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and i could be another fool, or an exception to the rule...
...you tell me the morning after
✶ pairing: stanford!tashi duncan x shy!f!reader
✶ synopsis: tashi wasn't as hard to keep around as you'd initially thought. yes, you were still star-struck with every practice session she dragged you to, with every stolen kiss, with every night under your covers— but you were starting to get whiplash.
✶ notes: smut. hurt-comfort. reader is insecure and tashi is a bit of a manipulator but we love her that way. i'm SO sorry this took so long to get out. part 2 to this!
✶ tags: @cwained
𐔌՞. .՞𐦯 thank you for reading!
tashi duncan left a trail behind herself, like the shooting star she was.
that first morning, when you woke up with her still in your bed, the sun kissing her face as if to remind you that the rest of the world adored her too, she woke to prove the contrary. her voice, laced with sleep, mumbled your name and something that sounded like a greeting. and she was smiling. still smiling, like the orgasm you'd shared the night before still lingered, somehow.
she was slow in her ways, like a house cat. walking around your dorm like it was her own, her dress still crumpled on the floor, her bare skin demanding that your eyes stay on her. and that you did, staring after her form with parted lips, until she giggled at you over her shoulder as she lingered in the doorway to your bathroom.
"are you coming, or what?"
✶
tashi knew the effect she had on people. she knew how they wanted her, and she knew how to use that to get what she wanted out of them in turn. which was typically just tennis. and that was what she wanted out of you, too, at first. but, like she'd told you, you had great footwork. you played percentage tennis, working your rival's mistakes in your favor, patient, steady. she was explosive, and that was what had gotten her this far. but you were so unlike her, so fascinating, she just had to keep you around. and, of course, you were a willing participant in this dynamic. you got tashi duncan acting like a girlfriend to you, and all she asked in return was… practicing together? you were living the dream.
until you weren't.
you had a habit of getting in your head for too long, thinking the most insignificant of things over and over until it became a mountain you couldn't climb. and tashi duncan was insurmountable.
she had a nasty habit of nitpicking everything you did on court, too. she noticed all the good things, but only commented on the bad ones. at first, you took it as advice, coming from the duncanator herself. stanford's sweetheart. but she got comfortable with it, and it started to sting. you already knew you'd never measure up to her, you didn't need the fucking reminder every session. court four stopped feeling like your little personal heaven.
and tashi was always busy, too. you'd known to expect that, of course, but it had started to wear at you these last few weeks. she'd slip away and right back in whenever she wanted, no notice, nothing but a knock on your door and her lips on yours. she felt so good you forgot to bring it up, and by the time you'd gathered your bearings, with your thighs sticky and your tongue coated in her, she was asleep. and then, you couldn't find it in you to wake her, to disturb her when she looked so angelic, so relaxed, like her age for once. you told yourself it was nothing, a small price to pay for her. because when it was good between you, it was amazing.
because tashi was sweet as honey when you two were alone, in your dorm, in your bed. she couldn't get enough of you, and you couldn't get enough of her. and sometimes, you didn't even have sex. you just held each other, watched a movie on your shitty laptop, or talked for hours, sharing pecks and giggles in between. she seemed human then, up close. no longer like an untouchable prodigy, but like natasha duncan, the girl you'd grown to love, because you loved her.
you just weren't sure she loved you back. you did girlfriend things, held hands under the table in the library, had lunch together religiously every day— and dinner too— went to each other's matches, sent each other cat tiktoks and said "that's literally us." but other than that? nothing. and you were terrified to say anything at this point. so, you went on treating her like she was your world, and you let her treat you that way occasionally, when she didn't have a gala, or an after party, or a tournament out of state. the lonely nights piled up then, your phone dry as bone, and that's when it all crept in. the doubts, the questions, the thought that maybe this really was too good to be true.
✶
"you should come with me to that benefit thing," she told you one day in between kisses, her hand tracing circles on the skin of your waist, under your top. "it's always so boring."
"really?" you hummed, swiping your tongue at her lower lip, having learned not to believe half of the things she said when she was under your sheets.
"really," she confirmed, licking into your mouth in retaliation before pulling away, giggling when you pathetically followed her lips. "do you have a nice dress?"
"i don't think i do," you mumbled, trying to get her to kiss you again, only for her to dodge you, placing a soft hand on your chest to push you down.
"you'll need it," she muttered, straddling your hips with a wicked little grin. "lots of sponsors come to these things. you could get scouted if you play your cards right."
"yeah, maybe," you agreed absently, your hands finding tashi's skin and tugging her top up, the sight of her soft tan skin making your mouth water.
"i'm serious," she pressed the tips of her fingers to your lips, coaxing you to open your mouth, effectively shutting you up as she pressed on your tongue. "you can't waste that footwork. you're so talented and you refuse to—" she shoved her fingers deeper, bringing tears to your eyes as your throat struggled to accommodate them, "put it to use."
you nodded as best as you could, tears brimming at the corners of your eyes at the strain. she slid her fingers in and out, soft and slow as she continued to smile in triumph.you felt pathetic, letting her so easily do this to you. "you could be so much more, baby. you and me, sweeping the wta. wouldn't you like that?"
another little nod made her giggle, "that's my girl."
her girl.
✶
tashi duncan's girl indeed. the benefit bore her name, her beautiful face plastered all around the room just like the first time you met her, and you were getting flashbacks. your hand was in hers, your dress looking painfully average as you stood beside the woman of the hour who, in turn, was treating you like a show dog.
everyone who approached her to congratulate her on the event or her most recent win or anything of the sort was quickly spun into an advertisement of you and your pedigree. you never thought you'd get sick of hearing tashi praise your goddamn footwork. by the second hour, you couldn't stand it anymore.
you squeezed her arm three times, giving a side glance to the hallway at the side. she followed after you with that smile you'd grown to associate with heat between your thighs, tugging you into a bathroom stall and slotting her mouth against yours.
"tash—" you mewled a half-hearted protest, using all the willpower left in you to gently push back at her shoulders. she finally let go of you with a little bite at your lower lip, eyes twinkling at you.
"i wanna go, i'm tired," you gave her a weak little smile, reaching out to cup her cheek.
"tired of what?" she huffed, her smile falling and her eyebrows furrowing in a beautiful frown. "of me getting you a shot at going pro?"
"excuse me?" you dropped your hand from her face, your shoulders tensing up in defense.
"i'm trying to get you places, since you clearly don't care enough about your career to do it yourself," she blurted out, adjusting her dress where it had crumpled a little at her chest.
"no one's asking you to do that," you returned in disbelief.
"so i should just stand by and watch you waste your potential on a few college tournaments and be satisfied with that for the rest of your life?" she threw her arms in the air in indignation as she paced around the tiny space. "what are you playing for, then?"
"it's not your decision to make!" you tried to swing the door open, but she slammed her palm right over yours, preventing you from leaving.
"it kind of is when you aren't even trying to stay with me!"
the air stilled around you, the world seemingly coming to a screeching stop as the admission left her mouth. you gaped at her, eyes almost popping out of their sockets and chest deflating.
"what does that mean?" you mumbled, carefully stepping away from the door and closer to her, watching tashi instantly tense back up as she realized she'd slipped for one fatal moment.
"you don't want to go pro," she whispered, fists clenched tight and eyes sparkling with something you definitely didn't want to ever see there again. "we won't play together anymore if you don't go pro after graduation. you'll leave me."
"is that what you want?" your voice came out strangled, barely making it around the lump in your throat.
"do i even need to say it?"
"yes," you reached out for her hand, thanking god when she didn't flinch away from you. "you need to say it. you need to tell me. you— you never do."
she never did. she swallowed, catching her lower lip between her teeth, because you were right. she never could quite get the words out, never telling you that she appreciated you cheering for her at her matches, or waiting for her so you could eat together, or licking her into heaven when you knew she was stressed.
"i want us to continue to play together," her fingers tightened around yours. "after graduation. i want us both on the circuit. it wouldn't be worth it if you weren't there."
she yelped when you wrapped your arms around her middle, your face perfectly buried in her neck as you held her tight. she melted into it slow, hesitant, still shaken but hoping for anything from you, any indication that she wouldn't have to make it alone.
"i'll look into it," you mumbled against her skin, your lips pressing a single kiss to her shoulder, and another when she shivered. god you'd take it all, the biting criticism and the late nights and the early mornings and the jealousy, if it meant having her. "i promise."
"promise," she echoed, sighing as you went through the familiar motions, pressing her against the wall and sending sparks straight up her spine.
it was the closest tashi had ever been to telling you she was in love.
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summary: art donaldson is twenty-one and dying, and you meet him on a tuesday that tastes like antiseptic and defeat.
word count: 12.7k
cw: major character death, terminal illness (leukemia and lupus), medical settings, grief, chronic pain, emotional trauma, slow decline, hospital setting
notes: wow. okay. so. it’s much harder to write while sobbing than i thought. this ruined me. like, truly, gutturally ripped my heart out. AND I’M THE FUCKING AUTHOR??? LIKE WHAT??? WHAT ARE Y’ALL ABOUT TO PUT YOURSELVES THROUGH??????? anyways… obviously this will contain heavy angst, so if you aren’t in the right headspace to read that, i recommend you skip this one for your own well-being ♡ i also highly recommend looping this song while you read! it makes for an immersive experience. okay, i’ll shut up now. enjoy :)
The oncology wing smells like a lie. They pump it full of that industrial-strength air freshener—something floral, something synthetic, something that's supposed to mask the rot—but it doesn't work. Nothing works. You can still smell it underneath: the decay, the fear, the way bodies break down when they're not supposed to, when you're twenty-three and your joints are already grinding themselves to dust, when your immune system has decided you're the enemy.
The lupus came for you like a thief in the night, crept up on you during your senior year of college, stole your morning runs and your dance classes and your ability to open a fucking jar without your hands screaming. Now you're here, in this purgatory of beeping machines and fluorescent lights that never sleep, getting another round of bloodwork that'll probably just confirm what you already know: your body hates you.
That's when you see him. Art Donaldson, slumped in one of those horrible vinyl chairs that squeak every time you shift, the kind that stick to your skin in summer and freeze you solid in winter. He's got an IV line snaking out of his left arm, taped down with that medical tape that leaves residue, and he's staring at his phone like it's personally offended him.
Even sick—Christ, especially sick—he's devastating to look at. All sharp jawline and hollow cheeks, that particular brand of beautiful that college athletes carry like a birthright, except the leukemia has bleached him out, turned his tan to something closer to parchment. His hair is still there, though thinner than it probably used to be, that dirty blond that catches the awful fluorescent light, and when he shifts in his seat you can see the way his Stanford Tennis t-shirt hangs off him like he's borrowed it from someone three sizes bigger. He wasn't always this small, you can tell. You can see the ghost of who he used to be in the slope of his shoulders, the length of his legs, the way his fingers curl around his phone like they're remembering the grip of a racket.
You don't mean to stare, but you do, because there's something magnetic about grief, about watching someone else crumble in real-time when you're doing the same thing in slow motion.
Your nurse—Patricia, the one with the kind eyes and the no-bullshit attitude—follows your gaze and makes a small noise in the back of her throat. "That's Art," she says, quiet enough that it feels like a secret, like she's letting you in on something. "He's been here a while. Acute lymphoblastic leukemia. Aggressive. He was supposed to go pro, tennis. Had scouts and everything." The way she says it makes your chest hurt, that particular ache that comes from recognizing your own story in someone else's body. You were supposed to do things too—grad school, maybe law, definitely something that involved your body not betraying you before you hit twenty-five. But here you are, and there he is, and isn't that just the fucking tragedy of it all.
He looks up then, like he can feel you watching, and his eyes are this impossible shade of bluish-grey, the kind of eyes that probably got him out of trouble his whole life, that probably made girls stupid and boys jealous. They land on you and something shifts in his expression—not quite a smile, not quite recognition, but something. Acknowledgment, maybe. The kind of look that says: Oh, you too? You're one of us? Welcome to hell, population: everyone in this goddamn wing
You don't look away, even though every instinct tells you to, even though it feels too intimate, this moment of shared understanding between two people whose bodies have declared war on themselves. Patricia finishes with your IV port, gives your shoulder a squeeze that's probably supposed to be comforting, and then you're alone with your bag of fluids and your racing heart and the boy across the room who looks like he's already half-gone.
The thing about hospitals is that they strip you down to your most basic self. There's no pretense here, no carefully curated social media presence, no putting on your best face. You're sick, and everyone knows it, and there's something almost freeing in that honesty even as it's devastating. You watch Art shift in his chair, wince slightly like the movement costs him something, and then he does something you don't expect: he nods at you. Not a big gesture, nothing dramatic, just a small dip of his chin that might as well be a white flag. You nod back, your own small surrender, and just like that you've made a friend in the trenches. Or maybe not a friend—maybe something else entirely, something that doesn't have a name yet, something that only exists in places like this where everyone is too tired to lie.
An hour passes, maybe two—time moves differently here, stretches and contracts like it's as sick as the rest of you—and then he speaks. His voice is rough, underused, like he hasn't talked to anyone in days and maybe he hasn't.
"First time?" he asks, and there's something almost wry in it, some edge of dark humor that you immediately understand. You could play dumb, could ask him what he means, but you don't. You know exactly what he's asking.
"Third week," you answer, and your own voice sounds strange to your ears, too small for the fluorescent vastness of this place. "You?"
He huffs out something that might be a laugh if it didn't sound so much like sandpaper. "Month six," he says, and the weight of those words settles between you like a stone. Six months. Half a year of this. You can't even imagine it, except you can, except you're probably headed there yourself if the doctors are right, if the treatment plan they've outlined is anything to go by.
"Jesus," you breathe out, and it's not quite a prayer but it's close.
He shrugs, or tries to—the movement is aborted halfway through, like his body can't quite commit to the casual gesture anymore. "Yeah, well. Turns out leukemia doesn't give a shit about your serve speed or your college ranking." There's bitterness there, corrosive and sharp, the kind that comes from having your entire future ripped away while you were still reaching for it. You get it, God, do you get it. You'd had plans too, a whole life mapped out in your head, and then your body decided to rewrite the script without asking permission.
"Lupus," you offer, because it feels like a trade, this exchange of diagnoses like baseball cards. "The doctors keep using words like 'manageable' and 'chronic' like that's supposed to be comforting."
He actually smiles at that, small and bitter and somehow still beautiful. "Manageable," he repeats, testing the word like it's in a foreign language. "Yeah, they love that one. Also 'aggressive treatment' and 'we'll do everything we can,' which is code for 'we're throwing shit at the wall and hoping something sticks.'"
The honesty is brutal, refreshing, necessary. You're so fucking tired of people tiptoeing around you, of the careful optimism your parents force into their voices, of your friends who don't know what to say so they say nothing at all or worse, everything, filling the silence with meaningless platitudes about staying positive and fighting hard as if cancer gives a single fuck about your attitude.
But Art—Art doesn't do that. He looks at you like you're both standing in the wreckage of your lives and there's no point in pretending the house isn't on fire.
"You still in school?" he asks, and you notice the way his fingers keep flexing, restless, like they're looking for something to grip.
"Was," you say. "Had to take medical leave. I was doing pre-law, which feels hilarious now. Like, who the fuck was I kidding?"
He nods slowly, understanding written all over his gaunt face. "I was supposed to graduate this year. Already had my spot lined up—was going to defer going pro for a year, get my degree, make my parents happy. Then my blood work came back fucked, and suddenly none of that mattered."
There's a long pause where neither of you speaks, where the only sound is the steady drip of your IVs and the distant beeping of someone else's monitor, someone else's crisis. You watch the way the light catches on the fluid running into his arm, clear and clinical and keeping him alive in the most mechanical sense.
"Do you miss it?" you ask finally, even though you already know the answer. "Tennis?"
His jaw tightens, and for a second you think you've overstepped, pushed too hard too fast, but then he exhales slowly. "Every fucking day. It's like—it's like losing a limb, except the limb was your entire identity. I've been playing since I was seven. My mom used to drive me to practice at five in the morning before school. I had this serve, this thing I'd been perfecting for years, and now I can barely make it to the bathroom without getting winded." The rawness in his voice splits you open, makes your own throat tight.
"I used to run," you tell him, and it feels like a confession. "Nothing serious, not like you, but I loved it. That feeling of your body doing exactly what you asked it to do, you know? And now I wake up and my joints are so stiff I can't make a fist for the first hour. It's like being trapped in someone else's body, someone old and broken."
"Yeah," he says quietly, and that single word holds so much weight it could sink ships. "Yeah, exactly like that."
His eyes meet yours again, and this time there's something different in them, something that looks almost like relief. Like he's been drowning and you just threw him a rope, even though you're drowning too, even though neither of you can save the other. But maybe that's not the point. Maybe the point is just not drowning alone.
"I'm Art, by the way," he says, and it's so absurdly formal given the circumstances that you almost laugh.
"I know," you admit. "Patricia told me. The nurse."
He raises an eyebrow, and there's a ghost of his former charm in the expression, that cocky athlete charisma that probably had people falling all over themselves. "Talking about me, huh? Should I be flattered or concerned?"
You do laugh then, a small huff of air that feels foreign in your chest. "Flattered, probably. She said you were supposed to go pro. Said you had scouts."
Something in his face shutters at that, the brief moment of levity evaporating like steam. "Had," he emphasizes, and the past tense is a knife. "Now I've got a port in my chest and a countdown clock I can't see but can definitely feel."
The words hang between you, brutal and true, and you don't try to soften them because what would be the point? "I'm sorry," you say, and you mean it, even though sorry is the most useless word in the English language, even though it can't change anything or fix anything or bring back what he's lost.
He waves it off with those restless fingers. "Don't be. Not your fault my bone marrow decided to stage a coup." Then, after a beat: "What's your name? Figure if we're gonna be miserable together we should at least know what to call each other."
You tell him, and he repeats it slowly, like he's testing how it sounds, how it fits in his mouth. "Okay," he says, nodding to himself. "Okay, good. Nice to meet you, I guess, even though this is literally the worst possible place to meet anyone."
"Agreed," you say, and you find yourself almost smiling despite everything, despite the IV in your arm and the ache in your bones and the boy across from you who looks like he's being erased in slow motion. "But I guess we work with what we've got."
He snorts, shakes his head, and for just a second—just one brief, shining second—he looks young again, looks like the college kid he's supposed to be instead of someone's terminal diagnosis. "Work with what we've got," he echoes. "Jesus Christ, is that what we're calling this nightmare now?"
You shrug, or try to, mimicking his earlier aborted gesture. "Beats the alternative. Which is, what, sitting here in silence pretending we're not both falling apart?"
He considers this, his head tilting slightly, and then he grins. It's not a happy grin—there's too much darkness in it, too much knowledge of what's coming—but it's real. "Fair point," he concedes. "Alright then. Let's be miserable together. At least that way it's not quite so fucking lonely."
And just like that, without ceremony or fanfare, you've made a pact. Two people whose bodies are betraying them, who've had their futures stolen, who understand that sometimes the only thing you can do is hold on and hope the fall doesn't kill you before you hit the ground. You settle back in your chair, feeling the vinyl stick to your skin through your thin hospital gown, and watch as Art does the same. The silence that falls now is different—not empty, but full, heavy with understanding and shared misery and something that might, in another life, have been the beginning of something good. But this isn't another life. This is this life, and it's brutal and unfair and probably won't end well for either of you. Still, when Art catches your eye again and offers that small, broken smile, you find yourself smiling back. Because what else is there to do? You're here, he's here, and for now—for right now—that has to be enough.
⸻
The first time you see Art's room, it's because he's too weak to make it to the infusion center and they've brought his chemo to him instead. Patricia mentions it in passing—"Art's having a rough day, they've got him on the heavy stuff"—and something in your chest tightens at the casual way she says it, like this is normal, like everyone's worst day is just another Tuesday in the oncology wing.
You've been here two months now, long enough that the nurses know your name without checking their charts, long enough that you've memorized the pattern of stains on the ceiling tiles above your usual chair. Long enough that seeing Art has become the only thing that makes these visits bearable, his dark humor and his bitter honesty and the way he looks at you like you're both in on the same terrible joke.
You shouldn't go to his room. You know this. There are protocols, boundaries, the invisible lines that separate patients from each other even as you're all drowning in the same pool.
But your infusion finishes and your hands won't stop shaking—not from the lupus, not today, but from something else, something that feels dangerously close to caring about whether Art is okay or not. So you find yourself in the hallway, following the room numbers like breadcrumbs, until you're standing outside 304 with your heart doing something complicated and painful in your chest. The door is half-open, and you can hear the steady beep of monitors, the low murmur of a nurse's voice, and underneath it all, nothing. No response from Art, no witty comeback, no rough laugh. Just silence, and somehow that's worse than anything else could be.
You knock anyway, soft enough that it's barely a sound, and push the door open wider. The room is exactly like every other room in this wing—institutional beige walls, linoleum floors that squeak under your shoes, that same horrible fluorescent lighting that makes everyone look half-dead even when they're not. But Art is in the bed, and Christ, he looks small. Smaller than he did in the infusion center, smaller than someone his height should ever look, swallowed up by white sheets and white blankets and the white hospital gown that ties at his too-thin neck.
There's an IV pole next to him with multiple bags hanging like a goddamn Christmas tree of poison, each one pumping something different into his body, and you can see the port in his chest where his gown has shifted, the skin around it red and angry. His eyes are closed, his face turned toward the window even though the blinds are drawn, and for one terrible moment you think you've made a mistake coming here, that you're intruding on something private, something meant to be suffered alone.
But then he speaks without opening his eyes, his voice barely more than a whisper. "If you're here to tell me to stay positive, you can fuck right off." The words should be harsh but they come out exhausted, worn down to nothing, and you feel something crack in your chest.
"Good thing I'm not, then," you say, and his eyes open slowly, like even that small movement costs him everything. When he focuses on you, there's surprise there first, then something that might be relief, then something else entirely—something vulnerable and raw that makes you want to look away except you can't, you won't.
"You came," he says, and it's not quite a question.
"Patricia said you were having a bad day," you tell him, staying near the door because you're not sure if you're welcome further in, not sure what the rules are for this. "Figured you could use some company. Or not. I can go if—"
"Stay," he interrupts, and the word comes out too fast, too desperate, before he can coat it in casual indifference. "Please. It's just been me and the fucking ceiling tiles for six hours and I'm losing my mind."
So you stay. You drag the visitor's chair closer to his bed—it's the same vinyl as the ones in the infusion center, because apparently hospitals only have one supplier and they chose the most uncomfortable option possible—and settle in, your own body protesting the movement with sharp jabs of pain that you've learned to breathe through. Art watches you with those blue eyes, tracking the way you move, and you know he's cataloging your pain the same way you're cataloging his. It's what you do now, you and him, this constant assessment of who's worse off on any given day, though you'd never say it out loud.
"What flavor are they pumping into you today?" you ask, nodding toward the IV bags, and he huffs out something that's almost a laugh.
"The fun kind. Cytarabine and daunorubicin, in case you were wondering. They're tag-teaming my bone marrow, real aggressive-like. My oncologist keeps using the word 'consolidation' like I'm a fucking corporate merger."
You wince in sympathy, and he sees it, appreciates it. "Sounds absolutely terrible," you offer, and he nods slowly.
"It is. I threw up twice already and we're only three hours in. Got another five to go on this bag, then they'll switch to the next one, and somewhere around hour eight I'll probably forget my own name."
The honesty is brutal, but that's what you've built between you—this foundation of brutal honesty, of not sugar-coating the nightmare because what would be the point. You sit in silence for a while, listening to the machines beep and whir, watching the way the afternoon light tries to sneak through the gaps in the blinds and fails. Art's hand is on top of the blanket, pale and skeletal, his fingers still doing that restless thing they do, and without thinking about it too hard you reach over and cover his hand with yours. He goes still immediately, like you've startled him, and you almost pull back—but then his fingers curl around yours, gripping tight enough that you can feel the bones of his hand, the tendons standing out in sharp relief.
"Tell me something," he says after a long moment, his eyes fixed on where your hands are joined. "Tell me something that has nothing to do with hospitals or treatments or blood counts. Tell me about before."
Before. The word sits between you like a ghost, like a photograph of people you used to be, people who had bodies that worked and futures that stretched out like highways. "Before," you repeat, tasting the word, trying to remember what that even means. "I used to go to this coffee shop near campus every Tuesday and Thursday morning. Had the same order every time—iced vanilla latte with oat milk. The barista knew my name, had it written on my cup before I even got to the counter. I'd sit in this corner booth and do my reading for class, and I was always so stressed about grades, about internships, about building the perfect resume." You laugh, but it's hollow. "I'd give anything to have those problems again. I'd give anything to be stressed about a fucking midterm instead of whether my kidneys are going to fail." Art's grip on your hand tightens, and when you look at him his eyes are closed again but there's something in his expression—understanding, solidarity, shared grief for the people you used to be.
"I had this rival," he says suddenly, his voice soft and far away, like he's talking from the bottom of a well. "David Chen. We came up through juniors together, played each other a hundred times, pushed each other to be better. He was—fuck, he was good. Better than me some days, worse than me on others, but always there, always this constant presence. We were supposed to play each other in the NCAA finals this year. I had this whole speech planned in my head for after I beat him, something about how he made me better, how the rivalry was the best thing that ever happened to my game." He opens his eyes, and they're wet, shining in the terrible fluorescent light. "He came to visit me once, right after my diagnosis. Couldn't even look me in the eye. Just stood there by the door making these awful platitudes about how I'd beat this, how I was a fighter, all that bullshit. Then he left and I haven't heard from him since." The pain in his voice is physical, a living thing, and you squeeze his hand harder.
"People don't know what to do with us," you say quietly, and it's the truth you've been living with for months now. "We're too real, too uncomfortable. We remind them that bad things happen to young people, that you can do everything right and still lose. It's easier for them to just... not deal with it."
Art nods, a single tear escaping down his temple, disappearing into his hair. "Yeah," he whispers. "Yeah, that's exactly it. My parents come every week, and I love them, but I can see how hard it is for them. My mom brings me food I can't eat because the chemo makes everything taste like metal, and my dad talks about what I'll do when I'm better like there's any guarantee I'm going to be better. They mean well, but it's like they're talking to a version of me that doesn't exist anymore."
You don't say anything to that because what is there to say? Instead you just sit there, holding his hand, being present in the way that no one else seems to be able to manage. Being willing to look directly at the horror of it instead of trying to dress it up in hope and positivity and other lies.
Eventually Art's breathing evens out into something that might be sleep, though it's fitful, his face twitching with discomfort even in unconsciousness. You should leave, should go home and rest your own battered body, but you don't. You stay in that uncomfortable vinyl chair, your hand in his, watching the poison drip into his veins and trying not to think about what comes next. A nurse comes in once to check his vitals, sees you there and just nods, doesn't ask you to leave, doesn't question why you're holding the hand of a boy you barely know. Maybe she understands, or maybe she's just seen too much death to care about hospital protocol. Either way, you're grateful for the silent permission to stay.
The afternoon bleeds into evening, the light through the blinds going from gray to darker gray, and still you sit. Still you hold on. Still you bear witness to Art's suffering because someone should, because he shouldn't have to do this alone. After all, you understand in a way that no one else in his life can.
When visiting hours officially end, Patricia pokes her head in and catches your eye. She gives you a look that's half reproach, half understanding, and mouths "ten more minutes" before disappearing again. Art stirs at the sound, his eyes cracking open, unfocused and glassy from whatever pain medication they've added to his cocktail.
"You're still here," he mumbles, and there's wonder in it, like he can't quite believe it.
"Yeah," you tell him simply. "I'm still here." He tries to smile, but it comes out more like a grimace.
"Doesn't make sense. You've got your own shit to deal with. You don't need to sit here watching me fall apart."
You shake your head, and your own eyes are burning now, hot and tight with tears you refuse to let fall. "Maybe I need to," you say. "Maybe it helps, knowing I'm not the only one. Maybe we're helping each other." He considers this through his haze of pain and medication, his thumb moving absently across your knuckles.
"Maybe," he concedes. "Or maybe we're just two disasters finding comfort in shared misery." You smile despite everything, despite the horror of where you are and what you're facing. "That too," you agree.
When you finally leave, your hand feels cold without his, empty in a way that has nothing to do with the lupus eating away at your joints. You walk through the hospital corridors in a daze, past the other patients in their rooms, past the nurses' station where Patricia gives you a knowing look, past the elevator that smells like bleach and broken dreams. And when you get to your car, you sit in the driver's seat for a long time, your hands on the steering wheel, and let yourself cry. Not for yourself this time, but for Art. For the tennis player who will never play again, for the college kid who might not make it to graduation, for the boy with beautiful blue eyes who's being erased one chemo session at a time. You cry until you're empty, until there's nothing left, and then you drive home in silence, the radio off, the world dark and indifferent around you.
⸻
The thing about dying slowly is that it gives you time to get used to the idea. Not that you ever really get used to it—how could you, when your body is literally consuming itself, when every day brings some new fresh hell—but there's a kind of numb acceptance that settles in after a while. You stop being shocked by the bad news, stop being surprised when things get worse instead of better, stop hoping for miracles because hope is just another word for setting yourself up for disappointment. Art is already there, has been there since long before you met him, and you're learning the territory from him, following the map he's drawn with his bitter humor and his brutal honesty.
It's week three of knowing him when you start spending more time in his room than in the infusion center. Your treatment schedule doesn't always line up with his anymore—they've changed his protocol twice now, throwing different combinations of drugs at the leukemia like they're playing chemical roulette—but you come anyway, bringing your own IV pole like a fucked-up security blanket, parking yourself in that vinyl chair that's started to feel like yours.
The nurses don't comment on it anymore, have stopped questioning why you're always in 304 instead of where you're supposed to be. Maybe they understand that sometimes the best medicine isn't in a bag hanging from a pole, or maybe they just don't have the energy to enforce rules that don't really matter in the grand scheme of things. Either way, you're grateful for the silent permission to exist in Art's space, to be the witness he needs even when he pretends he doesn't.
He talks more now, when the chemo isn't completely wrecking him, and you learn things about him in fragments, in pieces scattered between bouts of nausea and pain. He tells you about growing up in New Rochelle, about his grandmother who taught him to play chess, about the first time he picked up a tennis racket at seven years old and felt something click into place in his chest like recognition. "It was like I'd been looking for something my whole life and suddenly there it was," he says one afternoon, his voice dreamy with painkillers but still sharp with memory. "This perfect thing that made sense when nothing else did. My parents were fighting all the time back then, and school was boring, and I didn't really fit in with the other kids. But on the court? On the court I knew exactly who I was." His eyes are distant, fixed on something you can't see, some ghost of his former self. "I was good at it too, like scary good. Started winning tournaments by the time I was nine, had coaches telling my parents I could be special if I worked hard enough."
You listen, curled up in your chair with your knees pulled to your chest—a position that makes your joints scream but feels necessary somehow, like you need to make yourself smaller to fit into his memories with him. "Did you?" you ask. "Work hard enough?"
He laughs, but it turns into a cough halfway through, wet and rattling, and you have to watch him struggle through it, watch him spit into the plastic basin they keep on his bedside table. When he catches his breath, his face is flushed and his eyes are watering, but he's smiling anyway, that broken beautiful smile that kills you every time. "Fuck yes, I worked hard," he says when he can speak again. "I lived on the court. Four, five hours a day minimum, more during summers and school breaks. I gave up everything for tennis—parties, relationships, anything that might distract me from the goal. I was going to be the best, you know? That was the plan. Professional tennis player by twenty-two, Grand Slam champion by twenty-five. I had it all mapped out."
The past tense is a violence, and you both feel it hanging in the air between you like smoke. "I'm sorry," you say, because what else is there? Sorry is useless, sorry can't give him back his serve or his strength or his future, but it's all you have.
He waves it off, that restless hand moving through the air like he's swatting at invisible flies. "Don't be sorry. Be pissed off. That's what I am—just fucking furious all the time that this is what I get. Twenty-one years old and my body just decides to stage a rebellion, starts making all these fucked-up white blood cells that don't work, and suddenly everything I built is just... gone." His voice cracks on the last word, and you watch him struggle to hold it together, watch him blink rapidly against tears that he won't let fall. "I should be at practice right now," he continues, quieter now, more to himself than to you. "Should be working on my backhand, running drills, preparing for the season. Instead I'm here, pissing into a bedpan because I'm too weak to walk to the bathroom, letting poison drip into my veins and hoping it kills the cancer before it kills me."
The rawness of it steals your breath, makes your own eyes burn with sympathy tears you have no right to cry. "Tell me about your best match," you say suddenly, desperately needing to take him somewhere else, somewhere better, even if it's just in memory. "Your favorite one. The one that felt like everything you'd worked for was worth it."
Art's expression shifts at that, something softening in his face, and he settles back against his pillows with a small sigh. "Junior year," he says immediately. "NCAA tournament, semifinal round. I was playing this kid from Duke, tall guy with a killer serve, everyone said he was going to destroy me. And for the first set, he did—I couldn't return anything, kept getting aced left and right, lost it six-two. But then something clicked." His eyes are far away again, but there's light in them now, animation that makes him look almost healthy for a moment. "I figured out his pattern, the way he telegraphed where the serve was going with his toss. Once I had that, I had him. Came back and took the next three sets, and by the end he was so frustrated he was double-faulting every other point."
You can see it as he describes it—Art on the court, healthy and strong and perfect, doing what he was born to do. The image hurts, but it's a good hurt, the kind of pain that comes from being allowed to touch something beautiful. "The crowd was losing their minds," he continues, and there's wonder in his voice now, pure and undiluted. "I could hear people chanting my name, could feel the energy of it, and when I hit the winning shot—this perfect cross-court forehand that he couldn't even touch—I just... I felt invincible. Like nothing could stop me, like I was exactly where I was supposed to be, doing exactly what I was supposed to do." He turns his head to look at you then, and his eyes are wet but he's smiling, really smiling, and it transforms his whole face. "That's what I miss the most," he admits. "Not the winning, not the glory or whatever. Just that feeling of being exactly who you're meant to be, of your body doing exactly what you ask it to do. Of being whole."
The word lands between you like a grenade, and suddenly you're both crying, quiet tears that slip down your faces without permission. Because you know that feeling too, the feeling of being whole, and you know what it's like to lose it, to have your body become a stranger, an enemy, a prison. You reach for his hand again—it's become your habit, this touching, this constant physical connection that grounds you both—and he grips it like a lifeline.
"I know," you whisper, your voice thick with tears. "I know exactly what you mean."
And you do, God help you, you do. You remember what it felt like to run, to feel your legs eating up the pavement, to feel your heart pounding in that good way, the way that meant you were alive and strong and capable. You remember dancing in your apartment, drunk on cheap wine and good music, spinning in circles until you were dizzy with joy. You remember your body as a source of pleasure instead of pain, as something that worked with you instead of against you.
"Tell me yours," Art says, squeezing your hand. "Tell me your best moment, your invincible moment."
You have to think about it, have to dig through the rubble of your before-life to find something worth sharing. "Freshman year of college," you finally say. "There was this party—typical stupid college party, too many people crammed into too small a space, music too loud, drinks too strong. And everyone was dancing, just completely unselfconscious, and I remember thinking how usually I'd be standing on the sidelines watching because I was too anxious, too worried about looking stupid." Art's thumb traces patterns on your knuckles, encouraging you to continue. "But that night I just... went for it. Just threw myself into the crowd and danced like an idiot, and it was amazing. I felt so free, so completely myself, and there was this moment where the song changed to something everyone knew and the whole room started singing along, and I was part of it, part of this collective joy."
Your voice breaks on the last word, and Art pulls your joined hands up to rest against his chest, right over his heart. You can feel it beating, steady but too fast, his body working overtime just to keep him alive.
"I miss that," you confess. "I miss being able to just exist in my body without constantly monitoring it, without wondering if this is going to be the day everything gets worse. I miss being young and stupid and thinking I had forever."
Art makes a noise in the back of his throat, agreement and grief all mixed together. "We should've had forever," he says fiercely. "We should've had decades of being young and stupid, of making mistakes and fixing them, of growing up and growing old. This is bullshit. This whole thing is complete and utter bullshit."
You can't argue with that because he's right—it is bullshit, it's cosmically unfair, it's wrong in every possible way. So instead you just nod, and you lie there together in his hospital bed because at some point during the conversation you ended up next to him instead of in the chair, and you hold each other while the machines beep and the poison drips and the world keeps turning outside like none of this matters.
The sun sets beyond the closed blinds, the room growing darker except for the glow from the monitors and the hallway light seeping under the door. A nurse will come eventually, will probably scold you for being in the bed with him, will cite infection risk and protocol and all the rules designed to keep sick people alive. But for now, for this moment, it's just you and Art and the shared understanding that you're both drowning and the only thing keeping you afloat is each other.
"Thank you," he whispers into the darkness, his breath warm against your temple.
"For what?" you ask, even though you know.
"For seeing me," he says simply. "For not treating me like I'm already dead. For letting me talk about tennis without trying to tell me I'll play again someday. For just... being here. Being real." You turn your face into his shoulder, breathing in the smell of hospital soap and sickness and underneath it all, something that's just Art.
"Thank you for the same thing," you tell him. "For not bullshitting me. For understanding. For making this bearable."
He kisses the top of your head then, soft and chaste and devastating, and you both pretend it doesn't mean anything even though it means everything. You pretend you're just two friends offering comfort, not two people falling in love in the worst possible circumstances, not two people who found each other in the wreckage and decided to hold on even though you both know how this ends. Because what else can you do? You're here, he's here, and the time you have is running out faster than either of you wants to acknowledge. So you hold each other in the dark, and you don't talk about tomorrow or next week or next month. You just exist in this moment, this pocket of peace in the middle of the nightmare, and you let it be enough.
⸻
The decline, when it comes, is both sudden and inevitable. You know it's coming—you've known since the day you met him that Art is on borrowed time, that the leukemia is aggressive and unforgiving and probably going to win—but knowing doesn't prepare you for the reality of watching it happen. It starts small, so small you almost miss it: he's a little more tired than usual, sleeps through more of your visits, needs help sitting up when before he could manage it on his own. His appetite, already shit because of the chemo, disappears entirely. The nurses start bringing him meal trays that go back to the kitchen untouched, and you watch him get thinner, watch his collarbones jut out like accusation, watch his face hollow out until he's all eyes and cheekbones and translucent skin.
His oncologist—Dr. Morrison, a woman in her fifties with kind eyes and the exhausted demeanor of someone who's watched too many young people die—starts using different words. Words like "palliative" and "comfort measures" and "quality of life," words that are code for "we're giving up."
Art takes the news with that same bitter acceptance he applies to everything, just nods once and says, "Okay, so how long?"
Dr. Morrison hesitates, and you can see her weighing how honest to be, how much hope to leave him. "It's hard to say," she starts, but Art cuts her off with a rough laugh that turns into a cough.
"Bullshit," he says when he can breathe again. "You know. You've done this before. Just tell me."
She looks at you then, like she's asking permission, and you nod because Art deserves the truth even if it's going to destroy you both. "Weeks," she says quietly. "Maybe a month, if we're lucky. Your blast count is too high, and the chemo isn't bringing it down anymore. Your body can't take another round, Art. I'm sorry."
The silence after she leaves is enormous, suffocating, filled with everything neither of you can say. Art stares at the ceiling, his jaw working like he's trying to swallow something too big, and you sit frozen in your chair, your hand still wrapped around his, trying to process the fact that you just got an expiration date on the person who's become the most important part of your fucked-up life.
"Weeks," Art finally says, testing the word like it's in a foreign language. "Jesus Christ, weeks. That's it? That's all I get?" His voice cracks, and you watch him fight against the breakdown, watch him try to hold it together the way he's been holding it together for months. But this time he can't, this time the reality is too big to swallow, and he turns his face into the pillow and sobs. Deep, wrenching sounds that come from somewhere in his chest, somewhere primal and terrified, and all you can do is climb into the bed next to him and wrap yourself around him and let him fall apart.
You cry too, helpless tears that soak into his hospital gown, your own grief mixing with his until you can't tell where his pain ends and yours begins. "It's not fair," you keep saying, over and over like a prayer or a curse. "It's not fair, it's not fair, it's not fucking fair."
And it's not—it's not fair that he's twenty-one with a killer serve and a future that should have been full of trophies and endorsements and Grand Slam titles. It's not fair that his body turned on him, that medicine failed him, that he has to die in this awful room with its awful lights and its awful machines. It's not fair that you found him, that you fell for him, that you're going to have to live with the hole he leaves behind. But fair doesn't matter, fair has never mattered, and the universe doesn't give a shit about what you deserve or what Art deserves or what anyone deserves.
Eventually you both run out of tears, run out of energy, run out of everything except the raw fact of what's coming. Art pulls back enough to look at you, and his face is blotchy and swollen and still the most beautiful thing you've ever seen.
"I don't wanna die," he whispers, and it's the first time he's said it out loud, the first time he's let himself be that vulnerable. "I know I've been all tough and accepting and whatever, but I don't want to die. I'm... I'm scared." The admission breaks something open in your chest, and you cup his face in your hands, your thumbs wiping away tears that just keep coming.
"I know," you tell him, and your voice is steady even though you're shattering inside. "I know you're scared. I'm scared too. I'm fucking terrified of losing you."
He closes his eyes, leaning into your touch like it's the only thing keeping him tethered to the world. "Will you stay?" he asks. "When... it happens? Will you be here?"
You don't even have to think about it. "Yes," you promise. "I'll be here. You won't be alone, Art. I swear to God, you won't be alone."
The days after that conversation blur together in a haze of morphine and monitoring and making the most of whatever time is left. Art's parents come more often now, his mother red-eyed and trembling, his father silent and gray-faced, and you fade into the background during their visits, giving them space to say goodbye to their son. But you're always there in the margins, waiting in the hallway or the cafeteria, and when they leave—exhausted and grief-stricken and barely holding it together—you slip back into his room and take up your post in that vinyl chair that's molded to the shape of you by now. Sometimes Art is awake enough to talk, and those conversations are precious, final, weighted with the knowledge that everything you say might be the last thing you say. Other times he sleeps, his breathing labored and uneven, and you just watch him, memorizing every detail, storing up images for the long empty after.
He tells you things in those last days, confessions and secrets and truths he's never spoken out loud. He tells you about the first boy he kissed—a doubles partner when he was sixteen, fumbling and awkward and perfect. He tells you about the time he almost quit tennis, burned out and exhausted at nineteen, and how his grandmother talked him back into it with stories about regret and unfinished business. He tells you he's glad he met you, that even though everything about this situation is terrible, having you here makes it bearable.
"You're the best thing that's happened to me in this nightmare," he says one night, his words slurred with painkillers but sincere. "I mean that. If I had to be sick, I'm glad I got to be sick with you."
You kiss his forehead, his cheek, the corner of his mouth, and you tell him the same thing back because it's true—he's the best thing too, this dying boy who saw you, who understood you, who loved you in the only way he had left.
Your own health takes a backseat during this time. You miss appointments, skip infusions, ignore the way your joints are swelling and your fatigue is getting worse. Patricia scolds you when she catches you, tells you that you can't take care of Art if you don't take care of yourself, but you can't bring yourself to leave him, not now, not when every hour might be the last one. So you stay, and your body screams at you for it, and you decide that future-you can deal with the consequences because present-you has more important things to worry about. Like the way Art's breathing is getting shallower, the way his skin is taking on a grayish tint, the way the spaces between his moments of lucidity are getting longer. Like the fact that you're watching someone you love die in real-time and there's nothing you can do to stop it.
The nursing staff bends the rules for you in ways they probably shouldn't. They let you stay past visiting hours, let you sleep in the chair next to his bed, bring you food and coffee and extra blankets when you're shivering. They've seen this before—the vigil, the desperate clinging to borrowed time—and they understand that sometimes the protocol matters less than the human connection. Patricia, especially, becomes an ally, checking on you as often as she checks on Art, making sure you're eating something, reminding you to stretch your legs, giving you privacy when you need to fall apart.
"You're a good friend," she tells you one morning, and you don't correct her, don't tell her that friend doesn't begin to cover what Art is to you. That he's become your whole world in the space of three months, that you can't imagine your life without him in it even though you're going to have to.
There's a night—you think it's a Tuesday, though time has lost all meaning—when Art is more awake than he's been in days. The morphine has reached some perfect balance where he's not in agony but also not completely lost, and his eyes are clear when they find yours in the dim room.
"Hey," he says, and his voice is barely a whisper but it's him, it's really him.
"Hey yourself," you answer, moving from the chair to the bed, fitting yourself carefully against his side. He's so fragile now, all sharp edges and brittle bones, and you're terrified of hurting him but he makes a small sound of contentment when you settle in.
"I've been thinking," he says slowly, like each word costs him. "About what happens after. If there even is an after."
You go still against him, your heart contracting painfully. "Yeah?"
He nods slightly, his head moving against yours. "I think—I think I'd want to come back as something that moves. Something fast. Like a bird, or maybe the wind. Something that's not trapped in one place."
The image of it makes you smile despite the tears that are already forming. "That's perfect," you tell him. "You'd make a beautiful bird. Or a beautiful wind. You could blow through tennis courts and fuck up everyone's serves."
He laughs, just a breath of sound, but it's genuine. "Yeah," he agrees. "Yeah, I like that. Haunting tennis courts, being a pain in the ass even when I'm dead." Then, softer: "What about you? What would you come back as?
You consider it, really think about it, because if this is one of your last conversations, you want to give him a real answer. "Water," you finally say. "I think I'd want to be water. Rain or ocean or even just a stream. Something that flows, that adapts, that can be soft or powerful depending on what's needed. Something that touches everything and everyone."
"Water," he repeats thoughtfully. "I like that for you. It fits."
He's quiet for a moment, and you can hear the machines, the distant sounds of the hospital at night, the labored rhythm of his breathing. "Promise me something," he says eventually. "Promise me you'll keep going. After. Promise me you won't give up."
You want to protest, want to tell him that you can't imagine a world where you keep going without him in it, but the earnestness in his voice stops you. "Art—"
"Please," he interrupts, and there's urgency there now, desperation. "I need to know that this meant something, that knowing you meant something. If you give up, if you let the lupus win, then what was the point? Promise me you'll fight. Promise me you'll live."
The words are a knife to your chest, but you understand what he's asking. He needs to know that his death won't take you down too, that there will be someone left who remembers him, who carries him forward. "I promise," you whisper, and you mean it even though it feels impossible. "I'll keep fighting. I'll live. For both of us."
He relaxes at that, some tension leaving his body, and his hand finds yours under the blanket, threading your fingers together one more time. "Good," he breathes. "That's good. Thank you."
You lie there together as the night deepens, as the hospital settles into its twilight rhythm, and you try to memorize everything—the weight of him against you, the sound of his breathing, the way his thumb still does that absent stroking thing across your knuckles. The way he smells like hospital and sickness but also like himself, some essential Art-ness that no amount of disease can erase. The way his heart beats against your palm when you press your hand to his chest, steady and strong and lying because it won't be steady or strong for much longer. You catalog it all, store it away in the vault of your memory, knowing that soon this will be all you have left.
⸻
The end comes on a Thursday. You'll remember that later, how it was Thursday and the weather was beautiful—unseasonably warm for October, the kind of day that makes people walk around in t-shirts and plan picnics, the kind of day that has no business being the day someone dies. You've been at the hospital for thirty-six hours straight, ignoring Patricia's pleas for you to go home and rest, because you can feel it in the air, this awful certainty that time is running out. Art has been mostly unconscious for the past two days, his body finally giving up the fight, shutting down system by system in a cascade of failures that Dr. Morrison explained in clinical terms that didn't make it any less horrifying. His kidneys are failing, his liver is struggling, his blood pressure keeps dropping despite the medications they're pumping into him. He's drowning from the inside, fluid filling his lungs, and even with the oxygen mask they can't seem to get enough air into him.
You haven't left his side except to use the bathroom, and even then you practically run back, terrified that you'll miss it, that he'll slip away while you're gone and you'll break your promise to be there. His parents were here earlier, his mother sobbing so hard she had to be sedated, his father standing stone-faced and silent until he finally broke and had to leave the room. They said their goodbyes—you gave them privacy for that, waited in the hallway with your heart in your throat while they told their son they loved him one last time. When they emerged, his father pulled you aside, this man you barely know, and gripped your shoulder with a hand that was shaking.
"Thank you," he said, his voice wrecked. "Thank you for being here for him. For making him less alone." You couldn't speak, could only nod, and then they were gone, unable to watch the final act, and you understood because how could anyone watch their child die?
So it's just you now, you and Art and the machines that are still beeping out their steady rhythms even though the body they're monitoring is already half-gone. You're lying next to him in the bed—fuck the rules, fuck the protocol, you're not leaving him now—with your head on his chest, listening to his heart struggle through each beat. It's slower than it should be, irregular, skipping beats like it's forgetting how to work, and every time it stutters you freeze, thinking this is it, this is the moment. But then it catches again, keeps going, stubborn and determined even as the rest of him fails. His breathing is terrible, wet and labored, each inhale a fight he's losing, and you can hear the death rattle that the nurses warned you about, that horrible gurgling sound that means the end is close.
"I'm here," you keep whispering, your lips against his gown, your hand wrapped around his. "I'm right here, Art. You're not alone. I've got you."
You don't know if he can hear you—he hasn't responded to anything in hours, hasn't opened his eyes or squeezed your hand or shown any sign that he knows you're there. But you keep talking anyway, keep telling him it's okay to let go, that you'll be okay, that he doesn't have to fight anymore. You tell him about the sun outside, how it's a perfect October day, how if he could see it he'd probably want to be on a court somewhere hitting serves. You tell him you love him, finally say the words you've been swallowing for weeks, because what does it matter now? What does anything matter except making sure he knows, making sure he leaves this world knowing he was loved?
The morning stretches into afternoon, time moving like molasses, like you're trapped in amber. Patricia checks in periodically, her face grave, adjusting Art's medications, checking his vitals even though you all know the numbers don't matter anymore. She brings you water, makes you drink it, touches your shoulder with a gentleness that makes you want to scream. The other nurses stop by too, these women who've been taking care of Art for months, who've watched this vibrant boy deteriorate into this shell, and you can see the grief in their faces too. Death is supposed to be routine in a place like this, but it never really is, especially not when it's someone young, someone who should have had decades left.
Around three in the afternoon, something changes. You feel it before you understand it—the way Art's body shifts against yours, the way his breathing pattern changes, becomes even more irregular, more desperate. His heart is racing now, too fast, like it's trying to outrun what's coming, and you sit up, your own heart hammering, knowing that this is it.
"Art," you say, louder now, urgent, your hand cupping his face. "Art, I'm here. I'm right here with you." His eyes flutter open—just barely, just for a second—and you see him in there, see recognition and fear and something that might be relief. His lips move like he's trying to say something, but no sound comes out, just a thin wheeze that breaks your heart into a thousand pieces. You lean down, pressing your forehead to his, breathing the same air, trying to give him whatever strength you have left even though you know it's not enough, it's never enough.
"It's okay," you tell him, and you're crying now, tears falling onto his face, mixing with the sweat and the sickness. "It's okay to go. You don't have to be scared. I love you, Art. I love you so fucking much. You made this bearable. You made me less alone. Thank you for that. Thank you for seeing me, for letting me see you. Thank you for every conversation, every moment, every time you made me laugh when I thought I'd forgotten how."
His breathing is slowing now, the spaces between breaths getting longer, and you can feel his heartbeat stuttering under your palm, failing.
"You're gonna be free now," you whisper through your tears. "No more hospitals, no more treatments, no more pain. You're going to run and play tennis and be everything you were supposed to be. And I'm going to remember you. I'm going to carry you with me. You're not going to be forgotten, Art. I promise you won't be forgotten."
His next breath rattles in his chest, wet and wrong, and then there's a pause. A long pause. You wait, holding your own breath, waiting for the next inhale that you know isn't coming. The monitors are screaming now, alarms going off, but you barely hear them. You're focused on Art, on his face that's gone slack, on the way the tension has left his body, on the absolute stillness of his chest.
"No," you hear yourself saying, even though you knew this was coming, even though you've been preparing for this. "No, no, no, Art, please. Please don't go. Please."
But he's already gone. You can feel the absence of him, the way his body is just a body now, no longer inhabited by the person you love. His heart has stopped—you know this even before the monitor flatlines, can feel the silence in his chest where there used to be a beat.
The nurses rush in, Patricia first, and she takes one look at the monitor, at Art's still face, at you collapsed over his body, and she knows there's no point in trying to resuscitate. This was always coming, and Art had signed the DNR weeks ago, made the choice to go peacefully when his time came. She silences the alarms with efficient movements, and suddenly the room is too quiet, horribly quiet, just the sound of your ragged breathing and your sobs filling the space.
"I'm so sorry," Patricia says, and she sounds like she means it, like this death matters to her too. "He's gone, honey. He's at peace now." Peace. The word is obscene, meaningless, a platitude that makes you want to rage at her even though you know she's trying to help. How can he be at peace when he's dead at twenty-one? How can any of this be peaceful?
You don't know how long you stay there, draped over Art's body, clinging to him like if you just hold on tight enough you can keep him here, keep him with you. Your hands are in his hair, on his face, feeling the warmth slowly leaking out of him as his body cools, as the machines are disconnected one by one and the room becomes even more silent. Patricia lets you have this time, doesn't rush you, doesn't tell you that you need to leave so they can prepare the body. She just stands nearby, a quiet presence, and when you finally pull back—your face swollen, your throat raw from crying—she helps you stand on shaking legs.
"Do you want to call anyone?" she asks gently, and you shake your head because there's no one to call, no one who would understand what you've lost.
"Okay," she says. "Okay, that's okay. Why don't we get you cleaned up, get you home. You've been here a long time."
But you can't leave, not yet, not when Art is still here, still exists in this room even if he's gone from his body. You move back to the bed, taking his hand one more time, and it's still warm, still feels like him, and that somehow makes it worse. "I'll keep my promise," you tell him, even though he can't hear you anymore, even though it's just you talking to a corpse in a hospital room. "I'll keep fighting. I'll live for both of us. But fuck, Art, I don't know how to do this without you. I don't know how to be in a world where you don't exist."
The words break on a sob, and you lean down, pressing one last kiss to his forehead, feeling the coolness of his skin against your lips. "I love you," you whisper one more time. "I'm sorry this happened to you. I'm sorry you didn't get more time. I'm sorry for everything."
Patricia eventually coaxes you out of the room, her arm around your waist, supporting you because your legs don't seem to remember how to work. You look back once, seeing Art's body on the bed, seeing how small he looks without the force of his personality animating him, and then you're in the hallway and the door is closing and that's it. He's gone. The boy with the blue eyes and the beautiful serve and the bitter humor that cut through your defenses like a knife—he's gone. And you're still here, still breathing, still alive in a body that won't stop betraying you, and the unfairness of it threatens to bring you to your knees right there in the corridor.
You make it to your car somehow, though you don't remember walking through the hospital, don't remember the elevator or the parking garage or finding your keys. You sit behind the wheel and stare at nothing, at the concrete wall in front of you, and try to understand that you will never see Art again. Never hear his voice, never feel his hand in yours, never watch him struggle to smile through the pain. All those conversations, all those shared moments, all that intimacy born from shared suffering—it's over. Finished. Done. He existed and now he doesn't, and you're supposed to just accept that, supposed to just move on, supposed to keep living like your world hasn't ended.
The grief hits you in waves, drowning you, pulling you under until you can't breathe. You scream in your car, hands gripping the steering wheel so hard your knuckles go white, screaming until your throat is raw and your voice is gone. You scream for Art, for his stolen future, for the life he should have had. You scream for yourself, for the hole he's left in your chest, for the loneliness that's already settling over you like a blanket. You scream at the universe, at God if there is one, at the cosmic unfairness of twenty-one-year-olds dying of leukemia while terrible people live to old age. And when you're done screaming, when you've exhausted yourself, you put your head on the steering wheel and cry. Deep, wrenching sobs that come from somewhere primal, somewhere that understands loss in a way your conscious mind can't process yet.
The sun is setting when you finally drive home, the sky painted in oranges and pinks that seem offensive in their beauty. How dare the world be beautiful when Art is dead? How dare the sun set and rise again like nothing has changed? You pull into your apartment complex and sit in your parking spot, watching the light fade, and think about Art's promise to come back as something that moves. A bird, the wind, something free. You wonder if he's out there somewhere, if some essential part of him continues, or if he's just gone, extinguished like a candle. You want to believe in an afterlife, in something after, but right now all you feel is the absence, the Art-shaped hole in the world that nothing will ever fill.
Your apartment is exactly how you left it—dishes in the sink, unmade bed, mail piled on the counter—and it feels surreal that everything here is the same when you're completely different. You were a person who had Art when you left. Now you're a person who doesn't, who never will again. You move through your space like a ghost, mechanically showering off the hospital smell, changing into clean clothes, trying to eat something and giving up after two bites. Everything feels wrong, off-kilter, like you're moving through a reality that doesn't quite fit anymore. Your phone has messages—your parents, your friends, people checking in—but you can't bring yourself to respond, can't find the words to tell them that Art died, that the boy they didn't know existed took a piece of you with him.
You end up on your couch, wrapped in a blanket, staring at the wall as night falls completely. Your body aches—your joints are swollen, your fever is back, your own illness reminding you that you're still sick, still fighting your own battle. But you don't care. You don't care about anything except the fact that Art is gone and you're still here and you promised him you'd keep living. It seems like the cruelest promise you've ever made, the most impossible task. How do you keep living when the person who made life bearable is dead? How do you wake up tomorrow and the day after and the day after that, knowing he'll never wake up again?
You must fall asleep eventually because you wake with a start hours later, disoriented and aching, your face crusty with dried tears. For a brief, beautiful moment, you forget. And then you remember—Art is dead—and the grief crashes over you again, fresh and devastating like it's happening for the first time. You wonder if this is what the rest of your life will be: waking up and remembering, over and over, that he's gone. The thought is unbearable, but you bear it anyway because what choice do you have? You get up, you move through your apartment, you exist in this new reality where Art Donaldson is past tense, where he's a memory instead of a person.
The days that follow are a blur of numb grief and administrative nightmares. You have to call the hospital, have to get information about Art's funeral because his parents asked Patricia to tell you, because apparently Art told them about you, told them you mattered. The service is small, held at a church in New Rochelle that Art probably never attended, filled with people who knew him before—tennis teammates and college friends and family members who cry in that performative way of people who didn't watch him die, who didn't sit with him in his worst moments.
You sit in the back, feeling like an intruder, feeling like your grief is too big and too private for this public display. They talk about his tennis career, his potential, his bright future, and they get it all wrong because they're talking about the Art who existed before the leukemia, the Art who was whole and healthy and had dreams. They didn't know the Art you knew—the one who made dark jokes about his blood counts, who cried in your arms about being scared, who found beauty even in the nightmare of dying.
You don't speak at the service. You can't. What would you even say? That you fell in love with him in a hospital? That he made your own suffering bearable just by understanding it? That three months with him meant more than years with anyone else? It all feels too intimate, too raw, too precious to share with these strangers who are crying for someone they've already romanticized into a tragedy instead of remembering him as a person. So you sit in silence, and when they lower his casket into the ground you think about his body in there, the body you held, the body that fought so hard to stay alive, and you have to leave before the first shovel of dirt falls because you can't watch them bury him, can't accept the finality of it.
You drive to the beach after, some instinct pulling you toward water, toward the thing you said you'd want to come back as. You walk along the shore as the sun sets, watching the waves roll in and out with their eternal rhythm, and you talk to Art like he can hear you. You tell him about the service, about how they got him wrong, about how you wanted to stand up and scream at them that they didn't know him, not really, not the way you did. You tell him you miss him so much it feels like dying, like your body is trying to follow his into death. You tell him you're trying to keep your promise, trying to keep fighting, but it's so fucking hard when the person who made it worth fighting is gone.
The wind picks up, whipping your hair around your face, and you want to believe it's him, want to believe he's found his freedom and come back to tell you he's okay. But you're not sure you believe in that kind of thing, and even if you did, the wind is just wind, indifferent and impersonal. Art is gone, and you're alone with your grief and your illness and your promise to live. So you stand there on the beach, watching the sun disappear into the ocean, and you make a choice. You choose to honor him by surviving. By fighting the lupus, by showing up to your appointments, by doing the work of staying alive even when it feels impossible. Not because you want to, but because you promised him you would, and promises to the dead are the most sacred kind.
You'll carry him with you—in your memories, in your heart, in the way you understand suffering now in a way you never did before. Art Donaldson lived for twenty-one years, and for three months of that life, he was yours and you were his, and nothing can take that away. Not death, not time, not the cruel unfairness of a universe that takes the beautiful things too soon. He existed, he mattered, and you loved him. And that has to be enough, even though it's not, even though it will never be enough.
You return to the hospital the following week for your own treatment, and walking through those doors feels like wading through water, like every step requires more strength than you have.
Patricia sees you and her face crumples, and she pulls you into a hug that you sink into, letting her hold you up for a moment. "How are you doing?" she asks when she pulls back, and it's such an inadequate question that you almost laugh.
How are you doing? You're destroyed. You're gutted. You're a person-shaped hole walking around pretending to be whole. But you say, "I'm here. That's something." And she nods like she understands, because maybe she does, maybe she's seen this enough times to recognize the particular species of grief that comes from losing someone in this place.
You sit in your usual chair in the infusion center, the one you always sat in before you started spending all your time in Art's room, and it feels wrong. Everything feels wrong. The chair across from you is empty, will always be empty now, and you stare at it while the familiar burn of medication enters your veins. You think about Art sitting there that first day, slouched and beautiful and dying, asking you if it was your first time. You think about how you nodded back at him, that silent acknowledgment, and how that single moment changed everything. You found each other in hell, and he made the burning bearable, and now he's gone and you're still burning.
But you're here. You showed up. You're fighting, just like you promised. And maybe that's all you can do—keep showing up, keep fighting, keep living in a world that doesn't have Art in it anymore. Some days that will feel impossible. Most days, probably. But you'll do it anyway, because love doesn't end when someone dies, and neither do promises. You'll carry him with you through every treatment, every bad day, every moment when your body tries to quit. You'll remember what he taught you about finding connection in suffering, about honesty in the face of death, about holding on to beauty even when everything is terrible.
Art Donaldson died on a Thursday in October, and the world kept turning like it didn't matter, like losing him wasn't the end of everything. But it mattered to you. He mattered to you. And you'll spend the rest of your life—however long that is—making sure that his mattering meant something. Making sure that the three months you had together weren't just a tragic footnote but a testament to the fact that even in the worst circumstances, even in the shadow of death, love is possible. Connection is possible. Meaning is possible.
You'll live for him. For his stolen serves and his blue eyes and his bitter humor. For the way he held your hand and let you see him scared. For every moment of honesty, every shared grief, every time you made each other less alone. You'll live because he can't, and because somewhere in the space between dying and dead, he asked you to. And that's a debt you'll spend your whole life trying to repay.
The IV drips into your arm, and you close your eyes, and you breathe. In and out. In and out. Still alive, still fighting, still here. It's not enough, but it's what you have. And for now—for today—that has to be enough.
( summary ) six months into dating patrick zweig means you've gotten very good at wanting him from a distance. it’s winter 2007, and your boyfriend is somewhere in florida while you're drowning in midterms at stanford. the phone calls are the only thing keeping you both sane.
( cw ) mild sexual content (mdni) including phone sex, mutual masturbation, mild possessiveness, early relationship growing pains, long-distance relationship dynamics
( word count ) 9.4k
( tags ) @luvdeuce @pittsick (want to join? click here!)
The thing about dating a tennis player—a real one, not the recreational Stanford club team type—is that you spend more time looking at your phone than at your actual boyfriend.
Your phone sits face-up on your desk in the Stanford library, volume on low but not silenced, because Patrick gets pissy when you miss his calls. It's 10:47 PM on a Thursday in January, the kind of cold Northern California night that seeps into your bones despite the library's aggressive heating system, and you've been staring at the same page of your Econ textbook for twenty minutes without absorbing a single word. Your highlighter hovers uselessly over a paragraph about supply chain management while your eyes keep flicking to your phone screen, waiting for it to light up.
Patrick said he'd call after his match—which was at 7 PM Eastern, so three hours ago—but his definition of "after" is fluid at best and deliberately evasive at worst.
You've been dating for six months, which sounds more substantial than it feels when you've spent maybe three cumulative weeks actually in the same physical location. Six months of knowing Patrick Zweig, which is long enough to understand that he's constitutionally incapable of doing anything the easy way, including maintaining a relationship. He'd showed up at Stanford last July to visit Art, all cocky smirk and wandering eyes, and somehow you'd ended up at the same party, then the same late-night diner, then tangled in your dorm room bed while your roommate was conveniently gone for the weekend. Patrick had left two days later for a tournament in Cincinnati, and you'd both agreed it was just a hookup, nothing serious, except then he kept calling.
At first it was sporadic—a text here, a late-night call there when he was bored in some interchangeable hotel room. Then it became more regular, more intentional, until one night in September he'd asked, with uncharacteristic hesitancy, if you were seeing anyone else. You weren't. You'd been too busy thinking about him, unfortunately, and when you'd admitted as much, Patrick had gotten this satisfied tone in his voice that you could practically hear him smirking through. "Good," he'd said. "Don't." And that had been that—you were Patrick's girlfriend, whatever that meant when your boyfriend was perpetually three states away.
Your phone finally buzzes at 10:53, vibrating against the desk loud enough that the girl across from you shoots you an annoyed look. You grab it quickly, already smiling before you even see the screen, because you know it's him. Patrick's name lights up with an incoming call, and you're gathering your stuff with one hand while answering with the other, already walking toward the library exit because this conversation isn't happening in public.
"Hey," you say, shouldering your way through the heavy doors into the cold night air. Your breath comes out in visible puffs, and you're immediately regretting not grabbing your heavier jacket this morning, but at least it's quiet out here. "How'd it go?"
"How'd what go?" Patrick's voice is rough and low, that particular gravelly quality it gets when he's tired, and you can hear the smile in it even as he's being deliberately obtuse. There's background noise—the hum of a TV, maybe, or the AC unit in whatever hotel room he's occupying tonight. "You're gonna have to be more specific, baby. I do a lot of things."
"Your match, asshole." You're walking aimlessly now, away from the library toward the main quad, because standing still in this cold seems miserable and you've got restless energy that needs somewhere to go. "The one you were supposed to call me about three hours ago?"
"Oh, that." He makes a dismissive sound that you've learned means he's probably shrugging, sprawled out on some hotel bed in his boxers or maybe less, because Patrick treats hotel rooms like his personal domain. "Won. Straight sets. Guy was a fucking joke—had this weak-ass backhand that I exploited in like, the third game. Didn't even make me work for it."
There's something in his tone, though, underneath the cocky posturing—a thread of dissatisfaction that you've gotten good at identifying. Patrick wins matches and feels empty about it more often than he'd ever admit, especially against opponents he doesn't respect. He wants every match to be a war, wants to earn his victories through blood and suffering, and when it comes easy he gets restless and mean.
"So you're in a shit mood because you won too easily," you say, and it's not a question. You've reached the Main Quad now, the big open space at Stanford's heart, and it's deserted at this hour. The sandstone arches are lit with warm lights that don't quite reach the center of the space, leaving pockets of shadow that feel private enough. "Patrick, that's literally the point. You're supposed to win easily sometimes. That's what being good means."
"Yeah, well, being good is boring as fuck when the other guy isn't." Patrick sounds petulant now, like a kid denied a toy he wanted. "I'm in Pensacola, which is apparently where tennis goes to die, playing in some challenger tournament that pays like, nothing, against guys who peaked in college. This is what I left Stanford for—playing Jimmy Reynolds from bumfuck nowhere who probably works at a fucking country club between tournaments."
You settle onto one of the stone benches, even though it's cold enough that you can feel it through your jeans immediately. "You didn't leave Stanford," you point out, because this is an argument you've had before and you're tired of Patrick rewriting history to make himself more tragic. "You never went to Stanford. You chose the tour instead. That's different."
"Semantics." You can hear him shifting around, fabric rustling against fabric. "Point is, Art's there living the college dream or whatever, and I'm in a Marriott in fucking Florida playing tennis that doesn't matter."
"It matters," you say, and you mean it even though Patrick is being a pain in the ass. "Every match matters. That's what you told me—that you're building your ranking, getting experience, learning to win. Or was that bullshit?"
Patrick laughs, and it's the real kind, not the performative chuckle he does when he's trying to charm someone. "You're annoying, you know that? Can't even let me wallow. I call you to complain and you're over here giving me a fucking pep talk."
"That's what girlfriends do." The word still feels new in your mouth, girlfriend, even after six months. You've never done long-distance before, never dated someone whose life is this untethered and chaotic. "We tell you when you're being dramatic and self-pitying. It's in the job description."
"Job description," Patrick repeats, and his voice has shifted into that lower register that means he's smiling, the genuine crooked smile that makes his whole face different. "That's romantic. Really sweeping me off my feet here."
"You don't want romance, you want someone to tell you you're special." It comes out more honest than you intended, but it's true—Patrick thrives on validation, needs it like oxygen, especially when he's alone in a hotel room coming down from a match. "So fine: you're special. You're very talented and very pretty and that guy you played was probably intimidated by your overwhelming charisma."
"Very pretty?" Patrick seizes on that immediately, because of course he does. "You think I'm pretty?"
"I think you're fishing for compliments." But you're smiling now, despite yourself, despite the cold, despite the fact that you have an Econ exam in two days that you're catastrophically unprepared for. "And it's working, apparently, because I'm sitting outside in like forty-degree weather telling you how great you are instead of studying."
"You're outside?" Patrick's tone shifts slightly, becomes more alert. "Where?"
"Main Quad. I was in the library when you called." You pull your knees up to your chest, trying to conserve body heat. "It's pretty out here at night. Empty. All the buildings are lit up and there's no one around."
There's a pause, and then Patrick's voice comes through softer, more present. "Wish I was there. Not at Stanford specifically—fuck Stanford—but… there. With you. Somewhere that's not a hotel room in Pensacola."
Your chest does something complicated at that, a squeeze and release that you've learned to associate with missing Patrick, which you do more or less constantly these days. "When's your next tournament?"
"San Jose, week after next." He sounds more awake now, more engaged. "It's a satellite thing, barely worth the drive, but it's close to you. I was thinking—if I make it through the first couple rounds, maybe you could come watch? Drive up for the weekend?"
"Maybe." You want to say yes immediately, but you've learned to be cautious about promises with Patrick, because his schedule is chaotic and things change constantly. "I've got midterms that week, but if I can swing it, yeah. I want to see you play in person. I've still only seen you play once."
"That's tragic," Patrick says, and he's teasing but there's something underneath it—genuine want, maybe, or loneliness disguised as flirtation. "You're missing my prime years here. I'm never gonna be this good-looking and talented again simultaneously."
"Your humility is really attractive," you deadpan. "Really makes me want to drive two hours to watch you play tennis."
"Two hours?" Patrick sounds offended. "San Jose is like forty-five minutes from Stanford. You're really gonna inflate the distance to get out of seeing me?"
"Traffic," you say primly. "And I don't have a car, so I'd have to borrow one, which takes time and negotiation. Plus I'd need to bring homework to do between matches because unlike you, I have academic responsibilities."
"Unlike me," Patrick repeats, and there's an edge to it now, the familiar defensiveness that appears whenever the topic veers too close to his choice to skip college. "Yeah, must be nice having academic responsibilities. Real mature, going to classes and writing papers. Very adult."
You sigh, because you've stepped in it now, hit one of Patrick's sore spots without meaning to. "I wasn't—that wasn't a dig, babe. I just meant I'd have to plan around my schedule. Which I will. I want to come watch you."
"Do you?" It's a genuine question, and Patrick sounds younger when he asks it, less sure. "Because you don't have to. Like, if you've got better shit to do than watch me play some nobody in San Jose, I get it. Your time is important or whatever."
"Patrick." You wait until you're sure he's listening. "I want to watch you play. I like watching you play. You're good and it's sexy and I miss your face. Okay?"
The silence stretches long enough that you check to make sure the call hasn't dropped. Then Patrick clears his throat, and when he speaks his voice has that affected casual tone that means he's actually affected. "Sexy, huh? You think my tennis is sexy?"
"I think you're sexy." It's easier to say this kind of thing when he's not in front of you, when you can't see his face doing that smug thing it does when he knows he's gotten to you. "The tennis is just a bonus. Very athletic. Good arms."
"Good arms," Patrick says slowly, like he's tasting the words. "That's what you're going with? I have good arms?"
"Among other things." You're definitely flirting now, can feel the conversation shifting into different territory. "But if you want more specific compliments, you're going to have to wait until I see you in person. I don't do my best work over the phone."
Patrick makes a sound that's half-laugh, half-something else. "Your best work. So there's different tiers of work? I'm getting the phone version right now, which is what—your B-game?"
"My phone game is solid," you protest, and you're grinning now even though no one can see you. "I'm very attentive over the phone. I listen to all your whining and tell you you're pretty. That's quality girlfriend behavior."
"Attentive," Patrick repeats, and his voice has dropped lower, taken on a deliberate weight. "You're attentive over the phone."
You know where this is going—can feel it in the shift of tone, the particular way Patrick's voice gets when he's thinking about things you're not supposed to discuss in public. And you are public, technically, even though the quad is deserted. "I'm attentive in general," you say carefully. "It's one of my better qualities."
"Yeah it is." Patrick's definitely smirking now, you can hear it. "You're very attentive. Very responsive. I appreciate that about you."
"Patrick." It's supposed to be a warning but comes out breathy instead. "I'm outside."
"So go inside." He sounds completely unreasonable, like this is obvious. "Go back to your dorm. I'll wait."
"My roommate's there." This is only partially true—your roommate is usually at her boyfriend's place on weeknights—but it's a convenient excuse. "And I actually do have to study. Like, genuinely. I have an exam Monday."
Patrick groans, long and exaggerated. "You're killing me. You're actively killing me right now. I'm dying in a hotel in Pensacola because my girlfriend would rather study Econ than talk to me."
"I'm talking to you right now!" You're laughing despite yourself, because Patrick is ridiculous and dramatic and you're somehow completely gone for him anyway. "We've been on the phone for like twenty minutes!"
"Twenty minutes," Patrick says flatly. "I haven't seen you in three weeks and you're giving me twenty minutes before you go study supply and demand or whatever the fuck."
"Three and a half weeks," you correct, because it has been, and you've been counting too. "And it's not—I'm not trying to cut this short. I just have actual responsibilities that can't wait."
"I'm a responsibility." He sounds petulant again, but playful. "I'm your boyfriend. That's a responsibility. You have to manage me."
"Manage you?" You raise your eyebrows even though he can't see. "Is that what we're calling this?"
"You know what I mean." Patrick shifts again, and you can picture him so clearly—sprawled on the hotel bed, one arm behind his head, phone pressed to his ear, probably shirtless because he's always running hot. "I need attention. I'm needy. You signed up for this, y’know."
"I didn't sign anything," you point out. "There was no contract. You just started calling me your girlfriend one day and I went along with it."
"Yeah, you went along with it," Patrick agrees, sounding satisfied. "Because you wanted to. Because you like me."
"I tolerate you," you say, but it's soft, almost fond. "You're tolerable in small doses."
"Tolerable." Patrick laughs outright at that. "That's the most romantic thing anyone's ever said to me. Really making me feel special here."
"You don't need me to make you feel special." This comes out more honest than intended. "You already think you're special. That's like, your whole personality."
There's a beat of silence, and then Patrick's voice comes through quieter, more real. "Maybe I need you to think it too."
Your breath catches slightly, because Patrick doesn't do vulnerable very often—he's all performance and bravado most of the time, using arrogance as armor. When he drops it, even for a second, it feels significant. "I do think you're special," you say quietly. "Obviously. I wouldn't be sitting outside in the cold talking to you if I didn't."
"No?" Patrick sounds like he's smiling again. "Why else would you do it?"
"Definitely not because you're charming or good company." You're smiling too, can't help it. "It's a mystery, really. I'm as confused as anyone."
"You're terrible at this," Patrick informs you. "At the whole supportive girlfriend thing. You're supposed to be nice to me."
"I am nice to you!" You're laughing now, pulling your jacket tighter around yourself. "I'm extremely nice to you. I answer your calls at midnight. I tell you you're talented. I'm planning to drive to San Jose to watch you play tennis in two weeks. That's very nice."
"It's adequate," Patrick concedes. "But you could be nicer. You could, for example, go back to your room right now and be really nice over the phone."
"Patrick—"
"I'm just saying." His voice has that lazy, deliberate quality now. "It's been three and a half weeks. That's a long time. And I'm in Florida, which is basically hell, playing meaningless tennis. I could use some encouragement."
"Encouragement." You press your free hand to your face, because Patrick is shameless and you're apparently weak for it. "Is that what we're calling it now?"
"Whatever you want to call it." Patrick sounds completely unbothered, which is infuriating and attractive in equal measure. "I'm flexible. I'm a team player."
"You're really not." But you're standing up now, already starting the walk back toward your dorm, because apparently your willpower where Patrick is concerned is nonexistent. "You're possibly the least team-oriented person I've ever met."
"Ouch," Patrick says, not sounding hurt at all. "I'm excellent at teamwork. Very collaborative. You should see how collaborative I can be."
"I've seen it," you remind him, and your voice comes out lower than intended. "Multiple times. I'm familiar with your collaboration style."
"Yeah?" Patrick's voice matches yours now, rough and interested. "And what'd you think?"
"I think—" You stop yourself, because you're still on the main quad, still technically in public even though it's nearly eleven and there's no one around. "I think you're very determined. Very focused. Good attention to detail."
Patrick makes a satisfied sound. "Good attention to detail. I like that. That's a good review."
"It wasn't a review," you protest, but you're nearly at your dorm now, climbing the steps to the entrance. "It was an observation."
"Same thing." Patrick sounds closer somehow, even though he's three thousand miles away. "You're observing how good I am. I appreciate that. Observation is important."
You swipe your card to get into the building, nodding at the RA at the desk before heading for the stairs. "You're impossible."
"You like impossible," Patrick counters immediately. "If you wanted possible, you'd be dating some Stanford guy who's always available and goes to his classes and has normal life plans. But you're not. You're dating me."
"Unfortunately." But you're smiling as you unlock your door, relieved to find the room empty—your roommate's overnight bag is gone, which means she's definitely at her boyfriend's. "My roommate's not here."
The silence on the other end is loaded. Then Patrick's voice comes through low and pleased. "Yeah?"
"Yeah." You lock the door behind you, toeing off your shoes. "So we can talk. Without me having to worry about anyone overhearing."
"Talk," Patrick repeats slowly. "We're gonna talk."
"Isn't that what we've been doing?" You're being deliberately obtuse now, matching his energy from earlier. "Having a nice conversation about your day?"
"The nicest," Patrick agrees, and you can hear the smile in his voice. "Very wholesome. Just two people in a committed relationship discussing tennis and academic responsibilities."
You collapse onto your bed, phone pressed to your ear, suddenly aware of how much you've missed this—not just Patrick, but this specific dynamic, the way you push and pull at each other, the constant low-grade flirtation that underlies everything. "Tell me about Florida," you say, because you're not ready to let this escalate yet, want to draw it out. "Aside from the tennis. What's Pensacola like?"
Patrick groans. "It's awful. Everything's flat and humid and smells like the ocean but not in a good way. The hotel AC is broken so it's like, eighty degrees in here constantly, and there's a family with three kids in the room next door who've been screaming since 6 AM."
"That sounds miserable." You roll onto your side, getting comfortable. "Very glamorous professional tennis lifestyle."
"It's so glamorous," Patrick deadpans. "Living the dream over here. Yesterday I ate gas station sushi because it was the only thing open after my match."
"Gas station sushi?" You wince. "Patrick, that's how you die. That's literally how food poisoning happens."
"I lived, obviously." He sounds amused by your concern. "I have a strong constitution. Very resilient."
"Very stupid," you correct. "Resilient would be packing actual food. Or finding a real restaurant."
"There are no real restaurants in Pensacola," Patrick insists, which is definitely not true. "It's a wasteland. A cultural void. The only good thing about being here is that I'm one step closer to San Jose, which means I'm one step closer to seeing you."
Your chest does that thing again, the warm squeeze that you're still getting used to. "Two weeks," you say softly. "That's not that long."
"It's forever," Patrick argues. "It's an eternity. I'm gonna forget what you look like by then."
"You have photos." You know this because you've sent them—normal ones, mostly, though there have been a few… less innocent exchanges that you're trying not to think about right now. "An entire folder of them, if I remember correctly."
"Yeah, I have photos." Patrick's voice shifts slightly, becomes more weighted. "But photos aren't the same as the real thing. Can't touch a photo."
"No," you agree quietly. "You can't."
"Can't hear a photo making those sounds you make," Patrick continues, voice dropping lower. "Can't feel a photo. Can't make a photo say my name the way you do when I'm—"
"Patrick." Your face is definitely flushed now, heat spreading down your neck. "We're supposed to be having a normal conversation."
"This is a normal conversation," Patrick says reasonably. "For us. This is how we talk."
He's not wrong—six months of long-distance has meant that your relationship exists primarily in phone calls and text messages, in stolen weekends and charged conversations. You've gotten good at building intimacy through distance, at finding ways to feel close when you're physically far apart. "I miss you," you admit, because it's easier to say when he's not looking at you. "Like, a lot. More than is probably reasonable."
"Yeah?" Patrick sounds pleased, almost surprised. "How much?"
"I don't know. A concerning amount." You're playing with the edge of your pillowcase, need something for your hands to do. "I think about you constantly. It's distracting. I'll be in class and my mind wanders and suddenly I'm thinking about the last time I saw you, or wondering what you're doing right now, or counting down until I get to see you again."
Patrick is quiet for a moment, and when he speaks his voice is softer than usual, less performative. "I think about you too. All the time. It's kind of annoying, actually—I'll be in the middle of a match and I'll have this moment where I'm like, I wish she could see this shot. Or I'll eat something good and want to tell you about it. You're in my head constantly."
"Is that good or bad?" You're not sure why you're asking, except that Patrick's approval matters to you more than you're comfortable admitting.
"It's good," Patrick says immediately. "It's really fucking good. I've never—" He stops, seeming to reconsider. "I'm not good at this. At relationships. At being someone's boyfriend. But I'm trying. With you. Because you're worth trying for."
Your throat feels tight. "You're doing fine. Better than fine. You call me every day. You remember things I tell you. You make me laugh."
"That's like, bare minimum shit," Patrick argues. "That's not special."
"It is to me." You mean it completely. "You make it special. You're special."
"There's that word again." Patrick's voice has warmed, though, lost its defensive edge. "You keep telling me I'm special. Starting to think you might mean it."
"I definitely mean it." You close your eyes, trying to picture him clearly—the sharp line of his jaw, the way his hair falls across his forehead, those blue eyes that see too much. "You're the most interesting person I know. The most passionate. You care about things so intensely it's almost scary sometimes."
"Scary?" Patrick sounds intrigued by this. "How am I scary?"
"Not scary bad. Scary in the way that anything really intense is scary." You're struggling to articulate this, to explain what you mean. "You feel everything so much. When you're happy you're like, explosively happy. When you're angry you're furious. When you want something you pursue it with everything you have. It's intimidating and attractive and sometimes I worry I'm not intense enough for you."
"Are you kidding?" Patrick sounds genuinely baffled. "You're incredibly intense. You just hide it better than I do. But I see it—the way you focus when you're studying, the way you argue with me about shit that matters to you, the way you kiss me like you're trying to prove something. You're as intense as I am, you just have better packaging."
You laugh despite yourself. "Better packaging?"
"You're more socially acceptable," Patrick clarifies. "You smile at people and say please and thank you. You're polite. I'm an asshole and everyone knows it immediately."
"You're not an asshole." This is only partially true—Patrick can definitely be an asshole, but he's more than that too. "You're just… honest. You don't perform politeness when you don't feel it."
"That's a nice way of saying I'm an asshole," Patrick says, but he sounds amused. "It's fine, I know what I am. I'm okay with it. Most people are fake as fuck anyway."
"See, that's the thing." You sit up, suddenly wanting to make sure he understands this. "You're not fake. Ever. Even when maybe you should be, even when it would be easier, you're just yourself. That's rare. Most people spend so much energy trying to be what other people want them to be, but you just... exist as you are. I love that about you."
The silence stretches long enough that you wonder if you've said too much. Then Patrick's voice comes through rough and low. "You love that about me."
"I—" You realize what you've said, how it sounded. "I mean, I appreciate that about you. It's a quality I admire."
"No, you said love." Patrick sounds almost wondering. "You love that about me."
Your heart is beating too fast. You've been dating for six months but you haven't said love yet, haven't crossed that particular line because it feels enormous and irreversible. "Patrick—"
"It's okay," he interrupts, and he sounds almost gentle. "You don't have to—I'm not trying to make it weird. I just noticed. That you said it."
"I noticed too," you admit quietly. "After I said it."
"Did you mean it?" Patrick asks, and there's vulnerability in the question that makes your chest ache. "Or was it just a word?"
You think about this, really consider it. "I don't know," you say honestly. "Maybe both. I definitely feel something that could be love, or could become love. But it's hard to know for sure when we're always apart. Does that make sense?"
"Yeah." Patrick sounds thoughtful. "It does. It's like—I know I feel differently about you than I've felt about anyone else. But I don't know if that's love or just really strong like or obsession or what. I'm not good at identifying feelings."
"We have time to figure it out," you say, and you mean it. "We don't have to define everything right now."
"No pressure," Patrick agrees. "We can just keep doing what we're doing. Which is... what, exactly? What are we doing?"
"We're dating," you say simply. "Long distance. We call each other every day. We talk about our lives. We miss each other. We see each other when we can. That's what we're doing."
"And it's working?" Patrick sounds like he genuinely wants confirmation. "For you? Because I know it's not ideal. I know I'm gone a lot and my schedule is insane and I'm not the most reliable—"
"It's working," you interrupt firmly. "Is it perfect? No. Do I wish I could see you more? Obviously. But it's working because we both want it to work. Because we're both trying. That's enough for right now."
"Okay." Patrick sounds relieved. "Good. Because I don't want to fuck this up. I fuck most things up, but I really don't want to fuck this up."
"You're not going to," you assure him, even though you can't actually promise that. "We're figuring it out together. That's the whole point of dating—you figure out how to be together."
"Together," Patrick repeats. "We're together."
"We're together," you confirm. "Even when we're apart. That's the deal."
"I like the deal," Patrick says, and you can hear the smile in his voice. "Even if it means I'm stuck in Pensacola talking to you on the phone instead of having you here in person."
"In person would be better," you agree. "But this is pretty good too. I like talking to you."
"Yeah?" Patrick sounds pleased. "What do you like about it?"
"I like hearing your voice." This feels safe to admit. "I like knowing what you're doing, what you're thinking. I like that you call me even when you're tired or in a bad mood. I like that you want to talk to me."
"I always want to talk to you," Patrick says immediately. "You're like—the best part of my day, usually. Even when you're being difficult and refusing to tell me I'm pretty."
"You're pretty," you say obediently. "You're very pretty. Extremely attractive. Devastatingly handsome."
"Now you're making fun of me," Patrick accuses, but he sounds delighted. "Devastatingly handsome. That's so fake."
"It's not fake!" You're laughing now. "You are! You're objectively good-looking! That's not news to you!"
"It's different when you say it," Patrick admits. "When you say it, I actually believe it."
This makes you softer toward him somehow, this admission that your opinion matters. "I think you're beautiful," you say honestly. "I think you're beautiful and talented and interesting and I really wish you were here right now instead of in Florida."
"San Jose," Patrick reminds you. "Two weeks. You're coming to watch me play."
"I'm coming to watch you play," you confirm. "And then after, we'll have the whole weekend together."
"The whole weekend," Patrick repeats, and his voice has shifted again, taken on that weighted quality. "What are we gonna do for a whole weekend?"
"I don't know." You're very aware of the direction this conversation could go. "What do you want to do?"
"I think you know what I want to do." Patrick's voice is lower now, deliberately suggestive. "I've been thinking about it for three and a half weeks."
"Have you." It's not a question. Your face feels warm.
"Constantly." Patrick sounds completely shameless about this. "Do you want to know what I've been thinking about?"
You should say no. You should redirect the conversation back to something safer. Instead you hear yourself say, "Tell me."
Patrick makes a satisfied sound, like he's been waiting for you to give him permission. "Where do I even start," he says, and his voice has dropped into that lower register that makes your stomach flip. "I've got like, a whole list. Should I go chronologically? Start with the first thing I thought about and work my way up?"
"Chronologically seems organized," you manage, even though your heart is beating faster now. You're very aware that you're alone in your room, that it's late, that Patrick is three thousand miles away in a hotel room and you're both venturing into territory you've only explored a handful of times before. "Very… methodical."
"I can be methodical." Patrick sounds amused. "I'm very detail-oriented, remember? You said so yourself. Good attention to detail."
"I did say that," you admit. You're lying back on your bed now, phone pressed to your ear, trying to keep your breathing even. "So what's first on this chronological list?"
"First thing I thought about—and this was like, the night after I left Stanford last time—was your mouth." Patrick says it casually, like he's commenting on the weather. "Specifically, what your mouth looks like when you're kissing me. You do this thing where you sort of bite your lip right before, like you're thinking about it, and it makes me insane."
You do bite your lip, actually—you're doing it right now, unconsciously. "I didn't know you noticed that."
"I notice everything about you," Patrick says, and there's an edge of intensity to it that makes you believe him. "I notice the way you tilt your head when you're really listening to something. I notice that you play with your hair when you're nervous. I notice that your eyes get darker when you're turned on."
"Patrick." Your voice comes out breathy despite your best efforts.
"What?" He sounds pleased with himself. "I'm just making observations. Being attentive, like you said. Should I keep going?"
You should tell him no. You should redirect this conversation back to safer territory, back to complaints about Florida and discussions about tournament schedules. Instead you find yourself saying, "…Keep going."
"Okay." Patrick takes a breath, and you can hear fabric rustling like he's shifting position. "So after I thought about your mouth, I thought about your hands. You have really nice hands—did you know that? Really soft. And I thought about your hands on me, specifically. The way you touch me when we're together. You're not shy about it, which I like. Some girls are all tentative and careful, but you just—you touch me like you want to. Like you're sure about it."
Your own hand has drifted to your stomach, resting there over your shirt. "I am sure about it. About wanting to touch you."
"Yeah, I know." Patrick's voice has gotten rougher. "I could tell. And I thought about that—about the last time I saw you, in your dorm room. Your roommate was gone and we had like three hours before I had to leave for the airport, and we spent most of it in your bed."
You remember this vividly—it was three and a half weeks ago, and you'd both been keenly aware that you wouldn't see each other again for a while, which had lent an urgency to everything. "I remember."
"Do you remember what we did?" Patrick asks, and there's a teasing edge to it. "Or do I need to remind you?"
"I remember." Your face is definitely flushed now, heat spreading down your neck. "We didn't get out of bed until you absolutely had to leave."
"We didn't," Patrick agrees. "And I've been thinking about that constantly. About how you looked, about the sounds you made. About how you said my name when I—" He stops, makes a frustrated sound. "This would be so much better if I could actually see you right now."
"We're on the phone," you point out, even though your body is very aware of his absence, of the distance between you. "This is what we have."
"I know." Patrick sounds genuinely annoyed by this limitation. "But I want—I wish I could see your face right now. I wish I could tell if you're thinking about the same things I'm thinking about."
"I'm thinking about it," you admit quietly. "I'm definitely thinking about it."
"What specifically?" Patrick's voice has taken on that commanding quality that you've learned means he wants details. "What are you thinking about right now?"
You close your eyes, trying to find words for the images flickering through your mind. "I'm thinking about the last time I saw you. About your hands on me. About the way you kiss—you're very focused when you kiss. Very present."
"Present," Patrick repeats. "That's a interesting word choice."
"You are, though." You're committed to this now, might as well be honest. "You kiss like nothing else exists. Like I'm the only thing you're thinking about in that moment."
"You are the only thing I'm thinking about," Patrick says immediately. "When I'm kissing you, yeah, that's all I'm thinking about. How you taste, how you feel, what I want to do next. Why would I be thinking about anything else?"
"I don't know." You're playing with the hem of your shirt now, restless. "Some people aren't that present. They're thinking about other things, or they're in their head. But you're just—there. Completely."
"Where else would I be?" Patrick sounds genuinely confused by this concept. "If I'm with you, I'm with you. I'm not half-assing it."
This makes you smile despite the tension building in your body. "You don't half-ass anything. It's kind of your whole personality."
"Damn right," Patrick agrees. "Why do something if you're not gonna do it right? That's a waste of everyone's time."
"So when you kiss me," you say slowly, testing the waters, "you're doing it right."
"I'm doing my best," Patrick says, and there's a smile in his voice. "Seems to be working, based on your responses. You're pretty vocal about what you like."
"I am," you agree, because there's no point denying it. Patrick has definitely learned what works for you, has paid attention to every reaction and adjusted accordingly. "You make it easy to be vocal. You're very encouraging."
"I like knowing I'm doing something right," Patrick admits. "I like hearing you tell me. It's—fuck, I really wish you were here right now."
"What would you do?" The question comes out before you can think better of it. "If I was there right now?"
Patrick groans. "Are you trying to kill me? Is that the goal here?"
"You started this," you point out. "You called me. You brought up thinking about me. I'm just asking questions."
"You're asking dangerous questions," Patrick counters, but he doesn't sound upset about it. "Fine. You want to know what I'd do if you were here right now?"
"Yes," you say simply.
"Okay." Patrick takes a breath, and when he speaks his voice is deliberate, controlled. "If you were here right now, I'd already have you in this bed. This shitty hotel bed that's too small and has terrible pillows, but I wouldn't care because you'd be here. And I'd be kissing you—we'd probably have been kissing for a while already, because that's usually how this starts, right?"
"Right," you whisper, because that is how it starts—Patrick kisses like it's a competitive sport, like he's trying to win, and you're always happy to let him.
"And my hands would be—" Patrick pauses, and you can hear him shifting again. "Everywhere. On your face, in your hair, under your shirt. I'd be trying to touch all of you at once because three and a half weeks is too fucking long and I'd be making up for lost time."
Your own hand has slid under your shirt now, resting on your stomach, and you're very aware of your heartbeat, of the warmth spreading through your body. "Keep going."
"You'd be making those sounds you make," Patrick continues, and his voice is rougher now, less controlled. "Those little breathy sounds when I'm doing something you like. And I'd be paying attention to that, figuring out exactly what you want. I'm good at that—at reading you. I know when you want me to go slower, when you want more, when you're getting close."
"You are good at that," you confirm, because it's true—Patrick is surprisingly attentive in bed, despite his generally self-centered personality. "Very observant."
"I'm motivated," Patrick says. "It's highly motivating when you're involved. And I'd be—fuck, I'd be taking my time, even though I'd want to rush. Because I'd want you to feel good. I'd want to make sure you were so ready for me that when I finally—" He breaks off, makes a frustrated sound. "This is torture. This is actual torture."
"You could stop," you offer, even though you very much don't want him to stop.
"I'm not stopping." Patrick sounds almost offended by the suggestion. "Are you kidding? I've been thinking about this for weeks. I'm finally getting to tell you about it. I'm not stopping."
"Then don't stop," you say quietly. "Tell me what else you've been thinking about."
Patrick's breath catches audibly. "Are you—are you touching yourself right now?"
The question catches you off-guard, even though you probably should have expected it. Your hand is still on your stomach, not doing anything particularly incriminating, but the intent is there. "Not really," you say honestly. "Not yet."
"Not yet," Patrick repeats slowly. "Implying you're planning to?"
"I don't know." Your face is burning now. "Maybe. Are you?"
"Not yet," Patrick echoes your words back to you. "But I'm thinking about it. I've been thinking about it since you said you were alone in your room."
This sends a jolt through you, the image of Patrick in his hotel room, thinking about you, wanting you from three thousand miles away. "What else have you been thinking about?"
"Honestly?" Patrick's voice has dropped even lower. "I've been thinking about how you look when you come. You do this thing where you close your eyes and your mouth opens and you make this sound—it's not loud, but it's intense. And your whole body tenses up right before, and then you just—let go. It's the hottest thing I've ever seen in my life."
"Patrick." You barely recognize your own voice, breathy and affected.
"I think about that constantly," Patrick continues. "When I'm playing matches, when I'm trying to fall asleep, when I'm jerking off in the shower. I think about making you feel that good. About being the one who makes you come apart like that."
Your hand has drifted lower, and you're very aware of the building heat between your legs, of how much you want him despite the impossible distance. "I think about you too," you admit. "When I'm alone. I think about the last time I saw you. About your hands, your mouth. About how you feel."
"Yeah?" Patrick sounds wrecked, barely holding it together. "What else?"
"I think about—" You pause, trying to find the courage to say this out loud. "I think about calling you. Late at night when I can't sleep. And talking like this. And touching myself while you tell me what you'd do if you were here."
The silence on the other end is loaded, electric. Then Patrick's voice comes through low and intense. "You think about that?"
"Sometimes," you whisper. "Is that weird?"
"That's not weird." Patrick sounds almost reverent. "That's—fuck, that's really hot. Have you done it? Touched yourself while thinking about me?"
"Yes," you admit, because you're already this far in, might as well be honest. "Multiple times. Usually after we've been on the phone. After you've said something that gets stuck in my head."
"Jesus," Patrick breathes. "What kind of things get stuck in your head?"
"Compliments, usually." You're squirming now, restless. "When you tell me I'm beautiful, or that you can't stop thinking about me. When you describe things you want to do. It all—it stays with me. And later, when I'm alone, I think about it."
"I want you to think about it right now," Patrick says suddenly, decisively. "Can you do that? Can you think about me right now?"
"I'm already thinking about you," you point out. "That's all I've been doing."
"No, I mean—" Patrick pauses, and you can hear the deliberate control in his voice. "Touch yourself. Right now. And tell me what you're thinking about."
Your breath catches. "Patrick—"
"Please," he says, and the please does something to you, the way he asks for it instead of demanding. "I want to know you're feeling this too. That you're as affected as I am. Please."
Your hand slides lower, and you make a decision. "Okay," you whisper. "Okay, I will."
"Yeah?" Patrick sounds almost surprised that you agreed. "You'll tell me what you're thinking about?"
"Yes," you confirm, even though your heart is racing now, nervous energy mixing with arousal. "But you have to tell me too. What you're doing. What you're thinking about."
"Deal," Patrick agrees immediately. "Absolutely. I can do that."
You take a breath, trying to steady yourself. Your hand slips beneath the waistband of your sleep shorts, and you're already warm and wet, already affected just from the conversation. "I'm thinking about the last time I saw you," you say quietly. "In my dorm room. You'd just gotten out of the shower and your hair was still damp."
"I remember," Patrick says, and his voice is strained now. "You were sitting on your bed doing homework. You were wearing my shirt."
"I was wearing your shirt," you confirm. You remember this perfectly—one of Patrick's old tennis shirts that he'd left behind, soft from washing and smelling like him. "And you came over and kissed me. You pushed my laptop aside and just—kissed me."
"You’d been driving me crazy all day," Patrick admits. "Walking around in my shirt, looking like that. I couldn't wait anymore."
Your fingers are moving slowly, building the tension. "You kissed me and then you pushed me back on the bed. Your hands were in my hair."
"Your hair was up," Patrick says, and you can hear movement on his end now, fabric rustling. "In that messy bun thing. And I took it down because I wanted to feel it."
"You did," you remember, breathy now. "And then you kissed my neck. You spent so long just kissing my neck and I couldn't think straight."
"You like it when I do that," Patrick says, almost smug despite the roughness in his voice. "When I kiss right below your ear. You make these tiny sounds."
"I'm making sounds now," you admit, because you are—quiet breaths and small whimpers that you can't quite suppress.
"Fuck," Patrick groans. "What are you doing? Tell me exactly what you're doing."
"I'm—" You pause, trying to find words. "I'm touching myself. Thinking about your hands instead of mine. Remembering how you touched me that day."
"How did I touch you?" Patrick sounds desperate for details. "Remind me."
"Slowly at first," you say, and your breathing is getting uneven now. "Like you were trying to memorize everything. Your hands under my shirt—your shirt—and then you took it off. And then you just—looked at me. For a long time."
"You're beautiful," Patrick says immediately. "I was thinking about how fucking lucky I was. That I got to see you like that. That you wanted me to see you like that."
"I did want you to see me," you whisper. "I always want you to see me. And then you touched me and I couldn't think about anything else."
"Where?" Patrick's voice is commanding now, urgent. "Where did I touch you?"
"Everywhere," you breathe out. "My chest, my stomach, between my legs. You took your time. You were so—patient. Even though I could tell you wanted to go faster."
"I wanted to make it good for you," Patrick says roughly. "I wanted you to remember it. To think about it after I left."
"I did think about it," you admit, and your hand is moving faster now, building toward something. "I thought about it constantly. I thought about how you felt, how you made me feel. How I felt when you were inside me."
Patrick makes a choked sound. "Are you close? Tell me you're close."
"I'm close," you confirm, and you are—your body is tense, chasing release. "I'm thinking about you. About how good you feel. About wanting you here."
"I wish I was there," Patrick says urgently. "I wish I could see you right now. I wish I could make you come instead of you having to do it yourself."
"Tell me what you'd do," you gasp out. "If you were here. Tell me."
"I'd have my hand where yours is right now," Patrick says immediately. "I'd be touching you exactly how you like it. And I'd be watching your face, waiting for that moment right before you come when you stop breathing. And then I'd—fuck, I'd do anything to make you come. Whatever you needed. My hand, my mouth, anything."
"Patrick," you whimper, and you're right there, right on the edge.
"Come for me," Patrick says, and his voice is wrecked, barely controlled. "Please. Let me hear you."
And you do—your body tensing and then releasing, pleasure rolling through you in waves while you gasp Patrick's name into the phone. You can hear Patrick's breathing on the other end, harsh and uneven, and you know he's close too, probably has been since this started.
"Fuck," Patrick groans. "That was—fuck. Are you okay?"
"Yeah," you breathe out, still coming down, heart racing. "I'm okay. I'm good."
"You sound good," Patrick says, and even through the phone you can hear the satisfaction in his voice. "You sound really fucking good."
"Are you—" You pause, trying to catch your breath. "Do you need—"
"I'm taking care of it," Patrick interrupts, and his breathing is ragged now. "Been taking care of it. Just listening to you is—"
He breaks off with a groan, and you can tell from the sound that he's coming, and something about knowing that—knowing you did that to him from three thousand miles away—makes you feel powerful and wanted in equal measure.
The silence that follows is different from before—sated, intimate, charged with what just happened. You can hear Patrick breathing heavily, can picture him sprawled in his hotel bed, probably a mess, definitely pleased with himself.
"So," Patrick says eventually, and his voice is hoarse. "That was new."
"That was new," you agree, and despite everything you're smiling. "We haven't done that before."
"We should do it more often," Patrick says immediately. "Like, significantly more often. That was incredible."
"It was pretty good," you admit, and you're still coming down, body loose and relaxed in a way it hasn't been in weeks. "Better than I expected."
"Better than you expected?" Patrick sounds almost offended. "What were you expecting?"
"I don't know." You're laughing now, giddy with endorphins and the intimacy of what just happened. "I wasn't expecting anything. I didn't know we were going to do this when you called."
"I had hopes," Patrick admits. "But I wasn't sure you'd go for it. You surprised me."
"I surprise myself sometimes," you say honestly. "Six months ago I never would have imagined doing something like this."
"Six months ago we hadn't met yet," Patrick points out. "A lot has changed in six months."
"A lot has changed," you agree softly. You're suddenly aware of how tired you are, the late hour and the emotional intensity catching up with you. "Patrick, I should probably—I have class tomorrow. Early class."
"Right, yeah." Patrick sounds reluctant but understanding. "You should sleep. I should probably sleep too—I have a match tomorrow afternoon."
"You're going to win," you tell him confidently. "You're going to play well and win easily and then you're going to call me and tell me about it."
"Yeah," Patrick agrees, and he sounds almost fond. "That's exactly what's going to happen. And then two weeks from now you're going to come watch me play in San Jose."
"I'm going to come watch you play in San Jose," you confirm. "And we're going to have the whole weekend together."
"The whole weekend," Patrick repeats, and there's promise in his voice. "After tonight, I've got a lot of ideas about how we should spend that weekend."
"I bet you do," you say, smiling. "I'm sure you'll tell me all about them between now and then."
"Multiple times," Patrick confirms. "In great detail. Over the phone."
"I'm looking forward to it," you admit, because you are—despite the distance, despite the difficulty, you're looking forward to every phone call, every conversation, every stolen moment of connection. "I'm looking forward to all of it."
"Me too." Patrick's voice is softer now, more genuine. "I'm really glad I called you tonight."
"I'm glad you called too," you say quietly. "Even though you did interrupt my studying."
"Fuck your studying," Patrick says cheerfully. "This was way more important."
"This was more fun," you correct. "I don't know if it was more important."
"Definitely more important," Patrick insists. "Maintaining our relationship is crucial. It's an investment in our future."
"Our future," you repeat, and something warm blooms in your chest at the phrase. "You think we have a future?"
"Yeah," Patrick says simply, like it's obvious. "Don't you?"
"I hope so," you admit. "I want us to have a future. I just—sometimes it's hard to see how it works long-term when we're always apart."
"We won't always be apart," Patrick says with more confidence than you feel. "Eventually my schedule will settle down, or you'll graduate and be able to travel with me, or—something. We'll figure it out. Because this—" He pauses, seeming to search for words. "This is good. What we have is good. I'm not letting it go just because the logistics are complicated."
"The logistics are very complicated," you point out, but you're smiling.
"Yeah, well." Patrick sounds unbothered. "Good things are usually complicated. If it was easy, everyone would do it."
"That's surprisingly philosophical of you," you tease. "Very deep."
"I have depth," Patrick protests. "I'm a complex individual with many layers."
"You're like an onion," you agree solemnly. "Layers upon layers. Also you sometimes make people cry."
"You're hilarious," Patrick deadpans. "Truly. Comedic genius. You should do standup."
"Someone has to keep your ego in check," you say, stifling a yawn. "If I'm not here to humble you, who knows what would happen. You'd probably become completely unbearable."
"I'm already completely unbearable," Patrick points out. "You're dating me anyway. That's on you."
"It is on me," you acknowledge. "I made this choice. I'm living with the consequences."
"The consequences being occasional phone sex and the promise of a weekend together in two weeks," Patrick says. "Truly suffering. My heart breaks for you."
"It's a hard life," you agree, and you're properly yawning now, can barely keep your eyes open. "Patrick, I really do need to sleep."
"Okay," Patrick says, and he sounds reluctant but resigned. "Go to sleep. Dream about me."
"I probably will," you admit. "After tonight, I'm definitely going to dream about you."
"Good dreams, I hope," Patrick says. "Sexy dreams."
"Probably," you agree, smiling. "Very sexy dreams featuring a cocky tennis player who won't leave me alone."
"That's all I want in life," Patrick says contentedly. "To haunt your dreams and your waking hours. Equal opportunity obsession."
"You've succeeded," you assure him. "Congratulations. You're haunting me very effectively."
"Excellent." Patrick sounds genuinely pleased with himself. "That's what I like to hear. Now go to sleep. I'll call you tomorrow after my match."
"Win your match," you remind him. "Then call me."
"I'll win," Patrick says with absolute confidence. "For you. So you can tell me how proud you are and how talented I am."
"I'll tell you all of that," you promise. "Now let me sleep."
"Goodnight, Patrick," you say quietly. "I—" You pause, the word love catching in your throat, still too big to say casually. "I miss you."
"I miss you too," Patrick says, and his voice is gentle in a way it rarely is. "Two weeks. And then I get to see you."
"Two weeks," you confirm. "I'm counting down."
"Me too," Patrick admits. "Now seriously, go to sleep. You need rest. You have to maintain your strength for when I actually get my hands on you."
"Goodnight, Patrick," you say again, smiling.
"Goodnight," he echoes, and then the line goes quiet, and you're alone in your dorm room with the memory of his voice still echoing in your ears.
You should get up, should go through your nighttime routine properly, but instead you just curl up in your bed, phone still in your hand, and let yourself drift off thinking about Patrick in Florida, about San Jose in two weeks, about the future you're both tentatively building across impossible distance.
Outside your window, Stanford is quiet and dark, the campus settling into sleep. But somewhere in Florida, Patrick is probably still awake, probably already thinking about the next time you'll talk, the next connection you'll make across the miles between you.
⤷ warnings: f!reader, dryhumping, cumming in pants
⤷ word count: ~700
a/n: she’s short but she’s mighty… kinda
you hadn’t checked the time for a while; you were too busy reading on the couch. last you remembered joel was cleaning up the kitchen from dinner.
he huffed as he sat down next to you, turning to look at you, then the book you had your nose in. “whatcha’ reading?” he nodded at you. “some book ellie wanted me to read, about some kids on some kind of adventure.” you mumbled, not bothered to look up from your book.
when you finally look up, he’s looking at you with those dangerous eyes of his. his eyes that speak for him and right now they're telling you to kiss him. so, you do.
you smile before leaning in for a kiss you intended to be innocent, a way to thank him for picking up. things got less innocent when his tongue drags across yours and his hand slides to your hip, slipping under your shirt to make contact.
you hum into the kiss closing your book to place it next to you on the couch using your free hands to cup his jaw and run your fingers through his hair,
that’s joel’s weakness, your fingers tugging at his hair, you knew that.
“guess i better thank you for cleaning up after dinner.” you run a hand on his chest. “guess i better thank you for making dinner” he grins, eyes flicking from your eyes to your lips as he pulls you in for a deeper kiss.
this time he grabs at your hips to pull you on his lap. your legs bracket around his as you pull him closer to you.
his kisses are rough; he chases your lips with every movement desperate for your touch. you moan into the kiss, and he nearly loses it.
his hands are at your waist, tugging and pulling, helping you grind onto him. his grip is strong, fingertips sure to leave marks, reminders the next day.
his hips jerk up into yours as you continue to grind on him, the contact alone sending waves of pleasure to your lower stomach. joel kisses your cheek, the scratch of his beard making you giggle softly.
he smiles against your neck kissing down to your collarbone leaving marks down your neck. his breath is warm against your skin, and his touch is firm. a broken moan leaves his lips onto your neck, and you whimper in response.
hearing those sounds from you alone could send him over the edge. your core rocked against his bulge over and over, the friction sending you both closer. you both knew you wouldn’t last much longer like this but you kept chasing that high building in your lower stomach.
your clit nudges on his tip through layers of clothes and you both moan at the feeling. he positions his hips that same way letting you ride him until you couldn’t. “keep going baby, doin’ so good.” he whispers in your ear, wrapping his hand around your neck to pull you into another kiss.
you knew you were close, the pressure against your core, the way joels hands roamed your body. his pupils were blown, watching the way your hips rocked into his, the sounds of your moans.
your face scrunched up in pleasure as your fingers bite into his shoulders for support. “joel- fuck, im so close” your name fell from his lips as he nodded, “i know baby, dont stop.”.
you clenched around nothing before moaning his name, one last rock of your hip before your moaning. the white-hot pleasure in your stomach coming undone as you cum, soaking your underwear.
joels right behind you, bucking into you as you cum before shuttering, spilling spurts of cum in his boxers while your name falls from his lips.
you collapse on his chest, breath heaving before he kisses your forehead. “old man couldn’t even make it to the bedroom?” you joke, laughing into his shoulder. “apparently you couldn’t either.” he smiles, rubbing between your shoulder blades
you kiss him before pecking his nose, “should we take this into the bedroom?” he's standing up with you in his arms before you could even finish your sentence.
summary: you bring clark coffee during his all-nighter at the daily planet, and he reminds you exactly why he's been thinking about you all day.
cw: workplace intimacy, sexual content (mdni) including oral sex (f!receiving), p in v sex, implied voyeur risk
word count: 10.9k
tags: @luvdeuce @pittsick (want to join? click here!)
The lobby of the Daily Planet building holds a specific kind of silence at midnight—not quite empty, but hushed in the way that only exists when the day shift has long surrendered to the night. The fluorescent lights buzz with that particular frequency that makes everything feel slightly unreal, slightly liminal, like you've stepped into a pocket of time that doesn't quite follow the same rules as the waking world. Your sneakers squeak against the polished floor as you cross toward the security desk, the sound echoing in a way that makes you hyperaware of every movement, every breath.
The paper bag in your left hand crinkles with each step, warm and already starting to leave a slight grease mark on the bottom, while the coffee carrier in your right hand lists slightly to one side where you've overcompensated for the weight. You can smell the coffee even through the plastic lids—dark roast, almost burnt, exactly the way Clark claims he hates it but drinks anyway when he's this deep into a story.
Marcus, the night security guard, doesn't even look up from his crossword puzzle when you approach. He just waves you through with the kind of casual acknowledgment that speaks to how many times you've made this exact trip, at this exact hour, carrying this exact cargo.
"He's still up there," Marcus says, his voice gravelly from too many years of night shifts and too much coffee of his own. "Been alone since about ten. Perry left him with some choice words about deadline extensions."
There's a hint of amusement in his tone, the kind of gentle mockery that comes from watching the same scene play out over and over—Clark Kent versus the clock, Clark Kent versus his own perfectionism, Clark Kent versus whatever impossible standard he's set for himself this time. You smile, offer a quiet thanks, and head for the elevators, the fluorescent lights flickering slightly as you pass beneath them.
The elevator ride up feels longer than it should, even though you're only going to the third floor. You watch the numbers tick by with that strange anticipation that always builds when you know you're about to see him—doesn't matter that you saw him this morning, that you kissed him goodbye at your apartment door while he was still half-asleep and reaching for his glasses.
There's something about seeing Clark in his element, in the space where he transforms from the man who can't find his keys into the journalist who can find the truth in anything, that never quite loses its appeal. The elevator dings, the doors slide open with a mechanical sigh, and you step out into the newsroom that feels cavernous and strange without its usual chaos of ringing phones and arguing reporters and the constant clacking of keyboards.
The newsroom at night is a different creature entirely. The overhead lights are dimmed, leaving only the desk lamps and computer screens to push back against the darkness, creating these little pools of illumination that make the space feel fragmented, incomplete. The massive windows that overlook Metropolis let in the ambient light of the city—neon signs and streetlights and the distant glow of buildings that never sleep—painting everything in shades of blue and gold.
You can see your reflection ghosted in the glass as you walk between the desks, and beyond it, the city itself, sprawling and alive and indifferent to the small human dramas playing out in its towers. Lois's desk is mercifully empty, her computer screen dark, which means you won't have to endure her knowing smirks or her pointed comments about how Clark's productivity mysteriously improves after your visits. Jimmy's workspace is cluttered with camera equipment and print-outs, but he's long gone, probably off developing photos in the darkroom or, more likely, at home like a normal person who respects the concept of reasonable working hours.
And then there's Clark, exactly where you knew he'd be, exactly where he always is when a story has its hooks in him. He's hunched over his desk in the far corner, the one positioned so he can see both the elevators and the windows, though you've never asked if that's intentional or just coincidence. His suit jacket is draped over the back of his chair with the kind of carelessness that suggests it was removed hours ago and immediately forgotten, his tie loosened enough that you can see the strong column of his throat, the top button of his shirt undone in a concession to comfort that he probably doesn't even remember making. His sleeves are rolled up to his elbows—something he does methodically, carefully, folding the fabric just so, but they've since become rumpled, one slightly higher than the other. The desk lamp casts harsh shadows across his face, emphasizing the concentration in his expression, the furrow between his brows, the way he's chewing on his bottom lip while his fingers fly across the keyboard. His glasses have slipped down his nose, and he hasn't pushed them back up, too absorbed in whatever he's writing to notice or care.
You pause for a moment, just watching him, taking in the sight of Clark Kent completely in his element. There's something almost sacred about it—the way he hunches forward like he's trying to climb into the story itself, the way his jaw works when he's searching for the right word, the way his eyes dart across the screen, reading and re-reading and editing in real-time. His hair is a mess, dark and thick and falling across his forehead in a way that makes your fingers itch to smooth it back. You can see the tension in his shoulders, the way he's holding himself like the weight of the story is physical, like he's carrying it in his bones.
There's a coffee mug at his elbow—one of the chipped Planet-branded ones that everyone uses—but it's been empty long enough that there's a ring of dried coffee at the bottom, and you'd bet money he doesn't even remember drinking it. His keyboard makes a steady rhythm of clicks and clacks, punctuated occasionally by a longer pause where he stops, thinks, deletes, starts again.
You shift your weight, and the movement must catch in his peripheral vision because Clark's head snaps up with the kind of alertness that always seems just slightly too fast, too precise. For a split second, he looks disoriented, like someone waking from a dream, his eyes unfocused behind his glasses. Then he sees you, really sees you, and his entire face transforms. The tension in his shoulders visibly melts, his expression shifting from concentrated intensity to something so openly warm and relieved that it makes your chest tight. His mouth curves into a smile—not the polite, professional one he uses for sources or the tight, measured one he gives Perry when he's defending a story angle, but the real one, the one that crinkles the corners of his eyes and shows his teeth and makes him look about ten years younger.
"Oh thank God," Clark says, and his voice is rough with disuse, gravelly in a way that suggests he hasn't spoken to another human being in hours. He pushes his chair back from the desk, the wheels squeaking against the floor, and pulls his glasses off to rub at his eyes with the heels of his hands. When he puts them back on, slightly crooked, he's still smiling at you like you've just solved every problem he's ever had.
"You're a vision," he says, standing up from his chair with a slight wince that suggests he's been sitting in the same position for far too long. He's tall—you forget sometimes, when you're standing close to him, exactly how tall—and the desk lamp throws his shadow long across the floor, stretching toward you. His shirt is wrinkled, the kind of deep creases that come from hours of sitting and moving and existing without any thought to appearance, and there's a coffee stain on the cuff of his left sleeve that he definitely hasn't noticed.
“Seriously, you're—you're perfect. Have I told you that recently? That you're perfect?" He's moving around the desk as he talks, his movements slightly stiff, and you can see him trying to shake off the fog of concentration, trying to transition from reporter-mode into person-mode. "Because you are. Perfect. And I love you. Have I mentioned that?"
"You texted me two hours ago to tell me you loved me and also that you were pretty sure you were dying of starvation," you say, setting the coffee carrier down on the one clear corner of his desk that isn't covered in printed articles, scribbled notes, or reference books opened to marked pages. The coffee sloshes slightly in the cups, and you steady them before reaching for the paper bag. "So I made an educated guess about what you needed." You pull out the first coffee, extra-large, lid slightly warped from the heat, and hold it out to him. "Dark roast. Burnt, basically. Exactly how you claim you hate it."
Clark reaches for the coffee with both hands, wrapping his fingers around the cup like it's something precious, and brings it to his face to breathe in the steam. His eyes actually flutter closed for a second, and he makes this sound low in his throat that's almost embarrassing in its pleasure.
"I never said I hated it," he protests, but there's no heat in it, just exhaustion and gratitude and something warmer that makes your stomach flip. "I said it's objectively bad coffee. There's a difference. Bad coffee still serves a purpose."
He takes a sip, winces slightly at the temperature, and takes another one anyway. "God, that's terrible. Thank you. Seriously, thank you, I was about to start chewing on my keyboard for sustenance."
"That's what Perry said when I passed him in the lobby earlier," you lie, just to see Clark's expression shift into alarm. "He told me to tell you that if you die at your desk, he's not writing your obituary, he's writing a scathing editorial about reporters who don't know when to go home." The alarm melts into resignation, then amusement, and Clark huffs out a laugh that sounds more like a sigh. "He didn't actually say that. Marcus said Perry left at ten and told you something about deadline extensions." You pull out the pastries, still warm enough that the bag is slightly damp with steam. "But I'm saying it. When's the last time you ate something substantial that wasn't from the vending machine?"
Clark has the grace to look sheepish, setting his coffee down so he can reach for the bag with the kind of eagerness that confirms your suspicion that he hasn't eaten anything substantial since lunch, if that.
"Define 'substantial,'" he hedges, opening the bag and immediately groaning when the smell hits him. "Oh, you went to Sal's. You went all the way to Sal's. That's—that's at least twenty minutes from your place." He looks up at you, and there's something in his expression that's almost guilty, like he's just realized the effort you went to. "You didn't have to do that. I would've been fine, I could've—" He gestures vaguely at the vending machines visible in the break room. "—survived until morning."
"You would have survived on stale chips and coffee that tastes like chemicals," you correct, hoisting yourself up to sit on the edge of his desk, careful to avoid the precarious stacks of paper. Your legs dangle, not quite reaching the floor, and you have to shift slightly to get comfortable, which makes several papers flutter dangerously. Clark immediately reaches out to steady them, his hand warm when it briefly brushes against your knee. "And then you would have finished your article, gone home, passed out, and woken up tomorrow wondering why you felt like death. So yes, I went to Sal's, because Sal's is open twenty-four hours and makes the only decent cheese danish in this entire city, and because I know you, Clark Kent, and I know that when you say you're fine, you're usually about six hours past fine and entering into the territory of 'concerning.'"
He doesn't argue, which is how you know you're right. Instead, he pulls out one of the danishes—cheese, of course, exactly the one you knew he'd reach for first—and takes a bite that's too large and immediately too hot. He chews quickly, eyes watering slightly, and swallows with effort.
"Okay," he says, his voice slightly strained. "Okay, you're right. That's—yeah, that's good. That's really good." He takes another bite, more carefully this time, and some of the tension you've been watching build in him over the past week seems to ease slightly. "I lost track of time. I know that's not an excuse, but I was—there's this thread I've been following, and it just—it connected, finally, about three hours ago, and once I saw it, I couldn't not follow it." He's talking faster now, the way he always does when he gets excited about a story, gesturing with the danish in a way that makes flakes of pastry drift down onto his shirt. "There's this pattern in the city council's voting records, and if you cross-reference it with campaign donations and then layer in the development projects that got fast-tracked—"
"Clark," you say gently, reaching out to brush some of the pastry flakes off his shirt. Your hand lingers there for a moment, palm flat against his chest, and you can feel his heartbeat underneath, steady and strong and just slightly too fast. "I love that you love this. I love that you care enough to be here at midnight connecting threads that nobody else would even see. But you need to eat, and you need to breathe, and you need to remember that the story will still be there in twenty minutes after you've taken care of yourself." You can feel him take a breath, deep and deliberate, his chest rising and falling under your hand. "Okay?"
"Okay," Clark says quietly, and he covers your hand with his own, holding it there against his heart. His palm is warm, slightly rough with calluses you've never quite figured out the source of, and his thumb traces a small circle on the back of your hand. "Okay. Twenty minutes. I can do twenty minutes." He takes another bite of his danish, chewing more slowly this time, actually tasting it. "Did you get one for yourself? Please tell me you didn't just bring me food and not get anything."
You reach back into the bag with your free hand and pull out your own pastry—the apple turnover that's somehow both tart and sweet and always flakes everywhere when you eat it.
“I got one," you assure him, taking a bite and immediately regretting it as flakes of pastry scatter across his desk, mixing with his notes and printed articles. "Oops. Sorry. I'm—I'm helping. This is me helping." You try to brush the flakes away, but you're still holding your turnover, and you just make it worse, and Clark laughs, actually laughs, the sound surprised and genuine and exactly what you came here to hear.
"You're definitely helping," Clark says, and there's so much affection in his voice that it makes your throat tight. He's still holding your other hand against his chest, and he uses it to tug you slightly closer, until you're fully facing him, your knees bumping against his thighs where he's standing in front of you. "You're helping more than you know. I was—before you got here, I was starting to lose perspective. Getting too far into my own head. And then you show up with terrible coffee and really good pastries and suddenly everything feels manageable again." He squeezes your hand gently. "That's not fair to you, though. Making you my—my anchor, I guess. My reality check."
"I don't mind being your anchor," you say, setting your turnover down on the desk and reaching up to push his glasses back up his nose, where they belong. Your fingers linger for a moment, tracing the frame, and then you let your hand drop to his shoulder. "That's kind of what we do, right? We keep each other tethered. You do the same for me—you just do it differently." You think about the way Clark listens when you talk about your own day, the way he asks follow-up questions that prove he's actually paying attention, the way he notices when you're stressed before you've even said anything. "Besides, it's midnight on a Thursday and I'm sitting on your desk at the Daily Planet eating pastries. If this isn't exactly where I want to be, I'm doing a terrible job of showing it."
Clark's expression does something complicated—soft and grateful and slightly overwhelmed, like he can't quite believe you're real. He sets his danish down on the desk, not caring that it's adding to the mess, and steps closer, fitting himself between your knees. His hands come up to rest on your thighs, warm and grounding, thumbs brushing idle patterns through the fabric of your jeans.
"I don't deserve you," he says quietly, and before you can protest, he continues, "I know you're going to argue with me about that, but just—let me say it. I don't deserve you showing up at midnight because you know I forget to eat. I don't deserve you knowing my coffee order, even the objectively terrible version I drink when I'm desperate. I don't deserve you being okay with the fact that I'm here, at the office, at midnight, instead of home with you where any reasonable person would want to be." His hands tighten slightly on your thighs. "But I'm so grateful that you do all of those things anyway."
You reach up to cup his face, your palms against his jaw, feeling the slight scratch of stubble that's appeared over the course of the day. "Clark," you say firmly, making sure he's looking at you, making sure he hears this. "You don't have to deserve love. That's not how it works. I don't show up at midnight with coffee because I think you've earned it or because I'm keeping some kind of score. I show up because I love you, and because taking care of you makes me happy, and because I know you'd do exactly the same thing for me." You brush your thumb across his cheekbone, and his eyes flutter closed for a moment. "And for the record, I am home. Right here. Wherever you are, that's home. Even if it's a newsroom at midnight that smells like old coffee and printer toner."
Clark makes a sound that's half-laugh, half-something else, and then he's leaning in, closing the distance between you. His hands slide up from your thighs to your waist, fingers splaying across your back, and he rests his forehead against yours. You can feel his breath against your lips, warm and smelling like coffee and sugar, and for a moment, you just exist there together, breathing the same air, existing in the same space.
"Home," Clark repeats quietly, like he's testing the word, like he's trying to make himself believe it. "Yeah. Okay. Home." And then he's kissing you, soft and sweet and tasting like cheese danish, and you kiss him back, your hands sliding from his face to the back of his neck, fingers threading into his hair.
The kiss is gentle, unhurried, the kind of kiss that isn't about heat or urgency but about connection, about reassurance, about two people finding each other in the middle of a long night. Clark kisses like he does everything else—with complete focus and attention, like you're the only thing in the world that matters right now, like he's memorizing the feel of your lips against his, the way you sigh softly when he tilts his head to deepen the kiss just slightly. His hands are steady on your back, holding you close but not constraining, and you can feel the tension that's been living in his shoulders for days starting to finally, truly ease.
When you pull back, it's only far enough to breathe, your noses still nearly touching, and Clark's smiling—that private, intimate smile that's just for you, just for moments like this. "Thank you," he says again, and this time it encompasses everything: the coffee, the pastries, the company, the kiss, the way you understand him, the way you're here. "Thank you for knowing what I needed before I did."
"Always," you promise, and you mean it.
Clark kisses you again, and this time there's a little more heat behind it, a little more intent. His hands slide from your back to your hips, grip firming slightly, and he pulls you closer to the edge of the desk until there's barely any space between you. You can feel the warmth of him even through layers of clothing, can feel the way his breathing has shifted from the steady, measured rhythm of concentration to something slightly quicker, slightly shallower. When he breaks the kiss, his lips move to your jaw, pressing soft, deliberate kisses along the line of it, and you tilt your head instinctively to give him better access.
"We're still at your desk," you murmur, but there's no real protest in your voice, just an observation, a acknowledgment of reality that doesn't quite match the way your fingers are tightening in his hair.
"We are," Clark agrees against your skin, his breath warm on your throat. He kisses the spot just below your ear, the one that always makes you shiver, and you feel him smile when you do exactly that. "Should we not be at my desk?"
It's a genuine question, not rhetorical, and he pulls back just enough to look at you, his eyes searching your face. His pupils are slightly dilated behind his glasses, and there's color high on his cheekbones that wasn't there a few minutes ago.
"Because we can stop. We should probably stop. This is—this is my workplace, and there are cameras, and Marcus is downstairs, and—" He's talking himself out of it, you can hear him doing it in real-time, that logical, responsible part of his brain trying to override the part that's been touch-starved and stressed and wanting.
You cut him off by kissing him again, harder this time, with purpose. Your hands slide from his hair down to his shoulders, feeling the solid muscle there, the tension that's different now, crackling and electric rather than exhausted. When you pull back, Clark's eyes are slightly unfocused, and he makes this small, frustrated sound that goes straight through you.
"The cameras are in the lobby and the stairwells," you say, and you're pleased that your voice is mostly steady. "Marcus knows I'm up here, and Marcus has seen me up here at midnight before, and Marcus, bless him, doesn't care what we do as long as we're not actively committing crimes." You walk your fingers up his chest, feeling the buttons of his shirt under your fingertips, the way his breathing hitches slightly when you reach his collar. "And Perry's not here. Lois is not here. Jimmy is not here. It's just us, and this entire floor, and about six hours until anyone else shows up."
Clark swallows hard, his Adam's apple bobbing, and his hands tighten on your hips almost involuntarily. "You're making very compelling arguments," he says, and his voice has dropped lower, rough around the edges in a way that makes your stomach flip. "You're very good at making compelling arguments. Has anyone ever told you that? You should be a lawyer. Or a debate champion. Or—"
You kiss him again, effectively shutting up the nervous rambling, and this time when your lips meet his, Clark groans softly into your mouth, the sound vibrating between you. His hands slide from your hips to your thighs again, and then higher, fingers spreading across your lower back, pulling you flush against him until you can feel every point of contact, every place where your body meets his.
The kiss deepens, grows more urgent, and you feel Clark's control starting to slip in the best possible way. He kisses you like he's been thinking about it for hours—which, knowing him, he probably has been, some part of his brain dedicated to wanting you even while the rest of him was chasing down leads and writing articles. His tongue traces your lower lip, asking permission, and you grant it immediately, opening for him. The kiss turns hot and messy, all the careful gentleness from before burning away into something more desperate. Your legs wrap around his waist, ankles crossing at his lower back, and Clark makes another one of those sounds, half-groan, half-sigh, that suggests he's rapidly losing the ability to think about cameras or coworkers or appropriate workplace behavior.
His hands are everywhere suddenly—sliding up your back, tangling in your hair, cupping your face, moving restlessly like he can't decide where he wants to touch you most, like he wants to touch all of you at once. You arch into him, and the movement makes you acutely aware of exactly how much he wants this, the evidence of it pressing against you through layers of fabric. Clark breaks the kiss with a gasp, his forehead dropping to your shoulder, his breathing ragged.
"God," he says, muffled against your shirt. "God, you're—we're—I can't think when you do that." His hips press forward almost unconsciously, seeking friction, and then he freezes, like he's just realized what he's doing. "Sorry. Sorry, I'm—"
"Don't apologize," you say, slightly breathless yourself. Your hands slide down his back, feeling the muscles there, tense and coiled. "Don't you dare apologize for wanting me, Clark Kent." You tug at his shirt, pulling it free from where it's tucked into his pants, and Clark's breath catches when your fingers find bare skin, warm and smooth. "I came here at midnight knowing exactly what might happen. Hoping for it, actually." You trace patterns on his lower back, feeling him shiver under your touch. "I love that you lose focus when I touch you. I love that I can make you forget about work for a little while. I love that even after however many hours you've been staring at that screen, you still want me enough to—"
You roll your hips deliberately, and Clark's hands clench on your waist, his whole body going rigid with the effort of control.
"Christ," Clark breathes, and then he's kissing you again, harder now, with less finesse and more raw need. He kisses you like he's drowning and you're air, like he's been holding himself together through sheer force of will and you've just given him permission to fall apart. His hands find the hem of your shirt and slide underneath, palms hot against your skin, and you gasp into his mouth at the contact. Clark takes advantage of your open mouth to deepen the kiss further, and one of his hands slides higher, thumb brushing the underside of your breast through your bra. The touch is tentative, almost questioning, and you arch into it in answer, encouraging.
Your own hands aren't idle—you're working on the buttons of his shirt, fingers fumbling slightly with urgency and angle and the fact that Clark keeps doing things with his tongue that make it very difficult to concentrate on fine motor skills. You get three buttons undone before giving up and just yanking, and Clark makes a startled sound against your lips when you hear a button ping off somewhere into the darkness of the newsroom.
"Sorry," you mutter, not sorry at all, and Clark laughs breathlessly, the sound vibrating through his chest into yours where you're pressed together.
"Don't care," Clark says, and he clearly doesn't, because he's helping you now, shrugging out of the shirt and letting it fall to the floor in a crumpled heap of fabric and lost buttons. Underneath, his undershirt is thin and white and clinging slightly with sweat, and you can see the outline of his chest, the breadth of his shoulders, the way his muscles shift when he moves. You run your hands up his arms, feeling the solid strength there, and Clark's watching you with dark eyes, his chest rising and falling rapidly.
"You're staring," he says, but there's no self-consciousness in it, just observation tinged with something that might be satisfaction.
"You're worth staring at," you counter, and you tug at his undershirt, pulling it up and over his head. Clark helps, raising his arms, and then it's gone too, and you're looking at him, really looking at him. You've seen him shirtless before—in the morning, in bed, in various states of undress—but there's something about seeing him like this, in his workplace, surrounded by the evidence of his work and his passion, that makes it feel different. His chest is broad and solid, dusted with dark hair, and you can see the slight flush spreading down from his cheeks, the way his breathing is making his stomach tense and release. There are freckles scattered across his shoulders, a small scar near his collarbone that he's never explained, and you want to map all of it with your hands, your mouth, your memory.
Clark reaches for you, fingers finding the hem of your shirt, and he pauses, eyes meeting yours in silent question. You nod, and he pulls your shirt up and off with careful hands, dropping it somewhere near his own discarded clothes. The air conditioning in the newsroom is slightly too cold now that you're not fully clothed, and you shiver, but then Clark's hands are on you, warming you, sliding up your sides to cup your breasts through your bra. His thumbs brush over your nipples through the fabric, and you make a sound that's embarrassingly desperate, arching into his touch.
"Sensitive," Clark murmurs, almost to himself, and he does it again, watching your face intently. "Mm, love that about you. I love learning what makes you—" He circles his thumbs again, and you gasp, cutting off whatever he was going to say.
Your hands find his belt, and you're working the buckle open with shaking fingers when Clark's lips find your neck, kissing and sucking and definitely leaving marks that you're going to have to explain tomorrow. The thought should probably bother you, but right now, with Clark's mouth on your throat and his hands on your breasts and the solid weight of him between your legs, you can't bring yourself to care. You get his belt open, pop the button of his pants, start to lower the zipper, and Clark's hips jerk forward at the contact, seeking more.
"Wait," he says suddenly, pulling back, and you freeze, worried you've done something wrong. But Clark's just looking around, assessing, his journalist brain apparently still functioning enough to think about logistics. "Not—we can't do this on the desk. Too many—" He gestures at the papers, the keyboard, the coffee cups. "And the chair's too small, and—"
"Clark," you say, slightly amused despite the aching want pooling low in your stomach. "You're overthinking this." You glance around yourself, taking in the newsroom's layout, the possibilities. The conference room is too exposed, all glass walls and windows. The break room has cameras. The bathroom is too far and too awkward. But then your eyes land on something, and you grin.
"What about Perry's office?" Clark's eyes go wide behind his glasses, shocked and scandalized, and you can't help but laugh. "Come on. It has a door. It has a couch. It's probably the most private place on this entire floor, and Perry's not here, and what he doesn't know won't hurt him."
Clark looks torn between horror and interest, and you watch the internal debate play out across his face—responsibility and propriety warring with want and opportunity.
"That's—we can't—that's Perry's office," he says weakly, but he's already glancing toward the dark office in the corner, the one with blinds on the windows and a door that definitely locks. "That's a huge violation of—I mean, he's my boss, and we'd be—"
You cut him off by palming him through his pants, feeling the hard length of him, and Clark's arguments dissolve into a strangled moan. His hips push into your hand involuntarily, and you stroke him slowly, watching his face, watching him completely lose the thread of whatever ethical concern he was trying to voice.
"Perry's not here," you repeat, voice low and persuasive. "No one's here. It's just us, and a couch, and a door that locks. And I promise you, Clark Kent, I will make it worth any guilt you might feel tomorrow." You squeeze gently, and Clark's eyes actually roll back slightly, his hands gripping your waist hard enough to leave fingerprint bruises.
"Come on," you coax, sliding off the desk, your feet finally finding the floor. You take his hand, interlacing your fingers with his, and tug gently toward Perry's office. "Let me take care of you. Let me make you forget about deadlines and stories and everything except how good we make each other feel."
Clark follows, because of course he does, because despite all his responsibility and his ethics and his careful control, he's still human enough to want, and he wants you. You lead him across the newsroom, both of you half-dressed and breathing hard, and if anyone were watching the security footage later, it would be incredibly obvious what's about to happen, but you're beyond caring and apparently so is Clark. His hand is warm in yours, grip tight, and you can feel the slight tremor in his fingers that suggests he's holding onto his composure by a thread. When you reach Perry's office, you try the door—unlocked, thank God—and pull Clark inside, shutting the door behind you with a soft click.
The office is dark except for the ambient light filtering through the blinds from the city outside, painting everything in stripes of shadow and gold. Perry's desk is mercifully clean—no papers to disturb, no evidence that would give away what you're about to do—and there, against the far wall, is the couch. It's old leather, cracked in places, probably older than you are, but it's a couch, and it's horizontal, and that's all that matters. You turn to Clark, and in the dimness, you can see the want written plainly across his face, the way his chest is heaving, the way he's looking at you like you're something miraculous.
"Lock the door," you say quietly, and Clark moves immediately, his hand finding the lock and turning it with a decisive click that seems loud in the quiet office. The sound of it—the finality, the commitment—sends a thrill through you. This is happening. This is really happening. Clark turns back to you, and for a moment you just look at each other, both breathing hard, both balanced on the edge of something. Then you're moving toward the couch, pulling Clark with you, and he follows eagerly, his free hand already reaching for you again, unable to stop touching now that he's started.
You sit down on the couch, and the leather is cool against your bare skin, making you shiver. Clark stands in front of you for a moment, backlit by the window, and you can see every line of him—the breadth of his shoulders, the taper of his waist, the way his pants are hanging open, revealing a strip of boxer briefs and skin. He's beautiful, and he's yours, and you want him so badly you can barely think. You reach for him, fingers hooking into his belt loops, and pull him down onto the couch with you. Clark comes willingly, settling between your legs, his weight pressing you back into the cushions.
"Hi," Clark says softly, and it's so absurdly normal given the situation that you laugh, the sound bubbling up helplessly. Clark's grinning too, that boyish, slightly crooked grin that made you fall in love with him in the first place, and then he's kissing you again. This kiss is slower, deeper, thorough in a way that makes your toes curl. His hands slide up your sides, thumbs brushing the underwire of your bra, and then he's reaching around to unhook it with surprising dexterity for someone who seemed so nervous just minutes ago. The bra loosens, and you help him pull it off, dropping it somewhere onto Perry's office floor, and then Clark's hands are on your bare breasts, and coherent thought becomes significantly more difficult.
He touches you like he's memorizing you, palms cupping the weight of your breasts, thumbs circling your nipples until they're tight and aching. When he lowers his head and takes one into his mouth, you arch up with a gasp that's too loud, and Clark's free hand comes up to cover your mouth gently, a reminder that you're still technically in a semi-public place, that sound carries in empty newsrooms. You bite your lip, trying to stay quiet, but it's hard when Clark's doing things with his tongue that should be illegal, when his other hand is pinching and rolling your other nipple, when you can feel the hard length of him pressing against your core through too many layers of fabric.
Your hands find his hair, fingers threading through it, and you grip tight, probably too tight, but Clark just groans against your breast, the vibration sending sparks of pleasure straight through you. His mouth moves to your other breast, giving it the same attention, and you're squirming underneath him, hips rolling, seeking friction. Clark presses down, grinding against you, and even through jeans and underwear, the pressure is almost enough.
Almost, but not quite.
"Clark," you breathe, and his name comes out desperate, pleading. "Clark, please, I need—"
"I know, baby," Clark says, pulling back, his lips wet and his eyes dark. "I know, I've got you."
His hands move to your jeans, popping the button, lowering the zipper, and you lift your hips to help him pull them down. The jeans catch on your shoes, and there's an awkward moment of fumbling before Clark just pulls off your shoes, dropping them carelessly, and then your jeans are gone too, leaving you in just your underwear on Perry White's couch. The absurdity of the situation hits you again, and you start to laugh, but then Clark's hands are on your thighs, spreading them wider, and the laughter dies in your throat.
He kneels on the floor between your legs, and even in the darkness, you can see the reverent way he's looking at you, like you're something sacred. His hands slide up your inner thighs, slowly, teasingly, and your breath hitches in anticipation. When his thumbs brush over the damp fabric of your underwear, you actually whimper, the sound embarrassing and needy and entirely involuntary. Clark does it again, pressing slightly harder, and your hips lift off the couch, chasing the pressure.
"You're so wet," Clark says, and there's wonder in his voice, like he's amazed that he can do this to you, that you want him this much. "Can I—" He hooks his fingers into the waistband of your underwear, and you nod frantically, beyond words at this point.
Clark pulls your underwear down and off, adding them to the growing pile of discarded clothes, and then you're completely bare before him, spread out on your boss's couch, and Clark's looking at you like you're the most beautiful thing he's ever seen. He leans forward, pressing kisses to your inner thighs, moving slowly upward, and you're trembling with anticipation, your hands gripping the edge of the couch cushion. When his breath ghosts over you, hot and close, you almost come apart right there.
"Please," you hear yourself say, and you don't even know what you're asking for exactly, just more, more of him, more of this.
And then Clark's mouth is on you, and your entire world narrows down to the feeling of his tongue, hot and wet and absolutely perfect. He licks a slow stripe up your center, and the moan that tears from your throat is so loud that you have to clap your own hand over your mouth, biting down on your palm to muffle the sound. Clark makes an approving noise against you, the vibration sending shockwaves through your entire body, and then he's working in earnest—licking and sucking and doing things with his tongue that make your thighs tremble on either side of his head. His hands grip your hips, holding you steady when you start to squirm, and there's strength in that hold, an easy power that he normally keeps so carefully contained. Right now, though, he's using it to keep you exactly where he wants you, open and spread and completely at his mercy.
He finds your clit with unerring accuracy, circling it with his tongue in a rhythm that makes your back arch off the couch, makes your free hand fly down to tangle in his hair, holding him against you. Clark doesn't seem to mind—if anything, he seems encouraged, doubling his efforts, alternating between broad, flat strokes and tight, focused attention that has you seeing stars. You're trying to stay quiet, really trying, but it's nearly impossible when Clark's apparently decided that his new mission in life is to make you completely fall apart. Your thighs are starting to shake in earnest now, your breathing coming in sharp, shallow gasps that you're trying and failing to control. The pressure is building low in your stomach, coiling tighter and tighter, and you're so close, so desperately close.
Clark must sense it somehow—maybe in the way your body is tensing, maybe in the way your fingers are tightening almost painfully in his hair, maybe in the increasingly desperate sounds you're making even through your hand. Whatever the tell is, he responds by sliding two fingers inside you while his mouth stays focused on your clit, and that's it, that's exactly what you needed. The dual sensation—his tongue circling and his fingers curling, finding that perfect spot inside you—sends you flying over the edge.
Your orgasm hits you like a wave, pleasure crashing through your entire body in rolling pulses that seem to go on and on. Your thighs clamp around Clark's head, your back arches completely off the couch, and the sound you make is muffled by your palm but still probably too loud for an empty office building at one in the morning.
Clark works you through it, his movements gentling as you come down, becoming softer, more soothing. When you finally relax back against the couch, breathing hard and feeling like your bones have dissolved, Clark presses one last kiss to your inner thigh before pulling back. He's grinning when he looks up at you—really grinning, pleased and proud and slightly smug in a way that you'd probably tease him about if you could form coherent sentences. His glasses are slightly fogged and sitting crooked on his nose, his hair is a complete disaster from your hands, and his lips are wet and swollen, and he's never looked more attractive to you than he does right now, kneeling between your legs on Perry White's office floor.
"Good?" Clark asks, his voice rough and low, and there's still that hint of smugness in it that suggests he knows exactly how good it was, he just wants to hear you say it.
You can only nod at first, still trying to remember how breathing works, how language works, how anything works that isn't the residual pleasure still sparking through your nerve endings. Clark's hands slide up your thighs, gentle and grounding, and he pushes himself up from the floor with an easy grace that shouldn't be possible for someone who's been kneeling on hardwood. He settles on the couch beside you, one hand cupping your face, thumb brushing your cheekbone with such tenderness that it makes your chest tight.
"So good," you finally manage, your voice coming out hoarse and wrecked. "So good, Clark, you're—that was—" You can't quite find words adequate to describe what just happened, so you pull him down into a kiss instead. You can taste yourself on his lips, on his tongue, and it should probably be weird, but instead it's incredibly hot, a reminder of what he just did to you, how thoroughly he just took you apart. Clark kisses you back eagerly, one hand still on your face, the other sliding down to rest on your hip, thumb tracing idle patterns on your bare skin. When you pull back, you're both breathing hard again, and you can feel that he's still achingly hard, pressed against your thigh through his open pants.
"Your turn," you say, and your hands move to his waistband, ready to return the favor, ready to make him feel even a fraction of what he just made you feel.
But Clark catches your hands, stilling them, and when you look up at him in confusion, he's shaking his head.
"Clark," you protest, "you can't—you're still—" You gesture meaningfully at the obvious evidence of his arousal, and Clark huffs out a laugh that sounds slightly strained. "Let me take care of you. Please. I want to."
"You are taking care of me," Clark says, and he means it, you can hear it in his voice, see it in his eyes. "This—being here with you, getting to touch you, getting to make you feel good—that's taking care of me." He shifts on the couch, adjusting himself with a slight wince that suggests being this turned on is starting to border on painful, but he's still smiling at you, still looking at you like you're the best thing he's ever seen.
"But also," he continues, and now there's heat creeping into his voice, his eyes darkening again, "I really, really want to be inside you. If that's—if you want that too. Do you want that, baby?"
The answer is so immediately, obviously yes that you don't even bother with words—you just nod and reach for him again, and this time Clark doesn't stop you. You push his pants and boxer briefs down together, and Clark lifts his hips to help, kicking them off completely so he's finally, finally as naked as you are. And God, he's beautiful like this—all long lines and solid muscle and flushed skin. His cock is hard and curving slightly toward his stomach, already leaking at the tip, and when you wrap your hand around him, Clark's hips jerk forward involuntarily, a broken sound escaping his throat.
You stroke him slowly, learning the weight and feel of him, watching his face as you do. Clark's eyes have fluttered closed behind his glasses, his mouth slightly open, his breathing harsh and uneven. His hand comes up to cover yours, guiding your grip, showing you how he likes it—firmer than you were being, faster—and you adjust accordingly.
"God," Clark breathes, his hips starting to move in small, aborted thrusts into your hand. "God, that's—you're—" He breaks off with another moan, and you can feel him starting to tense, getting close already, probably from the combination of going down on you and the anticipation and the sheer fact of your hand on him.
"Clark," you say, stilling your hand, and his eyes snap open, looking at you with dazed confusion. "Inside me. You said you wanted to be inside me." You shift on the couch, lying back, spreading your legs in invitation. "So be inside me. I want to feel you. I want all of you."
Clark stares at you for a moment like he's trying to convince himself you're real, and then he's moving, positioning himself between your legs, one hand braced on the couch beside your head, the other gripping your hip. He pauses at your entrance, and even through the haze of want, you can see him trying to check in, trying to make sure you're sure about this.
"I'm sure," you tell him before he can ask. "I'm so sure, Clark. Please."
And that's all the permission he needs.
Clark pushes forward slowly, carefully, and the stretch of him is perfect, filling you completely in a way that makes your toes curl. He goes slow, giving you time to adjust, his face buried in your neck as he breathes hard, clearly fighting for control. When he's fully seated inside you, you both freeze for a moment, just feeling it—the connection, the intimacy, the perfect way your bodies fit together. Clark lifts his head to look at you, and his expression is open and vulnerable and full of so much love that it makes your throat tight.
"Okay?" he asks, voice strained, and you nod, wrapping your legs around his waist, your arms around his shoulders. "Okay," Clark repeats, and then he starts to move. He pulls out slowly, almost all the way, and then pushes back in, setting a rhythm that's deep and steady and absolutely perfect. Each thrust hits something inside you that makes pleasure spark up your spine, and you're clinging to him, nails digging into his shoulders, head thrown back against the couch cushions. Clark's mouth finds your neck, kissing and biting gently, and you can feel him holding back, feel him trying to stay controlled, trying to make this good for you.
"Don't hold back," you tell him, one hand sliding up to grip the back of his neck. "I'm not fragile, Clark. I won't break. Give me everything." Something shifts in his expression—relief, maybe, or permission granted—and his next thrust is harder, more forceful.
The couch creaks beneath you, and Clark sets a new pace that's faster, deeper, the careful control giving way to raw need. His hand slides down to grip your thigh, pulling your leg higher, changing the angle, and suddenly he's hitting that perfect spot inside you with every thrust, and you're moaning openly now, too far gone to care about volume or propriety or the fact that you're in your boyfriend's boss's office.
The pleasure is building again, impossibly, your first orgasm apparently just the warm-up for this. Clark's breathing is ragged in your ear, interspersed with broken sounds and whispered words—your name, mostly, said like a prayer, like a promise, like the only word that matters. His rhythm is starting to falter, becoming more erratic, and you can tell he's close, can feel it in the tension of his muscles, the desperation in the way he's moving.
"Come with me," Clark manages, his voice wrecked. "Please, I need—I need you to come with me." His hand slides between your bodies, fingers finding your clit, and he rubs tight circles that make you see stars.
The combination of his cock inside you, hitting that perfect spot, and his fingers on your clit, and the weight of him, and the sound of him, and just everything—it's too much. Your second orgasm crashes over you even harder than the first, and you cry out, unable to stop yourself, unable to do anything but feel as pleasure floods through every nerve ending. Your body clenches around Clark, and that's apparently what he was waiting for, because he thrusts one, two, three more times and then he's coming too, burying himself deep as he spills inside you, your name torn from his throat in a groan that's probably way too loud for an office building but neither of you can bring yourselves to care.
Clark collapses on top of you, his weight pressing you into the couch, and you wrap your arms around him, holding him close as you both try to remember how to breathe. Your heart is hammering against your ribs, and you can feel his doing the same, the twin rhythms gradually slowing, synchronizing. Clark's face is buried in your neck, and you can feel his lips moving against your skin, pressing soft kisses there, whispered words that you can't quite make out but that sound like gratitude, like wonder, like love. Your fingers trace patterns on his back, feeling the slight dampness of sweat, the way his muscles are finally, truly relaxed in a way they haven't been all week.
After what feels like both seconds and hours, Clark carefully pulls out, and you both wince slightly at the sensitivity. He shifts to lie beside you on the couch, somehow managing to fit his large frame on the narrow space by pulling you half on top of him, your head on his chest. You can hear his heartbeat slowly returning to normal, feel the rise and fall of his breathing. One of his hands is in your hair, fingers carding through it gently, while the other rests on your lower back, keeping you close. The office is quiet except for your breathing and the distant hum of the city outside, and for a long moment, you just exist there together, boneless and satisfied and utterly content.
"So," Clark says eventually, and you can hear the smile in his voice even without seeing his face. "That happened. We just—in Perry's office. On Perry's couch. That's something we did." There's no regret in his tone, just a kind of amazed disbelief, like he can't quite believe he actually went through with it. "Perry's going to kill us if he ever finds out. Actually, no—Perry's going to kill me, specifically, because I'm the one who's supposed to know better, and instead I—we—" He breaks off, and you feel him shake his head slightly. "I have no idea what I'm going to say the next time I have to sit in that office for an editorial meeting."
You prop yourself up on his chest, looking down at him with amusement. His glasses are sitting even more crooked now, one arm higher than the other, and his hair is absolutely destroyed, sticking up in multiple directions from your hands. He looks thoroughly debauched and completely happy, and you love him so much in this moment that it physically hurts.
"You're going to sit in that office," you tell him seriously, "and you're going to think about this. About me, and you, and what we just did. And you're going to get distracted during the meeting, and Perry's going to have to say your name twice before you hear him, and everyone's going to wonder what's going on with you." You lean down to kiss him softly. "And only you and I will know that you're thinking about how you made me come on this couch. Twice."
Clark groans, closing his eyes. "That's not helpful. That's the opposite of helpful. How am I supposed to ever focus in this office again? Every meeting is going to be torture." But he's smiling, and when he opens his eyes again, they're warm and soft and full of affection. "You're terrible for my professional reputation, you know that? I'm supposed to be the dependable one, the Eagle Scout, the guy who follows all the rules. And here you are, corrupting me, making me have sex in my boss's office like some kind of—" He searches for a comparison and apparently comes up empty. "Like some kind of person who has sex in their boss's office."
"You loved every second of it," you point out, and Clark doesn't even try to deny it. "Besides, you needed this. You needed to stop thinking about the story for a while, to remember that you're a person with a body and needs, not just a brain attached to a keyboard. When's the last time you took a real break, Clark? When's the last time you let yourself just feel something that wasn't stress or deadline pressure or the weight of trying to save the world one article at a time?" You smooth his hair back from his forehead, and Clark leans into the touch like a cat, his eyes fluttering closed again. "I'm not corrupting you. I'm taking care of you. There's a difference."
"Taking care of me by having sex with me in increasingly inappropriate locations?" Clark asks, but there's no heat in it, just warm amusement. "What's next, the elevator? The roof? Perry's actual desk?" He opens one eye to look at you. "Please say you're not seriously considering Perry's desk. I draw the line at Perry's desk. That's where he eats his lunch. There are some boundaries even I won't cross, despite evidence to the contrary." He gestures meaningfully at the couch you're currently draped across, and you can't help but laugh.
"I make no promises about future locations," you tease, and Clark groans again, but he's smiling, and when you kiss him, he kisses back readily, sweetly, with none of the desperate urgency from before. This is different—slower, softer, the kind of kiss that's about connection and affection rather than heat and need.
When you pull back, Clark's looking at you with such open adoration that it makes your heart skip. "But for now," you continue, glancing around at the dark office, at your scattered clothes, at the general evidence of what you've been doing, "we should probably get dressed before someone decides to come in early and discovers us like this."
Clark sighs dramatically but nods, carefully helping you sit up before extracting himself from the couch. He finds his boxer briefs and pants first, pulling them on with slightly more grace than he took them off with, and then he's gathering your clothes, handing them to you one piece at a time like a gentleman, which is absurd considering what you were just doing. You dress slowly, your body pleasantly sore, muscles loose and relaxed in a way they haven't been in days. When you're both mostly decent—wrinkled and disheveled and obviously post-sex, but technically clothed—you stand and help Clark straighten the couch, making sure there's no obvious evidence of your activities.
Clark finds his shirt, frowning at the missing buttons, and you wince apologetically.
"I'll sew them back on," you promise, and Clark just shakes his head, pulling the shirt on anyway and leaving it unbuttoned over his undershirt. "Or buy you a new one. A better one. One that I won't rip apart next time." Clark's eyebrows raise at 'next time,' but he doesn't comment, just smooths down his hair uselessly—it's still a disaster, but at least he's trying. He finds his glasses where they'd fallen off at some point, cleaning them on his undershirt before putting them back on properly.
You unlock Perry's office door quietly, checking that the newsroom is still empty before slipping out. Clark follows close behind, and you both make your way back to his desk, trying to look casual, like you definitely didn't just spend the last forty-five minutes having sex in your boss's office. Clark's discarded suit jacket is still draped over his chair, and he shrugs into it, probably hoping it will hide some of the wrinkles and the missing buttons. It doesn't, really, but it's something. The coffee you brought is long cold, the pastries slightly congealed, but Clark sits down at his desk anyway, pulling his keyboard back toward him.
You perch on the edge of his desk again, watching as he opens his article, scrolling through what he's written. His expression shifts from post-sex satisfaction to focus, that journalist brain clicking back into gear, and you can almost see him reconnecting with the story he'd been chasing before you arrived.
"Feel better?" you ask, and Clark looks up at you, a slow smile spreading across his face. "More relaxed? Ready to finish this thing so you can actually go home and sleep?"
"So much better," Clark confirms, and he reaches for your hand, lacing his fingers through yours. "Thank you. For the coffee, and the food, and the—" He glances meaningfully toward Perry's office, and you grin. "For all of it. For knowing what I needed even when I didn't. For being patient with me and my terrible work habits and my inability to remember to eat or sleep when I'm chasing a lead." He brings your joined hands to his lips, kissing your knuckles. "I don't deserve you, but I'm so grateful I have you anyway."
"You do deserve me," you correct gently, squeezing his hand. "And I deserve you. We deserve each other, and we deserve happiness, and we deserve midnight coffee deliveries and inappropriate office encounters and all of it." You lean down to kiss his forehead, and Clark's eyes close, his free hand coming up to rest on your hip. "Now finish your article so we can go home. I'm exhausted, and you have to be running on fumes, and our actual bed is much more comfortable than Perry's couch, as nice as it was."
Clark nods, releasing your hand reluctantly, and turns back to his computer with renewed energy. You watch him work for a few minutes, admiring the way he focuses, the way his fingers fly across the keyboard now that he's broken through whatever block was stopping him before. When you're satisfied that he's actually going to finish and not get stuck in another spiral of perfectionism, you slide off his desk.
"I'm going to head home," you tell him, and Clark looks up immediately, concern flickering across his face. "You stay and finish. I'll leave the door unlocked, and when you're done, you come home to me. Deal?"
"Deal," Clark agrees, though he looks like he wants to argue, like he wants to leave with you right now and forget about the article entirely. But you both know he won't be able to rest until it's done, until he's said what he needs to say, until the story is out there in the world where it can do some good. "I'll be there in an hour, maybe two. I promise. Just need to write the conclusion and do a final edit, and then I'm submitting it and coming home."
He stands, pulling you into a proper hug, his chin resting on top of your head. "I love you. Thank you for tonight. For everything."
"I love you too," you murmur against his chest, breathing in the scent of him—coffee and sweat and something uniquely Clark. "Now sit down and write. The faster you finish, the faster you're back in our bed."
You pull away, grabbing your bag, and head for the elevators. When you glance back, Clark's already sitting again, his attention fully on his screen, but he's smiling, that soft, private smile that's just for you. You step into the elevator, pressing the button for the lobby, and as the doors close, you catch one last glimpse of him—Clark Kent, brilliant journalist, terrible at self-care, the love of your life, sitting at his desk in his wrinkled shirt and his destroyed hair, finally able to finish the story that's been consuming him.
Marcus is still at his desk when you pass through the lobby, and he gives you a knowing look that makes you blush. "He'll be down in an hour or two," you tell him, and Marcus just nods, like he's seen this exact scenario play out countless times before. "Thanks for—you know. Not asking questions."
Marcus waves you off with a smile, returning to his crossword, and you push through the revolving doors into the Metropolis night. The air is cool and slightly damp, carrying the smell of the city—car exhaust and street vendor food and something indefinably urban. You pull out your phone, calling a car to take you home, and while you wait, you think about Clark, about the way he looked when you walked in, and the way he looks now, and the way he'll look when he finally comes home.
Your phone buzzes with a text before your ride arrives. It's from Clark:
You're incredible. I'm incredible. WE'RE incredible. Also I just wrote 800 words in 15 minutes, so whatever you did to me, it worked. I love you. Also please never tell anyone we had sex in Perry's office. But also I don't regret it even a little bit.
You smile, typing back:
Your secret is safe with me. Now stop texting and finish writing. The sooner you're done, the sooner you're home. I'll be waiting.
His response is immediate:
Best motivation ever. Finishing this now. See you soon. I love you.
You pocket your phone as your ride pulls up, sliding into the back seat and giving your address. As the car pulls away from the Daily Planet building, you look back at it one more time, at the lit windows on the third floor where Clark is undoubtedly typing furiously, fueled by caffeine and post-orgasm endorphins and the knowledge that you're waiting for him at home. And you smile, because this is your life—late-night coffee deliveries and inappropriate office encounters and loving a man who cares so much about truth and justice that he forgets to take care of himself. It's chaotic and unconventional and absolutely perfect, and you wouldn't change a single thing.
art loved the way he towered over you. he loved that he could so easily envelope you in his arms, that he could hold you without any effort. he loved guiding you through crowds, one hand on your low back, your skin warm against his palm. it made him feel good, confident, strong. most of all, above all the innocent, mundane gestures, he loved the size difference when the two of you were in bed. he loved having you spread out beneath him, writhing and flushed. "s too much," you whined, his hands on your thighs, keeping your legs open enough so he could slot between them. "you're taking it so good," he praised, one hand moving to cradle your jaw, thumb running along your cheek, "if it's too much, does that mean you want me to stop, hm?" "no," you said quickly, managing to shake your head, "no, please, don't stop," he hummed, pleased, as he pulled out before sliding back into you slow enough to feel your every clench and shudder.
he raised your legs higher, eyes trained to your cunt and the way it stretched around him, the way his skin glistened with your slick. “so deep,” you mewled, hand pressed to your lower stomach, squeezing around him, “can feel you right here,” he placed his hand just over yours and watched, dazed, as your skin bulged with his length. “fuck,” he groaned, nearly finishing right then, “you like that, sweet girl? like how deep i am?” “love it,” you moaned, your fingers sliding down to rub your sensitive clit. he panted as his thrusts grew quicker, encouraged by the moans spilling from your swollen lips. he leaned over yours, your legs rested on his shoulders and his arms on either side of your head as he pressed messy kisses to your chest.
“love you so much, baby,” he murmured breathlessly, “god, you’re taking my cock so good. can feel you about to cum,” “love you,” you ran your nails over his shoulder blades, shuddering, “so close, please,” “i’ve got you,” he cooed, “let go for me, hm?” you pulled him closer, kissing him roughly, your tongue sliding against his, muffling your moans as you came. you pulled away to catch your breath, chest heaving and eyes glossy. “you’re so pretty,” art choked out, sitting back to watch once more as he pounded into you, “i’m so close,” you moaned, too fucked out to speak as he pushed you to the brink of overstimulation. “gonna fill you up,” he groaned, hands resting on your stomach, “right here, baby, gonna fuck you full,” “please,” you whined. he gripped yours thighs tighter, thrusts growing sloppier before he spilled into you, moaning, voice raspy, muscles tight. “fuck,” he panted, slowly pulling out, watching his cum spill out of you with hazed eyes, “you okay, sweetheart?” “mhm,” you hummed, smiling sleepily, “perfect.”
