pairing: bull rider!bucky barnes x barrel racer!reader | 7.7k words
warnings: past unprotected sex, pregnancy, single mom!reader, secret baby (now secret nine-year-old oops), mentions of childbirth, rodeo injuries, guilt, miscommunication, co-parenting feelings, big emotions, second chance romance, soft dad!bucky losing his mind over a tiny barrel racer
summary: at twenty-three, bucky blows into your small-town rodeo with big-league dreams and a bull rope, leaving you with a broken heart and a baby he never knew about. ten years later, retired and back on the circuit, he’s blindsided to find you, and your daughter, waiting in the same arena where it all began.
authors note: little bit of cowboy bucky hurt/comfort to grace your feed this fine saturday afternoon! if you know anything about me, cowboy!bucky has my soul and this concept sunk its claws in me and refused to let go.
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Bucky Barnes shows up with a busted duffel bag and a bull rope slung over his shoulder like he already owns the place.
He doesn’t. Not yet.
He’s twenty-three, road-weary, dust on his jeans and sun in his eyes, and he pulls into the county fairgrounds in a beat-up blue truck that rattles to a stop beside your trailer. The late June heat shimmers over the red clay, the air thick with the smell of horses, fried food, and diesel.
You’re bent over tightening your mare’s cinch when you hear boots scuff on gravel and a low whistle.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” a warm voice says behind you. “That’s the prettiest view I’ve seen all summer.”
You straighten slowly, pushing your hat back with the back of your wrist, ready to tear into some cocky idiot who thinks he can comment on your ass before noon. You turn around, mouth already open—
—and forget what you were gonna say.
He’s tall, broad shouldered, dusty blue plaid shirt rolled up to his elbows, worn ball cap pulled low over shaggy brown hair. There’s a little smudge of oil on his cheek, a crooked smile at the corner of his mouth, and eyes so blue you feel like you’ve been dropped into cold water.
You swallow. “If you’re talkin’ about my mare, you’re right,” you say, crisp. “If not, you got about three seconds to adjust your attitude, cowboy.”
His grin widens like you just fed him dessert. “Y’know, I meant the horse,” he lies easily. “But now that you mention it…”
You arch a brow. “Name?”
“Bucky.” He shifts the bull rope higher on his shoulder and sticks out a hand. His palm is rough and warm. “Bucky Barnes. Figured I’d roll through your little circuit here, win all your money, then head south for the big leagues.”
You ignore how his hand swallows yours and how your pulse kicks under your skin. “You’re awful sure of yourself for someone I’ve never heard of.”
“Guess you haven’t been listenin’ hard enough, darlin’.”
“Don’t call me darlin’,” you snap on instinct.
He smirks. “What should I call you then?”
You tell him your name and watch the way he rolls it slowly on his tongue like he’s tasting it. His gaze flicks down to your belt buckle—last year’s barrel racing champion, your county fair logo etched in silver—and something in his face sharpens.
“So you’re the barrel racer I gotta beat, huh?” he asks.
“You’re a bull rider,” you point out. “Different events.”
“Still the same all-around pot.” He kicks a boot at the dirt. “And I heard there was this girl out here, runs barrels like it’s a blood sport. Figured she’d be my competition.”
You shrug, pretending your cheeks aren’t burning. “Guess we’ll see if you can stay on longer than eight seconds before you go talkin’ big.”
He laughs, low and delighted. “Oh, I like you.”
You hate how it makes you want to smile back.
Bucky Barnes spends the rest of the summer proving you right and wrong, all at once.
He is cocky. He does talk too much. And he can ride like the devil.
You watch from the fence the first night he nods his head in the chute, hand wrapped in the rope, mouth set in a grim line. The bull explodes into the arena, twisting and leaping, hooves carving gouges in the dirt. Bucky moves with him—hips loose, shoulders squared, heels dug in. Every time the bull tries to whip him off, he’s there, like he’s welded to leather and muscle and fury.
Eight seconds hit and the buzzer screams. Bucky lets go, throws himself off, hits the ground and springs up again, sprinting for the fence. The crowd roars, dust swirling around him.
He tips his hat up toward the bleachers, searching until he finds you.
You’re already clapping, heart pounding in your throat.
He winks.
Show-off, you think savagely—and can’t stop your grin.
He finds you afterward by the trailers, where you’re walking your mare to cool her out. He’s got his hat pushed back on his head, hair damp with sweat, shirt sticking to his chest. There’s mud on his jeans, a scrape on his jaw, and adrenaline still in his eyes.
“Well?” he asks. “Did I pass your little test?”
“You loosened up your free arm this time,” you admit, because you know he’ll just bug you until you say it. “Didn’t let the bull control your shoulders. Looked good.”
He beams like you just handed him a first-place check. “Looked good, huh?”
“Don’t let it go to your head, Barnes,” you warn. “It’s already too big.”
He spends the next week proving exactly how big it is, pestering you at every rodeo on the circuit. He shows up at your trailer with greasy fair food and a lopsided grin. He leans on the fence at morning warm-ups, calling out teasing critiques about your turns around the barrels.
“You’re droppin’ that inside shoulder,” he calls one day, boots hooked on the bottom rail. “Quit lookin’ at the barrel. Look past it.”
“Yeah?” you shoot back, cheeks flushed. “Maybe if you quit thinkin’ with your dick you’d make your dismounts a little cleaner.”
The guys beside him howl. Bucky just laughs, slow and delighted, like every barb you throw is a gift.
Some nights, when the stars are clear and the air soft and warm, you find him sitting on the top rail of the arena fence after everyone else has gone. He’s quiet in those moments, jaw working, hands folded loosely over the front of his thighs.
“Thinkin’ about leavin’ already?” you ask one night, swinging yourself up beside him.
He shrugs one shoulder. “Thinkin’ about winnin’ enough to matter,” he says lightly. “This circuit’s… good. Real good. But there’s bigger money down in Texas. Vegas. Sponsors.” He glances at you. “Can’t ride small forever.”
You roll the dust between your fingers. “Nothing wrong with small,” you murmur. “Some of us like the life we got.”
He’s silent for a beat. “You ever wanna get out?” he wonders.
You consider the dark outline of the arena, the distant glow of the ferris wheel on the fairgrounds, your mare chewing on hay somewhere behind you. “Sometimes,” you admit. “There’s bigger rodeos I’d like to run. Different patterns, different arenas. Maybe Denver, Cheyenne. But my family needs me. And this place…”
This place is your roots. Your daddy’s ranch. Your mama’s kitchen. The graveyard where your grandparents rest and the kitchen table where you learned your first barrel pattern with cans of beans.
“It’s home,” you finish.
He studies your profile. “You’re somethin’ else, you know that?”
“Yeah,” you say. “You won’t shut up about it.”
His shoulder brushes yours. The contact is warm, solid, grounding. You stare straight ahead, heart thudding loud in your ears.
You don’t kiss him then. You could. You picture turning your head just enough, catching his mouth with yours, tasting dust and sugar and danger.
You don’t.
Not that night.
You make it to the second-to-last rodeo of the circuit before you break.
It happens in the cramped space between your trailer and the stock pens, the air humming with generators and laughter and the metallic clang of gates. You’re leaning against the trailer wall, tugging off your boots, when Bucky corners you.
“Hey,” he says, a little breathless. “They just posted the draw for next week. You see it?”
You shrug, tugging at your sock. “I was a little busy tryin’ not to die in that second barrel turn.”
He grins briefly, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “You were smokin’ it. Don’t start.”
“Tell that to the second barrel I kissed,” you mutter. “What’s the draw say?”
“They added a bull.” He drags a hand through his hair. “Somebody backed out, so they slotted me in. It’s—” He swallows. “It’s a rank one. From a big stock contractor down south. They only brought him up ’cause there’s a scout comin’ through. And—”
“And this is your shot,” you finish dully.
“Maybe,” he says. “If I cover him with a good score, there’s a sponsor at the next rodeo who might pick me up. Truck, travel money, maybe a spot on their string. It’d… it’d change things.”
For him. For you.
A lump settles in your throat. “That’s what you wanted,” you say carefully. “Right? Big leagues.”
“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, it is.”
Your fingers curl against the trailer siding. “So why do you look like someone kicked your puppy?”
He huffs out something that’s almost a laugh. “’Cause someone might,” he says quietly. “I just… I gotta figure some things out.”
“Like what?”
He steps closer. The diesel generator hum and country music from someone’s radio fade to a low blur. It’s just him and you and the smell of leather and sweat and the faint sweetness of cotton candy drifting on the breeze.
“Like how to ask you if you’d ever wanna come with me,” he says roughly. “And how to do it without soundin’ selfish as hell.”
Your heart stutters. “Bucky—”
“I know you got your folks,” he rushes on. “The ranch. Your mare. I know this place is yours. But I…” He trails off, jaw working. “I didn’t plan on you,” he admits. “Didn’t plan on spendin’ all summer thinkin’ about the way you laugh when you beat me out of the trailer park ’cause you drive like a damn bat outta hell. Or how you tap your hat brim three times before every run, like it’s some secret ritual.”
Heat prickles at the back of your eyes. You’d never told anyone about that. You didn’t think he’d noticed.
“Didn’t plan on wantin’ you in my corner when I ride,” he says. “Now I can’t not think about it.”
You inhale shaky. “You think you can just drag me all over the country to watch you get your brains scrambled?” you demand, voice trembling more than you’d like. “That’s your big plan?”
He flinches. “It’d be more than that,” he says. “We—”
“We what, Bucky?” you snap, nerves fraying. “We live out of your busted truck? I find a way to barrel race in between your events, if we can afford it? My parents are down a hand on the ranch and I’m off chasin’ some dream that isn’t mine?”
“It could be yours,” he protests. “We could hit different rodeos, bigger ones. You’re good enough. You know you are.”
“That’s not the point.” You shake your head hard. “My life is here.”
“And mine’s out there,” he says hoarsely.
Silence stretches between you, hot and taut.
There it is.
“Seems like you already decided,” you say finally, swallowing the ache. “So what are you askin’ me for?”
His face twists. “Because I’m an idiot,” he mutters. “’Cause I keep hopin’ there’s a way to have both.”
“There isn’t,” you whisper. “Not really. You know that.”
He rakes a hand through his hair, frustrated. “So that’s it? I go. You stay. We pretend this summer never happened?”
“Didn’t say that,” you manage. “Just… don’t ask me to choose between you and my family when you’ve already chosen.”
He stares at you like he wants to argue. Like he wants to promise things he can’t guarantee.
He doesn’t.
Instead, he nods once, sharp and pained. “Guess I’ll just have to give you somethin’ to remember me by then,” he murmurs.
You don’t have a chance to ask what he means before he’s crowding you gently back against the trailer, one hand braced beside your head, the other hovering just shy of your waist like he’s asking a question.
You answer by fisting his shirt and dragging him down.
The kiss is a collision—teeth, breath, the scrape of stubble against your chin. Heat flares low in your belly, bright and desperate. His hand finds your hip, fingers digging in like he’s scared you’ll vanish. He tastes like dust and adrenaline and a hint of the lemonade he stole from you earlier.
“Tell me to stop,” he roughs against your mouth.
“Don’t you dare,” you breathe.
Later, you’ll remember flashes more than anything: his hands shaking as they push your shirt up, the reverent way his fingers trace the curve of your waist; your back arching off the old quilt in the bed of his truck under a sky full of stars; the way he keeps asking if you’re sure even after you’ve pulled him down with a curse and a kiss. The heat of his body, the stretch, the overwhelming rightness of having him so close it feels like he’s under your skin.
You’ll remember his voice, low and wrecked, murmuring I got you, I got you, as he holds you afterwards, your fingers tangled with his, his breath uneven against your hair.
You’ll remember the shape of his promise.
“I’ll call,” he tells you roughly, forehead pressed to yours. “Soon as I know what’s what. I swear, honey. This isn’t… I’m not just leavin’ you behind.”
You want to believe him so badly that it hurts.
Instead, you kiss him one more time, slow and aching, and memorize the taste of goodbye.
He rides the rank bull.
He covers the eight seconds.
The scout notices.
The sponsor calls.
He leaves.
You don’t chase him. You watch his truck taillights shrink down the highway from the edge of your family’s property, arms wrapped tight around yourself until the night swallows the last glimmer of red.
You throw up in the barn two months later.
You blame bad fair food and stress and the ache of your heart. But the weeks pass, and your jeans start to feel different, and your mama gives you a look across the breakfast table that makes your fork freeze halfway to your mouth.
“Baby,” she says gently. “We need to talk.”
When the truth comes spilling out, you brace yourself for anger. For disappointment.
Your mama just squeezes your hand until your fingers hurt. Your daddy goes quiet, lips set, and then gets up from the table and goes out to the barn. He spends an hour there with the horses, shoulders bowed.
He comes back in and kisses the top of your head without a word.
You text Bucky that night. Fingers trembling, you type out I missed my period and I think—
Then you stop.
You stare at the blinking cursor. At the old messages—his dumb memes, his good-luck texts before your runs, his I miss you more than I miss my hat, and that’s sayin’ something.
You stare at the single unread message from him, sent two weeks ago, the last thing you got.
Sorry, honey. Things are crazy. Promise I’ll call soon. Big sponsor meeting. Think about you every time I tie my glove.
“Yeah,” you whisper. “I bet you do.”
You select his number.
You hover over the call button.
You think about his dreams, the way his eyes lit up when he talked about Vegas, about the NFR, about buckles the size of dinner plates and checks that would pay off his daddy’s debts and then some.
You think about forcing a choice on him that he already once couldn’t make.
You think about your daddy out in the barn, cleaning stalls with his jaw clenched, giving you space to fall apart.
You delete the message.
You turn your phone off.
You throw yourself into the ranch instead. Into morning feeds and evening checks and training younger horses for other barrel racers. You sell your mare’s spot at the next big rodeo and instead buy baby clothes you keep hidden in the back of your closet until your belly makes it impossible to deny.
Your daughter is born on a cold March night, ten fingers, ten toes, lungs strong enough to shake the rafters. You name her Willa—soft and stubborn and rooted—mine, you think fiercely, as she curls her tiny fist around your finger.
You don’t write his name on the birth certificate.
You whisper it into her hair when you rock her at night, though. When she fusses and you pace the creaky floorboards, you murmur stories about a blue-eyed bull rider who once made you feel like the whole world was spinning under your boots.
You tell yourself you’ll tell her properly one day.
First, you have to figure out how to breathe again.
Ten years later, you walk into the same fairgrounds with calluses on your palms, a few more lines around your eyes, and a nine-year-old barrel racer at your side.
“Loosen your reins a little comin’ into the pocket,” you tell Willa as you walk alongside her pony. “You’re pullin’ too much and it’s costin’ you your momentum.”
“Yes, ma’am,” she chirps, adjusting her grip. Her dark hair—your texture, his color—is braided down her back. There’s dust already on her boots, glitter on her cheeks, and a determined set to her jaw that makes your heart both ache and swell.
She is too much like both of you.
You try not to think about that.
You swing her saddle onto the pony’s back, showing her again how to smooth the pad, check the cinch. She chatters about school and how her friend Lacey says she’s gonna beat her time today and how that just means Willa’ll have to run even faster.
“Competition keeps us sharp,” you tell her, tying off the latigo.
“Like you and Nana in the kitchen,” she says, eyes dancing. “Arguin’ over whose biscuits are better.”
“Nana’s biscuits are better,” you admit. “But don’t you dare tell her I said that.”
Willa’s laughter rings out bright and clear, a sound you’d bottle if you could. You reach over and tuck a piece of hair behind her ear, your chest tight.
You almost don’t see the banner at first.
WELCOME BACK TO THE CIRCUIT, BUCKY BARNES! it proclaims in bold red letters over the main arena entrance. SPECIAL GUEST CLINIC AND EXHIBITION RIDE.
The world tilts on its axis.
“Mama?” Willa asks, frowning up at you. “You okay? You look funny.”
You swallow hard, drag your gaze away from the banner. “I’m fine, baby,” you lie. “Just remembered somethin’ I forgot to do.”
Bring the past back where it belongs, you think. Leave it buried.
But it’s too late. His name is everywhere. On posters by the concession stand. On a cardboard cutout by the registration table. On kids’ T-shirts that say BUCKY BARNES FAN CLUB with a cartoon bull underneath.
Willa’s eyes go wide as she spots one. “Mama! Look! That’s the bull rider Nana watches on TV sometimes. The one in Vegas who almost got stomped but then didn’t.”
“Mm,” you manage, throat dry. “That’s him.”
“You know him?” she demands eagerly. “Have you ever met him?”
You force a laugh. “Somethin’ like that,” you say.
You spend the next hour in a fog, checking and re-checking Willa’s tack, braiding her pony’s mane, signing her in at the registration table. People you’ve known your whole life greet you, compliment Willa’s progress, ask after your parents. You smile and nod and say the right words in the right order.
All the while, your stomach is in knots.
You could leave.
You could pull her out, feign sickness, toss her pony back in the trailer and go home. If you’re quick, you could be halfway down the highway before his clinic even starts.
But Willa has worked all year for this. She’s been up at dawn, running patterns on frosted ground. She’s earned this run.
You won’t take that from her just because your heart remembered how to break.
“Riders for the peewee barrels, please start makin’ your way to the warm-up pen,” the announcer’s voice booms over the loudspeaker, crackling slightly.
Willa bounces on her toes. “That’s me!” she squeals.
“That’s you,” you echo. Your hands shake as you boost her up into the saddle, checking her stirrups, double-checking her helmet chin strap. She’s got your old lucky charm clipped to her saddle—your first little silver horseshoe, tarnished and dented.
“Tap your hat brim three times,” you remind her, brushing a kiss to her cheek. “Look past the barrel, not at it. Let him run. You know what you’re doin’.”
“Yes, ma’am,” she says again, solemn this time. She leans down and hugs your neck hard. “Love you, Mama.”
You close your eyes for a second. “Love you more.”
You lead her toward the alleyway, heart lodged somewhere in your throat. The stands are fuller than you’ve seen them in years, buzz of excitement humming through the air. Word travels fast when a living legend comes home.
As you guide Willa’s pony into the holding area, a wave of whistles and cheers rolls across the arena. A voice you haven’t heard in a decade booms through the speakers, lower now, rougher, but so achingly familiar you almost stumble.
“Afternoon, folks,” Bucky Barnes drawls over the mic. “Hell of a turnout today, huh?”
Don’t look, you tell yourself. You focus on adjusting Willa’s stirrup leather, on smoothing a hand down the pony’s neck.
You look.
He’s at the center of the arena, mic in hand, hat shading his face. He’s older—not old, just… lived-in. Crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes, jaw a little sharper, hair shorter on the sides, longer on top. The easy grin is the same, though. The way he moves, comfortable in his skin in the middle of all that dirt and noise.
He’s in a crisp button-down with a sponsor’s logo on the sleeve and a buckle big enough to serve breakfast on. His limp is slight but there when he walks, a hitch you wouldn’t notice unless you knew his stride like the back of your hand.
You do.
“So before we get to the big bulls later,” he says, “we got the most important event out here—the peewee barrels. Y’all make some noise for these kids, yeah? They’re the future of this sport.”
The stands erupt. Willa’s eyes shine.
“Mama, he’s so cool,” she whispers down to you, awestruck.
You swallow. “He thinks he is,” you mutter, before you can stop yourself.
She giggles. “You sound like Nana.”
“Yeah, well,” you say. “Nana’s smart.”
The first little rider tears through the pattern, the crowd cheering like it’s the NFR. You watch Willa’s face as she follows every move, little hands tight on her reins. She taps her hat brim three times—one, two, three—the way she’s seen you do in old photos.
Your heart squeezes.
“And up next we got Willa,” the announcer calls. “Willa —, ridin’ Ponyboy. Y’all give her a hand!”
You walk them into the alleyway, give the pony’s rump a pat. “You know what to do,” you murmur. “Trust yourself. Trust him. Just breathe and ride, baby.”
“Breathe and ride,” she repeats.
You step back.
Bucky is at the other end of the arena, by the announcer’s stand, but as Willa bursts out of the alley, he turns.
His hand goes still on the rail.
For a split second, your eyes meet across the churned-up dirt, across a decade. The air leaves your lungs in a whoosh. His mouth parts. The mic hangs forgotten at his side.
Then Willa is flying.
She sits deep, hands forward, little boots pressing gently at the pony’s sides. She leans just right into the first barrel, Pony’s hindquarters dropping and digging, dirt spraying. They explode out of the turn and head for the second, Willa’s braid snapping behind her like a banner.
The pattern is tight and smooth and fearless. She is joy and speed and pure, bright determination.
You’ve never been more terrified or more proud.
Bucky is watching her like the rest of the world ceased to exist. There’s something almost haunted in his expression—recognition, wonder and a dawning horror that makes your stomach twist.
She looks like him when she grits her teeth coming out of the third barrel. Like you when she throws her hands up crossing the timer line and lets out a wild, delighted yell.
When the time flashes on the board, fastest so far, the crowd goes insane.
Willa whoops, circling her pony and heading back toward you, face flushed, eyes shining.
“Did you see?” she gasps as she reaches you. “Mama, did you see?”
You catch her leg, laughing through the tears you refuse to let fall. “I saw, baby. You were incredible. That was textbook. I’m so proud of you I could explode.”
She preens, glowing.
“Hey,” a voice says behind you, breathless and rough. “That was one hell of a run.”
You freeze.
Willa’s eyes widen as she looks past you. “You’re Bucky Barnes,” she breathes. “The bull rider.”
You turn slowly.
He’s closer than you thought—hat off now, held in one hand, the other on his belt buckle like he’s trying to anchor himself. His gaze flicks from Willa’s face to yours and back, taking in every detail.
Up close, the years are sharper: the faint scar at his temple, the deeper lines around his mouth, the way his shoulders carry tension like a second skin.
“Yeah, sweetheart,” he says softly, eyes never leaving yours. “That’s me.”
“Can you sign my hat?” Willa blurts, then clamps a hand over her mouth, mortified.
Bucky’s mouth quirks, but his eyes are wet. “Be honored to,” he says. “If your mama’s okay with it.”
Willa swivels to you, pleading. You could say no. You could throw up walls and boundaries and a decade’s worth of carefully constructed distance.
You exhale. “It’s fine,” you manage. “If you want, Willa.”
She thrusts her hat at him, practically vibrating. “Please.”
He takes it carefully, like it’s made of glass, and pulls a Sharpie from his shirt pocket. His hand shakes as he writes. When he hands the hat back, his fingers brush hers. Something flares across his face when she smiles at him—something vulnerable and broken and so, so hopeful.
“Thank you, Mr. Barnes,” she says politely. “Did you see my run? Mama says I gotta look past the barrel and not at it, and I remembered this time.”
“I did see,” he says. His voice is rough. “And your mama’s right. She usually is.”
“You know my mama?” Willa asks, curious.
He chokes on a sound that might be a laugh. His gaze slides to you, question written all over his face.
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “I know your mama.”
You send Willa off with your parents to get a snow cone and check the posted times. Your mom gives you a sharp, assessing look as she takes your daughter’s hand, but doesn’t say anything. Just squeezes your arm in passing, silent support.
When they’re gone, you’re suddenly very aware of how close Bucky is. How many eyes are around you. How many years sit between your heart and his.
“Could we…?” he starts, gesturing vaguely toward the back of the barns.
You hesitate.
You need this. Even if it hurts. Maybe especially if it hurts.
You nod.
He falls into step beside you, both of you silent as you weave through the crowd. Kids dart past with cotton candy and plastic guns. Old timers nod in greeting. Someone calls his name; he lifts a hand automatically, but his attention never leaves you.
You end up behind the practice pens, where the noise dims and the late afternoon sun slants gold through the dust motes. A horse snorts in a nearby stall. Somewhere, a generator hums.
For a moment, neither of you speaks.
“You look good,” he says finally, voice low. “Stronger. Not that you weren’t—hell, you were a force back then. It’s just… different now.”
You cross your arms, suddenly self-conscious of the way your jeans fit, the faint scar on your forearm from a colt that kicked when you were twenty-seven, the laugh lines your kid jokes about when she squishes your cheeks.
“You’re still full of shit, I see,” you say lightly.
He huffs out a laugh, then sobers. “I’m sorry,” he says.
You close your eyes. “You’re gonna have to be more specific.”
“I’m sorry I left the way I did,” he says, words tumbling. “I’m sorry I promised I’d call and then I… didn’t, not like I should have. I’m sorry I thought I could somehow juggle my career and us without actually puttin’ in the work. I was a coward. An asshole. Both.”
Your throat burns. “You were young,” you say quietly. “So was I.”
“That ain’t an excuse,” he says hoarsely. “It’s just a fact. I got down to Texas, got picked up, started winnin’ some money. There was always a new bull, a new town, a new sponsor dinner. I kept meanin’ to come back, to call and say hey, I figured it out, here’s how we do this. But every time I thought I had somethin’ to offer, the bar moved. It never felt like enough.”
“You could’ve just—” You cut yourself off, swallowing hard. “You could’ve called to say that,” you whisper. “Even if you didn’t have an answer.”
“I know,” he says. His jaw clenches. “Believe me, I know. I thought about you every damn day. Had your number pulled up more times than I can count. I’d get as far as your name and my hands’d start shakin’ like I was gettin’ on a rank bull. And then I’d… punk out.”
You stare at the dust between your boots. “So you’re sorry you didn’t call,” you say. “That’s… somethin’.”
“I’m sorry for more than that,” he says quietly. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here.”
Your heart stutters. “Wasn’t… where?”
He looks at you, blue eyes raw. “You expect me to believe that little girl ain’t mine?” he asks, voice rough and soft all at once.
You flinch.
He laughs weakly. “She taps her hat brim three times,” he says. “Same way you did. She’s got your seat in the saddle, your balance. And when she crossed that timer line, she did that little thing with her mouth? That smirk? That’s mine. God help us all.”
You wrap your arms tighter around yourself. “You don’t know that,” you lie, voice thin.
“I do,” he says. “Down to my bones, I do. But I won’t—” He takes a breath, fists clenching and unclenching. “I won’t push. I don’t got any right to barging into your lives if you don’t want me there. I just… I gotta know. Please. If she’s mine, I need to hear you say it.”
Silence hangs heavy between you. The choice you made all those years ago presses down on your shoulders, suddenly sharp and fragile.
You remember nights pacing with Willa, alone and exhausted, whispering stories about a bull rider you’d loved so hard it nearly broke you. You remember watching him on TV at the NFR, his name flashing on the screen while your daughter slept on your chest, his last ride ending in a wreck that left you sobbing into your mama’s apron when they carted him out of the arena.
You remember telling yourself you did the right thing. That he didn’t need a kid tied to him while he chased his career. That you didn’t need to spend your life waiting by the phone.
You remember the look on his face when Willa smiled at him.
“She’s yours,” you say finally, voice barely above a whisper. “She’s… she’s your daughter.”
For a second, he doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe.
Then he exhales like someone cut his strings, stumbling back a step to brace a hand on the pen railing. He bows his head, hat clutched in the other hand so tight the brim bends.
“Jesus Christ,” he chokes.
You hadn’t realized you were holding your breath too until it leaves you in a rush. Your chest aches.
“Her name’s Willa,” you say quietly. “She was born the March after you left. I told my parents the truth. They… we decided not to tell you. You were headin’ for the big time. I didn’t want to be the reason you resented your career. Or her.”
His head snaps up, eyes blazing. “Resent her?” he demands. “Or you? Is that what you think of me?”
“I think you chose bull riding over me,” you snap back, old wounds splitting open. “I think you barely managed to call or text, and that was when it was convenient for you. What was I supposed to think you’d do with a baby, Bucky? Set her in the chute with you?”
He flinches like you slapped him.
“I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want to be another obligation you resented,” you press on, voice cracking. “You had your shot at the big leagues. You took it. I stayed. I made my peace with that. If I’d told you, maybe you’d have come home. Maybe you’d have come for a while and then left again. Maybe you’d have stayed and resented every second. I didn’t… I couldn’t do that to her. Or to me.”
Tears burn your eyes. You swipe at them angrily.
“For what it’s worth,” you add, quieter, “I watched every one of your rides on TV I could find. I prayed you’d stay in one piece. I’m not a monster.”
He’s across the distance between you in two strides. “Hey,” he says roughly. “Hey. I never thought you were.”
His hand hovers near your arm, not touching until you nod minutely. Then his fingers close gentle and firm around your bicep, grounding.
“You did what you thought was right,” he says. “I get that. I hate it, and I wish like hell you’d given me a say, but I get it. I made it real easy to believe I’d fuck it up.”
A ragged laugh bubbles out of you. “That’s the understatement of the decade.”
He huffs out a breath that might be a laugh too. Then his face softens, something like awe creeping in around the edges of the hurt. “I got a daughter,” he says quietly, like he doesn’t quite believe it. “We got a daughter.”
The we hits you like a physical blow.
“She loves this life,” you say, staring at the dirt so you don’t have to look at him. “Horses, barrels, muckin’ stalls. She’s stubborn as hell and talks more than anyone I’ve ever met. She knows you from TV, but she doesn’t know… you. I wasn’t gonna lie to her, but I wasn’t ready to explain all of this yet either.”
He nods slowly. “Then we take it slow,” he says. “If you’ll let me. I don’t—” His voice cracks. He clears his throat. “I don’t expect you to forgive me. Or to want me back. I’d love to try, but I know I burned that bridge once. I’m just askin’ for a chance to be… somethin’. For her. For Willa.”
You look up, finally.
There’s a fragility in his gaze that you’ve never seen before. A man who’s ridden the baddest bulls in the world and come out the other side, staring down the scariest thing he’s ever faced: his own choices.
“You’d stay?” you ask, voice small. “Really stay? This isn’t just another summer you’re blowin’ through?”
“I retired last year,” he says. “Took one wreck too many. Doctor said I could keep goin’ if I wanted to end up walkin’ with a cane by forty. Figured I’d quit while I can still feel my toes.”
You swallow. You remember that wreck. Remember holding Willa so tight she squirmed when they replayed it on the big screen.
“I’ve been doin’ commentary and clinics since,” he continues. “Travel’s lighter, money’s decent. My folks moved back up this way a while ago. I… I was thinkin’ about buyin’ a little place near here. Maybe help out with the youth rodeo program. Seemed like… I dunno. Time to come home.”
Home.
The word hangs between you, tender and dangerous.
“I didn’t come back ’cause I knew you were here,” he says firmly. “I didn’t know. When I saw your name on the registration spreadsheet this morning, I damn near threw up. And then I saw her, and…” He shakes his head helplessly. “It’s like God reached down and slapped me upside the head.”
Despite everything, you snort. “Wouldn’t be the first time someone wanted to.”
“And probably not the last,” he agrees softly. “I ain’t askin’ for much right now. Just… let me be around. Let me show up. If she wants to know me, I’ll be there. If she doesn’t, I’ll take that too. But I am not runnin’ again. Not from her. Not from you.”
You study his face, searching for the boy you loved under the man he’s become. The boy is still there—in the crooked half-smile, in the stubborn tilt of his chin. The man carries more lines, more weight.
You carry your own.
“You hurt me,” you say finally. “More than you probably know.”
His eyes close briefly. “I know,” he says hoarsely. “And I’ll spend the rest of my damn life tryin’ to make that right, if you let me.”
You could say no.
You could send him back to his clinics and commentary and let your life keep going the way it has. You and Willa and your parents and the ranch. Safe. Predictable.
You think about Willa’s face when she laughed at his joke. The way her hands trembled with excitement when he signed her hat. How she watched him in the arena with the same rapt, hungry focus she has when a new pattern clicks.
You think about a little girl who asks sometimes why she doesn’t have a daddy like some of the other kids. How you tell her families come in all shapes and sizes and that she has more love than some kids with two parents.
You think about the way Bucky looked at her like she hung the moon.
You sigh.
“I’m not promisin’ anything,” you say slowly. “But… I won’t stand in the way of her knowin’ you. We go at her pace. You show up when you say you will. You don’t make promises you can’t keep.”
He nods, relief crashing over his features. “Yes, ma’am,” he says. “Whatever you say.”
“And don’t call me ma’am,” you add, the old reflex kicking in.
He smiles, small and stunned. “There she is,” he murmurs. “There’s my girl.”
Your heart lurches. “Don’t get ahead of yourself, Barnes.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he says, even as his eyes say otherwise.
Introducing the concept of “your dad is Bucky Barnes, rodeo legend” to a nine-year-old turns out to be… a lot.
You sit Willa down in the camper that evening, her hat—now emblazoned with his signature—resting in her lap. Your parents hover just outside, giving you space but close enough that you can feel their support like a wall at your back.
“So,” you start, hands twisting. “You know how families come in all kinds of different shapes, right?”
Willa narrows her eyes. “Is this about when Lacey said it was weird I only have you and Nana and Papa and no dad?” she demands. “Because I told her that’s rude and you said she probably doesn’t know better yet.”
You smile faintly. “Yeah, it’s… kind of about that.”
She stares at you for a long moment, sharp in a way that always reminds you of her grandmother. “Do I have a dad?” she asks softly.
You inhale shakily. “You do,” you say. “He and I knew each other a long time ago, when we were younger than I am now. We cared about each other a lot, but… life took us in different directions. I should’ve told him about you sooner. I didn’t. That’s on me.”
She chews her lip. “Is it someone I know?”
“Not yet,” you say. “But you met him today.”
Her eyes widen. “Bucky Barnes?” she whispers.
You nod.
She is silent for a long heartbeat. Two.
“Cool,” she says finally.
You blink. “Cool,” you echo weakly.
“Can he teach me how to not fall off when Pony does that funny hop sometimes?” she asks, eyes earnest. “’Cause he always sticks to the bull even when it’s bein’ real mean.”
A laugh bubbles out of you, half hysterical, half relieved. “We can… ask him,” you say. “If you want to get to know him, we can try that. If you don’t, that’s okay too. This is your call, Willa. Okay? You’re not in trouble, you don’t gotta pick sides. You just… tell me how you feel. I’ll listen. Always.”
Her face crumples a little, lip wobbling. “I’m kinda mad,” she admits in a rush. “That you didn’t tell me I had a dad. Or tell him about me. But I’m also… happy? ’Cause he seems nice. And he likes barrels. And he looked at me like… like Papa does sometimes. Like he’s proud.”
Tears sting your eyes. You pull her into your arms, burying your face in her hair. “You have every right to be mad,” you whisper. “At me. At him. At the whole stupid world. And you have every right to be happy too. We’ll figure it out together. I promise.”
She nods against your chest. “Okay,” she murmurs. Then, muffled: “Can we get ice cream now?”
You laugh, wet and shaky. “Yeah, baby,” you say. “We can get ice cream.”
Over the next few days, Bucky makes good on his vow. He’s at the warm-up pen every morning, hat in hand, asking Willa if she wants a few tips. He never pushes, never assumes. When she wants space, he gives it. When she wants to show him her drawings of horses with wings and bulls with superhero capes, he listens like she’s reciting scripture.
He asks about her favorite subject in school (science), her least favorite (math), her best friend (Lacey, who apologizes for being rude about dads after Willa sets her straight). He tells her about the first time he got bucked off and landed on his ass in front of half the town. He shows her how to sit a little looser in the saddle, how to trust her pony’s stride.
He calls her “Willa-girl” once, and you see the way her face lights up like someone flipped a switch.
At night, after Willa is asleep and your parents have retreated to their own trailer, you and Bucky sit on the tailgate of his truck, the same one he drove off in all those years ago. It’s been repainted, the dents mostly hammered out. The bed still creaks when you shift your weight.
“Feels like we’re kids again,” he says one evening, looking up at the stars.
You snort. “Speak for yourself. My knees hurt.”
“Mine too,” he admits. “Rodeo ain’t exactly gentle.”
Silence stretches between you, easier now, threaded with shared glances and half-smiles.
“Do you ever miss it?” he asks quietly. “The big rodeos?”
You think about it. “Sometimes,” you say honestly. “Would’ve been fun to see how far I could’ve gone. But then I watch Willa run, and I think… maybe this is better. I get to see her find her own path. I get to sleep in my own bed most nights. I get to be there when Mama needs help with the garden or Daddy needs a new fence line built.”
You glance at him. “What about you? You miss the bulls?”
He takes a long breath. “Sometimes,” he says. “There’s nothin’ like it. The rush, the adrenaline, the crowd. But my body doesn’t. And when I watch these kids learn to ride, when I see Willa figure out how to shave a tenth off her time? That feels… big too. Different kind of big.”
You study his profile—the steady line of his jaw, the faint scar you don’t remember from before. The shadows under his eyes that have nothing to do with dust.
“You could help out more with the youth program,” you hear yourself say. “The circuit board’s been talkin’ about expandin’ it. Gettin’ more kids involved, keepin’ ’em busy and outta trouble. They’d fall over themselves for your name on the brochure.”
He smiles, slow and surprised. “You vouchin’ for me, sweetheart?”
“Don’t push it, Barnes,” you warn, though there’s no heat behind it.
“Didn’t think you wanted me stickin’ around this much,” he admits.
You look down at your hands, fingers threaded together. “I want Willa to have you,” you say finally. “And… I’ve spent ten years learnin’ how to live without you. I can do it. But I don’t… want to. Not if there’s a better way this time.”
His breath hitches. “What are you sayin’?”
“I’m sayin’ I’m willing to see how this goes,” you say, heart hammering. “Slow. For her. For us. No grand gestures, no drivin’ off into the sunset without a plan. You want in our lives, you do it the hard way. Day in, day out. Teachin’ peewees how not to fall off their ponies, fixin’ fences, sittin’ through school plays. You think you can handle that, Mr. Big-Time Bull Rider?”
His eyes shine in the dim light. “Darlin’,” he says, voice rough, “I’d ride the rankest bull on the planet bareback before I’d walk away from that again.”
“Don’t you dare,” you mutter.
He chuckles, then sobers. “I don’t deserve this,” he says. “You. Her. A second chance.”
“Probably not,” you agree easily. “But life’s not about what we deserve. It’s about what we do with what we get. You got us for now. Don’t screw it up.”
He swallows hard. “Yes, ma’am.”
You elbow him. “What’d I say about that?”
He grins, and for a moment you see the boy on the fence rail again, cocky and full of dreams. “Yes, sweetheart,” he amends.
Your heart does a stupid little flip.
He reaches for your hand, slow and deliberate, like he’s asking permission. You let him take it.
His palm is still rough and warm. It still feels like home.
You sit like that for a long time, fingers tangled, watching the stars over the rodeo grounds where it all started. The sounds of laughter and music drift on the night air. In the trailer behind you, your daughter sleeps with her hat on the hook and her boots by the door, her future wide open.
Ten years ago, Bucky Barnes drove away chasing his big-league dreams.
Tonight, he stays.
And for the first time in a long time, you let yourself believe that maybe—just maybe—home is big enough for all of it.
Summary: You keep crossing paths with Harry, a painter whose life is always in motion. From the start, there’s a quiet pull you can’t ignore....but every time something real feels possible, the timing is wrong.
A/n: Hello, my loves! it's been a long time, but as you all knew, i went to war, and i actually came back alive!? and not only won the war, i'm going to Harryween?? OKAY. Here's this piece i had hidden for months now, the beautiful @maudie-duan helped me a lot polishing this! so thanks to her!!! I THINK this is not my best work but maybe someone will enjoy it
Word count: 6.3k
Warnings: Slow burn but moves a bit faster towards the end.
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It all started at an art gallery.
It was around six, that soft, in-between hour when the city began to exhale after work. The low hum of conversation floated through the white-walled space, glasses clinking somewhere near the back. You’d been invited by a friend from your office, “It’s the first exhibition of a friend, he’s pretty talented,” Ezra had said.
So you tagged along. Why wouldn’t you? There was nothing waiting for you at home.
Thank God it was casual. You were still in your work clothes, comfortable but put-together, the kind of look that said you cared, but not too much. At the marketing agency, you were known for never sitting still, always shifting in your chair, juggling projects, ideas, people. You didn’t plan on being impressed. You thought, some amateur art, a free glass of wine, sure.
But this wasn’t amateur.
This was emotion on canvas, every brushstroke intentional, every color holding something unsaid. It was raw and beautiful in the kind of way that made the room fall quiet for a second, even if it didn’t.
You weren’t exactly an art person, but you knew this wasn’t just some guy who liked painting.
“Amazing, isn’t it? We met in college,” Ezra said beside you.
“More than amazing,” you murmured, eyes still on the piece in front of you. “It’s museum-worthy! You better keep in touch with him!”
You both laughed softly before moving along, weaving between people until you found a quiet corner. From there, you watched as a small crowd gathered around the artist, the man behind the work, waiting for your turn to say hello.
You didn’t know it yet, but this was where everything would begin.
After a few minutes, he said goodbye to a man, and then it was your turn. Ezra went straight in for a hug, and so did he.
“Man… this is next level. So impressive, so amazing,”
“Thanks, thanks a lot for coming. It means so much,” Harry replied, breaking the hug. “This is Bella.”
“Hi,” said Bella. Big blue eyes, soft red hair, she looked like a million dollars, but in that effortless, old-money kind of way.
“And this is Y/N, a colleague from the office,” Ezra said.
“A colleague? And here I thought all those late nights checking schedules were special,” you said with a chuckle, making them both laugh. “Nice to meet you. I’m very impressed by your talent.”
He offered his hand, and you took it. It felt electric, and for a second, the world seemed to stop. You quickly let go, though, you knew better than to act weird with someone’s boyfriend.
“Thanks for coming. It truly means a lot,” he said. “I was nervous at first…I had this dream where the place was empty but I just sold two more pieces.”
“Wow! That’s great news!” said Ezra. “I’m glad I’ve got a Styles original right in my Semiotics class notebook, back when you were bored out of your mind.”
“Better keep it. You never know,” Harry said with a small smile. “Can’t give you a big piece for free, but…” He reached into his pocket and pulled out two enamel pins shaped like swallows. “I can give you this, a small gift for being here today.”
His paintings that night were all of swallows, though abstract, you could feel how free they were, even if they were trapped on a canvas.
“Thanks” you said, your eyes inspecting the pin, and quickly went to place it on your totebag
After some quick small talk, the gallery began to close. Harry grabbed a bottle of wine from the back and invited you and Ezra over to his apartment. You hesitated for a moment, but ended up going.
You got to know Bella a bit more, she worked for her dad’s company, something related to accounting, or so you understood. She was nice, a little quiet. You couldn’t help but wonder how she and Harry fit together, not out of jealousy, just pure curiosity.
Harry talked a bit about his life, and he and Ezra shared some college stories that made them both laugh like no time had passed. Bella eventually had to leave, which left the three of you, Harry, Ezra, and you, talking about nonsense, like whether aliens were real.
At one point, while Ezra was deep into explaining some bizarre conspiracy theory, your eyes met Harry’s. It wasn’t like in a movie, no dramatic music, no slow motion, but there was something there. A quiet, almost uncomfortable awareness.
For a split second, you wondered If this strange, subtle pull meant something....
Is it possible to have a connection with someone who still feels like a stranger? someone you’re inexplicably curious about...
It felt like standing in that awkward in-between of all the what ifs, a thing hard to ignore, And maybe he felt it too, because the look lingered just a second longer than it needed to, like you were both silently asking the same question: If this isn’t a pull, then what is it?
Eventually, the night died down. The wine was gone, and it was getting late. Ezra ordered an Uber for the two of you, and soon it was time to say goodbye to Harry. You both felt again that strange, lingering feeling,but that was it. The night ended. Neither of you exchanged numbers; that would’ve been weird, considering he had a girlfriend, and there wasn’t really any reason to stay in touch…
The Uber ride was quiet. Ezra scrolled through his phone, half-drunk and sleepy, but your mind was somewhere else. You kept replaying the night, his laugh, his eyes, that small pause before saying goodbye.
You told yourself it didn’t mean anything. It couldn’t. But when you got home and saw a small smear of red wine on your sleeve, all you could think about was the warmth of that room, and how something about it felt... unfinished. But you went back to your life, just now knowing the existence of a very great artist named Harry Styles.
🎨
Months passed. Life went on, meetings, emails, coffee that never seemed strong enough. The night at Harry’s gallery had faded into one of those memories that feels almost like a dream, too vivid to be forgotten but too distant to hold on to.
You were visiting a client that afternoon, one of the hotels your agency had recently taken on. The lobby smelled like polished wood and expensive candles, every detail begging to be photographed for their social media feed. You were halfway through your mental checklist when something on the far wall caught your eye.
It was a painting.
A woman, head slightly tilted, shoulders soft, her face blurred into a haze of muted color. The strokes were bold, but gentle, the emotion almost tangible. And you knew instantly whose work it was.
Harry.
You stepped closer before you even realized you were moving, your eyes tracing the chaos of paint that somehow still made sense. The longer you stared, the stronger that familiar pull became, like a thread tugging from somewhere deep in your chest.
“Beautiful piece, isn’t it?” said a voice behind you. The client’s tone was casual. “Local artist. Apparently his work’s in high demand lately.”
You smiled faintly, eyes still fixed on the painting.
“Yeah,” you said quietly. “I’ve seen his work before.”
10 months later
You’d forgotten the shape of his voice, the exact green of his eyes, but sometimes, late at night, his paintings, the smudged face, the blur of swallows' wings, the feeling it left you with.
Work had been relentless, but good. You’d reconnected with an old friend, Clara, who ran a small creative workshop downtown. The kind of place filled with mismatched mugs, soft jazz, and paint stains that would never come out of the floorboards.
That Saturday, she’d begged you to come by.
“It’s just a casual open day! You don’t even have to paint, just come hang out, Lucas can come too!” she’d said, waving a flyer over coffee earlier that week.
So you went…because why not?
The room smelled faintly of acrylic and wood polish, people laughing softly over their canvases. You were helping Clara rearrange some supplies when she suddenly lit up.
“Oh, right! my friend’s coming to teach the beginner class today. He’s really good, used to have his own exhibits and everything. You’ll love him.”
You smiled, barely paying attention as you sorted brushes into jars.
“Yeah? What’s his name?”
She grinned, distracted by a group coming through the door.
“Harry, umm…Harry Styles.”
Your hands froze.
For a second, everything around you went blurry, the chatter, the clinking glass jars, even the light streaming through the tall windows. You turned, slowly.
And there he was.
Same soft curls, same focused eyes scanning the room, sleeves rolled to his elbows as he greeted Clara with a familiar warmth. He looked good. He looked well.
He didn’t notice you right away, but when he finally did, when his gaze found yours across the room, it felt like time folded in on itself. He smiled when he saw you, that kind of smile that starts small but reaches his eyes before he can stop it.
“Didn’t expect to see you here,” he said, walking over, paint already smudged on his fingers.
“Me neither,” you replied, trying not to sound as thrown off as you felt. “Clara’s a friend. She kind of guilt-tripped me into coming.”
He chuckled, soft and low. “Sounds like her.”
The first few minutes were easy, small talk, polite laughs, the kind of catching up that tiptoed around everything that wasn’t being said. But curiosity had a way of slipping through, and before you could stop yourself, the question came out.
“So… how’s Bella?”
He paused, brush still in his hand. Then he looked up, his expression unreadable for a second before softening.
“We broke up,” he said simply. “A while ago, actually. It was… for the best.”
“Oh,” you said, and even though you weren’t sure what you were supposed to feel, something fluttered in your chest...quickly followed by guilt.
Because you had someone now, Lucas.
It wasn’t serious, not really, but it was something. Comfortable, safe. Someone who texted you good morning and never made your heart race in a way that felt dangerous.
“That’s…umm, I’m sorry,” you said quietly, eyes flicking down to the palette he was holding.
He smiled faintly. “Don’t be. I think we both knew we were done before we said it out loud.”
There was a pause, not awkward, just heavy. You nodded, trying to focus on the canvas in front of you, on the way the afternoon light hit the jars of paint.
The class went on, sunlight shifting across the tables as everyone got lost in color and brushstrokes. You weren’t really painting… more like pretending to, adding small, careful lines to a corner of your canvas while stealing glances at him.
Harry had a way of teaching that was soft. He didn’t take over or correct too much, just guided people, steady and kind. Every time he passed by your side, you felt your pulse jump, even though neither of you said much.
“Not bad,” he murmured once, stopping behind you. “You’ve got a nice sense of balance.”
You turned, meeting his eyes for a second too long. “I think that’s a very polite way of saying you’re not terrible.”
He laughed, really laughed, and the sound made something tighten in your chest.
You didn’t even notice the door open until Clara’s voice echoed across the room.
“Oh! Hey! You made it!”
You looked up, and your heart dropped.
There he was, Lucas, walking toward you with that easy smile that once made you feel calm. He leaned down to kiss your cheek, arm slipping around your shoulder like it belonged there.
“Didn’t mean to interrupt,” he said, nodding politely to Harry. “Just wanted to see how it was going.”
Harry straightened, polite but distant, wiping his hands on a rag. “Hi. Harry.”
“Lucas,” he replied, shaking his hand. “So you’re the artist.”
“Something like that,” Harry said, his tone even, but there was a flicker of something in his eyes
You forced a smile, the air suddenly feeling heavier. “Baby, this is Clara’s friend, he’s teaching the class today.”
“Right,” Lucas said, glancing at your half-finished painting. “Didn’t know you could paint.”
“I can’t,” you said quickly, and Harry’s lips twitched like he was holding back a smile.
For a moment, silence stretched between the three of you, polite smiles, careful gestures, unspoken things weaving in the air.
And though you stood beside Lucas, your heart was somewhere else entirely, in the warmth of Harry’s laugh, in the memory of brushstrokes that once made you stop and stare.
The class ended the way good afternoons always do, quietly, without ceremony, like no one wanted to be the first to admit it was over, people rinsed brushes, laughed about their crooked lines, exchanged numbers with strangers they’d just met over shared palettes. Clara was buzzing, already talking about future workshops, while Harry thanked everyone individually, patient and warm until the room slowly emptied.
You lingered near the sink, washing acrylic from your hands long after it was gone.
Harry approached, drying his own hands on a towel.
“Thanks for coming,” he said, softer now that there was no audience. “It was… nice seeing you again.”
“Yeah,” you replied. “It really was. You’re great at this, by the way. Teaching, I mean.”
He smiled, a little shy. “I like it. Keeps me grounded.”
There was a pause, one of those almost-moments that could tip either way if someone dared to push it. But neither of you did.
“Well,” you said, glancing toward the door where Lucas was chatting with Clara, “I should probably…”
“Of course,” Harry nodded. “It was good to see you.”
“Good to see you too.”
No hug this time. Just a look that said more than either of you were willing to admit. Then you grabbed your bag and walked out, that same unfinished feeling settling back into your chest like it had never left.
.
Months passed again.
Life reshuffled itself the way it always did.
Lucas got the email on a Tuesday morning…
An acceptance letter, followed by the word scholarship, followed by Australia...
You were proud of him. Truly. It was a big deal, the kind of opportunity you didn’t say no to.
But you knew, almost instantly, that you wouldn’t go. You didn’t want to start over on the other side of the world. You didn’t want to build a future out of time zones and video calls and “maybe next year.” And Lucas, kind and practical as ever, didn’t want that either.
So you did the adult thing. You talked. You cried a little. You ended it gently, honestly, before resentment had a chance to grow.
You hugged him goodbye at the airport weeks later and meant it when you wished him well.
Still, when you got home, the apartment felt too quiet.
.
It was a Thursday evening when you finally said it out loud.
“Hey,” you told Clara, trying to sound casual as you stirred your coffee. “This might be weird, but… do you still have Harry’s number?”
Clara raised an eyebrow, a slow smile spreading across her face “Oh,” she said. “That Harry?”
You sighed. “Please don’t make it a thing.”
“I’m absolutely making it a thing,” she replied, already unlocking her phone. “But yes. I do.”
You hesitated for half a second when she sent it to you.
Then, before you could overthink it, you typed.
“Hey. It’s Y/N! Clara gave me your number. Hope that’s okay.”
Three dots appeared almost immediately.
“Hey. Yeah, of course! Good to hear from you!”
No explanations. No awkward justifications. As if this was always going to happen, and you were both simply catching up to it.
You talked about small things at first, work, how Clara was doing, how weird it felt that the year was already flying by. He told you he’d sold a few more pieces, that he was painting less swallows now and more people. You told him you’d finally learned how to cook something other than pasta.
It was easy. Natural. Then, casually, like it wasn’t something that would shift the air between you, he mentioned it…
“I’m actually moving soon. Paris.”
You paused, fingers hovering over the screen.
“Paris?”
“Yeah. Ten months. Masterclass program. Kind of a now-or-never thing.”
You smiled to yourself, heart doing that familiar, dangerous flutter.
“Wow. That’s incredible, very you!!!”
“Is it?”
“Yeah. It really is 💛”
There was a beat.
You set your phone down, the room feeling colder somehow.
.
Eight months later, Clara felt less like an old friend and more like part of your weekly routine. You had slipped into an easy rhythm together, coffee after work, long walks that turned into dinners, voice notes sent back and forth about nothing and everything. She’d become one of those people who knew when not to ask questions, but also when to ask the right ones.
Harry was still there, too…not physically, but consistently. Messages that came and went without pressure. Photos of half-finished canvases, Parisian streets at dusk, the occasional voice note sent late at night when time zones blurred. You never labeled whatever it was. You didn’t need to.
So when Clara brought it up, it felt almost inevitable.
They were sitting on the floor of her workshop, backs against a table leg, sharing takeout from mismatched containers.
“I’ve been thinking,” she said, way too casually.
You glanced at her. “That tone is dangerous.”
She grinned. “Harry says hi, by the way”
Of course he did. “Tell him I said hi back.”
“Weeeell,” she continued, dragging the word out, “he also said we should go visit.”
You froze. Just slightly. Enough for her to notice.
“Visit,” you repeated.
“Paris,” she clarified. “He’s there anyway, I’ve always wanted to go, and he offered his place!”
You laughed, shaking your head. “Absolutely not.”
Clara blinked “That was fast.”
“I’m serious,” you said, already listing reasons in your head “It’s impulsive. Expensive. And weird.”
“Weird how?”
You hesitated. “Just..weird…”
She studied you for a moment, softer now. “You know nothing has to happen, right?”
You exhaled slowly. “That’s kind of the problem.”
She didn’t push. Just nodded, changed the subject, let the idea sit there like an unopened envelope.
That night, you lay in bed scrolling through photos Harry had sent weeks earlier, rain on cobblestones, a corner café he loved, a blurry shot of the Seine at night. You imagined the smell of the city, the sound of his voice without a screen between you.
You told yourself you were being ridiculous.
You told yourself no, again and again.
Until one afternoon, weeks later, you caught yourself opening a flight search tab without really deciding to.
You closed it.
Opened it again.
When you finally brought it up, it was over coffee, like it was no big deal.
“So” you said, stirring your cup. “Hypothetically… when were you thinking of going?”
She smiled anyway. “Next month. Harry said the weather’s perfect. Not too cold yet.”
You looked down at your coffee “Okay,” you said quietly. “I’ll go.”
She squealed, grabbing your arm. “You won’t regret this.”
.
The flight felt unreal, like something you’d booked for someone else and accidentally showed up for.
Paris greeted you with gray skies and that soft, cinematic chill that made everything feel slower. Harry met you and Clara outside the building where he lived, scarf wrapped loosely around his neck, curls slightly longer than the last time you’d seen him on a screen.
“Hey” he said, smiling wide as he pulled Clara into a hug first, then you, brief, warm, careful.
“Hi” you replied, suddenly very aware of how close he smelled like clean laundry and something woody underneath.
His apartment was bright in that very Parisian way, tall windows, uneven wooden floors, a few canvases leaned casually against the walls like they belonged there by accident.
“I hope this is okay” he said, opening a door down the hall. “It’s small, but it’s cozy.”
The guest room was just that: a bed, a tiny desk, a window that looked out over rooftops and chimneys. Clara squealed immediately.
“This is perfect,” she declared, already dropping her bag. “I’m never leaving.”
Harry laughed.
The first days unfolded gently. No pressure. No big moments, just the city doing what it did best.
Mornings meant coffee from the corner café, standing at the bar like locals, Clara enthusiastically butchering her French while the barista smiled patiently. Afternoons were long walks, along the Seine, through narrow streets that smelled like bread and rain, Harry pointing things out like he’d quietly fallen in love with the place.
You talked about everything and nothing. Art, work, the strange comfort of being somewhere unfamiliar together. Sometimes you walked side by side in silence, not awkward, just easy.
One evening, Harry cooked something simple, pasta and wine poured into mismatched glasses. Music played softly in the background. Clara teased him about becoming very European.
Another night, he took you to a small restaurant he loved, the kind of place that didn’t have a menu in English and felt like a secret. You watched him talk to the waiter in careful French, hands moving as he spoke, and felt that quiet pull again.
Midway through the week, he mentioned a gathering.
“Some friends are getting together tomorrow night,” he said casually. “Nothing big. You’re welcome to come if you want”
Clara was in immediately. “Absolutely.”
The apartment belonged to one of his friends, warm, crowded, music spilling out into the hallway. People laughed loudly, switching between languages, glasses constantly being refilled. You stayed close to Clara at first, but she quickly drifted.
“Okay…” she whispered to you, eyes wide, “that guy over there?”
You followed her gaze to a man speaking animatedly in French-accented English.
“I’m in love,” she said. “I don’t care what his name is.”
You laughed. “You’ve been here three days.”
“Exactly.”
She was gone within minutes, deep in conversation, smiling like she’d forgotten the rest of the room existed. That left you standing near the balcony doors, watching the city lights flicker beyond the windows.
Harry joined you, handing you a drink.
“She okay?” he asked, nodding toward Clara.
“Oh, she’s thriving” you said. “Paris is working exactly as intended!”
He smiled, leaning against the wall beside you. For a moment, neither of you spoke. The music hummed through the floor. Laughter echoed from the other room.
“I’m glad you came,” he said finally.
You looked at him. “Me too.”
“I was a little worried it might be awkward,” he admitted. “Seeing each other again….”
“And is it?” you asked.
He shook his head slowly. “No. Just… familiar. In a good way.”
Your eyes met, and this time you didn’t look away right away. The noise around you faded, replaced by the quiet awareness of how close you were standing.
Somewhere across the room, Clara laughed loudly, the sound grounding you back in the moment.
Harry cleared his throat lightly. “Do you want some air?”
You nodded.
The balcony was small, just enough space for the two of you. The city stretched out below, glowing and alive. Cold air brushed your skin, but you barely noticed.
Harry rested his forearms against the railing, eyes tracing the line of rooftops instead of looking at you. You’d noticed he did that when he was thinking, putting space between the thought and the words.
“Funny, isn’t it,” he said quietly, “how timing works.”
You nodded. “Or doesn’t…”
He smiled at that, small and almost self-aware. “Yeah. That.”
A beat. Then, softer, almost incredulous, “Sometimes I think about how early this started.”
You blinked slightly. “Early?”
He glanced at you with a smile “That night at my apartment,” he said. “When we barely knew each other. I remember thinking… that’s odd. Feeling like I already knew you somehow.”
Your chest tightened, a quiet shock blooming there. “I thought I was imagining it,” you admitted. “And then at the art class… it happened again. I kept thinking, there it is. That same feeling.”
He let out a breath that almost sounded like a laugh, equal parts relief and disbelief. “So we both knew,” he murmured. “From the start.”
“Apparently,” you said softly. “Just didn’t say it out loud.”
He shook his head slightly, like the realization still stunned him. “Sometimes I think about how different things might’ve been… if we’d met at another moment. Or if I’d stayed…”
You swallowed, heart thudding softly but insistently. “Do you ever regret it?”
He didn’t answer right away. Then, honestly, “I think regret implies certainty. I don’t know if I’ve ever been certain about anything…”
You turned slightly toward him. “Except art.”
He laughed under his breath. “Even that took a while.”
“Do you think you’ll go back?” you asked gently.
He inhaled slowly, like he’d been waiting for the question.
“I don’t know,” he admitted. “Part of me feels like I should. Like that’s where my life technically is.” He paused. “But another part of me… doesn’t feel done yet. With this. With being here.”
“With Paris,” you said, even though you knew that wasn’t all of it.
“But… something itches too,” he added, gaze steady now. “With someone I think I might’ve met at the wrong time.”
He looked away again, almost apologetic. “I don’t want to say anything that sounds like… expectations. Or rules. You know? I’d never want to ask someone to put their life on hold.”
You understood exactly what he wasn’t saying.
“And if I did go back,” he added, quieter now, “I think I’d want to do it differently. I’d want to take someone out properly. No almosts. No maybes.”
The city seemed to hold its breath.
You didn’t think. You didn’t weigh pros and cons or timing or fear. You just felt it, clear, undeniable, terrifyingly simple.
“I get it,” you said softly. Then, meeting his eyes fully, you added, “But I don’t need you to ask.”
He frowned slightly. “Ask what?”
You smiled, nerves buzzing under your skin. “For me to wait.”
He opened his mouth, then closed it again, like the words had escaped him.
“I think… somehow… I already am,” you said. And then, with a small laugh that carried more courage than you felt, you repeated it clearer, firmer. “I can wait… a while.”
For a moment, he just stared at you, something raw and unguarded crossing his face.
“You don’t have to,” he said quietly.
“I know,” you replied. “That’s the point.”
The space between you felt different now, not uncertain, not unfinished. Just… chosen.
.
The last days in Paris slipped by too quickly, like the city was gently nudging you toward reality again, reminders tucked into every café visit, every late walk, every lingering look you tried not to overthink.
Your final night, the three of you stayed in. Wine bottles cluttered the counter, leftovers from the restaurant down the street spread across the table, Clara dramatically recounting her week-long “love affair” with accents, eye contact, and men who definitely thought she was mysterious. You laughed more than you had in months, the kind of laughter that left your stomach sore and your chest warm.
You kept catching Harry’s eye across the room. Little shared smiles. Private reactions. The quiet awareness that time was running out.
Later, when Clara disappeared into the guest room to pack, muttering to herself about airline baggage limits and emotional baggage, you and Harry lingered in the kitchen, the apartment dim and hushed. The hum of the fridge, the faint city noise drifting in through the window. Everything else felt suspended.
He stepped closer. Not abruptly, just enough that the air shifted, like the scene had narrowed to the two of you.
You could feel it…this was the moment the universe had been circling around! Every near-miss, every half-sentence, every stolen glance funneling into this exact second…
His hand brushed yours, barely, but it sent a current straight up your arm. You tilted your head up, heart hammering, breath shallow. He leaned in, slower than you expected, giving you time to pull away… but you didn’t.
“GUYS.”
Clara’s voice sliced through the space like a siren.
“I just realized I don’t have room for my shoes and I’m blaming both of you!! This is emotionally devastating!”
You burst out laughing, adrenaline dissolving into something dizzy and bright. Harry dragged a hand down his face with a soft groan. “Unbelievable timing,” he muttered, half amused, half defeated.
The moment scattered…. but the feeling didn’t.
Later, at the door, coats on, the city waiting outside like a held breath, he hugged Clara tightly. Then you.
This time, he didn’t pull away right away.
His arm lingered at your waist. Your forehead nearly brushed his shoulder. For a second, it felt like the rest of the world had politely stepped back again, like maybe the universe was giving you one quieter chance.
Neither of you said anything.
But neither of you let go.
.
One month later, your phone barely left your hand.
Texts turned into voice notes. Voice notes into calls. Calls into video calls that stretched late into the night, time zones dissolving like they’d never mattered.
He started it casually at first…
“Morning, baby,” he said one day, hair messy, still half-asleep.
You froze for half a second, then smiled so hard it hurt.
Soon it was love, slipped into sentences like it had always belonged there. Flower, said softly when you told him about your day. “Because you grow wherever you are,” he explained, like it was obvious.
You talked about everything, childhood memories, fears you hadn’t named out loud before, how familiar this all felt.
“It’s strange,” he said once, voice low through the screen. “Like we’ve done this before.”
You nodded. “Like we just… found each other again.”
“Exactly,” he smiled. “Like a past life finally catching up.”
Paris was still beautiful, he told you. Inspiring. Necessary.
“But,” he admitted one night, eyes serious, “this connection? It feels like destiny. And I don’t think I’m supposed to ignore it.”
Then, one evening, your phone rang unexpectedly.
Harry’s face filled the screen, nervous energy buzzing through him.
“Hey” he said. “I’ve been thinking a lot.”
Your heart started racing. “Okay…”
“I am coming back,” he said, clearly now. “Paris gave me what I needed…but you… this feels like something I’d regret for the rest of my life if I didn’t choose it.”
You gasped, one hand flying to your mouth.
“Harry—”
“I don’t know exactly what it’ll look like,” he continued. “But I know I want to try. Properly. With you.”
You laughed, breathless, eyes already burning.
“I’m so happy!!” you said, voice shaking.
He smiled, wide and bright and certain.
“I know,” he said softly. “That’s why I’m coming home.”
.When he said home, it didn't sound like an address. it didn't sound like a lease, or an apartment key, or even a city. It sounded softer than that. Certain in a way that didn’t need explaining.
.
At first, it scared you a little.
It was fast. Too fast, by every logical standard you’d ever trusted. But every time you tried to slow it down in your head, your heart refused to cooperate. It didn’t feel reckless. It felt… remembered. Like something finally clicking into place after being slightly off for years.
And then suddenly, it was real.
One month later, you stood in the airport arrivals hall, fingers clenched tightly around the stem of a single flower, the balloon tugging gently above your wrist. You hadn’t even been sure why you brought them, maybe because waiting felt unbearable without something to hold onto.
Your stomach flipped with every person who came through the doors. Families reunited. Laughter. Rolling suitcases.
Then you saw him.
Two large suitcases behind him, hair slightly longer, shoulders tense with exhaustion, and then his eyes lifted.
Found you.
The change was instant. He dropped the handles of his bags like they no longer existed and started running, weaving through people, calling your name without caring who heard.
You barely had time to breathe before his arms were around you.
No hello. No pause.
Just him holding you like he’d finally stopped falling.
And then his hands framed your face and he kissed you, right there, in the middle of the airport. Unpolished. Desperate. Real.
The world blurred into noise and motion around you, but all you could feel was him, warm, solid, finally here.
When he pulled back, foreheads touching, he laughed softly, breath shaky.
“Hi” he whispered, like he’d just remembered manners.
You laughed too, tears threatening, flower crushed slightly between you.
“You’re here!” you said.
He smiled, brushing his thumb under your eye.
“I know,” he replied.
You were still a little stunned, nerves buzzing under your skin, smiling like you couldn’t quite believe your own body was standing there. Your hands hovered awkwardly at his sides, like you didn’t yet trust that touching him was real and not something you’d wake up from.
He noticed.
Of course he did.
He leaned in, forehead resting against yours again, voice low and steady “Hey,” he said softly, thumb brushing your cheek. “Breathe.”
You laughed quietly, nodding, eyes still glassy. “Sorry. I just…”
“I know,” he interrupted gently, smiling. Then, a little more certain, like he was saying it to both of you, “Time’s on our side now. No more hiccups. No more almosts.”
You searched his face, looking for doubt.
There wasn’t any.
Just calm. Just choice.
And that was how it started.
Dates that felt intentional but effortless, late dinners where conversation spilled past midnight, walks that ended nowhere because neither of you wanted them to. Long nights curled up on the couch, his fingers absentmindedly tracing your arm while he talked about color and light and ideas that only made sense to him.
And then the painting…
At first, it was casual.
“Sit there,” he’d say. “Just for a second.”
But it kept happening.
Your shoulder. Your hands. The line of your jaw when you weren’t paying attention. He painted you laughing, thinking, half-asleep. Sometimes abstract, sometimes painfully detailed.
“I’m everywhere!” you teased once, looking at his studio.
He shrugged, unapologetic. “I paint what I like.”
You felt things you’d never felt before, not intensity that burned fast, not chaos disguised as passion, but something steady and deep and alive. A kind of love that didn’t ask you to shrink or rush or brace yourself for impact.
With him, you didn’t wonder where you stood.
You stood right there, next to him, choosing and being chosen back.
It felt unreal. It felt earned. It felt like a fairytale.
.
Months later, living together stopped feeling like a decision and started feeling like the default.
Your things blended slowly, his canvases leaning against walls you’d chosen together, your mugs slowly replacing his mismatched ones, toothbrushes side by side like they’d always belonged there. Mornings were sleepy and quiet; nights stretched long, full of conversation, music, and him painting while you sat nearby, legs tucked under you, reading or doing nothing at all.
It felt settled. Not dull, secure.
That afternoon, you were home before him, still in comfortable clothes, moving around the apartment. You heard the door open harder than usual.
“Love?” his voice called out, breathless.
You turned just in time to see him standing there, eyes wide, chest rising fast, jacket still on. He looked undone, not upset, not angry, just overwhelmed.
“What happened?” you asked, immediately concerned.
He dropped his bag by the door and crossed the space between you in three long steps, hands coming up to your face like he needed to anchor himself.
“I sold it,” he said. “The piece. The big one.”
Your eyes widened. “Harry! that’s amazing!!”
“No,” he said quickly, shaking his head, almost laughing. “You don’t understand. It’s… it’s the most I’ve ever sold anything for! By far! It was a lot of money!”
You smiled, pride blooming in your chest. “I’m so proud of you.”
He swallowed, eyes glossy now, thumb brushing your cheek like he was grounding himself.
“And this is not even about the painting…well it is…but…I’ve never felt like this before,” he continued, words tumbling out now. “Not this calm. Not this sure. With you, everything makes sense in a way it never has, when he agreed…i thought about you, I didn't think about the money, I thought about our future.”
He took a shaky breath, then dropped to one knee right there on the living room floor, between the couch and the coffee table you’d picked out together.
Your breath caught.
“I know it hasn’t been years and years, but somehow it has…we met a long time ago and i always felt something and now i know you did too…” he said, voice steady despite the emotion shaking through him. “But it’s been enough. Enough to know that this is different. That you’re different.”
“I don’t have a ring…yet. Cause I need to do this now!...Y/n I don’t want to imagine my life without you in it,” he said. “I don’t want to paint a future you’re not part of.”
Your eyes filled before you could stop them.
“So,” he said softly, looking up at you like the answer already lived there, “will you marry me?”
The world narrowed to that moment, to him, kneeling, hopeful and vulnerable and completely certain.
You didn’t hesitate.
“Yes!” you said, voice breaking as you laughed through tears. “Yes! Of course I will!”
He exhaled like he’d been holding his breath for years, standing quickly to pull you into his arms, pressing his forehead to yours, laughing, overwhelmed, home. And just like that, after one year and some months of feeling more than you ever had before, you both knew.
Summary: Clark makes it so easy to fall in love with him <3
Word count: 7k+
Warnings: fluff, black cat reader
A/N:
English is not my first language, so I apologize if I made any (grammar) mistakes. Feedback, requests, talks, vents, recommendations or just simple questions are always welcome.
Happy reading xxx
I do NOT give permission for my work to be translated or reposted on here or any other site.
You had been at the Daily Planet long enough to earn a reputation.
Not a title, no, those were handed out in conference rooms with bad lighting and forgotten by the next fiscal quarter, but a presence. The kind that didn’t need a name because everyone already knew it. The kind that seeped into the walls, into cadence of the bullpen until it became part of how the place functioned.
People adjusted around you without thinking about it.
Voices dropped when they passed your desk. Jokes paused when your jaw tightened. Interns learned, quickly, which hours were safe to approach you and which were not. You weren’t feared, exactly—but you were respected, and not in the polite way.
You were the one everyone warned interns about.
“Don’t take it personally,” Lois had said once to an intern, leaning against a desk with a coffee in hand, watching you wrestle with a malfunctioning printer like it had personally offended your ancestors. “She complains about everything.”
The printer made a grinding noise that sounded smug.
“Everything is broken in this damn place,” you replied flatly, yanking the tray out with more force than strictly necessary and slamming it back in. “The system. The printer. Capitalism.”
Jimmy burst out laughing so hard he nearly inhaled his granola bar. Steve snorted from across the room, offering a lazy golf clap. Somewhere behind you, Perry let out the long-suffering sigh of a man who had employed you for years and somehow still trusted you with deadlines that made seasoned reporters sweat.
“Don’t break the new printer,” Perry warned from his office doorway, already turning back inside like he knew it wouldn’t matter.
“It started it,” you shot back without missing a beat.
The printer whirred. Then—miraculously—spat out the page.
Jimmy raised both hands. “See? Fear-based leadership.”
You flipped him off and went back to your desk.
You were messy in the way people who lived inside their heads tended to be. Not careless—never careless—but constantly moving faster than the world around them. Coffee-stained sweaters that had once been soft, now worn thin at the elbows, more nostalgia than fabric. Sleeves shoved up. Shoes scuffed from pacing while you thought.
Pens lived everywhere but where they were supposed to. Tucked into your hair. Behind your ears. Jammed into jacket pockets until they leaked ink like they were trying to escape. Notes followed you like a paper trail—scribbled on napkins, receipts, old memos, the backs of someone else’s abandoned drafts. You never used folders.
Folders implied organization.
Organization implied time.
Time was a luxury you didn’t have.
You were moody. Sharp-tongued. Permanently exhausted in that bone-deep way that sleep didn’t fix. The kind of tired that came from caring too much for too long. Deeply unimpressed with most people, especially the kind who talked loudly and said nothing, who mistook volume for authority.
You’d learned early how to see through that.
But you always—always—got the job done.
That was the part no one argued with.
You’d complain about it roughly two hundred and fifty times along the way. Loudly. Creatively. Sometimes poetically. You once compared a collapsing lead to “trying to build a bridge out of wet cardboard and lies,” and Lois had nearly framed it.
But when a story needed rewriting at midnight, when a source went cold five minutes before print, when an angle fell apart and needed to be rebuilt from scraps and instinct, you were there.
Always there.
Scowling. Swearing. Saving the day.
Kind of like a superhero.
Lois knew it. She’d argued for you in meetings more than once, even while calling you “an absolute nightmare” directly to your face.
“I don’t like her,” she’d said to Perry once, pointing at you through the glass. “But I love her and trust her. More than everyone. And that’s rarer.”
Jimmy knew it. He never asked if you wanted snacks on long nights, he just dropped them on your desk and pretended it wasn’t a kindness.
Steve knew it, though he’d never admit it outright. He just stopped questioning your instincts. When you said a story wouldn’t hold, he listened.
Cat pretended not to. But during one particularly brutal deadline, when you’d been running on caffeine and spite for eighteen hours straight, she’d paused at your desk and slid a note across the surface.
You’re intolerable. Also, good work.
You’d stared at it for a long moment before tucking it into your pocket like a secret.
Coming from Cat, it might as well have been a hug.
Even Perry knew it—though he’d never say it out loud. He just handed you stories he wouldn’t trust to anyone else. Let you bend rules he enforced for others. Watched you closely, not for mistakes, but to make sure you didn’t burn yourself out entirely.
“She’s like a black cat,” Lois told a new intern once, nodding in your direction as you hunched over your keyboard, jaw tight, headphones clamped on, eyes sharp and distant. “Mean-looking. Kind of feral. But if you earn her trust, she’ll sit on your paperwork and keep it warm.”
The intern swallowed. “Does she… like people?”
You pulled one headphone off slowly. “I can hear you.”
The intern jumped so hard they nearly knocked over their chair.
Lois grinned, unapologetic. “See? Protective.”
You stared at her for a long moment, then slid the headphone back on and returned to your work without another word.
You didn’t deny it.
You didn’t need to.
The Planet knew who you were. Knew how you worked. Knew the shape of you.
You were steady. Predictable. Closed-off but reliable. Sharp edges, no surprises.
All of that—every carefully constructed routine, every defense you’d built—shifted the moment Clark Kent walked into the bullpen.
You just didn’t know it yet.
It was an ordinary morning, which somehow made it worse.
The kind of morning you didn’t brace yourself for because nothing new ever happened on days like this. Phones rang in uneven rhythms. Someone was already arguing about a headline two desks over, voices sharp with caffeine and ego. The smell of burnt coffee clung to the air like a bad habit—overbrewed, bitter, unavoidable.
You were halfway through editing a piece, jaw tight, muttering under your breath as you cut unnecessary adjectives.
If you say “very” one more time, I swear to—
Your pen hovered, then slashed a line through a paragraph. You didn’t notice Perry step out of his office until his presence pressed into the room, heavy and familiar.
“All right, listen up.”
The bullpen groaned in unison. Someone actually let their forehead hit the desk.
You didn’t look up.
Perry cleared his throat, that gravelly sound that meant this would take exactly thirty seconds longer than it should. “We’ve got a new reporter joining us today. Transfer from Smallville Kansas. Clark Kent.”
Kansas.
You paused mid-sentence, then continued editing.
Kansas sounded quiet. Beige. Forgettable. A place where nothing happened fast enough to matter.
You’d seen plenty of transfers. They came in bright-eyed, full of opinions, and within six months they either adapted or burned out. It wasn’t personal. It was the Planet.
Then someone stepped forward.
The sound of shoes on tile. Measured. Almost careful.
You felt it before you saw him.
That strange, instinctive awareness—like when the room temperature changes, or the pressure drops before a storm.
You looked up.
And had to stop yourself from staring.
He was tall—taller than most of the bullpen—and broad-shouldered in a way that felt grounded rather than imposing. Like he took up space without ever meaning to. His tie was slightly crooked, like he’d tried to fix it three times and given up. His hair refused to lie flat. His glasses sat low on his nose, slipping just enough that he kept nudging them back with a finger.
He looked… real.
Not polished. Not sharp-edged. Not trying to be impressive.
He smiled, and it wasn’t the kind you’d learned to distrust. It didn’t scan the room for approval. It didn’t flash and disappear. It lingered, warm and earnest, like he meant it.
“N-nice to meet you all,” he said, voice steady but soft, carrying just enough nervousness to make it human. “I’ve heard a lot about the Planet.”
A few polite claps followed. Jimmy nearly bounced out of his chair, waving like he’d found a new best friend. Lois leaned back in her seat, arms crossed, eyes sharp as she took Clark in—already cataloging strengths and weaknesses.
And then—
Clark’s gaze shifted.
It landed on you.
Not glanced. Not skimmed.
Landed.
You felt it like a physical thing. A breath stolen clean from your lungs. That strange, internal click, like something inside you had slipped out of alignment—quietly, irreversibly.
Your fingers stilled over the keyboard.
For half a second, the bullpen dissolved into static. The ringing phones blurred into white noise. The arguments faded. It was just you and him and the space between your desks.
Clark’s expression changed.
It softened—not into awe or recognition, but something gentler. Like relief. Like he’d stumbled across something he hadn’t known he’d been looking for. His smile faltered, then returned, smaller and more careful. Kind.
You weren’t used to that kind of attention.
Not like this.
Your chest tightened. You looked away first, pulse suddenly loud in your ears, heart doing something wildly inconvenient.
“Give it a week,” you muttered, mostly to yourself.
Lois snapped her gaze to you. “Be nice.”
You didn’t look at her. “I am being nice.”
“You’re scowling.”
“I scowl neutrally.”
She snorted. “You’re projecting.”
“I didn’t say it out loud,” you added, like that made it better.
Across from you, Clark laughed softly—surprised, like he hadn’t expected humor this soon. “I, uh… I’m looking forward to working with everyone.”
Perry gestured vaguely. “Kent, you’ll be over there. Empty desk.”
Clark turned.
And walked straight toward you.
Of course he did.
You stared at the empty desk across from yours like it had personally betrayed you. This was the universe’s sense of humor—subtle, cruel, and deeply inconvenient.
Clark set his things down carefully, like he didn’t want to disturb the air. A notebook. A pen. A lunch bag that looked homemade. He glanced up, hesitating.
“Hi,” he said, softer now.
You didn’t trust your voice immediately.
“…Hi,” you replied, finally.
“I’m Clark.”
“I know,” you said, then winced. “Perry just—”
“I know,” he said quickly, smiling. “I just meant—yeah. Sorry.”
Silence settled, but it wasn’t awkward. Just… new.
You told yourself it didn’t mean anything.
Desks were assigned. Coincidences happened. The universe was chaos and didn’t care about your personal growth or emotional stability.
But when Clark glanced up again, meeting your eyes with that tentative, hopeful smile—like he was genuinely glad to be sitting there—you felt something warm unfurl in your chest.
Something soft.
Something terrifying.
And for the first time in years, you didn’t immediately shove it down. Didn’t armor yourself. Didn’t turn it into sarcasm or irritation or noise.
You let it sit there.
Something had shifted.
You just didn’t know yet that it would never shift back.
At first, no one noticed the change.
Not really.
It was too small. Too quiet. The kind of shift that didn’t announce itself or demand attention. It didn’t crash through the door, it slipped in sideways, pretending to be coincidence, pretending to be nothing at all.
You still came in early, badge swiped before most of the bullpen had filled. Still left late, the lights above your desk flicked off by someone else when they realized you hadn’t noticed the time. Still scowled at your screen like it had personally wronged you.
If anyone had asked, you would’ve said nothing was different.
And technically, you would’ve been right.
But the Daily Planet had a way of noticing patterns. Of feeling disruption in its bones. It ran on routine and rhythm, and even the smallest deviation stood out to the people who lived there.
It started with clothes and makeup.
Not in a dramatic, movie-montage way. There was no decisive moment where you stood in front of your closet and thought, Today I become someone new. No declaration. No vow to change. No sudden desire to be palatable or polished.
You just… reached past your usual oversized sweater.
Your hand hovered there for a moment, fingers brushing familiar fabric—soft, worn thin at the cuffs, dependable. The kind of clothing that asked nothing of you. The kind that let you disappear.
Your hand stalled, uncertain, like it didn’t recognize the impulse guiding it.
Then it moved.
It landed on something else.
A fitted blouse you’d bought ages ago on a day when you’d felt briefly optimistic about yourself. Something nice. Something unnecessary. Something that had hung untouched in the back of your closet, tags long gone but hope still faintly stitched into the seams.
You frowned at it.
Why did I even buy you?
But you pulled it out anyway.
You chose slacks that actually fit, not the elastic-waisted ones you defaulted to on autopilot. Shoes that weren’t chosen solely for comfort and speed. Shoes that said you planned to be seen, at least a little.
The mirror caught you mid-routine, unfamiliar and exposed.
You paused.
Added a little more blush than usual—not theatrical, just enough to bring warmth back to your cheeks. You hesitated over the lipstick, then picked a deeper shade than your safe, forgettable one. Not loud. Just… present.
Your perfume was different, too.
Not the sharp, distant scent you usually wore—the one that smelled like rain-soaked sidewalks and old paper and sadness carefully bottled. This one was warmer. Softer. It smelled like late afternoons and shared laughter and something just beginning.
Like falling in love.
You sprayed it a couple of times. Then stopped yourself from spraying more.
You stared at your reflection longer than usual.
Really looked.
Not critically. Not clinically. Just… looked.
You didn’t hate what you saw.
And then—unexpectedly—you smiled.
Small. Private.
Because you thought of Clark.
Of the way his eyes softened when he looked at you. Of the way he noticed things—really noticed them. Of the gentle warmth in his voice when he said your name.
You imagined his reaction. The slight pause. The smile he’d try not to make obvious. The way he’d probably say something sincere and earnest that would short-circuit your brain.
It doesn’t mean anything, you told your reflection firmly.
It’s just clean.
That was all.
The reaction, however, was immediate.
You didn’t make it three steps into the bullpen before Lois froze mid-sip of her coffee.
Actually froze.
Her mug hovered halfway to her mouth, eyes locked on you like she was witnessing a glitch in the universe.
She blinked.
Once.
Then blinked again, slower this time, as if the image might correct itself.
“Is that—” she said cautiously, lowering her mug like she was afraid it might spill. “Are you wearing real clothes?”
You stopped short, irritation flaring on instinct, reflexive and protective. You glanced down at yourself, half-expecting something outrageous to have appeared without your consent.
“These are clothes,” you said flatly. “I’ve always worn clothes.”
“These are effort, baby,” Lois countered, setting her mug down fully now. Her eyes narrowed, sharp and assessing. “This is what people wear when they’re trying.”
Your shoulders stiffened.
“I got dressed,” you said defensively, dropping into your chair and waking up your computer. “It happens.”
Lois leaned over your desk, bracing herself with one hand, invading your space without apology. She studied you like you were a headline she didn’t trust—one that felt suspiciously optimistic.
“I don’t trust this,” she said.
“Good,” you muttered, fingers flying over the keyboard. “I don’t exist for your comfort.”
Her lips twitched.
“There you are,” Lois said, smirking. “I was worried we lost you.”
You shot her a look. “Don’t get used to it.”
“Oh, I absolutely will,” she replied, straightening. “I live for character development.”
You groaned. “You’re exhausting.”
“And yet,” she said sweetly, already turning away, “you look good.”
You pretended not to hear her.
But your mouth betrayed you, curling just a little at the edges.
Across from you, Clark looked up from his computer.
You felt his attention before you met his eyes—warm, steady, unguarded. He didn’t stare. Didn’t make it weird. He just… looked. Like he was genuinely seeing you.
His smile softened in a way that made your stomach flip.
“You look really nice, but then again you always do,” he said, like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Your brain shut off.
Completely. Catastrophically.
“Oh,” you said, far too softly. “Uh. Thanks.”
Heat crawled up your neck, into your ears, down your spine. You turned back to your screen like it might save you from yourself.
Clark ducked his head, suddenly shy. “I mean—it’s just—yeah.”
You spent the rest of the morning hyper-aware of your own existence. Of how you sat. How you typed. How you breathed.
The change crept into everything else.
You still complained—but less.
The copier jammed again mid-afternoon. You stared at it for a long moment, mouth opening—
Then closing.
You muttered something under your breath and fixed it without incident.
Jimmy, who had been bracing for verbal impact, slowly lowered his shoulders. “Huh.”
Later, Steve made a comment—something careless, something designed to poke. Normally, you would’ve dismantled him with surgical precision.
Instead, you rolled your eyes and went back to work.
Steve stared. “Wow.”
You glanced up. “What.”
“You’re evolving.”
“Careful.”
“I liked you better when you were scary.”
“You still like me now,” Lois said without looking up.
“I do not,” Steve lied.
Jimmy noticed first.
Of course he did.
He leaned over your desk one afternoon, lowering his voice like he was approaching a wild animal. “Hey.”
“What,” you said without looking up.
“Are you… okay?”
You paused, fingers hovering over the keyboard. “…Yes.”
“You didn’t yell today.”
“I yelled internally.”
“You smiled at Clark.”
You froze.
“I did not—”
“You absolutely did,” Jimmy said, delighted. “It was small, but it was there. Like—” he made a tiny curve with his finger, “—that.”
You finally looked up, glare sharp. “I will end you.”
Jimmy beamed. “Love is real.”
“It’s infatuation,” you snapped, cheeks burning. “And it’s stupid.”
“Mmm,” Jimmy hummed. “Sure.”
The next morning, you were late.
Barely—five minutes, maybe less—but late enough that your routine had fractured just enough to leave you off-balance. Late enough that you’d skipped the coffee stop without fully realizing what that meant until you were already at your desk.
Your bag hit the floor with a dull thud. You shrugged out of your coat, irritation already simmering beneath your skin. The bullpen was louder than usual—phones ringing, keyboards clacking, someone laughing too hard at something that wasn’t funny.
Your head ached.
You logged in, jaw tight, already bracing yourself for the day, when something entered your peripheral vision.
A paper cup.
Set carefully on the corner of your desk, like it belonged there. Like it had always been meant to be there.
You stared at it.
Black. No sugar. From the place two blocks down—the one you only went to when you were running late but still stubborn enough to need that coffee specifically. The one with the burnt espresso and the chipped mugs and the barista who never asked questions.
You looked at the cup like it might explode.
Slowly, you turned your head.
Clark stood there, hands tucked awkwardly into his pockets, shoulders just a little tense. He looked… hopeful. Nervous in that quiet way of his, like he wasn’t sure how this would land but had done it anyway.
“This is—” You stopped yourself, words tangling. “…How did you—”
“I noticed,” he said quickly, scratching the back of his neck. His ears were pink, like he was suddenly aware of how intimate the gesture might seem. “You always grab it from the same place when you’re late. And you drink it before it cools, which I don’t recommend, but—”
He cut himself off with a small, embarrassed huff of laughter.
“That’s… observant,” you said quietly.
The words came out softer than you meant them to. Like you were afraid to disturb something fragile.
Clark shrugged, shifting his weight. “I pay attention, especially to you.”
Something in your chest gave.
Not dramatically. Not all at once.
Just a quiet yielding—like a door finally unlatched after years of being kept shut on instinct alone.
You reached for the cup.
Your fingers brushed his for half a second.
It was nothing. Barely contact. Just skin against skin.
And yet—
Your breath caught. The world tilted. You forgot, briefly, how breathing worked at all.
Clark’s hand stilled too. Just for a fraction of a second. Like he felt it.
Then he pulled back, careful, giving you space even as he stayed close enough to matter.
“Thank you,” you said.
Your voice betrayed you—too soft, too honest, stripped of its usual edge.
Clark smiled.
Not polite. Not casual.
Genuine.
“Anytime,” he said. And the way he said it made it clear he meant anytime. Not just coffee. Not just mornings. Anything.
You watched him walk back to his desk, movements unhurried, like he wasn’t worried you’d change your mind.
Your heart pounded so loudly you were sure someone could hear it.
This was bad.
This was really bad.
You wrapped your hands around the cup, warmth seeping into your palms, grounding you. The smell of coffee curled up toward your face, familiar and comforting and suddenly loaded with meaning.
You took a sip.
Perfect.
And somewhere deep down—beneath the defenses, beneath the routines, beneath the carefully constructed exterior you’d worn like armor—you knew you weren’t going to stop this.
You weren’t going to pretend you hadn’t noticed.
Because for the first time in a long time, someone was paying attention.
Not to who you could be.
Not to who you should be.
To who you already were.
And for the first time, you weren’t pushing them away.
You were letting them stay.
Clark was kind in a way that felt dangerous.
Not loud kindness. Not the kind that announced itself or demanded gratitude. Not performative, not wrapped in jokes or grand gestures meant to be witnessed. Not the kind people used to prove they were good.
His kindness didn’t look like anything at first.
It sounded like pauses. Like attention. Like silence that didn’t rush to fill itself.
It was quieter. Steadier. The kind that slipped past your defenses because it didn’t trip any alarms. The kind that settled gently into the cracks you didn’t let anyone see—places you’d long ago boarded up and labeled off-limits.
The kind that didn’t ask permission before it mattered.
He listened.
Actually listened.
Not the way most people did—half-waiting for their turn to speak, nodding automatically while already composing a response. Not scanning your face for cues on when to interrupt. Not filing away your words as background noise.
Clark listened like what you were saying held weight.
Like it deserved space.
When you complained—because you still did, just quieter now—it wasn’t a performance. It wasn’t the sharp, defensive edge you used to keep people at bay. It was softer. More honest. Tired in a way that didn’t feel safe to show just anyone.
And Clark didn’t brush it off.
He didn’t tease you, didn’t smirk and say something like that’s just how it is or welcome to the Planet. He didn’t tell you to relax, or lighten up, or stop caring so much.
He didn’t minimize it.
He just… listened.
Sometimes he nodded, brow furrowed, like he was turning your words over carefully. Sometimes he asked questions—not to challenge you, but to understand you.
“Why do you think they’re pushing that angle?”
“What’s bothering you most about it?”
“Is it the framing, or the timing?”
Questions that told you he wasn’t just hearing the complaint—he was trying to see the problem the way you saw it.
Sometimes he offered a solution. Gently. Carefully. Like he was handing you something fragile instead of telling you what to do.
“What if you reframed it instead of cutting it entirely?”
“Would it help if we split the focus instead?”
Always with room for you to say no.
And sometimes—when there wasn’t a fix, when the problem was systemic or unfair or just exhausting—he didn’t try to solve it at all.
He just said, “Yeah. That sounds frustrating.”
And meant it.
That alone made your chest tighten in a way you didn’t have words for.
Because no one ever said that without trying to fix you afterward. Without implying you were overreacting. Without subtly asking you to be less.
Clark never did.
He laughed at your dry jokes—the ones that slid in sideways, deadpan and sharp, delivered so flat people sometimes missed them entirely. Not the polite chuckle people gave when they weren’t sure if you were joking.
Real laughter.
The kind that startled him every time, like it surprised him that you could make him laugh that hard.
Once, you caught him mid-laugh—head tipped back slightly, glasses slipping, breath caught in his chest—and when he looked back at you, there was something almost reverent in his expression.
Like he couldn’t quite believe you existed.
You pretended not to notice.
You always did.
He asked your opinion.
Not out of obligation. Not because it was expected. Not because he wanted validation.
Because he trusted it.
“What do you think?” he’d ask, leaning back in his chair, turning fully toward you. “Does this hold up?”
And when you tore something apart—methodically, precisely, without sugarcoating—he didn’t bristle.
Didn’t get defensive.
Didn’t shut down.
He listened. Took notes. Adjusted. Thanked you.
“Glad I asked,” he said once, smiling like he genuinely meant it. “You catch things I miss.”
The words lodged somewhere deep in your chest.
No one had ever said that to you without sounding threatened. Without making it a competition. Without needing to assert themselves afterward.
Clark didn’t.
He didn’t need to.
He valued your work.
Valued your instincts. Your sharpness. Your perspective.
Valued you.
Not as a resource. Not as a tool. Not as a challenge.
As a person whose presence mattered.
That was the dangerous part.
Because you were used to being tolerated. Used to being respected at arm’s length. Used to being admired from a safe distance.
You weren’t used to being chosen in the quiet moments.
Weren’t used to someone seeing the sharp edges and not asking you to dull them.
Weren’t used to kindness that didn’t want something from you in return.
Clark’s kindness didn’t demand anything.
It just stayed.
One night, the bullpen was mostly empty.
The kind of empty that felt earned. Desks abandoned in uneven rows, chairs pushed back hastily or tucked in with care depending on who had left first. The overhead lights had dimmed automatically, leaving soft pools of illumination scattered across the room—small islands of focus in a sea of shadow.
Yours was one of them.
Clark’s was another.
Beyond the windows, the city was restless. Traffic hissed along rain-slick streets. Neon signs bled color into the dark. Rain streaked down the glass in uneven paths, turning the skyline into a smear of reflection and light, like the world itself was too tired to stay sharp.
You were hunched over your keyboard, shoulders drawn tight, jaw clenched. Your eyes burned from hours of staring at the screen, words blurring together until they felt meaningless. You rubbed at them with the heel of your hand, then sighed when it didn’t help.
Your coffee sat untouched beside you.
Cold.
Again.
You didn’t notice Clark at first.
He was still there—he always was—but he’d gone quiet, careful not to intrude. You hadn’t even realized he’d stood up until his voice cut gently through the silence.
“You don’t have to stay, you know.”
It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t commanding.
Just… there.
You didn’t look up. “Deadlines don’t care about my feelings.”
Normally, that would’ve earned a laugh. A joke. A deflection.
Clark didn’t laugh.
“I care,” he said softly.
The words landed heavier than you expected.
You froze, fingers hovering over the keys.
Slowly—like you were afraid the moment might break—you looked up at him.
He stood a few feet away, hands tucked into his pockets, shoulders relaxed but attentive. His expression was open. Unguarded. No sarcasm curling at the edges. No ulterior motive hidden behind humor.
Just sincerity.
Plain. Devastating.
The ache in your chest surprised you with its intensity. It felt sharp and warm all at once, like something long dormant had been nudged awake.
“…Thanks,” you murmured, voice rougher than you liked.
The word felt too small for what you meant, but it was all you could manage.
Clark smiled—not the bright, easy one he wore around the office. This one was smaller. Warmer. Like he understood exactly how much it had cost you to say that.
“Anytime,” he said quietly.
He didn’t linger. Didn’t press.
He just went back to his desk, like he trusted you to sit with it.
Something in you loosened.
Not all at once. Just enough to breathe.
After that, things shifted again—subtly, quietly.
You didn’t talk about it. You didn’t name it.
You just… started bringing him snacks.
Nothing elaborate. A granola bar dropped on his desk. A muffin wrapped in a napkin. Once, a bag of pretzels you’d grabbed without thinking.
You never commented on it. Just set it down and went back to work like it was nothing.
Like it wasn’t an offering.
Clark always noticed.
He’d glance down, then up at you, eyes soft. “You didn’t have to.”
“I know,” you replied without looking at him. “Eat.”
Sometimes he smiled to himself before opening it. Sometimes he saved it for later. Once, you caught him carefully folding the wrapper and slipping it into his bag like it mattered.
You started sitting closer.
Not dramatically. Just… incrementally.
Your chair angled a little more toward his. Your foot tapping closer to his desk. Your shoulders brushing when you leaned in to look at his screen.
“Can you read this?” he’d ask.
You’d scoot over, pointing at the screen. “This paragraph’s doing too much.”
“Which part?”
“All of it.”
He’d laugh quietly, leaning closer so you could both see.
And sometimes—carefully, almost accidentally—your knee brushed his under the desk.
Every time it happened, your breath caught.
Every time, Clark stilled for half a second.
Like he felt it too.
Like he was deciding something.
He never pulled away.
No flinch. No awkward adjustment.
Just… stayed.
Everyone noticed.
Lois noticed first, obviously. She raised an eyebrow one day when she caught you leaning into Clark’s space, her mouth twitching like she was holding back commentary.
She said nothing.
Jimmy, on the other hand, looked like he was vibrating with unspeakable joy. He watched the two of you like it was the best subplot he’d ever seen.
Steve pretended not to notice and failed miserably.
“Are you two… sharing oxygen now?” he asked once.
You glared. Clark smiled politely. Steve backed off.
Cat noticed too, of course.
She always did.
She paused by your desk one afternoon, perfectly composed, eyes flicking between you and Clark with sharp amusement. Her lips curled.
“Interesting,” she said lightly. “The black cat purrs.”
You flipped her off without looking.
Clark laughed—open, bright, completely unbothered.
And somehow, it didn’t sting the way it would have before.
Because he wasn’t laughing at you.
He was laughing with you.
Perry cornered you in his office one afternoon.
The door closed behind you with a soft click. He leaned back against his desk, arms crossed, studying you the way he only did when he was about to say something that mattered.
“You happy?” he asked gruffly.
The question caught you off guard.
You opened your mouth to deflect.
Then stopped.
You hesitated.
Really thought about it.
About the warmth in your chest when Clark smiled at you. About the way the days felt lighter, even when the work was heavy. About how you didn’t feel quite so alone anymore—even when you were.
“…Yeah,” you said quietly. “I think I am.”
Perry nodded once. Just once.
“Good,” he said. “You deserve it.”
You left his office feeling… unsteady.
Because happiness had never been part of the plan.
You’d built your life around competence. Around survival. Around sharp edges and self-sufficiency.
And now?
Now happiness was standing right across from you, smiling softly, holding the door open like it had always known where to wait.
The realization hit you one rainy evening.
Not all at once. Not like lightning splitting the sky or a sudden, dramatic collapse of defenses.
It settled.
It arrived the way rain did—quiet at first, almost polite. Then steady. Inescapable. Something you didn’t fight because, somehow, you trusted it wouldn’t hurt you.
Rain streaked down the tall windows of the Daily Planet, tracing crooked paths through the reflected city lights. Outside, Metropolis blurred into smears of gold and red, the world softened by water and distance. Inside, the bullpen had long since emptied. Desks sat abandoned, chairs pushed in crooked angles. The overhead lights were dimmed automatically, leaving only a handful of pools of illumination.
Yours.
Clark’s.
The building creaked softly as the wind pressed against it, old and tired and familiar—like it understood the shape of late nights, of people who stayed long after they were supposed to leave.
Clark had stayed late again.
He always did when you were struggling with a piece. Even when you didn’t ask. Especially when you didn’t ask.
You told yourself it was coincidence. That he was just diligent. That he’d leave soon.
He never did.
You were hunched over your keyboard, shoulders tight, spine aching, eyes burning in that bone-deep way caffeine couldn’t touch anymore. The cursor blinked at you like a challenge. You’d rewritten the same paragraph six times—maybe seven. Each version somehow worse than the last, stripped of whatever truth it had once held.
Your jaw clenched.
“This sentence hates me,” you muttered, voice barely louder than the rain.
Clark shifted in his chair. “Can I?”
You didn’t even look at him. Just lifted a hand in surrender. “Be my guest. It’s cursed.”
He rolled closer, careful not to crowd you, and leaned in to read. He did it quietly—no commentary, no immediate fixing. Just attention. His lips moved slightly as he followed the words, breath slow and even.
You watched him without meaning to.
The way his brow furrowed when he concentrated. The way his glasses slid down his nose until he pushed them back up with a familiar gesture. The patience in the set of his shoulders, like he wasn’t in a hurry to be anywhere else.
After a moment, he spoke.
“It’s not bad,” he said gently.
You snorted. “It’s awful.”
“It’s tired,” he corrected, glancing at you. “Like you.”
You scoffed, leaning back. “I feel personally attacked.”
A quiet laugh escaped him—not loud enough to break the stillness, just enough to warm it. And then he smiled.
Not the bright, open smile he used for other people. Not the polite one he offered strangers.
This one was softer. Private. Like it belonged to moments like this.
“What if we flip the emphasis?” he suggested, tapping the screen lightly. “You don’t need to explain it again. Just… let it land. Trust the reader.”
You hesitated. Then rewrote the line, fingers stiff but willing.
You read it back.
Once.
Twice.
It worked.
The tension drained from your shoulders all at once, leaving you suddenly aware of how tired you really were.
You leaned back in your chair, head tipping toward the ceiling. “I hate that you’re right.”
Clark laughed quietly. “I’ll take it.”
You turned to thank him.
And froze.
Because he wasn’t looking at the screen anymore.
He was looking at you.
Not like a project. Not like a coworker he was helping out of obligation. Not even like a friend waiting for a response.
Like you mattered.
Like you were something worth paying attention to.
The realization bloomed in your chest, slow and warm and terrifying.
You weren’t pretending anymore.
You hadn’t been for a while.
You hadn’t been forcing the smiles, or the warmth, or the way your shoulders loosened when Clark was nearby. You hadn’t been “fixing” yourself or trying to sand down your edges.
You hadn’t changed because you were trying to be better.
You’d bloomed.
Slowly. Quietly.
Because someone had seen you.
All of you.
The mess—the cluttered desk, the scattered notes, the chaos you lived inside.
The moodiness—the sharp words, the bad days, the exhaustion that made you brittle.
The competence—the instinct, the intelligence, the way you knew things.
The complaints—not bitterness, but care. Too much care, pressed into sharp edges.
And he had chosen you anyway.
Your chest tightened until it hurt.
You swallowed hard.
“Clark?”
He looked up immediately. No delay. No distraction. “Yeah?”
There it was again.
That readiness.
That sense that, if you fell, he would be there.
“You ever feel like…” You hesitated, words trembling at the edge of something fragile. Vulnerable. “…you didn’t know you were lonely until you weren’t anymore?”
The rain tapped harder against the glass, as if urging you on.
Clark didn’t answer right away.
He studied you carefully—not searching for an escape, not deflecting. Just making sure. Making sure this moment was real. That he wasn’t imagining it.
Something profound flickered behind his eyes.
Recognition.
Relief.
“…Yeah,” he said quietly. “I do.”
Your throat closed.
The truth rose anyway, unstoppable now that it had found air.
“I think,” you said, voice shaking despite yourself, “I think I’m in love with you.”
Clark inhaled sharply.
It wasn’t dramatic. There was no grand reaction. Just—caught. Like the air had been pulled from his lungs without warning.
For a long moment, he didn’t move.
Then, slowly—carefully, like you were something precious—he reached for your hand.
His fingers were warm.
Steady.
Grounding.
“I was hoping you’d say that,” he said softly.
The words didn’t hit you all at once.
They didn’t crash or burn or demand anything from you. They unfolded instead—gentle and sure, like something carefully held, like he’d been carrying them for a while and was finally setting them down between you.
You stared at him, breath caught somewhere in your chest.
A laugh broke out of you before you could stop it—breathless, shaky, wet with emotion you hadn’t prepared for. It startled you both. You brought a hand up to your mouth instinctively, like you could catch it, like you could hold yourself together through sheer force of will.
“Really?” you asked, the word trembling as it left you.
Clark nodded without hesitation.
Not rushed. Not nervous.
Certain.
He tightened his hold on your hand just a little, thumb brushing over your knuckles in a grounding, unconscious motion—as if he already knew you needed something steady to anchor yourself to.
“Really,” he said.
It was the lack of doubt that undid you.
Not just the words—but the way he said them. Like this wasn’t a question he’d debated in his head. Like it wasn’t a risk he was bracing for. Like it wasn’t something he might regret.
Like it was simply the truth.
Your chest tightened painfully as disbelief bubbled up anyway—stubborn, scared, deeply ingrained. Old instincts kicked in. Old armor rattled, protesting, trying to stay upright.
You’d learned to be careful. To preempt rejection. To soften the blow by getting there first.
“You’re… you’re sure?” you asked, swallowing hard. “Because I’m—”
“Incredible,” Clark said immediately.
The word cut through you cleanly.
There was no pause. No searching. No hedging. His voice was firm—almost fierce in its certainty, like he wouldn’t let you finish that sentence any other way.
“You’re incredible,” he repeated, closer now, like he needed you to hear it. “You’re smart, and sharp, and you see things other people miss. You care so deeply it sometimes turns into frustration—but that doesn’t make you difficult.”
His thumb brushed your hand again, reassuring.
“It makes you honest,” he said. “It makes you real.”
Your chest ached, heat blooming behind your eyes.
You tried to laugh it off—habit, reflex. “Even when I’m complaining?”
He smiled a little wider at that, fondness softening his expression. “Especially when you’re complaining.”
You huffed a weak, broken laugh, tears threatening now, vision blurring. “You’re serious.”
“I am,” Clark said quietly. “That’s how I know you care. You don’t waste your energy on things that don’t matter to you.”
Something inside you finally gave.
It wasn’t dramatic. It didn’t explode or shatter loudly.
It just… cracked open.
Like a door you’d kept barred for so long you’d forgotten what was on the other side. Like a weight shifting, sliding off your shoulders without warning.
The weight you’d carried for years—of being too much, of needing to soften yourself to be palatable, of sharpening your edges because it felt safer than being exposed—finally slipped.
And you leaned into him without thinking.
Your forehead pressed against his shoulder in a soft, instinctive movement, like your body had already decided before your mind could catch up. Clark’s breath hitched for just a second—surprised, maybe—but then his arm came around you naturally, securely.
Like it had always belonged there.
Like he’d been waiting.
His hand settled between your shoulder blades, warm and steady, holding you without pressure, without expectation. Just there. Present. Solid.
You inhaled shakily.
He smelled like rain—fresh and clean—mixed with coffee and something deeper. Something steady. Something grounding you didn’t have a name for but recognized instantly.
Safe.
Your fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt, holding on just a little. Not because you were afraid he’d disappear—but because you didn’t want to let go yet. Because letting yourself stay felt new and fragile and precious.
Clark shifted slightly, careful, and rested his cheek against the top of your head. His other hand brushed up your arm in a slow, soothing motion—repetitive, grounding—like he was telling your nervous system it was okay to stand down.
“I’ve got you,” he murmured, so quietly you almost missed it.
Something in your chest loosened at the words.
Your eyes slipped shut.
You breathed him in again, chest rising and falling against his. For once, your thoughts weren’t racing ahead. For once, you weren’t scanning for the moment it would go wrong.
For once, there was no need to brace for impact.
No armor.
No sarcasm.
No sharp edges.
Just you.
Just the warmth of being held without conditions. Without being asked to be quieter. Softer. Easier. Smaller.
The black cat—bristling, independent, untouchable—had found someone who didn’t try to tame them. Someone who didn’t flinch at the claws, who didn’t mistake independence for distance.
Someone who saw the trust beneath the sharpness and treated it like the gift it was.
Just loved you.
Clark shifted again, pulling back just enough to look at you. His hands stayed where they were, grounding you, thumbs brushing gently as if to make sure you were still real.
“Hey,” he said softly.
You opened your eyes, still close enough to feel his breath.
“Yes?”
His gaze was open. Earnest. Full of something deep and steady—something that didn’t waver or rush or demand.
“I love you.”
Your breath caught.
The words didn’t scare you this time.
They didn’t feel like a trap or a countdown or a risk you weren’t ready for.
They settled.
“I love you too,” you said, voice quiet but sure.
Clark smiled—relieved, joyful, like something he’d been holding finally found its place. He leaned in and pressed a gentle kiss to your forehead, lingering there like a promise he intended to keep.
Outside, the rain kept falling, drumming softly against the windows, washing the city clean.
Inside the quiet newsroom, wrapped in his arms, you felt something you hadn’t in a very long time.
summary: clark shows his love for your friendship in many ways. fetching your lunch, carrying your things for you, always being there when you need him- but who could have imagined it would include kissing you on the lips? every casual peck makes your head spin, your heart stammer; until one night, one lingering kiss finally answers all your questions… and then some.
clark kent x best friend ! reader
themes: soo much fluff. clark is hopelessly devoted to you, but you have no idea. you're a cutie who loves fashion. he is adorable, friends to lovers, funny, domestic clark always! barely proofread, but enjoy xx
You’re running late. Again.
For the fourth time this week, and it’s only a Wednesday.
It’s not your fault. Really, it’s not- nothing was going right to begin with, and the outfit you’d initially planned on wearing ended up hanging off your body like loose rags. You had to change three separate times, and still, you aren’t too pleased with how you look today.
The day is miserable- all rain and clouds and grey skies. There isn’t an ounce of sunshine to be seen, not even in you, because your typically upbeat personality has been taken and held hostage by the city around you.
“Perry’s gonna kill you.” Clark greets you, umbrella clutched in his free hand that he immediately holds over you as you join him. He slings your bag smoothly off your shoulder, hooking it over his own instead.
Together, you walk in unison; quick, and sharp, your shoulder bumping into his arm due to the height difference.
“Then we better hurry up, Kent.” you say back, earning a chuckle from him.
You walk through the rain, and you don’t notice the way he ducks his head outside of the umbrella completely. How you don’t veer off the jagged path ahead even though it usually pains you to walk in a straight line, because his hand is hovering on your lower back, careful, steady.
You don’t even question why, when you finally get through those double doors, Clark’s curls are almost soaked and you’re bone-dry.
The elevator ride to the top is comfortable, like it always is with Clark.
“How was your evening?”
“I ate ice cream for dinner,” you tell him absentmindedly, “And I rewatched The Devil Wears Prada.”
His eyebrow quirks up, “Must have missed my invite.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. Were you not in a different city last night fighting an intergalactic threat?”
“How’d you know that?”
“I watch the news.”
Clark smirks slightly. Never arrogant or cocky, just knowing. “I still would have come.”
You don’t say anything, busy straightening your shirt and wrapping your coat even tighter around you. When the elevator finally reaches the top of the skyscraper, you’re the first to step out, Clark directly in tow.
Your heels clack against the linoleum floor with a precision that can only come from someone with something to prove; in this case, the fact that you’re late for a good (nobody has to know the truth) reason. Lois looks up for a split second, nodding at you in acknowledgement.
Beside her, Jimmy grins. “What time do you call this?” he jokes.
“Got held up,” Clark lies. You smile inwardly, knowing he was perfectly on time; it was you who couldn’t decide on what to wear this morning, on what rings to pair with what necklaces.
You’d told Clark to go on; I’ll be like, thirty more minutes. I’ll just see you there! You’d said, but of course he refused to listen.
Someone barks your surname. They also bark Clark’s. You don’t even have to turn around to know who it is.
“Sorry, Perry.” You and Clark say in unison, his cheeks flushed crimson, yours still cold from the wind. Thankfully, Perry White seems to be in a good mood today; he just shakes his head in exasperation, a small mutter akin to tweedle-dee and tweedle-dum leaving his lips as he places another cigarette between them and turns around.
Clark pulls your chair out for you, waiting for you to sit before he does the same.
“Close call.” he mumbles, and you stifle a laugh.
It’s a busy day; one that stretches for far too long. You type until your eyes blur and you drink coffee until you can’t even taste the bitter burn of it anymore, but you’re focused.
You’re a great journalist, and you’ve chalked that down to be the very reason why Perry gives you so much grace. Why being late is a bump in the road instead of a fireable offense like it is for most people.
It’s Clark you have to thank for that; being his best friend certainly has it’s perks. He knows better than anyone how to charm the Planet’s infamous grump. Over time, you’ve learnt how to mimic him; be bashful when confronted about tardiness, especially by someone like Perry White, and you’re good to go.
After a couple hours of head-down, zipped lipped quiet, he finally breaks the silence.
“How you holding up?” Clark asks you, head hidden behind his own screen. You can’t see him, but you can envision his lips parting as he speaks, eyes trained on whatever word document he currently has open.
“Surviving. You?” you mumble, fingers wrapped around a yellow highlighter that has yet to land on the page. He lets out a chuckle.
“Counting down the seconds until lunch.”
“Are we going out today?” you pop your head around your monitor then, and Clark doesn’t skip a beat before doing the same.
The sight of him- especially after a long 121 minutes without it- makes something flutter dangerously in your stomach. His curls are unruly, piercing blue eyes only the slightest bit red as he looks at you.
You blink the feeling away, willing it to disappear and not come back for at least a little while.
“You want to? Or I could just grab us those bagels you like from around the place ‘round the corner?”
“I can come with you,” you offer, but Clark shakes his head, the corners of his mouth upturned.
“No need. I’ve got you.”
You nod, a thankful smile spreading across your lips as you turn back to your desk. Of course, Clark does the same, and under the table you feel the tip of his shoes nudging against your foot.
Your smile only widens, though you try to hide it with a purse of your lips and a clench in your jaw.
It’s not that you have a crush on your best friend- absolutely not. Crushes, you’ve always believed, are for high schoolers; teenagers in faux love who believe that big, ugly bouquets mean romance, and cheesy, outlandish prom-posals equate to a lifetime of happiness.
No, you’re a little more pessimistic than that. And you’re a lot deeper in than that, because unfortunately for you, Clark Kent continues to be a shining example of the world’s most perfect boyfriend.
Minus the kissing. And the holding hands. Also the freakier stuff like sharing a bed, and hugging each other regularly- who ever said being in love was rational?
He’s kind. He’s patient. He waits hours for you to get ready and doesn’t even scold you for wasting his time, just smiles and stares at you like you’ve already done him the biggest favour of simply existing.
He knows your coffee order off by heart, grabs you a couple of sugars every time even though it’s sweet enough- just in case, he always says. He knows you like your bagels from Leon’s on Tuesdays but every other day, it’s Liberty’s or nothing.
Clark remembers. He cares. So deeply.
He is also in love with someone else.
“Just waiting for her to realise, I guess.” he’d told you once, when you asked him why he hadn’t dated anyone since Lois- all while holding a box of Christmas baubles you were picking from.
And he'd told you that he didn't need to date, not unless it was the person he wanted to be with forever. Clark Kent didn't do casual. To him, time was precious, and he simply had no interest in 'playing the field'.
Though even you had to admit; no matter how big the field, it would be very difficult for anyone on Clark’s future roster to compete with the brilliant Lois Lane.
“What if she never does?” you asked, gesturing for him to pass you another bauble to add to the tree.
It was mid-November, and a random chill in the air had you fixated on getting your decorations up ASAP. Naturally, Clark agreed, even playing pack-mule with you in the store as you collected everything caked in artificial frost and tinsel- even a brand-new tree that he held tucked under one arm as you ran up and down the aisles.
Clark simply smiled, eyes holding a shine as he watched you examine a fragile looking ornament, fingers twirling it in the light.
“She'll figure it out. She always does,” he’d said confidently, “One day.”
“What if she takes forever?”
Clark remained unfazed, “Then I’ll wait.” you just raised an eyebrow, dropping the topic immediately and trying to forget how deliciously romantic he sounded right then and there.
That, was six months ago.
And Clark has yet to introduce you to this mystery girl, has yet to even give you her name; you don’t even know what she looks like.
You supposed it was for the best. For now, you were happy living in blissful ignorance. Just until you got over this silly little love-crush of yours. Or, until you pushed yourself to finally start dating again and could finally forget about this whole thing.
You continue typing, the words blurring together incoherently. By the time 12:30pm comes around, your stomach is grumbling and it’s only the noise of everyone packing up for lunch that breaks your concentration.
Clark is already standing up from his desk, stretching those muscles of his that never go stiff, yet he does it anyway because it’s what everyone else does.
You lock eyes with him as he makes his way around the edges of the table.
“The usual?” he asks. You nod with a grateful smile.
“Please. Take my card-“ you’re already fumbling for your wallet, but Clark shakes his head firmly.
“No need. I’ll be back in ten.” He tells you, and before either of you can register what happens next, he leans down. Smoothly.
And gives you a peck on the lips.
It’s quick. It’s over within a split second. But it still happens; and when Clark pulls back without so much of a stunned look or an apology on his face, you swear you can still feel the plush skin of his lips on yours.
“Text me if you think of anything else you want.” he says coolly, as if he didn’t just short-circuit your entire being.
And he’s gone.
Just like that; he turns on his heel, nods goodbye to a gobsmacked Jimmy Olsen, and heads for the elevator. Leaving you; stunned, shocked, baffled, detonating in your seat.
You don’t move. For a long while, Jimmy mimicks you, eyes wide as his gaze darts between the elevator where Clark was and your desk, where you currently still are. And probably will be for days to come.
Eventually, he wheels his seat over to you.
“What was-“
“I don’t know.”
“Why did he-“
“I don’t know,” you swallow, and with a disbelieving shake of your head, you turn back to your desk, palms flat out on the table as a way of anchoring yourself to it. For a long while, Jimmy doesn’t speak, silently begging you to.
But you can’t. You physically can’t. Because it may have been an accident- it’s not unusual for Clark to give you a kiss on the forehead, an occasional one on the cheek if he’s feeling extra gratuitous. But on the lips?
Maybe he missed. Maybe, you turned your head without even realising it- and maybe, right now, he’s on his way to Liberty’s trying to come up with ways to end your friendship because he definitely knows now, if he didn’t before.
He knows, and he’s disgusted, and you wouldn’t be surprised if he came back with your bagel in a bag and a stern talking to about how you shouldn’t move your head when people lean in for cheek-kisses.
You decide you will never eat another bagel ever again in your entire life. You will be bagel-less and Clark Kent-less and best friend-less for the rest of time and it’s all because you couldn’t control yourself.
But you know you’re being stupid, because Clark is many things. Superman being the most important one of them- he catches rolling pencils before they can fall to the floor, nudges you gently out of the way when rain falls off outer stall canopies so you won’t get wet. He has reflexes that the normal man doesn’t. If you were to turn your head, he’d know, and he’d stop.
So why didn’t he stop?
You’re still frozen by the time he gets back. He has your bagels in their usual printed takeaway bag and he’s flushed from the cold, tie slightly crooked, glasses foggy and slipping down his nose.
He forgets to steady them, the grin on his face pointed so directly towards you that it distracts him completely.
Your eyes widen, hand shooting up instinctively just as they’re on the cusp of clattering to the floor. You push them up for him, the tip of your middle finger barely brushing against the bridge of his nose.
He smiles, crooked. Out of the corner of your eye, you can see Jimmy’s jaw on the floor.
“Thanks,” Clark says softly, and because your heart is going a million miles per minute, you just nod a reply back.
He sets the bagels on your desk, pulls his chair around to sit next to you.
“So,” he starts, getting the food out like he always does. You, first; he unwraps your bagel, sets your sauces out, and drapes a tissue across your lap. “What ice cream did you have last night?”
You tell him, carefully at first, reluctantly, like it wasn’t just vanilla and caramel. But Clark doesn’t catch on.
He just nods, attentive as always. He laughs when you make a joke, tells you in a hushed tone about his new friend in Gotham, Bruce Wayne. He’s an alright guy, bit serious though. And he wipes the corner of your mouth when you get a bit of ketchup on it. But he doesn’t bring up the kiss.
So, neither do you.
Clark keeps kissing you.
And you, well- all you can do is keep pretending you’re not actively malfunctioning every single time it happens.
At first you assume it’s a one-off. A strange, meteorological anomaly- like those fish that sometimes fall from the sky. Weird, very rare, and inexplicable.
But then he does it again the next day.
It’s the same routine: lunch break, Clark grabbing the food, you offering to pay, him refusing like always. Except now there’s a new beat to the choreography; one that involves him leaning in, cupping the side of your elbow like you’re made of spun glass, and giving you a very deliberate, very real peck on the lips before leaving. It’s gotten deeper since the first, you realise.
And every single time, you just sit there like someone unplugged you from the wall.
Jimmy has stopped pretending he isn’t watching. He mostly just gasps now. Out loud. Very dramatically.
Thursday, Clark arrives with two macchiatos and a cinnamon walnut pastry you mentioned liking once. You’re about to thank him when he dips forward and presses- there it is again- a warm, soft peck to your lips.
“Be right back,” he murmurs, like that is the casual part of this exchange.
This time, your confusion is so loud it actually echoes. Beside you, Jimmy drops his pen, and it rolls for three desks.
By Friday, you try to mentally prepare. You puff your cheeks out, slap them lightly, tell yourself that if he does it again, you will absolutely ask him what on earth is going on.
But of course, you don’t. You don’t ask your best friend anything.
Because the second he leans down and those soft lips brush yours in that infuriatingly tender, maddeningly gentle Clark-Kent way, your brain promptly ejects itself out the window.
He walks off, humming, as you slowly rotate in your chair like a malfunctioning Roomba.
Your head is foggy, filled with so many unanswered questions that somehow, feel so far from being said out loud.
Nothing’s changed, oddly enough. Clark still walks you home. Still hovers over your desk, helping you with rewrites and amendments. He still brings you lunch and spends Wednesday evenings watching re-runs with you in your apartment.
He just… kisses you, now. Pecks you, more like, like it’s the most normal thing in the world.
And before you know it, days pass. Days turn into weeks, and naturally- predictably- it gets worse.
Or better. Or whatever this is.
Because now- now, Clark starts doing it not just before lunch. He no longer limits himself, and you still say nothing.
He kisses you goodbye when he heads home for the night.
Kisses you hello when you meet at the elevator in the morning.
He kisses you when he hands you a report you asked for.
And, he even kisses you when you complain about the printer.
Tiny, sweet, blink-and-you’ll-miss-it pecks. Like he’s testing you. Like he’s waiting; for what, you don’t know, but what you do know is that you are very close to the brink of explosion.
By the time a whole month passes, your confusion has reached clinically concerning levels. Your Google search history is comical, an amalgamation of confusion and shock before you swiftly swapped to incognito;
do best friends kiss on lips??
signs of short term memory loss
am I hallucinating long-term?
long term hallucination symptoms
group long term hallucination
do kryptonian people greet each other with kiss
You search with a slight hunch, your entire body covering your phone screen in both fear and shame of someone seeing. You’re desperate; completely at your wits’ end, and Clark seems to be none the wiser.
But then, comes the moment everything changes.
It’s late. Everyone else has gone home, and the newsroom is buzzing only with low lights and the distant hum of the city outside.
It’s just you and Clark, finishing up an article he’s been helping you with.
You’re buried in revisions, your brains working in sync as you push through the exhaustion of the last few weeks. You and Clark had gotten better about leaving on time, but with deadlines closing in, staying late wasn’t really optional tonight.
You’re tired, very much so- to the point where pretending like you’re not bothered is a feat in itself. Clark is focused, glasses sliding down his nose as he leans over your shoulder to point at something on the screen.
And then- like it’s the easiest thing in the world- he tilts your chin gently with two fingers and gives you a slow, lingering kiss on the lips.
Not a peck this time. Not a blink.
A kiss.
A real, life-altering, friendship-make-or-breaking kiss that injects electricity in your veins and brings all your dead senses back to life. It’s wonderful. It’s passionate. And above all, it is scary.
You freeze. But instead of pulling back like he usually does, Clark stays there, lips pressed softly to yours, patient as ever. Waiting. Wanting in silence, for you to respond.
So, you do.
Your body moves before your brain can protest, before any part of you testifies against the very notion of giving in- your hand curls into the front of his shirt, you tilt upward, and suddenly you’re kissing him back.
Your lips are slow as they move together; at first, awkward. Then, the awkwardness melts into something familiar, something warm.
And finally, it turns absolutely, heart-stoppingly illegal.
Just waiting for her to realise, his words play over and over- incessant, like a broken record- in your mind.
One day.
You fit together perfectly, you and Clark. Your lips do all the work while your minds fight to catch up. He makes a tiny noise- a surprised, happy sound- and you swear you can feel his smile against your mouth.
You pull back first, breath uneven, eyes wide and stunned in a way you can’t even hide. Your hands are still fisted in the front of his shirt like you forgot to let go.
Your grip doesn't loosen on the fabric, too afraid to disrupt the moment you’re both suspended in.
Clark doesn’t move. He just watches you, chest rising slowly, hope written all over him. You can't speak, so you don't.
But something in your face- the shock, the realisation trying to break through and finally shake some sense into you- makes him smile.
It softens as he looks at you, folding into something heartbreakingly tender.
“I told you…” Clark murmurs softly, brushing a strand of hair from your face with the gentlest touch. His eyes graze your lips again, already hungry for more, “that you’d figure it out.”
i have a problem with overexplaining things and i really tried not to w this fic - tried something different!! hope you liked <33
summary: after years lost to saving the world, clark returns to smallville expecting familiar calm- not you. the girl he once babysat is now breathtaking, grown, stopping him cold. he aches for the years he missed, the versions of you he never met, and the new feelings he doesn't dare name.
ex babysitter ! clark kent x younger ! reader
themes: slight age gap (fear not you're 24 and clark's 32), a lot of yearning, angst, lots of fluff, broody clark, suggestive, ma & pa cuteness, christmas. enjoy! xox
Coming home to Smallville for the holidays was something Clark always looked forward to.
Even after all the years in Metropolis- the bustling city life, the deadlines, the cape folded beneath his shirts- nothing compared to the quiet spread of golden fields, the warm smell of Ma’s cooking drifting out the kitchen windows, or the reliable creak of the porch step he’d grown up stepping over.
There was a calm here he couldn’t find anywhere else, a kind of peace that settled into his bones the moment he turned off the main road and saw the Kent mailbox leaning slightly in its usual way. Out in the fields, the wind moved the winter-dry grass in soft waves, the same rhythm he remembered from childhood.
It reminded him of slow mornings, of Pa’s easy laugh, of Ma humming at the stove; the kind of memories that made him feel fifteen again, not a man juggling two lives and too many responsibilities.
And maybe that was why the truck felt heavier than usual when he parked it. Why he took a moment before getting out, hands resting on the steering wheel as he exhaled.
"Take an actual break this time, man," Jimmy Olsen had told him over the phone, a sigh accompanying his words as Clark first slipped into the driver's seat. "...God knows you need it. Tell your folks I said hi, alright? And Merry Christmas."
Being home stripped everything complicated away for a little while. No city noise, no towering buildings, no emergencies waiting on the edge of his senses.
Just the farmhouse light glowing warm against the early evening sky, welcoming him back like it always had.
This year felt… especially needed.
Ma had mentioned something about the neighbours from the next farm over coming by for Christmas dinner, and Clark tried his best to remember who exactly lived there now. He hadn’t been home enough lately- it had been years, in fact- racking him with a contrition that pricked hard at his conscience, sharp and constant.
He'd been there just enough to wave politely across a fence line, or carry in a bag of feed for the father next door when he’d pulled something in his back three springs ago.
Small moments, brief visits; never long enough to really talk, always interrupted by chores or phone calls or the constant pull of Metropolis waiting for him to hurry back. He remembered the house, though: the blood-orange barn doors that never quite closed right, the porch swing that creaked louder than his own, the tire swing still hanging from the big oak tree despite years of storms trying to tear it down. Familiar pieces of a childhood that overlapped with his more than he realised.
But he did remember, after a moment; the family. The farm. The laughter that used to drift across the property lines on summer evenings. A mother, a father, an older sister and...
You.
The thought came slowly, uncertain but pleasant, like something pulled from the far back corner of his mind. Not a face at first, just flashes of old memories: the bounce of pigtails as you chased the farm dog across the yard, the stubborn pout when you scraped your knee and insisted you didn’t need help, the way you’d cling to his hand when thunderstorms rolled across the plains.
He’d been, what, sixteen? Seventeen? Old enough to be the 'responsible one.' Old enough to drive over and watch you for a few hours whenever your parents needed a night out.
He did the math in his head while he unpacked his suitcase upstairs, folding shirts into the same dresser he’d used as a boy. If you were eight the last time he’d babysat you- the tiny girl who’d begged for piggy-back rides and refused to wear the frilly dresses your mother bought- that would make you…
Twenty-four, now.
A full-grown adult with a life he didn’t know anything about. A grown woman. Not a little kid following him around asking questions about planets and why the sky turned orange at sunset anymore.
The realisation hit him with an unexpected pang of regret.
He knew what he signed up for the day he announced to the world that Metropolis now had someone to turn to, a symbol of hope. Every mission pulled him further, every deadline gluing him to the city. The idea of coming home to Kansas as often as he used to simply wasn't feasible anymore.
Visits turned into calls. PTO had been reserved only for world-ending threats. And Smallville waited- with baited breath, Ma & Pa sick with worry, for his return.
He’d missed everything. Not just your life- though that felt strangely heavy- but pieces of everyone’s life back home. The kind of small, ordinary milestones that didn’t make headlines but mattered far more than the ones that did.
Birthdays, harvest seasons, Pa teaching the neighbour boys how to fix a cracked fence post when Clark had promised them he would some day. He remembered Ma mentioning your high school graduation over the phone, her voice warm and proud, and he’d been in Metropolis that night chasing a story that never even made it to print. He hadn’t even seen the new barn your family rebuilt after the storm five years ago- only heard about it in passing.
For a while, the shame had been eating Clark alive. He wasn't totally clueless, he knew; his life had become divided between the city that needed him and the home that raised him. He felt responsible every time Ma told him she was “fine, sweetheart, just fine”, even when he could hear the tiredness in her voice before she brightened it for his sake. Shame came towards him like a bullet when he thought of Pa's health scare last year, the heart attack that made Clark wish he'd been there for even half the quiet moments he hadn't been.
Guilt layered over guilt, years of it, a weight he didn’t often let himself feel but always carried.
And now, there was the added sting of realising he didn’t know you anymore. The little girl who used to fall asleep on his chest during thunderstorms had grown up; moved on, without him ever noticing. Without him being around. Without him even thinking to ask.
It hit him unexpectedly. It hurt to know that life had continued here; blossomed here, while he had only skimmed the surface of it from afar.
He smiled faintly at the memory of you despite himself.
Clark pieced the full picture together in his head: a sweet little thing who'd promised to keep his secret from both of your families at the time, on the basis that Clark would fly you across the fields at night just so you could feel what it was like to be him. The giggle that fell from you when he pretended you were slipping; a laugh that sounded nowhere near scared, or doubtful, of the very man you trusted so much.
That stubborn spark in your eye. That fearlessness of it all.
And still, Clark wasn’t prepared.
He wasn’t even close to prepared.
Because that little girl was you- but she wasn’t the one who showed up to Christmas dinner.
The knock came just as Ma pulled the ham from the oven, the warm, savoury smell filling the entire kitchen in a way that made the farmhouse feel impossibly safe and lived-in. Pa's old holiday radio hummed softly on the counter, a crackling carol drifting between the clatter of serving dishes.
Ma wiped her hands on her apron, cheeks rosy from the heat, and shot Clark a smile that made him feel ten years younger.
“Could you get that, sweetheart?” she asked, already busy arranging place settings with the practiced efficiency of someone who’d hosted this dinner for decades.
Pa, who’d been tending to the fire in the living room, glanced over his shoulder with a soft grunt of agreement. "Go on, son. Before your ma tries to answer it herself with oven mitts still on."
Clark nodded, smoothing his palms down the front of his flannel as he walked through the living room. He could hear laughter outside- muffled through the door, familiar in a distant way- and he felt that small blossoming of warmth that always came with people dropping in.
Holiday cheer. Community. The simple things he barely had time for in Metropolis.
He adjusted his glasses out of habit, settling into the easy, polite rhythm he always used this time of year. The one he’d used a hundred times for neighbours and holiday visitors. A warm smile, a gentle greeting, a wave inside out of the cold.
The old door gave its usual groan as it swung open, warm light spilling out onto the porch and brushing over boots dusted with snow. Clark’s welcoming smile was already half-formed, ready to match whoever stood there with a holiday greeting.
Then, he froze.
His breath caught somewhere in his throat- not painfully, just suddenly, like the world had paused mid–winter breeze.
Because it wasn’t just another friendly face, vague yet familiar, unimportant in the grand scheme of things. In fact, it wasn’t one face at all- it was several.
Your family filled the porch in a wave of bundled scarves, winter coats, and cheerful chatter. The familiar chorus of “Merry Christmas!” and “Well, look at you, Clark!” and “Haven’t seen you in ages, son!” hit him all at once. Your father clapped him on the back so heartily Clark almost pretended it hurt. Your mother pulled him into a quick hug before he could react, exclaiming about how tall he still was, as if he’d grown another foot since she’d last seen him.
It was warm, noisy, full of love and laughter; the kind he’d missed more than he’d realised.
But through the commotion, through the hands and greetings and laughter, he caught a glimpse of you.
You stepped around your father, your coat already half-unbuttoned from the cold. No dramatic entrance, no spotlight. Just a soft, knowing smile aimed directly at him, like you were in on some secret he hadn't even known he was keeping.
No pigtails. No rosy cheeks and chapped lips and a wide, toothy grin that he'd recognise anywhere.
No; now, your hair fell in careful waves, shining with the kind of polish that only comes after girlhood slips into something older. A faint blush warmed your cheeks, smoothing over the innocence that used to live there, and your smile- gentler, guarded- wore the gravity of growing up.
"Hi, Clark," you said gently, your voice smooth but not loud enough to compete with your family’s greetings. It slipped through the noise anyway, finding him with impossible precision as you stood on your tiptoes and gave him a small hug.
He opened his mouth to respond, arms successfully tightening around your waist- but your mother swooped in with another exclamation, pulling his attention away. When he looked back, you were already moving past him into the house with practiced ease.
Ma called from the kitchen, "Oh, darling, you’re here! Could you help me set the last of the dishes?"
"Of course, Mrs. Kent," you replied warmly, already shrugging off your coat and stepping toward the dining table like you’d done it a hundred times before.
Everyone filtered inside- laughter, boots stomping snow from their soles, coats being tugged off. Pa rose from the fire to join in on the greetings, but Clark’s eyes stayed on you for one suspended, lingering moment.
His throat didn’t work for a whole second. His eyes traced you; every movement you made, every slight tilt of your head.
He knew better than anyone what happened when someone grew up out of sight. Time moved on, people changed, and before you knew it, the little quirks you remembered had shifted into something entirely new.
People drifted, voices deepened, laughter lost that particular childish lilt. He’d seen it happen countless times with the people in his life; friends, cousins, classmates. He thought he was prepared.
But this- you- were different. Standing there, calm, poised, beautiful in a way that made the memories of the tiny, mischievous girl he’d once known feel impossibly far away.
Like he hadn’t just missed a few years; he’d missed an entire lifetime.
Every scraped knee, every test you passed and milestones you achieved, every quiet question whispered in the dark- he’d been gone for all of it. And now, just by looking at you, he was painfully reminded of just how much he had missed.
You glanced back at him over your shoulder, amusement shimmering in your eyes like Christmas lights. You looked him up and down; fleeting, but obvious. And Clark wanted to move, to walk over and join in on the catch-up you were having with his mother, but he just couldn't.
Your eyes darted away as quickly as they'd turned, glossed lips parting to answer one of Ma's questions. You'd turned away from him ever so slightly, hoping he hadn't seen the look on your face; the way you just couldn't tear your gaze away from the man before you.
Clark absolutely noticed.
Even if he hadn’t caught the subtle way your eyes lingered on him when you thought no one was looking, he could feel it anyway- the quickening of your heartbeat, the way its steady rhythm stumbled and skipped, irregular and off-kilter in a way that made him ache and tingle all at once.
He tried- really, he tried- not to. But it was difficult to ignore the way you squeezed your thighs together when you sat next to him, how goosebumps formed on your flesh whenever he leaned over you with a small, apologetic mumble and a smile that made your insides melt. He heard your steady inhales, watched your manicured hands fidget whenever he'd dip his head low and mumble something in your ear.
Frankly, it was kind of addicting.
"How's Metropolis?" you'd asked him politely, and he could tell just by the shyness of your voice that you were wearing thin. He didn't know how, and he didn't know why, because if there was anybody in this room struggling to keep it together- well, Clark was convinced it was him.
"It's alright," he answered, voice rattling through you. "You've never been, have you?"
You shook your head no. He smiled.
"I'll take you with me, sometime. Show you around." he could practically hear your teeth clenching, grinding against each other in an effort to contain yourself.
And that’s how it carried through the evening. Even as the kitchen filled with the warm clatter of dishes and the hum of conversation, he couldn’t stop the thoughts of you, couldn't force himself to look away. He noticed the way your hand brushed the edge of the table as you passed the butter, the tilt of your head as you giggled at a joke Pa told.
At the dinner table, it became impossible to ignore; drinks were being poured and confidence was slowly gained. You smirked at him over the rim of your glass of apple cider, the gesture playful but deliberate. It was such a stark contrast to the face you'd had earlier, that it had Clark nearly choking on his own drink.
He noticed when your hand lingered over his as Ma passed the mashed potatoes, light but unmistakably there. The sound of your laugh- low, warm, confident now with all the fizz in your system- and it carried through him in ways the tiny giggles of your childhood never had, resonating in memories he hadn’t realised he’d held onto for years.
Every subtle glance, every movement, felt like a tether pulling him closer, even as he fought to remain composed. It was impossible to focus on the chatter around him, impossible to pretend that you were just another guest at the table.
And it was driving him insane.
Ma chatted happily with your parents, oblivious, and Clark did his best to focus on the conversation as he leant against the sink. But then you brushed past him, a hand sliding up his bicep in passing; slow and deliberate, faint as you gave his shoulder a light, almost intimate squeeze.
You breezed past like it was nothing. But he could hear you; smell the excitement coming off of your body, encased in a too-tight black dress and a pair of heels that did nothing but make your legs look irresistible.
If Clark had allowed himself to listen to his own chest, he was certain the thud of his own heartbeat would have been deafening.
Later, when most of your families had settled in the living room, you'd dropped something while clearing the table. A quiet curse fell from your lips as Clark watched you bend down to pick it up- far, far too slowly, your dress stretching with the movement- and he suddenly understood the concept of divine trials.
Because this? This was definitely one of them.
"Everything okay?" you asked softly on the way up, your eyes locking with his like you already knew exactly what you were doing.
“Fine,” Clark croaked. “Fine. Totally fine.”
You smiled sweetly, the curve of sin slathered in cherry lip gloss.
The night eventually wound down; guests stretched, talked, all of them now drifting into the living room.
Clark took a steadying breath, thinking maybe- maybe- he could pull himself together long enough to survive the rest of the evening. You'd disappeared somewhere, and it took every ounce of his willpower not to go looking for you.
He thought he could manage it, that he could settle into the familiar warmth of home without losing focus. And then Ma’s voice cut through, soft and cheerful, carrying that unmistakable undertone of gentle insistence he could never ignore.
"Clark? Would you mind grabbing our guests' coats from the hall closet? I think they’ll be heading out soon.”
"Sure, Ma," he said, trying to sound casual, like this was just another ordinary task.
It seemed simple enough. Harmless, even. Easy. But as soon as the words left his mouth, a low hum of anticipation settled in his chest; the night was almost over.
Clark stepped into the hallway, boots clicking softly against the wooden floor. He pushed the closet door open, expecting nothing more than coats and scarves.
Instead, he froze. For the second time that night.
Your fingers were trailing along the sleeves of coats like you were carefully choosing between them, your back to him. When you turned, your expression shifted from innocent surprise to something far more knowing.
"Oh-" you said softly, the surprised evident in your tone, “Clark. Hi.”
Clark’s hand stayed frozen on the doorknob. "Uh- I didn’t realise anyone was-"
You cut him off with that small, almost imperceptible smile, the kind that made his chest tighten. "Just making sure everything’s ready. Were you looking for anything?"
"Uh... coats." he said, mentally scolding himself for sounding so taken aback. Truthfully, he just couldn't focus around you; he'd barely been hanging on all night.
Which was pathetic, he knew that. Coming home for Christmas was supposed to be a reset, and now here he was, every nerve in his body a live-wire over a girl he once taught how to ride a bike.
You blinked at him, red lips pursed together in a suppressed line of amusement as he reached over, biceps flexing in the dim closet light. He scooped up about eleven different winter coats with ease, pulling back just in time to give you a sheepish smile. They hung off his forearms like towels on a rack, flattened by the sheer pressure of his muscles.
"You've gotten stronger," you said absentmindedly. Clark raised an eyebrow, skin prickling under your focused gaze.
"Come again?"
You gestured to his now-full arms, "Before, when we were younger. I'd have to help you," you stated, "Now, I don't."
It was silly, really. It wasn’t just about the coats. Not entirely. It was the nights spent sprawled out on the living room carpet over the years, a blanket around your shoulders, flipping through channels until a broadcast of Superman in Metropolis would come on. Clark- your Clark- would fill the screen, looking important and strong as he fought a brand new threat, each one bigger and scarier than the last.
Always there, lingering somewhere deep in your mind; patient, kind, someone who had no idea he’d ever been yours- even in that small, innocent way, because you weren’t old enough to understand what a crush even meant. By the time you'd come around to it, it was too late; he was gone.
But now… now, he was here, in the flesh. Standing just a few feet away, holding coats with that very puzzled look on his face; the one that had always made your stomach twist in a bundle of irreversible knots.
Your chest tightened, breath catching on nothing, and for a moment you just stared. Because suddenly, all those tiny memories didn't feel so far away anymore.
Clark blinked, breaking the spell with a tentative smile.
“You’ve grown alot, too," he stated, smiling small.
"You noticed?" you joked.
"Hard not to..." Clark said sheepishly, eyes not quite meeting yours. "...lot's changed around here."
"Guess so." you murmured.
Clark took a steadying breath, trying to focus on the task at hand as he balanced everything in both his mind and his hands.
With one final slightly awkward nod towards you, he stepped back into the hallway and made his way to the living room, past the hum of post-dinner chatter and laughter. The firelight flickered over everyone’s faces, warm and familiar, and for a moment he felt almost normal again.
He started with the nearest guest, handing over a heavy wool coat with a polite, "Here you go," and forcing a casual smile. He moved from person to person, careful not to glance at you too long, though it was nearly impossible.
You were just a few steps away, finishing up a laugh with Ma over something trivial, effortlessly charming the one woman who knew you like the back of her hand. He felt a tug in his chest, like he was being pulled toward you against his own will.
By the time he had distributed the last coat, the air around him felt too full. He exhaled softly and murmured, "Excuse me," more to himself than anyone else, and slipped out the front door.
The cold hit him immediately, crisp and sharp, but it was welcome- a small reprieve from the heat of his own thoughts.
He intended to just sit for a moment, catch his breath, let the night air clear his mind. Maybe he could pull himself together before returning to the crowd inside. But he wasn't alone; his eyes fell on your silhouette, leaning casually against the railing, one hand wrapped around a half-full glass of apple cider.
The glow of the porch light highlighted the curve of your cheek, the sparkle in your eyes, the subtle tilt of your head as you sipped.
Lord help him.
He had no time to pause, freeze, or head back inside. You could sense him just by the shift in the air.
"Hey," you said softly, a hint of amusement in your voice. "Everything okay?"
Clark’s lips twitched into a small, tight smile, trying to mask how flustered he felt. "Yeah. Just… needed some air," he admitted, taking a step forward and placing himself right next to you.
With a slight push off the railing, you steadied yourself. A light chuckle fell from your lips. "I get it," you said, raising your glass slightly, "Been a while since we've all been here. Probably a lot for you to take in."
His brow furrowed, watching the liquid swirl around your cup. "You’ve been drinking," Clark said carefully, his voice tinged with concern. Protective instinct flaring without permission.
"Three years above the legal age, Clark," you reminded him, rolling your eyes playfully. Whatever flirty bravado you'd had inside faded alongside the clearness of your mind; now, you were lighter. Less nervous, with a lot more to say to him it seemed. "You can stop looking at me like I’m still eight. I can handle a little cider."
His mouth twitched in amusement, caught off guard by the boldness in your tone and the mischief in your eyes. Even with the teasing, there was something undeniably alluring in the way you stood there, relaxed and self-assured and slightly defensive for reasons he couldn't fathom.
Is this what alcohol did to you? Admittedly, Clark was slightly relieved. He had no idea how much longer he could control himself around you if you hadn't eased up on him- just a little. He had no idea when the sweet little girl in you had ended and when this confident, sultry new woman began.
You'd always been adorable. But now, though he tried to bury the thought down deep- Clark was starting to find you irresistible.
He exhaled slowly, trying to steady his racing thoughts, trying not to let the tight coil of desire in his chest show.
"I know… I just…" His voice faltered, throat dry. "Old habits die hard, I guess."
You tilted your head slightly, a small, knowing smile tugging at your lips. You swilled the remaining cider in your glass lazily, watching the liquid catch the light like tiny golden stars.
The quiet of the night felt like peace, a pause between the madness of the dinner and the memories tucked away in the corners of the house. You let yourself bask in it all, in the familiar yet strange feeling of having Clark back in town. Even if it was just for the holidays.
Even if tomorrow, he was gone again. No note, no warning, no care; just the unspoken promise that he'd visit and would probably see you again soon. Just like he did all those years ago.
Clark's gaze drifted to the fields beyond you both. For a second, you watched him, allowed yourself a few seconds of to study how he'd filled out over the years.
You'd always found comfort in his arms. Especially back then, when you'd been small enough to bask in the engulfment of them. Before, they'd just been yours; a warm comfort that made even the worst days feel bearable. Now, they were everyone else's in Metropolis; covered in blue and chiselled by years and years of saving the planet and whatever else came with being Superman.
Eventually, your eyes followed suit. Your gaze raked the grassy plains, a star-filled sky watching over it. Then, with a voice so small you were certain Clark would miss it, you spoke.
"Smallville’s missed you, you know." you told him gently, words low enough that it felt like they were meant for him and just him alone.
He paused, chest tightening, and he let out a quiet breath. Your words were only slight, but they still felt like daggers against something already wounded.
Clark shook his head, gaze dropping to the wooden floor beneath his boots.
"Smallville didn't need me," he said quietly, almost as if saying it would make it true; regardless of you not having asked. He felt like he owed it to you anyway.
At the time, it had been the truth. Or at least, Clark had successfully convinced himself so. Ma and Pa, you and your family; everyone. They'd be fine without him; it was the city that ran rampant, the citizens that were under threat. At the time, he thought he knew exactly what to do- who to go to because they would have needed him the most.
Now, he wasn't so sure.
You paused, setting your glass down on the railing, eyes tracing the lines of his jaw, the way his shoulders carried that crushing weight he never seemed to be able to shake.
Then, quietly, you spoke.
"I did, Clark. I needed you."
Clark froze. His heart lurched, stuttering in a way that made the blood in his veins feel hotter, tighter, impossible to ignore. He had spent years burdened with guilt over leaving, missing moments, choosing duty over home.
And now… someone had been waiting. Someone had noticed. Someone had actually felt the absence of him in a way he hadn’t allowed himself to imagine.
And it wasn't Ma, or Pa, or the cows he'd spent every single day tending to as a boy and even given names in his adolescence; it was you.
His gaze lifted to yours. Blue eyes blinked back at you, searching, hesitant, willing it not to be true because a joke would have hurt less than the truth.
"You…" he started, a swallow bobbing in his throat. "You needed me?"
A soft, almost shy curve pulled at your lips. "Yeah," you told him, restless hands reaching for the glass again; something to hold, to fidget with, in case the conversation got too rough and you needed a distraction.
"I knew it was silly," you bit your lip at the memory, feeling fond amusement for your past self, "But I used to wait for your truck to come back. I'd tell my Dad to leave just enough space for it on the drive, just in case. For months. And then I'd practice what to say to you, so you wouldn't leave again,"
He could feel his heart physically break. Though you carried on, and the light look on your face was so different to the shame Clark was currently feeling that it threatened to derail his reaction completely.
Then, with a small scoff of a laugh that caught him off-guard and a slight shake of your head, you confessed, "I used to have a little crush on you, you know.”
“W-What?”
"Yeah. I wasn't very subtle about it, either," you said, voice quiet, a teasing warmth in your tone. “I used to beg my parents to go out, just so you’d come around. I’d find any excuse to see you, even if I didn't even really know why. But, I did."
His chest tightened painfully, guilt and longing coiling together ruthlessly in his stomach.
"Sounds really dumb, huh?"
"It's not dumb at all," Clark frowned.
"It was. I was just a kid,"
"Not anymore." he pointed out.
You paused, only for a split second, but enough to register the sudden weight of the conversation.
Then, after taking in his words and the unmistakable look on his face, you stepped closer, slowly, deliberately.
Clark could feel the heat of your presence, the brush of your hair against his chest; fingers nudging against his own in an effort to intertwine.
Your glass sat abandoned on the railing.
You tilted your head, eyes soft, the same way they used to be whenever you were upset and he was the only person in the world who could calm you. Now, it felt like he was the one that needed soothing.
"No?" you blinked.
Clark shook his head, though hesitant. "No."
And reluctantly, you pushed up on careful tiptoes, your fingertips missing his own.
Instead, they ran up his bicep again; one long, slow stroke, as both of your arms raised to snake around his neck.
Hesitant at first, the movement so slow and subtle that it allowed him just enough time to either jump away from you, or choose to embrace it.
But Clark didn't flinch, or move back. He just let you; hands itching to respond, to answer the unspoken questions you were asking him.
By the time your fingers linked at the nape of his neck, he relaxed enough to be able to rest his forehead against yours. He kept his eyes shut, heavy. His breaths came out shallow, short, every nerve in his body alert.
"I'm sorry," his voice cracked, and his hands found their way to your waist; resting there with such a nervous grip that your stomach did a flip at the touch, "that I haven't been here."
Whether he meant it for you, or for the town he’d grown up in but left behind, you couldn’t tell. All you knew was the raw ache in his words, the way years of absence and unspoken regrets pressed into every syllable.
It was the weight of missed birthdays, quiet mornings he’d never shared, and the countless little moments he’d been too far away to protect, guide, or even witness.
You swallowed. You didn't know when over the years you'd forgiven him, not exactly; but it happened around the same time you got your own first big break in a major city. A once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, perfect for you and what you wanted to do, in New York.
One year. But it was enough.
It was also inevitable; the way you could finally see the world through Clark's eyes, as you followed in footsteps that had once left you hollow.
"It's okay, Clark."
"I've missed a lot," he then said, pained.
You shook your head, "But you came back."
And it was then, as you packed your bags at the age of twenty-two to move out of the only place you would ever call home; that you understood the man before you far better than you ever thought you would.
“You’re here now,” you said then, the soft hum of Christmas music inside the house slowly reaching you both. "And I can't make you promise not to leave. I wouldn't want to. But-"
"I won't-"
"...A number. An email. Anything," you finished, the glint in your eye hopeful. "Just so I know you're okay."
Clark tried not to picture you as a child, perched on that windowsill you could barely reach, legs swinging as you waited for him to come home. He tried not to imagine the day you realised he wasn’t coming back- how your face must have crumpled, how you must have hated him for months, maybe even years.
Ma would have known. Pa would have known. The entirety of Smallville would have been privy to the way he left you behind; cold and heartless, a sacrifice for the life he wanted to build that simply had no room for you in it at the time.
And yet, after all of that, here you were. Kind. Beautiful. Willing to forgive someone who couldn't even begin to understand why.
It was difficult, trying to find a way to forgive himself for all the time lost. His voice came out low, a confession trapped inside of a whisper.
"I’m here now..." Clark said firmly, eyes fluttering open again to stare steadily into yours, "and I'm not going anywhere."
Your hands pressed a little closer to the back of his neck, fingers tangling in the fine strands of his hair. He tilted his head slightly, breath catching as he met your gaze, searching for any hint of doubt and finding none.
"Even if you did. I'll be here."
You smiled delicately, leaning a fraction closer. You thought of all the years he'd spent buried at the back of your mind; your Clark, the sweet boy-next-door that made every date of yours feel fleeting, every boyfriend you ever had a placeholder. When your friends would talk about their dream partners and you'd nod along, agree, knowing you had your own version built from kind hands holding your own and guiding you through a life he'd left so abruptly.
Your eyes fell to his lips. Full and inviting, though pursed from all the emotion he was finally allowing himself to feel. His did the same; his blue, glassy low-lidded gaze mimicking yours.
He was waiting.
Patient as ever, not wanting to impose. A sweet, unwavering charm that he'd brought with him to the city and never- not once- thought to let go.
And for the first time in over a decade, your heart fluttered that same way it used to all those years ago; before you could even put a name to the feeling.
"Kiss me, Clark," you ordered softly, your words far more intimate now after everything, "And we can figure out the rest later."
That was all the invitation he needed.
With a slow, careful nod, Clark obeyed; closing the space between you, lips brushing yours in a tentative, testing kiss.
The world seemed to pause as he memorised the warmth of you, the soft curve of your lips, the feel of your hands against him. You felt so familiar yet so brand new at the same time; exactly what he needed, even if he didn't know it yet.
Then, as if all the years of distance, aching, and unspoken words couldn’t be contained any longer, the kiss deepened.
Your arms wrapped fully around his neck, pulling him impossibly close. The railing pressed gently into your back, the glass that had been balancing above it now lost in the bushes. Clark's hands rested on your waist as he held you steady, grounding himself in the moment; in this. With you; so unique, unlike what he remembered yet so dazzling this way.
It was everything- soft laughter, trembling breaths, the thrill of meeting one another all over again rushing through you both.
You gave your all, and so did Clark; he'd do better. Vowed to. He’d spent so long trying to protect the world that he’d almost forgotten the one he could never replace; this life, this place, and now- this.
This was real. This was steady.
And you? Wrapped in his arms, cherry lips pressed against his own, a past memory reborn in the present- you were home.
{inspo song for this fic was 10000% mary's song (oh my, my, my) by taylor swift}
i just adore these two and may do more fics with this dynamic omg, looooved writing this. please lemme know what you think !🫶🏽🫧
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