⤿ DEAN HEYWARD-DI LAURENTIS was the boy no one could get enough of. The thing was, you just didn't get it... until you did.
!! wc: 2.8k. fluff. fem!reader. enemies to lovers ish. flirting. innuendo. dean being dean. dean fell first and hard. reader lowkey nonchalant w it. COME TO ME MY FELLOW OFF CAMPUS LOVERS. i will die for this series and briar u and the kids series. taglist open. off campus masterlist coming soon. ENJOY.
By the time you realized Dean Heyward-Di Laurentis was flirting with you, it was already too late to do anything about it.
Not because he was subtle, because he absolutely was not, but because Dean flirted with everyone in a way that made him difficult to read at first. He smiled too easily, leaned too close during conversations, carried this effortless warmth around with him that made people naturally gravitate toward him without even realizing they were doing it. Most girls at Briar noticed him immediately, and most of them reacted exactly the same way whenever he walked into a room.
You hadn’t.
That alone seemed to fascinate him more than it should have.
The first time you met him had been at a party during your sophomore year, one of those overcrowded hockey house parties where the music was too loud and the floors were sticky from spilled alcohol, where bodies moved shoulder to shoulder through dim lighting while somebody shouted along terribly to music in the kitchen.
You’d been standing near the back porch trying to escape the heat inside when Dean stepped out beside you holding two beers.
At the time, you only knew of him as one of Briar’s hockey players, though that was nearly impossible not to know considering how often everyone at this damn school talked about that team.
“You look miserable,” he’d said casually, offering you one of the beers.
You glanced at it before looking back at him. “You offer drinks to unhappy strangers at all of your parties?”
“Only the pretty ones.”
You had laughed then despite yourself, mostly because he’d said it so naturally that it didn’t even sound rehearsed.
“That line probably works on a lot of people.”
“It works better when they don’t immediately insult me after.”
“You survived.”
“Barely.”
There was something unfairly likable about him up close. Maybe it was the confidence that was accented by dimples, or maybe it was the fact that unlike some of the other hockey players, Dean actually listened when people spoke to him. Conversations with him felt easy in a dangerous sort of way, the kind that slipped by too quickly without you noticing.
You ended up talking with him for nearly an hour that night.
Then somehow he started appearing everywhere afterward.
Sometimes it was accidental. Other times it very obviously was not.
You’d find him outside one of your lecture halls leaning against the wall waiting for Garrett or Logan only for him to fall into step beside you afterward, like it was the most natural thing in the world. He’d steal the seat next to yours in class despite it being a lecture hall with plenty of open seats.
He'd distract you while you studied, complain dramatically whenever you refused to help him with assignments he definitely could have done himself if he tried hard enough.
And slowly, without either of you acknowledging it outright, he became part of your life.
It happened in pieces so small you barely noticed them.
Dean texting you first whenever something funny happened.
Dean showing up at your apartment with coffee because you mentioned once that you hated mornings.
Dean touching the small of your back absentmindedly when he moved around you in crowded rooms.
Your friends noticing the shift long before you did.
“He likes you,” your roommate had told you one night while you got ready for bed.
You rolled your eyes immediately. “Dean likes everyone.”
“No,” she drawled carefully, “I think he really likes you.”
At the time, you brushed it off.. mostly because the idea felt ridiculous.
Dean Heyward-Di Laurentis was charming in a way that belonged to everyone around him. He laughed with everybody, flirted with everybody, made people feel wanted so effortlessly that it was hard to imagine any of it meaning something deeper.
And maybe that was the problem.
Because you never realized how serious it had become for him.
Not until much later.
Not until the night everything finally cracked open between you.
It happened in late November after one of Briar’s home games, when the campus had already started settling into winter, and the air outside the arena carried that sharp cold that made your lungs ache when you breathed too deeply.
You waited near the parking lot while students poured out around you in loud groups, bundled in jackets and scarves while snow flurries drifted lazily through the streetlights overhead.
You had almost decided to leave by the time Dean finally emerged from the arena.
The parking lot outside Briar’s hockey rink had thinned considerably over the last fifteen minutes, the loud clusters of students slowly disappearing into the snowy dark while the cold deepened around you in sharp, biting waves.
The game had ended almost half an hour ago, but postgame celebrations always dragged on longer after a win, especially when the team played the way they had tonight. They were fast and aggressive and good enough to keep the crowd screaming well into the third period.
You stood near the edge of the sidewalk with your hands shoved deep into your coat pockets, shifting your weight occasionally to keep warm while snowflakes drifted steadily from the sky overhead. They gathered in the sleeves of your coat and melted against your skin, dampening pieces of hair near your face while your breath curled visibly in the freezing air.
Your phone screen lit briefly in your hand.
11:42 PM.
You should probably go home at this point. Plus, why stick around anyway? The only people who stuck around this long were family, significant others, and girls who were hoping to get lucky with a player. You were none of the above.
That thought had crossed your mind at least four times already, especially considering Dean had no idea you were even waiting for him out here in the first place. You could still leave now before he came outside and preserve at least some of your dignity, because standing alone in a freezing parking lot after nearly midnight waiting for a boy who smiled at you a little too nicely was not behavior you were particularly proud of.
Still, your feet stayed planted where they were.
Which was embarrassing to unpack if you thought about it too hard.
The arena doors finally swung open again a few seconds later, releasing another burst of noise and warmth into the cold night air as several players filtered out alongside a few students lingering near the entrance. You looked up automatically, more out of instinct than intention.
Then you saw him.
Dean Heyward-Di Laurentis, himself, walked out laughing at something one of his teammates said, hockey bag slung over one shoulder while exhaustion visibly weighed through the line of his posture. His damp hair curled slightly from sweat beneath the harsh overhead lights, and even from a distance, you could see the fatigue sitting heavily across his face after the game.
Then his eyes landed on you.
And his entire expression changed.
It was subtle enough that most people probably would not have noticed it unless they were looking carefully, but you did.
The exhaustion softened first.
Then his shoulders loosened slightly beneath the weight of his bag, tension easing from him in real time as warmth spread slowly across his features. The tiredness didn't disappear entirely, but something gentler replaced it now, something so immediate and instinctive that it sent an annoying little flip through your stomach before you could stop it.
“There you are,” Dean said once he reached you, his voice roughened slightly from yelling over the game and the freezing night air.
Something about the familiarity of it settled strangely in your chest.
Not the words themselves, but the way he said them, easy and certain, like he had expected to find you waiting for him outside the arena all along. Like your presence beside the rink after every home game had become something reliable to him, something normal.
You tried not to think too hard about why that affected you as much as it did.
Instead, you shoved your hands deeper into your coat pockets and forced yourself to sound casual when you said, “You played decent tonight, Di Laurentis.”
Dean immediately looked offended.
“Decent?” he repeated, adjusting the strap of his hockey bag higher onto his shoulder while he stared at you in disbelief. “That’s what I get after scoring twice? And defending my goalie after he got knocked? And pointing to you after I scored? And cheering G up in the locker room?”
You shrugged, though his grin was already making it annoyingly difficult to hold onto your composure for very long. “You want me to lie and say you were amazing?”
“Yes, actually, that would be nice.”
The laugh that slipped out of you came easier than you intended, soft and visible in the cold air between you.
For a second, Dean just looked at you.
Not in the careless, charming way he usually looked at people, but openly because your amusement was something worth paying attention to. Snow caught lightly in his light hair and along the shoulders of his jacket, while the harsh lights from the parking lot reflected faintly across his face. Despite the exhaustion still lingering around him after the game, there was some playful warmth creeping back into his eyes.
The look on his face made your chest tighten in a way you were trying very hard not to examine too closely.
Without really discussing it, the two of you started walking toward Malone's together.
The arena noise slowly faded behind you with every step, swallowed by the quiet stillness settling over Briar this late at night. Snow crunched softly beneath your boots as you moved side by side down the sidewalk, your shoulders brushing occasionally whenever one of you drifted too close. The roads nearby had mostly emptied by now, leaving only the occasional headlights cutting through the dark or the distant sound of voices carrying across campus.
The snow had started sticking properly sometime during the third period.
Now it dusted across the ground in thin white layers and gathered along Dean’s hair in uneven flakes, catching briefly in his lashes whenever he glanced over at you. The cold had turned the tip of his nose pink, though somehow it only made him look more unfairly attractive.
“You waiting long?” he asked after a moment.
“Not really.”
“Bullshit. That's a total lie.”
You glanced sideways at him despite yourself. “Fine, maybe a little.”
His mouth twitched immediately, like he was trying not to smile too hard at that answer.
Then something in his expression shifted. The teasing faded first.Then the easy confidence.
What replaced it was quieter somehow, more focused, and the sudden intensity of his attention made your stomach tighten unexpectedly.
“You came to every game this month,” he said.
The observation landed softly between you, but your pulse reacted instantly anyway.
You forced yourself to shrug. “I support Briar athletics, I love that my tuition money goes towards the team throwing free shirts into the stands and paying for your overpriced locker room. I figured I should get my money's worth.”
“Bullshit, again.”
You looked away too quickly, trying to hide the smile already pulling at your mouth, but Dean noticed anyway. Of course he did.
“That smile means I’m right.”
“You’re so annoying after wins.”
“I’m annoying all the time.”
“That’s... Actually, yeah, that's true.”
His laugh came low and warm beside you before he nudged his shoulder lightly against yours.
The contact lasted barely a second.
Still, warmth spread slowly through your chest anyway, familiar now in the worst possible way.
Because that had become the real problem with Dean lately.
Not the flirting.
Not the confidence.
Not even the fact that nearly every girl at Briar looked at him like he personally hung the moon.
The problem was that he made everything feel like more than it was. Truthfully, that could have been because, in your heart, you didn't want to believe you'd fall for an athlete's charm so easily. But based on what everyone around you said, you weren't delusional in thinking that it was more than it seemed.
Every glance lingered slightly too long. Every touch carried enough softness behind it to leave you thinking about it afterward. Even his attention felt different from other people’s somehow, steady and deliberate in a way that slowly worked its way beneath your skin before you even realized it was happening.
Being around Dean felt dangerously similar to standing too close to a fire in the middle of winter.
Comforting at first.
Then overwhelming before you noticed yourself getting burned.
And lately, whatever existed between the two of you had started drifting dangerously close to becoming something real.
Neither of you talked about it.
Maybe because acknowledging it aloud would ruin the fragile balance you’d fallen into together.
Or maybe because both of you were too afraid the other person didn’t feel it too.
“You know,” Dean said eventually, quieter now, his gaze fixed ahead on the snowy sidewalk instead of on you, “Tuck thinks I’m in love with you.”
Your entire body nearly short-circuited.
You missed a step slightly before catching yourself again, your head swiveling in a double-take. “Sorry.. what?”
Dean let out a huff of a laugh under his breath, though this time there was tension underneath it that hadn’t been there before.
“That reaction’s making this just a little harder for me.”
You stopped walking for half a second before hurrying to catch up beside him again. “You’re joking.”
“I’m not.”
The simplicity of the answer made your stomach twist sharply.
Snow continued drifting lazily around the two of you while silence settled heavily between your footsteps. Your pulse suddenly felt uneven beneath your ribs, loud enough that you were half convinced Dean could hear it if he stood any closer.
For several long seconds, neither of you spoke.
Then finally, carefully, you looked over at him. “And what did you say?”
Den exhaled slowly through his nose.
The faint smile that touched his mouth this time looked different from his usual ones somehow, smaller and quieter, almost disbelieving.
“I told Tuck he was an idiot.”
“That sounds more believable.”
“Yeah,” he murmured softly. “Except I think he might’ve been right.”
Everything inside you seemed to still at once.
Not dramatically.
Not like movies where music swelled and the entire world stopped turning.
Just enough that suddenly every detail around you became painfully sharp all at once.
The sound of snow beneath your boots. The cold wind brushing against your face. The uneven rhythm of your breathing. The way Dean was looking at you now.
And maybe the strangest part of all was realizing he looked nervous.
Dean Heyward-Di Laurentis, who could walk into any room and immediately own it without trying, who flirted effortlessly and smiled without hesitation, looked genuinely nervous standing beside you on a dark, snowy sidewalk.
Like you had the ability to hurt him.
“You don’t have to say anything,” he added quickly after the silence stretched too long, his voice quieter now, rough around the edges in a way you had never heard from him before. “Seriously, I just…” He broke off briefly, glancing away before laughing once under his breath. “I got tired of pretending this feels casual to me when it doesn’t. And trust me, it's just as crazy for me to say that as it is for you to hear that.”
Your chest tightened painfully at the honesty in that.
Because suddenly the last few months rearranged themselves inside your head into something entirely different.
Dean waiting outside your classes even when his own were across campus.
Dean memorizing your coffee order after hearing it once.
Dean always finding you first in crowded rooms.
Dean texting you every night before playing an away game.
None of it had been accidental.
None of it had ever been casual.
And maybe the worst part was realizing yours hadn’t been either.
“You fall hard, huh?” you asked quietly.
A surprised laugh escaped him then, softer than before, carrying something almost embarrassed underneath it.
“You got no idea.” He drawled, his hands pushing his hair back in more of a 'I-Don't-Know-What-To-Do-With-My-Hands' way than anything else.
The honesty of it hit you harder than anything else had tonight.
Because Dean wasn’t teasing now. Wasn’t flirting. Wasn’t charming his way through another conversation with that easy confidence everyone associated with him.
He meant it.
And standing there beside him while snow gathered slowly across the shoulders of his jacket and melted into your hair, you realized with sudden, terrifying clarity that somewhere along the way, without meaning to, you had fallen hard too.
Hii, i was wondering if you can make this about shen
Shen got injured in the er and they called his emergency contact aka his secret wife (reader).
Yes, yes, yes, yes. I am such a sucker for secret relationships and the injured trop! It is just always so satisfying and ahhhh. I loved writing this and had so much fun with it! I also hope I captured what you were looking for… but I feel like I kind of drifted off a little, but I did my best to keep close to the request!
Wife surprise
Pairing: John Shen x reader
Summary: Shen is assaulted during his shift and the night shift meets his emergency contact.
Warnings: assault of healthcare workers, angst, fluff, married couple, Pitt crew being nosy
Words: 2.2k
DISCLAIMER: PICTURE JUST FOR AESTHETIC PURPOSES NOT MEANT TO DESCRIBE READER
The drunk cohort of men had come into the ED at around 1 a.m., none of the night shift crew had been happy about it. They were rowdy and rude, not the pleasant giggly drunks that sometimes came into the ED when one of them had stumbled and twisted their ankle. No, they were aggressive and disruptive, the moment Shen had understood that those men were not going to be any calmer he had pulled all the female staff off the case, deciding that he would not risk getting them assaulted if he could help it. The risk of any of the women getting assaulted would be higher than if a man was treating the guy.
One of them had an incredibly deep cut on his forehead, something that they would definitely staple, however Shen had wanted to wait a little bit with it in hopes of having him sober up at least a little. At least that was something that usually worked in getting people like that to calm down slightly. Though as he came back into the room he realised that the patient and his companions had only gotten more brash and aggressive after the wait.
They had greeted him with angry shouts and grunts, one of them kicking the bed his friend laid on. Shen watched them carefully, not happy with how this was going or how they were behaving even in the slightest.
„I am sorry for the long wait,“ he really wasn‘t, there were other patients that needed tending to and he might have also taken a quick bathroom break. Still he could at least try to appease these men slightly and not make them even angrier than they already were.
„Yeah, yeah, same shit y‘all always say,“ the man with the head laceration muttered. For a moment he considered leaving again to get someone else in the room with him, but he wanted to have them out of the ED as soon as possible now that he realised sobriety did not make them any more pleasant.
After that it happened so quickly and unprovoked that he had no time to react or even understand what happened. As he rounded the bed one of his patient‘s friends shot up from his chair and punched him in the face. Pain blossomed through his entire cheek and deeply into his skull, a sickening crack came from somewhere and he hit the ground, everything spinning and turning, not even able to catch himself as he tumbled.
People were shouting and sharp pain and another sickening crack followed as a boot connected to his stomach once. Ringing started in his ears as he felt the cool floor beneath them. There was blood, it had to be his for sure, but somehow the entire situation did not feel real at all. Someone had pulled the man back though he was not sure who it was. The voices around him were dulled down, almost like people were talking through cotton to him.
Someone said something to him, the ringing got less in his ears. Blinking slowly he saw Mateo talking to him. Kneeling by his side, a hand placed on his shoulder as the nurse‘s lips moved but none of them registered in his mind.
„We are going to get you into a wheelchair now,“ Those were the first words that registered again, words that somehow felt extremely surreal. Mateo and Kyle helped him into a wheelchair, around him everything felt clearer again, not only the sounds and everything he could see, but also the pain. Sharp stabbing in his stomach and the throbbing pain in his head that felt like someone was trying to pry his skull open with pliers.
“Lena is calling someone for you,“ Mateo said as they wheeled Shen out of the room and towards the nurses station. The movement of everything around him was sickening, closing his eyes he took a deep breath, trying to quell the nausea. At those words he took another deep breath, knowing that the person listed as his emergency contact was probably already sound asleep and loose her mind the moment the hospital called.
—————
The sound that pulled her out of her sleep was not her alarm. It was definitely not her alarm. That would sound completely different. That was her ringtone, reaching over to her nightstand; she picked up the call, deciding that it had to be important if whoever was calling her was calling at this hour of the night.
„Lena Handzo speaking, I am the charge nurse for PTMC‘s emergency department,“ all sleep that had still been clouding her mind was completely erased at those words. John‘s work never called her. Sitting up straight in bed she felt worry seeping into the pit of her stomach, quickly saying her name she held her breath, hoping that everything was okay. That this was just some kind of bad joke John had thought off and that they were not calling her for anything serious.
„You are the emergency contact for one of our physicians, John Shen?“ the nurse sounded worried, but also slightly confused, something that did not surprise her at all. She knew that they had never met her before and that John kept their relationship rather private from his colleagues.
„Yes, that is right. Did something happen?“ she asked, pulling the blanket off her legs and starting the frantic search for a bra, finding one she put the nurse on speaker.
“He was assaulted by one of the patients“ she answered the question, dread washed over her as she heard those words. Her sweet, kind, husband was assaulted by some jackass at work.
“I will be there in twenty minutes,“ she said quickly, hanging up on the nurse before she could say anything else. Pulling off her sleep shirt, putting on the bra and slipping back into her sleep shirt before picking up the phone again. Heading towards the hallway, putting on a jacket and slipping into shoes she grabbed her car keys, apartment keys and phone she practically jumped down the stairs of the apartment, running towards her car, heart racing and sick with worry. The words of the nurse continued to echo in her mind. Assaulted. It had been so vague. Was he alright? Would he need longer treatment? The spiral did not stop on the way to the hospital.
She made it to PTMC in record time, probably going fast enough to give John a heart attack if he ever heard she drove like that. Parking the car she headed towards the entrance of the emergency department heart still pounding.
The waiting room smelled like sweat and people as she entered an unpleasant mixture if she was honest. Quickly heading towards the front desk, worry still gnawing at her insides as she stepped up to the window. The waiting room wasn‘t as packed as she thought it would be, but also not as empty as she had hoped for the night shift team.
An older woman sat behind the glass, tall and lanky, her grey hair tied into a tight knot at the back of her neck, a pair of glasses perched on top of her nose as she looked at her with pursed lips.
„I am here for John Shen, the charge nurse called me,“ she could feel her heart beating in her mouth. Hands shaking as the woman nodded, giving her a sympathetic smile. Those words almost felt foreign as she said them.
„Just head over to those double doors, darling, I am going to buzz you in,“ she said in a soft tone. Quickly heading over to said double doors she could feel the impatience growing, just wanting to see that he was alright.
At the buzz she pressed the doors open and headed into the emergency department. It was loud, not a pleasant environment, people running around, shouting for something and machines beeping, though she already saw what her goal would be: a station at the center of the chaos.
She had never been in the ED before. John had been rather insistent on her not coming to visit him at work, telling her that it was not an environment she would like in the slightest and he had been completely right. This was not something she enjoyed at all, too hectic, too loud, too bright.
„Hey,“ she introduced herself to an older woman standing at one of the computers, not sure what she was supposed to do. It was rare that she felt completely helpless, but right now she definitely did. Breathing was becoming harder as she saw people looking at her, the interest evident on their faces.
„Hey, I am Lena, we talked on the phone,“ the woman said, „Just so you know, he is okay. A companion of a patient punched him. He just came back from getting his x-ray taken and CT scan, he is in central four, I can take you there if you would like.“ Lena said softly, looking at her with keen interest. Nodding vigorously she felt the tension that had been building in her shoulders since the phone call ease a little at last.
„Please,“ she nodded, just wanting to see how he was doing. Wringing her hands together she looked at the woman who pushed her glasses up on her head.
„But just for the record…your relationship to Dr. Shen is what exactly?“ Lena asked, she was mildly taken aback by the question. She thought that John had to have told them about her at least even if he kept their relationship private.
„I am his wife,“ she said, staring at Lena with uneasiness growing in her stomach. The woman simply nodded, ushering her to follow her to one of the rooms. It was close to the hub and she saw John laying on the bed, head resting on a pillow, an ice pack pressed to his face while one of the nurses talked to him.
„Got someone here for you,“ Lena said, a small smile on her lips. She hurried to John‘s side, taking his free hand, giving him a quick once over. There were remnants of dried blood on his lips and around his nose. Under the ice pack she could see the faint outline of a bruise forming, otherwise he looked alright.
„Hey, baby,“ John smiled at her, her heart breaking a little as she saw him there. He looked absolutely exhausted, the bags under his eyes more prominent than usual and his hair all mussed.
„Hey,“ she gently brushed his hair back, feeling how her hands were still shaking, the worry not really easing even if she could see him now, see that he was alright.
„She can stay as long as she would like, Shen‘s wife,“ Lena said to the nurse that had been talking to her husband before. A certain hint of amusement in her voice as she spoke to the other nurse.
„Wife?“ the nurse sounded surprised, eyes flickering over to her as she continued to stroke his head. She was slightly surprised that John had not told any of his colleagues about her, however she knew that this was not a conversation to have now.
„Just a concussion and a black eye, nothing worse, got a nasty bruise on my stomach where he kicked me,“ John mumbled as he pressed a gentle kiss to the inside of her wrist. Staring at him for a moment she wasn‘t sure how he could be so casual about it, but maybe it was just his way of dealing with it all. Cradling his cheek in her hand she tilted her head to the side.
„Just? God, John you are not going back to work tonight,“ she gently began stroking his cheek, trying to soothe herself. She knew that him working in healthcare was always a risk, but she had never believed that he would actually get assaulted by one of his patients. This felt like straight out of a nightmare and bad TV show at the same time.
„You are not the first person to say that to me,“ he laughed, nuzzling his face into the palm of her hand. Shaking her head as a breathy laugh escaped her lips. Glancing up she saw a group of nurses and also from the looks of it doctors gathered at the station, all of them staring into the room, smiling to herself she turned back to John, taking a seat on the chair.
“Well, then maybe you should listen,“ she hummed, smiling at John, who also looked down at her, a small smile on his lips. He looked like he was about to fall asleep, but the way he looked at her made her want to pull him close to her and never let go of him ever again.
„Maybe I should, best for me probably, otherwise no one is going to stop bothering me about me keeping you quiet or getting punched by a patient,“ he hummed, the visible part of his face taking on the same fond expression he had worn on their wedding day.
„Well, maybe patients also don‘t want to be treated by a doctor with a big fat black eye,“ she raised her eyebrow at him, smiling softly as she leaned back in the chair, just glad that he was alright. „And maybe that part about you keeping me quiet will come to bite you in the ass sooner rather than later anyways.“
„Touché,“ he hummed, gently squeezing her hand as she stroked his knuckles, just glad that he was alright.
Notes: Can I interest you in parentified eldest daughter falling in love with a man with some fucking whimsy
Warnings: Exes to lovers; Whump. Lots of whump; descriptions of Reader being sick multiple times (not super explicit); mentions of pregnancy (but no actual pregnancy); reader is a workaholic; cursing; flashbacks; complicated family dynamics; reader has named sisters - no physical descriptions; canon-typical medical situations; reader's age is unspecified, but she and her sisters are all adults
Summary: John’s hands hook onto the railing of the gurney, his eyes darting to your face every few seconds as your entourage of medical professionals steers you down the hall.
“So,” He offers, “Fancy seeing you here.”
And you so don’t want to let him make you smile, but you can’t help yourself.
“This is a bit much,” He adds as you’re wheeled onto the elevator, “I mean, I told you you could call and you show up at my job instead? I appreciate the effort, but you're coming off a little desperate.”
When you propel yourself out of bed, you’re blindly guided by two things: your instinctual knowledge of where your en suite bathroom is, and your stomach violently rejecting its contents.
You drop to the floor, knees roughly smacking the cold tile as you fumble with the lid of your toilet. Your body shudders as you heave, fingers gripping the cool porcelain desperately. When the sickness finally lets up, you lean back, blinking the tears from your eyes. You swallow thickly, drawing in a deep breath, then wincing as your stomach threatens to revolt again. You lean back, closing the lid and flushing the toilet as you fight to steady your breathing.
The knocking on your door makes you jump, and you raise a shaking hand to your chest, croaking,
“Yeah?”
“You okay in there?”
You nod, though your youngest sister can’t see you, then manage,
“‘M fine.”
“Can I open the door?”
“...Yeah.”
It’s a moment before Lisa’s opening the door and peering inside, her brow furrowed at the sight of you where you’re still sitting on the floor.
“Are you okay?”
“You already asked me that.”
“Yeah, but that was before I saw you looking like…Well, this.”
“Who taught you to be so sweet?”
“You did.”
You offer a wobbly smile, huffing softly as you push yourself up. “Asshole.”
“Uh-huh.” Lisa folds her arms across her chest. “What the hell, by the way?”
“I don’t know,” You grumble, pumping soap into your hands and scrubbing up along your arms where you were leaning against the toilet. “Probably something I ate last night.”
“Could always call your doctor friend and make sure.”
The mention of him has your stomach churning again. “Ha-ha.”
“He should be getting off-shift soon,” Lisa adds as you rinse with mouth wash, “Could invite him over for a check-up.”
You swish, spit, and shoot Lisa a glare couched in a sickly sweet smile.
“Thanks for all of your help, Li.”
Lisa snorts, pushing off of the door frame as she drawls, “Fiiine. I’m gonna get ready for class.”
“You need a ride?”
“No, Joey’s gonna come pick me up—don’t.”
“Hm.”
“Don’t start.”
“I wouldn’t have to start if you weren’t making bad choices.”
“You never like my boyfriends.”
“That’s because all of your boyfriends—” You cut yourself off, raising a hand to staunch a nauseating belch, “Suck.”
When Lisa doesn’t answer right away, you figure that she’s left—but as you straighten back up, you find her watching you in the mirror with a narrowed gaze.
“Are you sure you’re gonna be okay?”
“Yeah,” You nod, turning to face her. “I’m working from home today, anyway. We’ve got rice, we’ve got broth, we’ve got saltines. Honestly, that was probably it, nothing left in the tank. I’m fine.”
Lisa hesitates before she closes the space between the two of you, raising her hand and pressing the back to your forehead. You force a poker face, doing your best not to lean into the coolness of her fingers. Her brow wrinkles, lips screwing to the side, then—
“I have no idea what your forehead is supposed to feel like.”
“Go to class and learn.”
Lisa scoffs, finally turning away and slouching back to her room. You wait until her footsteps have faded completely before reaching out, quietly pushing the bathroom door closed again. You swallow, wincing at the slight ache in your throat.
You don’t feel like you’re going to throw up again, but there’s an pain in your side, one that you hadn’t noticed when you were stumbling your way to bed. You raise your hand, rubbing slightly over a spot on your right and wincing again. Christ, that hurts. Did you bang it when you were getting down to get to the toilet? That must be it.
Of course, it couldn’t hurt to ask a professional. You didn’t block him, he said the door was still open if you ever wanted to talk, so maybe you could just send a quick little question—
No. No.
You have broth, you have rice, you have Google. You can figure this out. Besides, it probably really was just something you ate.
--
“This is John, the guy I’ve been telling you about!”
The words were half-lost on the music being pumped through your best friend’s place, and the chatter of the other people crammed into her shared 450 square foot two-bedroom apartment. You had been tempted to dip out of the party nearly an hour ago, but your friend had sworn that not only was the guy she was setting you up with going to eventually be there (even though he was running late), but he was well worth waiting for.
You turned to face the mystery man, and you were, admittedly, caught off-guard. It was a combination of things: the scrubs he was wearing, the Dunkin cup in hand, and the fact that the guy was really, really cute.
“Hi,” You said, offering your hand and your name in tandem. He took hold of your hand, dipping closer and requesting:
“One more time?”
You hesitated before leaning in and giving him your name again.
“Nice to meet you!” He smiled before glancing around. “It’s a little loud in here. You wanna get some air?”
It was cooler on your friend’s fire escape, and so much quieter. You curled your arms around yourself, toying with your little plastic cup of wine before glancing over at John.
“Can I ask,” You nodded toward the Dunkin.
“Oh—You want a sip?”
“No, no,” You shook your head. “I was wondering why you brought a…Frankly massive Dunkin iced coffee to a housewarming. Seems like an odd choice.”
“I could only stop by for a bit before I have to go to work.”
“Jeez, what time do you start work?”
“Shift starts at seven. Twelve hours.”
“Explains how big the coffee is.”
“Sure does.” He raised it again, giving it a little shake, the ice rattling against the plastic. “You sure you don’t want a sip?”
“Uh—No. Thanks.”
John just shrugged, raising the orange straw to his lips and taking a deep pull.
“You know, I was curious about you,” He offered once he’d swallowed.
“Oh?”
“Mhm. Heard a lot.”
“Good or bad?”
“Good, I think.”
“Like what?”
“Like…You’re the oldest of three sisters, really family oriented. Have your life together, have very high expectations for yourself…And that you’re a stickler for punctuality.” His teasing smile made your belly flutter. “Even more surprised that you’re still here, considering I’m late for our little set-up.”
And you could have told him that your friend had to talk you out of leaving twice, that you had nearly called it when her roommate’s sleazeball of a boyfriend tried to hit on you. All of that was true. But—
“Maybe I was curious about you, too.”
John’s bright smile made staying all the more worth it.
--
According to Google, you have food poisoning, stage 4 stomach cancer, and your period all at once.
And while you could waste your time speculating about something that’ll probably just pass, you choose instead to focus on your job. All you know for certain is that you have two reports due, three RFPs, and a presentation draft due by EoD, as well as a meeting with your manager for your annual review. All of that means only one thing:
You do not have time to spend fucking around, half-asleep in bed, or throwing up the little bit of room-temperature water that you’ve been able to get down.
But that doesn’t stop your body from revolting against you.
You manage to get bits and pieces of your work done in five to ten minute intervals, with your belly betraying any little bit of liquid, nutrients, or hope that you manage to take in. You go through your recipes, your fridge—you just manage to stop yourself from going through your trash to double check the dates on the ingredients that you used to make dinner last night. But it couldn’t really be that, could it? You’d checked all of the dates before you’d cooked, even thrown out a couple of ingredients because they were just a day past their best-by.
It’s your period, it has to be. This doesn’t feel anything like the last time you had food poisoning—at least, what you’re pretty sure was food poisoning.
--
“How ya doin’ over there, champ?”
You glared down at your phone, lips twisted into a pout. “I feel like death.”
“You’re answering me, so definitely not death.”
“I said I feel like death, not that I’m dying—ugh,” You groaned as your lower belly gurgled, shifting where you’d been sitting on your toilet for nearly ten minutes, “God.”
“What are your symptoms?”
“I really don’t want to disclose that to you.”
“Oh, c’mon,” John chuckled, “I’m a professional.”
“No!”
“Why not?”
“It’s embarrassing.”
“It can’t be anywhere near what I see in the ED on the nightly.”
“What’s the most embarrassing thing you’ve ever seen?”
“Honestly? Couple’a days ago, we had a guy came in with a Darth Vader figurine stuck up where it shouldn’t have been.”
Your jaw dropped with a stunned laugh. “Are you serious?”
“Oh yeah. He thought he’d be able to keep it from slipping in completely because the cape was triangular, but it went a little too far. He came in when he gave up reaching for the feet.”
“...Okay, this is one step below that.”
“Just one?”
The slight smile in John’s tone had a grudging one pulling at your lips. “Maybe a couple.”
“Uh-huh. Tell you what, I get off shift in twenty. I’ll swing by with a goodie bag.”
“I can’t handle goodies right now, John.”
“Not even if those goodies include animal crackers, broth, electrolytes, and pepto bismol?”
“I’m not going to be much of a conversationalist.”
“It’ll be a drive by. You buzz me up, I hand you the bag, I steal a couple of kisses, you go back inside.”
“You have a suspicious amount of this interaction planned out.”
“Well, this girl I’m dating has told me that she likes a man with a plan.”
Your smile stretched into a full-blown, lovesick grin, and you raised your hand to scrub across your eyes.
“Fine. Just…give me a five minute warning before you get here?”
“Sure. Hey, you might even find a surprise Darth Vader figurine among your goodies—”
“John!”
--
By noon, you’ve managed to polish off your notes on the RFP, but the presentation and reports have barely been touched. You message your manager reluctantly, warning that you’re a little under the weather, but still in a good place to finish everything on your plate by EoD.
And you do have every intention of finishing things off. You decide to take a half-hour nap, just give your body a little bit of a rest before getting back on the horse.
It’s a good plan in theory—but your head hasn’t been down for two minutes before you’re clambering out of bed, hardly making it to the sink before the singular sip of gatorade you’d taken twenty minutes ago is making a bid for freedom.
You groan, resting your forehead against the sink—and then whine when you hear your cell phone ringing. You straighten slowly, bracing your hand back against the wall and stepping back into your room, taking up the phone from your bedside table. Oh—god. Do you have the patience for this call right now?
You lower yourself to your bed, swiping the call acceptance and sticking it on speaker.
“What’s up, Lilah?”
“Holy fuck, Lisa wasn’t kidding. You sound like shit.”
You muster a weak smile, drawing your legs into the bed and pulling your blankets around your lap.
“Mom and dad did a hell of a job curating your manners.”
“Mm, but you’re the one who really honed them, generalissimo.”
You roll your eyes, resting your pounding head back against the wall of decorative pillows that you’ve piled up, and have been using to keep yourself upright for the last few hours. Growing up as the middle child, Lilah had always been the one raging against your de facto parental machine, where Lisa tended to push back a touch, but ultimately fell in line.
You pull in a steadying breath, catching on the sounds of school kids in the background on the other end of the phone. Must be recess.
“Whaddaya want, bean?”
“I can’t just wanna talk to my big sister?”
“Willingly? It would be a first.”
“Are you pregnant?”
The thought nearly triggers another heave.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” You snap. “Did Lisa tell you that?”
“No, but—”
“I’m on birth control, I have always used protection—”
“Those things aren’t always 100%, accidents happen—”
“And it’s been a while.”
“...If you’re sure.”
“John and I broke up months ago,” You remind her, “And even before that, we hadn’t been…” You wince. “Intimate.”
“Blegh, okay, we get it.”
“I’m just saying—”
“God forbid the two of you pushed the beds together.”
“Lilah, for godssake—”
“I still don’t understand why you broke up with that man.”
The comment stops you in your tracks, eyes unfocused on your dimming laptop screen. You’ve done your best not to think about John—your ‘how’s and ‘why’s and ‘what might’ve been’s. The closest you’ve gotten in the last few weeks is the brief flirtation with his contact in your phone that morning.
“...Okay,” Lilah finally concedes, seeming to take your silence in the spirit with which it’s meant. “Not pregnant.”
“It’s probably actually my period, anyway. You know I get queasy when I’m PMSing—and my cramps suck right now. I’ll be spotting by, like, 3pm at the latest.”
“And if you’re not, your uterus will hear about it.”
“Exactly.”
A moment of slightly tense silence, punctuated only by the odd giggle and screech of children from her end.
“Alright,” Lilah sighs, “The principal is giving me the stink eye, I should probably pay attention to the kids.”
“Lilah—!”
“Kidding! Jesus. Feel better.”
“Thanks.”
Lilah’s grunt is her only sign off before the call cuts. You reach out, drawing your laptop close and squirting at the screen for a moment before squeezing your eyes shut at the throbbing of your headache. Christ.
It isn’t as if you haven’t explained your break up to Lilah, because you have—at least twice. But you’ll tolerate her needling, her willful ignorance, it doesn’t matter. It’s not her relationship, it’s yours—was yours.
--
“I don’t think I’m gonna get Christmas off.”
“Aw, really?” You frowned, setting your planner down on the kitchen table and watching John reach for one of the two remaining Munchkins in the carton he brought over. “I thought you asked.”
“I mean, I did, but it was a little slammed when it came up—more of an informal request.” He raised his fingers to suck the powder off of them, adding through a full mouth: “I put in for it, but it’s up in the air.”
“Hmm. Well if you can’t, that’s alright. It’s just gonna be me and the girls.”
“What about your parents?”
You waved John off, shaking your head. “They’re going to be on a cruise.”
“Oof,” John sighed, slouching back in his seat, “You think you felt bad when you had food poisoning—”
“Okay.”
“Those floating buffet-laden crap shows.”
“Okay!”
“Nice scenery, though.”
You rolled your eyes, propping your chin up on your hand as you considered him.
“What’s your mom gonna do if you can’t get Christmas off?”
John’s lips pressed into a thin line, and your eyes caught on the bob of his Adam’s apple, the fidget of his fingers toying with the strings on his hoodie.
“...John?”
Another moment before he shrugged. “What she does when I usually can’t get the holidays off, I guess.”
You opened your mouth to ask, but he was sitting up before you could, shuffling his chair closer. “So what’d you get me?”
Your confusion melted to fondness, mind flashing to the smart watch you’d spent weeks researching and comparison shopping for, and you scoffed, “As if I’d tell you.”
“C’mon, gimme a hint. Is it black? Red? Lacey?”
--
Your manager only gets two minutes into your performance review before she ultimately cuts it short.
“You know what, why don’t we reschedule?”
You try to tell her that you’re fine to go through with it, but she waves you off: “I’ll throw some time on for tomorrow. Take a break.”
You manage a weak smile, an, “Okay,” and a, “Ping me if you need anything,” before you close out of the meeting. You lower the laptop lid with a sense of defeat, tears crowding your dry, tired eyes. When the urge to puke pops up again, you can’t make it all the way to the bathroom, instead lowering yourself to the floor and hunching over the trash bin by your bed.
It’s nothing but bile that devolves into dry heaves, and by the time you’re through, your pounding head is spinning. You brace your hand on the floor, trying to ground yourself, but it doesn’t hold, and there’s nothing more you can do as your world tilts.
--
The hand on your cheek, then your forehead, is so cold, and a distant, “Holy shit,” sounds so familiar. It’s chased by, “How long has she been like this,” and a frantic, “She wasn’t this bad this morning!”
You groan as you’re turned onto your back, wincing at the onslaught of bright light. It takes a moment, but the face that swims into view is comforting.
“Li-Li,” You smile, raising a hand to cup Lisa’s cheek. “How was school?”
“How long have you been on the floor?”
“Did that boy drive you?”
You hear a scoff, a grumble of, “On death’s fucking doorstep and still the captain of the morality police.”
“Lilah, shut up—”
“Bean,” You struggle to crane your neck as you look for Lilah. “Lilah, what are you—” You try to sit up, flounder, flop back and whack your head roughly on the nightstand, “What’re—”
“Christ, Lilah, call a fucking ambulance!” Lisa snaps.
“Where’s—” You raise your hand, patting along as much of your sheets as you can reach, “Where’s my work laptop?”
“Okay,” Lisa soothes, easing you to lie down fully, “Just relax, okay? We’re gonna get you help.”
Even in your confusion and fog, you can hear her panic, and you tut softly. “I’m okay, Li. Tell bean.”
“Lilah—”
“I’m on with the fucking operator—No, I won’t watch my language, we need a fucking ambulance here, like ten minutes ago!”
--
You do your best to answer the EMTs, but they’re only a few questions in before they’re loading you onto a stretcher, telling your sisters that you’re being taken to Pittsburgh General.
Lisa’s climbing into the back of the ambulance with you, and you only manage to request that someone grab your work laptop before the doors are being slammed shut and Lilah is out of sight.
The ride is hellish, bumpy and painful, and far longer than it should be when you wind up rerouted to PTMC.
--
“Can we talk about Thanksgiving?”
“Sure. Are we rankin’ sides?”
You shot a sidelong glance in John’s direction, eyes narrowed slightly.
“Trying to make plans, actually.”
“Ah,” He nodded. “Yeah, we can try.”
“My parents are probably going to be in town for it this year,” You shifted in your seat, trying to settle your nerves. This was normal, this was something that couples dealt with all the time. So why were you bracing yourself? “And…I mean, we’ve been together for a while, almost a year now, so I wondered if you wanted to…Meet them, finally.”
“You really think they’ll hold still long enough for me to make their acquaintance?”
And it was a fair question, but stacking that on top of your mounting nerves was nearly enough to send you over the edge.
“It’s a yes or no question, J. I mean, I know some of it will hinge on whether you can get work off or not, but—”
“If they’re the deep fried turkey type and I’m on shift, maybe you can bring them in. They can see me in action.”
You closed your eyes, taking a steadying breath in and shaking your head. “Forget it.”
“I’m kidding—”
“Not everything is a joke, John.”
--
There’s so much input at once. The ambulance was its own array of sound, but now you have doctors, nurses, EMTs chatting over you, underscored by the chatter and yelling of fellow patients—and somewhere, not far off, your sister’s panicked voice as you’re wheeled into a room.
“I'm gonna be okay, Lisa,” You mumble, but your promise is cut off by a surge of pain. You can’t help but cry out, trying to squirm away from the pressure that’s been applied to your right side.
“We’ve got rebound tenderness.”
“What’s that mean?” You hiss.
“That means,” A new voice in the room, but not a new voice to you, “That we’re looking at—”
You lift your tearing eyes to that all-too familiar face as he finally registers that it’s you in the bed, as it stops him in his tracks.
“Shen?” Someone urges, but he’s breathing out, “Shit,” eyes flitting to where Lisa is huddled nearby.
“You know each other?” That same voice presses, and John manages,
“I was—She’s my—”
“Okay,” Someone else steps up to the bed, leaning over you, “Ma’am, I’m Dr. Abbot—”
And you’re trying to listen, you are, but you’re also tracking where John is rounding over to Lisa, leaning in to ask questions, to talk, to reassure, you can’t tell—
“Do you understand?” Abbot tacks on, but no, you don’t. You didn’t catch a word, he said, so you shake your head. “Your appendix is on the verge of bursting, we need to get you up to surgery.”
“Surgery?” Lisa pipes up, “Like, now?”
“As soon as possible.”
“Where’s Lilah?” You whimper.
“Oh—Shit, she’s going to the wrong hospital!” Lisa’s out the door without a second glance, drawing her phone out of her pocket.
“Listen,” Abbot leans closer to hold your attention, “If we don’t get your appendix out, it could cause some serious problems. It’s still intact, but we need to remove it before it can rupture and cause you any more problems.”
“OR’s prepped,” Is mentioned somewhere behind you, and suddenly the bed is moving again.
“I’ll go up with her.” John’s at your side in a second, and he and Abbot are sharing a look that you don’t understand over your gurney before Abbot drops away completely. John’s hands hook onto the railing of the gurney, his eyes darting to your face every few seconds as your entourage of medical professionals steers you down the hall.
“So,” He offers, “Fancy seeing you here.”
And you so don’t want to let him make you smile, but you can’t help yourself.
“This is a bit much,” He adds as you’re wheeled onto the elevator, “I mean, I told you you could call and you show up at my job instead? I appreciate the effort, but you're coming off a little desperate.”
“John.”
“Appendix, too, you overachiever. Couldn’t you have broken your wrist, gotten a concussion, something easier?”
Your mental fog is melting to clarity, mingling with your panicked nerves, and the little laugh that leaves you makes the ache in your side twinge.
“I mean, come on,” He’s leaning against the railing now, seemingly unaware or uncaring of the looks that the nurses are giving him, “All of this, just to get my attention?”
“You’re so full of yourself.”
“And you know what you’re gonna be full of if we don’t get that appendix out? Pus.”
“Ugh,” You wrinkle your nose, closing your eyes, “Stop.”
“Better pus than Darth Vader, though.”
You laugh again, and the pain swells, worse.
“Please stop making me laugh, it hurts,” You whimper, and he mutters, “Alright, alright,” as the elevator chimes. You pull in as deep a breath as you can, the full weight of panic weighing down your chest. You swallow roughly, mumble, “John?”
“Yeah?”
“Make sure they give me the good stuff.” When you open your eyes, take in the sweep of lights haloing him as you’re guided down another hall, you find him smiling softly.
“For you? The best,” He promises. “I’ll tell them to check on your funny bone while they’re in there.”
Your laugh turns to a muted sob, the sound half-stuck in your thickening throat as tears spill over. But he’s reaching out before one can slip to the gurney below, swiping it away.
“I’m scared,” You whisper.
“I know. But it’s gonna be okay.”
--
“I like him.”
It was the last thing you expected to come out of Lilah’s mouth. You’d already known that she was miffed at you for taking so long to introduce you to John, doubly so when she found out that Lisa had met him nearly two weeks before she had (that had been an accident, though—Lisa had come home early from what was meant to be a romantic trip with her latest boyfriend, but had crashed and burned into a fight when she found out she was the other woman).
You didn’t answer, just watched Lilah from your end of the couch as she picked her nails. When she glanced toward you, she scoffed, “What?”
“I’m waiting.”
“For?”
“The punchline.”
Lilah rolled her eyes. “No punchline. I like him.”
Your brows rose at the insistence. “That’s a first.”
“Well,” She sighed, pushing herself up, “All of your other boyfriends sucked. I’m gonna raid your fridge now.”
You watched her go, processing for a moment before you followed. “What do you mean, all of my other boyfriends sucked?”
Lilah shrugged, eyes set on the inside of your fridge, scanning the shelves lazily.
“Just what I said.”
“They were all nice guys.”
“No, they were all assholes.”
You scoffed, “They were not all assholes.”
“Fine. They were mostly dickheads, with one or two of them crossing firmly into asshole territory.”
“They were all accomplished.”
“Yeah,” Lilah laughed derisively, “Especially that dude that got nailed for insider trading. How’s his prison sentence going by the way?”
You folded your arms tightly across your chest. “He was only fined and you know it.”
“Right, right.”
“Would you close the fridge door if you’re not gonna take anything? You’re letting all the cold out.”
Lilah raised her hands in surrender, allowing the door to slowly swing shut before she turned to your cabinet.
“As I was saying,” You added, “They were not all dickheads. I prefer to surround myself with ambitious people, and they can be…Difficult.”
“If by ambitious you mean rich, then yeah, you’re usually all over ‘em.”
“That is not what I mean—”
“Hedge fund managers, healthtech douchebros, morons who insist that they’re practically liquid when their entire net worth is in crypto.”
“That was one guy!”
“You know why I like John?” Lilah leaned back to face you, bag of chips in hand. “Cause it’s like you’re not dating with mom and dad in mind for once.”
It was like a slap. It rendered you completely speechless, sending heat creeping across your face, down your neck. And you couldn’t tell if Lilah knew the effect the comment had, but she pushed on:
“John’s ambitious, sure, he’s a doctor, but he’s also, like, genuinely a nice dude, you know. And you’re not trying to be perfect for him the way that you usually do for your dates, or for mom and dad. You’re not preening or constantly fixing your hair or checking your posture with him. You’re just, like…You. It’s good. Kinda freaky, but good.” She popped a couple of chips in her mouth, chewing slowly as you both mulled that over.
“Anyway,” She shrugged, pushing off of the counter, “Only a matter of time before you fuck it up, so. Enjoy it while it lasts.”
You rolled your eyes, following her back into the living room. “Thanks for the vote of confidence, bean.”
“Anytime, generalissimo.”
--
Coming to is slow, and uncomfortable. You’re propped up in bed, the room is bright, even with your eyes closed, and the beeping monitor beside you is starting to get annoying—but can you really begrudge something that reminds you that you’re alive?
You open your eyes, wincing into the light and allowing your vision to adjust. You can see a duffel bag on the chairs across from you, spot coats laying over the back of those same chairs. And when you let yourself glance around, you find someone at your bedside.
John is seated, folded over your bed with his head pillowed on his arms. His eyes are closed, and he’s breathing steadily. You can’t tell if it’s light outside with the shades closed, so you reach your IV-laden hand out, tapping on the face of the smart watch you got him a couple of Christmases ago. The screen flashes, but not in time for you to get a good look. You’re about to tap again, but—
“Are you snooping through my messages?”
Groggy, soft, warm—there’s that sleep-roughened voice you’ve missed so much. You smile a little.
“No. Trying to see what time it is.”
“Mm,” John pushes himself to sit up and proffers his wrist, scrubbing his free hand across his eyes as you get a better look. Nearly half past eight.
“Maybe a silly question, but is it AM or PM?”
“AM,” He chuckles, lowering his wrist.
“Shouldn’t you be home?” You ask. But before he can answer, the door to your hospital room opens, and Lisa and Lilah are trailing in with cups of coffee in hand.
“You’re up!” Lisa screeches, hurrying forward so quickly that some coffee sloshes over the side of the little paper cup. Lilah’s joining her a moment later, crowding in against you with leans, hugs, and carefully placed hands. You begin to reach for them with both arms, but wince when your IV pulls slightly. Lisa steps back, allowing Lilah to lean into you more closely.
“Did you grab my phone?” You ask, “And did you call…You know?”
“We didn’t,” Lisa winces, “We weren’t sure—”
“No, no. You did the right thing,” You soothe before glancing at Lilah. Her smile is watery, thin, and she seems to be opening her mouth to start to say something, but you have to ask:
“Did you bring my work laptop?”
That watery thin smile is gone in a second, mouth flat. Her eyes seem to glaze over, hands drawing back and curling into fists at her sides.
“I—No.”
“Lilah,” You groan, “That was, like, the one thing I asked you to bring—”
You barely get it out before she’s stomping out of your hospital room, Lisa hot on her heels, swearing, “I’ll get her.”
You close your eyes, sinking back in your bed. “Shit.”
“You shouldn’t be working right now, anyway,” John warns. You peek one eye open, frowning as he rounds the bed, pouring water from a pitcher on the bedside table. “Here.”
You take the cup carefully, though John keeps a loose grasp on it as you take a sip. He sets it aside once you’re finished, offering, “You want some more?”
“Nn-nn,” You shake your head. You perk up as the door opens again, but Lilah’s sweeping in and grabbing her coat without looking at you.
“Bean, I’m sorry—Hey!” You call out as she turns away again, “I’m not mad at you!” But your protests seem to fall on deaf ears as she rounds back into the hall. You close your eyes, tipping your head back against the pillows. “Great.”
“You want me to go get her?”
“No. Lisa’s gonna try to do that, anyway. And when she’s pissed at me, Lilah needs time to just…Decompress. Trust me,” You huff a laugh, “I’ve pissed her off a lot.” You tip your head to the side, wiggling your fingers toward his hand. And you expect him to just take it and hold on, but John is climbing into bed with you, carefully nestling against you. You sigh softly, turning your head and nuzzling against his neck. Neither of you speak for a few moments, the room falling into quiet, save for the beep of the monitor beside your bed.
“...Shouldn’t you be home?” You finally ask again.
“Mm…You want me to go?”
“No.”
“Then I’m right where I should be.”
And it’s so gentle, and firm, and certain. Your eyes well with tears again, and you try to squeeze tight against them, to hold them back, but they’re slipping before you can stop them. John doesn’t tut, tell you that it’s alright, that you’re okay. He just cuddles closer, intertwining your fingers.
“When I’m, um,” You sniffle, “When I’m less of a mess, can you explain what happened? Like, properly?”
“Using all of my big brain and science-y knowledge? Sure I can. Dr. Garcia will probably come to speak with you, too.”
“Did they do the surgery?”
“No, Dr. Walsh did. Case got handed over to the day shift, though.”
“Oh.”
“...So next time you want my attention, I’m thinking a kidney stone could be the way to go.” He keeps on over your quiet giggles—“Getting rid of those is way more fun than an appendix. Hey, when’s the last time you were on a roller coaster?”
--
It’s nearly ten by the time John is leaving your room with a kiss on the forehead and a promise to check in with you over the next couple of days. Lisa is back, but the two of you are speaking little. She won’t tell you where Lilah is, or what she said when she stormed out. You fall asleep around noon.
When you wake up around two, your work laptop is sitting on top of your duffel bag, and Lilah is nowhere to be seen.
--
You can’t remember the last time Lisa played nurse maid to you like this. You try to think of it, but you’re coming up with…Well, never. On the odd occasion you’ve gotten sick, you’ve always managed it yourself—but this isn’t just getting sick.
You can get around on your own, but it’s not the most comfortable. Lisa emails her professors, lets them know what happened, gets a pass to skip a couple of her classes so that she can stay at home and look after you for a couple of days. She helps you clean and change your wound dressing so that you don’t have to twist, or look at the little laparoscopic scars any more than you have to. She even offers to help you inject the prescribed blood thinner, but you insist on doing that yourself. It’s a way of taking back just a little bit of control after you’ve spent so much of the last 72 hours feeling helpless.
Besides, you’re usually the one doing the minding, so being minded makes you feel unbalanced.
Your manager gives you the week off to heal, tells you not to worry about the presentations and reports, commends you for the work that you were able to get done, and insists that if she sees your status active on your laptop, she’s going to have IT lock you out.
You try texting Lilah a few times, and she doesn’t answer, save to react or send lone emojis. You don’t try to call, or FaceTime. You’re not sure where you’d start if you did.
So when Lisa tells you the next day that Lilah’s at the apartment, and that she’s sitting on your unit’s balcony, it’s sort of a relief.
--
You know those things are bad for you.
It sits on your tongue, but you hold it there. The fact that Lilah is there at all is a boon, so you do your best to pointedly ignore the smoke curling from the end of her cigarette.
“I thought you were gonna die, you know?”
It cracks the air open, splits you down the middle, but Lilah doesn’t stop there:
“I’d never seen you like that. My superhero of a sister, on the floor, just…Laid out. When Lisa was getting into the ambulance with you and I stayed to grab some stuff like you asked, I was just like, on autopilot. Clothes, medication, phone, keys. The important shit, you know? And then I got to the wrong hospital and Lisa called, and I was like ‘well, shit. I’m not gonna get to say goodbye.’ And then you were in surgery, and then you were out, and then you woke up,” Her voice lilts with a hysterical little laugh, “And your first question was where your fucking work laptop was, and that was when I remembered that you asked for it. And I was like ‘well fuck. I fucked up again.’” Lilah quiets as she takes another drag from the cigarette, but for all the comments buzzing against your lips, you wait.
“You know what I think?” She exhales, “What this was? God or the universe, or fucking whatever—it’s telling you to slow down.” She turns her head to look at you finally, bloodshot gaze pinning you in place. “Because your first question coming out of major surgery should be what happened, how long was I out, what are the next steps, not where your fucking work laptop is—”
“I know.”
“Like that’s psychotic. And the worst part is you can’t even blame the meds, like, you’re just like that.”
“I know.” You pull in a deep breath, just managing not to wrinkle your nose at the scent of smoke. “I’m sorry, bean. I shouldn’t have said that—and you’re right, I can’t even blame the anesthesia.” You shift your seat a little closer, nudging her knee with yours. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”
“...Well, you didn’t. Your bitch-ass appendix did.”
You snort, looping your arm around Lilah’s shoulders and drawing her in.
“I love you, bean.”
Lilah sniffles as she huddles closer, tucking her head beneath your chin.
“I love you, too, generalissimo.”
--
“Saw Lilah on the way in.”
“Yeah?” You sit against the mountain of pillows still against your headboard, watch John unpack a few things from his bag onto your bed—gloves, gauze, tape, small scissors, alcohol wipes.
“Everything okay?”
“...Fine,” You concede, “She just has a shitty sister.”
You can feel John glancing toward you as you carefully wriggle out of your loose shirt, leaving you in a sports bra.
“Okay, let’s see what we have here.”
You hold carefully still as John peels back your wound dressing, leaning in to get a better look at the scars.
“How’s the pain been?”
“Fine, I guess. The gas pain in my shoulders sucks, though.”
“Yeah, that’s from the CO2 they use to inflate the abdominal cavity.”
“Hate the use of ‘cavity’ there.”
John’s lips quirk with a smile. “Wounds look good, no irritation or excessive redness.”
“Lisa’s been a very good nurse.”
“Mm.” John opens an alcohol wipe, carefully cleaning your wounds. “Has it been itchy at all?”
“Not really.”
“Good…A heating pad should help with those gas pains, by the way.”
“Okay.”
The two of you go quiet as he rebandages your wounds, then straightens.
“No fever, chills?”
“Nn-nn.”
“Appetite’s back?”
“Mostly.”
“Good.” John sits on the edge of the bed, removing his gloves and dropping the old dressing and alcohol wipe into the (now cleaned) bin by your bed. “When we were in the hospital, Lisa said you were sick all day. Why’d you wait so long to come in?”
“Just…” You shrug. “I thought it was my period.”
“Your cramps are that bad?”
“They can be.”
“Yeesh,” He mutters, tucking a few supplies into his bag. “When are you due back for your check-up, remind me?”
“Friday.”
“Okay.”
The two of you fall into quiet, and when you reach out for John’s hand, he slips it warmly into yours.
“...What’d your parents say?”
You focus on the press of his palm, trace the length of a vein on the back of his hand.
“I haven’t told them yet.” Your eyes flicker to his incredulous frown, and you shake your head. “It’s kinda too late now. I mean—I’ll tell them eventually. At this point they’ll just be upset that they weren’t invited.”
“Invited?” He scoffs. “It wasn’t a birthday party.”
“You know what I mean. I should’ve told them when I was on my way to the hospital, but I didn’t, and neither did the girls, so…Now this gets to be that funny story I tell them on New Year’s Eve in two year’s time, when they’re good and buzzed and less likely to get mad at me for not telling them right when it happened.”
“Sounds like you already have it all planned out.”
“I like a plan, remember?”
John smiles, thumb sweeping across the soft of your wrist. “I remember.” It’s a moment before he hedges: “Remind me, is that why we broke up? Not enough plans?”
You sigh softly, eyes dropping to your hands. “That was some of it. Other times, I just…I felt like you were making jokes of everything, all the time, or not taking things seriously. But honestly, after the whole,” You wave toward your abdomen, “You know, how chaotic it was, how scary…I kinda get it now. Why you’re so level.”
“...Doesn’t mean I should be doing it all the time. I’m sorry if I made you feel like we couldn’t just have a serious conversation.”
You smile. “I’m sorry I was so rigid. I should’ve been more understanding.”
“Hindsight’s 20/20, huh?”
“Famously.”
John gives your hand a little squeeze. “I should let you rest.”
“Okay…Can I selfishly say that I don’t want you to leave yet?”
“Yes,” He chuckles. “Tell you what. I’ll stick around for a bit, keep close. Make sure you don’t roll over in your sleep.”
“Oh yeah? You do that for all your patients, Dr. Shen?”
“Oh, all of them.”
“You really know how to make a girl feel spesh.”
John chuckles, nudging off the house shoes he’d worn inside and climbing into bed beside you, resting his hand on your hip. You tipped your head against him, relaxing into the warmth of his body as you had just a few days ago.
“Would it be selfish of me to say that I missed you a lot?” You mumbled.
“There’s that word again.”
“Hmm?”
“Selfish.” You feel John tip his head toward you. “Wanting things isn’t selfish. Neither is feeling things.”
You gnaw on your lower lip, letting your gaze drop back to his chest. He smoothes his hand over your hair, drawing you carefully closer.
“Tell you what,” He murmurs, “We’re gonna talk about this later—for now, you need your rest.”
“When are we gonna talk about it?”
“This weekend.”
“Oh?”
“Mhm. You’re gonna get clearance from Walsh to resume normal food and activity on Friday, we’re gonna get coffee and go for a nice, easy walk on Saturday—”
“I see—”
“And we’re gonna clear up all this selfish talk.”
“And then what?”
“Oh, just you wait.”
“Do I get a hint?”
John tips his head down toward you, lips brushing your forehead.
“You thought that first go-around was something? I’m gonna date the crap out of you.”
You smile. “I’d rather our dating not have anything to do with crap.”
Hi angel! Do you think you could do a little fluff where y/n is laying with carmy and she’s tracing his tattoos and he explains each of them? It’s been on my mind and I need to read it
written on your skin // carmen berzatto
summary: curled up on the couch, you trace carmy’s tattoos and learn the stories he doesn’t tell often
carmy berzatto x reader, no use of y/n, fluff, mention of micheal, js short and sweet!!
word count: 600
a/n: i post so sporadically it’s not funny. it’s either i write or i do school work and everyone knows id rather kms than open my chromebook. thank you sooo much for the req and i think this turned out really cute !!
the apartment is quiet in a way that feels intentional.
not empty. not lonely. just soft.
carmy is stretched out on the couch with his back against the armrest, one knee bent, the other leg relaxed. you’re half on top of him, half beside him, your head tucked into the space between his shoulder and chest. the tv is on but neither of you are watching it. something old and grainy plays in the background, the volume low enough that it blends into the city noise outside.
your fingers are doing what they always end up doing when you’re like this.
tracing.
you start at his forearm, following the familiar lines of ink like they’re roads on a map you’ve already memorized. still, you take your time. carmy doesn’t move. he never does when you touch him like this. he just breathes steadily, one hand resting at your waist like it belongs there.
you pause over a small tattoo near his wrist, something simple and sharp.
“this one,” you murmur. “you never told me about this one.”
he exhales through his nose, almost a laugh. “yeah. uh. that’s from when i was twenty one.”
you tilt your head, looking up at him. “that explains nothing.”
he glances down at you, mouth twitching. “it was supposed to mean focus. discipline. like reminding myself to stay sharp.”
“did it work?”
“sometimes,” he says honestly.
your fingers drift upward, slower now, tracing the edge of the tattoo on his bicep. his muscles tense under your touch before relaxing again.
“and this one?”
he hesitates, just a second. you feel it more than see it.
“that one’s about my brother,” he says quietly.
you don’t push. you just nod, thumb brushing over the ink in a way that says you hear him. carmy’s grip on your waist tightens a little, grounding himself.
“he used to say i was too serious,” carmy adds after a moment. “said i needed something permanent to remind me to live a little.”
you smile softly. “did this remind you?”
he hums. “guess so. reminds me of him too.”
you trail your fingers higher, across his shoulder, then down his chest. your touch is absentminded but careful, like you’re holding something fragile. carmy watches you with half lidded eyes, completely relaxed in a way he rarely is anywhere else.
“you ever regret any of them?” you ask.
he shakes his head. “nah. they’re like. proof i survived those versions of myself.”
you pause, then look up at him. “i like that.”
he looks at you like he’s surprised you’re here at all. like you’re something good he hasn’t learned how to accept yet.
“yeah?” he asks.
“yeah,” you say. “i like knowing where you’ve been.”
you trace the last tattoo near his ribs, slow and deliberate. carmy sucks in a quiet breath, his hand sliding slightly higher on your waist.
“this one’s my favorite,” he admits.
you grin. “you say that about all of them.”
“no,” he says, smiling now. “just the ones you touch.”
you laugh softly, ducking your head back against his chest. he presses a kiss to the top of your hair, barely there but full of meaning.
the tv keeps playing. the city keeps moving.
but here, wrapped up together on a worn couch, everything feels steady. like this moment could last as long as you want it to.
plsplspls reblog and like if you enjoyed !! don’t be scared to send requests 🫶
clark finds out you’re pregnant and is overjoyed, but his excitement turns to heartbreak when you tell him you don’t want the baby.
clark came home later than usual, shoulders heavy from the day. but the second he stepped inside, the scent of your cooking wrapped around him like a hug. you were standing at the stove, hair tied back, humming low under your breath.
“you’re home,” you said softly, a smile curving your lips.
he crossed the kitchen in two long strides, kissing you before even setting his bag down. “i missed you.”
you laughed against his chest, “you always say that.”
“because it’s always true.” he squeezed your waist, then excused himself to the restroom to wash up.
but when he lifted the lid of the trash, his heart stopped. buried beneath tissues and wrappers was something that glowed in his vision clearer than anything else. a test. positive.
clark’s hands shook as he picked it up, breath catching, hope crashing into him like sunlight breaking open the sky. he didn’t think. he just ran back into the kitchen.
“baby,” he said, voice breaking with joy. “you’re pregnant!”
your smile faltered seeing the excitement on his face. the wooden spoon in your hand stilled. “clark…” you didn’t want him to find out this way.
he reached for you, already imagining—everything. but you shook your head and interrupted before he started to get more excited than he already was.
“i don’t want the baby.” you blurted out.
the words hit harder than a punch. his whole body stilled. “what? why—”
“clark, you knew this,” you cut in, voice tight. “before we even got married. i told you it was a slim chance i would ever want children and you said you didn’t care!”
“but—” he started, but you pressed on, your voice cracking under the weight of it.
“i’m not ready. my career is just starting to take off, and we barely have time for each other as it is. a baby would… it would swallow me whole.” your eyes shimmered, but your voice only grew steadier. “we can afford it but we barely sleep enough. we are never just us. and honestly… i don’t want to resent something i never wanted.”
his throat worked, but the words stuck.
you inhaled, and then came the final reason—the one you’d been holding back, the one that twisted in your chest.
“and clark… you’re not even human.” your voice trembled. “we don’t know what that means for the baby. for its health. for me. what if… what if it hurts me? what if it hurts them?”
the silence stretched heavy. clark’s jaw tightened, eyes glassy with hurt and fear all tangled together. he wanted to argue, to promise it would be okay, but for the first time in his life, he didn’t know if that was true.
you turned back to the stove, trying to keep your hands steady, but clark’s voice broke the room apart.
“why would you even say that?” his voice was rough, sharper than you’d ever heard it.
you sighed and turned back to him, already regretting the words that left your mouth. “baby, i said that because it’s true.”
“no,” he shook his head, stepping forward. his eyes were wide, desperate. “don’t make it sound like i’m some… some thing. i’m your husband. i’m the man you married. i’ve spent my whole life trying to make sure the people i love are safe, and now you’re looking at me like—like i’m dangerous to my own family.”
“clark, that’s not what i said—”
“that’s exactly what you said,” he snapped, his chest rising and falling too fast. “you think i’d let anything happen to you? to our child? do you know how many nights i’ve dreamed of this? of finally having something normal, something that’s mine?” his voice cracked, and the raw hope bleeding out of him made your stomach twist.
your throat went dry. “i’m not saying you’d hurt us. i’m saying we don’t know. we don’t know what kind of pregnancy this would even be. you’re kryptonian, clark. what if i can’t carry it? what if the baby isn’t healthy? what if the doctors don’t even know how to help us?”
he dragged a hand through his hair, pacing now, every movement restless and too big for the kitchen. “so what? we don’t even try? we just… throw it away because we’re scared?” his voice broke on the last word.
“don’t make it sound like i’m being careless,” you fired back, heat finally rising in your own chest. “i have every right to be scared, clark. i have every right to choose what happens to my body.”
he flinched like you’d struck him.
your breath shook as you went on, softer this time, but no less firm. “you think i don’t love you? that i don’t want to give you the world? but this… this isn’t fair to ask of me. not with everything i’ve told you before, not with everything we don’t know now.”
clark pressed his palms flat against the counter, bowing his head. his voice came out hoarse. “you’re asking me to pretend like i’m not allowed to want this. like the part of me that dreams about holding a child—our child—is something ugly i need to bury.”
his eyes lifted to yours, blue and broken, full of tears he refused to let fall. “i’ve fought millions of men. i’ve fought monsters. but nothing has ever scared me more than losing you. i’ve imagined this whole life with you. and that life includes a child. i knew you didn’t really want children when we first started dating, but i always figured you’d change your mind,” he paused and took a breath.
“and now you’re telling me i’m supposed to just… sit here and agree that the one thing i’ve always wanted might never be possible. that you’d rather it never exist at all.”
you didn’t answer right away. your hands trembled against the countertop, the steam from the pot rising like a fog between you.
“clark…” your voice cracked. “i’m not trying to take anything from you. i’m just… i’m terrified. and i need you to hear that without trying to fix it. without making me feel guilty for not wanting the same things you do.”
he stood there, shoulders heaving, his jaw working like he was holding back a storm. finally, he nodded once, sharp, but his eyes stayed locked on yours.
“i hear you,” he whispered, though it sounded more like it hurt him to say it. “i just wish… i wish you could see how much this means to me. how much i want it with you.”
your chest ached. you stepped closer, reaching out to touch his hand where it gripped the counter. “and i wish you could see how much it scares me. not because of you—never because of you—but because i don’t know if i can survive it.”
his hand softened beneath yours, but he didn’t pull away. he swallowed hard, eyes glassy, the kitchen light catching in the wetness there.
“i would never let anything happen to you,” he said, voice raw.
you nodded, eyes burning. “but you can’t promise that. not this time.”
the silence that followed was heavier than any shouting match could’ve been. clark lowered his head, resting his forehead against the back of your hand, his breath warm and uneven against your skin.
the rest of dinner passed in near silence, the food going cold. later, when the plates were in the sink and the lights dimmed, clark sat on the edge of the bed with his head in his hands. you came to him, slipping your arm around his shoulders, resting your cheek against the curve of his back.
he covered your hand with his, squeezing gently, as if that was the only language left.
neither of you had the answers. the only thing certain was the love still there—tender, bruised, and waiting to see if it could withstand the weight of the choice before you.
Summary: While moving in together, you find something Clark never meant you to read yet.
Word count: 7k+
Warnings: fluff
A/N:
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.
The new apartment smells like cardboard and fresh paint and the faint trace of Clark’s cologne. Clean, warm, familiar. The kind of scent that settles into your lungs and makes you exhale without realizing you were holding your breath.
Home already, somehow.
You’re sitting cross-legged on the living room floor, surrounded by half-opened boxes and crumpled packing paper, when Clark straightens up in the kitchen doorway. He’s holding an empty cabinet door in one hand, brow furrowed in concentration, until he notices you looking at him.
That sheepish, boyish smile appears. The one that still makes your chest flutter even after everything. After years. After knowing him in ways the world never will.
“We forgot paper towels,” he says, solemn. Like it’s a confession. Like this might be the thing that finally proves neither of you is qualified to live like an adult.
You blink at him for a second. Then laugh.
“Of course we did,” you say, shaking your head. “We remembered the coffee maker but not paper towels.”
He winces slightly. “That’s on me.”
“No, it’s on us, baby,” you say. “This is a shared failure.”
He laughs softly, relief easing his shoulders. “I’ll be back in five minutes,” he promises, already reaching for his jacket. “Ten, max. I’ll just run downstairs.”
He hesitates before leaving, eyes lingering on you in a way that feels deliberate. Like he’s committing the image to memory, your hair pulled back messily, one of his old t-shirts hanging loose on you, surrounded by boxes labeled Kitchen and Bedroom and Our Stuff in his careful handwriting.
He steps closer, crouches down in front of you.
Before you can say anything, he leans in and presses a kiss to your forehead. It’s soft. Unhurried. The kind of kiss that doesn’t ask for anything, doesn’t rush toward the next moment. Just affection, given freely.
Like he has nowhere else he’d rather be.
“Don’t unpack anything suspicious without me,” he murmurs, lips brushing your skin.
You snort. “No promises.”
That earns you a grin—fond, hopelessly in love—and then he’s standing again, slipping on his jacket, glancing back one more time before opening the door.
The lock clicks behind him.
The apartment goes quiet.
Not empty, but peaceful. The kind of quiet that exists only when you’re building something with someone. When silence isn’t absence, but comfort.
You sit there for a moment longer than necessary, just taking it in. The light filtering through the windows. The way the space already feels shaped around him. Around you.
Then you turn back to unpacking.
Clark’s boxes are… exactly what you expect.
Neat. Carefully taped. Every one labeled in that slightly slanted handwriting you know so well. You open a box marked Kitchen and find everything wrapped meticulously, towels folded evenly, utensils bundled together with rubber bands.
You smile to yourself. Of course he did this.
The next box reads Books (Misc.).
That one draws your attention immediately.
You open it and begin lifting out familiar spines—journalism textbooks from college, thick hardcovers with cracked spines, novels he insists he only read once but you’ve caught him rereading late at night more times than you can count. There’s a battered paperback with a folded corner you recognize; he’s had that one since before you met.
Each book feels like a quiet reminder: I know you. I know this life.
Then your fingers brush against something that doesn’t feel like the others.
Smooth. Cool. Leather.
You pause.
Nestled between two hardcovers is a notebook. Dark blue. Leather-bound. The edges are worn, the spine softened like it’s been opened and closed many times. Cherished.
You lift it carefully, like it might be fragile.
Your brow furrows.
You’ve been dating Clark for a while now. Long enough to know his habits. His routines. Long enough to know he’s not the kind of man who leaves things unexplained—not intentionally, anyway.
And he doesn’t keep a diary.
You’ve never seen him write in anything like this. Never noticed a notebook tucked away. Never seen him carry it, never heard him mention it in passing. For someone who’s otherwise so transparent with you, this feels… different.
Private.
Your thumb rests against the edge of the cover.
A small voice in your head speaks up, gentle but firm.
This is private.
You hesitate, the weight of the notebook suddenly heavier in your hands. You imagine Clark’s careful way of holding things he values. The way he looks at you when he thinks you aren’t paying attention. The trust between you—earned, mutual, precious.
You should put it back.
But curiosity slips in—not sharp or invasive, just confused. Tender. The kind that comes from closeness, not entitlement.
Why has he never mentioned this?
You glance once toward the door, as if he might somehow already be back, watching.
Your fingers tremble slightly as you open the cover.
Just a peek, you tell yourself. Just the first page.
The paper inside is thick, slightly yellowed with age.
And then you see the handwriting.
Clark’s.
Careful. Earnest. Familiar.
Your breath catches in your throat as you read the first line.
For my wife, Y/N.
Your heart stutters so hard you actually have to put a hand to your chest.
For a second, you think you’ve misread it. That your eyes are playing tricks on you. You blink once. Twice.
The words don’t change.
Wife.
The room tilts, just slightly—not enough to knock you over, but enough to make everything feel unreal, like the ground has shifted beneath your feet. You sink back onto your heels, the notebook heavy in your hands, heavier than any box you’ve lifted all day.
Wife.
He hasn’t proposed.
You’ve talked about the future—carefully at first, like people do when they’re afraid to hope too much. Conversations that started with someday and maybe and eventually grew into when and we. You’ve talked about living together, about places you might want to travel, about growing old in ways that felt half-joking and half-serious.
But this?
This feels like peeking behind a curtain you weren’t meant to see yet. Like stepping into a moment that was supposed to belong to another day. Another version of you—dressed up, heart racing, standing across from him while he asks the question out loud.
Your hands tremble as you turn the page.
The paper whispers softly, like it knows it’s holding something sacred.
I’ve held this diary since the moment I met you in the Daily Planet lunchroom. November 30th, 2021. The day my world changed color, suddenly brighter, like a rainbow I didn’t know I’d been missing.
Your breath catches painfully in your throat.
November 30th, 2021.
You remember that day. The awful salad. The broken microwave. The sandwich he offered you like it was the most natural thing in the world. You remember thinking he was kind in a way that felt rare, disarming.
You didn’t know you’d changed his world.
Tears blur the ink almost immediately. You swipe at your eyes with the back of your hand, then stop—afraid of smudging the words, as if they might disappear if you’re not careful enough with them.
I’m giving you this on our wedding day. I don’t know what our lives will look like then, or how many ordinary, beautiful days will have passed between now and that moment, but I know this much with absolute certainty.
If one day, any day, you ever feel like I don’t love you, like I’ve grown distant or the world has tried to convince you otherwise, I want you to open these pages and see how completely, how endlessly, you are wrong.
Every word here is proof of how I fell in love with you and how I kept falling, again and again, without ever meaning to stop. I loved you then. I love you now. I will love you for the rest of my life.
Yours forever,
Kal-El
Your chest aches in the best, most devastating way.
It’s not the sharp kind of pain. It’s warm and overwhelming, like your heart has grown too big for your body. Like something is blooming inside you without asking permission.
Never stopped falling for you.
You press the notebook to your chest for a moment, breathing around the emotion, trying to steady yourself. The apartment feels impossibly quiet, like it’s holding its breath with you.
Then, slowly, reverently, you keep reading.
Every page is dated.
Every entry is a memory you recognize.
11/30/2021
I think I met the love of my life today.
I don’t know if that’s ridiculous. I don’t know if it’s too soon to even write that sentence. But if I don’t write it down, I’m afraid I’ll convince myself later that I imagined how it felt.
Daily Planet lunchroom. Same cracked tile floor. The microwave was broken again. Someone burned popcorn. Perry was arguing with someone down the hall. It was just… another day.
And then she was there.
She was sitting by herself at one of the small tables near the window, shoulders slightly hunched, staring at a salad like it had personally wronged her. She looked exhausted. Not just physically, like the world had asked too much of her lately. There was something about the way she sighed that made my chest tighten.
I don’t usually act on impulse. I think too much. I hesitate. I measure consequences.
But today I didn’t.
I walked over and held out half my sandwich before my brain could stop me. I didn’t even introduce myself first. Just said something awkward about how the salad looked like it needed backup.
She looked up at me, like really looked, and for half a second I thought I’d made a mistake.
Then she smiled.
Not polite. Not small. A real smile that reached her eyes. She laughed and said I was “brave but misguided,” and suddenly the noise of the room faded into nothing. I don’t know how else to describe it. It was like the air changed density. Like the world sharpened into focus around her.
We talked. About nothing important. About everything. She teased me gently. Asked questions that showed she was actually listening to the answers. When I told her my name, she repeated it like it mattered. When she told me her name, I repeated it because it did matter.
When she went back to work, I stood there for a second too long, holding the empty plate, feeling… undone.
My hands were shaking.
I’ve lifted mountains. I’ve stopped trains mid-crash. I’ve flown through storms without fear.
I have never, ever felt like this.
If this is love, then it’s quieter than I expected. Steadier. Like something ancient settling into place.
I don’t know what will happen next.
I just know I don’t want to forget how today felt.
12/14/2021
First date.
Coffee was supposed to be an hour. That’s what I told myself before I left my apartment. That’s what I told her when we sat down. I even checked the time at the start, like that would somehow keep things contained.
It didn’t.
It lasted almost four hours, and I didn’t notice the time passing until my cup had gone cold and the café started emptying around us. I don’t think either of us wanted to be the one to say it first, that it should probably end, like saying it out loud would break something fragile.
She talks with her hands when she’s excited. I noticed that almost immediately. Little movements at first, then bigger ones when she got passionate about a story. She smiles before she finishes her sentences, like she already knows how they’ll land. And when she listens, really listens, she tilts her head just slightly, eyes focused, like she’s saving every word somewhere important.
No one has ever listened to me like that before.
I found myself talking more than I usually do. About work. About Kansas. About things I don’t normally share. It felt natural, like my mouth was ahead of my caution for once. She never rushed me. Never looked bored. Every response made me want to tell her more.
When we finally left, neither of us wanted to go straight home, so we walked. No destination. Just side by side, letting the city unfold around us. The air was cold, and she tucked her hands into her coat sleeves. I kept noticing small things, the way she matched her pace to mine without realizing it, the way she pointed out things she liked as if she wanted me to see the world through her eyes.
The city felt different with her there. Smaller. Kinder. Like it was giving us space. Letting us borrow it for a while.
I kept thinking I should impress her. Say something clever. Something charming. Something worthy of the way she looked at me. But every time our eyes met, my chest felt too full for pretense. Every rehearsed line disappeared. All I could do was be honest.
And she seemed to like that.
I felt safe.
That word keeps circling back. Safe. Not because I’m strong, not because I could protect her if I had to, but because I didn’t feel like I had to be anything other than myself. I didn’t feel watched. Or measured. Or like I was hiding parts of who I am.
I walked her home and stopped outside her building. I told myself not to linger.
I lingered anyway.
When she said goodbye, smiled at me one last time, and turned toward the door, I felt it, physically, like something tugged inside my chest, like part of me wanted to follow her without question.
I stood there longer than necessary after she went inside, just breathing, memorizing the feeling.
I replayed her laugh the entire way home.
I still am.
01/22/2022
Dinner with her.
We went somewhere small tonight. Nothing fancy. One of those places that smells like oil and salt and warmth the moment you open the door. The kind where the tables wobble slightly and the menu hasn’t changed in years.
She ordered before me because she already knew what she wanted. I liked that. I ordered fries, intending to share them, but I didn’t say it out loud. I just assumed. That probably says something.
They came out hot, steam curling into the air between us. We talked while they cooled, about work, about something she’d read, about nothing important. I was halfway through a story when she reached over.
No asking. No hesitation. Just gently, like it was understood.
She took one fry, careful not to brush my hand, and went right back to listening like she hadn’t just done something quietly significant.
She didn’t even look guilty.
A few seconds later, she noticed me staring.
“What?” she asked, smiling around the bite.
The corner of her mouth curved up like she already knew the answer. I felt my face ache from smiling back before I even realized I was doing it.
Anyone else, I would’ve said something. Joked. Pretended to be annoyed.
Instead, I felt… calm.
Something settled into place inside me. Not a spark. Not a rush. Something steadier. Like my body recognized her before my mind caught up. Like some part of me had already decided: this is where you’re supposed to be.
I didn’t mind losing the fry.
I didn’t mind anything at all.
Oh.
This is it.
This is how it starts, not fireworks or drama or some grand moment you tell people about.
Just a shared table. Warm food. Easy silence.
Belonging.
03/05/2022
Fifth date.
I told her.
I knew I was going to tonight. I’d known all day, maybe longer. The thought sat in my chest like a weight—heavy, necessary. I kept telling myself that if this was going to be real, if she was going to be real to me, then she deserved the truth. All of it.
Still, my hands wouldn’t stop shaking.
We were sitting close, closer than before. The lights were low. The city outside the window hummed softly, distant and unaware that my entire world was about to split open. I could hear my own heartbeat. I kept rehearsing the words in my head, terrified that if I didn’t say them perfectly, I’d lose her.
Superman.
Krypton.
The truth.
I’ve faced down enemies without fear. I’ve stood between the world and destruction without hesitation. But tonight, my palms were damp, my throat tight, my voice almost too small to trust.
I told her anyway.
I told her who I am. Where I come from. What I can do. What I can’t. I told her about the loneliness. About the responsibility. About how sometimes it feels like I’m made of glass despite being unbreakable.
I watched her face the entire time.
I was ready, so ready for her to pull away. To stiffen. To look at me like I was something dangerous or unknowable. I was ready for disbelief, fear, distance. Ready for the sound of my own heart breaking quietly while I pretended I understood.
She didn’t do any of that.
She didn’t interrupt. She didn’t stare at me like I was a spectacle. She didn’t flinch when I said the word Superman. She didn’t look for the door.
She listened.
The same way she always does. Head tilted slightly, eyes steady, hands folded together like this mattered. Like I mattered.
When I finished, the silence stretched. I could barely breathe. I felt exposed in a way I never have before. Like I’d peeled myself open and handed her everything unguarded.
Then she reached for me.
She took my hand—warm, grounding, real—and said, “Thank you for trusting me.”
That was it.
Not I need time.
Not I’m scared.
Not I don’t know what to say.
Just gratitude.
Trust meeting trust.
Something inside me broke open then. Something old and carefully guarded. I didn’t realize how much of myself I’d been holding back until that moment, how alone I’d been even when surrounded by people.
I don’t think she knows what that moment did to me.
I don’t think she knows she became my safe place tonight. That for the first time in my life, the truth didn’t feel like a burden, it felt like a bridge.
I fell in love with her again. Deeper than before. Permanently. In a way that doesn’t fade or loosen or ask permission.
If she ever doubts how much she means to me, I want her to remember this night.
I want me to remember it.
06/18/2022
She fell asleep on my shoulder.
We were supposed to watch the movie all the way through. She picked it. I remember that, she was excited about it, insisted it was better than I thought it would be. She curled up beside me like she always does, close enough that our arms touched, close enough that I could feel her warmth even before she leaned into me.
About halfway through, her head tipped just slightly toward my shoulder. I felt it before I saw it, the gentle weight of her settling, like she was testing whether it was okay.
I didn’t move.
A few minutes later, she tucked herself in properly, her head resting just under my chin, her hair brushing my jaw. Her breathing changed slowly, quietly, until it evened out into something soft and steady. The kind of breathing that only happens when someone feels completely safe.
I could feel everything. Every small shift of her weight. Every tiny exhale. The way her fingers twitched once, then relaxed, trusting I was there.
The movie kept playing. The plot resolved. The credits rolled.
I didn’t move.
Forty-two minutes passed. I know because I counted, not because I was bored, but because I wanted to remember how long I’d been allowed to hold this moment. My arm started to ache. My shoulder went numb.
I didn’t care.
I’ve stopped disasters. I’ve lifted impossible things. I’ve been praised for saving the world more times than I can count.
Tonight, the most important thing I did was stay perfectly still so she could rest.
I watched the rise and fall of her chest. I memorized the way she fit against me, like she had always been meant to. I thought—very quietly—that if this was all love ever asked of me, I would give it gladly.
I would do it forever if she asked.
And if she never did, I think I still would.
09/02/2022
Work.
Nothing remarkable was supposed to happen today.
Just another morning at the Planet. I was standing by my desk pretending to read an article when I felt it.
That gentle pull. That awareness.
I looked up without thinking.
She was across the newsroom, half-hidden behind a monitor, focused on her screen. And then—like she felt me looking—she glanced up.
Just a second. Maybe less.
Our eyes met.
She smiled.
Not big. Not obvious. Just enough. Just for me.
My heart did something ridiculous. The kind of thing I’d laugh at if it were anyone else. I felt it in my chest, in my hands, all the way down to my feet like I’d forgotten how gravity worked for a moment.
We didn’t speak. We didn’t wave. We didn’t need to.
It felt like a secret we were sharing in plain sight, something small and precious tucked between deadlines and coffee cups.
I looked back down at my desk, fully aware that my smile was impossible to hide.
I still get nervous when she looks at me like that.
I’ve faced impossible odds. I’ve stood against things that should have terrified me. But that quiet smile across the newsroom still makes my pulse stumble like I’m fifteen and hopelessly obvious about it.
She makes me feel young. Not careless, but alive. Like someone who’s still discovering what love can be, who hasn’t reached the end of the feeling yet.
Lois noticed. Of course she did. She smirked when she passed my desk.
Jimmy noticed, he raised his eyebrows and whispered “cute.”
Cat noticed. Steve noticed. I think Perry noticed too, though he pretended not to.
I don’t care.
They can notice all they want.
All I want—all I will ever want—is for her eyes to keep finding mine. In crowded rooms. In quiet mornings. Across every place life puts us.
For the rest of my life.
11/30/2022
One year.
I don’t think I really understood what today would feel like until it was already happening. I knew it mattered. I knew it was important. But I didn’t expect the weight of it, the way it would sit in my chest all evening, heavy and warm and almost too much to hold all at once.
A year.
That sounds so small when you say it out loud. Twelve months. Three hundred sixty-five ordinary days stacked gently on top of each other. Days that didn’t look remarkable from the outside. Days filled with work and quiet dinners and laughter over nothing.
But when I looked at her tonight, really looked at her, I felt the miracle of it.
The fact that she’s chosen me. Every day. For an entire year.
Not the idea of me. Not the parts that are easy or impressive. Me. The quiet mornings. The long nights. The truths she learned early and never turned away from.
She gave me her gift first.
She didn’t hand it to me right away. She asked me to sit down, her voice careful, almost shy. I noticed her hands shaking as she set it on the table between us, wrapped in brown paper, the edges taped too neatly. Like she’d redone it more than once. Like she’d worried about it.
“I need you to know,” she said quietly, eyes fixed on the package instead of me, “I tried my best.”
That alone made my chest tighten.
When I unwrapped it, I understood why she’d been nervous.
It was a painting.
Not small. Not casual. Not something done in an afternoon. This was time. Intention. Patience. The kind of work you only do when you’re willing to put your heart somewhere visible and vulnerable.
It was the farm.
My parents’ farm.
She’d painted it in late-afternoon light, the kind that turns everything golden and soft, the kind that always made me feel safe growing up. The house stood steady and familiar, the porch just right, the fields stretching out behind it the way they always do. Endless. Open. Like they belong to anyone who needs space to breathe.
And in the center—
All of us.
Ma and Pa.
Me.
And them.
My birth parents.
All of us standing together, arms around one another, no distance between us. No time separating what was lost from what was found. No planets. No years. No absence.
Just together.
Like it was always meant to be that way.
For a second, I couldn’t breathe.
She rushed to explain, words tumbling over each other as if she were afraid the silence meant she’d done something wrong.
She told me she used pictures to paint the farm I have hanging in my apartment since she hasn’t been there yet. Told me she watched the video again—the one that came with me when I was sent to Earth—paused it, rewound it, studied my birth parents’ faces so she wouldn’t get them wrong.
She told me she didn’t want to mess it up. That she just kept thinking—
Her voice softened then.
—that they’d want to see me happy. That my parents—all of them—belong together in my life. Even if it never looked like this in real life.
My hands were shaking when I held the frame.
She painted Ma’s smile exactly right. The gentleness in my Pa's eyes. That quiet pride he never needs to announce. And my birth parents—hopeful, loving, looking at me like I was everything.
She gave me something I didn’t even know how to ask for.
A world where nothing was lost.
I didn’t cry right away. I think I was too overwhelmed. I just stared, memorizing every brushstroke, every careful decision she’d made with love. Trying to understand how someone could see me so clearly.
“I didn’t know if it was okay,” she whispered. “But it felt important.”
I pulled her into my chest without thinking. I couldn’t help it. I needed to feel her there, solid and real.
It was the most understood I have ever felt in my life.
Then it was my turn.
I won’t pretend I didn’t agonize over her gift. I did. For weeks. I wanted it to be something beautiful. Something lasting. Something that carried meaning even if the words failed me.
Inside the small velvet box was a necklace.
Gold. Delicate. The chain thin and warm. And at its center, a butterfly—crafted so carefully it looked like it might lift off at any second if the light caught it just right.
She went very still when she saw it.
I remembered something she told me once—quietly, almost like she didn’t want to make it important. That butterflies were her mother’s favorite. That they reminded her of gentleness. Of transformation. Of staying, even after someone leaves.
I chose it because of that.
Because I wanted her to have something close to her heart. Something that carried love forward instead of marking loss. Something that said she is held—by memory, by love, by me.
It cost more than I usually allow myself to spend on anything. More than was practical. More than was reasonable.
But she’s worth it.
All of it.
She cried then.
Not loudly. Just leaned into me, clutching the necklace like it was something fragile and sacred. My hands weren’t steady when I fastened it around her neck. I don’t think I trusted myself to be.
It looked like it belonged there.
We didn’t say much after that.
We just sat together, her painting propped carefully against the wall, the butterfly warm against her skin, the quiet settling around us like a promise.
A year.
One year of choosing each other. Of learning each other. Of loving in ways that still surprise me.
I still can’t believe she’s with me.
I still wake up amazed that someone so thoughtful, so kind, so deeply human, has chosen to share her life with mine.
If this is what one year feels like, I want all the years.
Every single one.
With her.
02/11/2023
She had a bad day.
I knew the moment I saw her.
She tried to hide it, smiled when she walked in, asked how my day was—but her shoulders were too tight, her voice just a little too careful. I didn’t call it out right away. I’ve learned that sometimes she needs space to land before she can let go.
Later, when the apartment had gone quiet, she finally sat beside me on the couch and exhaled like she’d been holding her breath all day.
She didn’t want fixing.
She didn’t want answers.
She didn’t want me to make it better.
She just wanted someone to sit with her.
So I did.
I stayed exactly where I was. Close enough that our knees touched. Close enough that she could lean if she wanted to—but I didn’t pull her in until she chose it herself. When she finally rested her head against my shoulder, it felt like permission.
I wrapped an arm around her slowly, carefully, like she was something precious.
We didn’t talk much. A few quiet words. Long stretches of silence. I could feel the tension leaving her shoulders little by little, like she was setting something heavy down piece by piece. Like she trusted me to hold the weight with her, even if I couldn’t take it away.
I watched her breathe. I watched her relax.
I wished—again—that she could see herself the way I do.
Strong, even when she’s tired.
Kind, even when the world hasn’t been.
Brilliant in ways she never gives herself credit for.
Braver than she knows, simply for showing up every day and trying.
She thinks strength looks loud. Unbreakable.
But this—this quiet endurance, this softness she allows only with me—this is the bravest thing I’ve ever seen.
Loving her feels like standing in sunlight. Not blinding. Not overwhelming. Just steady and warm and certain. Like something you can build a life in.
I finally understand what “home” means.
It isn’t a place.
It’s this moment, her leaning into me, the world quiet for a while, knowing I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.
With her.
07/29/2023
She met my parents today.
I’ve been nervous about a lot of things in my life. I’ve faced fear head-on more times than I can count. But today, today my stomach was in knots in a way that surprised me.
I brought her home.
Not just to Kansas. Not just to the farm.
Home.
I didn’t warn her much beforehand. Maybe I should have. I only said that my parents would love her, and that was true—but it didn’t feel like enough. I don’t think I realized until today how much it mattered to me that they see her the way I do.
She wore something simple. Comfortable. Herself. She was polite without being stiff, warm without trying too hard. When Ma hugged her, I watched her melt into it like she’d been waiting for that kind of welcome without knowing it.
Ma loved her instantly. I could tell by the way she touched her arm when she laughed, by how quickly she started asking questions—not the polite kind, but the ones you ask when you want to know someone. Pa watched quietly at first, like he always does, measuring more than he speaks.
Then she offered to help in the kitchen.
She didn’t have to. She just did. Like she belonged there.
I stood in the doorway for a while, pretending not to watch as she laughed with Ma, as flour dusted her hands, as she listened to stories about me growing up with the same attention she always gives me. I saw something in Pa's expression then. Something soft, approving, settled.
At dinner, she asked them about their lives. Their history. She listened when Pa talked about the land. She thanked Pa for the meal like it meant something to her.
When Pa finally said, “We’re glad you’re here,” I felt something loosen in my chest that I didn’t know I’d been holding.
Later, when she stepped outside with me and the cicadas filled the evening air, she slipped her hand into mine like it was second nature. Like she’d always known how to find me.
I realized then that this wasn’t just me bringing her into my world.
She was already part of it.
If there ever comes a day when she doubts—when the world feels loud or unkind or she wonders where she belongs—I want her to remember this. The way my mother smiled at her like she was already family. The way my father looked at her like she was someone worth trusting with what matters most.
I don’t know when I’ll say it out loud.
But today made something very clear to me.
She isn’t just someone I love.
She’s someone I’m building a life with.
Every single day.
10/26/2023
Tonight reminded me why I survive.
I came home barely holding myself together.
I don’t usually let it get that bad. I tell myself I won’t, that I’ll pull back sooner, that I’ll know my limits. But tonight I misjudged things. Strength. Timing. My own belief that I can always take one more hit if it means someone else doesn’t have to.
By the time I made it back to my apartment, my ribs felt like glass. Every breath was shallow and sharp, like my lungs were cutting against something broken inside me. My shoulder burned, deep, angry pain that wouldn’t quiet no matter how I shifted my weight. I could feel blood drying along my side, stiffening my suit, pulling at my skin every time I moved.
I didn’t knock.
I couldn’t risk standing upright long enough to do it.
I just leaned against the doorframe for a second, forehead pressed to the cool wood, wondering how much she’d see the moment I stepped inside. Wondering if I could make it to the couch without worrying her too much. Wondering—selfishly—if I could keep this from being one of the nights that lives in her fear.
She heard me anyway.
She always does.
The door opened before I could decide anything, and there she was.
Not panicked.
Not shouting my name.
Not frozen in shock.
Just there.
Her eyes found me instantly, sharp and assessing, taking everything in at once—the blood, the way I was favoring my right side, the way my shoulders were held too stiff, like they were bracing against pain I didn’t want to admit to yet.
I could hear her heart.
It was racing. Fast. Uneven. Terrified.
And still—her voice was calm.
“Hey,” she said softly, like she wasn’t looking at someone who’d barely made it home. Like she wasn’t scared out of her mind. “Come sit down. Slowly. I’ve got you.”
Those words, 'I’ve got you', did something to me. I felt my knees weaken the moment she said them, like my body finally believed it was allowed to stop fighting.
She moved with such care. Every step deliberate. Every touch gentle and precise, like she was handling something precious instead of broken. She didn’t rush me. Didn’t bombard me with questions or try to assess everything at once.
She knew (somehow) that her calm was the thing keeping me upright.
That her fear, however loud it was inside her, wasn’t what would help me heal.
I watched her swallow it down for me.
I watched her steady her hands before she touched me, watched her breathe slowly on purpose, watched her make herself quiet so I could finally exhale.
She helped me sit, eased my weight down inch by inch, murmuring small reassurances the whole time. Nothing dramatic. Nothing heroic. Just constant presence. Proof that I wasn’t alone in the room with the pain.
When she cleaned the blood from my hands, she did it like she’d done it a hundred times. Cloth warm, pressure careful, movements practiced. But I could hear her heart the entire time, still racing, still afraid.
It never slowed.
And still, she stayed steady.
She talked while she worked—not about what happened, not about what could have gone wrong. Just small things. The grocery list. Something funny she’d read earlier. The way the neighbor’s dog barked all afternoon.
Grounding sounds. Anchors.
I realized then how much effort it must take. How much strength it takes to choose calm when fear is screaming in your chest. How brave you have to be to love someone like me and still soften your hands when they come home hurt.
That’s when it hit me. Again.
Anyone can love the invincible part of me.
The symbol.
The strength.
The idea of safety.
But she loves the part of me that limps home at midnight, trying not to bleed on the floor. The part of me that miscalculates. The part of me that hurts. The part of me that needs someone else to be strong for a moment.
She didn’t ask me to be Superman tonight.
She let me just be Clark.
The way she held me—careful, unafraid, unwavering—did something to me. It settled somewhere deep and permanent, like a truth clicking into place.
I fell in love with her again tonight.
Not loudly.
Not all at once.
Just deeper.
And I don’t think there’s an end to how far that goes.
04/10/2025
We talked about moving in together.
It wasn’t supposed to be a big conversation.
We were sitting on the couch, legs tangled, the TV on low in the background. I don’t even remember what we were watching. She said it casually, almost offhand—something about how much time we already spend together, how it might just make sense.
My heart immediately started racing.
I tried to play it cool. I nodded. I said something reasonable. I even managed to keep my voice steady for a few seconds.
I failed.
I felt my smile give me away before I could stop it. I felt the warmth spread through my chest, that light, buoyant feeling that only she gives me. I don’t think I realized how much I’d been hoping for this until she said it out loud.
We talked about logistics—closets, commutes, who has the better couch—but underneath it all was something quieter and deeper. Certainty. Not excitement that burns out fast, but the kind that settles in and stays.
Ever since that conversation, my mind hasn’t stopped wandering.
I keep imagining mornings.
Her hair messy, sleep still clinging to her voice when she says my name. Sunlight spilling through the window, dust floating in the air like it’s been waiting just for us. The sound of her moving around the kitchen while I pretend not to watch, the comfort of knowing that no matter how the day unfolds, we’ll come back to each other at night.
I imagine shared spaces—books mixing on shelves, her things slowly finding their way into every corner. Little arguments about nothing. Quiet routines that become sacred simply because they’re ours.
I’ve already imagined a ring.
Not just the ring itself, but the way her eyes will widen when she realizes what I’m asking. The way her hands will shake just a little when I take hers. The way saying her name followed by my wife will feel like the most natural truth I’ve ever known.
I don’t know when I’ll ask.
I want it to be right. I want it to feel like us—honest, unhurried, full of love.
But I do know this: the answer has lived in me for a long time. Longer than I realized. Since the day I offered her half my sandwich in a noisy lunchroom and felt my world shift in a way I couldn’t name yet.
Everything since then has just been catching up.
If love is choosing someone every day, then I’ve already made my choice.
I’m just finally ready to say it out loud.
11/11/2025
Lois asked me today why I haven’t proposed yet.
She didn’t mean it unkindly. Lois rarely does, even when she pretends otherwise. We were finishing up a story, the newsroom mostly empty, and she leaned back in her chair, studied me for a long moment, then said it like it was obvious.
“So,” she said, “are you ever going to put a ring on her finger, or are you just going to keep pretending she’s not wildly out of your league?”
I laughed. I couldn’t help it.
Because she’s right.
I know she is.
I’ve always known.
Lois kept going, softer this time. “You love her. Anyone with eyes can see that. So what are you waiting for? You scared?”
I thought about that long after she turned back to her screen.
Am I scared?
Yes.
But not in the way she meant.
I’m not waiting because I’m unsure. I’m not hesitating because I don’t know what I want. I don’t wake up questioning whether she’s the one. That answer has lived in me for years now, steady and unmovable.
I’m waiting because I’ve never been this sure before in my life.
Everything else I’ve ever faced—every fight, every impossible choice—has always come with certainty baked in. I knew what had to be done. I knew I could endure it. I knew the risk.
This is different.
This isn’t about survival.
It’s about forever.
I want it to be right. I want it to feel like us—unrushed, honest, full of intention. I don’t want to trip over my own eagerness and risk losing something this precious by moving too fast, by letting the moment feel careless instead of considered.
She deserves a proposal that feels like a promise kept, not a step taken too quickly.
I want the timing to be gentle. The kind that says I chose you every day before this, and I will every day after.
I know she’s out of my league.
She always has been.
But she chose me anyway. She keeps choosing me. And that still humbles me more than I know how to say.
So no Lois, I’m not waiting because I’m afraid to commit.
I’m waiting because this is the most important question I will ever ask.
And when I ask it, I want my hands steady, my heart open, and the certainty she’s given me reflected back to her without doubt or hesitation.
I already know the answer.
I’m just making sure the moment honors how much she means to me.
Always.
Your tears fall freely now, blurring the words, splashing onto the pages of a love story written quietly, faithfully, just for you. You don’t try to stop them. There’s no point. This is what it feels like to be seen so completely it almost hurts.
The notebook trembles in your hands.
Then—
The soft jingle of keys at the door.
You gasp, sharp and startled, like you’ve been caught somewhere you weren’t supposed to be. Your head snaps up, heart slamming against your ribs. Panic flares—not guilt exactly, but something close enough to make your chest tighten. You scrub hastily at your cheeks with the heel of your hand, trying to erase the evidence, trying to breathe like your world hasn’t just quietly, irrevocably shifted.
The door opens.
Clark steps inside, paper towels tucked under his arm, jacket half-unzipped, hair slightly mussed from the breeze outside. He looks relaxed—content in that soft, domestic way he’s been wearing all day.
Happy.
Then his eyes find you.
Sitting on the floor.
Diary open in your hands.
Eyes red. Face flushed.
He freezes.
Not just still—suspended. Like time has paused mid-breath.
“…Hey,” he says carefully, voice gentle but alert, like he’s approaching something fragile. “What’s wrong?”
Your throat tightens painfully.
You push yourself to your feet slowly, the movement unsteady, like gravity has changed without warning. You clutch the notebook to your chest instinctively, fingers curling into the leather as if it might vanish if you don’t hold on tight enough.
“I—” Your voice breaks immediately. You swallow, try again. “I’m so sorry.”
That stops him.
He blinks, confusion flickering across his face. “Sorry?”
“I didn’t mean to,” you say quickly, the words tumbling out now that they’ve started. “I was unpacking and I found it and I didn’t know what it was and I shouldn’t have opened it, I know that, I just—” You shake your head, tears spilling again. “I’m really sorry, Clark. I never wanted to invade your privacy.”
For a heartbeat, he just looks at you.
Then realization dawns.
You watch it ripple across his face: the widening of his eyes, the sharp inhale, the way his shoulders tense as understanding crashes in. Horror. Embarrassment. Tender, helpless panic.
“Oh,” he breathes. “Oh—Y/N, I—”
The paper towels slip from his arm as he sets the bag down too fast, hands fumbling like his body can’t quite keep up with his thoughts. “No—hey, no, you didn’t do anything wrong. I swear, I wasn’t hiding it from you. I just—I wanted it to be for later. For the right moment.”
His voice falters, vulnerability bare on his face. “I was waiting. I didn’t want to rush it. I wanted everything to be… right.”
You shake your head, tears blurring your vision. “I know. I know. I just—reading it felt like stepping into something I wasn’t meant to see yet.”
His expression softens instantly.
Before either of you can say anything else, you cross the space between you in three quick steps and throw your arms around him.
Clark stiffens in surprise for half a second—pure reflex—before he melts into you completely. His arms wrap around you strong and sure, one hand pressing gently between your shoulder blades, the other cradling the back of your head like he’s afraid to let go.
He holds you like you’re something precious.
Like you’re fragile.
Like you’re endlessly, irrevocably loved.
You bury your face in his chest, breathing him in—home, warmth, safety—and your voice shakes when you speak.
“It’s the most beautiful thing anyone has ever written about me,” you whisper. “About us.”
He exhales, long and unsteady, like he’s been holding that breath for years. His forehead rests against yours, eyes closing briefly as if to steady himself. When he pulls back just enough to look at you, his eyes are glossy, shining with emotion he isn’t trying to hide.
“You weren’t supposed to read it yet,” he murmurs softly, thumb brushing beneath your eye, wiping away a tear with reverent care. “I was waiting for the right moment to propose. After we settled in. After this felt like home.”
Your breath catches.
“But,” he continues quietly, a small, almost bashful smile tugging at his mouth, “everything in there is true. Every word. I’ve loved you since the moment you smiled at me over a sad microwave lunch.”
A wet laugh slips out of you despite everything. “You really wrote it all down.”
He nods, almost shy now. “I wanted proof,” he admits. “For you. For forever. In case the world ever got loud. In case you ever doubted how sure I am.”
You lift your hands to his face, cradling him the way he always cradles you, thumbs brushing his cheeks. Your heart feels too full, like it might burst if you don’t say this out loud.
“I don’t need proof,” you say softly. “But I’m really glad I have it.”
He smiles then.
Wide. Radiant. Hopelessly, undeniably in love.
And in that moment—standing barefoot in a half-unpacked apartment, surrounded by boxes and cardboard and the life you’re still building—you know.
Even without a ring.
Without a question asked out loud.
When your reading the juiciest, most beautifully written fic on tumblr that has you invested and then reader ruins it and says the goofiest, corniest, most unhinged sentence ever to exist that makes you rethink your life choices (and reading the fic)🥀😭:
(Original meme face templates set up. Just putting it out there cause saw one person copy my other one)
Synopsis: Clark tells you he loves you for the first time.
Author’s Note: this one is for the girls who get told they talk too much. (First Clark Kent x reader!!)
————
Metropolis had turned white overnight. The streets glittered with a thin layer of snow, and was relatively slow for this time of day. Kids could be heard in the distance, trying to play in the dust of snow and the few people who passed by you, also had a cup of hot coffee in their hands.
You were bundled up in a nice black winter coat, a wool scarf around your neck, and despite your warm apparel your cheeks were freezing from the cold.
Your hands cradled your cup of coffee— the one Clark had ordered before you even walked into the coffee shop the two of you met at every morning. He knew your order by heart now. (Extra foam, an extra shot of espresso, and two sugars, and “not too hot, she’ll burn her tongue.”)
Things were getting pretty serious between the two of you. Instead of seeing each other every other day (due to work), you both made it a point to visit with each other first thing in the morning. Clark walked beside you (closer to the street, because he was a gentleman), his arm slung around your shoulders, pulling you into his warm body. His scarf brushed your cheek every time he looked down at you, and it smelled like a combination of your perfume and his cologne.
“I told Merit I can’t wear beige. I don’t know why, but when I wear beige, I look like a breadstick. But it also makes me wonder if anyone can really pull off beige.” You chuckled in your cup and took a sip. “You can pull off beige.” He replied sweetly.
You glanced up at him with a smile, “You’re just saying that because you like me.” You responded.
Clark pulled you closer into him, “Maybe.” He said with a wink. After crossing the street onto another sidewalk, you couldn’t help but to talk. You were always talking.
You talked about the barista’s hair style and how much you would love to get extensions, but also wanted to cut your hair, then it changed to a billboard the two of you passed by, and how beautiful the snowflakes looked scattered across his hair.
You would talk, and Clark would listen. Intently. A moment of a quiet passed between you two, until you spoke again (no surprise there, right?).
“When I was younger, I would always get in trouble for talking this much.” You said as you awkwardly tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. “Teachers would make me sit by myself because I distracted the other kids.”
Clark looked down at you with inquisitive eyes, as you continued. “Even at home—I’d get told to be quiet. Eventually, I just…” you bit the inside of your cheek questioning whether this admittance was too much. “I stopped talking— well I stopped talking as much. I felt like no one wanted to hear me. So thank you for never telling me to hush or saying that I talk too much.”
His heart softened even more at your words. Clark’s arm tightened around you, as if he could take away all of the past and present insecurities from you.
Clark’s arm tightened around your shoulders. “They missed out,” he said simply. You looked up at him, a little surprised, “You think so?”
He nodded, his cute smile tugging at his lips. “Yes. I could listen to you talk for hours— days even.”
His words caught you off guard— not that he wasn’t always kind, but you knew he meant them. He wasn’t teasing you like most people did when they said, “No! You don’t talk that much!”
Your cheeks felt warm, “Hours, huh?” You teased quietly and you leaned your head against his shoulder. “Careful, Kent, I might test that theory.”
“I hope you do.” He smiled and you laughed.
You tried to hide the embarrassment by ducking your head away from him, but he kept watching you. He watched as small snowflakes landed in your hair and in your lashes. Then his mind wandered to how his life had changed so much with you in it— for the better. Clark had a realization in that moment—he didn’t just love listening to you talk about every and any thing.
He loved you.
“Hey..” he whispered and you brought your coffee down from your lips. “Hm?” You looked up at him curiously because his eyes were soft, and he stopped in the middle of the sidewalk.
Clark hesitated, his heart raced in his chest, then he smiled shyly, “I love you.” He said as he began to walk again his arm guiding you.
Your steps slowed, “What?”
“I love you,” he said again, but there was certainty in his voice this time. “I love listening to you talk. I love your voice, and the way you think about things no one else does. I love that you talk too much, and I love that you feel comfortable enough to do it with me.”
He stopped with his arm still wrapped around you, and you blinked up at him, your heart still trying to beat properly. The cold wasn’t so cold anymore and you felt warmth radiate all over you. “Nobody’s ever said that before.” You muttered and he sat his coffee cup on a bench and gently took yours from your hands and sat it down with his.
“Then I’ll keep reminding you. You don’t have to say it back, there’s no pressure—” He promised as his hands held your face, but you cut him off.
“I love you too.” You said looking up at him and he smiled. His cheeks were red with the words of declaration, and he brought his lips against yours. Clark stayed true to his word- when you rambled, he listened. Your voice was his favorite sound in the world.
——-
Author’s note: This one’s or the girls who were told they talked too much. Honestly, it kinda hurts hearing people say it, but hey, there is always someone who is going to love your rambling. I hope you enjoyed this! <3
AUTHOR'S NOTE: The tittle is inspired by 'Don't Worry I'll Make You Worry' by Sabrina Carpenter. Hope you like it!
Your relationship with Clark was never something you thought would ever happen. You weren't someone who believed that you deserved it. To meet someone who would be so willing to appreciate you for who you are. No second thoughts. No hesitations. But sometimes you were not comfortable accepting it. You like Clark. Of course you did, but it didn't mean that sometimes, too much cuddling or too much love didn't stop you from feeling like you were guilty of something. So unworthy of the love he gave you. Of him. Of Clark. No matter how many times he told you that it was okay. That it wasn't like that. You still had the benefit of the doubt if that was true.
You grew up believing you didn't deserve it. The lack of love that you received while growing up make you believe that it was normal for you not to have any. Your mom was not the loving mother that other kids had; she was cold and mostly absent, even living in the same house. Your dad was always away from home because of work. You grew up used to it. Used to the lack of love. Until Clark. Clark makes you see another kind of world where you could be loved and embraced, but sometimes old habits die hard, and you couldn't handle it. Sometimes it was too much.
Yes. Clark was the perfect boyfriend. He was the one who kept you afloat every time your world came crashing down from a problem that you thought was unsolvable. That your car was not working in the cold weather? He was there in a minute to fix it. That you didn’t have time to grab lunch on your break? He would go personally for it and deliver it to you like it were the most precious thing in the world. That you were feeling cranky about something that happened at work? He would be there to make you feel safe to complain all you wanted about what make you mad.
He loves you. He even wants to scream it to the world every morning that he wakes up beside you, but he won't. He is too shy to do it; besides, he doesn't know how you would react. Maybe he was more anxious about thinking about it than the action itself. When he told you he was Superman, you took it well, and he was so happy about it that he spun you around as if it was some kind of Disney Princess movie, but this? This was a whole other level. He has never said it. And he thinks he never will.
You were too harsh around other people, but with him, you were kind enough to deliver a kiss on the cheek while he made dinner or when you just wanted to do it, as if you didn't need permission to do so. Because, being fair, you didn't need it. He was more than glad for you to do it when you wanted, since it wasn't common for you to do so; he appreciated every time it occurred, as if it was pure gold delivered to him into his own hands by you. But that didn't change that sometimes when he did the same to you, along the day you would start to feel uncomfortable about it, so he would stop and just put a hand over your leg or not even touch you at all, just being seated together on the couch and have his arm rest over the back of the couch.
For him, saying the three words felt like another universe. He thought about your comfort before everything, and if you didn't feel comfortable with that kind of dedication of love, he would not do it. Even though he was dying to do so. The desperation for Clark to say it was growing thin day by day. You could see the tension in his shoulders or how he flinches almost every time you walk past him. Like if he was altered by something, and you being around made it worse for his brain to short-circuit. One day, it was too much; you couldn't pretend it wasn't happening anymore, so you did what you did best. Confront him.
He was making dinner. You were watching a movie on the couch when you decided it was time to discuss it. You stepped around him and caressed one of his shoulders, which he flinched the moment he felt your touch. “What are you thinking about?” you ask directly, rubbing his back as you look up at him. Noticing the slight blush over the tips of his ears going red, the color was creeping down toward his neck.
You didn’t mess around when you thought about anything or wanted to ask something. You were clear and direct, and Clark liked the honesty and transparency that you had. But in times like this, it makes him feel cornered and afraid to say the wrong thing. He just wanted to see you happy.
“Me? What–what do you mean?” He stammered, refusing to meet your eyes, as if looking at you might burn him.
“I think you do,” You said, crossing your arms while your hip was reloading on the counter, never breaking eye contact, even though Clark was avoiding it at all costs. He, in response. Fix his glasses and then frown a little, but in a cute way.
“I'm not hiding anything. If you think I'm hiding something, which I'm not. Ask me anything. Question me. Because I have nothing to hide…about,” He blurted, the words tumbling over each other in a rushed mess. He looked so sure of himself, trying to look confident as he moved the pan aside to not burn the dinner that he was cooking, and then looked at you, which came like a total disaster.
The moment he looked at you, he blushed so badly it was almost a deep crimson. His eyes widened as if he was seeing you for the first time, overwhelmed by all your beauty. It was too much for him to handle; He jerked his gaze away, shy about it the moment he felt the heat rising in his cheeks. The flustered panic on his face was so endearing that you couldn’t help but laugh, which made you get a little chuckle out of your lips.
“You are cute,” You said with a little smile. You lean closer to give him a little kiss on the cheek and call it a day. Go back to your movie or read a book. But Clark had other plans.
“I Love…” He didn’t finish it, or at least you didn’t hear him finish the sentence, but you knew very well what he intended to say. It makes you stop on your tracks, and all the goofiness and the smiling you had a few seconds ago were gone, replaced with wide eyes and an expression Clark couldn't decipher.
“You don't mean that,” You answer so fast. The answer was almost automatic, and you could see in Clark's expression that his stomach dropped at what you said. He wasn't expecting you to react like this. It was the last thing he wanted you to do, and he regretted it the moment he said it, seeing you now like this, so unhappy because of him and even hurt.
It wasn't something that you were expecting; you were overwhelmed by just a sentence that wasn't even finished. Him telling you the three words wasn't something you saw coming. You weren't used to people loving you, not like Clark did, and now him telling you he…loved you. It was another story, something that for you and your way of thinking didn't suit right. You wanted to cry. You wanted to scream. But one thing was certain: you wouldn't do it in front of Clark.
“But I–” Clark tried again, but you stopped him with the lift of your hand.
“I’ll be in the room if you need me.” You were looking away before you could finish saying it, and were already heading to your room, upset and closing the door without looking back.
Clark felt awful throughout dinner. You didn't get out of your room. Not even when Clark told you that dinner was ready. You didn't come out or make a response to him. He gave you space, but it didn't mean that it didn't hurt him. He was repeating in his mind ‘I shouldn't have said it. I shouldn't have said it. I shouldn't have said it.’ He was torturing himself for his words, even though they weren't mean. They were appreciative and lovable like Clark was, but for you, it was something unknown and scary. You didn't know if you were ready to give Clark what he deserved.
He even got you your favorite dessert if that could make you feel better. He would even fly to the sun if that makes you happy. But the only thing that he could do right now was wait, and that made him feel even worse, but he wouldn't say it. He won't because of the end of the day. He loves you too much to do so. He left a piece of your dessert and your dinner on the counter for you with a note if you didn't want to speak to him. He was gonna love you even though he thought you now hated him forever.
He sat on the couch watching the movie you were watching before all this mess, but he wasn't really watching it. He was thinking more about what he could do to fix this, because that's what Clark did. He fixes things. But now he was the one whose world was crashing down. So when he heard the crack of the door opening. His head snapped back to reality like a dog hearing its owner was back. He didn't move towards you; he stayed put on the couch, hoping you would go to him. You looked bad. Puffy eyes from crying, red and irritated, even Clark could see the tear trail that you had on your cheeks from crying for hours. His stomach dropped from just seeing you, and he felt even worse. His hands were going into fists, grounding himself from going to you. Not yet. Instead, he saw you going to the plate and the desert he left for you on the counter, and he saw a faint smile, but he didn't know if it was his hopes making him see things that weren't real or if you did smile softly.
You didn't ask for anything. Didn't even touch your food or the dessert. He thought he failed, and he was ready to fly to the sun to his death to make you feel better, but then, in a sudden movement, you were going to him. Your legs over his lap and hugging him, hiding your face in the crook of his neck. He was shocked. You have never done this kind of affection or even gotten this clingy, but he didn't pull you back. He embraces you as if this were a normal routine. He caresses your back over the line of your spine, making you feel calm around him.
“I'm sorry,” You mumbled, hiding in his neck, but he understood. He always did. Your voice came out rougher than normal. Crying took a toll on you. But he didn't mind. Instead, he hugs you tighter.
“What for? You didn't do anything wrong,” He told you as calmly as possible. With that nice tone he uses when you were upset about something. You thought of it as if he was treating you like a child. But right now you needed it. You hide even more in his neck.
“I ruin dinner…” He was gonna deny your words, but before he could, you continued.” And I feel that I don't deserve your love.” You sob softly. Your lip was wobbling like wanting to cry again, but you were dry from so many spilled tears. Clark, instead of blaming you or making you feel less. He took your face in his hands, caressing your cheeks.
“Babe, that isn't true.” He looked you right in your eye. You could hear and see his pity radiating from him, but you didn't have the strength to tell him to stop it or stop him from looking at you like that. You were too hurt. “You didn't do anything wrong. It was me who said it without thinking. I’m sorry, sweetheart.”
He cradles your face closer and caresses your hair to calm you. You pulled closer and hugged him. Going back to your hiding in his neck, too embarrassed by the mess you thought you made. But Clark was there; he always was. He made you feel love and appreciated, just like in this moment. It makes you feel safe. You love him.
You stayed in silence, hugging each other tightly, none of you wanting to let go. Then, in the softness of the night, you whisper the unthinkable. “I love you.”
You heard the little gasp, so subtle but noticeable from Clark, but a few seconds later, he relaxed. He pulled you closer to him and laid his cheek on your head, caressing your hair with his hand. “I love you too.”
waittt what if steve’s wife heard about all the things clark does for you at a gala for daily planet reporters and ends up splitting with steve over his lack of care for her!!!
wait this would be lowkey so sad. let’s do it
pairing: husband!clark kent x fem!reader. word count: 1.1k content: gala day!! usual domestic bliss between hubby clark and reader. kisses and compliments. steve lombard being a bum ass husband and getting his karma for it. mentions of alcohol, bad marriage and swearing. not proofread!
“You look beautiful, honey.”
“Clark.” You laughed, “You have told me that six times since we entered the building.”
“What’s one more? Stunning.”
It was a special gala for the Daily Planet reporters to celebrate the blooming achievement the papers had done in the past year. Newspapers were flying off the shelves with the exclusive interviews Superman was handing off to one of the most valued reporters in the building: Clark Kent.
He stayed rather humble about it all. Or, you called him a cheat and it kept his head from swelling any further.
It was a black-tie event, dozens of reporters from other newspapers had been invited along to the gathering. Clark had swapped his usual dishevelled stone grey suit and pink tie for a black suit and a dark red bow tie.
And you? He could barely keep his hands to himself. You had opted for a dress, that had been plucked from multiple try-ons in a store, in which your husband sat through every single one — happily — and had his own commentary on each one without falsifying how he felt about them.
Clark believed that you looked great in everything. However, he wasn’t going to sugarcoat it; you appreciated that.
Champagne offered out by waiters after every couple of steps, your hand was rested in the nook of Clark’s elbow as you both walked through the crowd that gathered.
A familiar face stuck out from the sea of strangers. Unfortunately, for you, it was Steve Lombard in all his obnoxious glory.
“Please don’t make me talk to him.” You pleaded when you felt Clark tug you both in his direction.
Clark chuckled softly, “Honey. Play nice.” He patted your hand, “Steve can be alright. Sometimes.”
You whined as you approached Steve. He turned on his heel, cheeks filled with food, suit jacket that was a size too small smeared with whatever remains of the buffet clung to his fingers. Beside him, stood a woman in her late 40s. She had been muttering under her breath to Steve who waved her off flippantly with his free hand.
“Look who it is.” Steve chewed his food, “Klark Cent.”
God, you hated that guy.
Your husband, with more patience than you, entertained Steve with a genuine smile, “Steve. You’ve met my wife before. Married—”
“—One year and five months, yeah. Heard it all before. Hola.” He did a two finger salute in your direction.
Your eyes shifted to the lady next to him and then back to Steve.
“Are you going to introduce your wife?” You weren’t going to beat around the bush. The poor woman stood like chopped liver next to him.
Steve nodded, “This is my wife. Linda. Married far too long.”
Both you and Clark squeezed each other’s hands. It was your very own signal that you’d be gossiping about that in bed later that night.
As you stepped forward to shake her hand, the heel of your shoe snagged the skirt of your dress. Clark was immediate with his reaction, knelt down on one knee with a ‘let me get that, honey.’ tumbling from his mouth like it was second-nature.
He stood and Linda’s eyes stayed on him for a moment.
“It’s nice to meet you.” You took her hand, “I love your dress.”
She looked down at her own attire, “Oh! Thank you. I got it from a small boutique.”
It was the first compliment she had received all night.
You didn’t read the room when your next sentence came out, “Clark and I went to multiple different shops to find a dress for tonight. He sat through so many, his constructive feedback really helped narrow the options down.”
Linda blinked, “He goes shopping with you?”
“Oh—Sometimes, yeah.” You were lying.
Clark always went shopping with you. He’d spend the day sulking if you went without telling him.
“I enjoy spending as much time as I can with her.” Clark added fuel to the fire, “I’m lucky to have her. So, I make every second count incase my luck ever runs out.”
“Which it won’t.” You retorted and Clark pressed a kiss to your temple.
Linda could feel the pang of upset spread across her chest. From her peripheral, her husband stood with enough distance between them that she couldn’t link pinky fingers with him like they used to do. His interest was directed at the buffet table, rather than toward her.
She had made a real effort with her hair and makeup. Booked a professional to do it. Steve didn’t acknowledge it when she stepped into their home, and the radiant feeling soon wore off.
In fact, when she watched you and Clark exchange a couple of loving words to each other, entangled in your own world consumed by love; Linda felt any remains of radiance she felt scrubbed off her skin with sandpaper.
She swallowed, “So, you’ve been married for over a year now?”
“And won’t shut up about it.” Steve responded with a false laugh, “If Clark isn’t on the phone to his wife, he’s talking about her until he can talk to her. Bo-ring.”
Clark didn’t take the bait.
“Well, I love her. Bigger than the whole sky, I’d say.”
Linda clenched her fists.
“Listen to yourself, Clark. A man of your stature shouldn’t be so soppy over a woman.” Steve stated in a partial teasing, partial honest to his views manner.
“I think it’s romantic.” Linda defended you both.
Steve didn’t even look her way, “Yeah. You would. I’m going to find some more of those mini burgers.”
Another squeeze to each other’s hands. You offered a sympathetic smile to Linda before she tailed off to chase after her husband.
Ring. Ring. Ring.
You picked up your phone and turned it face up to see Clark calling you.
Making sure the coast was clear from any lurking bosses, you dropped your pen beneath your desk and ducked down, sliding the green button to answer his call.
“Honey? You never call at this time.” You cupped your mouth with your hand to try mute your own voice.
“I know—I’m sorry. I had to call you.”
Your brows pinched with worry, “Is everything OK?”
“Lombard’s wife, Linda, from the Gala? The one where you looked beautiful in that dress we picked—”
“—Clark. On track.”
“Right. Linda filed for a divorce.” Clark whispered, “Had the papers sent to the office. Steve almost fainted from the shock.”
“Shock? He hates her.” You said.
“I thought that too. Suppose he got too comfortable being a real punk. Anyway, he’s stomping around blaming us for the downfall of his own marriage.” Clark admitted with a laugh, “He said we’re unrealistic standards to keep up with.”
“What a crock of shit. I hate that guy.”
Clark hummed, “OK. I gotta go, honey.”
“OK. See you in…” You peered at the clock from beneath your desk, “Forty minutes.”
what would his wife’s contact name be on his phone
anon, you make my brain buzz
pairing: husband!clark x fem!reader. word count: 577. content: clark uses abbreviation wrong and almost loses his head for it. he makes jokes! some bad language.
You had managed to turn the whole apartment upside down to find your phone before you had to leave for work. It had gone missing somewhere in between breakfast and a quick make out session with Clark on the sofa.
It felt as though you were missing a limb. You weren’t addicted to your phone per se, but you were addicted to speaking to your husband via phone calls on the clock; as if he was paying your bills.
Scratch that. He was.
You decided the only way to find it would be by call. Clark’s phone was on the coffee table, face up, and you unlocked it with ease. The passcode being his Ma and Pa’s birthdates combined.
It wasn’t a challenge to find the text thread between you and your husband. Clark had pinned you at to the top within the message — top of Clark Kent’s food chain, top lady in his life.
Your eyes narrowed at the small text beneath your contact photo which Clark had chosen himself. A photo of you and him, cheeks squished together, the Smallville sun blinding your view. It was a candid photo prior to taking a sweet one of the mantelpiece, and it was one of Clark’s favourite dopey photos of you together.
An expression of sheer irritable confusion graced your features as you read the nickname your doting husband chose for you in his phone.
HOE. All capitals.
You rubbed at your eyes to make sure you weren’t in some self-deprecating illusion. Nope. Your sweet, Smallville raised husband had put your contact name as: HOE.
“Clark!” Your voice carried through the apartment with a certain urgency. Eyes trained on his phone screen, you heard the clattering from the bathroom.
Clark swung into the corridor, toothbrush poked into his cheek, mint toothpaste bubbled at the corners of his mouth. His hand was placed on his heart, panic struck across his face at the tone you had used to beckon him.
He pulled the toothbrush from his mouth.
“Honey? What’s wrong?” You shoved his phone screen in his direction and pointed at it. Clark blinked at it.
You gestured to it with impatience, “Can you please elaborate why you have your wife’s contact name as HOE? If this is some locker room joke with Jimmy and Steve—”
Clark furrowed his brow, “Honey…” He looked at you as if you were insane on missing a key factor in this. He pointed at his phone with his toothbrush, “It’s an abbreviation for Heaven On Earth?”
This fucking guy.
You twisted his phone to check over the words again. OK, they were in capitals so could be used as abbreviations. However, in all of the English language; your husband chose HOE?
He was a headache.
He let out a genuine laugh, “What did you think it meant?” You took all of two seconds to educate the naivety out of him. Clark paled, “Golly…I suppose you’re right about that. I should change it, right?”
“Right.” You handed the phone to him and folded your arms.
Thumbs tapped quick to erase the name, his eyes shooting upward, lips pressed into a thin line, as the cogs turned in his head to come up with a new contact name for you.
“How about…Always?”
A little cliche, but very Clark.
“That’s sweet.”
Clark nodded and tapped at his screen. His voice low as he spoke, “Always Right. Got it.”
summary: clark was yours in every way that time wouldn’t allow; and you, his. a love that was simple, certain, and impossibly timed- patient and aching, waiting for the world to make room.
clark kent x best friend ! reader
themes: longing, domestic fluff, slight angst, wholesome ma & pa moments, established friend-situation-almost-relationship. enjoy xox
You’d both needed the break. The Planet had been relentless; breaking stories about corporate corruption, late nights under flickering fluorescent lights, deadlines that bled together until you couldn’t tell if the city was ever really asleep.
You’d joked about taking time off together, both of you filing for the same stretch of PTO. You had no grand plans, deciding that your plush sofa would be the perfect holiday destination for the next week and half instead.
But Clark had smiled- that quiet, steady kind of smile that turned your legs into jell-o, and said, “Come with me to Smallville. Ma and Pa would love to see you.”
So here you were, sitting on the Kents’ porch; sunlight turning the fields gold and soft, a book open in your lap even though you hadn’t turned a page in over twenty minutes.
Every so often, you'd look up toward the field, eyes falling on the broad shape of Clark out there with his father.
Sleeves rolled up, sweat catching on the line of his throat, brows furrowed in unbreakable concentration. It was nice, seeing him like this. Back in Metropolis, he always seemed to fold in on himself; would try to take up less space, avert anyone's gaze that lingered too long in fear of being found out.
But here, in the quiet comfort of his parents' farm, he could be himself.
Unapologetically so. He could deadlift an entire truck full of cows, lift whole hay bales and move his car without ever needing to get in the drivers' seat. You could tell he loved it; relished in the feeling of no longer having to hide behind a pair of glasses and a press pass.
It wasn’t fair, you thought absently, that someone who could toss a tractor like it was nothing could still look like the world’s kindest boy next door.
He wasn’t even trying to show off- that was just Clark. Strong enough to fight off his own reckless clone, but so careful here it was almost laughable. You watched him catch a falling fence post like it was made of air, watched him slow down when Pa came over to help, even though you could tell Clark had already finished half the work himself.
From the porch, Ma's laughter drifted in through the screen door. She came out holding a pitcher of lemonade, smiling when she saw where your gaze had settled.
“He never does take it easy,” she said with a fond sigh, “Says he’s ‘just helping Pa,’ but half the time he’s doing the work of six men before breakfast.”
You laughed softly, cheeks warming. “He grumbles about the others being useless.” referring to the farmhands, all of whom Jonathan Kent sent home the minute he realised his son could not only bear the workload- but enjoyed it, too.
“Oh, I know. He doesn’t mean it.” she poured you a glass and sat beside you. “He forgets sometimes that not everyone was raised under Kansas skies with his kind of… stamina.”
That made you smile even wider, “He really can’t help it, can he?”
“Not one bit,” Martha said. “But he’s happiest when he’s out there. That’s my boy.”
Clark turned then, catching sight of you. The moment he saw you on the porch, his face softened instantly, like the whole world had just exhaled.
He lifted a hand in greeting. You waved back, trying not to melt entirely at the sight of him.
His eyes stayed on you for a second too long, like they always did when you were nothing but ordinary. Those nights you'd have no make-up on, old pyjamas clinging to your body with a chipped mug of tea on your lap, you'd glance over to see that far-away look in his eyes. Or the times you'd be in his kitchen the morning before work, making two of everything- two waffles, two coffees, two lunches- that's when he'd stare the most. The longest.
It wasn't fair.
You knew. Clark knew.
It had never been a secret. Neither of you had to pretend. That wishy-washy, 'will they, won't they' question never existed between you both because the answer had always been the same; yes. You both would.
One day, when it felt right and not like a rush to completely fall for the other. The space between you and Clark wasn’t empty; it was charged with something quiet, raw, real. And that's why it needed time to be tended to, required a space to breathe.
You’d spoken about it before, late one night over takeout and tired laughter, when the newsroom had finally gone still and neither of you had the energy to pretend anymore. You both wanted it, craved it, but you also knew what waited outside of moments like that. It wasn't all shiny lights and delicious Thai food; you cross-legged on his desk, him just happy to breathe you in.
You had stories to chase, a future to build. Clark had people to save and so, so many helpless skies to cross.
So you made a kind-of promise, silent but full of impact: not yet. You’d wait for the time when the world didn’t need him quite so much, and you didn’t have to run quite so fast.
Until then, this- the way he looked at you, the way his smile softened when you laughed- was more than enough.
By the time he came in from the field, he’d undone the top few buttons of his shirt, and his hair was damp with sweat. He looked exhausted, but his grin was still bright.
“Hey,” he said, pushing the screen door open with his shoulder. “You look comfy. How's the book?"
“A very slow burn. You look like you've had a fight with the sun,” you teased.
He chuckled, voice low and warm. “Don’t tell anyone, but I think it won.”
Before you could protest, he disappeared into the kitchen, coming back a moment later with another glass of lemonade- not for himself, but for you.
He pressed it into your hand and brushed his thumb over your knuckles. The touch was gentle, almost absentminded, but it sent a spark all the way up your arm as you took a sip.
"Taste alright?"
"The best," you nodded, watching the lemon slices bob with the ice.
"Was the first thing Ma ever taught me how to make," Clark told you proudly, his expression fond at the memory, "Think she just liked that I could get every bit of juice out of them,"
You laughed, "Well, she was right to. Taught you how to use your powers for the greater good."
"That's definitely what it was." Clark chuckled with you.
Over the field, just a ways away from the barn, you could make out Pa; tending to the cows with feed and grass poking out of his bare hands. He patted their heads and stroked their backs, reminiscent of the way he would usually calm Krypto.
He carried a familiar tenderness with him, one that mirrored the man stood next to you.
“You’ve been out there for hours,” you said, setting the glass down. “you can take a break, you know. You need to rest, Clark,"
“I will,” he promised. “Just wanted to make sure you were okay.”
You looked up at him, smiling. “Of course I'm okay. I'm with you."
Something flickered behind his eyes- something deep and unguarded- before he sat down beside you on the bench, elbows resting on his knees.
The breeze lifted the hair at your temples, carrying the smell of hay and warm earth. You didn’t say anything for a while, just listened to the quiet rhythm of the farm.
When he finally spoke, his voice was soft. “You like it here?”
You nodded. “It’s peaceful. Slow. I forgot what it felt like to wake up to a rooster and not that god-awful alarm clock.”
He hummed, a satisfied sound. “That’s what I wanted for you.”
“For me?” you blinked.
His lips twitched, as if he hadn’t meant to say that out loud. “You’ve been running yourself ragged. You needed this.”
There was that warmth again, the kind that settled in your chest and stayed there.
He could fly through storms and face down chaos without flinching, but around you, he always looked like he was holding something fragile in his hands. A flicker of that reserved reporter back at home cut through his boisterous edge as Clark simply looked at you, studying your eyes, your cheeks, your mouth. He especially lingered on your lips.
You didn’t need him to say what he was thinking. You were probably thinking the same.
Dinner at the Kents’ was simple, wonderful, the kind of meal you'd miss while eating street vendor falafel in the city a couple weeks later.
Ma fussed over both of you, refusing to let you help with dishes (though Clark got up and started drying them anyway), and Pa told stories about Clark’s childhood that made you laugh until you cried; the time he’d accidentally launched a hay bale halfway across the barn, or the one where he’d tried to patch a hole in the roof and nearly gave Martha a heart attack.
“Still better at fixing fences than people,” Clark muttered, pretending to sulk.
Pa clapped a heavy hand on his son’s shoulder. “You’re doing just fine, son.”
You caught Clark’s eye and smiled. He smiled back, that little crooked one that always felt like it belonged only to you.
Later, when the sky had gone violet and the cicadas started their summer hum, you wandered out to the porch again. The boards were cool under your bare feet. You didn’t realize Clark had followed until you heard the door creak softly behind you.
“Couldn’t sleep?” he asked.
You shook your head. “Too many stars. City lights ruin you for this.”
He leaned against the railing beside you, hands in his pyjama pockets, “You can see the Milky Way if you squint.”
You tilted your head back, searching. “Show me.”
He stepped behind you, close enough that you could feel the heat of him. His hand came up, warm and steady, pointing out the faint band of light cutting through the sky.
“There,” Clark murmured, his breath brushing your ear. “Right there.”
"Huh." you mumbled, torn between acknowledgment and awe.
The milky-way looked beautiful, an amalgamation of twinkles and glimmers in a navy abyss. Clear as day, clearer than any Metropolis sky. But it wasn't what you wanted to look at.
You turned your head slightly, just enough to catch the curve of Clark's smile. He didn’t move away, and neither did you. For a long moment, the only sound was the quiet pulse of summer around you.
Finally, you asked, “Do you ever think about staying?”
Clark’s eyes stayed on the horizon. “Here?”
“Mm-hmm. Just… stopping for a while. You’ve been saving the world since before I met you. Doesn’t it ever get heavy?”
He thought about it for a long moment. “Sometimes,” he admitted. “But it’s what I’m meant to do, I can’t ignore it. Just need to manage it better,” He turned his head toward you, his gaze soft but steady. “You get that, don’t you?”
You nodded. “I do.”
He reached out then, tucking the blanket more snugly around your shoulders. His fingers brushed your arm, warm even in the cool air.
Without meaning to, you leaned into him, now able to feel the vibrations of his words through his chest.
“You’ve got your own battles,” Clark started gently, “I know that,"
"Clark-" you exhaled, but he carried on.
"I can see it- what you want in your life. I see it in you- your desk, all those papers, the way your eyes light up when you’re chasing a lead. I couldn’t ask you to give that up.”
You smiled, though your chest ached a little. “I wouldn’t. And I wouldn't want you to stop doing what you do, either."
A slight pause. A cricket hopping in the distance, the sound of life winding down for the night. A phrase you both knew far too well, were both acquainted with in every sense.
It's not our time yet.
"But that's what I love about you, Clark. You never stop caring. You're incapable of it."
He blinked, ocean blue eyes staring back at you, a thousand confessions behind each one. “Careful,” he murmured. “You make it sound like you’re sweet on me.”
"You know I am,” you said, light but honest.
"Yeah. Me, too."
For a moment, he looked like he might say something else- nothing that hadn't been said before, but would still have the power to change everything- but instead, he leaned back on the swing, arm resting along the back of it until his fingers brushed against your shoulder.
You shifted, leaning into him again, your head finding that easy place against his chest.
His heartbeat was steady, grounding.
“You ever wish we had more time?” he then asked you, quietly, as though not to disturb the peace.
You exhaled a slow laugh. “All the time.”
The night deepened around you, a million stars blinking in the wide Kansas sky, fireflies flickering over the fields like tiny lanterns. You could hear the faint rustle of the barn door in the wind, the distant call of a nightbird.
“We’ll figure it out one day,” you finally said, voice cracking after a long silence.
Clark turned his head slightly, his chin brushing your hair.
“Yeah,” he said softly. “One day.”
You closed your eyes, letting the rhythm of his breathing pull you into calm. His arm came around you properly then, strong and certain, holding you the way he might hold the world- gently, as if afraid to break it.
He could soar through the entire milky-way galaxy and bring you back a star, lift a plane out of the sky, bear the weight of continents- but here, with you curled up against him, he was just Clark.
No cape. No headlines. No expectations.
Just warmth, the scent of hay and starlight, and the easy quiet of belonging.
You didn’t speak again.
There was nothing to say. You’d both go back soon- back to the city, to bylines and desks and danger and everything that waited for you- but for now, you let yourselves have this.
The swing rocked gently. His thumb traced lazy circles against your arm. Somewhere down the road, a dog barked, and the sound faded into the hum of crickets.
He pressed a soft kiss to your temple. “Get some rest,” he whispered.
“Only if you do too.”
He smiled against your hair. “Deal.”
And as the night stretched on, you let the world slip away- the two of you wrapped in a quiet kind of peace. Here, there was nothing to prove, nobody to save, nothing left to chase.
So you held on. Not to the unknown of what may be, but to what already was.
Your love was already yours. Time would catch up eventually.
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