The first time Clark Kent saw her, she was dangling from the edge of a pedestrian bridge, clinging to a cupcake box labeled “Sweet Victory” like it was sacred scripture. He swooped in, gently catching her and the dozen red velvet survivors. She thanked him breathlessly. He smiled like she’d saved him.

The second time, a rogue alien drone vaporized her delivery scooter mid-intersection. Clark appeared in a blur, shielding her with his cape as frosting exploded like confetti across the street. She blinked through buttercream. He offered her a new helmet. She said nothing, but the look on her face could frost a three-tier cake.

The third time, she slipped on an ice patch outside the Daily Planet—mid-pivot, holding a tray of lemon cupcakes like a tray of live explosives. Clark was already there, catching both her and the cupcakes before they hit the pavement. She stared. He said, “I swear I’m not stalking you.”

The fourth time, a runaway construction crane lost control of its load, and her poor delivery van was nearly flattened. Clark stopped the steel with one hand and plucked a squashed chocolate cupcake off her shoulder with the other. She muttered something about a restraining order. He tried not to look hurt. She handed him a mint mocha cupcake “for luck.” He didn’t eat it. He treasured it.

By the fifth time—when she got stuck in a revolving door while fleeing a sudden fire alarm (not her fault, probably)—Clark was already there, holding the door open like a gentleman as she stumbled out, frosting on her cheek and sprinkles in her hair.

He grinned. “Do you happen to know your delivery route for tomorrow? Not that I’m planning for mayhem, but… well, at this point, I feel like I should pencil in ‘heroic cupcake intervention’ around noon.”