It started like it always did—with a thud on the metal railing and the faint smell of windburn and ozone. You didn’t even flinch anymore. He never knocked. He never needed to.

He landed like a promise kept.

“Hi,” you said softly, not turning.

“Hi,” he replied, his voice still kissed by altitude and something heavier. “Couldn’t sleep.”

You looked over your shoulder. He hadn’t changed. Still in the suit. Still messy curls damp with sweat. A long scrape across his collarbone—faint, already healing.

“You’re hurt,” you murmured, standing.

“It’ll be gone in an hour.”

“That’s not what I meant.” You stepped close. Slid your fingers over the edge of the chest emblem, warm to the touch. Your knuckles brushed the ridged muscle beneath, and you felt him breathe. Not sharply—but deeply. Like you were the one thing grounding him.

“Take it off,” you said, voice low, steady.

He blinked. You meant the suit, but his gaze dipped to your shirt anyway. “The suit,” you clarified, barely resisting the smirk.

“Right,” he said, smiling softly. “That’s fair.”

He peeled it down slowly, the way he always did when you were watching. There was reverence in it, not pride. No posing. Just him, baring himself to you with quiet hands and a lowered gaze. You helped with the gloves. The boots. By the time the top half was at his waist, you pressed your palm against his chest.

Skin to skin. So warm. So human. And not.

“You always run hot when you’re trying not to think about something,” you murmured.

“I’m thinking about you,” he said, voice like gravel softened by silk.

“Good.” You stepped in. Pressed against him fully now—hips, ribs, sternum, mouth.

The first kiss was slow. Luxurious. No rush. No cape. Just hands. His on your jaw. Yours at his waist. The city still glittered behind your window, but the only thing that mattered was how he kissed like he was always trying to memorize you.

Your fingers slid to the curve of his spine, where even Superman shivered. You whispered against his throat: “Stay tonight.”

“I always do.”

“No, I mean stay.”

He stilled. You slid your hand beneath the suit’s waistband, just enough for him to feel you, your intentions warm and unambiguous.

“Here,” you breathed, “With me. In this bed. Like a man, not a myth.”

He lifted you. One movement. Effortless. One second your feet were on the floor, the next, your back hit the bed with a bounce and he was above you, eyes darkened with something raw, something real.

“I’ll try not to break the bedframe this time,” he murmured.

His mouth found the hollow of your throat. His hands dragged your shirt up—his shirt, now yours—and kissed the edge of your ribs. There was no rush, but God, there was hunger. A kind of ache that only came from knowing a body this well. From worshiping it in silence, in shadow, in sunlight.