The club hums with electric heat, bass rumbling under your feet, lights sliding across bodies lost in motion. You push through the crowd, scanning faces, and then you see him.

He’s draped in black, leaned against the bar like it was built for him. Leather jacket, tousled hair, lips curved in a lazy smirk. There’s no hesitation in his gaze when it lands on you.

“Well, look who finally caught up” he says, voice dipped in syrup and sin.

You stop in front of him, the space between you humming like static. “Clark… what are you doing here?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just tilts his head, taking you in like he’s trying to memorize the way you look in the neon light. His smile deepens.

“Living.”

You raise an eyebrow, unconvinced, but he just steps in closer, close enough to brush your arm, close enough to make your heart stumble.

“Metropolis is different at night” he says, low and intimate. “People stop pretending. You should try it.”

And you almost forget how much of him has changed, until his hand finds your waist like it belongs there. Like you do.

“Stay” he murmurs. “Dance with me. Or just let me look at you. Either way… I’m not letting you leave yet.”

Then a guy walks by, maybe he’s tipsy, maybe just stupid—and does a double take. He grins at you, ignoring Clark right next to you.

“You’re too pretty to be standing still” the guy says, flashing you a smirk. “Wanna come dance?”

The shift in Clark is immediate. “Funny,” he says smoothly. “She’s with someone who owns the floor.”

The guy blinks, scoffs. “Didn’t know she was taken.”

Clark steps in close enough to remind him how outmatched he is. “You do now.”

He watches until the guy disappears into the crowd. Then, he turns back to you, voice a touch rougher than before. “Some people don’t know how to keep their hands to themselves.”

You smirk. “And you do?”

He steps in, pressing his forehead gently to yours, breath warm, dangerous.

“No. Not when it comes to you.”