Hey luvs, I'm Júlia & and wecolme to my blog/my place of peace. I'm brazilian 🇧🇷 ( VAI BRASIL!) so my first language is not english, in case of any typo sorry.
I'm here to share my little ideas, headcanons and random stuff for the Pedro Pascal and superman fandom.
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Some of the stuff in here is +18, so you all know MDNI (minnors do not interact).
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not writing much bc last month i was doing my finals, now i’m free from studies for now and i just don’t feel like writing. I won’t write while i’m not in the mood for it bc it can come out really bad and i don’t want to post something i don’t feel like it’s my maximum.
summary: clark shows his love for your friendship in many ways. fetching your lunch, carrying your things for you, always being there when you need him- but who could have imagined it would include kissing you on the lips? every casual peck makes your head spin, your heart stammer; until one night, one lingering kiss finally answers all your questions… and then some.
clark kent x best friend ! reader
themes: soo much fluff. clark is hopelessly devoted to you, but you have no idea. you're a cutie who loves fashion. he is adorable, friends to lovers, funny, domestic clark always! barely proofread, but enjoy xx
You’re running late. Again.
For the fourth time this week, and it’s only a Wednesday.
It’s not your fault. Really, it’s not- nothing was going right to begin with, and the outfit you’d initially planned on wearing ended up hanging off your body like loose rags. You had to change three separate times, and still, you aren’t too pleased with how you look today.
The day is miserable- all rain and clouds and grey skies. There isn’t an ounce of sunshine to be seen, not even in you, because your typically upbeat personality has been taken and held hostage by the city around you.
“Perry’s gonna kill you.” Clark greets you, umbrella clutched in his free hand that he immediately holds over you as you join him. He slings your bag smoothly off your shoulder, hooking it over his own instead.
Together, you walk in unison; quick, and sharp, your shoulder bumping into his arm due to the height difference.
“Then we better hurry up, Kent.” you say back, earning a chuckle from him.
You walk through the rain, and you don’t notice the way he ducks his head outside of the umbrella completely. How you don’t veer off the jagged path ahead even though it usually pains you to walk in a straight line, because his hand is hovering on your lower back, careful, steady.
You don’t even question why, when you finally get through those double doors, Clark’s curls are almost soaked and you’re bone-dry.
The elevator ride to the top is comfortable, like it always is with Clark.
“How was your evening?”
“I ate ice cream for dinner,” you tell him absentmindedly, “And I rewatched The Devil Wears Prada.”
His eyebrow quirks up, “Must have missed my invite.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. Were you not in a different city last night fighting an intergalactic threat?”
“How’d you know that?”
“I watch the news.”
Clark smirks slightly. Never arrogant or cocky, just knowing. “I still would have come.”
You don’t say anything, busy straightening your shirt and wrapping your coat even tighter around you. When the elevator finally reaches the top of the skyscraper, you’re the first to step out, Clark directly in tow.
Your heels clack against the linoleum floor with a precision that can only come from someone with something to prove; in this case, the fact that you’re late for a good (nobody has to know the truth) reason. Lois looks up for a split second, nodding at you in acknowledgement.
Beside her, Jimmy grins. “What time do you call this?” he jokes.
“Got held up,” Clark lies. You smile inwardly, knowing he was perfectly on time; it was you who couldn’t decide on what to wear this morning, on what rings to pair with what necklaces.
You’d told Clark to go on; I’ll be like, thirty more minutes. I’ll just see you there! You’d said, but of course he refused to listen.
Someone barks your surname. They also bark Clark’s. You don’t even have to turn around to know who it is.
“Sorry, Perry.” You and Clark say in unison, his cheeks flushed crimson, yours still cold from the wind. Thankfully, Perry White seems to be in a good mood today; he just shakes his head in exasperation, a small mutter akin to tweedle-dee and tweedle-dum leaving his lips as he places another cigarette between them and turns around.
Clark pulls your chair out for you, waiting for you to sit before he does the same.
“Close call.” he mumbles, and you stifle a laugh.
It’s a busy day; one that stretches for far too long. You type until your eyes blur and you drink coffee until you can’t even taste the bitter burn of it anymore, but you’re focused.
You’re a great journalist, and you’ve chalked that down to be the very reason why Perry gives you so much grace. Why being late is a bump in the road instead of a fireable offense like it is for most people.
It’s Clark you have to thank for that; being his best friend certainly has it’s perks. He knows better than anyone how to charm the Planet’s infamous grump. Over time, you’ve learnt how to mimic him; be bashful when confronted about tardiness, especially by someone like Perry White, and you’re good to go.
After a couple hours of head-down, zipped lipped quiet, he finally breaks the silence.
“How you holding up?” Clark asks you, head hidden behind his own screen. You can’t see him, but you can envision his lips parting as he speaks, eyes trained on whatever word document he currently has open.
“Surviving. You?” you mumble, fingers wrapped around a yellow highlighter that has yet to land on the page. He lets out a chuckle.
“Counting down the seconds until lunch.”
“Are we going out today?” you pop your head around your monitor then, and Clark doesn’t skip a beat before doing the same.
The sight of him- especially after a long 121 minutes without it- makes something flutter dangerously in your stomach. His curls are unruly, piercing blue eyes only the slightest bit red as he looks at you.
You blink the feeling away, willing it to disappear and not come back for at least a little while.
“You want to? Or I could just grab us those bagels you like from the place ‘round the corner?”
“I can come with you,” you offer, but Clark shakes his head, the corners of his mouth upturned.
“No need. I’ve got you.”
You nod, a thankful smile spreading across your lips as you turn back to your desk. Of course, Clark does the same, and under the table you feel the tip of his shoes nudging against your foot.
Your smile only widens, though you try to hide it with a purse of your lips and a clench in your jaw.
It’s not that you have a crush on your best friend- absolutely not. Crushes, you’ve always believed, are for high schoolers; teenagers in faux love who believe that big, ugly bouquets mean romance, and cheesy, outlandish prom-posals equate to a lifetime of happiness.
No, you’re a little more pessimistic than that. And you’re a lot deeper in than that, because unfortunately for you, Clark Kent continues to be a shining example of the world’s most perfect boyfriend.
Minus the kissing. And the holding hands. Also the freakier stuff like sharing a bed, and hugging each other regularly- who ever said being in love was rational?
He’s kind. He’s patient. He waits hours for you to get ready and doesn’t even scold you for wasting his time, just smiles and stares at you like you’ve already done him the biggest favour by simply existing.
He knows your coffee order off by heart, grabs you a couple of sugars every time even though it’s sweet enough- just in case, he always says. He knows you like your bagels from Leon’s on Tuesdays but every other day, it’s Liberty’s or nothing.
Clark remembers. He cares. So deeply.
He is also in love with someone else.
“Just waiting for her to realise, I guess.” he’d told you once, when you asked him why he hadn’t dated anyone since Lois- all while holding a box of Christmas baubles you were picking from.
And he'd told you that he didn't need to date, not unless it was the person he wanted to be with forever. Clark Kent didn't do casual. To him, time was precious, and he simply had no interest in 'playing the field'.
Though even you had to admit; no matter how big the field, it would be very difficult for anyone on Clark’s future roster to compete with the brilliant Lois Lane.
“What if she never does?” you asked, gesturing for him to pass you another bauble to add to the tree.
It was mid-November, and a random chill in the air had you fixated on getting your decorations up ASAP. Naturally, Clark agreed, even playing pack-mule with you in the store as you collected everything caked in artificial frost and tinsel- even a brand-new tree that he held tucked under one arm as you ran up and down the aisles.
Clark simply smiled, eyes holding a shine as he watched you examine a fragile looking ornament, fingers twirling it in the light.
“She'll figure it out. She always does,” he’d said confidently, “One day.”
“What if she takes forever?”
Clark remained unfazed, “Then I’ll wait.” you just raised an eyebrow, dropping the topic immediately and trying to forget how deliciously romantic he sounded right then and there.
That, was six months ago.
And Clark has yet to introduce you to this mystery girl, has yet to even give you her name; you don’t even know what she looks like.
You supposed it was for the best. For now, you were happy living in blissful ignorance. Just until you got over this silly little love-crush of yours. Or, until you pushed yourself to finally start dating again and could finally forget about this whole thing.
You continue typing, the words blurring together incoherently. By the time 12:30pm comes around, your stomach is grumbling and it’s only the noise of everyone packing up for lunch that breaks your concentration.
Clark is already standing up from his desk, stretching those muscles of his that never go stiff, yet he does it anyway because it’s what everyone else does.
You lock eyes with him as he makes his way around the edges of the table.
“The usual?” he asks. You nod with a grateful smile.
“Please. Take my card-“ you’re already fumbling for your wallet, but Clark shakes his head firmly.
“No need. I’ll be back in ten.” He tells you, and before either of you can register what happens next, he leans down. Smoothly.
And gives you a peck on the lips.
It’s quick. It’s over within a split second. But it still happens; and when Clark pulls back without so much of a stunned look or an apology on his face, you swear you can still feel the plush skin of his lips on yours.
“Text me if you think of anything else you want.” he says coolly, as if he didn’t just short-circuit your entire being.
And he’s gone.
Just like that; he turns on his heel, nods goodbye to a gobsmacked Jimmy Olsen, and heads for the elevator. Leaving you; stunned, shocked, baffled, detonating in your seat.
You don’t move. For a long while, Jimmy mimicks you, eyes wide as his gaze darts between the elevator where Clark was and your desk, where you currently still are. And probably will be for days to come.
Eventually, he wheels his seat over to you.
“What was-“
“I don’t know.”
“Why did he-“
“I don’t know,” you swallow, and with a disbelieving shake of your head, you turn back to your desk, palms flat out on the table as a way of anchoring yourself to it. For a long while, Jimmy doesn’t speak, silently begging you to.
But you can’t. You physically can’t. Because it may have been an accident- it’s not unusual for Clark to give you a kiss on the forehead, an occasional one on the cheek if he’s feeling extra gratuitous. But on the lips?
Maybe he missed. Maybe, you turned your head without even realising it- and maybe, right now, he’s on his way to Liberty’s trying to come up with ways to end your friendship because he definitely knows now, if he didn’t before.
He knows, and he’s disgusted, and you wouldn’t be surprised if he came back with your bagel in a bag and a stern talking to about how you shouldn’t move your head when people lean in for cheek-kisses.
You decide you will never eat another bagel ever again in your entire life. You will be bagel-less and Clark Kent-less and best friend-less for the rest of time and it’s all because you couldn’t control yourself.
But you know you’re being stupid, because Clark is many things. Superman being the most important one of them- he catches rolling pencils before they can fall to the floor, nudges you gently out of the way when rain falls off outer stall canopies so you won’t get wet. He has reflexes that the normal man doesn’t. If you were to turn your head, he’d know, and he’d stop.
So why didn’t he stop?
You’re still frozen by the time he gets back. He has your bagels in their usual printed takeaway bag and he’s flushed from the cold, tie slightly crooked, glasses foggy and slipping down his nose.
He forgets to steady them, the grin on his face pointed so directly towards you that it distracts him completely.
Your eyes widen, hand shooting up instinctively just as they’re on the cusp of clattering to the floor. You push them up for him, the tip of your middle finger barely brushing against the bridge of his nose.
He smiles, crooked. Out of the corner of your eye, you can see Jimmy’s jaw on the floor.
“Thanks,” Clark says softly, and because your heart is going a million miles per minute, you just nod a reply back.
He sets the bagels on your desk, pulls his chair around to sit next to you.
“So,” he starts, getting the food out like he always does. You, first; he unwraps your bagel, sets your sauces out, and drapes a tissue across your lap. “What ice cream did you have last night?”
You tell him, carefully at first, reluctantly, like it wasn’t just vanilla and caramel. But Clark doesn’t catch on.
He just nods, attentive as always. He laughs when you make a joke, tells you in a hushed tone about his new friend in Gotham, Bruce Wayne. He’s an alright guy, bit serious though. And he wipes the corner of your mouth when you get a bit of ketchup on it. But he doesn’t bring up the kiss.
So, neither do you.
Clark keeps kissing you.
And you, well- all you can do is keep pretending you’re not actively malfunctioning every single time it happens.
At first you assume it’s a one-off. A strange, meteorological anomaly- like those fish that sometimes fall from the sky. Weird, very rare, and inexplicable.
But then he does it again the next day.
It’s the same routine: lunch break, Clark grabbing the food, you offering to pay, him refusing like always. Except now there’s a new beat to the choreography; one that involves him leaning in, cupping the side of your elbow like you’re made of spun glass, and giving you a very deliberate, very real peck on the lips before leaving. It’s gotten deeper since the first, you realise.
And every single time, you just sit there like someone unplugged you from the wall.
Jimmy has stopped pretending he isn’t watching. He mostly just gasps now. Out loud. Very dramatically.
Thursday, Clark arrives with two macchiatos and a cinnamon walnut pastry you mentioned liking once. You’re about to thank him when he dips forward and presses- there it is again- a warm, soft peck to your lips.
“Be right back,” he murmurs, like that is the casual part of this exchange.
This time, your confusion is so loud it actually echoes. Beside you, Jimmy drops his pen, and it rolls for three desks.
By Friday, you try to mentally prepare. You puff your cheeks out, slap them lightly, tell yourself that if he does it again, you will absolutely ask him what on earth is going on.
But of course, you don’t. You don’t ask your best friend anything.
Because the second he leans down and those soft lips brush yours in that infuriatingly tender, maddeningly gentle Clark-Kent way, your brain promptly ejects itself out the window.
He walks off, humming, as you slowly rotate in your chair like a malfunctioning Roomba.
Your head is foggy, filled with so many unanswered questions that somehow, feel so far from being said out loud.
Nothing’s changed, oddly enough. Clark still walks you home. Still hovers over your desk, helping you with rewrites and amendments. He still brings you lunch and spends Wednesday evenings watching re-runs with you in your apartment.
He just… kisses you, now. Pecks you, more like, like it’s the most normal thing in the world.
And before you know it, days pass. Days turn into weeks, and naturally- predictably- it gets worse.
Or better. Or whatever this is.
Because now- now, Clark starts doing it not just before lunch. He no longer limits himself, and you still say nothing.
He kisses you goodbye when he heads home for the night.
Kisses you hello when you meet at the elevator in the morning.
He kisses you when he hands you a report you asked for.
And, he even kisses you when you complain about the printer.
Tiny, sweet, blink-and-you’ll-miss-it pecks. Like he’s testing you. Like he’s waiting; for what, you don’t know, but what you do know is that you are very close to the brink of explosion.
By the time a whole month passes, your confusion has reached clinically concerning levels. Your Google search history is comical, an amalgamation of confusion and shock before you swiftly swapped to incognito;
do best friends kiss on lips??
signs of short term memory loss
am I hallucinating long-term?
long term hallucination symptoms
group long term hallucination
do kryptonian people greet each other with kiss
You search with a slight hunch, your entire body covering your phone screen in both fear and shame of someone seeing. You’re desperate; completely at your wits’ end, and Clark seems to be none the wiser.
But then, comes the moment everything changes.
It’s late. Everyone else has gone home, and the newsroom is buzzing only with low lights and the distant hum of the city outside.
It’s just you and Clark, finishing up an article he’s been helping you with.
You’re buried in revisions, your brains working in sync as you push through the exhaustion of the last few weeks. You and Clark had gotten better about leaving on time, but with deadlines closing in, staying late wasn’t really optional tonight.
You’re tired, very much so- to the point where pretending like you’re not bothered is a feat in itself. Clark is focused, glasses sliding down his nose as he leans over your shoulder to point at something on the screen.
And then- like it’s the easiest thing in the world- he tilts your chin gently with two fingers and gives you a slow, lingering kiss on the lips.
Not a peck this time. Not a blink.
A kiss.
A real, life-altering, friendship-make-or-breaking kiss that injects electricity in your veins and brings all your dead senses back to life. It’s wonderful. It’s passionate. And above all, it is scary.
You freeze. But instead of pulling back like he usually does, Clark stays there, lips pressed softly to yours, patient as ever. Waiting. Wanting in silence, for you to respond.
So, you do.
Your body moves before your brain can protest, before any part of you testifies against the very notion of giving in- your hand curls into the front of his shirt, you tilt upward, and suddenly you’re kissing him back.
Your lips are slow as they move together; at first, awkward. Then, the awkwardness melts into something familiar, something warm.
And finally, it turns absolutely, heart-stoppingly illegal.
Just waiting for her to realise, his words play over and over- incessant, like a broken record- in your mind.
One day.
You fit together perfectly, you and Clark. Your lips do all the work while your minds fight to catch up. He makes a tiny noise- a surprised, happy sound- and you swear you can feel his smile against your mouth.
You pull back first, breath uneven, eyes wide and stunned in a way you can’t even hide. Your hands are still fisted in the front of his shirt like you forgot to let go.
Your grip doesn't loosen on the fabric, too afraid to disrupt the moment you’re both suspended in.
Clark doesn’t move. He just watches you, chest rising slowly, hope written all over him. You can't speak, so you don't.
But something in your face- the shock, the realisation trying to break through and finally shake some sense into you- makes him smile.
It softens as he looks at you, folding into something heartbreakingly tender.
“I told you…” Clark murmurs softly, brushing a strand of hair from your face with the gentlest touch. His eyes graze your lips again, already hungry for more, “that you’d figure it out.”
i have a problem with overexplaining things and i really tried not to w this fic - tried something different!! hope you liked <33
series masterlist . previous chapter . next chapter
Lesson 4
Summary: He shows up at your door and apologizes, and the game resets—only now, the board is yours. You return to the company ready to keep the war going, but just as Harry makes his next move, a far bigger opportunity lands right at your feet. Bad move, Mr. Castillo. My turn.
Warnings and WC: 10.2k, Exes-to-Enemies Tension, “just kiss already” vibe, Corporate Drama, Flirting / Banter, Light Angst (brief emotional trigger), rom-com, comedy, Jealousy, Vandalism (humorous context), Embarrassing Situations, Smutless Tension (PG-13 spice), Past Trauma hints, High-Drama Workplace, sexual tension, touching, Harry is getting hard, Harry crumbles, Wall Street Setting, Petty Revenge, FEELINGS, denial of feelings, rom-com, comedy, idiots in love, lying, grumpy, wealth, divorce, modern au, rich people problems, upper east side drama, divorced but not over it, tension, slow burn romance, manhattan aesthetic. OC Characters (Ron=Harry's assistant, Emily=Reader's bestie, Chloe=Reader's elite friend, Mikey=Readers brother Scarlet&Richard=Reader's parents, Lara=Scarlet's assistant, Vivienne=Harry's mother, Sienna=Harry's sister)
authors note: Lucy and John both work in high-level positions at Harry’s company. Flashbacks will keep appearing throughout the story — scattered like pieces of a puzzle. Some big, some small. Some soft, some devastating. And when every piece finally clicks into place… you’ll know exactly what happened between them. No flashbacks in this chapter, sorry, babes... But don’t worry… next chapter has more than one, and they’re big.
Don’t Show Up at Your Ex’s House Unannounced
You’d always heard rumors about this place.
Richard used to mention it at charity dinners in that half-bored, half-terrified tone powerful men used when talking about things even they couldn’t control.
“When a security breach happens, they don’t call the police. They call Internal Security. No reporters. No leaks. No witnesses.”
And now?
Now you were here.
Which made absolutely zero sense, because as far as you knew, nothing had “breached” except maybe your patience.
The elevator had taken you below the lobby, past the floors with actual numbers, into a part of the building that didn’t exist on the directory.
The air grew colder.
The walls thicker.
Everything painted in that unforgiving corporate gray designed to make even Manhattan royalty feel small.
You—Queen of Manhattan, literal magazine cover girl—were being marched through a bunker like some intern who forgot to file paperwork.
It was downright humiliating.
The two suited men guided you forward—firm, controlled, not rough, just unchallengeable.
You crossed your arms, pretending your heart wasn’t ramming against your ribs.
Great, Harry. Couldn’t just yell? Had to shove me into your underground villain bunker instead? All this over a car? Really?
(Why had he even said “breach”? Breach what? A tire? Air pressure? Your sanity?)
Then—behind you—
“HEY!
Seriously? SERIOUSLY?!”
Mikey.
Your head whipped around.
He was being escorted by two more agents, eyes huge, hair a tragic mess, shirt half-tucked like he’d been kidnapped mid-nap.
“Oh thank God,” he breathed dramatically. “They’re not mafia. I thought I was about to get dissolved in acid.”
You glared.
“Mikey, they took you too?”
He threw his hands up like you’d personally arranged his arrest.
“I told you not to do it! I told you! And now I’m here because of you—this is ALL your fault!”
“Oh wow, here we go,” you snapped. “Is everything my fault today? Would you die if you took responsibility for literally anything in your life?”
“Me?! ME?!” he shrieked. “Because of this, Sienna’s going to misunderstand everything and she’s going to say no to me!”
You stared, incredulous.
“Oh sure, right. Because she was totally about to say yes. What are you even talking about?”
“What are YOU talking about, you chaos princess?” he shot back. “I swear, I will snap your— your stupid Chanel mirror right in half!”
You gasped like he’d threatened a family member.
“Don’t you dare! That is the Limited Edition Camélia High Jewelry Compact.” You emphasized each word like a slap. “That compact costs more than your rent, your car, and your dignity combined!”
“Enough.”
The voice cracked like a whip.
Both of you froze and turned.
One of the agents—clearly the senior one—looked between you like you were unruly toddlers in couture.
“It's probably best if we split you up for now. That way, we can actually figure some things out.”
Another agent moved closer.
You felt a knot in your stomach.
“Mr. Queen, this way, please.”
“WHAT—hey—HEY!” Mikey yelped as they dragged him toward a different corridor.
“DON’T SELL ME OUT SISTER—!!”
You rolled your eyes so hard you nearly saw your past lives.
A door hissed shut behind him.
Then silence.
You were guided into a small interrogation room—steel table, two chairs, camera in the corner, vents humming like they were judging you.
A man entered.
Not threatening.
Not overtly intimidating.
Just… unreadable.
Dark suit.
Stern face.
He sat.
“Ms. Queen,” he said evenly. “Please start from the beginning.”
You lifted your chin.
“Oh, please. My father told me all about these rooms. No press, no police, no leaks. But let’s get one thing straight: my identity stays confidential. I’m not some random intern you can toss into a basement chamber.”
He blinked. Once.
“Here,” he said gently, “we don’t care who you are.”
You stared.
“We care what you did.”
You scoffed, flipping your hair with impeccable dramatic technique.
“Wonderful. Misogyny with a security badge. Love that for me.”
He exhaled through his nose—long, weary.
“Ms. Queen. Please. Begin.”
"Fine."
You set your hands on the table. Leaned forward. Locked eyes with him.
“You want the truth?”
A beat.
“Everything started the day the police took me to the precinct.”
His brows rose.
“…The precinct? What precinct?”
You inhaled slowly.
Lifted your chin.
“Glad you asked. Well,” you said, a self-satisfied grin spreading across your face. “Since my stupid ex husband won’t allow any of this to reach the press… I might as well tell you everything.”
You lifted one shoulder, almost casually.
“Besides, I haven’t been to my therapist in weeks. So why not? Let’s unpack every terrible, ridiculous thing that led me here.”
Harry and Ron were striding toward the garage elevator, both of them sharp and tense,
when one of the security officers rushed up to them.
“Sir,” he said, stopping them. “There’s something else. We… discovered that Ms. Queen’s brother is involved. We’ve taken him in as well.”
Harry froze.
Ron blinked, thrown.
“Her brother? Maybe—maybe there’s an explanation.”
Harry turned his head slowly, eyes cutting into him like knives.
“An explanation, Ron? She admitted she was here last night. She admitted the whole thing.”
Ron swallowed.
“I mean… Ms. queen... she wouldn't... Maybe it’s just a misunderstanding—”
Before Harry could respond, heels clicked fast against the floor.
Lucy appeared.
“Harry—please tell me this isn’t true. How did this happen?” She motioned to a side room. “Come inside. We need to talk.”
They stepped into one of the secure briefing rooms.
The moment the door shut, Lucy rounded on him.
“How could we make a mistake like this? How could we let someone like that into our building? You’ve been suspicious of her since the beginning—you must’ve sensed something. How did I miss it?”
Harry rubbed his jaw, looking down, voice low.
“That’s… not exactly what happened.”
Lucy frowned.
“But you said—Harry, you said we shouldn’t trust her, that maybe she was—”
The door burst open.
John stormed in, out of breath, eyes sharp.
“Harry, this is a huge mistake,” he said, not bothering with greetings. “You’re all treating her like a saboteur when yesterday she literally left the building using my card.”
The room went very still.
Harry blinked.
“What?”
John stepped forward.
“She couldn’t find her badge at the turnstiles. She was digging through her bag, swearing she’d just had it. I was right there used my card to let her through. She walked out on my access, not hers. If her badge was used last night, someone must’ve stolen it.”
Lucy folded her arms, defensive.
“Or she ‘lost’ it on purpose and played dumb this morning so she wouldn’t look suspicious.”
John shook his head.
“No. Look, I barely know her, but I know what I saw. Her badge was gone before she even reached the exit. If someone used it after that, it wasn’t her. In this entire company, she’s the last person who would do something like this.”
Harry had gone quiet.
Hands on his hips, he stared at the floor for a moment, jaw tense, thoughts clearly racing. Then he looked up at Ron.
“Yesterday’s camera footage,” he said. “Lobby. Turnstiles. Every angle she appears in. I want it reviewed frame by frame.”
Ron nodded immediately.
“Yes, sir. Internal Security is on it right now.”
Harry straightened his jacket, decision made.
“Good,” he said. “Then we’ll go there.”
He pushed the door open and walked out, Lucy and John exchanging a loaded glance before following him into the hallway.
“…and that’s how I ended up in the lobby with coffee splattered all over my dress,” you concluded dramatically. “But it wasn’t him it was John. Well, it was an accident—he's just such a cute guy. Definitely not like Harry, obviously.”
The agent stared at you.
You had been talking nonstop for an hour — from your return to NYC from Kyoto to meeting Harry at the precinct, to your hiring, to the fashion analysis of every woman in HR — and he had listened with admirable patience.
But his soul was leaving his body.
Truly.
The man’s brain cells were collapsing like dying stars.
You leaned back.
“Honestly, for a car? I don’t understand. What’s the big deal? It’s just a car. Nothing in that garage is important enough for agents to interrogate me over.”
His pen paused mid-air.
“Ms. Queen,” he said tightly, “were you or were you not in this building with your brother last night?”
“Yes, we were here.”
“And then?”
You brightened suddenly.
“Oh! Then maybe I should explain it this way.”
He closed his eyes for half a second — praying, perhaps, that your next sentence might finally contain relevant information.
You leaned forward eagerly.
“So this Harry — Mr. Castillo — gave me the whole intern treatment. Coffee-fetching. Dry-cleaning. Snobby comments and all that. So naturally, I decided to teach him a lesson.”
The agent inhaled sharply through his nose.
You didn’t notice.
You were already going dramatic.
“So… last night...” you started.
He gently, nervously sat back, bracing himself.
Honestly, the man deserved a medal.
"'Mikey,' I said to my brother, 'we’re leaving'. My head was spinning like half fury, half expensive whisky."
Castillo Capital Garage - 3:41 a.m.
Two idiots in black hoodies, walking toward the Castillo Capital garage like the world’s worst burglars.
You tugged the hood over your head dramatically.
“He’ll see. Harry will see. I have pride, okay? I’m not some robot assistant he can bark orders at.”
“Exactly, exactly,” Mikey said, nodding like a bobblehead. “My sister has pride. Huge pride. The biggest.”
You stumbled.
He grabbed your elbow.
“Careful! You almost ate the sidewalk.”
“I’m fiiine,” you slurred. “I’m just… not used to wearing clothes this—” you gestured down at yourself, horrified, “—cotton. And these long pajama pants? What the hell is this? How do people wear this?”
Mikey shrugged.
“I bought them at the only store open at this hour. What did you expect, couture?”
You touched the fabric, offended.
“It’s… soft. And thick. I hate that. Whatever. We must not be recognized.”
You whispered the last part like you were in a spy movie.
Mikey whispered back for no reason.
“Yeah. Totally. Super undercover.”
You reached the corner where the garage entrance was visible.
The security booth glowed under a sad fluorescent light.
Mikey leaned in.
“Question… they’re not gonna figure out it’s us, right? I can’t have Sienna thinking I’m, like, a criminal. I mean… Harry is her brother and-"
You burst into laughter so loud you had to slap a hand over your mouth.
“Nooo, Mikey, God, no. We’re wearing hoods. People in movies do this all the time. Look—” You yanked the hood down over your face. “Clearly it works.”
Then pulled out sunglasses.
Yes, at 3:41 a.m.
You tried to put them on — missed your eye twice — and finally shoved them into place crookedly.
Mikey blinked.
“Sunglasses? Isn’t that… a bit much?”
“Shut up and commit,” you said, dragging him by the sleeve.
He put his pair on too.
Now you were two drunk undercover heiresses on the run from Page Six.
Classy.
The security guard in the booth was distracted, eating what looked like a double cheeseburger while watching a tiny TV propped near the window.
You and Mikey crouch-walked past him like two malfunctioning mannequins escaping a department store.
At one point, you both literally crawled — sunglasses slipping off, hoods drooping, and you trying to yank up the oversized sweatpants Mikey had bought because they kept sliding over your silk night-shorts.
The waistband bunched awkwardly, the fabric pooling around your knees like a defeated parachute every time you moved.
You hissed under your breath, wrestling with them as you crawled:
“Ugh—why is this thing so big? Mikey, did you buy these for a giant?”
“They were the only size left! It was either this or floral leggings!”
You glared at him over your crooked sunglasses, still crawling like a rejected duo from a ’90s rap music audition gone horribly wrong.
Finally you reached the card scanner.
You reached into your bag…
…and froze.
“Where the hell is my badge?”
Mikey hissed, “Find it! Hurry!”
You rummaged through the bag — nothing.
You squinted, trying to remember.
“Wait… I last checked my bag when I was leaving the office but—oh my God.”
Your eyes widened.
“John. He walked by. He said ‘ladies first’ and used his badge to get me through the turnstile.”
Mikey stared at you.
“You lost it? You’re kidding?”
Back in the present, the agent’s pen flew across the page taking notes.
“Never mind. We climb.”
And before Mikey could protest, you backed up, jumped, and vaulted over the turnstile with the grace of a partially drunk ballerina.
Mikey scrambled after you, making a noise like someone stepping on a cat.
Somewhere behind you, the security guard paused mid-chew, glanced toward the sound…
…then shrugged and returned to his burger.
You were in.
The garage stretched out, cold and dimly lit, rows of gleaming cars like sleeping beasts.
Mikey whispered loudly:
“So… uh… which one is his?”
You grinned.
“Harry’s precious Mercedes. Black. Obsessively polished. License plate is literally—” you squinted, “—yeah, there. That’s his.”
Mikey squinted too.
“You sure?”
“Have you met Harry? Come on!”
You dug into your other bag and started pulling out lipsticks.
A whole handful.
Mikey blinked.
“What are you gonna do with those?!”
“These?” you scoffed. “I bought them on clearance. Obviously I’m not using the Dior ones for this.”
"Aren’t they all the same? They all just… draw, right?”
You turned your head toward him with the exact expression Upper East Side mothers reserve for people who put ketchup on steak.
“that is the single most ignorant thing you’ve ever said. And you once asked me if cashmere came from a cow.”
He opened his mouth.
Closed it.
Blink-blink.
You lifted the cheap lipstick between two fingers like it was radioactive.
You picked up one particularly cheap, questionable tube and made a disgusted face.
“This texture should be a crime. Anyway, guess what? Waterproof. Practically permanent.”
Mikey leaned in, fascinated.
“…Is that… good or bad?”
“Bad,” you hissed. “Horrifically bad. Which makes it perfect.”
Mikey’s eyes went wide.
“Jesus. He’s gonna lose his freaking mind.”
You smirked.
“He’s gonna spontaneously combust, actually.”
Mikey gasped dramatically.
“YES. Burn, baby.”
You clinked your lipstick against his like they were champagne flutes.
“To chaos.”
“To bad decisions,” he echoed.
And then you both started giggling — ugly, uncontrollable, drunken giggling — the kind that makes your knees weak and your sunglasses slide off your face.
“Oh my God, we’re committing a crime,” Mikey whispered, thrilled. “This is so exciting.”
“Yeah! Harry thinks he can humiliate me? No. This is how I humiliate him.”
You leaned toward the car—
“MS. QUEEN!”
You jerked, startled.
The agent’s hands were gripping the edge of the table like he was preventing himself from flipping it over.
He checked his watch.
“We have been here for two hours and forty-five minutes. What exactly are you telling me?”
You blinked innocently.
“What I did when I came to the building yesterday. You asked what happened.”
He dragged a palm down his face.
“Ma’am… we are asking about… The. Data. Where is the data?”
You frowned.
“What data?”
The man loosened his tie.
Hard.
If you weren’t sitting there being beautiful and catastrophically oblivious, he would’ve strangled the nearest object.
Security Camera Room
The room was dim, lined with screens and humming servers. Harry, Lucy, Ron and John crowded around the main monitor.
“Stop. Zoom in,” Harry ordered sharply, staring at one of the feeds.
Ron tapped the keyboard, enlarging the footage.
A figure appeared — hood up, shoulders hunched — moving down one of the back corridors.
In their hand?
Your access card.
The camera refocused.
Clear as day: your ID dangling from the intruder’s fingers.
Harry’s jaw tightened.
His eyes narrowed.
He swallowed.
A deep breath slipped out.
“…She didn’t do it,” he said quietly.
John didn’t even try to hide his satisfaction.
“Told you.”
Lucy crossed her arms, obviously embarrassed, refusing to look it.
“Well. Seems we… accused her for nothing.”
Harry snapped his fingers at the nearest agent.
“Call downstairs. Tell them to release her. Immediately.”
“Yes sir.”
The man grabbed the phone at once.
Harry turned to John.
“Thank you John.”
John shrugged.
“Just… let the poor girl go home. She’s scared to death down there.”
Ah, John… if only you knew.
You weren’t the one scared —the real victim was that poor agent,clinging to his sanity while surviving your two hour and forty-five-minute monologue assault.
Harry didn’t like the implication — scared because of him — but he gave a curt nod and walked out, Ron at his shoulder.
Ron tried to study his face as they walked.
“Boss… we really did accuse her for nothing.”
“I know, Ron.”
Harry stopped, frowning at nothing.
“But I don’t understand.”
A beat.
“If she was innocent… why did she say she was here last night?”
Ron hesitated.
“Well… without a badge she couldn’t get in. And she said—something about… the car?”
For a car, Harry? For a car?
Harry turned slowly.
“‘A car’… Right. We were heading to the garage.”
His eyes sharpened.
“Let’s go.”
Castillo Capital Garage.
Harry and Ron stepped out of the elevator. Their steps echoed through the cold, polished cement.
“Your car’s still here,” Ron said. “You told me to keep it in the garage since you were running late, so I—”
He stopped.
Harry stopped.
Both of them froze.
Harry’s immaculate black Mercedes was…
Destroyed.
Or, more accurately:
Covered. In. Lipstick.
Red, pink, coral, plum — every shade known to Sephora.
Streaks.
Smears.
Scribbles.
Handprints.
Lip marks.
And across the front bumper, in giant sloppy letters:
A – S – S – I –
And then it stopped mid-stroke.
Ron whispered, horrified, “Oh god.”
“…What the hell is—?” Harry placed both hands on his hips, leaning down, squinting at the letters. “ASSI… Assi… what is that supposed to mean?”
Ron, extremely unhelpfully:
“Assignment…? Assistant…? Assimilation…? Ass—ah—”
Harry shot him a glare.
Ron shut up.
Harry straightened and noticed the tiny camera mounted near the rearview mirror —
the built-in security cam every executive vehicle at Castillo Capital had.
“Pull the footage.”
Ron immediately whipped out his tablet, fingers flying across the screen.
“Already on it, boss. Syncing with the car’s internal security system now.”
The feed loaded.
3:50 A.M.
Ron handed the tablet to Harry.
Both men stared.
And there you were.
You.
And Mikey.
Two idiots in oversized black hoodies, sunglasses, stumbling like drunk raccoons.
Arguing.
Laughing.
Dropping things.
You slurring as you vandalized the car:
“Ha! Yes. Perfect. Jerk! You wanna humiliate me? Let’s see how you like it! THIS is what happens when you piss off a Manhattan girl!”
Mikey:
“Hey—hey—this lipstick is empty! You got another one?”
You:
“Ugh, fine. Last one. Okay—final touch. The grand finale.”
You leaned in, concentrated hard, and in painfully slow, drunken syllables, wrote:
“A—
S—
S—
He is. He’s… he’s a big… ass—”
A noise startled you.
You froze.
Then hissed:
“Mikey! Run! RUN!”
You dropped a lipstick.
“DON’T LEAVE EVIDENCE!”
You scooped them up in a panic and both of you sprinted offscreen, sunglasses falling, hoods lopsided.
Ron’s hand flew to his mouth as he choked on laughter.
Harry arched a brow.
“Ron.”
“I—I’m sorry,” Ron wheezed. “They’re just— they look like— oh God— they look like escapees from a failed clown heist—”
“Ron.”
“Yes sir.”
He covered his mouth harder.
But the laughter kept leaking out.
Harry wiped his finger along the lipstick graffiti.
Red smudged onto his skin.
He stared at it.
Dead silent.
Then muttered to himself:
“…Assi… Was she trying to write… ?!"
Interrogation Room
“…Asshole,” you confirmed proudly. “He’s a total asshole. That’s what I wrote.”
You gestured in the air like it was obvious.
“But then I heard a noise, panicked, and the H got cut off — that’s why it just says ASSI.”
The agent blinked very slowly.
“So… you weren’t trying to steal data?”
“Steal? Me?”
You gasped dramatically.
“Do I look like a thief? Honestly, look at me.”
He did look at you.
Then thought privately:
No, not a thief. But probably capable of killing a man with words alone.
You leaned in conspiratorially.
“Did I ever tell you how Harry used to be in love with me and how I basically helped him build the company—?”
“Yes,” he groaned. “You told me. Several times.”
A knock on the door.
The agent turned.
Someone stepped inside.
"Sir, we’ve got an update," he leaned in, quietly sharing some details. You tilted your head, acting like you weren’t really listening to what he was saying.
The agent practically glowed with relief.
“Oh, thank God.” He stood up.
“Ms. Queen — you’re free to go. You’re not the perpetrator.”
You stood, tossing your hair.
“Well of COURSE I’m not. Honestly. Finally.”
And you swept out with royal disdain.
Outside The Building.
The cool air hit both of you.
Mikey inhaled deeply like a prisoner released after 40 years.
“Ohhhhh freedom. Those dark rooms… those walls… I aged ten years. I saw things. Terrible things.”
You rolled your eyes.
“Stop being dramatic.”
You raised a hand and hailed a taxi.
Mikey stared at you.
“Aren’t you gonna confront Harry?”
You glared at the Castillo Capital tower.
“Confront HIM? Please. I’m never stepping foot in his stupid building ever again! He can take his stupid company and shove it straight up his ass!”
You grabbed a small stone from the ground and hurled it at the metal CASTILLO sign.
A faint CLANK echoed.
You both froze.
Then ran.
Mikey shrieked:
“We JUST got released! Are you INSANE?!”
You dove into the taxi.
“Drive! DRIIIVE!”
The taxi peeled away.
The crisis was over.
The data thief had been caught; cornered in a supply room before he could fully decrypt anything. The files were heavily encrypted anyway; he hadn’t cracked more than the outer shell.
Internal Security was already patting themselves on the back.
The building was buzzing again. Phones ringing, keyboards clicking, the comforting hum of routine restored.
Except Harry wasn’t comforted.
Not really.
He sat at his desk, trying to focus, but his laptop screen stopped making sense ten minutes ago. He shut it with a frustrated thud and scrubbed a hand over his face.
His mind kept drifting back to you.
Still angry.
Still confused.
Still… something else he didn’t want to name.
Ron stood nearby, adjusting Harry’s schedule on a tablet. He glanced up just in time to catch Harry shifting irritably in his chair.
Harry suddenly pushed up to his feet and began pacing, hands on hips.
“Something needs to be done,” he muttered.
Ron straightened instantly — like he’d been waiting for that exact line.
“Yes! Exactly! We definitely need to do something.”
Harry stopped pacing long enough to give him a look.
“Ron. Call her. Call... Ms. Queen. Apologize on behalf of the company. Tell her we’d like her back. I don’t know... say something.”
Ron blinked.
“I can call her, boss, sure… but wouldn’t it be better if you called?”
“Why would I call?” Harry shot back. “She destroyed my car. She wrote— things— on it. Insulting things!”
“Those two things are not the same, boss—”
“RON. Call her.”
“Okay! Okay. I’m calling!”
He whipped out his phone.
At the same time...
You and Emily were seated at your favorite place — soft lights, sushi plates in the middle, two fancy cocktails you didn’t even remember ordering.
You stabbed a piece of salmon with unnecessary aggression.
“And YOU,” you pointed your chopsticks at Emily, “kept saying Harry is a good guy. A decent guy. A nice guy. Look what he did! Look!”
Emily sighed.
“To be fair, sweetie, you did lose your badge the first day. And you did tell him you were at the company last night. And you did vandalize his car with lipstick.”
You gasped.
“I am the victim here!”
Emily blinked slowly.
“You wrote ‘Asshole’ on his Mercedes.”
“That’s not the point!”
“…Is it not?”
Before you could argue, your phone buzzed on the table.
Emily leaned forward, eyes wide.
Incoming call: Ron
“Is that... Ron? Harry’s Ron?”
You flipped the phone over.
“I’m not answering.”
Emily slapped your arm.
“You answer that phone right now! Maybe Harry wants to talk to you.”
You sighed dramatically, lifted the phone with impeccable cool-girl disdain.
“Hello?”
Emily tilted her head, trying to get her ear close to your phone like a spy.
On the other end, Ron cleared his throat.
“Ms. Queen? Hi, it’s Ron. Mr. Castillo’s assistant. We just wanted to apologize for the… unpleasant situation earlier today. You are welcome to return to your position tomorrow. We’d be very happy to have you back with us —”
He glanced at Harry, who was standing there with his arms crossed, leaning in to hear every word like a nosy giant.
You cut in sharply.
“Are you finished, Ron?”
Ron blinked.
“…Yes?”
“Good. Now tell your boss that unless he comes to me, in person, and apologizes properly, I am never stepping foot in that company again. Good day.”
And you hung up.
Harry — who had heard your final line perfectly — recoiled.
“I’m supposed to apologize? ME? She vandalized my car! She—she wrote things on it! And I’m supposed to apologize to HER?!”
He yanked his chair out and sat with a frustrated thump.
“I’m not apologizing to her,” he declared.
Ron stared at him.
Harry repeated, weaker:
“I’m… not.”
Even he didn’t sound convinced.
Meanwhile...
Emily’s jaw had dropped.
“What did you just do?! He apologized — Ron apologized!”
You flicked your hair.
“He didn’t. Harry has to apologize. Personally.”
“But—”
“No, Emily. I’m not going back until he apologizes.”
Emily pinched the bridge of her nose.
“You and Harry are exactly the same level of stubborn, you know that?”
You shrugged. “He’ll apologize. You'll see.”
Scarlet, Lara, and Richard had gone out for the evening — not a grand gala, but something smaller, more curated: The Autumn Society Dinner at the Frick Collection.
An intimate, invitation-only gathering of Fifth Avenue patrons where old money sipped Burgundy, complimenting paintings they hated and people they disliked.
Everyone was expected to attend.
Everyone except you — because you refused to perform, refused to smile for the right people, and God forbid you ran into Vivienne.
You’d texted the Fifth Ave Dolls group chat a perfect excuse:
“Migraine. Tragic. Don’t ask.”
Surprisingly, Scarlet didn’t push.
She had been oddly gentle with you lately — softer, less combative.
When you refused to go with them, she just lifted a brow and said:
“Very well. Enjoy your evening.”
The moment the door closed behind them, you invited Emily over.
Fast food was forbidden in your home — Scarlet considered it a moral failing and swore it ‘did terrible things to one’s complexion’ which made ordering two giant pizzas feel thrillingly illegal.
But who cares?
Emily practically moaned when the delivery app confirmed it.
Now the two of you lounged across the floor of your enormous bedroom suite.
The room glowed with warm lamps, candles you weren’t supposed to light, and the soft rustle of silk pillows.
Your hair was undone.
You wore a delicate satin nightgown — the only thing Scarlet actually approved of — thin straps, soft champagne color, brushing your thighs like a whisper.
Emily had changed into the nightgown you lent her — a deep wine-colored satin slip.
Her mother was a strict traditionalist about dinners so Emily was starved for something greasy and decadent just like you.
This wasn’t a pajama party.
This was girls’ night without witnesses.
No men.
No parents.
No annoying brothers.
Just two girls eating trash food in couture nightwear.
And Chloe was on her way —
your Dolls friend who was tolerable, even sweet, but never someone you trusted with the Harry situation.
Emily held her phone up.
“LOOK at him! Every Friday he comes to the restaurant.
And he’s half Japanese, can you believe that? The cheekbones, babe. God absolutely sketched that jawline during lunch.”
You grinned.
“A very attractive man indeed.”
But your gaze slid — again — to your own phone.
“He’s going to call,” you murmured. “He has to call. He will definitely call.”
Emily’s smile softened, sympathy glowing in her eyes.
“Sweetie… I don’t think he will. I mean, he didn’t want you at the company. Your not coming back? That benefits him.”
Her words pierced something in you.
You swallowed.
“I think you need to close the Harry chapter,” she said gently.
“For your own heart. Because in the end? You were always going to be the one hurt.”
You inhaled shakily and forced a smile she couldn’t see through.
“You’re right. Whatever. Who cares about him anyway?”
You stood and grabbed a dart, flicking it toward your Revenge Mood Board.
It landed satisfyingly right between “burn his ego” and “never text first.”
“I should just close this whole topic. Chloe will be here any minute.”
Emily laughed and kissed the top of your head.
“That’s my Queen.”
She stretched, stood, and announced dramatically:
“I have to pee. All the soda we drank is turning me into a waterfall.”
You snorted as she padded into the bathroom.
Then—
DING.
The elevator bell echoed through the penthouse, sharp and bright.
“Pizza!” you squealed, clapping once like a child finally released from a juice cleanse.
“Finally—something greasy. If I see one more detox smoothie I’m throwing myself off the terrace,” you muttered happily.
You cinched your robe with one hand, gathering the sash like it was a lifeline, and practically flew down the curved marble staircase.
Your satin slippers clicked on the stone — hurried, excited, desperate-for-cheese taps.
“Maybe it’s Chloe,” you murmured.
Chloe sometimes swung by unannounced, her “I was in the neighborhood” usually meaning “I smelled takeout.”
Halfway down, you leaned over the railing —
annoyed, curious, and already imagining the glorious sight of a pepperoni box.
“Good thing I wrote ‘leave it by the elevator,’” you grumbled, tugging your robe tighter.
“The last thing I need is to open the door looking like a half-dressed… whatever. Hopefully they just dropped it and ran.”
You hurried the rest of the way —
belt loosening again,
silky hair bouncing over your shoulders,
your nightgown shimmering with each sharp, excited breath like it was seconds away from betraying you.
And then—
You reached the bottom step.
And froze so violently it was a medical event.
Because standing in your foyer,
hands in his pockets,
wearing a dark blazer over a black shirt that clung sinfully to his chest,
with jeans so perfectly tailored they should require a license to wear—was
Harry.
The last person you expected tonight.
The last person you wantedto see like this.
And yet your heart… didn’t seem to care.
It detonated.
His back was to you at first.
Tall. Precise.
Shoulders broad beneath the blazer.
A casual look that somehow did more damage than a suit ever could.
Then — slowly — he turned.
His eyes found your face.
Then drifted down…
To your parted robe.
Your bare collarbone.
The lace slipping off your shoulder.
The satin gliding over your hips.
And for one unguarded second —
Harry’s expression shattered.
His pupils darkened.
His lips parted.
His breath tightened in his chest.
You grabbed your robe desperately, arms folding over yourself.
Why am I nervous? He’s just Harry. Just my stupid -and super hot- ex-husband Harry…
“Um… hi?” you managed.
Harry cleared his throat, but his voice was low and strained.
“…Hi.”
“Harry? What are you doing here? At this hour?”
Your voice shook.
You cursed yourself for it.
“I—” he began, gaze flickering anywhere except your neckline,
“I’m sorry for showing up unannounced. But when I learned your parents weren’t home—”
You lifted a brow sharply.
He snapped back:
“I mean—I came because—”
“Because?”
He exhaled like a man defeated by himself.
“I treated you unfairly today. I thought… coming in person was the right thing. To apologize.”
You tilted your head.
“That’s it?”
His eyes widened — he hadn’t expected interrogation.
“Harry,” you said, soft but with an edge,
“You humiliated me in front of everyone. You called me a thief.”
“Your card was used to access my building,” he snapped.
“And you told us you were there last night. What was I supposed to think?”
“You were supposed to think, ‘The woman I know wouldn’t do that.’
You were supposed to trust me. But instead? You were the first to accuse me.”
He clenched his jaw.
“I came here to apologize. What more do you want?”
A wicked little smile curled your lips.
You leaned in.
“I don’t know… maybe get on your knees? ‘Please forgive me. I’m sorry.’ Something like that.”
Harry stared at you like you had just rewritten physics.
“You lost your card,” he hissed quietly,
“and nearly let a man steal confidential data from my company. And I saw what you did to my car. Don’t play innocent.”
You almost laughed — almost — but caught yourself.
“Wait. You didn’t come to apologize? Why am I being scolded again?”
“I did apologize!”
“That was not an apology. Try again. Louder. Like I asked.”
He inhaled sharply.
“Fine. I’m sorry.”
“What was that? Didn’t hear you.”
He exploded.
“I SAID I’M SORRY!”
His voice boomed across the marble foyer.
You smiled like a cat stretching in sunlight.
“Mmm. Much better.”
Harry glared, then muttered:
“Now I assume you’ll be back at work tomorrow.”
You fluttered your lashes.
“You missed me at the company, Mr. Castillo?”
“I did not,” he snapped, way too fast.
“In fact, the place was quieter without you. But my conscience wouldn’t let it go.”
“Your conscience?” You folded your arms.
“How adorable.”
“Forget that,” he muttered.
“Are you coming back or not?”
You pretended to think.
“Hm… I don’t know. You’re begging so nicely…”
“I am not—”
“But your eyes…” You pointed at his face.
“They look all puppy-ish. Poor thing.”
Harry looked personally insulted.
“What? I— absolutely not—”
He turned, muttering, “I’m done here.”
You stepped in front of him, blocking his escape, pointing at his eyes again.
“Right there! Your eyes! They don’t lie!”
“Stop that,” he growled, flustered.
“There! There!”
And just as you moved—
Your slipper caught the edge of his shoe.
You fell forward—
Harry caught you instantly.
His hands gripped your waist —
fingers sliding against the silk, brushing the lace —
pulling you flush against him.
Your breath hitched.
His eyes dropped to your lips.
Your gaze lingered on his mouth.
The world shrunk to heat.
Then—
“Did the pizza arrive?”
Emily’s voice.
From upstairs.
And at the same moment:
DING.
The elevator doors slid open.
Chloe stepped out, wearing a cropped sweater and Louboutins.
“Girls, I'm he—
Oh.
My.
GOD.”
She froze at the sight of you and Harry tangled together.
You and Harry jumped apart.
He cleared his throat like it offended him.
“See you tomorrow,” he muttered, fleeing toward the elevator.
As he passed Chloe, her jaw dropped so far it could’ve hit her shoes.
Emily peeked over the railing, eyes HUGE:
“WAS THAT HARRY?! Did Harry Castillo just leave your floor?!”
Chloe spun to you, breathless.
“Why was he HERE?”
You tied your robe smugly.
“He came to apologize,” you said, queenlike.
Emily shrieked. "Shut. Up. No way!"
Chloe grabbed your arm. “Why did he apologize? TELL US EVERYTHING — NOW!”
They dragged you toward the stairs like two gossip-addicted wolves.
As the doors closed, Harry pressed a hand over his chest.
His heart was thundering.
“Get it together, Harry,” he muttered.
“Stop thinking about her. Stop—”
But his mind was already betraying him.
He looked down at his hands.
Large, steady hands normally used for signing deals, steering meetings, controlling entire rooms.
Now they trembled — just faintly — because he could still feel you.
The ghost of silk against his fingers.
The warmth of your waist beneath the thin fabric.
The softness of your skin under the lace.
The exact curve where your body fit against his.
He flexed his fingers subtly, as if the memory of your heat were still imprinted there.
God.
He could still feel you like you hadn’t moved at all.
“Stop…” he whispered, jaw tightening.
But the problem was—
He didn’t want it to stop.
The image of you in that satin nightgown —
the same style you used to wear for him —
the way your body felt in his hands—
Old memories crashed over him.
Nights tangled in silk sheets.
Your legs around his waist.
Your breath in his ear.
It terrified him most was how easily it all came back.
Years later, after touching countless hands and feeling absolutely nothing… one accidental hold on your waist, and he was right back where he’d been.
How could one woman still have that effect on him—
worse, how could it feel even stronger now?
How was it possible that after all this time, no one else had ever come close?
He hadn’t felt that spark, that jolt, that raw pull toward anyone in years.
Yet one second of touching you, and every wall he built snapped like it was made of paper.
And that—
that was the most dangerous part.
He could control his company.
He could control his temper.
But he couldn’t control the way you made him feel. Not then.
Not now.
Maybe not ever.
He shut his eyes, cursing through clenched teeth as hecould feel himself getting hard in his jeans. He threw his head back, gasping for air and feeling his throat getting super dry.
He was absolutely going to dream of you tonight.
In silk.
In lace.
In his arms again.
The moment you stepped through the glass doors of Castillo Capital, every head turned.
People whispered.
Security guards straightened.
Analysts paused mid-coffee.
You were used to heads turning when you walked into a room — you’d been raised on that kind of attention —
but this time, it was different.
This time, they weren’t staring at Scarlet Queen’s daughter or the magazine-cover socialite.
They were staring at the girl who’d been accused and cleared in less than twenty-four hours.
You had come out clean, and everyone knew it.
You stepped into the elevator. Two junior analysts walked in after you and immediately started whispering.
“…that’s her, right?”
“Internal Security had her all morning.”
“Yeah, but they let her go. Totally cleared.”
“She looks… fine.”
“Honestly? Better than fine.”
You pretended not to hear, eyes fixed on the floor number as it ticked upward.
The doors slid open—
And suddenly everyone was smiling.
“Queen, welcome back!”
“So good to see you again!”
“We heard what happened — so unfair!”
You gave them a polite, practiced smile, the type that said:
Yes, I survived the scandal. Yes, I look fabulous doing it.
Everyone seemed happy.
Everyone except that girl — the annoying one from the meeting, the one who swooned over Harry and hated you on sight.
She looked at you…
and instantly curled her lip in a dismissive little sneer.
But even she couldn’t deny it — the energy around you was magnetic.
People gathered near your desk like you were their natural orbit.
And your desk… looked different now.
Where before it was stiff, empty, depressingly plain —
now there were: a pink pen holder, pastel sticky notes, a tiny succulent, sparkly stickers on your notebook, a small scented hand cream (Emily’s emergency gift).
It finally looked like someone with a pulse and taste worked there.
The other girls crowded around:
“Welcome back!”
“We were worried!”
“We’re so glad everything was sorted!”
You smiled warmly.
“Thank you, girls. Really. But it’s all handled now — I’m just happy to be back at my desk.”
That’s when the annoying girl spoke.
“Oh, if anyone accused me of being a thief,” she said dramatically, “I would never show my face in this building again.”
You looked at her, unbothered.
“Not everyone lacks resilience, sweetie.”
The girls giggled.
You twirled your hair lightly and added,
“Besides, the company came to my doorstep to apologize. How could I refuse?”
Her jaw actually dropped.
The other girls tried to hide their laughter behind their hands.
She scrambled to recover, smiling stiffly.
“Well! That just shows how classy our company is! They really value their employees!”
You spun in your chair, rolled a little closer, and gave her a look that said please stop talking.
She quickly shoved a new ID card toward you.
“Here’s your new badge.
Try not to lose it again.”
You reached out to take it. As you did, her eyes dipped to your wrist — and froze.
The slim, rectangular face, the unmistakable bracelet links, the soft glint of diamonds.
Her jaw dropped.
“Is that… thePanthère de Cartier Mini White Gold Diamond-Paved Limited Edition? Oh my God, Zendaya wore that at the Oscars! That model is impossible to find.”
You blinked innocently.
“This? Oh, it’s just a replica.”
She stared at you like you’d said the sky was green.
“A replica of that model doesn’t exist. I checked everywhere.”
You lifted your wrist casually, letting the diamonds catch the light.
“Well… my dad picked it up in Europe. Apparently they made a small batch of high-end replicas and they sold out instantly.”
You shrugged.
“Lucky timing, I guess.”
The girls exchanged wide-eyed looks.
She looked like she couldn’t decide whether to faint or scream.
You rolled your chair back toward your desk, muttering under your breath:
“…damn it.”
You had barely opened your fresh notebook, stickers already in hand, when a familiar voice spoke:
“Good morning.”
You turned—
“John!”
You instantly brightened.
“Good morning. You won’t believe what I’ve been through.”
He gave you a smug little smile.
“Oh, I heard… bits.”
You paused, suspicious.
“Wait. You were the only one who knew I lost my card. You told them, didn’t you?”
John crossed his arms, lips pursed innocently.
“I might’ve helped… a little.”
“John! You practically saved my life.”
You beamed and reached out, fingers curling lightly around his forearm in a quick, grateful touch.
For a brief second, a spark shot through him — like static electricity, sharp and unexpected.
You pulled your hand back and he cleared his throat, schooling his face back into casual.
“Mmm, a simple thank-you won’t cut it. You owe me dinner.”
You laughed.
“Deal. Anywhere you want.”
“Perfect. Now go be brilliant,” he said, tapping your desk lightly before heading off.
“Glad you’re back.” He winked.
You waved after him.
“You too, John!”
Then you sat down again, opened your notebook, pulled out stickers—
And Ron appeared beside you.
“Ms. Queen,” he said, almost shyly.
“Hey, Ron. How are you?”
“I’m good, thank you. Umm…”
He glanced around nervously — the other girls whispering because Harry’s assistant speaking to you was… unusual.
Ron leaned in.
“Mr. Castillo wants to see you.”
Your smile widened.
Of course he does.
Can’t stay away, can you, Harry?
“Okay,” you said smoothly, standing.
Ron led you toward the elevator — not the executive one you usually saw him use.
He pressed B3.
You blinked.
“Ron… Mr. Castillo isn’t in his office?”
“No,” Ron said, trying not to wince. “He’s waiting… downstairs.”
Your smile widened even more at that.
The elevator doors opened into the garage.
You stepped out slowly.
Your smile vanished.
“Ron? Why are we here?”
Ron only gave a nervous, apologetic grin and gestured forward.
You turned your head—
And there he was.
Harry.
Leaning against his black Mercedes — where the paint was the least ruined — arms crossed, suit immaculate, expression unreadable.
Except…
He was smirking.
Playfully.
You walked toward him, every step heavier with dread and guilt.
“Good morning,” he said, voice dripping smugness.
You tried to look anywhere but at the faint lipstick ghosts still clinging to the paint.
“Good morning.”
Harry tilted his head, trying to catch your eyes.
“You didn’t think you’d get away with everything just like that… did you, princess?”
You kept your chin up.
“No idea what you mean.”
He stepped aside.
At his feet were: a bucket of water, a sponge, a bottle of heavy-duty automotive tar-and-bug remover — the kind detailers use to strip off stubborn paint -obviously lipstick-, cloths, gloves…
“Queen,” he said casually, “your cleaning supplies.”
“…excuse me?”
“Time to clean the car.”
You stared. “You could’ve sent it to detailing!”
“I could have,” he agreed.
“But I want you to clean it.”
You groaned.
“Harry, I just did my manicure. Myself! Do you know how hard that is?”
He crouched slightly so his eyes were level with yours, voice playfully low.
“That’s not my problem. And there are gloves.”
You whimpered dramatically.
“This is unfair.”
“Unfair?” he echoed smoothly. “Vandalism is a crime, Ms. Queen. Technically ‘criminal mischief’ under state law.” He raised a brow. “Should I file a report?”
“NO!”
You threw your hands up.
“Fine! I’ll clean it. God, anything to avoid another interrogation.”
You marched to the bucket, grabbed the sponge, glared at him, and tied your hair up into a messy topknot.
Harry watched you like someone watching live premium entertainment.
As you dipped the sponge into the water, you muttered:
“Why did I buy waterproof lipstick? Why?! I sabotaged myself.”
Harry laughed under his breath.
You started scrubbing.
It was… horrible.
Your arms hurt.
Your skirt got soap on it.
Your shoulders ached.
At one point, you were fairly sure your soul briefly left your body.
“Ugh, Mikey writes like a toddler,” you grumbled. “What even is this shape?”
Harry leaned against the car, amused.
“You wrote ‘ASSI.’”
You froze.
He stepped closer.
“So. What were you trying to write?”
You blinked rapidly, heat creeping up your neck.
Think, think, make something up. Right now.
“I—uh—ASSIDUOUS!!!” you wailed.
Harry just stared, unimpressed.
“It means hard-working,” you explained solemnly.
“You’re very hard-working, so—”
“Not ‘asshole,’ then?”
You laughed too loudly.
“Ha! What? Nooo! God, Harry. You really should expand your vocabulary.”
He exhaled through his nose — annoyed he couldn’t prove it, and more annoyed that he enjoyed this.
He straightened.
“Make sure you buff it well, Queen. I want to see my reflection in it when you’re done.”
You bared your teeth in something that was not quite a smile and muttered through them:
“If I’d finished the word, you’d see yourself just fine, asshole.”
Harry’s head turned slightly.
“Did you say something?”
You flashed a bright, fake smile.
“Just saying how shiny it’ll be.”
After thirty more minutes:
“I think I’m dying,” you groaned. “My arms. My legs. My soul.”
Then you looked at your nails and shrieked.
“My manicure! Oh COME ON!”
Harry actually grinned.
“Almost done. Good job.”
You glared as you scrubbed the last bit.
“There,” you said, exhausted. “Finished.”
Harry walked slowly around the car, inspecting it like a judge at a beauty pageant.
He tapped the back trunk.
“Missed a spot.”
You looked at him like you were actively calculating his murder.
Then cleaned it.
“Harry, please. I’m going to faint.”
He finally lifted a hand in surrender.
“All right. Nice work. Looks good.”
You sagged in relief…
Until he added, entirely too casually:
“I was going to take it to detailing anyway. Consider this a pre-wash.”
You froze.
“WHAT?!”
Your voice echoed through the garage.
Harry gave a slow, deadly smirk.
“Also, Queen? In the office, I expect you to call me Mr. Castillo. Don’t forget again.”
He let his eyes drift over you — hair messy, outfit wrinkled, soap suds on your blouse.
“We care about appearance in this company,” he added with wicked amusement.
“Maybe… fix yourself up before coming upstairs.”
He turned and walked toward the elevator.
You grabbed the sponge and hurled it at him—
But the doors had already closed.
It bounced pathetically off the metal.
You kicked his tire instead. “JERK!”
The women’s restroom smelled faintly of expensive soap and anxiety.
You stood at the mirror, running your fingers through your hair, smoothing your blouse, wiping off stray soap bubbles.
Your reflection had just begun to look human again when two women entered, chatting animatedly.
“I can’t believe it’s already next week,” one said.
“I know! This month flew.”
“And the prize this time? God, everyone’s going to claw each other for it.”
You weren’t listening—
until the second woman whispered:
“Dinner with the CEO.”
Your lipstick slipped out of your hand and nearly shattered on the marble tile.
You snapped your head toward them.
“Sorry—did you just say dinner with the CEO?”
Both women turned, startled.
“Yeah,” one said cheerfully. “It’s the monthly internal competition. Whoever nails the special assignment gets a one-on-one dinner with Mr. Castillo.”
Your heart lurched.
Harry.
Dinner.
Alone.
You forced your voice to sound normal.
“Oh. Cool. Fun. Great.”
The women left, still chatting, as you wiped the lipstick clean with a wet towelette, slipped it into your bag, and straightened your shoulders.
You’d just found your next move.
As you stepped out of the restroom, you noticed more whispers.
Clusters of employees talking, comparing notes, strategizing.
A group of girls stood near your desk.
One said, “I heard it’s a client-acquisition challenge this time.”
Another: “Only the best will even survive it.”
You approached.
“So… anyone can participate?” you asked, casual but alert.
The annoying girl spun, giving you that familiar condescending tilt of her head.
“Oh, yes, anyone can join. But I wouldn’t get your hopes up, honey.”
You raised an eyebrow.
She gestured at your desk.
“Look at you. You’ve been gone all morning. Your desk is piled with files. This assignment involves negotiating with major corporations. It’s far too big for a… beginner.”
She tossed her hair, flashing a smug smile.
“Besides, we all know who’s going to win.”
She pointed proudly at herself.
You smiled sweetly, deadly.
“We’ll see about that.”
You hadn’t even sat down yet when Mrs. Reyes — the employee-relations manager, technically your supervisor — stormed toward you.
She looked like she’d been chewed out and swallowed something sour.
She had. Lucy and two senior executives had apparently spent an hour lecturing her about “proper intern ID supervision.”
You saw the rage simmering behind her professional smile.
“Ms. Queen,” she said tightly. “A moment?”
You stood, wary.
She slapped a thick folder onto your desk.
“This is your assignment for the month’s competition. “You will be responsible for approaching Vanderholt Industries. One of the largest privately owned conglomerates on the East Coast.”
Your stomach dropped.
You already knew that name.
One of the biggest privately-owned holding companies in the state.
A monster.
And you knew the owner — your father’s most aggravating rival, a man who once called you “that spoiled little heiress” at a charity gala.
“Um…” you swallowed. “This company is… extremely difficult. They don’t negotiate with anyone.”
Reyes smiled sharply.
“Oh, but if you succeed? You’ll stand out beautifully at the firm. A fantastic opportunity, don’t you think?”
Behind her teeth, the message was clear:
I want you to fail, spectacularly.
You straightened.
“Well. If you trust me with it, I won’t disappoint.”
You sat back down, flipping through the intimidating documents.
Behind you, the girls whispered:
“Why would Reyes dump that on a trainee?”
“She’s trying to push her out.”
“Totally. I heard her getting yelled at in Mason’s office. She wants Queen gone.”
Meanwhile, John had been walking toward you, coffee in hand, but he stopped when he heard the whispers.
His eyes sharpened.
He stepped directly into Reyes’ path as she turned to leave.
“Mrs. Reyes,” he said politely — but with unmistakable authority.
“About the Vanderholt assignment.”
She blinked. “Yes?”
John’s tone remained pleasant, but his presence shifted — heavier, colder.
“If Ms. Queen is leading this project, I want to work with her as her direct support.”
Reyes stiffened.
“That’s… highly irregular.”
John offered her a perfectly polite smile.
The dangerous kind.
The kind that reminded everyone — without him ever saying it — that his father was one of the firm’s major shareholders.
Power he rarely used.
Power he was, for once, choosing to apply.
He took half a step closer, lowering his voice just enough to make her spine go rigid.
“Not really. My connections increase our chances of success.
And if this assignment is meant to ‘identify talent’…”
He paused meaningfully.
“…then she deserves the same level of support the others receive. Correct?”
Reyes’ eyelid twitched.
A few analysts froze mid-typing.
Someone pretended to refill their water just to listen.
Finally — through gritted teeth:
“Fine. Approved.”
John nodded once, smooth and unbothered, as if he’d merely asked for an extra packet of sugar.
John approached your desk, the approved assignment technically the reason…
He glanced down at the coffee in his hand, suddenly aware he’d been gripping it too tightly.
Then he looked back at you.
You were leaning forward slightly, reviewing the Vanderholt folder, your hair falling over one shoulder — until you casually swept it to the other side with a graceful motion.
John’s breath caught.
Very quietly — so quietly no one else could hear — he exhaled a soft, defeated laugh.
“…God help me,” he murmured under his breath.
“I was trying to get myself fired so I could go back to London…”
His gaze lingered on you, warm, helpless.
“…and now look at me. You’re making me do the opposite.”
He ran a hand through his hair, almost frustrated with himself — but smiling anyway.
Harry's office was quiet, sunlight cutting sharp angles across the sleek furniture.
Lucy sat across from him, sipping her perfectly crafted cappuccino, legs crossed.
Harry, meanwhile, had one hand wrapped around his mug…
and the other typing on his laptop without even looking up.
He was irritated. Which for Harry meant: jaw tighter than usual, shoulders tense, gaze colder.
"You know this whole CEO dinner thing?" Harry muttered, eyes glued to his screen. "Feels like your kind of idea, Lucy. You love these theatrics."
Lucy raised an eyebrow, smirking as she rested her elbow on his desk - closer than necessary." It wasn't my suggestion, Harry. It was the board's. Though…" she sipped her cappuccino slowly, her eyes not leaving him, "…I don't hate the idea."
Harry didn't even glance up. "Of course you don't."
Lucy leaned in slightly, voice dipping into that flirting-laced professionalism she always used around him. "So… what do you think?" she teased. "Should I join the competition? It may be the only way to get you to take me to dinner. You certainly won't ask me yourself."
Harry's typing didn't slow. "We had dinner last month. The Sichuan place."
Lucy blinked. Her smile faltered. "That was takeout. At your desk. Between two conference calls."
Harry shrugged, still typing. "Still counts."
"It doesn't count, Harry," she said flatly, stung. "I don't mean a rushed between-meetings meal. I mean an actual dinner."
But Harry was already scrolling through documents. "Work's packed. You know how it is." He tapped his screen. "Look at this file? I didn't get a chance yet."
Lucy’s chest tightened - not with attraction, but with annoyance - as she took the folder. "…Sure. Of course."
The door opened and Ron stepped in - then stopped dead when he saw Lucy's face. "Ms. Mason," he greeted carefully.
Lucy didn't respond. She grabbed her bag and walked out without looking at either of them.
Ron waited until the door clicked shut…then pressed his back against the glass wall dramatically, like a spy avoiding gunfire.
Harry didn't even look up. "What now, Ron? She can't have caused another problem. I left her in the garage three hours ago - she looked exhausted."
Ron swallowed. "Actually… boss… it's about the dinner event. The whole company is kind of losing its collective mind."
Harry groaned. "Lucy and her theatrics," he muttered.
Ron's face got even more strained.
Harry finally slammed his laptop shut and glared. "For God's sake, Ron, just say it."
Ron inhaled like a man about to deliver a medical diagnosis. "Well… interns are allowed to enter the competition. And Ms. Queen is participating. Ms. Reyes added her to the roster."
Harry froze. His chair stopped rocking. His breath caught.
"…Her project?" he asked cautiously.
Ron brightened, as if delivering great news. "Oh! Don't worry - she got the hardest one. Vanderholt."
Harry leaned back, shoulders loosening with relief. "Well, good. There's no chance she can land that. She wouldn't go that far - not with her father's history with them."
He paused. A long moment.
Then his eyes narrowed. You were stubborn. Ridiculously stubborn. Offensively stubborn.
"…She wouldn't," Harry said slowly. Then, more desperate: "Right? She wouldn't actually pull it off?"
Ron hesitated. "Do you want the truth? Or the version that helps you sleep at night?"
Harry glared.
Ron cleared his throat, shifting his weight from foot to foot. "Well… if we're being analytical about it," he said, slipping into full analyst mode, "we do need to consider several variables."
Harry stared at him.
Ron pulled out his tablet immediately. "For example," he continued, tapping rapidly, "her determination level - extremely high. Her competitive instincts - unnervingly strong. Her ability to charm powerful executives - off the charts."
Harry blinked once.
Ron kept going. "However… the difficulty of the target client - Vanderholt-level impossible. Their refusal rate - historically brutal. Also, her total experience in M&A advisory? Uh… zero."
He scribbled something with his stylus, muttering to himself. "Cross-analyzing all data points, adjusting for her unpredictability, emotional volatility, and… whatever effect you have on her performance -"
Harry frowned. "What effect - ?"
Ron ignored him, swiping dramatically."…that gives us a projected success probability of…"
He turned the tablet around. A large percentage glowed on the screen:
3.4%
Harry leaned in."…Three point four?" he repeated.
Ron nodded. "Generous estimate," he added. "Could drop to 2.1 if she gets distracted. Could rise to 5.8 if she feels like proving you wrong."
Harry’s eye twitched.
Ron tucked the tablet under his arm with a sigh. "So… yeah. Statistically speaking… you might want to start worrying."
Harry leaned back in his chair, jaw tightening.
3.4% wasn't a number that should've bothered him.
But knowing you - knowing how you could turn the slightest chance into a guaranteed win just because you wanted it -that was what unsettled him.
The lobby’s marble floors glowed under soft golden lights as you and John stepped out of the elevator together.
You had promised him dinner as a way to thank him for clearing your name, and now you were both on your way to the restaurant you just picked.
“So,” John said, walking beside you, “you will not believe what happened in the Compliance meeting today. One of the associates tried to present with her camera off, and Lucy nearly combusted.”
You laughed — a real, bright laugh that made him grin wider.
“She combusts over everything,” you teased.
He chuckled, shaking his head.
“Well, today was special. She made a whole speech about ‘visibility symbology.’ I still don’t know what that means.”
You snorted, covering your mouth.
“It means she wants to see your face, John.”
He tilted his head, a playful glint in his eyes.
“So do you,” he teased lightly.
You rolled your eyes, flustered but amused, brushing his arm as you walked.
But as you approached the revolving doors, someone pushed through from the outside: A woman carrying a baby.
The little boy — maybe seven or eight months — perked up when he saw you, eyes huge and curious.
He lifted a tiny hand…
…and waved.
Just a little flutter of fingers.
Cute. Innocent.
And it hit you like a punch.
You took a step back.
Then another.
Your chest tightened — violently, inexplicably.
Your pulse stumbled.
Your breath forgot its job.
The baby giggled.
The sound shattered something inside you, pierced something deep — a wound you never let the world see.
A wound still raw beneath all your Upper East Side armor.
Your fingers tightened around your bag.
A flash.
A memory.
The sterile cold of a Swiss hospital room — too bright, too quiet.
A doctor’s gloved hands.
A whisper in accented English you never wanted to hear again.
Air turning thin, like the Alps pressing against your lungs.
And that terrible, aching absence beneath your ribs…
the one you’ve carried ever since.
The woman looked around the lobby, then her face brightened.
One of the security guards near the metal detector lifted his head the same moment.
“Hey, sweetheart,” he said with a soft laugh, stepping toward her.
She leaned in and pressed a quick kiss to his cheek, whispering something that made him grin wide and foolish.
The baby hiccuped, and they both laughed.
A warm, tiny family moment
right there
in the middle of the lobby.
Your breath hitched before you could stop it.
John turned instantly.
He saw your face.
“Hey… are you—” he started gently, then tried to lighten it with a joke, “—what, you afraid of babies?”
But when you didn’t laugh, his expression changed.
Serious. Concerned.
“Queen?” he murmured, stepping a little closer. “What’s wrong?”
You blinked fast — too fast — forcing the tears to retreat before they could spill.
Then you straightened, pressing on a smile that didn’t reach your eyes.
“Oh, it’s nothing,” you brushed him off. “Just my blood sugar dipped, that's all. Haven’t eaten all day. I’m fine. Really.”
Your voice wavered on really.
John didn’t buy it.
But you turned toward the exit anyway — walking a little too quickly — needing the cold air outside, needing distance from that baby’s innocent little wave. “Come on,” you whispered.
“Let’s go.”
And John followed you out, still watching you carefully…
not understanding why a baby’s smile had shaken you so deeply.
From across the plaza, Harry and Ron exited the executive wing.
Harry stopped walking.
His eyes locked on the two of you instantly.
“…Why are they leaving together?” he muttered.
Ron followed his gaze.
“Oh! Right. Well… uh… Ms. Queen feels grateful, you know? John cleared her name about the badge thing. And I think—well—they just… get along. Really well.”
Ron smiled faintly.
Harry turned his head slowly — predator-like.
Ron’s smile collapsed.
“I mean professionally.” he corrected. “Professionally. Totally normal office interaction.”
Harry didn’t look convinced.
He watched as you and John reached the curb.
Without missing a beat, John moved to the door, pulled the handle, and opened it for you with an easy smile.
You hesitated only a second — smoothing your hair, forcing a composed breath — then slid gracefully into the back seat.
John leaned down, said something that made you laugh softly, and then climbed in after you.
The door shut.
“Uh… boss, you OK?” Ron ventured cautiously.
“Is that… bothering you?”
Harry answered too fast.
“No. Why would it bother me?”
Ron hesitated, then pushed his luck:
“It’s just… you seem… I don’t know… a bit tense about it.”
Harry shot him a lethal stare.
Ron swallowed hard.
“I mean—not tense tense! Just… observant. Very observant.”
Harry didn’t reply.
He just stared ahead — eyes narrowed — jaw tight, something sharp and unfamiliar twisting in his chest.
thanks for reading, likes, comments, reblogs are appreciated ❤️
AND PLEASE SHARE YOUR THOUGHTS WITH ME ❤️ IT'S SOOOO IMPORTANT TO MEEEE 🥰
Summary: Armed with dimples and a hero complex, Clark Kent has taken it upon himself to drive you insane. He’s always there, on the radio, in the breakroom, and in your mind. Despite your very sound reasoning for not dating him, he refuses to take no for an answer. Will a close call change everything or will your fears get the better of both of you?
PSA (Pink Service Announcement): this is the first installment in my blush pink anthology, an interactive series where you chose your date! this fic is a direct result of this poll, where EMT! Clark beat SingleDad! Clark by just .7%!
Warnings: I got my degree at greys anatomy university so excuse any medical inaccuracies, mild violence, description of a car crash, blood, talk of death, figs scrubs mentioned (not sponsored), reader is described as being shorter than Clark, some angst but there is comfort, heavy(ish) makeout
dt: the 436 people who voted! also my friends who listened to me rant about this endlessly, @houseofhyde for actually making me excited to write this, @tw1sters for hyping me up no matter what, @54nboo for being sat, @wildflowersandvibranium for loving Clark as much as me, @opheliabbarnes for promising me it doesn’t suck and always making me giggle 🩷I’d lost without every single one of you.
Word Count: 5.4k
You're pretty sure you hate him.
"Metropolis General, this is Unit Twelve-Krypto. How do you copy?” Clark's voice crackles through the radio, enough to make your frustration already start to simmer.
Looking around, everyone else has their hands full, leaving you to pick up the receiver.
"Twelve-Krypto, General is receiving. We copy you loud and clear, go ahead." You answer.
Static pops as you wait for his answer, knuckles white around the speaker as you prepare yourself for-
"Is that my girl?" Clark asks.
You can hear his smile through the line, stupid and cocky. It makes your teeth clench.
"Twelve-Krypto, we copy you loud and clear. Go Ahead." You repeat, a little sharper this time.
One of the other nurses floats by the station, pausing for a just a moment as she passes you. Her eyebrows raise in a silent question, Big Trauma?
You shake your head, ignoring her relief as you mouth Clark, sighing as if it's worse.
For you, it is.
"Oh okay, right, Miss. Professional." He cracks. You can hear his laughter jumping through the frequency, broken by pops of static and the occasional catch of the rig's siren. His voice cuts in again, obviously teasing as he pushes it deeper. “Copy, we are inbound with one pediatric patient. Female, age seven, approximately fifty five pounds. Chief complaint is mild abdominal pain and nausea."
You mark the information down, "Copy, is the patient alert?" You ask.
"Patient is alert, calm, talking comfortably. No vomiting or fever. Pain started about an hour ago after eating some snacks — parents list popcorn, cotton candy, and a ‘mega swirl churro.’ No known allergies or medical history of note."
"Copy, vitals are stable?"
"Vitals are stable, BP one-oh-two over sixty four. Heart rate is ninety eight. Abdomen is soft with mild tenderness." Clark reports, in between he mutters something about funnel cake and not having enough time. You only catch every other word, "She's resting comfortably and drinking water. Parents are accompanying. No interventions required en route."
"Copy, no intervention required, no red flags noted, parents with you- understood." You're already motioning to someone else, checking that the pediatric room is clear. "What's your ETA?"
"ETA is six minutes, anything you need on our end?"
"Negative, Twelve-Krypto. No special requests. Go to Bay three and I'll be waiting to receive."
"Copy,” His voice returns to its normal cadence, smile evident as he adds “Can’t wait to see you." It's playful, biting in the way a nibble is. Not breaking the skin, just teasing it.
"Metro Receiving out." Is all he gets as a reply.
They arrive in four minutes, Clark waltzing though the trauma bay with a mop of curls in his arms and two tired parents behind him.
He goes straight to pediatric room without even stopping to check, dimpled smiles given out like candy to every person he passes.
You watch them melt under his gaze, a mess of weak knees and distracted patients left in his wake.
Why doesn't anyone else see it? You wonder, see him the way you do?
The constant flirting, the heroics and risky saves that have left him needing stitches more times than you can count. The way he moves through your ER like he knows it better than any one else. How he steals coffee from your break room and doesn't bother to start a fresh pot because the just happened to 'get a call!' as soon as he finished pouring himself a cup.
The last one only happened once, but the point still stands.
That's why you don't fall for it when he greets you with a warm "There she is!"
"Clark." You give him a tight nod, "You can go we've got it from here."
The patient- Gracie, is snuggled under the thin blanket on the bed. Her entire upper body is still clinging to Clark. Both arms wrapped around his bicep and her face mushed against his shoulder.
"No!" She panics, pulling him even tighter to herself, hard enough to make Clark sway on his feet just a little. "He can't go!" She insists.
Jesus fucking Christ.
You pull a chair over, throwing Gracie's parents an assuring smile and sitting on the side of the bed opposite to Clark.
"Hi Gracie, I'm sorry I should have introduced myself." You start, setting your chart down on the far end of the bed where her feet catch reach. "I'm gonna be your nurse today, okay?"
She nods, curls bouncing.
You smile again, as warm as you can muster. "My friend, Clark-“ you almost choke on it "-told me you have a pretty bad tummy ache."
Her parents take over from there, launching into the full extent of her Carnival food binge. It sounds like too much sugar and milf dehydration, but for the sake of their worries and peace of mind, you suggest a blood test and some iv fluids. Also an antacid.
By the time the orders are written, and you're clear to get started Gracie has finally released Clark's arm, settling for holding onto his thumb instead.
You choose to ignore just how big his hand looks compared to hers.
Much to your dismay, Clark is a great help. He keeps her distracted with photos of his dog and stories of carnivals back in Kansas. How he got lost in the corn maze one year and almost became a scarecrow. Her little mind is occupied through every needle.
By the time you get the antacid and fluids rolling, she's fast asleep.
As you make you exit, ready to face a the ten other patients who are probably looking for you, Clark follows.
In the privacy of the hallway, he gives you a mega-watt smile.
"We make a good team." He says, smile smug and dimpled. "We should go out, get dinner to celebrate."
"Celebrate?" You deadpan.
"Yeah!" Clark shrugs, "For saving little Gracie."
"I would hardly consider giving her a tums life saving." You deflect.
It's quiet out here, the closest thing you can find to it. The pediatric section is careful about that, a little secluded area away from the rest of the Metro ER insanity. No beeping monitors, no screaming patients, just pastel wallpaper and lollipops in every cabinet.
"Then let's call it a date." Clark suggests.
You lied earlier, when talking about all the reasons you hate Clark Kent. This is the reason.
He won't take no for an answer.
You huff a sigh, beginning to walk with him hot at your heels, not answering until you make it to the breakroom. "I told you Clark I'm not going out with you again."
You hear him try to protest behind you, a halfhearted, almost genuinely disappointed "Still?" falling from his lips.
"Are you still doing that whole hero thing?" You bite, ignoring his gaze as you pour yourself a lukewarm coffee.
Clark sputters behind you, "The whole what?"
You check the fridge for cream, only to find none. "I told you-" You take a sip, black and bitter and perfectly fitting for how you feel about this conversation. "I can't do this if you're constantly throwing yourself into dangerous situations."
The hero thing.
Clark sighs, "You know I can't promise that."
You do know, you know better than anyone. Except it's not that he can't promise it, it's that he won't even try.
"I'm not asking you to give up your job Clark." You tell him through gritted teeth. "I just want you to promise you won't run into a falling building when everyone is telling you not to."
"It was one time-" He tries to defend.
"I don't care!" You bite, "Do you know what it was like to see you come in here on a gurney?"
He falters, hands dropping to his sides and his eyes dropping to the floor.
"I know you can't promise you'll be safe, I'm not naive." You swallow around the lump in your throat, washing it down with another sip. "But you won't even try, Clark."
Clark stands there stunned, and dejected, like you just sucked the wind out of sails. "I was fine." He insists, like the stubborn, stupid, self-assured man he is. "They said I set the record for fastest PT-"
"You almost died!" You interrupt. "I can't be with someone who doesn't understand how serious that is."
Silence, he knows you're right, you know you're right, hell, the janitor eavesdropping outside the door knows you're right.
You down the last of your coffee, the taste almost as bitter as the ache in your chest. "I have to get back to work." You leave him there, alone on the hill he's chosen to die on.
You're pretty sure you hate your job.
Or at least hate today.
A pile up the length of five city blocks. Thirty cars, two buses, and a trolley all tangled together. One bad swerve and now half of Metropolis is stuck in gridlock.
You're the first to raise your hand for triage. You can hear the sirens from the ambulance bay, the chaos unfolding just a few streets over. You're close though to walk.
The ER splits in half, part of your team staying back to wait in the ambulance bay for when things finally loosen up, while the rest of you make tracks.
You're armed with a supply pack on your shoulder and a walkie-talkie clipped to your vest. The smell of burnt rubber stings your nose as you walk head first into hell.
"Triage this is Kent from Krypto-Twelve, where do you need me?" His voice knocks the wind out of you.
Since when were EMTs allowed on this channel?
You haven't spoken in almost two weeks.
One of you changed your shifts (Clark), the other one tried to apologize and chickened out (you).
They must have called in off-duty units, desperate for any hands with medical training.
You keep busy, ignoring the way his voice cuts through the static as you work.
You're barely sticking out from beneath a flipped SUV, your bag abandoned on the asphalt while you climb underneath get a better angle on a head lac.
Suddenly, it all shifts. The weight changes, someone's wheel turns or a steel beam finally gives way, who knows. One second your gasping, throwing your hands up in panic and the next you're moving.
Two large hands grab your ankles, using them to pull you out from the wreckage just as it shifts again, landing with a metal groan where you just were.
"What the hell are you doing?" Clark bites.
You're not sure what he is, buts it's something you've never seen before. Wild eyes tracing over every line of your face, holding your arms out and flipping them over as he checks you for injuries.
When he meets your eyes, something else has melted in his gaze, fear eclipsed by worry.
His hand swallows one side of your face as he cups in his palm, thumb brushing over your cheek bone as he looks you over once more. "Are you okay?" He asks it, but it doesn't sound like a question, more like a plea. As if he's begging the answer to be yes.
The car shifts again behind you, another snap of metal knocking you back to reality.
You swat his hand away with a dismissive "I'm fine."
"Why are you here?" He lets his hand fall, but it twitches at his side.
You bend down to reach in your bag, eager to lose his stare. "Triage certified." is all you say. Fresh gauze in hands you try to move back to the car.
You were able to reach the driver through the moon roof before, a thready pulse and steady blood flow enough for you confidently mark them as yellow. Unconscious but breathing.
You'll have to go in through the passenger window now, it's tight, but should be doable as long as you can get the right angle-
You hardly make it two steps before Clark's arms wrap around your waist. He lifts you with ease, ignoring your protests as spins you around, placing himself between the car and you.
"Are you insane?" He asks, voice breathy and rougher than you've ever heard it. He sounds nervous, you realize, shaken. Something Clark Kent is notorious for not being. "You're not going back in that car, it's too unstable."
You try to walk past him, pushing against his chest only to met with solid muscle. He doesn't even sway. "The driver is still inside," you explain. You hold up the supplies in your hands as if to prove your point.
Clark nods, but instead of moving aside, he takes the gauze from your hands and before you can protest, climbs in the window himself.
It's almost incredible, watching such large man squeeze into such a tight space, his shoulders folding in on themselves as he slides into the window.
"What are you doing?" You ask.
Clark doesn't even give you a smile, none of his usual tease as he replies, "Triage certified."
He disappears into the car, his legs still visible from the outside as he maneuvers himself.
You wait to hear the sound of tape or gauze pulling over skin, instead it's just Clark's voice again.
"Pass me a back tag." He says, and his voice is even heavier than before.
You falter, your hand that had already been reaching for morphine stills.
"What?" You ask. "They had a pulse three minutes ago! Clark it should be yellow-"
It's his turn to interrupt, a hard bang from the inside of the car as he answers. "Blown pupils and no pulse." He says. You hear him sigh from inside, his voice softening as he adds, "Not your fault, just shit luck." His hand reaches back through the window for the tag.
You pass it to him without saying anything else, forcing yourself to take a few deeps breaths as he shuffles back out of the window.
Before you can protest he's hoisting your supply pack onto his shoulder, and walking toward the next victim in your path.
Begrudgingly, you follow.
It's quiet work, short instructions and the occasional question. Clark is uncharacteristically focused, each task getting his full attention.
He hands you supplies before the first syllable even hits your tongue, hauls debris out of your path as if it weighs nothing and insists on checking the stability of every car before letting you near them. If they so much as list in a direction he doesn't like then he's climbing through the rubble instead.
If he can, he holds it steady himself, a strong arm braced as he twists himself into human scaffolding so you can work. Those are the most unnerving moments, your spine tingling with his gaze and the way he watches you work.
You wonder if it's the same way you're watching him, worry, respect, all tinged with a sense of awe.
Like cold water, the realization hits you. You’ve never actually seen him in the field.
Blue eyes gone cold with determination and a promise to help. He only softens when the patient needs it. A single mother still clinging to her steering wheel warms his voice. A man asking for a phone to call his wife has Clark ready to empty his pockets.
A little boy whose parents were on the trolley has him misty and forcing a smile.
Your chest aches with it, his overwhelming goodness.
You can see him throwing himself in danger for the sake of any one of them, suddenly it’s a lot harder to blame him for it.
You're there for hours, patching wounds and placing tags until you run out of gauze, and eventually out of everything else. Clark stays at your side the whole time, ignoring calls of his name over the radio with a simple "Busy." Murmured into the receiver.
By the time you make it back to the meetup spot, you're both dragging. Covered in dirt and grime as your feet drum heavy footsteps.
It's started to clear, a handful of ambulances on scene and a tow-truck beginning to clear the rubble. Traffic will probably be back within two hours, and the city will move on. It always does, long after the carnage still burns the back of your eyes.
Clark passes you your empty bag with a word, just a tight smile on his lips and a nod.
Then he turns and starts to walk away, back toward his rig.
"Clark!" You call after him, voice shaping around his name on its own accord.
Clark stops, long legs having already carried him almost ten feet away. He looks over his shoulder to you, distant and sad, as if it hurts him not to run back to you. His eyebrows raise, silent surprise as if he expected you just let him go.
Does he really think you’re that cold? The question sits on your tongue, right at the edge like a dare.
"Thank you." Is what you muster instead. best you can muster. It's genuine, you wouldn't have been able to help half of the people you did today if it weren't for Clark.
Clark just nods, and for the first time all day he gives you a smile. Not the fake, flirty one he usually flashes you. No, this one is softer, a gentle curve with no teeth. It's almost sheepish in its subtlety, just enough for his dimple to carve out its place on his cheek.
You spend the entire ride back to hospital trying to quiet your racing mind, and worse, your racing heart.
You're pretty sure you hate the new girl.
Okay that's not fair. She hasn't technically done anything wrong, she just had the misfortune of being the one to take the call.
A sleepy shift, hardly any traumas, hardly any patients, just a nap in the on call room and the snow falling outside.
You should've known better than to think it would stay that way.
The radio went off with a shrill cry, snapping every head in its direction.
New girl was closest, tripping over herself to pick up the receiver.
"Twelve-Krypto, General is receiving. We copy" Her voice is shaky with nerves, hands reaching for a pad to write down the patient information.
Her face goes pale, her hand pausing over the notepad before resuming its scribbles in ten fold. She smushes the receiver between her ear and and shoulder, brows furrowing as she tries to keep up.
"Must be a bad one." You whisper, you start to move on autopilot, walking towards the supply pantry. You're already halfway through your mental checklist, forming a plan of attack when she says-
"You said you have a medic down?" She asks, looking around for reassurance. "How much blood has he lost?"
The hair on the back of your neck stands up. Despite the fact that he's still on nights and the shift change doesn't happen for a another few hours, you thoughts immediately shift to one person.
Clark.
A pit settles in your stomach, sure and heavy, like a stone sinking into a lake.
One of the other nurses has taken over the receiver, motioning to get a trauma room ready and whispering something about paging upstairs.
They try to placate whoever is on the line, voice even and calm, but their eyes betray them. A quick glance at to you with the briefest flash of panic, just as they say the words that confirm your worst fears.
"Jimmy, slow down." It's said to into the radio but it might as well have been whispered in your ear with the way it sends a shiver up your spine.
Jimmy is Clark's partner.
They never work a shift without the eachother.
Jimmy hates talking on the radio, that's why Clark always does it.
Suddenly you're underwater, ice rushing through your veins as you realize it's happening again.
Except there's no anger like you thought there would be.
There's no instinct to fight, or urge to slap him silly. All that you can think about is how sorry you are.
Sorry for ever fighting, for being so stubborn. Your legs swell with your regrets and keep you planted in the middle of the floor, everyone moving around you as if the world hasn't tilted on its axis.
A doctor taps you on the shoulder, a gentle voice suggesting that "Maybe you should sit this one out."
That does it, he's dying.
He's dying, he's going to come through those doors with the grim reaper at his heels and you won't ever be able to tell him you were wrong.
It burns the back of your throat, emotion rising like bile as you nod in agreement.
Everyone else is in aprons, ready to whisk him away to a trauma bay. Gloves are on, blood bags are hanging, an operating room is being cleared upstairs.
Then there's you, sitting at the nurses station like a statue in Figs. You watch the door like a gargoyle, unblinking as the siren gets closer and closer.
You hear the chaos from inside, tires screeching and metal slamming as everyone jumps into action. When the doors open it's like floodgates, a sudden burst of noise as a gurney is wheeled across the linoleum floors.
Jimmy's on top of it doing chest compressions, counting under his breath as he fights to keep time. You can't see Clark's face through the crowd, craning your neck and lifting onto your tippy toes to try and get a glance. All you can see are tatters of his uniform and bloodied skin.
You hear yourself asking questions, How long have you been doing compressions? Did anyone push epi? What the fuck happened? But your voice ignored, lost among barked instructions.
Then, as quickly as the noise came, it disappears. You're not sure when you stood again, but you're left in the middle of the all, arms useless at your sides as you stare at the doors they took him through.
You have half a mind to follow, the instinct to push your way in and hold his hand, even if he is already gone. You need him to know you were there. You need him to know you weren't angry.
Tears well faster than you can stop them, threatening to spill over your lash line as you try your best to think-
"How is he?"
A voice interrupts from behind you.
You turn, wiping frantically at your cheeks are you try to take a deep breath, "I don't know, but I can come find you as soon as…" The words are lost, disappearing from your lips.
It's Clark, all six feet, four inches of him. His uniform is a wrinkled and stained mess, but the exception of a cut on his forehead, he's untouched.
"Clark?" You choke, throat tight as you rub at your eyes again. "I thought-" you cut yourself off, head snapping to the trauma room doors and then back to Clark.
You're not sure if it's because of your tears or obvious confusion, but Clark closes the distance. He walks until you're almost toe-to-toe, hardly even noting how close he is. His hands are on your cheeks and despite the grime and dirt you don't flinch away when he wipes your tears, melting into his touch.
"Are you okay?" Clark worries, "Are you hurt what happened?"
You're too busy staring at him, it's as if you're seeing him for the first time. There’s no bright and shiny gloss or distraction of things you’ve projected onto him. Just the man.
"I thought it was you." You manage to whisper. You hands reach up to rest over his, making sure he's really there.
Clark goes still, pretty blue eyes popping wide. You admission hangs in the air, dragging it down and filling it with unexpected emotion.
"You cried for me?" He asks, the question is genuine, no teasing or forced professionalism, just the raw vulnerability of the moment.
Another tear escapes rolling down your cheek, and giving him his answer.
"I'm sorry." He says, earnest and real. He has nothing to apologize for, but it soothes your souls anyway and heals something deep inside of your fragile heart.
"You're okay." It's hardly more than a whisper, "That's all that matters."
The distance between you gets smaller, your chest brushes his with every breath. You can feel his exhales, his gaze dancing between your eye and your lips as he begins to dip his neck towards you.
You look closer, eyeing the dirt on his cheeks and the way blood has trickled from his forehead down to eyebrow. You plant your hands on his chest, stopping him from leaning in the rest of the way.
The room erupts, a flurry of noise as the EMT they brought in is wheeled to the elevator.
You and Clark jump apart, caught like children.
"C'mon." You tell him, grabbing his hand and guiding him away from growing chaos as everyone goes back to their original tasks. "Let me get you cleaned up."
Shockingly, Clark goes without protest, his fingers curling around yours as he follows you into an empty on-call room. He doesn't argue when you turn the lock, or unclip your pager. Not a peep when push at jacket of his uniform, peeling it down his arms to check for any other scrapes.
He doesn't speak until you open the wipes you'd snagged off a supply cart on the way in. The soft tear of plastic breaking the silence.
"What are you doing?" He asks.
You look everywhere but his eyes, hand shaking as you pull out a wipe and lift it to his face. You focus on his cheeks, gently tracing his jaw and the swiping the cloth across it, over and over again until the only dark spots left are his freckles. Then you move to the other side, cleaning up to where his eyes crinkle.
"I'm cleaning you up." You tell him, purposely obtuse, "You're covered in dirt or soot or whatever this is."
"Yes I know, but why?"
You start on his nose with a fresh wipe, the other tossed somewhere on the floor. You ride the curve of it, fingers sweeping down until you brush against the crest of his upper lip. You feel him hold his breath, still as a statue while he waits for your answer.
"So your face is clean when I kiss you." You admit. You feel naked in the confession, wearing your busy hands like a shield.
Clark captures your wrist, pulling the wipe from between your fingers and tossing it onto the floor the first one.
He takes the package of wipes from you and finishes his face, clearing the blood from his forehead and even wiping down his neck. He makes faster work of it then you, harsh drags microfiber until his skin is pink and irritated.
"But you said…" he struggles to find the words, mouth opening and closing as he works the wipe over his collar bone.
He finishes with his hands, carefully going over every finger and across the divots of his palm while he stares at you.
You nod "I know what I said." You assure him.
Finally ready, you start to close the distance.
"I care about you." You tell him, voice steady as you take the wipe from his hands and toss it to the floor. "I'm going to worry about you whether we are together or not.” You give him a soft smile as you continue, “I was wrong, pushing you away didn't make it hurt any less."
"I get it though." Clark's lips twitch, like he's torn between a smile and a grimace. "The day at the crash, when I saw you under that car. It was like my whole life flashed before my eyes." His hand lifts to your cheek, cradling your entire face in his palm. "I never want to make you feel like that again."
You keep smiling, soft and happy as you take another step. You're closer than you were in the hallway now, your feet between his as you tilt your head up to look at him.
"You will," You promise, "And I'll do the same to you." You turn your face to kiss his palm, gentle and sure. "That's what love is."
Clark doesn't answer, not with words at least. Instead, faster than you can blink, he leans down and kisses you.
It's bruising in its force, his other hand cupping your neck as he tries to bring you even closer, pulling until your chest is flush with his, keeping contact even as he curls himself over you.
The kiss is everything you haven’t said since that first date, since the day you told him ‘no’ the first time. In the months that have passed since with banter and teases. It s a kiss that tries to make up for lost time.
You can feel his smile against your lips, your own threatening to break through, until eventually it does. You smile into eachothers mouths until the kiss devolves, becoming a messy clash of teeth and giggles as you enjoy the euphoria of just touching one another.
Slowly he walks you back, short steps until your knees hit the edge of the cot.
You pull away from him with a gasp, your smile still so wide it makes your cheeks ache.
"I'm really glad you're not dead." You whisper, bringing your hand up to his collar, fidgeting with the button at the top until you finally undo it.
Clark beams, eyes shining as he presses another kiss to your lips. "Me too." He murmurs against them.
Then your feet are off the ground, but only for a moment as he lifts you to sit on the bed, pushing your shoulder so you lie back. It's barely a twin, hardly big enough for one person, but as Clark slides his body over yours, you don't mind the tight quarters.
Your hands go back to his buttons, this time with purpose.
"I still think I should make it up to you." He says, teasing and cocky. The same tone that used to make your blood boil on the radio.
You hum in agreement, jutting your chin just enough to chase his mouth. When you capture it, you pull his bottom lip between your teeth, punishing it with a gentle bite. "Can't argue with that."
Clark groans deep in the back of his throat, somewhere between tortured and happy as your tongue soothes over the indentations of your teeth in his skin
"No arguing." He agrees, bending his neck to press a wet kiss to your neck. "From now on, I do whatever you say."
Your hands finally finish his shirt, palms sliding underneath the opened fabric and tracing his skin through the ribbing of his tank top. "Mm-mm." You agree, arching your back into his chest as you smile. "I like the sound of that."
Clark works down to your collarbone, his tongue dragging a wet line over it's valley until he finds the neck of your scrubs.
Clark's touches start to wander too, one arm keeping him hovering above you while the other reaches down to the hem of your scrub top.
"No more burning buildings?" You ask, it's meant to be a tease, but it's broken by a gasp as his hand slides underneath the fabric. Rough fingers drag up your stomach, finding the curve of your ribs and splaying over them.
"Nope." Clark assures you, placing another kiss to your lips as he lays his hips even firmer against you.
"What about de-railed trains?" You suggest. Your voice is breathless, your back arching into his touch.
You feel Clark shake his head against you.
"I'm retiring from the hero thing." He promises, and despite the way he peppers your cheeks with kisses, you can tell he's serious. "Not worth the risk." He says.
"Yeah?" You ask, small and hopeful. Your heard pounds under his palm, pulse thrumming as his shifts to look you in the eye.
"Yeah." He says, "As long as you promise to be waiting for me, I promise to do everything I can to I come home to you."
It's not perfect, and you know Clark, you know that there will be a cat in a tree or an old lady who needs him, but he’ll try, and that’s all you ever needed.
"Who the hell has a bachelor party two days before Christmas?"
"Someone whose best man must be clueless. I'm surprised all those guys were even able to make it," you tell Addy, handing over the last of her drinks from your place behind the bar. There has to be at least thirty guys attending the bachelor party. "Do you need help carrying them up?"
She looks over her shoulder, knocking her drooping Santa hat out of her field of vision. The loft overlooking the bar where you work is where parties are always held and the staircase to get up there tends to get crowded.
"No, I think I'm good. Thanks, though. I'm sure I'll be back in ten minutes with more orders," Addy replies, rolling her eyes. She stoops down and lifts the tray of drinks to balance on her shoulder, then begins to weave her way through the crowd.
It's busy. Always is before a holiday. People who are usually not in town come back to visit their families and, once relatives turn in for the night, they try to make plans to catch up with old friends. Given your bar is the favorite amongst the locals, it tends to be one of the busiest nights of the year. You and the other girls you work with have found over the years that dressing up a little earns you more tips from patrons who are already feeling rather generous and in the holiday spirit. Tonight is no exception. Wearing a Santa hat, a tight black tshirt, and a short velvet red skirt with a thick white trim to match your hat has already earned you more money tonight than you made all of last weekend combined.
It's so loud and you're so busy fielding as many requests as you can that you don't even hear the crash of glass until Addy returns with a sheepish look and a completely soaked shirt.
"I should've taken you up on that offer to help," she says, looking down at her ruined clothes. "I fucking reek of beer, oh my god."
"Oh, no! Here, I brought an extra change of clothes," you say, leaning under the bar for your tote bag.
"No, no, I can't do that! It's freezing out, you need your jeans for later."
"I'd rather you take my jeans for the night than leave me to handle that party upstairs," you say, shoving the bag into her arms. She gives you a grateful smile and hurries away to clean up. With the help from another girl, you remake the dropped drinks and volunteer to take them up yourself.
"Excuse me!" you shout over the music, pushing people out of the way with your free hand so they don't accidentally bump into your tray. You take the stairs carefully, sidestepping one of the busboys who is cleaning up the broken glass, and breathe a sigh of relief when you make it to the top unscathed.
A quick scan of the group tells you the men seem to be a few years older than you. Most are probably married or settled down in some way. Those are usually the best kind of bachelor parties—they aren't too rowdy and they tip well.
It seems like they just wrapped up eating and now are milling around the room. Some are staring at some sporting event on the television and pointing out had it not been for that pesky knee injury, they could have gone pro. Others are laughing at the mostly empty table over some story from their glory days. But one man unfortunately noticed you before the rest and stumbled over with a sloppy smile and reddened cheeks.
"Are you our new waitress or did you just get hotter since you left?" he slurs. You resist the urge to scrunch your nose in disgust and when you bend to set the tray of drinks down on the table, you try to be conscientious of your short skirt.
"Just thought I'd help Addy while she cleans herself up," you say, gaze cast down and focused on the drinks. But the guy doesn't take the hint.
"Aw, that's a shame. But you can hang out with us, yeah?"
You shake your head and blindly begin passing out the beers.
"I'm tending bar downstairs, I gotta get back, but I promise you're in good hands."
Stale breath sweeps across your cheek and he says—not as quietly as he thought—"Think I like your hands better, sweetheart."
Your back and forth must have pulled the attention of others because a boisterous conversation happening across the table dies down. You're trying not to look up for fear your face will give away your disgust, but when you hear a familiar voice, your head snaps up.
"Ho, Ho, Ho-ly shit!"
When you see Tommy Miller with the group in front of the television wearing a half buttoned flannel and a tacky button pinned to it that says, "I'm getting married, buy me a drink!", you smile and straighten up.
"Tommy!" You toss your arms around him for a big hug and it takes about five more seconds before you realize it:
If Tommy is here for his bachelor party, then that means...
"Joel! Look who it is!" Tommy turns with a cheeky grin, one arm still slung loose around your waist, the other pointing to you like Joel didn't already see you when you walked up the stairs.
You take a deep breath and force yourself to find him amongst the now mostly quiet group. Downstairs the music is still playing, people are shouting and laughing, yet for a second it all fades away when you lock eyes with Joel.
He's hard to read. Always has been. But his expression looks taught and you're pretty sure he's angrily chewing on the inside of his cheek as those soft, dark brown eyes flicker between you and his brother.
You clear your throat and take a step away from Tommy.
"Hey," you nod to Joel, voice obviously void of the excitement you harbored just a moment ago.
He grunts and looks away, then back up to his brother.
"This is why you picked this place?" he asks. You bristle, wishing you weren't working so you could give him a piece of your mind, but instead focus on distributing the rest of the drinks.
Tommy laughs. "No, no, it's just a good spot, is all."
"Did you know she worked here?"
You scoff under your breath but Joel still hears it.
As much as you wish it didn't hurt to hear the iciness in his tone, it does. You do your best to brush it off and hurry back downstairs, but then an unexpected hero comes to your rescue.
"Hey... that's why you look so familiar." Their friend, the one who was clearly way too drunk to process what was going on, spoke up. He points lazily at you and you look up. He's slowly piecing it together, you can see it, then his eyes light up when he figures it out. "You're the one in the, in the wallet! In Joel's wallet! Asked him—hey, hey, Joel—" He turns to find Joel glaring at him from his chair, arms pulled tightly across his chest. "She's the one from your wallet, 'member? When I was askin' earlier—"
"Shut the fuck up, Charlie!" Joel shouts.
"Alright, Joel, enough. Don't ruin my night, okay?" Tommy scolds. You have to stifle a grin when Joel's neck flushes bright pink with embarrassment and you figure that's enough payback for his shitty comment, so you collect your now empty tray with renewed confidence and fix the Santa hat on your head.
"Well, it was great seeing you, Tommy. Congrats," you say, leaning in to give him a kiss on the cheek. You can practically feel the daggers Joel is staring into your back and you smirk to yourself before heading towards the stairs, throwing your hips a little more than usual so that your Santa skirt sways as you walk away.
When you make it downstairs and back behind the safety of your bar, you finally exhale a loud, shaky breath. One of the other girls notices and gives you a look of concern.
"Everything alright?"
You nod and snatch up a shot glass. Pouring from the closest bottle, you toss it back with a wince before answering.
"Yeah," you say, dragging the back of your hand across your mouth. "Just saw my ex-husband upstairs. Merry fucking Christmas to me."
---
It was a long night but mercifully, busy enough to keep your mind from dwelling too long on Joel. And after tip out, you made enough to cover half your rent for the month. Awkward encounter aside, it was a good night, but you're bone tired and freezing your ass off as you shuffle to your car across the empty parking lot in just that stupid Santa skirt.
"Jesus fucking Christ," you whine once you're inside your car, teeth chattering and hands shaking. Once the engine starts, you blast the heat, but your car is old as dirt and you know better by now than to expect the thing to actually heat up in less than the fifteen minutes it takes to get home.
The roads are empty, like they usually are at this hour. It's usually calming but tonight your fingers grip the steering wheel as you desperately try to warm yourself up.
Taking the back roads is quicker, so you always go that way. Hardly anyone ever takes these streets, especially in the middle of the night, so when your headlights flicker dim for a moment followed by a loud sputter from your exhaust, you know you're absolutely fucked.
"No!" you scream when the engine dies. You're able to slow down and steer just off the road so you're safe, but you're freezing even more and now on the verge of tears.
Once you're safely in park, you pick up your phone and groan.
"No signal," you mutter, but you try anyway. After the third attempt you give up and let the tears flow. All you want to do is go home, get under your covers, and pray that look Joel gave you earlier doesn't haunt your dreams. Instead, you're going to freeze to death on the side of some country road wearing a tiny Santa skirt and matching hat.
After about ten minutes of feeling sorry for yourself, you stop crying but don't bother to wipe the dried tears from your face. You're already about to have the worst night ever, who cares if you have mascara streaked down your cheeks?
Just when you're thinking about using fast food napkins as a blanket, you spot headlights in your review mirror and you gasp.
"Oh, my god!" You're scrambling to unbuckle your seatbelt so you can flag them down, but it turns out you don't need to—the truck slows and parks behind you, already anticipating your cry for help.
"Oh, thank god," you mutter, watching with relief as the shadow of your savior steps out of the truck. You lean back in your seat with a sigh. "Yes, yes, yes, yes—"
But when the man's broad body blocks the bright headlights, revealing an all too familiar face, your joy vanishes.
"No, no, no, no."
Joel leans down with a friendly smile and lifts his hand to knock on your window, but when he sees you, he freezes. His face immediately falls into a scowl and with a defeated sound, you open your door.
"Just leave me here, I'd rather die," you say.
Joel scoffs and steps back. He tries to catch himself, but you saw the quick once over he gave you before angling his body towards the woods—and even though you've been cursing this skirt since you stepped out of the bar, you're a teensy bit grateful for it now.
"Fine by me."
"I'll wait for someone else."
"Yeah? Dressed like that?" Joel nods angrily towards your ridiculous get up. "Gonna freeze to death but be my guest."
Then he turns to head back to his truck, boots crunching loudly over the snowy ground. You shift your weight and anxiously chew your bottom lip before throwing your hands in the air.
"Wait!"
Joel stops but doesn't turn. You take a deep breath.
"Can you... can you help me?" You hear how pathetic you sound and can only imagine how pleased he must be to have the upper hand.
"Yeah? Why should I do that?" he calls over his shoulder. You think about it for all of two seconds.
"For old times sake?"
Joel huffs. His shoulders tense and he begins to walk away, then you try again.
"Joel, please! It's Christmas!"
He skids to a stop with his hand on the door of his truck. From here, you can see his jaw work as he thinks things over. You wrap your arms around yourself and bounce from foot to foot, legs practically made of ice at this point. Finally, he sighs and turns to you.
"Fine."
He moves to open the backseat of his cab and you crane your neck, trying to see what he's doing. He shuts the door and heads back to your car carrying a toolbox.
"Get in the truck."
You squeak happily, grab your purse from the front seat, and hurry past him to his truck. Warmth wraps around you like a hug when you open the door and you could cry you're so happy. Rubbing your arms and legs while hovering near the fans, you desperately try to bring life back to your limbs while Joel pops the hood of your car.
Ten minutes and some feeling in your fingers later, Joel returns.
"I'm gonna give you a jump but it takes some time to charge the battery," he says from the backseat. He's rifling around for something under the driver's seat and you nod.
"Thank you."
He grunts and slams the door shut, and you watch as he takes jumper cables over to your car. He does something you can't see before he returns and hops behind the wheel. You sit in silence as Joel moves his truck then turns around so your cars are facing one another, then he slides back out to attach the cables to his own truck. The hood is popped so you can't really see him, but you can see his hands—the way they move, twisting cables, examining other foreign looking objects under the hood... he does it so smoothly, like he's done this a hundred times. He barely has to think about it. He's always been one of those men who learns things very fast. He's smart, you used to tell him so all the time, but he didn't think so, no matter how many times you pointed out what a remarkable memory he had or how he just had an innate ability to understand how something—or someone—works.
Heat flares between your legs and you quickly shut it down by forcing your attention elsewhere, but your mind wanders against your will, back to simpler times when you were young and in love, breathlessly telling Joel how amazing he was when he was making you fall apart with his fingers or mouth or—
"Alright. Got 'bout twenty minutes."
Joel climbs into the cab and shuts the door with a shudder. You watch as his hands cup the fans on his dashboard, capturing the heat between his palms before bringing his curled fists up to his mouth to exhale, warming them up faster.
You shiver and look away, then his gaze is back on you.
"You coulda died out here wearin' that."
"I know."
There's a pause. Then—
"What the hell were you thinkin'?"
You sigh and lean back into the worn grey fabric seat. "It wasn't my first choice. Your waitress dropped drinks all over herself so I gave her the clothes I was gonna change into after work."
You stare out the window as a thick silence settles between you once again. Just when you think this is going to be the longest twenty minutes of your life, Joel says something that surprises you.
"M'sorry, 'bout earlier."
Your brows shoot up in shock and you look at him, but he's staring straight ahead, like what he's saying is causing him actual pain.
"Shouldn'tve been rude. Just took me by surprise, is all."
You're speechless. The last thing you expected from him was an apology, you're not prepared at all, but you know you need to say something because too much time is stretching on and Joel is starting to shift uncomfortably in his seat.
"It's okay," you finally say. His eyes dart to lock with yours and in that moment you swear you can see the man you fell in love with all those years ago, buried somewhere underneath all that gruff. The longer he stares at you the faster your heart races and you can't stop the shiver that rolls down your spine. Joel sees it and frowns.
"You're cold, here," he says, shrugging off his oversized brown coat. Before you can protest he has it wrapped around your shoulders, and when you inhale his warm, comforting scent, your eyelids flutter shut and you shamelessly bury your nose into the collar.
The corner of his mouth lifts but he turns his face away before you see it.
"So, uh... how long you been workin' there?" He's staring down at the speedometer like it holds some valuable information—anything to find a reason to avoid your eye.
"Three years," you tell him. "But I also substitute teach for Oakmont Elementary."
Joel hums. "I can see you doin' that. You'd be good at that."
You grin, trying to hide it behind his coat. "It's fun, I don't mind it."
"You thinkin' 'bout doin' it full time? Bein' a teacher?" When he looks at you now it's so soft and sweet that you temporarily forget all the pain you went through together.
"I'd have to go back to school, I don't know..."
Joel shrugs. "You could do it. Always were good in school."
Your cheeks warm under the compliment. "It'd be a lot of work. Going to class during the day, working at night. That's hard."
"Yeah, but when you stick your mind to somethin', you just do it. Never let anythin' stop you before."
He graces you with a shy smile for the first time all night and you have to look away or else you're afraid you might say something stupid.
Change the subject, you think.
"Did Tommy have fun tonight?"
"Oh, yeah," Joel says, leaning back in his seat with a light grin. "Just dropped him off, as a matter of fact. Shitfaced like you'd expect. Almost wandered into his neighbor's house."
"Ah, so that's why you're out so late."
"Promised him I wouldn't drink so I could get 'em home."
"Well, that's nice, considering the shit he pulled for your bachelor party."
It's a risky move bringing up anything related to your marriage, you knew that. But he just seems so relaxed and you're finally getting the warmth back in your toes and feeling much better than you were thirty minutes ago, so you go for it. And Joel pauses, taken off guard, but then he chuckles low and deep, the sound causing a familiar pull between your legs.
"My god," he murmurs, then rolls his head to the side to give you a look. "To this day I ain't ever hear a woman bring a man to his knees the way you did to me and him that night. Never saw you so mad."
"I warned you—no strippers."
"And I told you I didn't touch any of 'em."
You throw your head back and laugh, missing the way Joel's gaze lingers on the curve of your neck, the plushness of your lips, the smoothness of your skin.
"Bullshit, Joel Miller! You can tell me the truth, we're not married anymore."
When you find his eyes again, there's an energy that pulls between you and it suddenly feels like no time at all has passed.
"I ain't lyin'," he swears, palms up in the air. "The other guys did but I didn't. Scout's honor."
"Yeah, okay," you say, rolling your eyes, but you can't erase the smile he put there a moment ago.
"I didn't need another reason for your old man to hate me, I did what I was told," he says, hand over his heart. You giggle and shake your head.
"Oh, I don't think that would have mattered much. He never liked you."
Joel grins and lets his gaze drift as a comfortable silence settles in the cab.
"I heard he passed a few years back. M'sorry," he says softly, and you meet his eye once again. He looks genuinely sympathetic, despite everything your father did to tear you apart.
"Thanks."
"What was it?"
"Cancer," you tell him, then shrug one shoulder like it didn't mean anything when you both knew it did.
"Ah, shit," he sighs. "You livin' in that house?"
"Nah. Couldn't do it. I sold it," you say, staring down at your hands tangled in your lap. Joel makes a sound like he understands and he lets it go, lets the quiet envelope you once again like he knew you just needed a few minutes to think. He was always good at reading you, you never forgot that.
"I'm sorry, too," you tell him. You hear him twist his head to look at you but you keep your face angled down. "For the way he treated you. He was never good to you, Joel, and I'm so sorry."
"Hey, it's alright. No need to be sorry."
You sniffle and finally raise your chin with glassy eyes. "It's not alright. He said some horrible things to you—"
"He was just scared for his little girl," Joel says, extending a hand across the seat to rest carefully on your knee. "Didn't like some guy six years older than her sniffin' around, had you sneakin' out and shit... hell, lookin' back, I don't blame 'em."
"Well, I do. I blame him," you mumble. Then, to your dismay, one lone tear streaks down your cheek when you add, "Am I horrible? For not forgiving him for what he did to us?"
Joel's eyes widened and his hand instantly lifts from your knee to cup your face. "No," he breathes with a light shake of his head, "No, you ain't horrible. Don't think that."
His thumb brushes over your cheek and you close your eyes.
Well, there's no going back now, you figure. Might as well go all in.
"Why didn't you fight for me, Joel?" you whisper, lower lip trembling. Your eyes slowly open and two more tears fall. "Why didn't you—"
"'Cause I couldn't come between you 'n your family," he says urgently, his own eyes darting back and forth across your face like it was of the utmost importance you understood. "He was gonna disown you. Said he'd never speak to you again unless we got a divorce. And I couldn't be the reason that happened, honey, I just couldn't—"
"But you were my family," you whimper. "I only wanted you."
"I wanted you, too," he says back, voice strained like he's holding back tears. "Thought I was doin' the right thing by lettin' you go. I was young and dumb and scared, I just wanted you to be happy."
"Well, I wasn't," you confess, and one of your hands comes up to curl around his, still pressed gently against your cheek. His hands are big and a little rough, just like you remember, and you close your eyes, leaning into his touch. "I cried for years over you, Joel," you whisper, "Every time I'd hear someone mention your name or I'd see a sign or truck for your business I'd get so fucking angry. Do you know why?"
You force your eyes back open and through the unshed tears, you see him shake his head.
"I hated the idea of you out there, living your life, meeting new people, meeting new girls and forgetting all about me when I could hardly get out of bed most days."
"You meant everythin' to me," he says, jaw tight as he leans closer across the seat. "Still do."
A sob lodges in your throat, but you swallow it down and force out the question that's been on your mind for years.
"Then why are you always so fucking cold to me whenever I see you? Like tonight?"
"'Cause seein' you reminds me of the biggest mistake I ever made, and I fuckin' hate myself for lettin' you go."
The confession falls from his mouth like it had been waiting there for years to be said. No hesitation whatsoever. Just raw emotion packed behind years of regret. You don't know what to do with it, what to say. You just stare at one another, searching each other's eyes like you could find the answers to your problems right there until it dawns on you at the same time—that maybe you never really had any problems at all, aside from meeting a little too young and moving a little too fast.
But nothing is holding you back anymore. You're not freshly out of high school marrying a guy who was struggling to start a construction business with his baby brother. You both have five years of wisdom now, and even after all that time, those feelings you have for Joel still burn hot under your skin.
And that has to mean something.
"Joel?" you whisper, and his brows pitch up ever so slightly in response. His shoulders still like he's holding his breath, waiting for you to say it. So you do.
"Kiss me."
A breathless sound slips past your lips when his mouth presses firmly over your own, but just as quickly as you feel him, he pulls back. His eyes find yours and he searches, like he's looking for an answer to a question he's too scared to ask. You gaze back at him with tear soaked cheeks and a trembling lip, hoping he sees what you feel. Then his throat bobs and his shoulders sag like a weight has been lifted and his mouth finds yours once again.
Desperation fills the cab of his truck. Your mouth falls open and his tongue slides smoothly against yours, never missing a beat. His fingertips dig into your cheek and you pull him forward by his flannel, searching for more. The sharp brush of his beard rubs into an upward motion against your lips and you know he's smiling at your eagerness.
"C'mere," he mumbles before both his hands find your waist and he leans back, hauling you over the seat and into his lap without breaking the kiss. He pushes his coat past your shoulders and tosses it behind him, giving himself better access to your body.
It's all happening so fast that when his hands skate slowly down your sides to curve and cup your ass under your skirt, you jump like a frayed wire. Every nerve ending is alight, as if your body has been waiting all these years to be brought back to life by his touch.
"Easy," he chuckles in between kisses, "it's just me. Just me, baby."
It nearly destroys you. Joel—your first and probably only real love is right here, back in your arms. You kiss him harder and he groans, needy tongues swirling together like you may run out of air.
"Joel—" you gasp, but he cuts you off.
"Christ, I missed you." His mouth sloppily sears over yours with a groan before separating again. "Missed you so much. Then I finally see you and..." His gaze flicks down but you're too busy trailing a path of wet kisses down his neck. "And you're wearin' this slutty little thing. Couldn't stop thinkin' 'bout it... c'mere." His chin drops to seek out your mouth and you let him, moaning softly when your lips reconnect. He kisses like a madman, you always loved that about him. Every kiss feels like it's important, like he needs to show you how he feels because there are no words in existance that do it justice.
"You should see what I wear to work on Valentine's Day," you giggle when he gives you a second to breathe.
"Can't wait."
Then he quiets you with another deep kiss.
Can't wait. Can't wait. Two simple words that hold so much meaning. Two words that assure you whatever happens tonight won't be a one time thing. It sets your heart on fire and you whine into his mouth when his hands dig into the curve of your hips, pulling you down harder into his lap.
Joel leans back with a filthy grin so he can watch you drag your hips back and forth, over his cock straining against his zipper.
"Shit. Christmas came early," he mumbles in a daze as he continues to watch you move.
"That better be the only thing that comes early," you tease before clutching his face in your hands for another lust soaked kiss. And even though there's no real rush, your hands move hastily anyway. They slip between your bodies as your tongue dips into his mouth and he groans when your palm presses over his aching cock. His own slide back under your skirt to wrap around your underwear and he tugs, growing frustrated with the thin piece of fabric.
"Take these off," he demands roughly.
"There's no room," you say, biting at his scruffy chin. "Your steering wheel is digging into my ass."
With one harsh, loud tear, your underwear fall loose. You gasp and open your heavy eyes to watch him pull the black shreds from between your legs, then he tosses it somewhere behind his seat.
"Joel! I already hardly have any clothes as it is!" you exclaim, but he shushes you with a quick kiss before his mouth drops to your throat.
"Don't worry. I'll warm you up," he grins before his hands make their way up your skirt once more. He moans against your neck as his palms glide over your soft skin. Desperation claws at your throat when his fingers glide through your folds, dragging your arousal up to circle your clit. You curse his name and press your body tightly against his chest.
"Please, Joel, please," you beg as you rub the outside of his jeans. His jaw falls open and his head rolls back against the seat before he pulls his hand from between your legs. You whimper at the loss, but then his fingers slip into his mouth with a rough noise and you fall silent, watching him greedily taste you with heavy lidded eyes.
You feel dizzy, short of breath and aching with need when your fingers find his zipper. Pulling it down while he works on the button of his jeans, you moan a little when his cock is finally freed, all thick and heavy between you.
"Sit on it, baby," he pants while watching you lift onto your knees. He pushes up your skirt so he can see you notch the thick head of his cock at your opening and he feels drunk, his brain a cloudy, needy mess at the sight he's dreamt about for years.
Every day that passed without you, the memory of how you felt faded against his will. But having you on his lap now, your scent invading his senses as you slowly sink down on his cock, all those memories come flooding back: your warmth, the tightness of your pussy, the fucking noises you make from your pretty mouth... it's enough to bring him to tears.
One falls and you see it. You're holding your breath, still impaling yourself on his cock and reveling in the stretch, but you still cup his cheek and wipe the tear away. The sweet gesture just makes another one fall and when your hips finally grow flush with his lap, he releases a strained, choked sob, unable to look away from the depth of your gaze.
"Fuck, I missed you," you whisper, pressing your forehead against his.
"I know, baby, I know," he murmurs, blinking away the tears and wrapping his arms around your waist. The tip of your hat gently taps his cheek and he grins when you lift it off your head just to drop it on top of his messy curls.
"There you go," you say with a slow, deliberate roll of your hips. "Now you've got the Christmas spirit."
"Already got what I asked for, anyway," he chuckles before the palm of his hand cracks lightly across your ass. You yelp and giggle, falling forward to bury your face in the crook of his neck.
"And here I thought you had a permanent place on the naughty list." You begin to move with more purpose, moaning softly against his collarbone as the tip of his cock catches just right inside you.
"You oughta talk," he scolds with a small smile. It's equal parts frustrating and relieving to have this with him again. Had you just talked things out instead of snapping at each other every time you crossed paths, you would have saved so much time, and yet you can't be mad because you're too grateful to have him at all.
It's so easy to fall back into the familiar rhythm. Just like muscle memory, you both remember what the other likes. Without being asked, you tug your black shirt up and over your head so he can bury his face in your breasts as you ride him. His hands grip and pull you, helping you move and deepen the angle until your thighs start to shake. When his lips suction over your nipple, you arch your back with a sweet moan. His tongue is so warm and wet against your skin so you chase it, bouncing on him a little faster and he rewards you by switching to the other one.
"Yeah, baby, just like that," he pants, warm breath fanning across your wet skin. "Oh, fuck—ju-just like that."
You're stuck staring down at him, at the way the shadows stretch across his face, at the softness around his eyes, at the way he struggles to breathe. A sound catches in your throat and his dark eyes find yours before your mouths crash together in a hungry kiss.
"So good," you whisper against his lips. "So, so good."
He groans and lifts his hips, snapping them up into yours, driving himself deeper. You gasp and one hand reaches out to scramble for leverage, but your fingers just slide down the foggy window next to you. The Santa hat askew on his head falls off somewhere behind him but you're both too soaked with desire to notice.
Your legs shake as you work to keep up with his pace but your whole body is shuddering in his lap and for once, it's not due to the cold. He's slamming into you, pushing mercilessly against a sweet spot hidden away deep inside, and it's tearing you down.
"Oh god, Joel," you cry through clenched teeth, then your head tips back and your eyes squeeze shut and his mouth is on your throat, then your jaw, then your face—quick, urgent kisses that desperately try to make up for lost time.
Joel feels your muscles tighten and he grips you harder. He groans into your skin and fucks up into you, moaning about how good you feel and how tight you are and how he wishes he could have gotten his mouth on you, if only for a few minutes.
"But next time, I'm gonna eat this pussy til you're screamin', hear me?" He's grinding into you, forcing you to take him as deep as you can and stealing all the air from your lungs. "Never gonna let you go after this. Not gonna—shit—not gonna fuck this up again, okay?"
Tears slide down your cheeks and you nod before you gasp sharply and your body spasms with relief on top of him. He groans around the squeeze of your cunt and fucks you faster.
"M'sorry," he whispers over and over. But you're in a love drunk haze, you can barely hear him. Your body slumps forward to rest against his shoulder and a moment later, he comes with a rough curse in your ear. You sigh, pressing your cheek against him as he floods your pussy. He's holding you close to his chest and filling you up until he has nothing left to give and his body sags into the seat.
Your lips seek out the sweaty skin of his throat and you leave little kisses there while he catches his breath.
"Can you come over for Christmas Eve?" he asks suddenly, and you giggle before straightening your spine and leaning back. His eyes are deep and warm and he's giving you that sexy smirk you remember all too well. Your heart flips and it feels like you're falling in love with him all over again.
"Are you sure?"
He nods. "'Course I'm sure. So long as you're ready, 'cause Tommy's gonna give us a lot of shit."
You laugh and his face softens at the sound.
"Okay. I think I can stop by."
Joel smiles and looks down at your skirt fanning over his lap, hiding where you're still connected.
"Can you wear this?"
You smack his shoulder and he laughs. It's so lighthearted that you can't remember any of the heartbreak. You card your fingers through his sweaty hair and he gazes up at you sweetly as his laughter dies down, both of you staring at one another with matching smiles.
"Battery's probably good by now," he finally murmurs, still looking at you with stars in his eyes and a goofy smile on his face.
"Oh, shit, I forgot," you say, glancing over your shoulder at the steamy windshield. Joel fishes around to find your discarded shirt and hands it to you before helping you off his lap. You both groan, muscles aching, then you swing your leg back over to the passenger side. When you slip your shirt back on, you squeeze your thighs together, cheeks burning when you catch his sticky release dripping down your leg.
"You good?" he asks. He's already done his jeans back up and his hand is on the door. He's got his coat back on, ready to finish fixing your car, and your chest aches for him.
Typical Joel. So good at taking care of you.
"Come here," you whisper, then the corner of his mouth lifts before he releases the door handle and he stretches across the cab to press his lips softly against your own.
"Merry Christmas, Joel," you say, kissing the tip of his nose.
He smiles warmly before coming in for one more kiss.
Note: This will be the first part. Honestly, I’m still debating whether there’ll be a happy ending — and with whom. Maybe with Clark? But having a Clark who’s in love with Lois makes it hard to make him fall out of love, haha. Or rather, I don’t want it to feel cliché, like “I love Lois… oh wait, now I love the other girl.” I want action, and maybe tears (kidding, haha). I’m still thinking — open to ideas :) → Please be patient with this section.
Note 2: I wanted to upload it in December, but I prefer to do it now. Part two? I don't know, haha. Enjoy.
Clark Kent x female reader
Synopsis: You love Clark Kent quietly—from the shadows where he’ll never look. A cup of tea, a small kindness, and your silence begins to crumble.
The noise of the newsroom was a constant hum, a backdrop against which your silence grew deeper. From your desk — an island of order in the chaos — your gaze always traced the same path. It didn’t start from the column dividing the cubicles, nor from the coffee maker that always smelled burnt, but from him. From Clark Kent.
And always, inevitably, it ended on Lois Lane.
It wasn’t envy. No. Envy is an acid fire that eats you from within, and nothing burned inside you anymore. What lived in your chest was a cold, heavy resignation, like a slab of ice. Lois Lane. Her name was a declaration of principles, a title deed to the world’s attention — and to Clark’s. There was no one in this world who could compete with her, and you, with a clarity that sometimes felt like a curse, knew it better than anyone.
But that didn’t hurt. Or at least, not anymore. You had grown used to the shadow cast by her light. You were the second-best reporter to Perry — always a step behind Lois’s Pulitzer. The second-best friend to Cat Grant, the confidant for whatever scraps of time she had left. And for Clark… to Clark, you were a kind colleague, a competent coworker. Second place. A familiar territory, a suit that fit a little too well.
Clark Kent. Saying his name softly, in the privacy of your thoughts, was already a forbidden feast. Watching him was a constant fascination — the way he adjusted his glasses with a nervous gesture, how his shy smile could dissolve any bad day. But it was like admiring a masterpiece in a museum: you could appreciate its beauty, but you knew it was out of reach. And if by some miracle you dared to touch it, the alarm that went off was his gaze — always, irrevocably, lost in Lois.
He had been terribly easy to decipher. You’d seen him blush when she asked about a source. You’d seen him show up with an extra cup of coffee, made exactly how Lois liked it. A single wilted rose on her desk, a nervous smile that transformed his whole face. It was the same spell, the same silent earthquake he caused in you. Only in this equation, you were no one’s epicenter. Lois was Clark’s.
The tavern’s cold air was a relief after the exhausting day. Jimmy Olsen was spinning his beer glass between his fingers, talking about his latest photograph — until he noticed you weren’t listening. Your silence spoke volumes.
“Hey, what planet are you on?” he asked, trying to catch your gaze.
You took a bitter sip of your drink. “None worth visiting, Jimmy.”
“Come on, it’s because of today, right? When Clark apologized for not helping you with the construction license report. ‘Sorry, I’ve got… something with Lois,’ he said.” Jimmy clumsily mimicked Clark’s apologetic tone. “Don’t take it personally. It’s Clark. He’s always… distracted.”
“Distracted with one person in particular,” you muttered, staring at the rings of moisture on the wooden table.
Jimmy leaned forward, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “You’re still hung up on that? I thought you were joking last time when you said that… you know.”
You shook your head slowly, heavily, without looking up. You didn’t need to meet his eyes to feel the pity in them — pity you didn’t want.
Jimmy was your only confidant, the unwilling architect of your romantic frustration. He was the one constantly nudging you toward Clark — suggesting you work together, inventing excuses to make you cross paths. And Clark, with his infinite, guilty kindness, always ended up apologizing — as if taking Lois on an assignment were some crime he had to atone for. But that night, after watching Clark run after Lois to cover a story at the harbor, you’d broken. You’d confessed it to Jimmy through tears of rage and shame. It wasn’t a joke. It wasn’t a fleeting crush. You were in love — hopelessly, irreversibly.
“It’s useless, Jimmy. It’s like… trying to catch smoke with your hands,” you said, your voice trembling with emotion.
“Don’t say that. Clark’s a great guy, but he’s… distracted. Once he realizes how amazing you are…”
Your phone buzzed on the table, a dull, ominous sound. The screen lit up, and the name that appeared made the world stop for a moment. Clark.
Your gaze trembled. Your heart shrank in your chest, a fistful of nerves and foolish hope. Your breath caught, as if someone had punched you in the stomach.
“Who is it?” Jimmy asked, alarmed at your sudden paleness.
You couldn’t answer. With clumsy fingers, you grabbed your phone and your coat, standing up abruptly.
“I have to… take this. It’s… work.”
The lie came out weak and broken. Without looking back, you weaved through the tables toward the exit, feeling Clark’s name burn through the denim of your jeans. Jimmy followed you with his eyes, confused and worried. He sighed, left some bills on the table, and got up to follow.
The cold night air hit your face, clearing the fog of alcohol for a moment. You leaned against the tavern’s brick wall, feeling its roughness through your coat. A dry, forced cough escaped your lips — a desperate attempt to drown out the tremor in your voice and the confusion inside you — before pressing the button to answer.
“Hello?” you said quickly, before he could hang up, forcing your voice to sound calm.
Clark’s voice, warm and slightly tense, filled your ear. “Sorry to bother you this late. I’m having trouble with an article — I’ve tried to figure it out on my own, but I just can’t… can’t find a way to close it, to end it properly.”
The question slipped out before you could stop it — bitter, weighted with meaning only you understood. Maybe it was the alcohol stripping away your filters. “Lois didn’t answer?”
There was a short, almost imperceptible pause on the other end. “Yes, she’s here too. That’s why I was asking if you could come over to my place. Of course, we could come pick you up,” he offered, with his usual gentlemanly tone that, right then, felt unbearable.
You pictured it — the two of them, together, in his space, needing a third. A useful third. You. Second place, once again.
“I can’t,” you finally said, your voice betraying you with its weakness. You staggered slightly, the world tilting as your eyes filled with tears of frustration and drink. “I’ll come with Jimmy,” you added sharply, hanging up before he could say another word — cutting the cord that tied you to that painful hope.
As you turned, you nearly ran into Jimmy, who was watching you with his hands in his pockets and one eyebrow raised. “Don’t tell me we’re going,” he said — more a statement than a question.
“If Perry finds out I didn’t help with a last-minute article, I could get in trouble,” you justified, shrugging in what was meant to look casual, but only made you seem vulnerable.
Jimmy wasn’t stupid. He studied you closely, with that perceptiveness you often underestimated. “Is that it? Or is it because Clark asked you to?”
Your gaze was the only answer he needed — a flicker of resignation and longing you couldn’t hide. “Just drive me,” you whispered, walking unsteadily toward his car.
Jimmy didn’t argue. He made a quick stop at a convenience store, buying a bottle of sparkling water and a pack of mint gum. “To sober you up a little,” he muttered, handing them to you. He knew it wouldn’t mask the smell completely, but maybe it’d help disguise the worst of it. Deep down, you didn’t care. It was Clark who had called. Clark who needed you — even if only as a tool. That was enough to drag you to his door.
The car ride was silent, the city sliding past the window like a blurred dream. When you finally reached Clark’s building, a knot of nerves and longing twisted in your stomach. You pressed the doorbell, feeling your heart pound violently in your chest.
The door opened, and there he was. Clark Kent, in his turtleneck sweater and glasses, a smile of genuine relief lighting up his face. “Thanks for coming,” he greeted, his gaze shifting from you to Jimmy. “Lois said she’d heard you two were heading out. We figured you might still be awake.”
His explanation was logical, yet to you it sounded like a distant echo of a conversation you had never been part of.
You offered him a faint, tense smile. “No problem.”
Then Lois emerged from Clark’s kitchen, as comfortable and familiar with the space as if it were her own. She was holding a cup of coffee, her eyes scanning you from head to toe with a spark of amusement. “You work better in that state, don’t you?” she asked, her voice laced with light irony that made your jaw tighten.
You only nodded, feeling the sting of humiliation coloring your cheeks.
Jimmy, always quick to throw a jab in your defense, let out a mocking laugh. “So, are you used to sleeping over at Kent’s place now, Lois?”
You caught the instant flush that spread across Clark’s face—a blush that went far beyond mild embarrassment. But you stayed perfectly still, rooted in place, the blood pounding in your ears.
“What’s the problem?” you said, and your voice came out harsh—raw and sharper than it had been all night.
Clark noticed immediately. His smile faded slightly, and his eyes fixed on you with concern. He took it as irritation at being dragged away from the bar—and partly, it was. But the real reason, the root of all the pain, was him. He was the reason you’d been drowning your frustration in alcohol—the reason every one of his smiles felt like a small earthquake shaking your world.
And then it happened. Clark looked straight at you and smiled. It wasn’t the shy, awkward grin of Clark Kent the reporter. It was an openly kind smile, disarming in its sincerity. A smile that made the faintest dimples appear in his cheeks—a smile that seemed to say, “Please, don’t be mad at me.”
And it always worked. Because Clark had no idea of the effect he had on you—no idea of the whirlwind of feelings he stirred in your chest.
Your lips parted involuntarily, caught off guard by that gesture. So, with a nearly inhuman effort, you forced a crooked smile in return—a pale, weak reflection of his.
“Look,” said Clark, seizing the moment to break the tension and handing you a folder full of documents. “We’re collecting information on Lex’s interest in Boravia and Jarhanpur. Perry told us not to publish anything until we have solid evidence,” he explained, and you nodded, taking the papers. Your fingers brushed against his for a fraction of a second, and a chill ran up your arm.
“But we can hint at something, right? Like, nudge the reader toward the question themselves,” Lois interjected, sitting down on the couch as if she owned the place. “That’s why we called you. You’re the best at that.”
A bitter laugh nearly escaped your throat. “At starting rumors?” you asked, locking eyes with her.
Lois swallowed visibly, straightening on the sofa. “At making people want to speak up about what the government’s trying to hide,” Clark corrected softly but firmly, defending the angle. His eyes met yours, searching for understanding. “You did it with the migrants’ stories last month. It was brilliant,” he reminded you—and his compliment, so honest and unguarded, hit you like a punch. You nodded again, feeling your resistance crumble under the weight of his faith in you.
“What have you done so far?” you asked, resigned, turning your focus back to the work—the familiar refuge of your profession.
Lois spun her laptop toward you, showing a series of encrypted emails and shady transactions. “LexCorp is moving pieces. And we’re going to be the first to show the board.”
A heavy, expectant silence settled over the room. The only sounds were the soft crackle of paper beneath your fingers and the distant hum of the city through Clark’s window. The three of them watched as your eyes—still foggy from the alcohol yet sharpened by a decade of journalistic instinct—scanned every line.
Clark quietly slipped away toward the small open kitchen. The familiar sound of water heating and the gentle clinking of porcelain filled the brief void. He returned with two steaming cups. He handed the coffee to Jimmy with polite ease, and then—with a tenderness that stopped your heart for a beat—placed a cup of tea in front of you.
It was a tiny, almost meaningless gesture. But to you, it was a cataclysm.
For some mysterious reason you’d never dared to ask about, Clark Kent knew you hated coffee—that its bitterness turned your stomach, and that you preferred the gentle, aromatic warmth of tea. You even kept your own chamomile and earl grey sachets in the drawer of your desk at the newsroom.
And there he was, offering you that small fragment of knowledge about yourself—the one insignificant detail he possessed of your inner world—and in that moment, it was enough to make your heart, already fragile and exposed, completely fall apart for him. It was proof that, at some point, he had looked closely enough to notice something.
“Well, I think the draft is perfect,” you said automatically—your usual prelude to a critique. “But you’re not getting the word ‘imply’. You’re basically spelling it out. Right here, you’re literally saying Lex is planning something with Boravia.”
You didn’t notice, but at that instant, Lois and Clark exchanged one of those looks only they shared. It wasn’t the look they gave an intern who’d made a mistake—it was that peculiar fascination they always had when you worked. It was your reporter mode. Even with your flushed face and unsteady step, your mind sharpened like a blade, dissecting arguments with brutal precision. Your once-shaky voice was now clear and firm, anchored in the professional ground you ruled.
“That’s not right. I’d use a link, something like… like what you do, Clark, when you hint at an emotion toward Superman. A question at the end—‘Have political and business alliances really fractured the way the world believes?’ You’re not talking about Lex, you’re talking about the bigger picture. That leads perfectly into your note about Lex—a businessman who publicly supports the U.S.—also helping out… because you subtly mention he’s selling weapons to Boravia. That’s it. That’s where you set the hook.”
Lois, completely forgetting her earlier mockery, nodded quickly and scribbled notes in her pad. “You’re right. That’s much smarter.”
“That’s it,” you concluded, suddenly exhausted, as if that burst of lucidity had drained your last reserves of energy.
Clark gently nudged the cup of tea closer to you, a silent gesture of gratitude and care. “Thanks,” you murmured, deliberately avoiding his gaze, focusing instead on the rising steam as if it held all the secrets of the universe.
“I knew it,” exclaimed Lois, closing her laptop with a sharp snap. “We’ve been breaking our heads for hours over this. We owe you dinner—we interrupted your night.” Her apology sounded genuine this time. Then her endless curiosity turned to Jimmy. “So, what are you two doing together tonight? Something special?”
Clark smiled, looking at you both with interest, but you didn’t answer. Your attention had been caught by one of the loose papers scattered on the table, mixed with the LexCorp reports. It wasn’t from the Daily Planet archive. It looked like a photocopy of a scientific report, with a different letterhead and a headline that froze your blood:
“LexCorp: Attempts to Create Artificial Life Through Advanced Bioengineering.”
Your mind, still swimming between tea and alcohol, tried to process the implication. Create life? That went far beyond selling weapons to unstable nations. That was playing God.
You were about to point it out, to ask where that document had come from, when you felt a friendly but firm nudge from Lois.
“So… do you have something going on with Olsen?” she asked.
Jimmy scoffed, shaking his head with genuine fondness toward you. “She’s not my type, Lois. I’ve already got someone I’m interested in,” he clarified, shooting you a quick wink. “And she’s… well, she’s looking for love. Or so it seems.”
You looked at him, feeling the conversation veer into dangerous territory.
“Looking for love? Oh, then she should go out with Clark,” Lois said with a light laugh, as if suggesting the most absurd pairing in the world.
The words, though said in jest, cut through you like a knife. The pain was immediate and sharp. Of course it was. The irony was so thick you could almost taste it—bitter and metallic—at the back of your tongue. Lois was completely blind. She didn’t see the devotion burning in Clark’s eyes every time he looked at her, just as Clark was blind to the knot of hope and agony he tied inside you.
A cold panic took hold of you. You couldn’t bear to hear Clark’s answer. You couldn’t stand the thought of him saying, with that devastating kindness of his, that “you weren’t his type,” or worse, laughing awkwardly at the idea that someone like him could ever be with someone like you. You hurried to cut that line of conversation short, using the only weapon you had: Lois’s own truth — even if it meant driving the thorn deeper into yourself.
“I thought you were already dating her,” you said, and every word felt like a betrayal against yourself. It hurt, yes, but it hurt less than direct humiliation. Besides, somewhere deep in your wounded soul, you felt that Clark was too good, too pure, to endure the same pain of unrequited love that was consuming you. You already knew how it felt; for him to feel it too seemed like too cruel an injustice. Suffering once was enough — suffering again, even by osmosis, wouldn’t change a thing.
Lois smiled, shaking her head as if the idea were adorably naïve. “We’re journalists committed to our work, right, Clark?”
Clark nodded, and you looked at him. You saw how his gaze dropped to his hands — a shy gesture that Lois would probably take as yet another sign of his “professional focus,” but that to you was a clear indication of something else. How could she not see it? you wondered, a mix of anger and despair tightening your chest. But come on, you asked yourself the same thing about Clark. How could he not see what you felt?
“I have to go,” announced Jimmy. “Want me to give you a ride?” he asked, ready to rescue you as always.
You shook your head. “No, I’ll take a cab.” You stepped closer to him and lowered your voice to a whisper. “Is it her? The girl you told me about?” Jimmy nodded with a timid smile. “Go. Don’t worry about me.”
“I’ll head out too,” you said aloud, noticing that Lois seemed comfortably settled on Clark’s couch, with no intention of moving. Maybe, unintentionally, your comment had planted a seed, had encouraged something between them — and the last thing you wanted was to witness it bloom.
“I’ll walk you both out,” Clark offered immediately, grabbing his coat.
You didn’t respond. You stepped into the hallway, feeling the chill of the concrete floor through your shoes. Jimmy said a quick “take care” and disappeared down the stairs, eager for his date. Unfortunately for you, the street — usually busy — was unusually quiet. Not a single taxi in sight.
“There’s no need for you to wait, Clark. One will pass by soon,” you said, fixing your gaze on the empty road, refusing to look at him.
“I’ll wait with you. I’m not in a hurry,” he insisted, his voice as serene as ever.
Minutes passed, heavy with a silence that weighed more than any conversation. Finally, Clark broke it. “I’m sorry I couldn’t help you with the construction permit story. I really am.”
“Let’s not talk about that,” you cut in sharply. Your voice sounded rough, hoarse, edged with the same bitterness that alcohol couldn’t smooth out. It was the same tone you’d had when you showed up at his door.
“It’s just that Lois…” he began to explain, with that apologetic tone he always used when it came to her.
“Clark,” you interrupted, turning to face him for the first time. Your eyes were clouded, but filled with an intensity that made him step back. “I don’t have the endless patience that you do. So don’t talk. Just leave it.”
He hesitated, taken aback by your sudden harshness. “Sorry,” he muttered, and you looked away, feeling anger bubbling inside you.
“She needed me,” he added, as if that justification could absolve him of everything.
You looked at him, irritated. “I don’t want to start problems with you. I would never deny help to someone just because they’re not go—”
“But you did, Clark!” you burst out, and the word echoed through the silent street. You sighed, trying to regain control. “It doesn’t matter. You saw it, didn’t you? You could leave me drowning in unfinished work, you could ask me to help you move a piano during a storm, and at the end of the day, if you call me, I’ll come. Just because you asked.”
The words spilled out before you could stop them, heavy with a shameful truth that made your eyes fill with tears. “And that… that’s not good,” you added quickly, trying to steer the conversation back to safer ground, away from the emotional abyss you had just opened. “It’s not right to use people just because Lois needs something. She could’ve called herself — but both of you knew I would’ve said no. But I’m not that kind of person, Clark. You should’ve told me the truth from the start. You should’ve told me the article was for Lane, not for you.”
At that very moment, as if answering a desperate plea, the lights of a taxi appeared at the corner. Relief and painful embarrassment flooded you.
You opened the car door with a sudden motion and, without looking at him one last time, got inside. “Good night,” you said, and the words sounded like a definitive goodbye — sealing a confession he was too blind to decipher.
Sunday was a black hole. You didn’t even bother getting out of bed until well past noon, and when you did, it was only to drag yourself to the kitchen in search of more painkillers. The headache was a constant drumbeat in your temples, a throbbing echo of every sip of beer and every tear shed. You had kept drinking when you got home — a useless attempt to drown the shame burning inside you.
It can’t be, you thought, tossing in your sheets. Clark Kent. You had said awful things to him, thrown half-truths at him that sounded like accusations. But the worst part was that every word had been true — and that certainty was what hurt the most. You had exposed yourself in the most pathetic way possible, and the only comfort left was knowing that he, in his infinite and infuriating nobility, probably thought you were just mad about work.
You turned off your phone, sinking into self-imposed isolation. You only took a moment to send a short message to Jimmy: “I’m fine. Just need a day offline. Don’t call the fire department. Please.” You knew him too well. You knew that if he didn’t get an answer, he’d be capable of calling the fire department — or worse, Superman himself — to break down your door and make sure you were still breathing.
Monday arrived with the harshness of an emotional hangover.
You got to the office early, before almost everyone else, hoping to avoid stares and questions. Your first glance was for Lois. She walked with her usual confidence, laughing at something with one of the interns. Her normalcy was both a balm and a dagger. It soothed you, because it meant Clark had kept quiet about your outburst. But it also hurt, because it confirmed that your breakdown had been so insignificant in their universe that it didn’t even deserve a mention.
You left your things on your desk and went straight to Perry White’s office. The chief was already waiting for you, his brow furrowed and arms crossed.
“I’ve got it,” you said before he could start scolding you for the delay. “The full, polished report on construction permits is in your inbox. It’s ready for publication.” You licked your dry, cracked lips. “What’s next?”
Perry sighed, massaging the bridge of his nose. “Kent and Lane are giving me a headache with this whole Lex Luthor interview about the Boravia situation. It’s a ticking time bomb, and I don’t think it’s a good idea.”
You nodded immediately, understanding.
“But if anyone can pull something clean out of it, it’s them,” he continued, his sharp eyes piercing through you. “I want you to go too.”
“I’m not going,” you rejected immediately, with a firmness that surprised even you. “You’re my boss, and I respect you, but I’m not showing up there pretending to be a detective just to get hit by a stray bullet—or worse.” You shook your head, resolute.
“Then you’ll join their team,” Perry conceded reluctantly. “I was thinking of assigning you alone to this, but they’ll probably want to come along.”
“I’ll do it alone,” you insisted, low on enthusiasm but strong in determination. It was your only way out, your only means to keep your sanity—and your distance. “I can infiltrate, get the evidence. They can process whatever I bring you. That’s my only condition.”
Perry raised an offended eyebrow. “Winning a journalism award gives you the right to order me around now, young lady?”
A cold, slightly bitter smile curved your lips. “No. My father, the one who helped make this newspaper the best in the city with his investment, gave me that right.” It was a quiet reminder, an ace up your sleeve you rarely used—but this situation deserved it.
Perry shook his head, defeated. “Get out of here. And do your job well.”
You nodded and left his office like a hurricane, heading straight for your computer. You opened the files on LexCorp, and suddenly, like a ghost, the image of the article you saw on Clark’s desk came back to you: “LexCorp: Attempts to Create Artificial Life.”
Your mind—now sober and desperate for a purpose that wasn’t Clark—latched onto it. You began searching for any clue online, any trace of that dark project. At first, nothing. Until, buried deep within a LexCorp recruitment page, you found a peculiar opening:
“Behavioral Science Analysts Wanted for Project Genesis. Minimum experience: five months. Focus: attitude and psychological resilience interviews.”
It didn’t sound like weapons. It sounded like something far more sinister. Without a second thought, you gathered all your information. You created a new résumé, deliberately excluding your work at the Daily Planet. Your name appeared only occasionally in the articles; you were more of a ghostwriter and editor. Instead, you highlighted your two doctorates and, crucially, your diplomas in behavioral psychology and attitude analysis. You shaped your profile to fit that strange position perfectly and sent it off, with a rush of vertigo and determination.
“Good morning.”
Clark’s voice came from right behind you—so close you could almost feel his breath. You tensed completely, but forced yourself to turn slowly.
“Good morning,” you replied, your tone neutral, hoping it was impenetrable. With a quick motion, you closed the job application tab and scribbled LexCorp’s address on a sticky note, just in case. If they didn’t reply, you’d go there yourself.
“Can we talk?” he asked, not moving toward his desk, his presence disturbing the air around you.
“Clark, look—” Lois’s voice cut in from the newsroom doorway, and you seized the moment.
“No, we can’t,” you said firmly, standing up from your chair with the printed résumé in hand. “Have a good day.”
And you walked away, feeling his gaze burning into your back—heavy with confusion that shattered your heart.
Clark watched you, uneasy, wondering if he had really done something so terrible to deserve that icy rejection. What he couldn’t understand—what he would never know—was that you weren’t ignoring him out of hatred. You were pushing him away out of a twisted, resigned kind of love. You didn’t want to bother him anymore. You didn’t want to be another emotional burden, another Lois who needed his apologies and attention. You just wanted to return to your usual place—quiet, safe, invisible. The shadow watching from the column, from the desk, from the coffee machine. The person who would never tell him “no,” because you had always, always been there.
If Clark said he was tired, you encouraged him.
If Clark asked a question, you had the answer.
If Clark needed to leave, you covered for him.
You had always been that. His second option. His silent safety net. And that truth was so deeply rooted in your soul that not even God could change it.
And now, you were walking straight into the lion’s den—not for a Pulitzer, but out of a desperate need to prove to yourself that you could be the first choice for something, even if that something was a suicide mission.
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Newest on the team at the Daily Planet, your co-workers set a high bar in terms in friendship.
You like Lois. Jimmy is a decent desk-mate. Cat is nice enough. You don't even want to talk about Steve.
But Clark Kent... There's something about him that irks you.
His niceness.
No-one is that nice. And honestly? You'd rather keep him at arms length, then let him worm his way into your heart — because you’ll be damned if you let that stupid thing get broken again.
(Or: Clark Kent and the string of terrible, horrible, very bad attempts to woo his co-worker. Unsuccessfully.)
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
[15k, coworkers to lovers, one-sided enemies to lovers, fem!reader, you are, lovingly, a difficult women (with some trust issues) but that is exactly what clark likes about you <3 - title from the waitress soundtrack of the same name!!!]
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
Click-click. You click your pen, off then on.
The screen of your monitor hums with a faint buzz, just like all the fluorescent lights in the Daily Planet do.
The office murmurs around you, slowly waking with chatter, and it's just one more thing to mentally convince yourself you can't hear. On a good day, you can ignore it.
On a bad day…
Click-click. Off and then on.
Displayed on your screen is what's been served up to your chopping block, a new piece for you to tear to shreds with edits.
You've become the unofficial office shark, a one-stop shop for ruthless edits. Nothing leaves your sight without being slashed to pieces with red pen.
Beside you, on your desk, is a copy of yesterday's print.
You're trying hard not to look at it —not the title, Superman Saves Downtown; No Casualties in Extraterrestrial Attack— and not the byline either, printing Clark Kent's name on the front page.
Stupid Clark Kent and his dumb, stupid exclusive Superman interviews.
It's actually laughable how your envy reduces you to the insults of a second-grader – which actually is probably making you dislike it all the more.
With a huff, you try to redirect to the piece you're supposed to be editing.
"You know, your screen's gonna set alight if you keep glaring that hard."
You move your glare from your screen to the speaker behind it. Daily Planet's finest photographer, your desk-mate, and occasional pain in your ass, Jimmy Olsen.
He grins, despite being at the receiving end of your pointed stare. Jimmy is one of the few lucky ones immune to it.
"Alright, Medusa. What's got your panties in a twist this early in the morning?"
"Nothing has any effect on my panties whatsoever," you mumble back, breaking your glare to look back at your screen. Dropping the pen on your desk, you shake the mouse back to life.
"Have you considered that maybe that's the problem?"
"I'm gonna file a formal complaint if you keep talking about my panties," you grouse back, to which Jimmy laughs.
It's all bark and no bite really.
Jimmy is one of the only ones who have actually figured that out about you—that you're prickly to begin with, but you never really mean it.
The shuttered swirl of the heavy revolving door announces the arrival of, none other than, the object of your morning envy — though the dropped files are a classic of the Clark Kent entrance.
Papers fly as they hit the floor, scattering in a flutter you can hear across the office. It's quickly followed by Clark's muttered shoot!
One particular piece of paper does an elegant arc, swooping high and settling close to yours and Jimmy's desk.
Out the corner of your eye, you squint at it, but it's too far to make out the words.
Clark scampers after his spilled papers, hasty apologies spilling from him like an overzealous printer stuck on reprint. "Hi–sorry. Morning, hi, sorry, lemme get that—"
He ends up beside your desk by the time he's gathered them all in his hands, straightening up to his full height.
It's just for a moment—then he's hunching back over, shoulders curling forward.
Like it does much good; he's still at least 6 feet tall.
"Morning, guys," Clark says warmly, nodding to Jimmy, then you. His retrieved papers are in an untidy pile, held against his chest precariously. "What are we talking about?"
He's probably asking to be polite. Or to distract from his fumble with the papers.
Unfortunately for him, you've decided making Clark squirm is an easy way to enact a quiet retribution.
"My panties." You say plainly.
Jimmy coughs out a laugh, even though you're technically telling the truth. Hey, he was the one who brought them up! You shoot him a wry grin – then watch Clark.
His mouth has opened, as if to give a response to that, but then he closes it, thinking the better of it.
You imagine it must be hot, blushing that fiercely. His cheeks and the tips of his ears both appear as if he’s had too much time in the sun. Farm boy red, you'd call it.
In the end, Clark only swallows. Then nods at you both, his eyes averted, and scuttles away with a mumble you can't hear.
A glimmer of enjoyment toys a smile on your mouth. You convince yourself it's from watching him squirm. For grudge-related reasons, obviously.
"Must you torture him?" Jimmy asks, the moment Clark's out of range.
"No," you answer with a shrug, turning back to your screen. "But he makes it easy."
You don't add that you're pretty sure his bashful disposition is almost surely put on. He's a grown man. No one… blushes and sputters like that actually. Certainly not at you.
Instead, you punch the keys of your keyboard a bit too rough, deleting a whole sentence from the piece on-screen.
"It's the Midwestern in him," Jimmy says, with a sympathetic sigh.
"Yeah, well, it makes you wonder how he became such a hard-hitting journalist." You snort, though you make an effort to keep your voice low.
"Seriously, how is it that he's the only one who gets the exclusives with Superman?"
Across the desk, Jimmy's eyebrows raise an inch. "Ah. So that's what the glare was for."
You don't dignify that with a response—mainly because he's hit the nail on the head. Damn you for choosing a profession where your coworkers are paid to be nosy and observant.
You shrug again and remove another sentence that has the gall to have three adjectives in a row.
Jimmy leans forward. "Y'know, maybe that's the real secret to good journalism – he's just nice. You could try it sometime?"
He's joking of course, but there is still something in you that stiffens. He's brushed an exposed nerve by accident.
You're nice. You are.
It's just… There's something about Clark Kent – something that seems to irk you specifically.
Beyond his ability to cop all the limited interviews with Metropolis' hero —which does indeed drive you up the wall— there is just something about him that gets under your skin.
He's so perfectly polite – so nice, it's almost to a fault.
You've seen him give his lunch away to someone who forgot theirs. He knows the names of the janitor's kids. He says hi to everyone in the office.
He says 'golly' for Christ's sake.
It's simply too good to be true. No one is just that good by nature — well, maybe Superman — and definitely not without something else, some other motive lurking below.
The journalist instinct in you itches. Something about him doesn't quite add up.
Besides, you've been around one of these guys before. Had the displeasure of being the idiot who fell for them and dated one. They're always a real sweetheart, convincing everyone that the sun shines out their ass.
They're the honey in a trap. They lure you in with sweetness for long enough, and you never realise it's slowly become vinegar in your mouth.
You like to think you know better now.
And on top of Clark's infuriatingly nice demeanour, and his penchant for snagging the front-page at the last second — he's knocked you to the second page of print twice now — is the fact he's, undeniably, attractive.
You have eyes. You can, begrudgingly, use them.
Even you can admit that Clark Kent is a 6 foot something, dark-haired and light-eyed, tall glass of water.
You suppose it's good thing that he doesn't strut around like he knows it. That might be the thing that tips him from a slight thorn in your side to downright unbearable.
Alright, now you're being dramatic. It's not like he's Lex Luthor or anything of that sort.
It's just that you're somehow the only one who seems to be wary of him, to notice the inconsistencies in his absences, to be distrustful of his kindness.
(You pointedly ignore the voice that tells you that says a lot more about you than it does about him).
It makes that little voice in your head, the one you spent so long working to keep quiet, wonder if you've got it all wrong. If you're losing your touch.
Because you know there is a chance that he is that nice and you're the only one too cynical, too scornful to believe it.
The cursor on the screen blinks back at you, almost mocking.
You steal a glimpse to your left, towards Clark. As if sensing the movement, he looks up from his computer. He smiles crookedly and gives a little wave.
You purse your lips and nod, acknowledging it, eyes quickly back on your own screen.
The cursor is still blinking tauntingly at you, in the same place as before.
You start typing just to get it to stop.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
It's usually a good day when the culinary column has leftovers for the office, you've learned.
It doesn't happen often. Today, it's a much needed pick-me-up. The November weather is gloomy. Overcast. The rain had fallen in sheets this morning, puddles pooling along the path to work.
You're trying very hard not to feel the squelch in your socks.
Impossible when you can hear it, a gross wet noise with every hurried step you take toward the break room, which is where they said the macaroons would be waiting.
Sweet, sweet sugary goodness, not far away — if you're not too late, that is.
You'd been entirely too wrapped up in your latest article, headphones in and world blocked out, that Lois had to tap you on the shoulder to get your attention.
You'd jumped, then turned with a fury in your brow at being interrupted—then clocked the treat in her hand.
"Better hurry," she had said, brows wiggling.
Springing to your feet, your thanks is nearly swallowed up by the swiftness of your stride— broken when you hastily have to backtrack to avoid having your headphones violently ripped out.
Headphones safely removed, you depart your desk at double speed.
As you walk, you roll out your sore shoulders. God, it's been a moment since you moved about.
Your neck isn't grateful for the hunched position you've kept it in either, twinging its annoyance. Still, you round the corner to the break-room with an impressive haste.
And—there.
On the table, perched in adorable ruby-coloured cupcake wrappers, are macaroons. Sage green little discs, cream sandwiched between them.
There are only two left.
Beside them, standing at the table, are Jimmy and Clark. Thankfully, both already have a wrapper in their grasp, meaning they've at least had one.
"Yo," Jimmy says, as you beeline for the table. "Just in time—"
Clark, for once, doesn't greet you with a smile. Instead, he frowns a bit, seeing your locked focus as you lead with an outstretched hand towards the plate.
"Oh, gimme," you urge.
Then, right as your fingers close around one, it's suddenly batted out of your hand.
It flies from your hand and makes not a sound as it lands on the ground, crumbling into the world's saddest pile of green crumbs.
Bewildered, you gape down at it, bottom lip unconsciously jutting out.
Your sorrow turns quickly to indignation. You look up at the culprit, eyes narrowed—but don't even get to speak before Clark's explaining himself.
"You're allergic to pistachios!" Clark stresses, sounding appalled. "What- why would you— that's why I didn't bring you one!"
Right, okay. What? Well, fine, okay, yes, pistachio would explain the green colour of the macaroons.
And yes, you are, technically, in the eyes of the law, allergic. Barely.
What's some itching in the throat?
Actually, better question: How does Clark know that?
Your brain skips a couple times, struggling to compute through both the implication that he's somehow figured out your very mild nut allergy—or that he would've brought one to your desk.
Your eye twitches. "You— how do you even know that?"
"You… You mentioned it during one of the team-bonding exercises they made us do," he says, abruptly sheepish.
He shifts on his feet. One hand scratches at the back of his neck awkwardly.
Jimmy, who usually can't take the cue to be quiet, picks now to say nothing. You decide you hate him.
"That—" You start, still reeling through Clark's answer. That exercise was months ago, when you first started at the Planet.
Born of tiredness, the weather, and the fact Clark's appalled expression is nearly, nearly cute — which is infuriating — a pettiness rises within you.
Despite being entirely correct, suddenly, you can only think, who is he to tell you what you can or can't eat?
"It's a mild allergy, Kent." You stress the word mild. "I think I'll live."
You can tell on his face that he doesn't really like that answer.
Frankly, you've decided you don't really care.
Glancing between the plate on the table and Clark, you make a split-second decision.
Your hand shoots out, but Clark is faster—and he snaps up the final macaroon before you even reach the plate.
Incredulity colours your face as you whip around, a scoff forming on your lips. Clark holds the macaroon between his fingers, his face one of tentative panic.
Then he promptly stuffs it in his mouth, whole.
"Clark!" Jimmy says, finally breaking his silence.
Clark, his cheeks now a burning red, begins to chew awkwardly through the treat in silence.
You stare at him.
What the hell? You're not sure if you're more pissed off that he stole the final macaroon from right under your nose – or that he did it to self-proclaimedly help you.
You can't quite believe the sheer audacity of the move. Or that he also, somehow, manages to look cute while he does it.
Woah. Cute? You blink hard.
The lack of sleep and excess of caffeine has to be getting to you. You do not find Clark Kent cute. Much. Not when he's just cheated you out of two macaroons now.
You open your mouth, ready to unleash a string of how dare you and just who do you think you are and what the freak, dude — and then you catch Jimmy's eye.
And you remember his stupid comment about being nice—and think about how he probably thinks Clark did something good.
Noble Clark Kent, saving the office idiot from herself. You close your mouth, say nothing.
Biting your tongue, it feels like your socks squelch extra loud in your aggravated exit.
Left behind in the break-room, Clark watches you go.
He finally manages to swallow the macaroon, which goes down lumpily. Cringing, he thinks that might be a top competitor for the driest mouthful of his life.
Never mind that. It's definitely taking out the top spot for one of his trying-to-help-turned-bad-turned-worse moments with you.
Clark has more of those than he cares to admit.
Gosh, how did he manage it? To not only fumble in the worst ways whenever it came to you, but consistently?
You might be one of the only people on the planet with a genuine reason to potentially dislike him. And it's entirely by accident.
Ironic, really, considering he feels pretty much the opposite.
Maybe that was the cause of this, his newest fail of epic proportions. The daft betrayal of his heart to go sky-rocketing at the simple sight of you. Though, Clark thinks simple is too small a word to describe you aptly.
Scintillating. Gorgeous. Otherworldly — and he actually has some idea of that. None of the words really match up to the image of you.
You've got purpose. Fire. You're a woman who knows how to do her job well—and that's exactly the kind Clark can't help being drawn to.
Too bad it's completely fruitless.
Clark stares at the doorway you've just disappeared through and positively wilts.
"So." Jimmy says, a thousand words stuffed behind the single syllable. Clark turns with a soft sigh to find Jimmy grinning like he's definitely enjoying this.
"How's that wooing going for ya?"
Clark sighs again, more weary this time, his cheeks no less hot.
He's beginning to regret telling Jimmy of his feelings for you—despite the fact it's good to have someone to lament to about your constant rejection.
Though, it's not as though he really handed that information over willingly. Jimmy had wormed it out of him after catching one too many lovesick glances across the office. Clark had vehemently denied it, but to no avail. He's pretty sure Lois has also caught on.
"You know, I think this was easier when you didn't know."
"Sorry, man," Jimmy grimaces, though he's really not radiating apologies. "Hey, I'd take it back if I could."
Clark delivers him a look that tells him exactly how much he believes that—not at all.
Jimmy laughs. "Yeah, okay, I'm lying. It's fascinating, watching you crash and burn every time."
He makes an airplane noise, a little neeeow, swooping his hand through the air before miming an explosion. Really helpful stuff.
It just makes Clark slump over even more than usual. His shoulders droop so much he's almost in danger of dragging his knuckles on the ground.
His eyes roam over the remains of the first macaroon you'd attempted to eat on the ground. Staring at it, Clark can admit it wasn't his finest move— and his only defense was that he'd acted in surprise.
Batting it out of your hand, though? Jeez, you probably think he kicks puppies in his spare time too.
It's just a touch humiliating that the situation he is so desperate to succeed in, is in the most hopeless.
Sure, he can save the world, but a regular interaction with his co-worker whom he happens to be crushing on? No dice.
His cheeks flare hot again. In an attempt to preserve some of his dignity, he buries his face in his hands.
"I don't know how you think this is helpful," Clark says, words muffled behind his hands.
"Okay, I'm sorry," Jimmy relents genuinely, holding his hands up in surrender. "I'll be helpful. What about… Have you thought about doing, I don't know, a romantic gesture? Getting her flowers?"
Clark drags his hands off his face, knocking his glasses as he does. A fingerprint smudges on one of the panes. He fixes them, straightening up at the seriousness in Jimmy's tone.
"You think?" He asks earnestly. "Wha— but I'm not even sure I know which kind she likes the most."
Jimmy does that half-hearted eye roll he always does when Clark's being infuriatingly earnest. He shrugs, slowly backing toward the exit. "You're a journalist, Clark. Figure it out."
Just before he disappears through the door, Jimmy pauses.
Mouth twisting to hide another smile, he points down to the crush of green macaroon that's slowly sinking into the carpet.
"Better clean that up before Perry sees it — otherwise we'll never get culinary treats again."
Then he leaves Clark alone in the break-room - with nothing but the remaining evidence of his latest fumble and a plan.
Half a plan.
The beginnings of one.
It's something at least, Clark thinks wistfully.
The siren of an ambulance whirs by on the street down below. Someone three floors up coughs. One of the interns peeks around the doorway, her face hopeful.
Clearly, word of macaroons passed round quickly.
Her face droops at the sight of the empty plate on the table. Well, Clark hopes it's because of that – and not the sight of him. She moves on without a word.
With a final sigh, Clark pushes back his sleeves and crouches down beside the green mess. As he picks, he ponders.
Flowers. Sure. Yeah, he could do flowers.
How on earth could he possibly fumble that?
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
There's a bouquet of flowers on your desk.
It's Monday morning, 8.45am, and you already have a plan of exactly how this day will unfold.
It's going to go swimmingly. You'll tackle the brute of that interview you'd gotten from Todd Inc. Industries yesterday; you'll treat yourself to a sandwich from Benny's for lunch; and you'll have no interactions with Clark Kent, if you can help it.
You've forgiven him for the macaroon incident — solely on the fact that he had somehow been a little bit right.
Not that you went home, bought yourself your own damn pistachio macaroons, and had to wheezily jab your EpiPen in your own thigh.
Of course not. You would never do such a thing. (Nor admit that to Clark).
So, begrudgingly, you've decided he's forgiven. The incident is not quite forgotten though.
All of this is to say—nowhere in your plan is a bouquet of flowers.
Treading a little slower, you approach your desk like it holds a ticking time-bomb and not an array of freshly cut greenery.
Your skeptical gaze darts over them, narrowed, looking for… something.
But they're just flowers.
Displayed in a pale blue vase, wrapped in coloured cellophane, bright marigolds and deep blush-coloured posies peep over the side.
You step closer, tentative. Your nose twitches. God, you can smell them sweetening the air. Which means they're probably expensive.
Which means your first thought is that this must be some kind of mistake — you are not the person who just gets flowers.
Stepping closer yet, you eye the bouquet as if it's going to grow teeth and bite you, dropping your bag into your seat.
Your face pinches together in thought, then quickly glance around the office, hunting for someone who's missing flowers.
Clearly, they've been put in the wrong place.
No obvious flower-shaped indent glows back at you, indicating their true place. You huff a sigh and look back at the flowers.
They are… lovely, you'll admit. Automatically, you check the office, making sure no-one's observing you.
Then, gently, you reach out and brush your thumb pad over one of the posy petals. It's fleshy, soft. Unbidden, a soft noise of longing escapes your throat.
When was the last time you got flowers?
The thought stains as it hits, and you remember exactly what the last occasion was. You snap your hand back.
Then squint at the flowers as if they might give you the answer. Would he…?
No. No, you hadn't heard anything since the break-up and that had been- been like a year ago.
He wouldn't. He wouldn't. You had been very clear.
You give a forceful shake of your head to clear the thought.
If it's not him, you're still not going to be foolish enough to entertain the thought they're meant for you.
Wrangling your bag to the ground, you slump down into your chair. The elevator chimes, people still trickling in. The clock reads closer to 8.50am now. You glance past your monitor.
The absence of your desk-mate is actually somewhat of a relief. Even though you have nothing to do with this, Jimmy is precisely the guy who will rib you for days for this mix-up.
You can already hear him now: Any flowers this morning, milady? Any callers to court you today? Shall we be expecting a marriage proposition any day now?
"Good morning."
Speak of the devil — you've spoke a smidgen too soon.
You turn, eyes already narrowed at Jimmy returning from the printers. He spots the flowers, face contorting into surprise, and really hams it up — which means he's definitely already seen them. Fantastic.
"Ooh, lucky lady." He wiggles his eyebrows. "Flowers, huh?"
You're not sure why you feel so defensive. "They're not for me."
"Aren't they? They're on your desk."
You cut him a look. You have to bite your cheek to stop yourself from commending his incredible observational skills.
But then, Jimmy leans forward, plucking a delivery card you hadn't spotted from the bouquet.
He turns it in his hand—and your name is printed on the other side in swoopy, curled letters.
Huh. You blink at it. They are for you.
After a moment, your brows knit together. That… might not be a good thing.
Did you piss off another band of lawyers, are getting sued to hell, and this is to soften the blow?
Are you being pranked right now?
Maybe you're getting fired. A moment later and you laugh at yourself at that thought. Yeah, that and Perry has grown a sudden unexpected soft spot for you overnight, enough to send you off with a fresh bouquet. Unlikely.
Jimmy offers out the card, and you take it, bringing it closer, as though the letters might change form if you look closer.
They don't. It's your name, for sure. Your desk number and everything.
You turn the card over in your hand. There's something written on the back.
I hope you can forgive me.
Blinking hard, you read the words again.
What day is it today? Your eyes glance to your desk, at the small flip calendar you have, and familiarity flashes from the date.
You read the card again.
Then once more, just to be sure—eyes darting between it and the date.
"Everything okay?" Jimmy's voice filters in, muted in your ears.
You make some noise in response, but it's far away from you. A sinking feeling begins to bury itself in your stomach. You really didn't want to be right, but you are. You must be.
Marigolds and posies. On the 16th day of November. I hope you can forgive me.
The sinking feeling transforms into a sharp sort of anger.
This Monday is really not going the way you planned. No way you're getting goddamn stalked.
Brashly, you stuff the card back into the bouquet, uncaring of the way they crush under your harsh movements.
"Woah, okay, what—?"
You ignore Jimmy and his surprise – you'll explain it later, or maybe never – and scoop up the flowers from the vase.
Water trickles out, leaving a scatter of fat droplets across your desk. You'll be pissed about it later, undoubtedly, but right now, you need these flowers out of your sight. Shredded. Do flowers burn well?
Goddamn, you thought this was done.
You thought he was out of your life for good—and that he could be remembered as a shitty ex, your worst mistake, and nothing more.
But, no. Of course, he's the type to love-bomb.
To think he can swoop back in, a year later, and pretend that nothing even happened. Your boots click loudly as you head for the trash at the front of the bullpen.
Which is, of course, when Clark makes his arrival.
You spot him coming around the corner and can already sense his unfathomably polite greeting. He sees you and smiles, giving an awkward wave that he plays off as adjusting his glasses. "Oh, hey—"
He appears to just now notice the flowers in your hands.
"Oh! Um, flowers-! Wow, those sure are nice—"
"I don't have time for you this morning, Kent." You say, for once not meaning to snip at him in particular. He's just in the crossfire of your very, very bad morning.
“You don’t…?”
Clark’s sentence trails off as you don’t even pause, breezing right past him.
The flowers crumple beneath your fingers further as your grip tightens without even meaning to, mind blazing with a well-rooted anger. You come to a stop before the trash.
With a resounding flourish, you dump the flowers.
They hit with enough force to flutter your hair back and send a loose sticky-note afloat for a second.
You huff, a little more settled at the sight of your ex's unanticipated attempt at a re-entry into your life exactly where it should be: going out with the garbage.
"Wow." A voice snaps you from your focused stupor.
You glance up, relieved to find Lois—even if she is glimpsing at the ruined flowers amongst the junk of the office with an amused look.
She asks, "What'd they do to you?"
You huff again, your shoulders sinking down as you do. "Let's just call them an unwanted advance."
Lois' dark brows raise, her lips pressed together as if holding back her next comment. She eyes the greenery in the trash once again, then her eyes travel over your shoulder. She focuses back on you.
"Well," she says evenly, her smile polite. "I'm sorry it feels that way."
Her eyes dart over your shoulder again, just momentarily.
You almost want to peer over your shoulder to see what had drawn her gaze. But the string twined around the flowers snapped, the cellophane around the flowers unwrapping in a loud, dramatic crinkle.
You eye the marigolds with a barely contained contempt.
The thought of who gifted them to you—of him tracking you down, finding your work, figuring out your very desk number—is nearly enough to make your lip curl.
A droplet of water slips down your forearm. You look down, spying the dew on your arms.
Abruptly, you're aware of just how you'd stormed across your workplace with all the grace of a toddler in the midst of a tantrum. All to trash some flowers.
You blink, then press your hands to your jeans, half to wipe them, half to calm yourself.
Right. You were fine. This was fine.
Just because— you weren't— just because he used to call you crazy didn't mean it was even remotely true. Even if you crashed out over a bouquet of flowers sent on your old anniversary.
You screw your eyes up and take a breather. This is why you kept your distance from him. He toyed with you. He liked seeing you rattled.
Feeling less ruffled, you wipe your hands again and trek back to your desk.
You pass Clark's desk, footsteps slowing. He sat now, his head bowed.
Despite all your usual prickliness, his averted eyes and the memory of your snappish tone brings a lump to your throat. An apology lodges it in.
Even your worst envy and disgruntlement hadn't had you being quite this rude before.
You open your mouth — then close it.
How does that apology even go?
So sorry Clark, my ex-boyfriend— who I nearly considered getting a restraining order against —sent me a bouquet of flowers, the same kind he always used to, specifically on our old anniversary as a pathetic bid to see if any chance with me — or maybe just to fuck with me — which isn't your fault, so I really shouldn't have snapped at you and your handsome, likeable face.
Bit of a mouthful, really.
You decide, maybe a bit cowardly, you'd rather swallow the regret instead. Continuing forward, you collapse into your seat opposite Jimmy.
For only a moment can you pretend to not notice his gaze.
Clearing your throat awkwardly, shuffling your papers, your eyes flick up. Your desk-mate stares across at you for a long moment, his eyes a little wider than usual.
Slowly, one eyebrow floats up.
He doesn't even have to voice his question aloud for you to know what it is. You can feel it.
What the fuck, man?
"Sorry," You exhale tiredly, too tired to explain for the same reason you didn't apologise to Clark.
It's barely a sentence. Even as his eyebrow joins its others' raised position, Jimmy is kind enough not to comment.
He only narrows his eyes into a bewildered squint. It doesn't match the polite, absentminded smile on his face.
Which you suppose is fair, considering the sentence you just said makes you sound like a six-year-old being asked her opinion on boys.
Shuffling your papers again for something to do, you sink down further in your seat. Embarrassment slights you.
God. How the hell did your morning get so bent out of shape?
The baby blue vase is still intruding on your desk space, so you nudge it to the side. The water within sloshes.
You sigh. "I'll explain later, okay?" you say, and you leave it at that.
Jimmy takes the cue from you and dutifully begins actually doing his work, as opposed to simply pretending to.
It takes another half hour to stop glancing over at the place you know the crushed flowers lie. It crosses your mind an infuriating amount of time, the niggling worry that they— that you might be wrong.
But you steel yourself. Marigolds and posies and on today, of all days. It has to be him.
You're too good a journalist to ignore the coincidence. Occam's Razor agrees with you too.
Besides, who else would be getting you flowers?
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
"Okay, I do think maybe the universe is working against you," Jimmy says, his chair gliding across the tiles of the Daily Planet.
He's got a cup of coffee in his hand, and the motion of his roller-chair nearly spills it, a wave of amber liquid sloshing up the side of the ceramic.
Clark watches it worriedly — it's a bit too late for coffee, but Jimmy never seems to let that stop him. It doesn't spill somehow. Jimmy comes to a halt next to his desk, thinking face on.
"That or she hates you." He offers, far too blasé about that potential for Clark's liking.
He's rolled over because you've taken a break from your desk to head to the restroom. It's the first time you've left your desk since The Incident. The blossom blunder. The flower fiasco.
Gosh darn writer's brain, Clark thinks, wishing he could turn it off for a moment.
He's grateful for Jimmy, but he's not sure he really wants to talk about it so soon after.
"Please don't say that," Clark says with a sigh, then drops his head forward into his hand. It's an all too familiar motion now. "I think I need to- or I don't think- I—"
He cuts himself off with another sigh, unburying his face from his hands.
He'd told Jimmy, yes, because the other man had all but squeezed the information out of him, but mainly because he needed help.
It had become evident that, despite all his best attempts, no wooing that Clark Kent can offer can seem to capture your attention. Now he can see it a bit more clearly.
You're inscrutable.
Or completely uninterested — in him.
"I think I need to leave it." Clark says with finality. He glances at the door that leads to the restrooms, checking you haven't returned. "I'm clearly bothering her."
"Mm, no." Jimmy says immediately. He wrinkles his nose and shakes his head. "There's something else there. I can, like, sense it."
"Sense it?" Clark echoes, almost too eagerly. He feels himself flush.
"Yeah, sense it." Jimmy shrugs nonchalantly, taking a sip of his coffee. "Call it my journalistic instinct. It… It doesn't make sense. It's gotta be something else."
Clark opens his mouth to defend you, to say that actually, you not being interested in him is something that may make perfect sense — but Jimmy beats him to the punch.
"How'd you pick the flowers?"
Clark blinks. He checks the door again. "Um. Social media."
"Social media? Which one?"
"The- the pictures one?" If Clark's being honest, there are far too many sites, and he's on none of them. "I just typed her name in, and a bunch of photos came up."
"In where?" Jimmy presses, eyes a little narrowed.
"The search bar…?"
Jimmy's face twitches, as though Clark's given a severely wrong answer, but he doesn't say anything.
Instead, he pushes back to his desk — coffee floundering again — and returns with his laptop in one hand.
"Okay," he starts, finally placing his hazardous coffee down, both hands rested and ready to type. "What and where exactly did you—"
In a manner much unlike himself, Jimmy abruptly shuts his mouth.
He presses his feet against the tiled floor and sails back to his desk smooth - just in time for Clark to catch a glimpse of you heading back for your desk.
Clark straightens up instinctively — then hunches back over. For once, he's not trying to catch your eye, not trying to sweeten your day with a smile.
It feels wrong to ignore you. But, well, whatever Jimmy says, whatever sense he says he has, Clark thinks you've made yourself perfectly clear.
You are not interested in him in the slightest. Not even as friends.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
For the remaining Monday, a day that feels like it's dragging its heels just to spite you, you do what you do best.
You ignore the flowers, the office, and dive headfirst into your work.
You're half an editor for the office – hence the office shark title – but half trying to shed the title. The big goal has always been to commit fully to your writing. It's… a steady work in progress.
Perry likes what you show him, enough that he keeps giving you assignments, but you're far from being relieved of editing duty.
Today, you're happy to have it. Tearing through first drafts and all but rewriting entire sections is much easier than doing any writing yourself.
The day goes slow, feeling as though time barely trickles by.
But no day can exceed its 24 hours. Five o'clock drags around, eventually, and frees you from the shift.
You have a date with your bed, hidden beneath the covers, and a re-watch of Dirty Dancing. Maybe some wine – though it is Monday.
It's as you're packing up with haste, eager to be out through the revolving door and away from work, that your gaze sweeps across the office. The realisation comes gently. Despite being in his usual place, you haven't seen Clark all day.
Huh.
And it continues that way.
Not that you're noticing, no. Of course not.
You actually normally make an effort not to notice Clark. He makes it difficult, what with his height and Midwestern manners that make him the nicest guy in the office.
But, somehow, when you make an effort not to notice someone, it can somehow have the opposite effect.
Like the task suddenly becoming suspiciously easy.
You make it all the way through Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday before you slip up.
Because, really, you should know better than to invite Lois Lane into your business. Doing so is basically giving her a pass to snoop into your feelings. And snoop she will, when given the chance.
Still, the question has been bugging you since the beginning of the week.
So much so that you can allow some snooping if it gives you some answers.
"Is Clark avoiding me?"
You're stopped at Lois' desk.
She's here early, like you are, and there's no Jimmy, no Clark, no Steve, no Cat, or much of anyone else to eavesdrop on your conversation.
"Mmmm," Lois barely manages to drag her eyes away from her screen to focus on you. The question you've asked sinks in a second later. "Avoiding you? Doesn't sound like Clark. Why don't you ask him?"
"You know, the funny thing about avoidance is…" You say dryly.
Lois' gaze is already back on her article. She shrugs, voice distracted. "Maybe the flower thing."
That has your eyebrows raising.
A glum guilt forms a stone in your throat that you have to swallow back. What, because you had a bit of a meltdown, he suddenly can't stand the sight of you?
You feel ticked off. Then realise you're feeling ticked off that Clark Kent, who usually irks you, is ignoring you. What has the world come to?
"The flower thing?" You start, already a bit ready for a tiff. "That's not—"
"Look," Lois interrupts you, a quiet desperation in her tone. "Can we please pin this? I'm in the middle of something here, and I really need to get this done before 1pm."
Your annoyance washes away in a moment, face pulling a sympathetic scrunch. "Yikes, a Perry-special deadline?"
Lois nods, an exasperated sigh blowing out of her mouth. "The very one." She pulls a thankful smile at your understanding.
"Need more coffee?" You offer.
"Oh, so much." She groans, moving to grab her cup. You take it from her, well aware of the pressure of a Perry-special deadline, and more than happy to help.
You grab yourself a cup while you're there and decide to brew a fresh pot for the office too, because it gives you more time to think.
Because, really, if you think about it, you shouldn't have noticed.
Since starting at the Daily Planet a couple months ago, a transplant from Metropolis Star, from day one has Clark Kent's seemingly innate niceness been there.
And since day one, you've been suspicious of it.
You maintain: no-one is that nice.
And not to you, least of all.
You're, for lack of a better word, abrasive. You know you can be… harsh.
According to your ex-boyfriend, you're seven kinds of crazy and a bitch too. A rude woman who's never going to find someone else who will love you like he does. (In your books, that's a relief).
You try not to take that to heart, because he certainly is an ex for a good reason—but, you also know that there is some degree of truth to his words.
You're… unpalatable to some.
You'd knocked heads with Lois for a while before eventually, shakily finding your footing in that friendship.
Jimmy and you had taken at least a month to move out of the frosty zone and start talking beyond glib comments.
You still can't stand talking to Steve.
But Clark? He'd been nice to you from day one.
There has to be a catch. The other shoe must be dangling, invisible and overhead, waiting to drop.
Because if there is, the grudge is easy.
Clark Kent stays at a distance, with you holding a ten-foot pole made up of unresolved issues.
You don't have to worry about what it does to your heart that he's still kind to you, even when he's seeing the worst parts of you. Let's you excuse the moments you've been storing to the side, harbouring, fueling something.
The grudge means you don't have to worry about what it means if he sees you.
It keeps you safe from the part of you that wants him to see you.
When the coffee smells like it's nearly burning, you're shaken from your thoughts, with a suspiciously yearning-shaped lodge in your throat.
You take the coffee off just in time to rescue it. It's a tad overdone, but you don't think Lois will be complaining. You hope.
You pour a cup for her, then half the sugar jar in too.
As you pour one for yourself, you resolve that you're… just not going to think about it.
Grudges, Clark Kent, feeling safe? Sounds like a problem for Future-You.
Probably to be dealt with in a healthy way, never.
You tell yourself it's a good thing that he seems to be avoiding you, because you can get more work done.
Then you nod to yourself as if that can make it true, and set off to deliver Lois' coffee.
Time dwindles by.
Jimmy makes a remark about the burnt coffee when he makes it to his desk, to which you glower in response.
Perry chews out some intern in the back for a serious misprint in yesterday's paper.
Keyboards clatter, and the soulless blink of the cursor taunts you all day.
You're ready for home by 5 o'clock, but — "You coming tonight?"
You look over your desk and blink at Jimmy before frowning. "Tonight? What's tonight?"
"Drinks." Jimmy reminds you, eyebrows raised. "Remember? For Cat's birthday?"
Right. As he says it, the memory does tickle at your mind.
The plan that Cat had made cute, personalised invitations for: black card, cat-themed, very fitting.
You quite liked Cat, even if you didn't know her too well.
Truthfully, going to a bar sounds like the last thing you want to do right now.
You've had a date with a big bottle of red wine booked and waiting since Monday—since the very moment those flowers graced your desk—and the last thing you want to do is try to socialise.
"Yeah," you say eventually, though it comes out a bit weary. "Yeah, I'm coming."
Jimmy grins. "Great. We're all thinking of walking together."
Your eyes travel up past him to the little group that's congregating close to the door, waiting for the stragglers to finish packing up.
Clark, Lois, Steve, a couple girls from other departments you don't know the names of.
Great. Cool. That won't be an awkward walk at all.
Though, you guess Clark isn't avoiding you anymore.
The revolving door has dragged a bit of snow in, the tiled ground wet with its melt. Stepping out into the chilly November night, you shiver instinctively.
Snow has been falling all day, a little softer now, little flurries that pass by and stick to your hair. The streetlights glow amber. The city is quieter under the muffle of fresh snow.
You keep your hands buried deep in your pockets. You end up at the back of the group.
It's a short walk to Crowley's, the dive bar Cat's chosen, so you don't mind too much. You're still the newest addition to the work group so you know how this goes.
Though, there had been some half-baked plan to stick by Jimmy's side. That idea clearly had been shared. The two girls whose names you don't know walk on either side, giggling easily.
Right. Because, somehow, Jimmy is the ladykiller of the office.
That had been surprising to find out — because if you had to pick anyone at a glance, you'd have put money on Clark.
Not that you would admit that. Aloud.
As you round the last block, you slide a little on an icy patch, stomach swooping. You curse under your breath, righting yourself a moment later.
Silently, and watching your feet more closely, you huff a sigh of relief, because wiping out with co-workers you're still getting to know ranks up there in terms of embarrassing.
You look back up, making sure you're still with the group — and lock eyes with Clark momentarily. He's looked back to check on you.
But then he's tugged back into conversation with Cat.
His head turns, showing an aggravatingly attractive side profile. You watch as his dimples appear with an easy smile, then subsequently curse yourself for finding them so endearing.
The chill has nearly made its way through your coat, so it's a relief to get down the stairs into Crowley's.
Inside, it's warm, crawling with heat that brings a flush to most everyone's faces.
A crowd of bodies fill the space, packed loosely. It's pretty busy for a Friday night.
Thankfully, Cat has had the forethought to book out one of the booths. You follow the single file of your group, filtering through the crowd one by one til you reach the back of the bar.
The booth fills up quickly, and in a matter of moments you realise there's only one seat left— the one next to Clark.
He looks at you still standing and blinks before giving you a hesitant, crooked smile.
You feel your treacherous heart give a lurch and damn it to hell. Then damn Clark for being as attractive and nice as he is.
You look at the seat again, considering.
Think of the flowers from Monday and his avoidance all week; think of the mess of your heart that only threatened to worsen when you got closer to Clark.
Yeah, you're gonna need a drink before that happens.
The wooden bar is sticky from spilled drinks— a fact you find out after placing your hand on it.
You pull it back with a frown, shaking your hand out with a quiet bleh! You make sure not to lean on it as you survey the scene before you.
Behind the bar, the bartenders look flustered. There's three of them, each moving with a pace that is both not fast enough and entirely unsustainable - making you extra thankful your retail days are behind you.
The wait gives you time to think. Gives you time to decide on exactly what you want to do tonight.
You'd been, for lack of a better word, moping for the better part of this week.
It had been an unsettling Monday, followed by a bout of paranoia that had you checking all your accounts.
Maybe you missed one; maybe there was something you'd forgotten.
You hadn't. Your ex was blocked on every single one of them, just as you'd left them a year ago.
It should appease your anxiety. Instead, it just makes it that much worse that he'd managed to figure out your exact desk.
The only regret you'd had with dumping the flowers, the only glimmer in your angry armour, was not taking the message card, hunting down each and every shop the brand had, and confirming your suspicions.
You decide that, between the flowers and the weirdness of Clark actually avoiding you back, you deserve a drink.
And an irresponsible hook-up.
Cat would forgive you — in exchange for the gossip.
Which is all good and well, because as you're done deciding, someone sidles up beside you, pushing through the crowd.
It's a man — a decent-looking one too, from what you can see.
He's tall, not quite as tall as Clark (shut up, brain), and he's got a beard that could probably be better taken care of.
But he's got a strong jaw and a decent head of hair. You can't tell what colour his eyes are in the dimness of the bar.
Eyes which fix on you for a moment.
Then he leans two arms up on the bar. "What's your poison?" He says, in lieu of a greeting, nodding in your direction. His voice is low.
"Wouldn't you like to know?" You say with a smile you don't quite feel.
You're testing the waters. Sue you, you like to play with your food a bit - see if they can handle you being a little mean.
"I would," the man says, turning more to face you. His eyes flick up and down, clearly checking you out. "That's why I asked, isn't it?"
It's a good enough response for you. You eye him up and down and decide, yeah, fuck it, you deserve this.
You know exactly the kind of guy he is.
He won't call you. The sex will be good… enough. It'll scratch the itch, leave you feeling probably a little shit about yourself.
Right up your self-deprecating alley for tonight. After all, misery does love company.
"Scotch." You say, in answer to his first question.
That makes his eyebrows raise. "Really? You can handle that, huh?" His eyes glitter darkly. "Didn't peg you for that kind of girl."
"You have no idea what kind of girl I am."
It comes out a little harsher than you're going for, but you blame it on the bad week chafing.
You go for a more simpering look to make up for it — but the man's eyes aren't on you anymore.
They're over your shoulder. You become aware of a sudden warmth behind you.
"Everything okay over here?"
You don't recognise the voice at first, as it's deeper than it usually is, but you don't even have to turn the whole way to know.
Striped tie, white button-up, broad shoulders.
Your simper turns into a scowl on a dime.
"Kent," you greet, through slightly gritted teeth. "What are you doing?"
Clark looks down at you, surprise showing on his face at your expression.
His 'tough' demeanor — tough your ass, Clark Kent doesn't have a tough bone in his body — melts under your glowering gaze.
"I'm— I was checking in." He stammers. He seems to shrink down a little, realising there seems to be a misstep somewhere.
"I don't need you to—"
"This guy your boyfriend or something?" The man at the bar interjects.
You whip back around, already blinking in shock. Boyfriend? How in hell did he make that jump?
"No," you say — at the same time Clark says, "Boyfriend?"
You shoot another glare over your shoulder because he isn't helping. It's too late.
You can tell the man has decided you're not worth the fuss, his hands raising up in a defensive motion.
"Look," he says. "Whatever you've got going on, I'm not getting in the middle of it. My bad."
You watch as he slips away from the bar, disappearing through the throngs of people, with a sinking feeling in your chest.
The moment he's out of sight, you tear around to face Clark. He at least hasn't fled the scene — which is more than you can say you would've done.
Your eyes scrunch closed, your hands raised in little claws of confusion. "What… just happened?"
Clark has the decency to look sheepish when you open your eyes, his shoulders rolled in, head hung low. "I thought he was harassing you."
"Harassing me?" You repeat, in a bit of disbelief. You'd love to know what hoops he jumped through to reach that conclusion. "I was flirting with him."
"Flirting?" Clark echoes. "You sounded mad at him!" He defends himself.
"Yeah? Well, do I sound mad at you?" You drop your hands, flexing them at your side. "Because I am! I can't believe you– you- ugh, that just cost me my hookup."
"Hookup?" Clark says — and oh my god, is there an echo in this bar?
You glance up at him, still confused, and notice there's a colour to his cheeks that wasn't there a second ago. "You were gonna sleep with him?"
Your jaw drops open an inch. Okay, yeah, he's from a small town in the South, you can excuse it a little bit.
But you hadn't expected him to be so tightly strung about this—especially considering it's none of his business.
You fold your arms tight across your chest. Clark gets an expression that embodies the word apprehension.
"Okay, Smallville, I don't know if you know, but it's 2025—"
Clark cottons on to exactly what he's said wrong, and though it seems impossible, his face flushes darker.
You barrel on, "—which means I don't need to be married to—"
"No!" He interrupts desperately. "That is not what I-! I would never insinuate that— I firmly believe in a woman's right to choose. You can… do as you wish…"
It ends on a feeble, quiet note as though Clark's realised all his problems tonight stem from talking too much.
He raises a hand to rub the back of his neck awkwardly, his cheeks still flaming.
He does seem genuinely remorseful — because he's so goddamn genuine in everything he does — that it softens you a bit. You know he would have had the best of intentions stepping in.
However, good intentions only go so far to dull your sharpened tongue.
"Yeah, well, thank you so much for your permission, Kent."
Clark's eyes shutter closed, an obvious regret rolling off him in waves. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to overstep, I— I'm just sorry."
God, how are you in this situation — where your co-worker, who you begrudgingly think is hot, but also don't like much (liar, says your brain), scares off your hookup and gets called your boyfriend in one exchange?
Deciding you'd rather apologise with a bottle of wine to Cat, you do what you should've done at the beginning. You decide to go home.
You sigh, "I think I'm just gonna head out."
"Because of me?" Clark says, sounding incredibly guilty.
It must be contagious, because you suddenly feel quite guilty too.
He rolls on, pleading in his voice, "No, please don't. I'm sorry- I'll help you find another one, another, uh," He coughs awkwardly. "Hookup."
He nods, not at all confidently.
Somehow, you doubt that would go over well.
Though, the thought does amuse you — Clark going around the bar, politely tapping different gentlemen on the shoulder, asking their availability and then talking you up.
God, you can't imagine he'd have all that much to sell them on.
His expression reminds you too much of a kicked puppy to fib to him. "No, not because of you," you say with a soft sigh. "It's just been… a week."
Somehow, it's as though your words make him look guiltier.
Blue eyes wide, he swallows thickly. "Look, I know I likely contri—"
"Kent," you cut him off. "I'm sorry, but I don't want to talk about it. I'm just," you heave another sigh. "I'm taking this all as a sign. It's not my night."
You shove your hands in your pockets, already dreading the cold that awaits you outside. "Think you can apologise on my behalf to Cat?"
Clark, looking more downtrodden than you've ever seen him, gives a slow nod. "Yeah. Yeah, I can do that for you."
"Thank you," you say, lips pursed tightly. You nod awkwardly, already ready to excuse yourself through the crowd. "Goodnight, Clark."
He watches you go.
The cold keeps you company the whole long, lonely walk home.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
November rolls into December and cold, snowy weather gets pulled along with it.
Despite Jimmy's protests, Clark knows he was right to stick to his instinct — that you were thoroughly uninterested in him.
He loses himself in assignments, head down, as the whole office struggles to meet deadlines in the abysmal weather driving down morale.
The only light glistening at the end of the tunnel? The Daily Planet Christmas party.
It's held at this swanky ballroom, same as every year. The fanciness of the place is balanced out with its cozy decor, dozens of couches and cushy armchairs dotted around the place.
Wreaths and garlands are strung around in all the colours of Christmas, sparkling under the fairy lights.
There's holly in every corner, tinsel around the doorframes – and Clark's sure he's seen some mistletoe under one of the doors out to the balcony.
It's Christmassy in a way that reminds him of home.
Reminds him of Smallville, plaid bedsheets, and the smell of Ma's fresh apple pie.
He's only half hoping you'll come.
A half hope because it appears that whenever he has any interaction with you, it somehow ends with him inserting his foot into his mouth.
It was becoming a concerning pattern at this point – one that he was rather desperate to break.
Yet still, some other part of him – a larger part if he was really honest with himself – still wanted to see you here tonight.
Amongst friends, even if he wasn't one of them.
And it's that part of him that sighs, a wistful romantic sigh he really should work on containing, when you wander in.
It's only been twenty minutes since the party started, so you're not exactly late.
And Clark would be lying if he said he hadn't been counting each minute of it, his eyes checking the door each time it had opened and someone new wandered in.
As subtly as he can, he takes you in with another longing sigh.
There's snow in your hair and on your coat. You look a little peaky from the cold, but Clark can already see the good the warmth of the party is doing to you. There's a bit of glitter on your eyelids, a berry-red colour on your lips.
You look captivating.
Gosh, he's in deep. Clark curses himself and his gooey heart. Despite all his fumbles, all his missteps, he can't shake the crush just yet.
He will. He will. You're perfectly within your rights to rebuff and reject him – you don't owe him a single darn thing.
But feelings are silly things. No matter how respectful he might be of your own, there's no quick fix to get his own to fade.
And with the way you look tonight, enigmatic and beautiful, all at once, Clark knows he's far from getting over it.
Tucked away in a corner, waiting for Jimmy to return with some drinks for the both of them, Clark fiddles with his tie awkwardly.
It's one Ma sent for his birthday – spotted and autumnal in colour.
He's not sure if it's in style or anything that suits him, but his Ma bought it for him, so of course, he's going to wear it.
"Yo," Jimmy announces his arrival, both hands occupied with two cups that are nearly overflowing with eggnog. "My bad I took so long. Got caught up talking to Cassidy at the punch bowl."
Jimmy hands one cup to Clark – who takes it – and then he glances over his shoulder, back at the punch bowl.
With one hand free, Jimmy sends a little wave back to the drinks table, to Cassidy. She promptly bursts into flustered giggles.
Clark takes a sip of the eggnog, though he knows it won't have an effect on him in the slightest. He gives an awkward smile at Cassidy, attention back on Jimmy when he spins back with a sudden, renewed interest.
His eyes are wide, sparkling with a devious enthusiasm, like when he's picked up a new lead in an assignment.
The moment he speaks, Clark realises why.
"I think I know why y/n trashed the flowers."
Clark holds back a little groan. It's nice that Jimmy is still rooting for him, really, it is. But there comes a time when it needs to be put to rest.
"Jimmy–"
"No, Clark," Jimmy interrupts – and he's grinning a little in a way that catches Clark's attention properly. "I was so right about my sense. It was something else altogether. I think, if you– just, wait–"
He takes a chug of his eggnog as he fishes his phone out of his back pocket, eyes fixed on it as he begins to hunt through.
A few clicks and then— he's holding it out towards Clark, showing a recognisable photo.
It's you – and another man, technically. But Clark hadn't been looking at that, just at the bouquet of flowers in your hands.
Marigolds and posies. You're smiling at the camera, but, looking a little closer, he can tell it doesn't quite reach your eyes.
"The photo you found, was it this one?" Jimmy asks, sounding like he already knows the answer.
Suddenly feeling a little timid, Clark shifts on his feet. Then nods. "Uh, yeah. Why does that matter?"
"Clark," Jimmy starts, phone still held out. "That's her ex. After what happened, I looked up her name, like you did. And look, I follow her, and these photos? Nowhere on her page."
He takes another fast sip of the eggnog, talking through his mouthful. "So I followed the thread, and all of those photos are on his. He just accepted my follow, just now. Look, he has all these photos up, but she's deleted them."
Jimmy's pulled the phone back, his thumb scrolling down the page on his screen.
Photos flash by, the dates stretching back, and you're in all of them – smiling stiffly, on his arm, looking like a completely different person.
"And," Jimmy adds on, drawing his hand back. He studies his phone intently, clearly looking for something in particular. "Look. Look. The day you sent them?"
He waits until Clark's squinting at the screen – taking in the date of the post in particular.
"It was on their goddamn anniversary."
Clark blinks, taking in the information. The realisation settles over him, feeling like a burst of sunlight amongst the snowy weather.
"She didn't know it was me who sent it." He murmurs more to himself, tasting the words, the understanding, as it melts on his tongue, sweeter than anything.
You hadn't known it was him.
You'd thought it was – your words suddenly ring back through his memory. Let's call it an unwanted advance.
An ex you've all but scrubbed from your life, clear you want to be rid of—an ex that still has all your photos posted, clearly holding on.
Gosh, no wonder you'd trashed the flowers in the manner you did.
Then you'd hunted for something to soothe the sting in the bar – just for him to ruin that too.
Oh, Clark thinks he might be the unluckiest fool in all of Metropolis.
Jimmy watches all the shades of Clark's realisation, pocketing his phone and trying not to look too smug. He fails horrendously.
"See, what'd I tell you?" He sips his eggnog again, brows raised a mile high. "Sensed it."
"She didn't know." Clark repeats, unknowingly clenching his cup of eggnog a bit too tight.
Did it get warmer in here? His tie suddenly feels too tight.
He blinks and looks down at Jimmy with a seriousness usually reserved for Superman affairs. "I have to let her know."
"Yeah, you do!" Jimmy says, giving an affectionate punch to Clark's shoulder.
It bounces off easily, and Jimmy hides his wince, giving his hand a delicate shake. "Universe working against you, I called it. There's still hope, man."
"Wha– Jimmy, no." Clark pivots, realising what his friend meant. "Look, what matters most is that she knows she isn't getting– getting stalked by an overbearing ex, okay? Not my feelings."
He thinks back to the bar, the fumbling interjection, the misread situation, the frustration in your face.
No, Clark had dug himself a big enough hole. It was time to put down the shovel.
Jimmy's expression grows serious, his brows pinched together.
"Look, Clark, you haven't tried just… telling her. How you feel. You've been so focused on these hints, these gestures, and look where it's got you."
Clark winces at the reminder, and an apologetic look settles over Jimmy's face.
"Sorry, sorry. Just – maybe being forward is the best thing here?" He offers, shoulders hunching up in a shrug. "Like, as far as we know, she could have no clue what your feelings are. Don't you think you should at least let her decide before you take away the chance?"
Clark sighs, glancing up from his eggnog to look across the room.
You're easy to spot, because Clark has so much practice, his eyes drawn to you easily.
Jimmy did, despite all his smugness, have a point.
"Fine," Clark says eventually, a sigh laced through it. He's crashed and burned through several interactions with you; what's one more? "Okay. I'll tell her."
An infectious grin spread across Jimmy's face like wildfire, his cheeks rosy from the eggnog that he's probably already had too much of.
Jimmy's a small guy. Him and liquor are an interesting equation.
"Attaboy!" He crows – going to sock Clark in the shoulder again, before he thinks the better of it. "Trust me, it'll go well. I can sense it."
Clark's pretty sure Jimmy's just talking it up to make him feel better – but if Clark pretends to believe it, he can use it.
He rolls his shoulders back, ditches his half-finished eggnog on a nearby table, and swallows nervously as he adjusts his tie.
Sure, yeah, Jimmy's sense was usually right. It's just a lot to hang on a usually.
Clark tries to haphazardly fix his hair, running a few fingers through the black curls. He hopes his cologne still lingers.
As he straightens out his sleeves, he looks back to Jimmy, nerves already rearing up. "Do I look alright?"
"Buddy," Jimmy says earnestly. "You look like a million bucks. Go get her."
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
Christmas parties aren't usually your thing.
Work events are a strange in-between social activity, where co-workers cross lines they never would at work, and you get the pleasure of seeing your boss in a tinsel bowtie.
Christmas jingles play all night, and the drinks are either not boozy enough or far too boozy.
Taking a sip of the punch you've served yourself, you cough a little, throat burning. Definitely on the too boozy side.
You silently pray no one witnessed that, taking a quick glance around, to quickly realise that at least one person did. Lois sidles up to your side, holding back her laughter with a smile.
"Don't say a word." you say a little hoarsely, before she can speak.
That makes her break, a laugh tittering out. She hides it behind her cup of punch.
"The punch has been taken over by Cat. If you'd been here earlier, I would've made sure to give you some warning."
She gives you a delicate nudge with her elbow. She looks beautiful tonight – a darker lipstick that she normally wouldn't wear to the office. Her blue eyes are darkened with make-up, her lashes long and spidery.
She comments idly, "I wasn't sure if you were gonna make it."
You decide you need another sip of punch so the honesty can slip out.
"I wasn't sure if I was gonna make it either, to be honest."
You glance around the party filled with your co-workers – and wonder if you'll ever truly shake the feeling of alienation. You know half of it is in your head. Yet, you've been at the Planet for months, and you still feel so new.
"Yeah, well, given you didn't stick around at Cat's drinks…" Lois trails off, and when you turn to her, she's fixed on you. Her eyebrows raise an inch.
She wants you to explain. You suppose that's fair.
Mulling over your thoughts, you think of how best to put it, when– "Was it because of Clark?"
You blink, a little surprised at her question.
"What?" Then, a beat too late. "No. No, it wasn't because of Clark."
Lois doesn't seem convinced by your answer, tilting her head with a little hum. "Mm, I saw him go up after you to the bar. Which, shortly after, you left."
You feel exposed that she witnessed your little spat with Clark. You'd hardly call it a spat though – it was more like, well-intentioned, incredibly nice Clark Kent stepped in and you snapped in his face.
You heave a sigh, thinking back to where you should start. The flowers?
Actually, now that you think about it, Lois never did tell you why Clark was avoiding you over that.
She beats you to the punch again, this time with a question that peels back all your layers. "You don't really like him, do you?"
She's not wrong, so why does the question bite?
Maybe the sting in your chest means she and you are both wrong.
You think over how much Clark has plagued your thoughts these last few months, how he'd managed to aggravate you, managed to draw your attention seamlessly.
He just… vexed you.
He's tall and handsome and so fucking nice — and he pushes your articles to the second page, gets all the Superman interviews, and, apparently, remembers you have a nut allergy.
He's– He's Clark!
You suck in a sharp breath. "What? No."
It sounds weak, even to your ears.
For some reason, that seems to irk Lois. She takes another sip of her drink, brows still raised at you over the rim of it.
"I don't get it," she says, after she swallows. "He's so nice. Like, chronically nice. Why is it such a chore for you to admit that he's a good guy?"
Something inside you stings and recoils at being called out for being unreasonable. Your excuses start tumbling out.
"Because I can't!" You hiss quietly. "Because– because he steals my front-page spots, and he gets all the exclusive Superman interviews. He rubs it in my face!"
Lois scrunches her face up a bit. "He doesn't steal them; Perry gives them to him." She states factually.
Which, yes, you know that Lois — but isn't she supposed to be on your side?
"And he can't control who Superman decides to talk to." She continues on, her tone nonchalant, easily picking all your gripes and dissolving them to nothing. "They have a relationship that allows Clark an in. It's a source the same as any other—you can't expect him to share that."
You huff, shoulders deflating, the wind thoroughly taken out of your sails by Lois' sound logic.
Of course she's right. Of course you're the stubborn idiot who can't let it go.
"Aren't you supposed to be on my side?" You whinge.
"There are no sides." She says with a smile and an affectionate roll of her eyes.
"Seriously, I think you're getting in your own way with this one. Why is it so hard to admit that you might have no real reason to dislike him?"
"Because-" The word gets stuck on your teeth. "Because he can't just be that nice! And if he is, and if I do admit it, then I have to admit how much I actually like him."
It comes out scathing — as if that can cover up the truth of what you've just revealed.
You don't even hear it until Lois's expression settles into something far too close to a smirk.
Oh shit. What did you just say?
"Wow," Lois says, blue eyes bright. "How much you like him? Do you… Do you have feelings for Clark?"
A preposterous idea. Positively ridiculous. Nonsensical.
No, you've never thought of Clark in that way—nor how great he would likely be at being a boyfriend.
You didn't think of how different he treated you compared to your last boyfriend, how much nicer he was to you, without the two of you even being friends.
Your denial is fast.
"No!"
Lois is faster.
"So you're just pretending you don't have feelings for Clark?"
"Yes!" You sputter, then realise exactly what you've just admitted. "No, I mean, no! Fuck, stop interviewing me right now, I'm- I'm not—"
Your words trail off into a lackluster sigh. You couldn't even kid yourself now, not with Lois' interrogation tactics shoving you into a spotlight.
You swallow, feeling the uncomfortable truth go down, burning like a gulp of the too-strong punch.
Clark Kent is nice. You like that he's nice. You like him – and there was zero chance in hell that he liked you back.
And you would rather tie yourself in knots than look that truth in the face.
"Okay, you know, this actually makes a lot of sense," Lois muses, more to herself than to you. She's staring at the floor, clearly turning things over in her head.
"Yeah–and yeah, but, then," she looks up, now graciously including you in the conversation again. "Why trash the flowers?"
You sigh again, the chafe of your ex coming up yet again wearing you down. "Look, my ex–"
Someone clears their throat behind you.
You watch Lois' expression as it changes from polite surprise to something far more knowing. A smile pulls on her lips.
"Hi, Clark," She says – and you feel a jolt of anxiety run through you.
God, is this the Christmas party from hell? You've barely been here 15 minutes, had your feelings for your fellow co-worker weaseled out of you by a different co-worker, and now he's here? Behind you?
God, you can't catch a break.
"Hi, Lois," he says as you slowly spin on your feet.
You go slowly, as though it might somehow, through divine intervention, change who's standing behind you.
No dice. Clark stands before you, in one of the most hideous ties you've ever laid eyes on, his attention fixed on you.
You swallow thickly. Think about saying hello, then decide nothing but a squeak will come out if you open your mouth, and save yourself the embarrassment.
It doesn't deter Clark.
In what looks like a nervous motion, he nudges his glasses up his nose and clears his throat.
"y/n. Might I talk to you for a moment?" He glances up to Lois, then back to you. "Privately."
Another jolt of anxiety, this one straight to your system. You feel your pulse pick up a bit, wondering what wicked deity above had it out for you.
Steeling yourself, you think: fine, let's rip this bandage off.
It sounds strong in your head, but your voice comes out as a croak when you say, "Alright."
Still, Clark nods.
He turns, and you, albeit reluctantly, follow him through the crowd, making sure to keep your distance. You don't look back at Lois, already picturing the expression on her face.
Ahead of you, Clark's eyes spy over his shoulder every couple seconds, as if checking you're still there. When he reaches the edge of the room, it's apparent he hadn't thought about what private place to take you to.
"Darn," he says, more to himself. "There isn't exactly…"
He trails off, eyes locking onto something, and you follow his gaze to the balcony door. You resist the urge to snort.
It'll be private for sure — no one else is foolish enough to brave the cold outside.
Clark glances back at you, an infuriatingly endearing expression that reeks of polite guilt. Yet still, he pushes forward, sliding the door open and stepping out into the snow.
You glance at the mistletoe hung over the balcony doorway and gather yourself with a slow inhale. Then bravely follow him out.
Outside is a whole different world.
Whiter than white, flurries of snow twirl about in the soft wind. You can see the street out here, a traffic light cycling through its rainbow of greens, ambers, and reds. There are cars on the roads too, yellow taxis and blue buses braving the slippery streets.
The sound of them is muffled against the snow, so much so that all you can really hear is the crunch of your own footsteps on the balcony.
It's decently tucked away from the party, wrapped around the part of the building that none of your co-workers are really inhabiting.
Private, indeed.
Your breath comes out in a cloud before you. Really, you would've grabbed your coat if you knew you'd be facing the frosty climate again so soon.
Wrapping your arms tightly around your middle, you focus on the man you'd followed out here.
Clark, irritatingly, doesn't appear cold at all. In fact, his arms remain at his side, his hands clenched into tense fists.
You eye him up and down and prepare for the worst.
Rip off the bandage, Kent, you will him mentally.
"I want to apologise."
You blink. Huh?
"W-What?" It's so unexpected that you stumble over your response.
"I'm sorry," Clark says genuinely, then keeps going like he's on a roll, and if he stops he won't be able to get the words out. "I– it was meant to be a nice gesture, but, well, the wires got a little crossed. And I can see now, that was my fault. Really, I should've signed the card but I…"
Signed the card…? You know you must be looking very confused right now.
"I," Clark clears his throat, then shoves his hands in his pockets. "I was the one who sent you the flowers."
A dim realisation goes off, like a lightbulb at the very, very back of your head.
The card he should've signed; the flowers. The flowers! The flowers!?
The very ones you had very publicly, in front of the whole office, in front of Clark, trashed.
You can feel the confusion pulling at your face, contorting it to a bewildered expression.
There are a thousand questions.
One stands out.
"Why would you get me," You jab a finger into your own chest harshly. "Flowers?"
"Well, uh, originally to apologise for the macaroon incident in the break-room. But also because…"
Clark sucks in a deep breath, then stares up at the sky, as if gathering his strength. A few snowflakes find a home on his eyelashes. God, he's so pretty (shut up, brain), it's not even funny.
"Because I like you." He says, evidently nervous. "In a romantic sense."
Maybe when you came outside, you slipped on the ice and hit your head.
That must be it – this has to be some dazed dream from a knock to your head.
Because you could've sworn Clark Kent just told you… he likes you.
Romantically. As in, with romance in mind. He's crushing on you, so to speak.
Wants to hold your hand and kiss you on the mouth.
Unwittingly, you warm a little at the thought. It's overshadowed by the much, much stronger emotion: astonishment.
"You…" You can't help how the disbelief colours your words. "Like me?"
"Well, uh," Clark clears his throat, glancing up at the sky again nervously for a moment. He nods, finds your eyes, and speaks more surely this time. "Yes. Yes, I do."
Yes, you've hit your head. You're probably in the back of an ambulance, high on pain-meds, at this current second.
That, or Cat spiked the punch with magic mushrooms and you're experiencing a very, very vivid hallucination.
It doesn't compute.
"But I'm…" You struggle to find the right words. He can't like you. It just doesn't make any sense.
The words come out a bit opposing on instinct: "But I'm rude."
"You are not," Clark defends quickly, his brow furrowed. He pulls his hands out of his pocket to wave them around. "You're spirited."
"I'm distrustful." You counter.
What are you doing!
"You're protective!" Clark claims.
"I stole an assignment from under you in my first week at the Planet!" You say with indignation.
Internally, you reel at yourself. It feels like there are a thousand little gnomes running around wildly in your brain, bashing it with hammers.
Why, why, why are you trying to convince him not to like you?
"You needed to establish yourself as a writer." Clark says easily, with a shrug of his shoulders. "And it was a beautiful article, much better than how I planned to write it."
"I threw your flowers in the bin!" You remind him, a little more desperately now, despite the fact you very much did not know they were from him until about 70 seconds ago. "In front of you. And everyone else at work."
"You thought they were from an ex," Clark says with another shrug, far too understandingly. "Who you suspected was stalking you."
"I'm…" You're running out of things to say now.
How is he not flinching in the face of all your flaws? At all your ugly parts?
How have you done all this to keep him at arm's length, and he's still decided… still says he…
"I'm mean." You say firmly.
So why does it feel like your bottom lip is about to start trembling?
That for some reason makes Clark chuckle, a smile breaking out on his gorgeous face.
He shakes his head. "Well, that one is just plain untrue."
You stare at him for a long moment. He has an answer for all of it. He means it. He likes you.
"You really believe all that about me, don't you?" You ask, and it comes out a little awed.
Like his faith in the world, in people, is something you're finally seeing the size of — and you can't see past the end of it. It goes on forever. He really does think you're wonderful.
It makes a stone form in your throat. It doesn't matter what he thinks; you know how this ends.
Good intentions only get you so far—and whilst you've somehow convinced Clark you're worth it, you can't keep that up. Something will fracture. He'll get tired of something – of you.
"It doesn't matter," you say, a little bitterly, your eyes dropping to the ground. "It's- we— I couldn't."
Clark shifts somewhat uncomfortably on his feet. "Well, yes, if you don't feel the same way, I–"
You don't mean to cut him off, but a laugh, a nearly delirious, scornful one, bursts out of you.
You hadn't been looking at it, but Clark's confession slides your feelings right under the microscope – magnified and impossible to ignore.
You're laughing at yourself. For letting a pretty face and some niceness win over your best attempts to deny yourself this. You have the backbone of a chocolate éclair, clearly.
This is such a bad idea. Why do you still want it anyway? You're wildly torn, head and heart tied in a vicious battle. How do you have this and keep your heart safe at the same time?
"I," you begin, stammering to a stop. "Clark, you're– you're you! Of course, even when I was trying not to, I had… I had feelings for you."
There's a long moment. You worry your words have been swallowed up in the snow. You really don't want him to make you repeat it.
But he only asks, quietly, "Had?"
You want to laugh again — because you could probably have slipped that past anyone else. Not Clark.
"Have," you say, feeling pathetically exposed.
You can't look at him. You're studying the pile of snow building up on your shoes with intense interest, wondering how the hell this doesn't end wrong.
Part of you is still reeling from his confession, still churning out new disbelief. He likes you. He likes you.
"You say you couldn't." Clark says gently, making a very important distinction. "Did you mean… you wouldn't? Why not?"
"Me." You state plainly, finally looking up at him.
You gesture to your chest - to the big, gaping hole in your heart - like it's obvious, like he should be able to see it from freaking space.
"I'm why not. I'm—"
You cut yourself off to a mutter.
"It wouldn't be good. We'd go on one date and– and it'd go bad, or I'd mess it up, and you'd realise what everyone else already knows. And then we'd have to be awkward co-workers for the rest of time. Which, if you think before was bad, let me tell you, it can get worse."
He doesn't say anything for a moment, eyes studying the ground, and you think, with half relief and half devastation, that you've convinced him.
Oh god, please don't have convinced him.
You feel like your heart's on a string, and you keep tangling it up, then giving Clark the knot—waiting for the one he can't undo.
Waiting for the problem too difficult, the one that's finally not worth the effort.
"Maybe," Clark says eventually, with an even shrug, and your heart sinks.
Plummets. You wanted this; you wanted this – you can't be this devastated.
And then he says, "I can't promise the date will be good, but…"
Your heart soars again, tugged up your throat. You look across the balcony at him, and you can barely feel the chill of the wind anymore.
"I know that I like you enough that I'd like to try."
Your gaze shifts to stare at the ground, hard, because you don't think you can take something that genuine head-on.
God, he really gives a shit about you. Like, he really likes you, the full ten yards, and everything. How did that happen?
You can do this. Can you do this?
He wants to take you on a date. You're spirited, protective, a bit too harsh sometimes, and Clark has looked at that whole package and said, That's the one I want.
You've been helpless at denying yourself this whole time. Really, what's one more time?
Despite the part of you that screams about how it could all go wrong, you grip the hopeful part of you that sings, What if it all goes right?
Shit, is that itchiness behind your eyes? Are you about to cry?
You sniffle and give yourself away in one sound.
"I haven't been on a date in a while." You admit very quietly, letting yourself open up just a crack. "I might not be very good, uh, company."
You hear the snow crunch as he steps closer, closing the distance between you. The balcony suddenly seems so much smaller.
You force yourself to be brave, to look up — and you're instantly rewarded with a smile you've never seen before.
Clark is beautiful when he's happy—grinning with the radiance of the summer sun.
You realise you've never really had that grin directed at you. For you. Because of you.
"That's okay," Clark says, closer to a whisper. It sounds like he really means it. "We can figure out a good date together. Whatever you wanna do."
God, he looks gorgeous out in the snow. It eddies around you, carried by the wind, and even with the cold, it feels like a part of you has finally thawed out.
You might not get to have this – but you get to try. And that's enough.
Clark huffs, a happy sound, opening his mouth to speak when–
"Yo!"
A loud rapping on the glass door startles you both, whipping towards the sound in an instant.
It's goddamn Jimmy Olsen.
He's holding a cup of the eggnog, and you can spot a bit that he's spilled down his front.
His cheeks boast the warmth of indoors – or maybe it's just the booze of his drink. You and Clark both blink at him, bewildered by his interruption.
"Mistletooooooe!" He points above the balcony doorway, at the one you'd remembered seeing as you passed under it.
It stretches the rules a bit — you and Clark aren't under it — though you have a feeling Jimmy doesn't care about that in the slightest.
His voice is a bit muffled through the glass, but you can clearly make out what he says as he yells, "Them's the rules!"
You fluster a little, turning back to Clark – who, adorably, looks much the same.
"He's drunk," he says sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck. "And he's been listening to me try to woo you for months, so," he coughs awkwardly. "Excuse him."
Only Clark Kent would use the word woo and mean it with complete sincerity.
The other words catch up. Months. Months, he said.
How did you deserve this?
It’s a small voice in your brain you’re becoming very unfond of. Shaking off your past, you decide, at least for tonight, you're done with that question.
You step a little closer, close enough to feel the fan of Clark's breath over your skin.
He smells like bergamot, something musky, and a spiced Christmas pie.
"It's the rules, right?" You say, a little breathier than you intend.
But Clark is watching you closely, pink colouring the apples of his cheeks. His beautiful mouth is pulled into a hopelessly endeared smile, his dimples showing.
He's looking at you like you're all he wants.
"Right," Clark breathes, the word barely audible.
You can hear it just fine, because it's a murmur that passes his lips as he leans down, nearing your lips.
He hesitates. You know it's because he wants you to be sure you want this so soon. But you've think you’ve wasted enough time already.
Press up on your toes, you grip him by his unsightly tie, and – for the first time in months – you meet him midway.
And with his lips against yours, soft, warm, entirely dedicated to kissing you breathless?
You can't even feel the cold anymore.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
ok my loves i'm posting this thang so i can get OUTTA here and start watching me show :) i hope it is enjoyed!! @citrinesparkles @sparklingsin are the two peeps i know would like to be tagged but otherwise, i relinquish this the tumblr void & hope it doesn't flop :P
Noootttt trying to be mean, just wondering. Did you take the header images for your Clark Kent nipple fic from @coquettepascal ? I loved your fic but I legit thought it was her fic for a second 😂😂
yes!!! i was thinking about the nipple fic for so long and then I remembered about her fic and the header, tbh I just thought abt the big boob!clark Pic and I went to pinterest to find the other one, it was such a coincidence I choose the same as her's
summary: You are forced to marry quickly after a rumor is spread about you.
warnings: loose historical au (read I had no time period in mind just an idea which means historically inaccurate to any time period), forced marriage, forced proximity, religion (implied christian), unspecified age gap, shame, loneliness, guilt, religious guilt and shame, anxiety and depression, mentions of death/wanting to die, abusive family dynamics, kind of dad's friend but only kinda, fear of violence, fear of intimate violence, mentions of violence, gender norms of the time period, sexually inexperienced reader, brief smut (fingering, handjob, piv)
a/n: this was literally supposed to be 700 words. girl, anyway.
He is much older than you thought he would be.
Much older than you were led to believe in the feeble, short few days you had to come to terms with the betrothal.
Fear chokes you, holds your lungs in terrible, tight fists, as work roughened hands lift your veil.
This is how you first see him, cloaked in lace quickly scrounged by your mother for this moment, fingers trembling in white sleeves that don't belong to you. You have avoided looking at him, until this moment, unsteady gaze on his shoes instead, the hem of his trousers, afraid that you might lose your composure otherwise. And you will not give anyone the satisfaction of your tears.
The veil softens his features, rubs out some of the lines from his face like charcoal smudged on a page. You tilt your face up as he folds the fabric back. His movements are surprisingly gentle, careful not to brush your face or hair.
You keep your expression carefully composed, stony. He might be your father's friend and peer, but he is certainly older. His forehead is lined; crow's feet bracket his eyes. His beard is mostly gray, and it looks as though his dark hair is following suit. A scar bisects the bridge of his nose, others mark the high points in his cheeks, faint nicks that could have been from shaving or something else entirely. Brawling when he was a boy, maybe, falls taken while drunk.
It's hard for you to pass judgment since you don't know him at all.
Despite that, his shoulders are broad. His chest and arms are thick. He looks strong and capable, and that could bode very badly for you.
Even so, even so much older, he is handsome.
That handsomeness means nothing for you know nothing of him, of what kind of man he is, how he might treat you as a wife.
The chapel echoes around you, empty but for your father and the priest. White winter light spears down from a window set high in the stone wall, cold, high wind whistling just beyond.
His eyes travel over your face, cataloguing your features like you have been memorizing his. Your eyes meet his for the briefest of moments. The touch is not warm; his brows lower over a hardened gaze. He looks to the priest and nods, who begins the ceremony without preamble. Apparently your looks have been found suitable enough to go through with it.
You will yourself not to cry, to keep the bile rising up the back of your throat in check.
The words pass over you in a torrent, meaningless and loud, vows and promises of obedience and faithfulness, humility and deference. All, it seemed, directed at you. Your husband, you gather, would be your shepherd, your judge and jury, your king, dealing out punishment as he saw fit for the mistakes you were guaranteed to make.
Like a child. For obviously you, a girl, a woman, needed such guidance. Your family would.
Your stomach knots at the thought. Children, which meant you would have to endure the act you'd been accused of in the first place to land you here, in this quiet church on a blindingly cold Saturday morning. In shame, in relative secret.
"You have been ruined," your mother had said when you were told of the arrangement, spittle flying in her anger and disappointment. "We have no choice."
"Mother," you had pleaded, "It isn't true."
Her gaze had been cold and hard by necessity, steeling herself for the fate that awaited you. All because jealous girls had condemned you. "The mayor's daughter has spoken against you. Would accuse her of being a liar?"
Bad enough, to have relations out of wedlock; terrible, wretched, that you had done so where someone could see. That you had been caught in the snow, against the side of her father's stables with a farmhand. Loud and unseemly, and, worse, unabashed. The picture of untrammeled lust.
"I did not—" You had protested, throat thick with tears. "I haven't spoken more than a word to the boy." Boy, because he was a few years younger than you. He'd eagerly taken up the story from the mayor's daughter, something swaggering in his voice, falsely humbled by his mistake for which he would not be punished. The only reason you were not being forced to marry him, was his engagement to the daughter's best friend. Though, she had not looked happy to be taking on the embarrassment of being attached to a man with a wandering eyes, something mean had glittered in her face too. "I wasn't even anywhere near those stables—"
"Enough!" Her voice had rung loudly in the kitchen. "It's been settled. You will be grateful anyone would marry you with those accusations hanging over your head. It's this or-or," she stammers over the words, "destitution."
It doesn't matter. You know nothing you could say matters. It's the mayor's darling daughter's word, and all her friends', against yours, and you have spent too many years being untamed for it to matter. You should have been married years ago, instead you disappeared into the forests surrounding the village for days at a time, read when you should have been pursuing the womanly arts of cooking or mending or weaving, argued when you should have practiced humility and silence, skipped Sunday service. Worn trousers only once, because you had received lashes for that.
You were accused of waywardness or sharpness of tongue and ill discipline. Someone, the whispers said, should have beaten it out of you long ago; that a timely marriage and children could have mellowed you out.
Too late for all that now.
"An old friend of your father's has graciously agreed to help us," she'd said casually, bustling about the washing. "You're lucky he is in need of a wife."
It froze something within you. "Mother, please—"
"You should have been married years ago, anyway," she says briskly. "Your father should have never allowed you such wildness and freedom. It does not suit a lady. Look where it has landed you."
Her scorn hurt, and your venomous tongue retaliated. "But to a man I don't know? You would throw me to wolves for this? He might be a brute—"
"You could do with a hard man," she'd said, not looking at you. "It might finally teach you your place."
"I would rather die—" you'd all but choked.
"By all means," she'd all but snarled, throwing down the washing in her hands, "drown yourself in the river if you see fit to. It would spare us the shame."
She had refused to come to the chapel, though she'd helped you dress, done your hair, that morning. She walked as far as the gate at the end of the yard, and you'd sworn as you walked away, through the encroaching blizzard, that you'd heard her sob.
You suspect your father is only present because it is his duty to present you, and give you away. Since the accusation, he hasn't been able to look at you. His darling daughter he'd always been so kind to, so proud of despite the way people spoke of you, your cleverness.
The thought makes your throat ache, that they could so easily lose their only child.
A hand touches yours and you jump.
Your fiance slides his rough palm around your hand and grips it softly in his, squeezing. He says your name, a question in his voice, and you feel faint, dizzy.
The priest clears his throat and you sense that you've been absent from the room for longer than you meant to be, lingering in memories that already seem a lifetime ago. The vows are repeated again, droning and long.
His hand is warm on yours, your trembling, icy fingers.
You are thankful you don't have to repeat the vows verbatim. Saying his name would rot something inside you, falsehoods hidden inside promises. I take thee, Joel—
No. You couldn't bear it.
All you have to do is say—
"I do."
You aren't sure it's your voice but who else could have said it?
Far away inside yourself, you watch in horror as his mouth repeats the same.
"I do."
A deep voice, like his mouth is cave.
You brace yourself for his kiss, his touch, his head bowing over yours, but he only squeezes your hands again and releases you.
Like birds with broken wings, they fall limp at your sides.
The men gather themselves, leave you at the altar along as the descend from the pulpit and cross the chapel.
You hear warnings as you stand there alone in the pale shaft of light that grows fainter with each passing moment, the storm worsening outside, the sun already sinking on this terrible December day.
Headstrong, you hear of your character.
Willful.
Stubborn.
Needlessly reckless, sharp tongued, sly.
A tricky little thing.
"She may require a firm hand," the priest says, "I know her temperament well, have known her since she was a child. But she's a good girl and will learn her place, with the proper corrections. She can learn to be an obedient wife."
Your father doesn't dispute this as help from the church is offered, if needed, to assist you in learning the place and pace of an obedient, good wife. Spending time with godly women, instead of among the trees. "And mother," he adds. "Of course." He chuckles, "Winter is very long here. And she is nearly past childbearing years."
It's bullshit, of course.
It should not be possible for your stomach to knot itself more, but something sours and you have to press a hand to your stomach to keep the empty maw yawning open inside you at bay.
You still stand at the head of the church, listening to this, thinking that the icy water of the river might yet be an option. Maybe you can fling yourself off the wagon as you pass over a bridge.
The priest calls your name sharply, and makes an exaggerated gesture toward your husband. "Off with you, girl. Your husband is waiting or did you not notice?" His expression, when he turns back, says, see? this is the obstinacy I tell you of.
Joel doesn't comment and you can't yet read the expression on his face .
He pushes the church doors open and disappears into the worsening storm, the coming night.
You are not even afforded a wedding band.
.
.
.
Though his home is supposedly only a half day's ride west from your town, it is full dark by the time you arrive.
You have never really left your village before, and to you it seems a world away and terribly lonely. Isolated. A cottage at the edge of the world, hemmed in by bristling fir trees, whispering snow drifts.
You're glad to be there, if only to get out of the snow and wind, away from his body next to yours on the wagon bench that you want to curl into just to warm yourself for a moment.
Joel offers you a hand which you reluctantly take, helps you down from the wagon. He ushers you inside and says something about the horses before he disappears back into the storm, leaving you there alone. The space is small and cold, the hearth only ashes after his day away from home.
Though you're freezing, you can't make yourself stoke the fire.
Although, maybe if you did and he could warm himself, he might not want to warm himself with you. On the other hand, maybe warmth would encourage him, would tempt him.
In either case, you're a wife now and you watched your mother long enough to know what that means. Aside from the rest of it, he will expect cooking, a hot meal when he comes back inside.
But, the priest and your father had called you stubborn, and so you would be. You might as well be all the things they accused you of.
Something petulant pulses in your belly.
Swallowing your anxiety, you perch at the table and decide to wait. You don't want to serve him; you don't want to be his wife. And, besides, you don't know what provisions he has, where the larder is. He may beat you for poking around where you don't belong while trying to find it.
Every choice seems worse than the last, so you refuse to make one. You sit at the table, freezing slowly as the snow on your shoulders melts and bleeds into your coat. You feel a distance from yourself, as though you are literally frozen to the chair, mind pulling apart from your body like sticky caramel leaving looping threads behind. Time crawls by and you aren't sure how much of it passes before the door bangs inward in a swirl of white.
When he comes in, his eyes flick to the cold grate, to the empty stove. He does not berate you. He doesn't look at you at all.
Joel merely passes you at the table and builds up the fire, a process that takes longer than it should because the wood is wet. He hadn't any by the stove and had to bring some in, snow flecked and iced over.
You don't offer him any conversation, and he leaves you to your thoughts until quietly coaxed meek flames sputter into a roar.
It's only then that he speaks to you for the first time.
"You're cold. C'mon over here and warm up."
You're terrified to approach him, and hesitate to buy time. "You've been working so hard," you offer demurely as you can. These are some of the first full sentences you've spoken to him. "You should warm up."
He eyes you for a moment. "You're shiverin'."
There's no denying it. Tremors rack your shoulders, the thick wool of your coat soaked and weighed down.
You clear your throat and stand, steeling yourself to stand next to him at the grate, to surely have his hands press against you. You're his wife now, sold like a pig to slaughter, and he will want to touch you. You might as well stop being prudish about it and get over it. As far as he's been told, as far as your reputation is concerned, you are versed in this anyway.
You smooth out your skirts and approach.
To your surprise, he moves out of the way, giving you a wide berth to stand at the fire alone.
"You can take your coat off," he offers.
"Must I?" You ask, a tad snakily, without thinking.
"No," he answers, and you swear his mustache twitches, like he is repressing a smile, "might help with the cold, though."
It weighs heavily on your shoulders, cold and wet. You know he's right but shedding it feels like peeling off your skin, all that's beneath is that thin, hurried, second-hand wedding dress.
Even as unconventional a girl as you were, as opinionated and strong willed, you'd always dreamed of a wedding. A love match, in a dress sown by your mother's hands, witnessed by your friends and family, merriment, so many flowers you could drown in them. Instead, this. A fist closes tightly around your heart, squeezes until it feel like something might pop.
Joel opens cabinets, pulls out provisions you hadn't dared to look for earlier. His hands are rough and red from the cold, the brutal weather. The knobs of his knuckles are swollen. You sense he's keeping his back to you, moving slowly, so that you can observe him uninterrupted. Snow is peppered over his shoulders and hair, still unmelted for how cold the room is.
Despite it all, you find you'd like to touch that fine snow, curl a lick of dark hair around your finger just to see if it was as soft as it looked.
You unfasten the buttons and let the coat slip down your shoulders. The warmth is sudden and hot against your back through the thin material of the dress. You turn into it and close your eyes, try to imagine you're by the hearth at home, flames flicking hungrily behind your eyelids.
Joel clears his throat, nearer than you expect, and you start. "I'll hang that up to dry," he says, holding out a hand. "You hungry?"
You clutch the coat to your chest before releasing it to him, careful not to touch his hand. "No," you answer, sure that putting anything in your body would come straight back up. "But please, you should sit," you plead. You hate how simpering you sound, your voice an unrecognizably anxious animal in your throat. But he wields so much power over you, will always now, and should be decide you weren't fit to be his wife he could cast you out, or correct you as he saw fit. You are now this, forever. Nothing but this. "I'm your wife," you continue, the word hot and dry in your mouth, "and it's my duty. Let me fix something for you. I'm a decent cook."
You are a terrible cook. You never had the patience, which had made your mother click her tongue. But there are a couple things you learned to make decently.
Joel, to your surprise, waves you down, after hanging your coat on a hook by the door. "That's all right. I've been feedin' myself for awhile; one more night won't hurt nothin'."
You hover awkwardly and only sit when he insists that you do, warming yourself by the hearth while he rummages around.
The wind moans outside, rattles the shutters and the panes of glass in their window frames. The front door creaks, like someone is leaning on it, trying to get in.
The sounds are lonely but you don't break the silence of his quick dinner.
He clears the table and then sets about filling a warming plate with hot coal from the grate.
You heart stutters a nervous tattoo in your chest when he disappears with it through a door behind you. Your mind had skimmed over it, not let you contemplate where it might lead.
All the stories you've heard from the many girls that married before you told of pain, that it was just something you endured for your husband's pleasure. It feels okay, you'd heard from one blushing friend, whispering just outside the belfry on summer afternoon, once you get used to it. But it's awful to start.
It does not help matters, that your mother made the man out to be a brute, that he might be the man to cure you of your willful ways.
What wilfulness, you have to wonder.
You simply did as you pleased, which, you suppose was the point. Women were to be obedient and meek, led not leaders. You took your own counsel, spoke your mind. Look where that had landed you. With the mean daughter of the mayor jealous and telling tales of all that time you spent alone.
It had all ended with a husband twice your age, that you did not know, that might be a strict disciplinarian. Your world had always been small, but you were free to roam it. Now it has shrunken to the size of a pin. To this room and this man and nothing more.
And, you are terribly afraid of violence.
Your parents were never strict with you, had hardly ever used corporal punished. You don't know how to endure that kind of pain. Better to be cautious for now, follow each of his whims, bow to any request or demand. You can push later, find the weak spots later, you only have to bear him for now.
Joel returns twice for more pans of coal, lids snapping closed with a metallic clang, before he carries your little suitcase through.
You stand when he gestures you within.
The room is spare and clean, and you have to tramp down the instinct to turn and run, fling yourself into the snow and run until your legs gave out.
The door closes behind you with a soft snick. To contain the heat of the room, you think desperately.
Something rustles and you turn to find him undressing.
You have never seen a man's nude body before, aside from the time you and a friend has spied on boys at the river once when you were young, seeing nothing but murky water and thin, veiny chests, and the curious part of you just wants to watch, to discover it. Instead, you reach for the buttons on your dress and follow suit, fingers shaking.
It seems odd, you think, that he isn't touching you, tugging the fabric loose himself, but maybe this is how it's done. Maybe this is how he does it. Perhaps you should be helping him.
You glance up to find him still not looking at you, redressing in warm underclothes.
You falter, unsure, and let the buttons hang loose at your chest.
The uncertainty is making you feel like a caged animal.
What does he want with you? You can take it into your own hands.
They had called you brave and determined, let that be true.
You let the dress slip off your shoulders and pool on the floor. You step out of the ring of fabric, approach him slowly, presenting yourself to him in your underthings, shoulders bare, nipples perking against the fabric in the bone-deep cold.
His eyes travel the length of your body, eyes eventually landing on yours.
His gaze doesn't seem brutish, but men are good at hiding it when they liked to. Maybe you're seeing what you need to, to reach for his hands.
Joel curls one hand around both of your wrists, stops the trajectory of your hand toward his chest. "We don't have to."
A confused combination of rejection and relief rushes through you. "I'm your wife. You don't want to have me?"
He exhales, his warm breath ghosting over your lips. "It ain't that. I know you didn't choose to marry an old man," he says, tongue soaked with a bitterness turned inward. He releases your hands, steps back. "I'm sorry I don't have nowhere else for ya to sleep."
"Oh," you murmur, a tight fist clenching around your throat.
You had been prepared for anything but consideration, but this.
None of this is how you imagined marriage, a husband, this long night.
He nods, doesn't seem to expect you to say anything else. You close your hands around one of his. "Husband," you say softly, saying his name feels too intimate. "I can't bear the uncertainty. Please, I would rather have it done."
Joel watches you, his eyes flicking between both of yours. He covers your hands with his free hand and pushes them down. "Nothin' to be uncertain about. I won't touch you."
He releases you and moves away, seeming to mean what he said.
The candles are blown out, the room plunged into darkness and you settle in the blissfully warm bed together, a wide space between your bodies.
The coverlet smells of sweet summer hay, at odds with the chill in the room, freezing your nose. It smells of something deeper too, a heady scent of salt and skin and cotton.
You don't dare sleep, despite his words and supposed kindness.
It could be a trick, a test, something to make you loosen your guard, for you to fall asleep only to wake with those rough hands on your body, pulling you apart in ways you can only guess at.
You lie in the dark, missing something you never even really had.
His breathing evens and deepens in sleep, but adrenaline and distrust and worry won't let you follow. You do not want to follow. You watch his shoulders lift through the dark, the line of his nose, the part of his chapped lips.
Eventually the world lightens to a gray muteness beyond the shuttered windows, and only then do you let yourself cry.
Mourning, but relief, too, that at least the first night is over.
.
.
.
While the blizzard abates over the next few days, the snow does not.
It continues down day after day, making the already perilous, winter weathered roads, completely impassable. You are stuck, trapped, an animal with it's foot caught in a snare.
For the first three days, you don't sleep at all, forcing yourself to stay awake and vigilant by any means, pinching your skin until you bled to forego sleep. But eventually exhaustion forces you to, shepherds you into dreams where it's warm, there are no men, no churches or mayor's daughters, and you walk unmolested through green forests alone, only a leather-bound notebook and leaping fish for company.
You wake and mourn something that will never be.
The land is beautiful, at least, iced white like the little cakes you sometimes saw in the baker's window just down the road from your home, but brutal and harsh, unforgiving.
You become aquatinted with Joel's house and the keeping of it, and feel quietly relived when he spends most of the day tending to the land, the horses, the other animals in the stables you've yet to see. You sense that he doesn't know what to make you of either, what to do with you, how to interact with you, how to fit together now that you're condemned to be stuck that way.
Loneliness infects you like a sickness, an unattractive melancholia that's only broken in the evenings when you warm yourself at the grate and eat dinner with Joel. Even though you don't speak the company is welcome, just the presence of him buoys you a little, shields you from the cold. Your fears that he would be a terror to you pass slowly, though you haven't had the opportunity to do something that might require his retributive, readjusting hand, stuck inside as you are.
A guiding hand, the priest would call it, towards the just path of being a good wife.
You mend clothes, cook to the best of your ability, sweep and scrub and wash until your hands are raw and stinging from the pervasive cold. You yearn to wander as you used to, to walk among the swaying, frozen trees, to at least go outside. You tell yourself that you are working toward asking him, that you won't neglect tasks for it.
As long and terribly lonely as the days are, the nights are worse. You ache with homesickness and betrayal. You are without even the comfort of your own things, since passing the roads are impossible, you only have the small suitcase you'd been able to carry. Your father had been set to deliver your things the next day. You have no way of knowing if he even attempted the journey.
A different feeling has joined that cacophony of confused familial hurt, something like lust and shame.
Joel washes before bed at the basin on the dresser, and you are often subject to this display though he turns his back to you. You are the one to lie out the cloth, the soap, and warm the water he uses to wash away the stink of the stables. Musky leather and hay and heady sweat, replaced with the clean scent of soap and skin. Often, water drips down his broad shoulders, pools at the base of his spine, curves over the thick, twisting muscle in his biceps and forearms.
He is no boy at a river, but neither is he your contemporary. His chest hair is gray as the hair of his beard, wrinkles tucked into curious corners of his body. It fascinates you, so different from your own body.
Betrayal of yourself pulses between your thighs, an ache that you want to reach beneath the coverlet and touch away, though you don't dare.
Each night, you expect to be the one where he reaches for you, claims you and seals your marriage but he never does.
You remember your friend's words. It would hurt and then be okay. You want to know for yourself what okay feels like.
It makes you wonder what it would be like, a curious daydream.
One horrible night, your usual dream of freedom morphs into that want, only it's not your hand massaging away the want, but Joel's. Those rough, broad fingers between your legs. You had to roll out of bed and gulp down water at the pitcher in the corner of the room, feeling stupid and wretched. Silly, even. For what would he get out of touching you there? Nothing, just your own desire run amok.
The closest you get to touching him, is bandaging his cold ruined hands, standing between his legs where he sits at the table, looking and not looking at him, his eyes raking over you. He had said thank you so earnestly, it had made your face warm.
Weeks pass into more than a month and a half in this way, one cold, dark day bleeding into the next, the soft humiliation of feeling unwelcome and unwanted and terribly alone, like a butterfly with it's wings pinned. For all your intrigue, he seems profoundly uninterested in you. He leaves you to your own mind, to your own lonesomeness. You are, maybe, just a girl that did his cooking.
You long to stretch your legs, take a walk, explore uninterrupted as you used to, report what you saw in the journal you haven't dared to take out in front of Joel, buried in your case beneath your clothes. You're already trapped, what if he didn't like you to write? Trapped by body and mind might really drive you to drown yourself in a river or go seeking a length of rope.
Things change when he finds you crying one evening, from the ache in your chest, from the caged wounded-ness, from the fear that still occasionally lurched to the front of your mind, for all the cruelties he could inflict so suddenly, if he chose.
You don't dry your eyes quickly enough and the next sleepy afternoon, eyes drooping from boredom, Joel slips inside in a burst of cold, snow peppered in his hair. Before you have the chance to offer him supper from the stove, he's saying your name and giving you pause.
"You want to come out to the stables? Maybe it'd do you good to get out of this house." If you didn't know better, you'd say he sounds worried.
"Are you—"
"I ain't puttin' you to work just yet," he says with a smile. It's a joke, and you find it disarming. "Just to stretch your legs. See another living thing that ain't me."
"Yes, okay," you agree, maybe too quickly and eagerly, because he laughs. You let him hold out your coat so you can slip your arms into the sleeves.
Joel holds the door open and offers his arm for you to balance on as you cross together through the thick icy drifts of snow to the stables. His arm is sturdy and strong beneath your fingers, warm even through all the layers you're both wearing. Fat flakes of snow sticks to your lashes, white flurries drowning your vision of Joel. His strong jaw, the tight squint of his eyes against the white glare of the world.
You glance away, feel that tightness bloom in your belly.
It feels good to walk, to cross a distance instead of pacing the cottage floor in circles all day long. He pulls back the stable door. It's surprisingly warm within, from the combined heat of the animals' bodies and whatever work he'd been sweating over. There are two horses and a cow, a smattering of chickens with their own little coop at the back.
You can't help but rush to them, patting noses, feeling hot breath on your face. The chickens squawk something terrible, but a spotted one rubs against your leg and let's you bend at the waist to pet it.
Joel fiddles around at a bench in the corner, breath puffing before his face. You see the flash of a pairing knife, wood shavings fluttering to the ground.
You tentatively creep closer, trying to peer over his shoulder at what he might be making. You would have never guessed he was creative.
"We only have goats," you say as you stroke the face of the mare whose stall is nearest Joel, as near as you can get without being obvious. "Very mean and terribly stubborn."
He chuckles, puts down his work and leans over the side of the stall. "Well, none a' those here."
It's silent for a long time, the plunk of snow against the roof, the quiet sound of the animals breathing. Joel clears his throat awkwardly after awhile and you stiffen. "Listen, I know we ain't had the best start with the weather and all. That and I'm not exactly the husband anyone looks for."
You turn to him, meeting his eyes, and feel something between you soften. "You've been kind to me. Kinder than I deserve," you answer. "Considering that marrying me will have hurt your reputation."
You wonder what he was promised in return for this. You assumed it was a child, that he was getting older and wanted to continue his line and so needed a young wife. But, he hasn't attempted to touch you at all.
"Ain't really got a reputation to speak of anyway," he chuckles. "Never cared about it neither."
How you wish you had the luxury of not caring about it. You glance away, smooth your fingers down the horse's freckled nose. "Were you ever married before?"
"Once," he answers. "Long time ago."
"When did she die?"
Joel shifts. "Hasn't," he grunts. "Far as I know. One mornin' she was gone, never came home."
You feel your eyes go wide. "Oh. I didn't know."
A runaway wife.
A vast thing you did not know possible.
"It's all right." He shakes his head. "I'm guess I'm askin' what I can do to help you feel better about this whole mess. I shouldn't have—" he waves a hand toward the direction of the house, "just left you on your own for so long. In the house. I figured it was better. That you might not. . ." He doesn't continue and you don't need him too.
He thought he was making you more comfortable, that you wouldn't have liked his company.
You don't correct him, because it's true. When you first arrived it was very true.
"Oh." You think for a long moment, of all the silence and tiptoeing around each other. Maybe there's a better way than that, if not the way of a married couple. "They lied about me, you know. The mayor's daughter and her friends and that boy. I didn't do anything wrong."
He looks a little embarrassed to be hearing talk of your supposed sin of the flesh so bluntly. "I figured," he answers, rubbing his chin.
You blink. "You did?" He nods and you continue. "She was jealous, I think, that I did as I pleased. I guess that's what could help me." You hurry to continue, because he'd only just told you of his first wife disappearing without a trace. "Of course, I would keep up with the work, and I can help here, too," you gesture around. "I'd like to help with the animals. . .But I'd like to roam, too."
He thinks on it for a long minute. "I'd maybe even appreciate work out here more. I can milk the cow, if it's anything like milking a goat. I can chop wood. If you'd allow it."
That earns you a chuckle. "You want to chop wood?" He asks, a little amused.
"If you'd allow it," you cast your eyes down. "Of course I don't want to disobey you."
You aren't expecting him to take your hand and jump when he does. You'd both removed your gloves when you entered the barn and his skin is warm and calloused against your own.
His jaw works as he contemplates you, a fascination in his eyes. "Forget all that nonsense about obeying and whatever else that priest was goin' on about." He shakes his head, "I'm too old to think any of it means anything."
You aren't sure what he means by that, but nod all the same.
"So, how 'bout this. We'll start takin' it all on together. I did my own damn housework for years so I ain't completely useless. And you can help chop wood, if it suits you to."
It sounds too good, so you contain your enthusiasm and nod. "A fine idea. We might know each other better then, to spend some time togeher."
He nods, and something pink rises in his cheeks. "And," he shuffles his feet, squeezes your hand in both of his. "that's enough. Understand? You're might be my wife, but I'm no fool."
You understand what he means. That this thing is more partnership than relationship. It soothes you, if it also disappoints you a little. All those parts of him you think of exploring, suddenly out of reach.
"I understand."
"Good, come spring, when it's warmer, we'll figure something better for sleepin'."
You nod and then dare to ask, "And wandering? If the work is finished and I'd like to walk alone?"
He touches your cheek for the first time, the barest brush of his fingers, a tentative affection. "Always home before dark. That's all I ask."
"I can do that." You cradle the hand that had touched your face against the mare's stall, daring to hope.
You feel like you can breathe for the first time since the mayor's daughter stood and pointed her finger at you in church all those weeks ago.
.
.
.
Spring comes late in the year this far north.
The roads turn to mud that sticks the horses' hooves in place, bogs down the wagon.
Joel watches you lift the ax above your head and bring it neatly down on the splint of wood balanced on the stump in front of you, just the way he'd shown you months ago, in the dead of that terrible winter. If you wanted to chop firewood, who was he to tell you not to?
The shaw around your shoulders flutters in the breeze as you retrieve the fallen logs, reveals the strength in your forearms.
He glances away. You are the most unsettlingly pretty creature he's ever set eyes on, and much too young for him. Much too good for him, much too good for anyone. All the warnings he'd been given on your temperament had sounded only like compliments to him, and he'd been proven right. And now that you'd loosened, he appreciates your unflinching opinions, your sharp pointed tongue.
And, Joel doesn't necessarily mind being bossed all that much. You're usually right, anyway.
If he is worried sick right up until the moment when you return to the cottage when you roam about, no one is the wiser of it. You always return before dark, and he never tells you not to go.
Some creatures just didn't need caging; they'd come home all on their own if you let them.
Preventing you from walking alone, taking time to yourself to explore would be akin to clipping a bird's wings. He's sorry for all those weeks at the start when he left you inside, hadn't realized you thought you couldn't leave the cottage, not even just outside.
It's still cold and your breath unspools in front of you in a pale cloud as you work, sweating and breathing hard through your teeth.
He feels a longing for you that he probably shouldn't. He had made a promise to you and he intended to keep it, wife or not. You content now, at ease, in his presence. The longer he keeps that vow as the days grow longer, the more you'll settle.
Soon, the roads will clear and you can go into the village for supplies that are bitterly needed after such a long winter. He thinks you'll like the town, less haughty and judgemental than the one you grew up in.
The afternoon sun dapples over your skin, makes the sweat on your brow, at the base of your throat, shimmer. He glances away, his thoughts already spiraling toward what you will smell like that evening, coated in a day's hard work. Lying beside you each night in bed is a sweet, unending torture. You dream often, murmuring in your sleep, occasionally pierced with a cry, sometimes a grunt and moan. Mouth parted, chest heaving. He wonders what or who you dream of, and goes to great pains to hide how hard he often is in the morning.
It feels sort of like a betrayal, how quickly his mind conjures up your bare skin, waiting and open, unfolding just for him, the imagined taste of you on his tongue, the plush part of your lips, little pink tongue pressing against your teeth.
He could only endure it. Once summer came, he might be able to take care of it elsewhere and not risk you overhearing, or worse, catching him.
Aside from the torture of sleep, everything else is fine. You're clever and quick; a better chess player than him by far. You best him nearly every evening you plat. You write and draw in a little notebook that you once squirreled away like he might take it. Now, you leave it on the table, let him read little bits of stories, thumb through your drawings of animals you come across. You only have to hear something once to be able to repeat it verbatim, reciting poetry or stories not in your notebook for him when requested.
You've improved his life, the cottage and farm, in way he wouldn't have been able to picture before. This isn't what your father had meant when he came begging him to marry you and save their reputation, said Joel could use a woman's touch, a kind of helper.
It was bullshit, but maybe the loneliness finally got the better of him. After his wife disappeared, he hadn't thought of remarrying. Clearly he's the type you leave.
He continues watching you, brushing the mare, when the sound of an approaching wagon meets his ears. Joel glances up to find the ax abandoned against the stump, you hurrying quickly toward him in the mouth of the open stable.
"Someone's coming," you say, brow creased with worry, reaching for his sleeve. "Joel, I thought the roads were too—"
"Me too," he answers, checking the revolver at his hip. "Let's see who it is." He pushes his hand against your spine and feels your body loosen as you walk together toward the distant road.
The wagon plodding up the road eventually pulls to a muddy stop just at the fence line, a man jumping down from the driver's seat. "Father," he hears you murmur, before starting across the yard without waiting for him.
Joel follows, watches his old friend wrap an arm around you, murmuring your mother's sent greetings. You face folds at the mention of your mother, but you brighten quickly.
Joel hadn't even known your father had a daughter, until he appeared like a wraith at the edge of his land all those months ago, begging a favor.
Joel had told you of his own daughter one late evening when neither of you could sleep. Feeling your comforting warm attention across the mattress as he spoke to the dark ceiling. How his wife leaving, had also been a mother leaving.
Sarah had died very, very young, and though he'd never know for certain, he can't imagine selling her off the way your father had you. A wad of cash offered like you were goods to be traded in service of their name. It had soured his opinion of the man, and any leftover good will he felt toward him when they were younger.
Soiled, now that Joel was a hypocrite, finding comfort, among other feelings, in you, even if you were his wife. You're young, and you've placed immeasurable trust in him that he'd had to very carefully earn.
Joel joins you and shakes your father's well meaning hand as you say, "Stay for dinner, please. We'd love to have you and hear any news from town. We've been alone all winter."
"Of course," he answers jovially, glancing over you. "I thought for sure you'd have a spring chicken on the way, my dear."
It takes you a long moment to realize what he's getting at. A complicated knot of feelings writhes over your face before hurt dominates.
He clearly expected to find you pregnant.
You smile and don't answer, leading them toward the house instead.
.
.
.
The afternoon air is already below freezing again when your father finally leaves, wagon disappearing back down the road, unloaded of your meager things that you haven't missed in months. An odd anxiety has taken hold of you, and though you have too many chores to get done, you tell Joel you're going on a walk and leave without waiting for an answer.
You feel like a lamb put out to slaughter, though what else should your father have expected than to find you a pregnant wife, muted and different than you had been before marriage. It stings that he hadn't even asked after your well being, if Joel was treating you well, was good to you. It didn't matter you suppose, you aren't his problem, and if your husband saw fit to be cruel to you, that was that man's right.
He'd sat at the table and talked only to Joel where once he used to look to you, find pride in his clever daughter's conversation.
Now, you are silent, talked about like you aren't present, about how well you are or aren't fulfilling wifely duties. Clearly you'd failed in at least one respect since you were not pregnant. Never would he guess that Joel had never even stuck you, left the marriage unconsummated. It makes you feel adrift, all the easier to discard, since he could easily nullify the marriage for something like that.
You couldn't read how Joel felt about the whole thing as your father threw out childhood anecdotes about your petulance and reluctance to learn from your mother without care.
Humiliating. It made you seem frivolous and silly. Worse, many times over he implied thanks to Joel for the purchase of damaged goods, your supposed fling with the farmhand referenced repeatedly and only thinly veiled by polite convention.
Joel, apparently a damned martyr for marrying you. He was suffering so greatly by taking your hand in marriage.
Though, your father had said, wiping his chin of the grease spilling down it, good to have a woman's touch, as I told you before. It's no good for a man to take on duties of the home, or be, ah, alone all the time. I don't know how you stood to be without a wife for so many years.
It was a humiliating, punishing few hours. Clearly, your family had not thought of you beyond gladness that your indiscretion no long sullied their name.
You feel foolish too, for the affection you feel for Joel. When you are only a little help mate to him. That is why he draws no closer, doesn't really want to know you as a husband would know you.
You walk and walk, head down, alternating between seething rage and despair in turns. You don't notice the shadows creeping in at the edges of your vision, how quickly the sun has sunk behind the mountains. A horrible shame traces up your spine, making you shiver.
The world is still icy and cold, snowbanks piled high between muddy ruts cut into the earth. You don't notice how close you've strayed to the rushing creek, swollen with melted snow runoff spilling down the mountainside. You boot catches on the edge of an slick stone.
You grasp at a low handing tree branch to keep upright but fall into the water heavily, spluttering as it sweeps you into it's rush. Your lungs feel frozen as you gasp and flail for anything to find purchase on. All those times you thought of throwing yourself to a river's mercy, here was God doing it for you, for your ungrateful hardness, a nasty little girl that wanted too much and had no good sense.
Maybe God thought you had sex with that farmhand too.
Or maybe it was the sins of the flesh you imagined with a husband that did not return your desire.
It's almost easy to stop fighting the current and let it drag you down instead. You can't swim and maybe this is fate. No one would miss you, people would sigh and say maybe it was the most decent thing to happen to you, a blight scorched off the town's good name.
The water closes over your head, darkness swims at the corners of your vision.
You aren't sure how long you're under when something hard catches under your elbow, hauls you coughing and spluttering to shore.
A face looms above yours as you try to draw breath into your frozen lungs, coughing until you turn on your side and throw up, first water and then the little dinner you'd been able to stomach. "Breathe," a voice murmurs, which you only belatedly connect to Joel. Then, angrier, "What the hell were you thinkin'?"
You can't answer him just yet, feeling faint, still hiccoughing into the dirt, lungs still spasming from the shock of the cold water.
"Before dark," he growls suddenly when you finally manage to suck in a full breath of night air. "Come home before dark. That is the one goddamn thing I asked from you."
A new fear steals into you, that you will finally find out what happens when you disobey, and on the heels of your father, Joel's good friend, reminding him that you were dirty and used, beneath him in almost every way.
You cower, waiting for a blow on the black soil of the creek bank. "Joel, please, I'm sorry—" The word sicks in your graveled voice.
It doesn't come right then. Instead, his arms fit beneath your legs, around your back, and lifts you from the ground. "Jesus, sweetheart, no—I got you," he says softly. "Just breathe."
"Joel—"
"'s all right, now."
"Please don't—"
"We're just goin' home, or you'll freeze to death."
Your mind sways in and out of consciousness as he walks, dark branches wheeling above your head in a dark tangle, the world silent and near pitch black by the time you return to the cottage.
He sets you on your feet in the bedroom, yanks your coat down your arms. "Help me here, darlin'," he says, his voice softly desperate, that sweet little pet name a suspected accident. "You might lose fingers if you don't."
You help him wrestle with the fastenings of your clothes. "I didn't mean to."
"I know."
Only a muted embarrassment and helplessness reaches your mind, that he is seeing you nearly naked for the first time like this. His hands seem far away.
Joel tugs the blankets around your shoulders and hastily fills a pan with coal from the hearth. "Too damn cold," he mutters, and you wonder how long and far you'd gone if the fire from dinner was already spent. Distantly, you realize he is peeling himself out of his own clothes. "You'll get faster warmer," he explains. You nod, feeling very tired. "Don't close your eyes," he says, voice suddenly harsh. "Keep lookin' at me."
You struggle to follow his command, watching as so much skin is revealed, then pressed against yours.
His body is so hot, when your skin touches his, that it feels like being set aflame, touched by a scorching fire.
You whimper and he shushes you, presses you closer, head tucked beneath his chin. "You're all right," he murmurs, though it sounds as though he is trying desperately to convince himself. "You'll be all right, sweetheart."
For a long while he holds you in silence, scratchy lips against your forehead, beard pressed against your temple. You feel every part of him pressed against every part of you, the hair on his legs and chest, the muscle of his biceps and forearms, chest and collarbones and feet. The first time his hands are on you this way, because you'd been a little too emotional and nearly drowned yourself.
His broad palms splay over your spine, cradling you as shivers start to rack your body again. You hadn't realized they had stopped.
A relieved sigh climbs out of his throat.
"Were you trying to leave?"
You don't know how he means it, like his first wife had, or like you were trying to die. "No," you answer, "No, I fell in. I was upset." Your teeth chatter, click together so violently you're afraid you might bite your tongue. "I didn't realize how late it was. I'm sorry, Joel."
"Scared me, is all."
"I'm sorry," you whisper against his throat. "For all of it. I'm so ashamed."
He shakes his head. "Should be your father that's ashamed."
"I'm being punished," you continue. "For something I did not do."
Joel's hand pauses in its path down your spine, for just a moment. "Yeah," he agrees quietly. "I'm sorry for it."
"Not you," you nest down against him. Maybe if you were more coherent, you'd feel nervous about it, but it just feels good, his arms around you, his body against yours, finally. "I don't mean you, Joel. You are not my punishment."
"All right now," he mutters. "Enough a' that."
You are sure you move first, though if asked, Joel will say he did. You tilt your chin up and press your cold mouth to his.
Stolen little girlhood kisses amount to nothing compared to this. His heavy hands, his scratchy cheeks against yours. Full and warm blooded. Cradling and caressing and sighing just like you. His breath is yours.
It's all consuming, like a star parting the night sky.
.
.
.
Summer arrives quietly, softly.
You visit your family as a married couple, and Joel holds your hand through the Sunday church service you attend together even though some of the congregants eye you with stony, judgemental stares. You take pleasure in the burning gaze of those girls on you, angry that you don't seem uncomfortable with the man they'd indirectly sentenced you to.
As quickly as is possible, you leave again. It's hard to be there, among the stares but also among a village that used to be your home.
"Sure you wanna go so quick?"
"Yes, Joel."
He mulls it over, hands on his hips.
"What?" It occurs to you that maybe he isn't ready to leave. He has no family; you've only spoken to each other for months and months aside from that visit from your father and once from Joel's brother, who had been taken by surprise at your presence. Maybe he was craving company other than your own. "Would you like to stay longer?"
"No, I don't want you to feel like we're in any rush to get back."
You blink, taken aback. "I don't. I'd like to. . .go home."
His face softens. "All right, girl. Let's get a move on then." Joel helps you onto the wagon bench and starts to climb up when the priest, who Joel had managed to avoid earlier, passes by your parents' house.
"Mr. Miller! A moment?"
"What's he want, I wonder?" He asks, leaning his arms against the side of the wagon, his face close to yours. "I ain't his parishioner. Technically."
You roll your eyes. "Go see what he'd like," you say tenderly, touching his cheek just to nettle the other man. Indecent touching! You can hear the sermon already forming. Lusts of the flesh! Good thing you no longer attend to this town's church and will not have to hear it.
"Yes, ma'am."
Despite the intimacy, he has not touched you, not really, since that day you nearly drowned. You long for him to kiss you again, just once, but fear it may have been an accident borne of your stupidity, his fear of loss.
Joel climbs steps back down from the wagon and approaches. You watch the robin's egg sky instead of the men, counting the crowding of little white puffs on the horizon, pretending that you can't hear every word being spoken, of being tamed, cowed, broken. How is he faring with his new wife?
You mean to hear Joel's answer, but you mother is suddenly laboring onto the wagon bench beside you. You had not heard her approaching and had avoided speaking to her at church and lunch, Joel dutifully standing between you.
"We didn't get a chance to speak."
"Should I have something to say to you?"
You mother catches up your hand, holds it between both of hers. "I didn't want to send you away."
"And yet you did, for something you know I did not do. To a man you knew nothing of."
She huffs. "What's done is done. We did it to protect you, to save your name." You nod and tug your hand away. "Never mind all that," she says gently. "Tell me, how is he as a man? Does he treat you well?"
"I think," you start, watching Joel and the priest. "He might be the best man I've ever known."
She peers at you curiously. "He doesn't hurt you?"
"It would be much too late for your guilt if he did," you answer, "but no, he doesn't."
"You listen to him." Your mother sounds amazed.
"He listens to me. Let's me be." You shrug, "So I do the same."
She seems bewildered by that, that by not holding you down, forcing you to something else, you were better for it.
Your mother doesn't get to give an answer, because Joel is approaching.
She kisses you goodbye and he helps her down from the wagon. "So," you say when the village is finally behind you. "What did you tell the Father? How did you break my restless spirit?"
He chuckles. "I told him there wasn't anything to break."
It warms you to think he believes it. "Even when I fall into creeks in the cold?"
"I think your spirit is what kept you from drownin' so—"
"Oh, ha ha, very funny."
You want to lean into him, but wait until you're on the final stretch of dusty road when the evening sky is beginning to darken at the edges to do so, heavy against his shoulder.
You work together to curry the horses and stable them for the night, exhaustion aching in your bones by the time you turn in. Summer is as bright as winter is dark, and the sky is only just starting to darken, blushing pinks and smouldering orange over the trees.
Joel is saying something about a book, something about chess. He talks so much, now. Even when he's quiet, you know the language of him.
"Why don't you kiss me again?"
He blinks and meets your gaze, looking like a fish out of water. "I, uh—"
"If the first time was a mistake," you say. "It doesn't offend me. I like things as they are."
He clears his throat and bows his head, approaches you slowly, all the time looking down at his feet, brows tilted together. "I didn't mean for it to go like that," he admits. "That's true."
You meant it when you said you like things as they are, but disappointment still burns hot that his affection had been unintentional. "Okay," you agree when he stops in front of you. "That's just fine."
He shakes his head. "It ain't that I don't want that. But I promised you, I wouldn't. Our, uh, marriage vows didn't mean shit. But that, sweetheart, it meant something. I meant it."
"And if I said I wanted it?"
"You don't need to feel like you have to," he says quietly but firmly. "I wouldn't be able to stomach it."
You push your palm against his cheek, stand nearly chest to chest with him. "You have never made me feel like I needed to do or be anything at all for you." You lean against him, "I'd like it if you kissed me. And if, um, you'd like to—" Long held shame, years of hearing about how women were lustful temptresses comes creeping in. "Well, the rest of it—"
"If I'd like to what?" He teases, something wicked in the grin that pulls at the corners of your mouth. "Touch you?"
"I suppose," you say haughtily, flustered.
"Where?" His hot hands press to your sides, over the curves of your hips where no one has ever touched before. You startle and fall against him, your skin alive beneath his hands. "Here?"
You cover his hands, guide them boldly over your body, to your ass and waist and just beneath your breasts, back down to your hips. You lean in so your mouth brushes his. "You should make more vows to me. New ones that say you promise to never stop touching me."
"That could be arranged."
"Oh wonderful. I should hate to have to hunt down another husband."
He's pulls you toward the bedroom, the bed beyond. He has kissed you again, but he intends to do something to you, that much is clear.
"Hunt one down, huh? I think I fell into your lap."
He fell into your lap. The thought is a nice one.
You nod, bum hitting the edge of the bed. "I should think so. Had those girls witnessed even this behind that barn, I would have been killed where I stood. A happy accident that they didn't and I was given you instead."
His laugh is like a bark. "Ain't you somethin'."
He tilts you back, looks at your coiled body and hums. Your knees are pressed together out of habit, arms folded across your belly now. Still fully clothed and you feel naked as he looks down at you with a reverence and devotion you have only before seen in a pew. You settle your heels at the edge of the bed."Tell me again," he requests.
"I want you," you say quietly. "I want you to touch me."
Just as in your dreams that you thought frivolous and unrealistic, he peels your thighs apart and pushes his hand between your legs. You gasp and fight not to skitter away from his touch, to keep your hips against the mattress. If that's how warm only his hand felt through your clothes, you can't imagine what it will be like without.
He leans over you, moves his hand to tilt your chin up instead, finally presses his lips against yours again after so long.
"Joel," you sigh against his mouth, scratchy cheeks that you cup in your hands. "You'll be gentle with me."
It's not a question.
"Mm." His nose draws a line down your cheek to your jaw, mouth pressing against the underside of your jaw. You gasp when his teeth scrape along your skin, just a little. You tangle your hands in his hair, tug at the graying strands that slip through your fingers until he grunts against you.
Joel settles between your parted thighs, lost to you, apparently. "Joel."
"Sweetheart," he answers, lifting his head to look at you.
"I know it will hurt. Please make it easy on me."
He leans on his forearm, placed above the crown of your head, his other hand yanking the skirt of your dress up. "I will do everything to make it easy on you."
"Okay," you breathe, smoothing the worry. He wouldn't hurt you on purpose, of that you're sure.
He works you out of your clothes as you pull at his. There's only one part of him you haven't seen, one part of him you've never seen of any man. You tug at his trousers until a button pops open and you can push your hand down.
You gasp at the feeling of him in your hand, hard and warm, his skin soft and damp. You aren't sure what to do, not the way he moves with such certainty, thick fingers slipping beneath your underwear, parting the folds of you.
You watch his face as you move your hand, circling your fingers around him seems the natural fit of things, sliding your fist up and down his length. There's friction though and you wonder if it feels good for him.
He is signularly focused on you though, and for a moment you forget his cock in your hand because he touches something that makes your back arch off the bed, a moan yanked from your chest.
"There she goes," he coos, still moving his fingers over you, not even inside you yet.
That will go inside you, you remember suddenly. It feels too big for your hand, let alone your cunt. You squeeze his cock and rub your thumb along the head where you feel something leaking, helping your hand slide around him.
"How does that feel—"
He groans, and you turn your gaze to him, repeating the action, watching him shudder. "Am I doing okay?"
It gives you no small satisfaction to literately have him in the palm of your hand, giving to him. You stroke him slowly, tightening your grip as you reach the tip. "Jesus, girl," he murmurs, and then thrusts into your hand.
"Am I?"
"Little too good," he grunts. "I ain't gonna be much use to you if you keep that up."
You don't know what he means, especially since you want to keep making him sound like that forever. But you trust him, so you release him and kiss him instead, nipping at his bottom lip, feeling like an aching wound as his slips a finger inside you.
There's a little pressure but it doesn't hurt. You can feel how damp you are, easing the passage of his fingers, a second and third following, stretching you to almost the point of pain, but mostly it feels good, his hands working some kind of spell over you in tandem until your world bursts with pleasure.
Waves of it crash over you, slicking your skin with sweat in the warmth of your bedroom. He helps you out of the last bit of your clothes, nude body bared to him, hands scooping your breasts in too warm palms, brushing tentatively over your nipples.
So many thngs that you did not know could feel good.
Your mouth goes dry when you finally see his cock, aching from your attentions, the head an angry red. You have the most bizarre desire to out him in your mouth, that is only vindicated as not odd when Joel puts his head between your legs and makes you come again without his fingers even entering you.
"Please," you whine, beckoning him toward you, so open and vulnerable and never so safe. "Please just do it. I'm ready."
"You are, sweetheart," he coos. "Best I can get you anyway."
He lets you grip him and guide him to your entrance, pushing inside you in increments. You wonder at what brutes the men in your village must be like to have all the girls saying this is only something to endure. For though it hurts a little, it overwhelmingly feels good. Like stretching a sore muscle. He is heavy and warm, your bodies locked together in a way you will mourn when it parts.
Joel holds you close, pushes his forehead gently to yours, breath ghosting over your lips, so warm and present it makes something deep inside you sigh in satisfaction.
Here you belong, you are sure, here you are understood and wanted. You touch him wherever your hands can reach, marveling at the plains of his body as he ruts into you, skin slapping against skin.
He grunts against your neck when he comes and you follow only a moment later, panting into the dark of something that is now yours, clutching him tightly to your chest.
A new vow kept.
.
.
.
He wakes you in the middle of the night with gentle prodding.
The night is a soft sweet song outside your window, the low sounds of the land around you. "Joel?" you ask, pressing one hand over your eyes, rubbing away sleep. "What's wrong?"
"Nothin'," he assures. "There's just somethin' I wanna show you."
"Now?"
"If you're willin'."
Well, you are always willing, with him. Wrapped in only your dressing robe, he leads you outside, across the yard to the stables by lamplight.
He is shirtless, and you are close enough that you can see the flex of muscle in his arms when he rolls the doors open, and the cratered parts of him you finally got to touch.
"Joel—" You complain. "What—"
"C'mon, now," he motions you inside, the red light flickering over his features comforting instead of eerie.
"I'm sore you know," you grumble. And you are, a pleasant kind of pain that accompanies the pleasure he had given you. It's nothing like the girls had described to you. It had only been good. He had only been good.
He just chuckles, no small amount of pride in it, and leads you to the workbench that you can never quite tell what he does at. "You feel okay?" He asks, sincere.
"Okay," you scoff. "You very well know what you did to me."
"All right," he says softly. "Enough of that."
"Show me."
He clears his throat, and nods, pulling you near him at the bench.
There among the softly snuffling horses, he presents you with a tiny wood carving of a woman that looks just like you. You gasp and take her carefully from his hands, holding her up to moonlight and then lamplight, the exquisite detailing of her.
She has your nose and eyes. The shape of her body in movement, the exact way you hold your hands in miniature. An expression on her face of determination and muddled anxiety. Afraid, but getting on with it.
He has adored you, you see, from the moment he met you. He studied you as closely as you studied him. "It's beautiful."
"Yeah," he agrees, hand on your spine, "suppose I've got a good muse, though."
Your face feels hot, your whole body alight. "When did you—" just to confirm what you think you know.
"Morning after we married," he says. "Somethin' about the way you looked, I just. . .I had to get it down somewhere."
You rub your thumb over her silhouette. "She is missing her wedding band."
Joel's eyes flick to your hand, empty. "I suppose she is." He takes your hand and kisses it's fingers. "As you are."
You nod and tuck her into your palm, leaning up to kiss him again. It's okay, you know he keeps his word.
Mr Frowny Is Not Good At Hiding His Feelings: A StormPar Dossier
Story Summary -> Scott, newly rehired at StormPar, has developed a crush on the new mechanic. It's so obvious that his colleagues create a list of each of his 'loverboy' moments. Will he ruin any chance with her when the pressure of adhering to Javi's 'don't be a dick' rules and suppressing his feelings becomes overwhelming?
Tags -> Grumpy/Sunshine, Scott Miller Is A Bitch, Coworkers to Lovers, Mildly Suggestive, Hates Everyone But Her, Anger Management, Fluff, First Kiss, Secret Relationship, Movie: Twisters (2024), Emotionally Repressed
A/N: I wrote this instead of the last chapter of Vampires Suck. I mentioned on AO3 that it should be out at the end of this week, but I guess I lied and wrote about this asshole instead. I watched Twister for the first time and this absolute goon wouldn't leave my brain until I finished this.
Would you prefer to read this on AO3? Click here!
StormPar was Javi's brainchild. It was his company through and through. However, he'd come to realise that he sucked when it came to wooing investors and managing the business side of things.
That had always been Scott's forte. Scott Miller was deadpan, rude, and at times downright immoral; therefore, he easily fit the wealthy elite's image of the perfect engineer and CEO who could close deals worth millions without breaking a sweat.
He had a way of making even the most ruthless venture capitalists feel comfortable; his sharp wit and calculated charm disarmed them before they even realised what was happening. His ability to manipulate people through carefully constructed arguments and social engineering made him invaluable in the boardroom, but it also made him untrustworthy.
Then, the whole ordeal with Tyler and Kate had gone down so Javi had cut ties with both Riggs and Scott. Sure, he was forsaking all the investors and funding Scott had brought in, but Javi couldn't stomach the disaster profiteering any longer. StormPar was created to help, not to buy up discounted land from vulnerable and displaced people.
Javi, as sweet as he was, didn't have the contacts or the reputation to bring in the kind of capital that StormPar needed to survive. The technology was ingenious, yes, and it would save an uncountable number of lives, but it wasn't a money maker. If anything, the equipment needed, travel and lodging costs, salaries for staff, and the permits and licensing fees required to operate in disaster zones would drain the company's meagre savings within months.
What Tyler made from his YouTube channel and merchandise barely sustained his group's lifestyle before the squads merged, and now that there was double the technology, double the cars, and double the people to feed, the situation had become dire. Javi's idealistic vision clashed with the harsh realities of the corporate world - a world where ethical principles mattered less than profit margins and political connections.
And ever since Tyler had put Riggs' predatory dealings on blast to all of his followers, Scott had been without his job and with no one to blame but himself. He tried to get other jobs but found himself blacklisted from Silicon Valley after Tyler's exposé went viral. His reputation as a manipulative, amoral businessman had preceded him, and no company wanted to risk the negative publicity and had told him to come back to them in a few years when all of this had blown over.
The Miller family wasn't doing great either. They'd been rich all of his life, yet at the exact moment he needed some financial help, his father decided to succumb to his crippling gambling addiction and pissed away the family fortune. The trust fund he'd been planning to survive on had been liquidated to pay off his father's debts, leaving Scott with a small inheritance that would last maybe a year if he lived frugally.
What was the worst, however, was that he had stared down an absolutely terrifying tornado, barely survived, and all his parents had said to him was, 'the least you could've done was make your squad sign an NDA.' There was no 'how are you, son?', 'we were so scared that something had happened to you', or even 'thank god you're okay.' They didn't care that he'd nearly died - they cared only about the potential legal ramifications of his actions and how it reflected on their social standing.
The conversation had lasted less than five minutes before his father retreated to his study with a fresh bottle of whisky, and his mother began making phone calls to their lawyer about damage control.
Scott found himself completely alone, financially ruined, professionally disgraced, and emotionally abandoned by the people who were supposed to love him unconditionally. Was that karma for being a piece of shit? And, most importantly, 'When did he start viewing the decimation of human life as a chance for opportunity rather than a disaster?' The question gnawed at Scott as he sat in his sparse apartment, the silence broken only by the occasional car horn from the street below.
So when he heard through the grapevine that his old partner was having some difficulty, Scott decided he owed his old partner a little help. Honestly, it was the least he could do. And it wasn't entirely selfless because do you really think Scott Miller would work for free? Even when he was flush with cash, he never worked for free. Now, with his back against the wall and his own survival at stake, the motivation was even stronger.
Obviously, Javi was not as open to the idea as Scott hoped. He wasn't expecting to be welcomed back with open arms. Javi had made it clear that Scott's methods were no longer welcome in the company - that the damage he had done to the reputation of StormPar could not be undone by a simple apology or gesture of goodwill.
Then, investors kept coming and going - primarily going - and Javi didn't know where else to turn except to the one person who knew how to navigate the shark-infested waters of venture capitalism. Kate and Tyler had to be convinced (as did literally everyone else), and it took a while, but eventually they agreed that Scott could return as a consultant only, with zero decision-making authority and a set of rules that he had to follow.
Don't be a dick
No, seriously. Don't be a dick. If you happen to overlook rule 1, please remember rule 2.
He gets no say in where they go or what they actually do - when they choose to save people, he can either stay behind or join them, but he has no sway over whether they actually go further into danger or not.
No business talk with his uncle, and the moment they hear him speak about real estate in relation to natural disasters again, he's getting the boot.
And finally, he gotta stop chewing that goddamn gum so loud. If Javi had to hear that boy's teeth smacking one more time, he'd throw him into a tornado.
Within a month of Scott's reinstatement, they had found five potential investors for the company, and they were all interested and willing. After a well-needed background check, that list had whittled down to two.
STORMPAR INVESTOR BRIEF by Scott Miller
Option A: TerraNova Climate Ventures (TCV)
Type: Venture-Philanthropic Climate Tech Fund
HQ: Singapore/San Francisco
Founded: 2020
Focus: Frontier climate engineering, AI scouting for meteorology, adaptive storm technologies.
In short: TerraNova would be the money powerhouse behind StormPar. It supports weather-control technology and disaster adaptation systems that are high-risk but high-reward. Same sense of urgency as Silicon Valley and the same moral polish as environmental philanthropy.
Reputation: Independent ethics boards check it every year (B+ Transparency Rating). It gets big co-investors from the renewable energy and aerospace industries. Famous for being lucrative and being in the news a lot, so we may be able to run safety initiatives and education.
Why StormPar: Sees StormPar as a big step forward for people and a market worth trillions of dollars in the future. Pushes for solutions that can grow and make money instead of just doing research.
Risks: There is a risk that investors will want to keep data secret or rush trials to meet deadlines.
Review:
Integrity Score: 8.5/10
Financial Potential: ★★★★★
Ethical Risk: Moderate
Option B: Kepler Foundation for Atmospheric Innovation (KFAI)
In short: KFAI is a non-profit organisation that pays for research on the atmosphere and requires full academic openness. It puts scientific progress and public safety ahead of all other business goals.
Reputation: Known around the world for being honest and independent in academics. Keeps its own Ethics Council for all projects that change the atmosphere.
Why StormPar: Will only support if we ensure the research is public and the trials are safe for civilians, which is hard due to our work. The publication of Tornado Wranglers content has to be preapproved before release, as its views and language must be in line with KFAI’s beliefs and guidelines.
Risks: Company may have a harder time growing with this backer, as we will need to follow external procedures and every move we make will need to be approved before action can be taken. There may be ideological differences with Tornado Wranglers.
Review:
Integrity Score: 10/10.
Financial Potential: ★★☆☆☆
Ethical Risk: Minimal
Scott knew which one he would pick. But, hey, he wasn't allowed to decide that these days. While the 'big three', as he liked to call them, were debating which investor to pick, Scott had some spare time on his hands. He liked to read and trade stocks, and he'd developed a new habit.
It wasn't cool. Far from it. Actually, it was a little creepy.
Y/N was an enigma. Witty but kind. Gentle but reckless. She was a total greasemonkey, but he'd caught her reading classic literature during her lunch break. Her enthusiasm for science was evident, but she didn't hold a degree in such a subject and was clearly learning that side of the business as she worked. And Scott found her fascinating to watch.
Sure, she was pretty. That certainly was a factor in his interest. Even when she was covered in dirt or grease or sweat, she was a vision. But it was more than just physical attraction. Scott had seen her fix equipment others had deemed beyond repair, he'd watched her argue passionately with suppliers over parts, and he'd noticed how she treated every employee - from the most experienced engineer to the newest intern - with the same respect and patience.
She was… infuriating to him, and only to him. Scott couldn't put his finger on why. There had to be something wrong with her, and the longer he observed her, the more likely he would be to figure out what it was.
Dani would catch Scott all of the time. The mechanics would be bent over the hood of one of their vehicles to fix whatever had broken during the last storm or address the damage Javi created when he hit a pothole and fucked up the suspension again, and Scott would be standing nearby, notepad in hand, pretending to make notes about equipment maintenance or supply costs. If Dani managed to catch his eyes drifting from the pad to their buddy, they'd give him a knowing look and a wink.
"Back again, Miller?" They'd tease with that shit-eating grin of theirs, laughing at his face.
Then, Scott had to pretend that he wasn't oogling the skin of Y/N's lower back whenever she bent over the bonnet or the back of her thigh when she wore those bellbottom jeans that clung to her thighs and ass like they were glued to her body like a second skin or the way her tits looked in a greasy tank top or how she always forgot her hairband and would have to stop work to wrestle her hair away from her face.
Occasionally, he would simply walk away. Usually, however, he'd roll his eyes and huff out a half-baked excuse. Javi asked him to make sure everyone was on task. He wanted to give the mechanics some feedback because the last drive was a little too bumpy for his liking. The investors were considering an impromptu visit, so Scott wanted to ensure that everything met the standards and that everyone was wearing their uniforms. Yadda yadda yadda yadda.
He was lying through his teeth and Dani knew it. They saw right through him.
Y/N, on the other hand, didn't seem to notice. If she caught him watching, she'd just smile, say hi, and go back to work. She never commented on his presence or gave the slightest indication that she had noticed his behaviour. But she didn't know his behaviour because she'd joined after the merger, after Riggs, after the scandal. She hadn't witnessed his old ways firsthand and that was a blessing. She didn't know that he wasn't just a guy who didn't smile often; he'd been a shouty grump that terrorised his subordinates and made life hell for anyone who didn't meet his exact standards.
Still, he wasn't nice to these people. Niceness wasn't exactly in his nature. He was blunt, direct, and harsh when he needed to be, but he no longer screamed or threatened or fired people on a whim. He'd never been a talkative man, but he had to hold his tongue a lot more these days. The old Scott would have barked orders and demanded results immediately, but the new Scott found himself biting back criticisms and had to offer constructive feedback instead of harsh rebukes.
It was exhausting, this constant self-monitoring, but a necessary part of his rehabilitation in the eyes of his colleagues. The part of his brain that let off fireworks whenever he was annoyed had to be ignored, which was difficult since being around moralists and hillbillies was like the fourth of July in his mind.
Dani was the first to notice. Tyler and Kate were next.
Every morning when the squad would meet at breakfast, Scott only answered with grunts and eye rolls - which was usual for him, as he hardly ever spoke before 9am - but when Y/N greeted him, she got a simple "Morning." It wasn't much, but for Scott, it was monumental.
After noticing the daily interaction, Kate sat beside Y/N and asked, "Is Scott okay?"
"That's a loaded question," Y/N replied with a smirk, turning to her buddy to answer honestly. "He seems fine.
Kate narrowed her eyes at Scott, who was doing his very best to avoid eye contact and seem mysterious off in the corner. "And he's been polite," Kate observed, watching him carefully as he sipped his coffee. "Which is… unusual."
Tyler approached the two and playfully teased, "You talkin' about loverboy over there?" as he sat beside his girlfriend and discreetly took a piece of her toast.
"Loverboy?" Y/N, feeling confused, looked over at Scott, who was sitting nearby. They made eye contact for a second before she turned back to her friends and rolled her eyes playfully. "What are you talking about?"
"Oh, nothing," Tyler grinned. "I heard from Dani that Mr Frowny likes to watch you work."
"Everyone likes watching me work." Y/N took a sip of her coffee. She made sure to soothe, "Except for you, cowboy," so her tease didn't get him in any trouble with his partner.
"Thanks for the save!"
Kate slapped him on the arm and chuckled, and then they moved on to other topics, but suspicion had already been planted.
Javi was next.
Y/N's hotel room happened to be right next to a very loud, argumentative couple who had kept her up all night with their screaming match. So, to give her a reprieve from her duties, Javi had offered to bring her along on a supply run he was going on with Scott and a newly rejoined Ben - whose first article had gone viral and now he was back for a follow-up. Ben insisted on sitting in the passenger's seat to interview Javi while he drove, leaving Scott and Y/N in the back.
They had previously folded one of the back seats down for more boot space, but it became stuck and could not be moved, so the pair had to sit thigh to thigh to fit comfortably in the confined space. It was a tight squeeze, mostly due to how beefy Scott was, and it was warm and humid inside the truck, and his shoulder was the perfect height to be a pillow for her.
Within the first 10 minutes of the journey, Y/N had fallen asleep on Scott's shoulder. It was inevitable. She practically melted into his side like a ragdoll, her breathing becoming slower, and her exhaustion from her sleepless night finally caught up with her. Scott sat perfectly still, not wanting to disturb her even though his arm had gone numb from holding the same position for so long.
The poor guy couldn't stop how his eyes drifted towards her every two seconds while she slept. And when her hand had unconsciously curled around his bicep for stability, his breathing audibly hitched and grabbed the attention of his old friend in the driver's seat.
Javi caught a glimpse of the pair in the rearview mirror and bit back a smile.
She didn't wake up until they reached their destination, and even then, she slowly came to consciousness with a groggy smile and an apologetic, "Oh shit, did I drool on you?"
Yes, she had.
"It's fine."
Because it was fine. If it had been anyone else, Scott would have shoved them out of the truck with a scathing remark, but instead he just wiped his shirt sleeve with his palm and got out of the car without another word.
Dexter was after that.
During the feud between the Wranglers and StormPar, everyone knew one thing: Scott didn't care what happened to his employees when the workday was over. He'd walked past fights and injuries and accidents without a second glance.
But when Y/N offered to fix a hotel's washing machine while she was off the clock, Scott immediately stepped in and tried to negotiate an hourly rate for her work instead of letting her do it for free. He didn't want her to get taken advantage of, even though she was perfectly capable of handling herself and had fully intended to do this good deed for free.
Dexter watched the interaction with amusement, noting how Scott's usually stern expression softened when Y/N was involved. It was subtle - just a slight loosening of the jaw, a less rigid set to his shoulders - but it was there nonetheless.
Then, to add the cherry on top, Scott insisted that he hang around to keep an eye on the situation. The hotel manager was an odd, old man with wandering eyes, and Scott didn't like that one bit. He positioned himself in the doorway of the laundry room, arms crossed, his presence alone enough to discourage anyone from entering at all.
"You don't have to babysit me. I can handle myself just fine."
"I know," Scott replied, but he made no move to leave. "I haven't punched anyone in a while, and I'm waiting for that decrepit old pervert to give me the chance."
"Oh, big macho man, please save me from the evil hotel manager," she teased, rolling her eyes but unable to suppress the small smile that played at the corner of her lips.
Scott just grunted in response.
"Since you're just going to stand there, do you think you can lend me your biceps for a second?" She asked, gesturing to the stubborn washing machine that refused to budge.
He didn't hesitate and helped wiggle the machine back and forth until there was enough room for Y/N to slot herself between the wall and panel to peer inside and tinker with the inner workings.
"Thank you." She wiped her hands on her jeans and turned to look at him. "What do you want to talk about?"
"What?"
"It's gonna be awkward if we just sit here in silence while I work." Y/N pointed to a wrench just out of her reach and Scott immediately moved to grab it for her. "How was your day?"
"It was fine."
"C'mon, give me more than that!" She teased, poking him in the side with her knee.
So, Scott did. He began to open up about his day, sharing details about a particularly difficult conversation with Javi about the future of the company. As he spoke, his sentences became longer and more animated; his usual stoic demeanour softened to something more relaxed and conversational. Y/N listened intently, occasionally interjecting with a question or a comment. It was nice to see this side of him, and she found herself smiling more than usual as she worked.
The hotel manager decided to check up on them the moment Y/N had to get on her hands and knees to reach a part at the back of the machine, which caused only her backside to be visible. Within a second of him entering the room, Scott had positioned himself right in front of Y/N's ass to block the pervert's view.
"How are things going here?" The old man asked, his eyes darting around Scott's broad frame.
"Almost done," Y/N called out, completely unaware of the staring match that was about to happen between the men.
"Let me know if you need anything." The hotel manager's words dripped with a slimy, insincere quality that made Scott's jaw clench. The old man lingered for a moment before walking away.
"Fuckin' weirdo," he said under his breath.
"Hmmm…?"
"Nothing."
Y/N finally finished her repairs and tested the machine, which worked, but there was still an odd rattling sound coming from somewhere inside. She tugged the door open and ran her hand along the drum to check for anything stuck that might be causing the noise. Her fingers brushed against something smooth and cool, and she pulled out a delicate necklace with a tiny silver heart dangling from it.
"This is probably what fucked everything up." She held it up for Scott to see, her brow furrowed in concern. "I can't believe someone lost this in here. It's pretty."
It was pretty. It was pretty enough that Scott could imagine it hanging from Y/N's neck, the heart nestled between her collarbones.
He cleared his throat. "Yeah, it's nice."
"I should hand this over to the front desk. Someone's probably looking for it."
"Or…" Scott paused, his mind racing. "Or you could keep it. You know, as a souvenir of your good deed."
Y/N turned the necklace over in her hands, admiring the intricate detailing, before he took the jewellery from her. Gently - probably, the most gentle he'd ever been - Scott brushed her hair out of the way and clasped the necklace around her neck. His fingers lingered for a moment, resting against the nape of her neck, before he pulled away.
"I won't tell if you won't."
"You are a bad influence on me, Scott." Y/N's fingers brushed against the cool metal at her throat as a small smile played at the corners of her mouth. "At least I know it's clean."
From that day on, all of their colleagues collaborated on a list, one that they teasingly referred to as 'Mr Frowny Is Not Good At Hiding His Feelings: A StormPar Dossier', or just 'The Frowny Dossier' for short. It included witness testimony of the previous events and any observations of Scott's behaviour towards Y/N. The list was passed around and added to whenever someone noticed something new, and soon it had grown beyond the initial bullet points.
Mr Frowny Is Not Good At Hiding His Feelings: A StormPar Dossier
The longing gazes.
The car ride.
The negotiated pay.
New necklace that he likes to focus on (he may be looking at her tits, idk.)
If they were in the same room, there's a 99% chance he would be standing either opposite or beside her.
He places coffee with her name on it near her work station every day, and when pressed, he shrugs it off.
Whenever Y/N asks for help with heavy lifting, he's always the first to volunteer.
On her birthday, he bought her, and only her, a cupcake.
If he ever did a supply run, she got a text asking if she needed anything. The rest of the team had to beg and plead.
He sits by her every day at lunch without fail.
It went on and on and on, each point more pitiful and obvious than the last.
It was sweet, which was weird because Scott was the furthest thing from sweet. Before Y/N, they had never seen him do anything remotely selfless, let alone romantic.
Then one day, he slipped back into his old ways.
Because of the heat, he had taken off his work shirt and was only wearing a white undershirt. Even if it had been subzero temperatures, every noise would have felt like flames shooting to his brain as he tried to concentrate. Javi wasn't listening to the advice he was giving him about the investors. He had a particularly vivid dream about Y/N the night before and had spent most of the night awake, his mind racing with thoughts of her.
He had been suppressing his frustration for so long that it was beginning to bubble up inside him.
He needed to let it out, and he needed to let it out now.
It was unfortunate that Y/N was the one he barrelled into, as she was on her way back from a coffee run. She spilt the searingly hot liquid all over him, and his white polo was instantly soaked through. Scott looked down at the spreading stain for a heartbeat, and then something inside him broke.
"Are you fucking kidding me?!" he yelled, his voice echoing through the space. "What's wrong with you?!"
Ah, there was the anger she'd heard about. His face was flushed and his fists were clenched at his sides, while Y/N stood frozen, the empty coffee cup still clutched in her hand as she absorbed Scott's outburst.
"Do you even have a brain in there?" His vision was red and he had no idea what he was saying or who he was saying it to. "Or is it just for show?"
"Sorry, completely my fault," Y/N replied. "Let me-"
"No! No. If I wanted my nipples burnt off, I would've done it myself," he snarled, his eyes flashing. "Do you ever think before you do something? You have to be the most useless person I've ever worked with!"
Y/N opened her mouth again, ready to apologise once more, but her words were swallowed in the torrent of insults. His voice got even louder, his fists clenched, and if it were possible to have steam coming from his ears, he would've.
"Honestly! Honestly! How do you mess up everything you touch? Coffee, files, my life - oh, and congratulations, you've just made it a fucking disaster!"
She seemed to shrink under his verbal assault, but she took it without flinching. She maintained the poise of someone who has worked in customer service and dealt with entitled assholes who believe the world revolves around them. Her face was impassive, but her eyes betrayed a hurt that he couldn't see in his rage-induced state.
Scott stopped all of a sudden and looked at her, really looked at her, for the first time since he started yelling. His anger deflated, but his chest still rose, and he fell with heavy breaths as he tried to process what he'd just done. The words he'd hurled at her, the venom in his voice, and the pure disrespect he'd shown her were sinking in. He opened his mouth to apologise, but before his brain could come up with anything to say, his feet were already moving.
Their peers were deathly silent as he stormed out, the tension lingering until Y/N playfully asked, "I'm going on another coffee run; anyone want anything?" and the office slowly came back to life, though they all noticed the way she deliberately avoided looking in the direction Scott had disappeared.
Nobody saw Scott for the rest of the work day. He went back to the motel he'd been staying at and spent the rest of the day in a haze of self-loathing and regret. Even the huge cash out he'd made from trading stocks couldn't cheer him up. He'd fucked up and he'd fucked up big time. He'd screamed at the one person he actually liked being around, and that sucks.
After work, Javi decided to check up on his business partner and urged him to join everyone at a local bar for Boone's birthday, heavily hinting that Y/N would be there. Javi expected Scott to refuse and entirely ignore his suggestion but to his surprise, Scott agreed to come within seconds. He even asked follow-up questions about how she seemed after the incident, which was more of a confirmation of his feelings than anything else on The Frowny Dossier.
He stood in the corner of the pub like a stalker and didn't go up to his coworkers to say, 'I'm here, by the way.' He tried to focus on his drink and the Eagles game he was barely paying attention to on the bar tv, yet his eyes kept drifting to where Y/N was laughing with Kate and Lily at the other end of the room. This dance went on for around half an hour before she came up to the bartender to order another drink, and he knew that this was his chance to make things right.
"What do you drink?" he greeted.
No hi, no pleasantries - just straight to business - and for a second, it seemed as if she hadn't heard him. But then she asked the bartender, "What's the most expensive drink here?"
"The most expensive? Probably Casa Dragones Joven. Tequila. It's 55 bucks per shot."
Y/N turned to Scott and raised an eyebrow in challenge, daring him to buy it for her. He didn't hesitate. If this was how she wanted her apology to go, he'd buy her the whole damn bottle. Yet, he still had to pretend to be completely unaffected; he sighed loudly and rolled his eyes before ordering two shots.
"Apology accepted, Scotty." She took a side step closer to him and bumped her hip into his side playfully. "Are you okay?"
"Am I okay?" he repeated incredulously.
"Yeah." Her voice softened. "I mean… you seemed pretty stressed out earlier."
Was she nuts? He had screamed at her, called her useless, and generally been a complete asshole. And now she was asking if he was okay? She really was an enigma because she held no grudge or animosity. Her face was open and kind, and she looked genuinely concerned for him and his wellbeing.
"I'm fine," he insisted.
The bartender placed the tequila, and Y/N lifted it, her eyes never leaving his, and knocked it back - clean, unflinching, and with no hesitation whatsoever. She set the glass down with a soft clink, wiped her thumb across the rim, and smiled at him. He tried to look away, to force a smirk, to find some snarky remark that would pull him back into the safe territory of banter and bravado, but nothing came.
This was the real thing, he realised. Heavy, undeniable, inconvenient as hell. It was finally official in his brain - he was totally infatuated. He was in love with her. Actually, stupidly, completely in love with her.
"Are you gonna stay here brooding -"
"I don't brood."
"Yes, you absolutely do. You're the king of brooding." She teased, then reached up and gently poked his chest right where his heart was. "Come on, I'm sure that Boone feels honoured that you've blessed us with your presence. It's a miracle you even showed up at all since you're so broody and mysterious."
Y/N held her hand out, fingers wiggling invitingly, and he found himself reaching for it without even thinking. As she pulled him towards the group, he realised he was smiling - a real, genuine smile - and failed to fix his face before the team noticed.
That was going on the list ASAP!
They stuffed themselves at the end of the booth with the rest of StormPar and Scott was hyper-aware of how close Y/N was sitting to him, her thigh pressed against his, and her arm occasionally brushing his as she gesticulated while talking. He still didn't say much but he didn't need to. The group chatted and laughed, and he just soaked it all in, occasionally adding a comment or two when prompted.
At some point in the evening, Y/N snuck outside for a breather and he followed her, finding her leaning against the wall outside the pub. She looked up at him as he approached. "Hey, you okay?"
"I'm fine." He leaned against the wall beside her, mirroring her posture. "Just needed some air."
"Me too."
They stood in silence for a moment, just revelling in the cool night air, as it was a welcome respite from the stuffy pub.
"I heard your argument with Javi earlier," she admitted. "Is that why…"
"I was so angry? Yeah, well, it certainly didn't help." Scott sighed, running a hand through his hair. "We finally got a concrete number from the Keepler Foundation, and, uh, if they pick that investor, StormPar will have to declare bankruptcy in two years tops. Javi wants to take the deal, so he thought I was fudging the numbers."
He turned to look at her, his face a picture of frustration. "I wasn't. I swear. I've been working my ass off to keep this company afloat, and he just…" His tone was so resigned that he didn't even finish the sentence and she knew how much effort he was putting into the company. Scott needed cheering up; that was clear as he slumped against the wall.
In an instant, she grabbed both of his hands and began to push and pull them to the barely there music, trying to get him to dance with her. He was so surprised by the sudden movement that he nearly stumbled, but he caught himself and held his arms in place.
"What are you doing?"
"I'm not doing anything," she lied.
He stood there, his body stiff as a board as she swayed to the beat, her hands still holding his. The music was too quiet to really dance to, but she didn't care. She just wanted to make him smile, to take his mind off his troubles, even if only for a moment.
"I don't dance."
"I don't care."
Scott rolled his eyes but couldn't help the small smirk that tugged at his lips. He tried to resist, but she was so insistent, and he was so tired of being so nonchalant all the time. After a moment, he gave in and pulled her closer, one hand moving to her waist while the other stayed entwined with hers.
"We look like fools," he complained, though he couldn't say that this was going to stop him from dancing with her.
"Oh yeah, we're total dorks."
For a moment, he forgot all about his problems. He forgot about the company, about Javi, about everything else except for the girl in his arms and the way she made him feel.
"I was such a dickhead earlier."
"You were." She didn't mince words, and he appreciated that. "It was kinda hot, not gonna lie."
He barked out a laugh, genuinely surprised by her bluntness. "What?"
"I didn't say anything," she lied once more with a mischievous grin.
Fondly, he shook his head and let go of her hand to wrap both arms around her waist, pulling her flush against him. She came willingly and slid her arms up his chest to loop around his neck, her fingers playing with the hair that peeked out from beneath his cap.
"If this is my punishment for being a dick, I should screw up more often." He ducked his head, resting his forehead against hers as they swayed together. "I'm pretty sure this counts as foreplay in at least three states.”
A laugh burst from her as she pulled back to look at him, and he couldn't resist any longer. He leaned down and captured her lips in a searing kiss, pouring all of his pent-up frustration and longing into it. The kiss tasted of overpriced tequila, the mint from his gum, and the sweetness of how long he had waited for this moment. His hands roamed her back, pulling her even closer as if he could absorb her into himself and never let go.
Without knowing he had, Scott had backed them to the brick wall and pinned her there with his body, one hand cradling her head as he deepened the kiss. He could feel her body arching into his as she moaned softly into his mouth and he knew he was in trouble. He was getting carried away, and they were in public, and he didn't want to ruin this moment by rushing things.
Using all the restraint he possessed, he pulled back. They stared into each other's eyes, their chests heaving, and giggled - though Scott would deny that he was capable of such a thing - as they tried to catch their breath.
"Someone's going to walk out and see us," Y/N murmured, challenging him to try and retreat into the shadows or push her away.
"I don't care. They know I'm… y'know…"
"No, I don't know. You're what?" She added, her face making it clear that she'd heard the rumours and was just trying to guide him into saying them aloud.
Scott huffed out a breath, his face flushing red under the amount of effort he had to exert to get the words out. "I'm crazy about you. There, I said it. I'm fucking crazy about you, okay? Our coworkers keep a list of how whipped I am and I don't even care anymore. They probably have a betting pool on when I'll finally man up and ask you out."
"When are you gonna do that? I'm not against insider trading if it means we get to make some moolah on the side."
"Did you just say moolah?"
"I did."
"I take back everything I just said. I'm not crazy about you at all. You're the worst."
"Oh yeah?"
"Yeah."
He punctuated his words with a kiss, then another, and another, and another until they were making out again.
"Do you want to go back to the hotel so we can make out in private?" She said between kisses. He pulled back, looking down at her with amusement and desire in his eyes.
"Your room or mine?"
Scott pecked her once more before stepping back, adjusting his shirt and cap so it wasn't so obvious that they'd been making out so publicly.
"Whichever is closer," Y/N flirted as she walked away without looking back, but she did stick her hand out behind her and wiggle her fingers to entice him to follow her.
He followed her without hesitation, his long strides easily closing the distance until he took her hand and they reached his hotel room in record time. The moment the door closed behind them, they were on each other again and fell into bed in a tangle of limbs and passion.
When the morning came, Y/N awoke to a furnace of a body behind her with his bicep by her cheek and his arm resting by her neck. It was the most affectionate headlock she'd ever been in and was surprisingly comfy despite the fact that his morning wood was jabbing her in the butt. But as nice as it was, she caught a glimpse of the clock and knew she'd have to leave soon to get back to her room and get ready for the day ahead.
And instead of sneaking her way out, she lightly bit on his muscle to make sure he groaned awake. "What the fuuuck?" he whined, his voice deep and hoarse and coated in confusion as he stirred.
"Morning, sunshine!" Y/N giggled and pressed a kiss to her faint teeth print. "Free me from this hot prison, please. I gotta pee!"
Scott reluctantly loosened his hold on her, grumbling something about how weird she was and continued groaning when she returned from the bathroom. His eyes were still closed and hair tousled from their activities the night before and Y/N had a feeling she was about to experience the full brunt of Scott's early morning grumpiness.
"I hate you right now."
"I'm so, so sorry," Y/N deadpanned, but the smile that spread across her face was impossible to miss. She leaned down to plant a kiss on his lips and had fully planned to leave it at that, but Scott reached up and pulled her down on top of him.
"The fuck do you think you're going?"
"Back to my room cause I need to shower."
"You can't just bite me and run off like that." He wrapped his arms around her waist and flipped their positions so he was on top, pinning her to the bed as he became dead weight on top of her. "That's rude."
Rolling her eyes, Y/N framed his face in her hands and shook him a little. "Who knew you were such a clingy little bitch?" she teased, aware that if anyone else had used that term, Scott would have decked them.
All he did was raise his eyebrow and glare at her as she continued making fun of him and copying his grumpy face. Scott tried to pretend that he wasn't totally in love with the way she was being goofy. He tried, and he failed. He couldn't hide the smile on his face, the way his hands traced idle patterns on her sides, or just how much he enjoyed her company.
"You done?"
"Mmm, nope." Y/N gave him a quick peck on the lips, which he intensified and continued until she felt too hot and bothered to even consider leaving. "You win! I'll stay for a little bit longer if you join me in the shower."
All grumpiness left him as he immediately jumped up and started tugging her towards the bathroom.
From then on, they kept their new relationship under wraps. The decision was mostly due to Scott's reputation among his coworkers and the desire to have a private, peaceful start to their relationship without outside pressure or scrutiny. Also, Scott barely spoke to anyone who wasn’t Y/N or Javi so he was far less likely to divulge information than most people would be. However, this secrecy didn't stop The Frowny Dossier from growing with Scott's 'loverboy' exploits.
It was obvious, but since they hadn't said it outright, nobody had won the betting pool yet.
Then, Javi had finally come to terms with the fact that Scott was right. The Kepler Foundation's investment proposal was too limited to make a significant impact. After a week of heated debates and late-night discussions, he had run the numbers for himself and, yeah, Scott was correct. They wouldn't be a benefit for very long, and TerraNova - even though they were far more techbro-y and capitalist - were offering sustainability and long-term growth.
Simply put, Scott had proved that he was vital to the company by securing TerraNova. As much as Javi liked to pretend that he was a realist, whenever he and Kate were together, they dreamed of moralistic procedures and benevolent companies changing the world. And while Scott might not share their idealism, his pragmatism and business acumen had become the grunt work that enabled Kate and Tyler and Javi to save lives.
So, StormPar accepted TerraNova's proposal, and to celebrate, everyone wanted a bonfire on the beach. As late evening rolled around, everyone gathered around the large fire pit as the waves crashed gently in the background, and the temperature dropped enough to make goosebumps appear on Y/N's arms.
Instinctively, Scott shrugged off his jacket and draped it over her shoulders. He hadn't intended it to be 'a thing' and was fully planning to walk away until she caught him by the wrist. "Sit with me?" she suggested, and what was he going to do? Decline? Not do what his girlfriend said?
Besides, the jacket move would've tipped off even the most oblivious observers that something was going on, so why not go all in? It was a special occasion, after all, and they were finally celebrating a victory after so long of arguments and back and forth.
He perched beside her on a log, feeling numerous eyes on him as he did so. If they wanted to stare, well, he'd give them something to stare at. When Y/N turned her head to say something to him, he caught her by the back of the neck and kissed her deeply, not caring who saw. She wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him closer as the flames danced and cast their shadows on the sand.
"Finally!" someone from the crowd called out, while another yelled, "I knew it!"
Kate watched on in mild disgust but mostly vindication and had decided that Mr Frowny Is Not Good At Hiding His Feelings: A StormPar Dossier would be a great wedding present when the time inevitably came.
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