when did you get hot? (clark kent x reader)
pairing: corenswet!clark kent/superman x reader
summary: you and clark have always had your differences. clark’s a newswriter, strictly fond of factual reporting, free of his own interjections. you, however, are one of the most opinionated people he’s ever met. he’s never minded it before, but he’s found himself caught between a rock and a hard place when you two disagree about superman.
tags: yearner!clark, office romance, a bit of friendly rivalry. reader suddenly becomes aware of their feelings for clark, disagreements about the ethicality of superman’s actions. argument leads into a big love confession. i’m a wingwoman lois truther btw.
warning(s): maybe a few suggestive sounding comments/moments, nothing outwardly sexual or anything but yk. a little bit of arguing? idk they disagree at some points, but it’s not rlly that heated so, brief mention of war (?)
word count: 5.4k
notes: gender neutral reader, no use of y/n, spoilers for superman (2025). reader is an opinion writer ! also this had been in the woodworks for a while, i’ve never posted anything like this before so i’m a little nervous lol;; if you recognize any references i put in here ily !
also i’m largely unfamiliar with dcu beyond this so if something’s off pls lmk ! and i hope the flow is good i rlly struggle with making things progress naturally
Clark stumbled into the bullpen, eyes fixated on his watch, haphazardly balancing his coffee and briefcase in his other hand.
He was late again, and if he was counting right, it was—
“1 hour and 37 minutes, Kent.” Your voice called, making his head jerk up from where he was leaning over his desk.
He’d barely even had time to sit his cup down, which was swirling with long-cold coffee.
He took you in — your hands on your hips, a wry little smile on your face, brows slightly raised. You looked down at your watch, shining golden against the slope of your wrist, before your eyes fixed on him again.
You, the star opinion writer at The Daily Planet. Hard-hitting, always willing to get down to the gritty stuff that motivated every action you disagreed with.
You made your platform on questioning the career of Lex Luthor, with your very first article calling out the manipulation lying beneath his business practices — his payoffs, his connections with nearly every big business head. You were certain he was planning something larger in the darkness, just out of the eye of the public.
You were opinionated, but always good spirited. Playful and kind — yet, your brazen nature wasn’t lost on him. You stood ten-toes down on everything you believed, going as far as framing hate mail above your desk like they were some of your greatest accomplishments, and he really admired that.
“And 53 seconds,” you added, pulling him from his thoughts.
He looked at you almost sheepishly, his hair mussed across his forehead, speckled tie slightly askew.
“Yeah, I had to take a different route,” he said. “Y’know, considering—”
He raised his hand then, gesturing to the TV, which was already playing a recap of Superman’s latest otherworldly encounter — resulting in the destruction of a slew of buildings in the western business district, just a stone’s throw from LutherCorp.
“Yeah, I’ve seen it,” you answered. You’d taken a few steps closer by this point, hand finding the edge of his desk as you leaned against it, eyeing him pointedly.
“Score another interview with Superman, too?” Your voice tipped an octave, like you were sharing a secret, but he knew it was meant to be a taunt.
“Yes, actually.” Clark quipped back, a bit of amusement settling into his expression, dimples creasing in his cheeks.
“And what did he say?”
Clark let out an amused huff through his nostrils, his own tone lowering to match yours.
“I can’t tell you that, you’ll just have to read it.”
“Mm,” you hummed in reply, the sound sending a weird spike of energy through Clark’s chest.
“Alright, keep your secrets.” You acquiesced, trotting back to your own desk.
“Another front pager, Kent.” You tapped the edge of his desk with your pen, garnering his attention.
The newsroom was always alight with chatter surrounding who’d ended up on the front page of the latest print — congratulations were always shared when the lucky person’s desk was passed by. Clark often scored the front page, but he was also one of the most supportive when it came to someone else’s name landing there.
Coffee from the nearby cafe, compliments, pats on the shoulder; that was Clark Kent in a nutshell.
He tipped his head up, eyes flicking to the newspaper clutched in your hand, your index finger lingering over his byline.
“It was a great article. I liked that you provided the costs of damage repair.”
He blinked, then gave a nod. His gaze slid along you, as if he was unsure where his eyes should rest.
“Thank you.” He said quietly, earnestly. “I figured you’d say that.”
There was a pause then, something unspoken lingering in the silence, almost suggesting that he’d done his research into it because he knew you’d value it.
You cleared your throat eventually, the charged energy smoothening out. Lois eyed you both from over the edge of her desk, then shifting her gaze to share her raised brow with Jimmy.
“Superman must really like you to give out all those interviews,” you added. “You’re the only one he’ll talk to.”
“What can I say? He finds my journalism admirable.” His voice was light, humor twinging his tone, a loose shrug rounding through his shoulders.
“I’m sure he does,” you replied. The way your words landed seemed to imply that you did, too.
“You think Big Blue would let me interview him one day?”
Clark faltered then, an oddly placed flush creeping up his neck, spreading all the way to his ears. He swallowed with a great effort, like something was stuck in his throat.
“Uh, yeah, maybe,” He managed. “He’s a nice guy.”
You tossed the paper onto his desk with a little smile, letting it land atop his laptop’s keyboard, a bit of playfulness sparking in your eyes.
Clark’s chest felt tight.
“Good to know.”
Everyone stood huddled close together, eyes fixated on the wall-mounted TV, watching Superman’s recent involvement in Jarhanpur, along with a split second showing of Superman with Vasil Ghurkos.
His cape was a flash of red as he took off, his arms wrapped around the foreign leader as he disappeared into the horizon.
Superman had made his stance on the safety of people abundantly clear, but being publicly against Boravia — one of the U.S.’s most influential allies — seemed possibly problematic, maybe even nefarious in nature, especially to you.
It wasn’t even that you disagreed with Superman’s actions, or found them abhorrent in the way some of the general public did, but you’d be lying if you said the safety compromises that may come from this didn’t concern you.
What concerned you more was the fact that you hadn’t seen Clark yet. You couldn’t help but wonder what he thought about all this as you stared at your blinking cursor, a half-baked draft regarding Superman’s involvement in Jarhanpur seemingly taunting you.
As if on cue, he came stumbling in, and you couldn’t help the way your eyes immediately found him. He looked more unkempt than you’d ever seen him — tired, eyes glassy, half of his suit buttons undone. He wasn’t even wearing a tie today.
You eyed him curiously, partial concern scrawled over your face. His gaze met yours, his lips curling in a poor attempt at a reassuring smile.
You immediately began planning how to make your way over there without being obvious. Lois stared you down, raising a knowing brow that you met with a look that pleaded for silence.
The nerve to approach him finally sparked when you managed to get a minute away to snag coffee from the café across the street. Two bagels and small black coffees were somehow balanced in your hands, forcing yourself through the crowd with muttered ‘thank-you’s’ to those who bothered to hold the door.
You skirted around Jimmy as he hustled his way to the printer, beelining for Clark’s desk with a purposeful stride.
Sitting the bagel and coffee down at the edge of his desk, you slipped a napkin beneath the cup, his eyes sluggishly dragging over to your form. When he realized it was you, he perked up, brushing the single ringlet drooped between his brows away from his forehead, looking surprised.
“For me?” He murmured, raising a hand to halfway gesture towards your offering, eyes sparkling like it was the most precious thing he’d ever seen. Or maybe he was looking at you that way.
You nodded, voice smooth despite your sudden nerves.
“Yeah,” you affirmed. “You seemed.. off. I figured this would help, at least a little.”
He smiled gently, the tension curled around his eyes lessening, shoulders slipping into a more relaxed position.
“Thank you.” He said softly, hand reaching for yours with a faint brush of his fingertips. You felt your heart wedge itself in your throat, pulse suddenly rushing.
“Uh, huh.” You managed to speak past the flush of emotion sizzling beneath your skin, awkwardly nodding. “It’s no problem.”
A twinge of silence settled between the two of you, teetering on the edge of something deeper, something you both tried to ignore. A moment later, Clark cleared his throat, breaking the tension.
“So, um, what do you think?”
You tilted your head up, eyes meeting his. You knew what he was asking.
“What he’s doing is risky. Maybe even stupid,” you hear yourself reply.
“He’s become an American symbol, but he’s going toe-to-toe with one of our most influential allies. It’s not the kind of thing people are going to take lightly.”
Clark’s expression shifted, like he wasn’t expecting you to say that. Like he was expecting you to understand Superman’s actions better than anyone else. Like he wanted you to.
You noted the faint hardening of his eyes, the tired pull of crows feet at their corners. Like the stress had returned tenfold. His mouth set into a thin line, and he nodded. He looked almost hurt.
“Right.”
You got the sense that you were being brushed off, the conversation fizzling out, his lips almost curled in a frown.
“Thanks for the coffee,” he added, returning his gaze to his laptop.
“Yeah,” you said halfheartedly. “Sure.”
Metropolis had been quiet the last few weeks. An odd silence.
The streets themselves seemed to hum with an uncertain tension, like something was brewing beneath each slab of cracked pavement along every sidewalk.
Superman hadn’t shown his face. He’d had no reason to, because there was nothing worth defending the city over taking place.
You’d noticed the sudden quiet more than anyone else, but not for the same reasons as Lois or Jimmy, or even Perry, but because Clark had been weird.
Weirder than usual.
He was always an awkward guy, that wasn’t exactly lost on you — he was constantly adjusting his tie, or fiddling with the clip of his pen, or tapping his fingers loosely against the edge of his desk when he was lost in thought.
No, it was different. He was stressed. Visibly.
You knew everyone else in Metropolis was feeling it, even you were. You felt the urge to constantly look over your shoulder the whole way back to your apartment every night.
But it seemed deeper for him. Like he was waiting for something to happen for reasons larger than a lack of headlines or front page articles.
You slid your way over to Lois’s desk, the wheels on your chair squeaking slightly in the blanketed quiet of the bullpen. You kept your voice low, eyes briefly fixating on Clark’s tense expression before meeting Lois’s eyes.
“Does Kent seem weird to you?”
She paused mid-type, tilting her head towards you, cerulean gaze piercing your own, raising a curious brow. Her expression carried a weight that implied she knew something you didn’t, but if she really did, she didn’t voice it.
“Maybe,” she replied smoothly. “Why?”
“He’s just… shifty.” You supply, almost a bit unnerved yourself, Lois seemed to notice.
“More than usual. It’s different.”
You paused, the toe end of your loafer dragging across the floor with a quiet squeak, fiddling anxiously with the clip of your pen.
“Plus, he’s been avoiding me the last few days.”
Your conversation with Clark had given you enough of a thread to write something — a critique of Superman and his recent involvement in international politics, aggressively denouncing his actions with the same fervor you’d shared a few days prior. The words were charged, maybe even harsh, but they were ones you thought you felt proud of, but that feeling quickly changed.
You’d made the front page, but it was a rarity you didn’t feel like celebrating, only because Clark didn’t do it with you. He hadn’t looked at you the whole day, even going out of his way to disappear from his desk every time you’d stood up.
Even Perry complimented you, but not Clark.
Lois turned her chair, hands finding each other atop her lap, leveling her eyes fully with yours. Something tugged at her lips — a bit of playful maliciousness, maybe — before she spoke. She whirled her chair around before you had a chance to speak again.
“Hey, Clark,” she called. You nearly flinched, eyes widening as you helplessly smacked her shoulder, nose wrinkled in a cringe in preparation for what you knew was coming next.
“Are you feeling okay?” Lois questioned before gesturing to you. “Someone’s interested in knowing.”
His eyes find you, the bright blue of his irises somehow more sharp than Lois’s, making something in your stomach flip with its weight. You didn’t miss the slight way his expression seemed to soften, like he was trying to placate nervousness you didn’t even know you were feeling.
You suddenly became aware of the faint uptick of your pulse, rough beneath your skin, heart practically hammering against your ribcage.
“Yeah, uh—” He trailed off as Lois pushed your chair towards his desk with a quick slip of her palm, looking a bit smug.
Clark blinked as your face came into a clearer view, nervously pushing up the edge of his glasses with two fingers, swallowing thickly. There was still a hesitance in his eyes, like the ache in his heart hadn’t dissipated in the face of your criticisms.
“I’m okay.” His voice was dry, forced into neutrality in a way that made something pained flare behind your ribcage. Your tongue felt heavy in your mouth as you forced a nod, tugging your chair back to your desk wordlessly.
You could still feel the burn of his gaze on your back long after the conversation ended.
It wasn’t long before the playful back and forth between you and Clark grew even more strained. Silences had shifted to something tenser — you stopped chatting at the printer, he stopped holding the elevator door. Neither of you brought coffees for the other on lunch breaks.
You told yourself it wasn’t related to you — that the tension between the two of you was due to pressing deadlines, or something else that he wasn’t saying. But he’d been odd around you ever since he’d asked you about Superman a few days ago. Since you’d given an answer that made bitterness curl in the pit of his stomach.
He disliked your disapproval more than he thought, it seemed. Like disappointing you was a greater loss than letting down the entire American public.
It didn’t take Perry long to grow tired of the odd silence in the bullpen, especially considering the sudden lull in content with the lack of happenings on Metropolis’ streets.
He’d sent you and Clark down to the depths of the filing room with the intention of reorganizing them, like there wasn’t decades worth to go through. You guessed that was Perry’s intention, though; to keep you both busy for at least a good few days.
You both stood quietly as the elevator creaked, shuttling downward to the lowest level of The Daily Planet’s floors, your eyes fixated on the chipped tile beneath your feet.
“Thanks for asking about me the other day,” Clark said, voice awkwardly gentle — soft in the way it normally was, but strained like he was unsure he should be saying anything at all.
You startled, lost in swirling thoughts about all the work you could be doing, instead of spending your day surrounded by dust-coated shelves.
You pushed away the pit in your stomach, a slight flush creeping to your cheeks. Just the heat, you told yourself.
“Oh,” you murmured. “Yeah, of course.”
You paused, then added: “You just seemed off. Wanted to check in.”
He looked down at you, a soft smile on his lips — one that made your chest twist oddly, heart beating with a vengeance against your ribcage. He raised a brow, like he somehow heard the steady rising of your pulse, expression intrigued.
“Yeah, well, everyone’s kind of weird lately. Everybody’s nervous.”
You nodded, fingers finding the edge of your sleeve as you tugged at a loose thread, eyebrows briefly drawing together with an unspoken weight. You felt it, too.
Fear simmered at every corner of the concrete jungle. Everyone seemed to be holding their breath — like they knew something bad was coming, but not who or what, or from what direction. No one knew what to expect.
You opened your mouth to speak when the elevator suddenly clattered to a stop, doors slowly dragging open with a sharp squeaking, making you cringe. You’d wanted to say more — to apologize for hurting his feelings, or say something, just to avoid the continuance of awkward shuffling around each other.
Not getting to talk to him was worse than you thought.
Clark cleared his throat, a small bit of concern in his eyes when you didn’t move. He tipped his head towards you encouragingly.
You took the opening, loafers clicking against the old tile as you made your way to the start of the long rows of shelves, organized alphabetically with each year.
“I can start at the beginning, we can meet in the middle,” you said quietly.
“Yeah, okay,” he nodded.
You and Clark had made your way through nearly every shelf after an agonizing few days. Your hands missed the feeling of your keyboard, your mind overflowing with the itch to write.
You grew more anxious by the day, knowing that whatever was building up would at least fill your days with the familiar prattle of source-finding and endless news to watch, as opposed to agitating your allergies with dust-covered filing cabinets.
What was worse, though, was the anxiety of not knowing what Clark was thinking. He was usually open about it with you, or at least open enough to read it on his face. He’d hardly said a word to you the entire time you’d been down here together.
The silence has become the hum-drum of your life for the moment.
You’d finally worked your way through to the last shelf, and you’d never felt more relieved — though a part of you would miss what you felt like you’d found here. Maybe you hadn’t spoken, but at least you had been close, if only physically. Maybe the mold you knew lingered between the water-damaged tiles was getting to your head; you already felt dread at having to return to avoiding each other completely.
Days had passed, and still, the streets of Metropolis maintained their taunting silence. You’d been struggling to find something to write about with the absence of happenings — no word from Superman, Lex Luthor, or anybody.
You found yourself wishing someone would do something, no matter how bad, just so you had something to occupy yourself with. To avoid the horrible pit in your stomach that followed Clark’s prolonged avoidance of you.
The newsroom was quiet, a thickened silence blanketing the bullpen. The only noise was the soft tapping of your fingers against your keyboard, your pen clip tucked between your teeth, eyebrows drawn thoughtfully.
The only light in the room was from the small lamp at the side of your desk, paired with the faint streetlight glow pressing in through the glass at the opposite side of the room.
“You shouldn’t do that, you know.” A voice interrupted the solitude, making you jump out of your skin. “It can damage your teeth.”
Clark bounded down the stairs towards his own desk, warm papers from the downstairs printer still clutched in his palm. You don’t know how you missed the noise of the rickety old elevator, but you had.
“Jesus, Kent,” you sighed. “Didn’t know you were still here.”
His brows pricked together, as if he picked up on the sudden rise of your pulse, and he looked genuinely apologetic.
“Sorry,” he said awkwardly.
The same energy that had settled between you wedged itself into the space now, and you looked away before he did. He kept watching you for a moment before silently making his way across the floor towards the coffee station.
As much as he hated the sludge generated by The Daily Planet’s coffee machines, he supposed he’d have to settle for the inky substance. His usual cafe closed about three hours ago.
Lois preferred to drink it with half the sugar bowl turned over inside of it — he didn’t think there was any way to make it digestible. To him, the coffee never got hot enough to melt the sugar, instead leaving it as one grainy mass sitting in the bottom of the mug.
He’d rather choke himself than drink it that way; even if it was bitter, at least it didn’t remind him of sand. Coarse and rough and irritating, he thought.
He placed a cup at your side, nudging it into your forearm with an insistence mirroring that of a dog, the feeling like that of a cold, wet nose pressed to your skin.
“Oh,” you mumbled. “Yeah, thanks.”
“Sure.”
He sat down at his desk, a few more minutes of silence spreading back through the room, broken up by the responding clicks of your keyboard, almost like a dance.
You stared at your blinking cursor, seemingly lost in thought, or maybe just lost.
Your incomplete headline stared at you tauntingly, mocking your struggle. If the words could laugh at you, they’d be cackling like hyenas.
Clark briefly looked over at you, noting the familiar wrinkle of your nose, your thumb restlessly clicking the end of your pen.
“Can I ask you something?” He finally said, watching you curiously now. He didn’t think he’d ever seen you without words.
You stopped, shoulders growing taut with the same tension you’d been carrying for weeks.
“That article you wrote,” he started. “About Superman.”
There was a hint of something in the air now, a charge that widened the pit in your stomach.
“Do you really believe what you said? That Superman was in the wrong for getting involved in Jarhanpur?”
You sighed, letting out a huffed breath through your nostrils. Swiveling in your chair, you turned fully to face his desk, eyes meeting his own in the dim light.
“I do,” you murmured. You paused, expression drawing in consideration before you spoke again. “Well, I did.”
He raised an eyebrow at your hesitant tone, leaning forward, attention fully on you. He clasped his hands in front of him, resting in the gap between his knees as he rested his elbows on them.
“Okay.” He said quietly, nodding encouragingly.
“I won’t deny the fact that people would’ve died if he hadn’t gotten involved when things started getting bad. I guess, at first, I just thought that there was a possibility that more issues could’ve arisen by his involvement than any good that could’ve come out of it.”
A beat passed between the two of you, thick and sharp.
“And do you believe that now?”
“No. I don’t.”
He let out a breath like he’d been holding it since he’d stepped foot into the bullpen, slightly leaning back — less interrogative, far more relaxed than the previous moment.
“Can I ask you something now?”
He blinked before giving an affirmative hum, intently watching your every move with the same interest he’d suddenly developed every time you spoke. Or moved. Basically when you did anything at all.
“Why’d you get so upset?”
He went silent then, something inscrutable crossing his features. You got the feeling he knew you weren’t done, like he was waiting for you to continue.
“It almost seemed personal, the way you acted. I know you’re a little close with the guy, considering the interviews and all, but you seemed mad on his behalf. Like you know him insanely well or something.”
His silence stretched on, something obvious suddenly settling in the quiet, that familiar tether of tension pulling between you.
You thought about the interviews you’d seen. Nights you stayed up, watching his battles against the latest threats in Metropolis — against The Hammer. The way he spoke, his inflection just familiar enough to Clark’s to make your nerve endings go haywire in a way that felt personal.
The striking blue of his eyes, the way the sunlight seemed to settle around him like it was created only to be a backsplash for him.
You’d thought they were too different for your suspicions to be true. Clark was meek — he stood with his shoulders scrunched, his head tipped placatingly during every conversation, voice always soft.
Superman not only garnered people’s attention, but he commanded it. He stood like he was ten feet tall, muscles braced against every threat, hands strong under the weight of the world. He was kind to children, whereas Clark flinched whenever one began screaming.
Their mannerisms, their face structures, everything — it was just different enough for you to convince yourself that you were crazy.
But now you think differently.
You seemed to look at him in a new light; the steady gait in his eyes, the power that seemed to simmer just beneath his shoulders, all indicative of a strength that he fought to hide. You weren’t sure for whose sake — yours, or his. Or maybe everyone he knew.
You thought about Lois’s knowing looks during conversations when you’d ask about him. You thought it was because she suspected you felt something beyond being coworkers with a penchant for teasing each other — maybe it was a bit — but now you wondered if it was possibly even deeper than that.
You swallowed, something odd wedging itself in your chest as you looked at him.
He seemed to catch on to your train of thought, gaze unflinching as he met your eyes, like he knew you’d placed the last piece into a puzzle you didn’t know you were putting together. The last paint stroke in a narrative you’d been building for months.
“You’re Superman.”
Despite your confidence in the assertion, your voice still trembled like you didn’t believe it.
You gaped when he nodded, his expression a little sheepish.
“Yeah,” Clark murmured. “I am.”
“All the interviews. Knowing all his motivations. How defensive you got when I—” You tapered off, looking apologetic.
“I basically insulted you in my article. It’s no wonder you got so mad.”
You stood, hands cupping around the back of your head as you began to pace the floor by your desk, eyes fixed on him with the tread of a guilty dog. He followed suit, taking a few steps towards you. He leaned over you, voice lowering.
His tone was effectively smooth when he spoke, like the brief catches of his words when you’d seen him on TV. Strong, charismatic. You nearly choked on your own breath.
“Hey, hey.” He let his hand settle on your shoulder, the weight stopping you in your tracks, fingers sliding to wrap around your wrists as he pulled your hands down by your side.
His touch lingered thoughtfully for a moment before slipping away, restlessly dropping his arm by his torso.
“I wasn’t offended,” he began.
“Okay, well, maybe I was, like, a little bit. But only at first.”
He paused for a moment, noting your stillness as he spoke, taking it as his sign to continue on.
“I realized that I couldn’t expect you to understand why I did it, because you’ve never had to make a decision like that.” His voice was earnest — calm and kind, but firm in his belief in every word that came from his mouth.
“You must’ve been as scared as everyone else. When I thought of it like that, I could understand why you wrote what you did.”
He stopped, taking in the shift in your expression, the way your whole face changed. You looked equal parts understanding and confused, like you still couldn’t wrap your head around the idea that he was actually Superman.
“Hypno-glasses,” he supplied. The shift in conversation was sudden, causing you to tilt your head in a way that made his chest clench, your eyebrow raising.
“They change my face. Just enough to make a difference.”
Your silence stretched for a moment, and he looked unsure at it. He felt his breath hitch when you slowly raised your hand, pulling his glasses down the bridge of his nose.
His eyes flicked to the way your hand curled around them, gaze tracing over the delicate curve of your fingers with a look that seemed to long for the feel of them against his skin. To see what more they could do.
He forced the thought aside, feeling the burn of your gaze against his face.
“Huh,” you murmured. “They really do.”
You eyed him heavily, like you were trying to work it out. You could tell something about him was different, but not exactly what.
“It was a great article, by the way,” he blurted suddenly. “Everything you write is amazing.”
You stopped, blinking the blurriness from your eyes, a little smile working its way onto your face. Clark thought he was going to explode.
“Is that right, Kent?”
He nodded furiously, eyes flitting across your face like he wanted to lock this moment into his mind forever.
His hand twitched imperceptibly at his side, like he wanted to reach for you. His face felt hot.
“Call me Clark,” he finally murmured. “Please.”
His heart practically burst when your smile grew, redness sliding over your cheeks in a way that made him realize why Jimmy called him ‘loverboy.’
“And yes,” he added. “Your work is always perfect. You’re perfect.”
You both seemed to falter, like the weight the words carried suddenly hit the two of you at the same time.
“Okay, Clark,” you said quietly. Something in his heart unraveled at that. He’d never heard you call him anything but ‘Kent,’ or some silly nickname. Hearing his name fall from your lips, especially so tenderly, made him want to eat up your every word even more than usual.
“So, you’re not mad, then?” You added, watching him intently.
“No, I’m — No.” He said.
“Then.. what is it?”
He paused, his chest aching as he peered down at you — the way the fading light from the windows slid along the planes of your face, the dark hue to your cheeks, the deep pools of your irises. Full of feeling in that way that he loved.
“You know what.”
You fought through the catch in your throat to speak, your voice thick.
“Show me.”
He seemed to hesitate, hand tenderly sliding up to brush along the back of your knuckles. His fingers shook slightly, even as you nod your affirmation.
He tipped his head, eyes closing as his mouth sought yours. The kiss was gentle, his hands slipping around your torso to pull you closer, touch sliding beneath your shirt to feel your skin.
You parted beneath him — your lips tasted like fresh fruit beneath his own, and it made him feel dizzy. You let out a weak breath as he pulled back, his forehead pressing to yours.
“Does that mean I can get that interview now, Big Blue?” You asked. The question drew a laugh from his lips, light and airy. He buried his head down in your neck, nose pressing to your skin — seeking solace in your form.
“Maybe.”
i hope y’all enjoyed, i’ve had this sitting in my drafts for ages because i was too nervous to post ! pls lmk what y’all think and if you want more :)