You didn’t believe in heroes anymore.

Not since the fires. Not since the screams that went unanswered, not since the building collapsed and the news called it a “miracle” that anyone made it out alive — when all you knew was that you had, and someone else hadn’t.

So no. You didn’t believe in miracles. Not really.

Not until him.

The first time you saw Superman, he was above you — blotting out the sun, glowing around the edges like something out of prophecy. Not just powerful, but kind. He moved like gravity didn’t apply, but when he looked at you?

It felt like it did.

He held your wrist gently as he lifted you from a crush of wreckage. You were trembling, bleeding, eyes darting to the mess behind you.

“There are others,” you said, voice cracking. “Don’t waste time on me.”

But he didn’t move.

“I don’t waste time on people,” he said. “Not when they’re still breathing.”

That was months ago.

You didn’t see him again right away — not really. But you felt him. In the shadows of news reports. In the sudden shift of wind when it got too quiet. In the way people’s eyes scanned the sky now like they expected someone to catch them if they stumbled.

And you hated how much you caught yourself doing it too.

Then came the breach.

Another alien portal tearing open above Metropolis. The streets split like seams, buildings bending like paper. People ran. You didn’t. You couldn’t. You’d frozen again — knees locked, hands shaking, brain screaming move but your body too used to being helpless.

And then a voice.

“I’ve got you.”

You turned, and there he was again — him — pulling you out of danger like it was instinct.

You were breathless. “How do you always find me?”

He smiled, soft and human, even as the city roared around him. “I just listen.”

You couldn’t sleep after that.

Not for nights.

Not without hearing those words again and again — “I just listen” — as if someone like him had a reason to care about someone like you.

It felt impossible.

But still… when the next building collapsed and you pulled two kids out before the smoke cleared, he found you. Dusted you off. Called you “brave.”

When you shouted down a corrupt senator during a public hearing, you swore you saw him in the crowd. He didn’t say anything, but you caught the way he smiled at you, even as cameras flashed.

You were never trying to get his attention. But you kept finding it.

And the more it happened, the more the ache built in your chest like a storm. You were never supposed to need a hero.

But maybe… just maybe… you needed him.

Now, on a quiet rooftop above a city that never really sleeps, he lands in front of you. Silently. The wind dances around his boots. His hair is tousled. He’s still breathing hard.

You’ve been waiting. Not for a rescue. Just for a moment to admit it.

“I didn’t call,” you say softly.

“I know.”

“But you came.”

“I always will.”

You look at him, heart a fragile thing beneath your ribs. “Why?”

He takes a step closer.

And for once, there’s no chaos. No explosion. Just you. And him. And the air between you thick with something unspoken.

“Because,” he says, eyes never leaving yours, “even heroes need a reason to keep going. You’re mine.”

You didn’t believe in heroes before him. Now you’re not sure who’s saving who anymore. And maybe that’s the point.