Paring: Oleander Fallows X fem!Reader X Gryphon Shore X Gabriel Ardern X Atlas Bassinger X North Draven X Nox Draven
Warnings: Cussing, Abandonment, Trauma, Mental Health, Soul Mates, Angst and Fluff, Cannon Divergence
Description: fem!reader wakes up in a room with 6 people who claiming to be her bonds except she doesn't know what the fuck that means!
Word Count: 8203
Chapter Eight
Master List || Previous
North Draven is not a man you can manipulate, you know this, Oli knows this, but you're out of options. Oli doesn't think that she can just ask him to go to a party after curfew in a lower-gifted neighborhood, because let's face it, North Draven is also a snob, and you still can't even talk to the man without the thought of vomiting. Which brings you both to option two, Sawyer's Nuclear Option.
Sage had done a good job with your outfit and makeup, the colors complementing your skin tone well, when she stopped by after class. Her choice in tops suited you, a nice white shirt with a low neckline, and you had to give it to her, you looked hot. If you were to ask any of your other bonds for something at the moment, you knew that they would say yes, regardless of what you might be asking. The Draven Brothers are a different story, a very thick wall between them and their centrals, stopping almost any progress from moving forward. You weren't sure that this was going to breach the wall, but that's where option three comes in: you make Gabe beg.
"This isn't going to work," Oli says, finger wiping at the excess lipstick on her lips, "This will probably just piss him off even more, and then curfew is going to be way earlier." You nod because you're sure she's right, but it's too late to back out now. Atlas and Gabe had promised to give you time to get ready, and that time is steadily running out. She sighs, her shoulders coming up and dropping back down again before she looks at you. Her own borrowed shirt low on her chest, hugging her frame tightly, her hair cascading down her back. She looks like every dream you have ever had, wrapped up into one. You're not sure if you could ever tell her no.
"It probably won't work," you agree, "but I'm sure he will at least say yes to the football game, and Gabe is going to back our request." You hadn't been around North enough to know how he would react, but you needed to try something. The idea of going to a real college party excited you too much to turn down the chance, plus this would be the first time you got to get out of the dorms for something more than just class and bond dinners. You wanted to at least pretend you were free to do as you wished with your spare time, and starting next Monday, all of that time will be going to studying and memory spelunking with Gryphon. This felt like your one chance to be a real college student.
A knock sounds at the door, and Oli heads over to it, throwing her hair over her shoulder on the way. "Here goes nothing," she says, hand gripping the doorknob.
When Atlas sees her, it's like there are no thoughts in his head, only actions. His smile on his face disappears as he looks from her eyes to her chest, the lack of coverage clicking into place. His movements are quick, like he had done them a hundred times before, body moving forward into her space, hands finding her hips, lips coming down to meet hers. There is no hesitation, no need to ask, he knows what he wants and takes it. He walks her backwards into the room in seconds, her body melting into his, desperate for his touch. You're not sure if she means to, her hands coming up to his chest, pulling him in more, as close as he can get, and he groans into the kiss. You realize now that maybe this was a bad idea and not just a useless one.
You find yourself unsure who you are more jealous of, Oli or Atlas, before remembering that they are both off limits. At least until you know more. At least until they are safe from you. When they part, you know you should look away, at least pretend you hadn't been staring at them like you want to be in between their pushed together bodies, but you don't, can't. If everything was normal, if your bond group was normal, you would be right there with them, enjoying the feel of their lips on yours, their hands in your hair, on your skin, but you weren't normal. Your bond group isn't normal, and you can't have them. Oli can't have them, and everything is fucked.
"God, Sweetness, give me a warning next time," Atlas whispers against her lips, their breath mingling, faces flush. Oli looks at him, a pain that you can feel mirrored in your own chest flashing across her face as she pulls back from him, placing space where there once was none. He looks over at you now, the want still plain as day on his face, and your own. One of his hands reached out towards your cheek, and you don't move, can't move because you want him. You want him to touch you, kiss you, just like he did Oli, the image seared into your brain in a way you aren't sure is normal. But the look in his eyes changes, and he stops, pulling his fingers back into his hand before wiping down his mouth. "You both look hot as fuck, and I want to kill Sawyer just a little less for suggesting it."
You'd smile at him if you could, your eyes still on where his hand rests on Oli's waist, and you want to be able to reach out to him. To pull him to you like Oli had, even just for a moment. The aching in your chest is back, slowly numbing your limbs as you look at the pair. This sucks. Not knowing sucks. Not having sucks. Not being able to move forward with anyone because you can't trust yourself sucks. The bond pulling at your limbs sucks, and you try to make a note that you'll have to take your meds later in the day on bond dinner nights, so this doesn't happen again. So it doesn't wake up enough to make you feel even worse, want even more than you already do.
The sound of the door opening draws your attention, and you see Gabe, face flush, pupils blown as he moves towards you, jacket pulling from his shoulders. He wraps it around you, holding it closed around your breast, face inches from yours in a way you can't stand at the moment. He's too close, too unstable in his own emotions for you to deal with. His bond reaches towards yours as he struggles to form the words to say, his lips moving, eyes bouncing between yours. "This was not the plan," he groans out, fist still tight around the collar of the jacket. "We were just supposed to ask him. You can't," his voice cracks, and he takes a second to breathe, eyes closed. "You can't go to dinner dressed like this. He will kill me." He comes even closer now, forehead falling to yours, his eyes still closed.
Your bond hums in your chest, the contact it's been craving finally being fulfilled, his scent wrapped around you like a blanket. It's a type of content you have never felt, your bond happy in your chest for the first time in your life, softly pressing into his, like this is the way it was always supposed to be. You feel the warmth of it in your heart, the place your bond keeps empty for each of them pulsing under your skin. You know you need to pull back, to ruin this moment, but you can't, his lips to close, breathe warm against your skin. You know you need to end this; his bond is stroking yours, loosening all the tightly bundled muscles in your body, making you melt into him, but you can't. He's like a black hole, pulling you into his orbit until you're lost in him, his breathing, his heartbeat, his needs.
"I need you to at least wear a jacket, bond, please." He's begging now, the whine very obvious in his voice as his hand pulls you slightly closer, noses touching. His bond ghost over your fingertips, and up your arm, rubbing a circle into your collar bone before continuing its path up your neck and down your jaw. You can feel it across your lips, a teasing sensation that you have to fight against to not fall into him completely.
"Friends," you gasp out, breath shaky as you stare at his lips, "don't tell other friends what to wear." You hadn't noticed it until now, your fingers hooked into his belt loops, pulling him impossibly closer at the waist, a soft sigh coming from him. His hand, that was clenched into the jacket, releases as he trails it up your neck, his other coming to join it, fingers tangled into the hair at the base of your skull. Your pulse hammering below his palm, your neck stretching up to reach his lips, his breath fanning over your face, shaky on the uptake.
You can hear your name being said, hear his name, but your bond is filtering it out, quieting everything that isn't the soft sounds coming from Gabe's lips. Your eyes close as you just let the sensation take you, let it pull you closer into him until you can almost feel his lips on yours, can almost taste him. "Bond," he groans, hands running down your neck and over your shoulders, settling on your biceps. "I need you," a gasp leaves his lips as your fingers find a bit of his skin under his shirt, "I need you to pull your bond back." It's the pain in his voice that does it to you, your eyes opening and blinking up at him. His face is red, highlighted by the lightness of his hair, a vein in his neck standing out as he bites at his lip. "Bond, please." You feel it now, its light touches over his lips, down his neck, his chest, the front of his thighs, caressing, teasing, testing limits it has no business testing. He's panting, struggling for any type of composure in front of you, and you think you might die. Not just from the embarrassment, but the struggle it takes to pull your bond from his skin, the fight brings tears to your eyes.
It thrashes, pulling at every loose thread you have inside you to gain traction, to stay right where it is, burning on the way back inside you. Clawing your insides until it's forced back into the pocket you keep it in, the numbness spreading at the missing contact when he pulls his own bond back. Its voice screams, ringing throughout your head as your fingers curl against the hard planes of his skin.
“MINE. MINE. MY BOND. MY BOND.”
You can't hear anything, can't feel anything save for the tears streaking down your skin as you settle your bond deeper into your chest, so far down it feels like you're drowning in your own misery. Your body has visceral reactions to this; nerves feel like fire beneath your skin, cells exploding from the force of holding it down until it calms. When you open your eyes, fist still shaky against his stomach, Gabe takes one look at your face before pulling you flush against him, face buried in his chest, hands tangled in your hair.
"I don't know what happened, but don't do that again." It doesn't sound like a reprimand, only because his voice shakes, arms tight around you in a crushing embrace. When you pull your face from his chest to look at Atlas and Oli, both their faces are white, Oli's hand in his, gripping it until her knuckles turn white from the effort.
She pulls forward, hand coming up to rub under your eye, your body still pressed firmly into Gabe's. "Let's go get you cleaned up." Both their scents elope your senses, ruffling your bond, and you squeeze your eyes shut, swallowing hard to press it down again. When you open them, you can feel the tears trying not to fall, a rosy tint to the room now. You know your makeup must be a mess, all the hard work from Sage down the drain, as you try to disentangle yourself from Gabe's arms. His hold is steady, like he's trying to hold all your pieces together, whatever he saw frightening him, his pulse under your ear rapid. You try again, pulling back from him slowly, and he lets you this time, arms falling to his sides. He doesn't say anything, just looks over your face, swallowing hard, and then to Oli beside you.
Her hand is extended to you, but you don't take it, not yet, choosing to walk over to your nightstand and grab your pill bottle. You can't bring yourself to care about taking one in front of them, swallowing it down dry, before placing the bottle back in your drawer. If being this close to Gabe was enough to fully wake it up, watching Nox touch another woman in front of you might get you both killed. Better to not risk it, and drug the bond into oblivion. Your hands shake a little as you grip the edge of the nightstand for stability, the pill slowly sliding down your throat, into your stomach. You can feel its numbing properties after a minute of standing there, waiting for it to take effect.
Your bond isn't happy, a last-ditch effort to take hold of you again failing, your insides like water in its grip. When you're sure it's down for the count, you turn back to your bonds with what you hope is a reassuring smile on your face. "It's okay now." You say, mostly to yourself, hoping they believe you more than you believe yourself. "It won't happen again." You'll be more careful now, make sure to take two pills a day until you can control it. Until it listens to you, or until you have to leave so they can be safe. Whatever you have to do to keep them all safe, you will, even if it kills you.
Oli approaches you slowly, like you might spook at the contact, and slides her hand in yours, tugging you towards the door. When it opens, you notice two helmets on the ground, discarded in a hurry, both on their sides, visor half opened. You turn back to Gabe, a question on your lips, but you see him, head in his hands as he rubs at his face. Atlas clasps him on the back, the sound following you out into the hall, "Let's get you cleaned up too." There's a bit of humor in his voice that doesn't reach his face, as the door starts to close behind the two of you. You can hear Gabe groan as Atlas asks, "Do you have a change of pants?"
The eyes on the two of your isnt new, the past couple of days allowing you to get used to it, but the nicknames are. "The giftless and the freak," you hear a few times on the way through the halls. Oli ignores them, so you follow her example and just walk, one foot in front of the other, until the bathroom comes into view. It's strange, the way Oli maneuvers you around the room, keeping your back to the mirror as she grabs a rag to wet. You lean against the counter as she runs the water, chewing at her lip as she thinks of what to say. "Is your bond always like that?" She asks, rubbing at the skin below your eye, cleaning any left over make up from your skin. You press your lips together, a frown forming on your face as you shake your head. You feel the tears prick at your eyes again as you blink them away, enough crying done already.
She hums at your response, wetting the rag again under the warm water, and starts wiping at the other side. "Sometimes," she starts, eyes scanning back and forth between yours before continuing, "It doesn't feel like you have one." You nod again, not sure what to say to her, not able to speak through the lump in your throat. "Is that because of the pills?" She finally asks, making her way down your jaw and cleaning the tears streaks there. You lift your chin, eyes finding the ceiling as you nod, not able to look at her anymore, not sure what the truth is going to do to your relationship. "That you got from the resistance?" You're not sure how you feel about that, never having connected the dots that the drugs were given to you by the Resistance for a purpose unknown to you.
"They help me," you finally say, voice quiet, "Without them it gets too loud. It tries to take too much." You don't think that you can explain better, not without the tears coming back in full force.
"And the blood?" She asks, which confuses you because you don't know what she's talking about. "Do you usually cry blood?" She pauses her ministrations at your collarbones, waiting for an answer that you can't give her. When you look at her now, face scrunched up in confusion, you don't know what to say because you have never cried blood in your life, but the look on her face is serious, worry etched deeply in the corner of her eyes. You turn from her to look in the mirror, at the mess that you are, capillaries in your eyes burst, bloody tear streaks down between your breast missing your white shirt by centimeters. No wonder they had all looked at you like that, terrified of you, for you. The pain that you had been in when fighting your bond back made more sense as you stared at the aftermath.
"Does your bond hurt you like this?" You ask because it's the only thing to ask, but she shakes her head in the mirror.
"Not like this."
You close your eyes, breathing deeply. You don't know what this says about your relationship with your bond, about its willingness to hurt you when it doesn't get its way. If it could hurt you, what's stopping it from hurting them? When you turn back to Oli, you know the answer. The warm rag is back on your skin as she finishes cleaning you with a gentleness you weren't sure she possessed. Her hand, not gripping the rag, comes up and pushes a bit of hair from your face, fingertips soft on your forehead as she stares into your eyes. "Don't scare us like that again." She's not asking, not leaving any room for a debate as she pulls back and levels you with a hard look.
The bond could never hurt them as it hurts you, you know that. It hurts you because you keep it from them. It hurts you in their name like you hurt it in their name. You hurt it to keep them safe. Today was just a retaliation. As long as you don't give it a chance to do this again, everything will work out. You just need to be ready before the pills run out, which means you have less than a month, probably only half now that you need to take two a day. You can figure this out, Gryphon can figure this out. He has to.
When you meet back up with Atlas and Gabe, both of them standing in front of Atlas' car waiting, it's easy to see the two matching wet spots on Gabe's clothes. A smile over takes Oli's face, as an equally sinister one fills Atlas, her mouth already moving before Gabe could stop her, "Did you c-"
"Shut up."
"But she didn't even- "
"Shut up, Oli."
Her hands raise in defeat as she laughs out loud, walking past him to the front seat. It's the first time you've seen them interact like this, almost like friends, some of the tension between them gone, and it makes you happy. Atlas follows her in, laughing as well, before the door closes, blocking them both out. Gabe stays put, waiting for you as you approach the car. When you're close enough, he brings his hand up to your cheek, rubbing a thumb under your eye as Oli had. "There will be a healer at the Manor when we get there to heal this." He says it like it's nothing, just another fact of life, and not the damage your bond had done to you.
"I'm sorry for ruining your shirt," you say, the words coming out in a rush because you don't know what else to say. He shakes his head at you, a small smile on his lips.
"Don't be, I just need to bleach it." But you're not so sure, the blotches of blood not coming out from his attempt at washing it. You have other things you want to apologize for, but you're not sure how to, the heat building up your throat.
"I'm sorry for... the other thing too." It's his time to turn red, the tips of his ears a deep scarlet.
He doesn't say anything for a minute, his hand leaving your cheek to scratch at the back of his neck, his gaze leaving yours. Past him, you can see Oli in the car, pointing down before bringing her palms towards each other, about three inches of space between them, only to expand that out to about a foot. Mouth agape, you flick your eyes over to Atlas, a bewildered expression on his face, before he bursts out laughing again. Both of them start to make even more obscene gestures at Gabe's expense as you try to ignore them, choosing to focus back on Gabe, the sound of their laughter audible.
"I shouldn't have put you in my jacket. I didn't think you'd be so" he hesitates, swallowing slowly, "hot in my clothes, and I wasn't ready for your bond to do... all that. I'll do better next time. It's... a shifter thing," he says as a way of explanation, still not looking at you. "Anyways, we should get going. North is waiting for you, us I mean. He's waiting for us." You nod, choosing to move past him towards the back seat, shooting a look at Oli and Atlas, sending them into a new fit of giggles.
The ride to the manor is mostly silent. Oli starts to say something about what happened, but Gabe shoots her down with a quick, "Shut up, Oli," sending both her and Atlas into a fit every time. You don't find it nearly as funny as both of them, but they seem to be bonding over the mutual discomfort Gabe and you feel over the situation, so you mostly leave them alone. If she gets to have this moment with one of her bonds, you are inclined to let her, even if it is at your expense.
You expected a much colder welcome to the Manor than normal, maybe shouting or ultimatums, but when the group of you arrived at dinner, late and with Gabe trying to rush through the room, North doesn’t say anything. He just looks at Gabe assessingly, taking in his wet shirt and pants, the growing red up his throat, and waves him off. He motions over the healer, silence his close friend as he and Gryphon stand over the man’s shoulders imposingly. You're not sure if the united terrifying front is for you, or the healer currently quaking in his boots, hands on your cheeks, performing a healing, but you choose to ignore it. Instead, you look at North, at his perfectly put-together hair, piercing blue eyes, and muscular arms crossed over his suited chest. You watch the way his chest rises and falls, his jaw clenches and unclenches as he chews on his thoughts. You watch how his eyes scan your face, your neck, your chest, looking for more injuries and finding none. It’s not until his eyes find yours, nostrils flaring, that you choose to look away, to Gryphon.
He has the mask he reserves for strangers on, cold, distant, aloof, nothing like the face he shows you in your head. His eyes are already on yours, sometimes flicking down to the hands on your cheeks, a tightness to his face as he does so. You're not sure what he’s thinking, not sure if he’s mad at you like North seems to be, or if it’s just a front for the older Draven. You hadn’t talked to him since Monday when he kissed you, even though each morning and night you send him a text to open and close the day. Even though you see him on campus, keeping his distance from Oli and you. You think maybe he’s keeping it professional, doing his job without the distraction of his bonds stopping him, and it makes you feel better, makes the decisions he chooses a little easier to swallow.
“All done,” the healer states, removing his hands from you like it burns to touch your skin, and Gryphon drops his own on the man’s shoulders with a bang, leading him from the room. That leaves you with North, with his eyes that are full of too many questions, his body language demanding too many answers. You can see it now for sure, with how tight he grabs his own arm, how angry he is, but he doesn’t explode, not yet at least. One of his arms comes to the side, palm facing up, as he motions to the table, your normal chair already occupied by Atlas. You look at North, at the way he still isn’t saying anything, just quietly seething. You take the chair, let him push you in, even if he does it too fast, too angry, and place your hands in your lap. He’s quick to fix your plate, knuckles still white as he grips the edge tightly, filling it full of salad, before placing a bowl of stew in front of you. He moves on to Oli, doing the same, frustration still in every line of his body as he takes his seat at the head.
Nox still isn’t here, and you're thankful, unsure if you could deal with his antics and whatever bomb North has brewing beneath his skin. A servant comes in, filling the cups, Oli and you get something that looks like water, as the rest are filled with a red substance, and you wonder why Gabe gets wine when he’s definitely the same age as you. You wonder who made the decision, but you know it was North, his controlling nature present down to the most minute details. When Gryphon gets back, he fixes his own plate and waits -no one is eating save for Oli- the sound of her fork scraping as she moves salad around. You wonder why they wait, your eyes sliding to North as he stares at you, face a grim line, nostrils still flaring. You look to Gryphon for a moment, his eyes softer than before, and you decide that you can’t stand to see either of them. Not right now, so your eyes go to the hallway you saw Gabe disappear down, and you wait.
When Gabriel appears, his blond hair is wet, lying flat on his head in a very unguarded way, his t-shirt has been changed out for a black one, light grey jogging pants stretched over his legs, and you forget to breathe. His closeness from earlier is still etched in your mind as your eyes carve a path down his body. You can feel your lip pull between your teeth as you look at him, thinking about his warmth, breath fanning against your face, skin hot under your touch, and you look away, eyes landing back on Gryphon. His mouth is fighting a smile as he looks at you, at the face you’ve made at him at least 15 times in your head by now. He knows what it means, can assume the thoughts running through your head as easily as reading them. Your eyes move to North, as his tracks between you and Gabriel, you and Gryphon, finding a closeness between you that he does not share. His face sours as you look back to Gabe. His bright smile is back as he rounds the table and places a hand on your shoulder in a reassuring squeeze.
“Aw, bestie,” the word falls from his mouth like a slap, your face scrunching up in confusion as you look over at him as he makes his plate. “You didn’t have to wait for me.” But you did want the comfort that being between two of your bonds brings you to eat. You ignore him now, ignore the way he scoots his chair closer to yours, hand coming down on your knee with a squeeze, as you shovel salad into your mouth. You can hear the sounds of dinner beginning around you now, forks scraping plates, slurping of stew filling the room, and the soft sounds of moans coming from Oli’s direction. No one outright looks at her, but the room around her pauses, forks stuck in midair as she takes another spoonful, a sound of content deep in her throat as she munches on the food, oblivious in the way she commands it. Oblivious in the way the world stops for her. It takes a few seconds, but everyone gets back to it, spoonful after spoonful. It’s not until dessert is being served that North finally chooses to say something, clearing his throat and drawing the attention of the room to him.
Gabe’s hand is still at your knee, a gentle comfort you allow him, as North locks eyes with you. “How did you get hurt?” It’s a loaded question, one he already knows the answer to; he just wants to hear it from you. For what reason you're not sure, to show you that he’s in charge, maybe, to show you that you have to answer to him. You pull your shoulders back, push your chest forward, the jacket on your shoulders doing nothing to hide your breasts. Throat tight as what feels like a physical block squeezes your words past your lips, eyes hard on his face.
“My bond.” Its not as confident as you would have liked for it to come out, quiet but seething with the rage you feel for the question. Atlas brings his hand to your other knee, North’s eyes following the path of it, jaw tightening before meeting your eyes again.
“Does it do that often?” The answer is no, but you know that feels like a lie. It does not hurt you like this; it had never actually caused you pain before, but that was due to the steady and unending supply of drugs the resistance had apparently been pumping you full of. That had been before them, before the one thing the monster in your chest had begged for every night.
“It can’t.” You can feel it on your face, the hate you feel for him in this moment. He has never let you work at your own pace, never made sure you are comfortable enough to tell him the truths he wants to hear. He just takes and demands with a smug look on his face that you can't stand. You try to remind yourself that this man is your bond, that he was made for you, a piece of your soul made to fit beside you forever. That he is like Atlas and Gabe, and Gryphon and Oli. That despite his attitude, he is genetically predisposed to love you, and you to love him. Another of the missing pieces carved out of your chest by some god a long time ago. You try to see it, try to understand that this will pass, that you will love him, but he looks at you, angry for things you can’t control, his patients at the few-word answers wearing thin, apparent in the way he holds his shoulders back.
“Why. Can’t. It.” His words are clipped as he leans forward in his chair, hands gripping the armrests. You feel the threads that hold him together snapping as moments of silence pass by, no answer from you. You find your eyes on Gryphon, hoping that he will step in and save you from your second most volatile bond, but he sits there, waiting for you answer. He knows the truth, saw the memory, felt your fear like it was his own, but still he waits.
You hear Gabe speak up beside you, his voice like a safety raft in the ocean of helplessness that you have found yourself in. “Maybe we should-” One look from North shuts him up mid-sentence, and it angers you even more.
You lean forward, blocking North’s view of Gabe with your body as if it could protect him from North's ire. You want to scream at him, make him feel as useless as you do, as unable to protect his bonds as you do, but you can’t stop the truth bubbling up from your throat.
“I drug it. I keep it as far away from you as I can because,” the words are coming faster now, the hands on your knees no longer grounding as you can feel your body less and less. “It’s a monster. It would destroy anything in its way to you, me included.” You can hear it like you used to, the memory of its voice a ghost in your head: the images that come along with its words like a blade across your skin, the details it used to describe the mayhem it would inflict on the world if you didn’t bring it to it’s bonds, the necrotic wave spreading from a hand that looks like yours but isn’t -couldn’t be- as it rips through people towards a room. You know what you see isn’t real; the memory is just as fake as all the others planted by the Resistance, except this one crafted by your bond. A bond you can't trust, can't let close to these people you want to love so desperately. Not until you can be trusted, not until it can be trusted. It’s Gryphon's voice that brings you back, just like before.
“Bond,” he says, voice frantic, “I need you to breathe. Come on,” you find his eyes across the table, a wild look on his face as he demands your attention, “Breath with me, baby. It’s real simple, just in and out. In and out,” You would feel embarrassed if you could, your body tingling in the way it always does before you pass out, you fear mixed with the panic you feel coursing through your veins, leaving no room for any other emotion. “Just like that. Just like me. Eyes on me, bond, and breathe.” You know it’s more than the panic attack, like last time, something spooking him into action. You don’t know what it is, what you missed in the time between North and now, and you almost can't bring yourself to care because finally, he is speaking to you. It’s him in the way you know him, in the way you need him to be. Not the quiet version of him, not the professional, but your bond that needs you just as badly as you need him.
You're not sure what anyone else in the room is doing, eyes locked on Gryphon’s as he makes a show of breathing deeply for you, modeling the intended reaction so your brain doesn't need to connect the dots for you. You start to feel them again, the hands on your knees from your other bonds, squeezing into your skin as your fingers untangle from the cloth napkin in your lap. You start to hear them again, not just Gryphon, but the rest of the table.
“What was that?” North asks, eyes on you unblinking, as he surveys your body, face, and breathing.
Gryphon's words are cutting, intending to hurt him with his tone, “The reason I told you not to make her panic; it’s the trigger.” You can feel your face scrunch up, the confusion you're feeling etched into every crease as you look around the room.
When you look at Atlas, he is sad, his face unguarded as he looks at you, recognition flashing across his face for a brief moment. “Welcome back, Sunshine.” You're unsure what he means, feet still firmly planted where they were moments earlier, not having left. You start to realize that you are missing something, some vital piece of information that everyone in the room has besides you.
North speaks again, his eyes still on you, but the question is directed to Atlas, “How did you know so quickly?” He actually looks freaked out, like whatever it was truly rattled him to his core. You notice that he looks different from just a moment ago, his tie and suit jacket pulled off, sitting on the table beside him, his hair rustled like he had run his hand through it multiple times, but that couldn’t be right. You had just been looking at him, the picture of quiet, put-together rage at the head of the table. Not this slightly disheveled mess of a man.
“They hold themselves differently, speak differently too,” Atlas says, hand leaving your knee to push a piece of hair from your face. “She doesn’t move as confidently, like shes scared to take up the space. I noticed it Monday, but it wasn’t until Gryphon said there was someone in her head that I really started to notice. It doesn’t happen often, sometimes they are there, and she isn’t, and then is again.”
Oleander pipes up now, her voice strong as she looks at you past Atlas, “I thought it was her bond, honestly. I didn’t know she was drugging it.” You're not sure if it's the tears in your eyes or not that prompt her to keep talking, “They won't hurt me, just like I know you won't hurt me.” Her face is hard as it looks at you, hand reaching past Atlas for you to grab. You almost do, but the look on North’s face stops you. Whatever had just happened had shaken him enough that the councilman was gone, replaced by this tired version of him, unbuttoning his cuffs and topmost shirt button.
“And this has happened more than just now, and on Monday I am to understand.” Oli and Atlas nod, neither taking their eyes off you, like you might change again right before their eyes. “And no one thought to tell me.” The fire is back in Oli’s eyes, her head coming around to look at North with such ire you would have flinched.
“I don’t owe you an explanation about my bond, Draven.”
“You do,” he shoots back, leaning forward in his chair as he spits the words more like Nox than you would like to admit, “when it concerns my bond, Fallows.”
You swallow back the bile in your throat, unsure of what is going on around you. Unsure if you're understanding everything correctly. You can feel Gryphon at the front of your mind, a feeling of reassurance being pressed through to you in a way you aren't used to, as Gabe’s thumb rubs circles into your knee. You look to him now, sure he will tell you what's going on in a way you’ll be able to understand. Sure, he can’t hide it from you if you ask him kindly.
“Gabe,” the room quiets down around you as his eyes track over your shoulder to the room beyond, “What’s going on. What are they talking about?”
He hesitates, the calming circles he had been rubbing into your knee cease, as he tries to find the words to say, tries to pluck them from the air. “Sometimes, when you get stressed, you act a little differently, like you're someone else.” He starts, eyes flicking back to you. “Like earlier today, do you remember the walk to class?” You go to nod, of course you do, but stop remembering a brief moment this morning when you wondered how you hadn’t noticed you’d arrived in the lunch room, the walk feeling shorter than normal. You look down at his hand on your knee, trying to find the right words to say before you just shake your head.
“We were all walking to class like normal, Atlas and I on the outside of you and Oli, remember? You guys were holding hands like always.” You can hear a bit of jealousy in his voice as he says it, but he keeps going. “We were talking about Darcy’s about the football game?” You nod because yes, you remember, that's how you guys had decided on the Nuclear Option. Except that you realize that you don’t remember the conversation much after that. You turn your body more towards him, hands in your lap as you lean into him, his words unfamiliar. He notices and uses this as an opportunity to grab hold of both your hands, leaning into you more, the moment just for the two of you now.
“At some point, you swapped, I don’t know when, I just know that you brought Oli’s hand to your mouth and kissed it, like this,” he said, using this as an opportunity to kiss you, eyes boring into yours with so much love it makes your chest ache. When his lips leave your skin, he continues the retelling, his words slightly rushed, “Which I thought was weird because you’re never that forward, and you looked at her like she hung the fucking moon. Which she did, I know, but you don’t look at her like that. You look at her like…” He pulls his bottom lip between his teeth for a second to think on what to say, “Like you're just enjoying the time you have left with her. It doesn’t happen often, but sometimes you’re just not… you.”
The words he said, you know, you understand them without really hearing them, but you can’t seem to wrap your head around them. If what he says is true, than everytime you’ve had a memory laps it could have really been this other person taking over and doing what? Kissing your bonds? Relaying information to the Resistance about their day-to-day so it’s easier to take them out?
“Why didn’t you tell me?” It’s a whisper, almost like you're scared of this person hearing you, or taking over and doing whatever it wants with your body.
“We were going to. Gryphon was going to see if he could draw them out of you tomorrow in your session.”
“Like an experiment?” You spit, pulling your hands from his, the betrayal of this all hitting a little too close. You're unsure why it triggers you so much, a trickle of a memory pushing in on you that you can't seem to grasp hold of.
“No,” It’s Gryphon who speaks this time. “We just needed to be sure that they didn’t know we were on to them.”
You're pushing yourself away from the table now, pulling away from all of your bonds as best you can, as you stand, arms coming up to hold yourself together as you start to pace. “So what, your plan was to trick me? Make me feel safe with you and then send me into a panic attack? Make me think that I could trust you?”
“You can trust me bond.”
“No,” you yell, leveling him with a look as coldly as you could manage, holding back your own tears, “I can’t.” You stay like that for a moment, eyes locked in a standoff, Gryphon still seated at the table, and you standing against the outer wall. You try them now, some of the grounding techniques you’d learned at Mayfield, afraid that if you don’t, you won't be you anymore. You can see your bonds, staring at you, waiting to see your next move. You can see the carpet, taking up much of the dining room in the way that rich people love. You see the wall clock, its hands ticking down the seconds until you can make up your mind about what to do next. You can see the stairs from here, the ones that Gabe took early for a shower. You can see the chandelier above the table, a waste of money in your opinion. You can touch the jacket that Gabe had given you, the letterman cold on the outside. You can touch the floor, the tip of your shoe rubbing into it. You can touch a painting on the wall, its frame the off-gold color that flakes after so many years. You can touch a house plant, one of those big ones that takes up a lot of space for no reason. You can hear the staff down the hall, the sound of the cleaning dishes loud. You can hear the clock ticking. You can hear Oli’s foot bouncing under the table. You can smell the stew. You can smell the candles as they burn on the table. You can taste the bile in your throat.
You don’t feel anymore or less grounded as you look at the group across from you, each of them waiting. “What did I say that made him look like that?” you say, head nodding to North, arms still holding you together. They don’t reply right away, chewing over what was less likely to send you into another fit.
“The truth of what your bond can do,” North says, fully leaning back in his chair, tired of all of this. “Sit back down so we can finish talking.”
“No.” He bristles a little, ready to fight you on this like he has been on everything else, but decides not to, at least not right now.
“It’s like my death touch.” He offers a peace treaty of sorts between you. “From the sounds of it, your bond is like mine.” If he means his is also a crazy, murderous monster bond, then yes. “But that doesn’t mean you can keep it from us. Even if you're scared of it, or there is someone else in charge of your body sometimes, you have no right.” He’s angry again, the fight back in his eyes as he looks at you.
“I have every right. What I do with my bond to keep you safe is none of your business.” You think you might puke, your mouth filling with saliva as you swallow desperately to keep anything down.
“Sit down.”
“No.” He stands, almost like he is going to come over and make you sit back down, but he doesn’t choosing to walk away from the table for a moment, before coming back, hands gripping the back of his chair.
“Must you always act like this? Like some terrified child? We are trying to help you.” You can feel the day taking its toll on you, a bone-deep weariness falling on your shoulders as you look at North, nostrils flaring, eyes hard, knuckles white. You can feel it in the way your eyes droop, your shoulders start to sag, and your arms fall to your sides. You can feel it in the way that breathing is hard, a boulder settling on your chest. You could scream back at him, keep going around in circles with this man until you're both done, but you don't have the will anymore. Not for this at least.
Your words are soft when you say them, landing like a blow you didn’t mean to strike, “I want to be your bond North, not your prisoner. Until you figure out how to live with that i’m going home.”
You can see the fight leave him in that moment, your words registering a little deeper than intended. He doesn’t say anything back to you, can’t, as his eyes search your face, for a lie perhaps. Whatever it is, he doesn't find it, choosing to walk off down the hall that Gabe had earlier.
When you're almost back to your dorm, the bulk of the day falling from your shoulders the further you get from Draven Manor, when you receive a text.
North: You can go to the football game and party after curfew only if you agree to my terms. You are to be accompanied by one of your bonds at all times, and a Tac Team will be present at both. I expect you to spend the night at the manor following the party and go to an event with me on Saturday. Do you agree?
You think about telling him to go fuck himself, that after everything today youd rather rot in your dorm than spend a single second with him, but you stop yourself, eyes catching Oli’s in the mirror.
You: Thank you.
Master List || Next
Tag List: @starswholistenanddreamsanswered @thecuratorofsaza
Description: fem!reader wakes up in a room with 6 people who claim to be her bonds except she doesn’t know what the fuck that means!
Word Count:4046
Chapter Seven
Master List || Previous
As you sit at the lunch table during your first day of classes, you realize why Oleander loves Sage so much. She is kind and genuine, and treats you like you always belonged in their little group. She speaks to you and Atlas, like you have always been here, includes you in her jokes with Oli, and tells you things like you’re best pals. Plus, the side eye she gives Gabe and Atlas when they sit down between Oli and you, again, earns her extra points. She had watched it happen just as you had all day; you gripping the back of a seat ready to sit down beside Oli, only for Gabe or Atlas to take the seat themselves. They would look at you, all innocent, none of that betrayal from yesterday on either of their faces, and say, “Thank you, bond.” Their eyes are on your mouth as they speak to you before coming back up to your own. You were being manipulated for sure, you know that, but it is hard to be mad at them when they look at you like they still want you. You had wondered if maybe Gryphon told them that you would do almost anything if called bond, but you genuinely can’t bring yourself to believe he would betray your trust in that way. So this was all them, working against you to what? Keep Oli away from you? To keep her safe?
You wanted to argue with them, wanted to remind them that Gryphon had cleared you, that they had left her in the same room as you, same bed as you all night, and nothing bad had happened. But, it’s actually Sage that says something first, “Okay, you guys need to lighten up.” She states, pulling the chair out in front of you to sit. “Would either of you hurt Oli?” They both bristle at the allegation like they can’t even imagine a world where that could happen. “Exactly. So stop acting like she's got a bomb strapped to her chest. Oli doesn't need you two men deep protecting her from her own bond.”
The pair look at each other, properly chastised by Sage, before Gabe pipes up, “But, you could hurt Giavana even if you can’t hurt Riley.” His sentence hangs in the air for a second, everyone quiet as Sage looks over her shoulder at a couple behind her. The man has his hand on the woman’s waist as she sits in his lap, laughing at something he has said. They look happy together, which makes Sage look sad in turn. You realize that this must be her bond group, and a touchy subject for her, as she sits with you and not them. You feel indignation, like a rock, grow in your chest on Sage’s behalf, because even if it wasn’t meant to be, that felt like a low blow and one look at Oli tells you that she feels the same.
“It’s different for a central,” Oli interjects, wanting to remove the attention of Sage, “I couldn’t hurt a single one of you even if I wanted to. My bond wouldn’t let me because you belong to me, and so does she, so maybe lay the fuck off her?” The table stays quiet after that, while your heart swells at her words. You were hers. You belonged to her just as they did. You’d never belonged with anyone before your bonds, and you think maybe the voice had been right all this time. Maybe it wasn’t so scary to want them, to want to be with them if it felt this good to be Oleander’s. One look at Sage’s face however, tells you otherwise, her grief as apparent as her need to breathe. It reminds you that allowing another person to have this kind of power over you is dangerous.
Here the four of you are, rubbing your bond in her face, intentional or not, and it makes you feel awful. You lean forward, chest pressed against the table to whisper to Sage, “As a central, it hurts to be away from your bonds, even when the human side is being stupid. I’m sure he’s struggling too and just doesn’t know what to do about it.” She nods to you, understanding that you are trying to reassure her as best you can. “Sometimes we have other things going on, and it doesn’t mean that we don’t want our bonds. There isn’t anything wrong with you.” You reach your hand across to place it on top of hers for a quick squeeze, and then drop it back in your lap.
You know that the table heard you, that Atlas and Gabe heard you, and maybe you said it for them, too. Maybe, even if you still have a hard time talking with them, you want them to understand that you’ve got things going on outside of this bond group, and you need space. Like what you told Gryphon, regardless of if he respects that while in your head or not. You want to look at your bonds now, so they know you meant it, but you don’t -can’t.
A boy who looks strangely like Sage stops you from needing to. “Damn, Fallows. I could forgive you for four hot bonds, maybe five, but six? Do you collect sexy people like Pokémon cards?” He sits beside Sage, dropping his lunch tray on the table with a bang.
“Hello, Sawyer,” Oli says, and you can hear the sarcasm in her voice, “Always a pleasure to have you here.”
“This is my brother,” Sage tells you, inclining her head towards him, “You can ignore him if you want.”
The tension at the table dissipates in an instant, Sawyer changing the air with his presence alone. He wears the same letterman jacket as the rest of the football team, with this sort of cocky air about him. You're not sure if you're going to hate him, or if he’s going to become your new favorite person.
He shovels food in his mouth like he’s unsure when he’ll be fed next, his selection not at all like Gabe’s vegetables, and you wonder if Gabe is the outlier on the team.
“So we're all going to Darcy’s party Friday night, right?” He asks, mouth still full of French Fries. “Fallows, I need you in because I need Sage in, and she doesn’t go anywhere without you anymore.” He points a fry between the two of them before putting it in his mouth.
Oli looks around the tables, her eyes falling on you, “I don’t know. We have to get permission from North to do anything.”
Sawyer scuffs at that, before chewing more of his food. “Easy. One of you,” he points to Oli, “give him the sad girl I won’t do anything wrong eyes,” and then he points to you, “and the other show some tit. Boom party on Friday, it's that easy.”
Both Gabe and Atlas tense beside you at his words, hands clenched both above and below the table. Atlas is the one to actually speak up, teeth pressed together in an attempt to keep his composure, “Sawyer,” he says as a threat, “don’t talk about my bonds that way. Because my bonds really like your sister, and she seems to really like you, and I’d hate for her to experience what her life would be like without you in it.”
Almost without missing a beat, and quite literally missing the hint, Sawyer turns your way, head slightly lulled to the side, and says, “They're kinda hot when they're angry, right?”
Gabe spits out a “Benson,” as your hand comes down on Atlas’ thigh almost on instinct. It feels like you're holding him in place, even if he is stronger than you, the motion showing that you don’t want him to react. You don’t feel Atlas move, don’t hear him say anything else, as the look on Sawyer's face changes. His eyes flick between the two of you, and you can feel him gearing up to say something as Sage grabs him by the arm and forces him up.
“I’ll see you guys later!” she says, pulling him along with her, leaving both their trays on the table. You can hear Sawyer's complaints, but the two move farther away from your group.
When you finally turn to Atlas, the tips of his ears are red, his mouth is fighting a smile, and he’s looking down at your hand. The one that’s closer to his hip than his knee. The one that is in a very dangerous area for someone who can’t have their bond. The one that is now noticing something that you hadn’t noticed before as it grows beneath it. The squeak you make is almost comical, your hand flying up to your chest as you cradle it with your other. You hadn’t meant to, but that hardly matters now.
As you look at Atlas, ready to apologize, throat seizing up, you can see the thoughts filtering through his head as he decides what to say. You can hear it now, his words mimicking the ones Gryphon had said, telling you that you're welcome to touch him, but he doesn’t say like that at all.
He tilts his head to the side and leans down into your eyesight as you try to look away from him. “That’s the first time you’ve chosen to touch me, Sunshine.” His voice is a whisper for only you as the words land lightly, “make sure to do it again, even if it’s only my hand next time?”
You can feel your skin burning as you look past him to Oli, both embarrassed and confused by his switch-up. Her own lips are fighting a smile, and you don’t even want to risk looking at Gabe. Regardless of whether it feels like the adult thing to do right now, you stand and storm off in the direction of the women’s bathroom, because that’s the only place you know he can’t follow you.
As you make your way through the tables, you can hear them behind you. The sound of someone trying to follow you, and Oli stopping them, telling them you need space and that she will take care of you. You're not sure if you want her following either, the embarrassment still bearing down on you causing you physical pain, but you also know it’s the first time today they have trusted you enough to be alone with her.
When you make it to the bathroom, you head straight for the sink. The water is cool as you splash your face with it in hopes of calming your nerves. Oli doesn’t say anything when she enters, just stands by supportively, until you’ve got yourself under wraps.
“Are you okay now?” She asks, coming up beside you and placing her hands on your biceps, rubbing up and down in a soothing motion. You almost groan as your forehead falls to her collarbone.
“Oli, I touched his dick. In the middle of the lunch room. With Sage and Sawyer there. I think,” the embarrassment balls up in the pit of your stomach again, “I think I want to explode.”
She laughs, a deep belly laugh causing your head to rise and fall with her, “Happy first day of college!”
You think, just for a moment, that death is preferable to going back out there and seeing your bonds again.
“Well, was it at least big,” she asks, leaning back a little to look down at you.
You lift your head, looking up at her through your eye lashes in the most deadpan expression you can, “It’s fucking huge.”
She giggles, hands still on your biceps as she squeezes them. “Good. When we figure this shit out with your head,” one of her fingers comes up to poke between your eyes, “and you finally bond him, I need all the details. I just know that man can fuck.”
You choke, actually choke, on the spit in your mouth because you don’t know how to fuck, have never fucked, and if you don’t figure out this issue with your head, will never fuck.
“Plus we need to get one of their scents in our bed again or else I’m going to become a monster.” It takes you a second to come to terms with what she just said because the use of ‘our’ is still bouncing around in your head.
“What.”
“I think we just need to parent trap them. We could lock them in our room and tell them they have to roll around in the sheets to be let out or is that too weird?” You giggle at the absurdity of the question, because yes it is too weird, but you get what she means. You will also be the worst version of yourself when you can’t at least pretend Atlas is in the same bed as you.
“I do think he’d be into handcuffs. Maybe we just do that and leave him there?” The both of you laugh, as she pulls you into a hug, and you stay like that for a moment.
“Good idea.” Her arms around you are tight, almost like she needs this contact more than you, as your chin rests on her shoulder. “Are we good to go back out there yet?” You hug her, just a bit tighter, and bury your nose in her neck to take a deep, calming breath before nodding and moving away.
“Yes, but I can’t promise I won’t vomit if they mention it again.”
“Deal.”
When the two of you make it back to the lunch table, the rest of the trays have been cleared, and a bags of chips sit in your spot. The chips aren’t your favorite, but you forgive them because there is no way they could know that information yet. Atlas and Gabe have moved away from each other, leaving a two-seat gap between them, and they both stare at Oli and you advancing towards the chairs.
Gabe scratches the back of his neck when you sit down beside him -unsure if you can ever sit beside Atlas again-, “You didn’t get to finish lunch, so I thought you might still be hungry. Nox will be a bitch about it if you eat in his class, but we have a good 10-minute walk over there.” There is a small smile on your face -that fights to become a big one- as you look over at him. They really seem to like to show that they care by feeding you, so you take a page out of their book.
When you open the bag and take out a chip to eat, Gabe seems proud of himself, a smile firmly planted on his face as you munch. You pull out another and offer it to him, eyebrows raised, and he just shakes his head, “Nah, I don’t eat that garbage.” You're not sure what that says about how he views you, who definitely eats that garbage, so your face falls, but you don’t lower the chip just yet. If anything, you had seen this as a peace offering, and it kind of sucks that he doesn’t want to accept it.
You can hear Atlas and Oli whispering behind you, but you can’t make out the words, so you ignore them, choosing to eat the chip and mind your own business, but Gabe’s hand on your wrist stops you. “I’ll eat it if you want me to bond.” He leans forward, coming into your space as his lips wrap around the chip, catching your fingers slightly. He watches your reaction as he chews and swallows, the action followed by your eyes before they go back to his lips, inches from your fingers, from your face.
“Have another bond,” he says, using that word again, not moving away, but also not moving closer. His scent is the only thing you smell, surrounding you and making it hard to think, as your eyes bounce between his own and his lips. Because they were gentle on your fingers, and you want to know if he kisses like that. If they are really as soft as they look. His hand is still on your wrist, thumb caressing your pulse point as it jumps under his ministrations. The bond in your chest rumbles, fighting against whatever in the drugs puts it to sleep, its emotions filling your head for a moment, yearning for him so desperately you almost give in, almost fall forward into him, the spectacle you’d be, be damned. The longer you're around your bonds, the less the drugs seem to work; something in them not enough to hold back the monster beneath your skin. It’s this thought that releases you from the moment.
His tongue darts out, wetting his lips, and you turn away, pulling your wrist with you, you falling like water from his grasp. You can tell he’s upset, as you see him pull back, his shoulders rolling forward to protect himself, his face falling from the carefree smirk that was just on it. He’s just as beautiful now, face scrunched up in a sour look, as when he’s happy, the emotion not really mattering because he always has this sort of breathtaking beauty. You're not sure if he’s upset because he wants you as badly as you want him, or if it’s because he thinks he deserves you for doing a kind deed. The thought brings bile to your throat, and the taste of the chips on your tongue putrefies.
It’s easier to be angry at him, to make assumptions about his motives, to put distance between you, than it is to want him so desperately. But it’s hard to do that when his scent is still in your nose, his presence like a live wire beneath your skin. Everything about him calls to you, to protect and be kind and to love. You want to be angry at him, want to force this distance between you so it’s not so hard to be in the same room as him, but you can’t. And the thought of him being angry at you is worse, like someone taking stones and pressing them into your chest until they crush in on themselves. Grinding them into nothingness, your chest red and angry from it. You can’t be angry at him, and he can’t be angry at you, which means you need to fix this.
It’s not until you're on your way to Gifted 101 that you reach into your pocket and pull up his contact name, Gabriel Ardern. As a passing thought, you wonder if that’s how North programs everyone into his own phone, first and last name, and it almost makes you laugh. Of course he would. Being serious in all things is the only way you’ve ever seen North Draven react, and that would extend into how he programs yours and Oli’s phones, for sure. When you actually look at the company spot, the word “Bond” in bold stands out, like he’s afraid you're going to forget who they are. You click over to Oli’s name to be sure, and she has been delegated as “Co-Central”. If it wasn’t more funny than stupid, you might bring it up, but you're sure he won’t see the humor in it.
As you type out the message to Gabe, you don’t really pay attention to where you're going, full attention on what you want to tell him. It’s not until you finish crafting it that you realize Gabe had been running interference around you so you could walk and text in peace. It whittles out that hollow space in your chest even more, because even though he is upset with you, he still makes sure to do little things that show he cares. When the message goes through, you can see his lock screen is a picture of Oli laughing, and you wonder when he took it, her face open and happy. It had to have been some time before you got here, and complicated their dynamics even more than before.
When the group of you files into class, you see Sage already sitting in a row of seats, two empty on either side of her. Atlas and Oli take the two on her left, and you and Gabe take the two on her right, positioning Sage between Oleander and yourself. You don’t mind the Sage buffer as much as the bond buffer, because you know she doesn’t do it out of concern. When you place your things in front of you, you see Gabe typing away before your own phone buzzes.
When you open your messages you skim over your own text again, “I’m sorry. I just need more time to get used to everything and make sure that the Resistance isn’t using me to hurt you. This is all still very new to me.” The thought of saying it out loud had occurred to you, but the cons of admitting you're probably a Resistance spy in a lunch room full of Anti-Resistance gifted outweighed the pros.
“I’m not trying to push. I’m sorry if I seemed upset earlier, I’m still figuring this out too.” You stare at your phone for a minute, trying to come up with something to say because you do think he deserves some grace as long as you get some in return. You begin typing, only to erase it, the words lost on you. It’s not until you feel his knee knock into yours that you look over at him, notebook laid between his outstretched arms, him leaning forward in his seat, mouth obscured by his shoulder muscles as he looks at you from behind them. “Friends?” He mouths to you lifting his head slightly, and you nod. Being friends with him over whatever it is you currently have going on should make things much easier to deal with.
“Friends,” you whisper back. His face lights up at the sound of it, knowing it’s the first time you’ve chosen to speak to him not out of necessity. Today has been full of a lot of firsts for you unfortunately, and you're sure tomorrow will be full of even more now that you’re out of Mayfield or wherever the hell you really were.
His knee doesn’t move from yours again, a small comfort the both of you allow in the moment, as he keeps staring at you over his arm. You cross your arms and lay your head down on them to look back at him. “What?” You mouth, the room still full of chatter as Nox has yet to arrive.
He leans in now so you can hear his whisper, elbow touching yours, “Friends can tell friends how pretty they are right?” You smile, but shake your head at him anyway knowing that this will probably be your reality for the next little while. You’d expect this from Atlas, him never stopping his flirting, but not Gabe.
“Friends Gabriel,” there is humor in your whisper so you know he will ignore you, but this was a start, a boundary that you can put in the sand. When it’s time to erase it, the two of you will have built a base for your relationship in friendship.
Sage giggles to you left and points to Gabe, humor in her voice as she says, “Friendzoned.”
He shakes his head still looking at you over his arm and smiles, “I can wait.” You know he means it in the same way you know that the contact with him brings you peace. You can feel it in every bone of your body, not needing a gift like Gryphon’s to hear the truth in his words. You know that this is a turning point for your relationship, him finally seeing you as someone who is worth waiting for, someone worth understanding. And it might be small, but this gives you hope, builds a fire in your chest next to the hole not having your bonds created. It might be dumb, but you finally feel excited for what comes next. So you sit beside Gabe, a smile on your face, and just enjoy it.
Master List || Next
********
Taglist:
@starswholistenanddreamsanswered
@thecuratoroofsaza
Ahh, this chapter was actually extremely hard for me to write, which is one of the reasons it took me so long. I have actually been for the past two weeks, and I am finally getting over that. Let me know what you think!
I stared at the text on my screen far longer than I should have.
It glowed against the dark, the soft light from my phone washing the room in pale gold.
Feyre: There's a long weekend this week, we'd love it if you'd come on a small trip with us—it doesn't have to be a date but maybe a chance to talk properly in a space that isn't our home?
Feyre: think of it like a getaway!
Bright. Inviting. Disarming. And completely, utterly undeniable.
I set my phone down, picked it up again, reread the messages. My thumb hovered above the keyboard, useless, because what was I supposed to say?
I could still see her as she'd looked that night at the gallery, soft and sure, light in her eyes as she told me next time, don't run.
I could still feel the ghost of her kiss on my cheek, and Rhys's touch, brief but charged, the kind that lingered far longer than it should have.
I'd told myself I'd moved on. That I'd left them at the gallery, in the paintings, in that moment of recognition.
But every time my phone buzzed, I half-expected it to be her. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw them.
And now here they were again, reaching out, gently, patiently, offering space. Offering time.
It wasn't framed as a date. Feyre had chosen her words carefully, softening the edges, making it sound casual. A chance to talk properly.
But even through the phone screen, I could hear what she didn't say.
She wanted me to come back. Not to their home. To them.
I leaned back against my couch, the ceiling light humming faintly above me. The city outside was still awake, alive, but it felt like I was the only one caught between two heartbeats, between yes and no, between the past and whatever this was becoming.
A weekend away. It shouldn't have felt like a question that big. But it did.
Because deep down, I knew this wasn't about a casual getaway or polite conversation. This was the moment before the fall, the breath before a choice that would change the shape of everything.
I tried to imagine it.
The car ride. The quiet hum of the radio. Feyre's laughter drifting through the open window, Rhys's calm voice from the driver's seat. Maybe a small house by the coast. Salt air and late nights. Too much wine. Too many things said that couldn't be unsaid.
And me—once again standing in the middle of them, not sure where I belonged.
My phone buzzed again.
Rhysand: we promise not to ambush you with art this time.
I laughed, quiet, involuntary, the kind of laugh that slipped past my defences before I could stop it.
It was so them. Charming. Thoughtful. Dangerous.
My heart gave a single, traitorous thump. I typed, deleted, typed again.
Me: Alright. When and where?
The reply came fast, like they'd been waiting for the breath of that word.
Feyre: Friday morning. We'll pick you up. Bring something comfortable and maybe something you love.
Something I love. The message sat there, glowing softly.
And even as I told myself I was being reckless, even as I swore this was just a weekend, just talk, I couldn't stop the small, wild hope blooming in my chest.
By the time the weekend came, I'd convinced myself half a dozen times to cancel.
Every excuse had crossed my mind. Work. A headache. A sudden emergency. Anything to stop me from doing what I was about to do.
But when Friday morning arrived, the car was already waiting outside, sleek and dark and familiar and something in me couldn't quite say no.
The drive felt like a dream I wasn't fully awake for.
Feyre was in the passenger seat, her hair twisted up messily, a soft smile playing on her lips when our eyes met in the rearview mirror.
Rhys drove with one hand on the wheel, sunglasses pushed up, his other hand occasionally brushing hers like a quiet reassurance that didn't need words.
They didn't push conversation. The music was low, something with strings and quiet percussion, the kind of song that made the world blur by softly.
Every now and then, Feyre would glance back, offering a snack or asking if I was okay. I'd nod, smile, say yeah, I'm fine, even though my pulse was anything but steady.
The house was near the coast. A wide stretch of dunes and pale grass that swayed like a heartbeat in the wind.
The sky was bruised with the beginning of sunset when we arrived, the air thick with salt and smoke from far-off chimneys.
Inside, it was all warmth and wood and glass, large windows that framed the ocean, soft throws draped over worn furniture, a fireplace waiting to be lit.
It didn't feel like a place to visit. It felt like a place where you stayed long enough to unravel.
Dinner was easy, almost deceptively so. Rhys grilled something outside, Feyre poured wine and told stories about her first art exhibit, how everything went wrong and somehow still turned out right. I laughed. Maybe too loudly. Maybe because it felt good to.
And then the night stretched out around us, slow and honey-thick.
Someone built a bonfire on the sand. The waves hissed softly nearby, and the flames painted everything in gold and shadow.
We sat close, too close, knees brushing now and then, shoulders touching in ways that felt like both accident and design.
The wine loosened our words, and for a while, it was all teasing and small talk and laughter that came too easily.
Until it wasn't. Until the spaces between the words grew heavier, and silence settled like a held breath.
It was Feyre who broke it first.
"I was scared too, you know," she said, eyes on the fire. Her voice was soft, unguarded in a way I'd never heard before. "After that first night. After you left."
Rhys didn't speak. His gaze flicked toward her, then to me, quiet, patient.
Feyre continued, her thumb worrying the edge of her blanket. "I thought it was supposed to be simple. Fun. But it wasn't. It isn't." She glanced up then, meeting my eyes. "You make it feel like more."
The words hit something deep inside me, something that hurt and warmed at the same time.
I took a shaky breath, staring into the fire. "That's what scares me," I admitted. "Because it already feels like I'm on the outside of something I'll never fully be a part of."
Feyre frowned, a soft line between her brows. "What do you mean?"
I laughed, a quiet, bitter sound. "You two fit. Perfectly. You've built this world together—and I..." I gestured vaguely, helplessly. "I'm just visiting. I don't want to fall in love with people who already belong to each other."
The words hung there, raw and unpolished, crackling louder than the fire.
Rhys finally spoke, his voice low, the kind that always seemed to find its way under my skin.
"Maybe we've been waiting for someone who fits with both of us," he said.
My heart stuttered.
Feyre looked at him, then at me. There was something in her eyes, soft, shining, terrified and sure all at once.
"He's right," she whispered. "You don't have to be an extra. Not if you don't want to be."
For a long moment, none of us spoke. The fire crackled softly, painting everything in gold and shadow, the curve of Feyre's cheek, the gleam in Rhys's eyes, the trembling edges of my resolve.
Something inside me, that cautious, careful part that always pulled away first went very, very quiet.
And in the silence that followed, I realised I wanted to stop running. I wanted this.
Not the uncertainty or the fear, but the way they looked at me like I wasn't something temporary, like I'd been part of the picture all along and just hadn't realised it yet.
I swallowed hard. "Okay," I said, the word barely more than a whisper. "Okay."
Rhys's eyes softened. Feyre's hand found mine, warm and steady, and when I didn't pull away, her thumb brushed a slow, reassuring circle against my skin.
Something shifted.
The wind off the ocean carried salt and smoke, the firelight danced between us. Feyre leaned closer, her forehead almost touching mine, her voice a thread of sound. "You sure?"
I nodded. "I'm tired of pretending I'm not."
Her smile was small, fragile, and then she kissed me, soft, searching, like she was still asking the question even as I answered it.
My hands found her waist, tentative at first, and the warmth of her sunk through me like sunlight after too long in the cold.
Rhys didn't move to interrupt, didn't intrude, he just watched, the faintest curve to his lips, something reverent in his eyes.
And when I finally glanced toward him, breathless and unsure, he reached out a hand, steady, grounding and brushed his knuckles down my arm, a touch that sent quiet shivers down my spine.
The world narrowed to the three of us, the crackle of flame, the scent of woodsmoke, the pulse of something fragile and fierce taking root.
There was laughter, somewhere in the mess of it, quiet, almost disbelieving. A tangle of limbs and warmth and the kind of closeness that didn't ask for anything more than this moment.
Later, the fire burned low, leaving only embers and the hush of the waves.
We ended up inside, half-asleep and still tangled together, Feyre's head on my shoulder, Rhys's arm draped loosely around us both.
It wasn't perfect. It wasn't planned. But it was real.
And for the first time, I didn't think about what came next. I just let myself want.
The morning unfolded slow and golden.
Light spilt through the wide windows, soft and forgiving, wrapping everything in a hazy glow. The fire from the night before had long since died out, leaving only the faint scent of smoke clinging to the air and the low murmur of the ocean outside.
For a moment, I simply breathed.
Feyre was already awake, curled on her side, hair spilling across the pillow like spun gold. Rhys lay half behind her, arm draped lazily around her waist, but his violet eyes were open, watching me.
When he smiled, it was small and secret, as though this quiet moment belonged to us alone. "Morning," he said softly.
"Morning," I whispered back, my voice still thick with sleep.
No awkward scramble for clothes. No creeping out the door before anyone could stir.
For the first time, I wasn't looking for an escape.
I wasn't thinking about how to leave quietly or how to explain why I had to go. I just let myself be there, in that stillness, in that warmth, in the gentle rhythm of their breathing.
Eventually, Feyre stirred, blinking into the light. "Coffee," she mumbled, and that, apparently, was the cue for all of us to move.
The three of us drifted to the kitchen, half-dressed, barefoot, and laughing under our breaths. It was all so normal that it almost ached.
Rhys stood at the stove, pretending to know what he was doing with a skillet while Feyre corrected him from over his shoulder. I leaned against the counter, watching them, watching how easily they fit together and how, somehow, I didn't feel like an intruder this time.
"Here," Feyre said, handing me a mug. Our fingers brushed, a fleeting touch, but enough to set my pulse skittering.
"Thanks," I murmured.
She smiled, soft, knowing and reached for a bowl of berries, humming to herself as she moved through the kitchen. I caught myself smiling too, and for the first time, it didn't feel dangerous.
Rhys burned the first batch of pancakes. Feyre rolled her eyes. I laughed so hard I nearly dropped my coffee. It was imperfect and chaotic and real.
When we finally sat down to eat, sunlight poured across the table, glinting off the syrup and the curve of Feyre's smile.
Rhys reached across her to pour me more coffee, his fingers brushing my wrist in that unthinking, casual way that meant everything and nothing at once. Feyre's hand found my other one, squeezing gently, grounding me.
The moment felt suspended, fragile and infinite.
Feyre turned toward Rhys and pressed a kiss to his temple, soft and fleeting. Then she looked at me, her eyes warm, alive with something I didn't dare name.
"This feels nice," she said simply.
I nodded. "Yeah. It really does."
Outside, gulls wheeled over the sea, their cries faint and distant. Inside, the air was full of warmth and coffee and something new, something that didn't need to be defined to be real.
For the first time, I didn't feel like the outsider.
A/n - Well... here it is, the final part. It didn't turn out exactly like I imagined. I gave everyone their happy ending, but for some reason, it still feels a little sloppy. I'm not entirely sure how else to fix it. I think the fic as a whole could've used more creativity but I did the best I could!
I think Feyre and Rhysand deserve another try in the future because I really want to do them justice, but for now, this is the last part of this fic (i'm already working on another Feysand one x)
The next series is called "Catalyst" and it's a Cassian x Nesta x Reader—the masterlist is already posted for anyone interested and it's basc a bosses x assistant AU!
Thank you so much for reading anyways <33
Unexpected tag list - @sophieliz @azrielblue @whump-loverz @allthetroubleiveseen @galacticoceans @lilah-asteria @niiickelodeon @justtryingtosurvive02 @rosie-posie08 @mis-lil-red @cardiganconfessions @hyruledemigod20 @dnfhascorruptedme @hfeee-42 @iamrgo @insomniac-astronomer
Was it really casual if I couldn't stop thinking about them?
The second date had been good—too good.
Not just the food or the wine or the quiet music humming in the background, but the way everything had felt so easy. The way they moved around each other, seamless, like two halves of a language I was only just starting to learn.
And the way they looked at me, as if I belonged there, in that glow of candlelight and laughter, between them.
I kept telling myself it was nothing serious. Just something new. Fun. Temporary.
But temporary things weren't supposed to linger like this.
It started small, little things that shouldn't have meant much.
A scent that reminded me of their house. A song that played on the radio that made me think of that night, the three of us sitting too close on the couch, laughing over spilt wine.
Feyre started texting more often. At first, just every few days. Then almost daily.
Feyre: saw this and thought of you!
A photo of a cat curled up on a windowsill. Then—
Feyre: Rhys is still talking about that dessert you loved :)
Or—
Feyre: You'd make a better old-fashioned than this bartender, I swear.
Little things. Harmless things. But they stuck to me like honey, impossible to wash away.
Sometimes I replied, sometimes I didn't. When I didn't, I'd still check my phone, reread the messages, tell myself I was just being polite, that I didn't owe them anything.
And yet when her name lit up my screen, my pulse jumped. Every single time.
I tried to date other people.
There was the pretty blonde who'd come through town on business, a whirlwind kind of woman, all sharp smiles and champagne. We met for drinks, talked about travel and ambition and music, and she was easy to like.
But when she leaned across the table, when her fingers brushed mine, there was no spark. No pull. No static humming under my skin the way there had been with them.
Then there was the brunette, a regular at the bar. He'd been asking me out for months, always patient, always charming. I said yes one night, just to prove a point to myself.
We had dinner. We laughed. He was kind.
But the entire time, I caught myself comparing, his voice wasn't as smooth as Rhys's, his smile didn't make my stomach flip the way Feyre's did, and when he touched my arm, I didn't feel that dizzy, dangerous electricity.
It wasn't fair to him. It wasn't fair to me, either.
Afterwards, when he kissed me goodnight, all I could think was how wrong it felt. How I wished it were someone else's mouth, someone else's hands.
I went home that night and stared at my ceiling, the glow of my phone lighting the room. No new messages.
And still, I couldn't sleep.
Because the truth was starting to creep in, soft and insistent.
I didn't want anyone else. I didn't want this to mean something, but it did.
Every time Feyre texted, every time I saw Rhys's name pop up on social media, every time I thought about that laugh that belonged only to the two of them, it all came rushing back, sharp and sweet and impossible to shake.
I told myself I wasn't built for long-term things. That I didn't do permanence.
That this, whatever this was—was supposed to stay easy, light, fleeting.
But late at night, when the world went still, I couldn't ignore the truth pressing in on me like a bruise I kept poking just to feel it again.
It wasn't casual anymore. And maybe it never had been.
Tonight was a quiet night. The kind of stillness that makes the walls hum and the air feel too heavy.
I was curled up on the couch, half-watching some show I wasn't really paying attention to, when my phone buzzed.
Feyre: There's an art show tonight. I have a new exhibit! I'd love it if you'd come <3
For a long moment, I just stared at the screen.
Her name lit up the darkness, and something in my chest twisted.
It had been weeks since I'd seen them. Weeks of pretending I didn't replay their laughter in my head, or the way Rhys's hand had brushed mine when he poured the wine, or the look Feyre had given me that said she was thinking the exact same thing.
Weeks of trying to convince myself I didn't miss them.
But I did.
I missed the ease of their presence. The warmth of their home. The way they made me feel like I'd stumbled into something I didn't fully understand but couldn't walk away from either.
My thumb hovered over the keyboard, uncertain. I typed out several messages.
I'd love to
Then deleted it.
Sorry, I can't tonight.
Deleted that too. Finally, I settled for the simplest, safest word.
Me: Sure
It sent before I could second-guess it, a tiny flicker of commitment that made my pulse quicken. Her reply came almost immediately, fast and bright, like she'd been waiting.
Feyre: Perfect! 7 pm. I'll send the car <3
A time, a location, and that heart, soft, familiar, dangerous.
I set my phone down, exhaling slowly.
She didn't have to send a car, but of course she would. That was Feyre, thoughtful, deliberate, always the one to make things feel effortless.
And I knew, deep down, that I could've said no. That I should have said no.
But the thought of seeing her again, of seeing them again, sent a tremor through me that I couldn't ignore.
I told myself I was just going to support a friend. That it was nothing more.
That it wasn't about how I still dreamt of their laughter, or how every date since had been a pale imitation of theirs.
But as I stood in front of my closet, debating what to wear, my heart already racing, I knew I was lying to myself.
This wasn't about art. This was about them.
The car glided through the city streets like it had a purpose, like it already knew where I was supposed to end up.
Outside, the lights blurred into gold and violet streaks against the glass, and I couldn't shake the nervous flutter in my stomach.
It wasn't a first date kind of nervous, it was the kind that came when you already knew what could happen, and you weren't sure if you were ready to let it.
The car stopped in front of the gallery, all white stone, glass, and warm light spilling out into the night. People lingered near the entrance in tailored coats and champagne smiles, the hum of conversation floating through the open doors.
I stepped out, tugging my jacket around me, the cool air biting against my skin.
Inside, the world shifted, soft lighting, the faint scent of paint and wine, quiet music threading through the air. It was beautiful, curated, intimate.
And then I saw them.
Feyre was radiant, hair loosely pinned back, a silk dress the colour of dusk hugging her frame. Rhys stood beside her, crisp suit, sleeves rolled up just enough to be indecently casual, as if he'd just come from touching her paintbrushes.
When their eyes found me, it felt like being seen and undressed and welcomed all at once.
"Wow," Rhys said first, voice low and warm. "You look..." He didn't finish. He didn't need to.
Feyre stepped closer, her smile soft but intent. "Beautiful," she finished for him. "You look beautiful."
And gods, the way she said it, like it was a confession instead of a compliment made my breath catch.
I managed a small, nervous laugh. "You both clean up pretty well yourselves."
Rhys's lips quirked. "We try."
Feyre's hand brushed mine, a whisper of contact that sent shivers up my arm. "Come," she said. "Let me show you."
I followed her through the gallery, the crowd thinning as we moved deeper inside. The walls here were quieter, less chatter, more reverence.
And then we stopped. The plaque beside the wall read "A Night of Curiosity."
I stared. There were half a dozen pieces, large canvases, layered in colour and texture, soft light playing across them. They were intimate without being explicit, suggestive in a way that felt private, sacred.
Skin. Hands. Lips. Brushstrokes that captured breath and motion and warmth.
My heart began to pound, slow and deep.
In one piece, a woman's bare back, turned slightly, the faint outline of light across her shoulder blades. My stomach tightened.
I knew that back. The line of the neck, the slight dip at the waist, the barely-there freckles scattered like stars across the skin.
It was my back.
Another piece, eyes half-closed, lashes feathered against flushed skin, mouth parted in something that was almost a sigh. My own face. It hit me like a rush of heat, the realisation heavy and dizzying.
I was the muse.
That night, our night lived here. Immortalized.
My breath stuttered, the air suddenly too thick. It was beautiful. And terrifying. And heartbreakingly intimate.
Feyre was watching me, her expression unreadable, a flicker of nerves beneath the confidence. Rhys stood a few paces back, gaze steady, quiet.
He saw the moment it clicked. The way my fingers trembled slightly, how I looked from the art to them, speechless.
And then, softly, so softly I almost missed it Rhys said, "You left before we could finish writing the story."
The words sank into me, warm and heavy, full of meaning. My throat tightened. "I..."
But there was no air left to speak.
The world around us blurred, the murmurs of the crowd fading into something distant, insignificant. All I could see was them, and the art, and the impossible truth of it all.
Feyre's gaze softened, the edges of her confidence melting into something raw.
"You inspired me," she whispered. "That night—you, the way you moved, the way you looked at us—it stayed with me. I couldn't not paint it."
I wanted to look away. I couldn't.
Rhys stepped closer, close enough that I could smell the faint trace of his cologne, amber and smoke and something uniquely him.
"It wasn't supposed to be over," he said.
I swallowed hard, every thought tangled between my ribs. This was too much, too intimate, too real.
And yet part of me, the reckless, curious part that had swiped right on a stranger named Feyre weeks ago wanted this.
The attention. The belonging. The way they looked at me like I was something worth painting, worth remembering.
I exhaled shakily, the sound almost lost in the hum of the room. I didn't say anything else.
My throat had gone dry, every word felt caught somewhere between awe and disbelief. I just stood there, staring at the canvases, my pulse roaring in my ears.
Feyre shifted beside me. I could feel her uncertainty in the small space between us, in the way she twisted the thin silver ring on her finger.
"Is it..." She hesitated, voice softer now, stripped of the easy confidence she wore so well. "Is it too much? Too personal? I can pull them from the exhibit if you want. I didn't think—"
I blinked, finally forcing myself to look at her. Her expression wasn't defensive, it was worried. Almost apologetic.
"No," I said quickly, shaking my head. "No, it's not that. It's just..." I exhaled, searching for the right word. "Unexpected. Seeing it like this—seeing me like this—it's a lot."
Her shoulders relaxed a fraction, though she still looked uncertain.
"It's beautiful," I added, quieter this time. "You made it beautiful."
Something in her gaze softened, like I'd just given her permission to breathe again.
But the air between us remained charged, thick with everything unsaid. I needed to move, to find air that didn't feel like it belonged to them.
"I should go," I said, before I could change my mind.
Feyre opened her mouth to protest, but Rhys was already a step closer, not close enough to trap me, but close enough that I could feel his presence like gravity itself.
His fingers brushed my arm as I turned to leave, barely a touch, a whisper of contact but it was enough to light a spark under my skin.
"Thank you for coming," he murmured, low and steady.
Feyre followed me toward the door, her hand brushing my elbow as people greeted her, congratulated her, the noise of the gallery rising again around us.
At the threshold, she leaned in, her perfume soft and familiar, her lips grazing my cheek.
"Next time," she said, voice barely above a whisper, "don't run."
I froze, heart thudding so loudly it drowned out the hum of the room.
By the time I looked back, she was already walking toward Rhys, the two of them framed by the soft light of the gallery, warm, certain, magnetic.
I stepped out into the cool night air, the sound of the city rushing back all at once.
And for the second time, I told myself I was leaving them behind but the ache in my chest said otherwise.
A/n - We finally get the switch! She's been fighting it, but the reluctant acceptance is here—she cannot stop thinking about them, and honestly, who could blame her? So of course she agrees to see them again!!
And then BAM Feyre's gone and painted her. Intimately. Like, "oh no it's beautiful but also oh no it's ME" levels of chaos. That perfect moment of soft yearning immediately followed by, "wait... this is kinda terrifying actually??" The duality of women, truly :)
Also, I swear Feyre's last words aren't meant to sound like she's about to hunt anyone for sport, she's just being all intense and artistic about it. I promise it's romantic x
Anyway, thank you so much for reading <33
Unexpected tag list - @sophieliz @azrielblue @whump-loverz @allthetroubleiveseen @galacticoceans @lilah-asteria @niiickelodeon @justtryingtosurvive02 @rosie-posie08 @mis-lil-red @cardiganconfessions @hyruledemigod20 @dnfhascorruptedme @hfeee-42 @iamrgo @insomniac-astronomer
This time, walking up the long, curving driveway to Feyre and Rhysand's home, I was a little in awe.
It was different seeing it in daylight or rather, in the soft glow of dusk, where the house seemed to shimmer between modern and ethereal.
The first time I'd been here, everything had been a blur of shadows and sensation. I hadn't looked at the walls, or the art, or the way the windows reflected the stars.
I'd only been thinking of getting out.
But now, standing there properly, I realised "house" didn't quite fit. It was a mansion, but not the cold, empty kind that screamed money and loneliness.
No, this place was warm, alive, built with intention. Light spilt from tall windows, soft music floated faintly from somewhere inside, and the scent of something rich and garlicky drifted through the air.
Clearly, they had money. And taste. And a knack for making everything look effortless.
The car they'd sent had been sleek and silent, the kind that made my stomach twist with nerves the whole ride. I'd spent the drive trying not to overthink, fidgeting with the hem of my dress, reminding myself I could leave any time I wanted.
I had barely lifted my hand to knock when the door swung open.
"Hi," Feyre said, beaming.
She looked radiant, hair loose around her shoulders, a soft white jumper that made her look even more striking. Her smile was disarming, bright enough to thaw some of the nerves coiled tight in my chest.
And then Rhysand appeared behind her.
He leaned casually in the doorway, sleeves rolled up, a kitchen towel slung over one shoulder, smelling faintly of spice and something smoky. His hair was a little mussed, like he'd run a hand through it one too many times, and there was a smudge of flour near his wrist.
There was warmth to it, the scene, the two of them. They were clearly in their element together.
Feyre with her easy laughter, Rhys with that calm, unshakable confidence.
The air between them hummed with a familiarity that was hard to define, something that felt deep and steady and unspoken.
And I... I felt like an intruder.
For a second, standing there on their doorstep, I wondered what on earth I was doing. I didn't belong in this picture-perfect domesticity, the artist and the businessman, the golden light and the smell of dinner cooking.
I was just someone who'd stumbled into their orbit by accident.
"Come in," Feyre said, reaching for my hand without hesitation, her touch light but grounding. "We were just finishing up dinner. Rhys insists he's a better cook than I am, so I'm letting him prove it."
Rhysand's mouth curved into a grin. "I am the better cook," he said mildly, stepping aside so I could pass. "But she's the better liar, so we balance out."
They laughed together, the sound easy and familiar, like this was routine for them, like they'd been doing this for centuries.
I stepped over the threshold, and the warmth of the house wrapped around me instantly.
Soft light glowed from candles on the mantle, paintings and sketches lined the walls in gentle frames, and somewhere deeper in the house, faint music played, a mellow tune that seemed to slow the heartbeat of the world.
"Wow," I murmured before I could stop myself. "This place is... incredible."
Feyre squeezed my hand gently before letting go. "Thank you. It's still a work in progress. I keep repainting the same room every few months."
"She can't help herself," Rhysand said from the kitchen, rolling his sleeves up a little higher as he stirred something on the stove. "Every time I think I know what colour the walls are, she changes her mind."
Feyre shot him a look that made him laugh quietly.
Rhysand's laughter melted into the sound of something sizzling in the pan, garlic, butter, and herbs hitting heat. The scent filled the kitchen, rich and intoxicating.
Feyre moved around him effortlessly, reaching past to grab plates, opening drawers without looking.
I hovered near the kitchen island, suddenly unsure where to put my hands.
"Can I help?" I asked, more to fill the silence than anything.
Rhys glanced over his shoulder. "You can sit and look pretty," he said with a smirk.
Feyre swatted him with the kitchen towel. "Ignore him. He likes to think he's charming."
"I am charming," he said mildly, tasting something from the pan and humming in approval.
I rolled my eyes but couldn't help smiling.
The domesticity of it was disarming, their laughter, their rhythm, their shared warmth. And me, standing there in the middle of it, like a guest star in someone else's life. I wasn't used to this kind of ease, this effortless intimacy that filled every corner of their home.
I needed something to do with my hands. Something familiar.
"Alright," I said, stepping around the island and opening a cabinet before either of them could stop me. "If you're cooking, I'm making drinks. Seems only fair."
Feyre raised a brow, intrigued. "Oh?"
"Bartender, remember?" I shot her a grin. "It's muscle memory at this point."
Rhys leaned back against the counter, arms folded, watching me with amused curiosity. "Surprise us then."
So I did.
I found their liquor, they had a fully stocked bar cart, because of course they did and started working on instinct. The familiar rhythm of pouring, shaking, tasting settled my nerves.
Feyre's laughter mingled with the clink of ice, Rhys's low hum as he turned down the stove.
When I slid two glasses across the counter, the pale amber liquid catching the light, Rhys raised his in a small toast.
"To unexpected company," he said.
I clinked mine against his. "To good food," I offered.
"And better drinks," Feyre added, tasting hers with a soft hum of approval.
The warmth that had started in my chest spread a little further, loosening the edges of my nerves.
For a while, conversation flowed easily, music and travel and bad bar stories.
Feyre asked questions with that curious, painter's gaze, and Rhys listened the way people rarely did, like every word might mean something more.
At some point, I asked, "So... how did you two meet?"
Feyre glanced at Rhys, and that shared look between them was answer enough before either even spoke. Something passed in that silence, something comfortable and whole.
She smiled first. "Art gallery," she said. "He pretended to know what he was talking about."
"I did know," Rhys protested, voice rich with laughter. "I was just... distracted."
Feyre's smile softened, eyes flicking to him. "You were terrible. You called a sculpture a painting."
"And yet, you still gave me your number."
"I felt sorry for you."
They laughed together, the kind of laughter that came from years of private jokes and soft mornings. The kind that built its own gravity.
I laughed too, but it felt quieter somehow. Like I was intruding on something sacred. Watching them was like standing at the edge of a window and catching a glimpse of a life that was already full.
A life that didn't need me in it.
They were so in love, that much was undeniable. It was in every glance, every unfinished sentence the other seemed to understand.
It wasn't performative. It was organic, easy, like they'd been built from the same kind of light.
And me? I was suddenly, painfully aware of how temporary I was. I smiled again, masking the ache behind it, and lifted my glass to my lips.
Feyre turned her attention back to me, eyes bright. "What about you? Any great love stories?"
I huffed a small laugh. "Mostly cautionary tales."
That made her laugh, soft and real and the air between us lightened again, just enough to breathe.
Beneath it all, the air buzzed faintly.
The way Feyre's hand brushed mine when she reached for her drink. The way Rhys's eyes lingered a little too long when he laughed.
It wasn't overt. Just... charged. Like static waiting for the right touch to spark.
Dinner was simple but perfect, pasta in a rich, buttery sauce with roasted tomatoes and herbs. Feyre set the table with plates and linen napkins, and somehow, it all felt deliberate. Intimate.
At one point, Rhys refilled my glass, his fingers brushing mine, and my breath caught before I could stop it. Feyre noticed, of course she did and smiled faintly, like she knew exactly what was running through my head.
"So," she said lightly, twirling her fork. "Still thinking of this as a one-time thing?"
The question hit harder than it should have.
I laughed softly, staring into my wine. "I don't know what I'm thinking. But I'm not... I'm not looking for anything serious."
Rhys's gaze softened, but he didn't look away. "Neither are we," he said smoothly, voice low enough that it felt private, meant only for me.
Feyre nodded in agreement. "No expectations," she said, her tone easy, her smile gentle. "We just wanted to see you again. That's all."
It should have reassured me. It didn't.
Something in the way she said it, too soft, too careful felt like a half-truth. Like she wanted to make it sound simple when it wasn't.
And Rhys, for all his easy charm, didn't quite hide the flicker of something else behind his eyes. Desire, yes, but something deeper too. Something that made my pulse quicken for reasons I couldn't name.
I took another sip of my drink to mask the silence that followed, pretending I didn't feel the way their gazes lingered.
Feyre smiled then, as if deciding to break the spell. "Well," she said lightly, "at least promise you'll stay for dessert."
I smiled back, even as my heart beat a little too fast. "Dessert sounds nice," I said.
And it did. Maybe a little too nice.
Rhysand's POV -
Dinner had gone better than I could've imagined.
She was relaxed now, looser around the edges, her laughter spilling freely between sips of wine. It was an easy sound, unguarded, the kind that filled the space between words and made everything else fade to background noise.
Feyre sat across from her, chin propped on her hand, watching her with that soft, painter's gaze she used when she found something—someone worth studying.
Every small motion of her face, every flicker of emotion that crossed her eyes, Feyre drank it in like colour and light.
The room was warm. Candlelight reflected off the glasses, catching in Feyre's hair, glinting against the delicate chain at her throat.
The scent of sugar and spice hung in the air, the last of dinner replaced by dessert, something chocolate, rich and glossy, that Feyre had insisted on plating herself.
I watched as she dipped her spoon into the dish and turned it toward her. "Try it," Feyre murmured, her voice a low coax, soft but full of command.
She laughed, half shy, half teasing and leaned forward. Feyre fed her the bite with deliberate slowness, eyes never leaving hers. The spoon lingered a heartbeat too long at her lips.
The sound that left her, a quiet hum of approval wasn't meant to be indecent. But it still curled heat low in my stomach.
Feyre's smile deepened. "Good?"
She nodded, eyes bright, and I could've sworn the air shifted, thicker somehow, charged.
I reached for my wine, more to steady myself than anything, watching them through the rim of my glass.
This, this was what perfection looked like. The kind that made your chest ache, not because it was flawless, but because it felt real. Tangible.
The three of us framed by candlelight and laughter, a night suspended in amber.
For a moment, I didn't think about rules or intentions or the fragile balance we were all pretending to keep. I just thought about how right it felt.
I wanted them both in my life. In whatever form they'd allow. And I'd make it happen, no matter how long it took.
Eventually, we drifted from the table to the couch, wine glasses in hand, the remains of dessert abandoned. The music played softly from the next room, a steady rhythm beneath our conversation.
Feyre curled up barefoot beside me, legs tucked under her, and she sat close enough that her knee brushed mine when she laughed.
I'd undone a few buttons on my shirt without realising it, the heat from the kitchen, the wine, and the company made everything feel hazy and slow.
Feyre was half-tipsy, cheeks flushed, eyes sharp as ever.
Our guest, she was beautiful like this. Loose hair, soft smile, eyes glimmering with equal parts curiosity and restraint.
The conversation wandered from travel, to art, to things that didn't matter but somehow felt important because of who was saying them.
The more she talked, the more the tension shifted, no longer uncertain but inevitable.
There was a lull then. Feyre leaned her head against the back of the couch, tracing idle patterns on her glass. I studied the woman across from me, the flicker in her gaze, the way her mouth curved even when she was trying to be serious.
"You really don't want anything serious?" I asked quietly.
Her eyes flicked to me, amused but cautious. "Serious gets messy."
Before I could respond, Feyre stirred beside me. "Messy can be beautiful," she said softly, her voice honeyed, almost dreamlike.
For a heartbeat, everything stilled.
The words hung there, heavy with meaning neither of them dared unpack. I saw the faint tremor of uncertainty in her like she'd felt something she didn't want to acknowledge.
So she did what people do when things cut too close. She changed the subject.
"So," she said lightly, turning her attention to Feyre, "how long have you been painting?"
And just like that, the spell eased but didn't break.
Feyre smiled, launching into a story about paint-stained floors and ruined clothes. I listened, but my attention lingered on the way her laughter faltered every now and then, the way her fingers traced the rim of her glass instead of drinking.
She thought she was keeping her distance. She didn't realise how close she already was.
And I—I had no intention of letting her slip away again.
The evening wound down slowly, like the world itself was reluctant to end it.
I could see it, the shift. The moment the comfort turned into something else. The kind of stillness that comes before goodbye.
She looked at the clock, then at her phone, and sighed. "I should probably go," she murmured, voice low enough that it barely rose above the music.
Feyre sat up, blinking herself out of a daze. "Already?"
"Yeah." A small smile. "It's late."
Feyre's disappointment was subtle, a flicker across her face, gone as quickly as it came. "You sure you don't want to stay for one more drink?"
Her hesitation was telling. A heartbeat too long before she said, "Better not."
I didn't press. Neither did Feyre.
Instead, I rose, collecting my own glass and setting it on the counter before offering a hand. "I'll walk you out."
She hesitated again, as though debating whether to refuse, then placed her hand in mine. Her palm was warm, her grip tentative.
The walk to the door was quiet. The only sounds were the faint music and the whisper of our footsteps against the hardwood floors. From the kitchen, I could hear Feyre humming softly, something tuneless, content.
When we reached the doorway, she turned to face me.
"Thank you," she said. Her voice was soft, but there was something unsteady beneath it. "For dinner. For... all of it."
"You don't need to thank me," I said. "We're the ones who should be thanking you for coming."
Her smile was small, real. "Still. It was... nice."
The word nice felt like an injustice. Nothing about tonight had been merely nice. But I didn't say that.
I opened the door for her, the cool night air spilling into the warmth of the house. She stepped through, turning to glance back once. The porch light caught in her hair, gilding it in gold.
I could've said something then. Anything. But instead, I just nodded, polite and still.
"Goodnight," I said.
Her eyes flicked up to meet mine, steady, unreadable and then she smiled. "Goodnight, Rhys."
Her name lingered in my head even after she stepped off the porch.
From the kitchen, Feyre called out, voice lilting with casual affection, "Text us when you're home?"
"Yeah," she said over her shoulder, her tone soft, a little rushed. "I will."
She didn't look back again.
I stood there a moment longer, watching her disappear down the path toward the waiting car. The night air was sharp, the moon hanging pale above the trees.
When the taillights finally vanished, I closed the door quietly and leaned against it, the echo of her laughter still faint in the walls.
Feyre appeared a moment later, barefoot, holding her half-finished glass of wine. She tilted her head, studying me. "She won't text."
I exhaled through a quiet laugh. "No. She won't."
Feyre's lips curved, knowing. "Then I guess we'll have to find her first."
Her tone was light, but the spark in her eyes wasn't. And I knew she was right.
Because for all her running, all her careful distance, that woman had already carved her way into the quiet spaces between us.
And neither of us had any intention of letting her stay gone for long.
A/n - Second date she is feeling a little off (valid) Feyre and Rhys are already in their cozy little rhythm, and she's just out here like, "So I'll just stand awkwardly by the charcuterie board then?"
In Rhysand's POV, he's basically like, "This is it. Don't mess it up." and then immediately proceeds to spook her with the "one-time thing?" question because, of course he does x
Everyone's a little bit in denial and pretending they're fine which means things are definitely not fine (but in the best, most deliciously tense way!!)
Thank you for reading <33
Unexpected tag list - @sophieliz @azrielblue @whump-loverz @allthetroubleiveseen @galacticoceans @lilah-asteria @niiickelodeon @justtryingtosurvive02 @rosie-posie08 @mis-lil-red @cardiganconfessions @hyruledemigod20 @dnfhascorruptedme @hfeee-42 @iamrgo @insomniac-astronomer
someone told me / there's no such thing as bad thoughts / only your actions talk | joe burrow⁹ (part 3/4)
free palestine carrd 🇵🇸 decolonize palestine site 🇵🇸 how you can help palestine | FREE PALESTINE!
MASTERLIST | PART ONE | PART TWO
ᝰ 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 | 11k
ᝰ 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 | the next morning saw her return to miles's desperate apologies and attempts at reconciliation. for weeks, miles tried to win her back with performative gestures, while joe remained a silent presence in her memory. her birthday arrived, a stark reminder of the disconnect in her relationship with miles, culminating in a disappointing night out. now, she's left navigating the familiar ache of her relationship with miles, the memory of joe's quiet solace lingering, and the unspoken questions of what could have been hanging heavy in the air.
ᝰ 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 | mentions of infidelity, emotional distress, unhealthy relationship dynamics, gaslighting (implied), alcohol consumption, potential for codependency, internal conflict, feelings of isolation.
ᝰ 𝒆𝒗'𝒔 𝒏𝒐𝒕𝒆𝒔 | yaya! it's finally out after 2 months LMAOO, but this one may be a bit heavier so be warned!!! anyways, hope y'all enjoy!
The warmth of Joe’s house envelops you the second you step inside, a stark contrast to the cold night air clinging to your skin. It smells like him—like fresh laundry, a faint trace of cologne, and something warm and familiar, like home. You hadn’t realized how badly you needed that warmth until now.
Joe doesn’t say much as he locks the door behind you, just glances at you out of the corner of his eye before motioning for you to follow him into the kitchen. The house is dimly lit, shadows stretching across the walls from the soft glow under the cabinets. It’s quiet, save for the low hum of the fridge and the occasional creak of the floor beneath your feet.
He moves with purpose, barefoot on the tile going straight for the cabinets like he’s done this a thousand times before.
“I’m making you some hot cocoa,” he says, his voice softer than usual. Not pitiful. Not patronizing. Just… gentle. Like he knows you’re barely holding yourself together and doesn’t want to push.
You blink at him. “Hot cocoa?”
Joe glances over his shoulder, catching the confusion on your face. “Yeah.” He pulls down a container of cocoa powder and sets it on the counter with a quiet thud. “It’s medicine for anything.”
A ghost of a smile tugs at his lips, but you can tell it’s mostly for your sake. He’s watching you closely, probably trying to gauge just how bad it is, how deep the damage runs.
You lower yourself onto one of the stools by the island, arms wrapping around yourself. Your body still feels like it’s vibrating with the remnants of adrenaline, your heart lodged somewhere between your ribs.
Joe moves around the kitchen like it’s second nature, grabbing a saucepan, filling it with milk, setting it on the stove. His hands are steady, controlled, like he’s done this a million times. You watch the muscles in his back shift beneath his hoodie as he reaches for a whisk.
“My mom used to say that,” he says suddenly, voice even, but there’s something in the way he says mom—soft, almost reverent. “Whenever I was sick, or upset, or just having a bad day—she’d make hot cocoa. Said it could fix anything.”
Your fingers tighten around the fabric of your sleeves.
Joe doesn’t talk about his family much. You know bits and pieces, things you’ve picked up over time, but he never really shares like this.
Something about that makes your throat tighten.
“Did it work?” you ask, voice quieter than you mean for it to be.
Joe glances at you as he stirs the milk, a small smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “What, the cocoa?”
You nod.
His smirk fades into something softer. “Yeah,” he admits, eyes flickering back to the pot. “It always helped.”
You don’t know what to say to that, so you just watch as he adds cocoa powder, sugar, a pinch of salt. He doesn’t use a mix. He makes it from scratch, and for some reason, that makes your chest ache.
Like this is something real. Something safe.
Joe doesn’t rush. He takes his time, whisking carefully, watching the milk thicken into something rich and dark. He’s doing this for you, you realize—not because he particularly needs hot cocoa at two in the morning, but because he’s trying to distract you. Trying to ease whatever storm is raging inside you without prying.
And for the first time since you walked out of that house, since you left Miles standing there with rage in his eyes and another woman’s perfume clinging to his skin—you feel like you can breathe.
Joe moves with the kind of quiet confidence that makes it feel like he’s done this a million times—like it’s second nature for him to take care of people, even if he doesn’t always show it. You watch as he pours the cocoa into two mismatched mugs, one of them a little chipped at the rim. He doesn’t use any fancy toppings, just a careful swirl of the spoon before he sets the mug in front of you.
“Drink,” he says, nudging it toward you. His voice is still low, calm—like he’s handling something fragile. Like you are fragile.
You wrap your hands around the ceramic, letting the warmth seep into your skin. Your fingers are still cold from gripping the steering wheel so hard, and you only realize now that they’re trembling. Joe doesn’t say anything about it. He just leans against the counter, sipping from his own mug, watching you over the rim.
The first sip is rich and smooth, the perfect balance of bitter and sweet. It spreads warmth down your throat, settling deep in your chest.
Joe raises an eyebrow at you. “Told you. Medicine.”
You exhale a quiet laugh, but it barely reaches your eyes. “Guess your mom knew what she was talking about.”
“She always did,” he says, his lips twitching slightly, but there’s something distant in his expression, like he’s somewhere else for a second.
You let the silence stretch between you, thick but not uncomfortable. It’s the kind of silence that doesn’t demand to be filled, that lets you just be without expectation. The kind of silence you haven’t had in a long, long time.
Your eyes drift around the kitchen—homey in a way you didn’t expect. There are little signs of life scattered throughout: a pile of mail on the counter, a half-empty water bottle by the sink, a jacket slung over one of the chairs. It doesn’t feel like a place that’s trying too hard to be lived in. It just is.
You swallow hard and stare into your cocoa. “I don’t know why I came here,” you admit, voice barely above a whisper.
Joe tilts his head slightly, like he’s considering that. “Yeah, you do.”
You look up at him, throat tightening.
Joe doesn’t press. He doesn’t push you to say anything you’re not ready to. He just looks at you, steady and patient, like he’s giving you the space to figure it out for yourself.
You shake your head. “I feel pathetic.”
“You’re not.” His response is immediate, firm in a way that makes your chest ache.
You let out a breath, your grip tightening around the mug. “I don’t have anyone else,” you murmur.
Joe exhales sharply through his nose, setting his mug down with a quiet clink. His jaw tightens, his hands bracing against the counter like he’s keeping himself from saying something he shouldn’t.
Finally, he shakes his head. “You shouldn’t have to feel like that.”
There’s something heavy in his voice, something that makes your stomach twist.
You let out a bitter laugh. “Yeah, well. It is what it is.”
Joe frowns, like he wants to argue, but he doesn’t. Instead, he sighs, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “You can stay here tonight.”
You hesitate. “Joe, I don’t want to—”
“I want you to.” His eyes meet yours, steady and unwavering. “You shouldn’t be alone right now.”
You swallow past the lump in your throat. There’s no expectation in his gaze, no ulterior motive. Just quiet certainty, like he’s already made up his mind.
Something inside you unravels just a little.
“…Okay,” you whisper.
Joe doesn't even give you a chance to argue.
"You’re taking my room," he says, already moving toward the hallway, his tone leaving no room for debate.
"Joe—"
He turns back, arms crossed over his chest, eyebrows raised. "Look, I just got those new mattresses in. Supposed to be top-of-the-line or whatever. You’d be doing me a favor, testing it out." His mouth twitches like he’s trying not to smile.
You stare at him, unimpressed. "Did you really just use mattress quality as an excuse to kick me into your bed?"
His lips press together like he’s holding back a laugh. "Just go, alright?"
You exhale a breath that almost, almost sounds like a laugh. Maybe it’s exhaustion. Maybe it’s the absurdity of the situation. Maybe it’s just Joe, in the way he doesn’t make you feel like a burden, even when you know you are.
Still, you hesitate in the doorway, glancing toward the guest room. "Where are you gonna sleep?"
He shrugs. "I’ll take the guest room. It’s not a big deal."
"Joe—"
"You gonna argue with me all night or you gonna let me sleep?" He raises an eyebrow, and you realize he’s not going to budge.
Your shoulders sag, and with a quiet sigh, you step inside his room. "Fine."
He nods, satisfied, before disappearing down the hall.
The room smells like him—faint traces of cologne and something warmer, something distinctly Joe. The bed is neatly made, the nightstand bare except for a glass of water and an old book with a cracked spine. It’s… simple. Lived-in.
You sit on the edge of the bed, feeling the weight of everything settle in your bones. The moment you’re alone, it all presses down on you again—the fight, the screaming, the smell of perfume that wasn’t yours.
You press your hands into your lap, fingers curling against the fabric of Joe’s oversized hoodie that he must’ve thrown over the chair at some point. The silence is unbearable.
And before you can even think about it, your feet are moving.
Joe looks surprised when you appear in the doorway of the guest room. He’s standing next to the bed, pulling the blanket back, but he stops when he sees your face.
You hate how small your voice sounds when you say, "I don’t wanna be alone."
Joe exhales, the fight leaving his posture instantly. He watches you for a second, like he’s trying to figure out what to say. And then he just nods. "Alright."
You shift awkwardly in the doorway, arms crossed tightly over your chest. "I feel pathetic."
"You’re not," he says without hesitation, but you shake your head.
"Joe—"
"You're not," he repeats, quieter this time, but just as firm.
There’s a long beat of silence before he steps past you, heading back toward his room. "Come on," he says over his shoulder.
You don’t question it. You just follow.
Back in his room, he grabs an extra pillow and tosses it to the floor before settling down against the hardwood.
"You don’t have to—"
"Not a big deal," he says simply, folding his arms behind his head.
You hesitate. "Isn’t the couch more comfortable?"
"Probably." He shifts slightly, getting comfortable. "But if I go out there, you’re just gonna overthink and feel bad about it."
You hate that he’s right.
You crawl under the blanket, curling into yourself. The mattress is ridiculously comfortable, but it doesn’t do much to quiet your mind. The room is dark, save for the faint glow from the streetlights outside, and for a few minutes, neither of you speak.
But Joe must hear the way your breathing is still uneven, the way you’re still too tense.
So he starts talking.
And Joe isn’t a talker. Not like this. Not when he’s tired, when he’d probably rather just close his eyes and go to sleep. But he does it anyway.
He starts with something stupid—some half-remembered story about his rookie year, about how he tripped over his own feet in front of the entire team during practice and tried to play it off like it didn’t happen.
You let out a quiet, barely-there laugh, and it’s enough to keep him going.
So he talks about anything and everything—how he used to hate tomatoes as a kid, how he swears his mom makes the best apple pie in the world, how he used to be terrible at math.
Some of it makes you laugh. Some of it makes you hum in acknowledgment. But all of it keeps you from drowning in your own thoughts.
And that’s all he wants.
Eventually, your breathing evens out. You don’t say anything, but he hears the shift, the way your body finally relaxes.
He doesn’t stop talking just yet.
Not until he’s sure you’re asleep.
--
The morning air is sharp against your skin as you step outside, the sun barely cresting over the rooftops, casting everything in pale gold. The world feels too still, too quiet, like it’s waiting for you to do something, to make a choice. But you already have—because you shouldn’t be here.
You shouldn’t have stayed.
Joe is still asleep when you leave. You make sure of it.
His house is warm, still wrapped in the quiet hum of early morning, and for a moment, you linger in the doorway of his bedroom, watching the slow rise and fall of his chest. He looks peaceful, his face relaxed, his breathing steady. It makes you feel worse.
You shouldn’t have dragged him into this.
You swallow past the lump in your throat and force yourself to move.
Your footsteps are light as you make your way to the door, slipping into your shoes as quietly as possible. The keys to your car are cold in your palm. For a second, you hesitate. You could leave a note. Something small, something that says thank you or sorry or I shouldn’t have come, but what good would that do?
Joe would understand. He always understands. And that only makes you feel smaller.
So you leave without a sound.
The drive back home is suffocating.
Your hands grip the wheel tighter than necessary, your jaw locked, stomach twisting with every mile closer you get. It’s stupid. You shouldn’t feel this way. You shouldn’t be scared to go back to your own home.
But when you turn onto your street and see his car still sitting in the driveway, your stomach lurches.
He’s home.
You clench your teeth and tell yourself it doesn’t matter.
You tell yourself you don’t have a choice.
You tell yourself to suck it up.
Your fingers tremble when you turn off the engine, and your breath is uneven as you step out, walking up to the door like you're approaching something dangerous.
Inside, the air is thick, heavy, like the remnants of last night are still clinging to the walls.
And then you see him.
Miles is on the couch, elbows on his knees, hands laced together. His head snaps up the second the door clicks shut, and the sight of him knocks the breath from your lungs.
He looks wrecked.
His hair is a mess, his face pale and hollowed, dark circles smudged beneath his eyes. There’s a glass of water on the coffee table, untouched. His hands are shaking. His eyes—bloodshot, puffy—lock onto yours like you’re the only thing keeping him tethered to reality.
And then he’s moving.
Before you can react, before you can decide if you should step back, he’s on you, pulling you into his chest with a desperation that makes your ribs ache.
"Baby—" His voice cracks, his grip tightening as if he’s terrified you’ll disappear again. His entire body is trembling, and when he buries his face in your hair, you feel the wetness of his tears against your skin. "I love you. I love you so fucking much, I’m so sorry, I swear to God, I swear on everything, I’ll never—"
His words dissolve into a sob.
Your hands remain frozen at your sides, your entire body stiff in his embrace. He’s crushing you against him, squeezing you like he can force everything back to how it was before, like he can press your shattered pieces back together with his touch alone.
You should push him away. You should say something. But your mind is a haze of white noise, drowning in the sound of his ragged breaths, his desperate apologies.
He pulls back just enough to cup your face, his thumbs brushing over your cheekbones, over your lips like he’s trying to memorize them. His eyes search yours, frantic and pleading. "Please don’t leave me."
And then he says something—something that makes the air shift, something that sells it again.
Something that makes the cracks in your resolve split wide open, dragging you under.
And suddenly, you’re back.
Miles guides you through the house like you’re something fragile, something delicate. His hand is firm on your lower back, his fingers curling against the fabric of your shirt, as if he's scared you’ll slip through his grasp if he doesn’t hold on tight enough.
You should stop him.
You should tell him that you don’t want this, that you don’t want to just slip back into place like nothing happened, like last night wasn’t the final crack in something that’s already been broken beyond repair.
But you can’t.
You’re exhausted.
Bone-deep, soul-crushingly exhausted.
You feel it in every step you take, every breath that drags in and out of your lungs. Your body is heavy, weighed down by everything you don’t have the energy to carry anymore.
So you let him lead you.
He doesn’t speak as he brings you to the bedroom. He just moves with purpose, like he’s following a routine he’s gone through a thousand times before. When you step inside, everything is the same—the bed is still unmade from the morning before, one of your sweaters is draped over the chair in the corner, a book sits on your nightstand, marked at the page you never got to finish.
It feels like a time capsule.
Like the past twenty-four hours haven’t happened. Like last night never happened.
You don’t resist when Miles pulls the blankets back, gesturing for you to get in. His touch is gentle when he tugs at your sleeves, silently urging you to lie down. You do. Because it’s easier. Because you can’t fight anymore.
The mattress dips beside you as he kneels down, his hand smoothing over your hair, his fingertips ghosting across your temple. His eyes are still wet, rimmed with red, and there’s something raw in the way he looks at you—like he’s seeing you for the first time in a long time.
"Sleep, baby," he murmurs, his voice quiet, almost pleading. "I’ve got you. You’re home. Just sleep."
Your body obeys before your mind does, sinking into the mattress, muscles loosening as the weight of everything presses down on you. Your eyelids flutter, heavy with exhaustion, and as you start to drift, memories seep in—soft and golden, untouched by everything that’s happened since.
--
You remember the beginning.
The way he used to look at you like you hung the stars in the sky. The way he would always keep an arm wrapped around you in public, pulling you into his side like he was proud to have you.
You remember the first time he told you he loved you.
It was raining—pouring—the kind of rain that blurred city lights into watercolor streaks on the pavement. You were running, hands linked, breathless laughter escaping your lips as you darted into the nearest store for cover. It had been a little convenience store, nothing special, but it had smelled like cinnamon and coffee, and the cashier had barely spared you both a glance as you tried to shake the rain from your clothes.
You had been shivering, arms wrapped around yourself, your hair dripping onto your shoulders. And then Miles had taken off his hoodie and pulled it over your head, fussing over you like you’d catch pneumonia if he didn’t.
"You’re gonna get sick," he had muttered, tugging the hood up for good measure.
And then, so casually, so naturally, like it was the easiest thing in the world, he had said it.
"I love you, you know."
You had frozen, staring at him through damp lashes, heart pounding so loud you swore he could hear it.
Miles had just smiled, like he wasn’t even scared of what you might say back, like he was sure about you. "I do. I love you."
You remember how safe that moment felt.
How sure you had felt.
The memory shifts.
A different moment, a different version of him.
You remember movie nights. The way he always let you pick the film, even if he had no interest in it, even if it was something he would rather not watch. You remember curling up against him on the couch, his arm around your shoulders, the steady rise and fall of his chest beneath your cheek.
You remember the little things.
The way he used to send you good morning texts every day without fail. The way he’d bring you coffee exactly the way you liked it, just because. The way he’d pull you onto his lap when you were stressed, rubbing slow circles into your back, pressing soft kisses against your hairline until your breathing evened out.
You remember the way he used to be.
The way you used to be.
And it hurts.
God, it hurts.
Because you miss it. Because part of you still aches for that version of him.
For the version of you that loved him without hesitation. Without fear.
But the thing about memories is that they aren’t real. They’re echoes. Shadows. Things that used to exist but don’t anymore.
And yet, as sleep finally drags you under, you find yourself clinging to them anyway.
--
For the next two weeks, Miles does everything right.
He wakes up early to make you breakfast, even though he was never a morning person before. He leaves little notes for you on the fridge, things like "Hope you have a good day, baby," or "Miss you already." When he's home, he makes a point to sit next to you, to touch you—his hand on your knee, his fingers brushing your wrist, his arm draped over your shoulders like it’s second nature.
He kisses you more.
Long, lingering kisses before he heads out to practice, soft pecks on your forehead when he comes back, murmured "I love yous" in between. It should feel good. It should make you feel wanted.
But it all feels performative.
Like he’s reading from a script.
Like he’s trying to convince you that things are different now, that he’s different, that the way he broke you down piece by piece never actually happened. And maybe he even believes it. Maybe, in his head, this is redemption.
But you feel the disconnect.
You feel it in the way he never actually acknowledges what happened. The way he sweeps it all under the rug, like if he just loves you enough now, he won’t have to answer for the past. He won’t have to sit with it.
And maybe you’re guilty of the same thing.
Because you let it happen. You let him kiss you, you let him hold you, you let him say all the right things. And some nights, you let yourself believe it. You let yourself close your eyes and pretend that it’s real. That the past few months were just a bad dream, and this—this—is how it’s supposed to be.
But then reality sets in. And the reality is that you’re not sure if you even recognize him anymore.
And Miles is happy.
Not just with you—with everything. The Bengals are having their best season in years. They’re winning games, their chemistry is clicking, and every sports analyst is saying the same thing: they have a real shot at the playoffs this year.
And Miles is thriving in it.
Football has always been his world. His purpose. It’s where he shines the brightest, where he feels the most himself. And when they win, when the entire stadium erupts into cheers, when his name is flashing across the big screen—he’s invincible. Untouchable.
And you’re watching it happen in real-time.
You see how his mood is tied to the team’s success. After a win, he’s on top of the world. He’s all smiles, buzzing with energy, high off the adrenaline of it all. He comes home with that glow, and he kisses you like he’s weightless, like he has everything he’s ever wanted.
But when he loses—if he loses—he’s a different man.
His words are short. His temper is sharp.
He never takes it out on you, not physically, but you feel it. The way he pulls away. The way his patience runs thin. The way you suddenly don’t exist when he’s pissed off, when he’s lost in his own head.
You know where you stand.
When things are good, you are good. When things are bad, you don’t matter.
You realize what would happen if you did leave him. And the idea terrifies you.
Not because you don’t think you could survive without him—of course you could. You’ve done hard things before. You’ve been on your own before. But because the thought of stepping into a life without him, without the rhythm and routine of him, feels like stepping into nothingness.
With Miles, at least you know what to expect.
You know how the mornings will go—he’ll hit snooze at least twice before finally rolling out of bed, rubbing his hands over his face as he mumbles something about hating life until he’s had his coffee. You know that if he has an off day, he’ll spend it on the couch, watching game tape with a notebook in his lap, barely looking up when you pass by. You know that he needs his routines, that he gets grumpy when things don’t go exactly the way he planned.
You know that when he’s happy, when the season is good and his stats are better, he’ll be the man you fell in love with. The one who kisses you just because, who plays with your fingers when he’s lying next to you, who talks about the future like it’s something bright and promising, something meant for both of you.
And you know that when things are bad—when he loses, when the pressure gets to him, when the weight of being Miles fucking Johnson feels too heavy—he’ll pull away. He’ll get sharp around the edges. He’ll make you feel like you’re grasping at nothing, like the man you love is there, but just barely, like he’s slipping through your fingers no matter how hard you hold on.
But at least you know.
At least it’s predictable. At least it’s something.
Because what happens when you leave? Where do you go?
Do you pack a bag and find a new apartment, a new city, a new life? Do you wake up one day in a bed that isn’t yours, in a space that doesn’t feel like home, wondering if you made the biggest mistake of your life?
Do you regret it?
Do you sit in the quiet, in the loneliness, and realize that even with all the bad, at least with Miles, you were something to someone? At least with him, there was always someone waiting for you at the end of the day, even if they didn’t always see you.
And then there’s the fear—the real fear.
That maybe you’re not as strong as you think.
That maybe the reason you keep going back isn’t just because you love him, but because you don’t know how to function without him.
Because who are you if you’re not his?
Who are you if you’re not the one he comes home to, if you’re not the one in the stands, if you’re not the person he’s always tethered to, even when he hurts you?
That kind of love—it becomes you. It weaves itself into your identity, wraps itself around your heart so tightly that even if you wanted to pull away, it would take pieces of you with it.
And maybe you’re scared you won’t survive that.
Maybe you’re scared that if you leave, you’ll be left standing in the wreckage of it all, trying to put yourself back together, only to realize you don’t even know where to start.
So you stay.
Because it’s easier. Because it’s safer.
Because being with him—even when it hurts—feels less terrifying than being without him.
And maybe that’s the real problem.
--
Joe hasn’t reached out.
Not once. Not since that night.
Not since he opened his front door at two in the morning and saw you standing there, drenched in moonlight and heartbreak, looking like you had nowhere else to go.
Not since you left before he even got the chance to say goodbye.
He should have called you. He should have at least checked in. But he didn’t.
Ja’Marr told him not to. Told him it wasn’t a good idea, that it would only make things worse, that you needed to figure it out on your own. That if Joe pushed, if he inserted himself where he didn’t belong, it wouldn’t help you—it would only complicate things even more.
And Joe hates that Ja’Marr was right.
But he still resents it.
He resents Miles more.
Every time he sees him on the field, every time he watches him celebrate another win like his life is perfect, Joe’s hands clench into fists. He thinks about you. He thinks about the way you showed up at his house that night, the way your voice shook when you asked if you could come inside.
And now, you’re back with him.
Like it never happened. Like Joe imagined the whole thing. And it makes him wonder—did he?
Did he just see what he wanted to see? Did he misread everything? Was he just projecting his own feelings onto you, searching for something that was never actually there?
Or are you just too far gone to see it yourself?
He doesn’t know. And that might be the worst part.
--
Miles told you he had something planned for your birthday three days in advance, which already felt like a red flag. Not because you wanted anything extravagant—you didn’t. You just wanted to feel thought of. Considered. Seen.
You had hinted a few times, gently, the way someone tests the temperature of water before stepping in. A casual mention of that new Italian place that opened downtown, the one with the wine bar and soft lighting. You brought it up once while scrolling your phone beside him on the couch. You even sent him the link the next day, just in case he didn’t catch it the first time.
He left you on read.
When he finally told you he had a surprise planned, your stomach sank in a way you didn’t fully understand until later. You knew what his surprises usually entailed—something loud, public, performative. Something that had nothing to do with you.
Still, you smiled and nodded and told him you couldn’t wait.
The night of your birthday, you took your time getting ready. Not because you were excited, but because you were delaying. You slipped into a black dress that made you feel like yourself—simple, flattering, elegant. Something with sleeves, because the February air was still sharp. You did your makeup with care, even though a quiet part of you wondered if it was worth the effort.
When you walked into the living room, Miles didn’t even look up from his phone.
“You ready?” he asked, keys already in hand, like he’d been waiting on you.
You blinked. “Yeah. Where are we going?”
He smirked. “It’s a surprise.”
You followed him out the door, biting back the instinct to ask if you needed a reservation. You already knew the answer.
When he pulled up to the bar, you didn’t even recognize the place at first. It was tucked between a pawn shop and a gas station, with flickering neon signs in the window and a chalkboard outside that read: “Karaoke Night!!! $2 shots!!!”
Your stomach dropped.
Miles parked, grinning like he’d just brought you to the Eiffel Tower. “Figured this would be fun. Laid back. Chill, y’know? Everybody's gonna be there.”
You hesitated. “Everybody?”
“Yeah, Tee and Ja’Marr said they’re pulling up. DJ might come too.”
You stared at the building. You didn’t like this place. You didn’t like the sticky floors or the blaring speakers or the way the bathrooms never had soap. You didn’t like how you always had to shout to be heard, how the girls at the bar always looked you up and down like you were wearing the wrong thing. It wasn’t a birthday spot. Not for you.
But Miles looked proud. Pleased with himself. Like he genuinely thought he did something special.
So you swallowed it down. Again.
Inside, the bar was already full. Loud music throbbed through the walls, and the smell of tequila and beer clung to the air like a second skin. A few heads turned when you walked in—probably because of the dress—but no one said anything.
Miles ordered a round of shots for the table without asking you what you wanted. He handed you one with a wink, already on his second before you could even lift it.
“To my future wife,” he said, loudly enough that people turned. “The realest one in the room!”
You gave him a hollow smile and threw back the liquor. It burned. Everything burned.
An hour passed. Then another. You sat in the corner booth as the guys talked football and girls flirted near the bar. Miles barely looked your way unless it was to slide his hand around your waist or kiss your cheek when people were watching. You felt like a prop. A doll. Something he posed beside to make himself look better.
Someone passed you a microphone at one point, encouraging you to sing. You laughed it off, shaking your head. You didn’t want to perform. Not tonight. Not like that.
“Aw, come on,” Miles said, draping an arm over your shoulder. “Don’t be shy.”
You forced another smile. “I’m good.”
He shrugged, already distracted by his phone.
The cake never came. There was no toast, no candles, no “Happy Birthday” song. At some point, someone bought a cupcake from the bar and stuck a cocktail straw in it. You took a picture with it to be polite, but you didn’t post it. You didn’t want to remember this night.
At the two-hour mark, your head started to ache. The lights were too bright, the music too loud, and every laugh from across the bar made your nerves flinch. You were tired. Not just physically—but emotionally. Spiritually. Soul-tired.
You glanced at Miles, who was laughing with Ja’Marr about something, a drink in hand, his attention miles away from you. The ring on your finger suddenly felt heavier than usual.
And all you could think was: this is it. This is what it always is.
You’d given him so many chances. So many quiet pleas for softness. For attention that wasn’t for show. For love that wasn’t filtered through his ego.
But here you were again. At a bar you hated. In a dress you picked for a night he didn’t plan for you. Watching your own birthday play out like someone else’s life.
The next time he turned to you, you didn’t smile.
You just looked at him.
And he looked back, confused, like he couldn’t quite understand what you were trying to say.
Because you hadn’t said anything. But you knew he heard it anyway.
The bar had already numbed you by the time Joe walked in.
You were sitting at the edge of the booth, half-listening to Ja’Marr talk about a new car he was thinking of getting, your elbow propped against the sticky table, head resting on your hand. Your drink—something too sweet with barely any bite—had gone watery in front of you. Miles was off laughing near the pool table again, talking loud enough to dominate whatever conversation he was in. You were pretending not to notice.
The room smelled like beer and cheap cologne and sweat. Your makeup felt heavy now. You weren’t even sure what time it was anymore—just that it was still your birthday and you wanted it to be over.
And then—
The door opened. Cold air spilled in from the outside. You heard it first, the creak of it swinging, the hush of a few heads turning. But you didn’t look up until you felt it. That shift.
That quiet tension in your chest—like a string pulling taut beneath your ribs.
Joe.
He was wearing a black hoodie, sleeves pushed to his elbows, and a pair of jeans that weren’t trying to be anything. No fanfare. No announcement. But his presence still bent the room somehow. People noticed him. Not because he wanted them to, but because he just had that gravity.
And when his eyes found yours?
It was like the rest of the bar faded out for a second.
You sat up straighter without even realizing it, brushing your hair behind your ear like it would make any difference, like the last few hours hadn’t already melted your mascara at the corners. You blinked, and for the first time all night—maybe the first time in weeks—you smiled without forcing it.
Not wide. Not loud.
Just that quiet, blooming kind of smile that starts in the eyes.
Joe walked over without hesitating. He didn’t wave from across the bar like everyone else did. He came straight to you. That part of you he always saw. The real you. The tired, aching, soft-lipped version that didn’t have to perform.
“Hey,” he said, voice low. Rough from the cold maybe, or from not saying much at all before now.
“Hey,” you breathed.
And Miles saw it.
From the corner of your eye, you could see him watching. Jaw tight. Beer in hand. The way his brow lifted in that passive-aggressive kind of way, like he was pretending not to care—but he always cared. Especially when it came to Joe.
But Joe didn’t even look at him. He just reached into the inside pocket of his coat and handed you a small, wrapped box. Clean paper. Neat folds. Tied with black twine. Simple but thoughtful. So unlike the world you’d been living in.
You blinked down at it, your fingers brushing his as you took it.
“You didn’t have to…”
“I wanted to.”
You stared at the wrapping for a second too long before untying it gently, carefully peeling the paper back like it might matter. Inside was a hardcover copy of a book you’d once talked about—offhandedly—months ago. One you said you always meant to read, but never got around to.
You felt your throat tighten.
Your fingers ghosted over the cover like it was glass. You didn’t speak. You couldn’t.
Joe just shrugged. “Saw it in a shop. Thought of you.”
You wanted to cry. Not because of the book. Not even because of Joe. But because of the contrast—how stark it felt. How the simplest thing could undo all the pretending you’d been doing for hours. For weeks. For months, maybe even years.
Miles was suddenly back beside you, sliding into the booth with a loud scoff. “You’re getting books for your birthday now?” he said, laughing like it was a joke. “You’re such a nerd.”
You laughed too. Or at least made the sound. But your hand stayed on the book, and you didn’t let go of it.
After that, the night shifted.
It didn’t fix itself—it never did. But something in the air changed. Miles tried harder. Put his arm around you more, ordered another round of drinks, made a toast you didn’t ask for. You went along with it. You always did.
But you kept catching Joe’s eyes across the room. When you tilted your glass back. When you danced a little in place. When you let yourself laugh—not the hollow kind, but the real kind that cracked through once you had enough liquor in your blood to stop caring.
He smiled at you once.
It wasn’t romantic. It wasn’t heavy with expectation.
It just looked like he was happy to see you happy—even if only for a moment.
By the end of the night, your heels were in your hand and your cheeks were flushed and the jukebox was playing something familiar and loud and stupid. The kind of song you scream through, not sing.
You turned to Miles, tugging on his sleeve with a grin. “Come do karaoke with me.”
He barely looked up from his phone. “Nah,” he said, brushing you off. “I don’t do that shit.”
You paused. Still holding his arm. Still swaying a little from the tequila.
“But it’s my birthday.”
“Exactly,” he said, standing to talk to Ja’Marr instead. “Go do it.”
You blinked. Let go.
And then—quietly, from behind you—you heard, “I will.”
You turned.
Joe stood there, beer in hand, head tilted slightly. Tired eyes. Crooked smile.
“I’ll do karaoke with you.”
And you smiled. For real. Just you and him, and nothing else for that small second.
The karaoke machine was glitchy, half the lights on the board blown out and buzzing like a dying bug, but you didn’t care. The mic in your hand smelled faintly of beer and lipstick, and your voice shook as you stood beside Joe, who was reading the list of available songs like he was scanning a football playbook. His brows were furrowed, but his lips were curled—he was already smiling and didn’t even realize it.
You leaned into his side, tipsy and emboldened. “What if we do No Tears Left to Cry?”
He raised a brow. “Ariana?”
“You told me you saw her in concert once,” you reminded him, nudging him with your elbow. “Don’t think I forgot.”
His laugh broke through—soft and surprised, like he didn’t expect that memory to live in your head. But it did. He’d told you months ago during a boring party, confessing that Ja’Marr had dragged him to the show and that he actually ended up loving it. Said her live vocals were insane.
You remembered how his face had gone a little pink admitting it, like he was waiting for you to tease him. You didn’t. You told him it made you like him more.
And now, he looked at you, shaking his head slightly, defeated in the best way. “Alright,” he said. “But only if you promise to carry the high notes.”
You grabbed his wrist and pulled him up onto the little makeshift stage, giddy. The mic cords were tangled, the screen was cracked, and there were about thirty drunk people watching—but for some reason, it all felt like it mattered. Like this was a moment.
Miles was slouched at the back of the room, arms crossed, a bottle of something brown in front of him. He watched with a flat expression. Stone still. Ja’Marr leaned toward him to say something, but he didn’t react.
You didn’t notice.
Or—you did. But you didn’t care.
Because Joe was standing beside you with the mic in his hand, head bowed slightly as the opening notes started to play. You saw the way he tapped his foot off-beat, like he was trying to anticipate the rhythm. The track played low at first, and your voice took the lead. A little shaky. But you kept going.
And then—
Joe joined in.
He started quiet, a little hesitant. But with each word, he leaned into it more. His voice wasn’t perfect, but it was real, and it was loud. When the chorus hit, he threw his head back and let it rip.
“I’m pickin’ it up, pickin’ it up, lovin’, I’m livin’, I’m pickin’ it up—”
You screamed into your mic, doubling over laughing. “YOU SOUND SO GOOD.”
The whole bar burst into cheers. Someone banged their beer on the table in rhythm, and someone else stood on a chair. The place was alive with it. Alive with you two.
Joe danced—danced. Like, full-body, arms-in-the-air, didn’t-care-who-was-watching danced. You followed, twirling under his arm at one point, practically glowing. Your cheeks hurt from smiling. Your chest ached from laughing. You were singing into each other’s faces like kids on a sleepover. Like you weren’t pretending anymore.
When the song ended, people clapped. Not just polite claps—real applause. Whistling. Shouting. Even the bartender hit the little bell on the counter.
You looked at Joe and laughed breathlessly, hands on your knees. “You were amazing.”
His eyes were already on you.
And not in a teasing way. Not the way Miles usually looked at you after karaoke, like he was waiting for you to embarrass yourself so he could make it a joke later. No—Joe was looking at you like you’d just stepped into the sun.
Warm. Bright. Unreal.
The kind of look that made your breath hitch.
You didn’t even know what to say. You didn’t want to say anything, really. You wanted to live in that look. You wanted the world to stay small and golden like this. Just the two of you, tangled in warmth and laughter and bad pop music.
But of course—
“Might wanna tone it down,” came Miles’ voice, sliding between you like a blade wrapped in velvet. He didn’t yell. He didn’t even sound mad. Just loud enough to make sure you heard him. “You’re not single yet.”
You blinked.
The spell broke.
Joe stepped back almost instantly. His hand, which had hovered near your waist, dropped to his side. He cleared his throat. Smiled politely.
You didn’t move. You couldn’t.
The warmth still bloomed in your chest, but now it was twisting into something sharp. Embarrassment. Guilt. Rage. You weren’t even sure. You just knew you didn’t want to be here anymore.
“Relax,” you said, quieter than you meant to.
Miles only raised a brow. “I am relaxed.”
But the way he looked at you after—like you were property on loan—made your stomach twist. He didn’t say anything else. He didn’t have to. The message was clear. You were his. And any version of you that shone brighter when Joe was around? That was a problem.
Joe stepped down from the stage. Said thanks to someone who complimented his performance. He didn’t look back at you.
You stayed there, under the harsh bar lights, skin still flushed from adrenaline and liquor. The room felt too loud now. Too bright. You clutched the mic loosely in your hand, heart pounding like it didn’t know which direction to run.
And for a second, just a second, you realized something.
You had felt alive up there. With Joe.
And now? You just felt small again.
The air outside the bar is thick with humidity, clinging to your skin like a second, suffocating layer. Your heels clack unevenly on the sticky pavement as you trail a half-step behind Miles, trying to reason with him as you descend the back stairs toward the parking lot. Music and laughter still spill out from the cracked door behind you, a cruel contrast to the tension between you—stretched tight like a wire about to snap.
"This was supposed to be my night," you say, your voice still breathless from karaoke and liquor, but sharpening with frustration. "And I didn’t even get to choose it. You planned everything around what you like—"
“Oh my God, again with this?” Miles spins around, now walking backward, his eyes wide with anger. “You’re mad about a bar? You’re seriously starting shit over a venue?”
“No, I’m mad because you didn’t even ask! You never ask!” Your voice cracks, both from emotion and from the sting of bourbon still sitting in your throat. “You picked a place I hate, didn’t even let me talk about what I wanted—"
“Jesus Christ, I’m sorry I didn’t let you hold a candlelight vigil for your own birthday.”
You stop short.
That one slices deep. Too sharp. Too low. It lands right in the soft spot beneath your ribs, where all the things you’ve swallowed live.
Your mouth opens to respond—you’re not even sure what you were going to say—but you don’t get the chance.
“Hey!” Joe’s voice cuts through the night air like a cold wind, steady and sudden. He steps out of the bar behind you, bounding down the stairs two at a time, his eyes flicking between you and Miles as he instantly gauges the situation. “Chill the hell out, man. Don’t talk to her like that.”
Miles turns toward him, neck taut, cheeks flushed, lips curling into a sneer. “You think I give a shit what you think, Joey?”
Joe steps closer, calm but firm. “I think you should lower your voice.”
“I think you should mind your own fucking business.”
Joe doesn’t flinch, even as Miles squares his shoulders. “You’re making a scene.”
“Oh, I’m making a scene?” Miles barks out a bitter laugh, arms flung wide like a performer onstage. “You show up late, make her all gooey-eyed with your little gift and karaoke, and now you’re out here playing knight in fucking shining armor?”
“I’m out here because I care about her,” Joe says, voice still calm, but colder now. “Something you clearly forgot how to do.”
And that—that—is what snaps it.
Miles lunges forward. Just half a step, but it’s enough. Your body locks into panic mode. You react without thinking, stepping between them, your palms pressed hard against Miles’ chest, eyes wide.
“Stop it!” you cry out, breath catching. “Miles, stop. Yell at me. Not him—me. This is my fault, right? This is about me.”
But he doesn’t look at you.
“You think you’re better than me?” he growls, staring Joe down. “Is that what this is? You think because you’ve got a better stat sheet and a fucking GQ spread you’re more of a man?”
Joe shakes his head slowly, jaw tight. “This has nothing to do with that.”
“You’ve been sniffing around my girl like I don’t fucking see it. Like I haven’t seen it since last year.”
“I’m not your fucking girl,” you snap, but Miles is too far gone to hear it.
“You always wanted her, didn’t you?” he spits. “Back at camp, on those long-ass travel weekends? Is that when you started jerking off to the idea of her crying to you instead of me?”
Joe takes a step forward then—not with his fists, but with something sharper. His voice, low and steady, cuts cleaner than any punch could.
“Get out of my face.”
“Oh, you’d love that, wouldn’t you?” Miles shouts, jabbing a finger into Joe’s chest. “You’d love it if I just walked away so you could swoop in and pretend you’ve been waiting in the wings this whole time.”
“Stop it!” you scream again, your voice raw now, throat tight and burning. “This isn’t about him! It’s about us! It’s always about us—why can’t you focus on me?”
But he’s not listening.
His eyes are locked on Joe, his mouth still moving, spewing venom and insecurity and whatever fear he’s been bottling for months. Joe looks like he’s holding back every instinct to swing. You can see it in the way his fists clench, in the twitch of his jaw. He’s trying so hard to stay still.
And you—
You’re still standing in the middle of it.
Trying to be loud enough to pull their attention back. Trying to be brave enough to shatter the rhythm of male pride unraveling in front of you like a fuse. Your hands are shaking. Your chest rises and falls like you’ve just run a marathon.
Still, neither of them really looks at you.
Not really.
Until Miles snaps.
“You want to keep babysitting her, Burrow?” he snarls, shoving past Joe. “Fine. I’m done.”
Then he grabs your wrist.
Tight. Too tight.
“You’re coming with me.”
You stumble forward, your heel catching on the concrete. “Miles—”
He doesn’t let go.
Joe yells something, but you can’t hear it over the rush in your ears. The world narrows to the pain blooming in your wrist and the hot flush of embarrassment crawling up your throat.
“Miles, let go!” you cry, trying to twist free.
“I’m not leaving you with him.”
And that’s it.
That’s when it all fractures.
This isn’t love. This isn’t safety. This is control. Possession. The sick, festering thing that’s been growing between you for months, finally showing its teeth.
And you—
You feel like you’re underwater.
Joe’s voice echoes somewhere behind you. Footsteps. A second hand grabbing Miles’ arm.
More shouting.
Chaos.
But you don’t speak anymore.
You don’t even cry.
Not when he gripped your wrist so tight it made your bracelet bite into your skin. Not when he yanked open the car door and shoved you inside—not hard enough to bruise, but rough enough to feel it in your ribs. The kind of push that knocked the air from your lungs more from shock than force. The kind that wasn’t just physical—it was loud. It said: Sit down. Shut up. You're mine.
And maybe that’s what broke you.
You barely registered the bark of tires on gravel or the jarring slam of the passenger door closing. What you did register—what you’ll probably remember forever—was Joe. The flash of him, like lightning. The sound of his voice cracking through the humid night air like a whip.
“The fuck is wrong with you?! Don't push her like that!”
You blinked. Your heart didn’t even get a chance to keep up before the driver’s side door swung back open and suddenly Joe was on him. It wasn’t just a shove. Joe’s fist connected with Miles’ mouth like it had been waiting. Like it was made for that one moment. Miles stumbled back, caught off guard more by the audacity than the punch itself.
And then you screamed. Not because you were scared—God, maybe you should’ve been—but because you were done.
“Joe! Are you serious right now?! What the hell are you doing?!”
Your voice was sharp and panicked, slicing through the chaos as you climbed out of the car. You were shaking—like trembling head to toe kind of shaking—but you didn’t stop. You rushed toward them, and Joe was already grabbing Miles again, ready to go for round two like he hadn’t thought this through at all.
“Stop it! Both of you, what the fuck is this?!”
But they didn’t stop. Joe was riled up, breathing hard, jaw clenched. He kept yelling about how you weren’t some object, how Miles needed to learn how to treat a woman, and you wanted to scream back that this wasn’t his place. That he couldn’t just step in now and swing punches like that fixed anything.
So you did.
“Joe! You don’t get to do this! You don’t get to act like some knight in shining fucking armor! This isn’t yours to fix!”
He froze like you’d hit him. His chest was rising and falling, fists still balled, but his eyes snapped to yours like he was finally hearing you for the first time all night.
And Miles. Oh, Miles. Blood on his lip, fury in his eyes, spitting venom at the both of you like it wasn’t his fault any of this happened.
“You think you’re better than me, huh?” Miles growled, advancing again, even though Joe wasn’t touching him anymore. “You think she wants you? You think she’s gonna run off into the sunset with your sorry ass?”
You flinched. Your head was spinning.
And then—like divine timing—the bar doors banged open.
Ja’Marr was the first to spot you. Then Tee. They froze for half a second as they took in the scene: you, standing between two men like some twisted love triangle come to life. Joe with blood on his knuckles. Miles swaying slightly with rage, and you… looking like you’d just seen the inside of your own heart.
“What the fuck is this?” Tee laughed, half in disbelief, stepping out into the parking lot.
“Is this for real?” he added, eyes wide like the absurdity of it all was just too much.
Ja’Marr wasn’t laughing. Not even a little.
“Nah, nah, nah,” he muttered, storming forward, slipping between them before another punch could be thrown. “What the hell is wrong with y’all?”
Joe immediately took a step back, breathing hard. He ran a hand over his face like he was trying to wake up from something. Miles didn’t move.
“This is embarrassing,” Ja’Marr continued, voice low but furious, addressing all three of you. “What is this? A romcom? You think this is cute? You think this is normal?! We are grown-ass adults acting like high schoolers in a CW pilot.”
Tee, still amused, just shook his head and leaned against the car, muttering something about how he wished he had popcorn.
“No, but seriously,” Ja’Marr said, turning on Joe now. “You? Swinging? That’s your solution? And you?”—his eyes shot to Miles—“I know you're not completely innocent in this, Joe wouldn't have thrown a punch unless you said something crazy.”
You stood there, shaking, the summer air suddenly feeling like a cold shower. You couldn’t tell if the heat on your skin was from embarrassment or leftover adrenaline. Maybe both. But you were silent. You weren’t sure what words even fit anymore.
You looked at Joe. His jaw was set, but there was shame in his eyes now, soft and real and a little bit broken. He was breathing hard through his nose, blood drying on his hand.
Miles was pacing in a small, angry circle like a lion still ready to pounce, too proud to admit anything but too shaken to keep pretending this was nothing.
And Ja’Marr kept going.
“This ain’t a movie,” he muttered. “You don’t get to fight over her like she’s a prize. This is real life. This is your job. Your team. Your reputation.”
You hated that word. Reputation. Like it mattered more than the raw wound splitting your chest in two. Like all this wasn’t happening inside your life. Not just some image to protect.
“I don’t care what’s going on between y’all,” Ja’Marr said finally, tone clipped. “But you better figure it out without turning the parking lot of a dive bar into a fuckin’ WWE ring.”
Silence followed. Tee blew out a low whistle and nudged Miles with his elbow.
“You good, man?” he asked, a little too light-hearted for the situation.
Miles didn’t answer. Just wiped his bleeding mouth with the back of his hand and glanced sideways at you, like somehow you were to blame for all of this. Like your silence was a betrayal.
But you didn’t look away.
You were still shaking. But you didn’t cry. Not even now. Because the whole thing had gone so far past pain it just felt… stupid. Like a play with the curtain ripped open.
And the worst part?
You still didn’t know who you were supposed to be mad at.
The man who shoved you? The one who punched for you? Or yourself—for letting it get this far.
The Uber headlights cut through the parking lot a minute later, and none of you said a word.
Not even goodbye.
--
The silence in the car stretches so long it feels like it could snap.
The hum of the engine is the only thing holding the moment together, this low, constant buzz that fills the air between you and Miles like static. Outside, the city is still buzzing with leftover noise from your ruined birthday, but it feels muffled—like you’re watching it from behind glass. Red lights pass over his face in flashes, like a warning you can’t read fast enough. Your hands are folded in your lap, tight and trembling.
Miles hasn't said a single word since he shoved you into the passenger seat.
Your jaw aches from how hard you're clenching it. You don't even realize your nails are digging half-moons into the skin of your palm until the pain spikes and forces your hand open.
You try to focus on your breathing. In. Out. In. Out.
But it doesn’t help.
Because the second your breath evens out even a little, it happens again.
The memory.
Joe’s voice. His tone, firm but not unkind—“Don’t raise your voice at her.”
The blur of motion. Miles turning to him with that same simmering rage he always thinks he's good at hiding. And then Joe’s fist, so fast and clean and sudden. The crack of it against Miles' mouth—God, you can still hear the sound of it, sharp and guttural, like it knocked the oxygen out of him.
And then chaos. You, screaming. Joe, yelling back. Miles lunging forward again. And somewhere in all of it—Ja’Marr. Tee. The absurdity of the night swallowing itself whole.
And now here you are. In the car. Sitting in silence next to the man who’s supposed to love you.
You glance over at him. His grip on the wheel is so tight his knuckles are white. His jaw is still clenched, and you can see the faint outline of a bruise already blooming under the stubble along his cheekbone and his mouth. You don’t feel bad.
You’re not even sure if that makes you a bad person. You just know you don’t feel anything for him in this moment. Nothing except a mounting, spiraling dread. And exhaustion. A kind of bone-deep tiredness you didn’t even know was possible.
Because the worst part is that you’re not even surprised. You’re not shocked that he threw you into the car. You’re not shocked that he screamed at you in public. You’re not shocked that he made the whole thing about Joe. You’re just tired. Tired of being in rooms where the air is so thick you can’t breathe. Tired of loving someone who only seems to love the version of you that makes him feel good.
Your fingers twitch in your lap. You look out the window. It’s raining now—soft, quiet. The kind of rain that makes you want to pull over and just sit for a while. Be still. But Miles doesn’t slow down. He just drives, his jaw tight, his chest rising and falling like he’s barely keeping it together.
Your thoughts won’t stop circling.
You keep seeing Joe’s eyes—right after the punch, before everything spiraled. The look in them. Like he couldn’t believe it either. Like you were the only thing keeping him grounded in that moment. You hadn’t even had time to register it then, but now it plays in your head over and over. The way his eyes softened when they met yours. The way his voice cracked, just slightly, when he tried to apologize before Miles barked at him to fuck off.
And you—you didn’t say anything back. You didn’t defend him. You didn’t even say thank you. You just climbed into the car like a coward. Let Miles drive you away like you were his to own.
You swallow hard. Your eyes burn.
You feel sick.
You’re not even sure what hurts more—how low you feel right now, or how used to it you’ve become.
The car slows as you turn onto your street. That familiar ache curls in your chest, a kind of silent mourning for all the versions of yourself you’ve had to bury just to survive this relationship.
You used to be someone with opinions. Preferences. A spine.
Now you’re the girl who lets her boyfriend pick the bar, the music, the mood. You’re the girl who shrinks herself just enough to fit inside his shadow. You’re the girl who smiles when he’s charming and stays quiet when he’s cruel, and you don’t even know when it started.
You just know that somewhere along the way, you stopped recognizing yourself.
The car jerks to a stop in the driveway. Neither of you move.
For a moment, it feels like the whole world is holding its breath.
Then he grabs the keys, shoves open the door, and slams it behind him.
You stay seated.
It’s pathetic, how much you don’t want to go inside. How badly you want to disappear.
Your fingers hover over the door handle. You count to ten. You make yourself move.
The rain has picked up now. It hits your skin like pins, cold and sharp, and it wakes something up in you. You shiver as you cross the driveway and follow him into the house.
The door swings shut behind you and then—
The box flies past your head and lands at your feet with a thud.
The gift. The same one he pretended to give you with care. Now thrown like it’s trash.
Your chest tightens. You look up.
And he’s already yelling.
“You let it happen,” Miles spits. “You stood there and let him touch you. Let him act like you were his. You wanted it.”
You stare at him. Your heart slams against your ribs.
“You think I don’t see it?” he says, voice rising. “The way you look at him? Like you’re just dying for him to say something? Like you want him to rescue you from your terrible boyfriend, right?”
He’s pacing now, rage boiling. “You love it, don’t you? The attention. The drama. All of it.”
You still haven’t spoken.
Because something in you is crumbling. Quietly. Completely.
And the thing is—you don’t even want to fix it this time.
You want it to fall apart. You want it to burn.
Because for the first time in a long time, you know what this is. And more than that—you know what it isn’t.
It’s not love.
It’s not care.
It’s not what you want. Not anymore.
“You love the attention,” he says again, voice sharper now, like he’s trying to carve it into you. “You fucking love it. That’s the real problem.”
You blink at him, and for a second the whole room blurs. There’s a pressure building behind your eyes, swelling into your throat, choking out any words that might’ve come before. But you still don’t say anything.
Miles keeps going.
“You think I didn’t see it? You were smiling at him. Laughing like some drunk little groupie while he made a goddamn fool out of me. You think that’s cute?”
Your chest is rising and falling too fast now, your breath catching in a way that makes you feel stupid. Fragile. Small.
“And then you stood there like a goddamn victim,” he spits, “like you didn’t just stand by and let him fucking swing at me—on your birthday. At your party. And you wonder why I didn’t want to be there in the first place.”
You swallow. Hard.
It feels like he’s getting louder, like the room is shrinking with every word.
“I planned that night for you. I did. And still, still, you manage to turn it into some pathetic sob story for Joe fucking Cool to swoop in and save you. Jesus Christ. You don’t even know how obvious you are.”
You open your mouth, but nothing comes out. Your throat feels raw, dry like sand. You realize your hands are shaking.
And that’s when it hits you.
The tears start falling before you can stop them. Quiet at first, then faster. You’re not sobbing—not yet—but the heat in your chest is rising fast, seeping up into your face, your scalp, until it feels like your skin might split open from the pressure of holding it all in.
You cover your mouth with your hand and stare at the floor.
And Miles sees it. He sees the tears.
But he doesn’t soften.
He doesn’t stop. He doesn’t even pause.
He scoffs—actually scoffs—and throws his hands up.
“Oh, great,” he mutters. “Now you’re crying? Perfect. Right on cue.”
Your breath hitches, and something inside you stutters. Not just your heart. Something deeper.
You look up at him, and it’s like you don’t even know who you’re seeing anymore.
His face is red, flushed with rage, hair wild from pacing, his chest still heaving like he’s gearing up for more. And for the first time, it doesn’t scare you. Not in the way it used to. Not in the way it should.
It just exhausts you.
Because he sees you crying, and he doesn’t care. He sees you hurting, and it only makes him angrier.
And that… That’s the moment something in you breaks.
But not in a loud, dramatic way. Not in the way it always used to.
It breaks quietly, like glass cracking beneath snow. So soft no one notices it at first. Not even you.
You just feel it—this deep, bone-deep stillness. A silence blooming inside your chest.
Miles is still yelling, still pacing, but the words are starting to fade into static.
You take a step back. Then another.
You reach up, and your fingers graze the delicate silver band on your left hand—the one he gave you months ago, before things weren't so bad, before the screaming became routine. Your thumb runs over the huge gemstone. You remember the way he’d slipped it on so carefully, the way he’d kissed your hand after and said, “Now everyone will know you’re mine.”
It had sounded okay then. Like fate, almost. Now it sounds like a fucking warning.
You slide it off.
Your fingers are trembling, but you keep your grip steady. You walk over to the coffee table, ignoring the shards of glass from a picture frame he must’ve knocked over earlier. Your bare feet crunch softly over it, but you don’t even wince.
And without a word, you place the ring on the table.
It makes the softest sound as it lands—tick—like punctuation. Like an ending.
Miles pauses mid-sentence.
His eyes lock on the ring.
For a full second, he doesn’t say anything. Just stares. Then?
He snaps.
“What the fuck is this?!” he roars, storming toward the table. “You think this is some kind of power move? You think you get to walk away from me like that?”
You say nothing.
You turn around.
You start walking toward the bedroom.
And that’s when he completely unravels.
He sweeps everything off the table with one arm, sends a stack of books flying, the glass of water shattering against the wall. You flinch but keep walking.
“You don’t get to just leave!” he screams after you, voice cracking. “You don’t get to play the fucking victim when you caused this!”
You reach the closet. Grab the overnight bag. Start shoving things inside. Whatever you can reach—your charger, a hoodie, your toothbrush. You’re not thinking in complete thoughts anymore. Just get out. Just move. Just breathe.
Behind you, Miles is still ranting. Still breaking things. A lamp crashes. The sound makes you jump, your heartbeat hammering now, not from fear but adrenaline. You zip the bag and sling it over your shoulder.
You feel lightheaded. Like your body hasn’t caught up to the moment yet.
You step into the doorway of the bedroom.
Miles is standing in the middle of the living room, chest heaving, hair a mess, veins visible in his neck. His eyes are wild. Red-rimmed. He looks like a stranger.
He opens his mouth to say something else—another dig, another insult—but then he sees your bag.
And for the first time tonight, he freezes.
You don’t wait for him to stop you.
You just say, calmly, with the quiet you fought so hard to reclaim:
“I’m done.”
His mouth moves, like he wants to argue. But no sound comes out.
You turn around. Walk to the door.
And behind you, he screams your name. Like a curse. Like a prayer.
You don’t turn back.
↳ make sure to check out my navigation or masterlist if you enjoyed! any interaction is greatly appreciated !
↳ thank you for reading all the way through, as always ♡
Was thinking about this story for the past couple of weeks and wanted to come back to it. I think this is my third or fourth time rereading. This is so well written! I’m going to keep an eye out for when the final part comes out.
Request: Hi, can you write about Joe being the first man in the reader's life (first love always hurts) But he doesn't want anything serious, he's dating another influencer, and he won't commit to the reader who's deeply in love with him, so she puts up with it.(May it have a lot of angst, be a bit spicy, and finally have a happy ending? 🙏🏻)
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🌙 ask box is open — come keep me company, i’m around tonight 💌
Content Advisory: This story contains lies about birthday plans, astronomical amounts of pining, and one very expensive lesson in why you shouldn't date people who keep you a secret. Proceed with tissues and low expectations for male behavior.
Author’s Note: This one did not come easy, y’all. I’ve been chipping away at it for at least a month and honestly it feels like longer. I really wanted it to feel different from BTL and anything else I’ve written, and it was hard as hell to get there. Writing Joe in such a messy, kind of toxic way? Not really my usual vibe but this story just demanded it.
I hope it shows how much care I put into it. Huge thanks to my beta @crazytheoriststrawberry for helping.
Hope you love it. ✨
You'd coordinated events for athletes before, but The Joe Burrow Foundation's golf tournament felt different from the moment you walked into Top Golf Cincinnati. Maybe it was the way he'd insisted on reviewing every detail personally instead of sending an assistant, or how he'd actually listened when you explained why the silent auction would work better positioned near the bar. Most clients nodded along and trusted you to handle it. Joe asked questions that showed he was actually thinking about the answers.
"The sponsors want visibility," he'd said during your planning meeting three weeks ago, "but I don't want it to feel like a corporate showcase. How do we balance that?"
It wasn't something most people would think about. You'd suggested integrating sponsor recognition into the competition format itself—branded hole challenges, custom scorecards, a food truck, photo ops that felt natural rather than forced. The way his face had lit up told you everything about why this mattered to him.
Now, watching him move through the crowd of old college teammates, NFL colleagues, and Cincinnati business leaders, you felt that same flutter of professional pride mixed with something more. He wasn't just working the room—he was connecting. Laughing with teammates, asking questions about sponsors' businesses, making everyone feel like they were the most important person there.
"Ms. Y/L/N." His voice appeared at your shoulder as you checked your tablet, making sure the auction timing stayed on track. "How are we doing?"
You turned, finding him closer than expected, close enough to catch the expensive scent of his cologne. "Ahead of schedule, which in my world means perfectly on time. Silent auction's tracking twenty percent higher than what we initally expected."
"Good." His smile was easy, genuinely pleased. "And how are our guests doing?"
"Having the time of their lives. The sponsors are already asking about next year, and I think your guys are trying to outdo each other with their swing techniques.
Joe's laugh was genuine, the kind that reached his eyes. "Good. That's what we want." He glanced around the space, taking in the mix of people enjoying themselves, then looked back at you. "This is perfect. It's exactly what I asked for."
The compliment hit differently than the usual client praise. There was something personal in it, like he actually saw the thought you'd put into every detail.
"Thank you," you said, trying to keep your voice professional despite the warmth spreading through your chest. "It helps when the client knows what they want."
"I had ideas. You made them actually work."
Before you could respond, someone called his name from across the room. A sponsor, probably, based on the eager wave and the way they were already walking over with purpose. Joe's expression shifted slightly—not annoyed, but resigned.
"Will you stick around after? I owe you a drink."
It wasn't a professional invitation. The way his eyes lingered on yours when he said it made that clear.
"Of course," you heard yourself say. "I'll need to oversee cleanup anyway."
"Perfect." His smile was different now—less public, more personal. Then he was moving away, back into host mode, leaving you standing there with your tablet and the distinct feeling that something had just shifted.
The rest of the event passed in a blur of logistics and small victories. The auction exceeded projections, the food service went off without a hitch, and you managed to coordinate the group photos without anyone looking awkward. Professional success, the kind that left you satisfied and ready to move on to the next project.
But as the crowd began to thin and the staff started breaking down equipment, you found yourself hyperaware of where Joe was in the room, who he was talking to, how often his gaze found yours across the space.
By nine-thirty, Top Golf had mostly emptied out. The last of the sponsors had left with their gift bags and business cards, the guys had moved their reunion to whatever bar would tolerate their volume, and your cleanup crew was finishing the final breakdown of auction displays.
You were double-checking the donation receipts when Joe reappeared. He looked more relaxed than he had all evening.
"How'd we do?" he asked, settling into the chair across from your makeshift office setup.
"Better than we expected." You turned your laptop screen toward him, showing the final numbers. "Auction brought in four hundred and twenty thousand, entry fees another hundred and thirty. After expenses, you're looking at about five hundred and fifty thousand for the foundation."
He let out a low whistle. "Damn. That's really good."
"Your Bengals guys bid on everything. I think they were trying to one-up each other."
"Sounds about right." His smile was easy, genuine. "Those fuckers are competitive about everything."
You saved the spreadsheet and closed your laptop, suddenly aware that the space around you had gone quiet. The cleanup crew had finished and left without you noticing, and the Top Golf staff had dimmed most of the lights. It was just the two of you now.
"So," Joe said, leaning back in his chair. "That drink I owe you."
You glanced toward the bar area. A few staff members were still cleaning up, but the lights were on and you could see a bartender wiping down glasses.
"What do you drink?" he asked, already standing. "I'll grab us something."
"Bourbon's fine. Whatever they have that's decent."
He nodded and headed toward the bar, leaving you alone with your laptop and the realization that the professional part of your evening was officially over. Whatever came next was something else entirely.
When he returned a few minutes later with two glasses of amber liquid, he'd gotten them the good stuff.
"Buffalo Trace," he said, setting your glass down.
You took a sip, letting the warmth settle in your chest. "Good choice."
He just nodded and settled back into his chair, glass in hand. "So tell me something."
"What?"
"How'd you end up coordinating events? Doesn't seem like the kind of thing people stumble into."
It was a genuine question, not small talk. The way he asked it—direct, interested—made you want to give him a real answer.
"I started in college," you said. "With the student activities board. I was good at making things happen, keeping all the moving pieces organized. Turns out there's decent money in making rich people's parties look effortless."
Joe laughed. "Is that what tonight was? Making rich people look effortless?"
"Tonight was different," you admitted. "Most of my clients want to be seen being charitable. You actually care about the cause."
"How can you tell?"
"The way you talked about the kids in the program during planning. You knew their names, their stories. That doesn't come from a PR brief."
He was quiet for a moment, swirling the bourbon in his glass. "You planning on sticking around Cincinnati for a while?"
The question caught you off guard - direct, personal, nothing to do with foundation work or tonight's event.
"That depends," you said. "Why?"
"Because I'd like to see you again. Outside of work."
The words hung between you, and you felt your pulse quicken.
“I’d like that too,” you said.
“Good.” He finished his bourbon and set the glass down. “I know a place. Nothing fancy.”
“When?”
“Tomorrow? If you’re free.”
* * *
Eight Months Later
That dinner had led to another, and another, until Tuesday nights became yours and Joe’s standing date. Eight months of stolen moments between his schedule and yours, of late-night texts that had nothing to do with work, of learning that he liked his matcha and read physics articles to fall asleep.
Eight months of being his secret.
It hadn’t started that way. At first, the privacy felt intentional—getting to know each other away from the noise, building something real before letting the world in. You’d started sleeping together after the third date, and the chemistry had been undeniable from the first time he’d shown up at your apartment after a loss to the Chiefs, shoulders tight with frustration.
“Rough night?” you’d asked, letting him in.
“Don’t want to talk about it.”
He dropped his keys on the table without looking, then reached for you like you were the only person in the world who could fix him. He kissed you hard, like breathing you was the only way to quiet the noise inside him.
Then he pulled back, not far, just enough to rest his forehead against yours. His breathing was uneven, and you could feel the tension in his shoulders like he was fighting something inside himself.
"I just needed to be here," he said quietly, his voice rougher than usual. "With you."
It wasn't an explanation or an apology. Just honesty, which was more than he usually gave you after bad games. His hands stayed at your waist, thumbs brushing against your hip bones through your shirt.
You didn't push for more. Just reached up to touch the back of his neck, feeling some of the tension ease out of him as he leaned into the contact.
He kissed you again, deeper this time, then pulled back just long enough to tug your shirt over your head. You did the same with his sweatshirt, both of you moving with the kind of urgent efficiency that came from wanting each other and not wanting to overthink it.
The rest happened fast—clothes hitting the floor, him pulling you down onto the couch, the familiar weight of him settling between your legs. He didn't say much, just breathed hard against your neck as he pushed into you, both of you finding that rhythm that worked.
You let him take what he needed, let him lose himself completely. Your fingers traced his back, catching the tremor in his muscles as he chased relief — not just physical but something deeper, something he didn’t know how to ask for out loud`
And when he finally came, it wasn’t with bravado or noise, but a rough, broken gasp against your neck, arms wrapped tight around you like he was trying to stay tethered.
After, he didn’t move far. Just gathered you into his chest, skin damp and heartbeat still racing. He kissed the top of your head — soft, almost absent — and held you like he wasn’t ready to let go.
Wrapped around each other in the quiet, neither of you asked questions he wasn’t ready to answer, comfort given without condition.
He fell asleep with his head on your chest, and you traced patterns on his back until morning, thinking this was what real intimacy looked like.
But as weeks turned to months, the secrecy had calcified into something else entirely. You were the woman he called when he needed to talk through a bad game, the one who knew he got quiet when he was stressed, who understood that his confidence was as much armor as it was truth.
Maddie was the woman he was photographed with.
“She knows what this is,” he’d said the first time you’d seen them together in a gossip blog photo, her hand on his arm at some charity auction. “We’re just having fun. No pressure.”
You’d believed him because you wanted to, because you were twenty-six and he was your first everything that mattered. Your first love, your first heartbreak-in-waiting, your first lesson in how little you actually knew about what you deserved.
But tonight felt different. Tonight was his birthday, and you’d spent weeks planning something perfect.
* * *
The dinner was ready—his favorite pasta dish you’d learned to make after watching him devour it at that little Italian place you’d gone to in September. The bourbon was breathing on the counter, the good bottle you’d been saving. And tucked inside the card on your coffee table were two first-class tickets to Washington DC for February, along with confirmation details for a private after-hours tour of the National Air and Space Museum.
It had taken three weeks of phone calls, emails, and a significant chunk of your savings to arrange. But the thought of seeing his face when he realized you were giving him the stars—literally—made every bit of effort worth it. You’d even coordinated with his assistant to make sure the February date worked with his off-season schedule.
You checked your phone. 7:30 PM. He’d said he’d be over by eight, that he was looking forward to a quiet night in. Just the two of you, no cameras, no expectations. The kind of evening that had become your specialty.
That’s when the notification popped up on your screen.
TMZ: Joe Burrow & Maddie Thompson Celebrate His Birthday in Aspen!
Your heart stopped. The photo loaded, revealing Joe and Maddie laughing in the snow, both bundled in expensive ski gear, looking genuinely happy. Not posed, not staged—just two people enjoying themselves. The timestamp showed it was taken this afternoon.
Your hands shook as you read the caption: “The Bengals quarterback and lifestyle influencer are spending a romantic birthday getaway in Aspen, looking more loved-up than ever!”
Your phone slipped from your numb fingers, clattering onto the coffee table next to the card with the plane tickets.
He was in Aspen. On his birthday. During the team's bye week, when he'd told you he just wanted to stay in and relax. The birthday he'd said he wanted to spend quietly, just the two of you.
You stared at the photo until your eyes blurred. They looked happy. Like a couple who actually got to be a couple, instead of whatever the hell you'd been doing for eight months.
The pasta was getting cold on the stove. The bourbon sat untouched. The museum confirmation email was still open on your laptop, detailing the private tour you’d arranged for February—his off-season, when he’d said he wanted to travel somewhere meaningful.
Apparently, he’d already made those plans. With someone else.
Your phone buzzed. A text from Joe.
"Hey, something came up last minute. My parents wanted to take me out for my birthday. Can we raincheck tonight? I wish I was with you instead. Sorry."
The laugh that escaped your throat was bitter, almost hysterical. Wish he was with you instead? He could be with you. He was choosing not to be.
You picked up your phone with shaking hands and typed back:
“I know you’re in Aspen. I made your favorite dinner. Bought you bourbon. Had a gift waiting. I’m done.”
You hit send before you could second-guess yourself, then immediately turned your phone face down on the table. You couldn’t look at it anymore.
The apartment felt suffocating suddenly. All this effort, all this hope, all these months of accepting less than you deserved because you thought—what? That eventually he’d choose you? That love would be enough?
You walked to the kitchen and turned off the burner, staring at the pasta you’d spent an hour perfecting. In the living room, the bourbon caught the light, amber and expensive and pointless. The plane tickets might as well have been confetti.
Eight months of being his secret. Eight months of believing his lies about Maddie. Eight months of thinking you were building toward something real.
Your phone buzzed again. Then again.
You didn’t look.
* * *
You woke up on your couch at 6 AM with mascara streaked down your cheeks and your phone battery dead. The bourbon bottle sat exactly where you'd left it, the pasta had congealed in the pot, and the card with the plane tickets lay open on the coffee table like evidence of your own stupidity.
Your phone had seventeen missed calls and twenty-three unread messages when you plugged it in. All from Joe.
You almost deleted them without reading, but morbid curiosity won.
11:47 PM: “What do you mean you’re done? Call me back.”
11:52 PM: “I don’t understand why you’re upset.”
12:15 AM: "How did you know I was in Aspen?"
12:16 AM: "I lied about my parents. I'm sorry. I can explain."
12:45 AM: "Baby please call me back. This is crazy."
1:23 AM: “I’m sorry. I know you planned something. I’ll make it up to you.”
1:24 AM: “We can celebrate when I get back.”
2:18 AM: “Don’t do this. Don’t throw us away over a misunderstanding.”
3:01 AM: “I care about you. You know that.”
3:02 AM: “This is different and you know it.”
And on and on. Twenty-three messages that cycled between confusion, dismissal, and damage control. He apologized for lying, but not one message said he'd choose you.
Your fingers moved before your brain could stop them:
“I arranged a private tour of the National Air and Space Museum for February. Bought first-class tickets. Spent my savings so you could see the stars without cameras. While you were booking a trip to Aspen with your girlfriend.”
“Do NOT contact me again.”
You hit send, then immediately blocked his number.
Then you sat on your kitchen floor and cried until you had nothing left.
* * *
Joe spent the flight back to Cincinnati drafting and deleting messages he couldn’t send. Every approach felt inadequate. How do you apologize for eight months of lies? How do you explain that you didn’t realize what you had until you’d destroyed it?
He tried calling from different numbers. When she found out it was him she’d blocked those too.
He showed up at her apartment building on December 15th with flowers and an apology speech he’d rehearsed twenty times. The doorman—a guy Joe recognized from previous visits—took one look at him and shook his head.
“She left specific instructions, Mr. Burrow. You’re not on the list anymore.”
So he waited. Four hours in his car across the street until she came home from work, grocery bags in hand. When she saw him getting out of his car, her entire body went rigid.
“Don’t,” she said, not stopping her walk toward the building.
“Please. Just five minutes.”
“No.” She didn’t even look at him. “I meant what I said.”
“I ended things with Maddie.”
That made her stop. Turn around. For a moment, hope flared in his chest.
“Good for you,” she said, her voice flat. “That doesn’t change what you did to me.”
“I know. I know I fucked up—”
“You didn’t fuck up, Joe. You made choices. For eight months, you made the same choice over and over again.” She shifted the grocery bags, and he could see how tired she looked. How much weight she’d lost in just five days. “You chose her every time it mattered.”
“That’s not true—”
“Your birthday mattered. And you chose her.”
The simple statement hit like a physical blow. Because she was right.
“I was scared,” he said, the words coming out raw. “I was scared of what this was, what you meant to me—”
“I don’t care.” Her voice was steady, but he could see her hands shaking. “I don’t care why you did it. I only care that you did.”
She turned back toward the building.
“I love you,” he called after her.
She stopped again, but didn’t turn around.
“You love the idea of me,” she said quietly. “You love having someone who accepts scraps and calls it enough. But you don’t love me, Joe. If you did, you would have chosen me.”
* * *
February 14th - Valentine's Day
You stared at your phone screen, watching another Venmo notification light up. $2,999 from Joe Burrow. Memo: "I know it's Valentine's Day and this is pathetic but I miss you."
It had been two months since you’d blocked him. Two months of returned gifts, ignored letters, and apparently daily Venmo transfers that were slowly driving you insane. Your bank account was looking healthier than it ever had, but every notification felt like a fresh wound.
This had to stop.
You unblocked his number long enough to send one text:
“Stop sending me money. I’m serious. It’s not helping anything and it’s borderline harassment at this point.”
Your finger hovered over the block button again, but his response came faster than expected.
“You’re right. I’m sorry. I’ll stop.”
That was it. No arguing, no desperate pleas, no “but can we talk.” Just acknowledgment and agreement.
You stared at the message for a long moment, waiting for the follow-up that didn’t come. Where was the Joe who had waited outside your building for four hours? Who had sent flowers to your office every day for a week? Who had somehow found your work email and sent you a twenty-paragraph explanation of his feelings?
“Thank you,” you typed back, then immediately blocked him again.
But something about his response sat differently than all his other attempts. For the first time in two months, he’d listened to what you asked for instead of trying to negotiate around it.
You checked your Venmo. No new notifications.
It was such a small thing—just stopping when you asked him to stop. But after months of him refusing to respect any of your boundaries, the basic act of compliance felt… surprising.
You told yourself it didn’t mean anything. That you were reading too much into a simple text exchange. But that night, for the first time since December, you didn’t fall asleep angry.
* * *
April 15th
The new Italian place in Over-the-Rhine was buzzing with Cincinnati’s elite—business leaders, local celebrities, and apparently half the Bengals roster. You’d been coordinating launch events long enough to read a room within minutes, and this one was going well. The chef was happy, the investors were mingling, and the servers were keeping up with the cocktail orders.
You were adjusting the lighting for the chef’s welcome speech when you saw him.
Joe stood near the bar, nursing what looked like a bourbon and listening to whatever story a local business owner was telling him. When the man finished speaking, Joe nodded and leaned in slightly, clearly engaged in the conversation.
Your breath caught. He’d come. To an event you were coordinating.
In eight months of dating, you’d probably coordinated a dozen events he’d been invited to. Gallery openings, charity auctions, restaurant launches—Cincinnati wasn’t that big, and athletes were always on VIP lists. But Joe had never shown up to a single one. “Not really my scene,” he’d always said, preferring quiet nights in to schmoozing with strangers.
Seeing him here now, in his least favorite type of environment, you knew it wasn’t a coincidence.
He looked different. Bigger, maybe, and there was something quieter about the way he carried himself. When someone tried to take a selfie with him, he politely declined and redirected the conversation back to the restaurant.
For the next two hours, you found yourself stealing glances while managing the event. Joe worked the room, engaging with guests throughout the night. When the local news crew asked for an interview, he kept it short and focused on the restaurant and community rather than himself.
You watched him nurse the same bourbon all night. In the eight months you'd dated, you'd learned he wasn't much of a drinker at events—too careful about his image, too controlled. But this felt different. Like he was actually trying to enjoy himself instead of just getting through it.
By ten PM, the crowd had thinned and you were overseeing the breakdown. Your staff was handling the heavy lifting, leaving you to do final checks and coordinate with the restaurant management. You were reviewing the evening’s photos with the owner when you sensed someone behind you.
“Excuse me.”
You turned around, and there he was.
“Hi,” you said, professional instincts kicking in. “Did you enjoy the event?”
“I did.” He glanced around at your staff efficiently packing up equipment. “You did an incredible job. The whole thing felt… authentic. Not like a show.”
“Thank you.”
An awkward silence stretched between you. The owner had diplomatically moved away, giving you space.
“I know you’re working,” Joe said. “I just wanted to say—I stopped the Venmo thing. Like you asked.”
“I noticed.”
“And I wanted to apologize. Not for the relationship stuff, I know you don’t want to hear that. But for not respecting your boundaries. For making you ask me to stop instead of just… stopping and for…everything else.”
You studied his face, looking for the catch, the angle, the thing he wanted from you. But his expression was straightforward, almost resigned.
“Okay,” you said carefully.
“That’s it. That’s all I wanted to say.” He took a small step back. “I hope you have a good rest of your evening.”
He started to turn away, and something in your chest twisted.
“Joe.”
He stopped, turned back.
“Are you…” You paused, unsure why you were asking. “Are you doing okay?”
Something flickered across his face—surprise, maybe relief. “Yeah. Actually, I am. Finally.”
And then he was gone, leaving you standing in the middle of a half-dismantled event space, wondering why you felt like you’d just seen a ghost of someone you used to know.
* * *
April 20th - 11:47 PM
You’d had exactly one and a half glasses of wine. You weren't drunk, just… relaxed enough to make questionable decisions. Like unblocking Joe Burrow on Instagram at nearly midnight on a Friday.
It had been almost a week since the restaurant opening, and his words kept replaying in your head.
You told yourself you were just curious. Just wanted to see if the changes you’d observed were real or if you’d been projecting. His Instagram had always been pretty standard athlete fare—workout posts, game highlights, the occasional brand partnership.
You scrolled through his recent posts. A photo from training camp. A story about some charity work. A picture of him reading a book (which was new—he’d never posted about reading before). You found yourself pausing on each one, looking for clues about who he was becoming.
Then you saw it.
Posted eight hours ago: Joe post-workout, shirtless, drinking a Body Armor. Clearly a sponsored post, but he looked good—really good. The caption was simple: "Friday grind complete. @bodyarmor"
Your thumb hovered over the image as you studied it. He looked good. Really good. Broader through the shoulders than you remembered, and there was something different about his expression. Less posed, more natural. Like he wasn’t trying to look perfect for the camera.
Before you could stop yourself, you double-tapped.
The little red heart appeared instantly, and your stomach dropped to your feet.
“No, no, no,” you whispered to your empty apartment, staring at the screen in horror. You’d just liked a shirtless thirst trap posted by your ex-situationship at 11:47 PM on a Friday night. After unblocking him. After months of radio silence.
You could unlike it, but he’d already get the notification. You could block him again, but that would look absolutely unhinged—unblock him just to like his shirtless photo and then immediately block him again?
Your phone was practically burning in your hand. You set it face-down on your coffee table and put your head in your hands.
This was worse than the Venmo situation. At least that had been his pathetic desperation. This was your pathetic desperation, immortalized in Instagram notifications.
Your phone buzzed against the table.
You ignored it.
It buzzed again.
Against every instinct for self-preservation, you flipped it over.
Not a text. Just Instagram notifications.
Joeyb_9 liked your photo.
The photo was from three weeks ago—you at a client event, you looked good. He’d liked it approximately thirty seconds after you’d liked his shirtless post.
You stared at the notification, wine-fuzzy brain trying to decode the meaning. Was he letting you know he’d seen your like? Was he being petty? Or was this his equally awkward way of saying… what?
Another buzz.
Joeyb_9 liked your photo.
This one from a month ago. Then another. And another.
He was going through your recent posts and systematically liking them. Not in a rapid-fire, manic way. Just… methodically. Like he was taking his time, actually looking at them.
You sat there in your pajamas, wine glass forgotten, watching notifications pop up every few minutes as Joe Burrow liked his way through six weeks of your Instagram posts at midnight on a Friday.
When it stopped, you waited. For a text, a DM, a follow request. Something.
Nothing came.
Just the strange knowledge that somewhere across Cincinnati, Joe was awake and thinking about you enough to scroll through weeks of your life. And you were awake and thinking about him enough to have started this whole mortifying chain of events.
You set your phone aside and went to bed, but sleep was impossible. Because despite the embarrassment, despite everything that had happened between you, something warm had unfurled in your chest.
* * *
April 21st - 9:23 AM
You woke up with a wine headache and the immediate, mortifying memory of what you’d done the night before. The shirtless photo. The accidental like. Joe’s methodical response of liking six weeks worth of your posts.
You grabbed your phone, hoping maybe you’d dreamed the whole thing.
Nope. The evidence was right there in your notifications.
You scrolled back to his profile, telling yourself you were just checking to see if he’d posted anything new. He hadn’t. The shirtless photo still sat there with your little red heart under it, announcing to the world that you’d been thirsty on main at midnight.
But as you scrolled through his feed, you found yourself looking at the posts he’d liked on your page. The fundraiser event you’d coordinated where you looked proud and professional. The coffee shop photo where you were laughing at something off-camera. The sunset from your apartment balcony with the caption about grateful moments.
He’d skipped the selfies and the group shots. Only liked the ones where you looked genuinely happy or where you were talking about work you were proud of. Like he was seeing the real parts of your life and… appreciating them.
Before you could overthink it, you scrolled back through his recent posts and liked the one about the charity work. Then the book photo. Then one from two weeks ago of him at what looked like a coffee shop, no caption, just him looking thoughtful.
Your thumb hovered over a post from a month ago—him with some of his teammates at a community event, genuinely smiling. You liked it.
Then you kept going.
The post about finishing a difficult workout. Like.
A sunset photo from his backyard with a caption about finding peace in quiet moments. Like.
A picture of him reading (again—when had Joe become someone who posted about books?). Like.
You realized you were now three months deep in his Instagram, systematically liking posts the same way he’d done to you, and you couldn’t seem to stop yourself.
Your phone buzzed with a notification.
Joeyb_9 liked your photo.
The coffee shop photo from yesterday morning that you’d posted an hour ago. He was awake. He was seeing your likes in real time.
Another buzz.
Joeyb_9 liked your photo.
A different recent post.
You were now in some sort of bizarre Instagram standoff, both of you awake on a Saturday morning, liking each other’s posts like teenagers. It was absurd. It was embarrassing.
It was also the most you’d communicated in four months.
Your phone buzzed again, but this time it wasn’t a like notification.
Joeyb_9: “I’m unblocked. Is this okay?”
You stared at the DM. No pretending he hadn’t noticed. No casual small talk to test the waters. Just a direct question asking for consent to be in your digital space again.
The old Joe would have either not acknowledged it or used it as an opening to launch into some speech about missing you. This Joe was just… checking in. Making sure he wasn’t overstepping.
“It’s okay.”
“Thank you.”
That was it. No follow-up, no pushing for more. Just gratitude for the permission to exist in your notifications again.
You found yourself staring at the simple exchange, surprised by how much those two words meant to you. Thank you. Like your boundaries actually mattered to him now.
Fifteen minutes passed before he sent another message.
“For what it’s worth, I noticed you liked the workout photo at 11:47 PM on a Friday. Interesting timing.”
Heat flooded your cheeks. Of course he’d noticed the timestamp.
“Shut up.”
“I’m not judging. I liked six weeks of your posts at midnight. We’re both fucked up.”
Despite everything, you found yourself smiling at your phone.
“The worst part is it was the shirtless one.”
“I know. I was there when I posted it.”
“You’re enjoying this too much.”
“Little bit. It’s nice to know I’m not the only one who makes questionable late-night social media decisions.”
You could practically hear the smile in his message, and something warm unfurled in your chest.
“Don’t let it go to your head.”
“Too late. My ego has been fully restored by your thirst trap engagement.”
“I hate you.”
“No you don’t.”
He was right. You didn’t.
* * *
April 25th
Joeyb_9: “Saw your story about the charity auction. That venue looks incredible.”
“Thanks. The client wanted something different from the usual hotel ballroom.”
“You delivered. That lighting setup must have taken forever.”
You stared at the message, surprised he’d noticed the technical details.
“6 hours. But worth it for the photos.”
“Definitely worth it.”
-----
April 30th
Joeyb_9: “Random question - do you still make that pasta dish? The one with the pancetta?”
“Why?”
“Been craving it for months. Tried to recreate it and failed miserably.”
“You burned the pancetta, didn’t you?”
“How did you know?”
“Because you have no patience with cooking. I bet you turned the heat too high.”
“Guilty. Any chance you’d be willing to share the recipe?”
You hesitated before responding. It felt intimate, sharing something you’d made for him during your relationship.
“I’ll think about it.”
-----
May 3rd
“You were right about that book recommendation.”
Joeyb_9: “Which one?”
“The one about astrophysics you mentioned months ago. Finally picked it up.”
“And?”
“And I understand maybe 30% of it, but the parts I get are fascinating.”
“That’s 30% more than most people. What’s your favorite part so far?”
You found yourself genuinely excited to discuss it with him.
-----
May 8th
Joeyb_9: “Therapy was rough today.”
The message came out of nowhere at 3 PM on a Wednesday.
“Want to talk about it?”
“Not really. Just wanted to tell someone who’d understand why I’m sitting in my car outside the stadium questioning everything.”
“That sounds normal for therapy.”
“Is it supposed to feel like emotional surgery without anesthesia?”
“Pretty much. But the healing part comes later.”
“When?”
“When you stop bleeding.”
“Great. Something to look forward to.”
“It gets easier. I promise.”
“How do you know?”
“Because you’re different than you were four months ago. Different than you were four weeks ago.”
There was a long pause before he responded.
“Thanks. I needed to hear that.”
-----
May 15th
“Okay, I’m sending you the pasta recipe. But you have to promise to actually follow it.”
Joeyb_9: “Yes ma’am.”
“Medium heat. Not medium-high. Not ‘close enough.’ MEDIUM.”
“Got it.”
“And don’t skip the wine step. The alcohol cooks off, but the flavor doesn’t.”
“I would never skip a wine step.”
“You better send me proof you didn’t burn it.”
“Deal.”
Three hours later, he sent a photo of a perfectly executed plate of pasta.
“I’m impressed.”
“I had a good teacher.”
-----
May 20th
Joeyb_9: “Can I ask you something?”
“Sure.”
“Do you think people can actually change? Like, fundamentally?”
“Why are you asking?”
“Because I’m trying to figure out if I’m actually becoming a better person or just learning to fake it better.”
The vulnerability in the message made your chest tight.
“I think the fact that you’re questioning it means you’re not faking it.”
“How do you know?”
“Because the old you would have been sure you were right about everything.”
“Ouch. But fair.”
“Change is possible, Joe. But it has to be for you, not for anyone else.”
“What if it started for someone else but became for me?”
You stared at that message for a long time.
“Then I guess that’s still change.”
-----
May 28th
Joeyb_9: “I have something to ask you, and you can absolutely say no.”
“That’s ominous.”
“I arranged a private tour of the Cincinnati Museum Center. Next Saturday afternoon. Would you want to come with me?”
Your heart did something complicated.
“You arranged a private tour?”
“Yeah. I’ve been thinking about what you planned for my birthday. About the National Air and Space Museum. I can’t take that back, but I thought maybe… this could be a start.”
“When did you arrange this?”
“Two weeks ago. I wanted to ask you sooner, but I didn’t want you to think I was rushing things.”
“And you’re asking me because?”
“Because I want to see if we can spend time together without it ending in disaster. And because I think you’d actually enjoy it.”
You found yourself smiling at your phone.
“What time Saturday?”
* * *
You spotted Joe before he saw you, standing outside the Cincinnati Museum Center looking uncharacteristically nervous. He was early—something he’d never been during your relationship—and kept checking his phone like he was worried you’d changed your mind.
“Hey,” you said, walking up behind him.
He turned, and his face relaxed into a genuine smile. “Hey. You came.”
“I said I would.”
“I know, but…” He shrugged. “I wasn’t sure until I saw you.”
The honesty was still jarring. The old Joe would have played it cool, acted like he’d never doubted you’d show up.
“So,” you said, gesturing toward the building. “Private tour?”
“Yeah. The curator is a friend of a friend. Apparently, they don’t usually do this, but I may have mentioned it was for someone who appreciates the educational value.” His smile turned slightly sheepish. “I also may have made a donation.”
“Of course you did.”
The curator met you inside, a enthusiastic woman in her fifties who clearly knew her stuff. “Mr. Burrow, Ms. Y/L/N, welcome! I understand you’re particularly interested in the space and natural history exhibits?”
Joe glanced at you. “That’s right.”
“Wonderful. We’ll start with the Neil Armstrong Space Exploration Gallery, then move through natural history, and finish in the planetarium if you’d like.”
As you walked through the first exhibit, you found yourself watching Joe more than the displays. He was different here than he’d been at public events during your relationship. More engaged, asking questions instead of just nodding politely. When the curator explained the mechanics of lunar landing, Joe leaned in, genuinely curious.
“I never understood how they calculated the fuel ratios,” he said. “With all the variables in space.”
“It’s fascinating, isn’t it?” the curator replied. “The precision required was extraordinary. One miscalculation and…”
“And you’re floating in space forever,” Joe finished. “The ultimate consequence for poor planning.”
You caught his eye and he smiled—a real smile, not the polished one he used to wear like armor.
In the natural history section, you found yourself relaxing. This felt like the conversations you’d had during your relationship, the late-night talks about curiosity and discovery. But better, because Joe wasn’t holding back parts of himself.
“I used to love this place as a kid,” you mentioned as you stood in front of a display about ocean exploration.
“Yeah?”
“My mom would bring me here on rainy Saturdays. I thought I was going to be a marine biologist for exactly three weeks when I was eight.”
“What changed your mind?”
“Realized I get seasick on boats.” You laughed. “Hard to study the ocean when you can’t get on it.”
“So you went into event planning instead.”
“Eventually. Turns out I like organizing chaos more than I like fish.”
Joe was quiet for a moment, studying your face. “I should have asked you more questions like that.”
“What do you mean?”
“About what you wanted to be as a kid. About your mom bringing you here. About… you.” He looked down at his hands. “I was so focused on not giving up too much about myself that I never learned enough about you.”
“Joe…”
“I know we’re not… I know this isn’t about getting back together,” he said quickly. “I just wanted you to know that I see that now. How selfish I was.”
You didn’t know what to say to that, so you just nodded and kept walking.
The planetarium was the last stop, and as the lights dimmed and the dome filled with stars, you felt something shift in the space between you. You were sitting close enough to catch the scent of his cologne, the same one he’d worn when you were together.
“This is what you were trying to give me,” he said quietly as constellations moved across the artificial sky. “Wasn’t it? Not just the museum, but… this. Wonder without performance.”
“Yeah,” you whispered. “I thought you’d like it.”
“I would have loved it.” His voice was rough. “I would have loved all of it.”
When the show ended and the lights came up, you both sat in the quiet for a moment.
“Thank you,” Joe said finally. “For coming today. For giving me the chance to do this right.”
“It was nice,” you admitted. “Seeing you actually excited about something instead of just going through the motions.”
“I’m trying to live more like that. Present instead of performing.”
You studied his face in the dim planetarium lighting. “How’s that working out?”
“It’s terrifying,” he said with a laugh. “But better. Everything feels more real.”
As you walked back toward the entrance, you found yourself not wanting the afternoon to end. For three hours, you’d forgotten about the hurt and the lies and the months of silence. You’d just enjoyed spending time with someone who was genuinely interested in the world around him.
“Can I ask you something?” you said as you reached the parking lot.
“Yeah.”
“Are you doing this—therapy, the museum, all of it—because you want me back? Or because you actually want to change?”
Joe stopped walking and turned to face you fully. “Six months ago, I would have said both and thought that was an acceptable answer.”
“And now?”
“Now I know that if I’m only changing to get you back, then I’m not really changing at all. I’m just learning new ways to manipulate the situation.” He ran a hand through his hair. “I started therapy because I lost you. But I kept going because I realized I didn’t like who I was even when I thought I was happy.”
The honesty was overwhelming. This was what you’d wanted from him for eight months—the truth.
“I want to keep seeing you,” he continued. “Talking, spending time together, whatever this is. But not because I’m trying to earn my way back into a relationship. Because I like who I am when I’m around you now. I like who you are. I like… this.”
He gestured between you, and you knew what he meant. The ease of conversation, the shared curiosity, the lack of pretense.
“I like this too,” you admitted.
“So maybe we can keep doing this? Museums, hanging out, terrible Instagram interactions?”
Despite everything, you laughed. “I can’t promise not to accidentally like more of your thirst traps.”
“I’m counting on it,” he said with a grin. “My ego needs the boost.”
As you walked toward your car, you felt something you hadn’t experienced in months: hope. Not for getting back together—that felt too big, too complicated still. But hope that maybe you could build something new. Something honest.
Something real.
* * *
June - August
It started slowly. Coffee dates that lasted three hours because you kept forgetting to leave. Texts that had nothing to do with logistics and everything to do with wanting to share random thoughts. Joe sending you photos of books he was reading, you sending him behind-the-scenes shots from events you were coordinating.
The first time he kissed you was in July, outside a bookstore in Northside after you’d spent two hours arguing about whether sci-fi authors accurately portrayed space travel. It was soft, tentative, nothing like the confident way he used to kiss you. Like he was asking permission instead of taking what he wanted.
“Is this okay?” he asked afterward, foreheads touching.
“Yeah,” you whispered. “It’s okay.”
But you took things slow. Glacially slow. He didn’t push, didn’t ask why you needed space or time or whatever this careful rebuilding process was. He just followed your lead, showing up when you asked him to, giving you room when you needed it.
The first time you stayed over at his place again was a Tuesday in August. Not because anything dramatic happened, but because you’d fallen asleep on his couch during a movie and woken up with a blanket draped over you and Joe reading in the chair across the room.
“You could have woken me up,” you said, stretching.
“You looked peaceful.” He set his book aside.
It was so domestic, so normal, that it made your chest tight. This was what you’d wanted during your relationship—quiet evenings, comfortable silences, the feeling that you belonged in each other’s spaces.
“What are you reading?” you asked, settling next to him on the couch.
“That astrophysics book you recommended." He looked at you, something soft in his expression. “I like this. Us. Whatever we’re calling it.”
“What would you call it?”
“Hopeful,” he said simply.
-----
September
The first fight you had was about Maddie.
Not because Joe brought her up, but because you saw a photo of them together on social media—some mutual friend’s wedding where they’d apparently both been guests. They weren’t together in the photo, just happened to be in the same group shot, but seeing her face brought everything flooding back.
“Did you know she was going to be there?” you asked when Joe came over that night.
“Yeah.” He didn’t try to deflect or minimize it. “I almost didn’t go because of it.”
“But you did.”
“I did. Because I’m tired of letting awkward situations control my life.” He sat across from you, not trying to close the distance. “We talked for maybe five minutes. She asked how I was doing, I said I was good, she said she was glad. That was it.”
“How is she?”
“She seemed okay. Happy.” Joe was quiet for a moment. “I owed her an apology too, you know. For letting her think we were building toward something when I was never really present.”
“Did you apologize?”
“Not at the wedding. But I called her a few months ago. Had an actual conversation about how I handled things.”
You felt something ease in your chest. Not jealousy exactly, but the tight knot of unfinished business.
“How did that go?”
“Better than I expected. She said she’d figured out pretty quickly that my heart wasn’t in it, but she’d hoped if she just tried harder…” He shook his head. “Sound familiar?”
It did. The willingness to accept less than you deserved, hoping the other person would eventually see what was right in front of them.
“I’m glad you talked to her,” you said, and meant it.
“Are we okay?” Joe asked.
“Yeah. We’re okay.”
-----
October
The first time you said “I love you” again was anticlimactic and perfect.
You were at Joe's place, attempting to teach him how to make your grandmother's apple pie. He'd insisted he could handle the crust, despite all evidence to the contrary.
“It’s not supposed to look like that,” you said, watching him wrestle with dough that had clearly been overworked.
“What’s wrong with it?”
“It looks like concrete.”
“Edible concrete.”
“That’s generous.”
Joe laughed, flour in his hair and on his shirt, looking more relaxed than you’d ever seen him. “Okay, fine. Show me what I did wrong.”
You moved behind him, covering his hands with yours to guide his movements. “Gentle,” you said. “You’re not trying to conquer it.”
“I’m not good at gentle.”
“You’re learning.”
As you worked together, fixing his mangled pie crust, you felt overwhelmed by how right this felt. How easy. How much you’d missed not just Joe, but this version of Joe—unguarded, willing to fail at something, content to let you take the lead.
“I love you,” you said without thinking.
Joe went still under your hands. “What?”
“I love you,” you repeated, realizing you meant it. Not the desperate, grasping love you’d felt during your relationship, but something steadier. More sure.
He turned in your arms, search your face. “I love you too. I never stopped.”
“I know.” You reached up to brush flour from his cheek. “But this feels different.”
He kissed you then, soft and sweet and tasting like apple and possibility.
-----
November
The first event you attended together as a couple was a charity gala you'd coordinated—your choice, your comfort zone, your rules. Joe wore a perfectly tailored tuxedo and stayed by your side the entire evening, introducing himself to your colleagues, asking thoughtful questions about your work, never once making the night about him.
When a photographer asked for a picture, Joe looked to you first.
"It's your call," he said quietly.
You thought about it—about being public for the first time, about what it would mean, about whether you were ready for that kind of exposure.
"Okay," you said. "But just one."
The photo that ran in the society pages the next day showed you laughing at something Joe had whispered in your ear, his hand on the small of your back, both of you looking genuinely happy.
It was the first time you'd ever been photographed together. The first time the world knew you existed in his life.
December 9th
The night before Joe's birthday, you found yourself nervous. Not because you thought he'd leave—you were past that fear now—but because this felt like a test of how far you'd both come.
"I have something for you," you said as you curled up next to him on his couch.
"My birthday's not until tomorrow."
"I know. But I wanted to give this to you tonight."
You handed him an envelope. Inside were two tickets to Washington DC and a confirmation for a private tour of the National Air and Space Museum.
"The same dates as before," you said. "I never canceled it, just kept pushing it back."
Joe stared at the tickets for a long moment. "Are you sure?"
"I'm sure."
"What changed?"
You thought about it, about the months of rebuilding, about learning to trust again.
"I'm not trying to give you the stars anymore," you said. "I'm trying to share them with you."
Joe's smile was radiant. "That's even better."
He set the tickets carefully on the coffee table, then turned back toward you, his expression soft in a way you hadn’t seen in a long time. He cupped your face gently, thumb brushing over your cheekbone.
“Thank you,” he said, and you knew he wasn’t just talking about the gift.
His forehead rested against yours, his breath warm, and the corner of his mouth tugged upward, like he was holding something back. His thumb brushed your cheekbone again, slower this time, like he was trying to memorize it. The way he was looking at you, like he was seeing something new. The quiet between you felt different now. Not empty, but full of everything you hadn't said yet.
He didn't rush. Joe hardly ever rushed. His hand moved from your cheek down to your neck, fingers trailing along your jaw. When he brushed the hollow of your throat, you found yourself leaning into the touch without thinking about it.
Neither of you spoke.
His other hand moved to your hip, drawing you closer. You were suddenly aware of how much clothing was between you.
You tilted your head slightly and he kissed you. Soft at first, then deeper, like he'd been waiting for permission.
Joe kissed the way he did everything else focused, and sure of himself. He didn't hesitate, but he wasn't rushing either. Just confident in a way that always turned you on.
His mouth moved against yours, coaxing you to open for him. You melted into it immediately, into the heat of him.
His hand slid back into your hair, thumb brushing your jaw like he was holding you exactly where he wanted you. And you wanted to be held there.
When he pulled back, you could still feel the press of his mouth on yours.
He looked at you with that half-smile that always undid you completely.
"Come here," he said, guiding you into his lap.
You moved to straddle him, settling against him naturally. His sweatshirt was soft under your hands as you pressed them to his chest, feeling his heartbeat.
You didn't rush either.
Your fingers slipped under his sweatshirt, palms finding warm skin. You felt his breath catch, his hands tightening at your waist.
Joe's head dipped, lips brushing your jaw, then lower to that spot below your ear that always made you shiver. His mouth moved down your neck, breath warm against your skin.
You shifted slightly in his lap and felt him respond, his breath catching.
His hand moved to your thigh, fingers tracing along the edge of your dress. He took his time, just touching like he was memorizing you.
You kissed him again, deeper this time, your hands in his hair, guiding him where you wanted him. When he made a quiet sound against your mouth, it felt like everything you'd both worked for had led to this moment.
His lips were at your ear, fingers pressing into your hip as he pulled you closer until there was nothing between you.
"You feel that?" he whispered, voice rough.
You nodded, already breathless.
He kissed you again, and when you made a quiet sound against his mouth, his hands tightened at your waist.
You moved against him slowly, and he let you set the pace, his hands steady at your waist.
"Say you'll be mine," he whispered against your lips.
"Yes," you whispered back.
His hands slipped beneath your dress as he tugged you in closer. You could feel the heat of him, even through the last layers between you.
Your fingers slid under the hem of his sweatshirt again, pushing it up slowly. He helped without a word, peeling it over his head and tossing it aside. His skin was warm, and you traced your hands over his chest, down the line of his ribs.
His breath stuttered when you shifted against him again, grinding just enough to feel him fully, already hard and heavy beneath you.
“Fuck,” he muttered under his breath, head tipping back slightly.
You leaned in, kissing along the edge of his jaw, your hands steady as they mapped familiar territory. His hands slid up your thighs, dragging the hem of your dress higher, bunching it around your hips.
His fingers slipped under the edge of your underwear, pushing them aside.
“Jesus,” he murmured, thumb brushing over you again, steady this time. “You’re already…”
“Yeah,” you whispered, voice catching.
His hand tightened at your hip as he kept touching you; slow, careful. Just reading every shift in your breathing, every quiet gasp, adjusting to it.
Your forehead pressed to his, your hips already moving instinctively into the rhythm of his hand.
Your breath hitched, fingers curling tight into his shoulders. He caught it right away, mouth brushing yours before he moved again.
“That’s it,” he whispered. “Come on, baby.”
His voice sent you over the edge faster than you expected. You came quietly, breath stuttering against his lips, your whole body tightening around his hand.
He kissed you through it, his mouth soft but sure, catching every shaky breath.
And when you finally stilled, breath shallow and heartbeat loud in your ears, he was already reaching down, tugging at his sweatpants with one hand while the other stayed firm at your hip.
You shifted to help him, lifting just enough so he could free himself, and then he was there—pressed hot and heavy against you, one hand wrapped around himself, steadying, teasing, just brushing.
Then he guided you down onto him, slow, steady, his breath catching hard when he finally sank in deep.
You both stilled—just breathing, just feeling.
“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, one hand gripping your thigh as he held you there. “You feel… God.”
You didn’t answer—just curled your fingers around the back of his neck and started to move, slow at first. Testing. Learning this new version of each other.
His hands traced your waist, your hips, guiding you but letting you set the pace. When you ground down a little harder, a quiet groan slipped from his lips, and you felt it everywhere—his breath at your throat, his fingers flexing at your sides.
“Look at me,” he said, voice rougher now.
You did.
His gaze held yours as you moved together and when he finally lost a bit of that careful control—when his hips pushed up into yours a little harder, breath coming ragged—you welcomed it. Matched it. Took it.
He cupped your jaw, thumb brushing just under your lip, and kissed you hard as you came again—hard and fast, your body tightening around him.
He followed right after, muttering your name against your mouth, hips snapping up once, twice, before he stilled completely.
Neither of you moved for a while. Just breathing. His forehead pressed to yours, breath still uneven, his hand slipping back to your face, thumb dragging slow along your cheekbone.
When he did speak, his voice was quiet. Rough. Almost like he wasn’t sure if he was saying it at the right time, but he needed to anyway.
“I love you,” he murmured.
You froze, just for a second, but he kept going—like he’d been holding it in so long he couldn’t stop now.
“I’m sorry it took me so fucking long.”
Your throat felt tight. You didn't say anything at first, just let your fingers find the back of his neck, pulling him closer.
"I know," you whispered. "I know you do."
"I love you too."
He exhaled shakily, like he'd been holding his breath. His arms tightened around you, pulling you against him, forehead still pressed to yours.
You stayed like that for a long moment, wrapped around each other, hearts still racing. Everything felt different now. Better. Like you'd finally found your way back to where you were supposed to be.
pairing: aaron hotchner x bau!reader
summary: beth is coming back from hong kong and you feel like hotch’s feelings are slipping away, so you decide to do it first.
content/tw: brace yourself, it’s a long one! established relationship, beth’s coming back, jealous!reader, oblivious!hotch, dave being a father figure (love him), very angsty (at least my attempt), alcohol consuming (barely), lots of crying, happy ending, lmk if i missed something!
word count: 7.3k (stfu challenge level impossible)
a/n: based on this request! this one goes for my people who feel like they have to remove themselves from the situation for things to be okay. know that you are important, wanted and loved! if you ever had a girl crush, sending you an extra hug and much love! hope you like this one💗🪽
dividers by @uzmacchiato
masterlist
The smell of bacon and toast fills the air even before you step into the kitchen.
Aaron is there, scrambling eggs with his shirt still unbuttoned and his hair damp from the shower. He glances up when you step in, already dressed up “Didn’t have time to make coffee.” he explains, nodding to the empty coffee pot plugged on the counter behind him. You shake your head, squinting your eyes at his face.
“Aren’t you at least a little bit embarrassed?” you tease, already starting to brew the coffee beans. It has been almost a year since he bought it – following your suggestion – and he never even cared to learn how to use it. Not that he needed to, really. You were always there to do it for him.
He pressed his lips together in a mocking reflective expression, just to shrug his shoulders “Not really, no.” you just chuckle as the two of you move in sync to finish preparing breakfast.
Just as the eggs were ready, his phone rang all the way to his bedroom. As an old man who still hadn’t created the urge to be glued to his phone 24/7, you took over the bacon pan as he faded into the hallway to pick up.
You were so focused on your task you didn’t realize he was taking too long. It wasn’t until you filled both of your plates and mugs that you noticed he didn’t come back. Your first reaction was too tense, to go after him and check what was wrong, but soon after you heard his laugh, loud and strong, making its way towards you. So, no emergencies.
Sensing it was probably Sean, your boyfriend’s brother, or maybe Rossi with a gossip – something you learnt after you started dating Hotch: the two older men at the BAU were gossipers. Penelope Garcia level gossiper – you stayed back, giving them privacy to chat. Ignoring all the etiquette lessons you had, you started eating alone. At least one of you should enjoy the warm food.
Just when you took the last bite you heard him stepping back into the kitchen, a ghost of a smile still present on his face “Hey, you chatty” you teased. He chuckled, sitting beside you on the stoll and drinking a sip of coffee “Who was it?” your curiosity got the best of you, even though you knew he was going to tell you either way.
“Beth!”
Oh.
“Oh”
“Yeah.” he agrees, taking a bite of the toast, completely oblivious to the gut wrenching feeling taking over your senses “She called me to say she’s coming back. From Hong Kong.”
Oh (but harder).
“That’s… good?”
“It’s great! She got to transfer back for a promotion, with a higher salary and getting to be close to her family.” he explains, sounding way too pleased with himself.
“She rocks.” you cringe immediately, not knowing what the hell you meant by that.
“Right?” fortunately – or not, that’s up to the eye of the beholder – he remained completely clueless to your awkwardness. “Jack’s going to lose it when he hears it.” he said, chuckling to himself.
You hate how hearing this makes you twice as jealous.
“Y’think Jack remembers her?” you wonder, pretending to be unbothered as you wash your dishes in a way to distract yourself. He stays silent for a second, and you hope he’s not picking up on your selfish rotting for the worse.
“He does. Last time she face-timed me, Jack took over half the call.” he says, his voice suddenly closer to you. He takes the dishes from your hand, gently pushing you to the side “That’s on me.” he points kindly, taking over the dishes. You step away, hoping he didn’t feel the sound of your heart breaking.
They face-time each other? Is Jack a part of this? By the way he said it, it seems like a frequent occurrence. Where were you all those times? How could you miss that?
Is this cheating? Objectively speaking, if it was cheating he probably wouldn’t be so blunt about it. And he’s probably the most loyal person you know.
So why does it feel like cheating? Why do you feel betrayed? Why do you feel so jealous?
Trying to take a hold of the situation, you fight to appear normal, trying your best to hide your anxiousness and all of self-doubt, at least while you figure your feelings out. Otherwise you’d probably end up locked in a mental asylum.
.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.
It turned out the mental asylum would probably be a nicer place to be than your own head right now.
As the day passed by, you started to notice how excited Aaron was for Beth’s arrival. If you missed their calls before, you definitely weren’t now. Every other day you stumbled on him somewhere in the house, his phone balanced between his shoulder and his ear while he finished a task.
When it wasn’t the calls, it was the texting. He would send her pictures about things she liked and places she missed. She would always send a picture of everything that was different over there, ask silly questions about the job or about Jack.
And Jack was a whole other problem. Not a problem, actually. But his obvious adoration towards the woman made you bitter. You found yourself losing your appetite more often than not every time Jack asked about her in the middle of dinner or lunch. Which was a horror on its own, but it was even worse because every time he did it, soon after the meal ended Hotch would call her to tell her about it.
You felt like an outsider.
The worst part was that it wasn’t even their fault. Everytime you walked by him, he asked you to join the call, pulling you to sit with him and chat with the woman on the other side of the screen. She would ask about you, about your likes and dislikes. She would joke about Hotch, about his sleep myoclonus, about his ability to fall asleep in the first few minutes of a movie. You laughed with her, making fun of his antic habits as if sharing that with her didn’t feel like a knife in your gut.
When she finally came back, it was, somehow, worse.
Hotch insisted that you’d tag along on their catching ups, you hang with them as she went out with the team. You had playdates with her and Jack.
It was now safe to say: you hated Beth. And you were completely obsessed with her.
You watched the way she spoke, the way she dressed. How she smiled, how she laughed. The exact color of her lipstick, her haircut.
When her nails were perfectly made. She was so elegant. You started doing your nails weekly.
Next time you saw her, her nails were chipped and two of them were broken. She was so carefree. You cancelled your membership at the nail salon.
One would think Beth was a frequent character in Hotch's life. She really wasn’t. With all the cases, Jack and his relationship with you, he barely had time to actually hang out with Beth. But there was no point, and the damage was made.
Ever since he took that call, she made her way into your head, building her own little house with a balcony and a white fence. Even if she wasn’t around, your mind made sure to think about her. You hated hearing her name, but you secretly hoped it would come up in the middle of the conversation.
When his phone rang, you braced yourself, preparing for that gut wrenching pain you were oh, so familiar with. 9 out of 10 times, it wasn’t her. But 1 out of ten times, it was. And when you hear him calling her name, smiling easily at the speaker like she was seeing him, you felt your world fall apart, and what a comforting sensation that was.
You had no idea how you could crave someone as much as you craved her.
You wanted her gone.
The thought came to you out of nowhere, in the middle of the night. You were sleeping on his bed – almost yours by now – and his body involuntarily jerked. And there it was: another sleepless night. You were reminded of her, and now you were cursed to spend the rest of the evening wondering if she slept on the same side of the bed you were in, on how she would react. Would she laugh? Would she wake him? Would she pretend she didn’t see it?
It was maddening. It had to stop.
It wasn’t going to stop. You had to get out of this.
When the thought came, it stayed. You haven’t thought about it before, but you knew it. It had to be done. There was no way you would survive this. There was no way you could compete with this, with her. They understood each other to a degree you could never. They were the same age, and had the same references. They were both divorced, they had experiences you still haven’t had. You hated being outside of their inside jokes, even if said jokes were whatever was fashion in the 70’s.
Truth to be told, you wouldn’t even be with him if she hadn’t moved out of the country. And now she was back, reclaiming her old apartment, her athletic habits and his heart.
You weren’t dumb. You could see he loved you. But he loved her too. And you wouldn’t settle for half. Even if it killed you inside.
Besides being younger than Aaron – and Beth – you were very mature. Mature enough to understand that you shouldn’t make a big deal out of this. You knew, usually, the right thing to do was to talk about your feelings. To explain where you were coming from and make changes in order to keep the relationship alive.
But how could you go to the man you loved and beg him to not fall back in love with his ex? What exactly do you want to achieve by talking to him about it? He wasn’t doing anything wrong, you know that much. He would probably just stop talking to her ‘if it meant not making you insecure’, but you know very well how that would turn out. You didn’t want it to end with a fight, and you didn’t want to feel like you had to put up a fight to keep the man you love. You didn’t deserve that, and neither did him.
So, piece by piece, you started to make your way out of Aaron’s life.
.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.
You usually spent the majority of your time in his place. And you started to change that, slowly starting to spend more time in your rented apartment than in his. Piece by piece, you started to move back your clothes. First a blouse, then a pajama. Evolving to your dresses, shoes, and your products.
It was going by unnoticed, until after you moved almost all the products on your side of his bathroom’s cabinet. A wednesday morning, while getting ready to work, you opened it to find everything back where they belonged.
You stayed there, shocked for a few seconds, your heart racing. The toothbrush inside your mouth is frozen, the minty foam starting to burn your gums. Aaron stepped on the bathroom behind you, fixing his cufflinks and looking at you through the mirror.
“Oh, I saw you ran out of them.” he explained, casually pointing at the new stack of products, completely unaware of your mind short circuiting “You didn’t restock, but I remembered them from last time. I had to go to the drugstore anyway.” he shrugged, reaching for his cologne and stepping out like he didn’t just shatter your whole world.
Later, when your tears smudged your mascara, you just said you choked with the mouthwash.
.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.
After a while, you’d spent so much time on your own place that Aaron started to miss you. Not only that, he questioned it. One specific morning, you were in the shared kitchen in the BAU mixing a bowl of yogurt with cereals and fruits when you felt a pair of large hands clinging to your hips. Yelping in surprise, you turned to face your boyfriend.
“Hey, you scared me.” you chuckled, picking up the bowl to put something between the two of you.
“I miss you.” he said, simply. He wasn’t whining, or complaining, or even trying to talk you out of your devious plan – not that he knew about it. He was just stating a fact, as clear as the day, the same way and tone he announced a profile or call a meeting.
Not knowing what to answer without breaking into tears, you stuffed a spoon full of greek yogurt, granola and strawberries into your mouth. While you did it, you mumbled something he couldn’t comprehend. Figuring you said you missed him too, he just moved on, leaning over your head to reach for the cabinet.
“Can I take you out for dinner tonight?” he asked, grabbing the freshly made coffee and filing his mug “It’s been a while since we left the house.”
You swoon at him, taking a deep breath before answering “It has. But I have plans.” you grimaced “Girls night.” you explained, chewing on the granola for longer than needed.
Aaron stopped for a second, his steaming mug already halfway to his lips. “Oh.” He wasn’t the kind of boyfriend to be in the way of your life, but he usually was aware of your plans. Not in a controlling way, but by knowing you, talking to you. And he was just realizing how it felt not knowing. He hated it. Not being a man to give up, he quickly came up with another idea “I can make you that BLT you like while you get ready.” not seeing you immediately jump with joy – as you usually do when BLT is mentioned – he suggested “Or we can stop at McDonalds drive-thru when I pick you up later.”
Your heart did a backflip and shattered in a thousand pieces with the sight of his puppy eyes, expectantly looking at you.
“Oh that sounds lovely. But the bar we’re heading it’s the one across the street from my building. We’re walking there.” you explain, placing a hand on his chest gently, fixing the lapels of his suit. He looked down at your hands, fighting the urge to pull you by his arms and lock you in there. He wasn’t sure what was happening, but his gut knew something didn’t sit right.
“Text me when you get there. And when you get home.” he says, more a statement than a request. Your safety was not negotiable. You nodded, stepping closer to him and giving him a quick peck on the side of his jaw.
“I promise!” and you meant it, winking at him as you move to leave the kitchen.
Just as you step outside the perimeter, you almost bump into Rossi, who’s just standing there with his hands buried in his pockets and his eyebrow raised so high it was almost blending his hairline. Not ready to handle his piercing gaze – knowing you’d crumble at the first couple minutes –, you just nodded and gave him one of your best polite smiles, speeding your pace all the way to your desk.
.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.
After you knocked twice on the office door, you stared at the words “David Rossi” engraved on the metal platter in its center as you waited for him to open.
When he did, you were surprised to see his office drowned in low light coming from the lamp on his desk and the moonlight peeking through the widow.
“You wanted to see me?” it meant as a statement: he did ask to see you. At first, you were sure it had something to do with the case you were consulting, the topic you and him were talking about during dinner. What confused you was that the setting looked anything but professional, if the expensive bourbon bottle and the two glasses sitting on the table wasn’t enough of a tell.
“Yes. Come in.” he said, waiting for you to walk into the office to close the door. You stood awkwardly in the middle of the room, waiting for him to take the lead. Unaware – or, most probably, choosing to ignore – your startled state, he slowly made his way to the couch on the back of the room, filling up both glasses before sitting comfortably.
Taking one of the glasses, you sat beside him, pressing your lips together and trying not to bounce your leg to ease the tension.
“How was girls night?” Rossi asks, raising his glass to his lips. He didn’t even look at you as he waited for your answer, his tone almost mocking you.
Having absolutely no idea what he was going with this, you decided to play along “It was fun.”
He nodded “I see.” You took a sip of your drink, trying to keep your posture. It didn’t work. As soon as the burning liquid settled in your stomach, you turned to face him. Terrible idea.
“Dave, what’s going on? What is this?”
“You know,” he started, completely ignoring your question “People may think about profiling as a criminal study. They think we have to learn about psychopaths, stressors, geography, and criminal patterns. That it’s about getting in the mind of crazy people and figuring them out.”
“And it isn’t?” you blinked, drowned by his speech.
“Oh, definitely. But it’s not just that. It’s about studying people. Feelings, motivations. Learning, understanding their behaviour and using it to figure out their intentions.”
And that’s when it hit you: he knew.
“We have an unspoken policy in the BAU: not profiling each other.” he began, turning his body to face you.
“So why are you profiling me?” you asked, voice edging and uneasy, desperately trying to stop him from putting into words. He ignored it.
“You’re breaking up with him.” Not a question, not a suggestion, and definitely not a doubt. “I know what this is about. Who this is about.” your chewed on your bottom lip, deciding on what to say.
“Please, don’t try to talk me out of it.” you beg, hating how weak your own voice sounds. He took another long and lazy sip, and you watched as the liquid clinged to his lips, the wet reflecting the low light of the lamp.
“I won’t.” he stared at you, his eyes squinting slightly “I’m here to encourage you.”
You frowned, your eyebrows pinching together “What?”
“Yes. You really should break up with him. You know, if you’re in such an unbearable relationship.” You roll your eyes, tilting your head back.
“Stop.”
“No, seriously. Do you think he’s what? Cheating on you with Beth?”
“What? That’s not what this is about. I know he’s not cheating.” you defend yourself, cringing at the topic of the discussion.
“Then what is it?”
“I’m just…” your eyes burn with tears harder than the liquid on your throat when you down the rest of the bourbon before continuing “I’m not her.”
“You sure? Under this specific light I could’ve swore…”
“Dave!” you whine, and he chuckles.
“Yes, you’re not Beth.” you grimace at her name, not bothering to hide your feelings anymore “Why are you saying this as a bad thing?”
“Because it is. She’s back now and…” you feel a tear striking down your cheek as you gesticulate “She just fits. She gets him.”
“And you don’t?”
You sigh “You must think I sound really stupid.”
“Oh, you sound absolutely ridiculous.” you look at him, looking at a smirk on his face. Before you realize it, you’re laughing as well, but in a weak and depressed way “Love does this to us. Make us blind to the obvious. Clouds our judgement and turns us into…” he gesticulates towards you. You roll your eyes, but you’re not crying anymore “I have three divorces, so you’d think I know one thing or two about failed relationships. And let me tell you: yours isn’t one of them.”
“You’re just saying this because you’re his best friend.”
“I’m saying this because I love you.” he stated bluntly, and you widened your eyes in surprise, not expecting this. “And it'll kill me to see you do something I know you’ll regret later.” he leaned closer, looking at you with a paternal love that made you uneasy “Hotch loves you, kid. Don’t try to assume things. Let him know.”
“It’s hard.”
“I know it is. It has to be, don’t you think?” he smiles, the wrinkle on the corner of his eyes enhancing his passion towards the subject “Or else is not worth it. But talk to him. You know him more than I do, but I’m pretty sure you’re seeing things out of a place of hurt, probably past experiences.” he nod his head in a knowing gesture “From what I see, you’re out of your mind if you think that Hotch would ever consider living his life away from you.”
You only notice the tear streaming down your cheeks like a waterfall when his fingers gently wipe them away.
“Sorry.” you mumble, and he shakes his head.
“Listen, if it doesn’t work out, it doesn’t. It’ll be fine too. You’ll be fine. But just don’t let it all go to waste before at least giving him a chance.”
.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.
It got to a point where you had to stop for a second to wipe the sweat out of your eyelids to see. By the time you reached your – Aaron’s – front door, your heartbeat had lowered to a normal rhythm and your skin was now cold rather than wet. You spent almost the entire night awake, tossing and turning on the bed. The night went so late it was almost morning, so you figured it made more sense to just get up and do something other than to lay in the dark with nothing but your loud and torturous mind.
Running, these past few weeks, were your loyal ally to your early mornings. That specific day, you just got back from an over two hour long run, finally feeling your limbs hurting more than your heart. As you walked in, you were surprised to find Aaron pacing around the living room, something crumpled up on one of his fist, a piece of paper in the other.
When he looked at you, his face was everything but stoic: he looked panicked, tortured, confused and, overall, hurting. “We need to talk” he said, quietly. If you listened closely, you could hear the way his voice wobbled in the middle of the sentence, like he didn’t actually want to talk. Like he wanted you to just be confused, and just ask what he meant by that, and that you weren’t being distant, he was just paranoid. Anything that could prove, beyond reasonable doubt, that you weren’t, in fact, leaving.
Despite all his silent wishes you just nodded, making your way to the couch “Yeah, we do.”
Hoping the sound of his heart shattering wasn't loud enough for you to hear, he made his way to the couch in front of you, distant enough for him to think clearly – as much as possible, under the circumstances. For a minute you just stared at each other, the weight of everything unsaid so heavy it could suffocate.
You glanced down at his hands, still not managing to understand what he was holding so tight on his fist. On the other hand, you could finally see what it was. Before you left the house that morning, already planning on staying out for long, you wrote him a note with the steps to use the coffee pot.
“Before we start,” he began, his voice hoarse. He clears his throat before continuing “I already know. So there’s no need to lie.” you gulp, shifting in your seat. You never lied to him before, but it was fair of him to point it out. You weren’t being exactly honest. And even though you knew what he was talking about, it still surprised you when he finally said it out loud “When exactly you were planning on breaking up with me?”
Your breath hitched, panic rushing through your veins. It didn’t matter that you still weren't sure about what to do, there was no point in lying. Not anymore. It hurt you to think about it, but actually admitting to him was a whole other level of pain.
“I don’t know.” you answer weakly.
He blinks. And then chuckles.
When he dips his head down, you stare at him confused. The only thing you catch is the way his head shakes slightly, his fists flexing but never letting go of your note and the other white soft – looks fluffy? Is it a stress relief ball? – thing. Aaron tilts his head up and his eyes are full of tears. They are shiny and reddish, and you want nothing more than to make it all go away.
“Hotch,” you try, because just watching him crumble in front of you is not an option.
“Jesus! Stop calling me that.” he spat, frowning.
“Your name?”
“That’s not my name. Not to you. Not in here.” he adverts, the pain muffling the anger in his tone.
You chew on your bottom lip, trying to hold back the tears that are threatening to fall from your eyes. Sniffing as quietly as possible, you look at him “Do you think this is easy for me?”
“It must be!” he says, barely containing himself, “You’re doing it all behind my back, vanishing from my life little by little, until all I have left is an empty drawer with nothing but this shirt and a coffee pot I don't know how to use.” and you finally understand what he was holding on so tightly. It’s a plain silky pajama shirt. It’s the only piece of clothing because it’s matching short you – he – ended up tearing it in half on the first night you wore it.
“I left you instructions.” you point to the paper in his other hand.
“I don’t want to learn.” he looks disgusted at the paper, like it personally offended him “I’m not learning how to use it.” he emphasizes.
You try again “It’s not that hard.”
“I won’t.”
That discussion was pointless, anyway. It is something to cling onto while avoiding the main issue. Sighing deeply in order to avoid crying, you change the subject “Listen, it’s nothing with you. It’s me.” you snort at that, because it’s that old cheesy and shitty excuse. But it’s the truth. “I’m just…” it’s all you manage to say before the tears blur your vision and you have to dip your head down to try and wipe them away.
His voice filled your ears, making you glance up to face him again. “I noticed that you weren’t being yourself, but I figured you’d tell me. It was something from work, or your family. I didn’t think it was this. It was us.” his voice weakens, and he has to gulp before continuing “Aren’t you happy anymore?”
“I… there’s a lot going on.” you feel your nose burning, and you stop caring if he sees the tears streaming down your face.
“Tell me what I did.” his demeanor changes, and he doesn’t look sad and confused anymore. He sounds energetic, urgent, demanding and begging all together “Tell me where I got it wrong, i can change it. I’ll do it right. I’ll do it better.”
Hearing this, combined with the raw desperation on his voice, so opposite from his usual calm and steady behavior, only makes you cry harder, and you don’t even try to wipe them away.
“You did nothing wrong. Nothing. I don’t want you to change. I just…” a strangled hiccup interrupted your speech, and you feel ridiculous, weak, dramatic and lonely. You want this to end, but also you want this to have never happened. “I shouldn’t feel this way in a relationship.”
He nodded, thinking. When Aaron speaks again, his voice is much calmer. Resignated, even. “So that’s it, then? You have your mind made up? Nothing I say will change it.” and it’s not a question anymore.
“I’m doing this for you, I want nothing more than what’s best for you.”
“Bullshit.” he snapped, his words startling you “Why are you doing this? Is it the job? You said it’s not me. Is it Jack? Is this life too much for you? The responsibility of…”
“What? Of course not!” your heart aches thinking about it. It hurts that he thinks this, but you have no one but yourself to blame “I love Jack. I love our… this life.”
He stays silent for a second, as if analyzing your explanation — or lack thereof. “Is it someone else?” you stop, and blinks. This is it. You won’t lie straight to his face. He stiffens, and it doesn’t need another word from you to understand. “Who is him?”
“Him?” you frown in the middle of your tears, so confused you stopped crying. “What do you mean?”
“You said there was someone else.” he squinted his eyes at you.
“I didn’t, you did.”
“You didn’t deny it. Who is he?” he insisted, his jaw tensed.
“Who do you think I am?” you asked, actually aggravated at his accusations “I would never…”
“Who is he?” he interrupts you, his eyes burning holes in your head.
“There's no he. It’s Beth.”
Hotch’s jaw is immediately unlocked at that, the anger and betrayal completely subsided by complete shock and confusion. “What? You and… Beth?”
“Huh?” you were the one left in confusion now. How did he get to that conclusion? For a second, you didn’t feel the excruciating pain and humiliation from admitting your feelings to him “No. You and Beth.”
“What do I have to do with this?” he asks, his confusion turning to aggravation once again “You don’t like our friendship? That’s why you're breaking up with me?”
Now, said excruciating pain and humiliation were back on its full force. You ignored the lump on your throat, taking a deep breath and explaining the situation in the most sober and objective way possible. “I realized you and her fit more together than me and you, and…” your voice faltered as you saw his outrageous expression “...the two of you only broke up because she moved away. You’re all happy that she’s coming back. I just figured…”
“What?” he interrupted, his voice sharp and edgy “That i’d break up with you to be with her?” asking like it was a ridiculous thought. You stayed silent, because that was exactly what you thought. He huffed an incredulous laugh through his nose “Jesus. Did I ever give you a reason to question me? Or my loyalty?” he accused, his voice showing more worry than anger.
“No. Actually I don't know if you’d break up with me. That’s why I saved you the trouble.” you shrugged, trying not to show how much it hurt you to say it.
“Jesus fucking christ.” he muttered, pintching the bridge of his noise “Are you even hearing yourself?”
“Stop talking like I'm insane.” you snapped, losing your patience “You’re the one making phone calls, facetiming and going on dates with your ex girlfriend. I saw you when the two of you broke up. I was there. You were in pain. How am I supposed to feel? How am I supposed to handle this? How am I supposed to compete with this? Explain to me, Aaron. Because I have no fucking clue.”
The moment you stopped speaking, you realized you were almost yelling. It was the first time you let out your anger, your hurt. All the time you kept saying you were doing the best: for Aaron, for Jack, for Beth… Not once you stopped to think how much it sucked to be you, to deal with all of that. Yes, you could’ve talked to him sooner. But you shouldn’t have felt like that. No one should.
When you asked him to explain, to tell you what to do, it wasn’t a fight. It wasn’t sass. You were actually asking, begging for him, for someone, to tell you how to feel. It didn’t make sense, none of this made sense to you. It was too overwhelming, and you just wanted it to be gone. You wanted to disappear.
You noticed too late you were crying, fully sobbing now, with one hand clutched to your chest, as if you tried to rip your heart out, and the other resting against your throat, trying to soothe the pain from talking so loud. You didn’t see how his expression softened, his anger melting into pure sorrow. He couldn’t believe he did that to you, that he, of all people, made you feel this way.
A few minutes had passed when he finally made a move. He got up from his couch and crossed the room, sitting right by your side. His knees were pressed against your thighs, his eyes filled with tears. His body and his soul were completely in surrender to yours.
“I’m sorry,” he said, simply. “I should’ve seen it before. I shouldn't have acted like this. Or at least, talked to you about it. I’m not trying to make any excuses for the way I acted, but I need to explain.” he cleared, his eyes scanning your face every 10 seconds, trying to find any hint of chance in your stance “The thought of someone other than you, in a romantic way, is so out of my reality that I didn’t even considered her a ‘threat’. Not that she, or anyone, is a threat. But I really didn’t see the situation as something that could’ve hurt you. And that was my first mistake.”
“She knows you in a way that I can’t.”
“You know me in a way no one can.” he argued “You were my subordinate, then my work colleague, my friend. Now you’re my best friend and my family. You’re the woman I love.” he gulped, flinching at his own words and feeling the hot streak of a lonely tear falling from his eye. The one he couldn’t hold back. “I don’t want you going back to being less than that.”
Your posture didn’t show any kind of surrender. But he didn’t see resistance either, and when you turned to face him, he noticed that you didn’t keep arguing and just waited to listen. Taking it as a good (the best yet) sign, he pressed further.
“There’s nothing going on between me and Beth. She happened to be the first friend I’ve had outside of the job for a long time, that’s all. I don’t know if it will help to hear this,” he tried, hesitantly “...but her leaving wasn’t the only reason why we broke up.” seeing your questioning expression, he kept going “We came to the realization we worked better as friends anyway, and it was just a matter of time for us to end things. The moving just happened first.” he shrugged.
You opened your mouth to speak, but he anticipated your argument “Yes, I did suffer. It was a change in scenario, how could I not? But as I said, we knew it was happening. So what it hurt the most was actually Jack. I felt like the worst parent from giving another sort of mother figure just to take it away from his life. Again.”
Before you could think properly, your hand reached out to his, squeezing in a silent reassurance. He always doubted his parental skills, and you were always making sure to remind him how amazing he was. Even now, with your heart broken and your relationship hanging by a thread, you still found a way to comfort him.
How could he lose something like this? Someone like this? How could he let you go? How could he make you feel that way? He had to press his lips together in a thin line to keep them from trembling, and to hold back the force of his grip when he squeezed your hand back, making sure he wasn’t hurting you as he not so subtly tried to hold on to you. To keep you from leaving.
“Honey,” he started, not even caring about his voice cracking. He couldn’t wait any longer, or lose any more chances. This was it. “I love you so much. I know this isn’t ideal, and I hate myself for ever making you feel this way. If not being with me will make you happier, then…” he gulped “...I’ll let you go. But if this situation is the only reason, please, don’t go. Please, give me a chance to show you how you’re the only one I want.”
You feel your tears running freely from your face, and you choke up a sob before speaking, your voice so weak it was barely hearable “I feel really immature.”
He laughs, but it doesn’t sound like he’s making fun of you. It sounds like he’s gone completely mad, like your admission was the water bottle after two days in the desert. It gave him hope.
“No.” he denied firmly, not letting go of your hand even for a second “Now that I think about it, if the tables were turned, I might’ve murdered your ex.” he whispered like a secret. It was so unexpected and so out of character of him that you laughed, surprising both you and him. He smiled from ear to ear at the sound of it. “I’m really sorry, I should’ve been more careful with the situation.”
“I should’ve just talked to you instead of jumping to conclusions.” you smiled apologetically. He ignores your attempt, looking deep into your eyes and calling your name with such a raw expectation that if you weren’t already seated, you would’ve fell.
“Did you change your mind?” you hesitate for a second, and he sees right through you “Tell me you have. I know you want to, I can feel it.” His voice is quiet, his words so soft spoken it feels like a spell. Only you know that you do want to be with him, now that is all cleared. “Please, give me a chance to make things right.”
You chew on your bottom lip as your eyes fill with tears again “I feel stupid.” you admit, and he wants nothing more than to cry his eyes out.
“Don’t say that ever again.” he leans in hesitantly, and when you don’t flinch or pull back, he wipes the tears from your face with the pad of his thumb. The other hand is still holding yours firmly “You were protecting yourself, as you should’ve. Thank you.”
“What for?” you snort between tears, not understanding what he could possibly be thankful for in this situation.
“Thank you for protecting and taking such good care of someone I love so much. Especially when I was too damn blind to see that she needed it.”
After that, there was no point of dragging this any further: you were completely and undeniably his.
He didn’t see it coming, his body jerking in surprise when you literally jumped to his lap, hugging him tightly and burying your face on his neck, sobbing and muttering apologies on repeat. His lips were glued to the crown of your head, kissing you repeatedly. His hands were all over you, touching from your feet to the strands of your hair, as if his body needed to feel you there, to make sure you were with him, for his mind to completely wrap up around the fact that you weren’t going anywhere.
Ignoring your words, he whispered his own, “Don’t you ever apologize. I should be the one apologizing. I’m so sorry, sweetheart.” and it’s the only moment his lips leave your skin “I’m sorry. I will never make you feel this way. If I ever hurt you like that again, and I won’t, I want you…”
“Don’t say it.” you cut him off. He ignores, once again.
“...to just shoot me in the face. Kill me.”
You chuckle weakly, lifting your head from his chest to face him properly “Dude, you gotta stop with the murder threats.” he arches his eyebrow at you, the corner of his mouth twitching in a smirk.
“Dude? Who do you think you’re talking to?” he asks, and his finger tickles your sides as the stubble on his beard tickles your neck. Your body jerks and twitches on top of his while you laugh loudly, but never moving away from his.
When he finally feels you learned your lessons, his hands rested comfortably around your waist in its rightful place. You sigh, looking at him.
“Promise me that you will always talk to me, and be honest about your feelings. No matter how ugly you think they are.”
“I promise.” you say as you wipe the wet off his face, and it’s just then that he realizes he’d been crying all along “Promise me that if your feelings for me change, you’ll communicate.” he rolls his eyes so hard it feels like they’ll hit the back of his head “Promise.” you insist.
“I promise.” he says, seriously. When you relax, he starts again. “Matter of fact, my feelings just changed.” you squint your eyes at his playful tone “A few minutes ago I wanted to stop by your place to get back the clothes you took. But now, I’ve decided you’ll be spending the rest of the weekend with nothing to wear but that shirt.” he says, leaning – without moving you away from his lap – to grab the piece of fabric he left on the center table.
“I have to get at least underwear.” you argue.
“If you behave, I’ll let you borrow a couple boxers.”
“Jack will see it.”
“He’s a kid. And they’re the exact same size of what you call your casual shorts so I doubt he’ll notice the difference.” he points seriously and you squeal, slapping his chest slightly.
“That’s rude. And humiliating.”
“That’s what you get for stealing.”
Your mouth hangs open for a second “I didn’t steal! I didn’t take anything from your house but my clothes.”
“This house is ours.” he stares at you deeply, waiting for his statement to sink in before continuing “So is everything in it. From the bedroom to the coffee pot and, therefore, your clothes. So, basically, you stole from us.” he shrugged, like he made a perfect point. You just laugh, choosing to accept it.
“I’m sorry for stealing.” he nodded politely and you dive back into his embrace, sighing happily “Can we stay like this forever?” Aaron tight his arms around you, his whole body answering before any words came out.
“I’ll think about it. But before that, we have to eat. You're probably on the verge of dehydration right now.” he points, standing up with you still in his arms, and makes his way toward the kitchen. He settles you in one of the stools and hands you your shirt “Go change while I make us breakfast. Now that I’ve learnt how to use the coffee pot.”
You gasp, widening your eyes in a mock-threat. Jumping out of the stool with your shirt already crumpled on your hands, you stomp your way to where he stands behind the stove, pointing your finger to his chest. “You can cook whatever you want, but don't you dare touch the coffee pot, Aaron Hotchner.”
Aaron does just as you said, beaming while frying the bacon even when you’re upstairs in his shower. Your shower. And both of you know, somehow, you’ll be okay.
taglist: all hotch @winyourheartemma all cm @s0urw00lf @deeninadream @khxna
clark kent x reader warnings: angst to fluff, clark using his superhearing to spy, jealous!clark, not proofread :0 word count: 3,000k
clark kent doesn’t do love. he tells himself he doesn’t have time for it. i mean, how could he, with the weight of an entire world on his shoulders? one more person to worry about would be a distraction, a weakness. at least, that’s what he used to believe. but then you came into his life. you waltzed into the daily planet with your perfect smile and beautiful features, and swept him off his feet—literally (lois still teases him about it). and everyone sees it, even if he thinks he’s good at hiding secrets. he hovers without hovering, the kind of man who will cross a crowded newsroom just to put your coffee down exactly where your hand is about to reach for it. he buys your lunch when you forget, pulls your chair out before you can, nearly trips over himself when you say thanks, clark, with a bright smile.
so when he walks into the bullpen that afternoon, balancing two coffees because he knows your usual order and wanted to surprise you, it feels like the floor drops out beneath him because his hearing snags on your voice. “…jimmy is so cute and amazing and everything he does is just perfect. i think i’m in love with him.”
the cup nearly slips out of his hand. his jaw clenches, something sick curling in his stomach, because you sound so sure—like it’s been sitting heavy on your chest for weeks and you finally let it out. he freezes in the doorway, coffee cup creasing between his thick fingers, staring at you and lois huddled by her desk like the world didn’t just tilt sideways. he forces himself to move, to keep walking, though each step feels wrong, like wading through cement. he sets the extra coffee down on your desk without a word, the gesture suddenly hollow, stupid. his throat is tight, his ears ringing with the echo of your confession.
"ugh, my hero," you grin, looking up to see him. he just nods, eyes looking everywhere but you. then, without a sheepish goodbye, or a murmured compliment, he trudges to his desk. you furrow a brow, watching the way his shoulders slump and his mouth curves downwards. you shrug and sip the coffee, practically groaning at the taste.
clark can barely focus for the next ten minutes because lois is still laughing at whatever you said, patting your back, and putting way too much sugar in her cup. when he moves his chair farther away from her chattering, he's met with the sight of perfect little jimmy olsen. clark knows it's wrong, but he can't help but feel hatred towards the red-head. of course you’d want jimmy. why wouldn’t you? he’s—he’s everything. he’s normal. he’s good. he's not…clark. he exhales deeply, pushing the thoughts out of his brain and rising to his feet. he mutters something about interviewing superman to lois before slinging his bag over his broad shoulder. for the first time in months, clark passes your desk without tripping over his own feet or offering to bring you back lunch. he just keeps his gaze straight, ignoring the small smile you send him that would've had him in cardiac arrest last week. when he shuts the door to the stairwell, he slams it harsher than usual.
"huh," you murmur, more to yourself than anyone else. it’s odd, the absence of his usual stammer, the way he doesn’t even pause to ask if you’ll need anything while he’s out. clark kent doesn’t just leave. not without fussing. not without that earnest, big smile that always makes you laugh under your breath. you glance toward the glass doors just in time to see the back of him vanish into the street. his frame seems even larger when weighed down with that invisible heaviness, his shoulders hunched like the city itself pressed down on them.
lois waves a hand in front of your face. “earth to dream girl. what’s got you staring holes into the exit sign?”
“nothing,” you say quickly, taking another sip of your coffee. it burns your tongue, but you don’t flinch. “he’s just…weird today.”
lois smirks, like she knows something you don’t. “maybe you’ve finally scared him off.” you roll your eyes, but there’s a seed of unease tucked somewhere beneath your ribs. clark, ignoring you? clark, walking out without a word? something’s off, and you don't like it.
meanwhile, he’s already halfway down the block, jaw tight, breath sharp against the collar of his shirt. every noise in the city seems louder, harsher. he wants to fly, to tear through the clouds until the ache in his chest evaporates, but even that won’t fix the image burned into his head—your smile, your voice, the certainty when you said something about loving jimmy. he adjusts his glasses, forces his hands into his pockets. you deserve jimmy, he tells himself. you deserve someone simple. someone safe. not a man who lies every day just to keep you from finding out what he is. but god, it really does feel like he’s been punched through a building.
~
the next morning, the newsroom is its usual chaos of ringing phones and rustling paper. you’re perched at your desk, expecting the familiar shadow of clark kent to appear at your elbow with a steaming cup balanced carefully in his hand. but he doesn’t. he walks straight past you, no “morning,” no stammered compliment about your outfit, not even the ghost of his bashful smile. his stride is stiff, mechanical. he sits, adjusts his glasses, and pretends the stack of notes on his desk is suddenly urgent.
your brows pinch, the silence where clark usually is buzzing like a mosquito in your ear. from across the bullpen, lois notices immediately. she grins like a cat with cream, rolling her chair over until she bumps against clark’s desk with a little thunk. “wow,” she drawls, crossing her arms. “no coffee or expensive danish for your girlfriend today? what’s the world coming to, kent?”
normally, clark would flush bright red, choke on his words, maybe even sputter something about she’s not my girlfriend. today, though, he just stares at his computer, jaw tight. “it’s not funny, lois.”
her smirk falters, curiosity sparking. “okay, grumpy. what’s crawled up your cape?”
he exhales slowly through his nose, voice quiet enough that only she can hear. “i heard you two yesterday. by your desk. i wasn’t trying to eavesdrop, but i couldn’t not hear it. she basically confessed her love for jimmy.”
lois blinks, letting the information sink in, then lets out a bark of laughter so loud perry pokes his head out of his office and scowls. she waves him off, shoulders shaking. “oh, clark,” she says finally, grinning like she’s just been handed front-page gossip. “you are so out of your depth.”
he looks at her, confused and a little wounded. “lois-” but she’s already rolling back toward her desk, still laughing under her breath, deciding it’ll be far more entertaining to let him stew in his own misery than clear things up for him. from your desk, you glance between the two of them, unsettled by the storm cloud hanging over clark’s usually sunny face.
~
by the end of the day, you’re convinced something’s wrong. it’s not you—at least, you don’t think so. clark isn’t avoiding eye contact out of shyness, he’s dimmer. a man sized shadow slumped in his chair, typing but not seeing, answering questions with one-syllable words. it unsettles you. so, on impulse, you stop by his apartment that evening, balancing a warm paper bag of his favorite takeout against your hip. you knock, humming under your breath, rehearsing some lighthearted line about him looking like he needed it.
when the door creaks open, you almost drop the bag. clark stands there, hair mussed, tie still crooked from work. his glasses slide a fraction down his nose and he doesn’t even push them back up. his expression is blank, exhausted—nothing like the clark kent that you know. “hi,” you start, lifting the bag like an offering. “i, um…thought you might want dinner. you seemed…i don’t know. sad, today.”
for a beat, he just blinks at you. no blush, no stammer, just an emptiness that makes your stomach twist. and it’s impossible not to remember the last time you stood at this doorway. it was months ago, when you came to return the coat he’d forgotten at the office. he’d opened the door with his shirt half-tucked, papers scattered behind him, his ears blazing red. he’d practically yelped, slammed the door in your face, and by the time he opened it again—thirty seconds later—his hair was brushed, his apartment spotless, his shirt pressed like he’d just stepped out of the dry cleaner. you never questioned it, just laughed at how adorably flustered he was.
but tonight, none of that frantic effort. no rush to impress you. just clark, a shell of himself, standing there like he doesn’t quite know what to do with your kindness. “you didn’t have to do that,” he says finally, voice low, almost flat.
you frown. “clark, it’s just noodles. not exactly a grand gesture.” he steps aside reluctantly, letting you in. the apartment is dull, curtains drawn, papers stacked haphazardly on the table. he doesn’t make any excuse for the mess, doesn’t try to straighten anything. you set the bag down, glance back at him. “are you gonna tell me what’s wrong, or do i have to guess?”
his throat works. he looks at you, then away, as if the sight of you burns. clark rubs a hand over his face, glasses skewing, and mutters, “it’s nothing. really.”
you narrow your eyes. “you look like your dog died.”
“i don’t…have a dog. well, not really,” he says, almost defensively, before realizing how stupid it sounds.
you huff out a laugh despite yourself, unpacking the food. “exactly my point. sit down before you collapse on me.” he obeys, but slowly, like his body weighs twice as much tonight. he doesn’t even move to help, just watches as you set the cartons on his table and search his cabinets for plates. normally, he’d be at your side in a second, fumbling for napkins, tripping over a chair leg in his rush to make himself useful. “you’re freaking me out, clark,” you say finally, sliding a plate of noodles toward him. “yesterday you were fine, and today you’re like this. did perry yell at you? did lois make some crack about your tie again?”
“no.” his fork stirs aimlessly through the noodles, appetite nonexistent. his eyes flicker up to yours for a heartbeat, then drop to the table. “just—don’t worry about it.”
but you do. you can’t not. this is clark, the man who once apologized three times in a row because he accidentally bumped your chair. the man who leaves sticky notes on your desk when you’re having a bad day, with scribbled little cartoons that always make you smile. seeing him dulled, detached, is like finding the sun burned out overnight. “too late,” you murmur, softer than you meant to. “i’m already worried.”
his throat tightens. he pushes his food away, elbows braced on his knees, palms clasped so tightly his knuckles blanch. he wants to say it—that he heard you, that he knows you’re in love with jimmy, that it’s tearing him apart. but the words wedge in his chest like shards of glass. so instead, he shakes his head. “you don’t have to take care of me. i’ll be fine.”
you stare at him, unsettled. the clark you know would’ve blushed at the sight of you standing in his doorway with dinner, would’ve tripped over his gratitude, would’ve told you a dozen times you didn’t need to, but thank you, thank you, thank you. this version of him? he feels distant—even untouchable. “so who will?” you sigh, reaching out to rub your manicured nails up and down his arm. he flinches at the sudden contact. “if i don’t take care of you, who will?” you repeat the question, voice quieter this time.
for a beat, there’s nothing but the hum of his old refrigerator, the distant honk of a horn outside. then, the sudden snap of his words. “maybe you should go take care of jimmy instead.” the words land like a slap. sharp, petty, and completely unlike him. his voice isn’t raised, but it cuts through the room like glass.
your lips part in confusion. “what?”
instantly, his face crumples, shame flooding in. he drags a hand over his mouth, shaking his head. “i—god, i didn’t mean that.”
but you’re still staring at him, confusion knitting your brow. clark kent doesn’t snap. he doesn’t sulk like a child or spit out jealous little barbs. he doesn’t tell you to go take care of someone else. except, apparently, tonight he does. you whisper, incredulous, “where did that even come from?”
that’s when the words begin to spill out like you’d given him truth serum. “iheardyouandloistalkingaboutjimmyyesterday.” he babbles, eyes pinching shut in pure embarrassment. “i wasn’t eavesdropping—well, i guess i was—but that’s only because i have really, really good hearing.” you blink at him, stunned into silence. his words tumble over themselves, frantic and messy, and it’s so painfully unlike the careful, gentle clark you know. “you said he was super amazing and he was perfect and blah blah, and it really upset me because i really like you.”
your chest goes still, like the air’s been punched out of you. clark’s face is pink, his glasses slipping low on his nose as he finally dares to glance at you. his expression is raw, almost desperate. and then, all at once, it clicks. the conversation he must’ve overheard. the laughter with lois. the exaggerated tone you’d been using.
your lips part. “oh my god.”
he flinches. “i knew i shouldn’t’ve said-”
“no, clark,” you cut in quickly, leaning forward across the little table. “you didn’t hear the whole thing.” his brows pinch, confusion warring with the nerves flickering across his face.
“jimmy is so cute and amazing and everything he does is just perfect. i think i’m in love with him,” you’d said, slouched against lois’s desk, your voice dripping with mock sweetness. lois had nearly spit out her coffee, laughing as you mimicked the wide-eyed gush of the new intern who couldn’t string two sentences together without swooning over poor jimmy olsen. “and she didn’t know that he was right behind her! i almost died.”
back in clark’s apartment, you cover your mouth, a laugh threatening despite the tension. “clark… i wasn’t talking about me. i was making fun of that new intern, melanie. you know, the one who brings jimmy muffins every morning like she’s feeding a baby bird?”
his entire body stills. he blinks once, twice, the words catching up like bricks tumbling into place. “…oh.” clark’s ears flame instantly, red creeping down his neck. he scrubs a hand over his face like he can hide inside his palm. “i-” his voice cracks, and he clears his throat. “i thought—i really thought-”
“that i was in love with jimmy?” you supply, a mix of incredulity and something softer curling around the words.
he groans, deflating like a balloon and dragging his fingers through his hair. “god, this is humiliating. i’m sorry. i shouldn’t have assumed. i just—i heard it, and it felt like someone punched a hole straight through me. and then tonight i went and…” his jaw tightens, guilt coloring every syllable, “snapped at you. you didn’t deserve that.”
you study him, the way his shoulders slope in defeat, the way his chest still rises and falls too fast. you’ve never seen clark kent like this. it makes your heart ache. “clark,” you say gently, resting your hand over his where it grips his knee. he jolts at the touch, eyes flying to yours. “you like me?”
the question cracks something open in him. his throat bobs as he nods, slow, reluctant, but honest. “more than i should.”
your lips curve into a wide grin. “you’re serious.” you try your best to feign disbelief.
his laugh is humorless, quiet. “painfully.”
you tilt your head, studying him, the way his broad frame looks so small slumped forward on the couch. “i had a hunch.”
that makes him look up, startled. “you…what?” sure, maybe he was a little obvious. okay, more than a little. but in his defense, how else was he supposed to act around you? how do you look at someone who makes the whole room feel like it’s finally in color and not trip over your own feet? he thought he’d been careful. that the coffees and lunches and endless, nervous “thank yous” were just gentlemanly. the kind of things anyone would do for a coworker. except no one else at the planet is lining up outside your favorite deli to grab your lunch when you’re too swamped to get it yourself. no one else memorizes how you take your coffee down to the sugar packet.
but you noticed. of course you did.
you shrug, trying to bite back your smile. “clark, you bring me coffee every single morning without fail. you pull out my chair like we’re in a black-and-white movie. you once carried my bag down three flights of stairs because you said it looked heavy—it had one book in it.”
his ears are glowing now, eyes wide behind his lenses. “i—i thought i was being-”
“discreet?” you finish for him, laughing softly. “you aren’t very discreet.”
he groans, hiding his face in his hands, muffling something that sounds like, “oh, god.”
but you reach forward, gently prying his hands away until his flustered face is bared again. “hey.” your voice is softer now. “for the record i like you too. i have for a while.”
his mouth parts, a little stunned breath catching like he doesn’t quite know how to hold it. the corners of his lips twitch up, like a smile is fighting its way through all that disbelief. “you—really?”
“painfully,” you echo back, teasing but oh so true.
when you think about it teenagers of the next generation will never get to experience a cw show with 7+ seasons and 22 episodes per season. they will never know what it's like to be insanely obsessed with a mediocre show with mediocre writing and mediocre acting (with one really good actor carrying the show on their backs). they will never know the feeling of fighting weekly in the trenches for your ship only for the writers to screw you over. they will never be so increasingly disappointed by the worsening writing choices as the seasons progress and they will never know what it's like to watch the worst series finale after investing years into a show. and that is the biggest tragedy.
Not because you didn’t want to. God, you wanted to. But because you promised yourself, somewhere in the wreckage of what you were and what he was becoming, that you wouldn’t be the one to drag it back to life. That if it meant something to him, if you meant something then he’d call first.
He didn’t.
So you let a year go by. A whole damn year.
One football season. One graduation you watched from the back row. One set of holidays with a hollow ache in your chest where his laugh used to echo. One spring where every blooming magnolia on campus made you think of that night, the one where he kissed you slow under the purple-pink sky and told you he couldn’t imagine leaving Baton Rouge without you.
But he did.
He left. He became Joe Burrow, quarterback of the Bengals, franchise savior, face of Ohio, number nine stitched into jerseys across the country.
And you stayed. LSU senior. Another girl with a broken heart and a memory of his hands wrapped around hers like a prayer.
He didn’t promise you forever, but he did say he’d call. And when he didn’t, you didn’t ask why.
Until tonight.
The air is thick with summer and humidity and the kind of silence that buzzes. You’re sitting on your dorm bed, legs crossed, phone in hand, every nerve in your body screaming at you to hang up and to not do this, not now, not like this.
But your thumb presses the call button before you can stop it.
It rings once. Twice. Three times.
“Hello?”
His voice hasn’t changed. Maybe deeper. Sleepy. But still that same low rasp that always sounded better when it was whispering baby into your neck.
“Hi.”
A pause. A beat too long. You hear rustling like he’s sitting up.
“Hey. I… didn’t expect to hear from you.”
“I know,” you say, and your voice is tighter than you meant for it to be. “I didn’t expect to call.”
Another pause. You swallow.
“Are you okay?” he asks.
You could laugh. You could cry. Instead, you say the truth.
“I miss you.”
You hear his breath catch. Then nothing.
You keep going, because if you stop now, you won’t finish.
“I know it’s been a year. I know you’ve got this whole life in Ohio now and I’m probably the last thing you ever think about, but I just… I couldn’t stop wondering. If maybe, maybe there’s space for me in that life. If there’s space for me in Ohio.”
Silence again.
You shut your eyes. “I shouldn’t have called.”
But before you can hang up, you hear him. Quiet. Almost like he’s whispering it to himself.
“There’s always been space for you.”
Your throat tightens. “Then why didn’t you call?”
He exhales. You can hear the guilt in it.
“Because I was scared,” he says. “Scared you’d moved on. That I left and that meant I lost you.”
You laugh, and it cracks like glass. “You did leave, Joe.”
“I know,” he says. “And I hated it. Every damn day I was away from you, I thought about coming back.”
“You didn’t.”
“No,” he says, “but I never stopped hoping you’d show up. That maybe you’d call. Even if it was just to yell at me. I would’ve taken that.”
You bite your lip. “Well. I’m not yelling.”
“I noticed.”
There’s a long moment where neither of you speaks. Just the breath of memories between you, the what-ifs, the could’ve-beens.
Then he says it, soft like a prayer.
“I’ve got a spare room.”
You blink. “What?”
“In my house. In Ohio. I got it thinking maybe you’d visit one day. Or stay. I left a space. I didn’t fill it.”
“Joe…”
“You don’t have to come,” he says, “but if you want to… there’s space. For you. Always.”
You’re quiet.
Then, finally, “What if I don’t want the spare room?”
He smiles, you can hear it in the way he breathes.
“Then I’ll move my stuff. Make it the main one.”
You grin, even as tears sting your eyes.
“I graduate in a month.”
“I’ll be there,” he says. “I’ll be front row.”
“I wasn’t asking—”
“I know,” he interrupts. “But I’m done waiting for something that was always real.”
Your chest swells.
“Okay,” you whisper.
“Okay?”
You nod, even though he can’t see you. “Okay. There’s space for me in Ohio.”
“There’s always been space for you in my life, baby. I just didn’t know if you still wanted it.”
You do. And now he knows.
It doesn’t hit you until your name is called.
Not when you zipped up your gown this morning. Not when your roommate handed you a mimosa and cried all over your shoulder. Not even when your mom asked if there was someone special in the crowd.
But when the dean says your name, the crowd claps, and you take that first step across the stage then you look out.
And there he is.
Front row. Hat on backwards, sunglasses tucked into his shirt collar, and that damn look on his face that used to undo you like a string being pulled.
Proud. Soft. Locked on you like you’re the only one here.
You don’t know how your legs carry you across the stage. Don’t know how your hands work well enough to take the diploma. All you know is that when you look again, he’s standing.
And he doesn’t sit until you’re off that stage.
You find him in the madness afterward. Everyone’s hugging, crying, snapping pictures, and all you want is him. Somehow he finds you first, cuts through the chaos, and for a second you don’t say anything.
You just stare.
And then you throw your arms around him.
He holds you tight, your face buried in his shoulder, and neither of you speaks for a while. There’s too much to say and not enough breath to say it with.
“You came,” you murmur, voice muffled.
“Told you I would.”
“I wasn’t sure you meant it.”
“I always mean it when it comes to you.”
He pulls back to look at you. There’s something different in his eyes. Older, maybe. A little wearier, a little wiser. But still that same Joe who once kissed you under an oak tree after curfew and swore you made the best grilled cheese on campus.
“You look good in purple,” he says.
“You look out of place.”
“Yeah,” he says with a smile. “But worth it.”
You pause. “So… what now?”
He slips his hands down to yours. His thumb runs over the soft skin by your wrist. You remember that touch. You’ve missed that touch.
“I’ve got a full tank of gas,” he says. “We could go now. Ohio’s not going anywhere.”
You bite your lip. “I thought we’d talk about it more.”
“We can,” he says. “On the drive. Or when we get there. Or when we’re old and gray and you’re still telling me I owe you for leaving you here an extra year.”
You laugh. “You do owe me for that.”
“I’ll spend the rest of my life making it up to you if you let me.”
You blink. “Is that what this is, Joe? The rest of your life?”
He doesn’t flinch. “I left once and it damn near wrecked me. I’m not doing it again. If you’ll come with me and if you want me, I’ll make the space. You can have all of it.”
And for the first time in a year, your chest doesn’t ache. Your shoulders don’t feel like they’re carrying ghosts. You believe him.
“You still have the spare room?” you ask, teasing.
“No,” he says, tugging you close. “That’s yours now. Main room. Whole bed. Half the closet.”
“Half?”
He smirks. “Okay, maybe most of the closet. I’ll take a drawer.”
You lean in. “I’ll take the space, Joe. If you still mean it.”
He kisses you, soft and slow like he’s sealing a promise.
“I’ve only ever meant it with you.”
Later, as the sun sets over campus and the LSU sign glows gold in the dusk, you sit in the passenger seat of Joe’s car, cap still on your lap, diploma tucked between your legs.
You glance over at him.
“Are we really doing this?”
Joe looks back at you, one hand on the wheel, the other reaching for yours.
I LOVE LOVE LOVE YOUR WRITING. can i request a jake fic inspired by the song moth to a flame by the weeknd? the other guy could be bradley/bob or literally anyone else.
THANKS SO MUCH ive been thinking about this a lot
pairing; jake seresin x fem!reader
word count; 6.9k
warnings; toxic relationships, cheating (don't do that), angst, smut, jake's an asshole but so is reader kinda
a/n; i wasn't sure of using any of the guys for this but i saw david as your pfp and got a vision lol, hope you like it!!!<3
masterlist
David gets home before you do most days.
Tonight’s no different. When you step inside your apartment, the air smells faintly like rosemary and lemon — he’s cooking something light, something thoughtful. There’s jazz playing softly from the speakers in the living room. You drop your keys into the bowl by the door and exhale without meaning to.
“Hi, love,” he calls from the kitchen. “Shoes off, please — I just mopped.”
You smile, toeing off your heels as you walk in.
David’s in a worn gray t-shirt and soft navy joggers, sleeves pushed up to his elbows. He’s barefoot, hair a little messy from running his fingers through it. His frame is tall and broad, elegant without trying. Strong hands, kind eyes. His face is flushed from the heat of the stove.
You cross the kitchen and wrap your arms around him from behind. “Hey.”
His hand immediately covers yours where it rests on his chest. He tilts his head toward yours. “Long day?”
“God, yes,” you murmur.
“Shitty clients or shitty coworkers?”
“Both. And a surprise meeting. You?”
He shrugs. “Uneventful. Wrote a speech for a mayor who talks like he learned English through old crime dramas.”
You laugh softly into his back.
David turns in your arms and presses a kiss to your forehead. Then another, to your temple. His touch is always gentle like that. Never hurried. He treats your body like it’s something precious, not just desirable.
“I made soup,” he says. “And there’s bread warming in the oven.”
“You didn’t have to—”
“I know,” he says. “But I wanted to.”
That’s David. He never does things out of obligation. He wants to take care of you. You’ve never had that before — not like this.
Later, after dinner and two episodes of the show you’re slowly bingeing together, you end up in bed, curled against him.
Your head on his chest. His fingers drawing lazy circles on your shoulder.
You’re not tired yet, but your body is still. His is warm, familiar, something you trust without thinking.
“Can I ask you something?” he says quietly.
“Mmm,” you hum, eyes half closed. “Always.”
“Do you ever miss it?”
You blink. “Miss what?”
“The chaos,” he says simply. “The… unpredictability. I know I’m not the most exciting person you’ve ever dated.”
You lift your head to look at him.
David’s blue eyes are soft, serious. He’s not accusing — just curious. Like he’s been thinking about it for a while.
“You think I’m bored?” you ask.
“No,” he says gently. “I think you’re… recovering.”
You pause. “From what?”
He smiles, small and sad. “Whoever hurt you before I met you.”
You look at him for a long moment.
And then you say the truest thing you’ve said all week: “I don’t miss the chaos. I miss the way it made me feel. Alive. Wanted. Important. Like nothing else mattered.”
David nods. Doesn’t flinch. He brushes a thumb across your cheekbone. “You are all those things,” he says. “You’ve just stopped needing pain to feel them.”
Your throat tightens.
He kisses you, slow and deep and steady.
It’s not the kind of kiss that sets you on fire.
It’s the kind that lets you breathe.
-
Penny calls around five, just as you and David are getting dressed for dinner.
“Hey, sweetheart,” she says. “I hate to ask, but I left my order forms in a folder behind the bar and I need them tomorrow morning. Any chance you could swing by and grab them? It’ll take two minutes.”
You glance at David, who’s standing in the doorway buttoning his shirt, and cover the phone. “You mind if we stop by the Hard Deck on the way?”
“Not at all,” he says easily. “You want me to drive?”
You smile. “Sure.”
Back on the phone, you tell Penny, “We’ll swing by on the way to dinner.”
“You’re an angel,” she says. “Folder’s got a pink tab on it. Should be under the counter. Just tell whoever’s working that I sent you.”
You hang up. You don’t think twice about it.
The Hard Deck looks the same as it always has — surfboards, string lights, sand sticking to the floorboards. But there are more cars out front than usual, more people spilling out onto the patio.
When you and David step inside, your fingers laced loosely together, it’s warm and loud and full of laughter.
You scan the crowd on autopilot, looking for familiar faces — and freeze.
The Daggers are back.
You recognize Natasha first, laughing at something Payback says, beer in hand. Bob and Coyote are nearby. Fanboy’s holding court at the jukebox. It takes all of three seconds for your heart to drop into your stomach.
Because Jake Seresin is here too.
He’s leaned against the bar like he owns the place, talking to a blonde in a sundress. One hand on the counter, beer in the other, that smug half-smile on his face like nothing in the world could touch him.
And then he looks up.
And sees you.
Your body goes cold.
You don’t move. You don’t blink. You don’t breathe.
Jake's eyes catch on yours, and for a split second, something flickers there. Surprise. Recognition. Maybe even something darker.
But then it’s gone.
And he smirks.
That same damn smirk that always meant trouble.
He tips his bottle in your direction like it’s a fucking toast.
“Babe?” David’s voice is soft beside you. “Everything okay?”
You blink, tear your eyes away from Jake.
“Yeah,” you lie. “Just… seeing some people I know.”
David glances around, oblivious. “Friends of yours?”
“Sort of.”
You don’t say old ghosts. You don’t say the man who wrecked me is ten feet away and smiling like he still owns me.
You slip your hand from David’s and head toward the bar.
“Be right back,” you say.
You’re crouched under the bar, fishing out the folder Penny described, when a voice floats overhead.
“Well, well. Thought that was you.”
You go still.
Close your eyes.
Count to three.
Then you stand slowly, folder in hand, and turn.
Jake Seresin is leaning on the bar like he’s settling in for a show. That same cocky, sun-kissed charm radiating off him like heatwaves. He’s older now — maybe a little sharper around the edges — but still every inch the walking disaster you once couldn’t say no to.
“Didn’t think I’d see you back in this place,” he says. “You always liked pretending you were too good for it.”
You lift your chin. “Nice to see you haven’t grown up.”
Jake grins, slow and lazy. “Not where it counts.”
Your stomach flips — with anger, with memory, with something you’d rather not name.
“Excuse me,” you say, trying to step past him.
But he sidesteps, just barely, blocking you.
“Who’s the guy?” he asks, nodding toward where David’s waiting patiently, completely unaware he’s being watched like prey.
“None of your business.”
Jake raises an eyebrow. “He doesn’t look like your type.”
“He wasn't,” you say quietly. “But he is now.”
Jake’s mouth curls.
“Shame,” he says. “I always liked being your type.”
You don’t answer.
You walk past him without a word, folder clutched tight in your hands.
You don’t look back.
But you feel his eyes on you the whole way out.
David opens the car door for you like he always does.
“You okay?” he asks again once you’re seated, glancing at you with a soft furrow between his brows. “You got real quiet in there.”
You force a smile.
“Just tired,” you say. “Ready for dinner.”
-
The backseat is tight, every inch crowded by Jake’s weight pressing you into the worn leather. His hands grip your hips, fingers digging in hard, setting the rhythm and pace. You don’t question it — you never do.
His mouth claims yours, rough and demanding, swallowing your protests with bruising kisses. One hand slips beneath your shirt, thumb tracing sharp lines down your ribs, while the other holds you steady against the seat, like you could fall away if he loosened his grip.
His body moves over yours, relentless and sure, hips driving with a cocky precision that leaves no doubt who’s in control.
“I’m not the guy you settle for,” he says, voice low, almost cruel. “I’m the one you come back to when the rest is too damn boring.”
You gasp when he tightens his hold, nails scraping your skin just enough to sting, reminding you exactly where you belong.
He pins your wrists above your head, fingers curling around your wrist, his touch hot and unyielding. The subtle curve of his smirk presses into the silence between thrusts — like he’s daring you to forget he’s never going to stay
No words. No promises.
Just the harsh, intoxicating truth of his dominance — raw, arrogant, impossible to resist.
You wake up gasping, heart hammering, sweat slick against your skin.
The room is dark and quiet except for the slow thump of your pulse in your ears.
You reach for the sheets, clutch them tight.
David’s side of the bed is empty.
And for a long moment, all you can feel is the ghost of Jake’s touch — arrogant, wild, impossible to forget.
-
You grip the steering wheel like it’s the only thing anchoring you to this life you’ve built.
David hums beside you, flipping through radio stations, blissfully unaware that the man you once swore you'd never let back in just walked right through your carefully constructed peace like it was tissue paper.
You nod along to whatever soft rock station he lands on, but your mind is a million miles away. Back in a parking lot. Back in the backseat of a car. Back with hands on your skin that knew exactly how to undo you.
Jake Seresin was never your boyfriend.
You weren’t that stupid.
You knew what it was. From the very beginning, he told you. “I don’t do relationships. Don’t catch feelings.”
And yet, there you were. Letting him in again and again — your body, your bed, your mouth — always hoping he might change his mind, even though you knew he wouldn’t.
He made you feel wanted. Not loved. Not cared for. But wanted. In that selfish, consuming, fire-in-your-veins kind of way. You were a high he liked getting lost in. And he knew exactly how to keep you coming back.
You tell yourself it wasn’t real. That it was just sex. Just chemistry. Just heat.
But then you remember the way he used to look at you when he thought you were asleep. The thumb tracing your lower lip. The way he'd whisper "mine" like it was a promise, even though he never meant to keep it.
You’d tell yourself he was just being possessive. Territorial. An asshole with a god complex.
And still.
You stayed.
Until you finally didn’t.
Until it hurt more than it thrilled you.
Until you met David.
Sweet, steady, golden-hearted David. The kind of man who shows up. Who asks how your day was and listens to the answer. Who knows your coffee order and keeps extra hair ties in his glove box just for you. Who rubs your back when you’re anxious and tells you you're enough — not because he wants something from you, but because he means it.
You love him. Or maybe you’re still learning how to. But you know you want to. And you know it feels… right.
Even if it doesn’t feel like fire.
Even if your skin still remembers the way Jake made you tremble. Even if your dreams are still haunted by a voice that called you baby like it was a sin.
You reach across the console and lace your fingers with David’s. He squeezes once, smiling at you without asking why your hands are cold.
You look out the window, watching the sun dip low over the water.
Jake Seresin is back.
And you know — you know — he’s going to try to pull you under again.
You just don’t know if you’re strong enough this time not to drown.
-
The fluorescent lights in the store feel too bright, too sharp.
You were only supposed to grab oat milk and granola. But your fingers are wrapped so tightly around the shopping cart handle that your knuckles ache. Because he’s here. Somewhere behind you in the produce section.
You heard his voice before you saw him — that Southern, drawling confidence like it never left your bones. And now you’re frozen in front of a pyramid of avocados, pretending to read a label you already know by heart.
When you finally turn, he’s there.
Jake Seresin, in worn jeans and a plain black t-shirt that fits entirely too well for your peace of mind. He leans casually against the cooler like this is some kind of normal reunion. Like he didn’t leave you aching for years in all the places he used to touch.
You straighten your spine.
“Don’t,” you say before he can open his mouth. “Whatever game you’re playing, don’t start.”
He tilts his head, a smirk ghosting across his mouth, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Good to see you too, sweetheart.”
You clench your jaw. “What do you want?”
“Relax. I’m just grabbing groceries like everyone else.”
He shrugs, eyes scanning you — the plain t-shirt you threw on, the shoes you didn’t bother tying properly. You feel suddenly transparent.
“It was surprising to you at the Hard Deck” he says, like you didn’t already know. “Didn’t realize you were still in town.”
You shift uncomfortably. “You left, not me.”
“And the guy?” he asks, almost too casually. “David?”
Your guard goes up fast. “What about him?”
Jake nods, pushing his hands into his pockets. “He seems good. For you. Like… the kind of guy who brings you flowers and walks your dog and actually knows your middle name.”
You blink. “Are you high?”
He laughs — low and quiet. “Nope.”
“Because this sounds a lot like you giving me your blessing or something.”
He steps closer, but not enough to touch. Not like before. “I’m not. I’m just saying… he’s what you deserve. Stability. Kindness. Someone who sticks around.”
You search his face for the cocky grin, the bait. It never comes.
Instead, he turns to leave, like that’s all he came to say. But just before he does, he looks over his shoulder.
“Does he know?” Jake asks.
You frown. “Know what?”
“That you’re still in love with me.”
Then he’s gone.
No smile. No wink. Just the sound of your breath catching in your throat and your pulse drumming in your ears.
That night, you sit in bed next to David, but your mind is a thousand miles away.
He’s reading. Glasses slipping down his nose, arm draped around you like it always is. The picture of comfort. Of contentment. You rest your head on his shoulder, but all you feel is a growing hollow in your chest.
You want to love him like he deserves.
You want to stop dreaming about rough hands and heated whispers. You want your body to forget the way Jake used to pull sounds out of you you didn’t even know existed. You want to forget how alive you used to feel in the chaos of it all.
David is good. Good in a way you never believed you could have. But with Jake…
It was never safe. Never soft. But it was undeniable. Electric. A match dropped into gasoline.
You’re not sure what scares you more — the possibility that Jake still owns some part of you, or the fact that you might not want to get it back.
Morning comes too early.
Or maybe you never really fell asleep.
David’s already in the kitchen by the time you shuffle in, rubbing sleep from your eyes. He’s in his usual routine — eggs on the stove, coffee brewing, NPR murmuring from the speaker like background noise in a life you’re trying to live.
“Morning, love,” he says with that easy smile, stepping over to kiss your forehead. “You didn’t sleep well.”
“I’m fine.” It comes out too quick, too rehearsed.
He studies you for a second, but doesn’t push. Just turns back to the stove and slides two eggs onto your plate. “Big day at work?”
You nod. “Something like that.”
He pours your coffee exactly how you like it — splash of almond milk, no sugar — and sets it in front of you with a tenderness that makes your stomach twist. He’s good. Thoughtful. Predictable in the best ways.
So why do you feel like you can’t breathe?
David takes his seat across from you and starts talking — something about a new exhibit at the gallery, a dinner his friends are planning. You nod in all the right places, smile when he does. You play the part.
And then your phone buzzes.
You don’t think much of it at first, but when you flip it over, the name on the screen turns your stomach inside out.
Jake Seresin.
You hesitate. David doesn’t seem to notice — he’s talking about wine pairings now — so you unlock your phone under the table and read the message.
“You always did look better in my t-shirts.”
That’s all it says. No greeting. No context. Just that.
But it hits like a punch to the gut.
Because you know exactly which one he means. The navy one you slept in more nights than you care to count. The one you wore to his kitchen while stealing coffee from his mug. The one that somehow ended up buried in the back of your drawer, folded like a memory you didn’t want to let go of.
You look up at David. Still talking. Still smiling. Still trying.
And you feel like the worst kind of liar.
Your appetite vanishes. The coffee turns bitter in your mouth.
Because Jake isn’t just a memory. He’s a wildfire you thought you outran. And now, with one stupid text, you feel the heat all over again.
The water is already running when you slip into the bathroom.
David’s in the shower, steam curling along the mirror, the scent of his cedarwood body wash thick in the air. You stand there for a moment, heart pounding in your chest, unsure what the hell you’re doing. You could walk away. Go to work. Pretend everything is fine.
But instead, you open the glass door.
He turns, surprised but not startled. “Everything okay?”
You don’t answer. Just step into the spray and place your hands gently on his chest.
His brow furrows. “Hey—”
You kiss him before he can finish. Slow, deliberate. Testing yourself.
It takes a beat, but he kisses you back. Hands gentle, like they always are. One slips to your waist, the other cradles your cheek.
This is what love is supposed to feel like, you remind yourself. Warm. Safe. Easy.
He pulls back, breathless, eyes searching yours. “What’s going on with you this morning?”
“I just…” You shake your head. “I wanted you.”
His expression softens, and he leans in again, lips brushing over yours. He holds you like something delicate, like someone to be cherished. When he moves inside you, it’s careful and sweet. No urgency. No dominance. Just soft murmurs and whispered affection.
It should be enough.
But your mind won't shut up.
Because it doesn’t feel like that night in Jake’s car. Or the dozens of others after. It doesn’t feel like being possessed — like being wrecked and worshipped all at once. It doesn’t make your knees shake or your breath catch in your throat. You’re not losing yourself. You’re still here. And you hate that part of you wants to disappear into someone again.
David’s thumb is tracing your cheek. He’s murmuring, “I love you.”
And you smile. You do. Because it’s true. You do love him.
But as he holds you under the hot stream, you blink up at the ceiling and feel something twist in your chest.
Because love has never once made you feel haunted.
Only Jake Seresin ever did that.
David’s hands are splayed over your hips, his touch as familiar as the tile beneath your bare feet. His movements are steady, controlled, full of the same care he always gives you.
You tilt your head back against the cool wall, eyes fluttering closed. You try to focus on the moment — on him. On the softness of his lips on your neck, the heat of the water cascading over your skin, the way he murmurs your name like a vow.
But something inside you itches — restless, unfulfilled. Your breath hitches for the wrong reasons.
“Harder,” you whisper, not meaning to say it out loud. Your hands press to his back, nails dragging lightly across skin that doesn’t flinch under the touch.
David stills a little. “What?”
You open your eyes, heart thudding with embarrassment and something close to frustration. “Just—” You shake your head, forcing the words through your teeth. “Can you… be a little rougher? Just this once?”
His brows pull together, confused. “You sure? That’s not really… us.”
You nod, forcing a smile you don’t feel. “Yeah. I just—wanted to try.”
He studies you for a beat longer than you’re comfortable with, clearly searching your face for something he doesn’t understand. Then he kisses you again, a little deeper this time, his grip tightening on your waist.
He tries.
But it’s still him — soft, careful David, who loves you with the gentleness of someone who’s never once wanted to break you.
And that’s the problem, isn’t it?
After a minute, you press your hand to his chest, stopping him.
“Forget it.”
He blinks. “Wait—did I do something wrong?”
“No. No, you didn’t.” You step out of the shower before he can ask again, grabbing a towel, voice shaky despite your best effort. “It’s me. I’m just—I don’t know. I’m tired. It’s nothing.”
You leave him standing in the steam, heart pounding in your ears, ashamed of how badly you wanted something he doesn’t know how to give. Not because he’s lacking — but because he’s not Jake. And maybe that’s what makes it worse.
Because David is everything you should want.
But the ache in your chest — and the shame pooling in your gut — says it all:
He’s not who your body’s screaming for.
-
The hum of the office around you fades to a dull, meaningless buzz. Papers shuffle. Phones ring. A coworker laughs too loudly at something over Zoom.
But your eyes are fixed on your screen, unmoving, unfocused. The email you were supposed to be drafting sits half-written, the cursor blinking like it’s judging you.
Your hand moves before your brain really catches up.
You unlock your phone. Navigate to the hidden folder you swore you’d delete months ago. The one that still asks for a password every time you open it — like your shame needs two locks instead of one.
And there they are.
Over forty photos. A handful of short videos. One voicemail you saved, just because his voice in that moment felt like oxygen.
The first one is a selfie he took without asking — him grinning, shirtless in your bed, your face barely visible behind his shoulder, still asleep.
Your thumb hovers over the screen, then scrolls.
One of you in the front seat of his truck, your legs across his lap, head thrown back in laughter. Another, blurry and grainy, in a bathroom mirror at some dive bar, Jake’s arm slung around your waist, eyes locked on yours instead of the lens.
And then — a short clip.
Jake kissing you. Not the rushed, hungry kind. The kind that felt real. One hand on the back of your neck. His mouth moving slow, reverent. Like you were fragile and precious and his all at once.
You pause it halfway through, heart cracking at the sound of your own breath hitching on the video. You remember that night. The way he stayed. The way he didn't say he would — but did.
You close your eyes. Shame flooding hot behind your ribs.
David doesn’t know. Of course he doesn’t. He doesn’t know you still have these. Doesn’t know you kept them. That you still look at them.
That sometimes you dream in Jake’s voice.
You know it’s wrong. You know it’s cruel — to David, to yourself. But you can’t make yourself hit delete.
Your thumb trembles over the trash icon.
But instead, you lock the folder again.
You tell yourself tomorrow.
You’ve been telling yourself tomorrow for months.
You don’t remember the rest of the day.
Emails were answered. Meetings were sat through. Someone brought cupcakes for a birthday you forgot. You smiled. You nodded. You played your part.
But inside, something was slipping.
Unraveling.
By the time you’re in your car, hands gripping the steering wheel tight enough to ache, the air feels thinner. Like you’re suffocating on everything you’ve been pretending not to feel.
You unlock your phone.
You open your texts.
And then, with fingers shaking just slightly, you scroll back. Past the last thing Jake sent. Past the weeks of silence before it. All the way to the message he once sent you — long ago, when it wasn’t so complicated — with nothing but a pin.
His address.
You shouldn’t still have it.
You shouldn’t still want to use it.
But you do.
You punch it into your GPS.
You tell yourself you’re just going to look. Just see. Just talk.
A lie. One you let yourself believe for just long enough.
The drive isn’t long, but it feels like purgatory. Your thoughts spiral the whole way — what if he’s not home? What if he’s with someone? What if you show up and make a fool of yourself?
But when you turn onto his street and spot his truck in the driveway, your breath catches. That old Ford you know far too well. Parked crooked, like always. Like he left in a hurry or came back too tired to care.
You pull up and kill the engine. For a full minute, you just sit there.
Then you’re out of the car. Walking up the path. Knocking before you can think better of it.
No turning back now.
The door swings open.
And there he is — shirtless, sweatpants slung low on his hips, hair tousled like he just woke up. His eyes are heavy-lidded, confused, and then—
You don’t give him a chance to speak.
You surge forward, grabbing his face and kissing him like your life depends on it.
Jake stumbles back a step, surprised — but only for a second. Then his hands are on your hips, fingers digging in, and he hauls you up like you weigh nothing. Your legs wrap around his waist, your back hits the inside of the door with a solid thud, and his mouth is all over you — hot, open, hungry.
“Fuck,” he breathes into your mouth. “I knew you’d come back to me.”
It’s cocky, arrogant, maddening.
You kiss him harder.
Jake grins against your mouth like he’s winning something. “Could’ve saved us both some time, sweetheart.”
You tug at his hair in response, biting his bottom lip until he growls and presses himself against you, hips grinding into yours through thin layers of clothes that feel like they’re burning off.
“Missed this,” he murmurs, dragging his lips down your jaw. “Missed you. Bet he doesn’t fuck you like I do.”
You whimper at the words — at the way he says them like a fact, like gospel, like he knows your body better than you do.
Because he does.
Jake slides one hand under your shirt, up your spine, like he’s starving for every inch of skin. He bites at your neck and you gasp, arching into him.
“You think about me when you’re with him?” he mutters darkly. “When he’s inside you, do you wish it was me?”
Your nails dig into his shoulders.
That’s all the answer he needs.
Jake pulls back just enough to look you in the eyes, pupils blown wide. “I fucking knew it.”
He kisses you again, rougher now, less control. Like he’s making up for every second he spent without you.
And this time, you don’t stop him.
“Shut up,” you gasp against his mouth, your voice shaking with need.
Jake chuckles, low and smug, like he’s been waiting to hear those words from you for months. “Bossier than I remember,” he murmurs, lips brushing your jaw as he presses you harder against the wall. “Let’s see if you’re still this mouthy after I’m done with you.”
You don’t get a chance to reply.
He’s already moving — one hand keeping you anchored to him, the other sliding down between your bodies. You feel him unbutton your jeans with practiced ease, and your breath hitches as his fingers dip beneath the waistband of your underwear.
“Jesus,” he mutters, almost reverent. “You’re soaked.”
His fingers slip through your slick heat, and your whole body arches into him with a desperate little sound. You hate how fast he finds that spot that makes you tremble, how easy it is for him to undo you with just the pads of his fingers and that maddening voice in your ear.
“This for me?” he asks, curling his fingers just right. “Or does your sweet little boyfriend get you this worked up too?”
“Jake—”
“Nah,” he interrupts, smirking against your throat. “Don’t answer that. I already know.”
He slides a finger inside you, then another, and you can’t stop the whimper that escapes your lips. His palm presses against your clit, drawing slow, deliberate circles, and you swear the world tilts on its axis.
“Fuck,” you pant, clinging to his shoulders, forehead pressed to his.
“You feel the same,” he whispers. “Still tight, still perfect. Still mine.”
You shouldn’t let him say things like that.
You shouldn’t want him to say them.
But God — you do. You want it all. The way he touches you like no one else ever has. The way he knows exactly what to say to make your body beg, even when your brain’s screaming at you to walk away.
He grins again, filthy and satisfied, and starts pumping his fingers harder. “What was that about shutting me up?”
Your only answer is a broken moan.
Your head falls back against the wall, a cry torn from your throat as Jake’s fingers work you open, relentless and unmerciful in the way only he ever was. Your whole body trembles, legs tightening around his waist — and then, without warning, he pulls his hand away.
You whimper, dazed and ruined already, but before you can complain, Jake hoists you higher in his arms and carries you through the hallway like you weigh nothing.
He drops you onto the bed, hard enough to make the mattress groan. And then he’s on you, all hands and mouth and hunger. He strips you fast — yanking your jeans down your legs, your underwear with them, tugging your shirt over your head. He rips open your bra with one rough pull and tosses it aside like it offended him.
You’re gasping, arching into him, but he’s everywhere all at once — not giving you time to think, to speak, to remember anything beyond this.
Jake kisses every part of you like he’s making up for lost time. His mouth is hot and unyielding, rough kisses scattered down your neck, between your breasts, down your ribs and stomach. He bites at your hip and groans like he’s starved for you.
And then he sinks between your legs.
“Oh my God—Jake—”
He licks into you like it’s his favorite meal, tongue deep and unrelenting, lips sealing around your clit and sucking hard. You jerk, hands flying to his hair, thighs already trembling.
“That’s it, baby,” he growls, the vibration of his voice making your back arch. “Missed this pussy. Missed how sweet you taste when you’re falling apart for me.”
He adds his fingers — two, then three — curling them just right while his tongue draws wicked patterns that make your vision go white. He doesn’t ease up. Doesn’t let you breathe. He devours you like he’s trying to wipe every trace of David off your skin.
You scream — a raw, broken sound — and Jake moans like it turns him on just hearing you.
“There she is,” he mutters, lips slick with you. “There’s my girl.”
And for one blissed-out, staggering second, you are.
You’re not David’s girlfriend. You’re not rational. You’re not guilty. You’re just his — gasping and grinding and writhing under Jake Seresin, who’s ruining you like no one else ever could.
When the orgasm crashes over you, it hits like a wave — overwhelming and violent and blinding. Your fingers clutch his hair, your thighs clamp tight around his head, and you scream again as he works you through every second of it.
Only when you’re twitching and spent does he finally lift his head.
He looks like sin — mouth red and glistening, chest heaving, eyes wild with lust.
And he grins.
“Still think you’re over me?”
You’re still trembling, body slick with sweat and overstimulated — but you want more. You need more.
Jake moves to climb over you again, but you sit up fast and press a hand to his chest, shoving him back. He lets you, surprised for all of one breath before the corner of his mouth curves up, cocky and impressed.
“Oh? You’re taking charge now?”
“Shut up,” you mutter, crawling onto the bed with a dark look in your eye.
His smirk grows. “There’s that mouth again.”
He’s sitting on the edge of the bed now, legs spread, smug and waiting. You kneel between them, fingers curling into the waistband of his gray sweatpants — they’re soft and warm and hang low on his hips. You tug them down without ceremony, dragging his boxers with them, and Jake groans when you finally free him.
He’s already hard. Thick and flushed and heavy in your hand, twitching at the first brush of your fingers.
“Jesus,” you whisper. You forgot how big he is.
But your body remembers. Your mouth waters. Your thighs clench.
Jake watches you, eyes dark. His chest rises and falls hard, and he curls one large hand into your hair — not pulling, just holding. Claiming.
“You gonna be good for me now?” he asks, voice low and rough.
You don’t answer.
Instead, you lean in and take him into your mouth.
Jake swears violently, hips jerking, his hand tightening instantly in your hair. “Fuck—”
You start slow, dragging your tongue along the underside, flattening it at the tip, hollowing your cheeks. You stroke what you can’t fit with your hand, working him with deliberate, teasing rhythm. He tastes like sweat and salt and memory.
Above you, Jake growls. “You’re gonna kill me.”
You hum around him and he bucks into your mouth, making you gag a little, but you don’t stop — you like the way it makes him groan, low and wrecked and desperate.
His thighs flex on either side of you. You dig your nails into one, and he looks down at you like you’ve set his whole life on fire.
“Look at you,” he pants. “On your knees for me again.”
You lift your eyes, meeting his as you take him deeper.
“Fuck,” he hisses, head tipping back. “You feel so good, baby. So fucking good.”
You work him harder now — faster, wetter, filthier — spit dripping down your chin, tears threatening at the corners of your eyes. He’s panting, swearing, losing control, and you can tell he’s close. His hand in your hair turns to a fist.
And then, with a guttural moan, he pulls you off him.
You blink up at him, lips wet and parted, chest heaving. “Why’d you stop me?”
Jake leans down, pulls you up by the hair, and crushes his mouth to yours — all tongue and hunger and possession.
“Because I want to come inside you,” he growls. “I want to fuck you until you forget anyone else ever touched you.”
You whimpered — small and broken — and that was all the permission Jake needed.
He pulled you onto the bed with effortless strength, flipping you onto your back and crawling over you like a man starved. His hands were everywhere, spreading your thighs, pinning your wrists, claiming every inch of you like he hadn’t stopped thinking about this — about you — since the last time he had you under him.
“Look at you,” he rasped, dragging his mouth along your jaw, then lower, sucking bruises into your neck that you’d feel tomorrow. “Falling apart already, and I haven’t even touched you properly.”
“Jake—” you gasped, body arching, needing more, needing anything.
His hand came down between your legs, not gentle, not soft — perfect — and you moaned, shameless and aching.
“Say it,” he growled against your skin. “You want it? Beg for it.”
You didn’t even hesitate.
“Please,” you gasped, eyes wide, voice wrecked. “Please, Jake—just—God, do something—”
He grinned, wicked and cocky and cruel in the way only he could get away with. “There’s my girl.”
And then he was inside you in one rough, perfect thrust, burying himself so deep your breath caught in your throat. You cried out — sharp and helpless — your nails digging into his shoulders as he held you down and moved.
Hard. Deep. Unforgiving.
Like he was trying to remind your body who it belonged to.
“You think you can come to my door,” he grunted, driving into you again and again, “kiss me like that — and not leave ruined?”
You couldn’t answer — you could barely breathe. He wasn’t making love to you; he was claiming you, unmaking you with every thrust, every filthy, perfect word against your ear.
And you didn’t want him to stop.
Jake’s pace shifted — harder, deeper, more deliberate — like every thrust was a statement, a punishment, a promise.
“God, listen to you,” he gritted, voice low and rough as gravel. “So needy. So loud.”
You could barely answer him, gasping under the rhythm he set, your back arched and your fingers twisted tight in the sheets. But Jake wasn’t done — not even close.
“Missed this, didn’t you?” he growled, hand sliding under your thigh to press you open wider, holding you exactly where he wanted you. “You can lie to yourself all you want — but your body never could.”
Your head tipped back with a cry, and Jake’s palm landed beside your head, bracing himself as he drove into you again, hard enough to rattle the bed. His other hand trailed possessively down your body, gripping your hip, anchoring you to the moment.
Every word from his mouth was like fuel to the fire, and he knew it.
“You’re mine, sweetheart,” he murmured against your jaw, a dangerous promise wrapped in a kiss. “Say it. Let me hear you say it.”
You whimpered his name, too far gone for pride or pretense, and that was all it took. Jake dropped his forehead to yours, still moving inside you with raw purpose, his breath ragged and hot.
“I knew you’d come back,” he murmured, voice breaking into a low groan. “I knew you couldn’t stay away.”
You tried to catch your breath, to center yourself, but it was impossible with Jake moving like that — claiming every inch of you like it was his birthright. He was relentless, each thrust a deeper descent, and you couldn’t think, couldn’t speak, couldn’t breathe without him.
And maybe that was the problem.
You shouldn’t have come here. You should’ve deleted his pictures from your phone. You should’ve stayed in your cold, quiet apartment with the man you never really loved.
But you hadn’t. You couldn’t.
Because Jake Seresin had always been the fire.
And you? You were the fool who kept flying into it, over and over, wings burning until there was nothing left but smoke and need.
His name slipped from your lips again, broken and breathless, and Jake’s hand came to your throat — not to choke, not to restrain, but to hold. To anchor.
“Say it again,” he demanded, voice ragged, eyes burning down into yours. “Let me hear you.”
You looked up at him, lips trembling, heart tearing itself open inside your chest as he drove into you again, deeper, harder.
“I’ll never stop,” you gasped. “Wanting you. Needing you.”
Jake’s jaw clenched, like he was trying to hold himself back — but then his mouth was on yours, rough and consuming, his hips pressing harder into yours with brutal devotion.
“Damn right you won’t,” he growled against your lips. “Because you’re mine. Always have been.”
And the worst part?
He was right.
No matter how many years passed, no matter how many lies you told yourself, no matter how many mistakes you made trying to erase the pull between you — it never changed.
You could run. You could even pretend. But your body would always remember.
And right now, as Jake dragged you closer to the edge with nothing but his touch and the heat in his voice, you knew — it was always going to be like this.
summary: you and clark have been best friends since college, and you know everything about each other—including his superhero identity—but tensions have risen since you started working with him at the daily planet, and after superman is exposed to a 'truth telling toxin' you decide to take a little advantage of the fact that he can't lie
notes: a little late to the party, but have a clark kent fic! sorry this is late (and i've been m.i.a.) i've been busy watching the film eight times, crying about the film, and having an existential crisis about the fact that i'll never love another man the way i love david corenswet... but anyway! i struggled a little with this, hence it taking so long, so i'm sorry if it sucks? but regardless, i always love to hear what y'all think, so please let me know!
warnings: swearing, alcohol consumption, it has some corny moments, some jealousy, brief mention of a dating app, lots of tension, very minor miscommunication, clark jokes about eating kryptonite, jimmy is a well-meaning meddler, italics, clark says 'gosh' a lot, and SMUT (making out, f oral receiving, fingering, unprotected p in v, dirty-ish talk, also it's a few thousand words of smut oops) 18+ ONLY MDNI!!!
word count: 21621
- Clark -
“It’s kind of pathetic if you think about it,” Jimmy says.
Lois rolls her eyes. “Don’t start, Jimmy.”
“I’m not starting anything,” he says, gesturing toward Clark with his coffee mug. “Just look at him. He’s like a golden retriever waiting for someone to throw the ball.”
Lois tries not to laugh, but a soft snort slips out before she can hide it behind a sip of coffee.
“I think it’s sweet,” Cat says, perching on the edge of Jimmy’s desk. “Being in love with your best friend is so… early-two-thousands romcom coded.”
Lois swivels in her chair to give Cat an incredulous look. “What does that even mean?”
“It means Clark is a nerd who’s hopelessly in love with a girl way out of his league, and it’s adorable in a tragic, pathetic kind of way,” Jimmy says.
“Jimmy!” Cat smacks his arm. “Stop calling Clark pathetic.”
“I’m not calling him pathetic,” Jimmy insists, still grinning. “The pining is pathetic. There’s a difference.”
“You’re still being a jerk,” Lois mutters into her coffee.
Their teasing continues, but Clark barely registers it. He hasn’t heard a word since the moment you walked through the door—hair mussed from the wind, a binder hugged tight to your chest. Perry intercepted you immediately, stopping you at the front desk to talk about the article you submitted late last night. Clark only knows this because he can hear every word from across the newsroom—the warmth in your voice, every shift and cadence he’s memorised over the years.
It’s not an accent or a twang. It’s just you.
The voice that lingers in his dreams, that echoes in the back of his mind whenever he’s flying through the sky, wondering if you’re thinking about him too.
It’s always you.
“Morning, team!” you greet cheerfully, dropping your bag and binder onto the desk opposite Clark’s.
Jimmy smirks, his gaze flicking toward Clark before settling on you. “Good morning, hot shot. What was all that with the boss about?”
Clark is staring—he knows he is—but he can’t help it. You’re just so goddamn beautiful. You have been since the day he first met you, and no amount of superhuman restraint has ever dulled the way you affect him. If kryptonite is his greatest weakness, you’re a very close second.
“Didn’t you hear?” you tease Jimmy. “I’m the new headliner.”
You grin, pretending to flick your hair off your shoulder with mock dramatics—and that’s when Clark notices it. The change. The subtle way your body reacts.
Your heartbeat picks up, quick and sharp against his ears. He can see it now—literally see the steady thump of your heart beneath your ribs, see the way the muscles in your chest tighten and your breath catches ever so slightly.
But why?
The question lodges in his mind like a splinter. Is it Jimmy? Is it something Jimmy said? Does he make you nervous? Does he make you excited?
Do you... like him?
Clark’s brow furrows. He tracks the heat rising under your skin, the almost imperceptible tremor in your hand as you lower it to lean on your desk—and then he freezes.
Oh, God. He’s staring directly at your chest. Through it, technically, but from the outside no one else would know the difference. His face heats, and he blinks hard, forcing himself to stop—to look away before someone notices.
“Better watch out, Kent,” Lois says, smirking over the rim of her coffee cup. “You might’ve just convinced Perry to hire your biggest competition yet.”
Clark clears his throat, pulling his gaze up to your face where it belongs. “Yeah, I think I did.”
You give him that cheesy little smile—the one where your nose scrunches up, your cheeks flush pink, and his heart stops—the one that slips into his dreams every damn night. He loves that smile. He loves your face. He loves you—and God, he hates that he’s too much of a coward to say it out loud.
He wishes he wasn’t.
He wishes—of all the powers in the universe—that he had the ability to rewind time. Then, he’d go back to college, back to the late-night study sessions and coffee runs and the years of friendship and banter. Back to that night, right before graduation, when he told you the truth about who he really is.
If he’d been half as brave as everyone thinks he is, he would’ve said—
I’m Superman. And by the way, I’m in love with you. Wanna make out?
Maybe then things would’ve been different. Maybe if he tacked it on to the big reveal, you would’ve fallen for him too—charmed by the whole ‘superhero’ thing.
And maybe by now you’d be doing everything and more than just making out. Because yeah, he wants to do a lot more than that. A lot more. Which is a real problem, because just thinking about having you—really having you—makes him dizzy enough to fly straight into a building.
He isn’t joking when he says you affect him like kryptonite. He doesn’t know why, but when it comes to you, he’s helpless. Powerless. He’s always felt things more deeply than most—because he isn’t like most—but with you? It's something else entirely.
He knows for a fact he couldn’t live without you. That’s why he convinced you to stay in Metropolis after college. Why he’s never stopped being your best friend. Why he got you the job at the Daily Planet—because weekends with you weren’t enough. He needs you every single day.
And that’s also why he’s never told you how he really feels. Because the way he loves you scares him—and if it scares him, what would it do to you? Probably terrify you. Maybe even drive you away. And he can’t risk that.
He can’t risk losing you.
So here he stays, hopelessly stuck in the friendzone, listening to you chat animatedly with Cat about some loser you met on Hinge who you’re going out with tomorrow night.
“His profile says he’s into hot yoga and smoking meats,” you say, holding your phone up for Cat to see.
It takes every ounce of—superhuman—self-control for Clark not to scoff.
“Baby girl, it also says he collects limited edition knives,” Cat points out, her brows drawn. “Are you sure you want to go on a date with this guy?”
You roll your eyes. “I appreciate the concern, but he’s the only half-decent match I’ve had in weeks.”
Cat blinks at you. “Seriously? But your profile is perfect. I made sure of that myself.”
“I know,” you sigh, your gaze sliding toward Clark—who’s very conspicuously looking anywhere but at you. “But I left my phone unattended on my desk a couple weeks ago, and someone thought it’d be funny to change everything so the only matches I got were Arkham escapees.”
Jimmy snorts at his desk, but his eyes stay glued to his screen like he isn’t blatantly eavesdropping.
“Clark,” Cat says, her glare narrowing at him. “Messing with her dating profile? Really?”
Clark’s head snaps up—blue eyes wide and full of faux-innocence. “It was Jimmy’s idea.”
“Dude,” Jimmy says, swivelling in his chair, “you really don’t want to start pointing fingers. Because I won’t hesitate to—”
“Okay!” Lois cuts in, standing from her desk with her empty mug in hand. “I’m going to need you all to shut up and get some actual work done before I lose my mind.”
Jimmy chuckles and turns back to his desk. Cat sighs, handing your phone back with a dramatic shake of her head. Clark glances toward Lois, mouths a quiet thank you, then lets his gaze drifts back to you—only to find you already watching him.
You’re wearing a that half-scowl, half-smirk look that makes his stomach flip like he’s been caught doing something he shouldn’t. He feels seen. Exposed. Almost like you’re the one with x-ray vision. Or worse, maybe you can read his mind.
He raises a brow. “What?”
“No snide comment about my hot-yoga-loving, knife-collecting, entrepreneurial date?”
His lips twitch. “Oh, he’s an entrepreneur? That’s impressive. Really sounds like you found a winner.”
“Entrepreneur is just code for broke,” Jimmy mutters.
You ignore him, your eyes staying locked on Clark. “So, you’re not going to warn me against going on this date?”
Clark shrugs, leaning back in his chair like he’s not affected. “Why would I? He sounds great.”
“He collects knives, Clark,” you say, tilting your head just enough to make it feel like a challenge. “Doesn’t that seem a little… murder-y?”
Clark smiles, leaning forward again until his elbows rest on the desk. “For your sake, I hope he’s not.”
“But if he is...” you press, voice dropping low. “You think there’ll be anyone around to save me?”
The way your lips curl, the glint in your eyes, that soft, sly note in your voice—it’s enough to make Clark feel uncomfortably warm. He always runs hot, but looking at you now? Teasing him like this? It feels like you’re daring him to lose control.
God, the things he’d do if you weren’t looking at him like that in the middle of the goddamn newsroom.
“You mean Superman?” he asks, his voice low now, matching yours. “I’m sure he’s got better things to do on a Friday night.”
Your brows shoot up. “Better things?”
“Maybe,” he says with a nonchalant shrug, but his throat feels tight.
“Well,” you murmur, leaning back in your chair, “you’d know. Considering how close you and Superman are. All those exclusive interviews…”
Jimmy snickers quietly, but neither of you spare him a glance.
“I hope he doesn’t, though,” you add, tone light but loaded, your smile lingering as your gaze slides toward your computer screen. “I hope he’s got nothing better to do. I hope he’s hanging around, just in case my date is a psycho and I need saving.”
Clark opens his mouth to reply when Steve walks by, cutting in like a brick through glass.
“Haven’t you been saved by Superman, like, five times already?”
Your cheeks heat, and Clark hears your heart pick up—a sound so sweet it nearly undoes him. Because he knows it's for him. Well, Superman technically, but Clark Kent is taking this win.
“It was once—maybe twice,” you say quickly.
“Actually,” Jimmy chimes in, “I think it was more—”
“Oh my God,” you cut him off, flustered. “Why is everyone so chatty this morning? Can we please just work?"
Steve rolls his eyes and keeps walking.
Jimmy frowns. “You and Clark were the ones—”
“Jimmy,” Clark says, his voice clipped in a way that makes Jimmy blink. “Seriously. Work.”
Jimmy throws his hands up in surrender and spins back to his screen. Clark waits a beat, then glances up over the low partition between your desks. The second your eyes meet his, he can’t help the small, smug curve of his mouth. You roll your eyes but can’t hide your own grin, and suddenly it feels like the whole newsroom has faded into background noise.
Because you’re looking at him like that—with those eyes—and lousy date or not, you still know exactly who’s going to show up if you need saving.
The rest of the day goes by like any other. Everyone gets lost in their work, debates flare and die out, coffee is chugged like it’s oxygen, and Perry yells at someone for a misspelled headline at least once. It’s fair, though—journalists should at least know how to spell. At least.
By three p.m., Clark can tell you’re deep into that afternoon slump—when the sunlight pouring through the big glass windows feels too warm, your last coffee was too long ago, and you’re one sigh away from curling up at your desk for a nap.
Clark secretly loves this time of day. He doesn’t get the same crash as everyone else, so it’s the perfect time to spoil you without you—or anyone else—raising an eyebrow. He lives for the way you give him that sleepy, dopey smile whenever he drops a chocolate bar on your desk, grabs something from the front desk for you, or—his favourite—when he walks down the block to get you a real coffee from your favourite café instead of the sludge in the breakroom that Perry insists on calling coffee.
He’s just about to do exactly that when he sees you drag your tired feet into the printer room and start stacking cartons of paper reams like some kind of reckless architect.
He stops at the doorway, brows furrowed. “What are you doing?”
You glance over your shoulder as you drop a third box onto the wobbly stack. “Building. What does it look like?”
“It looks like you’re five seconds from filing for workers’ comp,” he says, stepping into the small room.
The space is cramped, mostly taken up by the oversized printer and a few sad piles of paper—some blank, some the casualties of misprints. The back wall is lined with floor-to-ceiling shelving crammed with office supplies and random junk that no one has bothered to sort since, well, ever.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” you say with a small smirk. “I can still type with a broken neck.”
Clark is about to argue when you bend over and press your palms flat against the top box to test its stability. His words die in his throat. His eyes—traitorous, shameless—drop to the curve of your ass, barely two feet in front of him. He’s staring—again. He knows he’s staring, but he can’t stop—because apparently, all it takes to unravel Superman is you in a pair of fitted grey office pants.
Then you plant one foot on the unsteady tower like you’re about to climb Everest, and something in him snaps.
“Woah, no way,” he says, stepping forward in a blur.
Before he can think better of it, his hands are on your waist—warm, firm, and holding you steady as he pulls you back down to the floor like you weigh nothing.
The heat of you bleeds through the thin fabric of your shirt, and it’s dizzying. You’re too soft, too precious, and he has no business touching you like this. His breath snags in his chest, sharp and unsteady. He’s hugged you before—plenty of times—but this? This is different. This feels dangerous.
Then, of course—
“What’s going on in here?” Jimmy asks, grinning like an idiot as he leans against the doorframe.
“I was just trying to—” you start.
“She was just—” Clark says at the same time.
And then he hears it—your heartbeat, skipping once before it kicks into overdrive. Your body grows even warmer beneath his hands, and you step away quickly, like his touch was too much. His stomach twists.
You’re flushed. Flustered. Because of Jimmy?
The thought hits him like a punch to the gut. It has to be. What else could it be? You’ve never looked at him like that. Not Clark. Not the way you look—the way your body reacts—when Jimmy appears, always wearing that lazy grin, the one that apparently drives women wild.
“Hey, I’m not judging,” Jimmy says, raising his coffee cup in a mock toast. “The printer room is a classic. Just don’t let Perry catch you—he almost had a coronary when he found me in here with someone.”
Then he winks and walks away, strolling across the newsroom toward his desk.
For a second, Clark just stands there, jaw tight, the faint sound of your too-quick heartbeat still humming in his ears like static. He wants to say something—ask why you get all warm and pink every time Jimmy walks into a room—but he swallows it down. This isn’t the time. He doesn’t have the right.
Instead, he clears his throat and turns back to the shelf, reaching easily for the toner cartridge on the top shelf.
“This what you were risking your life for?” he asks, holding it out to you.
You sigh dramatically as you take it. “Yes, that. Don’t look so smug just because you’re freakishly tall.”
“Sorry,” he says, tone dry, “next time I’ll let you make the ER trip.”
You scowl up at him, lips twitching like you’re trying not to smile. “Well, not all of us can be eight feet tall and built like a Greek god.”
A slow smile tugs at his mouth. “Seven and a half, tops.”
You roll your eyes, but your cheeks are still pink. “You’re impossible.”
“And you’re reckless,” he fires back, soft but certain.
There’s a beat—a pause thick enough to feel. Your eyes hold his, that half-challenging, half-teasing look that makes his pulse thud a little harder. Clark’s not sure if you know what you’re doing to him or if you’re just being you, but it’s suddenly too much. Too warm.
Jimmy’s stupid grin flashes in his mind. He can still hear the way your heart had jumped when he appeared, the way you’d flushed—warm and flustered in his hands, but not because of him.
Clark clears his throat and steps back, shoving his hands into his pockets to keep from reaching for you again. “Try not to give yourself a concussion while I’m gone,” he says, trying for light, but it comes out a little too clipped.
You blink. “Gone?”
“Coffee run,” he mutters. “You look like you could use it.”
“Oh. Thanks,” you reply, with that soft, tired smile—like it’s just another small kindness between friends.
And it kills him. Because he doesn’t want to be just friends—not when Jimmy’s grin gets that kind of reaction out of you. He wants that reaction. He wants to be the one who makes you smile, who sets your cheeks on fire, whose presence throws your heartbeat off balance.
By the time he’s back out in the newsroom, his chest is tight and his jaw aches from clenching so hard. Jimmy is laughing with Cat at his desk, and Clark can’t help but picture you grinning at him like that. Laughing like that.
He swallows hard, grabs his jacket, and heads for the elevator before he does something stupid. Like break the sound barrier just to get to your favourite café and back, because apparently, that’s the only way he knows how to compete.
The walk helps. A little. At least enough for him to stop replaying the printer room in his head like it’s a crime scene and he’s looking for evidence of when, exactly, he lost his mind. He forces himself not to rush, because it’s not like you’re going anywhere. Most of the Planet’s staff will be chained to their desks until well after sunset—you included. Then he’ll walk you home like he always does, listening to you rant about something dumb Perry said or the latest atrocity the breakroom coffee has committed. God, he loves your voice when you’re like that—sharp, alive, unfiltered.
It’s pathetic, he knows—just as Jimmy had so graciously pointed out this morning—but Clark couldn’t deny it even if he wanted to. Because aside from saving the planet and doing as much good as one man—one Kryptonian—possibly can, he lives for you.
He hasn’t thought much about what he’ll do when you inevitably find someone. Someone who isn’t him. Maybe he’ll move to a red sun planet and sulk until he withers away. Or move to the moon and mope for all eternity. Or, hell, maybe he’ll just swallow a chunk of kryptonite and be done with it.
Because the truth is, he doesn’t think he’d survive it. Losing you to someone else would tear him apart in ways nothing else could. It’s the second-most painful thought in his head—the first being losing you in the other sense. The permanent, irreversible sense. Which is exactly why he should be trying to keep his distance. Why he shouldn’t need you like this, so badly it scares him.
But every time he’s tried to warn you, every time he’s told you that being close to him is too dangerous, you’ve just looked him in the eye and said you don’t care. That you need him.
And God help him, because hearing you say those four little words—I need you, Clark—is enough to bring Superman to his knees. In more ways than one.
“Uh, Clark?” Lois asks, head tilted, one arm holding the elevator doors open. “Plan on moving any time soon?”
Clark blinks, hard, and realises he’s back at the office. In the elevator. Holding your coffee in one hand and a paper bag with two warm pastries in the other.
“Sorry,” he mutters, shaking his head. “Daydreaming.”
Lois smirks as she steps aside. “Wonder what about.”
Clark steps out of the elevator and—of course—his eyes go straight to you, all the way across the bullpen. You’re at your desk, typing away with that little furrow between your brows, the one he could sketch from memory.
“I swear you’ve got a sixth sense just for her,” Lois says as she steps into the elevator. “Doesn’t matter where she is—you always know. Like your compass doesn’t point north. It points to her.”
Lois is a journalist, Clark knows that. Words are her weapon. But the truth of them still hits him square in the chest. He doesn’t mind the teasing, but he hates how transparent he is—how anyone can look at him and just see.
“You should just ask her out,” Lois adds lightly. “Put us all out of our misery.”
Before he can find an answer, the elevator doors slide shut and she’s gone—taking her sharp words and knowing smirk with her.
Clark waits a moment, draws a deep, steadying breath, then crosses the newsroom toward you. He can see the exposé you’re working on, the one you’ve ranted about a hundred times, and he can practically feel the focus radiating off you. It almost makes him hesitate—almost.
“Coffee,” he says, placing the cup on your desk. “And pick a pastry. Or we can split them both.”
You flinch slightly before glancing up at him with that dopey, tired grin. Your bottom lip is swollen and raw from chewing on it, and the sight alone makes something stir in his chest—and lower.
“Where’s my coffee?” Jimmy calls, spinning lazily in his chair.
Clark hears it again—your heartbeat, stuttering once before racing fast—and his chest tightens. He doesn’t want to regret getting you this job, but he’s starting to think he might have been better off leaving you at Metropolis Mail. You hated it there, but at least you didn’t have a crush on any of the old, sleazy men you worked with.
“Clark doesn’t like you like he likes me,” you tease, eyes narrowing at Jimmy.
Jimmy snorts. “And you know what? I’m grateful that he doesn’t. Otherwise, we’d have to—”
“Jimmy,” Cat interrupts from across the bullpen, “don’t finish that sentence unless you want me to staple your mouth shut.”
Clark settles at his desk, watching as you reach for the bag of pastries. Your cheeks are still pink—flustered, again—and he can hear your pulse humming too fast.
“Okay, we’re halving these,” you declare. “I’m not choosing between a chocolate croissant and a cinnamon roll.”
He smiles softly as you tear open the bag and flatten it on your desk. You split the croissant, then the cinnamon roll, eyes flicking between the halves before—like always—you pick the smaller pieces for yourself. He knows you do this every time you share food, even when it’s something you love. He’s only asked you about it once, and you’d just shrugged, saying he’s bigger so he gets the bigger piece.
But no matter how many times you do it, it still makes him feel special.
Then—before Clark can even think about standing up to grab his halves of the pastries—you lick your fingers. Slowly. A low hum vibrates from your chest, the sound unexpectedly loud in the unusually quiet newsroom.
Clark’s breath catches. His eyes flick up, locking on to the way you drag your fingers between your lips. It’s a simple gesture—intimate but mundane—except somehow, it’s not. It’s you, and suddenly the air feels charged—thick with something electric, something that has Clark’s body reacting before his brain can catch up.
He shifts in his chair, suddenly aware of how uncomfortably tight his trousers have become.
Jimmy snorts quietly at his desk, barely suppressing a giggle. Even Cat, a little further away, throws Clark a knowing smirk, eyebrows raised like she’s watching a sitcom.
Clark clears his throat, trying to focus on his screen but failing spectacularly. This—this slow, deliberate lick of your fingers—is a distraction he doesn’t want but absolutely can’t resist.
And today is the longest Thursday ever.
- You -
It’s not often you’re at work early, especially on a Friday, but this morning you woke up at six a.m. and couldn’t get back to sleep. No matter how many times you tossed and turned or fluffed your pillow. So here you are, chewing on the cap of your pen and glaring at the empty desk across from you—Clark’s desk.
He’s not always on time—extracurricular activities and all—which is something you should be used to by now. But you’re not. You still worry every time he’s not where he’s supposed to be, and you know it’s ridiculous, but you just can’t help it.
“Relax,” Jimmy says, startling you as he drops his bag onto his desk. “He’s just late, not dead.”
You shoot him a glare. You want to say you don’t know that, but you also don’t want to put that kind of energy into the universe. So you settle for sticking your tongue out like the mature, well-adjusted adult you are.
Jimmy chuckles. “Seriously, I don’t know how you two keep this up. It’s exhausting.”
You roll your eyes and turn back to your computer, not yet caffeinated enough to have this argument. Again.
“Why won’t you believe me?” he presses. “He’s into you. I know he is. Why would I lie—”
“Would you keep your voice down?” you hiss, brows pulling together. “I don’t need the entire bullpen hearing about my pathetic crush on my best friend slash coworker.”
Jimmy snorts. “But you’re fine with the entire bullpen seeing it?”
Your chair squeaks as you whip around to face him. “What do you mean, see it?”
“The way you two are constantly falling all over each other,” he says, eyebrows raised as he drops into his chair. “I mean, come on. The man brings you coffee—good coffee—twice a day, gets you snacks, picks up your mail, walks you home every night, gives you his jacket when it’s cold or rainy. And newsflash—most friends don’t hold each other by the waist in the printer room.”
Your cheeks go hot, your pulse skipping once before slamming into a frantic rhythm. The memory of Clark’s hands—big, warm, wrapped around your waist like they belonged there—flashes through your mind. The press of his fingers, the solid weight of him so close, the ghost of his breath against your neck. It’s enough to make you squirm, thighs squeezing together as you hope to hell that Jimmy doesn’t notice the way you shift in your seat.
“That’s just… Clark,” you argue. “He’s nice. He was raised well. He’s a gentleman, Jimmy. More than anyone can say about you.”
Jimmy’s brows shoot up. “Okay, I’m ignoring that insult because I know you’re just deflecting, and you know I’m right.”
“I know you’re delusional.”
“Why are you so stubborn?”
“Because,” you say, sitting up straighter, “Clark knows I have a crush on him. Okay? He knows. So if he liked me as anything more than a friend, he’d ask me out. But he doesn’t. Obviously. And I’m fine with that.”
Jimmy frowns, leaning back in his chair with his legs stretched out. “He knows?”
You nod. “He knows.”
“How do you know he knows?”
Well, that’s… complicated.
You can’t exactly say oh, because I’m pretty sure Superman can hear my heart go feral whenever he so much as looks at me. Or that he can probably see it pounding and feel the heat rushing through your veins. Or—hell—you wouldn’t even be surprised if he’s picked up on other… reactions. Like that first time you saw him in the suit up close. Or the time he came over to help you move furniture wearing just a tank top and shorts, and—okay, you need to stop thinking about that before you pass out in the middle of the newsroom.
“I just know,” you mutter. “Intuition. Or whatever.”
Jimmy groans and tips his head back like he’s talking to the ceiling. “You know, for journalists, the two of you are really bad at using your words.”
You glare at him—eyes narrowed, jaw tight—wishing you could come up with something snarky to snap back with. But you can’t. Your brain is a mess of Clark’s big hands, his broad shoulders in a tank top, and the way that goddamn suit hugs his thick thighs.
So, with a frustrated huff, you turn back to your computer and try to focus on work. You finish your first cup of the Planet’s signature sludge by the time Cat breezes in, giving you a wink and a smile before settling at her desk. Lois is next, muttering to herself as she drops into her chair and starts furiously typing whatever it is she’s afraid she’ll forget.
Your eyes flick up to Clark’s desk every few minutes, and occasionally, you make the mistake of glancing at Jimmy, who is watching you with a very amused grin. He raises his brows, smirking, like he’s daring you to admit that he’s right. You try to ignore him, but after the third look, you can’t stop yourself from scowling and mouthing at him to fuck off, when—
“You’re very late this morning,” Lois says.
Your head whips back toward Clark’s desk—eyes wide, heart thudding—and there he is.
You think you’d be used to him by now. Those bright blue eyes, the unruly curls, the dimples framing those full, stupidly pretty lips. But somehow, every time you see him—which, by the way, is a lot—you feel like you can finally breathe again. Like you’ve been holding your breath without realising it, and now that he’s here, smiling sheepishly and looking perfectly dishevelled, your lungs remember how to work.
“Yeah, I overslept,” he says, voice low and still a little rough with sleep.
Your heart stutters when his gaze lands on you, and it’s moments like this that make you wish you could control your own damn body—because how could he not know? Your entire nervous system launches into full red alert whenever he’s within fifty feet of you. And you know he can see, hear, feel everything.
“Overslept but still had time to pick up coffee?” Jimmy asks, grinning as he swivels in his chair.
Clark’s eyes flick to him, his brows drawing just slightly, but he doesn’t answer. Instead, he grabs one of the two coffees he’d set down and steps toward you, holding it out.
Your fingers brush his as you take it—just for a second—but it’s enough to make your breath hitch. His skin is warm, steady, and now yours feels like it’s buzzing. You pull back quickly, your traitorous heart hammering like it’s trying to tell on you.
“Thanks, Kent,” you mutter.
He smiles—soft and quiet, blue eyes sparkling behind his glasses—and you try not to melt. Or stare. Or do anything suspicious, like sigh wistfully and start fanning yourself with a stack of misprints.
“So,” Jimmy says, still grinning and clearly unperturbed, “excited for your date tonight?”
You take a sip of coffee—good coffee—and sigh. “Nope. Cancelled.”
“What?” Cat pops up at her desk, frowning. “Why?”
You shrug. “Apparently something came up.”
Clark raises his brows, but his eyes stay glued to his screen. “Like a prior conviction?”
You give him a flat look. “Funny.”
His gaze flicks up, lips twitching. “I’m just saying. Your taste in men is—”
“Very inconsistent,” Jimmy cuts in, smirking at you.
Your cheeks heat—you know what he’s trying to say—but you ignore him. Your eyes stay locked on Clark. “What’s wrong with a guy who sells hand-forged artisanal blades?”
“Where? From the back of his van?” Clark asks, the corner of his mouth curling. “Nothing wrong with that. Sounds very entrepreneurial.”
You narrow your eyes, running your tongue across your top teeth as you fight back a smile. Because how is it fair that he looks this goddamn cute while mocking you? While teasing you for getting dumped by some knife-collecting ex-con you met on Hinge.
“At least you’re giving Superman the night off,” Steve mutters, appearing beside your desk with a half-eaten bagel and a mug that says World’s Best Grandma.
You turn to him, brows drawn. “Okay, for the last time, I have not been saved by Superman that many times.”
“Um,” Jimmy says, “yeah you have. You’re Metropolis’ most high-maintenance citizen.”
Lois spins around in her chair. “Yeah, what are we up to now—like, five or six?”
“I thought it was five,” Steve says around a mouthful of bagel.
“Actually,” Cat pipes up, “I think it’s more than that.”
“It’s not that many!” you argue. “I counted last night—it’s only been four.”
Everyone stops, eyes flicking toward you.
There’s a beat of silence.
Lois frowns. Jimmy raises a brow. Cat giggles. And Clark looks... smug.
You blink. “What? What’s everyone looking at?”
“You counted?” Lois asks.
Clark smirks—he actually smirks. “You keep track?”
Your eyes go wide. Your whole face catches fire.
“Oh God,” Jimmy sighs. “Don’t tell me you’ve got some weird crush on Superman.”
“No,” you reply, too fast. “What? No, I—obviously not. Why would I—?”
“Oh, yeah,” he chuckles. “That’s real convincing.”
You groan and drop your face into your hands. “I do not have a crush on Superman.”
“Oh, come on,” Cat says brightly. “There’s no shame in it. The guy’s built like a Greek statue and has the jawline of a god.”
“And the thighs,” Steve adds. “Don’t forget the thighs.”
“I’ve never even looked at his thighs,” you lie, still mumbling into your palms.
There are a few snickers. Jimmy mutters something to Steve about, “Thighs? Really, man?” And then—
Clark coughs. Once. Loudly.
You swallow hard and peek through your fingers, just in time to see him lift his coffee to hide a smile.
“Wait,” Lois pipes up, her tone light but undeniably playful, “didn’t you say the other day when we were watching that live feed of him saving those puppies that you needed to go home and take a cold shower?”
Clark chokes. Your heart stops.
He coughs into his fist, turning away slightly like that’ll help disguise the pink creeping up his neck—and the ridiculous grin stretching across his lips.
Jimmy bursts out laughing. “Oh my god, that’s right. I heard that.”
“It was a joke,” you say quickly. “I was joking. And I only said it to Lois—”
Lois grins. “You also said, and I quote, ‘he could break your back and you’d say thank you’.”
Your eyes go wide. Your pulse spikes. You feel like you might faint.
And across from you, Clark is coughing harder.
“Oh no,” Cat gasps, rushing toward him. “Clark, are you okay?”
He’s hunched over now, still trying to hide his face. “I—I’m fine,” he manages. “Just... swallowed wrong.”
“Wow,” Jimmy sighs, leaning back in his chair with a wicked grin. “I guess you don’t really have a type then.”
God. If only he knew.
“It was a joke,” you say again, sharper now. “It was late, we were all mad about staying back, the breaking news started playing and I made a joke to lighten the mood, okay?”
Steve snorts. “Then why are you so defensive?”
Your eyes snap toward him. “Why are you still here?”
He holds his bagel up like a white flag and turns back to his desk.
Then Perry’s voice booms across the newsroom, calling Jimmy into his office, and the buzz of conversation quickly dies. Lois spins back to her desk, Cat returns to her phone, and the bullpen slips back into its usual rhythm—paper rustling, keys tapping, the occasional frustrated sigh from someone fighting a deadline.
With a deep breath, you sit up straighter and try to focus on your inbox. But it’s hard. Because across from you, Clark—apparently recovered from his dramatic coughing fit—is sipping his coffee like nothing happened, eyes fixed on his screen... but there’s something suspiciously smug about the set of his mouth.
When his gaze flicks up to meet yours, you lift an eyebrow. “You good?”
His lips twitch. “Didn’t realise Superman made that kind of impression on you.”
Your breath catches. There’s a spark behind his glasses, barely-there but undeniably real. A little teasing. A little warm. A little dangerous.
You clear your throat and look back to your screen. “I really was joking.”
“I know,” he says softly, but you’re not convinced he means it.
Because for the rest of the morning, his eyes keep finding you. And you can feel it. The weight of his gaze is heavy—too deliberate to ignore—and you can’t help but meet it. Every time. Even when you’re halfway across the newsroom chatting with one of the copy editors, or heading to the breakroom for your third—or fourth—cup of coffee.
By lunchtime, you feel wired. Not from caffeine or overtiredness, but from the way Clark Kent hasn’t let your heart settle all goddamn morning. And if he smirks at you one more time, you’re pretty sure you’re going to go into cardiac arrest.
“You busy?” Perry asks, startling you as he appears beside your desk.
You clear your throat and glance up at him. “Always.”
“Good. Then you’ve got time to help me.”
You want to roll your eyes, but you don’t. You haven’t been here as long as the others, but you’ve pretty much clocked Perry—and when he’s in one of these moods, it’s best not to argue.
“City Council’s pulling the same shit they tried back in ’07, and I need ammo,” he says. “Go find Mick Reynolds’ notes from the Wallace campaign exposé. Should be in the election coverage boxes—second shelf, far back. Try not to get lost in there.”
Then he’s gone, and you’re left staring blankly across at Jimmy—who is chuckling and shaking his head.
“Right,” you mutter, pushing up from your chair. “And I’m assuming he means second shelf, far back... in the archives room?”
Jimmy nods. “Yeah. Down the hall, past the printer room, last door on the right.”
“Great. Thanks.”
You tuck your phone into your pocket—just in case you do get lost—and head toward the archives room, without looking back at Clark.
You reach the end of the hall, just as Jimmy had instructed, and push open the last door on the right with a loud creak. It’s dim inside, with no windows and only half of the overhead fluorescents working—some of them flickering ominously. Metal shelving units packed with labelled boxes line the room, everything smelling faintly like dust and yellowed paper.
You take a deep breath—then immediately regret it, coughing softly as you start down the first aisle. Your eyes skim the labels on the boxes, your brain trying to decode whatever terrible filing system is in place. It’s not alphabetical, not by date, not even by section. You can’t make any sense of it—
“It’s chronological.”
You yelp, spinning around just as you reach the end of the aisle.
“Jesus Christ, farm boy,” you gasp, pressing a hand to your chest. “Why would you sneak up on someone in a creepy room like this?”
Clark chuckles quietly. “I wasn’t sneaking.”
“You didn’t knock.”
“I figured you’d hear me.”
“Well, I didn’t.”
He tilts his head, lips curling, dimples creasing. “Probably because you were muttering to yourself.”
You roll your eyes and turn back to the shelves, trying to ignore the way your pulse is still climbing. “Whatever. It’s not chronological, though. These dates don’t make—”
“Based on when the reporter started the investigation, not publication date,” he says.
Your jaw drops. “You’re kidding?”
He shakes his head, chuckling again. “Nope.”
“Oh my God,” you sigh. “Whoever decided that is evil. Why doesn’t Perry fix it?”
Clark turns toward the shelves and shrugs, his arm brushing yours—just barely—and it takes everything in you not to flinch, or lean in, or breathe weird.
“I think he secretly enjoys torturing us,” he says, glancing sideways. “Plus, who has the time to reorganise the entire archives room?”
Your traitorous eyes drop straight to his mouth, watching his tongue drag across his bottom lip. Your breath stutters. You’re not even standing that close—it’s just too quiet in here. Too dim. And he’s far too pretty to be looking at you like that.
You clear your throat. “Yeah—uh, I guess. I mean, we could volunteer Steve. Not like he does much anyway.”
Clark huffs a laugh. “Hey. Steve does an excellent job of eating other people’s lunches and leaving greasy fingerprints on things.”
“That’s true,” you say with a soft laugh. “I mean, he’s kind of a catch. Don’t you think?”
You turn and continue around the shelves into the next aisle.
Clark follows. “So, Steve is your type then?”
You give him a flat look. “Don’t.”
He presses his lips together to contain whatever smug grin is threatening to break free. “Don’t what?”
“Don’t bring up the goddamn Superman thing,” you say, turning back to the shelves in the hopes that he can’t see the colour crawling into your cheeks. “It was a joke. And Lois… ad-libbed. She made it sound way hornier than what I actually said.”
He lifts a brow, leaning his shoulder against the shelf. “What did you actually say?”
You pull out a box and blow the dust away to read whatever’s scrawled across the top. Not that you’re really paying attention. Your brain is fried—too aware of the huge man standing beside you, watching you with such intensity you feel like his stare could brand your skin.
And, well, it could—technically.
“I said that half of Metropolis is going to need a cold shower after seeing Superman save some puppies,” you lie—through your teeth. “You know, the female half—and gays. I mean, anyone who is attracted to men, really. Because Superman is a man. A big man. And he was saving puppies, so… yeah.”
You peek out the corner of your eye as you pull out another box. He’s full-on grinning now—that cheeky grin he gets when he thinks he’s said something hilarious, or knows he’s winning one of your petty arguments.
“What about the back breaking?” he asks.
You fumble the box in your hands and it falls to the floor, papers scattering everywhere.
That is not something you ever thought you’d hear Clark Kent ask you. And those words—in that voice—have completely short-circuited the connection between your brain and your motor function.
“Shit,” you mutter, dropping to your knees.
Clark crouches beside you and starts gathering the papers just out of your reach.
“I meant—” you start quickly, keeping your eyes on the scattered pages. “The back-breaking thing wasn’t, like... literal. I meant emotionally. You know, like... he could ruin me—anyone, he could ruin anyone… metaphorically.”
He pauses, then glances at you. “Metaphorically?”
“Yeah. Like, Superman, the idea of him, this gorgeous—” you hesitate, almost choking on your words, “objectively gorgeous guy who’s too good to be true. I mean, he could ruin anyone, right?”
Clark frowns. “Right.”
“Besides,” you add quickly, “I have to try and say things that make it seem like I don’t really know Superman because he’s saved me so many goddamn times.”
He chuckles quietly. “That’s just because you’re near him all the time, and he has to get you to safety before all hell breaks loose.”
“Okay,” you mutter, stacking the pages with unnecessary focus, “but you don’t need to mention it in every article you write.”
He shrugs, handing you the papers he’d collected. “Superman likes talking about the people he’s saved.”
“Clark,” you sigh, reaching for the stack of pages.
Your hand brushes his, and your breath catches. You both freeze.
You swear you feel a pulse of heat where your fingers touch—and you know it’s ridiculous, but it doesn’t stop your heart from thudding, or your skin from flushing. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak.
And then—
“Hey guys,” Jimmy’s voice cuts through the tension. “I hate to break up whatever’s going on in here, but Perry’s about ready to rip heads off if he doesn’t have those notes soon.”
You jump up so fast you nearly knock another box off the shelf. “Shit, I—um—”
“Mick Reynolds’ notes from the Wallace campaign, right?” Clark asks, his eyes scanning the room.
You know what he’s doing, and it’s at times like this that you’re incredibly grateful for his superhuman abilities.
You nod. “Yep. Perry said they should be in the election coverage boxes—second shelf, far back.”
He steps away, walking along the back of the room before disappearing down a far aisle.
Jimmy grins and wriggles his eyebrows like an idiot. “The archives room, huh? Pretty cozy in here. Tall stacks to hide in.”
“Shut up,” you mutter, shoving the box you dropped back onto the shelf.
Clark returns a few seconds later, holding up a file. “Reynolds’ notes, ’07.”
“I don’t know how you do it, man,” Jimmy says, shaking his head. “No one can find anything in here except this guy.”
Clark just smiles, and you roll your eyes. Jimmy takes the file, shoots you a cheeky wink—as if he has any clue about what’s going on—and heads back out the door.
You turn to Clark, brows raised, lips twitching. “How do you do it, Clark? How do you find things in this terribly organised filing system?”
The corner of his mouth quirks. “Dumb luck?”
“Hm,” you narrow your eyes playfully. “I think you’ve got a secret, Kent.”
You can almost swear you see him blush, but the room is too dark to tell—and you have to look away from his stupidly gorgeous face before you forget how to act like a normal human being.
He doesn’t reply, he just follows you out of the archives room—flicking off the barely-working lights on the way—and up the hall toward the newsroom. You’re just passing the printer room, trying very hard not to think about the way his hands had felt on your waist, when he finally speaks.
“I was thinking,” he says, “movie night tonight, at my place? You know, since your date bailed.”
You glance over your shoulder at him. “Sure you don’t have better things to do on a Friday night?”
“Nah,” he replies with that small smirk—the one that makes your heart stutter. “Metropolis’ most high-maintenance citizen is giving me the night off.”
You roll your eyes. “Okay, for that comment, you’re paying for takeout.”
He chuckles. “I always pay for takeout.”
“Yeah?” You stop just outside the breakroom door. “Well, I’m ordering extra this time.”
“Extra food that I’ll end up eating because you always order too much,” he teases. “Of course. It’s tradition.”
You shake your head, biting the inside of your cheek to keep from grinning. “Whatever. I’m still ordering it.”
And then—before he can see just how much he’s affecting you—you slip into the breakroom and let the door fall shut behind you.
You turn, grip the edge of the counter, and exhale like you’ve been holding your breath for ten straight minutes. Because what the fuck is going on? His voice, his smile, his face, his everything—he’s not even trying, and you’re already halfway to a heart attack.
You’ve known Clark for years—you’ve been best friends for years. And yeah, he’s always had… an effect on you. But this? This is something else entirely. Being around him this much is starting to feel dangerous. Like the longer you stay in his orbit, the closer you are to coming undone. Every glance that lingers. Every touch that means too much. Every smile that knocks the air clean out of your lungs. You keep pretending it’s fine—but something has shifted. And whatever it is, it’s getting harder to ignore.
Jimmy’s words echo in your head, and for one traitorous second, you almost believe them. Almost believe that there might be something real behind the way Clark looks at you.
But no. Surely not, right? That’s not how this works. He’s Superman. He saves cities before breakfast. He could have any woman he wanted.
And you? You’re just the friend. The one who gets takeout with him on Friday nights because he feels bad that your date bailed. The one he teases in the bullpen. The one trying not to fall apart every time he gets too close.
You press your palms harder into the counter, as if you can steady yourself with pressure alone. But your heart’s still racing, and your lungs won’t quite fill.
You cannot keep doing this. Not like this.
Because one of these days, you’re going to look at him and forget how to pretend.
-
You never thought you’d be happy about a hectic Friday afternoon, but today, the distractions are doing a better job than your self-control ever could.
Perry is hell-bent on nailing this latest City Council scandal, and he’s got the entire bullpen scrambling to publish before the end of the day. Cat is helping Jimmy track down incriminating photos, sift through old campaign trail shots, and monitor social media for real-time fallout. Clark’s stuck on the phone with whistleblowers and trying to pin down a statement from any councilmember who’ll take his call. Steve’s out on the street gathering public reaction—loudly complaining the whole time that his Knicks column is getting bumped. And you’re at Lois’s side, helping her fact-check quotes and comb through timelines while she tears through the main exposé like a woman possessed.
It’s chaos—in the best way. Because everyone here does their best work under pressure, with ten empty coffee cups on their desk. And the best part? You’re too busy to risk another lingering moment with Clark. Too distracted to spiral. Too occupied to feel anything.
It’s perfect.
Right up until five p.m., when Perry signs off, Lois hits publish, and everyone starts packing up for the weekend.
“Coming straight over, or are you going home first?” Clark asks, shrugging into his jacket.
From the corner of your eye, you see Jimmy’s head snap toward you—and your cheeks heat immediately.
“I’ll head home first,” you say, trying to keep your voice quiet. “Change into something comfortable before I come over.”
It’s no use though—Jimmy hears everything.
“You know I’ve got a whole drawer of your clothes at my place, right?” Clark says, blue eyes flicking—just briefly—toward Jimmy, who is inching closer on the wheels of his chair.
You let out a small, nervous laugh. “It’s not a whole drawer. Is it?”
“Oh, it is,” Clark replies. “Though I think half of it’s just my old college stuff. Pretty sure you stole more than Ma ever got the chance to donate.”
Jimmy gasps—he actually gasps—like a dramatic little asshole watching his favourite soap opera play out live.
Both you and Clark turn toward him. He’s still sitting in his chair, halfway between his desk and yours, glancing between the two of you with wide eyes. You’re scowling. Clark just looks mildly sceptical.
Then, after a beat, Clark shakes his head and turns back to you. “Anyway. You want me to walk you home?”
“No,” you say—way too fast. “I mean, I’m good. I’ll catch a cab.”
He nods. “Okay. Let me know when you’re on your way?”
“Okay,” you echo, giving him a tight smile.
He tucks his chair under his desk, gives Jimmy a polite—but vaguely curious—goodbye as he steps around him, and walks off through the newsroom toward the elevator. You watch after him until the doors slide shut and the numbers above begin to light up as the lift descends.
Then you turn back to Jimmy, who has now scooted right up to your desk. Arms crossed. Eyes narrowed like a man who’s just connected the final thread on a conspiracy board.
“You’re pranking me,” he says flatly.
You close your eyes, breathing deeply. “Jimmy, just… don’t.”
“You have a drawer. Of clothes. At his apartment.”
You open your mouth, but he holds up a hand.
“No—no. Don’t talk. I need to process. I’m having, like, a full-on event.”
You frown. “An event?”
“You wear his clothes!” he hisses, loud enough to make your pulse spike. “You hang out at his place constantly. You’re going over tonight, after your date bailed—on a Friday—and you just casually told him you were gonna ‘change into something comfortable’ like that’s not the sexiest sentence ever uttered in this newsroom!”
Your face burns even hotter. “It’s not—I didn’t mean it like—”
He gasps again—loudly. “Do you have a drawer of his clothes at your place? If you say yes, I’m pitching Cat a column on office romance and you two are going to be my lead sources.”
“Well—I mean, yes, but—”
“Oh my God. You’re basically a couple without the sex!”
You scowl. “Jimmy—”
“I’m just saying!” He throws his hands up, wheeling backward like he needs a full-body reset. “You’re over there more than his landlord. You do Friday night takeout. You have drawer rights. He gives you heart-eyes every time you speak. And you’re both still pretending this is all just… platonic?”
You stare at him, mouth dry.
“Please,” Jimmy says, softer now, scooting forward again and leaning his forearms on your desk. “Don’t make me live through an unnecessary slow burn. I’m too young to suffer like this. Just jump him.”
You groan and cover your face with both hands. “Oh my God.”
“You don’t even deny that you want to,” he says, grinning now. “You’re just too scared to actually do it.”
You peek at him through your fingers. “Can you please shut up?”
“Nope,” he says brightly. “I’m way too invested now. I’m not going to shut up until I have proof that you two have finally boned.”
You drop your hands from your face with a sigh and push back from your desk. “Okay,” you mutter. “I’m leaving now.”
Jimmy just watches you—arms crossed, smug as hell, like he knows something you don’t. You pull your jacket on, pack your bag, and sling it over your shoulder.
“Just do yourself a favour,” he says. “Stop pretending this isn’t exactly what it looks like.”
You give him a look. “Jimmy—”
“Trust me,” he says, rolling back toward his desk. “You don’t end up with a drawer at someone’s place and standing Friday night plans by accident.”
You roll your eyes. “It’s not like that.”
“Sure it’s not,” he chuckles.
You huff and hitch your bag higher. “I’m leaving now.”
He turns to face his screen, still grinning. “Have fun, and don’t be shy. You might be… surprised.”
You stand frozen for a second—heart pounding, thoughts tripping over themselves—then spin on your heel and walk away before you can say something you’ll regret. Before Jimmy’s cryptic nonsense makes your brain explode.
He’s just messing with you, obviously—he’s teasing, making things up. Because there’s no way a drawer and some clothes and a Friday night movie night means anything more than friendship.
Right?
It’s just takeout. Just TV. Just Clark.
You jab the elevator button harder than necessary, tapping your foot impatiently while you wait for the doors to open. The second they do, you slip inside and start digging through your bag for your headphones. You need distraction—a podcast, an audiobook, something. Anything to stop thinking about Clark fucking Kent before you’re sitting beside him on the couch.
A breath apart. Bodies warm. Pulse thrumming.
God. You are so monumentally screwed.
As soon as you get home, you head straight for the shower, hoping the hot water might help rinse away all your spiralling thoughts. You take your time washing your hair—twice—and exfoliating everything before simply standing under the spray, trying to remember how to breathe. How to be human. How to stop over-analysing every little thing Clark has ever done for you.
Curse Jimmy Olsen and his stupidly smug words and overly supportive encouragements.
By the time you step out, you smell like coconut, vanilla, and just a hint of panic. You quickly dry off before picking out a soft pair of sweats and your favourite movie night hoodie. Then you open your underwear drawer—and pause.
You stare at the unorganised mess of cotton and lace for almost two full minutes.
It’d be ridiculous to put on something cute. Right? This is just movie night. With Clark. The same Clark who’s seen you eat popcorn off your hoodie while ugly crying over Marley & Me. There is absolutely no reason to wear something small or uncomfortable or even remotely pretty.
Tonight isn’t special. Nothing is going to happen.
But then Jimmy’s stupid voice echoes through your head, making everything feel a little less certain.
“Ugh. Fine,” you mutter, grabbing a pair that could generously be described as a little nicer than usual.
They’re not scandalous—or over the top—just better than the ones you wouldn’t want found on your body if you got hit by a bus. Which, honestly, is a pretty low bar, but whatever.
After getting dressed, you quickly pack your bag—keys, wallet, snacks—and slip on the first pair of shoes you can find before heading out the door.
You’re halfway across the lobby when your phone buzzes with a text—from Clark:
Something came up. Spare key is under the mat. Won’t be late.
Before you can question it, a breaking news alert flashes across your screen:
BREAKING: Robot Attack in Downtown Metropolis
Authorities are responding to a violent incident involving an unidentified mechanical threat near the 6th & Hadley tech district. Witnesses report strange gas emissions and widespread damage. Superman has been spotted at the scene. Officials urge residents to avoid the area until further notice. More to come.
You quickly hail a cab, fall into the backseat, and bring up the live feed of the attack downtown. There’s not much to see from the helicopter camera—just the blur of scattered civilians, crumbling storefronts, and a distant flash of red and blue cutting through the smoke.
Your chest tightens. Your heart starts pounding harder. You know he’s Superman, and he literally does this kind of thing at least twice a week—but still, every single time, you worry.
What if this is the one time things go wrong?
What if this is the time he doesn’t get back up?
What if you lose him before you ever get the chance to tell him how you feel?
Thankfully, you don’t live far from Clark, and it isn’t long before the cab pulls up just outside his apartment building. You pay the driver, slip out, and hitch your bag higher on your shoulder as you approach the front door.
You’re here so often that the lobby staff don’t even bat an eye as you walk past. You slip into the elevator, ride it up, and walk the hallway like you know this building better than your own. Then you stop at his door, lift the welcome mat, and spot the little silver key that had been tucked beneath it.
Of course Clark Kent is naive enough to leave a key under the mat—like that’s not the first place a burglar would look. He’s lucky he doesn’t live in Gotham. You know for a fact he’d have been robbed at least once by now—probably more.
You step inside and try not to breathe in too deeply like a total creep, but it’s hard not to when the whole place smells like him—familiar and clean, with the faint, crisp edge of cold air from his frequent trips to the Antarctic.
You kick your shoes off, drop your bag on the kitchen counter, and head into the lounge room to flick on the TV. You settle on the couch and flip through channels until live news coverage of the attack pops up.
“We’re receiving confirmation that the area has now been cleared of civilians, and that Superman has successfully neutralised the mechanical threat responsible for tonight's attack,” the female news anchor reports.
You let out a breath you didn’t realise you were holding.
“Authorities remain on the scene, working to identify the strange gas released during the incident. While it appears to be non-lethal, several sources—including a spokesperson from the fire department—have confirmed that individuals exposed to the gas are experiencing some unusual side effects.”
You lean forward, the curious journalist in you coming to life.
“In what can only be described as one of the stranger developments this year, witnesses and responders alike seem to be... unable to lie. More than that, they’re being compelled to speak—blurt out personal details, opinions, even long-held secrets.”
You frown. “Like... a truth serum?”
“We now go live to Darren McMillan, reporting live from the scene. Darren—what more can you tell us?”
The feed cuts to a man in a plain surgical mask—which you doubt is doing anything—standing outside a half-burnt bakery.
“Thanks, Elsie. I’m just outside the perimeter, where hazmat teams and emergency services are still assessing the area. The good news is, no major injuries have been reported. And while the gas remains unidentified, officials say there’s currently no evidence of toxicity or long-term danger.”
The camera pans out slightly.
“That said, the psychological effects are harder to pin down. One first responder told me he hasn’t been able to stop talking about his childhood hamster for twenty straight minutes. Another admitted—without prompting—that he once embezzled over four thousand dollars from his mother-in-law. And personally, I—uh—”
The reporter freezes, eyes wide as he makes uncomfortably direct eye contact with the camera.
“—I think I might be in love with my barista. Also, I’ve been cheating on my girlfriend with someone from accounting.”
There's a split-second of stunned silence, then the camera wobbles—and the feed cuts back to the studio.
“We... seem to have lost Darren for the moment,” the anchor says awkwardly. “We’ll continue following this story as it develops. In the meantime, residents are advised to avoid the area until the all-clear has been given.”
You snort a laugh as you push off the couch and wander back into the kitchen. You reach for a wine glass from one of the higher cupboards, then spot a bottle of red sitting by the stove—Clark might be immune to alcohol, but he always keeps a bottle around just for you.
You crack the lid and start to pour—only to somehow misjudge the angle and splash red wine all over your hoodie and down the front of your sweats.
“Shit,” you mutter, quickly setting the bottle back down on the bench.
With a sigh, you peel off your hoodie and make your way toward Clark’s bedroom, ignoring the way your heart does that annoying little flutter when you step inside—even though you’ve been in here a hundred times before.
You go straight to the second-top drawer of his dresser, where he keeps the clothes you usually wear, and grab a pair of old sleep shorts and a threadbare Metropolis University shirt—both clearly his. He wasn’t kidding when he said you’d stolen most of his college wardrobe.
You change quickly and throw your wine-stained clothes into the hamper by the door on your way out. You know he won’t mind. He never does. Then back in the kitchen, you mop up the spilt wine before pouring yourself a generous glass and leaning back against the counter to scroll through your phone.
You’re mid-sip when you hear the soft thud of feet on the balcony.
You glance up, heart hammering, and see Clark step inside. His face and suit are streaked with ash, hair wind-tousled, eyes dark and unreadable. He’s looked better, but he’s definitely looked worse—and for the first time since that breaking news alert popped up on your phone, you feel like you can breathe again.
“Clark,” you say, stepping forward. “Are you—”
“Wait,” he says—not loud, but firm.
You freeze.
He takes a breath, jaw tense. “You shouldn’t be here.”
You blink. “What? But you told me to—”
“I mean,” he says quickly, “it’s not that I don’t want you—” He cuts himself off, mouth twitching like the words are fighting their way out. “It’s... not advisable.”
“Clark,” you say slowly, “are you okay?”
He nods—then immediately shakes his head.
“Are you hurt?” you ask, setting your wine down on the counter.
“No,” he replies. “But the gas—the stuff from the attack—it has... some kind of neurological effect. I don’t know how long it’ll last.”
Your brows lift. “Wait... it affected you too? But you’re—”
“I know,” he says with a small, strained smile. “I’m trying to fight it.”
“Oh. So,” you step forward, lips twitching, “you’re telling me you can’t lie right now?”
He nods again. “Yes, but it—it’s more than that. I—” His voice catches, his hands curling into fists at his sides. “I want to say things. I want to just blurt everything out.”
Any trace of amusement falls from your face, and your eyes go wide. “Oh, shit. Like—you feel like you’re just going to fly out there and tell the world that Clark Kent is Superman?”
He huffs a soft laugh. “Not exactly what I’m worried about—”
“Wait,” you cut him off. “Okay, first, we need to lock the doors. I know you’re you, so it doesn’t make much of a difference, but I’ll still feel better if they’re locked, okay?”
You don’t wait for him to reply—you just start moving through the apartment, slamming shut every window, locking the balcony door, then the front door, and double-checking each one. Twice.
When you return, he’s still standing exactly where you left him—caught between the lounge room and the kitchen, jaw tight, shoulders stiff.
“I swear I’m going to do everything I can to help you,” you say, your hands starting to tremble. “I know I can’t actually stop you from flying through the window, but—I’ll try.”
He lets out another soft laugh, low and a little tense. “I’m not going to—”
“How do we get this out of your system?” you ask, stepping in close and crossing your arms over your chest.
Clark opens his mouth—then hesitates. His eyes flick down, and his brow furrows, like he’s only just noticed what you’re wearing.
“That’s—um. That’s my shirt.”
You glance down. “Oh. Yeah. I spilled wine on mine.”
He nods, slowly, jaw clenched like he’s physically holding back the rest of the words—but then his eyes drop lower, and his voice slips out before he can stop it. “You look good in my clothes.”
Your heart stutters. “What?”
He visibly winces, because he definitely hadn’t meant to say that out loud. “I mean—you always wear my stuff, I know that, I just—” He stops and takes a deep breath. “Forget I said anything.”
You take a step back, flustered, hoping he’s too distracted to notice the heat creeping up your neck. “Okay. Um. What do you need? Should you eat something? Try to sweat it out? Or—I don’t know, take a cold shower?”
He doesn’t answer. He just keeps standing there, stiff and quiet, like if he says even one word, the rest might follow whether he wants them to or not.
Your arms fall to your sides as you let out a soft, breathless laugh. “Well... at least we don’t have any secrets.”
Clark huffs—one breath, sharp and low. “Just one,” he mutters.
You blink. “What?”
But he’s already turning away, scrubbing a hand down his face. “I’m gonna take that shower.”
And then he disappears into his room without another word, leaving you dazed, confused, and—yeah—a little horny after seeing him in that goddamn suit.
As soon as you hear the shower start running, you turn and scull the rest of your wine—wincing as it burns your throat. You set the glass back down on the counter with a soft clink, then brace your palms against the cool marble and draw a few deep breaths, trying to stop your thoughts from spiralling.
Just one.
Just... one?
What does that even mean? What kind of secret? Something big? Something small? Something life-ruining? Oh God—what if it’s something serious? What if he’s dying? Or secretly married? Or, like, used to be evil?
You groan and drop your forehead to the counter.
No. You need to stop. This is ridiculous.
It’s normal to have secrets. Everyone has things they keep to themselves. That doesn’t make it shady—or bad—or dangerous. It’s probably just something awkward. Or embarrassing. Or, knowing Clark, so deeply uncool that it makes him cringe to even think about it.
Yeah, that’s it. That’s definitely it.
He’s not dying or secretly married or evil—he’s just Clark.
And he doesn’t owe you everything. He doesn’t even owe you anything.
You’re lucky to have as much of him as you do. You don’t need to know every little thing. Besides—he’s got a secret. So do you. And despite Jimmy’s encouragement, you’re pretty damn sure you’re never going to tell him.
Okay. You need to stop freaking out.
You need to focus on helping Clark through whatever this is before he accidentally tells all of Metropolis that he’s Superman. You need to find a way to flush this toxin—or whatever it is—out of his system.
And if you can’t do that?
Then you need to distract him until it wears off.
By the time Clark’s bedroom door cracks open, you’re back on the couch. The news is still playing, volume low now. The anchor is saying something about clean-up efforts and eyewitness accounts—but you’re not listening. You can’t. Not when Clark Kent is walking toward you in a pair of low-slung dark blue sweats while he’s halfway to pulling a shirt over his head.
It’s not like you’ve never seen him shirtless before—you have, occasionally. When you went to the beach together. During that horrible June heatwave. That time he spilled hot soup on himself.
But still. Seeing him like this, fresh from the shower, curls damp and clinging to his forehead—it hits different. It makes your breath hitch, your skin flush, and that spot behind your hipbones ache.
“Hey,” you say quietly. “Feeling better?”
“I feel cleaner,” he mutters, dropping onto the opposite end of the couch—as far from you as it’ll allow.
You swallow hard and shift a little, turning more toward him than the TV.
“Okay,” you start, “first—I just want to say, I totally respect you having secrets. It’s normal. I mean, Lois and Jimmy are always joking that we’re too close, but we still have things we keep to ourselves. Not full-on secrets, but—like—it’d be weird if we knew every single thing about each other, right? No—wait, that’s not a question.” You let out an awkward laugh. “I swear I’m going to respect your privacy. I’m not going to ask any questions you don’t want to answer. And I’m sorry—I know I’m rambling. But—” you take a breath “—I was thinking, if you can’t just sweat it out or whatever, then we need to keep you distracted. Stop you from flying out there and announcing your secret identity to half the city. So… what if we just talk? Anything. Everything. No secrets. Just... stuff I might not know. Like—I don’t know—when did you first figure out you could fly?”
Clark just stares at you for a moment—unblinking, brows raised, the slightest twitch pulling at the corner of his lips. He looks a little less wrecked than he did earlier, a little amused, and there’s something else in his eyes you can’t quite place. A look you only catch sometimes—fleeting, private—one he’s usually quick to hide.
But not tonight.
“Uh,” he says eventually, voice a little hoarse. “Okay. Flying was… weird. At first.”
You tilt your head. “So, you just—what? Floated off the ground one day?”
“Pretty much,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “I was in high school. Fourteen, maybe fifteen. Hard to say—everything was happening at once.”
You snort softly. “Puberty was a little rougher on you, wasn’t it?”
“Yeah,” he chuckles. “It was.”
“Do you know what triggered it?”
“The microwave,” he mutters.
Your brows rise. “The microwave?”
“It kept burning my popcorn.” His expression turns sheepish. “I yelled at it and then, next thing I knew, I was on the ceiling. Ma screamed so loud I thought I’d broken something. Which—I did. I crashed into the dining room light trying to get down.”
You bite your lip to hide your grin. “That’s actually adorable.”
He shrugs, gaze dropping to the floor. “I’m pretty sure I cried. I, uh… cried a lot back then.”
Your throat tightens and that soft ache in your chest sharpens. “Clark.”
“No, really. I was a very emotional child. Also, kind of flammable,” he says with a tight smile. “The heat vision was a nightmare. Powers come first, control comes later.”
“Oh my God.”
“There’s a reason I was homeschooled for two years.” He pauses, his smile softening. “Well. That, and I had a crush on my tenth-grade teacher and Ma said I was dangerously distracted.”
You laugh again—quietly—and drop your eyes to your lap, hoping Clark doesn’t notice the way your body flushes with heat. Because seriously, who gets jealous of their best friend admitting he had a crush on his teacher over a decade ago?
“Okay,” you say, eyes flicking back up. “This is good. Is it working?”
“Yeah,” he says. “A little.”
“Good. Next question, then.”
He lets out a low, quiet laugh and leans back, eyes fluttering closed for a second. “Alright. Hit me.”
You clear your throat, shifting to face him more fully. “What do you think about when you’re flying? Just flying—not in the middle of a fight or racing back to your fortress to heal. Just... in the air.”
He opens his mouth. Pauses. Closes it. Opens it again. His expression twists, jaw tightening like he’s trying to hold it in—like whatever he’s trying not to say is fighting its way out.
You open your mouth to tell him he doesn’t have to answer when—
“You,” he says, voice strained.
You blink. “What?”
“And—and my parents,” he adds quickly. “When I can see Kansas. I think about work, too. A lot of things. But I think about you a—” He cuts himself off, hands curling into fists in his lap, brows furrowing. “I think about you a lot.”
Your breath catches. The room feels suddenly very, very still. Your pulse is loud in your ears—too loud—drowning out the sound of the TV and your own uneven breathing.
He thinks about you. A lot.
What does that even mean—and what the hell are you supposed to do with it?
“Ask me another question,” he says abruptly, almost desperate. “Please.”
You blink at him. “What?”
“Just—change the subject. Anything else.”
You panic. Your thoughts scatter. Your mouth opens, closes—opens again, and then—God help you—you blurt out the first thing that hits your tongue.
“Are you a virgin?”
Clark makes a sound halfway between a cough and a gasp. “What?”
“I don’t know!” you exclaim, throwing your hands up. “I panicked! And—and I’m just curious because... you’re Clark. I mean, you’re so kind, and sweet, and polite—and you’ve never even had a real girlfriend the whole time we’ve been friends, so I just—”
“Yeah,” he mutters, tone dry. “Funny, that.”
You frown, heat creeping up your neck. You want to ask what the hell he means by that—but you know you can't. Not right now.
“I wasn’t trying to be rude,” you say instead, softer now. “I’m sorry. It’s just—it’s a thought I’ve had for a while, and it sort of just... slipped out.”
“No,” he says, voice steady. “I’m not a virgin.”
You nod, lips parting like you might say something—maybe to apologise again, maybe to change the subject—but nothing comes out. Your brain short-circuits. You feel warm all over. Too warm.
Clark clears his throat. “Still trying to distract me?”
“Yeah—” you reply, blinking fast. “Yes. Of course.”
He gives you a lopsided smile—shy, but trying. “Then ask another question.”
You hesitate, voice catching as your conscience flares to life. He seems almost normal now—still a little flushed, a little off—but mostly back to himself. Maybe his metabolism is quickly burning off the effects of the gas. Maybe he’s not feeling so compelled anymore.
Maybe you should take advantage of this while you still can.
No secrets. Just one question. The one that’s been burning a hole in your chest for years.
“Okay,” you say quietly. “Have you ever been in love?”
The second the words leave your mouth, you want to take them back. Clark stiffens—not in a sharp, startled way, but more like someone trying to hold back a shiver.
“Yes,” he says, immediately—because he couldn’t stop himself if he tried.
Your mouth goes dry. You want to ask who, but you’re not sure you could survive the answer.
“What about you?” he asks.
Your breath catches. “Me?”
He nods.
“I—I’m not the one in the hot seat right now, I—”
“Is it Jimmy?”
Your eyes go wide. “What?”
“Are you in love with Jimmy?” he presses, brows pulling tight.
You just stare at him, stunned, voice caught somewhere in your chest as your brain struggles to catch up.
“It’s fine,” he says, gaze dropping to his lap. “I get it. You spend a lot of time with him. You’re always talking about him. He makes you laugh. Your pulse goes crazy whenever—”
“Clark,” you cut in, sharper than you mean to be. “I’m not—what? No. I’m not in love with Jimmy.”
Clark blinks at your denial like he doesn’t quite believe you. Like maybe he wants to—but can’t.
“Wait,” you say suddenly, narrowing your eyes. “You said—my pulse. You listen to my pulse?”
He tilts his head. “I can’t really help—”
You frown. “I know you can hear it, Clark, but I’m asking if you actively listen to it.”
“Yes,” he mutters—even though it’s obvious he didn’t want to say it.
Your cheeks burn. “How often?”
“I don’t know.” He shifts awkwardly in his seat. “Some—most of the time.”
You blink. “What? So you just... tune in? Like I’m a podcast or something?”
He groans, dragging a hand over his face. “Please stop.”
“No,” you fire back. “I’m not stopping. Because you just accused me of being in love with Jimmy fucking Olsen. And then you admitted you listen to my pulse like it’s your own personal metronome. And before—” You stop, heart pounding so hard it feels like it might crack a rib. “Before, you told me I looked good in your clothes. Clark, I’ve been wearing your clothes since college, and you’ve never said that to me.”
He meets your stare—eyes wild, jaw tight, brows drawn. He looks like he’s on the verge of saying something he’s not sure he’s allowed to say. And maybe that’s exactly what you need him to do.
“I know we’ve always been close, but—but working together—” Your voice shakes. “It’s different now. We’re too close. Something’s shifted, and I don’t know what. Yesterday in the printer room. Today in the archives. You’re acting weird. I’m acting weird. Everything is weird. And now, somehow, you think I’m in love with Jimmy?”
“Your heart beats like crazy whenever he’s around,” he says, the words falling out fast, like he’s been holding them in for too long. “You—your whole body flushes. Your hands start trembling. I can see it, hear it, feel every reaction you have when he’s around and it—it—” He cuts himself off, raking a hand through his still-damp curls.
You watch him for a beat—heart racing, skin burning. The silence stretches between you, taut and heavy. It feels like the same tension that clung to the air in the printer room. And in the archives. Palpable. Suffocating.
“Jimmy?” you say softly. “Whenever I’m around... Jimmy?”
He nods, stiff and careful. Like opening his mouth might let too much out again.
You take a deep breath, shifting a little closer on the couch. “Then tell me, Clark…” Your voice drops, quieter now. “What am I feeling right now?”
His eyes flit over your face, searching. You watch him track your expression, the set of your mouth, the line of your shoulders. Like he’s trying to solve you. Like he already knows—but doesn’t understand.
“You’re... flushed,” he says first, voice low. “Your skin’s hot. Your pupils are huge. You’re... you’re breathing hard.”
He swallows, brow furrowing in concentration.
“You shifted closer, too. You do that when you’re comfortable, or—or trying to be comforting, but—” His gaze flickers downward. “Your hands are shaking.”
You don’t answer. You just watch him. Let him keep going.
“I can hear your pulse in your throat,” he says, eyes there now. “It jumped the second I started talking. And it hasn’t slowed down. Not even now.”
He shifts, clearly flustered, and you swear his gaze flicks to your mouth before he catches himself and looks away—back to your lap, your hands, your shoulders. Anywhere but your eyes.
“I—I don’t know what you’re feeling,” he says finally, and he sounds so lost—so completely confused—you almost feel bad. “I know what your body’s doing, but I don’t know what it means.”
You blink at him. “You really don’t?”
He exhales, voice dropping low. “I don’t want to get it wrong.”
That’s it. That’s all it takes for your last thread of patience to snap. Your pulse is a drumbeat in your ears—your whole body humming, trembling—and still, he just sits there blinking at you like he’s never once considered the most obvious thing in the world.
“God,” you mutter, pushing to your feet with a frustrated huff. “Clark—it’s you. It’s not Jimmy, it’s not even Superman. It’s you. I react like this around you.”
His eyes widen—just slightly. He blinks up at you—once, twice—like his brain is buffering, trying to reboot.
You let out a breathless, incredulous laugh. “I cannot believe after all these years, you’ve only just figured it out. And you thought it was because of Jimmy?” You tip your head back, squeezing your eyes shut to keep the emotion from spilling over. “I thought you fucking knew.”
“You thought I knew?” he asks, his voice low, rough—a little wrecked.
You look at him again, expression tight. “Yes, Clark. I thought you knew. I thought it was obvious—because every time you look at me, my heart races and my whole body gets hot and—Jesus Christ. It doesn’t even matter, okay? You’re you, and I’m me, and none of this makes sense, so just forget it.”
You move past him—but his hand catches yours before you can get too far. It’s gentle, but there’s tension in it.
You freeze.
“Wait,” he breathes. “Please.”
You take a breath—but before you can fully turn around, he tugs. Hard.
Suddenly you’re off balance—caught, pulled, guided down into his lap like gravity made the decision for you. Your knees hit the couch on either side of his thighs, your hands braced against his chest, and the space between you disappears.
Your breath catches. His does too.
You’re so close you can feel the shape of his next exhale against your lips. His hands hover at your waist like he’s not sure he’s allowed to hold you.
“I’m not lying,” he says quietly, eyes locked on yours like you’re the only thing that matters. “I mean—I can’t. I just… I never thought you could feel that way about me. Never even considered it. Not after all these years. Not until thirty seconds ago when you told me—because I’m an idiot.”
For a moment, he just stares at you—like he can’t quite believe that you’re real. That you’re here, straddling his lap, flushed and breathless and saying all the things he never let himself hope to hear.
And then—
He grins.
Not the awkward, bashful one you’ve seen a hundred times before. Not the polite press of lips he gives strangers on the street or the sheepish half-smile he shoots you across the bullpen when you catch him watching you.
This one is brighter. Slower. Wider. It blooms across his face like a sunrise—like he’s seeing you clearly for the first time and can’t quite handle it. His eyes crinkle at the corners, blue as heaven, and the dimples in cheeks deepen in a way that makes your stomach flip. It’s the kind of smile that punches you in the gut. The kind that says you are everything.
It steals the breath from your lungs.
You don’t even realise you’re leaning in until his hands finally cradle your waist—steady, warm, reverent.
“Can I—?” he murmurs, voice barely above a whisper.
But you’re already nodding. Already closing the gap.
And then he kisses you.
It starts soft—tentative, like he’s afraid he’ll break you. But it only takes a second for instinct to take over. His hands slide down to your hips, pulling you in closer, tighter. His mouth moves with yours like he’s learning, adjusting, finding his confidence with every brush of lips, every quiet breath shared between you.
You feel him exhale through his nose—shaky, relieved—like he’s never been this close to peace before. Then his hands glide up your sides and back down again, broad and warm and possessive. The kiss deepens. The tension that’s been wound tight between you for years finally begins to unravel.
His tongue flicks against your bottom lip, and you open for him without hesitation. A soft moan breaks from you—and a ragged one answers from him. He kisses you harder, needier. His fingers flex at your hips, anchoring you, dragging you impossibly closer.
“I used to dream about this,” he breathes against your mouth. “Every night. You. This. Just… you.”
You whimper—actually whimper—and grind down against him before you can stop yourself, chasing the pressure, his voice, his hands, him.
He groans—loud and helpless—his grip tightening until you gasp.
He pulls back, just barely, his lips parted and kiss-bruised. His eyes scan yours like he’s checking for damage, guilt flooding in.
“I’m sorry,” he says hoarsely, breath hot against your cheek. “I didn’t mean to—”
“Clark.” You cup his jaw. “Tell me what you want.”
He stills beneath you, swallowing hard.
Your voice drops. “The truth. Say it.”
His breath catches—your thighs tight around him, your chest rising and falling against his. His fingers dig in again.
“I want…” His voice cracks. “I want you to stay right here. I want to kiss you. I want to feel you—all of you. I want you to keep grinding on me just like—”
You do—grinding down, slow and precise.
He groans—chokes on it—his head tipping back, eyes fluttering shut. “Gosh.”
You lean in, lips brushing the line of his jaw. “What else?”
“I want to touch you,” he breathes, helpless. “I want to hear all the sounds you make. I want—”
You press your hips down again.
“Please,” he whispers.
“Tell me.”
He looks at you—eyes blown wide, voice nothing but want. “I want to fuck you.”
You gasp, your mouth falling open in stunned silence.
Clark Kent just said a bad word.
Your brain stalls. It short-circuits. You blink down at him, lips parted, heartbeat pounding somewhere in your throat. In all your years of friendship, you’ve never heard him swear. You’ve barely heard him curse—maybe the odd Jesus Christ or damn it—but a full-on fuck just fell from those perfect, full lips.
“Did you just say… fuck?”
His cheeks turn pink—he actually blushes—and he ducks his head with a low groan, hiding his face against your neck like he might disappear into your skin. You feel the grin spreading slowly across your throat before his lips press there—soft and reverent, trailing heat as he speaks again.
“I—” He lets out a breathless, choked laugh. “I can’t lie right now. It’s not fair.”
You bite back a grin, drunk on the heat of him. “Are you accusing me of taking advantage of you, Kent?”
His mouth finds your neck again—slow and sure, like a secret—and he hums against your skin. “You’re absolutely taking advantage.”
You laugh—quiet and shaky—and curl your fingers into his hair, gently tugging until he looks up at you again. His eyes are blown wide, dark with need, but still soft around the edges—Clark, always Clark.
And you love him for it.
You want him for it.
You need him.
“Come on, then,” you murmur, brushing your thumb along his cheek. “Show me what you’ve been holding back, farm boy.”
His breath catches. His hands tighten at your hips.
“You sure?”
You barely have time to answer before his hands slip lower—and then he’s moving. Effortless. Strong. He rises to his feet with you in his arms like it’s nothing, like you weigh nothing at all.
You yelp, startled, arms flying around his shoulders. “Clark!”
He grins again—that Clark Kent grin—bright and wide and unfairly charming, even with kiss-swollen lips and pupils so blown you can barely see the blue. “I thought you liked being carried by Superman.”
You narrow your eyes. “Do not start.”
His smile only widens as he carries you toward his bedroom like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “What? I think it’s cute that you have a crush.”
Your mouth drops open in mock outrage. “I told you that was a joke.”
“Oh, come on.” He’s laughing now—full and warm—and you hate how much you love it. “What was it you said? That he could break your back and you’d say thank you?”
You slap his shoulder. “I cannot believe you’re bringing that up right now.”
He just shrugs, eyes sparkling. “You said it. In front of several witnesses.”
“You’re the worst.”
“And you,” he murmurs, voice dipping low as he nudges the bedroom door open with one foot, “have been in love with me this whole time.”
You open your mouth, but no words come out. He’s still grinning—but it softens the second he lays you down, slow and careful, like you’re something priceless. Then he settles between your legs.
Your breath catches at the sight of him. On top of you. And then—
“Favourite colour?” you blurt, just to feel steady again—just to see if he still can’t lie.
He blinks. “Blue.”
“First thing you ever noticed about me?”
“Your laugh.”
“What’s your biggest fantasy?”
He groans. “You. In this bed. Right now. Can you—can you not?”
You smirk. “Ever jerk off thinking about me?”
He flushes scarlet. “Yes. Obviously.”
“Say something filthy.”
He makes a strangled sound, then mutters, “I want to come with your thighs around my head.”
You blink, stunned—and a little breathless.
He groans again and buries his face in your neck. “Stop taking advantage of me,” he mumbles against your skin.
You laugh—helpless, delighted. “I literally can’t. This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.”
His mouth finds the curve of your throat again—hot, open-mouthed, worshipful—and his hands tighten where they’re splayed across your hips. The teasing slips, melts away, becomes something quieter. Something serious.
“I mean it,” he whispers, lifting his head, his gaze burning into yours. “I want you. Not just right now. I want you. Forever.”
The words hang in the air between you, soft and searing, and for a moment, all you can do is stare at him—this man, this impossibly good man—whose weight is pressed heavy and solid between your thighs like he belongs there.
Because he does. He always has.
Your fingers slide up his neck, into his hair, pulling him down again until his mouth finds yours—hot and slow, like he means to burn the shape of it into his memory. His body moves with yours, a slow, rolling grind of heat and muscle and want. There’s no rush in it. Just need.
He kisses you like he’s waited a lifetime. Like he’s going to spend the rest of it making up for lost time.
When he breaks away, it’s only to press his lips to your cheek, your jaw, the hinge of it, then lower—trailing kisses to your throat like he’s tasting every inch, like he’s been starving for it. For you.
“I used to lie right here and imagine this,” he breathes, voice cracked and close, hot against your skin. “You. Under me. Wanting me.”
You gasp when his teeth graze your pulse, when he suckles gently at the spot. Then he soothes it with his tongue and lifts his head—eyes dark, full of heat and something more dangerous now. Something utterly undone.
“I have to get you ready for me,” he says softly, almost apologetic—but his hands are already moving, slow and sure, slipping beneath the hem of your shirt. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
Your breath stutters. Your thighs squeeze tighter around his hips.
God, Clark Kent is going to ruin you.
“Take your time,” you whisper, voice barely there. “I’m not going anywhere.”
He smiles—something small, crooked, adoring. And then he leans down, kissing you again, deeper this time, while his hands begin to explore.
He pushes your shirt up inch by inch, his palms dragging over your ribs, your sides—careful and reverent, like he’s learning, memorising, all of it. Like this is something sacred. His breath hitches when he bares your chest—and the lacy, nothing bra you’re wearing—and for a second he just stares, like he just can't believe you’re real.
“You’re beautiful,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “Gosh, you’re—”
You pull him back down to kiss you, fingers fisting in his hair, and he moans into your mouth as your hips rock up, seeking friction. His hands bracket your ribs, firm and warm, steadying you—grounding you—and when he pulls back again, it’s just far enough to press his lips to the centre of your chest.
“I want to make you feel so good,” he says, kissing lower. “I want to hear all the sounds you make. I want to watch your face when you come.”
You shudder, eyes fluttering closed.
“And I want—” He kisses your sternum. “To take my time.” Another kiss, lower. “So slow you beg.” One more, right above the waistband of your underwear. “So deep you scream.”
You gasp, your whole body arching up into his mouth—and he smiles against your skin, sweet and filthy and so, so in love it makes your head spin.
One of his hands slides under your thigh, lifting it gently, while the other tugs your shorts—his shorts—and panties down with aching care. He kisses the inside of your knee. Then the top of your thigh. Then a little higher.
You can barely breathe.
When he finally settles between your legs, he looks up—blue eyes blown dark but still so brilliantly, impossibly Clark—and the heat in them nearly knocks the wind out of you. He looks at you like you’re the only thing that’s ever mattered. The only thing he’s ever needed.
“Okay?” he murmurs, voice wrecked and low.
You nod—frantic. “Yes. God, yes.”
And then he lowers his mouth to you.
You cry out, fingers flying to his hair, hips jerking before you can stop yourself. His tongue moves slow at first, like he’s savouring the taste, mapping you out, learning every reaction. You feel his groan vibrate against you—feel the subtle roll of his hips into the mattress, like he’s not even aware he’s doing it.
Holy shit.
Clark Kent is between your legs. Clark Kent is making you feel like this. You can barely comprehend it. You’d laugh if you weren’t already half-shaking.
He hums again when you tug at his hair. His hands tighten on your hips like he’s grounding himself, like he needs you to stay still so he doesn’t lose control. You can feel it now—just beneath the surface—something wild and aching in him, restrained only by the thinnest, fraying thread.
And when you look down again, his eyes are still on you—bright blue, locked with yours, so full of hunger and wonder and want that you can’t breathe around it.
“Clark,” you whisper, almost a prayer.
His eyes flutter shut. He groans into you like the sound of his name on your lips might be his ultimate undoing.
And then he starts to really eat.
There’s no other word for it—he devours you. All soft lips and filthy tongue and low, guttural sounds that vibrate straight through you. His hands are everywhere—steadying you, spreading you open, holding you down like he’s afraid you’ll disappear.
You feel like you might pass out. Like your whole body has been waiting years for this—desperate, unsatisfied, quietly starving—and suddenly it’s too much. He’s too much. Too strong, too good, too fucking Clark.
You’re gasping his name on a loop, tugging at his hair, barely holding on—and then you feel it—the sharp, sudden snap of your bra giving way.
You startle. “Did you—?”
“I’m sorry,” he mutters against your cunt, voice rough with need. “I’ll buy you a new one.”
And then he’s back at it, moaning into you like he needs this more than the goddamn sun. Like he might die without it.
Your head tips back, a choked sound leaving your throat. You’ve pictured this. A thousand times. In a hundred different ways. But your imagination was subpar at best—because nothing, nothing, could’ve prepared you for the reality of Clark Kent between your legs.
Those bright blue eyes flicker up at you—needy, glassy, reverent—and the second your gaze locks, he groans again, fucking into you with his tongue like he’s trying to ruin you. The sight of him like this—desperate and devout—makes you shudder.
And then he gives you more.
One of those impossibly large hands curves up over your chest, thumb brushing your nipple, and the other slides between your legs—slow and careful, but sure. His fingers are thick, coaxing, stretching you open with gentle precision, and the pressure of them alongside his tongue makes you keen, hips lifting helplessly into the rhythm he sets.
“You feel…” he breaks off, voice muffled against you, breath ragged. “You feel so good. You’re so perfect.”
You can barely think. His mouth is relentless, his fingers maddening, and he’s everywhere—too much and not enough all at once. He groans again, this time deeper, more desperate, like he’s unravelling by the second.
“You’re so tight, sweetheart,” he murmurs, the words slipping out like he couldn’t stop them if he tried. “I need you to be ready for me. I—I’m trying to take my time, I swear—”
He’s losing it. You can feel it in the way his hand tightens on your breast, in the way his hips grind slowly down against the mattress, seeking friction. Superman, falling apart. Big, strong, godlike Clark Kent on his knees for you, coming more and more undone with every breathless moan you make.
You thread your fingers through his dark curls, tugging, trembling. “Clark—oh, fuck—please—”
“I’ve got you,” he breathes, voice wrecked. “I’ve got you. Just let go for me.”
And with his fingers curling just right, his mouth wet and hot and hungry, you do.
You come with a gasp and a full-body jolt, your hands in his hair, your thighs clamped around his head—but Clark doesn’t stop. Not even a little. His tongue keeps moving, slow and thick and dizzying, and his fingers never falter. You're writhing under him, trembling, oversensitive—but he’s got you. One hand bruises into your hip, fingers curling, holding you down like you weigh nothing at all, and his other forearm braces across your pelvis, anchoring you to the mattress as your body bucks helplessly against his mouth.
“Clark—please—” you gasp, too gone to string anything else together.
He’s whimpering into you now, low and desperate, hips grinding down against the bed like he needs something—anything—to keep from falling apart completely.
“Gotta get you ready,” he mumbles, voice deep, breath hot against you. “Need you open for me. You taste so good, sweetheart—so good—”
Another breathless moan spills from your throat. You’re shaking under him, thighs trembling, vision going a little white around the edges—but his mouth is still on you, relentless, adoring, starved.
You twist a fist in his hair and pull—hard—and he groans at the sting, finally lifting his head.
“Clark.” Your voice breaks—your whole body is flushed and ruined, but still you want more. “You said you wanted to fuck me.”
His eyes flicker—wide and dark and frantic.
“So fuck me.” You tug again, urging his face up toward yours. “I’m begging you. Fuck me.”
His restraint snaps with a full-body shudder, and suddenly he’s surging up over you, mouth crashing into yours, and it’s wild. Nothing soft about it. It’s teeth and tongue and groaning, desperate need, like he’s been holding this back for as long as he could—and now there’s no going slow.
He pulls back just enough to look at you—barely—but his hands are already moving. You can see them tremble as he pushes his sweats down his hips and kicks them off, like he’s barely holding on to enough control to get undressed. You glance down and instantly gasp.
“Oh my God.”
He chokes on a laugh—flustered, flushed scarlet—but it doesn’t slow him down. His chest heaves as he settles between your thighs again, mouth brushing yours with a shaky sort of reverence.
“You—you okay?”
“Take your shirt off,” you whisper, dizzy with need. “Please.”
He fumbles it over his head, tossing it aside in one swift movement—and you’re left blinking up at him, dazed and desperate, with nothing but his bare skin and broad chest and huge arms above you. He’s gorgeous. Flushed and beautiful and too damn much, and he’s yours.
“You’re staring,” he murmurs, a little breathless.
“You’re massive.”
His breath stutters at that, and he grins—but it’s helpless, strained, the kind of grin that says he’s one second from losing all control. “Yeah, I—should’ve warned you.”
“You kind of did,” you murmur, legs wrapping around his waist. “You said you had to get me ready for you.”
“I did.” His voice drops to a rasp as the head of his cock drags against your slick. “You feel—gosh, you feel like a dream.”
You blink. “Gosh?”
He groans, forehead dropping softly against yours. “Sorry. I’m—”
“Say it dirtier, Clark.”
“What?”
You grin, wild and breathless. “Come on. Tell me something filthy. I know you can do it. Just let go.”
He hesitates, clearly fighting every instinct in his wholesome Kansas-raised body—but then he curses under his breath and mutters, “You’re so fucking tight, I’m gonna lose my mind. I want to fuck you so deep you forget your own name.”
Your breath catches. “See?” you whisper. “That’s more like it.”
“I blacked out a little,” he mutters, still flustered.
“Say something else,” you breathe.
He groans again—almost a whine—his whole body practically trembling with restraint. “You’ve tortured me for years. Every time you smiled at me. Every time you touched me. Every time you fell asleep on my shoulder—I wanted this. You. All of you.”
And then he’s reaching between you, holding himself against your entrance with shaking fingers. You both gasp when the tip pushes in—just that—and it’s already too much.
“Oh my God,” you whisper again, clinging to his shoulders, the stretch impossibly intense even before he’s really in. “You’re not gonna fit.”
“I—I can stop—”
“No.” You’re shaking your head, eyes wide. “Don’t you dare. I want you. I want all of you.”
He lets out a soft, strangled moan, almost losing it then and there. “I’ll go slow. Just—just breathe.”
And then he starts to push in. Inch by slow, burning inch. His hands firm where they cradle your hips, his breath ragged against your cheek as your body tries to take him—tries to stretch around something impossibly thick, impossibly deep, impossibly Clark. Because of course this gorgeous, sweet nerd has an enormous cock.
You keen, nails digging into his back. “Jesus Christ—”
“Tell me if it’s too much,” he pants, voice cracking. “Tell me to stop and I will. Just—ugh, you feel so good. So perfect. I don’t want to hurt you.”
“You’re not,” you whisper, eyes glassy. “You’re ruining me, but you’re not hurting me.”
He lets out a shuddering groan and kisses you—soft and aching and full of so much love you could cry. “I don’t want to ruin you.”
“Too late.”
You both laugh—helpless, breathless—and then he slides in just that little bit deeper, and the sound turns to a moan. You’re gasping, trembling, stuffed full, but you don’t want him to stop. Not for anything.
He kisses you through it—your mouth, your jaw, your throat—whispering apologies between every shuddering breath. His hands roam your body like he’s trying to worship it, like he’s trying to ground himself in the feel of your skin, your warmth, your everything. One hand splays across your ribs, thumb brushing the curve of your breast, the other grips your thigh, gently coaxing you open as he sinks deeper.
“I’m sorry,” he murmurs again, wrecked. “You feel so good, I can’t—I’m trying—gosh, I’m trying—”
You can tell. Every inch he gives you is slow, reverent, but barely leashed—like his self-control is hanging by a thread and the only thing keeping it intact is you, trembling beneath him, arms locked around his neck, whispering please into the shell of his ear.
His nose nuzzles your cheek, your temple, his breath hot and uneven. “Tell me if I hurt you.”
“You’re not,” you gasp, even as you clench around him, every muscle taut and trembling. “You’re perfect. Just—just keep going.”
He kisses you again, deeper this time, a soft groan rising from his chest as he finally presses all the way in.
Your body tries to adjust around him, stretched and aching and overwhelmed, but all you can feel is him. Every solid inch. Every trembling breath. Every whisper of your name like a prayer. And then—he stills.
Buried to the hilt. Inside you.
Clark Kent, inside you.
You can feel his heartbeat against your chest. Feel him shaking, still trying not to move.
And then, in the quiet between two shared, ragged breaths, you realise—he’s crying.
Just a little. Just barely. But it’s there, glittering at the corners of his impossibly blue eyes as he looks down at you like you’re something he never thought he’d be allowed to touch.
“I love you,” he breathes. “I’ve always loved you.”
Your heart cracks open at the sight of him—this incredibly strong, impossibly good man trembling above you, full to bursting with love. You reach up, fingers brushing the corner of his eye, wiping the tear before it can fall.
“Clark,” you whisper, your own vision blurring. “I love you too.”
His breath hitches again, and for a second it feels like the whole world stills—just the two of you, wrapped in each other, like everything is finally aligned.
You cradle his face in your hands and press a soft, lingering kiss to his lips. Then another. Then you press your forehead against his and whisper, “Now fuck me like you promised, Kent.”
His eyes flutter closed, and a groan tears from his chest.
“I can take it,” you murmur, arching into him, your body already pulsing around the impossible stretch of him. “You’re not going to hurt me, so stop holding back.”
He pulls back just far enough to look at you, gaze wild and reverent all at once. “You—you’re sure?”
You nod, fingers threading through his hair, grinning now. “Fuck me.”
And just like that, whatever thread of control he was clinging to snaps.
He moves—finally, fully—and the sound he makes is feral, low and broken in the back of his throat. His hips snap forward once, then again, rough and barely restrained, and your whole body jolts beneath the force of it. He’s huge, maddeningly deep, the stretch still toeing the edge of unbearable—but you don’t want him to stop. You want more.
You rake your nails down his back, gasping as he fucks you with slow, jolting thrusts, like each one is him trying not to break—but the way his breath catches says he’s not going to last much longer. He’s flushed and wrecked and shaking, sweat collecting at his temples, strands of dark hair clinging to his forehead.
And he’s so fucking pretty.
That face—those big, blue eyes gone half-lidded and dazed, those kiss-bruised lips parted with every gasping moan he tries to bury in your neck. The muscles of his back flex beneath your hands, corded with tension. His shoulders shake. His grip bruises—literally—where he holds you.
He’s trying. Trying so hard to be careful.
But you don’t want careful.
“Clark,” you gasp—and his head lifts instantly, eyes locking with yours like he needs you to ground him, to steady him, to keep him from flying apart.
Your hands slide down his chest, nails dragging lightly over sweat-slicked muscle, and the sound he makes is barely human. The stretch still burns—you’re trembling, gasping—but you love it. You love him. You dig your heels into the backs of his thighs, pull him deeper. But it’s still not enough.
You lean up, mouth brushing his ear.
“Stop being careful,” you whisper. “Stop pretending you haven’t been dying to fuck me since the day we met.”
That’s all it takes.
He shudders—like the breath has been ripped from his lungs—and then he really snaps. Gone. Whatever shred of control he had left disintegrates, and he drives into you like it’s instinct, like it’s prayer, like he’s been holding this back for too long and can’t any longer.
“Sweetheart—” he chokes, forehead falling to yours as his hips pound into you, rough now, relentless. “You have no idea. I’ve wanted this—I’ve wanted you—for so long I thought I might lose my mind.”
His voice is thick, shaking. And his hands don’t stop moving—sliding up your ribs, cradling your breast, gripping your hip tight enough to leave marks like he still can’t believe this is real.
And all you can do is take it. Take him. Let him love you like this—with every shattered breath, every desperate thrust, every reverent inch of him finally, finally letting go.
He’s everywhere. Surrounding you, filling you, pressing you so deep into the mattress you don’t know where you end and he begins.
His mouth finds yours again—hungry, open, all tongue and teeth and need—but there’s nothing rushed about the way he kisses you. Even now, even like this, he still tastes you like you’re precious. Like you’re some kind of miracle.
And he won’t stop touching you. His hands roam your body like they’re mapping it, like he’s waited a thousand lifetimes to commit every inch to memory. One cups your breast, thumb circling your nipple until your whole body arches into him. The other drifts down your side, over your thigh, then back up again, everywhere at once, like he can’t bear not to be touching you.
“You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs, his voice low, wrecked—soaked in worship and disbelief. “You always have been.”
He thrusts deep, a little slower, and your breath catches. His name tumbles from your lips again, desperate.
“I’ve thought about this so many times,” he confesses, hips rocking into you with aching precision. “But nothing… nothing ever came close to this. You—” he groans, kisses the corner of your mouth, your jaw, your throat “—you feel like heaven.”
You cling to him, your fingers tangled in his hair, your legs wrapped around his hips. “Clark,” you breathe. “You’re gonna make me—”
“I know,” he whispers, kissing the tear that slips from the corner of your eye. “Me too. I’ve got you. I’ve always got you.”
And then he changes the angle—just barely, just enough—and you both feel it. You cry out, clutching at him as your whole body starts to shake. His rhythm falters for a second, stutters with the force of how much he’s holding back.
“I—I’m not gonna last,” he pants, burying his face in your neck. “You feel too good. You feel too good.”
“Don’t,” you whisper, heart pounding. “Don’t hold back.”
He lifts his head to look at you—his face so full of love it hurts—and then he kisses you like he’s saying goodbye to every year he had to pretend that he didn’t want this. That he didn’t want you.
And then he starts to move again—harder, rougher, deeper—and the heat builds sharp and fast, curling low in your belly as the whole world narrows to him. His body. His mouth. His voice rasping your name like it’s a holy thing.
You’re close. So is he. And you can both feel it.
But then he shifts—sits up on his knees, never slipping out of you—and the new angle punches a gasp from your throat, your back arching hard against the mattress.
“Clark—”
His hands find your waist, and his breath catches. For a second, he just stares—like he’s not sure he’s seeing right. Then one of his palms flattens against your lower belly, fingers trembling.
He can see himself—a thick, impossible bulge stretching you from the inside out.
“F—fuck, sweetheart,” he groans, voice wrecked, “I—I didn’t think…” He trails off, too far gone to finish. Too undone by the sight of what he’s doing to you.
The thrusts are deeper now, angled just right, and every drag of him against your walls you makes your vision go white. You’re a mess beneath him—head thrown back, hands tangled in your hair, then palming at your own breasts, too overwhelmed to know what to do with yourself.
And he’s watching all of it.
“You’re gonna break me,” you gasp, almost sobbing on a moan. “You’re gonna—Clark, I can’t—”
“Yes, you can,” he pants, dragging his thumb over your nipple, thrusting harder, faster, like he’s chasing something just out of reach. “You’re perfect. You’re so perfect—look at you—look at you.”
Your body starts to lock up, the orgasm barrelling toward you like it’s being pulled from your soul. You try to fight it—try to hold on for him—but he hits that perfect spot again and it breaks you.
You shatter around him with a scream, legs shaking, fingers digging into your thighs to ground yourself, and he feels it. Feels the way your body clamps around him, fluttering and pulsing, and it sends him reeling.
His thrusts lose rhythm. His hands clamp down hard—one gripping your hip, the other braced behind him—and he’s trying to hold back, trying so hard.
You force your eyes open just in time to see it happen.
His mouth falls open. A breathless moan rips from his chest. And his eyes—his bright blue eyes flare molten red for a half-second before he squeezes them shut and throws his head back, like he’s afraid of what’ll happen if he keeps looking at you.
A raw, animal sound tears out of him as he comes—deep inside you, again and again, his whole body shaking with it.
He’s trying not to break the bed. Trying not to break you.
And the heat of it—him, all of him—it feels endless.
Then finally, he stills.
You don’t know how long the silence lasts.
Long enough for your pulse to slow, your body to stop trembling, for your senses to crawl their way back into place—though you still feel wrecked, in the best possible way.
Clark leans over you, his body a trembling wall of heat. His arms are braced on either side of your head, eyes still squeezed shut, and his jaw is slack, like he’s still riding the aftershocks.
Then he exhales a shaky breath, nuzzles into your cheek, and whispers, “Are you okay?”
You hum, blinking up at him. “I think I saw God.”
That makes him laugh—soft, breathless, a little stunned. He presses a kiss to your temple, then your cheek, then the corner of your mouth.
“Sorry,” he murmurs, still catching his breath. “I was trying really hard not to… you know. Lose control. Burn a hole through the ceiling.”
You smile, boneless and glowing beneath him. “I think you did great.”
He kisses you again, then slowly, carefully, pulls out—and you both gasp. The stretch, the ache, the sudden emptiness—it makes your hips jolt, your fingers curl, and Clark wince in concern.
“Sorry—sorry—” he breathes, already reaching to cradle your waist, pulling you gently into his arms. He shifts you both onto your sides, wrapping around you protectively, like he’s trying to shield you from the whole world.
You melt into him, sighing as your limbs tangle together, his bare chest warm against your back, his hand stroking lazy circles over your belly.
After a minute, he presses a soft kiss behind your ear. “I think the gas has worn off,” he says quietly.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. I mean—” he trails off, then grins against your skin. “I still want to say filthy things, but I'm not being compelled to.”
You giggle, turning in his arms to face him. His cheeks are flushed pink, his hair a mess, his blue eyes so soft you could cry. Again.
“You’d say them anyway?” you tease.
He brushes your hair back from your face, thumb tracing the curve of your cheek. “If you asked nicely.”
You pretend to consider it. “What if I get on my knees and beg?”
A groan vibrates in his chest. “You're a dangerous woman,” he murmurs. “I’m in so much trouble.”
You lean in and kiss him—slow and lingering, tasting the smile he can’t seem to get rid of. And then you whisper against his mouth, “I’ve been in love with you since the day we met.”
He pulls back just enough to look at you—eyes wide, like he still can't believe what you’re saying.
He cups your face, forehead resting against yours, and whispers, “Good. Because I’ve been in love with you for years.”
You blink up at him, smiling. “Years?”
“I told you,” he breathes. “You’ve been torturing me.”
You kiss him again, a little giddy now, your whole body aching and your heart so full it might burst.
And then, nestled against him, sleep starts to pull at you, but you fight it long enough to mumble, “Clark?”
“Yeah?”
“Do you think it’s too late for pancakes?”
He chuckles softly, tugging you closer. “You really are perfect.”
-
You spend the entire weekend at Clark’s apartment. Mostly in his bed—sometimes on the couch, or the kitchen counter, or in the shower. And once in the hallway, because you simply couldn’t make it any further without having him inside you.
By Sunday night, you finally tear yourself away—because you know you can’t show up to work Monday morning wearing a pair of his old boxers and a threadbare Metropolis U shirt.
You make it exactly twelve minutes at home, by yourself, before you’re packing a bag and heading right back to his place—relieved to find he’s just as desperate to have you back in his arms.
On Monday morning, you both wake up with every intention of being on time for work—but it doesn’t quite happen. Because when Clark steps out of the shower, fresh and steamy and completely naked, you can’t help yourself. And you’re starting to realise that he has a very hard time resisting you too.
So, after yet another mind-blowing, back-breaking orgasm, you both finally force yourselves to get dressed and head into the office.
“They’re going to know,” Clark mutters as the elevator doors slide shut.
There’s only one other person inside—an intern whose name you’ve forgotten.
You glance up at him. “How will they know?”
His lips twitch. “Well, for one, you’re limping.”
You bite your cheek to keep from grinning. “I can’t help that. Blame your Kryptonian physiology.”
“Now you’re blushing,” he murmurs, voice low enough for only you to hear. “Your heart’s racing. Your pupils are blown.” His eyes flicker down. “Your hands are trembling, and you’re—oh.”
His breath hitches slightly. You’re not sure if he can see it, feel it, maybe even smell it—but he knows. He knows exactly what you’re feeling right now. And if this poor intern weren’t in here, you’d probably both be halfway to naked already.
Your eyes lock—those ridiculous glasses framing that stupidly gorgeous face, blue eyes dark with want—and the moment stretches taut between you. You’re staring so hard, so heavy, that the soft ding of the elevator startles you.
Clark chuckles, stepping aside to let you exit first.
You try not to limp through the newsroom—but it’s hard. Your thighs are shaking. Everything aches. And you can feel every single bruise his mouth and hands seared into your skin.
“Well, well, well,” Jimmy says, scooting back from his desk with that stupidly wide grin. “Look who finally decided to show up—together.”
You roll your eyes. “We live in the same neighbourhood.”
Jimmy snorts. “Right. And I’m Superman.”
Clark coughs into his fist, clearly trying not to laugh. You shoot him a warning glance.
“I’m serious,” you add, dropping your bag beside your desk. “Same subway line. Total coincidence.”
“Mmhmm.” Jimmy swivels to follow your path, eyes tracking you like a hawk. “And the coincidence wore off on both your faces.”
You frown. “What does that even mean?”
You wince as your ass hits the chair—too fast, too sore. You try to cover it with a cough, but it’s too late. Clark is biting back a smile, and Jimmy’s eyebrows are practically in his hairline.
“You’re blushing,” he says. “Kent is glowing. And unless my hearing’s gone, you just whimpered when you sat down.” He leans forward, bracing his elbows on his knees. “Please tell me I don’t have to pretend I didn’t hear that.”
“You didn’t hear anything,” you mutter, shifting awkwardly in your seat.
He’s about to respond when he pauses—squinting at something. His grin widens, eyes locking on to something near the collar of your shirt.
“Oh my God. Is—is that a hickey?”
You slap a hand over your neck. “No.”
Clark chokes on nothing.
“It is!” Jimmy exclaims, jumping up from his chair to get a better look.
“No,” you say again, firmer. “It isn’t. It—it’s a burn. I burnt myself.”
Cat pops up from her desk, squinting. “Looks like a hickey to me.”
Lois spins around in her chair, smirking, arms crossed. “You burnt your neck?”
“It happens,” you mutter, fumbling for your phone to check the damage.
Clark gives you a helpless look over the top of his glasses, mouth twitching with a suppressed smile, cheeks red. And if he didn’t look so goddamn cute, you’d probably hurl a pen at him for leaving a mark so high.
“You’re seriously denying this?” Jimmy asks.
“I’m not denying anything,” you say. “I don’t have to deny it, because it isn’t anything. It’s just a bruise.”
Lois tilts her head. “You mean burn?”
“Yes—burn,” you say quickly. “Whatever. It’s still nothing. Now can we please—”
“Kent!” Perry’s voice booms across the bullpen. “My office. Two minutes. Bring your notepad.”
Clark nods once and scrambles to grab a pen and paper. Jimmy sighs—giving up for now—and collapses back into his chair. Cat drops down at her desk. Lois flicks her gaze from you to Clark, then slowly spins back around.
You sink lower into your chair as your monitor wakes up. You can see Clark collecting his things, tucking in his chair. He starts toward Perry’s office—then stops beside right your desk, and leans in.
You glance up just in time to catch the soft smile on his pretty mouth, his eyes sparkling behind his glasses. Then he reaches out—one hand gently cupping the back of your head—and presses a kiss to the top of your forehead.
It’s so sweet, so simple, it makes your chest ache. You almost—almost—forget where you are.
Until—
“I knew it!” Jimmy shouts.
Cat’s head pops up again. Lois spins around. Even Steve cranes his neck from across the bullpen.
“I was right,” Jimmy goes on triumphantly. “You two finally boned!”
“Olsen!” Perry shouts. “Watch your language.”
“Sorry, Chief,” Jimmy says—though still grinning like the smug little shit he is.
Your face burns as the bullpen erupts around you—laughter, gasps, even a slow clap from Steve. You sink deeper into your chair, wishing it would swallow you whole. And Clark—that traitor—just gives a soft chuckle, his shoulders shaking as he walks off toward Perry’s office, not even trying to hide the smug little smirk on his face.
You glare daggers into his back. He doesn’t turn around, but you swear he knows—you can feel it in the satisfied roll of his stride.
“I knew it,” Jimmy says again, practically vibrating with glee. “I called this weeks ago. Honestly, I feel vindicated.”
You groan, covering your face with your hands. “Jimmy, please.”
“I’m just saying!” he says, unrepentant. “You two have been doing the will-they-won’t-they tango since the Reagan administration. It was painful.”
You peek at him through your fingers. “You're being dramatic.”
“You weren’t even alive during the Reagan administration,” Lois states dryly.
“Exactly,” he says, grinning. “It’s been that long.”
You drop your hands, lips twitching despite yourself. “You’re impossible.”
He shrugs. “It’s a gift. Besides, I had a bet going with Cat, and this definitely means I win.”
“You didn’t win,” Cat calls. “You bet that we’d catch them making out in the office, and that was a forehead kiss.”
You groan again. “You’re the worst.”
“And yet,” Jimmy leans forward, cocking a brow, “I’m still your favourite.”
You open your mouth to argue—but hesitate.
His grin softens. “Seriously, though? I'm happy for you. Both of you.”
You blink.
“Clark’s a good guy, and you…” He nods at you meaningfully. “You deserve someone who looks at you like he does.”
Your throat goes tight, caught off guard by the sincerity in his voice. You swallow.
“Thanks, Jimmy.”
He gives you a mock salute, then leans back in his chair with a dramatic sigh. “Superman’s gonna be crushed, though. His favourite civilian, officially off the market.”
You snort. “I think he’ll survive.”
“Will he?” Jimmy muses, hands clasped behind his head, feet up on the desk. “I don’t know. He always seemed very invested in your wellbeing.”
You shake your head, cheeks still pink as you turn back to your monitor, heart thudding a little too fast in your chest.
Across the bullpen, just before Perry’s office door swings shut, Clark glances back at you.
Plot Summary : When Billy Russo realises that there is a certain class of wealthy clients who refuse to contract with Anvil because of his playboy reputation, he decides to alter their perception of him. You’re just a down on your luck PA, just trying to get by so when Billy offers to pay you to pretend to date him, you can’t refuse. But the last thing you expect is for Billy to pull you into his secret world of lust and debauchery.
Pairing : Billy Russo x Reader
Story Rating : R
Warnings : [This is a fic for 18+ only, minors DNI] Smut. There will be smutty themes throughout the story. Please check the warnings on each chapter if you choose to follow this story.
Word Count : 6.2k
A/N : 😭 I'm not ready for it to be over...
CHAPTER ONE | CHAPTER TWO | CHAPTER THREE | CHAPTER FOUR | CHAPTER FIVE | CHAPTER SIX | CHAPTER SEVEN | CHAPTER EIGHT | CHAPTER NINE | CHAPTER TEN | CHAPTER ELEVEN | CHAPTER TWELVE | CHAPTER THIRTEEN | CHAPTER FOURTEEN | CHAPTER FIFTEEN | CHAPTER SIXTEEN | CHAPTER SEVENTEEN | CHAPTER EIGHTEEN | CHAPTER NINETEEN | CHAPTER TWENTY | CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE | CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO | CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE | CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR | CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE | CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Master List
Chapter Twenty-Seven
You slipped your fingers into his hair as you kissed him, loosely gripping the strands so that there was no doubt over what you wanted.
Him.
You wanted him. Wanted to be with him, wanted to hold him.
You’d spent the last few hours trying to ignore the tenderness between your thighs but, once you were in his arms again, it was all that you could think about. He let out a soft groan against your lips and all you wanted to do was press him back against the wall and sink to your knees for him.
But the sounds of the party around you quickly pulled you back to the moment, and you remembered where you were.
Later. Once you’d got him home and you’d finally had your talk, you would get on your knees for him and show him how much he meant to you.
Billy broke the kiss but lingered close, his forehead pressed to yours.
“We don’t have to stay,” he said. “We can go home right now.”
Had he read your mind or was he just thinking what you were thinking?
You smiled and let your fingers slip from his hair and down to his shoulder. Your other arm remained firm around his waist, holding tight.
“We should stay a little while,” you said softly. “Just to see people.”
Honestly, it was the last thing you wanted, but it felt like it had been so long since you’d last done anything social. The last time had been the Hamptons and, well, you’d spent half of the time feeling like crap. And you still felt the adrenaline in your veins from being on stage, from calling Corrine out, and you wanted to get it all out before you went home with him.
“And, apparently, Catherine wants to see me,” you added.
Billy pulled a face but the expression vanished before you had the chance to figure it out.
“Why?” He asked.
“I’m not sure. You know what she’s like,” you said, shrugging.
“Well, Karen and Frank want to see you first.”
His hand took hold of yours and, before you could even think to answer, he was pulling you through the party towards the bar and your friends.
Karen’s face lit up when you saw her, and it put to bed any lingering notion that she might be upset with you and Billy for deceiving her. Even Frank managed a smile.
“You were amazing,” Karen said, handing you a champagne glass.
“Thanks, I thought I was going to have a panic attack up there,” you said, earning a squeeze from Billy’s hand. “I still feel like my heart’s going a mile a minute.”
“You looked good up there,” Frank added.
Billy leaned in to press a kiss to your cheek. “Told you you’d be fine.”
“I think this calls for a toast,” Karen said, handing Billy a glass. “To facing fears with friends.”
You felt your cheeks heat a fraction, not with embarrassment but with a strange sense of fondness. You’d never really had this; friends, people who wanted to support you, people who cared.
You brought up your glasses, clinking them together, then you took a long drink.
“So, what’s the plan for the rest of the night?” Frank asked.
“Dancing, drinking, having fun,” Karen said, shooting you a grin.
“Lots of dancing,” you agreed.
“Better make sure Bill doesn’t stand on your feet in those nice shoes,” Frank said.
“Fuck off, Frankie,” Billy remarked.
You gave his hand a squeeze and shook your head. “He’s actually a really good dancer. He does get a little handsy though...”
“I’ll bet he does,” said Frank.
You weren’t sure how to address the elephant in the room with either Frank or Karen, especially not with Billy at your side. They both knew that it wasn’t supposed to be real but - well, you weren’t even sure that it wasn’t real anymore. After the morning in his bed, finally having sex, and the talk he’d promised you later, it felt like everything had changed.
You talked amongst yourselves and you quickly noticed how strange it was, how easily you could talk to them and fit into their little group now. It felt like you were finally starting to find your place in life, finally finding people you could trust and be vulnerable with, and it was all because of Billy, because he had shown you that you didn’t have to always be alone.
From the corner of your eye, you noticed Catherine and Leah and gave them both a wave, but your attention was quickly pulled back to Billy.
“Dance with me?” He said, giving a tug on your hand that left no room for discussion.
Of course, you let him pull you away to the dancefloor and smiled as his arms slipped around your waist. You placed your hands on his shoulders and let him lead.
“What’s going on?” You asked.
“I just...” he hesitated and a strange expression appeared on his face, “I wanted to have you to myself for a little while.”
Your heart skipped a beat. Without thinking, you pressed your hand to his cheek, wanting to soothe whatever he was struggling with. Was he questioning what had happened between you that morning? Was he regretting it? Did he think you regretted it?
“You can have me to yourself as much as you want whenever you want,” you said, hoping he understood the deeper meaning of your words, hoping that he understood that you loved him.
The last thing you expected was for him to frown, to look at you like he had the weight of the whole world on his shoulders. He took your hand from his cheek and pressed it to his chest, right above his heart, letting you feel the way it was beating. The rattle and thump beneath his ribs was enough to make your own heart stutter.
“Billy...” you said softly, not sure what to say.
There were a million different questions in your mind but you had no idea where to start.
His chest rose as he took a deep breath. Then he forced a smile that did little to settle the worry that was brewing inside of you.
“It’s okay, little dove. We’ll talk about everything tonight,” he said, the arm around your waist pulling you closer. “Let’s just enjoy the moment.”
You managed a nod as he pulled you against him, resting your head on his shoulder and slowly dancing in time with the music. From time to time, you’d catch a flash of lightning through the windows or hear the distant boom of thunder as the rain outside became a storm.
A few songs passed before you lifted your head again. “I need to go to the bathroom. Why don’t you find Karen and Frank and get another drink.”
Billy seemed reluctant to let you go, but he slowly took a step back. “Are you sure you don’t want me to come with you?”
“I think someone might notice,” you said, smiling even as your cheeks warmed at the thought. “Besides, we’ve got all night...”
“Right,” he agreed. “Another glass of champagne?”
You nodded and turned, making your way to the bathroom. It was a challenge not to rush as you walked away from him, not wanting to spend more time than necessary away from him. All the while you found yourself wondering what was going on with him and why he was acting so clingy all of a sudden.
It took less than five minutes before you were heading back towards the bar where you could see Billy drinking with Frank and Karen. His eyes caught yours and he started to smile, but then his expression changed to something more like a grimace. You didn’t realise why until Catherine stepped out in front of you.
“There you are,” she said with a smile, “I was beginning to think you were avoiding me.”
“Oh, no - sorry, I mean to come say hi, but things have been hectic, and Billy -”
“Yes, I suppose he wants to keep you near after everything,” she said, giving a knowing nod of her head. “I think your illness gave him quite a scare.”
“Yeah. I think I probably should have been more honest with him about a few things,” you said.
“Nevermind, you’ve got the rest of your lives together to figure out all of that,” said Catherine. “I just wanted to congratulate you on the good news.”
Good news?
You tried desperately to figure out what she meant, not wanting to ask in case it made you seem like you were out of the loop. You hadn’t seen Catherine since the hospital when -
“Do you mean what I said at the hospital?” You asked. “When I said Billy was my fiance, because -”
“Oh, no. William explained that to us. I mean the contract.”
“What contract?”
“Our new contract with Anvil to oversee security in our hotels, of course.”
“Oh,” you managed, feeling like the floor was crumbling beneath your feet. “Of course. That contract.”
“Obviously, it would have been nice to celebrate it straight away but you were still bedridden at the time, but now you’re better, I insist on taking you and William out for dinner,” Catherine continued.
Somehow you managed to maintain a believable smile despite the fact that your whole world was falling apart around you.
He’d gotten the contract with VDK, and he hadn’t told you.
You’d still been in bed sick, so it had been well over a week.
Was that why he was acting strange? Did he know it was all going to come out tonight?
Was that why he’d slept with you? Had he seen it as his last chance to fuck you before he ended your arrangement?
Catherine was still talking, but all you could hear was the ringing in your ears as your mind raced from one terrible thought to the next. You kept nodding and she kept smiling, oblivious to your turmoil.
“Well, I’ll let you get back to William. I need to go check in with Faye and make sure everything is running smoothly,” she said.
You nodded but before she walked away, you found yourself speaking, words seemingly coming from nowhere. “You should be proud of her, she’s been working really hard.”
Catherine’s smile widened at that.
And, as she left you alone, your eyes found Billy’s again. You weren’t sure what the look on his face was, but you didn’t want to think about it. You just turned and walked away.
You weren’t sure where you were going but when you found a door leading outside, onto a large balcony area, you didn’t even hesitate before stepping out into the storm. Cold wind and rain assaulted you the second you were outside but you kept going, kept moving until you reached the edge of the balcony.
Your chest ached and you struggled to fight back a sob.
He’d lied to you.
You loved him and he’d lied.
Freezing rain began to soak through your dress but you hardly noticed over the aching in your chest. It felt like you couldn’t breathe, like all the oxygen had been stolen away from you.
“Little dove?” You startled at the sudden sound of his voice behind you, barely registering the concern in his voice. “What are you doing out here? You’re going to get cold.”
The rain on your face concealed your tears as you turned, but there was no hiding your pain from him.
“You got the contract with VDK.” A tremor ran through your voice. “You got the contract last week.”
He didn’t say anything but he did manage a reluctant nod.
“You lied to me.”
“I never lied,” he said.
“You kept it from me.”
“I wanted to tell you, I just -”
“Is that what this morning was really about? You wanted to fuck me before I found out that our arrangement was over?” You demanded, pulling your arms tight across your chest, trying to keep yourself from shaking.
“No, that’s not -” he struggled to find the words, “- I wanted to tell you, but I was scared you’d leave. I was scared that you’d want to end things.”
He took a small step forward but stopped the moment he noticed you angling yourself away from him.
“I just wanted more time to figure it out,” he continued, his voice breaking. “I thought that if I had more time I could show you how I feel and maybe convince you to stay, even if it was only for a little while longer...”
(Just a little while longer? So, not forever. He didn’t want you forever.)
“I can’t do this anymore.” It came out as a gasping sob and you pressed your hand to your mouth to keep more from spilling out.
Billy shattered in front of you, his reaction to your words was so visceral, so obvious, that you almost regretted them.
“Don’t say that. Please, don’t -” he tried, but you didn’t want to hear it.
“It hurts too much when you don’t feel what I do.”
“But I do,” he said, pleading with you to just listen to him. “That’s what I wanted to tell you - it’s what I’ve wanted to tell you for weeks. I know what I want. You. I want you, little dove.”
Weeks?
The night before the Hamptons... he’d tried to tell you that he wanted you and you hadn’t listened.
You shook your head.
“But the arrangement, the contract... how can we -”
“I’ll give it all up,” he said. “I’ll go in there and tell everyone the truth if that’s what you need me to do.”
You’d never heard him speak with such raw conviction before, and you knew he was breaking just as much as you were.
“But it would ruin Anvil’s reputation, it would ruin you,” you said, your hand trying to scrub the rain and tears from your cheeks.
“I don’t care. None of it matters if I don’t get to have you. I - I love you.”
Your heart skipped in your chest and you shook your head. How could Billy Russo love you?
“You can’t ruin your life for me,” you told him, pulling your arms tighter around you, trying in vain to ward off the cold that was eager to settle into your bones.
“You’re my life,” he answered. “You’re everything to me.”
This time when he stepped forward, you didn’t shrink back. You just watched, confused as he dropped to his knees in front of you, fumbling with his jacket pocket. The flickering lights of the balcony made it hard to see, but the moment lightning streaked across the sky, you realised what was in his hand.
A red Cartier ring box.
He opened it to reveal an elegant but understated engagement ring; three small diamonds set on a thin band of white gold.
“I got this at the auction. I - I’ve been carrying it around for weeks, wanting to...” his voice broke and he forced an awkward breath, fighting off tears of his own. “I know I always fuck up and there’s something wrong with me... but, please, don’t ask me to go back to a life without you.”
Your heart raced as the penny finally dropped.
He was proposing to you.
Only, he wasn’t down on one knee asking. He was on both knees, begging you to love him, to choose him. After a lifetime of being left and abandoned, Billy thought that he had to beg for your love.
But, no - he’d never have to beg for that.
It all fell into place; the way Faye had shown you the Cartier collection at the auction, already knowing Billy had bid on a ring; Catherine’s surprise when she’d asked about your auction winnings and you hadn’t mentioned a ring; even Corrine’s shitty comment about a Cartier ring.
He wanted to marry you, and he’d had the ring for weeks.
(You could have had this conversation weeks ago, if you’d only let him speak.)
Your knees buckled and you ended up on the floor in front of him. Your trembling hands framed his face and you stared into his deep, dark eyes, trying to understand what was happening.
“Everything kept going wrong,” he said quietly. “I keep fucking everything up.”
“No. No, you don’t.”
“I never even thought I was capable of love,” he sniffed awkwardly. “I knew I wanted to keep you ever since that morning at Sophie’s store, but I thought the feeling would go away. I thought I’d be able to let you go. But when you got sick, I - I realised how much I love you and I’ve never been more scared.”
Lightning lit the sky again and your tears continued to fall.
“You love me?” You asked, and he nodded.
He was still gripping the ring box so tightly, the unasked question seeming to get louder with every passing second.
“I don’t want to go back to a life without you either,” you managed to say, choking back another sob. “I love you too, Billy. I love you so much.”
When he looked at you like he didn’t believe you, or like he’d somehow misheard you, you closed the distance and pressed your lips to his. You kissed him fiercely, putting every ounce of your love into it, making sure there were no doubts in his mind. His arms pulled around you, and you felt the ring box against your back.
“I love you,” he muttered against your lips. “Please... marry me?”
“Yes.” You didn’t even pause to take a breath.
“Yes?”
You nodded and were quickly pulled back into another fiery kiss that lasted until a boom of thunder sounded overhead and brought you both crashing back down to reality.
“Let’s go home,” he said and, again, you nodded.
Before he got to his feet, he carefully slid the engagement ring onto your finger. It was a perfect fit - you weren’t sure how you’d manage it but, at that moment, you didn’t much care. He helped you to your feet and wrapped a possessive arm around you.
You wiped away your tears as he led you back towards the door. Not that it did much to help your overall appearance. The both of you looked like drowned rats, dripping all over the floor the moment you were back inside.
All it took was one person to notice and, soon enough, almost everyone was looking at you. Your cheeks heated and you pressed closer into Billy’s side, hating the attention.
“Whatever happened?” Catherine’s voice cut through the music and the muttering as she made her way towards you.
Your lips parted, but no words would come - how were you supposed to explain everything that had happened over the last ten minutes?
“She said yes,” Billy spoke up, taking control of the situation. He lifted your left hand so everyone could see the ring. “We’re getting married!”
A surprised cheer went up around the room and, thankfully, for most people it was enough to satisfy their curiosity.
“I know I told you to propose somewhere romantic, but I didn’t quite mean in the middle of a thunder storm,” Catherine said, tutting as she took your hand from Billy to inspect the ring. She gave you a knowing smile. “I told you men like William talk with actions rather than words.”
Before you knew it the rest of the Van Der Koy’s were there to offer their congratulations, and so were Frank and Karen. It was overwhelming, and you were so glad that Billy was able to step up and answer all of their questions.
After everything that had already happened that day, it quickly started to feel like too much, and all you wanted to do was go home with Billy.
Eventually, you managed to find your voice and plucked up the courage to address Faye and Catherine. “Thank you so much for inviting us, we’ve had a lovely time, but I think we’d like to go home and celebrate now.”
No one questioned it or tried to convince you to stay (probably because you were both still dripping on the floor).
You rushed through goodbyes and made promises to see people soon. It felt like it took forever to get outside and, the moment you did, your arms wrapped around Billy's waist. You held him tight, not caring that his jacket and shirt were wet and close as you pressed your face to his chest.
“You okay?” He asked, pressing a kiss to the top of your head, through your wet hair.
“I don’t know,” you murmured. “It doesn’t feel real.”
“It’s real, little dove,” he said without a hint of uncertainty. “My ring is on your finger, that means you’re mine now.”
The calm confidence in his voice had you relaxing, letting Billy take control of everything. Not because it was what he needed, but because you needed it. You didn’t have to worry or overthink when Billy was in control, you just held him tight and let him look after you.
“I’m yours,” you agreed. “And you’re mine.”
“Always, little dove.”
A minute later, you were bundled into the back of his car, and pulled against Billy’s side for warmth. If the driver had any thoughts about you and Billy soaking the backseat, he kept them to himself and quickly got you back to the penthouse.
Neither of you spoke until you were home, but in the elevator, your hand in his, you noticed Billy’s thumb brushing back and forth over the three diamonds set in the ring. You wondered if he needed to be reminded that it was real.
He turned as you stepped into the penthouse, taking your face in his hands. You got lost in his eyes for a few seconds, thinking about the life you were going to have together now that you’d both finally confessed your feelings.
“You’re all wet, little dove,” he said.
“You have that effect on me,” you answered, flashing a shy but playful smile.
“Do I?”
Billy grinned as you nodded, his eyes dropping from yours to take in the soggy, sorry state of you. He must have been considering his options because, a second later, he shook his head and took your hand, pulling you through the penthouse to his bathroom. You half-expected him to run a bath but, instead, he reached into the shower and turned it on.
“Let’s get you warmed up,” he said as he reached behind you and started to unzip your dress. “I don’t want you getting sick again.”
You didn’t say anything, you just turned your attention to undressing him while he relieved you of your clothes. Heat quickly started to spread through your body as he unwrapped you like a present and committed every inch of exposed skin to memory. As soon as you were both naked, he pulled you into the shower and closed the door behind you.
Billy pulled you against him and you rested your head against his chest, the heat of the water quickly banishing the cold from your bones. You let out a contented sigh.
“Are you warm enough?” He asked in that soft voice that always betrayed his concern.
“You don’t have to worry about -”
“I do,” he interrupted. “You’re going to be my wife and I’m going to spend the rest of my life worrying about you.”
“Fine,” you retorted just as quickly. “But it goes both ways. If this is real now, then I get to worry about you too.”
He tensed and your arms tightened around his waist.
“I mean it,” you continued. “I want to be able to take care of you like you deserve, Billy. We’re in this together, and that means we take care of each other.”
“If that’s what you want,” he said, pulling back just a fraction so he could see your face, and he gave you one of those rare smiles that you loved so much.
“It is,” you told him, lifting your head and kissing him softly. “I want everything, Billy. Every single part of you.”
And, you decided, you were going to show him.
You kissed him again, this time lingering against his lips while your hands ran over the bare expanse of his chest, touching him in a way you’d never allowed yourself to before, with love and tenderness. You wanted him to know how much you loved him, and you knew he’d understand this best.
Your lips finally left his and you started to press kisses over each and every scar you could find on his torso, starting with the oldest; the one on his shoulder. His breath caught, but you didn’t stop or hesitate. From his shoulder you moved across his chest and down, dropping to your knees to kiss the faded mark on his abs, then the one at his hip. The whole time, Billy remained frozen, just watching you as you made your silent promises to care for him and love him.
When you stopped, you looked up at him from your place on your knees.
He cupped your cheek, tenderly caressing your skin with his thumb as water continued to cascade over both of you. When you remained on your knees, he realised what you were doing, what you were offering.
His thumb pressed against your lower lip and you saw his cock twitch in the periphery of your vision.
“Do you want to suck my cock, little dove?” He asked.
You nodded.
“Ask nicely.”
Your heart stuttered as he slipped into his dominant persona, and heat started to pool between your thighs.
You felt... free. Free to play his games, free to give yourself over to him completely. And, most importantly, free to love him without fear of rejection.
Billy loved you, and you wanted to give him everything.
Your eyelashes fluttered in what you hoped was a seductive way.
“Please, Mr Russo, can I suck your cock?” You asked in a low, breathy voice, unashamed of betraying your growing arousal.
Something flickered across his face - surprise? No, thrill - at the question. Or, more likely, at you calling him that. He liked it. And you were going to use that to your advantage.
“How could I refuse when you asked so nicely?” He managed to keep his confident tone, even though his eyes betrayed his fraying control. Gripping his cock, he gave a couple of lazy strokes before pressing the tip to your lips. “Open up, little dove.”
Your lips parted and eagerly wrapped around him, tongue slipping over the tip before you started to take him deeper. This time there was no chance of interruptions and you were going to enjoy it. You were going to learn Billy the way that he had learned you.
You wrapped a hand around the base of him and chased every bob of your head with your fingers. That alone was enough to make Billy groan and swear, his fingers tangling in your wet hair. One day you wanted to let him take complete control, you wanted to let him use your mouth however he wanted. But tonight wasn’t the night for that.
Sinking lower, you gagged softly as he hit the back of your throat, and pulled back a fraction. The fingers in your hair loosened instantly, but you settled his worries when you looked up at him through your lashes and sank back down, this time avoiding the discomfort.
“You don’t -” he tried to say but ended up trailing off into a desperate moan as you swallowed the last few inches of him.
His fingers twitched in your hair when you paused, holding yourself in place for a few seconds. Then you pulled back, letting him fall from your lips as you gasped for breath. As you smiled up at him, proud of yourself, your hand continued to stroke him.
“Marry me?” He asked, breathless.
You laughed. “I already said yes.”
“Then marry me twice.”
You rolled your eyes and slipped him between your lips again, this time taking things a little faster, letting his pleasure build.
All you got was a groan of warning before he started to come. Your lips stilled but your hand kept going, making sure to wring every drop of pleasure from him, until you made him so sensitive that he squirmed away from you.
He pulled you to your feet and kissed you deeply, not caring about the taste he’d left in your mouth.
As he pulled you against him and tenderly started to wash your body, you found yourself slowly slipping into the wonderful, hazy static that you always found when he took care of you. He kissed your neck as he slowly and meticulously washed every inch of you, and you let him. You allowed yourself to be completely vulnerable to him, leaning back against his chest as he turned you and ran his soapy hands up your stomach and over your breasts.
It felt like a weight had been lifted from you, like you could finally breathe.
You were his and he loved you.
He was yours and you loved him.
When he was certain you were clean and warm, he turned off the water and lifted you out of the shower. He sat you on the counter and dried you, even going as far as to wrap your hair in a towel, then he put you in his fluffy bathrobe.
He dried himself off and wrapped a towel around his waist before carrying you to bed, putting you down and laying beside you.
Your fingers slipped into his still-damp hair, a fond smile on your lips as you just stared at the beautiful man beside you. But something from earlier prickled in the back of your mind, pulling you out of the carefree static.
“Billy, what you said earlier... about there being something wrong with you...” you let the unasked question hang in the air, but continued when he didn’t try to explain or justify it. “Don’t ever say that to me again. There’s nothing wrong with you, and I don’t want you to ever think that there is, okay?”
He stayed silent.
“Okay?” You repeated with more force than even you expected.
“Okay.”
“Good,” you said. “I love you. That should be all the proof you need that there’s nothing wrong with you.”
He gave a nod but didn’t say anything. The pair of you fell back into a lazy sort of silence, just enjoying each other’s company.
“When did you know?” He asked after a few minutes. “When did you start loving me?”
You considered the question, trying to remember when your feelings had turned from that strange feeling of like to one of love.
“I knew for certain that day on the beach,” you said with a fond smile. “When you carried me into the ocean, I realised that I loved you and - and how much it’d hurt if I ever lost you.”
Billy reached for you, his thumb tenderly brushing your cheek as a couple of tears escaped you.
“But, I think it really started that night you took me for Thai food - the first time you asked me to move in. At the end of the night, when you told me we should practice kissing and -”
He closed the distance between you in an instant, his lips finding yours and kissing you with the same eager intensity that he had that night. You pulled him closer, urging him towards you until the weight of his body was resting over yours. Little moans spilled from your mouth into his, muffled by the press of his tongue on yours.
By the time the kiss broke, you were breathless.
His eyes were teeming with emotion when he looked at you.
“I love kissing you. Even at the start, I’d come up with reasons to kiss you just because I wanted to,” he confessed, his lips brushing against yours with every word. “I almost lost my mind not being able to kiss you when you were submitting to me.”
You let out a soft laugh, then a sigh. “I thought I could stop myself from falling for you if I didn’t let you kiss me like that...”
“You were protecting yourself,” he said and pressed a kiss to the tip of your nose. “You made me work to win you.”
“Hmm, in that case, maybe I should make you work a little harder,” you said playfully.
Without warning you clumsily pulled at the towel around his waist.
“Have you always been this insatiable or have I created a monster?” He asked, smiling and looking happier than you’d ever seen him.
“Why? Are you having second thoughts already?”
He pulled open your robe as you flung his towel across the room.
“Never,” he answered, that familiar, dominant tone sending a bolt of arousal through your body. “You’re mine now, little dove. And I’m never letting you go.”
Your legs parted, letting him settle between your thighs. A moan tore from you the moment he pressed down and started to grind the hard length of his cock against you, immediately rendering you wet and needy beneath him.
“I’m yours,” you agreed. “I’ll always be yours.”
His smile was almost enough to distract from the way he positioned your arms above your head and managed to grip both of your wrists with just one hand, pinning you beneath him. He kissed you again and you eagerly parted your lips for his tongue, already feeling the static buzzing in your head again. Your hips moved against his, desperate for more friction, desperate for more of everything.
But something made him pause. He looked down at you and you understood immediately; he was thinking about last night, about how you’d become overwhelmed while restrained.
“Green light, Mr Russo,” you said, hoping to squash his concerns.
A rumble sounded from the back of his throat and his grip on your wrists tightened.
“If you keep calling me that, it’s going to make working together very difficult,” he said.
“Sorry, Mr Russo,” you said, barely holding back a laugh. “But if I have to live with the memory of you bending me over your desk every time I -”
He silenced you with another kiss.
More needy noises started to escape you when his hand began to move down your body, his fingertips tracing every dip and curve. He paused on your breast for a moment, fingers teasing your nipple into a stiff peak before continuing downwards. When his hands slipped between your bodies, you readied yourself to feel his fingers inside of you again, quickly pushing you towards orgasm.
Instead, he took hold of his cock, and you moaned his name against his lips as he ran the tip through your folds. Clearly your playfulness had destroyed his patience. Good, you were equally impatient to feel him inside of you, to have him completely again.
“You’re so wet,” he groaned against your lips.
You didn’t have the chance to answer. His cock notched inside you and stole your breath. Your back bowed beneath him, your body anchored by his tight grip on your wrists.
Billy took his time, sinking into you slowly just as he had the first time, and this time you knew for certain that it was because he was just as affected as you were. He stilled when he hilted, his free hand gripping your hip to keep you from moving beneath him and making him come too soon.
“You’re perfect,” he whispered.
“So are you,” you answered just as softly. “You feel so good, Billy.”
He waited a few moments before starting to move, drawing back his hips, but keeping you completely immobilised beneath him. You didn’t struggle, didn’t pull against his hold on you to try and take more, you gave yourself over to him completely, trusting him to make it good for you.
And Billy didn’t disappoint. He started with slow, deep thrusts, letting you feel every inch of him, and just that was enough to have you coming and crying out his name. Your body trembled and shuddered as you shattered, and you found yourself sinking deeper and deeper into the haze.
“I love you,” he groaned, his hips picking up speed.
“Say it again,” you pleaded.
And he did, over and over. Punctuating each declaration with a thrust of his hips.
You came again, and there was no telling if it was because of the way he was fucking you or the words falling from his lips.
“I love you,” he said, again and again. “You’re being so good for me.”
It was all you wanted; to be loved by him, to be good for him. Pleasure filled your body and you felt like you might burst beneath him.
When his thrusts became stuttered and awkward, he let go of your hands, letting you slip your fingers into his hair and pull him to your lips again. You kissed him deeply as he came inside you, and you held him tight as you both came down from your highs.
“I love you,” he said, breathless and exhausted.
“I love you too,” you said, already half asleep beneath him, exhausted but happier than you’d ever been. “I can’t wait for tomorrow... and the day after... and every day I get to spend with you...”
A/N : 😭 😭 I can't believe it's finally over (well, okay, I can, I just don't want to). There is going to be an epilogue to tie up a few loose ends and give these two a proper send off, but I hope that you all like this ending as much as I enjoyed writing it. I wanted some last minute drama to finally get them both to confess their feelings and I hope the pay-off was worth it. I'll let you know next week what I'm planning on doing after wrapping this series up (I've got a few short-term ideas but I will also be doing another poll at some point with the remaining three fic idea from the last poll)
As always I love and appreciate every like/comment/reblog and keyboard smash of love. Thanks so much for reading! Hope you all have a great weekend!
If you'd like to be tagged, please let me know! Otherwise new chapters will be posted around 7:30pm GMT on Fridays.
summary: you've had a complicated relationship with being a metahuman, but after taking a look into the multiverse—you've never hated having your powers more.
pairings: established!clark kent x gn!reader, clark kent x metahuman!readerノ wc: 7.9k
warnings: no use of 'y/n, buckle in bc it's a long one!, fluff in the beginning, then there's angst, reader is a metahuman who can see through the multiverse, reader's nose bleeds a lot, insecure!reader, avoidant!reader, reader is described to be shorter than clark, clark gets frustrated, fluffy/happy ending, the ending is so sappy, and i love it, kinda edited; all mistakes are my own
a/n: saw an edit on my feed about all of the iterations of clois and i was like...this is primetime for some angst for the reader LOL :p. also sorry for taking so long to write this i was waiting until i rewatched the movie to finish this but enjoy!! oh and a simple comment or reblog goes a long long way for writers!!
clark kent masterlist
IT STARTED OFF SMALL, YOUR POWERS.
You didn't even realize you had powers at first. In your young mind, you thought you were having really vivid dreams at first. Your parents thought you had an overactive imagination when you ran into their room in the morning and blabbed about your dreams with them at the ripe old age of eight.
It was only when they turned on the news that morning that they realized what had happened across the globe was the same scenario you had described in your dream that morning. Your parents were at a loss for what to do with you and your newly developed powers (even if you had no idea that you had them).
After a lengthy discussion between the two of them, they took you to a specialist in metahuman powers (who was a metahuman themselves) to try and figure out what powers you actually possessed.
After weeks of going to several appointments with this specialist, you found out alongside your parents that your powers consisted of a form of astral projection, but would manifest and grow in power over time to the point where you didn't need to sleep anymore to see into different areas of the globe at any time you wanted.
And oh, did your powers grow indeed. By the time you were in high school, you could see alternate dimensions in your sleep. You hadn't quite mastered being able to travel places and dimensions awake. Though that skill wouldn't have developed until you graduated from college.
Your doctor was an essential instrument for you to not only control but also understand your metahuman ability. If it wasn't for them, you would not have found out that you can't actively affect the events you're witnessing or be seen by the average person.
You had yet to find a person to "sense" you while you were in your 'ghostly form' besides your doctor (how else did you know that you had a transparent form when you were using your powers). That was until you had projected into Superman's apartment one night while you were asleep.
It happened purely by accident. You were up thinking about Clark Kent of all people before you fell asleep. He was your really kind and very attractive friend who happened to work at the Daily Planet alongside you. You couldn't help but think about how he had gone out of his way to grab you coffee that morning since you hastily texted him to get him to cover for you as you ran late (granted, if he wasn't late himself).
So, your subconscious decided to transport your astral form into a familiar-looking apartment that you've been to a couple of times when you guys would have your movie nights.
Superman had his red boots kicked off when he turned around abruptly and saw you in the hallway leading to his apartment.
You looked around at the familiar hallway of Clark's apartment when you saw Superman(sans boots) standing in his living room and staring directly at you. You were used to people looking through you—some even walked through you like you didn't even exist.
But Superman didn't look through you, but he looked AT you. You stood there, shocked. What the hell was Superman doing in Clark's apartment, and how the hell could he see you right now?
Clark called out your name breathlessly, and it snapped you out of your stupor. You realized that Superman could see you. You got scared and vanished out of his sight. You immediately shot up out of bed, panting, and you could feel liquid dripping down your face. You groaned, getting out of bed and rushing into your bathroom, turning on the faucet and cleaning your now bleeding nose.
You hadn't gotten one in years since your freshman year of college. As you cleaned your face, your mind was racing.
I mean, I knew Clark knew Superman, but I didn't think they knew each other on an intimate level. However, now, how Clark got all of those interviews makes sense.
You cleaned your face of the blood and exited your ensuite bathroom when there was rapid knocking at your door. Your heartbeat caught in your throat as you walked towards your doorway. You looked into the peephole and saw a disheveled Clark.
You opened your door hesitantly and confused. "Clark? Are you okay?" You asked as you took in his rumpled white t-shirt and joggers. Your brows were furrowed. How did he get to your apartment so fast?
"M'fine. How did you get into my apartment?" Clark asked, ducking into your apartment. Suppose he was going to air out his secret identity to you. In that case, he'd prefer the privacy of your apartment to having the discussion in the hallway.
"What? Clark, I wasn't in your apartment." You closed your door and said as you followed him into your living room, turning on the lamp on the end table near your couch. You were still a little drowsy, so Clark got into your place without much protest from you.
Clark looked unimpressed by your confusion. "I saw you in the doorway and then I blinked and you were gone. How did you do that?"
In your sleep-addled brain, you barely registered his words. "What are you talking about? Superman was the one who saw me, and he was in—" You cut yourself off. The realization hit you like a lightning strike.
You were fully awake now as you looked at Clark in shock. "You're Superman." He wasn't wearing his glasses, and the similarities between Clark and Superman were uncanny.
Clark swallowed thickly. "Yeah." He admitted after letting out a breath. "So, can you answer my question? Since you kinda just appeared in my apartment and then disappeared."
You couldn't help but let out a delirious giggle, confusing Clark slightly, but the corner of his lips couldn't help but twitch up at the sound of it. You really didn't think your night was going to turn out like this, hence the random giggle (or was it the sleep deprivation? You couldn't tell anymore).
You shook your head. "It's a long story." You sighed, walking over to your couch and throwing yourself into the well-worn cushions, gesturing for Clark to sit down.
"I've got time." Clark said softly as he sat down on the cushion next to where you were sitting.
So, you told him everything. You told him about your metahuman abilities and the process you went through in order to get a handle on your powers. Clark listened intently, his eyes never once straying away from your form.
"Any questions?" You asked after letting out a breath and sinking back into your couch as you finally looked at Clark, meeting his intense gaze.
"Do you usually 'project'," Clark mimed air quotes, making you smile, "into your friend's apartment?"
"No, I've got a good handle on my powers eighty five percent of the time."
"So, the other fifteen percent is room for error?"
You laughed softly. "Yeah. I guess tonight was just one of those nights."
Clark nodded. "I see. Can I ask another question?"
"Are you going all journalist on me now? I think you forgot your notepad and recorder Mr. Kent." You teased Clark.
"I don't think an interview with you will make the front page." Clark played along and shot you a smug grin.
You scoffed. "Right, because your favorite person to interview is yourself ironically enough." You shot back, a sarcastic smile on your face.
Clark was fighting the smile that was trying to grow on his face. "Shut up." But his words had no real bite to them.
"Oh please, you love hearing the sound of my voice."
You'd be right. He thought, but Clark bit back his real response. "Why tonight? You mentioned that you don't usually project at night right before you sleep." He asked his question instead of continuing the banter that was usually thrown around between the two of you.
That was the thing with your powers. Once you had gotten them under control, you never wanted to use them.
You were warned that the older you got with having your powers, the more dangerous the places you find yourself in, both asleep and while you use your powers on purpose. Yeah, your physical body would be fine—but you didn't want to sacrifice your mental health to satiate your curiosity for other parts of the world or alternate dimensions.
You bit your bottom lip. Clark's eyes flickered to how your teeth were pillowed by the fullness of your lips. You sighed, making Clark's gaze meet your own.
"Sometimes, when I don't use my powers for a long time, I project without meaning to—it doesn't happen often. But when it does, it means I have a lot on my mind." Yeah, you had a whole lot of Clark Kent on the mind. You tried looking away from Clark, but his eyes always seemed to pin you in place.
Clark could hear the rapid beat of your heart, almost mirroring his own, and it filled his chest with hope as his lips stretched into a tender smile. He shifted on the couch and closer to you. Warmth radiated off of him—even through the material of his sweatpants as his thighs brushed against yours.
"Can I admit something? Since we're airing secrets out and all." Clark's voice was gentle as he looked down at you with soft eyes, filled with affection.
You nodded. "But if you tell me that you're Superman, well, I know now."
Clark chuckled at your playful words, and a surge of confidence went through him, channeling a little bit of Superman into his actions. One of his hands found your own. "I am Superman. And it makes this easier for me to say, but I like you. A lot." He tacked on at the end as he stared at your face, trying to read your expression. Clark felt his ears turn red, and a warm blush climbed down his neck.
"Really?" You asked in disbelief.
Clark looked away for a brief moment. "Yes."
A giddy feeling started to course through your body as you squeezed his hand. "You're in luck. I like you a lot too."
Clark looked back at you, his lips split into a blinding grin, his dimples appearing, and you couldn't help but mirror his smile. You were practically turning into putty at the sight of his adoring grin.
Clark leaned in, and the sharp sting of ozone and the fading scent of his cologne emanated from him and filled your senses. The close proximity of Clark and his scent was almost dizzying—you barely knew your left from your right at this point, but you knew you wanted him closer.
Clark used his free hand to gently cup your cheek, his eyes darting between your lips and your eyes. "You're so pretty." He muttered almost absentmindedly, like being this close to you, disengaged his filter, and was unable to resist telling you now that he was this close to you.
And you were. The warm glow from the lamp behind you gave the illusion that there was a halo behind you. Your cheeks immediately flooded with heat at the sudden praise—you were torn between ducking away from Clark's adoring gaze and leaning into his palm. You did the latter, Clark's hand was warm, and you couldn't help but let it lead you closer to his face.
"You're not so bad yourself." You murmured softly as the warm light washed over Clark's face, making his blue eyes even more intense as he stared down at you.
Clark's nose scrunched at your words. "And here I thought you liked me."
You chuckled, rolling your eyes in amusement. "I'm sorry, but have you seen Superman? He's gorgeous. A real God amongst men." You quipped playfully.
Clark shook his head at you, clearly exasperated, but the smile on his lips said otherwise. "You're ridiculous, I thought you didn't like Superman?"
"Opinions can change." You shrugged. "But considering that I know you and him are one in the same, he doesn't seem all that bad anymore."
"Oh, so he's not a reckless hero with no spatial awareness when it comes to the destruction of the city?" Clark raised an eyebrow at you, amusement coloring his tone as he quoted a line from the one article you did write on Superman.
"Well, if the shoe fits…" You trailed off, pursing your lips in mock thought.
Clark scoffed. He thought for a second about how to retaliate verbally before a mischievous smirk grew on his lips. You barely caught it before you erupted into shocked giggles.
"Take it back!" Clark laughed alongside you as he poked at your ribs and tickled your sides. You fell backward on your couch, trying to get away from his hands, but it was fruitless against the man of steel.
"N-Never!" You exclaimed through your laughter, trying to curl in on yourself, but Clark wasn't having it. He managed to straddle you and doubled down on his actions.
The room was being bathed in yours and Clark's laughter alongside the soft glow of the lamp and moonlight filtering through your curtains. The sounds of joy and love swirled around the two of you as you slowly forgot the exact circumstances that led the two of you together.
"UNCLE! Uncle, uncle!" You gasped out desperately. Joyful tears wet your cheeks as your stomach began to cramp from the laughter.
Clark stopped tickling you and let his hands rest on your waist. You looked up at him. He was slotted in between your open legs, hovering over you with a lingering smile playing on his pink lips. Clark's head was slowly ducking down, getting closer to yours.
"You know," You started to murmur, eyes flipping between his lips and blue eyes, "Superman is great and all, but I like Clark a hell of a lot more."
"That's good to know." He replied in a soft tone. Clark's forehead landed against yours, a sliver of space between the two of you.
Clark let out a stuttering sigh. "Can I kiss you?"
Instead of answering, you tilted your head up and pressed your lips against his. It felt like the world went quiet as soon as your lips connected with Clark's. A surge of warmth shot through your body as you sank into the cushions, as Clark's body blanketed yours. Your hands made their way into his dark curls as your lips moved against each other.
You felt like you could stay in the bubble you and Clark had made for eternity. Trading soft kisses and caresses until you physically couldn't anymore. Every unspoken feeling and desire was poured into each kiss the two of you pressed against each other's lips, keeping them soft and tender until Clark pulled away—his hand caressing your cheek as he looked down at you adoringly. Affection was written all over his face as he smiled softly at you.
"Be mine?" You asked quietly, looking into his slightly blown-out gaze.
"You have me. You've had me for a long time." He admitted, reverence in his tone as his thumb moved against the apple of your cheek.
Everything shifted into place after that night. Clark was the most thoughtful and attentive boyfriend you ever had. If you had trouble thinking about him all the time before, the problem (not that you consider it one) got a whole lot worse when you guys started dating. If you had a dime for every time you thought about it, you'd be rivaling Lex Luthor in terms of money.
Clark was just so endearing. He'd text you randomly throughout your day, even though he was no more than fifteen away from your desk at work. He'd send silly pictures that reminded Clark of you or what he thought you would like. You don't even know how many conversations you've screenshotted. But there were a lot more pictures of him in your camera roll than the screenshots.
Sometimes, Clark would show up at your door with flowers because they reminded him of you before your movie nights. Or he would grab takeout for the both of you when you're working late on your article at home and has to practically feed you as you type furiously away at your laptop. And without fail, he texted you before and after he'd go on his Superman duties and more often than not, found refuge in your apartment after a battle.
Things were going great for a few months, until your powers acted up while you were asleep again.
You could hear the faint rush of traffic from a street enter your ears before your eyes opened. You were standing outside, on a terrace of sorts. You looked around and saw the city. The buildings looked familiar to you, but you couldn't quite place where you recognized them from.
The doors to the terrace opened, making you turn around. You saw a woman in a white dress with a sheer blue overlay draped over it holding a pencil and notepad, going to sit down at the table positioned right in front of the open doors.
The woman was a little nervous, as you could see in her expression as she poured herself a glass of wine. But as she was taking a sip of the wine, you felt him before you saw him.
"Good evening, Miss Lane." You turned around the same time she did.
It was Superman. You were shocked to see a more vibrant and more form-fitting version of his suit.
You could barely wrap your head around this entire dream? But you knew deep down this wasn't one of your regular dreams. It was your power at work. And right now, you're seeing a version of Lois and Superman—you mean Clark interacting right now.
This version of Clark didn't seem to notice you at all, staring directly at the version of Lois that was sitting down right next to you. She got up from her seat, clearly a little flustered and surprised that he dropped in so suddenly.
Lois, in her very familiar Lois Lane fashion, started to interview Superman, and you could tell that there was tension between them. They were both flirting with each other as they flew through the questions, making something inside of your chest twist. It didn't make any sense to you. Why were you seeing this now?
You stopped listening to their banter and questions as you started to spiral into your thoughts, only being broken out of your stupor when Clark grabbed the notepad and pencil out of her hands and led her to the more open spot of the terrace. Your vision blurred as they shot off to the sky—a flash of white blinding you.
You shot up from the bed with a start, falling off the bed in your shock. Clark woke up from your sharp, but loud gasp as you fell.
He got up from the bed and quickly made it to your side, flicking on the lamp to see your wide eyes. They were filled with confusion as they darted around the room. It was like seeing a cornered dog trying to find its way out of the situation they were in.
Clark fell to his knees beside you, using a gentle hand to turn your face towards him. His gaze dropped to the nosebleed you were having.
"Sweetheart, look at me." Clark softly commanded.
Clark's voice filtered through your ears, making your shoulders relax as your eyes finally met his. Your breathing was still labored as your mind tried to process the images you saw, feeling the brewing headache beginning to form.
"Can you take some deep breaths for me?" Clark's voice was a soothing balm, and you nodded in response.
You took deep breaths, exhaling shakily until your breathing became even. Clark's warm hands were on your face—grounding you even further until you calmed down.
Clark's eyes were zeroed in on the drying blood on your face. Wordlessly, he picked you up from the floor and went into your ensuite bathroom. Sitting you on the counter, he picked up a spare washcloth, wet it with some warm water, and started to wipe off the blood from your nose.
"Do you want to talk about it?" He murmured quietly, breaking the silence that had settled in the bathroom.
You sighed. "I think I projected." You said, inadvertently answering his question.
"You think?" Clark asked carefully. He finished cleaning your face and went to rinse the blood from the towel.
"It was different this time. I thought it was a dream at first, but everything looked familiar but it wasn't the same. Not like here." You swallowed thickly. "I think I saw a different version of you." You admitted quietly.
The neutral expression on Clark’s face fell. "How?" His forehead creased with confusion.
You shook your head. "I don't know. He had a similar suit to yours, but he looked different. Like completely different from you."
Clark dropped the towel in the sink, grabbing your hands with his own as he saw yours start to shake. "Hey, we don't have to figure it out right now." He consoled as one of his hands cupped your cheek. "Let's go back to sleep," Clark suggested, tugging you off the counter.
You followed him with no complaints. Your hazy mind would have gone more insane if you had thought about it for a second longer. Once you and Clark settled back into your bed and in his arms, you spoke up.
"I'll have to call Dr. Parker in the morning." You whispered into his chest.
Clark kissed your forehead. "Sounds like a plan." He muttered into your skin before kissing your hairline—wrapping his arms around you a little tighter.
You decided to take the day off and recover while you tried to wrap your head around what you saw last night.
Clark went back to his apartment to get ready for work, but not before leaving you with a sweet kiss on the lips and a promise to give him an update after you call your specialist.
You called Dr. Parker, and after exchanging some pleasantries, you explained what you saw the night before to them, in extreme detail (besides revealing the fact that Clark was Superman, for obvious reasons).
They sighed into the receiver. "I was afraid this day would come." Their tone was grim.
Your eyebrows furrowed. "What do you mean? Do you know what's happening to me?"
Dr. Parker sighed. "After discovering that you could see into alternate dimensions, I figured that one day your ability would grow powerful enough to see into alternate realities."
"H-how is that possible? I try not to use my powers at all when I can." You couldn't believe what you were hearing.
Dr. Parker said your name in a soothing tone. "I've been tracking and studying your ability since we've met, and this was going to happen regardless if you used them or not."
You felt like the rug was pulled from beneath your feet. You sat down on your couch. "What do you mean exactly when you say 'alternate realities'?"
"I don't think that is some-"
"Dr. Parker. I need to know." You pleaded as you cut them off, gripping the edge of the cushion you were sitting on and trying to ground yourself in the moment.
They were silent for a moment. "To put it simply, you can see into the multiverse."
You've vaguely heard about this theory before when interviewing scientists from Star Labs for an article you were writing on the expansion of Star Labs to Metropolis.
"I thought the multiverse was a theory." You breathed out in disbelief.
"I don't think we can discount the impossible here. You know the world that we live in." Dr. Parker said knowingly.
If aliens and metahumans can exist naturally, who's to say scientific theories aren't actually true?
You shook your head, blowing out a harsh breath through your mouth. You leaned back into your cushions. "Okay then, why didn't Superman sense me when I was on the terrace with him and that version of Lois? I mean, he should have, right?"
Dr. Parker hummed in thought. "The only idea that I have is that the distances between the universe you saw and our own is far enough to where any metahuman's enhanced senses couldn't detect you."
"Is there any way to prove that idea right?" You asked jokingly, but it sounded flat in your ears.
"Not right now. It would take multiple years to just try and prove the theory outside of your powers."
You sighed. "I figured. But thank you again Dr. Parker."
"It's no problem, my dear. Please remember to call me if anything else like this happens. Preferably right after they do."
You chuckled. "I'll try."
The two of you exchanged goodbyes before you hung up. You stared at your phone blankly. You're only hoping that you don't project to any more universes right now or in the near future.
Well, you were completely and utterly wrong. You thought that your projections into different universes would be different each time. You thought you would see various aspects or perspectives of what other universes would look like. While you did, you saw the same dynamic each and every time.
It was always about Clark and Lois.
If you thought the first time you saw them together was just a fluke. You'd be sorely incorrect.
When you first came to the Daily Planet, you weren't blind. You saw the banter between Clark and Lois they had as they parried back and forth on article ideas or random topics you guys would talk about on your lunch break. You would try to ignore the sharp sting to your heart each time you saw them interact.
You weren't even that mad at seeing them together—they meshed well together despite how different they were. You are admittedly envious of Lois Lane. You were a big fan of her work before you came to work at the Daily Planet, and once you got to know her, you could see anyone falling to their knees for her.
Lois was unabashed and unashamed about her pursuit of the truth, was incredibly smart, and quick with her wit. Yeah, she was a bit abrasive, but Lois had a confidence that you couldn't fake—it came naturally like breathing for her.
Lois Lane seemed like everything you weren't and what you wanted to be.
You tried to squash the growing crush you had on Clark. Hell, you even thought they were dating at one point and just keeping it a secret from the office until you went out with them one night, and Lois had brought the girl she was seeing to the bar you guys were at.
Each time you closed your eyes, you saw a different version of Clark/Superman and Lois, and the seed of insecurity only flourished when you woke up. It gnawed at you endlessly.
It was borderline cruel. Having to witness each iteration of Clark and Lois being together. Like they were destined for each other in each universe, and they were taunting you. You had wished that you had learned how to wake up in the middle of your projections, but once you were there, it was practically impossible to snap out of it.
With each projection into a different universe where Lois and Clark were together, you started to retreat into yourself and slowly extracted yourself from Clark.
It started off small.
You'd reply to Clark's text messages that he sent hours after he sent them, being dry as you texted him, not stopping by his desk during your downtime at work, and giving him smiles that he could see through—but you knew that Clark would be too kind to say anything about it.
You'd make up flimsy excuses to avoid spending time with him when he asked to come over or have date nights together. He let them slide, but you could tell he was worried about you and your attempts to blow him off.
It got to the point where you stopped talking to him altogether, practically ghosting him in your texts and avoiding him at work. The only time you spoke to him was short and clipped one-word responses when Jimmy and Lois would pull you into discussions before getting back to work.
Was acting this way rational at all? Absolutely not, but how else were you supposed to react when you were forced to see your boyfriend be with someone else in multiple different universes? And at the same time, you seemed to cease to exist in all of them.
Clark was rightfully frustrated and confused. He thought you guys were doing well and going steadily. He didn't like the 180 you did in attitude towards him when you seemed to act normal around everyone else.
He tried to be patient with you, but you were icing him out of his life, and he wanted to know why.
So, he pulled you into a storage closet at work one day when you were coming back from the bathroom.
Clark quickly flipped on the light. "Why are you avoiding me?" He wasted no time and started to question you.
You blinked up at him, a little confused and dazed from being abruptly pulled into a dusty storage closet. "Huh?"
Clark, the usually patient guy you knew, looked anything but. "Please," He sighed out your name. "You're avoiding me. Was it something I did?" He asked quietly, almost folding in on himself, insecurity written in his icy blue irises.
Your heart twisted as a lump grew in your throat. You never meant to make Clark feel this way. "No! No, not at all." You shook your head, trying to swallow down the persistent feeling in your throat.
Clark looked down at you, waiting for you to continue. You met his gaze, and your breath caught in your throat as you realized how close you were to him. You hadn't been close to him in some time, and all you wanted was to lean into his warmth and cocoon yourself in it. Then the flashes of the other Clarks and Loises flashed into your brain, reminding you of why you were avoiding him in the first place.
"I've just been focused on work." You said, looking away from him.
Clark said your name in a low tone, like a warning. "Please, don't lie to me." He sounded tired as he took off his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose.
You looked at Clark, really looked at him. He seemed visibly defeated—his shoulders were sagging like he had stayed up all night and was dragging his feet in his exhausted stupor. His clothes were more rumpled and wrinkled than usual.
"I'm not." You were. "This article has been kicking my ass and the deadline is too close for me to think about anything else."
"You could have asked for my help. You still can." Clark was practically pleading to try to spend time with you in any place he could.
You shook your head. "I don't need it. I gotta go back to work, Clark, and so should you." You shut down the conversation and, faster than he could anticipate, you left the storage closet.
Clark cursed under his breath and put his glasses back on. He rubbed at his forehead as he exited the closet. The one thing that bothered Clark the most was leaving important conversations unfinished.
He made his way back to his desk dejectedly and in a bad mood. Clark shot a glance your way to see you actively trying not to look over at him, typing aggressively at your desktop.
You were staring hard at the Word document as you typed away at it. Your eyes were getting dry, and you realized you hadn't blinked in over five minutes, so you did.
You opened your eyes, and suddenly, you were standing near your desk instead of sitting down. The time of day was no longer mid-afternoon, but it was morning. You looked around and noticed that everything was the same. So why the hell was it morning? Then you looked at your desk, which was adjacent to Lois's.
Why the hell was it empty?
You were completely oblivious to the conversation happening between your coworkers until Lois stood up and switched the channel on the surrounding TVs on the pillars.
"Yeah, Superman did say that he thought that the hammer might be faking a Boravian accent." Clark said as he stared at the screen, leaning back in his chair.
"Superman said that?" Lois asked skeptically.
"Yeah, I interviewed him right afterwards. Great guy." He said with a slight shrug of his shoulders, his eyes never once straying from the screen.
"You know, it's funny you keep getting all these interviews with Superman, Clark," Lois said, almost knowingly, but played it off as a question.
"Huh, I don't think there's anything funny about good journalism Lois." Clark threw back at her, brushing off her question.
"Uh huh." Lois stared at Clark for a brief moment before going back to her desk.
You squinted at the interaction. The question of how Clark always managed to get an interview with Superman was a recurring conversation between Lois and Clark. But now there was an undercurrent of tension you picked up on. Before you could dwell on it even further, your vision blurred. The scene had changed, and you were suddenly following Lois back to her apartment. This hadn't happened before. Ever.
It felt like something was tethered between you and Lois as your feet mindlessly followed her into her apartment. There was a clatter coming from her kitchen, making Lois alarmed. Lois reached through you and grabbed the bat situated near the door and inched closer to the kitchen. She relaxed when she saw who was in the kitchen. You looked over her shoulder and saw Clark. Your Clark.
"What are you doing here?" Lois asked as she dropped the bat, but still had it in her grip.
"3 months ago, we had our first date. And so to celebrate, I am making you your favorite. Breakfast for dinner." Clark said, moving around Lois's kitchen as if it were his own.
"That's your favorite." Lois set the bat right next to the fridge.
"You love breakfast."
"Yeah, for breakfast. You love it for dinner." Lois said as she approached Clark.
He turned off the burner and faced Lois. Without any hesitation, Clark grabbed her by the waist, and Lois pulled into a passionate kiss. You crumpled to the ground, falling to your knees—your eyes never leaving the intertwined pair in front of you.
You could faintly hear someone calling your name, and you could feel a phantom hand on your shoulder, shaking it. Your eyes rolled to the back of your head, and with a flash of white, your eyes shot open.
You were met with the ceiling of the Daily Planet, and you felt the cold temperature of linoleum seeping through your clothes. Clark's and Lois's worried faces hovered above you, making you blink hard at the sight of them, looking identical to the ones you saw kissing in an alternate universe that seemed to be exactly like the one you were in now.
Their words were muffled in your ears, like you were underwater. They helped you up from the floor, but you immediately ripped your arms out of their grip, confusion flashing through their concerned expressions.
You could feel the eyes of everyone in the bullpen as you tried to rein back in any dignity you had left in your body. A handkerchief entered your eyeline. You grabbed it, knowing that it was for the wetness you were feeling under your nose and down your chin, seeing that your own boss had given it to you, with an uncharacteristic soft look in his eyes.
"You alright there kid?" Perry asked.
You couldn't meet anyone's eyes as you wiped your face free of blood, staining the patterned fabric with it. "Yeah." You rasped out. "I just overworked myself, I guess."
"Take the rest of the day off, and matter of fact, the rest of the week." Perry said, but you heard the worry underneath his stern tone.
You nodded in response—it was only Wednesday. You could handle missing two days of work.
"Get back to work!" Perry's voice boomed through the bullpen, making the crowd that surrounded you disperse, and the chatter around the office started back up again.
You couldn't bear to look at either Clark or Lois as you left the Daily Planet, despite Clark's attempt to try to talk to you—but Perry yelled at him to work. You used the opening to leave the office as swiftly as you could.
Later that night, you were lying in bed, just having gotten off a call with Dr. Parker. It made you feel marginally better, having an impromptu therapy session with a medical professional who was definitely not qualified for therapy—but it was good to get the images that were burned into your memory out of them.
You heard a knock at your door, but you made no move to open it. You knew exactly who was at it. You immediately slowed down your breathing, and hopefully, your heart rate would follow in its footsteps, trying to mimic the fact that you were asleep.
Clark called out your name softly, but you still heard him through the thin walls of your cheap one-bedroom apartment. "I don't know what you saw, and you probably don't want to see me right now, but I made some soup for you. I'll just leave it outside your door." Clark paused before he continued.
"Just don't push me out anymore, please. You really scared me today sweetheart and I just want to know that you're okay." You heard Clark linger at the door until his footsteps could no longer be heard from your spot on your bed.
You stayed still as you could as you took in his words. The lump in your throat was massive, and tears gathered in your eyes as his earnest and honest words hit you harder than you expected. You missed Clark. You missed him a lot. But seeing what you saw today solidified the fact that you and Clark weren't meant to be together.
In any universe.
Tears fell from your eyes at the thought. Clark and Lois are meant to be together—it has been proven to you time and time again. Fuck, you hated your powers. It effectively ruined the one good thing you had going for you, and now you had to tear it down for the universe to right itself.
Your weekend was spent wallowing in bed and trying to build up the courage to text Clark to come over to talk—and to break up with him, as much as you didn't want to. You were making a plan to transfer (escape) to Central City because you couldn't bear the thought of being in such close proximity to the love of your life when you weren't his.
Can we talk? You sent the text to him on Sunday morning.
Yeah, what time do you want me to come over? He responded instantly.
Give me twenty minutes. You texted back, knowing Clark could be at your apartment within the blink of an eye, and you needed to get cleaned up and mentally prepare for the irreparable damage you were about to cause.
You took the quickest shower ever, opting out of washing your hair and getting dressed in a new set of pajamas to wallow in after the conversation that was about to take place. Twenty minutes later, on the dot, you heard a knock on your door.
You took a deep breath before answering it. Clark stood in front of you, an awkward smile on his face as he rocked back and forth on his heels with his hands shoved into the front pockets of his jeans.
"Hi." Clark greeted you with a kind smile. Oh, that smile is going to make you crumble and chicken out on your plan.
"Hey Clark, come in." You gestured for him to come in.
You closed the door and followed behind him into your living room.
"How are you?" Clark asked you, albeit it came out a bit awkward as he fiddled with his glasses.
"I've been doing fine. Haven't projected at all since Wednesday." You told him.
He nodded, his eyes brightening at the news before they dimmed. Clark cleared his throat. "What was it about?"
"What?" You were slightly taken aback by the blunt question.
"What you saw while you projected. What did you see?"
"I-why do you want to know?" You weren't at all comfortable telling him what you saw.
"Because I know it had something to do with me and Lois."
You cursed yourself out in your mind. Clark was perceptive when he wanted to be, and it was obvious that he noticed your reaction to both him and Lois earlier that week. You stayed silent, avoiding his eyes.
Clark pressed his lips together, trying to quell the growing frustration. "Sweetheart, please, I just want you to talk to me."
"I am."
"You know that isn't what I meant. You've been so far away from me for a while now. I gave you your space, but a man can only take so much before he starts to feel unwanted." Clark stepped forward and tried to catch your gaze. "Please honey, talk to me."
You let him pull your hands into his. You closed your eyes for a moment, relishing in his familiar touch since you've deprived yourself of it for so long.
"I learned that I can see into the multiverse." You admitted. You had a written script in your mind, and now you were going off of it. Damn it, curse Clark and his addictive touch.
Clark furrowed his brows. "Multiverse?"
"I can see into alternate realities. Some look similar to ours, or completely different. And for the past month and half, I've seen god knows how many, but my powers have shown me the same thing every time." You looked down at your conjoined hands.
"What did they show you?" Clark asked quietly.
You gathered the courage to look him in the eye. "You. and Lois. Together."
Clark's eyes went wide with surprise. You let his hands fall from yours as you wrapped your arms around yourself.
You let out a bitter chuckle at the lack of response he gave you.
"Yeah, I couldn't believe it either. But in each universe I saw, you and Lois were perfect together, the power couple of the century. You know what I saw on Wednesday? The universe I projected to was nearly identical to ours. I mean, that Clark looked exactly like you and everyone else here. But the only difference was that you two were together and I didn't exist at all." You spared him the details of what you saw, because you weren't keen on reliving it at all.
Clark was speechless, but he managed to find his words. "Why didn't you tell me that this was happening?" He said, a hurt expression on his face.
"Because I didn't want to bother you. I thought after the first one that it was a one-time thing." You shrugged off his concern.
"You could never be a bother." He promised, bringing his hands to cup your cheeks, getting you to look at him. "You should have told me."
"And what would you have done about them, Clark? If I can't stop this from happening, what makes you think you could have?" You lashed out, ripping his hands from your face.
"Do you know how it feels to have the power to see through realities, to only be taunted by the fact that the man you love is meant to be with someone else? That there's proof that you don't exist in every universe, and you can't do anything about it. T-that you aren't good enough for your boyfriend because you've seen the evidence that he and Lois are destined for each other?!" You ranted, tears falling from your eyes as you expelled the frustration that had been brewing since you've been seeing different universes.
"I don't care about the other universes!" Clark exclaimed, cutting you off before you could continue.
You looked at him stunned. You've never heard him raise his voice in the two years that you've known him.
Clark stepped forward again and took your face in his hands once more, wiping away the wetness on your cheeks. "I don't care about the universes, because you're not in them." He repeated again softly.
"I'm eternally grateful that you're in this one. I will always want you in this one. Not Lois. She doesn't know how I like my coffee in the morning, or how I always manage to lose my wallet, or how I'm addicted to having sweet sugary cereal in the morning, or how I get really cranky when I don't get enough sleep."
"She isn't the one I call sweetheart, honey, or any other ridiculous nickname I come up with. She isn't my personal ray of sunshine. Lois isn't the one that I trust with my whole being or who knows my greatest secret. That's reserved for the one that owns my heart. I don't care what you saw, because it isn't true. You and I are destined for each other in this universe."
Clark's gaze was steady as he spoke, and his words were filled with sincerity and laced with love and passion, striking you hard in the heart and rattling around in your ribcage.
"I hate how good you are with your words, Clark Kent." You said wetly, overwhelmed by the sheer amount of love that you felt swell in your heart, but there was a smile on your face as you leaned into his chest, wrapping your arms around his neck.
Clark's chest vibrated with his chuckle, letting you sink into his figure as he pressed a kiss to your hairline, adjusting his grip, and wrapping his arms around your waist. The afternoon sun filtered through your curtains as the two of you stood wrapped around each other, the cracks in your relationship mending with each stream of sunlight that illuminated the two of you.
You eventually pulled back, but stayed in his arms. One of Clark's hands left your waist and caressed your cheek.
"I'll spend the rest of my days showing you that it's always going to be you. No matter what. I'll love you until the sun burns out." Clark promised, looking deep into your eyes.
You couldn't help the loving smile that stretched on your face. "That sounds like an awfully long time. You sure you can put up with me for that long?"
"Yeah, and even then some." Clark said with a smile on his face, his dimples making an appearance before he leaned down and pulled you into a kiss that sent a warmth from the top of your head to the tips of your toes. You couldn't help but smile into the kiss as you poured all the promises you'd make to each other for the future.
summary: Clark finds himself feeling jealous for the first time when you get assigned on a case with Jimmy Olsen, and start spending more time with the photojournalist instead of him.
content: when i say jealous, i mean jealous, clark goes crazy over your absence and does everything he can to get your attention, jimmy is a smart mastermind, makeout in the broom closet, loser sweetheart clark, he's an absolute genius at coming up with excuses to get your attention, but is a complete idiot with his own feelings, coworker romance
Clark does not get jealous. At least, he doesn't think so. So, what was this irritating, gnawing feeling that keeps tripling in size as he watches the clock, waiting for you to come back from your assignment with Jimmy?
He hasn't seen or heard from you since you had rushed into the office this morning, giving him a rushed greeting before brushing past him to head to Jimmy, excitedly rambling about a spotting that would benefit the assignment. You had gone out nearly six hours ago, he would know- he's been checking the clock every minute. With that bright orange notepad of yours filled with all your ingenious ideas, you barely gave him a glance before you had run out of the office, Jimmy tagging along after you, leaving behind a trail of dust for Clark.
He maneuvers his chair absentmindedly, not even bothering with his own article anymore. If he had known you would be out so much, he would have asked Perry to pair up with you instead.
He snaps out of his thoughts, feeling guilt wash over him. How could he think that way? It makes sense for Jimmy to be picked. Jimmy's always been a better photographer than he was, and from what he's heard- this assignment was directly hands-on. With your quick wit and Jimmy's skills, it was the rational pairing.
That thought bubbles like venom, rational pairing. It's just that, isn't it? You were only avoiding him these past few days because you've been overly excited about the assignment, not to hang out one-on-one with Jimmy, right?
To test his theory, he spends the entire night baking muffins. You've always been a sweet tooth, he remembers fondly still when you were gushing over his description of the baked goods his Ma made. He's a little nervous as he tops the muffins with chocolate. They weren't perfect like his Ma's, but he tried his best.
He's not doing this because he's upset. He's been meaning to bake the muffins for you anyways. His own Ma had sent the recipe over two weeks ago, after he updated about your excitement regarding her baking, demanding him to make some for you. He's doing this because he wants to, and it has nothing to do with you and Jimmy. By the time he's stored the muffins into a container, his heart is little more well-rested and reassured that he's just being a good colleague and friend who is not jealous whatsoever.
He shows up the next day, muffins in a container as he waits anxiously at his desk, watching the door for your arrival. He hears you before you even enter, and he jumps up from his chair as you pass through the doors.. with Jimmy.
He tries to stand taller to hide the deflation in his confidence. Now you're arriving at the same time? It couldn't be that you were now walking together to work, were you?
You're too caught up in your conversation to notice Clark watching you from afar, container in hand.
"Hey, Clark!" Jimmy greets as he plops his bag down at his desk. "Did you see the news this morning about- Woah, hang on a second. Are those muffins?"
Clark winces at not being able to say it for himself, but he holds out the container to you. "Yeah, remember my Ma's recipe I told you about last week? You said you wanted to try it so I baked it for you."
"Clark!" He tries to not enjoy the delighted surprise evident in your voice too much. "You didn't have to."
"I wanted to." Maybe he's being too obvious, but that light in your eyes directed at him feels like the sun on his skin after winter.
"No way you're saving this all for yourself!" Jimmy cuts in, hitting you on the arm with his elbow. "They look delicious, dude. Can I have at least a bite?"
"Hey! He said he made them for me, keep your hands to yourself." You interject, taking the container from Clark. Your hand brushes his, and he tries not to smile at your protective instincts over the muffins.
"Come on-" Jimmy calls you by a nickname he's never heard, and his smile freezes. Nicknames? He has a nickname for you now? A panic room is being built in his head as the conversation continues, words exchanged about 'assignment' and 'leaving'.
"Clark?" You wave a hand in front of him, and he blinks, focusing back on your voice. "Thanks for the muffins, I really appreciate it."
"Yeah." He mutters weakly, his heart throbbing over the sudden closeness you had with Jimmy. Jimmy was also his friend, but seeing you drift further away from him made it hard to see the situation in a positive light.
"We gotta go." Jimmy points out, checking his watch before going to grab his camera.
"Right, nice seeing you, Clark." You say with a warm smile, unaware of the inner turmoil going on in his head. "We'll catch up some other time, yeah? And thanks again for the muffins, I can't wait to try them!"
He watches you leave, and tries his best not to storm after the both of you to join in on the assignment. It's silly, childish. He's not the jealous type and you're all working professionals in this office. He drops down into his seat, and he knows that heavy weight in his chest won't go so easily. He's not upset, there's nothing wrong.
You smiled at him and thanked him at least three times. You're clearly still happy to see him, the same as always. He rubs at his chest, where he feels his heart thudding like a traitor. Maybe he's thinking about it too much. You and Jimmy are just attached to the hip because you're both workaholics who love a good story.
'Attached to the hip..' He groans, and he could only hope that things will return to normal soon. He might go crazy if you walk through the doors with Jimmy again tomorrow.
The next day, he's admittingly a little too prepared for your arrival. He has his article open in one window, and a perfect excuse to get your attention today.
He's practiced it at least ten times in the mirror. 'I've really been struggling on this article for awhile and I would love for your insight on it.' It's not completely detached from the truth, he really was struggling- but it was for a reason different to writer's block.
He hears you before you enter again, and this time, he's relieved to hear it's only you. He turns around, clearing his throat and preparing himself.
"Hey, Clark!" You greet him, smiling wide as you place your bag down at your chair. Big smile, that's a good sign.
"Hey." He waits a few seconds, pretending to look at his computer with a purse of his lips. "I was wondering if you could help me out on something?"
"Oh?" There's that glimmer in your eyes from the possibility to brainstorm with someone. "What is it?"
"I've really been struggling on this article for awhile and I would love for your insight on it." He moves his monitor to your direction, and you lean in, narrowing your eyes as you read through the text.
"Oh! The Gotham fugitive!" You take a spare chair, moving it beside his, armrests bumping into each other as you take a seat. "Okay, I've heard some stuff about this that I could help you with- but honestly, Jimmy might be your best bet if you want accurate info."
There's only so much a man can take, he thinks as his smile drops. Is the universe playing with him? Is this 'mention Jimmy Olsen' week, and he wasn't aware? It's okay, he can still redirect this.
"I mean, I would love to help out." You continue on. "I could ask Jimmy to pass you his Gotham contact if you need it though. It might be better than third party information from me."
"No, I would love to hear your thoughts." He interjects so quickly, you could only blink. "I mean-" Play it cool. Play it cool. "I already have the evidence, I just want to hear about it from your perspective, to help think of a point of view to write it from."
"My perspective?" You smile at him so warmly, he almost forgets what he was upset over in the first place. "I think you're the only person who wants to hear it sometimes. Thanks, Smallvile. It means a lot."
He may have hit the jackpot today. He's earned a nickname.
"It's- no problem." He stammers, averting your gaze to look back at the monitor. "So, I was thinking- there's already been some articles with explanations on how the fugitive escaped to Metropolis. I was thinking of focusing more on why."
"I knew you'd say that." You said with a knowing look.
He looks back at you, almost surprised. "How?"
"You always look for the good in people, Clark." You affirm. "When everyone's so focused on the hard facts and evidence, you're the only one who sees past it for what matters. That's why you're a good journalist. You write what matters."
You've been gone nearly a week for your assignment, but here with him, he realises why he's been so upset over your absence. You're looking right at him, when others have only ever seen past him. He's a nobody as Clark Kent. He's untouchable as Superman. Yet, under your gaze, he's just Clark, and that's all he needs to be.
"I have some ideas for the why." You continue on, as if you hadn't shaken his whole world. "If we bring it back to Gotham's current political situation, as well as the increase in unemployment.."
Staring at you wordlessly, he comes to a realisation that should've been obvious to him the moment you stepped into the Daily Planet, with your orange notebook and fiery determination to make a mark in this world. He's in love with you.
Your assignment with Jimmy ends today. Clark feels guilty for the way his steps have a little skip to them as he heads to work. After you submit your assignment to Perry, he's going to ask you to dinner.
There's that lump in his throat as he thinks about it- but after being apart from you for an entire week, he needs to be brave. Not having your silly expressions across his desk to wake him up when he's feeling tired during the 4 pm drought, the stealing of his peanut butter stack to lather on your toast during break, the debates about his alter ego that has him breathless with laughter when you comment on Superman's trunks- not being near you. It nearly drove him insane.
He's scared, but he's done things scared before. He can do it again, especially if it's you.
He arrives at the office, peering at Perry's office where both you and Jimmy were receiving feedback. There's the muffled sounds of 'good work' and 'looking forward to it', though his super-hearing doesn't give much else before the door opens and the both of you walk out with giddy smiles.
He's about to ask you both on how the assignment went when Jimmy exclaims loudly- "Can't believe we get to work on another assignment together!"
Clark drops his briefcase against the floor, causing a loud thud to echo across the hall. He doesn't hear much else other than that, he doesn't need to. He's already walking over to you, briefcase all but forgotten.
"I need to talk to you." He breathes out.
You shift your head to look at him, eyes widened in surprise at his sudden appearance. "Oh? Sure, what do you want to talk about-"
He's grabbing your hand, leading you away to somewhere more private. He doesn't notice Jimmy's smirk directed at you.
There's not many places that aren't exposed to the open in the office, and he's not thinking clearly either when he opens a random door, and leads you in. A cleaning closet- he's led you to a cleaning closet.
He’s practically a barrier, leaving little space for you in the tiny, dusty closet, causing you to stumble over a few brooms left unused on the creaky floor. He grabs you by the waist, holding you steady and unintentionally closer to him so you don’t fall.
“I just don’t understand.” He blurts out.
"Understand?" You furrow your brow.
"Why you're working with him again."
“We make a good team.” You say with a shrug. With the close proximity, you have to crank your chin to the highest point just to meet his eyes. “I think this is the highest praise Perry's ever given for an article."
"Well-" He can't take this anymore. "Does it have to be Jimmy?"
"Why not him? He's the best photographer we've got, you know that."
“Well, I don’t know- you seem to know him better than me now.”
You stare at him incredulously. “So, is this you being upset that I’m stealing Jimmy away from you?”
“What? No!” His voice reverberates through the small confinement, and you hit him softly at his chest as a sign to quiet down. If anyone were to hear his voice and come in, the situation would look- safe to say, you didn’t want to be the gossip feed for an office full of journalists.
“So? I don’t get why you’re upset.”
“I’m not upset.” He mumbles more to convince himself than you. He meets your unimpressed gaze and sighs. “Okay, fine. Maybe a little.”
“About what?” You push.
“I-” He averts his gaze, growing frustration visible through the grit of his teeth. “I just feel like I haven’t seen you at all the entire week.”
“Clark.” Realisation dawns you and a shit-eating grin appears on your face. “Are you jealous?”
“Not really.” Yet, his gaze is behind you, trained on the dusty, dark walls. “I’m just wondering what you and Jimmy could possibly be up to that you won’t come back to the office till six.”
“You keep track?” There’s nothing that can stop the tilt of your voice, obviously having caught on to his dilemma.
He rolls his eyes but he can’t help but smile down at you, and you bet if you trace his face, you could feel the deep indent of his dimple that you loved so much. “Your absence is very distracting.”
“Yeah?”
“I can’t focus on my work when you’re not around.” He huffs. “I’m just used to you coming to my desk and distracting me by stealing my peanut butter.”
“Hey, your mum makes amazing homemade peanut butter.”
“I missed you talking to me to solve your brain fogs when you can’t figure something out.” His voice is growing softer, his gaze focused on you as if he could see you in the dark. “And my stupid brain keeps wondering if you do that with Jimmy instead of me because you’re out all day, and I’m stuck in here waiting.”
“For me?”
“Yeah.” He responds weakly, but he’s never been the type of back down from his words. "I've been waiting to see you the entire week." Despite his supposed demeanour, you knew to never underestimate how direct he could be.
“Well, I’ll have you know that I talk to him about you all the time whenever we’re not doing our assignment.” You admit. “He’s probably relieved you dragged me in here so that I wouldn’t keep talking his ear off about you.”
His voice hitches, his eyes blinking in confusion behind his glasses. “What did you talk about?”
“Just how I missed annoying you, and that you’re probably super bored in the office without me.” You smirk, knowing he can’t deny it either after his own confession. “That I can’t wait to come back and see you- only for Mr. Jealous here to give me the cold shoulder.”
Sweet Clark of course frowns, looking dejected over his own behaviour.
Before he could apologise, you stop him by placing a finger to his lips. “And most importantly, being away from you the entire week made me realise that I don’t want to do that ever again. And that I should probably ask you out before Jimmy wrings my neck out of annoyance.”
You feel his lips part against your finger, clearly not expecting any of your words. A few seconds pass, then his frown morphs into the largest grin you’ve ever seen. “You beat me to it.”
“As always.” You shrug. “I mean, this is why I got the assignment from Perry in the first place before you-”
He grabs your finger, gently and kisses the side of it. Whatever you wanted to boast about leaves your mind as quickly as it came, and this time, you’re the one left speechless.
His gaze is trained on you, hungry and desperate. “I really want to kiss you. Can I kiss you?”
You barely manage a nod before he’s on you, lips meeting yours with a push. He’s clumsy, with his glasses bumping against your nose, and it almost makes you want to laugh- but it transitions into something heated when one of his hands lifts from your waist to caress your hair, pulling you impossibly closer. The long endurance of your playful banters and glances feel like they’re being rewarded in this very moment, where he’s holding you as if you’re the only thing that exists.
He's good, and not only because he's really making it feel good, but because you can feel just how earnest he is- that he really wants this. He's handling you so gently, as if he's savouring you and doesn't want it to end. You don't think you've ever met someone who could translate their feelings through a simple kiss, but it's almost like he's conveying everything he's kept hidden to you right now. You don’t know how much time passes before you have to pull away for air. He follows after you, but you have to raise your hand to clamp his face before he kisses you again.
"You know this was all Jimmy's plan?" You slip out.
Clark blinks, still reeling from the kiss. "What?"
"He said we were going round in circles for too long, so he dragged me out all the time to see how'd you react."
He groans, head lowering and bumping softly against yours. "Of course he did."
"He'll be estastic." You laugh. "I owe him 50 bucks."
"What were the odds?"
"That you'd give in before the week ends." You admitted. "I thought he was being delusional."
"Why?"
"Cause I thought you didn't like me as much as I liked you." You look at him with that same adoring gaze you gave him when you complimented his writing. "If I saw you running around with someone else for an assignment, I would've gone crazy in less than two days."
He chuckles. "Oh, trust me. You had me insane on the first."
"That's the best thing I heard all day."
"Oh, really? Me telling you that I missed you didn't do the trick?"
"No, but it comes close." You tease. "Also, we should probably get out of here before anyone thinks we're doing more than hooking up."
You can't see clearly in the dark, but you could bet his cheeks were on fire. As he opens the door, letting you exit first, you meet Jimmy’s eyes across the room- who’s grinning like a cheshire cat at your tangled hair and reddened cheeks.
“Finally!” He words silently to you, as to not attract the others who were typing away at their desks.
You roll your eyes, feeling the heat of Clark near your back and knowing Jimmy must have put two and two together faster than he swipes through his DMs. Clark leans down, whispering to you. “So, do you want to come by my place after work? I could cook us dinner.”
“Hm, I don’t know.” You tease. “I’ll have to check with Jimmy to see if he needs me for our article.”
He gives your waist a soft squeeze, a little warning. “Don’t worry, I can negotiate with him. So how about 6?”
“What's on the menu?"
"A special." He grins. "Breakfast for dinner."
"Pancakes?"
"Anything you want."
"That's a dangerous proposition." You pretend to consider. "I have a notorious sweet tooth."
"I think I can handle that." He murmurs. "So say yes, please."
Intertwining your hand with the one he held on your waist, you lean back against his chest. "Only since you asked so nicely."
You really do owe Jimmy that 50 bucks.
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