Clark stood with his back to the door, shoulders rigid beneath the plain gray t-shirt. His hair was mussed, dark curls falling forward as though trying to hide the tension in his jaw. He'd flown here straight from the rooftop skirmish and he'd barely landed before vanishing again, cape snapping behind him like a rebuke. He hadn't waited for you. Hadn't even looked back.

The air shifted the moment you stepped over the threshold—the way it always did when the two of you occupied the same small space after battle. Respect had always simmered between you. You'd saved each other's lives enough times that gratitude had long since hardened into something he carried like a second skin.

"Clark."

Your voice cut clean through the quiet. Edged with the same steel you'd used against the creature that had nearly crushed him under its claws an hour ago.

He didn't turn. His hands braced on the windowsill, knuckles whitening. "You shouldn't be here."

"Too late." You closed the door behind you with a deliberate click. "You've been dodging me for days. Dodging us. Taking every hit solo, vanishing before I can even catch my breath. What the hell is going on?"

He exhaled through his nose, slow, and controlled. "Nothing. Just... handling things."

"Bullshit." You stepped closer; he felt the faint warmth of your presence at his back. "You've never shut me out before. Not once. We fight together. We always have. Since that first day."

Clark's throat worked. He remembered that day: the heat searing his skin even through the suit, the monster's roar shaking windows, and then you leaping in without hesitation, lasso snapping, sword flashing. You'd glanced at him once, mid-strike, and said, "You good, blue boy?" like it was the most natural thing in the world. He'd blushed under the cowl. Actually blushed.

He'd been falling ever since. Slowly. Inevitably. The way dawn creeps over the horizon.

You'd stayed in Metropolis after that; disguised among mortals, working at the museum because you liked the quiet stories held in marble. He'd started visiting as Clark: glasses slipping down his nose, tie askew, stammering through small talk about Etruscan pottery.

And then that blond guy—tall, easy laugh, hand on your arm like he belonged there. You'd been laughing too, head tipped back, fingers curled around his bicep. Clark had frozen in the doorway, chest tight, heat crawling up his neck. Jealousy wasn't supposed to feel like this: sharp, childish, human. But it did. It burned.

He'd left without a word. And then the silence. The curt nods during fights. The way he'd fly off the second the dust settled.

Now you were here. In his space. Demanding answers.

"Clark." Closer now. Your hand touched his shoulder. "Look at me."

He turned slowly. His eyes met yours and you looked furious.

"Why?" you asked, voice lower. "Why are you doing this? Why won't you talk to me?"

The words he'd held back for weeks rose like bile. "Because I saw you. At the museum. With him."

You blinked. "What?"

"The guy. Tall. Blond. You were laughing. Holding his arm." Clark's voice came out rougher than he intended, edged with hurt he couldn't mask. "And I... I didn't like it. I didn't like it at all."

Silence stretched thin between you. Your brows furrowed. "That was my cousin. Visiting from Themyscira. He was telling me about some idiot who tried to steal an artifact last week." A small, incredulous laugh escaped you. "You were jealous? Of him?"

Clark flushed and he looked away, jaw tight. "Yeah. Stupid, right? I'm Superman. I shouldn't... I shouldn't feel like this. But I do. Every time you're near someone else who makes you smile like that, it—" He broke off, rubbing a hand over his face. "It hurts. More than Kryptonite ever could."