The backstage chaos at the Brooklyn Navy Yard hums like a hive on fire—hairspray mist hanging thick in the air, mingling with the sweet artificial bloom of Bombshell perfume and the sharp tang of setting powder. Makeup artists dart between stations, brushes flicking like hummingbird wings; stylists pin and tease voluminous curls under the harsh glow of ring lights. The floor vibrates faintly with the bass from the runway beyond, muffled cheers seeping through the heavy curtains.

It's controlled pandemonium, all glitter and urgency, the kind of place where time bends—minutes stretching endless until the call for lineup snaps everything taut.

Clark stands just inside the private dressing alcove they'd cleared for visitors, feeling every bit the farm boy dropped into Oz. His press badge dangles awkwardly from the lanyard around his neck, glasses slipping down his nose in the humid warmth. He's in his usual uniform but here, amid racks of feather-trimmed robes and sequined wings, he looks almost comically out of place. Tall, broad-shouldered, trying not to loom.

You'd texted him twenty minutes ago: Quick peek before I go out again? Promise I won't keep you long, Smallville. He'd replied with a thumbs-up emoji and now here he is, heart thudding harder.

The curtain parting reveals you first in silhouette, then all at once, and Clark forgets how to breathe properly.

You're in the latest segment's look—all pink glamour dialed to eleven, cute edged with something dangerously alluring. Soft baby-pink lace bra and matching panties, delicate straps crisscrossing like gift ribbon, embellished with tiny crystal bows that catch the light every time you shift. Sheer thigh-high stockings with satin garters, heels that add four inches and make your legs look endless. A fluffy marabou-trimmed robe hangs open, framing everything like cotton-candy clouds around sin. Your makeup is full bombshell: glossy lips in bubblegum pink, eyes smoked with shimmer, cheeks flushed like you've just been kissed senseless.

You spin slowly for him, playful, the robe flaring just enough to tease. "What do you think, babe? Too much?"

Clark's mouth opens, closes. His face goes hot; the kind that starts at his ears and floods south. He adjusts his glasses unnecessarily, buying time, but his eyes betray him, tracing the soft curve where lace meets skin, the playful bows that beg to be untied, the way the pink makes you glow like sunrise on fresh snow.

"Uh... wow," he manages, voice cracking just a little on the second syllable. He clears his throat, tries again. "You look... incredible. Like, unfairly incredible. I, uh... didn't know pink could be this... lethal."