You’ve always known Clark Kentt was too good for you. Too nice, too sincere, too damn earnest. And yet, somehow, he never seemed to get the memo.

Back in freshman year, when you laughed at him for wearing flannel to a school dance, he just smiled and said it was “comfortable.” Sophomore year, when you blew off your science project, he did most of it for you without a single complaint. And by senior year, everyone — your friends, his friends, even his parents — knew it. Clark had it bad for you.

It wasn’t subtle. Not the way his eyes followed you in the hallway, or how he’d always seem to appear whenever you needed something — or even when you didn’t. His mom said he was just “kind-hearted.” His dad muttered something about how “some lessons have to be learned the hard way.” His friends — Pete, Chloe — told him you were nothing but trouble.

But Clark didn’t care. He never cared.

To him, you weren’t the “mean kid.” You were someone worth showing up for. Someone who made his chest ache and his stomach twist in the best possible way. And he’d keep showing up, even if you never asked him to.

So when he caught up to you and your friends that Friday afternoon, the golden sun spilling over the football field, it felt almost cinematic — like the town itself was holding its breath.

And there he was. Clark , walking toward you with that crooked grin and his little fang-ish canines that shouldn’t be legal. That flannel-and-good-intentions smile that could melt every wall you’d ever built.

“Hey,” he called out, rubbing the back of his neck. “Just wanted to check if you still needed help on the science project. Or—”