c/w ᝰ.ᐟ unrequited love, love confession rehearsal, crying, yearning, self-inflicted emotional damage, one-sided love, hurt no comfort, painfully oblivious!dean, pet names (you’re my girl + babygirl; platonic, no y/n), all the right words to the wrong person, reader heartbreak + language
You’re sitting on the couch fully dressed with your shoes already on after changing outfits three times because apparently going to a bar with your best friend now requires a full identity crisis. You drop your phone beside you and let your head fall back against the couch cushion.
You and Dean have been friends for years. Long enough that he has a spare set of apartment keys for himself, free rein to your leftovers without repercussions, and his own little corner in the closet.
Dean never stayed serious about anybody long enough to worry about. There was always another girl, another date, another reason to remind yourself that whatever stupid crush you’d been carrying around wasn’t worth ruining the best friendship you’d ever had.
Until Allie.
For the first time since you’ve known him, Dean actually thinks before he talks about someone. Like she matters enough to make him choose his words carefully.
You spent years convincing yourself you’d get over him eventually. Turns out watching Dean fall in love with somebody else is a pretty effective way to figure out exactly how bad you’ve got it.
Your phone lights up on the coffee table, and you hate how fast you reach for it, rolling your eyes at yourself.
You stare at the messages for a second before typing back.
˗ˏˋ ☏ ˎˊ˗ 𝚈𝚘𝚞: 𝙽𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 💕
A smile tugs at your mouth despite yourself.
That was the other problem. No matter how much this hurt, Dean was still Dean.
Your phone starts ringing before you can answer. Your heart immediately jumps, which is embarrassing considering it’s been doing that for years.
You answer before the second ring.
“Babydoll.”
“Mhmm…” You hum out a breath. “What do you want, Dean?”
For a second all you hear is his breathing before he chuckles weakly, and even though you can’t see him you can feel it. Something’s wrong.
“Can you come over?” His voice wavers a little.
“Yeah,” you answer, gently. “Is everything okay?”
“Yeah. Yeah. M’fine,” he assures quickly, like the concern is completely unnecessary. You hear him shift around on the other end of the line. “I just need somebody to talk to.”
“Yeah,” you say. “Of course.”
“You’re the best,” he hums.
“Be there in ten.” Click.
You grab your purse and step into the warm summer night. Dean’s place is only a few blocks away, unfortunately giving you more than enough time to think.
You don’t dislike Allie. She’s beautiful, funny, smart, and completely capable of keeping Dean on his toes. The problem is that every time he talks about her, he sounds like somebody who’s already fallen.
You don’t want it to be somebody else.
You want it to be you.
By the time you step into the driveway, most of the lights in the guys’ house are on, the front door wide open and music and conversation pouring out onto the street.
You let yourself inside, greeting the boys on autopilot, too worried about how Dean sounded on the phone to think of much more.
You make your way upstairs, following the sound of Dean moving around in his room. His door is half open. You push it the rest of the way and find him standing in front of his dresser, pulling a shirt over his head.
The second he sees you, his face brightens. “Finally,” he huffs out a breath like you had kept him waiting and you roll your eyes.
Dean crosses the room and wraps his arms around you before you can say something smart—a smothering hug. But this time he keeps you there, turning his face into your shoulder and letting out a long breath.
He stays like that for a moment, holding you like he needs it—like he needs you.
“Dean?” You whisper.
“Babydoll,” he mumbles.
“Seriously, are you okay?” You laugh nervously.
He thinks about that for a minute, mumbling something frustrated and small under his breath. You pull back and cup his cheeks between your hands, forcing him to look at you.
“C’mon,” you breathe, and his bottom lip pokes out in a pout. “It’s me… Tell me. What the hell’s going on with you. You told me to come over. I’m here…”
“I know… Thank you,” he mutters.
“So?”
“So…” He sighs as you drop your hands, hanging heavy by your sides. “Mental gymnastics.”
“Over what?” You ask, cocking an eyebrow at him.
Allie.
“Allie,” he whispers the name you saw coming a mile away. “I can’t do it.”
“Like?” You ask, feeling your stomach sink like a rollercoaster drop. “Like the two of you?”
“No—No. Hell no,” he answers fast and breathless. “That assignment. I couldn’t do it. Every girl I talked to, I just kept thinking about how fuckin’ stupid it was. I even thought about asking somebody to lie.”
“Desperate times,” you murmur.
“You got no clue,” he mumbles, tiredly. “I even thought about asking you. Y’know, to lie.” The words hit harder than they should. “Probably the only person I know who’d give a shit enough to help me with that.”
You force a smile, your lips trembling at the corner. “Of course.”
“She’d never believe it.”
Your eyelashes flutter as your heart starts to crack. “Oh?”
Dean laughs, scratching at the stubble on his jaw as he thinks it over. “You’re my girl. She’d know I was lyin’.”
You nod, giving him the only reply you can muster to that. He lifts his hands, running his fingers through his hair, still turning it over in his head.
“I’m just gonna tell her.”
You stare up at him for a moment, and those nerves you heard on the phone start to become crystal clear. “Tell her what?” You ask nonetheless.
He blows out a breath just like before, laughing nervously. “I don’t know how to say it.”
“You’ve never had trouble talking before,” you say, already turning away, glancing at him out of the corner of your eye as he scowls, rolling your eyes away.
“No too much on your boy, alright. I’m going through emotional duress.”
He walks around his bed and crashes down, turning to his side like he’s already waiting for you to settle on the other.
“This feels different.”
Your stomach sinks as you sink into the mattress next to him.
“I keep trying to convince myself we’re casual, but we’re not,” he tells you honestly. “I haven’t stopped thinking about New York.”
“Yeah,” you whisper.
“We didn’t even do anything special. We stayed in, ordered food, watched movies, and it was probably one of the best nights I’ve had in years.”
The best night he’s had in years. All those memories you’d secretly hoped might fill that place already did—for you.
“I keep waiting for this feeling to go away,” he sighs. “I keep thinkin’ eventually I’ll wake up and it’ll be normal again, but it doesn’t.”
You look up at him for a moment, wishing he would stop talking and feeling awful for it at the same time. You hate how much it sounds like everything you’ve spent years wanting to hear.
You hate it even more because none of it is meant for you.
“Well, what are you gonna say?” You whisper, and he scoots a little closer, snuggling into his pillow.
“To Allie?”
You widen your eyes to keep the tears inside—because why the fuck would you want to know? But some part of you knows you need to hear it.
“Tonight?” He asks and you nod. “Like practice on you.”
No.
You look back at him, wishing you could take back those six little words because now he’s not just going to talk through his feelings.
He wants you to feel them. He wants to sit here and practice telling another girl he loves her while looking you directly in the eye, and the worst part is that he trusts you enough to do it—trusts you enough to hand you something this important and never once wonder what it might cost you.
And that might be too much for you to take.
“Mhmm,” the utterance pushes past your lips, and your head falls a little heavier into the pillow, wafting an unfamiliar perfume, just a whisper. Allie’s.
You push off the pillow and sit, and he does the same, meeting you eye to eye.
“Allie,” he breathes. “I, uh….” Dean laughs nervously, so you do the same. The two of you look away for a moment, anxious for different reasons entirely before looking back at each other.
“Dean,” you whisper, extending your hand casually for him to continue.
“I get it now,” he mumbles, taking your hand in his. Your gaze falls as his fingers tighten around yours.
“Get what?” You whisper, eyes lifting back to him.
“You love love.” Your eyebrows soften on his, recalling something he had told you she had mentioned when they first met. “That’s what you said you wanted, yeah?”
“Yeah,” you whisper, and he smiles.
“So, I came here to tell you that I…” He mumbles as his thumb brushes along your knuckles. “I didn’t complete the assignment.”
Silence settles over the room as you already hear something you know to be true.
“Why?” You ask, watching him for a moment, holding your breath, waiting for his four little words he’s so desperate to say to leave his lips and shatter your heart completely.
“Because I like you,” he answers and you force yourself to smile.
Suddenly, Dean is harder to see through the blur gathering in your eyes. You nod, feeling your body starting to tremble with adrenaline.
“I like us.” He laughs softly. “We just kept having all these little moments.”
Dean doesn’t notice the way your stomach twists, looking away as your first tear breaks free. You lift up your shirt, brushing it away before he can see. He drags a hand across his mouth, smiling at the memory, too busy to see you.
And suddenly every fear you’ve spent months trying not to think about becomes impossible to ignore. Because if he talks about her like this now, what happens when she says yes?
The answer comes immediately. You lose him.
Not all at once. Slowly, the way people drift when they start building a life full of beautiful memories with someone else.
“I couldn’t do it either,” you whisper.
“You think she’s gonna say that?” He asks, breaking character. Talking to a friend.
“I hope so.”
He looks relieved, like finally saying it out loud has taken a weight off his shoulders. “Was it too much, honestly?”
You shake your head quickly—too eager. Not at all your normal reply and you both know it. “No, Dean. I think you should tell her,” your words barely slip past your quivering lips.
“Hey,” he breathes, his eyes widening as he leans in, that relief he was feeling falling away almost as fast as it came. “Are you okay?”
You look up to the ceiling, your hands coming up under your eyes to catch your tears, letting out a breathless laugh. “Oh my God,” you huff.
“You’re crying,” he interjects, pawing your hands away, grabbing your face just like you held him just minutes before.
He searches your face like he missed something. And he did. He has no clue. No fucking clue.
Dean immediately leans forward, pressing his forehead against yours, and you sniffle, hiccuping on your tears. Embarrassment coursing through your veins.
“Did I say something wrong?”
The panic in his voice makes you feel guilty, your tears rolling warm over his hands as you think of an escape plan. Some way to salvage this moment for him—for you.
“Why are you crying?” He whispers, laughing because it’s awkward and he’s nervous. Because this went from a hopeful moment to him being totally perplexed.
“That was just…” You swallow hard. “Really beautiful.”
Dean blinks a few times. “What?”
“Your,” you swallow hard, rolling your eyes as tears flick off your lashes. “That—that speech, Dean.” Your voice cracks, and you laugh as well. For him. Again.
“You think?”
You nod as a smile pulls at your mouth. “I loved it.”
His thumbs come up, brushing beneath your eyes. Dean's smile gets a little brighter, the dimples in his cheeks popping like that was the vote of confidence he needed. “It was that good?”
“Perfect,” you whisper.
“Damn, might be too much for a bar, huh?” He sighs, smiling back at you before he leans in, pressing a kiss against your forehead. “Thank you.” You can hear the relief in his words, like that conversation was exactly what he needed.
And, the last thing you wanted to hear.
“The Uber is here,” Garrett calls from downstairs.
“Oh, shit,” Dean practically jumps off the bed, running his fingers through his hair before he pats his pockets, double-checking for his wallet. “You comin’?” He asks when you stay right where you are.
You shake your head.
You point to your tear-soaked cheeks, attempting a self-deprecating smile. “I don’t think I’m feeling very good—I…” You look around for a moment. “I think I’m just gonna go home.”
Dean frowns immediately. “You’re joking? No, you’re fine. You just—It was the speech, right?” He asks, his attention immediately pulled away when he hears the boys outside yelling for the two of you. “I don’t wanna do this without you. What if this blows up in my face—”
“YOU TWO COMING?” Both of you are called through the open window. Dean groans and drops his head back for a second.
“I need you. You’re killin’ me.”
“Go,” you say, offering him a smile that lets him know he’s gonna be okay.
For a moment he just stands there before finally nodding. “Okay—Alright,” he answers, checking his reflection in the mirror, spraying some cologne across his chest before he grabs his jacket off the chair. He heads toward the door, stopping with one hand on the frame.
“You sure, sure?”
You nod. “I’m sure.”
Dean studies your face for another second before nodding back. “Okay.” A small smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. Then he hesitates. “Wish me luck?”
“Good luck.”
The sound of his footsteps disappears down the stairs. A few seconds later you hear laughter, voices, a door opening and closing. You push yourself to your feet and wander toward the window, watching the black SUV drive off into the night.
And silence.
And in that moment, it’s like the energy had been sucked out of the room completely, the reality of the night catching up to you.
Your throat tightens immediately and your vision starts to blur—you don’t even realize you’re crying until you wipe at your cheek and your hand comes away wet.
You turn away from the window and look around his room. Your sweatshirt is draped over the back of the chair. His backpack with notes from your study session on Tuesday is half-open beside his desk. The cologne you bought him for his birthday—the scent drilled so deep in your brain it still lingers faintly in the air.
Everywhere you look there are pieces of you here.
Maybe that’s what has been hurting so much. Not the idea of Dean loving somebody else. The idea that he might be happy enough to stop needing you the way he always has. That one day you’ll wake up and realize you aren’t the first person he calls anymore, and that neither of you will have even noticed when it happened.
You press a hand over your mouth and try to breathe through it, but all you can hear is Dean’s voice.
I haven’t stopped thinking about New York.
I keep waiting for this feeling to go away.
Eventually you kick off your shoes and pull yourself onto his bed. The pillow is still warm from where he’d been lying. You bury your face in it trying to stop thinking—stop feeling.
Tomorrow he’ll probably walk through the front door smiling. He’ll tell you everything. What she said. How nervous he was. What had happened after that. And you’ll sit there and listen because that’s what you’ve always done.
Then a horrible thought hits you. You can’t stay here.
Because there’s a really good chance Dean is about to get exactly what he wants tonight. There’s a really good chance she says ‘yes’. And if she does, why wouldn’t they come back here?
For years you’ve walked into this room without thinking about it. You’ve fallen asleep here during movie nights. You’ve spent hours sitting on this bed listening to Dean complain about classes, hockey, teammates, girls you didn’t give a shit about. You treated this like it was your home and you belonged here.
But maybe that’s the problem.
Maybe none of it was ever yours in the first place.
Maybe this is just the first time you’ve had to realize it.
Your grip loosens on the pillow before you finally stand, picking up whatever pieces of yourself you can.
That isn’t even the part that hurts the most. Maybe you should’ve known how this would end.
He needed help telling another girl he loved her, and he came to you.
They trust you to rebuild their homes, sharpen their weapons, tend their gardens, and stand beside them during diplomacy.
But every formal gathering comes with another gentle suggestion.
Maybe a dress next time.
At first, you don't think much of it. Until one day you realize you're no longer getting dressed for yourself.
And Azriel finally decides he's heard enough.
Huge thank you to @chessebookgirl for this request! 💙 I had so much fun writing this one, and it honestly ended up taking on a life of its own.
I really hope this is what you were thinking of! 😂 I definitely ran with the idea a little, but I hope I did it justice. Thank you so much for trusting me with it, and I hope you enjoy!
It was well past noon by the time Cassian joined you on the River House roof.
“You know you could have waited for me!”
You looked up at the male, a smile already on your face.
“And wait another hundred years for help? Not a chance.”
Cassian rolled his eyes as he lowered himself onto the exposed beams beside you.
“I was busy.”
“Snogging your mate is hardly being busy, Cassian.”
The male simply huffed before reaching for the loose section of roofing you had already pried away.
“You know,” he said, straining as the wood finally gave beneath his hands, “I think Elain is gardening tomorrow.”
You nodded before turning your attention back to the roof.
Elain was, in fact, in the garden bright and early the following morning.
“Hey, Elain!”
She jumped, nearly dropping the basket of seeds balanced against her hip before turning toward you.
“Oh my, you scared me.”
You chuckled, gesturing toward the small vegetable garden in front of her.
One corner had sunk deep into the soil. Another board had cracked through its center. A third appeared to be held together by stubbornness and a particularly determined climbing vine.
You nodded slowly.
“All of them?”
Elain winced. “Most of them.”
The day was filled with Elain’s laughter and the steady rhythm of your hammer.
Well, mostly your hammer.
Elain directed, held boards steady when needed, and provided an endless stream of snacks and lemonade. By lunch, the first bed had been rebuilt. By sunset, you had replaced nearly every rotted board in the garden.
Elain stood beside you with her hands on her hips, surveying the results.
“They’re beautiful.”
“They’re boxes made of wood.”
“They’re beautiful boxes made of wood.”
You bumped your shoulder against hers.
“I’ll take it.”
Over the next month, you solidified your reputation as the Night Court’s resident handy lady.
Rhysand’s desk was repaired after it mysteriously collapsed beneath the weight of several decades’ worth of neglected paperwork at least he claims that’s what broke it.
You installed three new bookshelves for Nesta, only for her to ask how difficult it would be to add a fourth.
You fixed the warped cabinets in Feyre’s art studio and redesigned the storage shelves after she admitted she had no idea where half of her paints had gone.
Cassian appeared at your door carrying an armful of dulled blades and a smile he seemed to believe was charming.
You sharpened the blades. You charged him lunch for the labor.
Even Mor came to you when the clasp on one of her favorite jewelry boxes snapped, dropping the broken thing into your hands with complete confidence that you would return it better than it had been before.
No one seemed bothered when you hauled lumber through the River House.
No one questioned the leather tool belt that hung from your hips or the trousers permanently marked with sawdust, oil and paint.
No one minded when you joined Cassian and Nesta in the training ring, your hair tied away from your face and your sleeves pushed to your elbows.
Nesta even preferred sparring with you saying that while Cassian was stronger, you fought differently. You were faster, less predictable, and far more willing to use the training ring itself against your opponent.
You belonged among the sound of hammers and steel. Among dirt-stained gloves and half-finished plans scattered across the dining table, laughing with Elain in the garden, trading insults with Cassian on the roof. You belonged with your friends.
You belonged tucked against Azriel’s side whenever the two of you found a rare moment when he wasn’t gathering information from one court or another and you weren’t halfway inside a broken piece of furniture.
It was during one of those rare evenings that he mentioned the upcoming celebration.
“So, you’re telling me we’re throwing a party for Amren’s not-birthday birthday?”
Azriel laughed softly from his place beside you on the sofa.
“That is more or less what’s happening.”
You turned toward your mate.
“Why?”
“Mor decided Amren has never had a proper birthday celebration.”
“Because she doesn’t have a birthday.”
“Mor considers that a minor obstacle.”
You smiled, resting your chin against Azriel’s shoulder.
“Guess I’ll have to figure out how to braid my hair.”
It took three days of consistent attempts to settle on a style that felt right.
The first evening, you somehow created a knot so elaborate that Azriel had been forced to help untangle it.
The second night, one side had looked perfect while the other stuck out at a strange angle.
Azriel had insisted it looked lovely, while you simply rolled your eyes and huffed.
By the third evening, your arms ached from holding them above your head, but the braid finally rested neatly against the back of your skull before trailing down between your shoulders.
You turned your head from side to side, examining it in the mirror.
“There.”
Azriel leaned against the doorframe behind you.
“There,” he agreed.
Finding the right attire had been easier.
It wasn’t a secret that dresses weren’t your thing. You didn’t hate them. You had seen Mor in gowns that looked as though they had been sewn from flame and starlight. Feyre’s dresses were often pieces of artwork in their own right, and Elain could make the simplest fabric look delicate and elegant.
Azriel had suggested that the two of you visit the tailor together, and the finished suits complemented each other without matching completely. His was black with subtle blue stitching. Yours was made from similarly dark fabric, with silver embroidery curling along the cuffs and lapels.
Your jewelry was understated, but each piece had been chosen carefully.
You adjusted one cuff link before examining yourself from the side.
“Stunning.”
You found Azriel’s eyes in the mirror behind you.
“You say that no matter what I wear.”
He crossed the room and wrapped his arms around your waist, resting his chin briefly against your shoulder.
“Because it’s always true.”
“You’re terribly biased.”
“I am.”
His hands settled over your stomach.
“But I’m also right.”
You rolled your eyes, unable to keep the smile from your face.
“If you’re finished fiddling,” he murmured, “we should join the others.”
The main dining room had been transformed.
Deep crimson fabric draped from the ceiling. Golden candles floated above the table, illuminating enough food to feed half of Velaris. Jewels had been scattered across the dark tablecloth as though Mor had attempted to recreate Amren’s collection herself.
It was beautiful and dramatic. It was also unquestionably Mor who decorated for the occasion.
Amren stood near the center of the room, staring at a towering cake with the expression of someone considering whether it might be less insulting to leave or set the entire table on fire.
Mor turned at the sound of your footsteps.
“There you are!”
She swept toward you, crimson skirts trailing behind her.
Her eyes moved appreciatively over Azriel before settling on you.
“Oh.”
Your hand moved instinctively toward your jacket.
Mor smiled.
“You should let me take you shopping before the next event.”
You glanced down at yourself.
“These are new.”
The words came out more confused than offended.
Mor blinked.
“No, I only meant” She waved one hand vaguely, searching for an explanation.
“Something different. We could make a day of it.”
You smiled, unwilling to let the moment become uncomfortable.
“Maybe.”
Mor’s attention was quickly stolen by Cassian, who had decided Amren needed a pointed hat to complete the celebration.
The evening moved on. So did you.
It was one comment. One that Mor hadn’t meant anything by it. You knew that.
Azriel knew it too, although his shadows whispered around his shoulders as he watched you smooth a hand down the front of your new jacket.
It was during dinner that Nesta and Elain were talking that you were pulled into the conversation.
“Do you guys have the same dances here as we do on the other side of the wall?”
You turned to Elain. “I believe so, Nesta didn’t have any issues with keeping up with Eris in the Hewn City, so a few must be the same.”
Mor cut in before Nesta could respond.
“Believe it or not, she’s actually a good dancer.” She made a gesture in your direction before turning back to whatever Cassian was saying.
“Interesting, I suppose we’ll have to see for our selves at some point.”
Elain nodded at Nestas comment.
The rest of the night continued without any fuss.
Allowing for a night a peace in a world of seemingly constant chaos.
—
The next event that required formal attire was held in the Dawn Court.
You chose a slate-grey suit embroidered with pale golden thread. Having spent nearly an hour weaving small ornaments through your braid after Feyre mentioned that the metalwork matched the Dawn Court’s traditional jewelry.
Azriel watched from the bed as you redid the final section for the third time.
“It looked fine before.”
“It was crooked.”
“No one would have noticed.”
“I would have.”
You eventually joined the others in the hall, arriving just as Rhysand finished explaining the purpose of the gathering.
Amren looked you over.
Her eyes lingered on your braid, the polished boots, the gold worked carefully into the fabric.
“You would clean up nicely.”
You glanced at the pristine sleeves of your jacket.
“I thought I had.”
Cassian coughed into his fist. Amren rolled her eyes.
“You know what I mean, girl.”
You didn’t. Or perhaps you did and wished that you didn’t.
Azriel’s shadows twisted abruptly around his shoulders.
You reached for his hand before they could drift toward Amren.
“It’s fine,” you whispered.
His hazel eyes dropped to yours.
You smiled.
After a moment, his fingers closed around your hand.
The meeting passed without incident.
You represented the Night Court well.
You spoke when you had something worth saying and remained silent when you didn’t. You remembered names. You recalled details from discussions held months before. You noticed when one of the delegates attempted to quietly alter the language of a proposed agreement.
No one questioned whether you belonged beside Azriel then.
They only seemed to notice your clothes before and after.
—
The heat in the Summer Court was nearly unbearable.
Even Azriel had abandoned his usual leathers in favor of lighter fabric during one of his assignments there.
You had accompanied him partly because he wanted the company and partly because the River House roof no longer required your immediate attention.
Tarquin noticed you studying his jacket during lunch.
He looked down.
“Is something wrong?”
“No. Sorry.” You gestured toward the pale material. “You wear suits year-round, don’t you?”
“I do.”
“How?”
Tarquin’s expression changed instantly.
“What are yours made from?”
“Usually wool.”
He stared at you with open horror.
“You wear wool year round?”
“Not happily.”
What followed was nearly an hour-long discussion about fabric.
Tarquin explained enchanted linen, cooling silk and a finely woven material produced along the southern coast that allowed air to pass through without becoming transparent beneath the sun.
He summoned bolts of fabric. You inspected the stitching inside his cuffs.
Azriel sat quietly beside you, a faint smile on his face as Tarquin explained how different cuts affected airflow.
By the time you returned to the Night Court, you had several swatches, the name of Tarquin’s tailor and enough information to fill half a notebook.
The finished suit was beautiful.
Pale blue fabric skimmed your body without clinging to it. Silver thread curled along the shoulders, mimicking sunlight on water. The jacket was slightly cropped in front while two long panels flowed from the back, nearly touching the ground.
It was still unmistakably a suit. But when you stood still, the long fabric behind you created the elegant silhouette of a gown.
It felt like a compromise without feeling like a costume.
Azriel circled you slowly when you first tried it on.
“Well?”
“I’m deciding whether Tarquin is allowed to see you in it.”
You laughed.
“He helped design it.”
“That doesn’t answer my concern.”
At the Summer Court garden party, Feyre complimented the silver embroidery.
Mor ran her fingers over one sleeve, openly admiring the fabric.
Even Rhysand asked whether Tarquin’s tailor could make something similar for him.
Elain joined you near the refreshment table later that afternoon.
She looked beautiful in a soft pink gown, her loose hair moving slightly in the sea breeze.
“Are you not terribly warm?” she asked.
You smiled.
“Not at all. Tarquin helped me find a cooling fabric.”
Her eyes widened with interest.
“Oh. I only wondered whether a dress might be cooler than a suit in this weather.”
Your fingers tightened around your glass.
“This is the same fabric Tarquin’s wearing.”
Elain glanced toward the High Lord.
“I suppose it is.”
There was no cruelty in her voice.
Only innocent curiosity.
Still, you found yourself looking across the garden.
Tarquin’s pale suit had received compliments from nearly everyone upon his arrival.
No one had asked whether he might be more comfortable in something else.
“That coat is beautiful, though,” Elain added.
You looked back at her.
“Thank you.”
She smiled before asking about the Summer Court flowers growing near the palace walls.
The conversation changed.
The feeling did not.
—
You began experimenting, not for the any other reason than for style. That’s what you were telling yourself at least.
At the next gathering, you wore wide-legged trousers made from enough fabric that they resembled a skirt when you stood still.
Mor’s eyes lit up when she saw you.
“There we are.”
You stilled.
“What?”
“The trousers.” She touched the flowing fabric. “They’re lovely. Much softer.”
You smiled.
“Thank you.”
At another dinner, you chose the long formal coat from Summer, pairing it with delicate earrings and a thin silver chain that rested against your collarbone.
“You’re getting closer,” Mor said warmly.
You laughed because you didn’t know what else to do.
Closer to what?
You did not ask.
The comments were never cruel enough to justify the weight they left behind.
Mor offered to take you shopping.
Amren said you would clean up nicely.
Elain wondered whether you might be more comfortable in a dress.
Feyre once mentioned that she had several gowns you were welcome to borrow if you ever wanted to try something different.
Even Nesta, after admiring your newest jacket, asked whether you had considered pairing it with a skirt.
Each comment was small.
Reasonable. Forgettable.
Until they weren’t.
Azriel noticed the changes.
He noticed that your choices took longer.
That you stood before the wardrobe with your arms crossed, studying the clothes that had once felt like home as though they were pieces of an unfamiliar puzzle.
He noticed the abandoned sketches.
The fabric swatches. The trousers you wore once before pushing them to the back of the wardrobe.
He noticed when you began tugging at your sleeves during formal meetings. When you smoothed your lapels again and again.
When you checked your reflection before entering a room, not with excitement but with uncertainty.
He said nothing at first.
He told you that you looked stunning.
You accused him, as always, of being biased.
But your smile no longer reached your eyes.
One evening, he found the long-tailed coat draped over the back of a chair.
He lifted it carefully, running one scarred hand over the silver stitching.
“I thought this was your favorite.”
You were seated at the desk, attempting to sketch a new shelving design for Nesta.
“It was.”
“You haven’t worn it since Summer.”
You shrugged without looking up.
“Didn’t seem to make much difference.”
The shadows along the floor became still.
“Difference to whom?”
Your charcoal paused.
You stared down at the page.
“No one.”
Azriel set the coat down.
He crossed the room and crouched beside your chair, but you did not meet his eyes.
“You know I love you in anything.”
“I know.”
“And you don’t need to”
“I know, Az.”
The words came out sharper than you intended.
You closed your eyes.
“I know.”
He did not push.
He only rested one hand against your knee.
After a moment, you covered it with your own.
The final gathering of the season was held at the River House.
Every High Lord had been invited, along with dozens of advisers, emissaries and lesser nobility.
You should have been excited.
You had helped repair the roof above their head, reinforced the balcony railings, had built the long table now covered in silver place settings and midnight-blue flowers.
Yet you stood in yours and Azriels bedroom staring into the wardrobe, unable to choose what to wear.
Azriel watched from behind you.
“What do you want?”
You frowned.
“To get dressed?”
“That isn’t what I asked.”
You turned toward him.
He was already prepared, his black jacket fitted perfectly over his wings.
His expression was gentle.
“What do you want to wear?”
Your gaze returned to the wardrobe.
You reached past the flowing trousers and the long-tailed coat. Past the softer fabrics and delicate embellishments.
Your fingers closed around the first suit.
The one you had worn to Amren’s not-birthday birthday.
Dark fabric. Silver embroidery. Clean lines.
“This.”
Azriel’s shoulders relaxed.
“Then wear it.”
You spent forty-five minutes braiding your hair.
Not because anyone had asked.
Because you liked the way it looked.
You polished your boots and chose your favorite earrings. You fastened the cuff links yourself before turning toward Azriel.
He stared.
You raised an eyebrow.
“Biased?”
“Hopelessly.”
You smiled.
The gathering was already underway when the two of you descended the stairs.
Music filled the River House. Light from hundreds of candles shimmered against the windows, beyond which the Sidra reflected the city’s glow.
You were greeted warmly.
Rhysand thanked you for repairing a loose hinge that morning.
Elain asked whether you could help her design another raised garden bed once the diplomatic season ended.
Cassian cornered you long enough to ask when you would have time to sharpen the blades he had once again neglected.
Nesta wanted to spar the following morning.
They loved you.
That was the worst part.
They loved every piece of you until the room filled with strangers and expectations.
Mor approached while you stood beside Azriel near the dance floor.
Her crimson gown swept around her feet.
“You wore the original one.”
You looked down at your suit.
“I did.”
She smiled, although something uncertain moved behind her eyes.
“It’s lovely. I only thought you might wear the blue coat tonight.”
Mor glanced toward the dancers.
“Maybe next time I can convince you into a gown”
Your chest tightened.
Before you could answer, Azriel held out his hand.
“Dance with me.”
You looked at him.
His expression revealed nothing, but his shadows had gathered tightly around his shoulders.
You placed your hand in his.
The crowd faded once he led you onto the floor.
Azriel’s hand settled against your waist. You followed his lead as the music swelled, moving through each step with practiced ease.
He spun you.
The silver embroidery along your cuffs caught the light.
Your jacket flared around you.
The braid swung behind your shoulders.
Azriel watched you as if there were no High Lords, no courtiers and no expectations surrounding you.
Only you.
When he guided you beneath his arm, you caught a glimpse of the others.
Feyre was smiling.
Elain watched with open admiration.
Nesta stood beside Cassian, her expression softer than usual.
Mor’s eyes followed the movement of your jacket.
For one song, you felt seen.
The final note faded.
Azriel lifted your hand and pressed his lips against your knuckles.
Applause followed.
Your smile was real when you left the dance floor.
It lasted until you heard one of the visiting nobles speak.
“Such a lovely dancer.”
You turned slightly.
An older female from the Dawn Court stood near Mor and Elain, watching you over the edge of her glass.
“It is almost a shame,” she continued. “She would look exquisite moving in a gown.”
Mor laughed lightly.
“She would. I’ve been telling her that for months.”
The words struck harder than they should have.
Elain smiled.
“I think she simply hasn’t found the right one.”
“Perhaps,” Amren said from her place near the table. “She is stubborn.”
They were speaking about you.
While you stood close enough to hear every word.
Something inside you went quiet.
Mor noticed your expression first.
“Oh, we don’t mean anything by it.”
“I know.”
Your voice sounded distant.
She stepped toward you.
“We only think you would look beautiful.”
“I know.”
“You already do,” Elain added quickly. “That isn’t what we meant.”
Your fingers closed around the edge of your sleeve.
“I know.”
Feyre joined the group, confusion pulling at her brow.
“What happened?”
“Nothing,” you said.
Mor reached for your arm. You stepped back.
“We were only trying to help.”
The quiet inside you fractured.
“Help with what?”
Mor blinked.
“No, I only meant”
“What are you helping me fix?”
The music continued around you, but the nearest conversations had begun to fade.
Mor glanced toward the others.
“No one thinks you need fixing.”
“Then why does everyone keep trying?”
Silence.
You laughed once. There was no humor in it.
“I rebuilt half the garden. I repaired the roof over this room. I fixed Rhysand’s desk, built Nesta’s shelves and sharpened enough of Cassian’s weapons to arm a small country.”
Cassian’s expression fell.
“You come to me when you need something done because you trust me to do it.”
Your eyes moved across each of them.
“Nesta chooses me as a sparring partner. Elain asks me to help in her garden. Mor brings me everything she breaks because she knows I’ll make it work again.”
Your throat tightened.
“And none of you have ever had a problem with who I am then.”
Mor’s face had gone pale.
“That isn’t”
“But every time we enter one of these rooms, you look at me like I arrived unfinished.”
No one answered.
“I spent three nights learning how to braid my hair for Amren’s celebration.”
Amren’s silver eyes shifted toward your hair.
“I had that first suit tailored to match Azriel’s.”
Your voice trembled despite your best efforts.
“I traveled to Summer and learned about their fabrics because Elain was right, it was hot. I had a new suit made. I wore softer trousers. I tried different jewelry. I designed a coat that looked like a gown from behind because I thought maybe that would be enough of a compromise.”
Azriel stood completely still beside you.
His shadows did not move.
Neither did anyone else.
“I tried.”
The words broke.
“I kept trying to be myself in a way that you might finally decide was acceptable.”
Mor shook her head.
“We never thought you were unacceptable.”
“Then why was I never enough?”
The room fell silent.
You looked at the people you loved.
At the people who loved you.
“Did you ever actually see me?”
You glanced at each of them before noticing that at some point everyone else had been escorted out of the room.
Multiple of your friends attempted to speak at once, they were quickly cut off by shadow.
During the exchange Azriels shadows had begun covering the room.
Now however, they seemed to be the room.
The glowing of Azriels siphons flaring being one of the few light sources in the room.
Cassian moved instinctively toward Nesta.
Rhysand’s power rose in response, pressing against the room as well.
Azriel stepped in front of you.
“Enough.”
His voice was quiet.
It carried farther than a shout.
No one moved.
Azriel looked at Mor first.
“I watched my mate prepare for that celebration.”
Mor swallowed.
“I watched her spend three nights learning that braid because she wanted to show that she had made an effort.”
His gaze moved to Amren.
“I watched her choose every piece of jewelry. Every stitch of fabric. Every detail.”
Amren said nothing.
“I watched as my mate returned from Summer excited, because Tarquin had helped her find something beautiful and practical. I listened to her explain every enchantment woven into the thread.”
Azriel looked each of your friends in the eye before continuing. His shadows only seeming to grow more angry with each look.
“And all you saw was that it wasn’t a dress.”
Elain’s eyes filled with tears.
“I didn’t mean….”
“No.”
Azriel’s voice cracked through the room.
Elain flinched.
“You do not get to tell them what you meant as though that changes what you did.”
Rhysand took one step forward.
“Azriel”
Every shadow in the room turned toward him.
Rhys stopped.
“Did any of you ever actually see her? Or did you only see what she could fix for you?”
No one answered.
Azriel stepped forward, his shadows thickening around him.
“I don’t understand why this is such a problem.”
His gaze snapped to Cassian.
“For Cauldron’s sake, Cassian wears fighting leathers half the time.”
Then Nesta.
“You wear trousers to train.”
Elain.
“You wear them in the garden.”
His jaw tightened.
“All of you wear trousers when the situation calls for it. When they make you more comfortable. No one questions it. No one decides it means something is wrong with you.”
The room had gone completely still.
“But the one time everyone else happens to be wearing a dress, my mate is more comfortable in a suit, and suddenly it becomes something all of you think needs to be corrected.”
His siphons flared.
“There is nothing wrong with that. Nothing.”
Rhys opened his mouth.
“No.”
The shadows at Azriel’s feet snapped toward him.
“What is so wrong with her being comfortable?”
His voice dropped.
“Are you going to start telling me to cover my hands next because they make you uncomfortable?”
No one moved.
“No. You wouldn’t.”
His scarred fingers curled at his sides.
“Because you know that is already something I struggle with. You know better than to look at something that makes me feel exposed and decide it should be changed for your comfort.”
His eyes moved across the room.
“So why was she not given the same kindness?”
Mor’s face crumpled.
“There is absolutely nothing wrong with the way my mate dresses.”
His wings flared behind him.
“Just because it is not what you are used to does not mean it is something that needs to be fixed.”
“Az.”
Your voice cut through the darkness.
Everything stopped. Azriel turned.
The fury vanished from his face the instant he saw you.
Not entirely. It remained in the tight line of his shoulders and the harsh rise of his chest.
But his shadows retreated from the walls. The chandeliers stilled. The blue light of his siphons dimmed.
He stepped toward you.
“I want to go home.”
“You are home.”
You looked at Mor who had spoke.
At the people watching you with grief and guilt written across their faces.
“No,” you whispered, before looking at Azriel “Our home.”
Azriel understood.
His arm wrapped around your waist.
The shadows gathered around both of you.
Before they carried you away, Mor spoke again.
“I’m sorry.”
You looked at her.
Her face crumpled.
“I know I wasn’t trying to hurt you,” she said. “But that doesn’t mean I didn’t.”
You did not forgive her then.
You did not tell her it was alright.
It wasn’t.
But you nodded once before the shadows swallowed you and Azriel whole.
The apologies came slowly.
Not because the others were reluctant to give them.
Because, for once, they understood.
Elain arrived first.
She stood outside your door holding a small basket filled with pastries and a folded piece of pale-blue fabric.
“I spoke to Tarquin,” she said. “He explained how the cooling enchantment works.”
You stared at her.
Her cheeks flushed.
“I should have asked you about it instead of assuming I knew better.”
You let her inside.
Nesta did not offer excuses.
She sat across from you in the library and said, plainly, “I saw what you could do in the training ring and still failed to understand that you knew yourself better than I did.”
Cassian had arrived with nothing but a simple apology for not correcting the others when they had made such comments.
Rhysand apologized for remaining silent.
Feyre apologized for offering you gowns without asking whether you wanted one.
Amren arrived last.
She entered your workshop without knocking and placed a velvet box on the table.
Inside rested a pair of silver cuff links shaped like small flames.
“I was an ass,” she said.
You stared at her.
Amren scowled.
“Do not make me say it twice.”
A laugh escaped you before you could stop it.
Her expression softened.
“I saw what I expected to see,” she continued. “That was my failure. Not yours.”
Mor took longer. Not to apologize but to find the words.
She sat beside you on the workshop floor where she found you.
“I thought I was inviting you into something I loved,” she said. “I didn’t realize I kept suggesting that what you loved wasn’t enough.”
You ran your thumb along the edge of a wooden plank.
“I know you didn’t mean it that way.”
“I should have listened before you had to explain.”
“Yes.”
Mor nodded, accepting the answer.
After several minutes, she looked toward the jacket hanging near your workbench.
“The embroidery is beautiful.”
You followed her gaze.
“Thank you.”
—
The next diplomatic gathering came months later.
You stood in front of the wardrobe.
This time, you did not hesitate.
You chose the dark suit with silver embroidery.
You braided your hair because you wanted to. You polished your boots because they needed polishing. You fastened Amren’s cuff links at your wrists and wore the earrings Elain had given you.
Azriel waited beside the bedroom door.
When you turned, his expression softened.
“There you are.”
You smiled.
“Here I am.”
The House of Wind was already crowded when you arrived.
Conversation paused briefly.
Your shoulders tensed.
Then Rhysand gestured toward your sleeves.
“Are those Amren’s cuff links?”
“They were mine,” Amren corrected from across the room. “I gave them to her.”
Cassian leaned closer to inspect your jacket.
“Who tailored that?”
“You’ve seen this suit before.”
“I know, but I want one.”
“You would tear it within an hour.”
“Probably.”
Elain complimented your braid.
Nesta asked whether the boots were comfortable enough to spar in.
Mor crossed the room.
Her crimson gown flowed behind her.
She looked you over.
For one terrible second, you waited.
Then she smiled.
“You look lovely.”
You thanked her before you and Azriel found a quiet place to sit for the evening.
“It seems they’re trying.”
You looked at your mate, “I just don’t understand why the pants were the problem, Cassians in fighting leathers.”
Azriel chuckled “I’m not sure that he can wear anything else my love.”
You both laughed at the comment, continuing the night with small conversations, and absolutely no mentions of why you shouldn’t be in the suit.
Summary — Falling in love is easy, but what happens after?
Navigation — Part 01 | Part 02
Zya's Post Notes: hello! i am back? idk, i got mad at the argentina v england match so now i'm here. anyways! angst city is back!!! this was very much inspired by a tiktok by @/kelbithomas.
IMPORTANT INFO ABOUT TAGLIST AND UPDATES: if you want to be notified about all my fics and updates, follow @zyafics-library and turn on notifications! however, if you want to be added to this specific taglist, let me know (but to remain tagged, you must interact with the posts).
one thing about zya is that she’s going to write an smau that will consume your every thought from the first chapter on, and she will proceed to rip your heart to shreds but also make you the most joyful over the smallest romantic interactions between characters over the course of many chapters.
and one thing about me is i’m going to devour it each and every time as long as she deems allowed. (i’m still not over hb:l)
SUMMARY After a terrible year and season-ending injury, Rafe returns to the Outer Banks with a bruised ego and a separated shoulder. His plan for the summer is to lay low—chill at Topper’s beach house, fully recover, and ensure that he’s at the top of his game by the time hockey starts up again in October. Those plans didn’t last very long though. All it took was one house party—and you locking yourself in his bathroom—for his scheduled summer to completely derail.
CONTENT College hockey player Rafe, fem reader (no use of y/n), college au, somewhat inexperienced reader, sexual themes (mdni), injuries, angst, fluff, fake dating (but no one really cares lol), slight idiots-to-lovers dynamics, definitely way more college hockey lore than will ever be necessary, Rafe has a shoulder injury and it's described, probably some medical and injury inaccuracies, mentions of painkillers and somewhat irresponsible use of them, idk if physical therapy makes you fill out mental health questionnaires but this one does and Rafe does not believe in it, Rafe's daddy issues, I made Topper such a loser in this lmao, I made up a bunch of fake hockey names (they aren't important), Rafe's a Reels user, alcohol, drugs, this part is very dialogue heavy, barely edited
WC 7.3k
A/N I've been kinda sitting on this idea for like half a year now and it's summertime and I love summertime so I wanted to be festive and write a fun summertime fic! I'm a really big college hockey fan/nerd so expect a lot of, probably unnecessary, background and references lol. anyways please enjoy and let me know what you think!!
NEXT
The North Carolina sun beats down on Rafe’s shoulders as he weaves through people entering and exiting the Norfolk International Airport. His red and black snapback is only just shielding his face from its harsh rays, but it’s better than nothing if the sweat sticking his clothes to his skin is any indication. Humid air only worsens the heat, thick against his nose as he tries to inhale. He should be used to the pressure, having experienced it for most of his life, but he’d gotten used to Connecticut winters where breathing feels easier.
There’s a flash of movement, and that’s all the warning Rafe gets, before he jerks to the right as a toddler suddenly swerves into his path—narrowly avoiding a collision between his knee and the kid’s face. The toddler remains entirely unaware, not even looking at Rafe before running off again, and Rafe has to bite down on his cheek to stop himself from glaring at the parents, who seem to be in too much of a rush to realize their child isn’t next to them.
At the sudden movement, Rafe’s luggage wobbles on its wheels, catching on a crack in the sidewalk and tipping onto its side, yanking his left wrist with it. A frustrated hiss forces itself through his teeth and Rafe stops on the sidewalk, fumbling with the handle for a moment before twisting his suitcase back onto its wheels with a bit more force than necessary. It’s awkward enough to be pulling the bag with his left hand and the heat is causing his palm to sweat—it’s causing all of him to sweat—making the process all the more aggravating.
His backpack—which was hanging off only his left shoulder—had been a pain in his ass since he stepped off the plane, inching its way down his t-shirt with every few steps and forcing him to stop walking every time to drag it back up. In his wrestling with his suitcase he failed to notice the way the strap was slipping off his shoulder until it had already slid down his bicep. The strap catches at the crook of his elbow, hanging on his arm as his backpack awkwardly swings underneath it.
Rafe has to take a breath, squeezing his eyes shut and exhaling harshly through his nose to ignore the strong urge he has to just hurl his backpack into the street.
He lets go of the handle of his luggage, bending his elbow upward to keep the bag from sliding off his arm. His hand drops down and he ignores the burning in his right shoulder as he attempts to pinch the backpack strap between his fingers, lifting and twisting his left arm in different directions to move the bag closer.
“Hey man, you need any help with that?”
Rafe turns to see a couple stopped a few feet to his right, still bent awkwardly as he’s finally able to pull his backpack back over his shoulder. The man looks around Rafe’s age—probably a few years older—and has a friendly expression on his face, a large duffel bag balanced against his side. His mouth starts moving again when they make eye contact, but the words fizzle out before they reach Rafe’s ears, unable to keep his attention as he notices the woman standing next to the guy and the obviously pitying smile she’s giving him.
“I’m good,” Rafe interrupts suddenly. “Thanks.”
The man’s eyes travel over Rafe’s bag and suitcase before he shares a brief, knowing glance with the woman next to him and Rafe feels a sizzling wave of heat rush through him that he knows isn’t entirely due to the humidity and hot sun. “You sure? ‘Cause it’s no—,”
“I got it.” The words come out sharper than Rafe intended, and he wasn’t even trying to be that polite in the first place.
If the couple were going to push further, he doesn’t wait around for it, turning and walking away before he can see their reaction to his tone, his stupid rolling suitcase making noise the whole way and his stupid backpack already starting to fall off his arm again. He doesn’t necessarily feel bad for how he handled the situation, but Rafe still decides to blame it on the dull pain emanating from his right shoulder. Or maybe the buried anger that has been sizzling next to it since January. One of the two.
Once he’s far enough away from the couple—and closer to the line of cars and Ubers parked along the curb—Rafe stops again, letting go of the handle of his suitcase and fixing his backpack so that he can pull his phone from the pocket of his sweatpants. It unlocks a moment after he holds it to his face and he pointedly ignores the multiple text notifications from his dad and one from his sister, not bothering to read more than the few words his eyes catch as he swipes to his home screen.
Rafe has to shift the phone in his grip, still unable to instinctively find an angle that gives his thumb the full range of motion it needs to reach all his app icons. Again, he feels that sizzling feeling under his skin. It takes a couple more taps of his thumb to pull up Topper’s contact and call it and then Rafe’s holding his phone to his ear, scanning the cars in front of him for the familiar sight of Topper’s black BMW.
The phone continues to ring in his ear, but there’s a sudden honk from down the row of cars. Rafe squints to see a familiar head of dark blond hair making its way out of the driver’s side with an attention-grabbing wave. He drops his phone back in his pocket after ending the call and grabs his suitcase again, picking up his pace slightly to reach his friend, who was already leaning against his open trunk.
“Hey,” Topper grins, no doubt amused by how much Rafe’s appearance has been affected by the heat. “Good flight?”
Rafe just shrugs before he can think better of it, his neutral expression quickly replaced with a wince as the movement aggravates his shoulder. He lets out another hiss as he relaxes it back into place, before clearing his throat. “Yeah.”
Topper just nods, pushing himself off the edge of the trunk as Rafe retracts the handle of his suitcase back down and finally takes his backpack off, leaving it sitting on the asphalt. For a moment, Topper almost looks like he’s reaching for Rafe’s luggage before seemingly thinking better of it, instead choosing to watch his friend with a wary expression as Rafe awkwardly lifts the suitcase with one hand and shoves it into the trunk of the BMW.
Rafe takes a step back, almost stumbling over the backpack he forgot was there, and by the time he looks up again, Topper had already closed the trunk. He still doesn’t say anything, but he waits until Rafe’s fingers curl around the top handle of his backpack before he starts heading back to the driver’s side door.
A sigh of relief slips past Rafe’s lips when Topper turns on the car and the A/C starts blasting in his face. Some country song on Topper’s playlist also starts blasting through the car, but Topper turns it down quickly. In the time it had taken Rafe to put away his luggage, a few cars ahead of them had already driven off and, though he’d turned his blinker on, Topper still had to wait for the new line of cars that were driving around him to fill up the space.
The backpack in Rafe’s hand had moved to his lap when he sat down and, before tossing it into the backseat, he unzips the front pocket to grab a small Ziploc of painkillers. He thinks enough time has passed for him to take a second dose but, honestly, Rafe doesn’t really care if it hasn’t, and he cups two of the small pills into his palm. Next to him, Topper takes one hand off the wheel, halfway to gesturing at a plastic water bottle in the cup holder between them, but Rafe’s already tipping the pills into his open mouth before he can offer.
Topper grimaces like he’s also experiencing the feeling of swallowing the medication dry, but again he chooses not to comment on it. The traffic next to them slows and Topper pulls away from the airport as Rafe shoves the Ziploc back in his bag and puts it in the backseat. Rafe shifts again to get comfortable, setting his hat down on his thigh before running his fingers through his damp hair.
“How much longer do you have to wear that for?” Topper asks once they’ve made it out of the pick-up lane, his eyes darting to the black sling keeping Rafe’s right arm bent against his chest.
Rafe sniffs, reaching forward with his left hand to angle one of the A/C fans more directly in front of his face. “Another week. Then I can start taking it off more and then I’ve got, like, 12 weeks of physical therapy and rehab.”
Topper cheeks puff out slightly as he lets out a low breath. “Shit, man. That sucks.”
This time Rafe is able to keep his shrug to one shoulder, feigning indifference as he keeps his eyes locked on the freeway in front of them. “It was my fault. Probably wouldn’t even have needed surgery if I had just let it finish healing the first time.” His tone is flat, sounding more like he’s reciting lines than having a conversation. And, in a way, he is—just parroting the words all his doctors had told him. The words his dad had told him.
“Still…” Topper spares him another glance before shaking his head slightly. “Fucking Maybank, man.”
Rafe’s jaw clenches. Yeah, fucking Maybank. It’s easy to blame JJ Maybank for everything that happened, and so Rafe does. It was his upcoming games against JJ that pushed Rafe to return to the ice before he was ready, and JJ’s dirty hit that worsened his AC joint injury and ultimately ended his season, and the fact that none of that would have even happened to begin with if Rafe hadn’t spent the whole year being compared to JJ and his all star breakout season.
Deep down, Rafe knows that most of his problems started way before JJ Maybank, but, if anything, it only makes Rafe hate him more.
Topper’s music switches to a song Rafe recognizes—mainly from it being blasted in locker rooms and he’s pretty sure he’s actually heard it live at a concert Topper and Kelce dragged him to—and it’s almost enough to keep Rafe from noticing the single buzz of his phone that vibrates in his pocket.
“You’ll be cleared to play by the time the season starts though, yeah?”
Rafe nods. “Should be. If everything goes right, I should be good by August to get back into weight training and everything.” He lets out a soft breath, relaxing against the seats of Topper’s car. “But my first physical therapy appointment is tomorrow, so I guess we’ll see.”
“You still need me to take you to it?” The question sounds genuine and Topper’s eyes haven’t wandered from the road and those are really the only things stopping Rafe from snapping.
The complete helplessness that came with his injury is still an unfamiliar feeling. He can hardly do anything by himself anymore—like wash his hair, or change his shirt, or drive—and anything he can do can only be done with so much effort and struggle that he feels just as frustrated doing it as he would be if he hadn’t done it at all. Or, worse, Rafe doesn’t even get the chance to do it himself because someone else is already offering to do it for him with a sympathetic tone and that same look of pity like he’s someone to feel bad for.
Rafe keeps his eyes trained on Topper’s GPS, watching as the estimated distance switches from an hour and 49 minutes to an hour and 48. “I guess.”
Topper hums in agreement, fingers tapping against the steering wheel to the beat of the music. “Kelce is flying in on Thursday,” he supplies after a moment.
“Yeah?” Rafe knows what Topper’s doing and he knows that Topper is just as aware, but no part of him wants to confront any of it, so instead he plays along.
“Yeah.” And then Topper rolls his eyes with an amused scoff. “And he’s probably gonna be fucking annoying when he gets here. He won’t shut up about this girl he met in California and he hasn’t even left yet.”
Rafe lets out a soft snort. “What happened to Jennifer?”
“Dumped him after spring break. She’s with some soccer guy now–Which I only know because I had to be the one to stop Kelce from egging the soccer house.” Rafe wipes at his face to hide his smile as Topper continues. “But don’t worry,” he grins. “He’s found his future wife now. Sapphire’s the one, Rafe.”
“Sapphire?” Rafe’s brows raise in disbelief before he throws his head back against the headrest with a groan.
Topper cackles. “Whatever you’re thinking, that’s exactly what she’s like.”
“How long has he even—?”
“Four days.”
“Jesus fucking Christ.”
“So… Like… Is your sister coming back for the summer, do you think?”
“You’re an idiot.”
Rafe’s fingers shake against the pen in his hand. It sits awkwardly against his first two fingers and thumb, wobbling as he tries to fill in the small check box next to ‘Caucasian’. Just to keep the clipboard steady, he’s had to use his forearm to press it firmly against his thighs and hunch over until his back almost feels horizontal just to reach the paper.
When he and Topper had first walked in for his physical therapy appointment and the woman at the front desk handed him a clipboard full of forms that he needed to fill out before seeing his PT, Rafe almost laughed in her face. Because, sure, make the guy with one functional arm and nondominant hand physically fill out paperwork. Once they sat down in the waiting room, Topper had cautiously offered to do it for him, but Rafe had quickly shot down the idea.
Currently his paperwork looks like it had been filled out by an actual second grader, but if the front desk woman wanted to be able to read any of his information, maybe she should have thought of that before she handed the guy with an AC joint injury a pen. Stupidly, Rafe thought that that would be the most annoying thing he’d have to go through in this beige, strangely lit waiting room, but obviously Topper had other plans.
“I’m just asking, dude!” Topper says defensively. He shifts in the stiff, scratched up, waiting room chair and looks away from Rafe uncomfortably. “‘Cause, like, she hasn’t really texted me or anything and… Well, you know, we—,”
“If you start talking to me about how you almost hooked up with my sister over spring break, I’m actually going to throw this clipboard at your head.”
Topper mutters something under his breath about how that’s “not very threatening coming from a guy with his arm in a sling”, but Rafe ignores it with a roll of his eyes, jerkily checking the ‘yes’ box next to the question ‘Do you drink alcohol?’.
When he goes to fill out the second part of the question—‘How much?’—he stops with a sigh. “Sarah’s in Cancún. Dad gifted her a ‘girls trip’ or some shit for her graduation, so she and her friends are staying there for the summer.”
Topper pouts. “Dude. Your dad’s such a cockblock—Ow! Okay, sorry!” Topper yelps when Rafe suddenly stabs him in the bicep with his pen.
It garners them both a few looks from the other people in the waiting room, but Rafe doesn’t care and Topper is too busy trying to rub the smudge of pen ink out of his Polo to notice.
Rafe’s in the middle of checking off if he’s ‘currently having any of the following symptoms’ when Topper speaks again. There’s a small wet patch on his shirt sleeve—surrounding the not-at-all-faded pen mark—that makes Rafe think that Topper had tried, unsuccessfully, to wash it away with his spit.
“I don’t remember you going anywhere after you graduated, though?”
“I didn’t.” Rafe sniffs. “Dad didn’t want any distractions with the draft coming up. Can’t really meet with teams and agents in Cancún.”
Topper nods in understanding, before shifting weirdly in his seat again and pulling out his phone from his back pocket.
After finishing the last question on the page, Rafe begrudgingly sticks the pen between his lips in order to free his hand enough to flip to the next page. He pulls the pen from his mouth again, reading over the next question.
The words ‘Over the last 2 weeks, how often have you been bothered by the following problems (check one answer):’ stare back at him. He skims through the first couple problems quickly—haphazardly checking the ‘Not at all’ box for all of them—until one of them makes him stop suddenly, the ballpoint of his pen pressing just a bit too hard into the paper.
‘Feeling bad about yourself - or that you are a failure or have let yourself or your family down?’
The words almost mock him as he reads them over and over until his vision blurs. It’s only when the pressure from his pen becomes too much for the paper—the tip of it piercing a hole through the sheet—that Rafe snaps out of it. He checks the ‘Not at all’ box again.
It’s after watching his dad’s call go to voicemail for the fifth time since he got off the plane that Rafe decides that he should stop ignoring him and just get it over with.
He’s sitting at Topper’s kitchen island, taking some slow sips of the leftover protein shake Topper had made for his workout. It’s taking Rafe longer than it usually does for him to finish it because Topper had put an unholy amount of protein powder into it before blending—to the point that the drink was borderline paste—and every sip left a tacky, filmy feeling in Rafe’s mouth.
Topper wasn’t even here anymore—after bringing Rafe back from his appointment, he went to the gym for his morning workout—so technically Rafe could dump the rest of the shake down the drain and he wouldn’t know, but Rafe’s never been one to waste a protein shake, regardless of how disgusting it is.
Thrown casually on the granite countertop in front of him is the stack of stretches and exercises Rafe’s physical therapist had assigned him during their appointment. Each sheet is filled with detailed instructions and a weird mix of cartoon and anatomical pictures showing him how to do each exercise. Rafe doesn’t know if his physical therapy office mostly works with kids or something because, along with the how-to guides, he was also gifted a paper chart of the week and a sheet of dinosaur stickers that could be used to track his progress in completing his daily exercises. Rafe had thrown it away before they even left the building.
He takes another sludgy sip of protein shake before finally grabbing his phone and tapping on the missed call notification from his father. After three rings, his dad picks up.
“You’ve been ignoring my calls.”
“I’ve been busy.” Rafe replies flatly.
“Right.” And because Rafe knows that, ultimately, his dad doesn’t really care enough to argue with him, he moves on. “Did you go to your physical therapy appointment?”
“Yes.”
“What did they say?”
“Same as the last one. I need to wear my sling for the rest of the week and then 12 weeks of PT.” Rafe looks down at the papers in front of him. “But she gave me some exercises and said if I was careful I could start doing some of them now a few times a day and it might help shorten the recovery time.”
“And you’ve started doing them, right?”
Rafe rolls his eyes. “I got them today, Dad.”
“Don’t catch an attitude with me, Rafe, I’m the one helping you fix this. If you had just let your shoulder heal the first time, we wouldn’t be here.”
“You’re the one who told me to play the Boston College game!”
“No, I told you to play better than Maybank, which you had the whole season to do—,”
“I did play better than him and he fucking checked me from behind!” The bar stool Rafe had been sitting on squeaks against the European oak hardwood flooring of Topper’s kitchen as he stands up from the kitchen island in frustration.
His father lets out a condescending sigh. “I’m not going to keep having this argument with you, Rafe, just do your rehab exercises and go to your appointments and call me if anything changes.”
And then Rafe is met with the taunting beeps of the call disconnecting as his dad hangs up the phone.
He pulls the device away from his ear, looking down at the darkened screen. His jaw is so tense his teeth are grinding and his knuckles are white as he grips his phone. After a moment, Rafe tosses the phone back onto the kitchen island—where it lands screen side up with a forceful thump—and chugs the rest of Topper’s shitty protein shake.
Globs of it still stick to the sides of the cup—globs of it still stick to his throat—and Rafe drops the dirty glass into Topper’s kitchen sink. If there’s any upsides to his injury, it’s that, at least, he can’t really wash dishes or clean things. The few weeks he was on his own before flying out to Topper’s beach house, he was living off of dining hall food and paper plates.
He grabs a Cool Blue Gatorade Zero from the fridge to get the protein shake taste out of his mouth. It takes a little bit of fiddling—he has to squeeze the bottle between his right elbow and chest to be able to hold it steady enough to twist the cap off—and then he’s downing half of it in large gulps, swishing it around his mouth to wash out any lingering protein powder.
Topper probably had another hour in his workout, at least, before he would be done at the gym and he gave Rafe free reign to do pretty much anything at the house to keep himself entertained. Taking another sip of Gatorade, Rafe makes his way to the Thornton’s cinema room—or, at least, that’s what Topper insisted everyone call it. On one of their trips to an away game, Topper had cornered Rafe on the plane and made him listen to all the HD, high-tech upgrade bullshit that Topper had added to make it the “peak cinematic experience”. Rafe let him go on about it for 45 minutes before he put his AirPods in and stopped listening—it took Topper another 45 minutes before he realized this.
Rafe reaches for the remote, lazily scrolling through the various streaming service icons, before settling on ESPN. Nothing that interesting is being played mid-morning on a Wednesday, mostly recaps of games that had already happened and, in Rafe’s opinion, washed up opinions from washed up former athletes who weren’t famous enough to be given more popular time slots.
He tries to relax back into a more comfortable position on the couch, but he can’t get settled, every position either pulling or pushing on his shoulder too much or making him contort his neck and back in uncomfortable ways. He lets out a few swear words under his breath before giving up on the whole thing and sitting up again.
ESPN quickly grows boring and, after one too many weirdass ads, Rafe exits the application. He somehow finds himself clicking into Topper’s YouTube account, mostly out of a somewhat morbid curiosity to see what kind of videos his friend has on his homepage. It’s almost exclusively college hockey and NHL highlights—with the exception of one ASMR hairdresser roleplay that Rafe makes the active choice not to question.
He scrolls through a couple various hockey podcast episodes and opinion-pieces on player signings, but doesn’t make the commitment of actually clicking on any. Finally Rafe lets out a heavy sigh and stops pretending like he doesn’t already know what he’s going to watch, navigating to the YouTube search bar.
It’s a video he’s watched so many times, he probably has it memorized. Sometimes he would sit on his bed, pull it up on his phone, and just watch and rewatch it until his phone battery died. He doesn’t really know why he keeps doing it to himself, even the ASMR video would probably be better for him, but Rafe types in the exact title of the video he’s looking for and clicks on it without a second thought.
The video opens on a wide shot that shows off the entire University of Connecticut ice rink. In the top left corner a small graphic highlights the score—4-3 in favor of Boston College—and the time—8 minutes left in the second period. One of BC’s players is in the penalty box and the camera cuts to him looking up at the jumbotron, counting down the seconds until the power play is over—42.
The feed cuts back to game-play and the announcers’ voices fill the room though Topper’s surround sound, luxury speakers.
“—UConn wins the face-off. Thornton gets possession of the puck and quickly passes it back to Cameron.”
“UConn is gonna have to be smart if they want to make the most of this power play, Boston College has one of the highest penalty kill percentages in the country. I mean, we’re almost a minute and a half into the power play and UConn still doesn’t even have a shot on goal. Boston’s good at defensive plays like this, even a man down, they’re not gonna make this an easy goal for UConn.”
“You know, normally, I’d be kind of surprised at UConn sending Rafe Cameron’s line out for this power play—He’s obviously a phenomenal forward, but his strengths this season have seemed to be in his defensive plays more than offense, you know? He can certainly keep puck possession, but it’s not like… You know, JJ Maybank, who can consistently get pucks into the net. But I don’t know what kind of locker room speech Coach Bront gave those guys because Cameron’s been on fire tonight.”
“There’s no doubt Cameron’s having a great night. I mean, he’s played a role in all of UConn’s goals tonight, scoring two of them and picking up an assist on the third. Honestly, we haven’t seen this level of play from him since his freshman season. But I wanna go back to what you said at the beginning of that, Dale, because I think I might have to disagree with you—,”
“Here we go…”
“—I just think his defensive play is… Cameron’s a big guy, he’s—he doesn’t get pushed around, you know, and he’s not afraid to—Well, let’s just say, he’s not afraid to get physical clearing the slot. I think UConn’s gonna need that against a team like Boston.”
“Yeah, but I wouldn’t say we’ve been seeing much of that from him this season. Aside from tonight, he’s been—Oh, a quick one-timer from Ivanov!—Blocked by Patterson! Boston can’t get to the puck and Thornton regains possession, he passes to Cameron. Cameron to Ivanov. Back to Cameron—,”
In the left corner of the screen, 15 seconds are left in the power play.
“—Cameron passes to Thorn—No! He fakes the pass and passes the puck to Adelsköld who’s at the blue line. He passes it back to Cameron. Cameron—Oh! Cameron takes a hard hit from Maybank!”
“Oh, I think Maybank might’ve—I think that might’ve been a check from behind.”
“Was it? I didn’t—Well, Cameron’s teammates certainly seem to think so. Thornton’s dropped his stick and has Maybank pinned against the glass right now—,”
“Looks like everyone’s getting involved in the extracurricular activities now. Yeah, the refs are coming to break it up.”
“Thornton definitely got a couple hits in—,”
“Cartwright, too.”
“—I think a lot of guys are gonna be getting penalties for this.”
“You think Maybank checked Cameron from behind?”
“I’m not sure, I think—I’m gonna wanna see the replay first, I’m not sure.”
“Cameron’s not getting up though.”
“No, he isn’t. He’s grabbing his shoulder and—Okay, some of UConn’s medical team are heading onto the ice now. This is Cameron’s first game back since a shoulder injury back in January, it looks like it’s the same shoulder—,”
The camera cuts to a slow motion replay. Rafe watches as his own body turns as he passes the puck to his teammate. To make the pass, his body had shifted to be facing the glass. The puck comes back to him, but the pass is a bit sloppy. The puck gets caught in his skates, Rafe looks down to get it back on his stick. And then JJ is crashing into him at full speed, Rafe never even saw him coming.
He watches—in painfully slow, HD clarity—how his head snaps back before he falls forcefully to the ice, his right shoulder taking almost all of the impact. The slow motion video is silent, but in his head, Rafe can still hear the agonizing sound of his shoulder blade pushing away from his collarbone.
“Oh, that’s—that’s definitely a check from behind. I’d be surprised if Maybank doesn’t get a major for this.”
“Yeah, that’s—it’s unfortunate, I think, because I don’t think Maybank was—Like, I don’t think he expected Cameron to turn around so suddenly, you know. From his perspective, it should’ve been a clean hit.”
“Yeah, I mean, he was doing all the things he was supposed to do. You’re on the penalty kill, the other guy has the puck, you should check him—but, obviously, this isn’t…”
“The refs have gone to review the footage. To me it looks pretty cut and dry, like, it looks like an accident definitely, but I don’t think it can be anything but a check from behind.”
“I mean, I’ll say the same, but then I always end up wrong about these things. It looks like Cameron still hasn’t been able to get up yet, some of the medical team is looking him over right now. I can’t lie, Dale, he looks like he’s in a lot of pain…”
“I think you’re right. This might be the end of the season for Rafe Cameron.”
The video ends then, YouTube already queuing up another video—‘Top 10 WORST College Hockey Injuries’. Rafe turns the TV off before the video can load.
Another night later, Rafe finds himself back at the Norfolk International Airport, though this time he’s on the other side of it. He and Topper are back in the pickup lane outside one of the terminals, though this time there aren’t nearly as many people surrounding them, the airport significantly less busy at 1:00 in the morning. Next to him, Topper is pinching the bridge of his nose, his phone pressed to his ear.
“Dude, just—Have you gotten your luggage from baggage claim yet? …No, I’m—I wanna go home, man.” Whatever Kelce says on the other end of the line makes Topper groan. “I’m not saying that, I get that it was the soonest flight—No, you don’t need to call Sapphire right now—…Because you just called her! You called her before you called me!”
Rafe quickly busies himself with his phone to hide his amused smile. Out of habit, he opens Instagram, figuring he’ll just watch silent Reels until his friends are done arguing on the phone.
“Fine! Then she can pick you up from the airport, if she’s so great—!”
The app loads, bringing a photodump Sarah had posted a few hours earlier to the top of his feed. Rafe scrolls through the carousel indifferently. The pictures aren’t anything unusual—Sarah and her friends in bikinis, girly looking drinks, artsy pictures of the beach. The second to last picture is a group photo of her and all her friends along with a couple guys that Rafe doesn’t recognize. Rafe almost swipes past it, until something makes him freeze. He brings the phone closer to his face to make sure—after a few failed attempts of trying to hold his phone and zoom in on the picture with the same hand—plenty of people look like that blond-headed dickhead, it probably isn’t…
He sends the post back to his sister with a demanding dm.
Rafe Cameron: Why tf are you hanging out with JJ Maybank
Only a second later, three typing dots appear and he watches them impatiently.
sarah 🌺🦋: omg, chill. he knows kiara
Rafe Cameron: That doesn’t answer my question
sarah 🌺🦋: 🙄
sarah 🌺🦋: he and his friends came to cancún too
sarah 🌺🦋: SEPARATELY!!!
sarah 🌺🦋: and then kiara posted something on her story and he dmed her and realized we were all in the same place and they wanted to meet up
Rafe’s tongue swipes across his teeth in annoyance, his thumb hovering above the keyboard as he contemplates leaving his sister on read.
sarah 🌺🦋: look i know you hate him or wtv but he does seem genuinely sorry about what happened
Rafe Cameron: You talked to him about me??
sarah 🌺🦋: i mean when he found out i was your sister he asked how you were doing and stuff
Rafe Cameron: What did you say?
sarah 🌺🦋: i said you were doing better
sarah 🌺🦋: not that i would know bc you’ve been ignoring all my texts
Rafe Cameron: Yeah cuz you go and immediately spread that shit to Maybank
sarah 🌺🦋: YOU DIDN’T EVEN KNOW THAT I KNEW HIM
Rafe looks up when Topper gets out of the car suddenly. When he turns his head to look out the passenger side window, Kelce is walking over the car, wheeling two, large suitcases behind him.
Rafe Cameron: Just don’t fucking talk to him about me
sarah 🌺🦋: i mean i wasn’t 🙄 but fine
sarah 🌺🦋: and answer my texts next time asshole
Rafe clicks his phone off just as Kelce makes his way into the backseat. A glance to the review mirror shows that he’s left Topper to deal with the task of fitting his two, over-packed suitcases into the trunk.
Kelce closes the car door before patting Rafe’s good shoulder excitedly. “Hey, man! How’s it goin’?”
“It’s been alright.” Kelce has taken the initiative of leaning forward until he’s resting against the center console so that Rafe doesn’t have to turn too much to look at him. “How was the flight?”
“Dude,” Kelce leans back with a groan. “You’d think a red-eye would be chill, but I got stuck next to a crying baby the whole time. Had to give my complimentary coffee to the mom ‘cause I felt bad.”
Rafe chuckles as Topper gets back into the driver’s seat. He turns to glare at his friend in the backseat.
“Gee, man, thanks for the help with your luggage!”
Kelce grins with a mock salute. “Always happy to help, Thornsy.”
Topper flips him off and starts the car. As soon as the center console screen turns on, Kelce is reaching forward to connect his phone to the car’s bluetooth. Topper tries to slap his hand away a couple times, before finally relenting—”Dude, I always get aux!”—and Kelce leans back into his seat as the beginning instrumental of some J. Cole song fills the car.
“So we throwing a massive rager tomorrow night, or what?” Kelce asks after a couple minutes of scrolling through all the less important notifications he missed while he was on his flight.
“Big time.” Topper’s eyes flick to the rearview mirror to look back at him. “Kyle said he’d bring all the alcohol if he can invite a bunch of people and Ruthie’s bringin’ all of her sorority friends.”
Rafe grimaces slightly at the name.
Ruthie was Topper’s on-again-off-again situationship. They only ever hooked up in the summer—when they were both back in the Outer Banks—and then would completely cut contact as soon as the fall semester started. Rafe didn’t really see the appeal in Ruthie, to be honest. She was hot, sure, but she had the ability to overpower any social situation in a way that Rafe thought was exhausting.
Ruthie also got crazy jealous, getting in long, loud arguments with Topper if he so much as looked at another girl—not that Topper was totally innocent either, Ruthie wasn’t wrong in accusing him of flirting with other girls, just annoying—and that always resulted in her basically moving herself into the beach house to “keep an eye on him”. Rafe could barely handle her on a good day and, ever since his injury, he’d been having very few good days.
“Think you can keep up, Cameron?”
Kelce receives his second middle finger of the night. “Which one of us had to be carried home after two mojitos?”
“That was one time!”
“No, it definitely wasn’t.”
“Like you can talk, Topper—!”
The bass is pumping so loud it’s giving Rafe a headache as he navigates through Topper’s overcrowded house. It’s so loud, he can’t even hear what the song is, just loud, obnoxious buzzing he can feel all the way to his feet. Someone knocks into Rafe’s right shoulder as he moves past them, sending a searing pain through him so suddenly that he has to clamp down on his tongue to keep from shouting out in agony.
The guy doesn’t care, not even looking up from the girl that’s currently grinding on him long enough to notice what had happened. Rafe has to take a moment to let the worst of the pain pass, before he turns so that his back is facing the guy, shoving him hard as he makes room to keep walking out of Topper’s living room. Rafe can’t help but feel a twinge of satisfaction as he sees the guy stumble into the girl dancing on him.
The party had been raging on for a few hours now and showed no signs of stopping any time soon. Aside from the loud house music, he’s surrounded by the sounds of cheering from the beer pong table and somewhat distant screams and splashes from Topper’s pool outside.
Rafe grits his teeth as he finally pushes past enough tightly packed college students to make it to the stairs. He’s still slightly buzzed from pregaming with the guys earlier, but it isn’t leaving him with the easy feeling it usually does. Instead he feels weirdly tired and sore, and his temples feel tight like it’s only a matter of time before he gets a killer migraine.
Topper and Kelce had left him ages ago. Topper to go “talk with”—have sex with—Ruthie and Kelce said he needed to go call Sapphire and then never came back. Rafe had entertained himself with a few sorority girls, but with the sling he wasn’t really in the mood to dance or go off somewhere to hook up and he and the girls all realized quickly that none of them had ever actually been interested in talking to each other. With drinking and girls removed from the equation, there wasn’t much left for him to do at a house party and he just wanted to go to bed and sleep this whole thing off.
There’s a strong smell of weed coming from the closed door of one of the upstairs rooms that Rafe knows Topper is definitely going to complain about in the morning, but Rafe just walks past it, ignoring the weird noises coming from most of the upstairs room until he finally makes it into his own.
As he steps inside and closes the door, Rafe’s brows furrow. The main light in the room is on—which he’s pretty sure it wasn’t when he left earlier—and the door to his en suite bathroom is closed—which, again, it wasn’t when he left. Rafe moves to go open the bathroom door, but is met with resistance and the door handle only jiggles.
“One second!” A voice Rafe doesn’t recognize calls out from behind the closed door. “I’m just, um, getting sexy for you…”
Rafe lets his forehead hit the wood of the door with a soft thud—that he instantly regrets. He’s really not in the mood for this right now. He tries the door handle again before the door swings open suddenly and he’s met with a pair of frazzled eyes.
“Listen—Oh… You’re not Paul.”
“Who the fuck is Paul?”
Rafe isn’t really sure where to look first. The curtains and rod that were hanging over his small bathroom window and are now on the floor next to two mega packs of toilet paper stacked on top of each other like some kind of macgyvered step stool or you, the clear perpetrator. You somehow seem more confused than he is, eyes darting around his frame nervously.
“That’s not—What are you doing here?”
Rafe lets out a rude laugh. “It’s my room.”
Your eyes widen. “Oh.” And then suddenly they open even wider. “Oh. Listen, I think I messed here—,”
Before you can finish explaining what exactly you’re doing in Rafe’s room, the bedroom door opens. The loud music and chatter that was slightly muffled from the door comes back full force as another person Rafe doesn’t recognize steps into his room.
The guy looks between the two of you with a dumb blink. He’s wearing a teal blue basketball jersey with the name and number ‘Hornets 15’ scrawled across his chest. Rafe’s sure that, if it were on anyone else, he wouldn’t have even really clocked the Kemba Walker jersey, but this guy is so sweaty that the fabric is practically fused to his chest. The guy’s whole body is flushed pink, his hair that must have been at one point styled now plastered in strands to his forehead.
“Paul…” You supply.
That’s Paul?
“Hey, what happened? I was waiting for you,” Paul steps farther into the room, much to Rafe’s annoyance. He sounds like that stupid turtle from Finding Nemo—which Rafe only knows because, for a couple of years in his adolescence, it was the only movie Wheezie would watch. He must have made a face or something because he catches Paul’s attention, who gives him a greeting nod. “You good, bud?”
At this point, Rafe thinks he’s genuinely going to lose it if he isn’t alone in his room taking his next dose of painkillers in the next five seconds.
Nothing about this situation is making much sense to him because, while Paul’s gone back to looking at you, his eyes full of an obviously horny lust, you’ve moved slightly behind Rafe, like you’d rather be anywhere else. You meet Rafe’s eye suddenly and something flashes through them as you seem to try and communicate without speaking.
To really seal his fate, a small “Please?” passes your lips in a soft breath.
Rafe takes a breath, before turning back to Paul. “Yeah, bud, I’m good.”
He hesitates, his eyes glance back at you briefly to catch you staring at his bathroom window. Right. He lets out a strained sigh, tries to fight his oncoming migraine, and then says something he’s certain he’ll regret in the morning—not even, he’s regretting it now and he hasn’t even said it yet.
“Just trying to figure out why you’re talking to my girlfriend.”
please don't copy, repost, or feed my work into ai, thanks!
Summary: A routine IT call in the ED turns into an unexpected reveal when Santos realizes the quiet IT specialist she’s been talking to is married to the doctor she works with.
A/N: Requests are welcome! This work is entirely mine and has been proofread with Grammarly.
Masterlist
Your pager went off mid-sip.
The page had come in as “urgent” which, in hospital terms, usually meant one of the doctors couldn’t figure out how to access their records without their badge automatically logging them in.
It was one of those calls that could be quickly fixed if they bothered to remember their hospital-given access codes.
You grabbed your coffee, badge swinging against your chest as you made your way down to the ED.
The second the elevator doors slid open, the chaos hit you. Phones were ringing, stretchers rolling in, voices overlapping. All of it made you grateful to be hidden away in a room for most of the day.
You made your way to the nurses' hub; it was bound to be the location of the confused doctor.
“Someone called for IT?”
“That would be me.”
You followed the voice to find Dr. Trinity Santos sitting there, staring at a frozen screen as if it had personally betrayed her.
“I’ve been trying to fill out charts forever,” she huffed. “Damn thing kicked me out.”
You stepped in beside her, setting your coffee down carefully before leaning over the keyboard.
“Let me guess,” you said, already reaching for the mouse. “ You tried a couple of passwords, got locked out, and now it's not letting you in.”
Santos pointed at you as you’d just insulted her personally. “First of all, I tried multiple passwords. It’s the damn computer that won't take them.”
“Incorrect passwords are still incorrect to the computer,” you mention lightly, finger moving across the keys as you pull up the backend system.
She groaned, dropping back in her chair. “I swear, technology has it out for me.”
You smiled to yourself, suppressing a laugh. “Technology is a neutral party, but user error isn’t, however–”
“Don’t,” she warned, though there was no real heat behind it.
You hummed, still working. “Alright, I’m going to unlock your account. It might take a couple of minutes.”
She leaned back in her chair, eyes catching on your ring while you typed.
“That’s a really nice ring.”
You glanced down, almost like you’d forgotten it was there, your thumb brushing over the band without thinking.
“Oh yeah, thanks,” you said, a small smile slipping through. “My husband actually picked it out on his own.”
“Did he?” Santo leaned forward slightly, interest replacing her earlier frustration. “Damn girl, he must make a pretty penny. That’s a good choice.”
You laughed at her comment, a grin spreading. “He’s a doctor.”
Santos blinked. “Of course he is.”
“How do you even make that work?” she continued. “I barely have time to see my fling that works here, let alone manage to date or marry anyone.”
“You get used to it.” You shrugged, “Schedule lines up sometimes. Other times you just make time even if it's not very long.”
“That sounds way too functional,” Santos muttered. “Are you sure he’s actually a doctor?”
“Pretty sure.”
“Does he work here?” she asked, curiosity creeping in now.
You tilted your head, like you were considering whether to answer, before just focusing back on the screen. “Try logging in again in a minute.”
Santos huffed, watching you work. “You computer people are too calm. If my job locked me out of patients, I’d lose it.”
“You are losing it,” you pointed out.
“Fair.”
There was a pause while you worked, the hum of the ED filling the space.
“So,” she said again, clearly not done talking, “married life.”
You glanced at her briefly. “What about it?
“How long have you been with Mr. Fancy pants?”
“A while,” you said vaguely.
“That’s not an answer,” she said immediately, narrowing her eyes at you.
You smiled slightly. “It’s a safe answer.”
“You’re funny. I like you.”
“Dangerous combination,” you muttered.
She ignored that. “Okay, seriously though, what’s it like being married to a doctor?”
You leaned back in the chair, still working as you spoke, as the words came easily now.
“It’s kind of funny, actually,” you started. “We met here at the hospital. I was fixing a printer no one wanted to deal with, and he was hovering like I was about to make it worse.
Santos snorted. “That tracks.”
You smiled slightly, shaking your head. “I thought he didn’t trust me at first. Kept asking if I knew what I was doing.”
“Please tell me you humbled him.”
“Oh, immediately,” you said. “I finally turned around and snapped at him, told him if he was that concerned, he could fix it himself.”
Santos let out a sharp laugh. “No—”
“Yeah,” you nodded, smiling a little at the memory. “And he just” you paused, mimicking it slightly, “kind of froze for a second.”
“Shut up.”
“I’m serious,” you said. “Then he goes all quiet and goes, ‘I just figured you might need help lifting it…’”
Santos blinked. “…lifting what?”
“The bottom panel,” you said, gesturing slightly. “The paper tray was jammed. He thought I wouldn’t be able to lift it.”
There was a beat.
Then Santos’ face lit up.
“Oh my god,” she laughed. “He was trying to help you.”
“Yeah,” you said, taking a sip of your coffee. “Just… very badly.”
“And you snapped at him?”
“I didn’t know,” you defended, smiling. “He was hovering.”
“That is so much worse for him,” she said, shaking her head. “He tried to be nice and got told off.”
You hummed. “To be fair, I fixed it without his help.”
Santos let out a quiet laugh, shaking her head. “Wow.”
She leaned forward again, interested now. “Does he still work here?”
You hesitated just long enough to be annoying on purpose. “Sometimes.”
Before she could even question it, a voice cut in from behind you both.
“Dr. Santos, trauma room four needs your signature before we can send the patient home.”
You didn’t look up right away, your gaze still on the computer loading screen, fingers idly tapping against the desk.
Santos did. “Yeah–got it, I–”
She stopped mid-sentence because Dr. Jack Abbot was standing right next to you, tablet in hand.
He was calm, as usual, not caring that he just walked into the middle of someone's conversation.
You finally glanced up, meeting his eyes for half a second.
It was hard to notice, but the small shift at the corner of his mouth gave him away. Quick enough that anyone not paying attention would’ve missed it, he added the slightest wink to match.
Your fingers stilled for just a second against the desk before you picked your coffee back up, as if nothing had happened.
Santos definitely didn't miss that.
Her brows pulled together instantly, eyes flickering between the two of you.
You, who suddenly looked just a little too composed.
Him, who was already looking back at her like nothing had happened, one hand resting against the counter just beside yours. Close enough that if either of you moved an inch, you guys would touch.
Her eyes slid back to you. Then to your ring.
Then to him.
And something clicked.
Her posture straightened just a little too much.
You took a slow sip of your coffee, unbothered.
Jack didn’t help her either.
Santos looked between the two of you one more time.
Her eyes widened.
“No way.”
You set your coffee down, pushing your chair back just slightly like you were getting ready to leave.
“Try logging in now,” you said casually.
She didn’t move.
Her mouth opened slightly. “…that’s your husband.”
You tilted your head, a small smile pulling at your lips.
“You asked if he worked here,” you reminded her lightly. “You managed to answer your own question.”
For a second, Santos just stared at you. Then at Jack. Then back at you.
Her jaw dropped.
She just stared at the two of you, eyes wide, as her brain had stalled completely.
You stood, grabbing your coffee like nothing had just happened.
“You’ll be fine, Dr. Santos,” he said evenly. A beat. “Try not to make it a department event.”
That made it worse.
Santos made a strangled sound, still staring between you and him like her brain refused to cooperate.
You stepped back from the desk. “Try logging in now,” you said, already turning away.
Jack’s eyes followed you for a moment as you walked off, expression holding the faintest hint of amusement that lingered a second too long before he looked back at Santos.
Jack Abbot has had a terrible eighteen months. Truly one for the books. Losing his mother, and then you, sometimes he wonders what the point is. If things will ever look up. Until you turn up at the Pitt, with a little girl who looks exactly like him.
warnings: this blog is 18+, mdni! this fic deals with grief, difficult births, depression, anxiety, and canon medical gore. it will also eventually contain explicit sexual content. nothing specific in this one.
main masterlist // transatlanticism masterlist
Gwen is in the hospital for four days. Four days of worrying yourself sick, of being at the hospital around the clock, and using up a good chunk of your annual leave for the year on being able to stay with her.
Jack does the exact same. Having spent the last eighteen months working around the clock to avoid dealing with emotions, he’s accrued more PTO than he’s ever had before in his life. God bless PTMC’s rolling days policy.
Whenever he’s not at Gwen’s bedside, he’s with one of the hospital case-workers, pouring over each and every bill you’ve accumulated over the past few days.
Five hours in the ER racked up almost ten thousand dollars alone, from the bloods, X-Ray and treatment.
Each day in the NICU set you back a further twelve thousand for the private room, leaving almost sixty-thousand to be paid now.
In an ideal world, Gwen would be on Jack’s insurance, and everything would be paid for already. Unfortunately, in the few weeks he’s been in her life, neither of you had quite gotten onto the paperwork yet. Despite an appeal filed the day she was admitted, with both of you acknowledging that had Jack known about her, she would be on his insurance, you were denied.
So, he’s left to work the numbers.
It’s a burden he takes on entirely by himself - if you won’t let him at the delivery bills, he wants to cover this. Through haggling, favours, and even trying to invent a physician discount for doctors who work at the hospital.
Eventually, he gets it to thirty-thousand. Still not ideal, by any stretch, but he writes a cheque without complaint. It’s the least he can do.
Returning to Gwen’s room, he’s glad to see you relaxing for once - curled up in the corner with some book about Carolyn Bessette. All is quiet from Gwen’s crib, and Jack drops onto the couch beside you, letting out a heavy sigh. His back is categorically not happy with the fact that he’s slept in an upright chair the past couple of nights.
But he wasn’t about to make you sleep in a chair, and there’s definitely not enough room on the couch for both. Sleeping at home was also out of the question - he’s going to be there for both of you even if it kills him.
“She okay?” He asks, voice low.
“Yeah,” You reply, shooting him a glance. “The doctor said we can go home whenever the discharge forms are filled out. I was just waiting for you.”
Home.
The word leaves a sour taste in Jack’s mouth. Home, to you and Gwen, is a crappy apartment on the bad side of town, with a broken lock on the front of the building, and a bathroom that’s falling apart at the seams.
Meanwhile, Jack’s townhouse is sitting mostly empty, allowing him to live in a luxury that feels almost shameful. Who is he to sleep on a silk-covered king-sized bed, while you’ve spent the last three months on a pull-out couch?
He’d considered moving, briefly, after you broke up. Didn’t seem like much point having such a huge house, with not a single other soul to share it with.
But after spending the last decade or so remodelling it for his disability, he simply didn’t have the energy to start over. Finding a place with an elevator had been hard enough in central Pittsburgh.
The most he’d managed was moving out of the primary bedroom, and into one of the smaller ones. Not the one his mom had stayed in during her final weeks - that one has remained almost entirely untouched since her death.
Since finding out about Gwen, all his time not spent at work or with you has been dedicated to getting a nursery ready for her. Initially, it had been with the hope that you would one day trust him enough have her overnight. But as time has gone on, as he’s reconnected with you, and begun building a relationship with his daughter, he’s been thinking more and more about the idea of you both moving in with him.
You would have your own space - bedroom, bathroom, nursery. He’s even gone so far as to put a desk in one of the guest rooms, so that you could work from the house in peace.
He’s considered it far more than he would ever let on. In the quiet mornings, thinking of how you might lounge about in your pyjamas, Gwen in your arms while he cooked you breakfast before your classes.
How, even if you weren’t together romantically, you could be a family. A proper unit. He would be able to look after you both properly. Take care of you the way he should have been this whole time.
“Listen, I was thinking - with Gwen being sick and all-”
Potentially manipulative, Jack knows. But he truly cannot stand the two of you living in that unsafe dump anymore.
“-That maybe you’d be better off living with me for a while.” Upon seeing your expression shift into something unreadable, he stumbles on. “Not forever, obviously. But for as long as you wanted, until you were back on your feet. You wouldn’t have to pay rent or bills, so you could save properly. Get somewhere nicer.”
You fall into a silence, and Jack can practically hear his own heartbeat thumping in his ears. After the whole argument about bills, he knows that bringing up money is potentially a terrible idea. Especially when you haven’t had a good night’s sleep in days (or months, really, if he’s being honest), and you’re worrying yourself to death over Gwen.
Lip between your teeth, you glance over at the crib, before meeting his gaze again. “Can I think about it?”
That’s not a no.
Jack’s not sure he’s ever been more relieved in his life. He’d been fully expecting a firm no, tossed in his direction and inviting absolutely zero discussion.
Maybe there’s hope yet.
*****
It pains Jack to leave you both that night, but you make plans for the following morning. He can work with that.
What started as plans for ice cream and a walk in the park is quickly dashed when it rains all night. Instead, it shifts to a museum and brunch. Gwen’s still about two years away from appreciating anything in a museum, but you figure she might like the colours.
Jack insists on driving, and picks you both up half an hour early, as usual. The militaristic internal timing still hasn’t left him.
He gets her stroller out while you get Gwen out of the car-seat that’s been in Jack’s car since the day after he found out about her. Cooing softly, you settle her, glancing up at the sky as you do. It’s grey and gloomy, but you’re hoping it’ll last the day without another downpour.
You tuck Gwen’s hat down a little more snug over her ears as you step up onto the curb, the stroller bumping lightly behind you. She makes a small, offended noise at the interruption, then settles again.
“Sorry, sweetie,” you murmur, glancing down at her.
Jack’s beside you, one hand on the stroller handle now, the other shoved into his coat pocket, shoulders hunched slightly against the cold.
“You’ve got her zipped in like she’s going to summit Everest.”
You shoot him a look. “It’s thirty-eight degrees.”
“She’s fine.”
“She’s four months old.”
He huffs, but there’s no real argument behind it. He knows that you’ll be feeling protective after the hospitalisation. You fall into step beside him, and it strikes you how real this all looks. Sure, you and Jack are a family, courtesy of Gwen, but most passers-by will assume you’re together. Maybe even married.
You try not to think about it too much.
*****
The museum’s already busy - families shaking out umbrellas, kids dragging parents toward the entrance. Warm air hits you as soon as you step inside, a welcome change from the cold outside.
Jack pays for the tickets, despite your protests.
“My treat,” said in a voice so low and gravelly that it makes you a little dizzy.
You start at the dinosaur end, figuring it may be slightly more stimulating for a baby than the paintings. Granted, it’s much more of an outing for you and Jack than Gwen, but after the past week, you’re just glad to be out with her.
Jack steers the stroller carefully through the crowd, one hand on the handle, the other occasionally reaching down to tuck the blanket back around Gwen when it slips. As usual, he’s vigilant - arm ready to pull you into his side whenever a group of kids bustle past, entirely unaware of where they’re going.
“Reckon she’s impressed?” He murmurs, nodding toward the towering skeleton ahead.
Gwen blinks up at the ceiling, completely indifferent.
“Overwhelmed, clearly,” You say dryly. “I’m sure she’ll remember this experience for all of four hours.”
A kid barrels by, nearly clipping the stroller. Jack shifts it out of the way without breaking stride, his shoulder brushing yours as he does.
“Watch it,” He calls after them, not sharp, but enough to make the parent turn and mutter an apology.
You drift toward the massive dinosaur skeleton, its ribs arching overhead like a cathedral. Jack stops just off to the side, giving other people space, rocking the stroller gently back and forth with his foot. You start to murmur random facts to Gwen, as if she can even comprehend what a dinosaur is, much less care, when a lady approaches.
“You three are such a lovely little family,” She smiles, cooing down at Gwen. “Is she your first?”
Jack tries not to think about a world where this could have been your reality years ago, had he not been selfish and terrified. Maybe you would have had more than one. Gwen, and then maybe a boy, who looks just like you.
“She is, yeah,” You reply, reaching out to stroke Gwen’s cheek with your thumb. “It’s been an adjustment.”
“Oh, I remember the early days well. The days are long, but the years are short. You’ll have a stroppy teenager on your hands in no time.”
You let out a small laugh. “I’m trying not to think that far ahead.”
“Enjoy this bit, even when you’re exhausted. It goes quicker than you think.”
Jack shifts his weight, still rocking the stroller, eyes down on Gwen. “We will.”
The woman gives one last look at the baby, softens, then moves on with the flow of people.
*****
You don’t make it through much of the museum.
A couple of exhibits, slow wandering. You pause more than you move - adjusting Gwen’s blanket, checking her bottle, trading the stroller back and forth when one of you gets tired of pushing.
At one point, you duck into a quieter gallery, dimmer lighting, fewer people. Gwen’s eyes start to droop, her fussing tapering off into soft, uneven breaths.
Jack lowers his voice automatically. “She’s about to crash.”
“Don’t jinx it.”
“She is. Look at her.”
You glance down. He’s right - her lashes flutter, and she yawns up at you.
“Okay,” You whisper, easing the stroller to a stop. “Okay, yeah.” You tuck the blanket around her more carefully this time. She sighs - tiny, content - and drifts off.
“How much time do you think we have?”
“With this much stimulation? At least an hour.” You pause for a second, then, quieter, “Coffee?”
“Please.”
In Jack’s words, the museum café is “overpriced and overrated”, so he takes you to another, leading you to a quiet booth in the corner. “Your usual?”
“Yeah, that would be great-”
He’s already standing again before you finish speaking, shrugging out of his coat slightly as he heads for the counter. You watch him go, the way his muscles shift and flex with each movement.
Swallowing slightly, you turn your attention back to the sleeping baby. “Your daddy’s never been able to buy t-shirts in his own size. Always has to go one too small. If we’re being honest, it’s probably one of the reasons why you even exist. But you can’t tell anyone I told you that. Especially not your dad. Don’t want him getting a big head, do we?”
All too soon, Jack is back, carrying a tray of two of the largest coffees you’ve ever seen, and a whole array of pastries. “I uh, I didn’t know what you wanted, so I got a selection.”
“This has got to be like $30 worth of cakes,” You reply, but a smile tugs at your lips anyway.
“Try $47,” He winces, and your jaw drops. Before you can reply, he holds up a hand, shaking his head. “Which is totally fine, because today is my treat.”
There’s no sense in arguing with him. Even before Gwen, he’d always been old-fashioned that way. Never in an expectation of gendered stereotypes, but he liked to pay for things. A by-product of Gwendoline Abbot Sr. raising her son well.
You lift the cup, wrapping your hands around it, letting the heat seep in. For a minute, you both just sit there, watching Gwen breathe, the small rise and fall under her blanket.
“It’s nice seeing little hints of her personality. She did good today,” You say eventually.
“Yeah,” He replies. “So did you.”
You glance up at that, a little skeptical. “For… walking around a museum?”
“For getting out of the house.”
You look back down at Gwen instead. “It’s easier with… help. I like spending time with you both - makes me feel like I’m doing right by her.”
Jack’s expression is different now, less guarded. “I know this isn’t… simple. And I’m not trying to-” He exhales, a small shake of his head like he’s resetting. “I just… wanted to say thanks.”
You blink, caught a little off guard. “For what?”
“For letting me be here.” His gaze flicks down to Gwen, then back to you. “With her. With you. You would have been well within your right to tell me to go to hell - a-after what I did. But you didn’t, and I’m more grateful than you could ever know.”
“I thought about it,” You admit, casting your eyes down. “Disappearing. But… I think deep down, I wanted you to meet her. All those times during my pregnancy, whenever I was going to PTMC, a part of me hoped and prayed so desperately that I would bump into you. That you would have to talk to me.”
When you look back up at Jack, you’re shocked to see a tear roll down his cheek. “God, I wish I’d seen you. I’m so sorry, sweetheart.”
“I’m not pretending it’s all fine,” You say slowly. “I’m still… working through it.”
“You should be,” He adds quickly. “I don’t expect…” He cuts himself off, reins it back. “Take whatever time you need. I’m not going anywhere.”
*****
Jack’s expecting a call from you after your classes the next day. Normally, you let him know when you’re finishing up for the day, and he meets you back at your place with dinner made.
When his phone rings at 13:15, he’s more than a little concerned.
He answers on the first ring. “Is everything okay?”
“The heating is totally fucked. My afternoon classes got cancelled, and when we got home it was freezing. I don’t know what’s wrong.” Your voice drops when you swear, and Jack has to bite back a smile. It’s the teacher in you. Never cussing in front of the baby. “Are you at work?”
“No.” A lie. “You want me to come over? See what I can do?”
“Are you sure? I don’t want to-”
“Give me like half an hour,” He replies. “I’ll see what I can do.”
Jack Abbot has never fixed a heater in his life, but in November in Pittsburgh, there’s no way that you can do without one. Suddenly, he’s very glad for Al-Hashimi insisting on there being multiple attendings on every shift.
There’s no way he’d be able to slip out otherwise, but he figures Robby can handle himself for an hour or so, until Jack can get back. He’s out the door before you can finish whatever you were about to say next.
“Half an hour,” He repeats, already grabbing his coat. “You might want to bust out that fluffy coat thing for Gwen.”
“I think I have that part covered,” You say sarcastically. “Drive safe.”
*****
The door opens before he even knocks.
You’re standing there in a jumper that looks like it’s doing nothing against the cold, Gwen bundled against your chest in what might be three different layers.
“You are such a liar,” You gasp, upon seeing his scrubs. “Jack, I wouldn’t have bothered you if I’d known-”
“It’s not a problem,” Jack dismisses. “Really.”
“It’s your work.” You stare at him.
“It’s handled,” He murmurs. “I wouldn’t have come if it wasn’t.”
Gwen shifts against you, letting out a small, impatient sound. You adjust her automatically, but your eyes stay on him.
“That’s not the point.”
“It is, a little,” He says. “You needed help.”
“I could’ve called someone.”
“You called me.”
A silence settles over you both, full of something you don’t want to try and unpack.
“Kitchen,” You say finally. “Cupboard.”
Jack follows you through, and pulls up a chair so he can look at the boiler without worrying about his leg. He turns one dial, then the other, to no avail.
Not a great start.
A hollow click. Then nothing.
From the doorway, you shift Gwen against your chest, rubbing small circles into her back. “That bad?”
He glances over his shoulder. “I mean… it’s not good.”
“That’s reassuring.”
He huffs a quiet breath, sits back on his heels, and scrubs a hand over the back of his neck. There’s a beat where he just looks at the thing, like he might be able to will it into working. He starts googling, trying everything he can think of that might be wrong, but it stays stubbornly silent with every intervention.
You watch him for a second. “You don’t have to stay. I know you’ve got work. I can call someone,” You say. “Just - not until payday.”
He fights every urge to offer to pay for it, and just nods. He has a better idea anyway. “You thought any more about what I said?”
You frown slightly. “About…?”
“Coming to mine. Just for a few days. However long you need.”
You shift your weight, instinctively tightening your hold on Gwen. “Jack-”
“I’m not saying move in,” He adds quickly. “Not like that. Just - until this gets sorted. It’s warm, it’s closer to the hospital if anything comes up, and you won’t have to deal with this.”
He can tell you’re still unconvinced, so he presses on.
“It doesn’t have to mean anything,” He adds after a second. “You can bring what you need, stay a couple nights. If it’s weird, you leave. No questions.”
You look down at Gwen, her little face scrunched slightly from the cold. “I don’t want to impose.”
“You’re not.”
“It feels like I am.”
“Do it for Gwen. Even if you don’t want to do it for yourself. She can’t be in a freezing house at the best of times, much less when she’s recovering.”
Gwen lets out a sharper cry this time, and you bounce her slightly, trying to settle her. The cold’s getting to her now. You press your lips together, thinking, then exhale. “Okay.”
Jack looks up.
“Okay,” You repeat, a little more certain. “Just for a few days. Until I can get someone in.”
He nods once, offering you a small smile. “Yeah. That’s all.”
*****
The drive over is quiet. Not awkward, exactly - thankfully you both seem to be past that phase, but you’re deep in thought.
You keep your eyes on the window more than anything else, watching familiar streets come into view a little sooner than you expect.
“Here we are,” Jack says, softer than usual, like you didn’t almost live here once.
The door clicks open and it hits you straight away.
Warmth, for one. Proper, steady heat that seeps into your skin almost instantly. And then everything else - familiar in a way that makes your chest feel a little tight.
Jack steps in first, flicking on the light and hoisting Gwen’s carseat up into his arms.
“Watch the step,” he says automatically, glancing back at you.
You don’t need the warning. You remember it. Still, you step over it anyway. The house hasn’t changed.
Not really.
Same worn spot in the rug near the sofa. Same coat hooks by the door. Even the smell - always faintly of coffee - it’s all exactly the way you remember it. You’ve only been in here once in the six weeks Jack has been back in your life, but you were so exhausted after work that you don’t even really remember it. Today, you’re struck with the prospect of living here again, however briefly.
Jack immediately busies himself, setting up a travel cot in the living room, and transferring Gwen as quietly as possible. “I have something to show you,” He mumbles.
“Me?”
“No, the sleeping baby. Of course, you. I mean, well - it’s for her too, but I thought you should see it first.”
He leads you upstairs, and you try to ignore the way your chest tightens as you pass the primary bedroom. Thankfully, Jack continues on to a room at the end of the hall.
You don’t understand what you’re looking at at first.
The door creaks open under Jack’s hand, slow and hesitant. Where you’d been expecting a bare room, or maybe a crib in the corner, you’re instead met with colour.
Soft, gentle colour. Pinks, yellows, greens. Warm light spilling across freshly painted walls, a fully built crib, and a changing table - all in matching tones. There’s a wardrobe in the corner, largely empty, but with a few little dresses.
In the corner sits a rocking chair, topped with a zoo full of animal teddies.
The shelves aren’t full - yet - but it’s almost like they’re waiting.
For Gwen.
This is the kind of bedroom she deserves. Your hand comes up without thinking, pressing against your mouth like you can hold the sound in, stop yourself from crying. “Oh my god,” You breathe.
You glance over at Jack, who appears to be equally misty-eyed, and the distance between you closes before you even realise you’ve moved. One second you’re standing in the doorway, and the next you’re crashing into him, arms wrapping tight around his torso, fingers clutching at the back of his shirt to ground yourself.
The impact makes him stagger half a step, caught off guard, and then his arms come up around you - strong and enclosing. One hand spreads wide against your upper back, the other anchoring at your waist, pulling you in closer against him. It’s the closest you’ve been since before you broke up.
You press your face into his shoulder, breath shuddering out against the fabric, and it’s warm - he’s warm, solid, safe - and suddenly that’s too much too.
“Thank you.”
It’s barely audible, mumbled directly into Jack’s ear. His hand starts a circular motion, rubbing softly at the tension in your shoulders.
“Don’t need thanks,” Jack murmurs. “It’s what you both deserve. A proper space. ”Room next door is for you. I’ll get an office space set up for you too.”
“Jack, you don’t need to do that-”
“I want to,” His voice is firm, and you finally start to pull back. His arms loosen, almost a little reluctantly. “I uh, I also have this-”
He trails off, disappearing into a closet in the hallway for a second, before he emerges with a box.
Your brow furrows, before you realise that you recognise every single thing poking out of the top.
“You kept my stuff?” A tear trickles down your cheek as you reach for it. Most of it is menial, random books and a few sweaters. A bracelet you forgot you had. Earrings he bought you for your birthday one year. Anything you didn’t take with you when you left is here in this box.
And really, you’d never assumed Jack would be so petty as to throw it all out, but you hadn’t really thought about what he would do with it either.
Jack shifts his weight, watching you take the box. “Figured you might want it at some point.”
Your fingers brush over the top - spines of books you half remember reading here, a jumper you used to steal from him more than wear your own clothes.
“I thought about dropping it off,” He adds, a little quieter. “A few times.”
You glance up. “Why didn’t you?”
He swallows. “Scared, I guess. Of seeing you again. Of realising I made the biggest mistake of my life.”
You nod slowly, blinking the tears away as you pick up the bracelet, turning it over in your fingers. “I forgot about this.”
“Yeah,” Jack smiles softly. “You wore it all the time.”
You let out a small breath that almost turns into a laugh. “Clearly not enough to remember to take it with me.”
“It was a rough day,” He says, before he can stop himself.
You set the bracelet back in the box. “Yeah. It was.”
Without thinking, you reach for his hand. His thumb rubs over your skin soothingly, and he presses a small kiss to the back of it. “I should probably get back to work before Robby kills me. But you’re welcome to anything in the fridge, and I’ll sort dinner tonight too. Just focus on getting settled. I can take the night-shift with Gwen, too.”
“This is like, hotel level service,” You reply. “Not sure I could tell you when I last had a full night’s sleep.”
In his house that night, knowing that Jack is tending to Gwen, you sleep for thirteen hours straight.
Before he was your boyfriend, Clark Kent was just another face on the subway.
A kind and handsome stranger who helps in a moment of need — and has you questioning just how fast you’re allowed to move from breakups. A stranger that you just keep running into by chance - until he isn’t really a stranger anymore.
If only he’d ask you out.
Or: Before the list, comes the theory.
prequel to the love list - not required to read this, but there are some references! 11k, intended nd!reader, strangers to lovers, no spoilers
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
You first meet Clark Kent on a Tuesday.
It's a foggy one, a blanket of mist draped across Metropolis, and you're frazzled because you're late.
You're not exactly in your right mind when you're late.
It's a sort of fight or flight mode - though you're definitely preferential to flight. You really hate being late. But as you walk as fast as you can, a speedy sort of half-jog, it's not even your lateness you're fixated on.
It's the goddamn tag in your shirt.
You can feel it, itchy and pressed against the back of your neck. It scratches with every step. Your hands flex. Every cell in your body wants to stop, find somewhere to pause, and fix your shirt.
You're far too late to even entertain the idea.
This is normally not a problem for you — though, actually, that's not true. Normally, you're much better prepared than this, that is.
In a rush, you'll just snip tags off and deal with the spiky remains. It's not ideal, but you can manage.
When you have time though, you do it properly. You have a little seam-ripper at home, that lives among your sewing supplies, dedicated to removing pesky labels.
Today, your mistake is your excitement.
A new shirt, a nice woollen material that you know will keep you warm in the coming, cooling days —much like today.
Given how it feels your body doesn't even attempt temperature regulation at times, clothes that can are prized.
If you're too warm? Good luck getting any work done. Too cold and you'll be shivering the whole day. It bugs you a bit that you seem particularly sensitive to temperatures that others brush off.
You hurry down the steps to the subway, your boot sliding an inch on the wet tile. You clutch your bag tighter, willing yourself to stay upright, and feel the scratch of the tag on the back of your neck again.
You huff loudly, regaining your balance.
The mistake of excitement is that you haven't worn this shirt out yet—purchased only the day before. Usually there's a test run, to make sure this doesn't happen. Not today.
But by the time you'd realised your mistake, you'd been out the door, with no time to turn back.
And now it's worse because you've been running — which means you're warmer than usual, sweating a bit beneath your coat, your socks feel too tight, and the goddamn tag is scratching you.
Rounding the corner of the subway station, you skid again on the wet ground, barely keeping your balance again.
You spot your train up ahead. Its doors are just beginning to close.
No! With a start, you head for the train anyways, thinking by some miracle you'll make it.
You cannot be late — you can't- because if you are, it'll ruin the whole day and you'll have to wait til you're all the way back home again to get settled and—and—and—
Someone sees you coming and holds the door.
There's a burst of relief as you manage to slip through the train doors, which slide shut with a heavy bang! the moment they're released. You flinch at the noise, still trying to catch your breath.
This day is miserable, you decide.
The train begins to roll along. You remember abruptly you should thanking whoever saved you from being much later than you could've been.
You turn your head, then have to tilt it up to see his face.
The person who held the door is a very polite looking, very tall man, dressed in office attire. He's wearing a nice winter coat, same colour as his hair - and thick-rimmed spectacles. His lanyard flashes a Daily Planet Press badge.
You swallow. Okay, sure, your subway saviour is the most gorgeous guy you've ever seen. No big deal.
"Hi." You find your voice, still breathing heavily. "Thank you. Sorry."
The man smiles —holy fuck— then clears his throat, nodding his head somewhat awkwardly.
"You're welcome." He says and you suddenly can't tell if the wobbliness in your knees is from the train or his voice. "Definitely been me on the other side of those doors before."
He smiles at you so genuinely that it makes you feel even more off kilter. You find it surprisingly easy to smile back.
The train rattles along the tracks, curving around a corner, and you realise you should probably hold on to something. You grab the nearest pole, conveniently bringing you closer to the man.
Now that you have a moment, turbulent waters settling for the duration of your journey, sensations start prickling again.
The sweat on your collarbones, cooling while you still feel overheated beneath your thick coat. Your hair, lightly plastered to the back of your neck. The tag.
One hand still on the pole, you reach back and pinch at your shirt collar, shuffling it about to try find some relief. The tag scratches along your skin and you squirm uncomfortably.
Do you have scissors with you? You'll cut it off right here, right now, if you can.
The train car you're in rocks to a rumbling stop at the next station. The doors open and a few more people file in, inadvertently pushing you closer to the handsome stranger who helped you earlier.
Your eyes catch — he smiles again and your face burns.
The tag distracts you from his closeness. Waiting til the train steadies out again, departed from the latest station, you release the pole. You shift your bag forward, off your shoulder, and your hand dives in.
If you have scissors with you, they'll like be in mini sewing kit you keep with you. You hunt around blindly. The tag itches still.
Your other hand deviates from holding your bag open, moving to grab at the back of your shirt.
It's not effective, both hands occupied as the train sways, and something pinches tight in your throat. You're getting wound tighter and tighter.
"Are you alright?"
Your head jerks up. It's the handsome stranger. He's watching you, your arms contorted and a crease in your brow, with an expression of polite concern.
"I-" You begin. He likely doesn't actually want to know — people say things to be polite without meaning them all the time, you've found.
Despite it, the awfulness of your morning leaves you with no energy to pretend. Or lie.
You sigh, "I have a tag. On my shirt. I forgot to cut it off before I left the house."
It's a relief when your fingers close around the familiar shape of your sewing kit, square with rounded corners. You retrieve it quickly, releasing the collar of your shirt to pop it open.
The train judders suddenly and you get shoved forward as the car passes over uneven tracks. You just clasp the pole in time to keep yourself from tasting the grime of the subway floor.
The man grabs the pole too, an inch between your hands, and you find yourself meeting his gaze again.
He smiles crookedly, "Would you like some help?"
It takes a beat to realise what he means. His gaze darts down to the sewing kit still clutched in your hand - and when you can't move your tongue, he gestures somewhat awkwardly to the collar of your shirt.
"The tag, I mean," He stammers. "It would be difficult—not that I don't think you could- it's, uh, the angle, I suppose, that would… make it hard."
He nods firmly after, as if it reinforces his point.
You blink at him - and can see your perturbed expression in the reflection of his glasses.
"Um, yeah, yes," You finally find your words.
It's unlike you at all to be so completely struck by a random stranger— crushes tend to be few and far between for you.
Yet, this man, his kindness and his awkward boyishness, is definitely doing something to you. Making you extra foolish. As if your morning needs to get much worse.
You undo the latch on the kit in your hands and fish out the scissors, silver glinting beneath the subway lights. They're travel-sized. If you think they look little in your hands, it's nothing compared to his.
You hand them over and then, with an awkward pause, turn away slightly.
One hand still clutching the pole tight, your fingers leaf under the fabric of your collar, then the tag. It forces a shiver out of you as you turn it out.
"Okay, um, I'm gonna have to, just-" The warmth of his hand hovers over your neck, but he doesn't touch you. His fingers stay solely on the fabric.
The train pulls into another station, whirring to a stop. The doors glide open with a hiss.
People filter in in both directions. You're jostled a bit closer to the pole you're holding and your face burns when the man holds his arm up on the other side, almost around your shoulder, a guard against the moving crowd.
"Sorry," He says. "I'm gonna wait til we're moving again."
You nod, then realise you're holding your breath.
The doors shudder, then slip back together, and the train is moving on again. Your eyes seek out the rotating sign announcing the stops, mentally tallying how many left before yours.
Another four stops. You have time.
"Okay, hold still."
The arm braced around you retracts and the warmth returns to your neck. The fabric of your shirt tightens as he angles it just right, every graze felt across your skin like pinpricks.
You hold your breath. An overwhelming awareness shudders down your spine at the closeness you're sharing with this stranger.
Then—fwiiip. With one slow, precise snip, the tag is freed.
"All done." He says, and you peer over your shoulder to find him smiling. He's holding the villain of your morning between his fingers up like a prize.
You sag in relief and smooth down your collar. It's surprisingly a neat slice, the tag lying down flat — flatter than you would've managed on your own. Not without wrangling your shirt off which — well, even you can tell that's not appropriate.
There's less space between the stations now, as you get closer to the central business district. The train stops more frequently, with more people getting off than getting on.
"Thank you," You say, turning to face him properly. "Very much. It was making my morning bad."
The man frowns a bit at that, handing your scissors back. You tuck them into the kit and drop it into your bag, jostled again by the uneven tracks.
Your hands clutch the pole and your bag equally tight, looking back up at the man.
He's looking you, the tag still in his grasp. His lips part—but whatever he's going to say is lost as another subway speeds by in the opposite direction.
Wind howls loudly, a tunnelled vortex of air. You cringe at the volume.
Around you, the subway car rocks a bit wildly again, forcing you both to correct your stances to stay on balance. The tag disappears as he grips the pole with both hands. Your own hand sweats from holding the pole so tight.
Another shared look.
Oddly, the thought that crosses your mind next is a wish to have met this kind stranger under other circumstances.
Late, frazzled, losing your balance on public transport — it's not exactly your best foot forward.
Which is a strange thought to be having, considering you're three weeks since the breakup.
According to the internet, you should be drowning in tears at the moment. Maybe this is the rebound people talk about?
You glance up at the stranger, your eyes meet, and you both look away. You might not be imagining the smile you share.
The next station arrives. The man looks up as the train rolls to gradual stop, then his lips purse.
"Well, I hope it can be a good morning now. This is where I get off."
You look up at his voice and he's smiling at you again, genuine. It's a gorgeous smile. You nod, mouth a little dry. Unwittingly, you glance up and check which station you're pulling up to.
Your brows knit together. 17th St station? You remember his badge, glance down to double check. It still reads the same — The Daily Planet.
Which is crazy, because you could've sworn that the Daily Planet was at least a few blocks back, best reached through 12th St station. You haven't actually gone there, but you've studied the subway map before.
The doors open with a hiss. The man gives an awkward wave, paired with a bob of his head, and you take a beat before you realise it's directed at you.
Waving back, you begin to ponder the possibility that this complete stranger missed his stop just to help you.
You frown to yourself. No, that would be preposterous.
The train departs, dragging the platform out of your line of vision with a slowly increasing speed. Subtle as you can, you watch him through the grubby windows of the subway and subtly press two fingers to your wrist. Heartbeat steady—but a little jumpier than usual.
Huh.
The lights overhead flicker once and you have to grab the pole again to keep yourself steady.
Idly, you realise he still has the tag of your shirt.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
On a different day, on a different week, you find out his name is Clark.
It's a Friday evening and your shift at the library let out 10 minutes ago. You've hesitantly joined the swathes of people rushing across Metropolis, heading every which way. Car horns chorus across the cityscape. Every place in the crowd is incredibly loud.
This is why you like Friday's the least.
Your shift ends at 5 - not staggered earlier or later like other days - and that's when the city is the busiest.
Still, if you can make it home, the weekend awaits you. Sweet, blissful alone time. Maybe you'll even splurge and treat yourself to some nice sourdough for tomorrow's breakfast.
A puddle splashes below your foot, evidence of winter's thaw setting in. You pass through it and try hard not to wonder if your sock got wet, holding your bag tightly.
It's only about two blocks from your work to the subway station.
Approximately 7 minutes walk, if you're not held up. You know because you've timed it before.
It's a bit of a hazard to walk with headphones on, but, to you, it's one of the more bearable ways to get through busy crowds.
You're aware though, ducking and twisting, avoiding the crush of bodies. Your teeth clench tightly. You're definitely more aware than some people.
A shoulder bashes into yours, some self-important douchebag pushing through the crowd like he's the only one with somewhere to be.
The push knocks you off balance momentarily. You stumble back into someone, throat thickening in discomfort, and wish you were smaller than you are.
"Woah, easy there," The person you've hit into says, hands pressing you back upright. Your skin prickles, but even so, you turn to thank them — them blink in surprise.
It's Lois Lane.
"Oh," You can see the familiarity peak on your face at the same time. Her polite concern melts into something closer to delight - which is a surprise to you. "y/n! Hi!"
Glancing around to make sure you're not in the line of fire for any other assholes, you smile back.
After a moment, you remember that people think it's rude to keep your headphones on when they talk to you. You push one side off your ear, scrunching your hair up slightly, "Hi, Lois."
Lois Lane is one of those people who you knew would do great things from the moment you met her.
There's just a certain star quality she exudes. She's tough as nails. Takes no excuses or prisoners in her search for the truth. If you cut her, she'd probably bleed journalistic integrity.
She also used to live right across the hall from you in college.
At one point, you'd have called you two friends. Now, a couple years on, you're not sure if that still applies.
"Oh my God, how have you been?" She says, perfectly comfortable having a conversation out on the busy street. You, meanwhile, shift on your feet. "Man, it's been awhile, hasn't it?"
You're not sure if she's actually asking, but you know the answer anyway.
"Three years and 4 months since we graduated."
Lois' smile widens at that, like your response has tickled her in some way. Her blue eyes dance over you, then out across the rushing street, before focuses back on you.
"Hey, you know I'm actually on my way to some drinks with my co-workers. I'd love to catch up though."
Surprise twinges in you. She does? That makes you feel a little lighter - maybe you and Lois were better friends than you can recall.
You tell her honestly, "That sounds nice."
She lights up. "So you'll come?"
It takes another moment to comprehend that she's invited you along to her drinks. Just now. To catch up. But also with her co-workers? Your brows knit together, lips pursing.
"Right now?" You question. "With your co-workers?"
The pushed back headphone is slipping forward slightly. Lois nods, grinning, and making you feel like it's impossible to say no to. Mentally, you calculate if you go for a bit, you should still have time to pick up some sourdough before you go home.
"Okay." You push your headphones off altogether.
"Okay?" Lois repeats, perking up at your response. "Awesome. We're all meeting at this little bar on 15th, Crowley's. You heard of it?"
She talks the whole walk to Crowley's. You inform that, no, you've never heard of Crowley's because most of the time you've spent at bars has been at The Last Resort.
She comments that you must like it if you frequent it so much - to which you shrug, because maybe that's true.
You're not sure of that, just that— "It's Darren's favourite."
Lois' brows draw together, her lips quirked into a smile. "Darren, huh? Who's that?"
"My ex-boyfriend."
The smile on her face disappears so quickly you can feel the misstep you've taken. You hate when that happens.
Though, you're not quite sure why Lois suddenly looks like she's trodden on a kitten. She's not the one with the break-up.
"Oh," Lois says. "I'm sorry to hear that. Is it fresh?"
"Approximately five weeks." You respond with another shrug.
You hope she won't ask you how you're feeling about it, because you haven't really thought about it. Well, no, that's not true.
You've spent a lot of time thinking about how you should be feeling about it. Despair, anguish, heartbreak. That's what the internet says at least. Maybe because you don't feel any of that, it's a sign it was the right decision.
Or perhaps it's a sign it was the wrong one.
You've resolved to just not really think about it.
Lois slows to a halt and just up ahead, you can see the neon sign at the top of some basement stairs, announcing it as Crowley's to the world. It's a dive bar then.
You glance at Lois. She's looking at you, eyebrows pinched, looking like she might ask you something. You know her thinking face well.
But in the end, she doesn't. She nods and continues on. With one hand on the railing, she takes the stairs to Crowley's carefully and you follow suit.
Crowley's is much nicer than The Last Resort.
You look around as you pass through the doorway, the room widening out to a nice, comfy place. The lighting is low, dimmed and soft. It's not too loud.
Up the front, there's high tables with stools, occupied by the beer drinkers who are fixated on television. You glance to see if you recognise the game. It's the Meteors.
Further back, short, squat tables sit closer to the bar, accompanied by green armchairs. They house what looks to be a fair few couples.
And in the back, where Lois is heading, booths, with maroon velvet coverings, wrap around round tables.
"Alright, from left to right. Ron, Steve, Cat, Jimmy, and Clark," Lois rattles off, gesturing to the middle booth which is, indeed, already housing five people in various amounts of office attire.
Your eyes follow as Lois talks and you feel a jolt as you reach her final co-worker, sitting squished in like he’s trying to make himself take up less space.
It's the handsome stranger.
What had she said his name was? Clark.
You roll it over in your mouth, whispering it quietly to yourself. After a moment, you decide it's aptly fitting for him. It strokes a different familiarity in you that you can't place.
Looking at him now, in much the same attire as when you met him, you don't even need to feel your pulse point to feel your heart jump.
Which… feels concerning. You think?
You just hadn't expected you would see him again.
Though, you’d be lying if you said you hadn’t hoped you would.
Some days, you'd peered through the crowd of the subway car, wondering if he'd be there, head a little taller than others.
But you also hadn't been that late since that day you saw him — and so despite your attempts, you hadn't seen him either.
So, maybe, he's lingered in your thoughts. So, what?
There was no harm done if you had entertained the thought of what you might do if you saw him again.
You'd smile first. Maybe wave first. Really bold stuff - for you, at least.
It hadn't been properly thought out - mainly because it quickly became an easy daydream, far from reality. Though, as you and Lois approach the table, you realise rapidly that that reality is coming true.
"Hey guys," Lois begins. "I ran into an old friend. Hope you don't mind the extra company."
The group looks up at Lois' arrival, murmurs of welcome. You try not to feel like a butterfly pinned beneath all their gazes, grappling with making sure you look around with a smile, but not linger too long.
Even so, it feels impossible for you to not watch the expression change on Clark's face when he realises who you are.
His brows draw up in surprise, a smile tugging at his mouth. He sits up a bit straighter. That's good. At least, you think that's good. He remembers you at least.
"Alright, I'm fixing myself a drink," Lois sheds her coat as she speaks, tossing it on the free space beside Ron. "Everyone play nice."
She narrows her eyes sternly at her friends, but there's a smile that tells you she's kidding. She turns to you.
"You want anything? On me."
You flounder at being put on the spot. "Oh. Um. A ginger-ale, please?"
Lois smiles and nods, which untucks some of her hair behind her ear. "Just like college. I'll be back in a minute, okay?"
You nod, murmuring, "Okay," and watch her weave back to the bar like a woman on a mission. Then you're standing by the booth alone.
You turn back to the table, uneasiness fringing your nerves. Hands shifting, you take your pulse to keep yourself steady.
"Would you like to sit?"
It's Clark who's spoken. He's looking up at you, smiling, and he's scooched over on the seat to give you a bit more space. You realise you get another chance to see those dimples up close.
You sit, but don't take off your coat.
"Hi." You say.
"Hi," He says. The heat of his thigh warms your own, nearly touching beneath the table. "What are the chances, huh? I didn't think I'd see you again."
"Probably pretty low," you say, sandwiching your hands between your legs so they can't do anything stupid. "I mean, Metropolis' population is rather large. Though, it was much more likely I'd see you again on the subway."
"Wait, again?"
A blonde woman, Cat, you think, cuts in. She's wearing a nice, tight-fitting dress and glasses you'd never be able to pull off the way she does.
Her manicured finger flits between you and Clark. "You two have met before?"
Clark nods, that same awkward head bob he did when getting off the subway. "Uh, yeah, briefly. On the subway."
"He helped me cut the tag off my shirt." You tell them - and unwittingly, feel the burn in your face creep up.
Are you ill? You don't feel feverish. It worsens when Clark's knee bumps you as he adjusts on the seat. You both share a glance, gazes darting away quickly.
Cat grins at your words, while the table laughs good-naturedly. Jim — Jimmy? — nudges Clark with his elbow.
"That's the most Clark thing I've ever heard of." He says, while you observe a pinkness crawl up Clark's throat. He doesn't seem to do well under the attention, which you have in common. "The everyday superhero."
"That's hardly hero stuff," Clark mumbles, scratching the back of his neck. You'd argue against that—it very much saved your day.
Instead, you say to Cat, "I like your glasses."
"Oh, now you've done it," Steve jokes as Cat perks up, almost bouncing in her seat. She beams at you, radiant and evidently very pleased.
"That is so nice of you to say—" She says, then rolls into a speech about where exactly she got them, how much they were, how they had been apart of a new collection line, aiming to bring back more vintage style pieces. She only stops when she's interrupted by Lois' return.
"One ginger-ale." Lois says, sliding it across the table to you. It's in a high ball glass with a plastic straw, and the ice-cubes clink as it settles before you.
"Thank you." You take a sip.
"Not a drinker?"
It's Clark who's asked, his voice dropped a little lower, the rest of the table conversing between themselves. He's hunched over, elbows resting on the table edge, but his face is angled toward you.
You look at him and blink. You don't understand why he's asked. His lips twitch, almost a smile.
When you don't respond, he doesn't move his hand — just extends one finger — to point at your ginger-ale.
"Oh!" You catch on. "Yes. Or- no, I mean, only sometimes. I wasn't expecting to come out tonight. I'm already worried about saying the wrong thing."
For some reason, that makes Clark laugh, soft and quiet. This sound of it has something singing under your skin, making your face burn.
Does your ginger-ale have liquor in it after all? It would explain why you feel so light-headed all of a sudden.
"I wouldn't worry about that," Clark says, voice all smooth with assurance. "I think you're doing a wonderful job so far."
"You think so?"
"I really do."
His genuineness threatens to make a fool of you. Suddenly, you don't know what to do with your face, because you can feel your smile growing and it feels a bit maniacal.
It doesn't help that he's looking at you so intently, it's hard to maintain eye contact. Gosh, he's got blue eyes. The heat in your face doubles, then triples.
You take another sip of your ginger-ale for something to do - and also desperately hope it will cool you off.
"How long have you worked with Lois?" You hum the question, straw still resting between your lips.
"I've been at the Planet for, say, just over a year?" Clark says. "Give or take. What about yourself—how do you know Lois?"
Thinking back to the first few weeks of college brings back memories, equally fond as they not-missed.
You strongly remember the smell of your dorm carpet. Your roommate, who consumed copious amounts of ramen. The girl across the hall, who had a purple toaster, and didn't mind letting you use it.
"College. She lived across the hall in my dorm and would let me use her toaster."
Clark smiles, stealing a glimpse across the table at his co-worker. "That's nice of her. We're the same, I suppose. Except, she's across the bullpen, not the hall. And she doesn't share her sources, just steals all the coffee."
"So, not the same at all?" You query, brows pulled together.
You're not aiming to be funny but Clark laughs, showing you a flash of teeth, and you find you don't mind at all. "Okay, you got me there." He says warmly.
It strikes you then, the thought that Clark is both very nice and very easy to talk to.
And to look at, if you're being honest with yourself. He has a strong jawline, dark lashes. The dimples he gets when he smiles beg to be kissed.
It's a shame that you've already had your schtick with love—and come out thoroughly unimpressed. With the two interactions you had, you can't help but imagine that Clark Kent is the kind of person who could be very easy to love.
You swallow heavily at the thought.
You don't want to consider if you are that kind of person too - given, you think you know Darren's answer at least.
You remember you should keep asking questions. "Are you a reporter?"
Clark nods, lips pressed together. "Mhm, that I am. You keep up with the news?"
When you have meta-humans running around the globe, it's generally a good idea to. Plus, you enjoy the little Superman scoops from time to time.
“I do my best.” You shrug, your coat collar shifting against your neck. "Will I have read anything of yours?"
A bashfulness crosses Clark's face and he scratches his neck again. "Maybe. I occasionally get interviews with Superman, which you might have read."
The familiarity from earlier snaps into place. His name - printed on the byline of the Daily Planet's front page, that you've read at least a dozen times. He's the guy who gets all the Superman exclusives.
"Oh, I know those!" You exclaim. "Yes, I've read them. You're really good. In the most recent one, I really appreciated the use of the word clandestine. It's a great word. I once did a crossword where that was the main clue and I've liked it since then."
At Jimmy's motion in your peripheral, his head turning to your conversation, do you realise how loud you've accidentally become.
You shrink back a bit, a hot embarrassment spilling in your chest. You hadn't meant to.
Clark, thankfully, appears undeterred. Actually, if anything, he seems quite flattered by your comment on his word choice, his face splitting into a grin.
"Yeah? I, uh, I haven't had that compliment before. Thank you. I agree completely as well, it's a fantastic word."
You glow hotly at his response - then nod, taking another sip of ginger-ale to try swallow down some of your embarrassment.
The conversation flows back to the table when Lois taps your ankle beneath the table, hooking you into an overdue catch up. She does most of the talking and you listen dutifully, slowly emptying your glass.
Time wanes with ease; so much, that it's much later than you had intended to leave when you check your phone some time later.
You blink at it in surprise. Clearly, your idea of a quick catch-up had melted away into a slower conversation.
But, for once, you're pleasantly surprised by the change in routine. You like Lois' friends.
Okay, you hadn't exactly talked to the others all that much - just a few words back and forth across the table. It had been more you watching them toss jokes around about Daily Planet's work-life. They all seem nice enough.
What you mean is, you like Clark.
He's really good at keeping you in the conversation. When the conversation veers to a topic unknown to you, he drops little tidbits of information in your ear.
The name Perry comes out, and Clark whispers how it's their boss; 'The Stakeout' gets mentioned, and he murmurs about how a 2-hour stint accidentally became a 20-hour one; Jimmy jokingly warns Cat against another marg, and Clark tells you, grinning all the while, of the last Christmas staff party.
It's nice. He doesn't leave you wondering — doesn't even wait for you to ask. You haven't really had that before.
You steal a glimpse when you think he's not looking.
Between the tag on the subway and this, you're beginning to think he might be the nicest person you've ever met.
Still, the clock reads closer to 9pm than you'd like.
The bakery you thought you might be able to dip into after this, for tomorrow's breakfast, will be long shut. Frustration singes at the thought.
Tomorrow, however, is a Saturday. There was already an idea to go to the Farmer's market, penned in your notebook, but now you'll have to go.
Saying goodbye to a big group that you only sort of know is awkward. You slurp on your straw to announce it quietly, then shift about for a moment, before you stand.
"I have to go now."
The group turns at your words. Polite goodbyes come from Ron and Cat, waves exchanged in your direction from Jimmy and Steve.
"Oh," Clark says, blinking up at you from behind his glasses. He presses them up his nose. "That's— would you, uh, like some company? I'd be more than happy to walk you."
Something electric zings down your spine. Your face burns again at his offer.
It tempts you. Walking home with Clark does sound a dream, but if you're being honest, you're all talked out for the evening. You can feel the social fatigue setting in, feel the urge to hide beneath your headphones again.
Your walk home will be in silence, fast-paced. You don't think Clark will enjoy several blocks of complete quietness between you.
You shake your head, "No. Thank you."
Maybe you're imagining things, but you can almost convince yourself he looks a bit downtrodden at your response. You bite down the urge to over-explain yourself — it rarely helps.
Turning, you make a point to wave specifically to Lois, a smile on your lips.
You say, "Thank you for inviting me. I had a good time."
"Of course," Lois grins at you over her beer. "I'm glad we could catch up. It was really nice to see you. Though, I have a feeling I might be seeing more of you soon."
Her eyes flit across the table, but if you're supposed to catch on to something, it's lost on you.
You frown, looking around the table again — nothings different, except Clark's ears a little pinker than a second ago.
Maybe she means you'll run into each other more now you know where she frequents. You cast a glance around at Crowley's and try to imagine coming here alone. It's not implausible.
"Okay, then." You nod, the motion a bit awkward, and tuck your hands away in your pockets. "Bye."
Another chorus of farewells from the table - a wave from Clark specifically. You wave without removing your hands from your pocket.
Tracing your steps back up to the streets, you have to blink to adjust to how dark it's become, night trickling into the city. The streetlights have come on and they cast pale puddles of light across the roads. The city hums with life.
Fishing around, you retrieve your headphones and slip them on. The world dims, just a bit. Manageable now.
You huff a breath, readying yourself for the journey home. Tiredness has crept into your skin - but at the same time, you're rejuvenated in another sense. One you couldn't explain it if you tried.
As you cross the street, heading for the subway station, it reminds you Clark. The tag. The careful gentleness of his fingers, inches from your neck.
You wonder if, back at the bar, you should've looked back.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
Metropolis sports several markets that spring up, like weeds between concrete, on an early Saturday morning.
It's quite a transformation. Mullen's Square, the one closest to you, is generally void of any sort of gatherings during the week. Some workers wander out to eat their lunch, but the square has less greenery than others nearby.
It's nice, still. You like to wander through it on your way home, if you want to walk a little longer, that is.
The Saturday market is technically called a farmer's market—though how many genuine farmers it houses, you're not sure. By 7am, stalls pop up through the square, cobalt tarpaulins strung up that catch the wind and keep off the sun.
The east side is dedicated to the smaller treats.
There's little coffee carts parked, a green Jitter's one among them. Stores offering trinkets and handmade gifts, decorated with bright signs. The smell of sizzling breakfast drifts through the square.
The west is where the produce is.
Rows and rows and rows of fresh fruit and vegetables, piled high enough to make you nervous you'll send them tumbling with a single knock. It's a sea of colour, bright reds and deep greens. It's also where you're heading first today.
The stone scuffs underfoot as you cross into Mullen's square.
You grip the bag of reusable bags stowed on your shoulder, which is filled with only more reusable bags— an eco-friendly Russian-doll of bags, you might say.
This particular Saturday is overcast, which keeps the morning chill close. It won't linger, you hope, as the clouds appear to be clearing out. It's not a bad bet to assume it'll be bright and sunny by the end of the hour.
You're too busy watching your feet that you nearly miss the bakery stand — your actual first stop, you now remember.
You have to halt, then do an awkward little turn around, to end up in front of it.
The worst part of markets is that every stall holder is the most extroverted, talkative person to grace the land. Small-talk is not your forte — and neither is heckling the prices.
Leo, the owner of aforementioned bakery, has thankfully come to know you as a regular - and your quietness is expected. He greets you with a nod, smelling of freshly baked goods, and begins to bag up a loaf of sourdough without a word spoken.
You like Leo. He rewards your loyalty with a slight discount, which is never unappreciated.
The warmth of the bread presses into your side, packed away safely, you head into the first row of vegetables.
You pass artichokes, celery, and swedes. You have a list of ingredients you need, penned in your notebook, but it's mostly staples. Your eyes hunt for the potatoes to begin with — and instead, catch on a taller figure in the crowd.
It's impossible to miss him, given how he's a head taller than most of the crowd. A nervous anticipation prickles across your spine.
Maybe it's not him. Statistically, it's unlikely you'll have run into him again and so soon. Did you mention your plans for the farmer's market last night aloud?
You squint at him, trying to figure out if it's just wishful thinking.
But, no. It's definitely Clark.
He's wearing a pair of blue-wash jeans and an unbuttoned red flannel, the sleeves rolled up. Beneath it, his t-shirt reads Smallville Athletics. It's a touch on the tight fitting side.
His hair is a little messier this morning and he has his glasses on, slightly down from the bridge of his nose. He's holding something in one hand.
You wander a little closer and your eyes catch on what it is, his fingers closed around a handle. When you see what it’s attached to, a surprised delight radiates in your chest.
He has a wagon, small and red, trailing behind him.
He must tow it behind him to carry his things, because you can spot a variety of food already stashed in it.
He's talking to a vendor with an easy smile, the two chatting politely, before Clark gestures to a pile of oranges, a couple crates over. He nods a goodbye to the vendor and walks the few steps, pulling the wagon with him.
Then, he starts examining the fruit, picking the oranges up one by one.
You take a step — then judder to a halt. Can you just go up and say hi? That sounds almost absurd.
Clark hasn't seen you yet - you could turn and disappear into the east side of the market and he'd be none the wiser. You want to say hi though. You want to talk to him again.
But you're not friends. You've just met him twice, both times by accident.
And that's all it's taken for you think he's the nicest guy in all of Metropolis — and that's left you wondering if you're allowed to think that so soon after Darren.
5 weeks and 6 days since the breakup. But you never thought Darren was the nicest guy in the city—he probably wasn't even the nicest guy on his apartment floor.
You decide after a long moment, staring hard at a pile of tomatoes, that saying hello is the perfectly friendly thing to do.
You walk over before you can change your mind.
"Hi."
Not recognising your voice, Clark turns with a quirk in his brows, already apologetic. "Oh, sorry, is my wagon-?"
His polite apology quickly melts away as he turns enough to see who you are. He blinks, his glasses slip further down his nose, and then the orange in his hand erupts as it's squished beneath his super-strength.
"Hi— oh, son of a biscuit," He goes from happy to politely distressed in a moment.
Orange juice streaks down his forearm and Clark quickly unclenches his hand. He stares at the mashed remains of the orange in his hand with a genuine sorrow, as if trying to will it back to its previous form.
When it doesn't work, he turns back to the vendor from before and gestures with the orange weakly. "I will pay for this."
You've never really had someone juice an orange at your arrival before, so it leaves you stuck for what to say.
You bite your cheek, "Guess it was a bad orange?"
Clark laughs at that, a bit breathy, his focus still on where to put the orange. "It's- no. Or maybe. I love Frank's oranges, I couldn't say a bad word against them."
That makes you smile.
He eventually pulls one of the plastic produce bag rolls off the edge of a crate and deposits the fruit pulp inside - then tosses it into his wagon. He looks up at you, his arm still held out and dripping fruit juice.
He smiles, lashes touching in the corners, "Hi. Again. It's," He takes a deep breath, swallows. "It's good to see you."
You think he genuinely means it too. Which is a trip - your pulse ticks up a few beats per minute.
To distract yourself from that, you dig around in your bag for some wipes to give him.
"Here," you say, after peeling back the protective sticker and extracting one. He takes it with that awkward head bob he does.
Clark says, "Thank you," and he smiles again - and you swear it's exactly when the sun comes out.
Suddenly, it feels too warm to be wearing your knit sweater and you're not entirely sure the weather's to blame. You swallow, trying not to focus too intently on his long fingers as he wipes them off.
"I like your wagon."
For some reason, that makes Clark turn a nice pink that matches the peaches.
He's still wiping at his hands and his shoulders hunch up, "Yeah, well, it's my old one and—" He pauses, glancing over your expression. "Oh. You mean it."
You frown, "Of course."
You look down at the wagon and see that in white, flaking paint the name KENT is painted on the side. There's no perfect lines, which means it's probably been hand-painted.
Up close, you can see his haul. A bunch of carrots, strung together with rubber bands, a carton of 24 eggs - which upon further inspection, you realise is 48, as it's doubled stacked - and a variety of leafy greens. Several limes roll around loosely.
Clark catches your gaze and peers at his own wagon, "Gotta have fresh eggs, you know?"
You don't know because eggs, to you, can be the worst food on the planet. Texture, yolk, almost always served some degree of undercooked on purpose.
Still, you nod, because that's the polite thing to do.
"I'm still so used to getting everything fresh back home," says Clark.
He tucks the used wipe into the same bag as the mushed orange. "One of those things that took awhile to adjust to in Metropolis - til I found the markets."
You look at his shirt and put two and two together. "You used to live on a farm?"
"Born and raised." Clark grins. Then, his brows bunch together. "Well, not actually born, but that's a story for a different time. Smallville's home though."
He gestures to his shirt proudly, then pushes his glasses back up. He looks you over, seeing your relatively empty bags.
"You just arrive? Or no big plans to shop around?"
You become aware of how your knees have locked and try to subtly adjust them. A performer starts setting up an amp close by, the scratchiness beamed out through the speaker.
"Both. I came to get—"
There's a squeal from the performer's guitar and you cringe at the volume, eyes closing momentarily. When the noise stops, you relax, "Sorry. I…"
What were you saying? You can't really focus when there's still the scratchy noises feeding out the amp. You look over your shoulder, spy the offender, and wish desperately for her to stop.
A moment later, the noise runs smooth and the volume turns way down. The soft noises of her acoustic guitar begin. You turn back to Clark.
You remember you were in the middle of a sentence, "Sorry. I'm sorry, what was the question?"
Clark smiles, soft, "Don't be sorry. I was asking if you come to the markets often. You look prepared."
He nods to the bags over your shoulder.
"I come sometimes," You say, relieved that he doesn't mind repeating himself. "I'm mainly here for bread because I was supposed to get some after work yesterday."
"Oh," says Clark, but you can't place what tone it is. "Guess we kept you longer than you intended, huh?"
"I would've gone home earlier if I wanted to." You inform. "If that's what you mean."
It might be, given how something relaxes in his body. He stands a little straighter. When he's not hunching over, like he been on the subway, you realise he's more than a fair bit taller than you.
If he wanted to kiss you, he'd definitely have to lean down, your brain supplies unhelpfully.
You pretend to adjust your sleeve just press your fingers to your wrist. As suspected, your heart doesn't seem to be fairing well in Clark's presence. You're nervous — but after some consideration, you decide it's a good kind of nervous.
You watch him survey the crowds of the slowly busying market. He turns to you.
"How would you like some company?" asks Clark. Then, as if remembering your answer last time he asked, he quickly adds, "No pressure to, if you'd rather just—"
Hell if you're not going to seize this opportunity. You cut him off and hope he won't think you too rude.
"I would love the company."
He blinks - then shows off his dimples with a smile, gaze softened and entirely on you. "Alright then."
Together, you walk and you talk.
Clark tells you about Smallville, the small town in Kansas that he hails from.
The farmboy image makes a lot of sense honestly. It explains his broad shoulders and big arms, not the usual physique of an investigative reporter. You try not to sweat at the mental image of him throwing around hay-bales - and quietly fail miserably.
And then the image sweetens nearly unbearably when you hear him talk about his Ma and his Pa, adoration clear in his voice.
You talk about home too, but more about college days with Lois, when you started living independently. He asks about your job. You somehow end up convincing him Leo's Bakery is the best sourdough in the city — though he's rather easily swayed.
When you pass a stall selling fake crystals, which you point out, Clark makes the mistake of asking how you can tell.
It starts you off on a tangent. You get halfway through an explanation, informing him of the formation of cleavage planes in minerals, when you realise you might be doing the thing.
The talk-so-much-you-miss-the-cue-that-tells-you-to-be-quiet thing.
"and when it's glass, it doesn't have those—" You suddenly want to jam your hand in your mouth, it'd be easier to stop talking. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry, I'm talking a lot, aren't I?"
You shove your hands in your pockets so you don't pick at your fingertips, a bad habit.
Clark smiles, pulling the wagon that he somehow coaxed you to put your stuff in too. He shows no strain of pulling it.
"You are," He agrees, but he says warmly. Like it might be a good thing. "It's wonderful. Please keep going."
You bite your cheek in surprise — but he means it, so you do.
He lets you talk for as long as you like, and when you eventually lapse into quiet, it's surprisingly comfortable.
You've done an okay job at multi-tasking, talking and shopping, with a few more pieces of produce joining the cooled sourdough loaf. But really, you and Clark seem to be walking just to keep each other company.
You're broken out of your thoughts when Clark clears his throat.
He glances down at you, "Do you think there's some reason we keep running into each other?"
"A reason?"
You search your brain for what he might possibly mean. It is rather unlikely that you've run into each other this much, purely by accident. Even you can admit, it is odd.
But plenty of things are odd to you, that seem perfectly natural to other people.
You suppose you've just been putting this in the same box.
"Like," There must be something in his throat, because Clark clears it again. "Fate. Or something like that."
You might say he sounds almost wistful. Maybe if you were someone else, you might be able to tell what that means.
You ask a different question instead. "Do you believe in fate?"
That makes Clark looks at you. For a long moment, he doesn't say anything, his blue eyes simply roam your face with a tenderness you're unprepared for. "You know, I think I'm beginning to."
You wish you could figure out why that makes you face burn.
Something pings on your phone, making it vibrate in your pocket. With a polite smile, you pull it out and instead of the notification, your attention goes to the time.
Your brows raise in surprise. It's a good thing you haven't any plans, as you found time has, yet again, run away from you.
You're beginning to suspect it must be a Clark thing.
"Sorry, I've just realised—" You hold up your phone halfheartedly. "The time. Um, I didn't mean to take up so much of yours, that is. I should probably get going."
Clark nods in understanding. A muscle twitches in his jaw, tensed, as he watches you extract your things from his wagon.
You straighten up, things gathered loosely in your hands, and expect it to be the same awkward exchange of waves goodbye.
It isn't. Clark's talking before you take the first step, the words coming out a little breathless,
"Before you go— and- this might be too forward- in which case, you know, that's fine. But, I didn't want to, uh, lose the chance. Seize the day, you know?"
Okay, he's lost you. It must read on your face, because Clark sighs. It doesn't feel directed at you.
He scratches the back of his neck awkwardly, his cheeks suddenly pinker than peaches this time. They better resemble the red of his wagon.
Clark looks to the sky, mumbling something under his breath you can't hear, then turns to you, set. "I would love to see you again. If- If you'd like. On purpose this time."
You blink.
Well, you weren't expecting that. He wants to see you? On purpose?
You can't help but note how wonderful it is to have someone be so forward with you.
What follows is a tinge of disappointment—he's not asking you out, not like Darren did. He didn't say date.
You're not so presumptuous to think he would think that way about you - the way you've been thinking of him.
Your disappointment is followed by a scornful scoff at yourself — now that you think about it, it's highly unlikely that someone as kind as Clark is without a girlfriend. You're just a fool for not considering it earlier.
"You want to hang out?" You ask, to be sure.
Something crosses Clark's face. After a beat, he swallows, shrugs and says, "Sure. If that's what you want."
It is what you want—to see him again.
Albeit, maybe not quite how you'd like, but beggars can't be choosers.
"I would like that."
Clark smiles — which turns to a grin when he takes your number, scrawled on a tiny scrap of paper torn from your notebook.
You half hope he knows what it means that you've ruined a fresh page for him - and half hope he doesn't.
When you bid each other goodbye, you watch the handsome not-such-a-stranger anymore disappear in the throngs of people, his red wagon towed behind him.
And into the evening after, tempting and wishful, the concept of fate follows you into sleep.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
It takes, what Clark thinks is, an embarrassing amount of time to figure where he's gone wrong.
Here's the thing; Clark's a big boy.
He was raised right. He can take a rejection on the chin — can be polite, respectful. He can still keep people as friends, even when his feelings extend a little further.
Given your polite readjustment of Clark's date invitation into just friends territory, the implication very much is that you are not interested in Clark. Not in the way he's interested in you, at least.
And he can respect that, truly. He is a gentleman after all.
Except, the thing is, you don't exactly act that way.
As the two of you settle into a routine of new friends, learning your place in each others lives, on purpose this time, Clark just… notices.
It's the little things — and it takes time to know what you do with him, and what you do with everyone else.
He notices how you're mostly quiet, but also prone to a sudden inspired chatter that increases with volume and excitement in equal measure. Your hands flex, like there's too much energy in you with nowhere to go but out through your fingertips.
You do that around him, but not around everyone.
He notices your lingering gaze. Feels it on his back when he's turned; on his hands; feels it tracing up the side of his face when you think he isn't looking.
You don't do that with anyone else either.
He notices… a lot about you, to be honest.
Probably more than someone who's trying to veer away from romantic notions and stay firmly in the friend zone you've enacted for the pair of you should.
But — your heart is the biggest giveaway.
This thing, he doesn't mean to notice. It's come to feel like spying, if the person isn't aware he's doing it, tuning in his super senses to something a quiet as a heartbeat.
It's not like prying or eavesdropping really, but Ma and Pa raised him to treat it as such.
Your heart though—it reaches out with a siren's call he's helpless to ignore.
Around just the two of you, it wavers from steady to rising. Not fast enough to be panic, but too fast to be calm. Somewhere that sits in between.
Which means, you're nervous around him. The way you check your pulse, in subtle motions but Clark's the observant kind, means that you know it too.
He can only hope it's not the bad sort of nerves. Though, he figures you'd stop inviting him over if it was. You're on the side of too honest sometimes, which grates some—but only endears him evermore.
The combination of all these little things swirl together, forming a sign, that, well, usually Clark would take as mutual interest. You seem interested.
But you had turned him down.
Clark loses sleep, wondering if it's wrong that he still thinks of his friend in this way.
This—this pining way, that seems to be second nature to him now. Imbued in him. Intertwined with him.
Your eyes, your mouth are constant, vivid thoughts, surely meant to drive him mad. Like the place a tooth used to be, one he can't stop running his tongue over.
Sore, aching, yearning for something missing.
Is it wrong? How could it be, when it felt so right. Is it wrong? he asks himself, stealing every sidelong glance at you, greedy for it. Eager for more.
The thought of your kiss—how it would feel to have your lips on his—crosses his mind daily.
There is where the embarrassing part comes in.
Really, in hindsight, all Clark can think is that he should have figured it out sooner. Well, actually, he had figured it out, but connecting the two pieces hadn't even occurred to him.
To put it lightly, you deal with all manner of things very literally.
Double meanings, sarcastic comments, pointed looks; some of them you catch, most of them you don't. When they come up in conversations, you get this little pinch in your eyebrows.
If it's not Clark who's said them, you'll glance wordlessly up at him, like checking if he's understood it either.
He knows you have no idea how much it captivates him.
All this is to say, he should've been able to put two and two together much sooner.
He wishes he had—if only so it all could've been a little more romantic.
But as it goes, the afternoon it unfolds, he's in his kitchen, donned in a striped and too small apron, with a bit of flour in his hair. You look lovely, as always.
Together, you're baking together. Really, Clark's doing most of the work.
He doesn't actually mind, given it's Ma's carrot cake recipe that he's recreating. And also because he likes it when you let him do things for you. It's taken time to figure what you will and won't let him help with.
You're perched on one of the bar stools, elbows to the counter, watching him work. Doing important things, such as beguiling him with a single look. He's softened by your mere closeness.
It's also not helping that you have to look through your eyelashes whenever you make eye contact with him.
(Clark's already crushed one egg by accident already, as a result.)
At current, he's folding the batter, the mixing bowl cradled in his arms. Your attention is waning, given how when he glances up, he sees you fiddling with the cinnamon shaker. You're peeling the label slightly, just for something to fidget with.
He gestures to it with a nod and a smile. "Toss me the cinnamon, will you?"
And you do, literally.
Expectation tells him you'll slide it across the counter. Instead, he has to rapidly drop the spatula with a splat! into the bowl, to catch the incoming cinnamon. It jolts him, the surprise of it.
He stares at it, clutched in his fingers — which he definitely only caught with his enhanced reflexes — and then up at you, wide-eyed.
You blink at him, not understanding his sudden surprise. "You said to toss it!"
Two and two fuse together. Your very literalness and Clark's lack of specific wording.
Had he called it a date, that time at the markets, how ever many weeks ago now? He was so sure he had - or if he hadn't, it was so obviously implied you couldn't possibly misunderstand.
But then again, he didn't know you then. Not like he knows you now.
To you, Clark goes from his normal ease around you, to wide-eyed and straight backed. It looks a little like he's been zapped with something - a lightning rod of realisation.
Then he slowly squints at you for a long moment, mixing bowl still cradled to his bicep. Moving with immense care, he places it slowly down on the counter before him.
His hands follow, palms wrapping around the edge of the counter. He stares hard at the surface for another long, long moment.
His blue eyes flick up to you, through his glasses, searching for something.
"Do you want to go on a date?" He asks, voice low. "With me?"
Which—okay. Something misfires in your brain. It's come out of nowhere—how did cinnamon and carrot cake lead to this?
A date. With you. And him. Together. Romantically.
Hidden behind your ribs, you feel your treacherous heart begin to race. You feel that stupid burn in your face you always get around Clark flare up.
Why is he asking now? What changed?
You wonder if he's just figured you out. If he can suddenly see some manifestation of your quiet, pathetic longing.
Have you been that obvious? You wonder if it's pity.
Then you swallow the thought away.
Clark wouldn't.
You realise you haven't answered. Despite how you desperately want to, you're not brave enough to meet his gaze. If you do, you'll never get to the words out.
"Yes. I would like that."
Clark sucks in a sharp breath. Your eyes dart up, looking at him through your lashes with a quiet disbelief and he's smiling. Grinning, like what you've just said is the best news of his life.
You should pinch your arm. Perhaps you've fallen asleep at the counter, watching him fold the batter.
"Great," Clark says breathily.
He's looking at you in a way that's, not different per say, but simply less… reserved. There's an ardent fondness in his eyes that wasn't there before.
Or maybe it was. Maybe you're the one who hasn't been paying close enough attention.
"Great." You echo.
Have you two just agreed to something? Your throat clicks with how dry it is. You're still a little unsure how you've ended up here.
A beat passes.
The understanding of what he's asking—as in, had actually just asked you out—wallops into you.
"I didn't realise you—" You say loudly, then bite your tongue. "I- I mean, I thought- or didn't rather, think you, like, would think like that. Not about me."
Clark's lips press together, like he's holding back from an even wilder grin. Like he's finally solved a puzzle he's been tinkering at for months now—and the final product is much, much better than expected.
He picks up his hands, dusts off the flour, and begins to work open the knot on the back of the apron.
"What are the chances you'll believe me if I say I'll felt that way from the start?"
"Low." You reply honestly, watching him as he dumps the apron on the counter beside the mixing bowl. You wonder what he means by the start.
"At the bar?"
Clark does laugh this time, like you've said something delightfully funny.
He walks backward to the door, eyes still on you, til he reaches the coat stand. You watch, puzzled, as he pilfers through the pocket of his coat and produces his wallet.
"Let me prove it," He says, gesturing with his wallet.
He crosses the space, this time rounding the counter to stand beside you. Still sitting, you have to crane your neck to look up at him - but his head is bowed, focused on something in his wallet.
You haven't a clue what he's looking for until —
—there, between his fingers, is a piece of fabric you recognise.
It's… the tag from your shirt.
The one he'd helped snip off for you on the subway, all those months ago.
He'd kept it. In his wallet, carrying it around with him. Knew exactly where to find it, as if he'd retrieved it countless times before.
For an awfully small thing, it represents what feels like an enormous amount of time.
From the start, he said. From the start I've felt this way, it means.
You stare at the tag, bewildered - flummoxed and yet, indescribably like something's melting in your chest, molten hot.
Your hand raises, unbidden, knuckles pressing against your sternum, as though it might help you contain the feeling. It's helpless.
There's no stopping the unbridled, unrestrained happiness which is so real, it feels sharp. Your eyes blur with tears. A choked sounding breath claws its way out of your throat.
You look up at Clark. There aren't words you can find.
To make matters worse, Clark looks afflicted at your reaction — your leg jittering, your hand pressed tight to your chest, your mouth yet to say a word. He has to check, "Are these— these are good tears?"
Your chin trembles, but you're nodding severely. You drag in another ragged breath and consequently make Clark feel like a monster for doing this to you.
"You-" The word quivers a bit around your tears. "Sorry. I'm sorry, I don't mean to cry, it's— it's not bad. It's good. It's really good."
You tuck your face away, breaths still coming too fast. Clark gives you the moment you need, wishing you were at equal heights so it wasn't so easy for you to hide from him. But a few deep, slow breaths later, you unfurl from your hiding place.
Fingers wipe your face, clearing the tears, and then you look at his hands. Your face is dewy from tears, eyelashes clinging together. It's poetry to Clark.
"You kept it," You whisper, eyes fixed on the fabric in his fingers. Your gaze lifts, peering up at him with a tenderness that threatens to unravel Clark entirely.
"I did." He says, matching your quiet tone, immeasurably kind. He's always kind with you.
Your bottom lip takes a tremble and you bite it away, teeth sinking into the flesh.
"I looked for you on the subway. After that day."
You say it like you've been keeping a secret — this hidden want, tucked in your heart and carried around with you.
Clark reckons the two of you aren't that different in this way; it's what he's been doing with this tag, after all. Taking this want around with him, until it chased him into another chance encounter with you.
He rubs his thumb over the swatch. It feels like luck to him.
"That's what you meant about fate," You murmur, realisation staining your tone. You sniffle a little.
Your eyes are back on the tag, but this time, you reach out to feel it too. Clark lets you. In the middle, your fingertips catch.
Funny how an object you so detested comes back to you, loved in another form.
You ask, "Is that why you kept it? Fate?"
There's an eyelash on your cheekbone, freed by your tears. Clark thinks has all the wishes he needs, right here in front of him.
Fingertips to yours, he draws your hand closer to him, into his chest. Lets the line of your body lead the way, bringing your faces closer as he bends to reach you.
The air smells of cinnamon and the sweetness of finally, finally getting what you want.
"It was a working theory," He murmurs — and feels the tremble in your mouth when he kisses you.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
HUGE thank you to @strangerstilinski for helping me at every roadblock this thru one <3 and to @citrinesparkles for boatloads of validation to help me push thru :D
otherwise moots / people who asked to be tagged for the first part, i figured you may want to read this one too! as always, no pressure :)
You grew up without love, and learned to believe it was never meant for you. You made yourself smaller, easier, someone who could be needed but never chosen.
Clark Kent becomes something steady in your life. Familiar. Safe in a way you have never known. It is easy to exist beside him, easy not to question it.
Until something begins to shift. Quiet, unfamiliar, and impossible to ignore.
A/N:
hey everyone!!!
i’m SO excited to finally start this series 🥹 i’ve been wanting to share it for a while now, and it honestly means so much to me.
this is probably the most emotional thing i’ve ever written, not because it’s the saddest, but because it’s the one I relate to the most. it feels really personal in a way I didn’t fully expect, and I think a lot of that ended up on the page.
I’ m a little nervous sharing it, but mostly just really happy I finally get to 🫶
I hope you love it as much as i do!!!
English is not my first language, so I apologize if I made any (grammar) mistakes. Feedback, requests, talks, vents, recommendations or just simple questions are always welcome.
Happy reading xxx
I do NOT give permission for my work to be translated or reposted on here or any other site.
Summary: After your birthday nothing changes, except everything does. The quiet, easy closeness between you and Clark begins to slip into something more distant, more careful, until the absence of what used to be becomes impossible to ignore.
hey!! part 2 is here <3
i’m so excited (and a little nervous) to share this one with you guys!! this chapter is definitely more focused on the tension between them, things start to shift and… yeah, they’re both kind of struggling 😭 ( but it gets better I promise!!!)
thank you so much for all the love on part 1, it genuinely meant everything to me. I hope you guys enjoy this part just as much (even if it hurts a little).
let me know what you think!!♥️
English is not my first language, so I apologize if I made any (grammar) mistakes. Feedback, requests, talks, vents, recommendations or just simple questions are always welcome.
Happy reading xxx
I do NOT give permission for my work to be translated or reposted on here or any other site.
A few days passed since your birthday. Not in any dramatic, noticeable way. Nothing shifted on the surface. No conversations that changed everything, no moments you could point to and say, there, that’s when it became something else. The newsroom stayed loud, deadlines stayed constant, coffee still went cold on your desk before you remembered to drink it. Everything moved forward exactly as it always did. Nothing changed. Which, somehow, made everything feel different.
You sat at your desk, typing, red pen tucked behind your ear once again, your coffee half finished and already cold beside you. Normal. Everything was normal. Except it wasn’t. Because now you noticed things. Or maybe… you had always noticed them. You had just been better at ignoring them before, better at filing them away into something harmless, something that didn’t require you to think too hard about what they meant. But now it was harder. Now every small shift felt louder. More defined. Harder to smooth over.
Clark was at his desk beside you, typing something that actually was being typed this time, his fingers moving steadily over the keyboard in a way that should have reassured you. His posture was relaxed, his expression focused, everything about him exactly as it always had been. It should have made things feel easy again. It didn’t. Because every now and then, he paused. Just slightly. Not enough for anyone else to notice, but enough for you. Like his thoughts had somewhere else to go before coming back. Like he was holding something just beneath the surface, something he wasn’t quite letting himself say. Like that morning in your kitchen hadn’t settled into something simple the way you had both pretended it would.
You pressed your lips together, your eyes flicking toward him for half a second before dropping back to your screen, like looking too long might make something real. You hadn’t talked about it. Not the hand holding. Not what he said. Not the way your chest had felt too tight for too long after he left, like something had shifted inside you and hadn’t quite found a place to settle yet. Not the way you had stood in your kitchen for a full five minutes after the door closed, staring at nothing, your mind turning the moment over and over again like if you examined it closely enough, it would become something smaller. Something manageable. Something safe.
You told yourself it wasn’t. You were good at that. Good at taking things that felt bigger than they should and reshaping them until they fit into something you understood. Until they stopped asking questions you didn’t want to answer.
“Are you going to keep pretending nothing happened, or is that just the vibe this week?”
You blinked. The words didn’t register immediately. They had to travel through the noise of your thoughts first, through the steady hum of denial you had been maintaining since your birthday, through the careful balance you had built to keep everything where it belonged. When they did land, you looked up.
Lois was leaning against your desk, arms crossed, one shoulder resting casually against the edge like she had been there for a while. Which meant she probably had. Her expression was familiar. Too familiar. Not amused. Not entirely serious. Observant. The kind of look that meant she had already drawn conclusions and was now waiting to see if you would catch up.
“Nothing happened,” you said automatically. Too quickly. Too clean. Like the answer had been prepared before the question even arrived.
Lois raised an eyebrow. “Really.”
You nodded once, already turning slightly back toward your screen like that would end the conversation, like if you redirected your attention, the moment would dissolve. “Yes.”
She didn’t move. Didn’t let it go. Of course she didn’t.
“Because from where I’m standing,” she said slowly, her voice measured in a way that made it harder to dismiss, “there’s a very clear shift in… whatever this is.” She gestured vaguely between you and Clark without even looking in his direction. She didn’t need to. “And you’re both acting like if you acknowledge it, the building will collapse.”
You exhaled slowly, setting your pen down with more care than necessary, like the control of the movement could compensate for the lack of control you felt everywhere else. “Lois—”
“No, seriously,” she cut in, but her voice had softened now, less teasing, more certain. “He hasn’t stopped looking at you since you walked in this morning.”
Your stomach dropped. Not dramatically. Not enough for anyone else to see. Just enough. A small, quiet shift that settled low in your chest and stayed there. You didn’t turn. You kept your eyes on your screen, even though the words had long since stopped making sense, even though you hadn’t actually been reading for the past several minutes.
“I’m sure that’s not true.”
“It is.”
There was no hesitation in her voice. No doubt. Just certainty.
You shook your head slightly, almost more to yourself than to her, like if you said it carefully enough, it would become true. “He looks at everyone,” you said, quieter now, more measured, building something logical to stand on. “He is a very observant person.”
Clark noticed things. That was true. He paid attention. He listened. He remembered. That was just who he was. That was safe. That was something you understood. Something you could hold without it slipping into something else.
Lois didn’t respond right away. And that silence stretched just long enough to feel intentional, like she was giving you space to hear what you were saying and realize what it didn’t quite cover.
When she did speak, her voice had changed. Softer. Not pushing. But not backing down either.
“No,” she said. “He isn’t.”
The words settled somewhere uncomfortable. Because they didn’t argue with your logic. They didn’t try to dismantle it piece by piece. They just… bypassed it. Slipped past it entirely and landed somewhere deeper.
You swallowed, your grip tightening slightly around the edge of your desk, your fingers pressing into the surface like you needed something solid to hold onto. You pushed your chair back a few inches, the movement subtle but necessary. Like you needed space. Air. Something to break the feeling that had started to press too close.
“I have work to do.”
Lois nodded once. “Of course you do.”
There was something in her tone that made it clear she didn’t believe that was the reason you were ending the conversation. But she didn’t call you out on it. Not directly. Not this time.
You stood quickly, grabbing your notebook like it gave you purpose, like it justified the sudden movement, like it made it make sense. It didn’t. But it was enough.
“I’m going to—uh—archives,” you said, already stepping away before she could respond.
The hesitation in your voice didn’t go unnoticed. It never did with her. But she let you go. For now.
You didn’t look back. You didn’t give yourself the chance to. You walked past desks, past conversations, past the steady rhythm of the newsroom that suddenly felt too loud, too close. Past Clark—
You didn’t look at him.
You could feel him anyway.
That awareness you hadn’t been able to shake for days now, that quiet pull of attention that didn’t need eye contact to exist, that stayed constant whether you acknowledged it or not. Like something had shifted between you, something small but irreversible, and now it was everywhere.
You kept walking.
Out into the hallway.
Away.
Like distance might make it easier to breathe.
Like distance might make it easier not to feel it.
You didn’t make it to archives. You made it as far as the hallway just outside the bullpen, where the noise dropped off into something softer, muffled by glass and distance. It was quieter here. Not silent. Just… removed. Like the world had stepped back half a pace and left you alone with everything you had been trying not to think about. The kind of quiet that gave your thoughts too much room, too much space to stretch out and become something harder to ignore.
You exhaled slowly, leaning back against the wall, the cool surface grounding in a way you hadn’t realized you needed. The tension in your shoulders didn’t ease, but it shifted slightly, settling into something duller, heavier. This was ridiculous. Nothing had changed. Nothing should have changed. Clark had always been—
You stopped.
Because that wasn’t true.
The thought didn’t even finish before something in you pushed back against it, sharp and immediate. Clark hadn’t always been like this. Or maybe he had. Maybe you just hadn’t seen it. Or hadn’t let yourself see it. Something had changed. You just didn’t know when.
Or maybe you did.
Maybe it wasn’t one moment. Not one thing you could isolate and hold up and say, this is where it started. Maybe it was all of them. Stacked quietly on top of each other, small enough on their own to dismiss, to ignore, to file away as nothing—until suddenly they weren’t small anymore. The way he remembered things you barely thought were worth mentioning. The way he showed up, not occasionally, not when it was convenient, but always. The way he looked at you when you weren’t paying attention. Or when he thought you weren’t. The way his attention lingered just a second too long. The way his voice softened when he said your name, like it meant something more than just calling for your attention. The way he held your hand like it was something he didn’t want to let go of.
Your chest tightened.
You pressed your fingers against your temple, like you could physically stop the thoughts before they spiraled into something you didn’t know how to control, something that would force you to look at it directly. You needed to shut it down. You needed to put it back where it belonged. Safe. Small. Manageable. Something you could understand without it asking too much from you.
“Hey.”
You startled slightly, your hand dropping as you looked up.
Clark stood a few feet away. Close enough that he had followed you immediately. Far enough that he hadn’t crossed into your space without permission. He looked… unsure. Not in the usual, soft awkward way you were used to, the one that felt easy, familiar. Something more careful. Measured. Like he didn’t know if he should have come after you. Like he was trying to read you and wasn’t sure what he was allowed to see.
Of course he had followed you.
Of course he would.
“Hi,” you said, straightening a little too quickly, your shoulders pulling back like you needed to look more put together than you felt, like if you held yourself right, everything else might fall into place behind it.
There was a pause. Not long. Just enough to settle into the space between you. Just enough to feel. The quiet here made everything sharper. Every shift. Every breath. Every second that stretched just a little too far.
Clark shifted his weight slightly, his hands moving like he didn’t quite know where to put them before settling awkwardly at his sides, like he was holding himself back from something. “I, uh…” he started, then stopped, his gaze flickering briefly away before coming back to you, like he was choosing his words more carefully than usual. “You left kind of fast.”
You nodded, already reaching for something that sounded reasonable, something that would smooth it over before it could become anything else. “I needed something from archives.”
Clark glanced briefly toward the direction you had come from. Then back at you. The movement small. Subtle. But not unnoticeable. “Oh.” He nodded. “Right.”
Neither of you moved. Neither of you called it out. The obvious. The fact that you hadn’t actually gone to archives. The fact that he knew that. The fact that you both knew that he knew. It sat there between you, quiet but heavy, like something neither of you were ready to pick up.
Clark’s eyes dropped briefly to your hands. “You didn’t bring a pen.”
You blinked, the comment taking a second to land, your mind lagging behind the shift in conversation. Then you looked down. Your notebook. Your empty hand. Right.
“…I forgot it.”
The excuse sounded thin, even to you. Too quick. Too easy. Like it didn’t quite hold its own weight.
Clark nodded anyway, like it made sense, like he wasn’t going to question it. He never did. He never pushed you into corners you didn’t want to be in. He just… adjusted around you, gave you space to exist however you needed to, even when it didn’t quite add up.
Another pause.
This one heavier.
Thicker.
You could feel it now, that thing sitting between you. Unspoken. Unresolved. Waiting. Like it had been building quietly for days and neither of you had acknowledged it, but it was there now, impossible to ignore.
You crossed your arms lightly, more out of instinct than intention, like you needed something to hold onto, something to anchor yourself in your own body. “You didn’t have to follow me.”
The words came out softer than you meant them to. Not accusatory. Not sharp. Just… defensive. Like you were trying to push something back into place before it moved too far forward.
Clark’s expression shifted immediately. “I wasn’t— I mean, I just—” he stopped, the words tangling together before they could fully form, like he was trying to say something right and kept missing it by a fraction. He exhaled quietly, shoulders lowering just slightly as he forced himself to slow down, to pull back from whatever instinct had pushed him after you in the first place. “I wanted to make sure you were okay.”
That did something to you. Small. Sharp. It slipped past everything you had carefully put in place, bypassed the logic, the control, the practiced distance, and landed somewhere unguarded. Somewhere that still reacted to being noticed like that. You felt it immediately—the way your chest tightened, the way something in you flinched not from fear, but from recognition. And just as quickly, you shut it down. “I’m fine.” The answer came automatically, smooth and immediate, the same one you had been giving your entire life. Practiced. Polished. Just convincing enough to pass without question.
Clark studied you. Not like he didn’t believe you. Not like he was trying to catch you in something. Just… looking. Patient. Careful. Like he was trying to understand the shape of something you weren’t saying. Like he was listening to everything you weren’t letting yourself admit out loud. “I know,” he said quietly. “You’re always fine.”
You frowned, something defensive rising up immediately, quick and instinctive, like a reflex you didn’t have to think about. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Clark hesitated, and you saw it happen—the exact moment he stood at the edge of something, deciding whether to step forward or stay where it was safe. Whether to say something that might matter, or let it pass like he always did. Then, carefully, like he was choosing each word with intention, “It means you don’t really let yourself not be.”
The words landed too close. Too accurate. They hit somewhere deeper than you were prepared for, somewhere you hadn’t meant to expose. You looked away immediately, your gaze dropping to the floor, to the wall, to anything that wasn’t him, because you didn’t want to unpack that here. Not in a hallway. Not like this. Not with him looking at you like he could see something you had spent years learning how to hide. “Clark—”
“I’m not trying to—” he shook his head, voice softening almost instinctively, like he could feel the shift in you and was trying to adjust around it, not push. “I just…” He trailed off, and when you looked back at him, something shifted. He looked nervous—but not the kind you were used to. Not the quiet, gentle awkwardness that came naturally to him. This was different. Quieter. Heavier. Like he was standing at the edge of something he had been holding onto for a long time, something he didn’t know if he was allowed to step into but couldn’t ignore anymore.
“You don’t have to pretend with me,” he said finally.
Your chest tightened. “I’m not pretending.”
“You are a little.”
“I’m not.”
Clark didn’t argue. Didn’t push. Didn’t list reasons or try to prove anything. He just looked at you. And somehow that was worse. Because it didn’t feel like he was trying to win—it felt like he was waiting. Like he was giving you space. To say something. To admit something. To let him in.
You exhaled slowly, your shoulders dropping just slightly under the weight of it, under the feeling of being seen in a way you hadn’t agreed to. “Why does it feel like you’re trying to have a conversation we didn’t agree to have?”
Clark let out a small breath, something almost nervous slipping through, like he hadn’t meant to get this far but couldn’t step back now. “Because we didn’t finish the last one.”
Your heart skipped, sharp and uneven. You shook your head immediately, too fast, like the reaction came before the thought. “There was no conversation.”
“There was,” he said gently. “We just… didn’t say most of it out loud.”
You swallowed, because he was right—and that made it harder. You couldn’t dismiss something that hadn’t been spoken if you both knew it had still happened. It had been there. In the silence. In the way he looked at you. In the way you didn’t know what to do with it. You shook your head again, more firmly this time, like you could force it back into something smaller. “It didn’t mean anything.”
The words came out sharper than you intended. Too quick. Too final.
And the second they left your mouth, you saw it. The shift. Small—but there. Something in Clark’s expression changed. Not dramatically. He didn’t react in a way anyone else would notice. But something… closed. Just slightly. Like something he had been holding open, carefully, had just been let go.
“Okay,” he said quietly.
That was it. No argument. No pushback. No you don’t mean that or that’s not true. He just… accepted it. And somehow, that felt worse than if he had fought you on it. Because if he had argued, you could have held your ground. Defended it. Stayed in control. But this—this felt like something slipping through your hands without resistance. Like something you hadn’t realized you were holding onto until it was already gone.
You shifted, suddenly uncomfortable in your own skin, the space between you feeling too open, too quiet. “I mean, it was just—” you tried again, softer now, like you could fix it, reshape it into something harmless, something that didn’t matter. “You were being nice. You’re always nice.”
Clark nodded slowly. “Yeah, no you're right. I didn't mean anything.”
Just that. No emphasis. No warmth. No contradiction. Just agreement. And somehow, that made it worse.
Silence settled again, heavier this time, like something had been pushed back into place but didn’t quite fit the way it used to. He looked at you. You looked down. And neither of you seemed to know how to move forward from something that had already been reduced into something safer—but less true.
Finally, Clark took a small step back, like he was giving you space again, like he was stepping out of something he had almost allowed himself to stay in. “I should… get back to work.”
“Yeah,” you said quickly. “Me too.”
He hesitated, just for a second, like there was something else sitting at the edge of his thoughts, something he almost said. Then didn’t. “Okay.” He turned and walked back toward the newsroom.
You watched him go. You didn’t mean to. You told yourself you wouldn’t. But your eyes followed him anyway—the way his shoulders had straightened, like he had pulled something back into place. The way his steps were just a little more measured than usual. The way he didn’t look back.
Your chest felt… wrong. Too tight. Too heavy. Like something had shifted just out of place. Like something had almost been within reach and you had—
You pressed your lips together, forcing the thought down before it could finish. You had done the right thing. You had kept it simple. Safe. That was what mattered. That was what you knew how to handle.
So why did it feel like you had just lost something you didn’t even know you had?
Back at his desk, Clark sat down slowly. Not like he usually did. Normally, there was a kind of quiet certainty to him, even in the smallest movements, like he always knew where he was placing himself in the world, like nothing about his presence was ever accidental. Now, there was hesitation. A pause. A fraction of a second where he stood beside his chair, his hand resting lightly on the back of it, fingers tightening just slightly against the fabric like he needed to steady himself first, like he needed to make sure his body would follow through on something as simple as sitting down. Then he lowered himself into it carefully, controlled, like if he moved too quickly something might come undone. His hands hovered over the keyboard, fingers suspended above the keys without pressing them, like he had forgotten what he was supposed to do next. The screen in front of him still displayed the same document from earlier, untouched, unchanged, the blinking cursor waiting patiently at the end of a sentence that no longer mattered. It pulsed steadily, indifferent, while Clark stared at it without really seeing it.
Because if he looked anywhere else, if he let his attention drift even slightly, it would go right back to you. To the hallway. To the exact moment your voice had gone sharp and final—it didn’t mean anything.
He could still hear it, not loud, not dramatic, just clear. Too clear. He could still see the way your expression had shifted right after, like something in you had closed the second you said it, like you had pulled something back before it could exist outside of you. And the worst part—the part he couldn’t stop replaying—was the way something in him had followed. Quietly. Instinctively. Like he had recognized the line the moment you drew it and stepped back without question.
Jimmy noticed immediately. Of course he did. Jimmy had a way of picking up on things like this—not in the same quiet, intuitive way you did, not in the way Clark did, but in a sharper, more obvious way. Something’s wrong. Something’s off. Something just happened and no one said it out loud. He leaned back slightly in his chair, turning just enough to look at Clark without making it obvious he was watching him, like he was trying to give him space to snap out of it on his own.
“…that didn’t look good.” Clark didn’t respond. Not right away. The words reached him—he heard them—but they didn’t land anywhere useful. They didn’t shift anything. They just passed through, like everything else had since you walked away. Jimmy waited a second. Then two. Clark didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Didn’t react. The cursor kept blinking. The room kept moving. And Clark stayed exactly where he was, stuck somewhere between what had happened and what he had chosen to let happen. Jimmy leaned closer then, lowering his voice like this had officially become a situation. “Did you say something weird?”
Clark exhaled slowly, the breath leaving him heavier than it should have, like it had been sitting in his chest for longer than a few seconds. His fingers pressed lightly against the edge of the desk, like he needed something solid to anchor himself to, something that wouldn’t shift the way everything else suddenly had. “I told her it didn’t mean anything.”
Jimmy blinked. Once. Twice. He leaned back slightly, processing that, his expression shifting from confusion to disbelief, like he was waiting for Clark to follow that up with something that made sense. “…why would you say that?” Clark swallowed. It felt heavier than it should have, because it wasn’t just the words—it was everything behind them. Everything he hadn’t said. Everything he had chosen not to risk. Everything he had buried in the space between what he meant and what he allowed himself to admit.
“Because she said it first.”
The explanation came out quieter than he intended. Flat. Not defensive. Not frustrated. Just… factual. Like something already decided, something that didn’t need justification because it had already been done. Jimmy’s expression shifted immediately—recognition, then understanding, then something that looked a lot like secondhand pain. He leaned back fully this time, one hand dragging down his face. “Oh.” A beat. “Oh, man.” Clark closed his eyes briefly. Just for a second. But it was enough. Enough to show how much that had landed. Because he knew. He had known the second the words left his mouth. The way something in your expression had flickered before disappearing. The way the space between you had changed. Gone from uncertain and fragile to something quieter. More final. And he had let it. He had agreed. He had reinforced it. Because it was easier than pushing. Because pushing might have made you pull away completely. Because he would rather take something small, something safe, something that still let him exist beside you, than risk losing everything all at once.
Jimmy leaned forward again, quieter now, more careful, like he was stepping into something fragile. “Okay, but… you didn’t mean that.” Clark let out a breath that almost sounded like a laugh, but wasn’t. There was no humor in it. Just something tired. “No.” Jimmy frowned, confusion pulling at his expression.
“Then why—”
“Because she didn’t mean it either,” Clark said, cutting him off gently. Jimmy paused. That wasn’t the answer he expected. Clark opened his eyes, finally looking at him, and there was something steady there. Something tired. Something that had already accepted more than it should have had to. “She just… doesn’t know that.” Jimmy stared at him. “…that’s worse.” Clark didn’t argue. Because it was. Because knowing that didn’t make it easier. If anything, it made it harder. Jimmy leaned back again, shaking his head slightly. “Man, you two are—” he stopped, searching for the right word, then gave up. “This is painful to watch.” Clark huffed out a quiet breath, finally glancing back at his screen, even though it still didn’t hold his attention.
“I’m not trying to make it complicated.”
“You are absolutely making it complicated.”
“I’m not.”
“You are,” Jimmy insisted. “You’re doing that thing where you try to protect her from something she doesn’t even know she needs protection from.” Clark’s jaw tightened slightly. “It’s not about that.” “Then what is it about?” Clark didn’t answer right away. Because the answer was simple. Too simple. I don’t want to be something she has to run from. He looked down at his hands instead, like that might make it easier not to say it out loud. “I just don’t want to push her into something she’s not ready for.” Jimmy watched him for a moment, really watched him, like he was trying to figure out where the line was between patience and avoidance. Then, more quietly, “And what if she never gets ready because you keep stepping back?”
That landed. It didn’t hit all at once. It settled. Slow. Heavy. Clark didn’t respond. He didn’t have an answer for that, because some part of him already knew the truth and didn’t know what to do with it.
Across the room, Lois had been watching. Not just the hallway. Not just you. Both of you. The whole thing. From the moment you walked out, to the second Clark followed, to the way you came back separately like nothing had happened, to the way neither of you looked at each other after. She had seen enough. More than enough. She sighed, leaning back against her desk, arms crossing as she watched Clark stare at a screen he clearly wasn’t reading and you sit a few desks away pretending to be absorbed in something you hadn’t actually scrolled through in minutes.
“Yeah,” she muttered under her breath. There wasn’t frustration in it. Just certainty. “This is going to get worse before it gets better.” Jimmy glanced over at her. “You think it gets better?” Lois didn’t take her eyes off you. “It has to,” she said simply. Then, after a beat, quieter, “They just have to stop being afraid of the wrong things first.”
You didn’t talk to Clark again. Not really. At first, it didn’t feel like anything. Just a day. Then another. Then a week that passed without anything breaking, without anything being said out loud, without anything forcing itself into the open. Which should have made it easier. It should have let things settle, fade back into something normal, something manageable. It didn’t. Because nothing actually ended. Nothing resolved. It just… thinned.
There were still words. Of course there were. You worked together, sat beside each other, existed in the same space for hours every day. Silence, real silence, would have been noticeable. So you spoke. Just enough to keep it from being obvious.
“Did you send that draft?”
“Yes.”
“Can you check this stat?”
“Yeah.”
“Meeting got moved.”
“Okay.”
Functional. Efficient. Empty. The kind of conversation that filled space without touching anything real, without risking anything that might crack open. And somehow, that was worse than silence would have been.
There were moments where it almost slipped. Small, normal things that used to exist between you without effort, without thought. “Do you have the notes from the council meeting?” The question would sit right there, ready, familiar. You would glance at him. He would already be looking at his screen. And something in you would stop. A hesitation. A quiet, creeping awareness that if you said it, it wouldn’t land the same way anymore. That it wouldn’t feel the same. That something had shifted just enough to make even that feel like too much. So you didn’t ask.
Or—“Are you grabbing coffee?” You used to say it without thinking. Every morning. Every afternoon. Sometimes twice. It had never been a question, not really. Just a given. Now, you would pick up your mug, push your chair back, turn slightly toward him—then stop. Because you didn’t know if you were still allowed to assume he would come with you. Because you didn’t know if you were still allowed to take up that space in his day, in his routine, in his… attention. And by the time you pushed past it, he had already stood, already moved, already gone. Or you had. And the moment slipped past. Again.
Clark didn’t try either.
And that—
That was what made it worse.
Because Clark always tried. Not in a big, obvious way, not in ways that demanded anything in return. In small ways. Steady ones. The kind that built something quietly over time until you didn’t notice it happening anymore. He would fill the silence before it could settle. He would ask questions just to keep you talking, just to keep you there with him a little longer. He would show up at your desk with donuts you didn’t ask for, like it was nothing, like it didn’t mean anything, like it was just something he happened to do. He would lean over your shoulder and read your drafts, offering quiet suggestions you trusted without question. He made space. For you. Around you. With you.
Now, he didn’t.
And it wasn’t cold.
That would have been easier. Easier to understand. Easier to push against.
He was still kind. Still gentle. Still… Clark.
He just—
Stepped back.
The first time you noticed it properly was on a Tuesday. You had been buried in edits all morning, barely looking up, your head starting to ache from staring at the same paragraph too long, the words blurring together until they stopped meaning anything. Normally, by that point, a coffee would appear on your desk. You never asked. You didn’t have to. Clark just… knew. You leaned back slightly, stretching, your eyes flicking automatically to the space beside your keyboard—already expecting it, already anticipating the small, quiet consistency of it.
Empty.
You frowned, glancing sideways.
Clark was at his desk. Working. A coffee sat beside his hand. Just his.
You looked at it for a second too long. Long enough for something small and uncomfortable to settle in your chest. Then you looked away quickly, like it hadn’t mattered. Like you hadn’t expected anything in the first place.
You told yourself it didn’t matter.
It was just coffee.
You could get your own.
You always could.
You always had.
Lunch stopped happening too. Not all at once. Not intentionally. Just… less. The first day, you were both busy. The second day, a meeting ran long. The third day, you stepped out early. The fourth day, he didn’t ask. And neither did you. After that, it became normal. Eating at your desk. Scrolling through your phone while you chewed, barely tasting anything. The chair beside you staying empty.
The space he used to fill didn’t disappear.
That was the problem.
It stayed.
And you became aware of it in ways you hadn’t before. The quiet moments stretched longer. The days felt… flatter. Less anchored. Like something subtle but essential had shifted just out of place. You found yourself looking up more, without realizing it at first. Checking. For what, you didn’t even know.
Then you did.
Him.
Whether he was there. Whether he was looking at you. Whether he would say something. Whether he would close the distance the way he used to, without you having to ask.
He didn’t.
And every time he didn’t, something small in your chest tightened.
You told yourself it was fine.
It had to be.
This was normal.
This was what normal people did.
You weren’t supposed to rely on someone like that. You weren’t supposed to expect someone to always be there, always be consistent, always show up in the same quiet ways without asking anything in return. That was how you got hurt. That was what you had learned. That was what you had built your life around avoiding.
So this—
This was better.
Safer.
More realistic.
And yet—
It didn’t feel like it.
“You look miserable.”
You blinked, looking up. Lois stood beside your desk again, coffee in hand, watching you with that same sharp, observant gaze. Not intrusive. Not loud. But impossible to ignore.
“I’m not miserable,” you said automatically.
She hummed, taking a slow sip of her coffee. “That wasn’t convincing.”
You sighed, rubbing your temple lightly, the dull ache there having settled in hours ago. “I’m just tired.”
“From what?”
“Work.”
Lois didn’t respond. She just looked at you. And that look—quiet, steady, knowing—made something in your chest twist. I know that’s not it.
You looked away first.
“It’s nothing,” you added, quieter now.
Lois stepped closer, setting her coffee down on the edge of your desk like she wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon. “It’s not nothing.”
You didn’t answer. Because if you started, you weren’t sure what would come out. And you weren’t sure you wanted to find out like this, with her watching you too closely, seeing too much.
She tilted her head slightly. “You haven’t had lunch with him all week.”
Your stomach dropped. You hadn’t realized she had been keeping track.
“That doesn’t mean anything.”
“You haven’t asked him for coffee.”
“I’ve been busy.”
“He hasn’t brought you any.”
You pressed your lips together.
“That doesn’t mean anything.”
Lois watched you for a moment, like she was deciding how hard to push. Then, softer, “You miss him.”
The words landed gently.
But they hit harder than anything else she had said.
You shook your head immediately. “I sit next to him every day.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
You didn’t respond. Because you knew that. Of course you knew that.
Lois crossed her arms lightly. “He didn’t disappear. He’s right there.”
“I know.”
“So what changed?”
You let out a quiet breath, your shoulders sinking just slightly. “I don’t know.”
That was the truth. Or at least, the version of it you were willing to admit.
Lois studied you carefully.
“You pushed him away.”
The words weren’t accusatory. Not sharp. Just… factual.
You flinched slightly. “I didn’t—”
“You did,” she said gently. “And he listened.”
That settled heavily.
Because that was exactly what Clark would do.
If you drew a line, even accidentally—
He wouldn’t cross it.
Even if it cost him something, even if it left him standing on the other side.
You looked down at your hands, your fingers curling slightly against your palm. “They weren’t even… big things,” you said quietly. “It was just—” You trailed off, because how did you explain it? The coffee. The lunches. The way he used to look at you. The way he used to be with you. The way he used to be there without you having to ask.
“They mattered,” Lois said for you.
You nodded, barely. “Yeah.”
Silence settled between you. Then, after a moment, Lois added, quieter now, “You’re allowed to want someone to stay.”
Your chest tightened immediately.
You shook your head. “It’s not that simple.”
“It is.”
“It’s not,” you insisted, your voice sharper now, something defensive rising up before you could stop it. “Because if you want it, then you can lose it.”
Lois didn’t argue. She just looked at you. And in that look, there was something softer. Something that understood more than you expected.
“Yeah,” she said quietly. “That’s kind of how it works.”
You let out a breath that felt like it had been sitting in your chest for days, heavy and unmoving. “I don’t know how to fix it.”
Lois glanced briefly toward Clark. Then back at you.
“Then maybe stop trying to fix it,” she said. “And just… tell him the truth.”
Your heart skipped.
“What truth?”
Lois held your gaze.
“The one you keep pretending isn’t there.”
You didn’t answer.
Because for the first time—
You weren’t sure you could pretend anymore.
From Clark’s side, it didn’t feel like days. It felt like something had been pulled out of his life, something small but constant, and everything else had shifted just slightly to compensate. Not enough for anyone else to notice. Enough for him to feel it constantly. He still showed up. Same time. Same desk. Same routine. He still did his work, still wrote his articles, still nodded along in meetings, still listened when people spoke, still did everything expected of him. On the surface, nothing had changed. But the spaces in between—the quiet, unspoken parts of the day where you used to exist without effort—those were different. Those were where it settled. Where it stayed.
He didn’t reach for you anymore. Not because he didn’t want to—because he did. Constantly. It had become instinct over the years, something so natural he had stopped noticing it as a choice. To lean slightly toward you when something happened. To turn his head when he heard your voice. To say your name without thinking. To fill the silence before it could settle into something uncomfortable. Now, every time that instinct rose, he stopped it. Not abruptly. Not in a way anyone would notice. Just… redirected. Contained. Because he remembered the hallway. The way you said it didn’t mean anything. The way your voice had sharpened around it, like you needed it to be true. The way you had drawn that line, even if you didn’t realize you had. And Clark—Clark respected lines. Even the ones that hurt.
The first morning he didn’t bring you coffee, it felt wrong in a way he hadn’t expected. He stood in line at the café like always, ordered his usual, then paused, because there was a second order that lived in his head without effort. Yours. He could say it without thinking. He had said it so many times it felt like muscle memory.
“—and a—” he started, then stopped. The barista looked at him expectantly. Clark hesitated, the words sitting there, ready, familiar. Then, quietly, “That’s it.” He paid. Walked out. One cup in his hand. The absence of the second one felt heavier than it should have. Back at the office, he set his coffee down and sat. He didn’t look at your desk right away. He told himself he wouldn’t. He lasted maybe thirty seconds. You were there. Of course you were. Focused. Working. Your mug sat beside your keyboard. Empty. Clark’s fingers tightened slightly around his own cup before he forced himself to look away, like he hadn’t expected anything in the first place.
Lunch was worse. Lunch had never been a question, not really. It had just… happened. Somewhere between noon and one, one of you would lean back and say something small, something easy—“I’m starving,” or “If I keep reading this, I’m going to lose my mind”—and the other would respond, and then you’d go. Together. It had never required effort. Now, Clark sat at his desk, glancing at the clock without meaning to.
12:14.
12:32.
12:47.
He didn’t say anything. He didn’t ask. Because asking meant assuming. And he wasn’t sure he was allowed to assume anymore. At 12:53, you stood, grabbed your bag, and left. You didn’t look at him. Clark waited a few seconds, like there was still time for something to happen, like the moment might correct itself if he gave it long enough. Then he turned slightly, watching the space where you had been. He didn’t follow.
It settled in slowly. The change. Not in big, obvious ways. In small absences. The lack of shared glances. The lack of casual touches. The lack of ease. Everything felt more deliberate now. More careful. Like you were both navigating something fragile without acknowledging it existed, like one wrong step would break something neither of you had named. Clark missed you. Not physically—you were right there, every day, a desk away, within reach. He could hear you breathing if he focused. He didn’t. He tried not to. But he missed the way things used to be. The way you used to lean over without hesitation. The way you would say his name like it was part of your sentence without thinking. The way you would look at him like he was—like he was yours, in some quiet, unspoken way. Now, you didn’t. Or if you did, it was quick. Controlled. Like you were catching yourself. And that—that hurt more than distance ever could.
“…you’re doing it again.”
Clark blinked, pulled out of it. Jimmy was watching him, leaning back in his chair with his arms crossed, his expression somewhere between concerned and mildly exasperated, like this had been going on long enough for him to lose patience with it. “Doing what?” Jimmy gestured vaguely toward him. “The staring into space thing. It’s been like… ten seconds.” Clark glanced at his screen. The cursor blinked. Unmoved. Still waiting. “…right.” Jimmy leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on his desk like he was settling in for something that wasn’t going to be quick. “Okay, I’ve waited long enough.” Clark frowned faintly.
“For what?”
“For you to get over whatever this is on your own.” Clark sighed quietly, already knowing where this was going. “I’m fine.” Jimmy gave him a look. A very clear you are absolutely not fine look.
“You are not fine.”
“I am.”
“You stopped bringing her coffee.”
Clark stilled. It was subtle. Small enough that most people wouldn’t notice. Jimmy did. “You never stop bringing her coffee,” Jimmy added, quieter now, more certain. Clark looked down at his hands, his fingers curling slightly against the edge of the desk. “I didn’t think she wanted me to.” Jimmy blinked, caught off guard. “…what?” Clark exhaled slowly, like the explanation cost something to say out loud. “She said it didn’t mean anything.” Jimmy stared at him. “Okay, and you just— what? Believed her?” Clark didn’t respond immediately, because it wasn’t that simple. Jimmy leaned closer, searching his face. “You know she didn’t mean it like that.” Clark shook his head slightly. “No. She meant it.” “How do you—” “Because she needed it to be true,” Clark said quietly.
Jimmy stopped. That wasn’t what he expected. Clark’s voice was calm. Steady. But there was something heavy underneath it, something that had settled there and stayed. “She doesn’t… let things matter,” he continued, gaze still lowered. “Not like that.” Jimmy frowned.
“That doesn’t mean you just… disappear.”
“I didn’t disappear.”
“You did,” Jimmy insisted. “Just… subtly. Which is worse, by the way.” Clark huffed a quiet breath. “I’m still here.”
“Yeah, physically,” Jimmy said, gesturing lightly. “But that’s not what I mean.” Clark didn’t answer. Because he knew. Of course he knew. Jimmy leaned back again, frustration softening into something quieter. “You’re trying to make it easier for her.” Clark’s jaw tightened slightly. “I am making it easier for her.”
“No,” Jimmy said. “You’re making it easier for her to keep pretending.”
Clark looked up at that. Really looked at him. Jimmy held his gaze this time, not backing down. “And you’re making it harder for yourself.” Silence settled between them. Clark looked away first. Because that was the part he didn’t want to say out loud. That this—this distance—felt worse than anything he had been trying to avoid. Jimmy watched him for a moment, the frustration easing into something softer. Then, quieter, “Do you really think she doesn’t notice?” Clark let out a slow breath, his eyes drifting briefly across the room without meaning to. “I think she notices everything.”
“Then why would she be okay with this?” Clark hesitated, because that question didn’t have a clean answer. Not one he could say without unraveling something. “…because it’s safer,” he said finally. “For who?”
Clark didn’t respond. Because the answer was both of you.
Across the room, you laughed softly at something Lois said. Clark’s head turned before he could stop it. He saw you—the way your shoulders relaxed, the way your smile came easier when you weren’t thinking about him, when you weren’t holding something back. And something in his chest tightened. Not jealousy. Not even really sadness. Just—loss. Quiet. Steady. He looked back at his screen. Jimmy followed his gaze, then sighed, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. “Yeah,” he muttered. “You’re both miserable.” Clark didn’t argue. Because he was starting to think—maybe you were.
The thing about distance was that it didn’t stay still.
Summary: You don’t expect to be chosen. Not really. So you keep things safe, easy, uncomplicated. But Clark has never treated you like something temporary, and the closer he gets, the harder it is to pretend it doesn’t mean anything.
Word count: 10k+
Warnings: fluff, emotional neglect (parental), low self-worth, fear of intimacy, slow burn, mutual pining
series masterlist
A/N:
hey!! this is the first chapter and i’m so excited to finally post it 😭 I really hope you guys will love it!!
this chapter is a bit heavier than what’s coming next, so please mind the warnings 🫶 things will definitely get softer (and more clark) as we go hihi
thank you so much for reading♥️
English is not my first language, so I apologize if I made any (grammar) mistakes. Feedback, requests, talks, vents, recommendations or just simple questions are always welcome.
Happy reading xxx
I do NOT give permission for my work to be translated or reposted on here or any other site.
You were not easy to love. At least, that was what your mother had taught you. Not with words. Never with words. Your mother was careful about words. She understood, instinctively, that words could be repeated. Quoted back. Turned into something undeniable. Words left evidence, and your mother never liked leaving anything behind that could be held up to the light. So she chose something quieter. Something that left no proof.
She chose absence. She chose the slow, steady erosion of something that might have been love if it had been given room to grow. She never said I don’t love you. She never had to. She said things like, “You’re fine,” when you cried, her voice flat enough to make your hurt feel embarrassing. She said, “Don’t be dramatic,” when you tried to explain why something had wounded you. She said nothing at all when you stood in the doorway of the kitchen, holding up a drawing you had spent hours on, your small fingers curled too tightly around the paper, waiting. Waiting for her to look. Waiting for her to smile. Waiting for something in her face to soften and tell you, this matters because you do.
She would glance at it, sometimes. Briefly. Just long enough that you felt seen, and then not long enough to feel held there. “That’s nice,” she might say, already turning back to whatever had been more important than you. Nice. It became a word you learned to hate. Because it never meant good. It never meant I’m proud of you. It never meant come here, let me see. It meant this is not important enough for me to stay. And you were a child, so you did what children do when love comes in pieces too small to survive on.
You tried harder.
You drew better pictures. You colored inside the lines. You used brighter colors. You waited until she seemed less tired, less distracted, less far away. You learned the shape of her moods before you learned the shape of your own. You learned that hope could sit in your throat like a stone, and that disappointment could become familiar enough to feel normal.
Your mother was not loud. That would have been easier. You could have pointed to shouting, to anger, to something sharp and obvious and said, there, that is where it hurts. But there was nothing sharp about it. Just distance. A constant, quiet distance that made you question everything. Were you asking for too much? Were you speaking too loudly? Were you standing too close? Were you… too much? You learned early that there was a version of you that made things easier. Quieter. Smaller. More agreeable. That version of you got fewer sighs. Fewer tired looks. Fewer moments where your mother’s attention slipped away like you had asked for something unreasonable just by existing in the same room. So you became her. Not your mother. But the version of yourself that required less.
You stopped asking to be tucked in. Stopped bringing your drawings to show her. Stopped lingering in doorways hoping she might look up and ask you to stay. You stopped telling stories that took too long. Stopped crying where she could see it. Stopped reaching for her hand in public after the first few times she let yours fall away. You told yourself you didn’t need it. That you were fine. You got very good at being fine. So good that eventually people believed you. So good that even you almost did. But there were still nights when the house felt too quiet, when you lay awake under your blankets and wondered what was wrong with you that made love feel like something other people received naturally, easily, without having to earn it first.
Love, in your house, became something unpredictable. Something that showed up just often enough to keep you hoping, and disappeared just quickly enough to remind you not to rely on it. A hand on your shoulder that didn’t stay long enough to feel like comfort. A “good job” that sounded like it had been pulled out of her reluctantly, as if praise was something she had to ration carefully. A rare smile that could feed you for days, even though it never should have had to. You learned to read the smallest shifts. The difference between a neutral tone and a tired one. The difference between a glance and a dismissal. The difference between a silence that meant peace and a silence that meant you had done something wrong.
You became observant in a way that children should not have to be. Because noticing meant preparing. And preparing meant you could avoid that feeling. That drop in your chest. That quiet, sinking realization that you had expected something that was never coming.
So you stopped expecting. Because expecting led to disappointment. And disappointment, when it happens often enough, doesn’t stay loud. It doesn’t stay sharp. It settles. It sinks. It becomes something heavier. Something quieter. Something that no longer needs a moment to trigger it. It just… exists. A steady presence under everything. A voice that doesn’t raise itself, doesn’t demand attention, doesn’t even sound cruel. It just tells the truth as you have come to understand it. You are not the kind of person people choose. Not first. Not fully. Not in the way that matters. That belief didn’t arrive all at once. It built itself slowly, piece by piece, moment by moment, until it felt less like something you had learned and more like something you had always known.
So you adapted. Because children always do.
If you were not easy to love, you could at least be easy in other ways. That became the compromise you made with the world without ever realizing you were making it. Easy to work with. Easy to rely on. Easy to be around. You learned how to soften the edges of yourself until nothing about you could be considered inconvenient. You made yourself useful. Usefulness was safe. Usefulness gave you a place to stand that didn’t require anyone to choose you for who you were, only for what you could do. And being chosen for something—anything—felt close enough to being wanted that you didn’t question it too closely.
You paid attention. Not casually, not the way most people did. You paid attention like it mattered, like missing something would cost you. You remembered things people forgot about themselves. How they took their coffee, down to the smallest detail. What they mentioned in passing weeks ago and assumed no one had cared enough to hold onto. The way their voice shifted when they talked about something they loved, the way their posture changed when they were tired, the subtle differences between when someone was joking and when they were hiding something behind it. You became fluent in people in a way that felt almost instinctual. But it wasn’t instinct. It was practice. Years of it.
You offered help before it was asked for, because being needed meant you had a place. You filled in gaps before anyone noticed they were there. You smoothed things over, softened conflicts, redirected conversations, made yourself the quiet solution to problems no one else wanted to deal with. You learned how to read a room before you stepped into it, adjusting yourself just enough to never take up more space than you were allowed. Never too loud. Never too quiet. Never too much. Just enough to fit, but never enough to be overwhelming. You became someone people could count on. Predictable in the best way. Reliable in a way that made people comfortable.
And people liked you. They really did. You were the person coworkers trusted without hesitation. The friend who showed up, no matter what. The one who listened without interrupting, who remembered things that mattered, who cared in a way that felt genuine and easy. People gravitated toward you. They confided in you. They appreciated you. And that felt… good. It felt safe. Because liking you didn’t ask for anything deeper. Liking you didn’t come with risk. It didn’t come with vulnerability that could be taken away. People didn’t leave over liking. People didn’t slowly withdraw it until you were left replaying every moment, trying to figure out what you had done wrong.
Love did.
Love was where things changed. Love was where expectations lived. Love was where you could lose something you had convinced yourself you didn’t need, only to realize too late that you had been holding it carefully the entire time. Love was unpredictable in a way that felt dangerous. It asked for things you weren’t sure you knew how to give. It required being seen in ways that didn’t feel safe, ways that couldn’t be managed or controlled or carefully adjusted. Love wasn’t something you could earn through usefulness. It wasn’t something you could secure by being easy. And that made it feel like something that could disappear at any moment.
So you kept it at a distance. Not intentionally. Not in a way you could point to and name. It was quieter than that. A hesitation you couldn’t explain when things started to feel too real. A habit of deflection, of turning moments into jokes just before they settled into something meaningful. Of stepping sideways, gently, carefully, just as something began to reach for you in a way that felt different. You didn’t reach for it. You didn’t believe it would reach for you. And even when it did, you had already learned not to recognize it. You had learned how to reinterpret it into something safer, something smaller, something you knew how to hold without risking too much.
Even when it looked at you with soft eyes. Even when it remembered everything. Even when it stood in front of you, steady and certain and impossibly gentle in a way that should have felt undeniable. Even when it was patient. Even when it stayed. Even when it looked like Clark.
You still believed the same quiet truth you had carried for years. Not you. Never you. Not in the way that matters.
The Daily Planet was loud in the way it always was. Alive. Busy. Constant. The kind of noise that filled space so completely it left no room for thoughts you didn’t want to have. Phones ringing, keyboards clicking, conversations overlapping into something indistinct and steady. You sat at your desk with your sleeves pushed up, halfway through editing an article, red pen tapping lightly against the paper as you thought. It was a familiar rhythm. Controlled. Manageable. Something you were good at.
At the desk next to you, Clark was pretending to work.
You knew he was pretending because you knew him. Six years of sitting beside someone did that. You knew the difference between Clark concentrating and Clark thinking about something else entirely. The slight tilt of his head. The way his fingers hovered over the keyboard without moving, like he had forgotten what he meant to type. The faint pause in his breathing when his attention had shifted somewhere else. Right now, he hadn’t typed in a while.
You smiled to yourself, small and automatic. You liked noticing things about him. It felt… safe. Clark was safe. Clark had always been safe.
He was kind in a way that never felt performative. Gentle without expecting anything in return. The kind of person who held doors open not because anyone was watching, but because it never occurred to him not to. The kind of person who stayed after everyone else left, not for recognition, but because something in him couldn’t walk away from people who needed help. He didn’t make kindness into something grand or noticeable. He just… was. Steady. Consistent. Reliable in a way that didn’t feel conditional.
He listened. Really listened. To you.
That had been what surprised you the most at the beginning. Not that he was kind. Plenty of people were kind in passing, in surface-level ways that didn’t require much from them. But Clark paid attention. Not in the way you did, not sharp and careful and searching for something to anticipate. His attention was softer. Unrushed. Like he had already decided that whatever you said mattered, before you even said it.
The first week you started working here, you had been nervous. New city. New job. New everything. You kept your head down, focused, careful not to draw too much attention to yourself. You knew how to exist in new spaces. You knew how to adjust quickly, how to observe first and speak later, how to make yourself fit without disrupting anything.
Clark had been the one to sit beside you in the break room.
“You’re new,” he said.
You nodded, already preparing yourself for the usual exchange. Small talk. Politeness. Something easy to navigate.
He smiled, a little awkward, a little warm, like he wasn’t entirely sure how to start but wanted to try anyway. “I’m Clark.”
You told him your name.
He repeated it like it mattered. Not just to confirm he had heard you, but like he wanted to remember it properly. Like it was something worth holding onto.
Then he asked you what you were working on.
And when you answered, he didn’t interrupt. Didn’t glance at his phone. Didn’t wait for his turn to speak. He didn’t redirect the conversation back to himself or offer quick, surface-level responses that signaled he was only half-listening. He just… listened. Fully. Like there was nowhere else he needed to be.
You had not realized how rare that was until that moment.
You had not realized how much it would stay with you.
Because being heard like that—without having to earn it, without having to make yourself smaller first—felt unfamiliar in a way you didn’t quite know how to process.
And maybe that should have been your first clue that Clark was never going to fit into the careful, safe boxes you had built for yourself.
But you didn’t think about it like that.
You just thought—
He’s safe.
And you left it there.
Clark had been pretending to work for a while now. Long enough that it had stopped even resembling effort, long enough that even he couldn’t justify it as distraction anymore. His computer screen displayed a half-written article about a city council meeting, the same opening paragraph blinking back at him like it had somewhere else to be, like it was waiting for someone more focused, more present. The cursor pulsed steadily at the end of the sentence. Patient. Accusing. City council convened Tuesday morning to discuss proposed zoning adjustments— Blink. Clark stared at it, eyes unfocused, like if he waited long enough the words might rearrange themselves into something better. Blink. He had rewritten that sentence three times already. Blink. He had not touched the keyboard in six minutes. Because you were laughing.
Across the room, leaning over Jimmy’s desk like you always did when you got caught up in a story, one hand braced against the edge, the other moving in quick, expressive motions that made everything you said feel bigger, brighter, more alive than it had any right to be. You took up space without meaning to. Not loudly, not in a way that demanded attention—but in a way that made attention come to you anyway.
Clark could hear every word. Of course he could. He could hear the hum of traffic three blocks away, the quiet rhythm of a heartbeat in the hallway, the distant echo of a subway beneath the city, conversations stacked on top of each other until they blurred into something constant and indistinct. But your voice cut through all of it. Not louder. Just… clearer. Like his mind had already decided it mattered more. Like everything else faded automatically to make room for it.
He tried not to listen. That was one of the rules he had made for himself early on, back when he had still believed he could draw lines and actually keep them. Don’t listen when you don’t need to. Don’t blur the line between what you can do and what you should do. Don’t use it on her.
Especially not you.
You, who trusted him. You, who never questioned the way he always seemed to notice things, the way he always seemed to understand. You, who looked at him like he was safe. He failed at that rule constantly. Not intentionally. Not in a way he could stop in time. It just… happened. Your voice, your laugh, the way your tone shifted when you were excited—it pulled at his attention before he could catch himself, before he could remind himself to look away.
“…and then he just stands there,” you were saying, barely holding back laughter, your voice breaking at the edges, “like he didn’t just knock over an entire display of oranges, and I’m looking at him like, are you going to help, or—” Jimmy snorted, already halfway to losing it. “Wait, wait, was this the guy from last week? The one with the—” “Yes, the same one,” you said, pointing at him like that explained everything, your grin wide and unguarded. “The exact same level of chaos.”
Clark smiled without meaning to, the expression soft and automatic, something he didn’t even try to stop anymore. He had heard this story already. You had told him yesterday, walking back from work, your voice softer then, less animated but somehow more detailed, like you trusted him with the quieter version of things. You told him everything twice, sometimes. Once for the world. Once for him.
“…and then the manager comes over,” you continued, lowering your voice like it was a secret, leaning in slightly even though everyone could still hear you, “and she just looks at the mess, looks at him, and goes, ‘sir, respectfully, what happened here?’” Jimmy lost it completely, laughter breaking out loud and uncontained. Clark felt it again. That quiet, unexpected shift in his chest, like something warm had settled there without asking permission. It always happened when you laughed. Not gradually, not something he could prepare for. Just sudden and full and undeniable, like his body had decided, somewhere along the way, that your happiness was something it needed to respond to. Like your laughter meant something had gone right in the world, and that mattered to him more than it should.
He dropped his gaze back to the screen, forcing himself to refocus. City council convened— Blink. The cursor pulsed again, steady and unimpressed. He exhaled slowly, dragging a hand down the back of his neck. Focus. It was a simple article. Routine. Something he could finish in twenty minutes if he stopped letting himself get pulled away by things that didn’t require his attention, didn’t need him, didn’t— You turned your head.
Clark felt it before he saw it. Some instinct he didn’t fully understand, something that had never quite gone away no matter how many years passed, something that always seemed to pull his attention back to you at exactly the moment you looked for him. Like a thread, invisible but constant, something that stayed between you no matter how far across the room you were. His eyes lifted without thinking. Your eyes met his.
And then you smiled.
Not polite. Not distant. Not the kind of smile you gave people out of habit or courtesy. Just… you. Easy. Familiar. Unguarded in a way that felt like trust. Like finding him was something you expected, something that made sense without needing explanation. Clark’s heart stumbled. Actually stumbled. A sharp, uneven beat that caught him completely off guard, like his body had forgotten its rhythm for a second, like it had been waiting for that exact moment and didn’t know what to do now that it had it. His breath hitched, shallow and unsteady, and for a second he just… looked at you, like he had forgotten how to do anything else.
“Hey, Smallville,” you called.
His brain took half a second too long to catch up, that moment stretching just enough to make him feel it. He pushed his glasses up, fingers brushing the bridge of his nose, a small, practiced motion he used when he needed time, when he needed something to ground himself. “Hi—” he cleared his throat, immediately hating how it sounded, too tight, too caught. “Hello.”
Smooth. Very smooth.
You were already walking toward him, weaving through desks and chairs like you had done it a thousand times before, like the space between you wasn’t something you ever had to think about crossing. Because you had. Six years. The thought came uninvited, heavy and familiar in a way that settled deep in his chest. Six years of this. Of you choosing the seat next to him on your first day because, in your words, “you looked like you might actually talk back if I sat here.” Six years of coffee runs where you always forgot your wallet and he always pretended not to notice, like it wasn’t something he had come to expect, like it wasn’t something he quietly planned for. Six years of late nights where the newsroom emptied out until it was just the two of you, sharing takeout from cartons balanced between stacks of papers, rewriting each other’s sentences at 2 a.m. because neither of you wanted to leave first.
Six years of you saying his name like it belonged in your mouth. Like it was something easy. Something familiar. Something that didn’t cost you anything to give.
Clark swallowed, his grip tightening slightly against the edge of his desk, something deep and steady and impossible pressing quietly against his ribs.
Six years of loving you.
Quietly. Carefully. Completely.
You reached his desk and set your coffee mug down beside his keyboard, the familiar clink grounding in a way he couldn’t explain, like the sound itself had become something he associated with you before he even realized it.
Your mug.
Chipped along the rim, the glaze worn down in places from years of use, the faded design barely visible anymore unless you knew where to look. Most people wouldn’t notice it twice. Clark did. He knew exactly where it came from. You had told him once, offhand, like it wasn’t important, like it was just a detail in a passing story. Your grandmother’s kitchen. How everything there had felt warmer somehow, softer, like time moved differently inside those walls. You had taken the mug when the house was cleaned out, said it felt like keeping a piece of something good. Clark had remembered. Of course he had. He remembered everything. Not because he tried to. Because when it came to you, forgetting didn’t feel like an option.
You leaned over his monitor, close enough that he could feel the warmth of you beside him, the faint brush of your presence settling into the space like it belonged there. He caught the scent of your shampoo—something soft, clean, familiar in a way that had, over time, become part of what he associated with calm, with something steady, something safe in a way that had nothing to do with distance and everything to do with you.
“You’ve been on the same sentence since I got here.” Clark blinked, pulled back into the moment like he had been somewhere else entirely. “You noticed that?” You gave him a look. Not annoyed. Not judgmental. Just… knowing. Like the answer had never really been a question. “Clark,” you said, like it was obvious, like it always was, “I notice when you’re thinking too hard versus when you’re actually writing.” He frowned slightly, a reflex more than anything else.
“There’s a difference?”
“There is a huge difference.” You tapped the screen lightly with your finger, your nail brushing just under the blinking cursor. “When you’re writing, you don’t hesitate this long. When you’re thinking, you rewrite the same thing in your head over and over until you hate it.”
Clark stared at you, something caught between surprise and something softer, something quieter that he didn’t let himself examine too closely. “That’s… uncomfortably accurate.” “I know.” You tilted your head slightly, scanning the paragraph like it was something you could fix just by looking at it. “Also, this is boring.” He let out a quiet groan, leaning back in his chair like you had personally offended him.
“It is not boring.”
“It is absolutely boring.”
“It’s a city council report.”
“It can still be interesting.”
“It’s zoning adjustments.”
You turned to him, raising an eyebrow, unimpressed in a way that made him feel like he had already lost the argument. “Clark.”
“Yes?”
“People live in those zones.” He paused, just for a second, like the shift in perspective had caught him off guard. “…that is true.” “Exactly,” you said, already turning back to the screen. “So write it like it matters.”
Clark huffed out a small laugh, shaking his head, something warm settling in his chest despite himself. “You’re impossible.” You smiled, softer this time, something quieter slipping into your expression like it hadn’t meant to. “And yet you let me help you every time.” He hesitated. Because that was the thing. He didn’t let you. Not really. He wanted you to. Every time. In ways he didn’t fully understand, in ways that went beyond the work, beyond the article, beyond anything he could reasonably explain. “Move,” you said, already nudging his chair slightly, like you knew he wouldn’t argue, like you knew he would give in before he even had the chance to consider it.
Clark moved immediately. Of course he did. He shifted to the side without thinking, making space for you like it was instinct, like it had always been instinct when it came to you. His knee brushed yours briefly as you stepped closer. The contact was small. Accidental. It still sent something sharp and electric up his spine, something immediate and impossible to ignore. You didn’t react. Or if you did, you didn’t show it. You just leaned in, one hand braced against the desk as you reached for the keyboard, your shoulder pressing lightly against his, close enough that he could feel the steady warmth of you, the quiet presence of you filling the space beside him.
Clark stopped breathing. Not entirely. Just enough that everything felt too still. Too quiet. Like the world had narrowed down to this exact moment, this exact space. He could hear your heartbeat.
He tried not to.
He failed.
You started typing, fingers moving quickly, confidently, rewriting his words like you could see something he couldn’t, like the meaning had always been there and you were just pulling it into focus. Clark watched the screen at first. The way sentences shifted, sharpened, became something better under your hands. Then your hands. The small movements, the certainty in them, the way you didn’t hesitate the way he did. Then, without meaning to, your face. The small crease between your brows when you focused. The way your lips pressed together slightly when you were thinking. The way you leaned just a little closer when something mattered.
He wondered, not for the first time, what it would feel like to reach out and—
“There,” you said, pulling back slightly, the moment breaking before it could become something else. “Now it doesn’t sound like it was written by someone who has never experienced human joy.” Clark blinked, dragged back into himself, the thought disappearing before he could fully grasp it. He looked at the screen. You had rewritten the entire opening paragraph. It was… better. Of course it was better. It had movement now. Context. Something that made it feel like it mattered in a way his version hadn’t. Clark let out a quiet breath, something like admiration settling deep in his chest, steady and undeniable. “You are terrifying.”
You grinned immediately, bright and unguarded in a way that always caught him off guard, like he should be used to it by now but never quite was. “You love me.” The words hit him before he could prepare for them. They always did. Casual. Easy. A joke you had made a hundred times, thrown out into the space between you like it was safe, like it didn’t carry weight. Like it didn’t mean anything. Clark’s mind went completely blank. Because it wasn’t a joke to him. Not really. Not for a long time. His chest tightened, something real and heavy and impossible pressing against his ribs, something he had spent years holding carefully, quietly, like it was something fragile that couldn’t survive being said out loud.
You were already turning slightly, already halfway back to your own space, already moving on like the moment had passed. Like it hadn’t meant anything. Like it never did. Clark swallowed, the words catching somewhere on the way out. “…I do,” he said. Quiet. Too quiet for most people to notice. But not for him. Never for him. The words felt different this time. He felt them. Fully. You didn’t. You were already picking up your coffee, already glancing back toward your desk, your mind shifting forward, moving on, letting the moment fall away like it always did.
And Clark sat there, staring at the screen you had fixed for him, your words replacing his, your presence still lingering in the space beside him like something he didn’t know how to step away from, like something he didn’t want to. Like something he couldn’t.
Across the room, Lois had been watching the entire exchange. Not subtly. She leaned against her desk, arms crossed, expression somewhere between fond and deeply, deeply tired, like she had seen this exact moment play out too many times already. Jimmy slid his chair closer to her, lowering his voice, though not by much. “How,” he said, glancing between the two of you, “are they still not together?” Lois didn’t look away from you. “She deflects,” she said quietly, like it was the simplest answer in the world. Jimmy blinked.
“What?”
“She turns everything into something safe before it can mean anything.” He frowned slightly, trying to follow. “And him?” Lois finally glanced at Clark. Clark, who was still staring at his screen like it might somehow explain what he had just done, like the answer might be written somewhere between the lines you had rewritten for him.
“He’s terrified of pushing her into something she doesn’t believe she deserves.”
Jimmy let out a slow breath, the weight of it settling in. “…that’s actually kind of sad.” Lois hummed softly, something knowing in the sound. “Yeah,” she said. “It is.” Then she straightened, already turning back to her own work like she had accepted something neither of you had yet. “Which means one of them is eventually going to break first.” Jimmy winced, glancing between you again like he could already see it coming. “…My money’s on Kent.”
Lois didn’t argue.
Later that afternoon, the newsroom began to empty in slow, uneven waves. It never happened all at once. No clear ending, no final moment where everything stopped—just people peeling away from their desks one by one, conversations thinning out into fragments before disappearing entirely. The steady noise of the day softened, dulled, stretched thin until it became something quieter, more tired. Phones rang less. Chairs stopped scraping. The rhythm of typing slowed, then faded. Even the overhead lights seemed dimmer somehow, like the room itself was exhaling after holding its breath all day. The space felt larger like this. Emptier. Like there was more room for things that usually got lost in the noise.
Clark stayed where he was. He usually did. It gave him an excuse. An extra hour. Sometimes two. Time where things slowed down enough that it could just be the two of you without it feeling intentional, without it feeling like something he had chosen. He told himself it was for work. That he was catching up, getting ahead, finishing things properly. It rarely was. His article was finished now, thanks to you. He had reread it twice already, not because it needed editing, but because your voice was still in it. The phrasing. The structure. The way you made something dull feel like it mattered, like there were real people behind it, like it wasn’t just words filling space. Clark leaned back slightly in his chair, staring at the screen without really seeing it, the text blurring into something distant.
He could hear the city outside. He could hear footsteps in the hallway, someone leaving, someone else lingering. He could hear the elevator doors open and close, the quiet mechanical rhythm of it. He could hear— Your footsteps. He didn’t turn immediately. He never did. He had learned early on that reacting too quickly gave him away, that it made it too obvious how easily his attention shifted when it came to you. Still, something in him responded before he could stop it. A quiet pull, automatic, instinctive, like part of him was already turning before he allowed himself to follow.
You dropped into the chair beside him without asking, like it belonged to you just as much as your own desk did. Which, at this point, it kind of did. The movement was familiar. Easy. Like this—being next to him, taking up space beside him—was something that didn’t need permission anymore.
“Peace offering,” you said, setting a coffee down in front of him. Clark blinked, pulled out of his thoughts, grounding himself in the moment.
“For what?”
“For ruining your article.” He huffed a quiet breath, already reaching for the cup, the warmth of it settling into his hands almost immediately. “You improved my article.” You took a sip of your own, shrugging lightly like it wasn’t a big deal, like it never was to you. “I improved it aggressively.” Clark smiled, soft and automatic, something that came easier around you than it did anywhere else. “That sounds like something you would say in a performance review.”
“I would give excellent performance reviews.”
“You would terrify everyone.”
“They would grow from it.” Clark let out a quiet laugh.
You always did that. Took something small and made it lighter. Easier. Like the world wasn’t as heavy as it sometimes felt when he was alone with his thoughts. Clark wrapped his fingers around the cup, grounding himself in the warmth, in the reality of you sitting beside him. You handed it to him without really looking, like it was instinct, like you had done it a hundred times before. Your fingers brushed his. It was brief. Barely there. It still felt like too much. Clark’s breath caught, just slightly, his grip tightening around the cup as something sharp and electric ran up his arm, settling somewhere deeper before he could stop it. It didn’t matter how many times it happened. It never stopped feeling like that. Never became something ordinary. Never became something he could ignore.
You didn’t seem to notice. Or maybe you did. But if you did, you didn’t linger on it. You leaned back in your chair instead, taking a long sip of your coffee, your eyes closing for a second like you needed that moment more than anything else in the world. “God,” you exhaled softly, “I needed this.” Clark watched you. He always watched you. Not in a way that felt invasive, not in a way that crossed a line. Just… attentive. Like his mind had quietly decided, somewhere along the way, that you were something worth remembering in detail, something worth holding onto in ways he didn’t fully understand.
He knew the way your shoulders dropped when you relaxed, like you were setting something down you didn’t even realize you had been carrying. The way your expression softened when you were finally done with something that had been weighing on you all day. The way you tucked a piece of hair behind your ear when you were thinking, even when it didn’t need to be tucked, like the motion itself helped you focus. The way your eyebrows pulled together just slightly when you were concentrating, like your whole world narrowed to whatever was in front of you. Clark knew all of it. And more than that, he knew why.
The cracked leather notebook you carried everywhere, the one you never let anyone else touch. You had told him once, late at night, your voice quieter than usual, that it was the only place where your thoughts felt… uninterrupted. The old camera you kept in your bag, even though it barely worked anymore. The first thing you had ever bought with your own money. Proof, in some quiet, stubborn way, that you had built something for yourself. Clark remembered everything. Not because he tried to. Because it mattered. Because you mattered.
You shifted slightly, glancing at him, your attention catching on something he hadn’t meant to show. Then you paused. Your eyes narrowed just a little, something curious slipping into your expression. “What?” Clark blinked, immediately looking down at his coffee like he had been caught doing something he shouldn’t have, like there was something to hide in the surface of it if he stared long enough. “Nothing.” You didn’t buy it for a second. You never did. “You were doing the thing.” He frowned slightly, still not looking up, already defensive without meaning to be. “What thing?” You leaned a little closer, studying him in a way that felt too perceptive, too precise, like you were always just one step away from understanding something he wasn’t ready to explain. “The soft staring thing.”
Clark nearly choked. He coughed lightly, clearing his throat as heat rushed up his neck, immediate and impossible to control.
“I was not.”
“You absolutely were.”
“I was looking at my screen.”
“You were not looking at your screen.”
Clark risked a glance up at you. You were smiling. Not teasing. Not really. Just… aware. Like you saw more than you let on, but chose not to push it. He dropped his gaze again immediately, the coffee suddenly very important, something to focus on, something safe. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he muttered.
You let out a quiet laugh, shaking your head slightly, like you didn’t believe him but weren’t going to press it further. “Clark.” There was something in the way you said his name. Something soft. Familiar. Fond in a way that settled somewhere deep in his chest and stayed there longer than it should have. And Clark, sitting beside you in the quiet of a newsroom that had mostly emptied out, felt it again—that same steady, impossible feeling he had been carrying for years—tightening quietly, patiently, like it wasn’t going anywhere.
You leaned back again, letting the moment pass like you always did, never pushing too hard, never asking the question that sat just beneath the surface. You had learned, a long time ago, how to recognize those moments—the ones that could become something more if you let them, the ones that hovered just on the edge of meaning—and how to step around them before they could ask anything of you. It wasn’t avoidance in the way people usually meant it. It was quieter than that. Instinctive. A shift in direction so subtle it almost felt natural. You trusted him. That was the thing. You trusted him completely. Clark Kent had been your best friend for years, and that kind of trust didn’t come easily to you. It wasn’t something you gave lightly, or quickly, or without reason. But with him, it had happened anyway.
He had seen you through everything. Deadlines that stretched into early mornings where your eyes burned from staring at a screen too long. Articles that got torn apart in meetings, where you sat still and nodded while something in your chest twisted tight and quiet. The nights where you sat on the floor of your apartment, back against the couch, too overwhelmed and too exhausted to even pretend you had everything under control, questioning whether any of this—any of you—was worth it. He had stayed. Always. Not in a way that made it feel like a favor, not in a way that made you feel like something that needed fixing. He just… stayed. Like it wasn’t a question. Like it wasn’t something he had to decide.
And in return, you had let him see you. Really see you. Not the version you gave to everyone else. Not the easy, agreeable version that fit neatly into spaces without disrupting anything. You had let him see the parts you kept tucked away, the ones that weren’t as controlled, the ones that didn’t know how to be “fine” all the time. You had even trusted him with your worst moments. The ones that felt messy. The ones that felt too much. Which was why, when he told you his secret, it hadn’t changed anything. It couldn’t. Not when you had already given him something bigger.
You could still see it clearly. That night. The rain against your windows, steady and soft, turning the city outside into something blurred and distant, like the world had stepped back to give the moment space. Clark standing in your living room, shoulders tense in a way you had never seen before, like he was holding something too heavy to carry alone. “I have to tell you something,” he had said, his voice careful, quieter than usual. You had expected… something. A problem. A confession. Maybe even something that would shift the shape of things between you. But not that. Not him taking off his glasses with hands that weren’t quite steady. Not the way he looked at you, like he wasn’t sure what would happen next. “I’m… not just Clark.”
You had stared at him. Not because you didn’t understand. Because you did. Because suddenly, everything made sense in a way that felt almost obvious in hindsight. The way he always knew things. The way he always showed up. The way he carried himself like he was holding more than anyone could see. You had laughed. Not because it was funny. Because it fit. Because it was him. And then you had stepped forward and hugged him like it didn’t change the way you saw him at all. Because it didn’t. Not even a little.
“Clark,” you said now, pulling him back into the present, your voice softer, more curious, “you look like you’re about to confess to a crime.” He looked up at you, startled, like you had caught him somewhere he hadn’t meant to be. “I am not.”
“You definitely are.”
“I’m not.”
“You have the face,” you insisted, gesturing vaguely toward him, your expression light but your attention sharp. “The guilty face.” Clark huffed out a small breath, something caught between amusement and something else he didn’t quite know how to hide. “I don’t have a guilty face.”
“You do. It’s very specific.” He shook his head, but there was a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, something softer breaking through despite himself. “It’s nothing.”
You didn’t respond right away. You just leaned back in your chair, studying him. Really studying him. Not casually. Not the way you usually let yourself look at people. There was something about him that made it easy to forget how much there was to see until you actually let yourself pay attention. Clark shifted slightly under your gaze, like he could feel the weight of it even if he didn’t fully understand why. He was… a lot. That was the simplest way to put it. Not overwhelming. Not in a way that demanded attention. Just… quietly extraordinary. Kind eyes that always softened when he looked at you, like there was something in you worth being gentle with. A smile that felt genuine every single time, never forced, never calculated. Broad shoulders that carried more than anyone really knew, more than anyone probably should.
The kind of presence that made people trust him without understanding why. The kind of man people noticed, even when he wasn’t trying to be noticed. The kind of man who could have anyone. And that was the thing. That was always the thing. Because of course he could. Of course he would. Which was exactly why the thought had never really settled in your mind. The possibility. That he might look at you and feel something more than what you already had. You didn’t let yourself go there. You couldn’t. You had learned better than that. Your mother had made sure of it.
Clark shifted again, like he could feel your attention lingering too long, like it was starting to press into something he wasn’t ready to face. And then, suddenly, he stood. The movement abrupt enough to break the moment entirely. “I forgot something upstairs.” You blinked, thrown slightly by the shift. That was abrupt. “Clark.” He froze mid-step, like you had caught him in the act of something he couldn’t quite justify.
“Yes?”
“You panic escape every time I ask a real question.”
“I do not.”
“You absolutely do.” He turned back to you, already halfway gone, that familiar sheepish smile pulling at his mouth like it might smooth things over. “I don’t.”
“You do,” you said, pointing at him slightly, more certain now. “This is a pattern.”
“It’s not a pattern.”
“It is.”
Clark hesitated for half a second. Just long enough for something honest to almost surface. Then he gave you a small, apologetic look. “I’ll be right back.” He didn’t wait for a response. He just… left. Like he always did when things got too close to something real. You watched him go, something quiet settling in your chest that you didn’t quite name. Not disappointment. Not confusion. Something softer. Something heavier. Something that didn’t quite fit into the safe, familiar shape you had built around the two of you.
Across the room, a chair scraped. You didn’t even notice Lois until she was standing beside your desk.
“You know he’s in love with you, right?”
You laughed immediately. Not even a pause. The reaction automatic, instinctive, like the idea itself didn’t belong anywhere near reality. “Clark?” Lois crossed her arms. “Yes.” You shook your head, still smiling like the suggestion itself was almost funny.
“Lois.”
“I’m serious.”
You exhaled, leaning back in your chair, your gaze drifting briefly toward the direction Clark had disappeared, like you couldn’t quite help it. “Clark Kent is the most perfect man alive.”
“That is a stretch.”
“He is,” you insisted quietly, more certain now, like this was something you didn’t need to think about. “He’s… good. Like, actually good.”
Lois watched you carefully, not just your words, but everything underneath them. “He could date anyone,” you continued, your voice softer now, more thoughtful, like you were explaining something obvious. “Anyone he wanted.”
“Also debatable,” Lois muttered under her breath. You didn’t hear her. Your eyes dropped to your coffee, your fingers tightening slightly around the cup without you realizing it. “He would never look at me like that.” The words came out calm. Certain. Like something you had accepted a long time ago. Not something you questioned. Not something you doubted. Just… something that was.
Lois studied you. Really studied you. Not your expression, not the surface of what you were saying. The way your shoulders held tension you didn’t seem aware of. The way you dismissed the idea without even letting it settle. The way your voice didn’t waver, not because you were confident, but because you were used to believing it. Then, quietly, she said, “He already does.” You didn’t look up. And somehow, that said more than if you had.
Three weeks later, Clark stood outside your apartment door holding a box of Dunkin’ donuts in one hand and a slightly overfilled bag of balloons in the other. It was barely eight in the morning, the kind of early where the world hadn’t fully decided to wake up yet. The hallway was quiet in that half-awake way, sound softened by distance and stillness. Somewhere down the corridor, a door closed gently, careful not to echo. Pipes hummed behind the walls, low and steady. The city outside hadn’t picked up speed yet—no rush of traffic, no constant movement, just the faint suggestion of a day about to begin. Clark had been standing there for a full minute already. Not moving. Just… standing. Like if he stayed still long enough, the moment might settle around him into something less fragile.
He shifted his grip on the box slightly, careful not to tilt it too much, like even that small detail mattered. It did. Everything about this mattered more than it should have. He had picked them out one by one, standing in the shop longer than necessary, ignoring the line that had formed behind him, double-checking every choice like he couldn’t afford to get even one wrong. Biscoff sensation. American cheesecake. Crunchy lemon cheesecake. Berry blast. And the original glazed. He knew the order you would reach for them. He always did. Not because he had memorized it intentionally, not because he had made a point of it. Just because over time, paying attention to you had become something natural. Automatic. Like breathing.
He glanced down at the balloons, making sure the strings hadn’t tangled. They had. Of course they had. Clark sighed softly under his breath, shifting the box awkwardly to one hand as he tried to fix them with the other, the strings slipping through his fingers no matter how careful he was.
He tried once. Twice. Failed both times. Then gave up, lifting them slightly higher so they wouldn’t drag against the floor, accepting the small imperfection like it wasn’t worth fixing if it meant risking the rest of it. His attention drifted back to the door. He could hear your heartbeat through it. Slow. Even. Still asleep. That familiar rhythm settled something in him and unsettled something else at the same time.
He hesitated. Just for a second. Because there was something about this moment that always got to him. Not the gesture. Not the planning. Not even the nerves. The meaning behind it. Your birthday. You had told him once, casually, like it didn’t matter, like it was something small enough to brush past. “I don’t really do birthdays,” you had said, shrugging, stirring your coffee like if you kept your focus there, the conversation wouldn’t go any deeper. Clark had looked at you then, something quiet sharpening in his attention. “You don’t celebrate?” You had shaken your head. “It just wasn’t really… a thing growing up.” Simple. Light. Easy. Like it didn’t cost anything to say. But your eyes had shifted slightly when you said it. Just for a second. Clark had seen it. Of course he had. He remembered exactly where you were sitting. The way your fingers had tightened slightly around the spoon, like the metal grounded you. The way you changed the subject immediately after, like you had already said more than you meant to.
He had not pushed. He never pushed. But he had decided something in that moment. Quietly. Firmly. If birthdays had never felt like something good to you, then he would fix that. Or at least try. Every year since, he had gone a little further. A little more intentional. A little more… everything. Not in big, overwhelming ways. Not in ways that would make you uncomfortable or pull you somewhere you didn’t want to go. Just enough. Just steady. Just consistent. Because seeing you happy—really happy, in a way that didn’t feel guarded or careful, in a way that wasn’t held back or softened or made smaller—felt like standing in sunlight. Warm. Clear. Certain. And Clark, for all that he could do, had always been drawn to light.
He lifted his hand and knocked. Gentle. Not too loud. He didn’t want to startle you, didn’t want to break the quiet too sharply, like even that might ruin the moment before it began. There was a pause. Then movement. Footsteps, slower at first, then more certain. Your heartbeat picking up slightly, shifting from sleep into awareness. The sound of the lock turning. The door opened.
You stood there in pajamas, hair slightly messy, eyes still heavy with sleep and confusion, like you hadn’t fully stepped into the morning yet. You blinked at him, once, twice, your gaze trying to catch up to what it was seeing. “Clark?” There it was. That moment. The exact second where your brain hadn’t caught up yet, where nothing had been explained, where everything was still simple and unguarded. Clark smiled, bright and a little nervous all at once, something soft breaking through despite the way his chest had tightened just seconds before.
“Happy birthday.”
You didn’t respond immediately. Your gaze dropped. To the balloons first, the slight tangle of them hovering awkwardly above his shoulder. Then to the box in his hands. Then back to him. Your eyes widened slowly, the realization settling in piece by piece. “You did not.” Clark lifted the box slightly, like proof, like he needed you to see it clearly.
“I absolutely did.”
“You said you had…” you waved a hand vaguely, still waking up, your thoughts not quite organized yet, “Superman stuff today.” Clark didn’t even hesitate. “I lied.”
You stared at him for half a second, like your brain was trying to decide what to do with that. Then you laughed. Soft at first, like it surprised even you, then real, fuller, the kind of laugh that came from somewhere deeper, somewhere unguarded. Clark felt it immediately, that same warmth settling in his chest, that same quiet sense that something had gone right. You stepped back, opening the door wider, the movement instinctive now, like of course he was coming in, like that part didn’t need to be questioned.
“You’re unbelievable.”
Clark stepped inside, careful not to hit the balloons against the doorframe, angling them slightly so they wouldn’t brush the wall, like even something that small felt important to get right. “I’ve been told that.” His voice was light, easy, but there was something underneath it—something quieter, something that hadn’t quite settled yet. “You planned this, didn’t you?” you asked, still watching him like you were trying to catch up to the moment.
“A little.”
“A little?” you repeated, eyeing the balloons, your eyebrows lifting. “Clark, there are at least ten balloons.”
“There are twelve.” You turned to him, raising an eyebrow, something amused slipping into your expression.
“You counted.”
“I always count.” You shook your head, smiling in that quiet way that always made his chest feel too full, like something inside him had nowhere to go with it.
Your apartment was still dim, curtains half drawn, morning light just starting to slip in through the edges in thin, pale lines. The air still held that early-morning stillness, like the space hadn’t fully woken up yet. Clark moved toward the kitchen, setting the box down carefully on the table like it mattered. It did. Everything about this did in a way he couldn’t explain out loud. You closed the door behind him, leaning against it for just a second longer than necessary, like you were still trying to process the fact that he was there, that this was happening, that someone had shown up for you like this without being asked. “You’re ridiculous,” you said, but there was no real bite to it. Clark looked genuinely pleased. “I got your favorites.”
You walked closer, slower now, the initial surprise settling into something quieter, something more aware. You opened the box. Your breath caught, just slightly. “…you did not.” Clark leaned against the counter, watching you instead of the donuts, his attention fixed entirely on your reaction like that was the part that mattered most. “Biscoff sensation,” you murmured, picking one up slightly like you needed to confirm it was real. “American cheesecake… crunchy lemon cheesecake…” Your voice softened with each one, something in it shifting without your permission. “Berry blast…” You glanced up at him, something quieter in your expression now, something almost careful. “And the original glazed.” Clark shrugged, like it was obvious, like it didn’t require effort. “You like that one when you don’t know what you want.”
You stared at him. Not long. Not in a way that called attention to itself. But long enough. “You remembered.” Clark’s brow furrowed slightly, confusion flickering across his face like the question itself didn’t make sense to him, like there had never been a version of reality where he wouldn’t. “Of course I remembered.” And something in your chest twisted. Sharp. Uncomfortable. Not because he remembered. Because of how easily he did. How naturally. Like the things that mattered to you… mattered to him too. Like your preferences weren’t small details but something worth holding onto. You looked back down at the box quickly, focusing on the donuts so you didn’t have to sit with that feeling too long, because that feeling—whatever it was—didn’t fit into the version of things you understood.
You pulled out a chair and sat, still holding one in your hand like you weren’t entirely sure what to do next. Clark moved around the kitchen with quiet familiarity, opening drawers without hesitation, like he had done this enough times for it to feel natural. Because he had. He found a candle. You watched him, a small smile tugging at your lips despite yourself. “You’re not about to—”
“I am absolutely about to.” He stuck the candle into the top of the donut, adjusting it slightly so it stood straight, careful in a way that felt disproportionate to the task. You laughed, the sound lighter now but still edged with something softer underneath. “You’re putting a candle in a donut.”
“It’s festive.”
“It’s ridiculous.”
“It’s efficient.” You shook your head, but you were smiling, and Clark noticed that more than anything else.
He lit the candle. The small flame flickered between you, unsteady at first before settling, the light soft and warm in the dimness of the room. He stepped back slightly, giving you space like he always did, like he was careful not to take up too much of it. “Go ahead.” You looked at him. Then at the candle. Then back at him again. There was something about the moment that felt… unfamiliar. Not uncomfortable. Just new in a way you didn’t quite know how to hold. You closed your eyes.
Clark watched you carefully. He always did. But this was different. This felt like something fragile. Like something that could mean more than it was supposed to if he wasn’t careful. Like something that could slip into a space neither of you were ready to name. You made a wish. You weren’t even sure what it was. Maybe you just wished for the moment not to disappear so quickly. Maybe you wished for something you didn’t let yourself say out loud. You opened your eyes and blew out the candle. The smoke curled softly into the air, thin and fleeting.
Clark smiled. “Did you make a good one?” You huffed out a quiet breath, something almost like a laugh but not quite. “I don’t think I’m supposed to tell you that.”
“I think you should make an exception.”
“I don’t think that’s how it works.” He leaned slightly against the counter, watching you in that soft, steady way that always made you feel… seen. Not observed. Not analyzed. Just… known in a way that didn’t ask anything from you. “Worth a try.”
You looked at him for a moment. Really looked. Not the way you usually did, quick and easy and safe. But slower. More deliberate. Like you were trying to understand something you had been avoiding for a long time. Then you said quietly, “Thank you.” Clark shrugged, like it was nothing, like it didn’t matter as much as it did. “It’s nothing.”
“It isn’t.” Your voice was firmer now. Certain in a way that surprised even you.
Clark’s expression shifted slightly, something more serious settling in, something less easy to hide. You studied him. “Clark… why do you do all this for me?” The question landed heavier than you meant it to. He felt it immediately. Clark froze. Completely. Because the answer came instantly.
Because I love you.
It was right there. Clear. Simple. Terrifying. It pressed against his chest like it had been waiting for this exact moment to finally exist outside of him, like it had been building quietly for years and had finally reached a point where it couldn’t stay contained.
And then, just as quickly, fear followed. What if you didn’t feel the same? What if saying it changed everything? What if he lost this—lost you—lost the one thing in his life that felt steady and certain? Clark forced his expression to soften, something careful and controlled replacing what had almost slipped out. “You’re my best friend.” The words felt… smaller than what he meant. Like they didn’t hold the weight of it. But safer. Always safer.
You nodded slowly. Of course. That made sense. It fit. It stayed within the lines you had drawn years ago without even realizing it, the ones that kept everything contained, everything manageable. You looked down at your hands, something in your chest tightening in a way you didn’t want to examine too closely. Clark noticed immediately. He always noticed. “You deserve nice things,” he said, quieter now, like he was choosing his words more carefully this time.
Your throat tightened. “You don’t know that.” The words slipped out before you could stop them. Automatic. Reflexive. Like they had been sitting just beneath the surface waiting for an opportunity to exist. Clark frowned, stepping a little closer without thinking. “I do.” You shook your head, a small, almost reflexive movement. “You didn’t grow up in my house.” The words carried more than you meant them to. More than you wanted them to.
Clark didn’t hesitate. “You are one of the kindest people I know.”
“Clark—”
“You are,” he insisted, his voice still gentle but steadier now, more certain. “You care about people. Even when they don’t deserve it. You show up for everyone.” You looked away. Because that was easier than letting him say things you didn’t know how to hold, things that pressed against something fragile and uncertain inside you. Clark’s voice softened. “You deserve love.”
The words hit somewhere deep. Too deep. Your chest tightened, something unfamiliar and uncomfortable rising up before you could push it down, something that felt too big for the space you had made for it. Clark saw it. The shift. The way your expression changed, just slightly, like something inside you had been touched that wasn’t meant to be. And something in him ached. Because he understood, in that moment, that this wasn’t just doubt. This was something older. Something ingrained. Something that had been there long before him.
He wanted to fix it. Not in a grand, impossible way. Not all at once. Just… gently. Over time. In ways that didn’t scare you. In ways that stayed. He stepped closer without thinking. Before he could stop himself, Clark reached for your hand.
Your fingers closed around his instinctively. Like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like you didn’t even have to think about it. Clark’s breath caught. Your skin was warm. Familiar. Dangerous in a way that had nothing to do with fear and everything to do with how much it mattered. His voice dropped, barely above a whisper. “I would do anything for you.”
Your heart started beating faster. You could feel it. Every pulse loud in your chest, too loud, too close to something you didn’t know how to name. Clark realized what he had just said. His eyes widened slightly, panic flickering in, sharp and immediate. “I mean—” he pulled back just enough, like he needed to correct it, contain it, make it smaller before it could become something else, “as a friend.” The words felt wrong the second he said them. Smaller again. Safer again. But hollow in a way that lingered.
You stared at him. There was something in your expression he couldn’t quite read. Something that almost looked like— No. Your voice came out softer than you expected. “Clark.” He braced himself. “Yeah?” You hesitated. Because there were a thousand things you could say. A thousand questions pressing at the edges of your thoughts. A thousand feelings you didn’t know how to name without breaking something open.
But the only thing that felt safe enough to let out was the smallest one.
“Thank you.”
Clark nodded. He didn’t let go of your hand right away. Neither did you. And for a moment—just a small one, just enough to exist before either of you could move away from it—something real sat between you. Unspoken. Unresolved. But there.
Summary: Y/n's clairvoyance is a gift from the Mother, but it feels more like a curse. With the power to gain knowledge through touch alone, Y/n holes herself up in The Alcove and hopes her powers and parentage will remain a secret. But things will change after the Summer Solstice ball and a chance encounter with a certain Shadowsinger.
Started: 12/12/2023
Ended: 08/04/2024
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
EPILOGUE
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when we collide we come together, if we don't we'll always be apart [code blue] [part one/two]
Jack Abbot is too old for you. Completely and utterly. It's something you've been trying to tell yourself since you first met him at twenty-five. Now, at twenty-nine, there's still nobody that does it like him. He's the only person that understands your drive, your complete marriage to your work. Maybe he flirts back a little, but you're sure it's just platonic. Until your life is in danger, and everything's suddenly on the line.
this story is part of my universe 'code blue', which also features frank and robby stories, but each one is entirely individual, and can be read standalone.
warnings: 18+ blog, mdni! canon medical gore, emt!reader, nickname: skipper, reader has named siblings, but no surname and remains undescribed physically, as do her siblings, explicit sexual content (fingering), patient overdose, shooting which reader is present for, mci, graphic surgery descriptions, unhappy childhood, age gap (29/48), w/c: 9k this part, 18k overall
FOURTH OF JULY.
5PM
God, you hate working holiday weekends.
On Christmas, shifts are lonely. Any call made to the EMTs is one of desperation, and you find yourself ruining countless dinners by whisking away their relative to the Emergency Room.
Halloween is fun for all of ten minutes, until you get creeps in costumes acting far bolder than they would on any other day.
Valentine’s Day sucks. Nothing makes you feel more single than being called to a whole host of various sex injuries.
Fourth of July is a mixed bag. Sometimes it’s gnarly firework injuries, sometimes it’s obnoxious assholes who have had one too many beers. At least Jack’s working tonight.
You’d picked up that tidbit of information after some light-hearted hounding of Pulse, the affectionately nicknamed night-shift charge nurse last week. She’s always been nice to you, but ever since she and Robby got together, she’s become far more likely to throw you a bone regarding Doctor Abbot.
“You know, maybe you should just ask him out,” She’d said, arching an eyebrow at you. “It’s not healthy to pine like that for so long.”
“How long did you pine for Robby again? Was it five years?”
“Which is exactly why I’m equipped to tell you that it is categorically not a good idea.”
“Well, given the two of you have practically moved in together after like three months of dating, I think I’ll stay delusional, thanks.”
Even after four years of knowing Jack, you still haven’t been able to put your finger on what exactly it is that draws you in.
Sure, at first it was all physical. You were in your second year of being a paramedic, and wanted to fuck the hot silver fox attending who you passed off half your patients to.
Normally an easy task.
You’ve never had to work harder than some batted eyelashes, relentless flirting, and a work night out filled with copious amounts of alcohol.
Jack proved a tougher nut to crack. After watching the way he interacted with patients, and even his colleagues, you’d assumed he’d be easy. The man is a perpetual flirt, after all.
But something about you clearly didn’t do it for him.
He was nice. Polite at all times. Would make the very occasional joke as part of a wider group.
He didn’t flirt with you once in your first six months at PTMC.
You understood how insane it was to be upset that one of your superiors, however indirect, wasn’t flirting with you. If he was closed off to everybody, you wouldn’t mind. Except he seemed to flirt with every single person in that place except for you.
Even Pulse, his self-proclaimed ‘sister of the night’ got more of the flirting than you did, much to Robby’s chagrin.
You tried to brush it off. Pursued other people, told yourself it didn’t matter to you if Jack Abbot liked you or not. He was just another guy, and you’d get over him.
Until you’d gotten wasted on a night out and cried into Pulse’s arms about it while Dana rubbed your back. The only small mercy was that Jack had been scheduled that night, leaving only Shen to witness your outburst.
That had been one of the lower moments.
But then, Jack started to soften.
Throw you more casual smiles. Ask about your weekend. He winked at you once.
That became your new normal, a slight increase in interactions with every passing month. After four years, it’s definitely some kind of HR violation.
He even coined your nickname.
Skipper.
It had just slipped out, one shift about eighteen months ago, before spreading round the ED like wildfire.
"Long time no see, Doctor Abbot," You greet, grin tugging at your lips as you push the gurney. "Miss me?"
"See, kid - that depends on whether you're about to make my shift a hell of a lot worse or not. What've you got?"
"Nineteen-year-old male, GSW to the abdomen - sats are 85 on oxygen, BP is 86/50, and GCS is seven - we think it's gang activity. You'll probably get a few more tonight, unless Memorial takes them."
Jack falls into step beside you, gesturing at various staff members as he talks. "Right, I want a Group and Save, CT chest, and page Walsh and tell her we need her down now."
Your job done, you fall back, allowing yourself a second to catch your breath. If there's anyone else coming, they'll have been picked up by one of the other ambulances in circulation. Your walkie is totally silent.
You watch as the boy is wheeled out from trauma, heading up to the OR with Emery at the helm. Jack emerges a second later, discarding his gloves and apron. Immediately, his eyes land on you. "Are you that desperate to see me?"
There's a slight crinkle at his eyes, an amusement that makes your heart soar. "You wish, old man. Just taking a break, is all."
As if on cue, your walkie starts to go, and you sigh. "Looks like that's me."
A hand claps down on your shoulder, both comforting and electrifying. "Go get 'em, Skipper."
You turn as you start walking, eyebrow raised. "Skipper?"
He shrugs. "I think it suits. Don't you?"
You’ve always wondered if Pulse said something to him to make him change his tune. Not that she’d own up to it if she did.
Still, you can’t deny the shift.
It was so subtle that you’ve questioned whether you’ve imagined it all on various occasions. Replaying interactions on the drive home after a shift, dissecting every look, every half-smile, every way he got just a little too close as you passed the gurney over.
But, despite being four years into whatever is going on between you both, Jack Abbot remains infuriatingly out of reach.
You push through the firehouse doors, the familiar mix of stale coffee, disinfectant, and something vaguely burnt wrapping around you like a second skin. The place is louder than usual - everybody else must have some holiday cheer that’s passed you over this year. Someone’s got music going in the bay, a couple of the guys arguing over whose turn it is to clean the truck, and there’s laughter bouncing off the concrete walls.
“There she is,” A voice calls, and you turn on your heel to find your partner Alicia emerging from the locker rooms. A real California girl, you’ve been largely scheduled together since you started working here. She’s probably one of your closest friends in the world. Even if she has no filter, and has never once thought before she spoke. “Took you long enough.”
You check your phone, and scoff. “I’m early.”
She shoots you a look. “Early for you means late for everybody else.”
“Whatever. I’m here, aren’t I? I didn’t call out.”
“Of course you didn’t. Abbot’s working tonight.”
It’s your turn to look bewildered. “How the hell do you know that?”
“I didn’t,” She shrugs. “You just confirmed it for me.”
Glowering, you push past her, and sling your backpack down onto the bench. “I hate you.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Alicia follows after you, completely unfazed. “So, you gonna act weird about it all night, or are we pretending you’re normal today?”
“I am normal.”
“You walked into a glass door last week because he called you honey.”
“That is not what happened.”
“That is exactly what happened. I was there.”
You pause, then point a finger at her. “You distracted me.”
“Oh, right. My bad. I forgot I control your motor functions.”
You huff, dragging your uniform shirt out and pulling it on. “Why do you care so much, anyway?”
“Because it’s been four years,” she says plainly. “Four. Years. That’s not a crush anymore, that’s a lifestyle.”
“It is not a lifestyle. I see other people.”
“Yeah, and I bet you think about Abbot every single time you’re in another man’s bed.”
Within a few minutes, you’re changed, and ready to get started properly. Letting out a heavy sigh, you slide into the driver’s seat, and prepare for your first call of the night. “Any last minute predictions?” You ask, glancing over at Alicia.
“Um, at least one firework injury. Also a fight between the Republican and Democrat side of a family, leading to someone getting a bottle smashed over their head.”
“That’s… very specific.”
“I’m good at my job,” She shrugs. “Leo on tonight?”
You’re almost surprised to hear her mention your older brother. After a Halloween party gone wrong your first year in Pittsburgh, Alicia and Leo had woken up the next morning with little memory, and even less clothes. It’s an incident that’s haunted them for years - mostly because neither of them can exist in the same room for more than five minutes without someone bringing it up.
“Why? You looking for round two?”
Alicia snorts, nearly choking on her drink. “Please stop talking.”
“I’ll take that as a yes,” You say. “Should I warn him? Or do you two prefer to keep your… tradition spontaneous?”
“There is no tradition,” She snaps, a little too quickly. Then, quieter, “It was one time.”
“Right,” You nod solemnly. “A historical event. Like a solar eclipse. Rare. Traumatising. People still talk about it years later.”
Her glare sharpens. “People meaning you.”
“Hey, I’m just preserving local history. They should give me a medal.”
Alicia groans and drags a hand down her face. “We were drunk. It was Halloween. I was dressed as a vampire, he was - what was he even-”
“A lifeguard,” You supply immediately. “Terrible costume, but it must have done the trick for you. Did he tell you he knew mouth-to-mouth? Is that how he got you?”
“You’re awful.”
“You’re right. I’m besmirching the good name of lifeguards everywhere.”
Before she can reply, your radio crackles to life, with an address and a brief overview. Young man, unconscious, potentially intoxicated. Sounds like a party from the background of the call. “Great,” Alicia grumbles. “I was hoping we’d manage to hit a few different calls before we got the drunk assholes.”
You turn the key in the fob, and pull out of the firehouse.
It doesn’t take long to make it to the house. It also doesn’t take long to find it, since you can hear the party raging from three streets over.
“Fuck,” You curse, slowing to a stop and hopping out. You do a quick assessment of the area. Hundreds of people are milling about the lawn, far more drunk than anybody should be at 5pm. A girl stands on the curb, arms crossed as she searches out your gaze.
“You the one who called?”
She nods. “He’s in the back. I uh, I tried to tell everyone, but it’s so loud, a-and-”
She looks genuinely stricken, and you feel a wave of sympathy. “You did the right thing.”
Hurriedly, you follow her around to an even larger backyard, and to the small crowd around the patient. Nobody else around seems to have noticed that anything is wrong, continuing to laugh and joke over the blaring EDM music.
Immediately, you know it’s an opioid overdose. Pale and clammy skin, shallow breathing, and entirely unresponsive. “Naloxone?” You ask Alicia.
She’s already on it, crouching down by the kit and snapping a pair of gloves on. She passes it over, before turning back to the girl who called it in. “How long has he been like this?”
“I-I don’t know,” She stammers. “He was fine like twenty minutes ago and then he just - sat down and wouldn’t get back up, and I thought he was drunk, but-”
“He take drugs?” You cut in. “Heroin?”
“I-I don’t know, we’re not that close-”
“What’s his name?”
“Evan. Evan Goldstein.”
“Alright, well Evan’s in good hands.” Behind you, someone whoops at something completely unrelated. The bass drops hard enough to rattle your teeth. “Unbelievable,” You grit out. Even an ambulance and two paramedics isn’t enough to draw these people out of their alcohol-induced stupor.
Positioning the naloxone, you inject it into the meat of his thigh, and return to his airway to watch his breathing. “Come on, Evan,” You mumble. “Not today.”
A guy stumbles closer, drink sloshing out of a red cup. “Yo, is he good?”
You don’t even look up. “No.”
“…oh.”
“Maybe turn the music down,” Alicia adds sharply.
You keep your eyes on Evan, watching for any sign of life. A beat. Then two. Then-
He jerks, inhaling sharply as his eyes burst open.
“There we go,” Alicia murmurs.
Evan coughs, weak at first, then harder, and he tries to sit up.
“Hey, hey, easy. Stay down. You know where you are?”
He shakes his head, breathing still uneven.
“Okay,” You continue, voice soothing. “Well, you had an overdose. We’ve given you the proper medication, and it’s worked the way we’d want it to, but we’re going to need to take you into the hospital for observation, alright?”
His face crumples in confusion, then embarrassment. “I-I didn’t - I just had a couple-”
“Yeah,” You cut in, not unkindly. “We can talk about it later - right now, I just want you to focus on breathing. We’re going to transfer you to a gurney, and get you to the ambulance - think you can do that?”
*****
Nobody comes with Evan to the hospital. It twists in your stomach a little, the lack of allegiance. Even Mary, the girl who called 911, had decided she couldn’t miss the fireworks. Hopefully someone at the Pitt will be able to contact his family.
Upon wheeling the gurney in, you’re expecting to see Jack, and are bitterly disappointed when Langdon is at the door instead.
“What the hell are you doing here?”
“Hello to you too,” He rolls his eyes. “Abbot’s held up in a trauma - it’s me or nothing.”
“If it were me on that gurney I’d rather take my chances with nothing.”
“While this is a really scintillating conversation,” Alicia interjects, “I think we should talk about the patient.”
You launch into your usual tirade. “Evan Goldstein, twenty-two-year-old college student, opioid overdose at a college party. One dose of intramuscular naloxone given, seemed to do the trick. Sats are at ninety-six on oxygen, BP is ninety-four over sixty-two-”
“Resp rate was what, six?” Alicia adds.
“Six, maybe seven,” You nod. “Came up to twelve after naloxone. Still a little groggy but alert enough. No obvious trauma.”
Langdon glances down at Evan. “Hey, Evan, you with me?”
Evan groans. “Yeah… I think so.”
“What did you take?”
Evan shakes his head weakly. “I-I don’t know. Just something someone gave me.”
“Great,” Frank mutters. “Nothing says Fourth of July like mystery drugs.” As you enter the hospital itself, he waves Pulse over. “Got an opioid overdose for observation. Can you get me a tox screen, and hook him up to some fluids?”
You hand over the report sheet. “No allergies that he knows of. No significant history we could get on scene. Nobody came with him. Family are in Florida, you should try and get in contact with them.”
Pulse steps in smoothly, taking over the side of the gurney. “Hey, Evan. I’m gonna get you set up, keep an eye on you for a bit, okay?”
Evan nods, still out of it. “Okay…”
As she starts wheeling him away, he hesitates, looking between all of you. “Uh… thanks.”
It’s quiet for half a second.
“Yeah,” You say finally. “Try not to make it a habit.”
6PM
The next few calls go by in a whir. None to PTMC, to your dismay. You’d been hoping to catch Jack before the vast majority of the fireworks started, and you’d be swamped for the rest of the shift.
Finally, fate seems to be on your side, and Memorial’s ED gets shut down for a while because they’re at absolute capacity.
Seems like a weak excuse in your opinion - the Pitt is always at capacity, and they never shut their doors - but you’re certainly not complaining.
The doctors at Memorial are uptight pricks. None of them would know a good time if it hit them in the face. Plus it doesn’t help that you slept with one of the residents there a few years back.
It hadn’t ended well.
So you have zero qualms about being diverted to PTMC.
As always, as soon as the gurney is being wheeled into the Pitt, your eyes are searching Jack out. On good days, he'll be the one to greet you with each delivery.
On days where the ER is so full that he's working the entire night, it'll be Shen or Ellis.
As much as you love them both, you don't love those nights so much.
Now, however, he stands in the doorway, arms crossed as he meets your gaze. It's unreadable, just like it always is. "What've we got?"
"Thirty-two year-old male, blunt force trauma to the head - think he fell off a balcony while inebriated. No obvious spinal injury, and pupillary reflexes are normal, but he's definitely concussed. Vomited twice on the way."
"Langdon? You want to take this one?" Jack calls, and Frank nods, immediately rushing up to wheel the gurney to trauma with Alicia.
"I just know you're so disappointed every time it's not me coming through those doors," You murmur, sneaking a glance at him as you take your gloves off.
"Please, kid - I can tell your ambulance from a mile off, with the way you drive," Jack scoffs. "One of these days you're going to drive straight into the front of the Pitt."
"As long as you're here to treat me when I do," You grin, and he rolls his eyes, but can't quite hide the smile tugging at the corner of his lips.
“Don’t tempt fate,” he mutters, but there’s no bite to it. His eyes flick down - quick, almost involuntary - taking in the faint smear of blood on your sleeve, the tired expression already. “You look like hell.”
“Charming,” You shoot back, stepping past him to dump your kit on the counter. “Spent the last twenty minutes keeping your patient from aspirating his own vomit. Forgive me if I’m not runway-ready.”
He huffs, shifting his weight. “Didn’t say you look bad.”
You glance at him, one brow lifting. “That’s exactly what that means, Jack.”
“No, it means you’ve had a shift,” He says, then, quieter, “Still look good.”
It throws you, just for a second. He’s not normally quite as overt as this.
You recover quickly, though, a grin pulling at your mouth. “Careful. That almost sounded like a compliment.”
“Don’t make it into a thing.”
“Too late,” You reply, taking a step forward. “I’m absolutely making it into a thing. Biggest thing you’ll ever see, outside of Langdon’s ego. This is like… a historic moment.”
His voice is dry when he replies, but he’s smiling. “Shocker. Seems a little bit dramatic though, don’t you think?”
“Please,” you glance back at him. “You barely tolerate me most days.”
“You should see the way I am with the other paramedics. I tolerate you fine.”
“Mm. That explains the warm welcome.”
He rolls his eyes, but the distance between you both has closed. Another step or two, and he’d be caging you against the desk. “You bring me chaos and paperwork. What kind of welcome are you expecting?”
“Something a little more heartfelt, maybe.”
“After you nearly take out the ambulance bay every other shift?”
You grin. “You noticed.”
“Hard not to.”
He pauses briefly, gaze lingering again, before flitting to your lips so quickly that you think you must have imagined it. He clears his throat, like he’s about to say something-
“Alright, lovebirds, wrap it up.”
Alicia’s voice cuts straight through it as she strides back in, already pulling her gloves off. “Patient’s handed over, Langdon’s in a mood, and we’ve got another call waiting.”
You let out a low groan. “Alicia-”
“What? He’s stable,” Alicia shrugs. “Your problem now,” She adds, nodding at Jack before looking back to you. “Come on, we’re not getting paid to flirt.”
God, you wish the ground would swallow you whole. You can’t even look at Jack, opting instead to glare at your partner. “I am not-”
“Save it for someone who believes you. If you’re not in the ambo in thirty seconds, I’m leaving without you.”
With that she’s gone, leaving you to reckon with a highly amused Jack Abbot. “I’m sorry about that-”
"Don’t worry about it. Get back to work, Skip. We've got a long night ahead of us."
"Aye aye, Captain."
7PM
“You know, Westbridge would be a lot closer for a restock,” Alicia comments.
“PTMC has better kits.”
“And attendings,” She adds under her breath, and you shoot her a glare.
“So what if I want to see him? It’s shitty enough having to work twelve hours on a holiday.”
Your past few calls have all been non-hospital, leaving you pretty depleted for supplies after treating on the scene. Turning the ambulance back towards the Pitt had been instinct.
“You should probably take a break now - I don’t know when we’ll be able to catch one after,” You advise, reaching for the door. “I don’t mind doing the supplies.”
Alicia knows exactly what you’re doing. You don’t work with someone for four years almost exclusively and not get to know their quirks and habits. You want her to take a break so that you get some uninterrupted time with Jack.
Thankfully, she chooses quiet for once in her life, simply nodding, “got it. Take your time.”
You make for the supply closet immediately, slowing just enough to wave at Pulse. Normally, you’d stop and chat, but you have no idea when you’re going to get another call, and you’re hoping that Jack is about to do what he always does.
No matter the trauma, or how busy the ER is, restocks have become kind of your thing. A brief chat, away from the prying eyes of your partner and his colleagues.
It takes him all of thirty seconds.
You don’t need to turn around to know it’s Jack.
He’s leaning against the counter, arms loosely crossed, watching you like he’s got nowhere else to be.
“You stalking me now?” You ask, setting the crate down.
“Just happened to be passing,” He says. “Heard a lot of noise.”
You glance at him. “That’s rude.”
“What can I say? You like to make an entrance.”
“Mhm, yeah. Ambulance restock. Super sexy entrance for all involved. They’ll be asking me to pose for Playboy next.”
He doesn’t reply for a second, and you glance up, finding his gaze fixed on the ceiling, adjusting his scrub top. The sleeve rides up his bicep a little, and it’s your turn to lose your voice.
“You’re too good for Playboy.”
It’s the last thing you expect him to say, stilling entirely in your tracks. His voice is barely audible, and he still can’t meet your eyes - almost unheard of for Jack Abbot.
The silence drags on a little too long to be comfortable, and you find a small laugh escaping. Anything to fill the room. “Do you consider yourself to be an expert in such matters?”
As if finally getting his cool back, Jack shrugs. “I’ve been told I have good judgement.”
You shake your head in disbelief, turning back to the shelves, scanning for what you need. “Don’t you have patients?”
“Not this second.”
“Miracle.”
He reaches past you for something on the shelf - closer than necessary, his arm brushing yours. It’s brief, but not accidental enough to ignore. Your breath hitches.
Normally supply room chats are just that. Chats.
Zero contact, perched at opposite sides of the room while you gossip about the staff.
About how one of the other paramedics was caught cheating on his wife, and that Jack caught Santos and Garcia mid-hook-up in one of the on-call rooms.
There’s never touching.
Touching is new.
“You always this territorial?” You ask lightly, not moving away.
“Only for things that I consider mine. Thought I’d supervise,” He says. “Make sure you’re not taking half the department with you.”
You huff a quiet laugh, shaking your head as you tick things off. “If I wanted to rob you, I’d aim higher than saline and tape.”
“Yeah?” He says, stepping closer again, slower this time. “What would you take?”
You look up at him, meeting his gaze properly now. “Not sure,” You say lightly. “Haven’t decided what’s worth it.”
His mouth twitches, but his eyes don’t move. “Right.”
You turn back to the crate, crouching to rearrange it, aware of him still there. When you stand again, he’s closer - close enough that you can see every single line on his face. Could trace them with your fingers, if you just-
“You’re in the way,” You say, voice quieter now.
“Am I?”
“Yeah.”
He doesn’t move.
Suddenly, you feel like you can’t breathe. Like Jack has reached inside your chest, and managed to stop your heart with one firm grasp. “I-I uh, Alicia’s probably waiting for me.”
“Busy night,” He murmurs, considering before taking a step back. “I’m sure you’ll be back. I have a hypochondriac in chairs I’ve been avoiding - should probably get to him.”
“Thought you didn’t have any patients right now?”
“What’s a little white lie?”
You gather the rest of your things, and smile. “I’m glad you’re working tonight. Makes the holiday shift a little less shitty.”
“Yeah. Right back atcha, Skip.”
Making for the door, you make a mental note to thank Alicia for deciding to listen to you for the first time ever, when Jack speaks again.
“Hey.”
You turn, leaning your back against the doorway as you wait for him to continue.
“M’serious. Drive a little less like you, more like a law-abiding citizen. People’s inhibitions are lowered on the holidays. Don’t want you getting into an accident.”
You huff a quiet laugh, shifting the weight on your hip. “That concern I hear?”
“Hardly.”
“Mm,” You tilt your head, watching the way he squirms a little. “Sounds a bit like it, if I’m being honest.”
“It’s practical,” He says. “Less paperwork for me.”
“Right,” You nod, unconvinced. “Nothing to do with me.”
“Didn’t say that. You keep twistin’ my words tonight, kid.”
“You’re the one being awfully cagey tonight, Dr. Abbot. Maybe you should think about what you actually want to say to me while I’m away.”
“Maybe you’re right,” He hums, and you shoot him a wave before stepping back out into the ER. Chest heaving, you have no idea how you’re meant to get through the rest of the shift when he’s flirting with you like that on hour three.
“Did I just watch Abbot follow you into that supply room?”
A voice startles you from behind, and you turn to find one of the R2s, Page, watching you with an amused expression. As is common with this ER, she’s acquired a nickname from an unfortunate issue with a pager on her first day, and it’s stuck with her completely.
She’s also dating Langdon. Quite why, you’re not sure.
In your opinion, she could do so much better.
But in your opinion being single would be better than being with Langdon. He probably feels the same about you, too.
“I’ll text you later,” You reply, suddenly feeling an immense urge to get out of the Pitt, get some fresh air. Anything to put some distance between you both.
Right on cue, Jack emerges from the supply closet, and shoots you a wink before heading back to work.
You don’t give Page a chance to reply, and beeline for the ambulance bay.
*****
Your very next call lands you back in the Pitt, and this time you’re faced with another familiar face.
Leo.
The urge to scare your older brother has never quite worn off from your teenage years, and you find yourself sneaking up behind him, before clapping your hands down on his shoulders. “Leo!”
The shriek Leo lets out is one akin to a teenage girl seeing her favourite celebrity in real life. “Jesus - shit!”
You’re treated to a smack on your arm, and some further profanities tossed your way before Leo starts profusely apologising to Samira, who he’d previously been discussing something with. She nods, but you watch her bite back a laugh as she heads for Central.
Leo spins on his heel immediately, glaring at you. “What are you doing here?”
“Uh, my job? What are you doing, slumming it down in the ER?”
Leo’s not as bad as most surgeons, but he still has a tendency towards a little bit of a god complex. One that’s particularly on display whenever he has to make the journey down from the heavens - also known as the Pitt’s neuro department.
“Consult. Some guy fell off a balcony, his CT wasn’t looking too great.”
“Oh shit. I brought him in. You’re welcome, by the way. Kept him alive long enough for you to swoop in and be impressive.”
He moves to reply before stopping, his expression shifting slightly into something you can’t place, and you frown.
“What?”
He hesitates, then reaches into his pocket, pulling his phone out. “Mom texted.”
Your whole body tightens before you can stop it. “Why?”
“She wants us to come over next week,” He says, glancing at the screen. “Dad’s birthday.”
You let out a short, sharp laugh. “Absolutely not.”
“Figured you’d say that.”
“She won’t even want me there,” You shake your head. “I didn’t get any message.”
Leo sighs, rubbing at his forehead. “She asked for you by name. Said you haven’t replied to her texts in seven months.”
“I wonder why that could possibly be?” Your eyes dart round the ER, a quick check to make sure Jack isn’t watching. That’s the last thing you’d need.
Him learning about your fucked up family.
God, you wish you could just bask in the memory of the supply closet, and not have to deal with this shit for just one day.
“She asked me to ask you.”
“Well, it’s a no,” You say, already turning, fully intending on faking a call from Alicia just to get out of this conversation. “It’s always a no.”
Leo watches you for a second. “You didn’t even think about it.”
“I don’t need to think about it,” You snap. “I already know how this goes.”
“She’s seemed a little bit… less tough, since Grandpa died. Maybe she’s changing. Wants to make amends. It’s just dinner.”
“It’s never just dinner, Leo.”
He sighs, shifting his weight. “It’s his birthday.”
“And?” You shoot back, finally looking at him. “That suddenly makes everything fine?”
“No, I didn’t say that.”
“Then what are you saying?”
He hesitates, which is answer enough.
“You’re actually considering it?” You ask, incredulous. “What about my birthday? Or my graduation? Or that time I got the shit kicked out of me on the job, and nobody even bothered to send a measly card?”
The way Leo’s chin juts out makes you want to hit him. He’s always been stubborn, and you sense this is going to be yet another argument that ends in a stalemate. “I’m not saying that you’re not valid for feeling like that - they’ve been complete and utter pricks to you. I get that. But we’re all getting older. I just… I’m not saying that you need to forgive them.”
“Then what are you saying?” you press. “Because it sounds like you’re going.”
“I might,” He admits. “Just for an hour or two.”
That stings more than you expect. Tears spring to prick at your periphery, and you blink them back furiously. “Of course you are,” You mutter.
“Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Make it a thing.”
“I’m not making it a thing, because I’m not going. The only person making this into a thing is you.”
You don’t wait for his reply, but you can hear his footsteps behind you. “Come on, let’s talk about this-”
“Whatever. I have to go. Have fun with Mom and Dad.”
8PM
You know it’s going to be a bad call as soon as you pick the phone up.
“Possible overdose, male, mid-thirties, conscious but aggressive,” Dispatch crackles. “Caller reports erratic behaviour, possible substances involved.”
You glance at Alicia. "Alright. Well, this’ll be fun.”
By the time you pull up, the street’s already tense. A couple of neighbours lingering at a distance, one of them waving you over like they’re relieved to see you.
“He’s inside,” She says quickly. “He’s been shouting for twenty minutes. Threw something at the wall.”
“Anyone else in there?” You ask.
“No, just him.”
You nod once. “Alright. Stay back, yeah?”
Immediately, you’re overcome by a stench of sweat and alcohol, as soon as you enter the house. “Ambulance,” You call out, keeping your voice level as you step in. “We’re here to help, alright?”
There’s a crash from the next room.
“I don’t need help!” a man shouts back. “Get out!”
You step into the living room and find him pacing, shirt half off, eyes wide and unfocused. There’s a glass smashed on the floor, something overturned behind him.
“Hey,” You say, hands visible, calm, Alicia at your back. “I’m not here to fight you. Just want to make sure you’re alright.”
“I said get out!” He snaps, turning on you. “Who called you?”
“Doesn’t matter. People were just worried about you, heard some stuff from outside. Can we just sit down for a minute, yeah? Catch your breath, and we can talk.”
“I’m not sitting down.”
“Okay. That’s fine. We can stand.”
He stares at you, breathing hard, like he’s trying to decide if you’re a threat.
You take a small step closer. “Have you taken something tonight?”
“None of your business.”
“Okay,” You say. “But it helps me help you if you did.”
For a second, it looks like he might actually answer. Then his expression shifts. “What are you looking at?” he snaps suddenly, stepping toward you.
“I’m looking at you,” You say, steady. “Just talking.”
“Don’t look at me like that!”
He swings.
You step back just in time, his fist cutting past your face.
“Alright, okay,” You say quickly, hands up, while Alicia immediately reaches for a sedative in your kit. “We’re not doing that.”
He’s breathing hard, pacing again, running a hand through his hair.
“You’re not in trouble,” You add. “No one’s here to arrest you.”
“Then leave.”
“Can’t do that yet.”
Another pause. Tense.
“I said I’m fine.”
“You just tried to hit me.”
Silence for a second. You gesture for the sedative, and Alicia hands you it. Tucking it behind your back, you hope he doesn’t see it.
“Didn’t mean to,” He mutters, but it’s not convincing.
You nod slowly. “Alright. That’s fine. Let’s just calm things down a bit.”
You take a small step forward. Slow. Careful.
He watches you but doesn’t swing again.
“Good,” you say. “That’s good.”
Another step.
You manage to get close enough to sedate him without him even realising, and let out a heavy sigh, as you both lower him onto the board for the gurney. “Hope the rest of the night isn’t like this,” You mumble, as Alicia hoists him into the back of the ambulance.
Your phone buzzes, a notification from a groupchat you share with Page and Langdon - created after Page had insisted that you and Frank would get on if you just took the time to get to know each other. You’re not sure she’s right, but both of you are willing to go along with it for her sake.
Page <3. 20:31.
Whatever you did to Abbot, feel free to do again
He’s in a great mood.
Langdon. 20:32.
Be honest.
Did you have sex with him in the closet
He’s been smiling like an idiot for twenty minutes.
You 20:36.
ughhh i wish
but nope. just talked.
It allows you to forget about the fight with Leo, for a little bit. Focus on the good of the day. How you think you’re making real progress with Jack.
He’s definitely not like that with other colleagues.
You just wish he’d say something. Either take you out for drinks, and put an end to your misery, or tell you he’s not interested. Anything would be better than this back-and-forth.
Your overdose patient gets dropped off at Westbridge, before you and Alicia head back to the firehouse to grab a couple of things.
“Nice catch in there,” Alicia says, glancing over as she cleans her face in the bathroom mirror. “Literally. You almost got clobbered.”
You shrug, like it was nothing. “He was tiring himself out anyway.”
“Still,” She says. “That swing was close.”
“Yeah,” You admit, exhaling. “Bit too close.”
Alicia hums, but she’s smiling slightly. “You and your hero complex. The Jack Abbot effect, if you will. It’s not a good day’s work if you haven’t almost been injured in the name of the greater good.”
“And let you have all the fun?” you shoot back.
“Please,” She snorts. “I enjoy going home without a concussion.”
You grin faintly, but your mind’s already drifting.
Back to earlier.
To Jack.
The way his breath had tickled your neck. His arm, brushing against yours as he reached for something.
That look in his eyes. The way you could’ve kissed him if you’d made a single movement…
You pick at a loose thread on your sleeve, quieter now.
“You alright?” Alicia asks, catching the shift.
“Yeah,” You say automatically. Then, after a second, “Just… tired.”
“Mm,” She hums, not fully convinced but not pushing it. “Been a day.”
That’s one way to put it.
As if on cue, the walkie-talkie crackles to life, dispatch cutting through. “This is not a drill, I repeat, not a drill. There are currently at least two active shooters at North Shore Great Lawn. Police report at least nine casualties already, but there are currently approximately thirty-thousand attendees. We need all ambulances to the area as soon as possible, while taking the proper precautions.”
9PM
“There’s a shooting at the North Shore fireworks. EMTs are on the scene now, sounds like it’s going to make Pittfest look like a walk in the fucking park.”
Langdon, having been right next to the red emergency phone in the ER, had answered the call, his face paling with each passing word.
It should be easy for Jack to snap into military mode. He’s spent half his life preparing for situations like this. And with Robby in Philadelphia for a conference, Jack’s by far the most senior attending. He’s running this thing.
And yet all he can think about is the fact that you’re most likely on your way to the most dangerous event in Pittsburgh’s history, and how he suddenly feels sick to his stomach.
“We’re going to need as much back-up as we can get. Pulse?”
She nods, ear to her phone. “Robby’s starting the drive back, but he’ll be at least five hours. He’s gonna miss most of this. I’ll call everyone else.”
By now, the rest of the department have gathered around, eyes solemn as they wait for Jack’s instructions. “Alright - listen up,” He starts, voice cutting clean through the ER. “We’re going to get hit hard and fast. I want trauma bays cleared, non-urgent cases moved or discharged. Prep for GSWs, multiple - chest, head, abdomen. I also need all the blood in the hospital on standby. This isn’t going to be pretty.”
Jack feels like he could cry when Shen walks in. If Robby’s not here, they need another attending. He nods, before continuing his orders.
“Triage is going up outside - red, pink, yellow, green. You know the drill. I want it set before the first ambulance hits the bay. Langdon - can I trust you on that?”
People move. Fast.
“Page” Jack doesn’t even look at her. “You’re on red with me. Critical only. Anything that even looks like it might crash.”
“Got it.”
“Samira, take yellow. Stable but urgent. I don’t want them backing up in the corridor.”
She nods, already moving.
“Shen, run pink, and keep an eye on triage. Ellis, float between criticals and pinks. Med students and interns, I want you guys across greens and yellow. If you’re ever in trouble, look for your primary physicians. Me for Emergency, Emery Walsh for surgery. Got it?”
A few nods, and Jack lets out a small sigh. “If anybody can handle this, it’s us. We’ve bounced back before. I know for a lot of you, this might be horrifically familiar, but you know what to do. Trust your instincts, ask for help, and it’ll come.”
There’s a brief quiet, before everyone launches into their roles. Ellis catches Jack’s arm as she passes, turning him to face her. “She’ll be alright.”
Jack stills. “What?”
Ellis only smiles. “She’ll be alright,” She repeats. And then she’s gone.
Jack knows who she meant. He doesn’t even know the names of half the EMTs that come through this place.
He knows more about you than he does most of his direct colleagues.
You’d go straight in. You always do. First through the door, first to get your hands on someone who needs it. No hesitation, no second-guessing.
He swallows, jaw tightening. “Where are we on ambulances?”
“First wave’s five minutes out,” Someone calls.
Five minutes.
Your face flashes, uninvited - grinning, sharp-tongued, completely unfazed as you sling your kit over your shoulder like it weighs nothing.
Don’t want you getting into an accident.
“Jack?”
He blinks, snapping back.
“Yeah. Sorry. What?”
“Police are still clearing the scene. We don’t have full numbers yet.”
“Fine,” He says, sharper than he means to. “Assume worst case. We prepare for everything.”
You’ll be out there already. Of course you will be. First on scene, probably.
We've got a long night ahead of us.
His jaw tightens. “Airway carts stocked?” he asks.
“Almost.”
“Make it not almost.”
They scatter again.
“Blood bank’s been notified,” Pulse tells him. “They’re sending up coolers.”
“Good,” Jack nods. “Get them by trauma one and two. I don’t want delays.”
With the ambulances still a few minutes out, Jack moves through the department, checking stations, adjusting things that are already fine, keeping his hands busy.
Anything but standing still.
Outside, faint at first…
Sirens.
The first wave.
Jack’s head turns toward the doors immediately. “Positions.”
Cold air rushes in with the sound of engines, shouted voices, radios crackling over each other.
“Where do you want first red?”
“Here - trauma one!”
Jack steps forward, already pulling gloves on, eyes scanning as the first ambulance backs in hard.
Then another.
And another.
Doors slam open.
“GSW, male, twenties!” a paramedic that he vaguely recognises shouts, already moving. “Two to the chest, hypotensive, we’ve got a line but it’s slow-”
“I’ve got him,” Page calls, reaching for the gurney. “Kwon, you’re with me on this one.”
More voices. More movement.
Another crew jumps out of the second ambulance, still not yours.
“Multiple - shrapnel, blunt force trauma, we have two criticals-”
Jack’s focus splits, adjusts, recalibrates in real time. “Ellis, Shen, you take these!”
He turns again, and he finally sees it.
Your ambulance. Even if he didn’t know the number plate, he’d know it from the way you skid into the street. You’re driving. That’s a good sign.
Jack lets out a breath.
The doors haven’t even opened yet, and he’s already moving toward it.
Your voice is sharper than usual, making a beeline for the back of the ambulance, while Jack reaches for the other doors. “GSW, female, mid-twenties!” You fire off, not slowing. “One to the abdomen, one grazing the shoulder - she’s tachy, pressure’s dropping. Veins were collapsed, but we’ve got two large-bore lines in, fluids running, she’s responsive but fading-”
“Alright, we’ve got her,” Jack says, steady, hands already moving to assess. “On my count - one, two-”
The transfer is clean.
You keep talking, fast, automatic. “Bleeding controlled as best we could, but she’s been unstable since we loaded.”
“We’ve got it from here, kid,” Jack replies, offering you a nod. “Good job.”
You nod, but you can’t quite meet his gaze, hands trembling a little. It’s the first time he’s ever seen you look scared in his life.
Your breathing’s off, eyes a little too wide, like you’re still halfway back out there.
"Hey, hey, c'mon - look at me."
Jack's voice cuts through the haze, and brings the Pitt screaming back into focus. You force yourself to meet his gaze.
"Are you okay?"
You nod, lip between your teeth. "I-I'm okay - but we've got more people to get. There were still shots being fired when we left."
You go to move, head back out to Alicia and the ambulance, when a hand wraps round your bicep. Jack stops you in your tracks, pulling you back round to face him. "Be careful out there," He murmurs, barely audible. "Stay low, be vigilant, and don't be a hero."
You manage the smallest smile. "When have I ever done that?"
Jack lets out a groan. "You're going to be the death of me, some day. I'm serious, okay? Don't want to end up digging a bullet out of your shoulder."
"You focus on the casualties in here, and I'll focus on the casualties out there," You reply, before softening a little. "I'll be fine. S'what I signed up for, right?"
Jack nods, an almost reluctant air hanging over him. "See you soon, Skip."
"What, no kiss for good luck?"
You figure it’s worth a try. You’d feel a lot better about the prospect of potential death after a kiss from Jack. In an ideal world, you’d be pulling him into a supply closet, and kissing him until you can’t breathe, but at this point you’d accept a peck.
"Come back in one piece and we'll talk."
10PM
It’s a chaos unlike anything you’ve ever seen.
People running screaming, a shot fired off in the distance. You have no idea whether it’s police gunfire, or if the shooters are still at large. You’d been told the area had been cleared by law enforcement, but given the sheer panic at large, you’re not sure.
You don’t have time to figure it out.
Training takes over before the fear can root properly. Move. Assess. Act. Your boots hit pavement slick with spilled drinks and something darker, weaving through bodies that aren’t moving and bodies that won’t stop moving, hands grabbing at you, voices overlapping, too many people shouting at once.
You can’t go to all of them. You know that. You hate it anyway.
You drop to your knees beside the first one you reach, hands already working before your brain catches up. No chest rise. Skin already losing colour. You check anyway, fingers pressing, searching…
Nothing.
The next two are the same. From beside you, Alicia isn’t having any more luck with hers.
You swallow hard, forcing yourself to move. You don’t even have time to think about who they were five minutes ago.
Another a few feet away. You pivot, scrambling over broken glass, breath coming faster now.
Same.
No response. No pulse.
It’s a massacre.
Finally, you catch movement, over by a barricade. A man slumped against it, hand clamped over his side, blood seeping through his fingers. He’s conscious, barely, eyes glassy but tracking.
“Hey - hey, I’ve got you,” You tell him, and then say your name. “I’m a paramedic, and we’re going to get you to a hospital, alright?”
He tries to speak, but it comes out broken, wet.
Around you, the noise hasn’t let up. If anything, it’s worse - sirens draw closer, while the shouts and screams just get louder. And then-
“Get down!”
The shout cuts through everything.
You don’t think.
You just move.
Your body shifts forward, instinct taking over completely as you drop over the man, shielding as much of him as possible with your own body. One arm is braced, the other still trying to hold pressure where it matters.
A shot cracks through the air.
Some job the police have done at sealing this area of the park off.
You didn’t work Pittfest. You’d been on a girl’s weekend in Vegas, and had heard the news from across the country. All the trauma that your friends suffered, you saw nothing but the aftermath. There’s always been a lingering guilt, at the fact that you missed it. A paramedic died that day, and it could’ve quite easily been you.
You don’t remember the last time you were genuinely terrified.
Another shot rings out.
Closer.
Your whole body flinches, heart slamming so hard it knocks the air out of your chest. For a second, you can’t breathe. Can’t think. Every instinct is screaming at you to run, to get up, to get out.
But you don’t.
11PM
The hospital staff has multiplied in size, but it still feels like they’re falling further and further behind.
“Feels like we’re losing,” Someone mutters somewhere behind Jack. He turns to see Walsh emerge from the elevators, strands of her hair plastered to her face with the sweat.
He nods. She’s not wrong. He can feel it in the way patients are stacking up faster than they can clear beds, in the way decisions are getting shorter, sharper, more brutal.
“You look like shit,” She says by way of greeting.
“Good to see you too,” Jack shoots back. “You here to help or critique?”
“Bit of both,” She replies easily, eyes already scanning the department. “What’ve we got?”
“Too many,” he says. “GSWs, blast injuries, crowd crush. Take your pick. All the ORs open now?”
“Just about. She steps closer, lowering her voice slightly. “What’s your red count looking like?”
“Too high.”
“Define too high.”
Jack exhales. “We’re about to start making calls we don’t like.”
“Well, let’s keep it from getting to that point, okay? Call me for any real bad shit - you know I like the freaky stuff.”
Jack nods, and waves her off. Walsh takes a few steps, before turning back to him, eyebrow raised. “You good?”
It’s not soft. Not gentle. But very Emery.
Jack nods automatically. “Yeah.”
“Bullshit,” she says, just as quick. “Try again.”
He doesn’t have time for this. “Ask me again when this shitshow is over.”
Walsh is gone, and Jack manages another few patients before the door to the ER burst open. He sees you before anything else.
Covered in blood. Not the usual streaks, not the manageable, expected kind that comes with the job, but soaked through, dark and spreading across your uniform, your hands, your neck. Too much. Far too much.
“What the hell happened?”
Jack zeroes in on you immediately. He knows that his focus should be on the patient right now. That, chances are, you’re covered in his blood, and not your own.
But there’s something about the way the blood is matted in your hair, streaked across your neck and arms, that has him totally frozen.
It could so easily be you on the gurney in front of him.
The thought makes him feel sick to his stomach.
“Did you get hit?”
“Not my blood,” You reply urgently, and the tension in his shoulders eases just a little. “Adult male, twenties, GSW to the right hypochondriac, we gave a unit of RBCs in the field, but he’ll definitely need more. BP is 92/58 and falling-”
Jack nods, trying desperately to absorb the information in front of him, instead of keeping his eyes on you. “Page Walsh, tell her to get down here now-”
Joy nods, and reaches for the phone as you wheel the gurney into Trauma One.
“Alright, everyone, on my count,” You start. “One, two, three-”
Collectively, you transfer the patient over to the hospital bed, and Alicia pulls the gurney out of the way.
Jack, Jesse and Whitaker crowd round, all moving in perfect tandem. “Tell me what you want to do now, Doctor Whitaker,” Jack instructs, reaching for anything he might need.
“Good breath sounds bilaterally, but we need an ultrasound for the stomach, surgical consult, probable surgery for liver lacerations?”
Jack just nods, finally able to flip entirely to Doctor mode. He barks out a couple of orders, keeping a close eye on the patient’s vitals.
There’s no way that he should hear it.
The slightest breath falling from your lips, halfway across the ED. If it had been anybody else in the world, Jack thinks he wouldn’t have heard a thing.
“Jack?”
It’s barely audible - nothing like your usual timbre, and has him immediately spinning on his heel.
Over by Central, your eyes are a little glazed as you try and search him out. Your jacket is undone, and your hand is pressing at something underneath. Your fingers are covered in fresh blood, and Jack’s heart sinks.
When your knees buckle, he’s already halfway to you.
Series Summary:
Jack came back to Boston shattered. His leg was gone, and he was dumped by his girlfriend, who was unable to handle his new reality. Suddenly... he’s alone, grieving the life he thought he’d return to, and wondering if he's even fit to be a doctor anymore. And then he meets you...his annoyingly persistent physical therapist who refuses to let his bad attitude scare you off.
Warnings: Smut (18+MDNI), slow burn, language, mutual pining, flirting, sexual tension, medical trauma, mentions of war, angst, family dysfunction, mentions of infidelity (not between reader and jack), any additional warning will be listed in each chapter
A/N: This idea is stuck in my head. I sort of teased this story when I described how Jack met his wife in this one-shot. I view this as the prequel, and it will be told between two major timelines:
2016 - The "present" time in this story
2006 - When you and Jack meet
my mouth hasn’t shut up about you, since you kissed it. the idea that you might kiss it again is stuck in my brain, which hasn’t stopped thinking about you since well, before any kiss.
summary following your six month leave, you’re back at ptmc ready to continue your residency. you tell yourself you’re fine. the weight is manageable. the rush of the hospital should keep your thoughts from wandering where they shouldn’t. for a while that mindset will work, but there will be times, fleeting, where you remember why you left, and will have trouble remembering why you’re back. he won’t make it any easier, and he’s not going to let you leave again, and maybe you aren’t ready to leave either. he’s already figured you out, and he’s tightening his grasp on you, ready to hold you steady in the palm of his hand.
warnings fem!reader, she/her pronouns used, conservative usage of y/n, suggestive language, slight angst, sexual references, mostly fluff, reader is referred to as gerbil (explained later), the author tries to be funny 😔 age gap (29/50), mentions of grief and loss, estranged parent(s), reader often misses social cues. (will include chapter specific warnings) past emery x reader (if you squint)
a/n came across this tweet, after a night of binging the pitt, and here we are now.
