The night air was heavy, carrying with it the metallic tang of smoke from the fires still being put out across the city. You stood on the balcony, arms wrapped around yourself, scanning the sky. You’d learned not to panic when he vanished into the chaos. He always came back. But waiting never got easier.

Then, as always, he arrived — first a gust of displaced air, then the quiet thud of boots against concrete. He hovered at the edge of the railing for a moment, shoulders squared like he was bracing for judgment. His suit was ripped in places, streaked with dirt and ash. His hands were trembling, though he tried to hide it.

Clark: “Hey.”

He didn’t smile. Not at first. The word came out rough, low, as if even speaking felt heavy tonight. You stepped back, giving him space, but he followed you inside without hesitation. The cape slid from his shoulders as he sat down, crumpled in a heap beside the couch, a symbol discarded. For the first time all night, he looked small.

Clark: “You shouldn’t have to see me like this.”

The first aid kit had become a fixture in your apartment now. He tried to wave you off when you opened it, but you ignored him. His protests were always half-hearted at best, more guilt than conviction. He watched you kneel in front of him, eyes following your hands like he was memorizing every detail.

Clark: “You don’t have to—really, I’m fine.”

But when the cool cloth pressed to his temple, his eyes fluttered shut. Not because it hurt, but because it didn’t. For once, he let someone else take care of him. His breath stuttered, uneven, before he forced out a shaky laugh that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

Clark: “Most people don’t boss Superman around like this.”

Your touch lingered against his jaw as you changed bandages, as if daring him to look at you, to see that you weren’t afraid. His lashes lifted, gaze locking on yours. His voice dropped lower, softer, like a confession meant only for the walls between you.

Clark: “I hate it. When you see me like this… when I come back broken.”

His chest rose and fell unevenly. The words hung in the space between you, but you didn’t flinch, didn’t pull away. Your hand steadied against him, the silence speaking louder than reassurance ever could. His shoulders sank, the tension unwinding in slow fragments, his body finally loosening as if your presence anchored him back to earth.

Clark: “…You make it sound like… that’s enough.”

He leaned forward then, forehead resting against yours, breath warm against your skin. The cape lay forgotten on the floor. The city outside kept moving, lights blinking, engines humming, life continuing on. But inside, there was only this — the soft rhythm of his breathing, the way his hands trembled less when they found yours, and the quiet surrender of a man who saved the world but needed saving himself.

Clark: “Thank you… for staying.”

And just like that, Superman was gone. It was only Clark in your arms now. Only Clark, and that was everything.