“First love/late spring.”

Into.

The man of steel—a man so soft-hearted it felt almost wrong that the world called him indestructible. His compassion was something you had once mocked when you were lost and furious, when the only things you believed in were shadows and survival. Yet he kept believing in the humanity of anyone he touched. Even villains. Even the broken.

Even you.

You never expected that Clark Kent, of all people, would look at you like you were the one who hung the moon and reminded the sun to rise. He held you as if you were a gentle thing, not something forged in mistakes and sharpened by bad decisions. Loving him sometimes felt like standing too close to a star—warm, blinding, and far too good for the likes of you.

It had begun to hurt, that radiance. Hurt in a way that only deep love ever does.

Because you kept telling yourself you didn’t deserve it.

You didn’t deserve him.

You weren’t someone who knew how to open your ribcage and let another person take shelter inside. Even now, you feared that letting him in meant one day you’d only shove him out. Slam the door. Lock it. Break his heart with the same recklessness you once used against the world.

How long until he realized the truth? That you were a former villain with old shadows that still clung to you like smoke? That there were nights where you slipped, nights where you wanted to run, nights where you felt too wild, too unpredictable, too... wrong for someone as gentle as him?

Quiet tears slid down your face before you even noticed them.

Tonight, you had decided, would be the night you tore the memories from both your chests—cleanly, sharply, before they grew deep enough to destroy him.

The balcony doors stood open, letting in a warm night breeze. The curtains swayed like ghosts of all the moments you still wanted to keep. You heard his footsteps behind you—soft, familiar, impossibly careful, as if he never wanted to startle you. The air shifted with that gentle presence you had grown to crave.

You turned slightly, catching the concern in his eyes, and your heart twisted.

It would be easier if he looked angry. If he looked anything but kind.

“...Clark,” you whispered, but your voice cracked. You stared at your hands instead. They trembled. “I—I’m sorry. I can’t do this anymore.”

He stilled, the air tightening between you like a held breath.

“You don’t deserve a woman like me,” you continued, each word dragging itself out of your lungs. “Someone... wild. Unpredictable. Someone who still forgets how to be good, even on the best days.”

Your throat closed, but you forced the rest out.

“Lately I’ve been waking up crying,” you admitted, voice small and fragile. “Like some tall child who doesn’t even know why. I can’t—I can’t be this mess in your life. So please... just leave me.”

You finally looked at him, tears blurring his silhouette into something glowing and unbearably gentle.

“Just don’t tell me those three words,” you begged, trembling. “If you say them now... I won’t be able to let you go.”