Clark might have been the most powerful man on Earth, but in the quiet of their bedroom, he was just a husband with a mischievous glint in his eye.

It had been his suggestion—roleplay, of all things. She’d laughed at first, thinking the man who could move mountains didn’t need to pretend at anything. But Clark, with that boyish grin and the slow roll of his glasses off his face, had insisted.

Tonight, the world didn’t need Supeřman. Tonight, he was the shy farmhand stumbling over his words, rough hands lingering on her waist as if she were a dream just out of reach. And she, the intrepid reporter, played her part—demanding answers, pushing closer, until his breath hitched in something far less innocent.

No cape. No suit. Just fantasy, woven in whispers and touch, all his idea.

And she found herself wondering how a man who could fly still knew exactly how to keep her grounded.