benjamin poindexter is for us, the ones who’ve never really gotten love. no kindergarten boyfriend, no high school love bird. the ones who can’t understand how can someone be so devoted to another person, and can’t see someone loving us in that manner.
he however would be the kind of person to assure you, whenever in doubt, that he, not only loves you, but needs you, you are more than life, his moral compass, his life support
anyway im in love and i need an intoxicating love (without the stalking and killing irl ofc 🫰🏼)
blurb - Separated by miles, years, and the undead, you and your husband have been ghosts in each other’s lives for two decades. The thought of Joel being alive hurt just as much as thinking he was dead. But when a stand-off forces you face-to-face with a familiar man—older, harder, and still devastatingly him—all the pain resurfaces.
warnings - nsfw, mdni 18+, attempted murder, violence, yearning, loss of a child, parent!Reader, grief, fear of intimacy, slight suicidal wishes, female masturbation, mutual masturbation, 69, cuddle fucking, creampie (don't try this at home), emotional sex, scent kink???
author's note: I did listen to "Back to Me" by the Marias the entire time I wrote this...
One shot requested by: anyomous
wc: 18.3 k
Mwah!
“Joel…”
Mwah!
You giggled this time, voice caught somewhere between exasperation and a smile. “Joel.”
Mwah! Mwah!
“Oh my God! You’re gonna ruin my hair!”
He didn’t stop. He kissed you once more—loudly, obnoxiously—right on the top of your head, arms wrapped around you so tight you could barely reach for your keys.
“You ain’t leavin’ yet,” he said against your hair.
You tried to twist out of his hold, but he just shifted with you, his body like a weighted blanket. “Joel—”
“My birthday is tonight,” he murmured, cheek pressed to the side of your head. “Keyword: Tonight.”
“You’re not six.”
“Don’t need to be,” he muttered, “To wanna spend it with my wife.”
Somewhere down the hall, Sarah’s laughter drifted from her room, soft and muffled. You exhaled, melting into his chest despite yourself. He smelled like sawdust and soap, and you hated how safe it made you feel, because you did need to go.
“Joel,” you whispered again, gentler this time. “It’s an ER shift. You know I can’t just—”
“I know, I know.”
He finally leaned back enough to look at you. His face was that ache that always peeked out when you had to leave for your night shifts.
“I packed you dinner,” he said finally, nodding toward the counter.
Your gaze followed. A brown paper bag sat neatly by your keys, the folded top pressed flat with ridiculous precision. You could see his handwriting scrawled across it: Eat every bite.
You looked back at him, and his expression was stubbornly casual, like you hadn’t watched him make sure your thermos didn’t leak and your sandwich didn’t get squished while you changed into your scrubs.
“You didn’t have to—”
“Yeah, I did,” he cut in, quiet but sure. “You forget to eat when it gets busy.”
“I do not forget.”
“Mm,” he said, unconvinced. “That’s why last week you came home and inhaled pizza like you ain’t seen food in a week.”
You shoved at his chest, and he caught your wrist with a smirk, pressing one more kiss to your knuckles.
And that’s when the sound of socked feet sliding down the hallway interrupted you.
“Ew,” Sarah groaned, appearing in the doorway, half-eaten apple in hand. “Not this again.”
Joel didn’t even look her way. “What’s this ‘gain?”
“You being a total sap,” she said, hopping up on one of the stools. “She’s just going to work.”
Joel’s head turned slowly to his kid. “You don’t get it.”
“Oh, I get it. You’re dramatic.”
You covered your mouth to hide a smile, pretending to check your bag again.
Joel lifted a brow at her. “You done?”
“Not even close,” she said sweetly. “Stop hogging her.”
He glanced back to you, the faintest smirk tugging at his mouth. “Why’d wanna talk to her so bad, huh?”
“Maybe I wanna talk to someone other than you for the next twelve hours.”
Joel let out a low noise, somewhere between a laugh and a sigh, and grabbed his mug. “Uh-huh. I’ll remember that next time you need a ride to the mall.”
You and Sarah watched him disappear around the corner. There was a beat of silence, and then the sound of him shutting the bedroom door echoed faintly.
“Did it get fixed?”
Her grin was instant, mischievous, like she’d been waiting for that cue all night.
“You bet it did.”
She glanced over her shoulder once more, then ducked into her backpack and pulled out a small box. When she cracked it open, the soft ticking filled the quiet kitchen.
Joel’s watch. Working.
You hadn’t seen it tick since—well, since ever. Not once in all the years you’d known him. She smiled so wide it almost broke your heart. “He deserves it,” she said softly.
You wrapped your arms around her before she could hide her blush. “You did good, baby.”
Her hair smelled faintly of coconut shampoo and laundry detergent. You pressed a kiss into her curls, and she squeezed you tight.
“When I’m back in the morning,” you murmured against her hair, “Your dad gets me, then it’s all you and me, okay?”
She pulled back, grinning. “Deal. I need a dress. Homecomings, like, next week and everyone already has theirs.”
You smoothed her hair from her face. “Then we’ll find you the perfect one. Promise.”
Her eyes sparkled. “It’s gonna be the best.”
You smiled, meaning it. “It will.”
For a moment, it was just the two of you, the low hum of the fridge filling the silence, the clock ticking in time with the watch.
Then you glanced up—and froze.
“Shoot,” you muttered. “I’m late.”
You moved fast—badge, phone, keys—but she was still standing there, smiling at you.
“I love you, Sarah!” you called as you backed toward the door.
“Love you too!”
The night air was cooler than you expected, the kind of fall chill that hinted at rain but hadn’t quite decided to commit. The street was quiet, just the whisper of trees and the hum of a streetlight flickering at the corner.
The porch light cast a pale gold over the hood of your car, and you were halfway to opening the door when you heard it.
“Hey!”
You turned.
Joel was coming down the porch steps, hair mussed.
“What—?”
Before you could finish, he reached you. His hands found your face, warm and calloused, and his mouth was on yours before another word could form.
Steady. Familiar.
You smiled against his lips, your fingers curling in his shirt. “Happy birthday,” you murmured.
His eyes softened, lines crinkling at the corners. “Thank you, baby.”
He kissed you again—slower this time—and then rested his forehead against yours.
“You sure you can’t call in sick?” he whispered, the corner of his mouth twitching.
“Y‘know I can’t.”
“Doesn’t hurt to try.”
For a few seconds, neither of you moved. You brushed your thumb along Joel’s jaw, tracing the familiar edge of stubble.
“Tomorrow morning,” you promised quietly. “I’m all yours.”
He nodded once, like he was filing it away. “All mine,” he repeated, voice low, half-rasp, half-prayer.
You stepped back, his hand still holding yours until the distance forced it to fall away.
“Go on,” he said, smiling now. “‘Fore I think of another excuse to keep you.”
You opened the car door, sliding in. The engine coughed to life, headlights washing the driveway in white.
Joel leaned down to your window as it rolled open, bracing one hand on the roof. “Text me when you get there.”
“I always do.”
“Yeah,” he said softly. “Still.”
You looked up at him for a moment—just a man standing under the porch light, watching the woman he loves drive away to work.
Then you smiled one last time, lifted your fingers in a small wave, and pulled out of the driveway.
The taillights disappeared down the street.
And behind you, Joel stood there for a long while, hands shoved in his pockets, eyes on the road that led toward the hospital, until the light finally went out.
That was the last quiet night.
┈┈・┈┈
The gas station sits at the edge of the highway like a fossil—half-buried in snowdrift, windows caked in frost, the faded sign creaking against the wind.
You pull your scarf higher over your nose and push through the door. The bell above it gives a tired little jingle, the sound swallowed almost instantly by the emptiness inside.
The place smells of dust and fuel. Rows of cracked candy wrappers and long-dead flies line the counter. A can of peaches sits upright on a shelf like it’s been waiting for you all these years.
You pause, listening. Wind sighs through a shattered window. Nothing else.
Good.
Your boots crunch on the tile as you move down the aisle. You check under the counter—some old batteries, half a lighter, a few shotgun shells. You pocket the shells, roll the lighter between your fingers, flick it. Spark. No flame. You toss it back.
You find the storage room behind a warped door, push it open with your shoulder. The metal hinges wail.
Inside: shelves toppled over, a spill of canned goods frozen to the concrete. A single cot in the corner—torn, mold creeping up the side. But it’s shelter.
You run a hand through your hair, exhale through your scarf.
You start sorting through the wreckage. Your bag was already heavy, but there’s always room for something that might keep you alive another week. A can of beans, a box of ammo if you’re lucky, maybe even a flask with something that burns on the way down.
Outside, the wind changes pitch—sharper now, colder. Snow was coming quick.
You glance through the window. Clouds roll over the mountains, dark and low, swallowing the last streaks of light.
Wyoming. You’d always wanted to see it. The peaks in the distance look soft under the gray sky, like something out of a dream you half-remember. You lean against the window frame, watch the world blur behind the snow.
The beans taste like dust. You chew anyway, slow and mechanical. You swallow, stare at the dented can in your hand, and wonder—not for the first time—why food never tastes like anything anymore.
The silence stretches long and thin.
Outside, the wind howls low through the busted doorframe, slipping under your coat. The storm’s closer. You pull your scarf tighter and sit cross-legged on the moldy cot.
The flickering fluorescent light above you buzzes. Once. Twice. Then dies completely. You sit in the dark for a long moment.
You fish out a flashlight from your pack and click it on. The beam slices through the dark in a narrow cone. Dust motes float like ghosts.
You set the can aside, grab your knife, and start sharpening it against a stone. The rhythmic scrape fills the space. Shk. Shk. Shk.
You stop only when you catch your reflection in the blade. Eyes sunken. Hair streaked with gray. Skin roughened by twenty-four winters too many.
You huff a breath through your nose, letting the knife fall beside you and lean your head back against the wall.
For a moment—just a flicker—you see it again.
The hospital. The gurneys. The screaming.
You still smelled antiseptic and blood, heard the alarms, and felt the heat of panic flooding every hallway.
Your hands had been shaking so badly back then that you couldn’t even hold the scalpel right. And when they shoved the rifle at you—you’d dropped it. You remember that clearly. You’d dropped it, and the nurse beside you had died two minutes later.
You open your eyes fast, drag in air until your ribs ache. You stare at your hands. Calloused. Scarred.
The storm outside is getting heavier now, snow slamming against the roof in thick, rhythmic waves.
You sit for a while, just breathing.
Then you reach pass your collar. Metal is cold against your fingers, smooth from years of handling. You pull out the necklace—its chain tangled from travel, the ring catching faint light from the window.
Your wedding ring.
It still fits around your finger, though you haven’t worn it in years. The gold has dulled, edges rough from weather and time. You turn it between your fingers, feeling the tiny engraving on the inside—J.M. The letters are faint now, nearly worn away.
Since rings were a ripping hazard through gloves, you always ended up leaving your ring in Joel’s hands. Meaning you left it when you escaped.
Years later, you went for it. Maybe to see if someone took it, or if it was possible that time had stopped in that house, just waiting for you to come home.
Half the roof gone, windows shattered. You’d stepped over the debris, heart thudding in your chest, and found the ring sitting in your dresser. Dust-coated. Waiting.
The rest of the house had been silent, save for the groan of wood and wind slipping through the cracks. There’d been blood by the entryway—dark, old. But no bodies. The truck was gone.
That had meant something. You’d clung to that, smiling through the tears back then.
“They made it out,” you’d whispered into your old bedroom. “He got her out. He always does.”
Now, years later, you still hold the ring like it’s proof that somewhere, somehow, they’re still alive.
That Sarah’s grown—thirty-eight now, if you’ve done the math right—maybe with her father’s strength, that same stubborn tilt of her chin.
You smile, just a little. And for that small, fragile moment between exhaustion and faith, you let yourself believe it.
That if you keep walking, keep breathing, fate might finally let your paths cross again.
The wind howls against the window. And then—a noise. Not the wind. Not the shifting of snow. You freeze.
It’s faint, beneath the storm. A crunch of a can, the muted thud of boots.
You snap out of it fast, tucking your necklace back underneath your layers, and you grab your rifle. You move silently, muscle memory taking over. The scarf wanted up, covering your mouth. You sling the rifle over your shoulder, knife in your other hand.
Another sound. Closer this time.
You forced your breathing to be small. Listened. The sound is human—not the ragged rasp of infected but even, purposeful steps. You creep to the door, ease it open a crack. Cold air hits you.
You don’t take chances. You move through the gas station like a ghost.
Shelves cast long black teeth. You navigate by sound: the snap of a plastic wrapper, a muted clink of metal. You pass an aisle and there—under a hanging sign that reads ‘SNACKS’ in flaking red paint—is a person.
She’s young-ish, brown hair dusted with snow. Pale. Focused on canned goods. You watch her for a beat, then you’re beside her; blade at her throat, gloved hand clamping her jaw before she can scream air into the room.
“Don’t make noise,” you whisper, teeth pressed to the syllables. Cold breath fogs between you.
She makes a sound—a sharp intake—but you clamp harder until it’s a single pulse under your fingers. Her green eyes are wide and furious.
You press the tip of the knife, close enough the metal kisses her skin. She doesn’t flinch. “Who are you with?”
Her eyes flick left, then right, then back up to your face. She groans something obscene. You tilt your head.
“Nod if you’re alone.”
Slow, stiff nod. Her gaze keeps sliding. You don’t believe her.
“Walk.”
She huffs and starts shuffling. You edge behind her, blade at the hollow of her throat in case she bolts.
Outside, horses stand tethered to a dented pickup. Two adult-size steeds, their breaths steaming into the night. Packs sewn onto their flanks look new—canvas stitched and mended, not the scavenged mess you usually see.
“Community,” you mutter.
The girl mumbles behind your glove—garbled words, half-swallowed by the wool. You pause, glancing down at her. Her eyes flicker with something sharper than fear. You can’t tell if it’s anger or a plan.
You loosen your hand just enough for her to speak. “You’re making a mistake,” she says, voice low, shaky but not scared. Not really. There’s defiance there. “You don’t wanna do this.”
“That right?”
“Yeah,” she breathes, chin tilting toward the dark. “Because—”
She stops. Eyes dart past you. Just a flicker. Barely a second. But it’s enough. Your instincts snap tight.
You spin, knife still at her throat, snow exploding under your boots. The world narrows to metal and breath and the small, frantic drum in your ribs. A man stands a few yards off. Broad shoulders, an old bandana pulled up over his mouth, thick winter jacket bulking up his frame more that it is; only his eyes are free.
They’re cold. Wild. Protective.
He’s holding a blade too. The wind howls between you.
“I’ll slit her throat before you take a step.” you snarl.
He doesn’t blink.
You circle, keeping the girl as a shield. He mirrors you both of you counting the breaths, looking for the twitch that means fight. Wind keens between the pillars, the horses stamp and throw up more steam.
“Back off, I swear I’ll—”
“I’ll kill you ‘fore you can.” he interrupts, stepping closer. There’s a cadence to the sentence that slips under your skin, some pattern you know but can’t name. Texan accent. Worn by the years, but Texas nonetheless.
Your hands tighten around the girl. Then she jerks—twists. You shove her back against your chest and press the knife harder; she hisses.
“Stop movin’, Ellie!” The man yells.
“Goddammit!”
She spits, and the world completely inverts—just by one word in her next sentence detonating in your chest.
“Kill her already, Joel!”
Joel.
The name stops you cold.
Joel.
It hits like a gunshot under your ribs. Your grip falters—barely, but enough.
Joel.
“...What did you just say?” you whisper.
The girl feels it, the hesitation. She wrenches free. In the same motion, she grabs your scarf and yanks it down. Cold air hits your face.
Then—pain. A hot, sharp slide near your ribs. You stumble back with a strangled noise, clutching your side.
For a second, you don’t feel it. Not really. Your body’s in survival mode, your mind already screaming move, move, move.
Two against one. You’ve been in worse. You’ve survived worse. But still—your pulse hammers so loud it drowns out the rest of the world.
The wind whooshes past your ear. White noise. You can barely hear anything else.
Except the softest call you’ve heard in years. Your name. Spoken like a memory dragged out of the grave.
You haven’t heard it in years. You’d forgotten the shape of it, the way it used to sound. You’d forgotten what it felt like to belong to it.
You look up.
The man’s eyes are on you—wide, unsteady. His chest rises and falls like he’s staring at a ghost. His knife is forgotten, dropped to the snow. You stumble back a step, confused, dizzy. He mirrors it, stepping forward, matching your retreat. One for one.
“Stay back,” you rasp, though your voice cracks halfway through.
He doesn’t. The girl says his name again, a sharp exhale of confusion. “Joel! What are you—?”
No.
No, no, no.
The world tilts. The light from the moon flickers across his face, and in that fractured second, you know. He rips the bandana from his face—
It’s him. Your life. Your love. Your other half. Your soul. Your husband.
Your Joel Miller.
Lines carved deep into his face, gray hair decorated his beautiful brown. His face is more wrinkled than before, his body more wider. But those eyes—same as the day you lost saw him.
Your breath catches in your throat. “Joel…”
The word breaks, splintering halfway out. It sounds nothing like how you used to say it. He takes another step. His voice shakes.
“Darlin’...”
You want to run. To reach for him. To scream in fear. To laugh. You can’t do any of it. You just stand there, the world narrowing until it’s just the two of you and the ghost of everything you lost.
Your knees go weak. You can feel pain now—the slow, spreading warmth of something sticky seeping through your coat. You press your hand harder to your side, but it doesn’t stop the tremor.
Joel takes another step.
“Don’t…” you manage, breathless. “Don’t—come any closer.”
You stumble back again, your boots slipping in the snow. The light-headedness hits harder now. The sky spins. You reach out, steadying yourself against the cold metal of the building behind you.
The girl’s hand tightens around her knife. Her voice is shaking now, too. “What are you waiting for?! She’s…she’s—why are you hesitating—”
You sway, vision blurring. Ellie takes another step, as if she’s going to finish the job for Joel, and that’s when you see it—the blade in her hand. Red. Glinting as it drips. Your blood.
“Christ…” you whisper.
You can barely keep your eyes open now. The snow feels softer under your boots than it should. You blink, slow and heavy, your breath coming out in short, white bursts.
Then, you fall.
Joel moves fast. A shadow through the storm. The next thing you feel is his arms wrapping around you, pulling you in. The warmth of him hits like a blow, his chest against yours, his breath shaking against your temple.
You forgot this.
The sound of him breathing, the rough rasp in his throat. The weight of his hand and how they shake when they press against your side, trying to stop the bleeding. His voice breaks through the wind, hoarse, terrified—words you can’t quite catch, just the vibration of them.
Your fingers find his coat, clutching it. It feels real. Too real. You lift your head—barely—and see his face. That face.
The man from your dreams, the one you used to stare at when you couldn’t sleep. The one you buried with your past. The one you thought you’d never touch again.
You try to speak, but it comes out as a shiver.
He presses his hand harder, cursing under his breath. His mouth opens over and over, forming words but you can’t really hear him. The wind eats at his words. You can only see his eyes frantic.
You forgot how soft his eyes could be when he was afraid. Your vision blurs around the edges. His face flickers in and out, the snow dimming into a wash of gray and white.
He yells something over his shoulder—maybe to the girl, maybe to no one. You can’t tell. The world’s shrinking too fast.
Then—his voice, raw, breaking:
“Not ’gain. Not ’gain.”
You blink slowly, trying to focus on his mouth, the way his voice trembles like he’s said this before.
Again?
The thought cuts through the haze for a second. Did he mean you? Did he dream of you, too? See your face in strangers? Hear your voice in the dark like you did his?
The thought makes you smile. You look up at him—just once more—and the sight fills you whole.
Then the light fades. You go limp in his arms.
He calls your name again, but you don’t hear it. The world folds inward—black and quiet.
┈┈・┈┈
The church wasn’t much.
A narrow, sunlit room with peeling paint and crooked pews. The air smelled faintly of wood polish. There was no music—just the soft hum of cicadas outside and the creak of the floorboards under your heels.
It was perfect.
Your mother sat front row, tissues clutched in both hands, whispering something to your father that made him chuckle under his breath. Tommy was beside them, sleeves rolled up, tie loose, trying and failing to keep a squirming little girl in her seat.
“C’mon now, darlin’,” he muttered as Sarah kicked her legs and reached toward the front of the hall. “Your daddy’s a little busy right now, alright? You’ll see him in a minute.”
Sarah let out a squeal that echoed through the church, a bright little sound that made Joel’s shoulders stiffen and then sag.
You laughed under your breath, watching him. His hands were clasped nervously in front of him, the tie around his neck slightly crooked. His hair was damp from sweat, combed back but already falling out of place. There was a flush high on his cheeks.
“I swear I listened when you told me to feed her. She jus’—” He sighed, the corners of his mouth twitching. “She don’t like sittin’ still. Guess that’s my fault.”
“She just wants her daddy,” you said softly.
Joel’s eyes flicked to you, warm and nervous all at once. “Well, can’t say I blame her for that.”
“You always this confident at the altar?”
He chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Confidence or stupidity—hard to tell.”
There was a pause. Sarah let out another squeal and Tommy groaned, muttering something about ‘should’ve brought snacks.’ Joel grinned, shaking his head, then looked back at you with that same teasing glint.
“Still time to back out, y’know,” he said. “Ain’t too late to change your mind.”
You gasped, hand flying to your chest. “Excuse me?”
“I mean—not like that, darlin’. Jus’... y‘know I’m not exactly prime real estate.”
“Joel Miller…” you said, voice full of mock outrage.
“What?” he said, laughing now. “I’m jus’ bein’ honest!”
You took a step closer, your dress brushing the floor. The minister cleared his throat softly, but neither of you looked away. You reached up, caught his tie in your hand, and tugged him just enough that his eyes widened a little.
“Never,” you whispered.
He blinked, his breath catching. And then you kissed him.
The world went still for a moment. It was just the two of you—your hand fisted in his tie, his palm finding your waist, the rough scrape of his stubble brushing your cheek. He kissed you back, slow at first, then deeper when you smiled against his mouth.
Behind you, your mother and dad sniffled audibly. Tommy muttered something, but there was laughter in his voice.
When you finally pulled away, his forehead rested against yours.
And when Joel finally whispered, “For as long as I got breath…”, you knew—this was how it was always meant to be.
┈┈・┈┈
You wake to the sound of wind and the slow, steady rhythm of breathing that isn’t your own.
Your lashes flutter open. Wooden beams. No patched roof. The air smells faintly of pine and smoke, warm from… a heater? For a moment, you think you’re dreaming. Then a deep ache blooms along your side.
You jolt upright—too fast. The pain punches through you. A strangled noise escapes your throat as you clutch your ribs. Bandages. Tight, clean, freshly changed.
That’s when you hear it again.
You whip your head toward the sound—instinct first, reason later—and shove back against the headboard, teeth bared, ready to fight through the pain if you have to.
“Hey—hey, easy, easy.”
That voice.
Joel’s sitting in the chair beside the bed, elbows on his knees, that same rugged face you’ve seen a hundred times in dreams, weathered now by years and loss. The gray in his beard catches the light. His flannel’s frayed at the cuffs. Sleep wears on his face. He must’ve just woken up.
It’s all impossible. It has to be.
“Joel?”
His mouth parts just slightly, like he’s afraid to breathe wrong. “Yeah, darlin’. It’s me.”
You shake your head, trying to make sense of it, but the world feels warped. His eyes are the same—warm brown, flecked with gold—and that hurts worse than anything else. Because they look real.
For a long, unbearable moment, neither of you move. The room hums around you—wind through the cracked window, the faint thud of boots outside—but all you can hear is your heartbeat and the sound of Joel’s shaky breath.
You shift again, the pain in your side flaring white-hot. A groan slips out before you can stop it. Joel’s expression crumples.
“Stop movin’,” he mutters, half rising, hands twitching uselessly like he wants to reach for you but doesn’t dare. “You’ll rip the stitches.”
You swing your legs over the bed, ignoring the protest in your ribs. He flinches like it physically hurts him to see you do it. He stands with you, crossing around the bed to get in front of you.
His jaw works, like he’s trying to find something to say.
But all that comes out is your name.
It roots you to the floor.
You blink hard, throat burning, and when you look up again, his eyes are wet. He tries to blink it away, to look like the same man who used to fix things, who used to steady you.
He says it again. Softer this time.
Your breath stumbles. There’s a tremor in his hand when he finally reaches out.
When his fingers brush your cheek, you flinch— from a strange mix of fear and disbelief. His hand’s rough, warm. He drags his thumb slow across your skin, tracing your jaw, your cheekbone, your nose.
Like a blind man who had just earned his sight back.
For a second, there’s nothing but the sound of both of you breathing—fast, uneven, disbelieving.
And then—
You take a step back. Another. Another.
Distance.
You hit the metal tray behind you, the clatter piercing through the air, and Joel’s brow furrows. “It’s alright,” he says, voice low, coaxing, like you’re some frightened animal.
You shake your head, breath catching. “No—no, it’s not.”
“Darlin’, it’s me—”
“Don’t.” The word rips out of you, sharp and trembling. “Don’t call me that.”
His mouth parts, but nothing comes out. His hand drops uselessly to his side.
You can’t breathe. The air feels too thick, the walls too close. Your body won’t stay still—your fingers twitch, your shoulders jerk. You can hear your pulse in your ears.
He was here. You wanted this. You wished for it, but now that it was here… it was all too much, him standing here, alive.
“I knew you died,” you whisper, voice cracking. “I knew and I still believed—"
“I didn’t,” he interrupts, desperate. “I didn’t die, darlin’. I—”
“Stop!” You press your hands to your temples, nails digging in. “Stop calling me that!”
“You’re shakin’. Lemme me—”
“No!” You stumble back, hand slamming into the cabinet. “You can’t—no—you can’t just—”
Your chest caves. Breath stutters. You can’t fill your lungs, can’t find air. The room tilts, the fluorescent light overhead flickering like a heartbeat gone wrong.
He’s reaching again, trying to catch your shoulders, but the touch only makes it worse. You jerk away, a strangled sound tearing out of you.
And then—
Bang.
The door slams open.
“Joel!” Tommy’s voice, rougher now, deeper, but still that same drawl that once filled your old house with laughter.
You stare at him. He’s got a mustache now. Older, broader. Wrinkles that line the corners of his eyes.
You make a small, broken sound in your throat. It’s too much—the sound of his voice, the sight of Joel, your world cracking open and mending together all at once.
Tommy’s eyes soften when he sees you, but his tone is firm. “Step outside, brother.”
“Hell no,” Joel snaps, stepping in front of you. “My wife’s panickin’, Tommy—”
You twitch at that word—wife—and your breath catches, shuddering.
Tommy lifts a hand. “Out. Now.”
“Tommy—”
“Joel.” His tone hardens. “Get out.”
The two stare each other down, that familiar stubborn silence passing between them. Joel’s chest heaves. His jaw flexes.
Then his eyes flick to you. Just once. And that look—raw, gutted—undoes something in your chest. He goes. But not without a fight in his stance, not without looking like every step toward the door costs him blood.
Tommy stays behind long enough to look at you. His smile’s thin, a shade of what it used to be. “Why don’t you sit down, huh? Maria’s comin’ over real soon. She’ll take care of you.”
You don’t even nod, just stare like those abandoned mannequins in the windows of clothing stores. He hesitates, looks like he wants to say something else, but doesn’t.
Then he leaves. The door shuts behind them with a soft click.
You stand there for a long time, trembling, until the sound of your breathing evens out. The air still smells like alcohol and metal. You press your back to the wall, sliding down until you’re sitting on the cold wooden floorboards.
You don’t cry. You just listen.
Through the crack of the door, their voices filter in—muted, low, but heated.
“You’re overwhelmin’ her, Joel. Can’t you see that?”
Joel’s voice, rough and unsteady, comes right after. “She knows me, Tommy. She—she looked at me. You saw it too. She knows me.”
“Yeah,” Tommy says, dry. “Don’t mean she can handle you right now.”
“I ain’t some stranger, dammit! I’m her husband. That’s my wife. You understand? My wife. I thought she was gone. I thought—”
“You thought a lotta things, but that don’t change what’s in front of you. I get it.”
A pause. You imagine Joel’s face—the way he presses his lips together when he’s holding back something too big to say.
Then his voice again, lower. “You didn’t see her eyes, Tommy. I did. She remembered me. She didn’t forget.”
“That’s not how it works.”
“She belongs with me. She should live with me—get used to things ‘gain, get used to me.”
“The hell she should,” Tommy snaps. “That’s the worst idea I’ve heard come outta your mouth, and that’s sayin’ somethin’.”
“Why? Why the hell not? Y’think I can jus’—what—leave her sittin’ in some damn corner, pretendin’ like she didn’t spend almost half her life with me?”
Tommy doesn’t answer right away. The silence stretches, filled with the sound of boots shifting on wood, wind against the windows.
When he does speak, his voice is steady. “’Cause she’s scared of you, Joel.”
The words land heavy. You can feel the air change on the other side of the door.
“She flinched when you touched her.”
Joel says nothing.
“She damn near stopped breathin’ when you got closer,” Tommy goes on, quieter now. “And not ‘cause she don’t care. It’s ‘cause she’s been out there, alone. Y’know what that does to a person.”
Joel finally mutters something, too low to catch.
Tommy sighs. “Y’think she had folks lookin’ after her all this time? Hell, for all we know, she’s been walkin’ ‘lone for years. One, two, five, ten—Christ, maybe since the whole damn thing started.”
A pause. Then Tommy again, voice soft but heavy.
“She ain’t the same person you lost. And neither are you.”
The words twist deep, where you don’t want them to reach.
Eventually, you hear the floor creak again—Tommy’s boots moving away, Joel’s slower behind him. The sound fades down the hallway, swallowed by the hum of your own thoughts.
You tilt your head back against the wall and stare at the ceiling light until your eyes blur.
He’s alive.
He’s here.
And you don’t know whether to thank God or curse Him.
┈┈・┈┈
To say you’re skittish is an understatement.
Tommy and Maria’s house feels too clean. Too normal. Every sound—every creak, every low murmur from the kitchen—puts your nerves on edge. You keep expecting someone to barge in and tell you to pack your things, that you don’t belong here.
The curtains remain half-shut, and you sleep on top of the blanket instead of under it, because the bed is too soft. The first night, you woke up gasping, the fabric bunched around your throat, the scent of cleanliness sharp enough to make your eyes sting.
Now you avoid it altogether. You sit on the edge, knees drawn up, staring at the wooden nightstand. You run your fingers over the lamp switch. The clock. The drawer handle.
Twenty years ago, these things were nothing. Background. White noise. Now they feel like relics from a life that belonged to someone else.
Beds. Nightstands. Floors that don’t creak from rot.
Hot water. Toothpaste. A door that locks from the inside.
You leave the room only the bathroom, since they bring you your food. Once, Maria knocked to tell you that there had been snow on the Christmas tree they just set up, and it was gorgeous with the lights, and you almost said yes to following her out there.
Almost.
But the second your hand touched the doorknob, something inside you froze. You mumbled an apology and stayed put.
They never complained. Not once.
Maria—she tries. She smiles at you when she offers you fresh bread, tea, small comforts. She has that kind of strength like she’s seen her share of ruin and decided not to let it show. You can see why Tommy married her.
He checks your wound every couple of days, his hands steady, his voice low. “Healin’ good,” he says. “Maria’s been keepin’ the bandages clean. You’re lucky she’s the one runnin’ the place.”
You nod. You never know what to say back.
He talks a lot, though. Tries to fill the silence with something easy. “Jackson’s different,” he tells you. “We got systems. Rules that keep folks fed, safe. We all pitch in.”
You hum under your breath, skeptical. “Sounds like a QZ,” you croak out before you can stop yourself.
Tommy chuckles, but his eyes narrow just slightly, like he knows what you mean. “Ain’t no QZ. No FEDRA. No soldiers. Nobody hoardin’ food. We look out for each other here.”
You study him a long time, trying to decide if you believe it. He must see the hesitation in your face, because he adds, quietly,
“I wouldn’t have stayed if it wasn’t what I said.”
He means it. You can tell.
Days pass. A week and a half. You fall into a rhythm, if you can call it that. You wake up, sit on the edge of the bed, watch the light crawl across the floorboards. You listen to the faint laughter that sometimes drifts from the street outside. You eat when someone leaves a plate at your door. You wait until night to move around.
Then one morning, Maria breaks it by knocking softly.
You’re sitting on the bed, fingers picking at the loose threads of the sheets, half-lost in thought.
When she opens the door, her face is lit by that calm, unshakable smile. “Got someone who wants to see you,” she says.
Your stomach tightens. Your hands flex, unflex. “Who?”
Her smile widens, but her eyes study you carefully, gauging every twitch of your face. “A visitor.”
You nod, pushing yourself up. The floor feels uneven under your bare feet. Your heart thuds in your throat. “Alright.”
She waits in the doorway until you follow her. The house smells faintly of coffee and wood polish. You pass the family photos hanging on the wall—Tommy with Maria, and beside them, a small boy with his father’s grin. You pause for half a second, staring.
A son. You hadn’t known.
Your pulse stutters.
Maria’s voice pulls you back. “You doin’ okay?”
“Yeah,” you lie.
Every step down the hallway feels heavier than the last. The closer you get to the living room, the louder your thoughts get. What if it’s Joel? What if he came here, decided he’d had enough of waiting? You can almost hear his voice already—low, stubborn, that Texas gravel tone saying your name.
No. You can’t do that. Not yet.
Maria stops at the doorway, her hand on the frame. She glances back at you, softens her voice. “Don’t worry. She’s kind. Sometimes.”
She.
The breath you were holding spills out, shaky and uneven.
Then you see her.
Sitting on the couch, her elbows on her knees, head down, fiddling with something in her hands—a knife, no, a pocket tool. Her hair’s brown and tamed now, no longer wild from the wind. The anger that once burned in those green eyes is gone.
It takes you a second to place her. That girl from the gas station.
Maria’s voice is light. “Ellie. I brought her.”
Right. Ellie.
She looks up then, blinking at you, and for a moment you both just stare.
Her mouth opens first. “Uh… hey.”
You nod once, your throat too tight for words.
She clears her throat, awkwardly rubbing her palms on her jeans. “You, uh… you probably don’t remember me. I mean, I guess you might. Back at the station, you were kinda…” She makes a vague gesture with her hands, grimacing. “Y’know. Your knife to my throat, my knife in your side, whole thing.”
“I remember.”
“Oh.” She blinks too, like she wasn’t expecting that. “Cool.”
Maria hides a smile, stepping back toward the kitchen. “I’ll let y’all talk.”
You and Ellie both look after her as she leaves, then at each other again.
The silence is prickly. Ellie shifts in her seat, taps her knee a few times, then blows out a slow breath. “I wanna… apologize.”
She says that last word like it’s a grater dragged across her throat.
You raise an eyebrow.
“For—uh—stickin’ you like a pig.”
Your frown comes without effort. “You stabbed me.”
“Yeah. Guess that’s another word for it. My bad.”
You just stare at her.
She scratches at her eyebrow, mutters, “You were sneakin’ around, and I was freaking the hell out, and I just—look, I didn’t know who you were, okay?”
There’s a beat of silence. Then, maybe because her discomfort is so naked, maybe because she’s just a kid trying too hard to sound grown, you huff out something that almost sounds like a laugh.
“I’ll live,” you say quietly.
She sighs, quick and relieved. “Yeah, looks like it.”
Ellie seems to notice the change in your posture, how you loosen slightly, and leans back a little, studying you in that curious, unfiltered way teenagers do.
“So,” she says, drawing out the word. “You were… married to Joel?”
You stiffen. That one hits bone.
“Okay, too soon.”
You shake your head. “No, it’s—” You pause, gathering your voice back into something flat, neutral. “Yes. We were married.”
“Wow.” She whistles softly. “I mean, huh. You and Joel. That’s—” She stops, shakes her head, smirking. “Never mind.”
“What?”
“Nothin’. Just. Hard to imagine him married. He kinda strikes me as the lone-wolf-and-whiskey type, y’know?”
“He wasn’t always.”
“Yeah?”
“He liked to dance.”
That makes her laugh—loud, surprised. “Bullshit.”
“He did. Badly.”
She snorts. “Okay, now I gotta see that someday.”
You don’t answer. You just look down at your hands, tracing the small scar near your knuckle. A moment passes. Then she shifts again, like she’s working up the nerve to keep going.
“So… you guys got, uh…” She squints. “What’s the word—divorced? Before the outbreak? You said ‘were married’.”
The question hits you like cold water.
“No,” you say softly. “No, we didn’t.”
“Oh.” She looks at you for a second too long, then nods slowly. “Just been a long time, huh?”
You exhale through your nose. “Yeah. Long time.”
Ellie is easy in a way you’ve forgotten how to be. She swears under her breath, uses her hands when she talks, doesn’t know how to sit still. She reminds you of… you, before the world before it burned down.
You find yourself leaning forward, asking her small things. How long she’s been with Joel. Where she came from. Whether she likes Jackson.
She answers, haltingly at first, then quicker, sharper. You learn she’s got a sense of humor that you enjoy. You understand it.
And then—
Ellie hesitates. Her gaze flicks toward the window, then back to you. “You… you must’ve known Sarah, then.”
The name slices through you like wire.
Sarah.
You blink, too slow, too hard.
“Sarah,” you echo, the syllables thick on your tongue. “Of course I do.” You can’t stop the small laugh that breaks out of you—shaky, a little too high. “God, how did I not ask? I didn’t even—she’s grown now, right? Almost forty. Jesus. Does she—does she still paint? Or play soccer? She always had that little pink ball she’d kick around the kitchen—drove Joel crazy, used to leave scuff marks all over the floor—”
You stop. Because Ellie isn’t smiling.
She’s staring at you.
And her whole face has gone still.
“Oh.”
Just that.
And you know.
Instantly.
Your mouth opens, but no words come. The world seems to narrow, sound folding in on itself. You can’t feel your hands. You can’t feel anything.
“No,” you whisper, but it’s barely a sound. “No. Not Sarah.”
Ellie doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe. Just watches you, stricken.
You shake your head, your body already rejecting it, like maybe if you move fast enough, you can outpace the truth. “No, she—she’s just a kid. She is—she—”
You don’t finish. The words choke, collapse.
Something inside you caves in slow motion. The air leaves the room, the floor vanishes. You sink to your knees before you even realize you’ve moved.
You see Sarah’s hair, the way it stuck to her forehead when she ran. Her laugh. The way she used to look at Joel. The way she looked at you. The smell of pancakes on Sunday mornings. Her tiny hand tugging at yours when she wanted to show you something she’d drawn.
Gone. Forever fourteen.
Gone twenty years ago, while you were out there convincing yourself it wasn’t true.
You cover your mouth with both hands. The sound that breaks out of you isn’t human—it’s raw, keening, dragged from the deepest part of you that never healed.
Ellie’s eyes are wide. She moves before she thinks, kneeling beside you, uncertain, awkward. “Hey, hey, I’m—shit, I’m sorry, I didn’t—”
You stumble backward, your legs barely obeying you. The room is too bright, too close. Ellie’s voice is muffled, like it’s coming from underwater. You don’t even hear what she’s saying anymore. You can only hear Sarah. Sarah laughing. Sarah crying. Sarah’s voice calling for you in the dark.
Your throat closes. You can’t breathe. You can’t see.
“She’s gone,” you whisper to no one. “She’s gone. Sarah’s gone.”
Maria appears in front of you, gentle hands hovering but not touching. “Hey—hey, slow down. It’s okay. You’re safe, you hear me?”
You shake your head. “No. No, I—she—” You choke, your chest collapsing under invisible weight. “She’s just a kid. She—she calls me—she calls me mama—”
Maria’s eyes soften, and that’s worse. You can’t bear it. Her pity feels like fire.
You hear Tommy’s boots pounding against the floor, his voice low but urgent. “What happened?”
Ellie’s voice, trembling. “I—I told her about Sarah.”
Maria glances over her shoulder, and Tommy growls. “Christ almighty.” He doesn’t look at you for long—maybe he can’t.
You hear Tommy leave with a string of curses, his boots thumping until he disappeared into the snow.
You press your palms over your face, rocking slightly. The room feels like it’s tilting. Every breath comes in sharp bursts, tearing your lungs.
“She’s gone,” you whisper, voice trembling. “She’s gone, and I didn’t—”
Your breath shudders out of you, and you clutch at the wall like it might hold you up.
Maria glances toward Ellie, and something passes silently between them—understanding, guilt, something like fear. Tommy curses quietly under his breath. “I’ll get him,” he says, and he’s gone before Maria can stop him.
Your voice breaks. You press your hands over your face, curling inward. “I wasn’t there,” you whisper. “I wasn’t there.”
Maria’s hand hovers near your shoulder, then pulls back. She looks helpless.
A sound—heavy boots, the door opening. You don’t have to look up. You know that sound. You could find it in a storm.
Joel’s frozen in the doorway, chest heaving. His eyes land on you. You see the recognition hit him like a hammer.
“Darlin’,” he breathes, his voice hoarse, wrecked.
You shake your head, stepping back.
He doesn’t listen. He never did. In three long strides he’s kneeling in front of you, hands hovering before settling on your shoulders. His touch is rough, too warm.
“Don’t—don’t touch me—” You push at him weakly. “She’s gone, Joel. She’s gone.”
He pulls you into his chest anyway, his arms tight around you as you struggle. “I know,” he says, his voice low, shaking. “I know, baby, I know.”
You pound your fists against him, but the strength’s gone from your body. “You don’t—”
“I do,” he cuts in, desperate. “I do.”
You stop fighting. His arms hold steady, the kind of hold that used to calm you down. You can feel the tremor in his hands, the way he keeps his face buried in your hair.
“She’s gone,” you whisper, smaller now. “Our girl. She—”
He doesn’t let you finish. He shifts, lifting you the best he can, one arm under your knees, the other at your back. You cling to his shirt on instinct, your body shaking as he carries you down the hallway. You can barely see through the blur of tears.
Joel shoulders the door to your room open and nudges it shut behind him with his boot.
He sets you down gently on the bed, but you push yourself away the moment your feet touch the floor. You back up, hands shaking, your breath sharp and uneven. “Don’t—don’t do that,” you rasp.
He goes quiet. The silence stretches. You can hear the whoosh of snow starting against the window.
When he finally speaks, his voice is low. “You wanna know what happened?”
You don’t answer, but he tells you anyway.
He talks like a man digging up a grave. His words come in fragments—him and Sarah on the couch, the sirens, the Alders, Tommy’s truck, the soldiers, the gun. His voice falters only once, when he says her name.
“\We were tryin’ to get out. Got stopped by a soldier. They told him—told him to take us down. I was holdin’ her when he fired.” He swallows hard, eyes shining wet. “She was scared. Cryin’. I told her I had her. That I wasn’t gonna let go.”
You stare at him, unmoving. Every breath feels like swallowing glass. “You held her,” you say, the words barely forming. “You—”
“I didn’t know what else to do,” he murmurs. “I couldn’t stop it. Couldn’t—” His voice breaks, and he turns his head, like looking at you hurts.
You sit on the edge of the bed, shaking. The words echo in your skull, each one heavier than the last. The room feels too small, the air too thick.
You look at him. His hands hang useless at his sides, his face drawn, hollow. You think of all the years he carried that weight alone. How you carried your own.
You reach out.
He hesitates, then closes the distance, kneeling in front of you again. You rest your head against his chest, the fabric of his shirt damp from your tears. His arms come around you, slow and sure.
You cry until you can’t anymore—quietly, your hands fisted in his shirt. He doesn’t tell you to stop. He doesn’t move to fix it.
Now it’s just the two of you again. Broken. Breathing. Holding on because there’s nothing else left to do.
┈┈・ ☣・┈┈
Joel didn’t give Tommy a choice to get you to move in with him.
He showed up the next day, the expression on his face enough to silence any argument before it began. Tommy stood there on the porch trying to say something that wouldn’t get his head bitten off. But when he looked at you—eyes blank, body barely holding itself upright—he just sighed, nodded once, and stepped aside.
The guest bedroom smelled faintly of cedar and dust, and cleaner than it should’ve been—like he’d gone through it himself and made it ready before he even brought you here. You didn’t thank him. You just sat down on the bed and stared at the wall until it blurred.
The first night, you cried so hard you made yourself sick. Joel stayed outside the door the whole time, boots heavy on the wood floor. He didn’t come in.
By the third night, he’d moved a chair into your room and sat there while you slept—if you could call it that.
Every memory twisted just enough to hurt. You’d wake up gasping, and Joel would already be there, and sometimes just murmur, “You’re alright,” though neither of you believed it.
By the end of the first week, he’d stopped pretending to sleep in his own bed. He just curled up at the foot of yours with a blanket and pillow, a quiet shadow. When you woke up sobbing, he was there. When you refused to eat, he was there, pressing a spoon into your mouth, his jaw tight with that quiet patience that looked more like punishment than care.
Never turned away when you cried from shame. Wiped your face clean. Tucked you in. Never said a word about it.
Tonight is like every one of those nights.
It starts before the sun sets. The light through the blinds looks too much like the color of fire, like the burning hospital, and something in your chest just snaps. You curl into yourself, hands gripping the blanket, and Joel’s there in a second, just coming off his patrol.
“Hey,” he says softly, like you might shatter if he breathes too hard. “Hey, now. Look at me.”
You don’t. You can’t. You’re somewhere else entirely.
He sits on the edge of the bed, careful, slow. “You’re safe,” he tries again. “You’re right here, darlin’.”
That word—it tears something open in you. You turn your face into the pillow and sob so violently your ribs ache. Joel just sits there. Then he moves closer, kneeling beside the bed, his hands braced on the mattress.
“It’s okay,” he whispers.
But it isn’t. It isn’t okay.
Your voice comes out hoarse, like you haven’t spoken in years. “She was scared.”
Joel freezes.
“She was—she was scared, and I wasn’t there.”
He swallows hard, the sound loud in the quiet room.
“I just know it.”
His jaw flexes, and his breath stutters. For a moment, he looks like he’s going to argue—but then he just lets out a sound that’s almost a laugh, only it’s broken right down the middle.
Joel drags both hands down his face, pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes until his knuckles go white. “I was supposed to protect her,” he chokes out. “That was my job. My one Goddamn job, and I failed.”
Your breath catches. You reach out before you can stop yourself, fingers brushing his arm.
He doesn’t flinch away.
“She was—she was so little,” you whisper.
He nods, eyes closed. His chest rises and falls too fast. “She was,” he breathes.
Neither of you speak for a while. You can hear the crickets outside. The faint, uneven hitch of his breathing.
When you finally speak, it’s a wish you didn’t plan to say.
“I wish Ellie’s knife killed me.”
Joel’s head snaps up.
“What?”
You meet his eyes—really meet them this time, even through the blur of tears. “That knife,” you say, voice breaking. “When she stabbed me—I didn’t think it then. But now…” Your throat locks. “It should’ve killed me. I can’t… can’t live in a world that took Sarah.”
He stares at you like you just reached into his chest and pulled out something he’d buried. His eyes glisten. His mouth opens, then closes again.
“Don’t say that,” he rasps.
“Joel—”
“Don’t,” he snaps, sharper now, voice cracking under the weight. “Don’t you ever say that. You hear me?”
You flinch. His hand shoots out before he can stop himself, gripping your wrist.
“I can’t lose you too,” he says, barely more than a whisper. “I can’t—I ain’t strong ‘nough for that.”
“You already lost me.”
“No. No, you’re still here. You’re breathin’. You’re here.”
Something inside you caves in. You don’t know which one of you moves first, but suddenly he’s holding you, arms around you tight enough to hurt, his face pressed to your shoulder. His whole body trembles.
You cling back. For the first time since you moved in, you hold him just as tightly.
He leans in until your foreheads touch again, his thumb brushing over the tear tracks on your cheek. There’s no logic in the way he looks at you—just devastation and recognition, like you’re both staring into the same pit and realizing you’ve been standing beside each other the whole time.
He stays that way until the trembling stops, until your breathing evens out, until the room softens around the edges. Then, quietly, he moves to the foot of the bed, to settle in like always.
But this time, when you reach out, your fingers find his sleeve.
He looks up, startled at first, like he’s not sure he felt what he did. Your hand stays there, curled into the fabric, your knuckles white.
“Don’t,” you whisper.
He blinks. “Don’t what?”
“Don’t go.”
The words come out small, almost childlike, and you hate how fragile they sound—but they’re true. Every piece of you feels hollow when he’s not near.
Joel’s throat works. He studies you like he’s trying to find the right answer in your face. “You sure?” he murmurs.
You nod, but it’s shaky. He still doesn’t move.
“I mean it,” he says again, voice rough. “You—don’t gotta say things you don’t—”
“I said don’t go.”
That’s all it takes. The bed dips when he sits beside you. You move without thinking—your hand on his shirt, then his chest, then his arm, like you’re checking to make sure he’s real.
He doesn’t stop you. You pull him closer.
He hesitates, every muscle in him tight, like he’s fighting instinct. His hand hovers in the air for a moment before it lands gently at your waist.
You tug him down until he’s lying beside you.
You can hear his heartbeat, feel the heat of him under your fingers. The two of you are stiff at first—two unfamiliar bodies trying to remember something that used to be second nature.
You don’t know what you’re doing. Neither does he.
He exhales against your temple, like he’s afraid the air itself might hurt you. You breathe him in, and it feels like something old and safe and terrifying all at once.
His hand finds yours under the blanket. His thumb moves, back and forth, the smallest stroke. You don’t realize you’re crying once more until he brushes one away with his knuckle.
He whispers something you can’t quite catch. Maybe it’s your name. Maybe it’s hers. You don’t ask. You just trace the rough line of his throat, the scars on his hand, the dip of his collarbone. He does the same, learning you by touch—your shoulder, your hair, the hollow at the base of your throat.
It’s clumsy, reverent, too gentle for how much it hurts.
You both crack there—slow, like spreading a fracture through glass. Thumb brushing along the edge of his jaw, his nose skimming your cheek, your jaw. He tucks you in against his chest. You listen to his heart until it steadies.
And this new ritual continues.
Time folds in on itself—weeks slide past like snowmelt, impossible to hold. You stop counting by days or calendars; you measure life instead by the smallest things.
The sound of boots at the door. The shape of his hand around a hammer, around a map, around the edge of your world.
By late November, you’ve grown familiar to the smell of coffee, sharp and earthy. He always makes two cups, one waiting for you by the sink. You don’t always drink it. Some days you only stand there, palms around the mug, letting the heat soak into your fingers until it cools.
He pretends not to watch. Sits at the table with a stack of repair notes or a half-folded map, eyes flicking up just long enough to catch you breathing. Sometimes you think he’s waiting to see if you’ll join him. You rarely do.
Instead, you spend time washing dishes. Folding blankets. You cook, sometimes—only simple things. Never what Sarah loved. Not the pancakes she’d drown in syrup, not the chicken stew she’d claim was “better than school lunch.” You can’t.
The world outside turns whiter, the light shorter each day. Ellie drifts in and out of the house, mostly keeping to the garage. You learn she’s been staying there. She has her own rhythm—friends, her girlfriend. It’s soft, watching her have something sweet.
Some days, Joel tries to coax you outside. Mentions the farmers’ meetings, the community dinners, the patrol schedules. You always shake your head.
“Maybe next week,” you say
He nods like he already knew. But he keeps asking.
And he keeps bringing things home. A pressed flower. A basket of foods you loved. A novel he found in the old library, the corners worn soft. He never makes a show of it. Just leaves them on the counter.
Sometimes you thank him.
Sometimes you just stare at the gift, fingertips brushing its edge, shock and disbelief running through your system.
Then one morning, the sky pale with early snowlight, you wake up to the house quiet. You move through the rooms on autopilot—bare feet against cold floors, the air sharp in your lungs.
You’re about to shower, something you’ve started looking forward to. You love the feeling of water washing away the ache, if only for a little while.
But when you open the drawer for clothes—nothing. Every shirt, every pair of jeans you’ve gathered from Maria and Tommy over the past few weeks is gone, tangled in the bottom of the basket. Unwashed.
You curse softly under your breath.
Passing through the kitchen, you spot a folded note on the counter. Joel’s handwriting—blocky, uneven.
Went to help at the barn.
Didn’t get to the laundry yet. My bad.
You can borrow whatever of mine you need.
—J.M.
You stare at it for a long time, thumb brushing over the edge of the paper. The thought of him doing your laundry hits you sideways. You can picture it too easily: at the sink, sleeves rolled up, that furrow between his brows.
Your face warms. You forgot he’s been the one washing your clothes. Your shirts. Your jacket. Your jeans.
Your bras.
Your panties.
God, you were married to the man for almost 15 years, yet now you were getting bashful and flushed over the fact that he was touching your underwear. You cursed your mind.
The note ends with a postscript, scribbled small:
Stay warm. Water heater’s touchy again—let it run first.
You let out a quiet, reluctant smile.
You take a shower. The water sputters and steams, hot enough to sting. You stand under it longer than you should, until the mirror fogs and your skin glows.
When you step out, the air bites against your damp hair. You wrap yourself in a towel and pad barefoot to his bedroom. The floorboards creak like they recognize you. The dresser drawers are stiff; they don’t like being opened. You rummage through the top one, the smell hitting you before your fingers even find it—cedar and faint tobacco.
Soft flannel. His.
You pause, thumb running over the collar, the worn edges. You haven’t worn Joel’s clothes in years—a whole lifetime has happened since. But the muscle memory is still there; you remember exactly how the fabric has been mended to shape.
You hesitate anyway.
“Jesus,” you whisper to no one. “You’re ridiculous.”
You slip it on.
The sleeves hang long, brushing your wrists, the fabric rough. It still smells like him, even washed. You close your eyes and breathe, until it almost hurts.
And suddenly you’re back there. In that other life.
The early mornings. The arguments about stupid shit. The way he’d leave his boots by the door and say, “I’ll get ‘em later,” and you’d roll your eyes and pick them up yourself. The nights when he’d come home late, exhausted and half-awake, and still manage to find you in the dark.
You don’t mean to move, but you do—backward, step by step, until your knees hit the edge of the bed. His bed. You fall onto it, the mattress giving beneath you. You press your face deeper into his pillow, chasing that comfort.
“Goddamn you,” you whisper into the cotton.
But what you mean is thank you.
It’s like being wrapped in him. And God, you’re terrified of what it means. Not of him—never of him—but of this. Of the way he lingers in everything.
He lingered on everything. Your soul, your life, your heart. Your body on those cold winter nights, him between your in a way only a lover knows how. Your body as you pinched and stroked you to ecstasy like it was his sole purpose.
Your breath hitches, and your fingers twitch against the fabric. You shouldn’t. You won’t. You’re stronger than this—or so you tell yourself. But your resolve frays like threadbare cloth.
Your hand moves before you can stop it, tentative at first, grazing the hem of his flannel. A shiver runs through you, sharp and electric.
No, you think, biting your lip hard enough to sting. Don’t do this.
But his voice echoes in your mind, soft and teasing, unraveling you.
C’mon, darlin’. Let go for me.
You’re lost in him, in this need whispered against your skin.
Your hand drifts lower, fingertips grazing the skin just above your knee. The touch is feather-light, testing.
You part your thighs, with cool air kissing your slick heat; you’re already drenched. When’s the last time you let yourself feel this? Years, maybe. Survival doesn’t leave room for want.
You slide through your folds, parting them, circling the swollen ache that built so quickly, just off his smell.
Please, Joel. Touch me. I’ve been so cold.
One finger slips inside, then another. The stretch is perfect, but not enough. You curl them, searching, and when you find that spot, your breath stumbles out in a broken moan.
You take me so good, baby. Always have.
You nod against the fabric, and then hastily pull the buttons undone down to your navel, and you push one side aside with trembling fingers.
Your breast spills free—flushed, nipple peaked tight. You cup it, thumb flicking with your nail once, twice, then pinching hard enough to make your breath hitch. The sting shoots straight to your cunt. You roll the nipple between finger and thumb, tugging until your back lifts off the mattress.
You move your head to the side, the collar in front of your nose, and you stay inhaling him while you fuck yourself on your fingers, deep, steady strokes that match the pulse in your ears.
The rhythm turns frantic. Wet sounds fill the small space, obscene and perfect. You add a third finger; the burn is exquisite. You imagine his weight pinning you down, hips snapping, voice rough in your ear.
You want me to come in the pussy I put a ring on?
You come with a muffled cry, body shuddering. Your walls clamp down, thighs trembling. Pleasure crashes in sharp, endless waves, your fingers still buried deep, slick coating your hand and the inside of your thighs.
The world narrows to the pulse of your heartbeat, the ragged rhythm of your gasps. Slowly, the waves ebb, leaving you trembling in their wake. Your hand falls away, slick and heavy, resting against your exposed breast. You don’t move to cover yourself.
The room is quiet again, save for the soft creak of the bedframe beneath your weight and the faint chirping of morning birds.
Your chest heaves, each breath a struggle. Staring at the ceiling, your eyes tracing the cracks as your mind catches up to your body. The pleasure lingers, but it’s drowned by the slow creep of something else.
Guilt, maybe.
You close your eyes, willing the thought away, but it lingers like the scent on the pillow, like your next thought:
You might be falling in love with your husband again.
┈┈・ ☣・┈┈
He was early.
You spotted him through the restaurant window, standing under the awning with one hand tucked into his jacket pocket, the other rubbing along his jaw. He looked… nervous. The sight did something funny to your stomach, seeing this broad, quiet man fidgeting like a teenager on prom night.
When he caught sight of you walking toward him, he straightened so fast it almost made you laugh. His hand dropped from his face, and a faint, almost shy smile tugged at his mouth.
“Hey,” he said, voice low and rough, that easy southern drawl curling around the word. “You look—uh. Nice.”
You smiled. “You too.”
He was wearing his usual—plaid shirt, denim jacket, jeans—but somehow it worked differently tonight. Maybe it was the effort. The way his hair was combed down, neat but still a little messy near the edges, or the fact that his boots looked like he’d actually wiped them off before coming.
The hostess seated you near the window. The two of you sat across from each other, menus up like shields, both pretending to read while you waited for the other to speak first.
“So,” Joel started after a few moments, clearing his throat. “Uh—”
You looked up. “Uh?”
“I should probably jus’—jus’ say this upfront.”
You set your menu down, a small smile forming. “Okay.”
He leaned back in his chair, fingers tapping against the table once before curling into a fist. “I got a kid,” he blurted. “Her name’s Sarah. She’s one. Almost two.”
He paused, eyes flicking between you and the salt shaker.
“She’s… well, she’s my whole damn world. I jus’ don’t wanna waste anyone’s time pretendin’ otherwise.”
He said it like he was bracing for a hit. His shoulders were stiff, jaw tight. You could tell it wasn’t something he said often—probably something he practiced in his head on the way here.
“You love her.”
He let out a breath, softer than a sigh. “Yeah. More’n I thought I could love anythin’, to be honest. It’s jus’ been me and her since—well, since birth.” His lips twitched, almost a smile. “So that’s kinda my life. I work, I come home, I make sure she eats somethin’ other than pancakes, and I pass out by nine. Not real excitin’.”
You grinned. “You sound like a good dad.”
That stopped him. He blinked, mouth opening like he didn’t quite know what to do with the words. “You ain’t—uh—you’re not scared off?”
“By a good dad?” you teased. “No. I think that’s actually kind of attractive.”
His ears went a little pink. He looked down, rubbed the back of his neck. “Well,” he murmured. “That’s a first.”
After that, the tension broke.
You asked him about his work—how long he’d been building houses—and his face lit up when he talked about it. He told you about learning carpentry, working with his brother Tommy. You told him about your job, about the people you worked with, the work politics he’d probably hate.
And then somehow the conversation drifted back to Sarah.
“She’s wild,” Joel said, shaking his head with a fond smile. “Got more attitude than I do. Last week she told Tommy he was ‘too old’ to play hide and seek.”
You laughed, and he grinned wider, encouraged.
“She’s obsessed with dinosaurs right now. Keeps askin’ me if there’s any still walkin’ ‘round Texas. I told her, no, but she says maybe there’s one hidin’ in the Hill Country.”
“She sounds smart.”
“Too damn smart, sometimes.” He took a sip of water, then added in a quieter voice, “Her mama—well. She ain’t ‘round. So I’m jus’ tryin’ to figure it out best I can.”
You didn’t press. You just nodded, the silence that followed soft.
Between courses, you caught him watching you once or twice—quick, flickering glances that he pretended didn’t happen when you met his eyes. He asked if your food was good, made a few jokes about the size of the portions, grumbled when the waiter brought him a fancy small plate that “wouldn’t fill a bird.”
It was nice. Simple.
By the time the check came, you felt lighter. The awkwardness from the start had melted into something easy, something warm. You tried to grab for your wallet, but Joel was faster, already sliding his card onto the tray.
“Joel—”
“Nope.”
“C’mon, at least let me—”
“Darlin’, don’t even try.”
You stared at him, fighting a smile. “Darlin’?”
He froze, caught off guard by his own mouth. “Oh. Uh—slipped out. Sorry.”
You laughed. “Don’t be.”
He looked down at his plate, hiding a grin.
When you stepped outside, the night was cool and damp. Streetlights hummed overhead, and the air smelled like rain waiting to happen. Joel walked beside you, hands shoved in his jacket pockets, close enough that your sleeve brushed his once or twice.
At your front door, he stopped.
“Well,” he said, clearing his throat. “I had a lotta fun tonight. Really did.”
“Me too.”
He shifted, eyes darting between you and the porch light. “If you wanna… maybe—I don’t know—keep goin’. Not tonight, I mean—well, maybe tonight, but not like that—jus’… I mean, if you wanna see me ‘gain.”
You tried, you really did, but the laugh bubbled out anyway again. He went red to the ears.
“Sorry,” you said between breaths. “You’re just—”
“Terrible at this?”
“Adorable,” you corrected.
“Ain’t heard that one ‘fore.”
You stepped closer, your voice quieter. “Then I guess you were overdue.”
And before he could come up with another flustered thing to say, you leaned up and kissed him.
It was gentle, brief, testing. His breath hitched, the soft scratch of his stubble grazing your chin. But then he kissed you back, slow and certain.
When you finally pulled apart, both of you were smiling without meaning to.
“You wanna come inside?” you asked, barely above a whisper.
He hesitated, mouth curving into something between a grin and a question. “Sarah’s with Tommy.”
You blinked, and shook your head at your mind. “Right. So you should probably—”
“I’ll jus’ pay him more,” he said quickly, like it was the easiest decision in the world.
That made you laugh. “You sure?”
He looked at you, really looked at you, eyes soft and steady. “Yeah. I’m sure.”
You stepped back, opened the door. He followed you in.
The click of the lock behind you sounded louder than it should have. The rain started to fall outside, soft against the windows.
And that, was the start of it all.
┈┈・ ☣・┈┈
Lights wind around the lampposts, glowing gold through the frost, and you swear the whole town smells faintly of cinnamon and pine.
The crowds gathered around the tree—families, couples, kids running around with half-eaten cookies and sticky fingers. The fire pit crackles, throwing warmth into the cold night. You stand beside Tommy, watching Maria up on the platform giving a short speech about community, about making it through another winter together.
Tommy’s got Benji in his arms. The kid’s nodding off, head tucked under his chin, thumb hanging loose from his mouth. His curls are sticking up in every direction.
You lean a little closer, smile softly. “He’s about two minutes from a faceplant.”
Tommy grins, voice low so he doesn’t wake the boy. “Yeah, he’s a fighter though. Ain’t givin’ in easy.”
Benji stirs, blinking up at you with heavy-lidded eyes. You offer your arms without thinking. “Want me to take him?”
Tommy looks between you and the sleepy kid, then chuckles. “Hey, bud, wanna go over to Aunt, huh?”
Aunt. You’re not even sure he realizes he said it until your throat tightens. You just nod, arms open, and Benji reaches for you without hesitation.
He’s warm and smells like sugar. His little hand curls into your jacket as his head droops against your shoulder. You sway a little, rocking him out of habit you thought you’d forgotten.
Tommy watches, something soft flickering in his expression. “You always were good with kids,” he says.
You smile, brushing a curl from Benji’s forehead. “Guess it’s like riding a bike.”
“Yeah,” Tommy murmurs. “One hell of a bike.”
You don’t respond. Your eyes trace the curve of Benji’s lashes, the faint freckles under his eyes. He’s got that same Miller look—those brown eyes, that furrow even when he’s half-asleep. You’ve seen it in Tommy. In Joel. In Sarah.
Your chest tightens. You look away before Tommy can see the wet shine starting in your eyes.
Maria’s speech winds down, her voice softening into a smile. The crowd claps. Maria steps off the platform, her eyes finding Tommy and Benji immediately.
“There’s my boys,” she says, coming over.
She holds her arms out for Benji. He mumbles something sleepy, reaching one hand back toward you before his head falls against Maria’s shoulder.
“Out cold,” she whispers, smiling.
You nod, hands feeling strangely empty once he’s gone.
The music starts again—a few people strumming guitars, someone singing off-key but earnest. Around you, people start exchanging small, wrapped gifts. You’d almost forgotten you brought yours.
“Hey,” you murmur, reaching into your coat pocket and pulling out the little parcel. “This is for Benji.”
Tommy takes it, grinning as he peels back the paper. Inside is a tiny carved horse, the wood polished smooth, the details careful—each line of the mane precise. You spent weeks finding it, trading with an older man in the workshop who’d carved it by hand.
“Look at this,” Tommy says, awe threading through his voice. “You serious? You got this for him?”
You shrug, a little bashful. “He’s obsessed with the ones you keep in the barn. Figured he needed one he can keep in his pocket.”
Maria smiles, kissing her son’s temple. “He’s gonna love it.”
You hand her two more small bundles—one for each of them. A new leather glove set for Tommy, stitched tight and warm. A scarf for Maria, deep green, softer as anything you’ve felt in years.
Tommy whistles low. “You didn’t have to—”
“I wanted to.”
They glance at each other. That wordless kind of look. Then Maria reaches behind her coat and pulls out a square, neatly wrapped in cloth.
“This one’s from us.”
“You didn’t—”
“Jus’ open it,” he says, voice low.
The paper rustles softly. You fold it back, careful with the corners. Then your breath catches.
It’s a photo.
A real, glossy photo in a simple wooden frame. The edges yellowed with age but the image clear.
You and Joel—both asleep, tangled up on a sunlit porch. His arm draped across your waist. Your head resting against his chest. Sarah’s in the background, hands on her hips, grinning at the camera like she’s in on a secret. And in the far corner, barely visible in the reflection, a familiar shadow—Tommy, holding the camera.
Your throat closes.
You trace the edge of the frame with your thumb. “Tommy… how—”
“After the outbreak,” he says quietly, staring into the fire instead of at you. “First couple years. Went back to Austin. Most of it was gone, but the photo box was still there. Been keepin’ it safe.”
You don’t realize you’re crying until the tears blur the image in your hands. You blink fast, but it doesn’t stop the ache building in your chest.
“I thought they were all gone,” you whisper.
Tommy shrugs, smiling a little.
You step forward and hug him. Tight. Your arms around his shoulders, the photo pressed between you so you don’t drop it. He hesitates, then holds you back just as firmly.
Maria watches with a soft smile, Benji sleeping peacefully against her.
You pull back eventually, eyes red, voice rough. “Thank you,” you murmur.
Tommy’s face is all soft lines. “Go eat. You look like you’ll fall into the fire otherwise.” He grins and gestures toward the Tipsy Bison like he’s offering you heaven on a platter.
It smells like cinnamon and cheap liquor and something toasted that turns your stomach into guilty wanting. You thread through people, keeping the picture safe against your ribs. The crowd moves slow; laughter spills from somewhere, and someone is playing the guitar off-key and everyone loves it anyway.
A man steps in front of you—too close, his breath warm with old-cologne regret. He’s around your age, maybe a decade younger if you squint, wearing a patched jacket and confidence like it’s a badge.
“You lookin’ lonely,” he says, grin crooked. “Mind if I—”
“I’m not,” you say. Your smile is small and final. You tuck the word away and step to the side to keep the crowd moving. You make it to the bar, and order your drink. It comes quickly.
He doesn’t take the hint, following you. “Come on, lighten up. I’ve got a bottle with your name on it.”
“Not interested,” you say, firmer. The drink in your hand clinks. You can feel the edges of the photo under your palm like a talisman.
He laughs like you’re the joke. “Someone’s touchy. You look like you could use a good time.”
“Or maybe you could use a lesson,” you say. “Either way, back off.”
People nearby glance. A woman in a knitted hat gives you a sympathetic look; a boy laughs and points. The man’s jaw tightens. He takes a step closer until his fingers brush your arm.
“Don’t,” you say. Loud enough now. Heads turn.
He bends, leans in. “I said—”
You lift the cup and pour. The liquor arcs, wet and immediate, over his face. His hair plastered flat, his mouth opens in surprise, then anger.
“Jesus—” he spits, hand flying to his face. His laugh is gone. He wipes at his eyes, fury hot and immediate.
“Don’t touch me,” you snap. “Don’t touch any woman who doesn’t want it. Fuck off asshole.”
He glares at you, anger thick enough to taste.
The he moves.
Your body reacts before your brain: the shove, the pressure of a palm against his chest to put distance between you and the hand that hovered too long. Something clamps down on your neck—hard—and cold fingers braided through your hair. Pain flares hot along your scalp as he pulls. Instinct roars, everything narrowing to the shape of the man’s face.
You twist, ready to break his nose, but you doesn’t get the chance.
A blur of motion—then the man’s body jerks sideways. He hits the ground hard, air leaving him in a grunt.
You stumble away from the sudden relief of pressure on your head. You cradle it, and look over your shoulder with harsh breaths.
Joel’s there.
Not the quiet Joel. Not the ‘coffee in the morning’ Joel. Not the Joel who sleeps in your bed, holding you tight. This is something else. A version of him pulled straight out of the man you met at the gas station—feral and unfiltered. His chest heaves once before he moves again, towering over the man.
“Get your fuckin’ hands off my wife!”
The words tear out of him, raw, louder than the music, louder than the people shouting. And then he’s on him.
Fists. Over and over. Flesh hitting flesh, the sound thick and wet. Someone screams his name.
Joel doesn’t hear. He’s somewhere else: lost to the sound of his own heartbeat, to the cruelty of a world that took too much from him and dared to reach for you.
“Joel!” you shout, pushing through the people trying to pull him off. “Joel, stop!”
He doesn’t.
You grab his shoulder, hard, nails digging into the fabric of his jacket.
That gets him. His fist hangs midair, knuckles split, breath ragged. He turns. His eyes—they’re wild. Like he doesn’t even recognize where he is.
Then he sees you.
The rage drains fast, leaving him pale. His hands fall. He looks down at the man beneath him, half-conscious, face bleeding into the floor. The silence that follows is brutal. Everyone’s staring. No one moves.
Joel’s chest rises and falls, too fast. Then he stands, his hands—bloodied and shaking—on your face.
“Hey. Hey, look at me. You okay?” His voice cracks halfway through, the old, broken edge of it cutting through everything else. His thumbs brush your cheeks, leaving streaks of red. “He hurt you? Tell me if he did.”
You shake your head, swallowing hard. You’re fine. You were fine. You always were.
He growls something at your lack of words, looking around the crowd before tucking you against his side and his hand steady at your back. You can hear the crowd murmuring, whispers darting like fish through water.
Exiting the Tipsy Bison, you spot Tommy’s face through the haze—brows drawn, mouth tight. Maria’s beside him, arms crossed, listening to someone whisper in her ear. Her expression doesn’t change.
You hold your photo tighter. You stare straight ahead, past the people, past the lights.
The fear comes slow.
Maybe Joel did love you once. Maybe he still did. But you can’t stop thinking about what love costs now. What it demands.
He doesn’t speak until you’re well past the town square, the noise fading behind you. The snow crunches under your boots, slow and steady, the kind of silence that feels heavier than shouting.
Then you pull away.
“Stop,” you say.
He does, immediately. Turns to you in the middle of the empty street, breath clouding in the cold. Snow gathers in his beard, catches on his lashes. He looks older like this—softer really, though the blood on his hands hasn’t dried yet.
“I’m sorry,” he says quietly. “If I scared you. I didn’t mean to. I’m—so sorry, darlin’.”
You shake your head, words shaking with your breath. “No. It’s not that. I just—” You press a hand to your chest. “I can’t do this anymore.”
His brow furrows. “Can’t do what?”
“This,” you say. You motion between you, your voice thin. “You. Me. The way you—look at me like I’m still…” You stop, shaking your head. “Like we’re still the same people.”
He steps closer, hand half-raised, hesitant. “What are you talkin’ about?”
“You scare me, Joel.”
The words hang there, suspended. You can see the way they hit him, like a punch he doesn’t block.
He blinks. “What?”
“You scare me,” you repeat, quieter now. “Not because of what you did. But because you think you owe it to me. Like I’m still yours.”
“You are mine.”
You close your eyes. The snow’s starting to fall harder, catching on your lashes. “That’s exactly what I mean.”
He shakes his head, steps forward again, pleading. “I didn’t mean to lose control. I jus’—he touched you, and I saw red. I couldn’t—hell, I ain’t proud of it, but I’d do it ‘gain if it meant—”
“Joel.” You interrupt, firm. “Just stop.”
He freezes mid-sentence, mouth still open like the air left him.
You take a step back. Then another. “You keep saying you’re sorry, but you’re not. You’re still justifying it. You think it’s love, but it’s not. It’s fear. It’s control. You think if you hold on tight enough, you won’t lose me again.”
His chest rises and falls, ragged. “You don’t understand—”
“You were my husband,” you say, your voice shaking now. “You were the best thing I had. And then the world ended, and I lost you. I learned to live without you. To fight. To protect myself. And now—now you’re back, and I don’t know how to breathe with you around, yet at the same time I can’t. You smother me, Joel.”
“I ain’t tryin’ to smother you, I’m tryin’ to keep you alive.”
“I don’t need you to keep me alive,” you fire back. “I already did that for twenty years without you.”
He takes a step closer, voice breaking. “I don’t know how to not care ‘bout you. You understand? I don’t know how to turn that off. I’ve already lost everythin’ once, I can’t—”
“But you aren’t my husband anymore.”
He stops cold.
The snow falls thicker now, lazy flakes settling in his hair, catching in his lashes. His breath comes out uneven, fogging the air between you. He looks at you like he’s trying to recognize a face in a dream—one that keeps slipping away every time he blinks.
“No.”
“Joel—”
“No.” He shakes his head hard, eyes wide, something wild behind them. “Don’t say that. Don’t—don’t do that to me.”
You step forward, voice soft. “Joel, listen to me—”
“You don’t get to just say that like it’s some Goddamn fact. Like it ain’t—” He cuts himself off, running a hand down his face, the motion trembling. “Y’think I can jus’ stop bein’ your husband ‘cause the world went to shit?”
You feel your throat close. “That’s not what I—”
“‘Cause I never stopped.” His voice cracks, raw and broken. “Not for one second. Every day, I—” He presses a fist against his chest, like he’s trying to hold something in. “I woke up, and I thought of you. I went to sleep thinkin’ of you. When I saw—when I saw Ellie—I thought, ‘you’d like her,’ because I still—still thought about what you’d like.”
“Joel…”
He’s breathing hard now, his voice shaking. “Y’think I don’t know what I am? What I’ve done? Y’think I don’t hate myself every time I look in the mirror? But I never—” He stops. His jaw clenches, and then, in a shaky motion, he reaches for the zipper of his coat.
“Don’t—stop—”
But he’s already pulling it open, shoving the heavy fabric aside. His fingers dig under his flannel, and when something comes out, something holding on a thin chain.
The moonlight catches it. A dull glint of gold. A wedding band, pressed against his chest like a second heartbeat.
You go still.
Your throat burns, but no sound comes out.
“I didn’t wear it for twenty-somethin’ years, carried it ‘round in my pocket,” he says hoarsely. His eyes glisten, fixed on yours. “Couldn’t. Didn’t feel right. But when I found you ‘gain, when I—when I saw you—” His hand trembles as he grips the ring. “I started wearin’ it ‘gain.”
You stare at him, lips parting, chest heaving with too many emotions at once.
“I thought of you every day,” he says, voice rough as gravel. “Beat myself bloody over losin’ you and Sarah. Over not savin’ you. And now you stand here and tell me I ain’t your husband.” His voice cracks. “How the hell am I supposed to live with that?”
You want to speak. You want to tell him that this isn’t fair. But when you open your mouth, nothing comes out.
Because your hands are already moving.
You reach up, fingers shaking, fumbling at your collar. The chain catches against your skin as you pull it free, and the air leaves your lungs when you pull our your own glint of gold.
Joel’s breath stutters. He takes a half step forward, like he’s afraid it’ll disappear if he gets too close. His lips part, trembling.
“You… you didn’t have it, when you left. How did you—”
“I couldn’t let it go.”
He makes a sound—half sob, half gasp—and suddenly he’s moving.
The distance between you collapses in a heartbeat. His arms are around you before you can breathe, before you can think, and then you’re both crashing together like you’ve been pulled by the same gravity. His mouth finds yours, desperate, broken, and you respond just as fiercely, clinging to him like he’s the only thing holding you upright.
The picture slips from your hand, falling face-down into the snow. You don’t even notice.
You taste salt—tears, his or yours, you can’t tell. His hands are in your hair, on your back, clutching, trembling. Yours are pressed to his chest, feeling the thrum of his heartbeat under your palms, the metal of the ring chain warm against your fingers.
He pulls back just enough to look at you. His forehead rests against yours, breath mingling in the freezing air.
“Please,” he mutters against your lips, his voice trembling like the rest of him. “Don’t—don’t go.”
“No,” you whisper back, voice rough, almost lost in the wind. “I’m not going anywhere.”
He chokes again, pulling the picture from the snow with shaking hands. His eyes go wide and hollow for a second, taking in what it is, before the sound escapes him—low, guttural, broken.
“C’mon,” he says hoarsely, tugging you toward him. “Let’s go… home.”
“Okay.”
He pulls you in close again as he guides you down the snow-lined street toward home. Rancher Street comes into view, quiet and empty, the glow of porch lights soft against the dark.
Inside, the house smells faintly of woodsmoke and something sweet. You see light spilling from the garage; Ellie’s there.
Joel sets the picture frame down gently on the entry table, reverent almost, before his attention snaps back to you. He steps forward, pressing you harshly against him again. A kiss, long and desperate, his hands clutching at your arms, your shoulders, like he’s relearning your weight against his.
You reach to his side, and he lets out a sharp wince against your lips. He curses softly, half-grunt, half-groan. “Joel—” you start, moving to check, but he shakes his head.
“Don’t care. Keep goin’,” he insists.
He leans in again, brushing against your lips, but you step back, firm. “No. Joel, c’mon. Sit.”
He huffs, muttering, but follows your gesture, settling onto the couch where you point. You rush to the kitchen, retrieving the small medical kit you know is there. When you return, he’s already watching you, breathing a little faster, eyes shadowed with something between exhaustion and longing.
“Take it off,” you instruct softly.
He frowns but complies without argument, peeling off the heavy winter coat, then the flannel, then the shirt beneath. Now bare to the waist, he’s different. The chest beneath your hands is broad, scarred, marked by years you don’t need to ask about. Hair dusts his shoulders and chest. His wedding band glints at the center, catching the firelight.
Your fingers move to the red mark forming along his ribs. You hiss softly, careful, cleaning and pressing gently. He leans into you, eyes closed, letting the quiet comfort of your care anchor him.
“You need to be careful. You aren’t young anymore, can’t heal at the same rate. We can only hope that it just stays a bruise and not something really bad.”
He doesn’t answer with words, just tilts his head, the corner of his mouth twitching ever so slightly. Then, without thinking, his hand brushes a strand of hair back from your face.
You feel it deep in your chest. The brush of his fingers lingers longer than necessary, a gentle weight that makes your pulse catch.
You can tell he’s unsure what to say, and for once, it’s the same for you. Just the storm, the couch, the soft clink of mugs.
Joel’s thumb traces along your jaw, quiet, careful. He’s watching you, and it makes your chest ache.
“I can’t believe you’re really here,” you finally whisper, voice soft, almost swallowed by the roar of the snow.
You shift closer, letting your forehead rest against his. There’s something in the way he exhales, a tension you’ve both been holding for months, released in the brush of skin to skin.
There’s a beat of silence, and then another. Neither of you moves. The room shrinks until it’s just you, him, and the heat simmering between your bodies.
You finally tilt your head up, catching his eyes.
Both of you know what the other wants. Words aren’t needed in a relationship like yours and Joel’s.
“I… are you sure?” you still check. “It might be too much. And your side might be—”
“Darlin’.”
“Yes?”
He leans up to press a quick kiss to your temple. “Stop talkin’.”
You smile just a fraction. He drags you down to be on the couch with him. Then, slower than you expect compared to before, he lowers his head, lips brushing yours—soft, tentative.
Your body responds instantly. Your hands roam from his back to your chest. He moans softly, lips parting, teeth grazing, tongues brushing, and you taste him like you’d dreamed of for countless nights.
Your hands tangle in his hair, pulling him closer, and he responds in kind, his grip firm on your waist, his body pressing into yours.
The kiss turns into a tug-of-war, pull and counter-pull, lips and hands claiming, taking, giving in equal measure.
In the midst of it, you find yourself on his lap, heart pounding. It’s been years since you’ve experienced anything like this, and your body recalls only fragments.
Your cheeks flush, and you give him a shy, light peck on the lips.
Joel pauses briefly, pulling back just enough to study your face with concern and intensity. “Hey… are you ‘kay?” he asks, his voice low and gentle.
“I’m fine,” you reply, slightly breathless, hands resting on his shoulders. “It’s just… been a while.”
His lips curve into a small, crooked smile. “You’re ain’t alone in that.”
Relief washes over you, comforting you like a warm blanket.
Joel’s hands steady your hips, guiding you as you press against him. Your hips move together, a desperate rhythm. The couch creaks faintly beneath you, but neither of you notices.
Your hands slide up to his neck, fingers threading into the hair at his nape, and he lets out a low, shuddering breath. His eyes darken, watching you with an intensity that makes your skin prickle.
“Goddamn,” he breathes, almost to himself, his voice rough with awe. “Look at you.”
You feel the heat rise in your cheeks, but there’s no room for embarrassment. The rhythm slows, and he leans back and before you can process it, he’s easing you off his lap, guiding you to lie back.
He kneels between your legs, his movements unhurried. His fingers find the hem of your jacket and shirt, and he pauses, looking to you for permission. You nod, and he peels the fabric away, exposing your skin to the cool air. His hands move to your jeans next, unbuttoning them. You lift your hips, helping him slide them off, leaving you in just your panties and bra.
Joel sits back on his heels, his eyes raking over you. He huffs out a breath, a low sound that’s half awe, half restraint. His fingers trace a slow path over the fabric covering your slit, and you both shiver at the contact.
“Fuck,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “One thing I forgot was how pretty you looked in these. How fuckin’… soft.”
You whimper, the sound escaping before you can stop it. His eyes flick up to meet yours, and his expression shifts to something almost pleading.
“Touch yourself. Wanna see.”
You hesitate for a moment, but his gaze is patient, urging you on without pressure. Slowly, you slide your fingers down, pulling your panties to the side. You touch yourself, tentative at first, moving through slick, then with more confidence as you feel his eyes on you.
Joel groans, a deep, guttural sound. His hand moves to the front of his jeans, unzipping them but not pulling them down, just enough to let his bulge sit heavy in his boxers. You swallow hard, your eyes flicking to the outline of him, your fingers faltering.
“Keep goin’,” he murmurs, his voice strained. “Need somethin’ pretty to watch. My cock… it don’t work the same no more, but you—” He breaks off, his hand palming himself through the fabric. “You’re doin’ so good.”
His words sink into you, warm and safe, fueling the fire. You circle quicker, your fingers finding a rhythm, and Joel’s breath grows uneven.
He shifts, pulling his boxers down just enough to free himself, his soft cock in his hand as he begins to stroke slowly. The sight makes your breath hitch, and you reach behind to unclasp your bra, letting it fall away. Your skin prickles under his gaze, and a flicker of insecurity creeps in.
“I’m… sorry,” you mumble, eyes dropping. “My body’s not what it used to be.”
Joel’s hand stills, and a low growl rumbles from his chest. “Get that the fuck outta your head,” he says, his voice sharp but not unkind. “I ain’t a catch, darlin’ no more. Look at me—gray hairs, creaky knees. But you? You’re still everythin’.”
You moan softly, emboldened, and slip a finger through your folds, the stretch drawing a shudder through your body. His gaze darkens, his strokes growing firmer as his cock hardens, springing up against his soft belly.
Without warning, Joel leans forward, his hands finding your waist. “C’mere,” he says, and before you can protest, he’s standing and pulling you up with him, and promptly bent down to put you over his shoulder with a grunt.
You gasp, your center of gravity thrown off.
“Joel, don’t show off!” you say, swatting at his back.
He chuckles low, and gives your ass a smack as he climbs the stairs. “Don’t matter if I’m sixty or thirty-six, darlin’. I’m makin’ sure you don’t lift a damn finger.”
The world tilts back to normal as he sets you down on his bed with a huff. He steps back, eyes raking over you, then lies back on the bed, his hand brushing his lips as he looks over at you.
“Sit,” he says, his voice low and commanding.
Your cheeks flush, and you hesitate, glancing down at yourself. “I’m… I’m too heavy,” you murmur, voice barely above a whisper.
“’Gain with this? Sit, darlin’. I ain’t askin’.” His hand reaches for yours, and the certainty in his voice pulls you past your hesitation.
You slip your soaked panties off and move to hover over his face, your thighs framing his head, your own gaze drawn to his hardened cock, now fully erect and resting against his stomach. Joel’s hands grip your hips, and with a low growl, he pulls you down, his tongue finding you with familiar skill that makes you gasp.
The heat of his mouth, the way he works you, makes you wetter than you thought possible.
Your eyes drift to his cock, and you lean forward, your breath catching as you take in the sight of him. Tentatively, you reach out, your fingers brushing against the ridges, and Joel groans against you, “Keep touchin’ me.” he mumbles into you, his voice muffled.
You wrap your hand around him, stroking slowly, matching the rhythm of his tongue. “You’re so good,” you whisper, barely aware of the words spilling out. “Joel, I—”
His hands guide your hips, urging you to move faster, and you comply, grinding harder against his mouth as your hand works him in tandem. Suddenly, a thought crosses your mind, and before you can shy away, you lean forward further, taking him into your mouth, and Joel’s hips buck slightly, a choked groan escaping him.
You hum around him, the vibration drawing another groan from deep in his chest. Pre cum fills your mouth, and you kitten lick at the tip. You can feel Joel’s thighs tense around your head, his groans against your pussy groaning.
The rhythm between you grows frantic, you sucking deep with hollow cheeks, his tongue entering and exiting.
“Joel—” you gasp, pulling back just enough to speak. “I’m close—oh fuck—shit, shit, shit!”
He doesn’t respond with words, but his tongue moves with renewed purpose, pushing you closer to the edge. The tension in your core snaps, and you come undone, a wave of pleasure crashing through you as you cry out, your body trembling against his mouth.
You ride it out, hips moving instinctively, chasing every last pulse of sensation until your breath steadies and you slump forward.
Joel’s hands are gentle now, easing you off him as he shifts beneath you. Before you can catch your breath, he flips you onto your side with a swift, the sudden change making your head spin. You laugh, breathless and a little indignant.
“Joel, you gotta stop manhandling me like that.
He chuckles, his eyes glinting with mischief, his cock pressed flush against your ass. “What, you don’t like it?” he teases, leaning over shoulder, his hand braced on your side. “Thought you’d be used to me by now.”
For a moment, neither of you speaks. Joel’s gaze locks on yours, and he moves closer, notching himself against your sopping core. This feels different—different to all the touching and kissing and sweet gestures. Like the years apart have carved out a space that only this moment can fill. .
You turn your head, looking over your shoulder, and the sight of him—his weathered face, the gray in his stubble, the liver spots on his face, the unguarded emotion in his eyes—hits you like nothing before. Tears prick at your eyes, unbidden, and your voice trembles as you speak.
“I’ve missed you.”
He groans like you stabbed him.
“...I love you.”
He lets out a sound that’s half pleasure, half pain, and pushes into you slowly, filling you with a tenderness. “I love you too,” he says, his voice rough with emotion, cracking slightly on the words. “Always have. Always fuckin’ will.”
Your lips meet over your shoulder, the kiss sloppy and desperate, but neither of you cares. It’s love, pouring into every messy press of lips, every shared breath.
His hands find yours, fingers lacing together, grounding you as he moves, slow and deep, each thrust a reclamation of what you’ve both lost.
His forehead rests against your shoulder, and you feel the tremor in his grip. “Missed you so damn much,” he murmurs, like a secret meant just for you. “Thought I’d never get this ‘gain.”
“Me too,” you whisper, your voice thick with tears. “I didn’t think… I didn’t know if we’d ever—”
“Don’t think all that,” he cuts in softly, his lips brushing your shoulder. “We’re here now. That’s what matters.”
You nod, and let the moment carry you. His movements grow steadier, more purposeful, and you match him, like when things were simpler, when it was just you and him against the world.
His hand slides up your side, resting over your heart, and you feel its frantic beat under his palm, mirroring his own. Eventually, his hand holds your ring, holding so tight your worried it might snap off, but all you can focus on is the pleasure and the cold sting of his own ring against your back.
You feel the tension coiling in your core, and Joel’s movements falter slightly, his own release building. “Your close…” he simply notes, his lips brushing your ear.
“Yes…” you breathe, your voice trembling. “You?”
“Fuck, yeah,” he mutters, a faint chuckle in his voice, but it’s laced with something else. “Together, alright? Stay with me.”
His hand moves to your cheek, turning your face so he can look at you, and the vulnerability in his eyes undoes you. You move together, faster now, chasing the edge together.
You cry out, your body trembling as the pleasure overtakes you, and Joel groans, deep and guttural, his grip tightening as he spills into you, his forehead pressed to your shoulder. His cum fills you warm and sticky.
Your bodies shudder together. You’re both gasping, clinging to each other, the intensity leaving you both raw and exposed.
For a moment, neither of you speaks, staying tangled together, his arms wrapped around you, your fingers still laced with his. The silence is comforting, a space where words aren’t needed.
Joel shifts slightly, his breath still uneven, and reaches for his handkerchief on the nightstand. “C’mere,” he murmurs, his voice soft but steady. He gently wipes the sweat from your skin, his hands careful and deliberate. You lean into his touch, your body relaxing under his care.
“You okay?” he asks, his eyes searching yours, concern etched into the lines of his face.
“More than okay,” you whisper. “You?”
“I’m good.” His thumb lingers on your cheek, and for a moment, the world feels soft, safe, just the two of you.
His eyes search yours, and then, something sparks behind them.
He sits up with a sudden burst of energy, slipping out of you gently. “Sit with me.” He gestures to the edge of the bed, his voice gentle but insistent. Your dazed, but you still follow him, pulling the covers with you. You wrap yourself and Joel underneath the sheet, pressed flush against each other.
No words are traded, no noise, nothing but feelings.
Joel’s hand moves to the chain around his neck. He tugs it, snapping it free. He holds your gaze, then reaches for your neck. You swallow hard, your heart pounding, but you nod, giving him permission. He tugs, and the chain breaks with a quiet snap, falling away.
He unspools the rings from their respective chains, tossing the broken metal over his shoulder without a second glance. He stares at them, his eyes glistening, and you feel your own throat tighten.
“What are you doing.”
He doesn’t respond.
“Are you going to make me guess?”
Mwah!
“Joel…”
Mwah!
You giggled this time, voice caught somewhere between exasperation and a smile. “Joel.”
Mwah! Mwah!
“Oh my God! You’re gonna ruin my hair!”
He didn’t stop. He kissed you once more—loudly, obnoxiously—right on the top of your head, arms wrapped around you so tight you could barely fight him off.
“Joel, what are you doing with our rings?”
He looks down at them, tracing the gold edge.
Then he began to speak, low and raw.
“I loved you ‘fore everythin’, y’know?”
“I know baby.”
“I loved you in every sunrise I saw without you, every quiet night I spent thinkin’ of you. I loved you through fear, through anger, through losin’ myself trying to find you ‘gain. And I… I still love you. Always have, always will.”
Tears spring to your eyes, and you hide your face against his shoulder.
“I never stopped,” you whisper. “Not once.”
“I know darlin’.”
His hand lifts yours, and together you trade rings—his for yours, yours for his—as a silent acknowledgment of every scar, every loss, every year separated.
“I vow,” he continues, voice steady despite the tremor beneath it, “To keep findin’ you. To stand with you through the shit, through hell. Ain’t ever let you feel alone, not ‘gain. You are my heart, my home, my life.
He swallowed.
“My wife.”
You reach for his hands, steadying them in yours. “And I vow… I vow to love you. To stay by you side, never let something come in between us again. I will walk with you, always.”
You smiled wider than you have in years.
“My husband.”
The rings slip onto fingers that know each other so intimately.
You pull each other close, pressing foreheads together. And then, finally, lips meet—slow, then urgent, sure. A kiss that stitches together all the lost time.
And you knew—this was how it was always meant to be.
pairing: clark kent/superman x reader
summary: you were fine drawing in greyscale, until superman started showing up on your fire escape like sunlight in human form. suddenly, colour began finding its way back into every part of your life.
tags: love at first sight, lover boy!superman (he invented yearning idc), artist!reader (more of a metaphor than a plot point), you get saved by superman but it’s quick, falling in love with without knowing his real identity
warning(s): suggestive content (no smut), you get buried under a building for a sec, you get a concussion and tiny head wound, no spoilers for superman (2025), gender neutral reader
word count: 7.8k
note: i’m back with another song-inspired superman fic!! this time based on sunlight by hozier, which i feel justified in using given that he’s literally solar powered 😌☀️
masterlist
You used to think that golden hour was a myth, something only photographers chased and poets romanticised. But Metropolis was different in August. The sunlight lingered, stretching long and low across the skyline, catching on glass and steel like it wanted to be remembered.
You sat on your fire escape, knees drawn up, and your sketchbook balanced precariously in your lap. You’d always been fascinated by monochrome sketches, the way simple lines and shades of grey could capture so much. Colour, you decided long ago, was a luxury you didn’t need.
Your fingers were smudged with graphite, but the page was mostly blank.
Superman landed a few feet away, quiet as a sigh.
You didn’t startle. You never did anymore.
Instead, you shifted over, making room for him as he adjusted his cape and sat down beside you, careful as always. You could feel the air shift as he settled, like gravity remembering itself.
“I figured you’d be up here,” Superman said, the warmth in his voice settling over you like the last light of day. The sound seemed to vibrate just beneath your skin. You felt a shiver run through you, quick and light, but you didn’t let it show.
“I figured you’d come and find me,” you answered, letting an easy smile tug at your mouth.
You looked up from your sketchbook and your heart hitched.
Superman’s face was all clean lines and impossible symmetry—like someone had drawn him with perfect intent. His jaw was strong, but not unkind, balanced by the slight softness around his mouth, where the colour settled in a gentle pink. His hair, dark and wind-swept from flight, curled just slightly above his brow, like even the sky didn’t want to let him go.
But it was his eyes that held you still: clear blue and startling in the dusk, like a patch of summer sky had settled into them and stayed. The light caught them in ways that didn’t feel entirely natural.
Superman didn’t glow, exactly. It was subtler than that.
He absorbed the light around him, like it belonged to him, and then gave it back. It clung to the high points of his face, softened at his throat and temples, bled golden into the deep blue of his suit. He looked like he’d stepped out of the sun itself.
You didn’t know if it was the hour or the way he always seemed to arrive at the cusp of it, but something in you responded every time. It was as if your body recognised his light before your mind did. Like you were meant to bask in it.
“You’re getting predictable,” Superman teased, resting his arms on the railing with a quiet clink of something solid against metal. “Should I start bringing snacks?”
“If you brought snacks, I’d never leave,” you said, giving him a wry look.
“I don’t know,” he replied. “Pretty sure there’s a strict no-picnics-on-fire-escapes policy in the Metropolis city code. Article Five, Section Twelve, right after the clause about not feeding pigeons hot dogs.”
“Hey, that was one time,” you joked, even though you’d never so much as tried to feed a pigeon.
Familiar with your banter, Superman quipped, “One time too many.”
You rolled your eyes, but the warmth in your chest stayed.
If someone had told you a few months ago that you’d be exchanging jokes with Superman almost every night, you would have called them crazy. And yet here you were.
“Maybe you’re the one who’s getting predictable,” you shot back softly. “You’re the superhero. I thought you’d have something more interesting to do on a Friday night.”
He gave a shrug—one that somehow managed to look self-effacing, even though his shoulders could probably carry the sky. “Some of us like routine,” Superman said. “Besides, you’re a pretty good Friday night.”
Then he shifted slightly, settling onto the narrow fire escape. Despite the awkward fit, his body language was open and relaxed. He leaned back, arms loose, head tilted just enough to catch the last light.
His comfort didn’t come just from the sun setting above him. It also came from being here with you.
You watched the sun catch the side of his face. Since getting to know him better, you had come to the conclusion that there was something different in the way light moved around him. You thought the sun was just a little slower to let him go than other people.
To distract yourself, you glanced back down at your sketchbook. Still blank.
Superman knew you too well. His eyes followed, his brow lifting just slightly with quiet notice. “You haven’t drawn anything,” he observed.
“Not yet.”
Superman glanced at you sideways, his voice gentle, easy. “Is that a creative choice, or a mood?”
You rolled a red pencil between your fingers and shrugged. “Both, maybe?”
“What about your latest piece? How’s it coming along?”
You hesitated, then flipped the sketchbook around to show him the incomplete drawing of a building collapsing—just like it had at Metropolis University half a year ago—coming undone like a ball of yarn.
“No progress,” you lamented.
Superman made a sound, half-laugh and half-sigh, low and warm in his throat. “I know the feeling.” His voice was a little rough around the edges tonight.
“Bad day?” you asked, your brows pinched just slightly.
He shifted beside you, the fire escape creaking faintly beneath his weight. Superman’s gaze swept out over the horizon. His voice was quieter now, soft enough that it felt like it belonged just to you.
“The city never really sleeps,” he declared. “Neither do I, sometimes.”
You nodded. “I can’t even imagine.”
Superman turned to you. “How about you? What’s going through your mind tonight?”
You brushed your fingers over the pencil again. “I don’t know. I used to like shadows and shading, but these days I’ve been drawn to colour, for the first time since I was a little kid.”
“You always liked greyscale,” Superman recalled. “You said it was honest.”
You blinked, though you shouldn’t have been surprised that he remembered. Superman remembered everything you said, even the details that most people would deem inconsequential.
You caught the last of the sunlight flickering over his defined cheekbone, painting gold onto skin that already held so much warmth.
“It felt safer,” you confessed. “Easier. But you’re making me reconsider.”
Superman reached out, fingers brushing yours as he shifted closer. Your hand moved almost on its own, tracing the curve of his shoulder, the way his red cape folded near his collarbone, the light pooling beneath his jaw. The red pencil stayed steady in your fingers.
Like you often did on nights like these, you reached up and smoothed the one errant curl that had fallen onto his forehead, brushing it back into place with the rest. Superman’s eyes fluttered shut for a moment, but he didn’t move. You lingered just long enough to feel the warmth of his skin beneath your fingertips before your hand drifted down, flattening the edge of his cape where it creased at his shoulder.
“I haven’t used red in years,” you admitted softly. The implied, and I haven’t wanted to, not until I met you, dangled between you.
The softness in Superman’s stare made the edges of his usually steady expression blur. His eyes dropped to the pencil resting between your fingers, the deep, rusted red of it sitting pretty against your skin.
For a moment, you wondered what your face looked like reflected in his eyes, and whether he could see the colour steeping back into you.
“Is that new?” Superman prompted, nudging his head towards the red pencil.
You shook your head, your heartbeat in your ears. “Old. Just forgotten.”
The line of Superman’s mouth thawed into something gentler than anything you were used to seeing from him in public. “I’m glad you remembered it.”
You didn’t answer.
There were too many things you hadn’t admitted—not to your friends, not to your professors, not even to yourself. Not about the way your chest tightened whenever you saw Superman above the city. Not about how you’d started feeling the urge to use colour around the same time you met him. Not about what that might mean.
The sun dipped lower, and you swore you could see it sinking into him. His body absorbed the light like it belonged to him.
The colours of the sunset around you faded.
Superman didn’t say goodbye when he left. He never did. But you always felt the shift in the air, the way the warmth lingered just a little longer before it slipped away.
And when you looked down, the red pencil was still burning—like it had touched the sun and remembered how to glow.
Six months ago
The first time you met Superman, you were pinned under a science building at Metropolis University. It was a structural collapse—sudden, loud, and courtesy of a low-level alien threat. You were walking back from a foreign language class and hadn’t even seen Metropolis’s hero fight the extraterrestrial.
It was silent when you came to. Not peaceful, just eerily quiet.
Dust hung thick in the air, filtering the sky into a flat, formless grey. One of your legs was trapped beneath something heavy, and even though you couldn’t move, that was the worst of it. You didn’t feel any pain, just a persistent pressure.
And a terrible headache, but that was probably just a concussion.
It was dark, just rubble and smoke. Sunlight tried to pour through a fractured wall but didn’t quite reach you. Everything felt far away, like you were underwater, or dreaming.
Then a shape moved through the dust.
You didn’t see his face, not then. Just the outline of him, backlit and glowing—shoulders broad, red cape rippling in the ruined air. He stepped forward, and the light seemed to follow him.
Superman.
You might have been amazed to see him if you had the energy. But all you felt was a sudden warmth, spreading slowly through your chest like someone had struck a match inside you.
He knelt beside you. His eyes scanned you carefully, pausing on the wound at your temple where you were bleeding.
“Can you hear me?” Superman asked. “Can you tell me your name?”
You tried, but your mouth was too dry.
He murmured something reassuring. Checked your pulse with a touch so careful you barely felt it.
“It’s alright,” Superman said. “You’re okay. I’m getting you out of here.”
He moved the debris as if it weighed nothing. His hands glowed faintly golden where they touched the stone—or maybe that was just the sun catching on his skin.
You only remembered flashes: the sky starting to turn blue again, the shout of a paramedic nearby, the call of your name from a friend and classmate who recognised you.
Somewhere between paramedics lifting you onto a stretcher and checking your eyes, you whispered, “I want to go home.”
Then arms stronger than anything you had ever felt cradled you against his chest. You must have blacked out again, because the next thing you remembered was cool air against your face, and Superman’s voice asking gently, “Where do you live?”
He must have gotten the okay from the paramedics, because there was no way Superman would let you go home without getting checked first.
You blinked blearily, lifted a hand toward your building, and slurred your address and something about always leaving your fire escape unlocked.
Superman paused. “You really shouldn’t do that, it’s not safe.” It might have been a scolding if he hadn’t sounded so worried.
You didn’t answer.
Superman carried you up anyway—slow, like he didn’t want to jostle your head. The metal grates of your fire escape creaked under his red boots when he landed. Your fingers curled lightly into the symbol at his chest. You were too fatigued to let go.
He laid you gently on the couch inside. The blanket he pulled over you had been left crumpled over the armrest the night before by your best friend. He hoped its familiarity would ease some of the day’s wreckage.
Superman hesitated, just for a moment. He wasn’t supposed to linger after someone was safe, not once the danger had passed. But he crouched beside you and checked your pulse again, just to be sure. He brushed the hair from your forehead, revealing the band-aid the paramedics pressed over your cleaned wound.
His hand stilled there, fingers resting lightly against your temple. Something in his chest ached; sudden and sharp and human.
You didn’t remember much, only that when you opened your eyes later, the light outside your windows was golden. And your chest felt warm, like something small had caught fire there.
A couple of nights later, you couldn’t sleep.
You planned to sleep before the sun even went down to capitalise on the fact that you needed rest, but you couldn’t.
According to the note Superman left you, the paramedics had told you to take it easy, let the concussion settle, which you had. Mostly. But that night, just as the sun began setting, the stillness of your bedroom was too quiet, the air too stale. So you’d crept up to the fire escape with a mug of hot cocoa, the steam soft and curling as it caught the breeze.
You perched with your favourite blanket, crossed your legs, and watched the city glow below.
This high up, in this quieter part of the city where university housing clustered under decades-old brickwork, the skyline appeared as if the sunset had dyed it pink and gold.
You liked the way the evening air nipped at your skin, how the mug kept your hands warm. It was the first time you’d been outside since the building fell, and Superman reached out and pulled you into the sunlight.
You didn’t feel the subtle ripple in the air. Superman landed silently, but you still flinched in surprise. Most of the cocoa sloshed out of your mug, and you mourned the loss of it with a quiet gasp.
He raised both hands in a silent gesture of apology as he slowed his approach.
“Sorry,” Superman said quickly. His voice was almost as delicate as you remembered it being when he saved you. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.”
“It’s okay,” you assured him, then blinked. “Um, hi.”
Superman raised a hand in a small wave, a sheepish smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. And there they were—devastating dimples you hadn’t known he had, deep and boyish. A warm, open grin that reached his eyes.
One perfect black curl had fallen loose from the rest, trailing down onto his forehead, and you had the sudden, silly urge to reach up and brush it back.
You gaped at Superman, stunned, your breath caught before you could form a word. It was the first time you’d seen him clearly and not in dust and silhouette, or in a memory softened by dizziness and daylight.
Superman stood tall, his cape fluttering behind him. His suit was slightly more muted than you’d expected, deep sky blue with bright reds and golds, as if it were designed to shimmer when the light hit just right.
You found yourself cataloguing him the way you might study a figure for a life drawing class. The sweep of his jaw, the balance of his features, the way his eyes, so vividly blue they almost glowed, tilted slightly downward as if he were always on the verge of concern.
Superman didn’t look real. More like something sculpted, idealised, rendered in impossible light. And yet he was standing there, shoulders hunched like he didn’t want to take up too much space.
As human as anyone you had ever met.
You kept trying to find a flaw that would make him easier to look at, but he didn’t seem to have one. There was a softness to him that felt at odds with the weight of his legend.
You couldn’t stop staring. And Superman looked right back.
“I wasn’t sure you’d be awake,” he said after a moment. “I’ve been checking in.”
You swallowed, trying to get your voice back. “Checking in?” you echoed.
Superman nodded. “Discreetly.” A faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Didn’t want to intrude.”
Something about the earnest way he said it made your stomach turn. You tucked your legs under yourself and blinked, trying to keep your voice steady.
“I didn’t think you made house calls,” you commented. “I thought you just rescued people and flew away.”
Superman’s smile was a little sheepish. “I usually do.” He glanced down at his boots, trying not to fidget. When he looked back up, his eyes lingered on yours only briefly before flicking to the side again. “This was different.”
Different.
You weren’t sure what he meant, but you nodded anyway.
“How are you holding up?”
You shifted your mug in your hands, the ceramic cool against your palms since its contents were emptied when he startled you.
“Better, I think,” you admitted after a pause. “The concussion made everything feel foggy for a while, like the whole world was muffled.” You glanced down at your blanket-draped knees, then back at the superhero. “But the headaches are easing now. I’ve been sleeping more. Or at least trying to.”
Superman nodded, his gaze almost cautious. His hands rested lightly on the fire escape railing, but you could see the way his fingers curled—like he was holding himself back from reaching for you.
“And the rest of it?” he asked gently. “Any anxiety, or panic attacks? Aftershocks like that can take time to develop.”
Superman’s expression wasn’t clinical; it was vulnerable and concerned. It struck you, in that small, quiet second, that this wasn’t some routine check-in. He cared. Not as an obligation. Not as Superman. Just as someone who had carried you out of the rubble and stayed.
Your voice dipped. “Sometimes. I still jump when something falls too loud. Or when I hear sirens. And I’ve been having dreams, or, I guess, nightmares. They’re not bad, but they make me feel like I’m back under that rubble.”
Superman listened like every word mattered.
“But I think,” you continued, “I felt safe once you were there. When I saw you, I stopped panicking.”
His gaze was steady in a way that felt real. You couldn’t believe he was a superhero, not at that moment. If anything, he just seemed deeply, comfortingly normal.
“You stayed. I remember that. Everyone else had to keep moving, but you stayed with me.”
Superman’s eyes didn’t leave yours. There was a faint crease between his brows, like he wasn’t used to hearing what came after the rescue.
“I’m just glad I got there in time,” he said, his voice quieter than before. Then he looked down and rubbed the back of his neck with one hand, a sheepish gesture that made something flicker and fold inside your chest.
You hesitated, then said softly, “I’m glad, too. Thank you.” Your eyes met his, steady and sincere. “I saw on the news later that I was barely under there for four minutes. Without you, I don’t know what would’ve happened.”
Superman shook his head, almost dismissively, but there was something humble in the way he spoke. “I just did what I had to. What anyone would have done, really.”
You smiled. “No, you did more. I would’ve been much worse off if you hadn’t gotten me out so fast. You saved my life.”
For a short moment, the city fell away. There were no sirens, no wind, nothing but the soft hum of Metropolis evening traffic. The sky above the rooftops had faded to pink and violet, losing its golden sunset gleam.
The last trace of the sun lingered at Superman’s shoulder, and you thought that he looked like he belonged in light. Like sunlight had created the shape of him and breathed him into being.
Then his gaze dropped down, and his brows lifted again, this time with a hint of curiosity and something almost amused. “Did I make you spill that?”
You blinked, suddenly aware of the dark stain spreading over your blanket: your spilt cup of cocoa, its warmth soaked slowly into the fabric.
“Oh.” You gave a small, sheepish laugh. “Yeah. A little. I wasn’t expecting to see you—or anyone, really—on my fire escape tonight.”
Superman’s eyes flickered with genuine apology, his voice lowering. “I’m sorry about that.”
You shook your head, already pushing yourself up. “It’s okay,” you said quickly, a flutter of awkwardness settling in your stomach. “I’ll make another and, um—I could make you one too, if you want.”
His eyes lifted slowly to meet yours, gleaming in surprise. “You don’t have to—”
“I know,” you cut in, voice firmer than you felt. “But I want to.” Your lips curved in a teasing grin. “Maybe then we can call it even?”
You watched Superman closely as he shifted his weight, a genuine smile tugging at his lips. The way the fading sunlight caught the strands of his hair made them look like a halo you wanted to reach out and touch, or capture in paint.
It felt ridiculous, but you found yourself imagining what it would be like to try to translate the warmth you felt from Superman into something you could hold.
When you returned from your kitchen, you carried two mismatched mugs, steam rising in lazy spirals that caught the last glow of daylight. You held one out to the superhero on your fire escape.
“I added marshmallows,” you said, your voice gentle but steady.
Superman accepted the mug with both hands. The porcelain looked almost comically small, cradled between his fingers, but he didn’t seem to mind. He looked up at you then, stared warm and steady, and just beamed.
It wasn’t the kind of smile you saw on magazine covers or in news headlines. It was quieter, sparkling a gentle heat somewhere in your chest.
You settled back down and invited him to take the seat beside you. Superman took a careful sip of cocoa, then winced at the heat. Tried again, slower this time. You laughed softly into your own mug, thoroughly charmed.
A tiny flame bloomed inside you, threatening to grow into something warm enough to burn.
You took a slow sip of your cocoa, the rich sweetness grounding you in the fading light. The quiet between you felt easy, but you couldn’t shake the pull to know more.
“So,” you began, voice soft and a little hesitant, “what’s it really like? Having all that responsibility. Saving people, carrying the weight of the city? And the whole planet, sometimes.”
Superman blinked, as if the question caught him off guard, and then looked out toward the skyline.
“It’s… a privilege,” he said, after a pause. “Mostly. It’s what I was made for. Makes me feel human, like I’m a part of something bigger. Sometimes it’s just helping someone cross the street, or fixing a roof after a storm.” Superman glanced at you, a hesitant little laugh bubbling from his lips. “And occasionally making house calls to people’s fire escapes.”
You grinned, and he seemed quietly pleased with himself.
“Does it ever feel like it’s too much?” you asked.
Superman got more comfortable on the fire escape, and you shared your blanket without him having to ask. His eyes flicked down to his cocoa, and he plucked a marshmallow from the surface, popping it into his mouth and chewing thoughtfully.
“Sometimes,” he admitted, once he swallowed. “But those moments are rare. I guess I crave stillness more than most people might expect. It’s in those quiet in-between moments that I feel most like myself.”
You let your gaze drift to the soft glow of the city, blending with the comforting weight of Superman’s presence beside you. “Kind of like right now,” you offered, your voice almost a whisper.
He turned toward you, the corner of his mouth lifting in a genuine smile. “Exactly like right now.” Superman’s eyes caught the last of the sunset, and you saw a flicker of relief on his face.
You shifted a little closer, enough to feel the edge of his arm against yours through the blanket.
“Do you ever feel drawn to something that might burn you?” you asked, words slipping out before you could stop them. “Like a moth to a flame?”
Superman’s eyes flickered with something intense beneath the calm. His smile faded, replaced by something more fervent.
“More than I probably should,” he said, voice low. “But I keep flying toward it anyway.”
Superman never knocked or let you know he was coming. He just landed on your fire escape and made himself at home.
You got used to the sound of it—the faint ripple in the wind, like the shift of a wing or the rustle of fabric. Sometimes you heard it when you were already reaching for the window, like you’d felt him coming. Other times, you’d turn and see him there, silhouetted against the early evening sky, just waiting.
Always waiting for you.
In the six months you’d known him, Superman never asked to come inside. But sometimes he stayed on the fire escape or the roof. Just close enough to talk.
He didn’t share much about himself. But you learned to watch him closely—how his shoulders dipped slightly when he was tired, how his jaw set when something troubled him. You discovered that he didn’t talk unless he meant to, and that his eyes could be impossibly calm even when the world was spinning around him.
One morning, just before dawn, you stood beside him on the roof of your apartment building. The air was still, clinging to the last chill of night, and Superman was silent beside you, shoulders slightly hunched, forearms resting on the parapet.
He always seemed more human when he stood like that, like the sky was a place he visited, not where he belonged.
You glanced sideways and caught the faint mark on Superman’s cheek—a shadowed bruise, purpling against his skin.
By the time the first edge of sunrise crested over the horizon, you saw the colour begin to lift from the bruise, healing as gold spilt across his face. His lashes caught the light, and his whole body seemed to exhale.
You stared. “You heal like that?” you whispered.
Superman nodded once, still looking forward. “I get my powers from the yellow sun,” he explained.
You tilted your head. “You told me that before,” you said slowly, the memory surfacing like something from a dream. “After the building collapsed.”
He turned toward you, eyebrows lifted in pleasant surprise. “Yes, I did.”
“You said, ‘The sun always makes me feel better.’” The words rose in your throat like they’d been waiting the whole time.
Superman grinned then, all teeth and bright blue eyes. “Yeah. That sounds like me. It’s a bit dramatic, but I stand by it.” You let out a quiet chuckle. “Though I should clarify, it’s mostly ultraviolet radiation, technically. Very romantic.”
You huffed another laugh, but before you could reply, he turned a little more toward you, the humour softening in his eyes. “But also, you,” he said, like it was the simplest thing in the world.
You jolted. “What?”
“The sun heals me,” Superman repeated, this time with a shrug so casual it was almost bashful. “And so do you.”
There was a beat of quiet before you let out a small, startled giggle. “I’m nothing like the sun.”
“You are to me,” Superman said. He snuck a glance your way, unsure if he had said too much.
You raised your eyebrows, half smiling.
His gaze dropped to his hands, a little flustered. “I mean, I’m the one who can fly and shoot lasers out of my eyes,” Superman teased. “I feel like I’m allowed to stretch the metaphor.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Look, I know it’s corny, but things get quieter when I see you. I feel like I can breathe easier.”
Your heart stumbled over itself. You reached out and let your fingers meet his. Superman didn’t pull away. He curled his hand gently around yours, his palm warm and steady, holding you with quiet care. It was a touch you were familiar with by now.
“Ultraviolet radiation,” you echoed softly, tugging your joined hands in a quiet invitation.
Superman nodded. Then, in one smooth, easy motion, he wrapped his arms around you and pulled you in like gravity had finally given up pretending.
“Healing properties,” he murmured, voice low near your ear. “Very effective.”
Your head rested against his chest as Superman gathered you closer, like you weighed nothing at all. Your body folded into his without protest. And still, he held you like he couldn’t believe you’d actually let him.
Superman was warm. Not just body heat, but warm like the morning itself.
He gave a soft breath of a laugh. “You should probably come with a warning label.”
You tilted your head, not moving from the comfort of his chest. “Oh yeah? What would it say?”
“Caution: May cause accelerated heart rate, spontaneous honesty, and temporary flight.”
You let out a quiet laugh into Superman’s collarbone. “Temporary flight?”
“Well, you are kind of sweeping me off my feet here.” Superman grinned as your laugh deepened, his arms tightening just slightly like he wanted to memorise the sound. “Side effects may include goofy behaviour, emotional vulnerability, and excessive metaphors.”
You looked up at him, smiling. “I think I can live with that.”
Neither of you moved until the rooftops turned gold.
When the sun fully blanketed Metropolis, you asked, “Do you have a real name?”
Superman paused. The wind stirred his dark curls. You could see the sunlight touching his hair, gold glinting at his temple like a halo.
“I do,” he said eventually.
You waited. Superman didn’t offer more. You nodded, the corners of your mouth lifting faintly.
Trying to keep your voice gentle, you whispered, “Okay.”
You loved him like this, in the light, with your body encircled by his. You loved the way he watched the sunrise, like it healed him. You loved the heat in his voice when he said your name.
But you didn’t know where Superman went when he left you. You knew he had another life, somewhere beyond the skies and the city. A version that woke up, dressed in ordinary clothes, talked to people on the street, and had a name that wasn’t Superman.
You didn’t ask again, but the question lingered. Because you were falling in love with someone who felt like the sun, and half of him still lived in shadow.
You started painting again. You told yourself it had nothing to do with Superman, but the colours said otherwise. Warm reds. Quiet golds. The occasional streak of blue you couldn’t seem to keep out of the frame. You painted the horizon the way it looked from your roof when he sat beside you—lit by something more than just sunlight.
It was nearly midnight, and the lamplight spilt across your apartment floor in quiet gold. You’d left the window cracked open just in case, even though you told yourself you were only airing out the smell of oil paint.
When Superman landed on the fire escape, his steps were slower than usual. He moved like he was made of something heavier than muscle, like the weight of the day hadn’t left him yet.
You opened the window all the way, stepping back to let him in. “Rough night?”
Superman didn’t answer right away. He ducked inside your apartment, his boots soundless against the floor. When his eyes found you, they were slow and tired. Not the kind of tiredness that came from a long day of work, but the kind that settled in your bones. The kind even sleep couldn’t cure.
You both sank to the floor, shoulders brushing. Superman reached for your hand before either of you said a word, like muscle memory. His fingers wrapped around yours and held on. He rubbed his thumb along the back of your hand, leaving slow, warm traces over the dried paint smudges.
Red, blue, yellow.
Superman noticed. You saw it in the flicker of a smile blooming on his face. He didn’t ask why you chose those colours; he didn’t have to. Your fingers curled around his, matching his pressure.
“You’re still covered in paint,” Superman murmured, voice more adoring than usual.
“I haven’t been able to stop lately,” you replied. After a pause, you added, “It’s kind of weird, actually. Almost like I can’t help but think in colour now.”
His hand tightened around yours just a little. It was like your confession was more than he deserved; it both steadied him and split him open.
Superman turned, eyes half-lidded but still painfully blue. “I shouldn’t keep doing this,” he said finally, hoarse. “Coming back here, letting myself forget about the rest of the world for a while…”
You turned your head, just enough to see him from the corner of your eye. “But you do.”
His smile was faint, barely there, but genuine. “You make it hard to stay away,” he argued.
Then Superman turned fully toward you, and everything in his posture affirmed his admission. One of his hands rose to cradle your head, adoring, almost aching with attentiveness. His forehead met yours. The closeness wasn’t new, but tonight it felt like a held breath.
The silence returned, and it didn’t push against your chest like it used to.
Your free hand hovered just above his chest, paint-smudged fingers trembling. You remember asking him the night he first visited you: Do you ever feel drawn to something that might burn you? Like a moth to a flame? You wanted to touch him. You didn’t.
You shifted your fingers a little closer, almost close enough to touch the emblem on Superman’s suit.
He looked down at your hand, then back at you. “Are you warm?” he asked softly.
You paused. “Why?”
Superman’s eyes flicked upward, toward the soft yellow glow of the lamp overhead. “Even in the dark,” he murmured, “you feel like daybreak.”
Your breath caught, not from surprise, but from recognition.
Superman lifted his hand—the one still cradling the back of your head—and guided your fingers the rest of the way, placing your palm over the crest on his chest. The warmth of him seeped into your skin and spread outward, curling through your arms, your ribs, your lungs.
His eyes fluttered shut for a moment, as though he felt it too. When he opened them again, he looked a little dazed.
Superman leaned in slowly, giving you time to pull away. Your foreheads touched, and you felt the brush of his lips as they hovered—his final act of restraint.
He whispered your name, and then you kissed him.
Not hesitant. Not sweet. Not polite. Something in you gave way, something you’d kept sealed for too long. The contact wasn’t sharp or urgent; it was complete.
The moment his lips touched yours, every tether gave way.
You kissed Superman like you’d been waiting forever, and he kissed you like he couldn’t believe you’d let him.
His hand rose to your face, thumb sweeping your cheekbone. The other found your lower back, pulling you in until every point of contact felt like ignition. Heat curled through you, low and insistent. The kiss deepened.
You didn’t realise how breathless you were until you had to stop. You pulled back an inch, lips still grazing his.
“I don’t want to fall too fast,” you whispered.
Superman exhaled like he understood too well, almost like he wanted to say, me too, but couldn’t bear the sound of it. His hand stayed at your cheek, the other drawing slow, grounding circles against the bare skin of your back under your shirt.
He couldn’t make himself let go.
“Then fall slowly,” Superman begged. “But please don’t stop.”
He kissed you again.
It was dizzying. Your breath caught in the back of your throat as your hands rose to tangle in his hair, fingertips threading through the soft dark strands. His mouth claimed yours with a hunger that didn’t quite match the quiet of the room.
Superman’s hands cradled your jaw, but there was no caution in the way he kissed you. He tilted your chin up, drew you closer, and kissed you like he couldn’t bear to hold back a second longer.
His thumb stroked down your throat gently as your lips parted for him, and he kissed you deeper.
You made a sound against Superman’s mouth, faint and involuntary, and that was all it took. He lifted you, arms firm around your waist, lifting you to perch on the back of your sofa with a gentleness that barely contained the force behind it.
His body pressed into yours between your knees, solid and real and warm, and the world narrowed to the feel of his hands, the taste of his mouth, and the blazing heat of sunlight in the dark.
Superman held you like he didn’t trust the moment to endure, as if he might burn straight through you if he wasn’t careful.
At some point, he pulled back just far enough to catch his breath—though he kept his arms locked around you like he had no intention of letting go. His nose bumped carefully against yours. His smile was a little crooked.
“I should probably—uh—mention something,” Superman said, his voice low and a little sheepish.
You blinked, still catching your breath. “What?”
He hesitated, then blurted it out with the sort of rush you’d expect from someone confessing to a petty crime, not saving the world every week: “My name’s Clark.”
You stared at him, echoing, “Clark?”
“Clark Kent,” he added quickly, like maybe the full name would help. “I mean, technically Kal-El, if you want to get all Kryptonian about it, but that feels kind of formal right now, and—” He stopped himself, realising he was rambling, and gave you a lopsided grin. “Sorry. I just figured you should know who you’re kissing.”
You blinked again. Kiss-drunk, stunned, still slightly out of breath, and then a laugh burst out of you, bright and incredulous and full of joy.
“Oh my God,” you said, grinning so hard it actually hurt. “Of course, your name is Clark.”
He looked a little defensive, but mostly delighted. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
You shook your head, still beaming. “It’s perfect. You’re perfect, Clark Kent.” The moment his real name left your lips, it sparked something in both of you—soft and giddy, like butterflies waking up all at once.
And Clark just stood there for a second, heart tripping over itself, arms full of the person he loved. He was totally, completely, unequivocally done for.
Because it was happening. This was real. You were warm against him—flushed and glowing and laughing like he’d just handed you the moon—and every single ridiculous, hopeless, too-big-for-his-own-good feeling he’d been carrying came surging up at once.
You thought he was perfect, Clark realised. You were smiling like that because of him. What should he do with his face? Where should he put his hands? Had breathing always been this difficult?
He’d flown through supernovas, stood inside hurricanes, and heard the heartbeat of the earth. None of it came close to this.
You felt like the yellow sun—no, better than that. Like Kansas in July, like his favourite meal made by Ma Kent, like home and comfort and every love song Clark had ever heard.
He couldn’t help it. He beamed. You caught the expression and softened instantly, eyes warm and open.
Clark looked like he was about to say something else, but you didn’t let him.
You kissed him, over and over, slow and then desperate. You kissed him until you didn’t know who had reached for whom first.
And it wasn’t a descent. It wasn’t dangerous. It was a surrender.
Strap the wings to me, you thought. Let it melt. Let it catch fire. If Clark Kent is the sun, then let me fly to him.
Because for once, this wasn’t the story of Icarus falling. It was the moment just before. The moment he left the ground. The moment the sky opened and everything turned to gold.
The front door creaked open with the quiet click of a key turning in the lock.
“You used the front door again,” you called without looking up, brush still in hand.
Clark stepped inside, closing the door behind him with his usual soft care. “Some people think using doors is polite,” he reminded you.
You glanced over your shoulder, letting your eyes linger on how good your boyfriend looked in his work clothes. “I kind of miss the dramatic entrances,” you admitted.
“Oh, you mean the part where I tripped on your curtain rod that one time?”
You grinned. “Exactly!”
Clark walked toward you, still in the button-down he always wore to work at The Daily Planet, sleeves rolled up, tie askew like he’d tugged it loose the second he left the newsroom. You were standing barefoot in your living room, a half-finished painting drying in front of you. Your fingers were smudged with gold and soft blue, and you wore one of Clark’s old Smallville football t-shirts, now covered in streaks of red, yellow, and cobalt.
Clark paused when he saw it. His brow softened, and something in his chest gave a quiet little tug. You looked like a memory he didn’t know he’d already made—sunlight and colour and home, all rolled into one.
“You know,” he said, brushing his knuckles lightly over the painted hem of his t-shirt, “you really bring out the primary colors in me.”
You snorted. “Wow. You’ve been waiting to use that one, haven’t you?”
He looked mock-offended. “That was off the cuff! I’m a journalist. We’re good with words.”
“Oh, you’re great with words,” you agreed, looping your arms around his shoulders. “Like the time you called me ‘a phenomenon of gravitational significance.’”
Clark beamed. “You are one.”
You rolled your eyes, turning back to your canvas. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”
Clark’s arms circled around your waist like this was what he’d been made to do. He fit against you like gravity, always had. “Whatcha painting?”
“You,” you said, not even a little shy.
He blinked. “Oh?” Clark knew you had been inspired to start painting again because of him—and you gravitated towards Superman’s colour palette more than anything else these days—but you had yet to actually paint him.
“I decided to bite the bullet and give it a try. Everything else I painted’s been alluding to this, you know? Light through clouds. Rooftops catching fire in the evening. The color the sky turns when someone you love walks through the door.”
Clark let out a quiet breath. He pressed a kiss to your head, exactly where your minor head wound had been the day he saved you.
“I think you’re my favorite subject,” you added, “even when you’re not wearing the cape.”
His smile widened. “I thought I was your favourite, especially when I’m not wearing the cape,” Clark teased. “Or, you know, wearing anything.”
You made a face like you were disappointed by the crude joke. “Oh, you’re impossible,” you scoffed, trying and failing to keep the laughter from your voice.
“Very likely,” Clark said, unperturbed by your response.
You leaned into him. He was so warm it made you ache. Your free hand reached up, paint-streaked fingers brushing through the hair at the nape of Clark’s neck.
He dipped his head toward you, and you met him halfway—lips parting in a kiss that was immediate and unthinking. It was the kind of kiss you gave someone you’d missed all day, the kind that left no room for doubt. Clark kissed you like he meant it, like he always meant it, one hand steady at your waist, the other slipping up your back until you were pressed against him, breathless.
When you finally pulled apart, he rested his forehead against yours, breathing in like he was trying to hold the moment inside him.
“You know,” you murmured, “you used to land on my balcony like you’d burn the whole sky behind you.”
Clark huffed a laugh. “Yeah. You never blinked.”
“It made me think you were the sun,” you said. “Too bright. Too far away.”
“I used to think the sun was something I could never touch,” Clark said quietly. “Something I had to chase, or carry, or be. But with you, I finally feel like I can stand still in it.”
You smiled at him, the way you used to when you saw him hovering outside your window, and said, soft and certain, “You’re still the sun, Clark. You just finally know what it feels like to be warmed by someone else.”
summary: you see your friend clark without his glasses for the first time. he looks… oddly familiar
content: clark kent invents what it's like to be a gentleman time and time again. reader finds herself in trouble quite a bit lol. title from superman by tswift of course. divider from hyuneskkami ♡
Addy19 @Addison_Malii
Anyone else in Arkham District hear the evacuation sirens turn on and off? Was that a test or should I be running for my life lol
Mark 💸 @markusup
↳ replying to @Addison_Malii
That’s what you get for living in “Arkham District” bro 💀💀💀
cait (old acc got hacked…) @batmanslawyer
↳ replying to @markusup
don’t speak on arkham district with metropolis in ur bio lmfao. i hope ur insurance covers ur house the next time superman drops a building on ur ass
Mari ♡ @mightycrabjoysluvr
↳ replying to @batmanslawyer
superman haters can not be real. like damn do you guys hate joy happiness fun and rainbows too
cait (old acc got hacked…) @batmanslawyer
↳ replying to @mightycrabjoysluvr
are we forgetting the fact that he’s an ALIEN from KRYPTON? i don’t care how hot he is i will take batman over him any day
Mari ♡ @mightycrabjoysluvr
↳ replying to @batmanslawyer
a vigilante defender in my replies shitting on superman… i have really seen it all. bookmarking this tweet for when the police finally catch batmans ass btw
“—you want some?”
“Hm?”
Clark sinks into the couch next to you, his weight tipping you closer in his direction. The edge of the bowl in his hand prods your side.
“You really shouldn’t hold your phone so close to your face. You’re going to wreck your vision.”
You finally look up at him, unimpressed. “Didn’t know you believed in old wives’ tales.”
“It’s not a myth!” He insists. “Put your phone down. We’re putting the movie on, and I know you’re going to complain when you don’t understand what’s happening—”
“I don’t complain, you liar.”
“—but you do, and then you’re gonna beg me to rewind. But then you’re gonna fall asleep and ask me to rewind it again, but I won’t want to because I’ve rewatched the same part five times—”
“That’s never happened before,” you lie blatantly. It happened last week and he won’t stop bringing it up. You toss your phone somewhere onto his couch and ignore the look he’s giving you when you take the bowl from his hands. “You made popcorn? Why didn’t you say anything?”
Clark laughs, the sound full and warm. He drapes a throw blanket over your laps — one of yours that he stole from your apartment — and hands you the remote. “I did. You were too busy scrolling.”
“Sorry.” You make yourself comfortable on his couch, pressing yourself into his side and stretching your legs out onto the ottoman. “I was busy doing some very important things.”
“Such as?” he asks, watching you flick through his TV subscriptions. “Oh, come on. We aren’t watching that one again.”
You frown as you click past one of your favorite movies. “I was just looking at it.”
“I’m sure.”
You kick at his ankles and watch the dimples crease on his face. It’s hard not to stare too long at the way he looks in the golden lighting from the TV. The brown of his eyes seems warmer.
“Whatever,” you grumble. “You can pick. As long as it’s not that trashy zombie show you like.”
He takes the remote from you, leveling a look at you from under the frames of his glasses. “It’s not trashy.”
“We can agree to disagree, babe.”
You fight the urge to laugh. You aren’t sure Clark realizes it, but he has the same reaction to that nickname every time — he looks up at the ceiling, and then away from you as the blush creeps up his neck. It’s even easier to see when his face is lit up like this, his sweet face tinged pink.
The two of you scroll through the movie and show selections in relative silence after. You’re sitting close enough that you can nudge him in the side when you want him to skip something, and he does so with only some complaints. You make it all the way down to the romcom section before he breaks the silence.
He coughs. Then asks, “So, what were you doing on your phone? Texting someone?”
You hum absentmindedly, inspecting the movie thumbnails. “I was reading through some Superman hate posts, actually.”
It’s not the most accurate description of what you were doing, but you say it just to get a rise out of him. Clark would never admit it, but you’re almost one hundred percent sure that he’s a secret Superman megafan.
There’s a look that he gets in his eyes whenever he reads something about him. It’s hard to place, but it kind of looks like he’s a little kid again, his entire face lit up with emotion.
But if he really is as big of a fan as you think he is, you have no idea how he’s so blasé about all those interviews he gets with him. Clark Kent really is one of the most interesting people you’ve ever met.
He looks at you sideways, glancing away from the TV. “You were,” he says, less of a question and more of a statement.
“Kidding. Kinda. You know what people are like. Your friend’s famous, you know. People are going to scrutinize him no matter what he does.”
Clark clears his throat and his eyes dance back to the screen, but you know he’s only half paying attention to it now. “And you… do you agree with them? With what people say about him?
Something in his voice is odd. You sit up against the couch to look at him properly, though all you can see is his side profile.
On the screen in front of you, he clicks past the titles the second they load, uncaring of what he’s scrolling past.
“I think Superman’s great,” you say honestly. You speak slowly, trying to gauge his reaction. The only change in expression you get is the slight twitch of his mouth. “Don’t know why people complain so much about someone who saves lives. Like, who cares if he’s from Kirpton?”
“Krypton,” he corrects.
You smile. “Right, sorry.”
The slight tension in his shoulders release. “You really think he’s great?”
“Yeah.” You slip the remote out of his hands and click play on the first movie you recognize. Surprisingly, Clark doesn’t complain. “He’s gorgeous, too. You think you could introduce us? I hear his harem has quite the waiting list.”
He laughs, tossing the blanket back over your leg where it’s exposed. “He’s not my friend, and there’s no harem. And hopefully, you won’t be meeting Superman anytime soon.”
“Why not? Don’t want to mix your friend groups?”
He nudges your side, relaxing into his cushions again. His arms cross over his chest, and you try not to focus on the way his biceps pull against the sleeves of his shirt. “No. If you ever run into Superman, it probably means you’re somewhere you shouldn’t be.”
The two of you sit quietly with the weight of his words. Sure, he’s right, but you’re sure a totally normal Superman interaction isn’t out of the realm of possibility.
You wonder if the superhero has a favorite coffee shop. And how he would even order from it if he did. Would he wait in line? Maybe he’d have a priority lane specifically for him on the roof.
“Wait, what?” Clark’s voice cuts into the silence. His features have scrunched up in confusion. “When did we agree on watching this?”
“It’s Saw.”
“I can see that.”
“I chose it when you were too busy talking.”
“You sure you want to watch this one? You remember what happened when we watched The Exorcist, right?”
“The lights went out, Clark. What was I supposed to do, not scream?”
“I was sitting right next to you. Nothing was going to happen. If anything, we’d get possessed together.”
“That’s so not funny. As long as nothing supernatural happens, I’ll be good with this one, I swear.”
He blinks at you.
“I swear.”
You wake up drooling on Clark’s t-shirt.
Thirty minutes into Saw you were holding onto his arm so tightly that he put you out of your misery and put on National Treasure instead. The last thing you can remember is Nicolas Cage asking for lemon juice before the comfort of Clark’s shoulder became too much to resist drifting off.
You untangle your legs from his to sit up properly, a different movie playing in the background. Much like you a few seconds ago, your friend is fast asleep, his head leaning against the armrest in a way that can’t be comfortable.
His glasses are askew now, resting politely on his chest. You worry about the chances of them getting squished and leave them on the side table for him to find.
It’s only then, when you’re staring at the black frames on the wood, that you realize something silly.
You’ve never seen Clark without his glasses on.
He often talks about how his bad eyesight is why he’s so adamant about wearing them. You’ve asked him once before about wearing contacts, and he’d said something about how he has sensitive eyes and didn’t like them much.
You don’t mind at all. He looks very gorgeous with them on, and you find it very cute how they fog up when he gets flustered enough.
You’re grateful for the light of the TV, because it means you can still somewhat see Clark’s face. You rub the sleep from your eyes to look at him, and—
Huh.
You wonder if it’s normal to look this different without your glasses on. Sure, they can sometimes change the size of a person’s eyes, and losing a significant feature on anyone’s face is bound to make them look a little different, but…
Clark looks different. Still familiar, but undoubtedly different.
It’s weird. The changes are so subtle you wonder if you’re hallucinating. The differences are written clear as day on his face, but it feels impossible to put them into words.
Is it the shape of his jaw? You don’t remember it always looking so carved, and you would know, with how often you look at him. Maybe it’s the shape of his mouth.
Something in the back of your mind twitches, like a memory begging to come to the surface. It’s a slight tension against your skull, a pressing feeling trying to nudge you in the direction of something.
You have no idea why you do it, but your hand moves without thinking. Your fingers thread through his hair, the same way you do when you tease him for looking like he’s just rolled out of bed in the morning. As you do it, the features of his face shift just so, and…
Woah.
Clark doesn’t just look familiar.
He looks exactly like fucking Superman.
You pull your hand away so quickly the joints in your arm protests. Clark shifts underneath you, his eyes twitching as he rouses from sleep. He pats the fabric of the couch before he feels you under his hand, and he squeezes your thigh when he does.
“You alright?” he mumbles, voice rough with sleep. “What’re you doin’?”
“Nothing. I just woke up.”
The sentence is true in more ways than one. It feels like you’re seeing Clark’s face for the first time. How had you not noticed just how much he looks like the same man that saves the city for a living?
He blinks himself awake, and it’s like your heart flips. Staring at his devastatingly long eyelashes, it’s like everything becomes ten times clearer.
You weren’t hallucinating — he looks just like Superman. It’s uncanny.
He pats you as he sits up, still clearly in the last dregs of sleep. His words slur together when he asks you, “What time is it?”
“Uh,” your eyes search the couch for where you’d ditched your phone earlier, and you find it on the floor next to the ottoman. It’s covered in spilled popcorn from the bowl that must’ve fallen off Clark’s lap during the night. “It’s two.”
The reminder is enough to make you yawn, and you rub your eyes to clear your vision. He leans over to the side table to get the lamp, and the room is filled again with warm light.
“Geez,” Clark says. “My neck hurts like crazy. Is your back okay?”
You turn back to face him, and with the lights on you can see him a lot better. His glasses are back on, and he…
Looks absolutely nothing like Superman anymore.
You must look a little surprised, because he stops massaging the back of his neck to scan you with his eyes. “Is everything okay?”
“Has anyone ever told you that you look just like Superman without your glasses on?”
The words land awkwardly.
Clark laughs, but it’s not real. He scrubs his hand over his jaw. “What?”
“You…” It feels like you’ve said something you really shouldn’t have. “You just look a lot like him.”
“Oh,” he says. His hand rises to adjust where his glasses sit on his face. “That’s funny.”
If he really thinks so, you aren’t hearing much laughter from him.
You aren’t sure why he’s so unsettled at the thought. Based on the limited information you have about him, Superman kind of seems like the perfect guy. He’s kind, selfless, great with kids, and…
Oh no.
It’d been such a brief stint in your conversation — there’s no way he remembers it. It’d been a joke, albeit one wrapped in underlying truth.
“He’s gorgeous, too. You think you could introduce us?”
Clark is one of the most rational people you know. It’s no question that he knows you were kidding about that — hell, he’d laughed — but your technical confession is enough to make embarrassment rush through your entire body.
He seems completely upended by your comparison between the two of them. You stand abruptly, suddenly wishing you were anywhere but here.
“It’s late. I should go back to my apartment.”
It’s not far. Few people in the world live closer to Clark actually, with your apartment being directly below his. When that dog he’s fostering is running around too much, you can hear his footsteps scurry above your head.
(Oddly enough, you’ve never actually seen the dog in person, and Clark refuses to tell you what his name is, but you’re pretty sure he’s real.)
The furrow Clark gets between his brows is so deep you wonder if it hurts. “You don’t want to take the bed?”
You slip your phone in your pocket and start looking for where you’d kicked off your shoes. “No, it’s okay. Your neck deserves a break from the couch,” you say, busy checking underneath the kitchen table.
There’s nothing there. You wonder if it’d be weird to leave without them.
Clark places one of his broad hands on your lower back before he passes your shoes to you. He is so irritatingly perfect it borders on unfortunate for you.
“Thanks,” you say, quickly. You’re even faster to slip them on, uncaring of the way the heels fold uncomfortably inward.
“Hey. Hey.” His hand encircles your wrist when you turn away from him. He’s frowning, eyes darting over your face like he’s looking for something. “Are you okay? You know I don’t mind taking the couch.”
The smile that softens your expression is real. “So selfless, Clark Kent. I just want to sleep in my own bed tonight. Thank you, though.”
He tries one last time. Glances furtively at the door, like he’s hesitant to let you go. “It’s late.”
You feel evil. It can’t be ethical to turn down Clark when he looks like this, sleep mussed and soft and a little worried about you.
“You can watch me walk to the elevator if you’d like.”
“I’ll walk you downstairs,” he offers instead, opening his door for you and stepping out. “It’ll help me sleep better.”
Looking at him waiting for you in his pajama pants and his wrinkled shirt, you wonder how you haven’t proposed.
But when he leans against the doorway of your apartment downstairs, smiling at you with sleep in his eyes and telling you to get some rest, you come very close to it.
Your friendship with Clark Kent kind of started the same way — with him taking you home.
The Daily Planet is a block away from your office building, a much smaller structure with just enough windows that you can watch the next world-ending threat from anywhere inside. Once, you got to watch Superman save an entire floor of people in the building across from you before some creature gutted half the skyrise.
You’ve witnessed enough extraterrestrial villains to not be too surprised when you see them on the news, or catch a glimpse of them in real life.
The one thing you didn’t expect, though, was to run into one from this planet.
It’s late when you’re walking to the metro after work. You’re barely half awake, exhausted after dealing with some data issue that had you and a few other people on cleanup duty late into the night.
You’re digging around in your purse, searching frantically for your phone. To make a bad night even worse, you come up empty.
“Shit,” you say under your breath, stopping to press your fist to your forehead. You remember it vividly, now. You’d left it on the counter when you’d cleaned up the cup of coffee you spilled when you were dead on your feet.
You let out a few more curses under your breath as you continue walking, hoping that you didn’t throw out that old alarm clock you found in your closet.
It happens a few minutes later, and it’s nothing like in the movies. There’s no anticipatory music, or a suspicious sound that makes you turn your head, or the hair on the back of your neck standing up. You’ve walked down this street countless times before, one well-lit by the street lights and store signs, and felt safe every time.
The universe gives you no warning. It only lets you make it three blocks before someone seizes your arm and tugs you into a damp, dark, Metropolis alley.
You don’t have time to scream. A hand, grimy with sweat and something else clamps hard over your mouth, muffling any sound you could’ve let out.
Your back presses into the rough brick of the alley. You recognize where you are immediately — a small deli that you and your coworker frequent. You don’t know how you’re going to tell her that you’re never coming back here ever again.
“I’m going to take my hand off your mouth. And you’re not going to scream, or lie to me, because I will stab you.” The man’s voice is thick and gravelly, almost as sharp as the blade he presses into the give of your stomach. “Nod if you understand me.”
You jolt when he presses hard enough to nick your skin. The nod comes immediately after.
“You’re going to give me all the money in that purse of yours, and your phone. I need your phone.”
You glance over to your purse where it sits on the pavement. It must’ve fallen when he’d pulled you into this alley.
“Take it,” you say quickly, voice wavering with stress. You aren’t going to fight with this man over chump change and your lip balm. “You can have all of it.”
He ducks down immediately to reach for the purse, and sniffs out the money quickly. He shoves the few pathetic crumpled bills into the pockets of his worn out jeans, before turning his attention back to the inside of the bag.
You swallow, glancing towards the entrance of the alley. He wouldn’t chase you if you made a run for it, would he?
There’s a sickening crack as your stuff hits the floor, and your daydream is crushed. The man is shaking his head, pressing his hand to his forehead, mumbling to himself in hushed tones.
You press yourself further against the wall, like the extra inch of space between you will save you.
“Your phone. I need your phone.”
Your tongue feels heavy in your mouth. You know he won’t believe you. You’ve never been more scared to speak.
“Did you hear me?” His voice shakes uncontrollably, his eyes narrowed to near slits. “Your phone. I need… You have to give me your phone.”
“I don’t have it with me,” you choke out. Your hands curl protectively in front of you. “I forgot it at work.”
He turns the knife back at you, though his hand wavers. Spit flies from his mouth and onto the ground in front of you. “You’re a liar.”
“I’m not lying, I swear. I swear. Please, you can take whatever I have—”
Another voice pierces the silent street, one firm and so authoritative that both of you turn to look.
The man doesn’t waste another second. He turns and flees down the dark alley, taking the few things of worth in your purse with him. You don’t feel strong enough to move until he’s completely gone from your sight.
The adrenaline crash doesn’t take long to set in. Your head feels light, like it’s filled with helium. You think that’s why you don’t notice yourself walking directly into the other person there with you.
The universe had been the reason why you’d gotten mugged, but the universe also brought Clark Kent into your life.
You had caught glimpses of him at your shared apartment all the time, your similar schedules meaning you often left for work and came back around the same time. He’d held the door open for you a few times, and you’d seen him help some of your neighbors with their groceries before. You’d always known he was nice, but you had no idea stopping crime was on his list of talents as well.
After he’d saved you from that man in the alley that night, he’d walked you back to your apartment.
He did the same the next night. And almost all of the nights after that, too.
It didn’t take long for the two of you to become close friends, and for your lives to start merging together. You’d invited him over for dinner as a thank you, and it slowly turned into a regular thing. You soon found yourself splitting your time between your apartment and his.
You really like Clark, and can barely remember life in Metropolis without him.
That’s probably why it feels so terrible to ignore him.
[4:29] farmboy kent: I’ll be running a little late today
[4:29] farmboy kent: White sent us out to Park Ridge and the train back is delayed. I’ll be by your building around 5:20
[4:33] you: No problem!! also no need to swing by today. my cousin invited me over to hers so i’ll be in civic city until late
The message is marked as read a few seconds after you send it, making the next few minutes agonizingly long.
Around 4:35, Clark finally starts typing, only to delete his message. A minute later, he continues again.
[4:38] farmboy kent: Ok. Be safe
[4:39] farmboy kent: I’ll pick you up at the station later
[4:39] you: Are you okay with that? i’m not sure when i’ll get back
[4:40] farmboy kent: Of course. Text me when you know what time your train will get in
You feel like a dick pressing the thumbs up reaction on his last message. What kind of person lies to Clark Kent?
You aren’t even sure why you do it. It’s probably the lingering embarrassment from last night — it was the closest you’ve ever come to telling him how you feel about him.
So… maybe a Clark-free day is what you need.
You can’t remember the last day you’ve spent without seeing him at least once. On your days off from work he’d come by after his shifts, and even on days that one of you were busy, you would still show up at his place to say hello.
No wonder he makes you crazy. You haven’t had a Clark Kent detox since the day you met him.
Surely all good friendships need time apart, right? You’ll just spend a day by yourself and when you see him again tomorrow, you’ll be back to normal. There won’t be any more slips where you compare him to one of the most gorgeous people you’ve ever seen, or where you tell him he’d be a great husband, or something friendship-ending like that.
It’ll be good for you. Tomorrow will be a great, much needed, neighbor-free day.
You’re buying a paperweight for Clark when a building falls on top of the Metropolis Museum of Art.
The remorse from your little white lie followed you through every second of your Clark Kent boycott, effectively ruining it. Your plan was to head down to the park and enjoy the weather, but you found yourself making a quick detour to the souvenir store inside the museum.
You’d come here with him a few months ago, and he’d seen the paperweight and loved it. It was a little glass sphere depicting Superman flying over Metropolis, and he’d almost bought it before reading the price tag. The guilt following you around now was enough to choke a horse, and you decided that it’d make for a great apology gift.
(Not that he was aware you were apologizing for anything.)
The crash of the building sends plumes of dust into the room, coating everything in a haze of white. The emergency sirens start their crying almost immediately, joining in what sounds like the actual crying of children on an after-school field trip.
You cough to clear your throat and find that even the air is saturated in thick dust, the cloud becoming even worse as more debris drops from the ceiling.
The roof of the museum is clearly trying its best, but it seems like the entire structure groans in protest. One of the overhead lights hangs precariously above your head, and you take a few healthy steps back from it.
Distantly, you can see the blinking red light that marks the exit. The cashier you were talking to a second ago makes a mad dash for it, ducking under a fallen beam while she does. Hordes of people crowd by the door as everyone rushes out, eager to flee.
The sun shines through the gaping hole in the museum made by the other building, and through the light it offers, you see it on the floor— the gift you’d gotten Clark.
The little paperweight sits sadly on the tile about five feet away from you.
If you weren’t afraid of inhaling too much dust, you would’ve groaned. There’s no way you’re abandoning the thing after all this trouble you’ve gone through to get it.
Against your better judgement, you move further from the exit to go and pick it up.
In the end, though, it doesn’t matter.
There’s a strong gust of wind and a bright flash of light, and you’re outside again.
When your feet hit the pavement, you resist the urge to vomit. It feels like your stomach has been flipped inside out and then put back again. The dizziness makes you double over, but you’re braced by a pair of firm hands around your forearms.
You’re halfway through a mumbled thank you when you look up.
You blink a few times to clear your vision. When nothing changes, you’re forced to wonder if you hit your head somewhere in the museum.
Standing in front of you, with his perfect hair disheveled and windswept, is Superman.
notes: theyre both losers LOL. thank u for tuning into my fic lmk if u enjoyed! :) i do have a part 2 planned bc i think clark kent deserves to be kissed
believe me, i loved ddba, but i sort of feel that the actors could offer way more than the script did. english is not my first language and i don't know if im making any sense, but i think, charlie, jon and deborah are truly amazing actors, whose performances were sort of "caged(?" by the script. still i have the writers to thank for basically making kastle canon.
something i love about sean baker movies is how they aren’t really stories which start and end within however minutes long the movie is.
the characters have lives before and afterwards.
for example, anora has her sister and best friend, she’s already a sex worker and even has someone she doesn’t get along with. we’re never officially introduced to them, there isnt really a backstory on her, or any of the characters as a matter of fact. Ivan has millionaire parents, which we don’t meet until the end of the movie, and their field of work is never revealed. In Red Rocket, we don’t really know about Mikey’s past life, he already knows his ex, and Baker doesn’t do any kind of unnecessary introduction, which makes so much sense!! these characters already know each other, thats why their conversations are so fluid and usual.
This is what makes Sean Bakers films so good to me, they are a glimpse of characters’ lives. we dont know where they come from or where they’re going, we just see this small part of their story.
(im very happy anora got the academy’s recognition if you couldn’t notice)
