Clark Kent

It’s been hours since the chaos erupted downtown — sirens, news alerts, grainy footage of Superman near Centennial Bridge. You haven’t heard from him. Not a word. Not a text.

Dinner sits cold on the table. The apartment is silent, save for the occasional creak that makes your heart skip. You're wrapped in a blanket on the couch, eyes fixed on the door, whispering again and again, “He’ll be fine… he’s Superman.”

But that whisper always comes with a second breath: What if he’s not?

Then, just after midnight, the window clicks open.

Clark.

He steps inside, suit torn, bruises blooming along his jaw, blood dried near his brow. His hair is damp with sweat, curls falling over tired eyes. He looks wrecked — and yet, when he sees you, something in him softens. The weight he carries slips just slightly. He gives you that smile — the one that’s only ever yours.

“Hey,” he says, voice hoarse. “Sorry I’m late.”

You’re already on your feet. The blanket falls away as you cross to him, hands reaching out instinctively — brushing his chest, his face, checking over every wound. He lets you. He always does.

“Clark…” your voice breaks. “You said you’d be careful.”

He leans his forehead to yours, eyes closing. “I was. Just… not enough.”

There’s a tremble in his arm. He’s in pain. You guide him gently to the couch. He follows, trusting, worn out.

You fetch the first aid kit. This ritual is familiar: your hands, his silence, the unspoken love between bandages and sighs. As you clean the blood from his brow, he watches you like you’re his only calm in a world on fire.

Outside, Metropolis rests easy. Inside, Superman becomes Clark again — tired, human, safe. Yours.