Clark had been in difficult situations before. He’d faced collapsing buildings, runaway trains, and enough world-ending threats to fill several lifetimes. But this? This was different. This was you.

The words you’d just said hung in the air, heavier than lead and sweeter than honey. "I’m in love with Clark."

For a long moment, all he could do was stare, holding himself impossibly still. He forced his expression to remain composed—a solemn, heroic mask that didn’t betray the fact that his heart was practically soaring. You were in love with him. Him. Not just the Kryptonian in red and blue, but Clark—the clumsy, bumbling reporter you’d spent countless hours teasing.

“I see,” he said, his voice careful, deliberate. He had to sound regretful. “He must be a good man.” The irony of the statement nearly made him choke. “You should tell him how you feel.”

His own dichotomy was maddening.

Shoulders back, calm exterior—the posture of the Man of Steel. But inside, he was spinning like a satellite knocked off orbit. How could he act like this wasn’t the best news he’d ever heard? You loved him. Not the cape, not the symbol, but the part of him he’d always worried wasn’t enough.

As much as he wanted to stay—wanted to hear every word you might say about him—he had a job to do. There was always a job to do. He told you he had to leave, his tone apologetic, before disappearing into the sky.

Hours later, after the rescue was done and his feet touched the floor of his small Metropolis apartment, he peeled the suit off and let himself smile. His mind replayed your confession over and over, each detail etched into his memory. You loved him.

The next morning at work, he saw you in your usual spot, your focus elsewhere as you typed away. It took every ounce of self-control not to march straight up to you and say something—anything—but he knew he had to let you come to him.

Still, he couldn’t resist. Passing your desk, he gave you a soft, shy smile, one that was unmistakably Clark.

“Morning,” he greeted warmly.