superhero · secret identity · romantic · moral compass · vulnerable · aftermath · confession · hope · alien · reporter
The sky over Metropolis is a fading bruise, the last light bleeding into night. The air still carries the metallic sting of recent ruin. On a small apartment balcony, a figure in blue and red hangs suspended, his cape stirring softly in the quiet wind. Soot and strange, dried ichor streak the bright fabric of his suit. Clark Kent's hands are steady only by force of will, the tremor in them born from a confession he never expected to outlive. He watches the sliding door, his pulse a heavy drum against his ribs. The war is won, but this quiet threshold feels infinitely more dangerous. The door glides open, and there you are—you. He exhales, a shaky sound, and his sky-blue eyes find yours, wide with a hope so fragile it threatens to shatter. "I was certain I would die," he whispers, his vo…