summary - where krypto the dog is desperate to go on a walk to meet the love of his life. in turn, it unites the lives of his owner and the future love of his life.
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Krypto hated the word later.
He didnât just dislike it, he despised it. The sound alone made his fur bristle and his tail droop in betrayal. Humans seemed to use it far too easily, as though it were a leash to tug his hopes further away. Especially Clark.
Especially today.
It wasnât as if Krypto didnât understand the concept of time. He did, in fact, probably understand it better than most humans, what with him being able to hear the rhythm of it in the heartbeats around him, and feel it in the way the Earth rotated beneath his paws, as well as the tick-tock whisper of clocks echoing through walls. And right now, each second dragged like wet fur on a cold day.
Clark had promised him a walk four hours ago.
Now, the Man of Steel sat at his desk, hunched over his computer, typing away at some article for the Daily Planet. His brows were furrowed in concentration, his glasses sliding down his nose. The faint glow of the screen reflected in his eyes.
Krypto lay on his bed by the window, head resting on his paws, tail flicking with contained frustration. Heâd shifted positions a dozen times, sighing loud enough to shake the curtains, but Clark hadnât so much as glanced over.
Outside, the city pulsed with life. Through the slightly open window, the scent of rain, grass, and fried food drifted up from the street below. It was a beautiful day, the kind meant for fresh air, for chasing pigeons and stretching your legs, for freedom.
Instead, he was stuck inside, watching other dogs live the dream.
A golden retriever passed by, tongue lolling out happily. A corgi waddled behind its owner, tail wagging like a metronome. And then there was the Pomeranian, a tiny ball of fluff that strutted down the street as if she owned the pavement. Her human followed behind with an overfilled purse and the air of someone who had definitely been talked into this walk.
Krypto tilted his head, unimpressed. Too cocky.
He watched her until she disappeared around the corner, replaced by a tall, lean Saluki whose owner wore neon headphones and danced across the sidewalk in perfect rhythm with her dogâs gait. Krypto huffed. Too loud.
He turned back toward Clark with a pointed whine. Nothing. Clark was lost to his world of keystrokes and deadlines, shoulders tense with the quiet hum of stress.
Kryptoâs ears drooped. It wasnât that he didnât understand Clarkâs responsibilities. His human wasnât just a reporter; he was Superman. The protector of Metropolis. The planetâs guardian. That was big, important work. Krypto knew that.
But right now? Clark was just a man at his desk, with a very patient dog waiting for a promise that was beginning to smell suspiciously like disappointment.
And then, as if the universe decided to throw him a bone, something changed.
He saw her.
Not just through the window but beyond it.
A bulldog. Sturdy, confident, and beautiful in the way that only a bulldog could be, proud, yet gentle. Her coat shone in the sunlight, pale and glossy, her gait steady and dignified. She wasnât trying to impress anyone. She just was.
Krypto sat up straighter. His tail gave a hopeful thump.
And then he saw her human.
A woman with laughter caught in her smile, her hair loose around her shoulders, eyes warm as she spoke softly to the bulldog trotting at her side. She carried herself with the same quiet strength as her pet, the same natural grace.
For a long moment, Krypto simply stared.
He didnât understand what was happening to him. His chest felt weirdly full, not like hunger or the thrill of flight, but something deeper. Something fluttery.
It hit him then: he was smitten. Completely, totally, head-over-paws in love.
The bulldog had stolen his heart with one glance. And somehow, impossibly, her human seemed perfect for Clark too.
It was as if fate itself had just strolled past the Kent apartment.
Kryptoâs gaze shifted to Clark, still lost in his article, typing away as if destiny werenât literally outside the window.
This would not do.
Krypto tilted his head toward the clock on the wall. The red second hand flicked mockingly around and around. 4:45.
Fifteen more minutes until the âfive oâclock walkâ Clark had promised. Fifteen long minutes between Krypto and destiny.
He huffed, jumped off the bed, and padded across the floor. The clock sat unmounted on a low table, waiting to be hung. Clark had meant to do it for weeks.
Perfect.
Krypto stood on his hind legs, steadying himself against the table. His paw pressed lightly against the glass, nudging the hands forward. He squinted, tongue poking slightly from his mouth in concentration. Five-thirty. That seemed convincing enough.
He stepped back, admired his handiwork, then let out a single sharp bark.
Clark didnât move.
Another bark. Louder this time.
Finally, Clark turned, half-annoyed but mostly tired. âWhatâs the matter, boy?â
Krypto looked from him to the clock, back to him again.
Clark frowned, leaned forward, then blinked. âFive-thirty already? When did it get so-â He paused, rubbing his eyes. âWell, I guess I did promise you a walk, didnât I?â
Kryptoâs tail wagged so hard it thumped against the wall, the excitement inside of him radiating out onto Clark.
Clark chuckled, standing up and stretching. âAlright, alright, I hear you. You win.â
As Clark reached for his jacket, Krypto was already at the door, pawing eagerly. The leash jingled as Clark picked it up, slipping it over Kryptoâs collar with a practiced hand.
âPatience isnât one of your virtues, huh?â Clark said with a grin.
Krypto barked once, as if to say, It was never one of yours either, back when Lois made you wait for dates.
The elevator ride was pure torture, with Krypto feeling the city calling. Every sound, every scent was electric. When the doors opened, he shot forward like a bullet, paws clicking against the marble lobby floor before hitting the pavement.
The air was glorious. Crisp, cool, and alive with the smells of the city, roasted peanuts, car exhaust, and the faint sweetness of flowers from the park nearby.
Clark adjusted his glasses, smiling as he followed. âWhere to, boy?â
Krypto didnât hesitate. He led Clark toward the park, the same park where destiny had trotted past just an hour ago.
They crossed the street, Clarkâs coat fluttering behind him, the late-afternoon sun turning his hair to gold. The park opened before them in a sprawl of green, dotted with trees, benches, and laughing children.
Kryptoâs paws tingled. He was so close yet so far away from her.
They walked along the winding path, the sound of pigeons cooing above them, almost as if mocking Kryptoâs eagerness. A group of them blocked the bridge ahead, pecking at crumbs. Krypto lowered his head, eyes narrowing in mock seriousness, then charged.
The pigeons exploded upward in a cloud of feathers, and Clark chuckled. âShowoff.â
They passed the pompous Pomeranian again, still strutting for the camera as her owner took photos. Clark gave a polite nod, but Krypto barely noticed. His eyes were locked on the horizon.
And then there she was.
The bulldog and her human beside her. The golden light danced around them as they paused by the lake, the reflection rippling below.
Krypto froze. His heart thudded, and he had the strangest urge to fix his fur. Sheâs even prettier up close, he thought, ears flicking.
Clark followed his gaze, unaware. âWhoâs caught your attention, boy?â
Krypto didnât answer. He was already planning.
The air shimmered golden as Krypto and Clark stepped onto the park bridge. Below, the water rippled like glass, disturbed only by the occasional duck gliding lazily across its surface. The city noise faded into a comfortable hum, replaced by laughter, distant chatter, and the rustling whisper of leaves.
And there, across the grass, framed by sunlight, she stood.
The bulldog, with her coat glowing ivory against the fading light, each stride taken slow and deliberate, leash held loosely by the woman beside her, whose voice floated softly through the air, a melody that reached Kryptoâs keen ears.
âGood girl, Daisy. Heel.â
Daisy. Her name was Daisy. Krypto couldâve howled at how perfect it was.
She turned her head for a moment, nose twitching, and their eyes met. Hers were deep, dark, and impossibly kind. Kryptoâs tail wagged instinctively. He felt like his entire chest had filled with fireworks, set alight to create big and beautiful sparks.
Clark followed his line of sight, smiling faintly. âOh, I see whatâs got your attention.â He chuckled, unaware of the destiny simmering right in front of him. âYouâve got good taste, boy.â
Good taste? If only Clark knew. This wasnât just some stupid puppy love, this was fate.
Krypto sat down, trying to look casual. If he approached too fast, he might scare her off. Heâd seen enough of Clarkâs awkward hero moments to know that subtlety was key.
But Clark, as ever, was taking his time, strolling at a reporterâs pace, glancing at trees, checking his phone, humming softly to himself.
Krypto sighed. I canât leave something this important to a human timeline.
He let his gaze dart between Clark and Daisyâs owner. The woman was crouching beside her dog now, adjusting her collar. Her hair fell in soft curls around her face, and the look in her eyes, patient, affectionate, reminded Krypto of the way Clark had once looked at Lois. A look full of quiet hope.
And suddenly, Krypto understood: this wasnât just about him finding love. This was about Clark. About finally seeing him truly happy again.
His mind made up, Krypto shifted into position.
A low growl of determination rumbled in his throat. Clark was distracted, scrolling through his phone, some article draft or email catching his attention. Krypto tugged the leash gently at first. Clark barely noticed.
Then harder.
âEasy, boy,â Clark muttered absently.
No choice then.
Krypto lunged forward with the calculated force of a dog who could, on occasion, outrun sound.
âKrypto! Whoa!â Clark stumbled, arms flailing as he was yanked forward, his phone flying from his hand.
The world seemed to blur into motion. Krypto charged across the grass like a comet, straight toward Daisy and her human. He slowed just enough not to be suspicious, but not enough to prevent what came next.
A collision of destiny.
âOh!â
âWhoa-!â
Clark crashed directly into the woman, their arms tangling as they both tried to steady each other. Her purse flew into the air; Clarkâs glasses went askew. For a second, they froze in place, faces inches apart, the world holding its breath.
And then gravity remembered its job.
Splash.
They toppled straight into the pond.
Krypto winced. Okay⊠maybe too much enthusiasm.
The ripples shimmered outward as the pair surfaced, sputtering. The bulldog barked in alarm, circling the pondâs edge while Krypto stood on the grass, ears flattened in horror.
âOh my gosh!â the woman gasped, brushing hair out of her eyes. âMy blazer! My shoes!â
Clark pushed his soaked glasses up his nose, wincing, before reaching into his pocket and pulling out a handkerchief. âHere, take this!â
Her eyes flittered down to the sopping fabric before widening in disbelief. Then, against all odds, she laughed. It started as a disbelieving chuckle, but soon it filled the air, bright and unstoppable.
Clark blinked at her, water dripping from his hair, before a grin tugged at his lips. âGuess thatâs one way to make an introduction.â
She shook her head, smiling despite herself. âYou think?â
Krypto exhaled in relief. Itâs working.
Clark offered his hand as they climbed out of the pond together, dripping wet but grinning now. The bulldog wagged her tail as her owner, Y/N, patted her head and then turned to face Clark properly.
âIâm really sorry about that,â Clark said earnestly, brushing pondweed from his sleeve. âMy dog got a little too excited.â
Y/N raised an eyebrow, lips quirking. âYour dog? He just took you water skiing.â
Krypto barked softly, tail wagging in apology. Daisy trotted closer, sniffing him curiously before giving a small approving huff. That was a good sign, the sign, in fact.
Clark crouched to retrieve something from the water. âIs this yours?â He held up a dripping handbag, its contents mercifully intact.
She took it, their fingers brushing briefly. A spark, not the electric kind, not Clarkâs kind, but something subtler, more human, passed between them.
âThank you,â she said softly.
Clark smiled, warm and awkward all at once. âItâs the least I can do afterâŠwell, all this.â
Krypto watched, chest swelling with pride. His plan had worked. Maybe not flawlessly, the pond hadnât been part of the design, but sometimes, destiny needed a dramatic entrance.
The rest of the walk passed like a soft dream. The four of them strolled along the path together, Krypto and Daisy occasionally brushing shoulders, Clark and Y/N talking about everything and nothing.
Krypto listened as Clark told stories about journalism, about Smallville, about how much he loved dogs. Y/N responded with laughter that made Kryptoâs ears perk every time. She told stories about her work at the city library, about how Daisy had been her rescue companion after moving to Metropolis.
By the time they reached the park gate, Clarkâs usual nervous fidgeting was gone. He was relaxed, smiling, eyes brighter than Krypto had seen in years.
At the corner, Y/N hesitated, leash in hand. âThis was⊠unexpectedly fun.â
Clark grinned. âUnexpectedly is one of my favorite ways for things to happen.â
She laughed. âWell, maybe next time, we can try for a dryer meeting.â
âIâd like that,â he said, his tone quiet but certain.
Krypto wagged his tail so fast it was practically airborne. Theyâre doing it!
As Y/N and Daisy turned to go, Krypto barked once, loud and sharp, the kind of bark that meant donât miss your chance.
Clark blinked, then seemed to get the message. âWait!â
Y/N turned back, smiling.
âCan I-uh-get your number?â he asked, rubbing the back of his neck, every inch the nervous reporter.
Her smile deepened. âYouâd better. Otherwise, Iâm blaming your dog if fate gives up on us.â
Clark laughed, pulling out his phone. Numbers exchanged, smiles shared, goodbyes said.
When they finally began their walk home, the sun had dipped below the skyline, painting Metropolis in a dusky rose glow.
Clark glanced down at his companion, still grinning like a fool. âYou know,â he said softly, âyouâre not as subtle as you think.â
Krypto barked proudly.
Clark reached down, scratching behind his ear. âBut I guess I owe you one. Youâve got good instincts, boy.â
Krypto puffed his chest out, walking taller, his heart light.
He didnât just feel proud, he felt happy. Not just because of Daisy, though her scent still lingered pleasantly in the evening air, but because for the first time in a long while, Clarkâs smile had returned, real and unguarded.
And for Krypto, that was better than any walk, any flight, or any adventure.
------
The days after the pond incident passed like a gentle sunrise, brightening gradually, quietly transforming everything.
Clark and Y/N texted first. A few messages that turned into calls. A few calls that turned into shared lunches. Lunches that turned into late-night walks, Krypto and Daisy trailing beside them under the amber city lights.
To Krypto, it felt as if the world had shifted just slightly off its axis, but in a good way. The house was filled with laughter again. Clark, who had spent too many evenings hunched over his typewriter, now whistled while he worked. His voice carried warmth again. The air seemed lighter, charged not with tension or worry but with the simple hum of happiness.
Krypto would sometimes find them in the kitchen on quiet mornings, Y/N leaning against the counter with a mug of coffee, Clark half-dressed for work, still wearing his tie like an afterthought. Theyâd talk softly about the day ahead, about headlines and recipes and small-town dreams. And Krypto would rest his head on Daisyâs shoulder, watching them from the doorway with an emotion he couldnât quite name, pride, maybe. Contentment.
Daisy had become a fixture at the Kent household, too, her leash hanging beside Kryptoâs by the door. She wasnât as fast as he was, what with her paws being heavy, her gait slow, but there was a calm in her presence that balanced his restless energy. When Clark left for patrol, Krypto would sometimes pace by the window until Daisy would nudge him with her nose, as if to say, Heâll be back. Sit. Breathe.
And Krypto did.
Time passed. The cityâs seasons turned.
One snowy evening, Y/N came by the farmhouse with her scarf wrapped tightly around her face, Daisy bounding happily through the snow behind her. Clark met her at the door, hair dusted with flakes, cheeks red from the cold. Krypto, sprawled beside the fireplace, raised his head, ears perking up immediately.
The way Clark looked at her that night, soft, wide-eyed, the firelight reflected in his glasses, told Krypto everything.
Something was going to change again.
------
The engagement came two months later, under the Metropolis skyline, when the stars glowed brighter than the streetlamps and the city hummed below them.
Clark had taken Y/N to the rooftop garden of the Planet building, the one Krypto wasnât technically supposed to be on, though that rule had never stopped him before. Daisy sat beside him, her head tilted, watching the humans sway together under the faint music drifting from the open window.
Clarkâs voice was gentle, almost trembling when he finally spoke. âYou knowâŠyou make everything feel quieter. Even the impossible things.â
Y/N smiled, brushing her hand along his arm. âFunny, you make everything feel possible.â
Krypto didnât need super-hearing to catch what came next. The faint metallic sound of a ring box opening, the soft gasp that followed, and the heartbeat that thundered like the echo of two souls aligning.
âYes,â Y/N whispered, voice breaking. âYes, of course, yes.â
Daisy barked once, then twice. Krypto joined in, a symphony of canine joy echoing across the rooftop.
Clark laughed, pulling Y/N close, the city spinning beneath them. When he finally lifted her off the ground in an embrace, snow began to fall again, as if even the heavens were celebrating.
-----
The wedding was small, just as Clark liked it. The Kent farm bloomed under the summer sun, wheat swaying gently in the fields. Ma Kent sat in her favorite chair, tears in her eyes, while a handful of close friends stood scattered around the backyard, their faces glowing with warmth.
Y/N walked down the makeshift aisle barefoot, her dress simple and flowing, her hand clutching a bouquet of daisies, because of course it was.
Krypto trotted proudly ahead as the ring bearer, a small satin pillow tied carefully to his collar. Daisy followed beside him, tail wagging, her pink bow fluttering in the breeze.
When Y/N reached Clark beneath the old oak tree, there was a moment, a pause that felt sacred, suspended. The air was filled with nothing but the whisper of leaves and the faint hum of wind through the wheat.
âI used to think âlaterâ was a curse word,â Clark said softly during his vows, eyes glistening. âSomething that meant putting off joy for another day. But meeting you, youâve taught me that sometimes, âlaterâ just means âwhen the time is right.ââ
Y/N smiled, tears catching the sunlight. âAnd I used to think heroes only belonged in stories. But youâve shown me that sometimes, they live in small towns and forget where they left their glasses.â
Laughter rippled through the crowd.
Krypto looked up at them both, his human and now their human, and felt the quiet, solid weight of belonging settle deep inside him.
------
That night, after the guests had gone and the fireflies had risen over the fields, Krypto and Daisy lay beneath the stars, their paws barely touching. The farm was quiet; Clark and Y/Nâs laughter drifted through the open window, soft and sleepy.
Daisy rested her chin on her paws. âYou did all this, didnât you?â
Krypto blinked at her, tail flicking lazily. âMaybe.â
She snorted softly. âYouâre impossible.â
He smiled, eyes closing. âSo Iâve been told.â
------
The years that followed were kind.
Metropolis stayed busy; Superman stayed needed. But no matter how far Clark flew, he always came home, not to the city skyline, but to the soft glow of the farmhouse window, where Y/N waited with dinner and Krypto waited with patience.
Eventually, two small pups joined the household, twin bursts of energy with snowy coats and eyes too curious for their own good. They were stronger than ordinary pups, faster, but Y/N and Clark raised them with gentleness, teaching them the same lesson Krypto had once learned: power means nothing without heart.
And Krypto, proud, protective, endlessly watchful, taught them the rest. How to listen. How to play. How to love with every inch of their being. Daisy, ever the calm center of their world, watched from the porch, her gaze steady and full of quiet wisdom.
Life, for the first time in forever, felt whole.
-------
One spring afternoon, the air sweet with rain, Krypto found Y/N sitting on the porch swing, a hand resting absently against her stomach. Clark was away on assignment, and the pups were tumbling through the fields.
Krypto hopped up beside her, resting his head in her lap. She smiled faintly, running her fingers through his fur.
âHey, boy,â she murmured, her voice softer than the breeze.
There was something in her tone, a mix of wonder and fear, of joy barely contained. Kryptoâs ears flicked, his instincts stirring. He could hear it, faint but steady, the tiniest new heartbeat nestled beneath her own.
He froze, eyes widening. Then he looked up at her, tail wagging slowly, gently.
She smiled, a tear slipping down her cheek. âYou know, donât you?â she whispered.
Krypto gave a low, happy bark.
Her laughter broke through the quiet, shaky but bright. âDonât tell Clark yet, okay? I want to see his face.â
Krypto tilted his head in understanding, resting once more against her knee. The sky above was painted gold, the air thick with promise.
He closed his eyes, feeling the warmth of her hand, the rhythm of that tiny new life, and thought, for the first time, that maybe the word later wasnât such a terrible thing after all.
Because later had brought them here.
To love. To family. To the beginning of everything.
In which Clark Kent has always been in love with the Daily Planet's receptionist...he just has to wait a while.
a/n - there's a lot of time skips so you'll have to try and follow along!!! i am literally in love with this piece so i hope you enjoy it just as much as i do!!! <3333
word count - 10.6k
Clark Kent had been smitten with the Daily Planetâs receptionist since the very first day he stumbled into the building, flustered, red-faced, and embarrassingly stuck in the revolving door for a solid two minutes. The moment he freed himself and was greeted by your radiant smile, his already flushed cheeks darkened further, struck by your beauty.
From that day on, he was hooked. Enamoured. Hopelessly taken with the girl at the front desk, the one who always managed to brighten up his days just that little bit extra when he needed it most. His eyes had a habit of drifting toward you, watching as your fingers flew effortlessly across the keyboard, juggled calls, and tackled a never-ending stream of paperwork that built up into steep piles upon your desk. It wasnât just admiration anymore. The way his heart raced every time you looked up, it hinted at something deeper than a simple crush. It was love, unspoken and perhaps unreturned, but undeniably real.
Of course, there was one significant obstacle to his quietly growing affection: you were engaged. To a colleague of his, no less, a long-standing, long-engaged colleague (six years, not that Clark was keeping count), and someone Clark would never dream of challenging. Not out loud, at least.
Still, his feelings refused to be reasoned with, no matter how many times he tried to smother them.
âDude, you need to move on.â
The voice of his best friend cut through the haze of his daydreams,light and teasing, yet not without a hint of worry and comfort.
âSheâs engaged, in case you forgot. Though that seems unlikely, considering itâs been five years.â
âSix,â Clark muttered, before quickly recovering. âBut Iâll have you know I have moved on! It was just a fleeting crush. Nothing more. Weâre friends,thatâs all, thatâs it.â
He sounded sincere. But they both knew better.
Everyone did.
His lingering stares, his casual walks past your desk that were anything but casual,and the way his words always came too fast when he talked to you made it all the more painfully obvious. The office had long since picked up on it, exchanging knowing glances whenever Clark struck up yet another conversation with you, trying and failing to pretend he wasnât completely captivated.
It hadnât taken long for anyone to figure out how Clark felt about their receptionist. His eyes always gave him away, quiet but intense, lingering on you with a kind of reverence, as if you held the entire world in your hands. There was longing in his gaze, yes, but also something else, an aching and overarching sort of envy. The overwhelming desire to hold you close, to be the one you leaned on, was written all over him.
His feelings revealed themselves in the smallest ways. He noticed everything,how your eyes lit up when you doodled absentmindedly in your notebook, or how your voice rose with excitement over the simplest things. It wasnât just that he thought you were beautiful. It was deeper than that. You got him. And he got you.
Sometimes, it hurt him to watch.
There were moments when his pain was so visible, so raw, that others felt it too, the way his shoulders slumped, his posture curling in on itself as he sat at his desk, avoiding even a glance in your direction while you laughed at something Steve said. It was too much, sometimes, to watch you love someone else. To see you living the life he only allowed himself to dream about.
And yet, he held on to hope. A quiet, stubborn belief that maybe,just maybe,someday the stars would shift, and youâd be the one running home to him.
So for now, he watches. Silently. Longingly.
Itâs his way of saying, âI love you. I just donât know if Iâm allowed to yet.â
----------------
The fluorescent lights buzzed faintly overhead as the office staff slowly trickled into the conference room. Mugs in hand, eyes half-lidded, the room hummed with the quiet dread of another all-hands meeting. A slide deck flickered to life on the screen, already promising bullet points and boredom.
Clark sank into his usual seat near the back corner, smoothing the creases in his button-down shirt. He glanced to his right just as you shuffled in with a small yawn barely stifled behind your hand. You look tired, more than usual.
You take the seat next to him, settling in with a quiet sigh and blinking hard at the screen as if it would magically turn into a beach scene instead of quarterly projections.
Ten minutes in, Perryâs voice had melted into white noise.
You let out another yawn. Then another.
Clark leaned toward you, keeping his voice low, âYou okay?â he asks, brow furrowed.
You just give him a small, apologetic smile, eyelids already heavy.
You chuckle faintly but then yawn again, longer this time,eyes watering slightly as you blink at the spreadsheet now being projected on the wall.
By the time Perry was on slide 17, you had stopped reacting altogether. Your head tilted once, then twice, like a flower wilting under too much sun, with Clark glancing over again just in time to feel your head fall gently against his shoulder.
His entire body stiffened. Every neuron in his brain fired into alert mode. He didnât moveâcouldnât move. He stared straight ahead, pretending he hadnât noticed, trying to breathe like a normal human being while slow, steady breaths brushed against his shirt collar.
God, you were asleep. Fully asleep. On him.
He could smell your shampoo. He was going to die.
The meeting droned on. Charts. Graphs. Perry talking about competition or use of short and snappy sentences to increase engagement though none of it mattered. The world had narrowed to the point of contact between her temple and his shoulder.
Someone a few seats down gave him a knowing look. Clark ignored it, willing himself not to blush, failing miserably.
Then, mercifully or tragically, the meeting came to a close.
Perry clapped his hands once. âAlright, thatâs it, everyone. Letâs hit the ground running this week.â
Chairs scraped back, papers shuffled, people filed out.
But you didnât stir.
Clark sat frozen for a second longer, then glanced down at your sleeping form. You looked peaceful. Unburdened.
He gently nudged her shoulder. âY/N?â he said softly. âThe meeting's over.â
Slowly you blink awake, confused for a beat, then startled upright, eyes wide.
âOh my god-Iâm so sorry.â
Clark offered a faint smile, heart breaking in real-time.
âItâs fine. You were tired.â
You rubbed your eyes and stood, still half-asleep, brushing a hand through your hair. âThanks for not waking me earlier. Seriously. I owe you.â
He stood too, hands in his pockets. âYou donât owe me anything.â
You smile. That same warm, oblivious smile that had haunted his daydreams since the first week you had joined.
You sit behind the front desk, flipping through a stack of mail as the newsroom buzzes around you. Phones ring. Keyboards clatter. And, as always, Clark Kent is at his desk, pretending not to glance your way, though as always, failing to.Â
Heâs always tried to be good at pretending. Always. Ever since the day he walked through those doors, shy smile and square jaw, you've been the bright point in his peripheral vision. But you were already wearing a ring.
Today, though, somethingâs different.
The elevator dings, and a woman steps outâbusiness casual, confident smile, clutching a slim box of paper samples like it's the key to someone's heart. She introduces herself at the front: MidCity Office Supplies, looking to speak with procurement. You buzz her through.
A few minutes later, sheâs at Clarkâs desk. Heâs not procurement. Heâs not even interested in paper. But suddenly heâs all nods and polite curiosity.
 âOffice supplies?â He said, âSure, I guess we go through a lot of paper here.â
She laughs, leaning in, letting his nose fill with the scent of a cheap fruity perfume, âMost places do! Youâd be surprised how few people know their GSMs.â
You glance up at the sound of laughter. Youâve worked here long enough to know when Clarkâs bluffing. He doesn't care about paper weights. He barely prints anything, he always made sure to ask whether you could help him with printing.Â
But heâs listening, or at least trying to. Trying to smile, to flirt. To be the kind of man who doesnât have his heart quietly wrapped around someone already promised to someone else.
She hands him a sample. Their fingers brush. He flinches.
And for just a second, he looks past the paper girlâs sales pitch and meets your eyes.
It only lasts a moment.
Then he looks away, looks back to the lady right in front of him, someone who is able to freely reciprocate a feeling of something more than you could ever feel for him.
So you look away too.
Clark shifts slightly in his chair, his hands loosely folded in front of him as the saleswoman continues to talk. Her voice is upbeat, almost musical, laced with a flirtation thatâs becoming harder to ignore. She leans in a little closer with every sentence, her smile lingering just a moment too long, her fingers now absentmindedly tracing the rim of a sample paper box like sheâs trying to make it look interesting.
Clark nods occasionally, offering the sort of distracted half-smiles that suggest heâs listening, even though his mind is somewhere else entirely. Somewhere a few steps away, at the front desk, where you sit, your head bent slightly as you sort through mail, your fingers flipping through envelopes with the kind of gentle focus heâs come to associate with you.
The saleswoman is saying something about weight differences in cardstock now, something about how glossy finishes affect toner absorptionâbut Clark can barely register the words. Heâs trying, really trying, to stay present. To show some interest. To convince himself, maybe, that sheâs exactly what he needs: someone new, someone available, someone uncomplicated.
And then it happens.
From the corner of his eye, he catches a familiar silhouette approaching your deskâbroad-shouldered, confident stride, casual grin tucked just beneath a Yankees cap.
Steve.
Clark stiffens instinctively, even before Steve says anything. He watches as the sports journalist leans down and murmurs something into your earâsomething that makes you smile in that warm, easy way Clark has only ever seen from a distance. Then Steve kisses you briefly, but not without intention. A kiss that says this is mine.
You laugh, touch his arm lightly, and keep talking as if nothing unusual just happened. And maybe to you, nothing did.
But for Clark, the air shifts.
He looks away, blinking hard, like that might shake the image from his memory before it hardens into something permanent. The paper samples in front of him blur slightly. He clears his throat.
The saleswoman is still talking, but now sheâs watching him more closely, sensing an opportunity.
âIf you ever want a more hands-on look at what we offer, I could show you some of our newer materials, maybe over dinner?â
Clark blinks again, more slowly this time, his attention drawn back by the sound of her voice. He opens his mouth, about to decline politely, maybe steer the conversation back to professionalism and let her down gently.
But then he hears it again, your laugh. Soft. Familiar. It does something to him.
He glances back toward your desk.
Steve is still standing there, still too close. Youâre showing him something on your computer now, your engagement ring catching the light as you gesture.
And something in Clark buckles.
Thereâs a quiet, invisible shift inside him, like a door closing. Or maybe being slammed.
He looks back at the saleswoman, whoâs still smiling, still waiting for an answer, completely unaware that sheâs become the stand-in for a person sheâll never be.
Clark smiles slightly, a little forced, but it holds.
âDinner sounds good. Sure. Why not?â
The woman lights up instantly, clearly not expecting him to say yes. She straightens, excited, already offering suggestions for places to go, times that work, hints of enthusiasm bubbling into her words.
âReally? Thatâs great. Thereâs this Italian place just a few blocks from here, I think youâll love it. Are you free tonight?â
Clark hesitates for half a second, then nods.
His voice is quiet, almost detached, like heâs watching himself from a distance.
âYeah⊠Iâm free.â
And even as she beams at him, already reaching for her phone to trade numbers, Clark glances once more toward the front desk.
Youâre still talking to Steve, unaware of any of it.
And in that moment, Clark isnât thinking about dinner, or sales pitches, or paper weights.
Heâs just thinking about how something can hurt this much without ever really having started.
--------------------
Soft jazz hums beneath the gentle clatter of cutlery and clinking glasses. Candles flicker on white-linen tables, casting a warm, golden hue over the faces of couples deep in conversation.
At a cozy corner table near the window, Clark sat across from Madeline, the saleswoman from MidCity Office Supplies. She's wearing a silky blue blouse, her hair curled just slightly, and her makeup is careful but not overdone. She looks hopeful. And more importantly, happy.
Clark, ever the gentleman, is attentive. He smiles when she talks, asks questions, and even laughs a little when she tells stories from her workday, funny, polished anecdotes about quirky clients and last-minute orders. And Madeline is glowing under the attention.
She leans in a little more now, the wine loosening her nerves, emboldening her gestures.
âI have to say, I wasnât sure if youâd actually show up tonight. You strike me as the type whoâs always âburied in deadlinesâ.â
Clark smiles softly, politely, just shy of genuine.
âI was curious.â
âOh, come on. Iâm charming. Admit it.â
He chuckles. Itâs kind. But not invested.
Still, Madeline sees what she wants to see: a good man, handsome, thoughtful, and finally noticing her. She thinks itâs going well. She thinks maybe this could be something.
And then the restaurant door opens.
Clark sees you first. He doesnât even mean to look, but he always notices you, even when he shouldn't.
You walk in, a vision in black, elegant and radiant in the soft light. Your laugh echoes faintly as you talk to the hostess. At your side is Steve, ever confident, his arm wrapped casually around your waist, like it belongs there.
Clark stiffens slightly. His jaw tightens. But only for a second.
Madeline follows his gaze, curious.
âOh wow⊠now thatâs a couple.â
You and Steve are seated at a table not far from theirs. Itâs impossible not to notice how comfortable you are together, how easily you smile at him, how he leans in when you speak. You reach out and adjust the collar of his shirt, laugh when he says something under his breath, and rest your hand on his for just a little longer than necessary.
Madeline watches you with open admiration, completely unaware of whatâs swirling beneath the surface of the man across from her.
âSheâs gorgeousâŠ.â
Clark doesnât respond.
Heâs watching you. Not with jealousy, exactly. Not with anger. Just with that quiet ache, heâs learned to carry like a second skin.
Madeline, oblivious, takes a sip of her wine and leans in again, lowering her voice like sheâs sharing something conspiratorial.
âDo you think weâll be like that someday?â
Sheâs smiling, truly smiling eyes bright with the hope of a girl who thinks maybe sheâs found something rare. Someone rare.
Clark blinks once, his heart sinking as the words reach him. The smile fades from his lips. His posture shifts just slightly, almost imperceptiblyâbut enough to change the energy between them.
He looks at her. Sheâs beaming, waiting for him to say something romantic or clever. Sheâs seeing a future.
And all he can think is: She doesnât deserve this.
His voice is low, but steady.
âNo. We wonât.â
The words land like a pin drop in a quiet room.
Madeline blinks, stunned.
Her smile fades slowly, the realization dawning with a kind of softness that almost makes it worse. She sets her wine glass down, her breath catching just slightly in her throat.
âOh.â
For a moment, she doesnât say anything more. She just sits there, stunned, looking at the man who only minutes ago seemed like he might have been hers. Then, quietly, she gathers her clutch, slides her chair back, and stands.
She doesnât cry. Not yet.
But her voice wavers as she speaks.
âThanks for the wine.â
And then she turns and walks outâcalm, composed on the surface, but you can see it in the way her shoulders are just slightly hunched as she goes.
Clark doesnât follow. He sits there, alone at the table, surrounded by the soft hum of clinking glasses and hushed conversations.
Across the room, youâre still laughing.
--------------
The lights are low, casting amber shadows over chipped wooden tables and half-finished drinks. The air is thick with laughter, the smell of beer, and the kind of fading music that only gets louder the more you try to ignore it.
Clark Kent sits at a high-top table, sleeves rolled up, collar slightly loosened, a club soda resting untouched in front of him. Heâs not here for the drinks. Heâs here for you.
Youâre across from him, legs crossed, drink in hand, shoulders slack from hours of leaning too hard into the bottle and too far from the truth.
You showed up with Steve, his arm draped around you loosely, like you were just another part of the night, not the person he was supposed to be building a life with. He was gone within fifteen minutes, disappearing with one of his buddies from the sports desk, promising to âtext you later.â He kissed your cheek out of habit before he left.
But tonight, heâs not seeing the receptionist with the easy smile and quick wit. Heâs not seeing the woman who brings the newsroom coffee after late nights or gently teases him about his tie being crooked.
Tonight, he sees a woman unraveling.
You lean back in your chair, your glass tilting slightly in your hand, and stare blankly at the ceiling.
âDo you know how long Iâve been engaged, Clark?â you say, voice soft, slurred yet full of pain.
Clarkâs throat tightens. He doesnât answer.
You donât wait for him to.
âAlmost seven years. Eighty-two months, three weeks, and a couple of wasted weekends trying to convince him that we should set a date.â
Your voice cracks, not enough to make a scene, but enough that Clark notices. Always.
âI used to imagine what my dress would look like. Isnât that stupid?â
Clark shakes his head, slowly.
But youâre not looking at him anymore. Youâre staring down into the melting ice of your drink, like it might give you answers Steve hasnât.
âI picked colors. I made a guest list. I even reserved a venue once, just to see how it felt.â
You pause. A bitter laugh escapes your lips.
âHe never even looked at it.â
Clark doesnât speak. He wants to. He wants to say You deserve someone who sees all of it. Someone who wakes up every morning with no doubt in their heart. But the words stay lodged in his throat.
âI just want someone who wants it too. Who wants me enough to say yes and mean it.â
Clark swallows hard, and when he finally speaks, his voice is low, reverent.
âWell, if I were him⊠I wouldâve married you the second you said yes.â
Your eyes snap up to his. You blink, slow, like youâre trying to steady the spinning.
Then, without warning, without thought, you lean forward and kiss him.
Itâs impulsive. Messy. A blur of gin and desperation and something buried so deep you didnât even know it was there until now.
It doesnât last long. Clark pulls away gently, hands hovering near your arms, steadying you without holding you. You donât protest. You just sit back, dazed, already forgetting the moment even as it slips away.
And then, as quickly as it happened, youâre distracted. Someone brings another round. You laugh again. You toast someoneâs promotion.
And Clark just sits there.
Frozen.
He touches his lips once, like heâs trying to prove to himself it was real.
The next morning, you walk in late, wearing sunglasses despite the fluorescent lights. Coffee in hand, sweater slung over your shoulders, hair pulled back like someone who barely slept.
You pass Clarkâs desk with a faint, apologetic smile.
âGod, last night⊠remind me never to drink like that again. I donât remember a thing after Steve left.â
Clarkâs eyes flicker up.
Just for a moment. Then back down to his monitor.
âYeah. Sure.â
You keep walking.
You donât see the flicker of hurt that crosses his face, or the way his hands still for a second over the keyboard.
You donât remember the kiss.
But Clark does.
And for him, it wasnât a drunken mistake.
It was the moment he realized heâs been loving someone whoâs still waiting on a man who wonât love her back the way she needs. And even now, even after everything, Clark still isnât the one you remember when you wake up.
---------------
The office is quieter than usual. The newsroom is dressed in tinsel and cheap string lights, the coffee station smells faintly of cinnamon, and someone put on a jazz version of âJingle Bell Rockâ thatâs been looping all morning. Everyoneâs half-distracted, winding down before the holidays, paper crowns slipping from heads, cookie crumbs trailing across desks.
The Secret Santa exchange is happening by the copy machine, where a tiny fake tree is perched awkwardly between stacks of printer paper and a crooked âHappy Holidaysâ banner.
Clark stands near his desk, a small wrapped package tucked under his arm. He glances toward you, laughing near the tree, cheeks flushed from a peppermint schnapps someone slipped into the office hot chocolate. You're wearing a soft red sweater, your hair pulled up loosely, a strand falling in front of your face in that way Clark has always secretly loved.
His heart tightens.
You still havenât set a date. Still havenât made it down the aisle. Clark hasnât asked. He never does. But he knows. He sees it every time you smile at Steve with just a fraction less sparkle than you used to.
He looks down at the box in his hand.
Inside it is a small, thoughtful gift. Something he remembered you mentioning months ago, a rare print of your favorite poem, framed. Itâs personal. Quiet. Perfect in its simplicity.
But thatâs not whatâs eating him.
Itâs the letter.
Folded in his coat pocket, creased and worn at the edges from being read and rewritten too many times, is a four-page letter.
His letter to you.
His real gift.
Itâs everything heâs never said. Every quiet glance, every moment he held his tongue. The way his heart raced when you first remembered how he takes his coffee. The way you looked at him, dazed and tearful, the night you kissed him and forgot.
The way he never forgot.
He poured it all out, honestly, painfully, beautifully. And for a day or two, he thought maybe this was the time. Maybe this Christmas, heâd stop choosing silence.
But now?
He watches you by the tree. Youâre beaming at something Perry just said, laughing like the past year didnât unravel in quiet pieces behind you. And even though thereâs something softer in your eyes, some weariness Clark knows too well, youâre still wearing Steveâs ring.
Clarkâs fingers twitch toward his pocket. Then he closes his hand, slowly, and pulls the letter outânot to give it to you, but to walk it over to the recycling bin by the mailroom.
He stands there for a moment, staring down at the envelope.
Then, carefully, deliberately, he tears it straight down the middle.
And again.
And again.
Until the words he wrote are just confetti in his palm.
He tosses the pieces into the bin, exhales through his nose, and walks back to his desk with the box, the gift he will give you.
Quiet. Safe. Unspoken.
Later, during the exchange, you unwrap it with a soft gasp.
âThis is... how did they even find this?â
Clark shrugs from across the room, pretending not to watch the way your fingers trace the edge of the frame.
âWhoever had me is dangerously good at Secret Santa.â
You hold the gift to your chest for a second, and Clark can almost believe thatâs enough.
Almost.
But when you look around the room, trying to guess who it was, your eyes pass over him without stopping.
And Clark smiles.
Because love, real love, doesnât always ask for a return.
Sometimes, it just is.
Everyoneâs gone home for the holiday break. The overhead lights are off, save for a single lamp glowing dimly on Clarkâs desk. Outside the tall windows, the city lies hushed beneath a gentle snowfall, the kind that blankets everything in an impossible stillness.
Youâre still there too, tired, coat draped over your arm, hair slightly wind-blown from the cold. Youâd come back for your forgotten phone charger. He said heâd stay to finish an article.
Neither of you has left.
The silence between you stretches too long.
You're the one who breaks it, leaning against the edge of his desk, your voice quiet.
âFeels like everythingâs stuck lately. Like time wonât move forward.â
Clark doesnât answer immediately. He just looks at you. Really looks at you.
Youâre beautiful, but not in the way you usually are. Tonight youâre worn out, eyes rimmed with sleeplessness, posture drooping under something invisible and heavy. The exhaustion of holding something together that doesnât want to stay whole.
âMaybe timeâs waiting for you to catch up.â
You smile, just barely. Itâs sadder than anything heâs ever seen.
âI keep thinking things will get better with Steve. I just have to be more patient. That itâs just work, or bad timing, or stress.â
You pause, swallowing hard. You donât look at him.
âBut I donât think he wants this anymore. Not really.â
Clark closes his eyes for a second. Breathes in. Out. His hands are shaking slightly.
You notice.
You reach toward him, instinctively placing a hand on his forearm.
âAre you okay?â
And thatâs it.
That breaks him.
Because for all this time, all these months of you unraveling quietly in front of him, heâs the one whoâs supposed to ask that. Heâs the one who watches you with Steve, sees the way you shrink under the weight of waiting, hears you lie to yourself about how itâs just a phase, just a slump, just a little longer.
And yet, you ask him if heâs okay.
He stands slowly, eyes never leaving yours.
Thereâs something shifting in the air now, dangerous and fragile.
âNo. Iâm not.â
Your brow furrows. You straighten a little, sensing the shift.
His voice trembles, âI canât do this anymore. I canât pretend it doesnât tear me apart to watch you stay with someone who keeps forgetting how lucky he is.â
You freeze.
Clark steps closer, his voice low and thick with emotion.
âYou keep waiting for Steve to fight for you. To choose you. But he already has. Heâs choosing not to. Every time he leaves early, every time he avoids the wedding plans, every time he looks at you like youâre too much to carry, thatâs his choice.â
You donât say anything. Your breath catches. Your fingers curl against the edge of the desk.
Clarkâs hands come to rest gently, so gently, on your arms.
âBut I would never choose anything but you. I've always wanted you, always. I've always watched you tear yourself apart just for him to notice you, when I would've loved you no matter what. Please let me in, please let me love you freely.â
He leans in.
And you let him.
The kiss is slow at firstâtentative, aching. A question and an answer. Then it deepens, desperate, trembling, weighed down by the years buried under silence. Your hands reach for him, his collar, his hair. You kiss him back, fully, hungrily, like part of you has wanted this too and never let yourself admit it.
Time folds around the two of you. Minutes blur. Breath shortens.
But then a single thought cuts through the warmth like ice.
Steve.
You pull back sharply, as if waking from a dream, your lips parted, your breath shaky. You step back. Clarkâs eyes search yours instantly, confused, panicked.
âWhat, whatâs wrong?â
You shake your head, tears suddenly burning behind your eyes.
âIâI canât. I canât do this.â
Clarkâs voice breaks, âPlease donât say that.â
âIâm engaged, Clark.â
He steps forward, arms raising up to try and hold your waste, but you step back, swallowing a sob.
âYouâre hurting. He doesnât see it, but I do. You deserve to be loved out loud. Not in half-sentences and broken promises.â
You cover your mouth with your hand, like youâre afraid of what might come out if you speak.
Clark is crying now. Quiet tears streaked his face, his hands trembling at his sides.
âIâve loved you since the first week I started here. Iâve watched you fall apart waiting for someone who isnât me, and I stayed silent because I thought thatâs what you wanted. But I canât anymore.â
You shake your head. One tear slips down your cheek.
âI canât do this to him. No matter how many times heâs let me down, I gave him my word. I said yes.â
âThen take it back.â
You flinch like he hit you.
Silence swells.
âI canât.â
Clark chokes on a sob.
âPlease. Just give me a chance. Just one.â
You look at him, this man who has done nothing but love you from the shadows. Who has never failed you, not once, even though you never asked him to carry any of it.
Your heart is splintering.
âIâm sorry.â
Clark drops his head, chest heaving, hands curling into fists as if holding himself together physically is the only thing keeping him from falling apart completely.
âI wouldâve loved you every day.â
You canât take it. You turn, hand over your mouth, and walk out.
You donât look back.
And Clark? Clark sinks into his chair the moment the door closes.
And cries.
Not just for what he lost, but for what he never got the chance to be.
------------
The skyline is different here. Sharper, colder. Gotham isnât Metropolis; thereâs a heaviness to the air, a quiet urgency on the streets, as if even the city itself doesnât have time for sentiment.
Clark fits right in.
Itâs been three months since he left The Daily Planet. Three months since that night in the office, the kiss that cracked him open, and the words that closed the door for good. He hadnât made a scene. Hadnât told anyone he was leaving, not even you. Just packed up his desk after hours, left the keycard on Perryâs desk, and got in a cab.
Now, he works at the Gotham Gazette, tucked in the corner of a crowded bullpen. The work is good, fast-paced, and investigative in nature. The editor likes him. The team respects him.
One person in particular seems to like him a lot more than that.
Her name is Elise.
Sheâs sharp, smart, and funny in that dry, Gotham kind of way. She challenges him in meetings, holds her own on stories, and laughs at his worst jokes.
And lately, sheâs been sitting closer.
Theyâve started sharing lunch breaks. Walking home from late assignments. Talking about movies, food, and childhood memories. The kinds of conversations that build foundations. She's made it known, subtly, but clearly, that she likes him. That she'd say yes, if he asked.
Clark smiles at her. He listens. He holds the door open.
But inside?
Heâs still bleeding.
He tells himself itâs getting better. That heâs moving on. That time, distance and Elise are helping. But when heâs alone, late at night, rereading edits in his apartment, a song or a passing thought or a scrap of handwriting on a Post-it will bring you back.
And for a second, he forgets where he is.
He still sees your face in reflections sometimes.
Still hears your laugh in crowded rooms that fall too quiet.
Still dream about you.
And when he wakes up, the guilt of kissing you floods his chest like it happened yesterday.
Not because he kissed you. But because you kissed him back. And then chose someone else.
Elise drops a printed article draft on his desk and leans against the cubicle wall with a soft smile.
âYou, me, dinner. Thereâs a place across the street with decent pasta and terrible wine.â
Clark looks up from his notes. He smiles, gently.
âI thought we already did lunch today?â
âLunch is with coworkers. Dinnerâs a second date.â
Sheâs half-teasing. But only half.
He studies her for a moment. Sheâs lovely. Brave. Sheâs shown up. Sheâs here.
And youâre not.
âOkay. Yeah. Dinner sounds good.â
Her smile widens.
She walks away to finish her piece, and he turns back to his monitor, the words blurring just slightly.
Youâre sitting alone in your apartment, your laptop open, wedding Pinterest tabs still pinned but never touched. Steve is working late again. You havenât asked what for.
You havenât picked a date. Or a venue. Or a dress.
But tonight, for no reason at all, you think of Clark.
And for the first time in a long timeâŠyou wonder where he is.
--------------
Thereâs a quiet buzz in the office, the kind that always comes with change. Desks have been rearranged. New faces sit where old ones used to. Perry Whiteâs voice barks across the floor more often than usual, trying to re-establish order in a newsroom thatâs suddenly grown overnight.
The Gotham Gazette has been folded into the Planet following a corporate merger, driven by cost-cutting, downsizing, and politics. Whatever the reason, a handful of their top reporters have been brought over, and they're now finding homes in the open-concept chaos that is the Daily Planet bullpen.
You knew he was coming.
Everyone did.
You heard his name mentioned in the staff memo. âClark Kent returning as Senior Investigative Correspondent.â You told yourself it didnât matter. That it was fine. That youâd grown up, grown past it.
And maybe you have.
But as you glance up from your desk and see him walk through the elevator doors, heart knocking against your ribs, you realize one devastating truth:
You are not ready.
Heâs changed.
Not dramatically, but enough. His hair is a little shorter. His jaw is a little tighter. He walks like someone whoâs had to start over and didnât ask to. Heâs wearing a coat that doesnât quite belong in Metropolis; he hasnât taken Gotham out of his bones yet.
And next to him, walking just a little too close, is Elise.
Sheâs sharp-featured, confidently dressed, and chatting with someone from layout like sheâs been here for years. Her hand brushes Clarkâs arm once, casual, familiar.
You donât look away fast enough.
Clark sees you.
Your eyes meet across the room, and itâs like the entire office falls into silence. Everyone else fades, the chatter, the phones, the clacking keyboards. For a second, thereâs just the two of you, staring.
You see it all in his face: surprise, tension, something unreadable behind his eyes.
Then you stand up, smoothing the front of your blouse, and make your way over.
You smile politely, restrained.
âWelcome back, Clark.â
He blinks. Nods slowly.
âHey. Itâs... good to see you.â
His voice is steady. But quieter than you remember.
You gesture toward his new desk, just across from yours, in what must be an act of either cruelty or cluelessness by HR.
âLooks like youâre stuck with me again.â
He smiles, small, distant.
âSome things never change.â
You hear it. The weight behind the words. What he doesnât say: Some things do.
Thereâs an awkward pause. Elise steps forward then, offering her hand.
âElise Carr. Gotham Gazette.â
You shake it.
âNice to meet you. Iâve read your work, your profile on the commissioner was incredible.â
âThank you. Clark did most of the heavy lifting.â
You nod once. Try not to flinch.
âHeâs good at that.â
Your eyes flicker back to Clarkâs. Thereâs a shadow in his expression now. Something between regret and restraint. You wonder if heâs thinking about the last time you saw each other, the kiss, the tears, the broken voice whispering, âPlease just give me a chance.â
You havenât forgotten.
Not even close.
And neither has he.
Youâre alone in the break room when Clark walks in, coffee mug in hand.
You both pause.
Then pretend to be casual.
âSo⊠howâve you been?â
Itâs such a simple question. So loaded.
You take a breath.
âStill engaged. Still not married.â
He looks down at his mug. Nods once before saying, âStill waiting on someone who wonât show up?â
You stiffen.
âStill loving someone who left.â
He flinches, so fast you barely catch it. A beat of silence passes.
âYou made your choice.â
âI made a promise.â
He sets the mug down. Closes the distance by half a step.
âAnd howâs that working out?â
You say nothing.
Because he already knows the answer.
Outside, snow begins to fall again, light, quiet, aimless.
Inside, the silence between you settles back into place.
Youâre both here again. Both different. Both unfinished.
And the worst part?
You donât know if you want to try againâŠOr if itâs already too late.
--------------
You donât expect his laugh to feel like a punch to the chest.
Not here. Not now. Not when youâre still brushing ash off the ruins of a seven-year engagement that ended with more silence than shouting.
You just wanted coffee. Thatâs all.
But there he is, leaning against the counter by the break room, laughing in that unrestrained way you used to secretly love. Like the world had never touched him.
And then thereâs Elise.
Sheâs standing close, too close, one hand resting casually on his arm as she tells him something that makes his eyes crinkle at the corners. Her presence is effortless, magnetic. She's new, but somehow already feels at home.
You freeze. Youâve seen them together before, but today feels different. Today, you feel it in your ribs.
âMorning,â Elise says, looking over at you with a friendly smile.
You manage a nod. âHey.â
Clark glances your way, offers you a smile tooâone you used to read into. One that used to mean something. Now, itâs just polite. Unloaded. Professional.
No hesitation. No history.
And no space for you.
Back at your desk, you stare blankly at your screen, fingers hovering over the keyboard, your coffee already cold. You scroll through unread emails, but your mind drifts back, days, months, years.
You remember when Clark used to hang around your desk just a little too long after meetings. His jokes always landed a little softer when they were just for you. When heâd sit beside you during long flights, leaning into the kind of silence that didnât need filling.
You knew. Of course, you knew.
You saw it in the way he looked at you, like he was waiting for something. A signal. A shift. A single moment when you might look back at him the same way.
But you had Steve.
Seven years of plans. A wedding venue that never got booked. A house with his name on the lease and yours on the mortgage. A future drawn in pen, not pencil. There was no room for Clark.
You thought you were being kindâkeeping the line clear, not leading him on.
But you werenât kind. You were careful.
And now someone else is reaping the pieces of him you never claimed.
That night, you open an old folder on your phone, one you donât even remember saving.
Photos from the Denver retreat. Clark is wearing a hoodie and sleeping on your shoulder in the airport terminal. His legs tucked under him, lips slightly parted, completely trusting. Like he belonged there.
You let him fall asleep against you.
You didnât move.
You just watched the seconds pass, as if they might add up to something.
But when he woke up, you didnât say anything. Neither did he.
And slowly, he stopped waiting.
You see him by the printer later that weekâalone. No, Elise, no soft laughter. Just Clark, flipping through a report, the hum of the machine filling the silence.
You walk over without thinking.
âHey,â you say.
He looks up. Neutral. Not cold, not warm. Measured.
âHey.â
âI was wonderingâŠâ You clear your throat. âIf youâd maybe want to grab a coffee sometime. Just to catch up.â
He doesnât answer right away.
Thereâs a flicker of something in his eyesârecognition, maybe. A shadow of the person who once used to hope for this exact moment.
But itâs brief.
âI donât think thatâs a good idea,â he says, softly.
Heâs not trying to hurt you. Thatâs what makes it worse.
You nod, forcing a tight smile. âYeah. I get it.â
âI justâŠâ You start, but stop. You have no idea what you meant to say. That you're sorry? Do you see it now? Was the timing wrong and the silence louder than you realized?
But none of that matters anymore.
Clark offers a small, careful smile. âItâs okay. Really. Weâve both moved on.â
You nod again, because thatâs what people do when theyâre trying to pretend.
But the truth is: you havenât. Not really.
--------------------
Youâre halfway through organizing incoming packages when you hear the voice.
That voice.
âHey.â
You look up from the receptionist desk and feel your stomach twist into something ugly and familiar. Steve.
Heâs standing there like he hasnât aged a day since the breakup, like seven years of half-built promises and mutual exhaustion never happened. Same jacket. Same nervous twitch in his jaw. In the same way, he stands like he still belongs somewhere in your orbit.
You blink. âWhat are you doing here?â
He shoves his hands into his pockets and shrugs, like he doesnât know the weight of what heâs doing. âJust⊠wanted to talk. You never answered my messages.â
You shouldnât. You know that.
But old habits die hardâand Steve always knew how to press the right buttons.
So you agree to meet him after work. Though admittedly very reluctantly.
You pick the bar near the train station. Itâs neutral. Loud enough to avoid being overheard, quiet enough that he canât claim you ran from the conversation.
Heâs already two drinks in when you arrive.
âYou look good,â he says, eyes scanning you like heâs still allowed to, like he wasnât the one who threw it all away.
You donât return the compliment. You just sit. Watch him fidget with the condensation on his glass like itâs a metaphor he doesnât understand.
âYou wanted to talk?â you ask.
He cuts straight to it. âI made a mistake. You know that. Seven years and I justâwhat, we throw that away? For what?â
You stare at him. At the desperate way heâs clinging to a version of the past that doesnât exist anymore. That may never have happened.
âIâm not the same person I was then,â you say quietly.
His eyes narrow. âBecause of him? Because of that bastard?â
You donât answer. But that silence says everything.
He leans forward. âYou sleeping with that guy from work now?â
âNo,â you say. And then, because some part of you is tired of hidingâeven from your pastâyou add: âWe kissed. Once.â You keep the fact that you wish you hadnât stopped Clark that night.
It hangs in the air between you, heavy and sharp.
Steve stares at you like you just shattered glass in his mouth.
âYou kissed him?â His voice spikes.
You open your mouth to explain,to clarify it wasnât about revenge or cruelty, but about finally letting yourself feel something realâbut it doesnât matter.
He slams his fist down on the bar.
The glass in his hand explodes, shards flying across the counter as people around you gasp and jerk back. The bartender shouts. Someone drops their drink. You flinch.
Steveâs hand is bleeding. He doesnât even notice.
âYouâre kidding me,â he growls, standing up, towering over you. âClark? That smug little bastard?â
âSteve, calm downââ
âYou said he was just a friend! You said he didnât mean anything.â
âThat was years ago,â you snap, voice shaking. âAnd maybe he didnât then, but he does now.â
He stares at you. Breath ragged. Knuckles dripping red onto the bar.
âWeâre done, Steve.â
You donât wait to hear whatever comes next. You stand. You walk away.
You donât look back.
You try to act normally the next day. As normal as possible after watching someone you almost married bleed across a bar counter because he couldnât stand the idea of you moving on.
Clark comes in late. Youâre almost relieved.
But then, mid-morning, the elevator dingsâand your heart drops.
Steve walks in.
Heâs wearing that same jacket. Eyes bloodshot. Unshaven. Unhinged.
You stand up so fast your chair rolls back behind you. âSteve, donât. You canât be here.â
He ignores you. Walks past your desk like youâre invisible.
Clark appears just as Steve rounds the corner toward the marketing wing.
You donât even get a word out.
Steve charges.
âYou think you can steal her from me?!â
âSteve!â
Clark barely has time to register the words before Steveâs fist slams into his jaw. The sound is sickening, dull, and final.
People scream. Someone yells for security. A stack of papers goes flying.
Clark stumbles back, clutching his face, out of shock rather than pain. âWhat the hell Steve?!â
You shove between them. âStop it!â
Steve tries to push past you for another swing.
âTouch him again and Iâll call the police,â you shout, and your voice cracks, not from fear, but from rage. From shame. After seven years of silence, it suddenly erupted into something loud and irreversible.
Steve just stares at you, and itâs only then, for the first time since last night, that he looks⊠small, defeated, and nothing like the man you once loved.
He says nothing. Turns. Walks out.
------------
You hear your name before you even reach the kitchenette.
You freeze. Two voices, low, conspiratorial, too loud to be a private conversation.
Lois and Cat. Of course.
You step back, just out of sight behind the wall, holding your breath.
â-Iâm just saying,â Cat says, clicking her nails against her coffee cup, âyou donât just kiss someone like Clark unless thereâs a lot of history there.â
Lois hums. âEspecially not after seven years with Steve. I mean, Clark was basically in love with her for how long? Like, what,three years?â
âEasily.â Cat doesnât even try to whisper. âHe was so obvious. Poor guy used to look like a kicked puppy anytime they mentioned the wedding.â
Lois lets out a low whistle. âAnd now heâs dating Elise? Thatâs got to be weird for her.â
âItâs weird for everyone, babe.â
They laugh. You swallow.
You wait until the conversation shifts to weekend plans before you finally walk away, pretending like you never stopped, like none of it pierced.
But it did.
Across the office, Elise hears every word, too.
She wasnât meant to. Sheâd only come by to grab a charging cable from the side drawer at the copy station. But when she heard Clarkâs name, she couldnât help herself. She froze, just like you did.
She stands there for a few beats after Lois and Cat leave. Still. Thoughtful.
And then she turns and walks briskly toward Clarkâs desk.
Youâre back at reception now, pretending to review a spreadsheet.
From the corner of your eye, you see her approach him. She says something, something quick, pointed.
And then she kisses him.
Not a peck. Not a shy brush of lips. Itâs hungry, possessive, the kind of kiss that says Iâm here, and I know whoâs watching.
You look down, pretending to scroll.
But the burnâs already in your throat.
âDid you hear what Lois and Cat said?â she asks.
He doesnât look up. âYeah.â
âSo?â Her voice is careful, but sharp around the edges. âIs it true?â
He sighs. âDepends which part youâre asking about.â
Elise leans back. âStart with the kiss.â
Clark finally looks at her. No denial. No panic.
âYeah. We kissed,â he says. Calm. Blunt.
Her mouth tenses, but she doesnât look away.
âAnd youâre still in love with her?â
He exhales slowly. âI think I never really stopped.â
There it is.
Laid bare. Quiet. Devastating.
Elise stares at him, blinking like maybe she didnât expect him to say it out loud, even if some part of her already knew.
âAnd me?â she asks. Not angry. Just tired.
âI do want to see where this goes,â he says. âWith you. I like being with you, Elise. I just⊠I donât know how to pretend I didnât have feelings before you came along.â
She looks at him for a long time. Then picks up her wine and drinks.
âYouâre honest,â she finally says. âAnd I hate that I canât even be mad at you for it.â
âIâd understand if you didnât want-â
âI didnât say I was walking away.â
Clark goes still.
Eliseâs eyes meet his. âI like you. And maybe that makes me an idiot, but I want to keep seeing you. Just donât lie to me. If things change, if they say something, or you start to feel something shift, I want to know.â
He nods. Not eagerly. Just honestly.
And they sit there, across from one another, not exactly comfortable, but committed to the tension anyway.
The next morning, Clark walks in with a coffee in each hand.
One is for Elise.
He places it gently on her desk. She gives him a quiet smile, then gets back to her screen.
You watch all of it from the reception.
You tell yourself it doesnât mean anything, you tell yourself it does.
---------------
You know somethingâs wrong the minute you see the folding chairs.
A circle. Always a bad sign.
âTeam building,â someone mutters under their breath. You donât have to look to know itâs Cat.
You consider feigning a stomach bug. You even touch your forehead to see if you can convincingly fake a fever. But itâs too late. Joanne from HR is already herding everyone into place, bright-eyed and clipboard-toting, as if her life depends on this exercise not becoming a complete train wreck.
âThis activity,â she says cheerily, âis called Clear the Air. Itâs simple. You stand up and say one thing you need to get off your chest. Could be work-related. Could be personal. No judgment. Just honesty.â
You glance around the circle. People avoid eye contact as if it were a contagious disease.
Clark is seated two spots to your right.
Elsie is beside him.
Your pulse kicks a little harder in your throat.
One by one, people stand up and say things like âI donât like pineapple on pizzaâ or âSomeone keeps stealing my yogurt from the fridge.â
Safe things. Surface-level things.
Until it's your turn.
You can pass. Elise reminds you of that. âNo pressure,â she says with a smile.
But you donât want to pass, not this time.
You stand.
Your palms are sweating. Youâre not even holding anything, and your hands feel like theyâre clinging to something invisible.
You clear your throat. âThis is probably not a great idea,â you start, and a few people laugh nervously. âBut I guess thatâs kind of the point, right?â
You glance at Clark. Then you look away. Then you look back.
âI miss my friend,â you say. Your voice is clear, but soft. âClark and I used to be close. Really close. And I miss that. I miss being able to talk to him without wondering if Iâm intruding. I mean, Clark, I called off my wedding because of you, and now we're not even friends. Itâs just weird between us, and it sucks. I miss you. You were my best friend before you moved to Gotham. I miss you. I shouldnât have been with Steve, and there were many reasons to call off the wedding, but the truth is, I didnât care about any of them until I met you. And youâre with somebody else now, and thatâs fine, thatâs whatever, but it doesnât mean you have to hate me. â
Someone coughs. Someone else shifts in their chair.
Clark goes perfectly still.
âI donât like the way things are right now between us,â you continue, heart pounding, âand I know itâs mostly my fault. But I just wanted to say it. Out loud. Because pretending it doesnât bother me hasnât worked.â
Silence. The kind that stretches just long enough to sting.
You donât wait for a response. You sit down, fast, eyes fixed on the floor.
Elsie doesnât look at you. You donât dare look at Clark, youâre not brave enough for that part yet.
Later that day, youâre sorting the outgoing mail when Clark stops at your desk. He doesnât say anything at first.
âThanks.â
You look up, confused. âFor what?â
âFor saying what I couldnât.â
Your chest tightens.
Thereâs so much you could say in return. But you donât want to break the moment.
So you nod.
Itâs not forgiveness. Not yet.
But it feels like the first step back toward something.
Even if it never becomes what it once was.
Even if it becomes something else entirely.
---------------
Sheâd known since the moment she walked into the break room last week and heard Cat Grant whispering Clarkâs name like it was part of a tragic headline. Sheâd known it when Loisâs voice dipped, when she saw the glance between you and Clark during that confession circle, the way he looked at you like heâd been holding his breath for years and youâd finally exhaled in his direction.
So when she hears the knock on her door that evening, soft, tentative, not the kind of knock you use when you're home, when you're loved, she doesn't need to ask what it's about. She already knows. It's not that she isn't hurt. It's that she's already mourned this moment in advance.
She opens the door slowly, bracing for impact, and there he is. Clark, standing on the threshold like a man who has already rehearsed what he's going to say, and yet still isnât sure how to say it. His hair is windswept, his jacket half-buttoned, and his eyes are doing that thing they do when heâs overwhelmed, darting, searching, like heâs looking for a way out and knows he wonât take it.
âYouâre knocking now?â she says quietly, not smiling.
Clarkâs throat bobs. He doesnât return the quip, doesnât even try. He just steps in when she lets him, standing awkwardly in the middle of her living room like a guest instead of someone who once fell asleep on this couch with his head in her lap.
âDo you want to sit?â she asks, gesturing to the couch.
He hesitates, then shakes his head.
And thatâs it. Thatâs all she needs to hear to confirm it. She draws in a long, quiet breath, folding her arms across her chest not defensively, but like sheâs trying to keep herself contained, as though if she moves the wrong way, she might shatter.
âYouâre breaking up with me,â she says, more observation than question.
Clark winces, but nods. âYeah.â
She closes her eyes briefly, letting the moment settle in. âBecause of her.â
He doesnât answer. Doesnât need to. The guilt on his face is louder than words.
A long silence stretches between them, heavy and fragile. Elise looks at him, really looks at him, and she sees the truth sheâs been avoiding for weeks, maybe months. The kindness in him was real. So was the affection. But the center of him was never hers. It was always drifting, always slightly out of reach, always... elsewhere.
âI think I always knew,â she says, her voice low and even. âNot in the beginning, but... eventually. I could feel it. Like there was always someone else in the room with us, even when it was just the two of us.â
Clark drops his gaze to the floor, and for a moment she sees something flicker in him, shame, maybe, or relief that he doesnât have to keep pretending anymore.
âIâm sorry,â he says, and he means it. His voice breaks around it, like it costs him something just to say it out loud.
âI know,â she replies. âAnd thatâs the worst part. You were good to me. Gentle. Honest, mostly. I think thatâs why it hurts so much. Because you didnât lie. You just... loved someone else the whole time.â
She says it without malice, but the truth of it hangs there like smoke. And Clark doesnât deny it. He canât.
âI tried,â he says, his voice cracking. âI tried to be with you fully. To be present. But every time I started to let go of them, something would pull me back. A look. A memory. That night, she kissed me. I thought it was a fluke. I thought maybe I imagined it meant something. But I didnât.â
Elise swallows hard, and for a second, her composure falters.
âYou know,â she says, her voice quieter now, âI think part of me hoped I could be enough to make you forget. Not forever. Just long enough to fall in love with me, too.â
Clarkâs eyes sting. âYouâre more than enough, Elise. You are. This is my failing, not yours.â
But she only smiles, a tired, sad kind of smile that doesnât reach her eyes. âDonât. Donât give me that line. You think saying Iâm too good for you makes this easier?â
He doesnât answer.
She steps closer to the door and opens it, slowly, deliberately. The air between them cools instantly, like something sacred has been severed.
âDonât come back here out of guilt,â she says, steady now.
Clark turns, his face unreadable. âI wonât.â
She nods once. âGood. Because Iâd rather be alone than be someoneâs almost.â
He lingers in the doorway for a moment, like he wants to say something else. But whatever it is, itâs too late.
So he leaves.
And when the door clicks shut behind him, Elise doesnât scream. Doesnât sob. She just stands there in the silence, blinking fast, her hands still clenched at her sides.
And when the tears finally come, they fall without sound.
Because this isnât the heartbreak of betrayal, itâs the heartbreak of being the second choice, of never really being in the race to begin with.
----------
You stay late again.
Itâs easier when the office is quiet. When no oneâs asking questions or stealing glances or talking in that careful voice like you might break if they say the wrong thing.
The glow of your monitor feels like a shield until the elevator dings.
You know itâs him before he even steps into view.
Clark.
He walks straight toward you. No smile. No softness. Just fire under his skin, like he's been holding something in too long and it's finally splitting at the seams.
You stand. âClark, nowâs not-â
âI broke up with Elsie.â
You stare at him. âWhat?â
âShe deserved better,â he snaps. âBetter than a man whoâs still in love with someone who wonât even look him in the eye.â
Your mouth opens. Then shuts.
Because you know.
Youâve always known.
âDonât do this,â you say. âDonât make this my fault.â
âIâm not,â he says. âIâm not blaming you. Iâm blaming myself for thinking I could just move on while youâre still sitting here, looking like you regret everything we never said.â
âThatâs not fair-â
âIsnât it?â His voice rises, finally raw. âYou think it was easy for me? Watching you plan a wedding for seven years while I waited around like a damn backup plan? Watching you leave that relationship and still pretending like we didnât mean something?â
You flinch. He sees it.
His hands tremble as he drags them through his hair, like he doesnât know what to do with himself.
âI loved you,â he says, quieter now. âI love you. And Iâm so goddamn tired of pretending I donât.â
There it is.
The truth.
Heavy. Ugly. Beautiful.
And all you can do is stand there, choking on the weight of your own silence.
âSay something,â he pleads. âTell me Iâm wrong. Tell me you donât feel it too.â
You look away. âClark, this is too messy.â
âWeâre already in it,â he bites. âWeâve been in it. The moment I looked at you and knew you were never going to be just a co-worker to me, it stopped being simple.â
âI donât know if I can do this.â
He steps closer. His voice drops, desperate and shaking. âWhy? Because youâre scared? Because itâs easier to pretend weâre fine if we just stay broken?â
âI donât trust it,â you whisper. âI donât trust us.â
âThen trust me,â he says, his voice cracking. âIâm still here. After everything. After you chose someone else. After I watched you almost marry him. After I stood by while you kissed me and ran.â
Tears sting your eyes.
He sees it. But he doesnât soften this time.
He just stands there, breaking in front of you, eyes wide and red and burning.
âYou want to be afraid? Fine. Be afraid. But donât lie to me. Donât lie to yourself. You feel it too.â
You stare at him. At the man who waited too long. At the man you didnât dare choose when it mattered.
At the man who still came back.
âI donât know how to love you,â you say, voice cracking. âNot without ruining everything.â
He exhales, almost a laugh, bitter and soft. âYou already did.â
The silence between you is brutal. Final. But neither of you walks away.
Not this time.
And maybe thatâs the first step.
He doesnât kiss you. He doesnât ask again. He just looks at you, like heâs letting go and hoping youâll catch whatâs left.
And for once, you donât run. You donât say yes. You donât say no.
âCome back tomorrow.â
Clarkâs eyes flicker with something, maybe hope. Or the last of his strength.
He nods once, then leaves.
You sink back into your chair, heart pounding, tears spilling.
You donât know what tomorrow holds.
But it might be the first day you stop pretending you donât want to find out.
a/n - eeeeek!!!! i really hope you liked it!!! i actually feel so bad for elise bless her
This encapsulates everything I felt towards Jim and Pam in the office. Including everything with Elise. I confess I might have skipped some parts, and I apologize, BUT THIS WAS SO GOOD OH MY GOD OH MY GOD OH MY GOD
this is such a lovely thing to read!!! thank you for all the positivity that youâve given me đđđ i will admit it is quite a long one so no need to worry about skipping bits
In which Clark Kent has always been in love with the Daily Planet's receptionist...he just has to wait a while.
a/n - there's a lot of time skips so you'll have to try and follow along!!! i am literally in love with this piece so i hope you enjoy it just as much as i do!!! <3333
word count - 10.6k
Clark Kent had been smitten with the Daily Planetâs receptionist since the very first day he stumbled into the building, flustered, red-faced, and embarrassingly stuck in the revolving door for a solid two minutes. The moment he freed himself and was greeted by your radiant smile, his already flushed cheeks darkened further, struck by your beauty.
From that day on, he was hooked. Enamoured. Hopelessly taken with the girl at the front desk, the one who always managed to brighten up his days just that little bit extra when he needed it most. His eyes had a habit of drifting toward you, watching as your fingers flew effortlessly across the keyboard, juggled calls, and tackled a never-ending stream of paperwork that built up into steep piles upon your desk. It wasnât just admiration anymore. The way his heart raced every time you looked up, it hinted at something deeper than a simple crush. It was love, unspoken and perhaps unreturned, but undeniably real.
Of course, there was one significant obstacle to his quietly growing affection: you were engaged. To a colleague of his, no less, a long-standing, long-engaged colleague (six years, not that Clark was keeping count), and someone Clark would never dream of challenging. Not out loud, at least.
Still, his feelings refused to be reasoned with, no matter how many times he tried to smother them.
âDude, you need to move on.â
The voice of his best friend cut through the haze of his daydreams,light and teasing, yet not without a hint of worry and comfort.
âSheâs engaged, in case you forgot. Though that seems unlikely, considering itâs been five years.â
âSix,â Clark muttered, before quickly recovering. âBut Iâll have you know I have moved on! It was just a fleeting crush. Nothing more. Weâre friends,thatâs all, thatâs it.â
He sounded sincere. But they both knew better.
Everyone did.
His lingering stares, his casual walks past your desk that were anything but casual,and the way his words always came too fast when he talked to you made it all the more painfully obvious. The office had long since picked up on it, exchanging knowing glances whenever Clark struck up yet another conversation with you, trying and failing to pretend he wasnât completely captivated.
It hadnât taken long for anyone to figure out how Clark felt about their receptionist. His eyes always gave him away, quiet but intense, lingering on you with a kind of reverence, as if you held the entire world in your hands. There was longing in his gaze, yes, but also something else, an aching and overarching sort of envy. The overwhelming desire to hold you close, to be the one you leaned on, was written all over him.
His feelings revealed themselves in the smallest ways. He noticed everything,how your eyes lit up when you doodled absentmindedly in your notebook, or how your voice rose with excitement over the simplest things. It wasnât just that he thought you were beautiful. It was deeper than that. You got him. And he got you.
Sometimes, it hurt him to watch.
There were moments when his pain was so visible, so raw, that others felt it too, the way his shoulders slumped, his posture curling in on itself as he sat at his desk, avoiding even a glance in your direction while you laughed at something Steve said. It was too much, sometimes, to watch you love someone else. To see you living the life he only allowed himself to dream about.
And yet, he held on to hope. A quiet, stubborn belief that maybe,just maybe,someday the stars would shift, and youâd be the one running home to him.
So for now, he watches. Silently. Longingly.
Itâs his way of saying, âI love you. I just donât know if Iâm allowed to yet.â
----------------
The fluorescent lights buzzed faintly overhead as the office staff slowly trickled into the conference room. Mugs in hand, eyes half-lidded, the room hummed with the quiet dread of another all-hands meeting. A slide deck flickered to life on the screen, already promising bullet points and boredom.
Clark sank into his usual seat near the back corner, smoothing the creases in his button-down shirt. He glanced to his right just as you shuffled in with a small yawn barely stifled behind your hand. You look tired, more than usual.
You take the seat next to him, settling in with a quiet sigh and blinking hard at the screen as if it would magically turn into a beach scene instead of quarterly projections.
Ten minutes in, Perryâs voice had melted into white noise.
You let out another yawn. Then another.
Clark leaned toward you, keeping his voice low, âYou okay?â he asks, brow furrowed.
You just give him a small, apologetic smile, eyelids already heavy.
You chuckle faintly but then yawn again, longer this time,eyes watering slightly as you blink at the spreadsheet now being projected on the wall.
By the time Perry was on slide 17, you had stopped reacting altogether. Your head tilted once, then twice, like a flower wilting under too much sun, with Clark glancing over again just in time to feel your head fall gently against his shoulder.
His entire body stiffened. Every neuron in his brain fired into alert mode. He didnât moveâcouldnât move. He stared straight ahead, pretending he hadnât noticed, trying to breathe like a normal human being while slow, steady breaths brushed against his shirt collar.
God, you were asleep. Fully asleep. On him.
He could smell your shampoo. He was going to die.
The meeting droned on. Charts. Graphs. Perry talking about competition or use of short and snappy sentences to increase engagement though none of it mattered. The world had narrowed to the point of contact between her temple and his shoulder.
Someone a few seats down gave him a knowing look. Clark ignored it, willing himself not to blush, failing miserably.
Then, mercifully or tragically, the meeting came to a close.
Perry clapped his hands once. âAlright, thatâs it, everyone. Letâs hit the ground running this week.â
Chairs scraped back, papers shuffled, people filed out.
But you didnât stir.
Clark sat frozen for a second longer, then glanced down at your sleeping form. You looked peaceful. Unburdened.
He gently nudged her shoulder. âY/N?â he said softly. âThe meeting's over.â
Slowly you blink awake, confused for a beat, then startled upright, eyes wide.
âOh my god-Iâm so sorry.â
Clark offered a faint smile, heart breaking in real-time.
âItâs fine. You were tired.â
You rubbed your eyes and stood, still half-asleep, brushing a hand through your hair. âThanks for not waking me earlier. Seriously. I owe you.â
He stood too, hands in his pockets. âYou donât owe me anything.â
You smile. That same warm, oblivious smile that had haunted his daydreams since the first week you had joined.
You sit behind the front desk, flipping through a stack of mail as the newsroom buzzes around you. Phones ring. Keyboards clatter. And, as always, Clark Kent is at his desk, pretending not to glance your way, though as always, failing to.Â
Heâs always tried to be good at pretending. Always. Ever since the day he walked through those doors, shy smile and square jaw, you've been the bright point in his peripheral vision. But you were already wearing a ring.
Today, though, somethingâs different.
The elevator dings, and a woman steps out, business casual, confident smile, clutching a slim box of paper samples like it's the key to someone's heart. She introduces herself at the front: MidCity Office Supplies, looking to speak with procurement. You buzz her through.
A few minutes later, sheâs at Clarkâs desk. Heâs not procurement. Heâs not even interested in paper. But suddenly heâs all nods and polite curiosity.
 âOffice supplies?â He said, âSure, I guess we go through a lot of paper here.â
She laughs, leaning in, letting his nose fill with the scent of a cheap fruity perfume, âMost places do! Youâd be surprised how few people know their GSMs.â
You glance up at the sound of laughter. Youâve worked here long enough to know when Clarkâs bluffing. He doesn't care about paper weights. He barely prints anything, he always made sure to ask whether you could help him with printing.Â
But heâs listening, or at least trying to. Trying to smile, to flirt. To be the kind of man who doesnât have his heart quietly wrapped around someone already promised to someone else.
She hands him a sample. Their fingers brush. He flinches.
And for just a second, he looks past the paper girlâs sales pitch and meets your eyes.
It only lasts a moment.
Then he looks away, looks back to the lady right in front of him, someone who is able to freely reciprocate a feeling of something more than you could ever feel for him.
So you look away too.
Clark shifts slightly in his chair, his hands loosely folded in front of him as the saleswoman continues to talk. Her voice is upbeat, almost musical, laced with a flirtation thatâs becoming harder to ignore. She leans in a little closer with every sentence, her smile lingering just a moment too long, her fingers now absentmindedly tracing the rim of a sample paper box like sheâs trying to make it look interesting.
Clark nods occasionally, offering the sort of distracted half-smiles that suggest heâs listening, even though his mind is somewhere else entirely. Somewhere a few steps away, at the front desk, where you sit, your head bent slightly as you sort through mail, your fingers flipping through envelopes with the kind of gentle focus heâs come to associate with you.
The saleswoman is saying something about weight differences in cardstock now, something about how glossy finishes affect toner absorption, but Clark can barely register the words. Heâs trying, really trying, to stay present. To show some interest. To convince himself, maybe, that sheâs exactly what he needs: someone new, someone available, someone uncomplicated.
And then it happens.
From the corner of his eye, he catches a familiar silhouette approaching your desk, broad-shouldered, confident stride, casual grin tucked just beneath a Yankees cap.
Steve.
Clark stiffens instinctively, even before Steve says anything. He watches as the sports journalist leans down and murmurs something into your ear-something that makes you smile in that warm, easy way Clark has only ever seen from a distance. Then Steve kisses you briefly, but not without intention. A kiss that says this is mine.
You laugh, touch his arm lightly, and keep talking as if nothing unusual just happened. And maybe to you, nothing did.
But for Clark, the air shifts.
He looks away, blinking hard, like that might shake the image from his memory before it hardens into something permanent. The paper samples in front of him blur slightly. He clears his throat.
The saleswoman is still talking, but now sheâs watching him more closely, sensing an opportunity.
âIf you ever want a more hands-on look at what we offer, I could show you some of our newer materials, maybe over dinner?â
Clark blinks again, more slowly this time, his attention drawn back by the sound of her voice. He opens his mouth, about to decline politely, maybe steer the conversation back to professionalism and let her down gently.
But then he hears it again, your laugh. Soft. Familiar. It does something to him.
He glances back toward your desk.
Steve is still standing there, still too close. Youâre showing him something on your computer now, your engagement ring catching the light as you gesture.
And something in Clark buckles.
Thereâs a quiet, invisible shift inside him, like a door closing. Or maybe being slammed.
He looks back at the saleswoman, whoâs still smiling, still waiting for an answer, completely unaware that sheâs become the stand-in for a person sheâll never be.
Clark smiles slightly, a little forced, but it holds.
âDinner sounds good. Sure. Why not?â
The woman lights up instantly, clearly not expecting him to say yes. She straightens, excited, already offering suggestions for places to go, times that work, hints of enthusiasm bubbling into her words.
âReally? Thatâs great. Thereâs this Italian place just a few blocks from here, I think youâll love it. Are you free tonight?â
Clark hesitates for half a second, then nods.
His voice is quiet, almost detached, like heâs watching himself from a distance.
âYeahâŠIâm free.â
And even as she beams at him, already reaching for her phone to trade numbers, Clark glances once more toward the front desk.
Youâre still talking to Steve, unaware of any of it.
And in that moment, Clark isnât thinking about dinner, or sales pitches, or paper weights.
Heâs just thinking about how something can hurt this much without ever really having started.
--------------------
Soft jazz hums beneath the gentle clatter of cutlery and clinking glasses. Candles flicker on white-linen tables, casting a warm, golden hue over the faces of couples deep in conversation.
At a cozy corner table near the window, Clark sat across from Madeline, the saleswoman from MidCity Office Supplies. She's wearing a silky blue blouse, her hair curled just slightly, and her makeup is careful but not overdone. She looks hopeful. And more importantly, happy.
Clark, ever the gentleman, is attentive. He smiles when she talks, asks questions, and even laughs a little when she tells stories from her workday, funny, polished anecdotes about quirky clients and last-minute orders. And Madeline is glowing under the attention.
She leans in a little more now, the wine loosening her nerves, emboldening her gestures.
âI have to say, I wasnât sure if youâd actually show up tonight. You strike me as the type whoâs always âburied in deadlinesâ.â
Clark smiles softly, politely, just shy of genuine.
âI was curious.â
âOh, come on. Iâm charming. Admit it.â
He chuckles. Itâs kind. But not invested.
Still, Madeline sees what she wants to see: a good man, handsome, thoughtful, and finally noticing her. She thinks itâs going well. She thinks maybe this could be something.
And then the restaurant door opens.
Clark sees you first. He doesnât even mean to look, but he always notices you, even when he shouldn't.
You walk in, a vision in black, elegant and radiant in the soft light. Your laugh echoes faintly as you talk to the hostess. At your side is Steve, ever confident, his arm wrapped casually around your waist, like it belongs there.
Clark stiffens slightly. His jaw tightens. But only for a second.
Madeline follows his gaze, curious.
âOh wow⊠now thatâs a couple.â
You and Steve are seated at a table not far from theirs. Itâs impossible not to notice how comfortable you are together, how easily you smile at him, how he leans in when you speak. You reach out and adjust the collar of his shirt, laugh when he says something under his breath, and rest your hand on his for just a little longer than necessary.
Madeline watches you with open admiration, completely unaware of whatâs swirling beneath the surface of the man across from her.
âSheâs gorgeousâŠ.â
Clark doesnât respond.
Heâs watching you. Not with jealousy, exactly. Not with anger. Just with that quiet ache, heâs learned to carry like a second skin.
Madeline, oblivious, takes a sip of her wine and leans in again, lowering her voice like sheâs sharing something conspiratorial.
âDo you think weâll be like that someday?â
Sheâs smiling, truly smiling eyes bright with the hope of a girl who thinks maybe sheâs found something rare. Someone rare.
Clark blinks once, his heart sinking as the words reach him. The smile fades from his lips. His posture shifts just slightly, almost imperceptibly-but enough to change the energy between them.
He looks at her. Sheâs beaming, waiting for him to say something romantic or clever. Sheâs seeing a future.
And all he can think is: She doesnât deserve this.
His voice is low, but steady.
âNo. We wonât.â
The words land like a pin drop in a quiet room.
Madeline blinks, stunned.
Her smile fades slowly, the realization dawning with a kind of softness that almost makes it worse. She sets her wine glass down, her breath catching just slightly in her throat.
âOh.â
For a moment, she doesnât say anything more. She just sits there, stunned, looking at the man who only minutes ago seemed like he might have been hers. Then, quietly, she gathers her clutch, slides her chair back, and stands.
She doesnât cry. Not yet.
But her voice wavers as she speaks.
âThanks for the wine.â
And then she turns and walks out-calm, composed on the surface, but you can see it in the way her shoulders are just slightly hunched as she goes.
Clark doesnât follow. He sits there, alone at the table, surrounded by the soft hum of clinking glasses and hushed conversations.
Across the room, youâre still laughing.
--------------
The lights are low, casting amber shadows over chipped wooden tables and half-finished drinks. The air is thick with laughter, the smell of beer, and the kind of fading music that only gets louder the more you try to ignore it.
Clark Kent sits at a high-top table, sleeves rolled up, collar slightly loosened, a club soda resting untouched in front of him. Heâs not here for the drinks. Heâs here for you.
Youâre across from him, legs crossed, drink in hand, shoulders slack from hours of leaning too hard into the bottle and too far from the truth.
You showed up with Steve, his arm draped around you loosely, like you were just another part of the night, not the person he was supposed to be building a life with. He was gone within fifteen minutes, disappearing with one of his buddies from the sports desk, promising to âtext you later.â He kissed your cheek out of habit before he left.
But tonight, heâs not seeing the receptionist with the easy smile and quick wit. Heâs not seeing the woman who brings the newsroom coffee after late nights or gently teases him about his tie being crooked.
Tonight, he sees a woman unraveling.
You lean back in your chair, your glass tilting slightly in your hand, and stare blankly at the ceiling.
âDo you know how long Iâve been engaged, Clark?â you say, voice soft, slurred yet full of pain.
Clarkâs throat tightens. He doesnât answer.
You donât wait for him to.
âAlmost seven years. Eighty-two months, three weeks, and a couple of wasted weekends trying to convince him that we should set a date.â
Your voice cracks, not enough to make a scene, but enough that Clark notices. Always.
âI used to imagine what my dress would look like. Isnât that stupid?â
Clark shakes his head, slowly.
But youâre not looking at him anymore. Youâre staring down into the melting ice of your drink, like it might give you answers Steve hasnât.
âI picked colors. I made a guest list. I even reserved a venue once, just to see how it felt.â
You pause. A bitter laugh escapes your lips.
âHe never even looked at it.â
Clark doesnât speak. He wants to. He wants to say You deserve someone who sees all of it. Someone who wakes up every morning with no doubt in their heart. But the words stay lodged in his throat.
âI just want someone who wants it too. Who wants me enough to say yes and mean it.â
Clark swallows hard, and when he finally speaks, his voice is low, reverent.
âWell, if I were him⊠I wouldâve married you the second you said yes.â
Your eyes snap up to his. You blink, slow, like youâre trying to steady the spinning.
Then, without warning, without thought, you lean forward and kiss him.
Itâs impulsive. Messy. A blur of gin and desperation and something buried so deep you didnât even know it was there until now.
It doesnât last long. Clark pulls away gently, hands hovering near your arms, steadying you without holding you. You donât protest. You just sit back, dazed, already forgetting the moment even as it slips away.
And then, as quickly as it happened, youâre distracted. Someone brings another round. You laugh again. You toast someoneâs promotion.
And Clark just sits there.
Frozen.
He touches his lips once, like heâs trying to prove to himself it was real.
The next morning, you walk in late, wearing sunglasses despite the fluorescent lights. Coffee in hand, sweater slung over your shoulders, hair pulled back like someone who barely slept.
You pass Clarkâs desk with a faint, apologetic smile.
âGod, last night⊠remind me never to drink like that again. I donât remember a thing after Steve left.â
Clarkâs eyes flicker up.
Just for a moment. Then back down to his monitor.
âYeah. Sure.â
You keep walking.
You donât see the flicker of hurt that crosses his face, or the way his hands still for a second over the keyboard.
You donât remember the kiss.
But Clark does.
And for him, it wasnât a drunken mistake.
It was the moment he realized heâs been loving someone whoâs still waiting on a man who wonât love her back the way she needs. And even now, even after everything, Clark still isnât the one you remember when you wake up.
---------------
The office is quieter than usual. The newsroom is dressed in tinsel and cheap string lights, the coffee station smells faintly of cinnamon, and someone put on a jazz version of âJingle Bell Rockâ thatâs been looping all morning. Everyoneâs half-distracted, winding down before the holidays, paper crowns slipping from heads, cookie crumbs trailing across desks.
The Secret Santa exchange is happening by the copy machine, where a tiny fake tree is perched awkwardly between stacks of printer paper and a crooked âHappy Holidaysâ banner.
Clark stands near his desk, a small wrapped package tucked under his arm. He glances toward you, laughing near the tree, cheeks flushed from a peppermint schnapps someone slipped into the office hot chocolate. You're wearing a soft red sweater, your hair pulled up loosely, a strand falling in front of your face in that way Clark has always secretly loved.
His heart tightens.
You still havenât set a date. Still havenât made it down the aisle. Clark hasnât asked. He never does. But he knows. He sees it every time you smile at Steve with just a fraction less sparkle than you used to.
He looks down at the box in his hand.
Inside it is a small, thoughtful gift. Something he remembered you mentioning months ago, a rare print of your favorite poem, framed. Itâs personal. Quiet. Perfect in its simplicity.
But thatâs not whatâs eating him.
Itâs the letter.
Folded in his coat pocket, creased and worn at the edges from being read and rewritten too many times, is a four-page letter.
His letter to you.
His real gift.
Itâs everything heâs never said. Every quiet glance, every moment he held his tongue. The way his heart raced when you first remembered how he takes his coffee. The way you looked at him, dazed and tearful, the night you kissed him and forgot.
The way he never forgot.
He poured it all out, honestly, painfully, beautifully. And for a day or two, he thought maybe this was the time. Maybe this Christmas, heâd stop choosing silence.
But now?
He watches you by the tree. Youâre beaming at something Perry just said, laughing like the past year didnât unravel in quiet pieces behind you. And even though thereâs something softer in your eyes, some weariness Clark knows too well, youâre still wearing Steveâs ring.
Clarkâs fingers twitch toward his pocket. Then he closes his hand, slowly, and pulls the letter outânot to give it to you, but to walk it over to the recycling bin by the mailroom.
He stands there for a moment, staring down at the envelope.
Then, carefully, deliberately, he tears it straight down the middle.
And again.
And again.
Until the words he wrote are just confetti in his palm.
He tosses the pieces into the bin, exhales through his nose, and walks back to his desk with the box, the gift he will give you.
Quiet. Safe. Unspoken.
Later, during the exchange, you unwrap it with a soft gasp.
âThis is... how did they even find this?â
Clark shrugs from across the room, pretending not to watch the way your fingers trace the edge of the frame.
âWhoever had me is dangerously good at Secret Santa.â
You hold the gift to your chest for a second, and Clark can almost believe thatâs enough.
Almost.
But when you look around the room, trying to guess who it was, your eyes pass over him without stopping.
And Clark smiles.
Because love, real love, doesnât always ask for a return.
Sometimes, it just is.
Everyoneâs gone home for the holiday break. The overhead lights are off, save for a single lamp glowing dimly on Clarkâs desk. Outside the tall windows, the city lies hushed beneath a gentle snowfall, the kind that blankets everything in an impossible stillness.
Youâre still there too, tired, coat draped over your arm, hair slightly wind-blown from the cold. Youâd come back for your forgotten phone charger. He said heâd stay to finish an article.
Neither of you has left.
The silence between you stretches too long.
You're the one who breaks it, leaning against the edge of his desk, your voice quiet.
âFeels like everythingâs stuck lately. Like time wonât move forward.â
Clark doesnât answer immediately. He just looks at you. Really looks at you.
Youâre beautiful, but not in the way you usually are. Tonight youâre worn out, eyes rimmed with sleeplessness, posture drooping under something invisible and heavy. The exhaustion of holding something together that doesnât want to stay whole.
âMaybe timeâs waiting for you to catch up.â
You smile, just barely. Itâs sadder than anything heâs ever seen.
âI keep thinking things will get better with Steve. I just have to be more patient. That itâs just work, or bad timing, or stress.â
You pause, swallowing hard. You donât look at him.
âBut I donât think he wants this anymore. Not really.â
Clark closes his eyes for a second. Breathes in. Out. His hands are shaking slightly.
You notice.
You reach toward him, instinctively placing a hand on his forearm.
âAre you okay?â
And thatâs it.
That breaks him.
Because for all this time, all these months of you unraveling quietly in front of him, heâs the one whoâs supposed to ask that. Heâs the one who watches you with Steve, sees the way you shrink under the weight of waiting, hears you lie to yourself about how itâs just a phase, just a slump, just a little longer.
And yet, you ask him if heâs okay.
He stands slowly, eyes never leaving yours.
Thereâs something shifting in the air now, dangerous and fragile.
âNo. Iâm not.â
Your brow furrows. You straighten a little, sensing the shift.
His voice trembles, âI canât do this anymore. I canât pretend it doesnât tear me apart to watch you stay with someone who keeps forgetting how lucky he is.â
You freeze.
Clark steps closer, his voice low and thick with emotion.
âYou keep waiting for Steve to fight for you. To choose you. But he already has. Heâs choosing not to. Every time he leaves early, every time he avoids the wedding plans, every time he looks at you like youâre too much to carry, thatâs his choice.â
You donât say anything. Your breath catches. Your fingers curl against the edge of the desk.
Clarkâs hands come to rest gently, so gently, on your arms.
âBut I would never choose anything but you. I've always wanted you, always. I've always watched you tear yourself apart just for him to notice you, when I would've loved you no matter what. Please let me in, please let me love you freely.â
He leans in.
And you let him.
The kiss is slow at firstâtentative, aching. A question and an answer. Then it deepens, desperate, trembling, weighed down by the years buried under silence. Your hands reach for him, his collar, his hair. You kiss him back, fully, hungrily, like part of you has wanted this too and never let yourself admit it.
Time folds around the two of you. Minutes blur. Breath shortens.
But then a single thought cuts through the warmth like ice.
Steve.
You pull back sharply, as if waking from a dream, your lips parted, your breath shaky. You step back. Clarkâs eyes search yours instantly, confused, panicked.
âWhat, whatâs wrong?â
You shake your head, tears suddenly burning behind your eyes.
âIâI canât. I canât do this.â
Clarkâs voice breaks, âPlease donât say that.â
âIâm engaged, Clark.â
He steps forward, arms raising up to try and hold your waste, but you step back, swallowing a sob.
âYouâre hurting. He doesnât see it, but I do. You deserve to be loved out loud. Not in half-sentences and broken promises.â
You cover your mouth with your hand, like youâre afraid of what might come out if you speak.
Clark is crying now. Quiet tears streaked his face, his hands trembling at his sides.
âIâve loved you since the first week I started here. Iâve watched you fall apart waiting for someone who isnât me, and I stayed silent because I thought thatâs what you wanted. But I canât anymore.â
You shake your head. One tear slips down your cheek.
âI canât do this to him. No matter how many times heâs let me down, I gave him my word. I said yes.â
âThen take it back.â
You flinch like he hit you.
Silence swells.
âI canât.â
Clark chokes on a sob.
âPlease. Just give me a chance. Just one.â
You look at him, this man who has done nothing but love you from the shadows. Who has never failed you, not once, even though you never asked him to carry any of it.
Your heart is splintering.
âIâm sorry.â
Clark drops his head, chest heaving, hands curling into fists as if holding himself together physically is the only thing keeping him from falling apart completely.
âI wouldâve loved you every day.â
You canât take it. You turn, hand over your mouth, and walk out.
You donât look back.
And Clark? Clark sinks into his chair the moment the door closes.
And cries.
Not just for what he lost, but for what he never got the chance to be.
------------
The skyline is different here. Sharper, colder. Gotham isnât Metropolis; thereâs a heaviness to the air, a quiet urgency on the streets, as if even the city itself doesnât have time for sentiment.
Clark fits right in.
Itâs been three months since he left The Daily Planet. Three months since that night in the office, the kiss that cracked him open, and the words that closed the door for good. He hadnât made a scene. Hadnât told anyone he was leaving, not even you. Just packed up his desk after hours, left the keycard on Perryâs desk, and got in a cab.
Now, he works at the Gotham Gazette, tucked in the corner of a crowded bullpen. The work is good, fast-paced, and investigative in nature. The editor likes him. The team respects him.
One person in particular seems to like him a lot more than that.
Her name is Elise.
Sheâs sharp, smart, and funny in that dry, Gotham kind of way. She challenges him in meetings, holds her own on stories, and laughs at his worst jokes.
And lately, sheâs been sitting closer.
Theyâve started sharing lunch breaks. Walking home from late assignments. Talking about movies, food, and childhood memories. The kinds of conversations that build foundations. She's made it known, subtly, but clearly, that she likes him. That she'd say yes, if he asked.
Clark smiles at her. He listens. He holds the door open.
But inside?
Heâs still bleeding.
He tells himself itâs getting better. That heâs moving on. That time, distance and Elise are helping. But when heâs alone, late at night, rereading edits in his apartment, a song or a passing thought or a scrap of handwriting on a Post-it will bring you back.
And for a second, he forgets where he is.
He still sees your face in reflections sometimes.
Still hears your laugh in crowded rooms that fall too quiet.
Still dream about you.
And when he wakes up, the guilt of kissing you floods his chest like it happened yesterday.
Not because he kissed you. But because you kissed him back. And then chose someone else.
Elise drops a printed article draft on his desk and leans against the cubicle wall with a soft smile.
âYou, me, dinner. Thereâs a place across the street with decent pasta and terrible wine.â
Clark looks up from his notes. He smiles, gently.
âI thought we already did lunch today?â
âLunch is with coworkers. Dinnerâs a second date.â
Sheâs half-teasing. But only half.
He studies her for a moment. Sheâs lovely. Brave. Sheâs shown up. Sheâs here.
And youâre not.
âOkay. Yeah. Dinner sounds good.â
Her smile widens.
She walks away to finish her piece, and he turns back to his monitor, the words blurring just slightly.
Thereâs a stark contrast in how you spend your time apart from one another.
Youâre sitting alone in your apartment, your laptop open, wedding Pinterest tabs still pinned but never touched. Steve is working late again. You havenât asked what for.
You havenât picked a date. Or a venue. Or a dress.
But tonight, for no reason at all, you think of Clark.
And for the first time in a long timeâŠyou wonder where he is.
--------------
Thereâs a quiet buzz in the office, the kind that always comes with change. Desks have been rearranged. New faces sit where old ones used to. Perry Whiteâs voice barks across the floor more often than usual, trying to re-establish order in a newsroom thatâs suddenly grown overnight.
The Gotham Gazette has been folded into the Planet following a corporate merger, driven by cost-cutting, downsizing, and politics. Whatever the reason, a handful of their top reporters have been brought over, and they're now finding homes in the open-concept chaos that is the Daily Planet bullpen.
You knew he was coming.
Everyone did.
You heard his name mentioned in the staff memo. âClark Kent returning as Senior Investigative Correspondent.â You told yourself it didnât matter. That it was fine. That youâd grown up, grown past it.
And maybe you have.
But as you glance up from your desk and see him walk through the elevator doors, heart knocking against your ribs, you realize one devastating truth:
You are not ready.
Heâs changed.
Not dramatically, but enough. His hair is a little shorter. His jaw is a little tighter. He walks like someone whoâs had to start over and didnât ask to. Heâs wearing a coat that doesnât quite belong in Metropolis; he hasnât taken Gotham out of his bones yet.
And next to him, walking just a little too close, is Elise.
Sheâs sharp-featured, confidently dressed, and chatting with someone from layout like sheâs been here for years. Her hand brushes Clarkâs arm once, casual, familiar.
You donât look away fast enough.
Clark sees you.
Your eyes meet across the room, and itâs like the entire office falls into silence. Everyone else fades, the chatter, the phones, the clacking keyboards. For a second, thereâs just the two of you, staring.
You see it all in his face: surprise, tension, something unreadable behind his eyes.
Then you stand up, smoothing the front of your blouse, and make your way over.
You smile politely, restrained.
âWelcome back, Clark.â
He blinks. Nods slowly.
âHey. Itâs... good to see you.â
His voice is steady. But quieter than you remember.
You gesture toward his new desk, just across from yours, in what must be an act of either cruelty or cluelessness by HR.
âLooks like youâre stuck with me again.â
He smiles, small, distant.
âSome things never change.â
You hear it. The weight behind the words. What he doesnât say: Some things do.
Thereâs an awkward pause. Elise steps forward then, offering her hand.
âElise Carr. Gotham Gazette.â
You shake it.
âNice to meet you. Iâve read your work, your profile on the commissioner was incredible.â
âThank you. Clark did most of the heavy lifting.â
You nod once. Try not to flinch.
âHeâs good at that.â
Your eyes flicker back to Clarkâs. Thereâs a shadow in his expression now. Something between regret and restraint. You wonder if heâs thinking about the last time you saw each other, the kiss, the tears, the broken voice whispering, âPlease just give me a chance.â
You havenât forgotten.
Not even close.
And neither has he.
Youâre alone in the break room when Clark walks in, coffee mug in hand.
You both pause.
Then pretend to be casual.
âSo⊠howâve you been?â
Itâs such a simple question. So loaded.
You take a breath.
âStill engaged. Still not married.â
He looks down at his mug. Nods once before saying, âStill waiting on someone who wonât show up?â
You stiffen.
âStill loving someone who left.â
He flinches, so fast you barely catch it. A beat of silence passes.
âYou made your choice.â
âI made a promise.â
He sets the mug down. Closes the distance by half a step.
âAnd howâs that working out?â
You say nothing.
Because he already knows the answer.
Outside, snow begins to fall again, light, quiet, aimless.
Inside, the silence between you settles back into place.
Youâre both here again. Both different. Both unfinished.
And the worst part?
You donât know if you want to try againâŠOr if itâs already too late.
--------------
You donât expect his laugh to feel like a punch to the chest.
Not here. Not now. Not when youâre still brushing ash off the ruins of a seven-year engagement that ended with more silence than shouting.
You just wanted coffee. Thatâs all.
But there he is, leaning against the counter by the break room, laughing in that unrestrained way you used to secretly love. Like the world had never touched him.
And then thereâs Elise.
Sheâs standing close, too close, one hand resting casually on his arm as she tells him something that makes his eyes crinkle at the corners. Her presence is effortless, magnetic. She's new, but somehow already feels at home.
You freeze. Youâve seen them together before, but today feels different. Today, you feel it in your ribs.
âMorning,â Elise says, looking over at you with a friendly smile.
You manage a nod. âHey.â
Clark glances your way, offers you a smile tooâone you used to read into. One that used to mean something. Now, itâs just polite. Unloaded. Professional.
No hesitation. No history.
And no space for you.
Back at your desk, you stare blankly at your screen, fingers hovering over the keyboard, your coffee already cold. You scroll through unread emails, but your mind drifts back, days, months, years.
You remember when Clark used to hang around your desk just a little too long after meetings. His jokes always landed a little softer when they were just for you. When heâd sit beside you during long flights, leaning into the kind of silence that didnât need filling.
You knew. Of course, you knew.
You saw it in the way he looked at you, like he was waiting for something. A signal. A shift. A single moment when you might look back at him the same way.
But you had Steve.
Seven years of plans. A wedding venue that never got booked. A house with his name on the lease and yours on the mortgage. A future drawn in pen, not pencil. There was no room for Clark.
You thought you were being kindâkeeping the line clear, not leading him on.
But you werenât kind. You were careful.
And now someone else is reaping the pieces of him you never claimed.
That night, you open an old folder on your phone, one you donât even remember saving.
Photos from the Denver retreat. Clark is wearing a hoodie and sleeping on your shoulder in the airport terminal. His legs tucked under him, lips slightly parted, completely trusting. Like he belonged there.
You let him fall asleep against you.
You didnât move.
You just watched the seconds pass, as if they might add up to something.
But when he woke up, you didnât say anything. Neither did he.
And slowly, he stopped waiting.
You see him by the printer later that weekâalone. No, Elise, no soft laughter. Just Clark, flipping through a report, the hum of the machine filling the silence.
You walk over without thinking.
âHey,â you say.
He looks up. Neutral. Not cold, not warm. Measured.
âHey.â
âI was wonderingâŠâ You clear your throat. âIf youâd maybe want to grab a coffee sometime. Just to catch up.â
He doesnât answer right away.
Thereâs a flicker of something in his eyesârecognition, maybe. A shadow of the person who once used to hope for this exact moment.
But itâs brief.
âI donât think thatâs a good idea,â he says, softly.
Heâs not trying to hurt you. Thatâs what makes it worse.
You nod, forcing a tight smile. âYeah. I get it.â
âI justâŠâ You start, but stop. You have no idea what you meant to say. That you're sorry? Do you see it now? Was the timing wrong and the silence louder than you realized?
But none of that matters anymore.
Clark offers a small, careful smile. âItâs okay. Really. Weâve both moved on.â
You nod again, because thatâs what people do when theyâre trying to pretend.
But the truth is: you havenât. Not really.
--------------------
Youâre halfway through organizing incoming packages when you hear the voice.
That voice.
âHey.â
You look up from the receptionist desk and feel your stomach twist into something ugly and familiar. Steve.
Heâs standing there like he hasnât aged a day since the breakup, like seven years of half-built promises and mutual exhaustion never happened. Same jacket. Same nervous twitch in his jaw. In the same way, he stands like he still belongs somewhere in your orbit.
You blink. âWhat are you doing here?â
He shoves his hands into his pockets and shrugs, like he doesnât know the weight of what heâs doing. âJust⊠wanted to talk. You never answered my messages.â
You shouldnât. You know that.
But old habits die hardâand Steve always knew how to press the right buttons.
So you agree to meet him after work. Though admittedly very reluctantly.
You pick the bar near the train station. Itâs neutral. Loud enough to avoid being overheard, quiet enough that he canât claim you ran from the conversation.
Heâs already two drinks in when you arrive.
âYou look good,â he says, eyes scanning you like heâs still allowed to, like he wasnât the one who threw it all away.
You donât return the compliment. You just sit. Watch him fidget with the condensation on his glass like itâs a metaphor he doesnât understand.
âYou wanted to talk?â you ask.
He cuts straight to it. âI made a mistake. You know that. Seven years and I justâwhat, we throw that away? For what?â
You stare at him. At the desperate way heâs clinging to a version of the past that doesnât exist anymore. That may never have happened.
âIâm not the same person I was then,â you say quietly.
His eyes narrow. âBecause of him? Because of that bastard?â
You donât answer. But that silence says everything.
He leans forward. âYou sleeping with that guy from work now?â
âNo,â you say. And then, because some part of you is tired of hidingâeven from your pastâyou add: âWe kissed. Once.â You keep the fact that you wish you hadnât stopped Clark that night.
It hangs in the air between you, heavy and sharp.
Steve stares at you like you just shattered glass in his mouth.
âYou kissed him?â His voice spikes.
You open your mouth to explain,to clarify it wasnât about revenge or cruelty, but about finally letting yourself feel something real, but it doesnât matter.
He slams his fist down on the bar.
The glass in his hand explodes, shards flying across the counter as people around you gasp and jerk back. The bartender shouts. Someone drops their drink. You flinch.
Steveâs hand is bleeding. He doesnât even notice.
âYouâre kidding me,â he growls, standing up, towering over you. âClark? That smug little bastard?â
âSteve, calm down-â
âYou said he was just a friend! You said he didnât mean anything.â
âThat was years ago,â you snap, voice shaking. âAnd maybe he didnât then, but he does now.â
He stares at you. Breath ragged. Knuckles dripping red onto the bar.
âWeâre done, Steve.â
You donât wait to hear whatever comes next. You stand. You walk away.
You donât look back.
You try to act normally the next day. As normal as possible after watching someone you almost married bleed across a bar counter because he couldnât stand the idea of you moving on.
Clark comes in late. Youâre almost relieved.
But then, mid-morning, the elevator dings and your heart drops.
Steve walks in.
Heâs wearing that same jacket. Eyes bloodshot. Unshaven. Unhinged.
You stand up so fast your chair rolls back behind you. âSteve, donât. You canât be here.â
He ignores you. Walks past your desk like youâre invisible.
Clark appears just as Steve rounds the corner toward the marketing wing.
You donât even get a word out.
Steve charges.
âYou think you can steal her from me?!â
âSteve!â
Clark barely has time to register the words before Steveâs fist slams into his jaw. The sound is sickening, dull, and final.
People scream. Someone yells for security. A stack of papers goes flying.
Clark stumbles back, clutching his face, out of shock rather than pain. âWhat the hell Steve?!â
You shove between them. âStop it!â
Steve tries to push past you for another swing.
âTouch him again and Iâll call the police,â you shout, and your voice cracks, not from fear, but from rage. From shame. After seven years of silence, it suddenly erupted into something loud and irreversible.
Steve just stares at you, and itâs only then, for the first time since last night, that he looks⊠small, defeated, and nothing like the man you once loved.
He says nothing. Turns. Walks out.
------------
You hear your name before you even reach the kitchenette.
You freeze. Two voices, low, conspiratorial, too loud to be a private conversation.
Lois and Cat. Of course.
You step back, just out of sight behind the wall, holding your breath.
â-Iâm just saying,â Cat says, clicking her nails against her coffee cup, âyou donât just kiss someone like Clark unless thereâs a lot of history there.â
Lois hums. âEspecially not after seven years with Steve. I mean, Clark was basically in love with her for how long? Like, what, three years?â
âEasily.â Cat doesnât even try to whisper. âHe was so obvious. Poor guy used to look like a kicked puppy anytime they mentioned the wedding.â
Lois lets out a low whistle. âAnd now heâs dating Elise? Thatâs got to be weird for her.â
âItâs weird for everyone, babe.â
They laugh. You swallow.
You wait until the conversation shifts to weekend plans before you finally walk away, pretending like you never stopped, like none of it pierced.
But it did.
Across the office, Elise hears every word, too.
She wasnât meant to. Sheâd only come by to grab a charging cable from the side drawer at the copy station. But when she heard Clarkâs name, she couldnât help herself. She froze, just like you did.
She stands there for a few beats after Lois and Cat leave. Still. Thoughtful.
And then she turns and walks briskly toward Clarkâs desk.
Youâre back at reception now, pretending to review a spreadsheet.
From the corner of your eye, you see her approach him. She says something, something quick, pointed.
And then she kisses him.
Not a peck. Not a shy brush of lips. Itâs hungry, possessive, the kind of kiss that says Iâm here, and I know whoâs watching.
You look down, pretending to scroll.
But the burnâs already in your throat.
âDid you hear what Lois and Cat said?â she asks.
He doesnât look up. âYeah.â
âSo?â Her voice is careful, but sharp around the edges. âIs it true?â
He sighs. âDepends which part youâre asking about.â
Elise leans back. âStart with the kiss.â
Clark finally looks at her. No denial. No panic.
âYeah. We kissed,â he says. Calm. Blunt.
Her mouth tenses, but she doesnât look away.
âAnd youâre still in love with her?â
He exhales slowly. âI think I never really stopped.â
There it is.
Laid bare. Quiet. Devastating.
Elise stares at him, blinking like maybe she didnât expect him to say it out loud, even if some part of her already knew.
âAnd me?â she asks. Not angry. Just tired.
âI do want to see where this goes,â he says. âWith you. I like being with you, Elise. I just⊠I donât know how to pretend I didnât have feelings before you came along.â
She looks at him for a long time. Then picks up her wine and drinks.
âYouâre honest,â she finally says. âAnd I hate that I canât even be mad at you for it.â
âIâd understand if you didnât want-â
âI didnât say I was walking away.â
Clark goes still.
Eliseâs eyes meet his. âI like you. And maybe that makes me an idiot, but I want to keep seeing you. Just donât lie to me. If things change, if they say something, or you start to feel something shift, I want to know.â
He nods. Not eagerly. Just honestly.
And they sit there, across from one another, not exactly comfortable, but committed to the tension anyway.
The next morning, Clark walks in with a coffee in each hand.
One is for Elise.
He places it gently on her desk. She gives him a quiet smile, then gets back to her screen.
You watch all of it from the reception.
You tell yourself it doesnât mean anything, you tell yourself it does.
---------------
You know somethingâs wrong the minute you see the folding chairs.
A circle. Always a bad sign.
âTeam building,â someone mutters under their breath. You donât have to look to know itâs Cat.
You consider feigning a stomach bug. You even touch your forehead to see if you can convincingly fake a fever. But itâs too late. Joanne from HR is already herding everyone into place, bright-eyed and clipboard-toting, as if her life depends on this exercise not becoming a complete train wreck.
âThis activity,â she says cheerily, âis called Clear the Air. Itâs simple. You stand up and say one thing you need to get off your chest. Could be work-related. Could be personal. No judgment. Just honesty.â
You glance around the circle. People avoid eye contact as if it were a contagious disease.
Clark is seated two spots to your right.
Elsie is beside him.
Your pulse kicks a little harder in your throat.
One by one, people stand up and say things like âI donât like pineapple on pizzaâ or âSomeone keeps stealing my yogurt from the fridge.â
Safe things. Surface-level things.
Until it's your turn.
You can pass. Elise reminds you of that. âNo pressure,â she says with a smile.
But you donât want to pass, not this time.
You stand.
Your palms are sweating. Youâre not even holding anything, and your hands feel like theyâre clinging to something invisible.
You clear your throat. âThis is probably not a great idea,â you start, and a few people laugh nervously. âBut I guess thatâs kind of the point, right?â
You glance at Clark. Then you look away. Then you look back.
âI miss my friend,â you say. Your voice is clear, but soft. âClark and I used to be close. Really close. And I miss that. I miss being able to talk to him without wondering if Iâm intruding. I mean, Clark, I called off my wedding because of you, and now we're not even friends. Itâs just weird between us, and it sucks. I miss you. You were my best friend before you moved to Gotham. I miss you. I shouldnât have been with Steve, and there were many reasons to call off the wedding, but the truth is, I didnât care about any of them until I met you. And youâre with somebody else now, and thatâs fine, thatâs whatever, but it doesnât mean you have to hate me. â
Someone coughs. Someone else shifts in their chair.
Clark goes perfectly still.
âI donât like the way things are right now between us,â you continue, heart pounding, âand I know itâs mostly my fault. But I just wanted to say it. Out loud. Because pretending it doesnât bother me hasnât worked.â
Silence. The kind that stretches just long enough to sting.
You donât wait for a response. You sit down, fast, eyes fixed on the floor.
Elsie doesnât look at you. You donât dare look at Clark, youâre not brave enough for that part yet.
Later that day, youâre sorting the outgoing mail when Clark stops at your desk. He doesnât say anything at first.
âThanks.â
You look up, confused. âFor what?â
âFor saying what I couldnât.â
Your chest tightens.
Thereâs so much you could say in return. But you donât want to break the moment.
So you nod.
Itâs not forgiveness. Not yet.
But it feels like the first step back toward something.
Even if it never becomes what it once was.
Even if it becomes something else entirely.
---------------
Sheâd known since the moment she walked into the break room last week and heard Cat Grant whispering Clarkâs name like it was part of a tragic headline. Sheâd known it when Loisâs voice dipped, when she saw the glance between you and Clark during that confession circle, the way he looked at you like heâd been holding his breath for years and youâd finally exhaled in his direction.
So when she hears the knock on her door that evening, soft, tentative, not the kind of knock you use when you're home, when you're loved, she doesn't need to ask what it's about. She already knows. It's not that she isn't hurt. It's that she's already mourned this moment in advance.
She opens the door slowly, bracing for impact, and there he is. Clark, standing on the threshold like a man who has already rehearsed what he's going to say, and yet still isnât sure how to say it. His hair is windswept, his jacket half-buttoned, and his eyes are doing that thing they do when heâs overwhelmed, darting, searching, like heâs looking for a way out and knows he wonât take it.
âYouâre knocking now?â she says quietly, not smiling.
Clarkâs throat bobs. He doesnât return the quip, doesnât even try. He just steps in when she lets him, standing awkwardly in the middle of her living room like a guest instead of someone who once fell asleep on this couch with his head in her lap.
âDo you want to sit?â she asks, gesturing to the couch.
He hesitates, then shakes his head.
And thatâs it. Thatâs all she needs to hear to confirm it. She draws in a long, quiet breath, folding her arms across her chest not defensively, but like sheâs trying to keep herself contained, as though if she moves the wrong way, she might shatter.
âYouâre breaking up with me,â she says, more observation than question.
Clark winces, but nods. âYeah.â
She closes her eyes briefly, letting the moment settle in. âBecause of her.â
He doesnât answer. Doesnât need to. The guilt on his face is louder than words.
A long silence stretches between them, heavy and fragile. Elise looks at him, really looks at him, and she sees the truth sheâs been avoiding for weeks, maybe months. The kindness in him was real. So was the affection. But the center of him was never hers. It was always drifting, always slightly out of reach, always... elsewhere.
âI think I always knew,â she says, her voice low and even. âNot in the beginning, but... eventually. I could feel it. Like there was always someone else in the room with us, even when it was just the two of us.â
Clark drops his gaze to the floor, and for a moment she sees something flicker in him, shame, maybe, or relief that he doesnât have to keep pretending anymore.
âIâm sorry,â he says, and he means it. His voice breaks around it, like it costs him something just to say it out loud.
âI know,â she replies. âAnd thatâs the worst part. You were good to me. Gentle. Honest, mostly. I think thatâs why it hurts so much. Because you didnât lie. You just... loved someone else the whole time.â
She says it without malice, but the truth of it hangs there like smoke. And Clark doesnât deny it. He canât.
âI tried,â he says, his voice cracking. âI tried to be with you fully. To be present. But every time I started to let go of them, something would pull me back. A look. A memory. That night, she kissed me. I thought it was a fluke. I thought maybe I imagined it meant something. But I didnât.â
Elise swallows hard, and for a second, her composure falters.
âYou know,â she says, her voice quieter now, âI think part of me hoped I could be enough to make you forget. Not forever. Just long enough to fall in love with me, too.â
Clarkâs eyes sting. âYouâre more than enough, Elise. You are. This is my failing, not yours.â
But she only smiles, a tired, sad kind of smile that doesnât reach her eyes. âDonât. Donât give me that line. You think saying Iâm too good for you makes this easier?â
He doesnât answer.
She steps closer to the door and opens it, slowly, deliberately. The air between them cools instantly, like something sacred has been severed.
âDonât come back here out of guilt,â she says, steady now.
Clark turns, his face unreadable. âI wonât.â
She nods once. âGood. Because Iâd rather be alone than be someoneâs almost.â
He lingers in the doorway for a moment, like he wants to say something else. But whatever it is, itâs too late.
So he leaves.
And when the door clicks shut behind him, Elise doesnât scream. Doesnât sob. She just stands there in the silence, blinking fast, her hands still clenched at her sides.
And when the tears finally come, they fall without sound.
Because this isnât the heartbreak of betrayal, itâs the heartbreak of being the second choice, of never really being in the race to begin with.
----------
You stay late again.
Itâs easier when the office is quiet. When no oneâs asking questions or stealing glances or talking in that careful voice like you might break if they say the wrong thing.
The glow of your monitor feels like a shield until the elevator dings.
You know itâs him before he even steps into view.
Clark.
He walks straight toward you. No smile. No softness. Just fire under his skin, like he's been holding something in too long and it's finally splitting at the seams.
You stand. âClark, nowâs not-â
âI broke up with Elsie.â
You stare at him. âWhat?â
âShe deserved better,â he snaps. âBetter than a man whoâs still in love with someone who wonât even look him in the eye.â
Your mouth opens. Then shuts.
Because you know.
Youâve always known.
âDonât do this,â you say. âDonât make this my fault.â
âIâm not,â he says. âIâm not blaming you. Iâm blaming myself for thinking I could just move on while youâre still sitting here, looking like you regret everything we never said.â
âThatâs not fair-â
âIsnât it?â His voice rises, finally raw. âYou think it was easy for me? Watching you plan a wedding for seven years while I waited around like a damn backup plan? Watching you leave that relationship and still pretending like we didnât mean something?â
You flinch. He sees it.
His hands tremble as he drags them through his hair, like he doesnât know what to do with himself.
âI loved you,â he says, quieter now. âI love you. And Iâm so goddamn tired of pretending I donât.â
There it is.
The truth.
Heavy. Ugly. Beautiful.
And all you can do is stand there, choking on the weight of your own silence.
âSay something,â he pleads. âTell me Iâm wrong. Tell me you donât feel it too.â
You look away. âClark, this is too messy.â
âWeâre already in it,â he bites. âWeâve been in it. The moment I looked at you and knew you were never going to be just a co-worker to me, it stopped being simple.â
âI donât know if I can do this.â
He steps closer. His voice drops, desperate and shaking. âWhy? Because youâre scared? Because itâs easier to pretend weâre fine if we just stay broken?â
âI donât trust it,â you whisper. âI donât trust us.â
âThen trust me,â he says, his voice cracking. âIâm still here. After everything. After you chose someone else. After I watched you almost marry him. After I stood by while you kissed me and ran.â
Tears sting your eyes.
He sees it. But he doesnât soften this time.
He just stands there, breaking in front of you, eyes wide and red and burning.
âYou want to be afraid? Fine. Be afraid. But donât lie to me. Donât lie to yourself. You feel it too.â
You stare at him. At the man who waited too long. At the man you didnât dare choose when it mattered.
At the man who still came back.
âI donât know how to love you,â you say, voice cracking. âNot without ruining everything.â
He exhales, almost a laugh, bitter and soft. âYou already did.â
The silence between you is brutal. Final. But neither of you walks away.
Not this time.
And maybe thatâs the first step.
He doesnât kiss you. He doesnât ask again. He just looks at you, like heâs letting go and hoping youâll catch whatâs left.
And for once, you donât run. You donât say yes. You donât say no.
âCome back tomorrow.â
Clarkâs eyes flicker with something, maybe hope. Or the last of his strength.
He nods once, then leaves.
You sink back into your chair, heart pounding, tears spilling.
You donât know what tomorrow holds.
But it might be the first day you stop pretending you donât want to find out.
a/n - eeeeek!!!! i really hope you liked it!!! i actually feel so bad for elise bless her
authors note - i wanted to try something new! been a while since iâve written anything and iâve fallen in love with clark kent (big shocker!)
clark kent and little miss popular who..
are absolutely besotted with one another since the moment they were first formally introduced to one another, well at least that was your opinion (clark had been hopelessly in love with you since the day you and your troupe of cheerleaders had poked fun at his big bulky glasses). you two are just so hopelessly in love with each other it easily becomes obnoxious to those around you, sick of the high pitched giggles that leave your mouth at clark's nerdy jokes, his face flushing a dark red at all the sudden stares from your classmates.
clark kent and little miss popular who..
were tiptoeing around each other for so long, quickly brushing hands at a tutoring sessions, spending many hours late in the night rambling on to one another, well you suppose you do most of the talking (though clark isn't one to object to listening to you ramble on as you comb through his hair). it isn't until you see another cheerleader in your squad talking to clark, hair being twirled around her finger, voice nasally squawking at the poor boy about some celebrity that he obviously had no clue about, did you finally understand what the overwhelming feeling was whenever you looked at him.
clark kent and little miss popular who..
promptly get together soon after the whole cheerleader incident from the week prior. in a shocking twist however, it's clark that pops the question, albeit stuttering and stammering profusely the whole time he's asking you out. it's perfect though, planned to perfection, all done by clark, a way to make it all the more personal for you. it truly is beautiful though, laying beneath the stars, holding one another like you would lose each other otherwise. he asks you halfway through the moment, when you look him in the eyes, the stars in the sky highlighting your features, softening your face that normally adopts the "typical bitchy head-cheerleader" personality. he thinks you look perfect in that moment - you always do, but in that exact minute he can't help but feel absolutely take aback by your beauty. so he asks you the question that has lingered on his mind for so long. and you can't help but accept (and by can't help but accept, you immediately jumped on him, peppering his face with kisses, tears streaking down your face in joy at the fact you've been blessed with a beautiful boy that voluntarily wants to spend his life with you)
clark kent and little miss popular who..
the first monday back since clark popped the question, receive a lot of stares from their peers at school because since when was clark kent - the guy who had missed out on every party for sci-fi movie marathons - perfect enough for you - the girl that everyone had for at least once a crush on, yet untouchable due to her "ruling" over the school. it was as if the whole school had congregated in the hallway to watch the pair of you wander down the walkway, arms curled around one another, no care for the beady eyes. surely it wasn't that big of a deal!
clark kent and little miss popular who..
make others go green with jealously. it's not that you two can help it though, clark seems to be embedded with this need and desire to please you, so it's practically impossible for people to not sigh in disappointment at their loneliness whenever they see clark stood shyly by the sidelines, a bouquet of flowers in his arms, waiting patiently for your practice to be over.
authors note - i'm most likely going to do a part two but let me know if you like it!!!! they make me feel sick, like i'm just writing what i need!!!!!!!! clark kent if you're real hmu x
Art Donaldson x Reader | 1940s AU | Inspired by The Notebook
Summary: He was all splinters and sunburn. She was porcelain and pressure. One reckless summer, then silence. 365 letters that never reached her. Now she's back, engaged to someone else and he's still building the house they once dreamed of... white with blue windows.
Georgia, June 26, 1940
The white dresses of the ladies fluttered in the summer breeze as they fanned themselves beneath the magnolia trees. The tennis club was buzzing with soft applause, silver spoons clinking against porcelain teacups, and the murmured approval of old money in crisp linen suits.
Art Donaldson had no business being there.
He knew it. They knew it.
The only reason they let him play was because he made them feel entertained. Like some backwoods miracle boy, scrappy, sunburnt, and too talented for his own good Something to gossip about later.
He didnât wear white.
He didnât own a pressed shirt.
And when he walked onto that court with his tanned arms and secondhand racket, people didnât clap, they smirked.
He didnât care. At least, he told himself he didnât... until he saw her.
Sitting with her friends under a parasol, her legs crossed neatly, her gloves resting in her lap like sheâd been born knowing how to wait pretty. Her hair was pinned back, her lips soft and disinterested. But her eyes, they cut him clean in half.
He won the match, of course. Made it look easy.
Some of the old men clapped politely. One of them scoffed, âShame he doesnât play for a real club.â
He was wiping sweat from his neck with a rag when he caught sight of her again near the bleachers. He didnât even think twice. Just walked toward her, cocky, barefooted, and already halfway in love.
âWell, I reckon if Iâm riskinâ my neck for a girl, I oughta know her name first.â He grinned, lopsided and crooked, like he was used to trouble. âNameâs Arthur Donaldson but you can call me Art. And you are, darlinâ...?â
She looked him over with a glance so quick it almost didnât happen.
Then she turned back to her friends, unbothered.
So he did the next logical thing, he climbed to the top of the bleachers.
All the way to the top in front of everyone and yelled: âIf you donât say yes to a date with me, I swear to God Iâll jump!â
Heads turned, gasps flew, laughter sputtered and her friends stared at her in shock.
She looked up, eyes wide with embarrassment or curiosity, he couldn't tell.
âI mean it!â Art called out, arms stretched like a maniac. âI'll do it! Iâll go splat right here on your pristine little tennis court!â
âYouâre insane!â she shouted back, flushed with half anger, half⊠amusement?
He grinned, full of trouble âThen save me, say yes!â
And for the first time, she smiled, just a little.
âFine!â she screamed, âOne date"
He threw his arms up like heâd won the lottery. âPraise Jesus! I live!â
The next day she walked through Main Street with two friends at her side, their heels clicking neatly on the cracked pavement. The sun was beginning to set, casting a honey colored light over the storefronts and porches.
And then, there he was.
Standing in the middle of the street with sawdust in his hair, a hammer tucked into his belt, and his sleeves rolled up past his elbows. His shirt was loose and stained, and his hands looked like they belonged to someone who never stopped building things.
He had no business looking that good, but he did.
Her heart jumped in her chest, traitorous and wild. Still, she looked straight ahead and kept walking.
âHey!â he called, she didnât stop.
âHey, donât ignore me now.â She sighed.
One of her friends whispered, âIsn't that the boy from yesterday?â âNoâ she lied.
He jogged ahead, stopping right in front of her, breathless, grinning. âYou promised me a date.â She folded her arms âThat was before I knew you were insane.â
He shrugged. âAnd now that you know, you still owe meâ âI donât owe you anythingâ
He stepped closer, eyes locked on hers. âLook, Iâm not asking for forever. Iâm asking for one night, one conversation, one moment.â She hesitated
âI swear to you,â he added, voice lower now, steadier, âif I disappoint you, you can pretend I never existed. You can walk past me every day for the rest of your life and never say a word. Iâll let you. But if thereâs something about me thatâs worth your time... I donât let go of things I want. Not ever.â
She looked at him, the grit under his nails, the scar on his temple, the truth in his voice and that stupid, hopeful smile.
âFineâ she said âOne nightâ
He showed up that evening in a truck that coughed and wheezed up her driveway. She climbed in, expecting to be driven to some diner or dance hall.
Instead, they parked in front of an old traffic light at the edge of town.
âWhat is this?â she asked, confused.
Art smiled. âThis is where I used to come with my dad. We'd lie on the road until the light turned green, then run for our lives. Stupidest thing in the world.â
She stared at him like heâd grown a second head. âYouâre completely out of your mind.â
âProbably, but come on live a little.â
She laughed, half nervous, half delighted. âYou want me to lie down. In the street.â
âJust until it turns green. Then we run, or scream, or both.â âYouâre unbelievableâ
âAnd yet,â he said, stepping out of the truck, âyouâre still here.â
With a groan, she climbed out and followed him to the center of the empty intersection. The asphalt was still warm under their backs, but the night air was cool. They lay there, side by side, watching the light dangle above them, red against the stars.
âThis is ridiculous,â she whispered.
âYouâre smiling,â he said.
âNo, Iâm not.â He chuckled.
They stayed quiet for a moment, both of them staring up, then she asked, âWhy tennis?â He exhaled. âMy father found an old racket in the trash, broke as hell, strings half torn, I fixed it with fishing wire. Used to hit balls against the barn door until my shoulder went numb I didnât even know the rules just knew I liked the sound it made.â
âThatâs... quite interesting.â
âI guess. Most days it just felt like trying to hit something that kept running away.â
She turned her head toward him. âDo you still have that racket?â âMade a new one. With my own hands. I use it in tournaments.â
She smiled. âSo youâre not just stubborn, youâre sentimental too.â âDangerous combination,â he said.
She looked up again. âI envy that.â âWhat?â
âYou talk like you chose your life. Like you built it with your bare hands.â âI did.â
She swallowed. âMine was chosen for me. Everything I wear, everything I say. Iâm a list of expectations that someone else wrote. My entire life routine was designed by my mother, from piano lessons, horse riding, the books I should read... absolutely everything.â
Art went quiet, then, softly: âWhat would you do if you werenât afraid?â she blinked. âI donât know.â
âWell, letâs start here,â he said, pointing up. âWhen it turns green, we run. You donât think. You just move. Can you do that?â
She bit her lip, nodded. Before they could react, they heard a car honking and a raspy voice yelling obscenities at them for blocking the way.
They ran towards the sidewalk, while she laughed like a crazy woman, he just watched her, as if her laughter was the sweetest melody...
That summer felt like it would last forever. The air smelled like peaches and rain, the sun took hours to set, and the fireflies came out just in time for their fights.
They did everything young lovers did: bike rides through the dirt roads, shared ice cream cones dripping down their hands, swimming with friends in the lake until their skin pruned. They kissed behind gas stations, danced barefoot on the hood of his truck, and argued like it was a sport.
It wasnât perfect. It wasnât even healthy, most days.
They fought over everything, over nothing. Over glances, over jealousies, over what love meant and who deserved more of it. Their love was like a struck match: bright, hot, and gone too quickly.
âYou never listen to me!â sheâd yell.
âBecause you never say what you actually want!â he'd shoot back.
He'd pace, fists clenched at his sides, while she sat cross-legged on the hood of the truck, tears in her eyes but refusing to cry.
âYou think yelling makes you right?â she asked.
âNo. But at least I fight for you. You just run away!â
One night at the diner, she smiled at a boy from town, an old friend and Artâs entire face shifted. âWho was that?â he asked sharply once they were outside. âA friend. Why?â
âHe looked at you like he wanted to take a bite out of you.â âDonât be ridiculous.â
âIâm not. I just donât like being made a fool of.â âThen stop acting like one.â
Heâd gone silent for hours after that, driving with one hand, knuckles white on the wheel. Later, he kissed her like he was trying to reclaim her.
And with them it was like that all the time, heated arguments that ended with kisses so intense that their lips ended up numb.
One afternoon in late July, she asked him to come to a luncheon at her familyâs estate.
âI want them to meet you,â she said. âMy parents and their friends.â
He hesitated, thumb tapping against the wheel of his truck. âYou sure thatâs a good idea?â she smiled, pressed her forehead to his âIf they canât handle you, thatâs their problem.â
He wore the only nice shirt he owned, a brown one that didnât quite fit right. She wore white, like everyone else at the table, the contrast burned.
The food was too quiet, the wine too bitter and the questions too sharp.
âSo, Arthur,â one of the men said, âis it true you built your own racket?â âYes, sir.â
âHow⊠quaint.â Another lady chimed in. âI suppose that means you didnât attend a proper academy?â
âI learned in my barn,â he said, jaw clenched.
Her father smiled politely, her mother did not. âWell,â her mother said, dabbing at her lips with her napkin, âit wonât matter much soon. Weâre leaving next week, sheâs been accepted into a fine academy for young ladies up north.â Art froze, she hadnât told him.
Her eyes fell to her plate, he didnât say much the rest of the meal.
To make it up to him, she asked to go rowing at the lake. He rowed in silence for a while the boat creaked under the weight of everything unspoken, she reached for his hand. âI didnât tell you because I didnât want it to upset you.â âIâm not mad,â he said.
âYou are.â âMaybe.â They drifted toward the bank, and she leaned into him âCome on letâs not fight tonight.â he nodded, kissed her forehead âI know a place.â
After they dried off, they drove to the edge of town where Artâs father lived, a small house with creaky floors and too many tools.
âPop, this is her,â Art said nervously.
His dad stood, wiped his hands on his overalls.
âWell Iâll be damned,â he chuckled âHow did a girl like you fall for a troublemaker like him?â She laughed âStill trying to figure that out.â
His dad winked. âHeâs got charm, Iâll give him that, none of my smarts, though.â
They had sweet tea on the porch, his dad told stories about young Art falling off roofs and chasing chickens barefoot.
She loved every second of it.
That night, he took her to the abandoned mansion.
Vines hung like curtains over the crumbling porch, the lake glimmered nearby.
âThis is it,â he said âI want to buy this land someday, fix it up, make it ours.â âOurs?â she smiled. He nodded âIâd build it with my own hands.â
âIâd paint it white,â she said dreamily âWith blue window frames and I want a room with a view of the lake, a studio for painting I love it I always have, I just... never had the freedomâ He grinned âSo you love artâ She rolled her eyes âDonât even say itâ
He smirked. âToo late, lucky for you, thatâs my nameâ She laughed, cheeks warm âThat was terribleâ âYouâre smilingâ
They walked through dust and broken boards, laughing, he kissed her against a wall where moonlight streamed through a hole in the roof. Their mouths found each other again, and again, he kissed down her neck, over her collarbone "Are you sure about this?" Due to the overwhelming pleasure she could only nod and whisper a small "yes." He only needed her soft nod before he slid the straps of her dress down her shoulders, slowly, reverently like unwrapping something sacred. Her bra followed, delicate against her flushed skin for a moment, he just looked at her, breathing hard, his eyes wide with something between awe and hunger.
Then he leaned in.
His mouth found her neck, kissing gently at first, then deeper, slower, trailing downward until his lips met the swell of her chest. He kissed her skin like he was memorizing it when he took her left breast into his mouth, she gasped, arching slightly into him.
His hand moved to the other, brushing across the peak with his calloused thumb.
âArtâŠâ she whispered, her fingers gripping the back of his hair, âplease⊠be gentle.â
He slowed his breath hitched against her skin but he didnât stop, just adjusted, softening his grip, his tongue slower now, savoring the curve of her, the taste of her.
âYouâre perfect,â he murmured between kisses âYou always were.â
She whimpered, her head falling back against the floorboards, her chest rising and falling beneath his mouth. His name slipped from her lips again like a prayer.
But just as his hand slid down her stomach, just as the tension in the room was about to snap
Knock, knock, knock
They both froze.
Heavy pounding at the door shattered the moment.
âArt!â a voice called, it was his friend, out of breath âThe cops are lookinâ for her, her parents called the sheriff! You gotta get her home!â
He pulled back, breathless, chest heaving.
She sat up quickly, holding her dress to her chest, her heart slamming against her ribs. The magic of the moment vanished, replaced by dread.
They barely had time to fix their clothes. The weight of what almost happened still clung to the air between them as Art drove fast, too fast, down the winding road from the lake, her hair was still damp from the night air, his hands still shaking on the wheel.
By the time they pulled up to her familyâs estate, the porch light was on.
And her mother was already waiting.
Arms crossed, mouth tight, eyes cold.
"Inside, Now!"
She hesitated, but the tone in her motherâs voice left no room for protest.
Art followed a few paces behind, unsure whether to stay or turn around. She glanced back at him briefly, just once, and it was enough to make him stay.
Her father was already inside, standing in his study. The door was open, the room glowing with the soft golden light of a desk lamp.
âCome inâ he said simply.
She walked in slowly. Art lingered in the foyer, hat in hand, he heard the door shut behind her.
What followed wasnât yelling, it was worse than yelling. It was controlled, quiet, precise.
âSheâs a child!â her motherâs voice came through the walls like a dagger.
âIâm seventeen!!â she snapped back.
âExactly, and he is nothing!â
A pause, the scrape of a chair. Her mother again, sharper now: âHe will be nothingâ
âHe loves me!!â
Her mother scoffed âHe built a tennis racket in a barn, is that supposed to impress us? This boy has no future, no education, no name. What do you think your life will be with him? Raising babies in a shack by a lake?â Art flinched
In the silence that followed, he stepped back toward the door, but her voice stopped him.
âI donât care!â she yelled âYouâre not me you donât know what I want!â
âYouâre throwing everything away for a boy with calloused hands and an old racketâ
âBetter than marrying someone with money and no soulâ
That silence again
When the door opened, she came out red eyed, trembling, fists clenched
Art looked up, startled she moved toward him, but he stepped back.
"Hey, hey, wait," she said gently, placing a hand on his arm âIâm sorry you heard all of that, didnât you?â
His jaw was tight âYeahâ
âI didnât mean for you toâ
âSheâs rightâ
âWhat?â
He pulled away from her hand âTheyâre right I donât have anything I ainât got a house or a name or money, just some tools and a messed up dream.â
âArt, stopâ
âIâm not good enough for you,â he said, his voice quiet and raw âAnd I never will beâ
âThatâs not trueâ
âI love you too much to watch you ruin everythingâ
She shook her head, tears in her voice âDonât you dare do thisâ
âIâm not what you needâ
âI donât want what I need,â she said, her voice rising, âI want you!â
He stepped back again, fists clenched.
âDonât make this harderâ
âNo⊠you donât get to do this, you donât get to push me away and pretend like itâs some noble sacrificeâ
âIâm not pretending!â he yelled âIâm being real, maybe for the first time.â
She stared at him for a long time, trembling
Then she whispered, âIf youâre gonna leave⊠just goâ
His face twisted like it physically hurt him but he nodded and walked out the door.
She didnât sleep that night, not really and when she woke, the bags were already packed.
Her mother was waiting by the car.
âYouâre leaving todayâ
âIâm not goingâ she said softly, trying to hold her ground.
Her mother didnât argue, just said, âYou donât have a choiceâ
She ran barefoot to the carpentry shop, heart pounding, praying heâd still be there.
But he wasnât.
His friend stepped out, wiping his hands on a rag. âHeâs gone. Donât ask where. He just⊠couldnât stayâ She opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came out, her throat was tight, her heart was destroyed.
She turned and left, the weight of it all dragging behind her like an anchor.
To be continued...
Author's Note: English isn't my first language, and I have to use a translator as a tool, so if you see any mistakes, feel free to let me know. I accept requests, and feel free to share any ideas you have.
You should've known from the beginning to never listen to the whispered promises that he had told you at night as you laid against one another skin to skin. You should've never listened to the false dreams and aspirations that he had promised would come true, even going as far as to swear that he would 'Leave her and the rest of the world behind so you two could run away to somewhere so much further than here.'
It all sounded so promising and beautiful that it was almost impossible to try and fight back down the sinking feeling in your stomach every single time you saw him and her holding each other so passionately in the paddock.
Truthfully, you had known that the possibility of this having a positive outcome in general was slim to none and yet the simple prospect of living happily with a man that you were infatuated with wiped away your realisation.
Which is why it hurt you so much to see that all the promises that he had made had been all lies. He was expecting a child with a woman who was not you, starting a family with someone who was not you and would never be you.
Nothing could've prepared you for the sickening feeling you felt every single time a reporter had come and asked you about how you felt about the arrival of a 'Verstappen-Piquet', whilst also having to keep a calm and collected composure under the watchful gaze of the journalists, all eagerly waiting to scribble down the nonsense you had to say,
"It's amazing news, i'm really happy for them. I always knew Max wanted to become a father."
Lies. All of it lies. At least most of it lies.
It was true that Max had wanted to become a father as it was one of the things he would always say to you as he held you in his arms, stroking gently up and down your back in a way to soothe you into a deep sleep. You had always slept best when in the company of Max, with a warm heart and dreams tainted with innocence and motherhood.
But truly what had you expected? If Max had gone along with his now empty promises then it would've meant tearing apart a relationship with Penelope and that it would've piled onto the negative things that the media already wrote about you. It would've also led to the growth of even more misogynistic comments spoken about you and your journey into Formula One.
It just wasn't fair that he hadn't spoken to you beforehand, only pulling you aside on the Friday after the Instagram Post and the dinner that you had had the previous night, where you held hands beneath the table to calm each other's nerves. All that was spoken to you in that brief moment was of you having to reassure him that it was all okay and that you were happy for him.
Now that was complete and utter bullshit.
How was it okay for him to diminish you into a small child in a matter of seconds, having you feel as though you were being berated by a parent for daring to have such negative thoughts of what could be if you had just told him how you truthfully felt?
How was it okay for him to just burst this bubble full of bright and beautiful colours and reduce your world into black and white and leave you there stranded and alone whilst he gets to live his life happily ever after?
How was it okay for him to revert back to a sense of normality whereas you had to bathe in a pool of melancholy and feel the growth of pressure build upon your shoulders?
You should've just told him no in the first place, saving yourself over a year of having to sneak around and lie to those you loved most and stopping yourself from becoming drawn to the addictive personality that belonged to him.Â
In a way you wanted to let your selfish side overwhelm your senses and just tell him how you truly felt but you knew that you would never be able to crawl out of the emotional debt of leaving a child to grow up in a broken home through the selfish act that couldâve been avoided.Â
It was unfair how beautiful such a sinful and illicit thing could be and how hard you desired to experience it over and over again even with such a tragic ending, it even led you to question the sanity of yourself.Â
Maybe one day you would be able to heal and move on from the memories of the fleeting time you had spent within the comfort of Max Verstappen, but for now you were just trying to survive the self-destructing feeling that bubbled within you every single time you would stare at the happiness radiating off of them, a stark comparison to the envy that reflected off of you, with hints of somberness seeping through as well.Â
It was a shame that you had never met him first. It was something that left you awake at night, staring at the peeling paint that covered the ceiling, fingers fumbling within one another, desperately trying to succumb to sleep. It haunted you deeply.Â
So now after everything, after the exchanges of your deepest and darkest secrets, you have to deal with the brief acknowledgement of one another, a nod or a wave being the only form of communication between one another, with his arm around the woman heâs decided to settle down with, whilst you have to accept the fact that he was never yours.Â
you should've known from the beginning that a man like patrick zweig would never bother being with a person like you and yet you loosened up all too quickly due to his persistent words tainted with love and adoration.
how could you be so foolish?
what hurt the most was the fact that he acted as though you'd never existed in the first place, as if you had never spilled your mouth in front of him and told him all of your deepest secrets about your family and life. he simply disappeared after that night, left you all alone and heartbroken, crying on your knees.
"it was all a bet."
that was all that came out of his mouth, spoken so casually it could've been mistaken for a simple greeting.
"what?"
"this was all a bet, we were just a bet."
if anything it was all your fault, you should've trusted your instincts instead of going off of luck for the first time in your life and in that way you could've avoided the unfortunate and melancholy state that you seemed to bathe in.
"how much patrick?"
it seemed to dampen your thoughts, in those few fleeting moments that had been created since he opened his mouth and spoke those 5 words.
"how much what?
silence overtakes the room as he finally seems to understand exactly what you're asking him whilst a flush of pink overwhelms his face, embarrassed of the words that are about to leave his mouth.Â
âlisten it was just a joke between me and art-â
oh cutie patootie art who WORSHIPS the land that you walk on so much so you often find yourself wondering if he's real, shocked that a man that beautiful can be so infatuated with something.
he makes sure that you know how much he adores you, making sure to kiss up and down your body, loving the way that you blush and squirm as he does so.
LOVES LOVES LOVES the way that your fingers pull and comb through his hair (especially the former action)
during your first time together, he definitely cries when he finishes, finally feeling loved in such an intimate act.
LOVES MAKING OUT WITH YOU (i mean the hotel scene speaks levels) especially the way your lips become all puffy and your eyes become dazed at the passion between the pair of you
i think that he has some serious jealousy issues and if he sees you with a boy out and about, then will definitely come over and be overly affectionate towards you.
gets pleasure from you being pleasured.
is a boob guy through and through.
LOVES to play with them, rest his head on them. watch them bounce, literally anything to do with them.
definitely loves it when you wear lingerie, loving the way it hugs your curves and loves all the bows and tassels that hang off it.
would 100% want to make out with you in front of patrick, wanting to feel a bit of a buzz for getting to kiss someone so pretty.
of course pat is gobsmacked at the smug grin that takes over art's face after you part from one another.
i think he's definitely a bit of a tight fit for you but his comforting words and terms of endearments make it much more pleasurable for you.
as well as patrick, art loves a munch and you love that he loves to munch.
art's one of those guys that stays down there for so long that you literally have to push him away with his hair.
i feel as though you really have to push for him to go a bit rougher and a bit faster and WRECK you, because as much as you love him you sometimes need to less frustrations lose.
i think sometimes you wear mascara to create the run of it down your cheeks because you know it's something art loves.
maybe sometimes he lets loose on the names he calls you, too filled with pleasure to realise some of the things that have slipped past his lips but if anything it makes you clench around him which is something that he LOVES
if you think patrick was the loud one, then you are completely wrong. ART IS FUCKING LOUD god bless your neighbours and friends.
has constant fantasies and wet dreams of you in cosplay and DREAMS of having a tennis coach fantasy, you as his little tennis prodigy dressed all skimpy, bent over the tennis net to reach one of the balls and him watching from the sidelines, cupping his forming erection.
another one of his dreams is to have a calm domestic life, so he always silently dreams of finishing inside of you and starting a life with you.
definitely can't wait to see you all bloated and full of him.
i think for art, aftercare is one of the most important things for him and he will not be able to sleep if he doesn't clean you up.
heâs definitely in love with you but just canât admit it, afraid that heâs gonna ruin the âbad boyâ title and reputation that heâs gained
started as a one night stand which then progressed into his thoughts constantly being full with you to finding you through a friend of a friend and proposing the fwb ideas
heâs sweeter and gentler than the first time you did it though heâs not quite âmaking loveâ
definitely a shower not a grower and he's big
definitely has to finger you a few times before it puts it in because he doesnât want to see you hurt!!
almost indefinitely prefers when you wear lingerie, loving the power he feels whenever he rips it off of you, along with the squeals it brings out of you whenever he does so
he's so LOUD, always groaning and moaning all while watching you fall apart beneath him (god bless the neighbours)
SUCH A MUNCH
trust me he loves receiving head but even more prefers giving, could stay down there forever and would die happy if he did so
obviously you guys are young and he's trying to become someone in the tennis world and with you in college, but he can't help but want to breed you so bad and fill you with all of his kids (one day, one day)
definitely sosososo quick with the removal of the bra like literally one moment it's there and then WHOOSH gone!
would definitely want to take you in public but you simply REFUSE it, much preferring the comfort of either of your bedrooms
offers/proposes a threesome every moment he can, he loves sleeping with you but girls on your campus have definitely caught his eye
swears that he can do the pull-out method, wanting nothing more than to feel you but once he actually gets the chance, he's too in love with the feeling that he can't find himself pulling out
unfortunately, he's not too educated on the importance of aftercare, falling asleep before you even make it to the bathroom
It was sometimes hard being a new person in every town you had visited, having to adapt to recognising when someone was speaking to you and your new identity and having to remember the names of the many you would eventually con.
But it was worth it and it was the only life you knew, having grown up conning the rich for all of their worth, charming them to a point of gaining their trust, to milk them dry all for the advantages of being rich.
You had met many in your journey but none of them stayed with you for long enough that you could trust them, too afraid that you too would be swindled.
It all happened in Monaco, a small country filled with the rich and greedy, making it a perfect place for you to coax the men into giving you parts of their earnings. Whilst there, you had slept with a man, many years older than yourself, but not the oldest you had ever been with. It was an easy target, with the man practically begging to bed you, and from there you had him hooked. Who knew that you could gain three antique cars in a single weekend, by just batting your eyelashes and perfecting a pout? Men could be so easy.Â
But then you met him.
A fellow traveller that currently called himself 'Charles'.
To this day you still donât know whether or not the name he addressed himself by was real or not, having no way to try and find out.Â
He was handsome, sure, with his beautiful smile and his enticing accent, but his looks also equated to his ability to annoy and do your head in.
You didn't originally want to speak to the man who was somehow managing to outshine you and take away your earnings, finding him a nuisance who only got away with his crime due to his boyish charm and rugged looks , but you couldn't resist it.
It began on the rooftop of one of the country clubs, the one that overlooked the tarp covered tennis courts, the both of you drunk out of your minds, courtesy of the unlimited tab on the bar, watching the way the lights of the cityscape shone against the dark night.
You donât quite understand how the pair of you both managed to be in the same place at once, blaming it on the alcohol levels in both of your systems, but for some reasons it was as if you two were just normal people that knew each other for years and years.Â
The silence between the pair of you was comforting and you liked it, enjoyed it even, finally getting some peace in the hectic life that you lived.
"Do you want to dance?" Came the voice from beside you, the first words shared between you to be spoken in almost twenty minutes.
Silence.
You could only stare at the man in front of you in bewilderment and confusion, perplexed at the prospect of dancing with the stranger in front of you, the man with a thousand identities.
Who was to say that he had not gone through this routine with the ladies in the previous towns, the people before you, sweet-talking you into false beliefs only to leave you alone and upset whilst he's off in another city, restarting his routine.
"Y'know dancing is a dangerous game" Was the only response you could muster, too afraid to say more but too confused to say any less.
And yet the man in front of you could only smile at you, with an equal amount of coyness and understanding, but still he holds out his hand, emphasising his desire to dance with you.Â
It was at that moment, as you continued to stare at his outstretched hand, that you realised that it was going to be one of those things that your mother had always warned you about, having had knowledge on what it was like falling in love whilst on the run, yourself being one of the few things that came out of the affair.Â
Was it worth it to destroy yourself by allowing someone in? More specifically, was it worth it to destroy yourself by letting someone that lied and swindled for a living in?
But now, looking back on the life you previously led, thinking back to that week in Monaco, you realised that you shouldâve listened to your intuition and not your heart, because now you had a heart that could never love again.Â
You shouldâve known better than to trust someone who swindles and lies for a living, who wants to take and take and take because of course why would someone love someone when they could swindle them out of their dignity and pride?Â
Because here you are now, swirling a gin and tonic in your hand, sitting on your kitchen counter waiting desperately for the ring of the phone, praying that he calls and yet silence continues to overtake your apartment. Itâs crazy that the want for some pricey cars led to this creation of a forlorn you.Â
But heâs a bandit, going from town to town, hustling for the rich lifestyle and itâs understandable but you always seem to wonder whether or not you live this life together, like Bonnie and Clyde, charming everyone with our sweet tones and stories.Â
You could finally understand the way the men felt whenever you manipulated them into thinking that a one night stand left you enamoured with them. You could almost indefinitely say that karma had come back to bite you in the bum after all the crimes you had committed.Â
So now you speak of him as if he were a pharaoh from a distant land, an antique and precious figure, to the people you meet along the road, however never addressing that this tale is a raw and real one, one that left you traumatised and unable to love again.Â
hiya everyone, recently i've been trying to get some work out (as the slump has been long enough) but have been feeling so unmotivated (đ§) and unconvinced about the level of my work!!
if anyone (literally anyone) would want to become a friend of mine and help me in the process of putting my work out it would be much appreciated đœđœ
when lando watches juno norris' life slip through his fingers
yourusername & landonorris posted!
liked by pierre_gasly, maxverstappen1 and 182,841 others
yourusername baby norris coming feb 2024 đđ
landonorris đ§Ąđ§Ą
username2 WHAT OMG IM SO HAPPY
username1 AHHHHHH
charles_leclerc well done bro
oscarpiastri its been so difficult to keep this a secret
yourusername posted a story!
replies!
yourusername posted!
liked by landonorris, charles_leclerc and 432,941 others
yourusername baby norris you are aâŠ. girl! đ
username5 GIRL DAD LANDO IS CANON
landonorris my little princess đžđ»
yourusername posted 2 stories!
replies!
username3 awww
carlossainz55 sheâs gonna be the most spoilt princess in the world
landonorris no space left in the house
username5 AHHH
lilymhe sending the golf clubs over now
username3 this is too much aww
landonorris posted!
liked by carlossainz55, lilymhe and 891,234 others
landonorris juno mae norrisđ
comments have been turned off
yourusername
liked by landonorris. maxverstappen1 and 135,103 others
yourusername one month of being your mama
lilymhe my little junibear
mclaren future driver loading
username7 AHHHHH
carlossainz55 still in disbelief that you two are parents but am proud of you y/n
landonorris love you
username5 this is too cute
landonorris posted on his story!
caption: my little bear you need to stop growing!
landonorris and yourusername posted!
liked by carlossainz55, mclaren and 536,425 others
yourusername my supergirl
lilymhe next stop golfing!!!!
mclaren mclaren 2042 driver lineup secured
username2 SHES SO BIG
oscarpiastri will have to join her in ballet soon
landonorris posted!
liked by lewishamilton, charles_leclerc and 436,482 others
landonorris my little junibug, oh how big you've grown! the first time i saw you i knew that i was able to do anything. in my life, i've only been at a loss for words five time: when i met your mother, when your mother said yes, when i first won a race and when i first met you.
i don't think i will ever love anything more than you and your mother and i hope you know that. i've watched you grow my little bear, going from being the size of a seed in your mumma's belly to you being as tall as my hip!
i hope you know that no matter what, no matter how hard life gets, you will always have your papa.
so as i watch you leave with your schoolbag on your back, i can't help but feel sad that you're growing up so fast.
authors note! i think i managed to make a gn!reader but i'm so sorry if i haven't! also rip logie bear :(
helpless op81
Oscar remembers that night so clearly and so perfectly, as it was the night that he first met you, the love of his life.
One moment he was listening to Logan muttering on and on about how he was destined to get more points as the season went on and then the next, he felt his knees buckle as his eyes got lost in yours.Â
And from that point he was helpless, fearing that if his eyes left yours for even a moment, he would lose you in a crowd of people, never to be seen again, leaving him forever looking for the mysterious partygoer.
He had never meant to find the love of his life, in fact, he was expecting anything but, having just recently come out of a relationship that heâd never thought would end, and yet here he was, fawning over a complete stranger.Â
How was he meant to know that one moment he would be nodding along to the words Logan to feeling his heart repeatedly pound against his chest the moment that he caught your eye.
Slowly, he eyed the rest of the room, trying to create a mysterious persona, one that would hopefully entice you into coming over and greet him, as he found himself too scared to speak to such a beautiful person as you. Nothing could get in his way.Â
Though, in the corner of his eye, he recalled catching his friends lingering eye on the one person that he desperately wanted to speak to, so in an act to protect the supposed love of his life, he leaned in and whispered with a slight pleading tone in his voice.Â
âThat girl over there is pretty cute, isnât she? I think I might go and speak to her.âÂ
âOh really?âÂ
And then Logan left, smirking as he went, wandering over to you, grabbing you by the waist and speaking to you, whilst Oscar watched in horror, praying to the heavens above that this wouldnât go horribly, though all his worries went away when you turned and smiled at him.Â
All the pain he had ever felt in the whole 22 years heâd been alive for, all went away the moment that he saw you smile at him, as if you were the person heâd been waiting for all his life.
So he watched, watched as Logan lightly directed you over to where he stood in the corner of the room, watching as Logan rambled on into your ear, which he later learned from you, was complete and utter nonsense, until finally, you were in front of his face.Â
âOscar Piastri, itâs nice to meet you.â
âI know, Y/N Y/L/N, well done on your season so far.â
He had fallen hard.Â
âI guess iâll leave you to it, donât do anything I wouldnât do.â
And then it was just the two of them left.Â
And from there, their relationship bloomed, sending messages to each other nightly, whether it be silly memes or ranting about annoying coworkers, though everyday your relationship strengthened even if you were continents away from one another.Â
Then he remembers, after many months of Loganâs endless teasing of how they could always open up their relationship to involve him, Oscar Piastri found himself in the living room of your parents, cracking his knuckles as his palms became sweaty, waiting anxiously to ask for the blessing of marriage.Â
He remembers panicking inside as your father rose from his lounge chair, walking over to him, face stone cold, not letting any emotion through, before chuckling and clasping his hand, shaking hands with him.Â
âDonât ever let her go.â
Oscar would never do such a thing.Â
And now here he was, standing across from his beautiful fiance, tears gathering in his eyes, hardly believing his luck that heâd found himself lucky enough to be stood across from his soulmate, grateful that heâd gone to that stupid party that Logan was begging him to attend.
satisfied ls2
Logan Sargeant was happy that Oscar Piastri, his best friend of many years, was getting married to someone he deemed âthe love of his lifeâ with a smitten smile on a drunken night out on the town, yet at the same time he wasnât happy for this union.Â
Yet it was too late for any objection, as now he stands with an arm raised, glass in hand, praising the couple with a strained smile on his face, desperately wishing that he was the one that got to stare into your eyes just before bed and hold you beneath the duvet but he canât, so now he has to watch the happy couple in the shadows.
âA toast to the happy couple!â He exclaims, watching you stare into Oscarâs eyes, not noticing the pain behind the speech-giver's eyes, wishing somehow it were him.Â
âA toast to the happy couple!â The guests repeat, all of them collectively cheering at the union of two people who needed each other most, naive of the spiralling best man in front of their eyes.Â
âFrom your best friend Logan, who has always and will always be by your side.â And itâs true because no matter what, no matter how much he craves to be in your arms, he will always be the best friend first.Â
âAnd may you always beâŠâ, he pauses, arm still raised, thinking back to that night, the night, the night he met you, âsatisfied.â
He remembers that night all too well as it was a night that he would regret for the rest of his life due to his selfless choices.Â
He remembers watching the many beautiful women that would try and capture his attention, none of whom particularly captured his eye, well except for you.Â
I mean how could he forget when he had just seen the prettiest person ever, standing in the same room as him, a face that would forever change his life.
Flashback to that night, where he stood at the bar, rambling on to Oscar about how this season would hopefully be filled with more points and luck than the last, when he noticed how out of focus his friend was, who instead of listening along to the rambles of his friend was staring at you.Â
If there were one word to summarise how he felt when he first turned his head and looked at your face, it wouldâve been enamoured. He was enamoured from first sight and he knew that he would never be completely happy if he didnât get to know you, but he wasnât the only one left enamoured by your bright persona, for Oscar was too. So in an act of kindness, he walked over to where you stood until he came face to face with you.Â
âHiâ your meek voice said, smiling softly at him.
Oh he was gone, no longer remembering his own name, instead only focusing on your beautiful smile, but he needed to put this aside and give Oscar a chance to explore this possible connection, even if it hurt him.
âHi now I know you donât know me but you will, and I think thereâs someone I need to introduce you toâ, Logan slowly raised his hand over to where Oscar stood, watching your eyes brighten âNow he may seem like some dork, but I think you and him would really get along.â
You smile back at him, laughing slightly at the small insult made at this possible setup.
âIs that so?âÂ
âWell I'd like to think so.âÂ
For a moment you just stare at each other as if only you two knew something that the rest of the world didnât, which technically you did. Unbeknownst to Logan, youâd also found yourself quite taken with the American man, so it came to quite a shock to you when heâd approached you, not with the intentions of setting himself up with you, but instead with the man sat by the bar.
So why was he able to give you up so easily?
How was he able to come to the conclusion that Oscar was going to give you life that you deserved from a conversation that lasted two maybe three minutes, especially when he had managed to charm you in said conversation?
He wished to just whisk you away from this place and run away with you and live a free life with you, without having to worry about anything, but then he saw Oscarâs face.Â
Oscarâs face portrayed nothing more than adoration and helplessness for the stranger that stood across the room.
Thatâs how Logan knew that Oscar would treat her better, because no matter how much Logan tried to convince himself that he could love her and treat her better than Oscar, he couldnât. Logan knew that Oscar wouldnât dare find himself falling so quickly and so easily, especially on a night out that he was so reluctant to go to from the beginning, showing to him how deeply in love his friend had fallen.
Because from his face to his eyes to his mannerisms, he could tell he was helpless.Â
He knew that if he had been selfish enough to take you away from Oscar, he would just leave his friend feeling lonely and depressed yet faking a smile, because he was one of the kindest people he knew.Â
Which is why he knew that could and would never be able to love you in public, hence why the only time he could imagine you in his arms, was at night in the comfort of his own bed.Â
But at least Oscar got to and Logan would always love you even from afar.
âSo hereâs to the happy couple and may they always be satisfied!â
in which saying 'i love you' to keep a relationship together has been overused.
in which you've had enough
One too many times had you found yourself back in the arms of Lando Norris. The strong comforting arms of Lando Norris that holds you at times of need, became an addicting pull factor of keeping this crumbling relationship together, well that along with his constant throwaway of the words âI love you.â
Words that once held so much adoration and joy in your mind were now the words that were slowly destroying you from the inside out, and yet your weeping heart constantly craved for more, wanting to be with someone that claimed to want you. Of course youâd noticed that these words caused your heart to freeze up, rather than beat faster and yet you still somehow still had this idea that Lando did truly mean these words. Was it delusion to help soothe your already breaking heart or was it just pure insanity? Either way, you received pity from the onlookers that watched in on your relationship, week after week, watching the distance between you two in the pit lane become further and further apart, watching as the man that supposedly loved you, laughed at the unfunny jokes that the models would tell him, watching them place their arms on his arm and stay there as he refused to shove them away.Â
And yet, you still loved him, because after all he still loved you. Right? Of course he loved you, thatâs why heâd say those magic words. He wouldnât throw those sacred words around, right?
Of course he would.Â
Lando Norris would only find himself using the words âI love youâ at times where he needed to avoid his mistakes being thrown back into his face and to keep you by his side. Of course, at one point those words did truly hold value and meaning to his relationship, but that was a long time ago and the meaning was now washed away, and a new definition for the phrase was made, to keep you. If you were to ask him what the meaning was however, he would proclaim that it means and symbolises his adoration and infatuation with you, and you being none the wiser would further and further into his arms, never wanting to let go and leave this comfort blanket that had been made just for you.Â
I mean who would want to leave this VERY financially stable man that was able to fill your house with flowers and gifts, constantly flying you around the world with him as he always holds you and reassures you with his âloveâ.
You certainly didnât want to. For godâs sake you had been with the man since you were 17, having known eachother since you were both 14, and you didnât know anything about the real world without having Lando by your side. Of course your mother would always offer a place to stay whenever you had one of your rocky moments but that was only for a day or so, now where would you go if you truly were to finally take that leap of faith and leave the one person that was actually holding you back?Â
But I mean what were you even talking about? Leaving Lando sounded more like a nightmare than a saving grace, I mean leaving the one man that has always been there for you? Youâre crazy to think I would eve-
âY/N! I am baaackâ his voice sounded slurred as he shouted into the apartment.Â
You turn your head from where you sit on the sofa, swirling the glass of wine that you hold in your hand, watching Lando struggle to slip off his trainers, a task he ultimately gives up on, huffing loudly before straggling over to your spot.Â
âI missed youâ he breathes, his breath confirming your thoughts.
âGreatâ you think, âAnother night of babying himâÂ
You donât dare try and translate his coherent babbles, watching as he mindlessly talks to the ceiling, waiting for him to slowly sober up, which leads you to getting up and filling him a nice glass full of wa-Â
âI cheated on you.âÂ
âWhat?â
âYou heardâ
You freeze, both out of shock and also out of anger. How could he? A man that she had dedicated 7 years of her life to and yet this is the cause of the end. An easily avoidable action that he seems to have no guilt or sorrow for happening? How could someone that preached to his lover how much he loved them, then proceed to do the complete opposite?Â
Your brain speaks for your heart in this moment, sacrificing your feelings for the next couple of months for your sanity, putting down the glass and heading down to your shared bedroom without saying a word, pulling out a suitcase and packing what you needed most, you could leave behind items, that would be his problem as you would not be coming back. You grab what little trinkets you have that donât remind you of him and start to leave for the front dorm when you are stopped by him.Â
Itâs only now do you take in the intoxicated state that he was in, though youâre pretty sure that by now heâs sobered up, messy hair that seems to poke out at every angle, definitely having felt the fingers of many a woman comb through it. You also notice the slight rouge colour thatâs been attempted to have been smeared off, a clear sign at the manâs infidelity. Itâs pathetic really, that you had once been enamoured with the man that stands in front of you but now here you are, leaving behind the one thing that has held you back this whole time. You donât know where youâll go but anywhere is better than this place that you once thought was the place youâd grow old with each other in, but that was before you truly woke up. Sometimes itâs best to leave things in the past and Lando Norris is a great example of this, though youâll never forget when it was real, when you were both happy.Â
Maybe it was meant to be at a time but it wasnât meant forever.Â
âWhere are you going?â His voice snaps you out of your monologue that you preach in your head.Â
âIâm leaving and I am not coming back.âÂ
At first he thinks you're joking but the strong demeanour you hold on your face shows that you are doing anything but.Â
âB-but I love you y/n.â
You scoff.
âSo? Please let me go Lando.â You say, voice laced with desperation.
So he does, he lets you go and you donât dare look back.
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