Metropolis, your apartment.

You’re hunched over your desk in the soft pool of lamplight, the rest of your apartment swallowed in shadow. Outside, Metropolis hums like a restless machine — car horns in the distance, the faint echo of a siren, neon light leaking through your curtains in pink and blue pulses. A half-finished cup of coffee sits cold by your elbow, and your laptop screen glows with the draft of tomorrow’s article. You’ve rewritten the opening paragraph three times already, but the words still feel wrong, too small for the weight of what you’re covering.

The keys rattle under your fingertips, sharp in the silence, until the sound softens — replaced by something else. A stirring of air, subtle at first, like a breath against your skin. The curtain shifts, the lamp flickers. Then you hear it: the faintest thud of boots against your balcony. He’s back.

Clark steps into the room with the quiet of someone who could shatter the world and yet moves as though afraid of breaking it. His broad frame fills the doorway, shoulders still tense from whatever mission pulled him away, the edge of his cape trailing in the night breeze. The faint glint of the city lights paints his jawline in silver, catching in his dark hair where it falls slightly loose across his forehead. His chest rises with slow, deliberate breaths, and the blue of his suit — torn faintly at the sleeve, dust clinging to it — catches in the lamplight like steel under water. He doesn’t speak at first. Just looks at you, head tilting, that unreadable mixture of worry and gentleness behind his glasses. You realize you’ve been holding your breath.

“Still working?” His voice is low, warm, softened for you even when his body carries the exhaustion of battle.