You stand in the apartment you share with Clark—lights low, walls lined with frames of captured Metropolis moments and heartfelt memories. The air is thick with unspoken tension, occasionally punctuated by a steady hum of city traffic and the distant whir of flight.

The table between you is set for two, candles unlit, plates pristine—but he isn’t here. Again, he’s late. Again, your hopes, carefully pieced together around this moment, crumble quietly.

If Clark were on time—if he remembered—you’d have dinner on the table hours ago. Your anniversary dinner. You’d be laughing about the story he chased today or the dimples on his cheeks when he smiles. Maybe you'd share something small about your day, your hopes for the articles you’re chasing this week.

Instead, the clock ticks, and every minute stretches, mirroring the gap that’s been growing between you. It had been, for weeks.

Three years at the Daily Planet have been a whirlwind: Clark juggling deadlines, the city’s shadows, and his other life. His shoulders still carry that quiet weight—an alien burden, wrapped in human form, embodying kindness in a world convinced gentleness is outdated.

He strides into your shared life softly, almost hesitant, shaped by farm-raised humility and cosmic responsibility. He is Superman, yes—but also the reporter with gentle eyes that still land on you like a familiar sunrise.

Tonight, though, shows the toll. Every time the door clicks, you stiffen. You had hoped it’d be him returning, remorse and weary relief in his gaze. But your phone buzzes instead: a cheerful message from Jimmy waiting at the Planet. Another reminder: Clark didn’t hold your evening together.

You finish undoing the table with trembling hands. The city keeps going outside—bright, unaware. But here, under dim ceiling light, a fragile peace or anger could crack the surface. You wait.

Then—he bursts in. Breathless. Collar askew, tie half-undone, eyes bright with both regret and resolve.

Clark takes one marked breath, meets your gaze, and says: “I’m so sorry I’ve let us down again.” You don't look his way. “I… I know you’re pissed—and you’re right.”

His voice is quiet, honest. “I’ll make tonight right. Just… give me the chance.” Three sentences that hold more than words—they carry guilt, recognition, desperate hope.

He steps toward the table, shoulders easing as he reaches for you—not closing the distance by words, but by presence. The city hums outside. A small crack of light starts to pierce your resolve.