Chapter Text
Zoey Stella York glanced up as a dull thud echoed from the top of the school bus. A few students laughed, unfazed. She tucked a bright curl of blonde hair behind her ear, her emerald eyes — shielded behind thick, black-rimmed glasses — flicked back to the open book in her lap. The world outside could thump, rattle, or roar; fiction remained her sanctuary.
The chatter around her barely registered. Pete Ross and Chloe Sullivan sat in the seat ahead — Pete with his signature bright grin, and Chloe flipping through her ever-present reporter’s notebook. They were friendly enough, but Zoey never let herself feel too close. Most of their connection was through their shared bond with Clark Kent — the son of her godparents, Jonathan and Martha.
As the yellow bus groaned toward the front of Smallville High, Zoey slid her book into her backpack with care, already mourning the interruption. When the brakes hissed and the doors creaked open, Pete stood and glanced over his shoulder. “So,” he said, hopping down the stairs, “anyone ask either of you to the dance?”
“Not yet,” Chloe replied breezily. Then both turned their eyes to Zoey.
She adjusted her glasses. “No,” she said flatly, stepping off the bus and disappearing into the sea of students pouring into the hallway.
Zoey didn’t need a date. She didn’t need the dance. What she needed was distance — the kind she had clung to since her parents died when she was seven. Crowds meant noise. Connections meant risk. She preferred her books.
At her locker, she sifted through her bag, focused on the small ritual of preparing for class, when a slam echoed beside her. A hand landed on the metal next to her head. She didn’t jump. She just looked up.
Shane Burke.
Of course.
The star running back stood tall, his hazel eyes gleaming with confidence he hadn't earned from her. He and Whitney Forman were the names girls whispered about in the halls—but Zoey didn’t whisper. She didn’t even care.
Shane leaned in, casual as a cat. “You going to the homecoming dance with anyone?”
Zoey blinked. “No.”
“Great,” he said with a grin. “Then you can go with me.”
She shut her locker with a soft clack, binder, and history book in hand. “No.”
Unbothered, Shane followed as she turned down the hall. His long stride caught up easily, and then — his arm draped around her shoulders. Zoey stiffened.
“We’ll have a great time,” he said, as if it were already decided. “What color’s your dress? I’ll match the corsage.”
“I don’t have a dress. I’m not going.”
“You should get red,” he said, ignoring her words. “It’ll go with whatever you pick. I’ll pick you up at six. Truck’ll be clean.”
Zoey stopped walking. Shane didn’t. He reached for her wrist, and she stared at his hand on her skin — like it didn’t belong. Her eyes narrowed. Then he leaned in and pressed a kiss — quick and smug — to her cheek.
“I’ll see you later,” he said like it was a promise.
He vanished into the crowd. Zoey stood frozen for a breath. Her fingers tightened around her binder.
What just happened? No one had asked her. No one had listened to her. Not really. She walked into her history class, slid into her seat, and stared at the front of the room. Her thoughts raced, but outwardly, she remained still. She didn’t want to be seen. Not like that.
And especially not by him.
Zoey arched an eyebrow as the familiar red pickup truck pulled up in front of Smallville High. It was supposed to be Martha picking her up — she remembered that clearly. Her afternoon had been quiet, spent tucked in the back corner of the school library, where silence wasn’t a luxury, but a promise. Research for her science project had gone uninterrupted for once, which made this interruption all the more jarring. When she spotted the worried lines etched across Jonathan Kent’s face, her posture straightened. “Is everything okay?” she asked, her voice calm but clipped.
Jonathan gave a tight nod and motioned for her to get in. “Clark was in an accident. Out by Loeb Bridge.”
The words hit like a snap of cold wind. Zoey didn’t ask anything else — Jonathan’s tone told her the situation was serious. She climbed into the passenger seat, heart thudding harder than she’d admit. She glanced at him sideways as he drove, hands tight on the wheel, the kind of quiet intensity that only surfaced when it came to Clark. Her godbrother. Her closest thing to family.
The moment they arrived, she understood why Jonathan hadn’t said more. Emergency lights bathed the scene in flashes of red and blue. Police cars. An ambulance. A tow crew struggling to winch a mangled Porsche out of the river. Zoey slid out of the truck, staying close to the door. Her arms folded tightly over her chest as her eyes scanned the chaos. Then she saw him. Clark sat on the riverbank, draped in a red blanket. Alive.
Jonathan was already sprinting toward him. “Clark! Son, you alright?”
Clark nodded, a little dazed but solid. “Yeah, I’m okay.”
Zoey exhaled for the first time. Then she noticed the man standing nearby — another red blanket wrapped around him, a stark contrast against the pale gleam of his bald head. A cut traced one cheek, blood dried at the edge. His presence was magnetic in a way that made Zoey instantly wary.
“That would be me,” he said, stepping forward when Jonathan demanded to know who had been driving. “Lex Luthor.”
The name sent a ripple of recognition through Zoey. Luthor. As in LuthorCorp. As in Metropolis money and whispered rumors about the mansion that sat just outside Smallville, cold and castle-like. He extended a hand, calm and composed, as if wrecking a car into a river was just a minor inconvenience.
Jonathan didn’t shake it. Instead, he shrugged off his jacket and placed it firmly over Clark’s shoulders. “I’m Jonathan Kent. This is my son.”
“Thanks for saving my life,” Lex said, directing the words to Clark.
Zoey tilted her head slightly, studying Clark. He looked perfectly fine. And yet the Porsche had come out of the river like a crushed soda can. “I’m sure you would’ve done the same thing,” Clark replied.
“You have quite an extraordinary boy there, Mr. Kent,” Lex said, voice like velvet with a hint of calculation. “If there’s any way I can repay you—”
“Drive slower,” Jonathan snapped, steering Clark toward the truck without another word.
Zoey moved aside as they approached. Her gaze lingered on Lex for a second longer, a small chill crawling down her spine that had nothing to do with the October air. Once the men reached the truck, Zoey asked, “Are you okay?”
Clark nodded as he opened the door. “I’m fine.”
Zoey didn’t press. She just watched him, carefully, noting the edge in his voice that hadn’t been there this morning. Something had happened out there. Something none of them were going to talk about — not yet, anyway.
She slid back into the truck, quiet beside the Kents as the engine rumbled to life. But in the back of her mind, the image of Lex Luthor standing still and smiling in the middle of the wreckage refused to fade.
Zoey ascended the creaking stairs to the barn’s loft, her boots thudding softly against the worn wood. Golden afternoon light filtered through the high windows, catching in the dust motes that always seemed to hang suspended in this part of the world—like even time slowed down inside the Kent barn.
The loft had technically been a shared space. Jonathan had renovated it years ago, adding a worn couch, an old desk, and even a battered trunk that doubled as a coffee table. It was supposed to be a hangout zone for Clark and Zoey, somewhere they could bring friends without the ever-present surveillance of parents hovering nearby.
Except…Zoey never really used it. She’d always preferred her room. Four walls. A locked door. Books, silence, and no one expecting anything. The loft was more Clark’s domain — a place where he could be moody, nostalgic, and maybe, just a little, romantic.
And sure enough, when she reached the top of the stairs, there he was. Bent over the telescope, his broad frame casting a slanting shadow as he peered out toward the neighboring property. Toward Lana Lang’s house.
Zoey rolled her eyes. “You know that’s creepy, right?” she said, striding across the space and flopping down onto the couch with dramatic flair. The springs groaned beneath her, but she ignored it.
Clark didn’t answer. He just straightened and gave her a scowl.
“Seriously,” she went on, unbothered by the look. “You could just talk to her like a normal person instead of spying through a telescope like you're auditioning for Rear Window.”
“She has a boyfriend,” Clark muttered, moving away from the scope like he hadn’t been caught in the act.
Zoey smirked. “So? Wait a few months. Whitney’ll graduate, and leave town, and Lana’ll still be here. Then you make your move.”
Clark turned, folding his arms. “You make it sound like her love life is just a countdown clock.”
“It kind of is.” Zoey shrugged. “Freshman girl. Senior guy. Long-distance doesn’t work. Trust me. They’re on borrowed time.”
Clark narrowed his eyes, but there was no real fight behind it. Just the sulky reluctance of someone who knew she was probably right.
Zoey leaned forward, elbows on her knees. “Or,” she added, “you can keep watching from afar like some tragic romantic figure from one of my novels. Just, y’know, keep the brooding to a minimum.”
He sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Why are you even up here?”
“Uncle Jonathan wanted me to check if you’d finished your chores.”
Clark smirked. “Seeing as I’m not you? Yeah. I actually get them done.”
Zoey stood, brushing imaginary dust from her jeans. “Whatever. Maybe if I had super speed, I’d get them done too.”
She turned before she could see his reaction, already heading for the stairs. As much as she teased, there was a part of her that still wasn’t sure how to talk to Clark anymore. They used to be close. Years ago, before high school, before hormones and secrets and the invisible wall that had grown up between them.
But ever since puberty hit, something had changed. Conversations turned sharp. Teasing turned biting. Silence stretched longer. Even the warmth of their childhood bond had cooled, replaced by something more cautious, more distant. And no amount of effort from the Kents seemed to bridge it. They still shared space. They still shared secrets. But they didn’t share each other anymore. And Zoey wasn’t sure if that would ever come back.
The sun was high over the Kansas fields, casting golden light over the rows of swaying corn. Seven-year-old Zoey York ran barefoot through the grass, her laughter trailing behind her like a kite in the wind. A pink headband barely kept her wild curls from her face, and her arms were outstretched as if she could fly.
Clark ran beside her — taller, stronger, quieter. Even then, he never quite knew how to play the way other kids did. But he tried. For her.
They were chasing dragonflies near the edge of the Kent property. Martha had warned them not to go too far. But rules rarely mattered in the way summer afternoons stretched on forever. Zoey squealed when one of the dragonflies came too close and flinched backward — right into a nest tucked low in the grass.
The sting hit her neck like fire.
At first, she thought it was just a scratch. Then she felt the heat flood her skin. Her knees buckled. The breath left her lungs in a rush. “Zoey?” Clark’s voice was far away, like he was shouting underwater.
Her hands clawed at her throat. Panic set in. Her vision tunneled. Her lips tingled, her chest squeezed like an invisible fist had gripped her. She remembered falling.
And then—
Wind.
The world blurred. The sky. The trees. It all turned into streaks of color and wind and impossible motion. She felt arms around her — Clark’s — but nothing else made sense. One second they were in the field. The next, they were in the Kent kitchen, and Martha was screaming for Jonathan.
Everything happened too fast. Too impossibly fast.
The next few hours passed in a haze — syringes, an EpiPen, the cold press of a washcloth, voices, warmth.
Zoey didn’t speak. Not until the adrenaline had faded and her voice came back in the hush of Clark’s room, hours later. She was tucked under one of Martha’s hand-stitched quilts, sipping water. Clark sat at the edge of the bed, staring at the floor like he’d done something wrong.
“Clark…” Her voice cracked. “You ran so fast.”
He looked up, alarmed. Guilty.
“No one can run that fast,” she said softly. Clark didn’t answer. “I know what happened,” she continued. “I saw everything. I remember it.”
He opened his mouth. Closed it again. His shoulders slumped.
“You’re not normal,” Zoey whispered. Not cruelly. Not with judgment. Just with a child’s wide-eyed awe. “You saved me.”
“I didn’t mean to,” he said finally, his voice low. “It just — happened.”
She stared at him. “Have you always been like this?”
Clark nodded once. Zoey’s gaze dropped to her hands. She could still feel the tightness in her chest from the bee sting. The way she’d gasped for breath. The fear. But he’d been there. Clark had been there. And even if he had secrets…he’d saved her.
“Okay,” she said, after a long pause. “I won’t tell anyone.”
His head snapped up.
“I promise.”
For a moment, it felt like something passed between them — an understanding too big for words. A shared secret that tied them together in a way nothing else could.
Zoey sometimes thought about that day. About how young they’d been. About how terrified she’d been. About how her life could’ve ended right there in that field if Clark hadn’t —
She blinked and pushed the memory away. Because that was the day everything changed. That was the day he stopped being just Clark. And maybe, in a quiet part of her heart, it was the day she started to keep her distance.
Zoey followed Clark in silence down the dusty driveway leading to the Kent farmhouse. The familiar crunch of gravel beneath their shoes, the distant lowing of cows from the pasture, the way the wind always seemed to smell like hay and sunbaked wood—these were things she’d known for most of her life. But today, something felt…off.
She saw it the same moment Clark did. A brand-new red pickup truck gleamed like a polished jewel in front of the barn. The giant blue bow on the hood fluttered lightly in the breeze like it belonged in a car commercial. Zoey’s eyebrows arched. Well, that’s not subtle.
“Hey, Mom!” Clark called, suddenly full of energy as he jogged toward the vehicle. “Whose truck?”
“Yours,” Martha replied, hopping down from the tractor like this kind of thing happened every day. She pulled a card from her jacket and handed it to him. “It’s a gift from Lex Luthor.”
Zoey’s stomach twisted — not in jealousy, exactly. But there was something unsettling about the whole thing. About Lex. About what a shiny truck really meant.
Clark read aloud, “‘Dear Clark. Drive safely. Always in your debt. A maniac in a Porsche.’” He looked stunned. “I don’t believe it. Where are the keys?”
“Your father has them,” Martha said, her voice just a little too even.
Clark’s excitement flickered into something else — nervousness. He scanned the yard like he expected Jonathan to pop out from behind the hay bales.
Martha turned her attention to Zoey. And just like that, the spotlight shifted. “I ran into Shane Burke’s mother at the grocery store. She told me that you two are going to the homecoming dance together.”
Zoey groaned, rolling her eyes so hard she thought they might get stuck. Here we go.
“I’m not going to the dance. And I told him that. Multiple times,” she snapped, crossing her arms. “But he refused to listen. Probably got hit in the head one too many times playing football — now he thinks ‘no’ just means try again later.”
Martha didn’t laugh. “I think it would be good for you, Zoey,” she said instead, with that careful motherly tone that always sounded too reasonable to argue with outright. “You should do things outside of school and the farm. Have some fun. Make friends.”
“I have friends,” Zoey muttered.
Martha raised an eyebrow. “When’s the last time you hung out with Pete or Chloe without Clark around?”
Zoey hesitated. And in that silence, Martha knew she’d won the point. Zoey scuffed the toe of her boot against the gravel. She hated it when her godmother was right. Hated it more when it felt like everyone saw her as some sad, reclusive girl clinging to childhood while the world moved on.
“Sweetheart,” Martha said gently, “we just worry about you.”
Zoey didn’t reply. She couldn’t. Because there was nothing to say. She liked being on her own. She liked not having to perform or filter or pretend. But at the same time...she hated the way Martha’s words made her feel like a ghost in her own life. Finally, she exhaled and said, “If I go to the stupid dance with Shane, can I go to the Monet exhibit in Metropolis next month?”
Martha smiled — quick, warm, and far too triumphant. “Deal. And hey, who knows? Maybe you’ll actually have fun.”
Zoey didn’t reply. She just raised a skeptical eyebrow. Doubtful.
Before she could retreat to the house, a loud crunch echoed from the barn.
“What the hell—?”
She turned just in time to hear Clark’s voice ring out, raw with frustration. “I didn’t dive in after Lex’s car! It hit me — at sixty miles an hour! Does that sound normal to you? I'd give anything to be normal!”
Zoey flinched slightly at the emotion in his voice. Clark stormed past them, his arm streaked with wood dust, eyes burning with something wild and helpless. He didn’t even glance at her as he headed for the loft. Martha exchanged a sharp look with Jonathan, who’d appeared in the doorway, grim and silent.
Zoey just shook her head and turned toward the house. She wasn’t going to follow Clark. Not this time. Not when he was doing everything in his power to push the rest of the world away — even her.
Normal, he’d said. Like it was something anyone in their lives ever got to be.
~*~
“Did you know that I’m an alien?” Clark’s voice was calm. Too calm.
Zoey blinked. They were driving down the gravel road toward the Luthor estate, and he’d dropped that little bombshell like he was telling her he forgot to do his homework. She turned to stare at him. “I’m sorry — what?”
“My spaceship’s in the storm cellar,” he added like this clarified everything. “Dad says I came down during the meteor shower. He and Mom found my crashed ship on the side of the road.”
Zoey stopped walking for half a second. She stared at him. Searching his face for any sign he was messing with her.
He wasn’t.
“So, you’re an alien.” She nodded slowly, letting the word settle in her mouth. “Well. That explains a lot.” She raised a hand, index finger in the air, and added, “Have you phoned home yet?”
Clark groaned. “You’re not funny.”
“Oh, I think I’m hilarious.”
But inside?
Inside she wasn’t laughing.
She already knew Clark was different. Had known since the day he carried her back to the house faster than any human could run. But hearing the word “alien” made everything feel more…real. Official. A quiet part of her chest tightened — fear? Maybe. Or just the ache of realizing Clark would never be what she was. No matter how much she wanted things to be simple.
By the time they reached the looming gates of Luthor Manor, the mood had shifted.
The intercom buzzed with silence.
After a few seconds, Clark parked the truck and they climbed out. He tugged the iron gate just wide enough for the two of them to slip through. Zoey glanced over her shoulder as he pulled it shut behind them like they were sneaking into a place they didn’t quite belong.
The mansion stood like something out of a dream — or maybe a nightmare. All gray stone and carved arches, sharp and regal and impossibly old. It looked like the kind of place that came with a ghost in the basement and an unspoken contract at the front door.
This place could swallow a person whole, Zoey thought. And no one would hear you scream.
They wandered through the halls, footsteps echoing off the marble floors until they found themselves in a cavernous room where two people were fencing. Zoey barely had time to register the flash of silver before a fencing sword thunked into the wall — inches from Clark’s head.
“Clark!” Lex pulled off his mask. “I didn’t see you.”
Clearly.
Clark straightened. “Uh, we buzzed, but no one answered.”
Lex yanked the sword from the wall with a smirk. “How’d you get through the gate?”
“We squeezed through the bars,” Zoey said quickly. Her eyes slid to the blonde woman still holding her own sword like she knew exactly where to aim next. “We can come back if this is a bad time.”
“Oh no, no,” Lex replied, waving it off. “I think Heidi’s sufficiently kicked my ass for the day.”
He tossed his mask aside, and the woman nodded, vanishing wordlessly. Lex’s gaze landed on Zoey with curious intensity, like she was a puzzle he hadn’t seen before.
Clark cleared his throat. “This is Zoey. She’s…she’s my sister. I guess.” Zoey raised a brow but didn’t argue. Not here. Not with him watching. Clark’s eyes scanned the room. “This is a great place.”
“Yeah? If you’re dead and in the market for something to haunt.”
Zoey smirked despite herself.
Clark glanced around again. “I mean, it’s roomy.”
Lex chuckled and started walking out. Clark followed, and Zoey trailed after them, still drinking in the strange elegance of the halls. The walls whispered with old money and older secrets. “It’s the Luthor ancestral home — or so my father claims,” Lex explained. “He had it shipped over from Scotland. Stone by stone.”
Zoey snorted. “Yeah, we remember. Trucks rolled through Smallville for weeks. But no one ever moved in.”
“My father had no intention of living here. He’s never even stepped through the front door.”
Clark frowned. “Then why bring it here?”
Lex glanced back at them, voice smooth. “Because he could.”
They stepped into a gym that looked more like a high-end fitness museum. State-of-the-art machines, heavy weights, even a boxing ring.
Lex pulled off his fencing jacket. “How’s the new ride?”
Clark shot a glance at Zoey. She gave him a slight nod. Do it.
“That’s why I’m here,” Clark said. “I can’t keep it.”
Lex opened a water bottle and handed them each one. Zoey took it slowly, unsure what to make of the gesture. “What’s the matter?” Lex asked, tilting his head. “You don’t like it?”
“No, it’s not that. It’s just…” Clark hesitated. “I can’t accept it.”
Lex set his bottle down. “Clark, you saved my life. I think it’s the least I can do.”
There was a beat of silence.
“Your father doesn’t like me, does he?” Lex asked.
Clark shifted, uncomfortable. Zoey saw the flicker of something sharp in Lex’s eyes. Not hurt — just… curiosity. Like he was testing boundaries.
“It’s nothing personal,” Clark said weakly. “He’s just not crazy about your dad.”
Lex gave a humorless laugh and rubbed his scalp. “Figures. The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. Understandable.” He looked at Clark with more weight. “What about you? Did you fall far from the tree?”
Zoey’s eyes flicked to Clark, suddenly tense. Don't answer that.
Clark didn’t. “We better go,” he said, voice tight. “Thanks for the truck.”
They turned to leave, but Lex wasn’t finished. “Clark,” he called. They turned. “Do you believe a man can fly?”
Clark chuckled, confused. “Sure. In a plane.”
Lex stepped forward, his gaze distant. “No. I mean really fly. Soar through the clouds with nothing beneath you but air.”
Zoey stared at him. “Lex, people can’t fly.”
But Lex wasn’t looking at her. He was still lost in whatever image he’d conjured. “I did,” he said softly. “After the accident. When my heart stopped. It was the most exhilarating two minutes of my life. I flew over Smallville, and for the first time, I didn’t see a dead end — I saw a beginning. A second chance.” His eyes flicked to Clark. “Thanks to you.”
Zoey swallowed. This guy is something else.
“We have a future, Clark,” Lex said. “And I don’t want anything to stand in the way of our friendship.”
As they stepped back into the afternoon sun, the tension finally released from Zoey’s shoulders. She took a long breath and muttered, “He’s a very intense guy.”
Clark nodded silently. But Zoey kept thinking about it. About Lex’s words. The way he’d looked at Clark. The way he’d talked about flying. It didn’t sound like a fantasy. It sounded like an expectation. And that was what made her uneasy.
Zoey smoothed down the pale blue dress Martha had picked out for her, fingers twitching nervously at the hem. She hadn’t seen Clark since that morning at school, and now she stood alone in the gym, surrounded by glittering lights and slow-dancing couples. The decorations were beautiful — paper lanterns, twinkling fairy lights, crepe streamers in school colors — but Zoey felt like a ghost standing just beyond the edge of someone else’s perfect photograph.
Unsurprisingly, Lana Lang and Whitney Foreman had been crowned Homecoming Queen and King. Chloe was dancing with Pete, spinning beneath the lights with flushed cheeks and a bright grin.
And Zoey?
She was currently leaning against the wall, arms crossed, waiting to see if Shane Burke actually would come back with the glass of punch he promised. Part of her still half-expected him to vanish with a laugh, some cruel setup designed to remind her where she stood in the social order.
But then—
“Hey.” Zoey looked up. Shane was back. Punch in hand. He grinned and grabbed her free hand, a little too confidently. “Let’s go somewhere quieter. Get to know each other.”
Every instinct in her screamed no. Her body tensed, her stomach dropped. But she hated making scenes. Hated looking like the uptight girl who couldn’t just go along with it. So she nodded. “Fine.”
She told herself she was making progress. That she’d tell Martha the night hadn’t been a total disaster. That maybe — just maybe — she could pretend to be normal for one night.
She was so caught up in the script she’d rehearsed in her head that she didn’t notice where Shane was leading her until it was too late.
Not just out of the gym. Out of the building.
The cold air hit her first.
Then the splash.
Red paint, thick and sticky, poured down over her head.
Zoey gasped, blinking rapidly as it dripped into her eyes. She staggered, wiping her face — and then she saw them.
Shane, high-fiving his football buddies. One of the cheerleaders snapping a photo with a glossy, vicious smile.
Her throat clenched shut. The laughter echoed, far away and too close. She didn’t say a word. She didn’t cry. She just stepped around them and walked. Step by step. Away from the lights, the music, the pain.
It would take hours to walk home. But that was fine. The paint would dry. The humiliation would settle. And maybe by the time she made it back to the Kent farm, she could pretend she hadn’t cared at all.
She just hated that the dress Martha bought for her — the first dress she’d felt almost pretty in — was ruined.
A sharp honk pulled her out of her spiral.
A sleek silver Porsche rolled up beside her, slowing to a stop. The passenger window glided down, revealing a familiar face behind the wheel. Lex Luthor. “Zoey, is everything okay?” he asked, brow furrowed.
Zoey blinked. “You remember who I am?”
Lex gave her a crooked half-smile. “Of course, I remember you, Zoey. Are you alright?”
“I’m fine.”
Lex’s eyes swept over her, clearly unconvinced. “You’re walking along the highway looking like you stepped off the set of Carrie, and you say you’re fine.” He leaned over and popped the passenger door open. “Get in. I’ll drive you home.”
“I — I’m fine,” she said again, but it sounded weaker this time. Her resolve was cracking beneath the weight of paint and cold air and shame.
“Zoey,” Lex said gently. “It’s okay. I’m not going to make you talk. Just…let me drive you home.”
She hesitated. “I don’t want to ruin your car,” she murmured, voice barely audible.
“Trust me, this won’t be the worst thing my car’s had to survive. I’m not leaving until you get in.”
She bit her lip. Don’t be stupid, Zoey. You’re freezing. And tired. And your feet hurt.
So she climbed in — slowly, carefully, keeping her body as stiff and clean as possible. “It’s paint,” she said quietly, as if confessing something shameful. “I guess I’m not weird enough for pig’s blood. And…Clark’s not actually my brother. His parents are my godparents. But I’ve lived with them since my parents died, and it’s kind of like we’re siblings. Sorry. I’ll shut up now.”
Lex was silent for a moment. Then he said, “My mom died when I was thirteen. Cancer.”
Zoey glanced at him. “I’m sorry.”
Silence settled between them like fog as the Porsche glided down the dark highway. The dashboard lights reflected faintly off the windows, giving the night a strange glow. For once, Zoey didn’t feel the need to fill the silence.
When they reached the Kent driveway, the gravel crunching under the tires, Lex pulled to a gentle stop by the gate. Zoey opened the door and stepped out. “Thanks for the ride. If you want to send me the cleaning bill, I’ll pay for it.”
Lex smiled faintly. “Don’t worry about it.”
She nodded. “Thank you. Really.”
As she turned to go, his voice stopped her.
“Zoey.”
She looked back.
“If you ever need someone to talk to…just stop by the mansion.”
Her first instinct was to smile politely and say she wouldn’t. But something in his tone gave her pause. So she nodded. “Okay.”
And meant it.
Inside the house, the light flicked on the moment she stepped through the door. “Zoey, we — oh my gosh, what happened?” Martha rushed over.
Zoey winced. “Um…Shane and some of the football team decided to reenact Carrie.”
“Oh, sweetheart,” Martha said, voice thick with anger and sympathy. “I don’t think we’ll be able to save the dress. Hopefully, we can get the paint out of your hair.”
Zoey shifted awkwardly. “Is…is it okay if I stay home from school Monday?”
To her surprise, it was Jonathan who answered. “Of course. But just Monday. Tuesday you’re going back.”
Zoey blinked at him. He always told her to tough it out. This small mercy felt like a gift. “Go get cleaned up,” Martha said gently. “We’ll worry about the rest tomorrow.”
Later, clean and wrapped in an oversized sweatshirt, Zoey lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. She couldn’t sleep. She kept thinking about Lex. About his quiet voice. The way he hadn’t laughed at her, or judged her. He’d just…been there.
Was that what friendship looked like? She climbed out of bed and sat at her desk, opening her blueberry iBook. The messaging app was already up.
She typed:
‘What do you know about Lex Luthor?’
She didn’t expect an answer — not tonight. He was probably busy.
But then—
‘Stay away. Bad guy.’
Zoey frowned.
Another message appeared:
‘Zoey, stay far away from Lex. I went to boarding school with him. He wasn’t a good guy.’
She stared at the words, fingers hovering over the keyboard.
But he was kind to me.
She considered telling Ollie about the paint, about the walk, about the car ride. But she didn’t. She didn’t want to worry him.
Instead, she simply replied:
‘Okay, Ollie.’
Then she shut the laptop and crawled back into bed.
Sleep didn’t come easy.
But it did come.
Eventually.