intoanothermind - Tumblr blog

intoanothermind · 5 days ago

Note

Hi I have a Clark Kent x reader they were childhood friends until she moved away and now she works at the daily planet as the sweet and quirky comic book illustrator she’s Superman’s biggest fan and yaps to Clark about her fanart and fan fictions of supes, little does Clark know is that she’s doing this to get over the fact that him and Louis have a thing going on idk how it would end maybe with an ‘I’m Superman’ moment and instead if it being a romantic moment the reader is like “I TOLD YOU ABOUT THE FANFIC I READ ABT YOU and you LET me” and they kiss

This is so cute!!! I hope I lived up to your expectations!!

The last time you saw Clark Kent, he had a cowlick that defied gravity, a flannel shirt three sizes too big, and a comic book clutched in each hand—one for you, one for him.

He stood on your porch with a crooked smile and said, “You’ll write to me, right?”

And you didn’t.

Not because you didn’t want to—but because moving halfway across the country at age fifteen shatters the little rituals that kept you tethered to people like him. The good ones. The boys who never made fun of your art or laughed when you told them you wanted to draw comic books for a living. The boys who sat beside you on rooftops and said things like “I don’t think being strong is always about fighting.”

You left. He stayed. You went off to build a life with coffee-stained sketchbooks and a portfolio full of dreams. Time passed. And somewhere between college critiques and awkward dating apps, you quietly filed Clark Kent under Things I Loved That Weren’t Mine to Keep.

You still think about him, sometimes. When a summer thunderstorm hits and the air smells like soil and ozone. When someone uses the word “golly” and doesn’t mean it ironically. When you flip through old comics and see panels he used to trace beside you, tongue poking out in focus, muttering, “I’m gonna be better than Bruce Timm one day.”

So when the elevator dings and he’s standing there—older, broader, taller than anyone has a right to be—you nearly drop your sketch tablet.

The door slides open. You step inside and freeze.

He turns. And his mouth parts like he’s seen a ghost.

“Clark?” you say, breath hitching.

His eyes widen behind the glasses. Familiar and gentle and just a little bit stunned. “No way.”

His voice is deeper now, but still soft. Still warm like sun-drenched porches and cherry pie. And suddenly, you’re fifteen again. And so is he, in some strange, impossible way. Same gentle smile. Same stupidly soft eyes. Like time didn’t touch the parts of him that mattered.

You don’t hug at first. You just look.

There’s a blink—one heartbeat, maybe two—where neither of you moves. You take in the blazer layered over plaid, the loose tie, the way his hands twitch like he doesn’t know what to do with them. Like he’s trying to decide if this is real.

Finally, he says, “Hi.”

You manage a breath. “You got tall.”

He laughs, startled and bashful, one hand reaching to rub the back of his neck—God, he still does that. “You got…” he trails off, eyes skimming you like he’s checking for proof. “…you.”

And then he steps forward and pulls you in, and you melt into the flannel before you can stop yourself.

It’s warm and scratchy and smells like clean cotton and something you can’t name—maybe laundry detergent, maybe Kansas. Maybe home.

He’s solid. Firm in the way of someone who carries weight they don’t talk about. And when his arms wrap around you, it’s not awkward or hesitant. It’s relieved. Like he’s been waiting for this hug for ten years and didn’t know it until just now.

You let yourself hold on longer than is probably polite. But so does he.

Eventually, you lean back, still in his space. “So… Daily Planet, huh?”

He grins. “Assistant reporter. Mostly fluff pieces and coffee runs. Though I did once get to write a headline about a rogue llama in Midtown.”

You laugh, and his eyes crinkle at the corners. You remember that smile. You used to draw it in the margins of your notebooks.

He glances down at your tablet, then back at you. “Are you—wait, are you here? Like… working here?”

“Freelance illustrator,” you say, a little breathless. “They hired me to do comic-style spot pieces for the arts section. Apparently, I’m quirky.”

He smiles so wide it makes your chest ache. “You always were.”

You both stand there a moment too long, the elevator behind you forgotten.

Then a voice calls from across the bullpen: “Kent! You’ve got a rewrite waiting!”

You turn toward it just in time to see her—Lois Lane, sharp-jawed and cool-eyed, the kind of woman who looks like she was born holding a press badge and a deadline. She flicks her gaze between you and Clark, raising one dark brow with practiced amusement.

Clark clears his throat. “Uh—Lois, this is—this is my friend. From… Smallville.”

She smirks. “One of the famous Smallville six?”

You don’t know what that means, but you wave anyway. “Hi.”

Lois gives you a nod and walks off, not unkindly. But you watch the way she tosses a look back over her shoulder. The way Clark watches her walk away, thoughtful.

The elevator doors start to close behind you. You catch them with one hand and step inside.

He blinks, turning back toward you. “Wait—do you want to grab coffee sometime? Catch up?”

Your smile is automatic but real. “Sure. I’ll let you buy me something overpriced and terrible.”

His grin kicks up again, and he backs away slowly like he doesn’t want to turn his back.

And as the doors slide shut, you stare at your reflection in the polished panel.

Clark Kent.

Back from the dead. Back in your life. Smiling like he never stopped missing you. And clearly very close to Lois Lane.

You clutch your tablet tighter.

Yeah.

You are so screwed.

It starts small.

A doodle on the corner of your notepad during a Planet staff meeting—just a lazy sketch of a cape and a curl. One of the junior columnists sees it over your shoulder and laughs, nudging you.

“Obsessed much?”

You roll your eyes and keep drawing. “He’s a cultural icon.”

But by the end of the week, it’s not just a few idle lines. It’s full-color renderings of Superman posed in battle, mid-flight, lounging dramatically atop the Daily Planet globe like he’s modeling for a cologne ad. Sometimes you draw him saving cats from trees, sometimes you draw him shirtless, and sometimes—

Sometimes it’s… not safe for work.

Your tablet is overflowing with it. You don’t even try to hide it anymore. Every time Clark passes by your desk with a coffee in hand, you minimize your screen just a second too late, and he’ll pause beside you, adjusting his glasses with that soft, confused look of someone trying not to look too closely.

You never let him fully see it. But you let him see enough.

Because here’s the thing:

You can’t stop thinking about him. Not just Superman—the idea of him, the unreachable savior in the sky—but the quiet, careful man who eats lunch with you in the breakroom and still opens doors like it’s 1952.

Clark.

Sweet, oblivious, maddening Clark.

And you can’t touch him, because you’re almost certain Lois already does. So instead, you fall for the one thing he’ll never be. The one thing you think he can’t be.

Superman.

It’s easier to love a symbol. A fantasy. Something fictional. He won’t ever call you at 2 a.m. and say he’s not ready for something serious. He won’t smile at you like he used to and then turn around and fall in love with someone else.

You can flirt with Superman all you want. And you do.

“Oh my god,” you groan one morning, flopping down into the breakroom chair across from Clark with your tablet in hand. “I think I’m in love.”

He looks up from his coffee, brows drawn. “With…?”

You turn the screen toward him. It’s a full digital piece, warm-toned and dramatic—Superman in a backlit alley, suit torn, jaw bruised, cape fluttering like a flag. His eyes glow faintly. The tension in his shoulders is all vulnerability and raw power.

Clark goes absolutely still.

“With him, obviously,” you say. “I mean, look at this man. He could ruin me.”

Clark coughs once, almost spilling his coffee. “You—you drew that?”

You beam. “Guilty.”

He blinks at the screen, then at you. “It’s… really good.”

“Really horny, you mean.”

He makes another strangled sound.

You lean forward, chin propped on your hand, and add, “I’ve also written fanfic. Mostly emotional hurt/comfort stuff, but there’s a one-shot where he crash lands into my backyard, forgets how to speak English, and has to communicate through… other means.”

He stares at you.

“Purely for healing purposes,” you say sweetly.

Clark adjusts his glasses and looks very pointedly at the wall behind you. “Right. Healing. Got it.”

You grin into your iced coffee.

He doesn’t ask to read it. You think he might be scared to.

Later that week, you’re walking home after a late shift when you catch your reflection in a dark shop window and think: What the hell am I doing?

You’re drawing a man you’ve never met in increasingly compromising positions. You’re teasing your childhood best friend about it. You’re watching him laugh with Lois and wondering what it would’ve been like if you’d written him that letter. If you’d come back sooner. If you’d said yes when he asked if he could call you, all those years ago.

You sigh and pull out your phone, open your private art account, and post another sketch. This one’s simple: Superman perched on a rooftop, holding a tiny cartoon version of you in his hands like you’re a kitten. The caption reads:

“He’s so real for always showing up at the exact moment I need saving. Emotionally and physically.”

You go to bed with your phone buzzing under your pillow and the heavy ache of almosts blooming in your chest.

Clark, for his part, is unraveling slowly. You don’t see it—not really—but it shows up in the little things.

He gets flustered more easily now, especially when you sit too close during lunch breaks or lean over his shoulder to peek at his screen. He starts bringing you coffee without being asked, memorizes your exact order (extra caramel drizzle, oat milk, the cup with the fun doodles).

And sometimes, he stares.

Not in a creepy way. Not even for long. Just in these brief, weightless seconds when you’re talking about something ridiculous—how Batman absolutely sleeps in eyeliner, or how Wonder Woman is the only reason you believe in soulmates—and he looks at you like he’s trying to memorize the sound of your voice.

You don’t see it.

You’re too busy doodling capes on napkins and pretending Clark isn’t already someone else’s.

The only time he almost says something is the night you forget your sketchbook on his desk.

You’d been flipping through it that afternoon—making little notes, scribbling thoughts in the margins about an idea for a Superman comic series. One that’s not just punch-punch-rescue, but about loneliness, too. About feeling apart from the world, even when you’re adored by it.

You leave it there by accident.

And Clark finds it.

He doesn’t mean to snoop, but when he sees the familiar red-and-blue peeking out beneath a post-it note, he opens it.

The page is full of sketches—some serious, some ridiculous. Superman in space. Superman on a date. Superman trying to figure out how to order a croissant without breaking the display case.

And in the corner, half-hidden in a mess of scribbled clouds, is one note:

“He reminds me of Clark sometimes. I must be losing it.”

Clark stares at the words for a long, long time.

Then he gently closes the book, sets it back on your desk, and sits down in his chair like the air’s been knocked out of him.

You never bring it up.

He never mentions it.

But something shifts after that.

He smiles a little differently. You flirt a little louder. And somewhere, behind that perfectly pressed shirt and quiet laugh, Clark Kent starts hoping.

It starts as a joke.

You’re walking back from a deli two blocks over, arms full of bagels and coffee for the Planet’s Monday morning editorial meeting, when a semi loses control on the corner of 8th and Dorrance. You freeze. The truck veers. And just as the air shatters into honking and metal—

Superman appears.

One arm scoops you out of the way like you weigh nothing. The other reaches out, palm braced against the front bumper, stopping five tons of steel like it’s a grocery cart.

You blink up at him, heart stuttering. “…Thanks.”

He smiles gently. “Always.”

You stare for a beat longer than necessary. That voice. That smile. Something about it nags at the edges of your mind.

And then he’s gone. A gust of wind, a flash of red, the low thump of displaced air.

When you arrive at the bullpen, Clark’s already at his desk. Hair slightly windblown. Shirt unbuttoned at the collar.

You narrow your eyes. “Where were you five minutes ago?”

He blinks. “What?”

You squint. “You always show up before me. You’re never late.”

He tilts his head, brow furrowing. “Ran into traffic.”

You hum, unconvinced. Then set his coffee down and watch his reaction. It’s the exact same drink you ordered for Superman last week on a dare.

You didn’t tell Clark that.

He picks it up, sips, then glances at the label. “This is… my order. How’d you know?”

You shrug, half-smiling. “Lucky guess.”

But it’s not luck. Not really. You’ve been noticing things.

At first, you dismiss it all. You’re sleep-deprived. Delusional. Maybe projecting. But the list in your head grows longer every day:

Superman speaks like Clark. Not the words—those are different—but the rhythm. The softness underneath the command.

He squints the same way when something far away catches his attention.

He laughs like Clark, low and self-conscious, as if he’s afraid of how much space joy might take up.

And the way he looks at you? Familiar.

Not in the I’ve saved you before kind of way. But in the you left when I was fifteen and it hurt like hell kind of way.

Which shouldn’t be possible.

Because Clark is Clark. Awkward. Gentle. Unfailingly polite. The kind of man who holds the elevator for everyone, even if it means missing his own deadline.

And Superman is… Superman. Strong. Heroic. Unreachable.

Except he isn’t.

He saves you more than once. Pulls you out of harm’s way when a streetlight topples during a thunderstorm. Winks at you while slowing a runaway train as you sketch from the edge of a bridge. One time, he even catches your sketchpad mid-air when you drop it over the railing of your fire escape.

You lean over to grab it, and he hovers just below. “You should be more careful,” he says, handing it back.

You meet his eyes. “You should stop stalking me.”

He grins. “Not stalking. Just… keeping an eye out.”

“Uh-huh,” you say. “You do that for all the Planet illustrators?”

His smile falters. “Only the good ones.”

Your breath catches—but before you can say anything, he’s gone again, shooting into the clouds like a guilty thought.

You lean against the railing, heart thudding, and whisper, “What the hell is going on?”

Later that week, you corner Clark in the breakroom. He’s pouring cocoa—of course it’s cocoa, he’s that kind of man—and humming something suspiciously familiar. The Superman animated theme?

You creep up behind him. “So.”

He startles, nearly spilling the cup. “So?”

You set your sketchbook on the counter beside him. It’s open to a piece you finished last night: Superman in his suit, but wearing glasses. Casual. Dressed like a reporter.

He glances down and goes still.

You raise an eyebrow. “Do you think he’d pull it off?”

Clark clears his throat. “Who?”

“Superman. The whole—mild-mannered journalist disguise. Too obvious?”

He hesitates. “Maybe if he slouched more.”

You grin. “So you have thought about it.”

His eyes flick up, wary. “Is this… another fan project?”

You nod. “I’m calling it Mild Mannered. It’s about a shy, secretly jacked guy with a strong moral compass and unaddressed romantic tension with his childhood best friend.”

Clark looks like he’s trying not to spontaneously combust. “Sounds… specific.”

You lean in just slightly, teasing. “Oh, very.”

There’s a pause. You think—for a split second—he’s about to say something. Something real. Something that pulls the thread you’ve both been dancing around since the moment the elevator doors opened.

But then Lois walks in. Clark jerks back. Clears his throat. Retreats behind the steaming kettle like it’s a shield.

And you feel it again. That ache in your ribs. The slow realization that he’ll never be yours the way you want him to be.

So you make a decision.

If you can’t have Clark Kent… you’ll keep flirting with the man in the cape.

You’ll keep drawing him, writing him, imagining him in every way you can—until the ache stops feeling like hope.

You don’t know that Clark lies awake that night, staring at the ceiling, your sketchbook burned into his memory.

He doesn’t know how much longer he can keep pretending. Because when he looks at you, he doesn’t see a fan. Or a friend. Or someone he needs to protect from the truth.

He sees you. And you’re already in love with him. You just don’t know it yet.

It’s a stupid Tuesday.

The kind of Tuesday where your coffee tastes off, your stylus dies mid-sketch, and someone at the Planet eats your clearly labeled leftovers (with your name on it, underlined). You’re wearing your third-favorite hoodie—the one with the mystery stain and the frayed cuffs—and you’re out running an errand for one of the editors who thinks “digital illustrator” means “office intern with Procreate.”

All you want is to drop off the poster mockup and get back upstairs before someone asks you to reboot the printer again.

But fate, apparently, has other plans.

It happens fast.

You’re standing outside the south entrance of the Daily Planet, halfway to texting Clark something dumb and flirty (“If Superman winked at me one more time, I’d simply combust 💀”) when a sound snaps through the air.

A crack. Sharp. Splintering.

You look up—and the world tilts sideways.

High above you, a massive billboard sways on its scaffold. Metal groans. The bolts holding it in place shear clean off. A cable snaps and whips like a snake. Time seems to shudder, just for a second, and the heavy structure begins to fall.

You don’t have time to scream. Don’t even have time to think.

One second you’re standing on concrete.

The next, you’re in the air.

Strong arms lock around your waist, firm and certain, like you were meant to be held this way. Wind rushes past your face. Your bag slams into your hip. You catch a blur of red. Of blue. A heartbeat pressed against your back like a thunderclap.

Then—

Silence.

You land on your feet, gently, like the world cushioned itself beneath you.

Superman releases you slowly, hands lingering just long enough for you to feel the shape of his grip—like fingerprints made of heat.

The billboard crashes behind you, twisting metal and splintered plastic pancaking into the street with a monstrous clang. Dust coats the air.

You breathe hard, staring at him, wide-eyed and shaking.

He’s real. Towering in front of you. Cape fluttering. Boots grounded. Chest rising and falling with steady purpose.

You blink. “I…”

You don’t know what you’re trying to say. Thank you? How? Again?

But then—

Then he smiles.

And says something that makes your lungs stop working.

“Still clumsy, Doodle.”

Your mouth parts. Your stomach drops.

No one calls you that anymore. Not your coworkers. Not your friends. Not your family. And there’s only one person outside of your parents who would know about it.

Just Clark Kent.

You stare at him, heart thundering, a million pieces slotting into place in your mind like some dumb comic book montage. The cape. The eyes. The warmth in his voice.

He falters. Just for a second. Like he knows he’s said too much.

Then he lifts off—fast. Faster than your next thought. A gust of wind in his place, your hair whipping around your cheeks.

He’s gone before you can speak.

Gone before you can ask if he meant to say it. If it slipped out. If it’s been him this whole time.

You’re left standing in the wreckage of what could’ve been a tragedy, your heart beating too loud, your fingers curled tight around the strap of your bag.

And you whisper, barely audible over the sirensc “…Clark?”

You don’t sleep the night it happens.

The night the billboard should’ve crushed you, but didn’t. The night Superman called you Doodle.

You sit on your bed with your knees pulled to your chest, replaying it over and over. The save. The grip of his arms. The warmth. The way his voice dropped just so when he said it. Like it belonged to him. Like you belonged to him.

And no one calls you that. Not anymore. Not in years.

Just Clark.

Your sketchbook lies open beside you, full of cape lines and half-drawn jawlines. You glance at your tablet, then reach for it. And before you know it, you’re sketching again—but this time, you’re not drawing Superman.

You’re drawing Clark.

Same square jaw. Same messy hair. Same stupidly broad shoulders and soft, impossible eyes.

Then, just to test something… you draw Superman over top of it. Same outline. Same angles. Just cleaner. Sharper. As if one is the inked version and the other’s still in pencil.

Your heart pounds.

You erase one layer.

And you know.

The next day at the Planet, you try to act normal. Keyword: try. You do not succeed.

“Morning,” Clark says, handing you your coffee like he always does. Only this time, you grab it with trembling fingers and study his expression like you’re analyzing surveillance footage.

He squints. “You okay?”

“Fine,” you say, far too quickly.

He blinks at you. You blink back. He starts to turn away.

“Wait,” you blurt. “Hypothetically. Do you think Superman ever drinks, like, oat milk?”

Clark stares at you. You stare back.

“…Oat milk?” he echoes.

You nod slowly. “Yeah. Or like… does he seem like a guy who’d order a caramel macchiato and get weirdly defensive about it?”

He frowns. “I mean… he’s not real.”

You smile, sharp and knowing. “Oh, isn’t he?”

Clark makes a noise like he’s choking and speed-walks away.

From then on, the experiments begin. You drop increasingly specific “Superman” references into your conversations with Clark and watch his reaction like a hawk. He fails nearly every test.

“I heard Superman used to live in Kansas. That true, Smallville?”

“What do you think Superman’s favorite fruit is? ‘Cause someone saved me outside a bodega, and I swear he smelled like peaches.”

“Clark, be honest—have you ever, in your entire life, worn underwear over your pants?”

Every time, his eyes go wide. He fumbles. He blushes. Once, he knocks over an entire cup of pens trying to get away from you.

And you? You keep sketching.

Your current project—an “anonymous” Superman comic series you pitched to the arts editor—is getting bolder. Every issue, the Superman character looks a little more like Clark. You draw his posture the same way. His hair flops the same way. You even start giving him the same damn cowlick.

One day, Clark catches sight of a panel on your tablet as he passes your desk. He pauses. Doubles back. Points at the screen.

“…This panel looks familiar.”

You freeze. “What? No. That’s—totally generic superhero guy. Average build. Completely not based on anyone specific.”

Clark tilts his head. “Are those my glasses?”

You slam the tablet closed.

“No.”

He opens his mouth.

You wave your hand. “I just based him on this dork I knew in middle school, okay?”

Clark stares at you like you’ve drop-kicked his soul.

You pretend not to notice the way his ears go red as he backs away again, knocking over a recycling bin on the way out.

You almost feel bad.

Almost.

That night, you curl up on your couch and scroll your fan account. You post a new drawing—Superman crouched on a rooftop, arms braced on his knees, cape fluttering behind him.

You caption it:

“Sometimes I think Superman’s just a guy who wants to be seen. Really seen. Not worshipped. Not feared. Just… understood. And I hope someone out there sees him like that.”

You don’t expect the message that comes in thirty minutes later.

A DM. Anonymous account. No posts.

It says:

“Maybe someone already does.”

You sit up straight.

And your heart races.

It happens on a Thursday.

The kind of Thursday where the fluorescent lights in the bullpen feel a little too bright and your sketches feel a little too flat. You’d stayed up too late redrawing Superman’s cape until it felt right, and your hands are cramped from overworking the same three panels.

You’re yawning into your third cup of coffee when you see it.

Lois Lane.

She’s leaning over Clark’s desk, laughing at something he’s written. One hand braced on the desk, the other on his shoulder. Familiar. Casual. Comfortable in a way that suggests shared history. Maybe more.

And then—

She hugs him.

It’s not long. Just a second too tight. A second too easy. His chin dips toward her hair like it’s second nature.

Something inside you caves in.

You don’t even realize you’re staring until Jimmy walks past and mutters, “Yikes, get a room,” before disappearing into the copier room.

You sit down slowly.

You stare at your tablet screen and try not to cry.

It’s not that you’re in love with Clark. (Except you kind of are.)

It’s just that he’s yours. Or—was. For a while. In Smallville. In childhood. In the quiet look he gives you when you bring him coffee and the way he still says “thank you” like he means it.

But maybe that’s not the kind of look you thought it was. Maybe you’ve been imagining the whole thing.

And if he’s with Lois—if he’s always been with Lois—then you’ve been turning your feelings into drawings of someone he already is. And all that does is make you look like a fool.

So that night, after two glasses of wine and three hours of mood music and spite, you sit down and start drawing again.

This time, there’s no hiding what it is.

You sketch Superman on his knees, chest heaving, cape twisted around his wrists like a makeshift restraint. There’s a lipstick smudge on his jaw and a rawness in his eyes. He’s wrecked. Worshipped. Beautiful.

The caption:

“Maybe he’s tired of being strong all the time. Maybe he wants someone to ruin him a little.”

You hit post. You turn off your tablet. You go to bed.

And somewhere across Metropolis, Clark Kent is losing his mind.

He wasn’t going to look.

He told himself he wouldn’t check your fan account anymore, especially not after that last one. The one with the rooftop and the line about being understood.

He’d stared at that one for twenty-two minutes and had to physically restrain himself from flying to your window and confessing everything.

But now—

Now, standing in his apartment, suit half-unbuttoned, he stares at the newest post, mouth slightly open.

The art is stunning. As always.

And it’s him. Not just Superman. Him.

He knows it. Feels it. The curve of the jaw. The haunted look in the eyes. Even the way the fingers curl.

And the caption—

“Maybe he wants someone to ruin him a little.”

Clark drops his phone onto the couch, runs a hand down his face, and actually paces.

He doesn’t know what to do.

He should talk to you. Tell you the truth. Apologize for not saying it sooner. Reassure you that he and Lois are just friends, that the hug was a thank-you for helping him land an op-ed on food deserts and wasn’t romantic at all.

But the longer he waits, the worse it gets.

So he suits up.

Not as Clark.

As Superman.

You hear the knock on your fire escape window at 10:43 PM. You know it’s him.

You open it slowly, heart in your throat. He stands there in full uniform, cape brushing his boots, shoulders stiff. The glow of the streetlamp paints him in gold. He looks tired.

You step aside. He ducks inside.

For a moment, you both just stand there in the quiet hum of your studio apartment. The only light comes from your laptop screen, still open to the post you made hours ago. He glances at it. You see his jaw flex.

“I saw your latest,” he says softly.

You swallow. “I figured.”

“I’m not… with anyone.”

Your head snaps up. “What?”

He shifts. “People think I am…. A womanizer. Or that I have someone. I get it. But… some of these women are just friends. Nothing more.”

You blink at him. “Then why—”

“Because I’m stupid,” he says, voice tight. “Because I thought staying silent was safer than telling you the truth. And now you’re drawing me like I’m someone you don’t even want to know.”

You suck in a breath. “That’s not true.”

He nods toward your screen. “Isn’t it?”

You stare at him. At his face. His eyes. So familiar it hurts. “God,” you whisper, half-laughing, half-panicked. “You even sound like him.”

He frowns. “Like who?”

“Clark.”

His expression shifts—barely—but it’s enough.

Enough to shake something loose in your chest.

You cross your arms, pulse racing. “You look like him, too. I’m not saying I think—I’m not saying anything, but if you were—hypothetically—wouldn’t that be a terrible idea?”

His voice is soft. “Why?”

“Because…” You hesitate. “Because I told Clark about the fanfic. And the art. And you let me.”

His lip twitches, almost a smile. “I liked hearing you talk about it.”

You narrow your eyes. “That’s deranged.”

He doesn’t deny it.

You sigh and drop onto the couch. “So you… are him. You’re so unfair.”

He stays standing. “I never meant to hurt you.”

“I know.”

Silence stretches between you like a string pulled tight. Eventually, you say, “Why now?”

He shrugs. “Because you looked at me today like I was a stranger. And I couldn’t take it.”

You nod slowly. “You don’t have to go.”

He does sit then, on the armrest beside you, hands fidgeting. You both look at the screen again.

“…You really think I want to be ruined?” he asks, voice low.

You glance up at him. “I think you want to stop holding your breath.”

He closes his eyes.

You watch him, heart climbing into your throat. Not just because he’s sitting here—broad and golden in your tiny apartment—but because he is. Clark is.

And now that it’s out, now that it’s not just a theory scrawled in the margins of your sketchbook, you feel something else bloom under your ribs:

Panic.

Pure, blistering panic.

Because he’s still here. Because he hasn’t denied it. Because Superman is Clark, and Clark is sitting on your couch, fidgeting like a schoolboy, and you’ve said so many things.

“So,” you start carefully, hands knotted in your lap. “You’ve… known this whole time?”

“Not the whole time,” he says. “But yeah. I figured it out pretty quickly.”

You squint. “What gave it away?”

He gestures vaguely at your laptop. “Maybe the post where you wrote, ‘I want to ride Superman’s face until he sees God.’ That one was hard to miss.”

You die. You actually short-circuit. Your soul lifts clean out of your body and floats toward the ceiling, clutching a pillow and screaming.

“No,” you whisper. “No, no, no—”

Clark just shrugs, visibly trying not to laugh. “Also the one where you said he probably has really strong hands and would hold your throat like it’s glass but kiss like he’s praying?”

“Clark!”

He grins. “Hey, I didn’t say I disagreed.”

You bury your face in your hands with a long, muffled groan. “Oh my god. Oh my god, I told you everything. I showed you everything. I thought you were just… some guy I could emotionally damage without consequence!”

He chuckles, quiet and fond. “You definitely emotionally damaged me.”

You peek through your fingers, mortified. “And you just let me?”

His voice softens. “I didn’t want you to stop.”

That makes you go still.

You drop your hands, staring at him. “You didn’t…?”

He shakes his head. “Every time you told me something new—about the art, or the fics, or how much Superman meant to you—it felt like I got to know you again. Like I was watching you fall in love with me without the pressure of being me.” He exhales slowly. “It was selfish. But I didn’t want it to end.”

You press a hand to your chest, the thrum of your heartbeat wild.

“That’s not fair,” you say quietly.

“I know.”

You search his face. “What if I’d really fallen for the cape? For the powers? For the guy in the sky?”

Clark looks at you, eyes soft but unflinching. “You didn’t.”

You’re not sure who moves first—but somehow, you’re both leaning forward, both caught in the same breathless pull. Your knees touch. His hand hovers between you like he’s scared to break the moment.

Then you blink—

And suddenly, everything hits you. All of it. Every stupid thing you ever said to Clark about Superman. Every drawing you shoved under his nose. Every moan-fueled one-shot you teased. Every sentence that began with “I bet Superman would…” and ended with something deeply inappropriate.

Your whole body locks up.

“Oh my god.”

Clark freezes. “What?”

Your eyes go wide with horror. “I told you about the fanfic. I read you the fanfic.”

He presses his lips together, clearly fighting a smile. “You did.”

“I sent you a WIP doc titled Superman’s Super Tongue.”

“I… remember.”

You lurch off the couch and start pacing in a tight, manic circle. “I talked to you about the thigh harness. I showed you the sketch with the whipped cream!”

“That was a good one,” he says, biting back laughter.

You whirl on him. “Clark, I live here! This is my home! You can’t just show up and tell me you’re Superman and then calmly acknowledge the fact that I’ve drawn you naked from memory.”

His face flames.

“I mean—” you gesture wildly “—it’s not from memory, because I didn’t know, but now I do, so that makes it somehow worse? Oh my god, I told you I wanted to be his little spoon.”

Clark stands slowly, hands raised like he’s approaching a startled animal. “Okay. Yes. But—you also said you liked his smile. And that he made you feel safe. That you wished he’d talk to you like you mattered.”

You fall silent.

His voice drops. “That’s what mattered to me.”

You blink at him, breath caught.

“I never wanted to embarrass you,” he says, voice low and sincere. “I just… wanted to be near you. However I could.”

Your throat tightens. And when he steps forward—tentative, hopeful—you let him. Let him cup your cheek with a hand that could break concrete. Let him look at you like he’s waited a lifetime to say this next part, “It’s always been you, Doodle.”

You let out a breath that sounds like a laugh and a sob in one.

Then you grab his shirt and kiss him so hard he nearly stumbles backward into the kitchen.

He catches himself. Then catches you.

And neither of you comes up for air for a very, very long time.

His mouth is soft when it first touches yours.

Gentle. Almost shy.

But you don’t want shy. Not right now. Not after all this. Not after years of crushing, wondering, drawing, writing, teasing—only to find out the man you’ve been lowkey simping for across two identities was one person the whole damn time.

So you kiss him like you’ve been dying to. Like the kiss is a sentence you’ve never gotten to finish.

Clark responds in kind. He groans against your lips, hands moving from your waist to your back to your jaw like he doesn’t know where to land, like every part of you is something he’s afraid to lose. You feel the scrape of his suit against your fingertips and grab the collar anyway, tugging him closer until his thigh nudges between yours.

He pulls back just enough to breathe. Or—well, you need to breathe. He looks completely fine. Barely winded. Jerk.

You pant softly, forehead pressed to his. “You’re really him.”

He smiles against your skin. “Still me.”

You squint. “You’re literally wearing the cape right now.”

He shrugs, smug. “You did draw it like this. Thought I should meet expectations.”

You groan. “Please do not reference my horny fanart while we’re making out.”

Clark’s grin turns wicked. “Which one? The rooftop one? The alleyway one? The one where I had you pinned against the wall with—what was it—lasered initials on your thigh?”

You swat his chest, face flaming. “You said you weren’t judging me!”

“I’m not!” He laughs, catching your wrist, then leans in again, nose brushing yours. “I just think it’s adorable how specific your fantasies were.”

Your heart does something humiliating in your chest. He kisses the corner of your mouth, then your cheek, then just beneath your jaw.

You whisper, “Are you going to keep bringing it up?”

He hums, still kissing your neck. “Only if you keep reacting like that.”

You shove at him lightly, but he doesn’t budge. Not even a little. He’s warm and broad and ridiculously solid, still dressed like a myth, and still looking at you like you’re the only thing that’s ever made him nervous.

He finally pulls back, just far enough to look at you.

“I meant what I said, you know,” he says softly. “It was never about the cape. Or the powers. I just wanted to be near you again.”

You brush your fingers through the curls at the nape of his neck. “Even while I was thirst-tweeting about you?”

He grins. “Especially then.”

You laugh.

He leans in again—slower this time, mouth finding yours like he’s savoring the contact, like the moment finally feels real. You melt into him, into the heat of his hands on your back, the way he sighs into the kiss like you’re the one saving him.

Eventually, you both end up on the couch—legs tangled, your fingers lazily tracing the emblem on his chest while he gently nudges his nose against your temple.

“Y’know,” he murmurs, voice rough with affection, “if this is anything like your fanfic, I’m pretty sure I’m supposed to worship you for two solid pages next.”

You blink.

Then smack his chest again.

“Clark Kent, I swear—”

He just laughs and kisses you again, warm and happy and utterly, entirely yours.

#fanfic #clark kent dcu #clark kent x female reader #clark kent x y/n #clark kent x you #clark kent x reader #clark kent imagine #dc clark kent #clark kent #Clark Kent fluff #superman 2025 #superman x y/n #superman x you #superman imagine #superman x reader #dc superman #superman #kal el

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intoanothermind · 5 days ago

Text

Foolish Hearts

Loving Clark Kent is easy, but he seems to find letting you go even easier. At least, until Clark is forced to fully reckon with what it means to really lose you.

▸ PAIRING: Clark "Superman" Kent x F!Reader ▸ WARNINGS: Hurt/comfort?, very little angst, limited knowledge of DCU ▸ WORD COUNT: 4.6K ▸ A/N: quick thing i wrote instead of working. i love a soft yearning clark who gets a lil jealous. also a sucker for exes to lovers so here we are! pls go easy on me, clark isnt the easiest to write :')

—

The breakup is easy. Painfully easy. Too easy.

“I don’t think I can do this anymore, Clark. I’m tired of constantly waiting for you, wondering if you’re going to show up and being disappointed when you don’t. I think… we just want different things right now.”

His gaze only briefly falters before he nods silently, keeping his head ducked. “I understand.”

No fight. No rejection. Part of you hoped that Clark would say something, convince you to stay. If he even asked you to reconsider, you would’ve. It wouldn’t take much for you to forgive Clark Kent.

But he doesn’t, so you let him go, and he does the same for you.

Being friends with Lois and Jimmy throughout the early stages of your careers means that you are bonded by the shared struggle of being a journalist in Metropolis. The violent streak of villains streaming into the city. The sick billionaires plotting the deaths of good, innocent people. The corrupt government willing to sell themselves to said billionaires for more power over neighboring countries, even allies. That sort of depravity binds you.

Regardless, meeting Clark was inevitable. On the surface, Clark is broad and tall, oftentimes too big for whatever space he is in, no matter how many times he tries to shrink himself to avoid attention. But Clark is also delicate and gentle and clumsy, all of the traits that make him endearing to those around him.

You can’t help but want to protect Clark. When someone’s giving him a hard time, you are the first to stand up for him. He is a man who means well.

It is not difficult to fall for him, especially when the glances he sends your way are shy and curious. Whenever he gets caught looking a little too much, he quickly drags his eyes away with a blush creeping up his cheeks.

Clark is thoughtful. Once he finds out how you take your tea, he prepares a perfect cup for you every morning. The right temperature, the right sweetness. He never fails to walk you home at night, taking the time to make conversation to learn more about you as you also learn about him growing up in Kansas. He reluctantly leaves you at your door each evening, refusing to actually depart until he sees you waving at him from the safety of your home.

Clark Kent is a good — no, he is a great — man.

When he finally asks you out to dinner, it is natural to say yes. The first date quickly leads to a second and a third, consecutive nights spent giggling over nothing and everything. Clark asks you to be his exclusive girlfriend with a bouquet of your favorite flowers and a home-cooked meal.

With strawberry pancakes on the table and the stars twinkling outside, Clark shyly asks you to love him and only him.

Again, another easy yes.

Things with Clark are easy, at least for a while. Superman’s growing popularity along with the Justice Gang (you’re still debating if you really want to put that name on paper) draws plenty of unsavory characters to Metropolis, the temptation of challenging Earth’s mightiest heroes luring them into the otherwise quiet city.

With Superman getting busy, so does Clark. The two seem to have a good bond, with Clark getting exclusive interviews after every battle, which makes big splashes on the front page. His career takes off and Perry has been more than pleased with his work.

However, with this new steep trajectory, it also means that Clark has less time to spend on things outside of work. One of those things is you.

There have been a handful of dates where he shows up an hour late, if he even shows at all. When he does, he is disheveled, having rushed from wherever the battle had been to the date spot that you had picked out and planned. When he doesn’t even appear, the apologetic texts come in hours after you’ve gone home and prepared yourself for bed.

These days come with excuse after excuse. Perry held me up. Trains were delayed. Traffic was crazy. There was an accident on the highway. Superman this, Superman that. At some point, you have to salvage your pride and admit to yourself that maybe Clark isn’t as interested in you as you are in him. He has a stronger relationship with Superman than he does with you.

Because someone who wants to make time would. Right? That’s what you’ve always believed.

Perhaps the bitter pill to swallow is just that — Clark does not want to make time so he doesn’t. It’s a simple line of thinking but it’s one that you settle one to give yourself a reason to call it quits. With an amicable breakup, there is no tension between the two of you. A few awkward silences here and there, but nothing either of you can’t handle.

Your freelance work with The Daily Planet also means you frequently see him at the office. You walk in and greet your friends, Clark included. When you wrap up a meeting with Perry, Clark is there waiting with your cup of tea ready. He is still same old Clark which makes it difficult to not fall more in love with him.

Even today, as you step out of Perry’s office and towards one of the spare desks, Clark is rising from his desk with a cup of tea. Clark is still indisputably beautiful. The way his dark curls fall against his forehead, his glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose. Your heart aches. Once upon a time, you had buried your fingers through his thick hair as he whispered kisses onto your skin.

Now, his touch feels like a distant stranger.

“Good afternoon,” he smiles, dimples appearing.

Your heart flutters traitorously in your chest and you stomp down on those butterflies in your stomach. He really is unfairly handsome. “Good afternoon,” you return politely.

As much as you tell yourself to be calm, cool, and composed around him, your heart never fails to say otherwise.

“How was your meeting with Perry?” Small work talk is always his safe bet.

“Good, I’m making good progress on my piece. Just need to do a little bit more digging to polish things up.”

At that, his brows furrow in concern. “Aren’t you working on that piece about the Gotham masked vigilante? What’s his name again? Batman?” You’re surprised that he knows what you’ve been investigating. Maybe it came up in other conversations with the Daily Planet team. “Is that safe? I mean, Gotham isn’t exactly a walk in the park. Not that you’re not strong, because you are, and you’re very smart and incredible—” he bites his tongue, wincing when he realizes that he’s rambling.

This is the Clark that you’ve missed. Awkward, concerned, adorable.

“I could go with you, it might be safer,” he offers. You cock a doubtful eyebrow at him. Clark is big and tall, but he’s also a semi-klutz. You can’t imagine him going with you into Gotham with his puppy-dog eyes and golden retriever energy, talking to your sources. Superman feels more of his speed compared to Batman.

“Thank you, Clark, but honestly, you don’t have to worry about me. I’ve been working with Gotham PD and I’ve got good sources who have my back. I’ll be safe.”

He looks far from convinced but that’s just who Clark is.

Thankfully, he decides to drop the subject and move on to the next. By the way he keeps shifting around your desk, you almost think that he wants to spend more time around you, even if it means talking about the most meaningless things. “Are you going to the event tonight?”

It’s an industry networking night The Daily Planet is hosting. Every year, Perry invites the who’s who of the news world — anyone from newspapers, television, and even social media (the last one Perry is less happy about but he has to keep up with the times). It’s a chance for his full-time staff and any adjacent journalists that he likes (you) to meet other professionals.

Really, it’s an excuse to drink and shit talk the industry that you all love with your peers.

You show up on time, hoping to get a few drinks in to loosen you up before the head honchos arrive. Apparently, a few of your friends have the same idea. When you enter the room, your eyes immediately land on Clark.

It’s not that you’re looking for him, your eyes naturally find his tall frame in the room. At least, that’s what you tell yourself.

Lois waves you over and you snatch up a glass of champagne on the way. Your shimmery black dress flutters against your thighs, landing at an appropriate length without looking too risque, but also not too conservative that it looks like you’re going to a business dinner.

“Look at you,” Lois beams, taking your hand and twirling you around.

You giggle and stop with a curtsy. “Thank you, you clean up very well yourself, Miss Lane.” Lois’ navy blue dress is stunning and emphasizes every gorgeous part of her.

Jimmy tugs you into a side hug. “I might need you to protect me tonight. Those two girls from accounting keep making eyes at me and I’m starting to get scared for my safety.”

A smirk pulls at your lips. “Only you would be terrified of hot girls pursuing you.”

“It’s not just me! Tell her, Clark. They’re relentless and I just want to write my articles.”

That is when your gaze finally shifts to Clark. You’ve been trying to avoid looking at him because you already know how your body will react. It’s always been the worst at self-control when it comes to Clark.

Still, you eventually have to look at him and he is delicious in his classic black tux. His glasses are still perched on his nose but his hair has been slicked back slightly, taming the wild tendrils.

“Mhmm, relentless,” Clark mumbles distractedly, too busy looking at you in the dress. You can feel the trail of fire his gaze leaves on your skin as he peruses you. When his eyes finally meet yours, you could see the blues have turned into midnight.

Shivers snake up your spine and your breath hitches quietly in your throat as you try to pull your stare away from him, but you can’t help it. Your body feels tingly all over with the way he drinks you in like a man parched.

You remember the nights Clark looked at you like this, right before he slants his lips over yours, tugging you desperately into bed. He’s always been greedy with you, chasing after your kisses, refusing to let you leave. He bides his time worshipping you until you have no other thoughts except his name rattling in your mind.

Swallowing thickly, you watch as Clark’s eyes fall to your throat. His fingers twitch by his side, betraying his desire to reach out to you.

The magnetic pull to him is undeniable. You almost cave. You want to give in.

However, the sound of your name crescendoing in your ear yanks you out of this haze. Clark looks away just as Perry reaches you. He looks irritated. “What are you doing? I’ve been calling you. Come on, there’s someone I want you to meet.”

Lois and Jimmy look relieved to be released of the tension, glancing at each other with knowing looks. They are fully aware of how things ended between you and Clark, opting to choose no sides.

Before you can respond, Perry is already dragging you by the elbow towards a man some distance away from your friends. Sighing, you plaster on a smile when you finally lock eyes with the man Perry is introducing you to.

“This is Mark, he works for the Gotham Gazette.”

Your eyes flick to Perry briefly, a go-get-him look in his eyes. You’ve been meaning to talk to someone at the Gazette to see if they have additional sources or if they’re willing to offer a comment for your piece.

“Pleasure to meet you, Mark,” you force out your brightest grin.

Honestly, you are in no mood to socialize, but anything for the article right?

The three of you chat briefly about how Mark and Perry knew each other. Mark is significantly younger than Perry but no less ambitious. You can see him being the editor-in-chief for the Gazette soon. Perry gives you one last look before leaving the two of you alone to chat.

“Can I get you a drink?” It’s an open bar but sure.

So you make your way to the bar and he puts in both your orders. Mark mentions his interest in learning more about your piece on Batman and what you’ve found so far. “Well, I can’t really share my sources. Plus, I’d like to publish it once it’s final, so no sneak peeks,” you smile behind your cocktail.

“Beauty and brains,” Mark hums. You feel heat lick at your skin at the compliment. Mark is good-looking, you’ve spotted a few dirty looks thrown your way since you started speaking with him. But he can’t hold a candle to Clark.

Speaking of Clark, you try to search the room for him and spot him some distance away. His eyes are still on you, narrowed now but still on you.

Mark interrupts your thoughts, “Would you like to get some air? I’d love to chat more with you, it’s just getting a bit loud here, isn’t it?”

The absolutely not nearly falls from your lips, but you remind yourself again that this is work. This is what tonight is for. Armed with pepper spray in your purse, you let him lead you out onto the balcony of the banquet hall. The music fades out behind you, turning into a distant muffle. Mark’s hand reminds low on your back, a little too low.

The two of you share more small talk for a little bit, but all you want is to get more out of him for your article. You don’t care much for his Ivy League education or his pretentious boarding school. You’ve seen your fair share of privileged kids and Mark feels like another.

“So, what else do you know about Batman?”

The corner of Mark’s lips tip up. Perhaps you sound overeager, but he still plays along anyway. “How about, if I share some of my Batman sources with you, you go on a date with me.” He leans against the railing, a charming smile dancing on his lips as he leers at you again.

The look isn’t particularly flattering nor uncomfortable so you let it slide. The industry is smaller than you’d like, which means you can’t exactly tell him to piss off without ruining Perry’s relationship with the man.

“Trading secrets for a date? Your editor would be ashamed of you,” you choose to tease.

“Well, anything to get to know you a little more. Even if it means risking my journalistic integrity.”

One date for more sources? That seems like the easiest and best bargain you’ve ever struck.

However, before you can agree, Clark’s face flashes in your mind. Sweet Clark. He would likely hear about this date. And while the two of you aren’t technically together anymore, it doesn’t mean you want to close out that possibility completely.

Crap.

You open your mouth but the words don’t come out when you feel an arm slide around your waist. Whirling to your side, you crane your neck to look at Clark who is suddenly next to you. You didn’t even the door click open.

“Clark,” you blurt out.

“Perry says he wants to see you,” he bites out. His eyes are laser focused on Mark as he says this, fingers digging into your side.

“Right now?”

“Yeah, something about that senate policy piece for next week.”

The senate policy piece isn’t due for another two weeks, the hearing was pushed back. You cock an eyebrow at Clark but he still isn’t looking at you.

“Sorry about that, I have to steal her for a second.” He does not wait for Mark to respond before he manhandles you — gently — back into the building and straight into a closed-off room on the side.

Once you’re in there, he doesn’t seem to know what to do with himself. He paces the length of the room, which isn’t long at all, while you stand by the shelves, arms crossed over your chest.

Clark isn’t a liar until he needs to be, you suppose. The question is why he needs to be one.

“What’s going on? I know that piece isn’t due for a while. Perry wouldn’t be badgering me on a night like this for work.”

“Were you going to say yes?” Clark asks, a little breathless as he stops and turns to look at you.

His eyes are bright blue underneath the room’s fluorescent lights. They are softened by the creases on his face, the concern that etches itself deep into his skin.

“Say yes to what?”

“To a date with him?”

How did he— “How did you hear that? You weren’t even there when he asked me.”

Clark purses his lips and only looks at you. “Well, were you?”

“Why does it matter if I did? It would’ve been for work.”

“It was a date.”

“I wanted his intel for Batman.”

A groan slips past his lips as he reaches up and runs his fingers through his hair, curls coming apart. “I could help you get that, you don’t need to go on a date with him for that.”

“How would you help me do that? You don’t do work or pieces on Gotham.”

Clark opens his mouth, frowns, then promptly shuts it again. “I would’ve figured it out.”

“It’s really not a big deal, Clark. Mark isn’t a bad guy, Perry knows him, that’s why he introduced us.”

He looks far from appeased, earning a sigh from you.

“You want to tell me what this is really about?”

His face crumbles, blue chipping away into something lighter, something more vulnerable. “I miss you,” he whispers. “I miss you so much.”

Fuck. All the air is sucked from your lungs as you look at him. “Clark, don’t do this.”

“I do. I know it’s been a couple of months but I can’t stop thinking about you, how good things were between us. And I know it wasn’t perfect, I’m not perfect, but I want to be with you.”

This can’t be happening. Not now. You’re in the midst of a very public event for god’s sake and Clark is… Clark. He’s beautiful and he’s honest and wonderful, and he’s telling you that he misses you.

Your heart splits in two as you look at him. Fury and sorrow mixes inside you. How dare he but also why is he doing this? Why is he doing this to you now of all times? “If you told me all this when I told you things weren’t working out, I would’ve said yes in a heartbeat. I would’ve stayed. But now that time has passed, I still don’t see things changing. It’s not like we’re any different.”

Clark swallows. “We can be different. We can. I need to tell you something—”

The door slams open and Lois spills inside, stumbling in her heels. “Clark, you have to see this.”

The desperately apologetic look on his face says everything. The excuse on the tip of his tongue is loud and clear before he even opens his mouth. Another story to chase. Another thing that takes him away from you.

Something in you cracks because this is not unfamiliar. It’s like the time before and the one before that. You know that nothing is going to change between you and Clark. Doomed before you even start.

Seeming to sense that shift, Clark steps up to you and catches your chin between his fingers. His eyes are earnest, pleading, as they search yours. “I have to go, but I’ll come by your place after.”

It’s not a question. It’s not a request. It’s a promise.

Instead of arguing, you whisper, “Okay.” He presses his lips against your temple. His touch is gentle, but there is a tremor to his mouth that melts your heart. With one last squeeze of your hand, Clark heads out to what most likely is a battle scene.

By the time you regain your composure and rejoin the guests, everyone is honed in on the one television screen in the room. Some massive monster has breached the Delaware Bay, clawing its way towards the shore. News and police choppers are circling the scene, the whirring of its blades buried in the monster’s roars.

The Justice Gang has been at it for a couple of hours with no progress made. You see Superman fly into the scene and the guests erupt into cheers. It’s another day in Metropolis but Superman somehow always puts on a show.

Superman’s laser beams are followed by Hawkgirl’s strikes. Mr. Terrific’s T-Spheres and Green Lantern launch combination attacks of offense and defense. In no time, the heroes take them down. Another successful day for the metahumans. Just another day in Metropolis. The attendees swiftly turn back to their conversations.

Glancing back at the screen, you wonder if Clark is already out there. You wonder if he’s safe. If he got his big story. If he’ll make it back to you.

When the camera comes in close to the heroes, they do a full close-up of each hero, including Superman. His face, dashing and bloodied. But that’s not what you pay attention to. It’s his eyes.

The eyes of a man who has looked at you across the office for months. The same eyes you yourself have gazed upon on those late nights sharing snacks and giggles under your duvet. The same eyes of the man who made you a promise just thirty minutes ago.

You have never paid too much attention to Superman. He’s another superhero. A supposedly, particularly kind one who really considers humanity when saving the world. But there are enough journalists who write about him that you have never felt the need to really care.

Plus, you have Clark and he is equally — if not more — cute and nice and big.

Now that you’re really looking at him, looking at his eyes, you think that Superman has Clark’s eyes.

And you’ve never been an idiot. At least, you didn’t think so until today. Everything seems to fall into place. The excuses, the disappearances that are always timed with Superman’s fights, both domestic and international. It all makes sense.

You are still stewing in this discovery when you hear a knock at your door a few hours later. You know who it is, of course.

When you swing your door open, the first words out of your mouth are “you’re Superman.”

Not an accusation, just a fact.

Clark shows up at your door with flowers, your favorites, and no glasses. You feel your breath catch. The resemblance has always been there, you don’t know how you could’ve been so blind. All the pieces seem to click into place.

He takes a step forward, you take a step back. One after another until you’re pressed up against the wall and the door is closed behind the two of you. He sets the flowers on the hallway table and dips his head, a shaky exhale escaping. He leans closer, until his lips are brushing yours.

“I am,” he murmurs.

“Why didn’t you just tell me?”

The time that you’ve lost. The evenings you spent wondering what if.

You look up at him, those familiar blue eyes that now you’re struggling to fully recognize. “Why now? I mean, we had months. You had months to say otherwise.”

Clark shies away slowly, his gaze shattered with guilt. “I thought I’d be content with just being in your orbit, just by being… around you. But I realize today that it’s not enough. The idea of you with someone else — someone else who makes you laugh, who cooks you breakfast for dinner, who gets to tell you that they love you every day — I don’t want to imagine that. Today, I felt what it was like to possibly lose you and I’m not perfect, and I’m selfish, but I want you. I want to be with you.”

Your palms flatten on his chest as you push him away. The flicker of hurt in his eyes is unmistakeable but you need space. You need to breathe and think about this.

It had torn you apart months ago to end things with Clark. You knew it was a leave you before you leave me situation. All this time, you thought it was the best thing to do for yourself. Although you weren’t with Clark for that long, your chemistry wasn’t something you could ignore.

There are piece of yourself that you’ve given Clark that he can’t possibly return.

“I don’t get it, you— we could’ve had all that. I always just thought that you didn’t have time for me, that you weren’t actually interested.”

Clark winces as another sympathetic expression settles on his features. “For a while, I thought it would be easier for you, if I wasn’t in your life. I didn’t want to inconvenience you or hurt you more than I already have.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“I don’t know, it seems like I have fudged it up, haven’t I?” He smiles softly. Fudged. God, as if you couldn’t be any more endeared by this man. “I can’t be the perfect boyfriend. To be fair, I don’t think anyone can. But I can promise you I’ll do my best to be better. I’ll overcommunicate. I’ll always have the justice… thing supporting me. It won’t be all me all the time. I’ll make sure we have time.”

“Clark, that’s not… right. You have a city and a world to protect, and I don’t want to be the person standing in the way of that.”

An exasperated sigh escapes him. He pulls on his curls again. “You can’t— you can’t possibly think that that’s why. I’ve always wanted to protect the world, that’s what I always believed to be my purpose. But with you, it’s even more clear. I want to make sure this planet is safe, because you’re in it. So if you’ll allow me, and if you’re willing, I want to give us another chance to make it. Because I really, really like you.”

The gravity of his words sink into your bones. Clark is at his best when he’s like this. Beautiful, sweet, honest. He is trying now and you have to give him credit for it. And you miss him so, so much. You don’t even realize how much until he’s right here again with you. You miss how he held you gently with his large hands, the way he would slip into your bed quietly and tuck you into his chest.

And maybe this time, you can make it work.

You know you can.

“I really like you too,” you confess quietly.

Clark’s eyes brighten and that beam of hope strikes you in the heart. “What do you say? Would you give me a second chance?” He is smiling but you can see that his eyes are tight. He’s nervous.

You laugh, “Yeah. Let’s try this again, Kent.”

–

Bonus:

“Wait, so does that mean you’re friends with Batman?”

Clark freezes. “Um, yes we have met a few times.”

“Do you think you could get me an interview with him?”

“Honey…”

“Come on!”

#clark kent #superman #superman movie #clark kent x reader #clark kent x you #clark kent imagine #clark kent x y/n #superman x reader #superman 2025 #superman x you #superman x y/n #superman fluff #clark kent fluff #clark kent fanfiction #superman fanfiction #superman fic #clark kent fic

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intoanothermind · 5 days ago

Text

Swear Jar

pairing. David!Clark Kent x reader

synopsis. Clark is the office goody two-shoes. Can you really make him swear?

warnings. lots of cutie clark!! no use of y/n. lois is just as cool and suave as ever, no lois hate here. some angst and lots of fluff so don't worry. oh and some?ish swearing.

word count. 3k (oneshot)

Notes at the end.

“Shit”

The remnants of the blueberry latte you’d picked up for Lois were currently completely soaking your new trousers. The woman in question is standing in front of you, staring up at you apologetically while dabbing furiously, not that the paper-thin napkin is doing much.

“It’s the jitters.”

“Lois, you have withdrawls.” she waves you off “Same thing sweetie.”

From across the room, Clark taps at the swear jar.

“C’mon, I just got in hardass,” you groan.

“You know the rules.” He chimes, voice light and airy and mocking.

You scowl and trudge past him toward your desk.

Shit, all of your files are soaked. Perrys going to be so pissed when you hand in your first drafts later.

“You're so mean Clark.” You huff.

“Hey,” he says with a shrug, rolling back to his desk while spinning his stupid pen around, “you’re the one that said you wanted a challenge.”

Even when you’re annoyed, you can’t help staring at him.

His curls are soft, framing his face in a way that kind of remind you of a cherub. The rest of him not so much. Despite the oversized blue suit he wears every day to work, you’d been lucky enough to catch a peek at his absolutely ridiculously large biceps a few months ago when the office got too hot.

Still somehow not as hot as him.

Even his dimples are perfect, both of them placed perfectly at each side of his face, coming out to say “Hi” every two seconds because of how often the large man smiles at you.

Anyway back to the ridiculous swear jar.

For some reason someone had suggested that the office should take part in a no-swearing competition. The incentive? Whoever swore the most would have to hand over the contents of the swear jar to the person that swore the least.

Full ceremony, full knighting.

Everyone knew Cat or Perry would be knighting; that part was absolute.

But guess who was in the lead to win? Well ok it wasn’t just Clark, Ron was giving him a run for his money. The man barely had a crease of his suit most the time, let alone breaking his composure enough to swear. So there were fair odds going.

Sitting at the edge of your desk, playing with the pens that had definitely already dried out you looked up at Clark and ask “You suggested this competition knowing you’d win right.”

“Mmmmmmaybe,” he cheekily glances up at you through his glasses, “Not my fault I have morals.”

“Not even going to get into this debate with you again.”

You always ended up in that same argument: the correlation between swearing and intelligence. You said it was a sign of linguistic expression. He said it was laziness.

Across the room, a collective groan breaks out.

A tally under Ron’s name on the scoreboard appears, the man in question lets out a pained sigh, pulling a book over his face in shame.

The only person that hadn’t groaned is sitting pretty, chewing on a piece of gum. You could imagine his smug face as he knelt down to receive his crown, the prince of virtue himself.

You could not let that happen.

“Guys, surely this is unfair.” Flapping her hands around “When have any of us actually heard Clark swear?”

Jimmy muttered out in deep thought “I heard him say the s-word once.”

“Shut the f- front door!” Cat said, her eyes wide, well-manicured fingers slapping Jimmy’s shoulder. “Where and when, we need all the deets.”

Jimmy blinked, booting the memory up. “We were at a conference for LexCorps new clean energy plant, total bull obviously. HIs leather journal caught on fire somehow, something to do with the electronics next to his bag. But it was weird I don’t remember anything flamable-“

Lois clicks her hands in his face to get him out of his trance. “Focus. Are you sure?”

He shakes himself awake “Anyway, look the point is the guys human, he can slip up.”

Time to ragebait Clark Kent.

5 days till crowning

Your first idea is simple.

Stan Lex Luthor.

Out of all the men on Earth, only two could reliably work Clark Kent into a frenzy: Bruce Wayne and Lex Luthor. Talk about either and he’d transform into Mr Hyde, frothing and pounding on his desk like a man possessed. Sure, you’d have to deal with a sermon about truth and justice for at least an hour after the mention of Lex, but you’d live.

So of course, that morning you waltzed into the office fully committed to the bit. Thick black shades covered your eyes, and a long black t hugged your frame. The entire thing screamed soft cosplay. A few LutherCorp-branded pens peeked out of your pocket and you held a mug you’d “borrowed” on your last visit to LuthorCorp.

Also to be extra subtle, you hung framed keychain of the bald deviant on the side of your bag.

The change wasn’t lost on clark.

“What on earth is that?” he asks, pointing with genuine horror to the keychain.

“You like it?” you grin. “I decorated it myself!”

Clark turns to Steve at the next desk. “Get your phone out. She’s lost it. Call 911.”

His hand reaches out and presses against your forehead, checking for a fever or maybe checking that you aren’t being mind controlled somehow. You bat his hand away, heart hammering traitorously from just a light touch.

“What?” you say, trying to sound genuine. “Is it so wrong to admire a man as great as Lex Luthor?”

Clark gapes at you. “Are you being serious?”

“Oh, I loooove the guy,” you say, dragging the word. “He’s so hot—”

“Perfect,” comes a voice from behind. “Since you like him so much kid, you can take over Cat’s article on the LuthorCorp building redesign. You’re on interview duty for the rest of the week.”

You jump. “What?!”

Where the hell had Perry come from? He looms over you, staring hard enough that, if it was a sport, he’d be rivaling Serena Williams in her prime.

“What I meant was wow! I’m so excited,” you say, voice sliding into a what you hope sounds like an enthusiatic tone.

You exhale in relief as he seemed satisfed with your answer and walks away.

Clark is already halfway down the hall when you hear him laugh and nod to himself.

“What the hay.”

4 days till crowning

Your second idea is a lot better.

A lot better.

Clark’s glasses are practically superglued to his face. Like, not even metaphorically. You once saw Jimmy barely reach for them, as a joke, and Clark had reacted like he was about to be unmasked in front of a firing squad. He’d turned pale and physically backed away from Jimmy.

So yeah.

They were a good source of fear for the guy.

Getting them off his face wasn’t going to be the easiest task.

He was clumsy, sure- he was constantly tripping on wires and bumping into chairs. When it came to those glasses? He was precise. Always adjusting, always repositioning.

You’d wanted to try them on once but like smeagol with the ring he just, wouldn’t give them up.

So you brought in Jimmy. It was simple Jimmy would “accidentally” spill something on Clark’s face.

Right between the brows.

Jimmy hesitates before speaking. “You want me to- just, what, throw a drink in his face?”

“Not throw. Spill. You’re perfect for this.”

Jimmy scowls. “Rude.”

If only a certain superhero wasn’t listening in on your plan.

Ten minutes later, there you both are- you’re perched at your desk, watching like a hawk as Jimmy approaches Clark with a smoothie in one hand and a tremor in the other.

“Hey, Clark! Try this—banana, kale-

Clark turns to greet him with his singature corn-fed, wonder-boy smile, and then-

Splash.

Jimmy gasps like he’s just committed murder.

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry!”

You had to give the kid credit he could put on a good performance.

Smoothie splatters across every inch of Clark’s face and glasses. Perfect time for you to now swoop in and steal them.

And then Clark… chuckles?

“No worries,” he says, already pulling off his glasses with two fingers and reaching for a napkin, not even giving you time to snatch them away. “Happens all the time.”

You stare.

Jimmy stares.

Everyone stares.

Clark just wipes his face, a small knowing smile twitching at the corners of his mouth.

What?

“Thanks for the drink,” he adds lightly, patting Jimmy’s shoulder as he stands up. “You saved me from falling asleep at my desk.”

Then he walks away.

You slowly turn to Jimmy. “Fudge nuggets”

“Did you.. just say fudge nuggets?”

Clark, in the bathroom, quietly taps away at his phone. The faint shimmer of Mr. Terrific’s hypno-contacts glint for just a second before he put his glasses back on.

3 days till crowning

“I give up,” you mutter, slumping forward onto your desk with a dramatic sigh. “The guy’s a no-swearing patience machine.”

Lois pats your shoulder with a sympathetic smile. “Don’t worry. You’ll get him next time, tiger.”

But deep down, you both know the truth.

Clark is going to win.

So when everyone is packing up for the day and slowly shuffling their way out of the office, you turn to him and say it out loud- because what’s there to lose?

“You win, Kent.”

He glances over, eyebrows raised. A small smile pulling at his lips like he knew your admittance was coming. “Took you long enough to come around.”

You walk side by side with Clark, the summer air finally bearable enough to not sweat while on a stroll. The sounds of cars and people hum around you both.

But halfway to the train station, you pause. “Hang on,” you say, eyes locking on Mo’s bakery. “We’re stopping.”

Clark follows your gaze and gives an approving nod. “For Mo’s cupcakes?”

“Mo’s cupcakes.”

Inside, the store is cool and delicious, smelling of cinnamon and blueberry. But your eyes aren’t focused on the rows of decident desserts in front of you. No. They're somewhere else entirely. The cashier working the espresso machine- tall, blonde, and enough forearm on display that you feel like a victorian man seeing an ankle for the first time.

He glances up and smiles when he sees you. You smile back, just a little too long.

Clark notices.

As you joined the short queue, you whisper to him, “The cashier’s so cute, right?”

Clark blinks. “What?”

“You don’t think he’s cute?”

He glances toward the counter, narrowing his eyes like he’s x-raying every inch of him. “I mean… yeah, he’s a good-looking guy, I guess.”

He looks deeply confused and unsettled, like he can’t figure out what’s going on.

“Wait,” he says slowly, “did you come here just for him?”

You scoff while looking flushed, nudging him with your elbow. “No! Don’t make me sound like some kind of fanatic. It’s like Great Earl Grey cupcakes and a hot guy that occasionally brushes hands with me? That’s a nice end to my day.” You sigh dramatically, hand over your heart, and Clark lets out a noise somewhere between a huff and a groan.

“Find us a table, please?” you say sweetly, waving him off like a well-trained puppy.

Clark obeys as always.

He’s like your own personal puppy.

At the counter, the cashier gives you his full attention, smiling with that well-practiced corporate charm. He leans in just slightly, and you tuck a stray piece of hair behind your ear without even thinking.

You order two cupcakes and a couple of drinks, and before Clark can even get up to help or offer to pay, you already swipe your card. Then, just as the cashier hands you your change, he slides you a small folded slip of paper.

You don’t open it until you’re halfway back to Clark.

“Oh my god. He gave me his number!”

Clark looks up, startled. His jaw tightening. He takes a slow sip of his coffee and says deadpan “That’s great. Fantastic. Really, happy for you.”

2 days till crowning

Clark walks in like a cat who didn’t get the cream and wants the world to stop turning because of it.

You, on the other hand are in a good mood, a very good mood.

Texting under your desk with a giddy little half-smile you don’t bother hiding. The guy from the bakery- Dan, had messaged you back almost instantly after you texted last night. Smooth, charming, and just the right amount of funny. You have a dinner date with him tomorrow night.

Maybe you’ve finally found the Jerimiah to your Isabela.

Clark’s chair creaks with every look he gives you throughout the day. His typing is uncharacteristically aggressive, and he glares at his screen like it owes him money.

“What do you think I should wear?” you whisper, leaning over to Cat

She raises her perfectly sculpted eyebrow. “For who?”

You just grin and tilt your phone towards her. She lets out a quiet noise of appreciation.

“What about the black dress you wore last month?” Grabbing at your phone.

“Heels too” she says with a slow nod “Definitely heels.”

You’re so caught up in it all- scheduling a nail appointment in your head, planning the jokes- that you almost forget about your dinner plans tonight with Lois, Jimmy, and Clark.

By the time the three of you are halfway done with dinner, you’re still rambling about tomorrow’s date.

“—he said he knows this place that has a set menu that just does french fries and ribeye steaks. You can get the fries and sauce on tap, isnt that great?” You laugh lightly, not noticing the look Jimmy gives Lois.

She looks at him, gesturing towards you silently.

Clearing her throat, she draws your attention to the man sitting next to you. “Why are you so grumpy, mister?” She asks Clark.

“I’m not,” he says flatly, adjusting his glasses awkwardly.

“You didn’t even smirk when Steve lost out on the Centennial Park story this morning. That man fell into a pond chasing a source, Clark. You always laugh at that kind of thing.”

“I’m just… feeling tired,” he says, not even bothering to look at any of you. “I think I’m gonna head out.”

You blink. “Oh. Okay.”

He leaves without letting any of you speak.

You watch him go, tall frame disappearing onto the street, his shoulders sloped down, strangely defeated. The other two continue on rambling about the Justice Gang's latest blunder.

You feel the smile fade from your face, just a little.

1 day till crowning

Your date day extraveganza is finally here.

Not that Clark’s keeping track.

At all.

The cup in his hand is from a place downstairs that definitelty is a rip-off. $10 for an oat milk hojicha latte? But what can he do, he’s decided to non-offically boycott Mo’s until barista Dan is fired. He hasn’t come up with the exact crime he’s commited but hes a journalist he’ll find out.

Not only is his coffee overpriced but the rest of the office isnt making his life any easier.

Every time you so much as mention your dinner plans, they all look over at Clark with the saddest, most sympathetic glances humanly possible.

Whatever. He doesn’t care…

Actually he really does, time for a plan.

Clark catches you on your way back from the printer, hovering near your desk like he’s waiting for something, but pretending to not be.

He clears his throat as you pass, then gestures vaguely toward the store closet.

“Hey, uh- can I grab you for a sec? I need help finding some A3 paper.”

You stare at him, one brow raised. “You need my help… to find paper.”

“Yeah,” he says quickly, his voice sky high.

You follow him despite his strange behaviour. “Okayyyy, weirdo.”

He stops in front of the supply closet door and glances over his shoulder before opening it and letting you in.

“Is there a reason you’ve cornered me into the supply room or am I great at sniffing out non-traditional paper sizes?” Your comment draws no reaction from him, and you stare at him inquisitively.

He isn’t really sure what to do now.

He takes a step towards you and reaches out to grip the top of your shoulders, his arms are big and warm and you feel the urge to go limp and have him pull you flush against him. Snap out of it.

“Don’t go out with him,” he says quietly, his voice hoarse like the words have been sitting in his throat all day.

You blink. “Clark, what are you—”

“Just…” His grip tightens slightly, not painful, just desperate. “Please promise you won’t.”

You step back a little, frowning. “And why would I not?”

He opens his mouth. Closes it. Stammers. Still holding your arms, still looking at you like you’re slipping out of his grasp and he doesn’t know how to stop it.

And you? You’re frustrated.

Heat is rising in your chest at the ridiculous request and Clarks inability to give you an answer.

“When you figure out why I shouldn’t go out with a hot guy that asked me out and actually likes me, let me know. Until then? Mind your damn business.”

You move out of his grasp and turn to leave and as soon as your hand tocuhes the handle his voice calls out.

“it is my business.”

You expect him to add on a joke, because theres no way in hell he just said that to you.

You turn, “What did you just say to me?”

Clark stans tall now, brows drawn tight, chest heaving slightly. You step towards him, eyes narrowing, chest puffed out.

“And why the hell would it be your business?”

Clark’s eyes are closed, his shoulders up to his ears, hands balled into fists. It almost looks like he's Wile. E. Cyote the way he’s stood so taught.

“BECAUSE I FUCKING LIKE YOU!”

He continues on, eyes still closed pushing the words out like they’re painful “I like you more than I’ve ever liked anyone and Idon’twantanyonetohaveyoubutme?”

You step forward, voice softer. “Clark… hey. Look at me.”

His left eye cracks open.

“I like you too, idiot.”

And just like that, all the tension bleeds out of him. Shoulders dropping, fists unclenching.

He looks stunned, hopeful, a little dumbfounded.

“Shit,” he breathed. “You do?”

You grin. “You think I go out of my way to hand-bind leather journals for just anyone? Please.”

He laughs- a breathless laugh- and then your lips meet his.

His lips are soft, his top lip smaller than the bottom, meaning he has to press deeper into you in order to taste you. Not that you’re complaining. Clarks hands began to fumble about but finally find their place, one on your waist, the other twisting its way to the back of your head. Yours are roaming his chest, shaky while you press against his firm pecks.

You decide that you’d really like to breathe now, and even after you pull away Clarks lips attempt to chase you back to hishis. His eyes are desperate and glazed over. God, he looks wrecked.

Then you leave your starry-eyed lover in the dust and run up to the office scoreboard to draw a crisp two tallies under Clark’s name.

Clark smiles as he watches Ron kneel in front of Perry, the office cheering for the new “Prince of Prig”.

Totally worth it.

I'm so obsessed with Superman. 😜😜😜 I had this cheeky fic locked and loaded last week but thought I'd post rn!!

Also, pls tell me I'm not the only one suddenly majorly interested in switching from law to some kind of journalist role 🙏🏻.

#clark kent x reader #clark kent #clark kent imagine #superman #superman x reader #superman 2025 #lois lane #jimmy olson #perry white #ron troupe #kal el #dc superman #dcu #oneshot #x reader #superman imagine #david!superman #david!clark kent #david corenswet

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intoanothermind · 6 days ago

Text

not our universe ── . ✶ c. kent

summary: you've had a complicated relationship with being a metahuman, but after taking a look into the multiverse—you've never hated having your powers more.

pairings: established!clark kent x gn!reader, clark kent x metahuman!readerノ wc: 7.9k warnings: no use of 'y/n, buckle in bc it's a long one!, fluff in the beginning, then there's angst, reader is a metahuman who can see through the multiverse, reader's nose bleeds a lot, insecure!reader, avoidant!reader, reader is described to be shorter than clark, clark gets frustrated, fluffy/happy ending, the ending is so sappy, and i love it, kinda edited; all mistakes are my own a/n: saw an edit on my feed about all of the iterations of clois and i was like...this is primetime for some angst for the reader LOL :p. also sorry for taking so long to write this i was waiting until i rewatched the movie to finish this but enjoy!! oh and a simple comment or reblog goes a long long way for writers!! clark kent masterlist

IT STARTED OFF SMALL, YOUR POWERS.

You didn't even realize you had powers at first. In your young mind, you thought you were having really vivid dreams at first. Your parents thought you had an overactive imagination when you ran into their room in the morning and blabbed about your dreams with them at the ripe old age of eight.

It was only when they turned on the news that morning that they realized what had happened across the globe was the same scenario you had described in your dream that morning. Your parents were at a loss for what to do with you and your newly developed powers (even if you had no idea that you had them).

After a lengthy discussion between the two of them, they took you to a specialist in metahuman powers (who was a metahuman themselves) to try and figure out what powers you actually possessed.

After weeks of going to several appointments with this specialist, you found out alongside your parents that your powers consisted of a form of astral projection, but would manifest and grow in power over time to the point where you didn't need to sleep anymore to see into different areas of the globe at any time you wanted.

And oh, did your powers grow indeed. By the time you were in high school, you could see alternate dimensions in your sleep. You hadn't quite mastered being able to travel places and dimensions awake. Though that skill wouldn't have developed until you graduated from college.

Your doctor was an essential instrument for you to not only control but also understand your metahuman ability. If it wasn't for them, you would not have found out that you can't actively affect the events you're witnessing or be seen by the average person.

You had yet to find a person to "sense" you while you were in your 'ghostly form' besides your doctor (how else did you know that you had a transparent form when you were using your powers). That was until you had projected into Superman's apartment one night while you were asleep.

It happened purely by accident. You were up thinking about Clark Kent of all people before you fell asleep. He was your really kind and very attractive friend who happened to work at the Daily Planet alongside you. You couldn't help but think about how he had gone out of his way to grab you coffee that morning since you hastily texted him to get him to cover for you as you ran late (granted, if he wasn't late himself).

So, your subconscious decided to transport your astral form into a familiar-looking apartment that you've been to a couple of times when you guys would have your movie nights.

Superman had his red boots kicked off when he turned around abruptly and saw you in the hallway leading to his apartment.

You looked around at the familiar hallway of Clark's apartment when you saw Superman(sans boots) standing in his living room and staring directly at you. You were used to people looking through you—some even walked through you like you didn't even exist.

But Superman didn't look through you, but he looked AT you. You stood there, shocked. What the hell was Superman doing in Clark's apartment, and how the hell could he see you right now?

Clark called out your name breathlessly, and it snapped you out of your stupor. You realized that Superman could see you. You got scared and vanished out of his sight. You immediately shot up out of bed, panting, and you could feel liquid dripping down your face. You groaned, getting out of bed and rushing into your bathroom, turning on the faucet and cleaning your now bleeding nose.

You hadn't gotten one in years since your freshman year of college. As you cleaned your face, your mind was racing.

I mean, I knew Clark knew Superman, but I didn't think they knew each other on an intimate level. However, now, how Clark got all of those interviews makes sense.

You cleaned your face of the blood and exited your ensuite bathroom when there was rapid knocking at your door. Your heartbeat caught in your throat as you walked towards your doorway. You looked into the peephole and saw a disheveled Clark.

You opened your door hesitantly and confused. "Clark? Are you okay?" You asked as you took in his rumpled white t-shirt and joggers. Your brows were furrowed. How did he get to your apartment so fast?

"M'fine. How did you get into my apartment?" Clark asked, ducking into your apartment. Suppose he was going to air out his secret identity to you. In that case, he'd prefer the privacy of your apartment to having the discussion in the hallway.

"What? Clark, I wasn't in your apartment." You closed your door and said as you followed him into your living room, turning on the lamp on the end table near your couch. You were still a little drowsy, so Clark got into your place without much protest from you.

Clark looked unimpressed by your confusion. "I saw you in the doorway and then I blinked and you were gone. How did you do that?"

In your sleep-addled brain, you barely registered his words. "What are you talking about? Superman was the one who saw me, and he was in—" You cut yourself off. The realization hit you like a lightning strike.

You were fully awake now as you looked at Clark in shock. "You're Superman." He wasn't wearing his glasses, and the similarities between Clark and Superman were uncanny.

Clark swallowed thickly. "Yeah." He admitted after letting out a breath. "So, can you answer my question? Since you kinda just appeared in my apartment and then disappeared."

You couldn't help but let out a delirious giggle, confusing Clark slightly, but the corner of his lips couldn't help but twitch up at the sound of it. You really didn't think your night was going to turn out like this, hence the random giggle (or was it the sleep deprivation? You couldn't tell anymore).

You shook your head. "It's a long story." You sighed, walking over to your couch and throwing yourself into the well-worn cushions, gesturing for Clark to sit down.

"I've got time." Clark said softly as he sat down on the cushion next to where you were sitting.

So, you told him everything. You told him about your metahuman abilities and the process you went through in order to get a handle on your powers. Clark listened intently, his eyes never once straying away from your form.

"Any questions?" You asked after letting out a breath and sinking back into your couch as you finally looked at Clark, meeting his intense gaze.

"Do you usually 'project'," Clark mimed air quotes, making you smile, "into your friend's apartment?"

"No, I've got a good handle on my powers eighty five percent of the time."

"So, the other fifteen percent is room for error?"

You laughed softly. "Yeah. I guess tonight was just one of those nights."

Clark nodded. "I see. Can I ask another question?"

"Are you going all journalist on me now? I think you forgot your notepad and recorder Mr. Kent." You teased Clark.

"I don't think an interview with you will make the front page." Clark played along and shot you a smug grin.

You scoffed. "Right, because your favorite person to interview is yourself ironically enough." You shot back, a sarcastic smile on your face.

Clark was fighting the smile that was trying to grow on his face. "Shut up." But his words had no real bite to them.

"Oh please, you love hearing the sound of my voice."

You'd be right. He thought, but Clark bit back his real response. "Why tonight? You mentioned that you don't usually project at night right before you sleep." He asked his question instead of continuing the banter that was usually thrown around between the two of you.

That was the thing with your powers. Once you had gotten them under control, you never wanted to use them.

You were warned that the older you got with having your powers, the more dangerous the places you find yourself in, both asleep and while you use your powers on purpose. Yeah, your physical body would be fine—but you didn't want to sacrifice your mental health to satiate your curiosity for other parts of the world or alternate dimensions.

You bit your bottom lip. Clark's eyes flickered to how your teeth were pillowed by the fullness of your lips. You sighed, making Clark's gaze meet your own.

"Sometimes, when I don't use my powers for a long time, I project without meaning to—it doesn't happen often. But when it does, it means I have a lot on my mind." Yeah, you had a whole lot of Clark Kent on the mind. You tried looking away from Clark, but his eyes always seemed to pin you in place.

Clark could hear the rapid beat of your heart, almost mirroring his own, and it filled his chest with hope as his lips stretched into a tender smile. He shifted on the couch and closer to you. Warmth radiated off of him—even through the material of his sweatpants as his thighs brushed against yours.

"Can I admit something? Since we're airing secrets out and all." Clark's voice was gentle as he looked down at you with soft eyes, filled with affection.

You nodded. "But if you tell me that you're Superman, well, I know now."

Clark chuckled at your playful words, and a surge of confidence went through him, channeling a little bit of Superman into his actions. One of his hands found your own. "I am Superman. And it makes this easier for me to say, but I like you. A lot." He tacked on at the end as he stared at your face, trying to read your expression. Clark felt his ears turn red, and a warm blush climbed down his neck.

"Really?" You asked in disbelief.

Clark looked away for a brief moment. "Yes."

A giddy feeling started to course through your body as you squeezed his hand. "You're in luck. I like you a lot too."

Clark looked back at you, his lips split into a blinding grin, his dimples appearing, and you couldn't help but mirror his smile. You were practically turning into putty at the sight of his adoring grin.

Clark leaned in, and the sharp sting of ozone and the fading scent of his cologne emanated from him and filled your senses. The close proximity of Clark and his scent was almost dizzying—you barely knew your left from your right at this point, but you knew you wanted him closer.

Clark used his free hand to gently cup your cheek, his eyes darting between your lips and your eyes. "You're so pretty." He muttered almost absentmindedly, like being this close to you, disengaged his filter, and was unable to resist telling you now that he was this close to you.

And you were. The warm glow from the lamp behind you gave the illusion that there was a halo behind you. Your cheeks immediately flooded with heat at the sudden praise—you were torn between ducking away from Clark's adoring gaze and leaning into his palm. You did the latter, Clark's hand was warm, and you couldn't help but let it lead you closer to his face.

"You're not so bad yourself." You murmured softly as the warm light washed over Clark's face, making his blue eyes even more intense as he stared down at you.

Clark's nose scrunched at your words. "And here I thought you liked me."

You chuckled, rolling your eyes in amusement. "I'm sorry, but have you seen Superman? He's gorgeous. A real God amongst men." You quipped playfully.

Clark shook his head at you, clearly exasperated, but the smile on his lips said otherwise. "You're ridiculous, I thought you didn't like Superman?"

"Opinions can change." You shrugged. "But considering that I know you and him are one in the same, he doesn't seem all that bad anymore."

"Oh, so he's not a reckless hero with no spatial awareness when it comes to the destruction of the city?" Clark raised an eyebrow at you, amusement coloring his tone as he quoted a line from the one article you did write on Superman.

"Well, if the shoe fits…" You trailed off, pursing your lips in mock thought.

Clark scoffed. He thought for a second about how to retaliate verbally before a mischievous smirk grew on his lips. You barely caught it before you erupted into shocked giggles.

"Take it back!" Clark laughed alongside you as he poked at your ribs and tickled your sides. You fell backward on your couch, trying to get away from his hands, but it was fruitless against the man of steel.

"N-Never!" You exclaimed through your laughter, trying to curl in on yourself, but Clark wasn't having it. He managed to straddle you and doubled down on his actions.

The room was being bathed in yours and Clark's laughter alongside the soft glow of the lamp and moonlight filtering through your curtains. The sounds of joy and love swirled around the two of you as you slowly forgot the exact circumstances that led the two of you together.

"UNCLE! Uncle, uncle!" You gasped out desperately. Joyful tears wet your cheeks as your stomach began to cramp from the laughter.

Clark stopped tickling you and let his hands rest on your waist. You looked up at him. He was slotted in between your open legs, hovering over you with a lingering smile playing on his pink lips. Clark's head was slowly ducking down, getting closer to yours.

"You know," You started to murmur, eyes flipping between his lips and blue eyes, "Superman is great and all, but I like Clark a hell of a lot more."

"That's good to know." He replied in a soft tone. Clark's forehead landed against yours, a sliver of space between the two of you.

Clark let out a stuttering sigh. "Can I kiss you?"

Instead of answering, you tilted your head up and pressed your lips against his. It felt like the world went quiet as soon as your lips connected with Clark's. A surge of warmth shot through your body as you sank into the cushions, as Clark's body blanketed yours. Your hands made their way into his dark curls as your lips moved against each other.

You felt like you could stay in the bubble you and Clark had made for eternity. Trading soft kisses and caresses until you physically couldn't anymore. Every unspoken feeling and desire was poured into each kiss the two of you pressed against each other's lips, keeping them soft and tender until Clark pulled away—his hand caressing your cheek as he looked down at you adoringly. Affection was written all over his face as he smiled softly at you.

"Be mine?" You asked quietly, looking into his slightly blown-out gaze.

"You have me. You've had me for a long time." He admitted, reverence in his tone as his thumb moved against the apple of your cheek.

Everything shifted into place after that night. Clark was the most thoughtful and attentive boyfriend you ever had. If you had trouble thinking about him all the time before, the problem (not that you consider it one) got a whole lot worse when you guys started dating. If you had a dime for every time you thought about it, you'd be rivaling Lex Luthor in terms of money.

Clark was just so endearing. He'd text you randomly throughout your day, even though he was no more than fifteen away from your desk at work. He'd send silly pictures that reminded Clark of you or what he thought you would like. You don't even know how many conversations you've screenshotted. But there were a lot more pictures of him in your camera roll than the screenshots.

Sometimes, Clark would show up at your door with flowers because they reminded him of you before your movie nights. Or he would grab takeout for the both of you when you're working late on your article at home and has to practically feed you as you type furiously away at your laptop. And without fail, he texted you before and after he'd go on his Superman duties and more often than not, found refuge in your apartment after a battle.

Things were going great for a few months, until your powers acted up while you were asleep again.

You could hear the faint rush of traffic from a street enter your ears before your eyes opened. You were standing outside, on a terrace of sorts. You looked around and saw the city. The buildings looked familiar to you, but you couldn't quite place where you recognized them from.

The doors to the terrace opened, making you turn around. You saw a woman in a white dress with a sheer blue overlay draped over it holding a pencil and notepad, going to sit down at the table positioned right in front of the open doors.

The woman was a little nervous, as you could see in her expression as she poured herself a glass of wine. But as she was taking a sip of the wine, you felt him before you saw him.

"Good evening, Miss Lane." You turned around the same time she did.

It was Superman. You were shocked to see a more vibrant and more form-fitting version of his suit.

You could barely wrap your head around this entire dream? But you knew deep down this wasn't one of your regular dreams. It was your power at work. And right now, you're seeing a version of Lois and Superman—you mean Clark interacting right now.

This version of Clark didn't seem to notice you at all, staring directly at the version of Lois that was sitting down right next to you. She got up from her seat, clearly a little flustered and surprised that he dropped in so suddenly.

Lois, in her very familiar Lois Lane fashion, started to interview Superman, and you could tell that there was tension between them. They were both flirting with each other as they flew through the questions, making something inside of your chest twist. It didn't make any sense to you. Why were you seeing this now?

You stopped listening to their banter and questions as you started to spiral into your thoughts, only being broken out of your stupor when Clark grabbed the notepad and pencil out of her hands and led her to the more open spot of the terrace. Your vision blurred as they shot off to the sky—a flash of white blinding you.

You shot up from the bed with a start, falling off the bed in your shock. Clark woke up from your sharp, but loud gasp as you fell.

He got up from the bed and quickly made it to your side, flicking on the lamp to see your wide eyes. They were filled with confusion as they darted around the room. It was like seeing a cornered dog trying to find its way out of the situation they were in.

Clark fell to his knees beside you, using a gentle hand to turn your face towards him. His gaze dropped to the nosebleed you were having.

"Sweetheart, look at me." Clark softly commanded.

Clark's voice filtered through your ears, making your shoulders relax as your eyes finally met his. Your breathing was still labored as your mind tried to process the images you saw, feeling the brewing headache beginning to form.

"Can you take some deep breaths for me?" Clark's voice was a soothing balm, and you nodded in response.

You took deep breaths, exhaling shakily until your breathing became even. Clark's warm hands were on your face—grounding you even further until you calmed down.

Clark's eyes were zeroed in on the drying blood on your face. Wordlessly, he picked you up from the floor and went into your ensuite bathroom. Sitting you on the counter, he picked up a spare washcloth, wet it with some warm water, and started to wipe off the blood from your nose.

"Do you want to talk about it?" He murmured quietly, breaking the silence that had settled in the bathroom.

You sighed. "I think I projected." You said, inadvertently answering his question.

"You think?" Clark asked carefully. He finished cleaning your face and went to rinse the blood from the towel.

"It was different this time. I thought it was a dream at first, but everything looked familiar but it wasn't the same. Not like here." You swallowed thickly. "I think I saw a different version of you." You admitted quietly.

The neutral expression on Clark’s face fell. "How?" His forehead creased with confusion.

You shook your head. "I don't know. He had a similar suit to yours, but he looked different. Like completely different from you."

Clark dropped the towel in the sink, grabbing your hands with his own as he saw yours start to shake. "Hey, we don't have to figure it out right now." He consoled as one of his hands cupped your cheek. "Let's go back to sleep," Clark suggested, tugging you off the counter.

You followed him with no complaints. Your hazy mind would have gone more insane if you had thought about it for a second longer. Once you and Clark settled back into your bed and in his arms, you spoke up.

"I'll have to call Dr. Parker in the morning." You whispered into his chest.

Clark kissed your forehead. "Sounds like a plan." He muttered into your skin before kissing your hairline—wrapping his arms around you a little tighter.

You decided to take the day off and recover while you tried to wrap your head around what you saw last night.

Clark went back to his apartment to get ready for work, but not before leaving you with a sweet kiss on the lips and a promise to give him an update after you call your specialist.

You called Dr. Parker, and after exchanging some pleasantries, you explained what you saw the night before to them, in extreme detail (besides revealing the fact that Clark was Superman, for obvious reasons).

They sighed into the receiver. "I was afraid this day would come." Their tone was grim.

Your eyebrows furrowed. "What do you mean? Do you know what's happening to me?"

Dr. Parker sighed. "After discovering that you could see into alternate dimensions, I figured that one day your ability would grow powerful enough to see into alternate realities."

"H-how is that possible? I try not to use my powers at all when I can." You couldn't believe what you were hearing.

Dr. Parker said your name in a soothing tone. "I've been tracking and studying your ability since we've met, and this was going to happen regardless if you used them or not."

You felt like the rug was pulled from beneath your feet. You sat down on your couch. "What do you mean exactly when you say 'alternate realities'?"

"I don't think that is some-"

"Dr. Parker. I need to know." You pleaded as you cut them off, gripping the edge of the cushion you were sitting on and trying to ground yourself in the moment.

They were silent for a moment. "To put it simply, you can see into the multiverse."

You've vaguely heard about this theory before when interviewing scientists from Star Labs for an article you were writing on the expansion of Star Labs to Metropolis.

"I thought the multiverse was a theory." You breathed out in disbelief.

"I don't think we can discount the impossible here. You know the world that we live in." Dr. Parker said knowingly.

If aliens and metahumans can exist naturally, who's to say scientific theories aren't actually true?

You shook your head, blowing out a harsh breath through your mouth. You leaned back into your cushions. "Okay then, why didn't Superman sense me when I was on the terrace with him and that version of Lois? I mean, he should have, right?"

Dr. Parker hummed in thought. "The only idea that I have is that the distances between the universe you saw and our own is far enough to where any metahuman's enhanced senses couldn't detect you."

"Is there any way to prove that idea right?" You asked jokingly, but it sounded flat in your ears.

"Not right now. It would take multiple years to just try and prove the theory outside of your powers."

You sighed. "I figured. But thank you again Dr. Parker."

"It's no problem, my dear. Please remember to call me if anything else like this happens. Preferably right after they do."

You chuckled. "I'll try."

The two of you exchanged goodbyes before you hung up. You stared at your phone blankly. You're only hoping that you don't project to any more universes right now or in the near future.

Well, you were completely and utterly wrong. You thought that your projections into different universes would be different each time. You thought you would see various aspects or perspectives of what other universes would look like. While you did, you saw the same dynamic each and every time.

It was always about Clark and Lois.

If you thought the first time you saw them together was just a fluke. You'd be sorely incorrect.

When you first came to the Daily Planet, you weren't blind. You saw the banter between Clark and Lois they had as they parried back and forth on article ideas or random topics you guys would talk about on your lunch break. You would try to ignore the sharp sting to your heart each time you saw them interact.

You weren't even that mad at seeing them together—they meshed well together despite how different they were. You are admittedly envious of Lois Lane. You were a big fan of her work before you came to work at the Daily Planet, and once you got to know her, you could see anyone falling to their knees for her.

Lois was unabashed and unashamed about her pursuit of the truth, was incredibly smart, and quick with her wit. Yeah, she was a bit abrasive, but Lois had a confidence that you couldn't fake—it came naturally like breathing for her.

Lois Lane seemed like everything you weren't and what you wanted to be.

You tried to squash the growing crush you had on Clark. Hell, you even thought they were dating at one point and just keeping it a secret from the office until you went out with them one night, and Lois had brought the girl she was seeing to the bar you guys were at.

Each time you closed your eyes, you saw a different version of Clark/Superman and Lois, and the seed of insecurity only flourished when you woke up. It gnawed at you endlessly.

It was borderline cruel. Having to witness each iteration of Clark and Lois being together. Like they were destined for each other in each universe, and they were taunting you. You had wished that you had learned how to wake up in the middle of your projections, but once you were there, it was practically impossible to snap out of it.

With each projection into a different universe where Lois and Clark were together, you started to retreat into yourself and slowly extracted yourself from Clark.

It started off small.

You'd reply to Clark's text messages that he sent hours after he sent them, being dry as you texted him, not stopping by his desk during your downtime at work, and giving him smiles that he could see through—but you knew that Clark would be too kind to say anything about it.

You'd make up flimsy excuses to avoid spending time with him when he asked to come over or have date nights together. He let them slide, but you could tell he was worried about you and your attempts to blow him off.

It got to the point where you stopped talking to him altogether, practically ghosting him in your texts and avoiding him at work. The only time you spoke to him was short and clipped one-word responses when Jimmy and Lois would pull you into discussions before getting back to work.

Was acting this way rational at all? Absolutely not, but how else were you supposed to react when you were forced to see your boyfriend be with someone else in multiple different universes? And at the same time, you seemed to cease to exist in all of them.

Clark was rightfully frustrated and confused. He thought you guys were doing well and going steadily. He didn't like the 180 you did in attitude towards him when you seemed to act normal around everyone else.

He tried to be patient with you, but you were icing him out of his life, and he wanted to know why.

So, he pulled you into a storage closet at work one day when you were coming back from the bathroom.

Clark quickly flipped on the light. "Why are you avoiding me?" He wasted no time and started to question you.

You blinked up at him, a little confused and dazed from being abruptly pulled into a dusty storage closet. "Huh?"

Clark, the usually patient guy you knew, looked anything but. "Please," He sighed out your name. "You're avoiding me. Was it something I did?" He asked quietly, almost folding in on himself, insecurity written in his icy blue irises.

Your heart twisted as a lump grew in your throat. You never meant to make Clark feel this way. "No! No, not at all." You shook your head, trying to swallow down the persistent feeling in your throat.

Clark looked down at you, waiting for you to continue. You met his gaze, and your breath caught in your throat as you realized how close you were to him. You hadn't been close to him in some time, and all you wanted was to lean into his warmth and cocoon yourself in it. Then the flashes of the other Clarks and Loises flashed into your brain, reminding you of why you were avoiding him in the first place.

"I've just been focused on work." You said, looking away from him.

Clark said your name in a low tone, like a warning. "Please, don't lie to me." He sounded tired as he took off his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose.

You looked at Clark, really looked at him. He seemed visibly defeated—his shoulders were sagging like he had stayed up all night and was dragging his feet in his exhausted stupor. His clothes were more rumpled and wrinkled than usual.

"I'm not." You were. "This article has been kicking my ass and the deadline is too close for me to think about anything else."

"You could have asked for my help. You still can." Clark was practically pleading to try to spend time with you in any place he could.

You shook your head. "I don't need it. I gotta go back to work, Clark, and so should you." You shut down the conversation and, faster than he could anticipate, you left the storage closet.

Clark cursed under his breath and put his glasses back on. He rubbed at his forehead as he exited the closet. The one thing that bothered Clark the most was leaving important conversations unfinished.

He made his way back to his desk dejectedly and in a bad mood. Clark shot a glance your way to see you actively trying not to look over at him, typing aggressively at your desktop.

You were staring hard at the Word document as you typed away at it. Your eyes were getting dry, and you realized you hadn't blinked in over five minutes, so you did.

You opened your eyes, and suddenly, you were standing near your desk instead of sitting down. The time of day was no longer mid-afternoon, but it was morning. You looked around and noticed that everything was the same. So why the hell was it morning? Then you looked at your desk, which was adjacent to Lois's.

Why the hell was it empty?

You were completely oblivious to the conversation happening between your coworkers until Lois stood up and switched the channel on the surrounding TVs on the pillars.

"Yeah, Superman did say that he thought that the hammer might be faking a Boravian accent." Clark said as he stared at the screen, leaning back in his chair.

"Superman said that?" Lois asked skeptically.

"Yeah, I interviewed him right afterwards. Great guy." He said with a slight shrug of his shoulders, his eyes never once straying from the screen.

"You know, it's funny you keep getting all these interviews with Superman, Clark," Lois said, almost knowingly, but played it off as a question.

"Huh, I don't think there's anything funny about good journalism Lois." Clark threw back at her, brushing off her question.

"Uh huh." Lois stared at Clark for a brief moment before going back to her desk.

You squinted at the interaction. The question of how Clark always managed to get an interview with Superman was a recurring conversation between Lois and Clark. But now there was an undercurrent of tension you picked up on. Before you could dwell on it even further, your vision blurred. The scene had changed, and you were suddenly following Lois back to her apartment. This hadn't happened before. Ever.

It felt like something was tethered between you and Lois as your feet mindlessly followed her into her apartment. There was a clatter coming from her kitchen, making Lois alarmed. Lois reached through you and grabbed the bat situated near the door and inched closer to the kitchen. She relaxed when she saw who was in the kitchen. You looked over her shoulder and saw Clark. Your Clark.

"What are you doing here?" Lois asked as she dropped the bat, but still had it in her grip.

"3 months ago, we had our first date. And so to celebrate, I am making you your favorite. Breakfast for dinner." Clark said, moving around Lois's kitchen as if it were his own.

"That's your favorite." Lois set the bat right next to the fridge.

"You love breakfast."

"Yeah, for breakfast. You love it for dinner." Lois said as she approached Clark.

He turned off the burner and faced Lois. Without any hesitation, Clark grabbed her by the waist, and Lois pulled into a passionate kiss. You crumpled to the ground, falling to your knees—your eyes never leaving the intertwined pair in front of you.

You could faintly hear someone calling your name, and you could feel a phantom hand on your shoulder, shaking it. Your eyes rolled to the back of your head, and with a flash of white, your eyes shot open.

You were met with the ceiling of the Daily Planet, and you felt the cold temperature of linoleum seeping through your clothes. Clark's and Lois's worried faces hovered above you, making you blink hard at the sight of them, looking identical to the ones you saw kissing in an alternate universe that seemed to be exactly like the one you were in now.

Their words were muffled in your ears, like you were underwater. They helped you up from the floor, but you immediately ripped your arms out of their grip, confusion flashing through their concerned expressions.

You could feel the eyes of everyone in the bullpen as you tried to rein back in any dignity you had left in your body. A handkerchief entered your eyeline. You grabbed it, knowing that it was for the wetness you were feeling under your nose and down your chin, seeing that your own boss had given it to you, with an uncharacteristic soft look in his eyes.

"You alright there kid?" Perry asked.

You couldn't meet anyone's eyes as you wiped your face free of blood, staining the patterned fabric with it. "Yeah." You rasped out. "I just overworked myself, I guess."

"Take the rest of the day off, and matter of fact, the rest of the week." Perry said, but you heard the worry underneath his stern tone.

You nodded in response—it was only Wednesday. You could handle missing two days of work.

"Get back to work!" Perry's voice boomed through the bullpen, making the crowd that surrounded you disperse, and the chatter around the office started back up again.

You couldn't bear to look at either Clark or Lois as you left the Daily Planet, despite Clark's attempt to try to talk to you—but Perry yelled at him to work. You used the opening to leave the office as swiftly as you could.

Later that night, you were lying in bed, just having gotten off a call with Dr. Parker. It made you feel marginally better, having an impromptu therapy session with a medical professional who was definitely not qualified for therapy—but it was good to get the images that were burned into your memory out of them.

You heard a knock at your door, but you made no move to open it. You knew exactly who was at it. You immediately slowed down your breathing, and hopefully, your heart rate would follow in its footsteps, trying to mimic the fact that you were asleep.

Clark called out your name softly, but you still heard him through the thin walls of your cheap one-bedroom apartment. "I don't know what you saw, and you probably don't want to see me right now, but I made some soup for you. I'll just leave it outside your door." Clark paused before he continued.

"Just don't push me out anymore, please. You really scared me today sweetheart and I just want to know that you're okay." You heard Clark linger at the door until his footsteps could no longer be heard from your spot on your bed.

You stayed still as you could as you took in his words. The lump in your throat was massive, and tears gathered in your eyes as his earnest and honest words hit you harder than you expected. You missed Clark. You missed him a lot. But seeing what you saw today solidified the fact that you and Clark weren't meant to be together.

In any universe.

Tears fell from your eyes at the thought. Clark and Lois are meant to be together—it has been proven to you time and time again. Fuck, you hated your powers. It effectively ruined the one good thing you had going for you, and now you had to tear it down for the universe to right itself.

Your weekend was spent wallowing in bed and trying to build up the courage to text Clark to come over to talk—and to break up with him, as much as you didn't want to. You were making a plan to transfer (escape) to Central City because you couldn't bear the thought of being in such close proximity to the love of your life when you weren't his.

Can we talk? You sent the text to him on Sunday morning.

Yeah, what time do you want me to come over? He responded instantly.

Give me twenty minutes. You texted back, knowing Clark could be at your apartment within the blink of an eye, and you needed to get cleaned up and mentally prepare for the irreparable damage you were about to cause.

You took the quickest shower ever, opting out of washing your hair and getting dressed in a new set of pajamas to wallow in after the conversation that was about to take place. Twenty minutes later, on the dot, you heard a knock on your door.

You took a deep breath before answering it. Clark stood in front of you, an awkward smile on his face as he rocked back and forth on his heels with his hands shoved into the front pockets of his jeans.

"Hi." Clark greeted you with a kind smile. Oh, that smile is going to make you crumble and chicken out on your plan.

"Hey Clark, come in." You gestured for him to come in.

You closed the door and followed behind him into your living room.

"How are you?" Clark asked you, albeit it came out a bit awkward as he fiddled with his glasses.

"I've been doing fine. Haven't projected at all since Wednesday." You told him.

He nodded, his eyes brightening at the news before they dimmed. Clark cleared his throat. "What was it about?"

"What?" You were slightly taken aback by the blunt question.

"What you saw while you projected. What did you see?"

"I-why do you want to know?" You weren't at all comfortable telling him what you saw.

"Because I know it had something to do with me and Lois."

You cursed yourself out in your mind. Clark was perceptive when he wanted to be, and it was obvious that he noticed your reaction to both him and Lois earlier that week. You stayed silent, avoiding his eyes.

Clark pressed his lips together, trying to quell the growing frustration. "Sweetheart, please, I just want you to talk to me."

"I am."

"You know that isn't what I meant. You've been so far away from me for a while now. I gave you your space, but a man can only take so much before he starts to feel unwanted." Clark stepped forward and tried to catch your gaze. "Please honey, talk to me."

You let him pull your hands into his. You closed your eyes for a moment, relishing in his familiar touch since you've deprived yourself of it for so long.

"I learned that I can see into the multiverse." You admitted. You had a written script in your mind, and now you were going off of it. Damn it, curse Clark and his addictive touch.

Clark furrowed his brows. "Multiverse?"

"I can see into alternate realities. Some look similar to ours, or completely different. And for the past month and half, I've seen god knows how many, but my powers have shown me the same thing every time." You looked down at your conjoined hands.

"What did they show you?" Clark asked quietly.

You gathered the courage to look him in the eye. "You. and Lois. Together."

Clark's eyes went wide with surprise. You let his hands fall from yours as you wrapped your arms around yourself.

You let out a bitter chuckle at the lack of response he gave you.

"Yeah, I couldn't believe it either. But in each universe I saw, you and Lois were perfect together, the power couple of the century. You know what I saw on Wednesday? The universe I projected to was nearly identical to ours. I mean, that Clark looked exactly like you and everyone else here. But the only difference was that you two were together and I didn't exist at all." You spared him the details of what you saw, because you weren't keen on reliving it at all.

Clark was speechless, but he managed to find his words. "Why didn't you tell me that this was happening?" He said, a hurt expression on his face.

"Because I didn't want to bother you. I thought after the first one that it was a one-time thing." You shrugged off his concern.

"You could never be a bother." He promised, bringing his hands to cup your cheeks, getting you to look at him. "You should have told me."

"And what would you have done about them, Clark? If I can't stop this from happening, what makes you think you could have?" You lashed out, ripping his hands from your face.

"Do you know how it feels to have the power to see through realities, to only be taunted by the fact that the man you love is meant to be with someone else? That there's proof that you don't exist in every universe, and you can't do anything about it. T-that you aren't good enough for your boyfriend because you've seen the evidence that he and Lois are destined for each other?!" You ranted, tears falling from your eyes as you expelled the frustration that had been brewing since you've been seeing different universes.

"I don't care about the other universes!" Clark exclaimed, cutting you off before you could continue.

You looked at him stunned. You've never heard him raise his voice in the two years that you've known him.

Clark stepped forward again and took your face in his hands once more, wiping away the wetness on your cheeks. "I don't care about the universes, because you're not in them." He repeated again softly.

"I'm eternally grateful that you're in this one. I will always want you in this one. Not Lois. She doesn't know how I like my coffee in the morning, or how I always manage to lose my wallet, or how I'm addicted to having sweet sugary cereal in the morning, or how I get really cranky when I don't get enough sleep."

"She isn't the one I call sweetheart, honey, or any other ridiculous nickname I come up with. She isn't my personal ray of sunshine. Lois isn't the one that I trust with my whole being or who knows my greatest secret. That's reserved for the one that owns my heart. I don't care what you saw, because it isn't true. You and I are destined for each other in this universe."

Clark's gaze was steady as he spoke, and his words were filled with sincerity and laced with love and passion, striking you hard in the heart and rattling around in your ribcage.

"I hate how good you are with your words, Clark Kent." You said wetly, overwhelmed by the sheer amount of love that you felt swell in your heart, but there was a smile on your face as you leaned into his chest, wrapping your arms around his neck.

Clark's chest vibrated with his chuckle, letting you sink into his figure as he pressed a kiss to your hairline, adjusting his grip, and wrapping his arms around your waist. The afternoon sun filtered through your curtains as the two of you stood wrapped around each other, the cracks in your relationship mending with each stream of sunlight that illuminated the two of you.

You eventually pulled back, but stayed in his arms. One of Clark's hands left your waist and caressed your cheek.

"I'll spend the rest of my days showing you that it's always going to be you. No matter what. I'll love you until the sun burns out." Clark promised, looking deep into your eyes.

You couldn't help the loving smile that stretched on your face. "That sounds like an awfully long time. You sure you can put up with me for that long?"

"Yeah, and even then some." Clark said with a smile on his face, his dimples making an appearance before he leaned down and pulled you into a kiss that sent a warmth from the top of your head to the tips of your toes. You couldn't help but smile into the kiss as you poured all the promises you'd make to each other for the future.

Forever sounded nice when it was with Clark.

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intoanothermind · 6 days ago

Text

the other man (clark kent x fem!reader) -- one shot

I saw Superman twice in one week so it is absolutely no surprise that I had to write a lil silly goofy one shot!! (I don't want to promise anything but I might write more for him aka some smut bc THE VOICES!!!!)

Warnings: angst, being stood up, this fic made me giggle a lot, fluffy + happy end!

Summary: You think Clark is seeing someone else. That someone? Superman.

WC: 4.7k!

You watch, miserably, as the clock ticks past the time Clark said he’d be here to pick you up for dinner. He’s always late for work, so, you think, five minutes past is fine. Until it’s ten. Until it’s twenty. Until it’s forty-five. Until you’re taking your shoes off, changing into sweatpants, and taking off your makeup.

It shouldn’t surprise you, it really shouldn’t. Though this was supposed to be your first date, it isn’t the first time Clark has mysteriously canceled plans, or promised to meet you somewhere and not shown, sending a text instead to say he can’t make it.

Like clockwork, you hear your phone buzz. You don’t even grace it with a glance. You know it’s Clark, apologizing for needing to cancel. It’s fine.

It probably wasn’t even meant to be a date, it just seemed like it might be. It was the first time the plans included him picking you up rather than the two of you meeting somewhere. It was the first time a reservation had been made at this tiny little restaurant the two of you always passed together and always said, “We should go in there.” It was the first time he had said, though you thought it was kind of a joke, or at least not totally serious because it is a phrase people use without meaning it literally, “It’s a date.”

You grab your tub of ice cream from the freezer and a spoon, not even bothering with a bowl. You step out onto your fire escape and plop down, stabbing the ice cream with your spoon.

On the next escape over, your neighbor’s orange cat licks his paws, ears perking when he hears you.

“I sure know how to pick ‘em, eh, Lou?” you scoff, licking the ice cream off your spoon. “Why can’t I just sleep all day like you?”

Lou trills and lays his head down with a big sigh. All you can think is me too, buddy. Me too.

You eventually drag yourself inside after eating half the tub, figuring you shouldn’t eat all of it tonight. Clark will be at work tomorrow and you’ll have to face him -- and his apologies, that are, frankly, starting to get old -- so you’ll probably want that other half tomorrow night.

Before you crawl into bed, you finally give your phone a look, seeing it’s just as you expected. Clark is apologizing. Apparently Superman was fighting something and wrecked Clark’s route to get to your place. Rain check? He asked. And then, just a few minutes ago, Please?

You read them but you don’t reply. You don’t have it in you.

It’s always Superman.

That’s his excuse. It’s always Superman did this or Superman did that, and you honestly think you’ve reached your limit for Superman-related excuses. You mean, sure, the guy has saved the city countless times, and he makes sure there is minimal damage both to civilians and to the city, but why is Clark always bringing him up? He’s always interviewing him, too, and you have no idea how, because as far as you’re concerned, Superman just shows up when the day needs saving.

Not that you’re complaining, because you’re not. You’d much rather the day be saved than some monster from another planet destroy everything you’ve ever loved. You just.

You’re not jealous of a superhero. You are not.

And yet, the more you try to tell yourself that, the more it seems like you’re not convinced at all.

You bury your face into the pillow with a groan. You can’t compete with Superman. You’re you. No wonder Clark is always making excuses to cancel on plans with you. If the options were you and Superman, you’d pick him, too.

God, how did you not see it before? You never thought Clark was interested in men, but clearly he is -- which is fine, you have no problem with it, you just wish he had said it to your face instead of these vague messages and signals.

Or maybe they haven’t been that vague, you’ve just been too blind to see it. Maybe the excuses were his way of trying to politely and gently tell you he wasn’t interested, and you just weren’t getting it. That doesn’t seem like something Clark would do, because he does seem the type to tell you to your face in a direct, but not unkind, way. But still. Maybe he’s been trying to let you down easy this whole time, and you’ve been a fool, believing his excuses, and thinking nothing of them.

You can be so ridiculous sometimes.

+++

You barely sleep. Between crying and being frustrated with yourself for it and tossing and turning every five seconds, you think you manage a measly four hours of actual sleep. You know you look a complete state, but after half an hour of trying to mask it with makeup, you give up.

You stop for coffee on your way in, grabbing one for Lois too, because the coffee at The Daily Planet is…well, it’s really not coffee at all. You feel like you’re insulting all coffee by calling it that. You can hardly stomach it even with all the sugar Lois pours in it.

“Rough night?” the doorman asks when he sees you still have your sunglasses on.

You flash a tight smile, knowing he means well. “Yeah, you could say that.”

He winces. “I’m sorry, kid.”

“It’s alright,” you wave him off, handing him a doughnut. You had meant to eat it, but truthfully, you’re already feeling nauseous. “Here.”

He accepts it with a smile. You head into the newsroom, spotting Jimmy hunched over his desk and Lois looking up at you with a smile that quickly morphs into an alarmed expression.

You, like a fool, had told her about your “date” with Clark. And you, like an idiot, had forgotten until this exact moment that you had told her.

God, you should’ve called in sick.

“Hey,” she says gently, joining you at your desk. “How’d it go last night?”

You let out a weak laugh. “It didn’t, so.”

Her eyes widen. “What happened?”

You hand off her coffee to her with a shrug. “He canceled. Said something about Superman fighting something, I don’t know, I--” You shake your head, bringing your coffee to your lips. “I didn’t answer his texts.”

“He didn’t even call?”

You shake your head again, finally working your sunglasses off the bridge of your nose. “Be honest, how red do my eyes look?”

Lois tilts her head with a sad smile. “Noticeable.”

You snort. “Thanks, Lois.” You expected nothing less from her. “Do me a favor, when he comes in-- if he comes in, tell him I lost my voice or something?”

Her eyes dart to the side and she grimaces. “I don’t think that’ll work. What about if I punch him instead?”

You let out another laugh. Thank God you have Lois. “Why not? Go for it.”

She doesn’t, though the look she gives Clark might as well be lethal when he comes silently walking over to your desk, looking every bit the role of a kicked puppy.

“Hi,” he says quietly. He’s well over six-foot tall, but right now he looks half that. You don’t know if you find comfort in it or not. “Apology coffee? You’ve already got one, but I thought…well, I know you like it, so, here.” He places it on your desk. “I have an apology croissant, too, if that’ll help, I just-- I’m really sorry.”

You offer a smile, but it doesn’t reach your eyes, and it kind of hurts to even pretend. “Thanks. Don’t worry about it.”

He makes a pained noise, opening his mouth, his lips already forming your name, but you shake your head at him. Jimmy calls out to him with some joke and you focus back on your notes, hoping he’ll get the hint. He does.

You watch out of the corner of your eye as Clark crowds into his desk chair, and you try to get some work done.

Every word you write sounds wrong, and even the edits you make to Jimmy’s piece are complete crap -- and you tell him so in your apologetic email back to him. He asked for your help and instead he got…whatever that was.

It doesn’t help that you can practically feel Clark looking at you all wistful and sad, and you really don’t understand it. Why is he so bothered by your mood if he’s seeing someone else? Shouldn’t he be relieved that you finally got the hint? It only took it being a bright neon sign smacking you square across the nose, but you’ve got it now. Clark just doesn’t see you in that way, and that’s fine. You just wish he had enough guts to say that to your face, but it’s fine. It doesn’t really matter. The date never happened, so the two of you never “dated,” therefore he owes you nothing. It’s fine.

Except, it’s not fine, because your eyes are burning from never moving them from your computer screen, your head hurts from having only had caffeine all morning and no food, and you really wish Clark would stop looking at you.

Lunch is a nightmare, but the food does help. Clearly your blue mood has gone noticed by, well, everyone because Jimmy buys your sandwich and Perry gives you an extension on the piece you should’ve turned into him by the end of today. Lois acts a bit like a protective shield, talking to you about her piece and asking Very Important questions, even glaring at Clark when he tries to interject.

The end of the day can’t come fast enough, and you’re gathering your things and scrambling out of there before anyone can catch up. You think.

Because then you’re halfway down the sidewalk and you hear someone calling your name, someone whose voice sounds suspiciously like the person you least want to speak to right now.

Tears are springing to your eyes because they’re burning from staring at a screen and you’re just so tired. You just want to eat the rest of your ice cream and go to bed. You just want to ignore Clark for the rest of the week, or at least until he admits to your face that he’s seeing someone else and didn’t know how to let you down easily. You just want this day to be over.

“Wait! Wait up! Ple-- Sorry! Please!”

You stop dead in your tracks in the middle of the sidewalk, tilting your head toward the sky. You compose yourself and turn around just in time to see Clark dodging all the people and nearly tripping and falling over in the process of trying to reach you. He exhales in relief when he sees you’ve stopped to wait for him.

“Hey,” he breathes, pushing his glasses up onto his nose as he skids to a stop in front of you. “Are you-- Did you see my messages last night?”

You chuckle without meaning to, and his eyebrows furrow. “Yeah, Clark, I saw them.”

All around you, people move on the sidewalk, heading home, parting for the two of you when you wish they’d carry you away like a riptide.

“Can we-- Sorry,” he steps out of the way of someone else, moving closer to you in the process. “Can we try again? Tonight?”

It’s tempting, you admit, to agree and go somewhere with him right now. Because he’s right in front of you. Because you know he’d make it if you two go right now, together.

But you know it’s not where he really wants to be.

“No,” you shake your head. “It’s okay. We don’t have to.”

He frowns, adjusting the strap on his bag. “But I want to.”

Do you? You want to ask, but you don’t. Instead, you give him a sad smile. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Clark. Have a good night.”

Just like that, you disappear into the crowd, and even with all his might, Clark can’t seem to find you.

+++

Things go back to normal. Kind of. Mostly. Sort of.

Clark keeps bringing “apology coffee” as he calls it, and if it weren’t for the jet fuel they try to say is coffee at Daily Planet, then you might tell him to stop. But you don’t. You accept each cup with a smile, and dodge all of his questions expertly.

He still comes in late, and he still blames it on Superman. The two of you have a standing hang out at a museum in the city every month, but this time you cancel before he can. It feels cruel, doing it when you have no real reason to, but you can’t bring yourself to leave your apartment and hang out with him when your feelings are so obviously unrequited.

He does another interview with Superman. You try not to turn your nose up at it.

It’s awkward, this new air about your friendship with Clark. It’s tense. You can tell he wants to ask you about it, to ask about another raincheck maybe, but he never does. You don’t know what you’d say if he did.

It comes to a head when you cancel on yet another standing hang out the two of you have, using feeling sick as an excuse this time, and Clark just won’t let it go.

Can I bring you some soup? Tissues?

I’m fine, you tell him. Just need to sleep, that’s all.

He texts something else, but you don’t reply. You lay on the couch in front of your TV and shovel pretzels into your mouth in between sips of coffee -- that you definitely shouldn’t be drinking this late, but you don’t care.

You’re jolted from your stupor when you hear knocking on your door. Knocking that you know, unmistakably, is Clark.

You debate faking sleep until he goes away. But you can’t quite bring yourself to do it.

So, you wrap a blanket around your shoulders and answer your door.

“Clark?” you croak. It’s a weak -- and honestly awful -- attempt to fake being ill, but it’s all you’ve got. “What are you doing here?”

“I brought soup,” he says innocently, holding up the takeaway containers. “Your favorite, from the place down the street. And some, ah, bread, tissues, pain medicine, cough syrup-- You didn’t answer, so I went a little crazy at the store,” he says with a sheepish smile, holding up the grocery bag that is nearly bursting with cold remedies. “Can I come in?”

“Sure, but I’m just,” you clear your throat, half from your act and half from emotion clawing at your windpipe from him being so sweet, “watching TV and dozing.”

“I won’t stay long,” he promises. “Just want to make sure you’re okay.”

“I’m fine, Clark.”

He narrows his eyes in what you hope is a playful manner. “I don’t believe you.”

You let him inside with a sigh, retreating to the couch. He can probably tell you aren’t really sick, and he’s probably just being nice by not calling you out on it.

You hear the rustling in the kitchen as he puts things away and then as he pours a glass of water that you think is for himself, until he sets it down in front of you. He sits in the chair beside your couch, clasping his hands together and looking at the floor instead of you.

“You’re not really sick, are you?”

His voice is timid, and a bit hurt. Like he’s upset you’re lying to him and he can’t figure out why you’re doing it, but he sort of has an idea.

“What gave me away?” you chuckle bitterly. “My brilliant acting?”

“You never drink coffee when you’re sick,” he says seriously, nodding to your cup. “It’s how I know when you’re not feeling good.”

You blink. You hadn’t expected that answer, let alone the fact that he would notice something like that. “Oh.”

“What’s going on?” he asks desperately, finally looking up at you, and why are his eyes glassy? “I miss my best friend. We used to talk every day, but ever since that dinner--”

“That you stood me up for,” you remind him, the words leaving your lips before you can stop them and, as a result, having a bit more heat behind them than you want them to.

“I know, but I--” He wrings his hands, the words getting caught in his throat. “I’m sorry, I-- It was Superman! He was fighting, and it was everywhere--”

“Oh my God, Clark, it’s always Superman,” you laugh, not necessarily at him, but maybe you are. It’s cruel, but it hurts, the way he keeps dragging this out. “It’s always Superman destroyed the train or Superman--”

“Because he is! He’s keeping the city safe, but sometimes that means he’s--”

“Clark, stop it,” you turn your entire body toward him, giving him a look. “I know.”

He freezes, stutters, starts. He pushes his glasses up on his nose, his blue eyes wide behind the lenses. “You know?”

You nod. “You don’t need to keep lying to me. I’ll keep your secret. I just wish you had told me first, you know?”

He chuckles awkwardly, shaking his head. “I just-- I wasn’t sure how you’d react, and--”

“I don’t care that you’re dating him, Clark,” you interject, a small smile creeping onto your lips. “It’s cute, actually.”

He blinks, opens his mouth, shuts it again. Opens it. “Wait.” He tilts his head, smiles a little. “You-- What?”

“Come on, it’s obvious!” you start to grin from the sheer absurdity of it. “You’re always getting interviews with him when he won’t do an interview with literally anyone else! And you’re always talking about him, always defending his actions and defending him when Jimmy makes a joke about him! You don’t need to be ashamed of it, I mean, I know the two of you probably can’t be public about your relationship, obviously, but--”

Clark says your name, tries to get a word in, tries to tell you to stop and that you’ve got it all wrong, but you keep going. “Seriously, it’s fine. You don’t need to hide it, not from me at least.”

“Right. Um.” He shakes his head, laughs. “I should-- I’m gonna go.”

“Go,” you shoo him away. “I’m fine, seriously. Go spend time with your hot superhero boyfriend.”

Clark’s cheeks go pink at that, which is basically all the confirmation you need, and you giggle after him, feeling much lighter now that the truth is finally out in the open.

Once Clark leaves, you finish your coffee and search your freezer for some more ice cream. Thankfully, you have a little bit left -- you sort of stocked up on it when The Incident happened -- and you head out onto the fire escape to enjoy the night air.

“Well, hello there,” you reach down and pet Lou’s head. He rarely sleeps on your fire escape, but today is one of those days.

He’s not all that interested in the space once you’re sharing it with him, though, so you watch him scurry away to your neighbor’s fire escape and you roll your eyes after him. Typical.

It’s strange, being on the other side of it now. Sure, it still stings a little, but come on, you can’t compete with Superman. And Clark seems happy. As his friend, you should want nothing more than to see him happy.

And you do. You do want that. Even if it’s a little sad that he can’t be that happy with you. But you’re sure the sting of it will go away in time, as will the crush you have on him.

You’re enjoying the sunset and your ice cream, still laughing to yourself in slight disbelief about Clark and Superman when the latter flies in front of you.

Your spoon clatters onto the metal stairs, scaring Lou and yourself shitless. Superman, however, floats in front of you, unfazed.

“Um,” you come up empty in the words department. You have no clue what to say to your friend’s boyfriend who is also a metahuman who you also, up until about half an hour ago, felt ridiculously jealous of. “Hi?”

“Hello,” Superman replies, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips. He gestures to the empty space beside you. “Do you mind if I…?”

“Oh! Not at all.” You stand up and step to the side, and Superman takes up every bit of the free space. “Look, if this is about you and Clark--”

Superman laughs, the sound light and airy coming from such a large man. “It’s not about me and Clark-- Well, I guess it kind of is.”

“I won’t tell anyone, I promise!” You hold up your right hand as if you’re swearing before a court, your left hand still holding onto the now-melting ice cream. “Actually, should we go inside? Should we be, you know,” you lower your voice, “talking about your relationship out in the open?”

He chuckles again. “Sure, let’s go inside, if that’s okay with you?”

If that’s okay with you. Of course it’s fine, even if a bit weird, and where is Clark? If he went and told Superman that you know about them, why didn’t he just come back with him?

“Sorry for the mess,” you call out as you head through the living room into the kitchen to put the ice cream away. “I wasn’t feeling well,” you grimace, the lie just sounding stupid now, but you’ve said it, so.

You shut the freezer and spin around to find Superman standing in your kitchen, and on the counter next to him are…Clark’s glasses?

You roll your eyes, muttering, “Did he seriously leave these here?” But you swear you saw him leave with them on. “Wait. Is he here?”

“He is,” Superman replies, picking up the glasses and opening them. He laughs, almost only to himself, before working the frames onto the bridge of his nose.

“What are you--?” You blink and narrow your eyes, watching Superman’s face become…Clark’s? That makes no sense. Those are Clark’s glasses, and this is Superman standing in front of you. Two completely different people. “Wait, but--”

“I’m not dating Superman,” Clark, or Superman, says with an amused smile. “I am Superman.”

“But you--” You shake your head, still reeling from the fact that Clark’s face is on Superman’s body. “But you said--”

“I didn’t think you’d believe me without the suit,” Clark explains, dragging the glasses off his nose and setting them down. “You seemed pretty convinced that I was dating him.”

“What else was I supposed to think?” you cry. “You stood me up and blamed it on him!”

Clark-- Superman’s face twists up in genuine remorse. “I know, I’m sorry, and I wanted to make it up to you, but you just kept getting further and further away, until I didn’t even know if you wanted to be my friend anymore.”

“Of course I want to be your friend, Clark, I just,” you shake your head, a bout of dizziness coming over you. You rub your forehead with your fingertips. “Sorry, I don’t--”

“Shoot, no, I’m sorry, here, let’s get you to the couch.”

You have no clue what he’s sorry for, but you let him help you over to the couch all the same. The dizziness passes and you look up at him, at the bright red and blue of his suit, and the fact that he looks like Clark but doesn’t at the same time.

“I don’t usually take them off and on so much around people,” he explains. “They’re these glasses that Four made for me, so I could still have a normal life. They make my face look a little different.”

You nod slowly, because sure, yeah, makes sense, why not?

“I’m really sorry I didn’t tell you sooner,” he says, cramming himself into the same chair he was in before, but somehow, now it looks like he doesn’t quite fit. “I thought I was keeping you safe by not telling you, but then I saw how sad you were, and--” He cuts himself off, shaking his head. “I don’t ever wanna be the reason you’re crying, or frowning, or anything like that. I wasn’t thinking.”

You stare at him, at your best friend, at Superman sitting before you with such an obvious ache in his chest over you being sad, and you can’t help but smile.

“Come here,” you tell him, patting the open space next to you on the couch.

Timidly, he stands and walks over to join you, just narrowly avoiding knocking over the coffee table.

“Sorry,” he whispers, plopping down beside you with a giddy, albeit sheepish, smile.

You throw your arms around his neck, clinging to him, taking a deep breath into his neck. He smells the same as Clark, but slightly different. It’s the suit, you think, but regardless, he smells good. Familiar. Safe.

“I take it you’re not mad at me anymore?” he asks, his arms finally tightening their hesitant hold on you when you don’t let go.

You snicker into his hair, pressing a kiss to his cheek before pulling back to look at him. “I was never mad at you, Clark. It’s impossible for me to be. I was just…sad. I thought we were finally going somewhere, finally getting over ourselves and going on a date, so when that didn’t happen, I just…” You shrug, realizing now that just because he’s told you the truth about who he is doesn’t necessarily mean the two of you are going to date.

He frowns again, one hand coming up to cup your jaw, thumb stroking your cheek. “I’m sorry,” he says again, fingertips grazing your own frown lines and furrowed brows. “I should’ve told you a long time ago.”

“It’s fine,” you murmur, peeling yourself off of him with a little smile that can’t figure out if it wants to be sad or not. “I can’t imagine that you’ve told anyone else.”

“Ma and Pa know,” he says. Then, with a grimace, he adds, “And…Lois.”

“Lois?” you lean away from him. “Lois knows?”

“Only because she figured it out and confronted me one day after work!” he rushes to explain. “She had connected the same dots as you did, except,” he pauses to laugh, “instead of assuming I was dating him, she figured we were the same person. But I told her she couldn’t tell anyone, no matter what.”

You understand that. It’s his secret to share after all, but still. She didn’t even try to defend him once when you told her that he stood you up. She seemed so angry with him on your behalf that you assumed it was for that reason alone.

“If it helps,” Clark lets out a sheepish chuckle, scratching the back of his neck, “she threatened me quite a lot when I told her I hadn’t told you yet.”

That causes you to bark out a laugh. “Why?”

“Because she knows I like you. A lot. It’s embarrassing, honestly, or she tells me it is,” he smiles. “Apparently I uh, looked like a kicked puppy when you wouldn’t talk to me that day.”

You giggle at that, having had the exact same thought. “Yeah, you did.”

“Well,” he breathes, like he’s psyching himself up. ��Can I have that raincheck now?”

You hum, trying and failing to tuck the stray curl on his forehead back with the rest of his hair. When it falls back down defiantly, you smile. “Depends. Can we work around your saving-the-world schedule?”

“We can,” he says with a firm nod. “I can be flexible. Can I ask another question?”

You lean your arm onto the back of the couch, your palm cradling your head. “Sure.”

“Can I kiss you?” he asks softly. “Or should we wait until after our date?”

You shake your head. “I don’t think I can wait that long.”

“Thank goodness,” he breathes, leaning forward, one arm snaking around your waist. “Me either. But if you had wanted to, obviously I would’ve, I just wanted to ask first--”

“Clark,” you laugh.

“Yeah?”

“Just kiss me.”

He grins then, and you pull him in despite it, both of you a giggling mess through the first kiss that has been months in the making. After so long of dancing around one another -- in more ways than one, you come to realize -- you’re finally holding his face gently, finally kissing him slow and sweet like honey, and his arms are snaking around you, pulling you into him, almost into his lap entirely.

#clark kent x reader #clark kent x fem!reader #clark kent x you #superman 2025 #david!superman #david!clark kent #superman x reader #superman x fem!reader #superman x you #clark kent angst #clark kent fluff #superman angst #superman fluff #david corenswet #kal el #superman movie #superman

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intoanothermind · 8 days ago

Text

˚✧₊⁺˳ His Kryptonite ˳ ₊⁺˳✧

Clark Kent x Wayne!Reader

Where private jets and five star resorts no longer excite the young Heiress, but a certain curly-haired reporter does…

Even at work— no, not the alien kind (although the way his heart was sent racing it may as well have been), Clark Kent wasn’t safe from the littlest Wayne’s…disposition.

You’d somehow talked Perry White into “temporarily consulting” on a Gotham–Metropolis crime syndicate crossover piece…Well, that’s what you had said.

Not that you meant any of it.

You just wanted to be around Clark.  

Bruce had signed off on it— partly because he couldn’t be bothered to argue with you, partly because truly he couldn’t care less about some city newspaper and partly because he ultimately assumed you’d do maybe two interviews (if he was lucky) and then get bored.

Like with everything.

Little did he know you had made fast friends (if you could even call it that) with the bumbling reporter nobody else seemed to notice. The poor stammering man you’d purposely run into many at galas, media events, cafés…Oh. And had figured out he was Superman.

He really was a terrible liar.

And how could you forget?

Because you knew Clark was painfully, hopelessly and irrevocably in love with a woman who had a matching Chanel bag for every overpriced dress in her wardrobe and sulked when she didn’t get her way (which was hardly ever).

Oh, you knew it.

It started the second you walked in on your first day.

All heads turned. Including Clark’s.

He hadn’t even realized he’d dropped his coffee until you were already halfway across the room, a smug grin on your glossy lips as you watched his glasses slip down his nose.

“Hey, Smallville,” you mused, sliding your leather bag onto the desk next to his like you owned the whole floor— you could have. “Miss me?”

Clark swallowed nervously.

He could deal with loving you from afar— barely. But now with you at his job? Seeing you everyday? In such a mundane setting where he could picture himself walking you home every evening, watching you traipse the dreary office like the pure sunlight you were— he was toast.

“I…I uh—I thought you were supposed to start n-next week…”

You leaned in, the sweet smell of your expensive perfume making him swallow thickly.

“Didn’t want to wait.”

He choked on nothing.

Jimmy gave him a look of total despair, silently indicating that yes, hello, the Wayne Heiress was currently in their office, talking to them and here he was making a total fool of himself in front of the very woman Jimmy had caught him looking at— in a overly organised folder of private photos he’d taken of her on more than one occasion.

Oh yeah, he was in deep.

And thus began your reign of chaos.

You flirted relentlessly.

Shamelessly.

Despite the sweet man always buying you your favourite tea— yes, coffee was beneath you, in the words of Alfred, and almost always running late buying you pastries in the morning (he knew you liked to sleep in), you frequently stole half of Clark’s snacks.

And all of his pens.

You scrawled “Property of Wayne” on his notepad during editorial meetings, did silly doodles across the embossed pink post-its you had specially made with your initials on (not that he’d of guessed anyone other than you would have left them all over his desk).

You had even answered his desk phone with, “Farmboy’s not available, he’s too busy being whipped.” That had gone over real well with Lois, who nearly passed out laughing, but not so much Perry who demanded to know exactly why the man in question was not at his desk and instead beneath yours fixing the: “awfully horrible squeaky chair” that meant you couldn’t possibly do any work until it was fixed.

Despite the front you had mastered so well— just like your brother in fact, Clark knew all too well the tenderness that lied beneath.

You weren’t just pretty chaos— well, you were pretty and chaotic, but you were intelligent. Witty. A naturally gifted talker who could get Gotham’s most hardened mob boss to open up in five minutes and offer to donate to your charity in ten.

You made the work better.

You made him better.

Even when you sat on the edge of his desk, like a queen overseeing her kingdom, sipping the overpriced drink he had bought you that afternoon and calling him “Smallville” loud enough for three departments to hear.

—

Wayne Manor was not a place Clark Kent felt at ease.

The chandeliers seemed to mock the sweat beading at his temple as they glittered with crystal, the impossibly high ceilings seemed to cave in on him and the girl who swept into the room in shoes more than his rent and a silken blue dress made him feel like he’d walked into a room made of kryptonite.

You had a champagne flute in one hand, a mischievous glint in your eye and the kind of confidence you couldn't fake— definitely Bruce’s little sister.

“Clarkie,” you chimed, lingering on the syllables like his name was just as delicious as the dimples you’d dreamed of traced your manicured nails over. “You’re early! Or is that a Kansas thing?”

Clark, who was already far too warm in his button-down, blinked as though it would cool his flushing cheeks. “H-Hi, apologies I…I didn’t mean to intrude— I like to be on time.”

You tilted your head, grin widening. “Of course you do.”

Despite sharing your most obnoxious traits with your older brother, Clark couldn’t help but muse that deep down you were nothing like Bruce…Not really.

Well, based on what he knew from the numerous articles he’d headed on the mysterious man (not so much anymore though, after he noticed how sad you failed to hide you were when Lois had published a particularly scathing exposé on your brother— not that you held it against her).

You were loud where he was quiet. A burst of light where he brooded. A spoiled rich girl on the surface— undeniably. But Clark had already noticed the security cameras you subtly monitored when you thought no one was looking, the way you subtly paid Lois’ rent when she slipped behind— propositioning the Landlord to act as though they had miscalculated previous payments as not to make her feel like a burden. The protective way you spoke about Alfred, and how you’d once, very casually, hacked into LexCorp’s servers while doing your nails.

And how you kept his secret.

“Didn’t know they made ties in Farmboy beige,” you said sweetly, eyes running over him as he averted his own and tried not to tug at his collar. “I-It’s khaki.”

Ah. A colour you had flippantly said he’d look cute in…Cute.

You giggled.

“You’re cute when you’re flustered.”

He was flustered.

In fact, he was always flustered around you. He was whipped. Lois had said so. Jimmy had said so— Perry had definitely said so.

Even you— albeit, mainly just to tease him further, knowing he was too shy to ever do anything about it.

He couldn’t help it.

You teased him relentlessly, but you also brought him care packages of homemade cookies (“I made Alfred bake them, but it’s the thought that counts”), texted him memes at ungodly hours and once stood between him and some kryptonite with zero powers and a stubborn glare.

Then again, how could he expect someone like you to ever love someone like him? Sure, you were friends…Maybe. But he wanted— needed more. He was just too dense to realise your jests were rooted in truth and that you weren’t really just a flirt— quite the opposite actually.

You just flirted with him.

The thing about being invincible, Clark had learned, was that your heart didn’t quite get the memo.

—

You knew what you were doing— especially that night. It was the whole reason you had invited him. So he could see the dress— you, in that dress.

Galas were not his scene, but you were.

Every time Clark Kent stumbled over his words, every time he looked away when you wore those pretty puff-sleeved blouses you knew he liked, you tucked it away like one of your brother’s weird gadgets…Or whatever the hell he was up to in the basement.

Teasing Clark was more fun than jetting across Europe just to shop AND spa weekends combined. You liked that he never tried to play the game back— Bruce’s friends were all masks and secrets. Chauvinist narcissists who made you grimace when their lustful eyes raked over yours.

Clark? Clark was genuine. Kind. Devastatingly sweet. Clark was entirely weak for you, and you would never admit it, but you were weaker.

And you were going to tell him.

—

“You look like you just stepped out of a comic book,” You had said one evening, flippantly, catching him just after patrol— Well. Less so catch, more so you had let yourself into his apartment and draped yourself across his cushions as— in your words— the view from his window was perfect for your movie nights.

(Even though you could buy any apartment with any window in the whole of Metropolis).

“Clarkie, do you try to be that heroic? Or does it come naturally?”

He flushed, rubbing the back of his neck and trying not to look at your bare legs hanging over coffee table. “I-I just try to help people.”

You rolled your eyes, but your smile was soft this time. “God, you're such a Boy Scout.”

“I-Is that… bad?”

You felt emboldened that night, stepping closer, running one perfectly manicured finger down the edge of the ‘S’ on his chest. “Only if you start lecturing me about responsibility.”

He chuckled then, low and warm. “Wouldn’t dream of it.” And looked at you. Really looked. Not with his glasses askew, not flustered.

Not shy.

Just... looking.

It stopped your breath. You knew he could hear it.

“I like who you are,” he said gently. “Teasing and all.”

You faltered for a second, any humour lacing your words (despite them holding more truth than he’d ever know) replaced by something real.

Then it came back with a vengeance. Old habits die hard, or so they say.

“You’re totally in love with me.”

Clark, now definitely flustered again, stammered. “I—I what?” You raised a plucked brow. “I—well, I mean—”

You laughed, then. Victorious, pressing a kiss to his cheek.

He was bright red. Glowing, even.

“You’re too easy, Smallville,” You whispered, hoping he wouldn’t notice the way your own cheeks had darkened.

And he was.

And honestly? He didn’t mind one bit.

—

Gala night.

Exactly a week after you had decided you were totally in love with Clark Kent after that night in his apartment.

A foolproof plan seven days in the making: look hot, corner Clark, make him yours— he already was.

Tonight he was supposed to meet Bruce for an “exclusive interview” you had bagged him after the party, but of course, he had showed up innocently eager.

Perfect.

You had flounced in donning the dress you had perfectly gotten tailored and designed specifically to match the colour of Superman’s costume, curling yourself around his arm like a glittering storm.

It was now or never.

“Are you sure it wasn’t just to see me?” You said smugly. “You like me too much, it’s a little pathetic, Smallville.” You tugged on his tie, tilting your head up to watch his face—

“I do,” he said simply.

You blinked.

Clark smiled, heart hammering like a freight train. “I do like you too much. More than like, actually.”

Your smile wavered. For a moment— just a moment. He had beaten you to it.

Lovesick fool.

Your smile became wicked, fingers curling around the fabric of his shirt as you yanked him into one of the many empty rooms inside the manor.

“You think you’re bold now Superman? Hmmm?” He was trembling. “Kiss me then.”

And that he did.

—

And so Clark Kent became yours— officially. He had been so since the day he had met you, if he was being truthful (which he annoyingly always was).

You still left sticky notes on his laptop, but now with doodled hearts and ‘Don’t forget to eat, dork’ instead of inappropriate drawings.

You’d look over at him, bored, during long meetings and give him a wink, even though you totally could have quit months ago— or hell, gotten your brother to buy the entire company.

But you knew Clark loved his job, and you loved him too much to take it from him— that one normalcy.

You’d pull him by the tie into the print room when no one was looking, kissing him like you’d waited all day.

But you never once asked him to be anyone other than Clark.

You didn’t care about Superman. About the press, about your last name…

You just wanted him.

And that, more than anything, was why he didn’t mind when you “accidentally” stole his pen. All of them, actually. Again.

—

Clark was typing.

Focused.

In the zone.

“Smallville?”

He looked up. “Yeah?”

You were leaning over his chair, your fresh blowout curls brushing against his shoulders, voice a low whisper right against his ear.

“What if I told you I was wearing your shirt under this blazer?”

All you heard was a strangled splutter.

You straightened with a knowing grin directed at Lois and walked off like nothing happened.

Less than five seconds later, he knocked his coffee over.

Jimmy, from across the room, poked his head over his own monitor. “Jesus Clark, you okay? You’re worse than usual this morning.”

“I-I’m fine!” Clark muttered, red-faced.

He was not.

#clark kent x reader #clark kent #superman #superman x reader #clark kent x oc #clark kent x you #clark kent x y/n #superman 2025 #david corenswet

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intoanothermind · 9 days ago

Text

heart rate hazard ! — c k

summary — you, in the middle of a live segment with mayor berkowitz, are seconds into questioning him about his suspiciously large office budget when the roof caves in. thank god your emergency contact is clark kent — or, well, superman.

diva!fem!reader , same old shenanigans ;)

you’re live on air ragebaiting mayor berkowitz, barely listening as he stutters through a deeply boring answer about about city sanitation that you shamelessly phrased as: “so, how does it feel to spend more on gala dinners than fixing, say, literal sewage?”, when the roof above the stage cracks and starts to crumble.

“that is definitely a safety hazard. mayor berkowitz, unless you’re planning to literally bury us under your accounting skills, i suggest we get moving, like, now —” before you can finish, half the roof caves in with a thunderous crash, dust filling the air, cameras wobbling as panic rises in the background.

“alright, everyone,” you bark, voice sharp, commanding. people freeze while you point like a general with lip gloss, “do not run. i want a single line, toward the north stairwell — no elevators, no detours.”

a female voice yelps near the stage and you continue, “if you’re wearing heels, take them off. if you’re wearing flats, congratulations, you’ve won today. leave everything behind, a bag is not worth your life, unless it’s vintage. help anyone who’s slower than you — hurry, this is not a drill, people.”

a lighting rig comes crashing down but you don’t even flinch, you’ve been taught safety by the most heroic there is. though your heart rate ticks up slightly with adrenaline, just a split second faster than usual.

too busy organizing an evacuation in heels, you don’t have the time to feel scared, yet across the city, somewhere above metropolis, someone else felt it.

because your heart rate spiked.

— and he noticed.

in less than three seconds, the air shifts, the building shakes again, but this time, it’s from a comically sonic boom, then, a blur of red and blue crashes through the open skylight. he doesn't look at the mayor, the crumbling ceiling or even the crowd.

just you.

you turn calmly, hands on your hips. "took you long enough, smallville."

clark — superman, is at your side in half a second, worriedly scanning you for injuries , “are you hurt?”

your heart swoons at his gentle expression, he feels it. scoffing, you speak, “sweetheart, a roof threatened to fall near me, not on me.”

his chest rises like he just ran through a war zone, which thinking about it, he most likely did, “your heart rate jumped."

“It was the drama, superman.” you roll your eyes. “i didn’t flatline on camera, i was about to dismantle a local politician, not perish.”

clark’s heroic figure checks you regardless, hands gentle, worried, reverent.

“you scared me.”

you melt, only slightly. the worry in his voice, the way his hands hovered to not break your mighty bravado. it hit you gently, subtly. not enough to make you crack, but enough to make you soften.

perhaps you like how his voice goes tight when you’re near danger.

you hum, lips curving like silk pulled taut. “well, aren’t you just to die for. though, if you really want to help,” you turn around in one elegant movement, hair, set to perfection, doesn’t move an inch. pointing with one manicured finger, you command the room, “let’s get this production team out before someone catches a beam to the head. smallville, keep this building in one piece, will’ya. i’ve got the interns and the dramatics.”

clark hesitates, not out of confusion, but because he’s looking at you like you’ve just rewired the planet’s orbit. he stands there, colorful suit clinging to every inch of that ridiculously lean build, curls perfectly gelled with just one curl hanging down over his forehead in the kind of way that should be a hazard in itself.

glacier blue eyes, mesmerizingly unreal, carved out of daydreams and comic books, are locked on you like he’s seeing a supernova mid-evacuation.

“preferably now, superdork” you snap him out of the haze.

clark — superman, does his part clearing fallen beams, lifting a sound guy with one arm and shielding a grip from another ceiling crack with the other. all while sneaking glances at you, as though you might vanish, like you’ve already unmade him in ways he doesn’t have the words for.

when the last person stumbles out, coughing but safe, you stop and let yourself take in a deep breath.

superman’s cape is slightly scorched, his hair an adorable mess. still — still, he’s watching you like you’re the most hazardous thing in the room.

“still tracking my vitals?” you tease.

clark swallows. “always.”

your kitten heels cross the space like sin, then you let your manicured fingers trace his jaw, other hand sitting perfectly on the famous S pressed proud across his chest.

“then i suggest,” you mutter seductively, lips brushing the stubble at his jawline, “you keep tracking ‘cause when i get home tonight? that spike’s gonna need containment.”

when you catch him off guard with a teasing grin, his ears flush in a shade of pink, betraying the hero beneath the cape who’s way out of his depth when it comes to you.

you grin wickedly.

twelve hours later you’re back in the bullpen, sipping an iced latte, phone screen dimming under the weight of hundreds of notifications.

“you broke twitter,” jimmy announces before you even sit down, spinning in his chair with a look that’s somewhere between astonishment and irritation.

lois doesn’t glance up from her keyboard. “superman broke twitter. y/n broke clark.”

perry storms out of his office waving a printed tweet like it’s damning evidence in a federal case, “superman didn’t land for the mayor, the crowd, or the collapsing ceiling. he landed for her. that’s biblical — what does this mean, is this what journalism has come to?!”

“it means the nation has eyes, perry.” you retort.

you scroll through twitter without shame, the comments are chaos, your mentions are worse.

and then

— he walks in.

clark kent, late and flustered as always, with his shirt somehow still crisp and those adorable glasses sliding down his nose just enough to be unfair. the curl on his forehead is somehow worse than yesterday — so messily charming, so him. he smiles politely, carries too many folders, and nods earnestly as if the world didn’t see him soft-launching his emotional devastation for all of metropolis.

the dark haired journalist deadpans, “congrats on being the reason our city’s most powerful being is officially down bad.”

you shrug, “same old.”

he makes it to your desk, sets down a copy of your headline, and clears his throat like he didn’t practically vaporize a lighting rig to check your pulse yesterday, “morning,” he says softly, pink creeping up his neck.

clark then settles into the chair beside you, careful not to spill the stack of papers in his hands, “you really had me worried,” he murmurs, voice low enough only you can hear.

you glance up, smirk tugging at your lips, “well, i like being the reason your heart races.”

the smile returned is soft and genuine, as if time itself holds its breath for just a moment between you.

this time, that spike in your heart wasn’t adrenaline at all.

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intoanothermind · 9 days ago

Note

any other clark crumbs u can share pls!!!??? I loved ur secret admirer au ahhhhh

Enjoy a little sweet, fluffy, comedy. Maybe this will expand to something more? Lmk your thoughts !!!

Crash Landing

Clark Kent x reader

It starts with a sonic boom that shakes the picture frames off your wall.

You’re holding a mug of tea when it happens—mid-sip, wrapped in a blanket, half-watching a rerun of some low-budget sci-fi series Clark keeps recommending with this soft, dorky persistence. You’re not even fully paying attention when the sky flashes blue-white through your window like lightning carved a hole in the clouds.

Then comes the impact. A deep, shuddering thud that rattles the floorboards and sends your tea sloshing onto your wrist. You curse, nearly drop the mug, and dart toward the window like any rational person would after what sounds like an actual meteor landing in their front yard.

Only—it’s not a meteor.

It’s a girl.

Blonde. Glowing. Face-down in your hydrangeas, smoke curling from the crater around her like the earth itself couldn’t quite handle her arrival. She groans, rolls over, and peels a cracked pair of pink sunglasses off her face with a wince.

And then, as you gape from behind your screen door in stunned silence, she squints at you through smudged mascara and slurs, “Is this the one?”

You blink. “I—what?”

“The one he’s in love with,” she clarifies, stumbling to her feet and swaying with an alarming amount of confidence for someone whose boot is literally on fire. “Told me all about you. Had to see it for myself.”

You stare. “Who are you?”

“Kara Zor-El,” she declares, attempting a bow and instead tipping forward into your rose bush. “Cousin of Kal-El. First of her name. Slayer of vodka tonics.”

You back up one step.

“Call Kal,” she demands, muffled by shrubbery. “Tell him his cousin is bleeding out and not nearly drunk enough.”

“I… don’t know who that is?”

She groans and claws her way upright again. “Tall. Dumb. Cute in a pathetic-boy way. Glasses like he’s fooling anyone. Kal-El, babe. C’mon.”

“…Clark?”

“Sure. Whatever. I don’t deal with his human cosplay bullshit. Just tell Kal-El I said he still owes me thirty credits and a new bottle of Trillian Firewhiskey. And if he tries to duck it, I’m gonna tell Ma Kent about that thing he did on Tamaran.”

You don’t know what any of that means.

You don’t know why there’s a girl in a half-shredded crop top and space boots in your front yard calling your coworker her cousin and speaking like she’s walked out of a galactic fraternity.

You especially don’t know why she’s now limping toward your porch like she owns the place, muttering, “God, Earth gravity is such a drag.”

And you definitely don’t know why, two seconds later, an enormous white dog comes barreling out of the trees and shoulder-checks your fence clean in half.

“KRYPTO!” Kara shrieks with glee. “You made it! You beautiful bastard!”

The dog barks like a jet engine, circles her once, and takes off into the sky like a rocket with paws. Gone. Just like that.

“…Did that dog just fly?” you whisper.

Kara’s already halfway through your front door. “Don’t worry,” she calls over her shoulder. “He’s going to get Kal since you obviously can’t.”

You’re still frozen in the doorway, questioning your grip on reality, when she strolls out of your bedroom twenty minutes later. She’s wearing your favorite oversized hoodie—inside out, and backwards somehow—plus banana-print socks and absolutely no pants. Her hair’s damp from your shower. She’s holding a bottle of maple syrup like it’s a beer and squinting suspiciously at your couch like it just mouthed off.

She flops onto it with a theatrical sigh. “This thing is offensively soft. It’s like sitting inside a marshmallow. Gross.”

You stare. “You showered?”

“Yeah, your towels are terrible by the way. I had to use three.”

“Three??”

She doesn’t answer. She’s now using the bottle of syrup as a microphone. “Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Earth: home of gravity, humidity, and emotional repression.”

You pinch the bridge of your nose. “Okay, you need to sit still. I’m gonna—figure out how to reach Clark.”

She pauses mid-rant, eyes narrowing as they flick to you. “Clark,” she repeats, slow and pointed, like she’s testing the word on her tongue. “So that is the name he’s using with you. That’s adorable.”

You blink. “What—name should he be using?”

Her grin is feral. “Kal-El.”

“…Huh?”

She tosses the syrup bottle aside like it offended her and points a dramatic, syrupy finger at you. “You’re the one. I knew it. He kept trying to play it cool—‘she’s just my friend, Kara’—but I can smell it.”

“…Smell what?”

“You smell like him,” she says smugly. “All over.”

You fold your arms. “Clark?”

“Kal,” she says, draping a throw blanket over herself like royalty. “Clark. Whatever. It’s the same guy. Just different costumes. You seriously didn’t know?”

You stare at her.

She stares back.

Then she pulls the hood of your backward sweatshirt over her head and mutters, “Men are idiots.”

And just like that, she’s snoring.

You’re left standing there in your own home, watching a maybe alien menace nap in your clothes while her flying dog is God-knows-where, supposedly fetching your crush-slash-best-friend-slash-apparently not human coworker.

You sit down slowly, gripping the edge of the coffee table like it might float away.

“…What the hell is going on?”

You’re halfway through Googling “how to tell if someone is an alien” when the knock comes.

Three precise raps. No doorbell. No follow-up.

It’s the kind of knock that says: I know you’re home, and I’m trying to be polite about it.

You already know who it is before you even reach the door. And somehow, somehow, it’s still weirder to open it and see Clark Kent standing there with his glasses slightly crooked, wind-tousled hair, and an expression caught between exasperation and dread.

“Hey,” he says, breathless. “Sorry. I—”

His gaze darts over your shoulder. You don’t even have to look behind you to know what he sees: your living room lit with warm lamplight, Kara passed out on the couch like a collapsed star, limbs draped in too many directions for physics to allow. The maple syrup bottle is still lying next to her like a spent grenade.

“She made herself at home,” you offer weakly.

Clark lets out a soft, resigned sigh. “Of course she did.”

You squint at him. “You know her?”

“Yeah.” He shifts his weight. “She’s, uh… family.”

“Family,” you repeat.

“Cousin,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “On my… father’s side.”

That gives you pause. You try to remember anything he’s told you about his family and come up completely blank. There’s Ma and Pa Kent, who he talks about like they’re saints. But the rest? Nothing.

Could this menace really be related to Jonathan Kent?

Clark’s eyes linger on Kara’s sprawled form with a tight-lipped grimace. “Is she… okay?”

“She crash-landed in my yard like a comet, told me gravity sucks and I smell like you, then passed out in my hoodie,” you say. “So. Not… great.”

He winces. “Yeah. That sounds about right.”

There’s a long silence between you.

You’re watching him, the way his jaw tenses, how his fingers twitch once like he wants to adjust his glasses but doesn’t. His shoulders are too stiff, too alert. Like he’s listening to something you can’t hear.

And you’re not imagining it, the way his eyes keep flicking back to you—not Kara, not the syrup bottle or your ruined rosebush or the shattered fence. You.

You take a cautious step back. “Clark… what’s going on?”

He hesitates.

Then, quietly, he says, “Can I come in?”

You nod, and he slips inside, careful not to bump the frame even though he towers over it. You shut the door behind him. There’s a long pause while he stands in your entryway, eyes on Kara, who mutters something about “Kal and his stupid gentle eyes” in her sleep.

Clark exhales through his nose, like that alone drained his last ounce of peace.

Then he turns to you. And for the first time in the entire strange, spiraling evening, you see something shift behind those familiar blue eyes.

Not panic. Not embarrassment.

Something heavier. Steady. Quietly inevitable.

“Hey,” he says, softly, the way he always does when it’s just the two of you.

Your voice barely makes it out. “Yeah?”

“You should probably sit down.”

You don’t sit right away.

You hover.

Because that sentence—“you should probably sit down”—isn’t one people say lightly. That’s what doctors say before bad news. What cops say at the door when they take their hats off. What Clark says when your ceiling has been replaced by stars and a manic space princess is drooling on your throw pillows.

He gestures gently toward the loveseat, and you finally sink into it, more out of survival instinct than calm. Your hands knot together in your lap. You’re suddenly aware of your heartbeat—too fast, too loud.

Clark stays standing.

Kara snorts from the couch. “Stop being a little bitch, Kal,” she mutters, voice thick with sleep.

Your eyebrows shoot up.

Clark closes his eyes like he’s praying for patience. “She’s had a lot to drink.”

“How does one even get that drunk?”

He huffs. “You don’t want to know.”

Krypto—now clearly visible as a scraggly, snow-white beast of a dog—is sprawled across Kara’s torso like he was poured there. You’d assumed he was heavy when he shoulder-checked your fence. You hadn’t realized he was dense. You’re surprised the couch hasn’t caved.

She shifts slightly beneath him and mumbles, “Shut up or kiss. I’m tryna sleep.”

Clark coughs into his fist. His cheeks are red.

You blink. “Did she just tell us to kiss?”

“She’s not subtle.”

You tilt your head. “So… cousin.”

“Yes.”

“From where, exactly?”

Clark meets your eyes then. Fully. The usual warmth is there—familiar, anchoring—but it’s braced by something else now. Something steadier. Something older.

“Not Kansas,” he says softly.

You wait.

He swallows, like the words are heavier than they should be.

“I’m not… from here. Not from Earth.” His voice is low, apologetic. “I was born on a planet called Krypton. My birth name is Kal-El. My parents sent me here when I was a baby—just before the planet was destroyed.”

You stare at him.

Kara snores, then groans, “Tell her about the cape, Kal. C’mon. Get to the good part.”

You continue staring.

Clark gives her a long, tired look, then turns back to you.

“I was raised here. In Smallville. I grew up like anyone else. I went to school, got a paper route, learned how to drive a tractor. My parents—Ma and Pa Kent—they taught me how to be kind. How to be careful.”

He hesitates, voice going even quieter.

“How to hide.”

You try to speak. Fail. Swallow. Try again. “Hide… what?”

He takes off his glasses.

It’s such a simple gesture. Something you’ve seen him do a hundred times to rub at tired eyes or clean a smudge.

But this time—it’s different.

His posture shifts. Just slightly. Shoulders roll back. Chin lifts. There’s a steadiness in him you’ve never quite noticed before, even if it’s always been there. Strength in quiet corners.

And his eyes. God, his eyes.

You know them.

You’ve seen them on every television screen in the world. Glowing against smoke. Cutting through chaos. Looking back from the clouds like salvation wrapped in a red cape.

Your voice is barely a whisper. “You’re Superman.”

He nods.

You sit there, pulse ringing in your ears, the room strangely still except—

“Tell her how you cry after cartoons,” Kara slurs, flipping onto her side and smushing her face into Krypto’s back.

Clark sighs. “That’s not—necessary.”

“Once caught him crying over a baby penguin documentary. A baby penguin,” Kara mumbles. “He’s soft. He’s so soft.”

Krypto lets out a deep, resonant huff of agreement.

You glance between the sleeping chaos on your couch and the man standing in your entryway, now holding his glasses in one hand like a lifeline.

And you just… laugh.

Quiet at first. Almost disbelieving. Then fuller, chest-shaking, nerves spilling out through your breath. Clark watches, concerned, until you wave a hand, still chuckling.

“I don’t know what I thought you were going to say,” you admit. “But that wasn’t it.”

He steps closer. Carefully. “Are you okay?”

You look at him—really look at him. The careful curl of his hair, the familiar slope of his shoulders, the same hands that once helped you carry boxes into your new apartment and now apparently also catch airplanes.

“Clark,” you say softly, “I’m not sure anything is okay right now.”

You don’t move for a long time.

Clark stays where he is too—just a few feet away, close enough to touch but careful not to assume. The silence between you is thick with everything unsaid. You watch him, still waiting for the punchline, still hoping someone—maybe Kara, maybe the universe—is about to jump out and yell gotcha.

But no one does.

Kara lets out a wet snore that sounds like a dying accordion. Krypto shifts just enough to drape a paw over her mouth.

You stare down at your hands, then back up at the man you’ve known for years—the one who brings you coffee when you forget breakfast, who reads your articles before they go live, who laughs too loud at your dumb jokes and blushes when you catch him staring.

Superman.

Your voice is barely audible. “How long have you been lying to me?”

Clark flinches, like you’ve struck something deep.

“I never wanted to lie,” he says. “I just… didn’t know how to tell you. It’s not the kind of thing you slip into conversation.”

“Sure it is,” Kara murmurs from the couch, face half-buried in dog fur. “Hey, pass the chips. Also I’m an alien. Boom. Done.”

“You’re not helping,” Clark mutters.

“Don’t need to help,” she yawns. “You already messed it up. Took you, what, two years to make a move? You’re pathetic.”

You blink. “Wait, what?”

Clark turns bright red. “She’s—exaggerating.”

“I’m not,” Kara says sweetly, then rolls onto her back with her arms flung wide like she’s been crucified by the weight of your romantic incompetence. “He’s been mooning over you. You should’ve seen him watching your broadcast last week. I thought he was gonna melt the Fortress.”

Clark groans. “Kara.”

“You were like, ‘oh no, she looks cold, should I fly her a jacket?’ and I was like Kal, buddy, you cannot drop off a parka mid-interview without blowing your whole cover—”

“Kara, please—”

“You warmed her coffee with your eyes!”

“I was being careful—”

“He used heat vision,” Kara stage-whispers to you with a conspiratorial waggle of her brows. “He made it steamy.”

You bury your face in your hands, half-laughing, half-dying.

Clark looks like he wants to fall into the floor.

“I didn’t mean to—it was—look, she said she was freezing that morning and I just—thought it might help—” His voice is desperate, fumbling, so deeply Clark that despite everything, your chest aches with something hot and bright.

You lower your hands, look at him fully. “You’ve really been… watching out for me?”

He exhales, then nods, almost bashful. “I always have.”

You believe him.

You don’t know why that’s the thing that makes your heart skip—but it is.

And then Kara, bless her chaotic heart, snorts from under Krypto’s tail and mutters, “Can you guys just kiss already? God. The sexual tension in this room is making my eyeballs sweat.”

Clark shoots her a look of pure sibling vengeance. “You crash landed here on purpose, punk.”

“And now I’m even more emotionally invested, bitch.”

You don’t even try to argue.

You just look at him. At Clark. At Kal-El. At the man who wears glasses like armor and capes like second skin. The one who held your hand when your editor chewed you out, who saved you from falling off a fire escape once and claimed it was “lucky reflexes,” who reads the tweets you send even though he doesn’t understand half the references.

And you realize something painfully obvious:

You’re already in love with him.

Have been for a long time.

“You should probably sit down,” you echo faintly, eyes still on him.

He lifts a brow. “Why?”

“Because if you keep looking at me like that, I might actually do it.”

There’s a beat of stunned silence.

Then Clark laughs—low and breathless—and you swear it sounds like hope.

Eventually, mercifully, Kara goes completely silent.

You wait a beat, then another.

No syrupy jabs, no muttered trash talk, no impassioned pleas for you to make out with her cousin. Just the rhythmic, muffled whuff of Krypto snoring against her ribs like a furry, overclocked engine. She’s limp now, tangled in fleece and dog and blissful unconsciousness. A minor miracle.

Clark watches her with a fond, bone-deep exhaustion. You imagine it’s a look only someone with a lifetime of knowing her could wear—a cocktail of love, regret, and resigned secondhand shame.

You lean forward, resting your elbows on your knees. “She gonna be okay?”

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “She’s… hard to hurt. She just likes to remind people she can bleed.”

You nod slowly. ��She’s a lot.”

“She’s everything Krypton would’ve been if it had survived,” he says, voice quiet. “Loud. Blunt. Brilliant. Disrespectful to authority.”

“And you?”

He looks at you, startled. “What?”

“You said she’s what Krypton could’ve been. What does that make you?”

He opens his mouth, then closes it.

You don’t push. The question hangs between you like smoke—delicate, unspoken, but thick with meaning.

Instead, you soften your voice. “So… Superman, huh?”

Clark chuckles once, rubbing the back of his neck like he’s trying to scrub the awkwardness off his skin. “Yeah. Surprise.”

You hum. “I always figured he was taller.”

His head jerks up, eyes wide.

You grin. “Kidding. Mostly.”

He exhales a laugh, and something eases in his shoulders. His whole frame seems to fold inward, not collapsing but settling. Less perfect posture, more the boy from Kansas you know—the one who drinks tea with honey and cries at documentaries when he thinks you’re not looking.

You let the silence stretch.

It’s the kind of silence that only happens when you know the other person’s still watching you. Not nervously. Not passively. Just… attuned. Like the room shifts depending on how you breathe.

After a moment, his voice breaks the stillness.

“Are you mad?”

You look up.

His expression is unguarded now. No charm. No smile. Just Clark, stripped down to something raw and unsure.

You shake your head. “No.”

“Confused?”

You smile. “A little.”

“Scared?”

You consider. “No.”

He nods. Then he sits down beside you, close but not touching, hands braced on his knees. You can feel the heat coming off him like sunlight.

“I wanted to tell you,” he says, and this time it’s not an apology—it’s a truth he’s held too long. “A hundred times. But I thought… if you knew, you’d look at me differently.”

“I do,” you admit. “But not in the way you think.”

He glances sideways, expression unreadable. “Yeah?”

You nod. “I always thought Superman was untouchable. Perfect. But you? You’re—” You pause, eyes tracing his profile. “—the guy who lets his coffee get cold because he’s helping everyone else. The guy who gets flustered when I compliment his tie. The guy who remembers my deadlines better than I do. And now I know that the man flying around the city is that same guy.”

His throat works around something he doesn’t say.

“I don’t know how to explain it,” you go on, softer now, “but… it makes me feel safer. Not because you’re Superman. Because you’re you.”

You don’t mean for it to sound like a confession. But it lands like one.

Clark’s breath hitches. And when he looks at you this time, it’s not cautious or guarded.

It’s yearning.

Like he’s spent years trying not to.

His hand is suddenly close—so close—between you, fingers brushing the edge of yours. He doesn’t move further. Doesn’t force it.

Just… offers.

You turn your hand over. Let your pinkie curl around his.

And his smile—shy, disbelieving, so Clark—could light up every sky he’s ever flown through.

His pinkie wraps around yours.

A small thing. A single, subtle point of contact.

But it hums through you like a live wire.

Clark doesn’t look away. Doesn’t blink. Like he’s afraid the second he does, the moment will break. He swallows, throat bobbing. You feel his breath more than hear it—shallow and careful, like even now, he’s holding back.

You squeeze his hand gently.

And that’s all it takes.

He leans in.

Slow. Gentle. His free hand lifts, hovering briefly at your jaw, not quite touching until you let your eyes flutter shut and lean in too. His fingertips graze your cheek first—featherlight—then curve behind your ear with that careful reverence only he could make feel so devastating.

When your lips finally meet, it isn’t tentative.

It’s hungry.

Warm and unhurried at first, a soft press of truth long overdue—but then it deepens, sharpens. Like you’ve both been waiting to breathe and only now remembered how. His mouth moves against yours with a heat you didn’t expect—firm, focused, possessive in the quietest way.

You shift closer, knees brushing, your hand fisting gently in the fabric of his shirt. His glasses are gone—abandoned somewhere on your floor—and there’s nothing between you now but the quiet rasp of breath and the press of his palm at the back of your neck.

Clark makes a sound—low, half-lost—when you tilt your head and kiss him deeper, and it curls in your stomach like fire.

There’s nothing awkward in it. Nothing hesitant.

It’s every look he never let linger. Every almost-touch. Every time he walked you home and didn’t say what he was thinking.

It’s all here. In this.

He pulls back barely an inch, breath ragged. “I’ve wanted to do that for a long time.”

Your lips are still parted, dazed. “Then do it again.”

He does.

It’s rougher, this time. More desperate. Less careful. His hands find your waist, your hips, grounding himself like he thinks you’ll slip away. You feel his pulse thudding where his fingers clutch fabric. He kisses like he’s trying to memorize you, to leave some part of himself mapped across your mouth and jaw and the flush of your skin.

You’re just about to shift into his lap—completely forgetting the superpowered house guests occupying your couch—when, “Well, finally.”

The voice is groggy and slurred, but still somehow smug enough to freeze you both in place.

Kara.

Clark jolts like he’s been electrocuted.

You wrench away from each other so fast you nearly fall off the loveseat. Clark runs a hand through his hair like he’s trying to tame a wildfire, face flushed bright red, lips kiss-bruised and parted.

Kara’s sitting up now, hair a mess, Krypto sliding off her lap like a melted marshmallow. She yawns loudly, scratches her ribs, and gestures at the two of you.

“God, it took you long enough. I thought I was gonna have to fake another crash next week just to get you morons to make out.”

“Kara—” Clark starts, voice strangled.

She ignores him. “Seriously, you’re like two planets orbiting each other but refusing to admit you’re in the same solar system. It’s exhausting.”

“Kara,” he tries again, tone warning.

She grins, devilish. “Also—he gets very handsy when he’s flustered, just a heads-up.”

You choke.

Clark groans into his hands. “Please leave.”

Kara’s already standing, cracking her neck. “I was gonna. But I’m taking Krypto. And maybe your girlfriend’s sweatshirt. And shoes.”

“My—what? No!”

But it’s too late. Krypto trots past with one of your favorite sneakers proudly clenched between his teeth like a trophy, tail wagging at a frequency that might break sound barriers.

“HEY—!” you protest, reaching for it.

Krypto launches into the air like a jet, spinning once above your backyard like he’s mocking you.

“I’ll bring it back next time I visit!” Kara calls over her shoulder, already airborne.

Clark lunges for the door. “Kara, don’t—”

“You’re welcome for the push, Kal!” she shouts gleefully. “Text me when you finally tell her about the X-ray vision thing!”

And then she’s gone.

Gone—vanishing into the sky with her dog, your shoe, and a trail of chaos trailing behind her.

You and Clark stand in the doorway, wind blowing your hair, silence settling in their wake.

After a long beat, you glance at him. “…What x-ray vision thing?”

He turns crimson.

“…Nothing.”

#fanfic #superman 2025 #superman x y/n #superman x you #superman imagine #superman x reader #dc superman #superman #clark kent x female reader #clark kent x y/n #clark kent x you #clark kent x reader #clark kent imagine #dc clark kent #clark kent #kal el #kara zor el #supergirl

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intoanothermind · 11 days ago

Text

to whom it may concern

clark kent 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬 / 𝐭𝐰 – 18+, MDNI, secret admirer au, slowburn romance, mutual pining, radical acceptance and love is the real punk rock, yearning, clark is a softie, smut, piv, oral sex (f!recieving), fingering, creampie, touch starved clark Kent word count: 18k Summary: You start getting anonymous love notes at the Daily Planet—soft, sincere, impossibly romantic. You fall for the words first, then realize they sound a lot like Clark Kent. And just when the truth begins to unravel, you start to suspect he might be more than just the writer… he might be Superman himself. notes – not proofread and my first full Clark Kent fic!

— reblogs comments & likes are appreciated

The first thing you notice isn’t the coffee—it’s the smell.

Sharp espresso. The exact blend you order on days when the world feels like sandpaper. Dark, hot, and just a touch too strong. But when you reach your desk and set your bag down, the cup is already waiting for you, balanced on the corner of your keyboard like it belongs there.

A single post-it clings to the cardboard sleeve, the ink a little smudged from condensation:

“You looked like you had a long night.”

No name. No heart. Just that.

You stare at it for a second too long. The office hums around you—phones ringing, printers whining, the low buzz of voices—but your ears tune it all out as you reread the handwriting. Rounded letters. Slight right slant. You can’t place it.

And no one in this building knows your coffee order. You made sure of that.

Across the bullpen, Jimmy Olsen drops into his chair with a paper bag in his teeth and two cameras slung around his neck.

“Someone’s got a secret admirer,” he sings, catching sight of the note.

You glance up, but try to play it cool. “Could be a delivery mistake.”

He snorts. “Right. And I’m dating Wonder Woman.”

Lois, passing by with a stack of mock-ups under one arm, pauses just long enough to lift a perfectly sculpted brow. “Who’s dating Wonder Woman?”

“Jimmy,” you and Jimmy say in unison.

“Right,” she says, deadpan, and moves on.

You feel a little heat crawl up your neck. You pull the cup closer. The lid’s still warm.

You’re still turning the note over in your hand when Clark Kent rounds the corner. His hair is a little damp at the ends, like he didn’t have time to dry it properly, already curling from the late-summer humidity. His tie—striped, loud, undeniably Clark—is halfway undone, the knot drifting lower by the second. His glasses are slipping down his nose like they’re trying to abandon ship.

He’s juggling three manila folders, a spiral-bound notebook balanced on top, a half-eaten blueberry muffin in his teeth, and what you’re almost certain is the entire city council’s budget report from 2024 spilling out of the bottom folder. It’s absurd. Kind of impressive. Very him.

“Clark—careful,” you call out, mostly on instinct.

He startles at the sound of your voice and turns a little too fast. The top file slips. He manages to catch it, barely, with an awkward swipe of his forearm, the muffin top bouncing to the floor with a quiet thwup. He rights the stack again with both arms now locked tight around the paperwork, and when he looks at you, he’s already wearing one of those sheepish, winded smiles.

“Morning sweetheart,” he says breathlessly. His voice is warm. Rough around the edges like he hasn’t spoken yet today. “Sorry, I’m late—Perry wanted the zoning report and the express line was… not express.”

You don’t answer right away. Because his eyes flick toward your desk—specifically the coffee cup sitting at the edge of your keyboard. And the note stuck to its sleeve. He freezes. Just for a second. A micro-hesitation. One breath caught too long in his chest. It’s nothing.

Except… it’s not.

Then he clears his throat—loud and awkward, like he swallowed gravel—and shuffles the stack in his arms like it suddenly needs reorganizing. “New… uh, budget drafts,” he says quickly, eyes very intentionally not on the post-it. “I left the tag on that one by mistake—ignore the highlighter. I had a system. Kind of.”

You blink at him, watching his ears start to go red. “…You okay?”

“Oh, yeah,” he says, waving one hand too fast, almost drops everything again. “I’m fine, sweetheart. Just, you know. Monday.”

He flashes you the smile again—crooked, a little boyish, like he still isn’t sure if he belongs here even after all this time. That’s always been the thing about Clark. He doesn’t posture. Doesn’t strut. He’s got this open-face sincerity, like the world is still worth showing up for, even when it kicks you in the ribs.

And you’ve seen him work. He’s brilliant. Way too observant to be as clumsy as he pretends to be. But it’s charming. In that small-town, too-tall-for-his-own-good, mutters-puns-when-he’s-nervous kind of way.

You like him. That’s… not the problem. The problem is— He turns to walk past you, misjudges the distance, and thunks his thigh into the sharp edge of your desk with a grunt.

You flinch. “You good?”

“Yep.” He winces, but manages a thumbs-up. “Just, uh… recalibrating my ankles.”

Then he’s gone, retreating to the safe, familiar walls of his cubicle, still muttering to himself. Something about rechecking source notes and whether anyone notices when hyperlinks are one shade too blue.

You’re left staring at the cup. At the note.

You run your thumb over the y again, the way it loops low and curls back. There’s something oddly familiar about the penmanship. Not perfect. Neat, but casual. Like whoever wrote it didn’t plan to stop writing once they started. Like they meant it.

You don’t say it aloud—not even to yourself—but the truth is whispering at the edge of your brain.

It looks like his. It feels like his. But no. That would be— Clark Kent is thoughtful, sure. He’s the kind of guy who remembers how you like your takeout and always lets you borrow his chargers. He holds elevators and never interrupts, and he stays late when you need someone to double-check your interview transcript even though it’s technically not his beat.

He’s the kind of guy who brings you a jacket during late-night stakeouts without asking. He’s the kind of guy who makes you laugh without trying. But he couldn’t be the secret admirer.

…Could he?

You glance toward his cubicle. You can’t see him, but you can feel him there. The way his presence always lingers, somehow warmer than everyone else’s. Quieter.

You tuck the note into the back pocket of your notebook.

Just in case.

You forget about the note by lunch.

Mostly.

The newsroom doesn’t really give you space to linger in your thoughts—phones ringing, printers jamming, interns darting between desks like caffeinated ghosts. It’s chaos, always is, and you thrive in it. But even as you’re skimming through edits and fixing a headline Jimmy typo’d into a minor war crime, part of your brain keeps circling back to that one y.

By the time you head back from a sandwich run with mustard on your sleeve and a half-dozen emails on your phone, there’s another cup on your desk. Same order. No receipt. No name.

But this time, the note reads:

“The line you cut in paragraph six was my favorite. About hope not being the same thing as naivety.”

You freeze mid-step, bag still dangling from one hand.

You hadn’t published that line. You wrote it. Typed it, then stared at it for twenty minutes before deleting it—thought it was too sentimental, too soft for the piece. You didn’t want to seem like you were editorializing. And yet… it had meant something. You’d loved that line.

And someone else had read it. Which means…

Your eyes flick up. Around.

The bullpen looks the same as always: fluorescent lights buzzing, keys clacking, the faint scent of stale coffee and fast food. Jimmy’s arguing with someone about lens filters. Lois is deep in a phone call, gesturing with a pen like she might stab whoever’s on the other end.

And then—Clark. Sitting at his desk, halfway behind the divider. Fiddling with his glasses like they won’t sit quite right on the bridge of his nose. He glances up at you and smiles. Soft. A little crooked. Familiar in a way that does something deeply unhelpful to your chest.

You stare for a second too long.

He blinks. Looks down quickly. Reaches for his pen, drops it, fumbles, curses under his breath. You see the top of his ears turning red.

Something inside you shifts. The notes are sweet, yes. But this is specific. This is someone who read your draft. Someone who noticed the cut line.

You never shared it outside your initial file. Not even with Lois. You almost didn’t send it to copy at all. So… who the hell could’ve read it? How could they have seen it?

You return to your chair slowly, like it might help the pieces click into place. Your eyes catch the handwriting again.

The loops. The slight leftward tilt.

Clark does have neat handwriting. You’ve seen his notebook, all tidy bullet points and overly polite margin notes.

You tuck this note into your drawer. Next to the other one.

You don’t say anything.

Later that afternoon, the newsroom’s background noise crescendos into something louder—Lois and Dan from editorial locked in another philosophical brawl about media framing. You’re not part of the fight, but apparently your latest piece is.

“It’s fluffy,” Dan says, waving the printed article like it personally offended him. “It doesn’t do anything. What’s the point of it, other than making people feel things?”

You open your mouth—just barely—ready to defend yourself even though it’s exhausting. You don’t get the chance. Clark beats you to it.

“I think it was insightful, actually,” he says from across the bullpen, voice louder than usual. “And emotionally resonant.”

The silence is sharp. Dan arches a brow. “Listen, Kent. No one asked you.”

Clark straightens his tie. “Well, maybe they should.”

Now everyone’s looking. Lois leans back in her chair, visibly suppressing a smile. Dan scoffs and mutters something about sentimentality being a plague.

You just stare at Clark. He meets your eyes, then seems to realize what he’s done and looks at his notebook like it’s suddenly the most fascinating object in the known universe.

Your heart does something inconvenient. Because now you’re wondering if it is him. Not just because he defended you, or because he could have somehow read the line that didn’t make it to print, but because of the way he did it. The way his voice shook just a little. The way he looked furious on your behalf.

Clark is soft, yes. Awkward, often. But there’s something sharp underneath it. A quiet kind of intensity that only shows up when it matters. Like someone who’s spent a long time listening, and even longer choosing his moments.

You make a show of checking your notes. Pretending like your stomach didn’t just flip. You don’t look at him again. But you feel him looking.

The office after midnight doesn’t feel like the same building. The lights buzz quieter. The chairs stop squeaking. There’s an eerie sort of calm that settles once the rush hour of deadlines has passed and only the ghosts and last-minute layout edits remain.

Clark is two desks away, sleeves rolled up, tie finally abandoned and flung haphazardly over the back of his chair. He’s squinting at the screen like he’s trying to will the copy into formatting itself.

You’re just as tired—though slightly less heroic-looking about it. Somewhere behind you, the printer groans. A rogue page slides off the tray and flutters to the floor like it’s giving up on life.

Clark gets up to grab it before you can.

“You’re going to hurt yourself,” you say as he crouches to retrieve it. “Or fall asleep with your face on the carpet and get stuck there forever.”

He offers a smile, crooked and half-asleep. “I’ve survived worse. Once fell asleep in a compost pile back in high school.”

You pause. “Why?”

“There was a dare,” he says, deadpan. “And a cow. The rest is classified, sweetheart.”

You snort before you can stop it.

It’s late. You’re punchy. The kind of tired that makes everything a little funnier, a little looser around the edges. He sits back down, stretching long limbs with a groan, and you let the quiet settle again.

“You know Clark, sometimes I feel invisible here.” You don’t mean to say it. It just slips out, quiet and rough from somewhere behind your ribcage.

Clark looks up instantly.

You keep staring at your screen. “It’s all bylines and deadlines, and then the story prints and nobody remembers who wrote it. Doesn’t matter if it’s good or not. No one sees you.” You tap the corner of your spacebar absently. “Feels like yelling into a tunnel most days.”

You expect him to say something vague. Supportive. A standard “no, you’re great!” brush-off. But when you finally glance over, Clark is staring at you with his brow furrowed like someone just insulted his mom.

“That’s ridiculous,” he mutters. “You’re one of the most important voices in the room.”

The words are firm. Not flustered. Not dorky. Certain. It disarms you a little.

You blink. “Clark—”

“No. I mean it, sweetheart," he says, almost stubborn. “You make people care. Even when they don’t want to. That’s rare.”

He looks down at his coffee like maybe it betrayed him by going cold too fast. You don’t say anything. But that ache in your chest eases, just a little.

The next morning, you’re halfway through your walk to work when you find it.

Tucked into the side pocket of your coat—the one you only use for receipts and empty gum wrappers. Folded carefully. Familiar ink.

“Even whispers echo when they’re true.”

You stop walking. Stand there frozen on the corner outside a coffee shop as cars blur past and someone curses at a cab a few feet away. You read the note twice, then a third time.

It’s simple. No flourish. No name. Just words—quiet, certain, and meant for you.

You don’t know why it lands the way it does. Maybe because it doesn’t try to dismiss how you feel. It just… reframes it. You may feel invisible, small, unheard—but this person is saying: that doesn’t make your truth meaningless. You matter, even if it feels like no one’s listening.

You fold the note gently, like it might tear. You don’t tuck this one into your notebook. You keep it in your coat pocket. All day.

Like armor.

By midafternoon, the bullpen’s usual noise has shapeshifted into something louder—one of those half-serious, half-combative newsroom debates that always starts in one cubicle and ends up consuming half the floor.

This time, it’s the great Superman Property Damage Discourse, sparked—unsurprisingly—by Lois Lane slapping a freshly printed article onto her desk like it insulted her directly.

“He destroyed the entire north side of the building,” she says, exasperated, as if she’s already had this argument with the universe and lost.

You don’t look up right away. You’re knee-deep in notes for your community housing series and trying to keep your lunch from leaking onto your desk. But the words still hit.

“To stop a tanker explosion,” you point out without much heat, eyes still scanning your page. “There were twenty-seven people inside.”

“My point,” Lois says, crossing her arms, “is that someone has to pay for all that glass.”

“Pretty sure it’s the insurance companies,” you mutter.

Lois raises a brow at you, but doesn’t push it. She’s used to you playing devil’s advocate—usually it’s just for fun. She doesn’t know this one’s starting to feel a little personal.

And then Clark walks in. He’s balancing two coffee cups and what looks like a roll of blueprints tucked under one arm, sleeves rolled up and tie already loose like the day’s been longer than it should’ve been. His hair’s a mess, wind-tousled and curling near the back of his neck, and he’s got that familiar expression on—half-focused, half-apologetic, like he’s perpetually arriving a few seconds after he meant to.

He slows as he approaches, catches the tail end of Lois’s rant, and hesitates. Just a second. Just long enough for something behind his glasses to tighten. Then, without warning or warm-up, he steps in like a man walking into traffic.

“He’s doing his best, okay?” he blurts. “He can’t help the building fell—there was a fireball.”

The bullpen quiets a beat. Just enough for the words to settle and sting. Lois doesn’t even look up from her monitor. “You sound like a fanboy.”

“I just—” Clark huffs. “He’s trying to protect people. That’s not… easy.”

He lifts his hand to gesture, but his elbow clips the corner of his desk and sends his coffee tipping. The paper cup wobbles, then crashes onto the floor in a slosh of brown across your loose notes.

“Clark!” You shove back in your chair, startled.

“Sorry—sorry—hang on—” He lunges for a stack of printer paper, overcorrects, and knocks over another folder in the process. Its contents scatter like leaves in the wind. He flails to grab what he can, muttering apologies the whole time.

The tension breaks—not because of what he said, but because of the way he said it. Because he’s suddenly in a mess of his own making, trying to mop it up with a handful of flyers and an empty paper towel roll, red-faced and flustered.

You can’t help it. You smile. Just a little.

Lois glances sideways at the scene, then turns to you, tone dry as dust. “Well. He’s… passionate.”

You arch a brow. “That’s one word for it.”

She doesn’t notice the way your eyes linger on him. She doesn’t see the shift in your chest when you watch him drop to one knee, scooping up wet files with shaking hands, his jaw tight—not from embarrassment, but from something quieter. Fiercer.

Because Clark hadn’t just jumped to Superman’s defense.

He’d meant it.

Like someone who knows what it feels like to try and still fall short. Like someone who’s carried the weight of people’s expectations. Like someone who’s watched something burn and had to live with the cost of saving it.

You know it’s ridiculous. You know it’s a stretch. But still… your breath catches.

He steadies the last folder against his desk, rubs the back of his neck, and looks up—right at you. Your eyes meet for a second too long.

You offer him a look that says it’s okay. He returns one that says thanks. And then the moment passes. You turn back to your screen, heart pounding for reasons you won’t name. And Clark returns to quietly drying his desk with a half-crumpled press release.

You don’t say anything. But you’re not watching him by accident anymore.

You’ve read the latest note a dozen times.

“Sometimes I wish I could just be honest with you. But I can’t—not yet.”

There’s no flourish. No compliment. Just rawness, stripped of any careful metaphor or charm. It’s still anonymous, but the voice… it feels closer now. Less like a mystery, more like someone standing just out of sight.

Someone with hands that tremble when they pass you a coffee. Someone who knows how your voice sounds when you’re frustrated. Someone who once told you, very softly, that your words matter.

You start thinking about Clark again. And once the thought roots, it’s impossible to pull it free.

You test him. It’s petty, maybe. Pointless, probably. But you do it anyway. That afternoon, you’re both holed up near the copy desk, reviewing your latest layout. Clark’s seated beside you, sleeves pushed up, his pen tapping lightly against the margin of your column draft. His knee keeps bumping yours under the desk, and every time, he apologizes with a shy smile that doesn’t quite meet your eyes.

You’re running on too little sleep and too many thoughts. So you try it. “You ever hear that phrase? ‘Even whispers echo when they’re true’?”

He looks up from the page. Blinks behind his smudged glasses. “Uh… sure. I mean, not in everyday conversation, but yeah. Sounds poetic.”

You tilt your head, eyes narrowing just slightly. “I read it recently,” you say, like you’re thinking aloud. “Can’t stop turning it over. I don’t know—it stuck with me.”

He stares at you for a beat too long. Then clears his throat and drops his gaze, pen suddenly very busy again. “Yeah. It’s… it’s a good line.”

“You don’t think it’s a little dramatic?”

“No,” he says too quickly. “I mean—it’s true. Sometimes the quietest things are the ones worth listening to.”

You nod, pretending to go back to your edits. But his pen taps a little faster. The corner of his mouth twitches. He’s trying to look neutral, maybe even confused. But Clark Kent couldn’t lie his way out of a grocery list.

And if he did write it, that means he knows you’re testing him.

You don’t call him on it.

Not yet.

Later that evening, he helps you file your story. Technically, Clark’s already done for the day—he could’ve clocked out an hour ago, could’ve gone home and slipped into his flannel pajamas and vanished into whatever quiet life he keeps outside these walls. But instead, he lingers.

His jacket is folded neatly over the back of your chair, sleeves still warm from his arms. His glasses sit low on his nose, catching the screen’s glow, one smudge blooming near the top corner where he’s pushed them up too many times with the side of his thumb.

He leans over the desk beside you, one palm braced flat against the surface, the other gently scrolling through your draft. His frame takes up too much space in that warm, grounding way—shoulder brushing yours occasionally, breath warm at your temple when he leans in to squint at a sentence.

You’re quiet, but not for lack of things to say. It’s the way he’s reading—carefully, like every word deserves to be held. There’s no red pen. No quick fixes. Just soft soundless reverence, like your work is already whole and he’s just lucky to witness it.

And his hands.

God, his hands.

You try not to look, but they’re impossible to ignore. Big and capable, yes, but gentle in the way he uses them—fingers skimming the edge of the printout like the paper might bruise, thumb stroking over the corner where the page curls, slow and absentminded. The pads of his fingers are slightly ink-stained, callused just at the tips. He smells faintly like cheap soap and newsroom toner and something you can’t name but have already begun to crave.

You wonder—just for a moment—what it would be like to feel those hands touch you with purpose instead of hesitation. Without the paper buffer. Without the quiet restraint.

He leans a little closer. You can feel the press of his shirt sleeve against your arm now, soft cotton against skin. “Looks perfect to me,” he murmurs.

It’s not the words. It’s the way he says them—like he’s not just talking about the story. You swallow, pulse jumping. You wonder if he hears it. You wonder if he feels it.

His eyes flick to yours for just a second. Something hangs in the air—fragile, charged. Then the phone rings down the hall, and the spell breaks like steam off hot glass. He steps back. You exhale like you’ve been holding your breath for three paragraphs.

You don’t look at him as he grabs his jacket. You just nod and whisper, “Thanks.”

And he just smiles—soft and private, like a secret passed from his mouth to your chest.

You don’t go home right away. You sit at your desk long after Clark and the rest of the bullpen has emptied out, coat draped over your shoulders like a blanket, fingers toying with the folded edge of the note in your lap.

“Sometimes I wish I could just be honest with you. But I can’t—not yet.”

You’ve read it enough times to have it memorized. Still, your eyes trace the handwriting again—careful lettering, no signature, just that quiet ache bleeding between the lines.

It’s the first one that feels more than just flirtation. This one hurts a little. So you do something you haven’t done before.

You pull a post-it from the stack beside your monitor, scribble down one sentence—no flourish, no punctuation.

“Then tell me in person.”

You slide it beneath your stapler before you leave. A deliberate offering. You don’t know how he’s been getting the others to you—if it’s during your lunch break or when you’re in the print room or bent over in the archives. But somehow, he knows.

So this time, you let him find something waiting.

And when you finally shrug on your coat and step into the elevator, the empty quiet of the newsroom echoes behind you like a held breath.

The next morning, there’s no reply. Not on your desk. Not slipped into your coat pocket. Not scribbled in the margin of your planner or tucked beneath your coffee cup. Just silence.

You try not to feel disappointed. You try not to spiral. Maybe he’s waiting. Maybe he’s scared. Maybe you’re wrong and it’s not who you think. But your chest feels hollow all the same—like something almost happened and didn’t.

So that night, you write again. Your hands shake more than they should for something so simple. A sticky note. A few words. But this one names it.

“One chance. One sunset. Centennial Park. Bench by the lion statue. Tomorrow.”

You stare at the words a long time before setting it down. This one’s not a joke. Not a dare. Not a flirtation scribbled in passing. This is an invitation. A door left open.

You slide it under your stapler the same way you’ve received every one of his notes—unassuming, tucked in plain sight. If he wants to find it, he will. You’ve stopped questioning how he does it. Maybe it’s timing. Maybe it’s instinct. Maybe it’s something else entirely.

But you know he’ll see it.

You pack up slowly. Shoulders tight. Bag heavier than usual. The newsroom is quiet at this hour—just the low hum of the overhead fluorescents and the soft, endless churn of printers in the back. You turn off your monitor, loop your coat over your arm, and make your way to the elevator.

Halfway there, something makes you stop. You glance back. Clark is still at his desk.

You hadn’t heard him return. You hadn’t even noticed the light at his station flick back on. But there he is—elbows on the desk, hands folded in front of him, eyes already lifted.

Watching you.

His face is unreadable, but his gaze lingers longer than it should. Soft. Searching. Almost caught. You feel the air shift. Not a word is exchanged. Just that one look.

Then the elevator dings. You turn away before you can lose your nerve.

And Clark? He doesn’t look down. Not until the doors slide shut in front of your face.

You tell yourself it doesn’t matter. You tell yourself it was probably nothing. A game. A passing flirtation. Maybe Jimmy, playing an elaborate prank he’ll one day claim was performance art.

But still—you dress carefully.

You pull out that one sweater that always makes you feel like the best version of yourself, and you smooth your collar twice before you leave. You wear lip balm that smells faintly like vanilla and leave the office ten minutes early just in case traffic is worse than expected. Just in case he’s early.

You get there first. The bench is colder than you remember. Stone weathered and a little damp from last night’s rain. Your coffee steams in your hands, and for a while, that’s enough to keep you warm.

The sky begins to soften around the edges. First blush pink, then golden orange, then the faintest sweep of violet, like a bruise blooming across the clouds. You watch the city skyline fade into silhouettes. The sun drips lower behind the glass towers, catching the river in a moment of molten reflection. It’s beautiful.

It’s also empty.

You wait. A couple strolls past, fingers laced, talking softly like they’ve been in love for years. A jogger nods as they pass, earbuds in, a scruffy golden retriever trotting faithfully beside them. The dog looks up at you like it knows something—like it sees something.

The wind kicks up. You pull your coat tighter. You tell yourself to give it five more minutes. Then five more.

And then—

Nothing. No footsteps. No note. No him.

Your coffee goes cold between your palms. The stone starts to seep into your bones. And somewhere deep in your chest, something you hadn’t even dared name… wilts.

Eventually, you stand. Walk home with your coat buttoned all the way up, even though it’s not that cold. You don’t cry.

You just go quiet.

The next morning, the bullpen hums with the usual Monday static. Phones ringing. Keys clacking. Perry’s voice barking something about a missed quote from the sanitation board. Jimmy’s camera shutter clicking in staccato bursts behind you. The Daily Planet in full swing—ordinary chaos wrapped in coffee breath and fluorescent lighting.

You move through it on autopilot. Your smile is small, tight around the edges. You’ve become a master of folding disappointment into your posture—chin lifted, eyes clear, mouth curved just enough to seem fine.

“Guess the secret admirer thing was just a prank after all.” You drop your bag beside your desk, shuffle through the morning copy logs, and say it lightly. Offhand. Like a joke. “Should’ve known better.” You make sure your voice carries just far enough. Not loud, but not a whisper. Casual. A throwaway comment designed to sound unaffected. And then you laugh. It’s short. Hollow. It dies in your throat before it even fully escapes.

Lois glances up from her monitor, eyes narrowing faintly behind dark lashes. She doesn’t laugh with you. She doesn’t smile. She just watches you for a beat too long. Not with judgment. Not even pity. Just… knowing. But she says nothing. And neither do you.

What you don’t see is the hallway—just twenty feet away—where Clark Kent stands frozen in place. He’d just walked in—late, coat slung over one arm, takeout coffee in the other. He had stopped just inside the threshold to adjust his glasses. He’d meant to offer you a second coffee, the one he bought on impulse after circling the block too many times.

And then he heard it. Your voice. “Guess the secret admirer thing was just a prank after all.” And then your laugh. That awful, paper-thin laugh.

He goes still. Like someone pulled the oxygen from the room. His hand tightens around the coffee cup until the lid creaks. The other arm drops slack at his side, coat nearly slipping from his grasp. His jaw tenses. Shoulders stiffen beneath his white button-down, and for one awful second, he forgets how to breathe.

Because you sound like someone trying not to care. And it cuts deeper than he expects. Because he’d meant to come. Because he tried. Because he was so close.

But none of that matters now. All you know is that he didn’t show up. And now you think the whole thing was a joke. A stupid, secret game. His game. And he can’t even explain—not without tearing everything open.

He stares down the corridor, eyes fixed on the edge of your desk, on the shape of your shoulders turned slightly away. He watches as you pick up your coffee and blow gently across the lid like it might chase the bitterness from your chest.

You don’t turn around. You don’t see the way he stands there—gutted, unmoving, undone. The cup trembles in his hand. He turns away before it spills.

That night, you go back to the office. You tell yourself it’s for the deadline. A follow-up piece on the housing committee. Edits on the west-side zoning profile. Anything to fill the time between sunset and sleep—because if you sleep, you’ll just dream of that bench.

The newsroom is quiet now. All overhead lights dimmed except for the halo of your desk lamp and the soft thrum of a copy machine left cycling in the corner.

You drop your bag with a sigh. Stretch your shoulders. Slide your desk drawer open without thinking. And find it. A note. No envelope. No tape. No ceremony. Just a single sheet of cream stationery folded in thirds. Familiar handwriting. Neat loops. Unshaking.

You unfold it slowly.

“I’m sorry. I wanted to be there. I can’t explain why I couldn’t— But it wasn’t a joke. It was never a joke. Please believe that.”

The words hit like a breath you didn’t know you were holding. Then they blur. You read it again. Then again. But the ache in your chest doesn’t settle. Because how do you believe someone who won’t show their face? How do you believe someone who keeps slipping between your fingers?

You hold the note to your chest. Close your eyes. You want to believe him. God, you want to. But you don’t know how anymore.

What you couldn’t know is this: Clark Kent was already running. He’d been on his way—coat flapping behind him, tie unspooling in the wind, breath fogging as he dashed through traffic, one hand wrapped tight around a note he planned to deliver in person for the first time. He’d rehearsed it. Practiced what he’d say. Built up to it with every beat of a terrified heart.

He saw the park lights up ahead. Saw the lion statue. Saw the shape of a figure sitting alone on that bench.

And then the air split open. The sky went green. A fifth-dimensional imp—not even from this universe—tore through Metropolis like a child flipping pages in a pop-up book. Reality folded. Buildings bent sideways. Streetlamps started singing jazz standards.

Clark barely had time to take a deep breath before he vanished into smoke and flame, spinning upward in a blur of red and blue. Somewhere across town, Superman joined Guy Gardner, Hawk Girl, Mr. Terrific, and Metamorpho in trying to contain the chaos before the city unmade itself entirely.

He never got the chance to reach the bench. He never got the chance to say anything. The note stayed in his pocket until it was soaked with rain and streaked with ash. Until it was too late.

It’s supposed to be routine. You’re only there to cover a zoning dispute. A boring, mid-week council press event that’s been rescheduled three times already. The air is heavy with heat and bureaucracy. You and your photographer barely make it past the front barricades before the scene spirals into chaos.

First it’s the downed power lines—sparking in rapid bursts as something hits the utility pole two blocks down. Then a car screeches over the median. Then someone starts screaming.

You’re still trying to piece it together when the crowd surges—someone shouts about a gun. People scatter. A window shatters across the street. A chunk of concrete falls from the sky like a thrown brick.

Your feet move before your brain catches up. You hit the pavement just as something explodes behind you. A jolt rings through your bones, sharp and high and metallic. Dust clouds the air. There’s shouting, then screaming, and your ears go fuzzy for one split second.

And then he lands.

Superman.

Cape whipping behind him like it’s caught in its own storm, boots cracking against the sidewalk as he drops down between the wreckage and the people still trying to flee. He moves like nothing you’ve ever seen.

Not just fast—but impossible. His body a blur of motion, heat, and purpose. He rips a crumpled lamppost off a trapped woman like it weighs nothing. Hurls it aside and crouches low beside her, voice firm but gentle as he checks her pulse, her leg, her name.

You’re frozen where you crouch, half behind a parking meter, hand pressed to your chest like it can keep your heart from tearing loose.

And then be turns. Looks straight at you. His expression shifts. Just for a moment. Just for you. He steps forward, dust streaking his suit, eyes dark with something you don’t have time to name. He reaches you in three strides, body angled between you and the chaos, hand raised in warning before you can speak.

“Stay here, sweetheart. Please.”

Your stomach drops. Not at the danger. Not at the sound of buildings groaning in the distance or the flash of gunmetal tucked into a stranger’s hand.

It’s him. That word. That voice. The exact way of saying it—like it’s muscle memory. Like he’s said it a thousand times before.

Like Clark says it.

It stuns you more than the explosion did.

You blink up at him, speechless, heart stuttering behind your ribs as he holds your gaze just a second longer than he should. His brow furrows. Then he’s gone—into the fray, into the fire, into the part of the story where your pen can’t follow.

You don’t remember standing. You don’t remember how you get back to the press line, only that your legs shake and your palms burn and every time you try to replay what just happened, your brain gets stuck on one word.

Sweetheart.

You’ve heard it before—dozens of times. Always soft. Always accidental. Always from behind thick glasses and a crooked tie and a mouth still chewing the edge of a muffin while he scrolls through zoning reports.

Clark says it when he forgets you’re not his to claim. Clark says it when you’re both the last ones in the office and he thinks you’re asleep at your desk. Clark says it like a secret. Like a slip.

And Superman just said it exactly the same way. Same tone. Same warmth. Same quiet ache beneath it.

But that’s not possible. Because Superman is—Superman. Bold. Dazzling. Fire-forged. He walks like he owns the sky. He speaks like a storm made flesh. He radiates power and perfection.

And Clark? Clark is all flannel and stammering jokes and soft eyes behind big frames. He’s gentle. A little clumsy. His swagger is borrowed from farm porches and storybooks. He’s sweet in a way Superman couldn’t possibly be.

Couldn’t… Right? You chalk it up to coincidence. You have to.

…Sort of.

You don’t sleep well the night after the incident. You keep replaying it—frame by impossible frame. The gunshot, the smoke, the sky splitting in half. The crack of his landing, the rush of wind off his cape. The weight of his body between you and danger. And then that voice.

“Stay here, sweetheart. Please.”

You flinch every time it echoes in your head. Every time your brain folds it over the countless memories you have of Clark saying it in passing, like it was nothing. Like it meant nothing.

But it means something now.

You come into the office the next day wired and quiet, adrenaline still burning faintly at the edges of your skin. You aren’t sure what to say, or to whom, so you say nothing. You stare too long at your coffee. You snap at a printer jam. You forget your lunch in the breakroom fridge.

Clark notices. He hovers by your desk that morning, a second coffee in hand—one of those specialty orders from that corner place he knows you like but always pretends he doesn’t remember.

“Rough day?” he asks gently. His tone is careful. Soft. As if you’re a glass already rattling on the edge of the shelf.

You don’t look up. “It’s fine.”

He hesitates. Then sets the coffee down beside your elbow, just far enough that you have to choose whether or not to reach for it. “I heard about the power line thing,” he adds. “You okay?”

“I said I’m fine, Clark.”

A beat.

You hate the way his face flickers at that—hurt, barely masked. He pushes his glasses up and nods like he deserves it. Like he’s been expecting it. He doesn’t press. He just walks away.

You find yourself whispering to Lois over takeout later that afternoon—half a conversation muttered between bites of noodles and the hum of flickering overheads.

“He called me sweetheart.”

She raises an eyebrow. “Clark?”

“No. Superman.”

Her chewing slows.

You keep your eyes on the edge of your desk. “That’s… weird, right?”

Lois makes a sound—somewhere between a scoff and a laugh. “He’s a superhero. They charm every pretty girl they pull out of a burning building.”

You poke at your noodles. “Still. It felt…”

“Weird?” she teases again, nudging her knee against yours.

You shrug like it doesn’t matter. Like it hasn’t been clawing at the back of your brain for three days straight. Lois doesn’t press. Just watches you for a second longer than necessary. Then she moves on, launching into a tirade about Perry’s passive-aggressive post-it notes and the fact that someone keeps stealing her pens.

But the damage is already done. Because you start thinking maybe you’ve just been projecting. Maybe you want your secret admirer to be Clark so badly that your brain’s rewriting reality—latching onto any voice, any phrase, any fleeting resemblance and assigning it meaning.

Sweetheart.

It’s a common word. It doesn’t mean anything. Maybe Superman says it to everyone. Maybe he has a whole roster of soft pet names for dazed civilians. Maybe you’re the delusional one—sitting here wondering if your awkward, sweet, left-footed coworker moonlights as a god.

The idea is so absurd it actually makes you laugh. Quietly. Bitterly. Right into your carton of lo mein. You tell yourself to let it go. But you don’t.

You can’t. Because somewhere deep down, it doesn’t feel absurd at all. It feels… close. Like you’re brushing against the edge of something true. And if you get just a little closer—

You might fall right through it.

Clark pulls back after that. Subtly. Slowly. Like he’s dimming himself on purpose. He’s still there—still kind, still thoughtful, still Clark. But the rhythm changes.

The coffees stop appearing on your desk each morning. No more sticky notes with half-legible puns or awkward smiley faces. No more jokes under his breath during staff meetings. No more warm glances across the bullpen when you’re stuck late and your screen is giving you a headache.

His chair now sits just a little farther from yours in the layout room. Not enough to be obvious. Just enough to feel. You notice it the way you notice when the air shifts before a storm. Quiet. Inevitable.

Even his messages change. Once, his texts used to come with too many exclamation marks and a tendency to type out haha when he was nervous. Now they’re brief. Punctuated. Polite.

“Got your quote. Sending now.” “Perry said we’re cleared for page A3.” “Hope your meeting went okay.”

You reread them more than you should. Not because of what they say—but because of what they don’t. It feels like being ghosted by someone who still waves to you across the room.

You try to talk yourself down. Maybe he’s just busy. Maybe he’s stressed. Maybe you’ve been projecting. Maybe it’s not your admirer’s handwriting that matches his. Maybe it’s not his voice that slipped out of Superman’s mouth like a secret.

Maybe, maybe, maybe.

But the space he used to fill next to you… feels like a light that’s been quietly turned off. And you are the one still blinking against the dark.

And yet, one afternoon, someone in the bullpen makes a snide remark about your latest piece. You don’t even catch the beginning—just the tail end of it, lazy and smug.

“—basically just fluff, right? She’s been coasting lately.”

You’re about to ignore it. You’re tired. Too tired. And what’s the point in arguing with someone who thinks nuance is a liability?

But then—Clark speaks. Not from beside you, but from across the room. You’re not even sure how he could have possibly heard the guy talking across all the hustle and bustle of the bullpen. But his voice cuts through the noise like someone snapping a ruler against a desk.

“I just think her work actually matters, okay?”

Silence follows. Not because of the volume—he wasn’t loud. Just certain. Unflinching. Like he’d been holding it in. The words hang in the air, charged and too real.

Clark looks immediately horrified with himself. He goes red. Not a faint flush—crimson. Mouth parting like he wants to take it back but doesn’t know how. He tries to recover, to smooth it over—but nothing comes. Just a flustered shake of his head and a noise that might’ve been his name.

The other reporter stares. “…Okay, man. Chill.”

Clark mumbles something about grabbing a file from archives and practically stumbles for the hallway, papers clenched awkwardly in one hand like a shield.

You don’t follow. You just… sit there. Staring at the space he left behind. Because that moment—those words—it wasn’t just instinct. It wasn’t just kindness. It was him.

The way he said it. The emotion in it. The rhythm of it. It felt like the notes. Like the quiet encouragements tucked into the margins of your day. Like someone watching, quietly, gently, hoping you’ll see yourself the way they do.

You think about the phrases he’s used before.

“The line you cut in paragraph six was my favorite. About hope not being the same thing as naivety.” “Even whispers echo when they’re true.”

And now:

“Her work actually matters.”

All said like they were true, not convenient. All said like they were about you.

You start to notice more after that. The way Clark compliments your writing—always specific. Never lazy. The way his eyes crinkle when he’s proud of something you said, even when he doesn’t speak up. The way he turns the thermostat up exactly two degrees every time you bring your sweater into work. The way he walks a half-step behind you when you both leave late at night.

It’s not a confession. Not yet. But it’s a pattern. And once you start seeing it—

You can’t stop.

It’s a quiet afternoon in the bullpen. The kind where the overhead lights hum just loud enough to notice and everything smells like stale coffee and highlighter ink.

Clark’s sprawled in front of his monitor, sleeves rolled to his elbows, brow furrowed with the kind of intensity he usually saves for city zoning laws and double-checked citations. You’re helping him sort through quotes—most of which came from a reluctant press secretary and one very talkative dog walker who may or may not be a credible witness.

“Can you check the time stamp on the third transcript?” he asks, not looking up from his notes. “I think I messed it up when I formatted.”

You nod, flipping through the stack of papers he passed you earlier. That’s when you see it. Folded beneath the top printout, half-tucked into the margin of a city planning spreadsheet, is a different kind of note. A loose sheet, scribbled across in black ink. Not typed—written. Slanted lines. A few false starts crossed out.

At first, you think it’s a headline draft. A brainstorm. But the longer you stare, the more it reads like… something else.

“The city is loud today. Not just noise, but motion. Memory. The way people hum when they think no one’s listening.” “I can’t stop watching her move through it like she belongs to it. Like it belongs to her.”

You freeze. Your eyes track down the page slowly, like touching something sacred.

The letters are familiar. The lowercase y curls the same way as the one on your very first note—the one that came with your coffee. The ink is the same soft black, slightly smudged in the corners, like whoever wrote it holds the pen too tight when they’re thinking. The paper is the same notepad stock he’s used before. The same faint red line down the margin.

You don’t mean to do it, but your fingers curl around the page. Your chest goes tight. Because it’s not just similar.

It’s exact.

You hear him coming before you see him—those long, careful strides and the faint jangle of the lanyard he keeps forgetting to take off.

You tuck the paper into your notebook. Quick. Smooth. Automatic.

“Hey, sorry,” he says, rounding the corner with two mugs of tea and a slightly sheepish smile. “Printer’s jammed again. I may have made it worse.”

You nod. Too fast. You can’t quite make your voice work yet. Clark hands you your tea—just the way you like it, no comment—and sits across from you like nothing’s wrong. Like your whole world hasn’t tilted six degrees to the left.

He launches into a ramble about column widths and quote placement, about whether a serif font looks more “established” than sans serif.

You don’t hear a word of it. You just… watch him. The way he gestures too big with his hands. The way his glasses slip down his nose mid-sentence and he doesn’t bother to fix them until they’re practically falling off. The way his voice drops a little when he’s thinking hard—low and warm and utterly unselfconscious.

He has no idea you know. No idea what you just found.

You murmur something about needing to catch a meeting and excuse yourself early. He nods. Worries at his bottom lip like he’s debating whether to walk you out. Decides against it.

“Thanks for the help,” he says quietly, as you shoulder your bag. “Seriously. I couldn’t’ve done this draft without you.”

You give him a look you don’t quite know how to name. Something between thank you and I see you.

Then you go.

That night, you sit on your bedroom floor with the drawer open. Every note. Every folded scrap. Every secret tucked under your stapler or slid into your sleeve or left beside your coffee cup. You line them up in rows. You flatten them with careful hands. And you compare. One by one.

The loops. The lines. The uneven spacing. The curl of the r. The hush in every sentence, like he was writing them with his heart too close to the surface.

There’s no room for doubt anymore. It’s him. It’s been him this whole time.

Clark Kent.

And somehow—somehow—he’s still never said your name aloud when he writes about you. Not once. But every letter reads like a whisper of it. Like a promise waiting to be spoken.

The office is quiet by the time you find the nerve.

Desks are abandoned, chairs turned at angles, the windows dark with city glow. Outside, Metropolis hums in its usual low thrum—sirens and neon and distant jazz from a rooftop bar—but here, in the bullpen, it’s just the steady tick of the wall clock and the slow, careful steps you take toward his desk.

Clark doesn’t hear you at first. He’s bent over a red pen and a half-finished draft, glasses low on his nose, the curve of his back hunched the way it always is when he’s lost in edits. His tie is loosened. His sleeves are pushed up. There’s a smear of ink on his thumb. He looks soft in the way people do when they think no one’s watching.

You speak before you lose your nerve. “Why didn’t you just tell me?”

Clark startles. Not dramatically—just a sharp breath and a too-quick motion to sit upright, like a kid caught doodling in the margins. “I—what?”

You don’t let your voice shake. “That it was you. The notes. The park. All of it.”

He stares at you. Then down at his desk. Then back again. His mouth opens like it wants to offer a lie, but nothing comes out. Just silence. His fingers twitch toward the edge of the desk and stop there, curling into his palm.

“I—” he tries again, softer now, “—I didn’t think you knew.”

“I didn’t.” Your voice is gentle. But not easy. “Not at first. Not really. But then I saw that list on your desk and… I went home and checked the handwriting.”

He winces. “I knew I left that out somewhere.”

You cross your arms, not out of anger—more like self-protection. “You could’ve told me. At any point. I asked you.”

“I know.” He swallows hard. “I know. I wanted to. I… tried.”

You watch him. Wait.

And then he says it. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just the truth, raw and shaky and so Clark it nearly breaks you. “Because if I told you it was me… you might look at me different. Or worse… The same.”

You don’t know what to say to that. Not right away. Your heart clenches. Because it’s so him—to assume your affection could only live in the mystery. That the truth of him—soft, clumsy, brilliant, real—would somehow undo the magic.

“Clark…” you start, but your voice slips.

He rubs the back of his neck. “I’m just the guy who spills coffee on his own notes and forgets to refill the paper tray. You’re… you. You write like you’re on fire. You walk into a room and it listens. I didn’t think someone like you would ever want someone like me.”

You stare at him. Really stare. At the flushed cheeks. The nervous hands. The boyish smile he’s trying to bury under self-deprecation. And then you say it. “I saved every note.”

He blinks.

You keep going. “I read them when I felt invisible. When I thought no one gave a damn what I was doing here. They mattered.”

Clark’s breath catches. He opens his mouth. Closes it again. He takes a slow step forward, tentative. Like he’s afraid to break the spell. His eyes search yours, and for a moment—for a second so still it might as well last an hour—he leans in. Not close enough to kiss you. But almost. His hand brushes yours. He stops. The air is heavy between you, buzzing with something fragile and enormous. But it isn’t enough. Not yet.

You draw in a breath, quiet but steady. “Why didn’t you meet me?”

Clark goes still. You can see it happen—the way the question lands. The way he folds in on himself just slightly, like the truth is too heavy to hold upright.

“I…” He tries, but the word doesn’t land. His jaw flexes. His eyes drop to the floor, then back up. He wants to tell you. He almost does. But he can’t. Not without unraveling everything. Not without unraveling himself.

“I wanted to,” he says finally, voice rough at the edges. “More than anything.”

“But?” you press, gently.

He just looks at you and says nothing. You nod, slowly. The silence says enough. Your chest aches—not in a sharp, bitter way. In the dull, familiar way of something you already suspected being confirmed.

You glance down at where your hand still brushes his, then look back at him—really look. “I wish you’d told me,” you whisper. “I sat there thinking it was a joke. That I made it all up. That I was stupid for believing in any of it.”

“I know,” he murmurs. “And I’m sorry.”

Your throat tightens. You swallow past it. “I just… I need time. To process. To think.”

Clark’s eyes flicker—hope and heartbreak, all tangled up in one look. “Of course,” he says immediately. “Take whatever you need. I mean it.”

A beat passes before you say the part that makes his breath catch. “I’m happy it was you.”

He freezes.

You offer the smallest smile. “I wanted it to be you.”

And for the first time in minutes, something in his shoulders unknots. There’s a shift. Gentle. Quiet. His hand lingers near yours again, knuckles brushing. He doesn’t lean in. Doesn’t push.

But God, he wants to. And maybe… maybe you do too. The moment stretches, unspoken and warm and not quite ready to be anything more.

You both stay like that—close, not touching. Breathing the same charged air. Then he laughs under his breath. Nervous. Boyish.

“I’m probably gonna trip over something the second you walk away.”

You smile back. “Just recalibrate your ankles.”

He huffs out a laugh, head ducking. “I deserved that.”

You start to turn away. Just a little. But his voice stops you again—quiet, sincere, something earnest catching in it. “I’m really glad it was me, too.”

And your heart flutters all over again.

Lois is perched on the edge of your desk, a paper takeout box balanced on her knee, chopsticks waving in lazy circles while you pick at your own dinner with a little too much focus.

You haven’t told her everything. Not the everything everything. Not the way your heart nearly cracked open when Clark looked at you like you were made of starlight and library books. Not how close he got before pulling back. Not how you pulled back too, even though your whole body ached to close the distance.

But you have told her about the notes. About the mystery. About the strange tenderness of it all, how it wrapped around your days like a string you didn’t know you were following until it tugged. And Lois—Lois has been unusually quiet about it. Until now.

“I’m setting you up,” she says between bites, like she’s discussing filing taxes.

You blink. “What?”

“A date. Just one. Guy from the Features desk at the Tribune. You’ll like him. He’s taller than you, decent jawline, wears socks that match. He’s got strong opinions about punctuation, which I figure is basically foreplay for you.”

You stare at her. “You don’t even believe in setups.”

“I don’t,” she agrees. “But you’ve been spiraling in circles for weeks, and at this point, I either push you toward a date or stage an intervention with PowerPoint slides.”

You laugh despite yourself. “You have PowerPoint slides?”

“Of course not,” she scoffs. “I have a Google Doc.”

You roll your eyes. “Lois—”

“Listen,” she says, gentler now. “I know you’re in deep with whoever this guy is. And if it is Clark… well. I can see why.”

Your stomach flips.

“But maybe stepping outside of the Planet for two hours wouldn’t kill you. Let someone else flirt with you for once. Let yourself figure out what you actually want.”

You press your lips together. Look down at your barely-touched food.

“You don’t have to fall for him,” she adds, softly. “Just let yourself be seen.”

You exhale through your nose. “He better be cute.”

“Oh, he is. Total sweater vest energy.”

You snort. “So your type.”

“Exactly.” She lifts her takeout carton in a mock toast. “To emotionally compromised coworkers and their tragic love lives.”

You clink your chopsticks against hers like it’s the saddest champagne flute in the world. And later, when you’re getting ready, you still feel the weight of Clark’s almost-kiss behind your ribs. But you go anyway. Because Lois is right. You need to know what it is you’re choosing. Even if, deep down, you already do.

The date isn’t bad. That’s the most frustrating part. He’s nice. Polished in that media school kind of way—crisp shirt, clean shave, a practiced smile that belongs on a campaign poster. He compliments your bylines and talks about his dream of running an independent magazine one day. He orders the good whiskey and laughs at your jokes.

But it’s the wrong laugh. Off by a beat. The rhythm’s not right.

When he leans in, you don’t. When he talks, your thoughts drift—to mismatched socks and printer toner smudges. To how someone else always remembers your coffee order. To how someone else listens, not to respond, but to see.

You realize it halfway through the second drink. You’re thinking about Clark again.

The softness of him. The steadiness. The way he over-apologizes in texts but never hesitates when someone challenges your work. The way his voice tilts a little higher when he’s nervous. The way his laugh never lands in the right place, but somehow makes the whole room feel warmer.

You pull your coat tighter when you leave the restaurant, cheeks stinging from the wind and the slow unraveling of a night that should’ve meant something. It doesn’t. Not in the way that matters.

So you walk. You tell yourself you’re just passing by the Daily Planet. That maybe you left your notes there. That it’s just a habit, stopping in this late. But when you scan your ID badge and push through the heavy glass doors, you already know the truth. You’re hoping he’s still here.

And he is.

The bullpen is almost entirely dark, save for a single desk lamp casting gold across the layout section. He’s hunched over it—tie loosened, sleeves rolled up, shirt rumpled like he’s been pacing, thinking, rewriting. His glasses are folded beside him on the desk. His hair’s a mess—fingers clearly run through it too many times.

He rubs at his eyes with the heel of his palm, breathing out hard through his nose. You don’t say anything. You just… watch. It hits you in one perfect, unshakable moment. The slope of his shoulders. The cut of his jaw. The furrow in his brow when he’s thinking too hard.

He looks like Superman.

No glasses. No slouch. No excuses. But more than that—he looks like Clark. Like the man who learned your coffee order. Like the one who saves all his best edits for last so he can tell you in person how good your writing is. The one who panicked when you got too close to the truth, but couldn’t stop leaving notes anyway.

And when he finally lifts his head and sees you standing there—still in your coat, fingers tight around your notebook—you watch something shift in his expression. A flicker of surprise. Panic. Bare, open emotion. Because you’re seeing him without the glasses.

“Couldn’t sleep,” you murmur. “Thought I’d grab my notes.”

He smiles, slow and unsure. “You… left them by the scanner.”

You nod, like that matters. Like you came here for paper and not for him. Then you walk over, slow and deliberate, and retrieve your notes from the edge of the scanner beside him. He swallows hard, watching you.

Then clears his throat. “So… how was the date?”

You pause. “Fine,” you say. “He was nice. Funny. Smart.”

Clark nods, but you’re not finished.

“But when he laughed, it was the wrong rhythm. And when he spoke, I didn’t lean in.”

You meet his eyes—clear blue, unhidden now. “I made up my mind halfway through the second drink.” His lips part. Barely. You move to the edge of his desk and set your notebook down. Then—carefully, slowly—you pull out the chair beside his and sit. The air between you goes molten.

Clark leans in a little, eyes flicking to your mouth, then back to your eyes. One hand moves down, like he’s going to say something, but instead, he reaches for the leg of your chair—fingers curling around it. And pulls you toward him. The scrape of wood against tile echoes, loud and deliberate. Your thighs knock his. Your breath stutters.

He’s so close now you can feel the heat rolling off him. The weight of his gaze. Your heart hammers in your chest. And lower.

“Clark—” But you don’t finish because he meets you halfway. The kiss is fire and breath and years of want pressed between two mouths. His hands come up—one to your jaw, the other to the back of your head—and tilt your face just so. Fingers tangle in your hair, anchoring you to him like he’s afraid you might vanish.

You moan into his mouth. Soft. Surprised. He groans back. Rougher. You reach for his shirt blindly, fists curling in the cotton as he pulls you fully into his lap—into the chair with him, your legs straddling his thighs. His hands don’t know where to land. Your waist. Your thighs. Your face again.

“You’re it,” he whispers against your mouth. “You’ve always been it.”

You know he means it. Because you’ve seen it. In every note. Every glance. Every moment he looked at you like you were already his. And now, with your bodies tangled, mouths tasting each other, breathing the same heat—you finally believe it.

You don’t say it yet. But the way you kiss him again says it for you. You’re his. You always have been.

His hands roam, but never rush. Your fingers are tangled in his shirt, your knees pressing to either side of his hips, and you feel him—all of him—underneath you, solid and steady and shaking just slightly. The chair creaks with every breath you share. His mouth is still on yours, slow now, like he’s memorizing the shape of you. Like he’s afraid if he goes too fast, you’ll disappear again.

When he finally pulls back—just enough to breathe—it’s with a soft, reverent exhale. His nose brushes yours. “You’re really here,” he murmurs, voice hoarse. “God, you’re really here.”

You blink at him, your hands sliding to either side of his jaw, thumbs brushing the high flush of his cheeks. He looks so open. Like you’ve peeled back every layer of him with just a kiss. And maybe you have.

His lips find the edge of your jaw next, slow and aching. A kiss. Then another, just beneath your ear. Then one lower, along the soft skin of your neck. Each press of his mouth feels like a confession. Like something that was buried too long, finally given air.

“You don’t know,” he whispers. “You don’t know what it’s been like, watching you and not getting to—” Another kiss, right beneath your cheekbone. “I used to rehearse things I’d say to you, and then I’d get to work and you’d smile and I’d forget how to talk.”

A laugh huffs out of you, but it melts fast when he leans in again, his breath fanning warm across your skin. “I didn’t think I’d ever get this close. I didn’t think I’d get to touch you like this.”

You shift in his lap, chest brushing his, and his hands squeeze your waist gently like he’s grounding himself. His mouth finds your temple. Your cheek. The corner of your mouth again.

“You’re so—” he breaks off. Tries again. “You’re everything.” Your pulse thrums in your throat. Clark’s hands stay respectful, but they wander—curving up your back, smoothing over your shoulders, settling at your ribs like he wants to hold you together.

“I used to write those notes late at night,” he admits against your collarbone. “Didn’t even think you’d read them at first. But you did. You kept them.”

“I kept every one,” you whisper.

His breath catches. You tilt his face back up to yours, studying him in the low, golden light. His hair’s a little messy now from your fingers. His lips pink and kiss-swollen. His chest rising and falling like he’s just run a marathon. And still, even now—he’s looking at you like he’s the one who’s lucky.

Clark kisses you again—soft, like a promise. Then a trail of them, across your cheek, your jaw, your throat. Slow enough to make your skin shiver and your hips shift instinctively against his lap. He groans quietly at that—barely audible—but doesn’t press for more. He just holds you tighter.

“I’d wait forever for you,” he murmurs into your skin. “I don’t need anything else. Just this. Just you.” You bury your face in his shoulder, overwhelmed, heart pounding like a war drum. You don’t say anything back. You just press another kiss to his throat, and feel him smile where your mouth lands.

The city is quieter at night—its edges softened under streetlamp glow, concrete warming beneath the fading breath of the day. There’s a breeze that tugs gently at your coat as you and Clark walk side by side, your fingers still loosely laced with his. His hand is big. Warm. Rough in the places that tell stories. Gentle in the ways that say everything else.

Neither of you speaks at first. The silence isn’t awkward. It’s thick with something tender. Like a string strung tight between your ribs and his, humming with each shared step.

When he glances down at you, his smile is small and almost shy. “I can’t believe I didn’t knock over the chair,” he says after a few blocks, voice pitched low with laughter.

You grin. “You were close. I think my thigh is bruised.”

He groans. “Don’t say that—I’ll lose sleep.”

You look at him sidelong. “You weren’t going to sleep anyway.” That earns you a pink flush down the side of his neck, and you tuck that image away for safekeeping.

Your building looms closer, brick and ivy-wrapped and familiar in the soft hush of the hour. You slow as you reach the front step, turning to face him.

“Thank you,” you murmur. You don’t mean just for the walk.

He holds your hand a beat longer. Then, without a word, he lifts it—presses his lips to your knuckles. It’s soft. Reverent.

Your breath catches in your throat. And maybe that’s what breaks the spell—maybe that’s what makes it all too much and not enough at once—because the next second, you’re reaching. Or maybe he is. It doesn’t matter. He kisses you again—this time fuller, deeper—your back brushing against the door behind you, his other hand cradling your cheek like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he doesn’t hold you just right.

It doesn’t last long. Just long enough to taste the weight of what’s shifting between you. To feel it crest again in your chest.

When he finally pulls back, his lips hover a breath away from yours. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” he says softly.

You nod. You can’t quite say anything back yet. He gives your hand one last squeeze, then turns and disappears down the street, hands stuffed in his pockets, shoulders curved slightly inward like he’s holding in a smile he doesn’t know what to do with.

You unlock the door. Step inside. But you don’t go to bed right away. You walk to the front window instead—bare feet quiet on hardwood, heart still hammering. Through the glass, you spot him half a block away. He thinks you’re gone. Which is probably why, under the streetlight, Clark Kent jumps up and smacks the edge of a low-hanging banner like he’s testing his vertical. He catches it on the second try, swinging from it for all of two seconds before nearly tripping over his own feet.

You snort. Your hand presses against your mouth to muffle the sound. And then you smile. That kind of soft, aching smile that tugs at something deep in your chest. Because that’s him. That’s the man who writes you poems under the cover of anonymity and nearly breaks your chair kissing you in a newsroom.

That’s the one you wanted it to be. And now that it is—you don’t think your heart’s ever going to stop fluttering.

The bullpen is alive again. Phones ring. Keys clatter. Someone’s arguing over copy edits near the back printer, and Jimmy streaks past with a half-eaten bagel clamped between his teeth and a stack of photos fluttering behind him like confetti. It’s chaos.

But none of it touches you. The world moves at its usual speed, but everything inside you has slowed. Like someone turned the volume down on everything that isn’t him.

Your eyes find Clark without meaning to. He’s already at his desk—glasses on, shirt pressed, tie straighter than usual. He must’ve fixed it three times this morning. His sleeves are rolled to the elbow, a pen already tucked behind one ear. He’s doing that thing he does when he’s thinking—lip caught gently between his teeth, brows drawn, tapping the space bar like it owes him money.

But there’s a softness to him this morning, too. A looseness in his shoulders. A quiet sort of glow around the edges, like some part of him hasn’t fully come down from last night either. Like he’s still vibrating with the same electricity that’s still thrumming low behind your ribs.

And then he looks up. He finds you just as easily as you found him. You expect him to look away—bashful, flustered, maybe even embarrassed now that the newsroom lights are on and you’re both pretending not to be lit matches pretending not to burn.

But he doesn’t. He holds your gaze. And the quiet that opens up between you is louder than anything else in the building. The low hum of printers. The whirr of the HVAC. The hiss of steam from the office espresso machine.

You swallow hard. Then you look back at your screen like it matters. You try to focus. You really do.

Less than ten minutes later, he’s there. He approaches slow, like he’s afraid of breaking something delicate. His hand appears first, gently setting a familiar to-go cup on your desk.

“I figured you forgot yours,” he says, voice low.

You glance up at him. “I didn’t.”

A smile curls at the corner of his mouth. Soft. A little sheepish. “Oh. Well…” He shrugs. “Now you have two.”

You take the coffee anyway. Your fingers brush his as you do. He doesn’t pull away. Not this time. His hand lingers for half a second longer than it should—just enough to make your pulse jump in your wrist—and then slowly drops back to his side. The silence between you now isn’t awkward. It’s taut. Weightless. Like standing at the edge of something enormous, staring over the drop, and realizing he’s right there beside you—ready to jump too.

“Walk with me?” he asks, voice barely above the clatter around you. You nod. Because you’d follow him anywhere.

Downstairs, the building atrium hums with the low murmur of morning traffic and the soft shuffle of people cutting through the lobby on their way to bigger, faster things. But here—beneath the high, glass-paneled ceiling where sunlight pours in like gold through water—the city feels a little farther away. A little quieter. Just the two of you, caught in that hush between chaos and clarity.

Clark hands you a sugar packet without a word, and you take it, fingers brushing his again. He watches—not your hands, but your face—as you tear it open and shake it into your cup. Like memorizing the way you take your coffee might somehow tell him more than you’re ready to say aloud.

You glance at him, just in time to catch it—that look. Barely there, but soft. Full. He looks at you like he’s trying to learn you by heart.

You raise a brow. “What?”

He blinks, caught. “Nothing.”

But you’re smiling now, just a little. A private, corner-of-your-mouth kind of smile. “You look tired,” you murmur, stirring slowly.

His lips twitch. “Late night.”

“Editing from home?”

He hesitates. You watch the way his shoulders shift, the subtle catch in his breath. Then, finally, he shakes his head. “Not exactly.”

You hum. Say nothing more. The moment lingers, warm as the cup in your hand. He stands beside you, tall and still, but there’s something new in the way he holds himself—like gravity’s just a little lighter around him this morning. Like your presence pulls him into a softer orbit. There’s a beat of silence.

“You… seemed quiet last night,” he says, voice gentler now. “When you saw me.”

You glance at him from over the rim of your cup. Steam curls up between you, catching in the morning light like spun sugar. “I saw you,” you say.

He studies you. Carefully. “You sure?”

You lower your coffee. “Yeah. I’m sure.”

His brows pull together slightly, the line between them deepening. He’s trying to read you. Trying to solve an equation he’s too close to see clearly. There’s a question in his eyes—not just about last night, but about everything that came before it. The letters. The glances. The ache.

But you don’t give him the answer. Not out loud. Because what you don’t say hangs heavier than what you do. You don’t say: I’m pretty certain he’s you. You don’t say: I think my heart has known for a while now. You don’t say: I’m not afraid of what you’re hiding. Instead, you let the silence stretch between you—soft and silken, tethering you to something deeper than confession. You sip your coffee, heart steady now, eyes warm.

And when he opens his mouth again—when he leans forward like he might finally give himself away entirely—you smile. Just a soft curve of your lips. A quiet reassurance. “Don’t worry,” you say, voice low. “I liked what I saw.”

He freezes. Then flushes, color blooming high on his cheeks. His gaze drops to the floor like it’s safer there, like looking at you too long might unravel him completely—but when he glances back up, the smile on his face is small and helpless and utterly undone. A breath escapes him, barely audible—but you hear it. You feel it. Relief.

He walks you back upstairs without another word. The movement is easy. Comfortable. But his hand hovers near yours the whole time. Not quite touching. Just… there. Like gravity pulling two halves of the same secret closer.

And as you re-enter the hum of the bullpen, nothing looks different. But everything feels like it’s just about to change.

That night, after the city has quieted—after the neon pulse of Metropolis blurs into puddle reflections and distant sirens—the Daily Planet is almost reverent in its silence. No ringing phones. No newsroom chatter. Just the soft hum of a printer in standby mode and the creak of the elevator cables descending behind you.

You let yourself in with your keycard. The lock clicks louder than expected in the stillness. You don’t know why you’re here, really. You told yourself it was to grab the folder you forgot. To double-check something on your last draft. But the truth is quieter than that.

You were hoping he’d be here. He’s not. His desk lamp is off. His chair turned inward, as if he left in a hurry. No half-eaten sandwich or scribbled drafts left behind—just a tidied workspace and absence thick enough to feel.

You sigh, the sound swallowed whole by the vast emptiness of the bullpen. Then you see it. At your desk. Tucked half-under your keyboard like a secret trying not to be. One folded piece of paper.

No envelope this time. No clever line on the front. Just your name, handwritten in a looping scrawl you’ve come to know better than your own signature. A rhythm you’ve studied and traced in the quiet of your apartment, night after night.

You slide it free with careful fingers. Your heart stutters as you unfold it. The ink is darker this time—less tentative. The strokes more deliberate, like he knew, at last, he didn’t have to hide.

“For once I don’t have to imagine what it’s like to have your lips on mine. But I still think about it anyway.” —C.K.

You stare at the words until the paper goes soft in your hands. Until your chest feels too full and too fragile all at once. Until the noise of your own heartbeat drowns out everything else.

Then you press the note to your chest and close your eyes. His initials burn through the paper like a touch. Not a secret admirer anymore. Not a mystery in the margins. Just him.

Clark. Your friend. Your almost. Your maybe.

You don’t need the rest of the truth. Not tonight. Not if it costs this fragile thing blooming between you—this quiet, aching sweetness. This slow, deliberate unraveling of walls and fears and the long-held breath you didn’t realize you were holding.

Whatever you’re building together, it’s happening one heartbeat at a time. One almost-confession. One note left behind in the dark. And you’d rather have this—this steady climb into something real—than rush toward the edge of revelation and risk it all crumbling.

So you tuck the note gently into your bag, where the others wait. Every word he’s given you, kept safe like a promise. You don’t know what happens next. But for the first time in weeks, maybe months, you’re not afraid of finding out.

You’re not official.

Not in the way people expect it. There’s no label, no group announcement, no big display. But you’re definitely something now—something solid and golden and real in the space between words.

It’s not office gossip. Not yet. But it could be. Because you linger a little too long near his desk. Because he lights up when you enter a room like it’s instinct. Because when he passes you in the bullpen, his hand brushes yours—just barely—and you both pause like the air just changed. There’s no denying it.

And then comes the hallway kiss. It’s after hours. The building is quiet, the newsroom lights dimmed to half. You’re both walking toward the elevators, your footsteps echoing against the tile.

Clark fumbles for the call button, mumbling something about how slow the system is when it’s late, and how the elevator always seems to stall on the wrong floor. You don’t answer. You just reach for his tie. A gentle tug. A silent question. He exhales, soft and shaky. Then he leans in.

The kiss is slow. Unhurried. Like you’re both tasting something that’s been simmering between you for years. His hands find your waist, yours curl into his shirt, and the elevator dings somewhere in the distance, but neither of you move.

You part only when the second ding reminds you where you are. His forehead presses to yours, warm and close. You breathe the same air. And then the doors close behind you, and he walks you out with his hand ghosting the small of your back.

You start learning the rhythm of Clark Kent. He talks more when he’s nervous—little rambles about traffic patterns or article formatting, or how he’s still not entirely sure he installed his dishwasher correctly. Sometimes he trails off mid-thought, like he’s remembering something urgent but can’t explain it.

He always carries your groceries. All of them. No negotiation. He’ll take the heavier bags first, sling them both over one shoulder and pretend like it’s nothing. And somehow, he always forgets his own umbrella—but never forgets yours. You don’t know how many he owns, but one always appears when the clouds roll in. Like magic. Like preparation. Like he’s thought of you in every version of the day.

You don’t ask.

You just start to keep one in your own bag for him.

The third kiss happens on your couch.

You’ve been watching some old movie neither of you are paying attention to, his arm slung lazily across your shoulders. Your legs are tangled. His fingers are tracing idle shapes against your thigh through the fabric of your leggings.

He kisses you once—soft and slow—and then again. Longer. Like he’s memorizing the shape of your mouth. Like he might need it later.

Then his phone buzzes.

He stiffens.

You feel the change instantly—the way his body pulls back, the air between you tightens. He glances at the screen. You don’t catch the name. But you see the look in his eyes.

Regret. Apology. Something deeper.

“I—I’m so sorry,” he says, already moving. “I have to—something came up. It’s—”

You sit up, brushing your hand against his arm. “Go,” you say softly.

“But—”

“It’s okay. Just… be safe.”

And God, the way he looks at you. Like you’ve given him something priceless. Something he didn’t know he was allowed to want.

He kisses your temple like a promise and disappears into the night.

It happens again. And again.

Missed dinners. Sudden goodbyes. Rainy nights where he shows up soaked, out of breath, murmuring apologies and curling into you like he doesn’t know how to be held.

You never ask. You don’t need to.

Because he always comes back.

One night, you’re curled into each other on your couch, your legs thrown over his, your cheek resting against his chest. The movie’s playing, forgotten. Your fingers are idly brushing the hem of his shirt where it’s ridden up. He smells like rain and ink and whatever soap he always uses that lingers on your pillow now.

Then his voice, quiet in the dark, “I don’t always know how to be… enough.”

You blink. Look up. He’s staring at the ceiling. Not quite breathing evenly. Like the words cost him something.

You reach up and cradle his face in your hands.

His eyes finally meet yours.

“You are,” you whisper. “As you are.”

You don’t say: Even if you are who I think you are.

You don’t need to. You just kiss him again. Soft. Long. Steady. Because whatever he’s carrying, you’ve already started holding part of it too.

And he lets you.

The night starts quiet.

Takeout boxes sit half-forgotten on the coffee table—one still open, rice going cold, soy sauce packet untouched. Your legs are draped across Clark’s lap, one foot nudged against the curve of his thigh, and his hand rests there now. Not possessively. Not deliberately.

Just… there.

It’s late. The kind of late where the whole city softens. No sirens outside. No blinking inbox. Just the low hum of the lamp on the side table and the warmth of the man beside you.

Clark’s eyes are on you. They’ve been there most of the night.

He hasn’t said much since dinner—just little smiles, quiet sounds of agreement, the occasional brush of his thumb against your ankle like a thought he forgot to speak aloud. But it’s not a bad silence. It’s dense. Full.

You shift, angling toward him slightly, and his gaze flicks to your mouth. That’s all it takes.

He leans in.

The kiss is soft at first. Familiar. A shared breath. A quiet hello in a room where no one had spoken for minutes. But then his hand curls behind your knee, guiding your leg further over his lap, and his mouth opens against yours like he’s been holding back for hours.

He kisses you like he’s starving. Like he’s spent all day wanting this—aching for the shape of you, the weight of your body in his hands. And when you moan into it, just a little, he shudders.

His hands start to move. One tracing the line of your spine, the other resting against your hip like a question he doesn’t need to ask. You answer anyway—pressing in closer, threading your fingers through his hair, sighing into the heat of his mouth.

You don’t know who climbs into whose lap first, only that you end up straddling him on the couch. Your knees on either side of his thighs. His hands gripping your waist now, fingers curling in your shirt like he doesn’t trust himself not to break it.

And then something shifts.

Not emotional—physical.

Clark stands.

He lifts you with him, effortlessly, like you don’t weigh anything at all. Not a grunt. Not a stagger. Just—up. Smooth and sure. His mouth never leaves yours.

You gasp into the kiss as he walks you backwards, steps confident and fast despite the way your arms tighten around his shoulders. Your spine meets the wall in the next second. Not hard. Just sudden.

Your heart thunders.

“Clark—”

He doesn’t answer. Just breathes against your mouth like he needs the oxygen from your lungs. Like yours is the only air that keeps him grounded.

His hips press into yours, one thigh sliding between your legs, and your back arches instinctively. His hands span your ribs now, thumbs brushing just beneath your bra. You feel the tremble in them—not from fear. From restraint.

“Clark,” you whisper again, and his forehead drops to yours.

“You okay?” he asks, voice rough and close.

You nod, breath catching. “You?”

He hesitates. Not long. But long enough to count. “Yeah. Just… feel a little off tonight.”

You pull back just enough to look at him.

He’s flushed. Eyes darker than usual. But not winded. Not breathless. Not anything like you are. His chest doesn’t even rise fast beneath your hands. Still, he smiles—like he can will the oddness away—and kisses you again. Deeper this time. Like distraction.

Like he doesn’t want to stop.

You don’t want him to either.

Not yet.

His mouth finds yours again—slower this time, more purposeful. Like he’s savoring it. Like he’s waited for this exact moment, this exact pressure of your hips against his, for longer than he’s willing to admit.

You gasp when his hands slide under your shirt, palms broad and steady, dragging upward in a path that sets every nerve on fire. He doesn’t fumble. Doesn’t rush. Just explores—like he’s memorizing, not taking.

“Can I?” he murmurs against your mouth, fingers brushing the underside of your bra.

You nod, breathless. “Yes.”

He exhales, soft and reverent, and lifts your shirt over your head. It’s discarded without ceremony. Then his hands are on you again—warm, slow, mapping out the shape of you with open palms and patient awe.

“God, you’re beautiful,” he murmurs, more breath than voice. His mouth finds the edge of your jaw, trailing kisses down to the hollow beneath your ear. “I think about this… so much.”

You shudder.

His hands move again—down this time, gripping your thighs as he sinks to his knees in front of you. You barely have time to react before he’s tugging your pants down, slow and careful, mouth following the descent with lingering kisses along your hips, the dip of your pelvis, the inside of your thigh.

He looks up at you from the floor.

You nearly forget how to breathe.

“I’ve wanted to take my time with you,” he admits, voice rough and low. “Wanted to learn you slow. Learn how you taste. How you fall apart.”

And then he does.

He leans in and licks a long, deliberate stripe over the center of your underwear, still watching your face.

You whimper.

He smiles, just slightly, and does it again.

By the time he peels your underwear down and presses an open-mouthed kiss to your inner thigh, your knees are trembling.

Clark hooks one arm under your leg, lifting it over his shoulder like it’s nothing, and buries his mouth between your thighs with a groan that rattles through your whole body.

His tongue is warm and soft and maddeningly slow—circling, tasting, teasing. He doesn’t rush. Not even when your fingers knot in his hair and your hips rock forward with pure desperation.

“Clark—”

He hums against you, and the sound sends a full-body shiver up your spine.

“I’ve got you,” he whispers, lips brushing you as he speaks. “Let me.”

You do.

You let him wreck you.

He’s methodical about it—like he’s following a map only he can see. One hand holding you steady, the other splayed against your stomach, keeping you anchored while he works you open with mouth and tongue and quiet, praising murmurs.

“So sweet… that’s it, sweetheart… you taste like heaven.”

You’re already close when he slips a thick finger inside you. Then another. Slow, patient, curling exactly where you need him. His mouth never stops. His rhythm is steady. Focused. Unrelenting.

You come like that—panting, gripping his shoulders, thighs shaking around his ears as he groans and keeps going, riding it out with you until you’re trembling too hard to stand.

He rises slowly.

His lips are slick. His eyes are dark.

And you’ve never seen anyone look at you like this.

“Come here,” you whisper.

He kisses you then—deep and possessive and tasting like you. You’re the one tugging at his shirt now, unbuttoning in frantic clumsy swipes. You need him. Need him closer. Need him inside.

But when you reach for his belt, he stills your hands gently.

“Not yet,” he says, voice like thunder wrapped in velvet. “Let me take care of you first.”

You blink. “Clark, I—”

He kisses you again—soft, lingering.

“I’ve waited too long for this to rush it,” he murmurs, brushing hair from your face with the back of his knuckles. “You deserve slow.”

Then he lifts you again—like you weigh nothing—and carries you to the bed. He lays you down like you’re fragile—but the look in his eyes says he knows you’re anything but. That you’re something rare. Something he’s been aching for. His palms skim over your thighs again, slow and deliberate, before he spreads you open beneath him.

He doesn’t ask this time. Just settles between your legs like he belongs there, arms hooked under your thighs, holding you wide.

“Clark—”

“I know, sweetheart,” he murmurs, voice low and raw. “I’ve got you.”

And he does.

His mouth finds you again—warm, skilled, confident now. No hesitation, just long, wet strokes of his tongue that build on everything he already learned. And then—without warning—he slides two fingers back inside you.

You cry out, hips jolting.

He groans into you, fingers moving in tandem with his mouth—curling just right, matching every flick of his tongue, every wet press of his lips. He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t falter. He watches you the whole time, eyes dark and hungry and so in love with the way you fall apart for him.

You grip the sheets, gasping his name, over and over, until your voice breaks on a sob of pleasure.

“Clark—God, I—I can’t—”

“Yes, you can,” he breathes. “You’re almost there. Let go for me.”

You do. With a cry, with shaking thighs, with your fingers tangled in his hair and your back arching off the bed.

And he doesn’t stop.

He rides your orgasm out with slow, worshipful strokes, kissing your thighs, murmuring into your skin, “So good for me. You’re perfect. You’re everything.”

By the time he pulls back, you’re boneless—dazed and trembling, your chest heaving as he kisses his way up your stomach.

But the way he looks at you then—like he needs to be closer—tells you this isn’t over.

His hands brace on either side of your head as he leans over you. “Can I…?”

Your hips answer for you—tilting up, chasing the heat and weight of him already pressed between your thighs.

“Yes,” you whisper. “Please.”

Clark groans low in his throat as he pushes his boxers down just enough, lining himself up—his cock flushed and thick, already leaking, and you feel the weight of him between your thighs and gasp.

“God, Clark…”

“I know,” he murmurs, forehead resting against yours, hips rocking forward just barely, teasing you with the head of his cock, dragging it through the slick mess he made with his mouth and fingers. “I know, baby. Just—just let me…”

He nudges in slow.

The stretch is slow and steady, his breath catching as your body parts for him. He’s thick. Too thick, maybe, except your body wants him—takes him like it was made to.

You whimper, and his jaw clenches tight.

“You okay?”

“Y—yeah,” you breathe. “Don’t stop.”

He doesn’t. Not even for a second. Inch by inch, he sinks into you, whispering your name, kissing your temple, gripping the backs of your thighs as you wrap your legs around his waist.

“Fuck,” he hisses when he bottoms out, buried deep, balls pressed flush against you. “You feel—Jesus, you feel unbelievable.”

You’re too far gone to answer. You just cling to him, nails dragging lightly down his back, moaning into his mouth when he kisses you again.

The first few thrusts are slow. Deep. Measured. He pulls out just enough to feel you grip him on the way back in, then does it again—and again—and again.

And then something shifts.

Your body clenches around him in a way that makes his head drop to your shoulder with a groan.

“Oh my god, sweetheart—don’t do that—I’m gonna—fuck—”

He thrusts harder.

Not rough, not yet, but firmer. Hungrier. The control he started with begins to slip. You can feel it in his grip, in the sharp edge of his breath, in the tremble of the arm braced beside your head.

“Been thinkin’ about this,” he grits out, voice low and wrecked. “Every night—every goddamn night since the first note. You don’t even know what you do to me.”

You whine, rolling your hips up to meet him, and he snaps—hips slamming forward hard enough to punch the air from your lungs.

“Clark—”

“I’ve got you,” he gasps, fucking into you harder now, his voice filthy and tender all at once. “I’ve got you, baby—so fuckin’ tight—can’t stop—don’t wanna stop—”

You’re clinging to him now, crying out with every thrust. It’s not just the way he fills you—it’s the way he worships you while he does it. The way he moans when you clench. The way he growls your name like a prayer. The way he falls apart in real time, just from the feel of you.

He grabs one of your hands, laces your fingers with his, pins it beside your head.

“You’re mine,” he grits. “You have to be mine.”

“Yes,” you gasp. “Yes—Clark—don’t stop—”

“Never,” he groans. “Never stopping. Not when you feel like this—fuck—”

You can feel him getting close—the way his rhythm starts to stutter, the broken sounds escaping his throat, the way he buries his face against your neck and pants your name like he’s desperate to take you with him.

And you’re almost there too.

You don’t even realize your hand is slipping until he’s gripping it again—pinned tight to the pillow, your fingers laced in his and clenched so tight it aches. The bed frame is starting to shudder beneath you now, the headboard knocking a rhythm into the wall, and Clark is gasping like he’s in pain from how good it feels.

His hips snap forward again—harder this time. Deeper. More desperate.

“Fuck—fuck—I’m sorry,” he grits, voice ragged and thick, “I’m trying to—baby—I can’t—hold back—”

You moan so loud it makes him flinch.

And then he breaks.

One second he’s pulling your name from his lungs like it’s the only word he knows—and the next, he slams into you so hard the bed shifts a full inch. The lamp on the bedside table flickers. The candle flame bursts just slightly higher than before—flickering hot and fast, the wick blackening with a thin curl of smoke. It doesn’t go out. It just burns.

Clark’s back arches.

His cock drags over everything inside you in just the right way, hitting that spot again and again until you’re clutching at his shoulders, babbling nonsense against his skin.

“I can’t—I can’t—Clark!”

“You can,” he pants. “Please—please, baby, cum with me—I can feel you—I can feel it.”

Your body goes taut.

A white-hot snap of pleasure punches through your spine, and your vision blacks out at the edges. You tighten around him—clenching, pulsing, dragging him over the edge with you—and he loses it.

Clark curses—actually curses—and growls something between a moan and a sob as he slams into you one last time, spilling deep inside you. His body locks, every muscle trembling. His teeth scrape the soft skin of your throat—not biting, just grounding himself. Like if he lets go, he’ll come undone completely.

The lights flicker again.

The candle sputters once and steadies.

He breathes like a man starved. His chest heaves. But you can feel it—under your hand, against your skin. His heart’s not racing.

Not like it should be.

You’re gasping. Dazed. Boneless under him. But Clark… Clark’s barely even winded. And yet—his hands are trembling. Just slightly. Still laced in yours. Still holding on.

After, you lie there—chests pressed close, legs tangled, the sheets barely clinging to your hips.

Clark’s arm is slung across your waist, palm wide and warm over your belly like it belongs there. Like he doesn’t ever want to move. His nose is tucked against your temple, breath stirring your hair in soft little pulses. He keeps kissing you. Your cheek. Your jaw. The edge of your brow. He doesn’t stop, like he’s afraid this is a dream and kissing you might anchor it in place.

“Still with me?” he whispers into your skin.

You nod. Drowsy. Sated. Floating.

“Good.” His hand runs down your side in one long, reverent stroke. “Didn’t mean to… get so carried away.”

You hum. “You say that like I didn’t enjoy every second.”

He smiles against your neck. You feel the curve of it, his lips brushing the shell of your ear.

A moment passes.

Then another.

“I think you short-circuited my bedside lamp somehow.”

Clark freezes. “…Did I?”

You roll your head to look at him. “It flickered. Right as you—”

His ears turn bright red. “Maybe just… a power surge?”

You arch a brow. “Right. A romantic, orgasm-timed power surge.”

He mutters something into your shoulder that sounds vaguely like kill me now.

You grin. File it away.

Exhibit 7: Lightbulb went dim at the exact second he came. Candle flame doubled in height.

Later that night, long after you’ve both dozed off, you wake to find Clark still holding you. One of his hands is under your shirt, splayed low across your stomach. Protective. Possessive in the gentlest way. His body is still curled around yours like a question mark, like he’s checking for all your answers in how your breath rises and falls.

You shift just slightly—and his grip tightens instinctively, like even in sleep, he can’t let go.

Exhibit 8: He doesn’t sleep like a person. Sleeps like a sentry.

In the morning, you wake to the scent of coffee.

Your kitchen is suspiciously spotless for someone who swears he’s clumsy. The pot is full, the mugs pre-warmed, your favorite creamer already swirled in.

Clark is flipping pancakes.

Barefoot.

Wearing one of your sleep shirts. The tight one.

You lean against the doorframe, watching him. His back muscles flex when he flips the pan one-handed.

“Morning,” he says without turning.

You blink. “How’d you know I was standing here?”

“I, uh…” He falters, then gestures at the sizzling pan. “Heard footsteps. I assumed.”

You hum.

Exhibit 9: He heard me from across the apartment, over the sound of a frying pan.

You’re brushing your teeth later when you spot the mirror fogged from the shower.

You reach for a towel—and notice it’s already been run under warm water.

You glance at him, and he just shrugs. “Figured you’d want it not freezing.”

“Figured?” you repeat.

He leans against the doorframe, smiling. “Lucky guess.”

You don’t respond. Just kiss his cheek with toothpaste still in your mouth.

Exhibit 10: He always guesses exactly what I need. Down to the second.

That night, he falls asleep on your couch during movie night, head on your thigh, hand around your wrist like a lifeline.

You swear you see the movie reflected in his eyes—like the light isn’t just hitting them but moving inside them. You blink. It’s gone.

You look down at him. His lashes are impossibly long. His mouth is parted. His breathing is steady—but not quite… human. Too even. Too perfect.

Exhibit 11: His pupils did a thing. I don’t know how to describe it. But they did a thing.

The next day, a car splashes a wave of slush toward you both on the sidewalk.

You brace for impact.

But Clark steps in front of you, faster than you can blink. The water hits him. Not you.

You didn’t even see him move.

You narrow your eyes. He just smiles. “Reflexes.”

“Clark. Be honest. Do you secretly run marathons at night?”

He laughs. “Nope. Just really hate laundry.”

Exhibit 12: Literally teleported into the splash zone to shield me. Probably didn’t even get wet.

And still… you don’t say it.

You don’t ask.

Because he’s not just some blur of strength or spectacle.

He’s the man who folds your laundry while pretending it’s because he’s “bad at relaxing.” Who scribbles notes in the margins of your drafts, calling your metaphors “dangerously good.” Who kisses your forehead with a kind of reverence like you’re the one who’s unreal.

You know.

And he knows you know.

Because he’s hiding it from you. Not really.

When he stumbles over his own sentences, when his smile falters after a late return, when his jaw tenses at the sound of your name whispered too softly—you don’t see evasion. You see weight. You see care.

He’s protecting something.

And you’re trying to figure out how to tell him that you already know. That it’s okay. That you’re still here. That you love him anyway.

You haven’t said it yet—not the knowing, not the loving. But it lives just under your skin. A second heartbeat. A full body truth. You think maybe, if you just look him in the eye long enough next time, he’ll understand.

But still neither of you says it yet. Because the space between what’s said and unsaid—that’s where everything soft lives.

And you’re not ready to let it go.

The morning feels ordinary.

There’s a crack in the coffee pot. A printer jam. Perry yelling something about deadlines from his office. Jimmy’s camera bag spills open across your desk, and he swears he’ll fix it after his coffee, and Lois is pacing, muttering about sources.

And then the screens change.

It’s subtle at first—just a flicker. Then the feed cuts mid-commercial. Every monitor in the bullpen goes black, then red. Emergency alert. A shrill tone splits the air. Someone turns up the volume.

You look up.

And everything shifts.

The broadcast blares through the newsroom speakers, raw footage streaming in from a local news chopper.

Metropolis. Midtown. Chaos. A building half-collapsed. Smoke curling upward in a thick, unnatural spiral.

The camera jolts—and then there he is.

Superman.

Thrown through a brick wall.

You feel it in your bones before your brain catches up. That’s him. That’s Clark.

He’s on his knees in the wreckage, panting, bleeding—from his temple, from his ribs, from a gash you can’t see the end of. The suit is torn. His cape is shredded. He’s never looked so human.

He tries to stand. Wobbles. Collapses.

You stop breathing.

“Is Superman going to be ok?” someone behind you murmurs.

“Jesus,” Jimmy whispers.

“He’ll be fine,” Lois says, too casually. She leans back in her chair, sipping her coffee like it’s any other news cycle. “He always is.”

You want to scream. Because that’s not a story on a screen. That’s not some distant, untouchable god.

That’s your boyfriend.

That’s the man who brought you coffee this morning with one sugar and just the right amount of cream. The man who kissed your wrist in the elevator, whose hands trembled when he whispered I want to be enough. Who holds you like you’re something holy and bruises like he’s made of skin after all.

He’s not fine. He’s bleeding.

He’s not getting up.

You freeze.

The bullpen keeps moving around you—half-aware, half-horrified—but you can’t speak. Can’t blink. Can’t breathe.

Your hands start to shake.

You grip the edge of your desk like it might anchor you to the floor, like if you let go you’ll run straight out the door, out into the chaos, toward the wreckage and the fire and the thing trying to kill him.

A part of you already has.

A hit lands on the feed—something massive slamming him into the pavement—and your knees almost buckle from the force of it. Not physically. Not really. But somewhere deep. Something inside you fractures.

You don’t know what the enemy is.

Alien, maybe. Or worse.

But it’s not the shape of the thing that terrifies you—it’s him. It’s how slow he is to get up. How much his mouth is bleeding. How his eyes are unfocused. How you’ve never seen him look like this.

You want to run.

You want to be there.

But you’re not. You’re here. In your dress pants and button-up, in your neat little office chair, with your badge clipped to your hip and your heart breaking quietly.

Because no one else knows. No one else understands what’s really at stake. No one else sees the man behind the cape.

Not like you do.

Your vision blurs.

You wipe your eyes. Pretend it’s nothing. The bullpen is too loud to hear your breath catch.

But still—your hands tremble and your heart pounds so violently it hurts.

And you cry.

Quietly.

You cry like the city might if it could feel. You cry like the sky should. You cry like someone already grieving—like someone who knows what it means to lose him.

The footage won’t stop. Superman reels across the screen—his suit torn, the shoulder scorched through in a blackened, jagged arc. Blood smears the corner of his mouth. There’s a limp in his gait now, one he keeps trying to mask. The camera catches it anyway.

The newsroom is silent now save for the hiss of static and the low voice of the anchor describing the damage downtown.

You sit frozen at your desk, the plastic edge biting into your palms as you grip it like it might stop your body from unraveling. The taste of bile has settled at the back of your throat. Your coffee’s gone cold in its cup.

Across the bullpen, someone mutters, “Jesus. He took a hit.”

“Look at the suit,” Lois says flatly, standing by one of the screens. “He’s never looked that rough before.”

“Dude’s limping,” Jimmy adds, pushing his glasses up. “That alien thing—what even was that?”

Their words feel like background noise. Distant. Warped. You can’t seem to hear anything over the white-hot panic blistering in your chest.

You blink, your eyes burning, throat tight. You can’t just sit here and cry. Not in front of Lois and Perry and half the bullpen. But your body is trembling anyway. You clench your hands in your lap, nails digging crescent moons into your skin.

He’s hurt.

And he’s still out there.

Fighting.

Alone.

You can’t just sit here.

You shove your chair back hard enough that it scrapes against the floor. “I’m going.”

Lois turns toward you. “Going where?”

“I’m covering it. The attack. The fallout. Whatever’s left—I want to see it firsthand.”

Lois’s brow lifts. “Since when do you make reckless calls like this?”

“I don’t,” you snap, already grabbing your coat. “But I am now.”

Jimmy’s already halfway to the door. “If we’re going, I’m bringing the camera.”

Lois hesitates. Then sighs. “Hell. You two’ll get yourselves killed without me.”

You don’t wait for her to finish grabbing her phone. You’re already out the door.

Downtown is a war zone.

The smell of scorched concrete clings to the air. Smoke spirals in uneven plumes from the carcass of a building that must have been beautiful once. Sirens scream in every direction, red and blue lights flashing off every pane of shattered glass.

You arrive just as the dust begins to settle.

The battle is over but the wreckage tells you how bad it was.

The Justice Gang moves through the remains like figures out of a dream—tattered and bloodied, but upright.

Guy Gardner limps past, muttering curses. “Next time, I’m bringing a bigger damn ring.” Kendra Saunders—Hawkgirl—has one wing half-folded and streaked with blood. She ignores it as she checks on a paramedic’s bandages. Mr. Terrific is already coordinating with local emergency crews, directing flow with a hand to his ear. And Metamorpho—God, he looks like he’s melting and re-solidifying with every breath.

And then…

Him.

He descends from the smoke. Not in a blur. Not with a boom of sonic air. Slowly. Controlled.

But not untouched.

He lands in a crouch, shoulders tight, the line of his jaw drawn sharp with tension. His boots crunch against broken concrete. His cape is torn at one edge, flapping limply behind him.

He’s hurt.

He’s so clearly hurt.

And even through all of it—through the dirt and blood and pain—he sees you. His eyes lock onto yours in an instant. The rest of the world falls away. There’s no press. No chaos. No destruction.

Just him.

And you.

The corner of his mouth lifts—just a flicker. Not a smile. Just… recognition.

And something deeper behind it.

You know know.

And he is letting you know.

But he straightens a second later, lifting his chin, slotting the mask back into place like a practiced motion. He squares his shoulders, winces barely perceptible, and turns to face the press.

Lois is already stepping forward, questions in hand. “Superman. What can you tell us about the enemy?”

His voice is steady, but you can hear it now—hear the strain. The breath that doesn’t quite come easy. The syllables that drag like they’re fighting his tongue. “It wasn’t local,” he says. “Some kind of dimensional breach. We had help closing it.”

Jimmy’s camera clicks. Kendra coughs into her hand.

You’re not writing.

You’re just watching.

Watching the soot along his cheekbone. The split in his lip. The way he shifts his weight to favor one side. The way the “s” in “justice” drags like it hurts to say.

He looks tired.

But more than that—he looks like Clark.

And it’s never been more obvious than right now, standing under broken sky, trying to pretend like nothing’s changed.

You want to run to him. You want to hold him up.

But you stay rooted.

When the questions start to slow and the press begins murmuring among themselves, he glances over. Just at you.

“Are you okay?” he asks, barely audible.

You nod. “Are you?”

He hesitates. Then says, “Getting there.”

It’s not a performance. Not for them. Just for you.

You nod again. The look you share says more than anything else could.

I know.

I’m not leaving.

You don’t have to say it.

When he flies away—slower this time, one hand brushing briefly against his ribs—it’s not dramatic. There’s no sonic boom. No heat trail. Just wind and distance.

Lois exhales. “He looked rough.”

Jimmy nods. “Still hot, though.”

You say nothing. You just stare up at the empty sky. And press your shaking hand over your heart.

You fake calm.

You smile when Jimmy slaps your shoulder and says something about getting the footage up by morning. You nod through Lois’s sharp-eyed stare and mutter something about your deadline, your byline, your blood sugar—anything to get her to stop watching you like she knows what you’re not saying.

But the second you’re alone?

You run. It’s not a sprint, not really. Just that jittery, full-body urgency—the kind that makes your hands shake and your legs move faster than your thoughts can follow. You don’t remember the trip home. Just the chaos of your own pulse, the way your chest won’t stop aching.

You replay the scene again and again in your mind: his landing, the blood on his lip, the flicker of pain when he looked at you. That not-quite smile. That nearly imperceptible tremble.

You’d never wanted to hold someone more in your life.

And when you reach your door, keys fumbling, heart still hammering? He’s already there.

You pause halfway through the doorway.

He’s standing in your living room, like he’s been waiting hours. He’s not in the suit. No cape. No crest. Just a plain black T-shirt and flannel pajama pants, his hair still damp like he just showered.

He looks like Clark. Except… tonight you know there’s no difference.

“Hi,” he says quietly. His voice is soft. Familiar. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

You blink. “Did you break through my patio door?”

He winces. “Yes. Sort of.”

You lift a brow. “You owe me a new lock.”

“It doesn’t work like that.” He says with a roll of his eyes.

A silence stretches between you. It’s not tense. Not angry. Just full of everything neither of you said earlier.

He takes a step toward you, then stops. “How long have you known?”

You drop your keys in the bowl by the door and toe off your shoes before answering. “Since the lamp. And the candle,” you say. “But… mostly tonight.”

He nods like that hurts. Like he wishes he could’ve done better. Like he wishes he could’ve told you in some perfect, movie-moment way.

“I didn’t want you to find out like that,” he says quietly.

You walk to the couch and sit, your limbs finally catching up to the adrenaline crash still sweeping through you. “I’m glad I found out at all.”

That’s what makes him move. He sinks down beside you, hands on his knees. You can see it in his profile—the exhaustion, the regret, the weight he’s been carrying for so long. You’re not sure he’s ever looked more human.

“I’ve been hiding so long,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. “I forgot how to be seen. And with you… I didn’t want to lie. But I didn’t want to lose it either. I didn’t want to lose you.”

Your throat tightens. “You won’t,” you say. And you mean it.

His head turns then, slowly, eyes meeting yours like he’s trying to memorize your face from this distance. You don’t look away.

When he kisses you, it’s not careful. It’s not shy. It’s like something breaks open inside him—softly. The dam finally giving way.

His hands cradle your face like you’re something he’s terrified to shatter but needs to feel. His mouth is hot and open, reverent, desperate in the way it deepens. He kisses like he’s anchoring himself to the earth through your lips. Like everything in him is still shaking from battle and you’re the only thing that still feels real.

You reach for him. Thread your fingers into his hair. Pull him closer.

It builds like a slow swell—hands tangling, breathing harder, heat coiling low in your stomach. He pushes you back gently against the cushions, his body moving over yours with careful precision. Not to pin. Just to hold.

You feel it in every motion: the restraint. The effort. He could crush steel and he’s using that strength to cradle your ribs.

He undresses you with reverence. His fingers tremble when they touch your bare skin. Not from hesitation—but because he’s finally allowed to want. To have. To be seen.

You undress him too. That soft black T-shirt comes off first. Then the flannel. His chest is mottled with bruises, a dark one blooming across his side where that alien creature must’ve hit him. Your fingertips trace the edge of it.

He exhales, shaky. But he doesn’t stop you.

You’re straddling his lap before you realize it, chest to chest, foreheads pressed together.

“Are you scared?” he whispers.

Your thumb brushes his cheek. “Never of you.”

He kisses you again—slower this time. More control, but more depth too. His hands glide down your back and settle at your hips, thumbs pressing into your skin like he needs the reminder that you’re here. That you chose this.

The rest unfolds like prayer. The way he touches you—thorough, patient, hungry—it’s worship. Every gasp you make pulls a soft, broken sound from his throat. Every arch of your back makes his eyes flutter shut like he’s overwhelmed by the sight of you. The way he moves inside you is deep and aching and full of something larger than either of you.

Not rough. But desperate. Raw. True.

And even when he falters—when his hands grip too tight or the air warms just a little too fast—you hold his face and whisper, “I know. It’s okay. I want all of you.” And he gives it. All of him. Until the only thing either of you can do is fall apart. Together.

Later, when you’re curled up on the couch in a tangle of limbs and quiet breathing, he rests his forehead against your temple.

The city buzzes somewhere far away.

He whispers into your skin: “Next time… don’t let me fly off like that.”

Your smile is soft, tired. “Next time, come straight to me.”

He nods, eyes already fluttering shut.

And finally, for the first time since this began—you both sleep without secrets between you.

You wake to sunlight. Not loud, not harsh—just soft beams slipping through the blinds, spilling across the floor, warming the space where your bare shoulder meets the sheets. You blink slowly, the weight of sleep still thick behind your eyes, and shift just slightly in the tangle of limbs wrapped around you. He doesn’t stir. Not even a little.

Clark is still curled around you like the night never ended—his chest at your back, legs tangled with yours, one arm snug around your waist and the other folded up against your ribs, fingers resting over your heart like he’s guarding it in his sleep.

You don’t move. You can’t. Because it’s perfect. You let your cheek rest against his arm, warm and solid beneath you, and you just listen—to the steady rhythm of his heart, to the rise and fall of his breathing, to the way the silence doesn’t feel empty anymore. You don’t know if you’ve ever felt more grounded than you do right now, held like this. It isn’t the cape. It isn’t the flight. It isn’t the power that quiets the noise in your chest.

It’s him. Just Clark. And for once, you don’t need anything else.

He stumbles into the kitchen half an hour later in your robe. Your actual, honest-to-god, fuzzy gray robe. It’s oversized on you, which means it fits him like a second skin—belt tied loose at the hips, collar gaping just enough to make you lose your train of thought. His hair is a mess, sticking up in soft black tufts. His glasses are nowhere to be found. He scratches the back of his neck, blinking at the cabinets like he’s not entirely sure how kitchens work.

You lean against the counter with your arms folded, watching him with open amusement. “You own too much flannel.”

Clark glances over, eyes squinting against the light. “I’ll have you know, that robe is a Metropolis winter essential.”

“You’re bulletproof.”

“I get cold emotionally.”

You snort. “You’re such a menace in the morning.”

“And yet,” he says, opening the fridge and retrieving eggs with the careful precision of someone who’s clearly trying not to break them with super strength, “you let me stay.”

You grin. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”

He burns the first pancake. Which is honestly impressive, considering you weren’t even sure it was physically possible for someone with super speed and heat vision to ruin breakfast. But he flips it too fast—like way too fast—and the thing launches halfway across the skillet before folding in on itself and sizzling dramatically.

You raise an eyebrow. Clark stares down at the pancake like it betrayed him. “I didn’t account for surface tension.”

“Did you just say ‘surface tension’ while making pancakes?”

“I’m a complex man,” he says solemnly.

You lean over and pluck a piece of fruit from the cutting board he forgot he was slicing. “You’re a menace and a dork.”

He pouts. Full, actual pout. Then shuffles over and kisses your shoulder. “I’ll get better with practice.”

You roll your eyes. But your skin’s still buzzing where his lips brushed it.

Later, you sit on the counter while he stands between your knees, coffee in one hand, the other resting warm on your thigh. It’s quiet. Not awkward or forced—just soft. Full of little glances and sips and contented silence. There’s no fear in him now. No carefully placed pauses. No skirting around things. He just… is. Clark Kent. The boy who spilled coffee on your notes three times. The man who kept writing to you in secret even when you didn’t see him.

“You’re not what I expected,” you say, fingers brushing his arm.

He lifts an eyebrow. “Oh?”

“I don’t know. I guess I thought Superman would be… shinier. Less flannel. More invincible.”

“Are you saying I’m not shiny enough for you?”

“I’m saying you’re better.”

He blinks. And then—just like that—he smiles. Not the bashful one. Not the public one. The real one. Small and warm and honest. The kind of smile you only give someone when you feel safe. And maybe that’s what this is now. Safety. Not the absence of danger—but the presence of someone who will always come back.

His communicator buzzes from somewhere in the bedroom. Clark lets out the most exhausted groan you’ve ever heard and buries his face in your shoulder like it’ll make the world go away.

“You have to go?” you ask gently, threading your fingers through his hair.

“Soon.”

“You’ll come back?”

He lifts his head. Meets your eyes. “Every time.”

You kiss him then—slow and deep and familiar now. The kind of kiss that tastes like mornings and memory and maybe something closer to forever. He kisses you back like he already misses you. And when he finally pulls away and disappears into the sky outside your window—less streak of light, more quiet parting—you just stand there for a moment. Barefoot. Wrapped in your robe. Heart full.

You’re about to start cleaning up the kitchen when you see it. A post-it note, stuck to the fridge. Just a small square of yellow. Written in the same handwriting you could spot anywhere now.

“You always look soft in the mornings. I like seeing you like this.” —C.K.

You read it three times. Then you smile. You walk to the cabinet above the sink, open the door—and stick it right next to all the others. The secret ones. The old ones. The ones that helped you feel seen before you even knew whose eyes were watching.

And now you know. Now you see him too.

All of him.

And you wouldn’t trade it for anything.

tags: @eeveedream m @anxiousscribbling @pancake-05 @borhapparker @dreammiiee @benbarnesprettygurl @insidethegardenwall @butterflies-on-my-ashes s @maplesyrizzup @rockwoodchevy @jasontoddswhitestreak @loganficsonly @overwintering-soldier @hits-different-cause-its-you @eclipsedplanet @wordacadabra @itzmeme e @cecesilver @crisis-unaverted-recs @indigoyoons @chili4prez @thetruthisintheirdreams @ethanhoewke (<— it wouldn’t let me tag some blogs I’m so sorry!!)

#fanfic #clark kent imagine #clark kent x you #clark kent smut #clark kent x reader #clark kent #superman #clark kent x female reader #clark kent x y/n #superman 2025 #superman x y/n #superman x you #superman x reader #superman imagine #dcu clark kent #dcu superman #dc superman #dc clark kent

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intoanothermind · 11 days ago

Text

𝑀𝑦 𝐻𝑒𝑟𝑜 ; clark kent / superman

summary: an office romance sounds good in theory but what happens when it goes according to theory?

pairing: fem!reader x corenswet!clark kent + journalist!reader x journalist!clark kent.

trope: office romance + coworkers to friends to lovers.

genre: fluff + some angst + slow burn romance.

warnings‼️: crude language + minor alcohol consumption + near-death experience + misogynistic remarks towards reader (from a jealous coworker who’s also a man r we surprised) + idk shit abt journalism.

word count: 11,031.

random disclaimerrr: heyy haha… heyy… how y’all doin… ik ik it took me for-fucking-ever bc in all honesty, i forgot about dat doe. & i lowk had writer's block but ITS OUT NOW SO YAYYY!! happy reading! ʕ•ᴥ•ʔ ♡ © 2025 @jungkooklover777

A knock sounds at your already open door, causing you to pause your typing and look up.

“My office in five.” Your boss and an editor-in-chief— Perry White— commands.

You send him a nod and he’s on his way back.

It was a chill day until the cloud of quiet chatter evaporated and was replaced by a thick blanket of excitement.

“What is going on out there.” You curiously mutter.

You think about entering the crowd but you decide against it as you remember your initial task.

Perry may be a fair boss but his agitation takes on several forms, you do not wanna be caught on the receiving end of it.

You knock on his door and open it.

“Alright Kent— oh. Here she is.”

You can’t see how this ‘Kent’ guy looks but he’s definitely a little over 6 feet. His gray coat outlines the broadness and muscly look of his back.

Damn, he’s kinda big.

He turns around and the only thing you can think of is Squidward whining in frustration, Oh no, he’s hot!

His eyes are a remarkable shade of blue, a lovely bunch of black curls sit atop his head, and his skin reminds you of the nice sand accompanied by the local beach.

Kent’s sporting a pair of black framed glasses and he’s the handsomest “nerd” you’ve ever seen.

You hope your ogling isn’t obvious.

“L/n, meet Clark Kent. Kent, this is Y/n L/n.”

This Greek God of a man shakes your hand and it’s warm. So. Warm.

He smiles and goddamn it is beautiful. It’s so perfect with all his perfectly straight, perfect shade of white teeth.

AND HE HAS DIMPLES?! HOLY FUCKIN’ SHIT!

“It’s nice to meet you.”

And of course, an attractive voice that matches his equally attractive face. It’s deep and confident and you’re crushing so hard on him right now.

“It’s nice to meet you, too.” You calmly say.

“Get acquainted well because you’ll be showing our new guy here the ropes. Starting now.”

Your heart drops down to your ass and you retract your hand.

Of course this had to happen to you.

“Oh, okay.”

It was in fact not okay but it’s not like you had much of a choice in the matter.

You exit first and are met with so many faces outside the office. Comically, they all look away and pretend to do something important.

Now you realize why there was a crowd earlier, because of the handsome new guy.

You ask him to wait for you while you go grab some things from your desk.

“Okay, Clark—”

You’re gone for literally 1 minute and the poor guy’s already being swamped.

There’s a blonde girl, bit of a ditz. Twirling a strand of hair while giggling over something seriously unfunny.

She’s accompanied by a guy who’s much shorter in comparison to Clark.

He’s yammering away about how he’s always wondered what it’s like to be on a farm…

“I mean, I was at one for the DP but they didn’t have much internet so we couldn’t cover much. And the smell?” He shuts his eyes and wrinkles his nose in disdain. “I can’t imagine how it was for you, man.”

You watch in horror as he takes a sniff, yes; a sniff at Clark and hums, “You smell great, though! What is that, uh, aftershave. Or sum’?”.

Clark responds with a nervous laugh at his sudden proximity. “It’s Polo by Ralph Lauren. Uh, the blue one.”

“Whaaat?” The guy laughs in surprise.

Clark folds his lips inwards and raises his brows in an awkward expression.

What do you say to that? Truly.

What an idiot, you cringe internally before coming to his aid and kicking off his first day.

It’s the end of Clark Kent’s second week. He’s a great addition to the Daily Planet team and you have to say, he’s really nice.

His first few days were spent showing him around. Perry’s office, your office, the newsroom, break room, copy room, mail room, bullpen, so on and so forth.

You were sure Clark could use a better mentor but he thought otherwise. ‘You’re a good teacher, I like learning from you.’ He said.

He was very quiet at first, kept to himself and didn’t approach anyone unless he absolutely needed to.

You were the only person by his side almost every hour he worked so it became natural to just go to you.

The more you talked to him, the more he got out of his shell.

A friendly relationship blossomed and soon, he was a willing participant.

You like to drink something in the morning while you work and you didn’t realize Clark took a mental note of that.

Since your first week together, he brought you something everyday.

“As much as I appreciate this, you’re not the drink guy.”

You were worried he thought you’d expect him to do this all the time now but he denies the notion.

“Oh it’s no big deal, I pass by a cafe on my way here so it works out. Plus, I know the owner so I get a discount every time I go.”

You smile at that. This little tradition has become an essential part of your day, it’s how you start it. It’s also special to you because it’s just for you.

Your crush on him grows by the day but you can’t help it! It’s so hard not to like this guy.

He’s still a bit shy at times but you think that’s part of his charm, and he’s got you good. He’s just Clark, a sweet guy from a small town with big arms dreams.

“So, what are the plans for today?”

He asks this everyday in hopes of going on a side quest with just the two of you. Alas, that doesn't happen nearly as much as he'd like but at least he still gets to see you whenever he'd like.

“Today, we’re going to a meeting.” You answer as you quickly send out one last email.

You grab your purse and Clark brings his notebook to the conference room.

He pulls out a chair for you and you smile appreciatively, whispering a ‘thank you’.

Perry and the other senior position holders make their way in and take their seats.

“Alright, let’s get started.”

Perry announces that at the end of the meeting, there will be a spot open for another editor-in-chief.

Instantly, there’s hushed chatter of who can be nominated to fill the slot.

You’re positive you hear your name among the many different routes of conversation.

You don’t notice Clark glancing at you when he hears it, too.

“L/n.”

You feel everyone’s eyes on you and want to fuse with the chair you’re sitting on.

“She’s our most talked-about reporter and has been here for almost three and a half years. How she’s doing better than most of you at this table, I have no idea. Great work, Y/n.”

You purse your lips in an awkward smile at the jab towards everyone else layered between your praises. “Thank you, sir.”

Clark allows his lips to be pulled back in a small grin, unable to hide his happiness for you.

You know some people in the room are envious of you and are incapable of witnessing your success, but you’d be damned if you let them ruin this moment for you.

The rest of the meeting goes by smoothly and it’s time for Perry to announce the new editor-in-chief.

“Of course, it came as no surprise for us to come to unanimously nominate Y/n L/n as one of our new editors-in-chief.”

You know you should be happy and a small part of you is relieved that your hard work paid off, but you’re not entirely sure.

You’ve only been here for 3 and a half years and this is a huge promotion.

Are you ready for this? How do you know you’re ready? When do you know you’re ready?

You force yourself to get out of your head and express your gratitude.

“Thank you so much. I really appreciate it.” You smile as you shake their hands, accepting their approval.

You still had some time before accepting the offer but it felt like you had to take it.

The reality is; you don’t know what you want.

Most of the people leave but some stay behind.

“Congratulations, Y/n. You definitely earned it.”

Remember the envious people that were mentioned earlier? This guy— Mark Callahan— is one of them.

He sticks his hand out for you to shake but you clock his underlying tone.

“Thanks.” You smoothly move past him to the door with Clark following.

“Bitch.” He mutters to himself.

Clark stops dead in his shoes. “What did you just say?”

Mark smirks lazily and the few of his dastardly henchmen eye you with jealousy.

Your eyes are a bit wide, lips agape at his sudden change in attitude. “Clark..?”

This is Clark Kent. The shy, dorky, kind of an aloof guy with long legs, a killer smile, and a nice heart.

You never thought he could get mad. You haven’t even see him annoyed up until this very moment.

Mark takes a step towards you but Clark is quick to get in between you and him.

He pokes his tongue into the side of his cheek and chuckles. “Relax, man. I’m not gonna hurt your little girlfriend.”

Clark steps forward, his height giving him the upper hand as Mark’s ego forces him to maintain eye contact, even if he has to tilt his chin up a bit.

“You couldn’t even try.” He softly yet subtly mocks.

Mark tightens his jaw and you can feel the tension growing.

You tentatively reach out and put a hand on Clark’s shoulder. “We need to go.”

He maintains eye contact with Mark for a moment longer before budging and walking out.

Clark’s jaw is set and you see the faintest twitch of the muscle, his face stern and hand sweeping his curls.

He holds the elevator for you and you gulp nervously.

“What… was that?” You dare ask.

He assures you it's nothing but you can feel the intensity of his annoyance radiating off of him. It fills the elevator when you step in.

You don't know how badly his blood boils at the thought of someone being so casually disrespectful towards you.

His hands were clenched tightly, his knuckles turning white from the pressure. He forcefully wipes his hands on his trousers and tries to cool down.

You let that go but can’t let go of how badly he gave you the butterflies.

You couldn’t even try.

That part replays in your mind.

It was the way he said it, like he was so sure of himself.

He was obviously putting Mark in his place but for you? He did that for you?

Your lips fold inwards to conceal the squeal (read: scream) that's begging to be released.

As the elevator arrives at your floor, Clark extends his arm for you to get out first then follows you out.

Chivalry isn’t dead?!

You don’t know much longer you can contain yourself.

“Hey, Y/n?” Clark calls out.

You swiftly turn around on your heels. “Yeah?”

He stares at you for a moment, like he’s gathering his thoughts carefully.

He has so much he wants to say. Every time you thank him for bringing you your morning drink, he wants to say, you deserve nothing but the best. He wishes to say how beautiful you look everyday, how smart you are when you're feeling doubtful.

Instead, he holds it all in and says something a friend would say. It doesn't mean anything less to you, he knows that.

So he says something so kind, it leaves you with heart eyes.

“You deserve that promotion.”

In all the time you’ve spent here, not many people have said anything like to you.

There’s the fake compliments said out of spite. You’ve already gathered a mental list of who fits that category.

Then come the words of encouragement, said by a select few genuine people. Perry and your best friend, Lois are— were the only members of this group.

Clark being an addition to this list is obvious, it was only a matter of time, but it means so much coming from him.

You blink and feel lightweight.

“Thank you.”

He gives you that award-winning smile you love seeing so much and is on his way to work.

You feel distracted as you work, smiling like an idiot every now and then when his words ring in your mind.

You deserve that promotion.

Resting your head in your palm with your elbow extended in a comfortable position, you sigh dreamily; staring blankly at your loading computer screen.

“L/n.”

You immediately straighten your back and set both hands on the keyboard, suddenly irritated with how slow the network on your computer is.

“Sir?” You acknowledge him by poking your head out from behind the screen.

“Good work on the Stenson article,” He shows the newspaper bundled in his hand. “It’s gotten Star’s attention.”

You’re impressed with yourself. “Oh.”

He angles his head down to where he can see you through the space above his glasses. “You okay?”

You nod in a way that is more convincing yourself of what you’re saying than him. “Mhm. Just, uh… surprised because they’re our rivals.”

Knowing The Daily Star has its eye on you is a bit unnerving but what kind of opps would they be if they didn’t.

He hums in thought. “Well, I thought I’d stop by and let you know.”

“Right. Thanks.”

You track his movements until you’re sure he’s gone and smack some sense into yourself.

“Focus, Y/n. Focus.”

You are invited to attend a conference in Washington, D.C. along with a few handpicked journalists.

As you await for the plane's landing, your mind wanders back to the new guy. You wish Clark could’ve came.

You just think he would’ve had so much to learn and experience, nothing else…

A rattle echoing through the jet brings you out of your thoughts.

The captain makes an announcement but you feel like something’s off.

It’s the reporter in you, a 6th sense.

Another shake and now everyone’s a bit nervous, worried looks painted across their faces and yours.

You open the flap to your window and see nothing but soot. Dark gray matter surrounds the jet and it’s so thick, you can’t see past it.

You start to smell it soon and so does everyone else.

“What’s that smell?”

“It smells like… like smoke?

“Is something burning?”

The captain makes an announcement telling you to not to panic but of course that ironically makes everyone panic.

Oxygen masks drop down and you don’t waste any time grabbing yours but the dread spreads all over you when you take a deep breath in.

Suddenly, the jet jolts forward and it feels like you’re diving into something. It’s going headfirst into the direction of the ground so quickly and you can’t make sense of anything.

The passengers frantically scream and descend into chaotic paranoia as they hold on to dear life. Your heart pounds in your chest, threatening to jump out.

This is it, you think. This is how it ends for you: in a freak accident.

You close your eyes in fear and hope the impact crushes you so quickly, you don’t feel any of it.

A quick and easy death is a death that is most favorable.

Suddenly, you feel the aircraft being lifted up. The speed of which is swift yet steady, unlike the previous moments when it felt like you were falling to your deaths.

You don’t dare look out your window in fear of it all being a figment of your imagination but someone else does.

“We’re… we’re saved.” Someone calmly informs.

The plane is set down on the ground and the doors open up automatically.

Your eyes widen when you see a man in a blue suit and red cape step onboard.

He’s kind-looking. The steely blue eyes somewhat familiar, maybe it’s his aura.

“It’s alright, everything’s okay.” He smiles and you’re taken aback with how eerily familiar the action is.

“Is everyone alright? Nobody hurt?”

Everyone shakes their head simultaneously as if in a trance, left and right.

He nods in consideration. “That’s good. You all can step out now, it’s safe.”

Nobody moves. No one can! They’re still trying to wrap their heads around this miracle.

There’s this man— in a cape, no less— and he’s asking if everyone’s okay from what could’ve happened.

There’s no doubt in your mind that somehow, he is singlehandedly responsible for saving you all.

Someone in front dares to speak everyone’s mind. “You saved us.” They say as they make their way to him.

The mystery man looks at the passenger with a humble look.

He puts a comforting hand on their shoulder and escorts them out, everyone else following suit.

Everyone else but you. You’re frozen in a whirlwind of emotions, mostly shock.

You’re so out of it that you don’t even notice him coming up to you, his striking blue eyes steady on your form.

“Are you alright, ma’am?”

You whip your head up at him and realize you’re the only one onboard the plane.

“Umm, yeah. I-I think.” You furrow your eyebrows as you feel your foot stuck in a comatose position.

“Can you stand?” He gently asks.

You go to stand up from seat when a sharp pain shoots through your ankle.

A quick breath is drawn from your teeth and he notices immediately.

“Your ankle.”

“Yup.” You hastily grit out.

He looks at you in contemplation for a moment before doing what he has to do.

“Do you mind if I carry you out?”

You pause your unsteady breathing and look up at him through your lashes.

I didn’t hear that.

“Uhh…”

There is a right answer but you don’t know if it’s the answer.

He’s strikingly handsome, so unfairly dashing. He’s looking at you with those kind eyes and waiting patiently for your word.

“No. No, I don’t mind.” You clear your throat gingerly.

The soft curve of his lips make you feel a bit at ease for a moment.

He holds his hand out for you to take and gently pulls you into him when you do, wrapping that arm around your shoulders. He bends down to hook his other arm under your knees and lifts you so effortlessly, you feel yourself swoon at his display of strength.

Your brain goes quiet and you can’t think about anything else but him. You’re starstruck by him.

Is this a bad time?

He looks straight ahead as he walks towards the open doors but the slight curve of his lips gives the impression of a soft smile.

Soft gasps and wide eyes paint the picture of surprise and you’re immediately flushed so deeply into embarrassment.

The man holding you doesn’t say anything but he silently shares your opinion.

As he walks down the ramp, you look anywhere but at him and the very obvious audience in front.

The symbol on his chest catches your eye and you’re analyzing it. It appears to be a red diamond encasing a capital letter of the same color, an ‘S’.

You wonder what it stands for, what it means to him.

People make room for him as he walks to a spot where you can comfortably rest.

You can feel everyone’s eyes on you and it bothers the hell out of you, but you bear with it for the moment.

He finds a bench within the stagnant ocean of people and sets you down on it, an apologetic expression framing his face.

“I’m sorry.”

You peer up at him in surprise. “For what?”

He sets his hands on his hips, subtly tilting his head to the left and you see behind him the wandering eyes and gossipy mouths.

You snort softly, shaking your head lightly at their antics.

“It’s not your fault. They’re just… trying to figure out what just happened.”

He nods, turning back to the plane with a determined look.

“The ambulance is on its way.” He says as he turns back to you.

You nod, not wanting to look away from his eyes.

The air is thick with so many unanswered questions left unasked, but your throbbing ankle takes a backseat to it all.

This man is a miracle in the flesh and he’s filled your mind with so much curiosity, you don’t know what to do with it.

“You’re gonna be alright.” He says it with such confidence that you believe him.

And he’s gone, flying upwards into the air and in a direction one can only point to.

People crowd the spot he just stood in and stare up in awe at the phenomenon: a man just flew right to the sky!

What a headache and headline this is going to be.

Your ankle was as swollen as an orange, thankfully like the ones that are really small and are known as ‘Cuties’ or whatever the hell.

There's a brace on it to keep from hurting as much but the swelling's still got a long way to go.

You're currently icing it as much as you can before it falls off when you hear a knock on your window.

You hold your breath and lean ahead a little, trying to hone in on the knock truly being real or a part of your imagination.

It's when you hear it again that you decide, nope; totally real.

You move slowly, setting the ice pack on your dresser before carefully moving your leg and setting your foot down on the floor.

Eventually, you make it to your window and look through the blinds to see what could be causing that noise.

You softly gasp. “Holy shit.”

It's the guy from earlier, the same man who may or may not have saved your life. But he's floating, literally standing on air.

You pull your blinds all the way up and open your window, not hiding the shock on your face as you stare at him dumbfounded.

He titters softly, finding your reaction amusing.

“Can I come in?”

You wordlessly step aside with your mouth slightly agape, not really grasping the gravity of the situation.

He flies right into your bedroom while you budge the window back down and close the blinds.

With his back turned against you, you take this chance to make yourself look more put together. Your hands find their way into your hair and subconsciously pat down your body to press the fabric of your clothes as flatly as possible.

He’s studying your room and now you’re even more self-conscious even though it’s relatively tidy.

“I’m sorry for showing up here unannounced.” He says as he turns around to face you. “I hope I don't come off as a stalker.” He snorts softly.

You laugh along, nervous. “I was just icing it before...” You trail off, making a gesture towards the window.

He nods, clicking his teeth. “Ah, right. Sorry, once again.”

You shake your head. “No, don’t be. It’s okay.”

You move to sit back down on your bed and continue icing your ankle.

“You left your purse.”

He reveals the black purse to you and you gasp at the revelation, so relieved as you thought you were going crazy looking for it.

“Oh, thank you. Thank you so much.” You say as he chuckles softly and hands you your purse.

“No, don’t thank me. Just doing what’s right.”

Something about his words makes you pause. The familiar syntax reminds you of someone who’d do what he just did.

You don’t even look inside to see everything in order because oddly enough, you trust it is.

Your grin makes the man in front of you feel strangely victorious.

“Not many would do what’s right.”

He squints his eyes and tilts his head to the side, as if to disagree. “I think we all deserve a little grace every now and then.”

“You have faith in humanity?”

You don’t mean to start a conversation about the moral dilemma of being human but his response intrigues you.

“I do.” He answers with such confidence that you believe him.

“At least that makes one of us.” You look back down at your hands applying pressure to the pain.

“Why don’t you?” He asks with genuine wonder.

You tilt your head at him, fascinated.

“Are you really asking me that?” You squint your eyes playfully. “I’m an investigative reporter. I’ve seen and heard things that have made me come close to quitting.”

“Why haven’t you then?” He cheekily asks with a smirk of his own.

You're taken aback with his playful wit exuding a flirty vibe.

You'll bite.

“Because even though my job can be draining, I still love what I accomplish.”

He's delighted with your reasoning, appreciating your love of the game.

“Well said.” He nods.

You tilt your head up, the reporter in you wanting to talk to him more.

“Your turn.”

He raises an eyebrow at your proposed question.

“What do you do?” You ask.

He clicks his teeth lightly. “Well, you’ve seen me fly. I can hear well over the distance and lift very heavy things, if that’s what you’re asking.”

He knows that’s not what you’re asking, you know he knows that.

You smile, shaking your head at his quips. “As in your occupation, Mr..?”

He stands with a knowing smile. “I’ll tell you next time.”

You blink, startled by his suggestion. “Next time?”

He walks towards your window and you follow, opening it for him.

“Until next time, miss L/n.” He says with a wink,

And he's gone.

You're left staring at his fantastic display of power, soaring into the night sky before he disappears into the clouds.

You've never been this fascinated with anything before, but he isn't “anything” or “anyone”. He's a phenomenon, man with great power.

You don't see that often.

You wonder who he really is, where has he been all this time? What's his story?

So many questions, so little time but you'll hold him to that promise of a next time.

“Next time.” You murmur in confidence that he'll find you again.

Lois enters your office with a particular pep in her step, a knowing smile on her lips as she sees you.

You don’t look up from your work as you know there’s nobody else that can enter your office that way. (even perry knocks, lois)

“Sooo?” She asks, strangely enthusiastic.

“So.” You reply uninterested, flipping through pages.

She stares at you like you know what she’s talking about before bombarding you with questions.

“Who is he? What’s he like? Where's he from—? Wait, he’s human. Right?”

Your eyes widen just a fraction before you dial it down.

You can't tell anybody about your encounter with him. At least, not until you've had some questions answered.

A hurried breath is pushed past your lips, your eyebrows furrowing in annoyance at your friend’s prying form.

“No comment.” You say plainly, not indulging her.

Clark walks by with a new drink of the day and sets it down on your desk, a sweet smile on his face.

“For you.”

You know those certain people who just have you on auto-smile as soon as you see them? He's quickly becoming that person for you.

“You are such a nice guy, Clark.” Lois shakes her head in amazement.

She can't believe men like him do, in fact, exist.

That causes a noticeable blush to coat the tips of his ears and spread thinly across his cheeks.

He's humble. “I appreciate that Lois.”

This tradition is a declaration of friendship, a bond he claims to regard just as much as you do.

A sip of it simultaneously warms your heart and reawakens the butterflies lying dormant in your stomach.

“I agree.” You softly smile. “You’re committed to keeping up with this.”

He looks down and pushes his glasses up with an index finger, clicking his teeth together shyly. “Well, I’m no guy in a cape.”

There he goes downplaying his efforts and staying humble, as usual.

“How’s your ankle?” He asks as he eyes it.

You look down like you just remembered. “Oh, yeah; it’s fine. The swelling’s gone down a lot so I’m good to come back.”

Lois watches the news on one of the tv’s in the room play a clip someone managed to record of said guy fly up into the air, departing with a sonic boom.

She leans into Clark a bit, looking straight at the tv with that same damned topic on her mind. “Clark, do you think he’s handsome?”

He clears his throat lightly, sniffing as he tries to figure out how to answer that wild question. “Well, I— uhh… um— he’s, he’s… conventionally attractive.” His tone gets pitchy at the end, like he's asking, rather telling.

“Lois.” You sigh.

“What? He’s so cute guys, I don’t know why no one else is talking about it.”

You take a peek at Clark and find quite a bit of blood rushing to his face.

“Clark, are you alright?”

“Huh— yeah. Yeah, no, I-I’m good! I’m fine, it’s just uhh… hot.” He nods, trying to look convincing.

Lois doesn’t miss a beat. “He’s hot.”

“Oh my god.” You groan.

“No, like, seriously.”

And it’s your fault for knowing how serious she is.

“Do you guys think he’d go for me?”

“Oh, yeah. For sure.” You nod with a fake smile. “He’d be all over you.”

She bursts out laughing, her focus on the poor guy in your midst. “He’s as red as his cape.”

You turn your head to see and it’s true, he’s super red in the face and just refuses to make eye contact.

“I’m just gonna go… do that thing Perry wanted.” He sends you girls a quick nod and smile before basically running out of y’all’s presence.

You watch him go and find his vulnerability endearing. He’s not afraid to show his feelings but like in typical Clark fashion, gets a little embarrassed when he does.

She purses her lips apologetically.

You shake your head at her. “Lois, if you were a man...” You raise your eyebrows and push air out in yet another sigh.

She takes your lack of words as a sign to contemplate the idea, then says, “You’d be my first target.” with a nod and serious look.

“Get out.”

You hadn’t anticipated your savior to be the subject of fascination so soon. Later on in the afternoon, in fact.

“L/n, you’re a firsthand witness. What do you think?”

Everyone’s eyes are on you as they wait for you to tell your story. You haven’t felt this nervous since your interview with this place.

You clear your throat a bit, feeling your nerves on fire.

“I believe he stopped the plane from crashing.”

You don’t need to be a telepath to know what they’re all thinking: you’re fucking crazy.

Of course, that’s an impossible thing to do but not everyone in this room was there.

“You think… he was responsible for saving everyone that day?” Perry asks, intrigued by your line of reasoning.

“Yes. He opened the doors and immediately asked if everyone was alright and if anyone was injured.”

A few people murmur in doubt but you continue.

“I sprained my ankle somehow and he offered to help me off and took me to an area where I could wait for an ambulance.”

They eye your gloved ankle, unimpressed. (it’s not like you’re here to knock their socks off anyway)

“He helped you off the jet? How?” Someone asks.

“He, um… carried me out.” You quietly say.

The atmosphere shifts and you can really feel and see just how shell-shocked everyone is.

“He carried you out?!”

“As in, in his arms? You were carried out in his arms..?”

You immediately jump to your defense. “I’m not sure why and, or how that matters.”

They’re incredulously adamant about it. “How come? You’ve not only had a conversation but also came into close contact with him—”

“And that’s where your focus lies?” Perry cuts in.

You look at him in thanks and he nods in acknowledgment.

“I dunno.” A board member sighs. “Some mysterious, muscular man coming to save the helpless woman story won’t run headlines.”

You scoff in disbelief. “Excuse me?”

Perry feels a headache coming on.

“You asked about my encounter and I told you. I’m not here to be a headline.”

The man who thought of that “brilliant” idea is coated in embarrassment, feeling annoyed at receiving the heat.

“Anyone have any useful ideas?” Your boss asks with his thumbs pressing down on his temple.

There’s some chatter about this man and how he managed to save the plane, if he did. Some even discuss if he’s capable of being a potential threat to the country.

“You’re dismissed.” Perry says with a pointed look.

You leave with your head down and jaw tight, coming to sight with Mark.

“Excuse me.” You drop the hint of ignoring him but he doesn’t care.

“Going somewhere?” He asks with a smug expression.

You still push past him with him only to turn around and tail you.

“Yeah. Some of us have jobs to do.”

You don’t care how you look and/or sound.

You just got reduced a damsel-in-distress by a board member while your boss ignored him. Granted, he stuck up for you when it came time but he also dismissed you like you weren’t needed anymore.

Mark pokes a tongue into his cheek, his frustration with you at its boiling point. “And what’s yours? Playing hooky with Superman?”

You don’t know whether to be offended or question the ridiculous choice of name for the man, first.

You choose the first option as it’s the most relevant.

“What did you just say to me?”

He smirks like he just found a pressure point on you. He takes a step closer. “You heard me.”

He actually thinks he's got you this time.

“What, got nothin' to say now that Kent isn't here to save you?”

All that annoyance you were feeling just know? Yeah, that's amplified by a thousand now that he brought that up.

“I can stick up for myself, and I definitely won’t take any shit from you.” You spite. “If I took that promotion back then, you would’ve been fired and on your ass in less than a minute.”

You're pulling rank but it isn't rage-bait if it's true.

He's seething now. A vein protrudes from his forehead and he inhales deeply to try to keep himself together as much as possible.

“Oh, I know how you got that promotion.” He spits that venom so carelessly with the most malicious intent.

You squint your eyes in suspected belief.

Mark continues his verbal assault.

“Yeah,” He nods. “It wasn't that hard to figure out why the old man favors you so much.”

You were right, it had been what you were thinking.

The envy in him has always given off a strong stench, he literally gives the evil eye to those better than him in every way possible.

At your loss of words and hurt expression, he smirks before delivering what he thinks is the final blow. “I’m willing to bet you slept your way to the top.”

In this very moment, you realize you don’t have to listen to his shit any longer.

Your strike his face, open-handed; hard. A powerful smack resulting in a red handprint on his blanched face.

The ear on that side of his face rings piercingly loud and in his disoriented state, nearly collapses onto the floor.

A chorus of sharp gasps and sound grimaces snap you out of the adrenaline-fueled rage consuming you.

It seems that you’ve gathered quite a crowd of spectators.

The horrified look on your face isn't nearly enough to convince your innocence to anyone just joining now joining in.

“What the hell is going on out here?” Perry's voice booms.

You shakily inhale, meeting his accusing gaze and you watch as he tracks a path between you and Mark writhing on the floor.

You fight the urge to roll your eyes at his pathetic acting.

“Get in here. Right. Now.”

With your chin up, you walk right past the whimpering mess on the floor; your heel almost crunching his fingers if it weren't for his reaction time.

You know you shouldn't be the one to feel embarrassed but there's still a part of you that does.

After all that you've put into this place, some overzealous, whiny little piece of shit wants to humiliate you by attempting to slutshame? In this day and age?

You huff in exasperation of being on your way to overstimulation by the very quick turn of events.

You're already sat when Mark comes in and Perry shuts the door, but not before yelling at everyone to get back to work.

You feel your victim to your far right, not wanting to sit down.

“Sit down, Mark.” Perry says before looking at him quizzically. “And why are your hands covering only one side of your face?”

You bite back an explanation and a smirk.

Mark doesn't say anything but instead opts to show, he drops both hands hesitantly to his sides.

Perry's reaction is nothing short of priceless. He thinks about exclaiming but when side-eyeing you and carefully assessing your careless reaction, he clocks it.

“I was counting on you being bitch-slapped one of these days but I was not expecting you to be dumb enough to try her.” He dryly chuckles in half admiration and half disappointment.

“Sir? You're actually siding with her right now?”

You close your eyes and mentally prepare to be fired.

Perry’s expression is that of a Don’t try me and Mark actually takes it seriously this time.

Wonder what’s the difference in you giving him that look and Perry…

“What happened, L/n?”

You open your eyes nervously and take a breath, preparing yourself to speak your truth.

“I slapped him… because he accused me of sleeping my way to the top for the promotion.”

There’s about a few seconds of silence before Perry speaks up.

“What.” He just says but it’s his tonal shift that makes Mark sweat.

“W-well, I just said that in the heat of the moment.” He chuckles nervously. “I didn’t mean that—”

Perry pinches the bridge of his nose to try to calm himself down. “I have no tolerance for this kind of behavior, Callahan. You know that.”

Said boy clears his throat and sniffs. “Y-yes sir, I do—”

“Then why did you do it?” Perry’s eyes bore into his with such boredom, it makes you a bit uneasy as well.

Mark opens and closes his mouth trying to come up with an answer to that obviously rhetorical question like a fish.

At his lack of words, your boss scratches his forehead. “Here’s an easier one: what did you think you were accomplishing by demeaning her character like that?”

Still no answer.

He puts a finger on Mark's chest, pressing into it as he says, “I’ll tell you. She is your superior because she, unlike you; gets it. She gets this job, what it means to be a reporter.”

His condescending tone towards the other male isn't unheard of but it sure as hell surprises you a lot.

Mark tightens his jaw and turns his head to look at you in malice. “With all due respect, sir; you should understand why I said that.”

“I don’t have to understand a goddamn thing.” His gruff voice reverberates through the walls, causing you to straighten your back.

Perry then carefully and slowly says, “Get the fuck outta here, you’re fired.”.

Mark dares to speak up even now. “But, sir—”

“Right now!” The older man barks his orders and like the sad little puppy Mark is, follows one last time.

When he leaves, Perry sighs and turns to sit down in his chair. He pours himself a drink, offering one to you.

You stare at him wearily before declining but he pours you a drink, anyway.

He silently takes a sip, prompting you to do the same and you feel the smooth, mellow taste of Brandy.

He groans, satisfied with the drink.

You set your glass down, feeling your nerves becoming slightly undone by the aftertaste.

It’s momentarily quiet, the awkward silence now comfortable.

You’re the first to break it. “Am I being fired?”

This is apparently funny to him because he laughs. Yes, he wheezes before giving in to the chest-laugh every man his age has.

You awkwardly chuckle along, not knowing if that's the right move.

He sighs in satisfaction once more.

“Y/n,” He begins warmly. “I can't fire you after that shitshow.”

Anyone else would think that statement was made in fear of being seen as an asshole who doesn't stand in solidarity with women but not you.

Perry White can put on a show of being a bitter old man but now's not one of those times.

“You did what you had to do and since I'm being honest,” He leans in a little like he's about to share a secret. “I'm glad you gave me a reason to kick his ass out.”

That brings a soft smile on your face, one that expresses your gratitude.

“I’m sorry you had to deal with that.”

“Most bosses wouldn't give a fuck.” The word rolls off your tongue with such smoothness, you forgot to code switch.

He takes no mind and instead lets you talk informally, he gathers you deserve that much.

“I'm not most bosses.” He wittily replies with a wink and tight-lipped smile.

“No, you are not.” You say with an appreciative nod.

You ignore everyone that didn't need your help for the remainder of the day.

As Mark took the walk of shame, it made you feel a little better when you saw people who you've never spoken to give him dirty looks and shake their head at him in disapproval.

Even though he got at least half of what he deserved, you still felt the aftermath of his words. They stung and it just made you think, how many other people feel that way?

You drowned yourself in work, you felt as if you're now obligated to work twice as hard.

Then you hear him.

“Y/n?”

You move your head from your hand and look up above your computer, spotting no other than your trusty colleague and friend.

“Clark, hey. What’re you doing here?”

“Hey, I was just about to ask you that.” He says with a boyish smile and points at you.

You smile back instinctually. “I'm just finishing up some stuff, meeting deadlines.”

“Ah.” He nods.

You eye the time and decide to save what you have left, planning to resume tomorrow.

“I was doing the same.”

You put on your jacket and grab your purse, walking out with him.

“This late?”

Poor guy, you hope he doesn't have a workload as big as yours if he's staying until almost 2 am.

“Yeah.” Clark sighs tiredly. “Perry gave me Mark's last assignment.”

You pause locking your office door, not expecting that answer.

Clark pretends not to notice.

As you enter the elevator (before clark, of course), you make light conversation.

“So ready to go home to my bed.” You tip your head back close your eyes, letting yourself rest for a moment.

“For real, I was about to fall asleep at my desk if it wasn’t for you.”

Both of your eyes open. “What do you mean?”

“I thought I was the only person here but then I saw your lamplight on so, I figured why not fight it for as long as I can.”

Had he stayed this long for you?

“Clark…”

You feel guilty and why wouldn’t you? He was basically waiting on you to call it in and stood by the entire time.

“It’s okay! No harm done.” He insists.

He was actually meaning to go home the same time you were, so he could talk to you.

He knows how pathetic that sounds but he'd rather be a pathetic man with a crush, even if that sounds elementary.

Instead, he opts on telling a half truth. “I needed the extra hours anyway.”

You turn to face him. “You did?”

Uh oh. He wasn’t supposed to say that.

Stupid sleep-deprived brain making him say things he’s not supposed to.

“Yeah, cause my research and work ethic is different from Mark’s.” He purses his lips and nods lightly.

Though he may look confident on the outside, he’s freaking out on the inside.

What was he supposed to say, the truth? Yeah, I was out late saving the planet one country at a time. That kind of stuff tends to get tiring if I have to wake up on time, ha ha ha.

He hopes you believe him and don’t inquire any further so he won't have to come up with another lie.

You hum before yawning lightly. “Makes sense.”

Clark watches you cover your mouth with the back of your hand and notices how you close your eyes when you yawn.

He also notes that you're really comfortable around him. You don't think twice about saying certain things in front of him.

He likes being the reason you let your guard down, he does the same around you.

You can see him staring into the side of your face so you turn your head, meeting his warm yet intimidating stare.

Your lips automatically purse into the friendliest awkward smile you have and he returns the sentiment.

You both then look away simultaneously. You look up at the countdown whereas he looks down on the shining metallic floor.

There’s still 25 more floors to go before you meet the garage parking lot.

The atmosphere grows a little awkward but is forgiven as there’s a shared understanding: you’re both fucking exhausted.

Though, there is something Clark wants to talk to you about.

“Y/n?”

“Hm?”

He hesitates for a moment, his mouth opening then closing as he thinks about how to bring this topic up.

“I heard about what happened.”

You slowly turn your head to him wordlessly, waiting for him to continue.

He stares back at you and you notice how blue his eyes look under fluorescent light.

“I’m sorry.” He murmurs, affected by the outburst as anyone else who gave a damn.

You’re touched.

“You don’t have to apologize, Clark.” You say as you look down at your shoes, suddenly growing shy of his eyes.

“I know,” He says. “But I care.”

The sentiment doesn't go unnoticed. Your lips turn up appreciatively.

“I know that as a woman, I'll be undermined at times but that was seriously a low blow.” You vent. “Even for him.”

Your disappointment isn't hard to assess. Even though you knew he'd be the one to say something like that, you still would've liked to be proven wrong.

Clark feels for you, you shouldn't have to feel alienated by your colleagues.

“I'm sorry nobody spoke up. I would have.”

“I know.” You say. “Thanks, Clark.”

“Of course. Anytime.”

You think about how nice it is of Clark to say this but you’re reminded of his absence prior.

“Where were you today, by the way. I barely saw you.”

He lies straight through his teeth. “I was out running some errands.”

He was actually stopping a country from getting actively bombed but that’s a story for another time.

“Perry still giving you the Miranda treatment?”

He chortles at your reference. “What can I say, I make a great Andrea.”

“You do. Who’s your Emily?”

You both take a moment to think about this.

“I got nothin’.” You say.

Clark agrees, although he’s come up with an alternative approach.

“There’s Mark, but he’s more Emily to your Andrea.”

You make a motion to wrap your hands around your neck and pretend to choke yourself.

It gets a good laugh out of him.

You blow a soft raspberry. “I just want my Nate. Without the “I'm insecure and feeling jealous because my partner is having it good” part.”

You look up at him and say without thinking, “You’d make a great Nate.”

You’re so tired, very exhausted from the day taking a toll on you; which explains why you’re just saying random shit.

Clark feels hot, like his whole face is on fire. He chuckles bashfully, very obviously failing at trying to not let that affect him so much.

The elevator dings and you both look up, finding the doors to open and reveal the garage parking lot.

“So, what do you mean by that? Exactly.” He furrows his brows and pushes his glasses up.

You step out, feeling all of your nerves turn to ice as you realize the weight of your words. “Oh, you know. You'd be a supporting and secure boyfriend.”

He's stumped, left watching as you walk to your car.

You wave goodbye before getting into your car and he returns the gesture.

You turn to face him, walking backwards. “Good night, Clark.”

He feels the blood wash over his heart like the ocean returning to shore.

“Good night.” He murmurs fondly.

“Dude, this is a terrible idea.” Jimmy scolds. “Your worst one yet, and you barely have those!”

But Clark isn’t listening, he’s already made his mind up.

“If I like her as a man then I have to respect her as Superman.”

Okay, that was a bar, Jimmy concedes.

“Besides, she wouldn’t tell anyone.” Clark adds.

Of course you wouldn't tell anyone about Clark’s identity, he knows that.

“I know that,” Jimmy sighs. “But think of your relationship with her as Superman from a journalistic standpoint.”

Jimmy just wants the best for his best man, he wants Clark to really think about this. l

“She won’t let her bias for you stop her from doing her job, even if that means asking questions you can’t answer straightforward.”

Diving headfirst into something like a romantic relationship without going over the logistics is bound to crash and burn.

But it’s you, the same woman who understands him. You see him, know him. You’re not one to hide how comforted you feel when he’s around, he literally hears your heart rate when he dotes on you.

You must feel the same way. Right?

But how would you react to this? Would you still feel the same? Would you still view him as the same Clark who goes out of his way for you?

After some careful consideration, Clark comes to a conclusion.

“Okay.” He says.

Jimmy closes his eyes in relief, sighing at the fact that his friend chose his mind over his heart.

“I’m going to tell her everything.”

Jimmy slaps a palm across his forehead all wide-eyed, not believing he got bamboozled this way.

He now has to watch his best friend throw everything away for the ruzz (reporter huzz).

Clark feels a weight lifted from his chest at this decision. He's always wanted to tell you but his moral obligation was to this planet, regardless of what heart entails.

He walks to your office, stopping just before the door to check on his appearance. He moves his head to the side, inspecting his hair. He then fixes his tie and glasses.

Satisfied with himself, he knocks and waits for your approval.

“Come in.”

Clark pokes his head in comically.

Your eyes flit up and when you see him, giggle at his silliness. “Hey, you.”

His chest warms at the sight and sound of your delight.

You seem so easygoing, truly content when you smile or laugh. Do you know that?

His takes in your face.

Your hair shines from the light, cascading down your shoulders and framing your it nicely.

Your eyes are on him and every time you look at him, he feels as though he can tell you anything. And though they're beautiful, his favorite part about your face have to be your lips.

You're a very expressive person so your words and reactions make up everything about you.

He loves seeing them pull you into a smile and laugh, especially when he's the reason.

It’s like a reward, seeing you joyful because of him.

He's momentarily distracted by the sight, always on the verge of forgetting his objective as soon as your pretty lips move around.

You say his name like you're in the middle of something.

He blinks, shaking himself out of his daydream. “I'm sorry, what? I was not paying attention, I'm sorry.”

It's refreshing to see a man apologize so much but it feels weird coming from him.

“It's too early for this, I know.” You jest kindly. “I was asking what can I do for you?”

“Oh! Right, why I'm here.” He chuckles, embarrassed.

Get it together, Clark he warns himself mentally.

“I, um... I wanted to ask you something.”

You lean your elbows on your desk, giving him your undivided attention. “Sure, what's up?”

He walks to your desk, taking out a sticky note folded in half. He hands it to you.

I have something I want to talk about, meet me in the mailroom? Lunch on me ;)

You can't with this guy sometimes. Asking you to lunch via sticky note?

“That is seriously the cutest thing ever.” Lois coos.

You've been smiling since he gave the note to you, grinning at him as he walked out of your office.

You even did a celebratory squeal before containing yourself.

“Isn't it?” You giddily ask. “Ugh, he's so cute.”

Lois nods in agreement, wondering when she's gonna find her own Clark Kent.

“What do you think he wants to talk about?” You ask.

Lois looks at you bewildered. “What do you mean? Isn't it obvious?”

You stare at her expectantly, blinking.

“Oh my god.” She groans. “He's gonna tell you how bad he wants you, Y/n!”

“He is?” You say, hopeful.

She nods ecstatically and spins you around in your chair to face her. “Think about it. You two have been dancing around this unspoken attraction between you for how long?”

You instantly give her a time period. “Almost a month.”

“That was rhetorical.”

“Oh.” Your lips pull to the side, sheepishly. “Sorry. Continue.”

“The point is, he obviously feels for you. It was just a matter of when he’d get the balls to make the first move.”

You nod along, finding her logic unarguable.

“Okay. Okay, so I just walk in and tell him—”

“No, no, no. What? Don't do that! He's the one asking you to come over so let him go first.”

“Right, right.” You blink. “Let him go first, you're right.”

Lois puts a sympathetic hand on your shoulder. “You're nervous, and that's okay. Just breathe, be calm, cool, and collected. You're Y/n L/n, investigative reporter at the Daily Planet.”

“I’m Y/n L/n, investigative reporter at the Daily Planet.” You repeat like a mantra.

Lois smiles encouragingly, being your best hype-woman.

“You’re fucking amazing.”

You close your eyes and blindly trust her. “I’m fucking amazing.”

“You’re the baddest bitch here and you know it.”

You blow air deeply, feeling yourself relax a bit. “I’m the baddest… bitch here and I know it.”

“Fuck yeah, you do!” She exclaims and you find yourself smiling, shaking your head at her theatrics.

You fucking love this girl.

“You got this, okay? Don't think too much, it'll feel natural once you let him talk.”

You feel like you’re about to get in the boxing ring with your everything that could go wrong.

“Go get him, tiger!”

It's lunchtime and for the first time in history, you're not hungry.

You can't even think about eating out of anxiety.

You walk towards the mailroom and suspire when you go to twist the door handle.

You're immediately met with the dreamy pair of eyes you were hesitant to see.

You shut the door behind you, none of you want to be the one to move first.

“Hi.” He hums.

“Hi.” You say, equally as soft.

He clears his throat lightly and gestures you over, some sandwiches and sodas decorating the table.

“Panera?” You say with glee.

His lips pull back at your reaction. “Yup.”

You reign in your excitement, remembering why you came here in the first place.

“So.” You hint subtly.

“Sooo.”

You tilt your head at him, narrowing your eyes playfully at him. “Sooo, what'd you have to tell me?”

He clicks his teeth. “That's the question.”

You tip your head back and half-whine, half-laugh. “Oh my god, stop baiting me!”

Clark finds humor in edging you on like this, how often does he get to see you so highstrung?

“Okay, okay, alright.” He airily chuckles. “I'll stop.”

You blink patiently, the remnants of a grin on your face.

He soughs, building up the confidence to tell you how just much he feels for you.

“Okay.” He licks his lips, meeting your gaze.

He's caught, mesmerized by the way your attention is on him. He doesn't realize just how heavy his stare is until he watches you squirm.

“Clark..?” You call out to him thinking he's spacing out.

“Sorry.” He says on default, though he's not really apologetic for anything at all.

You're just so—

“Beautiful.”

Your breath catches in your chest and he's mortified.

“I, I just said that... outloud.” He stammers.

You watch him scramble for a way out.

“I'm sorry— not that you aren't beautiful, which you are. You so are.”

He cringes at himself and you hold back a simper, finding him so endearing.

“I just, um... Alright, here's the thing.” He claps both hands together softly.

“Mhm.” You nod, furrowing your eyebrows and to show you're just as serious about what he has to say.

“I... I have, uh— wait, no. That's not right.” He mutters to himself.

You come closer, standing right in front of him. “Clark.”

He looks down, stunned at your proximity and stops babbling.

“Just say it.” You coax gently. “Whatever it is, I'm sure we can work through it, together.”

Together. He thinks about the good ending, the one where you do end up getting together.

As you look up at him with those kind eyes, he feels everything he has to say come right out.

“I can't stop thinking about you.” He confesses.

You blink, startled by this even though you were expecting it.

“I like you, a-a lot, and I have so much to tell you.”

Clark's eyes flit between yours, desperately searching somewhere for you to feel the same.

He hears your heartbeat skyrocket, he feels your hands shake slightly from the adrenaline. The smell of your perfume thickens the air and he can't get enough. He can almost taste the color of your lips with how close they are.

He gulps, growing jumpy from your silence.

“Say something, please.” He whispers.

Another moment of quiet, not voluntarily. You're just trying to find the right words, yourself.

“I... I feel the same.”

That familiar megawatt smile graces his lips and you feel the tables turn, you in his previous postition and he in yours.

“I have for a long time.”

His eyes crease at that and he can't help the laughter bubbling out of him.

You laugh with him, not believing this is happening right now.

“You have no idea how long I've been holding that in.” He tells you, leaning on the table behind him.

“Not longer than me.” You suppose.

His eyes quirk up, silently asking you to go first.

So you do. “Since you started bringing me my daily dose of energy.”

He hums.

“Now, you.”

He looks at you with the fondest expression ever, you hold yourself back from kissing him stupid.

“Since my first day.” His voice thick with honey.

Your eyes soften and though he's won, you don't take this as a loss.

“Seriously?”

You don't mean to be so anticlimactic but how else does one react to feelings of romance being reciprocated?

As if Clark Kent couldn't get any more attractive, he takes your hand with the utmost care and rests it right on top of his heart.

“Can you feel that?” He asks while gauging your every little microreaction.

It speeds up gradually as your hand connects with the fabric of his shirt, pure electricity binding you together.

You nod, involuntarily fighting the tears you sense.

“Aw, don't cry.” He cradles your face in his hands and you close your eyes, overwhelmed by his affection for you.

“Come on, let me see you.” He ducks his head down, trying to catch your shy eyes.

When you finally do, he smiles so brightly that you swear it's like looking directly into the sun.

“There she is.”

You chuckle weakly, sniffling once.

He lets go of your face and can't resist the temptation of not touching your arms. He rubs them up and down a couple times, feeling goosebumps arise in their wake.

“Can I have a hug?” You ask, looking back at him through your lashes.

He feels his heart stop right there, that look sends him over the edge and you don't even know it.

Clark wordlessly leans down and pulls you in, his strong arms wrap around your waist comfortingly while you reach up on your toes.

You rest your head on his shoulder and feel your hearts beating under each other so passively, a sigh escaping the confines of both your mouths simultaneously.

Something about this feels like déjà vu, like you've been in a similar position.

“Hey.”

“Hm?”

“Remember that conference I was supposed to go to in DC but got cancelled because the jet almost crashed?”

He pulls away with a straight face, hiding the absolute chaos unfurling behind those eyes.

“Yeah..? Why?”

You look at the door then back at him.

“I haven't told anyone about this but afterwards, Superman came by my place.”

“What? No way!” Clark gasps.

You nod cooly.

“So, what happened? What'd you guys talk about?”

You tell him how he stopped by to return your purse but something has been bugging you since.

“I just don't know how he got my address.”

“Oh, that's easy.” He doesn't feel like playing this game anymore, too many sweats. “I know where you live.”

You’re perplexed and then some because what does that mean?

“What are you saying?”

He puts both hands on your shoulders and gives you a riddled look that says, Come on, think about it. You know what I’m saying.

A lightbulb turns on in your head but it can’t be. There’s just no way you’re thinking what he’s thinking.

You’re too flabbergasted to say a word. You just stare at him, open-mouthed and wide-eyed as you say it out loud.

“You’re… you’re— you,” You chuckle dryly, your head spinning a bit. “You’re Superman?”

He doesn’t give any indication of agreeing with you but his silence does.

Clark’s trying to get a read on you.

You then cover your mouth with both hands, muffling an excited ‘Oh my god!’.

He feels reassured.

“You’re Superman!” You whisper-scream.

“Yes, yes. I am.” He nods while checking the door to see anyone coming in.

You just stare at him in wonder, taking this all in.

It all makes perfect sense.

Who else would be selfless enough to protect those who can’t protect themselves? To have integrity the most Clark Kent trait you can think of.

You know Clark has a big heart but this? This is next level.

“Why are you telling me this?”

He looks at you like the answer to that is simple, which to him, is. It’s always going to be simple if it involves you.

“I don’t want to start this on a lie.” He reveals as those damned blue eyes fixate on you.

You can fly right now.

He leans in ever so slowly, tracking any detail on your face that may give away the impression of not wanting him in your space.

When he finds none and is absolutely sure, he puts a hand on your cheek and asks, “Can I kiss you?”.

“Yes” You sound softly and it’s as if a prayer has been answered.

Your eyes flutter shut and he parts his lips for you, you anticipate them to be just as soft and lush as they seem.

He believes he’ll finally be able to understand the languid nature of your mouth and decipher its meaning.

Sparks fly when you make contact, it strengthens the electricity that makes your chemistry.

The kiss is a breath of fresh air, the kind that blows in quietly; peacefully.

He’s sweet, undoubtedly so. His palms hesitantly splay across the curves on your waist. You smile at the soft touch and he does as well.

Your hands are on his chest and you can feel every pulse, flutter, and pang of his heart.

You think it’s poetic; the influence you have on his heart, both figuratively and literally.

He rests his forehead on yours and you look up at him from under your lashes.

He’s about to speak up when he hears something, something you don’t.

His ears perk in the direction of the distressed sound and he turns his head apologetically.

“I have to go.” He regretfully informs.

You reach up to kiss his cheek and rid him of guilt.

“When you come back, I’ll be right here.”

Clark hugs you once more and asks, “You’re my hero, you know that?”.

You chortle and respond with, “Is that Superman talking or you?”.

“Both.” He pulls back with a kiss on your head, winking at you with a cheeky grin.

He runs out the door and leaves you with the ghost of his touch and words that form a sappy smile on your face.

Superman may be the world’s hero, but Clark Kent is yours.

#this was so cute!#fluff #clark kent x reader #dc #slight angst #one shot #superman #superman (2025)#superman x reader

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intoanothermind · 12 days ago

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the whole truth || clark kent

summary: when Clark's glasses fall off at work, you learn the truth pairings: clark kent x reader warnings: fluff, confessing feelings, first kiss, sfw, gn!reader word count: 2.9k a/n: this is my first time posting an x reader fic and also my first time writing for this fandom so please be gentle with me lol

You had been at the Daily Planet for a while now, stepping into big shoes. When Lois Lane had left for reasons that no one had been able to yet explain to you, you’d known it would be a tough job to fill the space she had once occupied. Still, you had gotten your head down and put the work in, getting a front page story after only a few months, and making friends with your co-workers along the way.

There was one co-worker, of course, who you had taken a real shine to. It was hard for a man who must have been well over 6 feet tall to make himself look small, but somehow, Clark Kent managed it. Every morning he tripped into the office, quite literally, at least five minutes late, pushing his glasses up his nose and pushing those dark curls back from his forehead when they fell into his face. It was endearing, and since your desks were so close to one another, endearment had turned to affection pretty quickly.

Having a work crush was fun, for the most part. It gave you something to look forward to when you sat at your desk, bleary-eyed from a late night and an early start after whatever interdimensional or cosmic threat had kept you up half the night. Watching him weave through the crowds of bodies, shoulders hunched and twisting as he tried to get through without walking into anyone, made you giggle. After a few mornings of listening to him lament that he was never in early enough to get a hot cup of coffee, you’d taken to making him a cup when you made your own, which you swore was out of courtesy for a colleague and nothing to do with the way those sapphire blue eyes would light up when he saw the mug and turned around to thank you. Sometimes, if he managed to get in close enough to be called on-time, you would still be walking back to his desk just as he arrived at it. Those mornings were your favourite, because of the gentle brush of his fingers against yours as he gratefully took the mug from you.

Whilst those mornings were few and far between, they were enough to keep stoking the embers of your silly office crush. From what you had gleaned around the office, Clark and Lois had sort of had a thing, so you doubted Clark was up for dating or anything. Your office crush would remain just that. A crush, confined to work. But you could dream.

And you were dreaming, standing at the coffee station again, making yourself another mug. Superman and the Justice Gang (terrible name, thank god it wasn’t official) had kept you awake most of the night battling some alien robots that had come to Metropolis to wipe the city off the map and mine for some kind of rare ore. You were admittedly feeling a little groggy, and were hoping a second (or third, or fourth) cup of coffee would serve as a good pick-me-up. And in quiet moments like these, it was easy to get distracted.

How flustered would Clark get if you asked him out? He sometimes blushed just if you turned to look at him or handed him something from the printer, but announcing that you thought he was cute and wanted to see him outside of work? You could picture his expression, the wide puppy dog eyes and the pink cheeks. And how good would he look over a cande-lit dinner at that little Italian place just down from your apartment? You were sure it would make his eyes sparkle, make the curve of his lower lip look ever fuller—

You step back with your cup, ready to get back to work and out of your head, and walk straight into the unfortunate path of an intern, whose arms are piled high with papers. They yelp, jumping out of the way and into a chair, which spins dangerously quickly across the room and directly into Clark’s path as he’s walking by. He catches it, thank god, but the impact of it must have jolted him, because his glasses fly off and skitter across the floor, landing directly at your feet.

“Oh, shoot!” He murmurs, sounding a little more distressed than you would expect over a pair of glasses. Maybe his vision is really just that bad…

“It’s okay! I have them!” You reassure him, reaching down to nab them off the floor before someone can stand on them.

Clark has stepped closer, his head down, black curls falling into his eyes. “No, no, it’s fine, i—“

“Here you are.” You smile as you looked up, still crouched on the floor, Clark crouched in front of you. You hold the glasses out, but when his eyes meet yours, you smile drops.

That isn’t Clark.

“You’re—“

“Please don’t.” He whispers. He takes the glasses from you, shoving them indelicately on his face and pushing them up the bridge of his nose. You squint, your eyes suddenly hurting. He’s Clark again?

“But—you’re—you were—“

“Please.” He repeats. He murmurs your name gently, reaching out to touch your arm, shaking his head as he brings you both to standing. You look up into his face, bewildered. He looks like Clark again, but you know what you saw.

You suddenly become conscious of people looking at you; the chair and everything must have caused a bit of a commotion. You swallow down the words in your throat and nod. Now wasn’t really the time, nor the place.

Clark takes his hand away from your arm, and you immediately miss the warmth of it. “H-how about dinner tonight, at my place?” He says, his voice soft in the small space between you both. You hadn’t realised how close you were now, and you have to tip your head back a bit to look up at him. “And I can explain.”

He knew you wouldn’t be able to just let it go. Who could, really? It wasn’t quite the invitation to dinner with Clark that you’d been hoping for the last few months but you nod anyways. “Okay.” You murmur. You’re about to step away when a thought occurs to you. “Do you want me to bring anything?”

The question seems to take Clark by surprise and he smiles despite the anxiety that tenses his shoulders. “Uh— no, no, it’s fine. Just yourself.”

“Okay.” You say again. A smile of your own breaks through and you duck your head, scurrying back to your desk.

You had been to Clark’s place only once before, when he had left his laptop at the office and you had dropped it off for him on the way home. You hadn’t really gone inside or anything, though, so this was new territory for you. You raise your hand to knock, and just as soon as your knuckles hit the wood your hear Clark’s voice call, “It’s open!”

“It’s just me,” You reply as you step inside his apartment, slipping off your jacket and hanging it up on the rack by the door. You don’t know if it was a shoes off or a shoes on kind of home, but decide to leave them on in case you needed to make a speedy retreat.

Not that you’re expecting it to come to that. In the intervening hours between this morning and now, you’d thought about it non-stop, and gone through a lot of different thoughts and emotions. Maybe you imagined it. Just seeing things. Clark was tall, had dark hair, a strong jawline — in the right lighting he could look like Superman. But if you imagined it, why would he have offered to explain?

So maybe he was, like, superman’s long lost twin or something. That didn’t explain the glasses, though. They must have some sort of effect on the mind, that was the only assumption you could really make, because how else would they work? To have tech like that…

You kept coming back to the same conclusion, then. Clark Kent was Superman. Superman was Clark Kent.

Maybe you should be worried about knowing Superman’s secret identity, but this was Superman. He saved puppies from burning buildings and scooped children up out of the way of out of control cars. He was a good man, and you knew Clark was a good man too. Despite the knowledge that you maybe should be worried, you couldn’t find it in yourself to feel anything other than curious.

You follow the sounds of someone cooking, and find yourself in the kitchen doorway. Clark stands with his back to you, but he turns to look over his shoulder when you say, “It smells good in here. What’re you making?”

You hadn’t assumed he would be much of a cook, for some reason. Then again, you hadn’t assumed he would be as superhero either, so maybe Clark was just full of surprises.

“Pasta puttanesca.” He replies, giving the pan a stir. He’s still wearing his suit from earlier, but he’s ditched the jacket and the tie, allowing you to see the muscles shift in his shoulders as he works. You take a small breath, still standing in the doorway as Clark finally turns around to face you. “Do you want a drink?”

You kind of do - a bit of Dutch courage might be good right now - but more than anything, you want answers. Your silence makes him smile, and he leans against the counter, arms folded over his broad chest. He’s wearing his glasses, and you don’t know why it surprises you, since he always has them on. You just thought, maybe, he might ditch them tonight.

“I just… want to know what’s going on.” You say, raising your shoulders in a gentle shrug. “Make sure I’m not going crazy.”

“You’re not going crazy.” He reassures you, his voice gentle, almost hidden by the sizzle of the pans on the stovetop.

You take another breath in. “You’re Superman.”

Clark’s gaze falls to the floor, arms crossed over his chest. He always wears his jacket in the office, which is maybe why you hadn’t noticed just how muscular he really is. Plus, now that he’s at home, he doesn’t seem to be hunching half as much as he normally does. He seems taller, more statuesque, and you know for certain that you weren’t seeing things earlier. With the glasses on he still looks different, but the way he carries himself? That’s a super hero.

“They’re, uh, hypno-glasses.” He taps the frames with one finger, finally looking up at you again. “They make people see what I want them to see. It’s not super strong, or anything, more a trick of the mind sort of thing.”

You nod. It’s strange, but it’s sort of an easy concept to follow, if you don’t dig into the specifics too much. You take a few steps forward, and nod at the glasses. “May I?”

He shifts a little, but he nods. “Be my guest.”

You reach up slowly, as if tending to a wounded deer, and slip the glasses off his face. You aren’t often so close to him, but now you can feel his breath fanning your face as your hands hover by his temples. Again, as you remove the glasses, your eyes hurt. You blink a few times and there he is: Superman, standing right in front of you.

“Trippy.” You murmur, your eyes wandering over his features. His jawline is just a touch stronger, his nose a little bit straighter. You wouldn’t say that Clark was plain, not at all, but compared to Superman… well, he’s a heartthrob for a reason.

You look down at the glasses in your hands, realising you’ve been staring at Clark for at least a minute in silence. “Will they work on me?”

“I don’t see why not. Not on me, though.”

“No.” You agree. “Because of the supervision?”

“Right.” Clark nods, smiling at you in a way that makes the butterflies in your stomach begin to flutter.

“Why not just wear a mask?” You ask him, hoping it’ll distract you.

Clark turns, stirring the sauce in the pan again. You had almost forgotten about it, but you’re glad that he hasn’t. Maybe this isn’t the first date you’d dreamed of, but you’d still quite like dinner.

“People in masks can be… scary.” He says. When he’s content with the sauce he turns to look at you again, leaning once more against the counter. “I’m an alien with super strength, super speed, laser eyes– I should be terrifying. But I don’t want to be.”

It’s a sweet sentiment. One that seems very Clark, and very Superman, all at once. Which makes sense now, given what you know. “Is that why you wear your underwear on the outside?” You tease lightly.

Clark laughs. “It is, actually, yeah. I don’t want people to be scared of me. I just want to help.”

God, it’s no wonder most of the world is obsessed with Superman. His words and the sincerity in his voice… you know he means it. And he’s right, Superman should be terrifying. A being that powerful? He should be locked away or put down, lest he try to take over the world. But Superman has never wanted to do anything but help, but save people. He’s a good man.

“The glasses just help me to blend in a little.” He continues. “Help people notice me less–”

You can’t help it. You snort as you try to hide a laugh, and you raise your hand to cover your mouth. He looks at you, bewildered. “What?”

“You–” You shake your head, smiling. Not laughing at him, just… amused. That he would ever think no one would notice him. You slip his glasses back into place, and whilst it no longer makes your eyes strain, your head does feel a little funny as he becomes the Clark you know. Though, you’re sure you can see a bit more of Superman in his features, now…

“Clark, you might not look like Superman– like yourself with the glasses on,” You correct yourself. “But you’re still you. You’re kind, and helpful, and– yknow. Cute. Tall.” You smile. “Half the office has a crush on you.”

He still looks a little bewildered, and there’s a blush spreading over his cheekbones that you want to follow with your fingertips. “Huh.” He murmurs. He stares at a spot over your shoulder for a moment, and you smile at his oblivious he may have been. But then his bright blue eyes flick back to you, and without hesitation, he asks, “Do you?”

Sometimes, you forget that Clark is also a journalist, so he knows when to ask the right question, and he’s not too afraid to ask them. Which is why it takes you off guard, and your smile shifts, becoming a little more sheepish as you duck your head, and say, “Well, sure. Of course. I’ve had a crush on you since the day we met.”

He’s quiet for a moment, and you wonder if it was wrong to admit it. What if he doesn’t feel the same way, and you’ve made work incredibly awkward? It’s a big office, but not quite big enough to avoid Clark forever. Before he can say anything either way, though, an alarm goes off.

“Darn it.” He murmurs, spinning around to tap his phone and turn the timer off. He takes the pans off the heat, tipping the pasta into the strainer in the sink. You watch him, your heart still in your throat.

“Y’know, if I’d known this was a first date I might’ve made something more impressive.” He says, shaking his head at himself as he fetches two plates.

A smile spreads over your features. “This is a first date?” You ask.

He turns to look at you, and now it’s his turn to look a little bit sheepish. “Well, y’know – if two people who like each other have dinner then that’s a date, right?”

You purse your lips to keep from grinning. He likes you. Clark Kent - Superman - likes you back. You feel like a teenager again, and the joy makes you feel almost lightheaded. “I think it’s only a date if you agree that it’s a date.” You say. “But… I think we can call this an unofficial one.”

He grins, flashing a smile so bright that it dazzles you for a second. “That sounds fair.” He agrees.

“And Clark–” You step forward, putting a hand on his arm. As much as you want to eat, you need him to know that everything you’ve learned tonight stays with you. You might be a reporter, but this is one story you won’t be writing up. “I’m not going to tell anyone about– you know.” You look at his glasses. He hasn’t taken them off yet, and you find you’re glad. Superman’s great, of course, but you’re here to have dinner with Clark. “Your secret’s safe with me.”

“Thank you.” He murmurs.

“If,” You continue, smiling coyly. “You kiss me. That’s the cost of my silence.”

He laughs gently, but he turns to face you, his large hands settling on your hips, sliding around to the small of your back as your arms wind around his neck. “Seems fair.” He agrees, leaning down to press his mouth to yours. His lips are just as soft as you had imagined them, full and warm beneath yours, which part on a soft sigh. He pulls you even closer so that your bodies press together, and as his tongue slides along yours you think you might be willing to forget about dinner entirely.

Your stomach, however, doesn’t agree. It rumbles loudly, and you pull back an inch to laugh as Clark does the same, though his hands remain pressed to your back, and your arms don’t shift from around his neck. At least until you reach up with one hand to push the curls off his forehead, saying, “We should probably eat.”

“Seems like it.” He agrees with a chuckle. “The table’s set, if you wanna sit down. I’ll bring it through.”

You nod, rocking onto your tiptoes to press another brief kiss to his lips, unable to stop yourself. As you head to the table you suppose you’ll have to talk about what dating a superhero actually means, but not now. For now you’re content to spend the night with Clark, and take the rest as it comes.

#clark kent x reader #superman x reader #clark kent x you #clark kent x gn reader #clark kent x y/n #clark kent x female reader #superman (2025)#dc x reader

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intoanothermind · 16 days ago

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just look at me - geum seongje

pairings: geum seongje x female reader

author's note: caps off on purpose. i know this is a mess (mostly just dialogue) but i was feeling corny. i'll update the other story when i get my period again (i'll feel like reading and writing angst then)

genre: fluff, mild angst with good ending, reader is insecure, aged up characters

warnings?: mdni, mentions of sex, cursing

word count: 6077

the night fell and all your armors came down with it. you had learnt from a very young age that manifesting your true emotions only came with consequences. and the consequences would only be greater if these feelings were directed to an almost gang leader.

no one had ever reciprocated you. you hadn’t felt much for many neither, but you swore this time was different. it always seemed nearly impossible, but now it looked fully unattainable. yet, this was the one time you felt it different. you questioned yourself every damn night: the one time you have real, true feelings about someone, you decide that that someone has to be seongje.

seongje. the most emotionally unavailable person to ever cross your path. even more than you — and damn, that was already some big competition.

it probably felt comforting because you knew your non-reciprocated feelings were not only for you. it was not a personal thing: not about your looks, your position, your way of being. you could just blame his seeming incapacity to truly want someone that way. to not discard the girls he slept with like the cigarettes he flickered. and even if it were because of your person itself, you would never know, and that was enough.

you didn’t even understand why you were wondering so much — no one would ever know about this stupid crush. you didn’t even know if it was a crush, or why you even felt it. when you joined the union, everyone warned you about seongje. but when it was time to actually interact with him, it was weirdly comfortable. you remembered your first mission, to which he came to help by the end of it, to finish the job off. of course you knew he was just following orders from above, but he helped you get up when he saw you laying on the ground. he also told you about the events of his evening on the way back to the bowling alley, how he had had to fight a guy who had been stealing phones from the union, while you were in tears and disassociating the whole journey. it was a simple action, but it was comforting knowing it came from seongje himself, and also knowing no one had had good intentions with you for a long time.

you weren’t friends, you didn’t even know if he had any, really. but when the missions ended and you two were alone, he spoke. you just listened, not reacting much, too afraid to mess it up. but you showed interest, nodding along or humming, not being able to hold eye contact either — not only because you knew the consequences of it, but because you were incredibly awful at it. and you, who had practically been in an unwanted social isolation for months, were really appreciative of his attempts at holding conversation, even if it was more like a monologue. too appreciative, in fact.

you guessed the lack of social interactions had messed up with your synapses. you didn’t even know how to differentiate politeness from friendliness from romantic feelings anymore. so when a random girl at the bowling alley suddenly made small talk with you while you were waiting for orders, your heart almost beat out of your chest with excitement. the joyful feeling became even greater when the girl casually mentioned a party at the usual club the members met at, and you being invited if you wanted to go. the club was actually a scenario that came out of your own nightmares, but you couldn’t say no to the minor possibility of making at least one friend. your loneliness and the urge to talk to someone was making you desperate.

you were glad you said yes, though. it was a saturday night and you were thinking too much. mostly about him. you remembered how, back when you hadn’t joined the union and you had friends, you used to drink your emotions away every weekend. so you wanted to do the same that night.

you felt really out of place, though. you came in on your own and when you entered the club, you weren’t sure where to go or whom to greet. you didn’t even know where the girl who had invited you was, or if she would even remember you. you immediately realized that it was a mistake to go without being friends with anyone, but you decided to go with the flow. just for one night.

you sat at the bar and asked for a drink, which you downed in no time. you craved for that drunken state, for your inhibitions to go away. you quickly ordered a second one, just looking around to see if you recognized anyone.

and then you saw him. sitting down, presiding over the table, while a stunning girl was straddling his lap, kissing him. you stared, the alcohol already having an effect on your body. he returned the kiss from time to time, then went back to drinking from his glass and smoking the cigarette in his hand. he also made comments to his friends while smirking, but you weren’t able to hear what they were saying because of the distance and the loud music.

you couldn’t deny it to yourself: the scene was making you wish you were her. fuck it, even being one of his friends in the table, just to see him like that up close, would be enough. you ordered another drink, wanting to forget about the image.

when you finished your fourth drink, everything that passed your sight felt like a blur. you weren’t thinking anymore, just walking, feeling the sudden urge to move. you went to the club’s main dance floor, not being able to feel embarrassment anymore. you started to dance alone, singing the parts of the songs that you remembered, slurring the words. suddenly, you felt a pair of hands roaming over your hips, picking at your dress.

“hey, sweetheart. you alone here?” you didn’t recognize the man’s voice. you just felt his hands on you too much, but you weren’t responding because you weren’t conscious enough. you just kept dancing, not even answering.

“mmh, not a talker, huh? wanna go straight at it?” he said, while spinning you around. even though you weren’t processing the situation properly, you felt uncomfortable. his hand came up to your waist, so you tried to pull away, but he didn’t let you. you started to panic.

“h-hey. let go.” you said to the man. but he kept rubbing off against you, not listening.

suddenly, as your tears started to come out, the man was pulled away. he was taken by the collar of his shirt and dragged away from the crowd. it was too quickly to process — you didn’t even see how it happened, or who did it.

you decided to go the bathroom, in the need of washing your hands to feel a little less filthy. you then chose to go out for some air, starting to sober up after that whole situation. you were just processing it, becoming conscious of the strange man and his sudden disappearance, not being aware of your environment.

“i was starting to think i needed to check my prescription again.” you froze. you definitely did recognize that voice, the one who talked to you through your disassociation time after every mission. “you were the last person i expected to see here tonight.” seongje said, while blowing his cigarette. right after that, he moved his foot, suddenly pressing against a beaten up body on the floor that you hadn’t seen. it was the man. your mouth fell open at the bizarre situation.

“now you can say thank you.” seongje said while smirking.

you stayed silent. you never talked to him, you didn’t even know what to say in normal scenarios, what was supposed to come out of your mouth then? after a minute, you decided to speak, just to make the interaction as short as possible.

“thank you. i was too drunk, and i-i couldn’t move. i’m glad someone was there.” you said while looking down at the floor.

“i was there. this is kind of my natural habitat, you know? but what are you doing here exactly?” you were shocked at his remark, but you dismissed it.

“a girl… a girl invited me. and i haven’t gone out for recreational time in like… forever. so i wanted to give it a try. it was a depressing try but, yeah…” god, why were you so awkward? you quickly shut yourself up, realizing you might need to take a social cues specialized course if you ever wanted to make friends again.

“where was that girl, huh? i mean, when this fucking bitch was groping you.” he said, while kicking the unconscious man lightly.

“i-i mean, she invited me but that’s it. i don’t even know her name… by the way, will he be okay? the last thing i want is to get in any trouble tonight- or like… ever.”

“he will be okay. he practically does this every weekend. and he always gets the same outcome.” you smiled unconsciously at the thought of him helping people, even if he was the most feared man in that club. maybe that was why so many girls were head over heels for him, you included. you all fell for the basic treatment of a man framed differently from the usual.

“so you basically work here unpaid? as a bouncer?”

“i never get involved.” he said, simply. but those words made your stomach turn. why did he get involved tonight, then? and did he just let girls get groped when he had clearly noticed it? you probably looked lost in your train of thought, since he started explaining himself. “i just tell the other guys, since they all wanna act like saviors with girls. they might wanna fuck them after their heroic act, you know? i’m always up for a fight and you know that, but alcohol kind of calms me down. i get a little lazy, so it’s no fun.” he said, casually.

“well, thank you for your special service tonight, then. weren’t no guys available? mmh… i know you were the one to interfere because i’m not fuckable enough, so don’t worry.” you said while smiling lightly, letting a bit of your personality out now that you were a little comfortable, some alcohol still left on your body.

“this is the most you have ever talked to me. now i just have to get you to look at me and i will be a happy man. that stupid fucking rule doesn’t exactly apply to you, you know that?” you stayed silent, fidgeting with your fingers in disbelief. happy man? from looking at him?

“whatever you took tonight… man, i would love some. you sound really fucked up.” you said nervously, chuckling a little to try to calm yourself down. humor was clearly your coping mechanism, but it wasn’t working so effitiently that night.

“never been more sober in my life.” he said plainly, while blowing his cigarette again. meanwhile, you were sure you were at the verge of cardiac arrest.

“look… i-i am not trying to be disrespectful. i know you are important around here. but i would prefer it if you didn’t get me involved in any kind of like… joke or mockery. i’m too slow and definitely too sensitive for that.”

“come on. just look at me.”

“i’m not trying to get my ass beaten tonight.”

he stepped closer, discarding his already used cigarette.

“i beat an asshole up for you. just told you i don’t ever do that. what more proof do you want?”

“i don’t sleep around.” you quickly said, trying to give a meaning to his words. “i know you do that, and i have seen the girls you do it with… and damn, they are beautiful and charismatic and are nothing like what i could ever be like but… maybe this is like a sick goal, or like a prank… the thing is, i’m not trying to disrespect you when i say you may want to hook up, but it’s like the only half-assed explanation i can kind of give to your words right now… and i-“ you got stopped by the sudden feeling of his fingertips on your chin, pushing up.

“you never respond to what i tell you, but you sure do have a lot in your mind. keep going, though. don’t let me stop you.” you just laughed awkwardly, still not looking at his eyes in fear. why did you took everything he said as a threat? you couldn’t believe someone — let alone seongje — would have genuine intentions with you.

“head is in the right angle. just move your eyes up and it will be perfect.” he said teasingly, his fingers still on your chin.

you decided to make it over as quickly as your body allowed you to.

“okay. after this, if you still want to beat me up, please consider that i’m not the best fighter, i have been eating like super bad lately and i’m still a little drunk. also maybe… that you are one of the most known fighters around here? that would be good to consider too, yeah.” at that point, you were just saying random words, trying to prepare yourself for the possible incoming punch into your face. you knew seongje didn’t fight people unless he was either ordered to by baekjin or if it was a challenge. you had seen his face when his opponent was strong enough to fight back: pure ecstasy. so you knew this wouldn’t be fun for him at all in terms of strength, but what if it was entertaining in another twisted way? maybe he had moved on from having fun with good fighters — maybe it was too repetitive now and he had started to enjoy a predator-pray kind of play.

“you are not going to let this go, right?”

“you already know the answer, right?”

in that moment, you just closed your eyes tightly and opened them again, now looking straight at his. how could you be so anxious just from holding eye contact with someone? maybe because that someone was seongje, and you had heard about a million stories of what had happened when someone had dared to stare.

“should i call 911?” he said teasingly, even though your head was empty at that moment, not being able to respond.

you felt stupid — like your dumb teenager self almost. you were 20 now, why was your heart beating from just looking at a man?

“now, tell me. why did you come here tonight?”

“i wanted to drink.”

“but why?”

“i-i don’t know.”

“you do know.”

“i wanted to not think.”

“about?”

“someone?”

in that moment, seongje smirked.

“i know that’s right.” he said simply, letting go of your chin.

you felt like gasping for air, relieved at the loss of his touch. it was giving you crippling anxiety, not knowing if those same fingers would move to your cheek in the form of a punch at any moment.

“that whole speech that you gave me there; about me wanting to fuck you and all that.” he paused, almost amused at your reaction when you heard his choice of words. “you are something else, i swear.”

“i know it’s fucking stupid. thinking THE geum seongje would want that with me.” you said awkwardly while laughing, fearing his reaction.

“i’m not fully denying your claims. but you didn't get all the parts right.”

what was that supposed to even mean? what part was true and which wasn’t? you just kept looking around nervously, still paying attention to the unconscious man on the floor.

“let’s get you a taxi, yeah?”

“what about him?”

“what about him?” he repeated in the same tone as yours.

“are we… just going to leave him there?”

“i’ll be here when he wakes up. he might pass out again when he sees my face, though. but if it makes you happy.” seongje said while shrugging his shoulders.

“s-sure. thank you. i’ll get my own taxi, though.” before you finished your sentence, he was already walking past you, opening an app on his phone.

“your address?”

you didn’t trust him. and he could probably see it in your face, since he passed you his phone immediately.

“just type it in. i won’t look. i’ll delete it after. do you trust me that little?”

“i-i am just a girl who is aware of her own vulnerable situation and how that can make her an easy prey?”

“so aware that a man almost forces himself on you tonight?”

ouch. he got you there. you decided to stop fighting back, just grabbing his phone. you couldn’t help but notice the small contact your fingers made when you did so, and how you lingered there for a second.

“here you go. thank you. you really helped me tonight.” you said while giving him his phone back, smiling lightly while looking down.

“don’t know what came over me neither.” the comment made your heart flutter, knowing now that you weren’t the only one confused by his actions.

when you saw the taxi down the street, you started to panic. you didn’t know how to greet people, but you knew how to say goodbye even less. the anxiety was only even worse after that whole nerve-wracking conversation, which made you have no clear thoughts in that moment.

“i don’t want to see you here ever again. this is not the place for you. if you ever wanna drink, tell me.” your heart jumped again at his sudden words. tell him? about drinking together? you wanted to drink to forget about him in the first place.

“i don’t want to bother you. but thank you.”

“get in the taxi. we’ll talk.” he said while the car stopped, coming to open the door. you just hummed and got in, looking at him for a second before he closed the door.

there, you took your first deep breath of the night, your mind racing with thoughts. thoughts of just him.

days passed. days of him acting like his usual self, and you pretty much doing the same. answering back a bit more. looking up from time to time.

“so you don’t want to drink with me?” you were walking back to the bowling alley again, exhausted. the question woke you up immediately, though.

“what?”

“first word today. that’s what i have to do to get you to talk? be blunt?” he kept smoking his usual cigarette, having the decency to blow the smoke away from your face.

“please, don’t. you are going to give me a heart attack.”

“answer the question.” why was he so persistent? you didn’t even know what to answer. yes, you wanted to spend time with him — the thought alone made your cheeks burn and your stomach turn. but the anxiety that same thought gave you was enough to not even question if you should.

“i-i know you are a busy man.”

“didn’t have you for a liar.”

fuck it. you didn’t think he would give up anyway.

“okay. tonight.” a few seconds passed by, after which he started to laugh hysterically.

your cheeks flushed. you knew it, of course you should have trusted your gut — it was all a sick joke to entertain himself. and you just had to be the most sensitive person on planet earth. your eyes started to get red and veiny, holding in your tears like a champ.

he must have noticed then, since he immediately stopped his track right in front of you.

“i knew you didn’t trust me, but damn. you really do not, like at all.” you just looked down, not really paying attention to him since you were on the verge of a breakdown.

“i’m not playing. i’m laughing at your sudden outburst of confidence, didn’t expect it there. you are just so confusing it’s hilarious.” you looked up for a moment in disbelief. he was looking straight at you, searching for your eyes.

“so? did i fuck it up?” seongje said, starting to walk again. you thanked the gods for that since you were sensing an incoming panic attack triggered by his intense gaze.

you just laughed lightly, trying to play it off.

“i’m just too dramatic. you didn’t fuck anything up.”

“i understand you feel intensely. not the same as dramatic.” perfect, you wanted to cry again. his words hit you like a train, confusing you with his remark. how or when had he even noticed that?

“i-i appreciate that. like a lot.”

“tonight is fine for me. give me your number.” you just stayed silent, lost in your thoughts. was this a good idea? or just your delusions making decisions for you?

“if we are drinking together tonight, you should trust me at least a little more.”

“you know about your own reputation.”

“as far as i know, it doesn’t include being non-consensual with women.”

“it does include dumping them the second you… you know.”

“and you know this is different. i know you know deep down.”

“i-i don’t know.”

“fine. i was going to save you from the experience of having to text first, but i’ll give you my number and you can do whatever you want with it. deal?” seongje said while putting his arm out, expecting you to give him your phone. you thought about it for a few seconds, since you didn’t believe you would have it in you to text first. but having seongje’s phone number sounded like a dream come true. you accepted, passing him your phone.

“here you go. i’ll be waiting for your text.” he said casually while walking into the bowling alley, separating your ways there.

he was a known player and this was you probably falling for it, just like all the other people before.

it was 8 pm. you were sitting down on your bed, wondering if you should say something. if you were going to do it, you had to do it now. what could you lose, though? even if he was just playing, it would be entertaining for you too. you reminded yourself that not everything had to be so serious, but anxiety always won against your true wants and needs. you wouldn’t let it be like that this time, though.

“hey. still up for drinks tonight?” you texted the number he had saved as “geum seongje :)”.

after just a minute, you received a notification. damn, he was fast.

“i’ll pick you up in an hour” your heart jumped out of your chest at his quick reply.

after 45 minutes, you were ready. you didn’t even know why you had put so much effort into your looks. you knew you wouldn’t look much different from the mess you usually were, but you still tried. although you couldn’t understand why.

while waiting, you realized you hadn’t texted him your address, but he didn’t ask neither. even though he told you he would delete it last time, you guessed he probably hadn’t. you would confront him for that later, you thought.

at 8:59 pm, there was a knock on the door. one of your roommates called your name, saying it was for you.

“who is this boy?” she said teasingly, while you walked to the entrance. there, you saw him — dressed casually but put together. you couldn’t lie to yourself: he looked extremely handsome.

“shut up. i’ll come back later.”

“sure, sure. later.” your roommate said while winking at you. you closed the door right behind you, rolling your eyes.

“sorry for that. they are not used to someone asking for me. even less if it’s a man.”

“i enjoyed it. it’s funny how awkward you get.” his comment made you blush, which only made him be even more right.

“awkward? me?”

“you are the most awkward person i’ve ever met. i like it a lot, though.” should you take that as a compliment?

“thanks, i guess?”

“you are welcome. get in.” he said while pointing at his car. you didn’t even know he had one.

“you drive? wow.” you said in a shocked expression.

“did i impress you? i’m fluttered.” he said while getting into the car. “i do everything differently with you, but it doesn’t seem to faze you at all.” you just looked confused, not knowing exactly what he meant. you always were surprised at his kindness, since you had only heard he was the opposite of the person you had met.

“i do appreciate… this. everything. anyone talking to me feels like a gift sent from the gods lately.”

“i don’t want you to say anyone.”

“mmh?” you muttered, confused. he started the car and began driving, not answering back. “by the way, where are we going?”

“special bar for you. one that isn’t a shithole like the club from the other night.”

the other night. the thought only made you sick to your stomach with anxiety. you hadn’t talked about the whole situation again. “mmh? why are you fidgeting so much? because i mentioned that night?” how did he read you so well? or were you that obvious? he was driving, so he could only see you from his peripheral sight. still, he nailed your ongoing emotional state. you decided to be honest, since you had realized in those past few weeks that excuses didn’t work with seongje.

“it was just… so overwhelming. i had never talked to you like that. or looked at you like that. and then you told me i could call you for a drink and that was… unexpected to say the least. but i get really giddy when i think about it so it’s not only anxiety.”

“do you remember the things you said? because they were quite… interesting.” you blushed, even though you didn’t exactly know what he meant. you talked way too much for your liking, and you still were tipsy, so not every part was fully clear in your mind.

“delight me. i’ll drink after so i can bear with the embarrassment now.”

“it’s not embarrassing. it’s more like you gave me a peek of what you really think of yourself.”

“so it is extremely embarrassing. great.” you said sarcastically, letting a small laugh out.

“we’ll talk about it after a drink or too so you don’t feel so embarrassed. come on, we are here.” he said while finishing parking his car.

the bar was pretty, almost elegant. it wasn’t too much, but it definitely wasn’t like the club from last time neither. you both sat down at the bar counter and seongje ordered for the two of you.

“how do you know what i like?”

“trust me. i know my drinks.”

the drinks came and he was right, you liked it a lot. so you ordered another one. and then another one. the conversation was casual, similar to the ones you usually had: he told you about the things he had done that week at the union and the people he had had to fight, and you listened. he spoke so clearly, not slurring his words at all, but you were already in another dimension, still paying him attention, but with other thoughts in mind too. like how handsome he looked. or how much you liked the fact that it was a little loud, so that he had to get closer from time to time for you to hear. you were smiling unconsciously, cheeks flushed at your own thoughts and the alcohol in your body.

“you aren’t listening anymore, mmh?”

“i am. i swear i am. you fought that… that guy… you know.”

“yeah, that guy.” he said while smiling lightly. you loved it when he smirked.

“why do you look so normal anyway? you have had as many drinks as me.”

“i am feeling tipsy. but i can control it way better than you, it seems.”

“can you blame me? you were right, you are really good at choosing drinks. and at fighting. and at many things, it seems.”

“even when you are drunk, you still aren’t capable of looking at me, huh?” he suddenly said, looking a bit lost in his own thoughts too.

“w-what?”

“i mean… we are in like a fucking… date. and you still can’t look at me. when i’ve told you you can.”

“date?! is this a date?”

“don’t fucking change the topic” he said while adjusting his glasses. he looked a bit annoyed for a moment, almost impatient.

“why do you care so much about me looking at you?” you quickly said, getting a bit defensive too.

“because i want you to trust me. and i want to see you, i wanna look into your eyes. is that too fucking much to ask for, mmh?”

“maybe it is.” you simply said, getting too overwhelmed. you didn’t like people looking straight at you. you felt small and vulnerable, and you didn’t want him to see too much. you didn’t want him to stop whatever you two had going on, but your brain had made you believe that could happen at any second if you quit hiding.

“is this about what you said the other night?”

“i told you. i don’t remember.”

“i will remind you then. you basically said that just the thought of me wanting to… sleep with you, okay? was disrespectful, to me. you said it like it was a fucking sin for me to want you.”

“oh… that.”

“you said you were nothing like someone i could potentially fuck. basically.”

in that moment, you couldn’t hold your laugh in.

“why is that such a problem, seongje? i stand by my statement, anyway. and i also don’t get how that has to do with me not looking at you, or anything really.” you said his name, which you never did. but you were getting annoyed, since deep down you understood the point he was trying to make — and deep down, you knew he was right too.

“i think you are an insecure mess. that’s all.”

you stayed silent. he was always so blunt you thought you had got used to it. but you weren’t prepared for hearing him — or anyone really — say that.

“i-i am going to go to the bathroom.”

“fuck, wait. i didn’t mean-“

“it’s okay. i just need a moment.” you got up from your seat and left to the bathroom. you knew he was right, and maybe the alcohol didn’t let him say it in the most caring way, but he was still reading you too well. which only made your tears come out faster. you tried to compose yourself, splashing a little water around your neck before going back there.

“i think i’m ready to go home.” you said as soon as you were next to him again.

“i’ll get you home. but let me smoke one first, yeah?”

“yeah, sure.”

you got out of the bar and turned the corner. an alleyway half dimmed waited there, in which seongje started to light his cigarette. after a few minutes of silence, just hearing him blowing smoke, he suddenly spoke.

“i know this won’t fix anything, but i can’t leave tonight without saying it.” he looked lost in thought again, staring straight at the wall right in front of him. you just waited in silence, expecting anything and everything really. seongje could be just like a pandora box sometimes.

“this whole night i have had to restrain myself not to get closer, feel you or even kiss you. i don’t want to scare you away. not with that, and fuck… even less with what i say.”

you looked up in surprise again. it seemed like he had a special talent to make you do so. seongje looked like he was waiting for an answer, still staying silent with a lost gaze.

“i-i don’t get you.” you couldn’t get many words out of your mouth. you were shocked and you truly didn’t understand him. you didn’t understand if this was some kind of sudden, weird want, if he craved trying something new in bed, maybe. you knew you looked like someone who didn’t have much experience at anything, just surviving for these past few years. he could have noticed, since it wasn’t that difficult to see and he was really observant. once again, you couldn’t find many other explanations for his words and actions.

he suddenly laughed while moving his head from side to side. you could see how he was holding his cigarette tighter and the way his jaw clenched. you could sense that he was mad.

“you are impossible. fuck… i don’t even know why i’m trying.”

after a few seconds of you staying silent again, he discarded his cigarette and started walking. “let’s get you home.” he sounded cold, just like everyone had said he was. you walked a few meters behind him, holding your tears in. you knew you were a mess, you were fucking it up. you had had a crush on seongje for so long and now he was saying he wanted to get closer, but you were reacting like that? you were aware of how insecure and anxious you were, but not to this level.

“wait, seongje. i’m sorry.”

“come on.”

“please, let’s talk.”

“then fucking talk. do you think this is easy for me? you think i’ve done this before?” he said while turning around, finally looking at you. you locked eyes with him, which you had only done in a few occasions, but this time it broke your heart. you hated being the cause of someone’s anger, let alone seongje’s.

“d-don’t get mad. i don’t want you to be angry.”

“i’m not mad. i’m fucking disappointed.”

that was even worse. way worse, in fact. tears started to spill out, not being able to hold them anymore. he was always so honest, you knew everything he said he truly meant it.

“don’t… don’t fucking do that.” he said while starting to walk towards you, stopping right in front of your own feet. “just tell me what you think about what i said.”

“i think you are not… reflecting on this enough.”

“you really fucking think i have just decided to say it? that i haven’t wondered for nights about a way of doing it without getting this exact same reaction from you?!”

his words seemed to knock all of the air out of your lungs. for the first time, you kept looking at him, needing to see how he really felt, what he meant with his words. “i have never, fucking never, done this before, okay?”

“done what? flirt with a girl?”

“fuck it, you won’t get it unless i say it straight, huh?”

“you know… you know i’m not used to this!”

“fucking confess to someone! fuck!”

you were gasping for air at that point. were you understanding him right?

“y-you mean…”

“yeah, it means i like you, dumbass. that is what i’ve been trying to get you to infer for the whole night. but even when i tell you directly, you seem not to get it.”

geum seongje liked you. your brain was telling you to not trust him, reminding you you were not enough for him, or anyone really. but the excitement in your heart won for a moment, which got you to speak without thinking.

“you said… you said you wanted to kiss me.”

“really badly.”

“then do it.”

“are you…?”

“i am sure. i warn you though, i haven’t done this in like years so it’s probably like super bad, nothing compared to what you-“

you suddenly felt his lips crash on yours, moving slowly, but getting faster as seconds passed. he held the back of your head to steady you, not letting you pull away, almost scared that you would do so. he felt warm, which made you forget about everything else for a moment, just him in your mind. you were sure you weren’t doing it right, but you were willing to practice with him. after what felt like an eternity but also mere milliseconds at once, he pulled away while panting, resting his forehead over yours.

“you are looking at me now, huh?” seongje said while smiling teasingly.

“don't make me regret this." his smile just kept growing bigger, his cheeks as flushed as yours.

"you won't. ever."

166 notes · View notes

intoanothermind · 16 days ago

Text

˖*°࿐ •*⁀➷ 𝐤𝐞𝐞𝐩 𝐢𝐭 𝐝𝐨𝐰𝐧!

➜ summary: you just moved into a new building, right across from three loud guys. two said sorry and the third couldn’t care less.

pairing: pshx f!reader,wc: 14k words , genre: enemies to lovers ish, neighbor!au, fluff, romcom w: rude jokes, cussing, kissing

The elevator doors swung open, and soon you stepped out into the third floor hallway. You looked like you were moving in, which in your defense…you were. The oversized hoodie slipping off one shoulder, arms hugging a stack of takeout containers and a cactus you had that had pricked you far too many times, but that didn’t matter. You were finally on your own.

Unit 3B. That was you now.

Your keys jingled in your palm as you found the door, nudged it open with one knee, and stepped into the apartment you’d stared at for months on rental listings. It wasn’t huge, but it had a little kitchen with enough space for your mum’s rice cooker, and a balcony that caught the sun in the morning. You spun around in the centre of the room, grinning, almost knocking the cactus you had just placed on the counter in the process.

And by nightfall, the place felt like yours. Your fairy lights were strung up across your living room. Your fridge held exactly a bottle of soda, some tuna you had eaten an hour ago and a bag of unwashed grapes. You lit a vanilla candle, the one your best friend, Jungwon, made you promise to use so you'd remember him… even while being so far apart. But Jungwon hated travelling, so in his mind, you'd basically moved to another continent.

Jungwon dramatically declared, “You’re practically moving to another country.”

“Jungwon, I’m literally a two-hour train ride away.”

“That’s basically Europe.”

You rolled your eyes at the memory, smiling to yourself.

Still, you were glad you’d made the decision to move. Three years ahead of you… of being on your own, of learning to be independent, part-time jobs, and what you hoped…a future incoming relationship. It should be easy. It should be peaceful. It should be—

“DUDE!!!”

A scream ripped through your wall.

It came from the wall to your right, a thin wall nudged between you and your neighbours. You could hear celebrations. A voice shouted, “THAT WAS INSANE!” followed by a loud thump like someone had jumped off the sofa.

You tried ignoring it at first, burying yourself under the blanket like it could block out noise. But 20 minutes in, another screamed “HE’S OFFSIDE, YOU DUMB—” loud enough to rattle the walls, you snapped.

You threw on your hoodie, jammed your feet into slippers, and marched out the front door like you were storming a battlefield. The hallway was dim and quiet, except for the muffled party behind door 3C. You knocked, hard, but polite.

The door creaked open mid-laughter, revealing three guys mid-snack, mid-game.

“Hi,” you said, tight smile. “Sorry to bother you, but… would you mind keeping it down a little? I’ve got a test tomorrow and it’s kinda hard to focus with all the screaming.”

The one with fluffy hair, cute little eyes, nodded immediately. “Shit. Sorry, sorry. Totally our bad.”

Another one, long lashes and a goofy smile, actually winced. “Didn’t realise it was that loud. We’ll keep it down, promise.”

“Are you new here?” the first one asked.

You nodded. “I just moved in today, actually.”

“Oh shit. Mrs Kim moved out?”

“Damn, we’re not getting her kimchi anymore, that’s for sure.”

“We gotta eat those store-bought ones that taste like ass.”

The second boy looked at you again, more focused this time. “Oh right! I’m Jake! It’s great to meet you! I’m sorry it happened under… unfortunate circumstances. But we’ll be quieter!”

“I’m Jay, by the way,” the first one added with a small grin, pushing his hair back.

You nodded, smiling slightly. At least they were nice about it. Well, two out of three, anyway.

You glanced past both of them, eyes landing on the third boy slouched on the couch, still holding the controller, gaze fixed on the paused screen like you weren’t even there. His jaw clenched once. No name. No hello. Just a subtle, annoyed glance in your direction before he looked away again.

Cool. So he hates you. That’s cool with you.

The third guy didn’t say anything. Just glanced at you once, then turned back toward the TV.

“Uh, thanks,” you said, lips tight, already backing away.

You returned to your apartment and for a blessed thirty minutes, it was quiet.

Then someone scored a goal and the wall shook again.

You blinked slowly at your ceiling, arms folded under your head like the weight of your patience was finally starting to crush your ribs. Okay. So that’s how it was going to be. You frowned.

And that was literally… how war started.

The next morning, fuelled by petty vengeance and two hours of sleep, you grabbed your pastel pink sticky notes and wrote:

“Dear 3C, I’ve played FIFA before. It is not that damn fun for you to be out here screaming. Please tone it down. Regards, the zombie in 3B.”

You slapped it on their door. Nothing changed.

And the next day:

“Dear 3C, I can’t sleep. Kindly shut up <3 With love, the girl one more sleepless night away from writing to the landlord. 3B.”

You half expected them to ignore it. Instead, you found your note missing by mid-afternoon. Gone.

For a moment, you felt powerful. Maybe they’d actually listened.

Then 8:43 p.m. hit and someone in 3C scored a goal so loud you swore the bass from their TV made your candle flicker.

Alright. So it was personal now.

You stormed over to their door again, hands on your hips.. It wasn’t that late. You weren’t unreasonable. You believed in joy. In freedom. But right now? Rage was the only thing pumping through your system.

You shuffled down the hall with your bunny slippers slapping against the floor, hair in a claw clip that was giving up. You looked deranged. And for the first time, you were fine with that. You banged on their door.

The door cracked open a second later, revealing Jake blinking like a deer in headlights. His hair was messy. He looked mildly afraid.

“Were… we being loud again?”

You stared at him, deadpan. “Ya think?”

Jake rubbed the back of his neck. “Okay, okay. I’m so sorry. It’s Sunghoon. He keeps saying it’s not that loud and we were mid-tournament and—”

“Tell Sunghoon that his ego’s not the only thing echoing through these walls,” you snapped, arms crossed. “Some of us are trying to study.”

Behind Jake, you heard a familiar scoff followed by a smug voice yelling, “God, she’s so annoying. We were literally whispering.”

You leaned to the side, locking eyes with the third boy slouched on the couch, controller in hand, feet on the coffee table like the world owed him something. He didn’t even pause the game this time.

You didn’t know what it was about his stupidly symmetrical face but your blood boiled.

“Tell this Sunghoon guy…his whispering sounds like a screeching cat,” you said flatly, before spinning on your heel and marching back toward your door when you heard his aggravating voice.

“Tell her she’s overreacting over a couple of friends simply trying to have fun,” Sunghoon fired back from the couch, not even raising his voice.

You turned your head just enough to glare over your shoulder. “Well, tell him, his shirt doesn’t match his fucking pants.”

Jake looked helpless, standing between you both like a middle child caught in a divorce.

And then, with that same bored tone, Sunghoon called out again, “Well, tell her… those slippers are the best thing she’s worn all week.”

You stopped.

Jake sucked in a breath.

You slowly turned, eyes narrowing. “Tell him he wouldn’t know good fashion if it came with a user manual and punched him in his freaking face.”

Sunghoon finally glanced away from the TV, meeting your eyes for the first time that night. His lips curved into the most irritating half-smile you’d ever seen.

“Tell her–”

Jake stepped in between again, hands raised. “Okay! Okay. We’re gonna turn the volume down. Like, way down. Like you can’t even hear us tiptoe. Right, Sunghoon?”

Sunghoon leaned back against the couch and shrugged. “Whatever. I’m not the one annoying my neighbors at 9pm on a Friday night. Get some friends.”

You slammed your door shut.

War was back on.

The next morning, your plan was simple. A little petty, sure, but necessary.

You stood outside their door in your pyjamas, holding a fresh pack of neon yellow Post-its since your previous ones were used up by the ongoing Post-It war.The hallway was empty. Your bunny slippers made no sound as you padded up to 3C and stuck the first one of the week dead-centre on the door.

“Dear 3C, just a gentle reminder that FIFA will not feed you, clothe you, or give you money. Kindly shut up. PLEASE. Warmest regards, 3B.”

You smiled to yourself and floated back to your apartment.

That night? For the first time…? Silence. Beautiful, blissful silence. You actually managed to revise two chapters and fall asleep before midnight. You woke up in the morning feeling like a changed woman.

But then you opened your front door.

There, taped neatly to your door, was a blue sticky note with surprisingly neat handwriting.

“Dear 3B, you sound like you narrate your life out loud. – 3C.”

Your jaw dropped.

“Narrate your life out loud?” you muttered. “That’s literally called thinking.”

You marched back into your apartment, flung open your stationery drawer.

“Dear 3C, apologies if my internal monologue disrupted your daily FIFA championship. I only talk to myself because your volume settings make it impossible to hear my own thoughts. With all due respect (and ear damage), 3B."

That afternoon, Jay knocked on your door. You hesitated, then opened it a crack. He was holding a bag of convenience store pancakes in one hand.

“Peace offering,” he said. “Also, I think your notes are hilarious. Jake’s been collecting them. I think he’s making a scrapbook.”

You blinked. “Is this a joke or something?”

Jay shrugged, leaning casually against the doorframe. “No! Honestly, it’s kinda refreshing.”

Jake popped his head in from behind, grinning. “Also, your handwriting’s really neat.”

You opened the door a little wider, cautious then shrugged. “You want some… uh… spaghetti? I made it this morning.”

“Spaghetti?” Jay tilted his head.

You nodded. “Yeah. I usually experiment with food. I’m…uh…in culinary school.”

Jake’s eyes widened. “Wait, so you’re like… a chef?”

“Trying to be.,” you said with a shrug, suddenly a little self-conscious.

They exchanged a quick look before barging in like you'd personally handed them invites at the door.

“That’s so cool,” Jake said, practically bouncing as he flopped onto your beanbag. “I burnt instant noodles last week. Twice.”

Jay wandered deeper into your living room, his gaze landing on the dusty old guitar leaning against your bookshelf. “Dude, check it out! She plays the guitar.”

You rubbed the back of your neck, awkward. “It’s just for fun. I’m not that good.”

“I’m sure you’re great,” Jake said, already chewing through a mouthful of spaghetti he’d somehow found, and served himself in a bowl you didn’t remember offering.

You blinked at him. “Did you just—?”

“Plate was right there,” he said through a mouthful. “I took it as a sign.”

Jay nodded solemnly. “She feeds us and plays guitar. She’s better than Mrs. Kim already.”

You sighed and closed the door behind them. “I’m starting to think Mrs. Kim left because of the three of you.”

In between bites, Jake nodded without hesitation. “I think so too.”

“We can be loud,” Jay added, helping himself to another serving.

“Have you thought of… not being loud?”

“We do,” Jay said. “But then we get loud again.”

You rolled your eyes. “Guys, some of us have school and—”

“We have school too,” Jake chimed in, mouth full.

“Okay… some of us care about sleep.”

Jay perked up. “That’s why we got you this.”

He dug into his hoodie pocket and pulled out a tiny box, dropping it into your hands.

You squinted at it. “What’s this?”

“They’re sleep buds,” he said proudly. “They go in your ears and play white noise and, like… ocean sounds or something. Blocks everything out. Even us.”

You stared at the box, then at them.

“Instead of compromising, you got me gear?”

Jake grinned. “Yeah. We like you. We want you to be able to sleep… through us.”

Jay gave you a thumbs-up. “It’s called adaptation.”

You looked down at the sleep buds in your hands and then back up at the two of them absolutely inhaling your spaghetti like they hadn’t eaten in weeks.

You didn’t know whether to kick them out or thank them.

So you just sighed, defeated. “You guys are the weirdest neighbours I’ve ever had.”

Jake beamed. “Aww. You’re the weirdest too.”

And somehow… the next day… they were back.

You opened the door mid-knock, confused, only to find Jay grinning at you.

“What’s for lunch today, boss?” he asked, already halfway through the doorway.

You blinked. “How’d you know I made something?”

“We could smell it,” Jake said, stepping in right behind him, holding up a comically large spoon. “Smells so good. Brought my big spoon today. Came prepared.”

“Uh… I made chowder?”

Jake’s eyes lit up. “Oh my god, I love chowder.”

Jay had already plopped onto the floor cushion, flipping through your Spotify like he owned your iPad. “What kind? Clam? Corn? Pumpkin? Wait… do people put pumpkin in chowder?”

You stared at them, ladle in hand.

“Corn,” you muttered, shuffling back into the kitchen.

Then the day after that… they came again. At this point, it felt less like a surprise and more like a recurring appointment.

“No fucking way. Kimchi stew? This shit is so good!. Jay, you need to try the beef. It’s so soft. How— how’d you get it so soft? Is this like one of those expensive beef? Wakoo?”

“It’s Wagyu, Jake.” You corrected.

“Wagyu~” He sang.

Jay, already mid-bite, nodded with a full mouth. “Can I havefth thefth reshepee?”

You wiped your hands on a dish towel, leaning against the counter with one brow raised. “Do you guys ever eat in your own apartment?”

Jake didn’t miss a beat. “Not when you cook like this.”

Jay pointed his chopsticks at you like he was making a closing argument in court. “This is technically your fault. You fed us once. That’s basically a binding contract. We’re best friends now. Aren’t we, Jake?”

Jake nodded, mouth full. “Mhmff. Whatever he said.”

You sighed, setting your elbow on the table and dropping your chin into your hand. “If you’re gonna keep doing this, at least wash the dishes after.”

Jake saluted you with his spoon like you were the captain of a very tiny, soup-based army. “Yes, chef.”

You looked at the two of them, one already on his third helping, the other stealing more beef straight from the pot, and shook your head.

This wasn’t how your independent, put-together, college life was supposed to go. You were meant to be focused. The mysterious girl on the third floor who only ever came out for groceries and exams.

But maybe… with the two of them barging in uninvited, eating like they hadn’t seen food in years, and treating your living room like it was theirs…

Maybe you wouldn’t feel so lonely after all.

It was 9 p.m. Strangely quiet.

Usually, by now, there’d be at least one goal celebration shaking the walls or someone shouting about a missed penalty. But tonight? Nothing. You didn’t let it bother you. You took it as a win.

The balcony door slid open with a soft scrape. You stepped out into the cool night, cradling your little scissors and spray bottle like sacred tools. Your succulents were arranged in a neat line. A few leaves had started to curl. You knelt down, snipping the dead ends carefully.

You should’ve felt peaceful.

But tonight, something tugged at your chest.

You missed Jungwon. You missed your mom’s mismatched cutlery and the way your dad always forgot he’d already asked about your grades. Maybe even your pet fish, the one that never did much except float around looking confused.

Jay and Jake were friendly, sure. But they weren’t yours. They weren’t part of your before. They didn’t know the town you came from or the versions of you that existed before now.

And even though you thought you’d settled in... even though you were coping...you were lonely.

Without meaning to, you started speaking out loud — just like you always did.

“It’s fine. You’ll do better tomorrow. Tomorrow you won’t feel as lonely,” you said softly as you misted the leaves. “You’ll be stronger. You’re gonna get used to this. You can do it.”

But the lie caught in your throat.

Because you were crying already.

You wiped your cheek with the sleeve of your hoodie, frustrated, betrayed by your own body. You reached for your phone without thinking and hit the contact you swore you wouldn’t keep calling every time you got overwhelmed.

Jungwon answered on the first ring.

“What’s up?” he asked, casual as ever.

“Won…” you breathed out.

There was a pause. Then: “Are you crying?”

“No?”

“I can hear you sniffling, you shit.”

“It’s just—” your voice cracked. “It’s hard. I’m alone all the time. I’ve got no friends. I’ve got no one to talk to. I’m alone, Won.”

“I know,” he said gently. “I know…”

There was a pause. You could hear him shifting in bed, his voice soft and serious now. “But think about it this way, okay? You’re barely in your first month. You’re gonna get used to it. You’re gonna find people. You’re gonna build something here. It just takes time.”

You bit your lip. “You’ll visit if you can, right?”

“I’ll visit,” he promised. “Even if it takes two bloody hours.”

“But you hate traveling.”

“For you, I’d suffer.”

You sniffled. “You’re just saying that so I’ll hang up.”

“You’re right because I’m exhausted from basketball. But also… I love you.”

“Fine,” you mumbled. “I love you too.”

“Chin up. You’re talented and you deserve to be there. You can do this. We’re all counting on you.”

“I know.” You exhaled slowly. “Goodnight, Wonnie.”

“Night.”

You ended the call and sat in silence for a moment, letting the cool night air settle on your skin. The tears had stopped. Your hands still smelled like mint and basil and the faint sweetness of the spray bottle. You stared at your succulents, wondering if they ever got lonely too.

Unbeknownst to you, just a few feet away, out on the connected balcony, hidden by the divider, someone had heard everything.

He hadn’t meant to eavesdrop. He’d stepped out earlier, just needing air, needing quiet, needing to be somewhere still for once. And then he’d heard your voice. The words that were not meant for anyone else.

And for the first time, Sunghoon didn’t roll his eyes or make a sarcastic comment.

He just stood there in the dark, one hand gripping the railing, heart a little heavier than before.

He understood more than you thought.

And somewhere between your tears and Jungwon’s voice, he changed his mind about you.

The next few days, there was absolute silence. Maybe the food had finally worked some psychological warfare on Jay and Jake. Maybe it was their way of returning the favour. Either way, you weren’t about to question it.

You were grateful, to say the least.

Because for the past week, you’d been moping around your apartment. Living alone and striking out as an “independent bachelorette” sounded empowering in theory, but in practice? Maybe you weren’t one of those girlies after all…y’know the ones on Instagram who made solitude look like a season of self-discovery instead of a series of breakdowns.

It was Saturday. You’d spent the entire morning in bed watching a Netflix documentary about some guy swindling people on Tinder, surrounded by crumpled tissue and scented candle smoke that had long turned suffocating. You were still in yesterday’s hoodie, blanket tangled around your legs.

Three knocks echoed at the door.

You lifted your head from the pillow with a groan, barely alive. The sound came again.

Dragging yourself across the living room, you cracked the door open just a sliver, just wide enough to peek through but not enough to reveal the disaster that was your face, your hair, or your pride.

“Uh.” The voice was hesitant. Familiar.

You squinted.

Sunghoon.

You blinked. “What are you doing here?” you asked, your voice hoarse from crying and a full night of narrating your own spiral.

“There was a mix-up with the mail,” he said, holding up a small stack of envelopes.

“Oh.” You extended your arm awkwardly through the tiny gap in the door and grabbed the letters. “Thanks.”

There was a pause, “I can see your puffy eyes through the gap.”

You scoffed, immediately pulling the door closer. “You just have to be a smartass about everything, don’t you?”

He shrugged, completely unbothered, hands in the pockets of his hoodie. Still standing there.

“…Are Jake and Jay home?” you asked, trying to sound casual.

His expression twitched, almost amused. “Why? Trying to steal my best friends again or—”

“No,” you deadpanned. “I was just wondering. It’s been… quiet this whole week.”

“They went home to visit their families.”

Oh. Right. Come to think of it, maybe that explained why everything felt extra heavy lately. It was the time of year people usually went home. People surrounded themselves with comfort and familiarity. And here you were, stuck in the city because the train ticket home was just slightly out of budget.

“You didn’t go?” you asked softly.

“Can’t,” he shrugged.

“Oh.”

There was a beat of silence. Then he tilted his head.

“Well,” Sunghoon said slowly, “if you ever need someone to emotionally rejuvenate you by pointing out your hair looks like a rat’s nest, you know where to find me.”

The words came with the usual venom but the message behind them landed differently.

You stared at him through the gap in the door. You couldn’t tell if he was trying to be funny, or… sincere, in his own weird, backhanded way. It was strange. You’d only had three full conversations with the guy. And every single one ended in a WWE tournament.

You narrowed your eyes slightly. “Are you… being nice to me?”

He clicked his tongue. “Don’t ruin it.”

And with that, he turned and walked back.

You finally got up.

There was no movie-worthy breakthrough moment. Just the dull ache in your head from crying too much and the feeling that if you shed one more tear, your eyeballs might actually eject themselves from their sockets. So you moved. You stripped your bed, tossed the mountain of tissues into a trash bag, sprayed half a bottle of disinfectant in the air, and opened every window.

Your apartment looked like it had survived an apocalypse, which, to be fair, was accurate. But you scrubbed it back to life.

By the time you were in the kitchen, your eyes were still a little swollen, but you’d pressed them with cool spoons and a sad little compress until you could see straight again. Kind of.

You pulled out ingredients from your fridge one by one, lining them up like you were preparing for war. Slicing, boiling, julienning, stir-frying. The sound of the pan crackling beneath the glass noodles filled the silence of your apartment. It smelled exactly like it did when your mom used to make it.

You plated it in a wide, shallow bowl. It was delicious. Of course it was. You took pride in it. You always had. Jungwon used to tease you, calling your hands “blessed by Gordon Ramsay” like everything you touched turned into comfort food. You’d swat his arm, trying not to smile as he reached for second helpings before you’d even sat down.

You missed him. You missed your family. You missed not having to eat alone on a day like this.

Your eyes drifted to the door.

Would it be stupid? To bring food to Sunghoon? You’d never really done anything kind for him. Most of your interactions were lined with sarcasm and insults. And yet… that one line of his kept replaying in your head, “If you ever need someone to emotionally rejuvenate you by pointing out your hair looks like a rat’s nest, you know where to find me.”

So maybe…maybe he meant it. Or maybe you were just desperate for company and your noodles were starting to get cold.

Before you could talk yourself out of it, you packed the noodles into a clean container, wrapped a rubber band around it, and found yourself standing in front of 3C. Your feet had walked you here without permission. Your hand hovered in the air, ready to knock, but now… you hesitated. You weren’t here to complain. You weren’t here to yell. And that made it harder.

And just before your knuckles could land on the door, it swung open.

Sunghoon stood in front of you, coat already on, scarf looped lazily around his neck. There was a little shine to his hair like he’d styled it, and he looked surprised, mildly confused to find you on his doorstep without any anger evident in your eyes.

“What?” he said, voice dry.

You blinked, staring at him. You’d never really looked at him properly before. Not when he was this put-together. The gel in his hair, the sharp line of his jaw, the way his scarf sat slightly off-center like he’d thrown it on in a rush. You knew he was attractive. You weren’t blind. But seeing him now?

Sunghoon was actually… pretty handsome.

“I—uh—” you stammered.

His eyes narrowed slightly. “Spit it out.”

“I—uh—I made some… stir-fried glass noodles,” you said, stumbling over every syllable. “And I know how much it sucks being alone on a day like this, so I thought… maybe it’d bring you some kind of familiarity. From home, or something.”

You didn’t let yourself overthink it. You shoved the container into his hands, heart pounding.

“Bye,” you mumbled, before immediately turning around and marching back to your apartment like you’d just robbed a bank. The door clicked shut behind you.

You pressed your back to it, eyes wide.

Shit.

Was Sunghoon actually hot?

Sunghoon stood in the hallway, unmoving. The container in his hands was warm and he stared down at it for a couple of seconds longer than he probably should’ve.

Jake and Jay had been raving about your cooking for weeks. At first, he thought they were exaggerating. How good could someone’s food be that it made two of the loudest people he knew voluntarily whisper through a FIFA match?

But he’d seen it with his own eyes, Jake silently fist-pumping the air, mouthing “LET’S FUCKING GO” after a goal, and Jay barely reacting as he scored. They even created a rule: first one to speak puts a dollar in the Silence Jar. A literal jar. With money.

Sunghoon didn’t get it.

And he didn’t particularly care to. Not then.

But now, standing in the hallway in his coat and scarf, staring at the gift you shoved into his hands with flushed cheeks, something felt different.

He had been on his way out, actually. There was a bar nearby, nothing special, just a dim-lit spot with quiet music and decent food where no one bothered him. He usually went there whenever Jay and Jake went back home, like they did this time every year. It wasn’t that he didn’t have family—he did. It just wasn’t… warm. They were always busy. Always somewhere else, even when they were in the same room.

He peeled off his scarf, feet dragging a little as he headed back into the apartment, the door clicking shut behind him. He set the container on the kitchen counter, grabbed a pair of chopsticks from the drawer, and opened the lid.

Steam wafted up instantly, sesame oil, soy sauce, garlic, something subtly sweet he couldn’t name. The noodles glistened. They looked homemade. No, they felt homemade.

He picked up a strand and gave it a tentative taste.

His eyes widened before he could even help it.

It was good. Like stupid good. Like how the hell is this girl not running her own restaurant kind of good. Better than anything he would’ve paid for at that bar tonight.

He stood there in silence, chopsticks hovering mid-air, thinking back.

He wasn’t proud of how he’d treated you. Three encounters, three arguments. He remembered each one too clearly. The snark in his voice. The way your expression hardened. The notes on the door.

But it wasn’t really about you.

He hated being called out. Hated being the problem. Maybe it was ego, or maybe it was the way he’d always felt like he had to be put-together or to say the least…controlled. Your presence threw him off. You were loud in a way that was sincere. You didn’t filter your emotions. You wore your annoyance on your sleeve and your feelings on your face.

It irritated him. It also… made him feel something.

And then there was that night on the balcony.

He hadn’t meant to listen. But when he heard your voice cracking through the divider, talking to someone…maybe it was your boyfriend? Your best friend? Whoever it was about how lonely you were, it hit him harder than it should’ve.

Because he got it.

He felt it too.

Being alone in a crowd. Having people around but never really with you. That weight in your chest that didn’t come from sadness exactly…just the absence of warmth.

Sunghoon felt it more often than he cared to admit. He loved Jake and Jay, loved them to pieces. They were the kind of people who filled a room with noise and an energy he couldn’t really place and who made him laugh even when he didn’t want to.

He wanted something more. Something real.

Someone who just… saw him.

He sat at his kitchen counter, staring at the container of glass noodles still warm with steam curling from the lid. He wasn’t usually impulsive. He didn’t do gestures. But maybe tonight called for something a little uncharacteristic.

He stood and reached up, opening the top cupboard where Jake and Jay kept what they called their “emergency date plates.”. The kind of plates you used to impress someone. They only ever brought them out when trying to convince girls they were not, in fact, living in a borderline condemned apartment flat.

He grabbed two.

And then, before he could second guess it, he walked out into the hallway and knocked.

Your door creaked open a few seconds later.

You blinked at him, confused. “What?”

It almost felt like deja vu. Except now, he was you…awkward at the door.

And then it hit him.

He looked at you…like, really looked at you, and for the first time, he realised he’d never actually seen you before.

You were wearing a soft pink sleeveless dress, the fabric loose and falling just above your knees, cinched slightly at the waist. Your hair was tied into a side braid, fringe swept slightly to the side, with a few delicate strands left loose to frame your face. You looked like you belonged in a pastel painting.

Shit.

Were you actually—pretty?

Nope. Nope. Stop that. Sunghoon blinked hard, trying to erase the thought.

Damn it.

You probably had a boyfriend. Someone smart and warm and emotionally available who FaceTimed you every night and wrote you good morning texts. Someone who missed you from back home.

And besides…someone who could cook like you? You could probably bag Jake and Jay at the same time in under a minute if you wanted. Not that you would. But still.

He cleared his throat.

“I, uh…” He held up the plates slightly. “I thought maybe… you could join me?”

He wasn’t good at this. But his voice was steady.

“Only if you want to,” he added, quickly. “I just figured. Y’know. Glass noodles taste better on… plates that aren’t plastic.”

His eyes met yours.

He was trying.

And this time, it was your turn to blink in disbelief.

Sunghoon had returned with the container of glass noodles, now a little colder, a little stickier, but still giving off the faint aroma of sesame oil and soy sauce. You’d reheated it and plated it up, slightly embarrassed that the presentation wasn’t what it had been fresh off the stove, but he didn’t seem to care. Or maybe he did, but you couldn’t tell, because for the first five minutes, you didn’t look at each other.

The clink of chopsticks, the occasional scrape of ceramic, and your ceiling fan. It was awkward. You wondered why he even came. Why he asked in the first place, if he was just going to eat in silence.

“So,” you said.

“So,” he said.

You paused.

“You first.”

“No, you—”

“Okay, I’ll go first,” he said, cutting himself off. He cleared his throat and set his chopsticks down. “I—uh—I just wanted to say thanks. For the meal.”

You blinked. “Okay.” You nodded slowly. “You’re… shockingly formal when you’re not pissed.”

“I—” Sunghoon let out a breath and leaned back a little in the chair. “I was never pissed.”

“Mhm,” you hummed, nodding, eyes narrowed. “Sure.”

“I was annoyed, sure. Who likes being called out?”

“I wasn’t trying to call you out,” you said, tilting your head. “But put yourself in my shoes. I have to wake up at stupid o’clock to learn how to make a soufflé or whatever, and meanwhile, I’m treated to surround sound yelling and the occasional ceiling vibration.”

He gave a small shrug. “Well, we haven’t done it in a while.”

“And I’m grateful,” you replied, lips twitching. “Truly.”

“We got a silence jar and everything,” he muttered, almost like he didn’t want to admit it.

Your eyebrows shot up. “A silence jar?”

He nodded. “Yeah. Jay implemented it. He said if we keep it up, we’ll have enough for extra toppings on our next pizza night.”

You burst into laughter, the sound surprising even yourself. It came out light and real, and you covered your mouth halfway through. “That’s… honestly? A decent plan.”

“It can be,” he said with a grin starting to pull at the corner of his mouth. “Until everyone starts trying to play FIFA like it’s an ASMR video.”

“You guys actually whisper?” you asked, incredulous.

“Well, yeah. You told us to.”

“I didn’t think you would listen,” you said, pointing your chopsticks at him.

Sunghoon shrugged again, his eyes dropping to the plate in front of him. “Well… they changed my mind, so.”

He didn’t say what he was really thinking.

That it wasn’t Jake or Jay who changed his mind. It was that night. The way your voice had carried through the gap in the balcony, fragile and cracking. The way you’d said I’m alone, Won like it was something that had been sitting inside you for too long, waiting to spill. He’d realised then maybe he wasn’t just an annoying neighbour to you. Maybe he was part of the problem. Maybe he’d been making things harder for someone who was already trying to hold it all together.

“So…” he said quietly, eyes on his plate, “why are you alone during the holidays anyway?”

“Couldn’t afford a train ticket,” you said eventually. “I mean—I could have, technically. But that’d mean I wouldn’t have enough money left to buy ingredients for my assignments the next few weeks.”

Sunghoon winced. “Oof. That’s rough. Must suck.”

You gave a little shrug. “Yeah. It’s fine though.”

He knew it wasn’t.

There was a pause. He glanced sideways at you.

“If you ever… feel like you need someone to talk to,” he started, voice casual, “you could just knock. I have FIFA.”

You snorted. “Oh, like I’d willingly join that mess.”

“It’s actually really fun.”

“How fun can flinging a ball across a screen with your thumbs be?”

“It is!” he defended, turning fully toward you.

You raised a brow. “I tried once with my friend and it was so boring.”

“That’s ‘cause you weren’t playing it right,” he insisted, already standing up. “Come on. I’ll show you.”

“I’m not playing FIFA with you.”

“Come onnn,” he whined, grabbing your wrist and tugging you lightly toward his door.

“God, this is gonna be so stupid,” you muttered, dragging your feet even as you followed him out.

Inside his apartment, the lights were warm, the couch sunken in like it had been through a war. You sat reluctantly, tucking your knees up as he handed you the controller.

“Alright,” he said, sliding in beside you. “This is you—Team Two. All you have to do is use the left joystick to move, the right one to look around. This button to pass, this one to shoot.”

You blinked. “So many buttons.”

“It’s easy! Just follow what I say.”

“Okay… so now I just—?” You pressed a button and immediately kicked the ball out of bounds.

“No, no—move left. Left.”

“I am moving left!”

He glanced over. Your tongue was sticking out slightly in concentration, eyes squinted, brows furrowed. He chuckled before he could stop himself, quickly looking away.

Then you screamed, “I DID IT! DID I DO IT?!”

He turned back just in time to see you score.

Sunghoon yelled, jumping up. “Yeah! That was it!”

You stared at the screen, jaw dropping. “Holy shit. I’m amazing.”

He looked at you again, this time longer. Your eyes were glowing, still locked on the TV. Your fingers tapped at the buttons like you already got it down. You bit your lip when you were focused, tongue sticking out just slightly when you were thinking.

And you were cute. So fucking cute.

The match picked up pace. Suddenly it was 2–2, and both of you were leaning in like your lives depended on it. You were yelling at the controller. He was shouting advice. At one point, your knees knocked, but neither of you noticed. The room was loud, just your voices and the music from the game and the way your laughter filled every corner of his flat.

Then it happened.

You scored.

You screamed, controller tossed onto the couch, and before Sunghoon could register what was happening, your arms were around his neck, squeezing him tight as you jumped slightly in place.

“I WON! DID YOU SEE THAT?!”

He froze. Your cheek brushed his jaw, your warmth right up against him. His hands hovered midair like he didn’t know whether to hold you back or not.

And then you let go, plopped back onto the couch, and grabbed the controller again like nothing had happened.

Sunghoon didn’t move.

For the first time in what felt like forever, his heartbeat stuttered. Sped up like it had been woken from a long, indifferent sleep.

He sat there, silent, staring at you as you shouted at your pixelated team.

And all he could think was well that…he hadn’t planned on crushing on the new girl based on one single positive interaction.

God, he was so screwed.

The next few days passed in a blur of almost-conversations.

You and Sunghoon didn’t talk much. Not like that night. Just a few polite waves across the hallway, a quiet “hey” if you caught the elevator at the same time. Respectful nods. The occasional awkward glance if your eyes met for too long.

And then Jake and Jay came back.

And of course, Jake being Jake, invited himself into your apartment before you could even say no.

“I missed your cooking while I was gone,” he sighed dramatically, sinking into the dining chair like he’d returned from war.

“Well, today’s your lucky day,” you said, flipping through your assignment folder and squinting at the week’s task. “Because for today’s assignment, I’m supposed to…” you paused. “Make a really mean chicken pot pie.”

Jake’s eyes lit up. He clapped his hands, nearly tipping his chair over. “CHICKEN POT PIE?!”

Before you could even blink, he leapt up, yanked your door open, and sprinted into the hallway.

“JAY! IT’S CHICKEN POT PIE!” he yelled like it was a fire drill.

From across the hall, Jay’s voice rang out. “WHAT?! NO WAY!”

And then—another voice joined them.

A quieter one.

“Chicken pot pie?”

You didn’t even have time to react before you were suddenly hosting three grown men in your kitchen, all leaning over your counter.

“Guys,” you said, elbow-deep in flour. “I can’t focus if you’re all staring at me like that.”

“We’re just excited,” Jake grinned, chin in his hands.

“Well don’t be. I’ve never made this before. It might taste like ass.”

“Your hands are basically blessed by Gordon Ramsay,” Jay declared, grabbing a slice of carrot from the cutting board. “It’s impossible for it to taste like ass.”

You laughed, the sound soft and unexpected even to yourself. “Jungwon used to tell me that all the time.”

“Oh he did?” Jay echoed, voice teasing.

Sunghoon stood a few steps back from the others, arms crossed loosely, leaning against your fridge. He hadn’t said much since stepping into your place, but now he watched the three of you.

The way you smiled when Jay made a joke. The way Jake knew where you kept your mixing bowls. The way your eyes sparkled, just slightly, when you laughed about something from home. The way they got it. The way they knew you.

And the way he didn’t.

Sunghoon couldn’t explain it but it made his stomach twist. Tight and strange and uncomfortable.

And then he heard it again.

Jungwon.

Who the hell was Jungwon?

His name sounded too casual. Too affectionate. The kind of name you didn’t just drop without meaning.

Sunghoon didn’t say anything. He just looked down at your countertop, at the flour dusting your hands and the delicate way your fingers shaped the crust, and all he could think was—

Why the fuck did he care so much?

You moved around your kitchen with the kind of ease that made it impossible not to watch. Sunghoon’s eyes were locked on you, the way your hair swayed behind your back as you leaned forward to stir something in the pot, the way your sleeves were pushed up.

His heart pounded harder than it should’ve. He tried to brush it off. Maybe he was just hungry. Maybe it was just the smell of garlic and butter making him lightheaded. That had to be it, right?

Except no.

He hadn’t planned on feeling like this today. Not when he woke up. Not when he brushed his teeth and went on his phone and told himself he’d stay in his apartment. He hadn’t even planned on coming over. And that night the two of you shared noodles? He’d chalked it up to vulnerability. Nighttime feelings. Nothing serious.

But now it was noon. He was awake. Sober. And you were still somehow making his chest tighten just by existing within ten feet of him.

God. He hated having a crush.

He didn’t even realise how lost he looked until Jake spoke up from the side, breaking the spell.

“So, is Jungwon finally coming?”

This guy again.

Sunghoon’s head whipped toward Jake so fast it might’ve snapped his neck.

You perked up at the mention, a smile blooming across your face without even trying. “Yeah! He’s coming in two weeks! I actually told him about you guys. He’s kinda excited to meet you.”

That smile. It wasn’t fake. It wasn’t forced. You looked like someone who meant it. Someone who missed this guy. Someone who talked to him often.

Sunghoon clenched his jaw and looked away, grabbing a water bottle off your counter just to do something with his hands. He twisted the cap a little too hard.

He didn’t know who the hell Jungwon was.

But he already didn’t like him.

“He’s coming over?” Jay asked, his mouth still half-full of pie filling.

“Yeah,” you said casually, brushing a stray hair behind your ear as you peeked into the oven. “He’s staying at my place for the week he’s here.”

Staying at your place?

Sunghoon blinked.

He looked around your apartment, eyes scanning every corner like they were going to magically reveal a hidden guest room. But there wasn’t one. You lived in a studio. Everything was in one space. Your bed, your desk, your kitchen, your couch. Except… there wasn’t even a real couch. Just a throw-covered loveseat that barely seated two.

No air mattress in sight. No hidden folding cot. No suspicious lumpy bags that might hold a spare futon.

Just one bed.

His chest tightened.

Where the hell was Jungwon gonna sleep? With you?

He picked at the label on his water bottle, teeth grinding quietly as he stared down at the floor, like it held answers. It didn’t.

He wasn’t even involved with you. This shouldn’t matter. It shouldn’t bother him.

But it did. In the most uncomfortable, teeth-clenching, mind-racing kind of way.

You stood in front of the three boys, arms crossed, heart racing slightly under your apron. The chicken pot pie sat on the table…golden brown crust, just the right amount of bubbling over on the sides, the smell of thyme and butter and garlic filling your apartment.

Jake, Jay, and Sunghoon each took a spoonful at the same time like they’d rehearsed it. You watched them, nervous, scanning their faces.

One by one, their expressions lit up. Jake’s eyes widened, Jay let out a satisfied groan. Well… except Sunghoon. Of course.

He stayed still. Always unreadable. But you caught it. The tiny pause, the way his brows lifted just a fraction. He liked it. He just didn’t show it like the others.

“So—” Jake started.

“Good,” Jay finished, already reaching for more.

Your eyes flicked to Sunghoon. Somehow, his opinion was the one you were waiting on. The one you needed.

“So?” you asked, staring at him.

He blinked. “What?”

“How is it?”

“It’s good,” he said, nodding once, tone flat as ever.

Your smile dropped. You frowned. “Doesn’t seem like it.”

“What? I just said it’s good.”

“No, you said ‘good’ and then frowned and put your spoon down. Usually it’s ‘It’s good,’ then a second bite. Right, boys?”

Jake nodded enthusiastically, chicken still in his mouth. “She’s right.”

“Totally right,” Jay added, already helping himself to more.

Sunghoon rolled his eyes, leaning back slightly. “You’re all being dramatic.”

You scoffed, insulted. “I guess you don’t want seconds then. Tch.”

You clicked your tongue and turned on your heel, storming off toward the kitchen, grumbling under your breath. Your apron fluttered behind you as you moved, and you didn’t look back.

Sunghoon watched your little pout, the way your shoulders stiffened, how you exaggerated every step. He didn’t know why, but he liked your reaction. No, he loved it. He found it ridiculously cute. Too cute, actually. That slight wrinkle in your forehead. The way your voice got higher when you were mad. The tiny stomp in your step.

The moment your back turned, his lips twitched upward.

When lunch ended and the three of them stood by your front door, Jake and Jay turned to hug you dramatically.

“Never move out,” Jake said into your shoulder.

You rolled your eyes. “You’re just saying that because you get free food.”

“And precisely why we don’t want you to move out,” Jay replied, squeezing you once more before the two of them shuffled out, bickering as they made their way into their apartment across the hall.

Sunghoon lingered. Just behind you.

You turned, raising a brow. “Aren’t you leaving?”

He nodded. “Yeah.” He stepped back slowly, hands in his pockets, gaze flicking to the floor before settling back on you. Then he paused. Like he wasn’t sure if he should say what he was about to say.

“The chicken pot pie was good. I think…” he exhaled, voice quieter, “I think it was one of the best things I’ve ever had.”

You blinked, caught off guard.

“It reminded me of home,” he added, eyes still on you now, a little softer than usual. “Not in the way where it’s about the taste or anything… it’s just… you cook like home. If that makes any sense.”

You hadn’t expected that.

Your cheeks flushed immediately. You turned away before he could see it, pretending to fiddle with a dish on the counter, fingers uselessly adjusting an already-clean plate.

“Thank you,” you murmured, voice low, almost shy.

He lingered for a second longer like he wanted to say more. Then he gave a quiet nod and walked out the door.

It was raining.

It was only 4 p.m., but the sky had turned an eerie charcoal grey, clouds rolling thick above the city. Thunder cracked so loud you felt it in your chest, and the wind howled between the buildings, slamming against your windows.

You hated this.

You hated how much you still feared storms even at your age. How useless independence felt when you were stuffing tissues in your ears and jamming earmuffs over your head like you were five again. You turned on every single light in your apartment, lamps, fairy lights, even your microwave light and cocooned yourself under your thickest blanket, barely breathing, eyes wide.

Then the whole building shuddered.

The lights flickered.

And then everything went dark.

You screamed.

Your apartment disappeared into a blanket of pitch black, shadows curling up the walls like ink. Your heart pounded. You scrambled up from the couch, tearing off your earmuffs and patting the walls with shaky hands, trying to find a light switch like that would fix anything.

“Shit,” you whispered, voice trembling. “Shit shit shit.”

You fumbled for your phone. A message popped up from your landlord.

“The building is experiencing a temporary blackout due to the storm. Electricity should resume in an hour. Thank you for your patience.”

An hour? Alone? In this? In the dark? Absolutely fucking not.

You jumped at another violent crack of thunder and instantly rushed out into the hallway. Your blanket trailed behind you like a cape. You beelined for the only door you knew.

You knocked. The door swung open almost immediately.

“No time to explain but I’m shitting bricks here,” you said all at once.

It wasn’t Jake or Jay.

It was Sunghoon.

His brows raised. “The thunderstorm?”

You nodded frantically. “Are Jake or Jay here?”

“They’re asleep.” He glanced behind him, then back at you. “But I could… stay with you. If you want. Until it passes.”

You hesitated.

Then thunder cracked again, louder this time, right above your building.

You flinched. “Okay,” you breathed, defeated.

The two of you sat cross-legged on your couch, sharing a single candle as your only source of light. It flickered between you, casting long, warm shadows on the walls.

“Seems like you’re scared of the thunder,” he said gently.

“Well,” you sighed, voice tight. “I’ve been scared of it since I was younger. It just… gets to me.”

He nodded. “It’s okay.”

You noticed it then…the subtle tremble in his shoulders. He was shivering. From the cold, probably. Your heater wasn’t working without electricity, and the apartment was steadily turning into a fridge. You were wrapped up like a burrito, but he’d come in without anything but a hoodie.

Feeling guilty, you shifted toward him and lifted one side of your blanket.

“Uh…” he looked at you like he wasn’t sure if he was being pranked.

“Relax. I can see you shivering like a dog,” you muttered.

“Oh.” He blinked, then grabbed the other end of the blanket and scooted in beside you.

Now under the same blanket, his body heat pressed faintly against yours. You sat side by side, knees pulled to your chests.

And then, in a whisper, he said, “You know…”

You looked over at him, startled by the sudden softness in his voice.

“I know I’m not as close to you as Jay and Jake are,” he said, eyes trained on the candle, “but… you don’t always have to find them for help.”

You blinked. “Huh?”

“I’m saying…” he sighed, eyes flicking up toward you, and then away again. “Never mind.”

“No, what? Just spit it out.”

He exhaled through his nose like it physically hurt to get the words out. “I’m just saying… you could ask me for help too.”

You stared at him, your eyes adjusting to the candlelight flickering between you.

“Oh,” you said softly.

There was a beat of silence. You weren’t really sure what to do with that. But you didn’t want to leave it hanging either.

“I’ll be sure to think of you the next time,” you mumbled, barely louder than the rain still pelting the windows outside.

You felt him nod beside you.

You turned your head slowly, resting your cheek against your knees, eyes drifting toward him. His face was tilted down, lashes long and dark as they blinked now and then, just slow enough for you to notice. His jaw had softened a little. He looked calm, in a way you weren’t used to seeing him.

“Would you rather have a million dollars,” you said suddenly, “or have no problems in the world?”

He blinked, confused for a second, then turned his head toward you. His chin was on his knees now too, and with the two of you curled up in the same blanket, inches apart, it felt almost like whispering under covers at a sleepover.

“What kind of question is that?”

“A good one,” you replied, lips twitching. “So answer it.”

He scoffed a little under his breath. “Uh… maybe no problems in the world?”

“Smart answer. Why?”

He paused, “I think people ruin themselves trying to solve problems that shouldn’t be theirs. If I had no problems, maybe I wouldn’t waste time worrying about all the stuff that doesn’t matter.”

You blinked at him. That was… not the answer you were expecting. It was a good one. Way too good, actually.

“Right,” you said softly, giving him a small nod.

He looked at you for a second longer before his eyes flicked down. “Your turn. Would you rather go back in time or go into the future?”

You puffed your cheeks out, thinking. “Hmm… that’s a toughie.”

Then your eyes widened, the way they always did when you had a lightbulb moment. “Go back in time!”

“Why’s that?”

“So maybe I’d really weigh the pros and cons of moving to a city where I know no one,” you said with a grin, but it faded slightly at the end.

Sunghoon stayed quiet.

“You must really feel alone,” he said.

You blinked, startled. “What?”

“I hear you talking about it sometimes. On your balcony. When you think no one’s listening. You talk about how moving here feels like a mistake.”

You looked away, embarrassed. “It’s not a mistake. I just… miss everything back home.”

“I get it,” he said after a second. “I was like you. Back when I was home, I wanted to leave so badly. Thought being somewhere else would fix everything. But now that I’m here… yeah, I have Jay and Jake, and they’re great, but sometimes I come back to the apartment and everything’s fine and normal and still—I just feel… empty. And I don’t even know why.”

You didn’t say anything for a long time.

You just watched him. His face had turned thoughtful, distant. His eyes unfocused, drifting somewhere past the flickering candle, past your walls, like he was staring right through the quiet that lived in his chest.

You mumbled, “Well, yeah. But… I also don’t regret it. Not one bit.”

“Really?”

You nodded. “Yeah. I mean—I’m here doing what I love. Not many people get to do that. And I made friends with three incredibly annoying people in this building.”

He turned toward you again, eyes narrowing playfully. “So we’re friends now?”

Your cheeks heated up instantly. You glanced away, pretending to roll your eyes. “Are we not?”

He let out a low chuckle, the kind that rumbled softly at the back of his throat. “I’m glad you think we are.”

“So,” you said, tilting your head, “does this mean you’ll finally be nice to me now? Or is that too much character development for one night?”

Sunghoon smirked, eyes flicking to you with a teasing glint. “You want nice? From me?”

“Yeah. Like a full sentence without sarcasm. I feel like that’s a reward I’ve earned by now.”

“You earned a participation medal at best.”

You laughed, nudging him with your knee. “Unbelievable.”

He was already looking at you again—closer this time.

“Hold on,” he said softly, “you have an eyelash on your cheek.”

You blinked, caught off guard. “What?”

Before you could move, he leaned in.

His face hovered inches from yours as his thumb brushed gently against your cheek, his touch soft but sure. The pads of his fingers were warm. His eyes, now impossibly close, scanned your face with a kind of quiet focus you hadn’t felt from him before. You swallowed.

Neither of you moved.

Your gaze locked, and the space between you slowly disappeared…inch by inch, breath by breath. It wasn’t planned. It just… happened.

Then suddenly, his lips were on yours.

Then it deepened. His other hand pushed the blanket off his head, dropping behind your neck to pull you in, and your hands found their way to his thighs, then to the curve of his jaw. His lips parted just enough, and your pulse jumped as he moved against you.

His hands slid to your waist. He lifted you slightly and shifted you into his lap in one smooth motion. You were now straddling him, knees on either side of his thighs, and he didn’t stop kissing you, not even for a second.

The kiss grew stronger. He tilted his head, hand moving to your chin to pull you even closer, his mouth parting yours with a low inhale as his tongue brushed against yours.

Your hands moved back down, gripping at the soft cotton of his hoodie, when—

Click.

The lights flickered on.

You both froze.

Your faces were still inches apart.

You slowly pulled back, still on his lap. He blinked, eyes searching yours like he wasn’t sure what just happened. Like part of him wanted to keep going, and the other part… couldn’t believe you just kissed him like that.

You stared at each other, the silence heavy now.

His hands were still resting lightly on your waist. Yours were still fisted in the fabric of his hoodie. Both of you breathless.

“I need to go back home,” Sunghoon said suddenly, voice low but rushed. His eyes darted everywhere except at you.

You blinked. “Right. Of course!” you said quickly, nodding way too fast. “Yeah. No—totally.”

He shifted awkwardly underneath you, face flushing as he cleared his throat and muttered, “Probably… need a pillow or something.”

It took you a second.

Then you saw the way he was subtly covering his lap with the edge of the blanket.

“Oh.” Your voice came out small. You quickly scrambled off his lap, cheeks burning so hot they could’ve powered your apartment during the blackout.

“Sorry,” he mumbled, already halfway to your door.

And then, Sunghoon stormed out of your apartment.

It had been a couple of days since you last properly spoke to Sunghoon. Not for lack of trying. You had…more than once. But each time, he’d give you a quick nod, maybe a polite smile if you were lucky, before promptly power-walking away.

Maybe he just wasn’t feeling what you were feeling. Maybe that kiss was a fluke, something in the heat of the moment. Maybe your little new crush was painfully one-sided.

But you pushed it aside. You had bigger things to focus on.

Jungwon was coming today.

You’d spent the entire morning rearranging your apartment, cleaning it from top to bottom, fluffing cushions and spraying perfume not just on yourself but into the air like it could somehow mask how nervous you were. You even did your hair the way he liked it, soft curls and a side part.

And then, there he was.

The door swung open and your best friend stood in the hallway, suitcase in hand and a grin already on his face.

“WON!” you squealed, running up to him and leaping into his arms.

“Hello, idiot,” he said, his voice fond as he hugged you back, lifting you off the ground with ease.

The shout must’ve startled the boys in 3C, because right on cue, the door across the hall creaked open and out came Jake and Jay, both peeking out.

They spotted you clinging to Jungwon like a koala.

You beamed. “Guys! It’s him!”

“The famous Jungwon,” Jay said, nodding in approval as he stepped out.

“And you must be Jake and Jay,” Jungwon said smoothly, setting you down.

Then came the third.

Sunghoon.

He didn’t move from the doorway. Just stood there, arms crossed, expression unreadable.

Jungwon turned to him, a friendly smile still on his lips, chuckling. “You must be Sunghoon, then.”

Sunghoon’s gaze narrowed slightly. “What’s so funny?”

Jungwon blinked, caught off guard. “Nothing,” he said, clearing his throat. “She just… told me you were like this.”

“Like what?” Sunghoon asked sharply, the scoff nearly audible in his tone.

Jungwon scratched the back of his neck. “Nothing. She just said you were cool,” he said with a shrug, throwing you a teasing look.

Sunghoon rolled his eyes.

You stood there, suddenly awkward, unsure what the hell had crawled up Sunghoon’s ass. The hostility was as thick as the tension in the air and you hadn’t done anything. Not really.

At least you didn’t think you had.

Just stood there, arms crossed, a stiff expression on his face while Jake and Jay welcomed Jungwon like he was already part of the group. Jungwon, ever the social butterfly, fit in easily, throwing a few jokes around, complimenting the apartment despite its questionable decor, and even teasing Jake about the ugly dinosaur pyjamas he was wearing in broad daylight.

But Sunghoon?

He was frowning the entire time.

You couldn’t figure it out. His jaw was tight, his responses were clipped, and every time Jungwon so much as glanced your way, you saw Sunghoon’s eye twitch.

You walked back to your apartment with Jungwon beside you, chatting excitedly about dinner plans and all the places he wanted to visit during his stay. But when you turned back, just for a second, you caught Sunghoon still watching. Still standing in the hallway.

His arms were still crossed.

And he didn’t look away.

Sunghoon stood there, arms folded across his chest like they were the only things keeping him together. He stared ahead blankly, jaw tight, doing everything in his power not to glare a hole through the wall. He wasn’t sure what he was feeling.

Sure, he knew he had a crush on you. He’d known since the chicken pot pie, probably. Or maybe since you wrapped that blanket around his shoulders. Or maybe long before that. But what he didn’t know was who the fuck Jungwon was, and why he was walking into your apartment.

“Dude,” Jake muttered, throwing him a sideways look. “You could’ve at least smiled.”

“I did,” Sunghoon growled, not bothering to hide his scowl.

Jay snorted. “That was barely a smile. You looked like you were in the middle of passing a kidney stone.”

“Why do I even have to be nice?” Sunghoon snapped. “I don’t know him.”

“Because your crush’s boyfriend just came into town,” Jake replied, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

Sunghoon's head snapped to him so fast you’d think he got whiplash. “Boyfriend?”

Jay raised a brow. “Not denying the crush though.”

Sunghoon ignored him. “Let me ask you again. Boyfriend?”

Jake shrugged. “I mean… yeah, I guess?”

“What the fuck do you mean you guess?” Sunghoon hissed, dragging a hand down his face. “He can’t be her boyfriend.”

“But he is,” Jay said with a shrug and an infuriatingly smug smile.

“No, he’s not. He can’t be. Because she and I…” he paused, realising too late what was about to fall out of his mouth. “…kissed. Three nights ago.”

Jake’s mouth dropped open. Jay blinked.

“I’m sorry, what?” Jake finally blurted.

“Nothing,” Sunghoon muttered quickly, suddenly desperate to eat his words.

“You can’t say nothing when you just said everything!” Jake shouted, grabbing Sunghoon’s shoulders and shaking him.

“Tell us right now!” Jay begged dramatically, gripping his own hair.

Sunghoon rolled his eyes, flustered. “I—we—kissed. That’s it.”

Jay blinked. “You know we were kidding about the boyfriend thing, right?”

Jake grinned. “Jungwon’s just her best friend.”

“We just wanted to see if you’d admit you liked her,” Jay added, eyes sparkling with way too much joy. “Which you did.”

“No, I didn’t,” Sunghoon argued weakly. “I just said we kissed.”

“Okay, Mr Visceral Reaction every time we mention Jungwon,” Jake teased.

Jay smirked. “Say it. Say you like her.”

Sunghoon groaned, eyes shut tight as if the ceiling could swallow him whole. Then, finally—quietly, begrudgingly—

“Okay. So what if I like her?”

Jay and Jake immediately turned to each other with identical gasps, smacking each other’s arms excitedly.

“Oh my god, he admitted it,” Jay whispered dramatically.

Jake clutched his chest. “It’s happening.”

“You guys are disgusting,” Sunghoon groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. “And if you keep acting like this, I’m never telling you anything again.”

“Okay, okay.” Jake raised both hands, trying to suppress a grin. “We’ll behave.”

“BUT I’M SO EXCITED,” Jay squealed.

Jake smacked him on the shoulder. “Starting now.”

Jay nodded solemnly, rubbing his arm. “Sorry. That one slipped.”

Sunghoon sighed and leaned against the counter, arms crossed again. “I started liking her last month… when you guys went back home for the week. She cooked me stir-fried noodles, and we ate together. Played FIFA. I don’t know. I just… developed a crush on her.”

“That’s so cute,” Jay and Jake said in unison, stars in their eyes.

“Seriously, can the two of you act normal for like three minutes?”

Jake shrugged, still smiling. “I just didn’t expect you to have a girlfriend before me.”

Jay patted his shoulder. “You’ll get there, buddy.”

Jake tilted his head. “You think?”

“Yeah, you have nice eyes. Great personality.”

Jake beamed. “That’s so kind.”

“Can we please get back to my problem for like a minute?” Sunghoon cut in, glaring at both of them.

“Oh. Right.”

Jay cleared his throat and finally looked serious. “Look. We like her. She’s hilarious, and she makes good fucking food. And let’s be real, you’ve never liked anyone. We’ve been trying to get you to double date with us for years and you just stare at your phone all the time. But with her? You’re like... a guy with actual feelings.”

“But now I’m losing to Jung… whatever his name is.” Sunghoon sighed.

“Jungwon,” Jake said. “And no, you’re not.”

“How do you know she doesn’t like him?” Sunghoon muttered, staring down at the floor.

“Because,” Jay said, “if she did, she wouldn’t have kissed you.”

“Unless she’s indecisive or confused or something. I don’t know.” Sunghoon exhaled hard, running a hand through his hair. “Maybe I was just… a moment. And he’s her person.”

Jake shook his head. “I’m telling you—just talk to her.”

“Yeah,” Jay added. “Before you spiral even harder and start writing love songs about her. But if you do, I haved like a couple of guitars you could borrow.”

Sunghoon rolled his eyes. But somewhere, deep down… a part of him hoped they were right.

You were pacing back and forth on your cheap IKEA rug, while Jungwon was laid out dramatically on your bed, arms folded behind his head, thoroughly enjoying the show.

“I’m telling you, he’s avoiding me,” you snapped, pointing an accusatory finger at no one in particular. “We kissed—KISSED, Jungwon—and now he won’t even look at me! I wave, he nods. I say hi, he nods. I breathe in his direction, he—guess what—nods!”

Jungwon hummed, annoyingly calm. “Maybe he’s nervous. Or maybe he wants you to go to him.”

“I do go to him! And then he speed-walks away like I’m the plague!” You groaned, pressing your fingers to your temples. “I’m gonna lose it.”

“Maybe…” he tapped his chin thoughtfully, “you’re just a shit kisser.”

You whipped around and chucked a throw pillow directly at his smug face.

“Asshole.”

He caught it with a grin, clutching it to his chest dramatically. “I’m just saying. Maybe you scared him off.”

“You’re lucky I haven’t strangled you with this blanket,” you muttered, grabbing another pillow just in case.

Jungwon sat up, brushing imaginary dust off his shirt. “You know, sometimes I forget we grew up together because you’re so unpredictable now.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

He snorted. “You used to be fearless. Remember that Heeseung guy you had a crush on in middle school?”

You blinked. “What about him?”

“You were six, and you walked up to him at recess, said ‘I like your lunchbox,’ then kissed his cheek and ran off.”

“Ah,” you said flatly, “the good old days. That girl’s dead now.”

“She’s not dead,” Jungwon argued, grabbing your wrists and tugging you to sit beside him on the bed. “She’s just… overthinking everything. Look, if Sunghoon doesn’t like you—whatever. But if he does? You’re missing out just because you’re too chicken to tell him.”

You glared. “I hate it when you make sense.”

“I know.” He grinned. “It’s my worst trait.”

“I just—” you exhaled, flopping back beside him. “What if it ruins everything? We literally just got closer. What if I say something and it all goes to shit?”

“Okay, counter-offer.” He sat up straighter. “You tell him, or I will. I will walk down the hallway, knock on his door, and go ‘Hi, my best friend has feelings for you, she also has performance anxiety but can cook a great bowl of chicken noodle soup.’”

“You wouldn’t,” you hissed, swatting at his arm.

“Then do it yourself!” he laughed, dodging your attacks. “Before I start printing flyers and pasting them in the apartment lobby.”

God. Why did he always have to be right?

“Fine.”

Your hand was already on the doorknob, breath caught in your throat, just about to leave when the door across from yours had swung open at the exact same time.

And there he was.

Sunghoon.

You both froze, hands still gripping the doorknobs, blinking.

You cleared your throat first. “Sunghoon.”

He blinked like he hadn’t already been staring. “What?”

You squinted. “Is that the only word you know how to say when I call your name?”

He paused. “Sorry.”

You opened your mouth to say something else but were rudely interrupted by muffled snorts from behind Sunghoon. Jay and Jake’s heads popped out from their doorway like nosy meerkats.

“Hoon,” Jay said in a loud, exaggerated voice, “we need more eggs.”

“Desperately,” Jake added, nodding like this was a national emergency. “Go to the store.”

Then Jungwon peeked out from behind you with an equally suspicious grin. “Oh, and while you’re there, can you grab some ice cream too?”

You and Sunghoon looked at each other.

“What is happening right now,” you said flatly.

Before either of you could respond, four hands shoved the both of you toward the elevator. You stumbled in, the doors sliding shut just as Jay yelled out, “Don’t come back without snacks!”

The elevator stopped at your floor.

Your shoulders brushed as you stood side by side, awkwardly watching the floor numbers light up.

Then, finally, you broke it. “About that day—”

Sunghoon shook his head quickly. “Don’t worry about it. I won’t tell Jungwon.”

You blinked. “What do you mean you won’t tell Jungwon?”

He looked away. “Well, aren’t you like… crushing on him? I wouldn’t want what we did to, you know… ruin your chances or something.”

Your entire face scrunched up. “Won and I? What? Ew. God, no. We’re friends. We grew up together. Thinking about him that way would be like incest or something.”

And just like that, Sunghoon felt like he’d been hit by a shooting star and given a second chance at life. His heart did a full backflip. You were single. You were available.

He couldn’t help it. He smiled.

“Why do you suddenly look so happy?” you asked, eyeing him suspiciously.

“I’m not.”

“You’re literally smiling.”

“I’m not.”

“We’ve hung out a couple of times and if I’m being honest, I’ve never seen you smile this—”

“Cut it out.” He tried to brush it off, biting back the grin. “I’m just glad.”

“Glad about?”

“Glad that I didn’t ruin your chances,” he said nonchalantly, looking up like he hadn’t just panicked thirty seconds ago.

“Mhm.” You narrowed your eyes at him, the golden-orange glow of the sunset casting warmth across his cheekbones. He was handsome. Frustratingly so. “Well… because I actually like this other guy.”

Sunghoon’s smile faltered.

“I haven’t known him that long,” you continued casually, “but he seems cool. I don’t really know much about him yet.”

“That’s… nice.” Sunghoon turned away quickly, jaw tight. He was definitely grimacing. Please don’t let her see that I’m grimacing, he begged internally.

“Yeah, he’s really tall. Really handsome, too.”

“That’s just…” he exhaled. “Great.”

“He doesn’t seem super friendly but he has a big heart. Even if he tries really hard not to show it.”

“Seems like a swell fuckin’ guy,” he muttered bitterly.

“It’s a pity though,” you sighed dramatically, still watching him. “I wish I could get to know him better.”

“Well… anyone’s lucky to get to know you.” He tried to smile. It didn’t reach his eyes. “I know I am.”

You tilted your head. “Not to mention… he lives really close to me.”

Sunghoon’s eyes darted to you. “He does?”

“Mhm.” You nodded, heartbeat accelerating.

“Like how close?”

You took a slow step toward him. “Like… just across the hall close.”

“Oh.” He blinked. “That close.”

Silence settled in the small elevator. You both just stood there, not looking at each other, tension hanging in the air like humidity.

Then, out of nowhere—

“I’m just saying,” Sunghoon said, dead serious, “but Jake sleeps with the lights on and Jay doesn’t wash his hair as often as you think he does.”

You blinked. “Huh?”

“I sleep normal,” he added quickly. “I wash my hair. I do proper haircare—shampoo, conditioner, mask, mist. I could do your routine too. For you. If you want.”

You stared.

“I can’t cook, but I’ll try. I can figure skate. I can spin twice in the air. Jay and Jake? Not even one spin. Jay can play guitar, Jake can sing but I can spin, okay? Without getting dizzy too.”

“Sunghoon.”

“And those idiots never clean up after eating your food. Jay doesn’t use coasters. Jake never makes his bed.”

“SUNGHOON!”

He looked at you, breathless. “What?”

You stepped forward. Slowly. Then, you mumbled, “It’s you.”

He blinked. “What?”

“I like you.”

And for once, Park Sunghoon had absolutely nothing to say.

“Okay,” he said. “Cool. Okay. I—wow. Okay.”

You raised a brow. “That’s it?”

He nodded dumbly. “No. Yes. I don’t know. I just—holy shit. You like me.”

You smirked, the smile slowly stretching across your face. “Yes. I like you.”

The elevator dinged. Neither of you moved.

He looked at you again, still dazed. “Hold on, I kinda need a minute.”

You both stepped out into the empty lobby. The sun outside had just dipped below the skyline, casting a pinkish-orange glow through the glass doors. The streetlights flickered on. But you waited.

“It’s been a minute,” you said.

“I know,” he exhaled, hand raking through his hair. “But you like me back, so I kinda need, like… a long minute.”

“Back?” You grinned, the corners of your mouth lifting all the way to your eyes. “So you like me too?”

He nodded slowly. “Yeah. I thought it was obvious from the, uh… word vomit.”

“Well yeah,” you shrugged. “But I didn’t want to assume. Didn’t wanna be narcissistic.”

“I think even if you were,” he muttered, “I’d still think you were pretty cute.”

You blinked. “Did you just—”

“Gross, I know,” he said quickly, face flushing. “I just said that out loud, didn’t I?”

You laughed. “Yeah. But you kinda can’t take it back now.”

“Fine,” he said, pretending to groan. “You’re cute. Ugh. I said it again.”

A MONTH LATER

Jay and Jake found it fundamentally unfair. They were the ones who got close to you first. They were the ones who complimented you, made you laugh, showed up when you needed help. They loved you first or at least, that’s what they told themselves. But here you were, doors locked for the first time in three months, cooking a full-course meal for Sunghoon to celebrate your one-month anniversary.

“You’re not allowed to come,” Sunghoon told them flatly before slamming the door shut.

“But—!” they shouted in unison, already mourning the steak they wouldn’t get to taste.

Word on the hallway was that you were cooking the perfect medium-rare T-bone steak, paired with your signature brown sauce and a vegetable medley so crunchy and flavourful. Meanwhile, Jay and Jake sat hunched on the couch, scrolling through a food delivery app.

“Isn’t it funny,” Jake said, arms folded, “how we were the ones who befriended her first, and now we’re stuck with Burger King?”

“Life’s unfair, bud.”

Back in your apartment, things were a little more romantic. You’d decorated with fairy lights and candles, the room dimly lit. You were still being frugal, splitting every cost you could. But you’d managed to steal two T-bone steaks from the diner you part-timed at.

Sunghoon showed up in a black and white tuxedo, looking like he’d taken the prom theme you had placed as a joke a little too seriously.

“You look absolutely gorgeous,” he said, leaning down to press a kiss to your cheek.

“And you look absolutely handsome,” you grinned.

He walked over to the table and took in the spread. “Okay, what do we have?”

“I made the steaks, obviously, and then there’s the vegetable medley… and your favourite—mashed potatoes,” you giggled.

Sunghoon exhaled, shaking his head with a disbelieving smile. “How did I get so lucky?”

You shrugged. “I don’t know either.”

He laughed. “The guys are pissed, by the way. You made me all this, and they’re over there with cold fries.”

“What?” you said, surprised. “I made them something too! Don’t worry.”

“You did?” he raised a brow.

“I had a feeling they’d be hungry if you were over here.”

“Babe, you didn’t have to do that. They’re grown men.”

“Yeah, but technically my assignment this week was pasta and I have too many leftovers.”

“They’re spoiled by you.”

“And so are you.”

“True, but I’m your boyfriend. They’re just two annoying shitheads constantly trying to butt in.”

“I’ll be quick. I’ll just drop the dish off and come back.”

“No,” he said, standing. “I’ll do it. You stay here.”

He kissed your forehead, grabbing the lasagna you’d tucked into the fridge. “You’re too sweet, you know that?”

“He walked across the hall and opened the door to Unit 3C.

Inside, Jay was mid-rant. “I just don’t get it. Sunghoon isn’t even that hot.”

“I mean, he is,” Jake added, “but she deserves better, you know?”

Sunghoon cleared his throat. “I can hear you two idiots.”

They both froze, turning around sheepishly. “We were just joking. We love you, man.”

He held up the dish. “And to think I came here bearing gifts from my girlfriend.”

Jake’s eyes widened. “Wait—is that lasagna?”

“She felt bad we were eating good without you, so she made you dinner.”

“Oh my god,” Jay gasped. “Sunghoon, I don’t mean to be pushy, but please marry her.”

“I can’t,” Sunghoon muttered. “Not when you two are constantly inserting yourselves into my relationship.”

“Okay, okay, we’ll back off. Just—can we have the lasagna?”

“And can you tell her we love her?”

“I am not telling my girlfriend you love her,” Sunghoon snapped. “I’ve barely worked up the nerve to tell her that myself.”

“Wait,” Jake said suddenly, “you haven’t told her you love her yet?”

“It’s only been a month.”

“So… you don’t love her?”

“I do,” Sunghoon replied, almost too quickly. “I just don’t want to come on too strong if she’s not ready.”

Jay and Jake shared a glance before shrugging.

“What?” Sunghoon asked, frowning. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

Jake cleared his throat. “It’s just… she already said it.”

Sunghoon looked up. “What?”

“Yeah,” Jake replied casually. “You texted her about picking up those heat packs for her cramps, and she went all soft and whispered, ‘God, I love him so much.’ Her words. Not mine.”

Sunghoon stood frozen in the doorway, the dish in his hands suddenly weightless.

You loved him.

“So… you’re saying I should tell her?” he asked, voice quiet, almost unsure.

Jay and Jake both nodded enthusiastically. “Definitely. Especially if it makes her our sister-in-law,” Jay added, grinning.

Sunghoon rolled his eyes. “God, the two of you can be so annoying.”

“But you still love us,” Jay shrugged. “So what’s the point of complaining?”

He hated that Jay was right.

Back in your apartment, Sunghoon sat across from you, completely transfixed. You were dressed in a soft pink satin dress that shimmered every time you moved. It hugged your shoulders delicately, the neckline simple, elegant. Your hair was curled softly, pinned loosely on one side with a vintage clip, and your lips were glossed just enough to make him stare longer than he should’ve.

And God, you looked so beautiful.

He tried to pay attention. He really did. But his heart was too loud, his thoughts too full. How was he supposed to say it?

Sunghoon had never told anyone he loved them before. Not seriously. Maybe to his mom years ago, right before he left for the city. But this? This felt entirely new.

Because sitting in front of him was someone who made every quiet part of his life feel loud again. You filled in the spaces he didn’t even know were missing. You made his apartment feel less cold, his world a little less grey. And the way he loved you—God, it wasn’t something small. It wasn’t a flicker or a passing crush. It was all-consuming and terrifying and the best damn thing he’d ever felt.

He loved you like it was muscle memory. Like even if he forgot everything else, his hands would still reach for yours and only yours.

“Hoonie,” you interrupted gently, frowning. “You’re not listening.”

He blinked back into focus. “Sorry,” he murmured, smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “I was just thinking about something.”

“What?” you looked up at him, ur big eyes shining.

Sunghoon unknowingly smiled, his eyes dripping with honey, god he loved you. He wanted to say that. So badly.

“I…I just–uh–feel…that,” His voice trailed off. “You look really beautiful tonight. I mean, you always do. But especially tonight.” He hesitated, the words stuck behind his teeth.

You smiled. “Thank you. You look very handsome too.”

Later that night, the two of you were in Sunghoon’s apartment along with Jay and Jake for the usual game night.

You were sitting cross-legged on the floor, your prom-night dress bunched awkwardly around your knees, mascara slightly smudged from earlier laughter, hair pinned half-up. Sunghoon sat slouched in the beanbag beside you, tie loosened, sleeves rolled up, brow furrowed in concentration. Jake was lying on his stomach, legs swinging in the air, and Jay had somehow made himself horizontal on the couch.

You and Jake were a team. Sunghoon and Jay were not handling that well.

“Revive me!” Sunghoon yelled.

Jay shouted back, “I’m busy trying not to die, dumbass!”

Button mashing intensified. Trash talk flew across the room.

“VICTORY!” Jake screamed, leaping up like a madman.

You followed suit, springing to your feet and clambering up onto the coffee table in your dress. “GET WRECKED, LOSERS!” you yelled, pointing dramatically at Sunghoon. “THAT’S RIGHT, LOSERS!”

Jake joined you on the table, doing a badly timed robot dance. The two of you jumped in sync, yelling in triumph, while Jay groaned into a throw pillow and Sunghoon watched with a hand covering his mouth, half to hide his smile, half to suppress a laugh.

“You’re all bark, no bite!” you called, face flushed, hair falling loose. “Your character died fourteen times, Hoonie.”

“I let you win!” he shot back, grinning as he sat up straighter. “I was being a gentleman.”

“Sure,” you scoffed, sticking your tongue out at him. “Real chivalrous of you, sir died-14-fucking-times.”

He chuckled under his breath, eyes lingering on you for a second longer than usual. Then, without a word, he stood and walked out of the room.

You blinked. That was...odd.

You gave Jake a gentle shove off the table and followed Sunghoon into the hallway. He was pacing outside, one hand in his hair, the other fiddling with the watch on his wrist.

“Hoon?” you asked, stepping out and gently closing the door behind you.

He jumped slightly, turning toward you. “You scared me.”

“You okay? You just left so sudden…”

“I—uh—yeah. I was just trying to figure out how to say something.”

You tilted your head, arms crossing over your chest. “Say what?”

“Nothing,” he mumbled with a shrug.

Your expression softened. “Are you mad at me?” You sighed. Maybe your little victory dance had been a bit much. “Hoonie?”

“No, baby, I could never be mad at you,” he said quickly, leaning down to press a kiss to your forehead.

“Then what’s wrong?”

“Nothing, I just…”

You stepped closer, teasing lightly, “Do you want me to redo my victory dance? I could. You just have to beatbox, and I’ll take it from there.”

That made him laugh.

“Come on,” you grinned, starting to move your body in the most ridiculous way. “I’m pretty sure I should’ve been a dancer instead of a chef.”

He laughed again, this time louder and then, before he could stop himself, the words slipped out.

“Oh my god, I love you.”

You blinked. Your smile faded. Your brain, for one impossible second, completely short-circuited.

“Did you just say you love me?” you asked, heart hammering.

His eyes widened in sheer panic. “No?”

“I heard it.”

“You misheard.”

“Oh my god,” you gasped, practically vibrating. “You love me. You love me!”

“Fine!” he burst out, throwing his hands up like he was under arrest. “I do! I love you, okay?”

You smiled, “You do?”

“Of course! I love the way you talk too fast when you’re excited. I love how you make my idiot friends feel like they matter. I love that you make me feel whole. That when I’m with you, I don’t feel hollow anymore. You… you make me feel like I’m not empty.”

You grinned so wide it hurt. “That’s because you’re not.”

“I used to be,” he said helplessly, gesturing vaguely like he was mourning his past self. “I was mysterious. Brooding. Sexy, even. And now? Now I smile at cat videos you send me on TikTok. Look what you’ve done to me. This is all your fault.”

You scoffed, “My fault?”

“Yes! Who else could it be?” he said, breathless, like the truth had been waiting at the edge of his tongue for too long. “You walk into my life with that stupidly perfect smile, that laugh that makes everything feel lighter, those eyes that somehow hold the whole damn sky and now I’ve got feelings. Big ones.”

He took a shaky breath, pausing for a minute.

“I used to think I was fine on my own. But now? I get out of bed just because I know I might see you. I hear your knock and my whole day lights up. For the first time, I feel like I know what living really means. It’s you. Loving you. That’s it.”

You leaned in and kissed him right in the middle of his rant.

He blinked, dazed.

“You sure talk a lot for someone who usually says nothing,” you murmured, forehead resting against his.

“I do it when I’m nervous,” Sunghoon whispered, and then kissed you again.

“I find it cute,” you mumbled between kisses.

Sunghoon grinned into the next kiss, backing you up step by step toward your apartment door, his hands finding your waist. “God,” kiss “I love you,” another kiss “so much.”

You let out a breathless laugh. “You’re very handsy for someone who claimed to be brooding and mysteriou.”

“I told you,” he whispered, lips brushing your jaw as he reached behind you, fumbling for the door handle, “you ruined me.”

Your back hit the door with a thud. He fumbled with the knob like he was drunk on you, eventually pushing it open and guiding you inside.

He kicked the door shut with the back of his foot.

You were still laughing into his kiss. He walked you backward until your knees hit the bed and you dropped onto it with a squeak.

He climbed over you, hands on either side of your waist, face flushed, heart in his throat.

“I fucking love you,” he said again, like it wasn’t real until he repeated it.

You wrapped your arms around his neck, eyes sparkling. “I love you too.”

6K notes · View notes

intoanothermind · 16 days ago

Text

˖*°࿐ •*⁀➷ ��𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐠 𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐞

➜ summary: you ask jake to teach you how to flirt so jay will notice you. he says yes...despite having a 10 year crush on you

pairing: sjy/jake x f!reader,wc: 13k words , genre: friends to lovers, neighbor!au, fluff, romcom w: rude jokes, cussing, kissing

If someone asked you what Jake Sim smells like, you’d say a spoonful of ego, a dash of overpriced cologne samples he steals from Sephora, and a hint...just a hint of asshole. You’ve known him since you were six and he tried to sell you your own eraser for a dollar. You called him a scammer and well, he called you stupid for not realising it sooner.

It’s only been downhill ever since.

You grew up with him through scraped knees, schoolyard brawls, and the terrifying year he thought bleach blonde hair made him look like Draco Malfoy. It didn’t. Made him look like a surfer dude, probably named, Todd.

In middle school, he once convinced your entire class that you’d peed your pants during dodgeball. Naturally, you got your revenge by hacking into his Habbo account and stealing all his hard-earned furniture. He didn’t speak to you for a week…though you framed the silent treatment as “the best week of your life.” He jumped on you and tried to strangle you with his bare hands before you kicked him in the groin. The two of you had to be pulled apart by your parents and forced to kiss and make up.

But then again… you were also the only one there when his pet turtle died. He went through four tissue boxes, wiping away tears over the early death of his beloved friend, Sheldon. You stood beside him in his backyard, both dressed in black, as he solemnly lowered the shoebox coffin into the soil. You played Auld Lang Syne on the recorder because Jake, with tears in his eyes and dirt under his fingernails, insisted it was what Sheldon “would have wanted.”

And then there was that one time in algebra class when you got bored. You sat behind him in the class, and thought you’d try your hand at hairstyling…with actual scissors. He went home with a bald patch the size of a nickel and didn’t let you live it down. He cried. You laughed which obviously made him scream bloody murder. You only laughed harder.

That night, instead of letting it go like a normal person, he stood by his bedroom window which was exactly three feet away from yours and started launching tiny pebbles at your glass. Every ten seconds. Tap. Tap. Tap.

You tried to ignore it. Stuffed your head under a pillow. But by the twentieth pebble, you yanked your window open and glared at him across the narrow gap between your houses.

“God’s sake, Yun, it’s midnight.”

He didn’t even flinch. Just pointed dramatically at the back of his head like he was presenting a war wound. “I've bald patch because of you!” he whisper-shouted, so he wouldn’t get in trouble.

You felt bad. Only a little though. So you didn’t yell when he kept throwing pebbles until sunrise. You just stuffed your head under the pillow and endured it. Because that’s what Jake Sim was…an unavoidable constant. Just like those darn pebbles.

–

The two of you sat in your respective rooms, windows wide open. You were blasting your music loud enough for the bass to shake his desk lamp, and he didn't even complain. If anything, he hummed along.

Jake was sprawled in his desk chair, legs kicked up, pencil spinning between his fingers. “What’d you get for number six?” he called out.

You didn’t even look up. “I’m not gonna tell you.”

He scoffed. “Why the hell not?”

“Because you’re not gonna learn if I just give you the answer,” you replied, circling something on your worksheet just to look busy.

“Oh please, you get worse grades than I do.”

You whipped your head toward your window. “That was one time.”

“You mean multiple times, dumbass.” He leaned forward, smug. “Don’t make me pull out the receipts. Midterms, Chemistry quiz, that one math test you didn’t even finish—”

“Okay, okay, shut up,” you groaned, chucking an eraser in his general direction. It bounced off the wall beside his window and dropped harmlessly into the space between.

Jake grinned like he’d just won something. “You’re so aggressive. No wonder Jay won’t look at you.”

You froze.

“What is that supposed to fucking mean?”

“Oh, come on,” he said, unabashed. “You don’t think I notice the way you look at him? It’s painfully obvious.”

You scowled. “You’re such a dick.”

He smirked. “Relax. I know you like the back of my hand, Bun.”

Your eye twitched. “The nickname's getting old. Retire it”

“No, it's not. It's a national treasure.”

“I was six,” you snapped.

“And yet so confident. ‘Jaebun! Jaebun!’” He mimicked your childhood voice with alarming accuracy.

You muttered, “Should’ve gone with dumbass instead.”

“Too late.” he said cheerfully.

You rolled your eyes. “Fine. Since you claim to know me so well, when’s my birthday?”

He didn’t even blink, answering you in less than a second.

You opened your mouth, then closed it again. “...Lucky guess.”

He leaned back in his chair, smug as ever. “Try me again.”

“What’s my favourite colour?”

“Trick question,” he said immediately. “You don’t have one. You once said colours were 'capitalist scams to sell more color pencils’”

You stared at him.

He shrugged. “I listen. Unfortunately.”

You grabbed a pen and pointed it at him like a threat. “Say ‘Bun’ again and I’m glueing your locker shut tomorrow.”

He only grinned wider. “Sure thing, Bun.”

–

Jake wasn’t wrong. You did perhaps have the tiniest crush on Jongseong and it wasn’t like you had crushes all the time. In fact, you barely had any. You were too busy…in your own little world.

Besides, Jongseong was different. He was quiet but warm, always smiling. Sure, you didn’t really know him but you could, if only he ever looked in your direction.

But he didn’t. Well, not specifically at you. He was nice to everyone. That was part of his charm.

The thing was, Jongseong only seemed to date girls who were everything you weren’t. The kind who wore frilly dresses and tiny skirts, who always smelled like some kind of floral mist. The girls who sat with their ankles crossed and giggled behind their hands. The girls whose hair was always curled and upright. The ones who never cussed.

You, on the other hand, lived in Jake’s old hoodie, the one he tossed at you when you were shivering so you’d stop shaking the bed. You never gave it back, and he never asked.

You sat with one leg propped up. You swore like a sailor and forgot lip balm existed. Your lips peeled constantly, sometimes dotted with dried blood from the sheer lack of moisture.

Of course, there was nothing wrong with being girly…it just wasn’t you.

You so badly wanted to be.

But you didn’t think you could pull it off.

You weren’t that girl.

You were never going to be that girl.

Or… so you thought.

—

It happened on a Tuesday.

You and Jongseong had been assigned to the same bio project, which, for the record, you took as a cosmic sign that fate was finally giving you a win. He’d come over to ask you something and you’d tried to hold an actual conversation with him while pretending you weren’t breaking into a nervous sweat.

It was going well. You thought it was going well. You were almost funny.

And then it happened. Out of the corner of your eye, you saw it.

A girl, pretty, with soft makeup and a sundress, waved at him from the lockers. He glanced over.

There was a flicker in his eyes. Something subtle. Something you couldn’t quite describe. But you caught it. Something you’d never been on the receiving end of.

He looked back at you and kept smiling. The same smile he gave the lunch lady. The janitor. It wasn’t attraction. It was…niceness. Jongseong was just being nice.

And for some reason, that wrecked you.

–

The lunch line crawled forward at a snail’s pace, the dull clatter of trays and scraping chairs echoing through the cafeteria. You stood still, half-slumped over your plastic tray, caught in the kind of daze that wasn’t sleepy so much as indifferent.

You stared blankly ahead, shoulders hunched. Your hoodie sleeves hung past your wrists, fingers tugging at the frayed edge while the smell of overcooked rice and some kind of mystery soup drifted around you. You barely noticed the guy who cut in front of you until his tray knocked against yours, loud and careless.

He didn’t look at you. Didn’t see you.

A hot senior. One of those boys who walked through life like it was a fuckin’ breeze and perhaps it was for him.

You sighed through your nose, small and bitter, eyes flicking instinctively to the other side of the cafeteria.

There he was.

Park Jongseong, laughing with his friends at their usual table by the windows. His perfect hair, his clean white shirt collar poking out of his sweater.

Why would someone like Jongseong ever court someone like you?

You dropped your gaze quickly, heat rising up your neck for no reason at all. Just in time for the cafeteria auntie to scoop a mound of fried noodles onto your tray.

You trudged toward your usual table, trying to hold the tray steady with numb fingers. Ni-ki and Sunoo were already seated, arguing about something stupid. Their voices bubbled in the background, warm and alive, but you barely heard them. You moved on autopilot.

And then your eyes wandered again.

A few tables down, Jake had his arms draped over the shoulders of some girl you didn’t recognize by name, but had definitely seen hovering around him during gym. Her nails were perfect. Hair curled. Really pretty.

Sunghoon said something, and their table erupted in laughter. Jake leaned in, grin sharp and stupidly attractive, fingers squeezing the girl’s shoulder like it was second nature. She turned her face toward his without missing a beat and kissed his cheek. Like she’d done it a hundred times.

You blinked.

Your grip on your fork tightened slightly.

Of course Mr. Resident Playboy was surrounded by affection, by attention, by options. While you sat here picking at your noodles, heart full of things you wouldn’t dare say out loud, mourning the simple, brutal truth:

You weren’t anybody’s type.

Not Jongseong’s.

Not anyone’s.

And definitely not Jake’s.

–

That night, you stood in front of your mirror, hoodie sleeves tugged over your palms, joggers slouching low on your hips. You weren’t sad, exactly. Just… tired. Of being invisible. Of blending into the background in every hallway. Of being the kind of person people looked through, never at.

Your gaze scanned your reflection. Slouched posture. That faint acne scar near your cheekbone. The uneven hair you barely brushed unless someone nagged you. There was nothing extraordinary about the person staring back. And yet, all you could think about was the way Jongseong had looked at her.

Not just looked…seen. That quiet, effortless kind of attention. Like she wasn’t just beautiful. She mattered. Like the world bent slightly in her direction just to be closer. You wanted that.

So you did the unthinkable.

You unlocked your window and slid it open, the humid night air brushing your skin. The three-foot gap between your houses had always felt insignificant—just years of shared childhood, unfinished arguments, and mutual pranks. You leaned out, scanning the opposite window.

“Yun,” you called softly.

No answer.

You stared a little longer before scooping up a small pebble from the ledge and flicking it against his window with a soft click.

Still nothing.

Of course. He was probably gaming again, headset on, screaming profanities at preteens while Park Sunghoon made terrible jokes in the background. You groaned, fished out your phone, and tapped his name.

It rang once.

“What?” Jake answered, already sounding irritated.

You exhaled. “Open your damn window.”

He hung up.

You blinked at your screen, jaw slack. “Asshole,” you muttered, arms crossed as you stared at his dark window.

A full minute passed. Then, the curtains shifted and his window creaked open. Jake leaned out lazily, resting his forearms on the sill. His hair was messy, and he looked like he’d just rolled off his bed. “Sorry,” he said. “I was mid-shit.”

You rolled your eyes so hard it hurt. Of course. He always said things like that. Because he didn’t see you like that. You weren’t a girl in his eyes. Just you. And even if you didn’t like Jake like that, it still stung more than it should’ve.

Your fingers gripped your window ledge tighter.

“Yun,” you tried again, voice lower now, more vulnerable. “I need your help.”

Jake squinted across the narrow space between your windows, “Sup?”

You hovered near the edge of your bed, fingers curling into the blanket. The words clung to your throat like they didn’t want to be let out. “I, uh…”

He tilted his head, eyebrows pulling together. “You what?”

You looked away, suddenly regretting saying anything at all.

Jake let out a groan, dragging a hand down his face. “Dude. Just spit it out. You’re stressing me out.”

Your voice came out smaller than you intended. “I want you to teach me how to be a girl.”

He blinked before scoffing, “Stop fuckin’ around. I’m in a Fortnite lobby with Sunghoon. I don’t have time for this.”

“I’m not fucking around.” Your breath hitched slightly. You didn’t mean to sound dramatic, but you couldn’t help it.

Jake leaned farther out the window, his legs swinging carelessly over the edge as he peered at you like he was trying to read your face. “You’re insane.”

“How am I insane?”

“You’re already a…a girl.”

You crossed your arms. “Just ten minutes ago, you told me you took a big fat shit.”

“So? I always say that kind of stuff to you.”

“Exactly. Now, would you say that to the hot girls you’re trying to flirt with?”

“No, but that—”

“No,” you cut in sharply. “You wouldn’t. And that means…”

Jake raised an eyebrow. “That means what?”

“That means you don’t see me as a…” Your voice softened to a whisper. “Woman.”

Jake exhaled through his nose, unimpressed. “Well, I clearly do now. You’re acting like you’re on your period.”

You grabbed a ping pong ball from your nightstand and lobbed it at his head. It bounced off his temple with a soft thwack.

“OW—?” he recoiled, rubbing the spot. “What the hell?”

“You practically asked for it,” you muttered, avoiding his gaze.

Jake sighed, shifting to sit properly on his window ledge, feet dangling as he leaned his head against the frame. “Is this about… your crush on…uh…Jongseong?”

You said nothing. Just stared at your blanket.

Jake let out a low laugh. “It is, isn’t it? Why do you wanna change anyway? You're fine the way you are...just like this.”

"I don't wanna be just—"

"God, you are such a girl."

“If you’re gonna be an asshole about it, I’m—”

“You’re gonna what? Threaten me even though I know your biggest, darkest secret?”

You scoffed, arms tightening across your chest. “Fine. You win. Like always. You get the girls you want, the friends, the popularity. You get everything, Jaeyun.”

Jake let out a breath that sounded almost like a laugh, except it wasn’t. “You think I get what I want? You are sorely mistaken because–”

He paused. His eyes flicked to you. He opened his mouth like he was about to say something but he shut it just as fast and shook his head. “Doesn’t even matter.”

You didn’t press him. You figured it’d be something sarcastic or gross anyway.

“Yun…” You bit your lip. “You don’t know what it’s like. Knowing people don’t look at you the way you want them to. I don’t mind being invisible. I don’t mind being forgettable. But sometimes it just sucks. Watching people flirt with girls like they’re the only ones worth looking at. And I’m not. This is stupid but it’s just–”

“It’s really funny you think that way.” He said, laughing almost bitterly before he shook his head.

The room fell into silence. Jake didn’t say anything for a while.

“Look, if I help you, will you shut up about this cringey bullshit?” He spoke again.

You looked up. A slow smile tugged at your lips. “You’ll help?”

Jake rolled his eyes. “I don’t even know why I’m the person you’re asking.”

“You’re the closest thing I have to a friend.”

He stilled.

And that, more than anything, made Jake stop and think.

–

Jake hated Wednesdays.

He hated the long hours, the after school academy his mom sends him to, the way the fluorescent lights in the academy made his eyes ache by the second hour. Everyone there moved like machines, quiet, efficient, terrifyingly focused. He didn’t know anyone, and no one cared to know him.Just equations and deadlines and that one girl who once cried during a physics mock.

But one thing made it bearable.

You.

Same academy, different class. Same hell, different schedule. But you always ended up outside the gates at exactly 9 p.m., when his last class ended.

He saw you before he felt the wind, your figure under the yellow glow of the streetlamp, head bowed, nose buried in a half-crumpled chemistry textbook. Your bag hung off one shoulder, your cardigan sleeves pushed up, revealing ink-stained wrists. You were walking slowly, lips moving like you were mouthing formulas, completely oblivious to the world around you.

Jake watched for a second, letting the cold bite his cheeks.

He adjusted his hoodie and jogged up to meet you, as he always did, no hello, no warning, just bumped your shoulder lightly with his.

You blinked up from your book, startled, “Jesus fu—Jaeyun. You scared me.”

Jake raised an eyebrow. “Why didn’t you wait for me up front?”

“I wanted to get the last hotteok before the shop closed,” you said, pointing ahead.

“Without me?”

“You always take your time, and I got lazy.” You rolled your eyes and snapped your book shut, fumbling to shove it back into your bag.

Jake scoffed, reaching over to grab the book from you. He slid it into your bag with ease. “What makes you think I didn’t want any?”

“I was gonna get you one and pass it to you through the window,” you muttered.

Jake grinned. “How sweet.”

“Don’t push it.”

“Why the sudden generosity?” Jake asked, giving you a sideways glance as the two of you continued walking under the soft orange glow of the streetlights. The path curved through the park, quiet except for the faint rustle of leaves.

You hesitated. “Last night—” You swallowed hard. “I… I was in a rut. And I didn’t really mean for you to, you know, teach me how to be a girl. I think I was just...spiralling."

Jake didn’t say anything, but he slowed a little, turning just slightly toward you.

“You were right,” you went on, hugging your arms around yourself. “I am a girl. And I don’t have to… change who I am to be with Jongseong.”

A ghost of a smile tugged at his lips. “Glad you finally see it my way.”

“But…” You stopped walking, spinning to face him as you pointed a finger at his chest. “I do want to change my request.”

Jake groaned, head tipping back as he rolled his eyes. “What now?”

You shifted your weight from foot to foot, fingers fidgeting at the sleeves of your cardigan. The words got stuck in your throat. You looked anywhere but him, your shoes, the tree beside you, the flickering street lamp overhead.

“If you’re not gonna teach me how to be girlier…” you muttered, voice barely above a whisper, “could you at least teach me how to…”

There was a pause. Your hands made vague, awkward motions in the air. Jake just stood there, waiting, arms folded, eyebrow raised, looking far too amused.

“What?”

You looked up at him, cheeks burning. “Could you teach me how to… flirt?”

Jake blinked. “You want…me to teach you how to flirt?”

His voice cracked…barely, but enough to make your shoulders tense.

Then, slowly, his expression shifted. The corners of his mouth twitched. His brows lifted, eyes lighting up. You knew he was about to say something incredibly annoying.

“Oh.” He took a step closer, head tilted, grin spreading wide. “Oh. Flirting, huh…”

You immediately regretted speaking. “Don’t make it weird, Jake.”

“Too late,” he said, voice practically gleeful. “So do you call me Mr. Sim now? I have a small whiteboard at home. I could bring it over tomorrow. Maybe some flashcards—OW!”

You smacked his arm, sharp and fast. He flinched back, laughing as he rubbed the spot you hit.

“You’re the worst,” you muttered, spinning on your heel. Your pace picked up, arms crossed tight over your chest as your bag bounced against your side with each frustrated step.

Jake was still laughing behind you, low and amused. You could hear the gravel crunch under his sneakers as he jogged to catch up.

“Bun, come on,” he called, still breathless with laughter. “Don’t be like that. I’ll stop. I swear.”

You didn’t answer. You didn’t even slow down.

Jake finally caught up, matching your stride as he nudged your arm with his elbow, more gentle this time. “Okay. Okay, I’ll do it.”

You glanced at him, eyes narrowed. “Really?”

He nodded, gaze fixed ahead now, hands buried deep in his hoodie pockets. His grin was still there but a little softer, a little less smug.

“Yeah,” he said. “Why not.”

And though he kept smiling, though he bumped your shoulder again like everything was fine, something tugged quietly at the edge of his chest.

–

It was a Saturday afternoon, and Jake had insisted your “first official lesson” take place at a café just down the street from school.

You sat across from him at a window seat, fingers wrapped awkwardly around a lukewarm latte while Jake leaned back in his chair, legs spread, one arm slung casually across the backrest.

“Alright,” he said, tapping the side of his cup with a spoon. “First target locked. Look at that guy over there.”

You followed his nod toward a boy near the counter. He had dark hair that curled just slightly at the nape of his neck, a clean, sharp profile, and a navy windbreaker slung effortlessly over a white tee. He was scrolling through his phone, occasionally glancing toward the barista with a faint, almost unreadable smile.

“Ooh, he’s kinda cute,” you murmured, straightening a little in your seat.

Jake blinked before shaking his head. “Yeah, okay. New target.”

“What? Why?” you frowned.

“He… he doesn’t seem nice,” Jake muttered, picking up his drink and deliberately looking away.

You squinted at him. “He seems totally nice. Mysterious, sure, but definitely polite.”

Jake scoffed under his breath. “You don’t know men.”

You rolled your eyes. “And you do?”

“I am one,” he snapped, scanning the room again like a snob.

“You are? Didn’t notice.”

Jake frowned, ignoring your comment. A second later, he pointed toward a guy near the pastry shelf. “That guy.”

You followed his gaze again, but you were still stuck on the first one.

“…He’s not even cute,” you said flatly.

Jake didn’t look at you. “Exactly, so ask him out.”

“But he’s not even–”

He exhaled sharply through his nose and cut you off. “Look, we’re here to boost your confidence. It’s not gonna be a sure thing, so start small.”

“Fine,” you muttered, folding your arms. After a beat, you turned to him. “Do I look okay?”

Your hair was down for once, soft waves brushing just past your shoulders. You’d run a brush through it and tucked one side neatly behind your ear. Your skin had that subtle glow, not from makeup really, but from actually washing your face and maybe using that tinted sunscreen your friend, Sunoo, swore by.

That even Jake had done a double take when you opened the front door. He’d blinked, eyes flicking from your hair to your blouse like his brain couldn’t compute what he was seeing.

EARLIER THAT DAY

Jake showed up five minutes early, as usual, slouching on your porch with his phone in hand. He didn’t bother knocking…he never had to. He was practically part of the house by now. The front door swung open before he could even reach for the handle. “Oh, Jaeyun,” your mom greeted with a knowing smile, wiping her hands on a dish towel. “You’re early today.” Jake grinned. “Just a little. Didn’t wanna get yelled at for being late.” She laughed and stepped aside to let him in. “She’s taking a bit long today. Not too sure why.” He kicked off his shoes and followed her into the entryway, glancing up the stairs. “It’s fine, I can wait.” Your mom raised an eyebrow at him, amused. “I mean…sure. But she usually doesn’t take this long. She’s been up getting ready for two hours.” Jake nearly choked. “Two hours?” Before your mom could answer, your voice floated from upstairs. “Is Jake here, Mom?” “Just arrived!” she called back. Jake leaned against the banister, still puzzled. He could hear your footsteps now. Then you appeared at the top of the stairs. He paused. Your hair was down. Like, fully down. He hadn’t seen that since you were twelve and you’d cut your own bangs in a bathroom mirror. It was longer now, softer, brushed neatly around your shoulders. You wore a pink blouse with tiny buttons and puffed sleeves, cinched just slightly at the waist. It hugged your frame in a way none of your hoodies ever had. Paired with a white skirt and sneakers that didn’t look like they’d survived through hell and back, for once, you looked… polished. His heart stuttered. Jake cleared his throat, eyes trailing over you as you stepped down the stairs. “You look… different.” You froze mid-step, one foot hovering slightly above the next stair, eyes narrowing with suspicion. “Different good? Different bad? God, I knew I shouldn’t have followed that stupid Pinterest board. It said ‘cute girl outfits’ and I just assumed—” “I didn’t even say—” “Oh my God, I do look stupid.” You looked down at yourself in dismay, tugging at the hem of your skirt. “God, Bun,” Jake muttered, already striding up the steps toward you. He reached out, exasperated but weirdly gentle, and slapped a hand over your mouth. “Let me fuckin' speak,” he said, voice low and a little too sincere for comfort. “You look good. Now shut up.” And his hand lingered for just a second too long before he seemed to realise what he was doing and stepped back.

PRESENT

His gaze dragged from your eyes to your mouth, then darted away too fast, like he’d been caught staring. “Yeah, you look fine” he said, nodding once, maybe a little too firmly.

You frowned. “Are you sure?”

Digging into your pocket, you pulled out a tube of gloss and held it up. “Do I need more lip gloss? I saw this TikTok? Apparently these are, like, really in right now.”

You leaned toward the window as you dabbed it on, lips pressing together with a soft smack. Then you turned back to him. “Better?”

Jake swallowed. His jaw twitched.

He turned back toward the window a beat too quickly, pretending to scan the crowd like he hadn’t heard you. “Yeah,” he muttered, voice dipping low. “You look fine.”

“Is that the only thing you can say?”

He groaned. “What the hell do you want me to say?”

You rolled your eyes. “Whatever. So what do I do now, Mr. Sim?”

He cleared his throat, straightening up. He leaned forward, elbows on the table, voice dropping just a notch as he shifted gears.

“Well… one thing about guys is that they’re simple. They like to be complimented.”

You raised a brow. “Are they dogs?”

“Not gonna lie, they tend to be,” Jake snorted. “Anyway, since your hair’s already down… you could just—”

His hand moved before your brain could catch up. Fingers brushing lightly behind your ear as he tucked a loose strand of hair back.

Your breath caught.

He didn’t pull away immediately, just hovered there, close enough that you could smell the faint, clean scent of his cologne. His eyes flicked up to meet yours, unreadable for half a second.

“Then,” he said, voice lower now, “just flick your hair over your shoulder when you laugh. It’ll drive him crazy. Trust me.”

You swallowed, nodding slowly. “Okay. I can do that.”

Jake stepped back, giving a short, almost nervous laugh. “Alright. Let’s have a test run. Show me the flick. Let’s see if you’re ready.”

You blinked. “Now?”

“Yes now,” he said, rolling his eyes. “Flip your hair. Then bat your eyelashes. Slowly.”

You gave him a long look. Then, trying to copy the motion, you awkwardly tossed your hair over your shoulder and blinked up at him, slightly exaggerated and incredibly mechanical.

Jake choked on his own breath.

You gasped and smacked his arm. “Don’t be a fucking prick!”

“I didn’t even say anything!” he protested before bursting into laughter.

“You didn't have to!”

“It's not my fault you looked insane!”

“You told me to flip my hair and bat my lashes!”

“Yeah, I told you to do it normally. I didn’t tell you to give me crazy eyes.”

You crossed your arms, shoulders slumping. “I can’t do this. This is stupid.”

“Yes, you can,” Jake said firmly. “Now look at me. Try it again.”

You sighed, took a breath then did it.

Your fingers swept through your hair, flicking it over your shoulder in one fluid motion. You glanced up at him, wide-eyed, lashes fluttering with just enough hesitation to make it feel real. Your lips parted slightly, soft with a natural pout. And the soft blush on your cheeks—God. It made you look so much cuter than he was prepared for.

Jake’s breath caught in his throat. He didn't move. Didn't say a single thing.

Because somehow, in the middle of this dumb pretend flirting lesson, you’d accidentally knocked the wind out of him.

And you had no idea.

His mouth opened slightly but nothing came out. His heart stammered in his chest like it forgot how to beat properly. Fuck. You looked good doing whatever the hell that was.

Then you sighed. “Ugh. I looked ridiculous again, didn’t I? God, I’m such a mess—”

“No!” he blurted out, way too loud, making both of you jump. “You looked… fine. I think you’re ready.”

His voice cracked at the end. He turned his head like it would somehow hide it.

But it didn’t.

You didn’t seem to notice. Or if you did, you didn’t say anything.

“But… what do I even say to him?” you asked, your voice softer now, uncertain.

Jake cleared his throat, grounding himself. Right. This lesson wasn’t for him. It was for you. For Jongseong.

“Keep it simple,” he said, slipping his hands into his pockets to keep them steady. “Ask what he’s drinking. Compliment his shirt. Make eye contact. Smile. Then ask for his number.”

He glanced at you from the corner of his eye.

“Guys don’t need a Shakespearean monologue,” he added with a dry chuckle. “Just give them a reason to look twice.”

You took a deep breath and repeated to yourself, “Okay… I can do this. I can do this.”

Jake grinned, tossing back the rest of his drink like it was a toast. “You can. Knock ’em dead.”

You wiped your sweaty palms on your jeans again. Useless. Your hands were still clammy, and your heart felt like it was sprinting laps in your chest.

You glared at him. “If I embarrass myself, I’m blaming you.”

“Can’t embarrass what’s already rock bottom,” he grinned.

You flipped him off but your legs still carried you across the café. You passed the actually cute guy Jake had vetoed and kept walking until you reached the guy Jake had actually pointed out.

He was okay. Not ugly, but his hair was gelled too flat, and his shirt had some ironic graphic that made you wince. He was tapping loudly on his phone, chewing gum. Still, he had decent shoulders. That was something.

You cleared your throat. “Hey.”

He looked up, blinked once like he was trying to figure out if he knew you,. “Hey.”

You gestured to his drink. “Is that the cold brew? I was gonna get one, but I panicked and got a hot chocolate instead.”

He chuckled. “Yeah. Cold brew’s not bad. Keeps me awake for my 8ams, y’know?”

You forced a smile. “I’m the same way! I'm a totally different person without my morning coffee.”

He laughed. Good. Good. Great! Until it wasn't.

You flicked your hair back like Jake told you to, trying to make it look natural. It didn’t.

"What are you...doing?"

You immediately stopped, dropping your hands to your sides. Straightening up.

Then, before you could stop yourself, you added with what you thought was a flirty smile, “I love your elbows! They’re so…uh…pointy.”

The guy blinked. “Sorry—what?”

You laughed before panicking a little, “Like if you were ever robbed, you could probably stab the robber with your elbow.”

He was staring now, straw paused at his lips. “Uh–thanks?”

“Anyway!” you blurted. “I should—uh—my friend’s waiting. Bye.”

You turned and speed-walked back to your table. The moment you reached Jake, you crash-landed into the booth, practically throwing yourself onto his chest to hide your face.

Jake raised an eyebrow, then completely lost it, laughter spilling out before he gently pulled you closer, one hand sliding into your hair, the other resting lightly between your shoulder blades.

“Sim Jaeyun, I will kill you.” You lifted your head just enough to glare at him, your cheek still pressed against his chest.

He didn’t flinch. Just chuckled and eased you right back into him, his hand still idly moving through your hair. You could feel his laugh rumble beneath your cheek.

“It’s not my fault you couldn’t follow one simple instruction,” he wheezed, voice light. “Flick hair. Speak words. That’s it.”

“He was clearly not interested,” you muttered, sitting up and crossing your arms.

Jake shrugged, finally catching his breath. “Then he probably doesn’t have good taste.”

You paused. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

He looked at you, blinking. “I mean—come on. You’re a total ten. And he’s like… a five. At best.”

Your eyes narrowed. “Did you just… call me a ten?”

“Y–yeah,” Jake said quickly, already regretting it. “On the insane scale.” He winced slightly, like even he knew that didn’t make any real sense.

You rolled your eyes and smacked his arm, “Can’t I just talk to the cute guy?”

Jake let out a sharp laugh, drumming his fingers against his cup. “You couldn’t even string a sentence together for that guy, and now you wanna shoot your shot with the hot one?”

You leaned back against the booth with a dramatic sigh, one arm flung across the backrest. “If I’m gonna die of embarrassment, I’d rather die pretty.”

Jake snorted. “You’re gonna die delusional.”

You turned to him, eyes narrowing with playful challenge. “Okay, then how about I practice on you?”

He blinked. “What?”

“I can’t practice on a hot guy. Too risky. And I already humiliated myself in front of the other one. So now I’m left with you.” You shrugged, like it was the most logical conclusion in the world. “Let me just see how it feels to flirt with someone I’m already comfortable with.”

Jake blinked again, visibly thrown. “And you think I’m the guy for that?”

“Yes,” you said, matter-of-factly. “Just treat me like one of those girls you’re always trying to impress.”

“I can’t do that.”

“Why not?” You pouted, lips pulling into a dramatic curve. “Am I not your type?”

Jake opened his mouth, then closed it again. There was a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes.

“No. I didn’t say that.”

“Then what is it?” you challenged. “Why can’t I just practice on you?”

“Fine! Fine—just shut up for a second.” His voice was low, tight before covering your mouth with his palm to shut you up. “Or… we could get Sunghoon to help.”

You froze, eyes narrowing against his palm.

“Fungfoon?” you repeated through his hand.

He removed it slowly.

“You mean that trash ass frat boy who can’t shut up for more than thirty seconds?”

Jake narrowed his eyes right back. “Sunghoon’s my best friend.”

“I don’t care?”

Not even ten minutes later, Sunghoon strolled into the café, hoodie sleeves half-rolled, a lollipop tucked between his lips. You gave him a slow side-eye as he approached your table.

It wasn’t that you hated Sunghoon. But the two of you bickered like a divorced couple whenever you were together. Maybe it was your clashing playstyles when you gamed together, he was a reckless, charge-in-without-a-plan kind of guy, and you were more methodical, strategic. Or maybe it was just the fact that if Jake wasn’t hanging out with him, he was with you and well, Sunghoon could be… territorial.

He dropped into the seat beside Jake, legs wide, completely unbothered. “Alright. What is this even about? Why am I here to help the Devil herself?”

“Reason isn’t important but,” Jake muttered, not even looking up from his drink. “We just need you to pretend you’re some guy she’s trying to flirt with.”

Sunghoon pulled the lollipop from his mouth, brows raised. “Ew. Why would I flirt with her?”

You scoffed. “Don’t be flattered. You were my last choice.”

He grinned. “Still made the cut though.”

You rolled your eyes and took a deep breath, straightening your posture. Okay. Practice round. You could do this.

You turned to face him, smile soft, lashes lowered just a little. “Hey,” you said, voice dipped slightly lower. “You look kinda familiar…”

Sunghoon smirked, playing along, finally meeting your eyes after ignoring you the whole minute he arrived. “Oh yeah? From where?”

You flicked your hair back, just like Jake told you to, letting it fall behind your shoulder.

And that’s when it happened.

Sunghoon blinked. His entire body paused for a beat like his brain lagged for half a second before catching up. He stared at you, eyes trailing from your mouth to your collarbone, then back up again.

There was a few seconds of silence before...

“Dude,” Sunghoon muttered, eyes narrowing slightly as he looked at you again. “Did you do something to your hair? You look really good today.”

“What?”

“I’m just saying,” he said, leaning in a little, arms folded casually on the table. His tone wasn’t exactly flirty, more like intrigued. “You look different. In a good way.”

Your brain went completely silent.

Not because it was flattering. But because it was Sunghoon.

“Are you calling me—”

“Yeah.” He shrugged. “I’m calling you pretty. I can’t believe I’m saying it either.”

You gawked at him. Mouth slightly open. Sunghoon looked at you like he was analysing a glitch in the matrix, brows furrowed, eyes scanning your face.

“Ew,” you said automatically, scrunching your nose. “I can’t believe you’d call me—wait. Hold on. I am?”

“Yeah,” he nodded, almost like he was confirming it for himself. “Totally. You’re just, like, glowing or whatever.”

“Well…” You sat up straighter. “I put on mascara. And some lip gloss.”

He was seeing you as a girl. Like...a girl girl. Not Jake’s best friend. Not the rando he was forced to game with when the squad was short one player.

You straightened slowly, crossing one leg over the other with a little more sway than necessary, letting your hair fall over one shoulder like a curtain. You tilted your head, gaze playful. “Well… maybe you’re just slow at noticing things.”

Sunghoon’s grin curled, his eyes dipped, lingering, and his tongue flicked out to wet his bottom lip. “Or maybe you’ve been hiding that pretty face on purpose.”

You leaned in, elbows resting on the table, chin propped on your hand as your voice dropped to a murmur. “Or maybe you just never looked close enough.”

That did it. Sunghoon's posture straightened almost reflexively, and for half a second, he was visibly flustered, eyes flicking down again before darting back up to meet yours.

Across the table, Jake cleared his throat.

You didn’t even turn to look at him.

Jake slammed his hand on the table, not hard, but enough to rattle your water glass. “Alright. Lesson’s over.”

Sunghoon blinked. “What—why?”

Jake stood up, his jaw tight. “We’re done. Congrats. She flirts well. You’re dismissed.”

Sunghoon raised both brows. “I just got here.”

“You’re just back up, Hoon. She’s not actually trying to date you, dumbass.”

“But we so totally could though.” Sunghoon looked back at you, winking.

“Okay, we’re done here.” Jake stood up suddenly and grabbed Sunghoon by the arm. “Let’s go. Your turn’s over.”

“Chill,” Sunghoon said, laughing. “You jealous or something?”

Jake didn’t answer. Just pushed the door open and muttered, “Thanks for your service. You helped a ton.”

—

Yes. Okay, fine. Yes! Jake liked you.

He hated admitting it. Hated even thinking it.

But he did. He liked you.

The only person who knew? His mom. Or maybe Layla, his dog—if she actually understood English.

He’d liked you since the day you stood in his backyard, dressed in black, playing Auld Lang Syne on the recorder for his dead turtle. RIP Sheldon. You’re still missed.

But Jake was an idiot. As most boys are.

Somewhere along the way, his dumb boy brain decided the only logical way to get your attention was through relentless teasing and it stuck. It became a habit. Your thing.

Because, obviously, nothing says I like you like public humiliation.

Jake liked you with your hair up in that lazy bun you always wore. He liked you with it down, falling in soft, messy waves around your shoulders. He liked you when you were yelling profanities into your headset, and he liked you when you were quiet in your room, curled up with your knees to your chest, scribbling in that little diary you thought no one knew about.

He liked you when you were laughing so hard you snorted. And he liked you when you were trying to hide your smile behind your hand.

He never really understood why you wanted to change.

To him, you were already enough. You weren’t “boyish.” You weren’t “too girly.” You were just you. And to Jake, you had always been the point.

What mattered wasn’t how you looked. What mattered was that you were there.

So when he found out you liked Jongseong, he couldn’t even breathe for a second. It felt like ten million trains had flattened him right where he stood. But when he realised you didn’t just like him you were willing to change for him?

That broke something deep.

Because it meant you liked Jongseong enough to become someone else.

And Jake… Jake never wanted that.

But he had pride. Stupid, gnawing, heavy pride. And what made it worse, what buried the knife deeper, was knowing you’d never look at him that way.

Not the way you looked at Jongseong.

Not the way he looked at you.

Jake remembered one of his most recent so-called flings if you could even call them that.

To you, he was the local fuckboy. The guy who always had someone new to flirt with. You’d rolled your eyes every time he winked at someone, and he’d leaned into the reputation like it was armor.

But the truth was far messier.

Because somehow, the girls he messed around with… they always ended up knowing about you.

The last one, her name was Hyejin or maybe Hyerim, he couldn’t remember anymore, she ended up sitting next to him in her tiny apartment while he nursed a soda he didn’t want and tried not to cry.

“I just don’t get it,” he’d admitted, voice cracking a little. “I don’t know how to tell her I like her. And it’d be weird, right? If I suddenly just… said it?”

She’d looked at him, mascara slightly smudged from a long day, and tilted her head with a sigh. “Jake, you just have to be honest.”

He laughed at the time. “I can’t even be honest with myself.”

Jake swore there was nothing more humiliating than crying in front of a girl who he’d once tried to flirt with, only to have her comfort him about another girl entirely.

Worse than that?

She hugged him. Gave him her leftover tiramisu. And said, “I think she already knows. She just doesn’t know that you know.”

Jake sighed and leaned his forearm against the windowsill, the cool wood pressing into his skin as he looked across the short distance between your rooms. Your window was open again, curtains pulled halfway back.

You were lying on your stomach, half-buried in pillows, legs bent at the knees and swinging lazily in the air. Your phone was cradled in both hands, and every few seconds your shoulders shook with silent laughter.

Jake told himself he wasn’t watching. Just glancing.

He liked when your curtains were open. Not because he was trying to spy. It was more like… habit. You were always there, in that same spot, doing something normal and unbothered. Sometimes reading. Sometimes chewing on your pen while you worked. Sometimes yelling at your screen when your game crashed. He liked those quiet glimpses, the small, domestic pieces of you when you thought no one was watching.

From across the window, he could hear your soft giggle through the open night air.

“What the fuck are you laughing at?” he called out from his side of the room, voice echoing slightly against the concrete walls outside.

You turned your head, chin resting on your wrist. “It’s just... nothing.” Your lips curled again as you looked back at your screen.

Jake smiled, just a little, then pushed off the sill and crossed the room. His headset was still hanging from the corner of his chair. He grabbed it, sank down into the seat, and slid it over his ears.

“Hey, I’m back,” he muttered into the mic.

There was a short pause. “Hold on,” came Sunghoon’s voice. “I’m in the middle of something.”

Jake reached for his mouse, nodding to himself. “Kay.”

And then he heard it.

A soft, unmistakable ding echoed faintly from the room across the way. He turned his head slightly, just enough to catch you laughing again. Your fingers moved quickly over your phone screen.

“Okay, I’m back,” Sunghoon said a few seconds later. He sounded amused.

Jake narrowed his eyes.

Another burst of laughter from your room. Another ding from Sunghoon’s mic. Then more quiet typing from your end. Another ping. Another laugh from Sunghoon.

Jake blinked at the screen in front of him. His hand was still resting on his mouse, unmoving.

Then he looked back out the window.

You were biting your bottom lip now, trying to suppress another laugh as you stared at your phone. Your shoulders were trembling again. You kicked your feet once, as if you couldn’t contain the energy anymore.

Sunghoon chuckled again in Jake’s ear.

The realization settled in slowly.

You were texting.

And not just texting anyone.

You were texting Sunghoon.

Jake leaned back in his chair, headset still snug over his ears, eyes locked on the warm glow pouring from your bedroom window. A breeze moved through the gap, rustling your curtain just enough for him to see your face again. You were smiling at your phone, soft and lit up in a way that made something in his chest tighten.

His grip on the mouse went slack.

“Are you texting her?” he asked, voice flat, low.

There was a pause on the other end of the mic.

“What? Who?” Sunghoon replied, feigning clueless.

Jake narrowed his eyes, staring now, not at his screen, but out the window, straight at you as your fingers danced over your phone screen. Another muffled laugh echoed through your open window.

“I can hear the two of you giggling like idiots,” Jake said.

Sunghoon let out a short laugh, not bothering to deny it. “Dude, what’s the matter with you? I can’t text her now?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to,” Sunghoon replied. “You’ve been weird since the café. She looked cute today. I’m trying to shoot my shot.”

Jake sat up straighter, jaw tightening. “On my friend?”

There was a pause.

“Relax,” Sunghoon said, tone still light. “We’re just talking. Harmless flirting. Nothing disastrous. She knows me. She knows how I am.”

Jake didn’t answer.

His eyes drifted back to the window. You were still there, head bowed over your phone, smiling again at something that didn’t come from him.

“Whatever, man. I gotta go,” Jake muttered.

“What? We haven’t even played—”

“I forgot I had some homework to do.”

Before Sunghoon could reply, Jake clicked off. The headset hit the desk with a dull thud.

He stood quickly, crossed the room in a few long strides, yanked open his window, and grabbed the nearest thing on his desk…a ping pong ball. The very ping pong ball you threw at his head.

He tossed it with perfect aim.

It bounced cleanly off your forehead.

“OW—what the hell!” you yelped, looking up in disbelief, hand flying to your temple.

Jake leaned halfway out the window, one brow raised. “So now we know how that feels.”

Your eyes narrowed. “What was that for?”

“Stop texting Sunghoon.”

You sat up straighter. “What? Why? And how did you even know—”

“I could hear the gross, synchronized giggling. Cut it out.”

You crossed your arms, scowling. “You’re the one who told me I needed more confidence.”

“And you chose him?”

You rolled your eyes. “Come on. It’s not like he’d get hurt. I know how he is. He knows it’s just practice.”

Jake shook his head. “No. Not Sunghoon.”

You raised an eyebrow. “You were literally the one who told me to practice on him.”

“I take it back.”

“What?! We were finally getting into good banter and shit. Why are you—”

“You either stop texting him,” Jake said, voice dropping lower, “or I tell Jongseong your stupid secret.”

Your mouth fell open. “What?! Why would you—what does that even have to do with anything?!”

Jake didn’t answer.

But his grip on the windowsill had tightened, knuckles pale under the streetlight glow, and his eyes didn’t leave yours for even a second.

“JUST STOP TEXTING HIM!”

–

The next day at school, Jake dragged himself through the crowded hallway, feet scuffing against the linoleum. His eyes were heavy with sleep he never got. Every time he closed them the night before, his brain had decided to play out an imaginary scenario where you and Sunghoon were holding hands in the cafeteria or kissing in front of the gym lockers.

It was enough to make him gag. If that ever actually happened, he was pretty sure he’d launch himself off the nearest cliff without hesitation.

He adjusted the strap of his backpack and yawned, turning the corner...

A hand tugged on his arm.

He blinked, looked down, and there you were. Standing in front of him with your brows knit together, that expression you always wore when you were trying to pretend you weren’t nervous.

“Bun?” he mumbled, still half-asleep.

You let out a breath. “Look… I’m sorry for not telling you I texted Sunghoon yesterday.”

Jake shook his head. “I wasn’t mad because you didn’t tell me.”

“Then why were you—”

“It’s nothing,” he cut in, voice low. He glanced down at his shoes.

You tilted your head. “Didn’t seem like nothing. You were yelling, dry heaving, and threw a ping pong ball at my head.”

Jake gave a short scoff. “You threw one at me last week, so I don’t see why we’re keeping score.”

You smiled. “Touché.”

There was a moment of quiet between you, the hallway noise fading under the weight of whatever you were about to say. You rocked on your heels.

“So…” you started. “Promise you’re not gonna get mad at me?”

He looked at you suspiciously. “What?”

“Just—promise.”

Jake exhaled. “Fine. What?”

You hesitated for only a second. “Sunghoon asked me out.”

Jake stopped walking.

For a moment, it felt like the hallway went silent around him, like the crowd and noise and lockers all blurred into nothing. He couldn’t feel the weight of his bag anymore. Couldn’t hear the scrape of sneakers or the slam of doors down the corridor.

And then one very clear thought.

He was going to kill Park Sunghoon.

“I said no.”

His head snapped toward you. “Wait—what?”

You shrugged, casual, like you hadn’t just pulled him out of the depths of hell. “I said no.”

A slow smile crawled its way onto his face before he could stop it. Then another feeling hit, bright and stupid and way too much for a school hallway. He wanted to do a triple backflip. He wanted to grab your face and kiss you right there between rows of lockers. He wanted to sing something obnoxious and dramatic and completely out of character. Maybe dance in the rain.

“Why would I?” you said, nudging his arm, eyes still fixed ahead. “Jongseong’s the end game.”

And just like that, Jake wanted to go back to murdering.

“Of course, he is,” he said with a hollow laugh. He nodded, then mockingly clapped his hands together once, sharp and sarcastic. His smile dropped almost instantly, and he turned his face away before you could see the frown taking over.

He felt like biting his own arm off.

Then he looked back at you. “Right. I forgot this was all for that… Jay guy.”

You tilted your head, thinking. “Well… to be honest, I don’t really know him. But he seems sweet. From the times we’ve talked. And the group project. He’s… nice.”

Jake hated how gently you said it.

And the worst part? Jay was sweet. He was the kind of guy who held doors open without being weird about it. The kind who sent the group notes without being asked. He always smiled. Always remembered birthdays. He was, objectively, everything a girl like you deserved.

Jake knew that.

But he didn’t want to admit it.

Because you were his. At least in the world that existed in his head. You were his gamer buddy. His childhood friend. You weren’t supposed to look at other guys like that. God, he wanted you to look at him like that.

He clenched his fists inside his hoodie pocket.

He wanted to stomp his feet like a toddler and let out a big, ugly cry.

But unfortunately, that was not considered appropriate school behavior.

You didn’t notice the way he looked at you. Or maybe you did, and you just didn’t want to deal with it. Either way, you were still rambling.

“I dunno. I mean… I guess I just wanna see where it could go if he ever, like, noticed me or something.” You scratched your neck, glancing at the floor. “Not that he would. He’s… Jongseong.”

Jake didn’t say anything.

You sighed. “I’m probably just kidding myself. I’m not really the type guys go for, you know?”

“You ever think maybe it’s not you?” He looked at you. “Maybe they’re just dumb.”

Something about the way he said it stuck.

Jake glanced away before walking toward his locker.

You didn’t know what to say.

So you didn’t say anything.

But hours later, long after the hallway cleared out, after you were alone in your room, that sentence would come back again and again.

“Maybe they’re just dumb.”

And maybe Jake Sim wasn’t dumb.

But why would he ever see you that way?

You were the girl who screamed into her headset. Who wore the same hoodie three days in a row. Who got mistaken for a guy in Discord chats more often than not.

You shook your head and turned back to your phone, forcing yourself to scroll. Still, that voice stayed in the back of your mind.

And the way he looked at you when he said it.

–

It was time for lesson number two. You were back in the corner booth, your half-melted drink leaving a wet ring on the napkin beneath it. Jake sat across from you, lounging like he owned the place. One arm stretched over the back of the seat, his iced latte in the other, rings of condensation slipping down the sides of the cup.

He was watching you. That look again. The one that made it impossible to tell if he was amused or genuinely disappointed in you.

"This is the third guy that you’ve chickened out on. You’re not going to get better if you keep coming back after saying a simple hi," he said, nodding toward some guy seated near the counter. "Go talk to him. For real, this time."

You frowned. "I can’t. I freeze up and start to sweat."

Jake sighed and set his drink down. "Fine. Do it on me then."

You blinked. "What?"

"Practice. On me," he repeated, now leaning forward, his arms resting on the table. "Pretend I’m some guy you want to impress."

You stared at him. "You’re serious?"

"And you're stalling."

You turned your body toward him with a quiet sigh. "Okay. Fine."

"Go ahead," Jake said, his voice lower now, patient. He watched you with an unreadable look, the corner of his mouth still curved.

You tried. You really did.

Jake raised an eyebrow, pretending to be charmed. “Wow. Off to a strong start.”

You scowled. “Shut up, I’m trying.”

He smiled wider, amused. “No, no. Please. Continue. This is wildly entertaining.”

You gestured at his chest. “It looks… soft?”

Jake blinked, then burst into laughter. “Soft?”

“I meant—like. The material? It looks comfortable. On you.” You cringed. “Forget it.”

Jake leaned in, voice smooth like honey. “You want to touch it? That what you're trying to say, sweetheart?”

You made a strangled noise. “That’s not—”

He gently reached forward, fixing the way your fingers fidgeted with your sleeve.

You opened your mouth to respond, but Jake was already moving. He shifted closer on the bench, slow and smooth, until his knee touched yours under the table. One hand reached out and found your waist. His fingers slid just beneath the hem of your shirt, warm and steady.

"Also, a tip, if you will, from your ever so generous teacher, this," he said, "is the kind of touch that makes someone lean in."

His thumb brushed lightly against your side. His hand didn’t move much, but it didn’t need to. It rested there like he knew exactly what he was doing. Like he was measuring your reaction.

And he was close now. Too close. You could see the way his lashes curled slightly at the tips. You could smell the quiet scent of his cologne, something clean and a little sharp, like cedar and mint. It wrapped around you in a way that made the entire café blur.

Your heartbeat quickened.

You hated that it did.

You laughed, a little too fast, wondering why your heart was feeling a certain way. "Okay. Great. Lesson learned. Thank you, Mr. Sim. I mean—Jae. Jake. Jaeyun. Jake."

Jake smirked and leaned back, finally letting his hand fall away. “Cat got your tongue?” he asked, laughing.

It really did.

How devoid of men were you, seriously?

It had to be that. The fact that you’d been so completely off the radar of all male existence for the past… forever. That had to be the reason your heart skipped when he tucked your hair back. Or the reason your brain short-circuited when he looked at you a little too long.

It definitely wasn’t because you saw Jake that way.

Right?

—

Jake spotted the two of you from halfway across the hallway.

You were leaning against the row of lockers outside the atrium, one leg slightly bent, head tipped back as you laughed. Sunghoon stood in front of you, arms crossed but posture relaxed, that stupid smirk already creeping onto his face.

Jake knew that smile. It was the one Sunghoon always used when he was trying to be smooth. The kind of half-smile he used when he was talking to a girl he wanted to take out or maybe just get a reaction from. He looked confident.

You giggled again and nudged Sunghoon’s arm, your fingers brushing lightly against his jacket sleeve. Jake’s stomach turned. That move. The casual touch. The lean-in. All of it. You were doing exactly what he taught you. The timing, the tone, the touch.

He felt heat rising in his chest, tension winding up his spine like someone had pulled a cord tight. His hands curled into fists inside his hoodie pockets.

He walked straight up to them.

“Hey,” Jake said, voice low but even.

You turned to him immediately, eyes lighting up. “Hey,” you said, beaming like nothing was wrong. Like your heart hadn’t just flipped for someone else. You had no idea how you looked right then.

“Can I talk to Hoon alone for a second?”

You glanced between them and nodded. “Sure. I need to pee anyway,” you said, swinging your bag over your shoulder before heading off down the hallway.

Jake watched you disappear, then turned to Sunghoon.

“Walk.”

He grabbed his friend by the sleeve and pulled him along. Past the lockers. Past the noisy vending machines. Past the drama kids yelling in the corridor. He didn’t stop until they were behind the stairwell, tucked into the shadowy corner where the lights flickered overhead.

He looked at Sunghoon, really looked. “I need you to stop flirting with her.”

Sunghoon blinked like he didn’t hear him right. “What?”

Jake squared his shoulders. “I need you to stop. Whatever it is you’re doing. The flirting. The teasing. All of it.”

“What? Why?” Sunghoon asked, brows furrowing. “We’re just talking. She’s fun.”

Jake’s jaw clenched. “She’s not just some girl to mess with. She’s not like the others. She’s my friend.”

Sunghoon raised an eyebrow, clearly amused. “Didn’t you say last month she was like a pet chihuahua?”

Jake faltered for a second. “That was before,” he said quickly.

“I know you, Sunghoon. I know how you are with girls. You don’t mean to hurt them, but you do. You get bored. You move on. And I can’t watch that happen to her.”

Sunghoon gave a half-laugh, but it was dry. “Dude. Relax.”

“I won’t relax,” Jake snapped. His voice was sharp enough to echo faintly off the concrete. “Not about this. Not about her.”

Sunghoon finally went quiet. He studied Jake’s face, expression shifting from surprise to something slower. More serious.

“Why are you this worked up?” he asked.

“You’re my best friend,” Jake added, voice quieter now. “You know I love you, but I can’t do this if it means watching you screw around with someone who means this much to me.”

Then…something clicked.

Sunghoon’s eyes widened, just a little.

“Wait,” he said. “Do you actually like her?”

“Just. Please,” Jake said. “Don’t say it.”

—

You didn’t expect him to notice. Not really.

You’d just started wearing your hair a little differently. Put on some gloss.

So when Jongseong stopped you outside school, hand rubbing the back of his neck and his eyes holding that familiar mix of shyness and charm, your heart should’ve jumped.

But it didn’t.

“I was wondering if you wanted to maybe get coffee sometime? Just us?”

You blinked. And blinked again.

This was supposed to be it. The goal. The moment. The reason you spent hours flicking your hair over your shoulder like an idiot while Jake made fun of you.

But all you could think about was… Jake. Sim Fucking Jaeyun.

“I…” You looked up at Jongseong. Kind eyes. Good guy. Someone you used to swear you wanted. “I really appreciate it, Jongseong. I do. But… I think I’m going to pass.”

His smile faltered, just for a second. Then he nodded slowly. “No worries. Thanks for being honest.”

You gave him one more grateful smile and watched as he walked off, disappearing into the crowd.

And then you stood there.

Why the fuck am I thinking about Jake right now?

It was Wednesday. You’d just spent the last three hours at the academy doing absolutely nothing productive unless you counted emotionally spiralling in the corner seat while pretending to highlight your notes.

All you could think about was how it would’ve felt if Jake had been the one to ask you out.

Would you have said yes?

Would you have kissed him right there?

Would you have blacked out and screamed in his face?

You had fallen for Jake.

Oh fuck.

You groaned into your hands and started walking home, trying to mentally scrub the thoughts from your brain. But just as you passed under the flickering streetlamp by the park…

“BUN!”

You screamed.

Jake doubled over laughing behind you. “What the—?!”

You spun around, nearly flinging your textbook at him. “JAKE WHAT THE HELL!”

He was wheezing. “You scream like that for me? You’re dramatic as hell.”

You clutched your chest, heart going a million beats per second, not just from the scare.

Jake walked over casually, reaching for your textbook. “Give me that, your bag’s wide open—”

“DON’T TOUCH IT!”

You screamed again, stumbling back like he was radioactive.

Jake screamed back, instinctively jumping a full step away. “WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU?”

“I DON’T KNOW!” you yelled, then immediately spun on your heel. “I HAVE—A LOT OF HOMEWORK!”

“What—?”

But you were already speed-walking away, hair flying behind you as you left Jake stunned in the middle of the path.

By the time you slammed your front door behind you and collapsed onto your bed, you were in full mid-life crisis mode. Rolling back and forth, groaning into your pillow, muttering, “It’s Jake. Oh my god it’s Jake. I like JAKE.”

You were still flailing when you heard a voice.

“You call this homework?”

You froze.

Your head shot toward your window.

There he was. Jake. Standing in his room, staring at you through your open window with a raised brow.

Fuck. You forgot to close it.

You cleared your throat and sat up like a malfunctioning robot. “Gotta… prep. For homework.”

Jake squinted. “Are you okay? You’ve been acting weird.”

You nodded a little too fast. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“…Okay.” He cleared his throat, clearly unconvinced. “Anyway. I was thinking for tomorrow’s lesson—”

“I don’t need them anymore.”

Jake paused. “Huh?”

You swallowed. “I don’t need the lessons. I’m good. I’m… fine. I don’t need to flirt. Or anything. Anymore.”

Jake stared at you from across the gap, mouth parting like he wanted to say something—but then it closed again.

“…You—”

“Jongseong asked me out today,” you blurted.

Jake went still, “Oh.”

It came out quiet. Just a hum. Then his eyes dropped to his feet. “So that’s why you don’t need the lessons anymore.”

“No!” you said quickly, maybe too quickly. “Not entirely.”

Silence fell between you, stretched across the space between your open windows. Both your hearts were racing, but for completely different reasons.

Yours…because it hit you again, hard and sharp: you had fallen for the guy who once smacked you in the face with a ping pong ball. The guy who threw pebbles at your window until you opened your window just to yell at him.

His…because you’d done it. You got Jongseong. The lessons worked. You didn’t need him anymore. You’d won.

So why did it feel like losing?

Thoughts ran rampant, words stuck in throats. The silence said too much.

“I—” you both said at once.

“You first.” Again, in unison.

“Okay, I’ll go,” you said, clearing your throat. “I said no.”

Jake blinked. “To Jay?”

You nodded. “Yeah.”

He looked at you, brows furrowed. “The lessons… the whole thing… I don’t get it. Why’d you say no?”

“He asked me out. And I didn’t feel the way I thought I would. It didn’t hit. I didn’t want him to ask me out anymore.”

Jake’s gaze lingered on your face, “Are you okay?”

God. Even now. Even like this. Stupid Jake. Always worried about you.

You nodded. “I’m fine. I just… figured I wanted something else.”

Jake looked down again. “Oh.”

“I wanted…someone else.” You said, softly, looking back up at him to see his reaction.

He gulped and then cleared his throat, “Oh. I see.”

You sighed, frustrated that he wasn’t budging or showing any other emotion other than a silent nervous puppy.

You looked at him, hair messy, probably from running his hands through it. A pair of fake glasses perched above his nose, the light from his lamp casting a shadow on his already perfect face.

There was slightly disbelief in his voice, from knowing you had said no to Jongseong. A boy who’d spent probably 10 years convincing himself that you’d only ever see him as a friend–scratch that, not even a friend. Someone you’d yell at or a human punching bag. Someone to drop guns for when she had no more in game credits. Someone to finish the bag of family sized cheetos with because “it’s too much”.

Your throat tightened, you weren’t sure why but you started talking: “I…uh…I didn’t really want it to be him. I kept picturing someone else.”

“Mhm.”

“Someone who…who notices I get cold without me ever saying anything. Someone who walks me home every night. Someone who leaves pebble marks on my freakin’ window.” You said, eyes fluttering to the two tiny hairline cracks caused by Jake.

You stopped, looked up to see Jake’s reaction once again. Your heart was pounding even louder this time. All Jake was doing was staring. At you.

Then suddenly realization sunk in, you idiot.

“Nevermind, I was just…saying stuff. Forget what I said.”

“No.” He said, firmer.

He was leaning forward against the windowsill, knuckles white, “Say it. Please?”

You looked at him, taking a deep breath, gulping for another breath of air because you couldn’t breathe, “I…I wanted it to be you.”

The words hung in the air for a moment or two and you’re unsure if you actually did essentially him that you liked him.

Jake didn’t move. Stunned. Stared at you with those pearly wide eyes and then you see him inching towards his window.

“Jake? Jaeyun? Yun, what are you–”

He inched closer, climbing through his damn window.

“JAEYUN!”

He was already halfway out, one leg swung over his windowsill and another at your window.

“Our windows are like three feet apart,” He huffed, voice strained from awkwardly balancing on the narrow ledge, “I’ll survive.”

“You can just yell!”

“I’m not yelling this!”

Then he crossed the gap and then Jake Sim was in your room.

You inched backwards, on your bed. Jake stood on your floor, scratching the back of his head. His hair a mess, him, slightly breathless.

“You’re insane.”

“You were saying…” He gasped for air. “You wanted it to be me.”

You nodded, mouth dry, “Yes.”

Jake took one step forward, then he was right in front of you. His hand found his way to your cheek, lifting you up to look at him.

“I wanted it to be me too,” He whispered. “For so fucking long.”

You didn’t say anything. You couldn’t. Because he was standing in your room now, three feet away but somehow close enough to knock the air out of your lungs.

Jake closed the rest of the gap in half a second, hands reaching for your face. His fingers brushed your jaw as he leaned in, eyes still locked on yours like he was checking, still checking, like he needed a thousand confirmations—

So you kissed him first.

You crashed your lips onto his in a heartbeat, short-circuiting whatever overthinking he was spiraling into.

And then, he melted. His hands slid to cradle your face fully, thumbs brushing your cheeks as he kissed you back.

You gripped the front of his hoodie, fisting the fabric to keep yourself steady. And when you finally pulled back, you whispered, “For the record, I don’t know what I’m doing.”

Jake didn’t even hesitate. He leaned in again, his smile brushing your lips before he kissed you deeper this time.

“You’re doing,” he murmured between kisses, pressing another one to the corner of your mouth…

“Really,” one more, this time near your jaw…

“Good.”

Then he pulled back just enough to grin at you. “Then again, your boyfriend’s a teacher. I could always teach you how to kiss.”

You blinked. “Boyfriend?”

Jake tilted his head, still way too close, still grinning. “You’re telling me we’re not headed in that direction right now?”

“Not if you’re being smug about it.”

“I’ve been waiting ten years for this,” he said without missing a beat, “I’m gonna be as smug as I can be.”

“Ten years?!” you exclaimed, eyes wide.

He nodded seriously. “Remember when you wore that black dress to Sheldon’s funeral?”

You squinted. “Yeah?”

“I thought you looked really pretty.”

“At your turtle’s funeral?”

Jake shrugged. “Am I crazy?”

You stared at him. “Yeah. Kinda.”

He grinned wider. “Crazy about you, though.”

Your fingers tightened on the front of his hoodie, knuckles brushing against his chest as you pulled him closer. Your noses were barely apart, your lips curving as they brushed again—

Knock knock knock.

“Sweetheart? Everything okay there? I heard… noises.”

You froze mid-breath. Jake froze too, eyes wide like a deer caught in headlights.

“Shit—” you hissed, panic flaring in your chest. “Closet!”

You shoved him hard toward the wooden closet door by your bookshelf, nearly tripping over your math notes and discarded socks in the process. Jake stumbled, muttering a curse, then ducked into the closet just as you reached for the doorknob.

You plastered on your most innocent smile, heart pounding as you swung the door open.

“Hi, Mom!” you chirped, voice pitched up way too high.

She raised an eyebrow, eyes drifting over your slightly messy hair and suspiciously glowing cheeks. “You okay?”

“Yep! Just watching Netflix.”

Her gaze swept past you into the room. Your bed was unmade, your pillows tossed, one of your shoes lying sideways on the rug like it had been kicked off in a hurry.

“I heard a boy’s voice.”

“Using my new speaker!”

She didn’t look convinced. In fact, she leaned in slightly and lowered her voice. “Are you sure? Because if you are seeing someone…”

You tensed.

“I just hope it’s not someone else.”

Your smile faltered. “…What? What do you mean?”

“Y’know…” she said, shrugging. “If it’s not Sim’s son.”

You blinked. “Sim’s—”

“Jaeyun.”

“She told me he has a crush on you, y’know? Her boy.” Your mom gave you a look. “And to be honest, we’ve been rooting for you two since that turtle funeral.”

You groaned, dropping your forehead dramatically against the doorframe. “Oh my God.”

“It was just so cute! The way the two of you stood in the backyard, looking at each other.”

“Please stop talking.”

“We made a bet. She thinks you’ll get together right after graduation, and I said before.”

“Mum.”

“So who do you think will win? Do you need help speeding things up? I’ve got experience. Want me to tell you how I got your dad?”

“Mum. Stop.”

“Oh, fine. I’ll go,” she sighed. “Just keep the Netflix down, would you?”

As her footsteps retreated down the hall, you slammed the door shut and spun on your heel.

You yanked the closet door open.

Jake stood there, his hair was tousled, cheeks flushed, like he’d barely kept it together in there.

“Can’t believe my mom told yours,” he sighed, stepping out carefully. “It’s like secrets aren’t even secrets anymore.”

“Well, it’s a good thing she told me today,” you muttered. “Right after the whole… thing.”

You rolled your eyes, but you were smiling now.

“I still can’t believe our moms ship us.”

You sighed, already tugging on the front of his hoodie again. “Whatever. Just shut up and kiss me again.”

Jake grinned, stepping closer until your backs were to the door and your room was quiet again.

“Gladly,” he whispered, before leaning in once more.

—

ONE MONTH LATER

You were sprawled on the floor of your room, hoodie sleeves tugged over your palms, legs folded underneath you as you scribbled furiously into your notebook. Your knees were propped against the edge of the bed, an d your hair was half up, half giving up. Jake sat cross-legged behind you on the rug, elbows resting on his knees, watching you.

“You’re so cute when you’re concentrated,” he said, voice all soft and sing-song.

You didn’t even look up. “Yun.”

“Mmh?”

“Stop staring.”

“I can’t help it.” You could hear the grin in his voice. “My girlfriend’s too pretty.”

You rolled your eyes but smiled to yourself.

Without warning, Jake scooted closer until his knees touched your back. Then his arms slipped around your waist, pulling you gently into his lap like it was muscle memory. You let out a startled yelp as your notebook was abandoned somewhere across the carpet. Now you were seated between his thighs, his arms looped tightly around your middle, face buried in the crook of your neck.

“I love this hoodie on you,” he murmured, brushing his nose against your skin. “You always smell like sunshine and detergent.”

“Baby, let me go. I was doing something—”

He kissed your shoulder, lips slow and warm. Then your jaw. Then the soft skin just beneath your ear. “Shhh. Let me love you for, like, five minutes.”

You squirmed. “You’re clingy.”

“I’m touch-starved.”

“You literally hugged me the entire walk back from the academy.”

Jake tightened his hold, hands splayed across your stomach now. “It’s not my fault you make me clingy.”

You finally turned to face him, arms loosely around his neck. He leaned in like gravity pulled him to you, brushing his nose against yours. His gaze flicked from your eyes to your lips.

“You’re so pretty,” Jake whispered, his fingers gently brushing along your cheekbone and down to your jaw. “I don’t think you even know what you do to me.”

You exhaled a laugh, “Jake, I was literally almost done.”

He pouted immediately. “Jake?” he repeated, like the word physically hurt him.

You looked up, confused. “What?”

“Did you just call me by my actual name?” His face twisted, mock-offended, as he clutched his chest dramatically. “No. Nope. Not allowed.”

You blinked. “Are you seriously mad because I called you Jake?”

He sat up slightly, brows furrowing. “Yeah. Yes, I am. That’s what teachers call me. You? You call me baby. Or sweetheart. Or love. Or beautiful boy. I’d even take Yun. Not Jake.”

You smirked. “Jake—”

“Lalalala—” He slapped his hands over his ears and turned his head away from you. “I’m not listening

“Jake.” You grabbed his wrists and pulled his hands down from his ears. “JAKE! Okay, fine! Baby?”

He immediately stopped, all sweet-eyed and smug. “Yes?” he replied, voice as soft as sugar.

“Oh my god. You’re insane.”

“Insane?” he scoffed, pulling you closer until your legs straddled his lap. His hands gripped your waist like they belonged there. “What’s insane is that you don’t fucking love me.”

You stared at him, jaw dropping. “Sim Jaeyun—”

He gasped, scandalised, throwing his head back like you’d physically wounded him. “And again with the full name. Gah! You hate me.”

You burst out laughing as he yanked you forward and buried his face in the crook of your neck, groaning

“Okay, fine,” you said, playing along. “Oh, my dearest bundle of love, light of my life, tell me—how must I ever earn your forgiveness?”

He perked up instantly, lifting his head with a bright smile. “Ooh. This is fun.” He clapped once, eyes gleaming with mischief. “I want kisses.”

You snorted. “Kisses? That’s it?”

“I want one here,” he tapped his cheek.

You leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to it.

“And here,” he tapped the other.

Then he tapped his lips. “And one here. Minimum a minute. No funny business. Though, I don’t mind if you slip in a little tongue.”

You narrowed your eyes, but your smile betrayed you. “You’re ridiculous.”

Still, you leaned in, slowly, lips brushing against his. Jake’s hands slid up your back, holding you close as he kissed you back properly.

When you finally pulled away, breath mingling with his, he whispered against your mouth, “Forgiveness granted.”

You smiled, forehead pressed to his until your phone dinged.

You pulled back and glanced at the screen. “Why did Sunghoon just text me, ‘control your damn dog’?”

Jake tilted his head, expression too casual. “Oh. I think he’s referring to the text I just sent him.”

You squinted. “What text?”

He gave a nonchalant shrug. “I don't know could be the one where I told him to eat shit and get diarrhoea.”

Your jaw dropped. “What?! Why?”

“He texted you for your chem notes.”

“Jake!”

He grinned, smug and unrepentant. “Name? Again? That’s strike two, baby. One more and you’re out.”

"You're insane."

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