Archive of Our Own

The first time you see him bleed, it’s not a paper cut.

It’s not a busted nose, or a skinned knee, or some noble attempt to rescue a kitten from a tree.

No.

It’s 2:13 a.m. on a Thursday, and Clark Kent is on your doorstep—drenched to the bone, shirt in tatters, and soaked with blood so thick it’s nearly black.

He's not knocking. Just standing there, unmoving. Like he didn’t trust his body to hold out long enough for you to answer.

You blink once. Twice.

Then the world slams into motion.

“Jesus Christ—Clark—”

You don’t remember crossing the threshold, or grabbing his arm, or how you manage to haul all 6’4” of him inside without both of you collapsing. One moment you're staring through the peephole; the next, your hands are buried in his shirt, sodden and sticky, his weight folding into yours like he’s finally allowed himself to fall.   

The door thuds shut. Your hands come away slick and warm.

Red. So much red.

Clark braces against the wall, a shaky breath dragging through his lungs like it hurts to keep air inside him. His palm smears crimson along the paint as he sways, barely holding himself up.

And then you see it.

The wound.

A jagged, vicious thing slicing through his side, just under his ribs. Too clean to be accidental, too deep to be survivable. The kind of injury you’ve only ever seen in trauma drills or crime scene photos.

Never in real life. Never on him.

“I’m okay,” Clark gasps.

And it’s almost laughable, the way he says it—like he thinks you might believe him.

He’s pale. Not tired-pale, not his usual I forgot to sleep for three days pale—but death-pale. The gray-lipped, hypovolemic kind of pale. Sweat clings to his forehead in cold beads, his eyes unfocused and blown wide.

Your brain kicks into triage mode before you realize it:

ABCs. Always the ABCs. Airway. Breathing. Circulation.

Airway? Still intact. Gurgling now. Risk of aspiration if he loses consciousness.

Breathing? Shallow. Rapid. Could be pain. More likely he's compensating for blood loss, trying to oxygenate what little volume he has left.

Circulation? Jesus Christ. You don’t even need to take his vitals. You can see it. Pale skin, gray lips, and the blood—god, the blood is everywhere. Soaked into your floor, smeared across the wall, dripping from your hands.

He's bleeding out, and he's still conscious, which means adrenaline’s masking how bad it is. That won’t last.

You drop to your knees before you realize you’ve moved, hands pressing into his side, searching for depth, exit points, foreign objects. Old reflexes flare up like muscle memory, taking the wheel while your mind struggles to catch up.  

Your palm finds his chest. It’s heaving unevenly, his heart rate fast and shallow.

Tachycardic. Hypovolemic shock setting in.

“Clark, hey—hey, stay with me.” You cup his jaw, tilting his face toward the kitchen light. “What the hell happened to you?”

No answer.

His eyes crack open just enough to find you—glazed and unfocused, but there’s recognition there. Relief, maybe. Or just the exhaustion of someone who’s finally stopped running.

You don't let yourself think about it. Not yet.

Because there’s blood fucking everywhere and it’s not stopping.

It’s soaked into his pants, leaking through what remains of his shirt, dripping in slow rivulets onto your floor—bright and thick and horrifying.

You press harder into the wound, more red welling around your fingers and trailing down your wrist. You start calculating the volume lost.

Easily 1500 mL, probably more. Class III hemorrhagic shock.

You know what comes next: Hypotension. Organ failure. Unconsciousness. Death.

Shit. Shit.  

You’re trying to stay in protocol. Trying to remember the checklist:

Maintain airway. Control hemorrhage. High-flow O2. Rapid transport.

Except—

There’s no ambulance. No trauma center two blocks away.

Just your couch, a half-stocked med kit, and a man you haven’t seen in years bleeding out under your hands.

You need IV access. Two large bore 18-gauges. You need warm saline, blood transfusions, a surgeon—a fucking miracle.

But all you have in your tiny one-bedroom is some gauze and a suture kit you haven’t touched in over a decade.

You should call 911. You should already be halfway to the ER.

But Clark came to you. Not the hospital. You.

And that has to mean something.

So you push down the rising panic. Triage the rest later. Because right now, there’s only one priority:

Stop the bleeding. Keep him awake. Don’t let him die.

“Okay,” Your voice trembles. You try to force it steady. “We’re doing this. Come on, big guy.”

Clark moves like he’s underwater, each step heavy and disconnected. You guide him toward the couch. He nearly crumples onto it before you catch him, arms locked around his waist to help ease him down. He sags into the cushions, head tipping back—and for one awful second, you think he’s about to pass out.

You tap his cheek harder than maybe necessary.

“Clark. Don’t you dare.”

 “M’here…” he slurs, lashes fluttering.

You exhale shakily. “Good. Okay. Just—stay awake. I’m grabbing the med kit.”

“Not going anywhere,” he mumbles.

And for once, you pray that it’s true.

...

The bathroom is a blur. Cabinets slamming, drawers flying. You grab the med kit, clean towels, and your old suture kit. You run the water scalding, scrubbing your hands until they sting.

All the while, your brain won’t stop screaming.

Because here’s the thing:

You know Clark.

You’ve known him since you were nineteen. 

Back when you thought pre-med was your calling and he was a wide-eyed journalism major with a bleeding heart and shoulders too broad for lecture hall chairs. You crammed for finals together. Split greasy pizzas on the dorm floor. You watched him ace ethics presentations and sulk over rejection letters. People loved him effortlessly—your friends, your professors. Even your mom asked about him for years after graduation.

You know how he takes his coffee. How he fidgets when he’s nervous. The exact brand of shampoo he forgets to replace until you text him twice.

You know how he cares—quietly, ferociously, without asking for anything in return.

But this?

This bleeding, broken version of him, half-collapsed on your couch?

This you don’t know.

...

You rush back over to the couch, dropping to your knees and slicing through his shirt with kitchen shears. The fabric parts with a wet crunch, revealing torn, angry flesh. He winces.

“Sorry,” he murmurs.

“For what?” Your voice cracks. “For dying on my couch?”

He tries to smile, but it doesn’t quite get there. “You’re mad.”

“You’re damn right I’m mad, Kent.” Your hands shake as you rip open the gauze. “Who did this?”

He grunts as you press down on the wound but says nothing.

You glance up sharply.

His jaw’s set, and he's refusing to meet your eyes. Not evasive—calculating.

He’s deciding how much of the truth you can handle.

“Clark—”

“It’s not what you think.”

“Really?” You gesture to your blood-streaked floor, his ruined shirt, the 6 inch laceration in his abdomen. “Because this is kind of screaming ‘stabbed by a mob informant.’”

He exhales, slow. Rainwater drips from his curls onto his brow. “I wasn’t stabbed.”

You pause, blinking.

“…Okay. Just for kicks, then. What was it?”

A beat. Then, carefully:

“Metal beam.”

You blink. “Like… it fell on you?”

“No.” A longer pause. “Someone hit me with it.”

You look down at the gash, blood still seeping between your fingers.

“And you’re alive because…?”

He meets your eyes, giving you a crooked, exhausted smile. “I got lucky.”

Bullshit.

But before you can call him on it, his hand finds yours.

You hadn’t even noticed they were trembling until he covered them—solid, warm, too steady for someone who should be unconscious by now.

“Hey,” he murmurs. “I’m okay. Really.”

You stare back.

And something inside you splinters.

Because you’ve seen Clark tired. Bruised. You’ve seen him limp into your dorm room with some excuse about a ‘bike accident’ and you never pushed—because friendship is built on trust, and denial was easier.

But this?

This is not a bike accident.

This is not something you can explain away.

This is blood. This is secrets. This is something ancient and unbearable he’s been carrying on his own for far too long.

And tonight, for some reason, he brought it here.

To you.

Something inside your chest flares, unmoored and furious.

You press the gauze harder. He flinches, but doesn’t make a sound.

Apply firm pressure. Do not remove once placed . Stay present. Communicate.

“You’re not okay,” you mutter. “You need stitches. Or staples. Something. This is beyond triage, Clark—how are you still conscious?”

“I’ll be fine.” He says again, voice thin and fraying.

“No, you won’t. You’re bleeding out and I—” You choke off as another surge of blood rushes down your wrist. “I can’t fix this. Not—not here. Not on my damn couch.”

He winces, stirring. “Sorry about your couch.”

“Shut up about the—” you bite it back, heat stinging behind your eyes. “God, Clark, I—”

You falter.

Stay calm. Reassure. Act.

“We need to get you to the ER,” you say. “I can’t do this alone.”

He just nods, blinking slow. “I know.” 

“Then why?” You whisper. “Why come here?”

There’s a pause. Then, barely audible:

“I just needed somewhere safe.”

Your chest goes still.

Not help. Not a hospital.

Safe.

You reach for him with your free hand, fingers curling tight around his.

“You’re safe here,” you say fiercely. “Okay? Whoever did this—whatever this is—you’re safe.”

His eyes lift to yours. And in that look is everything he can’t say.

Pain, exhaustion, relief. And something dangerously close to longing.

He nods.  

You nod back.

A wordless agreement, forged in blood and history.

...

Eventually, the bleeding slows. The air stinks of copper and antiseptic and rain. You clean and stitch the wound through clenched teeth, working out of sheer muscle memory. He doesn’t flinch—just watches you like the pain doesn’t matter anymore.

When it’s done, you bandage it carefully, refusing to let go. Holding together the one part of him you can fix.

He’s fever-warm, but breathing. Still him beneath the wreckage—impossibly, stubbornly alive.

He sags back against the cushions, lashes low.

You sit on your heels, palms stained red.

“Clark.”

His eyes crack open. There’s color in his face now. Barely, but enough to make you breathe again.

Relief lands sharp behind your ribs, heavy and nauseating.

You swallow.

“Clark. I need the truth.”

A long silence.

“It’s not just journalism. What I do.”

“Yeah,” you murmur. “I figured.”

“I try to keep people safe.”

“Is that why someone hit you with a metal beam?”

He smiles, tired. “Something like that.”

You stare at him—at the too-familiar face you’ve known for a decade—then breathe out the thing you’ve only ever whispered in your head:

“Superman.”

It’s not a question.

He blinks. “Sorry?”

You gesture at him. All of him. The height. The shoulders. The rain-slick curls. The way his hands don’t tremble, even with the amount of blood he’s lost in the past hour.

“Clark. I’m a public defender. I know when someone’s lying to me. You think I haven’t put it together?”

He’s quiet for a long moment.

“And?”

“And what?”

“You’re not gonna yell? Throw something?”

“Don’t tempt me.”

He laughs, soft and a little broken.

“I didn’t want you to know,” he says, voice quiet.  

“Yeah. Figured that too.”

“Not because I don’t trust you.” He frowns, stirring. “Just… it makes things different.”

You look at him—bloodied and battered and still so painfully Clark. Still full of that stubborn decency, that quiet conviction. The same gentle hands that used to pass you napkins during takeout nights, now stained with his own blood.  

And no one should have to bear that.

Not the man who used to bring you tea when you were sick. Who gave your mom flowers at graduation. Who vanished for years and came back like no time had passed, always full of apologies.

Not the man who bleeds on your couch and still says sorry.

“It doesn’t make things different,” you say, soft but sure. “Not in the way you think.”

He blinks. “It doesn’t?”

You shake your head. Then you reach up, thumb brushing just under the dried blood along his cheekbone, and admit something else you’ve been swallowing back for the last decade.

“I’ve always kind of known.”

The air shifts. He stills.  

“You have?”

“Yeah, you idiot.” Your smile is soft, aching. “You’re not exactly subtle.”

He exhales, and it sounds like a breath he’s been holding in for years.

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

Your throat tightens. Your hand drops to your lap, fingers sticky with the slow-drying proof of whatever’s just cracked open between you. The rug bites into your knees, still damp from rain and blood.

“…because you were trying so hard not to let me see.”

Clark doesn't say anything for a long time.

He just sits there, chest rising and falling in short, uneven breaths, gauze seeping red at his side. Outside, thunder rolls low and distant; the worst of the storm has passed. You're not sure about this one.

After a long while, he breaks the silence.

“…I never wanted to lie to you.”

You glance up, watching guilt soften the pained lines of his face.   

“I figured it out a long time ago,” you say eventually. “Bits and pieces. You’d disappear for hours, come back limping. Say you tripped on the stairs. You saved me from that drunk driver once without even blinking.”

He looks down, jaw tight.

“I didn’t say anything,” you go on, quieter now, “because I figured… maybe you needed me to pretend. So I did. Because that’s what friends do.”

Rain taps softly against the windows. The city beyond is blurred by fogged glass and streetlight halos.

“You should’ve asked.”

“You should’ve told me.”

Touché.

The silence that follows is heavier than anything you’d said aloud. Thick with all the truths that never made it past your teeth.

Clark shifts, the couch creaking under his weight.

“I was scared.”

You arch a brow. “Of me?”

“Of what it would mean. Of what I’d become to you after that.”

You don’t answer right away. Instead, you stand quietly and disappear into the kitchen. When you return, it’s with a clean towel and a glass of water. You kneel beside him, offering it wordlessly.

His hand trembles when he takes it.

“You’ve always been you, Clark,” you say gently. “Even before I knew. That doesn’t change just because you can fly.”

He huffs a tired smile, voice ragged. “You’re taking this better than I expected.”

“Oh, I’m freaking out internally,” you say, dabbing his forehead, being careful around the bruises. “But there’s triage, then there’s emotional processing. We’re going in order.”

He chuckles into the glass. The sound is quiet and rough, but it’s something.

“You scared the shit out of me,” you murmur, softer now. “You know that?”

“I know.”

“You don’t get to show up bleeding to death and not explain.”

“I know. I’m sorry. I just…” His voice falters. “I wanted to be somewhere familiar. Safe.”

Your hand stills over his brow.  

That word again.

Safe.

Your palm finds his chest, just above the bandage. His heart stutters beneath your fingers—too fast, too hard. His body is still in panic mode, compensating for all that it’s lost.

But still alive. Still trying.

“You’re safe here,” you say fiercely. “Even if I want to strangle you a little for scaring me like that.”

He smiles, weary. “Noted.”

…

You ease him out of the torn remnants of his clothes and into the old Met U sweatshirt he left at your place forever ago. It was during a movie night he never came back to finish. Now you know why.

You pull a blanket over him, then clean the floor in silence while he dozes—head tipped, breathing just steady enough to keep your panic at bay.

You don’t sleep.

You sit in the armchair across from him, legs folded, eyes on his chest to make sure it keeps rising.

You think about college. About Clark at twenty-one—too kind, too tall, always carrying someone else’s books.

You think about his laugh, how it used to fill rooms. How he’d show up at your door with takeout and an armful of old DVDs he swore you had to watch together.

You think about that day in the coffee shop, how he blushed to the tips of his ears when the barista gave him her number, then spilled his drink all over his favorite flannel shirt.

You think about all the nights you almost said something. All the mornings you convinced yourself not to.

You think about the distance that grew after graduation. How he moved away. How you buried yourself in law school. The texts that slowed. The calls that stopped. The almosts that never quite were.

You think about how he nearly bled out on your floor tonight.

You think about the word safe.

…

It’s almost dawn when your eyes snap open.

Still bleary, you blink through the pale blue light filtering through the curtains and find Clark—resting on the couch as you left him, but sitting more upright now. Skin a healthier shade, pulse visible in his throat. His chest rises and falls evenly.

He’s awake. Watching you. You can tell he’s been watching for a while.

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly.

You blink hard, rubbing your eyes. You stir underneath a blanket you don’t remember falling asleep with. “For what?”

“For the lies. The disappearing. For showing up like this.” His voice is hoarse, words coming quick like they’ve been coiled on his tongue, waiting for you. 

You let out a slow breath. “Clark… I’d rather see you bleeding and alive than not see you at all.”

His mouth quirks, faint and tired. “You’ve changed.”

“So have you. Less flannel, more… cape.”

He snorts. “Still have the flannel.” 

“Of course you do.”

He glances down, throat working around a swallow. His hand twitches in his lap.

You move before you can overthink it. You cross the room, sink beside him on the couch, and slide your hand into his.

He clutches yours back immediately.

Then, softly, he leans in, temple resting against your shoulder, weight sinking into your side.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers.

You squeeze his hand.

“I know.”

…

You don’t know how long you stay like that—curled together, the room filled only with quiet breathing and the sound of rain tapering to a steady drip outside. The sky begins to soften with early, golden light, enough to breathe color back into the room.

His eyes are closed now, but you can tell he’s awake by the way his thumb traces idle circles along your wrist.

Eventually, you shift, careful not to jostle him.

“I need to check your stitches,” you murmur.

He lets out a small groan, but lifts his arms enough for you to ease the sweatshirt up.

You brace yourself.

You remember how bad it was—the torn muscle, the gaping wound, the blood loss.  

But when you peel back the dressing—  

“…what the hell.”

The wound’s nearly gone.

Not scabbed. Not bruised. Just… gone.

New skin. Pale pink and clean, like something that comes after months of healing, not hours.

Your fingers hover, barely touching. “Clark, this was… a trauma wound like, five hours ago. This isn’t possible.”

Clark watches you, mouth curving into something soft, almost guilty.

“Told you I’d be fine.”

“Fine?” you echo, stunned. “Clark, you bled like a horror movie. I thought you were going to die.” 

He shrugs faintly. “Just needed some time.”

You stare at him. At the place the wound used to be. At the man you’ve known half your life and are still just beginning to understand.

And the very last piece of the puzzle, the one you’ve been holding at arm’s length, slides into place.

Not just strong. Not just fast.  

Something else. Something more.

Something not entirely human.  

You exhale slowly, trying to level your breathing. “You heal fast.”

He nods. “Yeah.”

“Like, biologically impossible levels of fast.”

Another nod.

You sit back, arms folded, trying to make space in your brain for this new version of him. The one that was always there, just beneath the surface.

 “I spent hours stitching you back together.”

“And you were incredible,” he says quietly.

You shoot him a look. “Are you trying to distract me with flattery?” 

“Is it working?”

“Not even a little.”

You both laugh—exhausted, frayed, but real.  

And then, out of nowhere:

“…I think I just needed an excuse.”

You glance over. “What?”

Clark’s gaze drops to his hands. Big and steady, knuckles scabbed. The same hands you’ve seen lift impossible things. Save impossible lives.

“I kept wondering what it would take. To come back. No lies, no pretending. Just... me.” His voice breaks a little. “But then I got hurt, and I didn’t need a reason anymore. I could just… show up.”

You stare at him, every breath a struggle against the pressure building in your chest.

“So what you’re saying,” you murmur, “is you nearly bled out on my couch because you missed me?”

He winces. “Not exactly on purpose?”

You smile, small and tired. Lungs aching with something that feels like hope and heartbreak all at once.

“I just didn’t know if I’d be welcome,” he shrugs quietly. “After the way I left.”

You quietly shift closer, your knee brushing his.

“Clark. You’re always welcome here.”

The silence that follows is full.

Charged with everything unsaid: the years that slipped away, the calls that went unanswered, the truths you both kept buried under long nights and missed chances.

His eyes meet yours, searching.

Then, his eyes drift down to your lips—soft, uncertain. There’s a question there, hanging in the silence, unspoken but unmistakable. Like he’s asking for permission. Or maybe forgiveness.

You’re the one to close the distance first.

He meets you halfway, tilting in with quiet care, and when his lips find yours, it’s with an aching kind of tenderness.  

It’s a delicate, almost sacred kiss—like a truce, like something long overdue. His hand cradles your face, thumb tracing delicate circles against your skin.

When he pulls back, he’s a little breathless. Eyes wide, voice quiet.

“Wow.”  

You blink. “Wow? That’s what you’re going with?” 

A laugh breaks from him—open and full, like it hasn’t had room to breathe in years. It floods the space between you, easing the tightness in your chest.

“What else am I supposed to say?” He grins, flushed. “I’ve been waiting, like… thirteen years.”

You freeze. “Wait. What?”

His grin softens. He leans back slightly, enough to really look at you.

“Freshman year. Since that time you did CPR on a squirrel. Then you yelled at the guy who was chasing it.”

Your jaw drops. “You remember that?”

He gives you a quiet look, like how could I not?

“I remember everything about you,” he says simply. “Even when I was trying not to.”

You can’t breathe for a second. There’s too much here—too many memories, too many years, too many finallys.

“Then why didn’t you ever—”

“Because I thought it’d make things harder,” he interrupts gently. “Because I didn’t think I could protect you if you got too close. And I didn’t know how to be this—” he gestures at himself, wry and helpless, “—and still be the guy you thought I was when we met.”

You swallow hard, voice trembling.

“I always saw you, Clark.”    

He nods, thumb brushing softly along your knuckles. “I know.”

Outside, dawn stretches long across the city. Golden light spills in, soft and syrup-thick, catching on everything it touches. 

It lands on his cheek, bright against the dried blood, illuminating the edge of his jaw in a soft halo.

At first, you think it’s just the sunrise.

But then it lingers.

Not just light. Something else.

Something more.

“You’re… you know you’re kind of glowing.”

His brow lifts, lips twitching. “Gee, thanks.”

“No, seriously—" You squint, leaning back a little. “You’re actually—”

But he just smiles.

“It’s the sun,” he murmurs, blinking slowly. “Helps me heal.”

And then he tips his head back, angling toward the light like a sunflower. His lashes catch the warmth. His whole frame softens.

You go quiet.

Because of course it does.

And now that you’re thinking about it, you realize this isn’t new, either.

You’ve seen this before. Not the literal glow, maybe, but the feeling of it. That quiet radiance he carried when he thought no one was watching.

There’s a memory, years old now, of a spring afternoon on the quad. A memory of a blanket, half-eaten sandwiches, and aimless debates about Kierkegaard and pizza toppings. He’d fallen asleep mid-sentence, sunlight in his hair, freckles just visible across his nose.

You’d watched him for a long time that day, trying to figure out what it was that made your chest ache when you looked at him. 

He seemed... golden. Like something built from warmth and gravity.

And there were other moments, too. The way he lingered in open doorways when the light hit just right. How his moods always seemed to lift in the sun. How his dorm window was always cracked open, even during the winter, pale light spilling across his desk while he read you his latest submissions for the student journal.

You’ve always known, in some buried, wordless way, that he’s tethered to the light. That he’s made of something just a little more golden than the rest of the world.

But you never thought to question it. You just thought it was him. Just Clark.

Your heart beats a little harder.

“So you’re like… solar-powered?”

He cracks one eye open, shooting you a grin. “Well, technically, solar radiation metabolized at a cellular level, but—yeah. Solar-powered.”

You huff a laugh, but he’s already turning back toward the window, basking.

“It’s not just healing,” he murmurs, voice growing softer with each word, like he’s admitting something sacred.. “The sun fuels everything. Body, mind, spirit. Without it, I feel… drained. Slower. Tired in ways I can’t explain.”

As the sun continues rising, he lets it wash over him—golden light threading through his hair, kissing the curve of his jaw. His shoulders drop, his chest rising slow and easy.

He looks... peaceful.

Not just better.

Whole.

Like this is the version of him that existed before all the weight and worry and hiding.

Wordlessly, you rise over to the window, drawing the curtains fully open.

Sunlight floods in, warm and golden.

Clark exhales, the last of the tension melting from his frame. His lips twitch into a faint smile.

“That’s nice. Thank you.”

You don’t respond right away.

You just stand and watch—this impossible man, forged in truth and humility, finally letting himself rest in the thing that keeps him alive.

You wonder how long it’s been since he let himself have this.

The warmth. The stillness.

You.  

A soft smile finds your lips. You move to join him on the couch, curling close.

“You’re welcome.”

…

This was, almost certainly, a mistake.

Clark had stepped into the shower half an hour go, and in that time, you’d nearly started two kitchen fires and lost a staring match with a pot of chili that may or may not be plotting your demise.

Now the apartment smells like scorched sugar and something vaguely spicy that technically qualifies as chili, if you suspend all culinary standards and ignore the growing evidence to the contrary.

You frown at the bubbling pot, wooden spoon in hand like a weapon against whatever eldritch thing you've created. A bubble bursts and hisses near the rim, clouding your vision.

“Yeah,” you mutter. “Definitely not it.”

You’ve tried everything—cumin, paprika, brown sugar, honey. Even a pinch of cocoa powder, because you vaguely remember hearing that it adds depth. Or maybe that was just a finals-week fever dream.

None of it has helped.

The chili tastes too sharp, too bitter. Like it’s trying too hard.

Like you are.

And the cinnamon rolls? God help you.

You glance over at the tray sitting on the counter. Store-bought—quick and easy—virtually impossible to get wrong, unless you forget them in the oven long enough for smoke to curl up, leaving them just shy of edible and somehow still cold in the middle.

Now they’re blackened on the edges and slowly congealing into one semi-charred mega-roll.

You lean against the counter and drag a hand over your face.

“Martha, forgive me,” you mutter. “I’m dishonoring your legacy.”

Because that’s what this is, really. Not just food. Her food.

You remember that weekend, freshman year. Clark’s parents had driven up from Smallville with two coolers of groceries, a crockpot the size of a baby elephant, and enough love to feed an entire college campus.

While Clark was stuck finishing an exam, Martha had taken over the dorm kitchen like it was her own. You’d offered to help. She'd smiled and handed you a spoon.

You two made enough chili to feed the whole building.

And, of course, cinnamon rolls to go with it.

Because apparently in Kansas, that’s a thing. Chili and cinnamon rolls.

You’d blinked in confusion until she handed you a bowl and said, ‘Sweetheart, just trust me.’

You did. And she was right.

By the end of the night, the whole building had smelled like cinnamon and a kind of home you didn’t realize you’d been missing until it was handed to you in a steaming bowl.

Now, ten years later, you’re standing in your kitchen, apron half-tied, frosting on your cheek, desperately trying to recreate that feeling from memory.

You taste the chili again and grimace.

Too bitter. Too much heat. Not enough something.

You reach for the spice rack again, unsure if cinnamon or divine intervention is the missing ingredient, when:

“Are those cinnamon rolls?”

You nearly launch the spoon across the room.

Clark’s leaning against the doorway, towel slung around his neck, hair damp and curling across his forehead. He’s shirtless, and the loose sweatpants you loaned him hang low on his hips.

He’s filled out since college—broader through the chest, stronger in the shoulders, and taller somehow, too. Like he grew into himself somewhere between Kansas and saving the world.

You blink once, then again, like that might change the visual. It does not.

“I—yeah,” you stammer, gesturing toward the tray. “They’re, uh, store bought.”

He smiles, stepping closer to inspect it. You wince.

“I forgot they were in the oven for, like… several minutes.”

His lips twitch as he bites back a laugh, eyes drifting to the stove behind you.

“And is that… chili?”

“Technically?” You shrug helplessly. “I don’t know. I’m just trying to get it right.”

Clark hums, stepping closer.

You gesture at the pot, brows furrowed. “I don’t know if I’m missing something. If it’s too spicy, or maybe too bitter, or—can you taste it for me? I can’t remember if your mom used brown sugar or molass—”

You don’t finish the sentence.

Gentle hands wrap around your waist, spinning you around—and suddenly, his lips are on yours.

And it’s not like last night’s kiss.

This one is immediate. Intentional. Certain.

You freeze for half a second—caught somewhere between he’s shirtless and oh, this is happening again—but then everything else fades. Your body remembers him, and you melt into it.

His hands settle at your hips. His mouth moves over yours with slow, deliberate heat.

He kisses you long enough to make your head spin, and when he finally pulls back, he doesn’t move far. Just rests his forehead against yours, eyes dark and warm.

“Thank you,” he breathes.

You smile, knowing he’s not talking about just the food.

“Don’t thank me ‘til you’ve tasted it.”

He grins, then kisses you again. Softer this time, laughing into it. You laugh too, hands tangled in the towel around his neck.

“Clark,” you murmur between kisses, “the chili’s gonna burn.”

He loosens his hold, barely, thumb drifting in circles across your hip.

“Sorry,” he grins, clearly not sorry. “I just wanted to kiss you when I wasn’t all bloody and gross.”

You smile, tracing your fingers over his shoulder, where bruises are still fading beneath damp skin. “I think I like you a little bloody and gross.”  

He scrunches his nose. “Weirdo.”

“Dweeb.”

His smile softens at that, nostalgic and a little stunned. “Haven’t heard that one in a while.”

You press a kiss under his jaw, lips brushing just below his ear. “Better get used to it. I’ve got a decade of insults saved up.”

He laughs then—a real one, unguarded and full. It rumbles through his chest and into yours as he wraps you in his arms.

God, you missed that sound.

You tuck your face into the curve of his neck, breathing him in—shampoo, steam, and your own peach-and-jasmine body wash.

Your hand drifts downward, to the place under his ribs where he was torn open last night.

Where there should be pain and raw edges, there’s only smooth skin. Just a faint scar, barely raised.

You trace over it gently.

“I’m okay,” he whispers, pressing a kiss to the crown of your head like a promise.

You nod, pressing closer.

You sway there together in the kitchen, wrapped in burnt-sugar air and simmering spice, the chili bubbling softly on the stove.

After a long moment, you murmur into his skin:

“…okay. It’s definitely burning now.”

Clark hums. Doesn’t budge.

You lift your head, giving him an affectionate shove.

“Go put on a shirt, Dweeb. No one wants to see all that.”

He smirks, eyes gleaming. “If I put a shirt on, will you kiss me again?”

You roll your eyes, badly, and whip the dish towel at him.

He yelps, dodging dramatically, hands in the air.

“Okay! Okay, I’m going! Assaulting a wounded man, unbelievable—"

He turns with a grin, jogging down the hallway to your bedroom, his towel flying behind him like a makeshift cape.

The sound of his laughter echoes the whole way down.

…

Two months later.

“Court is adjourned.”

The crack of the gavel rings through the chamber.

You exhale through your nose, smoothing down your skirt as you stand. Papers shuffle. Shoes clack. The usual post-hearing hum follows you out—another long day, another uphill battle fought and filed.

You step into the hallway, already drafting a follow-up motion in your head, when you hear it.

A voice.

Calm, respectful, yet laced with the kind of certainty that doesn’t bend.

“…ma’am, I’m asking you to reconsider. He wasn’t following orders, he was threatened. There’s a difference.”

You stop mid-step, then turn.

And—

There he is.

Red cape. Blue suit. Broad shoulders and dark hair.

Absurdly, unmistakably out of place amongst the federal courthouse’s beige wallpaper and stale lighting.   

He's hunched over slightly, back turned to you as he argues—polite but passionate—with an assistant prosecutor who’s half his height in heels and about two seconds away from spontaneous combustion.

She spots you behind him and practically lights up with relief, storming toward you with righteous fury and a death grip on her iPad.

“This is completely inappropriate,” she hisses, all but vibrating. “He’s interfering with active proceedings. No badge, no bar number, and he’s wearing a—cape, for god’s sake.”

You don’t look at her. Not yet.

Because he’s already turning, red fabric swishing dramatically across the linoleum as he faces you.

Recognition lights up his face—shoulders dropping, eyes brightening, like stepping out of shadow and into warm daylight.

And then he grins.

That crooked, I know I’m being a problem kind of grin that makes your stomach flip in a deeply unprofessional way.

You school your expression into something more neutral. You do not smile back. Not here. Not yet.

You nod to the prosecutor. “I understand, Ms. Kendrick. I’ll handle it.” 

She looks like she’d rather see him forcibly ejected by bailiffs, but she backs off, heels clacking loudly as she makes her way down the hall.

You wait a beat. Then turn to him.

“Superman,” you say evenly. “Why don’t we continue this conversation in my office?”

…

You shove him against the door the second the lock clicks shut.

That smug grin he wore the entire walk to your office—hands tucked behind his back like he didn’t just hijack a judicial proceeding in broad daylight—only widens when your mouth crashes against his.

Your fingers twist into the soft stretch of his suit, gripping at the raised edges of the 'S' like you could rip it off with enough force.

“Hi,” he breathes between kisses, amused and already breathless. “I missed you too.”

You pull back just enough to glare at him—heart hammering, breath ragged, still high on courtroom adrenaline and now this.

“What the hell were you thinking? Showing up like that?”

He just shrugs, maddeningly unrepentant. “I thought you’d be proud of me. I used actual legal arguments.”

“Clark.”

“Okay, okay,” he says, laughing softly as he cups your jaw. “I also had a legitimate reason.”

“Which is?” you mutter, dragging down your zipper. He helps you shimmy out of the skirt without missing a beat.

“She was about to process that guy for obstruction,” he says, frowning as he works open the buttons of your blouse. “He wasn’t resisting—he was terrified. She ignored every mitigating factor.”

“Yeah, well, they always do that.” You let out a breath, shivering slightly as his hands skim the bare skin of your waist. “That doesn’t mean you get to cape up and swoop in mid-hearing.”

His eyes glint with something brighter than mischief. “You say that like you weren’t happy to see me.”

You try to glare again, but it doesn’t last. His hands slide to your hips, pulling you flush against him, and then he’s kissing you again—deeper now, less teasing, all heat and hunger.

“Clark,” you murmur against his lips, trying to focus, “I’m serious. I already get enough flak for being the state’s bleeding heart. If people think I’ve got Superman in my back pocket—”

“Mm.” He hums, kissing down the line of your jaw, hands sliding lower. “Pretty sure I’m more in your front pocket right now.”

You huff a startled laugh and swat his chest. “You’re an idiot.”

“Your idiot,” he grins, far too pleased with himself. Then he bends, one arm curling under your thighs as he lifts you effortlessly off the ground.

You wrap around him instinctively, still half-scolding, but he carries you to the desk and sets you down with such quiet tenderness that the rest of the argument slips away.

You pull him back in, mouth desperate, fingers fumbling at the seam of his collar. “God, get this thing—how do you even breathe in this?”

He laughs, low and warm, resting his forehead against yours. “I thought you liked how it looked.”

“Yeah, until I realized how impossible it is to get off.” You tug again, frustrated.

He just smiles, slow and knowing, then steps back. In one fluid motion, he strips: shoulders, arms, hips. The suit puddles at his feet, leaving him flushed and bare.

You stare, caught off guard by how easily he sheds the symbol, how beautiful he is underneath it.

He leans in, brushing a knuckle down your cheek.

“Better?”

You nod, tugging him close by the waist, voice barely a whisper. “Much.”

His smile brushes your mouth, warm and familiar, as he kisses you again. His hands glide over your hips, pulling back just enough to wet two fingers with his mouth and slide them between your thighs. You gasp softly as he traces slow, teasing circles over your clit, then slips one finger inside, soon joined by a second.

“Clark…” you moan, head tipping back, fingers tangling in the hair at his nape.

“Yeah, baby,” he murmurs, lips grazing your jaw as he works you open with unbearable patience. “I got you.”

“Need you,” you groan, “Now, Clark—please.”

He huffs a soft laugh, kissing the corner of your mouth. “Okay, okay."

You watch, dazed and aching, as he spits quietly into his palm, slicking himself up before pressing against your entrance. His eyes catch yours in a silent question, and when you nod, he pushes in—smooth and deep and steady. One long stroke that leaves you gasping for air by the end.  

You groan against his shoulder, nails digging into his skin as he bottoms out. He holds still for a moment, letting you breathe, then begins to move—slow, deliberate thrusts that punch the air out of you with every stroke.  

“God, you feel so good,” he groans low against your neck.  

You cling to him, breathless, caught in the rhythm. He kisses you between gasps, lips finding yours again and again, like he can’t bear to stay away for too long. His hand finds your clit, circling with practiced precision, every touch calculated to push you higher. He’s so attuned to you—reading every twitch of your body, every hitch in your breath, like scripture. His eyes are locked onto your heavy-lidded ones, dark with focus, as if he’s trying to memorize you from the inside out.

The pressure in your belly coils tight, winding impossibly fast.

“Clark—fuck—” you gasp, hips stuttering. Your grip tightens in his hair in a desperate, pleading warning.

“I know, sweetheart,” he whispers, voice thick. “I’ve got you. Let go for me."

And you do.

You shatter beneath him, body arching as the wave hits, white-hot and endless. He follows a moment later with a broken sound, his rhythm faltering as he spills into you, face buried in your neck to muffle the noise.  

Silence stretches in the aftermath, broken only by your breathing and the slow return of your heartbeat.

Clark kisses you, deep and lingering, before he eases out, resting his forehead to yours.

“I love you,” he whispers.

It’s a promise worn smooth with repetition, yet it still catches in your chest like the first time.

You brush your thumb gently along his cheek.

“I love you too.” 

…

“So.” Clark zips up your skirt, hands warm against your hips as he smooths down the fabric. “You’ll talk to the DA? About the charges?”

You turn slowly, folding your arms across your chest as you give him a flat look.

“Clark Kent,” you say, brow arched. “Is this your long game? Date the state public defender so you can infiltrate the justice system?”

He doesn’t even blink. Just flashes that easy, crooked grin that still gets to you somehow, even when you know better.

“Thirteen years,” he nods. “Longest con of my life.”

You let out a short laugh, surprised by how easily he pulls it from you, how naturally he fits into these corners of your world. You pull him back down by his collar, pressing a slow kiss to his mouth.

Then you let go.

He moves slowly toward the door, boots quiet against the floor. The cape follows, always trailing a second behind. He’s halfway there when you call his name.

He turns, gaze softening at the sound of your voice.

You’re still standing where he left you, arms folded, lips drawn into something that wants to be stern but doesn’t quite get there. You’re still getting used to this—to him, woven so neatly into your routines. To how the thought of him coming back no longer feels like a wish, but a given.

That slow ache of permanence settling into your chest, even as the weight of what he carries trails just a second behind.

“I’ll see you for dinner?” You ask.

His smile grows soft, honest and steady. The cape flutters gently behind him.

“Wouldn’t miss it.”

And this time, you don’t have to wonder.

…

epilogue.

Eventually, you’ll come to realize what it was. The ingredient missing from your chili.

Not sugar. Not molasses.

Time.

Time for flavors to settle. For the sharpness to mellow out. For bitterness to give way to something warm and rich.   

It happens gradually, like most good things.

With the smallest of details.

Clark, setting the table, humming under his breath as he moves with familiar ease: forks on the left, knives on the right, mugs instead of glasses because you’re both terrible at unloading the dishwasher. The plates don’t match. One’s a chipped blue ceramic you picked out together at the Sunday flea market. The other is a slightly-too-fancy porcelain from your grandmother’s old set. He always picks that one out for you, insisting it’s ‘too pretty not to use.’

You’re halfway through stirring the pot when he pulls you away—arms around your waist, cheek pressed to your temple—because ‘this is more important.’ You end up slow dancing in the living room, swaying to the soft crackle of a song from the record player—his pick, your vinyl. The pothos on the windowsill leans toward the open light, swaying with the breeze.  

There’s a folded crossword on the coffee table, half-finished, both your handwriting tangled in the boxes. A grocery list is stuck to the the fridge, layered with receipts, newspaper clippings, and a sticky note that says ‘go get em!!’  

His flannel is draped over the back of your couch. His socks are on your feet. His glasses are perched on your nose as you come back over to the stove—too big, sliding every few seconds—but he likes putting them on you just to see you smile.

The cinnamon rolls come out golden this time. The chili tastes just right.

Clark appears behind you, hand brushing the small of your back as he dips down for a kiss.

You lean into it without thinking, smiling against his mouth.

You let the pot simmer for a while longer.