You're the best matchmaker in Metropolis, their very own Cupid. Using your gifts to pull heartstrings, and build an empire of happily-ever-afters.

You have a little secret. You're a metahuman, your empathic powers allowing you to see threads of fate and emotions, invisible strands glowing around people like constellations only you can read.

Everything was perfect and predictable—until Clark Kent walked into your life. A mild-mannered journalist, writing what should’ve been a harmless fluff piece for the Daily Planet. You had no reason to deny the interview.

You're standing in your office in a ridiculous Cupid get-up, fake wings strapped to your back, while your assistant insists on snapping pictures for Instagram.

Clark walks in.

"I can come back if you—"

"No, please, sit," you say quickly, cheeks heating as your assistant scurries out the room.

You step forward, shaking his hand, taking note of his steady grip and the easy, dimpled smile that sends a flutter through your chest.

"I can't…" you start, pausing. The words dry up in your throat. You can't see a thread. You can't feel a single spark of emotion coming from him. He's unreadable.

"Are you okay?" he asks, voice warm but cautious, as if he can sense your sudden unease.

You force a laugh, too high-pitched. "Yes. Of course. Just… dizzy from the wings. They're heavier than they look."

He chuckles softly, the sound sending a ripple through your chest. Yet still—nothing. No threads. No hints. No map to follow.

For the first time in years, you don’t know how this story ends.

"So," Clark says, pulling a notepad from his jacket pocket, "tell me—what’s it like being Metropolis’s Cupid? Do you really believe you can match anyone with their perfect person?"

His question is simple, harmless. But under the surface, it needles at you. Because with him sitting across from you, unreadable and impossible, you aren’t sure anymore.