jason todd never indulged in gossip
“you’re fucking with me”
“honest to god”
why would he? it was immature and ill-mannered to talk about someone’s life! their decisions are their decisions
“she slept with him. in his office”
“yup”
... at least that's what he liked to believe in
jason gave you the most baffled look you’ve ever seen on his face. it made you snort and wave a hand at his face. “hello? earth to jason”
immediately, jason blinked and snapped out of it. both of you were sitting on the couch, your legs sprawled on his lap and his hands idly tracing your knee.
“wait wait wait—" he slightly shifted his body to face you, the traces on your knee stopping as his large, warm hand just rested flat on it. “let me get this straight. you’re telling me that nancy—"
“uh huh”
“the same one who tried to get your promotion months ago--"
“that’s her”
“was caught sleeping with your boss at his office—"
“not caught, per se.”
“whatever” jason waved it off and continued. “and to top it off, she’s married to drew for— how long?”
“8 years” you hummed, scooting closer to him and biting your bottom lip to hold back a laugh from the look on his face as he was processing this new information you gave him. and when it did, he just sighed and shook his head, his fingers now resuming the slow and lazy circles he traced on your knee.
“sweetheart, your office environment is crazy” you could still hear how he was still slightly bewildered from the bombshell you just dropped on him. he was also confused as to why HR wasn't involved already
“hey, it pays the bills” you joked, lifting a hand to run through jason’s soft hair in that slow and gentle manner that always had him melt into your touch. “plus, at least there’s something to keep me entertained while i work in boredom”
“you know you can leave your job and i can take care of everything, right?” jason reminded you— for what felt like the millionth time—but you just smiled softly and nodded. “yeah i know, but how else am i gonna come bearing news to you?”
“…touché. i still need to know why carol and jesse aren’t talking to each other”
now that you couldn’t hold your laugh for. the wide smile on your face and your laugh softened jason’s eyes, a smile of his own appearing. his hand slipped beneath your knee to pull you close, the other hand cupping your face as he pulled you into a kiss
you could practically feel the smile on his face turn into a grin, and it made your smile grow as you kissed him back. it was a kiss of quiet contentment— slow, familiar and overflowing with the kind of affection that only came from loving someone for a long time
his hand remained cradling your cheek, his thumb lazily brushing across your skin with a small hum slipping out from your fingers combing through his hair
slowly, both of you broke the kiss, foreheads leaning on one another with nothing but pure love and adoration for one another
“so how was your night?” you asked, now laying your head on his chest. he just hummed, shifting his arm to drape over your shoulders and keep you close. “it was fine”
a beat
“…so bruce was basically being annoying like always and—"
okay maybe jason indulged in some gossip. keyword—some
Killer stepped backward into the hall. “You two should rest.”
The door shut.
For two full seconds, neither of you moved. Then Kid crossed the room and yanked the door open.
Kid leaned out into the hall. “Killer!”
No answer.
Kid swore so loudly that someone in the next room thumped the wall.
“Keep it down!” a man shouted.
Kid slammed his fist against the wall hard enough to make the frame rattle. “Shut the fuck up or I’ll rearrange your face!”
The next room went silent.
You pinched the bridge of your nose.
This was fine. You had survived worse things than one bed and Eustass Kid in a bad mood.
Kid shut the door and turned back around. His eyes landed on the bed again.
Then on you.
“Don’t start acting weird,” he said.
You stared at him. “I wasn’t.”
“You’re making a face.”
“This is my normal face.”
“Your normal face is irritating.”
“And yours is a warning sign.”
His mouth curled. Not quite a smile. Worse. “You always this mouthy when you’re nervous?”
“I’m not nervous.”
“Good.”
“Fine.”
The word hung between you, stupid and sharp and completely useless.
The port had been swallowed by the storm an hour ago. You and Kid had been stuck at the shipwright’s yard longer than expected.
Killer had said he would handle the rooms.
Killer had done this on purpose.
You were going to kill him.
The room was too small. The bed was worse.
Kid stood in the middle of the room, soaked from the rain. He had both arms crossed over his broad chest, expression openly furious.
“I’ll take the chair,” you said.
Kid’s glare swung back to you. “Like hell.”
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me.”
“It’s a chair, Kid. I’ll survive.”
“You sleep in that, you’ll wake up crooked and useless.”
“How tender.”
His jaw worked. “Don’t make it weird.”
“And yet you’re concerned about my spine.”
“I’m concerned about having to listen to you bitch tomorrow.”
“Ah. There it is. Compassion.”
Kid looked away first, scowling toward the window.
Kid kicked off one boot. “You always talk this much?”
“You always take up this much room?”
“Yeah.”
“At least you’re self-aware.”
He bent to pull off the other boot, rainwater darkening the loose shirt clinging to his back and shoulders. Your eyes betrayed you for half a second.
Kid straightened.
You looked away.
Too late.
His grin came slowly.
“Oh?”
You glared at him.
His grin widened.
“Careful,” he said. “You’re making that face again.”
“I’m considering how hard it would be to throw you out the window.”
“You couldn’t.”
“I could try.”
“I’d like to see it.”
Kid’s eyes stayed on you.
You turned away first, because apparently you had some survival instinct left.
“I’m changing,” you said.
“Congratulations.”
“You’re an ass,” you muttered as you stomped into the bathroom.
You grabbed dry clothes from your bag and changed as quickly as possible.
Kid turned back at the sound of the bathroom door opening again.
His eyes dropped before he stopped himself.
The tank top clung to your figure. Your shorts were decent, but short enough that you suddenly became aware of your own legs.
Kid’s jaw tightened.
He looked away.
You crossed your arms. “What?”
“Nothing.”
He had changed into loose dark pants and nothing else. His chest was bare, broad and scarred. His red hair clung to his neck.
You looked at his face with heroic effort.
Kid noticed.
“You’re staring.”
“You’re half naked.”
“I run hot.”
“Clearly from all the rage.”
His eyes sharpened.
For once, Kid did not answer immediately. Then he pointed at the bed. “Get in.”
Your brows rose. “Excuse me?”
“Bed. Sleep. Before you make this worse.”
“I’m making this worse?”
“Constantly.”
You looked at the bed.
This was going to be a disaster. You climbed into bed first and took the side nearest the wall.
He climbed into bed. You grabbed the edge of the blanket to keep from sliding toward him.
Kid noticed that too.
“Relax,” he said.
“I am relaxed.”
“You’re stiff as a board.”
“You’re taking up half the bed.”
“Tell it to someone who cares.”
You shoved at his shoulder.
It was like pushing a wall. Kid looked down at your hand on him.
His expression had changed.
Your pulse thudded hard.
“Don’t shove me if you don’t want me touching you back,” he said.
Low.
Rough.
Your mouth went dry. “You threatening me?”
“No.”
His gaze dropped to your mouth, then back to your eyes. “Warning you.”
Every stupid, reckless part of you wanted to ask what happened if you ignored the warning.
Every smart part of you grabbed the blanket and turned onto your side, facing the wall.
“Go to sleep,” you said.
Kid huffed behind you. “You first.”
“I’m trying.”
You closed your eyes and tried to will yourself unconscious.
He was trying to be still.
Badly.
Kid had never been good at stillness.
After several minutes, he shifted hard enough that the blanket tugged off your hip.
“Hey,” you snapped, grabbing it back.
“You’ve got plenty.”
“You took all of it.”
“Then pull harder.”
You did.
The blanket came free so suddenly you nearly rolled backward into him.
Kid’s hand shot out and caught your waist.
You were half-turned now, one shoulder off the mattress, his hand holding you steady, his face much too close in the dark.
Neither of you moved.
Kid’s eyes were on yours.
Then lower.
Then back.
“You good?” he asked.
His voice was rougher.
“Yes.”
“Then stop trying to throw yourself at me.”
“You wish.”
His hand tightened on your waist.
Your hand moved before sense could stop you, landing against his chest.
Kid’s skin was warm under your palm. His heartbeat was hard and fast.
Your eyes flicked down.
His grip flexed again at your waist.
“Don’t look at me like you figured something out,” he said.
Your fingers curled slightly against his chest. “Did I?”
Kid’s eyes burned in the dim room.
For a second, you thought he might pull you closer.
For a second, you thought you might let him.
Then he released your waist and rolled onto his back with a curse under his breath.
The space between you returned.
Worse than before.
You turned back toward the wall, heart hammering, skin still warm where his hand had been.
“Coward,” you muttered.
Kid went very still.
Then his voice came low behind you.
“Say that again.”
You should not have smiled.
You did.
“Go to sleep.”
He made an irritated sound and turned away from you.
For a while, the room was full of nothing but rain and two people pretending they had not nearly done something stupid.
Eventually, exhaustion dragged at you.
At some point in the night, you must have moved.
You woke hot.
That was the first problem. The second problem was that you could not move.
Not because you were trapped by the wall.
Because you were on top of Kid.
Not beside him.
Not accidentally brushed against him.
On top of him.
Your cheek was pressed to his chest. One of your legs lay over his hip. Your hand was curled near his shoulder. His arm was wrapped around your waist, heavy and secure.
And his other hand was on your ass.
Firmly.
Comfortably.
Like it belonged there.
Your eyes opened.
You went completely still.
Oh.
Oh, this was bad.
This was very, very bad.
Kid was asleep beneath you.
Actually asleep.
His breathing was deep and even, chest rising slowly under your cheek. His face, without scowl or sneer or fury, looked younger and almost gentle.
His hand flexed against you.
Your whole body jolted.
Kid made a low sound in his sleep and pulled you closer.
Your breath caught against his chest.
You absolutely needed to move.
You lifted your head an inch.
Kid’s hand slid higher over your back.
Then lower again.
Your mouth went dry.
“Kid,” you whispered.
Nothing.
Figures.
The man could sleep through cannon fire when he wanted to and wake up if someone touched his tools wrong.
You tried to shift your leg away. His thigh pressed against yours.
Heat rushed through you so fast you almost made a sound.
Kid’s eyes opened.
You both froze.
For one long, terrible second, he stared at you.
His hand was still on your ass. You knew the exact moment he realized it.
His eyes sharpened.
His body went rigid beneath you.
Then his gaze dropped to where you were sprawled across his chest.
His voice came out rough. “What the hell are you doing?”
You blinked. “Me?”
“You’re on top of me.”
“Your hand is on my ass.”
Kid’s mouth shut. He still did not move it.
“Well?”
His jaw flexed. Then, with infuriating slowness, he removed his hand and set it on your waist instead.
“There,” he said.
You stared at him. “That is not the improvement you think it is.”
His red eyes locked on yours with a challenge so naked it made your pulse stumble. “You move first,” he said.
Your palm was still on his chest. You moved to push yourself up.
His hands tightened. Both of them.
One at your wrist.
One at your waist.
You stopped.
“You said get off,” you whispered.
“I know what I said.”
“You’re still holding me.”
For a second, all the morning air seemed to vanish from the room.
Then Kid rolled.
Fast.
Controlled.
You gasped as the world shifted. Your back hit the mattress, not hard enough to hurt, and Kid was over you, braced on one arm, his other hand still around your wrist.
The blanket twisted between you.
You stared up at him.
Neither of you spoke.
This was so much worse.
Your wrist was pinned lightly above your shoulder.
His body hovered over yours. For all his roughness, he held himself off you with a restraint that made your stomach flip.
“You want me to move?” he asked.
His voice was rough. Angry, almost.
You swallowed.
No.
But you could not say that, so you picked a fight.
“You always this dramatic when you wake up?”
Kid’s eyes narrowed.
“There it is.”
“What?”
“Your mouth getting in the way.”
“My mouth is not the problem.”
His gaze dropped to it.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
Then back to your eyes.
“Yeah?” he said. “Prove it.”
Your pulse kicked.
“Prove what?”
“That it’s not the problem.”
You could have shoved him off and called him an idiot and both of you would have gone on pretending.
Instead, you grabbed the back of his neck and pulled him down.
The kiss was not soft.
His mouth hit yours hard, teeth catching once before he tilted his head and took it deeper. When you kissed him back, his hand left your wrist and clamped around your waist.
He made a rough sound low in his throat.
Your knee slid against his hip. His palm moved along your side, firm and greedy over your tank top.
You broke away first because breathing had become necessary.
Kid stayed close, mouth near yours, eyes wild.
For once, he had no insult ready.
You did.
Barely.
“Took you long enough,” you said.
His laugh was sharp and breathless. “Me?”
“You heard me.”
“You were on top of me.”
“You liked it.”
His grip tightened at your waist.
“Yeah,” he said.
The word hit harder than the kiss.
His eyes moved over your face.
The room shifted again.
Less fight.
More danger.
Kid noticed at the same time you did.
His expression changed, roughness cracking around the edges into something more exposed.
“You liked it too,” he said.
“Yeah,” you said.
Then he kissed you again.
His mouth moved over yours slower this time. When he pushed closer, you opened for him, and his tongue touched yours.
The kiss deepened until heat rolled through you, until your fingers dragged through his hair and he made another sound that went straight through you.
Then someone pounded on the door.
Both of you froze.
“KID!”
Killer’s voice.
Kid lifted his head very slowly.
The look on his face could have killed weaker men through wood.
“What,” he snarled.
“We leave in twenty.”
You closed your eyes.
This could not be happening.
Kid did not move off you.
Killer continued from the hall, entirely too calm. “Weather cleared. Crew’s waiting.”
“I’m going to kill you,” Kid said.
“You said that last night.”
“I mean it more now.”
A pause.
Then Killer said, “I’m sure.”
Footsteps retreated.
You stared up at Kid.
Kid stared at the door.
Then at you.
For one second, neither of you moved.
Then you started laughing.
You tried not to.
You failed.
The sound escaped, breathless and helpless, and Kid’s scowl turned on you with full force.
“What’s funny?”
“You are.”
His mouth twitched.
You saw it.
He saw you see it.
“Don’t,” he warned.
“You almost smiled.”
“I did not.”
“You did.”
“I’ll throw you out of bed.”
“You won’t.”
Kid looked at you for a long, heated second.
Then he dropped his head and bit lightly at the curve between your neck and shoulder.
You gasped.
He pulled back with a grin that was all trouble.
Your face went hot.
“You’re an animal.”
“You kissed me.”
“You dared me.”
You reached up and shoved at his shoulder.
This time, he let you.
Kid rolled off you and onto his back, one arm thrown over his eyes. His chest rose and fell hard. His hair was an absolute disaster. There were red marks near his shoulder where your fingers had dug in.
You looked at them.
He moved his arm enough to catch you looking.
His grin returned.
You threw the pillow at his face.
He caught it before it landed.
“Coward,” he said.
“Menace.”
“Brat.”
“Captain.”
That had come out different than you meant it to. Or maybe exactly how you meant it.
Kid sat up slowly, pillow in hand, eyes locked on yours.
“Say that again.”
“Absolutely not.”
“You’re red.”
You got out of bed before the situation could restart and become completely unrecoverable.
Kid watched you cross the room.
You grabbed your clothes from the chair and marched to the bathroom.
He had put on his pants properly when you left the bathroom but still had not bothered with a shirt.
You grabbed his shirt from the floor and threw it at him.
“Put that on.”
“Why?”
“Because I need my brain to function.”
That slipped out before you could stop it.
Kid’s smirk turned viciously delighted.
He pulled the shirt over his head, still grinning. “Didn’t know I was bad for your brain.”
“You are bad for everyone’s brain.”
“Yours especially.”
“Unfortunately.”
His grin softened around the edges, just enough to make your chest tighten.
Then he ruined it.
“Good.”
You rolled your eyes and reached for your boots.
Then a shout rose from downstairs, followed by laughter from the crew.
The world, rudely, had continued.
Kid grabbed his coat and slung it over his shoulders. “Killer’s still dead.”
“He did this on purpose.”
“No shit.”
“He’s probably very proud of himself.”
“He won’t be when I’m done.”
You followed him into the hall, trying not to think about the unmade bed behind you.
“One room,” she said, sliding a keycard across the counter.
You stared at it.
Beside you, Benn Beckman stood with rain darkening the shoulders of his coat.
“One room,” you repeated.
The innkeeper tapped the card once. “Storm washed out the lower road. Everyone coming in from the east got stuck here. That’s the last one.”
You looked at Beckman.
He looked at the keycard.
“Does it have two beds?” you asked.
The innkeeper’s pause answered before she did.
“No.”
Beckman picked up the keycard. “We’ll take it.”
You turned toward him. “That’s it?”
He glanced down at you. “You want the lobby?”
The lobby had two wooden benches, a vending machine, and three men in soaked coats arguing.
You took the keycard out of his hand. “Fine.”
Beckman’s brows lifted slightly.
You walked ahead before he could say anything.
You found the room number and tapped the card against the lock.
The light blinked green.
You opened the door.
Then stopped.
Beckman stepped in behind you and looked.
One bed sat in the middle beneath a white duvet. There was a desk, chair, television, and two lamps.
Beckman shut the door behind you. The lock clicked into place.
You set your bag near the desk and pretended the bed did not take up most of the room. Beckman took in the space once, quick and thorough. Door. Window. Bathroom. Bed. Chair. His rifle went against the wall within reach of the chair before his coat came off.
“I’ll take the chair,” he said.
“No.”
He hung his coat over the back of it. “Wasn’t asking.”
“I noticed.”
His eyes moved to you.
You crossed your arms. “You’re not sleeping upright all night.”
“I’ve done worse.”
Beckman looked away. He checked the window lock, opened the curtains halfway, then turned on the bedside lamp closest to the chair.
You watched him move around the room with that practical efficiency that made arguing with him feel pointless.
“I’m taking a shower,” you said.
He nodded once.
The bathroom was bright and modern. You stayed under the hot water until your skin warmed and your thoughts stopped moving in circles.
When you came out, Beckman was seated in the chair, cleaning his pistol on a towel spread over the desk.
He looked up.
His gaze touched your bare legs, the hem of your sleep shorts, the loose shirt hanging off one shoulder.
Then he went back to the pistol.
“You can take the side by the bathroom,” he said.
“You’re still doing the chair.”
He fitted one piece back into place with a soft click. “I said you could take the side by the bathroom.”
“Benn.”
Another click.
You threw your damp towel over the rack by the bathroom door with more force than necessary.
He did not look amused. Beckman rarely looked amused unless Shanks had done something particularly stupid and survived it.
You pulled back the covers and got into bed.
The mattress was softer than it looked.
Beckman finished cleaning the pistol, checked it, and set it on the bedside table closest to the chair. Then he stood.
He picked up his bag and went into the bathroom.
The door shut.
You stared at the ceiling.
The shower turned on.
You closed your eyes.
It was Beckman.
That should have made this easier.
It did not.
The water shut off a few minutes later. The bathroom door opened. You kept your eyes closed, but that only made the room sharper in other ways. The quiet shift of his bag. The soft scrape of his belt set on the desk. The click of the lamp going dark.
The mattress lowered on the other side.
You opened your eyes.
Beckman lay on his back, one arm above the blanket, face turned toward the ceiling. He had left a strip of space between you. Not much. Enough to make the point.
You both stayed like that.
The heating unit hummed beneath the window. Rain ran steadily against the glass.
You turned onto your side, facing away from him.
Behind you, Beckman did not move.
Minutes stretched.
Then his voice came low through the dark.
“Sleep.”
You almost laughed, but it would have come out wrong.
“I’m trying.”
“You’re bad at it.”
You looked over your shoulder. “Helpful.”
He did not answer.
You faced forward again.
Eventually, the room blurred. The rain became less distinct. Your hand slipped beneath your cheek.
The last thing you knew was Beckman’s breathing behind you, slow and even.
When you woke, the rain had stopped.
Light pressed through the gap in the curtains. For a few seconds, you did not know what had pulled you out of sleep.
Then you became aware of Beckman.
Not beside you.
Around you.
His chest was against your back. One arm wrapped across your waist, his hand against your stomach. Your legs were tangled beneath the blanket, one of his knees tucked behind yours, holding you in place without trying.
You did not breathe.
Beckman was still asleep. You could feel it in the slow drag of his breath near the back of your neck.
Your heart started beating too hard.
His fingers brushed against your stomach.
A small, unconscious stroke.
Your lips parted.
Beckman’s breathing changed.
His body went still.
Not asleep anymore.
Neither of you moved.
His hand remained where it was, warm through your shirt. Then his fingers flexed once, not pulling you closer, not letting you go.
“Morning,” he said. His voice was rough from sleep.
“Morning,” you managed.
His breath touched the side of your neck.
Another few seconds passed.
Then Beckman’s arm eased away.
It left your skin awake everywhere he had been touching you.
You turned onto your back.
He had shifted onto his side, propped on one elbow. The morning light caught the hard line of his cheek, the dark focus of his eyes.
He looked at you.
The blanket had slipped to your hips. Your shirt had ridden up just enough to bare a narrow strip of skin at your waist.
Beckman noticed.
His jaw tightened.
Your fingers curled in the sheet.
“You were supposed to keep to your side,” you said.
His gaze returned to your face. “You moved first.”
“I did not.”
“You did.”
You swallowed.
He stayed above you, one hand beside your hip, the other near your shoulder. His knee was against your thigh under the blanket.
He leaned in a fraction. “Say it.”
You lifted your hand and grabbed the front of his shirt.
His eyes dropped to your fingers.
“Kiss me,” you said.
Beckman moved before the last word had fully left your mouth.
His mouth came down on yours, hard enough to push your head back into the pillow. He grasped your waist with one hand and dragged you lower beneath him before you had time to breathe.
You made a sound against his mouth.
His hand slid under your shirt.
Your knee knocked against his hip. He caught your thigh and drew your leg up along his side. His body settled into the space he had made.
You broke the kiss for air.
Beckman followed.
His mouth caught the corner of yours, then your jaw, then the side of your neck. His stubble dragged over your skin. Your fingers slid into his hair, and when you tugged, his hold on your thigh tightened.
“Again,” he said against your throat.
You tugged harder.
He made a low sound and kissed you again, his hand moved to shove the blanket down between your bodies. The cool air hit your legs.
Your back lifted off the mattress.
Beckman caught the movement with his palm, holding you there while his mouth worked over yours.
You dragged your nails lightly down the back of his neck.
His breath left him through his nose.
Then he moved.
One arm slid under your back. The other on your thigh again. He rolled you both in one controlled motion, putting you half across him, your knee bent over his hip, your hands landing hard against his chest.
You stared down at him.
“Come here,” he said roughly.
You barely moved before he pulled you down.
The kiss was messier from that angle. Your hair fell around both of you. His hand slid up your back beneath your shirt. The fabric bunched between his wrist and your shoulder blades.
You shifted your hips without meaning to.
His other hand clamped at your waist.
“You know what you’re doing?”
Your breath hitched against his mouth.
“Yes.”
Then you kissed him again.
Beckman’s hand moved to the back of your neck, holding you there as he sat up beneath you. The motion forced you into his lap. You grabbed his shoulders to steady yourself. He kissed down your throat while your knees pressed into the mattress on either side of him.
His mouth found the place beneath your ear.
Your hips jerked.
Beckman’s hand stayed locked at your waist, holding you exactly where he wanted you.
Behind you, Shanks leaned one shoulder against the doorframe and looked past you into the room.
There was a pause.
Then he said, “Well.”
You closed your eyes. “Don’t.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You were going to.”
“I was taking in the accommodations.”
“You were about to make this worse.”
His mouth curved. “I might still.”
You turned to glare at him.
That was your first mistake.
Shanks looked far too pleased for a man who had spent the day negotiating with a mayor who kept pretending not to be afraid of him and getting soaked by a storm.
His red hair was damp and pushed back from his face. His cloak hung heavy over his shoulders.
He looked tired.
He also looked entertained.
That combination was dangerous.
“There is one bed,” you said.
“So I noticed.”
“One.”
“Sharp eye.”
“Shanks.”
He lifted his right hand in surrender. “I’d offer to sleep on the floor, but then you’d worry about me. I’m considerate that way.”
You stared at him.
He smiled.
Slow, easy, shameless.
“You’re enjoying this.”
“A little.”
“Shanks.”
“Not the bed.” His eyes moved over your face. “Your expression.”
You walked into the room before he could see you smile.
The inn had been full because of the storm. The innkeeper had nearly fainted when he realized who Shanks was, then had offered the last room with panicked apologies.
Shanks had accepted with a polite smile.
You had accepted with the slow internal collapse of someone who had spent the last several months pretending your feelings for him were manageable.
They were not manageable.
They were inconvenient, badly timed, and becoming harder to hide every time he looked at you.
You set your bag beside the wall and looked around.
The bed sat against the far wall, larger than you expected but not large enough to make this harmless.
Nothing about Shanks in a bed could ever be harmless.
He stepped in behind you and shut the door.
Just you and Shanks.
And the bed.
Shanks glanced at it again.
You pointed at him. “Do not look amused.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
“Maybe.” He moved toward the table, unbuckling his sword belt with the casual confidence of a man utterly unaware—or far too aware—of the way your attention followed him.
You looked away quickly.
Not quickly enough.
Shanks noticed.
He set his sword within reach beside the bed. “You can have the wall side,” he said.
You glanced at him. “Why?”
“In case you feel safer.”
Something in your chest shifted.
He said it lightly. Almost carelessly. Like it was nothing.
“You always do that,” you said before you could stop yourself.
His brow lifted. “Do what?”
“Say things like they’re jokes when they’re not.”
For once, he did not answer immediately.
Then his smile returned, softer at the edges. “Can’t let you catch me being thoughtful. Ruins the reputation.”
“You have a reputation for being thoughtful?”
“I was hoping to start one tonight.”
You huffed a laugh.
His smile deepened.
After that, the room became full of small tasks.
Boots off. Hair shaken loose. Weapons placed within reach. Your damp shirt traded for the dry one from your bag.
When you came out of the bathroom, he had changed into a dry shirt too.
He caught you looking.
You looked away.
He did not tease you.
That was worse too.
“Well,” he said.
“If you say that again, I’m making you sleep in the hall.”
“With your concern for my comfort? I doubt it.”
“Shanks.”
He smiled, but it softened quickly. “We’re adults.”
You gave him a look. “That sounds like something someone says before making a terrible decision.”
“I’ve made plenty of those.”
“I know.”
You turned down the blanket on the wall side and climbed in before your nerves could turn the whole thing into a production. “Fine. Bed. Sleep. No making this weird.”
Shanks crossed the room with lazy amusement. “I would never.” He chuckled under his breath and sat on the edge of the mattress.
The bed dipped.
You became very interested in the wall.
Behind you, Shanks shifted, settling his weight with more care than he usually showed for anything involving his own comfort.
He was close.
Not too close.
He had left enough space between you to be respectful, but Shanks was not a small man, and the bed was not a large one.
You lay on your side facing the wall.
Shanks lay on his back beside you.
For several minutes, neither of you spoke.
You listened to the rain. To the inn settling. To Shanks’ breathing, slow and even enough that it almost convinced you he was relaxed.
Almost.
Then he said, “You were quiet tonight.”
Your eyes opened.
You had thought he might make another joke. Something about the bed. Something about you stealing the blankets. Something safe enough to bat away.
Not that.
“Was I?”
“Mm.”
“You were negotiating. I wasn’t needed.”
“You’re always needed.”
You swallowed.
He said it like nothing.
Again.
Like it did not land somewhere soft and stupid inside you.
“You had it handled,” you said.
“For the most part.”
“You got what you wanted.”
His silence made you wish you had chosen different words.
“Did I?” he asked.
It was quiet.
Almost too quiet to be Shanks.
You turned your head slightly, not enough to face him fully. “Didn’t you?”
“I got the mayor to stop taking bribes from a man who thought using our flag without permission was a clever idea,” Shanks said. “I got three ships released and an apology I didn’t believe.”
“That sounds successful.”
“It was.”
“But?”
“But you were quiet.”
You turned back toward the wall.
Your heart was doing something unhelpful.
“I was tired.”
“You were tired yesterday. You still called a dock clerk a mildew-brained extortionist.”
“He was.”
“He cried after you left.”
“He needed character development.”
Shanks laughed softly.
You shut your eyes.
“I was quiet,” you said, “because sometimes it’s strange watching people be afraid of you.”
The room changed.
Shanks did not move.
“Ah,” he said.
You regretted it immediately. “I didn’t mean—”
“Yes, you did.”
You stopped.
His voice was gentle. No accusation in it. No wound he was asking you to soothe.
That made it harder.
You stared at the wall. “They look at you like they’re scared of you and charmed by you at the same time.”
Silence.
Then Shanks said, “And how do you look at me?”
You should have joked.
You should have said something careless. Something easy.
Instead, you lay there in the dark, facing the wall, and found you were too tired to lie properly.
“Like you’re still you,” you said.
Behind you, Shanks went very quiet.
“You shouldn’t say things like that in the dark,” he said.
Your chest tightened.
“Why?”
His answer took a moment.
“Harder to pretend I didn’t hear them.”
You turned over before you could think better of it.
Shanks was still on his back, but his head had turned toward you. His eyes were shadowed in the lamplight, his expression stripped of the usual performance.
Not empty.
Not guarded.
Careful in a way that did not suit him.
Or maybe it suited him too well, and you were only now close enough to see it.
“Do you want to pretend?” you asked.
His gaze moved over your face.
“No,” he said.
Your breath caught.
His mouth curved faintly, but there was no humor in it. “But I’m trying to be decent.”
“That sounds difficult for you.”
That earned you the smallest huff of laughter.
You smiled before you could stop yourself.
Shanks looked at your mouth.
Then he looked back up at your eyes, and the restraint there was so clear it made your skin warm.
“You should sleep,” he said.
“That your solution?”
“Best one I’ve got tonight.”
“What’s the worst one?”
His expression shifted.
“Don’t ask me that,” he said softly.
You wondered what would happen if you reached for him.
You wondered if he would let you.
Then thunder rolled outside, low and distant.
You blinked first.
Shanks exhaled quietly and turned his eyes toward the ceiling again.
“Sleep,” he said.
This time, it sounded less like instruction and more like mercy.
You turned back onto your side, facing the wall.
Behind you, Shanks shifted onto his side too, facing your back but not touching you.
Eventually, exhaustion won.
And ruined everything.
You woke in the dark before dawn.
You were warm.
Too warm.
Your cheek rested against something solid.
Your hand was curled in fabric.
Your legs had drifted across the small space that had once separated you from Shanks, and at some point in the night, you had turned toward him completely.
You were tucked against his right side.
His arm was around you.
Your face was close to his chest, near enough that you could feel the slow rise and fall of his breathing. His chin almost brushed your hair.
You froze.
Not because you wanted to move.
Because you did not.
That was the problem.
His arm curved around you like he had been made to hold you there. Your fingers tightened once in his shirt.
His hand moved slightly against your back.
You stopped breathing.
Then his voice came, rough with sleep and something else. “Morning.”
Your eyes closed.
Oh no.
He was awake.
You pulled back just enough to look up at him.
Shanks’ hair was a mess over the pillow. His face was softer with sleep, jaw shadowed, eyes heavy and open. He did not look surprised.
That was worse than anything.
“Were you awake?” you asked.
His gaze held yours.
There were a dozen answers he could have given. A joke. A denial.
He gave you none of them.
“For a little while,” he said.
Your heart kicked hard against your ribs.
His hand was still at your back.
His thumb moved once, barely there, an unconscious stroke against the fabric of your shirt.
Neither of you spoke.
“You didn’t wake me,” you said.
Shanks’ mouth curved faintly.
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because you looked comfortable,” he said.
Your throat tightened.
“That’s all?”
His smile faded.
His hand stilled against your back.
“No,” he said.
It landed between you with more force than a confession.
For once, he was not making this easier.
Maybe he could not.
Maybe he did not want to.
Your hand was still curled in his shirt.
You loosened your fingers.
Shanks noticed.
His gaze flicked down, then back to your face.
“You can move,” he said quietly.
“I know.”
You drew in a slow breath.
Then, carefully, before courage could abandon you, you touched him again.
Your fingers slid beneath the open edge of his shirt, slow enough that he could stop you, and rested against the warm skin over his heart.
His eyes changed.
“You shouldn’t do that,” he said.
Your voice came out softer than you intended. “Do you want me to stop?”
He looked at you for a long moment.
His hand stayed at your back.
When he answered, it was almost too quiet.
“No.”
The word moved through you, slow and hot.
Then someone slammed a door downstairs.
Both of you froze.
Shanks shut his eyes.
You pressed your lips together.
The laugh escaped anyway. Small. Helpless. Half embarrassment, half relief.
His eyes opened again, and this time the smile that tugged at his mouth was real.
“Well,” he said, voice low, “that ruined the dramatic silence.”
You let out another breathless laugh.
His smile widened.
And just like that, the danger shifted shape. He gave you the escape after all.
Not because he did not want more.
Because morning was cruel, and the world downstairs was waiting, and whatever this was had become too real to handle carelessly.
His arm slipped from around you.
Shanks sat up first, running his right hand through his hair. It did very little to fix it. His shirt was rumpled where your fingers had been. He looked down at himself, then over at you.
You looked away too late.
He noticed.
“You slept well,” he said.
You sat up and reached for your bag. “Don’t sound so pleased with yourself.”
“I’m pleased with the bed.”
“The bed did nothing.”
“Strongly disagree.”
You threw a pillow at him.
He caught it easily against his side and laughed, low and warm and annoyingly beautiful in the gray morning light.
“Careful,” he said. “This innocent pillow has already been through a lot.”
“It deserves better company.”
“So do you.”
The words came out lightly.
You paused with your hand in your bag.
Shanks looked toward the window as if he had not said anything worth noticing.
There he was again.
Hiding sincerity inside jokes.
You watched him stand. His expression had settled into something composed, but not entirely.
Shanks opened the curtains and looked down at the street.
“Road’s passable,” he said.
“Good.”
“Harbor will be delayed until afternoon.”
“Also good.”
He glanced back. “Is it?”
You met his eyes.
There was the question beneath the question.
A little while longer in town.
A little while longer before the crew, before the noise, before the roles you both knew how to play slid back into place around you.
You swallowed.
“Yes,” you said. “It’s good.”
Shanks looked at you and smiled.
He reached for his cloak and settled it over his shoulders. Then he picked up your cloak from the chair and held it out to you.
You took it.
Your fingers brushed his.
Both of you stopped.
His thumb brushed once against your knuckle.
Then he let go.
You fastened your cloak with far too much attention.
Shanks picked up Gryphon and moved to the door.
He opened it, then paused.
For one reckless second, you thought he might say something. Something clear. Something that would make the room impossible to leave unchanged.
Instead, he looked back at you and said, “For the record, I was right.”
You blinked. “About what?”
His smile returned, slow and terrible.
“If I’d slept on the floor, you would have worried.”
You stared at him.
Then you walked past him into the hall. “I’m leaving you behind.”
Plot: After two weeks of quietly sharing Law’s bed, the tension finally breaks.
Trafalgar D. Law — Part 3
Read: Part 2
You had been sleeping in Law’s bed off and on for two weeks.
Not every night. Never often enough for either of you to call it routine out loud. But often enough that the empty side of his bed had started to mean something. Often enough that, on the nights you came to his room, the blanket was already turned down.
Neither of you talked about that.
The crew noticed anyway.
Law looked less dead in the mornings. Shachi started grinning too widely whenever you walked into the galley after him. Penguin made one comment about “improved captain maintenance” and immediately regretted it when Law looked at him.
The mornings changed depending on the night. Sometimes you woke with Law’s arm over your waist and his face near your shoulder. Sometimes he was on his back beside you, his hand loose around yours beneath the blanket.
No matter how much space you left between each other before falling asleep, you always woke touching.
That was the part you did not know what to do with.
Not the bed. Not the almost-kisses. Not even the way he said your name now when the door was closed.
It was waking up to proof that, somewhere in the dark, Law had reached for you.
And awake, he was worse.
Careful.
Quiet.
Always stopping just before either of you could do something that would make pretending impossible.
A hand at your back when he moved past you in the infirmary.
His shoulder pressed to yours over a chart.
His fingers brushing yours when he handed you a scalpel, a file, a cup, anything.
The tension had gone from strange to familiar to unbearable.
By the end of the second week, you had started to feel it in your teeth.
That night, Law was still in the infirmary when you let yourself into his room.
You closed the door behind you and crossed to the shelf. The book you chose was not one you intended to understand. It had diagrams. Too many footnotes.
Perfect.
You settled on his bed with your back against the wall and opened it across your lap.
The room was quiet.
A little while later Law stepped inside and stopped.
He looked at you.
“You’re late,” you said.
His hand stayed on the door.
“I wasn’t aware I had an appointment.”
“You do. Very important.”
“With my own bed?”
“With sleep.”
“That explains why I wasn’t interested.”
Usually, you would have gotten something for that. A flat look. A dry correction. Maybe the smallest pull at the corner of his mouth.
Tonight, nothing.
Law shut the door and crossed to the desk. He set a folder down. Then his hat. Then his sword within reach. His movements were controlled, but too controlled.
You lowered the book.
“Bad night?”
“No.”
You waited.
He did not elaborate.
That meant yes.
“Did someone misfile something? Because if this is about the labels on the upper cabinet, I maintain that your system was awful.”
Law did not look at you. “It’s not about the labels.”
“Good. Because I was prepared to defend myself.”
He moved the folder from one side of the desk to the other.
Then back again.
“Law.”
“I’m fine.”
He still did not turn around.
You could have pushed. There were nights when pushing worked with him. Nights when the right amount of annoyance loosened whatever knot he had tied himself into.
This was not one of them.
So you slid the book onto the small table beside the bed and pulled the blanket down.
“I’m tired,” you said.
Law finally looked back at you.
You climbed beneath the blanket before he could tell you to go.
For a moment, he only watched you. Then he turned away and dragged a hand through his hair.
You moved onto your side, facing away from him, and settled near the wall.
Law moved around the room without speaking. After a few minutes the mattress dipped behind you.
He got in carefully, leaving space.
Too much.
You stared at the wall.
Law lay on his back beside you. You could hear the controlled pattern of his breathing, too even to be natural.
You reached behind you without looking.
Your hand found his.
For half a second, he did not move.
Then his fingers opened.
You took them and pulled.
Slowly.
No words.
No jokes.
The mattress shifted as he turned onto his side. His chest came against your back, cautious at first, barely there.
You pulled his hand farther around you.
That was all it took.
His arm slid over your waist.
His body settled behind yours. His face lowered near the nape of your neck, close enough that you felt the first unsteady breath he let out.
You kept hold of his hand at your stomach.
Law’s fingers curled between yours.
Neither of you spoke.
After a while, the stiffness went out of him slowly. His shoulders loosened. His arm grew heavier over your waist.
You felt the exact moment he gave up staying awake.
His forehead touched the back of your shoulder.
His fingers twitched once in yours.
Then nothing.
You closed your eyes.
For once, you did not wake tangled by accident.
You fell asleep already held.
Law was still behind you when you woke up.
His chest was against your back. The two of you had barely moved. His face was close to your shoulder, but his hand had left your waist.
He was tracing your arm.
Not asleep.
Awake.
His fingertips moved from your shoulder down to your wrist, light enough to raise goosebumps. Then back up again. Slow. Even. Like he had been doing it for a while and had no intention of stopping until you made him.
You kept your eyes closed.
His fingers reached your wrist again.
Then your elbow.
Then the bare skin where your sleeve had slipped down your shoulder sometime in the night.
You swallowed.
“That feels nice,” you whispered.
His hand stopped.
For a second, neither of you moved. Then his fingers curled lightly around your arm.
You opened your eyes.
Law shifted behind you. His hand moved to your waist, and with the smallest pressure, he guided you to turn.
You did.
Slowly.
The blanket shifted between you as you rolled onto your back.
Law stayed close.
Too close for either of you to pretend this was still about sleep.
His hair was loose over his forehead. His eyes moved over your face, heavy and quiet, then dropped to your mouth.
You took his hand.
His fingers were warm in yours. Tattooed. Familiar now in ways that still made your chest ache if you thought about them too long.
You lifted his hand and kissed the back of it.
Law went very still.
Your mouth stayed there for one second.
Then another.
When you lowered his hand, his eyes were on you.
You barely had time to breathe before he leaned down and kissed you.
His mouth opened against yours. His hand slid to your jaw. You made a small sound, and he pulled you closer before the sound was gone.
Then the kiss turned deeper.
His body shifted over yours, not fully on top of you, but close enough that the blanket trapped heat between you.
You kissed him harder.
Law’s hand left your jaw and went to your waist.
Then under your shirt.
His palm moved up your back, skin to skin, dragging you closer as you turned toward him. Your knees bumped beneath the blanket. One of his legs slid between yours, and your hand tightened in his hair hard enough to make him break the kiss for half a breath.
His mouth came back to yours immediately.
Your hand moved to the side of his neck, fingers pressing against the warm skin there, feeling the spike in his pulse. His mouth missed yours once before finding it again.
His hand moved along your back and then around your side.
He stopped there.
You arched closer.
Law’s hand moved to your breast.
The sound you made was quiet.
Not quiet enough.
His mouth stopped against yours. Then his fingers flexed once, and your back lifted off the mattress before you could stop it.
“Law,” you breathed.
His mouth moved to the corner of yours.
Then your jaw.
Then lower.
Your head tipped back before you could think better of it.
He kissed your throat once, open and warm.
Your hands moved without permission. Down his back. Over the bare strip of skin where his shirt had ridden up. Then lower, to his waist.
Law’s whole body went tight.
Your fingers found the edge of his waistband.
He stopped.
Not slowly.
All at once.
His forehead dropped to your shoulder.
For a second, he did not move.
His hand was still under your shirt. His body was still pressed close to yours. His breathing was uneven against your neck.
Then, with visible effort, he pulled his hand back.
“Not yet,” he said.
The words were rough enough to scrape.
You froze.
Then your hands loosened at his waist.
“Okay.”
Law’s jaw flexed against your shoulder.
He stayed close, but his hand pressed into the mattress beside you instead of going back under your shirt.
You slid your hand up his back again, slower this time, gentler.
His shoulders lowered.
Law lifted his head.
His eyes were dark. His mouth was still close enough that you could feel the next breath he took.
“It’s not because I don’t want—”
“I know.”
He stopped.
You brushed his hair back from his forehead. Your fingers lingered there because he let them.
That was new too.
Law closed his eyes for half a second.
When he opened them again, some of the strain had eased, but not all of it.
You smiled faintly. “So this is you being responsible?”
His expression flattened.
Barely.
“You make it difficult.”
“That’s generous. I thought I made it impossible.”
“You’re close.”
You laughed softly.
The sound made something in his face shift.
He leaned down and kissed you again. When he pulled back, he did not go far.
His fingers brushed your cheek once.
Then he sat up.
The morning came back into focus.
The hum of the ship. The faint voices outside. Your shirt twisted. Law’s hair completely ruined.
You sat up after him and fixed your shirt while he looked very deliberately at the wall.
“Subtle,” you said.
“I’m being polite.”
“You were very polite five minutes ago.”
His ears went red.
You smiled and reached for your boots.
Law got out of bed and found his hat. Once it was in place, the captain came back over him piece by piece.
Plot: “Not here.” He had said it like a promise. He had not brought it up since. Neither had you.
Trafalgar D. Law — Part 2
Read: Part 1 || Part 3
Law handed you a stack of reports in the infirmary the next afternoon like nothing had happened.
“Inventory logs,” he said.
You took them from him. “That’s romantic.”
His eyes lifted to yours.
Flat. Tired. Annoyed.
Too familiar.
“Do you want the assignment or not?”
“I didn’t say I disliked romance.”
“It’s counting gauze.”
“People have courted with less.”
“You would know?”
You looked down at the first page before he could see the corner of your mouth move. “Are you asking about my romantic history, Captain?”
Law went still for half a second.
There.
Barely anything. Not enough for anyone else to notice.
But you did.
His fingers flexed once around the clipboard he still held. Then he looked away and clicked his tongue.
“I’m asking if you can count to fifty without turning it into a problem.”
“Probably.”
“That isn’t reassuring.”
“You keep assigning me things anyway.”
“You keep standing where I need you.”
That hit strangely.
He seemed to realize it at the same time you did.
The infirmary quieted around the words.
Then Bepo walked past with a crate in his arms, and both of you looked away like you had been caught doing something worse than standing in the same room.
You took the reports. “I’ll have these done before dinner.”
“Good.”
You started to leave.
“Don’t guess,” he added.
You stopped in the doorway. “I would never.”
“You would.”
You looked back at him.
He was watching you now, expression carefully unreadable.
The bed at the inn sat between you anyway.
His arm around your waist. His breath at your neck. The quiet shock of him waking and pulling away like he had touched something he was not allowed to want.
Your face warmed.
Law’s gaze dropped for half a second. Then he turned back to the cabinet beside him and opened it with more force than necessary.
“Go count gauze,” he said.
You obeyed before you could say something stupid.
By dinner, the ship had settled back into its usual rhythm.
The mission was over. The crew was tired, bruised in small places, and more interested in food than conversation. Shachi complained about the rain having ruined his good boots. Penguin told him he did not own good boots.
Law sat at the end of the table, listening more than participating. That was normal.
The way his eyes found you once across the room was not. It was brief. Nothing anyone else would notice.
But you felt it like fingers at your wrist.
You looked away first.
After dinner, you finished the inventory logs. Then you checked a crate of sealed bandages. Then you reorganized two drawers in the supply cabinet because your hands needed something to do.
Not here.
He had said it like a promise.
He had not brought it up since.
Neither had you.
That was the problem with Law. Silence did not feel empty with him. It gathered weight. It became its own conversation.
Later, after most of the ship had gone down for the night, you saw light under Law’s door.
For a moment, you considered walking away. Then you raised your hand and knocked once.
“Come in.”
You opened the door.
Law was at his desk, a stack of charts spread in front of him. His hat was set aside. His hair was a mess from his own fingers. A cup of coffee sat untouched near his hand.
You looked at it.
Then at him.
“I came here to bully you into resting.”
That made his pen stop.
Slowly, he lifted his eyes to you.
“You’re going to bully me.”
“Yes.”
“In my room.”
“You left the light on. That’s basically a cry for help.”
“It is not.”
“It was either that or a lure. I chose the less concerning option.”
Law leaned back in his chair. “You could leave.”
“I could.”
Neither of you moved.
His room was familiar, though you had never spent much time in it alone. Desk. Books. A coat thrown over the back of a chair. Kikoku resting within reach.
And the bed.
You tried not to look at it.
Failed.
Law noticed.
You cleared your throat and stepped fully inside. “How long have you been awake?”
“A normal amount.”
You came closer and picked up the coffee before he could stop you. It was cold.
You held it out accusingly.
Law looked at it. “That was intentional.”
“You intentionally made coffee and didn’t drink it?”
“I was working.”
You set the cup down away from him. “Go to bed.”
“No.”
“Law.”
“I have three more charts to finish.”
“They’ll still be there tomorrow.”
You looked around his room until you found the narrow shelf beside his bed. You walked to it and ran your fingers along the spines.
“What are you doing?”
“Settling in.”
“You’re not staying.”
“You haven’t gone to bed.”
“That isn’t an invitation.”
“I didn’t need one.”
You pulled a book free and glanced at the title. Dense. Medical. Perfect.
You sat on the edge of his bed.
Law stared at you.
“That’s my bed.”
“I know.”
“You’re being difficult on purpose.”
“Only because you respond so consistently.”
His eyes narrowed.
You opened the book across your lap. “Finish one chart. Then sleep.”
“Three.”
“One.”
“Two.”
You turned a page. “One and a half.”
“That isn’t how charts work.”
“I’m not a doctor.”
“That has never stopped you from having opinions.”
You looked up at him then.
He was still watching you.
“One chart,” he said.
He resumed writing. For a while, that was all there was.
The scratch of ink. The soft shift of paper when Law reached for another page. You tried to read, but the words kept slipping out of order.
At some point, you stretched your legs out on the bed.
Law noticed.
He did not comment.
At some later point, you leaned back against the wall. Your eyelids grew heavy.
“You’re not reading,” he said.
You blinked. “I am.”
“You’ve been on the same page for ten minutes.”
“It’s a complicated page.”
“It’s the table of contents.”
You turned the page with dignity. “Now it’s not.”
Law made a low sound that was almost amusement. The book dipped slightly in your hands.
“Go to your room,” he said, quieter now.
“In a minute.”
Law’s pen stopped again.
“You’re going to fall asleep there.”
“Probably.”
“That isn’t your bed.”
“No.”
You let the book rest against your stomach. “Do you want me to leave?”
He did not answer right away. Then his eyes came back to yours.
“No,” he said.
“Then finish your chart.”
Law looked at you for another second.
Then he picked up his pen.
The scratch of ink started again.
You meant to keep reading. You even made it through another page, maybe two. Then the words blurred, the book slipped lower against your stomach, and Law said your name once from the desk.
You meant to answer.
Instead, the room went dark.
When you woke again, the lamp been turned off.
You were on your back.
Sometime during the night, Law had gotten into bed beside you. After that, sleep had done whatever sleep wanted, because he was half over you now, his weight settled along your side, one leg pushed between yours beneath the blanket.
His arm was low across your waist. His hand had slipped beneath your shirt, palm warm against your stomach, fingers curved near your ribs. Your own shirt had ridden up under his wrist.
So had his.
There was bare skin at his hip where the fabric had twisted, pressed against you every time he breathed.
You stared at the ceiling.
Law’s face was tucked near your collarbone. His hair brushed your jaw. His mouth was close enough to your throat that the next slow breath from him moved over your skin and made your stomach tighten beneath his hand.
You tried to shift your leg.
His thigh pressed down instinctively.
A small sound caught in your throat before you could stop it.
Law did not wake.
His hand shifted once, sleepy and unthinking.
You went still.
He was asleep.
His knee shifted once beneath the blanket.
You bit down on your breath.
His hand stayed where it was, warm and open against your stomach. Then his palm pressed a little firmer, holding you there like he had no intention of letting go.
You stared at the ceiling and did not move. Not because you couldn’t.
Because you didn’t want to.
You turned your head a fraction. His hair brushed your lips.
That was when Law woke.
His body went rigid against yours.
His hand did not move.
Neither did yours.
Your eyes stayed on the ceiling. His palm was still hot against your skin. His thigh was still between yours. His mouth was still too close to your throat.
You waited for him to pull away.
He didn’t.
His breath touched your neck once.
Twice.
Then, very carefully, his forehead lowered to your shoulder.
Your chest tightened.
“Law,” you whispered.
His voice came rough from sleep. “I know.”
Two words.
Quiet.
Heavy.
Not an apology. Not an explanation.
You did not know what to do with them.
His fingers flexed once, barely a movement at all. Your body reacted anyway, your stomach tightening under his hand before you could stop it.
Law felt it. His fingers stilled against you.
Then his hand flattened more carefully over your stomach, like he had realized exactly where it was and still could not make himself leave.
“I should move,” he said.
You closed your eyes.
“Are you going to?”
Silence.
His answer came so quietly you almost missed it.
“No.”
The word went through you slowly.
“Good,” you whispered.
Law exhaled against your shoulder.
His arm tightened around your waist, not by accident this time. His leg stayed where it was. His hand stayed under your shirt.
Deliberate.
Careful.
Still too much.
Not enough.
You covered his wrist with your hand.
Neither of you spoke for a while.
Eventually, because you were apparently determined to survive this by being difficult, you said, “You finished the chart?”
A pause.
Then, against your shoulder, dry and low, “That’s what you’re asking right now?”
“It was the agreement.”
“You fell asleep.”
“You were unsupervised. Anything could have happened.”
His breath moved against your skin in something almost like a laugh.
“Two charts,” he said.
“You said one.”
“You were asleep. I renegotiated.”
“That’s unethical.”
“I’m a pirate.”
You smiled.
Then his hand moved again.
His fingers slid a little farther across your stomach, slow enough that you knew he was awake for it this time.
Your smile faded.
Law’s mouth pressed once against your shoulder.
Brief.
Closed.
Controlled.
Then he went still, like he had not meant to do it.
You did not let go of his wrist.
“Law.”
His voice was low against your skin. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
He was quiet for a second. Then his hand tightened once beneath yours.
“Make me say something stupid.”
Your throat went dry.
You turned your head slightly toward him. “Like what?”
He did not answer right away.
His mouth brushed your shoulder again. Lighter this time. Almost accidental, except you both knew it was not.
“I sleep better with you there,” he said.
The words were so soft, so rough around the edges, that for a moment you thought you had imagined them.
You swallowed.
The joke rose first. Something easy. Something safe. You let it die.
Instead, you said, “Me too.”
Law went quiet against your shoulder.
Then his mouth moved lower, just enough to press against the skin near your collar.
His mouth stayed there for a second too long.
Then another.
Your fingers tightened over his.
His hand answered under your shirt.
The morning outside his room grew brighter.
You should get up. The crew would be moving soon. Someone would need him. Someone would come looking. The day would begin whether either of you were ready for it or not.
But not yet.
Not for one more minute.
You breathed in carefully.
Then out.
“I can come back tonight,” you said.
For a moment, the silence was so complete you could hear your own pulse.
Then his hand tightened under yours. “You don’t have to,” he said.
“I know.”
The answer took him a long time. When it came, his mouth brushed your shoulder.
“Yes.”
You closed your eyes.
Neither of you moved until footsteps passed in the corridor. Then Law lifted his head.
The loss of his warmth at your shoulder was immediate.
His hand slid out from under your shirt, careful now, almost too careful. You missed it before it was gone.
He rolled onto his back beside you and stared at the ceiling.
You did the same.
The space between you was narrow.
Not enough to pretend.
For one dangerous second, he looked like he might lean closer.
Then someone knocked on the door.
Both of you froze.
“Captain?” Shachi called from the hall. “You awake?”
Law closed his eyes. You pressed your lips together hard.
“Unfortunately,” Law said.
“You want breakfast?”
“No.”
“You sure? Bepo made rice.”
A pause.
You whispered, “You should eat.”
He turned his head just enough to look at you.
His expression was flat. His ears were still red.
“Don’t start.”
You smiled wider.
From the hall, Shachi said, “Was that a yes?”
Law looked back at the ceiling. “Yes,” he said, like the word pained him.
“Great. Also Penguin wants to know if—”
“No.”
“You didn’t hear the question.”
“No.”
Footsteps retreated down the hall.
The room quieted again.
You sat up first, smoothing your shirt with more attention than necessary.
Law’s eyes flicked to the movement.
Then away.
You pretended not to notice.
He sat up after you, one hand dragging over his face.
For once, he looked rested.
Actually rested.
The sight did something terrible to your chest.
You reached for your boots.
Behind you, Law said your name.
You stopped.
His voice was low. Careful. Still not looking at you.
“Tonight,” he said.
You looked back at him.
“Tonight,” you said.
His shoulders eased by a fraction.
Then he reached for his hat, put it on, and became your captain again.
You stood in the doorway, still damp from the rain, still tired from two days of moving through back alleys, false names, and the particular misery of pretending not to know Trafalgar Law while he stood three feet away from you in public.
Law stopped behind you.
There was a pause.
Both of you looked at the single bed pushed against the wall.
“I’ll take the chair,” he said.
You turned your head.
“That’s ridiculous.”
“I’ve slept in worse places.”
“That’s not the comforting argument you think it is.”
Law’s eyes shifted to you. Tired, flat, unimpressed.
You were starting to recognize that look. It meant he had expected his answer to be final and was now irritated to find you still participating in the conversation.
“It’s one night,” he said.
“Exactly.”
You stepped fully into the room and set your bag down beside the wall. “We are adults.”
“That’s debatable.”
“Fine. I’m an adult. You’re a miserable sea cryptid with a medical license.”
His mouth twitched.
Barely.
If you had blinked, you would have missed it.
Then he looked away, which was worse somehow.
He looked exhausted.
You hated that he looked exhausted.
You hated more that he was prepared to fold himself into that awful chair and pretend it was nothing.
“Law,” you said, softer this time.
His gaze came back to you.
“Take the bed.”
“No.”
“Then share it.”
The silence that followed was immediate.
Law stared at you.
You lifted both brows. “Don’t look at me like I suggested we commit treason.”
“You’re not thinking this through.”
“I am. The conclusion I reached is that sleeping in a chair after getting hurt last week is stupid.”
“I’m fine.”
“You always say that.”
“Because it’s usually true.”
“Law.”
His eyes shifted to yours.
“You were hurt. Take the bed.”
He exhaled through his nose and looked toward the bed again.
You crossed your arms. “We can put a pillow between us if your delicate sense of propriety needs medical support.”
“My delicate sense of propriety is fine.”
“Then get in the bed.”
His eyes narrowed.
You held his stare.
For a moment, neither of you moved. Then Law clicked his tongue under his breath and turned away.
“Fine,” he said. “But if you kick me, I’m moving to the chair.”
“If you move to the chair, I’m kicking you on purpose.”
“Annoying woman.”
“Dramatic doctor.”
That earned you another almost-smile.
You pretended not to see it, because with Law, noticing was dangerous. Noticing made him withdraw. Noticing made his walls come back sharper.
When you finally climbed into bed, you took the side closest to the wall.
Law noticed.
“You don’t have to trap yourself.”
“I’m not trapped.”
“You’re against the wall.”
“And you’re between me and the door. That seems practical.”
His eyes flicked to you.
There it was again.
That small, unreadable shift in his face.
Then he looked away and got in beside you.
Carefully.
So carefully it almost made you laugh, except you didn’t think either of you would survive the sound.
The mattress dipped under his weight. The blanket shifted. His body was a line of warmth beside yours, separated by a painfully deliberate stretch of space.
Neither of you touched.
The pillow between you sat like a diplomatic treaty.
For several minutes, the only sounds were the rain and Law’s breathing.
Even that felt too intimate.
You lay on your back, staring at the dark ceiling, hyperaware of every inch between you. His hand rested above the blanket near his chest.
You looked away.
Then looked back.
He was quiet for a moment. Then, low and dry, “Go to sleep.”
You smiled before you could stop yourself.
The room settled again.
Eventually your body began to relax. Law’s breathing evened out beside you, slower now, though you could tell he wasn’t asleep yet.
Neither were you.
“Law?” you whispered.
A pause.
“What.”
“Are you actually comfortable?”
“No.”
You turned your face toward him in the dark.
He did not turn toward you, but you could see the outline of his profile.
“Then why are you lying like that?”
“Because you complained about the chair.”
“I wanted you to not wake up unable to move your neck.”
“Why do you care?”
The question came too quietly.
You stared at him.
He still wasn’t looking at you.
You could have made a joke. It would have been easier. Safer. You could have told him someone had to keep the surgeon alive or the mission would get inconvenient.
Instead, exhaustion made you honest. “Because I do.”
Law said nothing.
Then he shifted onto his side, facing away from you. “Go to sleep,” he said again.
But his voice had changed.
At some point, you must have drifted off, because the room disappeared.
Sleep did what neither of you would.
It ruined everything.
You woke slowly.
Warm.
That was the first thing you noticed.
Solid, steady warmth pressed against you from behind.
Your eyes opened.
For one confused second, your mind could not arrange the facts into anything useful.
There was an arm around your waist.
A hand rested against your stomach, fingers relaxed, tattoos visible even in the dim light.
Your legs were tangled with someone else’s.
Law’s breath moved softly against the back of your neck.
You went completely still.
Behind you, Law was still asleep.
Not lightly, either. Not the tense half-rest you had seen him take in corners and against walls.
This was real sleep.
His face was close to your shoulder. His chest rose and fell against your back. One of his knees had slipped between yours during the night. The pillow that had once separated you had been shoved somewhere near the foot of the bed.
Your heart started beating much too hard.
You tried to move.
Law’s arm tightened.
He made a low sound in his sleep, rough and quiet, and tucked himself closer.
Like his body knew something the rest of him refused to admit.
You stared at the wall, burning alive in silence.
This was bad.
This was very bad.
This was soft, and warm, and natural in a way that made it worse. There was nothing careful about it.
You should have woken him.
You didn’t.
For another minute, maybe two, you let yourself stay.
His hand was broad against you. His thumb rested just beneath your ribs. His breathing brushed your skin. You could feel the steady beat of him behind you, the weight of him, the rare quiet of a man who spent most of his life braced for impact.
Then Law woke.
You knew the exact second it happened.
His entire body went still.
Not relaxed-still.
Horrified-still.
His breath stopped against your neck.
You closed your eyes.
Neither of you moved.
Then Law removed his arm from your waist.
Slowly.
Carefully.
Like he was disarming an explosive.
You rolled onto your back at the same time he shifted away, and both of you ended up staring at the ceiling with far too much space between you now.
The pillow lay on the floor.
Neither of you looked at it.
“Morning,” you said. Your voice was too calm.
Law cleared his throat. “Morning.”
Another silence.
His hair was a disaster.
There was a crease from the pillow on his cheek. His shirt had ridden up slightly at the hem. His eyes were still heavy with sleep, and when he glanced toward you, something unreadable passed through them before he shut it down.
You wondered if you looked any better.
You doubted it.
Law sat up first.
“I’ll check the street,” he said.
“Yes. Good. Street.”
He paused at the edge of the bed.
For one dangerous second, you thought he might say something.
You wanted him to.
You did not want him to.
His hand flexed once against the blanket.
Then he stood.
You sat up and reached for your bag.
The room became busy with avoidance.
Boots. Belts. Weapons. Buttons.
Law checked the window. You fixed your sleeves. He adjusted his sword. You packed the map. Neither of you mentioned the bed. Neither of you mentioned his arm around you, your legs tangled together, the way his hand had tightened before he woke.
At one point, you both reached for the same glove on the chair.
Your fingers brushed.
Law froze.
So did you.
It was nothing.
Barely a touch.
But after waking up wrapped around each other, it felt obscene.
You pulled your hand back first.
“Yours,” you said.
Law picked up the glove. “Thanks.”
His voice was level.
Too level.
You turned away before he could see your face.
By the time you were both ready, the room looked untouched except for the unmade bed and the pillow abandoned on the floor.
Law opened the door.
You stepped past him into the hall.
Outside, the rain had stopped. The mission waited. The world had continued.
Law walked beside you in silence.
After half a block, he said, “You snore.”
You looked at him.
He kept his eyes forward.
“I do not.”
“You do.”
“You were asleep.”
“I woke up.”
“You woke up and your first thought was to judge my breathing?”
“My first thought was not that.”
The words landed before he seemed to realize what he had said.
You both stopped walking.
Law’s expression did not change, but his ears went faintly red.
Vibe: fantasy AU, oni AU, hidden identity, friends to lovers, mutual pining, slow burn, first confession, alcohol-induced honesty, domestic evening, cozy apartment, protective demon, sarcastic banter, soft Law, acceptance, trust, romance with humor, hurt/comfort 🖤👹🍶🕯️✨
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It was unusual to get a message from Law. Even more so to be invited to his place. You wondered how long you’d known him, realizing you hadn’t stepped foot there even once.
"Stop by my place. We’ll have a drink."
You arrived at his "spot," which in Law’s terms meant a quiet apartment in a back alley of the port town, tucked away above a shop selling medicines and surgical tools. When he opened the door, he was wearing his black coat, hat, and the mask over his nose and mouth. As always.
"You’re late," he muttered, though a glimmer of amusement danced in his eyes.
"Your messages aren't exactly precise maps, and they don’t mention time either," you shot back, squeezing past him inside. "Besides, you always act like time only runs according to your schedule."
"Correct," he said without blinking. "Time runs according to whoever holds the blade." You rolled your eyes and reached for the first thing you saw, a small stand with a bottle and two glasses.
"So, was this an invitation for a drink, or a lecture on anatomy?" you smirked at him.
"Depends on how much you drink," he replied, closing the door.
His apartment was surprisingly... cozy. Not in a "cute" way, but in his way, everything was tidy, yet not sterile. Books with scribbled marginalia, maps held up by pins, a mug of tea that looked like it had been brewed out of pure habit. Gloves lay on the table, and a folded black shawl rested on a nearby chair.
And in the corner, a small wooden altar with candles and dried wax, engraved with a symbol you didn't recognize. You paused for just a second.
"What’s that?" you nodded toward it.
"Decoration." Law didn’t even look.
"It looks like... something meant to be worshipped."
"Maybe I worship my peace and quiet," he said dryly, clearly ending the topic. "Sit down."
You obliged and sat on the small sofa. Law took the armchair opposite you and poured the promised drink for both of you.
Your eyes drifted back to the mask covering his mouth. It had seemed intimidating at first, but you’d grown used to it. He wore it always, even when it was just the two of you. Even when he was tired, wounded, or once even on the brink of death. Even your first kiss, shared in the heat of the moment, had been through that mask.
"So," you asked after taking a sip. "What's the occasion?"
"Nothing," he answered.
"That sounds like your favorite lie," you smirked.
"It’s actually my least favorite lie. My favorite lie is that I don't care about things," he countered in the same tone.
"So something does matter today." You laughed.
"No," he said, faster than you expected, and then took a drink to avoid further elaboration.
For a while, you talked about everything and nothing. The crew, the lousy accommodation in the port town, and the merchant you saw selling "guaranteed anti-curse talismans" that were clearly just painted buttons. Law pretended not to care, but the corners of his eyes twitched with suppressed amusement.
"Did you buy one?" he finally asked, as if taking a medical history.
"Of course," you said solemnly. "Two. One for me and one for you, so you’ll stop scowling. It cost me three Berries and a chunk of my dignity."
"I'm wondering which was more expensive," he muttered.
"My dignity is worth at least ten Berries," you declared. "So I actually made a profit."
Law turned his back to you to lower his mask and take a drink. He drank so sharply that the alcohol went down the wrong way. He started coughing, and you instinctively leaned forward.
"Are you okay?" you asked, patting him on the back.
"Yes," he wheezed, waving a hand. "I just... nearly choked on your mathematics."
"It's an art form," you grinned. He just snorted and shook his head.
As you went through drink after drink, you noticed him starting to relax, he even started tripping over his words a little. He spent a long time trying to adjust his mask, fumbling as if he were having trouble getting it to sit right.
"You’re... drunk," you stated triumphantly.
"No," he protested.
"You are." You didn't let up.
"I’m not," he huffed.
"You are," you smirked, and Law gave you the look he usually reserved for people who weren't going to see the next sunrise.
You laughed again, and when he took another drink, you followed suit. Except this time, he drank more. And then even more. Finally, as if he’d grown tired of the effort, he propped his elbow on the table, rested his chin in his hand, and his mask slipped slightly.
"Hey," you said automatically, "it's..."
"I know," he mumbled uninterestedly.
"It's crooked," you noted. It was the first time you could see a piece of the face he kept hidden.
"It doesn't matter," he murmured.
"What?" You blinked.
"You said I’m never fun." Law watched you over the rim of his glass. His pupils were slightly dilated.
"I didn't say that," you protested. "I said you’re only fun for people who like death and silence."
"That’s me," he said emotionlessly. "Death and silence."
"And me?" the question slipped out. You were curious now. You were sure that under the influence of alcohol, he might be more honest than ever.
"You are..." he started but didn't finish. Instead, he took another drink. And then, something happened that never happened with Law. He forgot.
He didn't turn away to hide his face. He stayed exactly as he was, pulled the mask down, rested his hand on his leg, and took a sip.
You watched him in shock. It was the first time you’d seen him without the mask. His real face. But beneath the mask wasn't just his usual pale skin and sharp features. He had... horns. How were they visible now? The mask hadn't been covering that area before.
And when his lips left the glass, you saw a flash of fangs. Sharp. When he closed his mouth, his lower canines overlapped his upper lip. You stared at him. Your heart was pounding so loudly you were sure he could hear it too.
Law licked his lower lip. And then... he blinked. His expression shifted so fast you almost missed the "aha" moment the second he realized what he’d done. He froze. Silence flooded the room like spilled water.
"..." He opened his mouth as if to say something, but nothing came out. You realized you didn't know what the "right" reaction was. Scream? Run? Ask? Laugh? Ignore it?
"So..." you breathed nervously, "you... have horns." You finally spoke just to break the silence.
"No," he snapped automatically, then realized how that sounded. "...Yes."
"And... fangs..." you continued.
"They are..." he started, then paused as if searching for an excuse that sounded less absurd than the truth. "...genetics."
"Genetics." You raised an eyebrow.
"Yes," he replied, sounding both reluctant and defeated. He looked at you hesitantly. "Don't look at me like that."
"Like what?" you whispered.
"As if..." he swallowed. "As if I’m a monster."
"I-!" You didn't know how to respond. You could see how much the thought hurt him.
Law pulled back, straightened up, and reached for his mask. His movement was quick, almost panicked, but clumsy. The alcohol had stripped him of his usual precision.
"Wait," you said before he could pull it back up. He stopped. You felt like if you took one wrong step, you’d lose everything.
"I’m not afraid of you," you said softly, surprised by how steady your voice was. Law’s hand remained suspended in the air. His horns caught the dim light from the altar candles.
"You should be," he muttered.
"Why?"
"Because..." he exhaled. "This look isn't for show."
"I figured that much," you replied, trying to keep your voice from trembling. "But I know you."
"You know me," he repeated, a bitter edge to his tone. "You know the version of me I chose to show you. You know my mask," he growled.
"And what’s so terrible about this?" you asked gently. Law looked at you. Really looked at you. Without the barrier of the fabric. Without the mask.
"This," he said, gesturing to his face, "is why people make up their minds quickly. Too quickly."
"I’m not 'people.' Besides, how long have I been with your crew? Do you really think something like this would drive me away?" For a second, the corner of his mouth twitched. Almost a smile. Almost.
"You’re worse," he muttered. "You make up your mind slowly. And then there’s no taking it back."
"That’s..." you laughed nervously. "That’s a strangely romantic insult."
"I don't do romance," he said immediately.
"I noticed," you nipped back, but then your voice softened. "Law... what are you?" He winced at the name. As if it were too intimate. As if someone had touched him right under the ribs.
"Oni," he said after a while. The word hung in the room with the weight of legend. A demon. Not in the Western sense. A nightmare or a protector. It all depended on who you asked.
"You... are an Oni," you repeated slowly.
"Yes," he breathed out, as if waiting for a sentence to be passed.
"So... the mask was..." Instead of recoiling, you leaned back and studied him thoughtfully.
"To look normal," he interrupted. "To not attract attention. And so-"
"So no one would fall for you just because of your cute fangs?" you couldn't help yourself. Law froze. Then he gave you a look that could have burned you on the spot.
"Did you say cute?" he hissed.
"I did," you nodded. "And I stand by it."
"This is exactly the problem," he muttered, pressing his fingers to his forehead. "You aren't taking this seriously."
"I am," you said. "It’s just... when it’s you, it’s hard to stay solemn. You have an expression like you’d be correcting people's posture at your own funeral."
"No one would listen to me at a funeral," he snapped.
"I would listen to you." The words were out before you could think. For a moment, there was silence.
"Why?" he asked.
"Because you're my friend," you answered simply. "And because..." Because you liked him.
For a long time. Foolishly. Sincerely. With all his moodiness, his sarcasm, and the way he once silently draped a coat over your shoulders when it rained. Because once, when he thought you were asleep, he fixed the bandage on your wrist as carefully as if you were something fragile.
But that "because" got stuck in your throat. Law understood anyway. Or he read it on your face. His gaze softened.
"Can I?" you asked quietly, nodding toward his horns. He tensed.
"You shouldn't," he said automatically.
"But...?" you tried hopefully.
"..." He took a breath. His eyes flicked to your fingers. "If I bite you, it’s your own fault," he grumbled.
"I’ll take my chances," you replied, and your heart skipped a beat.
Slowly, you ran the tip of your finger over one of the horns. It was smoother than you expected. And Law... he shivered. Only slightly. But you noticed. You noticed everything.
"You’re sensitive," you teased.
"I’m not," he breathed, but it was a blatant lie.
"You are," you smiled. "I can see it."
"Don't look," he grunted, but this time it didn't sound like an order. It sounded like a plea.
"Then hide," you suggested, "or give me a reason not to look." Law laughed. Short. Sharp. Then he stopped, as if surprised by his own laughter.
"You are... a problem," he murmured.
"I know," you nodded proudly. "But I'm your problem." Something shifted in his eyes. Something soft. Something he usually kept under lock and key.
"I don't want you to be mine," he said quietly.
"That’s good," you replied. "I’m not an object." He raised an eyebrow.
"I want you to be with me," he corrected himself faster than you expected. And then, as if it cost him all his strength: "At least... for tonight."
"Tonight," you repeated, raising your glass. "And tomorrow?"
"Tomorrow I’ll be sober," he muttered.
"So tomorrow you’ll spend five hours explaining it away and deny saying anything at all three times over," you smirked.
"Yes."
"Sounds like fun."
"You have a strange idea of fun," he snapped, but his voice was softer. Almost... tender.
"I do," you admitted. "And one of those ideas is that the mask stays off for the rest of the night." Law looked at the mask as if it were a living creature that might betray him. Then he took a deep breath.
"Just for tonight," he said.
"Just for tonight," you agreed.
It was strange how quickly the fear vanished once you decided not to listen to it. How quickly the horns changed from a "terrifying truth" to just "a part of him."
You sat closer than you should have. At first by accident, then less so. You toyed with your glass, and Law, half-drunk, began to tell you about how he once got his horns stuck in a doorframe as a child and pretended he did it on purpose so no one would see he was in pain.
"You were such a proud child," you laughed.
"I was a realistic child."
"Lying again," you nudged him gently.
"No," he snapped.
"Lying."
"...Maybe," he sighed.
Later, when the bottle was nearly empty and a quiet, warm dusk filled the room, you noticed Law’s gaze drifting to your lips. Just for a moment. Every time you noticed, he’d look away quickly, as if he were offended by the impulse.
"What?" you finally asked.
"Nothing," he mumbled.
"You’re looking." You smiled.
"I’m not." He cast his eyes elsewhere.
"You are," you said softly. "Do you want something?" Law closed his eyes, as if choosing between two bad options.
"I want..." he started, his voice cracking almost imperceptibly. Then he looked at you. Without the mask. Without the wall. And he said it so simply it nearly took your breath away. "I want you to stay."
You smiled, reached out, and placed your palm on his cheek. You felt the warmth of his skin. Felt his breath hitch.
"I stayed a long time ago," you whispered. Law was silent. Then slowly, tentatively, like someone learning a new skill he placed his hand over yours.
His thumb brushed over your fingers. Gently. Almost cautiously. And you realized that this was his greatest magic. Not the demonic horns. Not the fangs. Not the mysterious altar in the corner. But the fact that even though he was something people feared... he could touch you as if you were the safest place in the world.
"If you hate me tomorrow," he muttered, his voice sounding rough, "I’ll pretend this never happened."
"And if I want to do it again?" you asked. Law looked at you, and that familiar, annoying spark returned to his eyes.
"Then you’ll have to..." he leaned in closer, "...survive my sober self."
"Sounds like a challenge." You laughed.
"It’s a warning," he corrected.
"I’m taking it as an invitation."
"You’re impossible," he sighed with a smile.
"And you’re an Oni," you reminded him with a grin. "So we’re even."
And then, in the silence that was no longer uncomfortable, just full of something new and soft, you leaned in just a little more.
"I’m going to deny this tomorrow," he whispered with a raspy, almost amused exhale, resting his forehead against yours.
"Sure," you whispered back.
"And you?"
"Tomorrow," you smiled, "I’m bringing another three-Berry talisman. And ten Berries worth of extra dignity." He just laughed at that. He loved you, but he was still too sober to share that secret with you just yet.
"his crew like to joke about the gone look on his face when he's daydreaming about his 'secret girlfriend' again. idiots. they're not even supposed to know about you, but apparently law isn't as low-key as he thinks when he goes off to see you."
words: 2.9k
✧ based on this request ✧ masterlist
june (you)
"10.000 berry and it's yours."
you look up at the grinning vendor behind the table and raise an eyebrow.
"you're kidding", you snort. the basket you're looking at is obviously not worth that much. does he think you're a tourist?
"10.000 and I'll throw in one of these charms for the beautiful lady", he holds up one of the little trinkets that lie scattered across the table.
you scoff. "so because i'm pretty, you think i'm stupid?"
the man rolls his eyes the moment he realizes that his scamming tactics aren't going to work on you.
"fine", he drops his greasy salesman act and slumps back in his chair. "5.000."
you narrow your eyes at him.
"i'll take it for three."
"four", he tries.
"three."
the man glares at you, but nevertheless takes your money and fishes out a bag for you.
the sun feels hot on your skin as you navigate your way through the bustling market. it's always busier in the summer, especially in the early afternoon, and you're slowly beginning to regret your decision of going grocery shopping early today.
already exhausted, you decide to take a small break, leaning your back against a tree and finding comfort in the shadow of the leaves above your head. light falls through in tiny spots that dance on the grass by your feet. summer seems to get hotter every year in this place.
slowly, you let your eyes drift across the town square. you know this place well, every nook, every corner engraved in your mind. you know the ways of the entire island, the way the wind blows, the way the people and crowds move, the way the weather changes and the way the rain tastes.
it's hard to be surprised in a place you've been calling home for so long now, which is why you notice instantly when something feels out of place. like the tall figure hiding in the shadows of one of the buildings framing the marketplace.
you do a double take.
it's not exactly unfamiliar. but it doesn't belong here. it doesn't fit in.
your heart jumps when you recognize the slightly hunched posture and the long dark coat flowing down the silhouette.
law.
he appears to notice that you've spotted him, his eyes already carefully trained on you.
he lingers for another moment. there's too much distance between you to actually tell, but you think you notice a smug smirk playing at his lips.
then he dips his head and disappears into the shadow of a small alley. luckily, you already know where he's headed.
you waste no time in picking your bags back up and hurrying off after him, the items still left on your grocery list long forgotten as you make your way home.
law is back. finally.
how much time has it been? two months? maybe three?
when you unlock the door to your small house at the town's border he's is nowhere to be seen yet, but you can still barely contain your excitement.
god, how you've missed him.
you put down your bags and head to the kitchen to put away the food you bought, when suddenly his voice rings through your hallway, and you stop in your tracks.
"that vendor is going to cry himself to sleep tonight."
you whirl around.
law is leaning against the wall in your hallway, legs long, arms crossed and face blank.
he hasn't changed one bit since you last saw him.
his hair looks disheveled, he's not wearing his hat. he usually takes it off to be less recognizable, not wanting to raise any suspicions about his more or less frequent visits to your island. his beard is trimmed a little shorter, his jaw looks sharper - has he been eating? his eyes still hold the exact same expression you've grown to know so well.
a smile makes it's way onto your lips. "law."
his mouth quirks up the tiniest bit in response. his voice is low when he speaks.
"hi."
there's a sudden pull, a tug at your heart, like the universe is trying to balance out the distance between you at once. you can't restrain yourself any longer and surge forward, launching yourself into his arms. he catches you easily as you wrap your legs around his waist.
"miss me?", he smirks.
"only a little", you mumble against his lips.
the kiss you share is deep and filled with longing. your groceries stand forgotten on the floor next to you when you finally pull away.
"how long are you staying?", you ask a little out of breath.
there's a glint in his eyes, a tiny hint of regret when he responds.
"not long."
law lets your slide out of his arms and lowers you back to the floor. you press yourself against his chest and wrap your arms around him in a tight hug.
it's funny how a person who is always gone can smell more like home than the house you sleep in every night. you let yourself be enveloped in his scent and take a deep breath.
"either way, i'm happy to see you."
you know that law visits as much as he can. you know what his life is, know what his days look like, you would never hold it against him that he isn't around much. after all, you knew exactly who he was when you fell for him.
law rests his head on top of yours and burries his face in your hair. it bothers him too, to have to leave you behind. you can see it in his eyes every single time. but you know that your safety is more important to him than the pain of your frequent goodbyes. and for that you're eternally grateful.
"i'm happy to see you, too", he mumbles into your hair.
you can't help the chuckle that escapes your mouth, even as your heart flutters at the softness that lies within his words. it's rare for law to say things like this so openly and you would never miss a chance to tease him for it.
"wow", you grin and look up at him, his arms still wrapped tightly around your waist. "when did you become such a softie?"
law rolls his eyes, but you don't miss the smirk he bites back when he playfully pushes you aside.
he plays along with your comment. "a lot can happen in two months."
you cross your arms in front of your chest.
"oh yeah?", you grin. "what else changed then?"
law's eyes lock with yours as he takes a step forward, crowding you against the wall in your narrow hallway.
one hand lies firmly on your hip, the other one is placed against the wall next to your head when he smirks down at you.
"i could show you."
you exhale.
"please do."
august (law)
law can hear movement coming from inside the house when he leans against the frame of your front door and he nods to himself. you're home.
he would never admit it out loud but he likes to plan the way he's going to surprise you each time he visits well ahead of time. the look on your face, the spark in your eyes and that smile, the way he can feel your happiness take over the second you spot him are all things law thinks about a lot. it's a moment he looks forward to the entire time that he's away at sea.
his crew like to joke about the gone look on his face when he's daydreaming about his 'secret girlfriend' again. idiots. they're not even supposed to know about you, but apparently law isn't as low-key as he thinks when he goes off to see you.
he knocks.
almost immediately his heartbeat picks up in anticipation and law internally curses at his body. this thing between you two has been going on for long enough, he should be able to handle it without breaking out in a nervous sweat.
but then there's footsteps and then the door swings open and then there's you, and law forgets how to breathe.
you look up at him with big eyes and the next thing he knows is you in his arms, and your face pressed into his neck, and he holds you like he never wants to let you go again. and he realizes that he really doesn't.
"law", you exclaim happily and he feels that warm feeling wash over him, that feeling that only your presence can give him. even just hearing you say his name like this is heaven. law could listen to you say his name all day long.
he lets you out of his embrace just to pull you right back into a kiss.
oh, how he has missed this.
he kisses you for a short while until eventually law forces himself to pull away in order to hand you the gift he's still holding in his hand.
"you brought me flowers", you smile and take the bouquet from him.
law watches you close your eyes to smell them and takes a mental screenshot of your face. if he was an artist he would try drawing you, so that he could look at the soft expression adorning your features every single day. add that to the list of things he would never say out loud.
"thank you", you say softly.
law's heart melts. he clears his throat to cover it up.
"they don't die", he casually mentions.
you glance up at him. "what do you mean?"
"they're special", law explains, as you take a step back to finally let him inside. "they're from an island with a very unique vegetation. the local plants have cellular matter that decomposes so slowly that they outlive regular plants by centuries, even when you cut them."
he pulls the door shut behind him. "so they won't wilt."
you shake your head in disbelief, a stunned smile forming on your lips.
"so you're telling me that all this time you've never gotten me flowers because you didn't want them to be gone too soon?"
your question hits law square in the chest. he should've known that you'd see right through him.
it's true. law figured that a gift that doesn't last is useless from someone who isn't around to give you a new one once it's gone.
he tries to play it off and simply shrugs.
"aww", you coo. "law, you wanted them to last so i don't forget about you."
law gives you a look and you laugh.
"thank you", you then say earnestly. "seriously, these are beautiful."
not as beautiful as you, law thinks.
november (you)
you wake up in the late morning. sunlight spills through the curtains and into the room. you watch it throw shadows over law's sleeping form.
slowly, you let your eyes wander from his face, down his neck, over his naked torso, tracing the swirls of black ink engraved into his skin forever.
he has his left arm thrown over your waist, his legs tangled with yours. soft breaths leave his slightly opened mouth. his dark hair is a terrible mess. it suits him.
law came back two nights ago and you've been enjoying every single second of his company. life feels brighter with him there. once he's gone it always leaves you feeling like something's missing. it's not just the lack of his presence. it's as if your soul is incomplete when he's not there. it's as if he takes a part of you to sea with him.
you raise your fingers up to his face, carefully pushing back a piece of hair that has fallen into his eyes. you could watch law sleep forever. he looks so peaceful like this, so soft.
in moments like this you wonder what it must be like to only know him out there in the real world. to only ever see the surgeon of death and not this side of him, never this side. the man lying in bed next to you isn't the surgeon of death. he's simply a man.
"it's rude to stare", law mumbles into his pillow.
you breathe out a small laugh.
"so what?"
law cracks an eye open. a lazy smile hangs on his lips when he looks at you. then he pulls you closer until you're flush against his chest.
"so, i want an apology", he jokes quietly, voice still rough from sleep.
you giggle. "how about a kiss?"
law mocks a contemplating hum.
"i was thinking more like a written statement."
"okay", you shrug. "will you let me get up then?"
you feel his arms tighten around you.
"what?", he almost sounds offended. "no! why?"
"well, how else would i prepare you a written apology?"
law sighs in defeat. "i guess a verbal one will do as well."
you look up at him.
"i deeply apologize for any disturbance i may have caused you during your well-earned beauty sleep."
law snorts.
"will you forgive me?", you ask theatrically.
he looks at you carefully and raises an eyebrow.
in a fracture of a second you're being flipped onto your back with law hovering over you, his face suddenly very close to yours.
"i might", he whispers.
in a dramatic gesture, you hold a hand over your heart and fake a sniffle.
"i'll do anything for your forgiveness."
law smirks when he leans in.
"oh, will you?", he mumbles as his lips meet yours.
you sigh into the kiss, running your hands up the smooth skin on his back and tangling your fingers in his hair.
law angles his face to deepen the kiss, slowly sliding a down to your waist and under them hem of your shirt.
you pull him into you by the back of his neck, tugging slightly at his hair and he lets a low groan slip into your mouth, that makes your entire body tingle.
his lips leave yours and he kisses a trail along your jaw and down your neck. he drags his teeth over his favourite spot there, the one he knows will make you squirm and your fingers tighten around his hair as a quiet moan escapes you.
with a satisfied smirk, law's lips find yours again. he slides your shirt up further and tugs, urging you to lean up and take it off. you comply, only breaking the kiss to pull the shirt over your head. he takes it off your hands and carelessly throws it behind himself, before pushing you back down on the bed.
instead of leaning in, he hovers over you for a moment, looking at you with this soft look in his eyes you so rarely get to see.
you stare up at him and drink in the sight of late morning law. his dishevelled bed-head, the everpresent circles under his warm toned eyes, the golden earrings and the uneven breaths.
god, he's beautiful.
you let yourself drown in the moment, drown in law's eyes and his love, as he leans back down to kiss you again and again and again.
april (law)
law watches as you let yourself fall back into the fluffy grass, lifting your gaze up to the blue sky. spring came early this year on your island. it's already warm outside with the sun casting a warm glow over your skin.
there's a soft thump when he goes to lie down next to you.
"we leave in an hour."
he feels you tenderly interlock your fingers with his. a moment passes before you respond.
"i'll miss you."
law turns is head to the side and finds you already looking at him. you're beautiful in the sunlight. it brings out your eyes. he runs his thumb over the back of your hand.
"me too", he admits.
his heart flutters at the small smile you fail to hide at his confession, and he lets himself sink deeper into the grass, treasuring the memory of your face in this delicate moment.
you shuffle closer to him and he lets go of your hand to hold out his arm, so that you can lean your head on his shoulder. your hand finds his chest und you start drawing lazy circles onto his torso. law suppresses a content hum at the feeling.
carefully, he runs a hand through your hair and places a ghost of a kiss on the top of your head. he almost can't help it when the words slip out of his mouth.
"you know i love you, right?"
the circles on his chest stop and you shift even closer.
"yes", you confirm in a fragile whisper. "i love you too."
and so the two of you lie in the grass as law simply holds you, knowing that he'll have to let go again way too soon.
it's never enough. not a single day passes where law doesn't miss you. no matter the amount of chaos that constantly happens around him, no matter who he's fighting. he could be standing in the middle of a war and you would still be on his mind.
and law thinks to himself how cruel it is, to find love like this only to have to leave it behind. to have to keep you behind closed doors, to always keep his distance to ensure your safety. and he silently makes a promise to himself, that one day, after everything is over, he'll take you with him and you'll never have to be apart again.
a/n: this is kind of sappy i'm sorry, i tried to make it fun but i couldn't let go of the bitter sweetness this trope holds 😭
Plot: Law catches you reading a trashy romance novel.
You had started hiding the novels beneath your mattress after the third one.
Not because you were ashamed.
Mostly.
You sat in your bunk with the latest propped against your knees, staring at a paragraph that had somehow managed to use the word throbbing three times in half a page.
It was not good writing.
It didn’t stop you.
You turned the page.
The door opened.
You slammed the book shut hard enough to trap your thumb.
Law stopped in the doorway.
You stared at him.
Your thumb throbbed.
Unhelpfully.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
“Reading.”
“I saw that.”
“Then this seems settled.”
His eyes dropped to the book held against your chest.
The cover featured a shirtless man standing behind a woman whose dress appeared to have lost a fight with the wind.
Law’s mouth flattened.
You pulled the book higher.
“It’s educational.”
“It’s called Taken by the Sea.”
“I am learning about marine life.”
His gaze moved slowly back to your face.
You could feel your skin heating.
This was ridiculous.
You were a grown woman. You were allowed to read bad novels in the privacy of your room. You were also allowed to feel strangely restless for several days every month, even if you rarely looked at someone and wanted anything physical from them.
Usually, desire was distant. Occasional. More idea than appetite.
Right now, unfortunately, your body had decided to become involved.
Law stepped inside and shut the door.
That made things worse.
He wore a short-sleeved shirt, tattoos visible over his hands and forearms. You had watched those hands stitch wounds, turn pages, and rest loosely around the hilt of his sword.
Today, apparently, you wanted them on you.
You looked back down at the book.
Law noticed.
His eyes narrowed slightly. “Are you sick?”
“No.”
“You’re flushed.”
“It’s warm.”
“You are next to the vent.”
“I may have developed a very localized fever.”
He walked closer.
You immediately held up one hand. “Before you become medically interested, I am not dying.”
“That wasn’t my concern.”
“Good.”
“It is now.”
He reached for your forehead.
You leaned back too quickly and struck the wall.
Law’s hand stopped in the air.
His gaze shifted to the novel again.
Then to you.
Something clicked behind his eyes.
You watched the exact moment your captain understood.
“Oh,” he said.
You hated that single syllable.
“No.”
His mouth twitched.
You narrowed your eyes. “You find this funny.”
“A little.”
Law sat on the edge of the bunk.
You stiffened.
His thigh pressed against your knee.
Your legs tightened around the book before you forced them to loosen.
Law’s eyes dropped briefly, catching the movement.
“You could’ve come to me,” he said.
You stared at him.
“For what?”
His brows lifted.
“No, explain it,” you said. “I would love to hear your proposed medical intervention.”
“I wasn’t proposing anything.”
“You sat down like you were about to prescribe yourself.”
“I sat down because you look ready to throw that book at me and run.”
He took the book from your hands before you could stop him.
“Law.”
He opened to the marked page.
“Law.”
His eyes moved over three lines.
Then he looked at you.
“This is terrible.”
“I know.”
“He’s wearing boots.”
“Yes.”
“They’re on a beach.”
“I am aware.”
He shut the book and set it aside.
You reached for it.
His hand closed around your wrist. The movement was simple. Barely forceful.
Your breath caught anyway.
Law’s thumb rested against your pulse.
His eyes dropped there.
“You don’t have to want anything,” he said.
The humor left you for a moment.
You looked at his hand around your wrist.
“I know.”
“You also don’t have to pretend you don’t.”
“I know that too.”
His thumb moved once against your skin.
“What do you need?”
You swallowed.
There was no impatience in his face. No expectation. Just Law, watching you with that sharp, steady attention he gave difficult things.
You leaned forward and rested your forehead against his shoulder.
He went still.
“This,” you murmured.
His hand loosened but did not let go.
“Just this?”
“For now.”
Law shifted farther onto the bunk and put an arm around your waist. He drew you against his side, his hand resting firmly at your waist while your heart took several embarrassing minutes to calm down.
Then his other hand reached for the novel.
You lifted your head. “What are you doing?”
“Continuing your education.”
“You hated it.”
“I need to know how much damage has been done.”
He opened the book.
You settled back against him. After a minute, Law said, “His trousers are leather.”
summary: your captain has always been terrible at taking care of himself, and after days of forcing through exhaustion, he finally catches a fever. The doctor is sick, and you're left to take care of him and spend the night at his bedside. What you don't see coming is that the fever turns your very stubborn captain into a very... delirious and honest patient.
pairing: Law x gen!Reader
word count: 3.8 k
tags & cw: fluff, sick and silly Law, he's running a fever and also a crush, soft with a bit of yearning.
notes: this was originally a scene that I ended up deleting from my previous fic because I thought it deserved it's own story, and I was initially going to post it as a 900 word drabble. but then I blinked and it's suddenly over 3k lol. I'm happy I finally managed to make some time to finish writing this. hope you enjoy!
Masterlist ⊹ AO3
"How long have you been feeling like this?" you say as you place the back of your hand against Law's forehead, which feels almost as warm as one of the engine room pipes. His fever seemed ridiculously high.
"Uh… three days… Maybe?"
"Three days??" You turn your hand and press your palm against his forehead, just to make sure you aren't imagining it. Maybe your hands are the ones cold as ice— no, they're not. He still feels just as hot. You slide your hand to the side of his neck.
"Law, you need to take the day off. You're literally burning."
"Ghh—" he grunts, pressing a hand against his head, "No, I– I need to work."
"You need to rest."
Law squeezes his eyes shut and shakes his head, still holding his forehead. His breathing sounds heavier than before. This fool.
"Okay, how about this," you suggest. "You go rest and I'll do it. What is it that you need?"
"What? No, really– it's okay. This is probably just a stupid cold or sumthing—"
"Woah woah, careful!" he stumbles sideways and nearly falls after walking straight into one of the dining room chairs, you barely managing to catch his arm before he completely loses his balance. "Law, hey, don't do this to yourself. You can barely stand."
He sighs.
"Tell me what's so urgent that you need to be working on right now."
He squints against the light, the room probably being too bright for him, and seems to struggle to even come up with a simple answer.
"Law..? What is it that you need?"
"…I– I forgot."
Oh my God.
"Captain?" Penguin stops halfway through as he passes the kitchen and sees the two of you, with you practically holding Law upright. "Everything okay?"
"Yes–"
"No–" you both answer at the same time and turn to stare at each other. "No you're not! Penguin, great timing. Can you give me a hand?"
"Sure," he hurries over and slides one of Law's arms over his shoulder while you take the other side. "You got him?"
"Yeah– woah—!" Law's knees give out without warning, and suddenly all of his weight falls onto the two of you, forcing you to tighten your grip before he drags all three of you to the floor.
"What are we supposed to do with him?" Penguin asks.
"Take him to his room," you say, nearly loosing your hold on him as he slumps against you again. Law's head droops forward, offering no help as you start walking and practically dragging his feet along the way.
Penguin glances over at him with growing concern, but Law only manages to lift his head a little before offering him a tired, hazy smile,
"…Hi."
"Is– is he drunk?" Penguin asks in a lower voice.
"He has a fever."
"A fever?" Penguin frowns, trying to understand how a fever could leave the Captain this out of it. He shifts his grip to adjust himself, but grows confused when he suddenly notices his shoulder feels cold and damp, just where Law's body is resting on him. He looks down, and finds the collar of Law's shirt is dark with sweat.
"My God… He's sweating so much! Captain, Captain!" He raises a hand in front of Law's face, "How many fingers am I holding up?"
Law cracks one eye open just enough to glance at him. He looks deeply offended, "…You think I'm stupid? Six."
You stare at him, "…Penguin, just keep walking."
—
Once you reach his room, the two of you guide him into the bathroom so Penguin can help him clean up and change into something dry and more comfortable. Law is being surprisingly cooperative throughout the whole ordeal, though Penguin still has to repeat himself every now and then whenever Law drifts off halfway through whatever he's doing.
Eventually, Law is finally tucked beneath the blankets.
While Penguin makes sure he's comfortable, you sit at the desk and write down his symptoms, temperature, the time you took it, and the schedule for his medication. With how high his fever is, you want to make sure you have everything noted down. You don't trust yourself to remember it all later.
Penguin sets a glass of water on the bedside table before stepping back to the doorway. He rests one hand against the frame and turns to you, "You need anything?"
Your lips part to answer, but Law beats you to it, "...No." He doesn't even bother to open his eyes.
A smile tugs at Penguin's mouth, "Wasn't asking you, Captain." And Law answers with a groan that sounds vaguely annoyed. "Don't go dying on us, alright?"
"...Mhm."
That draws another amused smile from Penguin before turning back to you. He points towards the hallway with one thumb, silently mouthing, Yell if you need help.
You nod and mouth back, I will.
Satisfied, he quietly pulls the door shut behind him, and you go back to your notes.
—
An hour has passed.
You've been keeping yourself busy flipping through one of Law's medical books, comparing his symptoms to the different infections listed on it. You're certainly not a doctor, but you've seen him do this before whenever one of the crew members fell sick.
You read the symptoms. Fever, yes. Cold sweats, plenty. Excessive sweating where the body rests against a surface… yes. Sweaty hands, mhmm not really. Cold feet–
You glance up to find him sleeping soundly. Sigh, you forgot to check his lower body's temperature. He needs to get as much sleep as he can get, and checking now would probably wake him up.
Still, you should write down every symptom… what if it's something serious?
You quietly walk over to the bed and lift the blanket just enough to uncover his feet. Cold… surprisingly cold, compared the heat radiating from the rest of his body.
The blanket suddenly moves and Law turns with a groan.
"Shit, sorry. I was just checking on you."
"…oh," Law blinks slowly, "you're still here…"
You give him a faint smile, "Of course I am." You tuck the blanket back around his feet before returning to your notes and adding the new symptom, "Someone has to take care of my captain."
"Hmm…", his lips curve into a smile.
The room falls back to the silent turning of the pages. Every now and then, you glance up from the book expecting to find him asleep, but each time you look, he's still awake, staring absentmindedly in your direction.
You can't help smiling to yourself. Usually, catching him staring would've made Law look away the moment your eyes met. This time, he simply keeps watching you through his sleepy and tired eyes, smiling ever so tenderly. It's… strangely endearing.
Moments later, the mattress shifts as Law finally turns to one side, settling back to sleep. Or at least that's what you assume. He remains still for a few seconds before rolling to the other side. A few seconds pass, and he lets out a frustrated but quiet sigh, and turns once again.
"Law? What's wrong?"
Law suddenly sits upright in his bed, his gaze lost somewhere else.
"Law?"
"Hm?" his eyes slowly find yours.
"You need something?"
He gives you a long look through heavy eyelids, almost getting lost in yours. "…No."
"Then why are you sitting up..?"
"…"
You sigh, "Come on, lie back down."
Setting the book aside, you walk over to the bed to help him, and Law offers no resistance as you rest your hands on his shoulders and guide him back towards the mattress. Yet, the moment your hand touches the pillow, you stop. The fabric feels damp… no, it's soaked in sweat.
"Oh, damn…" So that's why. No wonder he'd been tossing and turning this whole time, he was probably very uncomfortable. You help him sit back up, "Law, do you have another pillow?"
"Not really."
Damn. You glance once more at the dark stain of sweat on the fabric. He can't keep sleeping like this, he'll only get worse.
"Alright… then you're borrowing mine." Sigh, "Wait for me, okay? I'll be right back."
"Mhmm."
You hurry towards the door, but Law's voice stops you the moment your hand reaches the doorknob, "Dun't forget the jellyfish."
…What?
You glance back, "Say that again?"
"The jellyfish…" he murmurs, "it's all spiky."
"Right… I– I'll keep that in mind."
You slip out of his room before he has the chance to say anything else and hurry to your cabin. Was that a tactile hallucination? He's definitely delirious. Better hurry back.
It only takes you a minute to grab your fluffiest pillow before heading back.
By the time you return, he's still sitting upright, with his head drooping forward and his eyes closed. You really hadn't been gone that long, and still he must have fallen asleep waiting for you. Poor thing, he really looks exhausted.
You quietly make your way over to the bed and set the pillow beside him. He startles awake, lifting his head and looking confused for a moment.
"Sorry," you murmur. "Let's change that pillow."
When he leans forward, you pull the damp pillow out from behind him and replace it with your own, giving it a couple of light pats to fluff it up.
"Mhm, you know what…" your eyes land on the stain of sweat soaking through the back of his shirt. "We're changing that too."
You walk over to his wardrobe and take a look, searching for something he'll find comfortable to sleep in. You pick one of his softer shirts, and leave it beside him. Then head to the bathroom to empty the water from the basin you'd been using to clean his sweat, and refill it with fresh warm water.
Carrying the basin back to the bedside, you set it down, soak one of the towels and wring it out.
"Come here, let's get you comfortable."
Law obediently leans forward as you help him out of the damp shirt. You place the warm towel across the back of his neck and begin to gently wipe away all the sweat from his shoulders and back.
"Is this temperature alright?"
He nods.
"Why didn't you tell me?" you murmur as you continue to run the warm towel across his back. "Were you really planning on sleeping like that?"
"Sorry... I– I didn't want to bother you anymore."
"You getting worse because you didn't want to bother me would definitely be more trouble." You rinse the towel, wring it once more and continue, taking your time until the clammy feeling on his skin is gone. "There."
The fact that he'd been lying there, wet and feverish because he didn't want to bother you makes your chest ache. If anything, it only makes you want to take even better care of him.
You help him into the clean shirt, smoothing the fabric over his shoulders. You reach for the towel one last time, brushing a few damp strands of hair away from his forehead.
"You're gonna be alright," you murmur as you give him a reassuring smile.
Law looks at you through heavy eyelids. He doesn't know whether it's the fever or the exhaustion, but your voice makes everything feel quieter.
"Here," you reach for the glass Penguin left on the bedside table and slice one arm behind his shoulder to help him steady, "you should drink a little."
Law gives a faint nod and reaches for the glass with both hands. His fingers curl weakly around it and they don't seem steady enough to hold it properly.
"Don't worry," you ease him, "I've got it."
He reluctantly lets go and you guide it to his lips. He takes a few small sips, swallowing slowly between each one.
When you tilt the glass towards him again, he pulls back and grimaces, and you can almost read the word 'enough' that's written across his face. You set the glass back on the bedside table.
Cradling the back of his head, you gently ease him down onto the pillow, careful not to make him any dizzier than he already is. You lean over him to pull the blanket back into place, tucking it around his sides and making sure the dry towel you've placed beneath his back doesn't bunch up.
From Law's perspective, the pounding in his head is still there, but it doesn't seem quite as important anymore. He's not entirely sure what you are doing, all he can focus on is your hair falling forward as you lean over him… the careful way your hands move around him, making sure he's comfortable in every way.
Maybe… maybe he should get sick more often.
He continues to watch you quietly, trying to capture the moment like a photograph tucked away in the back of his mind. He's still warm from the fever, but somehow it isn't the only warmth he feels now.
"You're beautiful... You know that?"
Had he been thinking straight, those words would've never left his mouth. Embarrassment feels strangely distant, and it doesn't even occur to him to take them back. You'd only ever appeared this close in his dreams. Now, he's not even sure whether he's dreaming anymore, everything feels hazy around the edges.
When you hand finds his forehead again, it's tender enough to make him wonder if he's imagined the whole thing.
Hesitantly, your hand lingers against his forehead for a moment. You know the fever is clearly clouding his thoughts. Even so, that doesn't stop warmth from rushing into your face.
Yeah… still burning. A faint smile finds its way to your lips, "Just sleep."
Your hand trails from his forehead to his cheek, cupping it for a second too long before you shyly pull it away.
Law lets out a dissatisfied hum, "Mhhmnn dun wanna."
"You don't want to sleep?"
"I feel funny…"
"Funny how?"
"Like... like I can't think," his brow pinches. "Like– I don't know what I'm saying."
Right…
"I'll take your temperature again."
You reach for the mercury thermometer and give it a few flicks before slipping it beneath his arm. Once the five minutes passed, you hold it up against the light, squinting your eyes as you check how far the silver line stretches this time.
"It's coming down…" you murmur. "Still high enough to make your brain a little mushy though. How's your head?"
"Still hurts... A little."
"Where?"
Law lifts a sluggish hand towards the side of his head, not lasting long before falling back to the mattress.
You try to sit closer to him, resting your fingertips where he'd been trying to point, "Here?"
"No, more to the side… More. There."
"Here?"
"Mhm," a relieved sigh escapes him, "feels better when you touch it."
Feels better when touched…
Your fingertips slip into his hair, your nails barely grazing his scalp so lightly that Law's eyes drift shut almost at once. You trace one, two... three soft circles against his scalp, and Law feels his entire body relax with a warm tingle that spreads from the crown of his head to the nape of his neck.
For the first time since you brought him to bed, the tension in his shoulders seems to melt away, along with the tightness of his jaw that begins to ease, making his lips slightly part.
Law lets out another quiet breath and leans into your hand, instinctively tilting his head in search of the warmth of your touch that's making him forget the heavy pounding of his head.
You can't help but smile… This is probably one of those moments that will stay with you for a very long time.
Your eyes drift to your notes on the desk. Pain relieved by gentle pressure… You should write that down.
You let your fingers linger one last time before pulling your hand away, but as you stand, something catches your wrist.
"Noo… where're you going?"
You can't help but laugh. When you look back, you find his fever-swollen eyes fixed on yours, silently waiting for you to change your mind. How are you supposed to say no to that?
"Sorry, I just need to get your medicine ready. I'll be right back, okay?"
Law's clearly annoyed, but after frowning quietly his fingers slowly loosen from your wrist. You catch his hand before it falls back to the bed and give it a small, reassuring squeeze before you let go and head to the desk.
You compare your notes with the medical book one last time, adding the new symptoms and finally settling on the medication that best matches what you've observed.
With your decision made, you head to one of the cabinets to prepare the correct dose.
—
After measuring the ingredients as carefully as you could, you mix them into a single dose and hurry back to Law's bedside. You're surprised to find him curled up around the pillow, both arms wrapped around it while his cheek had practically disappeared into it. It almost looked as if he were trying to bury himself in it. Pfft.
"Comfortable?"
His arms tighten around the pillow at the sound of your voice, lifting his face just enough to look at you with sleepy eyes.
"…It's soft," his cheek sinks right back into it, fingers curling lazily around it "…Smells nice."
Oh, for God's sake.
"Alright." You let out an exasperated sigh, trying very hard to ignore the warmth creeping to your face once again. You take your seat beside him, set the freshly prepared medicine on the table and guide the spoon to his mouth.
"Open," you say firmly, "Ah."
Law obeys reluctantly and swallows it in one go, but his face immediately twists in disgust.
"What is it?"
"…Tastes awful."
Serves you right. But the miserable look on his face immediately wipes the thought away.
Setting the spoon aside, you reach for the glass of water and help him take another sip to wash away the bitter taste.
"Sorry… The ship's doctor called in sick. Feel free to file a complaint once he's recovered."
Law lets out a small huff, almost a laugh.
"Better?"
He takes one final sip, "Yeah."
You set the glass back on the table and help him lie back down.
As you brush a few loose strands of hair away from his forehead, your fingers linger for a moment before finding their way back into his hair, almost on their own. This time, you don't really think about it; your fingers simply comb through the dark strands before coming to rest against his scalp.
Law relaxes beneath your hand, his shoulders sinking into the mattress. You chuckle when he gently nudges your hand with his head, as if asking for more, which you happily oblige and continue your lazy movements through his hair.
A heavy sigh escapes him.
"You really like this, huh?"
"Mhm," the tension on his brow almost disappears. "I… I like everything you do."
You take a deep breath. Your idiot of a captain isn't making this any easier. You try to gather yourself, "That's not exactly what I asked."
"I know."
His answer is so simple that it catches you completely off guard. Your smile falters for a second, and your fingers come to a stop before you even realize it.
After a few quiet seconds of not feeling you move, Law slowly opens his eyes. When he sees you, his lips curve into a sweet, silly smile, and you forget how to breathe.
You feel as if time has stopped, completely trapped by his eyes that begin to wander over your face, your hair, your cheeks, your lips… then slowly, back to your eyes.
"…You're beautiful."
Heat rushes to your face so quickly that you have to bite your lower lip to keep yourself from smiling like an idiot. Unable to hold his gaze any longer, you slip your fingers into his hair again, forcing yourself to think of something else and hoping your movements would distract him from noticing just how flustered he was making you.
"You already told me that."
"I did?"
You nod. He seems to think about it for a moment before humming to himself, quietly pleased. His eyelids flutter shut again as your fingers resume their slow, gentle caress through his hair.
"Hey," Law lets a long sigh, "…tell me something."
"Hm?"
"What…" his brow pinches slightly as he searches through the haze clouding his thoughts. "What do I have to do… to make you mine?"
You freeze.
"…What?"
Law opens his eyes, blinking slowly. But once he sees your startled expression, his own immediately shifts. "…Did I say something weird?"
"Ah– no no, it's just—"
"Shit, sorry," he says as he covers his face with both hands. It's the first time all day that you can see a hint of genuine embarrassment slipping through the fever. "I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable."
"No, it's okay, I just—"
"It's just–" his frustrated voice cuts you off again, "It's just…. Hahhh…, I've been trying to give you hints for a while, but you never get them."
You still, staring at him for a few seconds as you try to process everything.
"You… you have?"
"…Yeah."
"Am I really that oblivious..?"
"Yeah."
"Wait, so– what you're telling me is… you've been pursuing me this whole time?"
"Yeah?"
The sheer sincerity of his answer makes you laugh, "Are you serious? Is that what you call that?"
Law frowns, grabs your hand, and tugs it away from his head, giving you the most offended look.
"Are you making fun of my tactics?"
That only makes you laugh harder. You'd never seen him pout before, and you could already imagine the unbearable embarrassment he'd go through once the fever breaks and he comes back to his senses.
"You definitely need better tactics, Captain."
Law actually considers that.
"…Alright," he says after a thoughtful pause, rubbing his thumb over the back of your hand. "Then promise me something." You turn your attention back to him, "Promise you won't run away."
"And why's that?" you tilt your head, amused. "Are you planning to abduct me?"
A sleepy smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth.
"Heh, do you want me to?" He lets out a quiet chuckle, his eyes drooping a little lower. "You're right. Maybe that's the only way you'll finally get it."
Smiling to yourself, you release your hand from his grip and return to his head.
"Alright," you say softly, "How about this. If you get some proper sleep, I'll let you steal me for one day."
His eyes beam and open wider, "One whole day?"
"From the moment the sun rises till it sets."
Law looks absurdly pleased with that answer, and you can't help but smile back at him.
Sinopsis: Three weeks into their fake relationship, the line between acting and reality begins to blur. As feelings grow stronger and the truth becomes impossible to ignore, both you and Clark must decide whether to let the lie end—or finally admit what has been real all along.
Warnings: Workplace Harassment, Stalking Behavior, Emotional Distress, Anxiety, Self-Doubt, Fear of Rejection
WC: 8,400 words approx.
Three weeks.
They had been doing this for three whole weeks.
And Clark had made those weeks so charming that sometimes you forgot it was all a lie.
For a moment, when he smiled at you from across the desks, or handed you a freshly made coffee without you even having to ask, or when his fingers laced with yours as you walked down the stairs, it felt real.
Like you were actually dating.
Like you actually cared about each other.
Like all of this would actually last forever.
But then you remembered it was a favor.
That Clark was kind to everyone.
That there was nothing special about the way he treated you.
And the cold returned.
They had thought a month would be enough.
One month of lies.
One month of fake kisses and intertwined hands.
And Benjamin would get bored and finally leave you alone.
That had been the plan.
But Benjamin didn't get bored.
Benjamin didn't give up.
If anything, the lie seemed to entertain him even more.
Because now he wasn't just bothering you.
Now he was making jokes.
And his jokes weren't funny.
They were the kind of jokes that made you freeze.
The kind that stole the air from your lungs.
The kind that made you grit your teeth to stop yourself from saying something you'd regret later.
One day, while everyone was at their desks, you and Clark were drinking coffee and Lois was flipping through a newspaper a few desks away, Benjamin approached with his mug in hand and that smile you hated with every fiber of your being.
He leaned casually against your desk.
Right in front of you.
And spoke loudly enough for everyone nearby to hear.
"Well, when Clark breaks your heart, please come to me. I actually know how to treat a woman."
He laughed as if he had said something incredibly clever.
And your blood ran cold.
Lois looked at him with such obvious irritation that it seemed like sparks might shoot from her eyes.
She opened her mouth, undoubtedly preparing a very colorful insult.
But she never got the chance.
Because at that moment, you felt your chair move.
Clark had grabbed the backrest and gently pulled you closer to him, as though it were the most natural thing in the world.
Then you felt his hand settle against your waist.
His palm rested there, fingers spread, firm but never tight.
The warmth of his touch traveled through your clothes and straight to your skin.
It was a calm touch.
The kind that didn't say you're mine.
The kind that said,
It's okay. I'm here.
And it worked.
Every time Benjamin tried to make you uncomfortable, Clark appeared with a gesture like that.
And it felt as though the fear slowly dissolved.
Like a reward after a long week.
Like an unexpected gift that made you smile inside.
But it wasn't a possessive touch.
Clark never took advantage.
Never put his hands where they shouldn't be.
Never held you too tightly.
Never lingered longer than necessary.
It was simply a hand on your waist.
Steady.
Comforting.
The kind of touch that said,
I'm here. You're not alone.
And even though you knew it was part of the act—
Even though you knew he was only doing it to make Benjamin leave—
You still liked it.
Far too much.
"Then you'll have to wait a little longer," Clark said.
His voice was so calm it sounded as though he were discussing the weather.
"Maybe a few more months. Or years. Unless we end up getting married, of course."
The sentence made you go pale.
Married.
He had said married.
Your heart lurched so violently you thought it might leap right out of your chest.
You stared at Clark with wide eyes.
But he was still looking at Benjamin with that polite smile that wasn't entirely polite.
From Jimmy's desk came an explosive coughing fit, as if someone had choked on their own breath.
Benjamin's eyes widened too.
And for a second—
Just one second—
You saw him caught completely off guard.
Speechless.
Clark didn't give him time to recover.
He turned toward you.
Leaned slightly closer.
And looked at you with such gentle eyes that they almost hurt.
"Ready for lunch?" he asked.
With his free hand, he brushed a loose strand of hair away from your face.
Then tucked it behind your ear with a tenderness that sent a shiver across your skin.
"Yes," you answered.
Your voice came out much higher than you intended.
But you smiled.
A real smile.
The kind that appeared without permission.
You grabbed your purse with trembling hands.
Clark took your hand.
He held it as naturally as though he'd done it a thousand times before.
And perhaps he had.
Three weeks of holding your hand had already turned into habit.
The habit of taking your hand.
The habit of walking beside you.
The habit of making you feel safe.
He pulled you gently to his side and draped an arm across your shoulders in a loose embrace.
Then he walked away with you toward the elevator.
Benjamin remained behind.
Coffee mug still in hand.
Expression twisted.
But you didn't look back.
You didn't want to see him.
You only wanted to leave with Clark.
When the elevator doors closed behind you and you were finally alone, Clark immediately stepped away.
It was almost as though he had been waiting for privacy to drop the act.
One step.
Then another.
He adjusted his glasses with a finger.
His cheeks were slightly pink.
And his smile looked much more shy than before.
"I hope I didn't overwhelm you," he said immediately, speaking a little faster than usual.
"The marriage thing, I mean. That was too much, wasn't it? I'm sorry. It just slipped out. I wanted him to leave already, and I couldn't think of anything else to say, and—"
"If this lie keeps going," you interrupted, a laugh escaping your chest, "we're going to have to adopt children and pretend they're ours."
Clark looked at you with wide eyes.
For a second, you worried you had said something incredibly stupid.
But then he laughed too.
A soft, warm laugh.
And his entire face relaxed.
"We could name the girl Sophia," he suggested, as though he were being completely serious.
You laughed.
A real laugh.
The kind that bent your body forward and made your stomach hurt.
"Sophia?" you repeated between giggles.
"It's a pretty name," Clark said with a shrug.
"And if it's a boy," you replied, wiping a tear of laughter from your eye, "we can name him Derek. Like Derek Shepherd."
Clark nodded.
His smile was so wide that dimples appeared in his cheeks.
"Derek Kent," he said, testing the name despite the fact that it didn't sound quite right.
He was obviously lying.
And you laughed again.
"Sounds good."
"We still have time to think about it," you suggested.
And both of you smiled.
Neither of you willing to admit how frighteningly easy it was becoming to imagine a future that was supposed to be fake.
Then came the newsroom party.
Clark told you about it the day before, during your "fake couple dinner", because that was normal now, wasn't it?
It was normal for the two of you to leave work together and go to the Italian restaurant afterward, to ask for the same table as always, to share pasta and talk about your days as if you had been doing it for years.
It didn't even feel strange anymore.
It was part of the routine, like going down to the editors' floor or getting coffee from the machine in the hallway.
But that night, while you watched Clark move the silverware with his large hands, something wouldn't leave you alone.
Something had been eating away at you from the inside for days, and you knew you had to say it.
"Clark," you began, letting your fingers fall onto the table, gently tapping the checkered tablecloth. "Do you think this is still okay?"
He lifted his gaze from his plate.
There was a little sauce at the corner of his mouth, barely visible, and you thought you should tell him so he could wipe it away, but you didn't.
You just kept looking at him.
Waiting.
"Because at the end of the day, we're..." You tried to find the right words, the ones that wouldn't sound so harsh, the ones that wouldn't make him defensive.
But you couldn't find them.
So you told the truth, even though the truth hurt a little.
"Lying."
Clark didn't say anything at first.
He only placed his silverware on the table, slowly, and leaned back against his chair.
He looked at you with those clear eyes that seemed to see beyond what you wanted to show him.
And you felt your stomach twist, because yes, of course you were lying.
Pretending was hard.
It was hard to wake up every morning and remember that everything you did, every kiss on the cheek, every hand held, every time he brushed your hair away from your face, was part of a show.
The hard part wasn't acting for everyone else.
The hard part was acting for yourself.
Because that lie was starting to make you feel strange around Clark.
But not strange in an uncomfortable way.
Not the kind that made you want to run away.
It was a different kind of strange.
The kind that made you wonder things you shouldn't be wondering.
Like whether Clark could ever truly fall in love with someone like you.
Because sometimes, in the way he looked at you, in how gentle his voice was when he asked how you had slept, in how natural it felt to have his hand on your waist, for one second you believed it was real.
You believed he felt something too.
But then came the question.
The question that always arrived like a cold shower:
And you? Did you believe Clark could fall in love with you?
The answer was no.
You didn't believe it.
Because Clark was kind to everyone.
Because Clark treated the cleaning lady with the same sweetness he showed you.
Because Clark didn't see you as someone special, only as one more person on his list of people to help.
And you weren't a reporter.
You didn't have interesting opinions like the people who wrote articles did.
You didn't know how to talk about politics or economics or the important things happening in the world.
You only took pictures.
You hid behind a camera and captured moments, but when someone asked for your opinion, when someone asked what you truly thought, your words got tangled and you either said something silly or stayed quiet.
You didn't have a well-formed opinion, and that made you feel strange.
As if you didn't quite fit there.
As if you were a guest who had stayed longer than she should have.
So continuing with that lie could only hurt you.
You knew that.
Every day you spent with Clark, every kind gesture he made for you, every time you laughed together, you were digging a deeper hole.
A hole that would hurt to climb out of later.
Because the lie was going to end.
It had to end.
And when it ended, Clark would still be Clark, kind to everyone, and you would be just another coworker.
A photographer he had once pretended to date.
And nothing more.
Clark smiled.
Despite everything, he smiled.
And that smile broke your heart a little because you couldn't read what he was feeling.
It was impossible.
His face was like a closed book, one with no title on the cover.
Did he feel anything after pretending for so long?
Or was this just another favor to him, like helping Steve with an article or walking Zoe to the printer?
You didn't know.
And not knowing was the worst part.
"Then we won't go to the party together," Clark said, and his voice sounded different, lower, as if he had made a decision that cost him something.
You stared at him with wide eyes.
You hadn't expected that.
You thought he would say you should keep pretending a little longer, that you should endure it until Benjamin finally got tired.
But no.
He chose the first option.
Separation.
And that hurt more than you wanted to admit.
"Well..." you began, but the words got stuck in your throat.
And then you knew.
You knew that what you were about to say was probably the reason you had decided to end all of this.
Because you couldn't keep going.
Because every day you spent falling a little more in love with him, every fake caress that made your heart race, was a broken promise.
And you didn't want to reach the point where you couldn't look at him without crying.
So you took a deep breath, clenched your hands under the table so he wouldn't see them trembling, and said it.
"I heard Sarah say she liked you."
Clark went still.
He blinked twice.
Three times.
As if he hadn't heard you correctly.
His lips parted slightly, but no words came out.
You felt your throat burn, but you continued, even though it hurt to say, even though every syllable felt like swallowing ground glass.
"The other day, in the break room. She was talking to Marta and said she's wanted you for a while."
You lowered your gaze to your plate, to the pasta you barely wanted to eat anymore.
"Maybe you should invite her. To the party, I mean. Or out. Whatever you want."
Clark didn't answer right away.
He looked at you with an expression you couldn't decipher, something between confusion and surprise.
Then, after a silence that felt eternal, he spoke.
"So soon?" he asked, his voice strange, as though he were thinking out loud.
You lifted your head and looked at him in confusion.
"Soon?"
"Yes," Clark said, shaking his head as though what you had just said was absurd. "We're supposed to be breaking up today, aren't we? So... finding a date for Saturday's gathering wouldn't be very appropriate. Especially if I'm going to be devastated over you."
You laughed.
You couldn't help it.
A small, trembling laugh that came from deep inside your chest.
It made you laugh that he said "devastated," as if he were a character in an old movie, as if it truly mattered to him that people didn't think badly of him.
But you also laughed because it was sweet.
Because even though everything was fake, even though there were no real feelings behind his words, he wanted to be loyal to you.
He wanted to protect the lie until the very last moment, for you, so you wouldn't look bad.
And somehow, that hurt more than if he had said yes, that he was going to invite Sarah.
"Are you going with someone?" Clark asked, tilting his head to one side.
You shrugged, pretending you didn't care, even though inside you felt as if something you couldn't name was collapsing.
"Well, I can be the one who cries over you. That way you can invite whoever you want without it looking bad."
Clark frowned slightly, as though he didn't like the idea.
"Besides," you continued, speaking faster so you wouldn't have time to regret it, "I've already interfered enough in your life. Sarah probably wanted to go out with you for a while, and because of me, because of my lie, she couldn't. It isn't fair to her. Or to you."
"No," Clark said suddenly, with a firmness that surprised you.
He shook his head from side to side, and his eyes locked onto yours with an intensity that stole the air from your lungs.
"You can't cry over a man. I mean... you're far too beautiful to cry over anyone."
He fell silent as soon as he finished the sentence, as though he had only just realized what he had said.
His cheeks turned red.
Truly red.
He pushed his glasses up with a trembling finger.
Looked down.
Looked up.
Looked down again.
And a quiet, awkward "right?" escaped his lips in a whisper.
You laughed.
Again.
But this laugh was different.
Softer.
Warmer.
You laughed because Clark had blushed like a teenager, because he had said something so lovely without meaning to, because for one second, just one second, it seemed like his words weren't part of the show.
But then you thought you were exaggerating.
That surely he was just being kind.
That you shouldn't read more into it than there was.
So you stored that sentence in a secret place inside your heart, in that little drawer where you kept the things that made you happy but that you couldn't take out.
"Then we'll just go separately," you said, shrugging again as if it were the simplest thing in the world. "That way everyone will know we've broken up. And that's it. End of the lie."
"And what will happen with the editor?" Clark asked, his voice turning serious again. "Benjamin. Once he knows we're no longer together, he'll start bothering you again."
"I guess I'll face it," you said, and this time you didn't laugh.
Because that wasn't funny.
"And if it gets worse, I'll tell Perry. I don't know if anything will come of it, I don't know if they'll believe me, but maybe that's better than always dodging him, hiding behind other people, feeling afraid all the time."
Clark nodded slowly, his face serious.
He said nothing, but his eyes stayed fixed on yours for a long while, as if he were committing your face to memory.
"Thank you, Clark," you said, and this time your voice came out steadier.
A smile formed on your lips, the kind that appears when something hurts but you're still grateful.
"It was the best fake relationship I've ever had. Better than the real ones, even."
Clark smiled too, and that smile reached your soul.
It was sincere, the kind that crinkled his eyes and made people look even more beautiful.
"I only did the basics," he said, shrugging as if it wasn't a big deal. "What every man is supposed to do. Treat a woman well, take care of her, listen to her. I didn't do anything extraordinary."
You laughed softly and shook your head.
"To you, it's basic. To others, it isn't. To others, that's too much."
Neither of you said anything else after that.
You finished dinner in silence, but it was a comfortable silence, the kind that didn't need words.
Clark paid the bill, as always, and walked you to the entrance of your building.
You walked slowly, without rushing, your hands tucked into your pockets so you wouldn't be tempted to hold them.
Because there was no need anymore.
The lie had ended.
When you arrived, Clark stopped on the sidewalk, right before the steps leading up to your door.
He slid his hands into his pants pockets and looked at you with a slightly sad smile.
Or maybe that was your imagination.
Maybe you were only seeing what you wanted to see.
"Well," Clark said, moving his head as though he didn't quite know what to do with his body now that he couldn't kiss you goodbye. "Take care. And if anything happens, if Benjamin bothers you again, tell me. It doesn't matter if we're not a fake couple anymore. Tell me anyway."
"Okay," you said, a knot in your throat making it hard to speak properly. "Thank you for everything, Clark. Truly."
Clark nodded.
He took one step back.
Then another.
And turned to leave.
He walked a few meters away, hands still in his pockets, head lowered.
You stayed there watching him, watching as he moved farther away, as he became smaller in the empty street.
Your heart was beating hard.
Too hard.
And something in your chest begged you to call out to him, to tell him not to leave, to tell him you didn't want it to end.
But you didn't.
You stayed silent, arms crossed over your chest, watching Clark disappear around the corner.
And when he finally vanished, when only the echo of his footsteps remained on the asphalt, you felt the cold again.
The same cold as always.
Only bigger.
Heavier.
As if the entire winter had settled inside you.
You climbed the stairs on unsteady legs, opened the door to your apartment, locked it behind you, and collapsed onto the couch without even turning on the light.
The darkness wrapped around you like a blanket.
And you stayed there, staring at the ceiling, thinking about Clark.
About his smile.
About his hand on your waist.
About the way he said your name.
About how he had told you that you were far too beautiful to cry over anyone.
And then, before you could do anything to stop it, one tear slipped from your eye.
Then another.
And another.
You cried over Clark, even though he had told you not to.
You cried because the lie had ended, but the real feelings were still there, large and heavy and impossible to ignore.
You cried because you liked Clark.
Because you had liked him since the first coffee he offered you.
And now, after a month and two weeks of fake kisses and held hands, you liked him even more.
The next day, you arrived at the Planet.
The building looked the same as always, with those high walls and that smell of paper and coffee you already knew by heart.
You rode the elevator up, clutching your purse against your chest, feeling the eyes of people coming in and out on every floor.
You were calm.
Or at least, you were trying to be.
Inside, you still had that knot in your stomach, the one that didn't go away no matter how deeply you breathed or how hard you tried to think of pretty things.
The elevator opened on the top floor.
That was where they usually placed the crowded tables for social events, those folding metal tables that were always scratched and covered in coffee stains.
But not today.
Today, everything was different.
The tables were large and round, covered with white tablecloths that fell all the way to the floor.
There were flowers in the center.
Real flowers.
The kind that smelled lovely and clearly cost money.
The chairs had fabric covers and bows tied around the backs, and small lights had been hung on the walls, twinkling like stars.
Everything looked elegant.
Beautiful.
As if someone had spent the entire night decorating the room.
You walked through the entrance, and everyone looked at you.
There was curiosity in their eyes.
It was obvious from miles away.
Some people arched their brows.
Others whispered something into the ear of the person beside them.
And a woman from accounting looked you up and down as though she were doing mental calculations.
You knew why.
You knew it was obvious what had happened when they saw Clark hadn't arrived with you.
It gave the impression that a breakup had occurred.
So you sighed, squared your shoulders, and walked toward the table with the drinks and food.
You weren't going to hide.
You weren't going to give them the satisfaction of seeing you uncomfortable.
There was everything on the table.
Sandwiches cut into triangles, cups filled with colorful juices, trays of cookies and little cakes, and a pile of fried things you absolutely loved.
You grabbed a plastic plate, one of those thin white ones that bends if you put too much weight on it, and served yourself some chopped fries.
You looked at them for a moment, took a bite of one, and chewed slowly as you watched the people around you laugh and talk.
"I knew it," a voice said beside you.
Your heart dropped straight into your stomach.
You knew that voice.
You hated it with your entire soul.
You turned your head, and there was Benjamin, wearing his gray suit and that crooked smile, leaning against the table as if he owned the place.
You looked at him without speaking, only with your eyes, and felt the fries get stuck in your throat.
"It's just that you weren't Kent's type," he said.
His eyes moved over your face, up and down, as though he were measuring you, as though you were a trophy he had lost.
"You're more... I don't know. He seems nerdier, more boring. I told you I could be more fun."
He took one step closer.
Then another.
His voice became lower, more intimate, as if the two of you were alone in the room despite the hundreds of people around you.
You felt your skin prickle.
Felt your hands begin to tremble.
But this time, you didn't freeze.
This time, you moved your foot.
One step back.
Then two.
You moved away from him as if he were fire that could burn you.
"Benjamin," you said, and your voice came out firmer than you felt, "even if I left Clark and every man in the world disappeared, I would never, not even if I were born again, go out with you. So please, be more professional."
The man stared at you.
He blinked twice, as if he couldn't believe what he had just heard.
Around you, a few people turned to look.
A girl from human resources stopped eating her little cake and stared.
A guy from sports raised an eyebrow.
You had drawn attention.
But you didn't care.
You weren't going to stay quiet this time.
"You've become quite insolent," Benjamin said, and his voice was no longer soft.
It had an edge now.
A sharpness that made you clench your teeth.
"Do you call a woman insolent for trying to stop being harassed by a man who refuses to leave her alone?" you asked.
And even though you were trembling with fear inside, even though you felt like your legs might give out beneath you, you kept talking.
He couldn't do anything to you.
Not with so many people around.
Not in the middle of the party.
Maybe on Monday.
Maybe on Monday, when you were alone, he would find a way to retaliate.
But not today.
Today, you were safe.
"What a strange concept of kindness you have."
Benjamin smiled.
But it wasn't a pleasant smile.
It was the kind of smile people wear when they're planning something ugly.
He crossed his arms and leaned slightly toward you, just enough for you to feel his breath.
"Did creating a fake relationship with Clark Kent make you think you could make me jealous?" he asked, his voice a venomous whisper. "You're a—"
He never finished the word.
"Corvin."
Clark's voice arrived like thunder in the middle of the silence.
You turned your head and saw him walking toward you with long, firm steps.
He was wearing his blue suit, the one that suited him best, and his glasses caught the light from the party.
He wasn't smiling.
His face was serious.
More serious than you had ever seen it.
He came to your side, and his hand found your waist, right where he always placed it, but this time the touch wasn't for pretending.
It was to protect you.
You felt it in the way his fingers tightened slightly.
In the way he pulled you against his side as if to say,
This girl is with me.
"It's rude to disrespect a woman," Clark said, his voice calm but firm.
He wasn't shouting.
He didn't need to.
His height and serious expression were enough.
"Disrespect her with the truth?" Benjamin asked, shrugging one shoulder as if he couldn't care less. "I was only telling her things as they are."
"Well," Clark said.
And then he smiled.
But it wasn't a kind smile.
It was a knowing smile.
The kind of smile someone wears when they have an ace up their sleeve.
"You said the same thing to your secretary. And to the editor under your supervision. And to Lily's photographer. And to the receptionist downstairs."
Benjamin went pale.
His eyes widened slightly, and his mouth twisted as though he had bitten into a lemon.
"And it seems the complaints increased since yesterday," Clark continued, without dropping his smile. "Perry received all of them. Every single one. Signed and dated."
You looked at him in confusion.
Complaints?
What was he talking about?
Benjamin clenched his fists and opened his mouth to say something, but Clark didn't give him the chance.
"Now, please," he said, his voice turning colder, "show some respect to my girlfriend."
He held you by the waist and guided you away from there.
You walked quickly toward a corner of the room, behind a column where the others' gazes couldn't reach.
You were silent, your heart pounding in your ears, trying to process what had just happened.
"Clark..." you said when you finally stopped.
He positioned himself in front of you, blocking your body with his, and although his face was serious, his eyes held a different kind of brightness.
He was still looking toward where Benjamin had remained, with an anger he could barely contain.
"They're going to fire him," Clark said, his voice lower now, as though he didn't want anyone else to hear. "Starting tomorrow. Perry received the complaints from every woman he harassed. Not just the ones from the Planet, but also from other places where he worked before."
You stared at him, unable to understand.
Your eyes widened, and your mouth went dry.
"I spoke to each of them," Clark continued.
And now he did look at you, directly in the eyes.
"I convinced them to file harassment complaints. I told them they weren't alone, that if they all spoke together, nobody would be able to silence them. Cat and Lois are handling all the paperwork for the formal reports."
You drew in a breath.
The air entered your lungs as though you were breathing for the first time in months.
"Yours is still missing, of course," Clark said, his voice softening a little. "Only if you want to file it. I'll be your witness. I saw everything. I heard everything. I was there."
"Thank you, Clark," you whispered.
The words came out small, almost voiceless, because your throat had tightened again.
But this time, it wasn't from fear.
It was from relief.
From a happiness so enormous it almost hurt.
"I guess there's no need to pretend anymore."
Clark nodded.
A small smile appeared on his face, but his eyes were still serious, as if he were waiting for something else.
"Now you can go out with Sarah," you added.
And you meant it.
It hurt to say, but it was the right thing.
The lie was over.
Clark no longer had any obligation to you.
He could live his life.
Go out with whoever he wanted.
Be happy without having to worry about inventing fake kisses and embraces.
But Clark tilted his head.
He wrinkled his nose as though he had smelled something unpleasant, and his brows drew together in a small gesture of confusion.
"Pretend?" he asked, as if the word didn't make sense.
You stared at him, not understanding.
And then he took a deep breath, pushed his glasses up with a trembling finger, and continued speaking.
"I... didn't pretend."
Your heart stopped.
Or maybe it started beating far too fast.
You weren't sure.
"We pretended to have a three-month relationship," Clark said, his words coming slowly, as if he were choosing each one carefully. "That's true. But I didn't pretend when I said I liked you in front of everyone. That... that was true."
You opened your mouth, but no sound came out.
Clark looked down for a moment. He adjusted his glasses again even though they didn't need adjusting, and when he looked back at you, his cheeks were red.
Red like the flowers decorating the tables.
"I just didn't want you to feel uncomfortable," he continued, his voice so quiet it was almost impossible to hear. "I waited for all of this to be over so I could... so I could tell you. So you'd know it wasn't just a favor. At least not for me. That I..."
He paused.
Swallowed hard.
You watched his lips move, and suddenly it felt impossible to breathe.
"I like you," he finally said. "Not since a month ago, when we started all of this. No. I..."
He closed his eyes for a moment, as if remembering something.
When he opened them again, there was a light in them you had never seen before.
"Four months ago," he said precisely.
The certainty in his voice stole your breath away.
"Exactly. Monday, June 5th. You were sitting at your desk, and I was walking by to take some paperwork to printing. You looked at me and said you liked my glasses."
A smile slipped onto your face.
You remembered that day.
It had been a rainy Monday, one of those days when everything seemed to go wrong. You had arrived soaked and in a terrible mood.
But Clark had walked over with his glasses slightly crooked, and without thinking, you had told him they looked good on him.
That they suited him.
That was all.
Just a silly comment, the kind people make without giving it any importance.
But he had remembered it.
Four months later.
With the exact date and everything.
"I wasn't sure if you were just being nice," you said, your voice rough, as though you were about to cry, but not from sadness. "I thought there was no way you could like me. That you were too good for someone like me."
"Oh, Clark."
This time your eyes filled with tears.
Good tears.
"I like you so much. So, so much."
Clark's eyes lit up.
They became bright, as though someone had switched on a little light inside them.
His hands trembled slightly at his sides, as if he didn't know what to do with them.
Carefully.
So incredibly carefully.
As though you were touching something fragile.
You tugged lightly on his jacket.
Your fingers curled around the lapels, pulling him gently toward you.
Clark understood.
Clark leaned down.
Slowly.
Very slowly.
Until his nose brushed against yours.
His eyes were still open, staring at you as though he couldn't quite believe this was happening.
And then his lips touched yours.
It wasn't one of the quick kisses you exchanged for Benjamin's benefit.
It wasn't a polite brush against your cheek.
It was a real kiss.
The kind of kiss given wholeheartedly.
The kind that carried every feeling that had been left unsaid.
Clark's hand returned to your waist, but this time it wasn't to protect you from a harasser.
It was to keep you close.
To hold on to you.
And you wrapped your arms around his neck, threading your fingers through the short hair at the nape of his neck, letting yourself melt into him.
Maybe, after all, neither of you had ever been pretending.
Maybe all this time, without realizing it, you had been building something real.
A relationship that had begun quietly.
The kind that grows slowly, like a plant putting down roots long before anyone notices the flowers.
A relationship that was now, finally, more real than any relationship you had ever had before.
Clark pulled back just enough to catch his breath.
Then he looked at you with a smile so wide that dimples appeared in his cheeks.
"So," he said, his voice slightly rough, "am I still your boyfriend?"
You laughed.
A laugh that came straight from your soul.
Bright.
Free.
"Yes," you said.
And then you kissed him again.
"Yes. Of course you are."
And behind the column, while the lights twinkled overhead, while people laughed and music played softly in the background, the two of you stayed wrapped in each other's arms for a long time.
Sinopsis: After Clark pulls away, you try to convince yourself you can live without him. But jealousy, fear, and one emergency with Eloise finally force both of you to confess what has been left unsaid.
Maybe you decided too quickly. You didn't realize it until the third day.
The first day without Clark was fine. You tidied up the apartment a little, the baby slept most of the day, and you thought that maybe it was nice having the space all to yourself.
The second day started to feel strange.
The couch was empty.
There was no freshly brewed coffee in the morning.
The kitchen was clean but quiet, without the sound of Clark moving pots around.
The third day was worse.
You missed his presence already.
Not just his help, but his company.
The sound of his breathing from the other room.
The way he held the baby and spoke to her softly, as if she could understand him.
The way he glanced at you when he thought you weren't looking.
You told yourself it was pregnancy sensitivity.
Or postpartum hormones.
That you were emotional, that everything felt bigger than it really was.
But no matter how many times you repeated that to yourself, the sadness wouldn't leave.
It was a small thing, but irritating, like a pebble trapped inside your shoe.
You missed him.
And you didn't know whether it was love or habit, but you missed him.
That night, the baby cried through the early hours of the morning.
It wasn't the kind of soft cry that could be soothed with a lullaby.
It was loud.
Desperate.
The kind of cry that breaks your heart because you don't know what else to do.
You picked her up and rocked her.
You sang to her.
You nursed her.
You changed her diaper.
Nothing worked.
The baby kept crying, and you felt like you were about to cry too.
It was two in the morning.
You hadn't slept at all.
Every time you closed your eyes, she started screaming again.
Moonlight streamed through the window, illuminating your exhausted, desperate face.
You sat on the bed with the baby in your arms, and suddenly, unable to stop yourself, you started crying.
Heavy tears rolled down your cheeks and fell onto the little girl's head.
With a trembling hand, you grabbed your phone from the nightstand.
You unlocked it and searched for Clark's name.
You typed quickly, without thinking:
"Can you come over?"
But before you could send the message, you heard a noise at the window.
You looked up and saw him.
Clark was already there, floating outside your window in the blue-and-red suit he wore when he flew.
He slipped through the frame like a shadow, barely making a sound.
You stared as he stepped inside, concern written all over his face, his eyes immediately searching the baby, then you, then any sign of danger.
"What happened? Are you both okay?" he asked hurriedly, still adjusting his cape.
"The baby's fine," you said, and the moment the words left your mouth, you cried even harder. "She won't stop crying, Clark. I don't know what to do. I barely got her to sleep a little while ago, and now she's awake again. I think I'm not good at this."
Clark smiled.
It wasn't a mocking smile.
It wasn't pity.
It was the kind of gentle smile that says, It's okay. Everything's going to be alright.
He approached slowly so he wouldn't startle you and wrapped his arms around you.
He held you carefully, as if you were a crystal glass that could shatter.
One hand rested against your back while the other gently stroked the baby's head.
"It's part of the process," he said in his calm voice. "Babies cry. They don't know how to talk, they don't know how to point at things. They only know how to cry when something feels wrong. It's not your fault."
"But I don't know what's wrong with her," you sobbed against his chest.
"I'm going to buy everything that might help," Clark said. "A wipe warmer, some drops for colic, one of those pacifiers everyone recommends, a white-noise machine. Don't worry. I'll take care of it."
And while he said that, he was already thinking about everything he had read online during those two weeks, every product parents recommended for babies who cried for no apparent reason.
Clark pulled away just enough to cup your cheeks in his large, gentle hands.
Slowly, with his thumbs, as if he had all the time in the world, he wiped away your tears.
His fingers were warm, and the touch made you feel a little less alone.
"Actually," he said, "I'll leave when she starts sleeping through the night and you're able to get proper rest. Until then, I'm staying."
You looked at him, your eyes still wet.
Meanwhile, the baby had calmed down a little, only whimpering softly against your chest.
You knew Clark was doing a lot for you.
Maybe too much.
And it hurt to say it, but you said it anyway.
"But it's not your responsibility. You're only the donor."
Clark nodded because it was true.
He was only the donor.
But he was also something more.
Something he didn't dare say out loud.
The father.
The man hopelessly in love with you.
"But I'm your friend," he said instead, "and I'd love to help you. Really. Not because I feel obligated. Because I want to."
That word—friend—settled in your chest like a warm coat in winter.
It wasn't what you might have wanted to hear.
But it was exactly what you needed in that moment.
Someone who would stay without asking for anything in return.
You hugged him, squeezing the baby safely between the two of you, and Clark closed his eyes and took a deep breath.
I wish this moment would never end.
I wish I could stay like this forever.
Clark guided you gently back to bed.
First, he made sure the baby was completely asleep and settled her into her bassinet with a small blanket wrapped around her.
Then he returned to you.
"Let me check your incision," he said.
Even though it made you a little embarrassed, you nodded because you knew he only wanted to help.
You lay back against the mattress and lifted your shirt slightly.
Clark knelt beside the bed and, with extreme care, examined the C-section scar with the tips of his fingers.
It was pink.
Healing well.
No signs of infection.
"It's better than last week," he said quietly, almost as if he were speaking to himself.
He took the opportunity to use his special vision, just in case there was something that couldn't be seen with the naked eye.
Everything looked fine.
Clark also started hugging you more.
At first, they were quick hugs, the kind people give when saying hello or goodbye.
But then they became longer.
Tighter.
More necessary.
He knew you were still sensitive from the C-section, that sometimes your back hurt or you felt tired for no reason.
And he had discovered that when he hugged you, you relaxed.
That your body softened against his, as if his arms were the only place where you could finally lower your guard.
So he started hugging you for no reason.
In the kitchen, while you waited for the food to heat up.
In the living room, while the baby napped.
By the entrance, before he went out to buy something.
And you, without thinking too much about it, leaned into his chest.
Closing your eyes and resting your head against his shoulder had become a habit.
And many times, without even realizing it, you fell asleep like that.
Standing.
Wrapped in Clark’s arms.
He would feel you grow heavier against him, hear your breathing become slower and deeper, and then he would carefully carry you to the couch or the bed.
He would lay you down gently, cover you with a blanket, and stay there for a while, watching you sleep.
He used those moments to stroke your hair, running his fingers through your strands as if they were silk.
It was his favorite moment of the day.
When you didn’t have to pretend anything.
When you didn’t have to be strong.
When you were just you, sleeping peacefully, and he could love you without anyone seeing.
That was when Clark realized that maybe Clark Kent could have the life he had always longed for.
The life of a normal man.
A home.
A woman waiting for him.
A daughter who smiled at him when he came back from work.
The kind of life people had in movies, with family dinners and unhurried weekends.
And he could hide it.
He could keep being Superman when the world needed him, and still come home before dawn.
He could have both.
Because seeing you there, with the baby in your arms, was enough to make him want to try everything.
But he was afraid.
That fear wouldn’t leave, no matter how hard he pushed it away.
It was like a shadow following him everywhere.
And it wasn’t a small fear.
It was a large, heavy fear that tightened around his chest when he least expected it.
The little girl was growing.
Every day, she was stronger.
More alert.
More beautiful.
She learned how to smile.
How to crawl.
And as he watched her grow, he thought about all the terrible things that could happen.
A villain discovering he had a daughter.
Someone following them to your apartment.
The little girl inheriting his powers and not knowing how to control them.
Hurting herself.
Or worse, hurting someone else by accident.
Those images haunted him at night, when everything was dark and his mind refused to stop spinning.
One day, without saying anything, Clark made a decision.
He went back to his apartment.
It wasn’t a goodbye.
It wasn’t a fight.
It wasn’t a door slammed shut.
It was an, “I’m going home to sleep, I’ll be back tomorrow,” that turned into, “I stayed behind to take care of a few things, I’ll come by over the weekend.”
And then into an entire week without him crossing your doorway.
You didn’t say anything to him, because what could you say?
It was his home.
He had every right to be there.
But you missed him.
You missed him the way people miss the sun in winter.
The bed felt bigger and colder.
The empty couch seemed to stare back at you accusingly.
The baby turned her head toward the door every time she heard a sound, as if she were waiting to see him walk in.
And so did you.
Even if you refused to admit it.
You knew he had to keep living his life.
You couldn’t keep him locked inside your apartment forever.
It wasn’t fair.
Besides, you started thinking things that hurt.
What if he truly loved someone else?
What if, someday, he met a woman who didn’t have a recent C-section scar and a crying baby at two in the morning?
What if he wasn’t afraid of anything with someone else?
And then forgot about you?
That thought pierced your chest like a thorn.
You tried to pull it out, but it kept coming back again and again.
You shouldn’t be angry if that happens, you told yourself.
He was only a donor.
He wasn’t your boyfriend.
He wasn’t your husband.
He hadn’t promised you anything.
He was just a friend who had been very generous.
And if one day he fell in love with someone else and left, you would have to accept it.
You would have to smile and wish him the best.
Even if your whole world collapsed inside you.
Even if you didn’t want that.
Even if you wanted the exact opposite.
When the little girl turned seven months old, you went back to work.
Not at the Daily Planet.
Not yet.
You worked from home.
Editing articles.
Correcting drafts.
Sending emails to journalists so they would rewrite entire paragraphs.
It was tedious work, invisible work, but someone had to do it.
Perry valued your work because it was still excellent, even if you were doing it from the dining table with the baby crawling between your feet.
He called you once a week to ask how you were, and he always ended up saying, “Whenever you want to come back, your position is here.”
That made you feel good.
It reminded you that you weren’t just a mother.
You were also an editor.
You also had a life.
Clark, for his part, didn’t disappear completely.
He was still present, but in a different way.
On Fridays, after work, he knocked on the door.
He didn’t knock loudly.
He didn’t make noise with the knocker.
Just two gentle taps with his knuckles, as if he didn’t want to disturb you.
You opened the door and he was there, with a tired but sincere smile, his hands full of things.
He picked up the little girl immediately.
He took her into his arms as if it were the most natural thing in the world, lifted her above his head, and the baby let out a contagious laugh.
A laugh that made even the plants in the apartment want to dance.
The little girl knew him very well.
She recognized his scent, his voice, the tickle of his beard when he brought her close to his cheek.
And Clark loved that child with an intensity he could barely contain.
His entire face lit up when she grabbed one of his fingers with her tiny hand.
You hesitated whenever you watched him holding her.
Whenever you saw him laughing with her, spinning her in the air, blowing raspberries against her little belly.
Something moved inside you.
Something you didn’t know how to name.
You wanted him there every night.
Not just on Fridays.
Not just once in a while.
You wanted him every day.
Every hour.
Every minute.
But you knew that wouldn’t happen.
You couldn’t ask that of him.
It wasn’t fair.
And besides, what were you supposed to say?
Stay with me because I can’t bear it when you leave?
It sounded insane.
It sounded like someone in love.
Clark looked at you and smiled.
That quiet smile of his, the one that always disarmed you.
But there was something in his eyes too.
Something you didn’t know how to read.
Something that seemed to say, I miss you too, but in a language neither of you dared to speak.
He never arrived empty-handed.
He brought gifts for the little girl.
A new rattle.
A cardboard book with animals.
A soft stuffed toy the baby sucked on until it was soaked with drool.
And for you, dessert.
Always something different.
Flan.
Rice pudding.
A slice of apple pie.
Bread pudding.
Or sometimes, when it wasn’t dessert, he brought flowers.
A small bouquet, the kind sold on the corner, tied with a simple ribbon.
You placed them in a glass cup because you didn’t have a vase, and you looked at them for days, until they withered.
You never said anything to him.
But every time you saw those flowers, your chest filled with something warm and sweet.
And then, as if it were nothing, Clark stayed.
He stayed to clean up the kitchen.
He washed the dishes from lunch, wiped down the counter, put the milk back in the fridge.
Or he went to pick up something from the dry cleaner’s that you had left there because you hadn’t had time to go.
Or he fixed the squeaky closet door.
Or changed a lightbulb.
Always with an excuse.
Always with something to do.
Because the truth was that he looked for any reason to come back to you.
Any excuse to be near you.
He didn’t know how to tell you.
He didn’t dare stay completely.
But he couldn’t leave entirely either.
So he lived in that middle place.
That limbo of Fridays, desserts, and flowers.
And you let him.
Because even though you never said it, you also looked for excuses to make him stay a little longer.
Just a little longer.
Always a little longer.
Until the night grew late and he said, “Well, I should go,” and put his shoes on by the entrance.
And you, sitting on the couch with the baby asleep on your chest, could only manage to say, “Take care.”
When what you really wanted to say was, Don’t go.
You found a caregiver to look after little Eloise.
That was the girl’s name.
Eloise.
A soft name, like something from a fairytale princess, one you had chosen because it sounded beautiful and because you didn’t know anyone else with that name.
Clark had nodded when you told him.
And later, when she was already a few months old and you called her by name, he would say, “Eloise,” in a voice so tender it was as if the name melted in his mouth.
The caregiver was an older woman, the kind with gray hair gathered into a bun and hands that were soft but firm.
Her name was Rosa, and she had years of experience taking care of babies.
She had raised five children of her own and nine grandchildren, so she knew more about diapers and colic than all the books in the world.
Clark found her after interviewing seven people.
He investigated her without her knowing.
He used his hearing to listen to her conversations from far away and his eyes to see if she was hiding anything bad.
He made sure she was truly a good woman, not just someone who appeared to be one.
And Rosa was.
She arrived on time every morning, wearing her white apron and her grandmotherly smile, and stayed with Eloise while you went to work.
The baby loved her from the first day, maybe because Rosa smelled like bread and lavender soap, or maybe because babies know how to recognize good people.
So you went back to the Daily Planet.
On the first day, you woke up nervous, as if it were your first day at work instead of your return after many months away.
You put on a shirt that fit you well, a pair of pants you could finally button again, and stared at yourself in the mirror for a long while.
“I’m the same person I was before,” you told yourself. “I’m a good editor. I can do this.”
You kissed Eloise on the forehead, left a bottle ready for Rosa, and walked out the door with your heart pounding in your chest.
But the first day wasn’t what you expected.
You arrived at the Daily Planet, and the smell of paper, ink, and old coffee hit you like a hug from a friend you hadn’t seen in a long time.
Typewriters clattered.
Phones rang.
Journalists rushed from one side to the other with papers in their hands.
Everything was the same.
Everything was exactly as you remembered it.
Lois welcomed you the way she always did, with a big smile and a shove to the shoulder.
“Finally! I was getting tired of being the only sensible woman in this place,” she said, and you laughed because Lois was anything but sensible.
Jimmy hugged you, a strong and quick hug, and then looked you in the eye and said, “Where’s the baby? I miss her more than I miss you.”
And you laughed again.
They both knew your little girl, and they loved her.
They had visited her several times.
They had fought over who got to hold her longer.
They had bought her dresses and stuffed animals and books she still couldn’t read.
They were family too.
They made coming back feel safe.
But then Perry called you into his office.
It wasn’t his usual desk anymore, because now he had a bigger office, with windows overlooking the street and a plant dying in the corner because no one watered it.
You sat across from him, and he smiled at you with that grumpy old-man face that, deep down, belonged to someone good.
“I have a surprise for you,” he said, and pressed a button on his phone. “Send her in.”
The door opened, and a woman walked in.
A blonde woman.
The kind of blonde who looked as if she had stepped out of a magazine, with long, shiny hair that seemed like it had been straightened that very morning.
She had green eyes, a pale green like moss after the rain, and a beautiful smile.
The kind of smile that made you want to smile too, even when you didn’t feel like it.
Perry introduced her to you.
“This is Lexie. A new editor,” he said.
And you looked at her.
Measured her from head to toe without meaning to.
And something in your stomach tightened without you knowing why.
Perry kept talking, but you were no longer fully listening.
“She’s been working with Clark these past few months,” he said, as if it were an insignificant detail. “I placed her as a staff writer first, but I think she has editor potential.”
You smiled.
You made the automatic gesture of nodding and extending your hand to greet her.
“Nice to meet you,” you said.
And your voice sounded normal, even though inside, you felt very far from normal.
Because then you remembered something.
You remembered how Clark, in the last few weeks before you returned to work, sometimes spent time on his phone with a smile.
A strange smile.
One that wasn’t for you, or for Eloise, or for anyone you knew.
He would be sitting on the couch in your apartment, the baby asleep against his chest, and suddenly his phone would vibrate.
He would look at it and let out a tiny smile, the kind that slips out before someone can stop it.
You hadn’t given it any importance then.
You thought maybe it was a message from Lois, or an article that had turned out well.
But now, with Lexie standing in front of you, blonde and beautiful and smiling, Clark’s smile took on another meaning.
Clark had never mentioned there was someone new.
Of course, he didn’t have to.
You weren’t a couple.
You didn’t owe each other anything.
He could work with whomever he wanted.
Talk to whomever he wanted.
Smile at whomever he wanted.
There was no agreement.
No promise.
No rule saying he had to tell you about every new person who showed up at the newspaper.
Although he did know you were coming back.
He knew you would return.
And still, he hadn’t said anything.
Maybe because it wasn’t important.
Maybe because it meant nothing.
Or maybe because it did mean something, and he didn’t want you to know.
You lowered your gaze for a moment.
Your shoes, black ones you had worn to feel more serious, suddenly seemed ridiculous.
You went back to your place, the desk you had left empty for so many months.
Someone had cleaned it.
There was no dust, no old papers.
Everything was tidy, as if they had been waiting for you.
But something had changed.
Lexie was seated in front of you now, at the desk across from yours, right where there had been no one before.
Now she was there, with her blonde hair and her smile and her green eyes, arranging her things as if she had belonged there all her life.
You looked at Clark.
He was standing beside his desk, a few feet away.
He saw you looking at him and smiled at you, that smile of his that used to calm you and now did something strange to your chest.
“Welcome home,” he said softly, as if nothing had changed.
As if you were still the same people you used to be.
You nodded.
“Thank you,” you said, and turned back to your chair.
But everything felt different.
More distant.
As if there were an invisible pane of glass between you and the rest of the world.
The sounds of the newsroom seemed muffled, the familiar faces blurred, and every time you looked up, Lexie was there.
Typing.
Laughing.
Leaning over to speak to someone.
And you had no right to any of it.
You had no right to feel jealous.
No right to be angry.
No right to ask Clark why he hadn’t told you anything.
Because he didn’t owe you explanations.
Because he was free to live his life.
Because you yourself had told him, through your actions, that you didn’t need him.
When he left your apartment after the birth.
When you let him pull away.
When you did nothing to keep him there.
You had told him without words that it was fine for him to leave.
And he had left.
Not completely.
But enough for there to be room now for someone else.
You watched them joke around.
Clark and Lexie.
They were standing near the coffee machine, she with a cup in her hand, he with his arms crossed.
Lexie said something.
Clark laughed.
And you saw the way he tilted his head toward her, as if to hear her better.
Inside jokes?
Jokes only the two of them knew?
The weeks she had spent working with him, those months when you hadn’t been there, had created something.
Something you hadn’t watched grow.
Something that was now right there, in front of your eyes, and you couldn’t ignore it.
You looked away.
You looked at your computer, the screen glowing white, the cursor blinking as it waited for you to write something.
Anything.
A headline.
A correction.
Whatever.
You told yourself it was foolish.
That Clark had left your apartment because maybe he felt too obligated.
Maybe he felt trapped.
Maybe he didn’t want to be the donor who stayed forever because that wasn’t what you had agreed on.
Maybe he needed his space.
His life.
His friends.
Maybe you had been a burden without realizing it, and he had simply been too kind to tell you.
Maybe Lexie was everything you couldn’t be.
Lighter.
Easier.
Without a baby waiting for her at home every night.
Without a C-section scar that still hurt sometimes.
Without a pile of diapers and bottles and sleepless nights.
So you focused on your work.
You opened your pending emails, reviewed the articles that had been assigned to you, and began correcting the first one.
It was a piece about a gas leak in the south of the city.
You read every word.
Corrected commas.
Rearranged a few paragraphs.
You did everything right.
Everything professionally.
But every two or three minutes, unable to help yourself, you looked up.
Clark was still there, talking to Lexie.
She was laughing, running a hand through her hair, and Clark was smiling.
It wasn’t a huge smile.
It wasn’t a burst of laughter.
It was a comfortable smile.
The kind someone gives to a person they know.
To someone who doesn’t make them feel self-conscious.
And from your desk, you felt like a stranger in your own place.
As if the months you had spent away had erased something that used to exist.
Something that maybe had only existed in your head.
You said nothing.
You couldn’t.
You had no right.
Clark wasn’t yours.
He never had been.
He was only the friend who had donated his sperm to you.
The friend who had stayed for two weeks taking care of you.
The friend who was now smiling at another woman while you watched from far away.
And that empty feeling in your chest was nothing more than the memory of something that had never happened.
Or that was what you tried to make yourself believe as you typed “revise” beside the article’s headline and pressed your lips together to keep a sigh from escaping.
The weeks passed.
And it wasn't easy.
You couldn't stop yourself from crying, and you hated yourself a little for it.
Because you cried in the newspaper's bathroom, with the water running so no one would hear.
You cried in your car before starting the engine.
You cried in the shower, when no one could see you.
It was stupid, you knew that.
It was stupid to cry over someone who had never been yours.
Now you had your daughter, a beautiful little girl who looked at you with those huge eyes and filled your heart in a way no one else ever could.
You couldn't compare yourself to Lexie.
You couldn't compete with her.
Because this had been your decision.
You had decided that Clark was only a donor.
You had decided that the two of you wouldn't be a couple.
You had decided that he could leave whenever he wanted.
So you had no right to feel bad about seeing him with someone else.
And yet, you felt terrible.
You felt so terrible that sometimes it was hard to breathe.
So you focused on the only thing you could control: your daughter.
Every afternoon when you got home, happiness hit you in the face the moment you opened the door.
Because Eloise would see you, stretch her little arms toward you, and make that sound that was almost "ma-ma," though she still couldn't quite pronounce the "m."
You would pick her up, hold her tightly against your chest, and for a few seconds, everything else disappeared.
Lexie disappeared.
Clark disappeared.
The office, the looks, the inside jokes—everything faded away.
There was only you and her and the baby scent that had soaked into your clothes.
Clark still came to your apartment.
But not like before.
Not with the same frequency.
He showed up on Fridays, sometimes Wednesdays, always with some excuse.
He brought something for Eloise: a new book, a toy, a blanket.
But you no longer looked at him the way you used to.
Before, whenever he walked through the door, your whole face lit up.
Now you greeted him with a short, "Hi," and went back to whatever you were doing.
You didn't offer him coffee.
You didn't sit beside him on the couch.
You didn't rest your head on his shoulder while the baby slept.
You had built yourself a shell.
An invisible suit of armor that wouldn't let him get close.
He noticed, of course.
Clark noticed everything.
But he didn't say anything, because he didn't know what to say either.
And the worst part was that you had started cutting phone calls short too.
When he called, you let it ring a few times before answering with a curt, "What is it?"
You talked only about what was necessary.
The baby.
The caregiver.
Some paperwork.
And when there was nothing left to discuss, you would say, "Alright, see you..." and hang up before he could answer.
You didn't want to hear his voice any longer than necessary.
Because if you listened to his voice, your heart softened.
And you couldn't allow that.
Not again.
You felt guilty.
Terribly guilty.
Because Clark hadn't done anything wrong.
He had simply continued living his life.
He had simply gone to work and met someone new.
He wasn't a traitor.
He hadn't betrayed you because he had never belonged to you in the first place.
Because you had never been together.
And yet, you treated him as if he had stabbed you in the back.
Every time you hung up without a proper goodbye, you stared at your phone afterward and thought:
I'm an idiot.
But you couldn't stop yourself.
Something stronger than you kept pushing you away from him.
Kept telling you to protect yourself.
To avoid giving him the chance to hurt you.
Even though he wasn't even trying to hurt you.
At the Daily Planet, no one besides the people closest to you knew that Clark was Eloise's father.
To the rest of the newspaper, you were simply a woman with a baby.
The father was a mystery.
An anonymous donor.
A "none of anyone's business."
Lois and Jimmy protected the secret as if it were treasure.
They never mentioned it out loud.
Never made comments that could raise suspicion.
So when Lexie arrived, she had absolutely no idea what had happened between you and Clark.
She didn't know he had slept on your couch.
She didn't know he had bought the crib.
She didn't know he had wiped your tears away in the middle of the night.
To Lexie, you were simply the editor who had returned after maternity leave.
And Clark was simply her coworker, the one who had shown her how everything worked during those first few months.
But Lexie, without knowing any of that, began making you feel awful.
You didn't know whether it was intentional or simply her personality, but her words pricked at you like tiny needles.
The kind you barely notice until your skin is covered in punctures.
One afternoon, in the newspaper kitchen, while you were heating water for tea, she approached with her mug and her perfect smile.
"So you really have a baby?" she asked, as though she had only just found out.
You nodded, smiling as politely as possible.
"Yes. Her name is Eloise," you said.
Because she was your daughter, and you were proud of her, even if talking about her with Lexie made you uncomfortable.
Lexie nodded, wearing an expression that suggested she was thinking something over.
"Hmm... and if you have a baby, wouldn't it be better to stay home?" she asked. "I mean... I feel like women who become mothers aren't as dedicated to work as they used to be because they have other things to focus on."
She said it softly.
As if it were a sincere concern.
As if she were doing you a favor by saying it.
You looked at her.
You felt the blood rush into your face, but you refused to let it show.
You stood there with your mug in your hand and took a slow breath before answering.
"I used to think the same thing," you said, with a calmness you didn't actually feel, "until Perry called and told me he needed me back. I guess he still hasn't found anyone better than me."
Then you smiled.
But it was a sharp smile.
The kind that cuts.
And you walked away before she could respond.
You didn't want to hear another word.
You moved quickly down the hallway, your eyes burning.
You didn't want to cry in front of her.
You didn't want to give her that satisfaction.
You entered the women's restroom, locked the door behind you, and leaned against the wall while taking deep breaths.
The tears came on their own.
Just like they always did these days.
You wiped at your eyes with the back of your hand, but more tears followed.
"I'm a professional," you repeated to yourself.
"What that woman said is ridiculous."
"I'm good at what I do."
"I have a daughter, and I'm good at what I do."
But tears never listened to reason.
That was when your phone rang.
It vibrated in your pocket, and you pulled it out quickly, assuming it would be Lois or Jimmy.
But it was Rosa's number.
“Rosa? Yes?” you said, trying not to let it sound like you'd been crying.
Rosa's voice was worried.
She didn't waste time getting to the point.
The baby had a fever.
Not a very high one, but she was restless, crying more than usual, and Rosa thought she should be seen by a doctor.
Your heart dropped straight to the floor.
You hung up without a proper goodbye, shoved your phone back into your pocket, and hurried out of the restroom, almost running.
You went straight to Perry's office.
You didn't look around.
You didn't notice Clark and Lexie in the distance, laughing about something again.
You didn't care.
Nothing mattered more than your daughter at that moment.
You reached Perry's door and knocked.
“Come in,” he called from inside.
You entered and explained what was happening, your voice shaky but determined.
Eloise had a fever.
Rosa was worried.
You needed to leave.
Perry looked at you over the rim of his glasses, frowned for a moment, then nodded.
“Go,” he said. “You've been doing good work since you came back. Don't worry about things here.”
You thanked him and left without looking back.
As you walked down the hallway toward the exit, you heard hurried footsteps behind you.
“What happened?”
Clark's voice.
He had followed you.
Of course he had.
He always noticed when something was wrong, even when you didn't want him to.
You stopped.
Closed your eyes for a second.
You could have told him the truth.
You could have accepted his help.
You could have let yourself fall into his arms the way you had so many times before.
But no.
Something inside you hardened.
Hardened like stone.
No.
No, no, no.
You couldn't keep doing this.
You couldn't keep depending on him.
You couldn't keep needing him.
You couldn't keep feeling like he was the only person capable of holding you together when everything was falling apart.
Because he wasn't yours.
He belonged to no one.
Or maybe he belonged to Lexie.
Or maybe to whoever he wanted.
But not to you.
“Nothing,” you said, your voice sounding angrier than you intended.
But angry was better than broken.
Angry was better than letting him see how badly you were falling apart.
Clark took a step closer.
His face was full of concern, the kind of expression he wore whenever something happened to you and he didn't know how to fix it.
“But something happened. I saw you leave Perry's office with—”
You paused.
Took a deep breath.
And in that moment, you understood that this wasn't fair.
He didn't owe you anything.
You had no right to treat him badly just because you were hurting.
Clark had been good to you.
Kinder than anyone had ever been.
And you were repaying him with silence and slammed doors.
But even then, you couldn't let him get close.
Not again.
Because if he got close, you would fall again.
And falling a second time hurt too much.
You looked into his eyes.
Those blue eyes you had always liked.
Those blue eyes you still liked.
“Eloise has a fever. I'm going home,” you said.
More calmly this time.
But with a distance that hit him like a punch.
“I'll come with you,” Clark said instantly.
He didn't hesitate for even a second.
His body was already moving toward the exit as if accompanying you was the most natural thing in the world.
But you stopped him.
You lifted a hand between the two of you, as if that gesture alone could keep him away.
“No,” you said.
And the word came out stronger than you intended.
“You keep living your life. I'll take care of my daughter.”
My daughter.
Not ours.
It wasn't a mistake.
You did it on purpose.
Because you needed him to understand that boundaries existed.
That the two of you had created them.
And that they had to be respected.
You walked away.
You headed for the exit without looking back.
But if you had looked back, you would have seen Clark standing in the middle of the hallway with his arms hanging limply at his sides and his expression shattered.
You would have seen him drag a hand over his face as if sadness could be wiped away like dust.
You would have seen him open his mouth to say something.
And then close it again because he couldn't find the words.
You would have seen a man in love.
Alone.
Standing in an empty hallway.
Watching the woman he loved and his daughter walk away from him without being able to do anything to stop them.
Because he knew he had no right.
Because he felt guilty too.
Because every night he told himself the same thing.
You can't put them in danger.
You can't love them the way you want to.
Keeping your distance is what's best for them.
And now that you were giving him that distance, it hurt as though someone had ripped a piece of his chest away.
But you didn't look back.
You walked out of the Daily Planet, the afternoon sun warming your face, and got into your car.
And as you drove home, toward Eloise, you cried again.
You cried because your daughter had a fever.
You cried because of what you'd said to Clark.
You cried because you missed him.
You cried because you didn't know how to be angry and heartbroken at the same time.
You cried until there were no tears left.
You arrived home with your heart lodged in your throat.
You climbed the stairs without even feeling your feet, your keys clenched tightly in your hand so no one would see them shaking.
You opened the door, and the first thing you did was search for Eloise.
Ready to run to her.
Ready to pick her up.
Ready to hold her until the fever broke.
But you didn't see her.
She wasn't in her bassinet.
She wasn't on the blanket where you usually let her crawl.
She wasn't anywhere.
The silence frightened you even more.
“Rosa,” you called, your voice trembling.
The caregiver appeared from the kitchen wearing a calm smile that made no sense.
She didn't look worried.
She didn't look frightened.
She looked calm.
Far too calm.
“She’s already with her father,” Rosa said, as though it were the most normal thing in the world.
“Mr. Clark calmed her down.”
You froze.
Clark.
He had arrived first.
Of course he had arrived first.
He must have used his speed to get there before you.
To be there while you were still in your car, driving through your tears.
He had flown.
Or run.
Or whatever it was he did to move faster than any normal human being.
And instead of feeling angry, you felt a wave of relief so intense it almost hurt.
Because he was there.
Because he had come.
Because he always came.
You entered Eloise's room quietly.
The door was slightly open, and you pushed it wider with your fingertips.
There was Clark.
Standing beside the crib.
His eyes fixed on the baby.
He saw you enter, and his face immediately filled with sadness.
Not guilt.
Not pride.
Only sadness.
As if he already knew you wouldn't welcome his help, but had given it anyway.
“I heard her heartbeat from the Planet,” he said softly, almost whispering.
“It was too fast.
Much too fast.”
You looked at him, not fully understanding.
Rosa hadn't realized it, but things had been more serious than they appeared.
The temperature had been very high.
Dangerously high.
The kind of fever that could become dangerous in a baby.
The kind that could rise quickly and cause harm before anyone noticed.
Clark had arrived just in time.
“I... used the cold to help regulate it,” he said, gesturing gently toward Eloise.
“My breath. Ice. Things like that.”
And she fell asleep.
He looked at her for another moment.
Those eyes of his swollen from worrying.
From watching.
From feeling too much.
Then he carefully settled her into the crib and tucked a thin blanket around her so she wouldn't be too cold or too warm.
The baby took a deep, peaceful breath.
As if the danger had never existed.
Clark turned toward you.
He took a step forward.
Just one.
With the intention of getting closer.
Maybe to hug you.
Maybe to say something.
But you lifted your hand.
And placed an invisible wall between the two of you.
“Go back to the Planet,” you said.
Your voice came out harsher than you intended.
“I can handle this on my own.”
You left the room before he could answer.
You needed air.
You needed space.
You needed not to fall apart in front of him.
In the living room, Rosa was waiting with her purse in hand, ready to leave.
You gathered what little strength you had left, wiped your face with your sleeve even though you weren't crying yet, and smiled at her.
A fake smile.
The kind that hurts because it takes so much effort to hold in place.
"See you tomorrow," you said, trying to make your voice sound normal. "Clark already calmed her down, and we'll take her to the doctor."
Rosa smiled in relief, nodding.
"That's good."
She blew a kiss into the air in farewell.
You opened the door, watched her disappear down the stairs, and when the sound of her footsteps faded away, you closed it again.
You rested your forehead against the cool wood of the door and closed your eyes.
Behind you, Clark was still there.
You could feel him.
You could feel him without looking at him, the same way you can feel someone's gaze on the back of your neck.
"I don't understand," he said.
His voice wasn't angry.
It wasn't even sad.
It was tired.
The voice of someone who had spent days, weeks, months trying to understand what had happened.
"What did I do wrong for you to treat me like this? What do you want from me?"
You turned around.
You looked at him angrily, but it was the kind of anger that hurt more than sadness.
There were so many things you wanted to tell him that they all crashed together in your throat.
You lowered your gaze to the floor because you couldn't hold his.
Your shoes—the same ones you'd worn to work that day—suddenly felt like the only real thing in the middle of all that chaos.
"You're not the problem," you said.
And your voice cracked.
"It's me. Just... go away, Clark."
Clark took a step forward.
Not a threatening step.
The step of someone who wasn't willing to leave without fighting for an answer.
"Why?" he asked.
And that single word carried more weight than any other word he'd spoken in his life.
You looked at him.
You couldn't hold it back anymore.
Tears filled your eyes, and one escaped, warm against your skin, rolling down your cheek to your chin.
"Because it was a mistake," you said.
The words barely made it out of your mouth.
A mistake.
Two words capable of changing everything.
"Eloise is the best thing that's ever happened to me in the entire world, but... having your genes..." You swallowed hard. "At first, I thought it would be the most beautiful thing in the world."
You looked at him angrily.
But it wasn't anger directed at him.
It was anger at yourself.
At your own stupidity.
At believing you could have him without actually having him.
"My God," you continued.
The words rushed out as though you were afraid time was running out.
"The only reason I even had that thought was because I liked you. Having a child with the person you're in love with is a dream. But... I can't demand anything now that Lexie is there. God, that woman is..."
You stopped.
Took a deep breath.
Tried to calm yourself.
"I can't even insult her because I'm the one who said we were nothing. That nothing would happen. That you'd only be a donor. And now I'm jealous because you acted like we were something ever since I got pregnant and..."
Your voice broke completely.
You couldn't continue.
You covered your face with your hands as if you could hide from him.
From your own words.
From everything you had just confessed.
You cried openly now.
Your shoulders trembling.
Your fingers pressed tightly against your face.
"You didn't tell me about Lexie," you managed between sobs. "And I know that's your right, and... it hurts so much. Just... please go away, Clark."
And then you felt arms wrapping around you.
His arms.
Clark hugged you.
It wasn't a hesitant hug.
It wasn't brief.
It was a full embrace.
The kind that completely surrounds you.
The kind that presses you against a warm chest and makes the entire world stop for a moment.
You cried against him, soaking his shirt with every tear you'd spent weeks holding back.
And he didn't let go.
He didn't tell you to stop crying.
He didn't tell you to calm down.
He simply held you.
One hand cradling the back of your neck.
The other resting against your back.
As if he wanted you to know that he would never let you fall.
"Are you jealous of Lexie?" he asked softly.
His voice was so close that you felt his chin brush the top of your head.
You didn't answer.
You couldn't.
All the words were gone.
But he didn't need an answer.
He already knew.
"If you had told me you wanted me to stay, I would have."
Clark's voice trembled slightly.
"I would've done it without hesitation."
You looked up at him through tear-filled eyes.
Your vision was blurry.
But you could still see him clearly.
As if the rest of the world had turned gray and only he still had color.
"You said it yourself two years ago, Clark. You didn't want anything serious."
The words came out wrapped in a knot of pain.
You had carried them for so long.
Turning them over and over in your mind.
Trying to understand them.
Trying to accept them.
Clark cupped your face in both hands.
Slowly, he wiped away your tears one by one with his thumbs.
His fingers were warm.
Gentle.
The touch made you tremble.
"I didn't want to hurt the woman I love," he said.
And those words, spoken so plainly, struck your chest like lightning.
You stared at him.
Confused.
"What?" you whispered.
Because your brain couldn't process what it had just heard.
Clark smiled.
A sad smile.
A tender smile.
The smile of someone who had waited a very long time to say something and had finally found the courage.
"I thought having a child with you would at least give me the chance to stay close to you."
His thumb brushed away another tear.
"Without having to fear someone hurting you just to find out where Superman is."
Another tear.
Another gentle touch.
"Just to stay close to you."
You stared at him, eyes wide.
"What?" you repeated.
Because there was no other word left in your mind.
Clark laughed.
A small laugh.
A nervous laugh.
The laugh of someone risking everything.
"If you tell me to stay right now, I will."
His voice softened.
"Because there hasn't been a single woman I've loved since the day you walked into the Planet who wasn't you."
He paused.
Swallowed hard.
"And Lexie is just another person who works in the same building, just like the dozens of women I pass in the hallway. And I haven’t even glanced at any of them, because my head is filled with thoughts of you. I haven’t done anything with anyone else. I haven’t wanted to do anything. I’ve just been working, and I’ve stayed at the office until my eyes hurt, because coming home without you breaks my heart. I prefer the noise of the office to the silence of a house that no longer feels like mine."
His eyes locked onto yours.
Blue.
Deep.
Like entire oceans.
"Because at the end of the day, you are and always will be the woman I’ve loved and will love for the rest of my life."
The words settled between you.
Heavy.
Certain.
Real.
"And if you want me to stay, I'll do everything I can to protect you. I'll never let anyone hurt you. I won't be afraid of having a family anymore."
His voice almost broke.
"But I need to know."
He waited.
Silence stretched between the two of you.
Growing larger.
"Do you want me to stay?"
You looked at him.
And you cried.
But these weren't tears of sadness anymore.
They were the kind of tears that come when something broken for a very long time finally begins to heal.
Clark saw you crying.
And something in his face dimmed slightly.
As if he thought you were going to say no.
As if he were already bracing himself for the impact.
But you weren't going to say no.
You could never say no.
"Don't leave again," you whispered.
Barely louder than a breath.
And you threw yourself into his arms as if your life depended on it.
You clung to him.
His arms.
His back.
His shirt.
Everything.
Clark let out a breath.
Not an ordinary breath.
A huge one.
A breath of relief.
The kind released by someone who has been holding it for years.
He took your face in his hands again with a tenderness so overwhelming it nearly broke you apart.
And he kissed you.
Not on the lips.
Not yet.
He kissed your tears.
Your wet cheeks.
Your closed eyelids.
He kissed every tear as if he could erase them with his mouth.
And while he kissed you, he spoke between each kiss.
His voice broken.
But steady.
"No. I'm not leaving."
A kiss.
"I'm not leaving anymore."
Another kiss.
"Never again."
Another.
"I'm staying."
His forehead rested against yours.
"With you."
A kiss.
"With Eloise."
Another.
"I'm staying for as long as you'll let me."
His voice shook.
"And if you throw me out, I'll come back."
A kiss against your temple.
"And if you push me away, I'll crawl back."
Another.
"But I'm not leaving."
His eyes closed.
"Not again."
His hand trembled against your cheek.
"Not you."
And you held him tighter through your tears and uneven breaths.
And for the first time in months—
For the first time in so many months—
You felt like you could breathe.
Because Clark was there.
Because Clark was staying.
Because Clark—the good, quiet man who had loved you in silence for so long—had finally said everything he needed to say.
Sinopsis: You discovered Clark Kent's biggest secret long before he ever confessed it. But being Superman isn't what surprises you most. It's the fact that the strongest man in the world completely falls apart whenever you're around.
Warnings: Romance, Humor, Established Relationship, Slice of Life, Domestic Fluff
WC: 5,200 words approx.
You knew Clark had a secret. One that was very big and very precious to him. In fact, you had known it long before you officially started dating him, long before he even dared to ask you out for coffee without his hands trembling as if he were holding a bomb ready to explode.
You worked at the Planet as a photographer. And you were far too observant. It wasn't something you could help. You had a separate website, a small corner of the internet where you uploaded your favorite photographs, the ones that told a story beyond what could be seen at first glance. You had won awards through the Planet and as an independent photographer as well. It was a gift, something that came naturally from deep within you, and you loved it. You didn't just take pictures—you looked at them, studied them, searched for their meaning, for the impact they could have on whoever saw them. To you, every photograph was a frozen piece of history.
That was how it happened, in such a simple way that it almost felt like a joke from fate. You had been taking pictures around work in silence, as you always did. One day, you captured Lois tilting her head while reading an interesting article. The light from the window hit her hair perfectly, making her look like she belonged on the cover of an old magazine worthy of being framed. You uploaded the picture to your website with her permission, and it gained a few new followers. It was beautiful, yes, but it also said something: "Look, this woman is thinking, and she cares about what she's reading."
Later, you took a photo of Jimmy. He was studying what shot to take next, his camera pressed against his face as though it were a part of him. You had captured a photographer in the middle of doing what he loved, and the image conveyed the passion shining in his eyes. He looked at the scene with the excitement of someone who truly loved his work, just moments away from lifting the camera to take the shot. You uploaded that photo too. And just like those, there were many others you kept to yourself like private treasures, while some you shared with the world.
Clark wasn't really into photography. Or rather, he wasn't fond of posing for it. But you loved taking pictures of him when he wasn't paying attention. You photographed him smiling at Cat's little dog, the one she sometimes brought to the office wrapped in a pink blanket. Clark would instantly turn into a child, crouching down and speaking to it in a cartoonish voice. You also captured him once staring at his sandwich as if it were the most beautiful thing in the world. His eyes were wide behind his glasses, and he looked as though he'd never seen ham and cheese between two slices of bread before. It was ridiculous, but adorable.
Among all those pictures, there was one where the main focus was Perry speaking in front of the interns. It was the kind of formal photo that would later be displayed as part of the Planet's history. You took several shots to make sure at least one turned out perfectly. But in one of them, Clark was looking around as if he were searching for something. In another, he was taking off his glasses. Your eyes widened when you looked at the next one: in that photo, he was staring straight ahead with a completely different expression. He didn't seem aware of the camera at all. He was focused, but not on Perry. He was listening to something far away, something no one else could hear.
And that was when you discovered it.
The rest is history, as they say. But what nobody told you before you started dating Clark was that beyond being a hero, he was a man hopelessly in love. Ridiculously in love. The kind of man who would trip over his own feet just because you looked at him. Robert from meteorology thought Clark was obsessed with you. One day, he even said it in the break room.
"That guy looks at her like she's about to disappear."
And maybe humans weren't ready to see how a Kryptonian loved. Humans were used to loving for a little while. Some—only a handful—might love their partners until death did them part. But there was always someone looking elsewhere, always an "I'll call you later" that never came. Clark heard it over and over again with his super hearing. Every night, he listened to hearts breaking all across the city. But he never feared that with you. Maybe because you loved with the same intensity he did. And for a man who could fly, that was stronger than gravity.
And Clark's love extended all the way to Superman.
Literally.
Superman—the serious, kind, funny superhero who always maintained the image of a dependable hero—completely fell apart around you. He became a mess. You knew it because it was absolutely delightful to watch whenever you had the chance. It made you laugh inside to see the Man of Steel turn into jelly simply because you were nearby.
One day, Superman had just rescued a little girl who had climbed onto a building under construction. People crowded around him immediately.
"I'm glad you're all safe," Superman said in his strong, steady voice while holding the little girl with a level of care that seemed impossible for a man so large.
The crowd surrounded him gratefully. Some older men patted him on the back. A woman cried from relief and excitement. Superman nodded seriously, as though it were just another ordinary day. He radiated confidence simply by standing there.
Then his eyes met yours.
You were standing toward the back, your camera hanging around your neck, simply watching. You hadn't taken a single picture of the scene. You preferred seeing it with your own eyes.
Superman's cheeks turned red.
You smiled at him, and he swallowed hard.
It was the kind of dry swallow that could probably be heard three blocks away.
He almost took a step toward you, but people were still surrounding him, waiting for more heroic words.
"Uh... well..." he said, letting out a nervous laugh.
Everyone looked at him strangely.
It was normal for Superman to speak.
It was not normal for Superman to smile like a little boy who had just been handed a cake.
His nervousness did not go unnoticed.
He huffed softly and nearly shifted his hips in embarrassment, like a flirtatious duck who didn't realize he was being flirtatious.
Your lovestruck man became nervous simply because your eyes were on him.
"I... I'll make sure everything stays under control," he finally said, carefully setting the little girl down.
You stepped a little closer, just to make him suffer a tiny bit more.
Superman turned even redder than an apple.
"Hello, Superman," you said with a smile.
"H-hello," he replied, and his voice cracked as though he were going through puberty all over again.
He cleared his throat and looked toward the sky as if searching for an excuse to fly away.
"Nice rescue," you said, crossing your arms. "The little girl was really scared."
"Y-yeah... yeah, honestly..." He rubbed the back of his neck, something Clark did all the time. "She... well, she was in a dangerous place. And I... I saw her. And I thought... I have to help her."
And that wasn't all.
He had always tried not to let people see just how in love he was.
Superman, Clark, or both of them with you.
Because if you were Clark's girlfriend and someone saw Superman looking at you with those abandoned-puppy eyes, people would get the wrong idea. It would look like cheating. People would think you were betraying your boyfriend with the most famous hero in the world.
And of course, that couldn't happen.
Clark knew that.
But Clark was weak when it came to his woman.
Weak.
Weak.
Weak.
Like a chocolate cake sitting in front of a child.
Like that time there was a fire in an apartment building on the north side of the city.
Superman arrived, as always, flying faster than lightning. He put out the flames with his super breath, rescued three people from the fifth floor.
Very heroic.
Very professional.
People applauded.
Reporters took pictures.
And then he saw you in the crowd.
You had only come to see if anyone needed help because that was just who you were—always looking out for others.
But the moment your eyes met his, Superman froze in midair.
Literally.
Floating there like a balloon someone forgot to let go of.
One of the firefighters shouted, "Everything okay?"
And Superman could only manage, "Y-yes, yes, everything's fine. I'm just... checking... the clouds."
There wasn't a single cloud in the sky.
It was a completely clear day.
He slowly floated down.
Far too slowly.
As if he wanted to stretch out every second he got to look at you.
His feet touched the ground, and he started walking toward you, but his legs looked like jelly.
He tripped.
Yes.
Superman tripped over a hose.
A hose.
The guy who could lift a building with one hand nearly fell flat on his back because of a garden hose.
A little boy looked up at him and asked, "Did you get hurt?"
And Superman replied, "No, no. I was... testing the ground. It's solid. Very solid. Good ground."
You had to bite your lip to keep from laughing.
"Superman," you said with a smile, "good job with the fire."
"Thank you," he replied, and his voice sounded slightly higher than usual.
He cleared his throat.
"I'm glad that... that you're okay. I mean, that you're here. Not that there's a fire. That's bad. But you... you're okay. Are you okay?"
"I wasn't even in the fire, Superman, but I'm fine," you answered.
"Good," he said.
And then he just stared at you.
Without saying anything.
Just staring.
Five seconds passed.
Ten.
One of the firefighters had to tap him on the shoulder to tell him there was a column of smoke a block away.
Superman blinked as if he had just woken up from a dream, nodded very seriously, and flew away in a perfectly straight line.
That was how he gave himself away.
Because you didn't look at Superman.
To you, he was still Clark, no matter how hard he tried.
No matter how tight the suit was.
No matter how dramatically the red cape billowed in the wind.
No matter how much he tried to use that deep, confident voice that ended up quoted in every newspaper.
You looked at him and only saw the clumsy guy who got tangled in the cords of his own cape, the one whose glasses slipped off every time you laughed too hard.
He could fly faster than a speeding bullet.
But around you, he moved as if his feet were glued to the floor with school glue.
That night, he flew up to the window of your apartment.
It wasn't the first time, of course.
But that night, you were in the kitchen, wearing an apron and covered in flour because you were making dinner.
The window made that familiar little sound, that soft clack that happened whenever Clark misjudged his speed and bumped his shoulders against the frame.
You heard the scrape of his cape against the glass and smiled without turning around.
"Miss, are you busy?" Clark's voice asked.
But it wasn't Clark's voice.
It was his Superman voice—deeper, firmer.
Like he was auditioning for an action movie.
You turned around, pausing your cooking.
You had a wooden spoon in one hand and a bit of sauce on your cheek.
You smiled and frowned slightly when you saw him standing in the window frame with his arms crossed and his legs spread apart, trying to look imposing.
His red boots gleamed beneath the kitchen lights.
His cape fluttered dramatically behind him because he kept shifting one shoulder to make it look like there was wind.
It was quite a show.
"Why didn't you come through the door, Superman?" you asked, raising an eyebrow as you set the spoon down on a plate.
Clark sighed as though he didn't want to break character.
He was trying.
He really was.
His jaw was clenched, and his gaze was fixed on a point somewhere behind your shoulder, as if he were watching an invisible threat.
But his eyes moved around too quickly, and his cheeks were already starting to turn pink.
You could see it perfectly.
He was trying with all his might, but the way your eyes lit up when you looked at him completely ruined all of his effort.
"I... the window... I can fly," he said.
And his voice cracked a little at the end.
You laughed.
You couldn't help it.
It was too funny seeing Superman explain why he'd entered through the window as though he were a lost pizza delivery guy.
"No... I'm trying, sweetheart," he said with an enormous pout, dropping his arms and letting his shoulders sag.
He looked like a child who had just been told there would be no dessert.
You smiled wider and nodded, walking over to him.
"You're doing great, honey," you said before wrapping your arms around him.
His suit was softer than it looked in pictures.
And he smelled like the sky, as always.
Like that clean air above the clouds.
You rested your cheek against his chest and felt his heart racing.
Fast.
Very fast.
As if he had just finished running a marathon.
"Is there a reason for all this?" you asked, pulling back slightly so you could look him in the eyes.
Clark immediately became nervous.
He ran a hand through his hair.
His hands went to his hips.
Then behind his back.
Then back to his hips.
He had no idea what to do with them.
Eventually he crossed them over his chest, but he looked so uncomfortable that it seemed physically painful.
He tried to put on one of those serious expressions that ended up in newspapers whenever he saved a building.
He pressed his lips together.
Furrowed his brow.
Hardened his gaze.
But his eyes couldn't stay still.
Every few seconds they drifted back to you and softened like a puppy begging for food.
"I read that women are attracted to men who show confidence," he began, swallowing hard.
He tried to keep a serious face, but his lower lip trembled slightly.
He bit it so you wouldn't notice, which only made it seem as though he was concentrating very hard on a complicated problem.
"And men who..." he continued.
Then he looked at you again, and his gaze immediately slipped away.
He was turning red as a tomato.
He clenched his jaw to look more intimidating, but his puffed cheeks made him resemble an angry hamster.
"Very strong men and..." his voice grew smaller, "...also... cold."
He practically whispered the last word.
The blush had spread all the way from his cheeks to his ears.
His ears.
His ears had turned red.
You didn't even know ears could get that red.
He tried to recover his composure.
He straightened his back.
Lifted his chin.
Put his hands on his hips again.
But his cape had gotten caught on the window frame.
When he stepped forward, the cape tugged backward and nearly knocked him flat onto his back.
He did an awkward little hop to regain his balance, his arms flailing in a strange motion as though he were swimming through the air.
Then he froze, eyes wide, pretending none of that had happened.
He coughed a couple of times and crossed his arms again.
Except this time they were crossed backward, like he was hugging himself.
When he noticed, he uncrossed them and tried again.
Then he didn't know what to do with his head, so he tilted it slightly to the side like he was posing for a statue.
He looked so stiff he resembled a cardboard cutout.
"Where did you read that?" you asked, taking another step closer.
You took the grocery bag from his hands—the same bag he'd been clutching the entire time as though it were a life raft.
You stood there with your arms crossed, waiting.
"In The Latest Things You Need to Know About Women," Clark said.
One foot slid backward.
The other moved forward.
It looked like he was secretly practicing a dance routine.
He tried to stand still to appear more confident, but his feet seemed to have a life of their own.
"Steve emailed it to me this morning. He said I needed it."
He attempted a serious smile.
Instead, it came out as a strange expression halfway between a smile and a grimace, as though he'd suddenly gotten a cramp in his cheek.
He remembered what had happened earlier that morning at the office.
Steve had walked up behind him while Clark stared at a photo of you taped beside his computer.
"Buddy, you need this," Steve had said with a rabbit-like grin.
Clark had opened the link and read things like "women want a man who doesn't show emotions" and "don't smile too much, it makes you look weak."
Since then, he'd been practicing in front of the mirror.
He had even put on the Superman suit because he thought it would make him seem more authoritative.
Nothing could have been further from the truth.
"That website was written by a man, Clark," you said, brushing your fingertips against his suit.
The red-and-blue suit that had saved the world dozens of times.
And there he was, shifting from side to side as though he were standing on hot coals, his fists clenched behind his back and his gaze fixed on the floor.
He tried once more to look serious.
He furrowed his brow so hard wrinkles appeared on his forehead.
Pressed his lips together until they became a thin line.
But then you smiled.
Just a little.
And all that seriousness melted away like ice cream under the sun.
His entire face softened.
His eyes turned gentle again.
With a defeated sigh, he let his shoulders drop.
"I'm not saying men can't understand us, but most of them don't," you added.
And he nodded like a puppy being told why he wasn't allowed to eat chocolate.
"I like you the way you are, Clark. You don't need to change," you said softly.
You stepped a little closer.
He immediately stopped moving altogether, as if someone had pressed a pause button.
"It's cute seeing you get nervous even while wearing the suit," you said as you looked down into the grocery bag.
Bread.
Lettuce.
Cheese.
Everything was there.
Except for one thing.
"I don't get nervous," he said.
His voice came out high-pitched.
Almost squeaky.
He tried to look serious again, but one eyebrow had started twitching uncontrollably.
He touched it with a finger to stop it.
Then the other eyebrow started twitching.
It looked like a tiny storm was happening on his face.
You looked at him.
His cheeks were so red that it looked as though he'd spent an hour standing directly beneath the sun.
"You forgot the tomato sauce, Clark," you said, lifting the empty bag that should have contained the jar.
He smiled.
A huge, awkward smile.
The kind a child gives after accidentally breaking a vase and hoping to be rewarded for admitting it.
Every trace of seriousness vanished instantly.
His entire face lit up.
His eyes squinted from smiling so hard.
"Yeah... I... uh... forgot it," he admitted, scratching the back of his neck with one giant hand.
You laughed and nodded.
Because you already knew exactly how this story ended.
"I have to go get it, don't I?" he asked.
You nodded.
"Okay," Clark said.
His eyes immediately lit up as though you'd just given him the best news in the world.
"Can I buy those Japanese mochi I showed you at the store the other day?" he asked, rocking back and forth on his feet like he was about to take off.
Literally.
"The soft ones with sugar inside. The pink ones," he added, unable to stop a small excited bounce.
"They're the sweetest ones, sweetheart. You're going to love them."
"Yes, but only one box, Clark," you said, raising a finger in warning.
"Do you remember what happened when you ate two entire boxes last time? I don't want to see you flying around the world five times in a row because of a sugar rush you couldn't control."
You said it completely seriously.
Very seriously.
Because he had literally done exactly that the week before.
He had flown from Metropolis to Japan in three seconds, bought the mochi—even though they were sold five blocks from your apartment—and eaten an entire box on the way home.
When he arrived, his pupils were so wide he looked like an excited owl.
Then he'd eaten the second box and taken off flying again because:
"Sweetheart, I feel like I can touch the stars with my fingers."
"Okay," Clark said.
Then he leaned down and kissed you.
It was a soft kiss.
Quick.
Nervous.
He smiled against your lips and whispered,
"I promise I won't buy two boxes."
You smiled and nodded.
His promise was worth less than the paper it wasn't written on.
But you still liked hearing him say it.
When you pulled apart, he looked at you as he backed away toward the door.
He walked backward with a level of clumsiness that seemed impossible for a man who could catch an airplane out of the sky.
His hand waved from side to side in farewell, fluttering like a little flag in the wind.
And the smile never left his face.
He was so nervous.
So excited about going to buy the mochi.
His feet practically carried him toward the exit on their own.
"Sweetheart, you're not actually going in your suit, are you?" you asked, resting a hand on your hip.
Clark took three steps outside the apartment.
Then four.
Then he stopped dead in his tracks.
He looked down at himself.
Touched his chest.
Looked at his cape.
Looked at his boots.
As if he had only just realized he was dressed in bright blue and red with a giant emblem on his chest.
His eyes widened.
"Right... the suit," he muttered to himself, blushing all over again.
At that point, you weren't sure if his cheeks would ever return to their normal color.
He spun around so quickly that he nearly got tangled in his own cape and fell flat on his face.
Then he hurried back into the apartment, cheeks burning and eyes wide.
"I'd be a complete failure on that website," he said as he walked toward the bedroom, dragging his feet as though he were wearing oversized slippers.
"If I go to the store looking like this, Steve was right. I don't know anything about women," he muttered to himself, his voice full of concern.
You laughed.
A laugh that filled the entire kitchen.
"And don't fly out the window again!" you called after him from the kitchen.
"The door, sweetheart, I promise!" he shouted back from the bedroom.
A loud thud echoed through the apartment.
Something hit the floor.
Then came an "I'm okay!" that sounded far more annoyed than convincing.
A few seconds later, Clark emerged from the bedroom wearing his normal clothes.
His jeans were slightly crooked.
His shirt was buttoned wrong.
And his hair was a complete mess.
He smiled sheepishly and pointed toward the door.
"Okay, now I'm really going," he said.
He took one step.
Then turned around again.
"The pink mochi, right?" he asked.
"Yes, Clark. The pink ones," you replied, shaking your head with a smile.
"Just one box," he said, holding up a finger.
"That's what you said last time."
"This time I mean it," he replied.
And before you could answer, he walked out the door like a normal person.
Even though it was painfully obvious he wanted to fly instead.
You remained in the kitchen, wooden spoon still in hand, laughing to yourself.
And you thought that you wouldn't trade that lovestruck fool for anything in the world.
Sinopsis: After weeks of catching Clark quietly staring at her, she finally asks what's been on his mind.
Warnings: Fluff, Established Relationship, Domestic Life, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
WC: 3,400 words approx.
Your eyes scanned your computer screen one last time, reading through your article before finally sending it. They lingered over every word, every comma, every period, making sure everything was perfect. It was a habit of yours—to review everything over and over until you finally felt at ease. Deep down, though, you knew it was already fine. It was just your nerves playing tricks on you.
You let out a soft sigh and lifted your head, stretching your neck, which had begun to ache from spending so long hunched over your keyboard.
And that was when you met his eyes.
Those blue eyes that had been watching you for the last thirty minutes.
No, that wasn't true.
Maybe an hour.
But if you were being honest with yourself, you'd been feeling them on you for weeks now, always at the most unexpected moments.
Clark had this habit of silently watching you, as though he were trying to solve a puzzle that only he could see.
The moment your eyes met, he immediately looked away and turned back to his own monitor, pretending he was deeply focused on something important.
You almost laughed.
It was such an awkward reaction.
Such a Clark reaction.
If anyone else had seen him from the outside, he probably would've looked like some kind of stalker.
But you knew better.
He was just your boyfriend, completely lost in his own thoughts, imagining something or reflecting on something you could never quite understand.
So you smiled to yourself and returned to your work, although your mind was no longer fully focused on the words in front of you.
Clark had always been like this.
Strange.
But never in a bad or unsettling way.
It was more as if he saw the world through a different lens—one that only he could look through.
Sometimes the simplest things seemed like profound mysteries to him.
Other times, the things that felt impossibly complicated to you were solved by him with astonishing ease.
Understanding him had taken time.
A lot of time.
Patience.
Carefully observing all of his little habits.
But maybe he understood you far better than you understood him.
Because he never complained about your silence or your bad days.
He was simply there, with those blue eyes and his quiet way of loving you.
Despite everything, loving him had never been difficult.
You had been together for eight months now, and your relationship was serious.
You knew his parents, and he knew yours.
You went to parties together, shared an apartment, and your belongings had become so intertwined that you could barely tell what belonged to whom anymore.
Your colorful scarves rested beside his neatly pressed ties.
Your work blouses hung next to his perfectly ironed dress shirts.
You even had matching mugs—the ones he'd excitedly bought from a little shop downtown—and every morning you used them to drink coffee together.
Yet despite all that closeness, Clark sometimes seemed unable to say the things that truly mattered.
Expressing himself with words wasn't easy for him.
Instead, he'd start with those long, lingering looks, as if he expected you to read his mind.
As if he believed you had powers just like his.
Then he'd smile, and you'd convince yourself you had imagined it.
But then another glance would come.
And another.
And the doubt would quietly settle back into your mind.
As your fingers absentmindedly continued typing, you started wondering what could possibly be going through his head.
Was he thinking about breaking up?
No.
That was impossible.
You remembered the keychain he'd given you.
The one that read "Best Boyfriend Ever" in shiny letters with a little plastic heart attached to it.
At first, you'd thought it was ridiculously cheesy and far too flashy.
But Clark had chosen it with such genuine excitement that you hadn't had the heart to refuse.
He carried the matching one.
It said "My Favorite Girlfriend."
And every single time you pulled out your keys, his eyes lit up like a little kid's.
So you carried it proudly, even if your coworkers occasionally teased you about it.
If he'd given you something that meaningful, there was no way he was planning to end your relationship.
Maybe it was jealousy.
But no.
Clark wasn't a particularly jealous person.
Sure, there were those moments when he'd gently place a hand on your waist whenever someone stood a little too close to you.
Or when he'd tilt his head with that unmistakable expression that clearly said,
"I don't like this."
But he always handled it better than you did.
Once you got home, he'd simply ask whether you'd felt uncomfortable.
No scenes.
No accusations.
No arguments.
He was surprisingly calm about things like that.
Sometimes it honestly amazed you.
Maybe he wanted to go on a trip?
But he hadn't mentioned anything, and the two of you always planned those things weeks ahead of time.
No.
That wasn't it either.
One possibility after another disappeared, and you still couldn't figure out the answer.
When work finally ended, he did exactly what he always did.
Without saying a word, he picked up your purse and slung it over his shoulder.
Then he grabbed your coat—the one you'd brought that morning because it had been cold—but now, with the warmth of the evening settling in, you no longer needed it.
Clark carried it neatly folded over one arm, with that effortless way he had of taking care of you without ever making a fuss about it.
The two of you walked toward the exit together, and you slipped your hand into his free one, feeling the warmth of his fingers intertwine with yours.
There was no need to talk.
Sometimes the silence between you was far more comforting than any conversation.
On the way home, you stopped at the little crêpe stand the two of you loved so much.
You ordered your favorite—the Hawaiian one, with ham and pineapple.
Clark ordered his usual.
Chocolate and strawberries.
You ate while walking, stealing bites from each other's crêpes and laughing when whipped cream ended up smeared across his cheek.
By the time you reached your apartment, the sun had already disappeared below the horizon, and the cool evening breeze drifted through the open windows.
Clark placed the bags on the table and, without saying a word, picked up the dishes the two of you had taken to work so he could wash them.
He shrugged off his suit jacket in one smooth motion and rolled his sleeves up to his elbows, exposing his forearms as he turned on the faucet.
Everything happened in silence.
Just another routine the two of you knew by heart.
Meanwhile, you placed his briefcase beside the couch and set your purse in its usual spot.
You gathered the coffee mugs you'd both left on your little desks that morning and carried them into the kitchen.
After that, you began organizing your shared workspace.
You knew you'd be assigned another article tomorrow, and you'd probably end up working late again.
And Clark simply couldn't work if everything was messy.
It was one of his many little quirks.
You didn't mind clutter.
Sometimes you even claimed it helped you think.
But Clark needed everything to be exactly where it belonged.
So you placed his pen holder on the right side of his desk, perfectly aligned with his mouse.
Then you set his notebook—the one he only ever used at home—on the left side, carefully lining up its cover with the edge of the desk.
You even sorted through the loose papers left over from previous days.
Then you turned to your own desk, arranging things a little more casually, because you didn't care if your pencils crossed over each other or your sticky notes poked out in every direction.
Clark was still washing the dishes, water running steadily as his hands moved with the same calm rhythm he seemed to have for everything.
You knew he'd probably gathered every single dirty plate, mug, fork, and spoon lying around the apartment, because that was just how meticulous he was.
He never left anything unfinished.
No matter how small it seemed.
You walked into the kitchen and started putting away the leftovers he'd carefully stored in different containers, each one tightly sealed and labeled with what was inside.
He was so organized that sometimes it made you laugh.
But it also gave you a strange sense of comfort.
As you closed the refrigerator door, you felt his gaze settle on you once again.
That gentle but unwavering weight of his eyes.
The silent reminder that something important was on his mind.
Without turning to look at him, because you knew you would get nervous if you did, you asked quietly, "Will you tell me someday?"
Your tone was calm, as though you didn't really care about the answer.
But deep down, you knew you did.
Clark paused for a second, his hands still submerged in the soapy water, and lifted his head to look at you.
"What will I say, sweetheart?" he asked, and there was that small smile in his voice that always appeared whenever he felt he'd been caught.
You finally turned toward him and saw him smiling in that sheepish way you knew so well, as though he'd just been caught doing something he wasn't supposed to.
"Exactly. I don't know what you'll say, but you'll say something," you replied with a teasing smile.
He let out a quiet laugh as he continued scrubbing the dishes, moving the sponge in slow circles.
The water continued to run, its sound filling the kitchen, but the silence between you was comfortable, like an old blanket.
"It might scare you," he finally said, his voice softer now, almost shy.
That made you stop what you were doing and move to stand beside him, resting your hip against the edge of the counter so you could look at him better.
He kept washing the dishes, but every few seconds his eyes drifted back to you.
"Scare me?" you asked, not quite understanding what he meant.
You frowned for a moment, thinking of all the things that could possibly frighten you, but none of them seemed to fit him.
"I'd be scared if it were a proposal like... I don't know... doing it on the balcony. Now that would completely ruin Clark Kent's image," you joked with a light laugh.
He immediately blushed, a soft pink spreading from the base of his neck all the way to his cheeks.
That only made you laugh harder.
It was so incredibly easy to make him shy just by mentioning something even slightly inappropriate.
"No... that would be vulgar," he replied seriously.
But there was so much affection shining in his eyes that you couldn't help smiling even more.
"What is it?" you asked, softening your voice so he'd know you genuinely wanted to hear him.
Clark set the plate he'd been washing aside and wiped his hands on his pants, a habit he always had whenever he needed to think carefully before speaking.
"I... hypothetically..." he began.
The words came out with difficulty, as though he were trying to assemble a complicated puzzle inside his head.
"I think everything is going really well and... I don't know... I just..."
He tried to finish the sentence, but the words slipped away from him like water through his fingers.
"Hypothetically," you repeated, raising an eyebrow with curiosity.
He smiled, relieved that you'd given him an easy opening.
"If everything keeps going well... hypothetically, we could get married," you said, finishing the thought he couldn't bring himself to say.
He looked at you with such a huge smile that it seemed like even his teeth were glowing.
"And keep living together," you added, as though it were the most natural thing in the world.
Because to you, it was.
You had already spent eight months sharing every corner of your lives together, and the thought of that continuing forever didn't feel strange.
It felt beautiful.
"If... hypothetically... that happened..." he asked, his voice more serious now, as though he truly needed to know your answer, "would you want to live in Metropolis?"
You shrugged because, honestly, you'd never really thought about it.
The city had its charm, with all its lights and constant energy.
But sometimes it felt overwhelming too.
"I don't know. Maybe... or we could move to Smallville," you suggested without giving it much thought.
The name had simply slipped from your lips almost on instinct.
But Clark froze completely.
He quickly turned off the faucet, shook the excess water from his hands, grabbed a towel, and dried them in a hurry.
Then he reached into the back pocket of his pants for his phone.
You watched him, completely confused.
"Exactly. Hypothetically speaking," he said, his eyes sparkling with excitement as he unlocked the screen.
"If we moved to Smallville... hypothetically... there's a piece of land for sale there, and the price per square meter is really cheap. Look, here's the listing."
He showed you the pictures on his phone.
Two large lots.
Surrounded by trees.
Plenty of open space.
You nodded as you looked at them, and he kept talking, his voice overflowing with excitement he could barely contain.
"And hypothetically, if you wanted a house exactly the way you like it, we could build it from scratch. I've already looked at blueprints. I have, like, ten different house designs saved in my favorites folder."
He swiped to another picture, showing you the property from a different angle.
"And hypothetically, it's actually inside town. It's only a few blocks from downtown, but it's close to the market too, so it isn't isolated or anything."
He kept swiping.
"And it's close to the schools too. Hypothetically, when our kids start going, they could just take the bus."
Clark switched to another picture.
It showed Smallville High School, its brick walls surrounded by tall trees.
"And I think that school has the best curriculum. Hypothetically, if our kids ever got bored of farm life, they offer dance classes, soccer, art, cooking... even knitting. I asked, and the classes are inexpensive. They also have after-school activities."
He paused for only half a second before adding,
"Hypothetically, of course."
He kept scrolling through pictures on his phone without stopping, while you watched him with an ever-growing smile.
"Hypothetically, the house could have a big backyard where the kids could play. Maybe even a vegetable garden, because you like plants, right? I've already watched tutorials on how to build urban gardens... hypothetically speaking."
He smiled to himself before continuing.
"And the library—I didn't forget about the library. Hypothetically, it'd have a huge window overlooking the fields because you once told me you loved reading with natural sunlight. I even have bookshelves saved from the internet that would be perfect... hypothetically."
He finally stopped for a breath.
You could barely keep yourself from laughing at the overwhelming number of hypotheticallys he'd managed to fit into a single conversation.
"Oh! And hypothetically there's also a hardware store nearby in case we ever need to fix something. There's a park with swings only two blocks away, the grocery store is a five-minute walk, and the church..."
He smiled sheepishly.
"Well... Smallville's church is small, but it's beautiful. Hypothetically... if we ever wanted to get married there."
Then he quickly corrected himself.
"But I know you said you wanted to get married in Metropolis, so we can leave that exactly as it is."
"Hypothetically."
Finally, he stopped.
He realized he'd been talking nonstop for quite a while.
His cheeks flushed a deep shade of red.
He hurriedly locked his phone and shoved it back into his pocket, as though doing so could somehow erase everything he'd just said.
"Of course... all of that was purely hypothetical," he said with a nervous smile, scratching the back of his neck.
You looked at him.
Not with fear.
But with a mixture of surprise and tenderness so overwhelming that it made your legs feel weak.
You had imagined so many things about your future together, but you had never imagined that he had already planned it with so many details... and with so many "hypotheticallys" that fooled absolutely no one.
The future itself didn't scare you.
What scared you was being with someone who didn't picture you in theirs.
But Clark did.
And he'd thought about it in so much detail that it made your heart tremble with quiet excitement.
Getting married? You had always joked about it, casually throwing comments into the air whenever you watched weddings on TV or when one of your friends got engaged. But Clark truly wanted a life with you. He even thought about the children you might have someday, the school they would attend, the classes they would take, the vegetable garden you could plant together. It was so much, and it felt so real, that for a moment you didn't know what to say.
"Isn't... maybe... it a little too soon?" he said, trying to sound calmer, but his voice betrayed how nervous he was. The excitement from a few moments ago faded slightly, and he lowered his gaze to the floor. "I... well... they're... land listings, that's all," he added, as though that explained everything, and a smile formed on your lips before you could stop it.
"Do you really want to marry me?" you asked, and your own voice came out a little shyer than you had expected.
He looked back up at you and smiled with that smile of his—the one that always made you feel like everything was going to be okay.
"Of course. I can't imagine anyone else being my wife. And if we have children, I've been thinking that about a year beforehand we should start buying baby accessories," he said, pulling out his phone once again to show you something. "I've been reading about different cribs, strollers, and baby clothes, but of course, I thought about the wedding first. You said you wanted it at the church in Metropolis, so I made a budget, and I have it right here..."
He swiped across the screen and showed you a spreadsheet filled with numbers, with categories like "flowers," "catering," "music," and even "wedding dress (options)."
You opened your mouth but couldn't say a single word.
He immediately realized he'd given himself away again.
"Hypothetically, of course," he said quickly.
That made you burst into laughter.
You couldn't hold it in anymore.
The laughter came from the deepest part of you, mixed with a tenderness that completely filled your chest.
You threw yourself into his arms and kissed him, feeling his hands wrap around your waist as he pulled you against his chest.
The kiss was sweet and warm, and when you finally pulled away, he looked at you without letting go, his blue eyes shining as though he had just found the greatest treasure in the world.
You smiled, feeling your heart beating much faster than usual.
"So... are you going to propose to me?" you asked, absentmindedly playing with the collar of his shirt.
"It's a surprise," he replied, letting out a nervous little laugh. "I'll show you the budget, but the proposal will happen when you least expect it. Hopefully soon, though, because I want to reserve the date and buy the land before someone else does." Then he quickly added, as though it somehow made it less obvious, "Hypothetically, of course."
You laughed and wrapped your arms tightly around him, feeling his warmth and hearing his heartbeat against your own. But then an idea crossed your mind to keep teasing him, because you knew that if you didn't embarrass him just a little more, you were going to burst out laughing.
You loosened the hug and looked him straight in the eyes, wearing the mischievous smile he already knew all too well.
"Well, Clark," you said, placing a hand dramatically over your chest, "have you also planned what flowers we'll have at the wedding and what song will play during our first dance? Because you've already thought about it, haven't you?" You let out a little giggle that filled the entire kitchen.
Clark opened his mouth to answer, but then closed it again, and such a deep blush spread up his neck that it looked as though he had stepped into the sun. He froze for a moment, and you instantly knew you had hit the mark.
"Well..." he admitted in a quiet murmur, clearing his throat as he pulled you a little closer against him. "Let's just say I have. But it's not just a game, you know. It's the future I want with you. Truly. No jokes, no dancing around it."
His eyes softened, and that shy smile you loved so much appeared on his face.
"And yes, I've already picked the song for our first dance. But that's a secret I'm keeping until our wedding day."
You laughed so hard you nearly doubled over, and he joined in, blushing but smiling just as brightly.
"Oh, Clark!" you said between laughs, giving him a playful tap on the shoulder. "You're unbelievable, you know that?"
You paused before adding with a teasing grin,
"Hypothetically, of course."
He laughed with you, pulling you into another hug and pressing a kiss to the top of your head while the night carried on outside, filled with stars that seemed to shine just a little brighter for the two of you.
🍰ೀ Clark (tries) baking cookies to cheer you up 🍰ೀ
clark kent x fem reader
"How long have you been sitting there?" Clark asks when he comes back home from the Daily Planet to find you on the same spot on the couch where he left you.
You shove your face into a pillow as Clark presses a quick kiss to your hair. "Not long."
Clark looks at you unconvinced, "Have you moved at all today sweetheart?"
"I'm fine Clark," you brush off his concern with a wave of your hand.
He wrinkles his nose in disagreement, you were wearing one of his oversized sweatshirts that you claimed was yours in the name of "emotional support". Not that Clark wasn't more than happy to share his clothes with you. "Are you sure honey?"
"Mhm."
"So how was your day then sweetheart?" Clark's hands start to work on your shoulders, hoping to coax you into saying more.
"Fine," you respond blankly.
"Just fine?"
Superman had many talents like x-ray vision and super strength, but none of it could live up to Clark Kent's magic power of forcing your feelings out. "My day was..long. I'm just glad it's over." You mumbled out that last part, as if saying it any louder would make the day even more bitter.
"is there anyway I can make it better honey?"
You pretended to ponder about it before guiding him down with a pull of his tie. "Kiss?"
He gladly obliged, pressing his lips against your own. You both stayed still for a moment before Clark rushed to the kitchen.
"Come back," you protested playfully as you dramatically flung your hands in the air.
"I just remembered," Clark rummaged through the kitchen cabinets. "I have the perfect remedy to cheer you up baby."
You scoffed, "Better than a kiss?"
"Sweeter too," he said as he placed a packet of flour on the counter alongside a bag of chocolate chips and butter.
You make your way to the kitchen counter out of intrigue. "What are we doing?"
Clark smiled as he tied his apron around his waist. "I was just gonna bake some cookies to cheer you up. Sugar usually does that."
You choose to ignore his subtle nod to your unwavering sweet tooth. "Nice apron," you tease. Leave it to Clark to find Superman merch in all forms, including aprons.
He laughs. "Just do your best to sit quietly as I bake please."
"No way," you say laughing back. "Can't I help?"
Clark's sweet enough to slide you a bowl of chocolate chips to tide you over until the cookies are over.
"You know you don't have to do this."
He has his sleeves rolled up and a spatula in hand to mix the newly made cookie batter. "I'm more than happy to sweetheart."
You laugh like a hyena at the sight. Sweat trickles near Clark's brow because of how concentrated he is. You're about to reassure him that his cookies will turn out perfect no matter what, but Clark looks endearing when he fusses over little details like this.
"Alright!" he claps his hands in accomplishment as soon as the cookies are successfully in the oven. "They should be ready in twenty minutes honey."
"Great."
"But until then," Clark looks to you flustered before the words even leave his mouth, "Maybe we could.. finish what we started?"
If your day was going better, you would have made him work for it more. Today you were embarrassingly desperate, practically throwing yourself onto Clark at just the mere mention of a kiss.
Clark was more than happy to oblige, carrying you to the couch where he kissed you senseless last.
"Clark?" you pulled away from him slowly.
"Yes sweetheart?" he traced your bottom lip with his thumb.
"Do you smell that?"
He instinctively ran to the kitchen, "Oh gosh you don't think that smell is coming from the oven is it?"
"That would explain the burning smell."
"Oh darn it," Clark pulls out the burnt batch of cookies out of the oven with one hand while he fanned the smoke away from his face with the other. "My cookies burned."
It had started off small, your interactions with the new neighbor. A polite smile whenever you happened to catch his gaze over the fence line while you hung up laundry. You picking clothes pins from your apron pocket, reaching up to secure little pink socks to the line as he sat on his back porch and sipped coffee from a steaming mug.
You’d moved quickly from polite to cheerful, friendly even, and soon enough you’d graduated to inviting him inside for tea whenever you happened to cross paths - which was often. He’d always decline with some half-hearted excuse that you saw right through, but had enough tact not to air out. Never stepping over the line of what could be considered normal polite neighborly behavior.
Part of you was always a little relieved when he shook his head, not sure how you’d actually feel having the six foot brick wall of a man tucked into the corner your little couch. It was a humorous image, really - him holding delicate china between his big calloused hands while your daughters giggled and tried to sneak extra sugar cubes into his cup. But it was safer this way, better. Especially with the wounds from your divorce and subsequent move still so fresh, so stinging.
And so this friendly back and forth continued for a few weeks, until you found yourself settled into a steady rhythm. Everyday you’d lift a greeting hand when you’d pull into the driveway in the afternoon following school pickup and a quick trip to the supermarket. He’d wander over to the fence line and offer to bring the grocery bags inside for you with some playful quip about how ‘pretty ladies shouldn’t need to do any heavy lifting’ that always earned a giggle from the girls.
You’d counter with an offer of tea and freshly baked cookies, to which he’d dutifully decline, very much as expected. It was all very civil, ordinary, comfortable in its normalcy, with just the tiniest hint of flirtation simmering beneath the surface. You noticed it in the small things - the way his eyes followed you when you rolled the bins out into the street in the early morning. Makeup free, clothed only in your pajamas, still blinking sleep away with your hair pinned up in a wad of crazed rollers. Or the way you’d pause for a few extra seconds to admire the sight of his back muscles straining beneath a sweat soaked t-shirt as he tugged rogue weeds loose from the dirt in his front garden.
He must have had a sixth sense, because every time you let your eyes wander for even a second, in the next blink he’d have turned his head to meet your gaze with a knowing smirk dancing on his scarred lips, right before he’d eye your own yard and offer to clear out your weeds too.
That was until one particular Friday afternoon when you didn’t smile at him. You didn’t wave, or even bother to spare a glance in the direction of his house when you slipped out from behind the wheel and stomped your way around to the backseat to unbuckle the girls.
The sharp click of his tongue caught your attention as you not so graciously slammed the car door closed, and through the intensity of your focus you felt your face flush hot at the sound. With the girls unclasped and happily skipping to the front door chattering between themselves, you finally turned around and lifted an apologetic hand.
“Afternoon!” You chirped, though even to your own ears the tone sounded forced, strained. “I’m sorry - I didn’t mean to ignore you - busy day.”
You found that instead of being perched on his porch rocking lazily in a wicker chair or working away in his garage as he was most afternoons, he was instead stood just past the footpath a little closer to your yard, hands gloved and dirt caking his boots up to his knees. He lifted his head and wiped his hands over his jean clad thighs. You swallowed, watched a few dry dirt clumps flutter to the grass below.
“Doing some more gardening?” You smiled, softened a little with the familiarity, the ease of conversation with no expectation behind it. “It’s the perfect weather for it.”
For the weight of your own gloomy mood, the rest of the world seemed chipper as ever. The sun was warm, dappling your front yard with little petals of light between the tree leaves, and the wind was refreshingly crisp when it caught in your hair, swirling it skyward before you raised a hand to tuck the stray stands behind your ear. Toji was obviously feeling the heat of the afternoon - with the way his inky hair was sticking slick to his forehead in places, and you could see a bead of sweat dipping beneath the collar of his loosely buttoned shirt, crawling over the curve of a plump pec.
“Hm.” He hummed in reply, interrupting your train of thought as you followed the path the droplet was forging beneath the thin fabric with your eyes, “so what’s botherin’ you then?”
At his voice your eyes shot back up to meet his, and you offered a sheepish sort of smile in reply.
“I’m that obvious huh?”
He shrugged a little, breaking your eye contact - head lowered as he began to tug the muddied gloves from his hands, thick fingers flexing when they hit the comparatively cool air.
“You’re no award winning actress, that’s for sure.”
“Just been one of those days.” You sighed, feeling more and more exhausted with each word, as if each syllable were a brick tied to your ankles, weighing you down. “The girls are staying at their dads this weekend, and I’ve been so busy that I completely forgot to prepare their changes of clothes, and of course the washing machine stopped working last night and I…”
You trailed off, foregoing the hundreds of other minute irritations in favor of sucking your lower lip between your teeth. Blinking frantically, you instead looked sharply at the ground, hot tears of frustration beginning to well at your lash line. Brows knitted, you studied the grass peeking between the strips of concrete beneath your sandals intently, until you were absolutely sure you weren’t actually going to start crying.
“Well that’s easy then,” came Toji’s smooth reply after a few long moments. You were suddenly grateful for his tact, allowing you a few quiet minutes to compose yourself before expecting an answer.
“Easy?” You mouthed, a little wide-eyed as you gazed over at him quizzically, “what do you mean?”
“I’ll come fix the washing machine,” he said simply, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.
“Uh, are you sure?” You questioned, a little uncertain, “it looked really broken, like ‘water soaking the whole laundry room floor’ broken.”
He looked entirely unperturbed when he finally got both hands free, and he cleared his throat as he tossed the mud clad gloves to the ground beside a collection of similarly dirtied tools.
“Door gasket, I’d bet money on it,” he replied smoothly, with a sort of calm confidence that had your shoulders relaxing an inch already, “I’ve got a spare in my shed. I’ll have it swapped in a flash, ten minutes tops.”
You said nothing for a few moments, pondering his offer. You considered another night spent fiddling with the door hinge. Flipping through the owners manual like it held the secrets to the universe, only to have your efforts result in a few firm kicks to the metal contraption and another day wearing old bikini bottoms as underwear. You pictured yourself sweating over the basin, handwashing the girls school clothes in a flurry of detergent and steam. You tired a little more at the mere thought.
“Alright then,” you finally nodded, beaming up at him with a relieved sigh, “thankyou very much, Fushiguro.”
“See? Easy,” he smiled in reply, “and for the last time, call me Toji, yeah?”
You couldn’t help but feel a shift in the energy when he finally stepped over the threshold and into your home, looking starkly out of place in the mellow sanctity of your front hallway. Harsh lines and dark contours in a sea of softness. Muted tones and family photos, kids finger paintings tacked to the fridge and little craft projects littering any flat surface.
“I’m sorry I don’t think I have any slippers in your size…” You murmured as you leaned down to unclasp the shiny little buckles of your sandals, toeing them off at the door in favor of a pair of plain house-slippers.
He nodded without reply and cleared his throat, head held high and eyes averted when you finally straightened back up. He wiggled his toes where they were pressed bare against the wood slats.
“It’s no problem.”
You bit your cheek against the urge to smile, and instead dipped your head and turned to begin walking down the hallway.
“It’s this way,” you called over your shoulder, hooking a finger in the air, “please follow me.”
If you’d felt unsure about having your neighbor in your entrance way, the feeling was tenfold with the sight of him craning his head as he stepped into the laundry room. As he straightened up, you watched his eyes catalog the space ever so subtly. It felt oddly intimate, and you felt a warmth begin to creep up your throat.
You toyed with the collar of your dress as he set the toolbox down, eyes lowered as he unclasped the closure and began emptying it of the needed equipment. You watched the motion of his hands pause for a fraction of a section, head tilted as he subtly eyed the basket of clothes tucked on the bench beside him. You followed his line of sight, and to your utter horror found a slip of black lace sitting blatantly at the top of the mountainous pile.
With embarrassment licking hotly up your nape, you stepped forward and quickly snatched the basket, tucking it to your hip with a quiet cough.
“My apologies,” you squeaked, angling your body to shield any more of your potential delicates from view, “Let me get that out of your way.”
“Sure,” came his smooth reply, seeming entirely unperturbed despite your sudden closeness. So much so that you wondered if you were overreacting, and he hadn’t noticed anything at all.
Still, you discarded the basket to an unused corner of the room out of sight nonetheless, and then began mindlessly tidying while Toji busied himself unscrewing the washing machine door.
As promised, no more than ten minutes later he was lifting himself to his feet with a low groan, nodding as he tucked a wrench back into the toolbox.
“What did I say?” He mused a little proudly, dusting his hands, “fixed in a flash.”
You turned your head away from where you had been color coding detergent boxes to gaze at the laundry machine, lips parted a little in awe.
“Wow, that was fast!” You chirped as your eyes wandered away from the shiny new hinge, trying to ignore the way the veins in his forearms popped from exertion, trailing in looping rivers down to his scarred knuckles. “Still, it must have been hard work. Why don’t you stay for a cup of tea?”
His lips parted instantly, and you raised a hand before he could utter a word in reply.
“And don’t decline like you usually do,” you teased, raising a lone brow at him, lips spread into a smile, “please, it’s the least I can do.”
He hesitated, looking as torn and mildly uncomfortable as you’d ever seen him. But when his eyes met your serious gaze he sighed and nodded in resolute defeat.
“Alright. I’ll only stay a minute.”
Not fifteen minutes later you were lowering a delicate tea set onto the coffee table in the center of your living room.
Two teacups and matching saucers printed in a blushed pink floral pattern clinked lightly as you shuffled utensils, slotting a sugar bowl and a milk jug in a delicate matching pattern onto the tabletop alongside a plate of cookies and delicately sliced lemons.
Satisfied with the spread, you straightened up. Both hands folded neatly over your front as you turned to fix the man who stood like a statue at the mouth of the room with a heartfelt smile.
“Please have a seat,” you invited with a gentle wave of your hand, motioning to the empty lounge while you took a few steps back toward the kitchen, “You don’t mind if I get some prep for the kids done while we drink?”
“Sure, It’s your house doll,” Toji nodded as he moved, easing himself onto the far end of the couch looking mildly uncomfortable, though he tried to hide it, “go right ahead.”
Turning your back, you tugged open the fridge and plucked a bag free from the lower drawer, sniffing at the earthy scent of the fresh vegetables tucked within. You busied yourself preparing them - scrubbing the dirt loose in the sink before you plucked a knife from the block and set the bundle atop a clean cutting board.
“I hope the tea is to your liking, Fushiguro-san.”
You spoke over the island as you worked, benefits of an open plan house meant you could chat while your guests relaxed, not that you entertained much these days.
When you peered over you found him gazing suspiciously at the contents of the cup before he took a slow sip, breath curling in steaming tendrils as he exhaled. You watched the shape of his shoulder slump a little with the breath, and he gazed at the teacup with a newfound appreciation as he lowered it back down to the saucer.
“It’s great,” he replied.
You smiled. “Excellent.”
You found yourself humming a little as you worked - dutifully slicing the vegetables into a range of shapes. Carrots became rows of soldiers, cucumbers sweet little hearts.
“So tell me Fushiguro-san,” you continued after a few minutes filled only by the sound of your steady chopping and his slow sips of tea, “how did you come to be so good with your hands?”
“I’ve taken a lot of odd jobs in my time,” came his voice from the lounge, “picked up a little something from all of ‘em.”
You made an appreciative sound, plucking another carrot free from the bag.
“Should teach me sometime,” you mused as you began to dice again, mind filling with pictures of your neighbor at work, that muscled form sweat soaked and strained, all filtered in a soft dreamy light, “I’m sure there’s a lot to lear- ouch!”
You cut the sentence off with a hiss, blade clattering to the countertop. Your hands screwed tightly together at the sudden burst of stinging pain, severing the flow of blood to the finger you’d just sliced through.
Before you could blink Toji had shot to his feet, teacup abandoned to its little saucer, and by your next shuddered breath he was close, closer than you think you’d ever been to him. Big hands dwarfed your trembling ones, and he eased your finger out from when you were cradling it, eyes narrowed in assessment.
You watched his face, the twitch of his dark brows, and realized peering up at him then that you’d never noticed how green his eyes were, like little chips of jade as he peered down at your wound in scrutiny.
“Just a surface wound,” he diagnosed, voice light with relief and a touch of humor, “I think you’ll live.”
“I’m sorry,” you whispered, finding it difficult to conjure your voice with the way your pulse was racing, “I must have gotten distracted.”
“Stop apologizing so much,” he rumbled, eyes still down turned in scrutiny.
His hand slid, thumb teasing along your palm until his fingers closed around your wrist. You watched, a little dumbly, your lips pursed into a soft little ‘o’, as he lifted your bloody finger to his mouth.
You made an undignified sound high in your throat when the pad of your finger hit his tongue, doubly so for the tender sting of your cut against the wet heat of his mouth. You realized with a jolt of warmth that he was watching you, lips curled into a sly smile around the intrusion of your finger.
As quickly as it had occurred, he had slipped your finger from his mouth, instead thumbing at your palm like he were reading the lines etched there.
“No need to waste a plaster,” he murmured, eyes not leaving yours, “Y’know saliva has mild healing properties?”
You shook your head dumbly, still a little awestruck.
“No, I didn’t know that,” you breathed.
“You were right then, lots to learn, huh?” He smiled, an easy toothy smile that had the beginnings of butterflies thumping in your stomach. Your eyes flitted down to watch his lips part, ears pricked to hear his reply only for his mouth to settle into a smooth line. You blinked, and his expression had hardened, eyes turned back to stone, sharp and smooth as he peered over your head at something beyond your vision.
You craned your head to see why had him so prickled, and found a familiar face gazing back at you from the entryway.
Swallowing thickly, you took a few soft steps backward and tugged your arm free in favor of hugging yourself, mouth settled into a smooth line as you addressed your ex-husband.
“Geto,” You greeted. The lone word left you a little breathlessly, tone thick with familiarity, and yet still a little wrong - like a harp with a single string out of tune. You straightened, spine tugged up straight as an arrow, hands busied brushing nonexistent lint from your apron. “I’m sorry, I must have lost track of the time.”
You could feel Toji’s gaze burning a hole in the back of your skull, hotter still when he heard the sound of an apology begin to form on your tongue, a sound that was beginning to become familiar.
You were really standing here in your own home apologizing to this deadbeat?
“I’ll just get the girls,” You cleared your throat and took a few steps toward the kitchen window, chin lifted to call out through the screen. “Mimiko, Nanako - it’s time to go. Go and get your bags please!”
Left momentarily alone, Toji was the first to break the silence.
“Didn’t hear you knock,” he said smoothly, gazing down his nose at the man across the room. He looked relatively casual, unbothered. Though if you’d been close enough you could have caught the way the muscle in his thick jaw twinged beneath the press of his teeth.
Your ex-husband flashed a polite yet flat smile, hand lifted to flash a set of glittering keys, which he jangled lightly for effect.
“Let myself in.” He replied, eyes roaming in mild interest, the way you might peer down at a particularly interesting looking bug, “I don’t think I know you.”
“I’m the neighbor,” Toji answered, “just came over to help with some repairs.”
Geto’s eyes narrowed as they roamed the scene, though his tight smile didn’t fade, not even when his gaze settling on the tea set laid over the table.
“Repairs, huh…”
The air was thick when you turned back around. It was like the setup to some awful joke. You, your control freak ex husband, and your blisteringly hot neighbor walk into your living room…
You could feel a headache brewing, sharp and pounding, poking like an ice pick in the cavernous space behind your eyes. You’d wanted nothing more than to kiss your kids goodbye then trudge yourself to bed to sleep the weekend away, and maybe put on a fresh load of laundry. Now instead you found yourself stood in the middle of some sort of silent standoff between two emotionally constipated men.
Thankfully just as the start of some polite small talk was beginning to form on your tongue, the door to the back yard slid open and your two daughters burst through. They moved like a whirlwind through the doorway, tugging the screen closed behind them. Each had a backpack strung over either shoulder, their movement accented with the melodic jingle of little plastic key chains. You could hear them bickering, quiet biting comments that were becoming more and more sharp, quickly brewing into an argument.
With a sharp lungful of air exhaled swiftly through your nose, you forced a tight smile and strutted past the two men into the hall, easing into a squat so you were eye level with the twins.
“What’s the matter?” you asked, both hands raised to pet at either girls head, thumb smoothing down hairs messed from running around the yard, “aren’t you both excited to spend some time with daddy?”
Both girls nodded furiously, though their lips were warped into matching award-winning pouts.
“Yeah,” Nanako was the first to speak, “but you said I could hold bumblebee in the car.” She whined, pointing accusingly at the transformer clutched in Mimiko’s hands. It was hard to keep your composure, with the way her little bottom lip was beginning to tremble.
“Mimiko,” you began, voice soft as you addressed the other girl, “we did talk about this, you remember? Why don’t you take your new doll instead?”
With a few more words that began to edge on stern by the end, and just a little more whining, both girls were soon skipping out of the front door toward your ex husbands car - a sleek black coupe he certainly hadn’t owned during your seven years of marriage - each with a toy clutched proudly in their little hands.
You lingered by the doorway like an unfulfilled spirit, lips still tingling from where you’d pressed them to either girls foreheads in farewell. You traced your mouth, feeling the skin there soft like a petal against your fingertips. You always found it hard to say goodbye, even for such a small span of time as a single weekend.
Geto paused beside you in the doorway for a moment, watching the two girls climb into the backseat, before he turned around to face you once again.
Toji watched the scene play out from the living room. He watched your ex-husband’s eyes rake greedily over your body, at your arms wrapped around your stomach, curled in on itself. He watched the way the man’s lips spread into that same serpentine smile he’d worn when he first entered your home, the way he took a few purposeful steps toward you - crowding your space before he leaned down to murmur something low in your ear.
Toji couldn’t see your expression, but he did catch the way the curve of your shoulders tightened all the same, stance rigid even when Geto finally stepped back over the threshold and you swung the door closed with a somewhat desperate ‘click!’.
With the two of you alone, once again that heavy permeating silence settled over the space. So thick that you felt it in your throat when you swallowed, dry and sharp like you’d gone days without water. Again, Toji was the first to break it.
“He’s got a key?” He questioned, a little unexpectedly, “You don’t think that’s a little unsafe?”
You rubbed a hand across your brows, paused where you were still poised by the front door with your arms wrapped like a blanket around yourself and your eyes screwed tightly shut.
“I don’t think I need advice from a stranger, but thankyou,” you bit, maybe a little harsher than necessary, “Next time I want critique, I’ll ask.”
A beat of silence passed, heavy in the air between you before Toji whistled lowly.
You sighed, feeling your energy leak out along with the exhalation. Toji watched you move then, tired steps across the room until you slipped back behind the countertop, eyes lowered and hands busily shifting the dirtied utensils to the sink.
“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that,” you murmured after another few beats of contemplative silence, looping lashings of dish soap over the dishes, over the knife still smeared with your blood. “It’s the stress talking. Please forgive me.”
Toji followed you into the kitchen. A few lazy strides and he was leaning back into the opposite counter, expression hidden behind your back.
“‘S’alright,” he mused, voice a little softer now, “just saying - if anything happens, you come straight to me, okay?”
Your chest felt tight, throat burning with a rising wave of emotion. You were grateful that you had your back to him, the angle shielding the way your eyes were starting to water.
“Thankyou,” you replied, pleased when your voice came out steady despite the slight wobbling of your lower lip.
Toji considered you for a moment in silence, thick forearms crossed casually over his chest.
“Gotta say though, you do look a little tense.”
That earned him a chuckle.
“Y’think?” You replied, half laughing, half exasperated.
“Yeah,“ he agreed, and you could hear the smile teasing at the edge of his voice, “must be hard, taking care of them on your own like this. You ever get any time for yourself?”
You snorted, unable to quite stop yourself from smiling along with him, though you kept your gaze fixed firmly on the dishes, on the way heaping clusters of soft bubbles were beginning to form beneath the spray.
“Hah, now that’s funny,” You replied, lashes fluttering as the steam filtered upward, sweet with the lightly citrusy scent of the dish soap.
“No?” He pushed, “you don’t do anything at all to relieve all that stress?”
With the nearness of his words you realized suddenly just how close he was, evidently having taken a few steps toward you while you were occupied with the white noise of the tap drumming against the sink.
Just as you had worked up the courage to turn back around, you felt it - the slow press of his hands as they came to rest gently over either of your shoulders. You froze mid turn of the tap, fingers wrapped tightly around the spigot, unable to quite stop the way your breath caught in your throat.
“You know I’m good with my hands,” he assured, voice a low rumble just as soothing and warm as his touch, “no pressure, you say the word and I’m gone.”
“You’ve already done so much, and I-“
“Shhh,” he hushed, and you could hear every syllable of his next sentence closely now with the water stilled, “allow yourself something nice, just this once.”
Each big palm felt warm as hot stones as they moved, beginning to draw slow circles into the tense points of your shoulders. His thumbs rolled simultaneously, firm circles converging at the notches of your spine. Your head dipped forward, and it took every inch of your withering self restraint not to let free the breathy moan already forming on your tongue.
“Is this pressure alright?” Came his voice from behind you, dropped low enough that you strained a little to hear it properly.
Not trusting your own voice, you simply nodded your head in reply.
“Good.”
He continued thumbing at the tender knots in your back, hands big and warm and just calloused enough to feel rough whenever his fingers dipped innocently beneath the neckline of your blouse.
With his sudden closeness you could catch the scent of him, a subtle tinge of fresh sweat, though not unpleasant. Just a little earthy where he’d been digging up garden beds. You leaned into it, catching the remnants of something cool and masculine lingering beneath. It was oddly comforting, the sort of profile you hadn’t smelt in a long time.
”This is… this is nice… thankyou Fushiguro,” you managed, grateful that your voice remained relatively steady despite how clearly breathless you were.
”Just being a good neighbor, doll,” he replied smoothly.
You all but melted into the touch, fingers gripping the benchtop for dear life as you tried to maintain composure while receiving what was likely the most contact you’d experienced in months, maybe even years at this point. Certainly nobody had taken their time with you like this since your divorce, well before then if you considered the countless nights your marital bed lay figuratively and literally cold.
Before you could take a nosedive into that looming rabbit hole of memory, a roaming thumb dug into a particularly tight knot and you gasped aloud. Mortified, you slapped a hand over your mouth.
“Sorry,“ you swallowed hard, lips brushing against your clasped fingers, “that spots a bit tight.”
He hummed lightly somewhere behind you.
“Yeah, you do feel a little tight, doll,” he chuckled, “don’t worry though, don’t gotta be quiet with me.”
His hands resumed their slow massage, and you squeezed your eyes closed against the sudden dizzying wave of desire rolling over you. It coiled like a writhing serpent, heated and sticky in your belly.
“Poor thing, you really don’t get any relief do you?” Toji continued, hands still rubbing dutifully over your swiftly softening shoulders. “So what’s your vice, huh sweetheart? There’s gotta be something. You drink? Smoke? Nah, don’t seem like the type.”
Your fingers curled and flexed over the bench top, beginning to heat, clammy beneath the press of your fingers. Here he was helping you out of the goodness of his heart, and you and your filthy sex-denied mind could do nothing but dream about what those rough hands would feel like dipping just a little lower, how that graveled voice might sound hitched with pleasure.
Toji hummed, a rogue finger slipping beneath the delicate strap biting into the skin of your shoulder.
“Maybe you just get off, is that it? Maybe I’m not the only man you invite over under the guise of innocent household repairs and tea, hm?”
You let out a sharp, shocked sound, and lifted your head with the intention to spin around and face the man accusing you of such debauchery, only to find yourself utterly frozen beneath the press of his palms.
“C’mon, don’t act so coy,” he cooed, the firmness of his hold keeping you facing forward, “I saw those panties. Those aren’t sweet little stay at home mom panties. Those are ‘bend me over the kitchen counter and spank me ‘till I cry’ panties.”
“Don’t be crude, there are no other men,” You stuttered in return, unable to quite hide the way your voice trembled, “I bought those for myself.”
“So you just take care of yourself then, huh? All on your own?” He hummed, the fingers of one hand teasing up to clasp over your nape. “You slide into bed after everyone’s asleep and tug open that beside drawer of yours, don’tcha?”
You could do nothing but shiver beneath his touch, beneath his words, curling hot and salacious over the shell of your ear. He took your shuddered breath as confirmation, and his grin only stretched wider at the revelation.
“Lemme guess - a little vibrator. Something small and quiet, discrete like.”
You couldn’t help the little whine that slipped free, the purr of his voice in your ear and the way his thumbs were still drawing circles into your tender muscle was enough to knock your knees.
“Yeah, it’s probably real cute. Just like you, huh?”
You felt the weight of him shift behind you, a thick wall of heat pressed suddenly to your back. He walked you a few steps forward until your belly hit the island bench. The cool marble cutting into your hips in stark contrast to the warmth of his hands as they slid downward and began to tease at the soft curve of your waist, toying with the apron knot tied there.
“Or maybe it’s the washing machine. Is that why you were so keen for me to fix it? Do you put a load on deep clean, hike that skirt up and press your cute little clit against the corner? Grind on it like some needy bitch in heat until you cum your brains out?”
“That’s obscene,” you gasped, face blazing.
“Obscene, huh?” He echoed, so quietly you strained to hear it, too consumed by the feeling of his lips brushing your neck, the delicate scratch of stubble there. “I’m starting to think you like ‘obscene’, doll.”
You felt his lips part then, breath warm and sticky against your skin before he pressed a slow open mouthed kiss just below your earlobe.
“Oh…” you sighed, the sound highpitched and a little breathless. “Hah-… Fushiguro…”
Before you could quite fathom, kisses had turned to gentle suckling, his tongue laving hotly over your delicate skin until you were sure there was a spattering of dark slippery marks there.
“Didn’t I tell you to call me Toji?” He murmured into your skin between kisses, teeth grazing the spot he’d been suckling, sharp and dangerous against your throat.
“-ah… Toji…” you moaned.
He all but purred in response, a satisfied rumble that you felt against your back.
“Yeah, that’s it. Keep sayin’ my name, just like that.”
His hands roamed freely now, slipping from your waist to tug at the string knotted at your tailbone, working his fingers between the loops until it slipped free and sent your apron cascading down your shoulders, pooling between your slippers.
“Look at you, playing sweet little housewife,” he murmured into your hair, the delicate sensation sending a flurry of goosebumps prickling down your neck. “But your nobody’s wife anymore, are you doll?”
You couldn’t help the honest to god whimper that left you at his words, the icy cut of truth. Tenfold when you felt his hands slide up your belly and come to rest over either breast, where he began to massage the tender flesh in greedy heaping fistfuls.
“How long’s it been since someone touched you like this?” He murmured, running a fingernail over and then pinching gently at either sensitive nipple through the fabric, just to feel the way you jerked against him.
“T-too long.” You managed between a sucking gasp, hands gripping the edge of the counter so tight that your knuckles ached with the effort.
His hands slipped lower, groping shamelessly at your ass, your thighs - at the slip of plump fat peeking out below your modest skirt.
“C’mon, spread ‘em for me.” He prompted, toeing at the inside of your bare ankle.
On wobbling legs you shimmied your feet apart, and simultaneously a big hand came to rest on your lower back, rubbing soothingly up the line of your spine before he pressed down at the crux.
“Arch it now, c‘mon, you still remember how don’tcha doll?”
Swallowing hard, you leaned forward, following the pressure of his palm until your chest hit the countertop and your hips lifted into a sinful arch. The sensation was palpable - the marble smooth and cool against your skin through your blouse, tickling where his fingers had pinched your nipples to sensitive little peaks.
With a pleased sound, his hand shifted, slipping down to instead tug at the hemline of your skirt, hiked a little higher now thanks to your vulnerable position. He slid the fabric up slowly, revealing more and more of your silky skin, the air pebbling it to goosebumps before finally he hit the curve of your ass, and he paused.
“Well well, what do we have here?”
A snort sounded from behind you, and you buried your head in the crook of your arms with the realisation of what he was surely seeing.
“Oh my god,” you whined frantically, shaking your head, face beginning to heat, “just hurry up and take them off!”
Instead of doing as you asked, he looped a thick finger beneath the tie of your cheetah print bikini bottoms, and tugged back far enough that when he released it the elastic snapped against the skin of your hip. You jerked forward at the nip of pain, frowning backward at him from over the curve of your shoulder.
“Nah, need a good look at these first,” he chuckled, flourishing the taunt with a low whistle that had your blood pumping ever hotter. “Scandalous, sweetheart. You wear these to the local pool?”
“Of course not!” You exclaimed furiously, stuttering a little as he began to grope greedy handfuls of your bare ass, “can you-hn!- imagine what the other moms would say?”
“Mhmmm, oh yeah,” he purred, admiring the way the patterned material bunched beneath his grasp, “can just hear the jealous hags now.”
He ran a thumb ever so softly down the centre of your cheeks, tracing where the fabric dipped into what had become a rather cheeky g-string. The bikini had fit modesty at some point in your life, though those years were long behind you now - body filled out and softened now with the passage of time and the demands of motherhood.
“Y’know they talk big, talk mean, because deep down they’re jealous.”
“Jealous?” You mouthed, peeking over your shoulder with lifted brows.
He tugged one looped tie of the waistband free, drinking in the sight of your newly bare skin as the fabric slid down with half-lidded and hungry eyes.
“Mhm, ‘cause you’re the hottest woman in the whole damn town,” he hummed, “and whaddya think they’re gonna say when they find out what we’re doing right now, huh?”
He finally worked the last knot of the bikini bottoms loose, letting the sinful cheetah print slide down your thighs and land in a crumpled heap at your feet beside your apron. You buried your face into the countertop, breaths coming heavy now with the cool air kissing your now utterly bare lower half.
“The perfect little devoted mother letting a man like me bend her over her kitchen counter…”
His fingers replaced the delicate brush of his thumb and slipped down between your spread legs, teasing over your bare slit. You choked out an incoherent plea, for what exactly you weren’t sure, though any thought slipped away entirely when his fingertips found your clit and you all but collapsed into the bench at the contact, soft belly and forehead pressed hard against the marble.
“Oh, Toji…” you groaned into the countertop, lips grazing the cool surface, humid now with your panting breath.
You were suddenly thankful that he hadn’t turned you over, hadn’t guided you into the bedroom with peppered kisses and plush sheets. You didn’t need gentle right now. Didn’t need soft sweet missionary while holding hands - you needed the bite of teeth and the graze of nails, calloused hands gripping tight until you bruised. You needed hard and rough and wrong, and thankfully Toji Fushiguro was all of those things.
“That stupid bastard doesn’t know what he’s missin’…” Toji growled, fingers beginning to rub tight little circles into you, “leaving you all alone ‘n empty like this, its just not right.”
You couldn’t answer, mind utterly empty aside from the feeling of his rough fingers grazing over your long neglected clit, the way you could feel yourself flutter when he dipped inside just an inch to slick his fingers with you before he was smearing it back over your twitching nub.
“‘S’okay, I’m here now, isn’t that right sweetheart?”
With his spare hand he tugged one of your legs up until you got the hint and lowered your knee to the countertop. His thumb hooked beneath your leg, pressing down to spread you ever wider.
He whistled, gazing greedily down at the sight of you spread so easily below him. Eyes drinking in the stretch marks striping over your waist, scars silvery in the cool light, the spattering of little dimples worn into the fat of your thighs and your ass. His other hand continued to work dutifully between your thighs, each rub beginning to sound sticky with the effort.
“Look at you, look so perfect like this,” He lifted a thumb, pressing the digit to your puckered rim.
You moaned something unintelligible, rocking back onto his hand, forcing his fingers to slip up through your folds - now painted in the sticky mess of your arousal. He chuckled behind you, watching the way you were all but grinding yourself on his fingers.
With a suddenness that made you whine he tugged his hand free, and the delicious pleasure of his touch was gone along with the simmering heat creeping to a boil in your belly.
“Don’t have any condoms, sweetheart,” he murmured regretfully like he had any intention at all to stop.
“Doesn’t matter, promise I’m clean,” you pleaded, wiggling your hips like you could glean just a lick of friction from the motion, though the only thing it earned you was the mild slide of the countertop beneath, “please Toji, need to feel you, all of you.”
Toji groaned behind you, and a hand came to rest over your ass, pinching lightly before he applied a light slap just to watch the motion ripple over your plump skin.
“Fuck, doll,” he breathed, “you’re making it real hard for me t’ make good choices right now,”
Then came the metallic hum of a zipper being tugged slowly downward. If nothing else the sound was a trigger, stoking the pulsing throb between your thighs, so incessant now that it was beginning to ache.
Before you could offer any further words of encouragement, you felt it - a thick heat pressed against your rear. Toji, slotting his hips against yours. With a thrilled little zip of adrenaline you realized he wasn’t going to bother with working you open slowly, he wasn’t going to sweetly and tenderly stretch you with each of his fingers like a real lover might. What you felt now slipping through your slick folds was him, all of him - plain and simple and raw.
“Take a deep breath, sweetheart,” he murmured, breath hot against your skin.
You could barely hear the words for the sound of your own pulse hammering in your ears. Acquiescing, you parted your lips and sucked in a long lungful of air.
Toji waited until he heard your breath begin to fray at the edges - air drawn into the very corners of your lungs - before he nudged forward and knocked it clean out of you.
You choked on the next breath, struck by a searing sting as he pushed inside. Inch after inch after thick inch stretched you wider than you’d been in years. It was stunning, the culmination of sensation - the solid press of his broad form against your back, the weight of him sinking inside. Hot and tight and utterly consuming, a cocktail of feelings you’d long since forgotten.
“Oh god, Toji…” you whined, the sound pitched high and breathy, squirming against the marble, though his presence left very little space to move.
“Sh, that’s it, just a little more,” he shushed, though there was nothing soothing about the harsh press of his hips, “Shhh… nearly there, just let me…”
And with a final firm nudge, you were full.
“There you go, mmm-… that’s it sweetheart, good girl.”
To his credit, he allowed you a few moments grace just to acclimatize. You could feel him, every inch. Every pulsing vein decorating that thick shaft, every indulgent curve, the sticky head kissing so deep that a delicious little ache was beginning to bloom alongside the desirous pit of heat in your gut.
“There you go,” he soothed, “just relax.”
You barely had the wherewithal to comprehend the cocktail of sensations before he was moving, rocking his hips in tight shallow little thrusts against your rear, kept nice and deep.
“Hm! Mhm! Hah.. ah!…” the sounds slipped free without thought, without care, knocked loose by each new buck of his hips.
“Fuck sweetheart, can see why you got so many kids,” Toji grunted, hand clenched into a fist over your skirt, scrunched into a bundle at your waist, “I’d never wanna pull outta this perfect fuckin’ pussy either.”
Your brain might have forgotten what it felt like to be fucked properly, but your body certainly hadn’t. Despite the lack of prep, despite the years you’d been left empty and neglected - your slick walls still sucked him in easily, pussy stretched and clenching desperately around his length like it was made just to take him.
“Oh god… there Toji, -hah-… hn… right there!” You cried, jostling limply back and forth with the force it.
Your bare toes curled where they were splayed limply to the side, slipper long since knocked free, abandoned along some stretch of tile. The other was beginning to come loose, slipping from your dangling foot with each thrust as you found yourself pushed further and further along the countertop.
“Right here?” He teased, hips angled until he hit a spot so tender that your eyes rolled into your skull and your lashes fluttered, “Yeah, feels good, huh mommy?”
You whined with a limp nod, slack jawed. The skin of your cheek slid over the smooth countertop, jammed forward with each firm thrust, the marble slick and wet with your pooling spit.
“Oh, you like that do ya'?”
His steady movements slowed to a torturous roll. Long aching thrusts pulled out until just the tip remained, before he slid back inside so deep that your legs were sent into a pleasured wobble.
“Wanna be a mommy again, ‘s that it? C’mon then mommy, show me just how bad you want it.”
You barely had the wherewithal to answer, certainly not enough to shatter the illusion by telling him your tubes were tied. So instead you simply ignored the trembling of your legs and pushed backward, hips rolling to meet each of his firm thrusts.
For maybe the first time since you'd met the man, you watched Toji stutter. For a few long moments he did nothing but watch you fuck yourself open on him through low-lidded eyes, using him shamelessly as he stood slack jawed, utterly lost in the rhythmic vision of himself disappearing inside only to slip back out glossy and coated with you.
It was only when you whined that he was tugged back to reality, his hand coming to grope at the fat of your ass, slamming you back down on his cock, again and again until you squealed.
“Shit, that’s it… knew you had it in you..." He was panting now, words beginning to slur a little at the edges as he lost himself in your silky heat.
You nodded your head mindlessly, squeaking out a sharp noise of surprise when his palm came down to slap the swell of your ass, hard. The sizzle of pain dipped lower instantly, dribbling into the pool of heat bubbling in your lower stomach.
You felt yourself clench with the residual sting of his handprint, and he groaned - leaning forward to drape his toned abdomen over the curve of your spine. You felt him nose at your nape, nipping lightly before his lips pressed flat and he began to suck a bruise into the fevered skin there. You writhed, smacking limply at the countertop either side of your head, fingers curled and nails scratching mindlessly into the glossy marble.
“That sweet little housewife act, what a joke,” he huffed against your ear, “just about beggin’ me to bend you over, fuck you raw.”
He spoke the words into your skin like a promise, and you could feel his nose nudging at your nape, at the little hair curling there wet with sweat. His thrusts had softened somewhat, turned wide and sloppy at the edges as he instead ground himself into you. You simply squirmed against the weight of him, clenching and twitching helplessly around his cock.
“Ah- ah! Hah! ha- ah!” You panted, sweet little sizzles of pleasure zipping down your spine each time he rocked your forward and the motion forced your clit against the counter, rubbing in a slick glide over the marble, sticky where your collective arousal was beginning to pool.
“Gonna give it t’ me aren’t you?” He pleaded, clearly just as gone as you were, “gonna let me cum inside, huh mommy? Gonna gimme another baby?”
Another? You didn’t have time to question him, didn’t have time to think about anything at all, not with the way your belly was burning - a hot sizzling ache set to spill over with just one more thrust, just one more…
“Shit!” He cursed, and your own eyes rolled skyward.
With a final particularly vicious buck your vision went white as a snowbank, and suddenly you were cumming, hard. Harder than you think you’d cum in years. Shit, maybe decades.
You felt his forehead hit the space between your shoulder blades as he collapsed, muttered out a string of curses and low groans as he rutted himself into you, hips stuttering in a wild hump. You could feel him pulsing deep inside, throbbing in hard little kicks against your clenching walls as he filled you.
Your head was fuzzy with the heat of it, and your ears rung with the hot rush of your own pulse. The kitchen was silent aside from your collective panting, and your own breathy moans as you rode out the residual sparks of pleasure, twitching mindlessly around where he was still buried deep inside.
He laid over you like a concrete slab for a few moments, body firm and hot, chest sticking to your back. Even through the fabric you could feel the heat of him, the delicate tap of his pulse against your shoulder blades.
With an almost pained grunt he lifted himself up and slipped from you, though his hands remained braced around your hips, a steady presence as you eased yourself back to your feet.
The cool tile kissed your bare soles for only a few seconds before you were lifting a hip to the counter and sliding atop it, grimacing only a little at the slick squelch of your collective spend soiling the marble.
You took a moment to indulge in the sight of him, and he gazed back at you with half-lidded eyes, looking messed and a little drunk in the afterglow. His hair hung in inky strands over his eyes, cheek bones flushed and tanned skin warmed to a rosy pink. Just the same as when he’d greet you after a long afternoon spent pulling weeds and planting fresh sprouts in his garden, all sun-kissed and sweat dappled, gorgeous.
“Could you pass me my purse, please?” You asked, nodding your head to the bag tucked on the counter behind him.
He lifted a brow at you but offered no words of argument, hand lowered to tuck himself back into his jeans and tug the zipper up as he turned to retrieve the bag. You drank in the sight greedily, the sinful curve of his muscled back, waist turned to nothing but a narrow slip with the severe angle. You managed to tear your eyes free just as he spun around to face you again, taking a few steps forward to slip the bag into your outstretched hands.
“Thankyou,” you praised as you tugged the clasp open, rummaging through the purse for a few moments before you pulled out a well-worn pack of cigarettes.
Plucking one loose, you slotted it between your plump bitten lips and abandoned the pack to the counter. When you lifted your head you found that Toji was grinning.
Tilting your head, you lifted an eyebrow, wiggling the stick between your lips expectantly. Toji chuckled, hand already stuffed into his back pocket to fish a lighter free. He shook his head, still smiling, and stepped forward. One hand clasped around the old Zippo, and the other cupped around your mouth in a motion that felt practised. With a metallic flicker your face was illuminated with a warm glow. His fingertips grazed your cheek, and you sucked in a slow mouthful, watching from beneath your lashes at the cherry sizzling to life.
Toji stepped backward and flicked the lighter closed, watching you lift a hand, delicate fingers closed around the stick. You pulled the cigarette free and exhaled, and with the swirl of smoke between your teeth came a low satisfied sound. Toji watched the tendrils of smoke cloud your face, then flitter skyward.
“Full of surprises, aren’t you doll?” He mused, jade eyes glinting as he stepped in close, one palm planted either side of you, caging you against the counter.
As he moved his finger hooked over the lip of one of your delicate teacups, which he tugged along until it came to rest beside your relaxed thigh.
Your lips lifted to a smile, and you turned, twisting a little to tap the singed end of the cigarette into the cup, watching it dissolve into the remnants of tea still swirling at the bottom.
With your movement came a sticky squelch, and both of your eyes dropped instantly to the source of the sound. You spread your legs slightly, spare hand lowered to lift the hem of your skirt. Toji barely managed to swallow the sharp sound that threatened to escape him at the reveal of your bare cunt. Your swollen folds, the spatter of coiling hair smeared with your shared arousal, the sight of his spend beginning to leak out of you in hot milky dribbles.
You sighed, lower lip pushed into a pout as you watched the mess that was forming on the countertop between your legs. “I’m going to have to clean again.”
Without word Toji lowered himself to his knees, hands abandoning the counter to instead wrap around either of your thighs and tug you to the edge.
You took another drag and peered down at him through the curling tendrils of smoke. The sight of him kneeling beneath you - thick thighs lightly spread, eyes peering up at you from beneath dark lashes - was enough to send a fresh jolt of desire through your aching body.
You bit your lip, feeling your pussy twitch with interest, and from the look of his quickly tightening jeans you imagined that he wasn’t very far behind you.
“Don’t worry, sweetheart,” he mused, thumbing at your inner thigh, tugging you open as he ran a pink tongue over his lips, “I’ll take care of the cleaning from now on.”
