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There are these fleeting moments between them. They’ll be typing at each other's desks, working silently, when all of a sudden they’ll both look up and make eye contact and simply smile. Or when their hands graze each other as they pass things. When they’re talking, sometimes she’ll stand a little bit closer than necessary, and she’ll lie to herself and say it’s to hear him better, but really it’s to catch a whiff of his scent—clean, soft, but with a hint of something woodsy.
The flannel she stole from way long back—when things were just a little bit simpler, clearer between them—has lost its scent. She wouldn’t dare take another one, because then it would force her to think about the implications and her feelings.
She’s gotten very good at that practice. Ignoring her feelings, pushing it down, willing it away. There was a period in her life—back when crazed showhost wannabes with lie detectors forced loved confessions out of her, and she would share intimate slow dances with her coworker, and she would hopelessly wait at coffee shops for said coworker—when she would confront those feelings, let herself fall just a bit. Because maybe, just maybe, she thought someone would be on the other side to catch her.
But that was then, and this is now. Now, she wouldn’t dare believe that Clark Kent felt a fraction of what she felt for him.
—
Clark had been out for the week, family business being the excuse. She doesn’t really bother to ask for more details, ironically going against her investigative reporter instincts. Lois has found that Clark will come and go as he pleases, keeping his impenetrable forcefield up for the sake of guarding whatever secrets he’s been harboring all these years.
There’s a delicate balance. He makes excuses, she chooses to believe them. She’s learned to stop theorizing over what he’s doing when he’s gone, who he’s thinking about, if he’s thinking about her—or maybe someone else. Instead, she likes to focus on the times they’re actually together, like right now; she’s leaning on his desk, updating him on another one of her adventures that took place while he was gone.
His head is tilted, resting on his hand, and he’s looking up at her with a dazzling smile. Her gut clenches, not knowing how to look at him when he’s looking like that, so she takes his coffee from his desk and steals a sip, hoping it’ll distract her.
Perry walks by and says fleetingly, “I swear, you two act like you’ve been married ten years,” and then he’s gone.
Clark and Lois freeze and look at each other, faces impassive. Lois’s mind floods with memories of Chloe’s wedding. Clark pulling her close, his scent filling her nostrils. Him looking at her. Her looking at him. Them leaning in, lips inching closer.
Lana walking in. Clark pulling away.
I thought, just for a minute, someone needed me.
Lois chokes out a laugh and punches his arm. She gets up and walks back to her desk, “Now that marriage would be a sham.”
She smiles, trying to break the tension. He doesn’t smile back.
—
He was at the right place, the right time. Or wrong place, wrong time. It really depends on who you ask.
The Daily Planet was buzzing with chatter. It was a big news day, with The Blur making several saves just that morning. Lois tries her best to tamp down any excitement building at the thought of him possibly calling her. Over the past year, he’s been calling her more and more, usually to talk about his latest saves—she likes to think of herself as his self-appointed exclusive reporter. Sometimes, though, they’ll just talk.
She makes a beeline for her desk, itching to get to work. Clark, already at his desk, looks up at her and softly smiles, as if awaiting her arrival. She’s about to greet him when she hears a familiar bark. “Lane!”
She turns around at Perry’s voice. He’s standing next to an unfamiliar figure. “Meet Richard White, your new—if he can keep up—coworker. Richard, meet my top reporter: Lois Lane.”
Lois arched a brow at the man. He’s handsome. “We’ll see if he survives the week,” she said, offering her hand.
Richard simply grins at her, unfazed. “Looking forward to it.”
Clark eyes the interaction, pausing mid-keystroke.
—
It was late, the bullpen was nearly empty, except for the low, distant whir or a janitor’s vacuum and the faint ticking of the clock.
Lois sat curled over her desk, backlit by the dull glow of her monitor. A half-eaten takeout container sat beside her, forgotten. Her heels were kicked off under the desk. Clark had dipped out a couple of hours ago. They were sitting across from one another, working in a comfortable silence, when the usual happened; he paused, he got a distant look in his eye, and he made up some half-baked excuse and left abruptly.
She rubbed at her temple, sighed, and muttered, “You’ve gotta be kidding me,” as her paragraph collapsed into nonsense.
A voice cut through the stillness.
“You know, that curry’s probably radioactive by now.”
Lois startled, then turned. Richard white stood a few desks over, jacket draped over his arms, sleeves rolled. She had honestly forgotten he was there.
She arched her brow. “Are you stalking my dinner habits now?”
He smirked, “Just concerned for the well-being of fellow reporters. Food poisoning does terrible things to deadline productivity.”
Lois leaned back, stretching slightly. “Didn’t peg you for the working-late type.”
He shrugged, “Figured I gotta earn my stripes. Don’t want people thinking I’m coasting just cuz’ Perry’s my uncle.”
She’ll admit, he’s fared well in the couple of weeks he’s been here, but she won’t tell him that anytime soon.
He walks toward the breakroom. “Coffee?”
She hesitated, then sighed. “Sure. Not like sleep’s winning tonight.”
A few minutes later, they’re left standing, waiting for the pot to finish brewing. Richard looks around. “This place feels different after hours. Quieter.”
Lois shrugged. “Too quiet, sometimes. Make you think too much.”
“Dangerous for someone like you?” he teased lightly.
She gave a half-smile. “Deadly.”
They gather their drinks and walk back towards their desks. There was silence, not uncomfortable, but not quite familiar either.
“So…” he drawls out. “You and Kent—are you two..?”
Lois nearly chokes on her coffee. What the hell is it with the White family and their interest in her and Clark’s relationship? “God, no.”
He chuckles. “Touchy subject?”
“Only if you want to lose your press pass.”
—
It’s midnight, and they’re at a diner, tucked away in one of the back booths. After especially long days, she and Clark will go eat greasy food. You would think they’d go their separate ways and catch some sleep, but she likes to capture these moments in her brain—when they both choose to prolong each other’s company, despite working on top of each other already.
She reaches across the table and steals his fries. He’s looking out the window. She follows his line of sight and spots a couple on the sidewalk in a loving embrace.
Their silhouettes are framed by the streetlamp, the kind of moment that feels almost staged. Romantic. Stupidly cinematic.
“Do you miss her?” She asks, and his eyes startle back over to hers.
“Who?”
“Lana,” she says simply, but her heart pangs just a little bit.
His mouth opens and closes, and a beat passes. “I mean…everyone misses their first love, right?”
She can’t stop herself. “Would you go back to her if you could?”
Clark’s eyes widen slightly, and he sits up a bit straighter. “I…I don’t know,” and his shoulders deflate slightly, weighted.
She nods. That’s a yes.
The ketchup bottle between them has a smudge of grease on it. She stares at it for a beat too long.
Suddenly, he leans forward, very slightly, and he’s looking very intently at her, almost intensely.
“What about you?”
She thinks about Oliver. He’s been dating Dinah Lance for a few months now, and he’s been giving her updates on his life. They’re friends. Genuine friends, not some awkward in-between. She can hug him, he can kiss her head, and they won’t feel any lingering tingles afterwards.
“No,” she answers truthfully. “I don’t like to look back, hold onto things.”
She inwardly calls herself a liar because if that were 100% the case, she would’ve returned his flannel shirt to him a long time ago.
Instead, she keeps it folded in the bottom drawer of her dresser like it means nothing.
—
Richard asks her out a few weeks later. She studies him. His eyes are a dark brown instead of a dazzling blue. Hair golden brown rather than jet black. His smile and teeth are perfectly straight, as if from a magazine, not a single sharp canine in sight.
When she was young, she had cried to her dad that she didn’t want to move across the country again. It had been the first and last time she had done that. The general told her that remaining stagnant, not knowing how to let go, was a sign of weakness.
You’re a Lane. People will leave you, and you’ll leave them.
As her eyes dart back to Clark’s unoccupied desk, Lois thinks she may be ready to let go.
So when her eyes land on Richard yet again, it’s simple.
She says yes.
—
She doesn’t tell anyone about the date with Richard. She doesn’t think it’s necessary; she’s half expecting that there won’t be another one. But then one turns into two, and two into three, and it sort of spirals from there.
She’s pretty sure Clark knows. She may not talk about it, but the newsroom sure does. That’s what she gets for having a love life while working at a news publication. Not minding your business is literally in everyone’s job description.
So every time she grabs her bag and heads out for the night to see Richard, Clark will eye her and ask, “Big night?”
There’s something puppy dog-like in his eyes when he asks, like he’s begging her to say no. She never does, because Lois Lane has always been blunt and honest.
But the look of pain that flashes in Clark’s eyes after she says “Yeah,” makes her think she’d be better off lying.
—
She’s starting to think the universe may be sending her signs, because the last three times she’s attempted to have a date night with Richard, the Blur ends up calling her. There’s always some fire to put out or a robbery to stop, and he’ll dial her phone, offering up an exclusive interview. Sometimes it feels like he’s dangling a carrot in front of her face, knowing she can’t turn it down.
She always answers, though, she can’t help it. She’s Mad Dog Lane for a reason.
She’s sitting across from Richard, candlelight flickering between them, dancing off the rim of his wine glass. He’s halfway through telling a story, something about a runaway camel and a diplomatic scandal, when her phone vibrates.
She doesn’t even have to look.
Richard pauses mid-sentence, brow quirking. “That your super secret source again?”
Lois gives a tired smile. “Probably.”
“Let it ring,” he says gently, but not unkindly. “You’re allowed to have a night off, Lois.”
She knows she should, but she’s already reaching for her bag. “They only call when it’s important.”
Richard leans back, watching her. Not annoyed, just resigned. “I’m starting to think they have a sixth sense for date nights.”
Lois forces a light laugh. “Either that or they’ve got our reservation schedule.”
She excuses herself and steps outside, pressing the phone to her ear.
“Let me guess. Burning building? Armed robbery? Giant lizard?” she says.
A pause. “Hostage situation. East side. Two kids involved.”
She doesn’t hesitate. “Give me a few, I’ll call you back.”
She hangs up. Lingers on the sidewalk for a second, the air crisp and still. She stares up at the sky like she might catch a glimpse of him if she’s fast enough.
She doesn’t.
Back inside, Richard's already motioned for the check as she slips back into her seat. Guilt blooms behind her ribs. “I’m sorry.”
He gives her a half smile. “You always are.”
She opens her mouth but ultimately says nothing, because there’s nothing to say that won’t sound like an excuse.
“I get it,” he says softly. “You’re not the kind of person who can wait still when there’s a fire. Even when it means running out on—”
“Someone good,” Lois finishes quietly, not even sure where the words come from.
Richard shrugs, eyes warm. “Someone present.”
—
Later that night, after the story’s been filed, Lois is in the bullpen alone. Clark walks in quietly, tie loosened, eyes tired.
He stops by her desk. She doesn’t look up.
“Everything okay?” he asks.
She taps a pen against her notepad. “Yeah. Just—working late.”
A beat. Then, without looking at him, she says, “Do you…Do you ever feel like you’re chasing something that always moves just a little faster than you?”
He’s quiet. Then, “All the time.”
She finally glances at him, his gaze unreadable, but heavy with something she’s too tired to name.
And for once, she doesn’t try to fake a smile.
—
They’re walking back from lunch, and Clark’s off. Quieter, tense in the shoulders. It seems like the more the months pass, the more restless Clark becomes. His relationship with Richard has always been cordial to say the least, but lately it feels like he’s been becoming more and more short-tempered with her boyfriend. Not to mention the fact that he takes every opportunity he has to remind her why dating Richard isn’t beneficial for her.
He’s your boss’s nephew, Lois.
He’s always traveling; he’s barely around.
He doesn’t even like monster truck rallies.
Clearly, he’s started grasping at straws.
It only gets worse when Lois mentions offhandedly that Richard snagged tickets for them for some jazz show downtown.
“He likes jazz?” Clark asks, voice flat.
Lois smirks and jokes, “Yeah, he’s cultured, Smallville.”
“Right,” he says. “Bet he’s got a subscription to Modern Gentlemen Monthly while he’s at it.”
Lois stops walking and turns to him. “You okay, Clark? Or are you just mad they don’t play Kenny Chesney at the Met Lounge?”
“No, I’m fine,” he replies too quickly. Then adds, “Just…didn’t know you were into jazz. Last time I checked, Whitesnake isn’t very bluesy.”
Lois narrows her eyes. “Okay, what is this?”
“What’s what?”
“You’ve been weird about Richard for weeks. Passive-aggressive weird. The kind of weird that makes people start highlighting things on HR brochures.”
Clark scoffs, “I haven’t been weird.”
Lois crosses her arms. “You told me last week that Richard couldn’t be trusted because he doesn’t like cheese fries.”
“That is suspicious,” Clark muttered under his breath.
Lois glares. There’s a beat, and Clark shifts his weight, looks away.
“I just think you deserve better,” he finally says, voice quieter, still avoiding her eyes.
“Better?” she echoes, squinting. “Better how, exactly?”
Clark finally meets her gaze, and for the first time in a long while, his look is unguarded.
“Someone who will go with you to a monster truck rally,” he says. “Someone who knows how you take your coffee and why you flinch when someone calls you ‘Lo-Lo’.”
Her breath catches.
“Someone who–” he stops himself. Runs a hand through his hair. “Forget it.”
Lois is frozen. This is one of those moments. Where this thing that’s been sitting between them for years starts to surface.
But she doesn't want a moment. She wants forever, and she doesn’t trust that Clark can offer that, at least not with her.
So she does what she always does when things get too real. She shoves it down.
“Guess we both know I’m not great at picking the ‘better’ guy,” she says, light and hollow.
Clark flinches, and the air between them shifts again, closing up. They start walking again, slower this time. He doesn’t speak, and neither does she.
But when they get back to the bullpen and Lois drops into her chair, she feels it—a pull. Like something unsaid is still clinging to the air around them.
She doesn't look over, but she doesn’t need to.
She knows he’s looking at her.
—
She’s putting on the finishing touches to her look when she glances down. Sitting on her vanity is a wedding invitation.
You are cordially invited to celebrate the union of Oliver Queen and Dinah Lance.
Lois allows herself a little smile. She didn’t expect that she would get along with Dinah as much as she did. The two of them are much too similar for their own good; iron-willed, stubborn, fiery temper. But above all else, they respect and trust each other. So when Dinah asked if she’d be a bridesmaid, she didn’t hesitate.
Lois checked herself out in the mirror once more. Hair, makeup, and accessories are done. Technically, she has the dress—a deep purple gown—on, she just needs to actually zip up the back.
If Richard were here, she’d ask him to zip her up, but seeing as he’s currently covering a juicy government scandal in Lithuania, she’s on her own for the night.
She’s in the middle of deciding how she wants to contort her arms to reach the zipper when she hears a knock on the door.
She goes to open it up and—
“Clark?”
He grinned as he walked in freely, not caring that Lois is left standing at the doorway, mouth slightly agape. “I come bearing a formal emergency.”
She snaps out of her stupor and closes the door, turning around to look at him standing near her kitchen island. Her eyes travel down to what’s in his hand.
She raises a brow, “Cuff links?”
He looks mildly offended. “You say that like this isn’t a real problem.” his eyes soften as he looks her up and down. “Please?”
She knows that she’s already shown him once before, at Chloe’s wedding over a year ago—and the way his eyes are darting and shuffling on his feet lets her know that he isn’t being entirely truthful. There’s a crazy thought that passes through her mind, that maybe he’s just finding an excuse to have her within his vicinity, touching him.
She pushes that thought down, rolling her eyes as she holds out her hand. “Give ‘em here, Smallville.”
Clark obeys, stepping closer and holding out his wrists.
She works quietly, deft fingers sliding the cuff links into place. He watched her the whole time, gaze soft and focused, like he was trying to memorize the moment. Her hands brushed the edge of his wrist, and something flickered in his eyes.
The moment feels all too familiar, but somehow more intense. She steps back, as if to gather her bearings. “All set.”
His voice was quieter now. “Thanks.”
Lois moved toward the mirror again, reaching around to tug at the zipper on her dress, contorting awkwardly in the process. She gave a small grunt of frustration.
Clark hovered at the edge of the room. “Need a hand?”
She paused. Looked at him through the mirror.
“Sure. Just don’t mess up my hair, or I’m making you redo it.”
He smiled and stepped behind her.
His fingers were gentle as they found the zipper. She could feel the brush of his knuckles against her spine as he slowly drew the zipper up, the sound loud in the quiet room. She didn’t move, barely breathed. The sensation of him standing so close, of his hand steady and warm at her back, sent her stomach flipping in a way that felt dangerously familiar.
When the zipper reached the top, he didn’t move away right away. Their eyes met in the mirror.
“You look…” he began, voice almost hoarse, then cleared his throat. “Beautiful. I mean—you always do, but…”
Lois turned around before he could finish bumbling. “Clark.”
He blinked, “Yeah?”
“You’re not here just for the cuff links, are you?”
There was a long pause. He shrugged, smile crooked. “Well, that was my excuse. But I also figured…since I’m already here, and Richard’s off chasing black market files in Lithuania…”
She crossed her arms. An eyebrow rising.
“...and I’m the best man and you’re a bridesmaid…” he added, a little more rushed now.
Lois gave him a look.
“...I thought maybe we could go together?” he said finally, voice soft and hopeful.
She swallowed. “Well,” she said, her voice just a little unsteady, “you already have the cuff links on. It would be a shame to waste the look.”
He grinned, wide and bright.
“Then let’s go make an entrance.”
—
The reception was winding down. The cake had been cut, the toasts delivered. Most of the older guests had trickled out, leaving behind the stragglers, the ones too tipsy or sentimental to call it a night. The band had shifted into softer melodies, the kind that begged for slow dancing and lingering hands.
Lois sat near a table of the edge of the dance floor, absently swirling what was left of her champagne. She was only half-listening to Chloe and Bart bicker about cake flavors a few feet away.
“Thought I might find you hiding,” Clark said, stepping into view.
Lois didn’t startle. She just looked up, lips curling faintly. “Wasn’t hiding. Just taking a break from all the love in the air. It’s nauseating.”
Clark smiled a little, then held out a hand. “Dance with me.”
She opened her mouth to make a quip—something sarcastic about how the last time they danced at a wedding, it ended in dramatic exits and emotional damage—but she didn’t. She just sighed, stood, and placed her hand in his.
They walked onto the dance floor, slipping between the remaining couples. His hand found her waist. Hers settled on his shoulder. They moved slowly, without a word.
As the song went on, they settled into a more intimate position. His arms wrapped around her waist, and he rested his head against the side of hers, breath blowing softly against her ear. She wrapped her hands around his neck.
A few beats passed. Then—
“I wouldn’t go back.”
She tilts her head back so she’s looking up at him, brows pinching slightly. “That’s specific.”
“At the diner. When you asked me if I’d go back to Lana, and I said I didn’t know.”
Lois didn’t answer. She just stared at him.
Clark’s gaze didn’t flinch, soft but sure. “Well, now I do. I wouldn’t.
Lois looked away, jaw tightening slightly. “That’s nice of you to say.”
“It’s not nice. It’s true.”
He sounded frustrated. Not at her, but at himself. At time. At the way he always seemed to say things too late.
They were still swaying, and her hands gripped just a little tighter, “I don’t know what you want me to do with that, Clark.”
He looked at her like he was about to say something else—something big, maybe even reckless—but her eyes stopped him. Sharp, tired, guarded.
A few more moments passed before she stepped out of his arms entirely.
“Thanks for the dance,” she said softly, smoothing her dress.
And then she walked off the dance floor, heels clicking softly against the tile, not bothering to look back.
Clark stayed where he was, hand still half raised, like he didn’t quite know what to do without her in it.
—
Richard asks her to move in. It’s not too far out of left field. They’ve been together for almost a year, and things are fine.
There are no sudden exits mid-conversation. No lingering looks that make her forget what day it is. When he kisses her goodbye in the mornings, there’s no sharp ache of wanting more, no breath held waiting for either shoe to drop.
He asks her over takeout, like he’s suggesting a movie. A small smile, an easy tone. No pressure.
She keeps chewing, even though the food tastes suddenly bland.
She thinks about splitting a drawer. Buying a second toothbrush. Folding his socks.
She also thinks about cufflinks. Shoulder punches. Lingering looks.
She tells Richard she’ll think about it.
—
She knows it’s him before she opens the door.
Clark stands there, soaked from the rain. His jacket is wrinkled and his hair’s a mess, like he’d run his hands through it a dozen times on the way over.
She doesn’t speak.
He does.
“Don’t do it.”
She rolls her eyes and stalks toward the kitchen. “I forgot to tell Chloe to keep it a secret. That’s on me, I guess.”
Clark walks in, closing the door. He makes his way towards her as she’s pouring a glass of water, invading her senses.
“Wanna back up a bit?” She looks him up and down. “You’re gonna drip rain into my filtered Brita water.”
Clark steps closer, voice low. “Don’t move in with him.”
She laughs humorlessly, putting the glass down. “Why? Because he doesn’t like monster trucks?”
“Because you don’t love him.”
Her eyes snap to his. He’s right, which is why Lois broke up with Richard two days ago. Not that Clark knows that, he’s not entitled to know.
“You don’t know what I feel,” she snaps.
His voice softens. “I know you. I know how you are when you love something, it scares you. So you run away from it.”
Lois looks away. The silence stretches thin and tight.
“You run from me,” he adds, quieter.
Her gaze sharpens. “Don’t,” she grits out.
“Lois—”
“You should leave.”
She’s telling him to get out of her home, and he looks at her like he’s never wanted her more. They’re almost chest to chest, and he lightly brushes a hair out of her eyes.
“Okay,” he doesn’t move. “Okay.”
He walks to the door. Hesitates, hand on the knob.
“I’ll see you at work,” he says.
She doesn’t answer.
The door clicks shut behind him.
She waits one minute until the tears start to fall.
—
They skirt around each other for the next week. Somehow it’s less awkward with Richard, whom she literally just broke up with. He took it well, all things considered. There was no shouting, no accusations—just a quiet, mutual understanding that whatever they’d been building had slowly unraveled. She’d been pulling away, and he’d known. Maybe he even understood why.
News of their breakup has since become public, and Clark has had the nerve to look sheepish around her, realizing that his rain-soaked confession was slightly redundant.
She hasn’t said anything to him about it. Not about Richard, not about that night. Not even when he lingers near her desk a little too long, or when he brings her coffee in the morning, just how she likes it.
It’s like they’re stuck in neutral. Something cracked open between them, but neither one of them seems ready to look inside.
So when Perry calls her into his office and slides the file across the desk, she doesn’t hesitate.
Three months. Embedded with international diplomats, hopping countries, chasing leads. She reads the first few lines, doesn’t smile, doesn’t frown. Just nods once.
“I’ll do it.”
—
Lois steps out of Perry’s office, folder in hand, heels clicking softly against the floor. Clark’s already waiting by the elevator.
She slows when she sees him, but doesn’t stop. Just comes to stand beside him, a comfortable distance apart. She doesn’t say anything. Neither does she.
The elevator light dings. Then dings again. Then stops on another floor. Still far off.
Lois exhales. “Place is a zoo today.”
Clark nods, barely glancing at the panel. “Yeah.”
Another pause.
The numbers tick down slowly. Very slowly.
“I think one of the interns accidentally locked themselves in the records room,” she says after a moment.
“Second time this month,” he replies, almost smiling.
Another ding. Still not their floor.
She shifts her weight slightly. He looks at her.
“I heard from Perry,” he says. “You’ve got two weeks left.”
“Mm-hmm,” she hums. “Just tying up loose ends before I go. Making sure the bullpen doesn’t burn down in my absence.”
Clark hums, “They’ll survive. Barely.”
Another ding. Still nothing.
Lois glances sideways at him. His expression is unreadable, but there’s something lighter about him.
“You taking the stairs or waiting it out?” she asks.
“Waiting,” he says as he looks at the elevator.
Then back at her, his expression soft and open. “I’ll wait,” he repeats, the for you being left unspoken.
There’s something in the way he says it. The kind of quiet certainty that makes her stomach flutter a little bit. Her mouth quirks up for just a second. She doesn’t respond right away. Just presses the folder to her chest, the corners soft from wear. Her eyes flick to the elevator, then to him.
The silence stretches. Comfortable, this time. The elevator finally dings on their floor. Lois steps forward, but just before the doors open, she pauses. Glances over her shoulder.
“You know waiting gets you nowhere unless you speak up, right?”
Clark meets her eyes, steady.
“I know.”
The doors slide open. She steps in.
He follows.
—
It’s usually late, long after her recorder’s been turned off and her notes scribbled into order. She’ll kick off her shoes, lean against the headboard, and dial him up. And Clark always picks up on the first ring—even though he pretends he wasn’t waiting by the phone.
Their conversation topics vary. Sometimes it’s about work. Sometimes it’s about a funny article headline she clipped out of a local paper. Depending on the timezone, they’ll just fall asleep on the phone together.
She sends postcards, too. Always handwritten, little notes in the margins.
This place has a population of 900, and somehow, they all know I’m not from here.
Weather’s terrible. Coffee’s worse. I think the motel bed’s alive.
Saw a hideous flannel coat today and thought of you.
They never talk about it. That’s okay, though, this isn’t like the other times. It’s not about denial or avoidance. He doesn’t push, she doesn’t run.
And for the first time, the distance doesn’t feel like a wall. It feels like a bridge in progress.
—
The motel lamp is flickering again.
She’s lying on top of the covers, hair damp from a too-cold shower, pen tapping against the notepad balanced on her stomach. Her cell phone rests by her ear on speaker, the call timer blinking at forty-seven minutes.
She can hear him typing. She knows the cadence by now—quick, methodical when it’s something important. Slow and distracted when he’s talking to her.
“So then the mayor tried to say the town didn’t have a rat infestation,” she says, stretching her legs out. “Which was bold, considering I watched three of them fight over a churro in front of city hall.”
“Are you sure it was a churro?” Clark says, voice low and amused.
“That’s your major concern in this story, Smallville?”
He laughs, and she smiles without thinking about it.
“You sound tired,” he says gently.
“Exhausted,” she admits. “But it’s the good kind. The kind where your brain’s still buzzing.”
“You used to call that mania.”
“Still do.”
He hums. Then: “Wish I could see you.”
She closes her eyes.
“Well,” she says after a moment, “if you squint hard enough, I’ve taped a picture of myself to the lamp.”
Clark chuckles, soft and disbelieving. “You didn’t.”
“It’s from my press badge. Glamorous.”
“Should I be flattered or terrified?”
She grins. “Depends on if it starts talking to you,” she sighs. “Although I don’t have anything to remember you by.”
She almost packed one of his flannels that she’s harbored for so long, but it’s long since lost his scent, so she didn’t bother.
After a moment, Clark says quietly, “You don’t need something to remember me by, Lois.”
“Why’s that?” Her eyes are open just slightly, lids heavy.
“Because I’m not going anywhere.”
—
The airport is chaotic. Families reuniting, business people barking into phones, a toddler mid-meltdown near the baggage claim. Lois weaves through the crowd, sunglasses perched high on her head, every part of her humming with the kind of exhaustion that settles into your bones after three months on the go.
And then she sees him.
Clark stands just past the barrier, half tucked behind a pillar, like he’s trying not to be in the way. He’s holding a little cardboard sign that reads Miss Lane in neat, blocky handwriting. Below it, dangling from one arm, is one of his flannel shirts—soft, worn, unmistakably his.
Something melts in her ribcage. She thinks it might be her heart.
He hasn’t seen her yet. He’s scanning the crowd, eyes hopeful. They finally find her and his face breaks into that smile, the one she’s tried not to miss too much but failed miserably.
And in that moment, she just knows.
—
The car ride home was filled with casual talk, but her body was buzzing with excitement. Clark grabs her bags from the trunk and walks towards the porch. She follows a few steps behind, wrapped in the flannel he gave her.
The farmhouse is dim, golden in the late afternoon light. It smells like old wood and something faintly sweet, apples maybe. Clark drops her bags by the stairs. She steps in and closes the door behind her with a soft click.
He goes to the kitchen and shuffles on his feet, hands fumbling, “So…you want something to eat?”
She doesn’t say anything in response, just walks until she’s standing a hair's breadth away from him.
She wraps her arms around his neck and brushes her lips against his.
Clark freezes. Just for a moment. Like his whole system short-circuits at the feel of her so close, her breath mingling with his, her lips barely grazing his like a question she already knows the answer to.
Then, slowly, his hands settle at her waist. He leans in the rest of the way, pressing his mouth to hers—soft at first, like he’s still not sure he’s allowed. But when she kisses him back, deeper this time, fingers slipping into his hair, something in him lets go.
She pushes up on her toes, and he lifts her slightly without thinking, walking her backward until she’s pressed against the kitchen island. Her hands roam, arms wrapping around his waist. One of his hands moves to her jaw, tilting her head back as he kisses her again, slower this time, more sensual. Their mouths open against each other, and their tongues brush, in a way that’s so erotic her knees wobble a bit.
They break only for air, foreheads resting against each other. Her lips are spit slick and red, and he’s looking at her in that shameless way that makes her bite her lip in anticipation.
She tugs him back down and kisses him harder. It’s messier now, her hands slipping beneath the hem of his shirt, his mouth moving along her jaw until he reaches her ear, sucking and biting on the lobe. Her breath catches, fingers gripping his sides. He groans softly against her skin, and she feels it all the way down to her toes.
He lifts her like it’s nothing, her legs wrapping around his waist, and starts walking them toward the stairs. She laughs breathlessly against his mouth, pressing quick little pecks in succession.
“You miss me?” she teases.
He nods against her, not stopping in his stride, “So much.”
“I don’t know if I believe you,” she smirks. “Prove it.”
And he does. He proves it so well that her eyes roll back and her legs shake. He proves it in the way he kisses her, touches her, looks at her, and speaks sweet nothings into her ear until she is begging and begging for release.
And afterwards, when their breathing returns to normal and they’re left tangled in the sheets, Lois thinks she’s never been happier to have been proven wrong.