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chapter eight || annoying brothers - c. kamo

❛ ❜ Choso Kamo x f!reader (on going)

❝ Kamo “Choso,” a guarded boxer, meets a soft-spoken baker when he starts daily visits after training. Their connection grows slowly—social media follow, sweet diner dates, shared springtime moments—but love comes through quiet acts: tending wounds, pearl necklaces, building a home together. Challenges follow—a big match, media attention, and legal fights,—yet their bond deepens through intimacy, honest conversations under starry nights, and passionate reunions after weeks apart. As they balance family, business, and future plans, Choso sheds his tough exterior and the baker learns to trust in love worth fighting for.❞

cw ; mdni • 18+ only. contains explicit sexual themes and content. use of alcohol. hurt/trauma. smut . anxiety.

main masterlist | series masterlist | previous

The week passed in a blur — one of those quick, busy stretches where the days bled into each other, leaving you wondering where the time had gone. Choso had been training harder lately — longer hours at the gym, bruises blooming under the surface of his skin, muscles tighter, his body leaner, sharper. There was a match coming up, and even though he didn’t say much about it, you could feel the difference in him — the quiet focus, the simmering edge beneath the calm he wore around you.

Still, he made time.

Even after grueling sessions, he’d show up — usually in a clean t-shirt and sweats, hair damp from the shower, eyes tired but soft — and he’d sit at the counter while you finished up at the bakery, sipping coffee, sometimes offering to mop or stack the chairs without being asked. Today was no different.

It was a quiet Saturday morning — the streets still sleepy, the sun barely starting to warm the sidewalk outside. You moved around the bakery with practiced ease, pulling fresh loaves from the oven, the air thick with the smell of warm bread and sweet pastries. Choso was wiping down the front counters, sleeves pushed up, a rag in one hand, moving with that same slow, methodical rhythm he did everything. You watched him for a second — the way his brows furrowed slightly as he worked, the way he shifted his weight from foot to foot, the faint concentration on his face.

You smiled to yourself and went back to arranging the new batch of muffins in the display case. The soft jingle of the bell over the door made you glance up. Your brothers.

Kaito, the older one, stepped in first — sharp-eyed, tall, shoulders stiff in a way that told you he hadn’t come here just for the bread. Haru, the younger one, followed close behind, his face brighter, easier, his usual half-smirk already tugging at his mouth. You wiped your hands on your apron and moved to greet them. “Hey,” you said, smiling. “Didn’t expect you guys today.” Haru shrugged, glancing around the bakery. “Thought we’d check in. See how you were doing.” Kaito’s eyes flicked past you — to Choso, still wiping the counters, moving slower now that he was being watched.

Choso didn’t look up. He finished wiping down the section he was on, set the rag aside, and leaned against the counter, crossing his arms — a wall of quiet, steady presence. Haru nudged Kaito as they stepped further inside.

Your older brother’s gaze stayed locked on Choso, guarded, weighing. “You’ve been busy,” Kaito said, glancing at the trays of fresh bread cooling on the racks. You nodded, smoothing the front of your apron. “Saturdays are always like this. Choso’s been helping.” Kaito’s mouth pressed into a thin line, but he didn’t say anything right away. Haru, sensing the tension, grinned and stepped closer to the counter, hands in his pockets. “So you’ve been helping, Choso, huh?”

Choso finally lifted his gaze, slow and unhurried, locking eyes with Haru. He nodded once. “Yeah.” Haru leaned against the counter, casual, easy. “You act as scary to the customers as you do in that ring?” You could’ve groaned. Haru loved to poke at people — it was his specialty — but you held your breath, waiting to see how Choso would respond.

Choso didn’t react. He just shrugged one shoulder, nonchalant. “Depends who’s asking.” That earned a quick laugh from Haru, who straightened up and gave him an approving look. Kaito stayed quiet, his eyes narrow, his arms crossed — still not sold, still guarded. Your heart sank a little. You’d hoped, after the talk with your father, that Kaito might ease up. But he was stubborn — protective in a way that sometimes crossed the line into overbearing.

“I heard about what happened at the market,” Kaito said finally, his voice low. You stiffened slightly, glancing at Choso. “He protected me,” you said, voice calm, even. “That’s what matters.” Kaito’s eyes stayed on Choso. “You get that angry with everyone who crosses a line?” Choso’s jaw ticked, but his voice stayed level, quiet. “Only when they deserve it.” There was a long beat of silence — not tense, but heavy. Then Kaito — slow, deliberate — nodded once, like he’d gotten the answer he was looking for. Your shoulders loosened a fraction.

Haru, still trying to ease the atmosphere, smirked and glanced at the rag Choso had left on the counter. “You know, big guy, there’s a trick to wiping those counters without leaving streaks. Want me to show you?”

Choso raised an eyebrow — a real one this time — and you swore you saw the faintest flicker of amusement in his eyes. “I think I can manage,” Choso said, voice almost — almost — teasing. Haru laughed. “Come on. You sure? Pretty boy like you might have a future in hospitality.” You couldn’t help it — you giggled, covering your mouth with your hand. Choso’s eyes flicked to you — and for a second, his face softened. You saw it then — the ghost of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, not full-blown, not flashy, but there. Real. Quiet. Your heart squeezed.

Kaito saw it too. He watched Choso for a long moment, and though he didn’t smile, the hard line of his mouth eased slightly. You moved back behind the counter, grabbing a loaf of fresh bread and slicing it carefully, placing it onto a small tray. “Stay for a bit,” you said, sliding the tray toward your brothers. “Try some of the new stuff.” Haru grinned and grabbed a piece, tossing it into his mouth. “Don’t have to ask me twice.” Kaito hesitated, then stepped closer, grabbing a slice as well.

Choso stayed back, leaning against the counter, but you felt the shift — the way the tension in the room had eased, the way your brothers settled, the way Choso’s hand brushed lightly against the small of your back when you passed him — a simple, steady reminder that he was there. You looked up at him, catching his gaze, he didn’t smile. But his eyes — dark, steady — softened in a way only you would notice.

Later that evening, after the bakery was closed and the dishes were scrubbed clean, you and Choso found yourselves upstairs in your apartment — the easy quiet of the night settling around you like a blanket. The windows were cracked open, letting the cool evening air drift in, carrying with it the soft scent of the bakery downstairs — warm yeast, vanilla, a trace of cinnamon from the morning’s pastries. Your favorite lamp was on in the corner, casting the room in a soft, golden glow.

Choso sat on the couch, legs spread, one arm slung lazily along the backrest. He looked more relaxed than he had all week — fresh from a shower, hair still damp, a loose gray t-shirt hanging off his frame and black sweats riding low on his hips. You were curled up on the other end of the couch, legs tucked under you, nursing a cup of tea as you watched him — the way his thumb idly traced along the seam of the cushion, the way his head was tilted back slightly, exposing the long line of his throat. It was easy — this. Easy in a way you hadn’t expected, not with someone like him. But Choso had a way of fitting into your life like he belonged there, like he’d always been there. You hesitated for a moment, swirling the tea in your cup.

“Hey,” you said softly, breaking the silence. Choso tilted his head, looking at you. You bit your lip, feeling a little shy but pushing forward anyway. “How come I’ve never been to your place?” Choso blinked — slow, unhurried — and shrugged one shoulder, not defensive, not embarrassed. Just matter-of-fact. “Nothing to see,” he said. “Bare bones. Bed, dresser. No kitchen table. No couch. No TV.” You frowned, setting your cup down on the coffee table. “No couch?” Choso shook his head, mouth twitching into something like a dry smile. “Never there long enough to need one. Always training. Or with you.” You leaned back against the cushions, studying him. “You don’t cook at home?” you asked. Choso shrugged again. “No point. Hardly there. If I’m not with you, I’m at the gym.” There was no shame in his voice — no self-pity, no apology. Just Choso, plain and honest, telling you the reality of his life.

Your chest tightened a little, not out of sadness, but something softer — the realization that Choso had built his life around necessity, around survival, not comfort. He didn’t make spaces to live in; he made spaces to rest between battles. You stared at him, the quiet weight of it settling between you, and realized something else — something that made your pulse quicken, your fingers fidget in your lap. You’d been dating for five months.

Five months of late-night dinners and lazy mornings, of him showing up with coffee just because he knew you had an early start, of stolen kisses in the bakery kitchen, of quiet nights like this, just being near each other, and in all that time, you hadn’t once wanted anything else — hadn’t once felt like something was missing. You swallowed, heart thudding a little faster. “Choso,” you said, voice soft. He looked at you, his face open, waiting. You hesitated for a breath, then let the words tumble out, quiet but sure.

“What would you think about… moving in together?” The words hung there, suspended between you, fragile but real.

Choso didn’t react at first. He just stared at you, blinking once, twice — not surprised, not caught off guard — just thinking. You could see it — the way his brow furrowed slightly, the way his fingers tapped once against his knee before stilling. He wasn’t the type to rush. He never had been. You waited, heart in your throat, trying not to fidget too much under his steady gaze. Finally, Choso shifted — sitting forward slightly, elbows braced on his knees, hands dangling between them. His dark eyes stayed locked on yours, serious but not cold. “You want that?” he asked, voice low, careful. You nodded, feeling the heat rise to your cheeks but not looking away. “Yeah. I do.”

Choso sat there for another moment, turning it over in his mind, weighing it the way he did everything — slow, methodical, careful, and then — slow, sure — he nodded. “Yeah,” he said, voice rough but certain. “I want that too.”

You exhaled a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding, a slow smile spreading across your face. Choso leaned back, one hand scrubbing over his jaw. “Probably ‘bout time,” he muttered, half to himself. “Sick of pretending I don’t live here already.”

You laughed — a soft, surprised sound — and Choso’s mouth twitched into the faintest smile in return. You reached out, sliding your hand over his, threading your fingers together. He squeezed back, firm and sure, his thumb brushing slow over your knuckles. “Okay,” you said, feeling lighter, warmer. “We’ll figure it out. Bring your stuff over whenever you’re ready.” Choso just nodded again, slower this time, like he was letting it settle in — this new thing, this real thing, the first home he was choosing not because he had to, but because he wanted to. With you.

He leaned over, pressing a kiss to the inside of your wrist, his breath warm against your skin, and when he looked up at you, his eyes were soft — so soft it made your chest ache — and full of something that didn’t need words. Something that looked a whole lot like home.

Choso sat at the small kitchen table, phone pressed to his ear, a cup of lukewarm coffee untouched in front of him.

You moved quietly around the kitchen, the faint clatter of dishes filling the background as you tried not to eavesdrop — but it was hard not to, not when his voice, low and steady, carried through the quiet apartment.

“Yeah,” Choso said, nodding slightly even though the realtor on the other end couldn’t see him. “That’s right. Closing date’s fine. Wire transfer’s ready. Thanks.” He ended the call with a tap, setting the phone face down on the table.

You set a clean mug in the drying rack and turned, drying your hands on a towel as you watched him.

“Well?” you asked softly. Choso leaned back in the chair, arms folded, his mouth tugging into that small, almost-hidden smile he reserved for these rare moments. “It’s done,” he said simply. “Sold.” Your eyebrows lifted. “Already?”

Choso nodded. “Cash offer. Full asking price.” You gaped. “Full price?” He huffed a quiet breath of amusement, the smallest flicker of pride in his eyes. “High-rise condos go fast. Especially in that neighborhood.” You moved closer, resting your hands on the back of the chair across from him. “So… how much?” Choso shrugged, like it wasn’t a big deal. “Little over a 145 million yen.” Your eyes widened.

Choso caught the look on your face and chuckled — a low, warm sound — reaching out to tug you into his lap. You went easily, settling against him, his arms looping around your waist, solid and steady. “Got more coming in from Gucci too,” he said, his mouth brushing against your temple as he spoke. “And the fights. It’s addin’ up.” You rested your head against his shoulder, feeling the steady beat of his heart under your cheek. “So what now?” you murmured.

Choso’s hand moved slowly along your back, up and down, soothing. “I wanna buy a house,” he said simply. “Not an apartment. Not a place to crash between fights. A house.” You smiled against his shoulder, the idea of it blooming quietly in your chest — not just a house, but a home. Something real, something yours. “I don’t need a big place,” Choso said, his voice thoughtful now, more to himself than anything. “Just somethin’ good. Somethin’ we can build on.” You pulled back slightly to look at him. His dark eyes were steady, his face open in a way that made your heart squeeze. “Let’s go look,” you said.

The neighborhood wasn’t flashy — no rows of sterile, cookie-cutter houses, no manicured lawns that looked like they’d been measured by laser levels. It was older — in the best way. Giant trees lined the streets, their branches arching overhead to form canopies of green, dappling the sidewalks in sunlight. The houses weren’t identical; they were lived-in, well-loved — each with its own quirks and personality. Faded shutters, swing sets in backyards, flower beds bursting with color. You drove slowly down the street, Choso’s hand resting on your thigh, his thumb brushing lazy circles over your jeans. You pointed out the little details — the cat sleeping in a window, the kid’s chalk drawings on the sidewalk, the neighbor chatting over a white picket fence. Choso was quiet, but you could tell he was watching — soaking it in, and then you saw it.

A cottage-style house, tucked slightly back from the street, shaded by a massive oak tree that had to be at least a hundred years old. The house was older, but clearly well-cared for — the paint was fresh, a soft gray-blue with white trim, and the small front porch had a swing swaying gently in the breeze. The real charm, though, was how warm it felt — not grand, not modern, but welcoming. A home that had been lived in, loved, and waited quietly for its next story to start. You parked across the street, your heart thudding a little harder as you stared at it. Choso leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, taking it in.

The windows were tall and deep-set, the front door painted a deep, inviting navy. There was a flower bed by the porch, overgrown but in a way that felt natural, not neglected. You turned to him, searching his face. “Well?” you said, voice soft. Choso didn’t answer right away. He stared at the house, his jaw ticking once, a muscle flexing in his cheek, and then — slow, certain — he nodded. “Yeah,” he said. “That’s it.” You smiled, a slow, wide grin stretching across your face. “You’re sure?”

Choso turned to look at you — really look at you — and in his eyes you saw it: the certainty, the quiet, unshakable yesthat he didn’t even need to say out loud. “I’m sure.” He pulled his phone out of his pocket, already scrolling through his contacts. He found his realtor’s number, hit dial, and pressed the phone to his ear.

“Hey,” he said when the line picked up. “Found one. I want to buy it. Full asking.” He paused, listening for a second, then added, “No, I’m not waitin’. I want it off the market today.” You laughed under your breath, covering your mouth with your hand, and Choso shot you a rare, real smile — soft and a little smug — like he knew exactly what he was doing and didn’t care how impulsive it was. When he hung up, he leaned back, looking at the house again. “You really like it?” he asked, quieter now, glancing sideways at you. You nodded, heart full. “I love it.” Choso reached over, threading his fingers through yours. “Then it’s ours.”

The day the keys were finally in his hand, Choso stood on the front porch for a long moment, just staring at the door.

You stood beside him, bouncing lightly on your toes, the ring of keys jingling as he turned them over in his hand once before fitting one into the lock. The door swung open with a soft groan, the hinges old but well-oiled, and the two of you stepped inside for the first time. The house smelled like wood and old books — something lived-in, something good. The floors were original hardwood, warm under your feet even through your sneakers, and the walls were a soft cream, catching the light filtering in through the tall windows. It was empty — just walls and floors and potential — but you could already see it: curtains on the windows, a couch tucked against the far wall, a dining table in the little breakfast nook. You glanced at Choso, who stood in the middle of the living room, looking around with a quiet kind of reverence. He took a slow breath, his chest rising and falling steadily. “Ours now,” he said simply. You smiled, stepping closer, sliding your hand into his. “Ours.”

Before either of you could move in, though, Choso was already planning. It wasn’t enough for him to just live here — not with you. He wanted to make it right. Wanted it to be yours. He hired contractors almost immediately — a small, trusted crew — to handle the minor renovations he wanted.

“I’m not havin’ you cookin’ on a stove older than you,” he grumbled as he scrolled through his phone, showing you pictures of sleek, high-end ranges, ovens that practically gleamed with possibilities. You giggled, leaning over his shoulder. “You’re serious about this kitchen, huh?” He shrugged. “If you’re gonna bake, I want you to have the best.”

So the old, rickety stove was replaced with a brand new high-end gas range — gleaming stainless steel with six burners and a convection oven big enough to bake an entire wedding. The fridge followed — smart, spacious, with a bottom freezer drawer and French doors. A new dishwasher, too — one of those whisper-quiet models — and a deep farmhouse sink to match. He didn’t stop there. New light fixtures, soft and warm. Fresh paint in the bedrooms — a pale, calming color you both picked together. Minor fixes to the bathroom tile. Nothing too flashy — Choso wasn’t flashy — but enough to make the house feel like home.

The furniture shopping, though, that was where things got fun. You dragged him to one of the bigger home stores on the outskirts of the city, the kind with endless showroom floors and tiny mock living rooms set up to entice buyers.

Choso looked immediately out of place — all broad shoulders, tattooed arms crossed over his chest, his expression somewhere between confusion and grim determination. You stifled a laugh as he trailed behind you, his boots heavy on the polished floors.

“So,” you said brightly, stopping in front of a sleek, low-profile sofa set. “What kind of vibe are we going for?” Choso looked at the couch — black leather, sharp angles, chrome legs — and pointed wordlessly. You raised an eyebrow. “You like that?” He shrugged. “Looks clean.” You snorted, unable to help yourself. “Clean?” you teased, nudging him playfully. “It looks cold. And lonely. Like a fancy waiting room no one’s allowed to sit in.”

Choso glanced back at the couch, his brows furrowing like he was seeing it for the first time. He huffed a breath — a real laugh this time, low and warm — and shook his head. “Alright, smartass,” he muttered, amusement tugging at the corners of his mouth. “What do you want, then?” You grinned, looping your arm through his and tugging him down the row. You led him to a different setup — a plush, deep-seated sofa in a warm, neutral fabric, soft throw pillows scattered along the back, a heavy wooden coffee table in front. It looked lived-in — the kind of place you could sink into with a book, or curl up together on a quiet night. Choso studied it, tilting his head slightly. “It’s not lonely,” you said, smiling up at him. “It’s homey. Comfortable.” He shifted his weight, considering.

“Pick whatever you want,” he said after a moment, voice low and sure. “I don’t care about couches. I care about you bein’ happy.” Your chest tightened, warmth blooming behind your ribs. You squeezed his arm gently. “You sure?”

Choso nodded. “Positive.”

It wasn’t just a sofa he was talking about, and you both knew it. You picked the soft one, of course — and a matching chair, a coffee table with a little wear in the wood grain, a rug that was more texture than color, warm and grounding. Bedroom furniture came next — a sturdy wooden bed frame, a dresser, matching nightstands. Choso vetoed the mattress you first pointed to, picking out the one he said was “firm enough you don’t sink, but not like sleepin’ on concrete.”

He didn’t blink at the totals, either — the costs stacking up as you went. Not with the money sitting comfortably in his account from the condo sale — nearly 200K for the house itself — and all the fight purses and Gucci campaigns piling up after. Money wasn’t something he flaunted. It wasn’t even something he thought about much. It just meant he could give you what you wanted — what you deserved, and he would. Happily.

As you checked out, finalizing the delivery, you glanced up at him, catching the small, content smile tugging at his mouth as he watched you. “What?” you asked, cheeks warming. Choso shrugged, his hand brushing the small of your back as you walked. “Nothin’,” he murmured. “Just like seein’ you happy.”

The house smelled new in the way fresh paint and cut wood did — clean, open, waiting to be lived in. The movers had come early, a fleet of uniformed workers hauling box after box into the house with practiced ease. Choso stood by the front door, arms crossed, barking out quiet directions — That’s kitchen. Upstairs for the bedroom. Careful with that one. — while you hovered nearby, feeling a mix of excitement and nerves curling in your stomach. It was real now — no longer a dream or a plan, but real — boxes stacked against freshly painted walls, furniture already in place, sunlight streaming through clean windows and gleaming off the new stove in the kitchen.

By early afternoon, the movers were gone — and that’s when the real chaos began. Your parents showed up first, your mom carrying bags of cleaning supplies and a determined look on her face, your dad trailing behind with a toolbox even though the house barely needed anything fixed. Then came your brothers — Kaito with his usual wary glance at Choso (though less suspicious now, more resigned), and Haru already grinning, lugging a box marked bathroom stuff and shouting, “Where do you want this, boss?”

Yuuji arrived not long after, bounding up the front steps with a lopsided smile and a duffle bag slung over his shoulder.

“Hope I’m not late to the party,” he said, clapping Choso on the back. “You’re early for once,” Choso muttered, but there was no bite to it, only a rare softness. Everyone dove into the work, the house filling with the sound of unpacking — the tear of tape, the clatter of dishes being set carefully in cabinets, the thud of boxes being pushed into corners. The furniture was already built, thanks to the delivery and assembly service Choso had insisted on, but there was still plenty to do — books on the built in shelves, clothes to hang, rugs to lay out.

You and your mom tackled the cleaning together, wiping down counters, mopping the already-pristine floors, laughing when you both reached for the same sponge. “It’s perfect,” your mom said, stepping back to admire the kitchen. The new appliances gleamed under the warm, overhead lighting — the big gas stove, the deep farmhouse sink, the fridge you could probably fit a whole bakery’s worth of goods in. You smiled, feeling a kind of deep, quiet joy settle into your bones. “It really is.” Your mom bumped your shoulder playfully. “You did good, sweetheart.”

You glanced toward the living room, where Choso was showing your dad and brothers how the new entertainment system worked — or more accurately, letting them argue over where the best angle for the TV was — and caught Yuuji sneaking a cookie from the tray you’d set out earlier. Choso’s eyes flicked up, finding yours across the room, and something in his face softened. He didn’t smile — not the big kind — but the look was there, the one that was just for you. Warm. Steady. Home.

Later, when the boxes were mostly empty and the sun was starting to dip low behind the trees, Choso took over the kitchen. You watched him move — sleeves rolled up, hair pulled back, chopping vegetables with that same careful precision he brought to everything. The smell of garlic and onions sizzling in oil filled the air, the rich, savory scent of his curry already making everyone hover around the kitchen island, pretending not to be waiting. Your mom sat at the small table with you, chatting quietly, both of you wiping down the last few counters and stacking dishes neatly in the new cabinets. “Your father’s impressed,” she said, smiling knowingly. You glanced up. “Yeah?” Your mom nodded. “And so am I. He’s a good man.”

You followed her gaze — Choso at the stove, stirring the curry, Yuuji handing him spices without being asked, your brothers hovering nearby, pretending not to be curious. Your dad stood in the doorway, arms crossed, a faint smile tugging at his mouth as he watched the scene. You turned back to your mom, cheeks warm. “He makes me happy,” you said softly. Your mom smiled, reaching over to squeeze your hand. “It shows.”

Dinner was simple, but it felt like a feast. Choso’s curry was thick and rich, spooned generously over steaming bowls of rice, the spices warm but not overwhelming, the kind of meal that felt like a hug from the inside out. You sat at the table surrounded by laughter — Haru cracking jokes, Yuuji laughing so hard he nearly choked, even Kaito cracking a rare smile. Your dad chimed in now and then with a dry comment that made your mom laugh loud and easy, her head tipping back the way it always did when she was truly happy, and Choso — Choso sat next to you, his thigh pressed against yours under the table, his hand resting lightly on your knee. He didn’t say much — he never did — but he watched. Watched you laugh with your mom, watched you nudge your brothers when they teased you, watched the way your dad poured him a second glass of beer without asking.

He sat there, quietly soaking it all in, and every once in a while, when no one else was looking, he’d glance at you — a look that said more than any words ever could. You. Us. Home.

When the dishes were finally cleared and the last of the leftovers tucked into the gleaming new fridge, you and your mom stood side by side at the sink, washing and drying, your hands moving in a quiet, practiced rhythm. You caught her smiling at you, her eyes crinkling at the corners. “You’re happy,” she said, not a question — just a truth. You nodded, smiling so big your cheeks ached. “I am.” She bumped your shoulder again, soft and warm. “You deserve it.”

You glanced back toward the living room — your family sprawled across the new couches, Yuuji stretched out on the rug, Haru and Kaito arguing about some movie, your dad dozing lightly in the armchair, and Choso — your Choso — standing at the edge of it all, his arms folded, his face unreadable to anyone else. But you knew better, you met his eyes across the room, and he smiled — small, real — just for you. Whole. You felt it then — not just in the walls around you, not just in the way the floors creaked or the windows caught the late afternoon light — but in the people filling it, the life settling into it. This wasn’t just a house.

It was home.

taglist ; @chuiisi

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averyjadedemerald · 22 minutes ago

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chapter seven || first post - c. kamo

❛ ❜ Choso Kamo x f!reader (on going)

cw ; mdni • 18+ only. contains explicit sexual themes and content. use of alcohol. hurt/trauma. smut . anxiety.

main masterlist | series masterlist | previous

Sundays were supposed to be for resting — a slow day, a quiet day. The bakery was dark, the “Closed” sign swinging gently on the door as a spring breeze passed by. The lights inside were soft and low, only half the overheads on, filling the space with a warm, sleepy glow.

You stood at the counter, sleeves pushed up, apron tied loose around your waist, fuzzy socked feet tucked under you on the old wooden floorboards. The smell of fresh yeast and warm flour lingered in the air, mixing with the faint trace of cinnamon and sugar from a batch you’d baked the night before. It was the kind of smell that sank into your skin, your clothes, the very walls of the bakery — home.

Choso was perched awkwardly on a stool at the other side of the counter, rolling up the sleeves of his black t-shirt, a dusting of flour already streaked unevenly across his forearms. He frowned down at the ball of dough in front of him, brow furrowed like it was something he was meant to fight instead of fold. You couldn’t help it — the giggle bubbled up, impossible to hold in. Choso glanced up at you, catching the look on your face — the bright-eyed amusement, the fondness you didn’t bother to hide — and the corner of his mouth twitched. Not quite a full smile, but something better — that soft, rare smirk he only seemed to give you.

“You’re laughin’ at me,” he muttered, mock-accusatory. “I’m laughing with you,” you said brightly, fighting another giggle as you snapped a quick photo of him. Choso rolled his eyes but didn’t move — didn’t reach for the phone, didn’t protest — just went back to awkwardly kneading the dough, looking every bit like a heavyweight fighter thrown into a domestic life he had no idea how to navigate. You leaned over, nudging the flour canister closer to him.

“Flour your hands more,” you said, trying not to laugh. “You’re too heavy-handed.” Choso did as he was told, dipping his large hands into the flour, patting them off with a slap against his palms that sent a puff of fine white dust into the air. It landed — perfectly, hilariously — on the tip of his nose. You clapped a hand over your mouth, stifling a laugh, your phone already up as you snapped another quick photo. Choso blinked at you, deadpan, not even bothering to wipe it off. “You’re enjoyin’ this way too much,” he said, voice low but tinged with that unmistakable fondness you’d learned to recognize.

You were.

You absolutely were.

You giggled, unabashed now, snapping a few more pictures as Choso pretended to go back to kneading the dough, the flour still dusting his nose.

You uploaded one to your bakery’s Instagram — a shot of Choso, arms dusted in flour, a crooked smirk playing at the corner of his mouth, the kitchen a soft blur behind him. You captioned it simply:

“New recruit at the bakery today 🥖💙 Still training him on how not to beat up the dough.”

You laughed to yourself as you posted it, setting the phone down to check the loaves proofing in the warmers.

Later, as you wiped your hands clean, you picked up your phone again and pulled up your personal account.

This one, you thought for a moment, thumb hovering over the camera roll. You scrolled to a photo you had snapped without thinking earlier — the two of you reflected in the large mirror by the front window. You were smiling, big and bright, cheeks flushed from laughing too much, and Choso was leaning down, his forehead pressed lightly against the side of your face, can on your shoulder, his face relaxed, eyes closed, the softest smile tugging at his mouth.

It wasn’t posed.

It wasn’t perfect.

But it was you — both of you — in a way nothing else really was.

You uploaded it, no filters, no edits.

Caption:

“My favorite Sunday.”

Simple. Quiet. True. You set your phone down, returning to the dough, sliding it into the oven carefully. It wasn’t until much later — when you were cleaning up, sweeping flour off the counters and humming softly under your breath — that you checked your phone again. Notifications flooded your screen — likes, comments, follows. You blinked, scrolling through them. On the bakery post, people were flooding in, leaving comments:

“HE’S SO CUTE WTF” “Wait, is this THE Choso?? No wayyy.” “Now I want bread and a boyfriend who looks at me like that.” “Power couple vibes.” “She’s so bubbly and sweet and he’s all brooding. I love it.” “Petition for more Choso bakery content!!”

On your personal post, the comments were even more relentless:

“Every quiet, dark boy needs a sweet, smiling girl.” “This is the softest thing I’ve ever seen.” “He looks like he’s home.” “Protect them at all costs.” “Not me tearing up over how in love he looks.”

You covered your mouth, cheeks heating. Choso — who had just finished washing up — came up behind you, peering over your shoulder. He frowned at the screen. “What’s all that?” You laughed, leaning back into him. “Just… people being people. They love you.” He huffed, unimpressed, but his hands found your waist, pulling you closer. “They don’t even know me,” he said quietly, brushing his nose against your temple. You tilted your head, smiling up at him. “They know enough.”

Choso stared down at you — the way your eyes crinkled when you smiled, the soft pink still lingering on your cheeks, the easy way you fit against him like you’d always belonged there. He leaned down, pressing a kiss to your temple, his hand sliding up to the small of your back. “I don’t care if they know,” he murmured. “Long as you do.” You laughed softly, turning in his arms to face him fully, your hands finding his chest, the warm, steady beat of his heart beneath your palms. “I know,” you said. “And I’m not going anywhere.” Choso smiled — small, private — and kissed you again, slow and sure, right there in the middle of the empty bakery, with the scent of fresh bread curling around you, and the whole world outside oblivious to how full your little world had become.

The early morning air was fresh and cool as you and Choso stepped out of the apartment, the sunlight still soft, casting long, sleepy shadows on the pavement. It was the kind of morning that promised an easy day — slow, simple, the kind where you didn’t need much except a hand to hold and nowhere to rush to.

Choso was dressed casually but still impossibly handsome — a loose white short-sleeve button-up that hung open just enough to reveal the faint lines of his tattoos at his collarbone, the sleeves cuffed neatly over his forearms. Black jeans clung low to his hips, a pair of well-worn Doc Martens grounding him as he slid his hands into his pockets. His hair was tied back, a few loose strands falling into his face, softening the sharp cut of his jaw. You kept it simple too — your favorite blue jeans, a pale green shirt speckled with tiny white flowers, and your most reliable scuffed white Converse. Comfortable. Familiar. You.

When you arrived at the farmers market, your parents were already waiting near the entrance. Your mom waved excitedly when she spotted you, her straw sunhat tilted slightly against the breeze, her cardigan fluttering at her sides. She was a picture of brightness, even in the muted early light — smiling and already clutching a canvas tote full of fresh produce. Your dad stood beside her, quieter, his usual reserved self — dressed simply in a button-down and worn jeans, arms loosely crossed, his face stoic but softened by the small smile he gave when his eyes met yours.

And, in his own way, the subtle nod he gave Choso was its own greeting — approval already given, no words needed.

Choso glanced at you briefly as you both walked up, the corner of his mouth lifting into a faint smile when you brushed your hand against his. He never made a show of it — no grand gestures, no over-the-top affection — but his presence was steady, and his touch was constant in its quiet way. Your mom pulled you into a quick hug the second you reached her, her hands light and warm on your shoulders.

"Perfect morning for the market," she chirped, looping her arm through yours. She gave Choso a warm smile. "You ready for some real produce shopping?" Choso gave a small huff of amusement and nodded. "You’re the boss today."

Your dad chuckled lowly but said nothing, simply falling into step beside Choso as the four of you made your way into the winding maze of stalls. The market was lively, bustling with families, couples, and regulars who moved with the ease of those who knew exactly where to find the best strawberries or the sweetest tomatoes. The scents of fresh herbs, warm bread, and just-picked fruit filled the air, wrapping around you like something familiar, something safe.

You and your mother naturally fell into easy conversation, pointing out jams, jars of local honey, and bouquets of wildflowers, your laughter bright in the morning air. Choso and your father trailed behind — the quiet shadow to your light, steady presences among the color and movement. The two of them didn’t talk much — they didn’t need to. There was a comfort between them now, one built not on words, but on quiet understanding. Every so often, you caught your father giving Choso a sideways glance, the corner of his mouth twitching upward when he caught the way Choso’s eyes softened whenever they landed on you. Your mother tugged you toward a stall selling handmade candles, her voice lowering conspiratorially as she pointed to a jar labeled Rainstorm.

“I’m getting this one for your dad’s office. He pretends he doesn’t like the candles but burns through them faster than I can replace them.” You laughed, pressing a hand to your mouth, feeling Choso’s gaze on you even from a few steps away — warm, steady, like you were the only thing in the world worth looking at. It happened as you were leaning forward, reaching for the jar.

A sharp, unexpected slap landed squarely on your ass — loud, unmistakable, leaving a stinging imprint through the thin denim of your jeans. You gasped, jerking upright, nearly dropping the candle. Behind you stood a man — older, cocky grin, sunglasses perched on his head, the smell of stale beer and too much cologne wafting off him even this early in the day. He laughed, a harsh, grating sound. “Couldn’t resist,” he said, grinning wide. Your mom’s face went rigid, her hand frozen midway to the candle she was reaching for. But you didn’t even have time to react.

Choso was already there. In one fluid movement, he closed the space between you and the man. His hand fisted the guy’s shirt in a tight, brutal grip, yanking him forward so sharply the man’s sunglasses tumbled to the ground. The easy grin dropped from the man’s face immediately, replaced by a look of wide-eyed panic. Choso said nothing at first — just stared, face impassive, unreadable, the only sign of his anger the way his jaw flexed tight, the muscle jumping in his cheek. His other hand — his free hand — was clenched into a tight fist at his side, knuckles white with the effort to not use it. You could see it — the razor's edge he was standing on, the way every inch of him was ready to strike.

The man stammered, stuttered something that could have been an apology, but Choso didn’t even blink. You stepped closer, placing a hand gently on his arm — the only thing that could reach him when he got like this. “Choso,” you said softly, just loud enough for him to hear over the thudding pulse of his anger. He stood there another heartbeat longer — long enough to make the man sweat — before, slowly, deliberately, he released his grip, shoving the guy back with a final push.

The man stumbled, caught himself, and without another word, turned and bolted into the crowd. Choso didn’t move. He stood there, chest rising and falling slowly, his hands flexing once at his sides before he let out a slow breath, glancing down at you. "You okay?" His voice was low, careful, threaded with the kind of restraint that made your heart ache. You nodded, sliding your hand down to squeeze his fingers, grounding him. "I’m fine," you murmured, meaning it. Your father, who had moved to stand just slightly behind Choso during the encounter, gave a small grunt of approval — not needing words to show that he had Choso’s back if it had come to that.

Your mom exhaled finally, looping her arm through yours again like she hadn’t just watched a man nearly get laid out in the middle of the farmers market. “Well," she said brightly, "how about some lemonade? I think we could all use a little break." You smiled, grateful for her grace, and let her tug you along.

Choso stayed close behind, his hand slipping into yours again as if it was the most natural thing in the world, and the rest of the morning passed with that same quiet steadiness — your mother laughing at every sample she tried, you smiling easily again, Choso trailing behind you, his presence solid, comforting. Your dad walking alongside him — two silent sentries, two quiet men watching over the women they loved. When you glanced up at Choso later, catching him watching you with that small, almost hidden smile, you squeezed his hand lightly. He squeezed back. No words. Just you — steady, sure — and him, always there.

The drive home was quiet. Choso’s hand rested on your thigh, his fingers tapping a slow, restless rhythm, but his jaw was still tight, his body wound up like a spring that hadn’t fully uncoiled. The morning’s incident at the farmers market sat between you in the cab of the truck — unspoken, heavy — but not in a way that made you feel unsafe. It was just who he was — the way he carried things, the way he wore his anger low and silent rather than loud and brash. You covered his hand with yours, squeezing gently. Choso didn’t look at you — not right away — but his fingers stilled under yours, turning palm up so he could lace them between yours.

The apartment was warm when you stepped inside, the familiar scent of clean linen and something faintly smoky — Choso’s cologne, maybe, lingering on the air. You kicked off your Converse, setting your bag down carefully by the door, and turned to find Choso still standing there, one hand on the frame, staring at nothing in particular. You crossed to him slowly, barefoot, the floor cool under your feet, and slid your arms around his waist.

Choso exhaled — a slow, careful breath — and finally moved, wrapping his arms around you, pulling you tight against him. His face buried in the curve of your neck, his body still tense, still thrumming with all the things he wouldn’t say.

You rubbed slow circles over his back, feeling the hard muscle relax incrementally under your touch. “You’re home now,” you murmured. Another breath — deeper this time — and you felt his shoulders ease. You stayed like that for a while, breathing each other in, feeling the weight of the world shift off his shoulders bit by bit.

Later, while you were curled together on the couch — Choso finally loose enough to let his head rest against the back cushions, one arm slung heavily around your waist — your phone buzzed. You pulled it out, smiling when you saw the name flashing on the screen.

Mom.

You answered on speaker, settling it on the armrest. “Hey, sweetheart,” your mom’s voice chirped, still bright, still easy in the way she always was. “I was thinking… since this morning was a little more eventful than planned, why don’t you and Choso come by for dinner tonight? A real, proper one.” Choso stirred slightly beside you, tilting his head to glance at the phone. You smiled, glancing back at him before answering. “I think we’d like that.” Your mom’s voice softened. “Good. Your dad’s already talking about grilling.” Choso huffed a quiet laugh through his nose — not quite a real one, but close. “We’ll be there,” you promised.

Your parents’ house was the same as always — warm, lived-in, with the faint smell of whatever had been in the oven earlier lingering in the air. Your mom opened the door before you could knock, pulling you into a quick hug before turning to Choso. “Come on in. You’re family.” Choso gave a small nod, his hand finding yours naturally as he followed you inside. The house wasn’t fancy — nothing like the sleek, cold luxury of the places you’d been dragged to since Choso’s face had started showing up in magazines — but it was real. Worn furniture, pictures on the walls, the faint hum of an old fan spinning overhead.

Choso shifted awkwardly by the door until your father appeared, clapping a hand on his shoulder. “Come on,” your dad said. “Help me with the grill.” Choso glanced at you, the silent question there — is this okay? You smiled, giving a small nod, and he followed your father toward the back porch. You watched them from the kitchen window as you helped your mother set the table — Choso standing with his hands in his pockets, your dad passing him a set of tongs, pointing at something on the grill. They didn’t say much — they didn’t need to — but you saw it in the way Choso’s shoulders eased, the way he nodded, listening, learning.

By the time dinner was ready, the tension that had wound itself so tightly around Choso earlier had unraveled into something looser, more bearable. You all sat around the old wooden table, plates full of grilled chicken, roasted vegetables, warm rolls your mom had made that morning. Conversation was easy — your mom telling stories about the early days of the bakery, your dad chiming in with dry, understated jokes that made your mom roll her eyes fondly.

Choso was quieter, but he wasn’t absent. He listened carefully, answering questions when asked — about training, about his brother Yuuji, about how he liked being back in a quieter part of town.

Choso sat next to you, his knee brushing against yours under the table, his hand resting lightly on his thigh, fingers drumming a quiet rhythm. He looked comfortable enough — or at least as comfortable as Choso ever looked in a new space — but his eyes were sharp, flicking between your parents, tracking the conversation with that quiet attentiveness he never seemed to turn off.

Your mom set a bowl of salad in front of him and smiled, easy and warm. “So, Choso,” she began lightly, “what do you like to do when you’re not training?” He paused, glancing briefly at you like he was checking to see if it was really okay to answer. “Sleep, mostly,” he said, voice low, rough but steady. “And cook. When I can.” Your mom brightened at that. “You cook?” Choso nodded. “Not good at baking though.” His mouth twitched a little, almost a smile.

You grinned, nudging him playfully with your elbow. “He’s better at beating the dough than kneading it.” That earned a chuckle from your mom and a quiet snort from your dad. Choso’s shoulders eased just slightly, like he was settling into the rhythm of the table, letting the soft, familiar warmth of it soak into him. Your dad cleared his throat, leaning back in his chair. “What’s your favorite thing to cook?”

Choso shrugged, glancing down at his plate for a second before answering. “Ramen,” he said simply. “And… curry.”

“Curry?” Your mom leaned in, intrigued. “Homemade?” He nodded. “Taught myself.”

“That’s impressive,” she said, genuinely. “You’ll have to make it for us sometime.” Choso’s ears turned slightly pink, but he ducked his head in a small nod. “Maybe.” Your mom smiled, pleased, and turned to you, launching into a story about how you used to pretend you were hosting a cooking show in the kitchen when you were little — complete with your own apron and a wooden spoon as a microphone. You groaned dramatically, covering your face with your hands. “Mom—”

Choso chuckled low under his breath, and you peeked through your fingers to see him watching you — not laughing at you, but watching you, like he couldn’t quite help himself. Your dad leaned forward, resting his arms on the table. “Tell me more about your brother.” Choso blinked, straightening slightly. “Yuuji?” Your dad nodded. “He was a delight when he came to visit the last time, he’s younger, right?” Choso’s mouth softened around the edges when he spoke about Yuuji — a subtle shift, but one you caught instantly. “Yeah. He’s twenty,” Choso said. “Good kid. Smart. Better head on his shoulders than I ever had.” Your father nodded approvingly. “Sounds like you’re proud of him.” Choso shrugged, but the small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth betrayed him. “I am.” Your mom leaned over to whisper to you, just loud enough for Choso to hear, “Sounds like you got yourself a good one.” You smiled, your cheeks warming.

Choso glanced sideways at you — his face still carefully neutral, but his eyes a little softer now. Your mom switched topics then, launching into a gentle teasing about your childhood obsessions — your horse phase, your baking disasters, the time you tried to sell “perfume” made out of crushed flower petals and water to the neighbors. “Oh no,” you groaned, laughing, your face heating. “Not the perfume story.” Your mom laughed, reaching across the table to tap your hand. “It was adorable. You even made little labels — 'Eau de Backyard.’” Your dad, who rarely cracked a smile, let out a low chuckle, shaking his head. “Took me two weeks to get the rose smell out of the carpet.”

You laughed — a bright, open laugh, the kind that slipped out before you could stop it, full of embarrassment and love, a sound that filled the room with a kind of warmth no amount of candles or comfort food could manufacture, and Choso turned to look at you. Really look at you.

Something shifted then — something slow, something deep. The tension in his body, the careful reserve he wore like armor, melted at the edges. He watched you — the way you laughed with your whole body, the way your cheeks flushed, the way your eyes crinkled at the corners — and something in him gave. His mouth softened, and then — slow, almost cautious — he smiled.

Not the small, forced half-smirk he gave the public. Not the practiced, tight-lipped grin he used when he needed to seem approachable.

A real smile.

It started slow, tugging at the corner of his mouth, then spreading — soft, easy, genuine. It warmed his whole face, made his dark eyes shine, crinkled the skin at the corners in a way that made him look so much younger, so much lighter. You caught it — the way he looked at you in that moment — like you were something rare, something precious.

Your parents caught it too. They didn’t say anything. They didn’t have to. Your mom just smiled quietly, turning back to her plate. Your dad nodded once to himself, the smallest gesture of approval, like something he’d been waiting to see had finally arrived.

Under the table, Choso’s hand found yours — fingers sliding between yours, the callused pad of his thumb brushing slow over your knuckles. You squeezed back, a soft, steady pressure, feeling your chest swell with something warm and heavy and full. Choso didn’t look away from you, and in that moment — with the warm food on the table, the easy laughter in the air, your parents chatting about nothing at all — Choso looked at you like you were the only thing that made sense in a world he never quite fit into. Like you were home.

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averyjadedemerald · 31 minutes ago

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chapter six || fine dining & flirty drinks - c. kamo

❛ ❜ Choso Kamo x f!reader (on going)

cw ; mdni • 18+ only. contains explicit sexual themes and content. use of alcohol. hurt/trauma. smut . anxiety.

main masterlist | series masterlist | previous

You stood in front of the mirror, smoothing the soft, flowing fabric of your dress down over your hips for what felt like the hundredth time. The pale blue fabric shimmered slightly under the soft lights, the neckline elegant but not revealing, the skirt pooling to the floor in graceful waves every time you shifted. It was the kind of dress that made you feel like you belonged somewhere fancy — even if deep down, you knew you didn’t.

You fidgeted with the thin strap over your shoulder, nerves humming under your skin. Behind you, Choso was getting ready in the small bedroom — buttoning up his black shirt, adjusting the cuffs. You caught glimpses of him in the mirror, and the sight made your breath catch. He looked dangerous in black — the button-up snug across his chest and shoulders, the sleeves rolled neatly at his wrists, the blazer sitting perfectly on his frame. He hadn’t bothered with a tie — not that you expected him to — and the top three buttons of his shirt were undone, revealing a glimpse of his tattoos peeking up from his chest, black ink curling along his collarbone.

His hair was loose tonight, falling in soft, messy strands that framed his face, and he’d kept his usual jewelry — the small hoops in his ears, the silver chain around his neck. He looked like he didn’t belong at a fine dining, high-society event either, and somehow, that made you feel a little better. "You sure about this?" you asked softly, smoothing your hands down the front of your dress again, turning slightly toward him. Choso glanced up, his dark eyes dragging over you slowly, taking in the dress, the way it clung to your body before flowing down in soft folds. He stepped closer, reaching out to run his hands gently along your waist, the calluses on his fingers catching lightly on the fabric.

"You look perfect," he murmured, voice low, steady. You smiled, cheeks heating, and leaned into his touch. He brushed a kiss against your temple, lingering there for a moment before pulling back. "Come with me," he said. "It’ll be easier if you’re there." You nodded, threading your fingers through his. "Okay."

The event was exactly what you feared it would be — loud, flashy, dripping in wealth and polish. It was held in one of those upscale downtown hotels, the kind with gleaming marble floors and chandeliers that looked like they cost more than your apartment. The ballroom was full of people — men in tailored suits, women in glittering cocktail dresses, servers moving through the crowd with trays of champagne and delicate appetizers. The whole place buzzed with polite conversation, laughter that didn’t quite reach the eyes, the faint clink of glasses. You shifted closer to Choso as you stepped inside, instinctively seeking the solid weight of him next to you. He squeezed your hand lightly, his thumb brushing slow, reassuring circles over your knuckles. But even with him beside you, you felt it — the way eyes turned, subtle but sharp, assessing. You and Choso didn’t fit here.

You, in your flowing blue dress that spoke of quiet elegance, not the flashy, skin-tight glamor most of the women wore. Choso, in his black-on-black ensemble, the dark ink of his tattoos peeking from the collar of his shirt, his rough edges softened just enough to pass but not hidden. He didn’t care. You could tell by the way he stood — relaxed, but alert, his hand resting low on your back, his body between you and the worst of the crowd. Still, you caught the looks. The whispers. The way some of the women — tall, sleek, polished — gave Choso long, lingering stares. It didn’t seem to faze him. His hand never left your back, his body never shifted away from yours.

Later in the evening, the lights dimmed slightly, and a stage was illuminated at the front of the room. A man in a crisp navy suit stepped up to the microphone, smiling broadly. “Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for joining us tonight as we celebrate not only a promotion in the ranks but a new era for one of our brightest athletes.” There was polite applause, the crowd turning toward the stage. “Please join me in congratulating Choso Kamo, who has officially moved up to the top five in his division!” More applause, louder this time. Choso squeezed your hand once before stepping away, moving toward the stage with that slow, heavy gait you recognized — not nerves, but controlled discomfort. He accepted the handshake, nodding once, face neutral, almost unreadable.

“But that’s not all,” the announcer continued, grinning. “We’re proud to announce Choso as the face of Gucci’s new alternative collection — a line that redefines classic elegance with an edge.” There was a ripple through the crowd — a low murmur of surprise and approval. Choso just stood there, hands in his pockets, letting it wash over him. You saw the way his shoulders tensed slightly, the way his jaw worked — this wasn’t what he wanted. He didn’t care about the fame. But he’d agreed, and now there was no backing out. He looked down at you then, his eyes finding yours in the crowd. You smiled — small but real — and nodded. I’m here. The tension in his shoulders eased just slightly.

After the announcement, people started to approach — congratulating Choso, shaking his hand, flashing too-white smiles. He was polite, but reserved, his hand never straying far from yours, and then — cutting through the crowd with the ease of someone used to owning every room he entered — came Satoru Gojo.

He was tall, strikingly handsome, with snowy white hair styled back from his face, sharp blue eyes gleaming with amusement. He wore a dark suit that fit his lean frame perfectly, a drink already in hand, a lazy grin curling at the corner of his mouth. “Choso,” he drawled, clapping him on the back like they were old friends — even though Choso barely flinched. “Congrats, man.” Choso gave him a nod — polite, curt.

Gojo’s gaze slid to you, and that lazy grin widened. “And you must be the famous [Name],” he said, voice low and smooth. You smiled politely, feeling the weight of Choso’s hand tighten ever so slightly at your back. Gojo didn’t seem to notice — or maybe he didn’t care. He leaned in a little closer, offering his hand. You took it, a polite, brief shake.

“You’re even prettier than they said,” Gojo murmured, blue eyes glinting. You flushed, pulling your hand back carefully, glancing at Choso. He was still — too still — the muscle in his jaw ticking. Gojo chuckled under his breath, clearly enjoying himself. “I don’t suppose I could steal you for a dance later,” he teased, flashing a grin. You opened your mouth — not sure if you should politely decline or laugh it off — but Choso’s hand moved, sliding fully around your waist, pulling you in until your hip bumped against his. “She’s with me,” Choso said, voice low and even, but there was a sharpness under it — a warning. Gojo lifted his hands in mock surrender, laughing.

“Of course, of course. Just appreciating beauty where I see it.” He winked at you — bold — and then turned away, disappearing back into the crowd. You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. Choso’s hand stayed firm around your waist, anchoring you. “You okay?” he murmured, his mouth close to your ear. You nodded, pressing your hand to his chest, feeling the steady thud of his heart under your palm. “I’m fine,” you whispered. “As long as you’re here.” Choso kissed your temple — a small, grounding press of his mouth to your skin — and didn’t let go.

You stood there with him, tucked safely against his side, both of you a little out of place in this world of glitter and polish — but together. And somehow, that was enough.

Neither of you noticed the photographers at first. The event was too big, too loud — all glittering lights and polished shoes and clinking glasses. You stayed close to Choso’s side, his hand resting low on your back, fingers brushing occasionally against the soft fabric of your dress as he moved, guiding you carefully through the sea of bodies. He hadn’t let go of you once, and somehow, in this room where you both didn’t quite fit, that steady touch grounded you.

The first flash caught in the corner of your eye — a quick strobe of light. You glanced over your shoulder to see a photographer lowering his camera, eyes already flicking toward another group.

You figured they weren’t focused on you and Choso — there were bigger names here, flashier people in designer gowns, dripping diamonds, and million-dollar smiles. But as the night wore on, you noticed it more. Every time Choso leaned in to murmur something to you — a small, private thing that made your lips quirk and your cheeks flush — a camera would click softly somewhere nearby. Every time his hand shifted along your waist, every time your fingers brushed lightly against his chest, another flash.

It wasn’t the typical Choso they were capturing — not the cold, rough fighter, not the man known for bruised knuckles and an even more bruised reputation. It was this Choso — the one who looked at you like the room didn’t exist, like you were the only person he could see. The one whose thumb brushed absent circles over the small of your back without even realizing it, who kissed your temple so gently it made your breath catch, who tilted his head closer when you laughed so softly no one else could hear it. It was a different kind of exposure — not violent, not staged.

Real.

When you finally slipped out of the venue, the air outside was cool and clean, the noise fading behind you. Choso’s hand stayed firm on your lower back as you stepped down the stone stairs, your heels clicking quietly against the pavement. The city lights were a blur around you — gold and silver and electric blue — but the world felt quieter now, just the two of you moving together through it. Neither of you spoke much on the drive home, the low hum of the engine and the city passing by outside the windows. Choso’s hand stayed wrapped around yours where it rested on your lap, thumb moving slowly over your knuckles, grounding both of you.

When you got home, you kicked off your shoes with a sigh, stepping into the soft, familiar warmth of the apartment. Choso hung his jacket carefully on the hook by the door, unbuttoning his shirt slowly, sleeves rolled back as he sat on the edge of the bed, looking — finally — like himself again. You were still tugging the pins from your hair when his phone buzzed once. Twice. A third time. Choso frowned, pulling it from his pocket. You watched as his eyes flicked over the screen — the slight narrowing of his gaze, the way his thumb hovered over the screen before he sighed and handed it to you.

“They’re already posting,” he said, voice low, almost resigned. You took the phone, scrolling slowly. Photo after photo — candid, intimate — of the two of you. Choso standing close behind you, head tilted down, your bodies almost brushing. Choso with his hand steady on your waist, a rare, soft smile ghosting over his mouth as he looked at you.

The one that caught your breath was simple — beautiful in a way that made your chest ache. Choso leaning down, brushing a kiss to your temple, while you smiled wide, cheeks flushed, your eyes crinkling at the corners. A moment so pure, so unscripted, it made your throat tighten. The comments were already flooding in:

“Choso Kamo? Soft? Who would’ve thought.” “He looks so in love.” “Bad boy turned soft for her.” “Never seen him smile like that.” “Guess even the coldest hearts find their person.”

You glanced at him, feeling the weight of it — how exposed it must feel, how dangerous it was for a man like him to be seen like this. Choso just sat there, elbows resting on his knees, staring at the floor. You handed the phone back carefully, your fingers brushing his. “It doesn’t have to mean anything,” you said softly. “You don’t owe anyone anything.” Choso stayed quiet for a moment, the tension rolling off him in slow waves. And then — surprising you — he unlocked his phone, scrolling back to that photo, the one of you smiling so big it nearly split your face, of him pressing a kiss to your temple like he couldn’t help himself. He stared at it for a long moment. Then, slowly, he tapped the share button. The caption was simple. Honest. Raw.

My reason to keep moving forward.

No hashtags. No tags. No flash. Just that.

He hit post and tossed the phone aside like it meant nothing — even though you could see the tight set of his shoulders, the slight flush creeping up his neck. You stepped closer, between his knees, your hands finding his face, cradling it. Choso leaned into your touch without hesitation, closing his eyes, breathing you in. “I’m proud of you,” you whispered, running your thumb gently over the sharp line of his jaw. He opened his eyes — dark and heavy with something you couldn’t name — and smiled. Not the hard, guarded smile the world usually saw.

Something real.

Something for you.

“'M not good at all this,” he said, voice low and rough. “You don’t have to be,” you said, smiling. “You just have to be you.” He pulled you in then, burying his face against your stomach, arms wrapped tightly around your waist, holding you there like you were the only thing keeping him tethered.

Choso’s arms tightened around your waist, his forehead pressing into the soft curve of your stomach. You slid your fingers gently through his messy hair, feeling the way he melted into the touch, how his body slowly uncoiled from the tension he’d been carrying all night. For a moment, the only sound in the room was the quiet, steady rhythm of his breathing against you. You felt it before he even moved — the shift in him, the way his hands smoothed up your back, slow and sure, pulling you closer. When he finally looked up, his dark eyes were heavy-lidded, but not with exhaustion — with want. Want that was different from what you’d seen before — not sharp or rough, not frantic. This was slow, this was patient.

“Come here,” he murmured, voice low and rough, hands sliding up to cradle your hips. You went willingly, climbing onto his lap, your knees bracketing his thighs as he leaned back slightly, his hands still on you, still grounding. Your dress pooled around you, cool and smooth against his skin. You leaned in, brushing your nose against his, and Choso tilted his head up, catching your mouth with his in a kiss that was slow and unhurried — all heat and soft, murmured need. His hands roamed your sides, your back, pulling you closer until you were flush against him, your chest pressed to his, feeling the steady thud of his heartbeat under your palm.

He kissed you like he had nowhere else to be, nothing else to do but worship you. His mouth was warm, patient, tongue sliding against yours in slow, deliberate strokes that made your toes curl. His hands slipped under the hem of your dress, palms gliding up the back of your thighs, slow and reverent. You shifted, reaching between you to tug his shirt up, baring the warm skin of his stomach and chest. He helped, lifting his arms, letting you strip it away, tossing it aside. You dragged your hands over his skin, over the hard lines of his chest, the ridges of his ribs, the soft dip of his waist. Choso caught your face in his hands, tilting it up, his thumbs brushing along your jaw. “So fuckin’ beautiful,” he murmured against your lips, voice thick with emotion.

You shivered, heart hammering against your ribs, and leaned into him, hands fumbling with the buttons of his pants. He kissed along your jaw, your throat, slow and deliberate, murmuring things between kisses — perfect, mine, need you. You shifted, rising onto your knees to push your dress up and over your head, tossing it aside without care. Choso’s hands slid along your sides, up to your back, fingers unfastening your bra with quiet, practiced ease. He pulled it away, tossing it aside, and just looked at you for a moment — bare and trembling in his lap.

“Gorgeous,” he whispered. You kissed him again — deep, slow — your hands moving to the waistband of his slacks, pushing them down. He helped, shifting to shove them off along with his boxers, leaving him bare beneath you, the heat of his body radiating between you. When you sank down onto him, the stretch was slow, delicious, and you gasped softly against his mouth. Choso groaned low in his throat, his hands finding your hips, holding you steady as you took him in inch by inch.

“Take your time, baby,” he murmured, voice rough, hands steady. You moved slow — so slow — rocking your hips gently, finding a rhythm that wasn’t rushed, wasn’t frantic. Choso met you with slow, deep thrusts, his hands gliding over your back, your hips, your thighs, his mouth trailing soft, open-mouthed kisses along your throat, your collarbone, your shoulder. He whispered against your skin, between kisses — soft, broken things that made your chest ache:

“You’re it for me.”

“So good, baby.”

“Could stay like this forever.”

Your hands slid up into his hair, tugging gently, and he groaned against your throat, his rhythm faltering for a heartbeat before he found it again — slow and deep, dragging against you in a way that had your whole body trembling. You clung to him, forehead pressed to his, your breath mixing with his, your bodies moving together in a slow, desperate rhythm. It wasn’t about chasing the high. It wasn’t about release. It was about being here — together — about the slow, steady ache of wanting and having, about the way he looked at you like you were the only thing in the world that mattered.

The heat built between you — slow and steady — until you were gasping, your body clenching around him, your nails digging into his shoulders. Choso groaned low, the sound vibrating against your skin, and thrust once, twice more before he followed you over the edge, hips stuttering, body tensing beneath you. You collapsed against him, chests heaving, his arms wrapping around you, holding you tight to him. For a long time, neither of you moved.

You stayed tangled together, your body draped over his, his hands running soothing circles along your back, your sides, the soft curve of your waist. He pressed a kiss to your temple — the same spot he’d kissed earlier, in front of all those flashing cameras — but this time it was softer, quieter, yours alone. “Stay,” he whispered again, barely a breath.

You smiled against his skin, pressing a kiss to his shoulder. “Always.” And for the first time in what felt like forever, Choso let himself believe it.

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averyjadedemerald · 43 minutes ago

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chapter five || protective - c. kamo

❛ ❜ Choso Kamo x f!reader (on going)

cw ; mdni • 18+ only. contains explicit sexual themes and content. use of alcohol. hurt/trauma. smut . anxiety.

Uploads every Tuesday

main masterlist | series masterlist | previous

Choso hadn’t said much on the drive to your parents’ house, but you could feel the weight of his silence sitting thick between you. His hand was resting on his thigh, tapping a slow, steady rhythm against the worn denim of his black jeans. You could tell he was trying to stay calm — jaw set, shoulders tense, eyes focused straight ahead.

You shifted in your seat, smoothing the long floral maxi dress over your lap. The soft fabric pooled around your thighs, catching the late spring sunlight that streamed through the windshield. You’d chosen the dress because it made you feel light, comfortable — but also because you knew it softened the tension in moments like this. Something about it made you feel steady, anchored. You hoped it did the same for Choso. You reached over, fingers brushing lightly against his hand before linking yours together.

He glanced at you, a small twitch of a smile pulling at his mouth. He squeezed your hand — not hard, not urgent — but steady, grounding. You smiled softly and squeezed back. When you pulled up to your building to pick up Yuuji, he was already waiting on the curb, pacing back and forth, checking his phone. He looked up when he heard the truck, breaking into a wide grin, pocketing his phone as he jogged over.

Yuuji was the opposite of Choso in every way — all easy smiles and open friendliness, where Choso was heavy, quiet, always thinking two steps ahead. He leaned in through the open window on your side, grinning wide. “You must be [Name]!” he said, voice bright and boyish. You laughed, already charmed by his energy, and climbed out to greet him.

“That’s me,” you said, shaking his hand. His grip was firm, overly enthusiastic, and he gave you a smile so genuine it was impossible not to like him immediately.

Choso came around the front of the truck, looming slightly behind you. Yuuji turned to him, grinning even wider.

“Chill, bro. I’m just saying hi,” Yuuji said, bumping Choso’s shoulder lightly. Choso shook his head, but the corner of his mouth lifted — not quite a smile, but something close. The drive to your parents’ house was filled with Yuuji’s easy chatter. He talked about his classes, about the coffee shop where he worked part-time, about how terrible Choso was at video games despite having years of experience. You laughed along with him, and every now and then, Choso would glance at you — small, soft looks that lingered just a second too long. You caught him once, and he didn’t look away.

When you pulled up to your childhood home — a simple, well-kept two-story with flowerbeds and a neat little porch — Choso sat for a second longer than usual, staring at the house, jaw tight. “You good?” you asked, voice low, meant only for him. He nodded once. “Yeah.” You reached for his hand again, giving it a reassuring squeeze before stepping out of the truck. Your mother was already at the door, smiling warmly. She pulled you into a hug first — tight and familiar, the smell of her perfume curling around you, grounding. Then she stepped back, her eyes flicking to Choso and Yuuji. She offered a hand to Choso first. “You must be Choso,” she said, her voice welcoming but sharp underneath — a woman who saw more than she said. Choso nodded, taking her hand carefully. “Yes, ma’am.”

“And this,” she said, turning to Yuuji, “must be the little brother.” Yuuji laughed, easy and open. “That’s me. Thanks for letting me crash.”

“Come in, come in,” she said, stepping aside to let you all pass into the familiar warmth of the house. The smell of roasted meat and spices filled the air — something rich and comforting, immediately easing some of the tightness in your chest.

Your father was waiting in the living room, standing by the window, arms crossed. He smiled at you first, but his eyes moved to Choso and Yuuji almost immediately — sizing them up, weighing them the way only a father could. Yuuji stuck out a hand immediately, grin wide. “Hi, sir. I’m Yuuji. Thanks for having me.” Your father shook his hand, nodding. “Nice to meet you, son.” Then his eyes shifted to Choso. Choso stepped forward, offering his hand.

“Sir.” Your father took it — not squeezing too hard, not making a show of it — but firm, steady. You watched their eyes lock, a silent conversation passing between them. Then your father nodded once, sharp and approving. “Come on in,” he said, stepping back.

Dinner was almost ready — your mother bustling between the kitchen and the dining room, setting out plates and platters, waving off your attempts to help with a laugh. “Sit, sit — you’re the guests.” Yuuji was quick to take a seat, chatting easily with your parents, telling stories that made your mother laugh and your father crack the occasional smile. He was easy to like — open, warm, the kind of boy who could fit in anywhere.

Choso, by contrast, was quiet — answering questions politely but offering little more. He sat straight-backed, hands resting loosely on his thighs, only speaking when spoken to. But when he spoke, it was with respect — complimenting your mother’s cooking, commenting quietly on the homey feel of the house, the photos on the walls.

Your brothers, Kaito and Haru, were already there, sitting across from you, flanking your father. They watched Choso carefully, like they were waiting for him to slip up. As dinner began, they tried to push him — subtle at first, then less so. “So,” Kaito said, leaning back in his chair, eyeing Choso over his glass. “How many guys have you knocked out this month?” Choso’s jaw ticked, but his voice stayed calm. “Enough.” Haru snorted. “Bet you get a lot of attention for it. Women must love that.” Choso didn’t flinch. He reached for his water, taking a slow sip before answering.

“I don’t fight for the attention.” His voice was quiet, but there was something final in it — a weight that shut down the conversation without raising it. You felt a small surge of pride, squeezing his knee gently under the table. Your mother smiled softly at Choso then — a real smile — and he nodded his thanks, returning to his plate.

After dinner, as your mother cleared plates and Yuuji offered to help, your father gestured for Choso to follow him out to the back porch. You sat stiffly in your chair, hands tight in your lap, watching them disappear through the screen door. Outside, the evening had cooled slightly, the sun dipping low on the horizon, painting the sky in muted pinks and golds. Your father pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, offering one to Choso. Choso shook his head. “No, thank you.”

Your father lit one for himself, inhaling slowly, exhaling the smoke in a thin stream. “I wasn’t always the man you see now,” your father said, voice low. “Before [Name] was born, I ran with a group. Yakuza.” Choso didn’t react — no flicker of surprise, no tension — just a small, slow nod of understanding. Your father glanced at him, studying his face.

“I see it in you,” he said. “The way you carry yourself. The weight. It never leaves, not really.” Choso shifted slightly, hands stuffed into the pockets of his jacket. “I don’t want it to define me,” he said, voice low. “But it’s a part of me.”

Your father nodded slowly, tapping ash from his cigarette. “Good. As long as you know it’s there, it won’t control you.”

They stood in silence for a moment, the sounds of the house — laughter, dishes clinking — faint behind them.

“She loves you,” your father said finally. “I see it.” Choso’s throat worked around a response he didn’t quite trust himself to give. “I’m not askin’ you to be perfect,” your father continued. “Just askin’ you to be good to her.” Choso nodded once, slow and deliberate. “Always.” Your father smiled then — a small, approving curve of his mouth.

“Good.”

Inside, Yuuji was still chatting with your brothers, laughing about something ridiculous, charming even your mother into soft chuckles. You caught Choso’s eye when he stepped back inside, and he gave you the smallest nod — a signal. It’s okay. You smiled back, heart loosening, and reached for his hand. He didn’t pull away.

Later, when the evening wound down and you said your goodbyes, Choso shook your mother’s hand carefully, thanking her for dinner. He even complimented her on the meal again, voice low but sincere, earning a soft smile in return. When he shook your father’s hand, it was different now — not just polite, but solid, like something unspoken had shifted between them.

Your brothers still watched him, but there was less edge to it now — more wary respect than hostility. Yuuji, grinning like he’d had the best night ever, clapped Choso on the back so hard he almost stumbled. As you walked to the truck, your hand still tangled in Choso’s, he didn’t say much — but you could feel it in the way his thumb brushed over your knuckles, the way he glanced at you, soft and unguarded in the low porchlight. This was something he hadn’t had before. Not just your love — but family. Acceptance. And for Choso, that was everything.

•••

The drive back was quieter. Yuuji sat in the back seat, still riding high on the energy of the night — talking about the food, your mother’s cooking, how intense your father had been but how cool it was that Choso hadn’t flinched once. You listened, smiling quietly, feeling Choso’s hand resting on your thigh, light but constant. He hadn’t let go of you since you left the house. It was a small thing, that steady touch, but it told you everything you needed to know. He was still carrying the night in his chest — the weight of it, the heaviness of having to prove himself — but the way he touched you was different now. Lighter. Like he could finally breathe a little easier.

When you pulled up to Yuuji’s apartment, he leaned forward between the seats, grinning wide.

“Thanks for letting me tag along,” he said. “Your family’s great.”

“They liked you,” you said, laughing softly. Choso shot him a dry look. “You don’t have to charm everyone you meet.”

“Yeah, but it’s more fun that way,” Yuuji said, laughing as he popped the door open. “See you guys later.” He gave you a quick wave, tossed a grin at Choso, and disappeared inside, the door closing behind him. The truck was quiet now, the only sound the faint hum of the engine and the occasional creak of the leather seats. You sat for a moment, fingers tracing idle patterns along the seam of your dress. Choso didn’t rush you, didn’t press. He just waited — patient, steady, like always. You turned slightly, looking at him.

“Do you…” you started, then paused, heart thudding. You tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, trying to keep your voice light, casual. “Do you wanna stay over?” Choso’s dark eyes flicked to yours, steady and unreadable. You felt the words hang in the air between you — stay over— and all the quiet, aching things you didn’t say out loud. How much you wanted to be close to him, how much you didn’t want the night to end, how much you trusted him to be gentle even with the heavy things you were carrying. You didn’t want to come off too strong. You didn’t want him to think it was only about one thing. It wasn’t. It never had been. It was about him.

Choso didn’t say anything for a second, just kept looking at you — slow, careful, like he was turning the words over in his mind, weighing them. And then — finally — he nodded. “Yeah,” he said, voice low and sure. “I wanna stay.” Relief flooded you, soft and warm, and you smiled, small but real. The drive back to your apartment was short, and quiet in a different way now — charged, expectant. When you pulled into the lot, Choso cut the engine, and you both climbed out without speaking. He stayed close as you walked up the stairs, his hand brushing lightly against the small of your back as you unlocked the door.

Inside, the apartment was dim and quiet, lit only by the soft glow of the lamp by the couch. You toed off your shoes, glancing at him over your shoulder. “I’m gonna shower,” you said, voice soft. “You can after, if you want.” He nodded, still watching you with that heavy, unreadable gaze. You disappeared into the bathroom, the door clicking shut behind you, and turned on the water. The steam rose quickly, filling the small space, fogging the mirror. You peeled off your dress, folding it carefully, stepping under the hot spray with a quiet sigh.

You washed slowly, giving yourself time to settle the jittery nerves crawling under your skin, letting the heat ease the tension out of your muscles. When you finished, you wrapped yourself in a towel, twisting your hair up into a loose knot, and padded barefoot back into the bedroom. Choso was sitting on the edge of the bed, his jacket discarded, leaving him in just the white t-shirt and black jeans. He looked up when you entered, and something in his face softened — something quiet and warm and a little awed.

You smiled, shy but steady, and grabbed a pair of sleep shorts and an oversized t-shirt from your dresser, disappearing again to change. When you came back out, Choso was still sitting there, patient and quiet.

“Your turn,” you said softly, nodding toward the bathroom. He stood, brushing past you, and you caught the faint scent of his cologne as he moved — something clean, sharp, warm. You sat on the edge of the bed where he’d been, fingers twisting in the hem of your t-shirt as you listened to the sound of the water start, the faint creak of the pipes.

You didn’t know what this night would be — didn’t know how close either of you were ready to be yet — but you knew you wanted him here. You knew you wanted him close.

When Choso came back, hair damp, wearing clean sweats and a black t-shirt that clung to the lines of his chest and arms, he moved carefully, sitting down beside you, the mattress dipping under his weight. For a moment, you just sat there, shoulders brushing. And then — slowly — you shifted, moving to straddle his lap, your knees bracketing his hips.

Choso froze — not in fear, but in that way he always did when he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to want something.

You cupped his face lightly in your hands, your thumbs brushing over the sharp planes of his cheekbones. He didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just watched you — quiet and heavy and waiting.

You leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to his cheek. His skin was warm, still slightly damp from the shower, smelling faintly of soap and something clean, something him. You kissed his jaw next — a slow, lingering press of your mouth to the rough line of stubble there — then lower, along the column of his neck, where his pulse beat steady under the skin.

Choso’s hands — large and warm — settled lightly on your hips, not gripping, not pulling, just there, steady and sure.

You pressed another kiss to the curve of his throat, feeling the shiver that ran through him. When you pulled back slightly to look at him, his eyes were darker, softer — heavy-lidded and patient.

“You okay?” you whispered, hands still cradling his jaw. He nodded, the smallest movement, his hands tightening just slightly on your hips. “Yeah,” he said, voice low and rough. “I’m okay.” You smiled — slow and sure — and leaned in again, brushing your nose lightly against his, breathing him in. You didn’t need to rush. You had time. Choso sat there, solid and warm under you, letting you kiss him slow, letting you guide the moment, his hands a steady, grounding weight on your body.

The room stayed quiet, thick with the kind of tension that wasn’t rushed, wasn’t urgent — just slow, simmering, heavy in the best way. You stayed straddled on Choso’s lap, his hands a steady weight on your hips, his eyes half-lidded and dark, watching you like you were something precious. His breathing was slow, controlled, but you could feel the tension under his skin, the way his fingers flexed every so often, like he was barely keeping himself in check. You leaned in again, kissing him slow — the kind of kiss that had your whole body warming, soft and open. Choso kissed you back just as slowly, his mouth moving against yours like he was trying to memorize it, like he wasn’t in any rush to get anywhere except here, with you. When you pulled back, just slightly, Choso tilted his head back against the headboard, studying you.

“You trust me?” he asked, voice low, rough, but steady. You nodded, fingers brushing lightly over his shoulders. “Yeah.” He held your gaze for a long moment, searching your face, your eyes, for something. Then, voice even softer, he said, “Let me taste you.” Your breath hitched, heat blooming fast and low in your belly. Choso’s hands tightened a little more on your hips, not forcing, just grounding.

“I want you to sit on my face,” he murmured, voice a little rougher now. “Wanna feel all of you.” Your whole body flushed — heat creeping up your throat, over your cheeks, the vulnerability of it pressing in on all sides. You bit your lip, dropping your gaze, fingers fisting in the hem of your t-shirt. “I…” You hesitated, throat tight. “I’m… I’m not small.”

You felt him go still for a second.

Then — slow, patient — one hand lifted, rough fingers brushing your jaw, tilting your face up gently so you had no choice but to look at him. Choso’s eyes were steady — dark, intense, but not sharp. Soft. Certain. “I don’t give a fuck about that,” he said, voice low but firm. “You hear me?” You swallowed hard, heart hammering against your ribs.

“You’re beautiful,” he said, softer now, his thumb brushing lightly over your lower lip. “I want all of you. All of you.”

Your throat worked around a breath you didn’t realize you were holding.

Still, the hesitation stayed there, caught between the part of you that wanted to believe him and the part that had been trained — by mirrors, by strangers, by yourself — to doubt. Choso saw it, and instead of pushing, instead of demanding, he leaned forward, resting his forehead against yours, his voice dropping even lower, almost a whisper.

“Let me show you.” You let out a shaky breath, nodding — small, but real. Choso smiled then — small, almost hidden, but real — and shifted, guiding you gently as he lied back against the pillows, his hands sliding from your hips to your thighs, slow and reverent. He helped you move, helped you settle over him — careful, patient, never rushing. You braced yourself with your hands on the headboard, hovering slightly, your heart thundering in your chest. Choso’s hands squeezed your thighs, grounding you. “Don’t hold back,” he murmured, eyes dark and steady. “Want to feel you. All of you.”

You hesitated a second longer, the vulnerability of it — of being seen like this — sitting heavy in your chest. But then you looked down at him. At the way he was looking at you — not with judgment, not with impatience — but with hunger, with adoration, with the kind of want that made your knees weak. You exhaled slowly and lowered yourself, trembling slightly. The first brush of his mouth against you made your whole body jolt — a low, soft groan leaving his throat as his hands tightened on your thighs, holding you steady, pulling you closer. Choso didn’t hesitate. He licked a slow, heavy stripe up the center of you, groaning like he hadn’t eaten in days, like this — you — were the only thing he wanted.

Your fingers dug into the headboard as he worked, slow and methodical, tongue dragging deliberate, languid strokes that had your thighs trembling in no time. He moaned low against you, the sound vibrating straight through your core, his hands squeezing, kneading, encouraging you to relax, to sink down on him, to give him what he wanted. You tried to stay lifted, tried to hold yourself up — some lingering fear, some last scrap of self-consciousness — but Choso felt it, and he growled low in his chest, pulling you down more firmly.

“Don’t,” he rasped against you, voice wrecked. “Don’t hold back. Want all of you.” You whimpered, your thighs burning from the effort, but slowly — tentatively — you let yourself go, sinking fully against his mouth. Choso groaned — a deep, guttural sound — and you felt his grip tighten, his mouth working more eagerly now, tongue moving with devastating precision, like he needed it, like he needed you. The shame melted away under his hands, his mouth — under the sheer want radiating off of him. You weren’t too much. You were enough — more than enough — exactly the way you were. Choso ate you like he wanted to worship you, like he was worshipping you, and when you looked down at him — hair messy, dark eyes blown wide, his face slick and greedy with it — all you could see was how much he wanted you.

The room was thick with it — the heat of your bodies, the slow, simmering need that had nowhere else to go but into each other. You were still trembling when you climbed off of him, skin flushed, heart hammering against your ribs like it didn’t know how to settle. Choso sat up slowly, his hair a mess, his mouth slick and red, his dark eyes heavy-lidded but clear, focused on you. He reached for you without hesitation — hands gentle on your waist, drawing you down, settling you carefully in his lap. His touch was steady, patient, grounding you when everything inside felt like it might float away. You stayed there for a moment, catching your breath, your forehead resting lightly against his. Choso’s hands ran up and down your sides in slow, soothing strokes, his touch careful like he was feeling you into calmness.

"You okay?" he murmured, his voice low and rough at the edges, but threaded with something tender — something only you ever got to hear from him. You nodded, still a little breathless, but you found his gaze, letting him see the answer in your eyes. "Yeah." His thumb brushed against the bare skin just under the hem of your shirt, patient, asking without words. When you didn’t pull away, he moved — slow, careful — lifting the fabric inch by inch. He gave you every second to stop him, to change your mind, but you didn’t. You raised your arms, letting him pull the shirt over your head, baring you to the soft, forgiving light of the bedroom.

For a heartbeat, you were still — heart pounding, skin prickling under the weight of being seen. But Choso didn’t stare.

He looked at you — slow, steady — like he was drinking you in, like he couldn’t believe you were real. His hands found your waist again, sliding up over the soft swell of your belly, the dip of your waist, the curve of your ribcage.

"Beautiful," he murmured, voice low and reverent — like the word itself wasn’t enough but was all he could manage.

You flushed hot, but didn’t look away. His hands skimmed up to your bra, fingers pausing against the thin straps.

"Can I?" You nodded, throat too tight to speak. He worked the clasp carefully, like he was unwrapping something delicate, something sacred. When it came free, he let it fall between you, his hands smoothing up, cupping your breasts with the same slow care, thumbs brushing lightly over your nipples, watching the way your breath caught, the way you arched into him without even meaning to.

You reached for him too — fingers catching the hem of his t-shirt, tugging it up — and he lifted his arms to help you, tossing it aside. Your hands roamed over his chest, the strong, scarred lines of him. He was solid and warm under your palms, his skin heated from the shower and the slow burn of tension he carried like a second skin. He leaned in then, brushing his mouth over yours in a kiss that was softer than you expected — slow, unhurried, careful. His hands slid down, gripping the backs of your thighs, and he shifted, guiding you back onto the bed, settling between your legs with a care that made your throat tighten.

Choso kissed you like he had all the time in the world — slow, open-mouthed, lingering, his tongue brushing yours in lazy strokes. His hands were everywhere but not greedy — mapping, memorizing, anchoring himself in the feel of you.

When he finally pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours again, breathing heavy but steady. "You tell me if you want me to stop," he murmured. "I won’t," you whispered, fingers tracing the line of his jaw. Choso kissed your temple, your cheek, your throat — slow, savoring.

He pressed a kiss to your hip, another to your belly, another just above the place where your thighs met, every movement deliberate, reverent. You shifted under him, trembling, and he caught your eye again, waiting, giving you a chance to pull away. When you didn’t, he tugged your underwear down too, tossing them aside, leaving you bare under his gaze. He kissed his way back up your body — thighs, hips, ribs — until he was hovering over you again, his weight supported on his forearms, keeping himself from pressing you down. You reached for him, pulling at the waistband of his sweats, and he went easily, shedding the last barrier between you.

When he settled over you again, skin to skin, it was like falling into something warm, something real — the heat of him, the solid, steady weight, the soft rasp of his breath against your skin. He nudged at your entrance, slow and careful, giving you every second to pull away — but you didn’t. You shifted your hips, inviting, and Choso groaned low in his throat, a sound that vibrated through both of you.

The first push was slow, patient — stretching, filling — and you gasped, your fingers digging into his shoulders. He stilled immediately, brushing his mouth over your cheek, your jaw, whispering things you could barely hear — You’re doing so good. Feels so good. Just breathe.

He didn’t move at first. Choso stayed perfectly still, deep inside you, his body trembling with restraint as he cradled your face between his rough palms. His forehead rested against yours, and you could feel his breath — hot and ragged — fanning across your lips. His thumb traced slow, grounding circles over the soft skin of your cheek, as if he was reminding you that you were here, that he was here.

He waited — patient, steady — letting you adjust, letting you take your time, never rushing, never pushing. He was still careful with you, even now, even with every muscle in his body drawn tight from the effort of holding back, and you needed that — needed the slowness, the gentleness, the way he didn’t try to take more than you were ready to give. Your hands slid up his arms, over the thick cords of muscle there, clutching at his shoulders as you breathed him in. His scent, warm and clean, mingled with the faint trace of sweat between you, wrapping around you, anchoring you.

You shifted slightly beneath him, the stretch easing as your body began to open up, to give to him. You swallowed, your throat tight with emotion, and gave him the smallest nod, breathless and sure. Choso felt it — the permission — and let out a low, shuddering breath. He moved then, withdrawing slowly, inch by careful inch, before rolling his hips back into you in a long, deep thrust that had you gasping, your nails digging instinctively into his skin. His movements were slow, achingly deliberate — like he wasn’t just fucking you, but learning you, memorizing every gasp, every soft whimper, every subtle arch of your back. His forehead stayed pressed to yours, noses brushing, breaths mingling, his eyes half-lidded but locked on yours, like he couldn’t bear to look away.

His hands never stopped moving — cradling your face, sliding down to your hips, holding you steady, grounding you when the sensations threatened to overwhelm. His thumbs traced soothing, reverent circles into the soft flesh of your thighs, squeezing gently when he pushed deeper, coaxing you to relax even more, to trust him even more. He moved like he had nowhere else to be but here — no one else he wanted to see but you. Like the whole world had narrowed down to this: the slow, steady joining of bodies and the quiet, desperate way he touched you like he was afraid you’d slip away if he didn’t hold you tight enough.

Every stroke was a vow — slow, deep, measured — building something warm and heavy between you, something so thick with feeling it was almost suffocating. He kissed you as he moved, soft and unhurried — kisses to your jaw, your cheeks, the corner of your mouth, your temple — his lips whispering affection into your skin without needing to speak it aloud.

The tension coiled low in your belly, slow and insistent, winding tighter and tighter with every careful thrust. It wasn’t sharp, wasn’t frantic — it was a slow burn, a steady climb that felt as inevitable as breathing, and when release finally came, it wasn’t a crashing, violent thing — it was a rolling wave, slow and consuming, stealing the air from your lungs, leaving you trembling under him, clutching at his shoulders like he was the only thing keeping you anchored to the earth. You cried out softly, the sound muffled against his throat as he pressed his mouth there, groaning low, the vibration sinking into your skin.

Choso followed you over the edge moments later, his rhythm faltering, hips stuttering as he drove into you one last time, deep and sure. His whole body tensed, his breath catching sharply, and he gasped your name — raw, reverent — like a prayer, like a confession. For a long time, neither of you moved. You stayed tangled together, chests heaving, skin slick and flushed with the aftermath. The room was filled with the soft sounds of your breathing, the faint creak of the bed under your weight, the rapid, uneven beating of two hearts slowly finding their rhythm again.

Choso shifted after a while, careful not to crush you with his weight. He slid to the side, still close, one hand cupping your face, the other tracing slow, aimless patterns across your hip and stomach — grounding you, soothing you.

He didn’t pull away. Instead, he leaned in, brushing his lips over your forehead, your cheeks, the curve of your mouth — soft, sweet kisses with no urgency, no demand — just pure, quiet want.

You turned your face into his touch, eyes slipping closed, heart still racing but slower now, steadier.

He pressed his nose to your temple, breathing you in, his voice a low murmur against your skin.

"Stay with me," he whispered. It wasn’t a question. It wasn’t even a plea. It was something deeper — a need laid bare, the words stripped of all his usual armor. You smiled, breathless and aching, your hand sliding up to cup his jaw, your thumb brushing over the faint stubble there.

"Always," you whispered back.

He closed his eyes, exhaling slow and deep, and pulled you closer, your bodies fitting together like puzzle pieces, like something inevitable, and for the first time in a long time — for both of you — there was no fear, no doubt.

Just this.

Just you.

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averyjadedemerald · 1 hour ago

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chapter four || blow ups - c. kamo

❛ ❜ Choso Kamo x f!reader (on going)

cw ; mdni • 18+ only. contains explicit sexual themes and content. use of alcohol. hurt/trauma. smut . anxiety.

Uploads every Tuesday

main masterlist | series masterlist | previous

Dinner was easy in a way that surprised him. It shouldn’t have been. Choso wasn’t used to easy. He was used to long silences that felt sharp instead of comfortable, to conversations where people waited for him to say the wrong thing, to the quiet judgment that came with the scars on his knuckles and the bruises that never really healed. But here — in your small, warm apartment with the smell of garlic and tomatoes lingering in the air, with the soft light of the old lamp casting a glow over your hair — it felt different.

He ate slowly, more for the company than the food, watching the way you talked with your hands, the way your laugh curled at the edges when you told stories about bakery disasters — dough that didn’t rise, burnt croissants, the one time you locked yourself in the walk-in freezer for an hour before your brother found you. Choso didn’t say much. He didn’t have to. You filled the space without crowding it, and every so often, when you laughed a little too hard or smiled a little too big, he caught himself smiling too.

After dinner, you carried the plates to the sink, and Choso followed you, leaning his hip against the counter as you rinsed them, the water running quietly between you. "You know," you said, glancing up at him with a small smile, "you're allowed to relax." He snorted softly. "Don't know how." You bumped his arm with your shoulder, teasing but gentle. "You're learning." He watched you for a moment longer, heart heavy in a way that had nothing to do with exhaustion and everything to do with the way you looked at him — like you saw him. Like you weren't trying to fix him or change him or run from the sharp edges. You just saw him, and somehow, you still stayed.

He opened his mouth to say something — he wasn’t even sure what — when his phone buzzed on the counter. Choso frowned, leaning over to check the screen. His manager’s name flashed across the display: Kenji. He let it buzz once. Twice. You glanced at him, a question in your eyes, but didn’t push. With a grunt, Choso picked it up and answered, pressing it to his ear.

“Yeah.”

Your back was to him now as you wiped down the counter, pretending not to listen, but he could feel the way the air shifted around you — quieter, more alert. Choso’s face hardened as he listened, jaw tightening. “No,” he said sharply. “I already told you — not interested.” There was a pause — Kenji’s voice, fast and insistent, bleeding through the small apartment. Choso’s fingers drummed against the counter, the tight, agitated rhythm giving away more than his voice did.

“You gotta be kidding me,” he muttered, turning away from you, pacing a few steps toward the window like he could outwalk the conversation. Kenji kept talking — louder, more aggressive — and Choso’s shoulders tensed, the muscles under his hoodie bunching tight. “What the fuck does Gucci need me for?” he snapped, his voice rising, sharp in the quiet of the apartment. “I’m not a model. I’m not some pretty face they can slap on a billboard.” You stopped wiping the counter, watching him now, still and careful. Another pause. Another insistent argument through the phone.

Choso raked a hand through his hair, the tie snapping loose, strands falling around his face in a messy halo.

“They don’t give a shit about me,” he said, voice rough. “They don’t care who I am. They just want a look. A story.”

He paced, breathing harder now, phone still pressed tight to his ear. “I said no. What part of no—”

He broke off, jaw tight, listening to whatever Kenji was saying on the other end. His hand dropped to his side, clenching into a fist, the other scrubbing hard over his face. When he spoke again, his voice was lower, but no less bitter. “It’s in the contract,” he muttered. “Of course it is.”

He hung up then, without a word, the phone hitting the counter with a dull, angry thud. He stood there, breathing hard, back tense, the weight of the world pressing down on his shoulders. His fists were clenched at his sides, and for a long moment, he didn’t move. You could feel the anger radiating off him — not the reckless, dangerous kind. The kind that came from helplessness. From being trapped, and even though your chest tightened, even though every instinct told you to tread carefully, you didn’t flinch.

You crossed the room quietly, your socks silent on the wood floor, and stopped just behind him. You didn’t speak. You didn’t ask. You just wrapped your arms around his waist, pressing your cheek lightly to his back, and held him.

Choso stood there, breathing slow and ragged, your arms wrapped tight around his waist, your body pressed gently to his back. The fight had drained out of him — not all at once, not dramatically — but in pieces. The sharp edges dulled, the anger softened, the weight of everything he carried shifting just enough that he could feel the warmth of you behind him. He didn’t move for a long time, his hands resting heavy over yours, his fingers brushing absently across your knuckles like he didn’t know what else to do with them, like he was afraid to break the moment by holding on too tight.

The apartment was quiet except for the sound of his breathing, yours quieter still, the slow thud of your hearts filling up the small space. Outside, the city moved on — cars in the distance, the occasional echo of voices on the street — but up here, it was just you and him, suspended in something that felt fragile but real. You didn’t speak, didn’t press him to turn around, to look at you. You just stayed, steady and sure, your arms tightening slightly around him every time his breathing hitched, every time his muscles tensed like he might pull away. You wanted him to know he didn’t have to. That he could stay. That it was safe here.

It took a while — longer than you thought it might — but slowly, slowly, Choso shifted. He lifted one of your hands from his stomach, his fingers lacing through yours with a care so unfamiliar, so clumsy and deliberate, it made your chest ache. He turned, slow and heavy, and you let your arms fall back, giving him space. When he faced you, he was close enough that you could feel the heat radiating off his skin, smell the clean soap clinging to his hoodie, the faint coppery scent of the gym still lingering underneath. His hair was messy, falling loose around his face, strands brushing his cheekbones. His dark eyes — so often hooded and guarded — were open now, raw and vulnerable in a way that made your breath catch.

Choso didn’t speak. He just stood there, staring at you like he wasn’t sure if you were real. His gaze dropped, slowly, dragging over your face — the curve of your mouth, the soft flush still high on your cheeks, the loose, messy fall of your hair. His jaw worked, a muscle ticking, like there were words caught somewhere between his ribs that he didn’t know how to free. You didn’t rush him.

You stood there, open and waiting, your hands loosely folded in front of you, giving him the choice to reach, to stay, to leave — whatever he needed, and maybe it was that — the not asking, the not pushing — that finally broke through.

Choso stepped closer, slow and heavy, the toes of his boots brushing yours. His hand lifted, hesitant, pausing halfway like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to touch you. You met him halfway, tilting your chin up, letting your gaze hold his, steady and soft. He touched your cheek, finally, the backs of his fingers rough against your skin. Not a caress — just a touch, like he needed to make sure you were real, that you weren’t going to dissolve if he pressed too hard. His thumb brushed the corner of your mouth, feather-light, and you leaned into it, just slightly, a soft breath escaping you.

“You’re not scared of me,” he said, voice low and rough, the words heavy with disbelief and something that sounded almost like awe. You shook your head slowly, the movement brushing your cheek against his hand. “No.” His thumb traced the line of your jaw, slow, in awe. “I should scare you,” he said, even softer, like he hated admitting it.

“You don’t,” you whispered, and you saw the way his throat worked, the way his hand trembled just slightly against your skin. Choso lowered his head, the tip of his nose brushing yours, and you felt the breath he exhaled — shaky, uneven — fan across your lips. He didn’t kiss you right away. He just breathed you in, his forehead pressing lightly to yours, his hand moving to cup your jaw fully now, rough palm cradling you like you were something breakable. His other hand hovered at your waist, fingers twitching like he wanted to pull you closer but didn’t dare. You could have closed the distance. Could have leaned up on your toes and pressed your mouth to his, simple and easy.

But you waited.

You let him choose.

And he did.

Slow, careful, like he was afraid he’d ruin it if he moved too fast, Choso closed the last inch between you, his mouth brushing yours in a kiss that was more breath than contact at first. A hesitation. A question. You answered by tilting your chin up, pressing just a little closer, your fingers finding the hem of his hoodie, clutching lightly. The kiss deepened slowly — not frantic, not demanding — but steady, building in quiet layers. His lips were soft, warm, a little chapped, moving against yours like he was learning you in pieces, savoring the way you fit against him. When he finally pulled back, it was only by a breath, his forehead still resting against yours. “You’re too good for me,” he murmured, the words so raw they almost didn’t sound like him. You smiled, small and sure, fingers curling tighter into the fabric of his hoodie. “You’re wrong,” you whispered. He exhaled shakily, his thumb stroking slow circles against your jaw. For a moment, neither of you moved, and even though there was still a heaviness in his shoulders, still a sadness in the way he held you — it wasn’t hopeless.

It was something quieter. Something that felt a lot like hope. You stood there together in the quiet, in the soft lamplight, in the stillness of a world you’d made just for each other — a world that, for once, he didn’t feel the need to fight against. For the first time in a long, long time, Choso thought maybe he didn’t have to be afraid of being seen.

Not when it was you doing the looking.

The night of the fight, your hands wouldn’t stop shaking. You stood in the line winding around the side of the old arena, the low buzz of voices, the smell of cheap food and sweat filling the air. The crowd was restless — buzzing with anticipation, thick with the kind of energy that made your skin crawl. Men in leather jackets and steel-toed boots, women with loud laughs and sharper smiles. It wasn’t your world. Not even close.

But you were here anyway. For him.

Inside, the arena was even worse — too loud, too bright, the sharp metallic tang of blood and old adrenaline saturating the air. You found your seat toward the front — not too close, but close enough that you could see the cage, the gleaming metal bars catching the harsh overhead lights. You sat, hands tight in your lap, heart hammering against your ribs. Choso was already in the ring. He stood in one corner, shoulders loose, head down, hoodie half-zipped, hands taped tight. His team fussed around him — shouting last-minute instructions, slapping his back — but he barely reacted. He stood still, heavy and coiled like a spring, his dark hair tied back, face blank. Not the Choso you knew.

No — this was someone else. Someone harder. Sharper.

The announcer’s voice echoed through the speakers, the crowd roaring in response, but it all blurred together for you.

When Choso stepped forward, shrugging out of his hoodie, the tattoos on his arms gleamed under the lights, black and brutal. His body was a map of old scars and new bruises, and even from where you sat, you could see how tight his jaw was, how hard his eyes had gone. You barely breathed as the fight started.

It was fast — brutal — a blur of fists and elbows, bodies colliding against the cage. Choso was a machine, all sharp edges and ruthless precision. He moved like he was built for this — like violence lived under his skin, coiled tight and waiting. You flinched every time his fist connected — sharp, wet impacts that echoed across the arena. His opponent was fast, good, but Choso was better — relentless, grinding him down with every blow, every ruthless advance. There was no mercy in it. No hesitation. Just Choso, cold and brutal, doing what he had to do.

It didn’t take long. The final blow was vicious — a sharp left hook that sent the other man crumpling to the mat, blood splattering across the canvas. The crowd roared. You stayed frozen, breath caught somewhere between your chest and throat. Choso stood over his opponent for a beat longer, chest heaving, face still blank. Then he stepped back, lifting his bruised fists mechanically when the ref grabbed his arm and declared him the winner. The announcer shouted, the crowd screamed, but Choso barely reacted. No smile. No raised fists. No celebration. Just that same blank stare.

You saw it then — clearer than you ever had before. He hated this. Even with the win, even with the cheers, Choso stood there like he couldn’t feel a thing. Like he was just a body in a cage, doing what he had to do to survive. Obligation. Not passion.

You sat frozen as he left the ring, his team swarming him — pats on the back, towels thrown over his shoulders. He moved through them like a ghost, not really seeing any of it. When his dark eyes found yours in the crowd, the smallest crack broke across his face — something soft and fleeting — and then it was gone.

You didn’t say much when you met him outside the arena. He was quiet, hoodie pulled low over his face, duffel slung over one shoulder. His hands were taped still, knuckles split and raw, dried blood crusted at the edges. He didn’t speak, and neither did you — just slid into the passenger seat of your car, slumping low. You drove back to the apartment in silence. When you got home, you unlocked the door, flipping on the lamp, letting the soft, warm light spill across the space. Choso stood in the doorway for a second, heavy and still, then toed off his boots and stepped inside.

“Go shower,” you said, voice soft but certain. He hesitated, jaw ticking — like he didn’t know how to accept something so small — and then nodded, disappearing down the hall to the bathroom. You moved around the apartment quietly while he was gone — fetching the small first aid kit from under the sink, filling a glass of water, pulling a clean towel from the closet. When Choso came back, hair damp and curling at the ends, fresh hoodie pulled over his broad shoulders, he looked... smaller, somehow. Calmer. But still distant, still too quiet. You sat on the couch, patting the spot next to you.

“Come here.” He hesitated again, then crossed the room slowly, sitting down with a grunt. His legs spread wide, shoulders hunched slightly, like he was trying to make himself smaller and failing. You reached for his hands, gently pulling one into your lap. His knuckles were bruised and raw, the skin split in places, crusted blood staining the tape. He watched you quietly as you peeled it away, careful not to pull too hard. You worked slowly, dabbing antiseptic against the cuts, smoothing bandages over the worst of them. Choso didn’t flinch. Didn’t even breathe hard. Just sat there, letting you take care of him like he didn’t know what to do with it. When you finished, you set the first aid kit aside and curled your fingers lightly around his wrist, thumb brushing over the thick pulse there.

He was still watching you — quiet, unreadable.

You took a deep breath, steadying yourself, and spoke — soft, but sure. “I hated watching that,” you admitted, voice low. “Not because you’re bad at it. You’re good — too good.” Choso’s mouth twitched, but he said nothing. “I hated it because I could see it in your face. You don’t love it.” You swallowed, thumb stroking slow, soothing circles against his skin. “You do it because you have to.” His jaw tightened, throat working around words he couldn’t seem to say.

“You fight because you feel like you don’t have a choice,” you said, softer now. “Because it’s the only thing the world’s ever let you be good at.” You shifted closer, your knee brushing his. “But that’s not all you are, Choso.”

His hand flexed under yours, rough fingers twitching like he wanted to grab you but wasn’t sure how. “You’re more than fists and fights and bruises. You’re more than what they want to make you into.” You let the words settle between you, your heart hammering in your chest. When he still didn’t speak, you moved carefully, sliding your hand up from his wrist, along the rough line of his forearm, until you reached his jaw. His eyes fluttered closed at the touch, a soft breath leaving him. “I have feelings for you,” you said, voice barely more than a whisper now. “I don’t care about the fights. I don’t care about the noise. I just... I care about you.”

His eyes opened, dark and shining, the weight of them settling heavy on you. Slowly, carefully, he turned his face into your palm, pressing a rough kiss to the center of it. You felt it like a brand — warm, aching, real. When he looked at you again, the hardness in his face had cracked wide open, and what you saw there made your chest ache — a softness he tried so hard to hide, a hunger for something he didn’t know how to ask for.

Choso didn’t say anything, he didn’t have to. He leaned forward, slow and deliberate, pressing his forehead to yours, his hand curling around the back of your neck, fingers threading through your hair, and you stayed like that — quiet, steady, together — as the world outside spun on without you.

The park was warm with the promise of spring. The grass was a deep, lush green, thick and soft underfoot, dotted with little patches of wildflowers that swayed in the gentle breeze. The air smelled clean — fresh-cut grass, distant lilacs, the faintest trace of earth still damp from the morning dew. The sun hung high in a clear blue sky, casting long, lazy shadows that danced over the paths and picnic blankets scattered across the open lawns.

You tugged the edges of your light, flowing maxi dress as you walked beside Choso, the hem brushing against your ankles, catching on the occasional blade of grass. It was the kind of dress that felt like spring itself — soft fabric in muted florals, fitted at the waist and loose around your hips, swishing with every step. Your hair was loose around your shoulders, catching the light, and your cheeks were already pink from the sun.

Choso walked next to you, quiet as usual, but different now. Softer. Calmer. He wore a plain white t-shirt that clung slightly to the strong lines of his chest and arms, the sleeves tight around his biceps, a pair of worn black jeans that sat low on his hips. His boots were scuffed, and his hair was loose today, falling in soft, messy strands around his face, brushing his jaw whenever the breeze picked up. You found a spot under a pecan tree — a little quieter, a little more private — and Choso dropped down onto the grass without hesitation, leaning back on his elbows, legs stretched out in front of him. You sank down beside him, tucking your legs under you, smoothing your dress as you sat.

For a while, you didn’t talk. You didn’t need to. You just sat there, letting the warmth of the afternoon settle into your bones, letting the soft sounds of the park — the distant laughter of kids, the occasional bark of a dog, the low hum of conversation — fill the space between you. Choso shifted slightly, one arm brushing against yours, and you turned to look at him. He was already watching you — not in the heavy, guarded way he had when you first met, but in that slow, steady way he did now, like he was memorizing the way the light played on your hair, the way your cheeks flushed pink, the way your dress pooled around you like you belonged there.

“Got something for you,” he said, voice low. You blinked, surprised, as he reached into the back pocket of his jeans and pulled out a small box — not flashy, not fancy, just simple black velvet. He turned it over in his palm once, like he was second-guessing himself, then held it out to you. You took it carefully, heart already racing. Inside, nestled against the dark velvet, was a delicate necklace — a single, small pearl on a fine gold chain, simple and elegant.

You stared at it, breath caught somewhere between your chest and your throat. “It’s not much,” Choso said, voice rougher now, like he was fighting the urge to pull back, to take it away before you could say anything. “But... made me think of you.”

You swallowed, the lump in your throat making it hard to breathe. “It’s beautiful,” you said softly, fingers brushing lightly over the pearl. Choso shifted, sitting up straighter, his knees brushing yours. He looked nervous — that quiet kind of nervous he always got when he was about to say something real. He reached out, took the necklace from the box, the chain glinting in the sunlight as he let it drape across his knuckles. “Turn around,” he said, voice quieter now.

You obeyed, lifting your hair away from your neck as he moved behind you. His fingers were warm and careful as he clasped the chain, letting the pearl rest just at the hollow of your throat. When you turned back to face him, his hand lingered for a moment, fingers brushing lightly against your skin. He sat back, hands resting on his thighs, and stared at you.

“Looks good on you,” he murmured. You smiled — wide and real, cheeks burning — and tucked the pearl lightly between your fingers, feeling the weight of it, small and perfect. Choso shifted again, like he was gathering himself, and then — finally — he spoke. “I been thinkin’ about this for a while,” he said, voice low but steady now. “About you. About us.” You blinked, heart pounding, but stayed quiet. “I don’t do this kinda thing,” he continued, frowning slightly, like he hated how clumsy the words felt in his mouth. “Never really saw the point before.” He looked at you then, and there was something in his eyes — something soft, something steady — that made your chest ache.

“But I don’t wanna keep actin’ like you’re just... someone I see sometimes. You’re more than that.” Your breath caught.

He shifted closer, his hand brushing lightly against your knee. “I want you to be my girlfriend,” he said, voice low but firm. “If you’ll have me.” You stared at him, heart thudding so hard you thought he might hear it. For a moment, you couldn’t speak — couldn’t even breathe, and then you smiled — big and blushing, eyes bright — and nodded. “Yes,” you whispered, voice thick with emotion. “I’d love to.”

Something in Choso’s face cracked wide open at your words — a slow, soft smile breaking across his mouth, small but real, the kind of smile you’d only ever seen on him when he was truly at peace. You pulled your phone out, grinning as you leaned into him, lifting it up for a selfie. Choso shifted closer without hesitation, one arm slinging loosely around your waist, his hand resting lightly on your hip. You snapped the photo — you with your wide, bright smile, cheeks flushed pink, hair tumbling over your shoulders, the delicate pearl at your throat catching the light — and Choso beside you, leaning in close, a soft, rare smile on his face, his dark eyes warm.

You stared at the photo for a moment after, heart full. It wasn’t perfect — the light was a little too harsh, the breeze caught a few strands of your hair across your face — but it didn’t matter. It was real. You turned to him, sliding your phone into your lap, and leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to his cheek, just at the corner of his mouth. Choso turned his head slightly, catching your eyes, and for a moment, neither of you moved. You didn’t have to. The world kept spinning, the sun kept shining, but for you — for him — it was enough just to be. Here. Together.

After a while, the buzz of the park faded into the background — the laughter of children chasing soccer balls, the distant bark of a dog, the quiet hum of conversations drifting on the breeze. You shifted, tugging gently on Choso’s hand, and he followed you down without protest, both of you sprawling back onto the grass. The sun was warm overhead, filtering through the leaves above, casting dappled shadows across your skin and the light fabric of your dress. Choso lied beside you, one hand tucked under his head, the other tangled loosely with yours, his thumb brushing slow, lazy circles against your palm. His white t-shirt stretched taut across his chest, the cotton thin enough that you could see the faint outlines of old scars and muscle underneath. He looked more at ease here than he ever did anywhere else — the tension gone from his shoulders, the sharp lines of his face softened by the way he watched the sky. You turned your head to look at him, chin tilted slightly.

“What are you thinking about?” you asked, voice low, carrying easily in the quiet. Choso huffed a breath — not a laugh, but close — and turned his head to meet your gaze. “You,” he said simply. You smiled, shy but sure, the kind of smile you didn’t have to hide with him anymore. He stared at you for a moment longer, dark eyes steady, and then his thumb brushed higher, skimming the delicate chain of the necklace he’d given you, the pearl catching the sunlight.

“You’re good for me,” he said, voice rough, almost like it hurt him to admit it. You squeezed his hand, your thumb brushing over the back of his knuckles where the bruises were already beginning to darken. “You’re good for me too,” you murmured. You lied there a while longer, hands tangled, the quiet wrapping around you like something sacred, something real.

It was perfect.

Until your phone buzzed.

You startled slightly, blinking as you fished it out of the folds of your dress. Choso watched you, curious but unconcerned, as you squinted at the screen.

Dad.

Your heart skipped — not in fear, but that strange, familiar flutter of oh no, what does he know?. You bit your lip, glancing at Choso, and sat up, brushing grass from your dress as you answered. “Hey, Dad.” Choso stayed lying back in the grass, one hand behind his head, but his eyes flicked to you, sharp and attentive now. “Hey, sweetheart,” your father’s voice came through, warm but firm. “What are you up to?” You smiled, glancing down at Choso. “I’m at the park.” There was a pause — not long, but long enough to make your stomach tighten.

“Your brothers came by the house yesterday,” your dad said, voice casual in a way that wasn’t really casual at all. “Told your mother and me a little about this guy you’ve been spending time with.” You winced, heart dropping slightly.

“They’re just worried,” you said quickly, picking at the hem of your dress. “But it’s not what they think. He’s... he’s really good to me.” There was another pause. You could picture your dad sitting at the kitchen table, arms crossed, frowning thoughtfully. “Well,” he said, slower now. “If you’re serious about him, I think it’s about time your mother and I meet him.” You swallowed, glancing nervously at Choso. He was still watching you — not tense, not worried, just waiting.

“I think that’s fair,” you said carefully. “I can talk to him.”

“Good,” your dad said, voice softening a little. “We just want to know the man our daughter’s spending so much time with. You know how we are.” You smiled, feeling the tightness in your chest ease a little. “Yeah. I know.”

“Alright. You set it up. Let me know when.”

“I will.”

“Love you, kiddo.”

“Love you too, Dad.”

You hung up, setting the phone carefully in your lap, exhaling slowly. Choso sat up then, brushing grass from his jeans, brows lifted in silent question. You smiled, soft but a little nervous. “So,” you said, voice light. “That was my dad.” Choso smirked faintly, nudging your knee with his. “Yeah? What’s he want?” You bit your lip, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “He wants to meet you.” Choso blinked, the smirk dropping from his face. You rushed to fill the space, reaching out to brush your fingers lightly over his hand.

“You don’t have to say yes right now. I can talk to them, set something up later. They’re just... protective.” Choso stared at you for a moment, expression unreadable, and you felt your stomach twist, afraid maybe it was too much too soon. But then he sighed, slow and deep, and turned his hand over, linking his fingers with yours again. “They should know who’s takin’ care of their daughter,” he said, voice low but sure. You smiled, heart tight and full all at once. Choso squeezed your hand, thumb brushing over your knuckles. “Set it up,” he said. “I’ll be there.”

And just like that — in the warm spring afternoon, with the grass cool beneath you and the sky wide and endless overhead — you realized you weren’t scared anymore. Not of the future. Not with him. Not together.

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averyjadedemerald · 6 hours ago

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More F1 shenanigans (I am indeed pushing jaykon besties agenda in this au)

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averyjadedemerald · 7 hours ago

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Half of Me

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One night, one mistake—and a lifetime you didn’t expect.

☕︎ Pairings: Baby Daddy!Gojo x f!Reader ☕︎ Content warnings + tags: 18+ MDNI, modern AU, friends to lovers, complicated relationships, angst with a happy ending, unplanned pregnancy, eventual smut, drinking, pining, emotional turmoil, gojo has a girlfriend at first, mutual but poorly communicated feelings, bad decisions at 2am, reader has a cat, lots of feelings, first ultrasound, baby angst, awkward softness, they’re trying okay, nervous dad in the making, you’re so brave and he’s so overwhelmed Art by: @mmsks_ on X

A trip to the clinic brings everything into focus. In the sterile quiet of a waiting room and the hum of an ultrasound machine, reality sinks in—loud, steady, and impossible to ignore. The city keeps moving, but for a moment, time slows as you and Satoru face what’s ahead, together.

Step Six: Make Space for the Impossible

Satoru stared at his reflection in the bathroom mirror, toothbrush hanging half-forgotten from his mouth, foam trailing down his chin. He looked…tired.

Not the kind of tired that came from a late night or one too many drinks—though those hadn’t helped—but the kind that settled deep. The kind that lived under your skin. There were faint shadows under his eyes, like the weight of the past few weeks had finally started to show on his face. His white hair stuck out in unruly tufts, defying the comb sitting uselessly by the sink.

He spat into the basin, rinsed, and braced his hands on the edge of the marble counter, eyes locked on himself like he could find some version of the man he used to be in the mirror if he just looked long enough.

He hadn’t told anyone where he was going today. Not Hana. Not his father. Not even Suguru, who’d probably guess eventually. He’d cleared the morning under the vague excuse of “personal errands,” and now here he was—half-dressed, still barefoot, standing in the middle of his sterile high-rise bathroom like he didn’t know what came next.

The suit jacket on the back of the chair in his bedroom felt like overkill. He didn’t want to show up to a prenatal ultrasound looking like he just came from court. But the other option—going casual—felt wrong, too. Like he was underdressed for something important. Too relaxed. Too indifferent.

And he wasn’t indifferent. He was terrified.

He hadn’t slept much the night before. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw you. The curve of your frown. The way your fingers had hovered over your stomach like it wasn’t quite real yet. The flicker of hurt in your eyes when you’d asked him if he really meant it—if he really planned to stay.

He wanted to. He wanted to mean it.

But what the hell did staying even look like? He didn’t have a blueprint for this. No roadmap. He wasn’t even sure what kind of man he was supposed to be right now. And he couldn’t stop thinking about what you’d said—how you woke up sick, how you cried brushing your teeth, how crackers were your dinner.

Meanwhile, he lived in a penthouse and made a ridiculous amount of money.

What kind of balance was that?

He dragged a hand down his face and padded barefoot into the bedroom. Pulled on a soft, grey cashmere sweater over his T-shirt—something that made him look less like an asshole in an office and more like a…person. A partner? He wasn’t sure. He slipped on clean socks, ran a hand through his hair once more (trying and failing to fully tame it), and slid his watch onto his wrist. The quiet tick of the hands filled the silence for a moment.

He checked his phone. No new texts.

Your message from a few days prior still sat heavily in his phone, not because he was ignoring it, but because he couldn’t stop reading it over and over again.

i set up an appointment for friday. ultrasound. 11:30. you can come with me if you want. no pressure though.

He’d read it twelve times. Maybe more. The phrasing killed him—if you want. Like he hadn’t already been wanting, hadn’t already been wondering if he even deserved to show up after how he reacted when you first broke the news.

He slipped the phone into his pocket, grabbed his keys, and headed toward the elevator. His polished shoes clicked softly against the hardwood, a hollow sound in the too-quiet apartment.

By the time he reached the street, the chill of the morning air slapped him across the face like a reminder. Wake up. Get it together. His breath fogged slightly in front of him. New York was already moving—cars honking, coffee carts lining the curb, a dog barking somewhere half a block away.

But everything felt muted around him. Like the noise couldn’t get through the anxious haze in his head.

The car service pulled up at the curb. He climbed into the back, pressed a hand to his mouth, and exhaled slowly through his fingers. The driver asked for the clinic’s address, and Satoru gave it quietly, like saying it too loud might make it too real.

And it was real.

There was a baby. A life. Something growing.

And you.

And him.

Tied together by a night that wasn’t supposed to mean anything—except it had. More than he realized. More than he could admit to anyone but himself, maybe not even to you.

The car pulled into traffic.

And Satoru sat there in the back seat, heart pounding a little too fast, wondering what it was going to feel like to see the evidence.

You didn’t sleep much.

Again.

Your alarm had gone off three times before you finally rolled out of bed, groggy and already nauseous, your limbs heavy and uncooperative. The room was dim, lit only by the pale gray-blue creeping in through the windows. A cloudy morning, cold light on cluttered surfaces. Your desk was still a mess. Laundry still folded halfway on the chair. A cup with week-old tea crusted to the bottom.

Bear had been curled against your thigh, purring softly, unbothered by the world falling apart around you.

You’d whispered a quiet apology when you moved him.

The floor was cold under your feet, and your hand instinctively went to your stomach again—like it did every morning now. There wasn’t much to feel. You didn’t even look any different. But still, the touch felt necessary, like some kind of grounding.

In the bathroom, the mirror was too honest for your liking.

Your skin was pale. Eyes ringed faintly with purple. Lips dry and split where you'd chewed at them in your sleep, anxious from dreams. You brushed your teeth in silence, counting each motion just to keep your mind from drifting to the appointment.

The appointment.

You still weren’t sure why you’d invited him. Maybe because it felt like something he should see. Maybe because if you had to hear that heartbeat for the first time alone, you might shatter.

You showered longer than usual, standing under the water until your fingers wrinkled. The warmth helped a little. Calmed the tremor in your jaw. You had gotten dressed slowly—something comfortable, something neutral. A soft sweater you liked, jeans that still fit, clean socks. You pulled your hair back to keep it off your face and used a little concealer to hide the shadows under your eyes. It didn’t help much.

You didn’t really feel like yourself anymore.

The ride to the clinic was quiet. The subway was mercifully uncrowded, just a few people buried in books or half-asleep against the windows. You held onto the rail and kept your gaze on the floor, your heart drumming steadily, unevenly, beneath your ribs.

By the time you reached the clinic, your hands felt clammy and your throat too dry.

It was a small building tucked between a bakery and a yoga studio, one of those places you’d passed a hundred times and never noticed until now. Inside, the air smelled like lemon disinfectant and old paper. The kind of clean that never quite erased the sterile edge beneath it.

A woman at the front desk gave you a tired smile when you checked in. You filled out the forms, your pen slightly trembling as you circled “first trimester.”

When you sat down in the waiting room, your knee bounced nonstop.

The room was small. Warm. Posters about folic acid and prenatal yoga decorated the walls. A fish tank burbled softly near the corner, bubbles rising behind plastic coral. The chairs were mismatched, padded, worn from too many hands and too many stories. Around you, couples sat with their fingers laced together. Some whispered. Some laughed softly. One man kissed his partner’s temple while she rubbed her stomach gently with both hands.

You folded your arms tight against your chest. Everything just reminded you of how alone you felt. He probably wouldn’t even show up—

And then the door opened.

You looked up—heart skipping—and there he was.

Satoru.

He looked a little breathless, like he’d jogged from down the block. His hair was messy from the wind, and his coat was crooked on one shoulder. His eyes scanned the room, landed on you, and softened just slightly.

He walked over, slow but deliberate, slipping into the seat beside you with a nod and a quiet, “Hey.”

“Hey,” you echoed, voice scratchy from nerves. “You made it.”

“Of course I did.”

You didn’t know what to say to that. So you just nodded and turned your gaze back to the fishtank. He sat with his hands clasped between his knees, thumb rubbing slowly along the edge of his index finger. His leg bounced restlessly next to yours.

“I’m glad you came,” you whispered, and you actually meant it—even if you were still scared. Even if you didn’t know what came after.

He looked at you. “Me too.”

And the quiet wrapped around you again. But it was different this time. Not heavy like before, just…waiting.

A nurse stepped into the room in soft-pink scrubs, clipboard in hand. “Y/N?” she called gently. “You ready?”

No. Not even a little bit.

But you stood anyway. “Yeah, thank you.”

Satoru stood too, his hand ghosting near your elbow like he wasn’t sure if he should touch you, maybe steady you. But you didn’t move away.

The hallway to the exam room was colder. Sharper. You felt the bite of it through your sweater as you followed the nurse. The room itself was small—white walls, white floor, white lights. Too bright. Too clean. There was a table in the middle, thinly padded, with stirrups folded at the bottom. A tray with gauze and gloves, and bottles of gel sat near the monitor.

“Hop up,” the nurse said kindly. “The technician will be in, in just a second.”

You sat, eyes drifting to the machine beside you. It looked like something out of a sci-fi movie. Cold metal, thick cords, a screen that blinked softly in standby mode.

The exam room was small and overly bright, the kind of clean that smelled more like antiseptic than reassurance. You sat awkwardly on the edge of the padded table, sweater lifted just slightly at your waist, the paper crinkling under your thighs. Your fingers picked at the hem of your sleeve, eyes flicking over the ultrasound machine beside you like it might bite if you got too close.

Satoru stood nearby, hands shoved deep in his pockets, eyes bouncing from the machine to the wall to the floor. He was trying to act casual, but his shoulders were too stiff for it. The tension rolled off him like heat.

“This is my first time doing this,” you said suddenly, breaking the quiet. Your voice was softer than you expected.

He looked up, startled, then softened. “Yeah?” he asked, a little awkward. “I kinda figured. Same for me.”

You huffed a breath—half-laugh, half-nerves. “Obviously.”

Satoru’s lips quirked, the ghost of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I mean…unless I’ve been blocking out entire pregnancies and just don’t remember.”

“Wouldn’t be the craziest thing about you,” you muttered, and he snorted.

The quiet settled between the both of you for a moment.

You toyed with the edge of the paper beneath you, crinkling it between your fingers. “I thought I’d feel more prepared…” you admitted softly. “But I’m kinda freaking the fuck out right now.”

Satoru sat down in the chair beside the table, his knee bouncing slightly once more. “Me too…”

That surprised you.

He shrugged, his voice quieter now. “I didn’t think seeing it—hearing it—would scare me this much.”

You blinked. “You’re scared?”

“Terrified,” he said, without missing a beat.

You let out a shaky laugh, covering your stomach with one hand like it might settle your nerves. “Great. So we’re both super unqualified for this.”

“Speak for yourself,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “I’ve been reading parenting forums all week. I'm practically a veteran now.”

You raised a brow. “I bet you Googled ‘how to be a good baby daddy,’ didn’t you?”

He didn’t deny it. “Might’ve opened a Reddit thread or two.”

You stared at him, and then—without meaning to—you smiled. It was small, but genuine. The first real one you’d managed in days. He always kind of had that effect on you though.

And before either of you could say anything else, there was a knock at the door.

The technician stepped in—young, smiling, clipboard in hand. “Hi there. I’m Camila, I’ll be doing your scan today.”

You nodded stiffly, adjusting your sweater and laying back against the paper-covered table. Your heart picked up speed again. You felt Satoru shift slightly beside you, the chair squeaking beneath him.

Camila pulled on gloves, humming quietly to herself as she prepped the machine. “This your first?” she asked, more out of routine than curiosity.

You nodded. “Yeah. First everything.”

“Got it.” She smiled, squeezing a little clear gel onto the wand. “This’ll be cold, by the way.”

The moment it touched your skin, you flinched. “Oh!” you squeaked, your whole body twitching in surprise. “That’s freezing.”

Satoru let out a startled laugh, covering his mouth a second too late.

You glanced over at him.

He was grinning now, the kind of smile that started in his eyes. Something warmer than you were used to lately. “Sorry,” he chuckled. “You just looked so—”

“Don’t say it,” you warned, narrowing your eyes.

He put his hands up in surrender, still smiling. “Cute,” he finished, and then looked toward the monitor quickly.

You felt your stomach twist, but not from the gel…

The technician laughed softly, too, as she wiped her hands. “They all say that. I swear we keep it cold on purpose.”

You shot them both a glare, but couldn’t help the small huff that escaped you.

And Satoru? He was still watching you. Still smiling that same adorable, and infuriating damn smile. And you caught the way his expression softened when your eyes met. Just for a second, really, but it was enough to tug harshly at something deep in your chest.

She angled the wand once more, pressing it down gently against your stomach.

The machine hummed to life. The screen blinked a few times.

You stared. Your breath stilled. The room shifted.

And at first, it was just static. Gray and white lines. A blur of shadows that didn’t really make sense to you.

But then she adjusted the angle once more—and there it was.

A tiny shape. Small. Fuzzy. Curled. Nestled in the dark, flickering faintly.

The noise followed, a tiny heartbeat pulsed through the speakers—soft and fast. Like the wings of a bird. Thump-thump-thump-thump. So clear and so loud in the quiet room.

Your chest locked tight.

Satoru leaned forward, elbows on his knees, eyes wider than when you told him about the pregnancy. You could feel the shift in him, even without looking. The stillness. The way he forgot to breathe.

Neither of you spoke.

It was just that sound. That image on the screen. That impossible little rhythm—steady and soft and yours.

Yours.

It didn’t even look human yet. But both of you just couldn’t stop staring. Couldn’t stop the way your throat felt thick and dry, like you hadn’t spoken in years.

You blinked hard.

The gel was still cold. Your stomach was still sticky. The lights were still too bright.

But none of it mattered.

Because you’d made that. Together.

And for the first time during this whole ordeal, it didn’t feel like a crisis. It didn’t feel like a punishment.

It just felt…real.

Satoru couldn’t breathe.

Not in a dramatic, chest-clutching kind of way, like he was having a heart attack—but in the kind of way where his body kinda just…forgot how to do it. Like everything else inside him had gone completely still. Frozen, suspended, whatever word you wanted to use—because none of them were strong enough to explain what it was like hearing that sound for the first time, what it was like seeing that little shape on the grainy screen.

His fingers tightened on the edge of the exam table. The screen glowed in front of him, the image grey and impossible. A blur of shadows. But there it was. A flicker, small and fast, thumping like it had something to prove.

He didn’t even know what emotion was crashing through him. Relief? Fear? Awe? All of it? None of it?

God.

This was real.

It wasn’t just some abstract concept anymore—some crisis to manage or secret to keep. It had a sound now. A shape. A presence.

And it was his.

His and yours.

You.

You were staring too. Your eyes were glossy, lips parted, one hand curled over your sweater like you needed something to hold onto. You didn’t say anything—but he didn’t need you to. The look on your face said it all for you.

That this was tangible. That it wasn’t just a drunken mistake anymore.

And somehow, that scared him more than anything.

Because this wasn’t in his grand plan. This wasn’t in any of the neat, polished future timelines he’d ever let himself imagine. Not the ones with business meetings and expensive suits and photos on glossy law firm brochures. Not the ones with Hana. Not the ones where he followed the steps everyone laid out for him and smiled the whole time like it didn’t feel like swallowing glass.

This was something else entirely.

His phone buzzed sharply in his pocket, jarring him like a slap to the back of the head. The sound cut through the soft quiet of the room, breaking the trance.

He flinched. Pulled it out without thinking.

Dad [12:47PM]: Where are you? You’re late for the Kenji contract review. We’re already in the conference room. You were supposed to be here at noon, Satoru.

He stared at the text, a dull ringing in his ears. His father’s name at the top. His future, outlined in lawyer’s jargon, waiting for him back at his desk.

The meeting. The contract. The deadlines.

Everything he was supposed to be doing right now.

He didn’t hesitate, though.

He locked the phone. Slid it back into his pocket. Turned it off.

And that felt like something.

A choice.

A line drawn in the sand.

Your eyes had shifted toward him, half-curious, half-concerned. Like you saw the flicker of something on his face.

He didn’t say anything.

But instead, he moved.

He reached over—slow, tentative—and curled his fingers around yours where they rested on the paper-lined edge of the table. His palm was warm. A little clammy. His thumb brushed over the top of your knuckles once. Twice. It wasn’t bold. It wasn’t dramatic. Just a question without words.

You looked down at your hands. At his. At this small, unexpected tether between you.

Then you looked up—and your eyes met.

You didn’t smile.

The corner of your mouth twitched. Small. Barely there. But that was enough.

The heartbeat continued to echo in the room. The technician murmured something about measurements. About due dates. About healthy growth.

Satoru didn’t hear her.

He just kept holding your hand. Like if he let go, the whole moment might slip through his fingers. Like it mattered.

Because it did.

Because for the first time, it wasn’t about what was expected of him.

It was about this.

About you. And him. And this new, little person you were growing.

About the faint beat echoing in both of their ears like a secret. Like a promise.

The heartbeat had eventually faded from the speakers, replaced by the soft whir of the machine powering down. The room felt quieter now. Camila was still murmuring something about measurements, gestational age, follow-ups—but her voice felt far away, like it was coming through a thick pane of glass.

You barely moved.

Your hand was surprisingly still wrapped in his. His thumb was brushing lightly over your knuckles—absently, like he didn’t even realize he was doing it.

Camila clicked a few buttons on the monitor, saving the images, then gently pulled the wand away from your stomach and set it into its cradle. “You did great,” she said kindly, peeling off her gloves. “You’re measuring right on track.”

You gave her a weak smile. “Cool. Love that for me.”

She laughed softly. “I’ll clean you up real quick, then I’ll go print out a few of the images for you. Most people like to keep them.” She grabbed a stack of tissues from the counter and stepped closer, dabbing carefully at the sticky gel spread across your skin.

The cold felt a little sharper now that the wand was gone. But her hands were quick, gentle.

“You’ll want to schedule a follow-up with your OB,” she added as she discarded the tissues and peeled off her second set of gloves. “We’ll send over the full report, but everything looks good so far.”

You nodded, still stunned.

Still slightly reeling.

She smiled once more. “Be back in a minute with those prints.”

And then she slipped out of the room, the soft click of the door sealing the two of you in.

You slowly tugged your sweater back down, slow, almost careful. Like covering something precious. You could feel the ghost of that cold gel, hear the faint echo of that heartbeat.

Satoru was staring at the dark monitor.

Or maybe not at it—maybe just through it.

You cleared your throat. It sounded too loud in the silence. “She’s printing some pictures,” you said, quietly. “I guess… people hang them on fridges or whatever.”

He blinked, looked at you, and gave a single, slow nod. “Right.”

You reached for the paper sheet beneath you, tugging it flat to give your hands something to do. The silence stretched. You weren’t sure if you should joke or cry or both. Was it the hormones?

“I dunno,” you added, softer now. “Feels weird. Like…what am I even supposed to do with them? Put it next to expired coupons and pizza menus?”

That earned a small huff from him—almost a laugh, but not quite. “I mean, better than just shoving it in a drawer somewhere.”

You smiled, a little. Just a twitch at the corners of your mouth. “Would you, uh…want one?”

His head tilted slightly, as if the question had genuinely surprised him. He didn’t answer right away. Just looked at you. Then his expression shifted—barely perceptible, but enough. His shoulders relaxed just the slightest bit. His mouth softened.

“Yeah,” he said. “I do.”

That response settled something deep in your chest. Not completely—but enough that you could exhale without your throat catching halfway. You nodded once and looked down at your lap. A small smile ghosted the edge of your mouth.

The sound of the printer spitting out the photos clicked through the wall.

You sat back a little, the exam table creaking beneath you. Your legs dangled slightly off the edge, the heels of your shoes scuffed softly against the lower cabinet door. You felt small in that room. Not in a bad way. Just in a way that reminded you the universe was much bigger than your plans, your fears, your assumptions about how things were supposed to go.

You glanced over at him again. He had leaned back slightly in the chair now, head tilted to look at the ceiling tiles like they might offer him clarity. His foot still bounced—soft, rhythmic.

You nudged him lightly with your elbow. “Hey.”

He blinked, looking back at you.

“We made a blob,” you said, lips twitching.

That startled a proper laugh out of him this time. “An aggressively loud one.”

You grinned back, even if your eyes were still glassy from before. “Yup. Our very own anomaly.”

His face softened again, the smile lingering there—real, crooked, even if it looked a little tired.. “Our blob, though.”

His words made your stomach do something stupid. Your fingers flexed against the edge of the table. You didn’t even know how to respond to that.

Because it was yours. And his. Somehow, impossibly…both.

The silence settled again—but not awkward this time. Just full. Comfortable. Heavy in a way that didn’t hurt.

You could hear the soft rustle of paper being collected. Followed by the faint squeak of sneaker soles echoed down the hall as Camila returned, prints in hand.

She opened the door with a gentle knock and a warm smile. “Got a few good ones!” she said, holding out a thin stack of glossy black-and-white images. “They’re labeled with the date. You can take as many as you want.”

You took a few from the top—your fingers brushing over the slightly curled edges—and turned to Satoru, holding two out without a word.

He looked at them for a second. Then reached out and took them carefully, like they were something delicate. His thumb hovered over the images for a moment before brushing over the little shape centered, gentle and deliberate.

Camila finished typing something into the computer, gathering her gloves and clipboard again. “You’re all set,” she said cheerfully. “Congratulations, by the way.”

You didn’t respond. Couldn’t quite find the words.

She smiled at you both once more and left, shutting the door behind her with a soft click.

And then it was just the two of you again. Well, three, if you wanted to be technical.

Alone. With ultrasound photos. And too many thoughts neither of you knew how to say yet.

The sidewalk outside the clinic was buzzing with noise—the sharp honk of cars lined on the street, the chatter of people on their lunch breaks, the distant wail of an ambulance threading through traffic somewhere uptown. New York didn’t pause for anything. Not even for the quiet gravity hanging between the two of you.

You stepped out first, blinking into the daylight like you were emerging from a hazy dream. The air was colder than you remembered. Satoru followed close behind, one hand tucked into his coat pocket, the other holding the folded ultrasound photos like they might disintegrate if he gripped them too tightly.

Neither of you said anything. Didn’t know how to, really.

The silence felt heavier out here—less sacred than in the dim exam room, more exposed. Like the moment had been sealed in that little space, and the city was already swallowing it whole.

You crossed your arms tightly over your chest, attempting to block the cool breeze. “Thanks again…for coming.”

Satoru nodded, his voice low. “Yeah. Of course. I’ll always come—I mean I’ll, uh…be here if you need me.”

You shifted your weight, unsure where to look. At him? At the street? At the little photos tucked into your purse like a strange receipt from another life?

“Weird, right?” you muttered, trying to smile, but it didn’t quite reach your eyes.

He huffed out a quiet breath that was almost a laugh. “Weird’s one word for it.”

There was a pause. Not uncomfortable. Just…unsure. Like neither of you knew what you were now—what this was between you. Not a couple. Not just friends. Not strangers.

Just two people holding pieces of something fragile between them.

Satoru broke the moment first, pulling out his phone. “Let me call you a cab.”

“You really don’t have to—”

“Please. I want to,” he cut in gently, already typing. “It’s the least I can do.”

You didn’t argue. You just nodded.

The car arrived fast. Too fast for your liking. A bright yellow cab that screeched up to the curb, the driver barely glancing out the window before flipping the meter on.

You turned toward him, hands shoved deep into your coat pockets. “So, um…I’ll talk to you later?”

“Yeah,” he said. His fingers curled around the folded printouts in his hand. “Text me when you’re home?”

You nodded. “Okay…”

For a second, you both just stood there—hoping maybe that one of you would say something else. Do something else. But nothing came.

You moved first, stepping toward the car. Satoru, the gentleman he always tried to be, opened the back door for you. You slid in, and just before it closed, you looked back.

He was standing on the curb.

Watching you.

Not in a dramatic, movie-scene kind of way. But in that quiet, that full way he always did—like you were something he hadn’t figured out how to let go of yet.

You gave him a small wave. He didn’t return it. Just lifted his hand like he wanted to, then let it fall.

And for the first time, you let yourself believe that maybe—just maybe—this wasn’t the end of something.

Maybe it was the start.

The cab pulled away onto the street, blending into the sea of honking cars and hurried pedestrians. Satoru didn’t move for a few seconds, still staring at the space where you had been just a few seconds prior. And the noise of it all blurred around him—indistinct, white-noise chaos.

He finally exhaled and turned, just as a sleek black town car pulled up. His driver nodded at him silently, already hopping out and opening the back door for him.

He slid in without a word, sinking into the leather seat as the door shut behind him. The air inside was warm, too quiet, insulated from the rest of the city.

Then, his eyes glanced down at the ultrasound photos resting in his lap.

They were glossy and slightly bent now, smudged at one corner from where his thumb had pressed a little too hard earlier. He stared at the little blob in the center—barely more than a shadow, but alive. Real.

His chest ached in a way he couldn’t name.

His phone buzzed once in his coat pocket—another message from his dad, probably—but he decided to ignore it.

Instead, he reached for his wallet. Opened it slowly. Tucked one of the prints carefully into the small, clear slot behind his ID, pressing it flat.

And for the first time in weeks—maybe even months—he didn’t feel like he was standing on the edge of something ready to collapse.

He felt like he was at the beginning of something instead. Something terrifying and extraordinary.

He wanted this.

Maybe not all of the chaos. Maybe not all of the fear. But this—this moment.

And he wasn’t going to run.

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Author's Note: What do we think guys, is Satoru finally ready to do the whole dad thing? This one was really fun to write. Our mans is stepping up. And even more drama to come.

As always my lovelies, thank you so much for the support! And if you enjoyed, a repost is always appreciated!!

Taglist: @elainananana123 @emochosoluvr @coffeeluvr96 @vixonal @eolivy @suaes @slvtforhim13 @starlight5cat @dyavorange @a-trashbag @0tterteeth @bolisdetanal @azulashengrxtto @myaspov @junsatomi @lilychan176 @strychnynegirl @layl1ayl1la @oikawaheart @pickledsoda @klwg (still open!)

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averyjadedemerald · 7 hours ago

Text

Half of Me

Chapter Index | Next >>

One night, one mistake—and a lifetime you didn’t expect.

☕︎ Pairings: Baby Daddy!Gojo x f!Reader ☕︎ Content warnings + tags: 18+ MDNI, modern AU, friends to lovers, complicated relationships, angst with a happy ending, unplanned pregnancy, eventual smut, drinking, pining, emotional turmoil, gojo has a girlfriend at first, mutual but poorly communicated feelings, bad decisions at 2am, reader has a cat, lots of feelings, shoko being the only one with a brain Art by: @mmsks_ on X

After weeks of silence, emotions simmer to the surface as unexpected news forces old wounds open. With tension hanging heavy and words left unsaid, a quiet phone call sets something in motion that neither of you is ready for—but can't avoid any longer.

How to Ruin a Friendship in One Easy Step!

You sat on the edge of the closed toilet seat, spine curled forward, elbows resting on your knees. The bathroom was too bright, the overhead bulb casting a sterile glow across the pale tile and white walls that made your skin look sickly in the mirror. The air felt heavy, the silence too loud. Every little sound—the buzz of the light, the drip of the faucet, the occasional rustle of your hoodie sleeve—was deafening in the quiet.

Your bare foot tapped an anxious rhythm against the cool tile, the chill creeping up your leg. In your hands, you held the slim plastic stick, the test. Your fingers trembled faintly as you stared at the screen, still blank. Mocking you.

You chewed at the edge of your thumbnail, picking at the cracked polish. You’d meant to repaint them last week. Another thing you hadn’t gotten around to.

The seconds dragged. Time felt warped, stretchy and cruel. You could’ve sworn you’d been sitting here for twenty minutes, but when you glanced at your phone, it had only been three.

Three minutes that felt like a lifetime.

You glared at it like it might give in under pressure. “Just tell me,” you muttered.

It didn’t.

You wanted to scream. At yourself, mostly. Because this was your fault. Your recklessness. Your inability to say no when it counted.

That night—Suguru’s birthday—it had all spiraled so quickly. You’d been drinking. Gojo had been drinking. He’d gotten into it with his girlfriend, stormed off, jaw clenched and eyes dark in a way you weren’t used to seeing. You found him outside on the curb, alone. And somehow, one thing led to another. A shared cab. A quiet apartment. His hand cradling your cheek like it meant something.

You remembered the sharp taste of tequila still on your tongue when he kissed you. The way his body felt too familiar, like something your hands already knew. The weight of him, the heat, the way he said your name like a prayer. A mistake.

And maybe the worst part wasn’t that it happened.

It was the thought that to him, it hadn’t meant anything at all, knowing you’d finally gotten something you wanted for years.

Since then, everything between you had shifted—fragile. Tense. Like neither of you knew what to say, so you just didn’t. The silences between texts. The awkward eye contact at group dinners. The way he still called you sweetheart, but didn’t mean it anymore.

Then the nausea started. The missed period. Then the mornings—like clockwork—where you found yourself crawling to the bathroom at seven a.m. and dry-heaving over the toilet bowl.

At first, you’d brushed it off—just stress, maybe. A bug. But then came the Googling, the symptom lists, the spiral. And now…the test.

Two, just to be sure. One was already in your hand.

You dropped your head into your hands with a quiet groan.

The screen on the test blinked. A little hourglass icon disappeared. Your heart stuttered.

“Oh shit…”

You swore under your breath, and without thinking, you flipped the stick facedown onto your thigh like it was radioactive. Your palms were clammy. Your stomach flipped.

Nope. Nope. You couldn’t look. Coward.

You stood up so fast the toilet seat clattered. In a mild panic, you turned off the bathroom light and shut the door like you were locking in a demon. You leaned against the wall, face in your hands, breathing like you’d just sprinted up ten flights of stairs.

The test could wait.

It sat in there, unread, for an hour.

You spent most of that time curled up on the floor of your apartment, Bear—your cat—watching you with judgmental green eyes from the top of the fridge. You stared at the ceiling, hands laced over your stomach, wondering if moving to Iceland was a reasonable solution.

Finally, you sat up, dragged yourself across the room, and unlocked your phone. Your thumb hovered over the contact list until you found the name you were looking for.

Shoko.

Your beautiful, brilliant, snarky doctor friend.

She answered on the second ring. You didn’t even get the words out before she said, “Be there in fifteen.”

And she was.

There was a knock on your door, and you exhaled shakily, padding across the creaky wooden floor to open it.

Shoko stood in the hallway in a massive hoodie, leggings, and a pair of slippers shaped like frogs. Her hair was tied back lazily, and she looked like she’d just woken up or hadn’t slept at all—maybe both. The faint smell of smoke clung to her clothes.

“Jesus,” she said, tilting her head, “You look like you got hit by a truck.”

You sighed shakily, grabbing her sleeve and tugging her inside. “Thanks. I feel like I got hit by two. Come in, please. I’m having a crisis.”

She let you drag her to the kitchen table—small, chipped Ikea, one leg slightly uneven. The overhead light buzzed here, too.

“You’re acting like you murdered someone,” she said as she sat down, crossing one leg over the other. “Should I check the bathtub?”

“Not murder,” you groaned, pacing in front of her. “Opposite of murder, actually. Potentially.”

Shoko raised a brow, arms crossed. “What the hell does that even mean?”

You stopped pacing just long enough to gesture wildly. “Okay—just—no judgment, alright? I need you to promise. I’m about to say something really fucking stupid, and I need you to not do your whole judgy-doctor stare thing.”

“I do not have a judgy-doctor stare.”

“You literally do. It’s like your eyes say ‘You dumb bitch.’”

She cracked the faintest smirk. “I mean, fair. But go on.”

You took a breath. “Do you remember a month ago? Suguru’s birthday party. That bar downtown?”

“The one where we did karaoke and you tried to fight the bouncer?”

You winced. “Yes. That one.”

She blinked. “What about it?”

“Well...when I said I was taking a cab home, I didn’t exactly go home…”

Her brows knit together. “So where’d you go?”

You swallowed. “I went to...Satoru’s place.”

Her face shifted—eyebrows shooting up, mouth parting slightly. “Gojo? Like, Gojo Gojo? Our Gojo?”

“Do we know another one?”

Her brows shot up. “Okay, hold on. You went to Gojo’s place. At 2 a.m… Drunk. And you stayed over. Did anything, you know…happen?”

You nodded stiffly. “Yes. Something. Everything.”

“Oh my god.” She leaned forward. “Wait—are you saying you and Gojo—”

“We fucked, Shoko!”

The words tumbled out before you could stop them. You flung your arms up in defeat, then buried your face in your hands again.

Shoko was quiet for a beat. Then she sat back, dragging her fingers down her face.

She blinked. Then, surprisingly, she didn’t burst out laughing or gasp in scandal. She just sat back, slowly crossing her arms. “You are so fucking dramatic,” she muttered. “But also... holy shit. Alright. Keep going.”

You stared at her, bewildered. “That’s it. We slept together. And now…I think I might be pregnant.”

That sobered her up immediately.

“Wait. Wait. Are you serious?”

There was an uncomfortable beat of silence.

Then she stood and walked past you toward the bathroom. “Where’s the test?”

“Wait—you’re just gonna go in there?!”

She opened the door, the hinges creaking loudly like the front door had. “Yeah. One of us has to be a grown-up.”

You covered your face, feeling that familiar wave of nausea starting to make an appearance. “I can’t watch. I think I’m going to hurl.”

“Too late for that,” she muttered. A few seconds passed, but then her voice came, low and flat:

“…Shit.”

Your heart dropped to your stomach, pushing yourself up from the cheap dining chair. “What? What does that mean?!”

The bathroom door clicked shut behind Shoko as she reemerged, test in hand.

She held it between two fingers like it was a live wire, the small screen glowing faintly under the kitchen light. Her face was unreadable—stoic, but not cold.

You didn’t want to look. But your eyes were already trained on it, like your body didn’t get the memo that your brain wanted to shut down.

“It’s positive.”

Two words.

Just two, and your whole world spun out from beneath you.

You sat back down, frozen in your chair, knees pulled up to your chest, arms wrapped tight around them like they could somehow hold you together. The faint tick of the kitchen clock echoed through the apartment like a bomb waiting to go off. Somewhere in the distance, a siren howled and faded. Bear leapt down from the counter and padded silently across the floor, curling up beside your foot like even he knew something had changed.

Shoko didn’t say anything else at first. She just watched you quietly, her usual sarcasm shelved for the moment. Her fingers tapped once against the edge of the table, a nervous tell she probably didn’t realize she had.

Your voice cracked the silence—barely a whisper.

“Are you sure?”

She raised the stick, turned it toward you.

The faint but unmistakable positive glared back at you from the screen.

You let out a shaky breath, your chest tightening like something was winding around your lungs. Your mind started spiraling again, faster this time, wild and feral. You could already hear the echo of Gojo’s voice in your head—not real, just imagined.

"That was a mistake, right?"

"Let’s not make it a thing."

"It didn’t mean anything."

Your stomach twisted violently.

“I—I can’t tell him,” you blurted out, pushing your face into your hands. “No way. Absolutely fucking not.”

Shoko blinked at you. “You’re serious?”

“I’m dead serious. I can’t, Shoko.” Your voice came out louder than intended, high-pitched and brittle. “We haven’t even talked since that night. Not really. It’s been nothing but this weird tension and awkward glances and pretending we don’t remember what happened.”

You leaned back in your chair, letting your head thump against the cheap wood. The light fixture above you swung faintly, casting flickering shadows across the scuffed floorboards and the cluttered shelves by the kitchen.

“I can’t just…show up and say ‘Hey, I know you’re still with your girlfriend and we haven’t had a real conversation in a month, but surprise! I’m pregnant with your baby!’” You laughed—short, sharp, hollow. Bitter. “That’s insane.”

Shoko didn’t flinch. She crossed her arms over her chest and gave you a long look.

“You’re right,” she said flatly. “It is insane. But what’s more insane is not telling him.”

You scoffed. “I’m not ready for that conversation. I don’t even know how I feel about it yet.”

“Well, you better figure it out fast.” She walked over and sank into the seat across from you, her eyes trained on your face. “Look, I know this is overwhelming. I get it. But this is happening. And he deserves to know.”

You stared at the floor, jaw tight. “What if he gets mad?”

Shoko raised a brow. “He won’t.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I know him. And I know you.” She sighed, softer now. “You’re not just some girl he slept with. You’re you. And this is Satoru we’re talking about.”

You swallowed hard, throat thick.

“But what if he hates me for it?” The words came out small. Barely audible. “What if he regrets it even more?”

Shoko leaned forward, resting her arms on the table between you. Her voice dropped, low and steady.

“He might be surprised. He might even freak out. But he won’t hate you. And you don’t get to make this decision for him.” She nodded toward the bathroom. “That test? That’s half his, too.”

You winced. As much as you didn’t want to admit it, she had a point.

“I’m scared, Shoko…”

“I know,” she said. “But you don’t get to run from this. Hiding it won’t make it go away. It’ll only make it worse later.”

The silence stretched again, heavy and loaded. You could feel the weight of your own fear pressing into your chest, curling into your ribs like ivy. Your eyes drifted to the little ceramic mug on the counter—one he had gifted you years ago. Bright blue, with a stupid picture of just his head. You hadn’t used it in weeks.

You chewed on your bottom lip, hands clammy.

“Even if I tell him…what if he wants nothing to do with it?”

Shoko tilted her head, expression gentle for once. “Then you deal with it. But at least you’ll know. And at least you’ll have been honest.”

You didn’t respond. Just stared down at your lap like maybe the answer was written in the folds of your sweats.

“Hey,” she added softly, nudging your foot with hers. “You’re not alone, okay? No matter what happens. I’m here.”

That did it.

Your throat closed up as tears finally welled behind your eyes, hot and stinging. You turned your head away, blinking rapidly, but Shoko stood and came around the table, kneeling beside you again like before.

You let yourself lean into her. Just for a moment.

“I don’t know what the hell I’m gonna do…” you whispered.

“You’re gonna take a breath,” she murmured, rubbing your back gently. “You’re gonna survive this. And then, when you’re ready…you’re gonna call him.”

You sat there in the silence, arms wrapped around yourself, heart beating like a war drum. The city buzzed faintly outside your window, cars humming past, life moving on.

And somewhere across town, completely unaware, Satoru Gojo was living his day like nothing had changed.

But for you, everything had.

The office was quiet, but not peaceful. The kind of quiet that buzzed. That hummed low and angry in the walls like static, wrapping itself around your head and squeezing just tight enough to remind you it was there.

The overhead lights were too bright, making everything feel sterile and inhuman, like you were under constant interrogation. The windows stretched floor to ceiling, offering a pristine view of the city skyline, but Satoru barely noticed it—he hadn’t looked up from his laptop in the last three hours.

A neat stack of case files lay open on his desk, legal jargon bleeding together in lines of endless black text. He hadn’t really been reading them. Hadn’t been able to focus all morning. His tie was still loose around his neck, his collar unbuttoned, hair a little messier than usual. There was a tension in his jaw that he couldn’t quite unclench.

He leaned back in the leather chair, running his thumb over the smooth glass of the scotch tumbler on his desk—it was empty, of course. Midday drinking didn’t go over well here. Not when your name was stamped in gold on half the building and your father had already called twice today asking for updates.

He scrolled through the contract draft for the third time. It was riddled with red comments from his father—sharp, curt corrections that read more like reprimands than feedback.

| Lazy phrasing. Think harder.

| Redundant. Rewrite.

| Is this even legal, or are you just guessing?

He ran a hand through his already disheveled hair and leaned back in the chair, letting his head fall against the leather headrest. The office had felt too quiet in that moment—only the low hum of the AC and the soft clatter of keyboards from the outer hall made it clear other people existed.

His phone buzzed against the desk, lighting up with a text from his girlfriend. He cracked one eye open and glanced at it.

Hana: Dinner tonight? 7?

He just stared at it for a moment, thumb hovering.

She didn’t know.

She still didn’t know.

Satoru hadn’t told her about what happened after Suguru’s birthday party. About the momentary lapse in judgment that had left his brain scrambled and his conscience chewing holes in his gut. About the kiss that had felt too much like truth. About the night you’d spent together, tangled in his bedsheets. The way you’d looked at him—like you’d already made peace with the regret that would follow.

He typed back a one-word reply—Sure—and tossed his phone down harder than he meant to.

He knew how he looked from the outside: polished, pristine. He was the golden boy, the heir to the law firm dynasty, a rising star with a perfect smile and a girlfriend who photographed well.

But everything underneath the surface had started to feel like it was cracking.

Especially since that night.

He hadn’t stopped thinking about it. About you.

About the way your lips tasted like tequila and something fragile. About the way your fingers had trembled, and the way his name had broken on your tongue like it hurt to say. About the way you’d looked up at him like he was the only person in the universe. About how, for a brief, terrifying second, it felt like he’d belonged there—in his bed, in your arms, in your life— in a way he hadn’t felt in a long time.

And then it ended. Morning came. They didn’t talk. Not really. Not in any meaningful way. A few passing glances. A half-wave. Awkward tension. Then nothing. Just the silence that stretched longer every day since, gnawing at the edge of his conscience.

There was a knock at the door, sharp and polite. Too polite.

He blinked, dragging himself out of the spiral and sat up straighter, smoothing a hand down the front of his wrinkled shirt as the door creaked open.

Yuna stepped in, composed as ever—young, efficient, an iPad tucked under one arm and a manila folder in hand. Her tone was crisp, a practiced smile on her lips. “Sorry to interrupt, Mr. Gojo.”

He raised a brow. “Did my father send another passive-aggressive memo?”

She smirked faintly. “Not this time. Someone left you a message.”

He nodded without looking, eyes flicking back to the laptop in front of him. “Leave it on the desk.”

She didn’t move.

That pause—that very deliberate stillness—made him look up.

Yuna stepped closer, placing the message slip gently onto the desk like it might bite. Her tone softened. “She didn’t say much. Just asked if I could tell you she called. It was Y/N.”

Silence blanketed the room.

The fluorescent hum seemed to vanish. For a moment, all he could hear was the dull, panicked thrum of his heartbeat in his ears.

“…Y/N?” he repeated, his voice low and hoarse.

Yuna nodded. “Should I write down a callback time if she phones again?”

“No. Uh—no. It’s fine.”

But it wasn’t fine. Nothing about it felt fine.

Yuna hesitated for a moment, eyeing him curiously, but she knew better than to pry. “You have a deposition meeting in twenty minutes,” she reminded him.

He gave a nod that felt mechanical. “Right. Thanks.”

Once the door shut behind her, the office felt even quieter than before.

He dragged both hands over his face this time, palms resting against his temples like he could hold the pressure in.

Fuck.

Y/N.

The name hit him in the chest like a punch. It had been weeks, and yet somehow the sound of your name still had the power to knock the air out of his lungs.

You never reached out first. Not lately, anyway. Not unless something was wrong. And the last time he’d seen you—your hair was still messy from his hands, your skin warm from sleep, and your voice barely above a whisper when you told him not to call.

He should have anyway. He should’ve checked in. Should’ve apologized. Should’ve said something.

But instead, he’d done what he always did when it came to you: nothing.

Avoidance. Silence. Cowardice.

He looked across his desk at the note. Then at the skyline. Then back.

His palms found his face again, pressing hard against his eyes.

He hadn’t stopped you when you kissed him. Hadn’t stopped himself when he kissed you back.

He didn’t regret it—not exactly. It had felt too real to regret. Too right in a way that terrified him.

But he did regret what came after.

He regretted the nothing between you two.

The guilt had been eating him alive ever since. kept pretending it hadn’t meant anything, even though it had meant something to him. He just didn’t know what to do with that something. Not with Hana still in the picture. Not with the expectations he was supposed to live up to. The perfect son. The brilliant lawyer. The guy who had his shit together.

And now?

Now you were reaching out.

Why now? Why would you be calling now?

He didn’t let himself hope—not really. Maybe it was closure. Maybe you just wanted to yell at him, and you deserved that. God knew he hadn’t given you much else.

Still—that sense of unease, that sharp pull in his chest—it wasn’t going away.

Not guilt. Not quite fear. But something close.

Something almost like dread.

You shouldn't have called.

You told yourself that the second your thumb left the screen, the call already gone through. A quick, shaky message to his assistant—because of course he wasn’t the one to answer. Of course he had someone else screening his calls now. Someone who sounded too polished and too pretty and said, “I’ll let him know,” like it was nothing.

Like you were nothing.

Now you were back in your apartment, sitting cross-legged on the couch with your phone face-down on the coffee table like it had personally betrayed you. Bear was curled at your feet, occasionally flicking his tail, watching you with half-lidded eyes. Even he seemed to know something was off. Or maybe he was just bored. You weren’t exactly a riveting scene lately.

The air in your apartment felt thick. Stale. Like it hadn’t moved in hours. The sun was dipping low behind the buildings, streaking orange and gold across the chipped white walls. Dust floated lazily through the slanted light, catching on the rim of your half-full glass of water and the keys you forgot to hang up again. The silence felt loud.

You hadn’t opened a window. You hadn’t eaten. You hadn’t even changed out of your work clothes—just kicked off your shoes and dropped onto the couch like your bones had liquefied. You should have though. Should’ve done anything besides sit here stewing in the static hum of what-ifs and too-lates.

You pulled the blanket over your legs tighter, fingers knotting into the woven fabric until your knuckles ached.

Your stomach had been in a knot all day. A sick, heavy thing curled low in your gut. You weren’t sure if it was fear or nausea—or if, at this point, they were the same thing.

You shouldn’t have called.

But you didn’t know what else to do.

Because it had been a month.

You’d told yourself not to think about it. Not to replay the way his breath caught when you kissed him. Not to remember the way he looked at you afterward, like he didn’t know whether to kiss you again or run. You’d told yourself it was a mistake, that it didn’t mean anything. That he clearly didn’t think it meant anything—because he hadn’t called.

Not once.

You tried to tell yourself it was for the best. Clean break. No strings. Just one night of blurred lines and old feelings and too much tequila. But now?

The test on your bathroom counter still said positive.

You hadn’t even thrown it away. It just sat there, tucked behind your makeup bag like a secret you didn’t know how to bury. You’d stared at it for fifteen minutes straight this morning. Then cried. Then dry-heaved over the toilet with your heart hammering like a war drum in your chest.

You told yourself you were overreacting. That you’d wait a few days. Then you took a second test.

Then a third.

All positive.

You hadn’t told anyone. Not at first. Just Shoko. You kept going to work like your body wasn’t screaming something’s wrong, something’s different, like your brain wasn’t on a loop of what if, what now, what the fuck.

And now?

Now Satoru knew you called.

He just didn’t know why.

He didn’t know that your whole body was tight with panic, that you could barely breathe around the lump in your throat. That the very idea of hearing his voice again made your skin prickle and your pulse stutter—and not for any of the old reasons.

He didn’t know that you were carrying a secret the size of a lentil, tucked away in your body like a ticking time bomb.

And you didn’t know how to tell him.

How do you start that conversation? How do you open your mouth and say Hey, remember that night? The one we don’t talk about? Turns out it didn’t end where we thought it did! You didn’t even know if he wanted to hear it. Didn’t know if he’d even call back. And if he didn’t?

You weren’t sure what you’d do.

The thought hit like a punch to the chest. Your breath caught. Eyes burned.

You scrubbed your hands over your face, tried to inhale deeply, but it caught halfway down your throat and turned into a soft, broken sound. Bear stretched and bumped his head against your shin. You didn’t move.

You were scared.

Terrified.

Not just of the future, or the test, or the endless unknowns—but of him.

Of what he’d say. Of what he wouldn’t say. Of how he’d look at you—if he looked at you at all. Of what it would mean if he walked away. Again.

The phone rang.

Sharp and sudden in the stillness. You jolted upright like the sound had physically struck you, your breath catching hard in your chest.

It buzzed across the coffee table once, twice—then stilled, lighting up.

Satoru Gojo.

You stared at the name like it might vanish.

Your pulse was a deafening drumbeat in your ears. You didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. Just stared as the phone kept ringing, like the universe was standing there, tapping its foot, waiting for you to answer.

Answer it.

You couldn’t.

Answer it.

What if he was angry? What if he didn’t want to hear it? What if he told you this wasn’t his problem? Every instinct screamed to let it ring. To let it go to voicemail, pretend you’d missed it, buy yourself just a little more time.

Your hand moved before your brain did. Shaking fingers closed around the phone, thumb hovered—then tapped.

The line clicked.

“Hello?”

There was a pause. And then, his voice—quiet, low, almost cautious. “…Hey.”

God. Even just hearing his voice again made your throat close up. It had only been a few weeks, but it felt like a lifetime.

You swallowed hard. “Hi.”

Another beat. The silence between you filled with all the things neither of you had said since that night.

“I got your message,” he said eventually, voice low, careful. “Wasn’t expecting to hear from you.”

You almost laughed. Not because it was funny—because it felt surreal. Small talk, like this was any other day. Like things hadn’t broken quietly between you the last time you saw each other.

“I know…” you said softly.

It hung there between you once more. A breath. A gap.

“Is everything okay?”

That question lodged deep. The way his voice softened. The way it actually sounded like he cared. Like you weren’t just some forgotten mistake.

You hesitated. “I… I don’t know.”

You could almost hear the gears turning in his head, the way he shifted slightly—like he could feel how close to the edge your voice was. Like he knew something was wrong, but couldn’t name it yet.

His voice was gentler now, sensing the weight behind your words. “What’s going on?”

Your hands were cold. Your throat dry. Your heart a beating painfully wild in your chest.

You couldn’t do it. Not over the phone. Not like this.

So you took a breath and lied a little.

“It’s nothing bad. I just…I need to talk to you.”

He was quiet. Listening carefully. Then, slowly: “You sure? You sound—off.”

“I just don’t want to say it over the phone,” you replied, your voice coming out more brittle than you meant it to. “Can we meet?”

There was a pause, and then, “Yeah,” he replied, and you could hear the tension hidden under his casual tone. “Yeah, of course. When?”

“Tomorrow?” you offered, fingers curling tighter into the fabric of your sleeve. “Lunch?”

“Alright.” He sounded surprised. Hopeful, maybe. Nervous. “You wanna pick the place?”

“There’s that little ramen shop near the bookstore on 9th,” you said. “You know the one.”

He huffed a quiet laugh, and the sound of it made something warm ache behind your ribs. “I remember. You used to steal the narutomaki from my bowl.”

“You always gave it to me,” you murmured, before you could stop yourself, almost falling into the groove of how things used to be between you.

There was another silence.

“…I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said, breaking it. “Twelve?”

“Yeah. Twelve…”

You didn’t say goodbye. Neither did he. Just the quiet sound of the call disconnecting, and the dull, hollow buzz of your phone returning to the home screen.

You stared at it. Still holding your breath.

You didn’t feel better.

You felt like your insides had turned to water. Like your ribs weren’t holding anything in anymore. Like the ground beneath you had started to shift and you weren’t sure if it was going to be a soft landing or a freefall.

Tomorrow. You had until tomorrow.

To look him in the eye. To say the words out loud. To shatter what little was left between you.

And somehow, knowing he was still willing to meet you—still answering your calls, still remembering things like narutomaki and shared bowls of ramen—made it hurt even more.

Because maybe it meant something to him.

Maybe it still did.

And maybe that would make it worse.

Chapter Index | Next >>

I’m excited about this one y’all. As always, if you enjoyed, a repost is appreciated!

Taglist (still open!): @elainananana123 @emochosoluvr @coffeeluvr96 @vixonal @eolivy @suaes

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averyjadedemerald · 10 hours ago

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MR. BRIGHTSIDE ── ✦

suguru x fem!reader mini-series

✦ ── synopsis: you were married to a man like him, and he had no idea why.

✦ ── contents: infidelity on everyone's part (but reader & suguru are justified in my biased opinion), explicit smut, naoya jumpscare, more tags tba.

art found here

series masterlist

chapter one // stupid cupid

chapter two // ???

taglist status - open

@whorishminds @amesenseii @suguruined @bloodb3nders @francesca-the-1st @sophiethelesbian @sunehry @animewolfette @vraiao @elswhore @riveredmoon @msrinnnn

106 notes · View notes

averyjadedemerald · 10 hours 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!!)

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