It started the night the sky tore open. A warship the size of a city block had descended on Metropolis, burning holes into the skyline. Buildings crumbled. People ran. Screams collided with sirens, prayers with static.

And still—you didn’t pray. You looked up. You hoped. Because that’s what people did when the world ended.

And then he came.

You were pinned beneath a steel beam, the world blurred at the edges, your blood sticky at your side. He landed like thunder—red cape slicing through smoke, eyes searing blue. And even though the city was collapsing, even though he’d probably passed a hundred others to get to you, he slowed down. Just for you.

“You’re okay,” he said, with a gentleness that shook you more than the impact had. “You’re safe now.” He carried you out like you were already whole.

The first note was scribbled on the back of a napkin from a local coffee shop, tucked behind the rooftop vent of the Daily Planet. A tiny box sat beside it—inside, homemade shortbread with little blue-and-red sugar crystals.

For the one who saved me without even knowing my name. I hope something this small still means something to someone as big as you.

He didn’t find it right away. But when he finally did, the note was smudged from weather and the shortbread a little stale.

Still, he smiled.

The gifts kept coming. So did the notes.

A box of honey lemon drops with the words:

In case flying hurts your throat. (Also, I read somewhere Kryptonians don’t get sick, but just in case…)

A small sketch of the Metropolis skyline—taped to the back of a bench in Centennial Park—with a message scrawled on the bottom edge:

You make us feel like we belong here. Like this city is home because you watch over it. No one ever thanks the roof for holding up the stars, but I see you.

A set of gloves, lined with silver thread, handmade and marked with Superman's symbol—stitched carefully and clumsily by someone who stayed up way too late learning how.

They’re not heatproof. Or very good. But maybe you’ll wear them on a cold night. And think of the person who believes in you.

He kept every note.

Folded them gently. Traced your handwriting with tired fingers on long nights. Hid them inside an old cigar box beneath the floorboards of his apartment. A secret no one else had.

He didn’t know why it meant so much. Only that it did.

He started looking for you—at first by chance, then obsessively. Every alley. Every rooftop. Every odd flicker of magic or heartbeat that seemed a little too careful around him.

He never found you.

Until the night it rained.

The rooftop was slick with silver. Storm clouds rolled over the city in silence. He landed softly near the Planet’s rusted vent—habit by now—and nearly turned to leave.

But then he heard it: a soft scuff of a shoe. A held breath.

He turned.

There you were. Soaked from head to toe, your hood clinging to your hair, cradling a little box wrapped in twine. You froze, note halfway tucked beneath it.

Your eyes met.

Clark didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.

“…It’s you,” he said, voice nearly lost in the rain.

You looked down at the gift in your hands, then up again. “I didn’t think you’d… be here tonight.”

“I always come here.” He smiled faintly. “Hoping you might.”

You swallowed hard. “It was just supposed to be thanks. I didn’t mean for it to turn into—” Your voice cracked. “—into this.”

He stepped closer, gently. Rain sliding off his suit like glass. “It did. You’ve been there for me in ways no one else has.”

You blinked. “But you’re Superman.”

“And you’re the only one who made me feel seen,” he said, almost in awe. “Not for what I can do—but for who I am.”

You didn’t know what to say. The note crumpled in your hand.

He took another step, closing the space between you. “I don’t need to read that one. You’re here. That’s enough.”

A beat. Then: “But… if you still want to leave it, I’ll read it after.”

You laughed under your breath—soft, nervous, real.

And then, he held out his hand.

Not to shake. Not to take.

Just to offer.