(you think) he doesn't like you back — Clark Kent
summary: you think he doesn't like you back, so you draw your love letters instead of confessing, and he finds your sketchbook one day. word count: 5.6k content warning: reader is an artist and has eczema, clark and reader are friends and roommates, trust fund reader, mention of past and current toxic relationships (not clark), reader has depression, self esteem issues. unrequited love, heartbreak, happy ending, hurt/comfort. also reader is bi (briefly mentioned). this is kind of really sad, but i promise, the ending is happy. notes: this was a request, and i meant to make it short and really sweet but instead i made it so angsty for no reason omg. i am truly so sorry anon, i still hope you enjoy it anyway. not beta read, please don't mind typos.
You think that people are too negative about having crushes. Sure, it’s heartcrushing and agonising and the yearning always threatens to bear a hole through your heart and ribcage, and it’s painful and the world feels like it’s ending every single time you see your crush smile at someone else and that there’s a rodent that took up residence inside your stomach to chew on your intestines but that’s besides the point.
The point you’re trying to make is that crushes are wonderful. Nothing in the world feels as blissful as catching the eyes of your crush and having them smile back at you first.
Nothing can quite compare to the stolen glances and the soft accidental brush of fingers against fingers, or when there are only two seats left somewhere and you have to sit right next to him.
Best of all, nothing could compare to the feeling you get every night fantasizing about holding his hand and falling asleep to the thought of the two of you together, happy in love.
And you’re lucky, because your crush is your roommate and you get to see him every single day.
And one of your favorite things to do is curl up in the couch while your roommate, Clark Kent, the tall and strong but nerdy farm boy from the middle of nowhere in Kansas, is doing the dishes. You offered, of course, but he refuses to ever let you touch water (he found out you have eczema and has been adamant ever since not to let you do anything that could cause your skin to flare up again, including but not limited to him doing the dishes for you, doing the laundry for you and other things you can’t remember right now because you’re too busy staring at the muscles of his back that were so defined they shone through his shirt), which is why you’re on the couch right now doing nothing but drawing while he’s busy being the perfect crush in the world.
Only your pencils and your sketchbooks know about the crush you have on your roommate. When Clark asks if he can see your drawings, you always pull out a sketchbook you haven’t touched since you met him, because it’s your only sketchbook that isn’t filled to the brim with drawings of Clark Kent. If he notices how you never show him recent drawings, he doesn’t tell.
The thing is, lately you’ve only been drawing him. He was your muse, in a way. You’d been in a drawing slump for years before he replied to your Craiglist ad about a roommate and you first took a look at the adorkable gentle giant that was Clark Kent.
The first day you guys met and you saw the shy dimple on his left cheek, your fingers itched to pick up a pencil again, and you haven’t put it down ever since, two years ago.
“What are you drawing?” he asks while putting glasses in the drying rack. His glasses were slightly falling off his nose, and he kept failing to push them up with his wrist. You took pity on him and stood up from your nook in the couch and approached him. You used one finger on the bridge of his glasses to push them up.
“I was drawing the kitchen,” you lied, because you can’t exactly tell him you were learning the anatomy of his back and capturing the slopes and tendons of his muscles.
He perked up. “Can I see?”
“Mhmm… only if you let me see you without your glasses,” you reply because it’s easier when it’s him who says no. He never accepts for some reason. He says he’s too insecure about his looks without them.
He instantly pouts. “You do that on purpose.”
Oops, he noticed.
“My sketches are my glasses,” you tell him wisely.
“That… that makes sense. You’re really smart,” he then says, completely out of the blue. Your entire body goes red. Not just your face or your ears or your neck. You can feel the blush travel all the way down to your chest.
“Says the actual reporter who’s about to win a Pulitzer prize anytime now.”
It’s his turn to flush and you wish you could use the shade of his blush to paint a portrait of him.
“When are you gonna let me do the dishes too?”
You never thought you would ask that one day. You usually hate doing the dishes but it’s because Clark who does it for you, you feel bad and you want to help him.
“When you’re cured of eczema. And don’t try to tell me it’s getting better, because I see your hands everytime you shower.”
You didn’t know that.
You grin. “Been keeping up tabs on me, big boy?”
He splutters. “Ah, I, no, it’s… gosh darnit you, stop making fun of me.”
“I would apologize if I sincerely felt bad but unfortunately for you, I don’t.”
See? Having crushes wasn’t so bad.
Or maybe you should specify that it’s only not so bad when the object of your crush is Clark Kent.
“Hey, do you wanna order takeout for tonight? That way you won’t have to do the dishes again. At least for tonight.”
Clark smiles, like he always does whenever you offer to do something with him. He’s always surprised that you actually enjoy spending his time, as though you haven’t fell in love with him the moment he held you all night long after a really bad date.
“Ah, can I get a raincheck please? Tomorrow?”
“Sure,” you reply easily. “You gotta go to the office again later?”
He blushes, and smiles sweetly as if he wasn’t about to crush your heart with an elephant’s foot. “Ah, no. I, uh… I have a date tonight.”
“No way!” you say, trying to sound excited for him, because he really does look happy and excited about it. “Who’s the lucky girl?”
“I’m the lucky guy, to be honest. She’s a colleague at work.”
You instantly know who he’s talking about. “Lois Lane?”
“Yeah, how’d you know?” he asked with a timid smile.
You have nothing against her, really. She is breathtakingly pretty, has a smile that only rivals the moon in its beauty, and is as kind as a tree. Don’t ask why, you just think trees are the world’s kindest creatures, even if they’re not really creatures. And she’s always so sweet to you whenever she comes over. You like the way she drinks her sugar with coffee, instead of coffee with sugar the way literally anyone else did. She was— well, perfect for someone like Clark Kent. If he was the sun, she was the moon. And she was so nice to you, so pretty, you drew her, and she was so happy she hugged you and asked if she could keep the drawing.
And most importantly, she is a Pulitzer prize winner. For all intents and purposes, she is perfect.
And you’re such a horrible person for hating her right now. She didn’t do anything to you, so why the rodent inside your stomach chewing on your intestines like they were battery acid?
“I hope you have fun.”
“I know I will. I always have fun when I’m with her.”
And really, deep down, you’re happy for them both. You’re just even sadder for yourself, and it’s hard to feel anything positive about this right now.
So yeah, maybe people weren’t wrong about having crushes. Nothing was positive about it.
When he’s gone and he says not to wait for him and he asks you to wish him luck (and you do), and you’re left all alone with just you and your twenty-thousand sketches of him, you feel really stupid. Really silly. Like a clown.
It’s not like you even held some foolish hope that he would be yours one day. You just foolishly thought that he would never go out with other girls. You were just fine with being his friend, as long as he wasn’t also interested in other girls. You’re insane, you know, but it worked for you for almost two years. So in a way, he was just yours. You were the only who got to see him just as he wakes up or right before he goes to sleep. You were the only one he did the dishes for, and the only one he applied cream against your rashes whenever it got too bad.
But now, you weren’t the only one anymore.
In a way, it feels like a breakup. Because you were being crazy, if you’re honest with yourself. Maybe this is a good thing.
Watching him come home the day after spending the night with his girlfriend with mussed hair and that shy smile that always betrayed what he’d been up to (he looked like he’d been caught saying a bad word but he was too satisfied to feel bad about it), was like picking up a dagger and stabbing it inside your chest every single day.
And he sleeps over at hers a lot. And when he doesn’t, she sleeps over. And then it’s worse. Because sometimes, not always, you hear them.
It’s been almost three months now. Your crush was a slender sharksucker that stuck to your leg and refused to let go. You were its home now and it wasn’t even paying.
“Hey, you okay?” Lois asks you with a crease of worry between her beautiful eyebrows. Clark was in the shower, and you didn’t know Lois was there when you came out to the kitchen to eat breakfast.
“Uh… yes, totally, thanks.”
You must look really bad if she asks. Unlike her, who looked picture ready. “You, uh, you look really good. Is your skin just naturally flawless or do you use something for it?”
She lets out a delighted giggle. “No wonder Clark likes you so much. You’re so nice.”
You smile confusedly. “I wasn’t being nice, I was just saying the truth.”
“I’m flattered, but I have to confess it’s all the work of hyaluronic acid. And, between the two of us,” she whispers low, “a little bit of after glow.”
You laugh, because it’s funny but then later that day you remember what that entailed and your stomach churned.
“Whatcha drawing?”
“Cats,” you reply.
“Can I see?”
“Sure.”
“That’s okay, you don’t have to– wait, you said yes?”
You can’t help but laugh. You’d pavloved him into thinking you would always say no whenever he asks you if he can see a drawing.
“Yes. Come see before I change my mind.”
He’s rushing towards you in two big strides. “This is so exciting. You never let me see your new drawings.”
Yeah well, that was because all you drew was him. But not anymore.
“These are really good. I especially love the torti one. Could I have it?”
“Sure, I’ll draw you another and give it to you.”
“Okay,” he smiles happily. “Thank you. It’s really cute. Tortishells are Lois’ favorite cats.”
Oh. that’s fine.
You draw the cat anyway and because you love to hurt yourself, you drew Clark and her as cats too. In nice drawing paper, and even add a little bit of watercolor. It’s, ironically enough, one of your favorite work in a long time.
They love it too. Clark makes a copy of it.
You try to move on. You meet someone. He’s not as nice as Clark, nor as tall, or as handsome, or as kind. But he likes you. At least you think so.
The first time he sees your hands when you’re having a flare-up, he recoils like you have the plague.
“That’s fucking gross, dude.”
Clark never swore. And he didn’t find it gross. He didn’t even care. His hands never flinched when he helped you apply cream.
“It’s just, it gets like that when it touches water. I told you.”
“Please don’t touch me until it’s gone.”
As far as distractions went, this was a really good one. It was like hurting yourself to distract yourself from a pain somewhere else.
It hurts, yes, but you no longer hurt because Clark broke your heart.
So you stay.
You’re stupid, you know. But you’re in too deep. And quite frankly, this guy feels more familiar than Clark. Clark, with his true kindness and smiles, and his quiet support of your condition, was an anomaly in your life.
Josh, however, was just like any other man you’d ever met. Your brain felt safe in his unsafety. He found stability in his ghosting, the standing you up, the uncareness.
How foolish of you to think you could have something good in your life for once.
You see Clark less often. You’re no longer at home as much. He calls and texts but you reply less and less.
You think you’re spiraling but knowing it doesn’t do anything. If anything, it makes it even harder to stop.
Clark once proposes to do a double date.
“You don’t draw anymore,” Clark notices. How did he? You guys barely see each other anymore.
You hide your hands behind your back. You’re so stressed lately your body was in constant state of breaking out. And Josh didn’t help. You can’t grab a pencil anymore.
“I’m in a rut,” you say. He thinks you’re talking about being in a rut creatively.
“Jesus, it’s gotten all over your body now too. I can’t even get hard anymore. Just…”
You’re standing there naked, feeling more exposed than ever. Beneath your skin, your muscles, your bones.
At least you were good at this, but not anymore. Even Josh didn’t want to see you anymore.
Josh leaves you behind.
You break down, you call Clark. You don’t think, you can’t even breathe. You just want to get out of your skin.
You know Clark was supposed to be at Lois, but your mind doesn’t care about that anymore.
“Can you come home, please?” you ask him, sobbing into the phone.
You don’t even realize he’s home only minutes after calling him. Nothing registers inside your mind except the feeling of wrongness that’s now spread all over your body, not just hands.
It’s only when Clark enters your room, hair mussed from wind and a look of pure horror on his face that you finally realize how you must look.
Curled up on the floor, in just your lingerie — the worst part of it all was that you were trying to be desirable, sexy, pretty and even when you make efforts your skin is all people can see and it’s all you can feel — crying and hyperventilating and scratching your skin so harshly you could feel blood all over.
Your entire body hurts and itches and every movement you made tugs at some part of your skin and it felt like you were being torn apart.
“Oh my darling,” Clark breathes out and you can barely hear him over the sound of you breaking down.
He doesn’t ask what happened, doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t even recoil at the sight of your skin peeling and bleeding and aching and looking so wrong you wish you could shed it all.
He just approaches you, touches you gently, and instead of feeling like someone’s pressing a hot iron against your skin, his hand is warm and soft and it’s like silk against your agonizing skin, and you choke on a sob as you lean towards him like moth to flame, like sunflower to the sun, like someone who’s never known softness before.
“It’s okay, you’re okay my darling, I got you, I got you,” he says and some part of you settles down at his words but the rest of you — the majority wants to cry and scream at how unfair everything is.
He doesn’t even judge you because you’re in lingerie, he doesn’t make fun of you for trying to make yourself pretty when it’s just not possible. A pig’s still a pig even when you put lipstick on it.
You cry harder.
“Why can’t I ever be enough?” you ask him in between sobs but you don’t see the way his face openly breaks at your heartbreak, and he tugs you closer to him, pulling you against him, dragging you over his lap and it’s weird, he should feel wrong but he just feels like the only thing in your entire life that’s right.
You blink once and he’s gone, and you blink again and he’s back and he’s got moisturizer, and you know that brand, it’s the one you use, with no scent and fragrance-free, except it’s not yours because yours isn’t as big and then he’s lathering some in his large hand and he warms it first before he starts gently applying it on your skin in slow circles and the softness of it all breaks you more than harshness ever could.
“I’m sorry for ruining your date night,” you whisper brokenly. You’re apologizing but you can’t bring yourself to regret calling him. “I didn’t have anyone else to call.”
“You can always call me, darling. Anytime and whenever. I’ll always come for you.”
“But Lois… I don’t want…”
“Lois understands,” he says. “And this is not about her or even me. This is about you, okay? Worry only about you, and I’ll worry about the rest.”
You feel like there’s no tears left to cry inside your body but you keep surprising yourself by crying again and again, like a leaky faucet.
“How are you not disgusted?” you ask him.
He’s still applying the thick cream in your arms and now he’s holding your left hand and he’s slowly massaging the ointment in.
“Because there’s nothing to be disgusted at,” he replies simply. Like the truth was always this simple. He replies quickly, confidently, without hesitation. As if it’s a truth as uncontested as the color of the sky.
You want to believe him so badly.
He’s done with both your hands. “Can I touch your chest and stomach?”
It’s where the flares are the worst. “It’s disgusting,” you tell him.
“Not to me,” he replies.
It’s hopeless. Your crush is hopeless, because it’s not going anywhere. You knew it right there and then.
Neither of you talk about that night. You know Clark wants to, but you don’t, so he doesn’t say anything.
Your skin condition gets considerably better after Josh leaves your life. He left it just as quietly as he got in it. He’d never been the right one. He was just the right one to distract you.
Clark starts saying home more often. At first, Lois comes by too. She’s kind. She’s gentle. She always has the right thing to say. Your heart breaks as much as it heals.
Then, she slowly starts showing up less. Clark is always smiling when he says, she’s busy. But you know. You know you’re the reason they’re growing apart.
You don’t know what the hell you’re doing with your life anymore. You don’t have to work because you’re a trust fund baby and you only got a roommate because you were lonely, not because you needed the money, so there’s nothing to structure your days. Nothing to keep you responsible. You don’t work, you don’t draw anymore.
You know it’s not just your unrequited crush on Clark that caused all this. But it was a catalyst. You don’t know what’s going on anymore.
Clark still doesn’t let you touch the dishes. Still doesn’t let you clean with products that burn and dry.
He still eats takeout with you. Still enjoys your food.
He’s still with Lois, but there’s something else. You’re breaking them up, or you’re just their catalyst too. You hope it’s not you. You would never forgive yourself.
Clark still helps you put ointment on your hands. He’s so gentle it makes you want to pick up a pencil again, just to carve against paper the softness of his touch.
Your drawings become all the words you couldn’t say.
You draw Clark’s hands and his smile, and his gentle eyes.
You draw yourself, made out of scars and blood and acid.
The two of you could never work out.
It slowly starts getting better. It starts with Clark coming back home to you to celebrate his first page in the Daily Planet.
You’re so happy for him you throw yourself at him to hug him, because he looks so happy and so bashful and so excited and you’re so proud of him. You always knew he was destined to greater things.
You guys eat out that night.
You’re worried about Lois, he says, don’t worry. We ended things amiably. We’re still friends, we just didn’t work together. His head wasn’t in the right headspace for a relationship.
You look at him, trying to say whether he was being truthful, or if he was just trying to spare your feelings.
He laughs, and shows you his latest messages from Lois.
Your heart settles then. You hadn’t realized just how worried you were until now. Until your heart’s been put at ease.
Deep inside, your heart roars one last time with hope. You tell it to shut up. You’re never ruining this friendship again.
But everything else is quieter. Tamed, settled. Your skin doesn’t scream at you now, and with Clark helping you with your treatment, it’s better than it’s ever been. You still have some scars from where you scratched too hard, but you almost don’t mind it — most days.
Clark talks you into starting therapy. So you do, because there’s nothing you can refuse Clark. You know that’s unhealthy, but that’s what therapy is here for.
One day, Clark tells you that Lois is asking about you, and that she wonders if you take commissions. She would like to commission you for a piece she’ll use for her latest article.
It’s an honor. You say yes.
You find that having to do something keeps your body and mind busy.
“I have something I want to show you,” Clark says and you look up to him with bleary eyes. You’re barely awake, and he’s already looking fresh and proper for the day ahead. It’s so unfair.
“Can it wait later?”
“How long?”
You think about it. “Ten hours?” you offer reasonably.
“I’m afraid it can’t wait that long, but I’ll give you two hours. Does that sound reasonable?”
“Two hours until we have to be there or two hours until I have to start getting ready? It’s not the same thing.”
“Two hours until you have to get ready. I know how you operate, spoiled princess, don’t worry.”
“Cheers, you speak my language.”
(You were almost late anyway despite his best efforts.)
“No,” you say, once you both get at destination.
“Yes,” he replies, smug.
“No fucking way.”
“Yes fricking way.”
“The waitlist’s a year long!”
“I know.” he looks even more smug now. “I got tickets at work.”
“I could kiss you right now,” you say very seriously.
He got tickets at work and thought of you? Your heart’s doing things you swore you were never going to do again.
He blushes at your fervence, but smiles anyway. “I’ll take it you’re happy?”
“Happy? I think my excitement could fuel a spaceship right now.”
Van Gogh is (one of) your favorite artist, and you’d been trying to get tickets for it for so long, but admittedly you weren’t trying too hard. You were always too worried of failing to get them so you sabotaged yourself. It was more of a chimera than anything else. And you’d only talked to Clark about it once, one year ago, and he remembered.
“Clark, you’re the best creature that has ever existed. And the bestest friend I’ve ever had,” you tell him seriously.
He chuckles nervously. “Why do you sound like you’re about to promise me your first born?”
“Because I am.”
“No, please don’t,” he says, looking so distressed at the idea that it makes you giggle.
“Okay fine. I’ll give you the second one.”
The immersive experience was out of this world but you still think it’s Clark who makes it so special.
During lunch hours, he buys lunch for the both of you even though the food here is overpriced, and you can more than afford to, but he insists on paying, saying he was the one who invited you here. It feels so much like a date you have to remind yourself every minute that it’s not one.
Everything is great. Perfect, even. Even if you’re afraid of that word.
Clark Kent makes it so easy not to be afraid of hope. One look at him and you think— no, you know everything’s gonna be okay.
Maybe having a crush isn’t so bad, after all.
Lois starts coming over more often again, purely as a friend. Barred Clark, she’s one of the best people you’ve ever met. She sees how you look at him, and when you look at her in panic at having your best kept secret discovered, she just winks at you and puts a finger over her closed lips.
Your secret’s safe with her. You smile at her gratefully.
“You know,” she tells you. “Clark makes an amazing boyfriend.”
“Then why did you guys not work out?”
The question’s out of your mouth before you could stop it.
Lois laughs. “Because it turned out we were both using each other to lie to ourselves.”
At your puzzled look she adds, “I found out that good boys are nice and all, but I prefer a little edge. And an entirely different gender.”
“Oh,” you say. “Congrats?”
Lois snorted good-naturedly. “Thank you.”
You find yourself opening up too. “I found out that I liked girls too when I was thirteen.”
“Girls are the dream, aren’t they?”
“Yeah,” you say. “But then I met Clark.”
“And then you met Clark,” Lois repeated. “He does that, doesn’t he? He’s not even aware of it.”
“Yeah. I’ve been trying so hard to forget him but it won’t work. It’s like he’s embedded in my neurons.”
“Then maybe it’s because you’re not meant to forget him yet.”
“Don’t get my hopes up please,” you tell her laughing.
You mention off-handledly missing homemade lasagna one day and the next Clark is making you one from scratch. He even got a pasta machine out (you didn’t even realize you had one) and everything.
“This is overkill,” you tell him while dipping your finger into the bechamel sauce and licking it and then begging him to let you roll the lever.
“Clearly,” he replied dryly.
Then, later, once the lasagna is in the oven, you look around the kitchen. “This is a mess.”
“Remind again who started the flour fight?”
Clark decided he was going to do a deep clean day so he told you to leave the apartment because of the dirt and dust and allergies.
“Are you kicking me out of my own place, the one I paid for with my hard earned pedigree?”
“Yes, yes I am. I don’t want your allergies to get worse.”
“You’re so kind it borderlines on cruel sometimes,” you tell him darkly before going out. You were thinking of going to visit the ducks. Before or after the movies. Lois said she’ll join you. Girls day, she said.
The apartment is spotless by the time you come back and it really makes you want to start another food fight, but you don’t.
“Clark?”
“In here!” he calls back from the living room. He sounded winded. Poor guy must have tired himself out.
“Hey,” you greet him, taking off your shoes in the living room because it’s fun. But then you look up and you’re not having fun anymore. “What’s that?” you ask him, dreading the answer.
He has the decency to look bashful. “I was cleaning up the couch when I found it wedged between the two seats.”
Oh no. Oh no no.
“Whatever you saw, it’s not me,” you say quickly.
“And what do you think I saw?” he asks. He looks so red and so flustered. He must have looked through the whole thing. Oh God, he saw the drawings of him shirtless after a shower. You hadn’t even needed to draw it because the sight was etched onto the back of your eyelids.
“I think you saw hallucinations. I think you ate a bad shroom today.”
“How would you even know what I ate today?” he says, comically offended.
You shrug. Good, he’s getting distracted from the fact that he found your sketchbook where all you did was draw him, and him only. And writing embarrassing stuff like ‘oh he was so pretty today, i almost asked if i could kiss him’ or worse things like, ‘he’s so handsome!!!!! Kill me now’.
“Can I have that back, please?” you ask him, totally nonchalant and suave. He has to think you don’t care you found it, so he would lose interest.
“No, I have a few questions first,” he says with a smug grin, standing up and lifting the sketchbook high up in the air. It’s futile trying to get it, unless you tried to climb him, but that would only make everything worse.
My blood turned to ice in my veins. “Before you ask, no, it’s fine, I’m over it, I’m over your crush, please don’t hate me.”
But instead of looking relieved, he looked… crestfallen? “That’s not what I was going to ask, but is that true? I mean, I don’t blame you for moving on, it must have been so hard for you but… is it true?”
“What were you going to ask?”
“I don’t that matters now anyway, since you said you don’t like me anymore,” he says with a gentle smile but you can see the heartbreak behind his eyes.
Lois’ words come back to mind.
“I… I lied,” you say. Honesty is always better, wasn’t it? “I still like you. A lot. I think I’m in love. But I don’t want it to ruin our friendship, so I tried to move on, but it didn’t work. It never did. Please don’t think this has to change anything, I won’t let it ruin what we have.”
“What if I want it to?”
Your heart falls through your stomach.
“No,” he continues, shaking his head, “I’m sorry. That’s not what I meant.” He lowered his hand, still holding onto the sketchbook. “What I meant is, I like you too. I really like you too, and I’m sorry I was too much of a coward to tell you. I thought I was doing the right thing, but I almost messed everything up, didn’t I? Please tell me it’s not too late, darling.”
Nothing is never too late for you, Clark.
Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God.
Clark was never the kind of person who said things they didn’t mean, but that didn’t mean your brain knew that. “I…”
“I love you, and I think I have ever since that first week of me living here where you tried your hardest to find out what was my breaking limit. And you never found it, because I never had any around you.”
You remember that week. You were trying to see what type of person he was, and if he was prone to anger or violence. You were testing the ground for bombs, and you never found any, because this was Clark. The human equivalent of a weighted blanket and a hug after a heartbreak.
“I bought your groceries for a month straight after to apologize for my behavior,” you say.
“I know, and it only made me fall harder, but I was too blind to see it, and I’m sorry. I really am. For being the world’s biggest idiot. Who almost missed the chance of his life to be with the woman of his dreams. Please, tell me. Have I messed everything up?”
You didn’t even need to think to know the answer. Of course he didn’t. He never did. He wasn’t even capable of that.
“No, of course not. I just… I spent so long thinking that I was foolish and stupid for hoping, that this just seems like a dream now.”
“It feels like a dream to me too,” he confesses. “A dream come true. Say you’ll have me, and I’ll make you the happiest girl in the world. I swear on everything that I stand for.”
You don’t reply. You get on your tiptoes instead, and kiss him.
Instantly, he leans down slightly and wraps his arms around you and lifts you up in his arms, your legs wrapping around his waist. “Wow,” you whisper against his lips.
“Wow indeed,” he replies right back against your lips. “Can I kiss you again?” he asks in a husky voice.
“You have two years of kisses to catch up, so you better start now.”
“I know,” he replies, sounding pained. “And I fully intent to pay you back in full.” A kiss. “With interest.” A kiss.
Your smile is swallowed by another kiss.
Yeah, you think to yourself. Having a crush on Clark Kent is definitely the best thing ever.
masterlist ᯓ★ part2? requests! ᯓ★ directory ᯓ★ come say hi
The brick was definitely kissed before it was tossed
