The morning sun bled through the dusty windows of the Smallville Torch, casting long, slanted bars of light across stacks of back-issues and discarded caffeine cups. The high-pitched, rhythmic clacking of a keyboard was the only sound in the room—a frantic staccato that mirrored the chaotic energy of the night before.
Jeremy stepped through the door, his movements as silent and fluid as a shadow. He didn't need to look at the screen to know what was happening; he could feel the low-level electromagnetic hum of the processor working overtime, a physical vibration that resonated in the air.
…
Chloe Sullivan didn't look up. Her hair was a mess of blonde tangles, and her emerald dress from the night before had been swapped for an oversized sweater that swallowed her frame. Her eyes were bloodshot, fixed on the glowing monitor where a headline read: THE BADGE AND THE BLIND SPOT: THE FALL OF DEPUTY WATTS.
"I've rewritten the lead six times," Chloe muttered, her voice raspy from lack of sleep. "Every time I try to describe how he 'saw' things, it comes out sounding like a ghost story. But Gary wasn't a ghost. He was just a man who let his own delusions turn him into a predator."
Jeremy walked over, stopping just behind her chair. He didn't offer a platitude. Instead, he reached out and placed a hand on her shoulder. The contact was brief, but he sent a subtle, calming pulse through her nerves—a microscopic adjustment designed to lower her heart rate and clear the fog of exhaustion.
"The truth is often less elegant than the fiction, Chloe," Jeremy said softly. "You're trying to find logic in a fractured mind. Focus on the facts: the abduction, the bunker, the arrest. Let the readers fill in the madness."
Chloe finally stopped typing. She leaned back, her head hitting his arm as she let out a long, shuddering breath. "I saw her, Jeremy. I saw the way she looked at you in the quarry. And I know you stayed at the Talon until the sun came up."
The room went quiet. Jeremy didn't pull away, nor did he offer a lie. He knew Chloe's mind was too sharp for deception; she was a natural detective, and he was her primary subject.
"Lana needed a specific kind of silence," Jeremy noted. "One that Clark couldn't provide."
Chloe turned in her swivel chair, looking up at him. There was no anger in her expression, but there was a raw, vulnerable hunger—a need for validation that the "Wall of Weird" couldn't satisfy.
"I get it," Chloe said, her voice dropping to a whisper. "I really do. Lana's been through hell, and you were the one who pulled her out. And honestly? I'm happy for her. She deserves someone who doesn't treat her like a mystery to be solved."
She paused, her fingers twisting the hem of her sweater. "But Jeremy... I was there too. I was the one who hacked the GPS. I was the one who stayed on the line with Pete while the world was falling apart. I'm the one who's been standing in your corner since the beginning."
She stood up, closing the small gap between them. She wasn't asking for a hero; she was asking to be seen.
"I don't want to be the girl who just writes the story while everyone else lives it," Chloe said, her eyes searching his with a fierce intensity. "Lana can have her sanctuary, and Clark can have his farm, but I need to know that I'm not just a data point to you. I want the attention, too. I want to be the one you come to when the world gets too loud for even you to handle."
Jeremy looked down at her, recognizing the same magnetic pull that had drawn Lana to him in the bunker. With Chloe, however, the frequency was sharper—intellectual, jagged, and fueled by a shared curiosity that felt like a high-tension wire stretched to the breaking point.
"You aren't a data point, Chloe," Jeremy said, his voice dropping into a low, resonant vibration. He reached out, his hands moving from her shoulders to cup her face, his thumbs grazing the line of her cheekbones. "You are the one who keeps me grounded in the middle of all this noise. Lana is the peace, but you... you are the one I actually talk to."
He leaned down, and as his lips met hers, a visible, blue-white snap of static electricity jumped between them. It wasn't the dull sting of a carpet shock; it was a sharp, searing discharge of pure energy that tasted like ozone and copper.
Chloe's breath hitched, a soft gasp escaping her as the spark surged through her nervous system. Instead of pulling away, she leaned into it, her hands flying up to grip his forearms with a desperate, white-knuckled intensity. She didn't just want the kiss; she wanted the charge. To her, it felt like the only real thing in a world of filtered information—a physical addiction to the sheer power he hummed with.
When Jeremy pulled back just a fraction, Chloe's eyes drifted open. They were darker now, the pupils blown wide until the green of her irises was just a thin, frantic ring around the black. She looked hungry, her gaze fixed on his mouth as if she were waiting for the next strike of lightning.
"Do that again," she whispered, her voice thick and primal, the professional facade of the Torch editor completely eroded by the rush.
Jeremy watched the way her pulse hammered against the skin of her throat. He could feel her craving the surge, the way her body was beginning to calibrate itself to his unique output.
"Careful, Chloe," Jeremy murmured, his eyes reflecting the faint, emerald glow of the monitors behind them. "That's a dangerous current to step into."
"I don't care," she breathed, pulling him back down. "The world is too quiet without it."