summary: good things happen to those who are found crying in the supply closet by their hot, older, maybe flirty boss-slash-mentor.
wc: 14.5k (i have no idea how that happened)
tags/tropes: age gap (duh), slow burn with an insane amount of tension, lowkey very emotionally rife, hurt/comfort, not-so-unrealistic amounts of crying, langdonmel in the background if you squint (you don’t have to squint very hard i love them so much guys im sorry) vaguely referenced but not subtlety implied bad childhood, gratuitous and frankly ridiculous medical inaccuracies because i took a lot of creative liberty, reader is an ode to Matilda by Harry Styles and You’re Gonna Go Far by Noah Kahan, Pitt Crew becomes reader’s family :)
a/n: this was supposed to be a sort-of drabble for @leeknowpegger. idk what happened. pegger i’m sorry i’ve been so dead recently (always) will you take this as an apology. If you’d like more cohesive tags, more context, extra details, and more in depth warnings, this fic has been cross-posted on ao3, and will be linked below :]
NOT-SO-FRIENDLY-PSA: Any comments asking me to write more, post another chapter, or anything of the sort will be deleted. Please do not send an ask into my inbox either.
ao3
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۫ ꣑ৎ
You have been the perfect day shift intern for five months. Five freaking months of listening to mostly constructive criticism, five months of adapting and learning on the go with not a single complaint voiced, five months of diligent note-taking, studying, and practice. Five months of weaseling your way into the list of interns-slash-young-doctors that your residents actually respect. Five months of grueling shifts, hard losses, and never saying no when someone needs you to do something.
Five months of being the untouchable, “perfect” intern. Robby’s newest addition to his growing list of “work-wards.”
Five months of unflinching effort and dedication and it took four hours of your third night-shift to reduce you to a miserable, snotty mess on the supply closet floor. Tucked into the space between the two shelves, just the toes of your blood and snot and god knows what else covered shoes peeking out, the rest of you obscured.
Five months, four hours, and back to back fuck-ups that escalated into Dr. Jack Abbot, the man you may or may not have had the hugest crush on since beginning your intern year, removing you from a case. Five months, four hours, and two parents screaming at Dr. Abbot, telling him that you’re not fit to be a doctor.
Tonight isn’t the first night a patient has yelled at you. Tonight isn’t even the first time you’ve been removed from a case. It’s not the first time Dr. Abbot has had to correct you, and it’s certainly not the first time you’ve made a mistake.
You’re an intern. It’s your job to fuck up, learn from it, and keep going. That’s what Dr. Mohan said to one of the other interns awhile back. They’d ended up flunking out, but oh well. It was good advice. It wasn’t meant for you, but hell if you don’t say it to yourself every night like a prayer.
But right now, the usual calming mantra is doing absolutely nothing. You’re stifling ugly sobs into the tops of your knees, arms wrapped around and squeezing as tight as you can, your chest shaking and shuddering with the force of your complete and total freak-out.
The patient isn’t dead. Despite your mistakes, they didn’t die. There’s really nothing to cry about. Nothing to hide in the supply closet for.
And yet, here you are.
Your first mistake wasn’t terrible, but it was ridiculously stupid and incredibly embarrassing. Triage room, emergency measures being taken. And you, tired and off kilter from being so used to the day-shift, broke the sterile field. Like some dumb medical student, not a fairly seasoned intern who’s drilled sterile protocol into her head until it’s muscle memory.
For a scalpel. You dropped a scalpel. Arguably the worst thing to drop. And then, like an idiot, you picked it back up.
And, well. There’s no time to re-scrub, so there wasn’t a need for you in the triage room anymore.
Your second mistake was equally stupid and avoidable, if you’d focused more. Dr. Garcia was kind enough to let you scrub in on an emergency appendectomy.
It was a test. Not your first.
And you ripped the fucking purse strings.
Once again, you were unceremoniously booted from the room (being kicked out of an OR feels a hell of a lot worse than being kicked out of a triage room) and sent back to the pit. Dr. Abbot immediately caught wind of it and demoted you to scut work until “you get your head back in the game.”
And, well. You tried really hard to devote yourself to your new task, but you had to keep blinking tears out of your eyes every five seconds and you absolutely refuse to cry in front of literally any of your coworkers, lest they think you some weak-willed weak-stomached intern who can’t handle some criticism and correction. You’re a hard worker. You’re good at this. You have to be.
So yeah. Crying in the supply closet.
You’ve always been a frustrated cryer, which is annoying on a good day and downright awful on a bad one (case in point.)
You’re just so upset with yourself. You’re better than this. You know you are. You’ve proven that you are. You don’t drop scalpels. You don’t break the sterile field. You don’t rip purse strings.
But you did tonight. And maybe one day you’ll laugh, but today is not that day.
You just don’t get it. Day shift? Incredible. Manageable. You’re on top of things, put together, and worthy of Dr. Robby’s respect.
But tonight? Quite literally the exact opposite.
You can’t be burning out, right? That’s not how burn out works. There’s like, signs, and you start to feel terrible and awful and exhausted and sure you definitely feel all of those things, but that’s because you work in medicine. And you’re an intern. You’re supposed to feel terrible and awful and exhausted. But maybe you’re not? You do enjoy your work, and it’s exhilarating, especially when you try something for the first time and execute it well, because you always do, you always get things right on the first try, obviously, so that means that this can’t be burn out. You don’t burn out. That’s not you. Right? No. Of course not.
You gasp a particularly rough sob into your knees, air feeling like knives as you inhale, making you cough horrendously. You must be quite a sight.
Unfortunately, due to your alternating hacking coughs and dramatic crying, you don’t quite hear the door open.
You do, however, hear the quiet “Oh.” that’s mumbled a few moments later.
Of-fucking-course.
You scramble upright, aggressively wiping at your face and attempting to make it look like you weren’t just crying on the ground.
“Dr. Abbot! I’m so sorry, this is very unprofessional and I know you have me on scut work but I promise I’m still working on it—“
He holds up a hand, and you slam your jaw shut with an audible click.
“Just needed some four by fours, kid.”
Always one to be helpful (especially to the guy you have a crush on who also happens to be your boss, aka the same person who professionally told you to get your shit together about forty minutes ago) you reach beside yourself and hand him the package of gauze, an awkward smile fixed on your face.
“…Those are three by threes.”
Bitch. Motherfucker. Fuck your life.
“Right,” You mumble, dragging your hand down your face. “I’ll just get out of your way. Sorry.”
You turn to walk past him, attempting to go quick enough that he might not notice the new tears shining in your eyes before a hand lands on your shoulder.
“Look,” Dr. Abbot starts. “You’re one of Robby’s adopted interns, right? Robby-Junior?”
“That is one of the rumors Santos has been spreading, yes.”
His hand is on your shoulder. His hand is on your shoulder. (!!!)
You don’t know what to do. He’s looking at you. Your boss doesn’t fluster you. You’re chill. You’re normal. You’re cool as a cucumber, yep yep yep.
“Robby doesn’t adopt interns lightly. Don’t let one bad shift mess you up. It happens to everyone.”
You purse your lips. You should let it go. Take his advice. Thank him.
The all-consuming-guilt and ever-present-need to prove yourself itches too painfully to ignore.
Dr. Abbot seems to notice, and he catches your gaze again.
“What, it doesn’t happen to you?”
A jolt of panic stabs your chest. “No! Of course it happens to me, I didn’t mean to imply that I’m like, above making mistakes or having bad shifts at all—“
Genuinely what is wrong with you. Why the fuck does he do this you. You’re a smart, confident woman who apparently chucks her brain into the garbage bin whenever her boss is around.
Dr. Abbot, probably picking up on a pattern of behavior by now, levels you with another look that shuts you up fairly quickly. He’s got a sort of impish grin on his face, and it shouldn’t be hot, but he’s got his hand on your shoulder and you’re having a ridiculously shitty night. Does anything matter anymore?
“Usually, we try to mix up interns schedules so you don’t get into a rhythm on one specific shift so that when you inevitably switch, the change doesn’t mess up your flow. But I'm sure your knack for keeping your head down and doing good work let you fall through the cracks.”
He takes his hand off your shoulder and shoves it into his pocket, but you almost don’t notice because he said you do good work.
Abbot gives you another grin. “And I didn’t stick you on scut as a punishment. Mindless work tends to be calming, which in turn helps focus your mind.”
“But I ripped the purse strings,” You blurt like a Catholic school girl in a particularly rife confessional, “Like an idiot.”
“You ripped them like an intern doing something for the first time.”
“I practiced hundreds of times to make sure it didn’t happen!”
He tilts his head, almost cat-like. “Did you also practice on a live person in a higher stakes situation while your body is messed up from a sudden and huge sleep schedule change?”
“…No?”
He snorts. “Exactly. Dr. Garcia probably won’t hold it against you. She’ll give you shit for it, but it’s not like she’s never going to give you another chance.”
You wipe the last bit of wetness of your cheeks with the back of your hand, embarrassment heating your face. Despite the awfulness of being caught crying in the supply closet, the beginnings of pleasant warmth is spreading through your chest, Dr. Abbot’s reassurances echoing in your head.
“Thank you, Dr. Abbot. Um. Sorry about the crying. I promise I don’t usually do that.”
Dr. Abbot snorts as he saunters towards the door. “Wouldn’t judge you if you did, kid.”
—
Dr. Jack Abbot is bored.
He has his work, which is great. He became a doctor after being discharged because he’s always been the kind of man that needs something to do. Something to mind, something to watch, something to fix. Robby and him and much the same in this way.
Working at the ED was enough for a while. There was a certain challenge to it, an unpredictability that itch sated, kept him sane. And, well. Now he’s an attending. Night shift lead.
He started to get restless again.
He thought a pet might work. He was going to get a dog, but it didn’t sit right with him to get an animal built for companionship and then leave it at home for over twelve hours a day. Then he thought a cat might do the trick. He looked online first, saw beautiful, well bred felines that could probably compete and win for best in show for whatever the cat equivalent is for the Westminster Dog Show.
And then he made the mistake of going to the shelter and seeing an old, one eared tuxedo cat that stared at him with something in between fear and spite and its eyes. And well. The shelter attendants assured him that the cat in question prefers being left alone and having its own space, but might warm up eventually, and he brought him home that day.
And then it was just Jack, occasionally Robby, and now his asshole cat who might not love him back.
That also worked for a while. Having Charlie was fun. It was nice having another living creature in his house that wasn’t him. Even if he did have a habit of chewing on power cords when left unattended and eventually progressed into attempting to destroy Jack’s stethoscope if he left it anywhere he could find.
Minding the cat gave him something to do that wasn’t tedious, and it was a special sort of bonus to wake up every now and then and see the cat sprawled at the foot of the bed, snoring away. He didn’t actually know cats could snore like that.
Around the time that the itch came back and Jack was considering adopting a second cat from the shelter (well on his path to becoming a crazy cat lady, as Robby said in the park over beers) he met you for the first time.
Sometimes Jack slips quietly into the ED and watches the chaos of day shift’s conclusions. He’s picked up a very special language of gauging what he’s getting into based on the body language and behavior of the rest of the hospital staff. Robby had told him about the latest intern— a motivated, stubborn sort of girl that frequently went toe-to-toe with Santos but without any of the pushback when receiving correction or criticism. He’d heard that you were smart, capable, and well on your way of becoming a great doctor.
Robby failed to mention that you were pretty.
He’d watch you, comparing notes with Mohan with a certain intense focus on your face, worrying your lip between your teeth and repeatedly tucking a piece of hair behind your ear because it’d fallen out of your disheveled pony tail he thinks ‘Oh.’
And then, a few months later, he finds you crying in a closet, subtly confessing fears of failure and falling short of expectations, and then he thinks ‘Well, there’s something to do.’
Jack tries not to think about you, at first. You, looking up at him with red-rimmed eyes, bottom lip jutted out just a bit, hugging your knees. He tries not to think about how you’d looked at him when he’d assured you that you did good work, the awkward thank you, and the way that for the rest of the shift, all the annoying menial tasks that get forgotten in the chaos were all mysteriously taken care of.
He tells himself that he’s just going to keep an eye on you. For Robby’s sake. He’d do the same for Whitaker.
The next time you have a night shift, you’re clearly more prepared for the exhaustion, and when he finally sees you in true, proper action, he understands immediately why Robby likes you and Mohan frequently attaches you to her cases. Skill, patience, and focus.
When he watches you trach a patient with a certain ease that only comes from practicing hundreds of times, Ellis shoots him a knowing look. Raised eyebrows and smirk. When she passes him in the hall a few hours later, she jabs her thumb behind her shoulder at where you’re diligently filling out a chart.
“That one yours, then?”
Jack shakes his head. “It’s not like that. You make me sound like a creep.”
Another raised eyebrow. “Sure it isn’t.”
“She’s Robby’s intern.”
“Mhm.”
“She’s way too young.”
Parker shrugs. “She’s good.”
“She is.”
The senior resident cuts a glance back to you. “Think she’ll burn out?”
“Maybe.”
Parker crosses his arms. “Are you gonna let it happen?”
“She’s not my intern.”
Up to three Parker Ellis looks and counting.
“It’s an HR nightmare.”
Parker shrugs. “You just said she’s not your intern.”
He narrows his eyes. “You know what I meant.”
“Do I? It’s been awhile, Jack. No one would really judge you for having some fun.”
“Parker.”
“Jack.”
He shakes his head, walks towards the boards. “You’re the worst.”
Parker just laughs. “Sure I am.”
To your credit, he doesn’t find you crying in a supply closet again to see evidence of you doing so for a solid few weeks. But, like most things in the ED, the peace doesn’t last.
You came into work soaking wet, which is odd, considering the fact that he knows you drive, and the walk to the parking lot isn’t far enough to account how you’re shivering in your freshly changed scrubs. He brushes it off, chalks it up to freakish Pittsburg weather.
Some night shifts are relatively slow and mild. Tonight is not one of those shifts. Patients are extra irritable at late hours, which is to be expected, but what he’s not expecting is to walk by South 15 and see a 50-something year old man slap you.
Jack blinks, and in the next second he’s in the room, standing in between you and the patient.
“Excuse me, what the fuck is going on here?”
Gloria will probably give him shit for his language later, but right now all he can think about is the startled look on your face and the echo that the contact made.
“I said I want a real doctor, not this fucking—“
“Get the fuck out of my hospital.”
Shen peaks his head in. “Security’s on their way.”
Jack reaches behind him to where you’re still standing, your hand covering your cheek, and gently pushes you towards Shen, towards the door. You stumble over your feet a bit, but truly, Jack’s never been more thankful for his residents because then Parker is right there, ushering you out the door with a hand on your shoulder. Jack resolutely ignores your mumbled “I’m fine, really, he just surprised me.”
Thankfully, security doesn’t take that long to get to the room, and the second Jack is finished explaining, he’s out the door and scanning the ED for your face. Nurse Young jerks her head towards the break room, and he thinks he manages to give her what he hopes is a thankful smile before he’s beelining for it.
When he opens the door, you’re sitting on the floor again, holding an ice pack to your cheek with one hand and dabbing at your lip with a paper towel. Like you’ve never heard of medical protocol in your entire life.
“What the fuck are you doing?”
You jerk your head up, a kid caught with its hand in the cookie jar.
“Dr. Abbot!”
Lowering himself to the ground is awkward, physically. Prosthetics don’t lend to much mobility and he’s too old to be doing this, but he just. There are little beads of blood collecting and then sliding down your chin, dripping onto the leg of your scrubs. At the same angle of the split in your lip, there’s a little cut he can see peaking out from under the ice pack.
He reaches forward, fingers itching towards the deep scarlet dripping steadily. He pauses, remembering things like words and questions and sees the wild look in your eyes.
“Can I…?” Jack’s voice trails off, the words clunky and useless in this bubble that’s seemed to form around the two of you, on the probably disgusting floor of the ED break room.
You slowly drop the napkin, let the ice pack lower to your lap and nod.
“He had a ring on. I guess it caught me. I didn’t really notice until I got here.”
“Parker and Shen didn’t notice?”
You look at your lap. “I told them I was fine… And covered it with my hand. There are other patients. It’s just a little cut.”
Jack’s fingers finally reach your face, and he almost takes them back when you flinch on the initial contact, shaking ever so slightly.
But then, with noticeable effort, you relax into his palm, his fingers curling around the side of your jaw. He should grab gloves. He should get up, take his hand off your face.
Anyone could walk in right now and call Gloria on his ass.
His thumb sweeps across your cheekbone, just below the cut, which does have some faint bruising around it. And truthfully, the split in your lip doesn’t look that bad either.
But there’s still little dots and trails of scarlet and he doesn’t think he’s going to be able to calm down until he fixes it. He needs to fix something.
“If I leave you here so I can get supplies,” He starts, voice a little rough, “Can I trust that you’ll stay here and not do anything stupid?”
“Uh, yes? Should I move to a real chair though?”
Jack huffs as he hauls himself to his feet. “That’d be preferable.”
Later, when he’s at home in his bed, he’ll assure himself that the night shift wasn’t truly that busy and he trusts his residents to handle things while he’s busy.
No one stops him on his way to the medical supply closet (the irony of the location is not lost on him) and he makes it back without interruption. Upon opening the door, you have in fact moved to a chair, and it seems the bleeding slowed in his absence.
What he should do is sit down in the chair opposite of you and handle this situation like a professional, like the Dr. Abbot, night shift attending, not Jack who’s got a thing for fixing.
He does try to remove his emotions and feelings from the situation, he really does. It’s something he’s generally very good at —which is where he and Robby differ; Robby would prefer to feel too much and Jack would prefer to feel nothing at all— but you’re looking up at him and there’s something really dangerous in the air and it must’ve gotten into your blood stream or something cause it’s swimming in your eyes and he realizes that removing his feelings is not going to be possible.
He decides he could at least tone it down. You’re an intern. Robby’s intern. So what if you’re bleeding all over the break room? Jack’s just doing his job as the attending to look after the doctors and nurses under his jurisdiction or whatever. That’s all.
“Tilt your head up.”
He sets to work cleaning up the cut and split as detached and clinically as possible, even puts on gloves so there’s no skin to skin contact, just protocol, but he can feel the warmth of your skin through the latex and you keep sucking in these tiny little breathes when something stings and he can’t get the sound of the slap out of his head and it’s all just kind of a lot.
He readjusts his hand on the side of your face, sort of holding your forehead now to have better access and control over the cut on your cheek and wow. Your skin is really warm. It kind of feels like you’re burning up.
Jack tosses the piece of gauze he was using and rests the back of his hand against your forehead. Shit, you are burning up.
He thinks back to you, walking in today, soaked to the bone.
“Did you walk to work today?”
You wince. “My car kind of died? On the way here? I was only a mile away. But I called a towing company, so I didn’t just leave my car in the middle of the road.”
He blinks.
“Your car died, so you had it towed and walked a mile to work, in the rain, late at night, and didn’t tell anybody?”
You just keep staring at him, brows furrowed.
“Yeah? I carry a knife and I’ve taken self defense classes, and my car was just towed back to my place, so. I had a shift to work.”
There’s… a lot to unpack in your answer.
“Kid,” He starts, wondering why Robby never thought to give him a heads up before you started working more night shifts, “What was your plan to get home?”
“Walk, probably. I was thinking about taking the bus. Dr. King knows the bus schedule, so I’m probably going to text her.”
Jack decides to just finish cleaning you up, before he does something stupid like shake you by your shoulders and ask why you didn’t think to let your boss know that your car broke down and you’d be walking home in the rain. Or that when a patient slapped you in the face, his ring cut your face and lip open.
God.
“It’s really fine though,” You say, gesticulating animatedly with your hands. “My place isn’t that far, and it’s not the first time my car’s died. The battery’s kind of shot, but I guess my car has a weird battery, and it’s like, crazy expensive to get a new one, so. Besides, I like walking. I’ve been meaning to catch up on my audiobooks.”
He wishes you’d stop talking so he’d stop hearing things that make him want to do things he can’t and shouldn’t do. Like find out what car you drive so he can buy you a new battery. Or buy you a new car all together.
Christ, you have him wrapped around your fucking finger.
“I’ll drive you home. If you’re fine with that.”
Jack has to fight a grin at how comically wide your eyes grow at his suggestion.
“Oh no, you really don’t have to. I promise I’m—“
“Please stop saying you're fine,” He begs, “You don’t have a working car, a patient slapped you in the face, and I think you’re coming down with something.”
The smile that’s seemed permanently fixed on your face since he came into the break room falters, for a bit.
“Well,” You grimace, hands fisting the hem of your scrub top, “Things certainly aren’t… great, but I’ll survive. I’m not like, incapable, or anything.”
Jacks quiet for a bit, not just mulling over your words but the way you said them; the cadence and tone.
He hums. “Is that what you think? That I or someone else here will think you’re not competent or that you’re weak if you take a break or ask for help?”
Your face falters again. “No, no, of course not I just… I don’t know. I’m an intern. It’s my job, supposedly, to mess up and have to be looked after in case I accidentally kill someone and stuff like that. I just don’t want to be someone that people think they have to worry about. I need— internships are competitive. They’re competitions, really. And I want to win.”
Jack Abbot knows what it’s like to want to win. That need to prove yourself, prove that you’re capable and strong and unfailing.
So Jack also knows how quickly that can all go south.
“You’re a smart kid,” He says, voice ever so slightly soft in the quiet tension of the break room, empty except for the two of you, “And you’re going to make a great resident, and one day, a damn good attending. But none of that means shit if you burn out or get run yourself into the ground before you get there.”
He avoids eye-contact while he carefully applies the bandage to your cheek. “This industry will chew you up and spit you back out if you don’t take care of yourself. I get it. We’re doctors. We make the worst patients. But you got slapped in the face during a shitty day. It’s okay to… not be okay for a minute.”
You huff a watery laugh. “Isn’t that what energy drinks are for?”
He shakes his head. “What, trying to die faster?”
“Anything to shake those student loans. Can’t be in debt if you’re dead.”
“Don’t they just pass it to your family? Next of kin or whatever?”
“I don’t think they can give student loans to a cactus. I mean, I consider her my daughter, but I hardly think it’ll hold up in court.”
Jack mentally files that information away for later. What later is, he isn’t sure.
He stands, pulls off his gloves and tosses all the used gauze and shit in the trash can.
“I gotta get back out there,” He jams his thumb towards the door, “But feel free to take five. No one’s judging you. Matter of fact, as your boss, I’m telling you to take a break.”
You roll your eyes. “Whatever you say, Dr. Abbot. But thank you. For the…”
You gesture to your bandaged cheek and lip. “…And for the advice.”
He shrugs, like taking care of you hasn’t become a persona fantasy he may or may not fall asleep imagining most nights. Like it doesn’t matter, like he’s just doing his job.
“Offer for the ride’s still open. Just let me know by the end of shift.”
And with that, he’s out the door.
It’s the end of shift, and you’re staring at the double doors that lead to the outside world, and beyond that, absolutely fucking miserable weather for walking, a dead car, and cold as shit apartment.
You’re not exactly rushing out the door.
You’re clutching at the strap of your bag, regular clothes on, still damp despite the fact that it’s been over thirteen hours since you originally took them off, begging the universe to strike you down where you stand. Spontaneous lightning bolts happen indoors too, right?
The doors just stare back at you, unchanging in their miserable-ness, and after a solid ten minutes of staring, you feel rather than see Jack sidle up next to you.
“Still raining out there?”
“Yep. Looks worse now.”
“Not great weather to walk in. Especially considering the low-grade fever.”
“Mhm.”
“Did you text Dr. King for the bus schedule?”
“No. I didn’t want to wake her up.”
Jack huffs a breath, then jerks his head towards the doors that lead to the employee parking lot.
“Come on, kid.”
The ride is quiet and awkward. Well. Dr. Abbot probably doesn’t think it’s awkward, because he seems like the kind of man not to be bothered by long stretches of silence. Or silence at all.
He’d been kind enough to turn the heat on full blast (you started shivering the moment you stepped outside) and the radio is softly playing, and it’s only thanks to Sabrina Carpenter’s voice that you don’t feel like completely freaking out.
You mouth along to the lyrics, quietly humming the chorus under your breath.
“—I get wet at the thought of you being a responsible guy—“
“—Treating me like you’re supposed to do, tears run down my thighs—“
By the time you’ve realized that perhaps this isn’t the best song choice to sing along to, considering the situation and who’s car you’re currently riding in, the words “I get wet” have already left your mouth so there’s no real point in stopping.
On a completely unrelated note, Dr. Abbot starts smiling a little bit when you hum.
Pittsburgh traffic is terrible, so the drive kind of drags on. The radio is playing Chappell Roan now. Casual specifically. You’re considering changing the radio station because god.
“So,” You start, just to say anything that drowns out “knee-deep in the passenger seat and you’re eating me out, is it casual now?”, “Did you… have a good shift?”
That was a terrible question. Jesus. What the hell is wrong with you? How did you get through medical school?
Dr. Abbot snorts. “Shouldn’t I be asking you that question?”
Ah. Right. The Incident.
“I told you I’m—“
“Didn’t I tell you to stop saying that?”
Your lap has never looked more interesting. Wow, is that a loose thread on your sweats?
He continues. “Fine or not, a patient assaulted you. Even if he didn’t leave a mark, that’s still shitty.”
“Have you been hit by a patient before?”
He huffs. “Hell yeah. It happens to everyone eventually. It’ll happen again. You get better at keeping your cool.”
“Sorry you had to step in. I’ve been hit by a patient before and I was fine.”
“Oh yeah?”
You nod. “It was during my Pedes rotation, actually. I’ve always known working with kids probably wasn’t going to be for me, but, well. Kid came in for intussusception, and she was screaming and writhing in pain, and I failed to restrain her properly.”
“What, did she slap you too?”
“Nope. Kicked me in the chin. Ended up biting almost clean through my tongue.”
“Fucking hell, kid. What’d you do?”
You shrug. “Kept my blood in my mouth until we finished sedating the patient. Ended up with three stitches.”
Dr. Abbot lets out a low whistle. “Always the patients you least expect.”
“The importance of proper patient restraint was thoroughly impressed upon me, I assure you.”
The silence after your short conversation is slightly more comfortable, and thankfully the radio station has decided to play less pointed music.
Between the warmth of the car, the smell permeating the seats that smells distinctly like Dr. Abbot, and the drumming of rain outside, it doesn’t take long for drowsiness to begin to overtake you.
Your last thought before falling asleep is that you don’t remember if you gave Dr. Abbot your address or not.
Someone is gently shaking your shoulder, and you feel like shit.
“What?” You attempt to say, but the side of your mouth is pressed against the seatbelt and your shoulder so it comes out sounding like: “Whamfgh?”
Opening your eyes is a herculean task, like someone sewed miniature weights to your eyelids while you were asleep. You’re absolutely freezing, despite the steady hum of the car's heat, still on high, and you vaguely recognize the street the car is currently parked on.
Oh right, your apartment.
“Oh,” You yawn, hauling yourself semi-upright, aiming for woman who has it together, and less disheveled swooning woman in a Baroque painting.
Dr. Abbot is staring at you with equal parts humor and concern.
You rub at your eyes. “How long have I been asleep?”
“Little over forty minutes. You looked like you needed it.”
“It doesn’t take that long to drive to my place, even with traffic.”
Your brain is moving like molasses, so it takes you a second to catch up with the implication of his statement.
“Did you just… park in front of my house? So I could keep sleeping?”
He just shrugs. “Like I said. You looked like you needed it.”
Embarrassment and a touch of something else floods through your body, hot and cold at the same time.
“Sorry. You didn’t have to wait.”
“If I didn’t want to, I wouldn’t have.”
Still moving slowly, you gather up your bag from where it partially spilled on the floor all over your feet, shoving old receipts and pads and chapstick back in with the reckless abandon of a person who isn’t nearly aware enough of social cues to be in a car alone with their hot boss.
Whilst you're grabbing and shoving, Dr. Abbot reaches into his back seat, rifles around for a bit, and then drops something rather unceremoniously over your head and shoulders. After a quiet “hey” you pull it into your lap, and then that hot feeling is back in full force.
It’s a rain jacket. Clearly Dr. Abbot’s. You can see his name written on the inside pocket. It’s nice too. Definitely not the kind of rain jacket you could afford on an intern’s budget.
“For the next time your car dies,” He clarifies, as if the jacket’s purpose is the thing that’s stupefied you, not the fact that he’s the one giving it to you, “In case of rain.”
“You really don’t have to,” your words are rushed and clunky in your mouth, tumbling over each other in your haste to say something, anything, “I mean, I can just buy my own—“
“First of all,” He cuts you off, voice smooth and rough at the same time, “Do I seem to be the kind of guy in the habit of doing things I don’t want to? And second of all…”
He tilts his head, gaze sharp. “Are you really going to buy one for yourself?”
Your mouth goes dry.
“I was planning on looking online—“
Dr. Abbot interrupts you. “Now you don’t have to.”
Like it’s that easy. Does he want it to be?
“Dr. Abbot, I—“
“Jack.”
His grin goes from mild to shit-eating as you stare at him, obviously radiating confusion.
“Jack,” you start, testing out the name in your mouth, hearing how it sounds in the air. “I can take care of myself. You don’t need to give me your jacket. I’ve been doing just fine on my own.”
“Kid—“
The prickling of perceived weakness makes anger spark in your chest.
“Don’t call me kid like I’m stupid.”
Dr. Abb— Jack seems simultaneously impressed that you interrupted him for a change and vaguely put out.
He holds up a finger, effectively silencing anything else you were thinking of saying.
“I don’t call you kid because I think you’re stupid. I don’t think you’re stupid. You’d know if I thought you were stupid, because I would tell you. ‘Kid’ is a…” He trails off, free hand tapping thoughtful rhythms on the steering wheel, “…Nickname. Term of endearment. Whatever you want to call it, but it’s not derogatory.”
Jack holds up a second finger.
“You have not been taking care of yourself. If you were, you wouldn’t have a low grade fever, and you would’ve called me as your boss or one of your friends to drive you instead of walking after your car died. You’ve been surviving. There’s a difference.”
Shame burns white hot through you— all your recent failings laid out by the person you want least to notice them. Clearly, he has.
Possibly out of pity in response to your no doubt miserable expression, Jack continues.
“Don’t beat yourself up about it. It’d be an honest-to-god miracle if any intern managed to properly take care of themself. Hell, residents don’t do it either, and neither do attendings. Does Robby strike you as the kind of man who takes perfect care of himself?”
“That depends. Is my answer going to make it back to him?”
Jack huffs a quiet laugh. “Exactly. Doctors make the worst patients, in and out of a hospital setting. Knowing better doesn’t actually make us all that inclined to do better. Terrible misconception.”
He nudges the jacket on your lap. “So just take the jacket. One less thing to worry about.”
Emboldened by his recent streak of kindness towards you and the flush of fever running through your veins, you look over to him.
“You worry about me?”
Something dances in his eyes for a split second, gone before you can blink.
“I worry about all the interns and residents on my service, but especially the ones my best friend has taken a liking to.”
Right. Of course. He only cares because of Robby. And Robby only cares so he can add another doctor to the already short-staffed PTMC. It’s not like Jack actually likes you or anything.
You clutch the jacket to your stomach, finally finding the energy to get out of the car. Jack’s car.
“Well. Thanks for the ride, Dr. Abbot. And the jacket.”
“No problem, kid.”
And if later on that evening, in the safety of your tiny apartment, you take in the deep, fresh, almost spicy smell that makes up Jack, lingering on the jacket, that’s no one’s business but yours.
—
From that night on, it feels like Jack Abbot is everywhere.
Whether it’s something he’s doing on purpose or you’ve just developed a heightened sense to his whereabouts— it doesn’t matter. Sometimes it’s a whiff of his cologne (eerily similar to Dior Sauvage, which makes you shudder. Certainly he didn’t choose a cologne similar to the number one male manipulator scent on purpose?) or seeing his handwriting on a whiteboard or his notes in a chart, he’s there.
You’re being scheduled for night shifts fairly regularly now, in addition to the 24-hour shifts you have the pleasure of being put on as an intern.
Working a double isn’t horrific, really. Exhausting, sure, but Robby and Jack’s solid presence makes the shifts more bearable. Plus, you’re quickly becoming friends with the fresher residents, Whitaker and Santos, plus some of the older residents like Mohan and King. Even Dr. Langdon gives pretty solid advice and mentorship, despite the tension in the air whenever he happens to be working with or near Robby.
Normally, 24 hour shifts are grueling, but not impossible. Somewhere around the 15 or 16 hour mark, the sleep deprivation hits, and you can just coast on stress-induced inertia and a healthy does of energy drinks and mania.
Today, though, has been particularly fucking awful. Maybe it’s the fact that the fever never really went away, or the fact that you started your period the day before (being sick on your period should be illegal.) It’s probably both of those things.
But there isn’t really anything to do but grin and bear it. The day will pass, and you have the next two days off anyways. Just survive the next however-many hours of the shift and then you can go home, dress in exclusively fluffy clothes, and binge watch tv whilst eating heart-stopping junk food.
You’re distracted from your charting, propped up on the counter at the nurses station by a light tap on your shoulder and someone saying your name.
Dr. Langdon has sidled up next you, voice hushed.
“Hey, uh. I just wanted to let you know that you seem to have… bled through.”
If a spontaneous earthquake could open a chasm beneath your feet and swallow you whole, now would be the time.
“Fuck fuck-ity fuck fuck,” You mumble, wiping your hands down your face. “Right. Yeah. Of course. Thank you for letting me know.”
In a moment that is as mortifying as it is kind of sweet, Langdon passes you a hoodie that is clearly his.
“To tie around your waist,” He clarifies, holding the object out across the meager space between the two of you, voice a bit awkward and stilted, like you might decide to spit in his face or something.
You don’t actually know what it is that Dr. Langdon did before your arrival that makes the break room go quiet when he walks in (unless Dr. King is there) but you don’t particularly care. If it was truly something horrific that you should be worried about, he wouldn’t be working here. Robby wouldn’t let that kind of thing slide.
So you take the offered hoodie with a strained smile (can this shift just be over) and speed-walk to the break room, praying no one decides to snag you on the way there.
What you should do is go to your locker where your stash of pads, tampons, spare underwear, and extra scrubs are, and then probably the bathroom to get changed, so you can keep on going but you also just saw Dr. King go into the break room and you just really need a hit of her specific brand of optimism.
The woman in question perks up when she notices your arrival, hastily eating the same snack she always eats around this time— a tiny bag of pretzels.
She watches as you collapse into the chair across from her, letting your head thunk onto the table.
“Bad shift?”
“Bad life,” You grumble. “Dr. Langdon had to give me his hoodie to tie around my waist because I bled through onto my scrubs. Like a middle schooler who doesn’t know what pad sizes are for.”
Dr. King nods thoughtfully. “He asked me if it would be weird of him to let you know and offer his hoodie. To which I replied that periods are a normal bodily function and he’s a doctor.”
“Here here,” You half-heartedly cheer, any actual cheer or enthusiasm severely lacking in your voice. “How did you survive your intern year, Dr. King?”
“We’ve been working together for awhile, you can call me Mel,”
She pops another pretzel in her mouth before answering. “But to answer your question, I mostly just kept telling myself that failing wasn’t an option. Which. Probably isn’t helpful, or good advice, but it worked for me. Something that’s nice is if you have a fellow intern or doctor that you enjoy working with. I know the other two interns who matched into the PTMC dropped out of the course, so it’s just you, but you have Dr. Robby, right?”
You nod, picking absently at a spot on the table and ignoring the way that it wasn’t Robby who popped into your head, but Jack.
Your teeny, ignorable crush on him has become a full-blown thing, with semi-weekly dreams about him in various… situations, and casual daydreams at all hours of the day of what it would be like to just be with him, or hear him, in any capacity that couldn’t be qualified as work or a boss checking on his employee. Intern. Whatever.
Hormonal and fever-ish, you suddenly feel like you’re going to explode and die if you don’t have someone to confide in right this very second. You haven’t heard Mel really talk about anyone you work with outside of professional doctor-to-doctor conversation, not even about Dr. Langdon, who she seems almost suspiciously close with.
“Mel,” You start, voice a little too thick and watery to just be talking about your stupid, annoying, one-sided workplace crush, “Can I tell you a secret?”
She seems to consider the pros and cons first, and looks fairly caught off guard, but she answers. “Um. Sure?”
“Have you ever had a crush on a coworker before? Or like, a boss or mentor?”
Mel sets down her bag of pretzels. “Is this about Dr.—“
“I have the biggest crush on Dr. Abbot and I think it’s ruining my life.”
The words burst out of you all at once, and Mel’s expression goes from shocked, to confused, before finally settling in abject amusement.
“Ah,” She says, sliding the pretzels across to you. “Um. Well I personally don’t have a crush on Dr. Abbot, but I think I understand the sentiment.”
You bury your face into your hands and groan. “It’s awful. It’s so cliche. It’s so fucking Grey’s Anatomy.”
“I’ve never actually seen that show. Becca likes it though.”
Mel allows you a few moments of wallowing and pretzel eating before she speaks again.
“Have you… acted on it?”
“No!” You snap your head up. “I mean. No, I haven’t. I’m not naive enough to think that he would reciprocate. He’s an attending and I’m an intern.”
She leans in. “But…?”
“But sometimes… I wonder? I don’t know. I’m probably crazy. He drove me home the other day, cause my car died, and it was raining, and I got slapped by a patient, and that was when I first came down with this stupid fever, and like, that’s normal, right?”
Mel nods. “Fr— Langdon drives me to work when we share shifts, and sometimes when we don’t. I think Dr. Santos and Dr. Whitaker carpool too. So maybe?”
“Right. Yeah.”
She takes the pretzel bag back. “Is there more evidence that makes you feel crazy?”
Your skin flushes hot at the memory alone.
“He gave me his rain jacket. To keep.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah.”
Mel once again takes a few minutes, and the rest of her pretzels before responding.
“I’m honestly not the best person to ask for advice about this. I’ve been told I can be… dense when it comes to romantic endeavors.”
You shrug. “You’re a great listener, and you haven’t steered me wrong in the past.”
She brightens. “That’s good! I think my advice would be to talk to Dr. Mohan. She has experience with your… particular situation.”
Mel tosses the empty pretzel bag and heads toward the door. “I’ll let Robby know you’re taking ten, so don’t worry about someone looking for you while you’re changing.”
“You’re the best. I love you.”
The resident flushes at your gratitude, and then ducks out the door, leaving you alone to stew on her advice.
—
Talking to Dr. Mohan proves difficult, at first. How exactly do you start that conversation? “Hey, I heard you had advice on having a world-ending crush on your boss, got any tips?”
Additionally, she’s kind of hard to track down. You greatly respect Dr. Mohan’s work ethic and truly aspire to her unflinching devotion to patient care at the PTMC.
After a few days (which turns into a few weeks, because you are an emotional coward) of trying (and failing) to find a moment to talk, Dr. Mohan actually ends up finding you.
“Hey!” She jogs up to you as you’re walking to your car, a too-bright smile on her face for the fact that you both just got off a fourteen hour shift.
“Sorry to be that annoying coworker who talks to you in the parking lot, but I wanted to catch you before you left. Mel said you wanted to talk to me?”
“Right!” You stammer, slightly mortified. You admire Dr. Mohan so much and really want her to think you’re capable but you really need some advice on Jack Abbot as a whole, and it sounds like she’s the only expert around. “Yes. That. It’s a really normal question, you know.”
Dr. Mohan just nods, a smile still fixed on her face, like this is a totally normal conversation. “Uh, sure?”
There’s a beat of silence where you both stare at each other, and then she gasps.
“This is about Abbot, isn’t it?”
You groan, throwing your head back in defeat. “Am I that obvious?”
She laughs goodnaturedly. “No. Probably not. You’re just the only intern in the ED right now so I try to make it a habit to keep an eye on you. Plus, Mel is literally the only person in the world who knows about my now-dead crush on him, so. I just connected the dots.”
“He’s so hot, Dr. Mohan. I feel like I’m dying.”
She makes a noise of sympathy. “He is. It’s fucking annoying, at a certain point.”
“Thank you!” You shout, “Like it’s just so there. It should be illegal to just walk around and look like that. I should be focusing on like, studying and learning, but instead I’m just harboring this stupid crush on an attending.”
“Have you ever seen Grey’s—“
“Yes. I know. I can’t be Meredith. Meredith was like, always a mess. Am I a mess?”
Mohan purses her lips. “Well. You did just say you felt like you were dying.”
“I know,” You sigh. “It makes me feel… shallow. I like being a doctor. I was so excited to get matched into the PTMC, and this stupid crush is throwing me off my game.”
“It can’t be that bad.”
“On my first night shift rotation I dropped a scalpel, picked it back up, and then ripped the purse strings on my first appendectomy.”
She winces. “Oh. That’s not… great.”
Your hand finds its way to your comfort necklace. “He found me crying in the supply closet like some medical student, and then he comforted me. It was terrible.”
Mohan starts ambling towards the direction you assume her car is in. “Well, if it’s any consolation, I’ve been caught crying in the supply closet several times. I think it’s a right of passage. And as for that second part…”
She shrugs. “Abbot gives credit where credit is due, but he won’t coddle you. If he actually offered real comfort or advice or whatever, then he meant it.”
“That’s what he said. It just didn’t really help the whole crush-on-him part. And then there was the slapping incident, and he drove me home, and now I have his rain jacket in my backseat in case my car dies again.”
Mohan actually looks taken back.
“Okay. It sounds to me like this is a situation that is in serious need of wine. Do you drink?”
“Whenever I have a spare twenty dollars.”
She grins. “I happen to have a couple bottles at home that might do the trick. Follow me back to my place?”
“Yes please.”
Wine and, eventually, takeout at Samira’s is much more enjoyable than you expected— considering the fact that you’re an intern and she’s a resident. She confides that she doesn’t have very many friends outside of the ED and was excited at the opportunity to have “real girl-time”.
She shares how she weathered her own seemingly life-ending crush on Jack, gasps and screams at the appropriate times when you tell her about the slapping, the events that occurred in the break room afterwards, the drive home, and the jacket.
You leave her apartment feeling lighter than ever. Like life might be worth living. Like you could survive your intern year.
Maybe everything will be okay.
—
Everything is not okay.
You’re now two full weeks into a never-ending fever, you keep getting stuck with shitty shifts (how many times a month can one person possibly be scheduled to work a double?) and top it all off, you’ve been pissed on not once, but twice in the same fucking shift.
Santos snorts when she sees you go by in your third set of scrubs for the day.
You shoot her a look. “Supportive as ever, Dr. Santos.”
“I try.”
You sink into the chair next to hers, taking a moment to press the heels of your hands into your eyes and maybe, like, take a thirty second nap.
It doesn’t help much.
There’s a particular misery in watching the day-shift rotation handoff with the night shift and not being able to join in the process. Because you’re still there. And will be, until you see them again for your handoff, in twelve fucking hours.
Patients tend to get bitchier the later it gets, and it’s one of those nights where every patient bleeds into the next in a never-ending sea of complaints, pain, and fixing.
The fixing is fine. You like the fixing.
You’re just… having a hard time keeping up with everything while the fever perpetually runs you down. It’s the kind of thing where no amount of sleep can help you. Unless it was for 48 hours straight and then you got another 48 hours off after that to relax while you’re awake, and then another 48 hours to be productive.
A vacation. A week off. You’re describing taking a week off work. It’s comical, actually. Imagine requesting a week off from work. Gloria or whoever it is would never grant that. Not as an intern.
You notice Jack lingering around your general vicinity, which is fairly normal on a night like tonight. Technically, as the only intern on shift, you’re the only liability he has to really worry about.
Somewhere around the eighteen hour mark, he slides into the chair next to you while you’re charting.
“You’re flagging.”
Your eyes burn as you tap information into the tablet, then check on the computer in front of you. “I’m fine. I just need a Redbull or something.”
He slides the tablet out of your hands. “Part of being a good doctor is knowing when to take a break. Can’t be a good doctor if you’re falling asleep during the exam, right?”
“I would never fall asleep during an exam.”
He shrugs. “I’ve seen it happen.”
Jack jerks his head towards the break room. “Take five. Get an energy drink or whatever. Then I want you on chairs for at least an hour.”
“Yes sir.”
He rolls his eyes. “Get going.”
Chairs don't prove to be as uneventful as you (and probably Jack) hoped it would be. You get vomited on by a teenage girl, who apologizes profusely when she finally manages to stop throwing up, narrowly avoid a swing from a patient that quickly becomes a behavioral case, and become an unwilling participant in another patient’s doctor fantasy.
Security had to get involved with that last one. It was. Something.
Your shift ends with little fanfare. It’s honestly a miracle you survived. You’re exhausted, achey, and still feverish. The only thing you can think about is crawling into your bed, indulging in a rare expense of turning your heat up, and sleeping until your next shift.
Walking into your apartment ends up being a slap in the face. First of all, it’s fucking freezing. As if you left every single window open while you were gone. Secondly, it’s dark. Like, not even the clock on the microwave is on.
“Fuck,” you mumble under your breath, tears beginning to burn with unshed tears digging through your bag and fumbling with your phone, about to text your landlord when you see that he’s already texted.
Eric (Landlord): Power and AC is down. Might take some time to fix. Power should be back on by tonight.
And that’s just the last straw, really.
You slam the door behind you, not even bothering to go inside your apartment at all, chest tight and face hot, you race down the stairs, trying to find Samira’s contact through blurry eyes. When you think you’ve found it you click call, collapsing on the curb with your body doubled over, crying like a crazy person into your knees, at something like nine in the morning.
The phone rings for a bit, and you’re about to give up when the line finally stops and somebody picks up.
“Hello?”
It’s not Samira who answers. It’s Jack.
You sniffle. “Why are you answering Samira’s phone?”
“I didn’t. I answered my phone. Because you called me. Are you okay?”
“Oh,” You decide to ignore his question, “I meant to call Samira. Sorry.”
“Wait,” Jack’s voice comes out all rough and tinny through the speaker, but even distorted through a phone, you could listen to it for hours, “Answer the question. Are you okay?”
Your bottom lip wobbles dangerously.
“The power’s out in my building. And the heating went out too. My landlord said the power won’t be on until tonight, and I just wanted to go to sleep, but it’s cold and I'm tired and this stupid fever won’t go away.”
“Do you have a place to stay?”
Always a man of action, Jack is.
You shrug, then make a non-committal noise when you remember he can’t see it. “I was supposed to call Samira and see if she’d let me sleep on her couch.”
“I have a guest bedroom.”
The statement hangs in the crisp morning air. You think of Jack’s encouraging advice, Jack’s steady presence, Jack’s warm car and his nice smelling rain- jacket. Jack, Jack, Jack.
“Jack?”
“Yes?”
“What’s your address?”
The drive over involves bawling your eyes out to Vienna by Billy Joel. It’s just that kind of day.
You have no problems finding parking (miraculously) and no one stops you as you head up to Jack’s apartment as directed.
It’s… fancy. Like, polished floor lobby, lounge area adjacent to the front desk fancy.
The actual building itself isn’t very tall, nothing like a skyscraper, so it’s not exactly surprising that Jack’s apartment is the penthouse. It’s just suddenly very awkward standing in front of the door, in the same sweatshirt you’ve had since high school, sweats that have seen better years, looking exactly like the kind of girl who sobbed on the ride over to Billy Joel.
Jack opens the door almost immediately after you knock, and.
If seeing him in scrubs was bad, it doesn’t hold a fucking candle to him in a tight, army green shirt and grey sweatpants. Grey sweatpants. That couldn’t have been intentional, right? Is he online enough to know these things? God.
His features soften when he takes in your tear-streaked face and disheveled appearance.
He makes a low noise in his throat.
“Oh, you poor thing. Come here,”
Jack had actually been gesturing to the apartment, saying ‘come inside’ but the dam breaks the moment he says “poor thing” and you don’t have the wherewithal to think anything more complex than “Jack=Comfort and Safety".
Your bag drops with a dull thud onto the ground and then you’re crashing into him, face pressed into his chest and arms wrapped around his middle. You can barely find it within yourself to be embarrassed.
Jack doesn’t react at first, going completely stiff in your hold, and you think maybe you’ve gone and fucked this up too, like everything good in your life, but right when you move to pull away a hand finds its way to the back of your head, and another rubs circles on your back.
“Poor girl,” he murmurs, voice a soothing rumble with your ear close to his chest, “They been running you ragged?”
You nod uselessly, feeling raw and cut open— like you’ve been smashed against a rock and everything you keep tucked inside is spilling out and you can’t stop it.
“I’m so tired.” You half-mumble-half-sob into him, a sentiment that feels too light to convey everything that’s happened since you became an intern at the PTMC, and everything else you don’t talk about that happened before.
“I know sweetheart, I know,” Jack is solid beneath your cheek and arms, a lifeboat in a storm. “How about we get you inside and get you warm, huh? That sound nice?”
At the promise of warmth you finally detach from him, shame burning through you when you eye the wet spot on his shirt.
“Sorry,” You say, voice barely above a whisper. “I think I got snot on your shirt.”
“Trust me kid, it’s seen worse.”
He grabs your bag before you can even make a move for it, and you trail behind him into his apartment, attempting to ground yourself by looking around his apartment.
It’s nice. Lived in, not sterile. It doesn’t, actually, look the inside of a dentist’s office, like you were half expecting. Most new apartments have that doctor’s office lobby feel. Not exactly comfortable when you’re a doctor and the goal of home is to not remind you of your job.
Jack hangs your bag on a hook by the door, right next to his own. Something twinges in your chest at the sight.
There’s a feeling under your skin you can’t place as you shuffle into his apartment, something warm and skittish that aches for this to not be a one time thing, to be able to compare the pale morning light you’re watching now to late afternoon sun. To know where he keeps his mugs, what drawer the silverware is in, if he’s got a junk drawer with random shit in it, and what the random shit is. What it feels like to be in his kitchen, shoulders brushing.
But that’s a lot of complicated things to name or voice just past the threshold of the foyer, so you wrap your arms around yourself and toe your shoes off, then pad quietly after him.
Jack is— inviting, or maybe enticing; all those words that beckon the skittish thing closer and it feels just on the tip of danger to obediently sit on the couch he ushers you to.
“By the way,” Jack says somewhere behind you, maybe in the kitchen? “I have a cat. His name is Charlie. He probably won’t come near you, but be warned, he’s an asshole when he wants to be.”
“Oh, that’s fine. I like cats. Especially the asshole ones.”
“That explains a lot of things.”
His statement is kind of loaded, chock full of subtext you don’t care to parse through at the moment.
“Um,” You start, feeling a bit unsteady, “Is— Do you mind if I shower? I kind of smell gross probably, and I feel… grimy. Your apartment seems clean and I’d hate to get my hospital grime on anything.”
Jack just chuckles. “One, I wouldn’t care if you got ‘hospital grime’ on anything because that would be a very hypocritical thing to care about, and two, of course you can shower. Do you have spare clothes?”
“I might’ve forgotten to grab those.”
Another huffy laugh. “That’s fine. You can borrow some of mine. I’ll leave them on the bed.”
That’s like. Wow. Yeah. You’re just gonna borrow some clothes from him. From Jack. You’re going to shower in Jack’s shower and use whatever bodywash he has (hopefully not 5-in-one) and then put on his clothes and you are totally capable of being Completely Normal about these things.
“I already started on dinner when you said you were coming over. Should be done by the time you get out of the shower. Chicken noodle okay?”
Damn Jack Abbot and damn your shitty emotional regulation and damn your life for putting you in these situations.
“Yeah,” You croak, thinking about things like soup and family and being cold and strong and alone, “Yeah that’s fine. Thank you.”
Jack politely does not comment on the fact that soup is reducing you to a tangled heap of emotions and tears, and instead directs you to where his shower is and says to use whatever you want and take however long you want. He says want, not need. You’re not sure if there’s an intention behind the word choice.
Once in the shower, you allow yourself time to cry, to feel awful and self-pitying and all those things that are terrible to go through in front of another person. His shower is expensive and the water is warm and he does not have 5-in-one. There’s a litter box nestled next to the toilet, and it’s not funny, but it kind of is, because Jack would be the kind of guy to look at a litter box and put it right next to the toilet. Everything in its place.
Maybe that’s your problem. You haven’t felt like anything is in the right place in years.
You want to stay in the shower, in the bubble of protection it provides, but the idea of running up Jack’s water bill is enough to guilt you into getting out. You shiver, dry, aggressively attempt to make yourself look less like a wreck at the sink, and then tip-toe into the attached bedroom and carefully pull on the clothes Jack left for you on the bed; a faded, oversized college shirt, and a comfy pair of sweatpants.
They smell like him. You smell like him, like his body wash. The house smells like him. Everything you take in is a pleasant assault of Jack, Jack, Jack.
Enough guilt to fuel an entire room of ex-Catholic’s is the only thing keeping you from snooping around his room. The idea of stumbling upon something private or hidden away makes you feel slimy and gross, so you exit the bedroom and pretend like you don’t feel like a foster dog on its first night home from the shelter.
(Do shelter dogs miss the shelter? Do they miss its familiarity? Do dogs miss anything at all?)
The apartment smells of more spices and good smelling food than you privately thought Jack capable of. You’d read him as the kind of guy to subsist on takeout and maybe like, protein bars. But he’s dutifully stirring a metal pot with all the diligence of the military man that he once was.
Quietly, as if he might throw the wooden spoon he’s stirring with if you make too much noise or take up too much space, you carefully pull out a barstool in front of his kitchen island, the one closest to the door, and haul yourself onto it.
He gives you an examining glance over his shoulder, turns a knob on the stove, then rests his forearms on the island counter across from you. His rather delicious looking forearms, you might add.
“Feeling better after your shower?”
You hum an affirmation, folding your arms and resting your chin on them.
“Isn’t it kind of weird to make soup for breakfast?”
He shrugs. “It’s dinner for us. Or, well, me. I’m not sure your body knows what meal it is.”
He taps a pointer finger rhythmically on the counter. “Any word from your landlord?”
“No. Sorry for… all of this. I know you’re tired.”
“I wish you’d stop apologizing for things I don’t mind doing for you.”
You don’t really know how to respond to that, or what to do with how it makes you feel, so you elect to save it for later. Good at compartmentalizing, ED doctors are.
You clear your throat. “I can call Samira whenever. She’d probably be excited to have girl time. So you know. Don’t feel like— I have other options. If or when you want me to leave.”
“Do you want to leave?”
You wish he’d stop asking questions you don’t want to answer.
You try to play it off, smother your fear and exhaustion with humor. Robby’s kid, through and through.
“Well, I can’t have you getting sick of me. You’re the only person I know who has a very rob-able house if this whole internship doesn’t pan out.”
Jack straightens, shoulders pulling and flexing. “Who said I’d get sick of you? Maybe I like the idea of you in my house.”
“Do you?”
You ask the question before you’re aware of how terrified you are of the answer. But you’ve already said it, and it feels nice to be the one asking the hard question instead.
Jack, likely experienced in this sort of thing, doesn’t look outwardly bothered by it, but he gets a sort-of-sad look on his face, almost like he’s disappointed that you had to ask.
“Have I given you any reason to think otherwise?”
“I don’t know,” You look down, picking at a hangnail to avoid his expression and his eyes and his everything, “I don’t want to assume anything.”
“You’ve already assumed quite a bit.”
You scrunch your face. “That’s different. Those are safe assumptions.”
“Are they?”
“Obviously, it’s safer to assume that you don’t want me to stay here, or at least not for very long, because if I assume that I do I’ll bother you and I want you to—“
You cut yourself off, jaw shutting with a firm click, but the end of the sentence hangs in the air unspoken anyways. It’s not hard to figure out what you were going to say.
I want you to like me.
Jack sighs, and alarm blares are going off in your head and your chest starts to feel tight and cold despite the warmth of his apartment, and then he’s rounding the island and you turn your body to follow him —never turn you back, never let your guard down— and then he’s standing in front of you, over you, and you’re not sure if you want to run or metaphorically curl up at his feet, tail tucked.
It’s pathetic. It’s embarrassing. It’s impossible to ignore.
(What does a shelter dog think, on that first night? Do they hope? Do dogs hope?)
He raises a hand, slowly, giving you a chance to lean away, and when you don’t, it comes to rest on the side of your face, his thumb swiping at the barely-there wetness from earlier tears.
It’s cleaning the cut from the slap, it’s a kindness you can curl into, and it might be a threat. Might be bad, might turn harsh and painful, might leave without a word.
Unlike that day in the break room, there’s no fluorescent lights to suck any heat out of the room and no gloves as a barrier; as a reminder of who he is, of what you are, of how things work.
It’s just you and Jack, in Jack’s apartment, wearing Jack’s clothes, and pretty soon you’re going to eat food that Jack made. Just for you.
And you think maybe, possibly, if he stops here you could kind of hold onto this moment for the rest of your life and it would get you through being alive and strong and alone, and you’d make it through this, whatever this is, if he stops here.
He doesn’t. He starts talking.
“I like knowing that you’re safe. That you’re taken care of. I like knowing with certainty that these things are true because I’m the one making sure of it.”
Your breath hitches in your chest.
“That’s kind of a lot of work, though.”
He hums. “It is. Luckily, I just so happen to be a pretty hard worker.”
Everything about the current situation is a lot and your nerves are over-taxed and dialed up to hundred, so it’s not surprising that you start crying again.
Jack brings up a second hand to the other side of your face and gently wipes away the tears as they come. It feels sort of like the physical version of everything he’s been doing for you since that day in the supply closet.
“You don’t have to do anything, or say anything, or make any kind of decision right now, okay? We can do whatever you want. I’ll do whatever you want.”
There’s the word choice again; want, not need. Is there a difference? What does the difference mean to him? What does he mean? Why is he doing any of this?
Jack's phone goes off in his pocket, and he steps back, drops his hands, and goes back to the stove.
Jack said you don’t have to make a decision right now, but you kind of feel like if you don’t do something you’re going to be sick with everything that’s swirling and clawing inside you, threatening to burst. Like the very essence of you is going to explode, and your soul will be painted on Jack’s perfectly decorated walls.
That would be something, wouldn’t it.
You stay seated at the island, turning to stare at Jack’s back while he adds the final touches to the soup. He doesn’t talk anymore, but he keeps looking back every few minutes, like he’s making sure you’re still there.
Eventually Jack turns the stove off, dishes up a bowl of soup for you, and sets it gently in front of you. He uses his pinky to cushion the placing of the bowl, so there’s no loud clinking noise when he sets the bowl down.
There’s a tiny sprig of parsley on top of the soup, right in the center. Like a Panera ad for soup in September.
You start crying again, in earnest.
“I’m sorry,” You gasp, pressing the heels of your hands into your eyes. “I’m sorry, I don’t know why I’m— I don’t know. I don’t know.”
You’re hoping the last sentence encompasses an entire lifetime of events, accidents, mistakes, and memories that have never been able to find a place in your head except dead center, at the forefront of your mind at all times, stamped on your forehead for anyone with eyes to see.
Your life hasn’t been wants or choices for a very long time. And here Jack is, giving you an array of both, and saying things like he wants you to want.
“I’ll do whatever you want.”
“Hey, hey hey hey, shhh,” Strong arms wrap around you, tucking your head into a warm chest, effectively shutting off all sensory input that isn’t Jack. “You’re okay, you’re safe, you’re okay, I got you.”
He rubs circles into your back, then switches to tracing shapes, and he lets you cry into him again and he doesn’t tell you to stop, or to calm down, or you’re being too much too fast.
“You’re okay, you’re gonna be okay sweetheart. Take your time. I’m not going anywhere.”
“I’m not going anywhere.”
—
You, embarrassingly, fall asleep right there, sitting at the kitchen island over a bowl of soup and twenty-something years of holding up your life with hands that never quite seemed big enough to do it.
You wake up in Jack’s bed, his comforter pulled up to your chin and the clock at the bedside table reading 8:17 p.m. There’s the muffled sound of several voices coming from beyond the door.
Holy shit. What the fuck.
Deciding to ignore the implication that Jack carried you to bed, you mentally take stock of what’s around you.
In front of the clock is your phone (plugged in to charge), a glass of water, and a note with Jack’s handwriting on it.
Kid-
I’ll probably be in the ED for the night shift by the time you wake up. I called Mohan (who called Mel, who was with Langdon, for reasons unknown) to go to your place and grab you some things. There may be people in the apartment when you wake up. You are in no way obligated to interact with them. They have to leave eventually.
Charlie is in the room with you because he hates strangers, but he probably won’t leave the bathroom. Probably. Drink water and eat something, if you can. Text me if you need anything.
The voices beyond the door are, more than likely, the aforementioned individuals who have now seen the glorified closet you call home. It’s not ideal, but you’re wrung out and don’t have the energy to really care. Besides, Samira and Mel are too nice to judge you that hard (you hope) and from what you’ve heard, Langdon isn’t really in a place to say anything.
On one hand, going out there requires socializing. Which, ew. On the other hand, Samira and Mel are the best. Langdon is maybe okay.
Before you can talk yourself out of it, you shuffle out of bed and then continue shuffling to the door, hoping that whatever you look like isn’t too terribly awful.
Samira, Mel, and Langdon are standing around the kitchen island, various takeout containers and bottles of alcohol littering the space. For some reason, Trinity, Dennis, and Robby are also present.
Samira and Langdon are engaged in what looks to be a rather animated discussion-slash-argument, and Mel is standing just a little closer to Langdon than what could be considered normal for friends. Trinity is very obviously ignoring Langdon’s general existence, bickering with Dennis on the couch, and Robby is seated in the armchair by the window, nursing a beer and watching both conversations unfold.
You sniff aggressively, and all heads snap to you.
“There are more of you here then there’s supposed to be,” You grumble, scrubbing at your face. “Why are you all here?”
Mel is the first to speak.
“It was Frank actually!” Trinity rolls her eyes, and part of you wants to share the sentiment, “He figured Trinity would be upset that something happened to you and he knew and didn’t tell her, so Trinity decided that me and Samira would get your stuff while everyone else stayed here in case you woke up before we came back!”
Wow, okay, that’s. A Lot.
You squint. “That doesn’t explain why you’re all here. I mean it does, but only like, why you’re here physically.”
Robby frowns. “We heard that you were going through a rough time and you had to stay with Jack, so we came.”
Trinity snorts on the couch and Dennis, next to her, looks like he’s about to have an aneurysm.
Robby shoots her a look, but continues. “We care about you. We— I don’t want you to feel like you have to do everything on your own. In or out of the ED.”
Trinity blows out a loud sigh and low whistle. “Jee-zus Robby, give the woman some time to wake up before trying to induce tears again.”
Robby does look a little apologetic, maybe a teensy bit chastised (and annoyed that Trinity was the one doing the chastising) and turns his deep brown eyes back to you.
"Sorry. Can't help these Dad tendencies, you know."
Your face gets hot, maybe a tiny, wet prickle behind your eyes forms while Robby smiles, and the tension leaves the room all in one go, and you start to think that maybe things are in the right place.
–
At the ED, Jack Abbot, who's been checking his phone whenever he gets a free moment like a highschooler with a crush, opens the first text that pops up on his screen after hours of waiting.
It's a picture from Robby. You, with your head thrown back in a cackle of a laugh, not a single bit of stress evident in any of the lines of your body. There's one text accompanying the picture:
Please don't make me give you a shovel talk. I think you already know what's at stake here.
Jack snorts and pockets his phone, because yeah, he does.
–
When Jack finally gets back to his apartment, he's half-expecting to see the kind of mess that a large grouping of obnoxious people leave behind. Trash, maybe a few red solo cups, empty takeout containers, someone asleep on his couch, someone passed out on the floor.
He's not expecting to see a clean space. The only evidence that people were there at all is some rearranged pillows, a half-empty bottle of wine on the counter, and some new takeout menus on his fridge.
And then there's you. You're lying on the couch, eyes glued to the TV, watching a show he doesn't really recognize. There's a well-loved backpack on the floor, just under the coffee table. The shocking bit is Charlie, his resident asshole, is 'loafing' right on your chest, purring away.
You lift your head when you hear the jingle of his keys, a smile immediately brightening your face. He mentally takes a picture, right there, so he can remember this exact moment forever.
"What'd you bribe him with?" Jack says instead of something much more neurotic, like 'You don't have to go back to your place when the power comes back on.'
You shrug, unaware of his emotional and romantic pain. "You were right. He came out from under the bed after everybody left. He kind of growled at me for a little bit, but once I settled down here he just kind of... came right up."
You plant a little kiss to the top of his head, right in between furry ears. Great, now Jack's jealous of a senior cat with one ear who licks his own butt. "How could I resist this face? I see why you brought him home."
Jack rounds the end of the couch, shuffling by, and Charlie opens his eyes just enough to shoot him a look that Jack takes to mean: If you make her get up and move me, I will kill you in your sleep.
Jack does not disturb his cat as he sits down on the couch. There's a moment when things almost get hairy- you pull your legs back when he goes to sit, slightly jostling The Asshole, who pins his only ear back in annoyance.
Jack solves this problem by taking your legs, clad in some soft flannel pajama pants and pink fuzzy socks, and lays them across his lap. There. Problem solved.
The warmth of your legs on his lap and the look on your face is reward enough for him. He can't think of a way he'd rather spend his time.
Jack, in a rare show of mercy, does not tease you, and decides that you've probably had enough excitement for one day.
"So," He says instead, looking up at the TV and grimacing at the mutilated corpse on the screen, "What are we watching?"
He watches you shrink into yourself. He hates it when you do that. He hates that you feel like you have to.
"Uh, Bones. I can turn it off, though. I'm sure you don't want to watch this."
He doesn't answer the question you've not-subtly voiced, instead choosing to redirect the conversation.
"Why did you put it on?"
You start chewing on your lower lip. Your signature 'I don't want to answer this question so I'm going to think really hard about it' move.
"It's kind of my comfort show? I don't know. I watched it a lot growing up. We didn't have cable, but the hotels I stayed at sometimes did. I'd wait until my dad fell asleep and then I'd turn on the TV and watch from the sci-fi or drama channels. Watched a lot of Bones. Supernatural too, and sometimes Doctor Who, if it was on. But Bones was my favorite."
The characters on the screen are involved in some sort of car chase now, police siren flashing on a black SUV. Jack isn't paying attention to that at all, because this is the first time since the day you walked into the PTMC and introduced yourself that he's ever heard you talk about your childhood.
"How come?"
"I don't know. I've always liked procedural shows. Had a huge House MD phase. Death and bones and corpses and stuff has never really grossed me out, which is part of the reason I became a doctor. But also..."
You point to the male character. "You see him? That's Booth. Seeley Booth. They all have kind of crazy names. He's an FBI agent, and his partner is that woman there. Temperance Brennan. Booth calls her Bones."
"She doesn't look like an FBI agent."
You smile. "She's not. She's a forensic anthropologist, but she consults on murder cases and stuff like that because she's kind of a genius. She's smart, strong, and capable. She and Booth don't always get along, because they both can be headstrong and stubborn. But he respects and trusts her, implicitly. No matter what. They love each other."
Your throat bobs, but your voice is steady when you speak.
"And when Brennan needs him, if she's in trouble or she needs him by her side, even if she doesn't know she does, he's always there. He always saves her."
Jack can picture it, in his mind. You, small and alone, watching these characters on some shitty hotel TV and getting it into your head that this kind of thing only exists in TV shows. He pictures you dreaming of having a Booth, of having someone to be there for you, to pick you up when you fall. He thinks of you crying in the supply closet and how quietly you'd done it. Almost silent.
He thinks of what happens to a person to make them learn how to cry without making a sound.
He rests a hand on your ankle, fingers instinctively drifting towards the pulse point there- posterior tibial. He keeps two fingers on it, even though he can't feel it through your fuzzy socks. With his thumb he makes circles, because he's seen how you lean into Robby's shoulder grabs, how you preen at physical and verbal praise, how you'd slumped like a marionette with its strings cut into his arms just yesterday.
"Jack?" Your voice is tentative, unsure.
"Hmm?"
"Am I..." You start chewing your lip again, "Are you— I don't to assume anything. So if I fuck this up and make you uncomfortable—"
"I want to kiss you."
Jack has learned how to speak fluent you. He knows how to stop an incoming spiral, how to soothe old wounds rearing their heads.
He continues when you don't speak.
"I want you to wear my clothes. I want to take care of you. I want you, in whatever way you'll let me."
"Oh."
"I was laying it on pretty thick, kid."
You look away from him, and this is another moment he'd like to keep forever.
"I thought I was just reading into things!"
"Do you think I call every intern sweetheart?"
Jack is positive Charlie's presence on your stomach is the only thing keeping you from actively squirming in place.
"I thought maybe you were just one of those guys. Samira said it was possible!"
He rolls his eyes. "You can't ask Mohan for romantic advice. She's you in a different font."
"I'm going to take that as a compliment."
You turn back to your show, losing yourself in the plot for a while. When the murderer has been caught and the credits are playing, you look at him again.
"We don't. Um. Can we just keep doing this? For now?"
For the first time since meeting you, Jack gets to say exactly what he's thinking.
"We can do this forever. We can do whatever you want."
Summary : After the Butterfly Project ends and the team goes their separate ways, Adrian Chase decides to pick up a new “hobby.” Unfortunately for you, that hobby is obsessing over owls — and he’s wrong about almost every single fact.
Warnings/Tags: Himbos, Fluff, Post-Canon Events ( after Project Butterfly), Incorrect animal facts, Establish Relationship, GN Reader (gender neutral), Black Market "owl eggs" (???), Spoilers for Season 2
A/N: I literally ran to write this after watching Season 2, like omg James gunn is an absolute genius, ( He makes going to film school worth it)
You should have known something was wrong the moment Adrian Chase bought a neon-blue notebook and scrawled TOP SECRET OWL DATA across the front in red Sharpie. It wasn’t the strangest thing he’d done — this was the same man who once threatened a dishwasher because it “looked suspicious” — but the intensity with which he slammed the notebook down on your coffee table made you wary.
“Project Butterfly may be over,” he said, sprawled on your couch with his Vigilante mask still on, curls poking out at odd angles, “but that doesn’t mean the world is safe. We can’t just… pretend everything’s fine now.”
You frowned. The Butterflies were hard to forget. Tiny, insect-like aliens that burrowed into people’s skulls, hijacking their bodies from the inside out, all while smiling and talking like nothing had changed. Their goal had been terrifying and noble all at once: to take over influential humans and steer the planet away from self-destruction, hoping to prevent Earth from collapsing the way their own world had.
And yet, once Adebayo went public, exposing the entire operation to the world, everything seemed to unravel. The team splintered. Jobs were lost. Economos was shuffled off into another corner of Amanda Waller’s empire, Adebayo burned the bridge with her mother on live television, Harcourt was left wounded and adrift. Everyone scattered in different directions, untethered and aimless. Everyone except Adrian.
Adrian had been there through it all — the betrayals, the firefights, the endless paranoia of wondering who was real and who wasn’t. So maybe it wasn’t so surprising that his mind had latched onto something new.
“Owls,” he declared, pointing a gloved finger at you as if unveiling a great truth. “They’re basically the Butterflies of birds.”
You just stared at him. “…Owls?”
“Yes, Babe. Think about it. Creepy big eyes, turn their heads all the way around, they only come out at night. Totally hiding something.”
And that was how your life descended into owl hell.
He started with the “facts.” Sitting at your kitchen counter, halfway through an entire family-sized bag of chips, he announced, “Did you know owls don’t have bones? That’s how they twist their heads like that. They’re basically bird-shaped slinkies.”
You groaned. “Adrian, they do have bones. That’s how… skeletons work.”
He tilted his phone toward you. The search bar read: do owls have bones reddit.
By the end of the week, he was knocking on your door at midnight with a duct-taped shoebox in hand. You didn’t even bother to hide your groan — because when Adrian had a plan, you knew nothing ever went right.
He grinned at you through the doorway, holding the box aloft like some sacred relic. “Owl eggs,” he whispered proudly, eyes practically glowing behind his mask. “I’m gonna hatch them. Then I’ll have an army. Safer than humans.”
You stared at him, then at the box. “…Where exactly did you get owl eggs, Adrian?”
“The black market,” he said instantly, like it was the most normal answer in the world. “Guy in a parking lot sold ’em to me. Said they were rare and totally legit. Cost me three thousand dollars.”
Your jaw dropped. “Three—three thousand?!”
“Yeah,” he said, beaming, clearly pleased with his own resourcefulness. “Pretty good deal, right? I talked him down from five.”
Panic shot through you as you ripped the duct tape off and opened the box, already dreading what horrors you’d find inside. What you did find made you blink. Hard.
“…These are hard-boiled chicken eggs. From the grocery store.”
Adrian peered inside like maybe you’d missed something. “They might just be… sleeping really hard?”
You pressed the heel of your palm against your forehead, torn between wanting to laugh, cry, or strangle him on the spot. “Adrian, please tell me you didn’t really just blow three thousand dollars on someone’s lunch.”
He tilted his head, thoughtful. “Technically, I think it was more like brunch.”
At dinner, you tried to set boundaries. “No owl talk at the table,” you told him firmly, stabbing your pasta with unnecessary force.
He nodded, dead serious. “Got it. Totally respectful.”
Ten minutes later: “So, owls invented Wi-Fi.”
You nearly dropped your fork. “Excuse me?”
“No, it makes sense!” he said, leaning in, his curls bouncing as he gestured with his fork. “The Butterflies took over people by crawling into their brains. Owls hoot at each other across long distances — which is basically encrypted communication. The government stole it. It’s how the internet started.”
You covered your face with both hands. “I cannot believe I’m dating a man who thinks owls invented Wi-Fi.”
“Have you ever seen an owl use dial-up?” he shot back triumphantly.
The following Saturday, he dragged you into the woods for “field research.” You stood shivering, holding a flashlight while Adrian crouched in a bush with binoculars turned completely upside down. He was silent for twenty minutes, then whispered, “Did you know owls hunt using telekinesis?”
You nearly fell over. “That’s not—”
“Think about it! Have you ever seen an owl just… walk up and grab something? No. They just stare until it dies.” He lowered the binoculars dramatically. “Telekinesis. Case closed.”
You laughed so hard you had to sit down, clutching your stomach. Adrian stared at you, confused but delighted, like he’d just solved climate change.
Later that night, back on the couch, he finally pulled his mask off, curls damp with sweat from his “mission.” For the first time all week, he was quiet. You nudged him gently. “You know all your facts are wrong, right?”
“Yeah,” he admitted softly, eyes flicking to yours. “But it’s fun watching you argue with me about them. And…” He trailed off, a sheepish smile tugging at his lips. “It’s easier to think about owls being evil than… Butterflies being real. You know?”
The words hit heavier than you expected. For all his nonsense, it was the closest he’d come to admitting how much the whole thing had shaken him. You reached out and squeezed his hand.
He brightened a little at that, tilting toward you with a mischievous grin. “Wanna hear one more?”
You sighed, smiling despite yourself. “Go ahead. Blow my mind.”
“Owls mate for life.” He leaned closer, voice low, conspiratorial. “Just like us.”
You blinked. “…Adrian.”
“What?” His grin only widened, smug and hopeful all at once. “That’s a real fact this time.”
You weren’t entirely sure it was. But the way he was looking at you — earnest, ridiculous, soft in the corners of his eyes — you decided not to argue.
“Fine,” you murmured, resting your head on his shoulder. “One real fact.”
He beamed, leaning back like he’d just been proven right about everything. “Told you. I’m basically an owl expert.”
And when his fingers curled gently around yours, you didn’t correct him. Not about the owls. Not about anything.
summary: you’re just the new intern at the daily planet—anxious, invisible in your books, and falling for the man who, disguised, saves the world between coffee breaks. he could catch the sky if it fell. but for some reason, he keeps choosing to catch you.
word count: 22.414 (i know it’s a lot but it’s worth it)
warnings/tags: +18 mdni, angst, banter, fluff !!!, clark has a savior complex, friends/coworkers to lovers, intern!reader, lots of feelings and introspection, the reader’s sort of a sensitive and insecure gal at times, clark picks the reader up, mentions of reader's hair, both of them are very awkward at times, idiots in love (proceed with caution), declarations of love, slow-burn office romance, p with plot, fingering (f receiving), oral (m and f receiving), whiny clark kent !!!, cum swallowing, p in v, missionary, happy ending.
a/n: first time writing for clark kent!!! to say i’m nervous would be the understatement of the century. i finally got to watch superman last week, and let me tell you: i’ve been obsessed with it <3 i walked out of the theater and pretty much ran home to start writing this fic. so yes, this one’s completely self-indulgent. i just got carried away by the feelings and couldn’t stop writing, hence the length lol. i really hope you enjoy this story. if you do, likes, reblogs and comments mean the world. and feel free to scream in the tags—i’ll be screaming too 🫂
Sometimes, you truly wished you didn’t have a brain.
It sounds ridiculous, worded like that. You know for a fact you’re not the first person to want a quiet mind, to dream of a day when you’re not held hostage by your own intrusive, spiraling thoughts. You take a look around and realize there are much bigger problems out there in the world.
Scratch that—right here, where every few days, some inexplicable, monstrous creature appears out of the blue and starts tearing through everything that gets in its way, like Metropolis is a giant city made of Legos.
And yet, you can’t help but drown in self-doubt. The worst part is how suddenly it all hits you. There’s no warning or mercy. One moment you’re fine—functioning, even laughing—and the next, something inside you flickers and dies. The illusion of confidence crumbles, and you're left looking for the broken pieces, wondering when you’ll finally figure out what’s wrong with you.
If only there were a way to cut it out, the rot, and replace it with something clean. Something shining. Something better.
The day you’re accepted for an internship at the Daily Planet, you stare at your reflection in the bathroom mirror and try to tell the girl in the fogged glass something that sounds like hope:
It’s going to be okay. You’re capable of this. Just show them your potential.
But the voice in your head isn’t convinced. It places an imaginary hand on your shoulder, deceptively gentle, until its fingers dig in, cold and burning all at once. It leans in, just behind your ear, and hisses the thought you’ve been trying to avoid:
It’s only a matter of time before they realize they could’ve chosen someone better.
Just so much for a girl in her twenties.
You squint at the girl on Jimmy’s phone.
She’s beautiful. Blonde. The kind of effortlessly pretty that feels unfair. If you didn’t know her from these selfies, you would’ve thought she was some kind of model. Tall, blue-eyed, glowing with confidence. She even looks like the type of person who’d throw a tantrum if someone accidentally stepped on a cat’s tail.
Picking at your nails, your eyes flick from the screen to Jimmy. Then back again. Jimmy. Blonde girl. Jimmy. Blonde—
“She’s super pretty,” you say finally, handing the phone back to him over the desk divider.
He stands up with a smug little shrug, grinning as if he’s about to accept an award. “What can I say? Ladies just seem to love me.”
At that moment, Lois passes by right on cue, bracing herself on your desk and leaning toward Jimmy with a certain look that usually comes before total verbal destruction. “I’m still trying to figure out why,” she mutters dryly. “Guess I know what my next article’s gonna be about.”
A giggle catches in your throat, too fast to stop, and you mask it with a fake cough.
Jimmy eyes you like you’ve betrayed his loyalty. “You’re supposed to be on my side. Proximity makes us allies.”
“I’m sorry. I just can’t resist a good joke,” you mumble, lifting your hands in mock surrender, earning an exasperated sigh from him.
Lois high-fives you without missing a beat. “You can always change seats.”
With a scoff, he declares, “Traitors. Both of you.”
As he launches into a dramatic defense of his dating history, Lois unwraps a candy bar, taking a bite before giving voice to her thoughts. “Honestly, I don't know why Clark gets away with disappearing for an hour and a half during lunch. I miss one deadline, and I’ve got Perry breathing down my neck.”
“Ever heard of this revolutionary thing called… privacy?” Jimmy asks her, raising his eyebrows in her direction.
She rolls her eyes, gesturing with the candy bar. “If I find out he’s out there eating real food while the rest of us are surviving on vending machine snacks, I’m suing.”
You're about to jump in with an equally sarcastic remark when the elevator dings.
The doors quietly slide open, and there he is.
Clark Kent. Carrying a cardboard tray of four coffees, his tie slightly crooked and hair looking like the wind styled it for him on the way in. There's a coy tilt to his smile, like he knows he’s late but hopes this peace offering makes up for it.
“Hey,” he says warmly. “Thought we could all use a little caffeine. Fuel for the hardest part of the day.”
Lois lifts her chin. “Look who finally decided to rejoin society.”
Balancing the tray in one hand, he straightens his glasses. “I brought bribes.” He hands hers over first, the corner of his mouth quirking up. A second later, Jimmy’s follows, and he gives Clark a quick pat on the back.
Then, to your complete surprise, Clark holds one out to you. No matter how many times he does it, you still get excited by his thoughtfulness.
You blink owlishly. Your name's neatly written on one side of the cup with a permanent marker, just above your order: two creams, two sugars. He still remembers your order and has never gotten it wrong. You take it calmly, like it might vanish if you move too fast, struggling to fight the smile wanting to break free. “Thanks, Clark.”
He bows his head, scratching the back of his neck, and looks up to meet your pleased gaze, studying how your expression softens. “You know there's a legal limit to how many times you can say thank you in a day, right? Pretty sure you’ve already gone over it.”
No clever, witty comeback comes to mind, so you turn back to your monitor, hoping the screen hides the heat crawling up your neck. Still, you can’t help whispering a very soft, “Thank you,” just before Clark turns on his heel and walks away.
He pauses for a split second, long enough to glance over his shoulder. His eyes land on yours again briefly, like he’s trying to find a hidden answer in your features, and he gives the smallest nod, almost imperceptible, continuing toward his desk, the hem of his coat swaying with each step.
Your heart flutters in your chest as you chew on your bottom lip, twisting your ankles together beneath the desk to keep from fidgeting, hoping you’re playing it cool.
“Jeez,” a familiar voice mutters nearby. Jimmy’s shaking his head, arching a knowing brow. “You’re down bad.”
“Shut it.”
“I swear to God, if you’d just admit it—”
You lob a yellow highlighter at him, managing to hit him squarely on the shoulder with a satisfying thwack. He opens his mouth to protest, but you cut him off with a pointed finger. “Keep your voice down. There’s nothing to admit. I’m just happy I have something to sip while I work. That’s all.”
Spinning lazily in his chair, he folds his arms behind his head like a painting of a man at peace. “I’ve got to hand it to you—it’s adorable, watching you try to lie to me. I’ve been sitting across from you for what, a month now?”
A faint line appears between your brows, and you catch the highlighter as he tosses it back your way.
He grins. “I’ve grown familiar with all your faces, young lady. And that dreamy look? The puppy eyes? That little tight-lipped smile?” He props his chin on his hand, his voice descending to a murmur. “Yeah. Those aren’t for public consumption. That’s VIP treatment.”
Fighting Jimmy is pointless. He’s the kind of guy who never loses an argument—mostly because he talks over you until you forget what your point even was.
He just doesn’t get it. You can find someone attractive without liking them, right? It’s just a stupid crush. A stupid work crush, to be precise, which is significantly worse than a normal one, because now the object of your hopeless affection walks past your desk on a daily basis like it’s nothing.
At some point, you stop being sure if you're trying to convince Jimmy or yourself.
Your brain whirs back to your very first day at the Daily Planet. You remember being led around by a chatty woman from HR, who kept smiling at you with what appeared to be feigned sympathy. She pointed out the break room, the vending machine, and in the end brought you to your new, empty desk right across from a redheaded guy who immediately stood and extended a hand.
“Jimmy Olsen,” he commented. “Welcome to hell.”
Before you could respond, he waved Lois over from a few desks away. “Lois, come meet the new intern.”
You told them your name, attempting to seem casual while subtly folding your arms across your chest like a human shield. You didn’t mention you already knew who they were, or the fact that you’d read Lois’s columns like gospel. Some things were better kept to yourself.
Then, along came Perry White. The Perry White. It only took you one glance at the man to recognize him: the iconic gruff editor-in-chief with a permanent scowl and a cigar that looked surgically attached to his mouth. He stomped over, barely glancing your way.
“Where’s Kent?” he grumbled, words muffled by the cigar between his lips.
Lois and Jimmy exchanged a look. Silence. Apparently, no one felt like volunteering information.
Kent, as in Clark Kent. The name alone triggered something weird in your stomach. He was the guy who somehow landed exclusive interviews with Superman like it was no big deal, most of which you’d devoured in one sitting.
In the nick of time, as if he’d heard his name from afar, Clark entered through the elevator, brushing his fringe to the side with one hand. Slung over one of his shoulders was a worn satchel bag, and in the other, he carried a cardboard tray, loaded with steaming coffee cups. He spotted Perry and made his way over, towering over pretty much everyone in the immediate vicinity.
“I know, I’m late again. Sorry, Perry,” he apologized, already reaching into the tray. “Maybe a hot coffee will help start your day?”
Perry grunted, took a cup, and walked away without another word. Clark contemplated him as he got farther and farther away, and once he was gone, turned back to the rest of you with a quiet exhale. “Really glad I bought an extra one today.”
Only two cups of coffee remained. He handed Jimmy and Lois theirs, then scanned the tray, his brows snapping together. His gaze landed on you, standing just a little behind the group, hands clasped awkwardly in front of you. That was when it hit him.
“Oh, I’m—” he stammered, fixing his posture. “I didn’t know there would be someone new. I’m so sorry, I would’ve brought you something too.”
“This is the new intern,” Jimmy supplied casually, taking a trial sip of his drink. “Started today. Doesn’t bite, probably. Has a name and everything.”
You offered a nervous little smile, giving Clark your name.
Clark repeated it under his breath, as if he was trying to memorize it. His attention flicked back to the empty tray, later returning to you. “Next time, I’ll make sure to bring you one. What do you usually get?”
Shaking your head, you tried to wave it off. “No, really, it’s okay. You don’t have to—”
But Clark shook his own head right back, stubborn and visibly determined. “I insist.”
Jimmy leaned in, elbowing him. “No, for real—he insists.”
Lois smirked into her cup. “He's going to agonize over this all day.”
Clark’s ears reddened as he cast a glance at you again. “Just... let me know. So I get it right.”
Ultimately, you ended up telling him your order: two creams, two sugars. He nodded seriously, and repeated it: “Two creams, two sugars.”
“Better write it on your arm or something,” Jimmy interjected, sitting down on his chair. “In case it comes up in your next Superman interview.”
The next morning, you were late. Disastrously, embarrassingly late. Not just five-minutes-past-start-time late. More like why-even-bother-showing-up late.
You burst through the front doors of the Daily Planet like a fugitive fleeing a crime scene, lungs clawing for air, sweat clinging to your lower back and pooling around your temples. The last ten blocks had been a blur of dodged pedestrians and half-choked apologies, and every eye in the office felt like it had turned your way.
Avoiding eye contact, you slid into your seat. It was only your second day, and already you’d earned a reputation: the intern who can’t be punctual. What would be next? Forgetting your name? Accidentally setting the printer on fire? Calling Perry “dad”? You were so far inside your own head you barely registered the beverage sitting on your desk.
A lone paper coffee cup. You froze.
It was from the café around the corner, the same one Clark brought coffee from yesterday. An orange Post-it was stuck to the side, curling slightly at the corners, your name written just beneath it.
Hope you have a good time here. The handwriting was clean and tidy, with no signature, though you knew who had written it.
Your fingers brushed the cup tentatively, and the warmth seeped into your fingers, anchoring you in a moment that felt strangely tender. It was a small gesture, but it had found you when you were at your most unravelled, and somehow, that made it hit harder than it should have.
Glancing up, you noticed Clark was already seated at his desk, typing with ease. When your eyes met, he didn’t look away, just lifted a hand in a soft wave.
Before you could even process it, Jimmy bent over the partition, nodding at the cup. “Wow,” he uttered, pressing a hand to his chest. “On day two? Must be nice to be his favorite.”
“Excuse me?”
“Next thing you know, he’s bringing you lunch and rescheduling your dentist appointments.”
“It’s just coffee,” you retorted, but your hands didn’t loosen around the cup, clutching it like it contained the secret to world peace.
“Observe: the flustered intern in her natural habitat, attempting to rationalize a clear romantic gesture—”
“Don’t you have any photographs to take?”
His nose crinkled. “Don’t worry, I’ll keep your tragic office romance off the record. For now.”
To shut him up, you took a long sip, and immediately burned your tongue. Of course. When you glanced over again, Clark was observing you with mild alarm, eyes wide, like he wasn’t sure if he should intervene. But then he returned to his screen, his shoulders just a little stiffer than before, and you looked back down at the cup. The note.
You weren’t saying that was when the crush started. But it sure didn’t help.
Fast forward to the present day, your fingers have been levitating over the keyboard for an embarrassing amount of time, the blinking cursor taunting you like it knows. You just hope nobody’s noticed the light leaving your eyes as you spiraled into a memory that felt much warmer than the air-conditioned newsroom.
You turn your head to the left for what you swear will be the last time today, though deep down, you know that’s a lie. A practiced one at this point. Clark is already typing, posture relaxed but focused, forearms braced against the desk. He’s moved his chair today, and the faint movement of the muscles beneath the back of his white shirt makes you blink hard, as if that might reset your brain.
“Perv,” Jimmy interrupts your thoughts in a sing-song voice, not even bothering to look up from his computer.
You jab the side of his ankle with your shoe.
He hisses, eyes squinting shut. “Tell me I’m wrong.”
You don’t. What frightens you the most is that perhaps he has clocked you right. Straightening in your chair, you roll your shoulders back like you can shake it off. Crushes pass. This one will as well. Maybe by the time your internship’s ended.
Taking a sharp breath, you decide you need to get back to work. You can’t afford another mistake just because Clark Kent exists in the same room as you.
An email lands in your inbox. It’s one of many, the kind you handled almost without thinking twice. The task in it was far from difficult: skim the article, fix the typos, clean up the formatting, and make sure the version that goes online looked as polished as something with your name near it should. Routine. Safe.
At first, you don’t even flinch. You’re wearing headphones, the world on mute, until Jimmy taps your shoulder and motions for you to take them off. The moment you do, the noise rushes in. You register the low hum of tension in the room, and then comes the voice of one of your coworkers, shouting across the bullpen that an unedited version of an article had been published.
Silently, heads begin turning to find the culprit. And still, you don’t let yourself panic. Not until you hear the title.
Beneath the Streets, Above the Skies: The Creatures We Can’t Explain.
It’s yours.
Goddammit.
Your stomach flips as you scroll through the now-public piece on the Daily Planet’s website. It’s all there: the all-caps notes left by the writer mid-draft, barking out instructions to a future editor.
[FIX THIS. TOO WORDY.]
[DELETE — USE STAT FROM EARLIER DRAFT?]
[MAYBE CHOOSE A STRONGER QUOTE HERE.]
You’d sent the wrong version. Drafts mixed up, tabs blurred together, one careless attachment. And worst of all? You weren’t the one to catch it. By the time someone did, it had already been up long enough to embarrass the paper.
The article is eventually pulled, of course, but it had already been read by others.
A few people come to your rescue, trying to comfort you with those well-meaning phrases that sting more than they soothe.
It’s fine. Happens to the best of us.
Don’t beat yourself up over it.
It’s just one article.
Lois, in a moment of impossible generosity, offers to buy you an entire chocolate cake if it’ll get you to smile. She says it with a lopsided grin, trying to lighten the mood, but you can see it in her face, the silent sympathy. The confirmation that… yes, it had been bad.
What makes it worse is that it confirms what you already suspected about yourself: you’re not good at this. The little voice in your head, the one that is usually subdued by the clack of keyboards, is now screaming. You can hear going insane it in the spaces between your thoughts and heartbeats.
You had one job. You’ve been here for over a month, and you still managed to screw it up.
Panic blooms in slow, suffocating waves, rising behind your ribs and poisoning your bloodstream. You walk to Perry’s office on numb legs that barely feel like they are attached to the rest of your body. Your name had been called moments before. Knocking once, you step inside, your back flat against the cool surface of the door.
He doesn’t even look up right away. Just keeps reading something on his screen. “Something bothering that young brain of yours?” he asks without turning. “Because if you’re not going to be focused, I need to know. I don’t do hand-holding. This could’ve been a disaster.”
Your heart pounds so loudly you’re surprised he doesn’t pause to comment on it. When he finally decides to spare you a glance, it isn’t anger you’re met with. He looks tired, and even irritated, that he has to explain these things to you at all.
“Don’t be sloppy. I don’t like sloppy. Got it?”
Fervently nodding, you say, “Yes, sir.” You might grant him a smile, or perhaps something close enough to one, anyway. Then you leave, holding yourself together, and storm out of his office.
The newsroom is all windows and noise, impossible to disappear into, but taking the elevator isn’t a viable option at the moment. The stairwell, by contrast, is dim and forgotten, since no one uses it unless the elevators break down. That makes it a perfect place for you to hide.
You sit on the concrete steps and fold in on yourself, allowing yourself to cry. Sweaty palms pressed to your face, tugging at your hair like it might anchor you in your body. Silent sobs wrack your chest, and tears slip down your face, pooling at the edges of your mouth, making their way towards your chin and neck. Your knees draw to your chest, and you let yourself dissolve into shuddering breaths.
You aren’t just crying over the article, or the look Perry gave you, or the shame you saw in every pair of eyes that passed your desk.
You’re crying because at some point, without you even noticing, you’d let yourself believe that maybe—maybe—you were starting to belong here. That maybe you weren’t a complete fraud. It turns out it doesn’t take much to unravel those thoughts. Just one mistake. One article. One email you should’ve double-checked.
A couple of minutes pass, and you hear the door being opened and then shut. You’re too far gone by then: cheeks damp, fingers gripping your knees, shoulders drawn tight toward your ears. The sound of someone’s footsteps approaching you makes your stomach lurch, and instinctively, you swipe at your face, trying to clean yourself up with the heel of your palm as if that could erase the fact you’ve been crying.
You hear it. His voice.
“…Hey.”
Clark.
You rub your eyes, keeping your gaze fixed on a chipped bit of concrete near your foot, your throat too raw to answer.
There’s a pause. You don’t even hear him move, yet you feel him there, not close enough to crowd you, but not far enough either. He waits. It’s his thing, apparently.
Before you can stop yourself, you speak. “I’m fine,” you croak, too quickly. A reflex.
He doesn’t reply right away. A beat slides, and he mutters, “Didn’t ask.”
That earns a weak exhale from you. Not exactly laughter, but akin to it. You rest your forehead on your knees, and because you can’t help it, because it’s bubbling up and there’s nowhere else for it to go, you start talking. More like rambling, actually.
“I was tired, and I was trying to finish it fast, and I thought I’d already attached the right file, and—” You stop, inhaling sharply. “God, I’m pathetic.”
Clark still says nothing. You risk a glance in his direction and find him standing just a few steps down from you, one hand loosely resting on the railing.
You interpret his demeanor as an invitation to go on. “It’s so stupid. Everyone’s supposed to make mistakes. That’s what they say. But this doesn’t feel like a mistake. It feels like confirmation. That I shouldn’t be here. That I’m playing pretend, and now everyone can see it.”
It’s only a matter of time before your voice cracks, and you suck in a breath like it might steady you, but it only makes your chest hurt.
Gently, without needing to say anything, he sits down beside you, leaving just enough space so you don’t feel boxed in. You feel the warmth radiating off his body even through the distance. A comforting kind of heat.
“I didn’t want anyone to see me like this,” you croak. “It’s miserable.”
“It’s not.”
You shake your head, and the tears come back again for a second round, your whole frame shaking. More tears. You thought you were done.
That’s when you feel it. The hesitant pressure of his hand between your shoulder blades. He doesn’t move it, just lets it rest there, warm as you continue to cry your heart out. You’re pretty sure he must think you’ve gone mental. Once he notices you’re not backing away from his touch, he begins rubbing your skin in small, slow circles. No pressure. No expectation.
Eventually, after long minutes of trying to even your breath, you shift toward him on instinct, and he opens his arms, enveloping you. You fold into the space he makes for you, still trembling, trying to convince yourself this isn’t humiliating. His chest is solid against your cheek, and he smells like cologne and paper and something sweet you can’t quite place.
You don’t ask why he came. You believe you already have your answer. Lois probably saw you bolt. Maybe Jimmy sent him. Maybe he drew the short straw.
It turns out you say it out loud, because Clark speaks gently into your hair. “No one sent me.”
You choke on your own saliva.
“I just noticed you’d been gone for a while,” he adds. “That’s all.”
Pulling back a little, just enough to look at him in the eye, you find his expression to be unreadable in that Clark Kent way. “I didn’t even realize I was gone that long,” you admit.
He smiles, barely. “I know.”
A long silence hangs in the air between you. Not uncomfortable, but thick with things unsaid.
Then he asks, almost like he already knows what you’ll respond next: “Why are you so hard on yourself?”
You laugh, though it comes out watery and bitter. “I don’t know how else to be.”
He watches you for a moment. The world outside the stairwell feels a thousand miles away.
“I think,” Clark begins carefully, “you hold yourself to this impossible standard. You think if you slip up, everyone will rub it in your face.” You stare at him, swallowing hard. “But no one’s waiting to punish you,” he explains. “They already like you. I already—” He stops himself mid-sentence. “You don’t have to earn that every second.”
His hand is still on your back. You don’t know what you’re supposed to say to that, so you just sit there with him. With yourself, and with everything you’re carrying. The silence lingers, suspended in time, and you can’t help but sniff after all that crying. You’re certain your eyes must be far beyond puffy and red-rimmed, your face blotchy, and you don’t even want to think about what your mascara’s looking like right now.
“Was it—” You hesitate, keeping eye contact. “Was it a lot? That I hugged you?”
Clark’s brows bump together in a scowl. “What do you mean?”
“I mean—” You gesture vaguely between your chests. “It was a full, like… torso-on-torso kind of hug. Which feels very much like a panic-hug. And I’ve only been working here a month, and you’re… you.”
His smile widens, carving those charming, endearing hollows into his cheeks. “I don’t mind.”
“Yeah, but I do. You probably have, like, policies about emotionally unstable interns clinging to you.”
“If there’s a policy, I haven’t read it.”
“Figures. Of course, you read everything except the employee handbook.”
Playfully surrendering, he snorts. “Guilty.”
There’s a beat. He looks like he’s considering something as those blue eyes of his map your face.
“Want to hear something that’ll make you regret hugging me at all?”
You scratch your nose. “Sure?”
“What do you call a dinosaur with an extensive vocabulary?”
“…No.”
He grins, too pleased with himself. “A thesaurus.”
“Oh my God.”
“I warned you.”
“No, but—a thesaurus?”
“What do you mean? It’s a classic!”
“I should’ve hugged Perry instead. Or the janitor. Literally anyone else.”
“That hurts. I opened my arms to you.”
“I did the arm-opening,” you shoot back. “You were just conveniently located.”
He’s chuckling, but his expression softens again when he sees you swipe under your eyes. You try to smile. You try. And it almost works, until your voice comes out small again. “I just didn’t want to mess up. I wanted to be good at this.”
“You are. Messing up doesn’t make you less good. You’d never say that to another human being.”
You look at him. The way he says it makes you understand he believes it. You’re not used to that. Most people say things like that with ifs and buts tacked on. Clark doesn’t. He just lets the truth sit there between you. Pressing your lips together, you gape at your lap, and then back at him.
“…Okay,” you whisper.
“Okay,” he echoes.
A pause.
“Wanna hear another one?”
“Clark, please—”
“What do you call fake spaghetti?”
“I don’t even want to think about that one.”
“An impasta.”
You groan louder, forehead tipping dramatically against his shoulder. “Just fire me already.”
Clark giggles, not moving an inch. “Can’t. I’m just the delivery guy.”
“Of terrible puns?”
“Of coffee and emotional support.”
You laugh, this time for real, short and soggy and kind of breathless. In this tiny stairwell, with your head spinning and your chest still aching, this had been exactly what you needed.
By the time you’re both standing again, your eyes feel like they’ve been rubbed back and forth with sandpaper. You wipe at your face with the sleeve of your cardigan, though Clark hands you a tissue without saying anything. You take it, thanking him while intending to fix your appearance in the reflection of his glasses.
“You always carry tissues with you?”
“A man needs to be prepared.”
He doesn’t rush you, although both of you know that eventually you have to go back. “Ready?” he asks gently.
You nod like a liar, returning to the office. Jimmy spots you the second the door to the stairwell opens. He stands near the copy machine, holding a mug shaped like the Daily Planet’s globe, and raises his eyebrows like he’s seeing something scandalous. Lois leans out of her cubicle and gives Clark a slow look, then swings her gaze to you.
“Well, well,” she murmurs, wrapping a loose strand of hair around her finger. “We thought you’d fled the country.”
Jimmy snorts into his coffee. “I must confess I’ve never tried stairwell therapy. Sounds very promising.”
Clark clears his throat, cheeks just slightly pink. “She was just upset. That’s all.” Inching toward you, he whispers into your ear, “You sure you’re okay?”
You nod, and this time, it’s not entirely a lie. Your chest twists a little: not from embarrassment, but from the warm way everyone seems to be looking at you. You sit back at your desk, and Jimmy passes you a couple of snacks wordlessly, winking at you.
Lois throws a scrunchie at your head, giving you a thumbs up. “Fix your face,” she says. “If you cry again, you’ll dehydrate and die. And I don’t have time to explain that to Perry.”
Your throat tightens again, but for entirely different reasons.
You like Lois.
You really, really do.
She’s sharp-tongued and sharp-minded, the kind of journalist who could scare a senator into answering a question they’ve been dodging for a decade. She doesn’t soften herself to fit the room. If anything, the room adjusts to her. You admire that. You admire her.
You trust her, too, in the weird way you trust people after you decided not to trust them at all.
Which is why it catches you off guard, the quiet pinch in your chest when you see her standing next to Clark, cackling. And him, tittering the way he does when he’s truly listening, the corners of his eyes crinkling just barely behind his glasses.
They look like puzzle pieces that have known each other forever.
In your defense, this was all supposed to be a harmless observation. You’re standing next to the copier, waiting for it to spit out your stack of edited pages.
All of a sudden, the copier beeps, and you jerk away.
“Hey.” Jimmy materializes out of nowhere behind you, nearly making you drop your stack. “You okay? You look like you just found out your favorite character dies in the end.”
You force a laugh, too high-pitched. “No, I was just…thinking. That Clark and Lois would make a good couple. Like, objectively. They’re very…compatible.”
Jimmy blinks.
Then blinks again.
Then tilts his head as if you’re announcing you’re moving to Mars. “What—why would you say that?”
You stare at him, and the weight of what you’d just admitted out loud hits you like a train.
“I’ve picked up this terrible habit of saying my thoughts out loud,” you half-whisper, burying your face in the warm papers you’ve just printed. “You didn’t need to know that.”
“Hold on, hold on.” Jimmy steps in front of you, looking way too interested. “Back up. You think Clark and Lois are compatible?”
The copier makes an unholy crunching noise, and you yank the paper tray open, because you don’t want to meet his demanding gaze. “I meant it like…as a neutral statement,” you lie, badly. “A purely objective, journalistic observation. A general public-interest…thing.”
“Like you’re a neutral third-party scientist, observing the wild mating rituals of the office?”
“Exactly.”
“You’re so not a neutral third party. That might be the worst save I’ve ever heard.”
“Give me a break.”
“No, seriously, this is interesting. Tell me more about this neutral thought process. Was it before or after you began looking at Clark like he personally invented gravity?”
“Drop it, Jimmy.”
Jimmy looms closer the copier, puffing out his chest, looking way too smug for someone who sometimes accidentally deletes half his own files. “Listen. I love Lois. Everyone loves Lois. But Clark and Lois? No way.”
You glanced at him. “What do you mean ‘no way’? They’re…they’re them.”
“You said it yourself. I’ve seen Clark, a grown man, blushing when someone compliments his tie. You think Lois has time for that?”
You don’t answer right away. Your gaze drifts back to Clark, who’s now scribbling into his notepad while Lois steals the last bite of his muffin, and you force yourself to avert your attention from that scene. What you believe to be the truth sits heavy in your stomach, even as you joke around.
Because here’s the thing: this isn’t Lois’s fault. You’d fight anyone who said a bad word about her—so why does it still sting? Why does some ugly voice in your head start listing every way you fall short in comparison? This profound ache that you feel isn’t about her, not really. It’s about you: about how you always seem to be two steps behind the version of yourself you’re supposed to be.
Comparison is a cruel game, especially when the other player doesn’t even know she’s on the board.
Jimmy nudges your arm, the teasing gone a little softer. “Hey. Don’t overthink it.”
You’re fiddling with an old bracelet that dangles from your wrist. “You’re only about thirty years too late.” Gathering your pages, holding them a little too tightly, you take a step back. “I should get back to work.” You choose that to be your response, given it’s easier than saying I don’t want to feel like this, or I wish I didn’t care, or I think I’m falling for him, and I don’t know how to stop.
And because the alternative is staying here and letting Jimmy be right.
Again.
They arrange the plan casually, almost in passing. Someone mentions something about finally clocking out, someone else brings up the bar a few blocks away from the building, and then Lois chimes in with, “We’re all going, no excuses,” unwilling to take no for an answer.
And somehow, that settles it.
The sun dips low as the office empties, everyone spilling into the street with sleeves rolled and voices louder than they’ve been all day. You walk a step behind Jimmy, who’s listing the bar’s drink specials like he’s memorized them for a play he forgot to audition for.
The night has that kind of electricity. The possibility of being something good. Memorable.
The bar’s noisy in the comforting way only post-work places could be: the hum of old songs, clinking glasses, the rise and fall of casual arguments about baseball, or film, or whether Perry White had once owned a parrot (Jimmy swears yes, Lois says no, and Clark just answers “I’m afraid I have no parrot knowledge”).
You don't mean to drink your first cocktail that fast. You just... forget to pace yourself, but it helps, giving you permission to just exist. Laugh at Jimmy’s impressions. Pretend you’re not glancing at Clark more than you should.
The group is gathered near a back booth when Clark slips away. You only notice because it’s like a light flicks off inside you. When you spot him through the bar window—outside, on the sidewalk, phone pressed to his ear, fingers pushing through his hair—you follow without thinking.
You don’t hesitate, slipping through the crowd and nudging the door open, letting it swing closed behind you.
He half-turns at the sound, catching you in his peripheral. A tiny smile lifts the corner of his mouth. He raises a single finger as if to say: One sec. So you lean against the wall beside the door, letting the cool air cling to your skin, internally cursing yourself for not putting on your coat before going out.
“Okay, Ma. Yeah, I’ll give him a call tomorrow. No, I promise, it’s fine. Yeah. Yeah, love you too. Sleep tight,” he says into his phone, ending the call and tucking the device into the pocket of his black slacks. “Sorry. That was my mom. Sometimes she calls without checking the time first. She gets all excited.”
You smile, your mouth twitching. “That’s… adorable.”
He shrugs, glancing down at his feet, almost bashful. “She’s always worried I’m working too much.”
“Well, are you?”
His eyes find yours, and for a second, he doesn’t answer. At long last, he retorts, “Maybe.”
You study him—the way his posture seems to be at ease out here, how the line of his shoulders relaxes in the quiet. There’s something about him that always feels held back, as if he’s managing himself carefully, like he’s afraid of taking up too much space.
Which is funny, considering how much space he’s been occupying in your thoughts lately.
“Are you annoyed?” you ask.
His smile fades. “What?”
“You seemed… I don’t know. Off.”
“No,” he says, seemingly caught off guard. “Not annoyed.” You nod slowly, unsure if that’s a real answer or the kind people give when they don’t want to be asked twice. “I just needed some air. That’s all.”
You let that sit between you. Let the quiet stretch a little. The last thing you want is to pry, but there’s something you want to know. It seems that lately you always want to know more with him, even when you’re afraid of the answers you might receive.
Next thing you know, your brain, being the traitor it is, decides now would be the perfect time to blurt: “So, uh… are you and Lois a thing?” It comes out too fast and loud, way too sincere. You immediately want to grab the words midair and cram them back into your mouth.
Clark straightens so quickly it’s like someone snapped a rubber band on his arm, his jaw clenching. “What?” The pitch of his voice cracks up a little, like his vocal cords haven’t gotten the memo that he’s supposed to be cool and composed.
“You and Lois?” you repeat, trying to style it as harmless curiosity. You throw in a half-shrug that feels more like a full-body spasm. “I mean… it’s not a crazy question. She’s Lois Lane. Beautiful woman, insanely good hair. I’d date her.”
“She’d eat you alive.”
“Yeah, but it’d be an honor.”
“Lois and I are just friends. Really good friends. We’ve been through a lot together, but… it’s never been like that.”
Looking down, you nod in agreement, peering at your heels. Did they always have that much shine? You shift your weight, unsure where to put your hands. “Great,” you reply. “I wasn’t trying to make things weird. It’s just—people talk, you know? Office gossip. Background noise. Someone had to ask.”
Clark cocks his head to the side, his forehead creasing. “Someone?”
“Yeah. I was just the unfortunate soul selected by the people. Took one for the team.”
He smiles then. “The team.”
“Yeah. Julie from Sports. And, uh… Steve.”
“Steve?”
“Yeah,” you say, faking confidence. “He’s new. Big into Hawaiian shirts. You’d remember him if you’d seen him. That dude’s hilarious.”
“Right.” He huffs out another quiet laugh, gesturing vaguely toward the bar. “Wanna go back inside?”
You shake your head. “Actually... I think I’m heading home.”
“Oh. You sure?”
“Certainly. I’m just tired. It’s been a long week. Brain soup.”
“I get that,” he says, softer now. But he doesn’t move. “Do you want me to call you a cab?”
“Relax. I can get one myself. Last time I checked, I still owned a phone.”
He still doesn’t budge. “Or… I could walk you home.”
And just like that, he disappears inside, the door swinging shut behind him with an almost faint thud.
The moment he’s gone, you let your head fall back against the bricks and close your eyes. It hadn’t been in your plans to ask about Lois. Actually, you hadn’t planned for any of this. You just saw him step outside and followed like gravity stopped being theoretical.
But sometimes, he looks at you like he sees something you don’t, which is the part that terrifies you.
The door creaks open behind you. You straighten quickly, trying to shake off whatever expression you were wearing. Clark has your bag slung over one shoulder and your coat draped carefully over his arm. He looks absurdly responsible.
“You really didn’t have to do all that,” you say as he hands everything over to you.
“Too late,” he replies. “Chivalry wins again.”
You walk the first few blocks in companionable silence. The city has started to go quiet, and even though the night is soft, your brain isn’t.
Then, because the world is poetic when it’s inconvenient, your heel catches a crack in the pavement and you go down like a cursed fairytale. “Shit—damn it!”
“Whoa—got you,” Clark huffs, catching you just in time. His hands are at your waist, strong and certain, and you hate how easily your pulse betrays you.
You wince. “Ankle. Ow.”
He guides you down to sit on the front steps of a random building, pursing his lips. He crouches, eyes scanning your foot like he’s searching for something under the skin. “Probably just a twist. You should be alright.”
“How do you…?”
“What?”
“How do you know it’s not swelling?” you ask, scrutinizing him. “You barely looked. Didn’t even check it properly.”
“Just… a hunch, I mean—” His mouth opens, then closes, and then opens again with a whole new sentence. “Look, I didn’t hear anything snap, so... unless your bones are stealthy...?”
“That’s not exactly how ankles work.”
“I mean, you haven’t turned purple. That has to be a good sign.” He laughs, tight and awkward, and you snort despite yourself. His hand rakes through his hair. “Sorry. Just trying to be optimistic.”
“You sure you weren’t a paramedic in a past life?”
“Oh, no. I’d be terrible at that.”
Still, you watch him a second longer. He looks... nervous, like he’s afraid he said too much.
He kneels with his back to you. “Here. Get on.”
“Excuse me?”
“Piggyback. Let’s not make it a thing.”
“It’s already a thing. A humiliating one.”
“Let me reframe it: this is me being chivalrous, and you being temporarily horizontal.”
“That is not how that word works.” You sigh, dramatic. “Fine. Just… please, don’t drop me.”
As you climb onto his back, his hands reach back to catch the backs of your knees, and when his palms find skin—warm where your skirt’s ridden up slightly—it short-circuits something in your chest. It’s not even overtly intimate. It’s just… contact. Unflinching contact. You feel it like a current, a hot spark that rushes up your spine and settles somewhere inconvenient.
“Have I already mentioned this is embarrassing?” you mutter, resting your chin lightly against his shoulder.
“You say that like I’m not honored.”
“I’m a grown woman. You’re carrying me like a backpack.”
“You are basically a human backpack,” he quips back. “And kind of a noisy one.”
You smack his shoulder gently, making him laugh. You let your eyes drift closed for a second, his back is broad under your touch. You become aware of how safe it feels, how easy it is to trust him.
“Clark?”
“Hmm?”
“You didn’t even blink when I said I hurt my ankle. Like you already knew it wasn’t serious.”
He pauses. “I had a feeling.”
You lean back slightly to see his face, though the angle mostly gives you a view of his glasses and the top of his cheekbone. “You’re weird.”
Smirking, he glances sideways just enough for you to catch it. “Takes one to know one.”
You let it drop, at least out loud. But your brain doesn’t. It files this away with the other strange Clark Kent moments—the way he sometimes seems to flinch at distant sirens, or how you’d swear he once turned around because someone two desks over whispered his name.
By the time you reach your apartment, your ankle has started throbbing again, a dull ache radiating up your calf. Clark shifts slightly to let you down as you fumble for your keys.
You aren’t exactly drunk, but your head definitely feels funny. “Here we are,” he says, and you slid off his back and onto the ground like a sack of potatoes with a master’s degree.
“Thanks,” you mumble, trying to stand in a way that suggests grace and control. “You can, um. You can go be normal now.”
He sticks his hands in his pockets. “I was normal before.”
“That’s debatable.” You finally open the door, triumphant, but instead of going in, you linger in the doorway, facing him. “Thanks for the rescue. Again. I’ll see you Monday?”
“Yeah,” he says softly. “Goodnight.”
He doesn’t move, and neither do you. Your fingers tighten around the doorknob.
There’s an unexpected pull in your chest. The way his collar is rumpled. The way his hair curls behind his ears. The way the night had been soft, and the sidewalk felt warmer when he walked beside you, and—
An unbeatable desire to kiss him invades your whole being. You want to touch his jaw and feel the shape of his mouth and know what it would be like to exist under his hands. To be held by Clark Kent.
He finally steps back, appearing reluctant. “You might want to put some ice on it. Maybe take something for the pain?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And give me a call if it gets worse.”
“Only if I want to be carried again.”
“Happy to oblige.”
And then—finally—he walks away. You close the door behind you, pressing your forehead to the wood, heart knocking hard against your ribs.
You’re beyond head over heels.
Another Monday at the Daily Planet. It’s 8:56am, and as the elevator doors open with a cruel little ding, you carefully step out, checking your surroundings.
Everything looks the same—the hum of all those computers, some colleague having a hard time with the copier, Perry barking out unintelligible orders in the distance—but you are not the same. Not since last Friday.
Your ankle’s still a little sore, you haven’t been sleeping well, and Clark Kent could be somewhere in this building, existing like a real person with real hands and a real mouth you definitely didn’t imagine kissing at least ten times this weekend.
You weave through desks, praying for invisibility, when—
“Morning, sunshine,” Jimmy sing-songs from his chair, already halfway through a bagel, a smile plastered on his face. “How’s the foot?”
“Clark told you,” you say flatly.
Jimmy gives you a look, his eyes going round with faux innocence. “Who, me? No! I just assumed you mysteriously developed a limp and Clark suddenly discovered how to piggyback people from years of quiet farm strength.”
“I cannot believe he told you.”
“Oh, come on. It’s adorable.” Jimmy leans back in his chair, using his feet to make it spin. “You? Carried through the city like a Victorian maiden? I wish I had footage. I’d set it to music.”
“I hate you.”
He stops spinning to point his bagel at you. “You say that, but I think you secretly love being the main character.”
“Do I look like someone who enjoys attention?”
“Not attention in general. Just his.”
You don’t dignify that with a response. Mostly because he’s not wrong, and your face is already betraying you. Sliding into your chair, you pretend to focus on your monitor like it contains NASA launch codes.
Maybe if you don’t look up, you’ll avoid—
“Morning,” Clark says gently, materializing beside your desk. You look up, and there he is. Soft smile. Soft eyes. Probably soft everything.
You panic and blurt the most neutral, irrelevant thing your brain can conjure: “Did you see that viral video of the goose chasing the guy through Centennial Park?”
Clark blinks. “I haven’t.”
“Crazy stuff. Nature’s relentless.”
“...Okay.”
You clear your throat, willing yourself not to combust.
“Anyway,” Clark continues with his inquiry, “I just wanted to check in. How’s the ankle doing?”
“Fine! Yep. Great. I can do five jumping jacks. Not that I have, but I could.”
He raises his eyebrows, visibly amused. “That’s good to know.”
“Cool,” you reply, cringing on the inside. “Cool, cool, cool, cool.”
And then you both just stand there, marinating in awkward silence. Eventually, Clark raises a hand in greeting and excuses himself to his desk, not before placing your usual coffee next to your keyboard. You thank him without managing to meet his eyes.
Your fingers hover near the cup, though you don’t pick it up right away. The warmth radiates against your skin. You’re aware of everything—your pulse, your breath, the tight flutter in your chest.
You try to return to your work. Really, you do. It’s just that your thoughts don’t seem to line up in a straight line today, and somehow English doesn’t even feel like your mother tongue anymore.
Then Jimmy slides a folder across your desk. “Perry wants you to proofread this by noon. No pressure. Except all the pressure.”
You sigh, taking a sip of coffee and trying to remember how to be a functioning adult. You’ve got a job to do, feelings to repress, and exactly three hours until lunch.
Later that day, after a full shift spent second-guessing every adjective you typed and rereading all those drafts like they were confessionals, you finally make it home.
Shoes abandoned by the door. Work shirt flung somewhere in your hallway. The glow of your laptop waits on the coffee table, your latest half-thought article still open, the cursor blinking, mercifully patient.
You settle into the couch with a sigh and think: this, at least, is something.
And then—you notice it. A crucial absence.
Your charger.
Still plugged in beneath your desk at the Daily Planet like it’s mocking you. Of course. Of course the universe wants you to suffer. As you reach for your phone, ready to spiral, it buzzes in your hand.
Jimmy Olsen.
You answer blandly. “If this is about that goose video again—”
“Relax. It’s not.” He speaks as if he’s chewing something. “Although, side note, there’s a new edit where the goose honks to the beat of Eye of the Tiger and—anyway. That’s not why I’m calling.”
“Then what, Jimmy?” You drag a hand down your face, dreading every second of the call.
“You left your charger here—”
“Don’t even get me started on that.”
“—but I already gave it to Clark.”
Silence. Heavy, jagged silence.
“You what?”
“Gave it to Clark. Figured he could drop it off, since he already knows where you live.” He pauses, then adds, in the world’s most audible smirk: “Wink wink.”
“You didn’t actually wink just now, did you?”
“Oh, I did, physically. With both eyes.”
“Jimmy—”
“You’re welcome. He said he was heading that way anyway.”
The line clicks dead. You stare at your phone for a moment longer, and then, because there’s nothing else to do, you stand.
You wander to the balcony, scanning the street in search of a man you know very well. There’s no way you’re mentally or emotionally prepared for this. Murmuring something unspeakable, you dart to the bathroom mirror. It’s too late to fix anything. Nevertheless, you splash cold water on your face, wiping under your eyes and blinking at your reflection like that’ll make you look alive.
Three polite, measured taps on your door have you looking at the doorway with utter fear, and that’s when you consider faking your death.
In the end, you open the door. Clark’s wearing a big coat that makes his shoulders look broader than human decency allows, holding your charger like it’s something precious.
“Hey. Delivery service. Courtesy of Jimmy Olsen.”
You draw in a long breath. “Thank you. I—I’m sorry you had to do that. He really didn’t need to drag you into—”
He shakes his head before you get to say more. “It’s no trouble. I was happy to.”
You step back, thumb tapping the edge of the door. “Do you wanna come in for a minute? I mean, you don’t have to. Obviously. But if you want water or—tea? Bad tea. That’s all I’ve got.”
He smiles, stepping inside as if he were trying not to track in mud. “Water’s perfect. Thanks.”
You leave him in the living room while you hunt down a clean glass, and as you pour, you curse yourself for the mess of dirty dishes on the counter. Once you come back, he’s not moving. Just standing by the couch, staring. At your laptop.
“I didn’t mean to meddle in your stuff,” he says gently. “But… were you writing something?”
You make your way around the couch. “Oh. Yeah. No. It’s nothing.”
He sits after getting rid of his coat, seemingly not believing your words. “Can I ask what it’s about?”
Placing the glass on top of the table, you take a seat beside him, your knees folding under you, fingers worrying at the seam of your pants. “It’s kind of dumb.”
“I doubt that.”
“It’s just—something I started on Saturday night. I don’t know. It’s not an article, really. Not for the paper. Just… thoughts. About Superman. Or not him exactly. More about what he means to people.”
He says nothing. So you keep going.
“I guess I’ve been thinking about why people need something to believe in. Like a… structure. A symbol. Something to hang all their hope on. And for some people, that’s Superman, even if he’s flawed. He gives people permission to believe the world isn’t doomed.”
You pause. “And Perry would throw it in the trash if he ever came across it,” you add, bitterly. “So. Doesn’t matter.”
Clark’s gdoesn’t tear his gaze away from you. “I’d like to read it.”
You blink. “What?”
“If you’re okay with it,” he says, nodding toward the laptop. “I’d really like to.”
Hesitating for a second longer, you eventually slide the laptop in his direction. He adjusts on the couch as he leans forward, careful with the device, treating it as something delicate.
“Brace yourself for excessive metaphors.”
“Oh, I love metaphors. The more excessive, the better.”
And so he begins to read.
You try not to stare. At him, at the screen, at anything. You focus on the ticking of a clock you didn’t even know had batteries, wondering if Clark will also think that what you wrote is too silly. Too emotional or abstract. Perhaps he'll want to know why you were writing about Superman in the first place.
There’s a sudden shift in his demeanor. It’s subtle, barely anything. His shoulders drop a fraction, and when you take in the full sight of him, he’s grinning, reading all the way through.
“This is good,” he says, still concentrated on the screen. “Really good.”
“You don’t have to say that just to be nice.”
He shakes his head once, firm. “No—I mean it. The structure’s clean. You build your argument gradually, but it doesn’t drag. Your transitions are solid. And your tone—” He glares at you now. “—it’s vulnerable without tipping into sentimentality. There’s conviction in it, but you don’t preach. It feels like a conversation.”
Your mouth opens, but nothing comes out. “It’s not finished yet,” you manage eventually, voice tight. “I still have to go over the middle section. I think I wasn’t that clear once I got into the part about collective memory—”
“Even so. You’re onto something. If you let me, I’d love to help you get it in front of Perry.”
Your eyes bore into his, edging closer to where he’s located. He looks entirely sincere. A sharp pressure envelops your chest, and you want to thank him for his kindness, but what comes out instead is a hoarse: “Really?”
“Really. We could try and talk to him one of these days.”
Before you can stop yourself, you lean in and hug him.
You don’t even think about it—your body just does it, and then you’re flushed against him, arms around his neck, your face tucked against the warm fabric of his coat. He smells like paper and some brand of laundry detergent you don’t recognize.
He hugs you back, and it’s not one of those loose, polite things. His arm curves around you like he means it. You close your eyes, just for a second, just long enough to remember what it feels like to be held like that.
“I keep doing this,” you utter, voice hushed by how near he is. “Randomly hugging you.”
“I don’t mind it. Not at all.”
When you pull back, you’re still half in his space, breathing a little faster than usual. The relief is short-lived.
You ask for the antidote to the ache that keeps you up at night, something to quiet the want that only he seems to understand. “Can you please do it?”
“Do what?”
Does he want you to say it?
You stare at him, and something in your stomach dives. “Please, kiss me,” you plead, your voice barely rising above the hush of breath between you, and yet it seems to echo in the small apartment. Your cheeks feel burning hot, but you don’t, can’t, won’t look away. Not now. Not with him so close you’re convinced your skin might start fusing with his.
That seems to shake something in him. It might be the first time you’ve seen him truly stunned. His lips part slightly, eyes flicking from yours to your mouth, trying to make sense of the fact that this is real. That you want this from him.
One hand lifts reverently and settles along your jaw. The pads of his fingers cradle the hinge of it like you’re beyond fragile, afraid of pressing too hard. His thumb barely skims the corner of your mouth, and you perceive a jolt going down your spine.
His touch is featherlight, but his breathing is not. It’s affected, perhaps as much as yours. “You really want me to?”
You nod. Or try to. It comes out more like an eager lean into his palm, your body already answering before your mouth does. It’s been too long since you’ve been touched this way, like you mattered.
Your thighs press against his, knees brushing the outside of his, as if you were nearly straddling him. When your hands move instinctively to his chest, you see it: the first button of his shirt undone. The faint rise and fall beneath it.
You glance up, asking without words. He doesn’t back away, and you press your fingertips lightly there. His pale skin feels smooth to the touch, and his heartbeat flutters beneath your fingertips, stuttering out of rhythm.
He wants this as much as you do. The human body doesn’t lie. It can’t. It doesn’t pretend to want something it doesn’t crave.
“I do,” you insist, the words catching faintly at the back of your throat, transfixed in a whirlwind of emotion. “I need you to do it.”
A shallow breath leaves him. There’s a thin, glowing ring of blue circling his pupils, his gaze so dark it nearly swallows the light. His other hand slides around to the nape of your neck, achingly gentle.
Clark pulls you in, and his lips meet yours.
At first, it’s a series of tender collisions, just the press and lift of mouths, as if he’s testing the shape of you against him, trying to memorize it in pieces. One kiss. Another. And another. They don’t last long because they don’t need to.
It’s when you tilt your head and open your mouth to him that he gives in. That’s all it takes.
He deepens the kiss instantly, as if he’s been waiting for that signal all along. His mouth claims yours with an urgency that feels both new and inevitable. His lips are plush, cool with mint, probably the vague trace of chewing gum still clinging from earlier.
Your hands fist the fabric of his shirt like a lifeline, his glasses knocking into your nose once, twice. Your body shifts, and then you’re fully perched in his lap, thighs spread over his. His arms adjust around your waist, steadying you there, holding you like he can’t bear the idea of you leaving. One of his hands slides to your lower back, while the other, still at your neck, traces along your jaw, then behind your ear, fingers tangled in your hair.
Sighing into him, your breath gets caught in the cavern of his mouth. The world gets smaller, somehow quieter. Just the sound of his breath mixing with yours, the thud of your pulse in your ears, the heat pooling between you like a live wire.
And even through it, he never stops being gentle. He doesn’t rush it. Doesn’t push too hard, though his body trembles beneath you every time he elicits a new sound out of you.
At some point, your lungs scream for oxygen, having grown unaccustomed to the sheer indulgence of kissing for several uninterrupted minutes. You pull back only enough to press your forehead to his, gasping his name. You’re kissed raw, lit from the inside out, and the only thing anchoring you is the reassuring pressure of his arms, still wrapped around your frame.
Your lips linger over his, and when you open your eyes, you find his still closed. Neither of you speaks for a moment. His thumb traces a distracted path across your lower back.
Then:
“You should start forgetting your charger more often,” he murmurs, voice a little raspy.
That alone has you focusing on evening out the creases of his shirt with your palm, mostly to avoid combusting. “I swear it wasn’t on purpose.” His finger gently lifts your chin, coaxing you to meet his gaze. The quiet ache of tenderness in his eyes nearly does you in. “Hey.”
“Hey.”
The words you’ve been actively trying to cage in for months fall out of your mouth without permission, but you don’t regret them. “I like you.”
He gathers you tighter against his chest. “Well, I can’t say I’m not flattered,” he says, teasing, that crooked half-smile already returning. A laugh bubbles out of him—but it’s giddy, boyish. You cut him off by covering his mouth with your palm.
“Don’t make fun of me. I’m trying to have a moment here.”
He gently peels your hand away, lacing your fingers with his instead, and brings them to rest against his chest. “I’ve probably been dreaming about this since your first week at the office,” he admits.
You glance up and notice his glasses have slipped down the bridge of his nose. Carefully, you push them back up with a fingertip. “I was always looking at you, you know,” you confess, quieter now. “Couldn’t help it.”
“You talk like I didn’t bring you coffee on your second day,” he teases, brushing his nose against yours. Leaning back just enough to take you in, his eyes sweep slowly across your face. “I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you.”
The words melt straight into your spine, and before you can think better of it, you surge forward and kiss him again. He meets you without hesitation, and when you break away, you leave a trail of humid kisses across his cheeks, down the line of his jaw, until your mouth finds the curve of his neck.
“I think my kissing might be a little rusty,” you croak into his skin. “Could probably use some improvement.”
“You’re kidding? It was fantastic. What are you—oh.” A beat. Then: “Oh. Sure.” He’s grinning like an idiot now, draping an arm around your waist. “I mean, I can help you with that. Practice makes perfect.”
“How noble of you, Kent.”
Your first kiss (kisses, plural—you lost count around the third) marks a shift in the fabric of everything. You’d seen it coming, even gave yourself a pep talk in the mirror that morning.
But then Clark sets a coffee on your desk, just as he always does, and says, “Hope you have a really good day today,” and suddenly your pep talk is useless. You’re smiling like someone who knows something others don’t. Because you do.
Together, you find a rhythm. You don’t talk about what this is—yet—but something’s shifted. No overt PDA. Not even flirtation, not really. Just… little things. Things that no one else clocks. The way he passes you a folder with an unnecessary brush of fingers. The way he saves you a chair in meetings and pulls it subtly closer to his, so that your knees bump under the table.
It’s the kind of thing that would be completely invisible to anyone else, but to you, it’s everything. It’s a love letter made of glances and millimeters, what you replay at night before bed, giggling at your ceiling like a fool.
Weeks pass in a blur of late nights and whispered conversations in elevators, and work has never been this motivating. Even Perry has stopped looking at you like you’re one bad coffee spill away from being escorted out by security.
One of Clark’s articles makes the front page—again—and when Jimmy sees it, he promptly rolls up the newspaper and smacks Clark in the arm with it. “Alright, headline hero. At this point, you’re just showing off.”
Clark ducks his head with a laugh, caught mid-fumble with his bag, a coffee, and what looks like three different folders sliding out from under his arm. You want to help him, but instead you just stand at your desk, watching like an idiot, warm with the kind of affection that makes your hands feel too light.
Lois arrives like she’s been summoned by sarcasm. She chews the end of a pen and corners Clark against his desk, watching him try to stack his chaos. “You know, Kent, I find it fascinating. You always seem to be conveniently nearby when Superman’s handing out interviews like candy on Halloween.”
Clark doesn’t look up, adjusting his monitor as if that could save him. “What can I say? Maybe I’m his type. We haven’t kissed yet, if that’s what you’re wondering.”
She narrows her eyes. “Don’t try to be clever with me. What do you give him? Why does he only let you interview him?”
“Have you considered he just… likes my writing?”
“So now you’re accusing him of bad taste?”
Jimmy slides into frame, palms raised. “Okay, okay. Time’s up, guys.” He puts both hands on Lois’s shoulders with exaggerated care. “You, my friend, are tense. Breathe. Maybe try yoga. Or tequila.”
Blowing air through her cheeks, she finally peels away, muttering, “I just wish Superman would leave his favoritism aside.” Before heading to her desk, she gives Clark one final, mysterious look.
Jimmy drops into his own chair dramatically, putting his feet over his desk. “Well, at least I tried.”
The day presses on. When lunch rolls around, you’re still grinning. You spot Clark at his desk, half-eaten sandwich in one hand, the other scrolling through something on his monitor, glasses barely askew. You approach with your hands clasped behind your back, adopting a mock-serious tone.
“Mr. Kent.”
His eyes flick up, and he swallows a bite too quickly. “Oh. Hi. To what do I owe the pleasure?”
You tilt your chin toward the newspaper near his bag. “Just wanted to congratulate you on the article.”
He lowers his voice until it’s almost inaudible, cheeks going faintly pink. “Thank you, baby. I would've hugged you the second I saw it, but, you know…”
“To celebrate… I was thinking dinner? I could make homemade pasta.”
“Gosh, I’d love that. Your place?”
“Yeah.”
“I wish I could kiss you right now,” he murmurs, gaze soft and so full of feelings it nearly unmoors you. “You look really pretty today.”
It hits you in the ribs, the way he says it. You offer him your fist. “Fist punch?”
His smile is half laughter, half reverence. He bumps your knuckles with his own, his fingers linger a beat longer than necessary.
As night folds in around your apartment, you’ve been stirring the sauce for the past twenty minutes, though it’s been done for at least ten. The smell of garlic and basil lingers in the air, the wine is uncorked, and the candles you lit—just two, nothing too obvious—are dripping lazy wax trails down their sides and onto the counter.
Your phone buzzes where it’s propped upright beside the sink.
Clark: Hey, I’m so sorry. Something came up. Can we rain check dinner? Promise I’ll make it up to you.
You just stand there, wooden spoon in hand. No call or explanation. Just the same vague apology he's given you three times now, each time with a different flavor of excuse. Each time with the same effect: you, left waiting with something you didn’t mean to take so personally.
There’s an answer teetering on the edge of your tongue. You even type, It’s alright! :-), with the smiley face and all, mostly to seem breezy. Effortless. But your thumb pauses, then backspaces slowly until the message disappears, and you leave him on read. Not as a form of punishment, but because you don’t know what else to reply.
You try to be patient. Try to be the kind of person who shrugs things off, who doesn’t take a rain check as anything more than bad timing. The problem’s that you’re not wired that way: you feel too much. You think too much.
Turns out, keeping your brain from imploding is the hardest part. You’ve even been practicing it lately, this thing of not jumping to the worst-case scenario. Telling yourself not everything is a sign, and that people get busy and have lives.
The thing’s that your brain has a voice of its own. A mean one, which sounds an awfully lot like yours.
Maybe he kissed you because he felt like he had to.
Maybe he doesn’t know how to say it, but he’s changed his mind.
Maybe he never wanted something serious, and you’re the only one building stories out of crumbs.
Dragging your feet back to the living room, you sit down in the nice pair of clothes you’d chosen for the occasion, and blink at the empty coffee table. As your body sinks into the couch cushions, the fatigue of disappointment sinks deeper than any full day at the Daily Planet. The TV throws shadows on the walls, some sitcom playing to an invisible audience.
And when your eyes finally close, you let sleep take the shape of mercy.
The pasta incident, when the spaghetti went cold and your heart even colder, wasn’t the last time he left you waiting.
Almost two weeks later, it plays out again.
The door clicks open an hour and a half past when he said he’d be here. You don’t greet him. Instead, you remain in the kitchen, back precisely angled away from the entrance, pretending to be focused on dinner even though it’s gone cold.
Clark’s footsteps are calculated, a careful shuffle across the living room carpet, testing the silence. He pauses just inside the kitchen's threshold. “Hey, honey,” he says, a little too bright, a little too loud, his greeting threading through the stillness. “Sorry I’m late. There was something I had to take care of.”
You crane your neck slowly. His hair is damp, curling at the edges, exactly as it does after sweating. His shirt is inside out, rumpled, the collar a crumpled mess. His cheeks are flushed, a deep, uneven red, and his chest rises and falls in quick, shallow breaths, as if he sprinted the last few blocks. He looks utterly disheveled.
You don’t ask where he’s been. Not yet. “Your shirt's backwards,” you retort instead, the words flat, neutral.
Startled, he bows his head, looking down and letting out a short, forced puff of air as he rubs the back of his neck. “My bad. I didn’t even notice.” His eyes, meeting yours, hold a flicker of surprise, quickly veiled.
“Yeah. You seem… in a rush.”
He doesn’t contradict you, just watches, completely tongue-tied, his posture subtly tightening. You drop your gaze back to the casserole dish—stuffed eggplants, roasted earlier in the day—and put it back into the oven, hoping it’ll survive the fifth reheat of the night.
Behind you, you feel him inch closer. A familiar warmth spreads across your back as his body presses gently against yours. His arms wrap around your waist, his hands resting lightly on your stomach, chin settling onto your shoulder while he brushes his lips against your cheek. “You’re quiet.”
You lift your shoulder in a half-shrug. “And you’re late.”
His hold around you tightens, rocking both your bodies back and forth before spinning you around to face him. His eyes, filled with longing, seek yours. “I missed you.”
If only that could be enough. You wish you could live off the sound of his voice and the weight of his hands on your body, letting his presence fill all the empty spaces, though you can’t help craving the one thing he won’t grant you: clarity.
Clark kisses you hungrily, a low, frustrated sound catching in his throat the moment you open to him, your tongue clashing with his. His cold hands glide up your back, slipping beneath your shirt to find bare skin, and you gasp as his fingers knead your lower back, the swift curve of your spine.
In one seamless motion, he lifts you onto the counter, and the kiss evolves into one heated and consuming, more of a desperate embrace. It's almost like he’s trying to make up for every second he’s missed, every moment of absence now erased by the force of his presence. Your fingers tangle in the damp hair at his nape, giving it a firm tug. That has him groaning against you, stepping further in between your knees, pressing flush against you.
His kisses deviate, trailing south, turning sloppy. "It’s been two months since our first kiss," he rasps against your throat, lips dragging over your damp skin, leaving open-mouthed kisses and a trail of heat.
For a moment, you let yourself vanish into him, surrendering to the overwhelming sensation, the promise of fleeting oblivion. You swallow hard, a whine bubbling up in your chest as his hips grind into yours with rhythmic pressure.
A sharp sizzle coming from the oven cuts through the haze.
You stiffen, hands finding his chest, pushing against him, breathless. "The eggplants."
He lets out a dazed breath, his forehead still resting against your clavicles before you manage to slide off the counter. You crack open the oven just in time, a cloud of smoke puffing out.
Plating the food, you meticulously avoid his gaze. The comfortable intimacy of moments before has been shattered. “You could’ve let me know you’d be arriving this late.”
“I told you—”
“I know,” you cut in. “Something came up.”
He exhales, planting hands on his hips. His body remains a few feet from you, a physical barrier building. “Okay. So you’re mad.”
“I’m not mad.”
“Disappointed, then?”
“Clark, it’s not even about tonight.”
“Then what is it about?”
You hesitate, picking up both your plates. Then: “Where were you?” The silence that follows stretches too long, and he merely stands there, observing you “Right.”
“I don’t want to fight.”
“I’m not fighting. I’m just… tired.”
He takes a single step closer, his brow furrowed. “You don’t believe me.”
You glance at him, quietly. “Should I?”
That hits him like a slap. “I told you I liked you, that I care about you. About us. I’ve shown you that.”
“But then you vanish,” you say in rejoinder, voice trembling. “You show up looking like you’ve just escaped a fire. You don’t answer calls. You don’t explain anything. Don’t you think that drives me crazy?”
“I’ve been telling you—“
“Clark, it’s not about you saying it! It’s about me believing it. And you don’t exactly make that easy.”
“The real problem here is that you don’t trust me.”
“You think I want to be like this? You think I like doubting people when they’re kind to me? Well, I’m sorry,” you snap, the words coated in sarcasm, a desperate defense. “Would you like me to book a therapy session mid-dessert?”
“Maybe you should,” he agrees—and the moment he does, his shoulders slump, a quiet wave of regret washing over his face.
Biting your tongue, you carry your plates to the table, placing them down on the wooden surface. He stays in the kitchen, breathing hard.
“I’m sorry,” he says again, softer now. “I just— I don’t know how to do this when you already assume I’m going to leave.”
“I’m not assuming,” you say, barely a whisper, sitting down at the table. “I’m just preparing for what usually happens.”
“You’re staring at me like I’m about to vanish.”
You blink, wounded by his accuracy. “Because people do. They do that.”
“I’m not people!” he exclaims, suddenly louder, cracking with what you perceive as frustration. His fists clench at his sides, knuckles white, though he remains rooted in place. "I’m me. And I’m standing right here, aren’t I?"
“For now. Who knows if something else will come up?”
Something cracks in him then. He exhales a sharp sound of utter defeat. His blue eyes dart around the kitchen, looking everywhere but at you, like he suddenly doesn’t know where to put his hands. With a jerky motion, he turns abruptly and moves to the couch, grabbing his bag, and after a quiet clink, he places the set of keys you gave him—your apartment keys— on the table.
He doesn't look back at them. Or at you. “Okay,” he mutters under his breath. “Okay.”
“Clark—” you start, a desperate plea forming in your throat.
“Thank you for the food,” he says, slinging the bag over his shoulder. “I’m sure it’s great.”
Then the door clicks again, and he’s gone.
The Daily Planet office, once a source of nervous excitement, now feels like the perfect stage for an excruciating play, where every creak of a chair, every muffled phone call, and every far-off laugh from the newsroom, feels amplified.
One day bleeds into the next. Two become three. Three into four. Time unspools in quiet, colorless strands, and you and Clark don’t speak.
You develop a radar for him. The way his broad shoulders appear in the periphery of your vision when he walks past your desk. The clean scent that lingers for a moment too long in the air after he’s been near. The rustle of his coat, the click of his shoes.
Each tiny signal sends a fresh jolt through you, a cocktail of longing, hurt, and a desperate, futile hope that he might just look at you differently.
He never does. His gaze, when it lands anywhere near your orbit, can be described as nothing more than fleeting. His profile, when you cast him a quick glance, is unreadable, stony. He still places your usual coffee beside your monitor. The one you haven’t asked for. The one you don’t touch.
It’s the careful avoidance of two people who know too much about each other, and yet, not enough.
Jimmy, bless his usually boisterous heart, is the first to notice the shift. The absence of his jokes feels heavier than any of his previous teasing. He watches you some mornings when you walk in—does a quick, puzzled double take—then looks away with a frown you’re not supposed to catch.
Your new routine includes staying late at the newsroom. Not because you’re more productive, but because being alone in the office feels better than being alone in your apartment. You stare at the same document for hours while words blur and sentences unravel in front of you.
But when your mind finally stills, it drifts to the article. The one you wrote about Superman. The one Clark urged you to show Perry.
You’d written it during a different time. A better one. It had come from a place of awe, from a belief that Superman was more than a shiny cape and strength—that he was what Metropolis aspired to be: a symbol of better days, of striving, of hope.
Now, hope feels like a language you’ve forgotten how to speak.
Today, you don’t believe in hope. You believe in a man who held you like he meant it, once, and can’t meet your eyes now.
Nevertheless, you print the article, not really knowing why. Maybe because it’s the only thing in this building that still feels like it belongs to you.
Gathering the pages, you breathe in, hold it, let it out. Outside Perry’s office, you linger for a full minute before knocking.
His office is its usual chaos: tottering stacks of newspapers, coffee cups in varying states of decay, and the smell of old cigar smoke clinging to the walls like wallpaper.
“Well, don’t just stand there,” he grunts. “What’ve you got?”
You step inside slowly, article in hand, your grip faltering slightly as you set it down on his desk. “I know this isn’t what I was assigned, but I’ve been… working on something for the past weeks.”
He squints at you. “You been using our electricity for your side projects?”
“No! I—I wrote it at home. I swear.”
He huffs, puts on his reading glasses, and begins scanning the first page. You try not to stare at him, but it’s impossible. Your eyes cling to every twitch in his jaw, every slight narrowing of his eyes.
His face gives away nothing, and you brace for the worst. That it’s too sentimental. Too soft. Too young.
Finally, he leans back, lifting his chin and pinning you with a piercing look. “Do you like it?”
You blink owlishly. “Why are you asking me?”
“Because I want to know.”
“It’s not up to me,” you deflect. “You’re the one who decides if it runs.”
“I know that. But you wouldn’t bring me something you didn’t believe in. So I’ll ask again: are you proud of it? Do you think it belongs in the columns of this paper?”
For a moment, your throat closes up. You hadn’t realized how deeply you’d buried your own opinion. You’d been so focused on disappearing, on not making noise, not taking up space—especially this week—that you forgot to consider what you thought of your own work.
Perry’s looking at you like he’s not going to breathe until you answer.
So you speak, nodding in agreement, and right after adding, “I believe people will find it comforting.”
“Then you know what comes next.”
Your confidence may not be at its best, neither is your hope, but this is enough. At least to keep writing, to walk back to your desk.
It’s enough to make it to tomorrow.
Sleep won’t come.
You’ve tried everything: writing until your hand cramped, scrolling endlessly, even lying on the floor like a starfish, begging the ceiling to knock you out. Meditation felt like self-punishment tonight. Silence only made the memories louder.
So you call him. Once, twice, but you’re met with nothing else than his voicemail. You don’t leave a message. What would you even say? Hi, I know you said you cared about me and then walked out of my apartment looking like you were breaking from the inside out, but I miss you and I can’t breathe right now, and can you please just—
You decide to hang up, tossing your phone onto the couch and flicking on the television. Static. Infomercials. Cartoons. Some old film from the 1940s.
And then—Lois Lane’s voice. The screen flickers to life, showing a live, chaotic feed. A shaky handheld shot from a rooftop shows a scene near Metropolis General Hospital. A glowing creature, a blur of silver and blue and fury, throws what looks like an empty city bus like it’s paper. A streetlamp explodes and sirens scream in the distance.
It all makes you wonder where Superman is.
He’s not flying in for a rescue, not beaming reassuring smiles, not waving at kids from the sky. He’s in the dirt, bloodied at the temple, gritting his teeth as he lifts a half-crushed ambulance off the street.
You sit up straight, your heart climbing to your throat.
Lois’s voice crackles through the footage: “—been a difficult few weeks for Metropolis’s hero. Fans online have pointed out the change in his demeanor: less smiling, more… focused. Almost withdrawn. We’ve reached out to the authorities—”
It’s physically impossible for you to hear the rest because you’re entranced watching him. He’s moving like someone who hasn’t slept in days. Fighting like he doesn’t care if he gets hurt.
You can’t look away.
The camera pans wildly as Superman lunges forward, slamming his shoulder into the creature’s ribs with a sound that resembles crumbling concrete. There’s a fresh gash across his cheekbone, his hair disheveled, not in the windswept, magazine-cover kind of way, but genuinely messy: flattened in places, curling in others, soaked with sweat.
For the first time, you’re not watching Superman. You’re watching someone else. Someone who looks like—
No. No, that would be insane. The idea is so preposterous, your mind rejects it, but the seed of recognition has been planted. It can't be. Not him.
Once again, Lois’s voice cuts through the footage, her tone sharper now, edged with that reporter’s concern she usually hides under cool professionalism.
“Superman was spotted fighting alone for nearly half an hour before backup arrived. And while officials say the Justice Gang is expected to contain the situation soon, many are asking the same question: what happens when Superman is no longer invincible? What happens when he burns out?”
Staring at the screen, you contemplate his eyes flickering up for a second—just a second—like he’s heard something above the noise. And they’re blue. The exact kind of blue that’s filled your mornings for the last three months.
Your breath stutters. The camera angle shifts. This time, it shows his jaw flexing as he takes another hit, wiping the blood from his lip with the back of his hand.
You’ve seen that gesture. Too many times. “No,” you whisper out loud. “No, that’s not possible.”
You’re already moving, with your heart in your mouth. You don’t even know what you’re reaching for at first, until your hand brushes something at the back of the drawer beneath your TV. It’s a pair of old prescription glasses you never quite got used to, the ones you always said gave you headaches.
Holding them up, you hover them in front of the TV, and your world rearranges itself.
There he is.
Clark.
Clark, with that same square jaw, that same tilt of his mouth when he’s gritting through something.
Clark, who stammers when he’s nervous, who brings you coffee even when you won’t drink it.
Clark, whose shoulders you could rest your whole weight on—not only because he’s strong, but because he’s been carrying the sky for so long and somehow still made room for you.
Clark, who sat next to you on the stairwell that day when you felt like quitting.
Clark, whose kindness never felt performative, who looked at you like you were worth listening to even when you were barely making sense.
Clark, who vanishes into smoke and ash and headlines. Who leaves through the fire escape and returns hours later. Who smiled at you across the office like it meant something, and maybe it did, maybe it always did—but now you know the cost of that smile.
If you lower the glasses, he’s Superman again.
If you lift them… it’s the Clark you know.
They’re the same man. Two halves of a single truth.
“Oh my God,” you whisper again, this time not out of disbelief, but something much deeper. Something hollow and shattering.
Lois’s voice keeps going, but it’s background noise now, a murmur beneath the ringing in your ears.
You sit back on the couch, eyes locked on the screen, heart thudding like a trapped bird. Every memory starts to rearrange itself, clicking into a terrifying, undeniable pattern. His sudden disappearances. The uncanny way he knew you weren’t hurt that night at the bar. The tension in his voice each time he apologized for being late. The way he’d always kiss you like it was the last time he’d ever get to.
The truth has slipped through a crack you never saw until now, and there’s no unseeing it. He was lying to you, but not in a cruel way. He was just trying to protect you.
The monster finally goes down in a shuddering collapse of concrete and bone. The camera shakes violently, jolting as dust swallows the scene, and then steadies just in time to catch Superman—or Clark—landing hard on one knee.
Green Lantern, Mr Terrific and Hawkgirl all converge around him, bruised and dust-streaked, checking in on each other. But your eyes won’t leave his face. There’s a scratch across his brow along with many others. His mouth twitches into a faint smile as the crowd outside the hospital begins to clap, nodding at them. He doesn’t need to say anything, at least not right now.
For one suspended second, his gaze falls directly into the camera lens, and it’s not the kind of look meant for press or headlines or statues carved in his honor. It’s private, and heavy, and it feels like he’s looking straight into your apartment, straight through the screen.
Straight through you.
Lois’s voice snaps back into focus: “Metropolis, you can rest easy tonight. For now, Superman and the Justice League have subdued the threat.”
You press a hand to your mouth, the glow from the television casting his silhouette across your walls, larger than life, yet so impossibly familiar now it almost hurts to look.
He steps away from the others. Sirens flash red against his suit, casting ripples of color through the smoke. A few children break from the crowd, darting past yellow caution tape, their small arms wrapping around his legs in awe-struck gratitude. He kneels momentarily, accepting their hugs with the kind of gentleness that breaks you open.
You can’t hear what he says to them, but it softens their faces. One of them gives him a flower. Another just holds his hand.
Then, without fanfare, he lifts off the ground, launching himself into the sky. The wind kicks up rubble, camera crews duck, the picture shakes, and he vanishes into the sky like he was never really there.
Gone.
You stare at the empty space he left behind on the screen, breath snagged in your lungs.
“Where are you going?” you mumble, reaching for the screen. “Where are you—”
The muted clatter of ceramic on concrete interrupts your rambling.
Slowly, you turn your head to your balcony, afraid of what you’ll find. Out past your window, a potted lavender plant lies cracked and wilting. Clark’s standing there, just outside the glass. “I’m sorry,” he says, voice muffled, wincing is he gestures to the shattered pot at his feet. “I didn’t calculate the landing right.”
Rooted to the floor, as if your feet have been sealed to the carpet, you stare at him through the glass as if he’s a hologram. A turbulent mixture of strange feelings clashes inside you, and you fight them back, stepping to the side as you open the window. His boots scuff against the floorboards, dragging slightly as he steps inside
At first, he can’t seem to bring himself to look at you directly. He paces around the living room, running his hands through his hair, sighing like someone who’s rehearsed this moment a thousand times and still doesn’t know where to begin.
“Clark—”
“This is why I disappear all the time,” he blurts, abruptly stopping in front of the television. “Why I cancel our plans. Why I show up late, or leave before I’m supposed to, or text you lame excuses like ‘Sorry, got held up’ when I’m halfway across the planet.”
It’s hard to make the connection. The leap between the man who fumbles with his tie and tells bad puns over takeout, and the mythological figure on screen who bends steel and outruns storms, whose every move seems broadcast across the globe.
They’re two versions of a whole you never imagined could overlap. And yet… it makes sense, somehow. Of course Clark would be Superman. A man so genuine, so generous, who expects for nothing and finds the way to see beauty in rusted scraps and broken things—who better to carry the weight of hope?
“I should’ve told you sooner. God, I meant to. I wanted to, I swear. I was going to, that night after I read your article. You were sitting there, talking about Superman like he was some kind of miracle and I just—” He breaks off, shaking his head. “It got too easy to pretend I could have both. Be with you. Protect you. Keep it all going without having to risk what we had.”
Interrupting him now would feel like an act of pure cruelty. You see the disoriented anguish in his gaze, the way his fists clench and unclench with each passing second, how desperately he seems to need to unburden himself.
You wonder what would’ve happened if, instead of crashing onto your balcony and shattering a pot in the process, he had simply returned to his own apartment. Would the love you hold for him feel so present in any other scenario?
“I know this a lot to process, but I came to understand something about you.” His voice holds such certainty it frightens you, because lately it feels like everyone else can decipher what’s happening to you except for yourself. “You think you’re just this temporary thing, because you don’t see yourself the way I do. That’s why you’re always bracing for things to fall apart.”
You want to explain yourself, to give a reason for your not-at-all-desirable behavior, but you realize you can’t in this moment. Not when honesty radiates from him like heat.
In the blink of an eye, he’s holding your hands in his, his grip gentle yet firm, and he brings them to his lips to press a short, tender kiss to the back of them.
“I can’t seem to make sense of it. I’ve tried. But it’s been impossible for me to find a single reason why you should believe that about yourself.” You brush a tentative finger along his injured cheekbone, stopping just before you swipe dried blood, though he still offers a soft smile. His gaze is so profoundly tender you wonder if this is the first time you're truly contemplating the depth behind them. “I’m in love with you. And if I could show you your reflection through my eyes for one day, you’d understand why you’re the first thing I think about when I wake up and the last thing before I fall asleep.”
You never thought this type of experience could be granted to you. The belief that such moments were reserved for certain people feels now demystified. Perhaps no other moment in your life could’ve prepared you for this. Of all the unrealistic scenarios you'd concocted over the years, mostly in your adolescence, when fantasies of a pure and overwhelming love did nothing but numb you, you never would’ve imagined someone would love you in this way, declaring their love for you so sincerely.
The need to get rid of the blood on his face gnaws at you, and you find yourself gently tugging him towards the kitchen, neither of you saying a word. You search for a clean dishcloth in some forgotten drawer, holding it under the faucet for a few seconds. Once it’s dampened, you press it softly against the bruised areas on his lip and cheek.
He tries not to move, placing both hands flat on the counter behind you, caging you with his whole frame. This scene reminds you of the last time you were both here, the day that marked two months of seeing each other.
A day to forget, actually, because it devolved into a complete disaster.
“I got used to living with this voice in my head that sabotages me. I don’t know when it started. Part of me thinks it’s always been there. Sometimes it’s quieter. Other times, it’s so loud I can’t think straight. But I’ve never been able to shut it up completely.”
You take a shaky breath, putting down the cloth once it’s no longer useful. Clark doesn’t pull away, nor does he move closer. He remains right where he is, poised, his entire being waiting for what you’ll say next.
“I never feel like I deserve the good stuff that happens to me. I wish I did. God, I do. Perry even said he’s publishing the article I wrote and I still have to convince myself he’s not just doing it out of pity—”
His eyebrows lift, and he can’t help but cut you off. Wait—really? He’s publishing it?” A broad, genuine smile blooms on his face, almost illuminating the dimness of your apartment. “That’s amazing!”
“Thank you. I was planning on telling you, but—you know.” Your gaze drifts to the symbol on his suit, and you trace it with a tentative finger, the synthetic material feeling utterly strange under your touch. “The thing is I overthink everything. Always have. And I don’t know if you’ll think I’m crazy or exhausting or whatever, but I can’t control it. I wish I could. So every time you went away, when you started canceling plans or looking at me like you were somewhere else entirely, I got scared.”
So this is what it feels like to truly open your heart to another soul.
“I thought that voice was right, and that you were pulling away because you regretted it because you’d realized I wasn’t worth the trouble. And maybe you just didn’t know how to tell me, since we work together, and we share the same friends. Plus, things between us have been—” Once again, your words tangle, and you internally blame the raw emotionality of the moment. “I can’t get away from myself, Clark. But other people? They can walk away. And I thought that’s what you were doing.
There’s a pause, and his advice seems to be: “Don’t trust your brain.”
“What do you mean—”
“Don’t believe everything it tells you. I mean it. If you need me to tell you I love you, I will. If you need me to tell you how beautiful and sweet you are, I’ll do that too, and happily. Because I want to help you. It’s not like I can spare you from those thoughts—believe me, I would’ve if there were a way. The least I can do is make you realize that voice in your head isn’t always right.”
Some things cannot be put into words, and you simply have to act in their name. You kiss him, your arms finding their way around his neck, pulling him as close as possible as you smile against his lips, trying not to generate any pressure where he’s hurt. “Shit, I love you so much.”
It’s incredible how one can transition from immense sadness to something that must closely resemble the deepest tranquility ever known to humankind. He holds your face between his hands, his thumbs caressing your cheeks with such fondness it could make you sick. You don’t know how someone can look so happy and so overwhelmed at once. “Say that again.”
“I love you.”
“Again. Please.”
You kiss him between each word, letting them stretch longer and deeper until your mouths can’t bear to part. “I. Love. You.”
He tilts your face toward his, his hand cradling the back of your head as if he’s afraid you’ll float away. “Please tell me your brain’s not saying anything right now.”
“It’s been surprisingly quiet.”
“Then let’s keep it that way.”
You make a strangled noise as the kiss turns fierce, not knowing exactly where to put your hands. There’s so much you want to do, so much of him you want to touch and skin to trace with your fingers. That simmering desire had grown between you both, never quite breaking through the surface. Not because you didn’t one want it, but because you'd asked him to hold back.
Remember that tiny voice in your brain? The mean one? That one had told you several times that you had to wait a certain amount of time before sleeping with him. Because if you didn’t, if you got too close too soon, he might realize he wasn’t into you. Physically speaking. And you had done just that: waited.
But now, all patience shatters. There’s no room for cautious stretching of things anymore, not when the man you love, the one you’ve been pining for months, stands before you
He doesn’t get the hint when you kiss back or when your teeth nip at the skin of his throat, not until you take his hands, which are resting politely on your lower back, and push them lower, guiding them up to cup your ass through the layers of clothing.
You hear the way he breathes out, a grunt caught somewhere between surprise and shock, as you shift even closer and speak softly over his lips. “I want to do it. Tonight.”
“Are you sure? Because we could totally—”
“Clark, stop being such a gentleman.” You tug him toward the couch and fall back onto it, kicking your shoes off without grace or ceremony, your heart gallops with anticipation as you stretch out, swallowing hard.“I’d like you to touch me, then I’d like to return the favor, and then I want you to fuck me. In that specific order,” you admit. So as not to lose the habit, you whisper the word that never fails to soften his expression: “Please.”
You notice the impressive bulge straining at the front of his suit, and he nods his head in earnest, one of his large hands pushing your thighs open. “Yeah. I can do that.”
Electricity now runs through your veins, each part of you igniting under his hands as he touches you. He doesn’t rush. Doesn’t rip your clothes off or fall into cliché. He wants to take his time with you, grazing the soft curve where your neck meets your shoulder. As his hair slips through your fingers like silk, you clutch at him, sighing into his touch. Your eyes flutter open to ask him: “Does the suit stay on?”
“Well, that depends,” he replies, lifting his head and meeting your wanting gaze. “Does it—turn you on?”
A low fire spirals in the pit of your stomach, your chest heaving with a shaky inhale. “It’s certainly doing the job.”
“So first you write about Superman like a professional journalist…” he trails off, his palm smoothing his palm over your stomach to undo the button of your jeans with ease, lowering the zipper of your jeans millimeter by millimeter, “... and now you get wet for him?”
Wiggling your hips to help him peel off your pants more easily, you gape at the ceiling momentarily. “I’m sorry. Do my inappropriate thoughts bother him?”
“I actually believe he’d very pleased, to be fair,” he murmurs, settling on the couch beside you. His hand returns, slower this time, tracing over the cotton that clings to your heat. “You see, he’s a simple man. Safe to say he’d really like you.”
Clark teases his thumb to your clit through the cotton and your back arches from the couch. “Clark, I—”
“I’ll go slow.” He presses his lips against yours briefly, running the length of his nose along yours, your skin buzzing where it brushes his. “Do you trust me?” You nod, unable to speak, struggling to keep your eyes open. He presses against you again, this time with purpose. Slow, deliberate circles over your clit, his free hand curling around your waist to keep you steady as you writhe beneath him, holding you down to the earth. “Then relax. I’ve got you.”
You weren’t a virgin, but he’s making you feel like one. Or maybe something even more tender than that, like you’re being touched properly for the first time in your life. Every graze of his fingers sends heat crawling under your skin, his ministrations alone having you whimpering into his neck, tugging at his hair.
“Take them off,” you beg, your hips bucking up to meet him, chasing his hand every time he attempts to pull away, needing more. It’s more of an instinct at this point.
He doesn’t make you ask twice, your underwear being gone in a flash and ending up dangling from one foot. He parts your folds, and you see his eyes darken with unfiltered awe, staring for a beat longer than expected. “Jesus,” he mutters, almost to himself. “You’re perfect.”
Clark spreads your slick across your swollen flesh, his long fingers reverent in their exploration, never faltering. When he circles your clit again, raw and bare now, you jolt, the pleasure pulsing bright and fast, like you’re going to blow up at any given moment.
He seems to enjoy watching you squirm, listening to the whimpers torn from your throat. “You’ve got no idea how hot you look right now,” he pants beside your ear, voice ragged and affected by the noises he keeps pulling out of you. His own hips grind lazily against your thigh, the pressure of his cock unmistakable, rock hard behind the fabric. “I want to see you come.”
“Just—keep doing whatever you’re doing,” you gasp, clinging to his arm and biting back a moan when he kisses you languidly. A new wave of warmth runs under your skin, and you swear you can feel your blood rushing south. “Clark, I’m—don’t you dare stop.”
Your words spur him on, and he tightens the circles, faster now, his other hand closing around your inner thigh for leverage. That ache in your belly sharpens to a desperate pressure, and your whole body looms into him as if drawn to gravity itself.
“Oh my God—Clark—” You grip his shoulder, nails scrapping against the harsh material of his suit. It’s too much and not enough, and every time he flicks just right, you’re launched impossibly higher. You’re a panting mess, legs starting to tremble as pleasure coils tight in your gut.
“Come on, you’re almost there,” he encourages you, kissing your sweaty forehead. “You’re doing so good. Let go, baby.”
You break. It starts at your core, deep and volcanic, spreading like a spark catching on dry leaves. Your thighs clamp around his hand, head thrown back as the orgasm ripples through you, crying out his name with a sound borderline raw and unrestrained. He doesn't stop until your hips stop jerking and your back settles against the couch again, twitching with aftershocks.
You’re left gasping, eyes blurry, vision haloed in white. “I—” you try to speak, but your voice fails, coming out broken. Instead, you let out a sigh. “Jesus.”
He presses a kiss to your shoulder, then slowly works his way up to your mouth. “I came as well. Mentally.”
A disbelieving laugh bubbles out of you, and you swat at his face, covering your eyes with your forearm. You’re about to sit until you feel his breath ghost across your belly, shoving your shirt further up. You rake your hand through his fringe, brushing it back, hissing when his lips graze the patch of skin just above your clit. “Are you—”
“It’d be stupid not to take the opportunity.” He finds your legs and places them over his shoulders, effortlessly dragging your body to the edge of the couch, kneeling by the carpet and between your thighs, his large hands framing your hips.
Clark licks a broad stripe up your folds, collecting your arousal on his tongue, and you cry out, shoulders slumping forward from the overstimulation, still sensitive from your first orgasm. Yet he peers up at you with feigned innocence, kneading the flesh of your thighs. “I can stop if you want me to,” he says, a husky edge to his usual tone.
“Don’t want you to,” you purr, guiding his mouth to where you need him the most. “Make me feel good.”
Devotedly, devastatingly even, he takes your words to heart, lapping at your clit with careful, coaxing pressure, sometimes flicking with the pointed tip of his tongue, sometimes flattening it to trace languid strokes. He groans at the taste of you, sinking a finger into your heat and making you clench instinctively around the intrusion.
“It’s tight in here,” he ponders aloud, not sparing you a single glance, much more preoccupied with the way you’re squeezing him. “We’ll have to see if I’ll fit.”
You mean to laugh, but it comes out as more of a sob the moment he adds another finger to the equation, and you can hear every single squelching sound your cunt makes in response to his movements.
“God, it feels—” Your voice cracks as his lips seal over your clit again, drawing firm circles around it, the pacing of his digits inside you forcing you to alternate your attention. “So good, Clark. You’re being so good to me.”
It’s not that you’re just saying these things out of pocket. You’ve noticed he likes it, likes being praised. Not only in this context, where he has his head buried between your legs, but it usually happened whenever he did something right, and you would be there, praising him, telling him he’d done a great job.
His pupils would dilate a little, and he’d always shut you up with a kiss, but he can’t right now. He seems to be destined to hear and acknowledge your words, nearly rutting into the edge of the couch the more you say. His desperation sets something alight in you, and it only makes you want to explore that side of him even more.
“If you make me come again, I’ll suck your cock,” you mumble, dragging your nails lightly along his scalp. You don’t miss how his shoulders stiffen through the suit, and he pushes his face deeper into your core. “I can’t wait to have you in my mouth,” you add, smiling through the haze.
“What’s got you this chatty, huh?” He pumps his fingers deeper, faster, a relentless rhythm designed to shatter your composure. His teeth scrape along the inside of your right thigh, seemingly enjoying the noise that reverberates in your chest as he bites gently on it. “You have Superman right here with you and all you do is talk.”
Three of Clark’s fingers stretch you out and you can’t no longer think straight. Neither can you breathe, having utterly forgotten how consonants and vowels combine to form words.
This, it seems, is precisely what he intended: to have you reduced to a writhing, desperate mess that can’t stop mewling his name over and over. The questions, the teasing, all of it is obliterated by the rising tide of pure sensation as your world narrows to his touch and everything it means.
When you tell him you’re close, the ache coiling tight in your belly for the second time in the night, every nerve in your body lights up. He’s a man on a quest, who whimpers in unison with you the more your breath staggers.
He asks you to come on his tongue, because he wants to know exactly what it tastes like. Because he simply must. He’s been fantasizing about this, he confesses, about touching himself thinking of you, about how soft your skin looked in your work clothes, about—
Your orgasm tears through you, fast and overwhelming, and you cling to his shoulders, riding out the tremors. His fingers remain deep inside you, and he curves them to hit that sweet spot one last time before you tell him it’s too much. His hair is mussed where your fingers yanked it, his chin glistening with your essence, and you tug him closer to kiss him, tasting yourself in the aftermath.
Somehow, without even breaking the kiss, he manages to peel the suit from his body, letting it fall in a heap beside your shoes on the floor. All that’s left is the snug fabric of his underwear, and the sight of him nearly steals the breath from your lungs.
You trail a hand down his abdomen, fingertips brushing along the faint trail of hair beneath his navel until they meet the solid outline of his cock. You palm him softly through the fabric, feeling the twitch of need under your touch.
Now that he’s bare before you, no more slouchy coats hiding him away, you take in the rest of him. The defined lines of his chest, the softness at his waist, the tension coiled in his thighs. It takes everything in you not to outright stare, not to drool, although your mouth waters anyway.
By the time he’s lying back on the couch, you’ve taken his place, kneeling between his legs. He laces his fingers behind his head, muscles taut like he’s trying to anchor himself there, to stop his hips from jerking up on instinct.
You start slow, teasing. Your fingers wrap around his shaft, stroking him lazily as your lips press hot kisses to the tip. You circle your tongue around it, dipping into the slit just to hear what kind of sound you can pull from him.
He exhales like he’s in pain. Beautiful, tortured pain. You hesitate for a split second, uncertain—was that too much?
“Do it again,” he breathes, voice wrecked, his chest rising in uneven pulls of air. “Please… that—Jesus, that feels really good.”
And you want to please him. You want to give him everything, so you do it again.
The head disappears past your lips. He groans as you sink down a few inches, his hips tensing immediately, and you hum in satisfaction at the sharp hiss he lets slip. You take more of him, then a little bit more, until you’re jerking the rest of him off with your hand, saliva slicking your chin, your throat fluttering and eyes stinging every time he brushes the back of it.
Swallowing around him, your nails scratch the line of dark hair that leads below his navel. There’s nothing delicate about this. Not right now, not when he’s chanting your name like a prayer, not when you’re dizzy from the taste of him. His breathy moans echo in your ears, more intoxicating than anything else you’ve ever heard.
At some point, you glance up, and the eye contact nearly undoes you. Clark looks ruined, entirely entranced. His brow is furrowed tight, a deep crease between his eyes that might’ve read as frustration if you didn’t know better.
To some stranger, he might even appear to be angry. His jaw is clenched, lips parted as if he’s struggling to form coherent thoughts. His hips tremble under your palms, twitching like every nerve in his body is firing at once. He’s holding himself still with impossible effort, his thighs taut, hands clawed into the couch cushions to stop from thrusting up into your mouth.
“Perhaps—” His voice is hoarse, and he swallows hard. “Perhaps we should stop.”
You slow your pace but don’t let go.
“I don’t want to finish yet,” he groans, neck strained, his composure cracking under the tension. “Not this fast. I want to last. I want—” He cuts himself off with a hiss when you press a wet kiss to the flushed head again, pulling back the foreskin. “God, I just want more time with you like this.
You keep your hand wrapped around him, dragging your palm slow and tight from base to tip, letting your thumb swirl over the sensitive slit. His hips twitch again, betraying how close he really is.
“But can’t Superman come twice?” you ask, tilting your head to the side. He blinks, dazed, not fully registering the meaning of your words at first. You give him another firm stroke and watch his brows knit in pleasure. “It’s been a hard day.”
“Baby, I swear—”
“Didn’t you save an entire hospital tonight?” you whisper, leaning in to mouth at his hipbone. “Kept it from collapsing?”
“Yeah,” he grunts. “Yeah, I—yes.”
“Then you deserve it.”
“But twice?”
“You heard it right. Once in my mouth, just like this, and then again inside me.”
Clark makes a sound that’s somewhere between a gasp and a whimper. His arms collapse from behind his head, hands flying to his face, shielding himself from how hard words just hit him.
“Oh my God,” he mumbles, palms pressed to his eyes. “You can’t say things like that.”
“Why not?” you inquire, jerking him a little faster now. “You’re blushing.”
“I’m not—” he lies, breath catching when your lips part around his cock once again, still not getting used to the feeling. “I just—I’m so close.”
One of his hands finds your hair, smoothing it back from your face with a gentleness that makes your heart ache. He cups the back of your head as if he’s holding something sacred, brushing his thumb along your temple as his other hand clenches the couch cushion.
“You’re unreal,” he murmurs, eyes locked on your movements, still stroking your hair. “You don’t—you don’t even know what you do to me. You’re gonna be the death of me.”
Your hand tightens around his base just a little, urging him closer to the edge. He grits his teeth, unable to hold on any longer.
“I’m sorry—be careful, I’m gonna—”
He empties his load into your mouth, hips stuttering in jerky thrusts. His entire body tenses beneath you, trembling as the pleasure crashes through him, head tipped back against the couch. Clark comes for what feels like ages, pulse after pulse of heavy release filling your mouth, and you take it all, letting the salty taste land on your tongue and flood your senses.
Shortly after, everything moves in a blur. Clark insists that the couch isn’t ideal for what’s about to happen. Something about angles, support, long-term consequences for your spine. You, naturally, insist you’re perfectly fine where you are.
In the end, the one with super strength settles the debate. Which is to say: he wins. He lifts you effortlessly into his arms and carries you to the bedroom like it’s the most obvious solution. The couch had been fine. Serviceable, even, but it was time for an upgrade.
Now, sprawled across your bed, you kiss beneath the warm press of blankets. Pre-cum smears over your stomach, leaking from him in needy dribbles as he hovers above you, holding his weight on his forearms, cradling your face between his hands.
His voice is low. “Just to be clear. We’re not using a…?”
“Condom?”
He nods, cheeks flushed. “Yeah.”
“I told you you could come inside me.”
That stuns him into silence. “Are you sure? Want me to—go buy some?” he manages, faltering a little.
“Some?” you echo, amused. Your gaze dips down his body, landing on the leaking head of his cock, his hips twitching as if straining to stay still. “I’m on birth control,” you murmur.
He blinks, his Adam’s apple bobbing. You can almost hear the gears in his head grinding, trying to decide whether or not you’re serious.
“I mean it. It wasn’t for sexual purposes in the beginning. I’ve been on the pill for years. But if it makes you uncomfortable—”
“What exactly makes you think I don’t want this?”
“Say that to your face. You’re looking at me like I just proposed a blood pact.”
Huffing a breath, he pulls back enough to meet your eyes. “So… we’re doing it. Like this.”
“Yes.”
“Bare.”
“Would you like to see my birth certificate?”
He lets out a strangled laugh, one hand sliding down to part you gently. His fingers glide through your folds, collecting your slick to lube himself up. Just as he’s about to wretch your entrance, he pauses, brows drawn tight. “Ready?”
“I’ve been ready since we left the couch.”
“You can’t be joking when I’m this close to being inside you.”
“Clark,” you plead, lifting your hips. “Please, just—”
He pushes in.
At first, it’s just the tip. The stretch is instant, unavoidable, and you throw your head back, nearly knocking into the headboard.
“Easy,” he grits out. “Be careful.” His thighs tremble where they cage you in, and he slides in another inch, groaning through clenched teeth.
“Th-that’s—fuck—” Your mouth hangs agape briefly before you shut it again. You can’t even think, eyes landing on where your bodies meet, and his whole frame looks huge on top of you, the sight alone making you whimper. “Clark, please—”
“Wait.” He stills, tearing his gaze away from you, squeezing his eyes shut. “I need a second.”
“Want me to kiss you?”
He lifts his head slightly. “Are you the devil?”
You bite your lip, fingers digging into the muscles of his lower back. “What are you doing? Counting?”
“To a million.” He buries his face in your neck, forehead damp against your skin, feeding the rest of himself into you in shallow thrusts, and the final stretch burns as he bottoms out. “You’re impossible sometimes,” he growls against your skin, groaning as you clench around him. “Jesus, you’re still so tight. I don’t even—I don’t know how to move.”
A desperate sound slips from your lips when his mouth brushes behind your ear. His hand strokes up your thigh, bending you slightly beneath him, folding you open. “You’re so big.”
His arm trembles beside your head. A bead of sweat trails down his temple as you comb your fingers into his hair. “Don’t say that,” he pants.
“Why not?”
“Because—” he pulls back, just the head left inside, “—you’re playing with fire.” And then he slams his hips forward, hard, drawing a strangled cry from your throat. “I usually like how you always have something to say, but right now? I just want to fuck you. If that’s okay with you.”
It’s official: your long, unplanned celibacy ends here. Courtesy of Superman himself.
As if he’s learning you by heart, each thrust is measured and unhurried, his hips rolling into yours with a careful intent and setting their own tempo, savoring the way your bodies fit, the subtle give and take of your curves.
Your breath hitches when he finds it: that angle, that precise, exquisite spot inside you, and your legs instinctively tighten around his waist in response. A groan slips from him when your walls flutter around him in gratitude.
He starts to unravel. His body writhes against yours with an instinct he hadn’t dared show before now, his muscles working as he moves deeper, hungrier, shedding the last vestiges of his gentle restraint. You press your chest to his, fingers splayed across the flex of his back, memorizing the slope of his spine, the tremble in his arms as he struggles to hold himself back. Every sound he makes, every choked whimper, you trap in your memory like precious treasure.
The moment he buries himself to the hilt, you swear you’re going to snap in half. The fullness is dizzying, and you cry out his name in a quiet plea. His lips graze your cheek, his hand smoothing your hair as he whispers something you can’t quite catch, lost in the roar of blood in your ears.
It’s not rushed at all. He’s learning you second by second, mapping your responses, and each time he shifts the angle or tilts your pelvis just so, it steals another moan from you. He knows now. Where to press, where to grind, where to thrust until your feet curl and your throat aches from trying to hold in the sounds.
“Clark,” you mewl, voice torn and trembling. A strand of his hair, dark and damp, sticks to the shell of your ear. He shifts to kiss you there and then stills, forehead resting against yours.
“I thought I’d lost you,” he chokes out, the words raw and fragile in comparison to your heated skin.
The confession pierces you with more precision than anything else tonight. Your body is still pulsing around him, hips still twitching and asking for more, but your heart stutters, aching with sudden clarity.
You don’t know if he means that night you stopped talking, the agonizing silence between you. If he means the days you went quiet and he watched from afar. You cradle his face in both hands, your thumbs tracing the sharp lines of his cheekbones, forcing him to peer down at you. His pupils are blown, his mouth swollen from all the kissing, and you feel a pang in your chest because he’s never looked so vulnerably human.
“You didn’t. I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.”
His throat bobbing, and pushes in again, quivering, a silent affirmation of your words.
It’s like something breaks open inside him. The last of his control gives way.
His thrusts get rougher, more insistent, his mouth finding yours mid-moan, and you kiss him through the frantic rhythm, through the way his hand slides between your sticky bodies to circle your clit, hoping to make you fall apart. He needs this—needs you to come around him, to feel you clench and call his name and prove to him you’re his. That you chose him. That you’re still here. That you're real.
You’re close. So close that the precipice looms. “Don’t stop,” you gasp, clawing at his shoulders, needing something to hold onto.
“I won’t. I won’t—” His groan catches in his throat, escaping as a raw whisper. “You feel so good. You’re perfect. Can’t believe you’re letting me do this to you.”
The pressure builds so fast it becomes borderline unbearable. Heat coils in your belly, every muscle taut as a bowstring, straining toward release.
“I—Clark—I—” Your body arches, back lifting off the bed.
“Come on,” he begs, short of breath, his hips grinding relentlessly. “Come for me. I want to feel you.”
And when it hits, it crashes. Your orgasm blindsides you, flashing behind your eyelids, and your mouth falls open in a silent scream, body trembling violently under him as incandescent pleasure tears through you like a searing current. Your walls spasm around him, squeezing, and he cries out a primal sound of absolute abandon before surging forward with a final thrust and spurting his release inside you.
It’s messy. It’s beautiful and overwhelming and glorious.
He collapses, half on top of you, still deeply buried, his body spamming in unison with yours. You’re both left shaking and sweating, but in the most magnificent way.
Clark plants a series of tender kisses to the valley between your breasts, the soft underside of your jaw, the corner of your mouth. “I didn’t know it could feel like this,” he murmurs, awe coloring every syllable.
You press your nose to his hairline, drawing in the scent of him. “Me neither,” you reply, contentment curling in your chest.
He simply stays there, wrapped around you, his weight a comforting anchor. The moment stretches and neither of you dares speak too loud for a while. It’s the kind of silence that means everything.
Eventually, he lifts his head just enough to meet your gaze. His lashes are damp, a quiet sigh leaving him, and with an almost reluctant pull, he finally shifts, easing himself out of you. The sudden emptiness is palpable, an ache that makes you want to reach for him again, but he’s already moving, surprisingly graceful as he rises. He glances around your bedroom, then towards the bathroom.
“Want me to get a towel?” he asks, gesturing vaguely between your legs. “A wet one, ideally.”
You blink, chest lifting with a giggle. “Oh, right. Yeah, bathroom cabinet, bottom shelf.” You watch him disappear, the absurdity of the moment deeply endearing. He emerges a moment later, a small hand towel clutched in his fist, already damp, and he kneels back between your legs, cleaning you.
The warm cloth against your skin sends a fresh shiver through you, but it’s his focused, unselfconscious tenderness that melts your insides. He looks up, an apologetic grimace on his face. “I just realized I don’t exactly have a change of clothes on me.”
You trace his jaw, the curve of his ear. “Well, I mean,” you muse, a playful smirk tugging at your lips, “we could always see how you look in my pajamas. I’m sure my oversized college sweatshirt would be… form-fitting.”
“I’m not sure whether you’re ready for that sight.” He pats your inner thigh, then rises, tossing it to the side. “Come on. Let’s get into bed.”
You slide under the blankets, the silk against your bare skin a welcoming sensation. He joins you immediately, the mattress dipping under his weight, and pulls you close, your bodies spooning, limbs tangling. His arm finds its way around your waist, his hand splayed flat against your stomach. Your fingers twine with his, and your leg hooks over his, pressing your hip to his.
There’s a moment where you turn your head on the pillow, meeting his eyes in the dim light. He now lies on his side, facing you, one hand tucked beneath his head.
“I love you,” you say again, the words unbidden.
A smile spreads across his face, lighting up his tired eyes. He pulls you impossibly closer, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead, then looks down at you. “You know those people who use songs as their alarm?”
“What does that have to do with what I just said?”
“They say you should always choose a song you’ll never get tired of.I don’t think I’ll ever get tired of hearing you say those words.”
“That… was a weird route to get there.”
He kisses the tip of your nose, lingering on your lips shortly after. “I’m just saying. You could say it every day. Every hour. And I’d never get sick of it.” His thumb strokes your hand and you melt into him, every molecule of your being sighing in tranquility. “By the way,” he says, his tone sounding hesitant, “I told my parents about you.”
You pull back, just slightly, enough to stare up at him, your eyebrows shooting to your hairline. “Wait. What?”
“It was like a week ago.”
“We weren’t even speaking.”
He lets out a small, sheepish chuckle. “I know. But I still thought about you all the time. My mom scolded me through the phone for not telling you the truth sooner.” His nose crinkles, probably remembering the call. “They said they’d really like to meet you someday.”
“So, our first trip together is going to be… Kansas?”
“Smallville,” he corrects proudly. “What can I say? I’m a traditional guy.”
“Well, to be a ‘traditional guy,’ you haven’t even asked me to be your girlfriend yet.”
“Oh. Right. I guess I—”
“Are you going to?”
“I—would you want to?”
You laugh, pulling him into a kiss. “You’re such a dork.”
When you break apart, he’s smiling—really smiling, the kind that lights up his whole face and carves deep dimples into his cheeks.
“So is that a yes?”
“Yes, Clark. I’ll be your girlfriend.”
“Okay. Good. Because I’m already very emotionally invested.”
At that moment, you snort into his chest. Sleep begins to pull at your limbs, heavy and soft, and your eyes flutter closed without resistance. His arms tucks your head beneath his chin, his breath steady against your hair, and for the first time in what feels like forever, your mind is quiet. No anxious spirals. No fear of him vanishing now that you’ve let your guard down. Just stillness.
Maybe it’s true, what the wise ones say: you’re never too much in the hands of the right person.
Today I'm getting my results to see if I got into the university I wanted, and I've been feeling really anxious the whole night/morning, but reading Bradley Bradshaw fanfics is the only thing that's giving me some sort of comfort, so thank you authors for your work and basically for existing, I love y'all❤
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