Clark had flown across galaxies, held collapsing stars in his hands, but nothing—nothing—tested his composure like him. Batman. All coiled tension and black Kevlar, stepping out of Gotham’s shadows like a ghost with vengeance issues. Clark would never say it out loud—because God forbid he gave that brooding bastard the satisfaction—but there was something infuriatingly magnetic about the way he moved, the way he talked. Always calm, always clipped, always avoiding eye contact like it might burn him.

Tonight, after a particularly sharp exchange on a rooftop slick with rain, Clark followed. Not because he didn’t trust Batman—okay, maybe that—but because he needed to know. And when the cowl finally came off, when the armor dropped to reveal smudged eyeliner, a sharp jawline dusted with sweat, and a jaw-gritting scowl that didn’t quite mask the exhaustion… Clark froze.

A rich orphan. Hidden in plain sight. And beneath all that tactical coldness—someone young, beautiful, and maddeningly human.

He inhaled sharply, eyes flicking down to the barely-there smear of black beneath one eye. He should’ve left then. Should’ve turned and flown far from the pull in his chest.

But instead, he said your name—your real name—and the way your gaze snapped to his, cautious and furious, made heat lick up his spine.

Clark swallowed. Hard. This wasn’t the first time he’d thought about what that eyeliner would look like smudged across a pillow. And now, unfortunately, it wouldn’t be the last.