Tape 1 // Side A
Track 02: Daze - Steve Lacy
Miguel O'Hara x First Love
summary: You pick out an outfit for New Year's. Miguel helps where he can.
warnings: tooth-rotting fluff, love confessions, PIV, nipple sucking (m-receiving). 18+, Minors DNI
a/n: this is so cheesy and lovey-dovey and self-indulgent. happy new year's everyone <3
wc: 2.3k
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Hey (you put me in a)
Daze (each and every)
Day (so in love with everything you do, I'm really feelin' you)
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Miguel doesn’t think he’s built for love.
Really, well and truly; it fits across his frame wrong. He tucks it into a stiff waistband like the collared shirts his mamá made him wear to church. Maybe if he pressed it out - lain on your sheets like those pretty dresses you’ll drape on your shoulders - it would sit right. Settle across him like skin - something real. Human. And like Pinocchio on a stage; he rattles around your bedroom, searching for the strings.
If you see him in the corner of your eye, you don’t react. Miguel tries to make himself look busy, flattening silky fabric with his hands. He’s distracted, thinking about puppets and widowers and love stuck between sharp teeth like blood and sinew. The more he ponders, the more resolute he becomes: Miguel doesn’t think he’s built for love.
Oh, but… you. Love looks like a dream on you, he thinks. You’re in front of a mirror, humming and hawing; tilting your head this way and that. It takes his breath away; lip tucked under teeth, delicate hands spread flat on the fabric, the way your lashes flutter in the light. It pools out from under you like dappled hues on a summer day: love, warm and ochre-tinted around your form. You… you were built for it; made to be loved. Like the first time he met you - and it always feels like the first time, for some reason - he’s drawn in, chasing your smile like a flash of light across the sky. Fireworks couldn’t compare, he thinks: flashbangs and roman candles, sparklers and their gentle fizz and crackle - they pale in comparison to the way your eyes shine when you see him.
“What do you think?” You turn, chewing at your cheek. It makes his heart skip a beat, the way you look at him.
He blinks, thinking back to the last time you wore it. One of your first proper dates, and he had opened the door to a vision. You’d look beautiful in it, you always do. “You look–”
“It’s not too plain? I like the fabric but I’m too sure about the waist.”
“Mi vida, it’s–”
“I could go with the green one…” You pick up a bundle of fabric by your feet. “But I think it’s too revealing. Dramatic. Too many ruffles, like a prom dress.”
He hums, thinking back to when he had bought you that dress. How you had looked at it in a shop window; wide, forlorn eyes like a baby deer; and the way you lit up when he arrived with it at your doorstep. “Baby, you could–”
“What do you think your coworker’s will be wearing?” You turn to him suddenly, eyes bright. “I need to see the invite again, want to make sure I’ve got the right dress code. It’s… I mean… I should look classy, right?”
“If you want.” He says, stepping closer.
You’re huffing, rummaging through the depths of your wardrobe.
“That’s not a real answer, Mig.”
He pads to your side, and you feel a hand curl around the fat of your waist. It's warm, poking underneath the little tank top you've been wearing. His fingertips, impossibly rough and soft at the same time, rub circles into hip bone.
“Baby.”
You ignore him, grunting with frustration.
“You're overthinking.” He says it soft, wrapping his arms around your waist.
Steadfast, you continue to rifle through the wardrobe. You're stubborn, this much he knows, pressing gentle kisses into the juncture of your jaw.
Eventually, you soften, hands on his as he hugs you from behind.
“I just–” You start, turning around to give him a look akin to a half-drowned puppy. “I want them to like me.”
“You brighten up every room, mi vida. Why wouldn't they like you?” He smooths away a deepening furrow by your brow, kissing it better.
And when you melt, sinking into his arms and burrowing your face into the crook of his neck, all he can hear is the pounding of his heart.
“Don't laugh.” You say it into the side of his neck, creating warmth that blooms from his chest to fingertips.
“Never.” He means it. Of course, he means it.
“I want to look like I belong next to you.”
It makes him short circuit. Miguel blinks; once, twice. He blinks a third time, gently pushing you up by your shoulders.
“You-” He's incredulous, hardly able to process the implication of what you've just said. “You want to look like you belong next to me?”
Shakily, you nod.
“You're amazing. Smart and kind and talented… and if they don't know it already at work then they're idiots. So,” You chew your lip, as if mulling over the right words.” I know it's just New Year's, and it's a stupid work thing, and you probably don't care… but I'm so proud of you. I want to show you off, tonight. I want to shine like you do, Mig.”
It makes him smile, thinking back to all the times he gushes about you at work. Usually quiet, generally reserved; but everything reminds him of you. Your hair, your smile, the very first time you laughed at a stupid joke of his. The way your shoulders sag after a long day, the way you curl up to his side on the couch everytime, without fail.
Your favourite foods, your favourite colour, the way you marvel at his long lashes in bed or poke his frown lines in the morning. The gentle way in which you love him. The way he would bend over backwards to make you feel just a fraction of the love he has for you.
“Oh God.” You groan. “Don't look at me like that. I said… don't laugh… I specifically told you not to–”
He sweeps you off your feet, carrying you to bed slung over his shoulder. In a heap of giggles, you land on soft sheets with a gentle thump, chasing away cold hands pressed all over your body.
Miguel tosses off the clothes littered across the bed, whilst you lunge for your precious silks.
You're laughing, writhing at the strong hands that pull you closer to his chest. “What's gotten into you?”
He's breathless, pressing kisses to the fat of your thighs. His hands travel up, hooking underneath tiny shorts. Like a man possessed, he massages the rise and fall of plush flesh, eyes trained on yours as his mouth dips low. Lower, into the crease of skin where your thighs meet your gorgeous folds, where soft cotton underwear is eaten up by your cunt.
“Mig!” You sit up on your haunches, hand in his hair to pull him up.
He looks at you, entranced, red-brown eyes sparkling as he rests his head on your thigh.
“I love you.”
And he says it like the first breath on a cold winter’s day; letting the words curl into the air like crystal and vapour. Gentle, oh-so soft.
“Oh.” It knocks the wind right out of your sails. “Well… I love you too.”
He shakes his head, sitting up in a display that has you scratching your head.
“No, baby. I love you.”
You frown. “That’s what I said, isn’t it?”
“I love you.” He grabs your hands, pulling them to his chest. “I love you. I love you I love you I love-”
“Miguel.” You say it slowly, cradling his head in your palms, tilting him this way and that to examine his face - currently cracked into a dopey grin. Unconsciously, you brush away a stray curl that springs up by his forehead. “I love you. But I don’t really understand what’s going on. Did you take something? Hit your head? Do I need to call Gabi? Because he really wouldn’t–”
“I went to the mall about a month ago, after — I think it was the day after we had dinner at Pesci’s and you said that you haven’t had a good churro in years–”
“No, I said the last time I had a churro was at Six Flags–”
He looks at you blankly. “Same thing, babe. So I went shopping for ingredients, went to that market, passed the shop that sells the weird looking plushies and then…” He takes a breath. “I passed the hardware store. Key cutting for half-off, or something, and I didn't even think about it. Just did it. Got a copy made of my keys and put it in a little ring box that's been burning a hole in my pocket for God knows how long.”
“I've been waiting for a good time to ask. I mean… I thought it was too soon but Gabi thinks it's time and Pete says it's not soon enough. And you've already got half your clothes at mine, and your mugs, and that fucking… rat’s nest of a jewellery plate that I gave you and you refuse to throw away.”
“It's pretty, Mig.”
“Lyla made me go to a pottery class once and I will never hear the end of it. Say the word and I will smash it into a million pieces.” You giggle and it makes him smile even wider. “You said you've always wanted a cat, and your building doesn't allow pets but mine does. Which is such a shame, because you'd be a great cat mom. The best.”
He gives you a weak smile, voice shaking imperceptibly. But you notice - because of course you do.
“I love you so much it hurts. Sometimes I lie awake at night and stare at you like a fucking creep because I don't know what I did to get so lucky. How did I find someone as brilliant and beautiful and bright as you? And you want me? When you could have anyone else?”
“So I'm asking now - and there's no pressure, of course,” He takes a deep breath. “Will you move in with me? Please?”
His sincerity bowls you over, knocks your hair back like a hurricane-force wind. Miguel, stoic and ever the voice of reason, spilling his guts out to you in a sickly sweet daze. He's usually so forthright and upfront - and the image of him tossing and turning about the perfect time to ask you makes tears swell at the corner of your eyes. God, and then you're laughing; lost in gasping peals of giggles as he looks on, confused.
“You…” You wipe away fat tears. “You think the best time to ask me is when I've got my pants halfway down my legs?”
Oh. Heat rises to his cheeks, and he buries his head in the covers.
Gently, you nudge him. “That's a yes, Miguel, if you couldn't tell.”
When he smiles; wide and lopsided and exposing deep dimples either side of his face; you wrap him up in a hug that turns carnivorous, pressing obnoxious kisses everywhere you can. Eventually, you toss off your shorts and wrap bare legs around his torso, flipping him over with your hands planted by his sides. You put your lips on his, hungrily, chasing that deep, rumbling laugh that always sets you on fire.
You kiss it into skin, making sure he'll carry it around for as long he can: love - caring and unquestioning and blinding. It wraps around him like a well-worn sweater, the slightly-itchy kind his mamá would give him for Christmas. For the first time in his life, Miguel realises; it fits.
It makes him swallow roughly, and open his mouth wider, slipping his tongue to those spots he knows you like. It makes him shudder and shake and press you up against him impossibly close, grinding his hard length into the thin fabric at your cunt.
Before he knows it, you've pushed the gusset aside, enveloping him between your plush walls and sinking down on his cock with incredible heat. It burns, the way you touch him, fingertips tracing his torso as you lift up his shirt. Miguel doesn't know where to look as you peel it off him – back arched deliciously as you latch onto his nipple.
“F-Fuck.” He stutters, one hand gripping plush thigh and the other at the back of your neck. You’re messy - and wet - slobbering at his chest as he grinds up into your pussy.
He's so, so close in no time at all. Your cunt flutters around him like you know, and then you're both falling; sinking into each other's bones in a wispy haze.
Settling in his chest, panting and fucked out, you look up. You trace his wispy lashes, stunned by the way light kisses its peripheries, caught in golden flecks in his irises.
“I don't like it when you talk about yourself like that.”
You put an ear to his ribcage, steadied by its slow thump.
“Like what?” He says it lightly, hoping the slight shake to his voice doesn't betray him.
“Like you don't deserve to be loved.” Rolling over, you wrap your legs around his middle once more. You want to look him in the eye when you say it, so there is no misinterpreting your next words. “Because you do. Because you are.”
Miguel cups your cheek with a tenderness that makes your heart splinter. He kisses you with that same tenderness, stumbling over himself to show what his words can't. He’ll fall asleep to the gentle rise and fall of your chest, tucking his head into the crook of your neck. He’ll wrap himself around you like two pieces of a puzzle; like you were made for one another.
If Miguel isn’t built for love, then this feeling that bubbles up in his ribcage must be something else: spreading to his fingertips and toes like hot chocolate and fresh churros whilst you watch the fireworks, light fizzing and crackling across a cool night. If Miguel isn’t built for love, then the ring he’s wrapped up in a sock won’t make its way onto your left hand during a gentle night like this one.
He surveys the mess you’ve made of the bedroom. Dresses and bedsheets and fancy shoes all over the floor, and you’ve fallen asleep in the midst of it all. Miguel pulls you closer; clearing his head of widowers and puppets and love woven into silk sheets and scraggly blankets all the same.
Oh well, he thinks. He’s got the rest of his life with you to figure that out.
Kara who saw her parents wither away. Kara who carries the grief of an entire planet. Kara who doesn't share that grief with her cousin, because she thinks he could never understand. Kara who holds Krypto like her heart, because he is the only piece of her Krypton that is still alive. Kara who will tarnish her soul so Ruthye doesn't have to. Kara who has every reason to scream, cry and break things, but chooses to stay and make Earth her home because she also has many reasons to find again the happiness she lost. That is a Kara that I love.
Sinopsis: You discovered Clark Kent's biggest secret long before he ever confessed it. But being Superman isn't what surprises you most. It's the fact that the strongest man in the world completely falls apart whenever you're around.
Warnings: Romance, Humor, Established Relationship, Slice of Life, Domestic Fluff
WC: 5,200 words approx.
You knew Clark had a secret. One that was very big and very precious to him. In fact, you had known it long before you officially started dating him, long before he even dared to ask you out for coffee without his hands trembling as if he were holding a bomb ready to explode.
You worked at the Planet as a photographer. And you were far too observant. It wasn't something you could help. You had a separate website, a small corner of the internet where you uploaded your favorite photographs, the ones that told a story beyond what could be seen at first glance. You had won awards through the Planet and as an independent photographer as well. It was a gift, something that came naturally from deep within you, and you loved it. You didn't just take pictures—you looked at them, studied them, searched for their meaning, for the impact they could have on whoever saw them. To you, every photograph was a frozen piece of history.
That was how it happened, in such a simple way that it almost felt like a joke from fate. You had been taking pictures around work in silence, as you always did. One day, you captured Lois tilting her head while reading an interesting article. The light from the window hit her hair perfectly, making her look like she belonged on the cover of an old magazine worthy of being framed. You uploaded the picture to your website with her permission, and it gained a few new followers. It was beautiful, yes, but it also said something: "Look, this woman is thinking, and she cares about what she's reading."
Later, you took a photo of Jimmy. He was studying what shot to take next, his camera pressed against his face as though it were a part of him. You had captured a photographer in the middle of doing what he loved, and the image conveyed the passion shining in his eyes. He looked at the scene with the excitement of someone who truly loved his work, just moments away from lifting the camera to take the shot. You uploaded that photo too. And just like those, there were many others you kept to yourself like private treasures, while some you shared with the world.
Clark wasn't really into photography. Or rather, he wasn't fond of posing for it. But you loved taking pictures of him when he wasn't paying attention. You photographed him smiling at Cat's little dog, the one she sometimes brought to the office wrapped in a pink blanket. Clark would instantly turn into a child, crouching down and speaking to it in a cartoonish voice. You also captured him once staring at his sandwich as if it were the most beautiful thing in the world. His eyes were wide behind his glasses, and he looked as though he'd never seen ham and cheese between two slices of bread before. It was ridiculous, but adorable.
Among all those pictures, there was one where the main focus was Perry speaking in front of the interns. It was the kind of formal photo that would later be displayed as part of the Planet's history. You took several shots to make sure at least one turned out perfectly. But in one of them, Clark was looking around as if he were searching for something. In another, he was taking off his glasses. Your eyes widened when you looked at the next one: in that photo, he was staring straight ahead with a completely different expression. He didn't seem aware of the camera at all. He was focused, but not on Perry. He was listening to something far away, something no one else could hear.
And that was when you discovered it.
The rest is history, as they say. But what nobody told you before you started dating Clark was that beyond being a hero, he was a man hopelessly in love. Ridiculously in love. The kind of man who would trip over his own feet just because you looked at him. Robert from meteorology thought Clark was obsessed with you. One day, he even said it in the break room.
"That guy looks at her like she's about to disappear."
And maybe humans weren't ready to see how a Kryptonian loved. Humans were used to loving for a little while. Some—only a handful—might love their partners until death did them part. But there was always someone looking elsewhere, always an "I'll call you later" that never came. Clark heard it over and over again with his super hearing. Every night, he listened to hearts breaking all across the city. But he never feared that with you. Maybe because you loved with the same intensity he did. And for a man who could fly, that was stronger than gravity.
And Clark's love extended all the way to Superman.
Literally.
Superman—the serious, kind, funny superhero who always maintained the image of a dependable hero—completely fell apart around you. He became a mess. You knew it because it was absolutely delightful to watch whenever you had the chance. It made you laugh inside to see the Man of Steel turn into jelly simply because you were nearby.
One day, Superman had just rescued a little girl who had climbed onto a building under construction. People crowded around him immediately.
"I'm glad you're all safe," Superman said in his strong, steady voice while holding the little girl with a level of care that seemed impossible for a man so large.
The crowd surrounded him gratefully. Some older men patted him on the back. A woman cried from relief and excitement. Superman nodded seriously, as though it were just another ordinary day. He radiated confidence simply by standing there.
Then his eyes met yours.
You were standing toward the back, your camera hanging around your neck, simply watching. You hadn't taken a single picture of the scene. You preferred seeing it with your own eyes.
Superman's cheeks turned red.
You smiled at him, and he swallowed hard.
It was the kind of dry swallow that could probably be heard three blocks away.
He almost took a step toward you, but people were still surrounding him, waiting for more heroic words.
"Uh... well..." he said, letting out a nervous laugh.
Everyone looked at him strangely.
It was normal for Superman to speak.
It was not normal for Superman to smile like a little boy who had just been handed a cake.
His nervousness did not go unnoticed.
He huffed softly and nearly shifted his hips in embarrassment, like a flirtatious duck who didn't realize he was being flirtatious.
Your lovestruck man became nervous simply because your eyes were on him.
"I... I'll make sure everything stays under control," he finally said, carefully setting the little girl down.
You stepped a little closer, just to make him suffer a tiny bit more.
Superman turned even redder than an apple.
"Hello, Superman," you said with a smile.
"H-hello," he replied, and his voice cracked as though he were going through puberty all over again.
He cleared his throat and looked toward the sky as if searching for an excuse to fly away.
"Nice rescue," you said, crossing your arms. "The little girl was really scared."
"Y-yeah... yeah, honestly..." He rubbed the back of his neck, something Clark did all the time. "She... well, she was in a dangerous place. And I... I saw her. And I thought... I have to help her."
And that wasn't all.
He had always tried not to let people see just how in love he was.
Superman, Clark, or both of them with you.
Because if you were Clark's girlfriend and someone saw Superman looking at you with those abandoned-puppy eyes, people would get the wrong idea. It would look like cheating. People would think you were betraying your boyfriend with the most famous hero in the world.
And of course, that couldn't happen.
Clark knew that.
But Clark was weak when it came to his woman.
Weak.
Weak.
Weak.
Like a chocolate cake sitting in front of a child.
Like that time there was a fire in an apartment building on the north side of the city.
Superman arrived, as always, flying faster than lightning. He put out the flames with his super breath, rescued three people from the fifth floor.
Very heroic.
Very professional.
People applauded.
Reporters took pictures.
And then he saw you in the crowd.
You had only come to see if anyone needed help because that was just who you were—always looking out for others.
But the moment your eyes met his, Superman froze in midair.
Literally.
Floating there like a balloon someone forgot to let go of.
One of the firefighters shouted, "Everything okay?"
And Superman could only manage, "Y-yes, yes, everything's fine. I'm just... checking... the clouds."
There wasn't a single cloud in the sky.
It was a completely clear day.
He slowly floated down.
Far too slowly.
As if he wanted to stretch out every second he got to look at you.
His feet touched the ground, and he started walking toward you, but his legs looked like jelly.
He tripped.
Yes.
Superman tripped over a hose.
A hose.
The guy who could lift a building with one hand nearly fell flat on his back because of a garden hose.
A little boy looked up at him and asked, "Did you get hurt?"
And Superman replied, "No, no. I was... testing the ground. It's solid. Very solid. Good ground."
You had to bite your lip to keep from laughing.
"Superman," you said with a smile, "good job with the fire."
"Thank you," he replied, and his voice sounded slightly higher than usual.
He cleared his throat.
"I'm glad that... that you're okay. I mean, that you're here. Not that there's a fire. That's bad. But you... you're okay. Are you okay?"
"I wasn't even in the fire, Superman, but I'm fine," you answered.
"Good," he said.
And then he just stared at you.
Without saying anything.
Just staring.
Five seconds passed.
Ten.
One of the firefighters had to tap him on the shoulder to tell him there was a column of smoke a block away.
Superman blinked as if he had just woken up from a dream, nodded very seriously, and flew away in a perfectly straight line.
That was how he gave himself away.
Because you didn't look at Superman.
To you, he was still Clark, no matter how hard he tried.
No matter how tight the suit was.
No matter how dramatically the red cape billowed in the wind.
No matter how much he tried to use that deep, confident voice that ended up quoted in every newspaper.
You looked at him and only saw the clumsy guy who got tangled in the cords of his own cape, the one whose glasses slipped off every time you laughed too hard.
He could fly faster than a speeding bullet.
But around you, he moved as if his feet were glued to the floor with school glue.
That night, he flew up to the window of your apartment.
It wasn't the first time, of course.
But that night, you were in the kitchen, wearing an apron and covered in flour because you were making dinner.
The window made that familiar little sound, that soft clack that happened whenever Clark misjudged his speed and bumped his shoulders against the frame.
You heard the scrape of his cape against the glass and smiled without turning around.
"Miss, are you busy?" Clark's voice asked.
But it wasn't Clark's voice.
It was his Superman voice—deeper, firmer.
Like he was auditioning for an action movie.
You turned around, pausing your cooking.
You had a wooden spoon in one hand and a bit of sauce on your cheek.
You smiled and frowned slightly when you saw him standing in the window frame with his arms crossed and his legs spread apart, trying to look imposing.
His red boots gleamed beneath the kitchen lights.
His cape fluttered dramatically behind him because he kept shifting one shoulder to make it look like there was wind.
It was quite a show.
"Why didn't you come through the door, Superman?" you asked, raising an eyebrow as you set the spoon down on a plate.
Clark sighed as though he didn't want to break character.
He was trying.
He really was.
His jaw was clenched, and his gaze was fixed on a point somewhere behind your shoulder, as if he were watching an invisible threat.
But his eyes moved around too quickly, and his cheeks were already starting to turn pink.
You could see it perfectly.
He was trying with all his might, but the way your eyes lit up when you looked at him completely ruined all of his effort.
"I... the window... I can fly," he said.
And his voice cracked a little at the end.
You laughed.
You couldn't help it.
It was too funny seeing Superman explain why he'd entered through the window as though he were a lost pizza delivery guy.
"No... I'm trying, sweetheart," he said with an enormous pout, dropping his arms and letting his shoulders sag.
He looked like a child who had just been told there would be no dessert.
You smiled wider and nodded, walking over to him.
"You're doing great, honey," you said before wrapping your arms around him.
His suit was softer than it looked in pictures.
And he smelled like the sky, as always.
Like that clean air above the clouds.
You rested your cheek against his chest and felt his heart racing.
Fast.
Very fast.
As if he had just finished running a marathon.
"Is there a reason for all this?" you asked, pulling back slightly so you could look him in the eyes.
Clark immediately became nervous.
He ran a hand through his hair.
His hands went to his hips.
Then behind his back.
Then back to his hips.
He had no idea what to do with them.
Eventually he crossed them over his chest, but he looked so uncomfortable that it seemed physically painful.
He tried to put on one of those serious expressions that ended up in newspapers whenever he saved a building.
He pressed his lips together.
Furrowed his brow.
Hardened his gaze.
But his eyes couldn't stay still.
Every few seconds they drifted back to you and softened like a puppy begging for food.
"I read that women are attracted to men who show confidence," he began, swallowing hard.
He tried to keep a serious face, but his lower lip trembled slightly.
He bit it so you wouldn't notice, which only made it seem as though he was concentrating very hard on a complicated problem.
"And men who..." he continued.
Then he looked at you again, and his gaze immediately slipped away.
He was turning red as a tomato.
He clenched his jaw to look more intimidating, but his puffed cheeks made him resemble an angry hamster.
"Very strong men and..." his voice grew smaller, "...also... cold."
He practically whispered the last word.
The blush had spread all the way from his cheeks to his ears.
His ears.
His ears had turned red.
You didn't even know ears could get that red.
He tried to recover his composure.
He straightened his back.
Lifted his chin.
Put his hands on his hips again.
But his cape had gotten caught on the window frame.
When he stepped forward, the cape tugged backward and nearly knocked him flat onto his back.
He did an awkward little hop to regain his balance, his arms flailing in a strange motion as though he were swimming through the air.
Then he froze, eyes wide, pretending none of that had happened.
He coughed a couple of times and crossed his arms again.
Except this time they were crossed backward, like he was hugging himself.
When he noticed, he uncrossed them and tried again.
Then he didn't know what to do with his head, so he tilted it slightly to the side like he was posing for a statue.
He looked so stiff he resembled a cardboard cutout.
"Where did you read that?" you asked, taking another step closer.
You took the grocery bag from his hands—the same bag he'd been clutching the entire time as though it were a life raft.
You stood there with your arms crossed, waiting.
"In The Latest Things You Need to Know About Women," Clark said.
One foot slid backward.
The other moved forward.
It looked like he was secretly practicing a dance routine.
He tried to stand still to appear more confident, but his feet seemed to have a life of their own.
"Steve emailed it to me this morning. He said I needed it."
He attempted a serious smile.
Instead, it came out as a strange expression halfway between a smile and a grimace, as though he'd suddenly gotten a cramp in his cheek.
He remembered what had happened earlier that morning at the office.
Steve had walked up behind him while Clark stared at a photo of you taped beside his computer.
"Buddy, you need this," Steve had said with a rabbit-like grin.
Clark had opened the link and read things like "women want a man who doesn't show emotions" and "don't smile too much, it makes you look weak."
Since then, he'd been practicing in front of the mirror.
He had even put on the Superman suit because he thought it would make him seem more authoritative.
Nothing could have been further from the truth.
"That website was written by a man, Clark," you said, brushing your fingertips against his suit.
The red-and-blue suit that had saved the world dozens of times.
And there he was, shifting from side to side as though he were standing on hot coals, his fists clenched behind his back and his gaze fixed on the floor.
He tried once more to look serious.
He furrowed his brow so hard wrinkles appeared on his forehead.
Pressed his lips together until they became a thin line.
But then you smiled.
Just a little.
And all that seriousness melted away like ice cream under the sun.
His entire face softened.
His eyes turned gentle again.
With a defeated sigh, he let his shoulders drop.
"I'm not saying men can't understand us, but most of them don't," you added.
And he nodded like a puppy being told why he wasn't allowed to eat chocolate.
"I like you the way you are, Clark. You don't need to change," you said softly.
You stepped a little closer.
He immediately stopped moving altogether, as if someone had pressed a pause button.
"It's cute seeing you get nervous even while wearing the suit," you said as you looked down into the grocery bag.
Bread.
Lettuce.
Cheese.
Everything was there.
Except for one thing.
"I don't get nervous," he said.
His voice came out high-pitched.
Almost squeaky.
He tried to look serious again, but one eyebrow had started twitching uncontrollably.
He touched it with a finger to stop it.
Then the other eyebrow started twitching.
It looked like a tiny storm was happening on his face.
You looked at him.
His cheeks were so red that it looked as though he'd spent an hour standing directly beneath the sun.
"You forgot the tomato sauce, Clark," you said, lifting the empty bag that should have contained the jar.
He smiled.
A huge, awkward smile.
The kind a child gives after accidentally breaking a vase and hoping to be rewarded for admitting it.
Every trace of seriousness vanished instantly.
His entire face lit up.
His eyes squinted from smiling so hard.
"Yeah... I... uh... forgot it," he admitted, scratching the back of his neck with one giant hand.
You laughed and nodded.
Because you already knew exactly how this story ended.
"I have to go get it, don't I?" he asked.
You nodded.
"Okay," Clark said.
His eyes immediately lit up as though you'd just given him the best news in the world.
"Can I buy those Japanese mochi I showed you at the store the other day?" he asked, rocking back and forth on his feet like he was about to take off.
Literally.
"The soft ones with sugar inside. The pink ones," he added, unable to stop a small excited bounce.
"They're the sweetest ones, sweetheart. You're going to love them."
"Yes, but only one box, Clark," you said, raising a finger in warning.
"Do you remember what happened when you ate two entire boxes last time? I don't want to see you flying around the world five times in a row because of a sugar rush you couldn't control."
You said it completely seriously.
Very seriously.
Because he had literally done exactly that the week before.
He had flown from Metropolis to Japan in three seconds, bought the mochi—even though they were sold five blocks from your apartment—and eaten an entire box on the way home.
When he arrived, his pupils were so wide he looked like an excited owl.
Then he'd eaten the second box and taken off flying again because:
"Sweetheart, I feel like I can touch the stars with my fingers."
"Okay," Clark said.
Then he leaned down and kissed you.
It was a soft kiss.
Quick.
Nervous.
He smiled against your lips and whispered,
"I promise I won't buy two boxes."
You smiled and nodded.
His promise was worth less than the paper it wasn't written on.
But you still liked hearing him say it.
When you pulled apart, he looked at you as he backed away toward the door.
He walked backward with a level of clumsiness that seemed impossible for a man who could catch an airplane out of the sky.
His hand waved from side to side in farewell, fluttering like a little flag in the wind.
And the smile never left his face.
He was so nervous.
So excited about going to buy the mochi.
His feet practically carried him toward the exit on their own.
"Sweetheart, you're not actually going in your suit, are you?" you asked, resting a hand on your hip.
Clark took three steps outside the apartment.
Then four.
Then he stopped dead in his tracks.
He looked down at himself.
Touched his chest.
Looked at his cape.
Looked at his boots.
As if he had only just realized he was dressed in bright blue and red with a giant emblem on his chest.
His eyes widened.
"Right... the suit," he muttered to himself, blushing all over again.
At that point, you weren't sure if his cheeks would ever return to their normal color.
He spun around so quickly that he nearly got tangled in his own cape and fell flat on his face.
Then he hurried back into the apartment, cheeks burning and eyes wide.
"I'd be a complete failure on that website," he said as he walked toward the bedroom, dragging his feet as though he were wearing oversized slippers.
"If I go to the store looking like this, Steve was right. I don't know anything about women," he muttered to himself, his voice full of concern.
You laughed.
A laugh that filled the entire kitchen.
"And don't fly out the window again!" you called after him from the kitchen.
"The door, sweetheart, I promise!" he shouted back from the bedroom.
A loud thud echoed through the apartment.
Something hit the floor.
Then came an "I'm okay!" that sounded far more annoyed than convincing.
A few seconds later, Clark emerged from the bedroom wearing his normal clothes.
His jeans were slightly crooked.
His shirt was buttoned wrong.
And his hair was a complete mess.
He smiled sheepishly and pointed toward the door.
"Okay, now I'm really going," he said.
He took one step.
Then turned around again.
"The pink mochi, right?" he asked.
"Yes, Clark. The pink ones," you replied, shaking your head with a smile.
"Just one box," he said, holding up a finger.
"That's what you said last time."
"This time I mean it," he replied.
And before you could answer, he walked out the door like a normal person.
Even though it was painfully obvious he wanted to fly instead.
You remained in the kitchen, wooden spoon still in hand, laughing to yourself.
And you thought that you wouldn't trade that lovestruck fool for anything in the world.
Your not-so-tiny two-year crush on Clark Kent is an open secret in the office, hopefully one that he still isn't privy to. However, the holidays have a way of bringing feelings to the surface, regardless of whether you’re ready or not.
▸ PAIRING: Clark Kent x F!Reader
▸ WARNINGS: NSFW 18+, hurt/comfort, fluff, slight miscommunication, holiday party alcohol, eating out against wall, penetration (with condom hurrah!), canonically big d*ck
▸ WORD COUNT: 15.8K
▸ A/N: how i've missed you clark. one of my fave storylines from the movie but with a much happier, sexier ending. special shoutout to @pinksplace clark's irl gf. if you enjoy this, please like / reblog / comment, i truly appreciate every single one! each one makes my entire day <3
↤ holiday collection masterlist | main masterlist
The holiday season comes with its joys and woes. There is magic in the air as you walk down the crowded streets, jazzy Christmas tunes crooning in your ears, the delighted giggles of children chasing after each other in the winter wonderland, and the sheer number of tourists gleefully traipsing down the sidewalks with the kind of enthusiasm that you don’t see from actual Metropolis residents.
While you are swayed by the decor and the uplifting atmosphere, you are also inevitably reminded of the fact that you are incredibly, indubitably, irrevocably single.
It’s not for a lack of trying. You’ve been on the apps, swiping left and right until the system embarrassingly tells you that it’s time to call it a day. You’ve been to singles parties when you have time, meeting more weirdos than not and making a beeline for the exit ten minutes into the event. You’ve even had many of your friends set you up with their friends, but it all ends the same.
At some point, perhaps you have to admit that the problem lies with you.
“It is with you. The problem, I mean,” Lois grumbles under her breath.
You frown at her, displeased that you have to take accountability for your current predicament. The two of you are trudging side by side, you trying to scooch past aggressive fast-walkers and Lois elbowing anyone who gets in her way.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means the reason why you can’t seem to be interested in any of these men you are seeing is because you keep comparing everyone to Clark.”
Oh dear. Embarrassed is an understatement for how you feel every time yet another new person outs you for your crush. While Lois is long-time in-the-know, catching wind of it the moment you turned your googly-eyes on him over two years ago, many others have been quick to point out your obsession with the journalist.
It’s getting to the point where you’re convinced the entire office knows.
“The entire office definitely knows,” Lois deadpans again. Are you saying all these things out loud? “Yes, you are. You wear your heart — and clearly your thoughts — on your sleeve, it’s a wonder you’ve been able to keep this from Clark for so long.”
Pressing your lips together, you shoulder your way through the rotating doors of The Daily Planet and grunt when it doesn’t budge as fast. Lois gives it a good shove on the other side of the glass door so that you can stumble your way through.
“It’s not my fault,” you pout, “also, it can’t be the entire office that knows.”
Cue your conversation with Perry as he summons you straight into his office the moment you walk through the doors after a very nice lunch break. You give a little uh-oh to Lois who only shrugs, nudging you in that direction.
Perry rotates the Rubik’s Cube on his desk. It seems like he hasn’t made much progress since you were last in here. He only toys around with it when he has a critical topic to discuss. You wonder if your benefits run to the end of the year if he fires you right before the holidays; maybe you can finally dub him the real-life Grinch.
“You’re not firing me, are you?” You blurt out. “Because I don’t think I can handle being unemployed over Christmas. I still have to buy gifts for my little cousins, then I also have a couple of nieces and nephews. Gosh, not to mention my mom wants a new toaster oven for—”
“You’re not getting fired,” Perry interrupts with a resigned huff. He presses his fingertips against the pulsing vein on his forehead and you clamp your lips shut. “I have two questions for you. Well, the first one comes with plenty of follow-ups.”
“Shoot.”
Your name rolls off his tongue like a desperate plea. “How long is it that you’ve been working here?”
You do the mental math, counting backwards from this very day, this very minute. “Two years, five months… six days… and, I don’t know, like three hours? We started my first day pretty late because of the fire alarm, so it’s kind of hard to say—”
Perry’s hand in the air silences you. Your lips seal closed again. “And how long have you been in love with Clark Kent, one of our very own?”
A squeak escapes you as you count the hours again in your head. “Um, two years, five months, six days, and an hour and thirty minutes.”
“Thought so,” Perry says with yet another deep sigh. You swear he’s sprouted more white hair since you last saw him yesterday. The rate at which he is aging appears to correlate with the number of conversations he has with you.
“Do you think everybody knows?”
“Yes.” No hesitation. The answer is quick.
“Do you think Clark knows?”
This one he pauses for, but he still responds, “Yes.”
“Well,” you begin again with a sigh. “This is quite troubling then, isn’t it?” Perry only looks at you exasperated. “Why are we discussing my love life — or lack thereof for that matter?”
“Because I need you to get a grip on it. Because I need both you and Kent to work on the senator’s stripper scandal. Draft by tonight. He has most of the research, but I trust you to be more delicate about the situation in the piece.”
You only manage to nod. Working with Clark. Working on a very important, very heavy piece for the Planet. Working until very late. Working just the two of you. You can do this. Sure, it’s not as if you haven’t worked with him before. It’s not as if you want to blurt out how much you love his crooked glasses or his curly hair or his big, beefy chest every time you see him. You just have to remind yourself to shut the hell up whenever that urge arises.
“Are you still breathing?” Perry prompts warily.
“Barely,” you wheeze.
“Well, you better start figuring that out soon. Better yet, invite that man out for a drink, he looks like he never lets loose. Since he’s the exclusive rep for Superman, he has been working nonstop. While you’re at it, you might as well tell him that you want to marry him and have lots of babies with him.”
Your jaw drops as you admonish Perry with heat crawling up your neck. “This has got to be an HR violation on so many levels, I’m going to have a talk with Mel about your nosiness.”
“Yeah, then we can talk about that year-end bonus.”
That promptly shuts you up. Another HR violation! You should keep a notebook on everything Perry’s doing against your career at this point.
“Don’t even think about doing whatever the hell you’re concocting up in that head of yours.”
“How do you know I want lots of babies?”
“You don’t want a lot of babies. You want a lot of babies with him.”
All this time, have you laid all of your cards out on the table? Open for the world to see. It seems everyone has been reading you like a book today. You feel like a novel stripped bare of its cover, down to the spine.
He’s not wrong per se. It’s not like you have a particular fondness towards children; heaven knows you have enough nieces and nephews to drain your savings every year. But thinking about Clark and how soft he is and how gentle, how he could be so, so good with children, has you thinking about all sorts of circumstances in which you and he could raise a whole pen of children.
But first, you must create the child. In order to create the child, you must perform coitus. To perform coitus, your feelings must be reciprocated. Now, this is where it gets challenging — if you want your feelings reciprocated, you need to at least let him know of your feelings.
And that’s something — after two years, five months, six days, and an hour and thirty-five minutes — you cannot even begin to imagine doing.
Luckily, before you can spiral into your bottomless pit of despair, Perry waves you out the door as he returns his attention to the article he’s redlining. “Let Clark know. I want that on my desk by tonight.”
“Tonight? I thought you were joking,” you gasp, “that’s so—”
“Tomorrow is the holiday party, which means nobody will be productive in the office. I want that piece out in two days. Ergo, I need the first draft in my inbox by tonight. It doesn’t matter what time.”
“Can you like just go to sleep, please?”
Perry gives you another pointed look, reminding you that he is in fact a demon that does not need a wink of sleep. He flicks his fingers towards the door like he’s tired of your presence at this point. You have no other choice but to skulk back to your desk with a deep, deep sigh.
Apparently, it’s a deep enough sigh that Clark perks up from his desk and rolls out on his chair towards you. Clark doing this also attracts Lois and Jimmy’s attention. Great, now you have a full party.
While the latter two are only being nosy, wondering what on earth Perry wanted with you, Clark offers a look of genuine concern. The cute puckering of his brows, his ocean blue eyes tinged with a melancholy meant to sympathize with you, and a pout of his lips that makes you want to kiss him silly.
He is in his grey suit today, the one that’s a little oversized even for him. You wonder if it’s a hand-me-down from his dad, because Clark would be the type to have a suit from his dad, even if he is adopted. He pushes his glasses up on his face as he looks at you in earnest.
When he stares at you like that, how are you supposed to not fall in love with him? How is it even possible to resist how adorable he looks when he’s so sweet and—
“So what did Perry want?” Lois’ voice drags you straight out of your dreamy haze, her eyes dancing with an obvious sort of mirth that indicates she knows exactly what you had been thinking about.
“Uhm,” you begin, eyes flicking to Clark, “we need a draft to Perry on the senate strippers by tonight.”
“It was multiple strippers?” Jimmy asks.
“No, it was one senator and two strippers, I think,” Lois corrects, stroking her chin.
“You’re both wrong, it was a senator at the strip club with two and a half strippers,” Clark piles on. “But tonight? Really? We have three hours of daylight left.”
You groan, dropping your head onto the desk with a loud thud, almost missing Jimmy’s question of what the hell is half a stripper. Clark had moved fast in your periphery but not fast enough because you feel the sting of that petulant act on your temple. When you pick up your head again, he’s leaning closer now, having risen to his feet in concern.
His hands move around awkwardly, like he wants to reach out and check on you, but also refuses to cross any lines that could make you uncomfortable. It’s endearing and you can’t help but smile. You can hear Jimmy and Lois’ disgusted groans behind you, but it’s not the first time you’ve ignored them.
“We should be fine. We’ll be fine,” Clark tries to reassure you, a soft smile on his face as he offers up a look of confidence. “It’ll take some time because we need to properly build out the timeline and piece together the interviews, but we should be able to get it done tonight.” He winces, shooting you an apologetic look, “We may need to stay a bit late to sort it all out, so I hope you don’t have any plans tonight?”
You’re about to respond that your calendar is free and open for the taking when it comes to him, the embarrassing words nearly spilling from your lips when Lois thankfully interrupts you. Though, jury is still out whether you should be grateful when she asks, “No hot date tonight?”
Her sharp eyes glimmer as she singsongs the question, each syllable laced with humor that only Jimmy seems to understand. She knows exactly what she’s doing. She knows you have no hot date tonight, nor have you had a hot date in a very long time, because your love life — currently missing, it’s been hiding from you since college — is in shambles. How can you have a hot date when the only hot date you want isn’t even aware that he is the only man that you want to hot date?
Your own gaze flicks over to Clark briefly. A look crosses his keen blue eyes, one that slips in and out too quickly for you to catch. “No, no hot date,” you say almost pitifully. Clark’s face melts just a little bit; the only reason you see it is because you have a tendency to notice everything when it comes to him. Just like you, he tends to wear his heart on his sleeve.
“And you better hope Superman isn’t needed tonight,” Lois notes as she pins Clark with a pointed look.
They share words without saying a thing. A conversation happening right before your eyes without a peep. You’ve always been a little jealous of their bond. They started this job before you did, locking in a couple of years of friendship under their belt before you even knew Clark Kent existed. Rumors say that they even gave the romance thing a go for a bit. It makes you envious that Lois has probably seen and experienced parts of Clark that aren’t even present anymore, parts you wish you had been there to witness firsthand.
Clark pushes his glasses up again, clearing his throat. “I’m sure there are other heroes who can handle any emergencies that come up.”
This time, it’s you who chimes in. “He has been quite busy, hasn’t he? Which means you have also been chasing him all around town. I don’t know how you manage to always catch him. Does Superman have a phone? If he doesn’t, maybe a Nokia, something indestructible.”
A snort escapes his lips. “That’s good advice. I’ll be sure to let him know next time I see him.”
Afterwards, the two of you hunker down at your desks for a while. You work off Clark’s for a bit as you build the timeline together and frame the storyline before you even begin to chip away at the article. He’s patient and gentle as you wring your fingers through your hair in frustration every time a piece doesn’t immediately fall into place. He coaxes you through the stress, kindly offers up solutions without mansplaining anything. The temptation to drop down to one knee and propose to him is extremely strong today.
By the time the giant clock announces that it’s officially seven, the office is deserted. Nobody here gets paid overtime, which means nobody is sticking around past five this close to the holidays. It’s only suckers like you and Clark who get roped into writing ground-breaking, media-stopping pieces a week before Christmas. When you look up from your screen, eyes a little blurry from staring too long at the screen, there is not a single soul left aside from you and Clark.
“This is brutal,” you mutter under your breath. “I’m sorry you got stuck with me on this.”
With a shake of his head, he offers a comforting smile. “Don’t be sorry. Plus, I’m happy that it’s you here with me.”
If you hear that loud thud, that’s the sound of your heart slipping past your insides to your feet. Now that simply isn’t fair. How is it possible that he could say something so sweet so casually? How can he say such sweet nothings with a curl flopping down on his face, his glasses slipping on the bridge of his nose again, and his cheeks flushed a pretty shade of pink?
Even worse, then he smiles and his dimples carve themselves into his cheeks and into your aching, bleeding heart on the ground.
“You’re a sweetheart,” you sigh dreamily.
Clark blushes an even deeper red and turns away to look at his computer, feigning business to avoid looking directly into your eyes. “Are you hungry? Should we grab some food before we continue?”
The two of you end up trekking to a burger joint down the street. A couple of greasy sandwiches, some well-seasoned fries, and the extra dose of caffeine and sugar from your sodas, and you’re both back in business. You’re a lot more peppy now that you have some food in you as you skip all the way back to the office. Clark trails behind you at a safe distance.
Metropolis a week away from Christmas is an absolute dream. Lights have been woven between the leaves and the branches, twinkling like stars within your reach. Storefronts are made festive with splashes of reds and greens with sprinklings of glitter and gold. Winter kisses your skin as you look up at the skyscrapers sparkling above you; the forlorn office workers stuck at their desks, the homebodies cozied up in bed, and all of those in between joined in the camaraderie of an evening days away from the greatest time of year.
These are the times that make you appreciate the city you live in. Barring the surprisingly frequent alien invasions and the occasional billionaire’s attempt to infiltrate foreign powers, the city is a wonderful place to be. It comes alive with its people, with everyone in high spirits, creating a community grounded in the spreading of holiday cheer.
Clark’s long legs allow him to catch up to the cloud you’re drifting on. “You seem much more chipper now,” he murmurs, unexpectedly close enough to your ear.
The proximity catches you off guard, your feet tripping over each other on the very flat sidewalk. Thankfully, Clark is there to save the day when his hand wraps around your bicep, swiftly steadying you. It’s almost dizzying how easy that was for him. How strong he is. You try to ignore the tingling between your legs at that new bit of information.
When you look up to thank him, you realize how close his face is. He seems to register this too and immediately stumbles backwards a little bit to give you some space. His eyes are blown wide in surprise, showcasing more of those green flecks in his blue irises. With his cheeks reddened — partly from the cold and partly from you, he whispers a quick apology.
“You saved me, why are you apologizing?” You poke his arm to show him how unserious you really are, despite the fact that your heartbeat has skyrocketed to astronomical levels. Your doctor’s going to want to have a serious conversation with you on your next annual about your blood pressure.
“I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable,” he says sweetly.
Just when you think you’re done falling more in love with him, he manages to prove you wrong. “You could never make me uncomfortable,” you honestly respond and he seems encouraged by that. “And to answer what you were saying earlier about my mood. I was just thinking, what a time to be alive. We may be miserable right now while Perry is probably at home with his family drinking hot cocoa, while we’re chugging root beer to stay alive, but at least we are getting things done. In a city like this, where we want to believe the good in people, we can be the change we want to see. People put a lot of trust in journalism to bring justice to those who need it. So, in spite of our current suffering, we’re at least doing something good. Something worthwhile. These are nights where I question whether this is really what I want to do with the rest of my life, but times like these also remind me why this job is part of the reason why I get out of bed every morning.”
You look up at him again when he doesn’t say anything for several beats and you find that he’s already looking at you, except his eyes have thawed into puddles of blue. Like a still lake amidst the chaos. Clark has always been beautiful, there’s no doubt about it, but something about the look of awe on his face has your heart stuttering against your ribcage.
“You have a lot of faith in the world, in people,” he says quietly. It’s a statement that presents itself as a question. Why do you have a lot of faith in the world?
“We have a lot of cynics around us, it’s nice to have some blissful ignorance around,” you smirk.
“Not ignorance, just… hopeful,” Clark corrects. “The world is in a tough place enough as it is, so it’s nice that you still hold onto some of that positivity.”
“Well, some of us have to,” you grin, nudging him with your shoulder.
The next two hours are spent pulling all the puzzle pieces together, working side by side, elbows bumping when you draw a little too close, sharing shy glances before you keep moving. Once you glue all the parts together, it’s practically a perfect picture ready to be delivered to Perry. The last period you type has you finally slumping back in your chair, sighing at this document and that blasted blinking line.
When you finally hit that send button, it feels like Christmas is officially back on. You’ve been released from the shackles of capitalism and justice — at least for the remainder of the night.
“Alright, I don’t want to spend another minute in this place. I think I’m starting to hear voices and it’s Perry’s, which is not a voice I want to be hearing at ten.” The echo of your boss’ words in your ear has you shuddering.
“It’s quite late. How are you getting home?” Clark frowns at the clock then at you as he slips the strap of his bag over his shoulder.
“I’m not too far. A fifteen-minute walk from here so I’ll just do that. That burger really did a number on me so some fresh air will do me some good.” Groaning, you give your stomach a little apologetic pat. The indigestion is already kicking in; grease is never a good combination with a whole lot of sitting down.
Clark’s forehead creases and you resist the urge to smooth it down with the pad of your thumb. “That’s not very safe. I can walk you back.”
That has you shaking your head aggressively. “No, no. Don’t even worry about it. The city is safe—” he raises an eyebrow, “—well, safer from your day-to-day crime. I can’t predict extraterrestrial attacks but statistically speaking, they hit more often in the afternoon, which is the perfect time for us to be sent home for safety by the way. Then you don’t have to worry about whether you should be coming back to the office. Whereas morning attacks are the worst! The least they can do is launch an invasion when I’m still at home, that way I can stay in bed.”
Clark blinks at you and that is when it sinks in how crazy you sound. Humiliation sprawls fast through your entire being, like a disease that swallows you whole. Instead of addressing whatever nonsense you just spewed, you tuck your work bag to your side.
Clearing your throat, you continue, “Anyways, it’s a short walk. I do it all the time, even at night, so I’ll be perfectly fine. Pinky promise.”
He looks far from convinced but he doesn’t say a word so you assume he relents. The two of you step out into the brisk outdoors, the wind whipping you straight in the face as you wave at him one last time and begin heading out in your direction.
It becomes apparent that Clark is not letting the matter go when he starts walking alongside you. Not behind you, not even trying to hide in plain sight. No, he is walking right next to you.
You stop on the side of the sidewalk and purse your lips. “Clark Kent.”
That was a mistake because then Clark lets your full name roll off his tongue in the same tone, except his voice is deeper, sexier, and he has a ridiculously handsome smile on his face that you just want to smooch.
Your cheeks feel warm despite the cold. “Please. I promise I’ll be fine. I’ll even message you when I’m back.”
“You’re not too far from where I live so we’re headed in the same direction.”
Narrowing your eyes at him, you shake your head. “First of all, you’re a horrible liar. Never try to lie again. Better yet, I’m never telling you my secrets because you’d give them away in an instant. Second of all, how would you know where I live, stalker?” You tease, giving him a firm jab to his chest.
His very firm chest. His very firm chest that doesn’t budge a bit even with the force of power you press into it.
You almost squeak out an oh no out loud, because you are in very big trouble with this new piece of evidence logged away into the Clark file in your head.
Clark steps forward, your finger turning into your palm flattening on his chest. Another oh no sits on the tip of your tongue when he smiles softly at you. His hand wraps around yours, the heat engulfing your cool skin.
“Let me do this for you,” he says and his voice is gentle, “it’s the least I could do.”
You hate to be an inconvenience but Clark isn’t looking at you like one, isn’t treating you like one. It’s incredibly sweet of him. It’s an incredibly Clark thing to do.
So you cave. Clark Kent isn’t someone you say no to. “Only if it’s not too much trouble then.”
“I don’t think it could ever be troublesome to keep you safe,” he says right back, doe eyes and cheeks flushed. You wonder how he can say such sweet things with a straight face, but you suppose it comes naturally to him. As easy as breathing.
He’s always the most helpful one around the office. Even when Steve is being a pain in the butt, he still helps him write his articles. Even when the mail room girls are only batting their eyelashes at Jimmy, he still helps them reach the highest shelves. Even when Lois is giving him — pardon your French — shit, he always takes it in stride.
The golden ray of sunshine in this otherwise very gloomy, very dreary office.
As you begin walking again, you try to keep him entertained, chattering away about all the nothing going on in your life. Clark doesn’t seem to mind; in fact, he seems intrigued. He asks you detailed questions, laughs at your poor attempts at humor, and validates you before you even ask whether he wants to hear all this.
When a comfortable silence settles in between you, Clark clears his throat, which piques your interest.
“So, uhm, are you still… dating?” He starts, the weight of awkwardness sitting on every word.
Your mouth dries. That was unexpected. Out of all the things you expect him to ask, your dating life certainly isn’t top of the list. You’re not entirely sure how you could even begin to formulate a response. On one hand, it’s worth stating that you are still dating to show some interest in him, hinting at the possibility if that is the direction he wants to take it in. On the other hand, the number of dates you have been on and failed to convert into a relationship is almost too embarrassing to say.
While you’re stuck in your mind on a simple yes or no question, Clark takes this as you being offended, so he quickly retracts. “Sorry, I don’t mean to pry. I know this is the sort of thing you probably talk about with Lois. You don’t have to answer. I don’t know—”
“Yes,” you blurt out, “I mean no. Yes, I am still dating. No, you’re not prying.”
“Oh.”
“It’s just— it’s complicated.”
Clark stares at you curiously. “Your relationship status is complicated?”
“No, no. I am very much single.” Well, put your foot in your mouth, why don’t you? What a sorry thing to say in that very moment. It’s not that you’re embarrassed that you’re single, it just sounds like you’re throwing yourself a little pity party that Clark never signed up to attend. “I mean, I am… not seeing anyone seriously at the moment. But I am… looking, I suppose. It just hasn’t been working out so well.”
“Why do you say that?”
Because of you. Because every single person I date cannot even begin to compare to you. Because when I go on dates, I sometimes see you in the background, at the same place, like you’re reminding me that I’m still in love with you, and I’m wasting my time with all these other people. Because you make me think that I have a chance with you.
“I suppose I’m a believer in love at first sight. Cheesy, I know. So when that doesn’t happen or it doesn’t work out, it can be discouraging.”
Clark’s lips form a circle in surprise. “Have you ever fallen in love at first sight?”
Your lips twitch into a ghost of a smile. “Yes, once.”
“How did that go?”
“I haven’t quite worked it out yet,” you respond vaguely, then quickly add, “and right now, I just haven’t found anyone else my type.”
Clark looks even more engaged now, pressing closer. “What’s your type?”
You, you almost say. “Haven’t found my type either,” you smoothly say.
“Oh,” he deflates, “well, I hope you find someone you like soon.”
You want to grab him and scream that you already have found him, and it is him. Instead, you say, “I don’t even know how to start with that.”
“Well, maybe you don’t have to look too far. Sometimes, what you’re looking for can be right in front of you.”
There is a ringing in your ears and you can’t tell if it’s in your mind anymore. His words swirl in your head, words rearranging themselves as if you’re trying to interpret another meaning from the combination of letters. It almost sounds like he’s— but it can’t be, because how could it be— there’s no way, right? Right? You must be hearing things.
By the time you reach your tiny townhouse, your brain has fizzled out into ashes. The adrenaline from the day has worn off and this conversation has exerted the last bit of your energy. Clearly, you need to get your body, ears, and head checked if you’re starting to think Clark Kent could even be remotely interested in you.
“Well, this is me,” you say weakly. “I hope your travel back home isn’t too far. I really hope I didn’t inconvenience you too much.”
“Not an inconvenience, trust me. I liked walking you home,” Clark simply says, a small smile playing on his lips. “We don’t get to chat as much like this in the office. Just the two of us, I mean.”
Drat, there’s that silly little thing again — hope. So you play it off with a smile. “That’s because our colleagues are incredibly nosy and Perry would have our butts if he sees us slacking off for too long, probably threaten our year-end bonus,” you sigh with a shake of your head.
“And we barely make enough,” Clark huffs a laugh.
“Tell me about it. Capitalism wins again,” you smile. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Clark. Thanks again for walking me home.”
“Thank you for the company. See you tomorrow.”
–
The great, big unfortunate thing about your teensy (read: massive) crush on Clark is that everyone knows. Everyone in the office is aware that you have heart eyes for the journalist across the room from you. It is apparent in the way the two of you always eat lunch together with everyone else. It is obvious in the way you choose to sit on his desk when you’re idling around and making conversation with everyone else.
Keeping that in mind, this crush of yours should be plain as day to the man of the hour himself. It can be debated, of course; perhaps Clark wouldn’t be as immodest as to consider that one of his colleagues is absolutely head over heels for him. However, assuming that Clark is aware — as previously stated by your dear old boss — and given the fact that he has not indicated in any way whatsoever that he is interested in pursuing something with you, there can only be one conclusion.
He’s just not that into you.
And that’s fine. Your heart can break into millions of shards, but it’s fine. Rejection is a part of life and you just have to suck it up and move on.
If your attraction is not something that Clark plans to reciprocate, you simply have to deal with it. He is free to like whoever he likes, even if it’s not you. He is free to be nice to whoever he wants to be nice to, which is apparently everyone. You’re not exactly remarkable for getting special treatment for Clark; if everyone gets special treatment, then is it really still special?
But that’s the thing about hope. Even if you don’t feed it, even if you don’t nurture it or turn to it, the slightest bit of light is all it takes to keep it going.
Like yesterday, for example. Clark’s words cling to your sleep-addled brain in the morning as you drift listlessly around your kitchen to prepare your first dose of caffeine. They stick with you even as you do your short journey into the office, passersby ramming into you in your befuddled state and you don’t even have it in you to care.
By the time you reach the office, you’ve fully convinced yourself that you were concocting the implication of his words. He was just being nice. He has never otherwise shown any interest in you, so why would he now?
The office is teeming with life. There’s a giddy buzzing in the air, like bees in a massive field of flowers. Even Lois is smiling — smiling! What a time to be alive. There are staff members beginning to put up decor on the walls, strips of garlands hanging from the ceilings, lights strung in patterns high above. While many newcomers were skeptical about hosting a holiday party where they work, more than a handful of you have seen the masterful craft of the event planners. They are experts in turning this dreary space into a holiday hurrah.
By the time it hits four, Perry is well aware that nobody is working anymore. Everyone’s already fussing about what to wear, when to get here, whether to pregame (they shouldn’t, it’s an open bar). You and Lois have agreed to go back to yours first to get ready, much to her vexation. She isn’t interested in dressing up but you convinced her that it’s the one time she gets to actually dress up and have fun. When else in her life would she be able to have a nice, drunk, adult prom?
You tell her the same schtick every year. It works every year. It really is the open bar that does it for her. Also, the opportunity to see her colleagues do the most embarrassing things that she can then bring up year-round until the next party, where she will replace those stories with new material.
You wind your scarf around your neck as Lois leans towards your desk, asking if you’re ready to go. Jimmy is twiddling his thumbs, trying to avoid making direct eye contact with the mailroom girls who keep giggling at him. Clark perks up when he sees the two of you stand.
“Are you leaving already?”
“We’re going to go get ready at mine,” you grin, “I’m going to put Lois in a dress.”
“You will not,” she huffs. “I let her think she is so she’ll drop it.”
You harrumph. “Bold of you to think you can resist my feminine wiles. I will get you in that dress.”
Clark chuckles softly at the two of you before shifting his gaze to you. “What will you be wearing?”
As you open your mouth, Lois wraps her arms around one of your own, which promptly shuts you up. “That will be a surprise. But I will say that I have seen the dress and I know she will look ravishing.”
The compliment has you looking sheepishly away. “I should be flattered that you have that much faith in me, but honestly, I’m too embarrassed to even look at you right now.”
“Oh, come on, don’t be shy. Clark, tell her.”
You see Clark jolt from the corner of your eye, his bright eyes shining in surprise. You can see more of the blue when his eyes open up like that. His lips fumble over the words as he tries to respond. “Right. Yes. Of course. I’m sure you will. Look ravishing that is.”
Lois is the worst. How are you supposed to act normal when Clark calls you ravishing? Or at least expects you to look it. Now the pressure is on.
“Alright, let’s get going before you pop a blood vessel,” Lois smirks. “We’ll see you both later!”
Thankfully, Lois manages to drag your frozen self out of there. You feel rude for not responding to Clark, but at the same time, how can you even begin to form words with your mouth when your tongue feels like lead inside it? Lois pokes fun at you the entire fifteen-minute walk home, which reminds you that you also last did this walk in this direction with Clark the previous night.
“Clark walked you home?”
You wince, “Yes. I insisted he didn’t have to but he was really thoughtful.”
“Yep, that’s Clark for you. Thoughtful. Completely selfless. Not a single bone in his body is doing things just because he really wants to do it for his own personal gain.”
“What are you on about?”
“Nothing. Shall we?”
Because Lois absolutely hates your classic Top 40 pop songs, you put that exact playlist on loop on full blast the entire time you’re primping yourself. This is the one time every year you allow yourself to put in a bit more time on yourself. Work is work, and it’s hard to care about your appearance when you’re about to overdose on caffeine, jump over walls, chase down bad guys, all for the sake of a story. You opt for some professionalism but ultimately comfort.
Tonight? Tonight, you choose pain because beauty is pain.
The swipe of your red lipstick, the dusting of your eyeshadow with some glimmer, the sharp strike of your eyeliner, the thickening and curling of your lashes. You even do your hair, which usually sits in a nest all year. When you look at the clock, you realize that you’ve perhaps spent a little too much time getting yourself ready.
“Shit, Lois—”
“Don’t worry, you know most people arrive fashionably late. Steve, less on the fashionable, more on the drunk.”
You groan as you eye your dress on the hanger. “Okay, let me just slip into this and we can get going.”
As you’re struggling to twist your arms at odd angles to figure out how to zip up your dress, Lois swoops in to save the day. Her fingers brush yours off as she drags the metal up until it reaches your lower back.
It’s a bold dress. One you never thought you would wear but one that had you falling in love the moment you set your eyes on it. So maybe you lied to Clark — you’ve fallen in love at first sight twice.
“If Clark doesn’t sweep you off your feet tonight, I can think of a dozen other people ready to do so,” Lois smiles, giving you the surge of confidence you need.
By the time you shove Lois into her own dress and spritz on your favorite perfume, the two of you are sufficiently an hour past the starting time. You hope Perry hasn’t done his annual speech yet; he may really fire you if you miss out on it. The taxi pulls up outside The Daily Planet and the two of you slip and squeeze past the throngs of people to get to the front door.
The venue is a wonder the second you step in. The ceilings twinkle with a smattering of lights and silvery strands that shimmer under the lights. A disco ball hangs up high, speckling the dance floor with shifting spotlights. The DJ has the crowd going with upbeat melodies, throwbacks to a better time. The bar is expectedly where most people are concentrated still waiting on their drinks.
Your eyes immediately land on Clark who also finds you when you step through the doors. Your heart jumps to your throat at the sight of him. He looks devastatingly handsome with an actually fitted navy suit that brings out the blue in his eyes. Even from this distance, you can see those sapphire irises shine. His broad shoulders stretch out the velvet fabric and his fingers are delicate as he fixes his cuff links.
You thought the black suit last year was bad enough. You actually whimper with this one.
“Alright, before you turn into a pumpkin looking at Clark all night, let’s drop off our coats and go in.” Lois tugs you in the direction of coat check.
When the thick fabric slides off your shoulders, the cool air immediately engulfs your body. You give a little shiver as the air conditioning slides a breeze over your bare shoulders. Lois pulls you back towards the front and Clark’s eyes land on you again.
Only this time, you can see the smile wipe off his face, his mouth opening, and the heat of his gaze traveling over you.
You look like you’ve been poured into this stunning red dress. A ruby number that hugs your curves in all the right places. The sweetheart neckline emphasizes a delicious, yet still work-appropriate, amount of cleavage. While the dress falls all the way to your feet, nearly hiding your matching blood-red stilletos, you can feel the air kissing your spine where the dress is held together by thin strings going criss-cross over your exposed back.
Your heart is hammering against your chest as the two of you slip through the crowd to find Clark and Jimmy. When they’re in sight, you realize that Clark’s been staring at the two of you this entire time. His expression of pure shock has not moved; instead, it only deepens when you approach.
However, as you come near them, Cat steps in and wrangles the two of you into a hug. “Oh my god, you ladies look amazing. Lois, you in a dress. Stellar as always. You — my god — look at this dress.” She even twirls you around which makes you giggle.
You swear you hear someone inhale sharply behind you and, when you finally go full circle and see Clark again, he looks like he’s been struck by lightning.
As Cat slinks back into the crowd, Lois elbows you gently, smirking.
Clark opens his mouth but, before he can utter a word, Jimmy is clamping his hands around Lois’ arm. “Fuck, that girl — Jenny, Jessie — keeps following me around. Lois, come on. We need to escape to the dance floor before she comes back.”
“You’re going to make me dance to this song of all things?” Lois gapes.
“Look, this is his new song. He’s doing his best. In terms of modern rock legends Jake—” Jimmy’s voice blends into the background as he drags Lois off.
Leaving you and Clark alone.
You laugh softly, gaze following after them. While Lois begins to dance, Jimmy is still throwing fearful looks over his shoulder. “You know, for a man who’s been chased down by ladies all his life, he’s still surprisingly inept at dealing with them,” you huff with a shake of your head.
Unfortunately, you don’t hear a peep from Clark so you turn back to look at him. His pupils are blown wide, shrinking the blues in his eyes to a thin ring. He only hums when you turn to face him, lifting his eyes to meet yours. “Hm, yeah.”
“You okay? You seem a little out of it.”
“I was just thinking about how Lois is always right.”
You cock an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”
“You do look ravishing.”
Your mouth suddenly feels like sandpaper. Your breath catches in your throat, constricting your lungs, as he appraises you gently; however, the heat in his eyes is anything but. You can’t seem to find the words to respond to him. While Clark has always been kind, never has he ever complimented you so blatantly. Ravishing.
“I—” you stop, finding yourself at a loss for words, which is embarrassing for a writer, by the way. “Thank you?”
Clark laughs, shoulders shaking as his dimples appear again. It feels like a threat against your life now. “You’re very welcome.” Then he glances at the bar and at Jimmy and Lois again. “Did you want a drink?”
“Um, I think I’m good for now.” You’re already loose-lipped enough as it is, alcohol would not be beneficial when you’re both tongue-tied and rambling at Clark Kent. Who knows what you might say next? I love you, marry me, let’s have babies?
“Dance then?”
His hand appears in your line of sight before you can formulate a response. When you tilt your face up at him, he looks at you with hope brimming in his eyes. He doesn’t have to ask twice as you slide your hand into his, feeling his fingers wrap around yours. “Let’s.”
Once your initial tension melts away and your heart rate returns to normal, you’re able to enjoy yourself a little bit more in the crowd. Perry does his speech, slurring his words only slightly as he announces how proud he is of this team; gasps ripple around the room because Perry can be proud of us? Perhaps your job is secure as long as your boss gets his fix of wine. Jimmy continues to evade Jenny or Jessie — or both — by swooping in to dance with you and Lois and other people he deems to be safe from his supposed magnetic charm. Lois even begins enjoying herself when she has a few flutes of champagne, and a shot the bartender snuck her.
You and Clark — well, the two of you dance together in the beginning and it was a very nice dance. Clark has some old-school moves that he pulls out, ones that have you giggling. He smiles when he sees that. However, it doesn’t take long before you’re getting scooped away by one of your other drunken colleagues. Clark looks panicked at first but you reassure him with a wink.
The hours begin to blur together. Wines and champagne float across the floor, the music gets increasingly louder as the overhead lights are dimmed to bring in the neon flashes across the floor. You’re only a couple of glasses in, finding yourself sandwiched between Lois, who is now screaming about the patriarchy at Jimmy, and Steve who is talking your ear off about the NFL playoff predictions. You wince when he starts getting a little too excited about his favorite team and spit lands on your lap.
“Steve,” Clark’s voice cuts through the noise and you look up to find him looking down at Steve with a polite smile. You note the tightness around his eyes. “Perry wants to see you, said something about the front page for the Sunday edition.”
Steve is on his feet in a blink of an eye, launching himself in the big boss’ direction. While he’s distracted, Clark takes that opportunity to extend his hand. With a grateful smile, you take it and let him whisk you away to the dance floor again.
Just in time for a slow song to start.
He seems as taken aback as you to hear the song selection. While there are still a few people who rock side to side leisurely, you’re not sure if you are in the stage of friendship with Clark to be platonically dancing to one of the most romantic songs ever written.
Surprisingly, Clark scratches his cheek and clears his throat. “Well, if you don’t mind…” He once again offers up his hand, and you once again are in no place to deny him.
One of his hands takes yours and the other settles comfortably on your hip. You let yours be swallowed up in his and the other rests on his broad shoulder. The music delicately guides your movements slow and steady across the floor. A soft, invisible force caressing and pushing you close together.
Clark smells of old books, where the pages are worn but well-loved. You catch a hint of spice and pine, a woodsy combination that gives you a sense of peace. You don’t realize you’re actively sniffing him until you look up at him to say something and he’s already staring at you in amusement.
Crap. How embarrassing. “You… smell nice.” Real smooth. You’re a real Michael Jackson.
His laugh is genuine and deep. The corners of his eyes crinkle in such an endearing way that you can’t help the way your lips stretch into a wide grin. Then he does something that nearly gives you whiplash. Clark ducks his head. Low. Low enough that his nose grazes the back of your ear, brushing past the loose tendrils of your hair.
You nearly choke with how quickly you gasp. Clark inhales deep, so close that you can feel his lips practically on your collarbones. Your mind spins from the proximity, from the whiff you get of his cologne, from the ghost of his breath on your skin. It’s dizzying how much this man has an effect on you. A predicament and a cure all at once.
Then he pulls back but the remnants of the spell linger. Your mind is barely conscious when he shoots you with those dimples. “You do too. That scent’s my favorite on you.”
“It is?” You squeak.
This time, at least it’s his turn to be appalled by what he just confessed. He blinks rapidly and clears his throat, shifting his glance to the wall. “Uhm, yes. I mean, you always smell good. You have different perfumes. But this one — it’s, uhm, very nice.”
“Right, thank you,” is all you manage to choke out.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. I realize it’s—”
“No,” you quickly interject, “no, you didn’t. I was just surprised that you noticed.”
“Why?”
You lick your lips, drawing his eyes to them, as you tilt your head. “Why am I surprised that you noticed?” He gives a short nod, eyes curious. “I guess, I just— I don’t know. It’s not something I expected you to pay attention to.”
Clark seems to mull this over for a moment, quiet as he looks away to think. Then his gaze are back on you and it’s melted like molten lava. Warm and gooey. “I think I notice too much when it comes to you. More than you might think.”
Your heart nearly slips past your ribs at his words. You don’t want to get your hopes up, but at the same time, how could you possibly hear it in any other way? If this is your delusional mind playing tricks, then maybe you’ll give in just this time. One night to let yourself believe that maybe Clark Kent could feel the same way you do. One night to let yourself believe that maybe Clark Kent could be yours.
“Did you want to stay?” Clark’s voice is barely above a whisper.
There’s a glimmer of hope in his eyes, or what you believe it to be, when he asks the question. Your heart skips a beat or two. You might’ve entirely gone into cardiac arrest but you’re still standing on your two feet, so that can’t be.
“No, did you?”
He shakes his head. “Can I walk you home?”
You smile and nod.
“I’ll get your coat and we can get going. I’ll let you say goodbye to the others if you want.”
What a gentleman. You practically swoon at his words as you hand over your coat check ticket. He flashes you one last charming smile before disappearing into the crowd.
You’re bidding your farewells to everyone who all groan and call you a party pooper for leaving so early and missing the after party. Only Lois seems to clock what you’re trying to say and she’s immediately wiggling her eyebrows at you. “She has her own after party to attend. Be smart! Be responsible! Be… you, basically!” She shouts out, wine sloshing precariously in her glass.
With one final shake of your head, you throw them a smile and head towards the entrance. Clark is still nowhere in sight so you twiddle your thumbs for a little bit in the silence. The music inside is muffled the moment the doors closed, which is a bit of a relief. You didn’t realize how exhausted you were until you stepped away, your feet tingling in protest.
Footsteps approaching have you looking up, a smile on your face thinking it’s Clark. It dims quickly when you see that it is in fact not. His name is… Danny, you think. He’s part of Steve’s team, which means you don’t interact much because sports isn’t typically breaking news. Until someone breaks something.
He greets you warmly, cheeks flushed from the drinks and the heat inside. “You enjoying yourself?”
Ah, and the small talk begins. This is not a conversation you will particularly enjoy. It’s stilted, mainly because you don’t know him that well. On top of that, he keeps inching closer and closer, oscillating from side to side. You hate the idea of making things awkward so you don’t back away and press on a smile that makes your cheeks ache.
“Hey, listen, I know we don’t get to talk much in the office, but you took my breath away tonight. I mean—” his hand waves to gesture the length of you, and you have to resist a wince at the blatant objectification, “—do you want to go on a date with me sometime?”
Crap. Crap. Crap, crap, crap. This time, you really can’t escape your flinch. It’s one thing to know your colleague is interested and ask you out (example: your crush on Clark and it would be very clear that you would say yes if Clark were to propose a long marriage to you); it’s another to shoot your shot and end up with an airball (you assume he would get this reference). However, this is a sensitive situation because you don’t want to make it tricky in the office as well, so you can’t just say absolutely not. So instead you say—
“Actually, I’ve recently decided that I’m not really interested in dating anyone right now. With work so busy and life being… life, I figured it’s safer that way. Thank you though, I’m really flattered,” you force out the last part with a sympathetic smile. You never know how men will deal with rejection, so you may as well soften the blow.
Also, this guy is another tally on the list of why you don’t think your adoration for Clark is that obvious, because why would he ask you out otherwise?
“Ah, that’s a damn shame,” he whistles low. “Missed my slot, huh?”
Yes, that’s definitely why. Not the fact that you barely remember his name and that you’ve been pining over the six-foot-four cute journalist for over two years.
“Well, have a good night.” With that, he wanders back into the party, leaving you once again in the quiet.
“Ready?”
You nearly curse when you jump, the voice creeping up behind you. Clark is standing right there, your coat open in his hands. “Oh, sorry, I didn’t see you there.”
“No worries, sorry for the wait. There was a line to get the coats. It seems everyone thought about leaving at the same time.”
“Thank you for getting my coat,” you say as you slip your arms through and he drapes it over your shoulders. When you turn to face him, a look flickers across his eyes. One too fast for you to catch. “Are you okay?”
He blinks away the impassive look in his eyes and smiles warmly at you. “Yes, let’s go.”
The walk home is silent. Quiet in a way that’s comfortable, a weight that settles in nicely between close friends. Your fingers are entwined in gloves behind your back as you marvel at the city lights at this hour. There’s tension woven into the air, like things left unsaid that manifest in incoherent whispers in the wind. Clark appears deep in thought when you look at him, a slight pinch between his brows, a tightness on the corners of his lips.
He doesn’t say a word though. His thoughts receded into himself.
When you arrive at your door, you turn to look at him with a nervous smile. It’s not like you’re expecting anything. Clark is a gentleman, you’re sure, but you’re also hoping that he’s the type to pin you up against the wall and make you forget your own name. Perhaps it’s the weaning effects of the alcohol in your veins, but you’re feeling a little bold when Clark hasn’t said anything.
He’s rocking on the balls of his feet, seeming as antsy as you are. You? Well, you just want to spend a little more time with him. Get him to stay longer — whatever the reason may be.
So you bite the bullet, licking your lips one last time to stop your voice from breaking. “Would you like to come in—” you pause, trying to come up with some reasonable reason as to why he would stay, “—for wine?”
Clark only looks mildly taken aback. For a moment, his lips part and you can see his tongue press against his teeth on the brink of a yes. Unfortunately, something in his brain seems to click because then he visibly deflates, his eyes flatten and you think that perhaps you’ve mistaken his response. Maybe what he meant to say was— “No, I don’t actually drink.”
Oh, well, so that’s not a full no, right? “Oh, uhm, I have tea as well. Or soda. Or… water,” you grimace at the last one. Why would you offer him that? He has that at home. What a silly thing to bring up.
His throat moves as he swallows, eyes shifting to the ground. “Perhaps not tonight.”
Your heart falls hard and fast, splattering across the ground. That last little bit of hope evaporating into the wind. Stupid, stupid! Now, you’ve gone ahead and mucked things up, haven’t you? Clark was just being a perfectly nice man who did a perfectly nice thing, and you completely warped it in your mind into a different situation.
He was probably only looking for an out from the party and you were a good excuse. The walk home was a bonus for you.
Clark — the sweetheart that he is — must’ve seen something on your face because he quickly adds, “I’ll see you Monday at work though?”
“Right, work,” you cough and force out a smile. “I’ll see you then. Thanks for walking me home.”
For a brief second, something in his eyes makes you think he may change his mind. Or maybe it’s the way his feet stay rooted to the concrete. But then he seems to shake himself out of it and he throws you one last smile before turning on his heel and disappearing into the night.
Happy holidays, huh?
–
Throughout the entirety of your career, you have admittedly never experienced the Sunday scaries. It isn’t as if you were particularly excited about going to work, but you weren’t exactly worried about going through the motions of generating income either. The Daily Planet has incredible people and you’ve made a good number of friends who make the days a little less painful. Stories keep you busy, there is always something to chase.
So Monday should be like any other day. Well, it should have been. If it weren’t for the fact that you opened your big mouth and absolutely humiliated yourself in front of the love of your life.
When your eyes open bright and early that very first weekday, fear of all things sits in the pit of your stomach. It festers and grows even as you go through the motions of getting ready for the day. Brushing your teeth, picking out what to wear, packing your bag, and making that walk.
The dread sinks in hard and fast as you go through the rotating doors. Stanley, the security guard, greets you warmly, tells you good morning, and you almost ask him what’s so good about it. The worries plagued you all weekend and it shows in the shadows under your eyes, no matter how much you tried to conceal it.
Lois takes one look at you and concern takes over her expression. “You—” she stops herself, “did you get enough sleep?”
Maybe you’re a little crabby, but you only shoot her a look. It eventually does melt to an apologetic one but for now you can only shake your head. “Not really,” you say as you drop your bag on your desk, pinching the bridge of your nose. “Feel a migraine coming.”
“You should just take the day off.”
“No, I have to finish up that fluff piece on holiday decorations.”
“That’s hardly breaking news. Cat could take over for that.”
With a deep sigh, you once again shake your head. “No, I think I need work to distract me today. I don’t want to be sitting alone at home with my own thoughts.”
Lois’ lips press together into a thin line. “Did something happen? I thought, on Friday, you know with…”
“Don’t ask,” you blanch, “I embarrassed myself enough as is. I don’t think I can look him in the eye.”
“What do you—”
Her words get cut off when Clark strolls in and she promptly clamps her mouth shut. Even if your crush is allegedly very obvious to everyone in the office, Lois still respects your privacy and your need to pretend like it isn’t. You appreciate it more now than ever, especially when Clark smiles warmly at Lois and the look on his face falters when he sees you.\
Way to go, pat yourself on the back for ruining what little chance you already had.
“Morning,” he murmurs to both of you before going to his desk.
You’re about to fling yourself out the window.
Luckily, Perry does keep you busy when he stacks another assignment on your desk. Before you can even work on your piece due tonight, he tasks you to help Cat with a piece of breaking news in the entertainment sector. This means you have to turn down Lois’ offer to grab lunch together with Jimmy and Clark as you usually do.
You don’t look at Clark when you respond to Lois. “Sorry, I should get this done. I’ll just eat lunch at my desk.”
“Okay, I’ll grab you something then?” Lois offers kindly and you nod at her gratefully.
When you do need a mental break from working (in other words, you need to just chat about nothing for a bit), you resist the urge to plop yourself down on Clark’s desk as you usually do. Instead, you swerve and head straight for Lois. She doesn’t seem to mind, but her gaze does dart between you and Clark even as she’s talking.
You avoid looking at Clark the entire day. If you see that sympathetic expression on his face again, one that pities your unfortunate unrequited crush on him, that may be your last straw before you burst into tears. The last thing you want is to make things unnecessarily tense in the office. It’s not his fault that he doesn’t reciprocate your feelings. It’s not his fault that you made him uncomfortable by inviting him in for a drink.
You really need to get it together.
At the end of the day, after everyone else has left, it’s surprisingly only you and Clark again in the office. Your mind runs through all the upcoming deadlines and you didn’t think he had anything that had him working late today, perhaps he’s beginning his next one proactively.
“Are you working late?”
His voice has you jolting back, chair rolling and banging against the corner of your desk. The impact on your back is immediate and you wince.
“Gosh, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you,” he drops to his knees, hands flailing in the air like he’s looking for something to help with. His beautiful blue eyes are wide, shaped into concern when your face morphs in pain again. “Sorry, sorry. Are you okay?”
“Yep,” you laugh, “just being silly. You didn’t do anything wrong, don’t worry.” Clark doesn’t seem convinced and stares at you again, searching your face. You have to smile reassuringly at him before he even softens just a tad. “I’m fine, promise. And, to answer your question, I have to wrap this up and get it out to Perry so it can go out at midnight.”
“The holiday decor one?”
You’re a little surprised he knows, but you nod anyway.
“The piece with Cat turned out okay? You seem to have a lot on your plate.”
“Oh, yeah. It’s no big deal. Cat’s thing needed to go out today, so I didn’t mind helping out. Everyone has been super busy.”
Clark’s lips pinch, jaw clenching. “Yes, but Perry’s been giving you a lot of the heavy stuff. He should ease up.”
“Clark, I’m fine. I promise. You know I can tough it out against Perry,” you smirk.
Having a normal conversation like this is nice. Perhaps there is some hope for you yet; not hope for romance because that one’s buried six feet under now. But at least hope that you can salvage this friendship and your working relationship.
“I can stay, wait for you to wrap up so I can walk you home.”
Your protest is immediate. “No, no, please. You don’t have to. I won’t be much longer and it’s really not that late.” Again, he doesn’t look swayed by your words. “I promise I won’t leave too late. If I get scared, I’ll give you or someone else who lives nearby a call. Or I’ll call a cab. Don’t worry.”
“Call me,” he says quickly. “If you need someone to walk you home, call me. I’ll be here.”
It’s incredibly unfair that, even after he so clearly rejects you, he’s still being so kind. But that’s just who he is, isn’t it? He can’t help himself. Always wanting to take care of people. Your heart aches at the thought and you can only give him a grateful smile. “Thanks, Clark.”
Clark pauses one last time, checking your face for any sign that you might change your mind. When he doesn’t find it, he rises to his feet. “I’ll see you tomorrow then?”
“See you tomorrow, Kent,” you grin, doing your best to convince him.
“Have a good night.”
When his footsteps finally subside and you’re left in the quiet again, you finally let out a long exhale. You lean back in your chair, the joints creaking, and press the balls of your palm against your eyes.
Don’t cry. It’s always been a far-fetched crush anyway. Clark is kind to everyone and you took that kindness and twisted it into a hope for something more. You couldn’t help yourself from falling for the gentle giant, but it’s not on him to manage your feelings.
So you swallow back the tears and toughen up your heart. After all, you still have work to do.
Once you finish up your final words of the arguments of tinsels versus garlands and click the send button, you release a sigh of relief. What a Monday. You’re ready to get the heck out of here. You quickly pack up your bag and head towards the exit.
Only, you nearly trip over your feet when you see the lone figure by the door.
“You’re still here.” The words are out of your mouth before you can think them through.
Clark’s head jerks up immediately, eyes finding you. A smile slowly stretches across his lips. It’s been at least thirty minutes since you last spoke to him. “Hey. I wanted to make sure you got home okay.”
“You’ve just been standing here? Why didn’t you wait inside?”
His mouth twitches. “You would’ve spent the entire time trying to get me to go home if I stayed inside.”
You would’ve. It would’ve been ridiculous for him to wait for you. Especially since…
“Did you wrap up?”
“Yeah, it’s in Perry’s hands now.”
“Best place to be.” He smiles, tugging his bag higher on his shoulder. “Shall we?”
Similar to the previous night, the walk home is quiet. Side by side. Two separate souls. The walk feels a little lonelier today. The distance is palpable, a chasm you can’t seem to ignore. Gone is the easiness that rests between you when your entire body is stiff as a board. The walk feels like it lasts forever and takes no time at all.
Reaching your front door alleviates some of the tension in your shoulders. For the first time, you’re actually thankful that you’re home. You don’t think you can take much more of interacting with Clark, not when everything still feels so taut between you.
“Thank you again for walking me,” you murmur. After that spiel inside your head, you can’t even bring yourself to look at him fully. Your eyes brush over him, then fly to your door. “I’ll see you tomorrow?”
Clark clears his throat, you don’t look at him. You can’t. You don’t think you can handle it. What you have to do is disappear behind your door and wallow in self-pity. Maybe in that tub of double fudge caramel ice cream you picked up over the weekend.
“Uhm, right. See you tomorrow.”
You throw him one last smile, barely sparing him a glance, and move towards your door and close it behind you.
Crud. What a day. As heartbreaking as this whole ordeal is, you’re grateful that Clark is at least trying to show some semblance of normalcy after your big mishap. It’s not the outcome you wanted but you can finally put a close to this chapter of your love life.
Now, onto your ice cream. And maybe a few more tears.
Right as you’re shrugging off your coat, the doorbell rings. A frown settles on your face as you float towards it, swinging the door open and surprised to find Clark on your stoop. Before your mouth can even open to say anything, Clark blurts out, “Did I do something wrong?”
You blink, surprised. “I— what do you mean?”
“You didn’t sit at my desk today. You sat on Lois’.” You’re gobsmacked but Clark continues, “And we always eat lunch together — granted with everyone else — but you ate alone today.”
“Well, I— uhm, I had that piece to finish.”
“And you’ve barely looked me in the eye today. It’s just—” he runs his fingers through his curls, looking devastatingly handsome even when he’s flustered. “I’m not sure what I did. If I did something, I want to know so I can fix it. Fix this.”
The words spill from your mouth without much thought. “No, Clark. Oh gosh no. You didn’t do anything wrong. Not at all.”
He steps towards you and you take a step back out of instinct. Aware of your reaction, he winces and takes a step back, putting a safe distance between the two of you. “Sorry, sorry. I don’t know how to do this. I’m— I’m not used to you being… distant from me. I thought we were fine. I thought we were friends.”
Friends. Yes, that’s what you are. That’s exactly why you needed to put a bit of breathing room between the two of you. You don’t want to do anything to ruin this friendship. “No, it’s not you. I promise. I thought you were uncomfortable with me, so I—”
“Uncomfortable?” He interrupts, eyebrows furrowing again.
Your nervously pick at your fingernails as your face contorts into an expression you don’t want to name. “I thought the entire office knew. Then after yesterday, I just assumed— I don’t know. I didn’t want you to be awkward around me because of what I did.”
“Know what? What did you even do?”
“Well, I invited you in here and you clearly weren’t interested and I thought you knew that I’ve been in love with you for forever,” you finally confess, face feeling like it’s in flames with the embarrassment that carves itself deep into your core. You can’t look at him, can’t bear to see his face when he realizes that you’re truly messing up this friendship. “This is so humiliating,” you mutter, “and I—”
Suddenly, you feel cool hands on your warm face and his lips on you. The cool winter air is nothing compared to the sudden wave of heat that floods your body as Clark’s mouth devours you. It’s gentle for a heartbeat before his movements grow frantic, desperate, like he can’t get enough of you. He steals the air from your lungs, breathes it into his own.
And it feels so good. Oh so good. So good that your brain has short-circuited, wires fizzling out into disarray. It’s better than you could’ve ever imagined because Clark tastes a little like espresso, a little mint, and a little something that is just him.
Your back hits the wall and Clark only presses in deeper, swallowing your moans like they have always belonged to him. His hand is on your cheek, the other on your waist. His fingers sink into your flesh to keep you there against him.
It is only when Clark begins to shift his lips, his warm, soft lips, along your jaw and down your neck that you’re able to see clearer, the prints on your wall becoming coherent. That is when your palm lands on his chest to slowly push him back, but at the same time, maintaining a close enough distance that you could easily twist your fingers into his shirt to pull him back towards you.
Clark reluctantly draws away from you, lips swollen, glasses slightly askew. His breathing is a far cry from yours, where your chest rises with stuttered breaths, his is surprisingly even. You’re not sure how you do it, but you do find your voice eventually. “Uhm, what just happened? What’s happening?”
His throat moves as he swallows, staring at you with such earnest, sweet eyes. “I thought it was obvious that I’ve been in love with you. Lois gives me crap all the time for it.”
You nearly break your neck with how fast you jerk up to look at him. “You what?”
“I thought you knew!”
“How would I know that?” You gasp, “Last night, you didn’t— I mean, I asked you twice to stay. I thought I messed this — our friendship — up. Thought you were trying to be nice today to let me down gently.”
Clark groans. It’s a pained one, but you can’t help the way the sound shoots straight between your legs. “I overheard you talking to Danny last night, you told him that you recently decided that you don’t really want to date anyone right now. So when you asked me to stay, I thought all you wanted was…” he tapers off, eyes flicking away for a second, “you know. And I would’ve obviously still loved to take care of you — and I’ve thought about it in great detail plenty of times — but I don’t think I could’ve walked away from that. From you. I can’t just do one night.”
You feel so stupid. You thought you were letting Danny off easy, but you hadn’t even realized Clark had been listening. Your teeth catch your bottom lip as you huff a tired laugh. “It’s because I’m not interested in dating anyone but you.”
“So this is real? Us? This is happening?” Clark brightens, the growing source of light in this otherwise desolate winter evening. “I mean, we can really be together?”
A giggle escapes your lips. “Yes, Clark. This means we can be together.”
He closes his eyes, relief crashing over him in waves. When he opens them, his blue eyes have darkened. Pupils dilating as he rakes his eyes over you. “Good, that means I can properly take care of you now.”
“Now?” You squeak.
Clark’s eyes fall to your mouth, shamelessly taking in the way your lips part in surprise. “Only if you want to. I’d love to take you out to dinner or do any other activities. I’ll be sure to do that too, but, if I’m being honest, I’ve been thinking about this a lot lately and I really want you.”
The man has always been honest. Honey-soaked truths dripping from his lips. But not like this. Never like this.
“I just—” you pause, heat crawling up your neck, “I haven’t even gotten ready. I’m not wearing cute underwear—”
“No need for cute underwear if I’m going to take them off you.”
Oh goodness. Well, he doesn’t have to say more than that. And he doesn’t because then he’s pushing up your pencil skirt to your hips as he drops to his knees before you, leaving you in your sheer black stockings. Clark groans, kissing his way up your inner thigh when he reaches the space between your legs. A rough exhale leaves his lips. “I could smell how wet you are, you know. Every time you’re near me. I never realized this was for me. Now, I get it all to myself.”
“Clark,” you whimper pathetically.
“How attached are you to these stockings?”
You blink through the haze. “Not very—”
The rip echoes down the hall as Clark uses minimal brute strength to tear through the thin fabric, the stretchy material scrunching up as you’re exposed down there. You always thought Clark was handsome — cute, even — but you’ve never seen him like this. Eyes glazed over with wanton need, lips parting with heavy pants, and — your eyes dip to his pants — so, so hard.
“Cute,” Clark chuckles low when he spots the teddy bear prints on your panties.
Can this be any more embarrassing? Your instinct is to clamp your legs, hands flying to cover up your childish underwear. You really didn’t think you were going to end up with the head of the love of your life between your legs, so your underwear choice really wasn’t top of mind this morning.
Clark’s very large hands pry yours away as he looks up at you. His glasses are slightly crooked, dipping just below his eyes. Instead of his usual awkward self, he looks tantalizing. Inquisitive, hungry eyes peering over at you. “Don’t hide from me, honey,” he coos, “you’re so beautiful. It feels like I’ve been waiting for this my entire life.”
His breath his hot where it kisses your skin. First your thighs then to your clothed pussy. You can feel yourself leaking through the fabric, desire pooling in an embarrassing puddle soaking up the cotton. His lips brush over your core, light and teasing. Your hips jerk up involuntarily and you let out a small whine over how desperate you seem. Clark lets out a delicious moan when he hears it.
“I thought about doing this yesterday. When I saw inside your house, all I wanted to do was press you up against this wall and taste you.” His words stoke a fire inside you. His finger hooks around the gusset of your panties and drags them to the side. Clark leans close, a whisper of warmth against your sensitive, wet skin. “You always smell so sweet.”
“Clark, please,” you whisper as your fingers twist through the silky strands of his midnight hair.
He flattens his tongue against your core, dragging it up painstakingly slow until it presses against your clit. His tongue swirls around the nub, flicking it eagerly until you’re tugging on his head with a gasp. Your head falls back against the wall with a thud, eyes sliding shut as Clark licks and nips you like a starved man. You’re not entirely sure how he does it but you see stars in the back of your eyes, dancing like they’re taunting you with how heavenly his mouth feels on you.
When you finally look down at him, he’s looking up at you through fogged up glasses. His eyes are no less sharp as they watch your every move. The way you respond to how he strokes along your pussy lips, how his tongue pushes deep inside you, how his fingers dig into your thigh. Your body falters with the intensity of his gaze and you nearly slip but Clark is faster, holding you up easily against the wall as he continues to devour you.
Every movement feels intentional, like he’s rehearsed this and thought through every single thing that would make you tick. Your mind goes into a frenzy, body hot with how desperately he’s mouthing you. You look down further to find his other hand has drifted down to his cock, palming himself through the fabric of his slacks. His moans against your cunt reverberate straight through you, your toes curling in delight at the evidence of how much he’s enjoying himself.
You’re getting a little too close when he flicks his tongue inside you again and you have to yank his head back by his hair. The bottom half of his face glistens with your slick and his tongue darts out to lick his lips.
“Clark, I can’t— I’m going to cum like this.”
“Good,” he says, ready to dive back in when you pull him back again. Another needy sound leaves his lips as he does so and you burrow your fingers deeper into his hair.
“I want you to get off too. I want you to finish with me.”
“I can finish like this, honey. I promise.”
“But I want you. I want you inside.”
“You’re going to be the death of me.” He releases an unsteady breath. Without warning, he rises to his feet and picks you up, earning a surprised squeal from your lips as your legs wrap around him in panic. Clark props you up easily against him, your hands landing on his broad shoulders. “Where’s your bedroom?”
You weakly point in the general direction and Clark carries you all the way there before unceremoniously tossing you onto the bed. He climbs over you in a heartbeat, mouth latching onto your neck to litter pretty blossoms across your skin. He marks you up with constellations, all named after him to show everyone that he belongs to you and you to him.
“So pretty like this,” he mumbles as he begins to unbutton your blouse, kissing his way down your breasts and down to your stomach. He pays particular attention to the insides of your thighs when he feels you squirm again. “You’re so sensitive, it’s so cute.”
“Don’t tease,” you chide playfully, swatting his shoulder.
“Not teasing, I like it. I like how responsive you are. Love hearing your moans,” he hums as he makes his way back up to you. “Do you know how many times I’ve pictured spreading your legs open in the office? Every time you sit on my desk, all I can think about is getting on my knees and burying my face in between them.”
The visual only adds fuel to the fire already burning bright inside you. You can imagine what it would be like to have Clark eating you out on his desk after everyone’s gone, his tongue eager and hungry. He would lap you up, so desperate to make you feel good. All he wants is for you to feel good.
“Maybe next time we work late,” you smile teasingly at him.
“I’ll do it, you know,” Clark beams right back as he begins to unbutton his shirt. You drag your finger down from his collarbone, south to his chest and to the smattering of hair leading down to his pants. “Keep teasing me like that, keep wearing that tight skirt you love so much, and I’ll do it in front of everyone.”
Your neck flares with warmth. “You wouldn’t.”
“I would,” he says, such resolution in his voice that you know he means it.
“Okay, well, good thing we’re at home then,” you say with a huff, but even he can see how frail your voice is.
“You like the idea of it,” he correctly guesses.
“I—” The denial sits on the tip of your tongue, but you relent at the last second. “I do.”
Clark licks his lips and leans down to press them against yours. He smiles against you. “I can make it happen.”
“Clark,” you flush again.
“For now, darling girl, I’m going to focus on making you feel good right here. I’m going to go slow, okay? Don’t want to hurt you.”
You’re about to tell him that he couldn’t hurt you but then you see the bulge in his pants and how it’s straining against the fabric, demanding to be released. You can see the not-so-faint outline that has your mouth watering. One day, you’re going to put your mouth on him. One day, you’re going to be on your knees between his legs. Maybe in the office.
“Okay,” you concede quietly.
“Mm, good girl,” he murmurs and those words send blood straight down.
Clark grabs a condom from his wallet and you raise an eyebrow at him. “Never pegged you as the type to carry around condoms.”
“I wasn’t,” he pauses, “until two years ago.”
“Two years—” the words stop short on your tongue. “You’ve been in love with me for two years?”
“Well, more like two years, five months, ten days, si—”
“Six hours,” you finish. “Oh wow.”
Clark smiles softly down at you. “It’s been a while for us, hasn’t it?”
“A little too long if you ask me.”
Without missing a beat, Clark kicks off his pants, followed by his boxers. At the same time, you’re stripping off everything except your underwear, which Clark finds himself grinning at. As for you, you can’t bring yourself to smile when you see the size of him.
“What do you eat to get it that big?” You let slip. It’s an embarrassing but relevant question.
Clark blinks, looking humored. “Your pussy.”
“Clark!”
He chuckles low before rolling the condom on himself, XXL no doubt. Must cost him a fortune to look for specialized latex that’ll fit him. “I’ll go easy,” he mumbles, more so to himself.
You can feel him nudge at your entrance, the thick head of his cock pushing into you slowly. The stretch stings, tears prick your eyes at the feeling.
“Sorry, sorry,” he mutters, wincing. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be, it’s okay. I’m fine,” you try to reassure him.
Clark is definitely doing his best to try and make it easy for you. Even with how wet you are, Clark is still very… well-endowed. He swallows thickly when he finally manages to notch his tip into you, the head stretching out your poor little pussy. “Do you have lube? I can use it, make it easier for you.”
“Bedside table,” you rasp, gesturing to the nightstand.
Clark pulls out of you slowly again to grab the bottle and drizzle a generous amount on himself. It’s cute seeing him so laser-focused, so intent on making this as pleasurable for you as possible. You’ve had other men, of course, even in the two years you’ve been in love with him. But none of them have ever been as attentive, as careful with you.
You almost wonder what it would be like for that restraint to snap, for him to just take you the way he wants.
“I can take it, Clark. I promise.”
He nods slowly before repositioning himself back between your legs. The slide in is slightly easier this time, his head making it past your tight muscles despite your resistance. He moves slow, deliberate. The veins on his neck protrude as he tries his best to control himself with how you’re squeezing around him.
“You’re so tight, honey,” Clark musters out, “so tight for me. You feel so good. I can’t wait to fill you up all the way.”
“I-I’m not sure I can take you all the way,” you admit, feeling the burn intensify. Clark pushes himself in gently, in and out an inch at a time, until you’re used to his girth. Each slide in goes deeper and deeper until you feel him hit your womb. “So deep, Clark,” you groan, “feels so full. So good.”
“You can take it. You can take me. I know you can,” Clark encourages as he begins to thrust into you gently. The drag of his cock, thick and hot, inside you is enough to have you squirming underneath him. Not necessarily your body’s instinct to get away from the pain, but your pussy’s need for more.
Clark’s muttering reassuring praises at you, telling you that you’re doing such a good job taking him. How beautiful you look like this underneath him.
“I’ve been thinking about you for so long, what you would feel like wrapped around me. My imagination couldn’t do this any justice,” he breathes, burying his face in your neck as he plunges into you.
As you get accustomed to his size, Clark begins to move more confidently, more freely. His cock splits you open but you feel that burning pleasure more now than ever. One of his hands is on your headboard, the other on your hips as he presses into you. The bed creaks a complaint underneath him, your headboard rattles against the wall.
Burning need coils tight inside of you, twisting all of that delicious feeling until you can’t see anything but him. The world blurs before you as Clark pants every time he rams into you. He’s buried to the hilt, you didn’t think it was possible, but your legs curl around him to pull him in even closer.
“H-honey, don’t do that. I’m going to cum too fast,” he whines. And he sounds so good doing so.
“I want you to feel good,” you sweetly say, arms sliding around his neck to pull him closer. His lips find yours and you lick into his mouth to get a taste of you and him, that intoxicating combination that has you grinding up to meet his pace.
“Feels so good, feels too good,” he croaks, voice fraying at the edges as he continues to drive into you. His cock feels like otherwordly, like something no mortal man should ever have.
You moan and dig your head into your pillow as your entire body bounces with every thrust, even as he tries to keep you steady. Clark looks down to see the way your breasts move as he slides into you.
“Tits so pretty,” he mumbles, “so pretty. I can’t wait to taste them after this. Just want you to cum once first. One time then I’ll give you more, honey. I promise. I’ll make you feel good all night.”
His name comes out of your lips in another whine. “We have work tomorrow, c-can’t go at this all night.”
“We’ll call in sick, you deserve it. You’ve been working so hard,” he huffs, muscles on his abs rippling as he continues, biceps flexing above you. You wish you had a camera on you, capture every second of this moment. The one you’ve been waiting for for far too long.
“I—” you hiccup when Clark shoves in particularly deep, “I didn’t know you had it in you to be so naughty.”
“Only if it keeps you here with me.”
His little praises, his sweet promises, his broken mewls. All of them combined have you climbing and climbing faster. The pleasure that has evaded you for so long finally chasing after you, pace faster than you can avoid.
“C-Clark, I’m g-gonna cum, please, please,” you plead, nails scraping down his back as you arch your body into him.
Clark moans at the feeling and begins to hammer in faster and deeper. Your bed is loudly protesting how hard he’s going but you aren’t, instead begging with your mouth as you reach up to kiss his neck, your tongue laving at his skin.
That seems to be the last straw because then Clark is coming apart before you, splintered gasps falling from his lips as you find your own climax, your pussy pulsing around his length. The air is knocked out of your lungs as you find it, your body convulsing with satisfaction but also a need for more.
His forehead presses against yours, equally warm. “S-sorry. I shouldn’t have— you should’ve cum first, I didn’t mean to—”
You giggle and lean up to kiss him. “I didn’t mind. I like that you were so wrecked that you couldn’t even hold it back.”
“Still shouldn’t have happened,” he frowns at himself. “Let me make it up to you, yeah? Let me take care of you again.”
“Clark, we just finished. Aren’t you tired?”
He stares you like you have three heads. “Why would I be tired?”
You have no answer to that, but you smile up at him anyway.
“Now, I have two years of making up to do. What shall we do next?”
There are many things Scott has given you in a short period of time: migraines, high blood pressure, and a son you would do anything for. A son he doesn’t know exists. Cutting him off was hard enough — welcoming him home might be worse.
▸ PAIRING: Ex-FWB!Scott Miller x F!Reader
▸ WARNINGS: NSFW 18+, former situationship to baby daddy to lovers (all at the same time tbh), pull-out method, fingering, degradation, oral (f!receiving), pussy pronouns, bickering is their foreplay, breeding kink, mean in bed!scott, grumpy scott in general, hurt/comfort, miscommunication (my favorite, of course)
▸ WORD COUNT: 13.6K
▸ A/N: if i had a nickel for every time i wrote reader hiding getting knocked up by the baby's dad until he's back in town, i'd have two nickels, which isn't a lot, but it's weird that it happened twice. this became the longest fic i've ever written which is insane to say about this man who had 3 minutes of screen time??? but anyways i love him and his dumb ass! if you enjoyed this, please leave comments and reblog on top of liking it!! i'd love to hear your thoughts <3 second and final part coming in two weeks!!!! special thanks to @kryptidfiles for helping me with reader's job heh
↤ main masterlist | part two ↦
You meet Scott Miller at the tail-end of summer — that not-so-sweet spot between your junior and final year when you find yourself bankrupt and barely breathing. Between completing the mandatory hours at Mass General for your program and the countless hours sticking your nose in multiple textbooks, the last thing you want to deal with is an arrogant asshole.
Specifically, an arrogant asshole at your favorite café, with your favorite brown sugar oatmilk shaken double espresso after a long night at the library and a few more hours needed to finish your final paper for this summer course. All you want is peace and quiet with your barely functional eyes.
Unfortunately, you are instead met with the sight of this man’s massive back as he berates the barista out in the open.
Your favorite barista at that. With your patience hanging by a frayed thread and the little spark of energy you have left inside of you, you exert all of that to defend this poor girl — and the sanctity of this place.
“Are you always this much of a dick or only to people you think are beneath you?”
The man — tall, brunette, blue eyes, a classic all-American clad in an MIT t-shirt, looking like he bathes in daddy’s money — has the audacity to look taken aback. “Excuse me?”
“I’m asking if you take pleasure in bitching at people who get paid minimum wage to serve douchebags like you overpriced coffee every day.”
Blue Eyes gapes at you. It’s a shame, really. He would’ve been just your type if he weren’t such a dick. That’s the regrettable thing about men — they have mouths.
“I’m not—” he begins, having the decency to get somewhat flustered. His eyes fly around the room to find pairs of curious, judgmental eyes on him. His lips twist in irritation but he manages to grit out, “I just want my actual coffee order.”
“Then ask for it,” you snap, “you don’t need to pull a Shakespearean soliloquy to get a fucking frappuccino.”
“Black coffee,” he corrects.
“Of course it is,” you roll your eyes. “Now, can you ask politely or do I need to start my own monologue about the detrimental effects of men in society?”
He gives you a satisfying wince. “No, you don’t need to do that.” He turns to Evelyn, the barista. “Can I get my correct order?” He only glances at you because you’re searing him with a look, which ends up with him adding, “Please.”
Now, when the two of you tell your separate group of friends that this is the story of how you met, no one would believe you — not with the way the two of you are joined at the hip. You bicker, you argue, you get into hours-long debates at house parties about the ethics of Greek life.
But afterwards, you can also say without a doubt that Scott is a friend.
A friend who you then proceed to drunkenly fuck one night at his frathouse.
A friend who you swear you would never fuck again afterwards.
A friend who you, that same night, decide to fuck. Again. Thrice.
You hate to give credence to his reputation on the MIT campus, especially as an outsider who doesn’t go here, but you understand why there are constantly women throwing themselves at him.
You tell yourself that this is all in good fun; your last couple of youthful years before selling yourself to the American healthcare system for the greater good should be spent doing the worst humanly possible things to yourself.
If that means fucking Scott every chance you get, having him stretch you out over every possible surface, his hand over your mouth to muffle your cries, a packed house be damned, then so be it.
Truth be told, you don’t expect things to go anywhere with Scott. The two of you come from vastly different worlds with vastly different dreams. It’s not a tragedy. You two are simply star-crossed, never meant to be lovers.
Scott complains to you about how his parents are constantly trying to set him up with debutantes — the crème de la crème of society — for him to marry; all the while you’re still tucked to his side, naked limbs tangled between each other.
You don’t acknowledge the ache that pulses in the left side of your chest. It shouldn’t matter at the end of the day because friends don’t stay friends forever, let alone lovers.
And you and Scott are not lovers.
However, you do have to reckon with the consequences of your decisions and the implication of your feelings when you find yourself with your head in the toilet, breakfast swirling down the drain for the third time that week. You have to really reckon with Lady Luck punishing you when you realize that you’re weeks late on your cycle, too caught up with school and Scott to notice.
When the two pink lines appear, your fear has reduced your inevitable shock into ashes.
Your first thought is that you have to tell Scott. There isn’t a doubt who the father is since you haven’t been with anyone else since him. This feels like a decision the two of you have to make together; you’re both adults and you should be able to have a professional, rational conversation.
That’s what you tell yourself all the way to his place, body moving on autopilot tracing back the path to his lush apartment near his campus. You barely acknowledge Jimmy, Scott’s very kind doorman, when you take the elevator to his floor.
Not once in the entirety of your… acquaintanceship have you ever been nervous to see Scott. But now your hands are trembling and you suppose it’s from the fact that you have a fucking unplanned pregnancy.
You don’t have time to fully process what that means when Scott swings open the door, and the first thing you see is the suitcase popped open on the floor with clothes haphazardly thrown into it.
Swallowing the bundle of nerves in your throat, you raise an eyebrow in question. “Going somewhere?”
“Head to my uncle’s in Oklahoma for the long weekend.”
“Oklahoma?” You close the door behind you as he begin to fusses with his clothes again.
“Yeah, he’s a real estate developer buying up a shit ton of land down there. Thinking about connecting it with storm chasing. He’s expanding quickly so figured I’d see what it’s like. ”
Your stomach sinks, dread tightening your chest. “The job or Oklahoma?”
He shrugs, completely unaware of your spiraling mind. “Both.”
“You’d really give up your cushy doorman apartment for tornadoes and motels?”
His lips curl into a smirk and your stupid heart is quick to hammer in your ear. Curse him and those deep dimples. “Sweetheart, you know I was born and raised in the south.”
Oh, you know. There’s a reason why that tinge of an accent goes straight between your legs every time he’s upset. “I don’t think a metropolitan like Dallas is the same thing.”
While Scott busies himself with packing again, you splay out on his bed, eyes on the bare ceiling as you try to calm your thundering pulse. You really shouldn’t be this stressed. There are ways out of this — options that two of you can take regardless of what you decide.
Hey, Scott, I’m pregnant. Yes, your child. Am I sure? Yes, you shithead, I haven’t fucked anyone else in months.
Oh, by the way, I’m also probably in love with you, but that’s a secondary problem to the human growing inside me. Thoughts?
“Did you need something?” His voice rips you out of your head.
Your heart rate hasn’t eased, but you have to do it now. So you turn on your side, propping your head up as your belly twists with apprehension. You open your mouth but then you notice the look in his eyes. You know that look all too well; it’s the trigger to all of your bad decisions, including but not limited to being bent over the bathroom sink with all of your friends on the other side of the door and risking arrest for public indecency on a public beach on spring break last week.
His eyes trail over the exposed sliver of skin where your shirt has ridden up, his hands abruptly dropping a shirt to reach over and drag his calloused palm over your hip. He slides it to your back, onto that little dip on your spine. He doesn’t say it out loud, but he likes the way you automatically arch towards him when he does it — like right now.
He hums and squeezes your waist to prompt you.
“Nothing,” you blurt out, flipping over so you’re facing his window instead. The city looks beautiful this time of day, sunset casting a golden glow across the architecture, painting it in the shades of the sun.
You hear him shuffle behind you before the mattress sinks with his weight. He smooths a hand over the curve of your waist again, fingers spreading out across your stomach. “You’re thinkin’ about something.”
With a deep breath, you test the waters. “Just the future, the usual.”
“What about the future?” His fingers brush your hair to the side as his lips cling to your neck.
“Work, family, friends,” you pause, chest squeezing, “kids.”
“Kids?” He snorts softly, “Where is this coming from? Never heard you talking about them before.”
Stay calm. You roll over to playfully glare at him. “I’m not getting any younger, so I have to think about these things today.”
“Or in a few years once you get your license and settle into the hospital,” Scott cocks an eyebrow. Your lips thin and he relents. “Alright, so kids, what about them?”
This is it. “Have you thought about them? Whether you, um, want them?”
Scott tilts his head deeper into his pillow. “I don’t think so. Not anytime soon at least. Kids are a hassle and I’m too young for that. Still have to go out there, make money, chase dreams and what not. I can barely take care of myself, let alone another human being.”
His chuckle is drowned out by the sudden persistent ringing echoing in your ear. He must sense it, feels your body going taut next to him.
“What about you?” He murmurs.
If he had asked you a few months ago, you would’ve scoffed and called him crazy. You too have your own dreams to pursue, the world to change and all that. But now, when you know that there’s something else growing inside you, you find that you don’t have the answer to that.
You’re not part of the crowd that thinks aborting this baby would mean murder, but you also never thought that you would be carrying something so special so early. While Scott’s answer isn’t surprising, your reaction to it is — your rationale had been simple: if Scott says no, then you wouldn’t go forward with the pregnancy. If he said yes, then you would have to consider it more seriously.
Scott’s answer is loud and clear, yet you don’t feel so settled with your own.
“Hey, you alright? What’s going on with you?” Concern stitched to the furrow of his brows.
You laugh, your throat feeling a little tight. “Probably just pre-period thoughts.”
He relaxes at that, rolling his eyes. “Women—” you pinch him and he yelps, chuckling. “I’m kidding. I can pack later. Let’s go pick up a pint of that strawberry cheesecake ice cream you like.”
The corners of your lips tip up as he pushes himself off the bed and offers you a hand. “Since when are you so nice to me?”
“I’m nice when I want to get laid.”
You don’t bite back the urge to roll your eyes.
So you’re a coward, sue you. While Scott finishes packing for his flight, you fall asleep in his silk sheets. Slipping in between the edges of consciousness, you feel Scott tuck in behind you, a kiss pressed to the back of your head as you finally give in to slumber.
Afterwards, you tell yourself that you have two months to make a decision. Two months until graduation, that’s your deadline.
A big part of you wants to tell him so you can stop lying about how you won’t be drinking tonight because you’re still hungover from some other party that you never went to. You’re exhausted from biting your tongue when he invites you for sushi, your favorite meal.
“I’m paying,” he insists for the third time.
You yawn, feeling the twinges of nausea rearing its head at the thought of it.
“You never turn down sushi.”
However, you also realize that telling him would be selfish. Despite his reputation, the man has a strong sense of responsibility to finish what he starts. In this case, it would be you. You can’t fathom him feeling like he has to stay here, that he has to be with you, that he has to give up his dreams. For you. He would hate you — if not now, then in the future.
Even worse when you imagine him telling you that he would never, ever do this with you — specifically you. After all, he has many bachelorettes lining up at his doorstep who are likely more than happy to wait a few years to start a family with him.
You’re not sure you’re prepared for that.
With every day that passes, the truth is shoved further down your throat, fear overtaking it.
Before you know it, you’re standing at the airport with him. He wrangles you into a Scott-like hug: one-armed, stiff, a click of his tongue like it’s inconvenient for him to show affection.
“You’re gonna be good, right?”
You scowl, “I’m not a dog.”
His mouth curves up, teeth peeking in his smirk. “Not even gonna turn around thrice and bark for me for my last day?”
“Are you trying to get on your flight in a body bag?”
He’s silent then for a moment, looking at you. Everything blurs around the two of you, noise muffled like you’re in a bubble and all you can hear is his long exhale. “This isn’t forever, you know. I’ll come visit when I finally need you to pump my lungs of all the dirt I’ll be inhaling.”
“Gonna cost you.”
“Wouldn’t expect any less.”
The two of you leave it at that. You could say more. I’ll miss you. I love you. Come back. Stay. But you say none of it. Part of you thinks that Scott knows, part of you hopes he doesn’t. This is his big moment. His future. A picture-perfect frame and you’ve been cut out from the canvas.
“We’ll keep in touch,” Scott shrugs with a promise.
Your hand flies to your stomach on instinct. You can practically feel that silent heartbeat. If you keep this baby, you can’t possibly hide it from him.
If you can’t hide it from him, he may hate you.
And that’s not something you can ever bear.
So you smile and nod — and you let him go.
To say it’s been a long day would be an understatement. Starting your morning with a hundred unread emails followed by a series of difficult patients (one of which sneezed on you for good measure) and then a last-minute, dreaded ping at four from one of the study sponsors looking for data — all on a Friday no less.
What you need is some hot tea, a long massage, and preferably your phone buried six feet under. A place where you won’t be able to hear the constant calling of your name.
“Girl, are you ever going to leave?” Jenna pops her head in. “You need to go and get ready.”
You peer down at your sleeveless blouse and slacks. “Why cna’t I go to dinner in this?”
She gives you a look, a bone-chillingly disapproving one. “Get your ass out of here and I’ll come pick you up. We’re going out out.”
Given that this is a planned outing, you shouldn’t feel so miserable about it. You’ve even planned it all out — your mom takes Ben until Sunday, which neither of them mind because they adore each other — and you finally get one night to yourself to do whatever you wanted and an extra day to recover. It’s the first time in four years you’ve actually had time.
Don’t get you wrong. Your body created the miracle that is your son. Beautiful, bright Ben. Sweet, kind-hearted Ben who inherited none of his parents’ terrible tempers and foul personalities. You couldn’t have asked for a better pregnancy, better birth, or better child.
It’s the first time you’ve been away for him for a personal outing. Usually, it’s some sort of work emergency; what constitutes a work emergency as a research coordinator, you’ll never know but the higher-ups love the dramatics of making everything sound like life or death.
Jenna, your colleague and probably the closest person you consider a friend, swings by your place an hour earlier than promised.
You’re still not fully ready.
“I knew you were going to drag your feet through this,” she sighs and drops an armful of clothes onto your couch.
“I’m not dragging my feet, I just have nothing to wear.”
“And that’s exactly why I’m here.”
Jenna has always had a knack for convincing people to do things they never wanted to do in the first place. For example, this is how you find yourself squirming uncomfortably throughout the night, wiggling to adjust the skirt lower down your thighs. However, when you do so, it ends up hanging too low on your hips, showing more skin than you’d like.
“Will you quit fidgeting?” she huffs as she pulls you through the crowd, “You look hot.”
“I look like I’m attempting a mating call with a freshman with a fifty-dollar fake,” you grunt.
She giggles. “Well, if you want to play cougar, I do see some college kids who have been eye-fucking you since you stepped in.” She nods her head in the direction of a group of boys who are in fact staring at the two of you, expressions a little too salacious for your liking.
“They’re looking at you,” you note pointedly.
Jenna is the the perfectly balanced combination spicy, smart, and sweet. At least two doctors and more than a fistful of residents follow her around like puppies around the hospital. She has them on leashes.
“That’s because my tits look great in this dress,” she grins. “Come on, let’s get some shots.”
In hindsight, ripping three shots back to back when you haven’t drank like since college is a terrible idea. It hits you hard and fast, but it was much needed to avoid crinkling your nose at the pile of sweaty bodies on the floor. You dance with Jenna for the most part, you let a few people buy you drinks, and… you’re having a good time.
Sometimes, you miss this part of you — the one that isn’t a mom. You love being Ben’s mother but at the same time, you have to relearn what it means to be you.
While this may not be you forever, this is a piece of you that feels like coming home. At least, that’s what you think when you feel much looser with the liquor in your veins. Jenna twirls you on the floor and you laugh, barely paying any mind to the pinching of these knee-high boots or the fact that you’re showing more skin than you have these past few years.
She spins you around again — except this time, your balance is already walking a fine line, so you end up stumbling into a wall.
Shit, not a wall. Said wall is moving.
“Fuck, I’m so sorry,” you blurt out, hand to your chest to prevent your tits from spilling out of this top. The last thing you need on your first night out is to be arrested for flashing a stranger. You’re straightening to look for Jenna when you hear your name.
Not only your name but it’s your name. Your name said in a way that has fireworks exploding in the pit of your stomach. Your name in a way that knocks the breath right out of your lungs.
Because it’s your name coming out of the mouth, with the voice of, the one person you thought you would never see again.
Scott’s eyes are wide when you finally lock gazes.
“You—” he starts then stops. “Holy shit.”
“W-what are you doing here?” You gasp.
“I’m out with, um, the guys,” he says, but his eyes never blink. Neither do yours. You almost want to, hoping this is some sick nightmare and you’re going to wake up in bed with a filthy hangover that takes you out for the day.
On the other hand, it’s Scott — and he looks good. Too good. His hair is a little longer, curling at the base of his neck. His eyes shine fifty different shades of blue with the flashing lights. His strong brows are furrowed into that familiar frown, one that has heat gathering between your legs. He’s got a suit on that seems to stretch for miles over his shoulders, top buttons of his shirt undone to reveal his pretty collarbones and that gleam of a silver chain.
You can’t be here. You can’t do this.
“Right, okay. I’ll leave you to it then.” You’re turning on your heel and you’ve barely made it forty-five degrees before his large hand wraps around your elbow.
“Wait, hold on,” he calls out, tugging you back towards him, your back landing against his front as you stumble backwards. He ducks his head towards your ear to make sure he’s heard but all you can feel is the ghost of his warm breath tickling your skin. “Where are you going?”
You try to extract yourself from him but his grip is firm, now on your hips. “I’m here with a friend. I need to go find her.”
“I’ll go with you.”
You absolutely do not want that. It must show on your face because then he’s scoffing, frown morphing into a disgruntled scowl.
“Is that how you greet a friend you haven’t seen in years?”
Instead of deigning him with a response, giving him the satisfaction of your annoyance, you wordlessly turn and make your way through the crowd. Scott is close behind, you can feel his height looming over you. He’s got a protective arm out to push away anyone who even comes close to touching you, charting a path through this Red Sea.
Jenna is on someone’s lap when you find her. She drags her eyes away from an unfairly attractive man when she spots you. You narrow your eyes at the man before turning back to your friend. “Are you good?”
“Peachy,” she beams. Her attention on you is short-lived when it wanders to Scott who’s hovering around you like a chaperone. “I see you’ve found your entertainment for the night as well,” she winks, eyes practically glittering as she wiggles her brows at you. “I’ll catch you at work Monday?”
Well. That’s your cue to go home. With one final press to make sure she’s okay, Jenna waves you off.
“Your friend’s having much more fun, maybe you should consider doing that for yourself,” Scott whispers in your ear, head ducked to reach your ear. “I could volunteer myself for that position.”
Whirling around, you trap him with a burning glare, which he only grins at.
There’s no way in hell you’re getting into this clusterfuck tonight. Not when you’re still half-convinced that you’re dreaming this up. So you turn back around and start marching towards the exit.
Unfortunately, he continues to follow you. He doesn’t even do anything except stick close to your tail. For some reason, that only pisses you off even more. Maybe if you will him away with your mind, you’ll turn around to find him gone. Because he can’t be here. Why the fuck is he even here?
“Why the fuck are you here?” You snap now that you’re on the quiet sidewalk. The music inside is muffled, leaving you alone with your heart beating in your ears and Scott’s stupid smirk plastered across his face.
He leans back against the railing, arms crossed over his chest. You can see how the cotton of his shirt stretches across his wide chest. Jesus, did he get bigger? How is that even possible? The worst part is the amused look printed onto his face, dimples carved out deep. “I’m doing a talk — at MIT.”
Of course, he is. You shouldn’t be surprised. You’d never admit it to him but you have been keeping up with him in the news. He’s been building a startup with advanced technology focusing on disaster resilience combined with real estate development. While you don’t know the full mechanics, you know he’s successful enough to be nailing government and corporate contracts, landing himself on the Forbes 30 Under 30 list.
You could also lie and say that his face is everywhere, but you really had to look him up to find anything about him.
“So why aren’t you talking? At MIT. Why are you here?”
Scott shrugs, “I reached out to the guys to catch up. I would’ve reached out to you too if I had your number.”
You stiffen, chancing a look at his face to find pure irritation. He has every right to be, but you also had your reasons for doing what you did — he just doesn’t know it.
A gust of wind whips past your bare legs, the chill settling on your shoulders. Boston is unforgiving this time of year so you quickly shrug on your jacket. However, you can still the weight of his gaze rolling over the length of you, slow and warm. His steely blue eyes look almost onyx with the way he drinks you in, dragging across your exposed collarbones down to your bare legs.
“What are you doing here?” He asks coolly.
“Out. With a friend.”
His lips tighten around the corners — slightly, only enough for you to notice. “What, to pick up guys?”
“No,” you scowl, “just for a good time.”
“Are you?”
“What?”
“Having a good time?”
You were — until him. “Fabulous time,” you sarcastically sigh as you pull out your phone, readying yourself to call a car home.
But your movements halt when you feel warmth soak your entire body, your breath hitching in your throat. Scott’s buried his face in your neck, his front against your back, nose tracing the column of your neck, palms splayed over your stomach.. His teeth graze your skin, eliciting a trained shiver out of you.
“How about we have a better time elsewhere?”
“No,” you swallow, “we shouldn’t.”
“Come on, you don’t miss me?” Scott slides his hands higher, enough for his thumb to brush the underside of your breasts. “We used to have fun, didn’t we?”
“Scott, no,” you protest, but you sound frail even in your ears.
“Why not?” He murmurs, lips placing soft, wet kisses against the back of your ear. Your head tilts on instinct, granting him more access as he nibbles down your neck.
“You’re drunk.”
He chuckles, “‘M so fuckin’ sober. I got a shot in when you bumped into me.”
“Then you should go back in there, go have a good time.”
“Found something more fun to do tonight,” he smiles against your skin. “Well, someone.”
His hands drift a little higher, cupping your tits and squeezing. The groan he lets out molds with yours as you resist another whimper crawling up your throat. “We’re outside,” you hiss.
“Never stopped us before.”
The more warm kisses he presses onto your skin, the weaker your resolve becomes. Your body moves on its own accord, leaning back against his chest while your own rises with a stuttered breath.
“Come with me. Promise I’ll make you feel good. Just like old times.”
“Scott…”
He knows — by the way you say his name — that you’ve given in. He doesn’t give you a moment to hesitate, squeezing your hip and keeping you close as he calls a car. His hand stays on you, toying with your nipples until you’re grinding your ass back against the erection under his slacks.
He hasn’t even kissed you, not properly at least. His lips stay on the pulse point on your neck, nipping lightly as his hands settle possessively around your waist. Even in the car, he hoists you over to his side, a thick arm wrapped around your waist to hold you hostage against him. When his other hand travels up to bury in your hair, he yanks on it just enough to have you gasping.
“Always so sensitive,” he whispers with a grin, “so responsive for me.”
“Fuck you,” you mutter weakly.
His breath is warm as he chuckles into your hair.
The car pulls up in front of some posh-looking hotel. You don’t have a moment to guess how much this place costs a night — nor do you want to, the number would likely break your heart. His hand is wrapped around yours, tight, like he’s making sure you don’t try to make a run for it, as he pulls you stumbling through the lobby.
Scott invades every single one of your senses when he corners you in the elevator. He bites down on his moan when he dips his head, nose nuzzling into the curve of your chin as he takes a deep inhale. His exhale quivering.
“You still wear the same perfume,” he notes, sounding almost pleased.
“Creature of habit,” you mutter, hands finding purchase on his biceps in an attempt to stay upright. Your knees feel a little weak with the proximity, with how much heat his body is radiating.
He’s barely swiped through the door and you’ve barely had the chance to close it before Scott is pinning you against the door and slanting his lips over yours. The first kiss knocks you right off your feet and Scott is quick to catch you and hold you up against the door — one hand on the back of your neck and the other on your waist.
He breathes you in as his tongue strokes your bottom lip. He tastes like a mix of vodka, sugar, and a hint of bittersweet nostalgia. The way he moves his mouth is familiar, you’re drawing on muscle memory to remember how you used to kiss. How to move your mouths in sync with the rhythm of your heartbeat.
You swallow his hungry groans as his hands explore you all over, sliding up your curves to push off your jacket before venturing south again to cup your ass from underneath your skirt. “This fucking outfit,” he snarls low, “never seen you wear anything like this before. So fuckin’ tiny, I could see your ass walking behind you.”
“J-Jenna’s,” you clarify breathlessly. “My friend’s.”
“And this goddamn top — I could peek down your chest the entire time we were there. Wanted to rip this off you so I could play with these pretty tits,” he murmurs, kissing his way along your jaw and down your neck. “Then this—” he squeezes your ass, “if I saw one more person try to get a peek, I would’ve bent you over the bar and fucked you then and there to show them that none of them have a shot. Not them. It’s only going to be me.”
Your response dies in your throat when he begins to suck light bruises onto your skin, pain blooming in concentrated spots across your skin. He’s always been territorial, leaving one mark after another to deter anyone else from coming close.
While you usually enjoy the slow build, the persistent ache between your legs demands otherwise.
“Come on, just fuck me already.”
“So goddamn impatient,” he snips but picks you up, legs wrapping around his waist. Your body slips a little lower and you can feel the bulge in his pants poking against your own core. Your panties pressed directly against the thickness, which leaves very little to the imagination. “So fuckin’ hard,” Scott grunts, “started getting a chub the moment I saw you. Then I saw you walking from behind, this gorgeous ass just swaying like you’re teasin’ me. Then you gave me that mean look you’ve got and I’ve never been so fucking hard in my life.”
“You’re such a freak,” you huff in a laugh
“Takes one to know one.” Scott backs you into the hotel room, letting you fall back against the bed as he tucks himself between your legs dangling off the edge. His eyes roam over you, exploring every inch of your exposed skin. You’re fresh meat and Scott is starving.
He leans forward, a single index finger starting at the outer corner of your breast where it’s pushed up by your corset and journeys over the trim of your top. You hold your breath, back arching slightly into his touch. “I can’t believe you were out like this. Dressed like a fuckin’ slut. I don’t even wanna know how many guys out there imagined fucking your tits.”
It’s demeaning, you should tell him off. But this is Scott and he knows exactly what you like and — god, do you like this. A whimper climps past your lips instead, a needy little sound that has him smiling to himself.
“But I’m the only one who gets to do that tonight. Isn’t that right, sweetheart? You don’t spread your legs for anyone else.”
“Do you ever s-shut up?” You snap, voice frayed to betray the desire thumping in your chest. His hands slide underneath you, settling on your lower spine, as your body rises instinctively to his touch. He drags the zipper of your corset down, peeling it off you and casting it aside.
Scott straightens again, tilting his head as he takes you in from his vantage point.
His gaze burns uncomfortably. He doesn’t say a word and, for the first time with Scott, you feel… shy. Hands fly to your stomach as burning embarrassment sears like a branded mark on your skin. He takes a deep breath and his sweet time outlining the shape of you like he’s recreating a sketch of you in his mind.
“You’ve changed.”
Your heart sinks. The two simple words sting more than they should. Pregnancy changed your body. While you know that it’s created a miracle, it’s survived and remained strong, you also know that you aren’t the same. Softer, more lines stretching across your stomach. Your muscles haven’t survived your long hours at the hospital. You just never thought it would hurt this much for him to point it out.
But you know better than to take this kind of disrespect. If he no longer finds you attractive, you know that you could very easily find another man to satisfy you.
You try to wiggle away from him as your face shifts in aggravation. “Well, I have. So, if you don’t like it, I’m going to go because I don’t fucking need this from—”
“Hold on, never said I didn’t like it,” he murmurs, grabbing both your wrists and pinning them above you. He ducks forward again, nose brushing against your jawline. He breathes you in, you can hear him gulp. “Fuck, you look so good, sweetheart. Sexier. Something about you. Even better than I remember — and shit, do I remember you. Thought about you far too much.”
Oh. “Really?”
He pulls away slightly, eyes searching yours as his lips curl into that smirk. “Really. Every night, with my fist wrapped around my cock, imaginin’ it was this tight cunt of yours wrapped around me. I remember how it would squeesze so sweet like you’re trying to choke my dick.”
“You’re so crass,” you roll your eyes.
“You’re tellin’ me that that doesn’t turn you on?” He grins, hand stroking up your inner thighs until he finds your center, fingers nudging the damp gusset of your panties to the side as he dips in between your slick folds. “Knowing that I get off thinking about you. Thinking about this perfect cunt of yours and the way you’d pulse around me, milkin’ me dry every time you cum. It’s like this pussy was made for me.”
On cue, you tighten around him, breath hitching in your throat with his filthy words.
“Yeah, she likes that,” he chuckles, “shit, did you get tighter? I don’t remember you being this stiff. It’s gonna be tough getting me in, baby. Gonna have to stretch you out and it’s gonna fuckin’ hurt.”
You clench again at the thought, a moan bubbling up your throat. Well, seeing as you haven’t slept with anyone in years, it’s not a surprise. But you’d never tell Scott that — you don’t want to think about all the other people he’s fucked since the two of you split.
“We’ll make it fit, we always do,” he coos and you don’t block the roll of your eyes, pulling another amused sound from his lips. “Still got that attitude,” he shakes his head, hands squeezing around your wrists, “Don’t worry. I’ll fuck it out of you soon.”
Scott drags down your underwear, flinging it somewhere around the room. You’re about to scold him but the only thing that comes out of your mouth is a broken whine as he stuffs two fingers into you. The slide in is humiliatingly easy with how wet you are, but his thick fingers still stretch out your taut insides.
“Jesus,” he mutters, “won’t even let me in, huh? Have you been takin’ care of her, sweetheart?”
Heat pools low in your stomach and rises to your face. He pushes in and out of you slowly at first, blue eyes staying on you to watch you squirm, watch your body shift off the bed. He mutters something about still the fuckin’ same as he prods his fingers into you, testing out different angles to see which ones make you tick — like he’s relearning how to please you.
He realizes that it takes no time at all to do so because you still move the way he expects you too, especially when he brushes up against that spongy area inside you that wrestles a noise that mixes a gasp and a moan from your lips. Through the hazy blur of your vision, you spot a proud smile dancing on his lips as he continues to push and push until you’re panting desperately underneath him.
Every drag of his fingers along your cunt feels like the strike of a match that sets your entire body on fire. He sets off flames in different parts of your body, all the while he’s still holding you down with just one hand. His head ducks to take a nipple into his mouth and sets your entire being ablaze. The two actions combined are enough to have you sweating over the risk of cumming too fast, too hard.
You’ll be damned if you finish in under two minutes with him.
Another curl of his fingers has you resetting that bar to at least one minute.
“Scott, please,” you rasp.
“Please what, sweetheart?”
“You know what.”
“Use your big girl words,” he tuts softly, “you can do it. I wnat to hear you ask for it.”
Your brows descend in a vexed glare. “Why are you suck a prick?”
“Because it fucking turns you on,” Scott grins, “and because you like my dick.”
You can’t help it, you poke because that’s what you do with him. “I can find good dick elsewhere.”
His fingers stop moving inside you, his body completely still as he levels you with a stare that sends a shiver slithering up your spine. His jaw clenches, white fury masked by his terrifyingly composed expression. “You wanna run that by me again?”
Your mouth feels like sandpaper now, snippy response scraped away to death on your tongue.
He pushes his fingers in deeper, drawing out a cry from your chest. “Think you can get good dick anywhere, sweetheart? Is that why you’re so fucking tight? Have you been spreading your legs for anyone?”
“Fuck you.”
“I thought you had better taste. Clearly, none of them could stretch you out the way you like. You fuckin’ like it when it hurts, when it burns so good you can taste it on your tongue,” he mocks, hand releasing your wrists to grab your jaw. He applies just enough pressure to have your cheeks aching, but that pain only has you clenching around his fingers, stomach twisting with stupid need. “Look at you,” he chuckles, gripping you harder, “gettin’ so tight around me before I even stick my dick in you. Filthy slut just likes bein’ treated like one. Maybe I should stuff that mouth so you stop running it — don’t need you to talk, just need to hear those desperate little sounds you make when I fuck you good.”
Your chest sings with shame when all you can do is take his words. But you take what he gives because he only gives you what you can take; he knows exactly what to say to rile you up, to tip you over the edge, have you seething and dripping between your legs. Even after years, he still knows your body best.
Except now, he has a touch more of that southern drawl that you’ve always adored but could never get enough of.
“She just squeezed me again, sweetheart.” His eyes twinkle with delight. “Why don’t you put yourself out of your misery and just ask me?”
Your lips pinch and Scott pushes deeper, eyes fluttering when he feels you tighten around him again. He can feel your control slipping away, pride curling deep into your chest to hide.
“Fuck me.”
He raises an eyebrow. “That it?”
“Please.”
He's biting back a laugh, lips curving just a little more. “Attagirl, there’s your manners. Was that so hard? Guess I haven’t been around to teach you how to be polite with me.”
Your chest throbs with a mix of disgrace and need again. He pulls out his fingers, watches them glisten with your juices underneath the room’s warm lights. Then, with his eyes locked on yours, he slides them over his tongue and closes his lips around it. He sucks on it hungrily, moan muffled as he laves at them to savor.
“Tastes a little different too,” he hums, “maybe I just missed you too much. Missed this pretty pussy.”
Maybe if you weren’t so focused on getting him to fuck you, you might’ve noticed a strange something laced into his syllables — something you may mistake as hurt.
But that wouldn’t be possible because Scott Miller doesn’t get hurt. He takes and throws away like it’s nobody’s business, only thinking about what would be beneficial for him until it no longer has a use. He’s untouchable, always has been.
Before you can process even a hint of it, you feel Scott sliding his cock along your pussy lips, wet with juices that can’t seem to stop leaking all over his sheets. “Makin’ such a mess already,” he grunts, tip poised at your entrance.
You nudge your hips lower in an attempt to encourage him to move faster, but his palm presses down on your hips as he gives you a scalding look.
“Behave.”
Your legs press together around his hips. He feels it. But you do as you’re told.
“Good girl,” he sighs as he slowly pushes himself in. The initial burn has your eyes rolling to the back of your head, like fire between your legs as you let out a cry with how much he’s opening you up. His cock parts through you like a spear and your breath catches in your throat as he finally buries himself all the way in. “Fuck, sweetheart,” he hisses, “you’re so goddamn tight. Feels like that first time. Like you’ve never been fucked in your life.”
“B-been a while,” you stutter, the confession slipping out before you can stop it.
Scott’s hands on your hips drag you closer to the edge until your ass is against his hips, he pushes your legs up against your chest, feet thrown over his shoulders. “I can tell. You’re such a good girl for me, baby. Been saving yourself for me? Have you been thinking about me too?”
You’d die before you give him the satisfaction. Because you have, but you’ll never tell him how many times you’ve come undone with the memory of him alone. Filthy words he’d whisper in your ear toiling around your brain until you can practically hear him right next to you. Promises that have you gasping for air before you’re thrown over the edge of desire.
“Perfect pussy, she’s takin’ me so well,” he moans, deep and guttural, as he begins to ease himself in and out of you. He starts off with a slow pace before building a steady rhythm that painstakingly stretches you out around his cock. With every thrust, he stretches you out just a fraction more, each time slightly easier than the last until the burn dissolves into warmth blooming between your legs.
Scott’s still watching you; with every jerk of his hips, he intentionally angles himself to hit all the right spots that have you crying out for more, your fingers tangling in the sheets. It’s as if he’s drawing out a map of you, marking x wherever he finds a winning piece. He knows exactly how fast to fuck you to have you gasping and crying, tears leaking down your face until you can taste the salt on your tongue. He knows exactly how slow to go to have you begging him, desperate sounds falling from your lips until he has no choice but to show you mercy.
He knows that telling you you’ve got a cunt like a virgin would have you squeezing around him. He knows that praising you for being such a good pussy for him would have you arching off the bed with your eyes slammed shut.
He just knows and that thought scares you more than anything.
“Fuck, I missed this pussy. Nothing else could compare, you know. Tried to, trust me. Every time, I can only cum thinking about your leaking cunt, always drooling all over my fat cock, thinking about you sobbing underneath me until I kiss away those pretty tears. I couldn’t stop picturing feeding her my cock, stretching her out until you’re whining like a bitch in heat,” Scott growls as he picks up his thrusts, sliding in easier, faster now that your arousal has paved the path in for him.
You should be offended by his words, the feminist in you wanting to tell him off for such ridiculously degrading words, but all they do is add fuel to the fire. You haven’t felt this good in so long and you don’t think—
“Wait, fuck,” you blurt out, fingers latching onto his bicep. “Scott, condom.”
Scott freezes, like deer in headlights. “Condom? We’ve never fucked with a condom.”
“I know,” you bite out but again say, “condom.”
There’s a vein pulsing on his forehead, the last shred of his self-restraint hanging on by a thread. He looks more inconvenienced than anything. “Did you get off the pill?”
“N-no, but just wanna be careful.”
Scott laughs, nudging his cock deeper. “Why are you worrying? It’s ninety-nine percent effective.”
Well, apparently, you’re part of that one percent of failure.
He sees that you still look conflicted and he lets out a frustrated exhale. “I don’t have condoms. Haven’t carried it around with me in forever.”
“I need to fuck this pussy, sweetheart. I’m not letting that pretty head of yours change your mind. Not gonna go outside just to get condom. I’ll just pull out.”
“That shit does not always work!”
“Neither does a condom!”
Fuck, he makes a good point.
Scott slowly begins fucking you again, chipping away at the walls you’ve slammed up. “Promise I’ll pull out when I cum. Won’t do it inside you. No matter how much I want to cream inside this pussy, just like I used to.”
Your stomach flips with that admission.
“Remember how I used to fill you up? God, I can still see white leakin’ out of this cunt. I loved cumming inside you in the morning, you could never get all the cum out so you’d be dripping with me. Could smell you when I fucked you again after too.”
Shit, he knows your resolve is down to nothing when he pumps faster into you. He doesn’t need you to confirm what he already knows. He returns to fucking you with fervor. His hips are eager as they chase after yours, slamming against you as his cock fucks all rational thought from your mind. He leans forward, pressing you deeper into the mattress until all his weight is squeezing the breath from your lungs. It only intensifies the pleasure, his cock sliding in with a trail of fire as he kisses your calves.
“That’s it, sweetheart,” he coaxes, “give it to me. I know you wanna cum. I can feel you tightening around me.”
More moans tumble from your lips as you babble your agreement, words slurring together in an incoherent mess.
“Give it to me. Let her go. I wanna see you fall apart on my cock, want you remember that no one else can make you feel like this. Nobody can — or ever will — fuck you this good. This pussy’s mine and I’m gonna make sure she only remembers me, only takes the shape of my cock.”
You’re struggling for air as your chest constricts, wanton need burning all throughout your body.
“Cum for me, baby. Come on,” Scott grunts, punctuating each word with a thrust.
With a few more pumps of his cock, your stomach tightens, desire coiling tight until it snaps and your pleasure crests. It feels like you’re soaring, body trembling with the force of your orgasm as you clam down around him, legs shaking and pussy sucking him in deeper.
Your cunt continues to pulse as your descent from the high occurs painfully slow. But Scott’s not done. He just uses you at that point, treating you like a little pocket pussy to get himself off as he fucks dirty into you. He spreads your legs so he can see your tits bouncing with how fast he’s going. You can tell he’s close when his drives get sloppier, cock just fucking into you because he can. Then he’s quickly yanking himself out with a gasp, tilting his cock so that ropes of cum spill across your stomach, your tits, decorating the skirt with abstract splatters of white.
His hard cock twitches against his stomach as he holds himself up on the mattress, labored breaths weighing down on his chest.
Even in your weary state, you can’t help but giggle. “It’s been a while, huh, old man? Can’t keep up anymore?”
He tosses a glare your way. “Let’s not forget the last time I overstimulated you until you cried and begged for me to let you cum again. How many times was it? Five?”
Your cheeks warm at the memory. “That was years ago.”
His gaze softens, melts into something that has your heart squeezing. “Yeah, it was.” ith a groan, he pushes himself up and disappears into the bathroom, leaving you in the mess of his orgasm. When he comes back out, he’s got a warm, damp towel in hand that he’s using to clean you of the sticky mess.
He raises your legs again to check on your pussy.
“Does it hurt?”
You’re only mildly surprised by his concern, mostly because you haven’t been on the receiving end of it for a while. “No, I’m fine.”
“You sure? I went pretty hard.”
All you can do now is roll your eyes, using your foot to nudge his stomach. “I’m a big girl, Miller. I know what I can take.”
His lips twitch as he shakes his head, muttering something you don’t catch under his breath. He plops down next to you, eyes sliding shut as he lets himself sink into the bed. He drapes an arm over his eyes, stomach dipping as he exhales deeply.
The lines of his chest are still defined. If anything, his muscles are more evident now. Veins running along his biceps to display the progress he’s made while he was away. You didn’t realize how much he’s changed, how much broader he got, how there are more grays on his head than before. Jawline that was soft through the year that you knew him sharpened into a knife that slices straight through your chest.
You turn away from him, eyes glued to the ceiling. The moment Scott stepped back into your life, he rolled out a fog that clouded your judgment. Now that the haze has cleared, you’re lying in the consequences of your actions, you can’t help but let the remorse carve its place into your bones. You’re a fool if you think this time will be any different.
It took you one night — one night — to fall for his charm. One night for your years-long resolve to fall apart.
You thought you would feel differently about him now, that you could let these silly emotions fade into dust in his absence. However, your heart still beats the same way for him — a little faster, skipping a beat or two, but always towards him. The two of you still move in sync, like two pieces of the same puzzle finally slotting together.
But you’ve changed — or, you should’ve changed. You shouldn’t be this easy, not anymore. Not when there’s more at risk than just your heart.
The shame crashes over you in waves, pulling you under, and suddenly, you’re breathless. The air feels thin when you think of Ben — your son who doesn’t even know who his father is, who has been curious enough to ask once but kind enough not to ask twice.
An arm splaying across your thighs sends you crashing back to reality. He rumbles with eyes closed, “Sleep.”
Gently, you remove his arm as you come to your feet. You move swiftly, body functioning the same it always does — opting for flight rather than fight. You collect your panties and quickly tug them on under your skirt. Before you can reach for your top, a hand wraps around your arm.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m gonna go.”
His confusion deepens. “Why?”
With a shrug, you pick up your corset from the floor and zip it back up. Scott steps in your path before you can make it to the entryway — still fully nude, cock half hard.
You force your eyes to stay on his face instead. “We fucked, we’re good, right?”
Annoyance flashes across his eyes. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”
“What else do you want from me, Scott?” You sigh.
You try to sidestep him but he moves faster. His shoulders stretch out to their full breadth as he straightens. “What if I want to fuck again later?”
“You’ve survived this long with your fist, I’m sure you’ll be fine.”
For a moment, he doesn’t say a word. The silence lingers like a ghost between you. He looks conflicted, eyes shifting around the room like he can find the answer somewhere on the walls. “We haven’t seen each other in years and you’re flaking on me?”
It’s your turn to offer no response, mainly because you don’t have one.
“You disappear on me for years. I’m seeing you for the first time since we graduated and you can’t even be bothered to stay?”
You pinch the bridge of your nose. “I just really need to get home. I have to go to work tomorrow to wrap up a few things.”
“I can drive you.”
“I have no clothes.”
“We’ll leave early in the morning.”
“Scott.”
Your mind wanders to Ben, wondering what he’s doing right now, how you should be there with him — instead of here with the dad that he never knew.
“Alright. Let me drive you at least.”
He watches as your eyes get distracted again by his nude form before you, him completely shameless, maybe even smug that you still find yourself cross-eyed with him.
“No, I can find my own ride.”
When you manage to maneuver around him, Scott hooks a finger through one of your belt loops to yank you back, and you’re now facing his broad, bare chest, the light smattering of curls directly in your line of sight.
“Can I see you tomorrow then?”
He ducks his head so his lips brush over yours. You can feel that familiar dizziness tease the edges of your rational mind. He knows exactly what he’s doing, especially when you unconsciously lean towards him, like a moth to flame, Icarus who flew too close to the sun.
“Scott,” you whisper when he pulls back to mock you.
“You ever gonna tell me what happened? Why you left me high and dry. You disappeared from everywhere, couldn’t find you on anything,” Scott begins, “Then you went ahead and changed your number. I had no way to reach you.”
You don’t blame him for the bitterness that stains his voice. Even after you promised to stay in touch, the further along you were in your pregnancy, the more you realized that you couldn’t handle the guilt of lying to him. So you… simply stopped. Stopped responding to his texts. Stopped picking up his calls.
Once he ceased his efforts, you changed your number. You hoped he wouldn’t notice, that it would be a clean slate. Clearly, that isn’t the case.
“Can we talk about this another time? I’m exhausted and I’m sticky—”
“Use my shower. Sleep here. I’ll drive you home then to work in the morning.”
It’s a kind offer. Far too generous for a man whom you distanced yourself from. “You don’t have—”
“I want to,” he insists, “don’t be fucking difficult.”
“Tomorrow, alright. Please,” you plead one last time.
Scott’s blue eyes wash over you, searching for a sign of weakness. He must see the firm stubborn hold in your gaze, because you see him deflate in real time. “Fine. Give me your number.” You open your mouth, ready to extend some bullshit excuse, but he beats you to it. “So help me god if you try to argue with me again, woman, I’m tying you to my bed.”
You know he’s serious. You can only relent and say that you’ll text him.
“Now.”
“Scott.”
“I’m not fucking around,” he snaps, “I’m not spending the time I have here trying to chase your ass down again.”
Again? You’re too tired to question it further so you pull out your phone, finding his contact — one that you haven’t touched in some time — and shoot him a quick message.
“Happy?”
“Delighted,” he bites back, baring his teeth at you.
You only roll your eyes. “Now, if there’s nothing else, I’m going to go.”
“Call a car.”
“‘Course, I will!”
He snorts. “Don’t act like you wouldn’t have taken the T home.”
You’re about to argue again, but he knows you too well. The T would’ve saved you money, but certainly not time. Instead of replying, you say, “I’m going to go.”
Scott still seems none too pleased but lets you go.
As you cave to the pull of slumber that evening, your phone lights up with a message.
It was good seeing you tonight.
You’re a goddamn coward, that’s what you are. You don’t actually have to come into work the next day but you needed an out. Instead, you wake up that morning with an old friend — that jackhammering in your head commonly known as a hangover.
Vices hit a little differently when you’re older, especially when you haven’t touched a drop of it in a while.
That goes for the drinks and Scott.
It feels like a fever dream when you wake up alone the next morning, you wanted to pretend like none of it ever happened. Like you didn’t meet your former fuck buddy slash friend slash father of your child at a club and went to his hotel with him as if no time had passed.
Opening your phone to his text was the first slap of reality.
The second was when you look in the mirror to see the marks all over your neck like you’ve been mauled by a mountain lion.
Possessive fucker.
Jenna’s message certainly isn’t helping either. Hope you had a great night ;)
You did. You wish you didn’t but Scott somehow still knows you like the back of his hand and, if you had stayed, there would be no doubt that he would change your great night into a fantastic night.
Pinching the bridge of your nose, you quickly reply to her with an appropriately crude emoji.
Scott — well, you do what you do best. You don’t respond.
You don’t reply when he asks you what time you get off work today.
You don’t reply when he sends a single question mark as a follow-up.
You definitely don’t reply when he says—
You’re going to ghost me again, aren’t you?
Instead of acknowledging the magnitude of your actions, you spend the weekend keeping yourself busy. Every time your mind veers to Scott and the messages left unanswered, you pick a new spot in the house to clean.
By the time Ben returns on Sunday, the house is spotless.
Your mom looks at you suspiciously. “You cleaned.”
“Yes,” you say before you turn to pepper wet kisses all over your baby. He giggles and his face scrunches up. “How was weekend with grandma?”
“We ate ice cream!”
It’s your mother’s turn to look guilty when you raise an eyebrow at her. “Is that so? How much ice cream?”
Ben, realizing what he’s just exposed, turns to his grandmother then back to you. He pinches his fingers together. “This much.”
“Mhmm, next time grandma gives you ice cream, I’m gonna remind her how much dental visits cost,” you coo, pinching his nose.
He runs off to unpack his bags, which leaves you alone with your mother who is much too perceptive for her own good.
“So, good weekend?”
“Good,” you brush off, glancing at your gleaming kitchen counter.
“Did you bring a man home?”
“Mother!” You gasp, “We are not talking about that.”
She rolls her eyes. “You’re an adult, I’m sure the birds and the bees talk is no longer necessary. Not to mention protection, you’ve learned your lesson there.”
“Thanks,” you drawl.
“I’m just saying you look… good. Satisfied.” Your cheeks flame. “You know you’re allowed to have a life outside of all this. You’re still young and there’s still time to find love.”
Love, huh? Scott’s face appears in your mind with that stupidly attractive smirk. You shake your head. “Yes, Mom. I’m aware.” She stares skeptically at you. “I know. It was just a night of fun. I have responsibilities, can’t be reckless anymore.”
“It was chance,” your mom murmurs, “you were never reckless.”
“The universe has picked her favorites and I’m not one of them,” you laugh, “but I think I milked my luck with Ben, can’t ask for a better kid. Hopefully he behaved?”
“He was an angel.” You nod, humming. “Are you not going to tell me about this man then?”
Groaning, you try to walk away from her but she follows you down the hall. “There’s nothing to tell and I didn’t bring him home.”
“Oh, you stayed at his?”
“No, I… went home.”
She lets out a little surprised noise. “That bad?”
No, that good. “I’m not discussing this with you further.”
Monday sends you crashing back to earth. While you spent your Sunday recuperating with Ben, a calm day of eating vegetables to balance the treats and touching grass on the playground, being back in this office — this dreary reality reminds you that life really isn’t that swell.
It doesn’t help that Jenna pounces the moment you walk in, an endless stream of questions pouring out of her lips about the hottie you were with and if you got your brains fucked out of your head. You don’t satisfy her with a response, slipping into your office and locking it shut.
An office job coordinating and babysitting adults for the sake of science was never part of the plan, but plans change and you’ve learned to accept it. Now, you’re stretching to work out the crick in your neck as you do a doom scroll of the countless unread emails in your inbox.
You’re trapped in there for most of the day, vision beginning to blur when you have to squint at the screen to decipher the letters. However, the banging close to the end of the day has you jolting awake at your desk, knee slamming up against your table.
A curse slips past your lips as you hop over to open it. Jenna — wide-eyed and dangerously excited — grins like a cat that’s caught a mouse.
“Hottie alert.”
You look at her, unimpressed. “Please don’t involve me in your plans to cross professional boundaries. I don’t want HR to mark me as an accomplice.”
“No, I mean hottie — as in hottie from the club who gave you those hickeys that even your concealer can’t hide.”
Your hands fly to your neck, where the bruises pulse in demand of your attention. Warmth crawls across your face. You’ve spent enough time allowing your mind to wander to memories from that night, you don’t need to do it again at work.
“What are you talking about?”
“He’s outside — looking for you!”
The splat of your heart dropping to the floor echoes in the ensuing silence. You must be hearing things because you could’ve sworn Jenna just told you that Scott is here at your workplace. The place where you work.
“No,” you blurt out.
“Yes,” she hisses, “get your ass out there. Clearly, you made quite the impression. Or did he make an impression with his dick inside your—”
“Finish that sentence and I revoke your rights to see Ben,” you warn and she gasps, biting down her giggles. “Can you just tell him I’m not here? Better yet, tell him there’s no one here by my name.”
She gives you a look. “He’s not an idiot. He saw me and clocked me as the friend who dressed her like that.”
Groaning, you press your forehead against the door.
“Was he that bad?”
Again, that good.
“He looks like a good time. Mind if I take a crack at him?”
The question has you jerking upright, your expression souring. Jenna’s a great friend, but Scott is— what is Scott? He’s nobody. He should be nobody.
“I’m kidding,” she laughs, “jeez, you’re obviously into him. Why are you being difficult?”
Because this will end the same way. Your heart broken. Scott gone again.
“Listen, I don’t think he’s leaving and the others are starting to gossip. They think you’ve got golden pussy that’s bringing a male suitor around this desperately.”
Fuck, the last thing you need is Scott causing problems at work. With a relenting sigh, you follow Jenna out front and find Scott standing there, looking impassively at some of the women — nurses and patients alike — who are shooting flirtatious looks at him. In fact, he’s not looking at them at all — his eyes float around the room until they land on you.
He doesn’t look pissed. No, his lips tug up into a smirk tinged with mirth. He says your name, your heart sinks. It sounds like a greeting and a threat. Your stomach turns.
Scott looks you up and down, a silent assessment that concludes in confusion at your clothes. Instead of addressing it, he hands you one of the cups in his hand.
“Tea,” he answers before you can ask, “with a spoonful of honey.”
Your favorite afternoon remedy.
Unfortunately, you feel your colleagues’ aggressively probing gazes burning to your side. It’s natural they’re curious; you’ve never had visitors aside from your mom and Ben — let alone a man. Let alone a man who looks like Scott.
You’ll never hear the end of this.
“Follow me.” You drag him by the elbow towards the waiting room, far away from the disappointed looks. When you’re finally out of sight, you turn around. “What are you doing here?”
Scott looks far from pleased, but his tone is calm. “Came to see you.” He shrugs, taking a sip of his coffee — probably black with a drop of cream.
“You can’t be doing this to me at work, Scott.”
“You weren’t responding to my texts.”
“I’m at work.”
“I can see that.”
“Don’t be cute.”
“You always think I’m cute.”
You take a deep breath. “Scott, what happened last Friday—” He perks up. “It can’t happen again.”
“Why not?” He scowls, jaw clicking off to the side.
“We’re adults now, we can’t be… doing whatever we were doing. It was fun when we were young but come on.”
“What? Too old to have fun?”
“I think I’m at a point where I should be looking for something serious, not a repeat of college.”
There’s a firmness to his eyes that makes you squirm. Something unexpectedly grave that’s foreign to Scott. “Serious,” he echoes, “you want serious?”
“Of course, I do.”
He licks his lips, taking a step towards you. Your heart skips a beat.
“If that’s the case—”
“Mom!”
Your entire body goes cold, the word both warms and slashes your chest. Your son barrels down the hallway and you barely flinch when you feel his tiny arms wrap around your legs, Ben cheesing up at you with a toothy grin.
You don’t spare Scott a glance when you crouch down to Ben’s height, allowing him to wrangle you in a tight hug. “Hi, bud, what’re you doing here? I was supposed to meet you at home.”
“Missed you.” He pulls away to beam at you and your heart positively melts.
This perfect kid. “Missed you too, buddy,” you smile, “I still need to finish up work. Think you can be patient for me and wait a few more minutes?”
He blinks at you. “Aunt Jenna?”
You shake your head. Jenna is always a crowd favorite. “Aunt Jenna—”
“Is right here!” The familiar voice cheers as she appears next to you. Ben throws himself around her legs next with a giggle. “Come on, we’ve got some new toys in the playroom I can show you. Cool LEGOs.”
Before you know it, she’s already whisking him away, leavingyou, Scott, and your mother — who is staring at him with a little too much curiosity.
On the other hand, you can’t even bring yourself to look at him. The thing that shakes your confidence the most is his silence. Upset Scott goes on long tirades, spitting out vile things until he’s clam enough to take action.
However, a very, truly angry Scott is quiet. The rage simmers on the surface, bubbling in imminent explosion on the inside.
Your mother grins at him with sparkling eyes. “I never knew my daughter had such a handsome friend.”
“Mom!” You immediately scold, embarrassment spreading through you like wildfire.
Scott clears his throat, smile cordial as he turns to your mom. “Pleasure to meet you, ma’am. I’m Scott. A friend.” The last word he seems to add reluctantly.
“Oh yes, she did mention… a friend,” your mom says with a teasing lilt that proves to push that stake of betrayal deeper into your gut. “We’re going to head back for dinner after this. Would you like to join us?”
“He has other things to do,” you say at the same time Scott responds with, “I’d love to.” This time, you do turn to look at him.
His eyes are cool, almost distant, as he regards you. It’s an impassive look that says more than most people expect. A shudder wracks through you as your mouth dries in fear.
“I’ll be there,” he emphasizes, looking pointedly at you.
Your body withers slightly under the intensity of his gaze and you choose to redirect your own displeasure at your mother who simply disregards you. “Wonderful, I’ll wait with Ben. Come find us when you’re done, honey.”
Leave it to your own blood to make the bed and force you to lie in it.
But you’re also your mother’s daughter so you take that as a chance to escape yourself. “I have to wrap up work so I’ll see you later,” you exhale quickly and high-tail out of there before he can even open his mouth.
Procrastinating emotions has always been your strong suit.
By the time you finish work and step back outside, you pray that Scott’s anger would’ve faded. He’s calm when he agrees to follow your family car in his own. You’re constantly peeking at your rearview mirror to see if he changes his mind but his car never disappears from your line of sight.
When you let all of them inside the apartment, Scott gives it a critical once-over. He politely toes off his shoes and steps into the living room. Sweat piles on the back of your neck as you urge Ben to wash up while you and your mom prepare dinner.
“Pasta alright?” You ask, testing the waters.
His answer is respectful and composed. A simple yes, thank you.
It only makes you more nervous.
Dinner passes by without a hitch, despite your bouncing knee the entier time. Your mom asks Scott how he knows you and what he does for work; she’s at least smart enough to tread carefully on the bigger questions of why you’ve never mentioned him and why he feels comfortable enough to show face at your job. The extent of his introduction to Ben is taht he is your son and Scott is your friend.
“Uncle Scott,” Ben confirms, familiarizing himself with Scott’s name on his tongue.
You see the ice in his eyes chip away, albeit slightly, but he nods.
After Ben gets exactly a single scoop of the chocolate chip ice cream in the fridge, you tell him that it’s finally time for bed. He whines about how having a guest means that he should be able to stay up longer. You give him one look and he promptly skulks to the bathroom.
You take this chance to escape Scott’s attention for a little while; god knows his staring gets unnerving after two hours of it. You take your time preparing Ben for bed, switching him to his comfy pajamas, reading him his favorite book with the voices the way he likes it. When he’s finally out cold, you get up, press a kiss to his temple, and turn to exit.
Scott’s standing in the doorway, watching you quietly. His expression is thoughtful, but he doesn’t say a word when you lead him back to the kitchen.
You walk your mom to the door, thanking her for the day.
Her eyes wander to Scott behind you who seems intent on lingering even when it’s late. She smiles at you. “He seems like a good one,” she whispers. “I like him.”
“You’ve known him all of two hours.”
“I can sense it. I like how you are with him.” You raise an eyebrow in question. “Emotional. You get riled up so easily. You’ve spent the last few years playing adult that it’s sweet to see you like this.”
Your cheeks are hot as you shoo her again. She throws out a final nice to meet you and see you again soon before she finally leaves the two of you alone.
Scott’s eyes chase after you as you fuss with your kettle, preparing caffeine for the conversation you’re about to have. Maybe you should break out that tequila buried deep inside your cabinet instead. He no doubt has questions. You don’t know if he’s connected the dots; you can only hope he hasn’t. Ben looks more like you after all.
There’s a small part of you that hopes Scott would know, call it fatherly intuition, but a bigger part of you wants to avoid addressing that question. He’s only here to visit, he doesn’t need to know that he has a son. If he doesn’t know, then the two of you can return to life as is once he leaves.
You don’t want to admit how much the thought stings.
“Ben,” Scott clears his throat as you set a cup of coffee in front of him. He gratefully accepts it, takes a sip. “Is his dad…”
“Not around.” It’s a safe answer.
“Who is he?”
“No one you know,” you lie smoothly, maybe too quickly.
His eyes narrow a fraction but he doesn’t push. “You never told me you have a son.”
“We weren’t talking, Miller. It would’ve been strange to say hey, hope you’re doing well, by the way, I have a kid!”
“Well, whose fault is that?” He snaps.
The air is strung tight, electricity crackling quietly in the echo of his words.
“I just—” He takes a deep breath, hands shoved into his hair. “I don’t want to fight,” he says, doing his damndest to try and mean it. You know that he wants to push, to question, to challenge you. Confront you for leaving him in the wind.
But he doesn’t want to lose you — the same way you don’t want to either.
“Ben’s a good kid,” you murmur, thumb stroking the rim of your mug.
“Well, you did raise him,” he notes, lips twitching up.
You clear your throat. “This is why I can’t do… whatever that was last night again. It was a fluke and a mistake. It’s been a long time since I’ve had a night out like that and apparently I just needed to get laid.”
Instead of the chuckle you’re expecting, some jab about you being abstinent, there is weight that settles heavy in the atmosphere. Scott looks at you carefully, lips tight. “A mistake? Really?”
“Not—” you stop yourself, biting your tongue, “not like that.” He cocks an eyebrow, looking at you with a mix of irritation and interest. “I just think I shouldn’t have been so irresponsible.”
“Why? You would’ve fucked any man that night?”
“Of course not!”
“So just me then.”
“Yes!”
The moment the confirmation leaves your mouth, you stop. Scott smiles, smug. “Good to know.”
“Oh, screw you.”
“You already did.”
The urge to hurl your mug at his head grows stronger by the second.
Scott bites down on his smile but you can still see the ghost of amusement on his lips. “But, listen, in all seriousness, if you need anything— I know raising a kid isn’t cheap and, with your hours and obviously childcare and all the necessities—”
You cringe. “Please don’t tell me you’re offering me money right now.”
“I just want to help.”
“Not your responsibility.”
His jaw clenches. “I know that, but it doesn’t mean I can’t help a friend.”
His jaw clenches. “I know that, but it doesn’t mean I can’t help a friend.”
You consider arguing with him again, defending your stance as a perfectly capable, independent, single mother. However, you know he means well. This is how Scott Miller helps, this is how he shows you he cares.
“Thank you,” you sigh, “I appreciate it, but I promise you I’m fine.”
Scott hesitates for a second. “You’re not a nurse.” It’s not a question.
“I wanted to do it, but the pregnancy and the tough hours just didn’t seem healthy – or fair to a newborn. I’m doing something safer, more regular hours. It’s not so bad.”
“Wasn’t your dream though.”
“Well, sometimes dreams don’t work out.”
He doesn’t look appeased. “Why not now? He’s a little more grown. How old is he?”
Your heart rushes in your ears. “I have a good routine going. It’s not like I hate what I’m doing now—”
“But you don’t love it.” Once again, not a question.
“It’s… a job, Scott, I’m lucky to be employed in this economy.”
He grunts but doesn’t push further. “I’m not going to give you shit for not telling me—”
“Shocker.” The sarcastic remark slips out on instinct, Scott tosses you a scalding look with no heat behind his eyes.
“But at least let me try and help you.” He knows you too well, can sense the argument threatening to fall from your lips, so he quickly adds, “I don’t want to hear it. However I can help, I will.”
When he has this voice, you know there’s no point in arguing, so you let it slide. “Sure. Thank you,” you surrender. “How long are you here for?”
“I’m leaving tomorrow afternoon.”
Oh. You’re fast to school your expression. “Got it. We should plan to catch up properly at some point then. Maybe tomorrow morning.”
The corners of his lips tug up and you’re already rolling your eyes, ears tingling with the stupid comment to come. “You don’t think we did that already? Or did you want a repeat?”
“Pig.”
“You love it.”
A laugh bubbles up your throat, light and airy that has Scott’s smile rising a smidgen higher.
For a moment, you think everything will be okay.
+ sam: im sorry for the woman i've become with him (i'm not) (i love this idiot so dearly). hope you enjoyed this part and look forward for more drama to come in the second!!!
scott is yearning for (taglist): @unabashedlyinlovewithyou @eiaf4uwn @thebabykashmere @nbhrhn @w1nchesterfiles @ae1szn @pinksplace @stanmarvelous @coffinlolz @chloluvsdilfs @athenxt
Being in love with Scott Miller isn’t for the faint of heart — especially when you have to watch him fall for someone else.
▸ PAIRING & WC: Scott Miller x F!Reader — 2.6K
▸ WARNINGS: Implied sex (no graphic descriptions), fwb to lovers, idiots in love, un-unrequited love basically, hurt/comfort
▸ A/N: first actual scott fic i wrote (and with plot!), pls go easy on me. thank you dear shay @lunexiax for giving me this opportunity to finally test him out <3 if you see similarities in the miscomm between this and right to love, no you didnt (jk i outlined for that one and thought the vibes would kinda fit scott too). more scott to come!!!
↤ main masterlist
Scott Miller is not the kind of guy you marry — hell, he’s not even the kind of guy you date. The closest he’ll ever get to wedlock is his marriage with his job. For as long as you can remember, he’s always been the numbers guy. Calculating the probability of success and conducting risk analyses to see if something is worth the effort.
With you, he has determined from day one that, while your friendship is worth investing in, a real relationship with you is not.
Scott is your best friend, your partner-in-crime. The two of you have been glued to each other’s sides for as long as you can remember. He’s a few years older than you and you grew up chasing after his footsteps, and he never seemed to mind. You never curbed that habit.
Not when you ended up graduating from the same university, with a major that complemented his future career. Not when you recruited for StormPAR because he was leading investor relations there. Not when you decided to pack up your life and move to the midwest to chase tornadoes.
In the first week of your three-month research project for the new sensors, you and Scott had a little too much to drink. One kiss led to another and suddenly you’re falling into bed with him.
Scott hesitates initially, his words about how relationships and women are a pain echo in your mind — so you find yourself blurting out we can keep this simple, no strings.
He only grunts in agreement before he slides into you. His mouth is hot, distracting, and the unsaid agreement is signed with the burning ache between your legs.
So you buried your feelings, swallowed your ego, and took what he could give you.
Because, for Scott, you’ll eat the crumbs if it means you get to keep the taste of him on your tongue.
It should be fine — this arrangement. You get him and he gets company every night, particularly when you’re in the middle of nowhere surrounded by crazy weather fanatics. Theoretically, it should be fine.
But you never expected the addition of a new variable — Kate.
Kate is… perfect. She’s gorgeous, sweet, and terribly smart. Within days of joining the team, she’s leading them to the greatest tornadoes, giving them the opportunity to collect prime data they’ve never been able to capture. She’s quick as a whip and she seems to get along with everyone — whether it’s the prissy, uptight StormPAR guys or the wild, free-flying tornado enthusiasts.
Once again, it should be fine, except you’ve never seen Scott so bothered by someone. She’s different, you can see it. The way he watches her, frowns at her. He calls her dandelion. You’ve always only had your name, he’s never had a cute pet name for you. You can’t help but wonder what he thinks about when he sees her.
If she is what he sees now when he fucks you. Even when you’re in bed with him, his mind is sometimes far away. He absentmindedly traces your bare shoulder, keeping you close even if his attention seems elsewhere.
You can’t watch him be silently enamored with someone else so you start leaving at the end of the night.
He doesn’t stop you.
One day, when your friend tells you about an opening for a data analyst position, you entertain it — even if it means you have to move to New York.
Because, while you love Scott, you also can’t bear to watch him fall for someone who isn’t you.
As you’re leaving his room one night, he finally stops you. He’s still naked in his bed, sheets pooled around his hips, as he catches your hand. The look on his face is indifferent when he asks you why you don’t stay; he is asking out of curiosity, not out of desire.
You’re shrugging on your shirt, back turned towards him. “I have to get up early tomorrow. I’ve got an interview.”
Maybe you shouldn’t have revealed that, but you’re exhausted and the honest answer slips.
“An interview? With who? For what?” He sounds more alert now.
“Just a job.”
“You’ve already got a job,” Scott presses, forcing you to face him with a tug of his hand. His brows are furrowed.
“I don’t know. I might want to try something different.”
He blinks at you for a moment, gears turning in his mind. “Something different,” he echoes slowly.
“It’s not a big deal,” you brush him off, “I don’t even know if I’ll get it. I’ll see you in the morning, okay?”
Scott, again, doesn’t say a word.
It seems so… easy for him to let you go. You know it isn’t on him to love you the same way you do him; that’s not a fair ask. But you also have enough pride to know when to take a step back.
Creating physical distance is not the challenging part; it’s dealing with the emotional toll. Every time you have to avoid your silently-designated spot next to him at bars or how you opt to take Javy’s car instead of his, a piece of your frail heart chips away. You don’t come over uninvited anymore, instead sliding under your own covers for the first time in weeks.
Scott’s not a fool. Of course, he notices but he still doesn’t say anything.
On the other hand, he actually starts talking more with Kate, private chats in the corner of a bar or early mornings over coffee. Sometimes his gaze would flick over to you, harden, and ultimately return to her. That used to be you, but you left that space empty for someone else to fill.
Then you finally get the call.
“I got the job,” you tell him quietly that night.
You told yourself this would be the last time. One last night with him before — for the first time in your life — you allow your paths to diverge. Scott in Oklahoma, you in New York.
The two of you are side by side in bed, you’ve slipped on his t-shirt, drowning in the cotton and his familiar storm-stained scent. You allow yourself to indulge in your last night.
Scott doesn’t look at you, his eyes zeroed in on the blank television screen of the crappy motel room. “Do you want it?”
No, no, you don’t. You want to stay here — with him and the rest of the team. But this is also a great opportunity, both for your career and the survival of your heart. “I think so.”
He whips around to face you, eyes flashing with what you think is irritation. “You think so? You’re not even sure?”
“Well, it’s a big jump, but I might take it,” you swallow.
“You shouldn’t do it unless you’re absolutely sure.”
You roll your eyes at him. “I’m never absolutely sure about anything.” Except for the fact that I’m in love with you and that it would destroy me if I stay and watch you fall in love with Kate.
“Then don’t go. Stay here.”
His words are cold and stiff. It’s calculated. You are an asset to the team. It would be a pain to hire a new analyst in the middle of tornado season and get them fully trained to do what you do. Maybe you could stay just another month until all this is over, maybe you can get them to postpone your start date.
But could you really do it? Could you stand by the sidelines and swallow your feelings long enough to last until the bitter end?
Sighing, you know your answer. “I’m not going to lie. I don’t think I can do this anymore. I don’t think I can be here anymore.”
“What do you mean?”
It’s now or never. If you’re leaving anyway, you might as well confront him — if you can’t have him, then at least Kate could.
“I’m not stupid, you know. I can see it.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You’re in love.”
The pin-drop silence that ensues is deafening. Your heart thunders against your eardrums; you can hear the hitch of his breath.
“I’m not—” he stops himself, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
With a deep sigh, you extract yourself from his side. Your fingers pick at the worn linen. “I’ve never seen you like this before, Scott. And listen, I get it if you want to end all this, whatever we’re doing.” He frowns. “Kate is wonderful, so I understand.”
Scott’s furrow only deepens. “What the hell are you going on about?”
“You and Kate,” you say, tongue heavy like lead in your mouth. “You guys make a good pair. I’m happy it’s working out, but I just can’t be here to watch that happen so I’m going to take the offer and move to New York. I know it’s tough to replace my work during this time, I’ll try and stay until the end of the season, but afterwards—”
“Fuck that,” he snaps, “like hell you’re leaving. What do you mean you can’t be here anymore? What are you going on about with Kate?”
Maybe he thinks you’re badmouthing her. “She’s great! I’m happy for you. I’m just—” your chest constricts. “I’m in love with you. Shit. I’ve been in love with you, Scott. I can’t do this no-strings thing anymore. I thought I could take it, whatever scraps you’ll let me have, but I can’t. Especially not when you’re falling for someone else.”
Scott pinches the bridge of his nose and he looks more than pissed off as he looks at you. “Who said anything about falling for someone else? Also, you’re in love with me? Since when?”
A groan slips past your lips. “This is so humiliating. Can we drop it?”
“Oh, no, you started this, so you answer my question. Since when have you been in love with me?”
“Forever! Fucking forever alright. Is that what you want to hear?” You grumble, “I was in love with you before… this even started.”
You see his tongue press against the inside of his cheek, his blue eyes sharp. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because you’re my friend, Scott.”
“Apparently not if you didn’t fucking tell me,” he glares.
“Would it have changed anything?”
Disbelief colors his face. “It would’ve changed everything. Are you kidding me? You’ve been in love with me all this time and you didn’t tell me?”
Is the thought of you loving him really that repulsive? He’s got his hands balled into fists on the sheets, jaw clenched like he would rather be anywhere but here. While the possibility of him rejecting you has always crossed your mind, you didn’t think that he would have this visceral a reaction. Gone are your chances of maintaining a cordial relationship after you leave.
He’s right. This changes everything.
“I’m sorry,” you whisper, “I shouldn’t have—” your breath snags in your throat again, your eyes sting with unshed tears. “I shouldn’t have said anything. I don’t want this to change anything between us. We’ll stay friends.”
“We can’t stay friends,” he scowls. Your heart sinks.
You press the heel of your palms against your eyes, praying the tears away. The last thing you want to do is cry in front of him. “I can’t— I’m gonna go. I need to—”
“No, you’re staying right here so I can kiss some fucking sense into you.”
For a second, you can’t hear past the rushing in your ears, the frantic urge to leave. But when his words settle in and your brain slowly digests each individual syllable, you pull your wet hands away from your eyes. Scott swallows thickly when he sees your face.
“You think what — that I was in love with Kate?” He scoffs but there’s no weight to his words. He almost sounds weak. “What gave you that idea?”
You balk at him. It’s your turn to be confused. “You— you’re literally always watching her! You call her dandelion for god’s’ sake! Who gets a cute nickname like that?”
“That’s because I’m bad with names! You know this. You know me. It took me a while to remember her name — and I keep watching her because she’s like this little circus freak. Who the hell guesses storms by looking at goddamn flowers?”
You open your mouth, then promptly shut it again. Speechless.
“And that job? I can’t fucking believe you even thought about leaving. Leaving all this. Leaving me. You know damn well I’d never let that happen. If you really wanted it — and you were leaving for yourself, then sure, do it, but you’re out of your mind if you don’t think I’ll be following you to the ends of the earth.”
Your lungs stutter against your ribs. “What?”
Scott turns to face you, hands sliding up to cup the back of your neck. He forces you to look at him. To really look at him. “I’m in love with you. I’ve been fucking in love with you.”
You feel the desert in your throat when you croak out, “Since when?”
“Forever.”
“Why didn’t you tell me then?”
“You were the one who said you wanted to keep it no strings! I thought you didn’t want to date.”
“That’s because you’re always going on and on about how women and relationships are a pain!”
Scott lets out a frustrated breath, as if you’re the fool in this situation. “Except when it comes to you! Jesus, you’re never a pain. You’re the best part of my day. I think about you all the goddamn time. Sometimes, I want you to stop doing this tornado chasing thing because it’s dangerous and I want you in a safe fucking bubble where nobody, nothing can touch you. But you’re passionate and I fucking love that and I fucking love you.”
“But you— what— this can’t be happening.”
“You’re a goddamn idiot.”
Your lips press together. “You love me and you’re calling me a goddamn idiot? Really?”
“That’s because you are. Fuck. I can’t believe I wasted all this time. I can’t believe I even let you take that interview,” Scott grouses, mostly to himself. “I need you to get it through your thick skull that I don’t want anyone else. It’s always been you. You think I’d let anyone tail me around like you did?”
A pinched pout forms on your lips, mostly to stop yourself from crumbling. “I just thought you felt bad for me.”
“You somehow managed to be the smartest person on this team and the biggest idiot,” he mumbles. “I love you. I’m not letting you out of my sight, you hear me. Need you in my car every day. Next to me every time we go out. I need you in my bed every night and I don’t want you leaving either. We’ll share one room from now on.”
You sniffle, “That’s very fiscally responsible of you.”
Scott chuckles, “Well, I’ll take any excuse to keep you next to me. Can’t have you getting bored with me.”
“Please,” you roll your eyes with a smile, “if we’ve survived this long without getting sick of each other, what’s forever, right?”
The reality of what you’ve just said slams into you like a truck. Heat floods your insides.
“I mean—”
“Is that a proposal?” He smirks. Before you can dig a bigger hole for yourself, Scott leans over and presses his lips against yours.
Sweet, slow, steady.
“Because I’ve got a ring with your name on it back at home. I’ve been itching for a reason to finally take it out.”
“You’re unbelievable,” you mutter, cheeks warm.
“Yeah, well, you love me anyway.”
That, you can’t deny.
+ sam: you know how excited i was to write this and i hope it didnt disappoint. ily queen thank you for always matching my freak and my yap mwah!!
scott is yearning for (taglist): @unabashedlyinlovewithyou @eiaf4uwn @thebabykashmere @nbhrhn @w1nchesterfiles @ae1szn @pinksplace @stanmarvelous @coffinlolz
clark x reader where he broke up with her to be with lois and weeks after the break up reader finds out she's pregnant. She tries to tell Clark but he won't let her reach out, ignoring her completely. She has the baby on her own and years later she runs into clark while she's out with the kid. the rest is up to you
Brief, violent, and leaving only emotional destruction in its wake. It wasn’t about anything monumental, not really.
It was about him being late, again.
About the empty chair at dinner, the constant cancelled plans, the vague, infuriatingly noble excuses. But for you, it was about everything. It was the final, frayed thread of a rope you’d been clinging to for months.
“I can’t do this anymore, Clark! I can’t keep waiting for you!” you’d shouted, your voice raw in the cozy living room of your apartment.
“I know, and I’m sorry, it’s just… work and Superman duties…” he began, his hands outstretched in a gesture that made you see red.
“Work? Don’t!” you laughed, a harsh, brittle sound. “Don’t you dare hide behind that. It’s always work with you. Your work is more important than me, than us, than ever having a life that doesn’t revolve around the next crisis!”
He flinched, his shoulders slumping. “That’s not true. You know that’s not true. You are the most important thing in my life.”
“Then act like it!” you screamed, the words tearing from your throat. “But you can’t, can you? Because you’re not really here, Clark. You’re never really here. You’re always disappearing when things get real. You’re so busy saving everyone else, you’ve let everything between us die!”
His face was a mask of pain. “You don’t mean that.”
“I do!” you hissed, leaning forward, wanting to wound, to make him feel a fraction of the loneliness that had been eating you alive. “You know what the most pathetic part is? I used to think you were this incredible, strong man. Superman. But you’re not. You’re a coward. You’re too scared to let anyone truly in, too scared to commit to a real, messy, complicated life. You’d rather play the hero for strangers than be a partner to me.”
The words hung in the air, excruciatingly toxic and final.
You saw him physically recoil, as if you’d struck him. The light in his warm blue eyes, the one that usually looked at you with such unwavering adoration, guttered and went out.
His voice was quiet, hollow. “Is that really what you think of me?”
In your rage, in your all-consuming hurt, you doubled down. “It’s what I know. This is over, Clark. I can’t love a ghost. I can’t build a future with a man who is only ever half-present.”
He stared at you for a long moment, his expression shifting from pain to a devastating, resigned acceptance. He nodded slowly. “Okay,” he whispered. “If that’s what you want.”
He didn’t fight. He didn’t argue. He just turned, collected his coat, and walked out the door. The click of the latch was the loudest sound you had ever heard.
The silence that followed was absolute. You slid down the wall, sobbing, the adrenaline of your fury evaporating, leaving only the chilling certainty that you had gone too far. You had wanted to hurt him, and you had succeeded beyond your wildest dreams. You had broken the kindest man you had ever known.
The first two weeks were a blur of grief and regret.
You cried until you were sick. You drafted a hundred texts, apologies that ranged from pleading to desperate, but you never sent them. The things you had said were unforgivable. You knew that. You had called the most selfless person on the planet a coward. You had taken his greatest burden and used it as a weapon.
How could he ever look at you the same way again?
By the third week, the tears dried up, replaced by an exhaustion that sleep couldn’t cure. Then came the nausea. An all-day, rolling wave of it.
You blamed it on stress, on grief, on the terrible diet you’d succumbed to. But when your period didn’t come, a cold, sharp dread began to pierce the numbness.
You bought a test, your hands shaking so badly you could barely open the box.
The two pink lines appeared in an instant. A definitive, life-altering plus sign.
Pregnant. Fuck.
Your knees gave way. You sat on the cold bathroom floor, staring at the little plastic stick, the world tilting on its axis. A baby. Clark’s baby. God, you wanted a family more than anything, with Clark especially, but not like this.
Despite the horrendous timing, there was one thing you knew above all.
He had to know.
You called him first. It went straight to voicemail. You texted him.
Clark, we need to talk. It’s urgent.
No response. Hours turned into a day. You tried again.
Please, Clark. It’s important. I’m sorry for everything I said, but this is much more important than our fight.
Still nothing.
Panic began to set in. You know that you said some harsh things but you didn’t think he would downright ignore you. Especially after saying multiple times that it was important. Clark always came when you said something was urgent.
You tried his apartment. You knocked until your knuckles were sore. No answer. A neighbor finally poked her head out. “He’s not there, honey. I think he went out of town. Said he had an assignment.”
An assignment. Of course. He’d run.
You had hurt him so deeply he had fled the city, and he was clearly ignoring you. You thought about going to the Daily Planet, but your pride, and the memory of the horrible things you’d said, stopped you. How could you show up there, pregnant, after telling him he was a coward who couldn't commit?
It would look like a trap, a manipulation.
You sighed and ultimately gave up. You had sent him over a hundred missed calls and at least fifty texts. If he was going to ignore you and the child he unknowingly created, so be it. At least you tried.
Your heart was heavy with the realization that Clark really wouldn’t be alongside you as you had this baby, but there was nothing more that could be done. So just like that, the weeks bled into months.
The nausea subsided, replaced by a fierce, protective instinct that bloomed alongside your swelling belly. You moved to a new neighborhood in Metropolis, told your friends a sanitized version of the truth—that you and Clark had broken up and it was messy.
You focused on your job, on doctor’s appointments, on preparing a nursery. The hope that Clark would somehow find out and come back slowly died, replaced by a simmering resentment.
He had left you. He had ignored you when you’d reached out. He had chosen to abandon you both.
Not to mention how hard the pregnancy was on your body. You felt more side effects than most, something you chalked up to Clark’s Kryptonian DNA, something you wished you could curse him out for.
The birth was also long and difficult, but thankfully your mom never left your side throughout the whole thing. You were more than grateful that her presence could replace where Clark’s was supposed to be.
As you finally gave that last push and saw your son for the first time, a tiny, perfect being with a shock of dark hair, you wept. You named him Jonathan, after Clark’s father.
You and Clark talked about names briefly before, and even though you denied the name to Clark all those years ago, you did secretly love the name. This child was a part of Clark, the best part, and he would never know.
━━━━━━━
Life with Jonny ended up being the best part of your life, something you never knew you needed.
Jonny was a surprisingly easy baby, always calm, never really giving you too much of a hard time. Slightly shocking, considering his father was the exact opposite.
He was a happy, curious child, with a solemnity in his eyes that reminded you achingly of his father. You built a life for the two of you, a small, but fiercely protected world. You told Jonny some stories about his father, mainly of Superman, because gosh did that little boy love Superman. So you did your best to paint him as a brave, kind man who was away on very important work.
It wasn’t a complete lie.
Eventually, the sharp edges of your anger at Clark softened into a dull, permanent ache. You missed him every day, not just as the father of your child, but as the man you had loved. The memory of your last fight was a scar that never fully healed, just a constant reminder of the words you could never take back.
Jonny grew quickly, and before you knew it, he was two and a half, and a whirlwind of happy energy and babbled sentences.
It was then did your past come crashing back at you.
It was a sunny Saturday at Metropolis Park. Jon was determined to conquer the “big kid” slide, and you were spotting him, your heart in your throat as he clambered up the ladder with intense focus.
“I do it, Mama! I big!” he declared, puffing out his little chest.
“You are so big, my brave boy,” you laughed, your attention entirely on him.
You didn’t see the man approaching until he was almost upon you. He stopped dead in his tracks, his familiar frame casting a long shadow over the sandbox.
Your breath hitched. Time seemed to slow, then stop altogether.
Clark.
He was wearing a simple blue t-shirt and jeans, his glasses perched on his nose. He looked good, a bit older, the lines around his eyes a little deeper. He was holding a small notebook, presumably for a story. His gaze was fixed not on you, but on the small boy at the top of the slide.
Jonny, oblivious, gave a triumphant whoop and pushed off, sliding down with a gummy grin. He tumbled into the sand at the bottom and immediately popped up, running towards you. “I did it, Mama! Did you see?”
And then he saw Clark. He stopped, his head tilting in that curious, bird-like way he had. He stared at the tall stranger, his little brow furrowed.
Clark’s eyes flickered from Jonny to you, and back to Jonny.
You saw the exact moment the pieces clicked into place. The dark hair. The shape of the eyes. The chin. The age. His face, usually so carefully composed, went through a rapid, devastating series of emotions: confusion, dawning comprehension, shock, and finally, a gut-wrenching, soul-shattering horror.
His notebook slipped from his nerveless fingers and landed in the sand.
“Is… is he…?” he whispered, his voice ragged.
You scooped Jon into your arms, holding him close more for your sake than his. “Yes,” you managed to say, your voice tight, your first time speaking to him in years. “Uh, Clark, this is Jonathan. Jonny, this is… an old friend of Mama’s.”
“Hi mama fwend.” Jonny, ever friendly, gave a shy wave, not quite able to pronounce his r’s yet.
Clark looked like he’d been physically struck.
He took an unsteady step backward, his hand coming up to his chest as if to clutch his heart. The color had drained from his face.
You studied his reaction closely, trying to gauge how he felt. This was the last possible way you ever wanted Clark to find out, but here you were.
“Jonathan,” he repeated the name, his eyes wide with comprehension. His eyes, wide with anguish, met yours. “Wh-why didn’t you tell me?”
The old, buried resentment surged to the surface, hot and sharp at his words.
“I tried,” you said, your voice low and venomous. “I called. I texted. I came to your apartment. You were gone. You ignored me. You made it perfectly clear you wanted nothing to do with me.”
The realization of what he had done, the catastrophic misunderstanding, dawned on him with a force that seemed to buckle his knees. “I… I was in Smallville. I… I needed to get away after…”
He couldn’t finish. He looked at Jonny, his son, a living, breathing child he had missed almost three years of. “When I came back, all the messages.... I thought… after what you said… I thought you meant it. I thought you never wanted to see me again.”
Tears welled in his eyes, magnified behind his glasses. “I’m so sorry,” he choked out, the words thick with grief. “I didn’t know. Oh god, I didn’t know. I would’ve…. I-”
Jon, sensing the tension, buried his face in your neck. “Mama? Sad?”
“It’s okay, sweetheart,” you murmured, your own eyes stinging. The sight of Clark Kent, the strongest man in the world, looking utterly broken in a sandbox, was almost too much to bear.
You couldn't do this here, not with Jonny clinging to you, his small body a shield against a past that had just become terrifyingly present.
“I have to go,” you said, your voice tight as you adjusted Jonny on your hip. He was getting heavy in your arms, but not nearly as heavy as the weight in your heart.
Clark's head snapped up, panic flaring in his tear-filled eyes. “Go? Wait, please. We need to talk. We have to—”
“I know we do,” you interrupted, not unkindly, but with a firmness that left no room for argument. “But not here. Not like this.” You gestured vaguely at the playground, at the curious glances starting to be thrown their way. “I... I need some time to process this, Clark.”
He looked utterly lost, his gaze darting from your resolute face to Jonny, who was now peeking at him from over your shoulder. “Can I... can I see him? Soon?”
The eagerness in his voice was both expected and heartbreaking.
Of course he would be eager. He was Clark. He was a father who had just discovered he had a son. You hadn't expected anything less, but the sheer intensity of it, sent a fresh wave of anxiety through you. This was happening too fast.
“You will,” you promised, the words feeling foreign on your tongue. “I just... I need to figure out how to explain this to him. And to myself. Please.”
You saw the protest forming on his lips, the desperate urge to fix everything right now, to bridge the two-and-a-half-year gap in an instant. But to your immense relief, he swallowed it. He nodded, a jerky, pained motion. “Okay. Okay. My number is the same.”
“I know,” you whispered. You did know. You'd had it memorized for years.
Without another word, you turned and began walking away from the sandbox towards your car. Jonny waved a tiny, clumsy hand over your shoulder. “Bye, mama fwend!”
You didn't look back. You couldn't. If you saw the devastation on Clark's face one more time, your own composure would shatter. You focused on the feel of Jonny's solid warmth against your chest, the sound of his quiet breathing, the reality of the life you had built alone.
The following days were a rush of painful logistics. Clark, once he’d recovered from the initial shock, was desperate, pleading. He wanted to be in Jonny’s life. He wanted to make it up to you.
So, despite how you felt, like a healed wound opening up again, you agreed to supervised visits two weeks later. You were heartbroken, not an asshole. Over those two weeks, you warmed the idea up to Jonny, who really couldn’t tell what was going on, but hoped he’d appreciate it anyway.
The first visit was in a public place, mainly so that you wouldn’t crash out from being so on edge to do this co-parenting thing.
The Metropolis Botanical Gardens. You insisted on driving separately.
Clark was already there, waiting by the entrance, shifting his weight from foot to foot. He looked like he’d bought out the entire gift shop; a stuffed elephant was tucked under one arm, a balloon was tied to his wrist, and he held a small bag from a gourmet cookie shop.
Jonny, spotting the balloon, pointed excitedly and rushed towards it, only being pulled back by your firm grip on his hand. “Balloon! Mama, look!”
“Good job sweetheart, that is a balloon!”
Clark's face lit up at his boy's excitement. “Hi, Jonathan,” he said, his voice soft.
“This is Clark, sweetie,” you said, kneeling at Jonny’s eye-level, your tone carefully neutral. “Remember, mama's friend from the park?”
"Cookie fwend?" Jonny asked, his eyes locked on the bag.
Clark let out a breath that was half laugh, half sob. “Yes. Cookie friend.” He handed the bag to you, his fingers brushing yours.
The walk through the gardens was stilted. Clark tried. He pointed out brightly colored flowers, getting down on one knee to show Jonny a particularly vibrant orchid. He told him the names, his voice a low, patient rumble. Jonny, initially shy, was soon holding Clark's hand, dragging him from one exhibit to the next.
You trailed behind them. It was a perfect picture: the tall, gentle man and the small, curious boy. And it made you furious. This should have been your life for the past two and a half years. You had been denied this. Jonny had been denied this.
“Look, Mama! Clark fly!” Jonny shouted, breaking you from your thoughts.
Your heart stopped. Clark had lifted Jonny onto his shoulders, but the boy was squealing with delight, his little hands patting Clark's head. “Up high!”
Clark met your gaze over Jonny's legs, his expression both joyful and apprehensive, worried he overstepped. “Is this okay?”
You looked at Jonny’s happy face and swallowed your emotions. “It's fine,” you said tightly, the words tasting like ash.
They spent the rest of the day like that, Jonny loving the new view and Clark never once stopping his rambling to him. Only when it was time to go, did Clark remove him from his spot on his shoulders.
Jonny though, wasn’t ready to leave. “Mama, I wanna stay.”
“It’s time to go baby, we can come back another time.”
“No! I wanna stay and play!’ Jonny says back. “With Cw-ark.”
You took a deep breath. Of course he would fight you on this. He was two, and he’d just had the most exciting day of his life with a human jungle gym who also supplied cookies. You bent down, your knees protesting, and tried to keep your voice even. “I know, sweetie. But the gardens are closing. We have to go home.”
“No!” Jonny’s lower lip trembled, his eyes filling with tears. He clutched at Clark’s leg, burying his face in the denim. “Stay with Clark!”
The words were a physical blow. You saw the conflict war on Clark’s face—the sheer, unadulterated joy at being wanted warring with the understanding that he was the cause of this meltdown, and of your obvious distress.
“Hey, I can try…” he began, his voice soft, but you cut him off with a sharp look.
“We’re leaving,” you said, your voice firmer than you intended. You reached for Jonny’s hand. “Come on, Jonathan. Now.”
The use of his full name startled him. His wail cut through the tranquil garden air, sharp and piercing. He tightened his grip on Clark. “No! Stay with Clark!”
Now he wants to throw a tantrum. Perfect. You winced at the loud screams and tried to calm down in order to figure out how to pry him away from Clark.
Clark took notice of your stress and slowly, carefully, knelt down until he was at Jonny’s level. His hands were trembling. “Hey, buddy,” he said, his voice thick with an emotion you couldn’t even name. “It’s okay. You have to listen to your Mama. But… but I’ll see you again very soon. I promise.”
Jonny just cried harder, his small body shaking with sobs. The sound was shredding what was left of your composure. This was the very reality you had tried to avoid. The confusion, the hurt, the messy, emotional fallout of Clark’s re-entry into your lives.
“I’m sorry,” Clark whispered, looking up at you, his expression one of pure agony. “I didn’t… I didn’t mean for this to happen.”
The apology, sincere as it was, ignited the last of your frayed nerves. “Just go, Clark,” you said, your voice low and tight as you finally managed to pry Jonny’s fingers from his jeans and scoop the screaming child into your arms. “He’ll be fine. Please. Just go.”
He nodded, rising to his feet. He took a step back, then another, his eyes never leaving his sobbing son. “Bye, Jonny,” Clark whispered, then turned and walked away, his shoulders slumped in defeat.
The car ride home was a special kind of torture.
Jonny cried himself to exhaustion in his car seat, his breath hitching in his sleep. You drove with white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel, tears of frustration and grief streaming silently down your own face.
You were angry at Clark for existing, angry at yourself for your anger, and heartbroken for your son who was caught in the middle of a storm he couldn’t possibly understand.
That night, after you’d tucked a sleeping, hiccupping Jonny into bed, you collapsed onto your own couch, utterly spent. The silence of the house was a mockery. You jumped when your phone buzzed on the coffee table.
It was Clark.
I am so sorry. I never wanted to upset him. Or you. I’ll give you all the space you need.
You stared at the message, sighing deeply.
You didn’t reply that night. But two days later, you sent a text. You had to give this a real shot, and he hadn’t done anything wrong other than get Jonny ridiculously attached. Damn, his charm.
Feel free to come over for dinner tomorrow. 6 PM.
His reply was instantaneous.
I’ll be there.
You would probably regret it, but what else could you do? Everything had changed the day Clark saw you two at the park.
So, the following evening, Clark arrived precisely at six, holding a simple bunch of sunflowers, more cookies, and a look of cautious hope. Dinner was still strained, but the edge of panic was gone. You talked about neutral topics—the weather, your respective work. Jonny, still a little wary, watched Clark from the safety of your lap.
When it was time for bed, Clark looked at you, a silent question in his eyes. You took a deep breath and nodded. “You can help if you want.”
You watched from the doorway, as he tucked Jonny into his small bed, your arms crossed, but this time the anger was gone. Replaced by a weary, complicated ache.
This was what you had wanted, right? This was what you had missed. Why'd it feel like this then?
Clark came out of the room a few moments later, and you both sat on the couch, opposite ends, and waited.
You spoke first.
“Look, Clark, I-”
“Wait, before you speak, let me just say this,” Clark interjected, his voice low and earnest. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his gaze fixed on the floor as if gathering courage. “I know this is hard. I know it feels messy and confusing and… wrong, somehow. And I know that’s my fault.”
He finally looked up.
“For three years, you built a life. A good life. A safe, predictable, loving life for our son. And I just… crashed back into it. I’m a variable you didn’t account for. A complication. And I see the toll it’s taking on you, having to manage his feelings and mine, and I…” His voice broke. “I hate that I’m the source of your stress. After everything you’ve been through alone, the last thing you need is more weight to carry.”
Tears welled in your eyes but you didn't dare let them fall.
“I’m not asking for things to go back to how they were,” he continued, his voice thick with emotion. “I’m just asking for a chance to earn a place in this life you built. However small. However slow. I want to be someone who makes your life easier, not harder. I want to be a partner in this, in raising our son, in whatever way you’ll let me. Even if that just means being the guy who does bedtime so you can have ten minutes to yourself.”
The last of your defenses crumbled. A sob escaped you, and you covered your face with your hands. In an instant, he was there, not touching you, but close, his presence a steady warmth.
“I’m sorry,” you choked out between tears. “I’m so angry and I don’t know how to stop.”
“Then don’t,” he whispered. “Be angry. I can take it. I deserve it. Just… don’t shut me out. Let me help you carry it.”
You looked at him, really looked at him. You saw the man you had fallen in love with all those years ago. You saw the pain you had caused him, and the pain his absence had caused you. It was a tangled, miserable knot.
“It’s not going to be easy,” you whispered.
“I don’t expect it to be.”
“I’m still so angry.”
“I know. And you have every right to be.”
You took a shaky breath. “We have to take it slow. For Jonny. For us.”
A flicker of hope, so fragile it made your heart ache, lit his features. “Slow is good. Slow I can do.”
The attempt to ‘get back together for the sake of the kid’ began in earnest after that. It was a well-intentioned disaster.
You tried to force the picture-perfect family narrative, and it felt like wearing a sweater that was two sizes too small—constricting and painfully obvious.
Clark started coming over for family dinners three times a week. The first one, he brought a casserole from his mother. It was delicious, but the air was so thick and you were so anxious you could barely swallow. You’d sit at the table, making conversation about your days while Jonny chattered happily, oblivious to the chasm between the two adults. Clark would help with the dishes, his shoulder brushing yours in the tiny kitchen, and you’d both flinch away as if scalded.
He tried to take you both to the planetarium. You sat in the dark, Jonny mesmerized by the stars above babbling mindlessly, while you and Clark sat in stiff silence, a full seat of space between you. It was a mockery of the dates you used to have, where he’d whisper fun facts about any and everything in your ear, his arm wrapped securely around you.
Each time Clark came over though, you couldn’t quite shake the ache of emotions that you couldn’t name, watching the two interact.
One evening, Clark arrived for dinner and Jonny’s bedtime, a part of the day that Jonny had really started to love.
He tucked him into bed, reading him a story and when he was fast asleep, he finally stood and crept out, closing the door softly behind him. “He's perfect,” Clark whispered, his eyes shining.
You were particularly irritated that day, Jonny giving you a harder time than most all day, and then being perfectly fine once Clark showed up. So hearing that, naturally sent you over the edge.
“He is,” you agreed, crossing your arms. “He's been perfect every day for the last two and a half years.”
He flinched, your attitude clearly apparent. “Okay… I don’t-” Clark began but you interrupted him.
“Okay?”
Clark frowned, then huffed, clearly confused, “Did I do something wrong?”
The question, so genuinely confused, was the final straw. All the forced civility, the swallowed resentment, the performative family dinners—it all boiled over.
“Wrong?” you repeated, your voice dangerously quiet. “You want to know what’s wrong, Clark? This!” You gestured wildly between the two of you. “This… whatever this is! You, showing up for dinner like a guest. Us, making conversation while our son, our son, who you didn’t even know existed a month ago, looks back and forth between us like we’re a fascinating, broken TV show!”
His face fell, the cautious hope shattering. “Well, I’m trying. I’m trying to follow your lead. You said slow.”
“This isn’t slow, it’s fake!” you shot back, tears of frustration springing to your eyes. “It’s you playing house, and me letting you, because I feel guilty for being the one who was actually here! I did the night feedings, Clark. I held him through every fever. I taught him his ABCs. And now you get to waltz in with a casserole and a storybook and get the hero’s welcome? It’s not fair!”
The words hung in the air, ugly and true. You were finally saying it, putting a name to the feeling that was gnawing at you.
Jealousy.
The deep, festering jealousy that he got to be the fun, exciting new parent while you were the one who had done the hard, lonely work.
Clark stared at you, the hurt in his eyes shifting into something else. He hadn’t seen it from that angle.
“You think I’m trying to be the hero?” he asked, his voice hollow.
“What does it look like?” you cried. “You’re the fun one! The one who flies him around on your shoulders and brings him cookies! I’m the one who has to be the bad guy, who has to drag him away from you, who has to enforce the rules and the bedtimes.”
He was silent for a long moment, absorbing the blow. When he spoke again, his voice was raw. “You’re right. I… I don’t know how to ever make this right. I missed everything. His first steps, his first words… ”
“His first everything,” you confirmed, the bitterness still seeping through. “I did it alone, Clark. Because you weren’t there.”
“I would have been!” he insisted, getting frustrated now that this conversation was happening again. “If I had known, I would have moved heaven and earth. You have to believe that.”
“Do I?” you shot back, crossing your arms. “You left. After our fight, you just… disappeared. That’s what you do when things get hard, isn’t it? You run. You proved my point. I was alone. I was sick, and scared, and I went through a pregnancy and a birth that nearly broke me, and you were in Smallville, licking your wounds because I hurt your feelings!”
He looked as if you’d slapped him, again. The truth of your words, even spoken in anger years ago, hung between you. He had run.
“I was wrong,” he whispered, his shoulders slumping in defeat. “About everything. The way I balanced my life… my fears… I was a coward. You were right. And my cowardice cost me the two most important people in my life.”
His admission didn’t bring the satisfaction you thought it would. It only made the ache worse. You were playing house, and both of you were terrible actors.
“Clark…”
“I’m serious, I don’t want to lose him again. I can’t lose you. I loved you, gosh, I still do. I never stopped. It was just-”
The words you had longed to hear for years now felt like a threat.
“Don’t. You can’t just say that, Clark,” you said, interrupting him, your voice trembling. “You can’t just sweep in after three years and expect everything to be okay. You don’t get to love me. Not after you made me feel so alone when I needed you the most. This is all happening way too fast. This… this arrangement isn’t working anymore. It’s confusing for Jonny and it’s killing me.”
“What are you saying?” he asked, his voice barely audible.
“I’m saying maybe we need to formalize this. Visitation rights. A schedule. You can be his father, Clark. I would never keep him from you. But we can’t… we can’t keep pretending we’re a happy family.”
The hope in his eyes died. He nodded slowly, the movement heavy with defeat. “Okay,” he said, the same hollow, accepting word he’d used when he walked out the door years ago. “If that’s what you want.”
You flinched hearing those same words all over again. He probably didn’t even realize that those were the same words he said to you three years ago. It felt like a slap and a wake up call all at the same time.
God, what were you doing? You couldn’t let history repeat itself, not when Jonny is involved this time. Clark stood to leave, his figure silhouetted in the doorway.
As he turned to go, you spoke, your voice small, finally voicing the words that ended your relationship all those years ago. “Clark, I know I called you a coward.”
He paused, not looking back.
“But I was one, too,” you admitted, the truth finally breaking free. “I was so hurt and so angry, and I said things I can never take back. And for that I am sorry. I let you go. I let you believe I didn’t want you. I built this whole life without you, and I convinced myself I was fine. But I wasn’t. I missed you every single day.”
Clark slowly turned around. There were tears streaming down his face, glistening in the dim nightlight. He didn’t say anything. He just walked back across the room and wrapped his arms around you.
You immediately sobbed into his chest, years of loneliness, fear, and anger finally pouring out. He held you, his own body shaking with quiet tears.
“I’m so sorry,” he murmured into your hair. “I’m so sorry I wasn’t there.”
You cried even harder.
You stood there for a long time, holding each other, with your sleeping son just doors down.
It certainly wasn't a magical fix, but it was a start. The pretense of a happy, instant family was stripped away, leaving only the raw, honest rubble of what was broken.
Clark didn't come over for a ‘family dinner’ that week. Instead, he asked if he could take Jonny to the park, just the two of them. You agreed, your heart a nervous flutter in your chest as you watched your son skip off, his small hand trustingly engulfed in his father's. When they returned, Jonny was buzzing with stories about how Clark had pushed him on the swing ‘all the way to the sky!’ and how they'd shared a soft pretzel. Clark's eyes met yours over Jonny's head and you were able to give each other a soft smile.
The formal visitation schedule you'd threatened became a quiet, mutual agreement. Tuesdays and Thursdays, Clark would pick Jonny up from daycare. Every other Saturday, he'd have him for the whole day. It was structured, predictable, and it gave you the one thing you'd been desperately missing: space to breathe.
It was easy to trust Clark with Jonny, it was harder to trust yourself to let go.
But you both learned. Clark made mistakes. He once let Jonny have ice cream right before dinner, and you had to bite your tongue hard. He called you, panicked, when Jonny scraped his knee, and you talked him through cleaning and bandaging it, your voice calm and steady over the phone. It was the first time you felt like a team again.
As winter began to roll around, a harsh storm came too. The power flickered and went out in your neighborhood. Jonny, frightened by the booming thunder, was clinging to you, his little body trembling. You were trying to light candles with one hand while holding him with the other when a soft knock came at the door.
It was Clark. His hair was plastered to his forehead, his coat soaked. “I was nearby,” he said, which you knew was a lie. He'd probably heard Jonny's whimpers from across the city. “I thought you might need... I don't know. A flashlight? Moral support?”
You let him in, too relieved to question it. Jonny immediately reached for him. “Cwark! The sky is loud!”
Clark took him into his arms, his large hand cradling Jonny's head. “I know, buddy. It's just the clouds bumping into each other. It can't hurt you.” He sat on the floor with him, right there in the candlelit living room, and began to tell a silly, rambling story about a friendly thundercloud who was just looking for his lost lightning bolt. Jonny's tears stopped, replaced by wide, captivated eyes.
You watched them, your heart doing a slow, painful thaw. This wasn't the ‘fun’ parent showing off like you previously thought. This was a father comforting his son. This was Clark, using his innate gentleness to shield his child from fear. You couldn’t be upset with that.
The other changes came slowly after too. Clark started asking you questions—real questions.
"What was his first word?"
"What stories did you tell him when he couldn't sleep?"
"What else scares him?"
“What’s his least favorite food?”
He listened, truly listened, to your answers, scribbling notes in a small, battered journal you'd never seen before, trying to learn everything he could about Jonny. Sometimes he would even sneak in questions about you too.
“How have you been today?”
“Do you still like this restaurant?”
“Do you need me to get you anything?”
“Do you still go out to the farmer’s market once a month?”
As un-slick as he was, you were secretly starting to enjoy that part too.
One afternoon, he showed up at your door with a bag of groceries. “Ma sent her famous chili recipe,” he said, looking hopeful. “I thought maybe I could make it here? So Jonny can try it. And... so you don't have to cook.”
You nodded and let him into the kitchen. He moved around with a familiar ease, chopping vegetables and humming softly. Jonny sat at the kitchen table, coloring, occasionally holding up his masterpiece for Clark's approval.
The scene was so domestic, so warm, it made your chest ache. But this time, the ache wasn't from anger or loss. It was from the terrifying, hopeful realization that this could be real, that you wanted this. You wanted him.
Later, after Jonny was in bed and the dishes were done, you and Clark sat on the couch with cups of hot cocoa, bodies pressed close to one another. The silence between you was comfortable.
“You've done an incredible job with him. All by yourself. Thank you again for letting me be here.”
The praise settled deep in a part of you that had felt so inadequate for so long. This time you didn’t snap back and you couldn’t help the smile that spread on your face.
“I know I can't ever get those years back,” he continued, his voice thick. "But I want to spend every day from now on proving to you that I'm here. Not because of some schedule, but because this... this is where I belong. With him. With you. If you'll have me."
You looked at him then—really looked. You saw the man who had flown across the city in a storm to calm his son. The man who was patiently learning every detail of your lives. The man who had held you while you fell apart and didn't let go.
The love you thought had been buried under years of hurt was still there waiting for a moment to reignite.
You reached out, your fingers gently brushing against his. He stilled, his breath catching. Then, Clark turned his hand, palm up, and laced his fingers through yours. His grip was warm, solid, real.
“I'm still scared,” you admitted, your voice barely a whisper.
“Me too,” Clark confessed, his thumb stroking the back of your hand. “But I'm more scared of a life without you both in it.”
That was all it took. You leaned forward, your eyes fluttering closed, and pressed your lips to his. It was slow, tender, and full of three years of yearning. It tasted of salt from dried tears and the faint, sweet hint of cocoa. His free hand came up to cradle your jaw, his touch so reverent it made you want to weep all over again. When you finally pulled apart, you were both breathless, foreheads resting together.
“I love you,” he whispered, the words no longer a threat, but a promise. “I never stopped.”
“I love you, too, Clark,” you breathed, the truth of it washing over you like a warm wave. “I always will.”
From that night on, everything shifted. The visits weren't just visits anymore. Clark's presence in your home became as natural as breathing.
Clark stayed for movie nights on the couch, his arm around you, Jonny curled up asleep between you. He was there for the messy Sunday mornings, making pancake batter from scratch while Jonny ‘helped,’ covering every surface in flour. He was there to unclog the drain you'd been battling for a week, and to hold your hair back when you caught a random stomach bug, his face etched with concern.
The love you rebuilt this time around was stronger. It was a choice you made every single day, to trust, to forgive, to move forward together.
The topic of moving in together came up naturally one evening as you were folding a mountain of laundry, Jonny's tiny socks mixed in with Clark's flannels.
“This place is getting a little small for the three of us,” you mentioned offhandedly, pairing one of Jonny's socks with a blue one that had a rocket ship on it.
Clark looked up from folding a towel, his eyes soft. “My lease is up next month.”
You met his gaze, a silent question passing between you. “There's a three-bedroom for rent two blocks over,” you said softly. “It has a pretty big backyard.”
The smile that spread across his face was like the sun breaking through the clouds. “A backyard,” he repeated, as if it were the most magical word he'd ever heard. “Jonny would love that.”
And that was that. You all moved in together into the new place.
His books appeared on your shelves, his toothbrush in the holder next to yours and Jonny’s. The designated mugs were joined by a small, blue plastic one with a picture of Superman on it. Your small, fiercely protected world expanded to comfortably, perfectly, fit him.
One Saturday morning, a few months after he'd officially moved in, you were all in the kitchen. Clark was manning the stove, flipping pancakes with intense focus. Jonny was in his high chair, talking happily and banging a spoon on the tray.
You were pouring orange juice, watching them, your heart so full you thought it might burst. This was it. This was the future you'd once believed in.
Clark slid a perfectly golden pancake onto a plate and turned to bring it to Jonny. "Alright, buddy, breakfast is—"
“Thank you, daddy!” Jonny chirped, clear as a bell, reaching his chubby hands out for the plate.
The world stopped.
Clark froze mid-step, the plate hovering in the air.
His eyes, wide and disbelieving, shot to you, then back to Jonny. The word echoed in the sudden silence of the kitchen. He was so used to hearing the struggled ‘Cwark’ from Jonny, but this, this was everything.
He slowly placed the plate on Jonny's tray, his hands trembling. He knelt down, bringing himself to Jonny's eye level, his voice a choked whisper. “What did you say, buddy?”
Jonny, already stuffing pancake into his mouth, just grinned, a smear of syrup on his cheek. "Thank you for the pancakes, daddy!"
A sob ripped from Clark's throat. He buried his face in his hands, his broad shoulders shaking. You were at his side in an instant, your hand on his back, your own vision blurry with tears.
“Hey,” you murmured, rubbing circles on his back. “Hey, it's okay.”
He looked up at you, his face streaked with tears, “When... when did he learn that?” he choked out.
You smiled through your own tears, cupping his face. “We've been practicing,” you admitted softly. “For a few weeks now. I told him that you were his daddy, his very own superhero, and that whenever he felt ready, he could call you that.”
Clark stared at you, the magnitude of it all and then pulled you into a crushing hug, then a soft kiss, his body still trembling. “Thank you,” he wept into your hair. “Thank you.”
You held him, this strong man, brought to his knees by a single word from his son. In that moment, surrounded by the smell of pancakes and syrup, with Jonny's happy words and Clark’s loving embrace, every moment leading up to this felt worth it.
And as Clark finally pulled back, wiping his eyes and looking at you with a love so deep it felt like coming home, you knew, without a doubt, that your future was finally, completely, and wonderfully whole.
━━━━━━━
author's note: hii!! lowk just realized, i changed the argument a bit from the og request but i hope you still enjoyed! lots of love to all my followers, tysm for the continued support on my works <33
summary: Clark is the perfect boyfriend. He sends your work flowers, is always on time, and genuinely listens to whatever you have to say. Until he's late by forty-five minutes and cracks begin to show.
word count: 17.4k+
pairing: clark kent x fem!reader
notes: my man on willpower might be my favorite song off of man's best friend... okay i lied, i can't pick my favorite song. anyways, it got me thinking, clark would obviously be the best boyfriend, but at some point things would start to crack because he can't possibly be the bestest boyfriend ever AND superman
*edit* - this has been in the drafts since like... september? october? i hope people are still reading this lovely goofball :)
warnings/tags: fluff, angst, clark is a little secretive, but he's trying his best guys, implied smut (but it's a fade to black scene, nothing explicit), it's also implied that clark has a big dick lol, drinking alcohol, getting drunk, clark isn't the greatest liar, you don't know clark is superman
Your desk was already crowded with half-finished drafts, a stack of sticky notes you swore you’d sort later, and the empty coffee cup you’d been nursing since nine a.m. So when the delivery guy stopped at your cubicle holding a glass vase filled with a ridiculously perfect bouquet of pink lilies and yellow roses, you almost thought he’d gotten the wrong floor.
“Delivery for… you,” the man said, squinting at the tag before pronouncing your name. He placed the vase down amid your mess of papers, the flowers instantly outshining everything else on your desk. Around you, the newsroom erupted into a mix of whistles and knowing laughter. A few of your coworkers leaned over their monitors to get a better look.
“Wow,” someone muttered. “Somebody’s got a keeper.”
You could feel the heat creep up your cheeks as you plucked the little card tucked into the blooms. Sorry I couldn’t walk them over myself. Don’t work too hard today. —C.
Clark.
The silly grin broke across your face before you could stop it. You slid the card back into the arrangement and tried to refocus on your monitor, but the words blurred. A coworker nudged your shoulder. “Is this, like, the third time this month? Flowers at the office? You sure he’s real and not, like, some romance novel you manifested?”
You laughed softly, ducking your head. “He’s real. Trust me.”
And he was. Clark Kent. Sweet, impossibly polite Clark, who had held the door open for you the first day you’d met, who walked you home after dinner even though his apartment was in the opposite direction, who never forgot to ask about your day and actually listened to the answer.
He was the kind of guy who remembered that you liked sugar in your coffee but hated cream, who called his mom once a week without fail, who looked you in the eyes like there was nowhere else in the world he’d rather be.
It felt absurdly… easy with him. No guessing games, no disappearing acts, none of the constant anxiety you’d carried from relationships past. Just Clark, steady and warm as the Kansas summer he came from.
That night, he showed up at your apartment door holding a bag that smelled like takeout pad thai. “Dinner,” he said with a sheepish grin, adjusting his glasses with one hand. “I thought maybe you hadn’t eaten yet.”
You leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. “Flowers at my office and pad thai at my door? You know you’re setting the bar way too high, right?”
Clark tilted his head, his smile spreading slow and easy. “Then I’ll just have to keep meeting it.”
It wasn’t the grand words that melted you. It was the way he said them, simple and honest, as though they were the most obvious thing in the world. You let him in, taking the bag from his hands as he shrugged off his coat. “One day, my coworkers are going to make a betting pool about you,” you teased, placing the food on the counter. “Half of them are convinced you’re secretly a model.”
Clark actually laughed at that, low and warm. “A model? That’s new. Usually people just assume I’ve got hay stuck to my boots.”
“Don’t tempt me, Kent. I’d pay to see you in a cowboy hat.”
He shot you a mock-stern look over his glasses, but the corners of his mouth twitched upward anyway.
You were used to sweet gestures from Clark now—flowers, food, the way he carried your groceries as though they weighed nothing. But it wasn’t just that. It was how he never seemed to be playing a part, never doing it for show. His kindness wasn’t performative. It was him.
And that, more than the lilies and roses sitting on your desk, terrified you in the best possible way. Because for the first time in a long time, you believed you’d found someone who really was too good to be true.
---
The rain had started sometime around eight, soft at first and then pounding against the windows in steady sheets. You were curled on the couch with a blanket draped over your lap, the faint glow of the TV screen painting the living room in flickering light. The scent of popcorn filled the air, warm and buttery, though you hadn’t touched it yet because Clark had insisted on being the one to make it.
You watched him in the kitchen as he moved about with an almost comical level of focus, peering down at the stovetop pan like it held the secrets of the universe. The sound of kernels popping filled the silence, punctuated every so often by his quiet hum—something you had noticed he did when he was comfortable. A little tune, off-key but charming, that made the apartment feel more like home than it ever had before. “Clark,” you called, smiling when he glanced over his shoulder at you with that earnest look that always knocked the air right out of your lungs. “You know we could’ve just microwaved a bag, right?”
He blinked, adjusting his glasses with the back of his wrist. “But this way’s better.”
“Better, or just an excuse to hover over a pan like a mad scientist?”
His grin broke through, bright and boyish. “Maybe both.”
By the time he brought the bowl over, full to the brim, you’d already queued up the movie. He sat down beside you, close enough that your shoulders brushed, the couch dipping under his weight. You pulled the blanket over both of your laps, and his hand slipped under it almost instantly, warm and calloused against your own. He gave your fingers a gentle squeeze without even looking, eyes fixed on the opening credits. “You always do that,” you said softly, leaning your head against his shoulder.
“Do what?”
“Hold my hand like you’ve been waiting all day just to do it.”
Clark was quiet for a moment, then angled his head to glance at you. His blue eyes caught the light of the TV, clear and startling even in shadow. “Maybe I have been.”
You rolled your eyes, though your chest tightened in the best way. “Dangerously close to cheesy, Kent.”
“Mm. But you like cheesy.”
You couldn’t argue with that, so you only smiled, turning back to the movie as you dug a handful of popcorn out of the bowl. Clark let you, though you noticed he hadn’t touched any yet.
Half an hour in, you caught yourself watching him more than the screen. He was invested in the film, brows furrowed slightly, mouth parted just enough to show he was completely drawn in. You’d seen that expression before—whether you were talking about your day, whether he was leafing through a book at your apartment, whether he was holding a conversation with a stranger on the subway. He paid attention. Real attention. The kind that was so rare it felt almost like a miracle. When he caught you staring, his lips curved into a small, crooked smile. “What?” he whispered, the word almost swallowed by the movie’s dialogue.
“Nothing.” You shook your head, settling back against him. “Just… you’re kind of perfect, you know that?”
He chuckled under his breath, pressing a kiss to your temple like it was second nature. “I don’t know about perfect.”
“Well, I do,” you murmured, and you meant it. Every silly, sappy word. You stayed like that for the rest of the night, tangled under the blanket, Clark’s arm warm around you. The rain kept on against the windows, the popcorn slowly dwindled, and you thought—not for the first time—that if this was all there ever was, it would be enough.
---
Saturday mornings with Clark had become something of a tradition, though you couldn’t remember when exactly it started. Maybe it was the first time he’d shown up outside your building with two coffees in hand and said, “come on, there’s a farmer’s market a few blocks over,” like it was the most obvious idea in the world. Since then, it had become your ritual: wake up late, wander through the market together, buy things you didn’t really need, and eat pastries that were too sweet for breakfast but somehow perfect anyway.
That morning was no different, except that the sun was shining in the kind of way that made the city look alive—golden light glancing off windows, air already warm but softened by a breeze that carried with it the smell of bread, flowers, and fruit.
Clark walked beside you with the easy confidence of someone who seemed made for sidewalks and crowded streets, though he still had that Kansas farm-boy way of greeting everyone. A smile here, a nod there, the occasional “good morning” to a vendor who looked half-asleep. You carried a tote bag slung over your shoulder, already heavy with apples and a jar of honey Clark had insisted you try because “the bees here are different, you can taste it.”
He reached over to lightly brush the back of your neck as you stopped at a stall bursting with sunflowers. “These look like you,” he said, just as casually as if he’d said these are yellow.
You raised a brow, half teasing, half flustered. “Tall and prone to wilting in the heat?”
Clark laughed, the sound warm and unguarded, and shook his head. “Bright. You make people stop and smile.”
You didn’t have a good comeback for that, so you busied yourself pretending to examine the flowers. The vendor, an older woman with silver hair pulled into a bun, caught the exchange and grinned knowingly. “You’ve got yourself a sweet one,” she said to you, as though Clark wasn’t standing right there.
“He’s alright,” you replied, fighting your smile as you glanced up at him. Clark ducked his head, clearly embarrassed, and you felt a rush of affection for the way his ears turned pink when someone complimented him.
Eventually, you moved on, weaving through stalls filled with homemade jams and colorful scarves. Clark stopped to taste every sample offered to him—bits of cheese on toothpicks, slices of peach, small cups of cider—and made thoughtful little comments to each vendor. You teased him for it, whispering, “you know you don’t have to write a review for every single one, right?”
“I just think they should know their work’s appreciated,” he said earnestly, handing a few dollars over for a small loaf of bread you weren’t sure you needed. “It’s not easy, making something with your own hands and putting it out here for people to judge.”
The sincerity in his voice made your heart twist in that way it always did when you realized, again, that this was who he was. Not an act. Not something he put on to impress you. Just Clark—kind in ways that were almost disarming. At one point, you both stopped at a stand selling handmade candles. The vendor had arranged them in neat little rows: lavender, vanilla, cinnamon, pine. Clark picked one up and held it under your nose, his hand brushing against your cheek as he said, “this one smells like Christmas.”
You inhaled, smiling. “You’re right. We should get it.”
“You sure? You already have three candles on your coffee table.”
“And now I’ll have four.”
He chuckled and set the jar in your tote bag without further argument. As you made your way back toward the end of the market, your bag now heavier with bread, fruit, honey, and candles, Clark reached over and laced his fingers through yours. It wasn’t a dramatic gesture; he just did it in that simple, steady way of his, like holding your hand was as natural as breathing.
And you thought about how easy it was, walking with him. How different it felt from every other relationship you’d had—no guessing, no waiting for the other shoe to drop. Just warmth, laughter, little touches, and the steady certainty that he wanted to be there, with you, exactly in that moment. You let yourself believe, just for a little longer, that maybe he really was too good to be true.
---
You checked your watch for the third time in ten minutes, the ticking second hand making you more aware of the quiet hum of the restaurant around you. The host had already come by twice, asking gently if you were still waiting on someone. You’d smiled politely, insisting your date would be there any minute. But you couldn’t ignore the way the waiter glanced at your empty water glass, or the way a couple at the next table whispered, eyes darting in your direction.
Clark was late. Not a little late, either—forty-five minutes.
You shifted in your seat, trying not to let the disappointment settle too heavily in your chest. Up until now, Clark had been impeccable. The kind of boyfriend who texted if he thought he’d be five minutes behind, who apologized for sneezing too loudly during a movie. It wasn’t like him to leave you sitting alone at a table while the evening dimmed outside and strangers quietly wondered if you’d been stood up.
Finally, just when you were considering asking for the check and slipping out before you embarrassed yourself further, the front door swung open. Clark stumbled in with his hair windblown and his tie loosened like he’d sprinted the last few blocks. His glasses slid slightly down his nose, and he looked both breathless and guilty as his gaze found you immediately.
“I’m so sorry,” he said, hurrying over to the table. His large frame seemed awkward as he tried to shrink into the small space, sliding into the seat across from you. “I—Perry kept me late. He wanted edits on an article and I couldn’t leave until I turned it in.”
You raised an eyebrow, masking the sting with practiced calm. “An hour late?”
Clark winced, pushing his glasses up with one finger. “I know. I should’ve called. I didn’t mean to leave you waiting.”
You studied him across the table. He looked tired, yes, but not in the way you’d seen him before after a long day at the Planet. There was something else in his eyes—something sharp, like adrenaline fading, like he’d just been somewhere else entirely. Still, you told yourself not to overanalyze. You weren’t going to be that person, the one who jumped on the first misstep. “It’s fine,” you said finally, your voice softer than you felt. “Just… next time, a text would be nice.”
Relief washed across his face, his shoulders sagging as though you’d lifted a weight off of them. “You’re right. You’re absolutely right. It won’t happen again.”
The waiter came by to take your order, and you tried to settle back into the rhythm of the evening. Clark smiled, made jokes, asked about your day. He reached across the table and brushed his thumb over your knuckles, that warm, steady touch that usually melted every trace of frustration from you.
But even as you laughed at one of his self-deprecating stories, you couldn’t shake the image of him rushing in with his hair askew, looking like he’d just stepped out of a storm. Perry White might have been demanding, sure—but you’d never seen editing an article leave someone looking like they’d run through a war zone.
You pushed the thought aside. One late night didn’t erase the flowers, the movie nights, the mornings at the farmer’s market. Everyone slipped up eventually. Everyone had flaws. Still, as you lifted your wine glass and forced another smile, a whisper curled in the back of your mind.
Maybe he isn’t as perfect as I thought.
---
By Tuesday afternoon, you had almost managed to let the sting of Friday’s date fade. Almost. The office was loud enough to distract you—phones ringing, printers whining, keyboards clattering—but every now and then, your mind circled back to that long hour you’d spent alone at the restaurant table, pretending you weren’t being pitied by strangers.
That was when one of the interns appeared at your desk, a little nervous and balancing a cardboard tray in both hands. “Uh—delivery for you,” he said, carefully setting it down beside your computer.
You blinked, surprised. Nestled in the tray was a perfectly iced cup from your favorite café across town. Not just your favorite café, but your favorite order—the one so specific and overly complicated you barely asked for it unless you were in a mood brave enough to risk the barista’s side-eye. And next to the drink, a small paper bag with the café’s logo stamped on the front. You opened it to find a sandwich wrapped neatly in parchment, exactly the way you liked it.
A folded napkin slipped out, and tucked into it was a note, written in Clark’s careful handwriting: Sorry for Friday. Thought lunch might buy me forgiveness. —C
You couldn’t stop the smile that tugged at your mouth, even as you tried to shake your head at the audacity of him. He hadn’t just sent flowers this time. He’d remembered the drink you always rambled about, the sandwich you’d ordered once when you dragged him across town, swearing it was worth the hike. He hadn’t teased you for your oddly specific preferences, hadn’t forgotten. He’d remembered.
“Wow,” one of your coworkers muttered, leaning against your cubicle wall. “The flower guy’s leveling up.”
You rolled your eyes but couldn’t deny the warm flutter in your chest. “It’s just lunch.”
“Mm-hm.” The coworker raised a brow. “He’s spoiling you. Admit it.”
You didn’t answer, instead sipping your drink and savoring how perfectly made it was. Later that evening, Clark showed up at your apartment, looking sheepish as he shifted from one foot to the other in your doorway. He carried a small, battered notebook in his hand, though he quickly tucked it into his coat pocket when he saw your curious glance. “Did the bribe work?” he asked lightly, but there was an edge to his tone—a carefulness, like he wasn’t sure if he’d been forgiven yet.
You crossed your arms, pretending to deliberate. “Well, the sandwich was a strong move. And the drink didn’t hurt.”
His smile softened, relief flickering across his face. “I’ll take that as a yes.”
You stepped aside to let him in. He shrugged out of his coat, but instead of settling onto the couch like he usually did, he came right up to you and cupped your cheek with one broad, warm hand. The earnestness in his expression made it hard to hold onto even a thread of irritation. “I really am sorry,” he said quietly. “Leaving you waiting like that—there’s no excuse.”
You wanted to ask again about Perry, about why exactly editing an article had left him looking like he’d run a marathon, but the words stuck in your throat. Instead, you let yourself lean into his touch, the steady strength of him grounding you. “You could’ve just texted me,” you murmured. “That’s all I needed.”
“I know,” he admitted, thumb brushing gently across your skin. “I’ll do better.”
And maybe it was the way he said it—soft but so utterly sure—that made you believe him. Clark wasn’t like the others. He didn’t forget birthdays, didn’t leave you guessing, didn’t brush things off with half-hearted excuses. When he said he’d do better, you thought maybe he actually would.
The two of you ended up eating takeout on your couch that night, watching a rerun of a show neither of you particularly liked, just because it was background noise to your laughter. Clark insisted on carrying your empty cartons to the trash, then washed the few dishes in your sink like he lived there. And as you watched him hum off-key while rinsing a mug, you wondered how anyone could ever doubt he was everything he seemed.
But later, when he kissed you goodnight at your door and left just before midnight, you found yourself lingering in the quiet, staring at the empty hallway. The sandwich, the drink, the apology—they’d smoothed over the rough patch. For now. And yet, a small, nagging thought twisted at the back of your mind: Why does he always leave before midnight?
---
By Wednesday afternoon, the office was thick with the smell of burnt coffee and too many spreadsheets. You sat hunched over your keyboard, trying to make sense of your notes, but your brain kept circling back to one thought: Clark always left before midnight. Always.
It wasn’t just the restaurant, or the way he’d duck out of your apartment after movie nights. Even on weekends, when neither of you had to be up early, he’d kiss you softly, make some excuse about getting rest, and disappear into the night like Cinderella running from a ball.
“Alright,” your friend and coworker Marcy said, sliding into the chair beside your desk with her second coffee of the day, “spill it. You’ve had that scrunched-up forehead look for an hour. And don’t even try to tell me it’s about your work. You get that look when it’s about a guy.”
You gave her a flat look, but she only smirked. She wasn’t wrong. “It’s nothing,” you tried.
“Mm-hm. Nothing. Which is why you’re staring at your monitor like it insulted your mother.” She took a loud sip of her coffee. “It’s Clark, isn’t it?”
You sighed, setting your pen down. “It’s just… he’s perfect. Like, actually perfect. Which is why this is starting to drive me crazy.”
Marcy perked up immediately. “Go on.”
“He always leaves before midnight,” you admitted in a low voice, glancing around as though confessing a crime. “No matter what we’re doing, no matter how late the night is already, he’ll kiss me, say goodnight, and go. Like clockwork.”
Marcy leaned back, considering. “And you’ve asked him about it?”
“Not directly.” You fiddled with your pen, spinning it between your fingers. “I don’t want to be clingy. I just… I don’t get it. It’s like he turns into a pumpkin if he stays past twelve.”
Marcy snorted. “Maybe he’s got some weird sleep schedule. Or maybe—” she lowered her voice dramatically “—he’s secretly Batman.”
You laughed, tension easing for a moment. “Clark? Please. He apologizes when he bumps into strangers on the subway. He’d last two seconds in Gotham.”
“Fair point.” She tilted her head, smirking again. “So, what are you gonna do about it?”
“I don’t know,” you muttered. “Part of me thinks I should just let it go. The other part wants to… I don’t know. Test him.”
Marcy’s grin widened like she’d been waiting for that. “Oh, I have ideas.”
You groaned. “Why do I feel like I’m not gonna like this?”
“Because you’re a coward when it comes to confrontation, and I’m not.” She tapped her nails against her cup. “Okay. Scenario one, you straight-up ask him why he keeps bailing before midnight. Direct, efficient, no games.”
You raised a brow. “And scenario two?”
She leaned in, eyes glinting mischievously. “You lure him into staying. Cute pajamas. Or better yet—slutty pajamas. Make it hard for him to walk away.”
Your face went hot instantly. “Marcy!”
“What? I’m just saying! If he still bolts after that, then something’s definitely up.”
You buried your face in your hands. “You’re impossible.”
“And yet, I’m brilliant.” She patted your shoulder before standing, her coffee already half gone. “Think about it. Cute pajamas or straight-up honesty. Either way, you’ll get your answer.”
As she walked off, you sat staring at your blank screen, trying not to imagine Clark’s face if you ever actually tried Marcy’s suggestion. Still, the thought of him leaving you at your door again, just before midnight, with that soft smile and some vague excuse—
It made your stomach twist. You didn’t want to lose him. But you couldn’t help wondering: was there something he wasn’t telling you?
---
It was a Thursday night, nothing special. Clark had shown up at your door with his usual soft smile and a grocery bag in hand. Inside were the makings of pasta—fresh basil, tomatoes, a loaf of bread from the corner bakery. He’d insisted on cooking, which really meant you sat on the counter with a glass of wine while he did most of the work, sleeves rolled to his elbows, tie loosened but not quite discarded.
Dinner was easy, the kind of rhythm you’d slipped into months ago. You teased him for chopping garlic too slowly, he teased you for drinking more wine than you ate pasta. Afterwards, he helped you wash the dishes, humming under his breath as he scrubbed a pot, bubbles clinging to his forearms. The domesticity of it all made your chest ache in the best possible way.
But the entire time, a thought lingered in the back of your mind—Marcy’s voice echoing, sing-song and mischievous: Cute pajamas. Or slutty pajamas.
By the time the two of you moved into the living room, the weight of it was almost unbearable. You sat with him on the couch, his arm slung around you, the low murmur of a late-night talk show filling the space. It was perfect, comfortable… but you knew what would happen soon. He’d check his watch, give you that apologetic look, and head out into the night before the clock hit midnight.
Not tonight, you told yourself. Tonight, you were going to see if he’d stay. You stretched, feigning a yawn, and stood. “I’m gonna go change. These jeans are killing me.”
Clark looked up at you with that gentle concern that was so him. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” you said quickly, heart hammering a little too fast. “Just… more comfortable clothes.”
You slipped into your bedroom, closing the door behind you. Your pulse roared in your ears as you opened your dresser drawer and pulled out the pajamas Marcy had planted in your head all week. Not quite slutty—but close enough. The soft silk clung in ways your usual oversized t-shirt didn’t, the hem riding a little higher on your thighs than you were used to. You checked yourself in the mirror, cheeks warm. This was either going to work spectacularly… or blow up in your face.
When you opened the door, Clark was standing in the hallway, one hand tugging at his tie like he’d been debating loosening it further. His other hand held the hem of his button-up, as if he’d been considering changing into something more relaxed. He froze when he saw you. “Oh,” he said, his voice catching just slightly. His eyes widened, and for once, he didn’t immediately mask his reaction.
You bit your lip, pretending nonchalance as you crossed the short distance between you. “Thought I’d get comfortable,” you said, fingers brushing against the knot of his tie.
Clark swallowed hard. “You look… uh—” His voice trailed off, his usual eloquence deserting him. His gaze flickered away, then back again, like he couldn’t quite decide where to rest his eyes.
The corner of your mouth curved as you caught the edge of his tie and gave it a playful tug, guiding him a step closer. “Cat got your tongue, Kent?”
His laugh was nervous, breathless. “Just wasn’t expecting—”
“Me?” you teased, leaning up slightly so your faces were closer.
Clark’s hand twitched at his side, like he wanted to reach for you but wasn’t sure if he should. You tugged lightly on his tie again, coaxing him toward the bed. “You can change later,” you murmured.
That did it. His ears turned bright red, and the tips of them peeked through his dark hair. His flustered expression was so achingly adorable you almost laughed. But he didn’t pull away. Not this time.
Instead, he let you guide him, his tie slipping through your fingers as he leaned down. His lips brushed against yours, tentative at first, then with a hunger he usually kept tightly reined in. His hand came up to your waist, steady and warm, the other bracing against the doorframe as though he needed something solid to keep himself grounded.
You smiled against his mouth, relief and satisfaction curling through you. For once, he wasn’t leaving. He wasn’t glancing at the clock, wasn’t making excuses. He was here—with you.
And when you tugged him down to the bed, his flustered laugh turned into something deeper, something that made your pulse skip. Whatever midnight rule he’d been living by, it didn’t matter tonight. Because tonight, Clark stayed.
---
The first thing you registered was warmth. The second was weight—the solid, steady press of an arm curled around your waist, pulling you against a chest that rose and fell in the slow rhythm of sleep. Your sheets smelled faintly of detergent and basil, a reminder of last night’s pasta dinner. And underneath it all, the more distinct, grounding scent of Clark.
Your eyes blinked open slowly, adjusting to the thin morning light spilling through your curtains. It took you a moment to realize the full reality: your bare skin against his, tangled legs, the soft mess of clothes scattered across the floor.
You turned your head slightly. Clark was still asleep, or something close to it. His face was relaxed, mouth parted slightly, hair mussed in a way you’d never seen before—wild and unpolished, no trace of the neat reporter who always seemed so put-together. His glasses, of course, weren’t on. They lay folded on your nightstand, lenses glinting faintly in the sun.
Without them, there was something startling about his face. You couldn’t put your finger on it—just that the edges of him looked… sharper. His eyes, though closed, seemed framed differently, as though the glasses softened more than just his appearance. For a strange, fleeting second, you almost didn’t recognize him. Then he shifted, tightening his arm around you, his breath brushing against the back of your neck. And he was Clark again—your Clark, warm and steady and achingly gentle even in sleep.
You smiled into the pillow, letting yourself melt into the moment. For weeks you’d watched him slip away at the stroke of midnight, offering excuses that never quite added up. But last night had been different. Last night he stayed. Not just for dinner, not just for movies and laughter—he stayed all the way through. Stayed long enough that now you were wrapped in his arms, your heartbeat syncing with his.
“Mm,” he hummed softly, the vibration in his chest making you shiver. “You awake?”
You turned slightly, enough to catch the half-lidded way he looked at you. His voice was rough with sleep, lower than you’d ever heard it. “Yeah,” you whispered.
His mouth curved, slow and drowsy. “Morning.”
You couldn’t help laughing. “That’s all you’ve got? Just morning?”
He groaned, burying his face in your shoulder for a moment, then pressed a lazy kiss to your skin. “Sorry. Not exactly awake yet. You… you’re distracting.”
Your cheeks flushed, though you tried to keep your tone light. “Pretty sure you’re the distracting one, Kent.”
He chuckled, but his hand skimmed softly across your side, drawing absent patterns against your skin. The tenderness of it made your throat tighten. It was almost unfair, how he could make something so casual feel so intimate.
For a long while, you lay there like that—no rush, no ticking clock, no excuse waiting at the edge of his tongue. Just him, his heartbeat under your palm, his breath warm against your hair. At last, Clark shifted, reaching blindly toward the nightstand. His hand brushed the edge of his glasses, and in a practiced motion, he slid them back onto his face.
The change was subtle but immediate. It was as if the air between you shifted slightly. The Clark without glasses—the one who looked like a stranger and yet more himself than ever—was gone. In his place was the Clark you knew, mild and unassuming, the gentle reporter who said sorry when he sneezed too loud. “Better,” he said softly, like the glasses anchored him somehow.
You tilted your head, curious. “You don’t need those in bed, you know.”
He hesitated just a fraction too long before chuckling. “Force of habit.”
You hummed, letting it slide, though the little pause tucked itself away in the back of your mind. Instead, you pressed a kiss to his jaw and smiled. “Well, I’m glad you stayed.”
His arms tightened around you, his voice low and steady in your ear. “So am I.”
And maybe he meant it. Maybe he wanted to mean it. But as you felt him hold you, you couldn’t shake the faint, lingering thought: what was it, exactly, that had kept him away every other night until now?
You fell asleep again until the smell of coffee coaxed you out of bed more than the alarm on your phone ever could. You padded into the kitchen barefoot, tugging his button-up shirt—the one that had landed on your floor the night before—over your shoulders like a robe. The sleeves were too long, brushing your wrists, and the fabric still held the faint warmth of his skin.
Clark was already there, moving quietly as though he belonged in your space. His tie was draped over a chair, his white undershirt soft and clinging, his glasses fogged slightly from leaning over the steaming coffee pot. He hummed under his breath, the same little tune you’d noticed he always carried when he was content. When he noticed you, his face lit up, boyish and unguarded. “Morning again,” he said, like he’d been waiting for you.
“Morning,” you echoed, fighting back a smile as you leaned against the counter. “You’re entirely too chipper for someone who didn’t get much sleep.”
His ears went pink immediately, and he turned back to the mugs. “I, uh—sleep better here.”
That pulled a laugh out of you, soft and genuine. “You’re such a terrible liar.”
“I’m serious,” he said, handing you a mug. His big hands dwarfed the ceramic, and you noticed the way his thumb lingered against the rim as he passed it to you. “You don’t believe me?”
You took a slow sip, watching him over the edge. “I believe you slept well. I just don’t think it had much to do with the bed.” Clark coughed into his own cup, so flustered you almost felt bad for him. Almost.
You sat together at your small kitchen table, the morning light spilling through the blinds in golden stripes across his face. He buttered a piece of toast like it was the most important task in the world, then slid it onto your plate before making another for himself. That was Clark in a nutshell: always making sure you were fed first.
As you ate, you realized how easy it felt. No clock watching, no excuses lined up in his throat. Just breakfast, quiet conversation, and the clink of silverware against mismatched plates. It was so normal you almost forgot last night had been the first time he’d ever stayed. “You’re going to work today, right?” you asked between bites.
He nodded, sipping his coffee. “Perry’s probably got three assignments waiting for me already.”
“Does he always ride you that hard?”
Clark shrugged, unbothered. “That’s just Perry. He pushes because he knows we can handle it. And I… I don’t mind. I like the work.”
You studied him for a moment, the curve of his mouth around the rim of his mug, the way his tie still sat neglected on the chair instead of knotted neatly at his throat. There was something softer about him this morning—unguarded in a way you didn’t see often. Maybe it was the fact that he’d stayed, or maybe it was just the quiet light of a weekday morning shared over burnt toast and coffee. Either way, you liked it. “You’re dangerous, you know that?” you said suddenly.
Clark frowned, startled. “Dangerous?”
“Yeah.” You nudged his foot under the table. “You make this look way too easy. Breakfast, coffee, staying the night… it’s like you’ve been doing this with me for years.”
His expression softened, a slow smile spreading across his face. “Maybe I’ve been waiting years to do this.”
Heat crept into your cheeks at the honesty in his tone. He wasn’t teasing, wasn’t joking. He meant it. And that—that was more dangerous than anything. You stood finally, setting your mug in the sink. “We’re going to be late if we don’t get moving.”
Clark followed suit, slipping his tie back over his neck and knotting it with practiced ease. You watched him, amused at how he went from flustered and boyish to polished reporter in the span of a few minutes. Glasses in place, tie tightened, hair smoothed back—your Clark, the one the world saw, stood in your kitchen. But when he looked at you, his gaze softened again, as though none of the armor mattered here. He stepped close, kissed your forehead, then your lips. “Thank you,” he murmured.
“For what?”
“For last night. For this morning. For… all of it.”
Your chest squeezed, and you touched his tie lightly, smoothing it against his chest. “You don’t have to thank me for staying, Clark.”
“I know,” he said softly, eyes searching yours. “But I want to.”
And as you walked out the door together, hand in hand, you thought maybe Marcy had been wrong. Maybe there wasn’t a mystery to solve, no midnight secret pulling him away. Maybe it had just been nerves, bad timing, work stress. Because for the first time, he’d stayed. And that had to mean something.
By the time you made it into the office, the elevator ride up had already convinced you of two things: one, coffee was the only thing keeping you upright, and two, walking in heels after last night was not your smartest decision. Every step carried just the faintest reminder of Clark’s strength, a dull ache hidden in your thighs that no amount of stretching on the commute had shaken off.
You slid into your cubicle as quietly as possible, hoping to disappear behind your monitor. But of course, Marcy had radar for these things. She popped up in your doorway like a jack-in-the-box, her coffee in hand, one brow raised. “Well, well, well,” she said, drawing the words out as though savoring them. “Look who’s late and walking funny.”
You froze mid-shuffle with your bag, glaring at her. “I’m not walking funny.”
She leaned on the frame of your cubicle, smirk widening. “Sweetheart, I could spot that limp from the elevator. Guess it worked.”
Heat rushed to your face immediately. “Marcy—”
“I told you,” she interrupted gleefully, wagging her coffee cup at you like it was proof. “Slutty pajamas. Works every time.”
You buried your face in your hands, muffling a groan. “You are the worst.”
“The worst, but right.” She perched on the edge of your desk like she owned it. “So? Spill. Did our boy wonder finally stay past midnight?”
You dropped your hands and glared, though you couldn’t quite wipe the reluctant smile off your lips. “Maybe.”
“That’s a yes.” She grinned like the cat that got the cream. “And?”
“And what?”
Marcy tilted her head. “And how was it? Come on, you can’t dangle that limp around the office and not share at least one detail.”
You picked up the nearest stack of papers and swatted lightly at her knee. “Get out of my cubicle.”
She laughed, unbothered, sipping her coffee as though she had all the time in the world. “Fine, fine. You don’t have to give me details. But let me just say, I’m very proud. About time Mr. Perfect dropped the Cinderella act.”
Her words hit a little closer than she realized. You forced a light smile, hoping she wouldn’t notice the hesitation. “Yeah. About time.”
Marcy hopped off your desk, smoothing her skirt. “See you at lunch. And don’t worry—I won’t tell anyone about the limp. Your secret’s safe with me.”
You rolled your eyes, but as she sauntered away, you exhaled slowly. Yes, Clark had stayed. Yes, it had been everything you didn’t realize you’d been craving. But the whisper lingered in your mind even as you logged into your computer: what had changed? What made last night different from every other night before it? And more importantly—would he stay again?
By the time work let out, the city was drenched in that golden hour glow that made everything softer—warm light spilling between buildings, the sidewalks humming with people headed home. You were halfway through debating if you had the energy to cook or if you’d end up with takeout again when your phone buzzed. Clark: Dinner? My treat. Don’t make other plans.
You couldn’t help but smile, typing back a quick bossy before slipping the phone into your bag.
When he knocked on your door later, he was balancing a pizza box in one hand and a paper bag in the other. “Figured we’d save the fancy restaurants for when I’m not keeping you waiting,” he said sheepishly, lifting the box like an offering.
The sight of him—tie loosened, hair slightly mussed from the breeze, that impossibly earnest smile—made your heart skip the way it always did. “You’re forgiven,” you said, stepping aside to let him in.
Dinner was simple, pizza, a salad he insisted on making because “we can’t live on bread and cheese alone,” and the bottle of wine you’d been saving for some hypothetical occasion. Clark poured carefully, like the stemware might shatter under his touch, and you teased him for being overcautious until he laughed and handed you your glass.
You ate cross-legged on the couch, the box open between you, your knees brushing every time you reached for a slice. Clark told you about the chaos at the Planet that day—how Perry barked at poor Jimmy until his ears turned pink, how Lois had nearly thrown her coffee at a malfunctioning printer. You laughed, picturing it, though you knew you’d never quite see the world the way he did.
At some point, the conversation shifted into softer things. He asked about your day, not just the broad strokes but the details—the coworker who’d stolen your stapler, the headline you’d been proud of writing, the way you’d stopped to buy a pretzel from the vendor outside your building. He listened to every word, nodding, eyes fixed on you like you were the only person in the world worth paying attention to.
By the time the pizza box was nearly empty, you had your legs tucked against his, the warmth of him seeping into you. You swirled the last of your wine in your glass and leaned your head against his shoulder. “You know, I could get used to this,” you murmured.
Clark glanced down at you, his expression unreadable for a beat before softening into that small, crooked smile you loved. “Me too.”
You set your glass aside and turned slightly, catching the end of his tie between your fingers. “Not running off tonight?”
The question hung in the air, casual on the surface but heavier underneath. Clark’s eyes flickered, something you couldn’t quite name passing through them, but then he shook his head. “Not tonight,” he said, voice low, steady.
Relief washed through you. You tugged lightly on his tie, pulling him down for a kiss that started slow but deepened quickly, his hand finding its way to your jaw, his thumb brushing your cheek. He kissed you like he’d been waiting all day for it, like he’d been holding his breath until this exact moment.
Later, when the two of you ended up stretched out together on the couch, your head on his chest and his fingers tracing idle patterns on your arm, you realized the clock had already ticked past midnight. And he was still there. No excuses, no half-smile apologies. Just Clark, warm and solid and exactly where you wanted him.
For once, you let yourself believe that maybe the cracks you’d seen weren’t cracks at all—just shadows you’d mistaken for flaws. Maybe this was who he was, who he’d always be: steady, kind, and here. And as you drifted half-asleep against him, the hum of his heartbeat under your ear, you let yourself forget every question you’d been carrying. Because for tonight, at least, Clark stayed.
---
It started as an offhand suggestion, tossed out near the end of the day when the office was finally quieting down. One of your coworkers—Janine, the type who wore three-inch heels like they were sneakers—popped her head over your cubicle wall and said, “Drinks after work? Come on, it’s been a week.”
A few of the others perked up, including Marcy, who swiveled her chair toward you with a grin. “You in?”
Normally, you would have hesitated, mentally juggling the idea of a late night out with your usual plans with Clark. But something in you wanted to prove, if only to yourself, that you didn’t have to orbit your life entirely around him. He was wonderful—perfect, even—but you still had your own friends, your own world. “Yeah,” you said finally, surprising even yourself. “Count me in.”
The group cheered, already gathering purses and coats. On the walk to the bar, neon signs flickering against the dusky sky, you pulled out your phone. Your thumb hovered over Clark’s name for a moment. With guys before, this was always the part that made your stomach twist—the texts that came after you said I’m going out with friends, passive-aggressive replies, thinly veiled jealousy, endless check-ins like you were sneaking around instead of living your life.
You typed quickly: Going out for drinks with the girls from work. Don’t wait up tonight. Your finger hovered before hitting send, the tiniest tremor of nerves sparking. And then you sent it.
The reply came faster than you expected, the little typing dots barely lasting three seconds. Clark: That sounds great. Hope you have fun. Be safe.
That was it. No follow-up questions, no “who’s going?” No guilt, no tugging on a leash you weren’t wearing. Just have fun. You stared at the screen for a moment, warmth blooming in your chest. It was such a simple thing, but the kind of simple you weren’t used to.
Marcy peeked over your shoulder as you slipped the phone back into your bag. “That from Clark?” You nodded, trying not to smile too hard. “What’d he say? ‘Don’t get too drunk’? ‘Remember you’ve got a boyfriend’?”
“No,” you said softly. “He said have fun.”
Marcy slowed her stride for a second, blinking at you. “That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
A slow grin spread across her face. “Damn. Keep him. Seriously. If a man can handle his girlfriend having her own life without making it about his ego? That’s rare, babe. Hold onto that one.”
By the time you slid into a booth at the bar with the other girls, the dim lights catching on glasses of wine and cocktails, you couldn’t stop thinking about that little text. About how easy he made it to breathe. How different it felt not to brace yourself for a fight over something as harmless as a night out. Your friends laughed and gossiped, trading stories about bosses and boyfriends, but every so often you caught yourself smiling down at your phone, rereading his simple message. Hope you have fun. Four words. And yet, they felt like a promise, he trusted you. He respected you.
And for someone like you—someone who had spent too long with people who made affection feel like a trap—that was more intoxicating than anything in your glass.
The bar was louder than you realized. It wasn’t until you slipped off your stool and nearly tipped into Marcy’s shoulder that it hit you just how much you’d had to drink. Two glasses of wine had somehow become three… then a shared round of shots you’d been peer-pressured into. Now everything had that soft, slightly tilting glow to it, like the world was wrapped in cotton.
“Okay, lightweight,” Marcy teased, steadying you with a hand. “Time to get you a cab.”
You waved her off, fumbling for your bag. “I’m fine. Totally fine.”
“You’re weaving like a sailor,” she said flatly. “You want me to call Clark?”
Your head snapped up, indignation rising even through the haze. “No! I don’t need—” But your tongue tangled itself, and the protest dissolved into a laugh. “Okay, maybe. Just don’t tell him about the shots.”
Marcy rolled her eyes but pulled out her phone anyway. “You’re lucky he’s cute and clearly obsessed with you.”
Fifteen minutes later, the bar door swung open, and there he was—tie gone, sleeves rolled to his elbows, glasses catching the glow of the neon beer sign. Clark scanned the room, found you instantly, and the crease in his brow softened with relief. “Hey,” he murmured as he reached you, his voice low and warm like you might spook if he spoke too loudly. “Rough night?”
“Fun night,” you corrected, though your words slurred just enough to make Marcy snort.
Clark slipped an arm around your waist like it was second nature, guiding you upright. “Thanks,” he said to Marcy, his smile polite but grateful.
“She’s all yours,” Marcy said, giving you a wink before gathering her things. “Text me tomorrow, babe.”
You leaned heavily into Clark as he steered you outside. The night air was cool against your flushed skin, and you shivered instinctively. Without a word, he shrugged off his jacket and draped it around your shoulders, tucking it close like he was wrapping you in something more solid than fabric. “You didn’t have to come get me,” you mumbled, the words half-buried against his chest.
“Of course I did,” he said simply. “I’d come anywhere for you.”
The sincerity in his voice, even filtered through the fog in your head, made your chest ache. You tilted your face up at him, squinting like you could see straight through him. “You’re too good to be true, you know that?”
His mouth quirked in that small, self-conscious smile you adored. “Or maybe you’re just too hard on the guys you dated before me.”
“You don’t leave when I go out,” you said suddenly, the thought bubbling up unfiltered. “They used to. They’d get mad. But you’re not mad.”
“I’d never be mad at you for having friends.” He guided you to his car, opening the door carefully before helping you in. His hand lingered at your elbow, steadying you until you were settled. “You deserve to have fun. You deserve everything.”
Your vision blurred for a moment—not from the alcohol, but from the sheer, overwhelming tenderness of him. By the time he pulled up outside your apartment, your head was lolling against the window. Clark circled to your side and scooped you up effortlessly, as though you weighed nothing. You gasped, looping your arms around his neck. “Clark!” you hissed, though you couldn’t stop laughing. “What if someone sees?”
He smiled down at you, utterly unbothered. “Then they’ll just think I didn’t want you to trip on the stairs.”
He carried you all the way up, setting you gently on the edge of your bed before kneeling to slip off your shoes. The care in every movement undid you completely. “You’re ridiculous,” you whispered, too drowsy to form anything sharper.
“Maybe,” he agreed softly, tugging the blanket over you once you’d curled on your side. “But you’re safe. That’s all I care about.”
As he brushed your cheek lightly, you caught his wrist weakly, blinking up at him. “Stay?”
His expression softened, the faintest crack of something unspoken in his eyes. Then he nodded. “Yeah. I’ll stay.” And when you drifted off, his arm was around you, steady as ever—no excuses, no vanishing. Just Clark.
---
The first thing you felt when you opened your eyes was regret. Your head throbbed, your mouth was dry, and the sunlight streaming through the blinds was at least three shades too bright. You groaned and rolled onto your stomach, dragging the blanket over your head in a futile attempt to block out the world.
Unfortunately, the world smelled like coffee. Fresh, rich, dark coffee. And—was that bacon?
You froze, brain sluggishly catching up. Clark. Sure enough, when you dared to peek out from under the blanket, there he was in your kitchen. Shirt sleeves rolled up, tie nowhere in sight, his hair an adorably messy halo. He moved with quiet purpose, flipping pancakes on your stovetop while humming under his breath. The sight was so painfully domestic it made your heart ache even through the pounding in your skull.
Of course, he noticed you before you could duck back under the covers. His head turned, that impossibly soft smile spreading across his face. “Morning,” he said gently, as though his voice might shatter you if he wasn’t careful. “How’re you feeling?”
You buried your face back in the pillow with a muffled groan. “Like I fought a truck.”
He chuckled, low and warm. “No truck. Just tequila, apparently.”
Heat crept up your neck even as you hid. “You weren’t supposed to see me like that.”
“Like what?” His voice was teasing but not unkind. “Having fun with your friends? Laughing? Smiling so much your cheeks hurt?”
You peeked at him again, narrowing your eyes. “Like a mess.”
Clark shook his head, flipping a pancake with ease. “You weren’t a mess. You were—” he paused, searching for the word, “—adorable.”
You groaned louder this time, shoving the pillow over your face. “Don’t call drunk-me adorable. She’s chaos.”
He laughed outright now, that deep, earnest sound that always made your chest loosen. “Chaos, maybe. But still adorable.”
A few minutes later, he set a tray down on the edge of the bed: coffee, pancakes stacked high, bacon crisped just the way you liked. You blinked at it, then up at him, suspicion warring with gratitude. “You did all this while I looked like death?”
“Seemed like a fair trade,” he said with a shrug, sitting down beside you. “You had your fun last night, and I get to make sure you don’t regret it too much today.”
You sipped the coffee cautiously, sighing as the warmth slid through you. “You’re too nice. Most guys would’ve teased me mercilessly.”
“Oh, I plan to tease you,” he said, eyes twinkling. “But not until you’ve had at least two cups of coffee.”
You laughed, even though it made your head throb, and nudged his shoulder. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Maybe.” He leaned in, pressing a kiss to your temple. “But I like taking care of you.”
You froze for half a second at the honesty in his voice. No games, no performative chivalry—he just meant it. And somehow, that was more dangerous than any hangover. You sighed, sinking against him with your plate balanced in your lap. “You know, Clark, you’re making it very hard for me to remember you’re human. People aren’t supposed to be this perfect.”
For the briefest flicker of a second, something unreadable passed across his face. Then he smiled again, soft and sure. “I’m not perfect. But I promise, I’ll always try to be good to you.”
And as you sat there eating pancakes in his shirt, head pounding and cheeks hot, you thought maybe you’d never felt so cared for in your life.
---
The cramps had hit mid-afternoon, the kind that made you curl up under a blanket and declare war on your own body. By the time Clark arrived, you were a blanket burrito on the couch with zero intention of moving for the rest of the night.
He took one look at you, eyebrows knitting with concern, and immediately shifted into caretaker mode. Within minutes he’d dug your heating pad out of the closet, plugged it in, and settled it across your stomach with the same care he used for handling glassware. Then he adjusted your pillows, made you tea, and queued up your comfort show—the one you’d seen a hundred times but always came back to when you were feeling low.
Now, you were half-curled against him, your head on his shoulder, his arm looped around you. His tie was gone, his shirt rolled at the sleeves, and the warm, steady weight of him made everything ache a little less. “I hate this week,” you muttered into his chest.
“I know,” he said softly, rubbing slow circles against your back. “But I’ve got you. Heating pad, tea, bad sitcom reruns… we’ll survive.”
You managed a small smile, keeping your eyes on the flickering TV. A character tripped over a sofa in an over-the-top gag, and normally you’d laugh, but right now all you could think about was how badly you wanted—no, needed—something sweet. “God, I’d kill for a pint of cookie dough ice cream right now,” you murmured without thinking, snuggling deeper under the blanket. “Or those pretzel bites from the vendor down the street. Or both.”
It was meant to be idle complaining, not a request. You didn’t even glance away from the TV. But Clark, who had been quiet beside you, shifted slightly. His head tilted toward the window, like he’d heard something outside you couldn’t. Then, just as quickly, he was on his feet. You blinked, sitting up a little. “Clark?”
He smiled, smoothing his shirt like it was the most normal thing in the world. “I’ll be right back.”
Confused, you frowned. “Where are you going?”
“Just… don’t move.” His grin widened—adorable, boyish, but with that same cryptic glint you’d started to notice sometimes when he thought you weren’t paying attention. “I’ll be back before the commercial break.”
And with that, he slipped out your door, leaving you on the couch in your blanket cocoon, heating pad humming softly.
You shook your head, baffled, turning back to the TV. He was probably running down to the corner store. Still, the way he’d said before the commercial break stuck with you. Because Clark might’ve been perfect, but no one was that fast.
You kept your eyes on the TV, half-expecting to hear the familiar creak of the hallway stairs or the low rumble of the elevator. Instead, there was silence—except for the laugh track blaring from your comfort show.
You adjusted the heating pad against your stomach, cocooned deeper in your blanket, and told yourself not to overthink it. Clark was just… thoughtful. Probably sprinted to the bodega on the corner because he couldn’t stand to see you suffer through a craving. That was all.
Still, when the first commercial break hit only five minutes later, you frowned. No way. Not even with the fastest cashier alive could anyone make it down, grab ice cream and pretzels, pay, and get back up the stairs in that time.
The front door clicked open just as you were starting to sit up. Clark stepped inside, balancing a paper bag in one hand and a sweating pint of ice cream in the other. His smile was sheepish but triumphant. “Got both,” he said, a little out of breath, holding up the bag like a prize.
You blinked at him. His dark hair—usually neat even after a full day at the Planet—was tousled, like he’d been caught in a wind tunnel. And his shirt… your eyes narrowed. His buttons were misaligned, the fabric tugging unevenly across his chest. “You…” You tilted your head, suspicion stirring even through the dull ache of cramps. “You were gone for five minutes.”
He froze for a fraction of a second before flashing that disarming smile, the one that usually made your heart somersault. “Guess I got lucky with the line.”
“And your shirt?” you pressed, pointing with a lazy wave of your hand. “It’s buttoned wrong.”
Clark glanced down, startled, then chuckled, fumbling to undo the buttons and redo them correctly. “I must’ve rushed. Sorry. Didn’t think you’d notice.”
“I notice everything,” you mumbled, though you couldn’t help smiling as he set the ice cream and bag down on the coffee table. Inside were still-warm pretzel bites, the exact ones you’d mentioned offhand. The smell of butter and salt filled the room, making your stomach grumble despite the discomfort.
Clark handed you the pint first, already armed with a spoon. “Cookie dough,” he said softly, as if the name alone might soothe you. “Your favorite.”
You looked at the ice cream, then up at him. He was sitting beside you again, calmer now, his hair still slightly wild but his hand steady as it rested over yours. “Clark,” you said carefully, “you didn’t have to do all this.”
“I wanted to.” His expression softened, the tension in his shoulders easing. “If you’re hurting, and I can make it even a little better… why wouldn’t I?”
Your chest squeezed at the sincerity in his voice. You scooped a bite of ice cream, shoving down the dozen little questions buzzing in your head. He’d been gone five minutes. His hair looked like he’d flown through a storm. His shirt had been wrong. None of it made sense.
But then he reached over, breaking a pretzel bite in half and offering you the bigger piece without a second thought, and your doubts slipped under the weight of his sweetness. You took the bite from his hand, chewing slowly as your show returned from commercials. He wrapped his arm around you again, settling you against his chest like nothing was unusual at all.
And for now, you let yourself melt into him, the mystery pushed aside by the taste of butter and cookie dough on your tongue. Because if Clark wanted to be the man who brought you ice cream and pretzels in five minutes flat, who were you to complain?
---
You’d picked out your outfit hours ago, set your hair the way you liked it, even spritzed that perfume you saved for special occasions. Tonight was supposed to be date night—just you and Clark, dinner reservations at that little Italian place you’d been dying to try. But the clock kept ticking. First fifteen minutes. Then thirty. Then forty-five.
Your wineglass sat untouched on the counter. You checked your phone every couple of minutes, the empty notification bar mocking you. Not even a running late text. By the time your apartment clock chimed the hour, disappointment curled into your chest, heavy and sour. You tried to keep the doubts at bay—maybe he was stuck at work, maybe Perry was being impossible again. But a small voice whispered the same fear you’d carried for weeks: Maybe he’s pulling away. Maybe he’s not who you thought he was.
Just when you were ready to blow out the candle you’d lit on the table, there was a hurried knock at the door. You opened it to find Clark standing there, chest rising and falling like he’d jogged all the way over. His shirt sleeves were rolled, his tie askew, and a scrape marred the corner of his jaw. His glasses sat crooked on his face, and in his hand—cracked down the middle—was his phone. “Clark,” you breathed, all your irritation collapsing into worry.
“I’m so sorry,” he said quickly, voice low and earnest. “I should’ve called—I wanted to call—but…” He held up the phone, its screen a spiderweb of cracks, completely dead. “It’s useless.”
Your eyes widened. “What happened?”
“There was an attack downtown,” he said, running a hand through his messy hair. “Some kind of—well, I don’t even know what they were. But Superman showed up, and the whole street went into chaos. Cars overturned, glass everywhere. I got caught in the middle of it trying to get out, and my phone—” He gestured helplessly. “Smashed. I barely made it through without worse.”
The frustration you’d been nursing all evening evaporated instantly, replaced by a cold rush of fear. You grabbed his wrist, tugging him inside, eyes scanning him up and down. “Are you okay? You’re not hurt, are you?”
“Just the scrape,” he said softly, touched by your urgency. “I swear, I’m fine.”
You reached up, fingertips brushing the bruise forming along his jaw. He didn’t flinch, but something in his eyes shifted—like he was both grateful and guilty under your touch.
“God, Clark,” you whispered, throat tight. “You scared me. I thought you’d just… forgotten. Or—” You shook your head. “I don’t know. I was worried.”
His big hand closed gently over yours, grounding. “I’d never forget you,” he said firmly. “Never.”
You swallowed, meeting his eyes. Blue, steady, so full of sincerity it almost hurt. “Promise me,” you said quietly. “If something like that happens again, if you’re ever caught in the middle of something dangerous—you’ll tell me. Just so I don’t sit here imagining the worst.”
“I promise,” he murmured, thumb brushing over your knuckles. “I’ll always come back to you.”
And you believed him. Still, as you rested your forehead against his chest, listening to the steady thrum of his heartbeat, another thought pressed at the edge of your mind: How did Clark always seem to walk away from disasters barely touched, when others weren’t so lucky?
The server returned with menus, giving Clark a once-over that said she, too, had noticed the rumpled hair and the broken phone on the table. But she didn’t comment—just refilled your water glasses and left you to settle back into the night.
You expected the awkward silence to linger, for the ruined start to sour everything. Instead, Clark leaned forward, elbows braced on the table, and looked at you like you were the only person in the room. “I really am sorry,” he said again, his voice steadier now. “You shouldn’t have been sitting here, wondering if I was going to show up.”
The sincerity in his tone unraveled some of the tightness in your chest. You sighed softly. “Just… next time, Clark, please. Even if it’s two words—I’m alive. I need that.”
He winced, guilt flickering across his features, and nodded. “You’re right. I’ll figure out something—even if my phone’s in pieces. I promise.”
And then, almost like he’d flipped a switch, he set himself to making you smile again. He cracked self-deprecating jokes about being the guy who could ruin two phones in as many months. He teased you for picking the salad section first when he knew you’d end up ordering pasta. He even convinced the server to bring you a complimentary glass of wine, telling her—loud enough for you to hear—that you deserved it for putting up with a boyfriend who ran late.
Slowly, the tension melted. Dinner was… normal. Almost idyllic. He listened, asked questions, leaned in with that intent expression he wore when you spoke, like every word mattered. When you told him a story about Marcy’s latest antics at the office, he laughed so hard his glasses slid down his nose, and you reached across the table to push them back up, both of you smiling too wide.
By the time dessert arrived—two spoons and one slice of cheesecake you hadn’t planned on ordering—your earlier panic felt like it belonged to another night. He fed you a bite across the table, eyes warm with affection, and you thought, not for the first time, that maybe this was the man you’d been waiting for without even realizing it.
Later, when he walked you home, the city was quieter, the chaos of earlier contained to distant sirens. His hand was steady in yours, his thumb brushing the back of your knuckles every few steps like he couldn’t help reminding himself you were there. At your door, he hesitated, the broken phone still in his pocket, his shirt still slightly creased from whatever he’d run through. “Thank you,” he said quietly, “for not giving up on me tonight.”
Your throat tightened. You reached up, cupping his jaw, feeling the faint scrape of stubble under your palm. “I couldn’t. I wouldn’t.”
He kissed you then—gentle, lingering, like the whole world outside the two of you could collapse and he’d still be rooted right there. And as you pulled him inside, the broken phone and the strange details of his night faded to the background, drowned out by the way his arms wrapped around you like you were the only thing he’d been fighting for.
---
It was the kind of sleep you only ever fell into when Clark was beside you—deep, warm, cocooned. His arm had been wrapped firmly around your waist when you drifted off, the weight of him at your back like an anchor against the rest of the world. You remembered mumbling something incoherent, felt him kiss your shoulder, and then nothing.
When you woke again, it was to cool sheets. Your hand stretched automatically across the bed, expecting the familiar slope of his chest, the rise and fall of his breathing. Instead, your fingers met rumpled fabric and empty space.
Blinking against the dim glow of the streetlights seeping through your curtains, you pushed yourself up on one elbow. The apartment was quiet—eerily so. No humming, no clatter in the kitchen, no off-key singing from the bathroom while he brushed his teeth. Just silence. “Clark?” you whispered, voice hoarse with sleep. Nothing.
You sat up fully, pulling the blanket around you as if it could soften the strange pang forming in your chest. His glasses weren’t on the nightstand. Neither was his tie or his watch. Even his shoes, which he’d left by the door hours earlier, were gone.
The ache sharpened into something that felt an awful lot like déjà vu. How many times had he slipped away before midnight, murmuring excuses about early mornings, work, needing to get back? And now, after a night that had felt whole—after cheesecake and laughter and whispered promises in the dark—you were alone again.
Your phone sat on the nightstand. You reached for it, thumb hovering over his contact. But what would you even write? Where are you? Why did you leave? Why do you keep doing this?
Instead, you set it back down and curled into the sheets, pressing your face into the pillow where his scent still lingered. It shouldn’t have hurt this much. You weren’t naïve—you knew couples didn’t spend every night tangled together. But the emptiness of that bed, the silence of your apartment, made it feel less like space and more like abandonment.
As sleep threatened to pull you under again, one thought echoed, heavier than the rest: What is it you’re not telling me, Clark?
---
The morning sunlight pulled you awake, sharp and insistent. You blinked blearily, half-expecting to find Clark in the kitchen again—hair mussed, glasses perched on his nose, humming while he made coffee like last time.
But the apartment was silent. The bed was still empty. You sat up slowly, the ache of disappointment settling in your chest. His absence felt sharper today, maybe because last night had been so good—because you’d thought, for once, he’d let himself stay. The knock on your door startled you. For a wild second, you thought maybe it was him. You pulled on your robe and padded across the floor, heart thumping as you opened the door. It was Clark.
He stood there with two coffees balanced in a cardboard tray and a small paper bag tucked under his arm. His hair was neatly combed again, though you could see it had been wet recently, like he’d showered elsewhere. His shirt was fresh, his glasses polished, and his smile—soft, apologetic—hit you right in the chest. “Morning,” he said gently. “Thought you might need fuel before work.”
You stepped back automatically, letting him in even as you searched his face. “Clark… you left.”
His smile faltered. He set the coffees down on your table, careful, precise, like stalling for time. “I didn’t mean to wake you. I, uh… couldn’t sleep. Figured I’d go grab coffee, maybe breakfast.” He held up the paper bag—bagels from that little shop two blocks away. “Your favorite.”
It was a good excuse. Believable, even. But you knew the truth of his rhythms by now—the way he slipped away in the middle of the night, the way his shirts came back rumpled, his hair windblown. Something in your gut whispered that he hadn’t just gone for bagels. You crossed your arms. “You could’ve left a note. Or texted. I woke up and—” You swallowed, voice thinner than you meant. “I didn’t know where you were.”
His face softened, guilt pooling in his eyes. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “You’re right. I should’ve left something. I wasn’t thinking.”
The sincerity in his voice made it hard to hold onto your frustration. He looked so… earnest, standing there with bagels and coffee, like all he wanted was to take care of you. Still, the question pressed against your chest: Where were you, Clark?
Instead, you sank onto the couch, pulling a bagel from the bag. “One of these days, you’re going to give me a heart attack.”
He sat beside you, his thigh warm against yours, and passed you your coffee. “Then I’ll spend the rest of my life making it up to you.”
You shot him a look over the rim of your cup. “Big words for a guy who disappears in the middle of the night.”
He chuckled softly, leaning down to kiss your temple. “Fair. I’ll try harder. Promise.” The heat of his lips lingered, but so did the empty space you’d woken to.
And as you bit into your bagel, chewing slowly, you couldn’t help wondering if you’d ever get the real answer about where Clark Kent went when he left you behind.
By lunchtime, you’d almost convinced yourself not to mention it. Almost. But then Marcy slid into the booth across from you at your favorite café, setting her latte down with a thud, and gave you that look—the one that said she knew you were holding something back. “You’ve got that face,” she said before you could even unwrap your sandwich.
“What face?” you asked, feigning innocence.
“The one that says, ‘my perfect boyfriend did something less-than-perfect, and now I don’t know if I should be worried or if I’m just being neurotic.’” She sipped her drink. “So. Out with it.”
You sighed, picking at the corner of your napkin. “He left. Again.”
Marcy leaned forward instantly, eyes sharp. “Left? As in, middle of the night left?”
“Yeah. I woke up and he was gone. No note, no text, nothing. Just—” You shook your head. “Empty bed.”
“Okay, that’s strike… what, three? Four?”
You bit your lip. “He came back in the morning. With coffee. And bagels.”
Marcy rolled her eyes so hard you swore she saw the inside of her skull. “Classic male deflection. Disappear mysteriously, then show up with food. Works every time.”
“It’s not like that,” you protested quickly, though your voice wavered. “He looked guilty. He said he couldn’t sleep and went out. And he remembered my exact order.”
“Sweetheart, remembering your bagel order doesn’t erase the fact that he Houdini’d out of your apartment while you were asleep.”
You pressed your hands around your cup, warmth seeping into your palms. “I don’t think he’s… cheating or anything. That’s not him. But…” You hesitated, the words tasting heavy on your tongue. “I feel like he’s hiding something.”
Marcy tilted her head, considering you. “Do you want to know what it is?”
“Of course I do,” you said, frustration bubbling in your chest. “But every time I get close to asking, he looks at me like—like he’s carrying the weight of the world, and I can’t bring myself to pile more on him.”
Marcy reached across the table, resting her hand over yours. Her usual sarcasm softened for once. “Listen. Maybe he is hiding something big. Maybe it’s not even about you. But you deserve honesty. You can’t keep waking up to an empty bed, wondering if he’s coming back.” You nodded slowly, her words hitting deeper than you wanted to admit. Marcy pulled her hand back, smirking again to cut the tension. “Also, for the record? If he’s sneaking out to do something boring like karaoke practice, I expect full disclosure when you find out.”
You laughed weakly, though the sound didn’t quite reach your chest. “Yeah. Deal.”
But as you sipped your coffee, the unease lingered. Because no matter how sweet Clark was—no matter how many bagels or bouquets or apologies he offered—the truth was still there, just out of reach.
And sooner or later, you were going to need to know it.
---
Saturday mornings with Clark had become something you looked forward to all week. You’d woken early without even needing your alarm, already planning which stalls you’d drag him to first—the bakery for croissants, the honey vendor who always slipped you a free sample, the flower stand where Clark always insisted on buying something “because you look like you belong in a field of sunflowers.”
The tote bag was already folded in your purse when you left your apartment, humming with quiet anticipation. You got there ten minutes early, half-expecting him to already be waiting. That was his thing—early, with two coffees, one exactly the way you liked it. But when the clock hit the top of the hour, there was no sign of him. You lingered near the entrance, checking your phone. No texts. You typed a quick one—Here! Where are you?—and waited. The bubbles never appeared.
Minutes stretched. Ten. Fifteen. You pretended to browse a stand of homemade candles, pretending not to notice couples walking hand in hand past you, laughing and carrying bags of produce. You tried calling. Straight to voicemail. By the half-hour mark, your stomach wasn’t just empty—it was twisted.
You sat down on a bench at the edge of the market, clutching your tote bag like it might anchor you. The sun was warm, the air smelled like bread and basil, but all you could feel was the pit forming in your chest. He hadn’t just texted. He hadn’t said I’m late or I’ll be there soon. He was just… gone.
You tried not to think about the last time. The broken phone. The story about being caught up in the chaos while Superman fought whoever it was off. You tried not to wonder what excuse he would bring this time, what little gesture he’d use to smooth over the sharp edge of your worry. But more than anything, you tried not to wonder if this was the beginning of the end.
Because sitting there, alone in a crowd of people bustling through their weekend routines, you realized something painful, Clark made you feel safer than anyone ever had… until the moments when he didn’t show up at all. And those moments were starting to come more often.
You held out for almost an hour. Long enough that the croissant stand sold out. Long enough that the flowers wilted a little in the heat. Long enough that the ache of disappointment settled bone-deep. Finally, you couldn’t take it anymore. You folded your empty tote back into your bag, stood from the bench, and walked home with your phone silent in your pocket.
By the time you got back to your apartment, your chest felt tight in a way that no heating pad or Clark Kent smile could soften. You dropped your bag by the door, kicked off your shoes, and sank onto the couch, staring at the ceiling.
It wasn’t just that he’d missed the date. It was that he hadn’t told you. Not a text, not a call. Just… silence. The knock on your door didn’t come until late afternoon. When you opened it, there he was, hair windblown, shirt wrinkled, glasses smudged again. He had that look—guilty, apologetic, sheepish. In one hand he held a paper bag, the familiar bakery logo printed on the side. “I’m so sorry,” he said immediately, words tumbling out before you could even decide if you wanted to let him in. “I got caught up—there was this fire on 8th, and the street was shut down, and it all got so—” He broke off, shaking his head. “I should’ve called. I know.”
You crossed your arms, the sting of waiting in the sun still sharp. “Clark, we were supposed to meet at ten. You didn’t text. You didn’t pick up when I called. I just… I sat there.”
He winced, stepping closer, holding the bag out like a peace offering. “I know. I hate that I left you waiting like that. I grabbed croissants—they had some left at the bakery, somehow.”
You took the bag automatically, though it felt heavier than just pastries. “That’s not the point.”
“I know,” he said again, softer this time. His eyes were earnest, wide behind his crooked glasses. “You matter more than anything, I swear. I just—” He faltered, his jaw tightening, something unspoken hanging there. “Sometimes things happen and I can’t… I can’t explain them right away.”
Your heart squeezed, anger and worry warring inside you. “I don’t need you to be perfect, Clark. I just need you to show up. Or at least let me know why you can’t.”
He nodded quickly, stepping closer until his hands hovered near your arms, not quite touching. “You’re right. I’ll do better. I will. Please don’t think this means I don’t want to be there. Because there’s nowhere else I’d rather be than with you.”
And God help you, you believed him. Even as your doubt gnawed, even as the silence between texts stretched longer each time, the way he said it—raw, pleading—made you want to forgive him. You let him pull you into his arms, let him tuck his chin over your head like he could shield you from the very pain he’d caused. But later, as you sat together on the couch sharing croissants gone a little stale, you couldn’t stop the thought from circling back: What keeps pulling you away from me, Clark?
Clark stayed. Not just through dinner—which he insisted on cooking from whatever was in your fridge, humming off-key while he stirred pasta sauce—but through the soft, quiet hours afterwards, when the city’s glow seeped in through the curtains and the apartment settled into stillness.
He was attentive, almost overly so. He poured your wine before you asked, fetched your blanket before you reached for it, queued up your comfort show without needing a reminder. Every small gesture felt like a peace offering, like he was trying to stitch over the morning’s absence with warmth and familiarity.
You sat curled against him on the couch, your legs draped over his, your cheek against his chest. The steady beat of his heart filled your ear, grounding you. And yet, you couldn’t shake the memory of waiting at the market, of the empty bench, of your phone silent in your hand.
Clark shifted slightly, pressing a kiss into your hair. “You’re quiet,” he murmured.
“Just tired,” you lied.
He hummed, like he half-believed you. His hand rubbed slow circles over your arm, his touch gentle, patient. The kind of touch that usually melted every sharp edge inside you. Tonight, though, it made your throat tighten. You tilted your head up, studying him in the low light. His glasses caught a glint from the TV, hiding his eyes, but the rest of his face was open, soft, like he belonged nowhere else but here. “I don’t want you to think I don’t appreciate you,” you said quietly.
He blinked, surprised. “I never think that.”
“I just…” Your words tangled, heavy with the truth you weren’t ready to spill. I just need to know where you go. Why you leave. Why I can’t always count on you. Instead, you swallowed it back. “I don’t want us to end up resenting each other.”
His hand stilled for a beat before he cupped your face, turning you gently so you were looking right at him. “I could never resent you. Not for anything.” His voice was low, steady, full of something that felt too big for the space between you.
The sincerity in his eyes broke down whatever was left of your defenses. You leaned into his hand, closing your eyes as his thumb brushed your cheek. “Stay tonight,” you whispered. “Don’t leave.”
“I won’t,” he promised without hesitation. And this time, he didn’t. He stayed through the credits, through the late-night reruns, through the drift of your eyelids. You fell asleep with him holding you, his chin resting lightly on the crown of your head. When you woke in the middle of the night, just for a moment, you reached across the bed—and he was still there. Warm, solid, his arm heavy around your waist.
Relief flooded you, soft and fragile. For now, at least, he’d kept his word. But even as you closed your eyes again, drifting back into sleep, you knew one night couldn’t erase the questions piling up inside you. Soon, you’d have to ask.
---
Sunlight warmed the edges of the curtains, spilling across the floor in slow gold. You blinked awake slowly, the kind of waking where your body resisted because it was too comfortable, too cocooned. Clark was still there.
For a beat you didn’t move, just listened to his breathing, the steady rise and fall of his chest beneath your cheek. His arm was still around your waist, heavy but secure, anchoring you in place. He always held you like he thought you might slip away if he loosened his grip.
You turned your head slightly, watching him in the half-light. His glasses sat on the nightstand, forgotten, and without them his features looked sharper, somehow more striking. There was something in the lines of his face that always seemed just a little… different when he wasn’t wearing them. You shook the thought away, tucking it back where all your other quiet questions about him lived.
Clark stirred, eyelids fluttering, and a lazy smile curved across his mouth when he saw you awake. “Morning,” he rumbled, his voice rough with sleep.
“Morning,” you echoed, unable to stop the small smile tugging at your own lips.
He pressed a kiss to your forehead, then sat up slightly, stretching one arm. “Don’t move. I’ll get breakfast.”
You propped yourself on your elbow, watching as he padded into the kitchen in his undershirt, the lines of his back broad and solid. It should’ve felt strange, this kind of domesticity. It was still new, still fragile. But instead it felt inevitable—like waking up to Clark in your kitchen was how mornings were supposed to be. By the time you wandered in, he had eggs sizzling in the pan and coffee brewing. He turned at the sound of your steps, his smile soft. “Perfect timing. Sit.”
You obeyed, sliding into a chair as he set a plate in front of you. Toast, eggs, and coffee fixed exactly the way you liked it. “You’re ridiculous,” you muttered, though your heart wasn’t in it.
“Ridiculously good at breakfast,” he countered, sliding into the chair across from you with his own plate.
You ate in easy silence for a while, the clink of silverware filling the space. But as you sipped your coffee, your eyes kept straying to him—his neatness, the way his glasses were back on, the way he smiled at you like you were the best part of his day.
And under it all, the memory of yesterday tugged at you. The empty market bench. The broken promises. The cracks he kept smoothing over with bagels, with croissants, with coffee and warmth.
You set your mug down, the words on the tip of your tongue. Clark, where do you go? Why do you leave? What aren’t you telling me?
But then he reached across the table, his large hand curling over yours, his thumb brushing gently against your knuckles. “I like this,” he said quietly. “Just us. Starting the day together.”
Your chest tightened. You wanted to ask, wanted to demand answers. Instead, you let his warmth soften you again, let yourself smile back even as the questions burrowed deeper. Because for now, Clark was here. And you weren’t ready to risk losing that—not yet.
---
The night had started like any other. Takeout cartons stacked on the coffee table, an old movie playing in the background, Clark sprawled comfortably beside you with his long legs taking up half the couch. He’d stayed late all week—he’d made you breakfast, walked you to work twice, even surprised you at your office with your favorite drink. For a moment, you’d started to believe the cracks were sealing themselves.
But belief wasn’t the same as certainty. And certainty was what you needed. So when the movie ended and you excused yourself to change, you didn’t reach for your oversized T-shirt or soft flannel pants. You reached for the pajamas—the silk ones Marcy had teased you about, the ones that had made Clark’s ears turn scarlet the first time you’d worn them.
You checked your reflection once in the mirror, nerves buzzing in your stomach. It wasn’t about seduction—not really. It was about proof. If he stayed tonight, maybe you could stop worrying. Maybe you could stop imagining all the shadows in the spaces he left behind. You stepped back into the living room, heart hammering.
Clark was loosening his tie, standing near the couch. He turned when he heard you, and just like before, his reaction was immediate. His eyes widened, his breath caught, and his hands stilled on the knot of fabric at his throat. “Oh.”
You leaned casually against the doorframe, forcing a smile. “Thought I’d get comfortable.”
He swallowed hard, his ears already pink. “You… you look—” His voice faltered, and he cleared his throat, tugging at his collar like the air had gone thin.
You crossed the room slowly, fingers brushing the tie still loose at his chest. “Stay tonight,” you said softly, tilting your head up at him. “With me.”
For a moment, you thought it had worked. His hands twitched at his sides, his gaze flickering down to your mouth, every line of his body taut with want. You tugged lightly on his tie, urging him closer, and his breath stuttered.
Then his head snapped toward the window. You barely had time to register the sudden change in his posture before he stepped back, stumbling slightly, nearly tripping over the edge of the rug. His expression shifted—alarm, urgency—something you’d never seen cut so sharply across his face. “Clark?” you asked, your stomach dropping.
“I—I have to go,” he blurted, already reaching for his coat. His voice was rushed, uneven, almost panicked. “I’m sorry, I—”
“What? Why?” You took a step after him, confusion and hurt rising in your throat.
“I just—” He glanced at you, eyes wide, torn, like he wanted to explain but couldn’t. “I’ll call you. I promise.”
And then he was gone—half-stumbling into his shoes, out the door before you could take another step. The echo of it rattled through the apartment, leaving you standing barefoot in silk, the air still humming with the ghost of his almost-touch.
You stared at the closed door, your pulse pounding in your ears. This time, there had been no excuse. No broken phone, no croissants, no story about Superman. Just raw urgency in his eyes, the kind that left you cold. And for the first time, you couldn’t convince yourself it didn’t mean something.
By the time you made it into the office the next morning, you’d barely slept. You’d lain awake for hours, staring at the ceiling, Clark’s hurried exit replaying again and again in your head—the way his eyes had darted toward the window, the almost-panicked way he’d stumbled over himself getting out the door. So when Marcy appeared at your cubicle, steaming latte in hand, you didn’t even bother with small talk. “He left again,” you said flatly, before she could open her mouth.
Her eyes went wide, and she perched herself on the edge of your desk like she was settling in for a story. “Again? When?”
“Last night.” You pinched the bridge of your nose. “He was there. He was staying. And then… I don’t know, he just—heard something? Looked out the window? And bolted. Like I didn’t even exist.”
Marcy whistled low. “Oof. Not good.” She sipped her latte thoughtfully. “Okay, let’s brainstorm worst-case scenarios. Cheating. Secret family. Double life. Serial killer.”
You groaned, burying your face in your hands. “Marcy—”
“No, think about it!” She ticked off her fingers. “Cheater? Bad, but common. Secret family? Messy, but at least he’s not wasting all his emotional energy on you. Serial killer? Well…” She tilted her head dramatically. “What’s worse, a cheater or a serial killer?”
Despite yourself, you barked out a laugh, muffled behind your palms. “That is not funny.”
“Oh, it’s hilarious,” she countered, smug. “I’d take a serial killer over a cheater any day. At least with a killer, you’re not competing with Susan from accounting.”
You dropped your hands, glaring at her through the exhaustion. “You’re insane.”
“I’m realistic,” she shot back, grinning. Then, softer, “but seriously, babe. If he’s running out like that? If he can’t even give you a reason? That’s not nothing.”
You sighed, slumping in your chair. “I know. But it doesn’t feel like cheating. When he looks at me—Marcy, it’s like I’m the only person in the world. I can’t explain it. But then he vanishes, and I’m left wondering if I imagined it all.”
Her expression softened, the teasing edge fading. “Then maybe he’s not a cheater. Maybe he’s not even a serial killer.”
“Thanks for that.”
“I’m just saying.” She nudged your shoulder. “Maybe he’s hiding something else. Something big. You’ve got to decide if you want to push him on it—or if you’re okay being in the dark.”
The words sat heavy in your chest. Because deep down, you already knew the answer: you weren’t okay in the dark. Not anymore. But the thought of shining a light on whatever Clark was hiding scared you more than you wanted to admit.
---
The knock came just after sunset. You weren’t surprised—it was almost a pattern now, Clark showing up late, carrying the weight of an apology in his posture. When you opened the door, there he was, hair neat but glasses slightly askew, a paper bag dangling from one hand and a bouquet of sunflowers in the other. He smiled, soft and tentative, like he wasn’t sure if you’d let him in. “I brought dinner,” he said gently. “And flowers. To say I’m sorry.”
You stepped aside wordlessly, letting him enter. He set the bag on the table, laid the flowers carefully in a vase like they were something fragile. Then he turned back to you, his expression earnest, pleading. “I shouldn’t have left like that,” he said, voice low. “I know it hurt you. I don’t ever want to hurt you.”
Your throat tightened. “Then why do you keep doing it?”
He flinched, just slightly, but recovered with that same soft steadiness. “Sometimes… things come up. Things I can’t explain right away. But that doesn’t mean I don’t want to be here. With you.”
You pressed your hands into your arms, trying to hold yourself together. “Clark, I waited for you. At the farmer’s market. At dinner. In bed. Over and over again, I wait. And you leave.”
He took a step closer, desperation bleeding into his voice. “I come back. Every time, I come back.”
“But I don’t know if you will!” The words burst out, sharper than you intended. Your chest ached, eyes burning as you forced yourself to look at him. “I can’t keep doing this—wondering where you are, why you left, if you’re okay. I can’t keep waking up to an empty bed and convincing myself it doesn’t mean anything.”
His face crumpled, like the ground had shifted under him. “Don’t say that.”
“Clark…” Your voice broke, tears slipping free. “You’re everything I want. You’re kind, and sweet, and you make me feel like I matter. But then you vanish, and it’s like I don’t know you at all. And I can’t—” You shook your head, sobbing quietly. “I can’t do this anymore. Not like this.”
He stared at you, stricken, words caught in his throat. His hands twitched at his sides, like he wanted to reach for you but wasn’t sure he had the right. “I wish I could tell you,” he whispered finally, voice rough. “I wish I could tell you everything. You don’t know how much I want to. But—” He stopped himself, biting the words back. His chest rose and fell with a shudder.
You swallowed hard, wiping at your cheeks. “Then tell me. Please. Because if you can’t… I don’t know how we’re supposed to keep going.”
The silence between you stretched, heavy with everything unsaid. And for the first time since you’d met him, you weren’t sure if his sweetness, his apologies, his flowers, could make this right. Clark stood there, chest rising and falling, glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose as though even they were weary of carrying this lie. His hand flexed at his side, and then, with a shaky breath, he spoke. “Close your eyes,” he said softly.
You blinked at him, stunned. “Clark, this isn’t—”
“Please.” His voice was raw, desperate. “Just… if you trust me, close your eyes.” The tremor in his tone stilled your protests. Your heart pounded, but slowly—hesitantly—you let your eyes fall shut. “Do you trust me?” he asked, closer now.
You swallowed hard. “Yes.”
For a moment, there was only the silence of your apartment—the hum of the fridge, the faint city noise beyond the window. Then Clark’s hands were at your waist, warm and steady, and he drew you gently against him. “Hold on to me,” he murmured.
Before you could ask why, the ground shifted. Your stomach swooped, your hair lifted in a rush of wind. Instinctively, you clung to him, your fingers fisting in the fabric of his shirt. Air whipped around you, cool and rushing, and a gasp tore from your throat. “Clark!”
“Shh,” he soothed, his voice steady even through the roar of wind. “I’ve got you.”
You cracked your eyes open—and your breath caught. The city stretched out below you in a wash of lights and motion, sprawling farther than you’d ever seen it. Streets glimmered like veins of gold, buildings pierced the sky around you, and the river shone silver in the moonlight. You weren’t in your apartment anymore. You were flying.
And Clark—Clark was the one holding you. Your gaze snapped to him, the wind tousling his hair, his glasses gone, his eyes impossibly blue, sharp and unhidden in the night. The face you knew, but different—clearer, bolder, his. Realization crashed into you like a tidal wave. “You…” Your voice shook. “You’re—”
“Superman.” He said it quietly, the word almost reverent, as if he were confessing a sin instead of revealing himself. “It’s me.”
Your chest tightened, tears stinging your eyes. All the absences, the broken phones, the midnight disappearances—suddenly they made sense. Not cheating. Not lies. Not betrayal. He hadn’t been leaving you for someone else. He’d been leaving you for everyone else.
“I should have told you sooner,” he continued, guilt threading every word. “But I was scared. Scared of what it would mean for you. For us. I didn’t want you to look at me differently.”
You shook your head, still clutching him tightly as the city rushed below. “Clark, I—God, I thought you were cheating, or hiding some secret family, or—I don’t even know.” Your voice cracked. “But this? You were out saving people while I was sitting at home wondering why you didn’t text me back.”
His expression broke, raw and vulnerable in a way you’d never seen before. “I wanted to protect you. I thought keeping you in the dark would keep you safe. But it hurt you, and I hate that. I never wanted to hurt you.”
You stared at him, at the impossible truth in front of you, at the man who was both the sweetest, gentlest soul you’d ever known and the most powerful being on Earth. And against all reason, you laughed, shaky and breathless. “Marcy’s gonna lose her mind when she finds out I was worried you were a serial killer.”
Clark blinked, startled, then let out a stunned, nervous laugh of his own. Relief softened his features, even as his arms tightened protectively around you. “I don’t care if you’re Superman,” you whispered, your voice steady despite the tears on your cheeks. “I just need you to be honest with me. I just need you.”
He looked at you like you’d hung the stars yourself. “You have me. Always.” The descent was so smooth you barely felt it, the city tilting back into place as Clark slowed, wind softening against your skin until your feet touched down on your balcony. His arms didn’t leave you right away; instead, he held you steady, like he wasn’t sure if your legs would trust the ground again.
You weren’t sure they would either. Heart still hammering, you clutched at his shirt for a moment before finally forcing yourself to loosen your grip. The apartment behind you looked painfully ordinary—blanket draped over the couch, empty mug still on the table. And yet, everything had shifted.
Clark set you down fully, then stepped back just enough to give you space. Without his glasses, he looked both impossibly familiar and startlingly new. His eyes, unshielded, searched your face with something raw in them—hope tangled with fear.
You let out a shaky laugh, pressing a hand to your forehead. “You’re Superman. My boyfriend is Superman.”
His mouth curved into a small, almost self-conscious smile. “That’s… yeah. That’s me.”
You dropped your hand, meeting his gaze again. “All those nights you left. The phone. The farmer’s market. You were—”
“Saving people,” he finished softly. “I wasn’t lying when I said I’d always come back. I just… couldn’t tell you where I was going.”
A lump rose in your throat. “Do you have any idea what that did to me? Sitting alone, thinking I wasn’t enough? That you didn’t want me?”
His face broke, guilt carved deep in every line. He closed the space between you, carefully, his hands hovering near your arms like he wanted to hold you but was waiting for permission. “I hated it. Every time I left you, I hated it. But I thought if I told you the truth… you’d look at me like the rest of the world does. Like a symbol. Not a man.”
You shook your head, tears threatening again. “Clark, I’ve never wanted Superman. I’ve always wanted you. The guy who brings me bagels, who sings off-key while he cooks, who worries if I’ve had enough coffee before work. That’s the man I’m in love with.”
His breath hitched, and this time he didn’t hesitate. He pulled you into his arms, holding you so tightly it stole the air from your lungs. “I love you too,” he whispered into your hair. “God, I love you.”
You melted against him, arms circling his waist, your cheek pressed to the steady thrum of his heartbeat. For the first time in weeks, maybe months, the tension that had lived in your chest eased. The cracks weren’t cracks at all—they were pieces of a puzzle you hadn’t been allowed to see. When you finally pulled back, you caught his face in your hands, studying him with a small, breathless laugh. “You’re really Superman. And all this time, I thought you were sneaking off to… I don’t know, karaoke night or a secret family.”
His cheeks flushed, sheepish even now. “No secret family. And I’m terrible at karaoke.”
The laugh bubbled out of you, unstoppable. You leaned up and kissed him, slow and certain, feeling him smile against your mouth. When you finally parted, you rested your forehead against his. “Next time, don’t let me sit in the dark, okay? If you have to go, just… tell me. Even if it’s just a look. I can live with Superman. I can’t live with silence.”
His hand cupped your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek with infinite care. “No more silence. I promise.”
You leaned into the kiss fully, your arms wrapping around his neck, and for a few precious seconds there was no Superman, no danger, no lies—just Clark, just you, just the steady warmth of him choosing to stay.
summary: Clark starts to panic when his Ma and Pa ask him to come back to Smallville for a wedding. Why? He may or may not have accidentally implied he had a girlfriend. So he asks you to come with him as his fake girlfriend.
word count: 14.5k+
pairing: clark kent x fem!reader
notes: i don't think i've ever written the "fake dating" trope and i realized that that was not right. how could i have gone this far without ever writing it?! so, here it is!
warnings/tags: no use of y/n, reader works at the daily planet, fake dating trope, friends to lovers, mostly takes place in smallville, clark is a softie, reader knows clark is superman, fluff, slow burn, oblivious idiots, one mention of reader using bobby pins in hair, slight angst
Clark was pacing. Not unusual—he did that in the newsroom whenever a deadline loomed—but this was different. His tie was loosened, his glasses sliding down his nose, and the look on his face wasn’t the usual “Perry wants three rewrites before lunch” kind of stress. This was real panic.
You leaned back in your chair, coffee cup in hand, watching him wear a path into the carpet between your desks. “Clark, you’re going to burn a hole in the floor if you keep that up.”
He stopped mid-step, ran a hand through his dark hair, and exhaled sharply. “Smallville.”
You blinked. “…That’s a place, yes. Congratulations, you remembered your hometown.”
He shot you a look—half exasperated, half pleading. “There’s a wedding. Next week. One of my childhood friends. Ma and Pa really want me to come home for it.”
“Okay,” you said slowly, sipping your coffee. “And this is a crisis because…?”
Clark hesitated, his cheeks flushing pink. “Because they’ve been…asking if I’m seeing anyone. For months.” He adjusted his glasses, avoiding your eyes. “And I may have…implied…”
“Oh, Clark.” You set your cup down with a grin. “You didn’t.”
“I did,” he admitted miserably, slumping into the chair across from you. “I didn’t mean to! Ma asked if I was lonely and—I panicked. I didn’t want her to worry, so I just... And then Pa said he was happy I’d found someone, and by the time I realized what I’d done it was too late.”
You pressed your lips together, trying not to laugh. “So let me get this straight: your parents think you have a girlfriend, and now you’re about to roll into Smallville looking tragically single at a wedding full of gossiping neighbors?”
Clark groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “Exactly.”
“That is hilarious,” you said, fighting back giggles.
He peeked at you through his fingers. “It’s not funny.”
“It’s so funny. You’re basically in a Hallmark movie, Clark.”
He gave you a flat look, then took a deep breath like he was bracing for impact. “That’s why I wanted to ask you something.”
Your eyebrows rose. “Oh boy. This sounds serious.”
“Would you…” He swallowed, fidgeting with his tie. “Would you pretend to be my girlfriend? Just for the week. Come to Smallville with me, go to the wedding. Smile at my parents so they don’t think I’m a complete failure at dating.”
You stared at him. For a second, you wondered if he was joking. But no—Clark Kent didn’t joke like this. His expression was earnest, almost sheepish, and you realized with dawning horror that he was completely serious.
“Oh my God,” you breathed. “You are in a Hallmark movie.”
He said your name softly, and the way it rolled off his tongue almost made you forget this was ridiculous. You leaned back in your chair, crossing your arms. “So you want me to be your fake girlfriend. To meet your parents. And your entire hometown. For a whole week.”
He winced. “When you say it like that—”
“Clark, that’s not fake dating. That’s method acting.” But then you caught the nervous way he was watching you, the faint blush on his cheeks, and the way his hands curled awkwardly in his lap like he didn’t know what to do with them. And suddenly… you weren’t laughing anymore. “Well,” you said finally, a small smile tugging at your lips. “I’ve always wanted to see Smallville.”
The relief on his face was so immediate and genuine it made your chest tighten. He beamed, wide and boyish, like you’d just saved the world instead of agreed to play along with his lie. “You will? Really?”
“Yeah,” you said, shaking your head at him. “But you owe me, Kent. Big time.”
He grinned, sheepish and grateful. “Deal.”
And just like that, you’d agreed to be Clark Kent’s fake girlfriend. For one week. In his hometown. At a wedding. What could possibly go wrong?
---
Clark’s apartment was exactly what you’d expect from him: neat, cozy, and just a little bit old-fashioned. Stacks of newspapers were carefully folded on the coffee table, a half-finished crossword sat beside a pencil, and a throw blanket was draped across the couch in a way that screamed Martha Kent folded this once upon a time and Clark never changed it.
You perched on the edge of the sofa, eyeing the surroundings while Clark fussed in the kitchen. He’d insisted on making tea—because apparently, if you were going to fake-date him, beverages were mandatory.
He emerged a moment later, balancing two mismatched mugs in those big hands of his. He handed you one, sitting down at the opposite end of the couch like a man preparing for a business negotiation.
“So,” you said, blowing across the steam of your tea, “we should probably set some ground rules.”
“Ground rules?” he echoed, brows lifting above the rim of his glasses.
“Obviously,” you said. “Fake dating is a delicate art, Clark. If we’re going to sell this, we need a game plan. Consistency. Coordination.” You ticked off on your fingers. “We need a backstory, a timeline, rules of conduct—”
“Rules of conduct?” His mouth twitched, like he was trying not to laugh.
“Yes,” you said firmly. “For example: no kissing unless absolutely necessary. None of this ‘spur of the moment’ stuff.”
He choked a little on his tea. “Kissing?”
You raised an eyebrow. “Clark, if your entire hometown thinks you’ve got a girlfriend, someone is going to expect us to kiss. You’re not exactly going to sell the act with a stiff side hug.”
He went scarlet, staring down into his mug like it might save him. “I just… didn’t think about that.”
“You didn’t—Clark, you dragged me into a fake relationship without considering kissing?”
“I panicked!” he said, voice higher than usual. “I just wanted Ma and Pa to stop worrying, I wasn’t thinking that far ahead.”
You laughed, shaking your head. “Unbelievable. Fine, rule number one: no kissing unless we both agree it’s necessary. Rule number two: no embarrassing stories that make me look bad.”
Clark looked up at that, indignant. “I wouldn’t do that.”
“Oh, you wouldn’t?” You leaned forward, smirking. “You’ve got thirty years’ worth of baby photos your mother will absolutely whip out at dinner, and you expect me to believe you won’t let me suffer?”
His ears turned pink. “I’d never embarrass you on purpose.”
You sipped your tea, studying him. He meant it—you could see that earnestness in his eyes, the way his brows knit slightly like the thought of humiliating you was genuinely offensive to him. That sincerity was going to make this entire charade very dangerous.
“Fine,” you conceded softly. “Rule number two: no intentional embarrassment. Rule number three…” You hesitated, twirling the mug in your hands. “We need a believable backstory. How we met, how long we’ve been together, that sort of thing.”
Clark perked up a little, as if relieved to be on more solid ground. “That’s easy. We could just say we met at the Planet. Friends turned into something more.”
You narrowed your eyes. “That’s boring. And vague. If people ask questions, you’ll fold like a cheap suit.”
He frowned. “I don’t fold.”
“You fold,” you said flatly. “You’re too nice to lie convincingly.”
He sputtered, adjusting his glasses. “I can lie!”
“Clark,” you said sweetly, “what did you have for breakfast this morning?”
“…Toast,” he replied, after an oddly long pause.
You arched a brow. “Uh-huh. And that little hesitation wasn’t suspicious at all.”
“I did have toast,” he muttered, flustered. “I just also had… three pancakes.”
You laughed so hard you nearly spilled your tea. “Exactly my point. If someone corners you at the reception and asks how we got together, you’ll crack in seconds.”
Clark sighed, conceding. “So what do you suggest?”
“We build a story with details,” you said, warming to the task. “Something casual but sweet. Like… you asked me out after we stayed late on a story together. You brought me coffee, I brought you takeout, and we realized we’d been accidentally dating for weeks already.”
His mouth softened into a smile. “That’s actually… really nice.”
“See? Believable and romantic.”
Clark set his mug down, fiddling with his tie like he always did when he was nervous. “Okay. That works. And, um… how long have we been dating?”
You tapped your chin. “Long enough that meeting your parents isn’t weird. But not so long that people start asking about rings. Four months?”
He nodded thoughtfully. “That sounds right.”
You could feel his eyes on you as you scribbled the details onto a notepad you’d stolen from his desk: timeline, first date story, favorite things about each other—fake answers pending. When you finally looked up, he was smiling faintly, like the sight of you planning this out amused him more than it should have. “What?” you asked.
“Nothing,” he said quickly, looking away. But the tips of his ears were red, and you weren’t entirely sure what that meant.
You shook your head, setting down the pen. “Alright, Kent. We’ve got the ground rules. Now all we have to do is survive one week in Smallville without blowing our cover.”
Clark smiled nervously, rubbing the back of his neck. “What could go wrong?”
You groaned, dropping your head into your hands. “Oh, don’t say that.”
---
The drive out of Metropolis stretched on for hours, skyscrapers shrinking into farmland, city noise dissolving into the steady hum of open road. Clark insisted on driving—something about “wanting you to see the view,” though you suspected it was also his way of staving off nerves. He fiddled with the radio more than usual, tuning through stations until he settled on a fuzzy country channel that seemed to relax him.
The closer you got to Smallville, the more he loosened up. His posture uncurled, his shoulders dropped, and for once he wasn’t hiding behind that sheepish city-desk persona. This was his world—cornfields rolling in every direction, red barns dotting the horizon, and an endless sky overhead that felt like freedom.
By the time you pulled into the long dirt driveway, your nerves had caught up with you. The Kent farmhouse came into view: white paint weathered by decades of Kansas sun, a porch swing creaking lazily in the breeze, and a bright patchwork of Martha’s flowerbeds framing the front steps. It looked like a painting. Too picturesque—like the kind of place where pretending to be Clark Kent’s girlfriend could unravel in an instant.
Clark parked the car and turned to you, pushing his glasses up his nose. “Okay. This is it.”
You glanced at the farmhouse. “Your childhood home. No pressure at all.”
“You don’t have to be nervous,” he said, though his own hands tightened around the steering wheel. “Ma and Pa… they’ll love you.”
The words slipped out before he could catch them. He froze, ears going red. “I mean—they’ll love meeting you. Because you’re… you know… nice.”
You bit back a smile. “Smooth, Kent.”
Before he could sputter out a defense, the screen door banged open. Martha Kent stepped out onto the porch, apron dusted with flour, her face lighting up the second she saw her son. She waved, calling his name, and a moment later Jonathan appeared beside her, steady and smiling as he leaned on the railing.
“Showtime,” you muttered under your breath, reaching for the door handle.
Clark glanced at you, nervous, and then did something unexpected. He reached across the console and gently took your hand in his, his palm warm and steady. “We’ve got this,” he said softly.
Your breath caught, just for a second. Then you nodded, squeezing back.
Martha reached the two of you first, arms outstretched. “Clark Jerome Kent, you didn’t tell me you’d be here this early!”
Clark laughed, pulling her into a hug. “Hi, Ma.”
Jonathan followed, giving his son a firm clap on the back before his gaze shifted toward you. “And this must be the mystery girl we’ve been hearing about.”
Oh God. Here it was—the test.
Clark’s hand was still laced with yours as he pulled you gently forward. “Ma, Pa… this is my girlfriend.” His voice wavered only slightly. “We, uh—we work together at the Planet.”
Martha’s face broke into the warmest smile you’d ever seen, eyes crinkling as she caught both your hands in hers. “Well, aren’t you just lovely. I’ve been waiting years for Clark to bring someone home. Come in, come in, I’ve got pie cooling on the counter.”
Jonathan chuckled low in his throat. “Better warn her about your Ma’s pie, son. Once you’ve had it, you’ll never eat another slice without comparing.” You laughed politely, though your stomach was still tight with nerves. Clark gave you the faintest smile—reassuring, like you’d passed the first round
Inside, the farmhouse smelled like cinnamon and clean laundry. The living room was cozy, lined with bookshelves and family photos, a worn quilt draped over the back of the couch. A pair of boots sat neatly by the door, clearly Jonathan’s. Every detail radiated warmth and history, a life well-lived.
Martha ushered you both into the kitchen, where she sliced pie and asked question after question. How did you and Clark meet? What was your first impression of him? Did he take you out somewhere nice, or did he settle for greasy takeout again? Clark’s ears went red at that, but he played along. “It was good takeout,” he muttered defensively.
You smiled into your fork. “It was actually perfect. He insisted on paying even though I said we could split it. That’s when I knew he was trouble.”
Jonathan laughed, shaking his head. “Sounds like our boy.”
Clark glanced at you from across the table, and for a moment it felt less like lying and more like slipping into a story that fit too well.
Later, after Martha declared herself satisfied with your answers and shooed everyone out of her kitchen, Clark led you upstairs to drop your bag in the guest room. He paused outside the door, rubbing the back of his neck. “Sorry about all that. They, uh… they can be a little enthusiastic.”
“They’re wonderful,” you said honestly. “Honestly, Clark, if this is how you grew up, no wonder you turned out so…” You trailed off, realizing you were about to say so good. So kind. So easy to love.
He tilted his head, curious. “So what?”
You shook your head quickly. “So polite. That’s all.”
He didn’t push, though something in his expression softened. Then, awkwardly, “just so you know, uh… there’s a chance they’ll show you baby pictures tonight. They… do that.”
You grinned. “Can’t wait.”
Clark groaned. “You’re supposed to dread it.”
“Why? I think little farm-boy Clark sounds adorable.”
His cheeks flushed pink again, and he muttered something under his breath about regretting this already. But when he looked at you—really looked—there was something flickering behind his glasses. Something that said he wasn’t regretting a thing.
The sun was just beginning to dip low over the Kansas horizon when Martha called you both down for supper. The farmhouse smelled incredible—savory roast chicken, mashed potatoes whipped light and buttery, green beans fresh from the garden. You hadn’t even sat down yet, and your stomach was already growling.
Clark walked beside you down the narrow staircase, his hand hovering near your back in that tentative way of his—like he wanted to guide you but wasn’t sure if it crossed some invisible line. When you glanced at him, he quickly dropped it, shoving both hands into his pockets as if he’d been caught.
The dining room was warm and homey, mismatched chairs pulled around a sturdy oak table that looked like it had hosted every holiday and birthday party for decades. Martha bustled at the head of the table with serving dishes while Jonathan poured sweet tea into mason jars. “Sit, sit,” Martha said cheerfully, waving you both into the chairs beside each other. “Clark, don’t let her hover. She’s company, not a farmhand.”
“I wasn’t—Ma,” Clark protested, but he obeyed, pulling out the chair for you before sitting down himself. The gesture made your chest tighten unexpectedly. Fake boyfriend or not, it was… nice.
Dinner began with chatter about the weather, the crops, how the community had rallied to prepare for the wedding. Martha asked you questions in that gentle but probing way mothers have, as though she could piece together your entire character with just a handful of details. “So,” she said, ladling chicken onto your plate, “what’s it like working with Clark?”
You paused, fork poised. Clark stiffened beside you. “Well,” you began, deliberately glancing at him with a mischievous smile, “he’s punctual. Organized. A little too serious sometimes. But he’s also… dependable. The kind of guy you want around when things get messy.”
Martha’s eyes sparkled knowingly, and Jonathan chuckled into his tea. Clark ducked his head, ears turning red. “She’s exaggerating,” he muttered.
“Am I?” you teased. “You’re the one who makes sure I eat lunch on deadline days.”
Martha clapped her hands together, delighted. “Oh, I like you.”
Clark gave you a sidelong look that said thanks a lot but his mouth twitched like he was holding back a smile.
Halfway through dinner, Martha disappeared into the living room and returned with a thick leather-bound photo album. Clark immediately groaned. “Ma, no.”
“Yes,” she said firmly, setting it down in front of you. “If you’re bringing a girl home, she deserves to see the whole truth.”
Jonathan smirked. “Brace yourself.”
You opened the album eagerly. The first page showed a chubby-faced toddler Clark, cheeks smeared with chocolate cake. “Oh my God,” you breathed, grinning. “Look at those curls.”
Clark covered his face with his hand. “Please don’t.”
But Martha was already leaning over your shoulder, pointing out pictures with relish. “Here he is at five, trying to wear his father’s work boots. Couldn’t lift his feet an inch, but he insisted. And this one—oh, he was seven, insisted on wearing a cape made out of a pillowcase for an entire summer.”
You laughed so hard you nearly dropped your fork. “A cape? Really?”
Clark peeked through his fingers, groaning. “I was imaginative.”
“You were adorable,” you corrected. “Don’t fight me on this, Kent.”
Jonathan’s eyes twinkled as he added, “That pillowcase got more miles than our old truck.”
By dessert, you were wiping tears of laughter from your cheeks, and Clark was slumped in his chair like a man resigned to his fate. Martha set a fresh pie in the center of the table, looking utterly pleased with herself. “I like how she teases you,” she said to Clark. “You need someone who doesn’t let you get away with hiding.”
Clark shifted uncomfortably. “Ma…”
But her words lingered in the air, heavier than she probably intended. You glanced at Clark, catching his expression—the faint flush on his cheeks, the way his eyes darted toward you and away again. It sent a flicker of something warm through your chest, something that had nothing to do with pie.
Later, as you helped Martha clear the table, she leaned close and murmured, “he’s happy with you here. I can tell.”
You froze, a plate balanced in your hands. “Oh, well, we—” You caught yourself before stumbling over the whole truth. “He’s easy to be around.”
Martha smiled softly, knowingly. “That he is.”
When you returned to the living room, Clark was on the couch with Jonathan, who was recounting a story about Clark trying to build a treehouse as a teenager. Clark looked up as you entered, and for just a moment—barely a flicker—you saw it, the way his shoulders eased when his eyes landed on you.
Like he really was happy you were there.
And that was far more dangerous than any fake-dating rule you’d written down.
---
The Kent farmhouse was quieter at night than you were used to. In Metropolis, even at 2 a.m., you could hear taxis honking, people shouting, the hum of life never shutting off. Here, the silence felt different—peaceful, weighty, broken only by the chirp of crickets and the occasional low moo from the pasture.
You padded barefoot down the hallway, the floorboards creaking in that way old houses did. Clark was waiting near the back porch, leaning against the doorframe, arms folded loosely across his chest. He looked… comfortable here, like part of the house itself, a boy who’d grown into a man but never really shed the soil of Smallville from his skin.
“Couldn’t sleep?” he asked softly, pushing his glasses up.
You shrugged, joining him. “Too quiet. My brain keeps waiting for a siren or a car alarm.”
Clark chuckled, holding the screen door open so you could step outside with him. The night air was cool, carrying the smell of cut hay and earth. Above, the stars stretched endlessly, brighter than you’d ever seen them in the city.
For a moment you both just stood there, listening to the rustle of the breeze through the cornfields. Then you nudged him with your elbow. “So. Pillowcase cape, huh?”
Clark’s head whipped toward you, his expression stricken. “My mother—”
“—is a treasure,” you cut in, grinning wickedly. “And she told me everything. Little Clark, running around the farm with a pillowcase flapping behind him. Tell me, is that where the whole Superman aesthetic came from?”
He groaned, covering his face with one hand. “Please don’t.”
“No, really, it makes sense!” You leaned against the railing, smirking. “The cape, the heroics, the dramatic poses—it all started with a pillowcase. Honestly, I’m impressed. You’ve been workshopping the look since you were seven.”
Clark peeked at you through his fingers, his ears turning bright pink. “I’m never forgiving Ma for that.”
“You should thank her,” you teased. “If not for her laundry, the world would’ve been deprived of Superman’s fashion choices.”
“I can’t believe you’re making fun of me for this,” he muttered, but his lips betrayed him with a reluctant smile.
“Oh, I’m never letting this go,” you said firmly. “Next time you swoop in to save the day, I’m going to picture you in cowboy boots and a pillowcase.”
He laughed then, shoulders shaking, the sound low and warm. It curled in your chest, softer than you expected. He wasn’t embarrassed so much as he was… delighted that you were delighted.
The porch swing creaked as you sat, pulling your knees up and gazing out at the fields. Clark joined you, the swing dipping slightly under his weight. His arm brushed yours, just enough to make you aware of the heat radiating from him.
“It’s funny,” you murmured after a moment. “You always seem larger than life in Metropolis. But here…” You glanced at him, silhouetted against the starlight. “…you just seem like Clark. The guy who eats too many pancakes and folds under interrogation about breakfast.”
He turned toward you, his expression soft. “I like being just Clark. At least here, I don’t have to pretend as much.”
Something in the way he said it made your heart squeeze. You wanted to ask what he meant, wanted to push past the careful smile and the glasses he always seemed to hide behind. But you swallowed the question. Not tonight.
Instead, you bumped his shoulder with yours, light and teasing. “Well, for the record, I like just Clark. Even if his cape beginnings were tragic.”
His laugh was quiet, but his gaze lingered on you longer than it should have, like he was memorizing the way you looked under the stars.
The screen door creaked open, and Martha poked her head out, smiling knowingly. “You two don’t stay up too late now. Big day tomorrow.”
Clark’s ears went pink again. “Yes, Ma.”
When she retreated, you smirked. “She thinks we’re sneaking kisses out here.”
Clark nearly choked. “What? No—”
“Relax,” you said, fighting a grin. “I didn’t say we were. Just that she thinks we are. Which, honestly, is good for our cover.”
He shifted, visibly torn between mortification and agreement. “…I suppose that’s true.”
You leaned back, eyes twinkling. “Don’t worry, Kent. Your virtue is safe.”
Clark groaned. “You’re going to make this week unbearable, aren’t you?”
“Absolutely,” you said cheerfully. “That’s what fake girlfriends are for.”
But as the porch settled into silence again, you became aware of his hand resting close—too close—on the swing between you, your pinky brushing his knuckle every time the swing swayed. Neither of you moved. Neither of you acknowledged it.
And in that quiet, under the stars and the scent of hay, the line between fake and real grew blurrier than ever.
---
Clark was up before the sun. You should have expected that—farm boy habits die hard—but you hadn’t counted on him knocking softly at your door at seven in the morning, hair still damp from a shower, glasses slipping down his nose, looking far too awake for someone who’d been teased mercilessly the night before. “Sorry,” he said when you opened the door, still in your pajamas. His voice was low, almost sheepish. “Did I wake you?”
You blinked blearily at him. “You mean, aside from the rooster at five? No, you’re just the cherry on top.”
His lips twitched like he was trying not to smile. “I thought maybe we could get breakfast in town. If you’re up for it.”
You stared at him for a moment, then sighed dramatically. “You’re really milking this fake-girlfriend thing, huh?”
Clark’s expression faltered. “We don’t have to. I just thought—”
“I’m kidding,” you interrupted, fighting a grin. “Give me ten minutes. I’ll even make myself presentable for Smallville.”
He relaxed, the tension slipping from his shoulders. “You don’t have to—”
“Yes, I do,” you said firmly, shutting the door in his face.
Ten minutes turned into fifteen, but when you came down the stairs, Clark was waiting by the door, hands shoved into his jacket pockets. He smiled when he saw you, warm and genuine, and for one terrifying second, you forgot this was pretend.
The drive into town was short. Clark’s truck rattled a little on the old roads, dust kicking up behind the tires, the fields stretching endlessly on either side. Smallville proper came into view, a few blocks of brick storefronts, a courthouse with a flag flapping in the breeze, a row of shops that looked like they hadn’t changed in fifty years.
Clark parked outside a diner with a faded sign that read Maisie’s, its front windows fogged from the smell of bacon and coffee. Inside, the bell above the door jingled, and immediately half the heads in the diner turned toward you. “Clark Kent!” an older man in a John Deere cap called from a booth near the window. “Well, I’ll be damned. Thought you were too high-and-mighty in Metropolis to remember us little folk.”
Clark flushed but smiled politely. “Good morning, Mr. Jenkins.”
“Morning,” the man said with a nod, eyes flicking to you. “And who’s this?”
Clark glanced at you, then back at the man, his voice a little tighter. “This is my girlfriend.”
It was the first time you’d heard him say it to someone outside his family, and the word landed strangely, heavy in the air. Girlfriend. Like it wasn’t borrowed or temporary. Mr. Jenkins let out a low whistle. “Well, ain’t you full of surprises, Kent.”
By the time you slid into a booth, whispers had already begun to ripple through the diner. You leaned across the table, lowering your voice. “You realize everyone in this town is going to know I exist within the hour, right?”
Clark’s smile was small, almost apologetic. “Yeah. Sorry. Gossip travels faster than tractors around here.”
“Fantastic,” you muttered. “By lunchtime, someone’s probably going to ask me when the wedding is.”
The waitress arrived then, a cheerful blonde who looked only a few years older than you. Her eyes widened when she saw Clark. “Well, if it isn’t Clark Kent! Back in town for the big wedding?”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said politely.
“And who’s this?” she asked, smiling at you.
“My girlfriend,” Clark repeated smoothly, glancing your way. Something about the ease in his voice caught you off guard. It sounded natural. Too natural.
The waitress grinned. “Well, she’s prettier than the last girl you brought in here.”
Clark nearly choked. “There wasn’t—”
“She’s teasing,” you said quickly, rescuing him, though you were grinning. “Relax, Kent.” His cheeks went red, but he ducked his head, fiddling with the laminated menu. When the waitress left, you leaned your chin on your hand, studying him. “You get flustered so easily.”
“I don’t,” he protested weakly.
“You do,” you said, amused. “I’m starting to think this fake-dating plan was a bad idea. You’re going to blow our cover by turning red every time someone mentions the word girlfriend.”
Clark sighed, but there was a faint smile tugging at his lips. “I’ll get better at it.”
“I hope so,” you teased. “Because if not, I’m going to have to start kissing you just to make it believable.” His head snapped up, eyes wide behind his glasses. For a second, you thought he might drop his menu. “Kidding,” you said lightly, though your pulse betrayed you.
Clark muttered something that sounded like “not funny,” but his ears burned scarlet all the way through breakfast.
When the food came—pancakes stacked high, eggs, bacon—the smell alone made you sigh in delight. You dug in without hesitation, and Clark watched, amused, before following suit. “This is dangerous,” you said between bites. “If I lived here, I’d weigh two hundred pounds from this diner alone.”
“You’d get used to it,” Clark said with a chuckle. “Smallville’s good at simple comforts.”
He looked around the diner, his expression softening. Neighbors waved at him, old classmates stopped by to say hello, and through it all he introduced you—my girlfriend—with the same steady tone, each repetition settling deeper into your chest.
By the time you left, the bell jingling overhead again, you could feel eyes on your back, whispers trailing behind you like a ribbon. Smallville was watching.
After breakfast at Maisie’s, Clark offered to give you “the tour,” which seemed ridiculous—you’d seen the whole town from the truck window in under three minutes. Still, you didn’t protest. Watching him here was different, and you wanted to see more.
The sidewalks were cracked and uneven, lined with lampposts draped in faded bunting for the upcoming wedding. Storefronts had old-fashioned awnings, and the bakery window displayed heart-shaped cookies dusted with sugar. People waved as Clark passed, and he waved back, every smile warm, every handshake firm.
It was strange. In Metropolis, Clark blended in so well—quiet, unobtrusive, the kind of man you could overlook if you weren’t paying attention. But here, he was someone. Not flashy, not larger than life, but rooted. Known. Loved.
You were halfway down Main Street when a voice called out. “Clark? That you?”
A tall man in a plaid shirt strode across the street, grinning. Clark’s face lit up with recognition. “Pete,” he said, shaking the man’s hand. “It’s been a while.”
Pete glanced at you, curious. “And this must be…?”
Clark’s hand found yours before you even thought about it, fingers slipping between yours with easy confidence. “My girlfriend,” he said, the word so smooth it nearly made you stumble. “We came down for the wedding.”
Pete let out a low whistle, eyebrows raised. “Well, well. Clark Kent finally found someone. Don’t let him fool you,” he said to you, “he was the shyest guy in school. Could barely look a girl in the eye.”
You laughed, squeezing Clark’s hand just enough to make him squirm. “Some things never change.”
Clark groaned, but Pete chuckled and clapped him on the back before heading off, muttering about telling the whole town Clark finally grew a backbone.
As you continued down the street, Clark muttered, “you didn’t have to encourage him.”
“Oh, but it’s fun watching you squirm,” you teased. “Besides, you’re very convincing when you say girlfriend. Almost like you believe it.”
Clark stopped walking, his hand tightening around yours. For a heartbeat, he looked at you with an intensity that stole the air from your lungs. Then he cleared his throat, adjusted his glasses, and said lightly, “we should stop at the florist. Ma will want fresh flowers for the rehearsal dinner.”
You let him change the subject, though the word girlfriend still buzzed in your chest like static.
At the florist, an older woman behind the counter recognized him immediately. “Clark Kent, as I live and breathe! Haven’t seen you in years.” Her eyes slid to you, widening with interest. “And who’s this pretty thing?”
Clark’s voice didn’t even waver. “My girlfriend.”
The woman beamed. “Well, aren’t you two a pair. He’s always been such a sweetheart. You take good care of him, honey.”
You smiled politely, but when you caught Clark’s pink ears, you nearly laughed. “Don’t worry,” you said sweetly. “I plan to.”
Outside the shop, Clark groaned. “You’re enjoying this too much.”
“You’re not?” you asked, arching a brow.
He hesitated, lips parting as though he had something to say—something true, not part of the act. But then a car horn blared, and a group of locals waved from across the street, shouting greetings. Clark waved back, the moment gone.
By the time you made it back to the truck, you’d been introduced as Clark’s girlfriend half a dozen times. Each time, it slipped more easily from his tongue. Each time, it rattled you a little more. Sliding into the passenger seat, you buckled your belt and exhaled. “Well. That was exhausting.”
Clark laughed softly, starting the engine. “That was Smallville.”
You glanced at him, taking in the relaxed curve of his smile, the way the sunlight hit his profile. For all your teasing, he looked… happy. And that, you realized with a pang, was the most dangerous part of all.
---
The community hall in Smallville had been dressed to the nines for the rehearsal dinner, though it still bore the bones of a building that usually hosted county fairs and bake sales. White streamers looped from the rafters, strings of fairy lights cast a golden glow over folding tables covered in rented tablecloths, and someone had gone heavy on the mason jar centerpieces. The place buzzed with laughter, chatter, and the clinking of cutlery.
Clark walked in at your side, hand brushing yours, and instantly half the room turned to look. “Clark Kent!” someone called, and then there was a chorus of greetings, neighbors and old friends hurrying over.
You had seconds to brace yourself before you were introduced for what felt like the hundredth time that day. “This is my girlfriend,” Clark said smoothly, his hand sliding against your back with the ease of a man who’d been doing it forever. The word girlfriend rolled off his tongue too naturally. Too comfortably. Each time he said it, it landed in your stomach like a stone—and not in the way you expected.
The bride, a sweet-faced woman named Lucy who looked at Clark like he was still the boy who carried her books in high school, hugged him tightly before turning to you with eager eyes. “So this is the famous girlfriend! I was beginning to think he made you up.”
“Oh, I’m very real,” you said, smiling as Clark went red. “And Clark has been nothing but a gentleman.”
“Of course he has,” Lucy said warmly. “He always was.”
The groom—broad-shouldered, with the air of a man used to tractors and long days in the sun—shook your hand firmly. “Brave of you, coming to Smallville with this one. Everyone’s gonna talk.”
You laughed lightly, squeezing Clark’s hand beneath the table as you all sat down. “Let them. I can handle it.” Clark’s glance was quick, but his eyes were warm.
Dinner was served family-style, platters of fried chicken and bowls of mashed potatoes passed around the tables. Clark helped fill your plate before his own, a small gesture you noticed more than you should have.
The conversations flowed easily at first—neighbors asking Clark about Metropolis, about the Planet, about his parents. Then, inevitably, the spotlight shifted. “So,” an elderly aunt asked, leaning forward with sharp eyes. “How did you two meet?”
Clark froze. You felt it in the way his shoulders stiffened, the way his hand under the table tightened around yours like a lifeline. He was going to stumble. You could see it coming. You jumped in. “We worked late on a story together. He brought me coffee, I brought him dinner, and the next thing I knew we’d been accidentally dating for weeks.” The table chuckled approvingly, the aunt nodding as if you’d passed some kind of test. Clark exhaled, sending you a grateful look that made your stomach twist. But the questions didn’t stop.
“What was your first date like?” someone else chimed.
You opened your mouth, ready to spin another tale, but Clark surprised you. His voice was quiet, steady. “It was simple. Dinner, conversation. I remember thinking I didn’t want the night to end.”
The table cooed. You stared at him, caught off guard, because he wasn’t embellishing. He wasn’t grinning or winking like he was playing a part. He was looking at you with a softness that felt alarmingly real. Your heart skipped.
The music started after dinner, a local band striking up a tune that was more enthusiasm than skill. Couples drifted to the dance floor, laughing, clumsy but joyful. “Dance with me?” Clark asked suddenly, his hand outstretched.
You blinked. “Clark, people are watching.”
“That’s the point,” he said, though there was a nervous edge to his smile.
Reluctantly, you let him pull you up, his hand settling warm and careful at your waist. The band played something slow, the kind of song that made small-town folks sigh and sway. At first, you were hyper-aware of every step. His palm against your back. The way his thumb brushed lightly as if by accident. The heat of his body so close to yours.
But then the room blurred. The chatter and laughter faded. There was only Clark, his eyes behind the glasses searching yours like he was memorizing you. “You’re good at this,” you said softly, trying to lighten the moment.
“I’m trying not to step on your toes,” he admitted, smiling faintly.
“You’re doing fine.”
The song stretched on, and neither of you pulled away. His hand was steady, his touch gentle, but the way he held you—it didn’t feel fake. It didn’t feel like a performance for the town. And you knew he felt it too, because when the song ended, he didn’t let go right away. His fingers lingered at your waist, reluctant, like he hadn’t quite remembered this was supposed to be temporary.
Applause rippled through the hall as couples clapped for the band. You and Clark stepped back quickly, both a little flushed. “You’re enjoying this too much,” you teased, though your voice wasn’t as steady as you wanted.
Clark’s smile was soft, almost shy. “Maybe I am.” And that was the problem. Because maybe you were, too.
The hum of the truck filled the silence, a low steady sound as Clark steered them down the two-lane road back to the farm. The headlights carved pale cones into the dark, catching glimpses of cornfields stretching endlessly on either side. The town lights had faded in the rearview, leaving nothing but Kansas night sky—vast, jeweled with stars, endless.
You leaned back in your seat, still warm from the glow of the rehearsal dinner. Your hair smelled faintly of fryer oil and wildflowers from the centerpieces, your cheeks still held the flush of laughter and dancing. And yet, for all the noise and chatter of the evening, this silence felt louder.
Clark’s hand was loose on the wheel, but his knuckles were pale where he gripped it tighter than necessary. “You did good,” you said finally, breaking the quiet.
He glanced at you, puzzled. “Good?”
“Convincing,” you clarified. “Not even a single stutter when you called me your girlfriend.”
His mouth twitched. “Practice makes perfect.”
“Practice, huh?” you teased, tilting your head to study him. “Well, if you keep this up, you’re going to make half of Smallville jealous. There were at least three women tonight who looked ready to throw me out the window.”
Clark groaned softly, adjusting his glasses. “Don’t say that.”
“It’s true,” you pressed, amused. “You really didn’t notice? They were practically glaring daggers. And Lucy? She nearly swooned when you walked in.”
“She’s married,” Clark protested.
“Doesn’t mean she’s blind.” That earned you a startled laugh, deep and genuine. It rolled through the truck, warm enough to loosen something tight in your chest. The road stretched on, the stars overhead brighter than anything the city could offer. You found yourself watching him instead of the fields—the relaxed way he held himself here, shoulders a little looser, smile a little easier. And then, because you couldn’t resist, you said, “so, Kent. About that dance.”
He stiffened almost imperceptibly, eyes fixed on the road. “…What about it?”
“You didn’t seem like a man faking it.”
His jaw worked, but he didn’t answer right away. The truck’s engine filled the silence, the gravel crunching beneath the tires. When he finally spoke, his voice was quieter. “I wasn’t trying to fake anything.”
The words sat between you, heavy, undeniable. You swallowed, suddenly very aware of your pulse. “Clark…”
He cut you a glance, something raw flickering in his eyes before he turned back to the road. “I just meant—it was nice. That’s all.”
You wanted to push, to ask what nice meant when his hand had lingered at your waist, when his eyes had looked at you like you were the only thing in the room. But the farmhouse lights appeared in the distance, saving him from having to say more—and saving you from having to admit you weren’t sure you wanted this to stay fake anymore.
Martha had left the porch light on, warm and welcoming. The moment the truck rumbled into the driveway, you exhaled like you’d been holding your breath the whole ride. Clark parked, cut the engine, and for a long moment neither of you moved. Finally, he cleared his throat. “You don’t have to come out to chores tomorrow if you don’t want to. Most people don’t find feeding chickens relaxing.”
You smiled faintly, grateful for the reprieve. “I’ll think about it.”
When you stepped out of the truck, the cool night air rushed around you, carrying the scent of hay and summer. Clark walked you up the steps, his hand brushing against yours in a way that couldn’t be accidental, not anymore.
At the door, you paused. “Goodnight, Clark.”
He hesitated, his mouth opening like he wanted to say something more. But all he managed was a quiet, “goodnight.” You slipped inside, heart racing, leaving him on the porch with the night sky and whatever thoughts he couldn’t quite bring himself to voice.
---
The smell of coffee drifted up the staircase before sunlight even fully crept through the curtains of your guest room. By the time you stumbled downstairs, hair mussed and still tugging on a sweatshirt, Clark was already at the stove, spatula in hand. He glanced up at the sound of your footsteps, smiling in that calm, easy way that made you feel like mornings weren’t so bad after all. “Morning,” he said. “I made pancakes.”
Of course he did. You sat at the table, wrapping your hands around a steaming mug of coffee. “Do you ever not make pancakes?”
“They’re easy,” he replied simply, sliding a plate stacked high onto the table. “Besides, Ma says I’ve been hooked on them since I was five.”
You took a forkful, begrudgingly admitting they were good—fluffy and warm, just sweet enough. Clark watched you like he was waiting for a verdict, and when you gave him a satisfied hum, his whole face brightened. “See? Worth it.”
After breakfast, he offered to show you around the farm, which apparently meant actual chores. You protested—halfheartedly—until he handed you a pair of boots and led you out into the yard. The Kansas sun was already hot, beating down on fields of tall corn and stretching pasture. The barn loomed ahead, red paint faded but sturdy, and the distant lowing of cows echoed across the property. Clark walked like he’d done this a thousand times, easy and relaxed, while you tried not to trip over uneven ground in borrowed boots. “You’ll like this part,” he said, leading you toward the chicken coop.
The smell hit before you saw them. A dozen or so hens clucked and strutted around the pen, feathers ruffling, beady eyes watching like tiny sentries. Clark opened the gate with practiced ease, stepping inside. You hesitated at the threshold. “They look… aggressive,” you muttered.
“They’re harmless,” Clark promised, grabbing a tin bucket of feed. “Come on.”
Against your better judgment, you stepped in. The hens crowded closer, clucking louder, pecking at the dirt near your boots. “See?” Clark said reassuringly. “They just want food. Here.” He handed you a scoop of feed. “Scatter it on the ground, not on yourself.”
You tossed a handful of feed nervously, and the chickens surged forward. One particularly bold hen—a plump white one with a sharp little beak—made a beeline for you. Your eyes widened. “Clark. Clark, it’s coming at me.”
He barely looked up from scattering his own feed. “She’s fine. Just toss it further away from you.”
“She’s not fine! She’s charging!” The hen flapped its wings and darted closer, pecking eagerly at the ground right by your feet. You yelped, stumbling backward and nearly dropping the bucket. “Clark!” you shouted, scrambling toward him. “Do something!”
Finally looking up, Clark tried—and failed—to hide his grin. “She’s just curious.”
“She’s a demon,” you shot back, clinging to his arm as the hen advanced again. “That thing is going to kill me.”
Clark laughed then, full and unrestrained, the sound echoing across the yard. He gently nudged the hen away with his boot, then steadied you with his free hand, warm and solid against your waist. “You’re safe,” he said, still chuckling. “I promise.”
You glared at him, though your heart was thudding from more than just the chicken attack. “You think this is funny?”
“A little,” he admitted, eyes twinkling. “I didn’t know you were afraid of chickens.”
“I’m not afraid,” you insisted, scowling. “I just have… a healthy respect for animals with sharp beaks.”
Clark’s smile softened, though it lingered at the corners of his mouth. “Don’t worry. I’ll protect you from all terrifying poultry during your stay.”
“Gee, thanks, Kent. You’re my hero.”
His expression shifted almost imperceptibly at that—something flickering in his eyes, something you couldn’t quite name. He looked at you a beat too long before clearing his throat and stepping back, releasing your waist.
“Come on,” he said, voice a little rougher than before. “There’s more to see than just chickens.” Clark led you out toward the pasture after depositing the empty feed bucket back at the barn. The air smelled of grass and sun-warmed earth, and the low, steady sounds of cattle drifted over the fence line. “You’ll like this better,” he said, leaning his arms casually over the wooden fence. “Cows are easier than chickens. Slower. Friendlier.”
You eyed the herd suspiciously. Half a dozen big, lumbering animals grazed lazily in the field, tails flicking. They didn’t look dangerous, but they also didn’t look like creatures you wanted charging at you. “Friendlier?” you asked doubtfully. “They’re huge.”
Clark smiled, the kind of patient, good-natured smile that was annoyingly reassuring. “Just follow my lead.”
He swung the gate open and gestured for you to follow. Reluctantly, you stepped in after him, boots sinking into the soft dirt. The cows barely acknowledged your presence—until one of them, a massive brown one with a curious face, lifted its head and started walking toward you. You froze. “Clark.”
He glanced back at you. “What?”
“It’s coming this way.”
“That’s okay,” he said calmly. “They’re curious animals. Just stand still.”
The cow picked up speed, ears flicking forward. Your heart lurched. “Clark, it’s not walking. It’s charging.”
“It’s not charging,” he said, though his brow furrowed now. “She probably just wants to sniff you.”
“Sniff me? Clark, she’s the size of a car!”
By now the cow had broken into a lumbering trot. Instinct kicked in—Clark moved in front of you, his arm shooting out like a protective barrier. For a split second, you thought he was going to push you down out of the way. Instead, the cow barreled straight into him. The impact was less of a crash and more of a giant, clumsy bump, but it was enough to knock Clark off-balance. He stumbled backward—into you—and the two of you went down in a heap onto the grass.
The world tilted, your breath whooshed out, and suddenly you were flat on your back with Clark sprawled half over you, his glasses askew, his face inches from yours. For a moment, neither of you moved. The cow huffed once, sniffed Clark’s jacket, then wandered off with a flick of its tail, entirely unconcerned. You blinked up at him, stunned. “Did Superman just get taken out by a cow?”
Clark groaned, pushing himself up on one elbow, his hair sticking up from where it had been mussed in the fall. “Don’t start.”
“Oh, I’m starting,” you said, laughter bubbling up uncontrollably. “The man of steel, the hero of Metropolis, flattened by Betty the cow.”
His ears went pink. “Her name’s Daisy.”
That only made you laugh harder. “Even better.”
Clark rolled off to the side with a sigh, flopping onto the grass beside you. He pressed the heel of his hand to his forehead, muttering, “I’m never going to live this down, am I?”
“Not a chance,” you said, still giggling. “If the chickens didn’t take you out, at least the cows did.”
He turned his head toward you then, and despite your teasing, his expression was soft. His glasses were crooked, his cheeks flushed, but there was something in his gaze—something warm, unguarded—that made your laughter catch in your throat. “Glad I broke your fall, at least,” he murmured.
The words hung there between you, heavier than they should have been. You swallowed, your heart pounding far too fast for a moment that was supposed to be funny. You forced a smile, breaking the tension. “Don’t flatter yourself. The cow did all the work.”
Clark chuckled, shaking his head, but his eyes lingered on you a beat too long before he sat up and offered you his hand. As he pulled you to your feet, steadying you easily, you realized something unsettling: for all the jokes and the pratfalls, falling with him—literally—didn’t feel like a mistake. It felt like the most natural thing in the world.
By the time you and Clark trudged back up the dirt drive, you were both dusted in grass stains and flecks of dry earth. His jacket was smeared with a suspicious streak of mud, and your hair was sticking out in directions you didn’t think hair could manage.
Martha was waiting on the porch. The second she saw the state of you, her eyes widened, then narrowed in the way only a mother’s could. “What on earth happened to you two?”
Clark winced. “The cows.”
“The cows?”
“They, uh… got curious,” he said diplomatically, shooting you a warning glance not to elaborate.
You ignored it. “One of them full-on tackled him.”
Martha’s hand flew to her mouth, stifling a laugh. “A cow tackled you?”
“Bumped into me,” Clark corrected quickly, color rising in his cheeks. “It wasn’t—”
“She flattened him,” you cut in, grinning. “And took me down too, by the way. So much for Superman—small-town livestock is apparently his one weakness.”
Clark groaned, dragging a hand over his face. “You’re never going to let that go, are you?”
“Not in a million years,” you said sweetly.
Martha was still smiling as she ushered you both inside. “Well, I hope you had the sense to laugh about it. Jonathan always said the farm humbles everyone eventually.”
You kicked off your boots by the door, muttering, “some of us more than others.” Clark shot you a look but didn’t argue.
Upstairs, you tried to fix your hair in the guest room mirror, but it was a lost cause. A gentle knock sounded on the door, and when you opened it, Clark stood there with a damp towel in one hand and a sheepish expression. “Thought you might need this,” he said, holding out the towel. His hair was still mussed, a little dirt streaking his jaw. He looked less like the put-together reporter you knew in Metropolis and more like… Clark.
“Thanks,” you said, taking it from him. “You’ve got grass in your hair, by the way.”
He reached up blindly, fumbling at the wrong spot. “Here.” Without thinking, you reached up and plucked the stray blade of grass from his dark curls, holding it out between your fingers. His breath hitched, just faintly. He smiled, soft and lopsided. “Guess I lost the fight, huh?”
“You lost to a cow, Kent,” you reminded him, grinning. “There’s no coming back from that.”
“Technically, you went down too,” he pointed out.
“Details,” you said quickly, fighting to keep your tone playful even as your heart thudded.
His eyes lingered on yours for a beat too long. The air between you seemed to hum with something unsaid. You stepped back first, breaking it with a forced laugh. “Anyway. Go clean yourself up before your mom decides we can’t be trusted unsupervised.”
Clark chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah. Good idea.”
---
Morning broke bright and clear over the Kent farm, sunlight spilling across the fields like it had been ordered special for the occasion. Inside the farmhouse, however, it felt less like a tranquil Saturday and more like a staging area for a major operation.
Martha was already bustling about the kitchen before either of you made it downstairs, humming as she packed pie and potato salad into carefully labeled containers for the reception. Jonathan was outside, making sure the truck was clean, muttering something about “showing up respectable.”
And then there was Clark. You stopped short in the hallway when you saw him in the mirror by the coat rack, fumbling with his tie. His dress shirt was crisp, sleeves rolled up to his elbows while he tried—and failed—to wrangle the silk knot into something passable. His brow was furrowed in concentration, glasses slipping down his nose. He looked unfairly handsome. “You’re going to strangle yourself,” you said finally, stepping into the room.
Clark looked up, flustered, and immediately shoved his hands into his pockets like you’d caught him in something compromising. “It’s… fine. I’ve got it.”
“You don’t,” you said, laughing softly. “Come here.”
He hesitated, then stepped toward you. The tie hung loose against his chest, and you slid your fingers along the fabric, tugging it free. The scent of his cologne—something subtle, woodsy—drifted around you as you worked. “Stand still,” you murmured, looping the tie neatly. “You wear these every day and you still don’t know how to tie one?”
“I usually don’t rush,” he admitted, watching your hands. His voice was quieter now. “Guess I’m nervous.”
Your eyes flicked up to his. “About the wedding?”
“About all of it,” he said simply.
Something in your chest tightened, but you didn’t push. You finished the knot, smoothing it down against his shirtfront, your fingers lingering longer than necessary. “There,” you said softly. “Now you look like you could charm a whole town.”
Clark gave you that boyish smile that still managed to undo you. “Thanks.”
Before you could step back, Martha appeared in the doorway, beaming. “Well, don’t you two look nice.”
Clark immediately straightened, ears turning pink. You, however, only smiled. “Your son cleans up well.”
Martha winked knowingly. “He does.”
The rest of the morning blurred into a whirlwind. Martha insisted on fussing over your hair, pressing bobby pins and a sprig of baby’s breath into it like you were family. Jonathan handed Clark a fresh boutonniere, clapping him on the shoulder. “You two ready?” he asked as he grabbed his jacket.
“As we’ll ever be,” Clark said, glancing at you with a smile that felt like it was meant just for you.
The truck ride into town was quieter than usual. You smoothed your dress nervously in your lap, feeling the weight of what was coming. Clark’s hand rested casually on the seat between you, close enough that the back of your hand brushed his every time the truck hit a bump. Neither of you moved it away.
By the time the church came into view—white clapboard, steeple stretching into the sky, steps already crowded with guests—you were acutely aware of every eye that would be watching you today. Not just strangers. Clark’s entire world. Clark parked, turned off the engine, and looked at you. For a long moment, he didn’t say anything. Just… looked. Like he was memorizing you. Finally, he said, quiet and certain, “we’ll be fine. As long as we stick together.”
You swallowed hard, forcing a smile. “Together. Got it.”
When he offered his arm, you took it. And as you walked toward the church doors, the weight of his hand steady against yours, it was impossible not to wonder if this—this closeness, this ease—was really something you could just pretend.
The church was packed. Benches creaked as families crowded in, dressed in their best Sunday clothes. Ceiling fans whirred overhead, stirring the faint scent of flowers from the bouquets lining the aisle. The organ player struck up a cheerful hymn while chatter swelled, punctuated by the rustle of paper programs and the occasional shush from an impatient grandmother.
Clark guided you toward a pew near the front, his hand pressed lightly against your back. Heads turned as you walked—neighbors, childhood friends, people who clearly remembered Clark Kent as the lanky boy who once tripped over his own shoelaces at the harvest festival. Now, here he was, with you. “Don’t look now,” you murmured as you slid into the pew beside him, “but we’re officially the second-biggest event at this wedding.”
Clark adjusted his glasses, pretending to study the program. “They’ll get over it.”
“Will they?” you whispered, glancing at the row of ladies behind you, all of whom were leaning close and whispering as they stared. “Feels like we’re about to be written into the town newsletter.”
That earned you a faint, amused smile. “There’s no newsletter.”
“Oh, please. Every town has a newsletter. Even if it’s just Mrs. Henderson calling everyone after Sunday service.” He huffed a quiet laugh but didn’t argue.
The music swelled, and the bride appeared at the back of the church, radiant in lace and satin, her father beaming proudly at her side. Everyone stood. Clark rose smoothly, tugging you up with him, his hand curling around yours where it rested against the pew.
Through the ceremony, you felt the weight of that hand, steady and warm, grounding you. Every time you shifted, every time your nerves prickled under the gaze of curious neighbors, he squeezed gently, as though reminding you: I’m here. You’re not alone.
The vows were sweet, the kind only small-town sweethearts could make—filled with promises of “forever” and “home” and “nothing fancy, just us.” The bride’s voice trembled as she said “I do,” and the groom grinned like he’d won the lottery.
Something tugged at your chest then. You glanced sideways at Clark. He was watching intently, his expression soft in a way that made your stomach flip. For a moment, you wondered what his vows would sound like—what promises he would make, who he would look at with that same quiet devotion.
The kiss was met with applause, cheers echoing through the church. As everyone settled back into the pews, Clark leaned close enough that his breath tickled your ear. “They look happy,” he murmured.
You nodded, forcing a smile even as your heart did a strange little twist. “Yeah. They do.”
When the ceremony ended, the couple walked back down the aisle, hands clasped, faces shining. Guests followed in pairs, spilling into the sunlight. Clark offered his arm again without hesitation. As you looped yours through his, someone behind you whispered, just loud enough, “don’t they make a picture?”
Another voice replied, “Martha must be over the moon.”
You felt the flush creep up your neck, but Clark only squeezed your arm a little tighter, leading you out into the bright Kansas day like it was the most natural thing in the world.
The crowd spilled out of the church in a blur of chatter and laughter, guests making their way toward the hall where the reception would be held. Martha and Jonathan disappeared into the throng, happily stopping to greet old friends. The bride and groom were swarmed with congratulations, a blur of white lace and wide smiles.
Clark guided you through the press of people, his hand firm against your back, until you slipped around the corner of the church into the shade of a big oak tree. The sudden quiet was almost startling after the crush of voices. You leaned against the rough bark, tugging at the hem of your dress. “Is it always like this here? Everyone staring like they know your business before you do?”
Clark chuckled softly, adjusting his tie. “Pretty much. Smallville doesn’t have secrets. Just… stories waiting to spread.”
“Great,” you muttered, glancing around to make sure no one had followed. “By now, half the town has us married with three kids.”
His lips curved into a smile, but he didn’t look at you right away. Instead, his gaze lingered on the sunlight spilling across the fields beyond the churchyard. “Would that be so bad?”
You blinked. “What?”
Finally, he turned toward you. There was no teasing in his eyes, no smirk—just something earnest and steady, the kind of look that made your throat tighten. “I mean,” he said quickly, a touch of color rising in his cheeks, “I’m not saying… I just—” He broke off, raking a hand through his hair. “Forget it.”
You tilted your head, studying him. “Clark.”
He sighed, shoulders slumping. “You make this whole thing feel… easier than I thought it would. That’s all.”
The words sat heavy in the air, more than they seemed at first glance. Your pulse quickened. You forced a light laugh, trying to ease the tension. “Well, you picked the right fake girlfriend. I’m very convincing.”
But Clark didn’t laugh. He stepped a little closer, the sun catching in his dark hair, his glasses slipping slightly down his nose. “Yeah,” he said softly. “You are.”
For a heartbeat, it felt like the world held its breath. The quiet hum of cicadas in the grass, the faint murmur of voices around the corner—it all faded until there was just him, so close you could see the flecks of grey in his eyes. Then the church doors burst open, and a gaggle of bridesmaids spilled out, their laughter shattering the moment. Clark stepped back instantly, clearing his throat, tugging at his tie like it had betrayed him. “Reception time,” he said, his voice steadier than his expression.
You pushed off the tree, heart still racing. “Right. Reception.”
The reception hall was already buzzing by the time you and Clark arrived. Fairy lights twined along the rafters, mason jars filled with wildflowers lined the tables, and the smell of fried chicken and barbecue lingered in the air. A local band tuned their instruments in the corner, testing notes that rang out sharp before melting into twangy chords.
As soon as Clark stepped through the door at your side, a ripple went through the room. Heads turned. Smiles widened. It was subtle, but you felt it—the way people were watching, whispering. “Here we go again,” you muttered, leaning closer to him.
Clark’s lips quirked faintly. “They mean well.”
“Sure,” you said. “Until one of them asks when we’re having kids.”
You barely had time to catch your breath before Martha appeared, beaming as she drew you both toward a cluster of relatives. Jonathan trailed behind, more subdued but no less proud. “This is her,” Martha announced warmly to a group of older women who looked like they’d been waiting for this exact moment. “The girlfriend I told you about.”
The women descended like hawks.
“Oh, isn’t she lovely.”
“Clark, you clean up nice, don’t you?”
“Look at the way he’s holding her hand—so sweet.”
You smiled politely, answering questions about how you met, what you did for work, what Clark was like at the office. Every time you stumbled, Clark jumped in smoothly, filling the gaps, his voice steady. And each time he said my girlfriend, the words felt heavier, pulling at something inside you.
Dinner was a blur of chatter and food passed down long tables. You barely managed a few bites of potato salad before the bride’s uncle leaned across to ask, “so how long have you two been together?”
“Four months,” you answered quickly, sticking to the story.
“Four months?” The man grinned. “Well, I’ll say this—he looks at you like it’s been forty years.”
Your fork froze halfway to your mouth. Heat crept up your neck, and when you dared to glance at Clark, he was staring fixedly at his plate, ears red. The band struck up a lively tune, and the chatter shifted to laughter as couples drifted toward the dance floor. The bride and groom took the first spin, twirling under the string lights while the crowd clapped in time. Then the music shifted to something slower, sweeter. “Go on,” Martha urged, nudging Clark toward you. “Don’t just sit there. Dance with her.”
Clark hesitated, but when you raised your brows in challenge, he sighed and offered his hand. “Would you like to dance?”
You let him lead you to the floor. His palm slid to your waist, warm and steady, and your hand rested against his shoulder. For a moment, the chatter around you dimmed. The music swelled, and Clark moved with a surprising grace, guiding you easily. You tried to focus on the swirl of couples around you. But the weight of his hand at your back, the gentleness in his touch—it didn’t feel fake. Not one bit.
The song ended, but Clark didn’t let go right away. His fingers lingered, reluctant, until the band launched into a faster tune and the floor filled with laughing dancers. Only then did he step back, clearing his throat. Before you could recover, the bride’s voice rang out. “Bouquet toss!”
A gaggle of women gathered in the center, cheering. You were herded into the group before you could protest, Clark grinning as he leaned against the wall to watch. “This is ridiculous,” you muttered, glancing back at him.
He only shrugged, amusement dancing in his eyes. “Tradition.”
The bride tossed the bouquet high, petals scattering. It arced through the air, and before you could even think, it landed squarely in your hands. The crowd erupted in cheers. Someone shouted, “looks like Clark’s next!”
Your face burned. Clark’s ears went pink, but he laughed, shaking his head. He crossed the floor toward you, slipping an arm around your waist as if it were the most natural thing in the world. “Guess that’s our cue,” he murmured.
You looked up at him, bouquet clutched in your hands, your heart thudding far too fast for something that was supposed to be a joke. “Don’t get any ideas, Clark.”
The cheers still hadn’t died down after the bouquet toss. People were laughing, clapping, shouting things like, “better start ring shopping, Clark!” and “don’t let her get away!”
Clark groaned softly, though his arm stayed firmly around your waist. “I told you this would happen,” he muttered, his voice low, just for you.
“Oh, don’t blame me,” you shot back, clutching the bouquet like a weapon. “You’re the one who grew up in a town that treats weddings like a spectator sport.”
Before he could answer, someone in the crowd called, “kiss her, Clark!”
The chant caught like wildfire. “Kiss her! Kiss her!”
Your heart stopped. You looked up at him, wide-eyed, panic prickling your chest. This was supposed to be pretend—handholding, dancing, smiles for his parents. Not this. Clark froze too, his grip tightening at your waist as if to anchor himself. His eyes flicked to yours, searching, questioning. “What do we do?” you whispered, your throat dry.
“They’re not going to let it go,” he murmured, voice taut with nerves. “If we don’t—” He didn’t finish the sentence, but you both knew what he meant.
You swallowed hard. “So we…?”
His Adam’s apple bobbed as he nodded. “Only if you’re okay with it.” Your pulse thundered in your ears. The crowd’s chant grew louder, impatient. Clark’s hand slid from your waist to the small of your back, pulling you gently closer. “It’s just for show,” he whispered. “Right?”
“Right,” you breathed, though it sounded anything but convincing.
And then he kissed you.
It was tentative at first, careful—like he was afraid to push too far. His lips brushed yours, soft and warm, a touch that should have been fleeting. But the second your mouth met his, the world seemed to tilt. The noise of the reception hall faded. The cheers dimmed. All you could feel was Clark—solid, steady, trembling faintly like he was holding back something bigger.
Your fingers curled against his chest before you even realized what you were doing, holding on like you didn’t want it to end. He deepened it just enough, the faintest pressure that sent your stomach flipping.
Then it was over. Too soon. The hall erupted into applause and whistles, but you barely heard it. Clark pulled back, his forehead brushing yours for a dizzying second before he straightened, his glasses askew, his cheeks flushed red.
The crowd roared, satisfied, moving on to the next round of dancing. But you stood there, bouquet still clutched tight, your lips tingling, your heart in your throat. Clark leaned close, his voice low and rough. “Guess that sold it.”
You forced a shaky laugh, though your hands still trembled. “Yeah. Totally believable.”
But as you looked up at him—at the way his eyes lingered on you like he couldn’t quite look away—you both knew the truth.
It hadn’t felt fake at all.
---
The farmhouse was quiet when you returned from the reception. The drive back had been filled with the low hum of the truck and little else. Clark had kept his eyes on the road, hands steady at the wheel, but you noticed how his knuckles were tight on the leather. You didn’t speak—didn’t dare—because every word you thought to say came back to the same impossible thing: the kiss.
You lingered in the living room with Clark, the faint tick of the old clock filling the silence. He pulled at his tie, loosening it, and you pretended to smooth the wrinkles out of your dress though your hands were still trembling faintly. Neither of you mentioned the kiss. “Long day,” he said finally, voice quiet.
“Yeah,” you agreed. “Your whole town knows my life story now.”
His lips quirked faintly, but the humor didn’t quite reach his eyes. “They’ll forget in a week.”
You snorted. “You don’t actually believe that.”
For the first time since you’d left the reception, his gaze lingered on you—steady, searching. Your heart tripped. Then he looked away, running a hand through his hair. “You should get some rest. Tomorrow’ll be busy too.”
“Right.”
You both moved at the same time toward the staircase, falling into step side by side. It felt like a scene from a play you hadn’t rehearsed, every move too careful, every breath too shallow. At the top of the stairs, the hallway stretched in two directions—his room one way, the guest room the other. You turned first, gripping the doorknob. “Goodnight, Clark.”
He hesitated, his hand resting on his own doorframe. “Goodnight.” His voice caught just slightly on the word, low and rough, like there was more he almost said.
You held his gaze for a heartbeat longer than necessary. Something unspoken pulsed between you—louder than any words you could’ve managed. Then you slipped into your room and shut the door softly behind you.
Leaning back against it, you let out the breath you’d been holding. On the other side of the wall, you swore you heard him do the same. Something had changed. Neither of you named it, neither of you touched it—but it hung heavy in the air between your rooms, undeniable and terrifying.
And maybe… thrilling.
---
Sunlight slanted through the curtains when you woke, soft and golden, carrying the faint crow of the rooster outside. For a moment, you just lay there, staring at the ceiling, the weight of the previous night pressing down. The laughter, the bouquet, the kiss—the kiss most of all.
You dressed quietly, smoothing your hair, then padded down the creaky staircase. The smell of coffee and frying bacon filled the air. Martha was at the stove, humming, her apron dusted with flour. Jonathan sat at the table, paper folded neatly, coffee steaming in front of him.
Clark was already there, of course. Shirt sleeves rolled, hair still damp from a shower, glasses slightly fogged from the steam rising off his mug. He glanced up as you entered, and for a split second his eyes softened—then he quickly looked back at his plate. “Morning,” Martha greeted cheerfully, sliding a plate of eggs onto the table for you. “Sleep well?”
“Fine,” you said, sliding into the chair opposite Clark.
Jonathan’s eyes twinkled over the rim of his paper. “You both look a little tired. Long night?”
Heat rushed to your cheeks. Clark coughed into his coffee. “Reception ran late,” he said smoothly.
Martha’s smile was quiet, knowing. She didn’t press, but when she set the plate in front of you, her hand lingered on your shoulder, a gentle squeeze. Breakfast passed in near silence, punctuated only by the clink of silverware and Martha’s occasional chatter about neighbors or crops. Every now and then, you caught Clark glancing your way, then quickly dropping his gaze. The air between you was different now—charged, careful, like neither of you knew how to step without breaking something fragile.
When the last of the dishes were cleared, Martha dried her hands on her apron and turned toward you both. “You’ll be heading back today?”
Clark nodded. “Yeah. We should get on the road before it gets too late.”
Martha smiled, but there was a softness in her eyes, a weight in her voice. “Well, we’re glad you came. Both of you.”
Jonathan folded his paper, looking at Clark. “Drive safe.”
The goodbyes on the porch were warm, lingering. Martha hugged you tightly, whispering, “Come back soon.” Jonathan shook your hand with a firm squeeze, then pulled Clark into a rough hug that spoke volumes. And then it was just you and Clark, back in the truck, the farmhouse shrinking in the rearview mirror. For a long while, neither of you spoke. The road stretched ahead, dust rising behind the tires, the Kansas sky vast and endless. Finally, you said, lightly, “so. That went well. No one threw tomatoes. No one questioned our act.”
Clark’s hands tightened faintly on the wheel. “It wasn’t an act to them.”
You glanced at him. His jaw was tight, his gaze fixed straight ahead. Something in his voice made your chest ache. “Clark…”
He shook his head, cutting you off gently. “I just mean—they believe it. That’s what matters.”
You wanted to argue, to ask if that was really what he meant, but the words tangled in your throat. Instead, you leaned back in the seat, staring out the window at the fields rushing by.
The silence between you wasn’t uncomfortable. Not exactly. It was something else—full, heavy, brimming with all the things neither of you were saying. And as the city skyline of Metropolis eventually came into view, you realized one thing with terrifying clarity: leaving Smallville didn’t mean leaving this behind. Whatever had shifted between you… it was coming home, too.
---
The Daily Planet was just as loud and chaotic as when you’d left it. Phones ringing off the hook. Perry barking orders from his office. Reporters weaving between desks with half-empty coffee cups and stacks of notes. It was as if the world hadn’t paused at all while you were gone.
But you had.
You slipped back into the rhythm easily enough—sorting through emails, drafting headlines, scribbling notes on the pad by your desk. Clark sat across from you, glasses in place, tie neat, typing with steady precision. Everything looked exactly as it had before. And yet, nothing felt the same.
You didn’t talk about Smallville. You didn’t talk about the kiss. You didn’t talk about the way his hand had steadied you during vows, or the way the town had cheered when his lips touched yours. Instead, you talked about work. Sources. Deadlines. The article due by end of day.
Normal.
Except every so often, when you glanced up, you caught him looking. Not at you—not exactly. At your lips. His gaze would linger for half a second too long before flicking guiltily back to his monitor.
The first time, you almost convinced yourself you imagined it. The second time, your pulse jumped, and you immediately ducked your head, pretending to rifle through your notes. By the third time, you couldn’t ignore it anymore. You set your pen down, leaning back in your chair, fixing him with a look. “Do I have ink on my face or something?”
Clark startled, blinking behind his glasses. “What? No. Why?”
“Because you keep staring,” you said lightly, arching a brow. “At my face. My mouth, actually.”
Color crept up his neck, blooming hot across his ears. “I—I wasn’t—” He pushed his glasses up in a flustered motion, fumbling with his tie like it had suddenly betrayed him. “I was just—thinking. About—about the article.”
You bit back a smile. “Right. The article on zoning ordinances that’s apparently written across my lips.”
His expression was priceless—caught between mortified and desperately trying to regain composure. He ducked his head, typing furiously, as if the clacking of keys could drown out the truth.
You watched him for a moment longer, your heart thudding, then shook your head and turned back to your own screen. Neither of you said anything more, but the silence buzzed, alive, charged with everything left unsaid.
Later, as the office bustled around you, you caught yourself glancing at him too. At the curve of his mouth, the softness in his smile when he thought no one was watching. And you hated to admit it, but you weren’t thinking about zoning ordinances either.
The next few days slipped into routine again. Deadlines, coffee runs, editing sessions where Perry barked orders from behind his glass office door. On the surface, everything was exactly as it had been before Smallville.
But beneath it, the air between you and Clark buzzed differently. It started with little things. Reaching for the same file at the same time, your fingers brushing briefly over his. Neither of you pulled away as fast as you should have. Walking back from the copy machine, his hand at the small of your back to guide you through the crowded bullpen. You didn’t shrug it off, and he didn’t remove it quickly enough. Leaning over his desk to point out a typo on his notes, your shoulder pressed against his. You swore you felt him stop breathing for a second.
And through it all, Clark was Clark—earnest, soft-spoken, trying desperately to pretend nothing was different. But he was also terrible at hiding the way his eyes lingered. Sometimes you’d catch him staring not at your face, but at your lips, and the pink in his ears would give him away instantly when you tilted your head like you’d caught him red-handed. “Problem?” you’d ask innocently.
“No,” he’d mutter, ducking behind his screen.
And still, the cycle repeated. It didn’t help that people were starting to notice. One afternoon, Jimmy stopped by your desk with a grin. “So, uh, when are you and Kent gonna make it official?”
Your pen froze mid-sentence. “What?”
Jimmy’s grin widened, oblivious. “Oh, come on. You two have been joined at the hip for weeks. Everybody’s talking about it.” You opened your mouth, ready to protest, but across the bullpen you caught Clark’s reaction—his chair jerking upright, his tie tugged nervously, ears bright red. Jimmy laughed. “Oh, I get it. Playing it cool. Respect. But seriously, don’t wait too long, or someone else might swoop in.” With a wink, he sauntered off, leaving you staring after him with your pulse hammering.
You turned back to your desk slowly, only to find Clark watching you. The moment your eyes met, he dropped his gaze, fiddling with his glasses like the frames themselves had betrayed him.
The rest of the day was torture. Every glance felt weighted, every brush of contact charged. Even simple things—sharing a pot of coffee, exchanging notes—seemed to hum with the memory of that kiss in Smallville.
By the time the office emptied for the night, you were both wound tight with unspoken words. You gathered your things, slinging your bag over your shoulder. Clark stood too, smoothing his tie, clearly debating whether to say something. But he didn’t. He only offered a small, quiet smile. “See you tomorrow.”
You nodded, forcing your voice to sound normal. “See you tomorrow.” As you walked away, you felt his gaze on your back. Warm. Lingering. Like he was holding back an entire storm of feelings he didn’t know how to let loose. And the worst part? You realized you were doing the same.
---
It was nearly midnight when you heard the knock at your apartment door.
You’d been curled on the couch, still awake despite the late hour, nursing a half-empty mug of tea while the city hummed faintly outside your window. The knock startled you—not loud, but steady, unmistakable.
When you opened the door, Clark stood there. He looked… disheveled. His hair mussed, his shirt rumpled, a faint smear of dirt across his jaw like he’d just come from something he didn’t want to explain. His tie was missing, his sleeves rolled unevenly. And his eyes—those soft, steady eyes—were brighter than usual, like he hadn’t been able to talk himself out of whatever had driven him here.
“Clark?” you asked, confused. “It’s late. What are you—?”
“I—I’m sorry,” he blurted, shifting on his feet. “I didn’t mean to wake you, if you were—were sleeping. I just—”
He broke off, pushing his glasses up his nose, then immediately dragging a hand through his hair in frustration. “I couldn’t—go home without—”
“Clark,” you said gently, stepping back to let him in. “You’re rambling. Come inside.”
He hesitated only a second before stepping past you. You closed the door, watching as he hovered awkwardly in your living room, as if unsure whether to sit or stand, whether he belonged here at all.
“You look like you wrestled a tornado,” you teased softly, trying to ease the tension.
“Something like that,” he muttered, not meeting your eyes.
You tilted your head. “What’s going on?”
Clark’s jaw worked as if he were chewing over the words. He started pacing, slow and deliberate, like movement might untangle the knot in his chest. “I’ve been trying to ignore it,” he admitted, his voice low, rough. “Back at the office, on the drive home, even in Smallville, I told myself it was just—pretend. That it didn’t matter.”
Your heart thudded. “Clark…”
He stopped pacing, finally looking at you. His expression was raw, unguarded in a way you’d never seen before. “But it does matter. More than I thought it could.”
You swallowed hard, your throat suddenly dry. “What are you saying?”
Clark’s hands flexed at his sides, restless. “I want to kiss you again.” The words tumbled out, fast, like he’d been holding them back for too long. “I know we said it was fake—that it was just for show. But I can’t stop thinking about it, and I—” His voice faltered, his cheeks flushing as he pushed on. “I don’t want the only time I kissed you to be in front of everyone else. I want it to be real. Just… between us.”
The silence stretched, heavy with everything unsaid. You stared at him, at this man who could hold up the weight of the world but still stood here, shifting nervously like a boy confessing a crush. Your heart hammered in your chest, every nerve alive. Slowly, you stepped closer, close enough to see the faint streak of dirt still smudged across his cheek, the way his breath caught when you moved.
“Clark,” you whispered, a smile tugging at your lips despite the way your pulse raced, “for someone who can fly, you really are terrible at subtlety.”
His laugh was shaky, breathless. “I know.”
You reached up, brushing your fingers lightly against his jaw, the smear of dirt soft beneath your touch. “Then stop talking.”
And before he could overthink it, you leaned in.
This kiss was different. Not hesitant, not for show, not careful under the eyes of a crowd. This was heat and softness and everything you’d both been holding back. His hands came up, cupping your face as if you were something fragile and precious. Your fingers tangled in his shirt, pulling him closer, and he went willingly, melting into you with a sigh that made your knees weak.
When you finally pulled back, both of you were breathless, foreheads pressed together.
“That,” Clark whispered, his voice low and reverent, “that’s what I wanted.”
You smiled, your heart racing. “Good. Because I think I want it too.”
"nosferatu 2024 isn't homoerotic" did the scene of anna and ellen lying together in bed with each other instead of their respective husbands and talking about how much they love each other mean NOTHING to you
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