Archive of Our Own

Irony is a cruel mistress.

Downright evil, in fact. Because how and in what world would you be so unlucky in love?

Every relationship you have bursts into flames. One time, literally, a fellow metahuman you dated caught fire and threw themselves out a window when you said “I love you” for the first time.

But that's not where the irony kicks in. It's the fact that you are the closest thing this earth has to Cupid.

Everywhere you go, you leave a trail of heart eyes in your wake.

Meet-cutes happen right in front of you with a snap of your fingers.

Whether it was the exhausted accountant and the barista at your coffee shop or the dog-walker and the grumpy author downstairs, you'd shoot a little love-powered finger gun, and they'd ride off into the sunset together.

Trudging your way into the Daily Planet, the world’s most chaotic newsroom, you were not in the mood for any bullshit, especially not superpowered bullshit. The Big Belly Burger near your house just got blinked out of existence. You mean it, there’s literally a crater where it used to be, your rent’s due tomorrow, and a supervillain just stole your cat this morning for funsies.

Not to mention, you and your stupid powers just set up the really cute florist you’ve been plotting on for months with your neighbour.

He was the perfect guy for you.

Sweet, funny, smelled like jasmine and sunlight, and your powers weren’t giving you any reason not to go full steam ahead.

But of course, the second your neighbour entered his flower shop, and they made eye contact, BAM, you made a match.

At this point, it would be merciful if someone finally struck you down with lightning. But knowing you, you’d survive, but all your hair would fall off instead.

You reach your desk, slumping down in it like the saddest little puddle of melted ice cream.

“You look like you’ve been through hell,” Lois comments, eyeing the scorch marks on your sleeve and the suspicious dusting of concrete in your hair. “You okay?”

“Toyman stole my cat.”

You replay the moment in your head. There was a large crash shattering through your window, glass everywhere, and before you knew it, your cat had leapt into his arms. Traitor.

“Sure, Cato’s really grumpy and tears my kitchen apart on a daily basis and has run away from home three times in the past month,” you sigh, rubbing your temples, “but he always comes home, and I miss him. He’s my grumpy little disaster.”

Lois blinks. “Toyman. The Toyman. Stole your cat.”

“Yup. Didn’t even monologue. Just grabbed Cato, said ‘shitty apartment’, and jetpacked out the window. Who even does that?”

You lean back in your chair, far enough that it creaks in warning. “Save me, Lois Lane,” you groan dramatically, flinging an arm over your face like a silent movie star in distress.

“Not my jurisdiction,” she says with a playful shake of the head and a comforting pat on the shoulder.

You’re about to retort when the elevator dings across the bullpen.

A deep voice filters through the chatter. “Sorry, Perry!”

Then comes the soft shuffle of papers, a muffled thud of a bag, and the unmistakable steady rhythm of footsteps, ones you’ve heard a hundred times before.

Your favourite mild-mannered reporter and serial bringer of pastries steps into the newsroom, brushing a stray lock of hair out of his eyes as he makes his way to his desk just across from yours.

“Hey, Cla—”

You lean back a little too far, mid-greeting, and gravity decides to betray you. The chair tips, and you tumble backwards in a spectacular display of dignity loss, hitting the floor with a thud that echoes across the bullpen.

As you’re groaning in pain and contemplating whether your day could get any worse, a shadow falls over you. You blink up, squinting against the overhead lights, and find yourself staring at a very concerned Clark Kent.

His hair is an adorable mess, a sure sign he’s been running around trying not to be late and failing miserably. His tie’s crooked, glasses slightly askew, and of course, he still looks like a lead in a rom-com.

You may or may not have an itsy bitsy crush on him. It absolutely does not consume most of your waking moments.

But you can't help but think of him when things are rough.

Just a smile could warm even the coldest of days, thaw ice with a single chuckle.

If you could put your powers to use for anyone, you'd do it for him, but who to set him up with? Your Cupid senses were not tingling.

Which was odd. They always tingled. Constantly. Especially when Jimmy’s around.

You’d stumbled through multiple love matches a day thanks to him. There was Jimmy and the new interns, Jimmy and the girl from layout, Jimmy and the pizza delivery driver who once gave him an extra pizza he didn't order “because he looked like he needed it.”

But with Clark? Zilch. Nada.

Maybe he was unlucky in love just like you.

“Are you upside down, or is that just me?” you mumble, wincing as you try to sit up.

Clark laughs softly, that warm, gentle sound that makes your stomach do weird somersaults. He reaches down and, with one effortless motion, lifts you upright as if you weigh nothing more than a stack of newspapers.

“You okay?” he asks, still holding your arm a second longer than necessary.

You stare at him, heart doing that annoying thing, and sigh. “Define okay.”

“What happened?”

“Toyman stole her cat,” Lois answers from her desk.

Clark blinks. “Toyman stole your cat?”

“And insulted my apartment,” you huff, crossing your arms and glaring at the floor like it personally offended you. “What does he know about interior design anyway? The man literally lives in a dollhouse.”

Lois snorts. “Technically, a lair.”

“Whatever. It's ugly as hell,” you reply.

Clark’s lips twitch like he’s trying not to laugh. “I’m sure Cato’s okay. Toyman wouldn’t hurt—”

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” you cut in, sighing. “But still. He kidnapped my cat and roasted my décor. That’s a new low, even for me.”

“I know you’ll get your cat back.”

“Thanks.”

Lois’s kind smile makes you feel better, but you’re not sure she knows just how unlucky you are in every aspect of your life.

You may never see your precious cat again, hear his grumpy meows, or wake up to him sitting on your chest and pawing at your face at 3 am.

Clark is still beside you, mind working at lightning speed to cheer you up.

“How about we go to Amoré for lunch in a few hours? Get some of those Belgian waffles you love so much. My treat.”

Your heart soars at the offer, the excitement on your face as plain as day.

“You always know how to make me happy.”

***

On your way into downtown Metropolis, you’re snapping every photo you can get your hands on. From street corners, skyscrapers, pigeons doing that weird little hop thing, anything that catches your eye.

From the tram, you can see the city stretch endlessly below.

“Pretty, right?” You say, leaning towards Clark, showing him the faintly blurred picture of a couple having lunch under the sunlit arches in Centennial Park.

One of your favourite sights in town, you had to say. Especially this time of the year, the cherry blossoms were in bloom, painting the city in a light blush.

It was a sight to behold and completely and utterly romantic.

You couldn’t be the second coming of Cupid if you weren’t a hopeless romantic. Even if it wasn’t happening for you, you were happy it was happening for someone else.

The feeling of him right next to you, the faint but intoxicating smell of his cologne as he leans closer, has you swooning.

Then he spoke, and it’s like he’s trying to put you in an early grave.

“I love seeing Metropolis from your eyes…”

You were so gone.

You love the way he made you feel. Even the smallest things make you feel like you’re flying.

“Well, it’s a special city,” you shrug. “Lots to shoot, lots to be inspired by.”

You play it off well enough. Just long enough for your heart rate to return to something less concerning. You didn’t need to be having a heart attack before you got your hands on free Belgian waffles courtesy of Clark.

He seems to accept your response, not pushing any further, but the little twinkle in his eyes tells you he knows more than he’s letting on.

“I know,” he says softly.

You smile to yourself, a quiet kind of peace rolling over you before lifting the camera back up to keep shooting. Your world, framed in your lens once again.

You don’t use cameras just for work; they're tools that help you focus, a way to keep your powers in check.

Finger guns can be… unpredictable. One time, there was a little misfire, and suddenly, you made a guy hopelessly in love with his own reflection. You can only hope it wore off before lunchtime.

But with the camera, you have control. Two consecutive photos of the same people with the same camera and, BAM, the match is made.

It’s the perfect tool for unsuspecting singles everywhere.

It'll push them both in the right direction, make them bolder, and give them the confidence to make that first move.

Sure, it’s a little bit of an occupational hazard, but you've gotten better at controlling it… mostly.

“It’s our stop,” Clark says, waking you from your daydream. You feel the tram car judder to a stop and step off. But not without stumbling a little, though your big, strong guardian reaches and steadies you.

Letting out a deep breath of relief, you didn’t become a pancake. You beam up at him.

“I swear, I would’ve become a splat on the pavement a long time ago if it weren’t for you.”

“I have to look out for a fellow klutz,” Clark responds, still holding you upright.

It should be funny, really, that somehow you’re just as, if not more, clumsy than he is, but he makes it look endearing instead of disastrous.

Clearing your throat, you try to pull yourself together before you get lost in that beautiful oasis called his eyes.

“Well, fellow klutz, let’s get food.”

You reach out, half considering taking his hand before opting to tug gently at his sleeve instead.

Turning into a side street, you drink in the familiar sight in front of you. You couldn’t count how many times you’d found yourself walking through this part of New Troy, a hidden-away jewel, tucked quietly behind the hustle and bustle just a few feet away.

You snap a picture here and there, of the sun-worn brick walls lined with ivy, your favourite food cart with burritos you swore by, the smell of grilled peppers and warm tortillas bringing you back to the day you and Clark tried them for the first time.

An old jewellery store catches your eye, the one with the slightly crooked sign and the velvet-lined display. You smile at the memory of you and Clark stopping in to pick something out for his mother’s birthday, the store clerk wrongfully (but very enthusiastically) trying to sell you engagement rings. You don’t think you’ve ever seen Clark turn that red.

Before you finally arrive at the doors of Amoré, the cafe of your dreams. It’s like someone took a look inside your brain and planted it in reality.

The little jingle as you both enter is nostalgic as you’re yet again brought back to a memory with Clark.

Unlike today, it had been absolutely horrid, winds threatening to sweep you off your feet, and it was as if heaven itself had opened up and decided to rain down without mercy.

Clark was soaked from head to toe, and it was partly your fault.

In your defence, it hadn’t been raining when you left the office, and it wasn't even forecasted, but your chronic unluckiness decided to make an appearance anyway.

Before you could get completely drenched, though, the rain stopped, or at least, it did for you.

Above you, Clark had shielded you from the downpour, holding his suit jacket over your head like a makeshift umbrella.

“But you’ll get cold,” you protested, trying to tug the jacket back toward him.

“I’ll be fine.”

“No, you won’t be. You’ll get cold and then get sick and then—”

He chuckled at your concern, adjusting the jacket so it covered you completely, water dripping from his hair as he met your eyes.

“I’ll be okay,” he said softly, “as long as you’re okay.”

You felt like Cupid had shot you with an arrow that day.

Clark’s hair, wet and curly, clung to his forehead, droplets beading on the frames of his glasses. His white shirt was soaked through, clinging to the lines of his torso. That was also the magical day you realised Clark Kent has abs.

He was a vision. A romantic vision, the kind you’d scribbled about in the margins of notebooks and never expected to meet in person.

The whole time he was smiling. All pretty and gentle as he shepherded you into Amoré, shaking the rain from his sleeves and insisting you go ahead while he wrung out his tie.

He treated you to the best hot chocolate you’d ever had: thick, sweet and plenty of marshmallows.

“Give me your hands,” you demanded, and started rubbing them together rapidly, palms pressing against his as if your friction could send some warmth straight into his bones.

“What are you doing?” he asked, eyebrows quirked up.

“Getting you warm and making sure you don’t get a cold,” you said, dead serious. You knew very well your efforts were dumb and mostly theatrical, but you couldn’t be blamed for trying. “If you get sick because of me… I’ll end up feeling terrible, and I'll make you so much soup that it'll be falling out your ears.”

He laughed, the sound low and fond. “Is that the threat?” he teased. “Homemade soup?”

“Yes,” you said, because you meant it. He squeezed your hands once, warm and sure, then leaned in and brushed his forehead to yours, just for a second, before leaning back as if reconsidering his actions. You missed his touch as soon as it was gone.

“After you,” Clark says, opening the door to Amoré wide, and you step in immediately, hit with the smell of cinnamon and sugar.

A stolen cat and a trip down memory lane could really make someone hungry.

***

You had eaten your weight in food, the owner, Dana, giving you a free cinnamon roll on the house for your cat-related troubles.

“It’s the least I can do since you spend half your paycheck here every month,” she joked.

Now, you’re walking down the street, the city humming quietly around you, on your way back to work.

You glance at Clark’s empty hand as he walks in step with you, his palm facing slightly upward, open as if he’s waiting.

You wish you could reach out and take it.

Be one of those effortlessly affectionate couples, the kind you see on park benches or on travel posters, sickeningly cute in a way that makes strangers roll their eyes but secretly smile. The kind you’d find on the cover of a magazine titled Love in the City.

You find yourself smiling at the idea. Clark would look good on the cover of something like that.

You’re about to head to the tram stop when something catches your eye. It’s the way the afternoon light hits a shop window, scattering across the glass and bouncing off a row of flowers in buckets by the door. You rush to get one of your cameras out before adjusting the focus with muscle memory, taking shot after shot as the light shifts and flickers.

You can feel Clark’s eyes on you, probably curious and fond, but you’re too deep in the zone to meet his gaze. You’ll probably freak out about it later, when your brain catches up with you and remembers how close he’d been, how soft his look had turned.

A couple enters one of your shots, looking like they’ve stepped straight out of an old, vintage postcard.

“Those are going to turn out beautifully,” he comments.

“Well, in another world, I’d be a wedding photographer,” you say, lowering the camera.

Clark chuckles, “Another world, huh? You’d make a great one.”

“I would. But fortunately for you, Mr Kansas, we’re in this world, and we get to work together.”

“Mr Kansas? That’s new,” he says, clearly amused.

“I gotta keep you on your toes,” you joke before continuing to take pictures.

Taking shots of things you love. A street musician playing to the clouds, the way sunlight hits a puddle after rain, a dog barking at a squirrel in a tree. Life’s precious little moments that you’d normally overlook.

You walk over to the couple, camera still in hand, and offer them a print.

“I got you in one of my shots,” you say, smiling softly. “You can have this if you want it.”

Their eyes widen, and they take it with a “thank you”. It’s a candid moment of love, something so pure and effortless, yet somehow, just out of your reach. But seeing how it lights them up, how it makes them laugh and lean into each other, might just be enough for you.

You rush back over to Clark, cheeks flushed from the little burst of excitement still buzzing in your chest.

“Did they like the picture?” he asks, eyes lighting up, just at the sight of your happy face.

“They loved it,” you say, grinning, your heart all warm and gooey, like a freshly baked cookie right out of the oven. “Maybe love isn’t meant for me, but I love it regardless. I don’t know, being able to capture it for someone else makes my world a little brighter.”

You catch something flickering in Clark’s eyes, a look you can’t quite place. Knowing him, he’s probably fighting the urge to gently call you out on the self-deprecation, to tell you you’re wrong about love not being meant for you. But before he can say anything, something else catches your eye, inspiration burning inside of you like a fire.

“Can you hold this for a sec?” you ask, holding out one of your cameras to him.

“Of course,” he says, taking it carefully, as though it’s something precious.

You’re already moving, half jogging, half skipping, the sun spilling across your face as your eyes dart around, scanning the street for that perfect shot.

Clark watches with that quiet, unshakable fondness of his, his heart pitter-pattering with every step you take, every moment you stop to frame a picture. And unknown to you, there’s a soft click, the snap of the shutter, as he lifts the camera and takes a candid photo of you.

He thinks you look beautiful.

Like something out of a postcard.

***

After a long day at the Daily Planet, editing and colour-correcting your photos for print until your eyes felt like sandpaper, the only thing you wanted to do was sleep for the next decade.

So naturally, there’s a knock at your door.

You groan, rolling out of bed and immediately regretting every life choice that led you here when your knee slams into the floor.

“Fucking—” You bite down on the rest of the word, hissing through your teeth.

You grab the baseball bat you normally use to shoo away the pigeons that loved to shit on your balcony, hobbling toward the door and wondering who would dare interrupt your beauty sleep at this hour.

“Listen, whatever you’re selling—”

Meow.

You freeze. Your eyes widen when you see your cat being held in the arms of someone standing in your doorway. Cato looks perfectly content, purring like the little traitor he is, tail flicking lazily as if he hadn’t been abducted by a supervillain less than twenty-four hours ago.

You blink, lowering the bat slightly. “Cato?”

He meows again, utterly unbothered.

“My sweet baby. Never run away again!”

You pet him lightly, and he leans into your touch, purring contentedly… before suddenly hissing at you.

“That’s my boy,” you coo.

As you straighten, your eyes travel up the body that’s holding your cat. That’s when it hits you: a very distinct colour scheme, blue, red, and yellow. And that unmistakable symbol on his chest that Cato had been pawing at… where did you know that from?

Lo and behold, Superman, in all his heroic super-ness, is standing in your doorway, holding your cat. The curl of Cato’s tail drapes over the Man of Steel’s arm, his little claws kneading gently at the emblem as Superman smiles down at you, that warm, world-saving smile that somehow makes even an over-caffeinated yet sleep-deprived photographer’s knees weak.

“Superman,” you start, trying to sound calm and not like you’re about to melt into a puddle of nerves. “Why are you holding my cat?” You can’t help the deer-in-headlights look on your face.

He shifts Cato gently in his arms, the cat looking way too pleased with himself for someone who just survived a supervillain kidnapping.

“I rescued him from Toyman’s old hideout,” Superman explains, “There was a small explosion, a lot of smoke, and I found this little guy sitting on a busted control panel like he owned the place.”

You blink, trying to picture your cat perched amid sparks and wreckage. That tracks.

Superman smiles, holding Cato out to you. “His collar had your address on it. Figured he’d want to come home.”

You take Cato, your fingers brushing briefly against Superman’s gloved hand, a spark running through your body. “Yeah, well,” you murmur, cradling your cat, “he’s grounded. Forever. No more villain playdates.”

Your mind is grasping to keep this conversation going when a certain someone comes to mind.

“Oh! We uh, have a mutual friend,” you start, shifting Cato in your arms like it gives you some excuse for talking to Superman. “Clark Kent? Or, well, I guess I don’t actually know if you guys are friends. But you do give him an awful amount of interviews.”

Superman tilts his head, that signature half-smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Clark keeps me busy,” he admits, voice calm but amused.

“I’ll bet,” you say, raising an eyebrow. “So what’s a girl gotta do to get a moment with you? I take great pictures.”

He chuckles softly. “Persistence goes a long way.”

“Oh, I’m persistent,” you counter with a grin. “If you ever want a proper photo shoot, call me first. I’ll make you look just as handsome as you are in real life.”

Your eyes wander before you can stop them, over the sharp line of his jaw, up to the curl of hair that refuses to obey gravity. You swallow hard, heart thudding traitorously against your ribs.

“Which is,” you murmur before your filter can kick in, “really, really handsome.” A beat passes. “Wow, you’re perfect.”

Superman blinks, then smiles. That small, devastating smile that could probably power Metropolis for a week. “I’m… far from perfect,” he says gently, though the faint pink dusting his cheeks suggests he’s not entirely immune to the compliment.

“Liar.” You let out a shaky laugh.

“I should let you get back to saving Metropolis, or sleeping…” you pause, tilting your head, “Do you even sleep?”

“Yes,” he says, that soft smile still in place. “I sleep.”

“Good to know.” You laugh under your breath, rubbing the back of your neck. “Well, I uh…” You trail off, words slipping away as you look at him. The warmth in his eyes, his voice like a balm for your brain, smoothing out the edges of your chaotic day until everything feels… easy.

“Thank you so much,” you say quietly. “I can’t thank you enough.”

“It’s okay,” he replies, his tone gentle, reassuring. “I’m just glad I got him home to you. Seems like he missed you, too.”

You glance down to see Cato nuzzling against your arm, purring like a motorboat, his earlier hissiness forgotten now that he’s safely home. “Yeah,” you whisper, smiling softly. “He’s a menace, but he’s my menace.”

When you look up again, Superman is already stepping back into the hallway.

“Goodnight, Superman,” you say, voice a little softer than you meant it to be.

He smiles back, “Goodnight.”

And with a rush of wind and a flutter of red, he’s gone, leaving you standing in the doorway, clutching your cat and wondering if maybe your Cupid powers had finally started working on you.

***

You’re going mad.

But you can’t stop thinking about him.

No matter how many times you flip your pillow or change positions, sleep refuses to come. You toss and turn, your mind replaying every single moment on a loop, the way he laughed, the way his eyes softened when he said “I’m glad he’s home,” like he actually cared. The way his smile made the world tilt just slightly on its axis.

But on the other hand, he was Superman.

He probably dated someone equally as… super. Why wouldn’t he? It made sense. Someone who could fly beside him, and not have to worry about things like rent or camera batteries. He probably had a super hot alien girlfriend somewhere who could light up the sky with a wink.

Still… your Cupid senses were pinging around like a broken radio, so it was definitely alive. At least, on your part.

You’ve had crushes before. You’ve even fallen in love once or twice. But this was different. It wasn’t the soft, dreamy kind of love that crept up quietly. It was electric and loud.

Like your heart was dancing in your chest, and not a slow dance either, it was like the tango or samba. So full of life, like it might just grow wings and fly.

Kind of like that day in the rain with Clark…

Fuck, love was confusing.

You arrive at the Daily Planet the next morning with renewed energy. A spring in your step that even a double shot of espresso couldn’t usually inspire, you practically glide past the reception desk.

Jimmy, perched on the edge of a chair with a camera slung around his neck, grins and raises an eyebrow. “You look… chipper.”

“Chipper?” you repeat, smirking. “Jimmy, Superman saved my cat. Not just saved him, but brought him to my door.”

Jimmy whistles, leaning back like he’s suddenly seen the headline of the century. “Wait, what? Your cat? And Superman personally delivered him?”

“Yep,” you say, popping the ‘p’ obnoxiously as you wipe your nails on your shirt. You were loving his stunned expression, eating it up, in fact. “We like talked or whatever. It's not even a big deal.”

You gush him to Jimmy for a couple minutes…or 15, give or take, until he shoos you away from his desk. With a sigh, your eyes sweep the office, looking for someone else to brag to when you see Clark.

Walking over and sitting on the edge of his desk, you smile at him a little too long.

“Is… everything okay?” he asks.

“Everything is more than okay. Clark, your boy, Superman, dropped by my apartment yesterday. Did you tell him about Cato?”

He blinks at you, maybe at the fact that you called him and Superman “boys”.

“I—”

Before he can even confirm or deny it, you throw your arms around him. “Thank you.”

You sink into his embrace, and no matter how many times it happens, you’re always a little stunned by how right it feels, like slipping into a warm bath after a long day.

His arms wrap around you easily, steady and warm, and for a fleeting second, you think this must be what home feels like. Your own little safe haven.

And his strong, solid biceps? Yeah, you could definitely make a home right there if he’d let you.

Reluctantly, you pull back before you end up attaching yourself to him like a koala on a eucalyptus tree, though you’re very tempted.

“Plus, I swear, Cato has been so well-behaved since he got back. I woke up, and my apartment was still intact because he kept meowing at my Superman poster.”

“You have a Superman poster?”

You laugh, that same shaky, breathy laugh from last night, and wave a hand dismissively. “That’s irrelevant.”

You lean closer as if to imply whatever you're about to say has to stay hush-hush.

“But, uh, don't run off and tell Superman. I'll never live it down.”

“Your secret is safe with me,” he says, holding out his pinkie, which you immediately wrap around his.

While he has you close, he says, “Well, I was actually going to ask if you're free for lunch later?”

“I'm always free for you.”

***

At lunch, two of you head back to Amoré that afternoon, ready to melt into the seats over a cup of coffee and a croissant…or 5.

“Couple discount,” Dana intises, as she approaches the two of you in your usual chairs.

“You know very well that we're not dating,” you whine, probably sounding a little too sad that you aren’t.

“But you should be. In all my years of working here, I've never seen friends with chemistry like this. Truly, tell me…why not?”

The two of you don’t have an answer for that.

You just let the question wash over you as you noticeably avoid each other’s eyes.

“Because…we’re friends,” you reiterate. She remains unconvinced by your weak attempt at deflection.

“Well, the couple discount will be here until next week, so I would hurry up if I were you.”

“Thanks, Dana,” Clark replies politely as she walks off, grumbling to herself, something about “idiots in love”.

She was a character, but you can’t help wondering what if.

What if she was right?

To distract yourself, you reach for your camera as you always do.

The light is just right, painting the room in a warm, honeyed glow. Not quite sunny, not quite dim. The kind of scene you could set music to.

And then there’s Clark.

You lift the camera and look at him through the lens, and somehow, impossibly, he’s perfect as always.

He's always so dynamic, so interesting. Wherever he's laughing at a joke Jimmy told, or he's hard at work on an article, there's so much to see, so much to love.

By now, he’s used to being the subject of your photos every now and then. He barely reacts when the shutter clicks, just glances up, raises a brow, gives you that familiar half-smile before going about his business.

You can’t help it. He’s just so fun to take candid photos of. Capturing his beauty that's usually in motion in still moments.

Snapshots of Clark that feel honest. Real. The way his eyes soften when he smiles, the way he simply exists in a space.

You take the picture and practically die at the result.

He’s looking at you.

Not posing or performing. Just looking, curious in that way he often is, like he’s quietly wondering what’s going on inside your head. Like he’s trying to read you without asking the question out loud.

It’s funny how a single picture of him can weigh so heavily on you.

It’s the dimples, first of all.

The way they show when he smiles at you, all soft and patient, like he’s waiting for your reaction. For your attention. For something.

That's real.

You smile at the photo without even thinking about it.

“Good picture?” he asks.

“More than good.”

You tilt the camera toward him, letting him see.

“See?” you say softly. “Perfect.”

***

You wake up in the morning, and everything feels lighter. It’s like the clouds in the sky were made of candy floss, and the sun is quite literally smiling down at you. It’s that warm and gooey again.

You try to shake it off to no avail, blinking against the morning light, and begin getting ready for work, brushing your teeth and throwing on your clothes with a little extra spring in your step.

When you get to the office, Clark is already at your desk, leaning casually against the corner with that half-smile that drives your brain into a mild panic.

“Hey, Clark,” you say, drawing out the greeting and fluttering your eyes a little more than usual.

You catch yourself before it goes too far, snapping out of it and sitting up straight. What the heck was that?

“Hey yourself.”

“I got you, your morning coffee,” he says casually, “And this bouquet of flowers.”

Before turning around and pulling the flowers out of seemingly thin air. It's a beautiful bouquet, full of life and colour.

“They're beautiful.”

“Well, they match their new owner.”

Was Clark Kent… flirting with you?

“They're—” you start, words tripping over themselves. “Camellias… my favourite. How did you…?”

“I remember you recommending them when I was debating what to send my Ma on her birthday,” he says softly, smiling in that shy-but-warm way that makes your chest fizz. “Said that they ‘can light up any room without even trying.’”

“Do you remember everything I say?” you ask, feeling your heartbeat jump straight into your throat.

“I try,” he admits, voice low. “You say a lot of beautiful things.”

The Cupid tingles were here, and they were going crazy.

“Well, you say a lot of beautiful things too, Mr Kansas.”

You step closer into his space, almost chest to chest, love is in the air, and you can’t seem to stop yourself.

Were you flirting with Clark?!

The realisation knocks you out of the clouds as that sudden burst of confidence wears off.

“I need to… feed the printer some, uh, paper,” you blurt, already stumbling backwards, walking directly into a filing cabinet and half tripping over your own feet before escaping to the supply closet like it’s a lifeboat on a sinking ship.

You didn’t know what was going on with you… more importantly, you didn’t know what was going on with Clark.

Behind you, you think you hear him exhale, and then quietly say to himself, “…Nice going, Kent.”

The rest of the day, it’s like the whole world had come to life, everything that bit brighter, more vibrant. And you can’t keep Clark off your mind, and you mean more than usual. Whenever you thought of him, he'd appear, just a few seconds later.

And sure, maybe you could chalk that up to the fact that you work together, but that doesn’t explain him randomly walking up onto the rooftop where you were and having no reason as to why. Or him finding you in the broom closet, when he had no reason to be in there.

It has something to do with the warm, gooey feeling from this morning.

Even as you walk back from lunch with Clark, you notice that flowers that are out of season are in full bloom. Though little did you know, the worst was yet to come. As you’re walking, he stops over to help an old lady across the street.

“I’ll just be a second,” he says, rushing off. You watch him greet her and help her across the street, the way her face lights up as they talk, it makes you soft.

Ping.

So it’s no surprise that a random halo appears over your head.

You only realise it's there when you feel a pair of eyes looking above you, rather than at you. You wave it away, the halo disappearing in a puff of smoke, thankfully before Clark makes back over to you.

“Ready to head back?”

“Yeah, totally.”

***

Working was impossible at this point. It felt like you just stepped into a movie with how perfect everything felt. And for the girl with exceptionally bad luck, that could only mean one thing. Everything was about to go to shit.

It’s not even anything major.

You were chilling by your desk, fiddling with your pencil, finalising some edit when he came over to your desk. He simply says your name and then, “I’ve been thinking about you…”’

You don’t even hear the rest of the sentence. That was enough for you to want to go feral on this man.

“Shit—”

You let go of the pencil, instead of falling, instead of bouncing onto the floor as physics intended, the pencil hangs suspended in midair, floating in front of you like you’ve stepped into a zero-gravity simulator.

A beat passes. Then the coffee cup next to you lifts off the table too, tilting slightly, liquid sloshing dangerously but somehow not spilling. Papers flutter upward like startled birds. Pens twirl. Lois’s stress ball drifts majestically past your ear.

And then a far more alarming realisation hits you like a bus.

Why are my feet off the ground?

That should not be a question anyone asks during a normal weekday. That’s a question reserved for roller-coaster fanatics or trapeze artists, not you.

You swish your legs experimentally, and instead of falling back down, you glide slightly sideways, drifting up like a helium balloon.

If this weren’t happening in front of the entire newsroom, you’d feel like Peter Pan, all whimsical without the whole kidnapping children thing.

“You’re floating,” Cat gasps from across the bullpen, mouth hanging open as she drops her phone, which, of course, stops mid-air and starts floating too.

What was happening?

Was this… you?

Were you causing this?

Had your powers just evolved?

Or had flirting with Clark Kent somehow launched you into spontaneous levitation like a lovesick rocket?

You spin slowly in mid-air, hair drifting around your face like you’re underwater, and all you can think is, Why can’t I ever just be normal for one second?

All he did was bring you a pretzel, and your powers decided to have a complete meltdown about it.

Clark opens his mouth to say something, probably to reassure you, because of course he would, but you beat him to it.

“No, no, don’t worry, everything’s under control,” you blurt, voice cracking like a rusty hinge.

It is absolutely not under control.

You’re now fully horizontal, hovering like a board in a magic show, the only thing keeping you from drifting straight up toward the massive ceiling is the death grip you have on the edge of your desk.

Your knuckles are white, your heart is tap-dancing in your chest, and you’re pretty sure your dignity has already packed its bags and left the building.

The Daily Planet has stupidly high ceilings. If you let go, there is a non-zero chance you may never come back down. And you absolutely do not want to become the human party balloon of the office.

But of course, because this is your life, your grip slips.

Your hand slides, scrambling against piles of paper and glossy magazines that flutter upward like startled birds, slipping through your fingers one by one.

“No, no, no—!”

And then you let go.

You start to drift upward, slowly at first, then faster, and before you can cry out, a hand closes around yours.

“I’ve got you.”

As if you couldn't feel more weightless.

Despite all the chaos, the floating furniture, the gasps echoing through the bullpen, it’s like the world narrows down to just his face.

Everything else blurs out: the newsroom noise, the fluorescent lights, the fact that you are currently defying gravity in front of your coworkers.

It's like nothing else in the entire universe exists.

You’re weightless in more ways than one, and suddenly you understand why. It's exactly how he makes you feel.

His hands wrap around yours, warm and sure, and your fingers curl instinctively around his, clinging like he’s gravity itself.

“Just keep your eyes on me,” he says. He's steady, not freaking out in the slightest, and he has every right to be.

It's not every day your coworker starts floating away.

You nod at him, and slowly, he tugs you close. You fight the zero gravity and drift into his inviting arms.

And before you knew it, you were back on the floor. Everything was floating, crashing down shortly after.

“What the hell is going on?” Perry yells.

***

You hoped the incident would be forgotten by tomorrow. You doubted it, but you sure can hope.

You have been in love before, but never in a way that had your powers this out of whack.

He had you floating, and you didn't know you could do that!

But words couldn't fully explain the way it felt. Like your heart was climbing with you as you left the ground.

You were comfy now and firmly obeying the laws of physics. Wrapped up in your blanket, watching reruns as you try to fall asleep.

Though it was impossible, the events of the day were still spinning through your head like a washing machine.

You’d all but exposed the fact that you’re a metahuman to your colleagues.

It’s not like you were ashamed of it or hated who you were; it was just…private.

Not even Clark knew.

And you liked it that way, the control, the separation between your strange and your normal.

But now?

Maybe there was still a chance you could blame everything on a freak accident. Or that you’d been accidentally blasted by an evil cosmic ray on your way to work. That sounded like something that happened in Metropolis at least twice a week.

Fuck.

The thought of the end of your social life disappears from your mind when you see a certain someone on the news. The thought of Superman, the image of his smile on the screen, lulls you to sleep, easier than you thought was possible.

You awaken to the soft knocking on the window to your balcony. You and massaging out the crick in your neck from falling asleep half off the couch.

Assuming it’s just a pigeon pecking at the glass, you grab your trusty baseball bat, ready to shoo it away. You open the balcony door cautiously to find not a pigeon but a whole ass man.

Your gaze travels from his shoes up to a handsome face staring back at you, calm and impossibly composed.

“Superman,” you wheeze, heart racing, “What are you doing on my balcony?”

“I wanted to check on your cat,” he says, calm as ever.

“Oh.”

“And you.”

“Oh?”

“You’ve made quite the impression on me.”

You made an impression on Superman?!

You may not be screaming out loud, but on the inside, you've got a megaphone that you're yelling at the top of your lungs into.

“I tend to have that effect on people.”

You aim to lean against your doorway but miss, stumbling a little. He catches you because, of course, he does.

So much for being suave.

The way he holds your arm, gently but securely, has you thinking about Clark. It's you've been hit with a wave of deja vu.

You shake away the thought and look back up at him. Probably shouldn't be thinking about two guys at the same time, but you couldn't help it.

“You look like you've seen a ghost.”

“It's not that, it's just… there's something so familiar about you.”

As you look at him, it's like your brain is straining to put together a puzzle with a missing piece.

Like you couldn’t find the right words. He had your brain all fried; he had put a spell on you, that’s for sure.

Before you can find that missing puzzle piece, your cat bounds up to him. Meowing at Superman's boots and pawing at his legs.

“Sorry about that. You've made quite the impression on him.”

Bending down, he lifts Cato into his arms and pets him softly, “I've missed you too, buddy.”

Right then and there, you decide it should be illegal to look that fine while holding a cat.

He looks up at you with light concern.

“What are you doing awake? It's 2 am.”

“Can't sleep. My brain is being stubborn. What about you? Shouldn't you be sleeping instead of throwing bricks from your glass house?”

“You got me there.”

“Seriously, though. You should sleep. I just saw you on TV lifting a building. You don't need to check on me.”

The guilt you would feel if he were tired the next day and potentially getting hurt fighting some villain, because of you, would be immeasurable.

Sure, you didn't know what he did during the day when he wasn't Superman-ing around, but you wanted him to be well rested.

“I'll survive.”

From his tone of voice, you knew he was resolute in this.

“If you insist. So…” you tap your foot, trying to think what you would do with a superhero in your living room.

“Wanna bake with me? By the time we're done, I'm sure we'll be tired.” You suggest. Doing something with your hands always helps tucker you out. “...Unless you think it's dumb. I know you're a busy guy—”

“It would be an honour.”

***

Superman was nice.

Not just nice but nice to be around. Like the kind of guy you'd bring home to meet the parents.

Boyfriend material.

Just who is this guy? Superhero and rom-com lead? You're starting to wonder if he was made in a lab.

“My Ma makes the best pies,” he says, voice reminiscent, kneading the dough with his hands in practised movements.

Those words bring you back to the first week of knowing Clark. It was around Thanksgiving when you started, and he fawned over his mother's pumpkin pie.

“My Ma makes the best pies,” he had said, probably verbatim, followed by, “Wish you could try it sometime.”

He had said it quieter, almost like he didn't mean for it to slip out. The thought of him bringing you home to meet his parents for Thanksgiving makes you feel a little lightheaded. What you wouldn't give to be that important to him.

You laugh softly, chuckling at the memory. You just couldn't stop yourself from thinking about him, could you?

“What?” he asks, brow furrowing slightly.

“No, it’s just… You remind me of someone,” you say, smiling, shaking your head. “A good someone. Someone I really like.”

He glances down at himself, a hint of concern crossing his face. You mistake that concern for concern about the mess the two of you were making.

At this point, there was a light dusting of flour in his hair, and some on your cheek.

“Are you sure you can get, like, flour and stuff on your suit?”

“It’s okay,” he says casually, shrugging.

“Of course,” you tease, grinning. “The Man of Steel can handle a little flour.”

He smirks, brushing a playful dusting of flour from his shoulder, and you can’t help but notice how domestic and endearing he looks in the kitchen.

“Oh, wait, I know!”

You scuttle around your kitchen, slippers sliding on the floor, and grab an apron to present it to him in a most dramatic fashion.

“Kiss the cook?” he says, questioning as he reads the block writing printed on the front, along with a gratuitous number of love hearts.

“Gag gift from a Secret Santa a few years back,” you explain away. “Now bend down so I can put this on you…”

Without arguing, he bends down, allowing you to slip it over his head.

“How does it look?”

You love the sight of Metropolis’ protector in an apron, goofy smile and all.

“Perfect, Superman. Absolutely perfect.”

***

One thing’s for sure, Superman knows how to bake a pie.

It was still dark, the room illuminated by your vintage bedside lamp, its warm amber glow spilling softly across the table. You’d found it years ago at a little thrift shop downtown, a place that smelled faintly of old books and cinnamon buns, for some reason.

Outside, the sun would soon begin to rise, birds chirping to life as the night slowly loosened its grip on the world.

As the two of you dig in, wrapped in the quiet stillness of morning, the only sound is the clink of forks against porcelain.

He chuckles as you let out contented hum after contented hum with each spoonful.

“What?” you pout, “I can’t be excited about pie?”

“It’s not that,” he says, smiling. “You just have a little…”

Before you can ask, he reaches out, wiping the crumbs from the side of your mouth.

You can’t stop your heart from racing as his thumb brushes away the last trace, lingering just a second too long, right next to your lips.

Ping.

A halo appears above your head.

The universe seems to be confusing Cupid with an angel.

“You, uh, also have a little…” he trails off, eyes set just above your head.

You tap above your head, hands finding the solid halo above you.

“Don't pay it too much attention,” you grumble, dropping your hands in defeat.

“Is that because of me?” He asks, definitely still paying it attention.

“...perhaps.”

What use was there in lying? Your heartbeat was already giving you away anyway.

He leans a little closer, and you have to remind yourself how to breathe as you look into his impossibly blue eyes.

“Well,” he says softly, “it’s an honour to give you halos.”

Shit.

You hadn’t felt this flustered in a long time. Not since—well. Not since this afternoon with Clark. Why were handsome men flirting with you all of a sudden? Had you somehow won the love lottery after years of bad relationships after bad relationships?

“Can I take a picture of you?” you blurt out. “While I have you captive in my apartment. And, don't worry, I won't go selling anything to tabloids or anything. This is just for me.”

“Go right ahead,” he says easily, continuing to eat like he knows you want him exactly as he is.

You reach across with a grunt, yanking your camera from the counter it was resting on.

You turn it on and focus on him immediately; you wouldn't let this opportunity go to waste.

A curl has fallen loose, resting against his forehead, stubborn and soft. You take a picture, then another. He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t even look up at first. You figure he must be used to cameras.

“Do you use gel?” you ask, lowering the phone slightly, “or is that all you?”

He smiles as he finally looks up at you. “All me.”

You take one more picture.

“Can I see?”

You move closer and show him the screen. “You’re perfect,” you say before you can stop yourself. “Those dimples are to die for.”

Your smile falters just a little because dimples suddenly make you think of Clark. Why were all roads leading back to him?

He notices, but doesn't say anything.

“I think,” he says gently, eyes flicking from the photo back to you, “I only look so ‘perfect’ because you’re the one taking the picture. Everything looks great from your point of view.”

***

By the time you wake up, it's 1 p.m.

Thank fuck it's a Saturday and you have nothing to do except sleep and stew everything that's happened in such a short space of time.

Going through the pictures on your personal camera, you hadn't used in a few days… because hotties love to scrapbook.

Seeing a flash of your face.

You didn't remember that picture.

You flip to the next one over, and it's the picture you took of Clark.

You flip back to you, then to the picture of Clark, then to you, then to Clark. The smile on your face suddenly drops.

If A + B = C… one picture of him plus one picture of you equals… accidental love match?

“Fuck…” you say, dropping your camera into your lap before letting out a noticeably louder, “Fuck!”

It practically shook the building. You spring up and start freaking out.

After getting your steps in by pacing and down so fast it was making Cato dizzy, you make the harrowing decision to call Clark.

He needed to know.

It explained a whole lot: the flowers, the flirting, the floating.

How did you not see this earlier?

Your press on his contract, it rings once, then—

“Hello?”

“Clark?” you say, your voice is shakier than usual. You didn't quite know how to act.

How could you explain that you kinda made him fall in love with you?

“Is everything okay?” He asks, as if he could read your mind from miles away.

“I know it’s late, and this is so stupid, but…can you come over?”

“I'll be there as fast as I can.”

A few minutes later, he arrives at your door. You don't even question how he got here so quickly when he lived halfway across the city from you, dragging him inside with urgency.

“What's wrong?” he says, frowning at your distressed expression.

“I fucked up. Like majorly, and when you find out…”

You pause, looking up at him and his kind eyes, marred with worry.

“Just try not to hate me.”You start sniffling, “I couldn't bear it if you hated me, but I'd understand if you did. I mean, this is just so fucked up and—”

He pulls you into his arms, making you feel secure. “Whatever it is, it won't change how I feel about you.”

You didn't have the time or energy to dissect his words, instead leaning your head against his chest.

Who knows? It may be the last time you're able to.

You try to speak, but it's too hard. It's like you're being choked, the words too big to get out.

Seeing your distress, he gently guides you toward your couch, his hand warm on your back, and you don’t object. Your brain is too scrambled to even consider resisting.

“How about we relax?” he murmurs. “Just so you can collect your thoughts, and then you can tell me whatever you need to.”

You let out a long, shaky sigh before nodding.

“Come here,” he says softly, opening his arm for you, and you practically crash into his side, like gravity shifts just to pull you against him.

He wraps an arm around your shoulders, steady and protective, and your forehead finds the curve of his chest without thinking.

His heartbeat is calm.

Yours… less so.

At some point, somewhere between his fingers brushing your arm and the warmth of his side against you, your eyes grow heavy.

Little snores escaping you before you can help it.

Clark’s breath hitches in the smallest laugh, fond and quiet. He adjusts his hold so you don’t slump over, fearful of waking you.

He knows how hard you work, running in empty and getting in your head about not doing enough. When you do more than enough, you are more than enough.

And when he’s sure you’re completely asleep, he shifts carefully, lifting you into his arms with an ease that makes you wonder how you ever doubted if he'd be there for you or not.

He carries you to bed, smiling as you mumble in your sleep before laying you down gently.

Taking extra care to tuck the blanket around you.

“Goodnight,” he whispers, making his way out of the room.

***

You wake up with a start. It's not a slow recollection of events; it's like you've been shot.

Jolting out of bed, you trip all over your room before finally making it out.

Though before you can make any rash decisions, you freeze the moment you walk into your living room.

Clark is on your couch.

Cato sprawled out on top of him like he pays rent, tiny paws kneading at Clark’s hair.

He sleeps peacefully, mouth soft, glasses still on. The light from your half-open blinds highlights every perfect inch of his face.

You stand there staring like an idiot, because this is not just your coworker, not just your friend, he’s the guy you're head over heels for.

And you might just lose him forever. All because you're the idiot who accidentally made him fall in love with you.

You swallow hard.

“Clark…?”

He stirs instantly, eyes fluttering open. His hand automatically goes to steady Cato so the cat doesn’t fall off. It’s stupidly endearing.

“Oh—hey,” he says softly. “Did I fall asleep? Sorry.”

“You—” You gesture helplessly at the entire scene. “You could’ve gone home. I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

“I wanted to make sure you were okay.”

He sits up carefully, Cato sliding into his lap like a sleepy loaf.

“You were pretty distraught when I got here.”

You nod, shifting your weight from one foot to the other.

“Do you want to talk about it now? Whatever you had to tell me?”

“Yeah, I think that's best.”

Steeling your nerves, you sit down next to him and press your hands to your face. “Clark, listen. These past few days, you may have been experiencing something odd. Like heart palpitations, and all sorts of romantic notions when it comes to me.”

You clear your throat, “It's all my fault. I uh…I'm basically like Cupid.”

Perhaps you should've thought about your words, prepared a speech. There's nothing like free styling, telling your best friend you're a metahuman.

“Cupid?” He questions, not in a judgmental way. Mostly just confused.

“I can matchmake people, and sometimes when I take pictures, they're like my ‘arrows’.”

Another nod.

“So when you took a photo of me the other day…” You cringe. “And I took a photo of you…”

Understanding flickers in his expression. Don't panic. Just quiet, steady recognition.

“Right,” he says. “So, you were worried because you thought you made me fall in love with you against my will?”

Bullseye.

“Well, yes. Or… no. No, they can’t create something that’s not already there or impossible. They just… amplify. Highlight. Push things along. Even though it was an accident it was still shitty—”

You’re babbling, faster than you can think, and he puts his hand on your shoulder.

“So,” he says softly, “you're saying there's something here.”

You go perfectly still. In all your panic, you hadn't really considered the fact that this meant that he liked you too.

That it wasn't just a misplaced finger gun or a passing infatuation.

He liked you.

He shuffles closer on the couch, stopping close enough that you can feel his warmth, see the way his glasses have slid slightly down his nose a little.

“Between you and me.”

He looks at you like he’s already known the answer, like he’s been waiting for you to catch up.

“Yeah, I…I guess there is.”

If he keeps looking at you like this, like you’re the only person in the world… you might honestly end up floating straight up to your ceiling again.

“Aren’t you mad?” you whisper. “I manipulated your feelings, I—”

Clark shakes his head before you can spiral.

“It wasn’t anyone’s fault,” he says gently. “It was an accident. And… honestly?”

His voice softens even more.

“It was the little push I needed. To finally tell you how I feel.”

“That you…?” you prompt, barely audible.

“That I’ve loved you since the moment we met. Showing me all the pictures you took, and talking to me like we've known each other for years. You really know how to make a guy feel at home.”

He gives a small, embarrassed smile.

“I can't get you out of my mind; it's always been like that, even before the whole matchmaking fiasco. Memories of you run through my head on the daily. From the night you dragged me out to karaoke after I said I've never been, to the rainy day we stopped by Amoré for the first time and you tried to heat up my hands.”

Your heart lurches.

He remembers all of it.

Your fingers reach out, and he meets yours halfway.

“I love you and all that you are.”

Your hands intertwine, fitting together like they’ve been waiting to.

“You have no idea,” you breathe, “how long I’ve been wanting to hear that.”

Clark’s response is not verbal.

He leans in, and your lips connect like they were never meant to be apart.

The kiss is deep, warm, hungry without being rushed, like he’s been waiting for this but wants to savour it.

When you finally pull away, your forehead rests against his, hearts beating in sync.

It was perfect.

The most perfect kiss.

The kind of kiss you’re pretty sure qualifies as the world’s greatest.

You think you might never recover from it.

Though a thought rings out in the back of your head.

A certain Superhero, you may or may not have flirted with.

You don't notice, but Clark is going through a dilemma too.

“I have something to—”

“I need to tell you—”

You both start talking at the same time.

A beat.

Then Clark gives a tiny nod. “You first.”

You swallow, “I… I baked with Superman.”

Clark blinks. “Hm?”

“I know, I know, don’t look at me like that—it just happened! I didn’t plan it, he was checking on me, and my cat, and we both couldn't sleep, and flour was everywhere and—” You put your hands in your hair. “Holy shit, am I going to have to reject Superman? No, no, that’s ridiculous, we only met twice, there's no way he likes me, it’s fine—”

“I’m Superman,” Clark says quietly.

You stare at him.

Then you let out a big, incredulous laugh. You might have even slapped your knee.

“And I'm Batman. The fuck are you talking about?”

He hesitates. You can practically see him realising he maybe should’ve eased into that better.

“I… I’m Superm—”

“You can’t just repeat it!” you cut in, throwing your hands up. “Obviously, I don’t believe you. I sit across from you every day, Mr Kansas. You like fresh pancakes and Sunday morning walks, not to mention you’re the clumsiest person I know, bar me. There’s no way—”

He takes off his glasses.

You blink twice before letting out a scream.

Is it one of horror? Excitement? Both?

You may never know.

But the next thing out of your mouth, on repeat and in varying volumes, is “what the fuck?”

You leap up from the couch, speed walking around in an attempt to burn off all this nervous energy. Your poor downstairs neighbours.

“Clark, what in the ever living—? How is this even possible?” you question, vaulting yourself back over your couch to face him.

“Hypno glasses.”

“Hypno— of course, of course,” you chuckle in mild panic as you throw your hands up.

The similarities you were getting when you were around Superman were making a whole lot of sense.

“The dimples… Oh! And the fucking pumpkin pies, I should've known!” you grumble.

The whole time you thought you were leading Superman and Clark on, he was the same guy? At least you're consistent.

“Are you angry with me?”

You shake your head immediately. “I’m not angry in the slightest.”

Your voice softens. “You’re Superman, Clark. A secret identity is… kinda necessary.”

Relief flickers over his face, but you keep going, because your brain is finally catching up.

“I mean, honestly, a lot of things are adding up now.”

You let out a breathy laugh, half disbelieving, half relieved.

“The disappearances, the fact that you’re always late… the way you’d show up with a new excuse every time I tried to confront you about it.”

You shrug helplessly.

“I just thought you had… I don’t know. A second job? A weird hobby? Some kind of… side hustle?”

You gesture vaguely.

“But not this. Definitely not ‘hey, by the way, I’m Superman.’”

Clark’s cheeks flush faintly (adorably).

He reaches for your hand without thinking, thumb brushing your knuckles.

“I wanted to tell you,” he murmurs. “I’ve wanted to for a long time.”

You squeeze his hand back.

“Now you have,” you say softly.

“And I'm not going anywhere.”

***

“Catooo…” you whine for the fourth time.

He’s managed to perch himself on the very top of your shelf, tail flicking smugly, with absolutely no way of getting down.

Clark sighs, amused. “I swear he does this on purpose.”

Before you can argue, Clark lifts himself into the air, hovering up toward your stubborn little menace.

“Come here, buddy.”

Cato doesn’t need to be told twice. The moment Clark’s close enough, the cat launches himself straight into Clark’s arms with a loving meow like he’s been rescued from a burning building.

“That's my Cato,” Clark coos at him, getting nothing but adoring purrs in response.

He drifts back down, landing softly with Cato snuggled against his chest.

You fold your arms. “Traitor.”

But the moment Clark steps close enough to hand Cato over, it happens—

Ping.

A shimmering ‘love halo’, faint at first, then solidifying the instant he touches your hand.

You groan. “Is this ever going to wear off?”

Clark just smiles, wholly unbothered. “I quite like it.”

And he leans in, kissing the tip of your nose like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

You’re about to complain again when something tugs at your back, a sudden weight and a strange tickle, enough to make you sit up straight.

You twist around, confused.

There’s a… movement under your shirt. A flutter.

You freeze.

Slowly, cautiously, you lift the hem, and lo and behold… two tiny Cupid wings are sprouting out of your back, fluffy and soft.

“…Oh my,” you breathe.

You turn back to Clark, eyes wide, wings still twitching behind you like confused baby birds.

“This,” you say, pointing at him in outrage,

“It's your fault.”

“It is?” he replies, finding it all entirely too amusing.

“You made me fall so hard, I grew wings!”

“Your wings are adorable,” he chuckles before he wraps his arms around you, kissing all over your face.

“Clark!” you whine, but he doesn’t let up, determined to show you how much he loves you. “Be careful, I might grow a tail next.”