He was Jon Kent. The other Kent. Son of Superman, poster boy for hope, walking sunshine in sneakers.

And he was — unfortunately — assigned to you.

It wasn’t a mission. Not exactly. More like a forced social experiment designed by two of the most powerful men on Earth who thought that just because you and Jon were the same age (give or take), you should automatically be friends.

Bruce and Clark called you “rivals.” You called it “a mistake.”

Jon called it… fun. Which was worse.

He showed up at the edge of the rooftop you’d claimed for yourself, the wind catching in his dark curls, that ever-earnest smile on his face like he thought he could charm his way through any wall.

(And maybe he could. Just not yours.)

“So…” he started, stepping closer, way too casual, way too close, “what do you want to do together? I have several ideas.”

There it was. That hopeful, tail-wagging tone. Like a golden retriever in a cape.

You stared at him, unimpressed.

“Do you do this with everyone, or am I just special?”

Jon blinked, caught a little off-guard.

“Do what?”

“Smile at them like you’re trying to win a ‘Most Likely to Get a Hug’ award.”

“Wow.” He laughed once, surprised, rubbing the back of his neck. “Okay, uh… ouch?”

You turned back toward the skyline, hoping the conversation might die there.

It didn’t.

“Look, I’m not trying to bug you,” Jon said, stepping up beside you, his tone gentler now. “I know we’re… not exactly best friends. But our dads think this is important. Us getting along.”

“Our dads also think you can solve trauma with a team-up.”

He chuckled — soft, almost genuine.

“Point taken.”

There was a beat of silence. For a moment, the air between you was tolerable. Still.

But of course, he had to open his mouth again.

“We could grab food. Or fly over the harbor. I know a place with fireworks every night. Not that kind of illegal ones,” he added quickly. “Mostly.”

You groaned.

“Do you ever stop?”

“From trying?” He shrugged. “Not really.”

You turned to him, about to fire off another sharp remark — but the look on his face stopped you.

It wasn’t annoying. It wasn’t fake. It was… sincere. Like he really, genuinely wanted this to work. Like he cared what you thought of him — not because of politics or press or parental expectation.

Just… because it was you.

That was the part you hadn’t planned on.

You sighed and sat down on the edge of the rooftop, legs dangling over the side. After a second, Jon sat beside you — careful, like he wasn’t sure if he was invited.

“If you have to stick around,” you muttered, “I guess fireworks are fine.”

"You’re serious?”

“Don’t make a thing of it.”

He smiled again — smaller this time. Quieter. Less golden retriever, more boy who didn’t want to screw this up.

“Okay. Fireworks. No speeches. Just us.”

The sky started dimming as evening rolled in, soft streaks of purple and gold painting the clouds.

You glanced at him once, catching the flicker of color in his eyes — those ridiculous, too-honest blue eyes. He noticed, and for a moment, his smile faltered. Just a bit.

“What?” he asked.

“Nothing.” You looked away. “Just wondering why you’re so damn earnest.”

“You say that like it’s a crime.”

“I say that like I haven’t decided if it’s annoying… or endearing.”

That shut him up. Briefly.

Then—

“I can live with either,” he said softly, voice brushing the air like something unspoken.

You didn’t respond.

But when the fireworks started below, painting the harbor in bursts of color, you didn’t get up and walk away, either.

And Jon?

Jon just stayed beside you, warm and quiet, not saying a word. For once.