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Somewhere in the distance, sirens wail. Metropolis is under attack.
Again.
Outside the small shop where you’re hoping to land a job, a crowd rushes past in a blur of panic. It’s hard to believe that only this morning, your biggest worry was whether you’d make a good impression in the interview. Most of the customers cleared out as soon as the sirens started, but you held onto the hope that the interview would still happen and that you might still walk away hired.
A deep, distant boom rattles the building, sending a fine dusting of plaster drifting from the ceiling like ash. That, apparently, is all the receptionist needs to call it a day. She bolts from her desk, headset still dangling from one ear, and vanishes out the front door without so much as a goodbye. And just like that, you’re alone. Well, almost alone.
There on her desk, still bubbling in oblivious serenity, is a small fishbowl. Inside, one goldfish stares at you with its big eyes, its mouth opening and closing. Behind him, a green plastic plant sways with each subtle vibration as the building trembles.
“She just left you, huh?" you question.
The fish stares.
You glance toward the door, then back at the bowl. “Listen. I have a very strict no-pets policy at my apartment. And I've definitely killed all the herbs I bought from Trader Joe’s. You don’t want to come home with me."
The fish blows a bubble. With a resigned sigh, you scoop up the bowl, tucking it under your arm.
“But I’m not just gonna let you die here. Obviously. What kind of monster would that make me?”
You step out into the streets and they are full of shouting and motion. You're regretting choosing heels to appear more professional for this job interview as you wobble your way away from the sounds of chaos. Head down, you plow through the crowd until the mess of bodies begins to thin about two blocks later. Here, the noise dims slightly and the street settles into a tense, uneasy quiet. Still not safe, but calmer.
Your arms ache as the contents of the fishbowl slosh over the rim, soaking your side. You pause, trying to adjust your grip when you spot a tiny terrier-looking dog tied to a tree. It’s barking, pacing in frantic little circles, its whole body trembling. The street is mostly deserted now, just abandoned storefronts and broken car alarms echoing in the distance. You squint at the dog, then scan the area. No sign of anyone nearby. Surely someone didn’t just leave him here.
Or maybe, you realize grimly, they didn’t have a choice.
You crouch beside the dog and offer your closed fist, trying to seem non-threatening. The dog eyes you warily, trembling slightly, but after a few cautious sniffs, his tail gives a tentative wag.
Only then do you reach for the leash, fumbling with the knot while doing your best not to tilt the fishbowl too far. It takes a few clumsy attempts before you get the leash free and straighten up.
The dog immediately presses against your leg. You reach down and scratch behind his ears, feeling him relax under your touch. A glint of metal catches your eye, and you spot a golden dog bone tag hanging from his collar. You tilt it toward the light.
“Max,” you read aloud. He barks in return.
“Guess it’s the three of us,” you announce to no one in particular.
You start walking again, leash in one hand, goldfish cradled in the other, making it maybe six feet before an SUV, or what’s left of one, comes hurtling down from above. It smashes into the street and a second later a figure drops from the sky, landing beside the lump of twisted metal.
There's no mistaking those broad shoulders or the red cape that flutters behind him.
It’s Superman.
He stands tall, hands on his hips, surveying the wreckage, until his eyes land on you.
"Oh gosh," he says, brows raised, stepping toward you. "Are you okay? Do you—"
He stops mid-sentence.
His eyes flick down to the goldfish bowl. Then to the trembling dog. Then to your heels. Then back to your face. You stare at each other for a beat.
"You again," he says with an unfairly charming smile that makes two dimples appear on his cheeks.
You're stunned he remembers you. It’s been a few weeks since that chaotic night when Metropolis was under attack by some kind of giant flaming eyeball. Your interaction with Superman had been brief, just a quick exchange as he helped you and your elderly neighbor down a fire escape. You hadn't expected to make a memorable impression, just one of the city's many citizens feeling in terror. Then again, you had been wearing flamingo-themed pajamas, which, in hindsight, were aggressively pink and wildly unflattering. Hard to forget, probably.
"Yeah," you say finally, out of breath, hair sticking to your face. You sound way calmer than you feel. “Me again.”
He grins. “Last time I saw you, you were helping an old woman and her…four cats evacuate the building.”
You shift the bowl in your arms as the dog paces anxiously. That night had been an experience, trying to wrangle four ancient, furious Siamese cats who had absolutely no interest in being rescued, all while making sure Mrs. Nash didn’t tumble off the rickety fire escape. You were pretty sure you still had scratches on your arm to show for it.
“Well, we can’t expect you to rescue everyone and fight the big bad of the week,” you reply with an embarrassed smile.
He lets out a surprised little laugh, the kind that makes his dimples appear again. “And now you’ve upgraded to...a fish and a dog?”
“The receptionist ditched him,” you explain. “I couldn't just leave him. Or the dog. Someone tied him to a tree.”
Superman tilts his head slightly, eyes steady on yours. “No,” he says softly, “I bet you couldn’t.”
Warmth suffuses your chest, an uncomfortable prickling sensation breaking across your skin. You shift your weight from one foot to the other awkwardly. It’s a lot being the subject of his entire focus, and you’re all too aware of how sweaty and gross you are. Ugh, you’re covered in fish water too. And he predictably looks amazing somehow, despite fighting intergalactic crime and falling out of the sky. The only sign of any wear on his part is a small smudge of dirt on his cheek.
“Okay,” you mutter, eyes dropping for a second. “Let’s not make a thing out of it.”
“Oh it’s a thing,” he says before glancing skyward, his expression shifting slightly. “The Justice League is herding the, uh, giant squirrel in this direction. So you probably shouldn’t stay here.”
Then he meets your eyes again. “I can take you somewhere safe.”
You raise a brow. “Well, I do live on 61st and Plymouth,” you say, only half joking. “Tenth floor. Little balcony you can just...leave me and my menagerie of pets on.”
“I can do that,” he says seriously
Before you can say wait, what now, he’s already scooping Max into one arm. The little dog immediately starts licking his face and wiggling furiously. Then it’s your turn. A strong arm wraps around your lower back, securing you and the fishbowl against an insanely firm chest.
He grins down at you. “Ready?”
“Not even a little,” you reply, your shriek of surprise lost to the rush of wind as you’re suddenly airborne.
–
Predictably, the next time you run into Superman, it's during yet another life-threatening alien attack on Metropolis.
It’s only been a month since the whole giant rodent incident.
This time, you’re just trying to take Max for his morning walk. Mrs. Kochek, your judgmental downstairs neighbor, gave you an unimpressed once over when you passed her in the hall wearing what could only be described as your “it must be laundry day” outfit. Bleach-stained leggings and an oversized hoodie with flip flops. But she’d also lied to your landlord about the sudden appearance of both a goldfish and a dog in your supposedly pet-free apartment, so you can’t hold the glare too much against her.
Your search for Max’s owner eventually led to a very frazzled woman who explained that Max had belonged to her mother. Thankfully, her mom was alive and well, just recently relocated to the suburbs, far from the daily alien invasions. Max had somehow gotten lost in the shuffle of the evacuation.
The woman offered him up for adoption, saying you were welcome to keep him if you were interested. You told her you’d think about it. That was weeks ago, and now, Max had a dog bed in your living room, matching food and water bowls in the kitchen, and a small army of obnoxiously squeaky toys.
He was staying obviously and so was the fish.
“Come on, little guy,” you encourage, jingling Max’s leash to get him to move on from an apparently suspicious pile of leaves that needed a thorough inspection.
You just wanted to make sure Max got a good walk in and burn off some energy before your busy afternoon of job applications. But fate, as usual, had other plans. You barely make it around the block before a patch of sky above you starts to shimmer in that weird way that usually meant something with tentacles or way too many eyes was about to arrive.
Sure enough, a moment later, a terrifying thing emerges with an ear-deafening screech. Luckily, so does the Green Lantern and the rest of the Justice League, streaming by in a heroic rush. You squint up at the scene as a wave of emerald light wraps around the creature. It lets loose an unholy shriek, and a nearby trash can explodes.
“Well,” you mutter, turning to Max and scooping him up, “that is officially our cue to get inside.”
“Seems like you’ve got a habit of being in the wrong place at the wrong time,” says a familiar voice behind you.
You don’t even need to turn around.
“Or maybe Metropolis just needs to calm down for five minutes,” you reply, glancing over your shoulder to meet Superman’s incredibly blue eyes.
“You’re not wrong,” he agrees with a tired sigh. “Would you like a lift back to your apartment?” He adds.
You spin around to face him, lifting a hand to halt whatever superspeed nonsense he’s about to pull.
“No, thank you,” you say firmly. “I can walk. Not that I didn’t appreciate the absolutely terrifying experience of flying through the air.”
Superman chuckles, arms crossing over his chest. “Fair enough.”
You eye the glowing battle still unfolding behind him. “Shouldn’t you be…helping?”
He glances back casually, as if giant tentacle creatures are just part of the morning routine. They probably are, you realize.
“The Justice League has it covered.”
“Well then,” you say, a little surprised at the boldness in your own voice, “I guess you can walk me home if you like. I promise to leave milk and cookies out for you on my balcony as a thank-you for rescuing me. Again.”
“That’s Santa,” he says, eyes crinkling with amusement.
“Right, sorry. How about a protein bar and…Gatorade?” you offer, glancing down as Max tugs eagerly at his leash, tongue flopping out the side of his mouth.
“I’ve never been one to turn down milk and cookies,” he says after a beat, voice warm.
And just like that, you're walking side by side with Superman back to your apartment. You, in your bleach-stained leggings and fraying sweater, and he, golden and heroic-looking. It’s surreal. Especially when you pass a young woman pushing a stroller whose eyes go wide the second she sees the two of you together. You can’t blame her. You must look like an odd pair.
You tug at your sleeve self-consciously, acutely aware of how disheveled you must seem. But weirdly…you also feel kind of at ease. There’s something about Superman that’s so genuinely earnest and kind that it’s disarming. He doesn’t make you feel small or ridiculous, but truly seen
It’s easy to forget he’s a world-famous superhero and not just some guy you happened to meet on the street.
“So…” Superman begins, breaking the silence just as it starts to linger a little too long. “Rescued any more pets since we last met?”
“No, but the day’s still young,” you reply, completely serious. “I’m thinking maybe a bird. Just to round out the collection.”
You glance at him sideways just in time to catch him already looking at you. There's a hint of amusement in his expression and some other emotion.
“Well then,” he says, straight-faced but clearly teasing, “after I wrap this up…what did you call it? ‘Big bad of the week’? I'll come by to check out your menagerie and some of those cookies you promised me."
“Okay then,” you say, spinning around to face him as you stop in front of your apartment building. “Max, Bob, and I will be waiting.”
He lifts a single brow, clearly intrigued. You have to bite your lower lip to keep from laughing.
“Bob?” He questions.
“The goldfish,” you explain. “He didn’t come with a name tag, so…I went with what felt right.”
He opens his mouth like he wants to say something more, but the moment is shattered by a piercing shriek in the distance. You both glance skyward.
“I should help wrap this up,” he says, a little reluctantly, gone in a blur of red and blue as you turn to head back inside.
–
There’s a part of you that doesn’t really expect Superman to show up on your balcony. But the part that does spends a frantic thirty minutes whipping up your grandmother’s famous chewy chocolate chip cookies while simultaneously trying to make your apartment look halfway clean. If he doesn’t show up you’ll still have baked cookies and a clean apartment. It’s a win-win.
Bob watches the chaos from his bowl with his usual vacant stare, occasionally blowing a bubble or two. Max, on the other hand, paces back and forth by the sliding glass door like he knows someone important is coming over. You’ve already tripped over him twice.
You also take the time to change into a more presentable outfit and do your hair. You’re not too proud to admit you swipe on a little mascara and lip gloss too. This isn’t a date. Obviously. Superman probably doesn’t even go on dates. And if he did, it wouldn’t be with someone like you. If the tabloids were to be believed, he was embroiled in a torrid love affair with Batman and Wonder Woman. Which was understandable. The legs on that woman were something you thought about entirely too often.
So lost in through you nearly miss the ding of the oven. You bolt inside, narrowly avoiding a second-degree burn as you yank the cookies out and begin frantically plating them. Once you’re finished, you hear the all-too-familiar whoosh of air followed immediately by Max’s frantic barking. You look up, spatula still in hand, to find Superman standing on your balcony. Hands folded neatly behind his back, he’s facing out toward the city, politely pretending he can’t see into your apartment.
You're almost certain he’s aware of every single thing happening inside, but he doesn’t actually turn to face you until you step out onto the balcony, a plate of cookies in hand. Max circles his feet excitedly, tiny paws pressing against Superman’s red boots.
He glances down at both of you with a smile, and you can’t help but grin back, your heart pounding so loudly you’re convinced he must hear it. You’d felt strangely bold when you invited him, but now that he’s here, towering on your too-small balcony, that confidence starts to slip.
“They smell incredible,” he says, reaching out to take one of the cookies before bending down to scratch Max’s ears absently.
“Thanks,” you manage, shifting your weight back on your heels, nerves starting to creep in as you watch him taste it.
He hums, low and pleased, and your stomach flips.
“These are really good.”
You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding and take a bite of your own, careful not to drop any crumbs. He reaches for a second cookie, and the two of you share a quiet, amused look until you suddenly remember you’ve missed something.
“The milk!” you blurt, thrusting the plate at him before spinning around and rushing back inside.
When you return, Superman is still standing exactly where you left him, crumb at the corner of his mouth, expression somewhere between amused and confused.
“And here I thought I was the fast one,” he says with a crooked smile as you hand him the glass.
“Well, a girl’s gotta keep her promises,” you reply, taking the plate back and doing your best not to stare as he downs the milk in a single, effortless gulp.
He wipes his mouth on his sleeve, those bright blue eyes fixed on you with a teasing glint. “You wouldn’t happen to be trying to adopt me, would you?”
Heat creeps up your cheeks, but you manage a grin. “Couldn’t afford you,” you shoot back. “My only job interview ended early when that giant squirrel attacked. Apparently, stealing a fish from the place you want to work doesn’t exactly scream ‘hire me.’”
Superman’s expression shifts in an instant, the playful spark in his eyes dims, replaced by concern. A deep furrow forms between his brows as he studies you more closely, milk glass now forgotten in his hand.
“You’re looking for work?” he asks.
You shrug, trying to brush it off. “Yeah. Just...trying to figure things out. Got a fish to feed and Max to keep flush with toys. You know how it goes.”
He hesitates for a moment, as if weighing his thoughts, then steps closer, gaze steady. “I have a friend who works at the Daily Planet. His name is Clark Kent. He’s a good guy. If you tell him I sent you, he might be able to help.”
“I’m not a reporter,” you reply quickly.
Accepting help always makes your skin itch. It felt like exposing too much of yourself. You’re half-surprised you even confided in him, but then again, who else could you trust, if not Superman? He had that same calm, steady energy as a priest in a confession booth, like he was honorbound to keep what you told him a secret.
“Clark knows a lot of people across the city,” he continues. “If there’s a job opening somewhere, he’d hear about it. And he could put in a good word for you.”
You fidget with the edge of the cookie plate, trying not to squirm under the weight of his sincerity.
He tilts his head, kind but firm when he says, “Stop by on Monday, first thing. Bring a copy of your resume.”
Then, as if to really drive the point home, he plants his hands on his hips, elbows out. The red cape billows behind with a well timed gust of wind.
“Alright, alright,” you relent, shoving another cookie at his broad chest in mock defeat.
“Maybe bring some of these cookies,” he adds, taking the cookie and finishing it in a single, impressively clean bite. He doesn’t speak again until he’s swallowed, mild-mannered, always it seems.
“They’re pretty swell. He might enjoy them too.”
“Cookies and resume. Aye aye Captain,” you reply.
He grins, eyes bright until something shifts. His gaze drifts past your shoulder, expression sharpening as if he's listening to a sound you can’t hear. Whatever it is makes him frown.
“Ah, shoot,” he mutters with a sigh. “I gotta go. Seems like another creature slipped through the big guy earlier.”
“Good luck,” you say brightly.
He gives you one last glance before crouching to give Max a final round of scratches. “Monday,” he reminds you, voice suddenly serious.
You flash him a big thumbs-up like an idiot and stay on the balcony long after he’s gone, chewing your cookie slowly. It’s not until later that you realize Superman stole your glass of milk.
–
When Monday morning rolls around, you find yourself standing outside the Daily Planet bright and early, watching the city’s denizens rush by in a blur of caffeine and purpose. It takes a few minutes,and a few deep breaths, before you finally muster the courage to step into the lobby.
You scan the space for a receptionist but find the desk unmanned. Everyone around you looks far too busy to notice, talking urgently into phones and typing furiously on their keyboards. You smooth down the front of your dress and start plucking Max’s wiry hairs off the sleeve of your cardigan. No one pays you any mind, and your anxiety quietly grows.
The resume in your hand is slightly crumpled, probably a bit damp too. But hey, at least you're wearing flats this time. And, miraculously, the tupperware full of chocolate cookies survived the subway ride unscathed.
With a deep breath, you push yourself forward, one step at a time, until you’re standing in the middle of the bullpen. The only photo you could find of Clark Kent was a small, grainy headshot next to one of his bylines online that wasn’t much help.
Behind you, someone clears their throat, and you jump, twisting around to look up.
The man towers over you, a tousled mess of curly hair falling across his brow, thick black glasses slightly askew over striking blue eyes. He’s handsome in that sweet, nerdy way you’ve always been a sucker for. There’s also a familiarity to him that catches you off guard. You press your lips together, swallowing hard.
“Can I help you?” he asks kindly.
“Oh, um, yes. I’m looking for Clark Kent.”
His brows lift behind his glasses, and his smile widens. “Well, you’re in luck. I’m him. He is me,” he adds with a chuckle.
You stare at him dumbly trying to think of some way to say “Superman sent me” without sounding like a crazy person.
“We have a...mutual friend who sent me,” you manage, immediately cringing at how vague that sounds.
Clark tilts his head slightly, brows raised in polite confusion, clearly waiting for more. You step in closer, lowering your voice, and glancing around to make sure no one’s listening.
“Big guy. Cape. Really into truth, justice, and the American way.”
Clark’s expression flickers with recognition. “Oh, Superman,” he says casually.
You wince. “Yeah. Him.”
“Great guy,” he agrees, still smiling, as if this kind of conversation happens more often than you’d expect.
“He said you might be able to help me find a job,” you say quickly, then, realizing how awkward you sound, you thrust the crumpled resume toward him. “I brought this.”
He takes it without hesitation, though you’re certain he notices how it’s slightly wrinkled and maybe a little smudged from your nervous hands. He takes his time reading it with a thoughtful expression.
“I also brought cookies. My grandmother’s recipe,” you add, holding up the tupperware with a slightly shaky grin.
Clark looks down at the cookies, then back at you, his smile softening. There’s something in the way he looks at you that settles the nervous tension in your shoulders before you’ve even conscious of it.
“Well,” he says, stepping aside and gesturing toward an open corner of the bullpen, “anyone who comes bearing chocolate and references Superman is worth at least a conversation. Come on.”
Three hours later, you find yourself sitting behind the receptionist desk, officially hired on a trial basis. The interview with the editor-in-chief had been mildly terrifying. The man’s resting expression hovered somewhere between irritation and outright disdain, and you’re still not sure he blinked the entire time. But after looking over your resume and raising one skeptical eyebrow at your unique reference, he sent you to HR to fill out paperwork with a stern warning to never be late.
Clark stops by your desk after lunch with a big grin, leaning casually on the counter, arms folded across the top. The muscles in his biceps make the crisp white fabric of his shirt pull and strain in a way that’s so distracting that you almost staple your own finger before you manage to drag your eyes back where they belong.
“So, how's your first day going?” He questions.
“Pretty great. Thank you again for putting in a good word.”
“Oh that was nothing,” he says with a wave of his hand. “You had a good resume, I just got you in front of the right person.”
“Well, I appreciate it,” you say again. “I’ll bring you even more cookies next week.”
“They were pretty amazing,” he says, with a slight tilt of his head. “Just wish I’d had a glass of milk to go with them.”
That line tugs at your memory, and you pause. A strange wave of deja vu rolls over you, stilling your thoughts. You brush it off a second later, standing up and planting a hand on your hip as you fix Clark with a mock-serious look.
“That reminds me. If you see our mutual friend, tell him he owes me a glass. Last I saw him, he absconded with mine.”
Clark laughs softly, a genuine sound that makes your chest do something annoying and fluttery.
“Yes, ma’am,” he says with a playful little salute. “I’ll make sure he knows.”
–
Your first month at the Daily Planet is chaotic, but surprisingly fulfilling. The rhythm of the newsroom is oddly comforting with its constant hum of conversation, the clatter of keyboards, and the occasional bark from Perry White’s office. You find yourself looking forward to work each morning.
It doesn’t hurt that you spend most of your breaks with Clark.
He stops by the receptionist desk often, usually under the pretense of checking in on you for the mutual friend you share. Though more often than not, he lingers, asking about your day and talking about his. Sometimes he brings you one of those buttery croissants from the cafe down the street. Other times, you find yourself making a second cup of hot chocolate and casually dropping it off at his desk like it’s no big deal.
You’ve got a crush on him. Obviously. You catch yourself watching the way he pushes his glasses up when he’s thinking, or how he always holds the elevator door open for others. He’s gentle, funny in a dry kind of way, and listens like what you’re saying actually matters. There’s also a quiet steadiness to him and sometimes, just for a moment, he reminds you of someone else…someone you can’t quite place.
Still, you’re determined to keep things professional. Of course, any friend of Superman would be kind and welcoming. It didn't mean anything; it was just common decency and plain old midwestern politeness.
And if you happened to gush about him to your apathetic goldfish and overly affectionate dog the moment you got home? Well, that was strictly between the three of you.
–
You don’t hear from Superman as the weeks slip past, not that you expected him to stroll through the golden doors of the Daily Planet just to check in on you. But you find yourself a little disappointed, at least until you arrive at your desk to find your missing glass sitting neatly beside your mouse. But it’s not empty. It’s filled with a small, colorful bunch of wildflowers, the stems slightly uneven. It’s the kind of thing someone picked by hand, not bought from the store.
“Ah, you found the glass,” Clark says, appearing beside your desk with his usual perfect timing. “Superman asked me to return it for him. He’s a busy guy, I guess.”
You blink, a slow smile spreading across your face as you bring them to your nose. They smell fragrant and sweet, but not overpowering.
“Well,” you say, eyeing him over the rim of the bouquet, “he returned it and brought me flowers. Hard to stay mad at a guy like that.”
Clark chuckles softly, then reaches up to rub the back of his neck, an endearing tell you’ve seen a few times.
“Full confession, those are actually from me,” he admits, a slow blush creeping across his cheeks and up to the tips of his ears. “My ma always said you should never return something empty. Thought you might like the flowers.”
A shy, pleased smile spreads across your face as you lower the bouquet. “Oh,” you say, a little breathless. “Thank you. That’s really sweet of you. I love them,” you add.
Clark shifts his weight, slipping his hands into his pockets, his gaze dropping for a moment before meeting yours again. “I, uh…was wondering if maybe you’d like to go out to dinner sometime? If you’re free, I mean.”
The question catches you off guard, and you blink at him, wide-eyed, your brain scrambling to catch up with what he just said. Clark takes in your stunned silence and immediately starts backtracking.
“Of course, it’s not a big deal if you don’t,” he says quickly, his voice a little rushed. “I just thought…well, I enjoy spending time with you. But if I’ve misread anything or made you uncomfortable -”
“I’d love to!” you blurt out loud enough that Jimmy and Steve at the next desk glance over, startled. Even Lois Lane pauses mid-call to arch an eyebrow in your direction. You clear your throat, face burning. “I mean…yes. I’d like that. A lot,” you say more softly.
“That’s real swell to hear,” he adds with a nod, stepping closer. “There’s this great little Italian bistro over on 63rd Avenue. They’ve got a dog-friendly patio, too.”
“Max would love that,” you reply, your grin widening.
“Well, that’s good. He’s the one I’m really trying to impress,” Clark says teasingly.
You laugh, unable to hide how much that charms you. “You’re off to a good start, then. But I have to warn you, Bob’s the real tough nut to crack.”
“I think I’m up to the challenge,” Clark replies with a grin.
You meet his gaze, feeling the heat linger in your cheeks.
“Good,” you say, a little breathless.
And with that, Clark gives you one last smile and returns to his desk. You watch him for a moment longer, the glass of wildflowers still cradled in your hands, your heart skipping happily in your chest.