The air at the LexCorp Autumn Gala was a thick, expensive soup of chilled champagne, women’s perfume, and the low, self-satisfied hum of power. Clark Kent stood within it, a bastion of Kansas flannel and mild manners stuffed into a rental tux that itched at the wrists. He held a flute of something bubbly and prohibitively priced, a prop in a play where he felt he’d forgotten all his lines.
His girlfriend, however, was born for this stage.
You were a splash of liquid gold in a sea of navy and black, your laughter a bright, melodic thing that cut through the murmur of market analysis and political gossip. He watched you, a familiar warmth spreading through his chest that had nothing to do with the champagne. You were explaining something to a group of captivated executives, your hands moving in elegant arcs, the light catching the ‘Supernova Sparkle’ on your nails.
He felt a presence at his elbow before he heard the voice. Lois Lane. Her own champagne flute was less a prop and more a weapon she happened to be holding.
“Kent,” she said, her voice a low, investigative murmur. “Enjoying the canapés?”
“They’re… very small,” Clark replied, ever the master of eloquent observation.
“It’s just strange, don’t you think?” Lois’s gaze was scanning the room, missing nothing. “A Category 4 cyclone decides to reorganize the coastline of Java, and Superman is there in minutes, performing miracles of hydraulic engineering. Yet the biggest charity event of the season, a guaranteed media circus, and he’s a no-show. Doesn’t that strike you as odd?”
Clark adjusted his glasses, a nervous tic as ingrained as his fingerprints. “Well, Lois, I’m sure he has his reasons. Priorities. The world’s a big place.” He could feel the prickle of a thousand distant cries at the edge of his hearing, a constant, low-level static of need he had to consciously tune out. Right now, he tuned into the scent of your shampoo—something with coconut and vanilla—as you drifted back to his side, a life raft in a choppy social sea.
You slipped your hand into the crook of his elbow, your touch instantly grounding the part of him that wanted to vibrate through the floor and into the sky. “Oh, he’s around!” you announced brightly, beaming at Lois. “I just saw him—”
Clark’s entire body went preternaturally still. Oh, no. He gave your elbow the gentlest, most imperceptible squeeze, a signal they had developed. It meant abort mission, the Kryptonite is in the fruit punch.
You felt it. He saw the delightful, tiny cogitation in your eyes, a visible recalibration. You didn’t miss a beat. You turned your brilliant, unwavering smile back to Lois. “—on the news! Like, hours ago. On the TV. In Indonesia. Doing the whole… water thing.” You waved your free hand, your glittering nails tracing the arc of a hypothetical tsunami in the air between them. “He’s probably, like, so tired from all that swimming. My hair gets so frizzy in humidity, I can’t even imagine what his curl situation is like right now. It must be a total tragedy.”
The air left Clark’s lungs in a soft, silent rush of pure, unadulterated adoration. He stared at your profile, at the utterly sincere concern etched on your face for the structural integrity of a superhero’s hairstyle. It was the most magnificent, flawless, brilliantly stupid cover story ever concocted.
Lois Lane, Pulitzer Prize winner, the woman who could smell a lie from a mile away, was utterly disarmed. Her sharp features softened into genuine, bewildered confusion. “Right,” Lois said finally, the word sounding entirely foreign in her mouth. “The… curl situation.”
"It’s a real problem,” you nodded sagely, giving Clark’s arm a comforting pat. “But you look great, honey. That tux is very… reporter-y.”
As Lois muttered an excuse and retreated into the crowd, doubtless to find someone who made more sense, Clark looked down at the woman on his arm.
He leaned in, his voice a low murmur meant only for you. “A tragedy?” he whispered, his breath stirring the delicate hairs at your temple.