The iron gates loomed like a promise half-kept, lights humming with possibility. Clark Kent stood beside you, broad-shouldered in his worn jacket, farm dust still clinging to him in a way no polish ever could. To you, he had always been perfect. Leaving the football captain had cost you whispers and stares, but it brought you here; heart fluttering, fingers brushing his sleeve.

“I’m not much good at this,” Clark said quietly, rubbing at his neck, a nervous smile tugging at his mouth. “Dates, I mean.”

You laugh, soft and breathless. “Neither am I, but I just pretend I am.”

The noise of the park swelled around you, but for a moment there was only the space between your hands. He looked at you as if you were something fragile and rare, and it’s only now you realise that’s how he’s looked at you all along.