Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Lex hated mornings. Not in the dramatic, brooding sense. He simply found them inefficient—crammed with weak coffee, fake pleasantries, and, worst of all, people trying to schedule things.

He scrolled absently through market reports while Ava Lin, his head of PR, outlined a new campaign from the opposite end of the conference table. The words ‘authenticity’ and ‘human appeal’ floated toward him like gnats.

“You’re not listening,” she said.

“I’m ignoring you deliberately,” Lex replied, without looking up.

Ava sighed. “Lex, the numbers don’t lie. Your disapproval rating just crossed 70%. That’s not public distrust—that’s active loathing. People see the word ‘billionaire’ and assume you’re one step away from kicking orphans into traffic.”

“I’m not,” he said dryly. “I outsource that sort of thing.”

“Charming.” She leaned forward, folding her hands. “We’re doing a profile. Human-interest piece. You. In your own words. Published in the Daily Planet. You’ll answer a few questions, let them photograph you not actively sneering, and we’ll call it character rehabilitation.”

Lex arched a brow. “The Daily Planet? You’re joking. That rag publishes weather charts like they’re revolutionary thought.”

“Which is why we picked them,” Ava said. “They have reach. They’re seen as honest. This isn’t a press release—this is a story. And the public needs to believe there’s a real person behind LexCorp. Someone who reads books. Maybe pets a dog.”

Lex gave her a long, horrified look.

“You do not have to get a dog,” she clarified. “Just… answer a few questions without insulting the institution of journalism as a concept. And no rants about the gold standard.”

“Who’s doing the interview?”

Ava waved a hand. “New hire. You’re not important enough for a different writer.”

Lex narrowed his eyes. “I am important enough.”

“Which is exactly the problem,” Ava said, smiling. “You’re obsessed with being impressive. This is about being likable. We don’t want gravitas—we want warmth. They’re sending someone low-profile. It’s perfect.”

Lex reached for the folder she slid across the table. No photo. Just a brief blurb: Clark Kent. Staff writer. Recently moved here.

He made a face. “Jesus. You’re sending me a hayseed with a pen.”

“Exactly. He’s harmless. And you’ll come off better by comparison.”

Lex leaned back in his chair, regarding the folder like it was radioactive. “This is going to be painful.”

“You can survive forty-five minutes of sincerity.”

He snorted. “Can I?”

Ava was already packing her tablet. “Try not to flirt with him. You’re terrifying when you’re interested.”

Lex didn’t dignify that with a response.

He closed the folder, name still sitting at the top like a challenge.

Clark Kent.

Mild. Inoffensive. Entirely forgettable.

Lex was going to hate him.

Chapter Text

Lex Luthor did not pace. Pacing was for amateurs with nerves and caffeine problems. What Lex did, in the ten minutes before his interview, was ‘redirect energy through efficient movement.’

Still, even he could admit it looked an awful lot like pacing.

He stopped at the mirrored wall of the studio-level conference room. Adjusted the cuffs of his shirt. Smoothed the lapels of his charcoal jacket. His reflection stared back, cool and composed—at least on the surface.

Then the door opened.

And in walked the single most inconvenient human being Lex had ever seen.

“Hi!” the man said, already smiling, glasses slightly askew. He offered a handshake immediately, like someone taught him that was the polite thing to do and he’d taken it as gospel.

Lex took the hand because he had to—but it was large, warm, and slightly callused. Good grip. Absolutely not a journalist’s handshake.

“Clark Kent,” the man said. “Thanks for meeting with me.”

Lex took a moment too long to respond. His brain, the same brain that had rebuilt an energy grid in a weekend, had just failed to process something as simple as a greeting.

Because Clark Kent looked like he’d just been dropped here from a wholesome Midwestern calendar shoot. Messy dark hair that curled near his ears like he forgot to comb it. Thick glasses that he kept adjusting. A soft blue button-down that stretched ever so slightly across the line of his chest and shoulders—and arms, Jesus Christ, those forearms.

It was a cruel joke. Like someone had dressed a golden retriever in Clark’s body and thrown him into Lex’s orbit.

“Luthor,” Lex said, finally.

Clark’s smile widened. “Right. Obviously.”

He sat without waiting to be invited. Lex’s eye twitched.

Clark pulled out a comically overstuffed notebook. It was worn and covered in little pen doodles—stars, plants, something that looked suspiciously like a baby goat. Not a laptop. Not a tablet. Just a spiral-bound notebook, like a middle schooler with hope.

Lex cleared his throat. “You’re not recording?”

Clark blinked. “Oh! No, I—um—I mean, I usually do audio backup, but I forgot to charge my phone this morning. Hope that’s okay?”

Lex stared. “Do you… take shorthand?”

“Nope,” Clark said brightly, uncapping his pen. “I just write really fast.”

Lex couldn’t decide if this was incredibly stupid or aggressively charming.

“Okay,” Clark said, flipping to a fresh page. “So, just to ease us in—how do you like to start your day?”

Lex opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.

Clark tilted his head, pen poised. Waiting.

Lex’s brain chose that moment—completely unprovoked—to imagine how Clark Kent would look bent over his desk. Shirt rucked up. Tie undone. Glasses fogging slightly from effort.

He blinked hard.

“I don’t—start it. It begins. I respond accordingly.”

Clark nodded, as if that made perfect sense. “Efficient.”

Lex squinted. “You’re not taking notes.”

“Oh, I am,” Clark said, turning the notebook around to show off a startlingly accurate shorthand of their conversation so far. “I just don’t write while people are talking. Feels rude.”

It was devastating. It was endearing. Lex was used to interviewers being sharp, rehearsed, a little hungry. Clark was none of that. He was open in a way Lex hadn’t seen in years. Open, honest, weirdly earnest. It made Lex’s skin itch.

“Next question,” Clark said, flipping a page. “What would you say is the biggest misconception about you?”

Lex leaned back. Smirked. “That I care what people think.”

Clark looked up at him. And smiled. Not politely. Not nervously. Just… gently.

“That’s not true, though, is it?”

Lex froze.

Clark kept talking, oblivious to the minor psychological earthquake he’d just caused. “I mean, you wouldn’t be here if you didn’t care. People think you’re cold, or ruthless, but I think it’s more like—you’re just very intense. Intensity makes people nervous.”

Lex was speechless.

No one had ever said that to him. Not even his therapist, who definitely thought it.

He recovered with a slow, practiced exhale. “You’ve got an impressive talent for projection, Mr. Kent.”

“Clark’s fine,” he said.

Lex noted the slight blush creeping up Clark’s throat. Then immediately imagined pressing his mouth to it.

He hated himself.

“Clark,” he repeated. It came out too soft. He was going to fire Ava. Or himself. Probably both.

Clark wrote something down and then—just to ruin Lex further—asked, “What do you do for fun?”

Lex blinked. “Pardon?”

“Fun,” Clark repeated. “Like, when you’re not working. Do you read? Watch movies? Bake? Pet turtles? Build Lego? Collect rare vinyl?”

“...Do you?”

“Oh yeah,” Clark said. “I do jigsaw puzzles. The 1,000-piece ones. Very competitive. My mom calls it ‘aggressively wholesome.’”

Lex stared at him.

Then, without warning, the thought hit him:

He would make a great wife.

Lex immediately faked a cough just to hide the sudden burst of noise that tried to escape him. He waved Clark off when he leaned forward in concern.

“You okay?”

“Fine,” Lex muttered. “Swallowed my pride wrong.”

Clark grinned. “Happens.”

The interview continued—sort of. Lex stopped remembering the questions, mostly. He nodded at a few, gave answers he couldn’t later recall. The entire thing became background noise to Clark’s handwriting, his quiet little hums of agreement, the way his brow furrowed in concentration.

And by the time Clark stood to go, thanking him with a handshake and a warm, utterly guileless “This was great, thank you so much for your time,” Lex was no longer bored.

He was doomed.

Chapter Text

Clark arrived at the Daily Planet ten minutes earlier than usual, a habit he couldn’t break. Punctuality felt polite, and he liked having those few quiet moments to settle in before the city outside fully roared to life.

He was halfway to his desk, balancing a lukewarm coffee and a half-unwrapped granola bar, when he stopped in his tracks.

There, sitting neatly at the center of his cluttered desk—wedged between his ancient laptop and a half-stuck Superman sticker Jimmy had slapped on his monitor—was a bouquet of roses.

Pink and ivory, tastefully arranged, tied with a thin cream ribbon. Nestled in a clean white wrapping. Fresh. Dew still clung to the petals.

Clark blinked.

He looked around. No one nearby looked particularly conspiratorial. No cameras. No laughing interns.

He set his coffee down and turned the bouquet slowly, gently picking out the small card slipped inside the paper. It was blank on the front—just a subtle embossed border.

He opened it.

Inside, written in tight, sharp handwriting:

For Clark. Thank you for being exactly who you are.

That was it.

No signature. No initials. No flower shop logo.

Just… that.

Clark furrowed his brow. Then blinked again, as if the message might unscramble itself under a second glance.

“Oh my God,” Lois said from behind him, nearly making him drop the card. “You got flowers?”

Clark turned, already flustered. “I don’t know who they’re from.”

Jimmy Olsen appeared next, sliding into his chair across the aisle like a man arriving at a crime scene. “Wait, you got mystery flowers? Are you kidding? You’ve been here like, what, six months? Some of us don’t get bouquets ever.”

“I’ve literally never gotten flowers,” Lois muttered.

“I got a potted cactus from a weatherman once,” Jimmy added helpfully.

Clark, still holding the card, looked utterly lost. “There’s no name.”

Lois plucked the bouquet off his desk and sniffed it, inspecting like a detective. “These are expensive. Not grocery store cheap. These were ordered.”

Jimmy leaned in. “It’s definitely romantic. Look at the colors—soft pink, classic red, pale green accents. It’s basically the bouquet equivalent of blushing.”

“I’m sure it’s just someone being nice,” Clark said quickly. “Probably a thank-you from a source. Or a colleague.”

“Unless your source wants to date you,” Lois replied, flipping the card over. “This is anonymous on purpose. Come on, Kent—this is a secret admirer.”

Clark flushed. “That’s not really a thing that happens in real life.”

“Everything’s real if you’re cute enough,” Jimmy said.

Clark buried his face in one hand. “Please let me die now.”

Lois tapped her pen against her lip. “Any romantic entanglements I don’t know about? Anyone at your old paper? Any exes in Metropolis?”

“No,” Clark said. “Definitely not. I barely talk to anyone outside work.”

“Then it’s someone new,” Jimmy said, grinning. “Could be someone here.”

Clark made a strangled noise.

“Or,” Lois said, suddenly sharp, “could be someone you interviewed.”

Clark looked at her, alarmed. “What? No.”

She shrugged. “I’m just saying. You interviewed a high-profile, very rich, very reclusive billionaire last week. Someone who’s famously cold and emotionally repressed.”

“You think Lex Luthor sent me flowers?” Clark said, genuinely horrified.

“Did he seem interested?” Jimmy asked, eyes wide.

“No!” Clark exclaimed. Then paused. “I mean… no?”

Lois crossed her arms. “Kent. You came back from that interview all weird and dazed and pink in the face.”

“I was just—he’s very intense!” Clark insisted. “He stares like he’s trying to invent new sins with his mind.”

“That’s not a denial,” Jimmy said, clearly delighted.

Clark huffed and turned back to the bouquet. They really were beautiful—delicate but not too fancy, carefully chosen, and personal in a way that felt specific, even if it shouldn’t have.

He picked the card back up, rereading it.

Thank you for being exactly who you are.

It wasn’t flowery. It wasn’t flirtatious. It wasn’t dramatic.

But it knew him. Somehow.

Clark sat down slowly. “Okay. Maybe it’s… a little romantic.”

Lois leaned on his desk. “So what are you gonna do about it?”

“Absolutely nothing,” Clark said, immediately. “I’m going to pretend it’s not real and go back to my job like a normal person who does not receive mystery flowers from mysterious rich people.”

Lois looked skeptical.

Jimmy was already sketching out a potential suspect list on a sticky note.

Lex Luthor did not send flowers.

At least, that’s what he told himself for the rest of the day.

He absolutely hadn’t gone through three assistants before he found one who could locate a florist that matched his aesthetic requirements and had the discretion of a stone wall. He definitely hadn’t spent twenty minutes composing a note that didn’t sound like a confession of romantic obsession.

It was just… a gesture. Civil. Strategic. Gratitude, with style.

He did not check the Daily Planet’s social feed five times throughout the day. He did not zoom in on a blurry photo Jimmy posted of Clark holding the bouquet in the break room, cheeks pink, smiling.

He certainly did not save it.

That would be ridiculous.

Chapter Text

The glass of water on the table had been placed with mathematical precision. Room temperature. Lemon slice, untouched. The lighting in the LexCorp executive suite had been dimmed by exactly 12%, enough to soften the overhead glare without compromising visibility.

Lex sat alone at the table, spine straight, hands folded, expression neutral.

He was not anticipating anything.

He was prepared.

The first interview had gone well. Too well, if his PR team was to be believed. His approval rating among Planet readers—young, working-class, and historically indifferent to billionaires—had seen a measurable bump.

Apparently, Clark Kent’s ‘soft-spoken but incisive’ profile had gone semi-viral. Lex had skimmed the reader comments once.

Only once.

He hadn’t looked at them again. Or bookmarked them. Or reread the article three separate times, once late at night with a glass of scotch.

Lex adjusted his cuffs.

Any moment now.

The door opened.

Lex looked up, a flicker of expectation flickering across his otherwise impassive face.

Lois Lane stepped into the room.

Lex blinked.

Something slipped in his chest. Not panic, exactly. Just a sudden, quiet flatline of mood.

Lois smiled politely as she approached the table. She was dressed professionally, no nonsense, hair pulled back, heels that didn’t make a sound. She carried a leather folio and a pen she clearly liked.

“Mr. Luthor,” she said, offering a hand across the table.

Lex shook it. Briefly. Coolly.

“Ms. Lane,” he said.

She took her seat. “Thanks for making time today. I know your calendar’s a nightmare.”

“I was under the impression Mr. Kent would be conducting the follow-up,” Lex said, too sharply.

Lois’s pen paused against her notebook. “He’s covering a city beat today,” she said, unfazed. “A scheduling thing. I’m handling the profile expansion.”

Lex didn’t respond.

Lois offered a small, diplomatic smile. “You were very generous last time—Clark said the interview was smooth.”

Lex gave a tight nod.

Lois opened her notebook. “Let’s start with the Riverfront rezoning project.”

Lex answered.

He wasn’t rude—just exact. Cold. Nothing more than what was required.

She asked about infrastructure investment. He quoted projected percentages.

She brought up the LexCorp philanthropic initiative. He corrected her phrasing.

She probed at public distrust—he shut the door with pre-approved language about transparency and partnerships.

It was a perfectly adequate interview.

And Lex hated every second of it.

Clark would’ve asked about philosophy, or public perception. He would’ve made some self-deprecating joke about investigative reporters being bad at math. He would’ve nodded too enthusiastically at Lex’s dryest comments, smiling like he couldn’t help it.

Clark would’ve made him feel… interesting.

Lois was perfectly professional. Efficient. Polished.

And completely wrong.

Lex answered another question and glanced, involuntarily, toward the door.

Lois paused. “Expecting someone?”

“No,” he said flatly.

“Okay.” She made a note, her face unreadable.

Lex didn’t sigh. He didn’t fidget. He kept his face arranged into a neutral, bored expression that he had weaponized in boardrooms for years.

Still, Lois tilted her head. “I’ll be honest,” she said, flipping a page in her notebook, “you’re a lot more—hm—guarded than you were in the first piece.”

Lex narrowed his eyes. “Am I?”

She shrugged. “Just an observation.”

Lex didn’t answer. He hated how obvious he was being.

Lois moved on.

The rest of the interview wrapped quickly. She asked two final questions, both clean and impersonal. Lex gave answers that could’ve come from any of his quarterly reports. He was polite, cooperative, and deliberately unmemorable.

Lois stood when they were done, tucking her pen into her jacket pocket.

“Well, thank you again,” she said with mild politeness. “This was… efficient.”

Lex gave a nod. “Of course.”

She lingered for a moment, then added, “And hey—if you ever want to speak with Clark again, he’s usually here Monday through Thursday.”

Lex looked at her. “That won’t be necessary.”

Lois smiled, a little sharper this time. “Sure it won’t.”

And then she was gone.

Lex stared at the empty seat across from him for several long seconds.

The glass of water remained untouched.

Chapter Text

Lex’s office at dusk was quiet, almost serene: the skyline of Metropolis burned bright in gold and howling strings of traffic beneath his penthouse window. He sat at his desk flooded in ambient light, completely alone—except for the faint hum of computers and silent resolve.

He had closed the interview page that Lois had uploaded. He shuffled the printed version across his desk, sliding it into the recycling bin with careful precision. It was ‘efficient,’ as she’d called it. And Lex hated the sterility of her words.

He wanted Clark Kent again.

Lex tapped a slender glass pen against his notebook—unused since his youth—but it offered a physical rhythm. Over the past week, he had quietly combed through public records, trying to understand Clark’s backstory without stalking. Property searches. Transcripts. Mentions in local Smallville news.

Clark Joseph Kent:

-Adopted by Jonathan and Martha Kent

-Raised on a farm outside Smallville, Kansas

-No birth records before adoption

-Moved to Metropolis, Delaware

-Joined the Daily Planet six months ago as a reporter

-Focuses on local community, human stories

-Described by one editor in a little profile as “the sweetest, purest, least cynical journalist in a city known for its cynicism”

Lex’s gut squeezed. 

He slid another photo across the desk—a shot from the Planet’s staff headshots—Clark in his pressed white shirt and mismatched tie, standing next to Perry White, smiling softly. The memory of their first meeting rose again: Clark’s voice, earnest, slightly trembling; glasses slipping; pen hovering.

Lex told himself he was being strategic. That this was good optics. This was character rehabilitation for him. Public relations. The paperwork would all check out.

And yet... he had reread that article. Three times. In bed. With wine.

He crossed out ‘emotional’ on his list of excuses and underlined ‘use writer’s sincerity to soften billionaire image.’ It looked clinical—professional. He pounded at it with the pen tip, scuffing the letters.

He was lying to himself.

Lex opened a new tab on his computer: LexCorp Community Outreach. He typed:

Subject: Urban Green Spaces Expansion

Project: LexCorp Community Gardens

Purpose: Bring safe public gathering spaces to high-density neighborhoods

Features: Raised gardens, benches, solar lighting

Funding: LexCorp grant, matched by city development funds, to start in four zones by early next year

Public Relations Goals: Feature-friendly visuals; human stories; healthy image

He stared at the document. It had notes that were corporate but also personal:

“Choose a newsletter editor who writes emotionally.”

“Suggest Planet do piece.”

“Hint: reporter with empathy, big heart.”

He minimized it and opened a browser window where he quietly sent an internal message to Ava Lin:

Ava,

LexCorp is launching Community Gardens in underserved wards.

Perfect storyline for feel-good coverage.

If DP editorial wants a human-driven, emotional angle, consider someone like Clark Kent—small-town grown, community mindset.

He saved before adding more.

Lex didn’t need to write the rest. He didn’t need to admit what he was actually thinking.

The next morning, Lex woke before dawn. He wore a simple dark grey suit; no tie. He used a wireless toothbrush at the sink, rehearsing a conversation: “Yes, we’d love to have you there. It’s philanthropic, public service, nothing to do with me directly.”

He’d call it strategic proximity. He read once that subtlety was more effective than the overt. So he mapped out everything:

-LexCorp will fund Community Gardens in Metropolis.

-He’ll issue a statement and appear at one launch event.

-Press release to include safe quotes about his support for urban green space.

-Contact Planet’s editors anonymously (via Ava) to suggest Clark for a covering journalist.

-Schedule actual date: early June. Enough lead time to avoid suspicion.

He pulled up news articles on gardening initiatives, looked at headlines that ran community features. One headline: “Tiny plot. Big change: Garden transforms neighborhood.”

He tapped it open.

Clark’s notebook pen strokes appeared in memory again. He inhaled sharply. He had to pretend to be calm.

Lex envisioned Clark walking into the story zone, gloves on, notebook out. Asking community members about tomatoes, about benches. Using jargon: crop yield, soil quality, teamwork. Closer to puppy-like curiosity in Lex’s mind, even as he framed it as strategic.

He’d wait in the crowd, disguised, suited but out of place, just far enough to be seen and not recognized. He’d have a glass of water or coffee. He might compliment Clark. Clark would ask about the project after the interview.

He’d pretend it was part of his schedule as chairman of the foundation board.

Lex sat back, steepled his fingers.

Ava Lin appeared in his office ten minutes later carrying two cups of decaf espresso—identical. She knew exactly what this was.

He pretended to sip it naturally.

Ava cleared her throat. “You do realize you’re acting like a teenager.”

“I am not.”

“Strategic community gardens. Placement on Planet. Suggesting Clark Kent again. Next thing, you’ll be Googling puppy adoption.”

Lex inhaled. “This is corporate initiative. Not personal.”

Ava shrugged. “Call it ‘soft influence.’ Just… make sure they think it’s sincere.”

“Why?”

“Because if it looks like you’re trying to set up an encounter, people will mock you.”

Lex forced a neutral expression. “What people?”

She didn’t answer. She left the room.

He put the cup down carefully. He’d met adversity. This was just… attraction.

A week before the launch, Lex ordered branded LexCorp gardening gloves for the media kit. Patterned green palms, white backs. They looked professional but approachable. He considered wearing a pair himself but decided not to.

He checked Clark’s routine: apparently, Clark covered community events Tuesdays and Thursdays.

Lex’s event was on Wednesday. Perfect.

He would just observe.

He would just smile politely when Clark came.

He would—god help him—say Clark’s name.

He began to sleep poorly, dreaming of neatly arranged flowerbeds and soft voices, timbered with Kansas vowels. He woke with his heart racing.

He told himself none of it mattered.

Lex closed his notebook with a precise motion. He stared at his reflection in the darkened window. The city lights blurred behind him.

He had created an excuse to see Clark again. Novel interactions. No interviews. Just authenticity in a curated environment.

It was… fine.

Not romantic.

Not desperate.

Completely, utterly necessary.

He exhaled.

The city pulsed beneath. Soon, Clark Kent would be there with his pen, his curls, his kindness.

And Lex would be ready.

Chapter Text

The Jefferson Park Community Garden was a public relations masterpiece.

Sunlight glinted off rows of raised beds. Color-coded vegetable signs (in English and Spanish) caught the breeze. There were eco-friendly benches. Children were laughing. The mayor was wearing khakis.

Lex hated it.

Not because it wasn’t working—it was. The soft rollout was clean, the branding subtle, the ribbon-cutting tasteful. The Daily Planet was here, and the press pack was snapping photos of children planting tomatoes next to a LexCorp sign.

Everything was perfect.

Except.

Clark Kent was late.

Not that Lex cared. Not in a personal way. The event was timed to catch late-morning coverage, and Lex had nothing scheduled until noon. He had carved out this window not because he wanted to see Clark but because—

Well. Fine. He had wanted to see Clark.

And now the allotted fifteen-minute appearance was dragging toward twenty. Ava stood a few feet away, talking to someone from the Parks Department. Lex shifted his weight, expression unreadable.

Then—

“Mr. Luthor!”

The voice rang out like it was meant for him and him alone. Lex turned, and there he was.

Clark Kent.

Barreling down the gravel path like a golden retriever who’d just spotted his favorite human. His curls bounced. His sleeves were rolled up. His press badge was on backwards.

Lex was not prepared.

Clark was smiling like this was the best part of his day.

And for one brief, completely treasonous moment, Lex’s brain betrayed him.

In his mind, Clark was not jogging across a community garden. He was in Lex’s penthouse. Shirt half-unbuttoned. Glasses askew.

He was on his back, legs around Lex’s waist, panting, voice trembling—

“Mr. Luthor—”

Sweet and broken and so, so eager.

The sound was delicious, too close to the real thing.

Lex imagined gripping those strong thighs, watching Clark squirm, hearing him say that name again—softly, reverently, like it meant something holy.

“Mr. Luthor?”

The real voice—confused this time—dragged him back like a slap.

Lex blinked. Clark was standing in front of him now, closer than he should be, holding a notepad and looking mildly concerned.

“I, uh—” Clark scratched the back of his head, smiling sheepishly. “You zoned out for a second. Sorry—wasn’t trying to sneak up on you.”

Lex managed, somehow, not to visibly short-circuit.

“Mr. Kent,” he said coolly. “You’re late.”

Clark winced. “Yeah, sorry. The F train got delayed and then a guy with a violin trapped everyone at 23rd Street. He was… committed.”

Lex tilted his head. “You were defeated by public transit and folk music.”

“That’s the summary, yeah.”

Clark grinned again, like the entire thing was funny. And warm. And full of light.

Lex fought the urge to adjust his tie that he wasn’t wearing.

They walked slowly through the garden. Lex kept his hands behind his back. Clark jotted notes as they passed a row of sunflowers taller than both of them.

“I already talked to Mrs. Gomez from the neighborhood board,” Clark said. “She said these are the best sunflowers she’s seen in over a decade.”

Lex nodded. “LexCorp funded a hybrid seed variant. Drought-tolerant. Useful for cities with uneven irrigation.”

Clark’s eyes lit up. “That’s incredible. People are going to love this.”

Lex glanced sideways. “That is… the point.”

Clark smiled up at him, genuine. “It’s a good one.”

Lex made a noise like agreement and promptly refused to speak for the next full minute.

As they rounded the herb beds, Clark leaned closer—reading a label.

“Lemon balm,” he murmured. “My mom used to plant this outside the kitchen. Smells like summer.”

Lex nodded, mostly to keep himself from saying you smell like summer which was not a professional thing to say, and also, possibly, grounds for arrest.

Clark knelt by the planter box and brushed his fingers across the leaves. Lex had to look away.

“You okay?” Clark asked, standing again. “You’re kinda quiet.”

“I’m always quiet.”

Clark tilted his head. “You were more talkative during the first interview.”

Lex cleared his throat. “That was a different setting.”

Clark’s smile was fond. “True. Less soil. More terrifying glass surfaces.”

Lex gave a faint exhale that might’ve been a laugh if you squinted.

They came to the final section of the garden, where two volunteers were helping a cluster of kids plant basil.

Clark crouched down and asked one of them what they wanted to grow. The girl—seven, maybe eight—said “strawberries and gummy bears.”

Lex watched him laugh with her, notebook forgotten at his side.

He felt something tight and unfamiliar wind through his chest. Jealousy? No. Hunger. No. Longing.

Which was worse.

Eventually, Clark stood. He dusted off his knees and turned toward him.

“I think I’ve got everything I need,” he said. “Unless you want to add anything?”

Lex blinked. “Add…?”

“To the article.” Clark tapped his notepad. “Personal quote? Final thoughts? Could be about the community or—uh, actually, I’ll just write something up if you’re—”

“Mr. Kent.”

Clark froze. “Yes?”

Lex inhaled slowly. “This was… well-run.”

Clark looked at him for a beat. “That’s your quote?”

Lex swallowed. “Yes.”

Clark chuckled and scribbled something down. “Okay. Very you.”

Lex didn’t know what that meant. He didn’t ask.

They stood there for a second too long.

Clark smiled—warm, a little bashful. “It was really good to see you again.”

Lex’s brain screamed: Ask him to coffee.

His mouth said: “Likewise.”

Clark hesitated. For a second, Lex swore he saw something shift in his expression—like maybe Clark was waiting for something more.

But then a photographer called his name, and Clark blinked and smiled and gave him a small wave.

“See you around, Mr. Luthor.”

Lex nodded.

And just like that, Clark was gone.

Lex stayed ten more minutes, long enough to seem normal.

Long enough to be photographed with a garden spade.

Long enough to hear Ava say behind him, “You’re smiling again.”

He wasn’t.

He was planning.

Chapter Text

Clark Kent had received exactly three unexpected gifts in his life.

The first was a blue lunchbox from Pete Ross in second grade, after Clark’s old one got run over by a tractor.

The second was a box of long-stemmed roses, delivered anonymously to the Daily Planet after his LexCorp profile went viral. He’d assumed it was a prank. Lois had assumed it was a lawsuit in disguise.

The third arrived on a quiet Wednesday morning, in a small matte-black box with a red wax seal.

Clark stopped in front of it, half a coffee in hand, brows pulled together.

“Lois?” he called. “Did you put something on my desk?”

Lois looked up from her screen. “I’m not your girlfriend, Kent. I’m not buying you little treats.”

Jimmy leaned over. “Treats?”

Clark picked up the box. It was weighty, elegant. No tag this time. No card. Just that neat, precise wax seal pressed into the top—a tiny design he didn’t recognize. A swirl? A stylized L?

He turned it in his hands. There was a faint smell of something rich. Not floral—something darker, sweeter.

He cracked the seal and opened the lid.

Inside was a slim row of handmade chocolates, each in its own square like a miniature jewel. They looked almost too nice to eat—dark ganache, brushed with gold, one with a dusting of pink. No mass-market plastic tray, no wrapper.

Tucked between the first and second piece was a square of cream-colored cardstock.

For when the days are too much.

Clark blinked.

“What is it?” Jimmy asked.

“Chocolates,” Clark said faintly.

Lois rose from her chair, walked over, and peered into the box. “Okay, that’s not store-bought.”

“No label,” Clark said. “No name.”

Lois squinted. “That’s luxury stuff. You can’t even get that kind of packaging unless you know someone. Or pay stupid money.”

Jimmy grinned. “Your admirer’s got taste.”

Clark’s ears turned pink. “There’s no proof this is the same person as the flowers.”

“Oh, come on,” Jimmy said. “Roses and now what looks like cursed chocolates from a billionaire’s wine cellar? That’s a sequence.”

Clark stared at the note again. For when the days are too much.

It was kind. Gentle. No declaration. Just… someone looking out for him.

Clark didn’t touch the chocolates all morning. He kept them in the corner of his desk, glancing at them between phone calls and edits.

By lunch, he’d convinced himself they might be poisoned.

By two o'clock, he gave in.

He picked the smallest one—dark chocolate with sea salt—and took a bite.

His knees almost buckled.

Smooth, rich, not too sweet. Notes of espresso. A finish like heat. It was, objectively, the best chocolate he’d ever tasted.

He made a sound he hoped no one heard.

Lois immediately turned in her chair. “So?”

Clark swallowed. “It’s good.”

“‘Good’ like gas station fudge or ‘good’ like you’re wondering if this person has kissed anyone else before and are unreasonably jealous?”

Clark looked at the half-eaten piece.

“…second one.”

Lex had spent precisely four hours and twelve minutes choosing those chocolates.

He’d contacted a micro-batch chocolatier in Brussels. He’d personally vetted the flavor profile. He’d debated handwriting the note before deciding no, typed is safer. Less traceable.

He was pacing his penthouse now, rereading an alert Ava had forwarded—Clark’s Daily Planet column had gone live, but it was about housing reform. Not chocolate. Not mystery admirers.

Lex felt the sour, manic edge of anticipation settle in his chest. He needed to know if it had worked.

He needed to know if Clark had smiled.

If he’d shared them.

If he’d guessed.

And then—almost as if summoned—his phone buzzed.

A Planet intern had posted a photo of Clark on her story: a candid, from behind. Clark was laughing at something Jimmy had said.

In his hand, clearly visible, was the open chocolate box.

Lex stared at it for a full ten seconds.

Then, very slowly, he sat down, folded his hands neatly in his lap, and whispered:

“…oh no.”

Clark carried the chocolate box home like it was something precious.

He’d only eaten two. He was rationing them, like he was thirteen again and had found the last piece of his Halloween stash hidden behind a book.

He set them on the kitchen table and stared at them, thinking.

He still had no idea who was sending them. No obvious clues. Just a growing feeling that whoever it was knew him. Saw something in him worth delighting in. Not just flirting—witnessing.

It made his chest feel tight and light at the same time.

He touched the edge of the note again, rereading it.

For when the days are too much.

Clark Kent had been punched through buildings. He’d carried satellites into orbit. He’d rescued cats from storm drains. He’d lived lives no one knew.

And yet.

Today, it had been that little folded card that made him feel most seen.

Chapter Text

Ava Lin had done a lot of things in her career.

She’d spun billion-dollar acquisitions into “community investments.” She’d buried LexCorp’s board infighting under a feel-good diversity initiative. Once, she’d convinced a state senator that a catastrophic drone demo was actually performance art.

What she hadn’t done—until now—was try to manage a PR campaign about her boss being in love.

Because Lex Luthor, in all his cold-blooded brilliance, was madly in love with Clark Kent.

A fact Ava had known since approximately twelve seconds into their first interaction.

It started with a rescheduled interview.

Clark Kent had been a name in a calendar slot. One she hadn’t paid attention to—just another low-stakes Q&A with a Daily Planet junior reporter. Lex had nearly skipped it. He always hated media fluff.

But then Kent had walked in. Hair fluffed from the wind. Glasses slightly crooked. Big, earnest eyes and forearms like a farmhand. He’d smiled like he didn’t know who Lex was supposed to be.

Lex had looked up from and—blinked.

Ava knew that blink. It meant: recalculating.

Lex didn’t recalculate. Lex planned. But she saw it—quiet and unmistakable. He forgot whatever petty tantrum he’d been brewing about the talking points. Sat up straighter. Smoothed his jacket.

And when Clark smiled and said, “Thanks for taking the time to meet with me, Mr. Luthor,” Lex’s mouth did something terrifying.

It almost smiled back.

That was four weeks ago.

Since then, Ava had watched Lex Luthor—stoic, cynical, razor-sharp Lex—slowly unravel into something softer and completely feral.

He hadn’t sent Clark flowers to manipulate the press.

He’d done it because “he looked like someone who deserved to be surprised by something beautiful.”

Ava had almost choked on her kombucha.

And when Lex spent half a week agonizing over what kind of chocolate Clark would actually like, not just what looked expensive—she knew.

This wasn’t strategy. It was emotion.

Worse: it was sincere.

This morning, Ava had been reviewing talking points when she glanced over to see Lex staring—staring—at a muted Planet social media video on his phone.

Clark Kent. Laughing at something offscreen, holding a takeout cup and what looked suspiciously like the exact chocolate box Lex had sent the day before.

Lex didn’t say a word. Just watched the clip three times and then stared at the paused frame like it had personally wronged him.

Ava sipped her coffee.

“You could just tell him you like him,” she said dryly.

Lex didn’t look up. “I don’t like him.”

Ava scoffed. “Oh, of course not. You’re just sending anonymous gifts like a shy Victorian maid with a crush on the town blacksmith.”

Lex’s eye twitched. “It’s strategic.”

“Sure,” she said. “And I hired that jazz trio last month because I love a clarinet in D minor. You’re in love, Lex. Just admit it.”

“I’m not—”

Ava held up a hand. “Lex. You paid a chocolatier to develop a custom sea salt caramel blend because you thought Clark ‘seemed like he gets overwhelmed a lot.’”

Lex glared. “He does.”

“And your point is?”

“My point,” Lex said icily, “is that I am managing an image.”

“Uh-huh.” She leaned on the table. “What’s the endgame here? You gonna keep sending him little love tokens until he cries on the subway and writes a Pulitzer-winning column about his mysterious candy-daddy?”

Lex exhaled through his nose. “No one cries over artisan truffles.”

“He’s from Kansas,” she snapped. “He probably thinks it’s a courtship ritual.”

Ava knew Lex better than anyone.

She knew his moods. His silences. His strategies. She’d watched him dismantle competitors with a glance and charm a hostile crowd with one well-timed pause.

But she’d never seen him like this.

Tentative. Quiet. A little afraid.

Like the possibility of not being loved back was something he hadn’t prepared for.

Which, of course, it wasn’t.

Lex could buy admiration. He could engineer respect. He could own a narrative. But love?

Love was voluntary.

And Clark Kent—with his gentle voice and disaster hair and actual moral center—wasn’t someone Lex could outwit.

He’d have to be honest.

Lex Luthor had never once in his life been honest without an agenda.

And now here he was, trying to court a journalist with chocolates and roses like a shy poet in a teen drama.

Ava didn’t know whether to laugh or offer him a hug. She’d do neither. He’d earned the slow collapse of his emotional distance.

Around noon, Ava pulled up the day’s media grid and scanned for trouble. Nothing immediate. One blog speculating about Lex’s ‘mystery philanthropy.’ Another reposting a Clark Kent column with a clickbait headline: ‘What If the Soft-Spoken Ones Save Us?’

Lex had read it. Twice. She’d seen the open tab.

She clicked through the comments. They were unusually warm.

“Whoever this Kent guy is, I trust him.”

“Rare to read something kind without it being cloying. More of him please.”

“Wait—is this the guy who made Lex Luthor smile in that garden photo?”

Ava paused.

She turned her head toward Lex’s office.

He was standing by the window, arms folded, staring into the middle distance like he was trying to will Clark into existence.

She opened a new note file and typed something for herself:

PR Possibility:

“Evil Billionaire Soft for Small-Town Kansas Boy”

—dangerously likable if framed right.

—but risky. Could destroy Luthor’s mystique if not mutual.

She added a second line:

Will be mutual.

Because Ava Lin knew Clark Kent wasn’t stupid.

He hadn’t outed the admirer in his articles. He hadn’t mocked the gifts. He hadn’t asked around. That wasn’t disinterest.

That was caution.

Clark was waiting, too.

By three o’clock, Lex was pretending to review quarterly numbers and actually watching Clark’s latest interview footage on mute.

Ava gave it ten more minutes before walking into his office without knocking.

He didn’t look up. “I’m busy.”

“No, you’re brooding.”

Lex’s jaw tightened.

“I want to suggest something,” she said. “Not as your employee. As someone who is emotionally invested in you not dying alone with only an AI assistant and a room full of taxidermy.”

Lex looked up. “I don’t have taxidermy.”

“Not yet,” she said, deadpan. “But the emotional trajectory is clear.”

He set his tablet down. “What do you want, Ava?”

She sat across from him.

“I want you to stop pretending this is a PR game. You’re not trying to rehab your image anymore. You’re trying to figure out if someone kind and decent and profoundly good could actually love you back.”

Lex didn’t speak.

“And here’s the thing,” she continued. “He could.”

Lex’s throat moved, but he said nothing.

“I’ve worked for you for six years,” she said gently. “I know you’re not the man the world thinks you are. You’re worse in some ways. But you’re also… better. And if you want Clark to see that, you have to let him. Actually let him. Not just behind notes and presents.”

Lex stared at the desk.

Ava stood up. “Do something brave, boss. Before someone else does.”

And she left the office, knowing full well he wouldn’t reply.

He never did when she was right.

That evening, Ava was shutting down her laptop when she glanced toward Lex’s office.

He was still there. Lights dimmed, city glowing beyond the glass behind him. One hand pressed to his mouth, elbow braced on the desk, staring down at something she couldn’t see.

Maybe a note.

Maybe nothing at all.

She watched him for a moment.

Lex Luthor—man of a thousand masks—caught somewhere between calculation and feeling. Wanting something real for once. Maybe even daring to believe he could have it.

Ava closed her laptop and stood.

She didn’t say anything. Didn’t intrude. Just left him there, alone with his thoughts.

He’d make his move when he was ready.

And when he did?

God help anyone who tried to stand between Lex Luthor and Clark Kent.

Chapter Text

There were a great many things Lex Luthor could not do.

He could not walk into a café without someone filming it.

He could not order a coffee without a barista nervously misspelling his name while shaking.

He could not stroll through a dog park, no matter how expensive the loafers, without being immediately recognized, cornered, or subtly tailed by a bored freelancer hoping to catch “Lex Luthor: Man of the People.”

He could buy a city block, bribe a senator, or bankrupt a rival in under an hour.

But apparently, he could not, under any circumstances, run into Clark Joseph Kent like a normal person.

Which he hated.

God, he hated it.

He tried. He really did.

Week one of Operation ‘Casual Proximity’ had included:

–One high-end dog park visit (he did not own a dog, but briefly considered borrowing Ava’s Pomeranian),

–Two strategic coffee shop drive-bys,

–Three attempts to look “approachable” on a walk near the square, which felt about as comfortable as tap-dancing over hot coals in a tuxedo.

Each time, his presence caused a ripple effect.

Phones. Whispers. Flashes.

A rising, breathless tension in the air that never happened around Clark.

Clark, who existed in that gentle pocket of quiet warmth and anonymity.

Clark, who walked his dog and waved to his neighbors.

Clark, who wasn’t even on LinkedIn.

Lex couldn’t match that. He couldn’t even reach it.

He could fake humility, but he couldn’t fake being normal.

The final straw came on a Thursday.

Lex sat across the street from the Daily Planet building in a blacked-out car, sunglasses on, trying to time it just right. Clark usually left the office at 5:30. Lex had seen the routine on security footage (yes, he’d hacked it—not the point).

The plan was simple: cross paths on the sidewalk. Exchange words. An “accidental” encounter.

What happened instead: a swarm of paparazzi, not for Clark—but for Lex, spotted early by a vlogger. Suddenly he was being shouted at. Cars stopped. A woman asked him to endorse her podcast.

Clark exited the building.

Stopped.

Saw the crowd.

Paused.

And turned around, disappearing back inside.

Lex didn’t get out of the car.

By the time he reached the penthouse, Lex was quiet. Too quiet.

Ava looked up from her phone as he entered the room like a storm cloud in a bespoke suit.

“Unsuccessful stalk—excuse me, walk?”

He ignored her. Tossed his sunglasses onto the credenza.

“You can’t keep doing this,” Ava said mildly.

“I didn’t do anything.”

“You were loitering outside the Planet in an armored BMW. Again.”

“It wasn’t armored this time,” he muttered.

“Progress,” she said dryly.

Lex paced to the bar, poured himself scotch, and didn’t drink it. Just stared at it.

“He doesn’t go anywhere I can be without causing a scene,” he said finally. “I can’t show up. I can’t wait for a coincidence. The moment I’m visible, the interaction becomes about me, not about… him.”

Ava leaned back in her chair. “You’ve hit the limits of power. Congratulations. Welcome to being human.”

He glared at her.

“I’m serious,” she said. “You want him to like you? You can’t engineer this into perfection. You’ll have to ask. Openly. Vulnerably.”

Lex made a face like she’d suggested he get a visible tattoo.

Ava stood. Walked toward the window. “Do you even know what you want from him?”

Lex’s silence was answer enough.

She looked back at him, brows raised. “Fine. Don’t answer. But if you’re not going to walk into his world without turning it into a circus, there’s one thing left.”

He glanced at her. “What?”

“Invite him into yours.”

Lex thought about that all night.

The idea should have repulsed him. It was predictable. Transparent. Not nearly enough of a chess move.

And yet.

A controlled environment. Private. Comfortable. Still plausible.

“Dinner,” he murmured aloud to the empty living room.

Just a dinner.

To celebrate the success of Clark’s articles.

A gesture of goodwill. A follow-up. A professional courtesy.

An opportunity.

Yes, it would be at the penthouse.

Yes, it would be seven courses and custom-paired wines and candlelight.

Yes, it would be a date.

But only if Clark wanted it to be.

Lex sat on the edge of the piano bench and stared at his reflection in the polished lid.

If he wanted Clark Kent to see past the empire…

He’d have to risk being seen.

He reached for his laptop.

Typed:

Mr. Kent,

I wanted to personally thank you for the thoughtful, incisive reporting you’ve done these past weeks. The response has been extraordinary—more than my team or I anticipated.

I’d like to invite you to dinner. A private evening—just the two of us—to celebrate the success of the articles and speak more freely than a headline might allow.

My assistant will arrange the time, if you’re open to it.

Sincerely,

Lex Luthor

He stared at it.

He hit send.

Chapter Text

Clark checked his email like he did every morning—quietly, habitually, with a half-drunk cup of coffee and his feet tucked under his desk. The newsroom buzzed around him, a steady hum of keyboards, phones, and half-baked deadlines.

Then his eyes caught a name in his inbox.

Lex Luthor.

Subject line: “Regarding Your Articles.”

Clark blinked. Sat up straighter. And clicked.

Mr. Kent,

I wanted to personally thank you for the thoughtful, incisive reporting you’ve done these past weeks. The response has been extraordinary—more than my team or I anticipated.

I’d like to invite you to dinner. A private evening—just the two of us—to celebrate the success of the articles and speak more freely than a headline might allow.

My assistant will arrange the time, if you’re open to it.

Sincerely,

Lex Luthor

Clark stared at the screen.

Dinner.

With Lex Luthor.

Private. Just the two of them.

The sentence blurred slightly as Clark realized he was holding his breath.

He reread it. Then again.

And then again, with his heart climbing its way into his throat, like it had somewhere very dramatic to be.

He was still staring when Lois Lane leaned over the top of his monitor and said, “Is that what I think it is?”

Clark jumped so hard he nearly knocked over his coffee.

“Nothing,” he said, flustered. “It’s just—um. A follow-up. From—”

Lois snatched the mouse and scrolled.

“Oh my God,” she said flatly. “It is what I think it is.”

Jimmy slid into his seat across the bullpen like he’d been summoned by psychic gossip energy. “Wait. What’s what?”

Lois waved a hand toward the screen. “Lex Luthor just asked Clark out.”

Clark sputtered. “He did not. It’s a professional—”

“It says ‘dinner.’ ‘Private evening.’ ‘Just the two of us.’ That is date language,” Lois said.

Jimmy leaned over Clark’s shoulder, reading. Then straightened with a half-incredulous snort. “C’mon, man. Even my husband doesn’t write emails this romantic.”

Clark turned bright red.

Lois grinned, sharp and smug. “Lex Luthor has a cruuuush on you.”

“He does not—”

“Lex. Luthor. Has a cruuuush,” she sing-songed, poking Clark in the cheek.

Jimmy joined in. “You’re his little journalism crush.”

Clark groaned. “Can everyone stop saying the word ‘crush’?”

Lois stole the last sip of his coffee and perched on the edge of his desk. “You know, the first article you wrote about him didn’t even make him sound terrible. That alone should’ve tipped us off.”

“I was being objective!”

Jimmy leaned against the cubicle wall. “Objectively smitten.”

Clark dropped his face into his hands. “This is workplace bullying.”

“Technically, it’s workplace matchmaking,” Lois said.

Jimmy pointed at the screen. “Okay, but seriously, are you going to reply?”

Clark hesitated.

That, of course, made it worse.

“OH MY GOD,” Jimmy said, slapping the desk. “You want to go.”

Lois raised an eyebrow. “Our sweet, small-town boy has it bad.”

Clark’s ears turned pink. “I just think—it’s professional, I shouldn’t be rude—”

Lois rolled her eyes. “Clark. Babe. You’ve written two glowing profiles, and now he wants to ‘speak freely’ in private. That man is trying so hard not to say ‘date’ it hurts.”

Jimmy nodded solemnly. “Honestly, he’s trying harder than my husband did when he proposed.”

“I do not want to hear about your proposal again.”

“You will anyway.”

Lois leaned forward. “So. What’s the move?”

Clark looked back at the email. The clean, formal wording. The utter lack of emojis. The too-careful restraint.

It was so Lex. Calculated but cautious. Almost… nervous.

And even if it wasn’t a date, it was something. A gesture. An invitation. A moment offered.

“I think,” Clark said slowly, “I’m going to say yes.”

Lois patted his cheek like he was a well-meaning idiot. “Wear something he’ll want to peel off you.”

Clark coughed. “Lois.”

“What? I’m supportive.”

Clark buried his face in his hands again. “Please let this building collapse on me.”

Chapter Text

The penthouse had never looked more curated. Every candle flickered in perfect rhythm. The wine had been decanted precisely thirty-four minutes before Clark Kent’s estimated arrival time. The lighting—soft, golden, flattering—was tested and approved by Ava herself. It was, by every external measure, a scene of calm success.

Lex had never felt more like a man on the verge of cardiac arrest.

This had seemed like a good idea. Dinner. A private, elegant thank-you. Just Lex and Clark, no cameras, no distractions, no world watching.

Until, of course, it was five minutes to seven and Lex realized he’d engineered himself into a situation where he would be alone—with Clark Kent—for hours.

And then the elevator dinged.

Lex straightened instinctively, smoothing down the front of his shirt. He heard the soft slide of the door opening. Heard Clark’s shoes step onto the marble floor.

Then saw him.

And forgot how to breathe.

Clark Kent was wearing a powder blue dress shirt.

A tight dress shirt.

Lex’s mind went blank.

It was an objectively modest look—rolled sleeves, two buttons undone at the collar, worn-in jeans—but something about it on Clark made Lex’s brain cease function. The shirt clung to him like it wanted to be there. Like it was in love with his chest. It pulled just slightly around his pecs, enough to threaten a button. The way the fabric curved around him—broad shoulders, narrow waist, strong arms—

God, the tits on this man.

Lex’s first thought, unbidden and alarmingly sincere, was:

I want him pinned underneath me, flushed and panting, with that shirt hanging open like a gift I’m unwrapping with my teeth.

His second thought was: Do not say that out loud.

“Hi, Mr. Luthor,” Clark said with a warm, bashful smile. “Thanks for inviting me.”

Lex stared.

Just… stared.

Because Clark was smiling—sunlight in a man, earnest and soft—and Lex could not compute it. He wanted to unbutton that shirt one button at a time, press kisses to the warm skin underneath, and watch Clark melt.

“Mr. Luthor?”

Lex blinked. Clark had taken a step closer. His sleeves were pushed up his forearms, revealing strong, tanned arms. His hair curled slightly at the temple. There was a little cologne—clean, subtle, maddening.

“You’re early,” Lex said, his voice about half an octave too low.

Clark laughed, scratching the back of his neck. “Yeah, traffic wasn’t as bad as I thought. Hope that’s okay.”

Lex cleared his throat. “It’s… fine. Would you like something to drink?”

“Sure.”

He turned toward the bar, immediately cursing how shaky his hands felt. Clark followed, standing a polite distance away, like he had no idea the effect he was having.

“I brought wine,” Lex said, pouring into two crystal glasses. “Côtes du Rhône. Thought it might pair well.”

“With… what?” Clark asked, tilting his head.

Right. Lex had not mentioned what they were eating.

“Multiple courses,” Lex said, handing him the glass. “Small portions. Don’t worry.”

Clark grinned. “Are you feeding me a tasting menu?”

“I like control over what’s served,” Lex replied. Which was a lie. He just wanted to impress him.

Clark took a sip, smiling around the rim. Lex wanted to lick that smile off his mouth.

They sat.

Clark complimented the apartment. Lex tried not to seem smug. Clark asked about the view. Lex answered in syllables, still half-stuck on the fact that Clark’s thighs looked like that in jeans.

Dinner arrived course by course—light salads, tiny crudo, delicate bites on minimalist plates—and Lex tried desperately to focus on literally anything besides how tight Clark’s shirt was every time he leaned forward to set down his fork.

“Did you actually read the reader comments on the article?” Clark asked, halfway through a glazed duck course.

Lex, who had been mentally picturing Clark on his knees, had to recalibrate. “Yes,” he said, steadying. “Though I rarely find the public commentary enlightening.”

Clark shrugged. “There were some sweet ones.”

“You like sweet things,” Lex said before he could stop himself.

Clark blinked at him. “Um… yeah, I guess so.”

Lex stared at his wine. Abort.

The silence was brief but brutal.

Clark, mercifully, rescued it. “I also like this,” he said, gesturing at the duck. “You know, if the PR thing doesn’t pan out, you’ve got a real future in hospitality.”

“I’ll keep that in mind if I ever lose my fortune,” Lex said dryly.

Clark grinned. “You might even enjoy being broke. It’s humbling.”

Lex deadpanned, “I’d rather die.”

Clark laughed. His head tipped back, his throat exposed. Lex wanted to drag his teeth along the pulse there and see what sound came out next.

“Do you always host your reporters like this?” Clark asked, teasing.

Lex’s eyes flicked up. “No.”

“Oh.”

Lex folded his hands together and leaned forward, watching Clark’s face. “Only the ones who wear shirts like that.”

Clark blinked.

Then blinked again.

Then turned red. “Oh. Uh—this? I didn’t—I mean, I wasn’t trying to—”

“You’re fine,” Lex said, letting his voice drop. “You look fine.”

You look like the reason god invented sin.

Clark looked down at his lap, flustered, and Lex had to take a slow sip of wine to keep from groaning out loud.

He could feel it now, humming underneath the conversation—this pull between them. This… want.

Clark, of course, probably didn’t know what to do with it. He was polite. Gentle. Kind. The sort of man who probably apologized when someone else bumped into him.

Lex was… not that.

Which made the feeling worse.

Because Clark didn’t just look good. He looked safe. And Lex wanted to ruin him in the kindest way possible.

Wanted to spread him out on Egyptian cotton, trace the freckles on his shoulders, kiss up his sternum, mouth open and reverent. He wanted Clark soft and needy, hands fisting the sheets, calling him “Mr. Luthor” in a voice completely unlike the one he used in interviews.

Lex cleared his throat. His brain needed to shut up.

“Dessert?” he asked, voice tight.

Clark nodded, bright-eyed. “Sure. I’ve got room.”

God, I wish I could say the same for my self-control.

The final course was something chocolate-based and utterly forgettable, because Lex spent the entire time watching Clark’s lips.

They lingered on the spoon. He licked a smudge from his thumb. He looked up once and caught Lex watching, then flushed again, mumbling something about “great pastry.”

When it was finally time to end the night, Lex stood by the elevator, hands clasped behind his back, trying to look normal. Trying not to pant.

Clark held his coat, smiling faintly.

“Thank you,” he said softly. “For the invite. This was really… nice.”

Lex gave him a small nod. “I’m glad you came.”

Clark stepped inside the elevator, then paused, turning. “You know, I wasn’t sure if this was a—um. A work thing. Or something else.”

Lex met his eyes.

“What would you prefer it to be?” he asked.

Clark smiled, soft and slow. “I think… I’d like it to be something else.”

The doors began to close.

And Lex Luthor, king of control, watched Clark Kent vanish from sight with the taste of chocolate and temptation still burning on his tongue.

Chapter Text

Clark was ten minutes into his usual workday routine—coffee, inbox, mild dread—when the ambush struck.

He didn’t even see them coming. One moment he was quietly trying to write the lede for a story about city zoning violations, and the next—

“So,” Lois said, sliding into the chair across from him like a shark scented blood. “How was your not-date with Lex Luthor?”

Clark didn’t look up. “It was a dinner.”

“Oh, sure,” she said, nodding gravely. “A totally casual, platonic, private dinner in his penthouse.”

Jimmy leaned over Clark’s partition, beaming. “With wine. Candles. Music.”

Clark blinked at him. “You weren’t there.”

“I have imagination, Clark. And a husband who gets romantic once in a blue moon, so trust me—if Lex Luthor fed you three courses and didn’t try to pitch a merger, it was a date.”

“It was not a date,” Clark said firmly, scrolling with unnecessary intensity.

“Did you wear the slutty powder blue dress shirt?” Lois asked.

Clark froze.

Lois grinned like a cat. “You did, didn’t you?”

Clark glanced up, cautious. “It is not slutty.”

Jimmy snorted. “Clark, buddy. That shirt is two buttons and a breeze away from indecent exposure.”

“It’s just a nice shirt!” Clark said, flustered. “It fits well.”

Lois leaned forward, elbows on the desk. “Fits well? It clung to you like it had a crush. Lex Luthor probably started writing your wedding vows the second you walked in.”

Clark dropped his face into his hands. “I hate this newsroom.”

“Oh come on,” Jimmy said. “Admit it. You had a good time.”

Clark mumbled something into his palms.

Lois cupped a hand behind her ear. “What was that, Smallville?”

“I said,” Clark grumbled, sitting up, “yes. It was nice. He was… nice.”

“Oh my god,” Jimmy said. “You like him.”

“No, I—well. I like that he’s… not terrible.”

Lois narrowed her eyes. “Define ‘not terrible.’”

“He made me laugh.”

Jimmy gasped. “You laughed?”

Lois clutched her heart. “Next you’ll tell us he touched your hand while pouring the wine and time stopped.”

Clark looked away too quickly.

“OH MY GOD,” Jimmy and Lois said at the same time.

“I cannot do this with you people today,” Clark muttered, jabbing at his keyboard like it had personally offended him.

Lois nudged him with her foot. “You gonna see him again?”

“It was a one-time thank-you dinner. That’s all.”

“Mhm.”

“I’m serious!”

Lois stood, smug. “You’re going to show up to work one day with a hickey shaped like an L and I am not going to be surprised.”

Jimmy leaned in and whispered, “Was it his idea to light candles or were you both just committing to the romantic delusion?”

Clark stood up so fast his chair squeaked. “I’m going to the printer.”

“You don’t need anything printed.”

Clark was already walking away. “I’ll find something.”

As the elevator doors closed behind him, he heard Lois call out, “TELL LEX I SAID HI, BABE!”

Chapter Text

Lex Luthor had done a lot of things in his life that could be considered manipulative.

“Strategic,” his lawyers would say.

“Visionary,” his board would insist.

“Deeply unhinged,” Ava Lin would mutter while opening another bottle of Tylenol.

But even Lex had to admit: trying to figure out a second ‘organic’ way to bump into Clark Kent was testing the limits of his considerable genius.

Lex wanted a second date.

Except it couldn’t be another dinner. That would be obvious. Lazy. Repetitive. And Clark—sweet, genuine, infuriatingly earnest Clark—deserved better than being lured in over a third bottle of vintage wine.

And Lex couldn’t use ‘work’ again. He’d played that card already. Twice.

Which left him here, standing at the edge of his penthouse balcony with a glass of water he wasn’t drinking, wondering aloud.

“How do you accidentally bump into someone on purpose twice?”

Behind him, Ava Lin’s voice cut through the silence like a blade. “You don’t.”

Lex turned slowly. “You’re in my apartment.”

“You pay me to be several steps ahead of your worst instincts,” she said, tapping away on her tablet without looking up. “So yes. I’m here. Preemptively.”

He narrowed his eyes. “Are you monitoring my texts again?”

“No, you’ve been pacing in front of your balcony for forty minutes and muttering the words ‘Kent’ and ‘moan’ under your breath. It wasn’t hard to piece together.”

Lex stared at her.

She shrugged. “Do you want help or not?”

“I’m not… stalking him,” Lex said. “Anymore.”

“Thank god for progress,” she said, dry. “So what’s the issue?”

“I want to see him again,” Lex admitted. “But I can’t invite him to dinner. That would be repetitive. And work-related excuses are off the table.”

“So think like a normal person,” she said. “Ask him to coffee.”

“He’ll think I’m trying to manipulate him into another quote.”

“Then don’t bring a tape recorder.”

Lex sighed and sat down on the edge of his desk. “It has to be organic. Sincere. I need to see him in the wild. Let him come to me.”

“You say that like you’re setting up a wildlife trap. Are you going to bait it with a blueberry muffin?”

Lex blinked.

Ava froze. “Lex. That wasn’t a suggestion.”

“He walks the dog every morning around 7:15,” Lex murmured. “Same three blocks. Rain or shine.”

“Lex.”

“I could—accidentally be nearby. Maybe have a coffee in hand. Say hello.”

“You’re going to stalk his dog walk?”

“I’m going to happen to be walking myself.”

“You don’t walk.”

“I could.”

Ava stared at him. “Do you even own sneakers?”

“…I have very nice Italian leather loafers.”

A long beat.

Then, flatly: “You’re going to sprain something trying to flirt on a sidewalk.”

Lex leaned back and sighed dramatically. “Then what would you suggest?”

Ava looked at him for a long moment. Then said, carefully, “There’s a charity exhibit opening at the museum this weekend. Quiet event. Soft launch for major donors.”

Lex raised an eyebrow. “Go on.”

“A handful of press invites went out for preview night. Guess which local journalist got one?”

He blinked. “Clark?”

She nodded. “You show up. No cameras. No statements. Just a man with taste in art and regrettable taste in crushes.”

Lex set his glass down.

“I could make that work.”

“You’ll be charming. Disarming. Vulnerable.”

“I hate being vulnerable.”

“I know,” she said sweetly. “But it looks very good on you when Clark’s in the room.”

He didn’t argue.

Because she was right.

Chapter Text

Lex Luthor did not fidget.

He didn’t wring his hands. He didn’t glance at his watch every forty-five seconds. He didn’t pace silently beside priceless sculptures like a man trying to ignore the fact that his heartbeat was currently operating at the pace of a hummingbird on cocaine.

No. Lex Luthor was composed.

Collected.

Dignified.

And if you ignored the death grip he currently had on the edge of the minimalist pedestal beside him, he looked positively serene.

It was a quiet event, just as Ava had promised. No press cameras. Just a few hundred patrons milling through the clean lines and white walls of the Metropolitan Modern, murmuring about form and technique like they had the faintest idea what they were talking about.

Lex had barely looked at the art.

He was waiting.

And then—

A ripple moved through the entrance. Subtle, barely noticeable. But Lex’s head snapped up, and—

There he was.

Clark Kent. In a dark button-up, sleeves rolled, tucked into those fitted gray slacks that Lex knew for a fact had no right clinging to him like that. His hair was fluffy and wind-tousled in the way that Lex had once called ‘unprofessional’ in front of Ava and then quietly Googled ‘how to look like you just woke up cute and flawless’ later in shame.

He looked warm. Bright. Real.

And Lex’s brain, ever loyal in its betrayal, immediately offered:

He’d look even better with that shirt open, flushed and panting, riding my thigh while—

Nope.

Absolutely not.

Lex turned toward the sculpture beside him, staring at it like it was going to save his immortal soul.

It was a twisted piece of iron that looked vaguely like a bird having a nervous breakdown. Fitting.

And then—

“Mr. Luthor!”

Lex’s entire nervous system short-circuited.

That voice. Clark’s voice. So full of easy cheer and surprise and absolutely zero suspicion, like Lex hadn’t manufactured this entire encounter.

Lex turned slowly, trying to arrange his expression into something human. “Mr. Kent.”

Clark gave him that boyish smile that made Lex’s stomach do something violent and undignified. “I wasn’t expecting to see you here, Mr Luthor!”

Lex swallowed. His throat was dry. “It’s… a pleasant surprise.”

Clark stepped closer, unconsciously brushing a curl back from his forehead. “Are you a modern art guy, then?”

Lex looked at the sculpture again. The bird was still having a breakdown.

“I try to support the arts,” Lex said smoothly. “Even when they’re actively trying to upset me.”

Clark laughed. It was full-bodied and bright, and Lex felt it settle low and hot in his chest like he’d just downed a shot of something dangerous.

He could feel Clark’s warmth just from standing next to him. And Lex’s brain, fully off-leash now, added helpfully:

You could have that warmth on top of you. Underneath you. Everywhere. Just lift him up onto the nearest pedestal—

Lex clenched his jaw.

Clark, unaware of the war crimes being committed in Lex’s mind, leaned in conspiratorially. “Okay, but some of this is nonsense, right?”

Lex huffed a breath of laughter. “I’ll deny it if you quote me, but yes. That one—” He nodded toward a wall-sized canvas covered in what looked like smeared ketchup and existential despair. “—looks like someone lost a bet and decided to make the rest of us suffer.”

Clark grinned. “That’s exactly what I said to Jimmy. He said it was ‘raw expression.’ I said it was ‘raw accidentally sat on your lunch.’”

Lex turned fully to face him. “So the Daily Planet sent you to cover this?”

Clark nodded. “Culture section. I think they wanted someone who could write without scaring the art donors.”

“You’re charming when you’re not armed with investigative intent,” Lex said, before he could stop himself.

Clark blinked.

Lex immediately panicked. “That wasn’t—what I meant was—”

But Clark just gave him another of those soft, gentle smiles. “Thanks. You’re a little less terrifying without the full boardroom aura on, too.”

Lex tilted his head. “A little?”

Clark chuckled. “Still very Luthor-y. Just… in a tux instead of a press conference.”

Lex didn’t know what to say to that, so of course, his brain helpfully filled the silence with:

Clark in a tux. Clark out of a tux. Clark on his knees in that tux, looking up at me with those big stupid eyes—

He needed oxygen.

“Would you—” Lex started, then stopped. Recalibrated. “Would you like to walk with me? Through the exhibit. I promise not to make you write a glowing review.”

Clark’s cheeks pinked slightly. “Sure. I mean, yeah. That sounds nice.”

Nice.

It was such an innocent word. Lex wanted to throw it in a volcano.

They walked side-by-side, weaving between groups of patrons and installations. Lex let Clark lead the commentary—Clark’s remarks were dry, surprisingly observant, and occasionally hilarious. He talked with his hands. His voice was animated. He lit up like a sunrise when describing things he liked.

Lex didn’t even pretend to look at the art.

He looked at Clark.

They paused in front of a minimalist metal piece that looked like a broken umbrella.

Clark tilted his head. “This one’s called ‘Repetition and Collapse.’ Deep.”

Lex’s voice was quiet. “You’re a lot more insightful than you pretend to be.”

Clark looked at him. Not flustered. Just thoughtful. “I just like making people feel comfortable first. People talk more when they don’t feel judged.”

Lex nodded slowly. “You do that very well.”

Clark ducked his head, smiling. “Thanks.”

They stood there for a long moment.

The noise of the exhibit faded into soft hums and distant clinks of glasses. The lighting was warm. Lex could see the curve of Clark’s throat. He could smell his cologne—something subtle, something clean, something devastating.

And Lex’s brain—savage, loyal traitor—whispered:

Take him home. Kiss him stupid. Let him sit in your lap, glasses pushed to the top of his head, shirt halfway off, moaning against your mouth like—

Lex cleared his throat. Loudly. “Would you like to get a drink?”

Clark looked surprised. “From the bar?”

“No,” Lex said. “With me. Another day. Not here. Just… you and me.”

Clark blinked.

Lex didn’t look away. “Just something I’d like. If you’d like it too.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then Clark—sweet, smiling, shirt-fitted-like-sin Clark—grinned at him and said, “I’d like that.”

Lex exhaled, slow and steady, like he hadn’t been holding his breath for a year.

Chapter Text

Clark had barely made it two steps into the bullpen before Lois Lane appeared out of nowhere, holding two coffees and wearing the dangerous look of someone who had absolutely no plans to let anyone work in peace.

“Well?” she asked, falling into step beside him like she hadn’t been waiting for this moment all morning.

Clark blinked, adjusting his bag over his shoulder. “Well what?”

Jimmy popped up from the other direction, camera bag still slung across his chest. “The exhibit, farm boy. How was it?”

“Oh,” Clark said, setting his things on his desk. “It was nice. Quiet. Smaller than I expected. The art was… interesting.”

Lois snorted. “That bad, huh?”

“I didn’t say it was bad,” Clark said mildly. “Just… interpretive.”

“‘Interpretive,’” Jimmy repeated, air-quoting. “That’s reporter code for ‘looked like a third grader spilled paint on a rug and called it profound.’”

Clark smiled, pulling off his coat. “Some of it was good.”

“Did they have snacks?” Lois asked.

“Yes.”

“Free drinks?”

“Yes.”

“Any awkward mingling with corporate billionaires and trust fund zombies?”

Clark hesitated for half a second.

It was fatal.

Lois narrowed her eyes. “...Oh my god. Clark.”

“What?” he said, far too innocently.

Jimmy squinted. “Wait. Was someone there?”

Clark fiddled with his tie. “I mean, yeah. It was a public event for donors. Some people showed up.”

Lois was already circling like a shark. “Which people, Clark?”

He shrugged and tried to sit down like it was no big deal. “Oh, you know. Some board members. Local patrons. Mr. Luthor was there.”

The silence was deafening.

Then Jimmy actually choked on his coffee. “Lex Luthor?!”

Lois gasped like he’d dropped a national secret. “You saw him again?”

Clark opened his laptop and very deliberately did not look at either of them. “He was just attending. Like everyone else.”

Jimmy leaned over his desk. “Was this, like, a thing? Did he say hi?”

Clark could already feel the blush creeping up the back of his neck. “...He might’ve said hi.”

“Clark,” Lois said, voice low and full of menace. “Did you talk to Lex Luthor last night?”

Clark sighed. “Yes.”

“For how long?”

“I don’t know. A bit.”

Lois’s eyes went wide. “A bit?! That’s more than hi!”

“We just walked through the gallery together,” Clark said quickly. “Talked about art. That’s it.”

Jimmy sat on the edge of Clark’s desk like he was settling in for a movie. “Did he buy you a drink?”

“No!”

“Did he offer to?”

Clark hesitated.

Lois squealed. “He offered, didn’t he?!”

Clark rubbed his face. “It wasn’t a big deal—”

“Clark Joseph Kent,” Lois said firmly. “You are telling me that Lex Luthor, billionaire menace and object of half this city's deeply confusing fantasies, invited you to an art exhibit, showed up looking like money and menace, flirted with you among the sculptures, and asked you out—and you’re sitting here pretending it’s not a big deal?!”

“He didn’t invite me!” Clark said helplessly. “I was covering it for the Planet. He just… happened to be there.”

Lois narrowed her eyes. “Did he say he wanted to see you again?”

Clark glanced down. “...Yes.”

Jimmy held up a hand like a referee. “And did you say yes?”

Clark let out a groan and slumped forward on his desk. “Yes.”

There was a full two seconds of silence before Jimmy flopped dramatically into the chair beside him and muttered, “Man, even my husband isn’t that romantic with me.”

Lois pointed a finger at him triumphantly. “I told you! I told you Lex Luthor has a crush on you!”

“He doesn’t have a crush on me—”

“He’s obsessed with you,” Jimmy added helpfully. “Like, in a hot, slightly deranged way. Which, honestly? Kinda fits your type.”

Clark groaned again. “He’s not obsessed, and he is not my type.”

“He sent you roses,” Lois reminded him.

“That could’ve been anyone!”

“He sent you chocolates.”

“You don’t know that was him—”

“Clark. You wore the slutty powder-blue shirt to dinner with him.”

Clark sat up, scandalized. “It is not slutty.”

Jimmy looked thoughtful. “It’s a little slutty.”

“It’s fitted!”

“It’s form-fitted,” Lois corrected. “Specifically across the chest and arms. And you wore it with your glasses just slightly down your nose, which we all know is your ‘I’m innocent’ look.”

“I am innocent!”

“You flirted with Lex Luthor in a gallery full of modern art and emotional divorce sculptures,” Jimmy said. “In that shirt.”

“I didn’t flirt!”

“You said yes to a second date,” Lois pointed out. “With Lex Luthor.”

Clark dropped his head back onto his desk. “It’s not a date.”

“Oh no?” Lois said sweetly. “What is it then?”

Clark mumbled into the desk. “...Drinks.”

Jimmy patted him on the back. “That’s gay for a date.”

Lois leaned in with an evil grin. “So when is it happening?”

“I don’t know,” Clark said. “He said he’d message me.”

“Oh, he will. And when he does? You’re telling us everything.”

Clark gave them a long, suffering look.

Jimmy raised his camera like it was a toast. “To our best friend Clark, who is now dating the most dangerous man in Metropolis.”

“I’m not dating him!”

“Yet,” Lois sang.

Chapter Text

Lex Luthor had a problem.

An attractive, infuriating, Midwestern problem.

He’d expected the thoughts to go away by morning. They hadn’t. He’d expected the fantasies to fade after a shower, a 5 am run, and a strong cup of black coffee. They hadn’t.

Four. Four whole fantasies.

Lex scrubbed a hand over his face and muttered something sharp under his breath.

This wasn’t how it was supposed to go.

He was Lex Luthor. Controlled. Collected. Calculated. Not a man undone by tight button-downs and soft Kansas accents and the way Clark Kent said Mr. Luthor like it meant something.

It had been drinks. A proposal for drinks. Simple. Harmless. An invitation extended with professionalism. With caution.

Clark had said yes.

And now Lex had no idea how he was going to survive it.

Because it wasn’t going to be simple. And it sure as hell wasn’t going to be harmless.

He could already see it: Clark in some worn, rolled-up shirt, flushed from alcohol, warm and unguarded and soft around the edges. Too close. Too sweet. Smiling that damn smile that made Lex’s brain short-circuit.

Let him fumble with your tie. Let him tell you in that sweet, breathless voice how long he’s wanted this. Strip him out of that ridiculous shirt and put your mouth on every inch of—

“Stop,” Lex hissed.

“You good?” came Ava Lin’s voice, drifting in from the doorway of his office.

Lex sat up straighter, trying to appear less like a man coming undone in a five thousand dollar chair. “Fine.”

Ava arched an eyebrow but didn’t question it. She stepped inside with her tablet and a knowing sort of wariness that Lex had come to associate with her sensing a problem she didn’t yet have the facts for.

“Board meeting’s moved to Friday,” she said, eyes skimming over the screen. “And the PR team wants final approval on the new education initiative by tomorrow morning.”

Lex made a noncommittal noise.

“You’re not listening,” she said.

“I am.”

“You’re thinking about the reporter.”

Lex’s jaw tensed.

Ava didn’t press it. Just scrolled. “You’re seeing him again, aren’t you?”

“It’s not a date.”

She smirked faintly. “No one said it was.”

Lex didn’t respond. He could feel her glance up, waiting for more, but when he gave her nothing, she clicked the tablet off and stepped away from the desk.

“You know,” she said lightly, “I once saw you take apart a hedge fund portfolio in twenty-three minutes while three senators tried to talk over you and a protest was happening outside. But this? You look terrified.”

I am.

He didn’t say it. Just gave her the coldest look he could muster.

“Drink some water,” Ava said, halfway out the door. “You look like someone with heatstroke.”

When she was gone, Lex leaned back in his chair and stared at the ceiling.

It’s just drinks.

Just Clark Kent.

Just the man who made his hands tremble with the thought of touching him. Who made Lex imagine what it would feel like to be wrapped around him, breathing into his neck, saying yes over and over again until he forgot what the word no meant.

You’re insane.

He had spent the morning trying to work, only to find his mind returning again and again to that quiet, stupid smile. To the way Clark’s eyes crinkled when he laughed. To the way his hand had brushed against Lex’s arm the night of the exhibit—completely accidental, totally innocent—and Lex had nearly blacked out like some Victorian heroine.

I need less of him. I need to forget this whole thing.

And yet…

Lex pulled out his phone. Opened the messages. Read and re-read the last one Clark had sent.

Thursday night? I know a good place.

Lex hesitated. Then typed:

Still good for Thursday? I’ll meet you there. Just text me the address.

A second later, the reply came in.

Absolutely. It’s nothing fancy—hope that’s okay. I’ll send you the info.

Lex stared at the screen, thumb hovering.

Nothing fancy. That was fine.

That was better, even.

It’s a bar. There’ll be noise. Crowds. It’ll help. Distraction. I won’t stare at his mouth. Or his chest. Or the way he slouches when he’s tipsy, or how his lips look when he says my name—

He groaned and tossed the phone down like it had burned him.

You’re doomed. Fully, stupidly doomed.

Still, he didn’t cancel.

And that was the worst part.

He wanted to go.

Even knowing what it would do to him.

Even knowing that the second Clark looked at him over the rim of a drink and smiled, Lex would imagine pressing him against a wall, mouth open and needy, hips grinding like a man possessed—

He ran a hand down his face.

Get it together.

It was just a drink.

Just one night.

He could be normal for one night.

Probably.

Maybe.

Chapter Text

Clark Kent walks into the bar looking like a romcom protagonist who’s about to ruin Lex’s life.

White button-down, sleeves rolled up, two buttons undone—casual, effortless, and criminally well-fitted.

Lex has never hated a shirt so much.

“Hi, Mr. Luthor!” Clark says brightly as he spots him, waving a little before walking over with that bounce in his step that Lex has started to associate with things like joy and innocence and thoughts he’s not allowed to have in public.

“Clark,” Lex says smoothly. Too smoothly. He’s already off-balance.

Clark sits beside him at the bar, brushing a little too close in a way that probably isn’t intentional but Lex still has to clench his jaw about it.

“I hope I’m not late,” Clark says, setting his phone on the counter. “Had to walk my dog before heading out. He gave me the whole sad eyes thing.”

“Tragic,” Lex murmurs. “You made it. That’s what matters.”

Clark grins—open, friendly, unguarded. “Good! I was really looking forward to this.”

Lex wants to die.

Clark orders a whiskey. Neat.

Lex raises an eyebrow. “That’s a little stronger than I expected.”

Clark tilts his head. “What’d you think I’d get?”

Lex considers. “Something mild. Sweet, maybe.”

Clark giggles—actual giggles—into his glass. “I do like sweet things,” he admits. “But whiskey’s my go-to. My dad used to say it put hair on your chest.”

Lex has absolutely no business imagining Clark’s chest right now. And yet.

Shut up. Down, boy. Repress it.

Thirty minutes in, Clark is tipsy.

Not messy, not slurred—just warm. He talks a little more freely, laughs a little more easily. His cheeks are slightly flushed, and the alcohol has smoothed the edges off his voice until he sounds dangerously soft.

He leans forward to tell a story about an article gone wrong—something about a sewer commission and an angry opossum—and Lex finds himself watching the way Clark’s lips shape his words, the way his hands move when he’s excited.

He’s animated. Earnest. Almost childlike in how much he clearly loves what he does.

“Sorry,” Clark says mid-story. “I ramble when I’ve had a bit to drink.”

“You’re fine,” Lex says, and means it. “Go on.”

Clark beams.

I want to ruin you.

Lex takes a large, unnecessary sip of his drink.

Clark finishes his third whiskey with barely a blink. Lex hasn’t touched his second.

“You’re good at this,” Lex notes.

Clark frowns. “At drinking?”

“At holding it,” Lex clarifies.

“Oh! Yeah. My best friend in college tried to outdrink me once. It didn’t end well. For him, I mean.”

Lex watches the way Clark stifles a laugh at the memory and has to forcibly stop himself from saying something incredibly inappropriate.

An hour in, they move to a quieter booth near the back of the bar. Clark slides in across from Lex, hair slightly mussed, shirt clinging to him just enough to drive Lex insane.

“I really like talking to you,” Clark says suddenly.

Lex nearly drops his glass. “Why?”

Clark shrugs, folding his arms on the table. “You’re honest. And weirdly funny, even if you pretend not to be.”

“I don’t try to be funny.”

“You don’t try at all,” Clark points out with a soft grin. “But you still are.”

Lex is going to combust. Right here. In this booth.

As the night wears on, Clark gets more comfortable—not flirtatious, not on purpose, but friendly, leaning close when he talks, laughing like Lex is genuinely fun to be around.

It’s devastating.

Clark rests his chin in his palm at one point, looking at Lex like he’s genuinely curious. “What made you want to be a businessman?”

Lex blinks. “I… didn’t really have a choice.”

Clark tilts his head, hair falling in his eyes. “I think you did.”

Lex stares at him.

He can’t look away.

Pin him. Kiss him. Let him ride your thigh in that shirt until he forgets his name—

Nope. Not happening. Shut it down.

When Clark excuses himself to the bathroom, Lex drops his head back against the booth and groans.

He’s not sure if he needs to scream or punch a wall or just text Ava “SOS: in love with the sun.”

The worst part is that Clark isn’t trying. He’s not flirting to manipulate. He’s not teasing for effect.

He’s just nice.

And sweet.

And soft around the edges in a way Lex wants to press into like a bruise.

Clark returns with a small smile and slightly flushed cheeks. “Sorry. Had to splash water on my face. I was getting warm.”

Lex’s brain short-circuits.

Please never say those words again.

He sits down, and they both linger in a companionable silence for a moment, sipping their drinks.

Then Clark says, “I don’t really go on dates like this.”

Lex stiffens. “This isn’t a date.”

Clark blinks. “Oh. Sorry! I didn’t mean to assume. It’s just… I’m having fun. And usually when I’m having fun like this, it’s a date.”

Lex swallows.

Clark watches him curiously.

“I’m not saying it has to be,” Clark adds quickly. “But if it was, it’d be a really good one.”

Lex can’t think.

He can’t speak.

Clark smiles sheepishly, ducking his head a little. “Anyway. Sorry. That was probably weird to say.”

Lex shakes his head. “Not weird. Just…”

Just don’t say another word or I will actually kiss you in this godforsaken bar.

“…surprising,” he finishes.

Clark’s smile grows. “You’re hard to read, you know.”

“You’re easy.”

Clark blinks.

Lex blinks.

“I meant—”

Clark bursts out laughing. “Wow.”

Lex groans and covers his face. “I meant to read. You’re easy to read.”

“That might be worse.”

When they part ways outside, the air is brisk and Clark’s hair is tousled from the wind. He looks utterly perfect.

“Tonight was really nice,” he says. “I’m glad we did this.”

Lex swallows. “Me too.”

Clark rocks on his heels for a second. Then, softly: “If you ever want to do it again…”

Lex meets his eyes.

Clark doesn’t press. Just smiles, offers a little wave, and turns to walk away.

Lex stands frozen.

Absolutely, completely gone.

You’re in trouble, he tells himself.

And he’s right.

Chapter Text

The moment Clark walks into the office, coffee in hand and sunglasses on despite being indoors, he knows he’s made a mistake.

Lois Lane is already watching him. Elbows on her desk, chin resting in her hand, a smirk spreading across her face like she’s been waiting all morning for this exact moment.

Jimmy’s not far behind, peeking over the top of his monitor with the expression of a man who’s about to enjoy himself way too much.

Clark tries to make it to his desk unnoticed. He fails.

“So…” Lois begins, drawing out the syllable like it’s a whole sentence. “Did you wear the slutty blue shirt?”

Clark halts mid-step.

He turns his head slowly. “It is not slutty. And I did not wear it.”

Jimmy lets out a bark of laughter. “That’s not a denial that it’s slutty. That’s you saying it’s tasteful slut.”

Clark glares over the rim of his coffee cup. “It’s a normal shirt.”

“You wore the white one, didn’t you?” Lois guesses, eyes narrowing in mock accusation. “Tighter fit, sleeves rolled up just so, top two buttons undone…”

“I dress like a normal person.”

“You dress like a hot farmhand trying to seduce the local mayor’s son,” Jimmy says helpfully. “And it’s working. Clearly.”

Clark sets his coffee down with a thud. “It wasn’t a date.”

Lois’s eyebrows shoot up. “Oh, you think we’re going to believe that?”

“We got drinks.”

“You and Lex Luthor got drinks,” she corrects. “Alone. In the evening. You wore the ‘suit me, strip me, marry me’ shirt.”

Jimmy snorts. “Was there eye contact?”

Clark opens his mouth. Closes it. “We looked at each other.”

Lois nods like a professor grading an essay. “Eye contact. Classic first date move.”

“There was nothing romantic about it!”

Jimmy raises an eyebrow. “Clark. Did he pay?”

“Yes, but—”

“Did he compliment you?”

“He said I have journalistic integrity—”

“Oh my god.”

Lois leans back in her chair, fully smug now. “So, to recap: you wore the white shirt, went out for drinks with Lex Luthor, he complimented you, paid for everything, and you’re still out here insisting it wasn’t a date?”

Clark glares. “I am never telling you two anything ever again.”

They don’t stop. Of course they don’t stop.

Lois trails him to the breakroom under the pretense of needing more sugar, rattling off headlines under her breath. “‘Billionaire Bachelor Luthor Seduced by Boyish Midwestern Charm’—too long? Too accurate?”

“I will pour this coffee on your shoes.”

“You wouldn’t dare.”

Jimmy catches up to them moments later, leaning casually against the doorframe. “So. Are you gonna see him again?”

Clark frowns into his mug. “…I don’t know.”

“You want to, though,” Lois says, far too pleased.

“I don’t know, okay?” Clark groans. “He’s Lex Luthor. He’s… intense. He talks like he’s planning five hostile takeovers at once, and half the time I can’t tell if he’s joking or judging me or imagining me naked.”

Lois and Jimmy exchange a look.

Clark pauses. “That last one was rhetorical. And a joke. Stop making faces.”

Jimmy tries very hard not to laugh. “You like him.”

“No, I—”

“You like-like him,” Lois says in a sing-song voice.

“I’m going to jump out the window.”

“You’re invulnerable,” Jimmy points out.

“Doesn’t mean I wouldn’t feel it.”

Back at his desk, Clark stares at his inbox. He’s got three unread emails, a press release, and a photo assignment to confirm with Jimmy.

But all he can think about is the way Lex looked at him across the table last night.

Not predatory. Not smirking. Just… intense. Focused. Like Clark was the only person in the room.

And maybe Clark had flushed a little. Maybe he’d laughed too hard at one of Lex’s dry remarks, or let their knees bump under the table without moving.

Maybe it did feel like a date.

And maybe that terrified him a little.

Because Lex Luthor doesn’t date people like Clark Kent.

He marries heiresses. Models. Women with red carpet experience and jewelry that costs more than Clark’s annual rent.

Not farm boys with messy hair and discount glasses.

Still.

He had asked Clark out. He had paid. And—okay, Clark had caught him staring at his chest at least once.

“You’re thinking about him again,” Lois says from her desk, not even looking up.

“I am not.”

“Your typing stops when you’re daydreaming.”

“Maybe I was just being thoughtful.”

“Maybe you were imagining him shirtless and saying ‘Mr. Kent’ in a low growl.”

Clark hurls a paperclip at her.

By the time lunch rolls around, Jimmy shows up at Clark’s desk with a smug grin and two coffees.

“Peace offering,” he says, handing one over.

Clark takes it suspiciously. “What did you do?”

“Nothing yet. But I am going to demand a full play-by-play.”

“There’s nothing to play by.”

“You went out for drinks with a man who owns four private jets and probably names them after Greek tragedies. That’s something.”

Clark sighs. “He’s not… what people say he is.”

Jimmy raises an eyebrow. “You mean ‘evil genius billionaire with a moral compass shaped like a paperclip’?”

“He’s complicated,” Clark admits. “But he’s smart. And kind of… lonely?”

Jimmy sips his drink. “Well, that’s depressing.”

“I don’t mean it in a sad way. Just… he’s used to people trying to use him. I think I caught him off guard.”

Jimmy smirks. “With your big Kansas charm and devastating biceps?”

“Stop.”

“Never.”

By the end of the day, Clark is exhausted. Not from work, but from the emotional gauntlet of being teased within an inch of his life.

He tries to leave quietly. Just gather his bag, toss his empty coffee cups, and sneak out.

But Lois is waiting by the elevator like a shark smelling blood.

“So,” she says casually. “When’s the nexr date?”

Clark sighs. “He hasn’t asked.”

“But you want him to.”

Clark hesitates.

And Lois knows.

Her grin could power the city grid.

“You’re disgusting,” Clark mutters.

“You love me.”

“Unfortunately.”

That night, Clark walks home with the leash in one hand and his dog trotting beside him, tail wagging.

Metropolis hums around him, golden in the city lights.

He hasn’t heard from Lex. Not yet.

But he has a feeling he will.

And he doesn’t know if he’s ready.

But he’s curious.

And—despite everything—maybe a little excited.

Chapter Text

Lex Luthor, billionaire industrialist, once dubbed ‘the sharpest mind of the century,’ has technically been on three dates with Clark Kent.

He refuses to deate the semantics.

The first: dinner, where Clark looked absolutely gorgeous in that power blue shirt of his.

The second: the art benefit, where Clark had shown up looking like a sin in slacks and Lex had fantasized about pinning him against a gallery wall for most of the evening.

The third: drinks. Unquestionably a date. Lex had paid, listened intently, failed spectacularly at hiding how often his eyes drifted to the way Clark’s shirt clung to his chest. Clark, sweet oblivious idiot, had laughed at all of Lex’s jokes, flirted accidentally, and then said “If this was a date, it’d be a good one.”

Lex had almost passed out.

And now: the fourth.

The most elusive.

Not because Lex lacked opportunities—he could summon Clark with one vaguely PR-related excuse and Kent would show up, notebook and smile in hand, looking like some kind of golden retriever in loafers.

But Lex was... trying, unfortunately. Trying to be normal. Human. A man someone might fall for without coercion, manipulation, or a multi-million-dollar company behind it.

Which meant he needed a reason to ask Clark out again that didn’t scream, I am in love with you, please come sit in my lap.

And he was running out of them fast.

Ava Lin steps into his office, eyes on a digital tablet, heels clicking with military precision. “You have fifteen minutes until your virtual with the Tokyo branch.”

“Cancel it,” Lex says.

She doesn’t even blink. “I’ll reschedule it for Thursday.”

“I need to see Clark Kent again.”

Ava lifts her eyes. “You’ve seen him three times in two weeks.”

“And it’s not enough.”

Lex leans back in his chair, fingers steepled. “I can’t stop thinking about him. He talks with his hands. He calls me ‘Mr. Luthor’ like he’s trying to be professional and it just makes it worse. He wore this white shirt last time and—” he pauses, collecting himself— “I had to drink ice water through half the night.”

Ava sighs and sets down her tablet. “Do you want me to send him a gift?”

“No.” Lex drums his fingers. “Too obvious. Too soon.”

“You sent him flowers. Then chocolates. I think we’re past subtle.”

“That was before we—” he stops. “Before drinks.”

Ava raises an eyebrow. “You mean before your third not-a-date.”

Lex scowls. “I just need a fourth.”

“Technically, most people would call that a second.”

Lex waves a hand. “Whatever. I need it to happen soon. Before I lose my mind.”

He spends the rest of the day ignoring a boardroom of stunned executives and half-listening to two engineers pitch AI-powered solar grids, all while mentally cataloging every possible excuse to see Clark Kent again.

Nothing holds up.

Another interview? Too obvious. A second press piece? Transparent.

Dinner again? That would be two actual dates in a row. Far too clear a pattern.

He needs something casual, but not too casual. Low-stakes, but intimate. Something where Clark wouldn’t suspect anything—but also maybe suspect just enough.

Lex rubs a hand over his face.

He is not good at this.

That night, in his penthouse with the city glittering beneath him and a brandy he doesn’t remember pouring, Lex paces.

“I could have him invited to something,” he mutters to himself. “Charity auction. Museum exhibit. The city council gala—no. He’d know I put his name on the list.”

His brain is not helpful.

Kiss him. Feed him grapes. Put him in your bed and see how red his ears get when you—

Lex glares into space. “You’re supposed to be helping.”

The silence is smug.

He flops into the armchair and pulls out his phone.

Scrolls to Clark’s number. Hovers.

Types:

Would you be interested in attending—

Backspaces.

Would you like to—

Nope. Too eager.

Types again.

Thinking of writing a follow-up to your piece on LexCorp philanthropy?

Then deletes it.

His pride is annoying. And unhelpful. And still bigger than it should be for a man who’s been dreaming about soft hands and a flirty voice and eyes that go unfairly wide when he’s drunk.

He gives up, slams the phone facedown, and groans.

I just want to see him again.

The next morning, Ava sets down a folder without preamble.

“What’s this?” Lex asks.

“A community literacy program.” She doesn’t make eye contact. “One of your more underfunded PR initiatives. They’re doing a fundraiser mixer next week.”

He eyes the folder. “Are you suggesting I go?”

“I’m suggesting you host.”

Lex flips the folder open. Photos. Press copy. Community impact charts.

But more importantly—a neat little line in Ava’s sharp handwriting at the bottom of the schedule sheet:

Invite Kent. He won’t say no.

Lex smiles.

She’s evil. But brilliant.

Just like him.

Chapter Text

The envelope is thick. Too thick.

It’s been sitting on Clark’s desk for twenty minutes now—creamy cardstock, hand-delivered, his name printed in calligraphy so elegant it makes his brain short-circuit.

He’s been ignoring it. Mostly.

Well, glancing at it.

Every ten seconds.

But definitely ignoring it.

Across the room, Lois is buried in edits, red pen flying like a storm across printouts. Jimmy is scrolling through something, earbuds in. No one’s paying attention. He’s safe.

So Clark reaches for it. Casually. Like it’s no big deal. Like it might be a boring city press invite or another fundraiser he’ll decline politely.

He slides a finger under the flap.

Inside: a single, heavy invitation card. Gold embossed. LexCorp crest at the top.

His name is printed in full. Clark Joseph Kent.

He skims. Tries not to panic.

You are cordially invited to an Evening Reception in Celebration of the Metropolis Literacy Initiative. Hosted by Lex Luthor.

A private event. Cocktail attire. Limited press.

Clark’s heart does something weird and fluttery.

He shuts the envelope so fast it makes a snap.

Too late.

Lois glances over, eyes narrowing. “What was that?”

Clark fumbles. “Nothing.”

Jimmy pops out an earbud. “You got a fancy letter?”

“It’s not—” Clark tucks it under a file. “It’s just an event invite.”

Lois’s smirk is slow and dangerous. “From Lex Luthor?”

Clark freezes. “…How did you know that?”

“You’re bad at hiding things. And you only get flustered when it involves tall, brooding billionaires who want to date you.”

“It’s a literacy event,” Clark says, voice a little too high. “I cover city initiatives. It’s probably just work.”

Lois is already walking over. Jimmy follows.

Clark tries to cover the envelope. “Nope. Off-limits. You’re banned.”

“Let me see, Smallville.” Lois is grinning like the devil. “Is it embossed?”

Jimmy makes a noise of exaggerated offense. “Wait—he’s sending gold-trimmed invitations now? C’mon, man, that’s so romantic!”

Clark groans and sinks lower in his chair.

“It’s not romance.”

“Is it a private event?” Lois asks.

Clark hesitates. “...Yes.”

“Cocktail attire?”

“Possibly.”

“Did it come hand-delivered?”

Clark glares. “You’re enjoying this.”

“I live for this,” she says proudly.

Jimmy leans over his shoulder to snag a better look at the envelope.

“‘You are cordially invited,’” he reads aloud in a mock accent. “‘To an intimate evening affair hosted by your mysterious billionaire suitor—’ okay, fine, I added that part.”

Clark snatches it back. “You two are insufferable.”

Lois props herself against his desk. “You realize he’s wooing you, right?”

“He’s not wooing me.”

Jimmy raises an eyebrow. “Did he or did he not donate to a community garden just to ‘accidentally’ run into you for an interview?”

Clark glares at her. “He did not donate to the community garden just to see me.”

“Sure buddy. And then asked you to dinner,” Lois adds.

“That was to celebrate the article’s success.”

“And then took you out for drinks,” she continues. “Where you wore your sluttiest white shirt.”

Clark groans. “Will you stop calling it that?”

“No,” she and Jimmy say in unison.

Clark buries his face in his hands. “It’s just… complicated.”

“He likes you,” Jimmy says simply.

Clark lifts his head. “You don’t know that.”

Lois raises her hands. “He’s inviting you to private events. He’s making sure he’s alone with you. He’s calling you by your full name like it’s a bedtime prayer.”

Jimmy adds, “And you like him, which is obvious every time you get that dumb little smile when you talk about him.”

Clark frowns. “I do not—”

“You do,” they say again, together.

He groans and tips his chair back until he’s staring at the ceiling. “Why me?”

“You’re cute,” Jimmy says.

“You’re sweet,” Lois adds.

“And he’s probably never met a guy who looks like he can throw a tractor and blush when someone calls him handsome.”

“I hate you both.”

Lois pats him on the shoulder. “You’re being wooed, farmboy. Just admit it.”

Back at his desk, Clark stares at the envelope again.

A literacy fundraiser.

He should go.

It’s a great piece, actually. City-funded literacy initiatives are underreported. He could spin something local, human interest. It’s good work. That’s a valid reason.

But he also knows Lex will be there. That Lex probably invited him personally. That Lex might be wearing one of those impossible suits that fit like they were made for seduction, and Clark might drink just enough champagne to smile too long or laugh too freely.

He could back out.

He should back out.

He’s not going to back out.

Because Lois is right. Jimmy’s right. Even Lex, in his weird, intense, roundabout way, is right.

Clark wants to see him again.

And that terrifies him more than anything.

Chapter Text

Lex had planned everything. The lighting, the menu, the location, the champagne. The guest list was deliberately short. Media presence was minimal. The photographers were explicitly instructed not to take candids.

The space itself was flawless: a rooftop lounge overlooking the river, lit by soft golds and subtle candlelight. Elegant but not opulent. Comfortable, but not cheap. Refined.

All of it calculated.

And none of it matters when Clark Kent walks into the room.

Lex is halfway through a conversation with the mayor when he sees him. The world shifts. Time folds.

Clark’s wearing a suit. Not flashy, not expensive—but perfectly tailored. Crisp white shirt, dark blue jacket, a skinny tie that draws attention straight to the center of his chest. But it’s the pants that kill Lex.

They hug Clark’s thighs in ways Lex’s imagination couldn’t have prepared for. The material is just tight enough to hint at the muscle underneath, and when Clark walks, it’s with that casual, almost awkward gait—like he still hasn’t realized the way people stare at him.

Sweet. Earnest. Perfect.

And his legs. God, his legs.

Lex can already picture it. 

Clark on his back, tie loosened, suit pants wrinkled and pushed halfway down—

No. No, stop that. Shut up, brain.

This is a fundraiser. There are children’s books involved.

“Mr. Luthor!” Clark called cheerfully when their eyes met across the room.

Lex spun around too quickly. He could admit that.

And then promptly imagined Clark saying that same phrase in a completely different tone—one involving fewer clothes and more friction.

“Mr. Luthor?” Clark prompted again, blinking at him with concern.

Lex recovered with an almost-convincing nod. “Kent. Hello. Thank you for coming.”

“Of course!” Clark’s smile was unfair. “Happy to support literacy.”

“You look… appropriate,” Lex said before his brain caught up.

Clark raised a brow. “Thanks?”

Lex winced. “I meant you look very nice.”

Clark’s cheeks pinked just slightly. “Oh. Um. So do you.”

He blushed, Lex thought. Kill me now. Resurrect me later. Let me die again.

It wasn’t long before Lex had to move through the crowd again—shaking hands, giving brief quotes, enduring light praise for the literacy initiative. All good PR. All carefully staged.

But none of it mattered. Not really.

Not when every few minutes, his eyes found Clark again.

Clark, leaning comfortably on the lounge sofa. Clark, talking with one of the LexCorp outreach directors about children’s books. Clark, lifting his sixth—no, seventh—glass of champagne.

Lex blinked.

He’s still drinking?

He remembered the whiskey night. Four glasses—bottles, actually—and Clark had only been slightly buzzed. The man had the alcohol tolerance of a demigod.

But now?

Now Clark was glowing. Not drunk—not even close—but warmed. Loosened. His laugh came quicker, and his movements were slower in that lazy, pleased way.

And damn it, Lex had planned a professional event.

He hadn’t planned for tipsy Clark.

Because tipsy Clark was soft in a way Lex hadn’t seen before. Grinning easily. Leaning in when people spoke. His tie loosened slightly, collar button undone—just one—and Lex couldn’t look directly at him for more than a second without having thoughts.

Incredibly inappropriate thoughts.

Take him to your suite. Strip him slow. Let him ride you until he forgets how to spell Pulitzer. Push that tie up over his head, bite his collarbone, hear him gasp—

“Focus,” Lex muttered aloud, adjusting his cuffs with sharp precision. “God, get a grip.”

He couldn’t take it anymore.

Lex crossed the room with the confidence of a man who definitely wasn’t spiraling.

Clark was standing at the edge of the rooftop now, gazing out at the skyline, half-finished champagne in hand. His eyes lit up when he saw Lex.

“Hey!” he said, cheerful. “Beautiful night.”

Lex handed him a glass of water. “Hydrate.”

Clark tilted his head. “Because I’m tipsy?”

“Because I’m observant,” Lex replied evenly.

Clark took the glass with a grin. “You’re a strange man, Mr. Luthor.”

“You have no idea.”

Clark sipped obediently, and Lex absolutely did not watch his throat move as he swallowed. He also did not think about unbuttoning that shirt. Or about how well those suit pants fit when Clark leaned one hand on the railing.

Clark glanced over. “You’ve been looking at me all night.”

Lex froze.

Clark flushed slightly. “I just meant—I noticed. You have a very intense face.”

Lex blinked. “That’s… new.”

“I like it,” Clark said.

Lex’s brain temporarily blue-screened.

Clark looked back out at the city, cheeks pink, as if he had said too much. As if he were the one currently picturing Lex Luthor without a shirt.

Lex breathed slowly through his nose. This is fine. I am in control. This is a fundraiser and not foreplay.

They lingered near the terrace for a while, talking about books, childhood libraries, and the importance of accessible reading. Clark was easy to talk to—even with the champagne softening his vowels.

Lex nearly forgot they were surrounded by people.

Eventually, the night wound down. Guests began to leave. Lex found himself escorting Clark to the elevators like some kind of polite suitor instead of a man who’d spent most of the evening trying not to imagine Clark riding his thigh.

Clark turned at the doors. “Thanks again. For inviting me.”

“I meant to,” Lex said. “I mean—I wanted to.”

Clark smiled, soft and slightly crooked. “You don’t have to do all this, you know.”

Lex raised an eyebrow. “All what?”

Clark hesitated. “This... elaborate thing. If you want to hang out with me, you can just ask.”

Lex blinked. “Is that what I’m doing?”

“I don’t know,” Clark said, teasing. “Is it?”

Lex looked at him—the rumpled tie, the flushed cheeks, the glint of mirth in his eyes.

Then smiled. “Maybe.”

The elevator dinged. Clark stepped inside.

“Goodnight, Mr. Luthor.”

Lex nodded. “Goodnight, Mr. Kent.”

The doors closed.

Lex stood there a moment, hands in his pockets, heart thudding with the force of everything he didn’t say.

Next time, he thought, it won’t be a rooftop fundraiser. Next time, it’ll be a real date.

Chapter Text

The bracelet had taken two hours to choose.

Lex had paced his penthouse, scrolling through a curated catalog on his jeweler’s site, mentally rejecting option after option. It couldn’t be too gaudy—Clark wasn’t flashy. It couldn’t be too casual—Lex had standards, and Clark deserved elegance. It had to be... him.

When Lex finally saw it—slim band, brushed steel, warm-toned titanium finish with a quiet gleam—it clicked. It wasn’t extravagant, but it was refined. Tasteful. Strong.

Like Clark.

Lex didn’t include a note this time. The game was part of the fun. Secret admirer. Quiet gestures. Elegant offerings that spoke without words.

Lex pictured Clark opening the box. Blinking in surprise. Smiling as he slid the bracelet on. Maybe showing off. Maybe thinking of him.

It was a good plan.

Until it wasn’t.

Clark opened the package at his desk the next morning.

Lois was halfway through a bagel and Jimmy was trying to fish his favorite pen out of the recycling bin when Clark said quietly, “Um.”

Lois looked up, mouth full. “Another gift?”

Clark nodded, lifting the lid on the box.

Inside sat the bracelet—sleek, expensive, and way, way too much.

He frowned.

“That’s gorgeous,” Lois said, leaning in to look. “Wow. Damn. Your secret admirer’s upping their game.”

Jimmy popped up beside them. “Let me see—whoa. That’s not just nice. That’s rich-person nice.”

Clark didn’t smile.

Lois narrowed her eyes. “What’s wrong?”

Clark hesitated. “It’s too much.”

“What, the price tag?” Jimmy said. “Clark, this is Metropolis. If someone wants to drop money on you, let them. Especially if it comes with that much taste.”

“It’s too expensive,” Clark said, running a thumb along the edge of the box. “Too expensive to accept from someone I don’t even know.”

Lois nodded slowly. “So, mystery man crossed a line.”

Clark didn’t say yes. But he didn’t say no either.

Lex saw the photo twenty minutes later.

It was a harmless little post—Jimmy Olsen’s Instagram, captioned “Glamour in the bullpen” (followed by several emojis). Lex had scrolled past it while pretending not to monitor Clark Kent’s social media footprint for the hundredth time that week.

But then he stopped.

He looked closer.

And there, in the background, behind Jimmy’s grinning selfie, was Clark.

Frowning.

Holding the bracelet box.

Lex froze.

He stared at the image like it would change. Like Clark’s expression would shift if he blinked enough times. But it didn’t. Clark’s brows were drawn. His lips were tight. There was no smile. No warmth.

Just confusion. Hesitation. Regret?

Lex’s stomach twisted.

What did I do wrong?

He spent the next hour pacing in front of his office windows, hands clenched behind his back.

He’d chosen the bracelet carefully. It wasn’t flashy. It wasn’t offensive. It was elegant. Clark liked elegant, didn’t he? No, Clark liked thoughtful things. Books. Flowers. Warm colors.

Was the bracelet cold?

Was it too expensive?

Too forward?

Lex winced. “God, I shouldn’t have sent anything.”

Ava Lin peeked into the office. “Everything alright?”

“Yes,” Lex said too quickly.

A pause.

Ava raised an eyebrow. “You’re spiraling, aren’t you?”

“I am evaluating,” Lex snapped. “There’s a difference.”

She gave him a look. “What did you do this time?”

Lex didn’t answer.

Ava sighed. “If it helps, I’m sure it wasn’t catastrophic.”

Lex wasn’t so sure.

Clark left the bracelet box on his desk all afternoon.

He didn’t wear it. Didn’t touch it. Just glanced at it from time to time, like it might offer a solution.

Lois passed by once and nudged his shoulder. “You okay?”

Clark nodded.

“You know,” she said lightly, “maybe he—or she—just has no idea what your limits are. Maybe they think they’re doing something sweet.”

“Maybe,” Clark murmured.

Lois tilted her head. “You don’t want them to stop, do you?”

Clark hesitated. “No. I don’t think so.”

“You just want them to chill with the price tag.”

Clark gave a sheepish smile. “That would help.”

Lex stared at the bracelet’s order confirmation in his inbox.

He hovered over the refund option. Clicked it. Then closed the tab without pressing confirm.

The gift was already delivered. Too late now.

But still—he’d gotten it wrong.

He’d wanted to show Clark something kind. Something thoughtful. But all he’d done was make him uncomfortable.

Lex dropped into his desk chair and scrubbed his hands down his face.

He probably thinks I’m trying to buy his affection. Or mark him like some billionaire cliché.

Lex had never been good at this. The whole... romance thing. Feelings. Relationships. Human interaction that didn’t involve press releases or mergers.

And Clark? Clark was warm, honest, real. He was too good for Lex’s kind of affection, too genuine for grand gestures wrapped in secrecy.

You should stop.

You should tell him.

You should fix it.

But Lex didn’t know how.

So instead, he opened his texts. Typed a message to Clark. 

Sorry.

He deleted it.

Chapter Text

Lex had absolutely no desire to attend the charity gala.

It was the third event this month. Another glossy, vapid gathering full of champagne, forced smiles, and the same handshakes over the same insincere conversations. LexCorp’s name was on the sponsorship banner, so naturally, he had to make an appearance—just long enough for photos, small talk, and whatever flattering quote the PR team had pre-approved for the press.

He did not expect Clark Kent to be there.

In fact, he was certain Clark wouldn’t be. Clark didn’t cover events like this. He did human-interest pieces, investigative columns, occasionally an op-ed. But not fluff. Not donor galas for polished foundations.

Which was why Lex’s brain shut down completely when he stepped into the main ballroom, turned toward the bar, and found Clark standing there—drink in hand, talking cheerfully with one of the LexCorp comms assistants, smiling like he belonged there.

Lex stopped walking. Momentarily forgot how.

Why is he here? he thought, panic and arousal slamming into him at once.

Then Clark turned.

Their eyes met.

And Clark’s entire face lit up.

Lex’s soul left his body.

“Mr. Luthor!” Clark called, bounding over like an overexcited Labrador in a suit. “I didn’t know you’d be here!”

“I own the building,” Lex said without thinking.

Clark blinked. “Right.”

Lex cleared his throat. “You look… professional.”

Clark grinned. “Thanks. Daily Planet sent me to write a short piece about the LexCorp Education Fund. Just a light profile.”

Of course. Of course they did. A new campaign. A charity partnership. A perfect excuse.

Lex had never been so grateful for his own PR team.

Clark, meanwhile, was wearing another very dangerous shirt. White, again, open at the collar, just snug enough to pull tight over his chest when he leaned forward.

Lex’s brain, ever unhelpful, whispered:

Push him against the nearest wall. Undo every button with your teeth. Listen to him whimper your name and—

No.

Lex forced a smile. “Enjoying the event?”

“It’s nicer than I expected,” Clark admitted. “The hors d’oeuvres are a little weird. One of them looked like a sea cucumber wrapped in spinach. I think it hissed at me.”

Lex snorted before he could stop himself. “That was probably the escargot roll.”

“I am a simple Kansas man,” Clark said solemnly. “We fry our food. If it’s hissing, it’s alive.”

Lex wanted to kiss him. Immediately.

Instead, he nodded, straightened his cuffs, and tried not to imagine Clark in his lap, tie askew, glasses fogged, moaning softly with every thrust—

“Mr. Luthor?”

Lex blinked. Clark was staring at him.

“You spaced out,” Clark said gently.

“Thinking,” Lex lied.

Clark smiled. “Dangerous habit.”

They talked for a while. Nothing serious. Small things.

Clark told him about his dog—how he’d recently tried to teach Krypto to fetch the mail but ended up with half a water bill and someone’s campaign flyer shredded across his kitchen.

Lex listened with an intensity that would’ve alarmed his board members.

He cataloged every inflection of Clark’s voice. Every shy smile. Every little nervous laugh.

And he was careful—very careful—not to mention the bracelet.

Because Clark still didn’t know. And Lex couldn’t face the humiliation of that gift being too much, too fast, too presumptuous.

Clark wasn’t wearing it. Of course he wasn’t.

Lex knew that. Saw it immediately.

And still—it stung.

“You’re good at these things,” Clark said eventually.

Lex arched an eyebrow. “At what?”

Clark gestured toward the room. “Being charming. Elegant. Rich and untouchable.”

“I’m not sure that’s a compliment.”

Clark laughed. “It is. I mean it. You’re… impressive.”

Lex stared at him.

Clark looked away quickly, flustered. “Sorry. That probably sounded weird.”

“No,” Lex said quietly. “It didn’t.”

They stood there for a beat.

The crowd swirled around them, but Lex didn’t care. Couldn’t care. Not with Clark standing this close, cheeks faintly flushed, shirt a little rumpled, legs too-long in those deliciously tailored pants.

His brain offered a full cinematic montage of exactly how fast he could get that shirt off, how hard he could make Clark moan if—

“Silence,” Lex muttered to himself.

Clark tilted his head. “Sorry?”

“Nothing,” Lex said, smiling thinly. “Just thinking.”

Clark gave him a look. “Dangerous habit.”

Later, after Clark drifted off to interview a donor or two, Lex found himself standing beside the dessert table, internally screaming.

He had survived the conversation.

He had not touched Clark. Had not kissed him. Had not ripped his shirt open like a feral animal. He had succeeded.

And yet.

He’d also failed, because now his imagination wouldn’t shut up. Clark Kent had smiled at him. Had complimented him. Had looked disappointed when Lex excused himself like a coward.

Lex stared at a tiny custard tart with murderous intent.

“Sir?” Ava Lin appeared beside him, perfectly composed. “You’re glaring at the tarts.”

“They deserve it.”

A pause. “Did you speak with Mr. Kent?”

Lex didn’t answer.

Ava sighed. “Is this going to be another ‘He was too cute, and now I need to lie down’ situation?”

“He was too cute,” Lex said hoarsely, “and I need to lie down.”

Ava nodded. “Called it.”

By the time Clark left the gala, Lex was mentally fried.

He didn’t say goodbye. Couldn’t.

But he did watch from across the ballroom as Clark buttoned his coat and slipped out into the night, soft-eyed and still smiling, completely unaware of the hurricane he left behind.

Lex exhaled slowly.

He’d survive. Probably.

Maybe.

Or not.

Chapter Text

Clark wasn’t stupid.

Well—okay. Maybe sometimes he missed things. Maybe he hadn’t realized Lois and Jimmy were best friends and not, in fact, dating like he’d assumed for months until Jimmy casually mentioned his husband in the middle of lunch one day. And maybe he once mistook a flirtation from a source as a lead on a story.

But he wasn’t completely stupid.

Which meant that yes, he was self-aware enough to realize he might—might—have a tiny little crush on one of the world’s richest, most powerful men.

Which was fine.

It was fine.

Completely, utterly, hopelessly fine.

He paced his apartment living room, mug of coffee cradled in both hands while Krypto trailed behind him with his favorite toy in his mouth.

“It’s not a big deal,” Clark muttered to no one but the dog. “I’ve had crushes before. This one just… has a tower named after him. And a billion-dollar company. And jawline that could cut steel.”

Krypto flopped onto the couch.

Clark sighed. “I hate that I said that out loud.”

It had started, Clark admitted, long before the last gala.

Sure, Lex Luthor was famously intense, a little arrogant, a lot mysterious, and very probably evil according to some online message boards—but also… not?

Clark had seen something else.

The version of Lex that had been genuinely interested in Clark’s writing. Who had complimented his article with a tone that was more reverent than polite. Who had probably sent thoughtful, anonymous gifts that Clark pretended he didn’t love.

(Except the bracelet.)

He hadn’t worn it.

He’d meant to return it. Really.

But it was still sitting in the top drawer of his nightstand, and if that didn’t mean something, Clark didn’t know what did.

Then there was the gala.

Lex had looked—and Clark was being very objective here—unfairly good.

Sharp suit. Crisp lines. Cufflinks that probably cost more than Clark’s rent. And underneath all that, something restrained. Controlled. Like Lex was a hurricane with perfect posture.

Clark had walked over—all eager smiles and babbling Kansas warmth—and Lex had looked at him like he hung the sun.

No, seriously. Lex had spaced out twice mid-conversation. Had stared. Had gone stiff and quiet and just slightly flushed when Clark said anything even mildly flirty.

Clark had thought he was imagining it.

But he wasn’t stupid.

He saw it. Felt it. Knew.

Lex Luthor—aloof, brilliant, terrifying Lex Luthor—had a thing for him. Probably.

And Clark? Clark was trying really, really hard not to like it.

Lois had known something was up the moment he walked into the bullpen.

He didn’t even get a chance to put his bag down before she hit him with a smirk and a, “So how was the event, Smallville?”

Clark had tried—and failed—to play it cool.

“Fine,” he’d said.

“Uh-huh. And did a certain billionaire happen to be there?”

“I mean, he owns the building,” Clark had muttered, and that had been a mistake.

Jimmy had leaned over from the next desk. “Oh no. Not again.”

Clark had frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means,” Lois chimed in, “that Lex Luthor has a crush on you.”

“He does not.”

“He absolutely does.”

Jimmy nodded. “And you’ve got it bad too, buddy.”

Clark had turned bright red. “I do not.”

“Oh my god,” Lois said, eyes gleaming. “You do.”

Clark groaned and buried his face in his hands. “I am never telling you two anything ever again.”

Lois patted his back. “You never have to. It’s written all over your face.”

Later that afternoon, Clark sat at his desk pretending to work.

He was, in fact, staring at an empty document titled ‘LexCorp Gala Recap’ and not typing a single word.

All he could think about was the way Lex had looked at him. Like Clark was the most fascinating thing in the room. Like he wasn’t just another journalist with bad posture and a Smallville drawl.

Clark had always been good at reading people. He was trained for it. But Lex Luthor? Lex was complicated.

Sharp edges wrapped in charm. Calculated in every move.

Except… maybe not with Clark.

Clark had seen something soft in him. Not weak—never weak—but quiet. Human. Vulnerable in the briefest, unguarded moments.

Like when he smiled too late at a joke. Or when his eyes lingered just a little too long. Or when he visibly bit back a compliment.

There was something there.

Clark just didn’t know what to do about it.

It wasn’t a crush. Not really.

It was an interest. A fascination. A curiosity, born from a handful of encounters and a slowly growing pile of mystery gifts.

Clark wasn’t swooning.

He wasn’t thinking about what Lex’s hands would feel like in his hair, or what that deep voice would sound like murmuring Clark in the dark, or what those too-perfect lips would taste like, or—

Clark smacked his face into the keyboard.

“I’m fine,” Clark mumbled into the keys.

He wasn’t.

That night, he opened the bracelet box again.

Just looked at it.

It was beautiful.

Cool-toned, sleek, undeniably expensive—but elegant. Tasteful. Quiet.

Lex had chosen it for him. Had seen it and thought Clark would like this. And he was right.

Clark did like it.

Too much, maybe.

He closed the box gently and put it back in the drawer.

Then picked up his phone.

He didn’t text Lex. Didn’t email him. Didn’t do anything, really.

Just stared at the empty screen for a while, wondering:

What if I want him to send something else?

Chapter Text

Board meetings were already a special kind of purgatory.

But board meetings without the promise of seeing Clark Kent afterward?

Unbearable.

“…in terms of quarterly projections—”

Lex stared at the slideshow like it personally offended him. PowerPoint. The most cruel and unusual form of torture, second only to budget approval cycles and networking brunches.

He did not care about Q3 projections. Or the pie chart currently vibrating on the conference room screen. Or the words coming out of the CFO’s mouth, which sounded like beige wallpaper and oatmeal and static.

He was thinking about Clark.

More specifically: Clark Kent, sitting in his lap, flushed and breathless, shirt halfway open, smiling through a kiss like he had no idea what he did to Lex’s entire nervous system.

Lex shifted in his chair. His jaw clenched.

Control yourself.

He didn’t.

Instead, his brain conjured another uninvited image:

Clark, legs spread, tie loosened, whispering “Mr. Luthor” in that stupidly sweet voice—

“…Mr. Luthor?”

Lex blinked.

Seven suits were staring at him. Ava Lin gave him a subtle side-glance that could’ve read Are you back from Horny Purgatory yet or should we wait?

“Yes,” Lex said smoothly. “Please continue.”

He had no idea what they’d been talking about. Didn’t care.

Because his thoughts were filled with Clark Kent. Again.

Clark Kent in suit pants that hugged his thighs. Clark Kent flushed from champagne. Clark Kent biting his bottom lip when he smiled, like he didn’t know he was accidentally seducing Lex with every breath he took.

Clark Kent, who hadn’t reached out once since the gala.

Lex hated how much that mattered.

Maybe it was the bracelet.

Lex had agonized over it—more than he’d like to admit.

It had felt like the right gift. Understated but valuable. Sophisticated but personal.

But Clark hadn’t worn it.

And Lex had seen the frown. In that cursed photo Jimmy Olsen posted on social media—a group shot in the bullpen, Lex zooming in shamelessly, just to see Clark in the background with a box in his hand and a pinched expression.

He hadn’t returned it. But he hadn’t worn it, either.

Which meant Lex had crossed a line.

Again.

And now Clark was—

Gone.

No texts. No emails. No excuses for interviews. Nothing.

And Lex? Lex was in this stupid boardroom, listening to an executive argue about forecast metrics, while his mind was occupied with the soft pink of Clark’s lips.

He wasn’t obsessed.

He was simply… aware.

Extremely aware.

Devastatingly, distractingly, achingly aware.

As soon as the meeting ended, Lex stood.

Ava caught up with him in the hallway.

“You were quiet,” she said.

“I had nothing worth saying.”

“You usually have nothing worth saying, but say it anyway,” she replied evenly. “Today, you were distracted. Kent again?”

Lex gave her a sharp look.

Ava sighed. “That’s a yes.”

“He hasn’t responded.”

“He didn’t know the bracelet was from you.”

“He knew.”

“Lex.”

Lex pinched the bridge of his nose. “He knew.”

“You could always… see him again,” she offered. “The old-fashioned way. Ask him to another event. Or better—”

“No,” Lex interrupted. “No more invitations. It’s obvious now. I crossed some invisible threshold. Too much. Too fast.”

Ava stared at him.

Lex adjusted his cuffs. “I need a new plan.”

“You always say that.”

“It’s always true.”

That night, Lex stood alone in the penthouse study.

Metropolis glittered outside the windows. The city pulsed with life. He didn’t care.

He stared at the fireplace.

Not the flames—but the photograph above it.

It was nothing scandalous. Just a photo of Clark.

Taken from a LexCorp security cam, completely legally—he’d double-checked. It was from one of their early interviews, when Clark was looking up at Lex like he was the most interesting person in the world.

Lex had it printed and framed.

He wasn’t proud of it.

Well, maybe a little.

But looking at it now, Lex didn’t feel power. He didn’t feel conquest.

He felt longing.

Real, painful, stupid longing.

Clark Kent had been in his orbit for months now. And somehow, Lex was the one feeling like a lovesick intern.

He’d fantasized about sex, yes. Repeatedly. Vividly.

But lately, his thoughts had been softer.

Clark asleep in his bed, curled under the sheets. Clark sipping coffee in one of Lex’s shirts. Clark laughing at some dumb book Lex hadn’t read yet, glasses sliding down his nose, looking like home.

Lex wanted that.

He wanted more.

He just didn’t know how to ask for it.

He picked up his phone.

Typed out a dozen drafts.

Deleted them all.

“Would you like to get drinks again?”

Too casual.

“Apologies if the bracelet offended—”

Too defensive.

“I’d like to see you. No excuse. Just that.”

Too raw.

He set the phone down with a thud.

Then picked it back up.

Then opened Clark’s most recent article and read it three times, just for the pain.

He didn’t know what he was waiting for.

Permission?

A sign?

A signal from Clark that he wanted this too?

Lex already knew Clark wanted something. The looks, the smiles, the subtle tilt of his head whenever Lex was near. It wasn’t imagined.

But it wasn’t enough.

And Lex Luthor had never wanted anything more in his entire life.

He poured himself a glass of whiskey. Didn’t drink it.

Instead, he stared out the window and whispered:

“Tomorrow. One more chance.”

Because Lex Luthor was a man of decisive action.

And if he couldn’t stop thinking about Clark Kent—if the very thought of Clark’s smile was enough to ruin board meetings and obliterate his focus—then fine.

He’d see him again.

And this time?

There would be no bracelet.

No excuse.

Just Lex. Just Clark.

And whatever this thing was between them, crackling like fire under every word.

Lex could only hope—selfishly, foolishly—that Clark wanted it too.

Chapter Text

Clark was supposed to be writing.

He was supposed to be halfway through a feature on LexCorp’s new urban tech initiative—the one with all the boring acronyms and a suspicious lack of actual community involvement—but his document was still blank except for the title:

‘Innovation and Infrastructure in Metropolis’

…which might’ve been the most boring headline in recorded history.

The real problem wasn’t the article.

The real problem was Lex.

Lex Luthor.

Lex, with the sharp suits and the sharper smirks. Lex, who looked like he was carved from marble and glared like he was bored of being mortal. Lex, who had looked at Clark at that gala like he wanted to ruin him in the nicest, most expensive way imaginable.

Clark sighed and slumped at his desk, cheek pressed to the cool wood.

He hadn’t seen Lex in days. Not since the event.

And okay, sure, maybe he’d replayed their conversation once or twice (or eight times) in his head. Maybe he’d caught himself smiling about it while feeding Krypto that morning. Maybe he was wondering—in a completely casual, not-at-all romantic way—what Lex was doing right now.

Probably bossing around a room full of terrified businessmen. Or plotting how to take over another tech market with minimal effort and maximum control.

Or maybe, just maybe, thinking about Clark too.

That was when Lois dropped a folder on his desk like a bomb.

“You’ve been staring at that screen for twenty minutes,” she said, squinting. “Thinking about Lex Luthor again?”

Clark bolted upright like he’d been electrocuted. “What? No! I mean—no. What? No.”

Lois arched an eyebrow.

Clark coughed. “I’m thinking about infrastructure.”

She didn’t blink. “Uh-huh.”

“Big… buildings. You know. And city planning.”

Lois sat on the edge of his desk like a predator toying with her prey. “City planning that happens to be funded by your billionaire boyfriend?”

“He’s not my—he’s not—Lois.”

She leaned forward. “Oh my god.”

Clark froze.

“You want to go on a date with Lex Luthor.”

“What? No, I—”

“You want to smooch a supervillain!”

Clark buried his face in his hands. “He is not a supervillain.”

“He’s been accused of buying two congressional seats.”

“They didn’t stick.”

“He has a private island.”

“So do most rich people!”

“He has a death glare and an ego the size of Metropolis!”

Clark groaned. “I’m not dating Lex Luthor.”

Lois grinned. “Yet.”

“I don’t even want to!”

“You’re thinking about him right now.”

“That’s not—” Clark hesitated. “Okay, yes, but not like that!”

Lois folded her arms. “You were literally mooning into space like you were daydreaming about kissing him in the rain or something.”

Clark gave her an incredulous look. “We’ve had three conversations. Three. One of which was him sending me a wildly expensive bracelet I still haven’t returned.”

“Oh my god, you kept it.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You just did.”

Clark hissed through his teeth. “Lois.”

She leaned in, voice teasing. “It’s okay, Smallville. You’ve got a thing for sharp-dressed evil geniuses. It’s a vibe.”

“He’s not evil.”

She blinked at him. “He owns satellites, Clark.”

“That’s not a crime!”

Lois smirked. “Yet.”

Clark groaned again and dropped his head back to the desk.

The thing was—he didn’t want to go on a date with Lex Luthor.

Probably.

Mostly.

Okay, he thought about it sometimes.

He thought about Lex sitting across from him at some quiet little restaurant, tie loosened, eyes soft in the candlelight.

He thought about Lex’s hand brushing his under the table, about the way his gaze might linger on Clark’s mouth. He thought about what it would feel like to be wanted by someone so relentlessly composed—and to unravel him with nothing but a smile.

He thought about Lex pushing his glasses up and saying, “You’re more dangerous than I am, Mr. Kent.”

(Clark would pretend not to melt. He’d fail.)

But none of that mattered.

Because it wasn’t real.

Lex was a billionaire. Clark was a journalist with a dog and too many plaid shirts. Lex lived in a penthouse above the city. Clark lived in a fourth-floor walk-up with a fridge that made weird noises at 2 a.m.

Whatever was happening between them—if anything was happening—was a fantasy.

A sweet one.

But not something he should—

“Earth to Clark,” Lois said, waving a hand in front of his face.

Clark blinked. “Huh?”

“You spaced out again.”

“I wasn’t—I was just…”

Lois grinned. “Thinking about your fake boyfriend?”

Clark exhaled slowly. “Lois.”

“You know,” she said casually, standing up and heading back to her desk, “if he asks you on another date, you should say yes.”

“I never said the first one was a date!”

She winked over her shoulder. “You wore the slutty blue shirt. It was a date.”

Clark scowled at his screen.

The document was still blank.

All he could think about was Lex.

And maybe—just maybe—Lois was right.

Maybe Clark did want to go on a date with Lex Luthor.

Just one.

For research purposes.

Obviously.

Chapter Text

His phone buzzed.

Lex didn’t look at it.

It could’ve been a meeting reminder. A calendar ping. An unimportant email or another pointless message from someone trying to sell him crypto with the phrase ‘ground floor opportunity.’

He didn’t care.

Ava Lin was seated across from his desk, scrolling through the latest PR decks to show him. She was talking about… something. Lex wasn’t paying attention. It wasn’t her fault—she was one of the few competent people in his employ—but his brain was elsewhere.

Specifically, wondering how long it would take Clark Kent to text him.

Assuming he ever did.

Lex adjusted his cufflinks. Refused to look at the phone again.

“I’d suggest timing the next round of press releases after the green infrastructure push hits the city council docket,” Ava said without looking up. “And maybe not picking another fight with the Mayor on live TV?”

“I didn’t pick a fight,” Lex replied flatly.

“You said, and I quote, ‘You’d have to evolve opposable thumbs before I’d call your plan intelligent.’”

Lex shrugged. “He started it.”

Ava sighed deeply. “You’re exhausting.”

His phone buzzed again. He didn’t move.

Ava finally glanced up.

“You’re trying very hard not to look at your phone.”

Lex gave her a look. “I’m not—”

“It’s a little tragic.”

“I’m not waiting for anything.”

She stared.

“I’m not.”

Ava set her tablet down and said, with the slow patience of someone who’d known him far too long, “Clark Kent just texted you.”

Lex froze.

“…What?”

“He texted you. I saw it flash on your screen. That’s his name. Right there. You haven’t changed his contact photo, which is suspicious, by the way, but he texted you.”

Lex’s chair made a loud, undignified noise as he practically lunged for the phone.

There it was.

A single, blissfully chaotic text.

Clark Kent: 

Whatever is it that you rich people do?

Lex stared at it.

What does that even mean? Was he asking a question? Making a joke? Inviting Lex to…?

His brain tried to reboot itself.

“Say something,” Ava said from her chair.

Lex’s fingers hovered over the screen. “I don’t know what this means.”

“It’s obviously a prompt. You’re the rich one. He wants you to suggest something.”

“That’s a stupidly vague way to initiate a conversation.”

Ava’s brow lifted. “And yet you’re smiling.”

Lex wasn't smiling. Not really.

Just… smirking.

A little.

He typed a reply.

Lex Luthor: 

Yacht brunch. Helicopter wine tastings. Exclusive rooftop jazz lounges. The usual.

He hesitated.

Then sent it.

A long pause. Lex stared at the screen like it owed him a second chance at happiness.

Then Clark responded.

Clark Kent: 

Great. Let’s do that then.

Lex blinked.

He read the message again.

Then again.

Ava leaned over his desk to read the screen. “Oh my god.”

Lex was already on his feet.

“Where are you going?” she asked.

“To make a call.”

“A call.”

“Yes.”

“To who?”

“The chef,” Lex said, distracted and gleaming. “The one with the sky-garden bistro on top of the Hamilton Tower. I want the terrace. I want champagne. I want the stars and the skyline and jazz if we have to.”

Ava gaped at him. “Isn’t that your private venue for billionaires who donate kidneys or get you out of SEC hearings?”

Lex paused at the door.

He turned back, completely unrepentant.

“Clark Kent deserves better.”

And then he was gone.

Lex didn’t usually feel giddy.

That was a feeling for teenagers and reality show contestants. Not men with private jets and publicly traded companies. But now?

He was one part giddy, two parts nervous energy, and at least five parts deeply, shamelessly obsessed.

He kept rereading the messages. Clark’s tone was so casual. Like this was a normal thing. Like people regularly texted Lex Luthor asking him what “rich people do” and then said yes to it.

Clark didn’t even ask for a time.

Or a location.

He just trusted Lex would arrange something.

Trusted him.

Lex rubbed a hand over his jaw, not quite sure how to process that. Most people tiptoed around him. Some revered him. Others hated him.

Clark?

Clark texted him nonsense and wore tight dress shirts and made Lex consider cancelling board meetings just for a smile.

Lex had three hours to plan.

Three hours to convince Clark Kent this wasn’t a mistake.

Three hours to breathe, maybe, if his lungs started working again.

He typed one more message.

Lex Luthor: 

Pick you up at seven.

Clark replied a minute later:

Clark Kent: 

Great. Should I wear my powder blue shirt again?

Lex made a strangled sound.

This man was going to ruin him.

He replied:

Lex Luthor: 

Yes.

Then, after a pause:

Lex Luthor: 

Please.

Chapter Text

The terrace was perfect.

Of course it was. Lex Luthor didn’t do imperfect.

Everything from the glass railing overlooking the Metropolis skyline, to the soft golden lanterns strung above the table, to the barely-there string quartet murmuring jazz in the corner—all of it curated, adjusted, and approved in under three hours.

He was wearing his most charming cufflinks. The platinum ones. The ones that said wealth and danger without saying anything at all.

And he was… nervous.

Not that anyone could tell.

Lex Luthor did not get nervous.

Except, apparently, when it came to Clark Kent.

God help me if he wears that shirt again.

But no—tonight wasn’t about shirts. Tonight was about timing. Control. Making sure this date—this date—went perfectly.

Lex didn’t know what he’d do if it didn’t.

He heard the elevator chime.

Straightened his spine.

Clark stepped out.

And Lex forgot how to breathe.

Clark was wearing the soft blue dress shirt, just barely open at the collar, tucked into perfectly tailored black slacks that somehow made his legs look even longer than usual. His curls were barely tamed, his glasses were slightly askew, and he looked like the most dangerous thing Lex had ever seen.

Not because he was seductive.

Because he was sweet.

He gave Lex a soft, bashful smile as he stepped forward, a little hesitant but unmistakably sincere.

“Hi,” he said. “You weren’t kidding about the rooftop.”

Lex swallowed. “You weren’t kidding about being stunning.”

Clark blinked. Then blushed. “What? No—come on.”

“I’m not joking.”

“You’re just saying that.”

“I never say anything I don’t mean.”

Clark ducked his head, smiling. “You’re unfair, Mr. Luthor.”

“I’m Lex.”

Clark glanced up, grin still tugging at his mouth. “You’re still unfair.”

Lex pulled out Clark’s chair.

Clark sat, brushing his fingers through his curls like he wasn’t being watched like a man possessed.

“Hope I didn’t underdress,” he said, eyes flicking to the champagne. “This is way fancier than I expected.”

“You’re perfect,” Lex said without thinking.

Clark’s ears turned red.

Dinner was… comfortable.

Lex hadn’t expected that.

Clark asked thoughtful questions. Not probing ones—not journalistic—just genuine. About the view. About Lex’s favorite restaurants. About the one time he bought a vineyard just for the cheese.

He laughed at Lex’s sarcasm. He leaned in when Lex spoke. He sipped his champagne like someone who didn’t usually sip champagne but knew how to enjoy it.

He was warm. Open. Honest.

And it was killing Lex.

Because for all of Clark’s soft smiles and small laughs, there wasn’t an ounce of flirtation. Not the overt kind. Not the kind Lex was used to.

Clark wasn’t teasing. He wasn’t seducing.

He was just… here.

Present. Kind.

And Lex—

Lex didn’t know how to do this.

He’d had people fawn over him. He’d had people flirt, tease, beg, posture.

Clark did none of that.

Clark told a story about Krypto eating half a couch cushion. About Jimmy accidentally texting the wrong group chat a picture of his husband shirtless. About how Lois once tackled a mayor in a rainstorm and then made Clark do the apology write-up.

Lex couldn’t stop smiling.

And that was the problem.

Because beneath every smile was a scream of lust, of want, of mine. Every second Lex was trying to be decent, his brain was conjuring images of Clark half-dressed in this very chair. Moaning, flushed, looking at Lex like—

Stop. Focus.

Lex refilled Clark’s glass.

Clark took it. Their fingers brushed.

Lex’s chest did something stupid.

Clark was looking at him.

Not confused.

Not shy.

But something else. Something firm.

“I know this is a date,” Clark said.

Lex blinked.

Clark smiled gently. “You don’t have to pretend like it isn’t. I may be… well, not the most experienced—”

Lex’s pulse skipped.

“—but I know what this is. And I said yes because I wanted to. Not because you’re rich. Or because it’s fancy. Or because you’re—” Clark swallowed, eyes warm, “—you’re very intimidating when you want to be, Mr. Luthor.”

Lex couldn’t speak.

Lex opened his mouth.

Nothing came out.

Clark took another sip of champagne and looked back out at the skyline.

Like he hadn’t just set Lex Luthor’s entire world on fire.

By the end of the evening, Lex had three truths:

1. Clark Kent was the most confusing man alive.
2. Clark Kent was dead serious about whatever was happening between them.
3. Lex Luthor was, in fact, completely and utterly screwed.

Not just lust. Not just romance.

He was invested.

God help him.

And he had no idea what to do about it.

Chapter Text

It was a good morning.

Clark had arrived early, coffee in hand, inbox mostly cleared, and even managed to squeeze in some edits on his green space article before Jimmy showed up with two muffins and an opinion about every single song on his morning playlist.

And best of all?

He wasn’t spiraling about the date.

Okay, maybe a little.

But it had been nice. Soft light, great food, Lex in a charcoal suit, and conversation that never felt forced. Lex hadn’t tried anything—hadn’t pushed. Hadn’t even leaned too close.

He’d just… looked at Clark.

Really looked at him.

And when he said goodbye, Lex had touched his hand and said, “Thank you for trusting me with your time.”

And Clark had melted into a puddle of romantic goo.

He was fine now. Totally fine. Not checking his phone every fifteen minutes or anything. Nope. Definitely not hoping for a text. Or a next step. Or—

A soft knock on the desk.

Clark blinked.

A delivery girl was standing in front of him. She gave him a bright smile. “Clark Kent?”

He nodded slowly.

She handed him a single long-stemmed rose, perfectly red, elegant and wrapped with gold-tipped ribbon. Attached was a small handwritten card.

“Have a great day,” she chirped, and then disappeared.

Clark stared.

Jimmy, two desks away, was already rising like a bloodhound catching the scent of drama. “Was that a rose?”

“No,” Clark said quickly, already trying to pocket the note.

Jimmy moved fast. “Oh my god—did Lex Luthor send you a flower?”

“Give it back!”

But it was too late.

Jimmy danced just out of reach and flipped the note open with theatrical flair. “Let’s see what Metropolis’s Most Eligible Billionaire has to say—ohhh. Oh my god.”

Clark froze. “Jimmy.”

Jimmy cleared his throat dramatically and began to read aloud, complete with a faux-sultry voice.

“Dear Clark, I would love to see you naked and spread out beneath me, moaning my name into the pillows—”

“Jimmy!” Clark lunged.

Jimmy cackled, dodging behind Lois’s empty desk. “Signed, your mysterious suitor—also known as Lex Luthor.”

Clark’s entire face was burning. “Give. It. Here.”

“I’m just saying,” Jimmy laughed, holding the note just out of reach. “A rose and a sex note? That’s some Jane Austen with filth behavior, Clark.”

“It doesn’t say that and you know it!”

Jimmy finally let him snatch the card back.

Clark straightened it out with shaking hands and read the real message:

Clark,

Thank you for last night. You are a delight in every possible sense of the word. I look forward to next time.

–Lex Luthor

Clark covered his face with one hand.

Jimmy was still grinning. “So when do I get to be Best Man?”

“You’re already married!”

“I can still be a Best Man! Do you have any idea how weddings work!?”

Clark groaned.

That was when Lois walked in.

She clocked the rose immediately, arched one brow, and said, “Did you finally get a second suitor, or is Lex Luthor just sending you love notes now?”

Clark muttered into his hand. “It’s not a love note.”

Jimmy sang, “He called you a delight~”

Lois peered over Clark’s shoulder at the card. “That’s disgustingly wholesome. I’m gonna throw up.”

Clark finally sighed, set the rose in an empty coffee mug, and resigned himself to the rest of the day being long.

But… he was smiling.

Even if he was going to kill Jimmy later.

Chapter Text

Lex Luthor sat at the sleek glass conference table in the LexCorp boardroom, staring at a financial projection slide that might as well have been in Sanskrit. The CFO droned about next year’s metrics as Lex’s attention dissolved into his own private orbit.

He should have been better at keyword density. Instead he was fixated on one question: Are we dating, or not?

Because they’d been out for a month. Clark Kent—sweet, earnest, blushing, never initiating a kiss but also not avoiding him either—had infiltrated Lex’s thoughts like no other. And Lex was tired of floating in that gray space between casual and something real.

Is he my boyfriend? Or just a very charming hobby?

Lex leaned back, trying to tamp down the chaotic heat rising across his chest: That shirt tucked into form‑fitting pants… that smile when I said something stupid… the way he tucks his hair behind one ear.

He forced a breath, forced his gaze upward. Ava Lin was addressing the room, summarizing Q4 initiative goals. Lex nodded reflexively—but his mind was on Clark’s eyelashes, still mapped in memory from their last date.

Ava paused—and for the tenth time in twenty minutes—walked behind him and quietly leaned in.

“Lex,” she interrupted softly. “Do you want to tell your investors about the new tech rollout, or would you prefer to gaze at the skyline while thinking about some reporter?”

Lex forced his shoulders to square. “I can multitask.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Really? Because you’ve been physically absent from the last fifteen minutes of my presentation.”

Lex hunched forward, clasping his fist around his pen. “I… have something else on my mind.”

Ava folded her hands, sighing softly. “Is it the unresolved boyfriend question again?”

Lex winced—right in front of his board. He cleared his throat. “It’s complicated.”

She nodded, careful not to make a scene. But Lex could feel the scrutiny in her eyes. He’d brought this on himself months ago when he’d invited Clark to the literacy event, pretending it was business. Now he couldn’t pretend anymore.

The CFO’s voice rose—“And we anticipate a 14‑percent increase in leveraged capital by Q2…” Ava grabbed a remote, flipping the slide.

Lex tuned back in halfway through, eyes locking back on the company figures while the inside of his brain powered chaotic alternate lives: with Clark on his arm at dinner parties… sharing bed coffee in one of his shirts… kisses finally claimed, delayed but inevitable.

Every time Lex hesitated, another fragment of his denial fell away.

Afterward, as others filtered out, Ava lingered.

“You’re going to call him, aren’t you?”

Lex stared at the floor.

“Say something like ‘I want to know what we are.’ Tell him the truth—or you’re going to be stuck in this hell of ambiguity forever.”

Lex looked up, met her eyes. She was firm. “I’m an expert at strategy,” he responded tightly. “Dating is not strategic.”

Ava smirked, picking up her tablet. “Not yet.”

Later, Lex's solitude returned. He walked out alone, on top of the world and absolutely paralyzed.

He had the answer somewhere in his grasp—but he needed to act, or risk losing what he couldn't even admit he owned.

He knew the only way forward was honesty.

That night, after boardroom glows and city lights, he opened his phone, and drafted:

Lex:
I’ve been wondering… are we something real? Because I do.

Then deleted it.

Because it felt like too much.

Chapter Text

Clark Kent was, by all appearances, having a perfectly normal Thursday.

He was at his desk, happily typing away at an article about the revitalization of an old historic theater in Midtown, his glasses sliding just a little down his nose, his hair only slightly mussed from the walk in. He had a cup of coffee to his right (cold by now), and his notebook to his left, open to a page where he’d scribbled a reminder to buy dog treats, and also ‘call ma.’

He tapped out a sentence, re-read it, deleted a word, then smiled faintly to himself. The piece was shaping up nicely.

Across the office, Jimmy was adjusting a lens on his camera, and Lois was arguing on the phone with someone from the mayor’s office, and everything in the Daily Planet newsroom felt perfectly, comfortingly normal.

And Clark? Clark was glowing.

Not in the literal ‘sun-charged alien’ sense (though yes, he had flown through the upper atmosphere that morning), but more in the ‘I’ve been going steady with Lex Luthor for a month and no one here knows and somehow I haven’t exploded’ way.

Because that was the truth of it.

As far as Clark was concerned, Lex was his boyfriend. Obviously. They’d gone on a dinner date. And then drinks. Then another dinner. And then Lex had invited him to that private art gala, and Clark had worn his second-nicest shirt and maybe even combed his hair a little too much.

They talked all the time. They texted every night. Lex had sent him a bracelet, for heaven’s sake.

Which Clark had gently returned with a note that read, “You don’t have to buy me anything. I really like you already.” 

Boyfriends. Clearly.

Clark tapped away at the keyboard again, his smile growing as he remembered Lex’s expression the last time they’d seen each other—all composed elegance hiding that barely-restrained ‘wants-to-climb-me-like-a-tree’ look Lex didn’t know he wore so obviously.

Clark liked that look. A lot. It made him feel kind of powerful, in the shy, Kansas-boy kind of way.

So yes. He had a boyfriend. And no, he hadn’t told anyone. Not even Lois. Not even Jimmy.

Which was impressive, considering they were both bloodhounds when it came to gossip.

He could feel it coming, though. The slip-up. The moment where one of them caught him smiling at a text from Lex Luthor, or accidentally overheard something they weren’t meant to hear.

But for now, he had peace.

“Clark,” Lois said suddenly, her voice snapping through the newsroom like a whip, “do you still have that contact at the Historic Preservation Society?”

Clark blinked and looked up, clearing his throat. “Uh, yeah. Mrs. Devereaux.”

“Good. She’s not answering me. You’ve got the magic touch.” Lois narrowed her eyes. “You’ve been in a suspiciously good mood lately.”

Clark adopted his best confused face. “Just good coffee today.”

Lois squinted at him like a hawk. “Mmm-hmm.”

Jimmy, without looking up from his camera, added, “He’s been like this all week. Like someone gave him a basket of kittens or something.”

Clark chuckled. “Maybe I did get a kitten basket.”

“You better not be dating anyone without telling us,” Lois said, pointing her pen at him like it was a dagger. “Because if you are, and you didn’t tell me first, I’ll consider it a personal betrayal.”

Clark held both hands up, innocent as the day he landed in Kansas. “I’m not dating anyone, Lois.”

Technically not a lie. He wasn’t dating anyone. He was dating Lex Luthor.

Jimmy snorted. “He’s lying. That’s the face he makes when he’s lying.”

“I am not—!” Clark started, then shut his mouth. “You two are so dramatic.”

“You’re blushing,” Jimmy pointed out.

“I have fair skin,” Clark muttered, turning back to his keyboard.

Lois narrowed her eyes again, but then her phone rang and she picked it up, barking into it like she always did. Clark sighed in relief.

He was going to enjoy the secrecy while it lasted.

Besides, he’d see Lex tonight, and that was more important than any teasing from coworkers.

Clark glanced at his phone, half-hoping for a text already.

Nothing yet.

But he smiled to himself anyway.

Chapter Text

It was, objectively, a nice restaurant.

Expensive. Quiet. Lit with soft overhead fixtures and scattered amber candlelight. Lex Luthor had been here half a dozen times for corporate dinners, fundraisers, and even one unfortunate blind date set up by a well-meaning board member with a son who ‘really loves philosophy.’

Tonight, though, Lex was not seated across from some startup heir in a blazer with elbow patches. Tonight, he was across from Clark Kent.

And Clark Kent—sweet, smiling, absolutely unaware of the small earthquake he caused every time he adjusted his shirt collar—was talking about an article he was working on, while slowly demolishing a plate of steak, potatoes, and a very large side salad.

He looked good. Stupidly good. The shirt he wore tonight was a crisp forest green, rolled at the sleeves, tucked into dark pants that somehow emphasized everything they shouldn’t. His glasses caught the light just right, and his eyes glinted, bright as diamonds, whenever he grinned.

Lex sipped his wine.

Do not look at his chest again. You are here for words, not for pecs sculpted by the gods themselves.

...He must eat like a linebacker to maintain that chest.

Lex nearly choked on the wine.

“Something wrong?” Clark asked, pausing mid-cut of his steak.

Lex waved it off. “No. Just… strong wine.”

Clark smiled, then took a bite of salad—fork and all, chewing like a happy farmboy who had no idea the man across from him had just mentally stripped him down in the span of three seconds.

It was now or never.

Lex cleared his throat.

“So,” he said, setting down his glass. “This is… what? Our fifth—no, sixth—time out together.”

Clark blinked, then counted on his fingers. “Dinner, drinks, museum, that outdoor jazz thing, the sculpture gallery…”

“This is our seventh,” Lex realized, tone dry. “You’re better at this than I am.”

Clark shrugged with a sheepish smile. “I’ve got a good memory.”

Lex straightened his silverware.

He didn’t normally hesitate. Not in boardrooms. Not in politics. Not even when facing a room full of journalists.

But here, across the table from Clark Kent, he felt twelve percent unmoored.

“Clark,” he said slowly. “Can I ask you something that may or may not make this entire dinner extremely awkward?”

Clark looked up, fork halfway to his mouth. “Sure.”

Lex folded his hands. “What… exactly… are we?”

Clark chewed, paused. Looked down. Looked back up.

With a casual blink and a slightly full mouth, he said simply, “Boyfriends?”

Lex froze.

Clark’s brows rose just slightly. “I mean… aren’t we?”

Lex stared at him, utterly silent.

Clark tilted his head, clearly confused by the silence. “Was I not supposed to assume that? I figured—like—we’ve been going out for a while, and we text a lot, and you sent me a rose, and I kind of thought that meant you liked me.”

Lex blinked. “I… I do.”

Clark nodded, taking another bite of salad. “Cool. So yeah. Boyfriends. Unless that’s not what you want. Then I can stop saying that.”

“No—no,” Lex said quickly, leaning forward. “I want that. I just didn’t realize we were already…”

“Pretty sure we’ve been for like three dates now,” Clark said, very matter-of-fact. “Didn’t you know?”

Lex sat back in his seat, brain still catching up.

Clark smiled again, like the most adorable, innocent, secretly terrifying man Lex had ever known. “You’ve been spiraling about it, haven’t you.”

Lex opened his mouth, shut it, and gave the barest nod.

Clark’s grin turned amused. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Unfairly hot and sweet,” Lex muttered, mostly to himself.

“What was that?”

“Nothing.”

Clark looked pleased, finishing off the rest of his steak. “Well,” he said cheerfully, “now that that’s settled—boyfriends?”

Lex raised his glass. “Boyfriends.”

Clark clinked his water glass against it. “Nice.”

Chapter Text

Lois Lane had two truths she held dear in this world:

1. Clark Kent was a terrible liar.
2. Clark Kent was hiding something.

And the second one had been bothering her for weeks.

She leaned back in her chair at the Daily Planet, narrowed her eyes across the newsroom, and stared at the source of her distress: Clark. Clark, with his fluffy hair and boy-next-door charm, humming under his breath as he typed something on his laptop like a man completely at peace with the universe.

Which was weird.

Clark was never this relaxed. He was polite. Kind. Occasionally awkward in that ‘midwestern golden retriever’ way. But calm? Cheerful? Blissfully smiling at nothing in particular?

Not normal.

And that was why Lois Lane had declared war.

“Jimmy,” she hissed to the redhead seated at the next desk over.

Jimmy Olsen looked up from where he’d been sorting through photos on his computer, eyes sleepy. “Huh?”

“Look at Clark.”

Jimmy followed her line of sight. “Yeah?”

Lois leaned forward like a conspiracy theorist about to unveil a red-string board. “He’s glowing.”

Jimmy squinted. “I mean… he did do a face mask with my husband last weekend.”

“No,” Lois hissed. “Not skincare glowing. Romantic glowing.”

Jimmy blinked. “Romantic glowing? That’s a thing?”

“I’ve seen it,” Lois said grimly. “I’ve seen it right before someone admits they’re in a relationship. They’re just all…” She waved her hand vaguely in the air. “Soft and dreamy and infuriatingly vague.”

“Are you talking about when Perry had that three-week fling with that news anchor and started humming Sinatra in the office?”

“Exactly.”

Jimmy tilted his head. “So you think Clark’s dating someone.”

“I know he’s dating someone,” Lois said with the fervor of someone who’d been denied juicy gossip for far too long. “He comes in smiling. He’s on his phone more. He’s started drinking oat milk lattes instead of drip coffee like a peasant. And he always looks like someone just kissed him and told him he was the best thing to happen to this planet.”

Jimmy made a face. “Maybe someone did kiss him and tell him that.”

Lois narrowed her eyes. “The question is: who?”

Jimmy swiveled around in his chair, tapping his chin with the stylus. “Well. Let’s think about this. Who would Clark be into?”

Lois considered. “Someone sweet, maybe? Nerdy? Kind-hearted?”

Jimmy shrugged. “Or like, an absolute menace who wants to see him in a slutty shirt.”

Lois paused. “…Also valid.”

They both turned and looked at Clark again, who was now chuckling at something on his screen, the corners of his eyes crinkling behind his glasses.

“I hate how good he looks when he’s happy,” Lois muttered.

“It’s unsettling,” Jimmy agreed. “You don’t think he got, like… secretly married, right? Eloped to Vegas with some stranger and forgot to tell us?”

Lois glared. “No. If Clark Kent was married, he’d absolutely mention it during lunch by accident. This is something sneakier. Ongoing.”

Jimmy leaned back and whispered, “Maybe it’s that barista from the cafe he goes to.”

“No,” Lois dismissed. “He doesn’t blush enough when we mention that guy. What about the weatherman from Channel 7?”

“Already married.” Jimmy raised an eyebrow. “To me.”

“Oh, right.” She paused. “Congrats, by the way.”

“Thanks.”

Lois turned her gaze back to Clark. “I’m going to get it out of him.”

“No you’re not,” Jimmy said immediately.

“I am.”

“You’re going to push too hard and he’s going to dodge the question.”

“I taught him how to dodge questions. I’ll know.”

Jimmy gave her a skeptical look. “Okay, but what if he’s not ready to tell us? What if it’s something serious and he wants to keep it private for a while?”

Lois’s eyes narrowed. “So serious that he hasn’t even hinted at it?”

Jimmy shrugged. “Clark’s weird.”

“He’s sneaky.”

“He’s Kansas sneaky.”

“That’s the most dangerous kind of sneaky.”

Just then, Clark stood up, stretching with a soft groan, his shirt riding up just enough to give both Jimmy and Lois a glimpse of solid, toned midsection.

Jimmy whistled under his breath. “God, no wonder someone locked that down.”

“Exactly,” Lois muttered. “You don’t just walk around looking like that with no romantic entanglements.”

Clark walked over, holding a paper in one hand. “Hey, Lois? Quick question on the theater piece—”

“You’re dating someone,” she interrupted.

Clark froze. “What?”

“You’re dating someone,” she repeated, crossing her arms. “You’ve got the glow.”

Jimmy added helpfully, “And the shirts.”

Clark blinked. “I don’t know what that means.”

“It means your vibes are off,” Lois said flatly. “Way too happy. Smiling. Suspiciously shiny hair.”

Clark glanced between them, entirely too calm. “So I’m not allowed to be in a good mood anymore?”

“No,” Jimmy said. “We’re your friends. You’re obligated to overshare with us.”

Clark bit back a laugh. “Maybe I’m just eating better.”

“You’ve been eating better for years,” Lois shot back. “That’s not new.”

Clark gave them the most innocent smile he could muster. “I just like salad.”

Jimmy muttered, “Suspicious salad liking.”

Lois squinted. “Okay, if you are dating someone, just blink twice.”

“I’m not—”

“Blinked once!” Jimmy shouted.

Clark laughed and shook his head, turning to walk away. “You two are ridiculous.”

Lois called after him, “I’m going to find out!”

“You can try!” Clark replied, already halfway down the hall.

Jimmy leaned back in his chair. “He’s dating someone.”

“Oh, obviously,” Lois said. “And he’s way too smug about it. I bet it’s someone hot.”

Jimmy nodded. “Really hot.”

Lois’s eyes widened slowly. “…What if it’s Lex Luthor?”

Jimmy looked horrified.

Then thoughtful.

Then horrified again.

Lois smirked. “Now that would explain a lot.”

Chapter Text

Clark Kent had a secret.

Lois Lane was sure of it the way she was sure the sky was blue, the Earth round, and Perry White secretly read romance novels on his lunch break. The secret was smiling at them every morning, wrapped in sweater vests, sipping lattes, and humming cheerful little farm-boy tunes like someone who definitely got laid recently.

And Lois had had enough.

She slapped a folder down on Jimmy Olsen’s desk with the force of a woman on a mission.

Jimmy looked up, halfway through editing a photo of a city councilman mid-blink. “Oh no. What is it now?”

Lois crossed her arms. “Clark’s dating Lex Luthor.”

Jimmy blinked. “That escalated quickly.”

“Did it? Did it really?” she challenged, voice rising an octave. “Because let’s walk through the evidence, Olsen.”

She opened the folder.

Inside was a sheet of printer paper with the words “The Case of the Mysterious Boyfriend” written in red Sharpie, underlined twice. Beneath that: bullet points.

Jimmy leaned in. “Oh god. You made a list.”

“I made several.” Lois tapped the paper. “Let’s start with the most obvious. Clark has been floating around the office with a goofy little smile like someone whispered sweet nothings in his ear and then did unspeakable things to him in bed.”

Jimmy hummed. “Strong start.”

“Two,” she continued. “Clark has started dressing nicer. Tighter shirts. Nicer slacks. A belt, Jimmy. Clark doesn’t wear belts unless he’s trying to impress someone.”

“You think he’s dressing up for a date?”

“I think he’s dressing up for someone who’s very into Clark’s chest, and Clark knows it.”

Jimmy blinked. “Wait. Lex Luthor is into Clark’s chest. He literally stared at it for an entire charity gala. I took photos.”

Lois flipped to a page in her folder and slapped down one of Jimmy’s very own candids—Lex at a gala, eyes unmistakably locked on Clark’s shirt buttons.

“I know, Jimmy.”

Jimmy leaned back in awe. “You’re scary when you care.”

“Thanks,” Lois said flatly. “Now let’s get to phase two: coincidences.”

Jimmy raised an eyebrow. “Let me guess. Clark keeps running into Lex Luthor?”

“Exactly. ‘Oh wow,’” she said, mocking Clark’s soft voice. “‘Mr. Luthor just happened to be at the same art exhibit I went to!’ Or, ‘Isn’t it strange that I ran into Lex at that PR event for urban rooftop gardens?’ No, Clark. It’s not strange. It’s suspicious.”

Jimmy tapped his lip with his pen. “Okay, but Clark said the dinner with Luthor a month ago was just professional.”

“Right. And my cat writes op-eds.”

“You don’t have a cat.”

“Exactly!”

Jimmy chewed on the tip of his stylus. “So. Hypothetically. Clark Kent is dating Lex Luthor. Why wouldn’t he tell us?”

Lois paused.

“Because it’s new. Or maybe Clark doesn’t think we’d approve. Or maybe,” she said, eyes gleaming, “he thinks if we find out, we’ll never let it go.”

Jimmy deadpanned, “We wouldn’t.”

“Nope.”

A beat passed. They both looked toward Clark’s desk, where he was typing peacefully, glasses slightly fogged from his coffee.

Then back at each other.

“We need to know more.” Her voice dropped into a conspiratorial whisper. “We need to follow him.”

Jimmy blinked. “You mean stalk him.”

“Investigative follow. Not stalk.”

“You mean sit in your car across the street with binoculars and a legal pad.”

“Yes,” she said, grabbing her keys. “Exactly that.”

Clark Kent walked out of the grocery store holding two canvas bags, humming a little tune under his breath.

Lois and Jimmy watched from behind the dash of her car, parked two spots away and partially hidden by a suspiciously-placed recycling bin.

Jimmy, watching through a long-range lens, muttered, “Why is he so happy to buy kale?”

“He’s whistling like he just got proposed to.”

Lois scribbled in her notes. “More bananas. Greek yogurt. A suspicious amount of trail mix. He’s bulking.”

“For what?”

Lois shot him a look. “For love, Olsen. For love.”

Clark, blissfully unaware of the two idiots tailing him, walked up the steps to his apartment building, paused at the door, and fruitily bumped it closed with his hip, humming something that sounded suspiciously like a ‘70s musical.

Jimmy sighed. “He’s so zesty.”

Lois pressed her forehead to the steering wheel. “And so sweet. God. He probably sends handwritten thank-you notes to his garbage man.”

“He definitely feeds birds in the park and names them.”

“And makes eye contact when he talks to old ladies.”

They both stared up at the glowing window of Clark’s apartment.

“He’s too good for this world,” Lois whispered.

Jimmy nodded. “We can’t let Lex Luthor have him.”

Lois sat back, groaning. “But what are we supposed to do about it? Lex is a billionaire with a skyscraper and a jawline that looks like it was forged by ancient gods.”

“And when he looks at Clark,” Jimmy added, “he looks like a guy who just discovered boobs for the first time.”

Lois’s mouth twisted. “Exactly. That man sees Clark’s chest and short-circuits like a broken blender.”

“I have the photographic evidence,” Jimmy offered, flipping to a zoomed-in gala shot on his phone. Lex. Staring. Clark. Tight shirt. Classic.

Lois buried her face in her hands. “This is a nightmare. How are we supposed to intimidate Lex Luthor? We’re two chihuahuas barking at an elephant. A very evil elephant.”

“An elephant with a private jet and pecs like marble,” Jimmy muttered.

“And the world’s largest murder yacht.”

“Don’t forget the flamethrower drone company.”

They sat in silence for a beat, watching Clark’s silhouette move around his kitchen through the window.

Lois finally said, “I mean, how do you warn someone like Lex off your friend? You send a threatening muffin basket? Leave a note that says ‘Don’t hurt him or we’ll cry on your balcony?’”

“Clark would probably apologize for us.”

Lois nodded. “God. He’s too pure.”

Jimmy rubbed his face. “Okay. Okay. What if—hear me out—we don’t try to intimidate Luthor?”

Lois looked scandalized.

“We just…” Jimmy made a vague hand motion. “Observe. Closely. Like really, really closely. And if he does anything shady, we deploy the nuke.”

Lois blinked. “The nuke?”

Jimmy grinned. “A full-page article titled ‘Clark Kent: Metropolis’s Sweetest Himbo, Now Dating the City’s Most Evil Billionaire.’”

Lois looked proud. “That’s good. You’ve learned.”

They high-fived.

Upstairs, Clark sat on his couch, content, munching a cookie and humming to himself.

He had no idea what was coming.

Chapter Text

It was date night.

Which, in Lex Luthor’s world, meant a series of carefully curated micro-events: private car, private table, vintage wine, and a chef who owed him a favor in exchange for wiping a few licensing issues off the books. But even with every detail engineered to perfection, Lex couldn’t think straight.

Because Clark Kent had shown up in a deep navy button-up—snug, unfairly snug—with the sleeves rolled up just enough to expose thick forearms, and with a look on his face like he had no idea he was committing war crimes with his shirt.

Lex had barely survived the car ride.

Now, as they walked toward the rooftop terrace for after-dinner drinks, the city glowing golden in the background, Lex did something bold.

He reached for Clark’s waist.

He wanted to guide him—gently, possessively—just a hand at his back. Innocent. Tame. Normal.

But Clark, in the middle of saying something earnest about the way city lights reflected in glass, shifted slightly.

And Lex’s hand landed firmly—decisively—on Clark Kent’s ass.

And not just any ass. No. Lex had touched tailored suit pants before. He knew what wool felt like.

This was something else.

It was firm.

Taut.

Incredibly defined.

Lex froze, fingers still full of god-tier glute, and his mind went white. No thoughts. No logic. Just raw, primal oh god it’s firm looping like bad pop music in his brain.

Clark, meanwhile, had stopped speaking.

He turned bright, farmboy red, his brows rising just slightly, as he gently—and very politely—reached back, took Lex’s wrist, and peeled the billionaire’s hand off his backside.

“Lex,” Clark said, in a tone that was somehow flustered, amused, and chastising all at once.

Lex was still buffering.

“I—” Lex cleared his throat. “That wasn’t—I didn’t mean—”

Clark tilted his head, trying not to laugh, cheeks still flushed. “You meant to touch my lower back and I moved.”

“Yes.”

“And your hand…?”

“Wandered,” Lex said flatly, wondering if it would be possible to launch himself off the roof with dignity.

Clark, ever the saint, gave a tiny smile and a forgiving squeeze to Lex’s forearm. “Let’s… chalk that up to bad timing.”

“Agreed.”

“Very bad timing.”

“Yes.”

Clark snorted softly and continued walking, hands now in his coat pockets. Lex followed after, chastised but not exiled—though his brain continued flashing FIRM in neon red letters behind his eyes.

He tried to focus on Clark’s voice as they talked. On the way Clark’s eyes lit up when discussing some new community-focused piece he was working on. On the faint scent of his cologne—something woodsy and clean, like cedar and sunlight. On the little smile that tugged at the corners of Clark’s mouth when Lex made a joke about donating another building just to ‘accidentally’ run into him again.

Clark laughed and said, “Just text me next time, Lex.”

Lex could do that. He could text. He could definitely, definitely keep his hands above the waist from now on.

Eventually, their drinks were done. The stars were out. And the city began to quiet beneath them.

Lex walked Clark back to the private car. The moment stretched—quiet, warm, and full of unsaid things.

Clark paused before getting in. “I had a really nice time.”

“So did I,” Lex said, then added—because he couldn’t help it—“Ass-grab aside.”

Clark’s ears went pink. “Don’t make it weird.”

“You know I can’t help myself.”

Clark hesitated. Then, as if making a decision in real time, he stepped forward.

Lex didn’t move.

And Clark—sweet, Kansas-born Clark—leaned in and pressed the softest, briefest kiss to Lex’s mouth.

Just a light touch. No pressure. No heat.

But it sent a bolt of something so electric down Lex’s spine he had to consciously remember not to grab Clark and ruin everything.

Clark pulled back, eyes sparkling and a little nervous. “Goodnight, Lex.”

Lex stared, momentarily stunned. “Night,” he said, voice low and quiet.

Clark slipped into the car.

Lex stood there long after the driver pulled away, fingers hovering near his lips, wondering if the floor of the universe had just shifted slightly beneath him.

Their first kiss.

Perfect.

Short.

Sweet.

And he’d definitely be texting Clark tomorrow. With both hands.

Firmly above the waist.

Chapter Text

Clark Kent was humming again.

Lois clocked it at 9:02 a.m., five minutes after he walked into the bullpen, hung his coat, and settled into his desk with a steaming coffee and a smile like someone had whispered something lovely in his ear on the way in.

By 9:10, he was tapping out an article with cheerful energy.

By 9:15, he was humming Frank Sinatra.

By 9:17, Lois had enough.

“He has the look,” she hissed, leaning across Jimmy’s desk. “You see it, right?”

Jimmy squinted at Clark, who had now transitioned to softly mouthing the lyrics to ‘Fly Me to the Moon’ while adjusting his glasses and typing with unholy speed.

Jimmy leaned in, whispering, “That is a man who has been kissed.”

“And who will not tell,” Lois growled, narrowing her eyes. “Which means he thinks he’s getting away with something.”

Jimmy gasped. “Is he cheating on us?”

Lois looked grim. “Emotionally? Yes.”

Clark looked up suddenly, blinking behind his glasses, then smiled like sunshine when he saw them watching him.

“Morning!” he called. “I brought banana muffins. They’re in the kitchen.”

Lois squinted harder. “Oh he’s so in love.”

Jimmy sighed dreamily. “He baked again.”

Lois stood. “We’re confronting him.”

“We are?”

She pulled Jimmy by the wrist. “It’s time.”

They cornered Clark at 9:22 a.m. with the precision of career investigators. Lois blocked the path to the kitchen. Jimmy cut off the exit to the elevators. Clark, holding a muffin and looking utterly unbothered, blinked at them.

“What’s going on?” he asked, even as his voice carried the slightest knowing lilt.

Lois crossed her arms. “You’re smiling.”

“...Is that a crime now?”

“You’re humming.”

“It was Sinatra.”

Jimmy peered over Clark’s shoulder. “You’re glowing.”

Clark laughed. “I am not glowing.”

“You’re radiant,” Lois accused. “Suspiciously radiant.”

“Okay,” Clark said slowly, “are we—are we interrogating me?”

“Yes,” they said in unison.

He took a bite of his muffin and waited, apparently unbothered. Dangerous. Calculated. Innocent.

Lois narrowed her eyes. “Clark Jerome Kent—”

“Joseph,” he corrected politely.

“Whatever. Are you—” she paused for dramatic effect “—dating someone?”

Clark blinked.

Then, like a weapon drawn in silence, Clark turned his wide, guileless blue eyes on them and tilted his head slightly, like a golden retriever trying to understand quantum physics.

“Oh,” he said. “Me?”

Lois felt her heart falter. It was like trying to accuse a baby deer of tax fraud.

Jimmy stammered. “Y-yeah. We just… I mean, you’ve been so—”

“Happy,” Lois finished. “And humming. And glowing. And you deflected with baked goods, Clark. That’s suspicious.”

Clark took another bite of muffin, chewing slowly. “Can’t a guy just… be in a good mood?”

“You’re from Kansas,” Lois said flatly. “Good moods are suspicious on you.”

Clark looked between them, then lowered his voice conspiratorially. “Okay,” he said. “Do you promise not to freak out?”

“Yes,” Jimmy said immediately.

“No,” Lois said at the same time.

Clark smiled again—too sweet, too innocent. The kind of innocent that only ever meant guilty.

“I’m not dating anyone,” he said.

Lois blinked.

Jimmy narrowed his eyes. “Are you lying to us, Clark?”

He spread his arms slightly, like an open book. “I am not currently dating anyone.”

Lois stepped forward. “Clark. If you say that and you are, in fact, secretly dating Lex Luthor, I will write an exposé about your betrayal.”

Clark blinked, that freaking sparkle still in his eye. “Wouldn’t that be a conflict of interest?”

Jimmy hissed. “He’s lawyering us.”

“I’m not a lawyer.”

“Don’t turn this around!” Lois snapped. “Are you dating Lex Luthor or not?”

Clark’s mouth opened.

Then, instead of answering, he did the thing.

The thing he knew always worked.

He looked down slightly, pushed his glasses back up the bridge of his nose, and looked at them through his lashes with wide, open baby blue eyes.

Lois flinched. Jimmy clutched his chest.

“Don’t do the eyes,” Lois groaned.

“It’s like being hit by a baby angel,” Jimmy whispered.

“Clark Kent!” Lois snapped, recovering. “You have kissed someone. You are dating someone. We don’t have the proof, but we have the vibes.”

Clark looked to the side. “I think I’m going to finish my article now.”

“No, you’re not,” she growled.

He sidestepped her. She tried to block him. It was like trying to stop a cheerful tank.

Lois spun around. “Clark! If this ends up being a surprise engagement and you didn’t tell us, I will tase you at your own wedding.”

“I’ll bring the camera,” Jimmy added.

Clark, now seated at his desk, just smiled again. “Thanks for your concern.”

Jimmy leaned close. “Just tell us one thing. One.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “Is it Lex?”

Clark didn’t answer.

But his ears turned red.

Lois gasped. “I knew it.”

Jimmy cheered. “Billionaire boyfriend confirmed!”

Clark gave a helpless little shrug. “You said you wouldn’t freak out.”

“We lied,” Lois said immediately.

“I brought muffins,” Clark offered weakly.

“We’re still freaking out.”

“You’re dating Lex Luthor!”

“He’s not that bad,” Clark said, trying for mild.

Lois grabbed her coat. “He owns a death satellite.”

Clark blinked. “That’s—wasn’t proven.”

Jimmy started Googling wedding venues. “You’re gonna be Clark Kent-Luthor.”

“I haven’t even—” Clark paused. “We haven’t even had a real first kiss.”

Lois froze. “Define real.”

Clark opened his mouth, then shut it.

And smiled.

Bright. Radiant. Suspicious.

Lois groaned and thumped her forehead on his desk. “I can’t take this.”

Jimmy patted her back. “It’s okay. You were right. We were all right.”

“Smugness is my only consolation.”

“You’ll have to toast at the wedding.”

“Only if I get to intimidate the groom.”

Jimmy beamed. “You’ll need a stepladder.”

Clark, typing again, hummed cheerfully.

Lois narrowed her eyes again.

Because the humming had returned.

And the smugness.

But most damning of all—

Was the kiss.

Because that was definitely the look of a man who had been kissed.

And had absolutely no intention of telling anyone about it.

Chapter Text

Lex Luthor had been many things in his life: a prodigy, a billionaire, a public menace depending on which media outlet you asked—and occasionally, accidentally, a philanthropist.

But never in his life had he been this celibate.

Not by accident, either.

Not because of a dry spell or lack of options. No, Lex had spent nearly a full year dating the most beautiful, kind, distractingly muscular man in the entire world—and had somehow managed to keep his hands mostly to himself.

Mostly.

The thing was: Clark Kent was not withholding. He wasn’t prudish. He wasn’t stringing Lex along or punishing him for past sins (and Lex had a long ledger of those). He was just…

Sweet. Innocent. Kind.

Patient in a way that Lex absolutely was not.

And every time Lex looked at him—which was often, he’d admit, with no shame—his brain tried to claw its way out of his skull with images of Clark sprawled across Lex’s sheets, shirt tugged halfway off, eyes dazed, glasses askew, moaning Lex’s name in that voice that made Lex forget what language was.

Lex adjusted his collar for the fifth time that morning.

“Are you overheating?” Ava asked from across his desk, barely glancing up from her tablet. “I can adjust the temperature.”

“I’m fine,” Lex snapped.

“You’re flushed.”

“It’s warm.”

“It’s 67 degrees.”

Lex frowned. “You know, I don’t pay you to observe my face.”

“You pay me to keep you from embarrassing yourself, which, right now, I am heroically doing.”

Lex scowled. “I’m not embarrassing myself.”

Ava didn’t respond. She just raised one unimpressed eyebrow and tapped her stylus against the side of her tablet.

Lex exhaled through his nose.

The truth was, he was spiraling.

The one-year mark was coming up. In two weeks.

One year.

One year of dates. Of awkward first touches and shy smiles and shared desserts. One year of holding hands, of Clark gently brushing his knuckles against Lex’s cheek, of stolen kisses and wide-eyed joy whenever Lex said, “You’re beautiful” and meant it with every cell in his body.

They hadn’t talked about sex.

Not really.

Clark didn’t seem to not want it. He wasn’t squeamish. He’d certainly let Lex kiss him breathless in the back of limos, in his apartment doorway, once even against Lex’s office window when the blinds were—thankfully—drawn.

But when Lex’s hands wandered a little too low? Clark would pause. Smile. Tug Lex back into a more chaste embrace. Once or twice, he’d whispered, “Not yet,” with a soft little smile, as if he didn’t want to make Lex feel bad.

Lex had nodded every time. And meant it. Of course he did.

Because Clark didn’t owe him anything. Least of all his body.

Lex wasn’t dating Clark to sleep with him. He was dating Clark because Clark made him feel like there was something worth saving in the man everyone called a monster. Because Clark had laughed at Lex’s jokes. Because he looked at Lex like he wasn’t dangerous or cruel or broken, but like he was good. Like he was lovable.

And yet.

Lex ran a hand down his face.

The fantasies hadn’t stopped. If anything, they’d gotten worse.

Now they came with context. With Clark’s soft voice murmuring his name between kisses. With Clark in his stupid, tight dress shirts, his stupid, perfect pecs and arms that could probably throw a car and smile like he didn’t know he was absolutely destroying Lex.

Kiss him until he forgets his name. Undo those top buttons one by one and kiss every inch of skin. Let Clark sigh and blush and whisper please—

Lex’s phone buzzed.

Clark 💙: 

“Hey, did you make lunch today or are you skipping again?”

Lex stared at the screen, heart punching against his ribs.

Clark 💙: 

“Also I saw a stray cat on my way to work and I might be in love.”

Lex swallowed down the ridiculous, needy affection that boiled up at that.

He typed, Skipped lunch. Make your case for why I should survive the day.

Clark replied two seconds later: Because if you die of starvation, I’ll have to explain to Jimmy that my boyfriend was too dramatic to eat. You will ruin my reputation.

My boyfriend.

Lex bit the inside of his cheek so hard he tasted blood.

He’d been called a great many things in his life.

But Clark Kent’s boyfriend was easily the most dangerous.

And the most precious.

God, he was doomed.

That evening, Lex poured himself a glass of scotch and stood in front of his bedroom window, shirt sleeves rolled up, tie askew. He wasn’t drunk. Barely even buzzed. But the pressure building in his chest hadn’t eased.

He was in love with Clark Kent.

He wanted him. Badly. Fantasies gnawed at him every time Clark leaned too close or laughed too sweetly. But he wanted him in every other way, too. He wanted to eat breakfast with him every morning. He wanted Clark’s toothbrush next to his. He wanted to buy Clark a stupidly expensive robe and watch him walk around the penthouse in it while pretending not to be cold.

Lex drained his glass and stared out at the city.

The only thing he didn’t want?

To make Clark feel like he owed him anything.

Even if Lex was climbing the goddamn walls at this point.

Even if he was a single hair away from spontaneously combusting the next time Clark wore a sweater that hugged his shoulders like that.

Even if his own brain had become his enemy.

You could just ask, the brain said. Clark would be honest. He always is.

Lex grimaced. He could ask. But then Clark might feel pressured. Might think he was failing Lex somehow. Might offer out of guilt.

No. Lex would wait.

However long Clark needed.

He would be patient.

He would be respectful.

He would not tear that ridiculous powder blue shirt open with his teeth, no matter how many times he fantasized about it.

“Another drink, sir?” his AI prompted politely.

Lex sighed. “Yes.”

And make it a double.

Chapter Text

Clark Kent had always liked anniversaries.

There was something nice about marking the passage of time with intention. Birthdays, holidays, milestones—they reminded you to stop, to acknowledge something had happened. That something mattered.

He liked that.

And today?

Today mattered.

Exactly one year ago, Lex Luthor had invited Clark out to dinner “to celebrate the success of your article,” and then promptly spent the entire meal looking like he wanted to eat Clark instead of his food.

In the time since, Clark had been thoroughly courted, respected, and kissed to the point of giggling on more than one occasion.

And now?

He was smitten.

Very quietly, very privately smitten.

Clark tugged on the sleeves of his nicest shirt as he stepped out of the elevator, a little bouquet in hand. They weren’t roses or anything too dramatic—just small, cheerful orange ranunculus blooms bundled in brown paper.

He could have gone more expensive, sure. But Clark had learned something about Lex in the last year: the man liked expensive things, sure, but he melted faster at anything that hinted at sentimentality. Personal effort. Real thought.

Clark wasn’t flashy. But he could be thoughtful.

The penthouse door opened before he could even knock.

Lex Luthor stood in the doorway wearing a soft gray sweater and black slacks, looking so casual and devastatingly attractive that Clark had to physically remind himself to breathe.

“Hi,” Clark said shyly, holding out the flowers. “Happy anniversary.”

Lex stared at the bouquet like it had insulted his ancestors, then took it reverently with both hands.

“These are—” He cleared his throat. “Beautiful.”

Clark smiled. “Thought they looked like sunlight.”

Lex blinked at him.

“Oh my god,” he muttered, then stepped aside. “Come in before I do something embarrassing.”

Clark walked in, the smell of something rich and garlicy wafting from the kitchen. Lex followed, still clutching the bouquet.

“Are those for me or did you mug a florist on the way up here?” Lex asked, trying to recover with sarcasm.

“You. Obviously.” Clark gave him a smile so soft Lex looked like he might actually melt into the floor.

He was used to Clark being sweet. That was part of what had unraveled him so completely over the last year. But sometimes, like now, when Clark was sweet on purpose, when he leaned into it—

Well.

Lex was doomed.

And Clark? Was in a good mood.

Dinner was amazing. Lex had clearly ordered it from somewhere expensive, though he tried to play it off like it was just something he’d thrown together. Clark let him get away with the lie, because Lex also looked like he’d spent an hour making sure the table was set just so.

They talked. They always did, easily. About news stories and politics, about how Jimmy and Lois were becoming alarmingly suspicious, about Lex’s latest failed attempt at rebranding a fusion reactor as ‘green energy’ even though nobody trusted him to brand anything ‘green.’

It was comfortable. It was warm.

It was nice.

Clark’s hand brushed Lex’s halfway through dinner, and he left it there, palm warm against the tablecloth. Lex didn’t move. He just stared down at their fingers like it was a puzzle he hadn’t solved yet.

Clark squeezed his hand gently.

Lex looked up, startled.

Clark tilted his head. “You okay?”

Lex nodded mutely.

Clark grinned. “Good.”

They walked together to the elevator after dessert, fingers brushing again, shoulders bumping once, softly.

Lex walked him all the way down to the door, something he always did, even if Clark insisted he didn’t have to.

“Thanks for dinner,” Clark said, turning to face him. “And the company. And the attempt to lie about cooking it.”

Lex gave a half-smile. “Can’t blame me for trying.”

“Not really,” Clark said, and tilted his head. “It was a really good night.”

Lex nodded.

Clark could tell he was trying not to stare at his mouth.

So Clark leaned in and kissed him first.

It wasn’t brief.

Clark slid his fingers gently into the lapels of Lex’s jacket, tugging just a little, pressing in close. Lex made a noise in the back of his throat—like surprise and hunger wrapped in silk—and then melted, arms coming up to hold Clark by the waist like Clark was something precious.

They kissed like they meant it.

Clark’s cheeks were warm. His body tingled from the contact. He let himself press just a little closer, chest brushing Lex’s, and smiled against his lips when Lex’s breath hitched audibly.

Eventually, Clark pulled back. Just a little.

Lex looked like he’d been hit with a truck. A very pretty, very happy truck.

Clark grinned, kissed the corner of Lex’s mouth once more, and stepped back, key in hand.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said.

Lex blinked. “Yes. Absolutely. See you tomorrow. For… things.”

Clark beamed and ducked into his apartment, shutting the door with a soft click.

Lex stared at the door.

Then stared at the wall beside it.

Then leaned back against it, exhaling like he’d run a marathon.

He touched his mouth, still tingling from the kiss.

No sex. Not even close.

And still—still—Lex had never felt so completely destroyed by one human man and a soft mouth in his life.

Clark Kent was going to be the death of him.

And what a glorious way to go.

Chapter Text

Clark Kent was humming.

It wasn’t new—Clark had always been a hummer, especially when he was editing—but lately there was a little extra something to it. A bounce in the rhythm, a lilt in the melody. That, combined with the way he kept smiling at his monitor, had Lois and Jimmy exchanging looks from across the bullpen.

Lois sipped her coffee, leaned back in her chair, and said without looking away from Clark, “He’s thinking about him again.”

Jimmy leaned on the edge of her desk, chewing the straw of his smoothie. “Definitely. That’s the face he makes when he remembers something stupidly romantic.”

They didn’t need to guess who he was. They’d cracked that code ages ago—about a week after Lex Luthor had shown up in person at the Daily Planet under the flimsy excuse of “thanking” Clark for an article.

It was subtle, sure. If “subtle” meant Lex Luthor hovering within arm’s reach of Clark the entire time like a possessive cat.

Clark had confirmed their suspicions about six months in. They’d cornered him at the break room with some of their best tag-team eyebrow raises, and Clark, predictably, had caved when Lois had thrown in a well-timed, “Do his texts end with emojis, Kent?”

His ears had turned pink. He hadn’t even denied it.

Now, one year into whatever it was they had, Clark was smiling like he had the best secret in the world.

Which, okay, he kind of did.

Lois set her coffee down and stood. “Time to cause problems.”

Jimmy looked delighted. “Be gentle.”

Lois grinned, already stalking toward Clark’s desk.

Clark was still typing, glasses low on his nose, tie slightly askew in that ridiculously endearing way that made him look more like a substitute teacher than one of the best investigative reporters in the city.

Lois leaned down, planted her hands on his shoulders, and said sweetly into his ear, “So. Did you have sex with tall, dark, and handsome last night?”

Clark jerked so hard he nearly knocked his chair over. His ears lit up like brake lights.

“I did not have sex with Lex Luthor last night, Lois!” he blurted.

Jimmy appeared on cue, like the drama-loving sprite he was. “Ha! So you admit Lex Luthor is tall, dark, and handsome!?”

Clark groaned, slouching so far down in his seat that he practically slid under his desk. “Shut up! And of course I do, he’s my boyfriend.”

Lois beamed. “See? Knew it. Knew it months ago. I’m so good at this.”

“You’ve known since month one,” Clark grumbled, adjusting his glasses in defeat.

Jimmy perched on the edge of Clark’s desk. “Yeah, but hearing you say it is just as satisfying.”

Clark sighed. “You two are impossible.”

“No,” Lois corrected, grinning. “We’re just very invested in your love life.”

“Especially when it’s got Luthor in it,” Jimmy added. “Come on. Give us the anniversary recap. You’re glowing like someone who got kissed stupid.”

Clark tried—and failed—to fight the smile tugging at his mouth. “We just had dinner. Rooftop. He gave me this old poetry book I’d mentioned liking once. We talked. He walked me to the door.”

Lois raised an eyebrow. “And?”

Clark cleared his throat. “He kissed me.”

Jimmy grinned like a cartoon character. “Finally.”

“It was sweet,” Clark said, quieter this time. “He didn’t rush anything. Didn’t push. He’s been really patient with me.”

Lois crossed her arms. “So… still no sex?”

“Lois.”

“Hey, I’m just saying, if it’s been a year and he hasn’t made you uncomfortable, that’s a good sign.”

Clark nodded, fiddling with the hem of his sleeve. “He’s... kind, actually. Surprisingly so. He listens. He asks questions. And when I told him I wanted to take things slow, he didn’t even blink. Said he just wanted to be around me.”

Jimmy pretended to wipe a tear. “Our little farmboy has a billionaire boyfriend and boundaries.”

“And muscles,” Lois said, poking his bicep. “Seriously, how does Luthor not pass out every time you wear one of those tight shirts?”

Clark blushed again and turned back to his screen. “Can we not talk about my shirts right now?”

Jimmy leaned in. “That’s a yes.”

Lois smirked. “It’s absolutely a yes.”

“I’m never telling either of you anything ever again.”

They both high-fived over his head.

Clark just buried his face in his hands.

Chapter Text

Lex Luthor did not panic.

He had stood before senators, scientists, journalists, and stockholders. He had negotiated mergers worth billions with less sleep and more wine than advisable. He had faced down government inquiries, hostile takeovers, assassination attempts, and even the unrelenting scrutiny of the public eye.

And yet—he was now lying wide awake in his bed, half under the sheets, completely naked, absolutely panicking.

Clark Kent lay beside him, blissfully asleep. Also very much naked. Lex could confirm this by the sight of one broad, bare shoulder and the way the sheet dipped low across Clark’s back, resting just above the curve of—

Don’t go there.

Lex shifted slightly, propping himself up on one elbow as he stared at the sleeping form beside him. Clark’s mouth was parted slightly, hair a fluffy mess against the white pillow, lashes long and dark against his cheeks. He looked like an angel.

An incredibly naked angel.

Lex covered his face with one hand.

It had happened. After a year and half of dating—of flirty glances, soft touches, drawn-out kisses, and Lex very nearly losing his mind every time Clark did something as simple as roll up his sleeves—they had finally crossed that line. Slowly. Gently. Carefully. Because of course Clark had been a virgin. Of course he had looked up at Lex with wide eyes and a nervous smile and said, “I trust you.”

Lex was going to jail. Or hell. Or maybe both.

He’d known, on some level. Of course he had. Clark was too sweet, too gentle, too earnest. And Lex had tried—tried—to keep himself reined in. But last night, when Clark had leaned in, kissed him like he meant it, and whispered, “I want to,” Lex had nearly combusted on the spot.

Now, lying here in the morning light, the memory was far too vivid: Clark’s breathless laugh, the warmth of his skin, the way he’d gasped Lex’s name like it was the only word he knew.

Lex dropped back onto the pillows, staring up at the ceiling.

What if he regrets it?

Clark wasn’t the type to say anything if he did regret it. He’d smile and keep going, trying to spare Lex’s feelings while quietly becoming distant. Lex had seen it before—with former partners, with press interviews, even with employees. That kindness could cut both ways.

And God, Lex had wanted him. Had still wanted him, even now, with the heat of the night lingering in the sheets and the warmth of Clark’s body so close beside him. He’d wanted to wake Clark up just to kiss him again, just to be sure it wasn’t a dream.

But that was selfish. Wasn’t it?

He glanced over again. Clark was stirring now—frowning faintly, brow scrunched in that way he did when he was waking up slowly and didn’t quite know what time it was.

Lex hesitated for all of three seconds before reaching over and gently nudging him.

“Clark,” he said softly.

Clark made a soft noise. Then, with a yawn and a stretch, turned toward Lex and blinked blearily. “Mornin’,” he mumbled, voice still rough from sleep.

Lex swallowed. God, that voice.

“You should get going,” he said quickly. “You’ll be late for work.”

Clark blinked again. Then looked down at the sheet covering him. Then at Lex. Then at the faint light filtering through the penthouse windows.

“Oh,” he said, cheeks blooming with color.

Lex forced himself not to look too hard. He failed.

He looks so good shirtless.

Broad shoulders, firm chest, the faintest red marks Lex vaguely remembered leaving. Lex nearly groaned.

Clark shifted to sit up, clutching the sheet to his chest like a scandalized Victorian maiden. “I didn’t mean to fall asleep,” he said. “You should’ve kicked me out.”

“Believe me,” Lex said dryly, “that thought didn’t occur once.”

Clark turned to him, smiling—soft and sleepy and so damn endearing it hurt.

“You okay?” Clark asked, tilting his head.

Lex blinked. “What?”

“You’re doing that thing.”

“What thing.”

“The thing where you stare at me like I’m a problem you haven’t figured out how to solve yet.”

Lex paused. “…I do not do that.”

“You do. You are doing it right now.” Clark reached out, tapping Lex lightly on the nose before pulling the sheet around his waist and standing up.

Lex very nearly choked.

There were things a man could endure before 8 a.m. on a weekday. Watching Clark Kent stand up shirtless, wrapped only in expensive bed linen, backlit by the morning sun, was not one of them.

How is he real.

Clark padded toward the bathroom, blissfully unaware of Lex’s suffering, humming under his breath.

Lex let his head thump back on the pillow.

So, no—Clark wasn’t acting weird. He didn’t seem distant or regretful. He was still sweet. Still innocent. Still totally, utterly unbothered by the fact that Lex Luthor, alleged villain, supposed billionaire menace, had spent the night in bed with him.

He was just… Clark.

Lex let out a slow breath.

Maybe he hadn’t corrupted him.

Maybe—just maybe—Clark had changed him instead.

Chapter Text

Clark Kent had a morning so packed with adrenaline and regret that he almost forgot to button his shirt.

Which is why, ten minutes past nine, he stepped into the Daily Planet bullpen—mid-hum of early-morning determination—with a coffee in hand and a shirt thoroughly wrinkled. His tie dangled at an off-putting diagonal. His sleeves were rolled once instead of twice. His hair had that messy bed-head bounce.

It was twelve kinds of not normal for Clark Kent, especially when compared to the spotless, meticulously ironed and iron-pressed Clark that everyone knew.

Lois Lane spotted it from across the room. She raised an eyebrow. Jimmy Olsen followed her gaze and leaned in close, whispering:

“Is that the blue shirt? Did he… sleep in it?”

Lois grinned. “We’re going in.”

Clark had only taken three steps toward his desk when Lois appeared behind him, hands sliding over his shoulders with faux innocence.

“Morning, Clark.” Her voice was sweet and deceptively casual. “You look… well rested.”

Clark froze.

He swallowed. “Morning, Lois.”

Jimmy appeared on the other side of the desk, arms crossed in friendly suspicion. “Working late last night?”

Clark attempted nonchalance. “Something like that.”

Lois tilted her head. “At home?”

Clark rolled a shoulder. “At home.”

Jimmy raised his eyebrows. “In that shirt?”

Clark clutched his coffee like a life raft. “It got wrinkled.”

Lois shook her head slowly. “That’s not a normal level of wrinkleness.”

Clark opened his mouth. Closed it. Then cleared his throat again.

“I—uh—must have stepped on it?”

Lois sighed. “Let’s just say something happened to you last night.”

Clark’s cheeks flared. Bright pink. He coughed—very Clark style—and cleared his throat again.

“Yes… something… restful?”

Jimmy leaned forward. “Restful?”

Clark snapped his coffee mug down. “No, I mean… uh, yeah. I slept well.”

Lois let her hands rest on his shoulders again. “That’s not a denial.”

Clark’s ears burned bright. Not because of shame, he told himself. Just embarrassment.

Lois smiled slowly. “Not a denial. Okay.”

Jimmy cleared his throat dramatically. “So, Clark Jerome Kent—did you or did you not share a bed with Lex?”

Clark choked on his coffee. “It’s Joseph. And I did not share a bed with Lex Luthor.”

Lois’s eyes glinted. “So you’re saying you didn’t have sex.”

Clark blinked. “Yes. I was... very innocently sleeping.”

Jimmy shook his head with mock incredulity. “Even virgins get wrinkly?”

Clark’s ears flared hotter. Clark then buried his face in his hands.

Jimmy sat back in his chair and settled into a superior grin.

Clark peeked through his fingers. “You’re insufferable.”

Lois let go of his shoulders and tapped his desk. “You’re twenty-eight, Kent. We’re your friends. Sometimes we harass you because we care.”

Clark sighed and adjusted his glasses. “Can I just—forward this into my inbox and start working?”

Lois nodded. “Sure, but we do expect… details. For scientific purposes.”

Clark buried his face again.

By lunch, Clark’s zombified productivity was noticeable.

Jimmy nudged him under the pretense of passing by. “Experiment with naps?”

Clark blinked almost too slowly. “I’m fine.”

Lois dropped a stack of papers on his desk. “We’re not done. We’re evolving. If you didn’t sleep at Lex’s, where were you?”

Clark rubbed his neck. “Lois… Jimmy… look, I’m not telling you.”

Jimmy sighed theatrically. “You owe us something. Proof of life. An alibi.”

Lois added: “A denial that doesn’t make you blush.”

Clark gave her a flat look. “My ears aren’t red because I’m lying. They’re red because this entire conversation should be illegal in polite company.”

Jimmy grinned. “Still counts.”

Lois nodded. “Agreed. We love you.”

Clark just closed his laptop and accepted silence for the rest of his shift.

Chapter Text

Lex Luthor sat in the boardroom, eyes trained on the quarterly ledger projected on the screen. Around him sat the usual lineup of LexCorp’s top executives—stern-faced, sharp-suited, financially precise—waiting for him to speak. In theory, he had this.

Except today, as always—and more than usual—the only thing Lex could think about was Clark Kent.

Not in the usual way—no fantasies of undone shirts or firelit lips. This morning, in his bed, Clark’s voice had whispered Lex’s name in a way that hadn’t been imagination but memory, vivid and fragile. He’d woken to Clark asleep, shoulder bare and breath even. There had been light where once there had been darkness. And Lex hadn’t meant to trace a finger across Clark’s skin, or to kiss his hairline as he’d drifted in and out of sleep, murmuring in his slumber—but he had. And he would do it again, and again, if Clark let him.

And now, the boardroom. Lex inhaled slowly, trying to control the heat spreading across his chest.

“Our stock remains stable, though margins are tightening,” the CFO said. Lex nodded, but his brain had already arrested on the phrase tightening. His teeth pressed together. Tightening like Clark’s waist in that shirt…

Beside him, Ava Lin took notes with measured efficiency. Good. She could anchor this. He should anchor this.

“Lex,” came the prompt. “Your thoughts?”

He cleared his throat. “We need productivity initiatives tied to autonomous rollout schedules,” he said, projecting composure into every word.

The board listened. He continued. Everything corporate. Cold. Controlled.

But inside? Chaos.

Clark’s voice—soft and untrained—echoed in Lex’s head as he’d pulled him close. “Lex… I trust you.” And then: “I want to.”

Lex had hesitated, breath stall-ed, then pressed forward, respectful and slow. Clark had met him halfway, lips parted, knees weak.

It had been real. Not lust. Not desperation. Love. And vulnerability.

He let that memory drive him, steady and aching, reminding him that power meant nothing when love was real.

The CFO droned on. Lex nodded again, but his eyes were glassy. The executives shifted, expecting him to pivot.

Lex inhaled and looked up.

“Final item before morning adjournment,” Lex said, voice even. “We’ll invite input—not just from financial stakeholders—but from workplace well-being teams. If we’re tightening margins, we must ensure staff welfare doesn’t suffer.”

Murmurs of agreement spread.

He’d done it. Because Clark had taught him how to be human.

Later, after the laughs and small talk with the investor crowd had thinned, Lex lingered in the back corner of the conference room. Ava was closing her tablet.

“Everything okay?” she asked.

Lex wanted to say yes. But the truth hovered, vulnerable and unwelcome.

“I can’t get him out of my head,” Lex admitted, all business facade slipping. “Clark. Was—last night was—” He swallowed. “I don’t know how to carry this into a board meeting without feeling like a fraud.”

Ava kicked off her heels from the privacy of an under-table vantage. “He’s worth it. Remember that.”

Lex looked at her—grateful, exhausted. “It’s stronger than before. Being close to him… makes me feel mortal.”

“You always were,” she replied softly. “Some days just remind you more than others.”

He nodded. “Tonight, dinner. Something quiet, personal. I need normal with him.”

Ava stood, adjusting her tablet. “Good. Now go. And don’t let executives whisper ‘distracted CEO’ during dessert.”

Lex cracked a small smile. “Always a pleasure working with you.”

Chapter Text

Lex Luthor was not a man who waffled.

Or rather, he wasn’t supposed to be a man who waffled. Yet there he was, standing in his glass-walled office at the top of LexCorp Tower, clutching a thin, velvet box with the hesitant delicacy of someone who had no idea what to do with it.

Across from him, seated at a sleek conference table, Ava Lin barely looked up from the quarterly PR reports as she continued typing.

“So,” Lex said, pacing a little too casually. “Is two years too early to propose to someone?”

Ava didn’t look up.

Lex crossed his arms. “Should I have known him longer? I mean, what’s the average?”

Ava’s only response was the brisk click-clack of her keyboard.

“I’m just saying,” Lex continued, waving one hand. “It feels like it’s been long enough, right? We’ve been stable. Intimate. Emotionally compatible. Mostly. He hasn’t run for the hills yet.”

Ava finally looked up. Slowly.

“Mr. Luthor,” she said, voice steady, “as the head of PR, project coordination, media compliance, and—on days like this—the de facto keeper of your calendar, I am currently trying to go over the quarterly reports. Remember those?”

Lex frowned. “Yes, but—”

She pointed a pen at the untouched folder on the table. “Remember the ones you told me were critical to review before lunch?”

“They are.”

“Then why are you talking about proposals?”

Lex paused, then held up the velvet box. “Because this is critical too.”

Ava blinked. “Is that—?”

“Yes.”

A long pause.

“Are you sure?” she asked.

“No!” Lex said, collapsing into one of the guest chairs beside her. “I’m not sure. That’s the problem.”

Ava reached across the table and pulled the reports closer to her chest, like a shield. “You’re spiraling.”

“I’m reasonably evaluating my future.”

“You’re spiraling at me,” she corrected. “And I cannot help you with this. I’ve told you. You need to decide if it feels right.”

Lex leaned his elbows on the table and dropped his head into his hands. “But what if I ruin everything?”

Ava tapped the end of her pen against her clipboard. “By what? Asking to spend your life with someone who’s already chosen to spend nearly two years with you?”

Lex peeked at her between his fingers.

Ava sighed. “Okay, look. Do you want to marry him?”

“…Yes.”

“Do you think he wants to marry you?”

Lex made a face. “I don’t know.”

“You’ve been dating for two years.”

“Yes, and for one and a half of those, I’ve been battling the near-daily urge to rip his shirt open in public and propose on the sidewalk like a deranged Victorian novelist.”

Ava narrowed her eyes. “That’s a very specific image.”

“It’s a very specific urge.”

She rubbed her temples. “Okay. So. Then what’s stopping you?”

Lex threw up his hands. “What if I propose and he says no? What if he says yes but regrets it later? What if we’re just in a good groove right now and I ruin it by adding pressure?”

“What if he says yes and it’s the best decision either of you have ever made?”

Lex groaned. “Stop being reasonable.”

“Stop being annoying.”

“I’m not being annoying.”

“You’re hovering over me like a question mark with legs.”

Lex stood and started pacing again. “A question mark with designer shoes.”

Ava didn’t dignify that with a response.

“I mean, think about it,” Lex said, gesturing out the floor-to-ceiling window. “He’s sweet. Ridiculously sweet. Sometimes I think I’ve hallucinated him. He hums while making coffee. He says ‘gosh’ unironically. He has a dog. He can bench press my entire car and still giggles when I kiss his forehead.”

“…Wait. He can what?”

“Metaphorically,” Lex said. “He’s just… muscular. That’s not the point.”

“Okay, so he’s muscular and sweet. And clearly loves you.”

“But he’s also innocent,” Lex said, pacing back again. “He’s good. Pure. I don’t want to corrupt that.”

“You’ve been dating him for two years,” Ava said dryly. “Pretty sure you’re past the ‘corruptible’ stage.”

Lex stopped mid-step. “You’re right. I should propose.”

“Please don’t do it just because I said something sarcastic.”

“I should propose tonight,” he continued, more to himself than to her. “I already made reservations. The rooftop garden. Private chef. The place he likes with the weird artisanal honey glaze on the pork chops.”

“Mr. Luthor—”

“I could just… slip the ring into the dessert.”

“That’s cliché.”

“Exactly. He’d find it charming.”

“Or he’ll bite into it and break a tooth.”

Lex turned back around, anxious. “Okay. New idea. I could wait until after dinner. We take a walk. We get to the fountain. He says something adorably insightful about the moon, like he always does—”

“Does he say insightful things about the moon often?”

“It’s a metaphor, Ava.”

She sighed. “Please go rehearse this in your own office. I beg you.”

“But you have a partner, don’t you?” Lex asked, suddenly turning serious. “What made you know it was the right time?”

“I’m not married, actually,” she replied, eyeing him over her reading glasses. “And I still don’t know. I love her. We live together. We’re happy. But I’m not you. And she’s not Clark. So I can’t give you the answer you want.”

Lex sat down again, suddenly deflated.

“You have to decide,” Ava said more gently, “if it feels right. Not safe. Not perfect. But right.”

A pause.

Then she added: “And please decide quickly, because you’ve now asked me the same question three different ways in the last fifteen minutes, and I’d like to finish this report before I retire.”

Lex looked at her.

Then he looked at the ring box in his hand.

Then—slowly—he smiled.

“…I think I’ll do it.”

Ava didn’t look up. “Thank God.”

Chapter Text

Lex had the ring in his pocket.

Velvet box. Smooth, compact. It weighed exactly 37 grams, but in his slacks it may as well have been an anvil. An emotional anvil. A diamond-crusted, existential anvil that was currently making it extremely hard to walk without looking like he had a limp.

And Clark… Clark looked stupidly beautiful tonight.

Lex knew Clark looked good every night. But tonight? Tonight, Clark had picked a pale gray suit that hugged him like sin and paired it with a light lavender shirt that brought out the blue in his eyes, and Lex’s brain had short-circuited the moment Clark smiled and said, “You look nice too, Lex.”

Nice.

Lex Luthor looked nice. Clark had said it so sweetly that Lex couldn’t even be offended.

Now, they were finishing dessert on the rooftop of the private restaurant Lex had bought out just for them. The candles flickered gently in the breeze. The Metropolis skyline glittered behind them. The moon was—Lex winced—perfect. This should be the moment.

Clark smiled at him across the table as he reached for his wineglass, cheeks just a little flushed from the alcohol.

“So,” Clark said, eyes bright. “Are you going to tell me why you’ve been acting weird all night or am I supposed to guess?”

Lex stiffened. “Weird? I haven’t been—”

“You’ve barely touched your food. And you love their short ribs. I practically had to fight you for a bite last time.”

Lex tried to play it off with a smile. “I’m just… distracted.”

Clark tilted his head. “By?”

By the fact that I’ve been in love with you for nearly two years and am trying to decide whether to ask you to marry me or run screaming into the night.

“…Work,” Lex lied.

Clark’s nose scrunched. “You’re lying.”

Lex smiled tightly.

Clark set his glass down and reached across the table, resting a hand over Lex’s. “Whatever it is, you can tell me. You don’t have to shoulder everything by yourself, you know.”

That was the thing.

Clark always meant it. He wasn’t just saying that to be polite or to sound like a good boyfriend. Clark Kent had this impossible, infuriating tendency to mean everything he said.

Lex looked at the hand over his. Broad palm, calloused fingertips, warm. Steady. Safe.

He could do it now. Just slide his free hand into his pocket, flip open the box, drop to one knee. Say something half-poetic about building a life together, waking up next to Clark forever, loving him every morning and kissing his dumb, sweet face every night—

“Lex?” Clark asked softly.

Lex blinked. “Sorry, I just—”

He looked into Clark’s eyes. Soft. Curious. Trusting.

Lex’s stomach twisted.

Because he could not handle—even in the smallest, most impossible scenario—the idea of Clark saying no. Of that look fading from Clark’s face, of those eyes filling with regret, or worse, pity. Of Clark hesitating even for a second.

What if it ruins everything?

Lex swallowed.

“…Never mind,” he said, pulling his hand back gently. “It’s nothing.”

Clark smiled, only slightly confused. “Okay. Well, just so you know, I’m here if you ever want to talk about it.”

“I know.”

They finished dessert.

Lex didn’t propose.

Later, when Clark had kissed him outside his apartment and said “Thank you for tonight” in that soft, Kansas-dipped voice that made Lex feel like a man with his entire heart hanging off the edge of a rooftop, Lex held him a little tighter. A little longer.

Then he watched Clark go, disappearing into his apartment with a cheerful wave.

And Lex stood there, hand still in his pocket, fingers curled around the little box, and felt like a complete coward.

But at least he hadn’t ruined anything.

At least Clark still smiled at him like that.

At least the night had ended with a kiss instead of a question he wasn’t ready to hear answered.

Maybe later.

Maybe soon.

Chapter Text

The box went back in the drawer.

Lex didn’t look at it when he set it down. Just opened the drawer, dropped it inside, and closed it with a quiet finality that made his skin crawl. He hadn’t even taken the ring out of the box. Couldn’t.

He stood still for a second after closing it—long enough to feel the soft click of the latch vibrate down his spine like a cold, sharp whisper of shame.

Coward.

He hated that word. Especially when it came from his own voice, low and flat in his head.

Lex Luthor had faced Senate hearings, assassination attempts, media takedowns, alien invasions, literal gods. He had fought tooth and nail for everything he had. He could bulldoze a hostile boardroom with a glance and had spoken at the UN without breaking a sweat.

But he couldn’t ask one man to marry him.

Not just any man. Clark.

Clark, who had given him nothing but kindness and understanding and sweet, warm love. Clark, who never pushed. Never rushed. Never demanded more than Lex was willing to give. Who kissed him with slow smiles and touched him like Lex was something soft, something good.

Clark, who deserved someone braver.

Lex stared at the closed drawer.

He could still do it. Go back. Call him. Go to his apartment. Ask.

But that tiny, brutal part of his mind—the one that whispered every failure into the hollow space behind his ribs—told him that Clark’s face might fall. That maybe Clark hadn’t even thought about marriage yet. That maybe this would be the moment he realized that Lex wasn’t enough.

So Lex turned away. Slowly. Hollowly.

He crossed the room like a ghost and poured himself a drink. Scotch, neat. His hand trembled slightly, so he filled it halfway.

Then he looked at it, breathed out, and topped it off.

And drank.

The scotch burned, but not enough.

He sank into the couch in the penthouse's dark living room, barely lit by the city lights bleeding through the glass walls. One drink turned into two. Then four.

Eventually, Lex gave up on the glass altogether and just brought the bottle with him.

He wasn’t even trying to forget the night. Not really. It had been good. Clark had been beautiful. Laughing. Kind. The way he always was.

And Lex had stared at him over candlelight and wondered what the hell he’d done in this life or any other to end up here—loved—by someone like that.

Someone warm and wide-eyed and full of faith in people who hadn’t earned it.

He'd kissed Lex outside his apartment, soft and slow, and Lex had thought this is enough—but it wasn’t. Not really. He wanted all of it. Mornings and years and wrinkled hands. He wanted Clark at his side in ten years. In fifty.

So why the hell couldn’t he ask?

Lex tilted his head back, let the bottle rest against his chest, and closed his eyes.

“You’re a coward,” he muttered.

He thought of Clark’s hand in his, steady and strong.

Of the way Clark looked at him like Lex hung the stars himself.

He thought of a little black box in a drawer and the proposal that never made it out of his mouth.

And then he drank.

When Ava called the next morning, he didn’t answer.

When the housekeeper knocked gently at noon, he growled something unintelligible and stayed in bed.

Hungover. Stupid. Coward.

And yet, all Lex could think about—despite the pounding in his skull—was how close he’d come. How close he still was.

And how terrifying that was.

Chapter Text

Clark Kent pushed open the Daily Planet’s front doors a little after nine, exactly a minute behind his usual schedule. He shook his head at himself as he made his way through the familiar bustle.

Punctuality was a Metropolis idea of nice—but on the farm back in Smallville, clock hands didn’t hold so much power. Still, he hated running late. But there it was, just a smidge past, and he knew why.

It was their relationship anniversary season again—four years, almost five—and something that might’ve seemed simple forty-something months ago was now… layered.

Clark crossed the floor toward his desk, his tie loosened slightly. When he caught his reflection in the window, blinking city lights behind him, he realized he was dressed for work—but inside, he felt something different.

Unsure.

He sat, pushed up his glasses, and tried to focus on the stack of assignments waiting: an op-ed about rebuilding the library’s roof and lunch coverage for the mayor’s speech.

But his hand drifted, unbidden, to the fourth finger, where he would normally tuck a wedding band.

Just… nothing.

He sighed, staring at his hand.

Is it too soon? he wondered.

A quick check: the average couple dates 2–5 years before marriage. Some wait even longer. And he and Lex—almost five years now. That wasn’t nothing. That was time.

Still, insecurity flickered.

His mind drifted to Lex’s office downtown. To how loving looked like—so often it was a vague dismissible detail. A hand on his small of back as they stepped into the elevator, the way Lex squeezed his fingers during storms, that soft “you’re good” as Clark stared off at the city when things felt implausibly chaotic.

Clark, with all his earnestness, had assumed that this—this peace, this time, this slug of years—meant they were ready.

But what was “ready”?

He blinked. His cheeks heated.

He looked down. Breathe, Kent.

Jimmy rounded the corner and slid into the seat across from him. “You look deep.”

Clark blinked. “Am I late?”

Jimmy shook his head. “You’ll get wrist-slapped by Perry later.”

Clark let his hand fall from view. “Just… thinking.”

Jimmy grinned. “Anniversary week hangover?”

Clark forced a smile. “Something like that.”

Jimmy waited, then asked: “You okay?”

Clark swallowed. “I don’t know,” he said softly. “Is five years too long if you aren’t married?”

Jimmy chuckled. “That’s the most Clark Kent question I’ve ever heard.”

Clark glanced up. “Everyone thinks two years is standard, right?” He felt suddenly shy.

Jimmy raised both brows. “Some people cuff quick, others take their sweet time.” 

Clark considered. “So we… fit right in.”

Jimmy shrugged. “Doesn’t make the question any easier.”

Clark groaned, head resting on his hand. “I just… I don’t want to do something unless it’s right.”

Jimmy watched him with soft eyes. “You’re a good judge. Just make sure both of you are on the same page.”

Clark nodded. “Yeah.”

Chapter Text

They were five days shy of their fifth anniversary. Five whole years of temperature checks, bed-side visits, mutual comfort, star-gazed silences and spontaneous road trip laughter. And every day, Clark had shown up. Clean, honest, soft-hearted and incandescent in that “I didn’t think I deserved him” way that made Lex’s insides quiver.

Tonight, Lex had decided, no more fear.

He sat in his penthouse office, city lights shimmering behind him like some silent ocean. The ring was tucked into his suit pocket, an anchor of all the words he hadn’t yet said.

He exhaled, steadying himself.

Ava Lin stepped in, crisp-eyed as always, reports balanced in her arms like armor.

“You look… settled,” she guessed, sliding the documents across.

Lex nodded. “I am.”

She tilted her head. “Well. Plans?”

He met her eyes. “I’m not second-guessing tonight. Full clarity. I’m going to propose.”

Ava let out the breath she’d been holding. “About time.”

Lex stiffened. “Don’t rub it in.”

She smirked. “Merely acknowledging a breakthrough. You’ve been holding back for years.”

“Not tonight,” he said firmly.

She tapped her pen. “Dinner underway—reservations were cut by the head of HR after your desktop announcement to all staff.” She smiled. “Whisper it was emotional.”

Lex managed a real laugh. “I want that whisper to be ‘Finally.’”

Ava clicked her tongue. “Please remember to breathe.”

Lex took a full, measured breath. “Tonight, I’m present.”

She studied him, then left him alone with his ring, his reflection, and the quiet resonance of five years past. No fear. Just right.

Clark emerged from the elevator on the rooftop restaurant, and Lex’s world scattered.

Clark wore that soft blue shirt Lex had bought him after their first rooftop date—hideously snug but devastating on Clark’s form. His taupe jacket practically dripped casual elegance. Clark had no idea how mesmerizing he was.

Clark smiled. “Lex.”

Lex said: “Tonight is ours.”

They sat. They talked softly about the mundane—a story at the Planet, Jimmy’s attempts to engineer a perfect Sunday brunch, how Clark’s dog barked happy chaos at every email ping.

Lex listened. Every laugh. Every pause.

He caught Clark’s hand across the table. Warm. Familiar. Steady.

Lex inhaled. “Clark…”

Clark looked taut with question, nerves—but steady.

Lex exhaled. The box slipped silently from his pocket onto the table.

Clark’s eyes widened.

Lex knelt—heart pounding. He opened it.

“Clark Kent,” Lex said, voice firm. “You’re my anchor, my light, my kindness that anchors me when I’m spiraling. Tonight, fear won’t hold me back. I want to be yours. All of yours. Will you marry me?”

Clark’s eyes teared. He nodded, breathless. “Yes. Yes, Lex. Of course!”

Lex slipped it onto his hand—then kissed him. Softly. Carefully. Tight.

Chapter Text

The moment Clark’s fingers curled into his tie and tugged him forward, Lex stopped thinking altogether.

Clark’s mouth was hot, urgent, and he kissed like he meant it—like he needed Lex closer, like the press of their bodies wasn’t enough. Lex barely managed a strangled breath before Clark's hands slipped into his jacket and dragged him toward the bedroom.

And when Lex shoved him—gently but with intent—onto the bed, Clark’s quiet, breathy little laugh made Lex’s chest ache in a way he hadn’t expected.

The night blurred after that.

All Lex could remember were his fingers in Clark’s hair, Clark’s flushed cheeks, the way he sighed Lex’s name like it meant something holy.

The room was still and soft when Lex blinked awake the next morning.

There was sunlight pouring between the high-rise windows, casting golden streaks across the silk sheets. And there, curled on his side, arm bent and tucked under the pillow, was Clark.

Naked. Soft. Warm.

And stunning.

Lex didn’t move. Didn’t breathe too loud. Just stared, drinking in the peaceful look on Clark’s face, the rise and fall of his chest, the way his hair was still a bit rumpled from the pillow.

There was a part of Lex—small, quiet—that couldn’t believe this was real. That Clark Kent, Kansas farmboy turned big city journalist, his sweet, awkward, golden-hearted boyfriend—fiance now, was in his bed.

Not just in his bed—but in love with him.

He swallowed, suddenly nervous again. Not in the overwhelming way he’d been before the proposal—but in the reverent, vulnerable way that came with realizing he’d trusted Lex with everything.

Clark stirred.

One eye blinked open slowly, then the other.

Lex held his breath.

“Mornin’,” Clark mumbled, voice still rough with sleep.

Lex exhaled a laugh. “Good morning.”

Clark gave him a sleepy smile, then looked down. Realized, belatedly, that they were both still naked under the sheets. His face turned the faintest shade of pink, and he reached to pull the blanket higher around his chest.

Lex grinned. “Shy now?”

Clark huffed. “I just—well, it’s a little chilly. That’s all.”

“Of course.” Lex let the grin linger but didn’t press.

They laid in silence for a few more heartbeats, the kind that didn’t need to be filled with anything but soft breathing and shared warmth.

Then Clark tilted his head. “Last night…”

Lex turned to look at him fully. “Yeah?”

Clark’s cheeks colored again, but this time, he didn’t look away. “It was... special.”

Lex reached out, hand brushing over Clark’s cheek, thumb resting just under his eye. “You are.”

Clark’s smile stretched slowly across his face. “Do you always say sweet things like that the morning after?”

“Only when I wake up next to someone who makes me feel like I might actually deserve them.”

Clark leaned in then, kissed him soft and slow—like he was saying thank you without needing the words.

When they pulled apart, Clark’s hand brushed over Lex’s chest. “Do we have to get up today?”

“I’m the CEO,” Lex said. “I think I can approve a day off.”

Clark laughed. “Sounds powerful.”

“Oh, I am.” Lex smirked. “And I’m using that power to make you pancakes.”

Clark lit up. “You cook?”

“I have a kitchen. That counts.”

Clark snorted and buried his face in Lex’s shoulder. “God, I love you.”

Lex wrapped his arms around him. “I love you, too.”

Chapter Text

Clark Kent was doing great.

He was calm. Normal. Utterly composed.

He had walked into the Daily Planet on time, coffee in hand, tie properly knotted, shirt crisply ironed. Very few visible signs of being proposed to by Lex Luthor the night before.

Incredible.

Except.

At approximately eight minutes into pretending everything was fine, Lois threw a folder onto her desk, spun around, narrowed her eyes—and said, “Clark.”

Just his name. No context. No follow-up.

Clark flinched anyway.

Jimmy looked up from his camera bag, glanced at Clark, squinted, and immediately said, “Oh my God.”

Clark blinked. “What?”

Jimmy pointed. “Your hand.”

Clark looked down.

His left hand. Ring finger. Very nice ring. Still there.

Oh. Right. That.

“Gosh dang it,” he muttered.

Lois was already up and circling. “You absolute sneak. You weren’t wearing that yesterday.”

“Technically I was,” Clark offered weakly. “Just… later.”

Jimmy gasped like Clark had kicked his puppy. “You got engaged and didn’t tell us?”

“It only happened last night!”

Lois was in front of him now, grabbing his hand and turning it toward the light. “Is this platinum? It better be platinum. You’re marrying Lex Luthor. If this isn’t at least conflict-free and custom cut—”

“It’s very nice!” Clark squeaked. “And meaningful!”

Jimmy flopped into the seat across from him and slapped both palms on the desk. “Who proposed?”

Clark blinked. “Lex.”

Lois scoffed. “Obviously.”

“When?”

“Last night.”

“Where?”

“Rooftop restaurant.”

“Of course it was,” said Jimmy and Lois in unison.

There was a beat of silence.

Then Jimmy leaned back in his chair, folded his arms, and said with complete sincerity, “I can’t believe my second husband is getting married.”

Lois blinked. “Your what now?”

“Clark,” Jimmy clarified. “Clark’s my second husband. We had a ceremony in the break room, remember? When he brought cupcakes that one time?”

Clark turned very red. “That was your birthday.”

“I said what I said.”

Lois ignored them both and returned to interrogating the ring. “How long have you been sitting here wearing this like it’s a watch or something? Were you just going to quietly type articles and hope we didn’t notice your entire left hand sparkling?”

“I was trying to ease into it!” Clark said. “You know, organically. Subtly.”

Lois rolled her eyes. “Clark, darling. You’re many things. Subtle is not one of them.”

Clark tried to hide behind his coffee cup. Jimmy tried to peek over it.

“So, are you having a wedding? Or is this going to be one of those billionaire elopement things where you disappear for a weekend and come back with a tan and ten NDAs?”

“We haven’t planned that far,” Clark mumbled.

“Wait,” Lois said, raising a hand. “Hold up. Back up. How did he propose?”

Clark froze.

Jimmy immediately leaned in. “Tell us everything.”

“I—uh—well—”

Clark’s voice squeaked. Actually squeaked.

Lois lit up. “You cried, didn’t you?”

“No!”

Jimmy: “He definitely cried.”

Clark buried his face in his hands. “It was very sweet, okay?”

“Did he do the kneeling thing?”

“Yes.”

“Did he give a speech?”

“Yes.”

“Was it disgustingly romantic?”

“…Yes.”

Lois clutched her chest. “I love that for you.”

“I love that for us,” Jimmy said.

Clark blinked. “Us?”

“You think we’re not telling everyone?” Jimmy said. “This is our newsroom engagement now.”

“I haven’t even told my mom yet!”

Lois had already pulled out her phone. “And you think we’re going to keep it a secret?”

“Lois.”

“I’m just texting Bruce.”

“You definitely don’t have Bruce Wayne’s number.”

Lois arched a brow. “Don’t I?”

Clark looked alarmed. “Do you?”

Jimmy pulled out his own phone. “I’m telling Perry. And the break room. And everyone in printing.”

Clark groaned and dropped his forehead to the desk. “I hate both of you.”

Lois patted his hair. “That’s fair. Now tell us what you’re wearing to the engagement party.”

“What engagement party?”

“Ours. We’re throwing one. You think we’re not?”

Jimmy nodded solemnly. “I already have a playlist.”

“I am begging you,” Clark said, muffled against the wood, “to let me have one quiet day.”

“Absolutely not,” Lois said.

Jimmy added, “That ring gave you away the second you walked in here.”

Clark sighed. “So I should’ve just come in with Lex and a marching band?”

Lois grinned. “Honestly? Would’ve been subtler.”

And that was the day the entire bullpen found out Clark Kent was engaged.

He didn’t get any writing done, Jimmy cried a little when he re-told the proposal to someone who hadn’t asked, and Lois updated her “Clark’s Romantic Milestones” Google Doc, which Clark was absolutely not supposed to know about.

Also, someone made a slideshow.

It had transitions.

And music.

Clark Kent would never emotionally recover.

But when he got home that night—flushed, teased to death, and still wearing that ring—Lex kissed his temple and called him fiancé in a low, soft voice.

And suddenly, Clark didn’t mind at all.

Chapter Text

Clark Kent was somebody’s fiancé.

Objectively, that wasn’t a shocking sentence. People got engaged all the time. Rings happened. Proposals happened. There were entire aisles in drugstores dedicated to congrats-on-your-engagement greeting cards and poorly frosted celebration cupcakes. It was a normal, human thing.

But Clark wasn’t engaged to a person.

He was engaged to Lex Luthor.

And Lex Luthor was... not normal. Not even close.

Which meant that as of approximately four days ago, Clark Kent had ceased to be a regular person and become Public Fiance Number One, complete with accidental paparazzi shots, a trending tag on TikTok called #ClarkCanGetIt (he refused to investigate), and—most baffling of all—three different Metropolis lifestyle magazines offering to do a cover story titled ‘From Smallville to Luthor Tower: Inside the Romance of the Year.’

He had politely declined.

Lois had not. She had submitted a guest essay titled: ‘I Knew Before They Did: A Best Friend’s Inside Scoop on Clark’s Slow Descent Into Billionaire Boyfriend Madness.’

Jimmy had offered pictures. Of Clark. From high school.

It was going great.

“So,” Lois said casually, appearing at Clark’s desk like a stylish vulture. “Are you going to start taking a hover-limo to work, or should I continue mocking your sad little MetroCard?”

Clark, who had just spilled a third of his coffee onto his notebook, sighed. “I’m not taking a limo.”

Jimmy leaned over the cubicle wall. “But you could, right?”

“I could also leap off the roof and fly to work, but we’re not talking about that either,” Clark muttered.

Lois narrowed her eyes. “I knew he was holding out on us.”

“I’m not holding out on you,” Clark said. “I’m just trying to have a normal week.”

“Impossible,” Jimmy said. “You got engaged to Lex Luthor. I watched CNN anchor a panel discussion about whether you were secretly hot this whole time or if love gave you a glow-up.”

Clark groaned. “That is not a real thing.”

Lois pulled out her phone. “Would you like the clip?”

“I would not.”

Jimmy grinned. “They referred to you as ‘America’s most humble husband-to-be.’”

“I’m not even married yet.”

“You’re basically married,” Lois said, folding her arms. “You’re co-committed. Lex made you pancakes and I bet he put them on a plate that cost more than my car.”

“He tried,” Clark said sheepishly. “They were... burnt. But very expensive-looking.”

Lois beamed. “And that’s love.”

The day passed in a blur of teasing, awkward compliments from near-strangers, and an inbox full of emails with subjects like “Clark, darling, can we feature your wedding playlist on our blog?”

By lunch, Clark had hidden in the break room.

Not because he didn’t want to be engaged. He wanted it—so much it felt like his heart was learning how to beat in a whole new way.

But the attention. That was going to take getting used to.

He stared at the ring on his finger. It was understated. Thoughtful. Not flashy or too big. Lex had somehow picked something that looked like him, like it belonged on Clark’s hand even before it was there.

He smiled a little. Then jumped when his phone buzzed.

Lex 💜:

How’s the planet? Still spinning?

You surviving being unbearably beloved?

Clark texted back:

Barely. Jimmy’s threatening to make me a Pinterest board.

Lex:

That’s the dream. Let him live.

Also, I ordered us takeout. You deserve carbs.

Clark:

I love you.

Lex:

I know.

Clark:

Okay but like. I really love you.

Lex:

Meet me after work. I’ll show you just how much I love you.

Clark blushed down to his collarbone and immediately locked his phone.

By the time the workday ended, half the bullpen had ‘accidentally’ wandered by Clark’s desk to ask about floral arrangements, or venues, or Lex’s skincare routine.

Lois had left a note on his monitor that just said:

‘MAKE HIM TAKE YOUR LAST NAME, IT’S HOT.’

Clark was still deciding whether or not she was joking.

He took the elevator down and stepped outside into the Metropolis dusk—and there, leaning casually against a sleek black car, was Lex.

Lex, who was supposed to have a meeting until seven.

Lex, who was holding a paper bag that said MARCO’S PASTA PALACE, and a bouquet of blue flowers that definitely weren’t from a corner store.

“Hey,” Clark said, soft.

Lex smiled like the city had handed him something fragile and perfect. “Hey yourself.”

“I thought you were busy.”

“I was. Then I realized I’d rather be here. With you.”

Clark took the flowers. Then the pasta. Then a deep breath.

This was his life now. A fiancé. Lex’s fiancé.

It wasn’t what he’d imagined when he was fifteen and dreaming about the future from a Kansas cornfield.

But it was better.

It was home.

They went back to the penthouse. Ate pasta. Watched old movies.

At one point, Lex kissed his knuckles and said, “I had to move my 10am to deal with someone trying to leak our engagement photos.”

Clark blinked. “We took engagement photos?”

“We didn’t. Someone used AI.”

“Oh.”

“They gave you a man bun.”

“Oh no.”

Lex snorted into his wine. “Don’t worry. I sued them.”

Clark grinned, leaned into Lex’s side, and whispered, “You’re ridiculous.”

Lex just wrapped an arm around his shoulders. “I’m yours.”

And that?

That was the truth Clark would always come back to. Through all the headlines and whispers and jokes and chaos—he loved Lex. Not for the empire. Not for the spotlight.

Just for him.

And every day, Lex loved him right back.

Even when he was wrinkled.

Even when he panicked in the cereal aisle.

Even when he cried at dog commercials and forgot to put his socks in the hamper.

Clark Kent was Lex Luthor’s fiancé.

And that was a fact he could live with.

Forever.