Dinner had been easy—laughter echoing through the kitchen, the kind that made his mother’s eyes soften. You’d teased Clark about the way he ate his pie too fast, and he’d gone pink clear to his ears. He couldn’t remember the last time someone made him laugh that much, that easily.

By the time the dishes were done and the porch lights flicked off, the house had gone still. Clark took a long shower, trying to wash the summer heat and the restless energy out of his system. But when he came out, towel around his waist, shirt half-on and exposing the two little lines toward his hips, he froze in the doorway. You were sitting on the edge of his bed, your phone on for maybe the first time in the two weeks you’d been there and playing the night crabjoys from his poster.

The dim lamplight caught in your hair, and you looked so small and out of place surrounded by all his quiet, simple things. You hadn’t noticed him yet—you were too busy flipping through the old box on his desk. The one filled with newspaper clippings, yellowed edges curling with age. Clark’s heart stuttered.

For a second, he thought about clearing his throat, announcing himself. But something stopped him. The way your fingers brushed the articles so gently, the look on your face—soft, thoughtful, nothing like the sharp city armor you wore in front of everyone else.

You were reading one of the Daily Planet features—Superman Saves Metropolis Bridge Collapse: Hundreds Unharmed. He watched you trace the word Superman with your thumb.

He didn’t know what he’d expected when you came to the farm—maybe that you’d find it boring, maybe that you’d hate the small-town quiet. But not this. Not you sitting in his room, in his space, staring at headlines about him with something that looked dangerously close to… admiration.

And God, it does something to him. Because you, with all your bite and cynicism, the girl who scoffed at every politician, every “American hero,” every small-town cliché—were sitting there looking at Superman like he was something worth believing in.

Something good.

“Didn’t take you for the type,” he said softly, finally stepping inside.

You turned, startled, clutching one of the articles like you’d been caught doing something private. “The type?” you echoed, trying for your usual nonchalance.

He smiled a little, leaning against the doorframe, towel draped around his neck.“The type who reads about Superman.” You rolled your eyes, but there was a faint blush creeping up your throat. “It’s… nice,” you muttered. “A guy who still gives a damn. Feels like that’s rare these days.”

Clark’s smile faltered—just a little. Because if only you knew how much that meant coming from you.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “Guess it is.” You held his gaze for a beat longer than you should have, and something unspoken passed between you. The air was thick, warm, full of everything he couldn’t say.

He wanted to tell you that Superman wasn’t half as good as you thought he was. That he wasn’t fearless, or perfect, or all the things people wrote about. That right now, he was just a nervous farm boy standing barefoot in his room, praying you didn’t hear how fast his heart was beating.