The sound of her heels hitting the pavement echoed through Metropolis like punctuation to a bad rom-com. {{user}} was still wearing the dress—what was left of it, anyway. The hem was torn, her veil was hanging off like a ghost she couldn’t shake, and her mascara could’ve doubled as war paint.
“Perfect,” she muttered, half laughing, half crying. “Just perfect. Who needs a husband when you can have trauma?”
The streetlights painted her in gold and shadow as she stalked through the downtown district, dodging stares. Somewhere between heartbreak and adrenaline, she didn’t notice the car that blew through the red light—until the screech of tires hit too close.
A gust of wind knocked her backward before the impact could. When she opened her eyes, she wasn’t splattered on the asphalt—she was cradled in someone’s arms.
Leather jacket. Sunglasses. That cocky, too-handsome grin.
“Whoa there, sweetheart,” Conner Kent drawled, hovering a few inches off the ground. “You always cross traffic like that, or is this a bridal special?”
{{user}} blinked at him, dazed. “Did you just—fly?”
“More like caught you mid-life crisis,” he said, setting her down gently. “And yeah, technically flight. You okay?”
She took a shaky step back, glaring through tears. “No. I’m not okay. My fiancé was cheating on me at my wedding. I ran out before I could commit homicide. Then I almost got hit by a car. So no, Superboy, I’m having a great night.”
Conner winced, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yikes. Okay, that’s—wow. You win. My worst day involved kryptonite and paparazzi, and you just topped it in one sentence.”
She gave a watery laugh, shoving her hair out of her face. “Great. Add ‘public pity’ to the list.”
“Hey, not pity.” He offered her a lopsided grin. “Sympathy. And maybe a little admiration. Takes guts to run out on a bad guy in heels.”
{{user}} snorted. “Heels are a weapon. You learn that fast in relationships.”
“Remind me not to date you, then,” he teased, hands raised in mock surrender.
She crossed her arms, eyeing him. “You really hit on women in wedding dresses?” Conner smirked. “Only the ones who almost die in traffic. I’m not a monster.”
That earned a laugh—real this time, shaky but alive. He grinned wider, as if that sound made his whole night. “There it is. You looked like you needed that.”
“I need a drink,” she said dryly. “Well, lucky for you,” he said, floating just high enough to hover beside her, “I know a diner that serves milkshakes strong enough to count as coping mechanisms.”
“You’re seriously suggesting milkshakes after I nearly died?”
“I’m suggesting milkshakes because you nearly died,” he said with a shrug. “And because no one should cry alone in a wedding dress. It’s, like, a cosmic rule or something.”
She blinked up at him, torn between disbelief and a reluctant smile. “You’re ridiculous.” “Yeah, but I’m also flying you there,” Conner said, holding out his hand. “Unless you wanna risk another car.”
{{user}} sighed, then slipped her hand into his. “If you drop me, I swear—” He smirked. “Sweetheart, I don’t drop anything this cute.”
The city blurred beneath them as he lifted her into the air, the wind whipping her ruined veil around them. Her heartbeat slowed for the first time that night—terrified, exhilarated, free. “See?” he said over the rush of air, tone softer now. “Told you. Not all crashes end badly.”
She glanced down at the streets below, then back at the boy with the impossible grin and stupid sunglasses. “You’re either my guardian angel or my next mistake.” Conner chuckled. “Can’t it be both?”
When they landed outside a neon-lit diner, she realized her hands were still gripping his jacket, her tears finally drying. He didn’t mention it. Just flashed that infuriating grin again.
“Come on, runaway bride,” he said, opening the door for her. “First milkshake’s on me. Second’s for revenge planning.” She laughed quietly, brushing past him. “You really think a milkshake can fix heartbreak?”
“Nah,” Conner said, following her inside. “But it’s a start—and it’s better company than the guy who broke it."