it was rare, you remember it

“Hi.” You rub at your eyes, squinting at the harsh light from your phone. “Are you busy? I know it's late, but…”

“Nah,” he tsks. “It's only…two a.m. And why’re you up? Shouldn't you be getting your beauty sleep?”

“I should,” you sigh wearily, sinking into your blankets. “But I can't. I think it's ‘cause I drank matcha at eight.”

“Matcha?” You hear the grimace in his voice, and you smile at that. Jack’s the type to get black coffee, with the occasional sugar and cream—not much for the fancier stuff. “That's the… green stuff, yeah? Shen’s been drinking it instead of his regular Dunkin’. Says it's healthier.”

You shrug. “Something like that. Is it busy there?”

He takes a second to look around beyond the door—no, not really. People moving around, other residents and attendings charting, the steady beeps of hospital monitors. “No. But don't jinx it, okay?”

“I would never,” you snort. Then silence.

After a beat, he asks, “So, why’d you call? Something wrong?”

“I just can't sleep. I can't talk to my favorite person?”

He smiles to himself. You can see it now: him pacing around the empty patient room, hand on his hip, blushing to himself. “Favorite person, huh? That's new.”

“It's true, though.” You sigh again through the speaker. You hope he hears your affection and takes your vulnerability in stride. “You are.”

“Ditto.”

“Ditto!?” You gasp, offended. “Jack.”

“Alright, alright,” he laughs. “You're my favorite, too. Of all time, you lovely lady.”

Your heart soars. “So this means we can keep talking, right?”

“Nuh-uh.” He sits on the hospital bed, shaking his head in disapproval. “You gotta sleep. You get cranky.”

“But I can't sleep. That's the whole point,” you groan. “How about you talk and I listen?”

Jack looks around the ED again—seems calm enough for it. Ten minutes, tops. “Fine. Well, first off, when I came in, they needed me immediately—couldn't even put my stuff down. Got a huge pile up, you know why? Bunch of deers crossing…”

And when you're no longer humming and nodding along, telling him you're awake and listening, Jack knows you've fallen asleep. Now it's his turn to imagine you curled up in bed, phone by your hand as rest takes you. What he wouldn't give to come home to the sight every day.

“I mean, she's immature, clearly,” Ogilvie scoffs. “And she almost never takes the lead during traumas. Just does her procedures without telling anybody and expects us to know.”

Trinity swallows down a retort as he digs his grave even further. “And she's not very competent.”

That makes her snort. “How so? She's the most competent one here. Highest satisfaction scores out of almost all of us.” You're one to talk, asshole.

“She’s—”

“Who’re we talking about?” A gravelly voice comes from behind, and it's Abbot, in his ramrod-straight military posture. He nods to Trinity and turns to Ogilvie. “You’re one of the med students, right?”

Ogilvie straightens. He’s got a few inches on Abbot, but his stare makes him flinch. “Yes, I’m—I am. I was just talking about one of our colleagues.”

At that, Abbot’s stare turns more like an interrogation. “Who?”

“It’s—”

“Dr. ___,” Trinity cuts in with a polite smile. A wolf wearing sheep’s clothing. “He was just talking about her work ethic!”

At that, Ogilvie pales. Judging by his reaction, Abbot quickly figures out it's not praise. “Really?” He asks, incredulous.

“I’m sorr—”

But Abbot’s already shaking his head, disappointed. “We absolutely do not talk about senior colleagues like that.”

He eyes Trinity, who wears a knowing smile, before going back to Ogilvie’s terrified expression. “Especially not about my partner.”

The confidence Ogilvie wore drops immediately. “Partner? I apologize, I—”

“Don't.” Jack cuts him off with a firm hand. Trinity tries to stifle a laugh as he walks away, and promptly fails. Ogilvie is left standing in the remains of his embarrassment and of a disappearing intern position.

Jack’s grumbling all the way to the central hub, until a hand tugs at his own—it's you, his angel. You’re already chatting his ear off, catching him up on the day shift’s perils. His eyes soften and the world blurs around you, as it always does. 

In winter, you despise seeing all the couples holding onto each other on the ice, crowding up the rink for everybody. In spring, you hate seeing all the Valentine's decorations and dates that litter the city. And in summer, you loathe couples taking pictures on the sand, sharing kisses under the sun.

In autumn, though, you meet Clark Kent.

You bump into him on your lunch break after sitting on the benches by the river, watching the afternoon sun glitter over the water—and also promptly ignoring the couple making out three feet to the right of you.

But when your shoulders brush, it feels like a scene right out of a K-drama: the world slows, sparks fly, and you swear flowers bloom in the grass nearby. Maybe he’ll be so bewitched by your beauty in that short second. Maybe he’ll ask for your number, or maybe throw in a date right then and there.

Your fantasies are quickly shut down when all he says is, “So sorry,” and gently moves you aside to get where he needs to hurry to.

So much for that. It's like getting ice cream and the whip flopping straight off the cone the second you put out your tongue for a taste.

You think—you know you’ll never see him again. So late that night, you examine the memory, turning it over and over, trying to find an alternate universe between it all. A timeline where he does ask you out, and maybe he had the same K-drama experience you did.

But you do see him again—sooner rather than later, actually, since he's currently behind you in line for a coffee shop.

He pokes your shoulder softly, prompting you to turn around. You curse the beating organ in your chest for making something out of nothing, because now you're warming in front of someone you brushed by for two seconds.

“Uh,” he swallows, pushing his glasses up, “Sorry. I just saw you, and—I really am sorry for bumping into you yesterday.”

He probably thinks you don't even remember him. Lucky for him (and unlucky for you), you do. “It's no big deal,” you shrug, turning back and desperately trying to shut this chapter of your life out. Chapter 24, part XIII: The Time I Fantasized About Someone I Bumped Into Because Unfortunately, I’m Very Desperate—

“B- but really,” the mystery man says, pulling you out of your thoughts. “I am. Please, I’ll pay for your drink—”

“Please don't do that,” you cut in, trying to smile politely as if you didn't conjure an entire future with him in the gray matter of your brain last night.

“I insist.”

He pays for your drink, slipping his card under yours the second you reach for the terminal. He tells you his name—Clark Kent—and you give him yours.

And this time, he asks you out. “Seven PM sharp, tonight,” he said. “A small dinner.”

In the worst way possible, you’re already expecting this to go wrong—didn’t even bother to save his contact properly in your phone. However, it doesn’t stop you from standing at the foot of your bed, deliberating every dress and outfit, watching time pass by closer and closer to when he’s supposed to pick you up. You wonder if it’s worth it, investing in love. Something in you tugs on your skin, urging you to get dressed, but what if it’s wrong again?

You hope not. In a soft, delicate part of you, you want it to work. You want him to work. Clark, upon first impression, is beautiful and gentle and, as it seems like, everything you’ve ever wanted. It’s only been a day, yet you trust him to make the right decisions with your heart. That maybe foolish, possibly naive trust in him is what makes you pull said dress on.

As you’re putting the finishing touches to your makeup, your apartment doorbell rings, making you jolt.

“Coming!” You yell, quickly twisting the mascara wand back and praying that you didn't just mess up all of your makeup.

Even if you did, when you stumble through your home and open the door, Clark looks and breathes you in as if you're a blooming lily. He's a bit dressed down now, shirt sleeves rolled up to show his arms in that delicious way, a beautifully arranged bouquet in his hand—and yet he can't stop drinking you in.

“You look…” he trails off, rendered utterly speechless. “Wow.”

“For me?” You shyly gesture to the flowers, trying to ignore the swell of anxiety in your stomach.

“Of course.” He hands them to you, smoothly curling his hand around yours in the process. “Shall we?”

You blush. It feels surreal and too good to be true. That nagging feeling comes back again, that pull towards him, each other.

Without another word, you bring your arm up to loop around his, and close your apartment door.

—

On the fifth date, you come to a terrifying conclusion:

You are falling in love with Clark Kent. Slowly, completely, irrevocably.

As much as you didn't want it to happen, you’ve been waiting for it to. Falling in love with Clark was easy, so easy, and that's why it's more like free falling through the sky than into his arms. It was easy to fall in love with his good nature, the dorky jokes and pick up lines, and the fact that he never keeps you waiting. He’s always there—a steady, buzzing presence making room for himself in your heart.

It's nearing mid-November now. He's sprawled on your couch, big for you and tiny on him, talking about bringing you home for Thanksgiving.

Home. His home. Smallville. To his parents. His Ma and Pa, whom he always talks so fondly about. You’ve caught him abruptly ending calls with his Ma the second you walk into the room, sputtering, “They’re here, Ma, I’ll call you later!”

His words flow through one ear to the other, all static white noise that doesn't quite register. You're falling in love with him, and he wants to bring you home. Doesn't that mean he wants to be serious? Long-term?

You don't believe it.

“Sweetheart?” He prompts when he's noticed you’ve gone quiet, still as a log at the kitchen counter. You were supposed to be having a reading date over cheese and crackers, and the board you’ve just unwrapped looks divine.

You can't help it, though, this knotting feeling in your chest. Love and doubt.

Padding over to him, you settle next to him on the couch, tucking your legs under you. “Clark, I…” you swallow. “I’m not sure that's a good idea.”

His hand cards through your hair, hoping to unravel your thought process as a confused frown splits his face. “Why not? Are you worried? They’ll love you—”

“It's not that.”

His expression loosens, and his voice softens, gentle tendrils wrapping around you. “Then?”

You purse your lips, searching and thinking of an answer.

You end up finding none, and reply, “Nothing, I guess.”

“Nothing?” He snorts—in the same way he says gosh or golly, you know it's not to make fun of you. He never would. “I know you better than that. You can tell me, angel.”

His fingers brush a strand of hair behind your ear, and it relaxes you just the slightest bit. “I’m a bit scared of the… implications.”

Clark’s brows furrow, and his silence only makes you spill more. “Like, y’know, that we’re serious, or something—I don't know, I’ve never done this before.”

Your frustration at yourself only makes him want to curl up around you and kiss those fears away. But he knows you wouldn't want that, not right now at least. So instead, he turns toward you more and says—in the most earnest voice you think you’ve ever heard from him—“Sweetheart. It's okay if you're worried, you know I’m here with you. But—” and he grabs your free hand, “we are serious, aren't we? I’m taking my girl home. I’ve never done that before, either.”

He sees you shaking your head, lips wobbly, and he shakes his own with you for an entirely different reason.

”Clark—” you start, but he's quick to cut off your ramblings.

“Sweets,” he tuts, the hand at your hair now rubbing your back, “I’m serious. About you. Us. That's why I’m taking you home. Okay?” Clark presses a sweet kiss to your head, pouring all his affection into the gesture. “Very serious. Doesn't matter if it's your first time. Then it's your first and last. Isn't that lucky?”

His words make you laugh in relief, and he beams brighter than the sun, chest feeling lighter with your joy. “Isn't it? You're real lucky.”

Clark kisses your cheeks, your nose, your forehead, and your smiling lips. Your happiness has become an essential for him—a step on his Hierarchy of Needs. He sees through your fear, and he wants you all the same.

He pulls away, flushed and panting, glasses askew, but smiley all the same. “Still having second thoughts?”

You shake your head with confidence, smiling back at him. “I’ll go. Because I’m really, very serious about you too, Clark.”

When he presses you into the cushions again with kisses that make you giggle and erupt with laughter, you come to two conclusions that night:

Clark Kent is (also) falling in love with you.

And:

Love was only waiting for you in the form of a 6’4” farmer boy who happened to bump into you at the right place and the right time.

When he's kissing you feverishly, you feel the rims nudge your cheeks, and they’re fogged up with passion once you pull away.

(Additionally: when he lets you pull him off, and he dives back in for more, hungrier this time—hands exploring, touching, lips pressing, except now he doesn't have the nuisance of plastic and polycarbonate on his way to reaching you.)

It makes you burn, flames licking up your spine and setting off matches in your nerves. You feel like he's seducing you—but on the other hand, Clark’s glasses are a victim to your cuteness aggression. A double edged sword, wielded perfectly to your liking.

Most of all, you love admiring him in the mornings—when he's getting ready for another hectic day in the bullpen, he pulls those glasses on and you just want to…

“Oh, look at you!” You squeal, squishing his cheeks together and pressing kisses to the pouting lips between them. “You're adorable. My smart journalist boyfriend.”

He chuffs, blushing under your touch. You always do that to him—make him flustered, trip over his words and sometimes even himself. You wonder if he's gotten used to being in love with you, and so far it's been a resounding no. “T- thanks, honey. You don't have to be so—”

“I do!” You retort back, kissing his lips again—once, twice—and tapping the bridge of his rims. “Oh, Clark. I know you don't really need these, but you look so handsome.”

He blushes as your gentle fingers adjust the glasses on his nose, clearing his throat to stir away any bumbling words he had in mind. He grabs his bag, mumbling, “Golly, I-I really need to get going now. I’ll see you later, alright?”

He brushes a kiss against your head before stumbling out of the door, still shaken up by your eager affection.

Yeah—you love Clark Kent and his glasses.