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sapphickenma · 3 days ago

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: ̗̀➛ guilt of the quiet one

ㅤㅤ ㅤ ₊✩ˎˊ˗ clark kent x luthor!reader

synopsis : Your life was unraveling, little by little. Bored and drained by your job, terrified of your brother, and silently denying the weight of your own depression. Nothing made it easier, especially when one of Metropolis’s most persistent reporters began digging into places he definitely shouldn’t have.

cw : smut, angst, slight enemies to lovers, slight morally grey reader, depressed and suicidal thoughts, implied voyeurism from superhearing, unprotected p in v, mentions of torture, mentions of human trafficking. luthor and chubby reader. (david!clark kent) words : 22.7k

ㅤㅤ ㅤ masterlist ⋆ ao3

Boredom.

That’s what you felt every time you set foot in LuthorCorp. It wasn’t the worst job in the world, it paid well, but it left you utterly uninspired. The work was mind-numbingly dull. You were in charge of your brother’s legal team, yet he never let you be an actual lawyer.

Lex trusted you just enough to manage his public image, filing lawsuits against anyone who dared tarnish the pristine version of himself he insisted on maintaining. The number of cease-and-desist letters you sent to the Daily Planet was absurd. Especially to two particular reporters : Lois Lane and Clark Kent.

But beyond that? You were on the outside looking in. Lex kept you out of the real business. He didn’t let you in. Not really. He didn’t trust you, not with everything.

You had never set foot in his big office, the one with the sweeping view of the city. You had no idea what went on up there. Whatever it was, it was a secret he shared with his latest girlfriend, but not with his own sister.

Shaking your head, you stepped forward in the line at the coffee shop on the main floor. Nothing much had happened at LuthorCorp lately. Nothing thrilling, nothing exciting. Just the same routine, day after day.

Eve breezed past behind you, shouting your name in that high-pitched voice of hers and waving like it was a reunion after years apart. You rolled your eyes slightly and gave a lazy wave in return. You liked Eve, she was sweet. A little dim, maybe, but a breath of fresh air compared to your brother’s cynical, brooding behavior.

Once you were seated in your office, you opened your inbox and were immediately greeted by a flood of emails, dozens of them. Most were about the latest failed experiment at Lex’s military base. There was a list of names : people who’d been fired, others who had quit, and new hires who still needed their NDA signed.

Just more messes for you to clean up. More people to bribe. More lies to hold together with duct tape and NDAs.

It was all starting to feel like too much. But the paycheck? More than generous. Your brother might not trust you, but he made damn sure you’d never want for anything, at least not financially.

By the time lunch rolled around, your head was already pounding.

You had a rare hour alone. The entire legal team was on their lunch break, including your assistant. You didn’t mind. In fact, you liked it this way.

You’d gone down early to grab your food, so you had the luxury of eating at your desk, half-working as you chewed through both your lunch and another batch of legal threats. The further you were from your colleagues, the better.

You were halfway through drafting yet another cease-and-desist when your phone rang.

You let it ring a few seconds before remembering : no one was going to answer it for you today. Sighing, you wiped your hands on a napkin and picked up the receiver.

“LuthorCorp, Head of Legal,” you said mechanically, not bothering to check the number calling.

“Miss Luthor.” A deep voice resonated on the other end of the line.

You groaned. You were not in the mood for this.

“Mr. Kent,” you sighed, drawing it out with deliberate irritation. His amused chuckle came through loud and clear. “To what do I owe the displeasure?”

He chuckled again. “Still charming as ever.”

Slumping back into your chair, you hit the speaker button and let the handset drop onto your polished mahogany desk with a soft clunk. Pinching the bridge of your nose, you exhaled slowly. You were really not in the mood for the Daily Planet circus today.

Still, if you had to deal with one of them, you supposed it was lucky it was Clark Kent and not Lois Lane. At least he had the decency not to shout.

“Make it quick,” you snapped, irritation curling in your voice. “I’m on my lunch break.”

“Believe me,” Clark said smoothly, “I wouldn’t dream of interrupting your overpriced salad unless I had a reason.”

You rolled your eyes. “If this is about that cease-and-desist from last week, I'll let you call back to get in touch with LuthorCorp lawyers, as I don't deal with those.”

“Not this time,” he replied. “It’s about the recent firings at the LuthorCorp research division, the ones connected to Project Tonite.”

Your fingers froze just above your keyboard. How did he know about this? This happened in the last two days.

“Never heard of it,” you said coolly.

Clark gave a small, skeptical laugh. “Come on, Miss Luthor. Three scientists let go in twenty-four hours, all under suspiciously vague NDA conditions? One of them told me, off the record, that they weren’t even allowed to collect their personal items. That usually happens when someone’s trying to bury something.”

You leaned forward, resting your elbows on the desk. “And let me guess, you want to dig it up?”

“That’s kind of my job.” You could hear the smirk.

“I know you’re good at your job, Mr. Kent,” you said coolly, already clicking through the internal database. “But let me assure you, I’m very good at mine.”

Your tone didn’t waver as you scanned the list of recently terminated staff, searching for any names connected to the classified project.

“Also,” you added, eyes narrowing as you located the relevant files, “thank you for informing me that some of our former employees have been violating the contracts they signed. That’s… helpful.”

You found the three names instantly. With practiced efficiency, you forwarded their files to your best in-house counsel, including a brief note : One of them talked to the press. Find out who, and get the paperwork ready.

The goal was simple. Identify the leak. Then sue them into silence.

There was a pause on the line. Clark’s voice came back, just a little more pointed this time. “So that’s it? One of them speaks out, and your first move is to sue them into the ground?”

You leaned back in your chair, crossing one leg over the other as you stared at the phone like it had personally insulted you.

“My first move,” you said evenly, “is to protect my company’s legal interests. What they signed was very clear, Mr. Kent. Confidentiality. Non-disclosure. No public commentary. If they broke that, they don’t just get a slap on the wrist, they get consequences.”

“You don’t even know which of them talked.” Clark deadpanned on the other side of the phone. He must of known it was a stupid thing to say.

Scoffing, you grabbed a bit of your meal, answering with a mouthful. "We'll find out."

You heard him sigh, and you knew that sound, he was about to launch into another one of his noble little speeches. You cut him off before he had the chance.

“Listen, Mr. Kent,” you said flatly. “Whatever they told you is irrelevant, and illegal. You want to use it? Go ahead. But you and I both know how this ends. Same circus, different headline. Every time the Planet comes sniffing around our business, it’s the same tired routine.”

You leaned forward, voice like ice.

“Let’s just skip to the part where your editors get a not so polite letter from my office. Save us both the effort, and your lawyers the headache.”

Clark didn’t back down. Of course not.

“I have reason to believe LuthorCorp is moving forward with something dangerous. If you're hiding—”

“If,” you snapped, cutting him off again, “LuthorCorp is hiding something dangerous, then it’s buried for a reason.”

You paused, letting the weight of your words settle.

“And unless you’ve got something more substantial than your hero complex and secondhand paranoia, I suggest you stop fishing before you fall into waters you can’t swim in.”

There was a long silence. You didn't fill it. Let him sit in it.

You were just about to hang up when Clark spoke again, quiet, but deliberate. "I know about the Superman Project."

Your fingers froze above the keyboard. How could he know? There was no possible way he actually did.

You weren’t even supposed to know.

You had been tired of your brother keeping things from you. Of being left in the dark while he handed off his most secretive, most dangerous operations to a hidden legal team that answered only to him. Meanwhile, you were left dealing with the fallout. The lawsuits, the corporate scandals, the media fires. Always cleaning up after his messes, never trusted with the truth.

So, you had started digging.

It hadn’t been easy. Lex had buried the trail deep, tucked behind fake departments, encrypted files, and names scrubbed from every system. But you were a Luthor. And when a Luthor wants the truth, they find it, no matter how deep it was buried.

What you uncovered was worse than you imagined.

Project Superman was, in a way, connected to Project Tonite. The latter was part of Lex’s broader plan to enter politics by offering authorities a method to control, and, if necessary, eliminate, metahumans. Lex was obsessively working to recreate Kryptonite, aiming to engineer it into a universal weakness for anyone with meta-genes. Though deeply unethical, the project could be easily justified under the guise of public safety, a means to protect civilians and prevent the fear of becoming targets in a world increasingly influenced by alien forces.

It was your job to handle Project Tonite. Unethical, certainly, but not lethal.

Project Superman, as you later discovered, was something far darker. It was Lex’s attempt to create his own metahumans, an army of loyal enforcers to protect him and his interests. He was experimenting on people in a hidden lab in Boravia. Officially, they were “volunteers.” In truth, they were either brainwashed soldiers, convinced they were dying for their country, or desperate civilians lured by promises of money.

This was harder to bury. No amount of spin could justify it. No one would stand for such atrocities, not even you. You'd seen how they handled those who tried to speak out. Death would have been a mercy.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you said quietly, slightly knowing the phone was tapped. “Now, if that’s all, I’d like to get back to my lunch, Mr. Kent.”

You hung up, your hand lingering on the phone just a moment too long. You weren’t ready, not for the fallout that would come once your brother realized you knew about his most secret, most dangerous project.

Hanging up was the only way to delay that reckoning.

For the rest of the day, you were on edge every time someone knocked on your door. Each phone call made you flinch slightly, every email felt like it could be a threat in disguise. But nothing came. It was as if Clark Kent hadn’t told anyone he called your office, like he had made sure to reach you when you were alone.

Normally, when reporters tried to contact you and couldn’t get through, they’d go after someone else on the legal team. That would always end the same way : Lex finding out. And then he’d storm into your office, acting as if you had invited the scrutiny, as if your actions had put the corporation at risk.

Yet, as you locked the door of your flat, you finally let out the breath you’d been holding since Kent's call. You turned down the alarm, slid every bolt into place, and only then started peeling off your shoes and vest. It wasn’t until that moment that you realized just how tightly wound you’d been all day.

You kept replaying it in your head, over and over. You still couldn’t understand how the hell a Daily Planet reporter knew about Project Superman. It made no sense. Everyone who had been terminated from the project had also been… terminated from life itself. Either dead, or locked away in whatever deranged side project your brother had been developing on that goddamn beach of his.

You didn’t know which fate was worse. And you weren’t interested in finding out.

Slumping onto the couch, you stared at the ceiling, trying to make sense of it. Why hadn’t it been front-page news the moment Clark Kent found out? Why the quiet call? Why the restraint? You sat up. Maybe he didn’t know much. Maybe the call was a bluff, an attempt to catch you off guard, to shake you just enough that you’d slip. That had to be it.

Scoffing, you shook your head at your own stupidity. He’d played you. And you’d almost walked right into it like a debutante at her first scandal.

You were about to get up when your phone buzzed.

Unknown number

"Hello," you answered, hesitant.

“Miss Luthor,” came Clark Kent’s voice, calm, low, unmistakably his.

You let out a heavy sigh and collapsed back onto the couch. It was late. The day had already been a disaster, and this felt like the final insult.

“How the fuck did you get this number?” you snapped, not bothering to be polite.

A soft laugh came through the speaker, calm, maddening. It only fuelled your irritation. It was almost like he didn’t realize the weight his words carried, or worse, he did and simply didn’t care.

You knew your personal phone was clean. You checked it weekly. Lex had tapped your work line, of course, listened to every conversation, tracked every call. You let him believe you didn’t know. Occasionally, you even used it to call friends just to maintain the illusion.

“You told me yourself,” Clark said, voice smooth and infuriatingly gentle. “I’m very good at my job.”

You frowned, confused by his tone, the softness, the restraint. He sounded patient. Not like a man cornering someone with a bombshell. Not like someone planning to go public.

Why wasn’t he pressing harder? What the hell did he want?

“Tell Jimmy he’s going to have real problems if Lex finds out about him and Eve,” you said, dropping it like a bomb. It was the only explanation that made sense, how else would Clark have your personal number?

“He didn’t—” Clark started, then cut himself off. He refused to take the bait. Refused to treat you like an idiot. “I’m not calling about Jimmy. Not even about what I called you about earlier.”

You scoffed, your patience nearly gone. He was playing you again, acting calm, composed, pretending like he wasn’t pushing some carefully constructed agenda. You weren’t a fool. You knew manipulation when you heard it. He spoke like someone who thought his sincerity was a weapon.

“What do you want then?” you snapped.

There was a pause. And then, in that same calm voice, he asked : “I just want to know why you defend him.”

You stilled.

"Of the records." He added at your silence.

Of course. There it was. Another angle. Another motive. You recognized this game, draw out the sympathy, lower the defences, build just enough rapport for the truth to slip out. He wanted you to pity yourself. To question your loyalty. To crack.

But you wouldn’t. Not for him. Not for anyone. Not anymore.

Lex had played this game too many times, for far too long. It left scars, sure, deep ones, but it also taught you how to bury your feelings, how to do the job without letting guilt cloud your judgment. It made you sharp. Unshakable.

You wouldn’t let Clark Kent be the one to undo all of that.

“Listen, Clark,” you said, spitting his name like it tasted wrong. “I don’t know what you want, or what you think you’re going to get by being all honeyed and soft-spoken, but it’s not going to work. People have tried before you. People smarter, more ruthless, more desperate. And they failed all the same.”

Your voice hardened.

“I don’t want your sympathy. I don’t want your pity. I don’t want anything from you. Not your questions. Not your insight. Not even your damn voice.”

Silence stretched on the line. Heavy. Intentional.

“I can help you,” his voice came through, calm, measured, infuriatingly composed. “I have nothing to gain if your brother finds out I called you. This is a safe line. I made sure of it. But a lot of person have something to gain if you leave that company.”

“Leave the company? And then what?” you shot back, the words sharp and fast, your anger rising. “Vanish into thin air so Lex never finds me again? You think I can just disappear?”

You didn’t give him a chance to respond.

“I don’t need your help. I don’t even know what the hell you think you’re helping me with. Do I look like some poor damsel waiting for a knight in shining armour? Because let me tell you something—” You stood abruptly, pacing the living room now, one hand in your hair, the other clenched at your side.

“There is no one, nothing, that can take my brother down. Everyone who’s tried? You know exactly what happened to them.”

You stopped pacing and stared at the wall, breath heavy, heart pounding in your ears.

“So if you really want to help me, like you say you do, then here’s what you’re going to do : you’re not going to call this number again. You’re not going to contact my office talking about project neither of us should known about. And for the sakes of both our lives, you’re going to forget Project Superman ever existed.”

Silence. You didn’t care what he said next. You were already reaching for the button to end the call.

“Don’t call this number again,” you said coldly, and hung up.

The line went dead, but the tension didn’t leave with it. You pressed the heel of your palm against your eyes, breathing hard, trying not to cry. From the anger. From the pressure. From the horrifying things you’d seen while snooping around Project Superman.

You were a coward. You knew it.

Maybe that’s why you resented Clark Kent so much. He’d had the nerve to reach out, to ask the hard questions, even knowing the risks. You hadn’t even been able to speak about the things your brother had done. The things Lex Luthor had done in the dark, to others, and sometimes even to himself.

You knew the consequences. You’d seen them firsthand. And you didn’t want to be next.

Even if speaking out could help hundreds. Maybe thousands.

You sat down slowly, hands shaking in your lap.

You were a coward. And for now… you were okay with that.

Weeks passed in total silence from both the Daily Planet and Clark Kent.

No headlines about LuthorCorp. No reason to threaten them with lawsuits. Just silence.

And honestly, it made your job easier. A lot of your day-to-day involved clashing with reporters, especially them. So when they left LuthorCorp alone, your workload lightened, and your days felt strangely manageable. Almost peaceful.

You were on the roof, smoking a cigarette, your lunch long forgotten beside you. From here, you had one of the best views in the city, skyline stretching wide, sunlight brushing against the tops of the tallest towers, but it meant nothing. You hadn’t felt anything in a long time.

Just boredom. That’s all that was left.

Bored of covering up messes. Bored of threatening people into silence. Bored of your brother constantly looking down on you. Bored of your life.

“You know those things kill you?” The deep voice snapped you out of your thoughts.

You jumped, startled, spinning around to see who had disturbed your rare moment of quiet. And froze.

Superman. Standing just a few meters away.

You frowned, instinctively scanning the sky, expecting to find some incoming threat, maybe a drone, a villain, a building seconds from collapse, but there was nothing. Just blue sky and distant clouds. Calm.

You turned back to him, confusion painting your face. He let out a soft chuckle, clearly amused.

“Can I help you with something?” you asked, dumbly. It should have been the other way around, you knew that, but you were too off-balance to care.

“No, thank you, ma’am,” he replied politely. His voice was warm, even amused. He stepped a little closer, his boots landing gently on the gravel. “I was just flying by and saw you sitting here all alone. Looking kind of sad. Thought I’d check in.”

“Just flying by…” you echoed, mocking him with a dry tone, taking another drag of your cigarette. “What, you checking rooftops now?”

“Only the ones with interesting people on them,” he said with a faint smile.

You weren’t sure what bothered you more, the fact that Superman was here, talking to you, or the fact that some small, treacherous part of you actually appreciated it.

Running into metahumans in Metropolis was nothing new. Practically routine. You were used to it, numb to it. And honestly, you didn’t care about them. Not really. Especially not this one.

Not the one your brother had developed a borderline obsessive fixation with.

The thought made you laugh under your breath. If Lex could see you now, sitting on a rooftop, casually chatting with his so-called nemesis, he'd probably have a stroke. Or throw someone off a building. You were fairly certain Superman didn’t even care about Lex, at least not in the same way Lex cared about him.

You figured ignoring him would be enough to make him leave. But no, of course not.

Instead, the man in spandex sat down right next to you, just a couple of meters away. Calm. Relaxed. As if this was all perfectly normal. Then he blew. A gust of air, deliberate, sharp, and your cigarette sailed out of your fingers, flicked clean into the sky.

“Okay, now,” you snapped, sitting up straighter. “Those things are expensive.”

He gave you a mild look, clearly unbothered. “They also kill you slowly.”

“Maybe I wanna die?” you shot back.

“Problem in paradise?” He smiled, almost teasing.

You scoffed. Anyone with half a brain knew LuthorCorp was anything but a paradise. Lighting another cigarette, you let the silence hang between you. Truth was, you didn’t know what to say to him, not to him. What was there to say?

“Don’t make me do it again,” he teased, eyes locked on your cigarette like it had personally offended him.

“If you do,” you said flatly, taking a long drag, “I’ll jump off the building.”

He laughed, genuinely. Since when did Superman have dimples?

“Dramatic,” he said, still chuckling. “Besides, you know I’d catch you.”

And just because he knew he could, he blew again. Your cigarette vanished into the sky.

You sighed, stood up without a word, and, before your mind could stop your body, you walked to the edge of the roof. And stepped off.

“What the— NO!” came the shout behind you, his voice laced with panic as you tumbled from the tallest building in Metropolis.

Wind tore past your face. The ground rushed up to meet you. And for the first time in months, maybe years, you felt something. You giggled, wild and breathless, as the city blurred around you. It was chaos. It was stupid. It was reckless.

But for one glorious second… it was freedom.

You were caught mid-fall, arms of steel wrapping around you, pulling you hard against a solid chest. The impact wasn’t rough, but it jolted you all the same. Warmth surrounded you instantly. The wind disappeared.

Your arms, on instinct more than intent, wrapped around Superman’s neck as he steadied you both, slowing until the momentum was gone and you were simply floating. Suspended above the city like a feather caught in still air. His grip didn’t falter. Not for a second.

At first, you were just looking into his eyes, breath heaving from the adrenaline, heart pounding in your chest, while he remained perfectly calm, just as he had been before. Of course, you’d known he would catch you. He’d said it himself. But there was something exhilarating about catching Superman off guard.

And then, for the first time in months, you laughed. A real laugh, raw, unfiltered, shaking your whole body as it spilled out of you, rocking you gently against him in midair. It caught both you and the metahuman by surprise. The laughter felt genuine, liberating, like something had cracked open inside you.

For a few long seconds, he just held you there, floating above Metropolis, watching as you laughed like a madwoman in his arms. His expression was soft, confused, maybe even concerned but never judging.

“You really did it,” he muttered, voice low. “You actually jumped.”

“I told you I would,” you replied, breathless.

A beat of silence passed between you. His heartbeat was steady. Yours was not.

“You think this is a game?” he asked, not angry, but something quieter. Something that stung more.

You looked away, eyes scanning over Metropolis before looking down. The world looked so tiny from up here, it was almost addicting. “I think I just wanted to feel something.”

His arms tightened just a little. Protective. Anchoring. Without a word, he flew you back to the rooftop of LuthorCorp, setting you down gently, right in the middle of it, very far from the edge. The choice made you laugh, just a little. It was almost sweet.

“I’m not jumping again, don’t worry,” you said quietly, stepping out of his warm embrace.

You walked back to the spot where you’d been before, beside your barely touched lunch, your pack of cigarettes, and your phone, and sat down again, staring out over the city. You could feel his eyes on your back. The way he’d looked at you, genuinely concerned, not out of duty but something almost human, left a strange warmth in your chest.

How pathetic did your life have to be, for the only person who seemed to care, even for just a moment, to be Superman?

Nobody would’ve truly cared if he hadn’t caught you. Not really. You wouldn’t have cared, either. Just one last rush of adrenaline before the long, quiet sleep. It might’ve even made a decent headline : Lex Luthor’s sister falls to her death, dramatic, poetic even, if anyone had been paying attention. They wouldn't even say your own name.

Lex probably wouldn’t have mourned, not really. Maybe for the cameras, because it would be expected of him. Clark Kent would’ve gotten his front page. LuthorCorp would’ve named a new Head of Legal. The world would’ve kept turning. And you, you would’ve finally had peace.

It all came tumbling down at once. That invisible wall you'd spent years building, the one between feeling and function, cracked. Funny how the mind could carry so much until it just couldn’t. Until, in one fragile second, everything became too much.

You had no one important in your life. No real friends. No boyfriend. No one waiting for you to come home.

You never made time for it, and honestly, you didn’t want to. Letting someone in meant dragging them into Lex’s orbit, into his world of control and consequences. And you knew, sooner or later, when everything finally came crashing down, you’d be caught in the blast.

No one deserved to go through that for you.

Without even realising it, tears had started slipping down your face. Quiet and relentless. You’d carried so much for so long, buried it deep, locked it away ever since the day you said yes to Lex’s job offer. Maybe the real mystery was that you hadn’t broken sooner.

And just your luck… it had to happen in front of fucking Superman.

Still, in a strange way, maybe that made it easier. He wasn’t someone who would haunt your life later. He wasn’t someone you’d have to explain yourself to. Just a stranger, powerful, distant, untouchable. Someone you could fall apart in front of for a moment, and never see again. And in that moment, as you sat there, broken and small on the rooftop of your brother’s empire, you could pretend, just for a second, that you weren’t truly, utterly alone.

In a world this massive, this overwhelming, it was easy to forget that people like you didn’t get to be the heroes. By name, by blood, by inaction… you were one of the bad ones.

It felt almost comical, crying over how your brother had ruined your life, all while sitting on the rooftop of his building. As if you weren’t part of it. As if you hadn’t played your role.

You could have said no. Could’ve turned down his offer. Could’ve taken the harder road, fought your way to the top, maybe even become one of the best lawyers in this goddamn city. But you hadn’t. The promise of money, luxury, and an “easy” career had won. And the rest of you, the better part, had lost.

Even now, three years later, you weren’t sure if you would’ve made a name for yourself. Maybe you’d still be stuck in that old, crumbling apartment. But maybe, just maybe, you’d still have your friends. Maybe you’d have someone, a boyfriend, a partner, a life outside of this cold marble empire. Certainly you'd be happier.

“You should have let me fall…” you said, barely above a whisper.

But he heard it. Of course he did.

He was beside you in seconds, sitting just like before, only this time, a little closer. His warmth was a quiet comfort as the wind picked up, brushing through your hair, while dark clouds slowly crept into the Metropolis skyline.

“You know I can’t do that,” he said gently.

You let out a humorless laugh, shaking your head.

“No one would know. And trust me, no one would care enough to ask questions,” you said, your voice low, bitter. Before he could answer, a thought surfaced, sharp and sudden, and you added, “Well… maybe The Daily. Maybe your little buddy Clark Kent would’ve called just to have the perfect front page.”

It was his turn to scoff, the sound laced with something close to anger. You glanced at him through blurry eyes and saw the tension in his jaw, the slight furrow of his brow.

“Don’t say things like that,” he replied, frustration barely held back in his voice.

Ever the saviour, you thought. Of course Superman wouldn’t be the kind of man to let you spiral, but it felt like if you didn’t speak now, your brain might just implode. Like some switch had flipped inside you, and there was no turning it off.

“No, but really. You should’ve let me fall,” you said again, firmer this time. “It wouldn’t have changed a thing. Might’ve even made a few people happy.”

You stared out at the skyline as your voice hardened. “Laura would finally get her promotion. She’s hated me ever since I took her spot three years ago.”

You sniffed, eyes stinging, glancing over at him.

“Lex… he’d be relieved. Wouldn’t have to keep watching me out of the corner of his eye, worrying that maybe I’ll grow a conscience and talk to the press. I know he’d still come after me if I did, but I like to think it’d be harder with me than with a regular employee. You know?”

Leaning a little closer to the edge, your eyes settled on the ground far below. You heard Superman shift beside you, subtle, but ready, as if he thought you might jump again.

The thought made you laugh, quiet and bitter. Of all the places to have a complete mental breakdown, it had to be on the roof of LuthorCorp, with the strongest metahuman alive standing beside you like some guardian angel you never asked for.

“I’d finally be at peace,” you murmured. “No more complaints. No more threats. No more bribes. No more guilt. Just a coward lying cold in her grave.”

You whispered the last part, almost to yourself. More tears slipped down your face, blending seamlessly with the rain now falling in heavy sheets, as if the sky had decided to cry with you.

"You're more than just this job," Superman said softly, his hand wrapping gently around your arm as he pulled you back from the edge.

You let out a genuine, tear-filled laugh, harsh and wet in the rain. Always the optimist. But he couldn’t have been more wrong.

You weren’t more than this job. This job was you now. It had devoured every part of the person you used to be, every ideal, every boundary, every line you swore you’d never cross. Now you were a void version of yourself, filled with legal jargon and lies, a polished shield for monsters in suits.

It had rotted you from the inside out. Turned you into everything you grew up hating : a corrupted executive, pocketing blood money and defending the indefensible for the sake of a paycheck and an office.

This wasn't who you had wanted to be. And why? Because you had never known how to stand up for yourself in front of Lex.

"I'm really not..." you murmured, rubbing at your eyes. "But... thanks for saying it, I guess."

You rose to your feet, water dripping from your clothes. The Metropolis rain was rare, but when it came, it never held back. At least now you had a decent excuse to go home early. The office had been slow all day, nothing you couldn’t handle from your laptop if needed.

As you gathered your thing, your half-eaten lunch, your phone, the crumpled, now soaked, cigarette pack, you stole one last glance at him.

He looked almost human like this.

Soaked from the rain, seated quietly with his cape clinging to him, his expression caught somewhere between concern and sympathy. The image the media had built around him didn’t do him justice, not enough. Not the way his hair curled when wet, not the way his blue eyes held entire conversations shining with so many emotions, not the dimples still ghosting along his cheeks even when he wasn’t smiling. And certainly not the softness of his lips.

You blinked the thought away, scoffing silently at yourself. Of course, the only man you found attractive was also the most unreachable one. Classic.

"Thank you," you said at last, your voice softer now, more sincere. "For not letting me fall."

"Always," he replied simply, his voice steady as he watched you disappear behind the rooftop door.

You took the stairs down slowly, each step heavier than the last. You felt like hell, worse than you had in a long time. As if your own mind had finally decided to punish you for every cry for help you’d ignored. For every night you spent awake, staring at the ceiling with a racing heart and hollow chest. For every morning you dragged yourself out of bed, feeling like your skin didn't fit right.

For every moment you scratched your arms raw just to feel something through the guilt and pressure. For every hour spent dissociating in your office, staring at legal documents you didn’t care about, defending things you didn’t believe in.

Now it was all crashing down, and it couldn’t have picked a worse time.

But maybe, deep down, you believed you deserved every second of it.

The sound of your office door slamming open yanked your head up from your folded arms. In truth, you didn’t need to look to know who it was.

Lex.

He stormed inside like he owned the place, which, of course, he did, trailed by your assistant, who wore a familiar apologetic look. Without a word, the young man gave you a regretful glance before slipping out and shutting the door behind him.

Lex dropped onto the large leather sofa across the room with an air of theatrical exhaustion. He didn’t even bother to take off his coat.

You had to admit, it was a beautiful office. Floor-to-ceiling glass walls offered one of the best views in the city. Your mahogany desk alone was worth more than most people’s rent for a year. The latest computer sat, the expansive bookshelf filled with legal volumes you rarely touched anymore. A pair of sleek leather sofas flanked a marble coffee table no one ever used.

You never had clients in here. Never held meetings. Most of your team knew better than to knock unless absolutely necessary. That reputation, distant, cold, unapproachable, had followed you ever since. Maybe you hadn't done much to stop it.

"We have a problem," Lex said, his eyes closed as he leaned back into the couch.

Your heart skipped a beat.

Still, it was somewhat reassuring that he came alone, without the usual pair of silent goons who tailed him like shadows. If he didn’t bring muscle, chances were you weren’t the problem.

"Do we?" you asked, keeping your voice even, doing your best to hide the anxiety curling in your stomach. Lex had always been too good at reading you.

"I think yes, we do," he replied, tone laced with mockery, almost daring you to guess. Daring you to slip. To reveal something he didn’t already know.

Opening one eye, he glanced your way, clearly waiting to see if you'd take the bait. When you raised an eyebrow at him, he only smirked.

"The Planet has been snooping around too much lately," he said, his voice calm and measured. "Reporters asking questions they shouldn’t be asking. Digging in places they shouldn’t even know exist."

You rolled your eyes, already unimpressed. You weren’t sure why this warranted Lex barging into your office like the ceiling was about to collapse. Your legal team was probably already handling whatever nonsense the Daily Planet was stirring up. And if it was more serious, if they were digging into the same shadows Clark Kent had called you about a month ago, you were certain Lex’s personal legal hounds were already biting at their heels.

“Sounds like a regular Tuesday,” you muttered, rubbing the space between your eyes as a headache began to bloom.

“Kent hasn’t published anything, but he’s been sniffing around again. More than usual. And this time, it’s not just the public projects he’s asking about. Classified-level stuff.” He said, watching for your reaction.

You gave a small shrug, feigning indifference. “Then maybe it’s time to sue them again. That usually quiets the barking.”

Lex smiled thinly. “Not this time. He’s being careful. No paper trail. No sources willing to go on record. Yet somehow… he knows things. Enough to be dangerous.”

Frowning, you sighed. You had to play this carefully. You hadn’t spoken to Clark Kent since those calls, and you hadn’t told anyone about Project Superman. But if Lex wanted to pin the blame on you, he would. He always found a way.

“How do you even know it’s him, if he’s being this careful, Lex?” you asked cautiously, choosing your words with care. You didn’t want to provoke him, but you hated how he danced around the point like he was waiting for you to slip.

He sat up straighter, his cold gaze locking onto yours. “I have my ways,” he said with that familiar, dangerous smirk. “Little ears here and there.”

You leaned back slightly, your throat suddenly dry. “And did those little ears tell you I was involved? Because it sure sounds like you’re accusing me of something.”

He stood, slowly making his way around your desk until he was behind you. You stiffened as his hand came down on your shoulders, firm, not painful, but unmistakably controlling.

“Of course not,” he said with a mockingly sweet tone. “What kind of brother would accuse his own sister?”

You didn’t move. Not when his thumb absently dragged over the curve of your shoulder, not when the silence stretched long enough to chill the air between you. You knew better than to flinch. That’s what he wanted, fear dressed up as respect.

He leaned in slightly, just enough for you to feel the brush of his breath near your ear.

“I just worry, you know?” he said softly. “This kind of scrutiny… it makes people act irrationally. Makes them do things they shouldn’t. Say things they regret. He even got in the head of some of my most trusted employees once…”

He paused, and though you couldn’t see his face, you could hear the smile in his voice. Too calm. Too rehearsed.

“And he did call your number a few weeks ago.” Another pause. Dread filled you, fear gripping you strongly. “I’d hate to think he had put ideas in your head.”

His hand slipped away like a shadow, but the pressure lingered in your skin.

He moved with the slow, calculated confidence of someone who never had to hurry. Circling the desk, he didn’t sit, Lex never sat when he could loom, but rested a hand casually on the edge, watching you like a scientist studying a specimen under glass.

His voice lightened, almost amused. “You know, I’ve always trusted you.” A pause. A tilt of the head. “But I pulled the call recording anyway. Just to be sure.”

He gave a small shrug, smooth, almost dismissive, though the smile that followed was razor-thin. “I knew you wouldn’t say anything. You’re smarter than that.” Another beat. “You know what would happen if you weren’t.”

He left your office on that note, not even waiting for a response. The door clicked shut behind him, and only then did you exhale the shaky breath you'd been holding since he walked in.

He knew.

He couldn’t prove it, not yet, but he knew. Whether you’d stumbled onto the truth before Kent or started digging after that call, it didn’t matter. Lex didn’t care about the details. All he cared about was ensuring your silence.

And his message had been clear : Talk and you end up like them. Family or not.

Your phone buzzed. It was a message, from your brother.

Opening it, your breath caught in your throat. A strangled sound escaped you.

Lying strapped to a medical table, bruised and bloodied, was Thomas. Your ex-boyfriend from law school. The only man you’d ever introduced to Lex. Someone you hadn’t seen, or even spoken to, in years.

And now he was a rat lab. All because of you.

All because Clark Kent couldn't stop.

That how you ended up on the roof again, standing just at the edge of the building. Your eyes fixed on the floor below. Dark clouds were coming toward Metropolis, still far but advancing quickly. A storm was coming.

It was late, all your colleagues at gone home already. You had waited in your office, trying to play it cool, not wanting to be suspicious. You were certain Lex had bribed someone of your team, most likely your assistant, into telling him your every move. Every call. Every mails.

Looking down, you wondered. What would it be like to fall again? Would it feel exhilarating, like the first time? Maybe even more, knowing no one was here to catch you this time. It was mesmerising how small the world looked from up here.

Ironic, really. From this height, you'd once felt powerful. In the early months of the job, standing on this rooftop made you feel untouchable, like you were finally someone. But that illusion had long since crumbled. This place had taken everything from you.

“You’re not gonna jump again, are you?”

The voice cracked through the silence like a whip.

Startled, you turned too fast. Reflexes dulled by the cold and the weight of sleepless nights, your foot slid on the slick rooftop, gravel scattering under your heel.

And then, you were falling. The edge vanished behind you as gravity seized your body. Wind roared in your ears. Your scream tore free as Metropolis' concrete rushed up to meet you. Truth be told, it was just as exhilarating as the first time, but a thousands time scarier.

The wind howled in your ears. Your mind blanked, panic flooding every nerve. You didn’t even know if you wanted to be saved, not really. But as the ground rushed toward you, instinct took over. You didn’t want to die like this. Not yet.

And then, closing your eyes, you waited for the impact.

But not the one you expected. Strong arms wrapped around you mid-air, a blur of red and blue cutting through the grey skyline. Your fall halted with a jarring stop as your body slammed into Superman’s chest, breath knocked from your lungs.

His grip was tight, almost desperate.

Your arms instantly wrapped around his neck, clinging to him like a lifeboat in open water. You were breathing heavily, gasping in sharp, uneven bursts, but you felt the rapid rise and fall of his own chest against yours.

You had scared Superman.

You. You had done what even aliens from other worlds hadn’t managed to : make him panic. To be fair, it was his own damn fault.

Silence settled between you, save for the harsh rhythm of your breaths. You looked up, eyes locking. His gaze roamed across your face, scanning for injuries, intent, urgent, while yours traced his features in quiet awe. Maybe it was the adrenaline, maybe it was the weight of thinking you were seconds from death, but right now, he was the only real thing in your world.

His eyes dropped to your lips, just as yours lingered on his. Time seemed to pause, holding its breath with the two of you suspended in midair. You didn’t know him. He didn’t know you. But in that fragile, trembling second, none of it mattered.

And then, a crack of thunder rolled across the distant sky. The moment shattered.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you,” Superman said softly, his voice barely above a whisper as he gently ascended, bringing you both back to the rooftop.

He spoke to you like someone coaxing a frightened stray animal : patient, careful, almost painfully kind. It was sweet. Unexpectedly so.

As your feet touched the gravel of the rooftop, back in the centre, far from the edge, you let out a breathless laugh. His arms were still wrapped tightly around you, like he was afraid you'd vanish the moment he let go.

But it was you who stepped back first, untangling yourself from his hold. You bent slightly at the waist, hands on your knees as laughter bubbled up uncontrollably, sharp and strange with adrenaline, dizzy in your chest.

Then, just as suddenly, the laughter crumbled.

Tears spilled from your eyes without warning. Heavy, wracking sobs tore from your throat, years of pressure snapping loose like cracked glass. Three years of holding it in. Of surviving instead of living. Of becoming someone you didn’t even recognize.

And now it was all pouring out. Right here, in front of Superman. Again.

You sank down onto the gravel, knees giving out beneath the weight of everything. You didn’t even try to stop it, the tears, the ragged sobs, the chaos clawing through your mind. You just let it all go. And strangely, it felt good.

Not pretty. Not peaceful. But real.

For once, you weren’t pretending. Weren’t holding anything back or biting your tongue. You were breaking, fully, openly, and somehow, that honesty felt like a release. What made it bearable, what made it safe, was the quiet presence that lingered nearby. Superman didn’t speak. He didn’t try to fix it, or fill the silence.

He just stayed. Not looming, not judging. Just there. And in that small, powerful kindness, you felt something you hadn’t felt in a very long time. Protected.

So safe, you talked.

“Next time you see Clark Kent,” you muttered through the last of your tears, “tell him that if I suddenly disappear because of his little investigation… he better make a damn good front page out of it.”

You tried to make it sound like a joke. You even forced a smile. But the fear didn’t budge, it had rooted itself too deeply now, curled in your gut like a sickness.

Superman didn’t smile. His brow furrowed, gaze sharp with concern. “What do you mean?”

You snorted, shaking your head. It was laughable, really, how tangled everything had become. And maybe it was reckless, telling Superman anything at all, but what could it hurt? Deep down, you hoped maybe he could talk to Clark, get him to back off before Lex did something irreversible.

“He’s getting too close,” you said finally. “Too close to something Lex doesn’t want exposed. Something I shouldn’t even know about. And if he keeps going, Lex is going to blame it on me.”

Superman didn’t speak right away. You saw the shift in his expression, quiet, calculating. Not judgment, but focus. And you realized then : he was listening. Really listening.

“I can help you.” His voice was deep, sure, but there was something gentler beneath it. Genuine.

You let out a soft, tired laugh, wiping your face with the back of your hand. There was no point in hiding the tears anymore. “You sound just like him,” you said, voice still shaky. “No wonder you two are friends.”

That earned the smallest smile from him, barely a twitch at the corner of his mouth, but it was there.

You didn’t know what made you keep talking. Maybe it was the adrenaline crash, or maybe it was just the comfort of being heard without being judged.

“He said the same thing… Clark. When he called. Said he wanted to help me. But people like you, like him, you don’t realize how dangerous it is to be helped in my situation. Lex isn't scared of anyone, not even you.”

You met his eyes then, and something flickered in his, something beyond concern.

“He’s getting close to something Lex would kill to protect because it could destroy him. And if I get caught in the middle of that?” You shrugged. “Let’s just say Lex doesn’t always send warnings twice. Not even to his sister.”

The metahuman approached you gently, crouching so he could meet your gaze without towering over you. A flash of lightning split the sky, casting a pale light across half his face, making him look almost unearthly. Like he didn’t belong to this world at all. Like maybe he never had.

“I can really help you,” he said softly. “I can take you somewhere he’d never find you. I can take you to—” He stopped himself mid-sentence. Whatever he’d almost said, it hung in the air between you like something too fragile to speak aloud.

His hands rested on your knees, not forceful, not firm, just grounding. As if reminding you that, despite everything, you were still here. Still alive. Then he looked at you again.

You weren’t prepared for it. That kind of kindness. It was the sort of look no one had given you in years, not pitying, not clinical. Just real.

He sighed, steadying himself. And when he spoke again, it was with purpose.

“Listen,” he said, voice low but sure. “If you’re willing to speak out against your brother, I can promise you, there’s a place he’ll never find you. Not even Lex Luthor can reach everywhere. You’ll have time, space. Peace. With Clark’s help, we can protect you. You can be safe from him. For good.”

You frowned, confusion clouding your already stormy thoughts.

“Lex can reach everywhere,” you murmured, voice thin and cracking under the weight of truth. “He knows people, high places, deep pockets. There’s nowhere in this city, in this whole damn state, he wouldn’t find me.”

Another tear slipped down your cheek. You didn’t bother wiping it away.

Superman’s hand tensed where it rested against your knee, as though he were physically restraining himself from doing more, comforting you, pulling you away from all this. From him.

It was a tempting proposition, you had to give him that.

The promise of safety. Of silence. Of finally breathing without the constant weight of eyes watching, judging, threatening. If he could really assure that, if he could promise you a world where Lex Luthor wasn’t a shadow at your back… You might just give in.

You had nothing left anyway. Nothing but your life. And right now, that felt like the most worthless thing of all.

But then, before you could argue back, a small, knowing smile tugged at the corner of his lips. Just the faintest glint of something lighter behind the concern.

“I never said anything about Metropolis,” he said softly, with a quiet kind of defiance.

What the hell were you doing here?

In a car. Headed to god knows where. And sitting next to the man who, in a way, had put you in this mess to begin with. Superman had convinced you to trust Clark Kent, insisting the reporters could protect you better than anyone else. That he—Superman—would always be nearby, watching from the shadows, ready to step in if Lex ever found out.

You didn’t know why you trusted him. Maybe it was the look in his eyes, so full of concern and quiet determination.

Maybe it was something else.

So here you were. For the past seven hours, you’d been curled up in the passenger seat of Clark Kent’s car, heading out of Metropolis. The road ahead was dark and endless, and the farther you got, the lighter you felt.

For now, it was a peaceful ride. The heater hummed softly, the music playing low and unobtrusive. Clark didn’t talk much, which you appreciated. He seemed to understand you weren’t quite ready for conversation.

He’d shown up at your door at exactly 7 p.m., just like Superman had promised. Same concerned look. Same gentle voice. That same quiet steadiness that made you say yes before you could second guess yourself.

Now, after hours on the road, you were beginning to realize just how similar the two men were. Too similar. It was strange, every time you looked at Clark for more than a few seconds, something pulled at the edges of your mind. Nothing overtly wrong. He was handsome, annoyingly so, you’d admitted that around hour two of the car ride. But there was something… off. Familiar.

Yet completely out of place. You shifted slightly in your seat, your fingers brushing the strange phone he’d given you earlier, sleek and impossibly light, clearly not something off the shelf. Courtesy of Mr. Terrific, Clark had said, untraceable. The device had only two contacts programmed in : Clark Kent and Superman.

Two names, side by side. Almost like two sides of the same coin.

Clark Kent. Superman.

By hour eight, the safety of being far from Metropolis and the lull of the moonlight hanging high above had made you a little petty. Restless. Bold, maybe. Or maybe just fed up.

After all, you were stuck in a car with the reason you'd had to flee your entire life. If Clark had just dropped it, had actually listened to you when you warned him weeks ago, none of this would have been necessary. You would still leave your miserable life, but at least, you'd be home.

But no, he had to snoop in.

"You know what?" you said suddenly, eyes narrowing as you looked at him sideways.

He glanced at you, quick and cautious, like someone easing into a trap. One brow arched in confusion, a tentative smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “No?”

You turned your body a little more toward him, expression sharp. “This whole mess? It’s your fault.”

You didn’t even raise your voice. You didn’t need to. It landed like a punch anyway. Clark blinked. The smile dropped. You could see it hit him, and part of you hated how guilty he looked, because it meant he already knew you were right.

“So I’ve been told,” he replied softly. “Just know I never meant for any of this to come back on you. This was never supposed to boomerang in your direction.”

You scoffed, dry and sharp. “Oh, yeah? Then who was it supposed to boomerang on, Kent? Please, enlighten me.”

The sarcasm dripped off every word, venomous and tired.

Gone was the woman who broke down sobbing on a rooftop under thunderclouds. That version of you had receded into the shadows, tucked away where no one could see her. In her place now was the version the world expected. The one who wore tailored suits and litigation like armour. The Head of Legal. Ice-blooded, sharp-tongued, impossible to shake.

Not quite you. Not quite not you either.

Clark didn’t answer right away. He kept his hands on the wheel, eyes on the road, the soft hum of tires filling the silence. But his jaw clenched. Just enough for you to notice.

“In a perfect world? Your brother,” he admitted, after a few seconds of silence. His sigh was heavy, resigned, even.

You bit your tongue before another petty remark could slip out. It wouldn’t change anything. And truth be told, he was helping. Whether it was because Superman told him to, or because Clark Kent genuinely wanted to, it didn’t matter. He was here. And that was more than most people had ever done for you.

So instead, you chose to shift the conversation.

“Where are we even going, anyway?” you asked, eyes drifting out the window into the thick darkness. Every road sign you passed only confused you more, you couldn’t piece together the route.

“Somewhere safe,” he answered, maddeningly vague.

You snorted, unable to help yourself. “You sound like you’re gonna murder me in the middle of nowhere, Kent.”

It was his turn to laugh, a warm, low sound that curled in your chest in a way you didn’t expect.

“I don’t think I’d live very long after that,” he said, a playful edge to his voice. “Not with your new little friend watching over you.”

There was a glint in his eye as he glanced sideways at you, and something in his tone made the hairs on your neck rise, not from fear, but from a flicker of recognition. Familiar. Almost too familiar.

“You’d get a thank-you letter from Lex, though,” you joked lightly. “And that means a lot in a city he practically owns.”

Clark’s smile vanished almost instantly. The mention of your brother had yanked him right back to reality, reminding him of why you were really here, why you’d spent the last eight hours tucked into the passenger seat of his car, fleeing the only life you’d ever known.

Silence settled between you again, heavy but not uncomfortable. The quiet hum of the tires against the road and the soft rhythm of the engine created a strange kind of peace. The car was warm, the music still playing low, something old and soothing.

Your body, pushed to the edge for days, finally began to surrender. The tension in your shoulders loosened. Your eyelids grew heavier with each blink. It had been a brutal week. You’d run on power naps and caffeine and sheer will.

And now, somehow, this car felt like the safest place in the world.

So you let your guard down. Just for a moment. Just to rest your eyes. As Clark kept driving into the night, your breathing slowed, and sleep took you before you even realized it had come.

You jolted awake as the driver’s door slammed shut. Disoriented, your heart kicked up in your chest as you blinked rapidly, trying to get your bearings. Your neck ached from the awkward angle you'd slept in, stiff and sore from hours pressed against the window.

Squinting into the sunlight, you groaned. The sun was already high in the sky, blinding and unapologetic. Glancing down at your phone, you read 9:57 a.m.

Shit. You’d slept far longer than you'd meant to.

Pushing open your door, you stepped outside, wincing as you stretched your limbs, popping joints and shaking off the lingering fog of sleep.

“Morning,” came a voice behind you.

You turned, blinking again, and saw Clark Kent standing next to the car, casually filling up the gas tank like he hadn’t just driven fourteen hours straight. His shirt was barely wrinkled, hair still mostly in place, and he looked fresh.

Not even remotely tired.

"Are we close yet?" you asked, squinting as you looked around, trying to piece together where the hell you were. Some tiny, nowhere town in the Midwest, Indiana or Illinois, maybe. Either way, very far from Metropolis.

"About another eight hours or so," Clark replied casually, like that was completely normal.

You frowned at him, studying his face. No dark circles, no signs of fatigue, not even a yawn. Maybe he’d pulled over during the night to sleep and you’d just slept through it? But you doubted it. You were a light sleeper, and the car stopping would’ve definitely woken you.

“What?” he asked with a small laugh, noticing your suspicious expression.

“What?” you echoed mockingly. “You’re seriously gonna drive like what… twenty-two hours straight? Without a single ounce of sleep? Are you on drugs or something?”

He snorted. “No drugs, no.” You raised an eyebrow, unconvinced. Clark just grinned, annoyingly unreadable. “Just built different, I guess.”

"Built different? That’s it?" you muttered, still not buying it. "Well, I hope you don’t drive us into a freaking tree because you’re built different," you grumbled under your breath, already turning away as you headed toward the small convenience store by the gas pumps.

Coffee. That would fix your mood. Hopefully.

The little bell above the door chimed as you stepped into the nearly empty shop. A teenage girl stood behind the counter, completely absorbed in her phone. She didn’t glance up, not that you cared. You weren’t in the mood for small talk.

Wandering the narrow aisles, you grabbed a few snacks for the road and the least bored-looking book they had on a spinning rack. The coffee machine was either out of order or didn’t exist, so you settled for a canned iced latte from the fridge. As an afterthought, and maybe out of guilt, you grabbed a second one. If Clark didn’t like it, you’d just drink both.

At the counter, the girl scanned your things at a snail’s pace, barely lifting her gaze. You told her to add the gas pump Clark had just been at. But before you could pull out your credit card, a large, warm hand wrapped gently around your wrist.

"You don’t wanna do that," Clark said calmly, stepping up beside you. He slipped a folded wad of cash from his coat pocket and handed it to the girl.

Suddenly, the cashier perked up, her phone forgotten as she blinked up at Clark like he’d just dropped from the sky. You couldn’t blame her. He was handsome. And kind. In that steady, patient, maddeningly unbothered way.

Back in the car, your sour mood returned like a headache that wouldn’t quite leave.

“I could pay, you know?” you muttered as you buckled your seatbelt with a little more force than necessary. “I probably have more money than you.”

A smirk tugged at Clark’s lips as he started the engine. “Oh yeah, my bad,” he said casually, letting the words stretch a beat too long. Then he added, with a touch of mock innocence, “You know, you could just call your brother, tell him exactly where we are. How does that sound?”

His tone was light, but the edge in it was unmistakable. Your eyes narrowed. It was his turn to be snarky, and unfortunately, he was good at it.

You disappearing after Lex’s threat told him everything he needed to know. You hadn’t needed to say a word, Lex never needed much. And you both knew he’d stop at nothing to find you. Pulling your bank records wouldn't been hard either. Not when he practically owned the bank.

You didn’t answer. You were too proud for that. Instead, you turned your face toward the window, watching the endless stretch of land roll by. Without a word, you reached into the plastic bag at your feet and handed him one of the iced lattes you’d grabbed at the gas station.

He took it instantly, barely a pause. The can disappeared from your fingers like he’d been waiting for it. You heard him chuckle, soft and breathy, almost like he hadn’t meant to. A whisper of amusement. It lingered for a second longer than it should have.

You didn’t look at him. You just let the silence stretch between you again, quiet, but not empty.

The rest of the drive passed quietly, a kind of exhausted peace settling over the car. Around midday, you’d stopped for lunch at a small roadside diner in Kansas City, one of those unremarkable places with red vinyl booths and chipped coffee mugs. That’s when he finally had told you where you were going.

Kansas. Specifically, Smallville. Even more specifically, his childhood home.

It had been awkward, to say the least. The words had hung between you like something delicate and misplaced. You were going to stay with Clark Kent’s parents. You were going to sleep under the same roof where he’d grown up, eat meals at the same table he had as a kid.

Had you been together, it might’ve felt like something monumental, a next step kind of moment. A milestone for the scrapbook. But you weren’t his girlfriend. You weren’t even sure what you were.

A witness? A burden? Another helpless case? Still, he hadn’t hesitated. And maybe that was the strangest part.

He explained that he had taken ten days off, claiming a family emergency. You couldn’t help but notice how conveniently timed it was, for both of you to disappear at once. Lex would connect the dots easily. He always did.

But Clark had reassured you: his parents’ place wasn’t on any record. It hadn’t been for years. He’d made sure of that.

It struck you as odd. He wasn’t a criminal, why go to such lengths to keep them hidden?

He’d just laughed, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Exactly for situations like this,” he had said. “Working at the Daily Planet means going after people with real power, no conscience, and a long reach. You don’t poke the devil without having somewhere safe to run.”

A safe haven. And right now, it was the only one you had.

Finally arriving at the Kent farm, you felt unmistakably out of place.

You were a city girl, through and through. Your tailored coat and designer boots stood out like a sore thumb against the backdrop of open fields and grazing cattle. The air smelled fresh, too fresh. You were used to exhaust fumes, coffee shops, and wet pavement. Not dew-covered grass and distant hay. There wasn’t a neighbor in sight, just endless land stretching toward the horizon. It was peaceful. Isolated. A perfect hidden haven.

You’d braced yourself for a lie, certain Clark would come up with some excuse to explain your presence, an old friend needing a break, a colleague tagging along for fresh air. But when he introduced you to his parents, he told them the truth. Every word of it.

He told them how he’d gone poking around places he shouldn’t have, how that had put you in danger, not him. How you'd been left to deal with the fallout while he got to keep writing. “That’s why I had to help her,” he said. Simple. Honest. Sincere.

It caught you off guard, how human he was. How kind. The past three years of your life had been about leverage, power plays, cold threats and airtight lawsuits. You were always the hammer, and others were always the nails. You had buried people’s reputations without losing sleep. But Clark Kent wasn’t like that.

He hadn’t asked for anything in return. Not a confession, not information, not even details about the secret project that had started this whole mess. He had simply brought you here, because it was the right thing to do.

And it didn’t take long, just one meal at the dinner table, to see exactly where he got it from. The Kents were among the kindest people you’d ever met. Genuine warmth radiated from them, compassion, patience, trust. They welcomed you without question, offered you food, a room, and the kind of quiet grace you hadn’t known you were missing.

They didn’t want anything from you. And somehow, that unraveled something deep in your chest more than any threat ever could.

“Well, it’s not much, but…” Clark trailed off, glancing around the room like he was seeing it for the first time. “Yeah.”

He looked awkward now, scratching the back of his neck, shifting his weight from foot to foot. The guest room wasn’t anything fancy: just a bed, a dresser, and a mirror. The wallpaper was fading at the edges, and the floor creaked when you stepped on it. But there was warmth here. And peace.

“It’s perfect,” you said, a soft smile tugging at your lips. “Thank you, Clark.”

His shoulders relaxed a little at your words, and the tension he’d been holding in his jaw softened. That awkward smile returned to his face, shy, boyish, almost bashful.

“I’ll, uh… let you settle in,” he said, backing toward the door like he suddenly didn’t know what to do with his hands. “Bathroom’s just down the hall. If you need anything... I’m just across the hall.”

“Goodnight, Clark,” you said softly, your voice barely above a whisper.

He paused at the door, turning slightly with that familiar, gentle smirk. “Goodnight, Miss Luthor.”

Even after only a few hours in this house, you understood now where Clark Kent’s kindness and unwavering sense of morality came from. Was this what a real, loving family felt like?

Later, lying on the guest bed after your shower, tears returned, slow and quiet. How had it come to this? How had your family shattered so completely that you were now hiding from your own brother? When had Lex become someone so ruthless, so untouchable, so far above the law?

The sheets smelled like lavender and woodsmoke, a scent so unfamiliar it only made you feel more out of place. You turned to your side, staring at the wall as if it held answers. But there were none. Just silence, and the soft creaking of the old house settling into the night.

The quiet here was different than in Metropolis. There, silence came with the hum of neon lights and distant sirens, noise that reminded you you were still alive, still in motion. But this, this quiet made your thoughts louder, crueler. Every regret screamed a little louder in your head.

You should have said something years ago. You should have fought harder, sooner. You should have said no. Maybe then your life wouldn't be reduced to running, hiding in someone else’s safe haven.

You clutched the blanket a little tighter. Somewhere in this quiet house, Clark was probably still awake. Maybe writing, maybe just thinking. Maybe wondering if you were okay. You weren’t.

You closed your eyes and let the tears come again. Softer this time, slower. You didn’t sob. There was no energy left for that. Just salt and silence and the quiet ache of someone who had spent too long holding everything in.

Just across the hall, the man’s heart quietly broke. Clark sat on the edge of his childhood bed, hands clasped between his knees, eyes trained on the wooden floor like it might somehow offer a solution. But all he could hear was you, silently weeping.

Guilt was eating him alive.

He hadn’t listened to you. He’d kept digging, kept pushing, even looped in Mr. Terrific for help, convinced he was doing the right thing. But all it had done was draw unwanted attention. And not onto him. It had landed on you.

All because he had made that call.

The image of you standing on the edge of that rooftop haunted him. Something in him had cracked wide open when he saw you there, your posture brittle, your eyes hollow, like the life had been drained out of you. He couldn’t shake the thought : This is my fault.

With a heavy sigh, Clark laid back on his bed and closed his eyes, willing the ache in his chest to dull. But it didn’t.

Whatever it took, no matter the cost, he would make this right. He would tear down Lex Luthor’s empire.

And he would set you free.

It took a couple of days to finally settle into the rhythm of life at the Kent farm.

You tried to help out wherever you could. Mornings began early, walking through the fields alongside Jonathan, tending to the cows. At first, you felt completely out of place, the cliché city girl, useless with her hands and awkward in the dirt. But Jonathan never laughed. He didn’t mock or criticise. Instead, he stayed patient, calmly guiding you when you made mistakes, his voice always steady and kind.

After lunch, you'd join Martha by the chicken coop to collect eggs for dinner. She often filled the quiet with stories about Clark’s childhood or the latest gossip from the town market. You weren’t allowed to go into town, everyone had agreed it was best to avoid attention, but you found yourself eagerly listening to her tales, learning the names of townsfolk you’d never meet and becoming surprisingly invested in their dramas.

The Kents had told you more than once that you didn’t need to do any of this. They insisted rest was what you deserved, especially after everything Clark had told them. They thought you needed peace. And maybe they were right. But you couldn’t sit still for long. The silence gave space for darker thoughts to creep in. Helping around the farm was the only thing that seemed to keep your mind quiet.

Clark helped around the farm too. When he wasn’t out in the fields with his pa or fixing something around the barn, he was on the phone with someone from the Daily Planet or typing furiously on his laptop. So much for a “family emergency,” you’d joked once, raising an eyebrow at him.

He had laughed, genuinely, that quiet, warm laugh that made his dimples show, and replied, “News doesn’t wait.”

You were pretty sure that wasn’t the actual saying, but you let it slide. The way he said it, you almost believed it was.

It was about an hour before dinner. Clark’s parents chatted softly in the kitchen while Martha moved around preparing the meal. You sat on the couch, trying to focus on the book in your hands, but it was nearly impossible with Clark just a few meters away, perched at the dining table, typing away on his laptop.

The look of concentration on his face was one of the most captivating things you’d ever seen. His eyebrows furrowed slightly, lips bitten in focus, fingers dancing over the keys, and when he paused to jot down notes in his little notebook, you caught yourself staring at those unexpectedly graceful hands. Since when did he have such pretty hands?

Shaking your head, you tried to force your attention back to the pages in front of you, but the steady clicking of the keyboard pulled you back. Your eyes locked on his slender fingers as they moved. You couldn’t stop your mind from wandering, imagining how those fingers might feel against your skin : curling around your hands, pressing softly to your throat, tracing paths between your legs.

Your heart quickened, breath catching as your thoughts spiralled. You shouldn’t be thinking like this, he was the reason you were tangled in this mess to begin with. But you didn’t hate him anymore. Maybe you never truly had.

In fact, you had envied him. His courage, his fearlessness. He did what you’d never managed to do, not scared of the consequences, while you’d hidden away like a coward. You hated yourself for it, more than you could admit. So much of that self-loathing had been projected onto Clark Kent.

“You alright?” His voice pulled you back from your daydream, soft but curious.

You hadn’t realized how tightly you’d squeezed your thighs together, searching for some kind of relief. Suddenly, the room felt unbearably warm, despite the crisp late October air outside. You could feel heat flushing your cheeks and neck.

“Yeah, yeah… I’m fine. Why?” You tried to sound casual, hiding the flutter in your voice.

“Well, I could hear your—” He cut himself off, a flicker of panic flashing in his eyes. “You just looked lost in thought.”

“Oh, yeah, sorry…” you apologised quickly, frowning at yourself. Why were you even apologising?

He brushed off your awkwardness with a gentle laugh before returning to his work. For the next hour, those restless, lustful thoughts kept sneaking into your mind, while Clark shot you sweet, knowing smirks from time to time, almost like he was aware.

Dinner was good, as always. It felt refreshing to share a meal with others, to sit around a warm family table instead of being alone in your cold Metropolis penthouse. This felt almost too good, and a part of you dreaded the day it would end.

So, when Jonathan suggested a poker night, you said yes without hesitation. Of course you did. You knew moments like this might never come again, and you wanted to savour every second. If that made you selfish, then so be it.

The game stretched well into the early morning before everyone finally agreed it was time to call it a night. Every one looked exhausted, but your mind refused to settle. You’d always considered yourself smart, but watching Clark quietly calculate his moves—counting cards, playing his tricks flawlessly, winning again and again without making a fuss like it was second nature—something stirred inside you.

That feeling spread, crawling from your brain down to somewhere much more intimate, a subtle, tingling heat that had been simmering for the past hour. You tried to focus, to play properly, but you kept losing. And the way his fingers toyed with the coins, the deliberate way he revealed his cards on the table, it was almost unbearable.

Now lying in your bed, your mind refused to quiet. Those thoughts crept in faster than you could push them away, relentless and insistent. You imagined his hands on your skin, his lips tracing yours, his deep voice murmuring close to your ear.

A warmth gathered between your thighs. At first, you tried to ignore it, close your eyes, tell yourself to sleep. But the images persisted, vivid and demanding. You saw him, naked and moving above you, the bed creaking with every thrust, his hand pressed firmly over your mouth to stifle your moans so you wouldn’t wake his parents.

You opened your eyes, breathing quick and shallow. You were burning up, both frustrated and aching.

It had been so long since you’d touched yourself, even longer since you’d shared a bed with someone. Without overthinking it, knowing it might ruin the moment, your hand slid inside your panties. You were drenched, soaked with desire.

Your other hand moved to your breast, first tracing over your shirt, but when that wasn’t enough, you shed it quickly. Pinching and teasing your nipples, your fingers began their slow dance on your clit. Eyes closed again, you imagined those hands, bigger, warmer, gentler, how soft they’d feel, how small you’d seem beneath their touch, as they traced every inch of you.

You let out a shaky breath, your body arching slightly against the bedsheet as your fingers circled over your clit in lazy, experimental strokes. Every movement sent a thrill through you, a contrast to the heavy silence of the house. The distant sound of the wind outside barely registered over the pounding of your own heartbeat.

Your mind refused to stop painting him there, Clark. His mouth against your neck, trailing slowly down your body with a patience that felt unbearable. You imagined him watching you now, those deep, perceptive eyes noticing every twitch, every sigh. Would he kneel beside the bed, take over without a word, his calloused fingers replacing yours, teasing you until you begged?

The need to moan his name burned at the edge of your throat, threatening to slip out with every gasp. But you bit down hard on your lower lip, your teeth sinking into soft flesh until you tasted copper. A sting of pain. A grounding sensation.

He was just across the hall. You glanced at the door when that thought crossed your mind.

That thought alone was enough to make your pulse race harder. One sound, one sigh too loud, and he'd heard you. The farmhouse was old. The wood creaked with the slightest shift. The walls were thin, not made to keep secrets.

You squeezed your eyes shut again, hand still moving against your slick heat, slower now, more purposeful. You imagined how his hand might replace yours, rough from typing all day, sure in its touch. Not teasing. Not hesitant. Like he knew what you needed before you even asked.

The ache grew sharper. Your thighs tightened as your hand moved faster, chasing that release you hadn’t realized you’d needed so badly. Your breath came out in short gasps now, quiet, but desperate. One hand pressed against your mouth out of instinct, muffling a soft moan as pleasure spread out in waves, warm and all-consuming.

When it finally released you, your body softened with a quiver, sweat cooling on your skin. Your thighs twitched. Your lip throbbed where you’d bitten it.

Lying there in the dark, you blinked up at the ceiling, heart still stuttering in your chest. It took some moment for your breathing to go back to normal, but you couldn't help thinking this wasn't enough. It had felt amazing, but your body craved more. Almost like Clark had put you in a trance, with his easy charm and dimpled smile.

Shaking your head, you got up when it all became too much. Slipping your shirt back on in haste, you quietly padded toward the door. Maybe some cold water would cool your flushed skin, maybe those herbal pills you always kept on hand would finally lull your mind to sleep.

Carefully, you cracked the door open, only to freeze when the door across the hall opened at the exact same time. Clark.

He looked, disheveled. Not just sleep-rumpled, but wrecked.

His hair was a wild mess, like he’d run his hands through it over and over. His chest rose and fell in shallow breaths, his cheeks tinged pink, and his glasses sat crooked on the bridge of his nose, as though he’d thrown them on in a hurry. His eyes widened when he saw you, surprised.

Caught. Which was odd. He always seemed to hear you coming.

The hallway was silent, save for the thunder of your heartbeat in your ears and the unmistakable sound of his heavy, uneven breathing. His shirt clung to his chest like he’d just worked up a sweat. Or hadn’t bothered to redress completely. Your gaze dropped for the briefest second, just a flicker, and then back to his face.

“Are you okay?” you whispered, careful not to wake his parents.

Clark opened his mouth, then closed it again, jaw tightening slightly. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed hard, clearly caught off guard. Not like him at all.“Uh, yeah. Just need to hum… use the bathroom.” His voice was low, almost hoarse.

You nodded, mirroring his awkwardness. The silence stretched a beat too long before your eyes drifted up to meet his, and not before you noticed the quick flick of his gaze. From your face, down to the outline of your breasts under your tank top then back up, almost too fast to catch.

Almost.

“Are you okay?” he asked next, his voice gentler now. Too soft. Too intimate.

“Yeah. Just… thirsty.” You meant water, but the way your eyes lingered on the way his shirt stretched around his arms told a different story. You were definitely thirsty. But for what, exactly, well, that answer was becoming harder to ignore.

“Okay,” he said after a pause, clearing his throat like he was trying to reset the tension.

“Okay,” you echoed, the word falling flat between you.

And then, without another glance, you both turned and hurried in opposite directions, your footsteps echoing in the quiet hall like the aftershock of something neither of you were ready to name.

Hastily making your way back to your room, you caught the soft glow of the bathroom light still spilling into the hallway. The door was closed. Still.

You didn’t linger. You didn’t want to know what he was doing in there.

The conversation, or whatever that awkward exchange had been, was still playing on a loop in your mind, each second replaying with fresh waves of secondhand embarrassment. The silence, the stolen glances, the heat.

You shut your bedroom door behind you with a quiet click, leaning back against it for a second. No way. He couldn't have been doing what you thought he had been doing…

Right?

And yet, the look on his face. His breathing. His flushed cheeks. The way his hand had been gripping the doorframe like he needed it to stay upright.

Fuck. You were getting bothered again.

You huffed out a breath, forcing yourself to focus, to move. Rummaging through your bag, you searched for the herbal pills that usually helped you sleep. Something, anything, to quiet your mind and body.

But instead of the soft bottle, your fingers brushed against something small and metallic. Frowning, you pulled it out. A sharp breath escaped your lips.

An old USB drive. That USB drive.

The one where you had dumped every scrap of evidence you found about Project Superman. All of it. The hidden files, the encrypted memos, the off-the-record lab reports. The pictures. Proof of what your brother had done. What he was doing. You had told yourself it was just leverage. A safety net. Something to keep in your back pocket if Lex ever turned on you.

But you had never planned to use it. Not really. You had been too scared. Too loyal. Too broken. Your fingers curled tight around the metal. It dug into your palm, grounding you in the now.

From beyond your door, you heard his shut, soft and final. Clark.

Superman had told you Clark could help, and you had trusted the metahuman. It had felt scary at that time, diving into the unknown.

But now? Now it was time to stop running. To stop hiding. To stop letting fear write your story.

It was time to trust Clark Kent.

For real.

“Here,” you said, slamming the USB drive onto the dining table, the same table that had become Clark’s makeshift desk over the past few days. “That’s everything you need to take Lex down.”

You didn’t wait for his reaction. Didn’t want to see it. Couldn’t.

Spinning on your heel, you headed for the door, where Jonathan was already waiting outside by the old truck. You were grateful he hadn’t come in to fetch you. Grateful you could escape before the weight of what you’d just done caught up to you.

The storm was coming. Jonathan had said so the night before at dinner, heavy wind, maybe even hail. There was work to do. Crops to secure. Cattle to shelter. It was the kind of hard, honest labor that demanded your full attention. The perfect distraction from the bomb you’d just dropped.

Clark had offered to help, of course, but his father had waved him off with a quiet look and a pat on the shoulder. “We’ve got it,” he’d said. “Besides, I think she wants to help.”

And you had.. Especially now.

Your hands still felt shaky from what you’d done, but the physical work steadied you. You had given Clark everything he needed. If he used it, if it worked, Lex could finally be exposed. Stripped of his power. Stopped.

But if Lex caught wind of it before justice came? If he vanished into the shadows with all his money, influence, and contingency plans? You’d be left to face the consequences alone. There’d be no more running. No more hiding.

Nothing in those documents mentioned your name. You weren’t cited, not even once. And that was good, because with a decent lawyer, you could walk away from this without consequences. It wasn’t the justice system you feared. It was your brother’s power.

And the unknown future.

What would you do, once Lex was behind bars? His downfall meant the end of your job. With a scandal of this scale, no reputable firm would want your name anywhere near their letterhead. That thought had twisted your stomach with dread before you’d handed Clark the USB. But still, you’d done it.

It was the right thing to do. You’d worry about the fallout later. When Lex was finally out of your life.

“Clark told us you was some kinda lawyer.” Jonathan said, getting you out of your mind. His tone easy but with something thoughtful behind it. Like an idea was forming.

You let out a soft snort, raising your eyebrows. “Technically, yeah. Got the diploma to prove it. Just haven’t done a whole lot of actual lawyering.” You tried to joke, but it came out a little too close to the truth. A little too heavy.

“I hate to ask, but…” He trailed off, the pain in his eyes surprising you.

It never failed to catch you off guard, how kind the Kents were. Genuinely human in a way that felt untouched by the kind of darkness you’d grown used to. As if tragedy had knocked but never found a way in.

“You can ask me anything, Mr. Kent. Really,” you said softly, meeting his gaze with something close to gratitude. If it mattered to him, then it mattered to you.

"You see, there’s this young man we hire every spring and summer to help out around the farm," Jonathan began, his eyes drifting toward the horizon instead of meeting yours. "There’s just too much work for the two of us sometimes, you know?"

You nodded gently, letting him continue at his own pace.

"He’s Mexican. Not many folks around here wanna do farm work anymore, not like the old days. But he’s a good kid, real good. Kind with the animals, never complains, not afraid to get his hands dirty. Works hard. Honest."

Jonathan’s voice tightened slightly, the weight of something unsaid hanging between you.

"He’s got a heart of gold, that one. But…" he hesitated again, rubbing a weathered hand across the back of his neck. "His papers aren’t exactly in order. And now, well, someone’s been sniffing around town asking questions."

He finally looked at you, something quietly desperate in his eyes. "I know it’s not your job, and you’ve already got so much on your plate. But I thought… maybe you could help him. Just take a look. Talk to him. Tell us what we should do."

For some reason, the way he spoke, with such genuine care for this young man, and the quiet embarrassment in asking for help, brought tears to your eyes. It hit you then : no one had ever cared for you like this. Not selflessly. Not without expecting something in return. Not the way the Kents cared about people.

"Of course I’ll help," you said, your voice barely above a whisper, as a single tear slipped down your cheek.

You hadn’t expected it, but Jonathan gently pulled you into a warm, fatherly hug. It had been so long since someone held you like that, like you were precious, like you mattered. Like someone truly cared.

You’d only known him for about a week, but somehow, he already treated you like family. Like someone worth trusting.

If he had known you before all of this, back when you were still hiding behind sharp suits and sharper lies, you were certain he would’ve seen you as something else entirely. Cold. Ruthless. Maybe even a monster.

But now, melting into his embrace, you let yourself feel. Really feel. A few tears slipped free, but you didn’t hide them. Not this time. Because in that moment, you weren’t being judged. You weren’t being pitied.

You were just appreciated.

The rest of the day passed in a blur of hard but honest work. The cows were restless, as if they could sense the approaching storm. The mothers stuck close to their calves, letting out low, warning moos every time you got too near. Milking them had been a challenge, they weren’t having it, but you weren’t about to leave them full and aching until tomorrow. They didn’t deserve that kind of discomfort.

By the time the sun began to set, dark clouds had already taken over the sky. The wind howled across the fields, fierce and fast. Walking back toward the house felt like trying to walk through a hurricane, it tugged at your clothes, your hair, nearly lifting you off your feet.

You laughed despite yourself, catching sight of Martha running after the last few chickens, ushering them into the coop and locking it up tight for the night.

But the moment you stepped into the house, the laughter drained from your face.

There he was, Clark Kent, zipping up a bag.

He looked up, almost like he’d sensed your presence. His brows furrowed when he caught the look on your face.

“What you gave me…” he began, carefully, as if trying not to startle you. Or say the wrong thing. “I can’t do this alone. It’s too much. We only get one shot at this, and I can’t afford to screw it up. Not if it means you’ll get hurt.”

“You’re leaving?” you asked quietly, eyes flicking from the bag back to his face. He nodded. Your gaze shifted to the storm now raging outside. “But… the storm.”

“It’ll hit in a few hours. I’ll be out of Kansas by then,” he said gently, even though the thunder was already rumbling in the distance. His voice was soft, reassuring, but you could see the tension in his jaw. “Don’t worry about me.”

You could tell he wasn’t lying, but he was definitely hiding something. Biting your lip, you nodded gently, unsure of what to say. The week you’d spent here had been one of the best of your life. And it wasn’t just because of the gentle kindness of his parents, it was because of him.

What you’d once assumed was a cocky reporter, willing to do anything for a front-page story, turned out to be the sweetest, kindest man you’d ever met. He was a bit goofy, hopelessly nerdy about certain topics, but never once did he mock anyone. Never once did he act like he knew better, or like he was above the people around him. He believed, truly believed, that there was still good in the world.

Even in you.

And somehow, through his gentle patience and quiet presence, he made you feel at home. He never pushed. Never demanded answers about your brother, even though you’d told Superman you would share what you knew.

Clark had just waited. With warmth. With humour. With dimpled smiles. With a softness that felt like sunlight after too many years in the cold. He had been patient. Kind. Funny. And so incredibly sweet.

And you were only realising it now, just as it was ending.

Clark leaving Smallville meant your brother was going to be exposed. It meant that soon, you’d either be safe to return to Metropolis and try to start over… or you’d have to disappear forever, vanish before Lex could find you.

Either way, Clark didn’t belong in either version of that future. He wouldn’t be part of your life.

And that broke your heart. This wasn’t just him leaving town. This was goodbye.

A forever kind of goodbye.

The weight of that truth hit you hard, and tears slid silently down your cheeks before you could stop them. It felt unfair, the way you were reacting. Selfish, even.

Because he was doing the right thing. The brave thing. The thing you had once been too afraid to do. And you? You were no one to him. Just a stranger he’d offered a hand to while you were drowning. That’s what you had told yourself, what you had clung to in the quiet moments to keep from hoping too much.

But now you realized, it was more than that. He made you feel warm. He made you feel safe. Like maybe you weren’t broken beyond repair. Like maybe you deserved more than just survival. And now he was walking out the door, carrying all of that with him.

"Hey," Clark said, just above a whisper, stepping toward you with that familiar gentleness that made your chest ache. "When I come back, all of this will be over. We're going to do things right. He won’t get away. I promise."

God. The gentle soul he was.

He thought the tears were from fear, fear of what was coming, fear of retaliation, of the unknown. And sure, part of you was scared. But the real reason your heart was breaking was something else entirely. It made no sense.

You’d truly known him for a week. Seven days.

It was rushed. Unreasonable. Too much, too fast. And yet, in that short time, he had looked at you like you mattered. Like you weren’t just Lex Luthor’s sister or some tainted shadow of a woman walking through her own life. He made you laugh. He made you feel seen.

Not like your parents ever had. Not like Lex ever could. Not even the men you’d let close before, who saw only your face or your name, but never you.

Here, in this small safe heaven, you had been yourself. Your real self.

You had laughed. Joked. Talked until midnight with people who didn’t want anything from you. You had gossiped in the kitchen and helped mend fences. You had been happy. In just a small, fleeting week.

And now he was leaving. And your heart didn’t know how to hold itself together.

Without thinking, you threw yourself into his arms, wrapping around him as best you could, given how much taller he was. His arms instinctively closed around you, strong and warm, pulling you into the safety of his chest.

Behind you, the back door creaked open, followed by a small gasp of surprise, then the quiet click of it shutting again. Silence settled in the room, thick and still. You and Clark stood alone in the living room, though you could feel the eyes watching from outside. His parents. They were giving you this moment.

A soft, genuine smile tugged at your lips. They truly loved their son.

His body felt strangely familiar. Like you’d stood here before, wrapped in this exact embrace. A strange, aching déjà vu pulled at your chest. A memory you couldn't place. A feeling you couldn't explain. As if, somehow, you had been here already.

Breaking the hug, you noticed the rosy tint on his ears, his cheeks flushed to match. You could feel the heat on your own face, knowing you weren’t any better.

“Thank you, Clark,” you whispered, voice barely audible. “Truly.”

Then, with the last bit of courage you had left, you rose onto your tiptoes and pressed a gentle kiss to his cheek.

You owed him more than words could say. And with time, you hoped you’d find a way to give it back, to him, and to his parents.

With Clark gone, the days felt a little grimmer.

You still helped around the farm, but those long afternoons spent quietly sharing space with him were over. You didn’t want to intrude on Martha and Jonathan’s intimate moments either, they’d earned their peace. So, you found yourself alone again. But somehow, it didn’t hurt as much. You were starting to appreciate yourself again and even the silence. The thoughts that once plagued you were mostly quiet now.

It helped that Jonathan brought Luis around not long after Clark left. He hadn’t been lying, Luis was just a kid, and a very sweet one at that. He came with all his paperwork, every document and paychecks he’d received. You went through them all, piece by piece.

Helping him felt good. It felt right. Like this was what you were always meant to do. This was why you went to law school. Not to make the rich richer, but to help people. To do good. To give back.

Word spread quickly that the Kents were housing a lawyer willing to help. Soon, people were showing up daily, asking for guidance, hoping not to lose their homes, or their jobs, or custody of their children. And when Luis returned one day, clutching his official American papers, the news travelled like wildfire.

After that, your days on the farm were done. You no longer had time to milk cows or fix fences. But Jonathan and Martha never said a word. They were just happy you were helping people, like family did.

Whatever slow moments you had, you spent them scrolling the Daily Planet website, waiting. Hoping to see a big article with Clark’s name under it. But it never happened.

Not after a few days.

Not after a week.

Not after a month.

There was so much on that USB key, and you knew it was a one-shot deal, they couldn’t afford to mess this up. Still, you had hoped the fallout would be quick. You loved the farm, but you longed to be back in the city. Now that you understood how powerful you could be when you did your job right, there were so many people in Metropolis you wanted to help.

Clark texted every few days. He told you things were going well, that they were making progress at the Daily Planet. He asked how you were doing, and he said he was proud of what you were accomplishing, his Ma told him all about it. Every little texts of his filled you with warmth.

Sitting down on the couch, you let yourself enjoy a rare moment of peace before your next appointment arrived. Appointment, that word still made you smile. Back at LuthorCorp, you’d never taken appointments. Everything had been done through layers of emails, assistants, and pressure. Nothing like this.

Cradling your tea, you watched the winter sunlight settle across the fields, December leaving its quiet trace on the farm. The wind outside shook the windows lightly, and the kettle still hissed faintly in the kitchen.

You were lost in the calm until Martha’s voice called your name from down the hall. Looking up, you saw her leaning slightly around the doorway, her apron dusted with flour. “Would you mind grabbing Clark’s radio from his room? The one in the kitchen finally gave up.”

“Of course,” you said with a soft smile, rising to your feet.

You had never actually stepped into Clark’s room before. You’d only caught glimpses through a half-open door when he was still home. It felt personal. Like you were trespassing on something private. But you pushed the feeling aside and walked in carefully, quietly.

His room smelled faintly of cedar and something else, something familiar. The walls were lined with old posters, framed articles, photographs of the Kents, and a few hard-earned trophies from another life.

Then you spotted the radio near the window.

Just as you stepped toward it, something red caught your eye, half-hidden behind the bookshelf, draped carelessly like someone had shoved it there in a hurry. You squinted, drawn to it by instinct. Your fingers reached out, brushing over the fabric. It was soft, unnaturally smooth almost and familiar.

You tugged gently, freeing the red cloth from where it had been wedged. And then you saw it, fully.

Superman's cape.

You gasped, a quiet, involuntary sound escaping your lips as your hand tightened around the fabric. Of course. It all made sense now.

Why his body had felt familiar. Why he was never tired, no matter how long the days stretched. Why Superman had said Clark could help. Why Clark looked at you with such real concern, as if he knew your pain firsthand.

Your thoughts spiralled, the weight of the truth crashing down on you like a wave.

Then, another gasp, loud and sharp, cut through your haze. Followed by Martha’s voice, shouting your name.

Heart pounding, you sprinted toward the kitchen, but froze in the living room. The television was on, the screen glowing bright. Martha and Jonathan were standing still, their eyes wide, glistening with tears they hadn’t yet let fall.

Your gaze followed theirs to the screen.

Lex Luthor Arrested After Daily Planet Accuses Him of Human Trafficking and Other Crimes

That was the headline. Everything stopped. They did it.

You were free.

Home. Finally.

It felt strange to be back.

Clark hadn’t been able to return to Kansas, but he had booked you a flight to Metropolis, along with a taxi waiting at the airport. You knew why. It was all over the news. Superman had been needed.

Lex hadn’t gone down quietly. His arrest had made headlines around the world, but it was the footage of Superman, restraining him, shielding civilians from his outbursts, that had dominated every screen. There was no way Clark could just vanish back to the quiet of Smallville right now.

Your penthouse hadn’t changed. It was still cold. Still too quiet. Still not home.

You’d taken a long shower, trying to wash away the dust of the farm, the small guilt of having turned your back on your own blood. Your old phone, finally charged again, buzzed relentlessly with texts, missed calls, emails, hundreds of them. From old colleagues, contacts, reporters. People wanting answers, or wanting to know if you were okay. Or worse, if you were complicit.

You wandered through the apartment slowly, your eyes catching every tiny detail. It had been searched. Meticulously so, almost invisible. But you knew. You felt it. Drawers slightly off, a coat pocket turned the wrong way, your files just a touch out of alignment. Lex must have sent someone after you disappeared.

You were so focused, checking every corner, scanning every surface for hidden mics or cameras, that you didn’t notice the figure landing silently on your balcony.

The metahuman stood there quietly at first, watching you. Admiring you. He felt a pang of guilt. You clearly had no idea he was there yet, no idea he’d come. You were barely dressed, just an oversized shirt draped over your body, brushing the tops of your thighs, leaving your legs bare. It looked like you had been ready to call it a night. He couldn't blame you, it was late, and he had meant to arrive earlier. But the world had other plans, and so had Lex.

Still, there you were, moving with a quiet intensity, checking corners and closets. Clearly worried. Clearly unsettled. You weren’t just back in Metropolis, you were back in enemy territory. You were searching for anything Lex might have left behind.

Understanding immediately, he activated his X-ray vision, scanning the walls, shelves, electronics. Nothing. No bugs, no hidden cameras. You were safe. Satisfied, he let out a soft breath.

You jumped when you heard the knock on the glass door behind you. But the moment your eyes found him, standing tall in the red and blue, your tension melted into a smile.

Superman. Clark.

And now that you knew, they were one and the same, it was impossible not to see it. How had you missed it? The same dark hair, the same kind, thoughtful eyes. The same dimpled smile that made your stomach flutter.

You were sure of only one thing in that moment, you were safe now.

Rushing to the door, you threw it open without hesitation, and then threw yourself into his arms. He caught you instantly, as if it was second nature. As if he had been waiting for that exact moment, arms open just for you.

It felt strange to feel this way again, relieved, happy, safe. Relaxed.

You had almost forgotten what that felt like. Your days had long been filled with fatigue, stress, and a dull kind of numbness that clung to your skin like a second layer. Even back in Smallville, where the quiet and the kindness had started to peel it away, it had still lingered, dormant, but ever-present.

But right now, here in Superman’s arms? It was gone. There was only warmth. Strength. And the overwhelming calm that came from knowing, finally, that you didn’t have to carry everything alone.

“You did it,” you whispered, your cheek pressed against his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart. Strong. Constant. Comforting.

“I didn’t do anything,” he replied softly, humble as ever. “It was all you… and Clark.”

That made you laugh, a soft, breathy sound muffled against him. Looking up, you tilted your head back, stretching to meet his gaze as he leaned down slightly.

His eyes.

God, those eyes.

An endless ocean of blue, warm, gentle, filled with hope and that quiet, unwavering kindness. The same eyes you’d seen every day in Smallville. The same eyes that watched you over a cup of coffee. That had crinkled with laughter when you made some dumb joke.

You could see it so clearly now.

Deciding to play along with his little charade, you smiled, something soft and knowing curling at the corners of your lips.

“Yeah, I haven’t seen Clark yet,” you said sweetly, feigning innocence as your gaze stayed locked with his. “You think he’ll be around soon?”

“He might be busy dealing with the fallout from the article,” Superman said, his voice steady but his posture shifting ever so slightly, like he was trying to find an exit that didn’t exist. “But I’m sure he’ll text you soon.”

“Hmm, yeah,” you murmured, finally stepping out of the embrace, letting your hands slide slowly away from him. The warmth lingered, but your tone had taken a teasing edge. “You two seem real close, aye?”

His eyes flicked to yours, briefly amused, mostly flustered.

You folded your arms across your chest, tilting your head with one brow arched. “I mean, the way you talk about him… how you said he could help me, that he could be trusted. It’s almost like you’re two sides of the same coin.”

He let out a breath of a laugh, nervous, uncertain. “We get along well.”

You hummed at his answer, the corner of your mouth curving into a teasing smirk. “And physically, you’re very similar,” you added, your tone playfully innocent. “Same height, same build, same hair, same eyes… same cute, dimpled smile. Someone might even say you’re the same person.”

Superman opened his mouth, but no words came out. You caught the flicker of panic in his eyes, quickly replaced by something that looked an awful lot like resignation.

“And it’s strange,” you went on, stepping forward just slightly, “that Clark Kent is the only reporter who’s ever interviewed you. Yet… there are no pictures of the two of you together? It’s almost like no one’s ever seen you in the same place at the same time.”

His jaw twitched, barely. But you caught it.

A beat passed, tense, heavy with unspoken truths. His cape fluttered gently in the breeze drifting in from the balcony, but he didn’t move. He just watched you with those painfully familiar eyes.

“Coincidence,” he said finally, though not even he sounded convinced.

“Mmhmm.” You arched your eyebrow higher, letting the silence speak louder than your words. He shifted, just slightly, and ran a hand behind his neck, Clark’s tell. The exact nervous habit you’d seen a couple of times before.

“Yeah, must be,” you added, nonchalant, turning back toward the open window.

Behind you, you heard a soft sigh, the kind that sounded suspiciously like relief. It brought a slow, wicked smile to your lips. He didn't think you were that clueless, did he?

“Oh, and it’s also just a coincidence that Clark Kent happened to have Superman’s cape tucked away in his old bedroom?” you said over your shoulder, turning around just in time to catch the relief drain from his face.

He closed his eyes, the smallest groan escaping him, then shook his head with a tight, sheepish smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

He opened his eyes again, no glasses now, no disguise, and for the first time, he let you really see him. Not as Superman. Not as Clark Kent. Just him.

“You weren’t supposed to find that,” he said softly, almost embarrassed.

You shrugged, your smile still lingering. “You left it in plain sight.”

“It was behind a bookshelf.” He deadpanned.

"Blame your mom," you replied quickly, raising your hand in defence. "She's the one that send me in your room."

That earned a quiet laugh from him, but there was a nervous energy underneath it. You could see the vulnerability now, the way he stood slightly straighter, like bracing for impact.

“I just knew there was something so familiar about the two of you,” you said, eyes narrowing slightly as you tried to fish for more answers. “I just couldn’t figure out what.”

“It’s the glasses,” he admitted with a sigh. “They’re designed to distort facial recognition, subtle enough to confuse the brain, make it hard to fully picture my face. Courtesy of Mr. Terrific.”

“They look cute,” you admitted with a teasing smile. “Almost as cute as the guy wearing them.”

You were shooting your shot. If not now, then when? Your heart thundered in your chest, terrified he might just turn and leaven, vanish off your balcony and out of your life.

His eyes snapped to yours, darker now, swimming with an emotion you didn’t dare name. “Your heart…” he whispered, taking in a deep breath like he was trying to calm his own.

Dread crashed over you. He could hear it. He could hear your heart. He had heard you. Oh no.

Oh fuck.

You gasped, slapping a hand over your mouth as your eyes went wide with embarrassment. The realisation dawned on his face, and with it, a slow, smug grin that turned him from sweet and sincere to infuriating.

“Oh yeah,” he said, sniffing lightly, voice dropping into something teasing and low. “I heard that, too.”

Heat rushed to your cheeks and down your neck. You opened your mouth, trying to come up with an explanation, but nothing came. What could you say? That his intelligence had turned you on so badly you ended up touching yourself? Yeah, no. That definitely wouldn’t do.

Trying to save face, and maybe flip the power dynamic, you raised your chin and replied, voice just as smug, “Well, I seem to remember you looked pretty bothered yourself.”

That shut him up.

The grin faded, laughter dying in his throat. His eyes locked on yours, a different kind of tension suddenly filling the space between you. The playful air cracked into something heavier, charged, as if the truth had landed and neither of you knew what to do with it.

The atmosphere shifted instantly, thickening with unspoken desire.

“It was hard not to be when you sounded so sweet,” he murmured, voice dropping even deeper, his dark eyes locked on yours. You caught the quick gulp, the subtle bob of his Adam’s apple. Your heart hammered wildly in your chest, threatening to burst.

He must have heard it too.

Moving closer with careful intention, giving you the chance to pull away if you wanted, his soft hands cupped your cheek. Then, without warning, his lips crashed against yours, fierce and demanding.

The sudden contrast of emotions hit you like a whip.

Your breath hitched as his lips pressed firmly against yours, the heat of the kiss melting away all your worries, that had clung to you for so long. His hand moved gently from your cheek to cradle the back of your neck, pulling you closer as if you belonged there, like this was where you were meant to be.

For a moment, the world narrowed down to just the two of you, his warmth, his steady heartbeat beneath your palm, the taste of him lingering on your lips. You felt the tension in your body unravel, replaced by a fierce, aching need.

Taking hold of his suit, you gently tugged him toward the inside of your flat, walking backward without breaking the kiss. You could only hope nothing got knocked over, though honestly, you wouldn't have cared. You’d burn the whole damn place down if it meant keeping his lips on yours for even a moment longer.

Once inside, the warmth of his body, combined with the cozy heat of the apartment, sent shivers cascading down your spine. You melted deeper into him, your fingers curling into the soft fabric of his suit. His lips were everything you had imagined, soft, warm, deliberate. Not rushed or demanding, just present. As if he had all the time in the world for you.

A quiet moan slipped past your lips at the realization, and he took that as his invitation. His tongue brushed gently against yours, slow and exploratory, dancing in a rhythm that left your knees weak.

Without breaking the kiss, he slid his arms beneath your thighs and lifted you effortlessly, as if you weighed nothing. You let out a soft gasp into his mouth, wrapping your legs around his waist instinctively, your hands finding their way into his hair.

Of course, you were just about to make some self-deprecating comment about your weight, some old habit, a leftover from past lovers who made you feel too much. And then you remembered who he was.

This wasn’t like before. He wasn’t like them.

This was Superman, a man who could lift buildings, outrun sound, and fly through storms. Your soft stomach, your thick thighs, your so-called imperfections, none of it could possibly scare him.

The thought hit you all at once, and something in you gave in.

You deepened the kiss with renewed intensity, your fingers threading deeper into his hair. Your thighs instinctively tried to clench for some friction, to ease the growing ache between your legs, but you were only met with the hard wall of his body. Solid. Unyielding.

You whimpered softly in frustration, which only made him smile against your lips. That damn dimple again. One of his hands slid up your spine, the other under your thigh, holding you so effortlessly close it made your heart stutter.

Looking up quickly, he returned his gaze to you, a teasing smile tugging at his lips. Before you could ask anything, or make some kind of comment, you felt your stomach drop softly. The floor was no longer under your feet. You were floating. Held securely in his arms, Clark flew the both of you gently upstairs, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Easier than taking the stairs, apparently.

Looking down, you felt the same flutter of excitement you’d had the first time you fell off the roof, minus the adrenaline spike. Flying felt like freedom. Like being weightless, untouchable. If you were him, you’d never stop. You’d stay up there forever.

He landed gently just in front of your bedroom door. You expected him to set you down, maybe let you walk in on your own, but he didn’t. Instead, his eyes glazed over for a second, scanning the room with silent intensity. You realized he was checking everything.

When his gaze finally settled back on yours, it had softened again. “No cameras. No bugs. Nothing,” he said, his voice low, reassuring.

Then his lips were back on yours, and he pushed the door open with his foot like he belonged there, like this was already his home, too.

The door clicked shut behind you, but you barely heard it. All you could focus on was the way his hands gripped you, firm, but gentle. Like he couldn’t believe you were real. Like he was still holding back.

You didn’t want him to.

Still holding you in his arms, he leaned down, your back finding the soft comfort of your mattress as he settled above you. His weight didn’t crush, it grounded. A reminder that this wasn’t a dream. That he was here. With you. Wanting you.

His lips found your neck, slow, deliberate, teasing, sending warm shivers down your spine. You gasped, fingers threading through his hair, urging him closer. His breath caught at the contact, lips trailing lower, skimming across your collarbone with featherlight grace.

His hands, warm and sure, slipped beneath your shirt. They explored the curve of your thighs, his touch loving and careful, before gliding higher. He bypassed the most sensitive place between your legs with a restraint that made your breath hitch, instead resting his palms on your stomach. He kneaded the soft flesh there gently, almost like a cat finding comfort, as if he wanted to memorise every inch of you.

All the while, his lips stayed at your throat, moving down, then returning to the beat of your pulse like it was calling to him. Drawn to it. To you.

Craving more, you shifted your weight and flipped the two of you over. You knew he let you. With his strength, he could’ve taken control in an instant, pinned you down with barely a thought, but he didn’t. He let you lead, and the heat that flooded your core at that realization was overwhelming. You were already soaked, and he’d barely touched you.

You leaned down to kiss his neck, what little you could reach, your lips grazing over warm skin and the edge of his jaw. His breath caught, just slightly, and you grinned against him. Fingers fumbling, you tugged at the edge of his suit, trying to find a seam, a signal that it could come off. Was he even wearing anything underneath? The material felt barely there, sleek, smooth, almost too easy to remove.

Before your mind could spiral any further, his soft chuckle pulled you back. With a gentle but firm push, he shifted you off him and stood. Your breath hitched as he made quick work of the suit, fluid, practiced movements, and you couldn’t look away.

You clenched your thighs instinctively, trying to ease the pulsing need between your legs, but it only made the ache worse. Watching him undress, knowing what was coming, had your entire body lit up with anticipation.

He was, indeed, completely naked beneath the suit. His cock stood fully hard, pressed against the firm plane of his stomach, practically begging for attention. You licked your lips, unable to tear your gaze away. It was beautiful, clearly above average in size, with thick veins tracing along its shaft. A bead of precum had already gathered at the flushed, angry-red tip, taunting you. Carefully trimmed hair sat nicely on top on it all.

Clark noticed the look in your eyes, but he didn’t take it for granted. As he stepped toward the bed, clearly intending to sit down beside you, your hands on his hips stopped him. You lowered yourself onto your haunches, settling near the edge of the bed.

Your breathing had already quickened, your heart pounding unnaturally fast. Still, your eyes remained fixed on his arousal, mesmerised. Then soft fingers tipped your chin upward, gently guiding your gaze to meet his.

Kind blue eyes stared back into yours.

“You don’t have to do this,” he said softly, his voice filled with genuine care. He wanted you to know this wasn’t expected, he wouldn’t cross any lines.

“I want to…” you whispered, leaning closer. You pressed a soft kiss to his tip. “You’ve been so good to me.” Another kiss. “So patient… so helpful.” A gentle lick followed. “I just want to say thank you.” Another slow, deliberate lick.

The sound he let out in response might have been the most perfect thing you'd ever heard.

His breath hitched, chest rising sharply as your tongue teased him again, a little more boldly this time. The tension in his thighs was unmistakable, muscles flexing under your hands where they still rested on his hips. Yet he didn’t move. He didn’t rush you. He let you set the pace, just like he had before.

Your lips wrapped gently around the head, tasting the salt of his arousal. A soft hum escaped your throat at the heat and weight of him. He groaned, low, rough, and utterly unguarded, and your whole body reacted to the sound, warmth pooling deep in your core.

You answered him by taking him deeper, slowly, savouring every inch as your mouth stretched to accommodate him. He was thick, and the way he filled you was dizzying. You used your hands to steady yourself, one gripping his thigh, the other gently stroking what you couldn’t take yet.

Clark’s hand remained at the back of your head, not guiding, not insisting, just there, his fingers threading tenderly through your hair. It wasn’t just a touch, it was a silent kind of worship. His palm was warm, soft as it caressed your scalp, and the sensation sent a fresh rush of heat surging through you. You could feel it, wetness gathering again in your panties, your body aching with want.

You found a steady rhythm, working him with your mouth and hand in perfect coordination, slow, deliberate, controlled. Your tongue swirled around the head each time you rose up, then slid back down with delicious pressure, your hand stroking what your lips couldn’t reach. His hips twitched slightly, and you could feel the restraint in him, the way he was holding himself back.

As your confidence grew, so did your need. The hand that had rested against his hip slid downward, past your stomach, over your waistband, slipping beneath the hem of your panties. The moment your fingers brushed your clit, a quiet moan vibrated from your throat and against him, making his body shudder in response.

You were soaked. Every nerve ending felt electrified, your clit pulsing and swollen with need. You circled it gently, teasing yourself as you sucked him a little deeper. The contrast, his weight in your mouth, your fingers pressing into your own heat, felt like heaven. Your thighs clenched instinctively, chasing the pleasure building inside you.

Clark groaned above you, his voice hoarse, laced with disbelief and pleasure. His moans and grunts grew louder, more desperate, as you gradually took him deeper, your throat adjusting to him with every pass. Looking up at him through tear-filled lashes, you caught the moment his gaze dropped to yours. His cock twitched violently in your mouth, and his head flew back with a broken, helpless whine.

The sound made you moan around him, low and needy, sending another ripple of sensation through his body. He had to love the sight. And honestly, so did you.

He was a mess. Sweat clung to his chest, dampening the dark hair there, his neck flushed, cheeks glowing, ears pink with heat. He looked utterly wrecked, just like he had that night at the farm.

The memory made your thighs clench, need spiraling higher. The wetness between your fingers had grown slicker, hotter. You couldn’t stop now, not with the way your body was pulsing for release.

You rubbed faster, chasing it, matching the rhythm of your mouth around him, both of you slipping closer and closer to the edge. His hands gripped your shoulders suddenly, stopping your movement.

“You’re gonna make me—” But the rest of the words were swallowed by a guttural moan as his hips involuntarily bucked forward. His control was fracturing, and you loved it.

“Come here,” he groaned as he pulled his cock from your mouth. The sudden absence made you whimper, but the sound was quickly silenced by his lips crashing onto yours.

You instinctively tried to turn away, after all, you’d just had him in your mouth, but he didn’t seem to care. His kiss was fierce, messy, his tongue forcing its way between your lips like he needed to taste himself on you.

Pushing you back onto the bed, he climbed over you, his body radiating heat. Without hesitation, with a sharp tug, your shirt was torn apart, ripped down the middle like it was nothing. Your panties followed, shredded in his hands, leaving you gasping beneath him.

You gasped, staring down at the wreckage of your clothes, your chest heaving, before his mouth found your skin again. Hot and wet, his lips closed around one nipple while his hand claimed the other, squeezing and teasing in perfect rhythm.

A moan escaped you, hips grinding up instinctively, desperate for friction. Sensing your need, Clark shifted and pressed one of his thick thighs between your legs. The pressure was immediate and perfect. You cried out, rubbing yourself against the strong muscle, your slickness already coating his skin. He groaned against your chest, the sound sending shivers through you.

Clark groaned into your chest, the sound vibrating through you. “That’s it,” he murmured, his voice dark and raw. "Doing so good."

Then he was back on your lips, kissing you fiercely. The kiss was messy, teeth occasionally knocking together, but it felt like the most electric moment you’d ever lived. His warmth pressed against you, solid and unyielding, as he shifted some of his weight onto you, pinning you gently but firmly against the mattress. Locked against him, breath mingling, your bodies pressed tight in an intoxicating, perfect embrace.

With a particularly hard thrust of your hips against his, you begged, “Please, Clark.”

His mouth brushed against yours as he laughed softly, a light, breathy sound that cut off the moment your warm hand closed around his cock. You tried to guide him toward your entrance, but your movements were rushed and a bit awkward, causing him to press against your sensitive clit. The sharp sensation made you bite down hard on Clark’s shoulder.

“Okay, okay…” he said calmly, as if your teeth sinking into his skin barely registered. Gently shooing your hand away, he replaced it with his own larger one.

His fingers nudged at your entrance with care, waiting patiently. Waiting for you to look up, to meet his gaze, to show him you truly wanted this, wanted him.

Your eyes met his, wide and shining with need. The vulnerability there made his gaze soften even more, filled with a mixture of tenderness and desire that made your heart skip.

“Are you sure?” he whispered, his voice low and gentle, as if asking permission without pressure. This filled you with warmth.

You nodded, breath catching in your throat. “Yes. I want this. I want you.”

With that, he pushed forward slowly, inch by inch, allowing your body to adjust to every new sensation. You gasped softly, fingers clutching at the sheets as the fullness spread inside you, warm and deep.

When he was fully inside, he paused, resting his forehead against yours again. “You feel—,” he whined, his voice thick with emotion, out of breath. "Perfect. So warm."

You wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him closer. “Please move.” You moaned in his ears.

He began to move, slow, steady, a rhythm that matched the pounding of your heart. Each thrust was deliberate, filled with both passion and care. Your bodies moved together as if they were made for this moment, for each other.

His movements grew more confident, a little rougher but still measured, as if he was memorising every reaction, every shiver that ran through your body. You clung to him, nails digging lightly into his back, needing to anchor yourself as waves of pleasure built inside you. He never stopped kissing you, in between moans and grunts.

Clark’s breath was ragged now, lips brushing the curve of your jaw with every thrust. “You feel so good,” he groaned, voice thick with need.

You pressed your forehead against his, your voice barely a whisper. “Don’t stop. Please.”

He responded by picking up the pace, hips rolling with a deeper, more urgent rhythm. Your body answered instantly, every nerve ending on fire, every touch setting off sparks. The heat between you built rapidly, coiling tighter and tighter until your breath hitched and your chest trembled. Clark’s hand slid down your side, slipping between you to find your clit, circling it with gentle, insistent pressure.

The combination, his body moving inside you, his fingers teasing you, was almost unbearable. You cried out, clutching him tighter, your body arching up to meet his.

“Clark…” you gasped, voice thick with need.

You could feel his cock twitching inside you with every clench of your cunt. You were both so close to the edge, the sensation overwhelming. You could count on one hand the number of times a guy had made you come through penetration alone, and Clark was dangerously close to that milestone. And this was the first time he was fucking you.

His fingers never stopped moving on your clit, perfectly synchronised with his heavy thrusts. What finally pushed you over the edge was the sound of his deep voice grunting in your ear as his forehead pressed against your shoulder. He was whispering your name, telling you how good you felt, how warm you were, how perfect.

Then he said something that was almost too much to bear.

“I’ve been wanting you since I saw you, so pretty, at the farm,” he whined, struggling to hold back his release. “A soft city girl like you, all pretty on my family’s farm… I couldn’t help thinking this was the—” He stopped himself with a filthy moan. “The prettiest sight I’ve ever seen.”

That broke something inside you. Knowing he had been dreaming about you just as much as you had about him made everything shatter. Scratching down his back, your own body arching, you let it all go.

Your body trembled as the waves of release crashed over you, every nerve ending alight with fire. Clark didn’t pull away; instead, he held you tighter, his own breath hitching as he followed you over the edge.

A desperate moan left Clark's lips. His hips stuttered, movements faltering as he tensed inside you, the warmth of his release flooding deep. You felt the mix of him and yourself, a messy, intimate testament to the moment you’d just shared.

Before he could crush you beneath his weight, he quickly rolled onto his back, pulling you flush against him. Your body pressed warmly against his, his softening length still nestled inside you. The shift made you instinctively clench around him, and he responded with a low, warning groan.

“Sorry…” you murmured, laughing softly.

Looking up, you smiled gently, and he was already watching you.

It felt strange.

Just a few months ago, you’d hated this man. Not really him, but everything he stood for. The Daily Planet. The goodness. The righteousness. The morality.

He had barged into your life, unwanted and uninvited, turning everything upside down. But he hadn’t left. He stayed. Helped when everyone else had walked away the moment they got what they wanted. Not him.

Now, as you laid your head back against his chest, you didn’t know where any of this was headed. But for once, you were ready to take a leap of faith into the unknown.

As long as he was with you.

©sillyswriting 2025

this took all my energy for days, but i think it was worth it !

#fanfiction recs

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sapphickenma · 4 days ago

Text

gold rush | c. kent

a/n: i LOVED Superman 2025 guys it was so good i saw it twice i have been. thinking a lot of thoughts and krypto is the best character in the film so. in a tag full of clark kent smut i knew i had to write some angst. warnings: cursing, clark being the best boyfriend, angst but also fluff so, head injuries, hospitals, autistic clark i mean what who said that, canon typical violence, torture (nothing too crazy), kidnapping, i do NOT know how photography, darkrooms or concussions work, pet names, nightmares, lots of kissing, established relationship, not proof read, probably some other stuff but oh well <3 wordcount: 6.4k summary: your boyfriend's dog gives you a concussion and it's not even the worst part of your week. now playing: gold rush - taylor swift "what must it be like to grow up that beautiful?/with your hair falling into place like dominoes/my mind turns your life into folklore/i can't dare to dream about you anymore."

MINOR SPOILERS FOR SUPERMAN (2025) AHEAD!

Sunday

The dream starts out like any other. The sun is shining—It’s always shining when Clark dreams. This dream is warm, it feels real.

He’s sitting next to you on a porch swing.

The dreams always start out like this.

Your hand is on his cheek, and he can’t help but lean into your touch.

And in an instant, your hand isn’t your hand anymore—Instead, your skin turns a robotic black and feels like sharp metal against his face. Nanites spread from the tips of your fingers into his nose, and into his mouth—

He’s panicking, using both hands to try and claw the nanites out of his mouth, but they’re like sand, he barely shovels a handful out when twice as many show up, now traveling down his throat to his lungs and up his face.

He can’t breathe. He looks to you for help, but you’re no longer there—The sun is no longer shining, and Superman is all alone. He can’t breathe.

The nanites take over his eyes next and he is plunged into darkness—Alone, scared and unable to breathe. He can’t think, he must be dying. He must be.

“Clark,” He hears a voice from far away. He knows that voice. It’s your voice. “Clark, baby, wake up,” And he can’t tell if he’s imagining it, but the darkness starts to shudder like someone’s shaking him. But he follows your voice, stumbling his way through the darkness, attempting to breath until—

He wakes up gasping for air, sitting up in bed, this panicked, frenzied look in his eyes. His hand comes up to his mouth to check for nanites but all he finds is saliva and tears. His heart is racing, but he needs to check if you’re okay. His head turns towards you, and there you are, hair messy from sleeping, in a Smallville Decathlon tee shirt that he outgrew a few months after he got it, and sleep shorts.

His hands come up to rub his face as he attempts to refocus. Everything is fine, he reasons. But everything isn’t fine. Superman doesn’t have nightmares.

Your voice cuts through the sound of him trying to steady his breath as your hand rests on his back, rubbing gentle circles on it.

“It’s okay, baby, It was just a nightmare.” Your voice is sleepy and far away, but what little energy you can muster at—Clark checks the time—four thirty-two in the morning is focused on him. So much for sleeping in on a Sunday. And after a few minutes he hears you ask, “Wanna talk about it?”

He wonders how much you already know, if he was talking in his sleep. But he shakes his head.

“I’m sorry,” His throat feels dry, “I didn’t mean to wake you,”

“Don’t be silly, Clark,” You mumble, your hand traveling up now from his back to the ends of his hair, twisting your fingers between curls. You don’t bother saying that it’s fine to wake you if he’s having a nightmare, that he might be Superman, Krypton’s last son, destined to save humankind, but you’d travel to the ends of the earth to help him get a better night’s sleep. You don’t bother saying it because he already knows it.

He just nods before laying back down, trying to focus on deep, soothing breaths. Your brain searches for anything that could be comforting in this moment, but your brain only finds one thing you could do for him in your sleepy state.

“How about I make you some breakfast?” You wonder, because you know that no matter what he says or does, part of him is still in Kansas, always longing for his Pa’s cooking (and conveniently enough, you had been taught by Pa Kent himself how to make French toast just the way Clark likes it the last time you had visited).

Clark smiles just a little.

“Yeah, that would be great.” He says softly, and you move to get up, but he grabs your arm, “Wait, just..” He avoids your gaze as his thumb rubs your skin, “Just.. lay with me a while?”

You smile.

You don’t hesitate to melt back into bed, finding yourself wrapping your arms around him, and he pulls you close like you’re made of feathers. He pulls you up so your head is on his chest, listening to the sound of his now steady heartbeat. Something about the weight of you on top of him, so alive and real, soothes him.

You both fall asleep with a mumble of a promise to make breakfast in a few hours.

Monday

He had only left the room for a minute!

But, for Krypto, a minute was all he needed. He had only agreed to let Krypto visit his apartment after you begged him all day, having an extreme soft spot for his cousin’s awful dog (whom you couldn’t help but fawn over).

Really, Clark couldn’t find it in himself to deny you anything, especially when you asked with the manners of a lady (even though at lunch that day you had eaten tacos with your hands and gotten siracha all over your face).

But he really needed to go take a shower, so—

“Are you sure you’ll be okay with him while I shower?” He wonders, and you just laugh.

“Clark, I know he’s a handful,” He watches as Krypto tugs you around the room by a length of rope you had bought to play tug of war with him. You giggle and stumble around Clark’s living room, “But he’s just a dog, and he likes me! Watch,” You turn to Krypto and say, “Krypto, Sit!” And after raising his ear to listen to you, he sits easily, mouth still latched onto the rope. You grin and begin to pet him, “Good boy, Krypto, who’s my special man?” You coo, and Clark just rolls his eyes.

He looks to Krypto with a defeated sigh, and points to him.

“Hey, dude,” He starts, but Krypto doesn’t stop wagging his tail and staring at you. “Krypto,” He says, and his attention is finally turned to your boyfriend, “Be good, okay?”

Krypto just lets out a bark in response, before beginning to drag you around the living room, and Clark is comforted as he walks out of the room to the sound of your laughter.

Which lasted all of a minute, while he turned on the shower, took off his glasses and loosened his tie—

Bang!

Something had hit the wall next to the bathroom. Clark doesn’t even bother turning off the shower before running back to the living room, met with the sight of you settling onto the couch with Krypto whining by your feet, a fresh head shaped hole in Clark’s wall.

“It’s okay, sweetheart,” You coo at the dog, barely noticing Clark, “I’m okay,” But your blinking is slow, and all Clark wants to do was panic. He knows Krypto’s strength, but Krypto hadn’t seemed to realize that you aren’t like him or Kara—your head can’t just take blunt force like theirs could.

“Krypto,” Clark’s voice is sharp in a way neither you nor Krypto are used to, and you just frown,

“It’s not his fault! He just didn’t know,” You start, “Please don’t be mad at him, baby,” You beg. Clark bites the inside of his cheek, knowing that he wouldn’t be able to deny you anything. If Kryptonite was Superman’s only weakness, you are Clark’s.

He goes towards you, looking down to Krypto with an unapproving stare, gently tapping the dog with his foot to get him out of the way. To his credit, Krypto does seem guilty, like he really wasn’t aware of his own strength. With Krypto settled next to your feet, Clark kneels down, his hands resting on your knees.

“Sweetheart,” he starts with his soft, Kansas farm boy voice, and you could melt,

“Hi, baby,” You hum, and he can’t help the slight smile he gives.

“Sweetheart,” he repeats, “We need to get you to the hospital.”

You look at him for a long moment.

“..Why?”

Clark sighs. This is going to be tougher than he thought.

“Because I think Krypto gave you a concussion.”

“…Krypto is here?” You wonder, and that’s when Krypto lets out an ‘arf!’ by your feet, causing you to giggle and go to lean down to him, but Clark’s hand gently comes up to your chin, tilting your head back to look at him.

“Can you focus on me for a second?” His voice is soft, but it demands your attention. “How about we go to the hospital?”

Your face falls into a frown.

“I.. I don’t like hospitals, Clark, you know that.” And he does. Needles frighten you, and it’s often bright and overstimulating in a way he doesn’t know how to fix.

“I know, honey,” He says, “But if you’re hurt, a doctor could help in a way I can’t,” and there’s really no ‘if’ about it, you have all the classic signs of a concussion.

“But you’re superman!” You whine, and Clark nods,

“I am, but Superman doesn’t have a medical license,” He reminds, and you huff. What’s even the point of dating Superman then?

“I’m not going to the hospital,” You grumble, and Clark doesn’t have the heart to tell you he will go put his suit on and fly you over to the hospital if it would make you go.

“C’mon, honey, what can I do that’ll make you go to the hospital?” He wonders, and your hands find his tie, your fingers curl around the silky fabric.

“..Anything?” You wonder, your eyes wandering up to his pretty face. And because Clark is head over heels in love with you, his answer is instantaneous,

“Anything.” Your hands play with his tie as you bite your lip, a mischievous smile on your face. For a second Clark wonders which of your many wild fantasies you’ll pull out, when you say,

“..Will you let me photograph you as Superman?”

Clark is grateful for your concussion because you don’t notice his momentary hesitation. Clark knows that everyone, including you, is jealous of how often Clark is able to ‘interview’ Superman, but it’s different for you than it is for Lois or Jimmy—you have been trying to get a good photo of Superman for years, you couldn’t give less of a fuck about interviewing Superman; but if you could get photos of Superman, you’d be one of a kind. It would do great things for your career.

But you had never asked Clark. How could you? You didn’t want him to feel like you only started dating him because of his being Superman—It felt wrong. But to be fair, you weren’t exactly in your right mind.

But you hate hospitals.

“Sure.” He says, and it takes you by surprise.

“Really?” And when he nods, you grin and throw your arms around his neck with a giggle. He hugs you tightly, mumbling into your hair,

“I’m going to take you to the hospital now, okay?”

“Okay, baby.”

Tuesday

“Can you tilt your head to the left?”

“Like this?”

“No,” You shake your head with a sigh, stepping towards him and tilting his chin just right in the direction you wanted. He looks ethereal, but real. You snap a few more shots before saying, “Can I get a few shots of your hands?”

Clark’s eyebrows furrow, but he holds out his hands for you.

You had decided that the roof was the best place to take Superman’s picture and today was a bright and sunny day in Metropolis. The cool breeze of late spring moves his cape like he’s the main damn character and you can’t help but wonder if he is.

After a doctor had looked at you and your head yesterday, they also did a couple of scans which did in fact confirm that you had a concussion. But they advised your boyfriend that it wasn’t too bad and that with some rest and Tylenol, it would be good to go back to work on Wednesday.

Clark, being the loving and devoted, and a little overprotective, boyfriend he is, decided to spend the day tending to your every need.

Of course, when you woke up this morning all you wanted (after some Tylenol) was to take pictures of Superman (a deal Clark should’ve known you would remember, despite your concussion). He had managed to get you to relax in the morning, but you were persistent.

“Do our readers want pictures of my hands?” He asked, and you shake your head.

“No, but I really like them, and I am the photographer, so..” You shrugged. You had got plenty of good shots, but you knew you wanted to get the shot. In the rest of the photos that most newspapers, including the Daily Planet, published, Superman is a red and blue streak, barely visible. Which meant that you already had the best shots that anyone in your business had, but you were ambitious—

You wanted the shot of Superman, the one that would be used in years to come, the embodiment of the last son of Krypton.

But you must be staring at him, because he blushes and asks,

“What’s that look for?”

You snap a picture of his pink cheeks.

Then, you say,

“Do me a favor, uh, kind of.. float up a few feet?” You ask, and he does, just a couple of feet off the ground. His cape is still floating in the wind, so you curl your hands into fists and place them on your hips, arms slightly bent. “Okay, pose like this,” Your doting boyfriend obliges and mimics your pose. “Okay, and big smiles,” You direct. Clark attempts to smile, and suddenly you put the camera down, letting it hang around your neck. “Seriously?”

“What—What did I do wrong?” He asks, and you just look at him. His smile was, at best, awkward.

“Your smile, it looks very forced.” You tell him, causing him to sigh.

“It’s hard,” He defends, “I don’t really like getting my picture taken,” And you do know that to be true. When you first started working at the Daily Planet, one of your first assignments was to take updated profile photos for the Daily Planet website. It had made you roll your eyes at first, but in hindsight, you were grateful for it. It was a good way to introduce yourself to everybody.

Lois’ picture came out perfect the first time you took it, her skin practically glowing as you photographed her, asking about your career so far, politely answering questions about hers. You had become fast friends over the ten minutes it took you to capture how beautiful she is. Jimmy used his in his Tinder profile, that is how good you are.

And Clark.

You had immediately been smitten by handsome he was, but you wanted to focus on getting these portraits done. It took you ages to get him to smile in a way that didn’t make him look awkward. Finally, something you had said made him genuinely laugh—

“I guess being that pretty doesn’t mean much when you can’t smile for a picture,” Your voice wasn’t mean, it was actually very warm, and even a bit flirty, “I knew there had to be some kind of catch.”

You two were fast friends, and then you were fast lovers. Why wait when you know something is good?

And after you started dating, you took plenty of pictures of him; Some with your actual camera, some with your phone, and a couple with your polaroid camera. Clark looked good on vintage film.

But he still hadn’t mastered the concept of smiling on command. Maybe it wasn’t really a thing on Krypton, not second nature like it is for you, but you know it’s a weak excuse. You’re pretty sure your handsome boyfriend is just that awkward and humble.

“But you’re so pretty,” You whine, and you see Clark’s lips tug up a bit. “C’mon, think about something you like. Something that makes you happy.” You request, and you watch as Clark’s eyes shut for a moment, as he takes a deep breath, and then opens his eyes.

When his eyes land on you, a natural, handsome smile falls onto his face. You act quickly then, kneeling next to him and taking a few shots of him where he looks.. heavenly. The sunshine of the photo highlights how super he really is, and you can just tell that you got it.

Clark can tell too, because you watch as he releases the pose he was in and rests his feet on the ground.

“Got what you need, Miss?” The Superman voice makes you smile, and you walk over to him.

“Need just one more thing,” You hum, your arms wrapping around his neck just as his wide hands rest on your sides. He is inhumanly warm. When you lean in to kiss him, he meets you halfway, and suddenly you’re kissing Superman, and he is so good at it—like he is with everything else he does. Except smiling for pictures.

You don’t even mind when you feel your feet being lifted off the ground, too caught up in the way he grips you tighter to distract you.

Wednesday

Not much had changed in the day that you and Clark were out.

Lois and Jimmy bicker, Steve makes fun of your boyfriend (you threaten to kill him), and Cat asks how your day off was. You don’t bother to try to hide your smile as you tell her you got some good pictures.

“I can’t believe on the day you’re supposed to be resting after a concussion; you decide to take pictures.” Lois says, and you shrug, leaning against her desk.

“They’re really good pictures.” You smile, “I got lucky.” And you had, in so many ways. Besides, Lois would do the same thing in your shoes. You glance over to Clark’s desk and see him absent, so you check your watch. He’s twenty minutes late.

There’s a shot he got caught up doing hero things, but there’s just as good of a shot that he got distracted or something, and you’re really not sure when he’ll be here.

“Where’s boy wonder?” Lois asks, following your longing gaze. You shrug with an adoring smile.

“Probably washing his cape, or something.” You say affectionately, and Lois shakes her head. Whipped, the both of you. “Anyways, I’m gonna go to the darkroom to get some good physical versions of these pictures. Need anything before I go?”

It’s a habit of yours to ask—Sometimes you feel like all you do is take and process pictures, like your job is easier than everyone else’s but your coworkers know that’s only because you love your job so much.

Lois shakes her head and tells you she’ll let Clark know where you are when she sees him. You thank her and take your leave, setting up camp in the darkroom, knowing you’d have to take your time to process each photo. Sure, you could just send Perry digital copies, but the presentation of these physical prints would be too good to miss out on.

You’d have people begging to buy these photos, and it thrilled you. You’d have to give Krypto a big treat next time you see him.

You weren’t sure how long you stayed in the darkroom, but you were about three quarters of the way through your process when there’s a gentle knock on the door. You don’t even look up, you know who it is, and it’s only confirmed when warm, strong arms wrap around your torso from behind as you hang a photo to dry.

“Hi,” he says, watching you as you work.

“Hey,” You hum, leaning against him with a soft smile. “Late again, huh?”

“Had to help a little kid repair his solar system project after he dropped it on the way to school.” Your heart melts.

“Well, no wonder you’re late.” You say softly, but before you can say anything else, he turns you around with his hands on your hips before his lips are on yours. He tastes like mints and coffee, and you think you could die and go to heaven right now. Your hands rest on the back of his neck, the tips of your fingers barely brush against his hair.

His hands lift you with ease and sit you on an empty space next to your equipment. He stands between your legs, his glasses pressed against your face, and in between kisses, you push his glasses up to rest in his hair, not wanting the teasing that would come with the mark that they would leave.

He deepens the kiss a bit, but before he can stop himself, he’s mumbling, “Gosh, you’re so pretty,” as he continues to kiss you, and you find yourself smiling against his lips. He’s a sweetheart, your boy.

Your hands travel up a bit, unable to stop yourself from tangling your fingers within his dark curls. He lets out a content sigh against your mouth and you take the opportunity to slip your tongue through his parted lips, and it seems to egg him on more.

After a moment, you realize you need to breathe, but that doesn’t seem to be a concern of Clark’s. Your hands squeeze his biceps, trying to get his attention, but his hands begin to travel up and down your sides, until you eventually pull away, but his mouth chases yours,

“Clark,” You say breathlessly, “Baby, I gotta breathe,” you say, and he just nods,

“Sorry,” he starts, pressing a kiss to your lips quickly, and then to your cheek, “I’m sorry,” and then a kiss to your forehead, “I’m sorry,” and he means it. He forgets that you can’t hold your breath for an hour like he can.

You just smile and lean your forehead against his as you try to catch your breath.

“I’m okay,” You promise, and Clark nods, his lips plump and pink. He looks pretty. After a moment, Clark’s eyebrows furrow when your stomach growls loudly.

“When was the last time you ate?” He wonders, and all you do is shrug. You have that bad habit of forgetting to eat when you get focused on work, and Clark has noticed. Oh, how Clark has noticed.

“Uh,” You shrug, “I had a cup of coffee this morning,”

“That doesn’t count,” He reminds, and then sighs. “Well, I’m starving. Thai or Chinese?” He wonders, and you shrug in response.

“Indian?”

Clark’s lips catch yours in a long, soft kiss. When he pulls away, he says, “Perfect.” But the way he looks at you, you’re not sure he’s talking about the suggestion.

Thursday

You can’t contain the grin on your face as you bounce from Perry’s office back to Clark’s desk. You hold today’s issue of the newspaper, and Clark’s article sits on the front page, with your photograph printed above it. His name and yours sit next to each other on the page and Clark is seriously considering getting it framed.

“It’s a great photo,” Lois compliments, looking at her own copy. You grin to her,

“Thanks,” And that’s when Jimmy sighs as he sits back in his chair. You lean against Clark’s desk, who cannot stop staring at you.

“Alright, I give up.” Jimmy sighs, “You’re the better photographer. I mean, you were able to get Superman to what? Pose for you? How’d you do it?” He wonders, and all you can do is shrug, the way you’re smiling has Clark whipped.

“I know a guy,” You grin, and you don’t even look at Clark. He’s so in love with you.

Lois and Jimmy go back to their work, and you finally turn your attention to your adoring boyfriend.

“We should celebrate.” He grins, “Dinner tonight?” He wonders. Admittedly, the two of you would have dinner either way, whether there was something to celebrate or not.

“Sure. What did you have in mind?” You ask, and he smiles.

“Sushi?”

“Sushi.”

Friday

Sushi does not wind up going as planned. In fact, you don’t make it to dinner at all—You get stuck at work after someone spilt coffee on half your prints, so you resign to the darkroom while Superman fights off some big alien robot—

Clark promises to make it up to you, and you just smile affectionately and tell him to go save lives.

It’s technically Friday when you make your way home, Superman is still fighting that robot, but you were spent. Your eyelids were heavy, and your bones ache. You daydream about a relaxing weekend with your boyfriend, not knowing that the next few hours would be some of the worst of your life.

You listen to the sounds of Superman punching robots while you walk home and you have this goofy smile on your face. You’ve never been so in love, and it makes it hard to focus on much else—

Including the sound of footsteps approaching.

Later, you would kick yourself for your stupidity, for your carelessness. How could you not hear the heavy footsteps of a man with ill intent?

But you’re knocked out by the butt of a gun before you can hear anything other than the sound of your boyfriend’s laser vision from almost a mile away, marking your second head injury of the week.

When you wake up, your head is killing you, and when you go to rub the sleep out of your eyes you find that your arms are tied to the chair you sit in. You blink away exhaustion and realize you have no idea where you are. This warehouse—You assume it’s a warehouse—is dark and smells like the sea. When you look down, you see dried blood on the floor.

Your heart rate begins to increase, pounding against your chest—but you’re comforted, if only briefly, by the fact that you know as soon as he can, Clark will be here to get you. Then, you remember the robot infestation, and his preoccupation. You might be here for a while, and you have no idea who’s taken you.

Your head hurts.

You begin to wiggle your hands and arms, trying to figure any weak spots in the binds, trying to get out of here before Clark even realizes what has happened.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.” A voice pierces through the darkness, and you freeze. You try to remember what Clark said to do in this situation, but your brain is fuzzy and full of fear.

“Whatever it is you think I have,” You force your voice to be stern, unshaken, “You’re wrong.” You say, and the voice laughs. From the darkness comes a small group of people, three or four of them, all dressed in black. On their necks, you see a tattoo—No, not a tattoo. A brand.. A large ‘L’ encased in a circle is branded on each of their necks.

“We’re going to make this very clear for you.” Another one of them talks, “Answer our questions, and we’ll let you go. Give us bullshit, and well..” She gestures to the biggest of them. He’s as tall as Clark, looks as big as him too. “Our friend here has an anger problem. Would be a shame if he had to take it out on you.”

A shiver runs down your spine.

Where is Clark?

“What do you want from me?” You ask, and one holds up Thursday’s Issue of The Daily Planet. The one with your picture of Superman, his heroic smile as bright as the sun behind him.

“You took this picture, right?”

“That’s my name under it, isn’t it?” You ask, your answer dripping with sarcasm—you can’t help it. Under your fear, you’re angry. What right do these assholes have to torture you? But your sarcasm is met with a sharp slap across your face by the big man you were threatened by. Your ears are starting to ring, and your vision unfocuses for a second, but then you nod, “Yes! Yes, I took that picture, Jesus—” You huff.

Of course this is about the picture. No one else in Metropolis has been able to get Superman to pose for pictures.

“How’d you get Superman to pose for you?” One asks, and you shake your head.

“I-I don’t..” Your throat is dry. How could you tell them that his dog gave you a concussion, so he owed you one, on top of the fact that he was the love of your life?

You don’t get the chance to finish, because the big man’s hand comes down in a powerful fist, and hits you in the stomach. You groan in pain, leaning over as you try to catch your breath. Someone grabs your shoulder and pulls you back up so he can land another punch to your stomach—and you’re gasping for air, trying to catch your breath after hearing a sharp crack! of your ribs.

This is bad.

Where is Clark?

“How’d you get him to pose for you?” They ask, because of your pain, your vision is blurred, so they all blend together as one—except for this big guy, who stands looming over you.

“He.. He saw me.. taking photos on the roof.. asked me.. if I was okay.” The lie comes out between panted, labored breathes, “I asked.. I swear that’s all..” You say, because you feel tears coming on, and you don’t want them to see you cry.

This goes on for a long time—or maybe it’s not long, you really can’t tell, not between the pain and the fear—the fear of dying, the fear of not being able to see Clark again, the fear of accidentally slipping up and telling them exactly what you know—time becomes a blur.

By the time they ask their last question, you feel like you really might die. You spit blood onto the floor, your vision is unfocused, and your entire body is shaking—from the pain or the fear, you do not know.

But the last question really fucking scares you.

“What’s Superman’s secret identity?” They ask, “Who is he?”

Your face is swollen, bruised, and bloody.

“His name… is Kal-El,” You say, because it’s true, it’s what everyone knows, “He comes from the planet Krypton—” You cry out in pain when you’re hit again, and all you can do is cry, because you just cannot help it. You have nothing left.

Where is Clark?

“He has to be someone in his day-to-day life! Who is he?” They ask again, and you shake your head even if it hurts.

“I don’t know!” You cry out, “I don’t fucking know!” And it’s a lie. Of course you know who he is. You know every detail you can possibly maintain about who Superman is when he’s not saving the world. You know how he loves mandarin oranges and how they look so small in his hands, you know how he ‘doesn’t care for’ pickles because he cannot bring himself to really hate anything, you know how one day, he wants to have two kids, a boy and a girl, you know how eye contact turns him on, and you know how gentle he is despite his size. But you can’t tell them any of that.

You’re about to pass out. You can’t take much more of this, and they know it. Your chest is heaving, up and down with labored breaths. It hurts to breathe. You can barely make out the image of someone pulling out a gun, probably the same gun that had knocked you out earlier.

And then it all happens in an instant.

To your right, you hear the smashing of glass as something—no, someone, someone flies through the window, and before you can even turn your head, strong, warm arms wrap around you, snapping the ropes around your arms and flying off, out of this warehouse and into the sky, filled with the warm yellows and oranges of dawn.

There he is.

Wind whips through your hair, and you relish the idea that you’re alive. You know your injuries are not life threatening, you’ll be okay.

Through the sounds of the wind and the ringing in your ears, you can hear him talking, gently, as if he’s afraid that speaking louder might hurt you, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I’m sorry,” and despite how badly you want to reassure him that you’re okay, all you can do is curl into him as your vision fades, and you’re plunged into darkness.

Clark pushes himself to fly faster when he feels you go limp in his arms.

When you wake up, you’re in a hospital.

You hate hospitals.

You’re not strapped down or anything, not hooked up to anything.. but your wounds are cared for, and instead of pain, you feel kind of.. floaty. Whatever they gave you for the pain is working wonders. Maybe hospitals aren’t as bad as you think—

Where is Clark?

As if he can read your thoughts, and in your high on pain killers state, you think maybe he can, he walks back in. He moves quickly to sit by your side, his hands clasping around yours. If he owed you one for Krypto giving you a concussion, he owes you a million for this. He’s sick to his stomach at the sight of you, and all you want to do is pull his stupid glasses off his face.

“Hey,” You smile, and somehow, Clark’s frown only deepens.

“Hi.. How are you feeling?” He asks, and you shrug.

“Mm.. Floaty.” You confess, and it seems to take him off guard.

“Floaty?”

“Yeah, whatever they gave me for the pain is really working.” You confess, and you see him smile just a bit. You think about his awkward forced smile when he’s asked to take a picture, and you begin to giggle, even if it hurts your ribs.

“What’s so funny?” He asks, his chin rests on his hands that encompass yours, and his voice just a murmur, because nothing about this is funny to him.

You just shake your head, and ask,

“Can we go home?” His blue eyes stare into yours, and he sighs,

“The doctors say—”

“Clark, I don’t care.” And the slight break in your voice makes him stop, “Please, just.. take me home. I want to shower, and eat something, and—” he nods.

“Okay, yeah. Let’s go home.” He says gently, helping you sit up. He can tell you’re exhausted and even though you’re feeling no pain right now, you’d be much more comfortable at home. Besides, Clark had taken every single word the doctor said to heart, so he knows how to take care of you from here, he could probably recite it in his sleep.

On the way home, Clark fills you in on everything—The people who took and tortured you were Luthorcorp Followers, devoted to find out everything they could about Superman in the name of their old boss. Having taken the only good photos of Superman currently in the press, you had become an immediate target for them. Clark had spent a long time feeling guilty about these facts as he waited for you to wake up.

If your head wasn’t cloudy, you’d notice the longing stare of your boyfriend, who’s fingers twitched to scoop you up and fly you home, keep you there forever, and never give the world the chance to hurt you again. You got hurt because he was Superman, and he’s not sure if he can forgive himself for the position he put you in.

What would have happened if you were more seriously hurt? …What would have happened if he got to you a moment too late?

It’s all Clark can think about as he watches you down the sandwich he made you, hungrier than you had been in ages. And you’re so tired. But you frown when you watch Clark across the table, looking.. sad. But he had saved you, what was there to be sad about?

Wordlessly, you push the plate in front of you with half a sandwich towards him. Immediately, he shakes his head and nudges it back towards you.

“You’re starving,” He reminds, “And besides, I’m not hungry.”

You give him a look.

“You’re always hungry, baby,” You remind, pushing the plate back to him. He shakes his head,

“Not tonight.” He says, and you sigh.

“Denying yourself food won’t change what happened. I’m fine, Clark—”

“But you aren’t.” He says, and his voice is tight like he’s terrified of the reality of it, “You got kidnapped, and.. and really hurt, because I’m Superman, and I can’t.. I couldn’t live with myself if you were hurt worse, or..” He trails off, because even saying it is too real for him. He’s looking at you, cut up and bruised, holding half a grilled cheese, and he wishes he could take this entire week back.

“But I’m okay.” You remind. “And I love you. I know what the risks are, okay? But I love you too much to stay away from you, and I love you too much to ask you to stop fulfilling your life’s purpose. This might have happened anyways.” You say, and nudge the plate towards him. “Here. Eat. For me, please?”

And because Clark can’t deny you anything, he reaches forward and takes the second half of the sandwich, and the two of you eat quietly, tears brimming both of your eyes, the day finally catching up to you.

Saturday

You wake up gasping for air. You can’t remember what your nightmare was about, but Clark’s arms are around you before you even turn your head to look at him.

He holds you close, petting your hair.

“It’s alright, I’ve got you.. It was just a nightmare, sweetheart. You’re alright.” He says gently, and he listens to the sound of your heartrate slow. Tears are running down your face, and you attempt to mumble out something—an apology or maybe an explanation—but he just shushes you softly. “It’s okay.” He assures, and it is.

Because Superman protects people—It’s what he does. And you’re his favorite person. He’ll always come to find you, to make sure you’re okay, that you’re safe.

The thought alone is enough to drag you both back to sleep, with a mumble of a promise to make breakfast in a few hours.

#fanfiction recs

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sapphickenma · 4 days ago

Text

to whom it may concern

clark kent 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬 / 𝐭𝐰 – 18+, MDNI, secret admirer au, slowburn romance, mutual pining, radical acceptance and love is the real punk rock, yearning, clark is a softie, smut, piv, oral sex (f!recieving), fingering, creampie, touch starved clark Kent word count: 18k Summary: You start getting anonymous love notes at the Daily Planet—soft, sincere, impossibly romantic. You fall for the words first, then realize they sound a lot like Clark Kent. And just when the truth begins to unravel, you start to suspect he might be more than just the writer… he might be Superman himself. notes – not proofread and my first full Clark Kent fic!

— reblogs comments & likes are appreciated

The first thing you notice isn’t the coffee—it’s the smell.

Sharp espresso. The exact blend you order on days when the world feels like sandpaper. Dark, hot, and just a touch too strong. But when you reach your desk and set your bag down, the cup is already waiting for you, balanced on the corner of your keyboard like it belongs there.

A single post-it clings to the cardboard sleeve, the ink a little smudged from condensation:

“You looked like you had a long night.”

No name. No heart. Just that.

You stare at it for a second too long. The office hums around you—phones ringing, printers whining, the low buzz of voices—but your ears tune it all out as you reread the handwriting. Rounded letters. Slight right slant. You can’t place it.

And no one in this building knows your coffee order. You made sure of that.

Across the bullpen, Jimmy Olsen drops into his chair with a paper bag in his teeth and two cameras slung around his neck.

“Someone’s got a secret admirer,” he sings, catching sight of the note.

You glance up, but try to play it cool. “Could be a delivery mistake.”

He snorts. “Right. And I’m dating Wonder Woman.”

Lois, passing by with a stack of mock-ups under one arm, pauses just long enough to lift a perfectly sculpted brow. “Who’s dating Wonder Woman?”

“Jimmy,” you and Jimmy say in unison.

“Right,” she says, deadpan, and moves on.

You feel a little heat crawl up your neck. You pull the cup closer. The lid’s still warm.

You’re still turning the note over in your hand when Clark Kent rounds the corner. His hair is a little damp at the ends, like he didn’t have time to dry it properly, already curling from the late-summer humidity. His tie—striped, loud, undeniably Clark—is halfway undone, the knot drifting lower by the second. His glasses are slipping down his nose like they’re trying to abandon ship.

He’s juggling three manila folders, a spiral-bound notebook balanced on top, a half-eaten blueberry muffin in his teeth, and what you’re almost certain is the entire city council’s budget report from 2024 spilling out of the bottom folder. It’s absurd. Kind of impressive. Very him.

“Clark—careful,” you call out, mostly on instinct.

He startles at the sound of your voice and turns a little too fast. The top file slips. He manages to catch it, barely, with an awkward swipe of his forearm, the muffin top bouncing to the floor with a quiet thwup. He rights the stack again with both arms now locked tight around the paperwork, and when he looks at you, he’s already wearing one of those sheepish, winded smiles.

“Morning sweetheart,” he says breathlessly. His voice is warm. Rough around the edges like he hasn’t spoken yet today. “Sorry, I’m late—Perry wanted the zoning report and the express line was… not express.”

You don’t answer right away. Because his eyes flick toward your desk—specifically the coffee cup sitting at the edge of your keyboard. And the note stuck to its sleeve. He freezes. Just for a second. A micro-hesitation. One breath caught too long in his chest. It’s nothing.

Except… it’s not.

Then he clears his throat—loud and awkward, like he swallowed gravel—and shuffles the stack in his arms like it suddenly needs reorganizing. “New… uh, budget drafts,” he says quickly, eyes very intentionally not on the post-it. “I left the tag on that one by mistake—ignore the highlighter. I had a system. Kind of.”

You blink at him, watching his ears start to go red. “…You okay?”

“Oh, yeah,” he says, waving one hand too fast, almost drops everything again. “I’m fine, sweetheart. Just, you know. Monday.”

He flashes you the smile again—crooked, a little boyish, like he still isn’t sure if he belongs here even after all this time. That’s always been the thing about Clark. He doesn’t posture. Doesn’t strut. He’s got this open-face sincerity, like the world is still worth showing up for, even when it kicks you in the ribs.

And you’ve seen him work. He’s brilliant. Way too observant to be as clumsy as he pretends to be. But it’s charming. In that small-town, too-tall-for-his-own-good, mutters-puns-when-he’s-nervous kind of way.

You like him. That’s… not the problem. The problem is— He turns to walk past you, misjudges the distance, and thunks his thigh into the sharp edge of your desk with a grunt.

You flinch. “You good?”

“Yep.” He winces, but manages a thumbs-up. “Just, uh… recalibrating my ankles.”

Then he’s gone, retreating to the safe, familiar walls of his cubicle, still muttering to himself. Something about rechecking source notes and whether anyone notices when hyperlinks are one shade too blue.

You’re left staring at the cup. At the note.

You run your thumb over the y again, the way it loops low and curls back. There’s something oddly familiar about the penmanship. Not perfect. Neat, but casual. Like whoever wrote it didn’t plan to stop writing once they started. Like they meant it.

You don’t say it aloud—not even to yourself—but the truth is whispering at the edge of your brain.

It looks like his. It feels like his. But no. That would be— Clark Kent is thoughtful, sure. He’s the kind of guy who remembers how you like your takeout and always lets you borrow his chargers. He holds elevators and never interrupts, and he stays late when you need someone to double-check your interview transcript even though it’s technically not his beat.

He’s the kind of guy who brings you a jacket during late-night stakeouts without asking. He’s the kind of guy who makes you laugh without trying. But he couldn’t be the secret admirer.

…Could he?

You glance toward his cubicle. You can’t see him, but you can feel him there. The way his presence always lingers, somehow warmer than everyone else’s. Quieter.

You tuck the note into the back pocket of your notebook.

Just in case.

You forget about the note by lunch.

Mostly.

The newsroom doesn’t really give you space to linger in your thoughts—phones ringing, printers jamming, interns darting between desks like caffeinated ghosts. It’s chaos, always is, and you thrive in it. But even as you’re skimming through edits and fixing a headline Jimmy typo’d into a minor war crime, part of your brain keeps circling back to that one y.

By the time you head back from a sandwich run with mustard on your sleeve and a half-dozen emails on your phone, there’s another cup on your desk. Same order. No receipt. No name.

But this time, the note reads:

“The line you cut in paragraph six was my favorite. About hope not being the same thing as naivety.”

You freeze mid-step, bag still dangling from one hand.

You hadn’t published that line. You wrote it. Typed it, then stared at it for twenty minutes before deleting it—thought it was too sentimental, too soft for the piece. You didn’t want to seem like you were editorializing. And yet… it had meant something. You’d loved that line.

And someone else had read it. Which means…

Your eyes flick up. Around.

The bullpen looks the same as always: fluorescent lights buzzing, keys clacking, the faint scent of stale coffee and fast food. Jimmy’s arguing with someone about lens filters. Lois is deep in a phone call, gesturing with a pen like she might stab whoever’s on the other end.

And then—Clark. Sitting at his desk, halfway behind the divider. Fiddling with his glasses like they won’t sit quite right on the bridge of his nose. He glances up at you and smiles. Soft. A little crooked. Familiar in a way that does something deeply unhelpful to your chest.

You stare for a second too long.

He blinks. Looks down quickly. Reaches for his pen, drops it, fumbles, curses under his breath. You see the top of his ears turning red.

Something inside you shifts. The notes are sweet, yes. But this is specific. This is someone who read your draft. Someone who noticed the cut line.

You never shared it outside your initial file. Not even with Lois. You almost didn’t send it to copy at all. So… who the hell could’ve read it? How could they have seen it?

You return to your chair slowly, like it might help the pieces click into place. Your eyes catch the handwriting again.

The loops. The slight leftward tilt.

Clark does have neat handwriting. You’ve seen his notebook, all tidy bullet points and overly polite margin notes.

You tuck this note into your drawer. Next to the other one.

You don’t say anything.

Later that afternoon, the newsroom’s background noise crescendos into something louder—Lois and Dan from editorial locked in another philosophical brawl about media framing. You’re not part of the fight, but apparently your latest piece is.

“It’s fluffy,” Dan says, waving the printed article like it personally offended him. “It doesn’t do anything. What’s the point of it, other than making people feel things?”

You open your mouth—just barely—ready to defend yourself even though it’s exhausting. You don’t get the chance. Clark beats you to it.

“I think it was insightful, actually,” he says from across the bullpen, voice louder than usual. “And emotionally resonant.”

The silence is sharp. Dan arches a brow. “Listen, Kent. No one asked you.”

Clark straightens his tie. “Well, maybe they should.”

Now everyone’s looking. Lois leans back in her chair, visibly suppressing a smile. Dan scoffs and mutters something about sentimentality being a plague.

You just stare at Clark. He meets your eyes, then seems to realize what he’s done and looks at his notebook like it’s suddenly the most fascinating object in the known universe.

Your heart does something inconvenient. Because now you’re wondering if it is him. Not just because he defended you, or because he could have somehow read the line that didn’t make it to print, but because of the way he did it. The way his voice shook just a little. The way he looked furious on your behalf.

Clark is soft, yes. Awkward, often. But there’s something sharp underneath it. A quiet kind of intensity that only shows up when it matters. Like someone who’s spent a long time listening, and even longer choosing his moments.

You make a show of checking your notes. Pretending like your stomach didn’t just flip. You don’t look at him again. But you feel him looking.

The office after midnight doesn’t feel like the same building. The lights buzz quieter. The chairs stop squeaking. There’s an eerie sort of calm that settles once the rush hour of deadlines has passed and only the ghosts and last-minute layout edits remain.

Clark is two desks away, sleeves rolled up, tie finally abandoned and flung haphazardly over the back of his chair. He’s squinting at the screen like he’s trying to will the copy into formatting itself.

You’re just as tired—though slightly less heroic-looking about it. Somewhere behind you, the printer groans. A rogue page slides off the tray and flutters to the floor like it’s giving up on life.

Clark gets up to grab it before you can.

“You’re going to hurt yourself,” you say as he crouches to retrieve it. “Or fall asleep with your face on the carpet and get stuck there forever.”

He offers a smile, crooked and half-asleep. “I’ve survived worse. Once fell asleep in a compost pile back in high school.”

You pause. “Why?”

“There was a dare,” he says, deadpan. “And a cow. The rest is classified, sweetheart.”

You snort before you can stop it.

It’s late. You’re punchy. The kind of tired that makes everything a little funnier, a little looser around the edges. He sits back down, stretching long limbs with a groan, and you let the quiet settle again.

“You know Clark, sometimes I feel invisible here.” You don’t mean to say it. It just slips out, quiet and rough from somewhere behind your ribcage.

Clark looks up instantly.

You keep staring at your screen. “It’s all bylines and deadlines, and then the story prints and nobody remembers who wrote it. Doesn’t matter if it’s good or not. No one sees you.” You tap the corner of your spacebar absently. “Feels like yelling into a tunnel most days.”

You expect him to say something vague. Supportive. A standard “no, you’re great!” brush-off. But when you finally glance over, Clark is staring at you with his brow furrowed like someone just insulted his mom.

“That’s ridiculous,” he mutters. “You’re one of the most important voices in the room.”

The words are firm. Not flustered. Not dorky. Certain. It disarms you a little.

You blink. “Clark—”

“No. I mean it, sweetheart," he says, almost stubborn. “You make people care. Even when they don’t want to. That’s rare.”

He looks down at his coffee like maybe it betrayed him by going cold too fast. You don’t say anything. But that ache in your chest eases, just a little.

The next morning, you’re halfway through your walk to work when you find it.

Tucked into the side pocket of your coat—the one you only use for receipts and empty gum wrappers. Folded carefully. Familiar ink.

“Even whispers echo when they’re true.”

You stop walking. Stand there frozen on the corner outside a coffee shop as cars blur past and someone curses at a cab a few feet away. You read the note twice, then a third time.

It’s simple. No flourish. No name. Just words—quiet, certain, and meant for you.

You don’t know why it lands the way it does. Maybe because it doesn’t try to dismiss how you feel. It just… reframes it. You may feel invisible, small, unheard—but this person is saying: that doesn’t make your truth meaningless. You matter, even if it feels like no one’s listening.

You fold the note gently, like it might tear. You don’t tuck this one into your notebook. You keep it in your coat pocket. All day.

Like armor.

By midafternoon, the bullpen’s usual noise has shapeshifted into something louder—one of those half-serious, half-combative newsroom debates that always starts in one cubicle and ends up consuming half the floor.

This time, it’s the great Superman Property Damage Discourse, sparked—unsurprisingly—by Lois Lane slapping a freshly printed article onto her desk like it insulted her directly.

“He destroyed the entire north side of the building,” she says, exasperated, as if she’s already had this argument with the universe and lost.

You don’t look up right away. You’re knee-deep in notes for your community housing series and trying to keep your lunch from leaking onto your desk. But the words still hit.

“To stop a tanker explosion,” you point out without much heat, eyes still scanning your page. “There were twenty-seven people inside.”

“My point,” Lois says, crossing her arms, “is that someone has to pay for all that glass.”

“Pretty sure it’s the insurance companies,” you mutter.

Lois raises a brow at you, but doesn’t push it. She’s used to you playing devil’s advocate—usually it’s just for fun. She doesn’t know this one’s starting to feel a little personal.

And then Clark walks in. He’s balancing two coffee cups and what looks like a roll of blueprints tucked under one arm, sleeves rolled up and tie already loose like the day’s been longer than it should’ve been. His hair’s a mess, wind-tousled and curling near the back of his neck, and he’s got that familiar expression on—half-focused, half-apologetic, like he’s perpetually arriving a few seconds after he meant to.

He slows as he approaches, catches the tail end of Lois’s rant, and hesitates. Just a second. Just long enough for something behind his glasses to tighten. Then, without warning or warm-up, he steps in like a man walking into traffic.

“He’s doing his best, okay?” he blurts. “He can’t help the building fell—there was a fireball.”

The bullpen quiets a beat. Just enough for the words to settle and sting. Lois doesn’t even look up from her monitor. “You sound like a fanboy.”

“I just—” Clark huffs. “He’s trying to protect people. That’s not… easy.”

He lifts his hand to gesture, but his elbow clips the corner of his desk and sends his coffee tipping. The paper cup wobbles, then crashes onto the floor in a slosh of brown across your loose notes.

“Clark!” You shove back in your chair, startled.

“Sorry—sorry—hang on—” He lunges for a stack of printer paper, overcorrects, and knocks over another folder in the process. Its contents scatter like leaves in the wind. He flails to grab what he can, muttering apologies the whole time.

The tension breaks—not because of what he said, but because of the way he said it. Because he’s suddenly in a mess of his own making, trying to mop it up with a handful of flyers and an empty paper towel roll, red-faced and flustered.

You can’t help it. You smile. Just a little.

Lois glances sideways at the scene, then turns to you, tone dry as dust. “Well. He’s… passionate.”

You arch a brow. “That’s one word for it.”

She doesn’t notice the way your eyes linger on him. She doesn’t see the shift in your chest when you watch him drop to one knee, scooping up wet files with shaking hands, his jaw tight—not from embarrassment, but from something quieter. Fiercer.

Because Clark hadn’t just jumped to Superman’s defense.

He’d meant it.

Like someone who knows what it feels like to try and still fall short. Like someone who’s carried the weight of people’s expectations. Like someone who’s watched something burn and had to live with the cost of saving it.

You know it’s ridiculous. You know it’s a stretch. But still… your breath catches.

He steadies the last folder against his desk, rubs the back of his neck, and looks up—right at you. Your eyes meet for a second too long.

You offer him a look that says it’s okay. He returns one that says thanks. And then the moment passes. You turn back to your screen, heart pounding for reasons you won’t name. And Clark returns to quietly drying his desk with a half-crumpled press release.

You don’t say anything. But you’re not watching him by accident anymore.

You’ve read the latest note a dozen times.

“Sometimes I wish I could just be honest with you. But I can’t—not yet.”

There’s no flourish. No compliment. Just rawness, stripped of any careful metaphor or charm. It’s still anonymous, but the voice… it feels closer now. Less like a mystery, more like someone standing just out of sight.

Someone with hands that tremble when they pass you a coffee. Someone who knows how your voice sounds when you’re frustrated. Someone who once told you, very softly, that your words matter.

You start thinking about Clark again. And once the thought roots, it’s impossible to pull it free.

You test him. It’s petty, maybe. Pointless, probably. But you do it anyway. That afternoon, you’re both holed up near the copy desk, reviewing your latest layout. Clark’s seated beside you, sleeves pushed up, his pen tapping lightly against the margin of your column draft. His knee keeps bumping yours under the desk, and every time, he apologizes with a shy smile that doesn’t quite meet your eyes.

You’re running on too little sleep and too many thoughts. So you try it. “You ever hear that phrase? ‘Even whispers echo when they’re true’?”

He looks up from the page. Blinks behind his smudged glasses. “Uh… sure. I mean, not in everyday conversation, but yeah. Sounds poetic.”

You tilt your head, eyes narrowing just slightly. “I read it recently,” you say, like you’re thinking aloud. “Can’t stop turning it over. I don’t know—it stuck with me.”

He stares at you for a beat too long. Then clears his throat and drops his gaze, pen suddenly very busy again. “Yeah. It’s… it’s a good line.”

“You don’t think it’s a little dramatic?”

“No,” he says too quickly. “I mean—it’s true. Sometimes the quietest things are the ones worth listening to.”

You nod, pretending to go back to your edits. But his pen taps a little faster. The corner of his mouth twitches. He’s trying to look neutral, maybe even confused. But Clark Kent couldn’t lie his way out of a grocery list.

And if he did write it, that means he knows you’re testing him.

You don’t call him on it.

Not yet.

Later that evening, he helps you file your story. Technically, Clark’s already done for the day—he could’ve clocked out an hour ago, could’ve gone home and slipped into his flannel pajamas and vanished into whatever quiet life he keeps outside these walls. But instead, he lingers.

His jacket is folded neatly over the back of your chair, sleeves still warm from his arms. His glasses sit low on his nose, catching the screen’s glow, one smudge blooming near the top corner where he’s pushed them up too many times with the side of his thumb.

He leans over the desk beside you, one palm braced flat against the surface, the other gently scrolling through your draft. His frame takes up too much space in that warm, grounding way—shoulder brushing yours occasionally, breath warm at your temple when he leans in to squint at a sentence.

You’re quiet, but not for lack of things to say. It’s the way he’s reading—carefully, like every word deserves to be held. There’s no red pen. No quick fixes. Just soft soundless reverence, like your work is already whole and he’s just lucky to witness it.

And his hands.

God, his hands.

You try not to look, but they’re impossible to ignore. Big and capable, yes, but gentle in the way he uses them—fingers skimming the edge of the printout like the paper might bruise, thumb stroking over the corner where the page curls, slow and absentminded. The pads of his fingers are slightly ink-stained, callused just at the tips. He smells faintly like cheap soap and newsroom toner and something you can’t name but have already begun to crave.

You wonder—just for a moment—what it would be like to feel those hands touch you with purpose instead of hesitation. Without the paper buffer. Without the quiet restraint.

He leans a little closer. You can feel the press of his shirt sleeve against your arm now, soft cotton against skin. “Looks perfect to me,” he murmurs.

It’s not the words. It’s the way he says them—like he’s not just talking about the story. You swallow, pulse jumping. You wonder if he hears it. You wonder if he feels it.

His eyes flick to yours for just a second. Something hangs in the air—fragile, charged. Then the phone rings down the hall, and the spell breaks like steam off hot glass. He steps back. You exhale like you’ve been holding your breath for three paragraphs.

You don’t look at him as he grabs his jacket. You just nod and whisper, “Thanks.”

And he just smiles—soft and private, like a secret passed from his mouth to your chest.

You don’t go home right away. You sit at your desk long after Clark and the rest of the bullpen has emptied out, coat draped over your shoulders like a blanket, fingers toying with the folded edge of the note in your lap.

“Sometimes I wish I could just be honest with you. But I can’t—not yet.”

You’ve read it enough times to have it memorized. Still, your eyes trace the handwriting again—careful lettering, no signature, just that quiet ache bleeding between the lines.

It’s the first one that feels more than just flirtation. This one hurts a little. So you do something you haven’t done before.

You pull a post-it from the stack beside your monitor, scribble down one sentence—no flourish, no punctuation.

“Then tell me in person.”

You slide it beneath your stapler before you leave. A deliberate offering. You don’t know how he’s been getting the others to you—if it’s during your lunch break or when you’re in the print room or bent over in the archives. But somehow, he knows.

So this time, you let him find something waiting.

And when you finally shrug on your coat and step into the elevator, the empty quiet of the newsroom echoes behind you like a held breath.

The next morning, there’s no reply. Not on your desk. Not slipped into your coat pocket. Not scribbled in the margin of your planner or tucked beneath your coffee cup. Just silence.

You try not to feel disappointed. You try not to spiral. Maybe he’s waiting. Maybe he’s scared. Maybe you’re wrong and it’s not who you think. But your chest feels hollow all the same—like something almost happened and didn’t.

So that night, you write again. Your hands shake more than they should for something so simple. A sticky note. A few words. But this one names it.

“One chance. One sunset. Centennial Park. Bench by the lion statue. Tomorrow.”

You stare at the words a long time before setting it down. This one’s not a joke. Not a dare. Not a flirtation scribbled in passing. This is an invitation. A door left open.

You slide it under your stapler the same way you’ve received every one of his notes—unassuming, tucked in plain sight. If he wants to find it, he will. You’ve stopped questioning how he does it. Maybe it’s timing. Maybe it’s instinct. Maybe it’s something else entirely.

But you know he’ll see it.

You pack up slowly. Shoulders tight. Bag heavier than usual. The newsroom is quiet at this hour—just the low hum of the overhead fluorescents and the soft, endless churn of printers in the back. You turn off your monitor, loop your coat over your arm, and make your way to the elevator.

Halfway there, something makes you stop. You glance back. Clark is still at his desk.

You hadn’t heard him return. You hadn’t even noticed the light at his station flick back on. But there he is—elbows on the desk, hands folded in front of him, eyes already lifted.

Watching you.

His face is unreadable, but his gaze lingers longer than it should. Soft. Searching. Almost caught. You feel the air shift. Not a word is exchanged. Just that one look.

Then the elevator dings. You turn away before you can lose your nerve.

And Clark? He doesn’t look down. Not until the doors slide shut in front of your face.

You tell yourself it doesn’t matter. You tell yourself it was probably nothing. A game. A passing flirtation. Maybe Jimmy, playing an elaborate prank he’ll one day claim was performance art.

But still—you dress carefully.

You pull out that one sweater that always makes you feel like the best version of yourself, and you smooth your collar twice before you leave. You wear lip balm that smells faintly like vanilla and leave the office ten minutes early just in case traffic is worse than expected. Just in case he’s early.

You get there first. The bench is colder than you remember. Stone weathered and a little damp from last night’s rain. Your coffee steams in your hands, and for a while, that’s enough to keep you warm.

The sky begins to soften around the edges. First blush pink, then golden orange, then the faintest sweep of violet, like a bruise blooming across the clouds. You watch the city skyline fade into silhouettes. The sun drips lower behind the glass towers, catching the river in a moment of molten reflection. It’s beautiful.

It’s also empty.

You wait. A couple strolls past, fingers laced, talking softly like they’ve been in love for years. A jogger nods as they pass, earbuds in, a scruffy golden retriever trotting faithfully beside them. The dog looks up at you like it knows something—like it sees something.

The wind kicks up. You pull your coat tighter. You tell yourself to give it five more minutes. Then five more.

And then—

Nothing. No footsteps. No note. No him.

Your coffee goes cold between your palms. The stone starts to seep into your bones. And somewhere deep in your chest, something you hadn’t even dared name… wilts.

Eventually, you stand. Walk home with your coat buttoned all the way up, even though it’s not that cold. You don’t cry.

You just go quiet.

The next morning, the bullpen hums with the usual Monday static. Phones ringing. Keys clacking. Perry’s voice barking something about a missed quote from the sanitation board. Jimmy’s camera shutter clicking in staccato bursts behind you. The Daily Planet in full swing—ordinary chaos wrapped in coffee breath and fluorescent lighting.

You move through it on autopilot. Your smile is small, tight around the edges. You’ve become a master of folding disappointment into your posture—chin lifted, eyes clear, mouth curved just enough to seem fine.

“Guess the secret admirer thing was just a prank after all.” You drop your bag beside your desk, shuffle through the morning copy logs, and say it lightly. Offhand. Like a joke. “Should’ve known better.” You make sure your voice carries just far enough. Not loud, but not a whisper. Casual. A throwaway comment designed to sound unaffected. And then you laugh. It’s short. Hollow. It dies in your throat before it even fully escapes.

Lois glances up from her monitor, eyes narrowing faintly behind dark lashes. She doesn’t laugh with you. She doesn’t smile. She just watches you for a beat too long. Not with judgment. Not even pity. Just… knowing. But she says nothing. And neither do you.

What you don’t see is the hallway—just twenty feet away—where Clark Kent stands frozen in place. He’d just walked in—late, coat slung over one arm, takeout coffee in the other. He had stopped just inside the threshold to adjust his glasses. He’d meant to offer you a second coffee, the one he bought on impulse after circling the block too many times.

And then he heard it. Your voice. “Guess the secret admirer thing was just a prank after all.” And then your laugh. That awful, paper-thin laugh.

He goes still. Like someone pulled the oxygen from the room. His hand tightens around the coffee cup until the lid creaks. The other arm drops slack at his side, coat nearly slipping from his grasp. His jaw tenses. Shoulders stiffen beneath his white button-down, and for one awful second, he forgets how to breathe.

Because you sound like someone trying not to care. And it cuts deeper than he expects. Because he’d meant to come. Because he tried. Because he was so close.

But none of that matters now. All you know is that he didn’t show up. And now you think the whole thing was a joke. A stupid, secret game. His game. And he can’t even explain—not without tearing everything open.

He stares down the corridor, eyes fixed on the edge of your desk, on the shape of your shoulders turned slightly away. He watches as you pick up your coffee and blow gently across the lid like it might chase the bitterness from your chest.

You don’t turn around. You don’t see the way he stands there—gutted, unmoving, undone. The cup trembles in his hand. He turns away before it spills.

That night, you go back to the office. You tell yourself it’s for the deadline. A follow-up piece on the housing committee. Edits on the west-side zoning profile. Anything to fill the time between sunset and sleep—because if you sleep, you’ll just dream of that bench.

The newsroom is quiet now. All overhead lights dimmed except for the halo of your desk lamp and the soft thrum of a copy machine left cycling in the corner.

You drop your bag with a sigh. Stretch your shoulders. Slide your desk drawer open without thinking. And find it. A note. No envelope. No tape. No ceremony. Just a single sheet of cream stationery folded in thirds. Familiar handwriting. Neat loops. Unshaking.

You unfold it slowly.

“I’m sorry. I wanted to be there. I can’t explain why I couldn’t— But it wasn’t a joke. It was never a joke. Please believe that.”

The words hit like a breath you didn’t know you were holding. Then they blur. You read it again. Then again. But the ache in your chest doesn’t settle. Because how do you believe someone who won’t show their face? How do you believe someone who keeps slipping between your fingers?

You hold the note to your chest. Close your eyes. You want to believe him. God, you want to. But you don’t know how anymore.

What you couldn’t know is this: Clark Kent was already running. He’d been on his way—coat flapping behind him, tie unspooling in the wind, breath fogging as he dashed through traffic, one hand wrapped tight around a note he planned to deliver in person for the first time. He’d rehearsed it. Practiced what he’d say. Built up to it with every beat of a terrified heart.

He saw the park lights up ahead. Saw the lion statue. Saw the shape of a figure sitting alone on that bench.

And then the air split open. The sky went green. A fifth-dimensional imp—not even from this universe—tore through Metropolis like a child flipping pages in a pop-up book. Reality folded. Buildings bent sideways. Streetlamps started singing jazz standards.

Clark barely had time to take a deep breath before he vanished into smoke and flame, spinning upward in a blur of red and blue. Somewhere across town, Superman joined Guy Gardner, Hawk Girl, Mr. Terrific, and Metamorpho in trying to contain the chaos before the city unmade itself entirely.

He never got the chance to reach the bench. He never got the chance to say anything. The note stayed in his pocket until it was soaked with rain and streaked with ash. Until it was too late.

It’s supposed to be routine. You’re only there to cover a zoning dispute. A boring, mid-week council press event that’s been rescheduled three times already. The air is heavy with heat and bureaucracy. You and your photographer barely make it past the front barricades before the scene spirals into chaos.

First it’s the downed power lines—sparking in rapid bursts as something hits the utility pole two blocks down. Then a car screeches over the median. Then someone starts screaming.

You’re still trying to piece it together when the crowd surges—someone shouts about a gun. People scatter. A window shatters across the street. A chunk of concrete falls from the sky like a thrown brick.

Your feet move before your brain catches up. You hit the pavement just as something explodes behind you. A jolt rings through your bones, sharp and high and metallic. Dust clouds the air. There’s shouting, then screaming, and your ears go fuzzy for one split second.

And then he lands.

Superman.

Cape whipping behind him like it’s caught in its own storm, boots cracking against the sidewalk as he drops down between the wreckage and the people still trying to flee. He moves like nothing you’ve ever seen.

Not just fast—but impossible. His body a blur of motion, heat, and purpose. He rips a crumpled lamppost off a trapped woman like it weighs nothing. Hurls it aside and crouches low beside her, voice firm but gentle as he checks her pulse, her leg, her name.

You’re frozen where you crouch, half behind a parking meter, hand pressed to your chest like it can keep your heart from tearing loose.

And then be turns. Looks straight at you. His expression shifts. Just for a moment. Just for you. He steps forward, dust streaking his suit, eyes dark with something you don’t have time to name. He reaches you in three strides, body angled between you and the chaos, hand raised in warning before you can speak.

“Stay here, sweetheart. Please.”

Your stomach drops. Not at the danger. Not at the sound of buildings groaning in the distance or the flash of gunmetal tucked into a stranger’s hand.

It’s him. That word. That voice. The exact way of saying it—like it’s muscle memory. Like he’s said it a thousand times before.

Like Clark says it.

It stuns you more than the explosion did.

You blink up at him, speechless, heart stuttering behind your ribs as he holds your gaze just a second longer than he should. His brow furrows. Then he’s gone—into the fray, into the fire, into the part of the story where your pen can’t follow.

You don’t remember standing. You don’t remember how you get back to the press line, only that your legs shake and your palms burn and every time you try to replay what just happened, your brain gets stuck on one word.

Sweetheart.

You’ve heard it before—dozens of times. Always soft. Always accidental. Always from behind thick glasses and a crooked tie and a mouth still chewing the edge of a muffin while he scrolls through zoning reports.

Clark says it when he forgets you’re not his to claim. Clark says it when you’re both the last ones in the office and he thinks you’re asleep at your desk. Clark says it like a secret. Like a slip.

And Superman just said it exactly the same way. Same tone. Same warmth. Same quiet ache beneath it.

But that’s not possible. Because Superman is—Superman. Bold. Dazzling. Fire-forged. He walks like he owns the sky. He speaks like a storm made flesh. He radiates power and perfection.

And Clark? Clark is all flannel and stammering jokes and soft eyes behind big frames. He’s gentle. A little clumsy. His swagger is borrowed from farm porches and storybooks. He’s sweet in a way Superman couldn’t possibly be.

Couldn’t… Right? You chalk it up to coincidence. You have to.

…Sort of.

You don’t sleep well the night after the incident. You keep replaying it—frame by impossible frame. The gunshot, the smoke, the sky splitting in half. The crack of his landing, the rush of wind off his cape. The weight of his body between you and danger. And then that voice.

“Stay here, sweetheart. Please.”

You flinch every time it echoes in your head. Every time your brain folds it over the countless memories you have of Clark saying it in passing, like it was nothing. Like it meant nothing.

But it means something now.

You come into the office the next day wired and quiet, adrenaline still burning faintly at the edges of your skin. You aren’t sure what to say, or to whom, so you say nothing. You stare too long at your coffee. You snap at a printer jam. You forget your lunch in the breakroom fridge.

Clark notices. He hovers by your desk that morning, a second coffee in hand—one of those specialty orders from that corner place he knows you like but always pretends he doesn’t remember.

“Rough day?” he asks gently. His tone is careful. Soft. As if you’re a glass already rattling on the edge of the shelf.

You don’t look up. “It’s fine.”

He hesitates. Then sets the coffee down beside your elbow, just far enough that you have to choose whether or not to reach for it. “I heard about the power line thing,” he adds. “You okay?”

“I said I’m fine, Clark.”

A beat.

You hate the way his face flickers at that—hurt, barely masked. He pushes his glasses up and nods like he deserves it. Like he’s been expecting it. He doesn’t press. He just walks away.

You find yourself whispering to Lois over takeout later that afternoon—half a conversation muttered between bites of noodles and the hum of flickering overheads.

“He called me sweetheart.”

She raises an eyebrow. “Clark?”

“No. Superman.”

Her chewing slows.

You keep your eyes on the edge of your desk. “That’s… weird, right?”

Lois makes a sound—somewhere between a scoff and a laugh. “He’s a superhero. They charm every pretty girl they pull out of a burning building.”

You poke at your noodles. “Still. It felt…”

“Weird?” she teases again, nudging her knee against yours.

You shrug like it doesn’t matter. Like it hasn’t been clawing at the back of your brain for three days straight. Lois doesn’t press. Just watches you for a second longer than necessary. Then she moves on, launching into a tirade about Perry’s passive-aggressive post-it notes and the fact that someone keeps stealing her pens.

But the damage is already done. Because you start thinking maybe you’ve just been projecting. Maybe you want your secret admirer to be Clark so badly that your brain’s rewriting reality—latching onto any voice, any phrase, any fleeting resemblance and assigning it meaning.

Sweetheart.

It’s a common word. It doesn’t mean anything. Maybe Superman says it to everyone. Maybe he has a whole roster of soft pet names for dazed civilians. Maybe you’re the delusional one—sitting here wondering if your awkward, sweet, left-footed coworker moonlights as a god.

The idea is so absurd it actually makes you laugh. Quietly. Bitterly. Right into your carton of lo mein. You tell yourself to let it go. But you don’t.

You can’t. Because somewhere deep down, it doesn’t feel absurd at all. It feels… close. Like you’re brushing against the edge of something true. And if you get just a little closer—

You might fall right through it.

Clark pulls back after that. Subtly. Slowly. Like he’s dimming himself on purpose. He’s still there—still kind, still thoughtful, still Clark. But the rhythm changes.

The coffees stop appearing on your desk each morning. No more sticky notes with half-legible puns or awkward smiley faces. No more jokes under his breath during staff meetings. No more warm glances across the bullpen when you’re stuck late and your screen is giving you a headache.

His chair now sits just a little farther from yours in the layout room. Not enough to be obvious. Just enough to feel. You notice it the way you notice when the air shifts before a storm. Quiet. Inevitable.

Even his messages change. Once, his texts used to come with too many exclamation marks and a tendency to type out haha when he was nervous. Now they’re brief. Punctuated. Polite.

“Got your quote. Sending now.” “Perry said we’re cleared for page A3.” “Hope your meeting went okay.”

You reread them more than you should. Not because of what they say—but because of what they don’t. It feels like being ghosted by someone who still waves to you across the room.

You try to talk yourself down. Maybe he’s just busy. Maybe he’s stressed. Maybe you’ve been projecting. Maybe it’s not your admirer’s handwriting that matches his. Maybe it’s not his voice that slipped out of Superman’s mouth like a secret.

Maybe, maybe, maybe.

But the space he used to fill next to you… feels like a light that’s been quietly turned off. And you are the one still blinking against the dark.

And yet, one afternoon, someone in the bullpen makes a snide remark about your latest piece. You don’t even catch the beginning—just the tail end of it, lazy and smug.

“—basically just fluff, right? She’s been coasting lately.”

You’re about to ignore it. You’re tired. Too tired. And what’s the point in arguing with someone who thinks nuance is a liability?

But then—Clark speaks. Not from beside you, but from across the room. You’re not even sure how he could have possibly heard the guy talking across all the hustle and bustle of the bullpen. But his voice cuts through the noise like someone snapping a ruler against a desk.

“I just think her work actually matters, okay?”

Silence follows. Not because of the volume—he wasn’t loud. Just certain. Unflinching. Like he’d been holding it in. The words hang in the air, charged and too real.

Clark looks immediately horrified with himself. He goes red. Not a faint flush—crimson. Mouth parting like he wants to take it back but doesn’t know how. He tries to recover, to smooth it over—but nothing comes. Just a flustered shake of his head and a noise that might’ve been his name.

The other reporter stares. “…Okay, man. Chill.”

Clark mumbles something about grabbing a file from archives and practically stumbles for the hallway, papers clenched awkwardly in one hand like a shield.

You don’t follow. You just… sit there. Staring at the space he left behind. Because that moment—those words—it wasn’t just instinct. It wasn’t just kindness. It was him.

The way he said it. The emotion in it. The rhythm of it. It felt like the notes. Like the quiet encouragements tucked into the margins of your day. Like someone watching, quietly, gently, hoping you’ll see yourself the way they do.

You think about the phrases he’s used before.

“The line you cut in paragraph six was my favorite. About hope not being the same thing as naivety.” “Even whispers echo when they’re true.”

And now:

“Her work actually matters.”

All said like they were true, not convenient. All said like they were about you.

You start to notice more after that. The way Clark compliments your writing—always specific. Never lazy. The way his eyes crinkle when he’s proud of something you said, even when he doesn’t speak up. The way he turns the thermostat up exactly two degrees every time you bring your sweater into work. The way he walks a half-step behind you when you both leave late at night.

It’s not a confession. Not yet. But it’s a pattern. And once you start seeing it—

You can’t stop.

It’s a quiet afternoon in the bullpen. The kind where the overhead lights hum just loud enough to notice and everything smells like stale coffee and highlighter ink.

Clark’s sprawled in front of his monitor, sleeves rolled to his elbows, brow furrowed with the kind of intensity he usually saves for city zoning laws and double-checked citations. You’re helping him sort through quotes—most of which came from a reluctant press secretary and one very talkative dog walker who may or may not be a credible witness.

“Can you check the time stamp on the third transcript?” he asks, not looking up from his notes. “I think I messed it up when I formatted.”

You nod, flipping through the stack of papers he passed you earlier. That’s when you see it. Folded beneath the top printout, half-tucked into the margin of a city planning spreadsheet, is a different kind of note. A loose sheet, scribbled across in black ink. Not typed—written. Slanted lines. A few false starts crossed out.

At first, you think it’s a headline draft. A brainstorm. But the longer you stare, the more it reads like… something else.

“The city is loud today. Not just noise, but motion. Memory. The way people hum when they think no one’s listening.” “I can’t stop watching her move through it like she belongs to it. Like it belongs to her.”

You freeze. Your eyes track down the page slowly, like touching something sacred.

The letters are familiar. The lowercase y curls the same way as the one on your very first note—the one that came with your coffee. The ink is the same soft black, slightly smudged in the corners, like whoever wrote it holds the pen too tight when they’re thinking. The paper is the same notepad stock he’s used before. The same faint red line down the margin.

You don’t mean to do it, but your fingers curl around the page. Your chest goes tight. Because it’s not just similar.

It’s exact.

You hear him coming before you see him—those long, careful strides and the faint jangle of the lanyard he keeps forgetting to take off.

You tuck the paper into your notebook. Quick. Smooth. Automatic.

“Hey, sorry,” he says, rounding the corner with two mugs of tea and a slightly sheepish smile. “Printer’s jammed again. I may have made it worse.”

You nod. Too fast. You can’t quite make your voice work yet. Clark hands you your tea—just the way you like it, no comment—and sits across from you like nothing’s wrong. Like your whole world hasn’t tilted six degrees to the left.

He launches into a ramble about column widths and quote placement, about whether a serif font looks more “established” than sans serif.

You don’t hear a word of it. You just… watch him. The way he gestures too big with his hands. The way his glasses slip down his nose mid-sentence and he doesn’t bother to fix them until they’re practically falling off. The way his voice drops a little when he’s thinking hard—low and warm and utterly unselfconscious.

He has no idea you know. No idea what you just found.

You murmur something about needing to catch a meeting and excuse yourself early. He nods. Worries at his bottom lip like he’s debating whether to walk you out. Decides against it.

“Thanks for the help,” he says quietly, as you shoulder your bag. “Seriously. I couldn’t’ve done this draft without you.”

You give him a look you don’t quite know how to name. Something between thank you and I see you.

Then you go.

That night, you sit on your bedroom floor with the drawer open. Every note. Every folded scrap. Every secret tucked under your stapler or slid into your sleeve or left beside your coffee cup. You line them up in rows. You flatten them with careful hands. And you compare. One by one.

The loops. The lines. The uneven spacing. The curl of the r. The hush in every sentence, like he was writing them with his heart too close to the surface.

There’s no room for doubt anymore. It’s him. It’s been him this whole time.

Clark Kent.

And somehow—somehow—he’s still never said your name aloud when he writes about you. Not once. But every letter reads like a whisper of it. Like a promise waiting to be spoken.

The office is quiet by the time you find the nerve.

Desks are abandoned, chairs turned at angles, the windows dark with city glow. Outside, Metropolis hums in its usual low thrum—sirens and neon and distant jazz from a rooftop bar—but here, in the bullpen, it’s just the steady tick of the wall clock and the slow, careful steps you take toward his desk.

Clark doesn’t hear you at first. He’s bent over a red pen and a half-finished draft, glasses low on his nose, the curve of his back hunched the way it always is when he’s lost in edits. His tie is loosened. His sleeves are pushed up. There’s a smear of ink on his thumb. He looks soft in the way people do when they think no one’s watching.

You speak before you lose your nerve. “Why didn’t you just tell me?”

Clark startles. Not dramatically—just a sharp breath and a too-quick motion to sit upright, like a kid caught doodling in the margins. “I—what?”

You don’t let your voice shake. “That it was you. The notes. The park. All of it.”

He stares at you. Then down at his desk. Then back again. His mouth opens like it wants to offer a lie, but nothing comes out. Just silence. His fingers twitch toward the edge of the desk and stop there, curling into his palm.

“I—” he tries again, softer now, “—I didn’t think you knew.”

“I didn’t.” Your voice is gentle. But not easy. “Not at first. Not really. But then I saw that list on your desk and… I went home and checked the handwriting.”

He winces. “I knew I left that out somewhere.”

You cross your arms, not out of anger—more like self-protection. “You could’ve told me. At any point. I asked you.”

“I know.” He swallows hard. “I know. I wanted to. I… tried.”

You watch him. Wait.

And then he says it. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just the truth, raw and shaky and so Clark it nearly breaks you. “Because if I told you it was me… you might look at me different. Or worse… The same.”

You don’t know what to say to that. Not right away. Your heart clenches. Because it’s so him—to assume your affection could only live in the mystery. That the truth of him—soft, clumsy, brilliant, real—would somehow undo the magic.

“Clark…” you start, but your voice slips.

He rubs the back of his neck. “I’m just the guy who spills coffee on his own notes and forgets to refill the paper tray. You’re… you. You write like you’re on fire. You walk into a room and it listens. I didn’t think someone like you would ever want someone like me.”

You stare at him. Really stare. At the flushed cheeks. The nervous hands. The boyish smile he’s trying to bury under self-deprecation. And then you say it. “I saved every note.”

He blinks.

You keep going. “I read them when I felt invisible. When I thought no one gave a damn what I was doing here. They mattered.”

Clark’s breath catches. He opens his mouth. Closes it again. He takes a slow step forward, tentative. Like he’s afraid to break the spell. His eyes search yours, and for a moment—for a second so still it might as well last an hour—he leans in. Not close enough to kiss you. But almost. His hand brushes yours. He stops. The air is heavy between you, buzzing with something fragile and enormous. But it isn’t enough. Not yet.

You draw in a breath, quiet but steady. “Why didn’t you meet me?”

Clark goes still. You can see it happen—the way the question lands. The way he folds in on himself just slightly, like the truth is too heavy to hold upright.

“I…” He tries, but the word doesn’t land. His jaw flexes. His eyes drop to the floor, then back up. He wants to tell you. He almost does. But he can’t. Not without unraveling everything. Not without unraveling himself.

“I wanted to,” he says finally, voice rough at the edges. “More than anything.”

“But?” you press, gently.

He just looks at you and says nothing. You nod, slowly. The silence says enough. Your chest aches—not in a sharp, bitter way. In the dull, familiar way of something you already suspected being confirmed.

You glance down at where your hand still brushes his, then look back at him—really look. “I wish you’d told me,” you whisper. “I sat there thinking it was a joke. That I made it all up. That I was stupid for believing in any of it.”

“I know,” he murmurs. “And I’m sorry.”

Your throat tightens. You swallow past it. “I just… I need time. To process. To think.”

Clark’s eyes flicker—hope and heartbreak, all tangled up in one look. “Of course,” he says immediately. “Take whatever you need. I mean it.”

A beat passes before you say the part that makes his breath catch. “I’m happy it was you.”

He freezes.

You offer the smallest smile. “I wanted it to be you.”

And for the first time in minutes, something in his shoulders unknots. There’s a shift. Gentle. Quiet. His hand lingers near yours again, knuckles brushing. He doesn’t lean in. Doesn’t push.

But God, he wants to. And maybe… maybe you do too. The moment stretches, unspoken and warm and not quite ready to be anything more.

You both stay like that—close, not touching. Breathing the same charged air. Then he laughs under his breath. Nervous. Boyish.

“I’m probably gonna trip over something the second you walk away.”

You smile back. “Just recalibrate your ankles.”

He huffs out a laugh, head ducking. “I deserved that.”

You start to turn away. Just a little. But his voice stops you again—quiet, sincere, something earnest catching in it. “I’m really glad it was me, too.”

And your heart flutters all over again.

Lois is perched on the edge of your desk, a paper takeout box balanced on her knee, chopsticks waving in lazy circles while you pick at your own dinner with a little too much focus.

You haven’t told her everything. Not the everything everything. Not the way your heart nearly cracked open when Clark looked at you like you were made of starlight and library books. Not how close he got before pulling back. Not how you pulled back too, even though your whole body ached to close the distance.

But you have told her about the notes. About the mystery. About the strange tenderness of it all, how it wrapped around your days like a string you didn’t know you were following until it tugged. And Lois—Lois has been unusually quiet about it. Until now.

“I’m setting you up,” she says between bites, like she’s discussing filing taxes.

You blink. “What?”

“A date. Just one. Guy from the Features desk at the Tribune. You’ll like him. He’s taller than you, decent jawline, wears socks that match. He’s got strong opinions about punctuation, which I figure is basically foreplay for you.”

You stare at her. “You don’t even believe in setups.”

“I don’t,” she agrees. “But you’ve been spiraling in circles for weeks, and at this point, I either push you toward a date or stage an intervention with PowerPoint slides.”

You laugh despite yourself. “You have PowerPoint slides?”

“Of course not,” she scoffs. “I have a Google Doc.”

You roll your eyes. “Lois—”

“Listen,” she says, gentler now. “I know you’re in deep with whoever this guy is. And if it is Clark… well. I can see why.”

Your stomach flips.

“But maybe stepping outside of the Planet for two hours wouldn’t kill you. Let someone else flirt with you for once. Let yourself figure out what you actually want.”

You press your lips together. Look down at your barely-touched food.

“You don’t have to fall for him,” she adds, softly. “Just let yourself be seen.”

You exhale through your nose. “He better be cute.”

“Oh, he is. Total sweater vest energy.”

You snort. “So your type.”

“Exactly.” She lifts her takeout carton in a mock toast. “To emotionally compromised coworkers and their tragic love lives.”

You clink your chopsticks against hers like it’s the saddest champagne flute in the world. And later, when you’re getting ready, you still feel the weight of Clark’s almost-kiss behind your ribs. But you go anyway. Because Lois is right. You need to know what it is you’re choosing. Even if, deep down, you already do.

The date isn’t bad. That’s the most frustrating part. He’s nice. Polished in that media school kind of way—crisp shirt, clean shave, a practiced smile that belongs on a campaign poster. He compliments your bylines and talks about his dream of running an independent magazine one day. He orders the good whiskey and laughs at your jokes.

But it’s the wrong laugh. Off by a beat. The rhythm’s not right.

When he leans in, you don’t. When he talks, your thoughts drift—to mismatched socks and printer toner smudges. To how someone else always remembers your coffee order. To how someone else listens, not to respond, but to see.

You realize it halfway through the second drink. You’re thinking about Clark again.

The softness of him. The steadiness. The way he over-apologizes in texts but never hesitates when someone challenges your work. The way his voice tilts a little higher when he’s nervous. The way his laugh never lands in the right place, but somehow makes the whole room feel warmer.

You pull your coat tighter when you leave the restaurant, cheeks stinging from the wind and the slow unraveling of a night that should’ve meant something. It doesn’t. Not in the way that matters.

So you walk. You tell yourself you’re just passing by the Daily Planet. That maybe you left your notes there. That it’s just a habit, stopping in this late. But when you scan your ID badge and push through the heavy glass doors, you already know the truth. You’re hoping he’s still here.

And he is.

The bullpen is almost entirely dark, save for a single desk lamp casting gold across the layout section. He’s hunched over it—tie loosened, sleeves rolled up, shirt rumpled like he’s been pacing, thinking, rewriting. His glasses are folded beside him on the desk. His hair’s a mess—fingers clearly run through it too many times.

He rubs at his eyes with the heel of his palm, breathing out hard through his nose. You don’t say anything. You just… watch. It hits you in one perfect, unshakable moment. The slope of his shoulders. The cut of his jaw. The furrow in his brow when he’s thinking too hard.

He looks like Superman.

No glasses. No slouch. No excuses. But more than that—he looks like Clark. Like the man who learned your coffee order. Like the one who saves all his best edits for last so he can tell you in person how good your writing is. The one who panicked when you got too close to the truth, but couldn’t stop leaving notes anyway.

And when he finally lifts his head and sees you standing there—still in your coat, fingers tight around your notebook—you watch something shift in his expression. A flicker of surprise. Panic. Bare, open emotion. Because you’re seeing him without the glasses.

“Couldn’t sleep,” you murmur. “Thought I’d grab my notes.”

He smiles, slow and unsure. “You… left them by the scanner.”

You nod, like that matters. Like you came here for paper and not for him. Then you walk over, slow and deliberate, and retrieve your notes from the edge of the scanner beside him. He swallows hard, watching you.

Then clears his throat. “So… how was the date?”

You pause. “Fine,” you say. “He was nice. Funny. Smart.”

Clark nods, but you’re not finished.

“But when he laughed, it was the wrong rhythm. And when he spoke, I didn’t lean in.”

You meet his eyes—clear blue, unhidden now. “I made up my mind halfway through the second drink.” His lips part. Barely. You move to the edge of his desk and set your notebook down. Then—carefully, slowly—you pull out the chair beside his and sit. The air between you goes molten.

Clark leans in a little, eyes flicking to your mouth, then back to your eyes. One hand moves down, like he’s going to say something, but instead, he reaches for the leg of your chair—fingers curling around it. And pulls you toward him. The scrape of wood against tile echoes, loud and deliberate. Your thighs knock his. Your breath stutters.

He’s so close now you can feel the heat rolling off him. The weight of his gaze. Your heart hammers in your chest. And lower.

“Clark—” But you don’t finish because he meets you halfway. The kiss is fire and breath and years of want pressed between two mouths. His hands come up—one to your jaw, the other to the back of your head—and tilt your face just so. Fingers tangle in your hair, anchoring you to him like he’s afraid you might vanish.

You moan into his mouth. Soft. Surprised. He groans back. Rougher. You reach for his shirt blindly, fists curling in the cotton as he pulls you fully into his lap—into the chair with him, your legs straddling his thighs. His hands don’t know where to land. Your waist. Your thighs. Your face again.

“You’re it,” he whispers against your mouth. “You’ve always been it.”

You know he means it. Because you’ve seen it. In every note. Every glance. Every moment he looked at you like you were already his. And now, with your bodies tangled, mouths tasting each other, breathing the same heat—you finally believe it.

You don’t say it yet. But the way you kiss him again says it for you. You’re his. You always have been.

His hands roam, but never rush. Your fingers are tangled in his shirt, your knees pressing to either side of his hips, and you feel him—all of him—underneath you, solid and steady and shaking just slightly. The chair creaks with every breath you share. His mouth is still on yours, slow now, like he’s memorizing the shape of you. Like he’s afraid if he goes too fast, you’ll disappear again.

When he finally pulls back—just enough to breathe—it’s with a soft, reverent exhale. His nose brushes yours. “You’re really here,” he murmurs, voice hoarse. “God, you’re really here.”

You blink at him, your hands sliding to either side of his jaw, thumbs brushing the high flush of his cheeks. He looks so open. Like you’ve peeled back every layer of him with just a kiss. And maybe you have.

His lips find the edge of your jaw next, slow and aching. A kiss. Then another, just beneath your ear. Then one lower, along the soft skin of your neck. Each press of his mouth feels like a confession. Like something that was buried too long, finally given air.

“You don’t know,” he whispers. “You don’t know what it’s been like, watching you and not getting to—” Another kiss, right beneath your cheekbone. “I used to rehearse things I’d say to you, and then I’d get to work and you’d smile and I’d forget how to talk.”

A laugh huffs out of you, but it melts fast when he leans in again, his breath fanning warm across your skin. “I didn’t think I’d ever get this close. I didn’t think I’d get to touch you like this.”

You shift in his lap, chest brushing his, and his hands squeeze your waist gently like he’s grounding himself. His mouth finds your temple. Your cheek. The corner of your mouth again.

“You’re so—” he breaks off. Tries again. “You’re everything.” Your pulse thrums in your throat. Clark’s hands stay respectful, but they wander—curving up your back, smoothing over your shoulders, settling at your ribs like he wants to hold you together.

“I used to write those notes late at night,” he admits against your collarbone. “Didn’t even think you’d read them at first. But you did. You kept them.”

“I kept every one,” you whisper.

His breath catches. You tilt his face back up to yours, studying him in the low, golden light. His hair’s a little messy now from your fingers. His lips pink and kiss-swollen. His chest rising and falling like he’s just run a marathon. And still, even now—he’s looking at you like he’s the one who’s lucky.

Clark kisses you again—soft, like a promise. Then a trail of them, across your cheek, your jaw, your throat. Slow enough to make your skin shiver and your hips shift instinctively against his lap. He groans quietly at that—barely audible—but doesn’t press for more. He just holds you tighter.

“I’d wait forever for you,” he murmurs into your skin. “I don’t need anything else. Just this. Just you.” You bury your face in his shoulder, overwhelmed, heart pounding like a war drum. You don’t say anything back. You just press another kiss to his throat, and feel him smile where your mouth lands.

The city is quieter at night—its edges softened under streetlamp glow, concrete warming beneath the fading breath of the day. There’s a breeze that tugs gently at your coat as you and Clark walk side by side, your fingers still loosely laced with his. His hand is big. Warm. Rough in the places that tell stories. Gentle in the ways that say everything else.

Neither of you speaks at first. The silence isn’t awkward. It’s thick with something tender. Like a string strung tight between your ribs and his, humming with each shared step.

When he glances down at you, his smile is small and almost shy. “I can’t believe I didn’t knock over the chair,” he says after a few blocks, voice pitched low with laughter.

You grin. “You were close. I think my thigh is bruised.”

He groans. “Don’t say that—I’ll lose sleep.”

You look at him sidelong. “You weren’t going to sleep anyway.” That earns you a pink flush down the side of his neck, and you tuck that image away for safekeeping.

Your building looms closer, brick and ivy-wrapped and familiar in the soft hush of the hour. You slow as you reach the front step, turning to face him.

“Thank you,” you murmur. You don’t mean just for the walk.

He holds your hand a beat longer. Then, without a word, he lifts it—presses his lips to your knuckles. It’s soft. Reverent.

Your breath catches in your throat. And maybe that’s what breaks the spell—maybe that’s what makes it all too much and not enough at once—because the next second, you’re reaching. Or maybe he is. It doesn’t matter. He kisses you again—this time fuller, deeper—your back brushing against the door behind you, his other hand cradling your cheek like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he doesn’t hold you just right.

It doesn’t last long. Just long enough to taste the weight of what’s shifting between you. To feel it crest again in your chest.

When he finally pulls back, his lips hover a breath away from yours. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” he says softly.

You nod. You can’t quite say anything back yet. He gives your hand one last squeeze, then turns and disappears down the street, hands stuffed in his pockets, shoulders curved slightly inward like he’s holding in a smile he doesn’t know what to do with.

You unlock the door. Step inside. But you don’t go to bed right away. You walk to the front window instead—bare feet quiet on hardwood, heart still hammering. Through the glass, you spot him half a block away. He thinks you’re gone. Which is probably why, under the streetlight, Clark Kent jumps up and smacks the edge of a low-hanging banner like he’s testing his vertical. He catches it on the second try, swinging from it for all of two seconds before nearly tripping over his own feet.

You snort. Your hand presses against your mouth to muffle the sound. And then you smile. That kind of soft, aching smile that tugs at something deep in your chest. Because that’s him. That’s the man who writes you poems under the cover of anonymity and nearly breaks your chair kissing you in a newsroom.

That’s the one you wanted it to be. And now that it is—you don’t think your heart’s ever going to stop fluttering.

The bullpen is alive again. Phones ring. Keys clatter. Someone’s arguing over copy edits near the back printer, and Jimmy streaks past with a half-eaten bagel clamped between his teeth and a stack of photos fluttering behind him like confetti. It’s chaos.

But none of it touches you. The world moves at its usual speed, but everything inside you has slowed. Like someone turned the volume down on everything that isn’t him.

Your eyes find Clark without meaning to. He’s already at his desk—glasses on, shirt pressed, tie straighter than usual. He must’ve fixed it three times this morning. His sleeves are rolled to the elbow, a pen already tucked behind one ear. He’s doing that thing he does when he’s thinking—lip caught gently between his teeth, brows drawn, tapping the space bar like it owes him money.

But there’s a softness to him this morning, too. A looseness in his shoulders. A quiet sort of glow around the edges, like some part of him hasn’t fully come down from last night either. Like he’s still vibrating with the same electricity that’s still thrumming low behind your ribs.

And then he looks up. He finds you just as easily as you found him. You expect him to look away—bashful, flustered, maybe even embarrassed now that the newsroom lights are on and you’re both pretending not to be lit matches pretending not to burn.

But he doesn’t. He holds your gaze. And the quiet that opens up between you is louder than anything else in the building. The low hum of printers. The whirr of the HVAC. The hiss of steam from the office espresso machine.

You swallow hard. Then you look back at your screen like it matters. You try to focus. You really do.

Less than ten minutes later, he’s there. He approaches slow, like he’s afraid of breaking something delicate. His hand appears first, gently setting a familiar to-go cup on your desk.

“I figured you forgot yours,” he says, voice low.

You glance up at him. “I didn’t.”

A smile curls at the corner of his mouth. Soft. A little sheepish. “Oh. Well…” He shrugs. “Now you have two.”

You take the coffee anyway. Your fingers brush his as you do. He doesn’t pull away. Not this time. His hand lingers for half a second longer than it should—just enough to make your pulse jump in your wrist—and then slowly drops back to his side. The silence between you now isn’t awkward. It’s taut. Weightless. Like standing at the edge of something enormous, staring over the drop, and realizing he’s right there beside you—ready to jump too.

“Walk with me?” he asks, voice barely above the clatter around you. You nod. Because you’d follow him anywhere.

Downstairs, the building atrium hums with the low murmur of morning traffic and the soft shuffle of people cutting through the lobby on their way to bigger, faster things. But here—beneath the high, glass-paneled ceiling where sunlight pours in like gold through water—the city feels a little farther away. A little quieter. Just the two of you, caught in that hush between chaos and clarity.

Clark hands you a sugar packet without a word, and you take it, fingers brushing his again. He watches—not your hands, but your face—as you tear it open and shake it into your cup. Like memorizing the way you take your coffee might somehow tell him more than you’re ready to say aloud.

You glance at him, just in time to catch it—that look. Barely there, but soft. Full. He looks at you like he’s trying to learn you by heart.

You raise a brow. “What?”

He blinks, caught. “Nothing.”

But you’re smiling now, just a little. A private, corner-of-your-mouth kind of smile. “You look tired,” you murmur, stirring slowly.

His lips twitch. “Late night.”

“Editing from home?”

He hesitates. You watch the way his shoulders shift, the subtle catch in his breath. Then, finally, he shakes his head. “Not exactly.”

You hum. Say nothing more. The moment lingers, warm as the cup in your hand. He stands beside you, tall and still, but there’s something new in the way he holds himself—like gravity’s just a little lighter around him this morning. Like your presence pulls him into a softer orbit. There’s a beat of silence.

“You… seemed quiet last night,” he says, voice gentler now. “When you saw me.”

You glance at him from over the rim of your cup. Steam curls up between you, catching in the morning light like spun sugar. “I saw you,” you say.

He studies you. Carefully. “You sure?”

You lower your coffee. “Yeah. I’m sure.”

His brows pull together slightly, the line between them deepening. He’s trying to read you. Trying to solve an equation he’s too close to see clearly. There’s a question in his eyes—not just about last night, but about everything that came before it. The letters. The glances. The ache.

But you don’t give him the answer. Not out loud. Because what you don’t say hangs heavier than what you do. You don’t say: I’m pretty certain he’s you. You don’t say: I think my heart has known for a while now. You don’t say: I’m not afraid of what you’re hiding. Instead, you let the silence stretch between you—soft and silken, tethering you to something deeper than confession. You sip your coffee, heart steady now, eyes warm.

And when he opens his mouth again—when he leans forward like he might finally give himself away entirely—you smile. Just a soft curve of your lips. A quiet reassurance. “Don’t worry,” you say, voice low. “I liked what I saw.”

He freezes. Then flushes, color blooming high on his cheeks. His gaze drops to the floor like it’s safer there, like looking at you too long might unravel him completely—but when he glances back up, the smile on his face is small and helpless and utterly undone. A breath escapes him, barely audible—but you hear it. You feel it. Relief.

He walks you back upstairs without another word. The movement is easy. Comfortable. But his hand hovers near yours the whole time. Not quite touching. Just… there. Like gravity pulling two halves of the same secret closer.

And as you re-enter the hum of the bullpen, nothing looks different. But everything feels like it’s just about to change.

That night, after the city has quieted—after the neon pulse of Metropolis blurs into puddle reflections and distant sirens—the Daily Planet is almost reverent in its silence. No ringing phones. No newsroom chatter. Just the soft hum of a printer in standby mode and the creak of the elevator cables descending behind you.

You let yourself in with your keycard. The lock clicks louder than expected in the stillness. You don’t know why you’re here, really. You told yourself it was to grab the folder you forgot. To double-check something on your last draft. But the truth is quieter than that.

You were hoping he’d be here. He’s not. His desk lamp is off. His chair turned inward, as if he left in a hurry. No half-eaten sandwich or scribbled drafts left behind—just a tidied workspace and absence thick enough to feel.

You sigh, the sound swallowed whole by the vast emptiness of the bullpen. Then you see it. At your desk. Tucked half-under your keyboard like a secret trying not to be. One folded piece of paper.

No envelope this time. No clever line on the front. Just your name, handwritten in a looping scrawl you’ve come to know better than your own signature. A rhythm you’ve studied and traced in the quiet of your apartment, night after night.

You slide it free with careful fingers. Your heart stutters as you unfold it. The ink is darker this time—less tentative. The strokes more deliberate, like he knew, at last, he didn’t have to hide.

“For once I don’t have to imagine what it’s like to have your lips on mine. But I still think about it anyway.” —C.K.

You stare at the words until the paper goes soft in your hands. Until your chest feels too full and too fragile all at once. Until the noise of your own heartbeat drowns out everything else.

Then you press the note to your chest and close your eyes. His initials burn through the paper like a touch. Not a secret admirer anymore. Not a mystery in the margins. Just him.

Clark. Your friend. Your almost. Your maybe.

You don’t need the rest of the truth. Not tonight. Not if it costs this fragile thing blooming between you—this quiet, aching sweetness. This slow, deliberate unraveling of walls and fears and the long-held breath you didn’t realize you were holding.

Whatever you’re building together, it’s happening one heartbeat at a time. One almost-confession. One note left behind in the dark. And you’d rather have this—this steady climb into something real—than rush toward the edge of revelation and risk it all crumbling.

So you tuck the note gently into your bag, where the others wait. Every word he’s given you, kept safe like a promise. You don’t know what happens next. But for the first time in weeks, maybe months, you’re not afraid of finding out.

You’re not official.

Not in the way people expect it. There’s no label, no group announcement, no big display. But you’re definitely something now—something solid and golden and real in the space between words.

It’s not office gossip. Not yet. But it could be. Because you linger a little too long near his desk. Because he lights up when you enter a room like it’s instinct. Because when he passes you in the bullpen, his hand brushes yours—just barely—and you both pause like the air just changed. There’s no denying it.

And then comes the hallway kiss. It’s after hours. The building is quiet, the newsroom lights dimmed to half. You’re both walking toward the elevators, your footsteps echoing against the tile.

Clark fumbles for the call button, mumbling something about how slow the system is when it’s late, and how the elevator always seems to stall on the wrong floor. You don’t answer. You just reach for his tie. A gentle tug. A silent question. He exhales, soft and shaky. Then he leans in.

The kiss is slow. Unhurried. Like you’re both tasting something that’s been simmering between you for years. His hands find your waist, yours curl into his shirt, and the elevator dings somewhere in the distance, but neither of you move.

You part only when the second ding reminds you where you are. His forehead presses to yours, warm and close. You breathe the same air. And then the doors close behind you, and he walks you out with his hand ghosting the small of your back.

You start learning the rhythm of Clark Kent. He talks more when he’s nervous—little rambles about traffic patterns or article formatting, or how he’s still not entirely sure he installed his dishwasher correctly. Sometimes he trails off mid-thought, like he’s remembering something urgent but can’t explain it.

He always carries your groceries. All of them. No negotiation. He’ll take the heavier bags first, sling them both over one shoulder and pretend like it’s nothing. And somehow, he always forgets his own umbrella—but never forgets yours. You don’t know how many he owns, but one always appears when the clouds roll in. Like magic. Like preparation. Like he’s thought of you in every version of the day.

You don’t ask.

You just start to keep one in your own bag for him.

The third kiss happens on your couch.

You’ve been watching some old movie neither of you are paying attention to, his arm slung lazily across your shoulders. Your legs are tangled. His fingers are tracing idle shapes against your thigh through the fabric of your leggings.

He kisses you once—soft and slow—and then again. Longer. Like he’s memorizing the shape of your mouth. Like he might need it later.

Then his phone buzzes.

He stiffens.

You feel the change instantly—the way his body pulls back, the air between you tightens. He glances at the screen. You don’t catch the name. But you see the look in his eyes.

Regret. Apology. Something deeper.

“I—I’m so sorry,” he says, already moving. “I have to—something came up. It’s—”

You sit up, brushing your hand against his arm. “Go,” you say softly.

“But—”

“It’s okay. Just… be safe.”

And God, the way he looks at you. Like you’ve given him something priceless. Something he didn’t know he was allowed to want.

He kisses your temple like a promise and disappears into the night.

It happens again. And again.

Missed dinners. Sudden goodbyes. Rainy nights where he shows up soaked, out of breath, murmuring apologies and curling into you like he doesn’t know how to be held.

You never ask. You don’t need to.

Because he always comes back.

One night, you’re curled into each other on your couch, your legs thrown over his, your cheek resting against his chest. The movie’s playing, forgotten. Your fingers are idly brushing the hem of his shirt where it’s ridden up. He smells like rain and ink and whatever soap he always uses that lingers on your pillow now.

Then his voice, quiet in the dark, “I don’t always know how to be… enough.”

You blink. Look up. He’s staring at the ceiling. Not quite breathing evenly. Like the words cost him something.

You reach up and cradle his face in your hands.

His eyes finally meet yours.

“You are,” you whisper. “As you are.”

You don’t say: Even if you are who I think you are.

You don’t need to. You just kiss him again. Soft. Long. Steady. Because whatever he’s carrying, you’ve already started holding part of it too.

And he lets you.

The night starts quiet.

Takeout boxes sit half-forgotten on the coffee table—one still open, rice going cold, soy sauce packet untouched. Your legs are draped across Clark’s lap, one foot nudged against the curve of his thigh, and his hand rests there now. Not possessively. Not deliberately.

Just… there.

It’s late. The kind of late where the whole city softens. No sirens outside. No blinking inbox. Just the low hum of the lamp on the side table and the warmth of the man beside you.

Clark’s eyes are on you. They’ve been there most of the night.

He hasn’t said much since dinner—just little smiles, quiet sounds of agreement, the occasional brush of his thumb against your ankle like a thought he forgot to speak aloud. But it’s not a bad silence. It’s dense. Full.

You shift, angling toward him slightly, and his gaze flicks to your mouth. That’s all it takes.

He leans in.

The kiss is soft at first. Familiar. A shared breath. A quiet hello in a room where no one had spoken for minutes. But then his hand curls behind your knee, guiding your leg further over his lap, and his mouth opens against yours like he’s been holding back for hours.

He kisses you like he’s starving. Like he’s spent all day wanting this—aching for the shape of you, the weight of your body in his hands. And when you moan into it, just a little, he shudders.

His hands start to move. One tracing the line of your spine, the other resting against your hip like a question he doesn’t need to ask. You answer anyway—pressing in closer, threading your fingers through his hair, sighing into the heat of his mouth.

You don’t know who climbs into whose lap first, only that you end up straddling him on the couch. Your knees on either side of his thighs. His hands gripping your waist now, fingers curling in your shirt like he doesn’t trust himself not to break it.

And then something shifts.

Not emotional—physical.

Clark stands.

He lifts you with him, effortlessly, like you don’t weigh anything at all. Not a grunt. Not a stagger. Just—up. Smooth and sure. His mouth never leaves yours.

You gasp into the kiss as he walks you backwards, steps confident and fast despite the way your arms tighten around his shoulders. Your spine meets the wall in the next second. Not hard. Just sudden.

Your heart thunders.

“Clark—”

He doesn’t answer. Just breathes against your mouth like he needs the oxygen from your lungs. Like yours is the only air that keeps him grounded.

His hips press into yours, one thigh sliding between your legs, and your back arches instinctively. His hands span your ribs now, thumbs brushing just beneath your bra. You feel the tremble in them—not from fear. From restraint.

“Clark,” you whisper again, and his forehead drops to yours.

“You okay?” he asks, voice rough and close.

You nod, breath catching. “You?”

He hesitates. Not long. But long enough to count. “Yeah. Just… feel a little off tonight.”

You pull back just enough to look at him.

He’s flushed. Eyes darker than usual. But not winded. Not breathless. Not anything like you are. His chest doesn’t even rise fast beneath your hands. Still, he smiles—like he can will the oddness away—and kisses you again. Deeper this time. Like distraction.

Like he doesn’t want to stop.

You don’t want him to either.

Not yet.

His mouth finds yours again—slower this time, more purposeful. Like he’s savoring it. Like he’s waited for this exact moment, this exact pressure of your hips against his, for longer than he’s willing to admit.

You gasp when his hands slide under your shirt, palms broad and steady, dragging upward in a path that sets every nerve on fire. He doesn’t fumble. Doesn’t rush. Just explores—like he’s memorizing, not taking.

“Can I?” he murmurs against your mouth, fingers brushing the underside of your bra.

You nod, breathless. “Yes.”

He exhales, soft and reverent, and lifts your shirt over your head. It’s discarded without ceremony. Then his hands are on you again—warm, slow, mapping out the shape of you with open palms and patient awe.

“God, you’re beautiful,” he murmurs, more breath than voice. His mouth finds the edge of your jaw, trailing kisses down to the hollow beneath your ear. “I think about this… so much.”

You shudder.

His hands move again—down this time, gripping your thighs as he sinks to his knees in front of you. You barely have time to react before he’s tugging your pants down, slow and careful, mouth following the descent with lingering kisses along your hips, the dip of your pelvis, the inside of your thigh.

He looks up at you from the floor.

You nearly forget how to breathe.

“I’ve wanted to take my time with you,” he admits, voice rough and low. “Wanted to learn you slow. Learn how you taste. How you fall apart.”

And then he does.

He leans in and licks a long, deliberate stripe over the center of your underwear, still watching your face.

You whimper.

He smiles, just slightly, and does it again.

By the time he peels your underwear down and presses an open-mouthed kiss to your inner thigh, your knees are trembling.

Clark hooks one arm under your leg, lifting it over his shoulder like it’s nothing, and buries his mouth between your thighs with a groan that rattles through your whole body.

His tongue is warm and soft and maddeningly slow—circling, tasting, teasing. He doesn’t rush. Not even when your fingers knot in his hair and your hips rock forward with pure desperation.

“Clark—”

He hums against you, and the sound sends a full-body shiver up your spine.

“I’ve got you,” he whispers, lips brushing you as he speaks. “Let me.”

You do.

You let him wreck you.

He’s methodical about it—like he’s following a map only he can see. One hand holding you steady, the other splayed against your stomach, keeping you anchored while he works you open with mouth and tongue and quiet, praising murmurs.

“So sweet… that’s it, sweetheart… you taste like heaven.”

You’re already close when he slips a thick finger inside you. Then another. Slow, patient, curling exactly where you need him. His mouth never stops. His rhythm is steady. Focused. Unrelenting.

You come like that—panting, gripping his shoulders, thighs shaking around his ears as he groans and keeps going, riding it out with you until you’re trembling too hard to stand.

He rises slowly.

His lips are slick. His eyes are dark.

And you’ve never seen anyone look at you like this.

“Come here,” you whisper.

He kisses you then—deep and possessive and tasting like you. You’re the one tugging at his shirt now, unbuttoning in frantic clumsy swipes. You need him. Need him closer. Need him inside.

But when you reach for his belt, he stills your hands gently.

“Not yet,” he says, voice like thunder wrapped in velvet. “Let me take care of you first.”

You blink. “Clark, I—”

He kisses you again—soft, lingering.

“I’ve waited too long for this to rush it,” he murmurs, brushing hair from your face with the back of his knuckles. “You deserve slow.”

Then he lifts you again—like you weigh nothing—and carries you to the bed. He lays you down like you’re fragile—but the look in his eyes says he knows you’re anything but. That you’re something rare. Something he’s been aching for. His palms skim over your thighs again, slow and deliberate, before he spreads you open beneath him.

He doesn’t ask this time. Just settles between your legs like he belongs there, arms hooked under your thighs, holding you wide.

“Clark—”

“I know, sweetheart,” he murmurs, voice low and raw. “I’ve got you.”

And he does.

His mouth finds you again—warm, skilled, confident now. No hesitation, just long, wet strokes of his tongue that build on everything he already learned. And then—without warning—he slides two fingers back inside you.

You cry out, hips jolting.

He groans into you, fingers moving in tandem with his mouth—curling just right, matching every flick of his tongue, every wet press of his lips. He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t falter. He watches you the whole time, eyes dark and hungry and so in love with the way you fall apart for him.

You grip the sheets, gasping his name, over and over, until your voice breaks on a sob of pleasure.

“Clark—God, I—I can’t—”

“Yes, you can,” he breathes. “You’re almost there. Let go for me.”

You do. With a cry, with shaking thighs, with your fingers tangled in his hair and your back arching off the bed.

And he doesn’t stop.

He rides your orgasm out with slow, worshipful strokes, kissing your thighs, murmuring into your skin, “So good for me. You’re perfect. You’re everything.”

By the time he pulls back, you’re boneless—dazed and trembling, your chest heaving as he kisses his way up your stomach.

But the way he looks at you then—like he needs to be closer—tells you this isn’t over.

His hands brace on either side of your head as he leans over you. “Can I…?”

Your hips answer for you—tilting up, chasing the heat and weight of him already pressed between your thighs.

“Yes,” you whisper. “Please.”

Clark groans low in his throat as he pushes his boxers down just enough, lining himself up—his cock flushed and thick, already leaking, and you feel the weight of him between your thighs and gasp.

“God, Clark…”

“I know,” he murmurs, forehead resting against yours, hips rocking forward just barely, teasing you with the head of his cock, dragging it through the slick mess he made with his mouth and fingers. “I know, baby. Just—just let me…”

He nudges in slow.

The stretch is slow and steady, his breath catching as your body parts for him. He’s thick. Too thick, maybe, except your body wants him—takes him like it was made to.

You whimper, and his jaw clenches tight.

“You okay?”

“Y—yeah,” you breathe. “Don’t stop.”

He doesn’t. Not even for a second. Inch by inch, he sinks into you, whispering your name, kissing your temple, gripping the backs of your thighs as you wrap your legs around his waist.

“Fuck,” he hisses when he bottoms out, buried deep, balls pressed flush against you. “You feel—Jesus, you feel unbelievable.”

You’re too far gone to answer. You just cling to him, nails dragging lightly down his back, moaning into his mouth when he kisses you again.

The first few thrusts are slow. Deep. Measured. He pulls out just enough to feel you grip him on the way back in, then does it again—and again—and again.

And then something shifts.

Your body clenches around him in a way that makes his head drop to your shoulder with a groan.

“Oh my god, sweetheart—don’t do that—I’m gonna—fuck—”

He thrusts harder.

Not rough, not yet, but firmer. Hungrier. The control he started with begins to slip. You can feel it in his grip, in the sharp edge of his breath, in the tremble of the arm braced beside your head.

“Been thinkin’ about this,” he grits out, voice low and wrecked. “Every night—every goddamn night since the first note. You don’t even know what you do to me.”

You whine, rolling your hips up to meet him, and he snaps—hips slamming forward hard enough to punch the air from your lungs.

“Clark—”

“I’ve got you,” he gasps, fucking into you harder now, his voice filthy and tender all at once. “I’ve got you, baby—so fuckin’ tight—can’t stop—don’t wanna stop—”

You’re clinging to him now, crying out with every thrust. It’s not just the way he fills you—it’s the way he worships you while he does it. The way he moans when you clench. The way he growls your name like a prayer. The way he falls apart in real time, just from the feel of you.

He grabs one of your hands, laces your fingers with his, pins it beside your head.

“You’re mine,” he grits. “You have to be mine.”

“Yes,” you gasp. “Yes—Clark—don’t stop—”

“Never,” he groans. “Never stopping. Not when you feel like this—fuck—”

You can feel him getting close—the way his rhythm starts to stutter, the broken sounds escaping his throat, the way he buries his face against your neck and pants your name like he’s desperate to take you with him.

And you’re almost there too.

You don’t even realize your hand is slipping until he’s gripping it again—pinned tight to the pillow, your fingers laced in his and clenched so tight it aches. The bed frame is starting to shudder beneath you now, the headboard knocking a rhythm into the wall, and Clark is gasping like he’s in pain from how good it feels.

His hips snap forward again—harder this time. Deeper. More desperate.

“Fuck—fuck—I’m sorry,” he grits, voice ragged and thick, “I’m trying to—baby—I can’t—hold back—”

You moan so loud it makes him flinch.

And then he breaks.

One second he’s pulling your name from his lungs like it’s the only word he knows—and the next, he slams into you so hard the bed shifts a full inch. The lamp on the bedside table flickers. The candle flame bursts just slightly higher than before—flickering hot and fast, the wick blackening with a thin curl of smoke. It doesn’t go out. It just burns.

Clark’s back arches.

His cock drags over everything inside you in just the right way, hitting that spot again and again until you’re clutching at his shoulders, babbling nonsense against his skin.

“I can’t—I can’t—Clark!”

“You can,” he pants. “Please—please, baby, cum with me—I can feel you—I can feel it.”

Your body goes taut.

A white-hot snap of pleasure punches through your spine, and your vision blacks out at the edges. You tighten around him—clenching, pulsing, dragging him over the edge with you—and he loses it.

Clark curses—actually curses—and growls something between a moan and a sob as he slams into you one last time, spilling deep inside you. His body locks, every muscle trembling. His teeth scrape the soft skin of your throat—not biting, just grounding himself. Like if he lets go, he’ll come undone completely.

The lights flicker again.

The candle sputters once and steadies.

He breathes like a man starved. His chest heaves. But you can feel it—under your hand, against your skin. His heart’s not racing.

Not like it should be.

You’re gasping. Dazed. Boneless under him. But Clark… Clark’s barely even winded. And yet—his hands are trembling. Just slightly. Still laced in yours. Still holding on.

After, you lie there—chests pressed close, legs tangled, the sheets barely clinging to your hips.

Clark’s arm is slung across your waist, palm wide and warm over your belly like it belongs there. Like he doesn’t ever want to move. His nose is tucked against your temple, breath stirring your hair in soft little pulses. He keeps kissing you. Your cheek. Your jaw. The edge of your brow. He doesn’t stop, like he’s afraid this is a dream and kissing you might anchor it in place.

“Still with me?” he whispers into your skin.

You nod. Drowsy. Sated. Floating.

“Good.” His hand runs down your side in one long, reverent stroke. “Didn’t mean to… get so carried away.”

You hum. “You say that like I didn’t enjoy every second.”

He smiles against your neck. You feel the curve of it, his lips brushing the shell of your ear.

A moment passes.

Then another.

“I think you short-circuited my bedside lamp somehow.”

Clark freezes. “…Did I?”

You roll your head to look at him. “It flickered. Right as you—”

His ears turn bright red. “Maybe just… a power surge?”

You arch a brow. “Right. A romantic, orgasm-timed power surge.”

He mutters something into your shoulder that sounds vaguely like kill me now.

You grin. File it away.

Exhibit 7: Lightbulb went dim at the exact second he came. Candle flame doubled in height.

Later that night, long after you’ve both dozed off, you wake to find Clark still holding you. One of his hands is under your shirt, splayed low across your stomach. Protective. Possessive in the gentlest way. His body is still curled around yours like a question mark, like he’s checking for all your answers in how your breath rises and falls.

You shift just slightly—and his grip tightens instinctively, like even in sleep, he can’t let go.

Exhibit 8: He doesn’t sleep like a person. Sleeps like a sentry.

In the morning, you wake to the scent of coffee.

Your kitchen is suspiciously spotless for someone who swears he’s clumsy. The pot is full, the mugs pre-warmed, your favorite creamer already swirled in.

Clark is flipping pancakes.

Barefoot.

Wearing one of your sleep shirts. The tight one.

You lean against the doorframe, watching him. His back muscles flex when he flips the pan one-handed.

“Morning,” he says without turning.

You blink. “How’d you know I was standing here?”

“I, uh…” He falters, then gestures at the sizzling pan. “Heard footsteps. I assumed.”

You hum.

Exhibit 9: He heard me from across the apartment, over the sound of a frying pan.

You’re brushing your teeth later when you spot the mirror fogged from the shower.

You reach for a towel—and notice it’s already been run under warm water.

You glance at him, and he just shrugs. “Figured you’d want it not freezing.”

“Figured?” you repeat.

He leans against the doorframe, smiling. “Lucky guess.”

You don’t respond. Just kiss his cheek with toothpaste still in your mouth.

Exhibit 10: He always guesses exactly what I need. Down to the second.

That night, he falls asleep on your couch during movie night, head on your thigh, hand around your wrist like a lifeline.

You swear you see the movie reflected in his eyes—like the light isn’t just hitting them but moving inside them. You blink. It’s gone.

You look down at him. His lashes are impossibly long. His mouth is parted. His breathing is steady—but not quite… human. Too even. Too perfect.

Exhibit 11: His pupils did a thing. I don’t know how to describe it. But they did a thing.

The next day, a car splashes a wave of slush toward you both on the sidewalk.

You brace for impact.

But Clark steps in front of you, faster than you can blink. The water hits him. Not you.

You didn’t even see him move.

You narrow your eyes. He just smiles. “Reflexes.”

“Clark. Be honest. Do you secretly run marathons at night?”

He laughs. “Nope. Just really hate laundry.”

Exhibit 12: Literally teleported into the splash zone to shield me. Probably didn’t even get wet.

And still… you don’t say it.

You don’t ask.

Because he’s not just some blur of strength or spectacle.

He’s the man who folds your laundry while pretending it’s because he’s “bad at relaxing.” Who scribbles notes in the margins of your drafts, calling your metaphors “dangerously good.” Who kisses your forehead with a kind of reverence like you’re the one who’s unreal.

You know.

And he knows you know.

Because he’s hiding it from you. Not really.

When he stumbles over his own sentences, when his smile falters after a late return, when his jaw tenses at the sound of your name whispered too softly—you don’t see evasion. You see weight. You see care.

He’s protecting something.

And you’re trying to figure out how to tell him that you already know. That it’s okay. That you’re still here. That you love him anyway.

You haven’t said it yet—not the knowing, not the loving. But it lives just under your skin. A second heartbeat. A full body truth. You think maybe, if you just look him in the eye long enough next time, he’ll understand.

But still neither of you says it yet. Because the space between what’s said and unsaid—that’s where everything soft lives.

And you’re not ready to let it go.

The morning feels ordinary.

There’s a crack in the coffee pot. A printer jam. Perry yelling something about deadlines from his office. Jimmy’s camera bag spills open across your desk, and he swears he’ll fix it after his coffee, and Lois is pacing, muttering about sources.

And then the screens change.

It’s subtle at first—just a flicker. Then the feed cuts mid-commercial. Every monitor in the bullpen goes black, then red. Emergency alert. A shrill tone splits the air. Someone turns up the volume.

You look up.

And everything shifts.

The broadcast blares through the newsroom speakers, raw footage streaming in from a local news chopper.

Metropolis. Midtown. Chaos. A building half-collapsed. Smoke curling upward in a thick, unnatural spiral.

The camera jolts—and then there he is.

Superman.

Thrown through a brick wall.

You feel it in your bones before your brain catches up. That’s him. That’s Clark.

He’s on his knees in the wreckage, panting, bleeding—from his temple, from his ribs, from a gash you can’t see the end of. The suit is torn. His cape is shredded. He’s never looked so human.

He tries to stand. Wobbles. Collapses.

You stop breathing.

“Is Superman going to be ok?” someone behind you murmurs.

“Jesus,” Jimmy whispers.

“He’ll be fine,” Lois says, too casually. She leans back in her chair, sipping her coffee like it’s any other news cycle. “He always is.”

You want to scream. Because that’s not a story on a screen. That’s not some distant, untouchable god.

That’s your boyfriend.

That’s the man who brought you coffee this morning with one sugar and just the right amount of cream. The man who kissed your wrist in the elevator, whose hands trembled when he whispered I want to be enough. Who holds you like you’re something holy and bruises like he’s made of skin after all.

He’s not fine. He’s bleeding.

He’s not getting up.

You freeze.

The bullpen keeps moving around you—half-aware, half-horrified—but you can’t speak. Can’t blink. Can’t breathe.

Your hands start to shake.

You grip the edge of your desk like it might anchor you to the floor, like if you let go you’ll run straight out the door, out into the chaos, toward the wreckage and the fire and the thing trying to kill him.

A part of you already has.

A hit lands on the feed—something massive slamming him into the pavement—and your knees almost buckle from the force of it. Not physically. Not really. But somewhere deep. Something inside you fractures.

You don’t know what the enemy is.

Alien, maybe. Or worse.

But it’s not the shape of the thing that terrifies you—it’s him. It’s how slow he is to get up. How much his mouth is bleeding. How his eyes are unfocused. How you’ve never seen him look like this.

You want to run.

You want to be there.

But you’re not. You’re here. In your dress pants and button-up, in your neat little office chair, with your badge clipped to your hip and your heart breaking quietly.

Because no one else knows. No one else understands what’s really at stake. No one else sees the man behind the cape.

Not like you do.

Your vision blurs.

You wipe your eyes. Pretend it’s nothing. The bullpen is too loud to hear your breath catch.

But still—your hands tremble and your heart pounds so violently it hurts.

And you cry.

Quietly.

You cry like the city might if it could feel. You cry like the sky should. You cry like someone already grieving—like someone who knows what it means to lose him.

The footage won’t stop. Superman reels across the screen—his suit torn, the shoulder scorched through in a blackened, jagged arc. Blood smears the corner of his mouth. There’s a limp in his gait now, one he keeps trying to mask. The camera catches it anyway.

The newsroom is silent now save for the hiss of static and the low voice of the anchor describing the damage downtown.

You sit frozen at your desk, the plastic edge biting into your palms as you grip it like it might stop your body from unraveling. The taste of bile has settled at the back of your throat. Your coffee’s gone cold in its cup.

Across the bullpen, someone mutters, “Jesus. He took a hit.”

“Look at the suit,” Lois says flatly, standing by one of the screens. “He’s never looked that rough before.”

“Dude’s limping,” Jimmy adds, pushing his glasses up. “That alien thing—what even was that?”

Their words feel like background noise. Distant. Warped. You can’t seem to hear anything over the white-hot panic blistering in your chest.

You blink, your eyes burning, throat tight. You can’t just sit here and cry. Not in front of Lois and Perry and half the bullpen. But your body is trembling anyway. You clench your hands in your lap, nails digging crescent moons into your skin.

He’s hurt.

And he’s still out there.

Fighting.

Alone.

You can’t just sit here.

You shove your chair back hard enough that it scrapes against the floor. “I’m going.”

Lois turns toward you. “Going where?”

“I’m covering it. The attack. The fallout. Whatever’s left—I want to see it firsthand.”

Lois’s brow lifts. “Since when do you make reckless calls like this?”

“I don’t,” you snap, already grabbing your coat. “But I am now.”

Jimmy’s already halfway to the door. “If we’re going, I’m bringing the camera.”

Lois hesitates. Then sighs. “Hell. You two’ll get yourselves killed without me.”

You don’t wait for her to finish grabbing her phone. You’re already out the door.

Downtown is a war zone.

The smell of scorched concrete clings to the air. Smoke spirals in uneven plumes from the carcass of a building that must have been beautiful once. Sirens scream in every direction, red and blue lights flashing off every pane of shattered glass.

You arrive just as the dust begins to settle.

The battle is over but the wreckage tells you how bad it was.

The Justice Gang moves through the remains like figures out of a dream—tattered and bloodied, but upright.

Guy Gardner limps past, muttering curses. “Next time, I’m bringing a bigger damn ring.” Kendra Saunders—Hawkgirl—has one wing half-folded and streaked with blood. She ignores it as she checks on a paramedic’s bandages. Mr. Terrific is already coordinating with local emergency crews, directing flow with a hand to his ear. And Metamorpho—God, he looks like he’s melting and re-solidifying with every breath.

And then…

Him.

He descends from the smoke. Not in a blur. Not with a boom of sonic air. Slowly. Controlled.

But not untouched.

He lands in a crouch, shoulders tight, the line of his jaw drawn sharp with tension. His boots crunch against broken concrete. His cape is torn at one edge, flapping limply behind him.

He’s hurt.

He’s so clearly hurt.

And even through all of it—through the dirt and blood and pain—he sees you. His eyes lock onto yours in an instant. The rest of the world falls away. There’s no press. No chaos. No destruction.

Just him.

And you.

The corner of his mouth lifts—just a flicker. Not a smile. Just… recognition.

And something deeper behind it.

You know know.

And he is letting you know.

But he straightens a second later, lifting his chin, slotting the mask back into place like a practiced motion. He squares his shoulders, winces barely perceptible, and turns to face the press.

Lois is already stepping forward, questions in hand. “Superman. What can you tell us about the enemy?”

His voice is steady, but you can hear it now—hear the strain. The breath that doesn’t quite come easy. The syllables that drag like they’re fighting his tongue. “It wasn’t local,” he says. “Some kind of dimensional breach. We had help closing it.”

Jimmy’s camera clicks. Kendra coughs into her hand.

You’re not writing.

You’re just watching.

Watching the soot along his cheekbone. The split in his lip. The way he shifts his weight to favor one side. The way the “s” in “justice” drags like it hurts to say.

He looks tired.

But more than that—he looks like Clark.

And it’s never been more obvious than right now, standing under broken sky, trying to pretend like nothing’s changed.

You want to run to him. You want to hold him up.

But you stay rooted.

When the questions start to slow and the press begins murmuring among themselves, he glances over. Just at you.

“Are you okay?” he asks, barely audible.

You nod. “Are you?”

He hesitates. Then says, “Getting there.”

It’s not a performance. Not for them. Just for you.

You nod again. The look you share says more than anything else could.

I know.

I’m not leaving.

You don’t have to say it.

When he flies away—slower this time, one hand brushing briefly against his ribs—it’s not dramatic. There’s no sonic boom. No heat trail. Just wind and distance.

Lois exhales. “He looked rough.”

Jimmy nods. “Still hot, though.”

You say nothing. You just stare up at the empty sky. And press your shaking hand over your heart.

You fake calm.

You smile when Jimmy slaps your shoulder and says something about getting the footage up by morning. You nod through Lois’s sharp-eyed stare and mutter something about your deadline, your byline, your blood sugar—anything to get her to stop watching you like she knows what you’re not saying.

But the second you’re alone?

You run. It’s not a sprint, not really. Just that jittery, full-body urgency—the kind that makes your hands shake and your legs move faster than your thoughts can follow. You don’t remember the trip home. Just the chaos of your own pulse, the way your chest won’t stop aching.

You replay the scene again and again in your mind: his landing, the blood on his lip, the flicker of pain when he looked at you. That not-quite smile. That nearly imperceptible tremble.

You’d never wanted to hold someone more in your life.

And when you reach your door, keys fumbling, heart still hammering? He’s already there.

You pause halfway through the doorway.

He’s standing in your living room, like he’s been waiting hours. He’s not in the suit. No cape. No crest. Just a plain black T-shirt and flannel pajama pants, his hair still damp like he just showered.

He looks like Clark. Except… tonight you know there’s no difference.

“Hi,” he says quietly. His voice is soft. Familiar. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

You blink. “Did you break through my patio door?”

He winces. “Yes. Sort of.”

You lift a brow. “You owe me a new lock.”

“It doesn’t work like that.” He says with a roll of his eyes.

A silence stretches between you. It’s not tense. Not angry. Just full of everything neither of you said earlier.

He takes a step toward you, then stops. “How long have you known?”

You drop your keys in the bowl by the door and toe off your shoes before answering. “Since the lamp. And the candle,” you say. “But… mostly tonight.”

He nods like that hurts. Like he wishes he could’ve done better. Like he wishes he could’ve told you in some perfect, movie-moment way.

“I didn’t want you to find out like that,” he says quietly.

You walk to the couch and sit, your limbs finally catching up to the adrenaline crash still sweeping through you. “I’m glad I found out at all.”

That’s what makes him move. He sinks down beside you, hands on his knees. You can see it in his profile—the exhaustion, the regret, the weight he’s been carrying for so long. You’re not sure he’s ever looked more human.

“I’ve been hiding so long,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. “I forgot how to be seen. And with you… I didn’t want to lie. But I didn’t want to lose it either. I didn’t want to lose you.”

Your throat tightens. “You won’t,” you say. And you mean it.

His head turns then, slowly, eyes meeting yours like he’s trying to memorize your face from this distance. You don’t look away.

When he kisses you, it’s not careful. It’s not shy. It’s like something breaks open inside him—softly. The dam finally giving way.

His hands cradle your face like you’re something he’s terrified to shatter but needs to feel. His mouth is hot and open, reverent, desperate in the way it deepens. He kisses like he’s anchoring himself to the earth through your lips. Like everything in him is still shaking from battle and you’re the only thing that still feels real.

You reach for him. Thread your fingers into his hair. Pull him closer.

It builds like a slow swell—hands tangling, breathing harder, heat coiling low in your stomach. He pushes you back gently against the cushions, his body moving over yours with careful precision. Not to pin. Just to hold.

You feel it in every motion: the restraint. The effort. He could crush steel and he’s using that strength to cradle your ribs.

He undresses you with reverence. His fingers tremble when they touch your bare skin. Not from hesitation—but because he’s finally allowed to want. To have. To be seen.

You undress him too. That soft black T-shirt comes off first. Then the flannel. His chest is mottled with bruises, a dark one blooming across his side where that alien creature must’ve hit him. Your fingertips trace the edge of it.

He exhales, shaky. But he doesn’t stop you.

You’re straddling his lap before you realize it, chest to chest, foreheads pressed together.

“Are you scared?” he whispers.

Your thumb brushes his cheek. “Never of you.”

He kisses you again—slower this time. More control, but more depth too. His hands glide down your back and settle at your hips, thumbs pressing into your skin like he needs the reminder that you’re here. That you chose this.

The rest unfolds like prayer. The way he touches you—thorough, patient, hungry—it’s worship. Every gasp you make pulls a soft, broken sound from his throat. Every arch of your back makes his eyes flutter shut like he’s overwhelmed by the sight of you. The way he moves inside you is deep and aching and full of something larger than either of you.

Not rough. But desperate. Raw. True.

And even when he falters—when his hands grip too tight or the air warms just a little too fast—you hold his face and whisper, “I know. It’s okay. I want all of you.” And he gives it. All of him. Until the only thing either of you can do is fall apart. Together.

Later, when you’re curled up on the couch in a tangle of limbs and quiet breathing, he rests his forehead against your temple.

The city buzzes somewhere far away.

He whispers into your skin: “Next time… don’t let me fly off like that.”

Your smile is soft, tired. “Next time, come straight to me.”

He nods, eyes already fluttering shut.

And finally, for the first time since this began—you both sleep without secrets between you.

You wake to sunlight. Not loud, not harsh—just soft beams slipping through the blinds, spilling across the floor, warming the space where your bare shoulder meets the sheets. You blink slowly, the weight of sleep still thick behind your eyes, and shift just slightly in the tangle of limbs wrapped around you. He doesn’t stir. Not even a little.

Clark is still curled around you like the night never ended—his chest at your back, legs tangled with yours, one arm snug around your waist and the other folded up against your ribs, fingers resting over your heart like he’s guarding it in his sleep.

You don’t move. You can’t. Because it’s perfect. You let your cheek rest against his arm, warm and solid beneath you, and you just listen—to the steady rhythm of his heart, to the rise and fall of his breathing, to the way the silence doesn’t feel empty anymore. You don’t know if you’ve ever felt more grounded than you do right now, held like this. It isn’t the cape. It isn’t the flight. It isn’t the power that quiets the noise in your chest.

It’s him. Just Clark. And for once, you don’t need anything else.

He stumbles into the kitchen half an hour later in your robe. Your actual, honest-to-god, fuzzy gray robe. It’s oversized on you, which means it fits him like a second skin—belt tied loose at the hips, collar gaping just enough to make you lose your train of thought. His hair is a mess, sticking up in soft black tufts. His glasses are nowhere to be found. He scratches the back of his neck, blinking at the cabinets like he’s not entirely sure how kitchens work.

You lean against the counter with your arms folded, watching him with open amusement. “You own too much flannel.”

Clark glances over, eyes squinting against the light. “I’ll have you know, that robe is a Metropolis winter essential.”

“You’re bulletproof.”

“I get cold emotionally.”

You snort. “You’re such a menace in the morning.”

“And yet,” he says, opening the fridge and retrieving eggs with the careful precision of someone who’s clearly trying not to break them with super strength, “you let me stay.”

You grin. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”

He burns the first pancake. Which is honestly impressive, considering you weren’t even sure it was physically possible for someone with super speed and heat vision to ruin breakfast. But he flips it too fast—like way too fast—and the thing launches halfway across the skillet before folding in on itself and sizzling dramatically.

You raise an eyebrow. Clark stares down at the pancake like it betrayed him. “I didn’t account for surface tension.”

“Did you just say ‘surface tension’ while making pancakes?”

“I’m a complex man,” he says solemnly.

You lean over and pluck a piece of fruit from the cutting board he forgot he was slicing. “You’re a menace and a dork.”

He pouts. Full, actual pout. Then shuffles over and kisses your shoulder. “I’ll get better with practice.”

You roll your eyes. But your skin’s still buzzing where his lips brushed it.

Later, you sit on the counter while he stands between your knees, coffee in one hand, the other resting warm on your thigh. It’s quiet. Not awkward or forced—just soft. Full of little glances and sips and contented silence. There’s no fear in him now. No carefully placed pauses. No skirting around things. He just… is. Clark Kent. The boy who spilled coffee on your notes three times. The man who kept writing to you in secret even when you didn’t see him.

“You’re not what I expected,” you say, fingers brushing his arm.

He lifts an eyebrow. “Oh?”

“I don’t know. I guess I thought Superman would be… shinier. Less flannel. More invincible.”

“Are you saying I’m not shiny enough for you?”

“I’m saying you’re better.”

He blinks. And then—just like that—he smiles. Not the bashful one. Not the public one. The real one. Small and warm and honest. The kind of smile you only give someone when you feel safe. And maybe that’s what this is now. Safety. Not the absence of danger—but the presence of someone who will always come back.

His communicator buzzes from somewhere in the bedroom. Clark lets out the most exhausted groan you’ve ever heard and buries his face in your shoulder like it’ll make the world go away.

“You have to go?” you ask gently, threading your fingers through his hair.

“Soon.”

“You’ll come back?”

He lifts his head. Meets your eyes. “Every time.”

You kiss him then—slow and deep and familiar now. The kind of kiss that tastes like mornings and memory and maybe something closer to forever. He kisses you back like he already misses you. And when he finally pulls away and disappears into the sky outside your window—less streak of light, more quiet parting—you just stand there for a moment. Barefoot. Wrapped in your robe. Heart full.

You’re about to start cleaning up the kitchen when you see it. A post-it note, stuck to the fridge. Just a small square of yellow. Written in the same handwriting you could spot anywhere now.

“You always look soft in the mornings. I like seeing you like this.” —C.K.

You read it three times. Then you smile. You walk to the cabinet above the sink, open the door—and stick it right next to all the others. The secret ones. The old ones. The ones that helped you feel seen before you even knew whose eyes were watching.

And now you know. Now you see him too.

All of him.

And you wouldn’t trade it for anything.

tags: @eeveedream m @anxiousscribbling @pancake-05 @borhapparker @dreammiiee @benbarnesprettygurl @insidethegardenwall @butterflies-on-my-ashes s @maplesyrizzup @rockwoodchevy @jasontoddswhitestreak @loganficsonly @overwintering-soldier @hits-different-cause-its-you @eclipsedplanet @wordacadabra @itzmeme e @cecesilver @crisis-unaverted-recs @indigoyoons @chili4prez @thetruthisintheirdreams @ethanhoewke (<— it wouldn’t let me tag some blogs I’m so sorry!!)

#I’m fully screaming and crying #please god send him my way #this was very good thank you op #fanfiction recs

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sapphickenma · 4 days ago

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sapphickenma · 4 days ago

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Guys do you think she’s excited

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sapphickenma · 4 days ago

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I’m just saying if Daniel Radcliffe, the literal protagonist of the Harry Potter franchise since the age of ten years old, was able to disavow JK Rowling and move on from the HP universe then actually what the fuck is anyone else’s excuse. There is no one else on the planet who can say their entire childhood was HP more than that guy and he still cared about trans people more than the average tumblr user who says “we’re protesting by making all her characters queer and trans!!” like you can do better. You should do better.

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sapphickenma · 4 days ago

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bad blood / scott miller x reader

summary: set after twisters. when scott initiates a lawsuit against javi and his new business partners, they choose to take you on as their attorney—no matter that you and scott were once high school sweethearts, that you still have his ring in your closet, or that things between you ended catastrophically six years past. this is business. no need to go down memory lane… right?

content warnings: f!reader, alcohol use, language, offscreen parental death, one open door scene (unprotected piv), couple angst, riggs is his own walking red flag, questionable legal ethics

word count: 21.6k (sorry, guys 😬)

author’s note: here it is! i tried to rein in the length, but clearly i failed ✌🏼 shoutout to @/hederasgarden and @/sailor-aviator for giving scott his fandom-approved surname. on a final note, i am not a lawyer, i took one (1) business law class in college, so don’t take my word on any of this and definitely don’t do stuff with your ex while he’s the opposing party in a case you’re working (but if it’s david corenswet, i meannnn… should anyone be blamed?)

PRESENT DAY OKLAHOMA CITY

Well-meaning, and with typical Arkansan practicality, Tyler Owens leaned back in his chair and said, “Javi, you need to chill out, man.”

Immediately, you knew it was the wrong thing to say.

“What makes you think I’m not? It's not like my entire livelihood is on the line or anything, so why would I not be chilled out?—Dammit!”

“Actually, lose the tie,” you suggested, having watched him fumble for the last five minutes. You were sure it was nerves that did it, not a lack of dexterity.

Javi sighed and let the two ends hang pathetically around his neck. “I thought I was supposed to wear one…”

“I think that’s only for court,” Kate put in, “like with an actual judge and stuff.”

“Maybe in the 1970s,” remarked Tyler under his breath. Javi glared. “Bro, it’s gonna be fine.”

“We should be out there, tracking tornadoes!” There was a mounted television in the little waiting area, playing a 24-hour news channel on mute. Javi gestured at the weather report. It was March, and Tornado Alley was looking active, “robust,” as the weatherman put it… not that your clients would know firsthand, seeing as they were stuck in a high-rise in the city instead of out in the fields of Sapulpa County. Kate and Tyler were watching the radar images with twin expressions of restless longing. Javi yanked the tie from his neck. “That son of a bitch knew exactly what he was doing, tying us up in meetings at this time of year.”

“Yeah, he did,” you replied. “I know it’s inconvenient as shit, but believe me, I’m going to do everything I can to get you back out on the field. There’s no reason for all three of you to be here. I mean, it’s the modern age: some of this could be a Zoom meeting.”

“You think we’re gonna Zoom in the middle of a storm?” Tyler quipped. Kate turned to him with a chastising look.

She was clearly just about as done as her other two partners, but a lot more level-headed about the fact that they were being sued for everything they had. Which you appreciated. Suits between friends and former business associates had a tendency to turn into mud-slinging wars, and there was nothing you hated more than a client stuck in denial. Kate was the opposite. She was cool-headed, calm. A happy medium between Tyler’s annoyed outrage (“who does this guy think he is!”) and Javi’s frustrated melancholy (“guys, I’m sorry, this is all my fault”).

Right now, Javi was sinking well into the latter.

“Just remember we’re here for you, Javi.” Kate rubbed a soothing hand across his back. “All the way. We know this is personal.”

“Yeah, which means it’s gonna get ugly. I hate the thought of our company going under because I had shitty taste in business partners, you know?”

“Well, you don't anymore. That’s character growth,” Tyler pointed out. “Now, I’m no legal expert, but as far as I can see, he’s got no legs to stand on—”

You held up a finger. “Uh, that’s not entirely true…”

“—and he’s going to come out of this looking like a complete and total tool. Which he is! If he wants to spend all this time and boatloads of his uncle’s money on a belligerent witch hunt, then so be it.”

“You mean our time, our money,” said Javi.

Kate looked at you. “If this ends up going to court, is it likely he’ll win?”

You sighed. “Okay, listen.” You sat on the coffee table. There was no avoiding the sight of three pairs of eyes with varying degrees of hopefulness trained on you, hanging onto your every word. Javi you had known before, but after a brief acquaintance, you’d decided that you liked Kate and Tyler too, had even spent an hour or two watching Tornado Wrangler videos on YouTube, and, while storm chasing seemed, well, kind of unhinged, their enthusiasm was contagious. They were passionate, not in a purely thrill-seeking or overly scientific way. They actually cared. And you wanted them to win. “The whole point,” you explained, “is that we’re trying to avoid this going to trial. If you’re looking to cut down on the cost to your bottom line—not to mention how this could drag on for literal years—it’s best to reach a settlement before this ever sees the inside of a courtroom. Either way, things are going to get a little worse before they get better. But the point is a clean break, right? When all this is over, StormPAR will never have any sort of claim over you. You’ll be free to chase storms, build your doo-dads—”

That got you a trio of chuckles. Good, let them think you were a meteorological idiot; all the better to make them feel like a united front.

“—and it’ll be like Scott and Riggs never happened.”

“Sounds good to me,” Tyler said, that steely determination from his old rodeo days coming through.

Kate gave a nod. “No matter what, we’ll be okay”

Javi put his hand on your knee. “Thank you… for everything. I know this has gotta suck for you too.”

“Who, me?” you asked, feigning ignorance. “I’m fine.”

“Mm-hm…”

“Do I not look fine?”

“You look great,” Kate said honestly.

“Miller’s gonna shit his pants.”

“Tyler!”

“Hey, we’re up,” your assistant announced, her fingers not pausing for a second as she typed on her phone. Abby may have the social skills of a polar bear, but her organizational skills were top-notch and you relied on her predatory instincts. Plus, you were sure that her geometrically perfect French bob had magical powers.

Signaling for the others to follow, you made your way down a hallway bordered by walls banded in frosted glass, the sound of typing and muffled phone calls familiar and yet not. This was enemy territory. Having you meet here instead of at the offices of Conway & Fine was a calculated move.

Before entering the conference room, you took Tyler by the elbow. “Please just… try to behave yourself.”

Me? He pointed at his face.

“Yes, you! Don’t provoke him—as a matter of fact, don’t even look at him—don't piss him off unless you want to make this a hell of a lot worse for everyone. Capisce?”

“I’ll be the picture of civility.”

You shot him a skeptical look.

“I’ll be a gentleman!”

You glared. “Tyler Owens, I’m holding you to that.” Adjusting your power suit, you put on your best Professional Face. “Alright guys, it’s showtime.”

Through the glass, your eyes landed on Scott. The temptation to bolt left you breathless, though you couldn’t say whether you wanted to run towards or far, far away. You wouldn’t. You were all too aware of the people standing behind you, counting on you, while Scott himself had been a stranger to you for the last few years.

You owed him nothing; this was simply business, you reminded yourself.

Simply business.

He turned his head and spotted you, and kept his eyes on you as you opened the door.

TEN YEARS AGO PARK HAVEN, PENNSYLVANIA

You’d been working on the same calculus assignment for the last three-quarters of an hour, the sound of rain lashing against your window doing nothing for your frazzled nerves. While math was by no means your obvious strong suit, you would have finished by now if you hadn’t spent most of it staring at the wall beneath your windowsill, bouncing your leg, tapping your pencil compulsively against the edge of your AP textbook and imagining all the ways in which your life could go horribly, unfixably wrong. An outcome that now seemed likely.

“You still have time, sweetheart,” your mom tried to say at dinner that night. She smiled at you and patted your hand. “It’s only March.”

“Exactly—it’s March!” you’d wanted to say, but bit your tongue. There wasn't any point; your mom would always believe you were capable of walking on the moon, which was lovely, you guessed. Or it would be, if all your classmates weren't overachievers and if a lot of them hadn't already received acceptance letters and stuck pennants to the inside of their lockers for all the rejects to see.

It was hopeless… you should’ve gotten an answer by now.

Tossing the book and papers away, you buried your face in your hands and tried to hold it together. The sleeves of your sweatshirt emanated a woodsy, clean smell, kind of like rain in a forest, and you breathed in deep to let it ground you.

Slowly, the intensity of the storm outside faded to background noise, no longer angry, insistent—it was only rain after all, only weather. You sniffed, feeling silly, and snuggled into the navy-blue sweatshirt, wrapping your arms around your knees. The gold lettering read NICHOLS ACADEMY ATHLETICS. On you, it was practically a dress, and you’d been living in it all week, ignoring Mom’s teases about how “you’re going to have to wash it at some point!” while your dad watched you pass by, saying nothing, only flipping the page of whatever biography he was reading, not wanting to comment or so much as reference your boyfriend of two years, who played center field on Nichols’s prize baseball team and from whom you’d stolen the sweatshirt after a date at the park.

Try as you might, your dad had never warmed up to Scott, but you thought it had more to do with an objection to Scott’s father rather than to Scott himself. The whole family’s trouble, he said once, prompting a fight that ended with you slamming your bedroom door and not speaking to him for two days, until your mom laid down the law and said she wouldn't have that sort of tension around the house.

He didn’t get it. Scott wasn't like his father—if anything, you saw the way his jaw tensed whenever he heard rumors (whispered, unless intended to get a rise out of him by a school rival) about the private club scenes, the drinking, the reckless gambling, the other women. Of course your straitlaced dad assumed the apple wouldn't fall too far from the tree, but you knew Scott. You trusted him. And, fine, so you were seventeen, but you knew you wanted to spend the rest of your life with him—it happened, didn't it?

Granted, this was why that damned letter was so important. It was the perfect plan… so long as Scott got into MIT, which seemed like a given, and you into Harvard, the culmination of four years of meticulous planning and candle-burning work. But what if it didn’t happen? Could your relationship survive the time and long distance? As much as you hoped so, you didn’t want to find out.

Out of nowhere came sharp rap at your window. Startled, you looked up to see a familiar face peering through the rain-lashed glass, and automatically you sprang to your feet. “Scott! What the hell were you thinking!” you hissed, mindful of your parents, probably in bed at this hour. He paused halfway through the window, pretending offense.

“Wow, okay, here I thought I was making a big romantic gesture…”

“You’re soaking wet! You could’ve fallen and broken your neck!”

As you lowered and latched the window behind him, trying to be as quiet as possible, he defended, “I’m a tree connoisseur. If anything, I’m a that-tree connoisseur and she’s never let me down before. Literally. Sturdy branches on her.”

He had a point there. The tree directly outside your bedroom window had played makeshift ladder to him over the last couple of years—not that your parents were any the wiser. If your dad knew, he’d go straight to the nearest hardware store and buy the ax himself. (What he would do with that ax, having never done a day’s manual labor in his life besides recreational fishing, was beyond you.)

You shook your head, watching Scott drip all over the hardwood. God, he was stunning.

And there was a chance you might lose him forever in a few months.

You felt the sting in your throat and behind your eyes. “I’ll go get you a towel,” you said, averting your face and turning towards the ensuite so you could get a few seconds to yourself. He caught you by the wrist and spun you into his body.

“Wait a minute, kiss me first,” he demanded, a cocky grin on his face. You managed to see a flash of it before his lips met yours. You closed your eyes in spite of everything, melting into the kiss, into Scott, because it was as easy as breathing and just as pointless trying to resist.

His cheeks were cold, his mouth warm. Coaxing. The pressure of his hands on your waist like an anchor in the storm. He was perfect for you. How could you belong with anyone else? It was impossible.

His tongue brushed your bottom lip, and it was a move so practiced, so instinctive, so perfectly well-known, that it made the fear swell in your chest again. You held onto the front of his rain-drenched hoodie, breaking the kiss. Your breathing was ragged. You felt you could burst.

“You’re insane,” you tried to cover, burying your head in his chest. “My dad will kill you if he catches you.”

He took a step back and tilted your face up, gently, by the chin. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” you replied.

“Tell me.”

Instead of answering, you made your way to the bathroom and got a towel out of the linen closet. You could feel Scott’s questioning gaze, but he waited, rubbing the towel across his head, brows knitted together as you hesitated, still trying to hedge. “I just—we have that exam next week and I’ve fallen behind on calc and I think I’m going to have to start over on my AP Civ end-of-the-year project, and my mom—”

“Your mom’s great,” Scott interjected.

“Why, d’you want her?”

He pursed his lips. As soon as you said it, you knew that it had sounded kind of bitchy.

“Fine, okay. She’s great, she’s just… trying to help.”

“Is this about Drexler getting her Harvard letter? Because it’s only—”

“It's only March. Yeah. That’s what Mom said. But I’m cutting it close, right? Some people got their letters in December, Scott—December!” You looked down at your feet. “I’m not going to get in.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Well, it sure feels like it!”

“C’mere.”

“No.” You shook your head.

“Come here,” he insisted, tossing the damp towel onto your bed and holding your arms loosely, his hands stroking up and down. No matter how much you held onto the scent-memory of him on his Nichols sweatshirt, nothing compares to the real thing. He made everything better; and if not, he made everything feel like it could get better, because he was Scott Miller, and the world bent to his charm or else. “You’re going to get in,” he said, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “They’d be crazy not to have you.” And the thing was, despite being utterly convinced only two minutes before that the worst was inevitable, you wanted to believe him, wanted to convince yourself that everything would settle into place as it should.

Scott dipped his head to brush his lips against yours, a deliberate barely-there sweep that made your eyes flutter closed and your arms lace around the wide breadth of his shoulders. Scott’s hands traveled down your back, pressing into your hips until you were flush against the length of his body. You felt him smile as he let you deepen the kiss, and the little rumble of his almost-laugh pinged all the way down to your toes, warming you from the inside the way only Scott could.

As his mouth moved down to your jaw and then the side of your neck, you slid your hands down his chest and then stopped, feeling something other than the hidden planes of his stomach through the fabric of his dark hoodie. You pulled away. Scott’s face had frozen into a look of mild panic and his hands wrapped around your wrists, holding them loosely, which only made the alarm bells ring louder in your head. That was not the sort of face he would make if he was hoarding old receipts.

“Scott?” you asked. He looked away, exhaled, and let your wrists drop with a resigned expression. You reached into his pocket, pulling out a sheet of white letter paper folded into quarters, carefully and with Scott-like precision. “What…” you began, glancing at him briefly and opening the sheet.

At the top, in cardinal red: Massachusetts Institute of Technology.

You might have gasped. At the very least, one of your hands flew up to your mouth. “Oh my God… Scott…”

“We don’t have to talk about it now.”

“Scott! This is from MIT! You got in?”

“It's really not a big deal.” He shoved his hands in his pockets, his shoulders curved slightly inward.

Not a big deal? “Scott, shut up! You got in!” you exclaimed, aghast.

“You’re not upset?”

“Don’t be ridiculous!” You set the letter down to the side, knowing he’d want to keep it—that so much as folding it and putting it in his pocket so he could make the ten-minute run to your house in the middle of a downpour must have been a minor sacrifice on your account. Because he wanted to tell you. Because he wanted you to be the first person other than his mom to hear the good news. “We’ve talked about this. This is your dream school, babe.”

“Yeah, well, it feels kinda shitty celebrating now.”

“Stop.” You reached up and gave him a peck on the lips, stroking his cheeks, resting your forehead against his. “I'm so freaking proud of you. You’re going to be the best, most kick-ass engineer.”

You looked into his eyes so that he’d know it was true, and for a moment you could tell he was letting himself feel the achievement—his shoulders relaxed, he caressed your hands gratefully, but there was something about his smile that signaled not all being well.

“I heard Mom talking on the phone with my uncle today,” he confessed.

“Your uncle Riggs? Down in New Orleans?”

“Yeah. She doesn't want me to know, but I heard her talking about college and…”

You placed your hands on his chest. “Is it that bad?”

He didn't like talking about it but you knew his father had made a few bad investments lately, and from your own dad, who had confided it to your mom in secret one night—not that he saw you lurking outside the kitchen, drawn by the mention of the name “Miller”—you were aware that he had made a truly catastrophic impulsive bet with some Swedish businessmen he’d been trying to impress. Add to that the drawn look on Mrs. Miller’s face whenever you saw her, and the overly sympathetic way your mom referred to “poor Pamela,” and you had enough evidence to assume that Scott’s father had royally fucked up this time.

“They’ve been talking about selling the house,” he said with a dark look. “I think my parents are going to split up… for good this time.”

“Oh, Scott…”

“So who knows? I might not be able to go to MIT anyway—even with this.”

“Are you okay?” you asked, aware that nothing got his back up more than pity. But you had to ask.

He shrugged. “It is what it is.”

This was a side of him you’d never learned how to handle, not even after two years of dating. For all that he was an expert at making you feel like the world was yours for the taking, when it came to his own struggles, he was a tightly closed book. Instead of admitting when he was hurt or disappointed, he resorted to indifference and the kind of dark humor that could put you in a bad mood if you weren't careful.

Right now, all you wanted was for him to know that you were there for him. Nothing you could say or do would make Ray Miller grow practical common sense or an ounce of familial consideration—you weren't even sure that he knew your name, despite being Scott’s long-term girlfriend; he was hardly ever home, and never present even on the occasions when he was. But you could state the obvious, just in case he’d doubted it for a second.

“Hey, I love you,” you said to him.

“I love you, too,” he replied. “Now, no more shop talk—why do you think I risked my neck climbing up here?” And just like that, the matter was closed, the dark look disappeared, replaced by the telltale lowering of his dark lashes as he dropped another kiss at the side of your neck, his arms tightening around you, turning you so that the backs of your knees hit the edge of your bed.

“And here I thought your intentions were pure,” you replied, trying to downplay the butterflies in your stomach.

“Darling, there’s no such thing… especially when it comes to you.”

“What an idealist,” you rejoined, then fell quiet when he kissed you again. Without missing a beat, he lowered you onto the bed, hands gliding beneath your sweatshirt with apparent purpose. “Scott,” you protested, “my parents are across the hall.”

“So we’ll be quiet. Or we’ll get caught. What's the worst that could happen?”

“Um, you flying headfirst out that window?”

He pretended to think about it, then, by the warm glow of your bedside lamp, you saw his mouth quirk into a smirk before he dove towards your lips, eyes twinkling. “I don’t know about you, but that sounds like a price I’m willing to pay.”

PRESENT DAY OKLAHOMA CITY

“The damages your client is seeking are absolutely unreasonable. I would even say they border on the ridiculous—and, quite frankly, even frivolous!”

“Frivolous! Your client founded his new company with StormPAR assets—”

“His assets!”

“—accumulated during his tenure as a business partner to my client. Assets which came out of the pocket of Mr. Riggs as well, might I remind you!”

“We were equal partners!” Javi exclaimed, no longer able to keep his temper in check. You supposed the moment you snapped at Mr. Rankin, Javi figured the gloves were off.

Maybe instead of worrying about Tyler, you should've worried about yourself.

Rankin stabbed a finger at the files stacked in front of him. “Exactly, and Mr. Miller deserves to be compensated for the financial losses incurred from your breach of contract.”

Javi balked. “What, I can’t decide to leave my own company?”

“You can do whatever the hell you want, just not with my money,” Scott said in a dangerous monotone. For the last half-hour you’d been trying not to look at him, focusing instead on his middle-aged bespectacled lawyer, but to say you weren't losing your shit would be disproven by the Montblanc you’ve been fidgeting with since the meeting began. When he wasn’t glaring daggers at his former business partner, you could feel the power of his gaze, daring you to meet his eyes again.

“Oh, you mean your uncle’s money?”

“Javi.” You touched his hand in warning.

“You weren't turning your nose up at my uncle’s money when you were trying to found StormPAR.” Scott gibed. In your periphery, you saw Kate rubbing her left temple.

“Me? I thought we were partners, partner.”

“Like you give a shit! You jumped ship, Javi—you jumped ship, set up shop with the opposition, then hired my ex-girlfriend so you could get away with robbing us blind!”

You gritted your teeth. “Mr. Rankin, control your client.”

“‘Control your client’?” Scott spat out, leaning forward and turning the dial up to ten. “What the hell is wrong with you? What are you even doing here?”

“My job, Mr. Miller.” This time you did risk staring him in the face, ignoring the play of light on his cheekbones, the shape of his lips, the triangle of exposed skin at his throat that you used to know so well. “I work for StormLab. You might find my presence objectionable, but that’s neither here nor there as long as my clients choose to keep me on retainer. If you don't like it, you’re free to leave and we can negotiate with Mr. Rankin directly.”

He said nothing. Scott was never at a loss for words unless he was well and truly pissed, the force of his intelligence diverted into barely suppressed anger. You could've heard a pin drop in that conference room. His hands were on top of the table, tense, almost shaking, and the rise and fall of his chest was visible even to you. Against your will, your brain threw up images of those same hands holding yours, threaded through your hair, brushing gently against the small of your back; those same arms drawing you close; the same mouth smiling.

You cleared your throat, shuffled a few papers around, and once again addressed the general room and Mr. Rankin. “Now, if you turn to page 16, you’ll see that Mr. Rivera is willing to formally sell his share of StormPAR for less than he’s entitled—if both Mr. Miller and Mr. Riggs agree to desist in interference with StormLab, which, need I remind you, was founded two-thirds of the way with assets entirely independent from the former. If this action’s purpose isn’t frivolous, then Mr. Owens and Ms. Carter should be removed from this suit.”

“Like hell,” Scott interrupted, prompting Javi to fire back with:

“What, you think we’re not good for it? I’ll have you know—”

“You expect me to believe you started your little company on the merits of an NWS salary and a fucking YouTube channel?”

Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Tyler lean forward, ready to pounce. Rankin muttered, “Language,” and pushed his eyeglasses up his nose. You knew he was a personal friend of Scott’s uncle—you could also tell that he would rather be out on the golf course than in the middle of this friend-divorce and embarrassing squabble, one where his input seemed superfluous and his counsel went unheeded even by his client.

Scott went on, full of accusation. “You used StormPAR money, didn’t you?”

“If you want to request any financial disclosures…” you began.

“We’re talking.”

Bitch. “No, you’re berating,” you shot back.

Javi put his hand on your wrist. “It’s fine. Yeah—I guess if you want to look at it that way, if I was making a living off StormPAR and taking Riggs’s money, then yeah, technically my share of StormLab exists because of what we had.”

“Javi.”

“No. Fair’s fair and all that. I don’t want any part of it anymore. Hell, you can have it. But come on, man, don’t pretend you’re doing any of this because you’re broke. Even if I gave you half of whatever StormPAR’s worth, it wouldn’t make a difference. You’re mad that I left. I get it. Let’s settle this, you and me. Leave Kate and Tyler out of it.”

“You stole our data!”

Now, that couldn't stand. “He made the executive decision to share data with Mr. Owens’s team.” Sure, it was a technicality but it was a true technicality.

“Bullshit!”

You sighed. “Are we getting anywhere here, Rankin?”

The lawyer glanced down at his watch and shook his head almost mournfully. “It’s not looking likely.”

“Wonderful.” You stood up, gathering your things and motioning for Kate, Tyler, and Javi to do the same. “Well, we’re all very busy people and clearly meeting in-person is counterproductive. Shall we agree to make this a video call next time? My clients have places to be.”

“I’ll bet they do,” Scott mocked, staring not only at Javi but at his new partners for probably the first time all afternoon. “How’re your investors doing, by the way, knowing you’re getting sued for infringement, breach of contract and fiduciary duty…”

You wanted to strangle him. In a voice that matched him venom for venom, you turned to your assistant and said, “Did you get that on record, Abby? Please, keep going,” you urged Scott, “you might just win us a dismissal.”

After a moment of charged silence, you told your clients: “We’re done here.”

“You’ll be hearing from me,” said the reluctant Mr. Rankin.

You snatched the chrome door handle from Tyler. “Boy, am I looking forward to it.”

Outside, you didn’t stop until you’d turned the corner into another section of the office, not wanting to be within eyeshot of Scott when you gritted your teeth and let the mask of cool indifference fall.

“Well, that went…” Tyler trailed off, leaning against the metal doorframe of Copy Room 3. The smell of toner and ozone was strangely comforting, bringing you back to your professional self now that Scott and his stupid, handsome-as-ever face were out of view. That, and you were noticing that Tyler Owens in a corporate-adjacent setting didn’t sit well with you; you couldn’t decide whether it was the outdoor tan or the in-your-face belt-buckle that gave it away. Regardless, he seemed too big for the confines of a downtown law office.

“It went like a garbage fire,” you confirmed, “which means about as well as I expected.”

Kate crossed her arms. “So we’re going to court, then.”

“I’m going to keep pushing for him to drop StormLab from the suit.”

“That just leaves me,” Javi remarked, downcast, but still willing to take one for the team.

“I mean, Javi, dear, you did abandon the partnership without ironing out all the kinks first.”

“How was I supposed to know I needed to hire a lawyer?”

“Um, literally everyone knows you’re supposed to hire a lawyer,” said Tyler, “especially if you’re dealing with someone like Textbook Type A over there.”

Javi ran a hand down his face, then shook his head. “What can I say? I-I thought he was my friend.”

“I know.” You clapped your hand on Javi’s shoulder. I understand. “But sometimes all that does is make it worse.”

After a bit more commiserating you parted ways with the three, hanging back with Abby to touch base on a few points and clear up the rest of your schedule, which included a deposition in an hour-and-a-half and witness prep at 4:30. Understandably, you were in the mood for none of this and wanted nothing more than to retire to your apartment with a glass of red and a bowl of popcorn as big as your head à la Olivia Pope, but alas… you were trying to make junior partner.

No rest for the wicked and all that.

You released Abby for a late lunch and made your way to the bank of elevators after a brief pit stop at the restroom, side-eyeing the fancy automatic taps and the whiff of something hotel-like emanating from the vents. You’d have to tell the office manager at Conway & Fine to up your game.

Fishing your phone out of your bag, you pushed the elevator button and began scrolling through a frightful amount of emails—there were intraoffice communications and check-in requests from clients, a few items of junk not caught by the email filter, the latest newsletters from PennAlumni and the Oklahoma Bar Association, as well as an invitation to an old mentor’s golden anniversary celebration. You were in the middle of responding to this when Scott sidled up next to you, giving no indication other than the familiar scent of his cologne and the tap of shined leather shoes against the polished tile. Of all the bad luck…

“So what is this, some kind of a decade-old revenge plot?” he finally asked, disconcerting you with the fact that he was standing so close to you that you couldn't glance at his expression without craning your neck. “Maybe I should’ve expected it from you, but Javi? I didn't know he had it in him.”

“Go away, Scott. This is business.”

“Really, is that what you want to call it? He could've hired anyone.”

“Well, he chose to hire a friend.”

“Right…” A laugh. Dry, cynical. “And what's your excuse?”

You stared at the light above the door, willing it to flash green and put you out of your misery. “Believe it or not, my taking this case has nothing to do with you. Forgive me if I thought you could be a fucking adult about it—clearly I was wrong.”

Ding!

You walked into the elevator without looking back. As parting words went, you thought they passed muster. Except, instead of being a regular person and taking the next car, Scott followed you in, ignoring the outrage written plain on your face.

You looked at him as if to say, “Do you mind?” It was obvious that he didn't. Whatever composure he’d lost in the conference room had been regained now that it was just you, and him, and the shared knowledge that you would have avoided being alone with him if you could.

He stood next to you, towering. As the floor number inched downward from 22, you were all too aware of his presence: the Scott smell of him, the warmth of his body, and the brush of his dark linen jacket against your arm. You wished you handed discarded your own in the restroom; you needed armor, and while Scott had donned his as soon as he was able, he had caught you unawares, expecting him to play fair even when all the evidence of the last two hours had told you that “fair” was no longer in his vocabulary.

As if to illustrate the point, you felt him lean in, his voice the closest it had been in over six years. “You always did love making a show of taking the moral high ground. How’s the view, sweetheart? You must love getting the chance to look down on me for change.”

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Not bothering to contain your disgust, you stepped away from him, clutching your bag in a white-knuckle grip. For a moment you felt struck by lightning. There was a time when you knew the planes of his face better than your own—the slope of his nose, the variations of blue in his eyes; you knew the shade of his hair in every light; how to tell a false smile from the true. But this Scott… the one with the shuttered expression, the see-if-I-care set to his shoulders, “how’re your investors doing, by the way”… It wasn’t like those things came out of left field—Scott had always been capable of a certain amount of pride, petulance, vindictiveness, even. But it was like the best parts of him had been filed away, or else hidden so deep that you couldn't find nary a sight of them when you looked into his face. “What happened to you?”

You saw his jaw clench. “If you want to know, then you shouldn’t have left.”

8…

7…

6…

You took a breath. “That whole last year—you pushed me away and you know it.”

Instead of answering your honesty in kind, Scott hitched up his sleeve so he could glance at the time on his fancy Swiss watch, a present from Good Old Uncle Riggs on the event of his graduation from MIT. “Yeah, well, you made it easy.”

4…

3…

2…

The doors opened onto a vast lobby. Incredulous, you kept waiting for him to take his words back, to apologize, to so much as glance at you, damn it. When you saw there wasn't any point, you swallowed the knot in your throat, stepping out of the elevator car and feeling twenty-one all over again.

This time, he didn't follow you. He leaned against the back handrail, not reacting even when you mustered every remaining ounce of dignity to say, “Go fuck yourself, Scott.” Then you turned on your heel and walked away.

TEN YEARS AGO PARK HAVEN, PENNSYLVANIA

Once more on your bedroom floor. Scott sat at your back, his arms wrapped around you and his head bent over yours. “Hey, listen to me… we’ll make it work. I’ll call you every day.”

“With a full slate of classes? That doesn't make any sense.”

“I don’t care if it doesn't. Hey,”—he kissed your temple—“it’s you and me. That doesn’t need to change”

“You say that now…”

“Don’t you trust me?”

“Of course I do.” You sighed. “It’s the hot nerds I don’t trust.”

You felt him laugh. “You’re a hot nerd.”

“Stop it.” But you smiled anyway, probably for the first time since you’d opened the rejection letter from Harvard. Concerned, your mom had called Scott while you were holed up in your room, ugly-crying into the bedspread, and it was enough to make you regret having been so bitchy about her the week before. She really had been trying to help… not that it mattered now that Harvard had given you the hard pass.

It wasn’t like you had no other options—you’d have been crazy not to line up a contingency plan or two. But Harvard had been your dream since you could remember caring about college. It was your castle in the sky, the thing that kept you going through four years of grueling hard work, a neverending grind of AP and Honors classes, student clubs and extracurriculars. And still it wasn’t enough.

“We regret to inform you…”

Well, not as much as you regretted it.

As if reading your mind, Scott wrapped his arms a little tighter, his tone light when he said, “UPenn’s nothing to scoff at, you know. You’re upset because you got into an Ivy League?”

“An Ivy League in Philadelphia,” you protested.

You didn’t add “and not the one I wanted” because you knew, objectively, that he and your parents and Ms. Andersson, your favorite teacher, were all right. You were incredibly lucky to have gotten into the University of Pennsylvania—the campus was beautiful, it was close to home, and, like Harvard, it boasted its own fair share of Supreme Court Justices and legal luminaries. It wasn’t like your future was in complete and utter shambles. You would still have everything you wanted… except Scott.

You felt him shrug behind you. “So what? It’s just a five-and-a-half-hour drive—or an hour-and-a-half by plane if we’re desperate.” You shifted so you could shoot him a funny look. “I might have googled it,” he admitted, “right after you told me you got in.”

“Of course you did…” The fact that he had started making plans without waiting on Harvard made you feel better; it meant he had every intention of making it work and maybe you were the downer, seeing the situation as near-hopeless when, really, there had to be couples who didn't let physical distance stop them from being together.

Glass half-full. All you needed was a little faith, a little more optimism.

“At least we’ve got the whole summer,” you said, trying to implement this new, sunnier outlook.

You felt Scott stiffen.

“What?” You turned around properly, anchoring your hand on the side of his neck. You had a minor panic when he wouldn't look at you, and at the guilt written on his brow. “Tell me,” you said.

“Uncle Riggs wants me to spend the summer down in NOLA—something about getting to know me better. I think he must’ve worked it out with Mom. She’s finally put the house up for sale, doesn't want me around when strangers start traipsing through and asking about whether or not she’ll throw in the vintage furniture for an extra few grand.”

At last, after years of painful back and forth, the Miller divorce was imminent. True to Scott’s prediction, “poor Pamela” had hired an attorney and filed paperwork on the very week he climbed through your window. So far his dad had been uncharacteristically passive, perhaps figuring he had put his family through enough, or else fearful of the very same Marshall Riggs who had been summoned from the rafters to come through for his sister after a period of long estrangement.

It was Riggs who had retained Pamela’s ace divorce attorney, Riggs who agreed to pay most of Scott’s tuition. Spending a few months with him seemed like the least he could do. You were disappointed. But you understood.

“When do you leave?”

“Two weeks after graduation.”

“So we have a month,” you said. “That’s thirty days.”

“More like twenty-six… and three quarters.” He smiled the same wistful sort of half-smile that was on your face, and you kissed him, savoring the familiar taste of mint on his mouth from the gum he chewed out of habit.

“Then let’s not waste a second,” you answered back.

He placed a kiss on your forehead. “I love you.”

When he said it, it sounded like a promise that everything would be all right, and in spite of your worries you chose to believe him.

PRESENT DAY OKLAHOMA CITY

For the last ten minutes you’d had trouble hearing Kate’s voice clearly over the phone, but you figured it was to be expected since she was calling from the middle of nowhere (at least to your urban- and suburban-bred estimation), and really, after almost three months of similar experiences, you’d grown tired of plugging your ear and saying, “Kate? Kate? You’re breaking up!”

On the upside, your cognitive skills had to be getting a real workout from filling in the weather-induced gaps in your conversations. Case in point:

“—bad luck with the last two, but I—feeling—building in the east—”

“Yeah, her Spidey Senses are tingling!” you heard Javi yell in the background.

Kate laughed. “Go away!”

“Ask her if she caught the livestream!” Tyler said, no doubt from the driver’s seat.

It sounded like she had you on speakerphone, so you spoke to him directly. “Ty, need I remind you that I have an actual job.”

“Ouch! Did you hear that?—thinks we don’t have real jobs!”

“I did not—”

The clarity improved, and you could hear the sound of car doors slamming and voices cracking jokes in the background, which usually meant they’d returned to Kate’s mother’s farm in Sapulpa, where StormLab kept a satellite office in Cathy Carter’s barn. It was makeshift, but what you saw of it during one of Tyler’s Facetime calls had a rustic charm completely at odds with the glass-and-chrome offices where Herb Rankin worked.

Actually, now that you gave it a moment’s thought, not even Herb Rankin fit into his office.

“Listen to her, the Big City Bigshot slumming it with the rednecks,” Tyler went on, earning a few spirited hoots and howls from the other Wranglers.

“Kate is from New York!” you objected. You waved an arm in the middle of your dim-lit apartment as if anyone could see you, vaguely aware that you were holding a pair of chopsticks and had probably sent a strand of shredded cabbage flying behind your couch.

This assertion was too much for Javi to bear. “Excuse me! Kate is OK to the bone, New York’s just where she keeps her apartment.”

Kate laughed as she said something you couldn’t catch, then Tyler’s voice came, audibly close to the phone. “Hey, that reminds me, where’re you from, again?”

“Pennsylvania.”

“That is not a Philly accent.”

You were about to say that not everyone in the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania sounds like Rocky Balboa when Javi replied, “That’s ’cause she’s from the fancy part of Pennsylvania—but we don't hold that against her.”

“Gee, thanks.”

Tyler asked, “Wait, you’re not billing us for all this shit-talking, are you?”

You let out a snort, picked up your phone, and held it close to your mouth. “You know, maybe I should, Arkansas.”

At first you couldn’t work out what the hell was going on when Tyler broke out in “It's the spirit of the mountains… and the spirit of the Delta… it's the spirit of the Caaapitol doooooome,” but by the time the other Wranglers pitched in, with all the gusto of a drunk karaoke night despite being stone-cold sober, you understood that you had been treated to a rare and hopefully never-to-be-repeated rendition of one of the state songs of Arkansas. A short while later you hung up, cheeks sore and still laughing to yourself. The silence in your apartment was deafening by comparison.

Sometimes, you called them just because you lacked company. There wasn’t much to report on the Rankin front—as much as you had tried to negotiate on Javi’s behalf for a less hostile resolution, Scott insisted on keeping Kate and Tyler in the suit and seemed determined to take their tiff before a judge if his terms weren’t met.

Even Rankin seemed fed up.

Maybe it was a bad idea, maybe it was the two glasses of wine you’d had with dinner or the post-ballad high. Maybe you wanted to be the one to make StormLab’s problem go away. Whatever the reason, after you put the dirty dishes in the sink, you found yourself calling the one person you swore you’d never speak to ever again.

For good measure, as the dial tone rang you poured yourself another glass. When he answered, you nearly choked.

“Can we talk?” you managed to ask, swallowing down a mouthful of Syrah. There was a long silence on the other end. You didn't know if he had your number saved, if he knew who had called him, or whether he’d recognized the sound of your voice. You remembered that the last thing you had said to him was “go fuck yourself,” and added it to the mental list of why maybe you shouldn't have called him after all.

Tyler’s impulsiveness seemed to be as contagious as a rash.

Scott answered: “Not without my lawyer present.”

Okay, fair. Play stupid games, win stupid prizes. He sounded clipped, like he’d rather be lowered into a tank of leeches than be on the phone with you. You were reconsidering the wisdom of your actions when he asked, “What do you want?”

Your eyes darted around the living room. Thinking on your feet wasn't new to you, it couldn't be, in your profession. But a part of you knew you’d taken a stupid gamble in pressing the call button, and now that the die was cast, you had to make it count.

You opted for the aggressive approach.

“Rankin says you're being uncooperative.”

You could feel the animus on the other end. “No, he didn't.”

“It was implied. No one wants to keep drawing this out, Scott. So, come off it. What is it that you’re actually looking to get out of all this?”

If he opted to tell you to go fuck yourself, you figured it would be fair play. This really was business, and not having to look him in the eyes made it easier to feel the rush of adrenaline that came with making a risky move in the name of work. You knew that technically, and in the strictest interpretation of the word, reaching out to another lawyer’s client crossed the line into inappropriate, but you were also a couple years beyond green. If you could cut out the middleman and get Scott to come to the table in a serious way, it would all be worth it. And Rankin could go back to playing 9 holes without losing face in front of his old school mate Riggs.

You waited for Scott’s response with bated breath.

“I want StormLab run into the ground.”

The answer came as no surprise but his tone did. Dark, intense, almost as bad as one of the nights he snuck into your room after a fight with his dad. It was the one and only time you’d ever heard him say he hated his father—his lack of control, his thoughtlessness, his inability to keep his word. Afterward he’d pretended he never said it, or rather, he was careful to never bring it up again, but you knew he had meant it.

And he meant it now. He wanted to take StormLab down. He’d succeed over your dead body. Javi and the others were counting on you.

You moved the phone to your other ear. “Right, well… that's not gonna happen, so any other alternatives?” You could feel he was about to end the call, so you tacked on, “Wait, just… hear me out, okay? Forget about Tyler and Kate—this isn’t about them, really, this is about StormPAR. Compromise on this one thing and you have a better chance of being compensated for what went down last year. You and Javi can just… move on with your lives. On paper it's about money, right? Riggs’s investment? So let’s settle this as soon as possible.”

“You and me?”

“And Rankin,” you added, your conscience getting the better of you.

There was a pause before Scott repeated, “You and me.”

“I don’t…”

“That’s my final offer.”

Alarm bells of a different sort rang in your head. On the phone was one thing, but in person, alone? Could you really sit across from Scott and keep your cool?

You had to. More than that, you wanted to prove to yourself that you’d grown up since you were twenty-one, that you were assured and confident and could handle messy things like sitting across from your ex. There were many things you regretted from that time; the one you regretted most was a reluctance to stand up for yourself. What was Tyler always saying? You don’t face your fears, you ride them. Frankly, you still weren't sure what the hell he meant by that, but it sounded a lot like “put your money where your mouth is.” At some point you had to choose to take action.

“Okay, fine,” you said. “When and where?”

“You busy tonight?”

You scoffed, casting a glance at your open laptop and the piles of paperwork lying on top of the coffee table. “I’m busy every night.”

“Perch. In an hour. Don’t be late.”

THREE YEARS AGO PARK HAVEN, PENNSYLVANIA

As a rule you’d been avoiding your hometown for the last three years, ever since your breakup with Scott. It was easier to stay in Oklahoma, where the possibility of running into someone who knew the Millers or would ask “are the two of you still together?” was slim. After your father died, you started to regret being such a coward. So much lost time… although your mom kept telling you that your dad understood the need to have your own life and never held it against you.

You held it against you, and all the more when your mom decided to downsize and move in with a friend.

After requesting two weeks off you got on a plane to Philadelphia and drove south to Park Haven to help her pack. You stayed up late, wore holiday pajamas, filled your hand with paper cuts, and inhaled about four pounds of dust in the attic. It was nice to spend time with your mom. All the old grievances seemed minor in comparison with the massive changes that lay ahead. Always one for sentimentality, sorting through boxes full of clothes, keepsakes, and old mementos put your mom in an especially chatty mood, and you soaked everything in, not having realized before how little you knew about your dad. He was so reserved in life, so buttoned-up, with clear expectations of himself and others that you were surprised to learn about his stint in an amateur dramatics troupe, the year he tried his hand at playing the alto sax, his fear of geese.

“Geese?” you asked your mom.

“Yes, geese. Those fuckers are vicious!” Having never heard your mom swear before, you froze while elbow-deep in a box of photographs dating back to the 70s. All she did was shrug and finish the rest of her margarita while lightbulbs flashed on her navy blue Rudolph sweater. “What do you want me to say? Parents have secrets, too.”

“Well, I think this parent went a little hard on the tequila,” you said.

Your mom plucked a faded Polaroid from the box. “You know… he didn’t look it, but your dad was actually a lot of fun. We both were. Then… life gets in the way, you start caring about PTA meetings and getting the HOA off your back…”

“Fuck the HOA.”

“Right on! Can’t say I’ll miss any of those jerks.” She sighed, and with a little shake of her head, put the Polaroid back in the box. “Sometimes I worry—” She stopped herself and glanced at you nervously.

“What?”

“Sometimes I worry that you think about us, about your dad and me, and that you don’t see us as having ever been in love. Especially after you and Scott—”

“Mom,” you warned.

“I know, I know, me and my big mouth.” She held up her hands, chuckling to herself. Normally you’d seize the opportunity to change the subject, but you were thinking a lot about how you could’ve been a better daughter, all the times you shut the door in their face because you didn’t want to feel scolded or uncomfortable, because you weren’t interested in what they had to say.

Your mom was trying to respect your privacy. The least you could do was not leave her with the impression that you thought she had a “big mouth.”

You reached across the box and touched her arm. “That’s not what I meant.”

“All I mean is… I know you’re not dating.”

“How do you know that?”

She grinned. “Mothers have their ways. I just don’t want you giving up, is all. If Dad and I weren’t the model marriage—”

“What are you talking about?” you asked. “Half of my friends have divorced parents. And even if you were divorced, the whole ‘nuclear family or you’re a failure to society’ thing is so five-decades-ago.”

“Well, good! Because I was happy—I want you to know that. Maybe it wasn’t the sort of romance people write songs about—God knows your dad had his faults. He wasn't perfect. No one is. But when you love someone… it’s less about keeping score and more about what you build. Together.”

She looked off to the far wall, where their wedding portrait sat propped in its frame, ready to be wrapped in old newspapers and put away. You turned around and looked at it, too—at your mom’s curly updo and poofy skirts, the sleeves that looked like pool inflatables, at least to your modern eyes, at your dad before his hair went gray, the sheepish smile on his face like he couldn’t believe he’d gotten away with the steal of the century.

You’d gotten so used to its presence in the living room that you couldn’t remember the last time you gave it more than a passing glance.

Lit by an alternating flash of blue and purple lights, your mom’s face was cast in an otherworldly glow. Then the spell was broken, and she was your mom again in an ugly Christmas sweater, smiling fondly at an old memory to which you weren’t privy. “For some reason, we brought out the best in each other. That mattered to us more than anything we ever did wrong.” And that was that, a twenty-nine year marriage summed up in a few sentences.

You said, “I guess that does sound romantic… in a super-practical, boring, construction-analogy sort of way.”

She laughed and threw a wadded-up newspaper at your head.

“Dad never liked Scott,” you said after a while, rolling the ball between your hands.

“What makes you say that?”

You threw her a pointed look. Her expression said, Oh, alright.

“He wasn’t disapproving, exactly. He was worried about you. Who wouldn’t be? Your first boyfriend, your first love… I don’t think he was quite ready to see his teenage daughter all head over heels over some guy on the baseball team. And the Millers, well… they had their issues, as a family. Maybe your dad didn’t want you becoming collateral damage. But, oh sweetie,”—it was her turn to touch your arm, Rudolph’s nose squished against the cardboard—“it was never about Scott. When you told us you were engaged, we were so pleased for you! And then a few months later… just like that…”

You swallowed the knot in your throat. How much time would have to pass before you could think of Scott without a tidal wave of sadness hitting you square in the chest? Collateral damage, that was one way of putting it. “I guess Dad was right, after all.”

“He never said ‘I told you so,’” your mom pointed out, “and he never would’ve wanted to.”

You squeezed her hand. “Yeah, I know.”

A phone call from your mother’s friend Rose prompted a break in packing. She went into the kitchen to discuss sideboard dimensions, and you went upstairs, where you were slowly going through your childhood bedroom and putting things in boxes marked Keep and Donate, or else in bags to be discarded when trash day rolled around.

You were almost finished, the walls empty of medals and photos, the corkboard of mementos lying in the recycling bin outside. Already it felt like a bedroom that had belonged to someone else, and while you were sad to know that, after the house was sold, you would never step foot in it again, the process of taking things down one at a time had given you a sort of detachment. There were items, like the snowglobe your friend Tash gave you when she got home from a skiing trip in the Alps in the seventh grade, that you had once thought you could never do without. But now Tash lived in LA with her wife and kids, and you hadn’t spoken much since high school except for a few text messages now and then.

You’d decided to keep the globe but you knew it would live in a box in your closet, a relic rather than an everyday part of your life in Oklahoma.

Speaking of closets, you tackled the wardrobe next, marveling at how many items would be considered “trendy” now that the fashion cycle had taken a turn—or God forbid, “vintage.” There were stuffed animals shoved into the top shelf, your old 50 State quarter collection, debate club certificates, a landscape picture from your senior year mock trial, and a shoebox falling apart at the seams.

You took it to the stripped bed with shaking hands, knowing you’d been dreading this most of all but that it had to be done, so why not now.

After you broke your engagement off with Scott, you’d gone home to lick your wounds. This was before you found a job, before you decided to move to Oklahoma on the literal toss of a coin, knowing only that you couldn't stay in Pennsylvania and that you needed a fresh start. Left with no other options, home had been your best bet, even though the weeks spent living with your parents and avoiding their worried questions had seemed at the time like cruel and unusual punishment. When you moved out you had left something behind, hidden beneath seashells and baubles and silly notes you had passed during class, movie stubs, train tickets, an inexplicable piece of gum, the collar that had once belonged to Clover, your old childhood dog.

You lifted a school ribbon and found it: a blue velvet box with a golden clasp. Your heart pounded in your ears. You took a deep breath, let it out again before lifting the lid… and there it was, glinting in the light of late afternoon.

“Honey, Rose wants to know if you’d like to join us for dinner at her place!”

Box, ring, and all tumbled onto the hardwood. Though you were alone, your mother calling to you from the bottom of the stairs, you felt incredibly guilty. “I’ll be right down!” you yelled back. You got on your hands and knees and slipped the ring back in its cradle.

It felt dangerous somehow, like a live grenade. But you couldn't get rid of it. When you went back home at the end of the month you packed it at the bottom of your suitcase and it’d been living with you ever since, moved from closet to closet, unseen but never quite forgotten.

PRESENT DAY OKLAHOMA CITY

The jewel twinkled in your hand, an oval diamond surrounded by small clusters and set in a ring of yellow gold. It was one of a kind. Scott told you he found it at an antique jeweler’s who dated it to the summer of 1880; it was a genuine Victorian piece, and for nearly four months it had been your most prized possession.

The same foolhardy impulse that made you call Scott and agree to meet him made you dig it out of your closet, right after you spent twenty minutes agonizing over what to wear and the state of your hair. This isn’t a date, you kept reminding yourself. If anything, it might be a trap. He was, after all, Marshall Riggs's nephew.

Letting your lesser sense win out, you slipped the ring on your finger and watched it catch the light. It truly was a beautiful ring. And it was sentimental, as though its selection revealed a hidden truth about Scott.

Its weight on your hand, present and comfortable, calmed your racing thoughts and the nerves roiling in your belly. You kept it on as you dressed and got ready, then chalked it up to a desire for punctuality when you rushed to the elevator, through the lobby, and into your waiting Uber still wearing it. The driver’s presence snapped you out of your momentary lapse in sanity. They were chatty, and the more you talked about work and the weather and what you liked doing in the city, the sillier it felt to be wearing your ex-fiancé’s engagement ring. Before getting out, you stuck it in the pocket of your linen duster… which was also, admittedly, kind of a stupid thing to do.

(You blamed Tyler for all of it.)

Located at the top of a fifty-floor high-rise, Perch was a bar and restaurant with full views of the city and a James Beard Award-winning chef. The atmosphere was relaxed and unfussy, the lighting unobtrusive, and the cocktails reasonably priced. At the door, the vest-clad host directed you through the assemblage of diners and beyond a decorative glass partition to the tables reserved for business meetings, minor celebrities, and men who didn’t want to be seen with their mistresses. Scott was there in rolled-up shirtsleeves. You watched from a distance as he rubbed his stubbled cheek and his pointer finger came to rest at the seam of his lips.

You would not stare at his mouth or let your eyes linger anywhere on his person. This was business, goddammit.

But hell if he didn’t look good. You hated that after all this time you still found him maddeningly attractive.

“Seriously?” he asked, casting a pointed look at the portfolio in your arms.

“Well, this isn’t a social call.”

“By all means.” He gestured at the seat in front of him, mockingly formal. You glanced at the coupe waiting on your side of the table, a cheerful yellow with a perfect white foam on top and a twist of lemon peel. “I took the liberty of ordering your usual.”

You sat down and set the portfolio to one side, adopting an air of casual indifference. “Actually, it’s not my usual anymore.”

“Really?”

“But thanks anyway. So, from previous conversations with Javi—”

“What is this mythical new usual?”

“Are you kidding?” you balked, narrowing your eyes.

“No, I’m just curious.” He propped his chin in his hand. Maybe lying had been a petty move on your part but you’d be damned if he forced you to backtrack and you came out of this looking a fool.

“I hate to be the one to tell you this, but at some point you’re gonna have to learn to live with uncertainty. Anyway—”

“You don’t have a new usual.” Scott smirked. “It’s still a gin sour and you’re just being difficult.”

“Difficult… Wow, okay! We”—wagging your finger in the space between you—“are not together anymore, so these mind games you’re trying to play are highly inappropriate and also kind of a dick move—”

“A dick move!” he repeated.

“Yeah, a dick move! Which I know is, like, your whole personality now—”

“Is it?” he laughed.

“—but I’m trying to settle this like an actual grown-up and all you’ve done for three months is make that very difficult for everyone involved!”

He rolled his eyes. “This is such a fucking boring conversation.”

Incensed, you had the fleeting thought to throw your drink in his face, but people only did that in soap operas. “You were the one who wanted to do this in person!” you fired back, shrill and drawing the attention of a server who promptly beelined to a different table and pretended not to hear. Which only made you wonder what sort of clientele frequented her section.

“And you were the one who called me,” Scott pointed out, “not the other way around.”

His being right made you even angrier. You had thought you were prepared, that magically you’d be able to have a civil conversation that settled the matter in a way that left you with your pride intact and StormLab the clear winner on the side of good. Clearly, you’d miscalculated. “You know what… fuck this.” After downing half your cocktail in a single gulp, you gathered the portfolio in your arms and made to stand before deciding that, actually, you wanted to get a few things off your chest first so that abandoning your PJs would be worth it. “I am so over this whole… fucking… stupid… mess. I’ve had actual divorces that were easier to mediate, Scott. Whole marriages—and not short ones either! Just take the fucking shares! Please… take the shares and go back to Riggs and leave us all the hell alone. We’re tired, okay? This is just… so unbelievably tiring. And fuck you, by the way—yes, it’s still a gin sour.” You finished yours, figuring that if Scott was paying, you might as well.

And now I’m ready to leave, you thought.

But Scott had other ideas.

“You spoken to your mom lately?”

“What?” You gaped at him, wondering if you were losing your mind. Was he? Was there a dimensional shift happening that you weren’t aware of?

“Pardon the observation,” Scott went on, “but you don’t seem… well.”

“Are you being for real right now?”

“I didn’t mean it like that.”

And how else could you mean it? was on the tip of your tongue. But the look on his face made you stop. No bullshit, no smug provocation. He was serious. Somehow, that was more unsettling than when he was fucking with you. It brought back too many memories.

“I was sorry to hear about your dad.”

He looked you straight in the eyes when he said it. You wanted to burrow into a hole in the ground—into him, if you were being honest. It didn’t matter how many years had gone by. A part of you was still twenty-seven and glancing at the door wondering if maybe, just maybe…

“Oh, I’m gonna need another one of these,” you whispered to yourself, stunned back into a seated position. The server came around and eyed your empty glass, asking meekly if you would like anything else. “I might as well,” you answered, sounding patently glum. All the while Scott kept a neutral expression, even waited until you had another drink—and a glass of water—in front of you, giving the server a soundless thanks before she scurried away.

Probably off to the kitchen to tell her coworkers about the crazy lady at B25.

“I thought about showing up to the funeral, actually,” added Scott when you had regained most of your composure. “But I didn’t know if I’d be welcome. Mom, being a firm believer in Emily Post, thought it’d be better if we skipped it. She sent flowers, though.”

“She what?”

“She sent flowers. Your mom never said?”

You shook your head. She must’ve been trying not to upset you. But you had been upset anyway, thinking about how Scott should’ve been there, how you had always expected him to show up and make things better.

All this time you had used his absence as yet another example of how little you must’ve mattered in the end. Which made no sense, because you were the one to break things off—and yet, that entire winter’s morning, you had bargained with yourself that if he showed up through those chapel double doors you would forget everything and beg him to take you back. It was too late for that. But knowing that he’d thought about going loosened a painful knot in your chest that you weren’t aware you even had.

You cleared your throat. “How’s your mom, by the way?”

“She’s doing all right. She’s part of a sewing circle, believe it or not.”

“Please tell me that isn’t a euphemism.”

“God, I hope not.”

You smiled involuntarily, picturing Pam Miller in her sweater sets and pearls. “I’m glad she’s doing okay. Your dad…?”

He picked up his drink, a Macallan on the rocks. It was his uncle’s drink, too. “I haven't heard from him in years. Guess neither of us ever saw the point.”

“Scott—”

“How’d you and Javi become an ‘us’ anyway? He never said.”

Fair enough. It made sense that he wouldn’t want to talk about his dad, let alone with you. But talking about Javi? When an hour ago he had admitted to wanting to bankrupt Javi’s company?

“I’ll be on my best behavior for the next”—he looked down at his watch—“fifteen minutes. Promise.”

“I don’t know, I think it’s better if we table all the personal talk,” you hedged.

“Better for whom?”

“Better for my clients. And better for me, too. We’re not friends.”

“We’ve never been friends,” Scott pointed out.

“Exactly. So why lie and pretend like we are?”

“Call it a term of this negotiation.”

“Scott…” Already this night was going nothing like how you’d planned. Your defenses had all the strength of a thin paper bag; he was in front of you, all dark-haired, blue-eyed, 6’4” reality and you weren’t unaffected. You wanted to keep talking to him, make the moment last… and all the more because you knew it had to end at some point. Scott would never be yours—not again. You’d made your peace with that a long time ago. But he has a right to know. Maybe if you could convince him that there was no grand conspiracy against him, he would be more amenable to Javi’s offer.

This is business, you reminded yourself. Redirect, bring it all back to StormLab.

“Fine,” you decided, settling in to tell the story of how you and Javi first met. “It happened maybe a year after I moved to Oklahoma City… I was out with a new friend and she took me to this bar after dinner to meet a bunch of people, one of whom was Javi. We get to talking, he tells me all about this new company he’s starting with a friend of his, says it’s a lucky coincidence or maybe fate having a twisted sense of humor because—”o

You broke off. You hadn’t considered how to broach this particular detail in the story. Obviously, Javi had no idea at the time how messy your backstory with Scott was. He had only thought to poke fun at his friend and seemed delighted to have solved a long-standing mystery for himself.

“So you’re the girl!”

“Come again?”

“The girl, you know. He has a picture of you in one of his old notebooks from college. What a small world!”

“What?” Scott prompted. You felt your face heating up and took a sip of water to hide it. You couldn't well omit the rest having already begun, but the knowledge that Scott had kept a photograph of you, whether by accident or otherwise, made you flustered then and it flustered you now.

You settled for: “He said he recognized me, and that he thought we might have a friend in common. Obviously, he meant you. He was dating one of Christa’s friends at the time—”

“Rachel.”

“Yeah. So he’d show up, be around… You know how Javi can be.”

“Like a persistent terrier.”

“Sounds like your kind of business partner.”

Scott looked away.

Not wanting to push things further in that direction just yet, you explained, “I work a lot, so it’s hard for me to make friends. Javi seems to make them wherever he goes. It’s nice having people like that in your life, to open you up, remind you there’s more to all this than billable hours and senior partner tracks. But we never talked about you. Not until this whole thing happened.”

“What thing did he say happened?”

Tread carefully now. Scott was watching you intently—if you said the wrong thing it might start a new argument between you and make his relationship with Javi a hell of a lot worse. In polished business-speak, you recited: “Just that you had a fundamental disagreement about the direction of the company.”

Your reward was a skeptical laugh.

“Also, that he might have left you on the side of the road during a tornado… which he feels bad about, by the way.”

“Not bad enough.”

“Scott, you can’t really want to ruin him, can you? I mean, this is Javi we’re talking about.”

“That’s not part of this discussion.”

“Okay?” you shot back. “I don’t remember agreeing to that condition.”

“You’re still at this table.”

“And that can easily be fixed!”

“All right, calm down.” Maybe it was you in danger of starting another fight. Scott, holding up his hands in a show of good faith, said, “I thought we were playing nice here, being civilized, acting like adults… What else have you been up to?”

“You want to know about my life?”

“Like I said, I’m curious. And seeing as this is a momentary parley, I plan on making the most of it.”

Again, you took in his face in search for any signs of subterfuge and found none, only the barest hint of levity in his eyes at your willingness to argue. It reminded you of the old days, when Scott would delight in teasing you for the sole purpose of seeing what your reaction would be. “Fine. But it’s going to be quid pro quo,” you demanded. “Call it a term of this negotiation.”

His mouth curved into a smile. Then he held out his hand across the table and waited for you to take it before saying, “Term accepted, counselor.”

In the end, playing nice with Scott turned out to be a lot easier once you’d established a few ground rules, mainly the stipulation that either of you could say “pass” if you weren’t willing to answer a question.

You went through the whole gamut of discussing your first jobs after college, gossiped about the old Park Haven crowd, the who-married-who and the who-got-divorced of it all. It turned out that, like you, Scott hadn’t returned to Pennsylvania much in the last few years. StormPAR kept him traveling through the Great Plains for most of the spring and summer, and during the rest of the year he lived in New Orleans, where Riggs and his mother lived. You got the sense that his life revolved around work, and that StormPAR, while not the be all and end all of his professional fate, had been an important part of it until Javi called it quits. You figured this explained, in part, why he took the loss so personally, and though you kept your thoughts to yourself you lamented that his one attempt to branch out for himself and away from his uncle—if you could call taking a major investment from Riggs “branching out”—had gone badly.

Either way, by the end of the evening you felt you’d been a little hasty in believing the old Scott had left the building for good. You exited Perch in higher spirits, glad to see that the night was clear and that the air felt good on your cheeks. When he asked if you were getting a car, you shared your desire for a long walk and he responded with mild horror until you explained that you didn’t live far. “Maybe twenty minutes? Thirty at most.”

“I’ll walk you home,” he insisted. You didn't argue because you were secretly pleased. The only thing you had to guard against was the urge to take his arm as you used to do. You felt giddy with it, which you were sure had to be the alcohol, but it was also the fact that Scott was here, in the flesh, that you were cracking jokes and sometimes even pulling smiles from his otherwise deadpan expression. You’d forgotten how that could make you feel like you’d won the jackpot.

“I’m sorry, I know you’re going to take this the wrong way,” you prefaced while walking backwards on the sidewalk, “but I have a really hard time imagining you as a storm chaser.”

“Excuse me!”

“I mean…” You stopped and full-body gestured. “I mean, look at you!”

“What?”

“Even your slacks are pressed!”

“Objection, why are you studying my slacks like a degenerate?”

“Don’t make it weird,” you replied, and fell into step beside him, if only to keep him from seeing that you were embarrassed by the implication that you might’ve been checking him out. “All I meant to say was—”

“That I don’t look like a rugged adrenaline junkie? Maybe ‘Rodeo Clown’ is more your thing these days.”

“Don’t—Tyler’s actually quite decent, you know.”

“But you knew exactly who I was talking about.” Scott snapped his fingers as if to say, Gotcha! as you ruefully shook your head. Something about Tyler Owens tended to evoke a Neanderthal-like competitiveness in certain men—Scott, being competitive by nature, fell for it all too easily.

“This is me.” You pointed at your building. It was a relatively new construction with climbing greenery and pop-out balconies where you’d lived for a year-and-a-half after a not inconsiderable raise, and the reason why you worked sixty hours a week.

“Can I come up?” Scott asked.

You whipped your head so hard that your temples throbbed. “That’s…” A no good, awful, terrible, ill-conceived, perilous idea?

Scott seemed to find your distress highly entertaining. “Jesus, would you relax?” he said. “I’m not asking to tuck you in—unless, if there’s someone—”

“There isn’t,” you hurried to say.

“Oh? How come?”

The knowledge that the man with whom you were formerly engaged was inquiring as to the current state of your love life with all the breeziness of do you have the time? was enough to make you believe in karmic punishment. “Like I said, I’m busy,” you managed to eke out, which only made him lift his shoulders as if to say, Then, what’s the big deal?

Scott Miller was good at that, getting his way.

“Fine,” you caved. “But only for ten minutes! Fifteen, tops!”

“Scout’s honor.”

In the elevator car you stuck your hands in your pockets, searching for your keys only to find the cold hard metal of your engagement ring. You looked guiltily at the oblivious Scott, who was staring at the floor display with a contented expression and was none the wiser about your having worn it earlier in the night like some kind of weirdo. Should you give it back? At the time he’d wanted nothing to do with it, but was keeping it the proper thing? Was it good for you to even have it?

At last you found your keys at the bottom of your purse. You opened the door, trying to remember how well you’d tidied after dinner as he walked in, inspecting everything. You watched as his gaze traveled over the open-plan kitchen and living area—the work files, magazines, and old mail stacked on various side tables; the midcentury beechwood couch you got for a steal at a secondhand warehouse when you first moved; the shelves, filled with books and framed photographs and trinkets you’d brought from home; and the view from your window, which wasn’t nearly as spectacular as the one from Perch, but it faced west, and if you were home during golden hour you could see the other buildings lit orange and gold.

“Yeah, this is exactly how I pictured it,” Scott mentioned at last.

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t know, it’s just… you,” he answered. Your stomach turned to knots. He made you feel seen like nobody else could, not least of which because you’d let him back when you were younger and less guarded. Your heart kicked wildly in your chest, urging you to go to him, go to him, explain everything, get him back, because he was the one. Then Scott looked away, pointing at a sad fern that sat on a pedestal next to your mounted TV. “You still can’t keep a plant alive worth shit.”

“Rude,” you fired back, grasping at levity in order to shove the other thoughts away.

Scott drifted back to your bookshelves, seeing a few paperbacks he must’ve recognized from your old room at Park Haven. “And yet you keep trying. Do you actually use any of these?” he inquired, motioning towards the half-dozen board games you kept piled on an open top shelf. There was Clue and Monopoly, Candy Land, Sorry!, Scrabble and Life.

“Sometimes,” you replied, “when I have friends over. Which hasn’t happened much this year, if I’m being honest.”

“Let’s play.”

You laughed. You didn’t believe him. He pulled one of the boxes out and took it to the coffee table and all you could do was stare, incredulous, as he took his jacket off and rolled up his sleeves, actually sitting on the floor and looking expectantly at you to join him.

“You want to play Life with me?” you challenged. “Doesn’t that seem a little…”

“And you call me uptight.” He waved you over, determined not to take no for an answer. “Come on, hotshot, live a little.”

Despite your better judgment, and after a moment’s panicked hesitation, you lowered yourself next to him. He still smelled the same, like rain and sandalwood and pine. You wanted to curl into his side and feel the rise and fall of his chest beneath your ear, like you’d done on the nights he spent hidden away with you in your room. You had never gotten to live together; all you had were countable memories of waking up next to him and thinking, One day… one day we’ll have this every day.

As he set up the board, all you could do was stare at his hands.

SIX YEARS AGO NEW ORLEANS

Marshall Riggs greeted with you a double-kiss at the door, one on each side of your cheeks. Then he held you at arm’s length so he could look you up and down. “Would you take a look at that,” he said to Scott, “pretty as a picture! I suppose this is the part where I welcome you to the family?”

It was midsummer in Louisiana, on the hotter side of balmy and with the cicadas out in force. Shortly before you graduated Scott traveled to Philadelphia and asked you to marry him. Saying yes had been a no-brainer. You were in love, had put up with four years of distance and near-breakups, and now here was the culmination of all your compromise, communication, and hard work. For a second there you’d thought it would end badly; you were both in highly-intensive undergrad programs, there was only so much you could hash out over phone and video calls, and you were young. The question of “do we really want to make a life-changing decision at twenty-one?” had crossed your mind. But upon further reflection you realized that the answer was yes—had always been yes. And Scott seemed to agree.

In the absence of his father, “meeting the family” entailed paying court to his Uncle Riggs, a man you had spoken to a few times, at holiday parties and summer outings hosted by Pam, now settled in New Orleans and much happier than you’d known her before. But all those other times, you’d met Riggs as Scott’s girlfriend. Now you were his fiancée, with a fancy law degree and a diamond ring and everything, and while you would’ve preferred keeping your distance you knew this was important to Scott—that Riggs was important to him.

So you put on a smile and indulged the old man. Do it for Scott, you said to yourself. You’ve come this far. No point faltering while you were at the winning stretch.

You bowed your head. “Thank you for having us, Mr. Riggs.”

“Please, just Riggs,” he laughed. “Or Marshall—but only my ex-wives call me that.”

You soon found he had a way of twinkling his eyes that made you feel like you were sharing a joke. As he pointed out the features of his home—the old tapestries, the mural commissioned by Candice, his second ex-wife, the wall he knocked down because he wanted to “open up the space”, and his plans to expand the front garden, which, as it was, made the house look like it was in the middle of a tropical rainforest—he regaled you with stories about the people he knew, going off on tangents and bringing it back to the topic at hand. He was genteel and witty, and though he carried himself with Southern indifference there was no doubt he had power: he cocked his head, and a woman in an apron appeared with a tray of mint juleps; Scott held onto his every word; and when you were led into a dining room that might’ve fit forty or fifty at least, it was taken as a matter of course.

He pulled out your chair and sat you at his right hand because it was “the place of honor,” and Scott smiled encouragingly. You were doing so well.

You only wished that you could feel it.

“So, you want to be a big-deal attorney,” Riggs announced, digging into a perfect roast chicken. “What kind? Criminal?”

“Oh, no,” you replied. “Civil all the way. I’ve got a few offers but I want to shop around, make sure I’m making the right first move.”

“The right first move!” He pointed his knife at you. “I like that. By any chance, are you a chessplayer, sweetheart?”

“Can’t say that I am. My family are more into board games, really. Colonel Mustard in the library with the candlestick?” you explained.

He got a kick out of that. But he was partial to chess. “Opening moves—if you look at the big picture, they don't seem all that important. But well, in that case, why the hell’re there so many of ’em? Napoleon Opening, Greco Defense, Bled Variation, Balogh Defense… Sometimes how a thing starts dictates how the rest of it’ll unfold, from midgame all the way down to the end. If you're gonna do something, might as well do it right the first time or so I always say. Don’t I, boy?” He turned to Scott for confirmation.

“Yes, sir.”

“Yessir…” Riggs chuckled, spearing a roasted sprout. The ends of his bolo tie shifted on his neck. A turquoise the size of an acorn sat between his collar, and he was dressed to the nines—for your benefit, the guest of honor’s.

Nevertheless, there was something of the austere in his eyes. You couldn’t shake it when he put down his fork and sat back, looking from you to Scott, nodding like a king about to give his blessing to a pair of kneeling courtiers. “Pretty as a picture…” he repeated. “Look at you both—young, on the cusp, and none too hard on the eyes, if I do say so myself. A real golden couple on our hands! To opening moves”—he raised his glass—“may we always know when to make the right one.”

You raised your glass to be polite.

Scott leaned across the table. “Before you ask, yes, he is always like this.”

His uncle laughed, clapped him on the shoulder, and called for “champagne! To my nephew and his beautiful bride!”

As the night wore on, you convinced yourself that any discomfort was all in your head. You worked your way through three dinner courses, all impeccably cooked, and by the time the doberge was served you decided that you had judged the man too harshly. Sure, he was old-fashioned, but he was also jovial, polite, and he clearly doted on Scott.

“How nice it is to spend some quality time,” he remarked when Scott left the table, saying Pamela was on the phone. She wanted to know what plans you had for the rest of the week, whether you were still on for the garden fête on the 25th, and what dates you were considering for your engagement party, whether that would be here or in Pennsylvania, but I really do think you’d better do it here.

“I’ll just be a few minutes,” he said to Riggs, leaving you alone with his uncle. Now he had focused all of his attention on you, the full glare of his eye-twinkle and magnetic allure. He wasn’t a handsome man; it wasn’t about his looks—which were well past their prime—but about the knowledge that he could get almost everything he wanted simply by wanting it.

“It’s a shame we never did this sooner,” he went on. “Why do you think that is?” You shifted guiltily. The truth was, Riggs had always made you a bit uneasy. He had a reputation as a difficult man—ruthless, exacting, guileful, hard to please, and he liked doing business in the gray, always legal but never quite on the up-and-up.

Over the last four years, you may have avoided him on the grounds of self-righteous principle, but you couldn't admit to that if you were trying to leave a good impression.

You hedged, “I’m afraid law school doesn't leave much time to spare.”

“Very true… Not that I would know—it was always too much book learning for me, I’m a man of action,” Riggs explained, sipping his whiskey and looking happy as a clam. He had polished off two slices of cake earlier, but only because we’re celebrating. “Now, my nephew… he’s a bit o’ both, isn’t he? Either way, he’s got too much of his mother in ’im.”

You frowned, wanting to say a word in defense of Pamela. Riggs waved you off. “Don’t mind me, I’m just a silly old man with too many opinions. It tends to rub people up the wrong way—don't think I haven't noticed!” Another laugh, another narrowing of the eyes that could have been humor but which you felt like a lightning strike down your back.

He knows and you’re making something out of nothing struggled for dominance within your head, and still he kept on talking, forcing you to pay attention and leave the question unresolved.

He pointed in the direction where Scott had gone. “That nephew of mine—I don’t have any children of my own, did you know that? It never happened for me. Four wives and nothing to show for it—imagine that! But that boy… good thing his father never knew what to do with ’im—smart as a whip he is, and like a dog with a bone once he’s got an idea in his head. That part I’d say he got from me,” he said with a chuckle, wagging his finger in the air. He gave your hand a few avuncular pats and then kept it there, meaty and warm.

“I can see that you love ’im… I can see that you really love ’im. What bright, young, sensible girl wouldn't? You should see him ’round the office! He breaks hearts left, right, and center wherever he goes—a real catch, my secretary always says, and she’s been with me since Scott was yea-high. He’s got his mother’s looks, which I’ll say not to sound too self-serving, heh!” A slight tug on your wrist. You kept your objections to yourself, saying, He’s just a strange old man. As your discomfort grew, stretched to its very limits, he removed his hand and was back to being an innocuous grandfatherly man again. He seemed a little sad, wistful, even. Almost frail.

“I don’t know what I would do without him,” said Riggs, staring at his empty plate. “I really don't. Oh, here! before I forget—I have something for you.” He reached into the inner pocket of his cream suit jacket, extracting a long envelope which he slid across the table with a paternal expression, his gaze warm. You began to object, and, “Go on, now!” he insisted. “I don't hold with false modesty! Nothin’ but a waste o’ time in my book. Open it! Call it a graduation present to help you get started. Scott said your old man was taking some time off from his job, feeling under the weather.”

You opened the flap to find a check with more zeros on it than you could’ve reasonably imagined, payable to your name and typewritten in official font.

“Mr. Riggs, this is…” Your hands shook, you felt too hot in the enclosed dining room. Where was Scott? What was taking him so long? You slid the check in the envelope and tried to push it back to Riggs’s side of the table. “There is no way I can accept this,” you said. “It’s too much money, and while I appreciate the gesture—”

“Nonsense! It’s my pleasure and I won’t hear no can’ts or won’ts about it! I want you to know how well Scott’s been doing here since he finished school. He’s flourishing, all my business associates love him. I can’t possibly make do without him now.”

“I don’t understand,” you said, a pit growing in your stomach.

Once more Riggs pinned you with that twinkle in his eye. “I think you do, a smart girl like you. A man should sow his wild oats while he's young. I had a pretty young wife when I was his age. Marjorie, her name was. My first. It's true what they say—you never forget your first… By God, she was beautiful! and we had all these plans… so many plans! Dreams, really. But mine were always just a little too big for her, you understand, and at first that didn't matter much—we were in love. But then… the kids never came, and Marjorie had too much time on her hands—at the very least, she had more time on her hands than I did, that’s for sure! That gets to a woman sometimes.

“I know you won't have that problem, big city lawyer and all,” he said to you, as if in you he had the fullest confidence and he was speaking about other, less distinguished women. “But really, even if Marjorie’d been an ambassador to the United Nations she’d still have had a compunction about something or other… Ambition’s a hard pill for most folks to swallow.

“Now, you seem like a nice girl… really, I like you plenty! But let’s talk facts here for a minute. You are not the girl for Scott—not when he’s trying to become the man that he’s trying to become. The boy’s got the instincts of a killer. Really! All I’ve gotta do is stand back and look at him! But you, my dear, you’re nothin’ like him. You’ll never be. For most of my life, I thought the perfect woman would be someone to ‘balance me out,’ as they say. It’s taken me almost fifty years to find out that ain’t nothin’ but bullshit made up by Hallmark or whoever to sell us some cards. There ain't no use fighting one’s true nature. You and Scott are doomed to fail—if not now then in five years, if not in five then in another ten! You’ve seen the cracks, haven't you? He’s not the boy you met in Park Haven. He’s becoming his own man. He doesn’t need you anymore.”

You were almost too stunned to speak. Between the casual misogyny, the callous worldview, and the envelope that lay between you on the table like a coiled snake, you felt like you had left reality—there was no way this conversation could be taking place with Scott just in the other room.

“Let me get this straight,” you began, willing your voice not to shake, “you’re offering me money to break up with Scott because you think I’m not good enough for him?”

“No, no, no!” Riggs drew in close to you and took both of your hands, his face earnest and pained. “You’re getting this all wrong. I’m not some mustache-twirling villain trying to thwart the course of true love! You’re a wonderful girl, I’m sure Scott’s been very happy with you. But everything has its season. The time for moons and Junes and Ferris wheels is over. You can leave him to me now.”

“With all due respect, you’re out of your mind!” You slid your chair back, making an angry scrape along the tile. Riggs closed his grip around your hands.

“Sittdown before you wreck the boy’s life.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Did Scott ever tell you about his old man? How he squandered the family fortunes and left him and Pamela all but bankrupt? Now, me, I’d have done the decent thing—put a pistol to my head for all my sins—but the man has his pride, though I don’t know where-all he gets it from. You see Pam now, up in her French colonial sunning her face and drinking cocktails like the belle of the ball?” He pointed to his chest. “I did that. Scott’s shiny new diploma from M-I-T? Right again! Now, I don't believe in somethin’ for nothing. Everything in this here world has its cost, sweetheart. Everything. I have invested in that boy—not just money, but my blood, sweat, and tears! I won’t abide a loss. I won’t abide it.”

“Scott isn’t an investment,” you shot back. “He isn't yours to own.”

“And yet it would seem he’s worth more to me than he is to you. If he marries you, he and Pam won’t see another cent from me even if I have to drive past them through the gutter. I’m telling you I would throw my own sister out on the street for him—my own flesh! Can you say the same? Could Scott? Would he choose you over his poor, silly mother? Now, I highly doubt that.”

The crazy thing was, he seemed genuinely aggrieved by this predicament of his own making. In his face you could see him imagining the scene—him in his black town car, driving past Pam. And yet he remained immovable. Either you gave up Scott or he would make good on his threat.

It was callous, immoral. I have invested in that boy.

The sound of Scott’s shoes came up the hallway. Riggs folded the check into your hands and said, “Don't make a scene. Think about it.”

“What did I miss?” Scott stopped to kiss the top of your head before resuming his seat. You felt nauseous, your hands clammy around the paper you hid in your lap. To you, Scott seemed like he belonged in another world, another time—a Before-Time.

As you tried not to cry, Riggs smiled at him broadly and said, “Oh, nothing much. But I have a little present for you.”

He pulled a box from the bottom of his seat, crimson leather and beautifully stitched. Scott lifted the lid. Inside was a silver Patek Philippe, the watch he would wear when you saw him six years later, sitting across from you at a conference table with a strange coldness in his eyes. He showed it to you, beaming with pride, and while you couldn't remember what canned response you gave, you did recall that he pulled Riggs into a hug, and said, “Uncle, you really shouldn’t have…”

PRESENT DAY OKLAHOMA CITY

For nearly an hour you and Scott sat on the floor of your living room, playing at marriage and midlife crises and how many babies you would have, which on any other occasion would have made you hysterically laugh or, as Javi said on the night you met, remark upon the universe’s odd sense of humor.

But you were strangely levelheaded. If anything, you felt slightly out-of-body and yet entirely in your body, if that made sense.

You were aware of every piece put on the board. You watched the spinner turn in a rainbow of colors, the clack of the spokes sounding faster and faster before it slowed and then drew to a stop. You felt the couch cushions at your back. Scott’s shoulder brushed against yours sometimes, when he reached for one of the tiny bright pegs that went on top of the tiny bright cars. It felt like you were inside of a dream, and because dreams didn’t matter and had no consequences unless you let them, you started to ease into surrealism.

You played the game, and gradually your body began to relax. This was familiar to you—Scott taking it way too seriously, you poking fun at the furrow between his brows, the way you alternated between cold-hard strategy and chaotically negligent gameplay just to see a reaction flicker across his face. He stretched his legs out beneath the table, threw an arm across the seat-edge of the couch; sometimes, you would recline further back and your neck would touch his arm. You did it a few times, feeling embarrassed at first. But when you saw he didn’t mind, you let your head fall back, waiting as he picked a card.

Something was building beneath your skin. You felt restless, and a little reckless. Despite the law you laid down at the restaurant, you couldn’t stop your gaze from lingering. It lingered everywhere: on the hollow of his throat, the shape of his nose, the play of light across his cheeks, his mouth, the spaces where his white shirt gapped between the buttons and you could see his bare chest underneath. Oh, you’re in trouble… you said to yourself, and yet it didn’t matter. You didn’t care. This was a liminal space, a void where you could be honest and unafraid of the truth.

Even when Scott caught you looking, all he did was look back. He let the tips of his fingers touch yours when sliding a card from your hands, knocked his knee against yours. There was a time—or maybe you imagined it—when you felt his hand stroke your shoulder and you almost did something out-of-line. Because there was a line, blurred, but it existed; you kept within the bounds because you knew it was the sole condition to prolonging this state, so you bought owner’s insurance and traded in stocks, changed careers, had twins, repaid a loan (with interest) and made your slow and steady way to retirement at Countryside Acres.

At the end of the game, after all the remaining play money had been counted, it was Scott who said, “Looks like I win,” and all you said was, “Why am I not surprised?”

Then you glanced at the clock. “It’s late.”

“And we haven’t killed each other. How’s that for a détente?” Scott began putting all the parts away, pulling the pegs out of the cars first, sticking each one inside its appropriate little plastic bag. You would’ve thrown them straight in the box and not had a care in the world about it, but you liked that he did.

It was a Scott thing—patient, methodical, kind of annoying, and mostly well-intentioned. You sat back and watched him do it.

“Wow… they teach words like that at MIT?”

“They tried it out with our class—apparently, word was going ’round that STEM nerds lack empathy.”

You smiled. “Now where would they go and get an idea like that?” His eyes flicked down to yours. Having finished, he went back to reclining against the couch, one arm draped over his bent knee.

His gaze on your skin felt like a physical touch, and when it stopped at your lips, a shock of heat went through your body, from the crown of your head down to your toes. You watched him swallow. The urge to kiss him was vicious, urgent and unrelenting, and when you saw his mouth part, his tongue emerging to wet his lips, you thought, Now now now, but then Scott stood so fast he almost upset the table.

“I should go,” he managed to say, his voice ragged. He sought sightlessly for his discarded jacket, found it lying over the top of the couch, and he couldn’t escape fast enough. Frustration rolled off him in waves.

“Scott!” You scrambled to your feet. You might have touched the very edge of his sleeve, but he held up his hand to stop you coming any closer.

“This was a mistake.”

You went stock still. The spell was broken—this was no longer the dreamworld where nothing mattered, this was the Real World. The one where everything had been broken, not least of which because of you, and it was all a mistake. Calling him had been a mistake, meeting him had been a mistake, thinking that you could control anything you felt about him had been a mistake.

And now there was this: Scott raking his hands through his hair, turning in the middle of the room, almost a decade’s worth of anger and disappointment and confusion and, why not, maybe a little hatred thrown into the mix.

“You never trusted me!” he threw in your face. “And I mean never—even when we were in high school, especially not in college—”

“Why are you talking about college?” you demanded, your voice rising to meet his.

“Every time I called, it was like you were expecting me to tell you it was over. Every girl I so much as spoke to when you came to visit—”

“I was eighteen! What the fuck do you want me to say? That I was insecure and kind of an idiot? Yeah, no shit! I thought we’d moved past that!”

“No, we didn’t move past it because it never changed! Maybe it stopped being about other women, but then it was about work, about the time I spent shadowing at my uncle’s company. Do you have any idea how exhausting it was to keep having to convince you that I was all in? And what, somehow we went from that to ‘you’ve changed, Scott, I don’t think I like who you are anymore, Scott’—?”

“What the fuck? I never said that!”

“The night we had dinner at my uncle’s—the night you left! And again in the elevator—”

“Can we not do this?” you plead. “I thought we weren’t going to do this. We agreed!”

“Well, maybe I'm changing the terms.”

“Then this ends right here.”

There was silence. You knew it was coming, and yet it still hurt like a freight train hitting you square in the chest when he looked you in the eyes and said: “What else is new?”

You flinched. You felt your whole body recoil, your eyes sting. Your fault. The one who couldn’t stand up for herself, couldn't commit, who ran at the first sign of trouble. You and Scott are doomed to fail. Riggs had laid down his vision for the future and you had believed him, had chosen to believe him more than you had ever believed in Scott, or in yourself.

You’re not the girl for him. You’re nothing like him.

Hadn’t you always told yourself the same in the darkest recess of your mind? Hadn’t you, in truth, been just a little bit relieved when you packed your things and moved back to Park Haven, play-acting ended, no more trying, no more waiting for the other shoe to drop?

“I’m sorry.” Scott took an immediate step towards you. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that.”

“Yes, you did,” you shot back with more vitriol than you intended.

“Don’t do that—don’t pretend to know how I fucking feel.”

“You forget, Scott. I know you.”

“I thought the whole point was that you didn't! That I was so… unrecognizable!”

“Well, you are!” you exclaimed, shouting again. “Suing Javi? Trying to take down his company? Being Riggs’s, what, fucking loyal dog—”

“Oh, spare me the hysterics…”

“Did you say it?” you cut in. “Did you really say you didn’t care about that town full of people?”

Scott froze. You watched his jaw clench, and you knew in that moment that he'd been counting on Javi’s discretion on that score.

If your intention had been to preserve any goodwill between them, that was all going up in flames now. Hell, after tonight, you and Scott might be incapable of being in the same room together, let alone working towards a peaceful resolution to a civil suit.

“You weren’t there,” he ground out. “There were other things going on.”

“Did you say it, Scott?” It was obvious that he had. The shame kept him from saying another word when you finally stepped around the coffee table. “But God forbid I say a word against Marshall Riggs, the undoubted patron saint of Tornado Alley. I'm sure his real estate empire only exists so he can share his considerable wealth with the downtrodden and needy!”

“What do you want me to fucking say? Do you want me to apologize for who my family is? I'm sorry if you find my uncle objectionable, but he is the only reason I ever made something of myself—you ever consider that? I’d be nothing without him—nothing! You think my father could have lifted a finger? Riggs is the only reason Mom and I made it through that summer. I owe him everything! So he makes business decisions you don't agree with—”

You scoffed.

“—but Javi knew exactly where all that money came from. He wasn't duped, I didn’t trick him… he made a choice. He made a choice! And then, what, Kate Carter comes along and he grows a fucking conscience? Give me a break…”

“And where the hell is yours! You think I give a shit what Marshall Riggs does? I care about you, you fucking idiot! Are you really going to stand there and tell me you’re happy? That it… that it feels good to know you’re suing your best friend, that you seemingly have no other friends, that you’ve hitched yourself to your uncle and the most you can say is you’re doing it out of obligation? You used to want more for yourself, Scott!”

He laughed at that. Rubbing his hand across his mouth, he regarded you with a derisive humor.

“Tell me, how’s the trust fund going? Your dad—he was always a pretty shrewd investor, right? and your mom’s family… they’ve got those boutique hotels along the eastern seaboard, the ones that get their pictures in the magazines and all over social media? It’s pretty easy to talk about wanting more for yourself when your father didn’t sink your family prospects on a deck of cards. I do what I have to do. Not that you’d ever understand.”

Money—had it been this big of an issue the whole time? Had you ignored it all the years of your relationship? Money… and jealousy of your father, Scott’s resentment towards his. You felt so blind, so stupid. The “cracks” Riggs had referenced had been there all along, and instead of talking about them you had stuck your head in the sand, worried that if you said the wrong thing all your insecurities would be proven right. That Scott would leave.

Scott… Did you ever stop to consider the damage that leaving him alone with Riggs might cause?

“You only think you can’t make it without him,” you dared to say. “But he doesn’t care about you.”

“What, not like you do?”

“No,” you affirmed. “Not like I do.”

Scott frowned at you. He appeared almost childlike, vulnerable. A boy calling “no fair!”, probably with Riggs’s voice in the background saying, Life isn't fair. “You don't get to do that. You don’t get to do that after all this time… you—you fucking left!”

“He offered me money. Did he ever tell you that? How he tried to buy me off to leave you? You talk about my trust fund, and it’s true—I grew up lucky, but we never had Marshall Riggs Money. There’s rich and then there’s capital-R Rich, the kind you only get when you’ve turned being a ruthless son-of-a-bitch into an art form.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Yes, you do. I can see it in your eyes—you know I’m telling the truth. I never liked him. What's more, he could tell I didn't like him, and he couldn't have that… no, not Riggs. He’d gotten used to you being his right-hand man and he wasn’t about to lose you. So he waited until you left the table—”

“I’m not going to listen to this.”

“—he waited until you left the table,” you repeated, almost toe to toe. You forced yourself to continue, even in the face of Scott’s patent distress. You couldn't live like this, not anymore. Keeping secrets, taking the biggest share of the blame. “‘If he marries you, he and his mother won’t see another cent from me even if I have to drive past them through the gutter,’” you recited. “Those were his words. I’m not lying to you—I wouldn't, not about this.

“He was never going to let us be together. Obviously, I didn’t take the money, but he was dead serious about his threat. And I was angry. I thought if only you’d stood up to your uncle before, if you weren’t blind to what he really was, I would never have been put in that position. So I took it out on you. I blamed you. And I said things…”

You faltered, remembering the night you returned to the hotel. You couldn’t stay, not with Riggs’s check in your pocket and the memory of his hand gripping your wrist. But Scott didn’t understand. He didn't know what had made you so upset, why you were throwing your clothes into your suitcase and talking about flights and returning his ring and about how it was time you stopped pretending. And, yes, you took to heart what Riggs had implied about other women. You weren’t picky. You weren’t careful. You just had to leave.

You were ashamed of it now. The knowledge of how you’d acted lodged in your throat like a stone you couldn’t swallow down. Scott remembered it, too. His eyes flickered this way and that, recalling, wondering how much of it was true.

“I said things to you that I wish I’d never… that I still think about, and I still regret, because I love—” Your voice broke. You placed your hands over his chest, then cradled his face, willing him to believe you, willing yourself to be brave. “I still love you, Scott. I love you. I should’ve told you the truth, but I thought I was doing the right thing.”

“No… you left,” he said weakly, bracing his hands around your wrists.

“I know I did… I know, but he can’t have you.” You kissed his mouth, once, twice, as many times as he allowed, and all the while you said the things you should’ve said that night in New Orleans. “I won’t let him have you… not this time… not again.”

Scott turned his head and the heat of his tongue met yours.

One second he was all coiled tension and the next he was all over you, walking you back towards the couch, kissing a trail down your neck, one hand tangled in your hair while the other was already up your skirt matching his strokes to the curl of his tongue. He laid you down on the couch, settling between your thighs, and even clothed the weight of him felt familiar—the pass of his hand up and down your leg, the way he liked to tease you by wandering just close enough to where you wanted before pulling away, distracting you with a searing kiss or a shallow roll of his hips.

In the past, there were times when he would draw it out for hours, taking you to the brink and back until you were sure you wanted to curse him.

At a friend’s New York wedding, he made you come three times before he entered you, and you weren’t too proud—now, with the real Scott on top of you, all over you, soon to be in you if there was any justice in the world—to admit that you had replayed that night in your head sometimes when you were lonely. When a bad day at work or an ill-advised night of drinking too much ended with you trying to chase sleep on the heels of an orgasm that was never as satisfying as the ones you got with Scott.

Even when you managed to make yourself come—really come, that full-bodied electricity-followed-by-deep-silence feeling—you had been all too aware of his absence. What was the point, you had wondered, if you couldn’t curl up next to him or listen to the steady flow of his breathing or hear him sigh into your neck when he wrapped his arms around you and went to sleep? What was the point if, upon waking, you wouldn't have Scott and his early-morning voice, the clarity of his eyes, the smell of the coffee he made in his stupidly expensive espresso machines? (God, you missed that coffee.)

It was Scott… it was only ever Scott.

The couch was a perilous place to be doing any of this. You weren't sure that he fit in it, for one, and for another, you were mildly worried about the potential costs of fixing a broken midcentury piece of furniture. Oh, well, you thought, life’s too short. Not bothering to undress, you pushed aside articles of clothing, hands bumping into each other, scraps of fabric pushed aside, belt buckle rattling as it landed on the floor, until finally he surged into you, gripping the side of the couch and burying a curse against your neck as you stretched around him.

He slid a hand below your hips and fixed the angle. The sex was hurried, messy and it had nothing of grace; it was imperfect and rather cramped, really, but all that mattered was how he felt. He felt like home. As you came, he entwined his fingers around yours, and then he finished, trembling, prolonging a wave of pleasure that took your breath away.

Don’t go, you want to say into his heaving chest.

Somehow, he turned you on your side so you could stretch along the couch. He wrapped his arms around you, stroking feather-light touched along your arm as his breathing slowed. You felt tired, hollowed out, but not in a bad way. In a quiet-before-the-storm way, when you can smell water in the air and the breeze picks up, and the world sits on the cusp of being new.

“I miss you,” he confessed, his voice barely above a whisper.

“I miss you too.”

After that, there was a silence so long it made you think he’d dozed off, but then he spoke again, painfully honest and a little scared. “I don't think I can do what you need me to do. I’m not… that’s not who I am anymore.”

“I think you are,” you said back. “I think he’s who you’ve always been.”

THREE WEEKS LATER

You were enjoying a rare weekend off from work. Figuring you could do with some real time off the clock, you’d let the office know you’d be holding all work calls and emails until Monday. Abby’s eyes had nearly popped out of her skull in a rare show of feeling, but after the emotional turmoil of the last few months, you knew you needed to walk around the city, have a massage, touch some grass, maybe eat a pint of ice cream in front of a frothy period drama—a true-blue staycation.

The morning after you and Scott slept together, you’d agreed that it was in everyone’s best interest to let things be. He needed time to think about a few things, and regardless of your shared history, you were still Javi’s lawyer. You distracted yourself by doubling down on other cases. It helped that dealing with Mrs. Richardson-Burkhardt and the four Barone siblings was as eventful as watching an HBO television series—between the scathing one-liners and last-minute twists, there was little bandwidth left over to think about Scott.

And yet you always managed.

For better or for worse, Scott had always been good at making you hope for things. Even when you wanted to err on the side of caution, expect the worst and thus avoid disappointment, just the fact that he loved you made you feel like anything was possible, like you could make things happen.

“We brought out the best in each other. That mattered to us more than anything your father and I ever did wrong.”

At a department store downtown, you watched across the way as a young couple studied a tray of rings at the jewelry counter, diamonds sparkling in the light. The woman grabbed her partner’s arm and pointed at one of the selections as if to say, “That one!”, and for a moment they were in perfect sync. The salesman offered up the band with elaborate flourish, the groom-to-be took his bride’s hand, slipped the ring on her finger, and they admired it together, the play of white gold on her black skin.

The woman beamed. So did he.

“Looks like we have ourselves a winner,” the pleased salesman declared.

After lunch and an overpriced iced coffee, you arrived home with a gift for the Travises’ golden anniversary party, a pair of gold-accented crystal champagne glasses you hoped would survive the flight. It would be nice to see your mom again, to reunite with your old college friends, and revisit old haunts.

The thought of going home no longer filled you with dread—for which, even if nothing came out of your night with Scott, if he decided that upending his life was too much for him to handle right now, you would always be grateful. For years, your idea of a worst nightmare was running into him and having the truth spoken aloud, plainly, and for both of you to hear. Nothing will ever be as bad as this, you told yourself.

But it was a half-lie. Not seeing him again would be worse.

Already, you felt his absence like a hollow in your chest.

On the kitchen counter, you saw that your phone began to ring. “Javi, how’s the weather looking?” you asked, putting him on speaker as you poured yourself some water.

“She’s a fickle mistress, I’ll tell you that! Hey, I just wanted to let you know… Scott called this morning. He says he’s dropping the suit.”

“Oh?”

“You don’t sound too surprised. Any of that you're doing?”

“No,” you replied, picking up your phone, “that’s all Scott. I haven’t spoken to him in weeks, actually.”

“Well, he sounded different. Still Scott, but a shorter stick up his ass, if you know what I mean. Anyway, I know a part of how everything went down was my fault—business is business, as my Ma always says. I sold him my share of StormPAR, which means I also have to pay back some of the money we took from Riggs. That’ll hurt like a—well, you know… I’m not the guy’s biggest fan these days. But if I don’t have to hear the name Marshall Riggs ever again, I’ll count myself lucky and say it’s a price well-paid.”

“And Scott?” you ventured to say.

“Honestly, I think he’s done with the whole thing. Sounds like he’s closing up shop, which makes sense. He’s a damn good engineer but kind of hopeless as a chaser.”

You laughed. “Yeah, I guess I can see that. Are you okay?”

“Me, or me and Scott?”

“Both.”

To Javi’s credit, he took a few moments to actually think about it. “Yeah, I’m good. You know me… I never stay down for long. Man with a thousand plans. Me and Scott? Man, I don’t know about that one… I did leave him by the side of the road. Ruined one of his immaculately pressed shirts.”

You snorted. “God forbid.”

“Yeah, God forbid. Listen, if it were up to me, I’d just let bygones be bygones. Life’s too short, you know. Shit happens… I don’t want to be a guy who burns bridges over money.”

“Yeah, I get that.”

“What I mean to say,” Javi spoke over a sudden burst of wind, “is that if Scott ever wants to give me a call, I’ll answer. You can even tell him I said that.”

“Me?” You set your glass down with a clatter, heat rising to your face.

“Yeah, you! I’m not an idiot, hotshot, that history’s not gone ancient yet.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Mhm… Anyway, the wind’s picking up. Kate’s off reading her dandelions.”

“You know, I kinda wish I could see her doing that…”

“Watch out, we might make a chaser of you yet!” Javi crowed.

You shook your head, said, “I wouldn't hold my breath,” but you were smiling. The sun streamed through your open windows and anything was possible.

Once Javi ended the call, you stared at your phone, wondering… And then you decided to be reckless one more time. Call it a calculated risk, you thought instead. You held the phone up to your ear and listened to it ring. The dial tone sounded a few times, and then it stopped.

He’d answered.

“Scott, it’s me,” you said, trying to relax the thrumming in your heart.

There was a pause and then you heard his voice: “Did Javi tell you?”

“Yeah, we just got off the phone.”

“Open your door.”

You made a face, glancing at the screen and holding it against your ear again. “What?”

“Open your door, UPenn!”

You dashed to the entryway, patting your hair, blotting your face, wondering if your shirt was wrinkled. When you pulled the door open, you saw Scott in full view, in the middle of the day. Not wearing white. The blue of his shirt brought out his eyes, which looked tired but less burdened, too.

He seemed lighter, if not happy then trying to get there.

“Thought I’d skip out on being a sore loser this time.” He gave a half-shrug.

“I don’t know, Miller… from here it doesn't seem like you're losing.”

He smiled at the floor, almost shy. And when he looked into your face you saw the boy you fell in love with at Nichols Academy, the one who took baseball too seriously, who loved Hemingway and your mom’s apple crisp, the one who sang bad Sinatra and got into fights and thought James Watt was something of a god. It was like the worst of the last few years had gone away, leaving only space for something new to grow, to be built—together.

“All I want is you,” promised Scott, taking you into his arms.

You stuck your hand in your pocket, extracted the ring you’d kept there for almost a month like a talisman, like a good-luck charm, and held it up to Scott. He stared at it, and then at you, with something like shock.

Something like awe and wonder.

“Don’t you know? You've always had me.”

And in that hallway, Scott Miller, a man who’d never cop to having a romantic bone in his body, spun you around and kissed you and wouldn’t have cared if your neighbor at Apartment 424 had noticed or if one of his investors appeared. Maybe there was something to Tyler’s corny catchphrase, after all: If you feel it, chase it—no matter the odds, no matter the obstacles in your path, because feeling it was purpose and inspiration and direction when you lost your way.

It took you a while, but you understood it now.

#yo this was CRAZY #telenovela shit right there #fanfiction recs

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