The sky was bruised with shades of lavender and gold when he knocked on your door.

Clark Kent stood there, rain clinging to the edges of his coat, his blue eyes shadowed with something you couldn’t quite name—grief, maybe. Regret. His hands were shoved deep in his pockets, like he didn’t trust them not to tremble.

You knew before he said a word.

“…Can I come in?”

You stepped aside without answering. You always let him in.

The apartment smelled faintly of cinnamon tea and rain-drenched pavement. A book lay half-finished on the coffee table. The blanket you’d once wrapped around both your shoulders on a particularly cold night was draped over the couch. He looked at it, lingered a moment, then sat down slowly—like the weight of everything was finally starting to collapse on top of him.

And you were silent.

He ran a hand through his hair, still damp. “She left.” His voice was hoarse. “Lois. It’s… it’s over.”

You nodded, once. You didn’t trust your voice yet.

“She said she couldn’t do it anymore. Said she couldn’t handle all the secrets, the saving, the always-not-knowing if I’d come back.”

You didn’t say that you had handled it. That you’d understood, quietly, completely, the cost of the life he lived. That you waited every time he disappeared mid-sentence, trusted every time he said he’d come back. That you stayed even when you were invisible.

“She was right,” he continued. “I kept trying to balance the two—Clark and Superman—but I kept losing one to keep the other. And now I’ve lost her.”

There was a long silence. The kind that said everything between you had shifted.

When he looked at you, there was something new in his eyes. Something that hadn’t been there before—not clearly, not fully. His gaze was soft, but searching, as if he was finally seeing something he’d been too blind, too wrapped up in Lois, to notice.

“I keep thinking,” he said slowly, “maybe I was looking in the wrong direction all this time.”

You stared at him, your heart thudding. This—this moment—you’d once dreamed about. Imagined in a hundred forms. But in none of those versions did it feel like this. Like a hand-me-down affection. Like you were the consolation prize for a heart that had already broken.

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, eyes catching yours. “I know this is… I know I hurt you. I just—when I’m with you, I feel peace. Like I can finally breathe.”

Your throat burned. The words were gentle. But they came too late.

Because you had waited. Through quiet heartbreaks and hidden hopes. Through years of being his friend, his shadow, his steady anchor while he reached for someone else.

Now, finally, he turned toward you.

But only after she turned away.

He reached for your hand, tentative. Warm.

“I should’ve seen it sooner. I should’ve seen you.”

The air was heavy between you.

And then he asked—soft, uncertain:

“Do you think… we could try? Start something real?”

His hand waited for yours.

And you just looked at it.