knees brushing every time you reached for a slice. Clark told you about the chaos at the Planet that day—how Perry barked at poor Jimmy until his ears turned pink, how Lois had nearly thrown her coffee at a malfunctioning printer. You laughed, picturing it, though you knew you’d never quite see the world the way he did.

At some point, the conversation shifted into softer things. He asked about your day, not just the broad strokes but the details—the coworker who’d stolen your stapler, the headline you’d been proud of writing, the way you’d stopped to buy a pretzel from the vendor outside your building. He listened to every word, nodding, eyes fixed on you like you were the only person in the world worth paying attention to.

By the time the pizza box was nearly empty, you had your legs tucked against his, the warmth of him seeping into you. You swirled the last of your wine in your glass and leaned your head against his shoulder. “You know, I could get used to this,” you murmured.

Clark glanced down at you, his expression unreadable for a beat before softening into that small, crooked smile you loved. “Me too.”

You set your glass aside and turned slightly, catching the end of his tie between your fingers. “Not running off tonight?”

The question hung in the air, casual on the surface but heavier underneath. Clark’s eyes flickered, something you couldn’t quite name passing through them, but then he shook his head. “Not tonight,” he said, voice low, steady.

Relief washed through you. You tugged lightly on his tie, pulling him down for a kiss that started slow but deepened quickly, his hand finding its way to your jaw, his thumb brushing your cheek. He kissed you like he’d been waiting all day for it, like he’d been holding his breath until this exact moment.

Later, when the two of you ended up stretched out together on the couch, your head on his chest and his fingers tracing idle patterns on your arm, you realized the clock had already ticked past midnight. And he was still there. No excuses, no half-smile apologies. Just Clark, warm and solid and exactly where you wanted him.

For once, you let yourself believe that maybe the cracks you’d seen weren’t cracks at all—just shadows you’d mistaken for flaws. Maybe this was who he was, who he’d always be: steady, kind, and here. And as you drifted half-asleep against him, the hum of his heartbeat under your ear, you let yourself forget every question you’d been carrying. Because for tonight, at least, Clark stayed.

---

It started as an offhand suggestion, tossed out near the end of the day when the office was finally quieting down. One of your coworkers—Janine, the type who wore three-inch heels like they were sneakers—popped her head over your cubicle wall and said, “Drinks after work? Come on, it’s been a week.”

A few of the others perked up, including Marcy, who swiveled her chair toward you with a grin. “You in?”

Normally, you would have hesitated, mentally juggling the idea of a late night out with your usual plans with Clark. But something in you wanted to prove, if only to yourself, that you didn’t have to orbit your life entirely around him. He was wonderful—perfect, even—but you still had your own friends, your own world. “Yeah,” you said finally, surprising even yourself. “Count me in.”

The group cheered, already gathering purses and coats. On the walk to the bar, neon signs flickering against the dusky sky, you pulled out your phone. Your thumb hovered over Clark’s name for a moment. With guys before, this was always the part that made your stomach twist—the texts that came after you said I’m going out with friends, passive-aggressive replies, thinly veiled jealousy, endless check-ins like you were sneaking around instead of living your life.

You typed quickly: Going out for drinks with the girls from work. Don’t wait up tonight. Your finger hovered before hitting send, the tiniest tremor of nerves sparking. And then you sent it.

The reply came faster than you expected, the little typing dots barely lasting three seconds. Clark: That sounds great. Hope you have fun. Be safe.

That was it. No follow-up questions, no “who’s going?” No guilt, no tugging on a leash you weren’t wearing. Just have fun. You stared at the screen for a moment, warmth blooming in your chest. It was such a simple thing, but the kind of simple you weren’t used to.

Marcy peeked over your shoulder as you slipped the phone back into your bag. “That from Clark?” You nodded, trying not to smile too hard. “What’d he say? ‘Don’t get too drunk’? ‘Remember you’ve got a boyfriend’?”

“No,” you said softly. “He said have fun.”

Marcy slowed her stride for a second, blinking at you. “That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

A slow grin spread across her face. “Damn. Keep him. Seriously. If a man can handle his girlfriend having her own life without making it about his ego? That’s rare, babe. Hold onto that one.”

By the time you slid into a booth at the bar with the other girls, the dim lights catching on glasses of wine and cocktails, you couldn’t stop thinking about that little text. About how easy he made it to breathe. How different it felt not to brace yourself for a fight over something as harmless as a night out. Your friends laughed and gossiped, trading stories about bosses and boyfriends, but every so often you caught yourself smiling down at your phone, rereading his simple message. Hope you have fun. Four words. And yet, they felt like a promise, he trusted you. He respected you.

And for someone like you—someone who had spent too long with people who made affection feel like a trap—that was more intoxicating than anything in your glass.

The bar was louder than you realized. It wasn’t until you slipped off your stool and nearly tipped into Marcy’s shoulder that it hit you just how much you’d had to drink. Two glasses of wine had somehow become three… then a shared round of shots you’d been peer-pressured into. Now everything had that soft, slightly tilting glow to it, like the world was wrapped in cotton.

“Okay, lightweight,” Marcy teased, steadying you with a hand. “Time to get you a cab.”

You waved her off, fumbling for your bag. “I’m fine. Totally fine.”

“You’re weaving like a sailor,” she said flatly. “You want me to call Clark?”

Your head snapped up, indignation rising even through the haze. “No! I don’t need—” But your tongue tangled itself, and the protest dissolved into a laugh. “Okay, maybe. Just don’t tell him about the shots.”

Marcy rolled her eyes but pulled out her phone anyway. “You’re lucky he’s cute and clearly obsessed with you.”

Fifteen minutes later, the bar door swung open, and there he was—tie gone, sleeves rolled to his elbows, glasses catching the glow of the neon beer sign. Clark scanned the room, found you instantly, and the crease in his brow softened with relief. “Hey,” he murmured as he reached you, his voice low and warm like you might spook if he spoke too loudly. “Rough night?”

“Fun night,” you corrected, though your words slurred just enough to make Marcy snort.

Clark slipped an arm around your waist like it was second nature, guiding you upright. “Thanks,” he said to Marcy, his smile polite but grateful.

“She’s all yours,” Marcy said, giving you a wink before gathering her things. “Text me tomorrow, babe.”

You leaned heavily into Clark as he steered you outside. The night air was cool against your flushed skin, and you shivered instinctively. Without a word, he shrugged off his jacket and draped it around your shoulders, tucking it close like he was wrapping you in something more solid than fabric. “You didn’t have to come get me,” you mumbled, the words half-buried against his chest.

“Of course I did,” he said simply. “I’d come anywhere for you.”

The sincerity in his voice, even filtered through the fog in your head, made your chest ache. You tilted your face up at him, squinting like you could see straight through him. “You’re too good to be true, you know that?”

His mouth quirked in that small, self-conscious smile you adored. “Or maybe you’re just too hard on the guys you dated before me.”

“You don’t leave when I go out,” you said suddenly, the thought bubbling up unfiltered. “They used to. They’d get mad. But you’re not mad.”

“I’d never be mad at you for having friends.” He guided you to his car, opening the door carefully before helping you in. His hand lingered at your elbow, steadying you until you were settled. “You deserve to have fun. You deserve everything.”

Your vision blurred for a moment—not from the alcohol, but from the sheer, overwhelming tenderness of him. By the time he pulled up outside your apartment, your head was lolling against the window. Clark circled to your side and scooped you up effortlessly, as though you weighed nothing. You gasped, looping your arms around his neck. “Clark!” you hissed, though you couldn’t stop laughing. “What if someone sees?”

He smiled down at you, utterly unbothered. “Then they’ll just think I didn’t want you to trip on the stairs.”

He carried you all the way up, setting you gently on the edge of your bed before kneeling to slip off your shoes. The care in every movement undid you completely. “You’re ridiculous,” you whispered, too drowsy to form anything sharper.

“Maybe,” he agreed softly, tugging the blanket over you once you’d curled on your side. “But you’re safe. That’s all I care about.”

As he brushed your cheek lightly, you caught his wrist weakly, blinking up at him. “Stay?”

His expression softened, the faintest crack of something unspoken in his eyes. Then he nodded. “Yeah. I’ll stay.” And when you drifted off, his arm was around you, steady as ever—no excuses, no vanishing. Just Clark.

---

The first thing you felt when you opened your eyes was regret. Your head throbbed, your mouth was dry, and the sunlight streaming through the blinds was at least three shades too bright. You groaned and rolled onto your stomach, dragging the blanket over your head in a futile attempt to block out the world.

Unfortunately, the world smelled like coffee. Fresh, rich, dark coffee. And—was that bacon?

You froze, brain sluggishly catching up. Clark. Sure enough, when you dared to peek out from under the blanket, there he was in your kitchen. Shirt sleeves rolled up, tie nowhere in sight, his hair an adorably messy halo. He moved with quiet purpose, flipping pancakes on your stovetop while humming under his breath. The sight was so painfully domestic it made your heart ache even through the pounding in your skull.

Of course, he noticed you before you could duck back under the covers. His head turned, that impossibly soft smile spreading across his face. “Morning,” he said gently, as though his voice might shatter you if he wasn’t careful. “How’re you feeling?”

You buried your face back in the pillow with a muffled groan. “Like I fought a truck.”

He chuckled, low and warm. “No truck. Just tequila, apparently.”

Heat crept up your neck even as you hid. “You weren’t supposed to see me like that.”

“Like what?” His voice was teasing but not unkind. “Having fun with your friends? Laughing? Smiling so much your cheeks hurt?”

You peeked at him again, narrowing your eyes. “Like a mess.”

Clark shook his head, flipping a pancake with ease. “You weren’t a mess. You were—” he paused, searching for the word, “—adorable.”

You groaned louder this time, shoving the pillow over your face. “Don’t call drunk-me adorable. She’s chaos.”

He laughed outright now, that deep, earnest sound that always made your chest loosen. “Chaos, maybe. But still adorable.”

A few minutes later, he set a tray down on the edge of the bed: coffee, pancakes stacked high, bacon crisped just the way you liked. You blinked at it, then up at him, suspicion warring with gratitude. “You did all this while I looked like death?”

“Seemed like a fair trade,” he said with a shrug, sitting down beside you. “You had your fun last night, and I get to make sure you don’t regret it too much today.”

You sipped the coffee cautiously, sighing as the warmth slid through you. “You’re too nice. Most guys would’ve teased me mercilessly.”

“Oh, I plan to tease you,” he said, eyes twinkling. “But not until you’ve had at least two cups of coffee.”

You laughed, even though it made your head throb, and nudged his shoulder. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Maybe.” He leaned in, pressing a kiss to your temple. “But I like taking care of you.”

You froze for half a second at the honesty in his voice. No games, no performative chivalry—he just meant it. And somehow, that was more dangerous than any hangover. You sighed, sinking against him with your plate balanced in your lap. “You know, Clark, you’re making it very hard for me to remember you’re human. People aren’t supposed to be this perfect.”

For the briefest flicker of a second, something unreadable passed across his face. Then he smiled again, soft and sure. “I’m not perfect. But I promise, I’ll always try to be good to you.”

And as you sat there eating pancakes in his shirt, head pounding and cheeks hot, you thought maybe you’d never felt so cared for in your life.

---

The cramps had hit mid-afternoon, the kind that made you curl up under a blanket and declare war on your own body. By the time Clark arrived, you were a blanket burrito on the couch with zero intention of moving for the rest of the night.

He took one look at you, eyebrows knitting with concern, and immediately shifted into caretaker mode. Within minutes he’d dug your heating pad out of the closet, plugged it in, and settled it across your stomach with the same care he used for handling glassware. Then he adjusted your pillows, made you tea, and queued up your comfort show—the one you’d seen a hundred times but always came back to when you were feeling low.

Now, you were half-curled against him, your head on his shoulder, his arm looped around you. His tie was gone, his shirt rolled at the sleeves, and the warm, steady weight of him made everything ache a little less. “I hate this week,” you muttered into his chest.

“I know,” he said softly, rubbing slow circles against your back. “But I’ve got you. Heating pad, tea, bad sitcom reruns… we’ll survive.”

You managed a small smile, keeping your eyes on the flickering TV. A character tripped over a sofa in an over-the-top gag, and normally you’d laugh, but right now all you could think about was how badly you wanted—no, needed—something sweet. “God, I’d kill for a pint of cookie dough ice cream right now,” you murmured without thinking, snuggling deeper under the blanket. “Or those pretzel bites from the vendor down the street. Or both.”

It was meant to be idle complaining, not a request. You didn’t even glance away from the TV. But Clark, who had been quiet beside you, shifted slightly. His head tilted toward the window, like he’d heard something outside you couldn’t. Then, just as quickly, he was on his feet. You blinked, sitting up a little. “Clark?”

He smiled, smoothing his shirt like it was the most normal thing in the world. “I’ll be right back.”

Confused, you frowned. “Where are you going?”

“Just… don’t move.” His grin widened—adorable, boyish, but with that same cryptic glint you’d started to notice sometimes when he thought you weren’t paying attention. “I’ll be back before the commercial break.”

And with that, he slipped out your door, leaving you on the couch in your blanket cocoon, heating pad humming softly.

You shook your head, baffled, turning back to the TV. He was probably running down to the corner store. Still, the way he’d said before the commercial break stuck with you. Because Clark might’ve been perfect, but no one was that fast.

You kept your eyes on the TV, half-expecting to hear the familiar creak of the hallway stairs or the low rumble of the elevator. Instead, there was silence—except for the laugh track blaring from your comfort show.

You adjusted the heating pad against your stomach, cocooned deeper in your blanket, and told yourself not to overthink it. Clark was just… thoughtful. Probably sprinted to the bodega on the corner because he couldn’t stand to see you suffer through a craving. That was all.

Still, when the first commercial break hit only five minutes later, you frowned. No way. Not even with the fastest cashier alive could anyone make it down, grab ice cream and pretzels, pay, and get back up the stairs in that time.

The front door clicked open just as you were starting to sit up. Clark stepped inside, balancing a paper bag in one hand and a sweating pint of ice cream in the other. His smile was sheepish but triumphant. “Got both,” he said, a little out of breath, holding up the bag like a prize.

You blinked at him. His dark hair—usually neat even after a full day at the Planet—was tousled, like he’d been caught in a wind tunnel. And his shirt… your eyes narrowed. His buttons were misaligned, the fabric tugging unevenly across his chest. “You…” You tilted your head, suspicion stirring even through the dull ache of cramps. “You were gone for five minutes.”

He froze for a fraction of a second before flashing that disarming smile, the one that usually made your heart somersault. “Guess I got lucky with the line.”

“And your shirt?” you pressed, pointing with a lazy wave of your hand. “It’s buttoned wrong.”

Clark glanced down, startled, then chuckled, fumbling to undo the buttons and redo them correctly. “I must’ve rushed. Sorry. Didn’t think you’d notice.”

“I notice everything,” you mumbled, though you couldn’t help smiling as he set the ice cream and bag down on the coffee table. Inside were still-warm pretzel bites, the exact ones you’d mentioned offhand. The smell of butter and salt filled the room, making your stomach grumble despite the discomfort.

Clark handed you the pint first, already armed with a spoon. “Cookie dough,” he said softly, as if the name alone might soothe you. “Your favorite.”

You looked at the ice cream, then up at him. He was sitting beside you again, calmer now, his hair still slightly wild but his hand steady as it rested over yours. “Clark,” you said carefully, “you didn’t have to do all this.”

“I wanted to.” His expression softened, the tension in his shoulders easing. “If you’re hurting, and I can make it even a little better… why wouldn’t I?”

Your chest squeezed at the sincerity in his voice. You scooped a bite of ice cream, shoving down the dozen little questions buzzing in your head. He’d been gone five minutes. His hair looked like he’d flown through a storm. His shirt had been wrong. None of it made sense.

But then he reached over, breaking a pretzel bite in half and offering you the bigger piece without a second thought, and your doubts slipped under the weight of his sweetness. You took the bite from his hand, chewing slowly as your show returned from commercials. He wrapped his arm around you again, settling you against his chest like nothing was unusual at all.

And for now, you let yourself melt into him, the mystery pushed aside by the taste of butter and cookie dough on your tongue. Because if Clark wanted to be the man who brought you ice cream and pretzels in five minutes flat, who were you to complain?

---

You’d picked out your outfit hours ago, set your hair the way you liked it, even spritzed that perfume you saved for special occasions. Tonight was supposed to be date night—just you and Clark, dinner reservations at that little Italian place you’d been dying to try. But the clock kept ticking. First fifteen minutes. Then thirty. Then forty-five.

Your wineglass sat untouched on the counter. You checked your phone every couple of minutes, the empty notification bar mocking you. Not even a running late text. By the time your apartment clock chimed the hour, disappointment curled into your chest, heavy and sour. You tried to keep the doubts at bay—maybe he was stuck at work, maybe Perry was being impossible again. But a small voice whispered the same fear you’d carried for weeks: Maybe he’s pulling away. Maybe he’s not who you thought he was.

Just when you were ready to blow out the candle you’d lit on the table, there was a hurried knock at the door. You opened it to find Clark standing there, chest rising and falling like he’d jogged all the way over. His shirt sleeves were rolled, his tie askew, and a scrape marred the corner of his jaw. His glasses sat crooked on his face, and in his hand—cracked down the middle—was his phone. “Clark,” you breathed, all your irritation collapsing into worry.

“I’m so sorry,” he said quickly, voice low and earnest. “I should’ve called—I wanted to call—but…” He held up the phone, its screen a spiderweb of cracks, completely dead. “It’s useless.”

Your eyes widened. “What happened?”

“There was an attack downtown,” he said, running a hand through his messy hair. “Some kind of—well, I don’t even know what they were. But Superman showed up, and the whole street went into chaos. Cars overturned, glass everywhere. I got caught in the middle of it trying to get out, and my phone—” He gestured helplessly. “Smashed. I barely made it through without worse.”

The frustration you’d been nursing all evening evaporated instantly, replaced by a cold rush of fear. You grabbed his wrist, tugging him inside, eyes scanning him up and down. “Are you okay? You’re not hurt, are you?”

“Just the scrape,” he said softly, touched by your urgency. “I swear, I’m fine.”

You reached up, fingertips brushing the bruise forming along his jaw. He didn’t flinch, but something in his eyes shifted—like he was both grateful and guilty under your touch.

“God, Clark,” you whispered, throat tight. “You scared me. I thought you’d just… forgotten. Or—” You shook your head. “I don’t know. I was worried.”

His big hand closed gently over yours, grounding. “I’d never forget you,” he said firmly. “Never.”

You swallowed, meeting his eyes. Blue, steady, so full of sincerity it almost hurt. “Promise me,” you said quietly. “If something like that happens again, if you’re ever caught in the middle of something dangerous—you’ll tell me. Just so I don’t sit here imagining the worst.”

“I promise,” he murmured, thumb brushing over your knuckles. “I’ll always come back to you.”

And you believed him.  Still, as you rested your forehead against his chest, listening to the steady thrum of his heartbeat, another thought pressed at the edge of your mind: How did Clark always seem to walk away from disasters barely touched, when others weren’t so lucky?

The server returned with menus, giving Clark a once-over that said she, too, had noticed the rumpled hair and the broken phone on the table. But she didn’t comment—just refilled your water glasses and left you to settle back into the night.

You expected the awkward silence to linger, for the ruined start to sour everything. Instead, Clark leaned forward, elbows braced on the table, and looked at you like you were the only person in the room. “I really am sorry,” he said again, his voice steadier now. “You shouldn’t have been sitting here, wondering if I was going to show up.”

The sincerity in his tone unraveled some of the tightness in your chest. You sighed softly. “Just… next time, Clark, please. Even if it’s two words—I’m alive. I need that.”

He winced, guilt flickering across his features, and nodded. “You’re right. I’ll figure out something—even if my phone’s in pieces. I promise.”

And then, almost like he’d flipped a switch, he set himself to making you smile again. He cracked self-deprecating jokes about being the guy who could ruin two phones in as many months. He teased you for picking the salad section first when he knew you’d end up ordering pasta. He even convinced the server to bring you a complimentary glass of wine, telling her—loud enough for you to hear—that you deserved it for putting up with a boyfriend who ran late.

Slowly, the tension melted. Dinner was… normal. Almost idyllic. He listened, asked questions, leaned in with that intent expression he wore when you spoke, like every word mattered. When you told him a story about Marcy’s latest antics at the office, he laughed so hard his glasses slid down his nose, and you reached across the table to push them back up, both of you smiling too wide.

By the time dessert arrived—two spoons and one slice of cheesecake you hadn’t planned on ordering—your earlier panic felt like it belonged to another night. He fed you a bite across the table, eyes warm with affection, and you thought, not for the first time, that maybe this was the man you’d been waiting for without even realizing it.

Later, when he walked you home, the city was quieter, the chaos of earlier contained to distant sirens. His hand was steady in yours, his thumb brushing the back of your knuckles every few steps like he couldn’t help reminding himself you were there. At your door, he hesitated, the broken phone still in his pocket, his shirt still slightly creased from whatever he’d run through. “Thank you,” he said quietly, “for not giving up on me tonight.”

Your throat tightened. You reached up, cupping his jaw, feeling the faint scrape of stubble under your palm. “I couldn’t. I wouldn’t.”

He kissed you then—gentle, lingering, like the whole world outside the two of you could collapse and he’d still be rooted right there. And as you pulled him inside, the broken phone and the strange details of his night faded to the background, drowned out by the way his arms wrapped around you like you were the only thing he’d been fighting for.

---

It was the kind of sleep you only ever fell into when Clark was beside you—deep, warm, cocooned. His arm had been wrapped firmly around your waist when you drifted off, the weight of him at your back like an anchor against the rest of the world. You remembered mumbling something incoherent, felt him kiss your shoulder, and then nothing.

When you woke again, it was to cool sheets. Your hand stretched automatically across the bed, expecting the familiar slope of his chest, the rise and fall of his breathing. Instead, your fingers met rumpled fabric and empty space.

Blinking against the dim glow of the streetlights seeping through your curtains, you pushed yourself up on one elbow. The apartment was quiet—eerily so. No humming, no clatter in the kitchen, no off-key singing from the bathroom while he brushed his teeth. Just silence. “Clark?” you whispered, voice hoarse with sleep. Nothing.

You sat up fully, pulling the blanket around you as if it could soften the strange pang forming in your chest. His glasses weren’t on the nightstand. Neither was his tie or his watch. Even his shoes, which he’d left by the door hours earlier, were gone.

The ache sharpened into something that felt an awful lot like déjà vu. How many times had he slipped away before midnight, murmuring excuses about early mornings, work, needing to get back? And now, after a night that had felt whole—after cheesecake and laughter and whispered promises in the dark—you were alone again.

Your phone sat on the nightstand. You reached for it, thumb hovering over his contact. But what would you even write? Where are you? Why did you leave? Why do you keep doing this?

Instead, you set it back down and curled into the sheets, pressing your face into the pillow where his scent still lingered. It shouldn’t have hurt this much. You weren’t naïve—you knew couples didn’t spend every night tangled together. But the emptiness of that bed, the silence of your apartment, made it feel less like space and more like abandonment.

As sleep threatened to pull you under again, one thought echoed, heavier than the rest: What is it you’re not telling me, Clark?

---

The morning sunlight pulled you awake, sharp and insistent. You blinked blearily, half-expecting to find Clark in the kitchen again—hair mussed, glasses perched on his nose, humming while he made coffee like last time.

But the apartment was silent. The bed was still empty. You sat up slowly, the ache of disappointment settling in your chest. His absence felt sharper today, maybe because last night had been so good—because you’d thought, for once, he’d let himself stay. The knock on your door startled you. For a wild second, you thought maybe it was him. You pulled on your robe and padded across the floor, heart thumping as you opened the door. It was Clark.

He stood there with two coffees balanced in a cardboard tray and a small paper bag tucked under his arm. His hair was neatly combed again, though you could see it had been wet recently, like he’d showered elsewhere. His shirt was fresh, his glasses polished, and his smile—soft, apologetic—hit you right in the chest. “Morning,” he said gently. “Thought you might need fuel before work.”

You stepped back automatically, letting him in even as you searched his face. “Clark… you left.”

His smile faltered. He set the coffees down on your table, careful, precise, like stalling for time. “I didn’t mean to wake you. I, uh… couldn’t sleep. Figured I’d go grab coffee, maybe breakfast.” He held up the paper bag—bagels from that little shop two blocks away. “Your favorite.”

It was a good excuse. Believable, even. But you knew the truth of his rhythms by now—the way he slipped away in the middle of the night, the way his shirts came back rumpled, his hair windblown. Something in your gut whispered that he hadn’t just gone for bagels. You crossed your arms. “You could’ve left a note. Or texted. I woke up and—” You swallowed, voice thinner than you meant. “I didn’t know where you were.”

His face softened, guilt pooling in his eyes. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “You’re right. I should’ve left something. I wasn’t thinking.”

The sincerity in his voice made it hard to hold onto your frustration. He looked so… earnest, standing there with bagels and coffee, like all he wanted was to take care of you. Still, the question pressed against your chest: Where were you, Clark?

Instead, you sank onto the couch, pulling a bagel from the bag. “One of these days, you’re going to give me a heart attack.”

He sat beside you, his thigh warm against yours, and passed you your coffee. “Then I’ll spend the rest of my life making it up to you.”

You shot him a look over the rim of your cup. “Big words for a guy who disappears in the middle of the night.”

He chuckled softly, leaning down to kiss your temple. “Fair. I’ll try harder. Promise.” The heat of his lips lingered, but so did the empty space you’d woken to.

And as you bit into your bagel, chewing slowly, you couldn’t help wondering if you’d ever get the real answer about where Clark Kent went when he left you behind.

By lunchtime, you’d almost convinced yourself not to mention it. Almost. But then Marcy slid into the booth across from you at your favorite café, setting her latte down with a thud, and gave you that look—the one that said she knew you were holding something back. “You’ve got that face,” she said before you could even unwrap your sandwich.

“What face?” you asked, feigning innocence.

“The one that says, ‘my perfect boyfriend did something less-than-perfect, and now I don’t know if I should be worried or if I’m just being neurotic.’” She sipped her drink. “So. Out with it.”

You sighed, picking at the corner of your napkin. “He left. Again.”

Marcy leaned forward instantly, eyes sharp. “Left? As in, middle of the night left?”

“Yeah. I woke up and he was gone. No note, no text, nothing. Just—” You shook your head. “Empty bed.”

“Okay, that’s strike… what, three? Four?”

You bit your lip. “He came back in the morning. With coffee. And bagels.”

Marcy rolled her eyes so hard you swore she saw the inside of her skull. “Classic male deflection. Disappear mysteriously, then show up with food. Works every time.”

“It’s not like that,” you protested quickly, though your voice wavered. “He looked guilty. He said he couldn’t sleep and went out. And he remembered my exact order.”

“Sweetheart, remembering your bagel order doesn’t erase the fact that he Houdini’d out of your apartment while you were asleep.”

You pressed your hands around your cup, warmth seeping into your palms. “I don’t think he’s… cheating or anything. That’s not him. But…” You hesitated, the words tasting heavy on your tongue. “I feel like he’s hiding something.”

Marcy tilted her head, considering you. “Do you want to know what it is?”

“Of course I do,” you said, frustration bubbling in your chest. “But every time I get close to asking, he looks at me like—like he’s carrying the weight of the world, and I can’t bring myself to pile more on him.”

Marcy reached across the table, resting her hand over yours. Her usual sarcasm softened for once. “Listen. Maybe he is hiding something big. Maybe it’s not even about you. But you deserve honesty. You can’t keep waking up to an empty bed, wondering if he’s coming back.” You nodded slowly, her words hitting deeper than you wanted to admit. Marcy pulled her hand back, smirking again to cut the tension. “Also, for the record? If he’s sneaking out to do something boring like karaoke practice, I expect full disclosure when you find out.”

You laughed weakly, though the sound didn’t quite reach your chest. “Yeah. Deal.”

But as you sipped your coffee, the unease lingered. Because no matter how sweet Clark was—no matter how many bagels or bouquets or apologies he offered—the truth was still there, just out of reach.

And sooner or later, you were going to need to know it.

---

Saturday mornings with Clark had become something you looked forward to all week. You’d woken early without even needing your alarm, already planning which stalls you’d drag him to first—the bakery for croissants, the honey vendor who always slipped you a free sample, the flower stand where Clark always insisted on buying something “because you look like you belong in a field of sunflowers.”

The tote bag was already folded in your purse when you left your apartment, humming with quiet anticipation. You got there ten minutes early, half-expecting him to already be waiting. That was his thing—early, with two coffees, one exactly the way you liked it. But when the clock hit the top of the hour, there was no sign of him. You lingered near the entrance, checking your phone. No texts. You typed a quick one—Here! Where are you?—and waited. The bubbles never appeared.

Minutes stretched. Ten. Fifteen. You pretended to browse a stand of homemade candles, pretending not to notice couples walking hand in hand past you, laughing and carrying bags of produce. You tried calling. Straight to voicemail. By the half-hour mark, your stomach wasn’t just empty—it was twisted.

You sat down on a bench at the edge of the market, clutching your tote bag like it might anchor you. The sun was warm, the air smelled like bread and basil, but all you could feel was the pit forming in your chest. He hadn’t just texted. He hadn’t said I’m late or I’ll be there soon. He was just… gone.

You tried not to think about the last time. The broken phone. The story about being caught up in the chaos while Superman fought whoever it was off. You tried not to wonder what excuse he would bring this time, what little gesture he’d use to smooth over the sharp edge of your worry. But more than anything, you tried not to wonder if this was the beginning of the end.

Because sitting there, alone in a crowd of people bustling through their weekend routines, you realized something painful, Clark made you feel safer than anyone ever had… until the moments when he didn’t show up at all. And those moments were starting to come more often.

You held out for almost an hour. Long enough that the croissant stand sold out. Long enough that the flowers wilted a little in the heat. Long enough that the ache of disappointment settled bone-deep. Finally, you couldn’t take it anymore. You folded your empty tote back into your bag, stood from the bench, and walked home with your phone silent in your pocket.

By the time you got back to your apartment, your chest felt tight in a way that no heating pad or Clark Kent smile could soften. You dropped your bag by the door, kicked off your shoes, and sank onto the couch, staring at the ceiling.

It wasn’t just that he’d missed the date. It was that he hadn’t told you. Not a text, not a call. Just… silence. The knock on your door didn’t come until late afternoon. When you opened it, there he was, hair windblown, shirt wrinkled, glasses smudged again. He had that look—guilty, apologetic, sheepish. In one hand he held a paper bag, the familiar bakery logo printed on the side. “I’m so sorry,” he said immediately, words tumbling out before you could even decide if you wanted to let him in. “I got caught up—there was this fire on 8th, and the street was shut down, and it all got so—” He broke off, shaking his head. “I should’ve called. I know.”

You crossed your arms, the sting of waiting in the sun still sharp. “Clark, we were supposed to meet at ten. You didn’t text. You didn’t pick up when I called. I just… I sat there.”

He winced, stepping closer, holding the bag out like a peace offering. “I know. I hate that I left you waiting like that. I grabbed croissants—they had some left at the bakery, somehow.”

You took the bag automatically, though it felt heavier than just pastries. “That’s not the point.”

“I know,” he said again, softer this time. His eyes were earnest, wide behind his crooked glasses. “You matter more than anything, I swear. I just—” He faltered, his jaw tightening, something unspoken hanging there. “Sometimes things happen and I can’t… I can’t explain them right away.”

Your heart squeezed, anger and worry warring inside you. “I don’t need you to be perfect, Clark. I just need you to show up. Or at least let me know why you can’t.”

He nodded quickly, stepping closer until his hands hovered near your arms, not quite touching. “You’re right. I’ll do better. I will. Please don’t think this means I don’t want to be there. Because there’s nowhere else I’d rather be than with you.”

And God help you, you believed him. Even as your doubt gnawed, even as the silence between texts stretched longer each time, the way he said it—raw, pleading—made you want to forgive him. You let him pull you into his arms, let him tuck his chin over your head like he could shield you from the very pain he’d caused. But later, as you sat together on the couch sharing croissants gone a little stale, you couldn’t stop the thought from circling back: What keeps pulling you away from me, Clark?

Clark stayed. Not just through dinner—which he insisted on cooking from whatever was in your fridge, humming off-key while he stirred pasta sauce—but through the soft, quiet hours afterwards, when the city’s glow seeped in through the curtains and the apartment settled into stillness.

He was attentive, almost overly so. He poured your wine before you asked, fetched your blanket before you reached for it, queued up your comfort show without needing a reminder. Every small gesture felt like a peace offering, like he was trying to stitch over the morning’s absence with warmth and familiarity.

You sat curled against him on the couch, your legs draped over his, your cheek against his chest. The steady beat of his heart filled your ear, grounding you. And yet, you couldn’t shake the memory of waiting at the market, of the empty bench, of your phone silent in your hand.

Clark shifted slightly, pressing a kiss into your hair. “You’re quiet,” he murmured.

“Just tired,” you lied.

He hummed, like he half-believed you. His hand rubbed slow circles over your arm, his touch gentle, patient. The kind of touch that usually melted every sharp edge inside you. Tonight, though, it made your throat tighten. You tilted your head up, studying him in the low light. His glasses caught a glint from the TV, hiding his eyes, but the rest of his face was open, soft, like he belonged nowhere else but here. “I don’t want you to think I don’t appreciate you,” you said quietly.

He blinked, surprised. “I never think that.”

“I just…” Your words tangled, heavy with the truth you weren’t ready to spill. I just need to know where you go. Why you leave. Why I can’t always count on you. Instead, you swallowed it back. “I don’t want us to end up resenting each other.”

His hand stilled for a beat before he cupped your face, turning you gently so you were looking right at him. “I could never resent you. Not for anything.” His voice was low, steady, full of something that felt too big for the space between you.

The sincerity in his eyes broke down whatever was left of your defenses. You leaned into his hand, closing your eyes as his thumb brushed your cheek. “Stay tonight,” you whispered. “Don’t leave.”

“I won’t,” he promised without hesitation. And this time, he didn’t. He stayed through the credits, through the late-night reruns, through the drift of your eyelids. You fell asleep with him holding you, his chin resting lightly on the crown of your head. When you woke in the middle of the night, just for a moment, you reached across the bed—and he was still there. Warm, solid, his arm heavy around your waist.

Relief flooded you, soft and fragile. For now, at least, he’d kept his word. But even as you closed your eyes again, drifting back into sleep, you knew one night couldn’t erase the questions piling up inside you. Soon, you’d have to ask.

---

Sunlight warmed the edges of the curtains, spilling across the floor in slow gold. You blinked awake slowly, the kind of waking where your body resisted because it was too comfortable, too cocooned. Clark was still there.

For a beat you didn’t move, just listened to his breathing, the steady rise and fall of his chest beneath your cheek. His arm was still around your waist, heavy but secure, anchoring you in place. He always held you like he thought you might slip away if he loosened his grip.

You turned your head slightly, watching him in the half-light. His glasses sat on the nightstand, forgotten, and without them his features looked sharper, somehow more striking. There was something in the lines of his face that always seemed just a little… different when he wasn’t wearing them. You shook the thought away, tucking it back where all your other quiet questions about him lived.

Clark stirred, eyelids fluttering, and a lazy smile curved across his mouth when he saw you awake. “Morning,” he rumbled, his voice rough with sleep.

“Morning,” you echoed, unable to stop the small smile tugging at your own lips.

He pressed a kiss to your forehead, then sat up slightly, stretching one arm. “Don’t move. I’ll get breakfast.”

You propped yourself on your elbow, watching as he padded into the kitchen in his undershirt, the lines of his back broad and solid. It should’ve felt strange, this kind of domesticity. It was still new, still fragile. But instead it felt inevitable—like waking up to Clark in your kitchen was how mornings were supposed to be. By the time you wandered in, he had eggs sizzling in the pan and coffee brewing. He turned at the sound of your steps, his smile soft. “Perfect timing. Sit.”

You obeyed, sliding into a chair as he set a plate in front of you. Toast, eggs, and coffee fixed exactly the way you liked it. “You’re ridiculous,” you muttered, though your heart wasn’t in it.

“Ridiculously good at breakfast,” he countered, sliding into the chair across from you with his own plate.

You ate in easy silence for a while, the clink of silverware filling the space. But as you sipped your coffee, your eyes kept straying to him—his neatness, the way his glasses were back on, the way he smiled at you like you were the best part of his day.

And under it all, the memory of yesterday tugged at you. The empty market bench. The broken promises. The cracks he kept smoothing over with bagels, with croissants, with coffee and warmth.

You set your mug down, the words on the tip of your tongue. Clark, where do you go? Why do you leave? What aren’t you telling me?

But then he reached across the table, his large hand curling over yours, his thumb brushing gently against your knuckles. “I like this,” he said quietly. “Just us. Starting the day together.”

Your chest tightened. You wanted to ask, wanted to demand answers. Instead, you let his warmth soften you again, let yourself smile back even as the questions burrowed deeper. Because for now, Clark was here. And you weren’t ready to risk losing that—not yet.

---

The night had started like any other. Takeout cartons stacked on the coffee table, an old movie playing in the background, Clark sprawled comfortably beside you with his long legs taking up half the couch. He’d stayed late all week—he’d made you breakfast, walked you to work twice, even surprised you at your office with your favorite drink. For a moment, you’d started to believe the cracks were sealing themselves.

But belief wasn’t the same as certainty. And certainty was what you needed. So when the movie ended and you excused yourself to change, you didn’t reach for your oversized T-shirt or soft flannel pants. You reached for the pajamas—the silk ones Marcy had teased you about, the ones that had made Clark’s ears turn scarlet the first time you’d worn them.

You checked your reflection once in the mirror, nerves buzzing in your stomach. It wasn’t about seduction—not really. It was about proof. If he stayed tonight, maybe you could stop worrying. Maybe you could stop imagining all the shadows in the spaces he left behind. You stepped back into the living room, heart hammering.

Clark was loosening his tie, standing near the couch. He turned when he heard you, and just like before, his reaction was immediate. His eyes widened, his breath caught, and his hands stilled on the knot of fabric at his throat. “Oh.”

You leaned casually against the doorframe, forcing a smile. “Thought I’d get comfortable.”

He swallowed hard, his ears already pink. “You… you look—” His voice faltered, and he cleared his throat, tugging at his collar like the air had gone thin.

You crossed the room slowly, fingers brushing the tie still loose at his chest. “Stay tonight,” you said softly, tilting your head up at him. “With me.”

For a moment, you thought it had worked. His hands twitched at his sides, his gaze flickering down to your mouth, every line of his body taut with want. You tugged lightly on his tie, urging him closer, and his breath stuttered.

Then his head snapped toward the window. You barely had time to register the sudden change in his posture before he stepped back, stumbling slightly, nearly tripping over the edge of the rug. His expression shifted—alarm, urgency—something you’d never seen cut so sharply across his face. “Clark?” you asked, your stomach dropping.

“I—I have to go,” he blurted, already reaching for his coat. His voice was rushed, uneven, almost panicked. “I’m sorry, I—”

“What? Why?” You took a step after him, confusion and hurt rising in your throat.

“I just—” He glanced at you, eyes wide, torn, like he wanted to explain but couldn’t. “I’ll call you. I promise.”

And then he was gone—half-stumbling into his shoes, out the door before you could take another step. The echo of it rattled through the apartment, leaving you standing barefoot in silk, the air still humming with the ghost of his almost-touch.

You stared at the closed door, your pulse pounding in your ears. This time, there had been no excuse. No broken phone, no croissants, no story about Superman. Just raw urgency in his eyes, the kind that left you cold. And for the first time, you couldn’t convince yourself it didn’t mean something.

By the time you made it into the office the next morning, you’d barely slept. You’d lain awake for hours, staring at the ceiling, Clark’s hurried exit replaying again and again in your head—the way his eyes had darted toward the window, the almost-panicked way he’d stumbled over himself getting out the door. So when Marcy appeared at your cubicle, steaming latte in hand, you didn’t even bother with small talk. “He left again,” you said flatly, before she could open her mouth.

Her eyes went wide, and she perched herself on the edge of your desk like she was settling in for a story. “Again? When?”

“Last night.” You pinched the bridge of your nose. “He was there. He was staying. And then… I don’t know, he just—heard something? Looked out the window? And bolted. Like I didn’t even exist.”

Marcy whistled low. “Oof. Not good.” She sipped her latte thoughtfully. “Okay, let’s brainstorm worst-case scenarios. Cheating. Secret family. Double life. Serial killer.”

You groaned, burying your face in your hands. “Marcy—”

“No, think about it!” She ticked off her fingers. “Cheater? Bad, but common. Secret family? Messy, but at least he’s not wasting all his emotional energy on you. Serial killer? Well…” She tilted her head dramatically. “What’s worse, a cheater or a serial killer?”

Despite yourself, you barked out a laugh, muffled behind your palms. “That is not funny.”

“Oh, it’s hilarious,” she countered, smug. “I’d take a serial killer over a cheater any day. At least with a killer, you’re not competing with Susan from accounting.”

You dropped your hands, glaring at her through the exhaustion. “You’re insane.”

“I’m realistic,” she shot back, grinning. Then, softer, “but seriously, babe. If he’s running out like that? If he can’t even give you a reason? That’s not nothing.”

You sighed, slumping in your chair. “I know. But it doesn’t feel like cheating. When he looks at me—Marcy, it’s like I’m the only person in the world. I can’t explain it. But then he vanishes, and I’m left wondering if I imagined it all.”

Her expression softened, the teasing edge fading. “Then maybe he’s not a cheater. Maybe he’s not even a serial killer.”

“Thanks for that.”

“I’m just saying.” She nudged your shoulder. “Maybe he’s hiding something else. Something big. You’ve got to decide if you want to push him on it—or if you’re okay being in the dark.”

The words sat heavy in your chest. Because deep down, you already knew the answer: you weren’t okay in the dark. Not anymore. But the thought of shining a light on whatever Clark was hiding scared you more than you wanted to admit.

---

The knock came just after sunset. You weren’t surprised—it was almost a pattern now, Clark showing up late, carrying the weight of an apology in his posture. When you opened the door, there he was, hair neat but glasses slightly askew, a paper bag dangling from one hand and a bouquet of sunflowers in the other. He smiled, soft and tentative, like he wasn’t sure if you’d let him in. “I brought dinner,” he said gently. “And flowers. To say I’m sorry.”

You stepped aside wordlessly, letting him enter. He set the bag on the table, laid the flowers carefully in a vase like they were something fragile. Then he turned back to you, his expression earnest, pleading. “I shouldn’t have left like that,” he said, voice low. “I know it hurt you. I don’t ever want to hurt you.”

Your throat tightened. “Then why do you keep doing it?”

He flinched, just slightly, but recovered with that same soft steadiness. “Sometimes… things come up. Things I can’t explain right away. But that doesn’t mean I don’t want to be here. With you.”

You pressed your hands into your arms, trying to hold yourself together. “Clark, I waited for you. At the farmer’s market. At dinner. In bed. Over and over again, I wait. And you leave.”

He took a step closer, desperation bleeding into his voice. “I come back. Every time, I come back.”

“But I don’t know if you will!” The words burst out, sharper than you intended. Your chest ached, eyes burning as you forced yourself to look at him. “I can’t keep doing this—wondering where you are, why you left, if you’re okay. I can’t keep waking up to an empty bed and convincing myself it doesn’t mean anything.”

His face crumpled, like the ground had shifted under him. “Don’t say that.”

“Clark…” Your voice broke, tears slipping free. “You’re everything I want. You’re kind, and sweet, and you make me feel like I matter. But then you vanish, and it’s like I don’t know you at all. And I can’t—” You shook your head, sobbing quietly. “I can’t do this anymore. Not like this.”

He stared at you, stricken, words caught in his throat. His hands twitched at his sides, like he wanted to reach for you but wasn’t sure he had the right. “I wish I could tell you,” he whispered finally, voice rough. “I wish I could tell you everything. You don’t know how much I want to. But—” He stopped himself, biting the words back. His chest rose and fell with a shudder.

You swallowed hard, wiping at your cheeks. “Then tell me. Please. Because if you can’t… I don’t know how we’re supposed to keep going.”

The silence between you stretched, heavy with everything unsaid. And for the first time since you’d met him, you weren’t sure if his sweetness, his apologies, his flowers, could make this right. Clark stood there, chest rising and falling, glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose as though even they were weary of carrying this lie. His hand flexed at his side, and then, with a shaky breath, he spoke. “Close your eyes,” he said softly.

You blinked at him, stunned. “Clark, this isn’t—”

“Please.” His voice was raw, desperate. “Just… if you trust me, close your eyes.” The tremor in his tone stilled your protests. Your heart pounded, but slowly—hesitantly—you let your eyes fall shut. “Do you trust me?” he asked, closer now.

You swallowed hard. “Yes.”

For a moment, there was only the silence of your apartment—the hum of the fridge, the faint city noise beyond the window. Then Clark’s hands were at your waist, warm and steady, and he drew you gently against him. “Hold on to me,” he murmured.

Before you could ask why, the ground shifted. Your stomach swooped, your hair lifted in a rush of wind. Instinctively, you clung to him, your fingers fisting in the fabric of his shirt. Air whipped around you, cool and rushing, and a gasp tore from your throat. “Clark!”

“Shh,” he soothed, his voice steady even through the roar of wind. “I’ve got you.”

You cracked your eyes open—and your breath caught. The city stretched out below you in a wash of lights and motion, sprawling farther than you’d ever seen it. Streets glimmered like veins of gold, buildings pierced the sky around you, and the river shone silver in the moonlight. You weren’t in your apartment anymore. You were flying.

And Clark—Clark was the one holding you. Your gaze snapped to him, the wind tousling his hair, his glasses gone, his eyes impossibly blue, sharp and unhidden in the night. The face you knew, but different—clearer, bolder, his. Realization crashed into you like a tidal wave. “You…” Your voice shook. “You’re—”

“Superman.” He said it quietly, the word almost reverent, as if he were confessing a sin instead of revealing himself. “It’s me.”

Your chest tightened, tears stinging your eyes. All the absences, the broken phones, the midnight disappearances—suddenly they made sense. Not cheating. Not lies. Not betrayal. He hadn’t been leaving you for someone else. He’d been leaving you for everyone else.

“I should have told you sooner,” he continued, guilt threading every word. “But I was scared. Scared of what it would mean for you. For us. I didn’t want you to look at me differently.”

You shook your head, still clutching him tightly as the city rushed below. “Clark, I—God, I thought you were cheating, or hiding some secret family, or—I don’t even know.” Your voice cracked. “But this? You were out saving people while I was sitting at home wondering why you didn’t text me back.”

His expression broke, raw and vulnerable in a way you’d never seen before. “I wanted to protect you. I thought keeping you in the dark would keep you safe. But it hurt you, and I hate that. I never wanted to hurt you.”

You stared at him, at the impossible truth in front of you, at the man who was both the sweetest, gentlest soul you’d ever known and the most powerful being on Earth. And against all reason, you laughed, shaky and breathless. “Marcy’s gonna lose her mind when she finds out I was worried you were a serial killer.”

Clark blinked, startled, then let out a stunned, nervous laugh of his own. Relief softened his features, even as his arms tightened protectively around you. “I don’t care if you’re Superman,” you whispered, your voice steady despite the tears on your cheeks. “I just need you to be honest with me. I just need you.”

He looked at you like you’d hung the stars yourself. “You have me. Always.” The descent was so smooth you barely felt it, the city tilting back into place as Clark slowed, wind softening against your skin until your feet touched down on your balcony. His arms didn’t leave you right away; instead, he held you steady, like he wasn’t sure if your legs would trust the ground again.

You weren’t sure they would either. Heart still hammering, you clutched at his shirt for a moment before finally forcing yourself to loosen your grip. The apartment behind you looked painfully ordinary—blanket draped over the couch, empty mug still on the table. And yet, everything had shifted.

Clark set you down fully, then stepped back just enough to give you space. Without his glasses, he looked both impossibly familiar and startlingly new. His eyes, unshielded, searched your face with something raw in them—hope tangled with fear.

You let out a shaky laugh, pressing a hand to your forehead. “You’re Superman. My boyfriend is Superman.”

His mouth curved into a small, almost self-conscious smile. “That’s… yeah. That’s me.”

You dropped your hand, meeting his gaze again. “All those nights you left. The phone. The farmer’s market. You were—”

“Saving people,” he finished softly. “I wasn’t lying when I said I’d always come back. I just… couldn’t tell you where I was going.”

A lump rose in your throat. “Do you have any idea what that did to me? Sitting alone, thinking I wasn’t enough? That you didn’t want me?”

His face broke, guilt carved deep in every line. He closed the space between you, carefully, his hands hovering near your arms like he wanted to hold you but was waiting for permission. “I hated it. Every time I left you, I hated it. But I thought if I told you the truth… you’d look at me like the rest of the world does. Like a symbol. Not a man.”

You shook your head, tears threatening again. “Clark, I’ve never wanted Superman. I’ve always wanted you. The guy who brings me bagels, who sings off-key while he cooks, who worries if I’ve had enough coffee before work. That’s the man I’m in love with.”

His breath hitched, and this time he didn’t hesitate. He pulled you into his arms, holding you so tightly it stole the air from your lungs. “I love you too,” he whispered into your hair. “God, I love you.”

You melted against him, arms circling his waist, your cheek pressed to the steady thrum of his heartbeat. For the first time in weeks, maybe months, the tension that had lived in your chest eased. The cracks weren’t cracks at all—they were pieces of a puzzle you hadn’t been allowed to see. When you finally pulled back, you caught his face in your hands, studying him with a small, breathless laugh. “You’re really Superman. And all this time, I thought you were sneaking off to… I don’t know, karaoke night or a secret family.”

His cheeks flushed, sheepish even now. “No secret family. And I’m terrible at karaoke.”

The laugh bubbled out of you, unstoppable. You leaned up and kissed him, slow and certain, feeling him smile against your mouth. When you finally parted, you rested your forehead against his. “Next time, don’t let me sit in the dark, okay? If you have to go, just… tell me. Even if it’s just a look. I can live with Superman. I can’t live with silence.”

His hand cupped your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek with infinite care. “No more silence. I promise.”

You leaned into the kiss fully, your arms wrapping around his neck, and for a few precious seconds there was no Superman, no danger, no lies—just Clark, just you, just the steady warmth of him choosing to stay.