Angstasf

You don’t know what she is. Or what she’ll become. But as red and blue lights flicker through the trees and the night breaks wide open—you whisper it once, barely moving your lips.

“I’ve got you.”

And you mean it. With every inch of your skin, every beat of your terrified heart, you mean it.

You don’t know it yet, but that moment becomes everything. The origin point of a story that will bend your life into something you never saw coming.

-

She starts breaking into your room like it’s her own not long after.

It begins small: a rustle on the roof, the creak of windowsill wood, the soft thump of boots hitting carpet. At first you think you’re dreaming, half-asleep when she steps through the glass like it isn’t solid, like physics is just a polite suggestion for everyone else. She’s always barefoot. Always bleeding. Always chewing on something she definitely didn’t pay for.

“Don’t freak out,” she says, holding up a plastic bag from a gas station you know is two towns over. A slushie drips neon blue onto your rug. “Got you gummy worms and a hot dog I sat on by accident.”

You sit up, bleary and blinking. “Is that… blood?”

She glances down at her knees, then the spray across her shoulder. “Some of it’s not mine.” She grins wide.

You groan and she tosses the gummy worms at your face and peels off her jacket, smearing something green and viscous onto your pillow.

You learn, quickly, to keep a laundry basket labeled Alien Shit under your bed.

-

Your parents don’t ask questions anymore. Not after she saved the neighbor’s dog mid-air and melted your dad’s tool bench by accident. They think she’s just a troubled girl. Foster system. Maybe foreign. They ask for no paperwork and offer her food.

Your mom packs two lunches for you now—one with meat, one without. “Just in case she’s vegetarian,” she says, not noticing the time Kara inhaled a half-raw steak like it was fruit.

-

You wake up one morning to Kara floating upside down on your ceiling. “Can’t sleep,” she says, voice echoing weird in the walls. “Too loud outside. Earth’s noisy.”

You throw a pillow at her. She giggles, falls like a stone, and lands in a crouch beside your bed. “You’re such a menace,” you murmur.

She shrugs before leaping into your bed, arms wrapping tightly around you. “You’re my human. Deal with it.”

-

You cut her hair once when you’re sixteen with scissors that instantly dulled in your hand. The strands of her hair smelled faintly of lightning and cloves. You braid it afterward, fingers trembling at how soft it is despite being able to dull scissors. 

She sits cross-legged in front of you in your pajamas, grumbling about boys on the news and girls on another planet and how she hates the word terrestrial.

“You’re not alone,” you whisper as you tie the braid off.

She doesn’t answer. Just leans back against your knees until your chin is touching the top of her head and your heartbeat is trapped between her shoulder blades.

-

She starts calling you her anchor. It’s always half a joke. Always slipped in when she needs you most.

When her powers spike and she shatters the bathroom sink. When a history video on a war makes her stop breathing. When her hands shake in the aftermath of an accidental rescue, where she saved you from nearly drowning, and her eyes flash red and her mouth won’t form words.

She finds you every time.

You’ll be brushing your teeth or writing a paper or halfway through a dream—and then she’s there, at your window. Dirt-streaked. Drenched. Wild-eyed. Shaking.

She still never knocks. She just climbs in and says your name.

And you hold out your arms before she even finishes it.

-

Some nights you lie side by side, her hand curled around your wrist like a tether. She mumbles nonsense in Kryptonian when she dreams—syllables that buzz against your skin like static. You memorize the sound, not the meaning. You learn the rhythm of her—how her foot kicks when she’s annoyed, how she hums when she’s hungry, how she can punch through a wall but crumples when you compliment her art.

You lend her a pen one day and she carves an entire alien language into the back of your algebra notebook. When you ask what it says, she just smirks.

“Probably something dumb like Mine.”

You laugh, but it knots something in your chest.

-

She calls you her sister now that you’re seventeen. Says it casually, in front of others. 

But when she’s hurt, when she’s tired, when the world feels too big and she needs somewhere small—she presses her forehead to yours and says, softer than anything else she’s ever spoken, in Kryptonian, something that she translates to, “My Constant.”

-

You still have dreams of that first night. The crater. The burn in the air. Her face lit by fire and fear.

You see her now—brash and bold, covered in dirt, wearing your hoodie inside out and yelling at a livestreamed video game—and it still feels like that same girl is clinging to your chest in the dark, shaking like a leaf and pretending not to be scared.

And every time she says my human, every time she tosses a rock through your window because she refuses to knock like a normal person, every time she calls you her anchor with a grin and a wince—you think: I’m yours. I always was.

And you swear, without saying it out loud, without needing the words—you’ll never let her be alone in this world again.

-

You’re seventeen the first time you see him. It’s a hot July day. Cicadas scream from the cornfields and the Kent Family Farm smells like sun-warmed hay and ripening tomatoes. Kara’s tugging you by the wrist through the gravel drive, wearing cut-off shorts and an oversized tee that says Don’t Make Me Punch You that you bought her as a joke. Her hair’s a mess, there's dirt under her nails, and her knuckles are skinned again—she says it was from “gravity problems,” but you’re pretty sure she just picked a fight with a delivery drone for fun.

She’s talking a mile a minute. Something about cows. Something about Clark being so boring you’ll actually die.

You don’t hear most of it because then, you see him. Not just tall. Not just handsome.

He looks like the kind of boy you’d read about in summer paperbacks. The kind girls doodle in the margins of their notebooks. Tanned arms and a soft flannel shirt rolled to the elbows, collar slightly damp with sweat, dark curls falling over his forehead like they’re trying to keep a secret. There’s a grease smudge on his cheekbone and a wrench in his hand. He’s leaning over the open hood of a truck like he’s listening to it whisper.

When he looks up, the sun hits him square in the face—and you stop walking dead in your tracks. Something in your chest stutters like your body doesn’t know how to breathe around him yet.

You don’t speak–you just stare. He doesn’t seem to notice as he wipes his hands on a rag and flashes a warm, worn-in smile—one that feels like it belongs to someone else’s future. “Hey,” he says, voice deep and patient. “You must be Kara’s friend.”

You blink and Kara elbows you in the ribs. “Don’t mind her,” she says, grinning. “She forgets how to speak around pretty people.”

You flush—violently. Clark laughs, soft and surprised, like he didn’t expect that to be funny. And when he turns back to the truck, your eyes chase him like they’re caught on string.

Then Clark and Pa Kent put you both to work. Kara takes the tractor. You carry baskets. Clark fixes a fence post and hums an old pop punk song under his breath that you faintly recognize as one that Kara plays on repeat. His hands are calloused but gentle. His laugh comes easy. And every now and then—just barely—he glances your way. He looks away first, before you can really tell if it was anything at all. 

But when he fully glances up the next time, it’s to shield his eyes with the back of his hand. 

“Need help with that?” He asks.

You shake your head quickly, gripping the basket tighter. “I’ve got it.”

There’s a pause, and then he smiles—barely, but it counts. “You sure?”

“I’m stronger than I look,” you manage, stubbornly. Not wanting to seem uncool in front of this literal god. But, what you’re saying is not true. You’re actively losing circulation in your right arm. Not that you’d ever say that. 

Clark nods like he believes you, however. “Must be. Kara said you once knocked a guy out with a snow globe.”

You blink. “I—she talks about me to you? Wait. I mean. Yeah—yeah. I did.” Nice one, you think, mentally smacking your head. 

“Well, she made it sound heroic. Most of her stories about you are.” He says kindly, ignoring your awkwardness.

“It was in a Walgreens. And it was mostly an accident.”

Clark laughs at that. It’s low and golden and makes the air feel too warm as he says, “Still counts.”

Later, he offers you a drink from the garden spigot, and wipes the sweat from his brow before handing over the metal cup. You take it, fingers brushing his. He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t pull away—but you feel his breath catch. Just slightly.

“You always work barefoot?” you ask, nodding at the grass stains on his feet. “Kind of… weird. Must run in the family.” 

“Harsh,” He teases, “But seriously, only when it’s too hot for boots,” he says with a soft chuckle. “Ground’s soft today.”

You sip the water. It tastes like minerals and rust and something sweeter.

Clark watches you swallow like he’s trying not to.

The conversation doesn’t pick back up because Kara flies full speed across the farm, fully launching herself at Clark, and you watch the two of them split a tree with how hard they collide with it. 

-

At one point, while stacking wood for the firepit, you’re crouched low beside the kindling pile, fingers splintered with bark, palms streaked with dirt. The late sun drips gold across your shoulders, heat clinging like syrup, sticky and slow. You’re balancing a half-split log on your knee when you feel him move behind you—quiet, careful, and deliberate.

“’Scuse me,” he murmurs, voice low and worn at the edges, like flannel stretched too thin.

The air shifts. You feel it before you feel him—his presence brushing along the curve of your spine like the wind changed direction. His hand doesn’t touch you, not really. It just hovers, fingers spread, heat bleeding through the space between you. Like he’s bracing himself. Like he wants to touch but won’t. Can’t. Not here. Not yet. You’re not sure which it is, but you ache to feel him nonetheless.

You don’t move or breathe. The log balanced on your knee starts to tip, but you’re frozen—caught in the gravity of that almost-touch.

And then he’s gone, just as quickly as he appears.

He steps away with the wood, his flannel brushing the side of your arm like an aftershock. And when you blink back into motion, you swear your skin still remembers exactly where his hand didn’t land.

-

Once again as the sun is setting, you catch him looking.  You and Kara had gone down to the creek that splits the back field, dared each other across the slick stones like you were still ten, laughing too loud and splashing too hard until your jeans were soaked past the knee and your braid came loose. Kara cannonballed as you slipped in sideways and gasped when the water bit your ribs. The two of you spent who knows how long splashing one another and wrestling in the water. 

Now, back on dry land, you’re wringing out your shirt at the hem, fingers shaking droplets loose from the cotton. Your skin is goosebumped and flushed, your neck damp with creekwater and heat. The sun’s hanging low in the sky—amber, syrupy—and it hits the curve of your shoulder just so. Makes you look like something lit from the inside.

That’s when it happens. You feel it first—the weight of a gaze. The way the air stills. You glance over, casual, unguarded. And there he is.

Clark Kent. 

Across the field, one hand resting against a porch post, body angled toward the barn—but his eyes? His eyes are on you. Mouth slack. Brows furrowed. Not in confusion—something else. Something sharper. Something closer to regret, maybe. You don’t know him well enough to tell the way you do with Kara from just a glance. 

He blinks and looks away before you can hold it. He rubs the back of his neck like he’s done something wrong, ears a little pink in a way that you can’t help but find adorable.

He looked like he got caught thinking something he shouldn’t. 

You stand there, dripping, and wishing you could think of something to say. Kara starts yelling something about watermelon and a bonfire, but her voice is far away. You stare at the horizon, heart hammering, and try to pretend it didn’t happen.

You try to convince yourself it was nothing. That you imagined it. You try—hard—to unlearn the shape of his smile.The way it folds soft at the edges. The way it doesn’t quite reach his eyes when he’s fighting it. The way it lingers.

That night, the sky goes blue to black in a slow, molten crawl. You lie belly-up on the porch roof with Kara beside you, sticky with sweat and dried creek water, bare feet propped on the railing. The air smells like damp wood and charcoal smoke and the mint gum she keeps tucked in her sock.

There’s a bag of pretzels between you. She tosses one at your face. You blink when it hits your cheek and bounce off the siding.

“You’ve got that look,” she says.

You don’t turn. “What look?”

“The stupid heart-eyes look.” Her voice goes mock-dreamy. “Oh my god, Clark, tell me more about tractors—”

“Shut up,” you groan, elbowing her.

She snorts, rolls onto her side and props her chin in her palm. “You blushed when he handed you a wrench today like it was a fucking bouquet.”

“I was hot.”

“You dropped it.”

“It was heavy!”

“It was titanium. You carried me out of a river last summer, but sure—blame the wrench.”

“It’s not like that,” you cover your face with one hand, pretzels rattling across your chest. 

“It’s exactly like that.” She narrows her eyes. “You’ve been extra weird since the creek.” 

You stiffen. She sees it. “Oh my god,” she says, sitting up. “What happened.”

“Nothing.”

“What. Happened.”

You hesitate. Then, quietly, you confess, “I think he looked at me.”

Kara tilts her head. “He looks at everyone.”

“Not like that.”

She’s quiet. You stare at the stars. There aren’t many tonight, just a few freckles of light above the cornfield. Finally, she sighs and lays back down, arm stretched above her head. “Promise me you won’t fall in love with him.”

You blink. “What?”

“Promise.” She says it again, softer this time. 

You roll your head toward her. “What? Gross. I’m not—”

“You are,” she says, a little too fast. Then, teasing again, she coos, “You’ve got the goo-goo eyes.”

“You sound like a cartoon.”

“Promise,” she says, turning her face toward you. Her eyes catch the porch light. They shine like firefly glass. “Just… don’t. Okay?”

You laugh, weak. “Why?”

She shrugs, but it’s not careless. “He’s always been perfect. Everybody always loves him. I just…” Her voice falters for the first time all night. “I don’t want to lose the one person who doesn’t.”

There’s a beat. A breath. You smile. Force it. “You’re ridiculous.”

She pokes your side. “Promise.”

You sigh. Draw the word out like a performance. “Fine. I promise.”

She leans back, satisfied. But something in her smile wavers, not enough to break it. Just enough to show the ache underneath. The fear. The weight of what she’s asked. Like she already knows it’s a promise you’re going to break. Like she already knows that he looked at you like his even if you don’t.

-

You don’t sleep. Kara does. Out cold by midnight, sprawled on the twin bed beside yours, mouth slightly open and one leg kicked out like she fought off sleep with both fists and lost. Her hair’s still wet from the creek. There’s a pretzel in her elbow crease. You could laugh if your chest didn’t feel so tight.

The window’s cracked open. The breeze smells like hay and clover, cool against your cheek, but your skin’s still hot—prickling like you stood too close to the firepit for too long.

You lie there staring at the ceiling. Watching the shadows shift across the wooden beams. Listening to the distant groan of an owl and the soft click of the kitchen’s old fridge cycling on. Down the hall, someone moves—a floorboard sighs under weight—and you know it’s him.

Clark.

You imagine him in his room. Shirt off. Hair damp from the sink. Turning off the light with that quiet kind of grace he carries like muscle memory. Folding himself into a too small bed the way someone raised in a small house does—like they don’t want to take up too much space, even when they could.

You press your knuckles to your mouth and swallow a sound that’s not quite a sigh.

“Promise me you won’t fall in love with him.”

Kara said it like a joke. Like a dare. Like a line drawn in sand she never thought would hold. But she meant it. She wouldn’t have said it to you otherwise. And now it’s sitting in your chest like an ember. Low and glowing and wrong.

You close your eyes and try to remember what his smile looked like early today when you first met. Before the creek. Before every little moment. Before you caught him looking like maybe—maybe—he saw you.

You can’t.

Not clearly.

-

You wake up late. The sun is already spilling through the kitchen windows when you pad down the hall, bare feet sticky against the tile. Kara’s outside somewhere—you can hear her yelling about fence integrity and laughing at her own bad jokes.

Clark is inside at the sink rinsing a plate. One hand is braced on the edge, forearm flexed, the cotton of his worn t-shirt stretched tight across his shoulders.

You almost backpedal. You almost pretend you forgot something in the guest room. But before you can, he turns.

“Morning,” he says, and his voice is thick with sleep and honey. He offers a bright smile, dimple popping. 

“Hey,” you manage, heart beat fumbling. Briefly, you wonder if he can hear it the way that Kara can. 

You move past him toward the coffeepot. He steps aside instinctively—gentle, careful, never in the way—but as you pass, his hand brushes your shoulder. His fingers skim the fabric of your shirt like a breath, a suggestion. Warmth blooms through the contact point like a bruise that hasn’t surfaced yet.

Neither of you says anything. Neither of you flinches. But your hand shakes just a little as you pour your coffee. And Clark clears his throat too quickly. Wipes his hands on the dish towel like they’re stained with something he can’t name before accidentally dropping it and bending too quickly to pick it back up.

You both pretend it was nothing.

But you feel it for years.

-

“Hold still,” you murmur, curling your fingers around Clark’s wrist.

You’re sitting on his couch in his Metropolis apartment, but it’s soft and too big for the room and smells too much like him to let yourself fully think straight. The coffee table is covered in takeout boxes and one of Kara’s flip-flops that lost a battle with Krypto. There’s a blanket pooled at your hips and an old episode of Jeopardy! buzzing quietly from the TV, ignored.

Clark’s arm is tense in your hands. Not because he’s resisting. Just the opposite—he’s trying not to hold onto you too hard, like he’s worried he’ll hurt you even after all these years. His knuckles are white where they are formed into fists, and his pulse flutters beneath your palm like something trapped.

You keep your voice low. “In through your nose. Out through your mouth.”

His eyes are closed. Glasses forgotten on the end table. Hair damp from the sink, curls flattened in odd directions. He nods—once, sharp—and tries again. This time he manages a full deep breath.

“Good,” you whisper. “You’re doing good.” 

You feel him start to settle. Slowly. Carefully. Like a building realigning its weight after an earthquake. You stroke your thumb over the bone of his wrist—once, twice, three times—and say nothing more.

He had a panic attack at the grocery store. Just… out of nowhere. Halfway between the pasta and the soup aisle. You’d seen the signs before—shoulders drawn tight, jaw locked, blinking too fast—and you’d grabbed his hand without asking. 

It’s rare for him. He’s Superman– he sees some of the most impossible things on a daily basis. Can fly, has xray vision, heat vision, super breath. But, sometimes, it happens. And you’re no stranger to them yourself. 

So now, you’re here, on the couch, saying nothing. But doing everything you can to help him and provide comfort. 

This is your rhythm now. He brings you soup when you’re sick. You hold him through the wreckage when things are too loud. It’s quiet. Constant. And almost enough.

When he finally exhales and lets his head fall back against the cushion, you feel the tension bleed out of him like steam.

“Better?” you ask.

He nods without opening his eyes. “You’re good at that.”

“At basic breathing?”

“At making me feel like I’m not going to implode.”

You smile, but it doesn’t reach your chest. “You’ve never imploded around me. Clark.”

“Yet,” he says, voice gone soft. “But seriously, thank you.”

You squeeze his wrist once more before letting go. The loss of contact makes your fingers ache.

Later, you clean up the takeout containers while he washes his face. You lean against the kitchen island and watch him through the cracked bathroom door as he pats his skin dry, careful around the eyes, like everything about him could bruise if someone looked too close.

You think about the wedding last spring—how he asked you to be his plus one in an attempt to cheer you up after a bad break up. He had said it with a shrug and a half-smile. You remember how you wore a navy dress and he’d looked at you once—just once—like the world had tilted. You’d danced. Held hands. Swung in lazy circles under string lights until your feet hurt.

He’d driven you home and walked you to your door. He could’ve kissed you. You think he almost did.

Instead, he tucked a piece of hair behind your ear and said, “Whoever broke your heart was an idiot.”

You hadn’t known what to say. How to tell him that it was you who had broken your own heart in a million little ways. Or how to say it was him, with his warmth and effervescence. How since that first day you met, all those years ago, no matter what changed or who you both became, he never stopped showing up for Kara. For you. Even when looking at him sometimes made you feel like you were swallowing thousands of needles at once. 

You still don’t.

-

You’re friends now. Real friends. Not through Kara. Not because of shared blood or expectation. Just you and him.

He texts you photos of stray cats and bad diner signs. Brings you coffee the way you like it—extra hot, two sugars, lid twisted on fully because he knows your hands shake when you’re tired. You fix his glasses when they sit crooked on his nose, just tilt them straight without thinking, and he always flushes but never stops you.

You know the sound of his laugh when he means it, the one that cracks wide open and leaves him breathless. You know exactly how big he has to smile to get his dimples to really pop. You know how he folds in on himself when he’s overwhelmed—big hands fidgeting with threads on his shirt hem, mouth drawn quiet. You know what calms him. What ruins him. What songs make his shoulders sway just a little when he thinks no one’s watching.

You know the scar on his knuckle from learning to open beer bottles on belt buckles in college. You know the mole on the side of his neck just below his jawline. You know that he says your name differently than anyone else.

And you want him. Still. Always. With a hunger that's patient. Gentle. Ancient.

It’s not about kissing him. Or having sex with him until he’s actually breathless. It’s about hearing him brush his teeth in the morning and wanting to hand him the towel before he asks. It’s about sitting next to him in silence and thinking, please never look away.

It’s about love so quiet it hurts.

You’ve never told him. Never dared. Because there’s something coiled tight beneath your ribs—older than the wanting, older than the ache. Something made of the memory of Kara’s voice on a summer night, teasing but not really. The way she smiled at you like she already knew how it would end.

You made the promise once and Kara’s never really brought it up again, but that doesn’t mean it stopped mattering.

There are nights you lie awake tracing the shape of that vow with your breath. Wondering what it meant. Who it protected. Whether she remembers at all—or whether you’re the only one still carrying it, heavy and folded, like an unmailed letter.

You hadn’t known how to explain the quiet erosion—how loving him, silently and for so long, had carved hollows into your ribs where softness used to be. How the closeness felt like cruelty some days. Like being handed a glass of water after wandering a desert, only to be told you couldn’t drink.

You thought you could bear it. You thought friendship was enough. But it’s not. Not when you know the warmth of his laugh. Not when you’ve memorized the weight of him beside you on a too-small couch. Not when his nearness feels like gravity—steady, irresistible, and cruel in how gently it pulls.

You still don’t know how to say any of that. So instead, you drink your coffee, ask about his day, and pretend your hands aren’t always inches from grabbing and holding on.

-

It’s just past midnight when the knock comes. Not at the front door. But on the glass of your seventh story balcony.

You jolt where you sit cross-legged on the couch, half a bag of chips spilled beside you, your tank top sliding dangerously off one shoulder. You’re wearing boxer shorts, nothing else on your legs, and your skin flashes cold as you stare toward the sliding door.

And there he is.

Clark.

Framed by the low glow of the city behind him, coat ruffled by the breeze, hand still raised mid-knock with a sheepish wince already forming on his face.

You grab the nearest blanket like a lifeline.

He mouths something through the glass—sorry sorry sorry—but you don’t bother reading his lips. You unlock the door with a sigh and slide it open, still clutching the throw blanket around you like a toga.

“You scared the crap out of me.”

“I know,” he says, stepping inside. “I didn’t think you’d be standing right there. In… very little.”

You arch a brow. “You think I wear jeans to bed?”

His ears flush pink. “I wasn’t thinking that far ahead.”

“No,” you murmur, voice teasing. “You rarely do.”

He grins—that boyish, shy grin that should be harmless but somehow never is when it’s pointed at you—and shuts the balcony behind him with a quiet click. The night air that snuck in is cool on your legs, still bare below the hem of your top, and you swear Clark’s eyes flick down once—just once—before zipping back up to your face like he’s ashamed for even looking.

“Cute socks,” he mutters as he steps into your living room, brushing snowmelt from his shoulders. “Penguins?”

“You’re lucky I like you, Kent.”

“Is that what this is?” he says, plopping onto the couch, nearly stepping on your foot in the process. 

“Shut up,” you say, but you’re smiling. He’s still in his work clothes—tie askew, sleeves rolled, collar unbuttoned, coat now shrugged fully off onto a heap next to your couch. He must’ve come straight from the newsroom or maybe from somewhere even higher—halfway across the hemisphere if his hair’s anything to go by. You reach out to smooth the wind-tossed cowlick near his temple and feel him go still under your fingers.

“Why are you here?” you ask gently, softer now.

He shrugs again. “Kara texted. Said you sounded… off.”

You blink. “I did not.”

“She said you posted about three tequila memes in a row.”

“…Okay. That’s fair.” You sigh and flop onto the couch next to him, accidentally bumping your knee into his thigh. He makes a sound like a half-smothered laugh, his hand drifting toward his knee where you just bumped him. He doesn’t touch you—but he doesn’t move away either.

“Tequila memes are a cry for help, you know,” Clark says solemnly. “It’s in the journalist handbook.”

“Oh yeah?” you stretch your legs out across his lap, blanket pooling at your hips. “What page?”

He frowns thoughtfully, tugging his glasses down his nose like he’s actually trying to remember. “Page… twelve. Right after the chapter on how to cry at your desk without smudging your notes.”

You snort. “Guess that’s why you always use a notepad.”

“Exactly.” He lifts his brows, smug, like he’s won something. “Ink runs. Graphite endures.”

“Did you just say that like it’s poetry?”

“It is poetry,” he insists, but his voice is warm with laughter now. “Don’t mock the power of a pencil, Op-Ed.”

You toss a chip at his chest. It bounces off his tie and lands in your lap. He stares at it like it betrayed him.

“I’m serious,” he says, plucking it up and tossing it back into the bag. “Pencils are reliable. Can’t say the same about people.” That last part slips out quieter. Almost too quiet. But you hear it anyway.

You don’t say anything at first. You just shift, nudge your foot against his hip, and offer him the bag. “We still talking about office supplies, Kent?”

He blinks. Looks like he’s about to deflect again—classic Clark—but then something softens in his shoulders. The kind of honesty he doesn’t always let show. “I’m still figuring out who I can count on,” he says after a beat. “But you—you make it easier.”

Your throat tightens. You look down at your hands, your fingers still tangled in the edge of the blanket, and try to pretend your heart didn’t just do a full somersault. “You always know the right thing to say,” you murmur.

“I usually don’t,” he says quickly. “I just—mean it. That helps.”

You glance up at him again, catch the way he’s watching you, like he’s memorizing every shift in your expression. The air changes. Barely. But you feel it. And Clark does too.

He clears his throat. “So. Uh. What were we watching?”

You blink. “Oh. Reality TV. The worst kind.”

“Good. I came to make sure you were okay, and then to suffer.”

You smirk. “You’re lucky I didn’t start a murder doc. Or worse. The Bachelor.”

He lifts his hands in surrender. “Whatever helps avoid you posting more tequila memes. Kara was ready to show up with a bottle.”

You grab the remote, start the episode over, and settle back into the couch. Your legs are still stretched across him. His hand is near your ankle now. You’re not sure if he put it there or if it just… ended up that way.

The show is stupid. The contestants are already drunk. One’s crying because someone else stole her “emotional support wine glass.” You feel Clark laugh beside you, that low, involuntary chuckle that rumbles through his chest before he catches it and tries to muffle the sound.

“God, I forgot how terrible this is,” he says, voice half-buried in the blanket you’ve now shared between you.

“You love it.”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just shifts slightly, enough to bump his shoulder against yours. “I love a lot of things,” he says softly.

You tilt your head toward him, just enough to see his profile. He’s not watching the screen. He’s watching you—soft and unreadable, like he’s cataloguing something he’ll never write down.

“You’re not staying the night, right?” you ask, suddenly aware of how close you are. How easy it would be to turn just an inch and kiss him. “You’ve got an early shift at the Planet, don’t you?”

Clark shrugs. “I’ll manage.”

“You’ll be exhausted.”

“I’m always exhausted.”

“You’ll—”

“I want to stay.” He cuts you off like it’s simple. Just the truth, unadorned.

Somewhere between 2:13 a.m. and the next fake-love monologue, your eyes drift shut. You don’t mean to fall asleep. But it’s warm. And quiet. And Clark doesn’t move.

When you blink awake, bleary and blinking in the TV’s soft glow, your head is on his chest. His arm is around you. His pulse, steady beneath your cheek. One of his fingers—barely there—is tracing circles on your hip.

He’s not asleep. You know that instantly. His breathing is too careful. You don’t move. You don’t say anything. And neither does he.

You just stay like that.

Until dawn.

-

This is Kara’s idea. 

You’re three blocks from the Planet when she loops her arm through yours and grins like she’s planning mischief. “We’ll bring him coffee,” she says, sing-song. “Make fun of his tie. It’ll be cute.”

You’d agreed because it did sound cute. Clark in his work habitat, tucked behind a desk, glasses slightly fogged, probably with a tie crooked from the minute he put it on. You like catching him in the middle of things. In motion. He always seems to turn toward you like you’re the only thing in the room worth noticing.

The elevator dings. The bullpen hums. Phones ring, keys click, papers shuffle—and there he is.

Clark stands near the copy machine, sleeves rolled to the elbow, tie loose, pen between his teeth. He’s talking to Jimmy Olsen, who’s waving a camera lens around like it’s a baton. The second he sees you, Clark straightens. Then falters. The pen falls from his mouth and clatters to the floor. You pretend not to notice.

“Morning, newsboys,” Kara chirps, breezing ahead to toss a coffee cup at Clark.

You hold yours out in offering. “I brought you the cocoa with cinnamon that you said helps you think. Kara also brought you a coffee because she said you like it more.”

Clark blinks and takes the cocoa. “You remembered that?”

“I remember things,” you echo, tossing his own line back at him.

He blushes.

Jimmy steps in, grinning. “And who’s this charming, incredibly thoughtful friend?”

“Jimmy,” Kara groans. 

But you play along. “Hi. I’m a friend of these two—and apparently the only one who remembers his cocoa order.”

Jimmy offers you his hand with dramatic flourish. “James Olsen. Photojournalist. Doer of justice. Can I get you anything? A drink? A snack?”

“She’s already got a coffee, Jimmy,” Clark says, voice dry. “You don’t need to impress her.”

“Maybe she deserves two,” Jimmy says, tossing you a wink.

You’re about to laugh when Clark shifts closer—subtle, but there. One step. A glance. His shoulder brushes yours as he reaches for a stray printout. His hand lingers just a beat too long near yours before pulling back.

“She’s good,” he says, trying for light but landing somewhere closer to overprotective older brother who just got caught staring.

Jimmy raises both brows. “Dude.”

“What?” Clark’s ears are already turning pink. “I’m just being hospitable.”

Kara snorts into her coffee.

You sip yours to hide your smile. “I can fight my own battles, Kent.”

He glances at you, sheepish, then ducks to retrieve the pen he dropped earlier. “I know,” he mutters. “Just… don’t want you to have to.”

That makes you pause. Kara clears her throat loudly, breaking the moment. “Okay, Romeo, let’s dial it back before you lift Jimmy through a wall.”

Jimmy grins and leans toward you conspiratorially. “He’s not usually like this. I’ve flirted with his cousin before. He didn’t say a word.”

“That’s because I can bench-press a truck,” Kara says, flashing a wicked grin.

Clark groans. “Please stop talking.”

But you’re already smiling. You nudge his arm gently as you pass. “Don’t say I never bring you anything.”

His voice is soft behind you. “You always bring me exactly what I need.”

And when you glance back, he’s still watching you—tie askew, pen forgotten, a whole newsroom bustling around him. But all he sees is you.

-

Kara tosses a handful of popcorn at your head.

“Stop making that face,” she says, pointing at you with her chopsticks. “You look like someone just killed your childhood pet.”

You blink, startled out of your daze. “What face?”

She mimics you—eyes unfocused, lip between your teeth, brow furrowed like you’re working on a five-thousand-piece puzzle.

You sigh. “I’m just… thinking.”

“That’s your Clark Kent face,” she announces, smug.

“I don’t have a Clark Kent face.”

“You do. It’s the same one you made the first time you saw him carry a couch one-handed.”

“That was a heavy couch.”

“That was not the point, babe.”

You groan and flop onto your side, burying your face in a throw pillow. Kara jabs your thigh with her chopsticks until you roll back over. “Okay, okay, hear me out,” she says, tucking her legs under herself on the couch. “His name is Evan. He’s a pediatrician. Tall, dreamy, glasses—but not in the same ‘little bitch with a secret identity of a god’ kind of way.”

You raise a brow.

Kara frowns. “Too soon?”

You snort. “Always.”

“He volunteers on weekends. He has a dog. He likes musicals. Come on. Let me set it up.”

You try. You really do. You imagine Evan. His smile, his dog, his charming glasses. You imagine sitting across from him at dinner, nodding along to stories about his little patients. But your brain won’t stay still.

It drifts.

To Clark’s laugh when he’s caught off guard. The way he gestures with his hands when he gets excited about a story. The careful way he tucks his tie before every press conference like he still hasn’t figured out people watch him. The scar on his knuckle from when he tried to slice an avocado without looking.

You think about the night he brought you soup when you had the flu. The way his voice softened as he pressed the back of his hand to your forehead. You think about the playlists. You think about the coffee he brings you. You think about how easy it is to think about him.

“I don’t know,” you murmur, poking at the edge of the popcorn bowl. “I’m probably just… not in a dating headspace.”

Kara eyes you. “You mean you’re in a Clark Kent headspace.”

You roll your eyes and say, “Shut up,” but it lacks heat. And she knows why.

She sighs dramatically. “Fine. I’ll hold off on Evan. But just know I’m sitting on gold, and it’s your fault if he ends up dating a barista with no upper lip.”

You snort. “A barista?”

“She’s very nice,” Kara says, too quickly. “But Evan deserves more. You deserve more.”

You glance at her, surprised by the seriousness in her tone. Kara nudges your knee. “Especially more than my dumb cousin.”

You don’t say anything. You just press your cheek to the pillow again and let your thoughts drift—not to Evan. Not to baristas. But to Clark. To his hands. His voice. His smile. To the way he says your name like it’s the first time every time.

And you wonder—again—how much longer you’ll be able to pretend it doesn’t mean anything.

-

The party winds down early. 

Kara ducks out before midnight, mumbling something about space alerts and reruns of Hell’s Kitchen. You offer to go with her. 

“I’ll be fine,” she says. “Go flirt with the cute guy from Gotham or whatever.” She smirks, shoves a bag of chips into your hands, and vanishes out the front door in a gust of cold air and frayed denim.

You do flirt. A little. The guy’s nice enough—tall, sharp-jawed, probably knows it. He compliments your drink choice, your earrings, the way you say “technically” like it’s a threat. You laugh when he leans in, even let him touch your arm once. But the spark never lights. Your smile’s too practiced. Your eyes keep drifting toward the kitchen where Clark is leaning against the counter, nursing a bottle of root beer like it’s a nervous tic. His glasses are a little crooked. His flannel sleeves are rolled to the elbow. He’s talking to someone, but every time you glance over, he’s looking somewhere else. At you.

When the guy from Gotham says something about splitting a cab, you hesitate.

You feel it in your chest—this low, certain no. “I think I’m gonna walk,” you say. “But thanks.”

He shrugs. Doesn’t press.

You’re pulling on your coat near the door when you hear the voice behind you—soft, warm, and too familiar. “I could walk you.”

You turn.

Clark’s there, holding his jacket in both hands, like he’s afraid of offering too much. “Only if you want,” he adds quickly, glasses slipping a little lower on his nose. “I don’t mind.”

Your fingers curl around the hem of your sleeve. You nod. “I’d like that.”

The city exhales around you as the door clicks shut behind him.

It’s late, that hour when even Metropolis quiets—when traffic thins and the streetlights buzz faintly like they’re trying to stay awake. The sidewalk is damp with the ghost of an earlier rain, but the sky’s cleared now, leaving the pavement slick and silver under the streetlamps.

Clark walks beside you, hands shoved deep into his coat pockets, shoulders hunched slightly against the chill. You can hear the way his boots scuff the concrete, unhurried. You match your pace to his like you always do.

Neither of you speaks for a while. There’s comfort in it, the quiet. But there’s tension too—stretched taut between you, invisible and obvious, like string pulled between two tin cans.

You steal a glance at him out of the corner of your eye. His hair’s gone soft and unruly in the misty air, curls dark and curling along the nape of his neck. There’s a spot on his collar where his flannel didn’t quite sit right under the jacket. You want to fix it. You don’t.

“It’s not really that far,” you murmur eventually.

He smiles, barely. “I know.”

“I could’ve walked alone.”

“I know that, too.”

You glance over. “Then why offer?”

He hesitates. Then shrugs. “I guess I just wanted to.”

That lands heavy in your chest. You look forward again. Your apartment is six blocks away, but you start wishing it were twelve.

Two blocks later, your fingers brush. Just for a second. A graze of knuckles, a breath of skin on skin. Neither of you pulls away.

You feel it immediately—how the air shifts. How everything tilts, gently, toward that place you’ve both been orbiting for years. Your pulse stutters. His shoulders tense. His hand is still in his pocket, but his arm lingers closer now, the way a magnet hesitates before it gives in.

You stop walking. So does he. You turn to face him beneath the wash of a flickering streetlamp, golden light stuttering across his face.

Clark looks at you like he’s memorizing something he’s not allowed to keep. His mouth opens. Closes. His tongue wets his bottom lip, like there’s something he wants to say but can’t. Or won’t.

“Clark?” You swallow. 

He takes half a step closer. His coat brushes your sleeve. You can feel the heat radiating off of him—solid and steady and unbearable. The space between you isn’t space at all. It’s static. It’s breath. It’s wanting.

His gaze drops to your mouth. Yours does the same. The silence buzzes.

“We shouldn’t,” he whispers, and this time it’s not a warning. It’s an apology.

“I know,” you breathe out—quiet, shaking. But neither of you moves. Not yet. His head tilts, just slightly. Yours does too. One of you, or maybe both, lean in just a bit. And for one second—one unbearable, incandescent second—you think he’s going to do it.

You think this is it.

But then a dog barks three blocks over, loud and sudden. A light flicks on in a window. Someone laughs. The moment breaks.

Clark exhales hard and scrubs a hand over his face. “I should—”

“Yeah,” you say quickly, cutting him off.  “Me too.”

He steps back. You unlock your door. You don’t look at him when you say goodnight. And when the door shuts behind you, you press your palm to the wood and let your eyes close.

His breath is still in your hair. His almost is still echoing in your chest.

And you know—God, you know—this won’t be the last time you stop just short of falling.

-

A few months later and the guy from Gotham texts you good morning before his coffee. He double-knots his shoelaces and brings up his therapist in conversation without being weird about it. His hands are large and warm. His apartment smells like cedar and peppermint. He listens when you talk.

You like him. You do. 

But he doesn’t make you nervous. 

And that’s a problem.

-

Lois Lane has cheekbones like weaponry and a voice that cuts through boardrooms like a buzzsaw. She is brilliant. Unapologetic. Fast-talking and sharp-dressed and funny. She once told a senator to shove it in three languages during a live press conference, and the video plays on loop in your head more often than you’ll admit.

Clark smiles when he talks about her. Not the shy, crooked smile he gives you. The other one. The one with his whole mouth.

You adore her.

So does Kara.

It helps that Lois doesn’t look at you like she’s trying to read your mind. She just hands you her wine glass and says, “I can’t do another one of these unless you’re double-fisting with me.”

You clink glasses like a pact.

-

The triple date happens by accident.

Kara sets it up. You suspect she means well, but it’s a mess from the start. Too many candles, too many rooftop heaters, too many tiny plates stacked like apology letters. The kind of place where the menus are printed on thick matte cardstock and the waiter introduces himself like he’s auditioning for a role you didn’t know you were casting.

You sit between your boyfriend Richard, the guy from Gotham, and Kara, directly across from Clark. Which is cruel.

Kara looks fantastic. Backless jumpsuit. Gold hoops. She’s halfway through her second glass of wine, already calling Lux—her med student date—Dr. Dumbass with the kind of affectionate venom only she can get away with. Lux is nice. A little sweaty. His collar’s too tight and he keeps trying to catch Kara’s eye like he’s waiting for a cue.

Richard’s knee is pressed to yours beneath the table. He’s warm. Always warm. Always steady. Dark hair, big hands, a smile that melts hearts. He reaches for your hand when the server asks for drink orders, thumb tracing absent circles over your knuckles. It’s sweet.

You don’t pull away but you don’t lean in either.

Clark’s jacket is draped over the back of his chair. Not folded, just tossed—one cuff slipping halfway to the floor. You don’t know if it’s carelessness or comfort. The sleeves of his shirt are rolled to the elbow again, forearms tanned and dusted with the soft kind of hair you know would tickle if you touched him there. His collar is slightly askew—just enough to notice, just enough to want to reach for. There’s a cocktail in front of him, untouched. Lime wedge drying. Salt clinging to the rim like something that won’t let go.

The server arrives with her pen poised and fake cheer dialed to eleven. Everyone fumbles for their menus. Clark doesn’t. He doesn’t even glance up when he says, “She’ll have the halibut, no lemon, and Kara wants the risotto. Extra parmesan, right?” It’s too easy. Too practiced. Too casual to be coincidence.

Kara blinks. “How’d you know?”

Clark shrugs. “I remember things.”

Lois snorts. Her chair is angled toward his, their knees brushing, the curve of her ankle tucked behind his boot like they’ve been doing this a while. Her lipstick is already worn at the corners from laughing too hard at something Kara said earlier, and her rings clink against the base of her martini glass when she lifts it.

“Do you remember the thing I told the mayor last week?” she asks, raising a brow over the rim.

Clark’s smile tilts, crooked and boyish. “That’s… different.”

“You’re lucky you’re pretty Smallville,” she mutters, and loops her arm through his like it’s a reflex. Her head leans against his shoulder for exactly three seconds—long enough to look effortless, short enough not to make it a thing.

Your heart curls in on itself. You look down at your menu and trace the embossed lettering like it’ll tell you how to feel. Richard is still beside you, saying something to Lux about rooftop yoga studios. Kara’s pretending to be interested, nodding absently as she sips her drink. The city hums just outside the glass railing, and the table is alive with movement, shifting shadows, passing servers—but all you see is the ease in the way Clark holds space.

For Lois. For Kara. Even for Lux and Richard, who are clearly swimming in this whole thing.

You’re the only one at the table who feels like she might shatter if she breathes wrong.

Richard is telling a story now. Something about a Gotham elevator and a guy dressed like a raccoon. Or maybe it was a possum. He’s doing voices, accents, full gestural reenactments. Everyone’s smiling. Even Lux chuckles, finally settling back into his chair like he’s decided not to be afraid of Kara tonight.

You laugh, too. Not because it’s all that funny. But because Clark is watching you. 

You can feel it. That soft, familiar weight of his gaze—more aware than affectionate, more quiet than kind. It isn’t hunger. It isn’t even admiration.

It’s recognition. Like he’s watching you become someone else in real time, and he’s wondering how much of you he’ll still know when it’s over.

So you laugh. Too loud. Too long. It bursts out of you like a reflex, sharp and bright and aching at the edges. A sound designed to perform joy, not express it. The kind of laugh that says I’m fine, and means please look away.

You lift your wine glass mid-giggle, but your fingers are too tight around the stem. Too tense. The base wobbles as it hits the table again. Just a little. Just enough.

Clink. The rim kisses the side of your water glass—clear, precise, piercing. The conversation doesn’t stop. But Kara hears it. She turns her head so fast it’s almost a whipcrack, blonde hair catching in the breeze. Her brow is arched. Her mouth pulled tight around a half-finished sip of wine. The look isn’t subtle.

You drop your hand to your lap. Rest it there like it belongs. Her eyes flick between you and Clark, and she doesn’t soften.

“Are you two okay?” she asks. Not just curious. Pointed. Like she’s catching you mid-thought. Mid-shift. Mid-undoing.

You go still. Clark doesn’t. He doesn’t even blink. “Always,” he says. Soft. Steady. Too smooth to be honest. Too practiced to be real.

You nod beside him. Your smile lands like a paper napkin in a rainstorm—folded. Thin. Useless. You take a sip of your wine to keep from answering. To keep from looking. To keep from saying the thing that’s been pressing against the back of your teeth for weeks.

It tastes dry. Too acidic. Heavy with something metallic you can’t name. Like a secret left out in the sun. Like something you forgot to swallow the last time he smiled at you.

You pull it together. You breathe. You fold your napkin across your lap, pick at the bread basket, and start asking Lux about his dissertation topic. You nod while he talks. Smile when Kara cuts him off. Chime in when Lois makes a crack about the state of Metropolis traffic and blames Clark personally.

You laugh at that one for real.

And when Richard—Dick, as he started insisting everyone call him after he’s had a few drinks—leans over and murmurs something about how wild this all is, how glad he is that you invited him, how lucky he is, you smile. You reach for his hand under the table. His thumb brushes yours. You anchor yourself there.

He’s good, you think. Smart. Playful. Gentle. He knew how to get you to smile when your shoe broke in the rain last week. He leaves little cartoons in the margins of his notes. He flirts with you in a way that does make your heart flutter sometimes. He bought you a new toothbrush for his apartment without asking.

He isn’t Clark. But he’s good.

So you lean in. Let the night unfold. Let the light and the laughter soften the corners of everything that came before. For a while, it works.

The food arrives. You eat. You laugh more. Clark and Lois get into an absurd debate about sandwich alignment. Kara and Lux vanish briefly to the bar and come back with shots of something blue. The wind picks up around dessert and everyone huddles closer to the heating lamps, shoulders bumping, cheeks flushed from wine and warmth and the neon blur of city lights behind them.

It’s good. You make it good.

Eventually, the table disperses. Someone starts talking about after-party drinks, but the group is full of excuses. Busy days tomorrow. Papers to grade. Meetings to prep for. Someone mentions a looming fire inspection. Kara smirks. Clark groans. Lois just gives you a little wink and murmurs something about how she’s “tired of babysitting this lot.”

Coats are shrugged on. Bags lifted. Goodbyes start like gentle waves, casual but inevitable. Richard moves to help you into your coat, but Clark is already there—tugging it gently from the back of your chair and holding it out with both hands.

You blink. So does Richard. Clark doesn’t say anything—just waits.

You slip your arms through the sleeves, brushing his knuckles on the way. His hands are warm even through the fabric. The collar settles against your throat. Too soft. Too close.

“Thanks,” you murmur. He nods. Doesn’t look at you. Beside you, Lois is wrapping her scarf, already halfway into her own jacket. Clark turns toward her instinctively, reaches to smooth one side of the collar that caught on her hair. She swats at his hand, half-annoyed, half-fond, and says something low you don’t quite catch—but Clark laughs. Quiet. Easy.

And then Richard’s arm slips around your waist. He doesn’t say anything, just tugs you in gently, tilts his head and kisses you. It’s slow. Sweet. Familiar. A little practiced, but not unkind. Your hand lifts to his chest out of reflex. Not to push him away. Not to pull him closer. Just… to steady yourself. But your chest goes still. Not tight. Not aching. Just still. And when you open your eyes again, Kara is staring straight at you. Her expression is unreadable. Lips parted. Brows slightly drawn. Not angry. Not surprised. Just… watching.

You shift your weight. Swallow. She looks past you then—to where Clark is standing frozen, still halfway turned from Lois. His hand is at his side now. Still. His eyes flicker once between your face and Richard’s, and then away again. No reaction. None that shows.

He just clears his throat, says something to Lois about the parking garage, and steps back into the breeze. But you feel it anyway. A ripple. A fracture in the air. Like the moment marked something. Even if no one says a word.

-

The morning after, the city is washed in pale gold. Dew climbs the sides of your window. The air smells like coffee and dust and leftover adrenaline.

You wake slow. No hangover, but there’s something thick in your chest. Not sharp—just present. A dull kind of too-much. Richard had left early. Something about a date with his Dad, Bruce. A train back to Gotham. He kissed your temple on the way out, whispered thanks for the night, for the dinner, for you.

You had smiled. Had meant it, even. But your body stayed curled in the same corner of your couch long after the door closed.

By noon, you still haven’t moved far. You’re in an old hoodie and mismatched socks, chewing dry cereal straight from the box with one leg tucked beneath you. Kara texts a meme. Lux sends you a youtube video to some weird video essay about aliens, trucks, and bears and says “this helped my post-date anxiety.”

You snort. Almost reply. Then your phone buzzes again.

Clark Kent: 1 attachment.

No caption. No context. Just a Spotify playlist titled: “for you (shut up, kara)”

You stare at it for a second too long. Then tap it open.

The first song is “Seventeen Again” by The Mighty Crabjoys—his favorite band. You’ve heard him talk about it with too much enthusiasm and absolutely no shame. Said they got him through high school. Said their lyrics were “corny in the exact right way.”

The next is a moody acoustic track—“Lullaby for the End of the World”—melancholy and strange. The kind of song you’d listen to with your forehead pressed to a cold train window.

Then comes “Satellite Heart", then “Nothing Arrived” by Villagers, then “Your Ex-Lover Is Dead.”

One mid-way track is just guitar and silence for almost a full minute before lyrics even start. You don’t know the name, but the ache in it is familiar.

There’s another one by The Mighty Crabjoys, of course. “Soft Armor.” It’s the one he used to hum when doing dishes. You remember teasing him about it once, and he said, “It’s about pretending things don’t hurt when they do.”

By the time “On Your Porch” plays, you’re still not sure what any of it means.

It’s a mess of genres. Pop punk and indie rock and old romantic standards and one Lana Del Rey song you’re pretty sure he meant to delete but forgot. It makes no sense. And every kind of sense.

You scroll through the list, fingertips slow, heart beating somewhere between too loud and not at all. There’s nothing clear. Nothing definitive. No love confession. No hidden message in the song titles.

Just a boy you love—who held your coat last night, and laughed at Lois’ teasing, and didn’t react when Richard kissed you—sending you songs that sound like feeling too much and never saying it.

You don’t ask him about it. You don’t text back. You just tuck the playlist into your likes. Download it to your offline library. Make it your background noise as you do the dishes, as you clean the apartment, as you try and fail not to play every lyric like a tape recorder against the inside of your ribs.

By nightfall, you’ve memorized track three. By morning, it’s the only thing playing in your head. And still—you don’t know what it means. Not really. But you hold it close to your heart anyway.

Like it might mean everything because every song feels chosen. Tender. Devastatingly so. Like someone making space where words can’t go.

Like someone trying to say I see you. I remember. I still care, without daring to say anything at all.

-

You and Dick break up on a Thursday three months later. It’s quiet. It’s civil. It still guts you.

You’re sitting across from him on a park bench, shivering against the early spring wind while he fidgets with the zipper on his jacket. There’s no shouting. No betrayal. Just the quiet, tired truth that sometimes good things don’t bloom the way they should.

“I think we’re both holding back,” he says. “I think maybe we’ve been doing that the whole time.”

You want to argue. But your throat is full of glass. So you nod. Once. He kisses your forehead before he goes.

It’s sweet. And final. And not for you.

Clark shows up just after dusk. You don’t call him. You don’t text. But when you open the door, there he is—hood up, hair wet from the light drizzle that started twenty minutes ago, rain dotting his shoulders in dark patches like bruises. Like he knew you needed someone. He always seems to know exactly when you don’t want to be alone. 

He holds up a crumpled brown grocery bag, soft with moisture. “I brought soup.”

There’s a six-pack of ginger ale under his arm. Paper towels jammed against his hip. He looks sheepish, like he’s not sure if this is too much or not enough.

You step aside without speaking.

The apartment is too quiet but Clark moves through it like he’s been here a thousand times. In truth, he has.

He doesn’t ask how you’re doing. Just sets the bag on the counter, finds the chipped mugs in the wrong cabinet (you had mindlessly put them away while doing dishes and crying earlier), and pours the soup into one like it’s coffee. He hands it to you without meeting your eyes and sits beside you on the living room floor, his long legs stretched out, knees brushing yours.

You sip without tasting.

The TV hums in the background—low and forgettable. Some sitcom rerun with laugh tracks that ring hollow. Your cheek is sticky with salt where tears dried earlier, and you forgot to wash your face. Clark doesn’t say anything about it. Doesn’t try to fix it. He just… stays.

At some point, your foot grazes his. Neither of you move.

Later, you’re curled into the corner of the couch like you’re trying to fold into yourself. Clark sits on the rug, elbows on his knees, watching the shadows shift across your wall. The cocoa he made for you both has gone cold on the coffee table. His hands are clasped between his knees, knuckles white.

The silence is heavy. Fragile. Sacred.

“Do you think I’m broken?” you whisper, voice frayed and thin, like the end of a thread.

He turns to look at you—too fast. Like the question hurt him. “No,” he says, with a softness that aches. “You’re the strongest person I’ve ever met.”

The breath you take is sharp. Unsteady. You press your face into the throw pillow and will yourself not to cry again.

He doesn’t tell you not to.

-

Your phone buzzes near midnight.

KARA: i’ll come home right now. say the word. i will fly back and snap his spine like a glowstick.

You almost laugh. Almost.

Instead, you send back: please don’t. he didn’t do anything wrong.

KARA: fine. but only bc clark is there. and only bc you’re the one who asked. i love you, dummy.

You love her too. So much it hurts.

-

Clark makes up the couch without being asked. You try to stop him—softly, not because you want him to go, but because it feels like the right thing to say. The polite thing. The careful thing.

“You don’t have to stay,” you murmur, standing awkward in the kitchen doorway as he shakes out the old throw blanket. “I’ll be okay.”

He doesn’t look up. Just folds the blanket over one arm and grabs a pillow from the end of the couch. “I know.”

You hesitate. “Lois might want—”

“She understands,” he says, too quickly, stopping you from finishing your sentence. Then, quieter, like the words aren’t meant to be picked apart, he adds, “She knows how much you mean to me.”

You don’t answer. You can’t. Because suddenly, there’s that ache again. The one that lives between your ribs and behind your throat. The one that sounds like I wish you didn’t mean this much.

Clark tucks the pillow behind his head and lowers himself onto the couch with a wince. It’s always too small for him. His socked feet hang off one side, one arm draped over his chest like he’s holding himself in place.

“Clark…” You try again. 

“I’m not leaving you alone tonight,” he says gently, like it’s just a fact. Like gravity. “Not after this.”

The air between you stills. You nod. Swallow hard. He tugs the blanket up to his chest and exhales long through his nose, eyes already drifting shut.

“Goodnight,” he says, voice low, the kind of rumble you feel before you hear.

You linger in the doorway, arms crossed tight like they’re holding in everything you want to say. He’s beautiful in the dark, half-lit by the glow of the streetlamp beyond the curtains—shoulders rising and falling, brow still faintly pinched like even in rest he’s trying not to feel too much.

“Goodnight,” you whisper, barely audible.

You go to bed. You don’t sleep well. Not really. But you sleep better knowing he’s here.

And that’s what terrifies you most.

You lie in bed until late into the night, eyes wide, staring at the ceiling like it might finally tell you what to do. The room is too quiet. The bed too big. The ache too familiar.

She made me promise not to love him. You don’t even think she remembers.

But you do. God, you do.

You remember every inch of it. The summer humidity. The way Kara looked at you. The way her voice had sharpened just enough to make your stomach twist.

You remember the way Clark looked the first time you met him. You remember the curve of his smile and the slight furrow between his brows when he’s thinking too hard. You remember how he didn’t leave tonight, even when you gave him an out.

You bury your face in your pillow and think, I wish I didn’t remember either.

-

The next morning, Kara texts you.

KARA: you okay?

You stare at it for a long time. Then you write back. 

YOU: getting there.

She sends back a string of emojis that don’t quite match—💪🥲🍜🪐—and tells you to come over later. And just like that, she’s still your best friend.

The one you’d never, ever hurt. Even if part of you is already doing it just by breathing too hard when he is near.

-

It’s raining again, months and months later, when it ends. Not dramatically—no thunder, no cinematic flashes of lightning, just a slow, steady mist that clings to the Metropolis skyline like the city itself is holding its breath.

You don’t hear it from Clark. You hear it from Kara. The call comes just before dusk.

“Don’t make a big deal out of it,” she says, without preamble. “But he and Lois… it’s done.”

You sit up straighter, hand still wrapped around the tea you haven’t touched. “What do you mean it’s done?”

“I mean they ended it. Talked. Cried. Hugged it out. He packed a bag and left. He’s back at his apartment now.” A beat of silence. “He’s not okay.” She finally adds.

Your voice comes out hoarse. “Is he hurt?”

“Not like that.” Kara sighs. “It was mutual. Honest. But you know him. He’s holding it like a dying star inside his chest and pretending it doesn’t burn.”

You close your eyes. It feels like when you open them, you’re already there, knocking on his door twenty minutes later. Kara’s already there—curled up on his couch in sweats and a hoodie that says “Krypto Made Me Do It,” that Clark got her for Christmas last year, balancing a takeout container on her knees. She waves a dumpling in your direction.

“He’s on the roof,” she says, mouth full.

You nod and take the stairs two at a time.

-

You’ve seen Clark heartbroken before.

You were there after the girl in college who said she loved him, but not enough to stay in Kansas. You and Kara brought him takeout after the journalism student who cheated, Kara threatening to go beat her up. You watched him cry once—silently, stubbornly—when a summer fling ghosted him right after Pa Kent’s birthday.

But this? This is different.

You feel it the second you step onto the roof. He’s still in that same beat-up flannel. The same jeans with the frayed pocket. But he’s standing like someone’s rewound him too many times—shoulders bent, head low, arms folded tight against the chill that has nothing to do with the wind. Like he’s trying to hold in the silence before it spills.

The city glows beneath him, golden and soft around the edges. It smells like wet concrete and ozone and the faint sweetness of a corner bakery somewhere down the block.

You’ve never seen him this still. He always moves—pacing, shifting, tapping his fingers against whatever surface is near. Even in grief, he’s kinetic. Quiet, but always doing something. But now, he’s just… here. Heavy. Suspended. And somehow smaller for it.

You hesitate at the stairwell door, your hand still curled around the railing, like you’ve stepped into a moment you were never supposed to witness. He doesn’t turn. Doesn’t need to. You know he knows it’s you. He always does. You're not sure if it's because of his enhanced senses, or if it's something else. The same something that always tells you when he's near.

You walk toward him anyway. Carefully. Each step feels too loud in your own body. Your boots squeak just barely on the damp concrete. When you stop beside him, the silence bends around you both like it’s been waiting. He exhales, long and soft. His breath curls in the cool air between you. 

“She said I never fully gave myself to her.” His voice is raw when he finally speaks. Not broken—no, not Clark—but worn, like a page turned too many times.

You swallow. “Did you?”

He doesn’t answer at first. Just shifts his weight like the question tugged something loose. Then, almost too quietly, he says, “I thought I had.”

You glance sideways. His jaw is clenched. His curls are wet from the mist, flattened over his temple. There’s a tremble in his fingers where they press against his arm, like he’s holding back more than he knows how to carry.

Your chest tightens. “You loved her.”

“I did.” A beat. “I do.”

“But?”

“But I couldn’t give her what she needed. I didn’t even know I was holding back until she said it.”

You nod. It’s all you can do. The truth tastes like metal on your tongue.

“She deserved more than half my heart,” he adds.

“And you deserve to be loved by someone who didn’t need to ask for the rest.” You say, not unkindly. Just gentle but firm.

He flinches—not from hurt. From recognition. There’s ink on his forearm, you notice. A smear of something that might’ve once been a signature or a note. His sleeves are still rolled. He hasn’t changed since the conversation. Since he left her apartment. That much is painfully clear.

You want to touch him, but you don’t. Instead, you say, softly, “I thought you two were endgame.”

He turns to you then, just barely, and your breath catches. “I think we both did,” he says.

You nod again, your throat too tight to answer. You look out at the skyline instead. Let the lights of the city blur behind unshed tears.

“I wasn’t going to call you,” he says, sudden in the quiet.

You blink. “Why?”

His hand finds your wrist—not holding, just there. Anchoring. Then, finally he shrugs, like it costs him something to bring it up. “Didn’t want to make it worse.”

Your brow furrows. “Worse how?”

A beat. His eyes stay forward. “Just… figured if I saw you tonight, I’d feel things I don’t know what to do with.”

The silence that follows is dense. Not uncomfortable. Just… full. Like there’s too much unsaid suspended between your shoulders. He doesn’t look at you. You don’t press.

He lets go.

And you let him.

You walk back downstairs together, feet barely making a sound. When you step inside, Kara looks up from the couch. Her hair’s a mess. She’s already wrapped Krypto in one of Clark’s blankets and is halfway through a box of cheezits.

She doesn’t ask about your conversation. Just nods toward the seat beside her and gestures with her hands like nothing in the world has changed.

You sit. Clark drops beside you a few minutes later. The couch is too small. Your thighs touch. He doesn’t shift away. Kara starts a movie. Something loud and dumb. You can’t follow the plot. Because Clark’s elbow brushes yours every few seconds. Because your pinkies are almost touching.

Because you’re here, in the quiet that follows a storm you didn’t think you’d live to see. Sitting beside the boy who’s been part of your world for so long it hurts to remember a time he wasn’t. And now—for the first time in years—he isn’t holding someone else’s heart in his hands. 

You don’t know what that means. Not yet. But you feel it. The shift. The hush. The space that opens and doesn’t immediately close.

Neither of you says a word but something lingers. Unnamed.

And staying.

-

You met him on your third and a half day at the Daily Planet.

He spilled coffee on you. A full cup. Right down the front of your blazer. Frothy iced caramel latte catastrophe. He panicked immediately—rushed through an apology so fast you barely caught the words—then offered, in complete earnestness, to dry-clean your coat. Not send it to the dry cleaner. Do it himself. Like it was the gentlemanly thing to do. You just stared at him, dripping, blinking. “Are you okay?” you asked, because someone had to.

He nodded—too fast—then proceeded to trip over the recycling bin just trying to get you napkins.

You’ve been friends ever since.

It’s not the cleanest origin story.

But over time, somehow, Clark became your person.

Not in the “call-at-3-a.m.-while-sobbing” kind of way (that’s Jimmy), or the “bring-wine-and-insult-your-evil-ex” kind of way (also Jimmy). 

But in a steadier, quieter way. You write your little articles; he helps edit them. You fight with your sources on the sidewalk; he bakes them apology muffins the day after to make sure they don't contact Perry. You cover Metropolis politics like it’s trench warfare, and he smiles across the bullpen at you like you’re doing God’s work even when you're calling the mayor a “power-drunk thumb in a trench coat and a receding hairline you can see from space.”

He’s your constant. Steady and reliable and always five degrees too soft for this world.

Which is exactly why it doesn’t make sense.

Why, one night, it all… shifts.

.

You’re soaked.

Not in the steamy, sexy way. Not even in the Charli-XCX-Spring-Breakers kind of soaked.

Just: wet. Unpleasantly. In that half-drenched, trench-foot, what-is-my-life kind of way.

The weather app lied again (seriously, Metropolis Weather has one job), and your jacket is now suctioned to your body like a bad ex. Your boots have crossed the line from “water-resistant” to a really bad “Swamp Thing cosplay,” and your tote—home to your press pass and a sad little Tupperware of soggy couscous—is dripping like it’s auditioning for a plumbing ad.

So when Clark offers his place—soft-voiced, ever-accommodating, all that big dumb golden retriever energy—you say yes.

Not because you’re weak. Please.

Because he lives closer.

Logistically. Geographically.

(Okay, maybe emotionally, too, but you’ll unpack that when your socks aren’t squelching like a really bad porno.)

So now you’re in his apartment. Standing in the entryway. Leaving a trail of water on his hardwood floors while he gently, gently hands you a towel and fiddles with the thermostat and says things like, “You’re going to catch a cold if you don’t change out of those clothes.”

And you, being the self-possessed adult that you are, snort and say, “Thank you, Mom.”

Clark blushes.

Actually blushes. Like a cartoon character. Like a man who has never, in his life, imagined someone undressing in his home, which is hilarious, given that you’ve seen the size of his arms. 

“Sorry,” he mumbles, rubbing the back of his neck. “I just meant… yeah. You’re soaked.”

His place smells like cinnamon and laundry detergent. There’s a candle burning on the kitchen counter—one of those $9.99 specials from Bath & Body Works. You imagine him in the store, earnestly reading the label on something called "Warm Vanilla Sugar" while the cashier tries to upsell him on a five-for-fifteen deal.

The image makes your lips curl. Your mascara's halfway down your cheekbones, your calves are cramping from the walk, and you should really, really, really just go take a hot shower and crash on his couch.

Instead, you look at him.

And he’s looking back.

Not like most men do—not the bar-stool inventory of what you are and aren’t. Not a scan. Not a question. More like a memory. Like he’s already filed you away in some quietly treasured part of his brain and he’s just taking the time to make sure the details are right. Like you are known.

You don’t think. You don’t make a plan. You just move.

Step forward. Grab the lapels of his flannel like it owes you money. Pull him down. Kiss him.

It’s not graceful. Not choreographed. You catch his chin at a weird angle, and your nose bumps into his, and the kiss lands too sharp, too fast. Like you’re trying to stun him. Like you’re trying to win a fight.

But then, he exhales.

And he melts. Not urgently. Not hungrily. Just… fully.

Like this is the thing he’s been waiting on for months, and now that it’s finally happening, he’s scared to spook it. His hands hover for a beat, like he’s making sure it’s real, and then one comes to rest lightly on your waist—tentative, patient. The other curls around your jaw with all the softness of a man who has no business being this gentle.

You break the kiss first, of course.

Because you always break things first.

When you look at him, he's staring at you like you invented language. Like he doesn’t know what to do with his hands, so they hover awkwardly at your sides, respectful, warm, and shaking just a little.

Which is when the panic crashes in.

He’s not supposed to look at you like that. Like you hung the stars. Like he knows you. Like he loves you.

Because if he does. If he really, truly does. Then eventually, he’ll stop.

They always stop.

People love you in the beginning. They love your bite, your snark, the way you know which part of a politician's background are most incriminating. They love the thrill of earning your attention. They love that you make them work for it. But eventually, the charm fades. The sharp edges cut a little too deep. 

You forget to text back. You overshare. You undershare. You get tired. You get real.

And they get bored.

You’ve never wanted to risk that with Clark. He’s been yours—just yours, in the safe way—for too long.

You step back like the floor might collapse under you. 

Put space. Just… anything between your body and the soft burn of his flannel. Try not to think about how fucking warm he was. “Shit—uh. You don’t have to say anything,” you blurt, voice too fast, too thin. “We can pretend it didn’t happen. Go back to normal. That’s fine.”

Clark’s brows knit, not in offense, just concern. He doesn’t look hurt. He looks… steady. Like he expected this part. “Are you sure?”

The way he asks it is soft. Unhurried. Like it’s not some ultimatum. Like it’s okay if you're not sure.

You open your mouth. Close it. Swallow.

“I just—” You press your fingers to your temple, like maybe that might just reorganize your entire internal filing system. “You know I don’t do relationships.”

“I know,” he says, without hesitation.

You study him—really study him—like you’re trying to find the catch. Some hint of disappointment or wounded ego. But it isn’t there.

He reaches up slowly and tucks a damp strand of hair behind your ear, his touch feather-light. “You don’t have to do anything you’re not ready for.”

You blink. “Even if I’m the one who kissed you?”

Clark smiles, just barely. “Especially then.”

His hand lingers near your cheek, but he doesn’t push. He’s patient in that maddening, disarming way. Waiting, always, for you to meet him halfway.

“Whatever you want,” he says again, quiet. “I’m good with that.”

You stare at him. “You’re really not gonna argue?”

“Nope.”

“Not gonna psychoanalyze me? Tell me I’m avoidant or emotionally stunted or terrified of my own vulnerability?”

He huffs a small laugh. “Already did. Long time ago.”

Your lips twitch despite yourself. “And?”

He shrugs, like it’s the easiest truth in the world. “You’re complicated. But you care. A lot. More than you let people see.”

And damn it, you hate how much that lands. How much he lands. You hate that he’s always been able to see through you, gently, without ever demanding more than you could give. And you hate—more than anything, more than all of that—how badly you want to kiss him again.

So you do.

Maybe to prove a point. Maybe to blow it all up before it can settle. Maybe because you’re already in too deep and part of you is tired of pretending you’re not.

You didn’t plan for it to go further. You didn’t plan anything, really. 

But your hands slide up into the open collar of his flannel, and he stumbles a little as you back him into the bookshelf. His glasses tilt when your fingers brush his temple, and you pull them off carefully, reverently, like they’re the only thing tethering you both to whatever was before.

His eyes are wide. His mouth already parted. And when he looks up at you like this—flushed, breathless, undone—you think, mine.

And it’s terrifying.

Because it means it’s real.

It happened.

God.

It happened.

.

You strip him out of that worn flannel with a kind of sick, obsessive care. Button by button, like you were unwrapping a gift, like you were unearthing something you’d been searching for in every bad date, every failed talking stage, every mediocre bar makeout that had ever left you cold.

His flannel hit the floor. He doesn't say a word.

Not until you settle into his lap, thighs on either side of his. Then—quietly, like he wasn’t sure if it was okay to want anything—he says, “You… you don’t have to be gentle. Just, just in case. So you know.”

But you are. Because he is. 

Because even now, even with your mouth to his, your hands fisted in his curls, his hands stay light on your hips. Like he doesn't want to take more than you’d give. Like he's still giving you the option to leave.

He makes a sound when your hips tilted forward. Not a groan, not exactly. Something deeper. A noise from his chest, halfway between a gasp and a plea. You kiss more of it out of him, mouths clumsy and desperate, fingers scrabbling at the hem of his undershirt, and it feels like breathing.

His breath's caught between his teeth when you rip a condom wrapper in between yours, slotting it onto him with shaking, shaking hands and trying not think about how he's probably the biggest you've ever had.

Lord have mercy.

You ride him like your life depends on it.

You get a thigh cramp halfway through—let out an annoyed groan and tried to keep going—and he, sweet, precious idiot that he is, sits up and says your name like it hurt. Voice quivering like he wants to stop, wants to help, wants to make sure you're okay.

Absolutely no way in hell you wanted that to happen.

“Clark,” you hissed. “Chill. I'm okay, dude. I’m fine.”

“Okay,” he said, dazed, grinning. “Just—didn’t want you to get hurt. I mean. You’re, uh. You were very intense. Just now.”

“Yeah, well, you’re the one with the dick that's slowly rearranging my guts,” you mutter, and he laughs so hard his shoulders shook.

And worse—goddamn it, worse—he looks at you the whole time.

No games. No posing. Just Clark. Holding your hips with those hands—god, those hands, unfairly big and warm and steady—and looking up at you like he meant it.

You’d told him once, over shitty fries past midnight on the curb at McDonald's, that you didn’t trust men who made eye contact during sex. Called it performative. Manipulative. 

“Like they’re trying to Jedi mind-trick you into thinking it’s love,” you’d scoffed, and he'd gone quiet in that way he does, not sulking, just thinking. But that he was filing it away.

So of course—of course—when you're bare above him, hair a mess, mascara still clinging to your cheekbones, all vulnerable and exposed and teetering over the edge because his dick was doing wonderful, amazing things to your insides and making you melt—

He looks up at you with that open, earnest face and asks, softly:

“Do you want me to close my eyes?”

You freeze. Like an absolute idiot. Like prey.

And you say no.

"No."

Never.

He nods. “Okay.”

Then he kissed the inside of your wrist—just because it was there—and you lost ten entire emotional minutes and your grip on reality, grinding down on him like your life depended on it.

You come so hard you forgot your name. 

Forget what you were supposed to be protecting yourself from. Forget every lie you’ve ever told yourself about  the depth of your feelings for him.

It was insane. Deranged.

(Perfect.)

Later, three orgasms later, you collapse over him in a ridiculous heap of limbs and half-dressed post-coital delirium, forehead pressed to his shoulder, chest still heaving.

And he whispered something into your hair—something low and steady and not quite the word love, but so close it that it scraped through your head.

You collapse over him afterward, a mess of limbs and sweat and disbelief, heart hammering against his chest like it’s trying to hide inside him. 

And he wraps himself around you like he wants that. Like he’d let it. Like he’s been waiting to make room for you in all his softest places.

Then he hums.

You don’t recognize it at first—just the vibration under your cheek, the low murmur of a tune, warm and unassuming. You’re half-asleep, boneless, and not fully aware he's still inside of you, pulsing, your fingers curled around his neck.

But you listen.

“You humming Dolly right now?” you murmur, voice hoarse.

Clark hums a little louder. “‘Here You Come Again.’” Then, almost shy, “She’s good. What?”

You groan into his chest. “You absolute dork.”

“I like her,” he says, defensive. “She’s smart. You know she gave away, like, a million books to—wait, are you laughing?”

You are. Full-on giggling into his shoulder now. Giddy and too full and sore in all the best ways.

.

And you really don't mean to keep it going in the morning, let alone  in the shower.

Truly. 

You're just trying to get clean. 

Wash off the evidence of the night before—sweat and come and a whole life’s worth of repressed emotional distress—but then, Clark steps in right behind you, warm and quiet and too gentle. 

And suddenly it was over for you. Just absolutely fucking over.

He offers to join, sheepish and bashful, eyes flicking away like he hadn’t just had his face between your thighs just a few hours ago. “Just to save water,” he says. “'Cause of the environment… and all that.”

And sure, Clark. You absolute liar. The environment.

Except the second he steps in behind you—naked, dripping wet, glasses still off so he looked all boyish and wreckable—your resolve crumples like wet newspaper.

He reaches around you for the body wash and that was your downfall. Arm flexing around your waist, that goddamn baritone rumble in your ear as he asks, “This one okay?”

Like you're supposed to just—what? function when his voice was doing that thing? That was supposed to be okay?

But then his hands are on your hips—steady, reverent, huge—and you tilt your head back just enough to graze his jaw. He flinches. Or maybe you do. And before either of you could process it, your palm's flat against the tile and Clark was slowly pressing himself against your back.

“Okay?” he asks, voice a little too hoarse, a little too human.

You nod. “Yeah. Just—don’t be sweet about it.”

“But I'm always sweet about it,” he mumbles, and then he was, dragging a hand up your stomach, brushing your wet hair off your neck, mouthing at the base of your spine like he was making a wish.

He moves inside you slow. 

Like he means it. Like he thinks he’d scare you off if he went too fast. And it was disgusting, really, how good it felt. How intimate all of this was.

Your knees nearly buckle. You have to brace yourself with both palms on the glass, forehead pressed against fogged-up safety plastic, biting down on your own goddamn fist to keep from crying out his name like something from a romance novel.

(You still did, eventually. He made sure of that when he pressed one large hand up against your stomach so you can feel him, really feel him, and another down your front, rubbing at your clit like it was a lifeline until you saw stars.)

"Clark. Clar—fuck, baby, I'm almost—Jesus Christ—oH!"

When it was over—when your legs were jelly and your throat was raw and your spine was doing that post-orgasm melt thing—you turn to rinse the shampoo out of your hair, and he just… helped. Without you even having to say anything.

He lathers it for you, gentle and thorough, massaging your scalp. His cheeks are pink. His mouth is pink. You think about biting him. Maybe.

But instead, you let yourself lean into his chest while the water poured down over both of you, and you didn’t speak, because if you spoke, it would become too real.

So, you just let him wash your back.

He didn’t ask you to stay.

You didn’t ask if he wanted you to.

But when you wander out of the bedroom ten minutes later—half-wet, flushed, wearing his old Central Kansas A&M hoodie like it hadn’t just been folded neatly in a drawer—you find him in the kitchen, humming again. 

Making pancakes.

“You want blueberries in yours?” he asks, like he didn’t have his dick in you in the shower ten minutes ago.

And you—traumatized, horny, emotionally compromised—you say, “Sure."

Then, because your brain has finally rebooted just enough to return to its default defense mechanism:

“Also, we need to talk.”

Clark pauses mid-pour, then turns around, spatula still in hand. “Okay,” he says, unbothered. His voice is calm, casual. Like you didn’t almost combust from having maybe, four—no, five or six orgasms in his arms over the past twelve hours.

You cross your arms over your chest, over his sweatshirt. “Last night—and this morning was great. I mean, objectively. A solid eight out of ten. No complaints.”

He looks amused. “Only eight?”

“I’m leaving room for improvement,” you say, defensive. “But I just want to be clear again that this isn’t… this isn’t a thing.”

Clark nods slowly. “Okay.”

You squint at him. “You’re not going to ask what I mean by that?”

“Well,” he says, lips twitching, “I—uh, I figured I’d let you finish your prepared statement first.”

You gape at him. “I knew I was giving Perry's press conference energy.”

“You’re even holding your coffee like a mic.”

You glance down. You are. Damn it.

He walks over, sets your pancake on the table next to you, and then settles into the armchair across from the couch. His legs are way too long. He has to fold them a little awkwardly, which should be goofy, but somehow only makes him look more like someone who could carry you up a mountain and apologize for the inconvenience while doing it.

You sip your coffee. Clear your throat. “So. Ground rules.”

He raises his brows. “Rules?”

“Yes. Rules. Guidelines. Frameworks for how this… goes.”

Clark tilts his head. “You mean for… us?”

“No, for NATO,” you deadpan. “Yes, us.”

He tries to cover a laugh with a sip of his own mug, but you see the dimple twitch. Smug bastard.

You forge ahead. “Okay. Rule one: this is casual. Very casual. Like… like ‘you can sleep with other people’ casual.”

Clark nods, slow. Thoughtful. “Do you want to sleep with other people?”

“No,” you admit. Then scowl. “But I want to have the option.”

“Right,” he says, nodding. “The illusion of freedom.”

“Exactly. Wait—"

He’s smiling at you now. Soft and fond and dangerously amused.

You plow on. “Whatever. Rule two: no romantic stuff. No dates. No—like—Valentine’s Day cards or surprise cupcakes or, God forbid, foot rubs.”

“You’re really against foot rubs?”

“I just think they set a tone.”

Clark looks at his plate. “What if I just make you pancakes sometimes?”

You narrow your eyes. “Pancakes are a gray area. I'm only allowing it this time."

“Noted.”

You tuck your feet under you. “Rule three: no falling in love.”

He looks up.

There’s a pause. A beat of silence so thick it fills the whole room.

You add, quickly, “I know that sounds dramatic, but I’ve seen what love does to people, and it’s terrifying. They lose brain cells. They post Instagram captions like ‘my forever’ with sparkly emojis. They start making weird couple TikToks where they throw cheese slices at each other’s heads. I can’t be part of that kind of ecosystem. I'm lactose intolerant."

Clark’s smiling again. Not in the ha ha you’re sooooo funny way. In the I think you’re the best thing to ever happen to me way, which is very much against the rules.

“Are you even taking this seriously?” you demand.

“I am,” he says, clearly lying. “You’re very intimidating.”

You roll your eyes and gesture wildly. “I’m just saying! I don’t want this to become something that implodes because I—God, because I can’t remember your favorite pizza topping one day and suddenly we’re—we're not friends anymore and splitting custody of houseplants and  fucking Cat is stuck writing a gossip column about it.”

Clark chuckles. A pause. “well, for the record? My favorite pizza topping is mushrooms.”

You wrinkle your nose. “That’s a red flag.”

“You’re the one writing up a treaty before brunch.”

“Exactly,” you say, triumphant. “See? We’re incompatible.”

Clark leans forward slightly. 

The sunlight from the window cuts across his glasses, but you can still see his eyes, warm and impossibly blue, locked on yours like you’re the only person in Metropolis who matters. “I think you’re scared,” he says gently. “Which is okay. I just want you to know… I’m not going anywhere. Rules or not.”

And that—

God. That should not make your eyes burn the way it does.

You shake your head, fast. “Don’t say stuff like that. It’s dangerous. You’ll trick me into liking you more.”

“I’m just being honest.”

“Well, stop.”

He raises a brow. “What do I do if I want to kiss you?”

You freeze.

Your heart does a complicated backflip-kick into your ribs.

“...well, that's allowed,” you mutter.

He smiles again, dimple sinking deep.

And then, because he’s a menace with zero self-preservation, he leans in.

You meet him halfway.

And it’s soft this time. Sweeter. Slower. No rain, no adrenaline, just his hand cradling your jaw and your fingers twisted in the hem of his t-shirt like you’re trying to anchor yourself to something real.

.

It's been months now of your little arrangement. And you're already destroyed by the time he even speaks.

Not because he’s touched you yet. Not really. He’s just there, mouth warm against the inside of your thigh, hands stroking the back of your knees like you’re something delicate. Something precious.

Which is so fucked. You are not precious.

You told him that that, breathless and still shirtless and sitting on his kitchen counter at midnight while he gently fed you the leftover peach cobbler Martha left for the two of you straight from the fridge.

He just nodded. Wiped away the crumb left on the edge of your lip. Said, “Okay.”

And then he kissed the inside of your wrist again and said, “You’re still allowed to want things, you know.”

Which is—god, so not fair. 

Now he’s between your legs, kissing a line up your thigh like he’s praying. He’s been taking his time. Like the goal isn’t to get you off, but to study you. Like he’s memorizing the exact way your breath catches and the little twitch of your fingers every time he licks just close enough to your center, but not quite.

You’re panting. Whimpering. Biting your lip so hard you’re pretty sure you taste blood.

And he’s grinning. Not cocky—just happy. Which is so much, so much worse.

“You’re staring at me again,” you breathe.

Clark hums, kissing just below your hip. “I just like looking at you.”

“That’s crazy,” you whisper. “You’re crazy.”

“Probably.” He kisses your navel. “Do you want me to stop?”

You whine. You actually whine. You feel like you've just set feminism back by centuries. “No.”

“Didn’t think so,” he murmurs, nuzzling into your skin. And then, because he’s the devil in a button-up: “You know, the way you objectify me is honestly very inappropriate. I’m not just a—just a piece of meat, you know.”

You bark out a laugh, head tipping back against the pillow. “So bad news, you're actually a mountain of meat, man.”

“See? Objectified.” He presses a kiss just below your ribs. “Reduced to my—”kiss“—ridiculous shoulders—”kiss“—and tragic dimples—”kiss“—and stupidly proportionate thighs—”

“I didn’t say anything about your thighs—”

“Oh, but I think you were thinking it.”

You giggle, delirious. Drunk on this man. “God, shut up and fuck me.”

Clark goes still.

Not awkwardly—this isn’t early-days Clark, the one who used to stammer when you wore red lipstick when you came over and knocked over his own coffee trying to offer you a napkin. 

This Clark—the one under you now, hands broad and firm against your thighs, spine pressed into the worn couch like it’s the only thing keeping him from rising into the sky—this Clark is different.  

He’s grown into himself. Into this. Into you.

Not cocky, not exactly. But assured in a way that makes your stomach clench and your mouth go dry. You’ve seen it happen slowly. Like the sunrise—you didn’t notice until the whole room was full of it.

This Clark doesn't flinch when you flirt, doesn’t panic when your mouth goes sharp or your eyes go guarded. He just… waits. He sees it all. Lets you burn yourself out. And then lays a hand on your cheek like you’re made of something precious.

Still, he doesn’t move.

And that’s what sets you off.

You squirm, shifting your weight in his lap, irritated now. “What?”

He looks up at you, his jaw tight, hands still splayed over your thighs like he doesn’t know whether to hold on or let go. There’s something in his eyes, sharp, patient, impossibly tender, and it makes your chest ache in a way you refuse to name.

“You really want that?” he asks, voice low.

You roll your eyes. “You think I climbed onto your face to do taxes?”

“That’s not what I asked.”

Your stomach flips. You hate when he does this. Gets all serious and calm and measured while you’re flailing, clearly two seconds away from combusting. You cross your arms over your chest—petulant, defensive. “Clark.”

“You say stuff like that,” he murmurs, one hand slowly dragging up the back of your thigh, “but then you pull back like I’ve asked for your soul.”

You glare at him. “I’m not pulling back.”

He lifts a brow. “You haven’t even kissed me yet.”

You scowl. “I was about to, but you’re being annoying.”

His smile is crooked, lazy, maddening. “Yeah? Gonna punish me for it?”

Your heart skips. You hate that you love it when he talks like that. You hate that he’s right—that you’re the one drawing lines in the sand and then pretending you don’t care when he steps over them.

You lean down, hover over his mouth. “I swear to god, if you don’t do something soon, I’m walking out that door.”

He catches your jaw in one hand, gentle but firm. “You won’t.”

“Watch me.”

His thumb drags over your bottom lip. Lets it pop out just a bit, so you can feel the way the wetness drips over your chin. “You always say that. You never do.”

Your breath stutters. Your spine goes stiff. You hate how much he knows you. You hate that he’s always so calm about it, so damn tender, even when he’s calling you out.

“I’m not just a warm body, you know,” he says after a beat, the faintest furrow between his brows. “If that’s what you wanted, you should’ve picked someone who doesn’t look at you like I do.”

You blink. “And how is that?”

Clark tilts his head, eyes never leaving yours. “Like I actually see you.”

You hate him for that. A little.

But you kiss him anyway.

Hard. Sharp. Like a warning.

And then he flips you—effortless, smooth, like it doesn’t take more than a breath. One of his hands pins your wrists above your head. The other trails slow up the curve of your thigh. His mouth finds your neck, and you gasp—not in surprise, but because it’s too much. He’s too much.

“You keep asking me to take you apart,” he murmurs against your skin, “but you never let me show you what it actually means.”

“Oh my god,” you groan, shivering under him. “You are so fucking—”

“What?” he interrupts, dragging his mouth back up to yours. “Soft? Serious? A buzzkill?”

You don’t respond. You’re too busy squirming, too busy arching into him, because he’s right. Again.

“Too bad,” he murmurs, smiling like a secret. “You don’t get to run the show tonight.”

And you're already clawing at his back by the time he finally pushes in. And god, fuck, it’s—

He’s so much. Too much. Even now, even after months of attempting to get used to him, after a minimum of one hour of foreplay every time, hours spent fingering you open and devouring you whole and it still makes your spine tingle in the best way possible. The push and pull of it every time, the struggle, the way he looks at you so, so proudly when he's bottomed out and your smiling from under him like you've just won the lottery.

You make a sound—something small, strangled, "Clark."—and he doesn’t shush you this time.

He smiles.

“There it is,” he murmurs. “Now we’re being honest.”

.

Then one day, Clark cancels a lunch.

That’s it. That’s all. Not the end of the world.

He texts you a sweet apology. Too many words, as always, classic Clark, something about a lead on some money laundering story and “I’ll bring dinner to make up for it, promise, anything you want, even that overpriced pasta from the place with the weird chairs.” He adds three emojis. Two are completely nonsensical (a chicken and a rain cloud?). One is a little heart. You stare at it longer than you should.

You text back something breezy. Casual. “You’re the one missing out on my lunchtime TedTalk about corrupt city councilmen and their tragic toupees.”

He doesn’t respond until hours later. Just a thumbs-up emoji.

You tell yourself it’s fine. You tell yourself you don’t care.

.

Then it happens again.

This time, you're already standing outside the Planet, coffee lukewarm, watching a construction crew down the block try to maneuver scaffolding around a new billboard. It’s another Superman PSA—third this month. Something about disaster preparedness and blood drives. His cape’s caught mid-whip, expression noble and inhumanly calm. You roll your eyes, but your stomach tugs a little. Something about the stillness in his posture—it looks almost familiar.

Your phone rings.

Clark.

You answer with a smirk, trying to make it light. “Should I be worried you’ve joined a pyramid scheme? Please tell me you’re not selling supplements.”

There’s a pause, then his voice, warm but ragged around the edges: “I’m so sorry. Something came up. Can I explain later?”

You make some offhand joke about mafia debt collectors and say, “No worries,” even as your stomach twists.

He sounds tired. Tired in a way Clark never really gets. You’re the one who burns out, who rants and paces and flirts with deadline-induced breakdowns. He’s the one who shows up with coffee and an extra pen. Always.

But now his voice has this roughness to it. Frayed edges. Like he’s trying not to breathe too hard into the receiver. Like he just ran here. Or ran away from somewhere.

“Are you okay?” you ask, before you can stop yourself.

Another pause. “Yeah,” he says, and he softens, like he always does when he hears your voice. “I will be.”

.

By week three, he’s dodging plans like it’s his new hobby. You’re not hurt, obviously. You’re busy too. You have other friends. You go to bars. You flirt with bartenders you’ll never text back. You have a whole life outside of this whole thing with Clark.

It’s not a relationship. It’s just a thing. A nice, dependable, sometimes pantsless thing.

That’s all.

But still, there’s this night.

You’re at your apartment. There’s an old movie playing, something black and white and miserable, and Clark was supposed to be here an hour ago.

You’d ordered his favorite takeout. You’d even found that dumb craft soda he likes, the one that tastes vaguely like melted gummy worms. You told yourself you just wanted someone to share the noodles with.

He doesn’t show.

No call. No text.

You sit through the entire movie. Alone.

And when your phone finally buzzes—close to midnight, just his name and a short, “I’m so sorry. Can we talk soon?”— you stare at it for a long moment.

Then you flip your phone over, face-down.

And in the dark, you think, Shit. This is how it starts. The distance. The shift. The slow pulling away.

You’ve done it to people before.

You just never thought you’d be on the receiving end.

Not from him.

Not from Clark.

.

Around 11:30, you open Twitter out of boredom. You don’t cry. That would imply something was wrong. That you were hurt. You’re not. Obviously.

You’re just a little annoyed.

And maybe, just mayb, you’re thinking about how Clark used to be your safest person. Your sure thing. Your just-text-me, just-call-me, just-walk-right-in-without-knocking guy.

And now he’s something else. Something slippery. Something you have to squint at sideways to understand.

Your thumb scrolls through the usual mess. Politicians being embarrassing, memes you’re already tired of, some half-hearted discourse about whether the Metropolis skyline is over-designed or “delightfully optimistic.”

Then: a video clip.

No sound. Just shaky phone footage.

A blur of red and blue moving fast—streaking through the air over Hobbs Bay, pulling someone from a collapsed scaffolding, leaving behind a wake of stunned bystanders and bent steel.

You pause. Watch it again. Retweets piling up.

BREAKING: Superman saves construction worker after scaffolding collapse.

You stare at it for a second longer than you mean to, then snort under your breath.

Must be nice, you think. Some people get rescued. Some other unlucky fuckers just get ghosted.

.

The message comes on a Thursday. One of those weirdly warm spring evenings when Metropolis smells like asphalt and deli grease and the last ten years of your bad decisions.

Hey. You free tonight?

You stare at it for a moment too long. Thumb hovering.

Then:

yeah. yours?

A pause.

If you want.

God, he’s infuriating. Polite even now. Careful with you, like you’re made of something breakable. Like you haven’t already cracked half a dozen times this month alone.

Still, you go.

.

It’s not tense at first. It’s easy. Familiar.

Clark opens the door wearing one of those threadbare t-shirts that should be illegal, sleeves barely containing his biceps, neckline just a little too stretched from use. His hair’s damp. There’s flour on his cheek.

“You baked?” you ask, stepping past him before he can do that thing where he tries to gauge your mood like a barometer.

He shrugs. “Felt like it.”

There’s banana bread cooling on the counter. Two plates. One knife. He’s already sliced yours and left the end piece—your favorite—on the left, like always.

You want to be mad. Or suspicious. Or anything that would make this easier to navigate. But it’s hard to keep your footing when he’s being like this. Soft. Normal. Like he didn’t flake three times last month. Like you hadn’t spent the last few nights half-dressed and overthinking on your bathroom floor

But them again, you could never really resist him for that long.

So maybe it’s no surprise that your dress ends up pooled around your ankles. The lamp’s still on. Your mouths are moving like they’ve done this a hundred times—because you have, but it's not enough, will never be enough—and you’re both pretending it’s still casual. Still nothing.

Except it doesn’t feel like nothing.

And then Clark pulls back.

Not sharply. Not like he’s been burned. More like he just remembered something, which, again, not unusual. You’ve seen that look before. That oh shit look.

But tonight, he doesn’t immediately jump up. 

He doesn’t mutter something about needing to check in with Perry or help Lois edit her headline.

He just… stares at you.

And not in the usual way, not with those soft, soft eyes like you’re something he stumbled across in a field and decided to treasure. He looks—serious. Scared, even. His hand is still on your hip, but his other is twitching slightly at his side like it doesn’t know what to do with itself.

“We need to talk,” he says.

You still have one shoe on. You don’t even remember kicking the other off.

You blink at him. “I—what?”

He licks his lips. His glasses are smudged. He doesn’t take them off.

“Something’s been—there’s something that I need to tell you,” he says, slower now, like he’s rehearsing this in real time and trying not to panic.

And that—that is when your stomach drops.

Because you know this script. You’ve seen this scene. The music swells, the camera pans in, the guy who smells like safety and Sunday mornings says he “needs to talk,” and then boom. Heartbreak, cut to black, roll credits.

You hold up a hand before he can say anything else. “Wait. Just… don’t. Yet.”

Clark pauses. He blinks at you.

“Look,” you say, backing up a step, scanning the room like you’re looking for your dignity. “If this is about how I’ve been kind of, I don’t know, evasive or inconsistent or, like, deeply emotionally unavailable, I just want to say — I know. Okay? You don’t have to do this so gently.”

His face twists. “What?”

“You’re trying to break things off,” you continue, steamrolling him, your voice way too steady for the freefall happening inside your chest. “And I get it. I do. You’ve been pulling away for weeks, you disappear all the time, you don’t sleep anymore, you look like you’ve been hit by a truck most days, which I assumed was just bad reporting hours, but who knows, maybe it’s metaphorical.”

Clark tries again. “I’m not—”

“It’s fine,” you say, voice louder now. “It’s fine if you met someone. You don’t have to pretend it’s not happening.”

“I didn’t—”

“You’re allowed to outgrow this. Me. Whatever this is.”

Your dress is still on the floor, and you suddenly want it back on like it’s armor. You crouch to grab it, clumsy with urgency, your hands all wrong.

“I should’ve seen it coming. You were too good to last. Guys like you don’t stick around for girls like me.”

“Hey,” he says sharply, stepping forward, but you back away before he can reach you.

“Don’t,” you say, holding your dress to your chest like a shield. “Don’t be nice to me about it.”

Clark runs both hands through his hair. He looks like he’s short-circuiting. “You’re not even letting me—I’m not trying to end this with you.”

You stare at him, lips parted.

He’s breathing hard now. His glasses are askew. His shirt’s wrinkled, and his jaw is clenched like he’s holding something back with both hands.

“I was going to tell you something,” he says, voice raw. “Something real. Something I’ve never told anyone who didn’t already know.”

You freeze.

Because that doesn’t sound like cheating.

That sounds like confession.

“What,” you whisper, suddenly breathless. “Like a dark secret? You have a kid? You’re actually married? Are you part of a mafia? Are you—Oh my God. Are you a stripper?”

“What?” he blurts, completely thrown.

“I don’t know, Clark!” your voice spikes, hands flying up. “What the hell could you possibly say right now that starts with ‘we need to talk’ and isn’t a relationship guillotine?”

His eyes flick to the window. Just for a second. A glance, like instinct. And then right back to you.

And for the first time, you see it.

The quiet panic. The way his entire body is buzzing like a live wire under skin.

Like he’s not scared of you.  He’s scared for you.

But it’s too late. You’ve already built the wall and bricked yourself in.

You grab your dress, yanking it on with the dignity of a raccoon being evicted from a trash can. Somewhere behind you, Clark says your name again, gentle, like a bruise he’s afraid to touch. You ignore it.

Instead, you just start collecting your things like a squirrel in crisis.

Because—and this is humiliating—you’ve essentially moved into his place over the last year in the slowest, most passive-aggressive way possible. Not officially. Not “hey, should we get you some keys?” But enough that the signs are there. 

Enough that you now have to do this, which is to say the break-up equivalent of packing a go-bag in the middle of a fire drill.

You grab the mug with the faded “Central City Gazette Student Press 2013” logo you refuse to drink out of at home because it’s chipped, but which you do drink out of here, because Clark always makes tea the right way — hot, strong, too much honey. You grab the copy of Tomorrow, and Tomorrow, and Tomorrow you stole from his shelf three months ago and meant to pretend was yours all along. The sweatshirt he “forgot” you left here, that you “forgot” he noticed you wore to bed six times in a row.

You jam it all into your work tote like it’s a goddamn body bag.

Then there are the smaller things. The stupid things.

The half-used notepad from a city council meeting where someone tried to blame vigilante-induced infrastructure damage on solar panels. The disposable camera from that one weekend in Smallville — the one you never developed because the idea of seeing his parents smile at you felt too dangerous, too much like you might belong there.

And then you eye the drawer next to his bed. Your drawer, to get that clear, which was never explicitly claimed but which somehow holds one (1) pair of fuzzy pink handcuffs, two (2) half-empty bottles of lube, and three (3) protein bars, one of which is probably from last fiscal year. You shove it all into your bag, zipper groaning like a sad, sad accordion.

Clark’s still standing near the window, looking bewildered. Like he walked into the scene five minutes late and can’t tell who started the fire.

“Wait—are you leaving? You don’t have to—just—can we talk? Please?”

You don’t look at him.

Instead, you gesture vaguely at your bag. “This is just me doing a quick inventory of my terrible judgment. Don’t mind me.”

“Can you stop for two seconds and just let me—”

“Clark,” you say, and your voice comes out quieter than you meant it to. “It’s okay.”

It isn’t. But you’re trying to win the emotional Olympics in the “cool and detached” category, and you’re not about to blow it with something as devastating as eye contact.

You sling the bag over your shoulder and pause by the door. 

You consider saying something devastating and poetic. Something from Hamlet, maybe. You’ve always liked the line about cutting love out with a knife and it still bleeding. But instead, you give him a big, fake smile and an inexplicable hand up, like a contestant leaving Rupaul's Drag Race in disgrace.

“No harm, no foul,” you say. “Tell whoever you're seeing that I say hi.”

And then you leave.

.

You are, in every measurable way, unwell.

You don’t call it a breakup.

That would imply there was something official to break. That you were ever really together. That there was something solid under your feet to begin with, instead of months of teasing the edge, hovering over the line like two people too chicken to admit they’d already crossed it.

So, no. Not a breakup.

Just—a recalibration. A pause. A hot minute.

You say this to Jimmy, who narrows his eyes and says, “You’re holding a spoon like a murder weapon right now, so I’m gonna circle back on the ‘hot’ part of that minute.”

You even say it to the woman at the corner bodega—the one who always gave Clark an extra packet of honey for his tea and once slipped you a protein bar when you looked particularly anemic on a deadline.

She glances up from restocking the gum and says, “He’s okay? The tall guy? With the glasses and the very... polite shoulders?”

You blink. “Sorry, what?”

“He always said thank you. For the bag. Like, sincerely.” She squints at you. “You were good together.”

You make a sound of vague agreement and exit before she asks if you want your usual. (You do. But the idea of holding a wrap in your hands right now makes your stomach lurch.)

You take your PTO. Two weeks. You don’t tell anyone where you’re going, mostly because you’re not going anywhere. You lie in bed. You eat cereal out of a mug. You watch a three-hour documentary about the collapse of a bridge in Gotham and cry when a random city engineer says, “We tried our best, but it wasn’t enough.”

You don't let yourself think about that… that stupid drawer by Clark’s bed.

Or the banana bread.

Because there is banana bread.

It shows up on your doorstep the morning of Day Three, wrapped in wax paper and still warm. No note. Just a faint imprint where a palm must’ve rested on the foil, like he wasn’t sure if he should knock. You don’t bring it inside right away.

You stare at it. Then the door. Then back at the bread like it might explode.

Eventually, you take it in. Set it on the counter. Eat half of it standing over the sink with your fingers, because you don’t trust yourself to not drop it.

He texts you the next day. Just your name. Then a minute later: Just wanted to check in. Hope you’re doing okay.

You stare at the dots blinking at the bottom of the screen until they disappear.

You don’t answer.

He calls a few times, a few days later. Your phone lights up with his name, and you let it ring out. Not because you’re angry—okay, maybe you are, a little—but because you know the sound of his voice will wreck you. Because if he says your name in that soft, patient, Clark way, you’ll crack like a fucking fault line.

He doesn't leave a voicemai any of the times l. Just hangs up.

(You spend the rest of the night clutching a throw pillow to your stomach like it’s a life raft.)

You tell yourself this is temporary. You’ll get it together tomorrow.

And then tomorrow happens.

And then the next day.

And then—on the seventh day, like Jesus, you rise.

Kind of.

You pull on the ugliest hoodie you own, some too-large sweatpants with a questionable stain, and a pair of knockoff Crocs. Your hair is doing something that technically defies gravity, and you haven’t worn deodorant since Tuesday. Your soul is gone. Your standards are lower. All that remains is one singular thought:

Hotdog.

.

Which is how you find yourself under the flickering fluorescent lights of a 7/11 at 1:42 a.m., perched on the curb out front like a feral raccoon, holding a lukewarm hotdog in one hand and a Red Bull in the other, actively disassociating while Whitney Houston’s I Will Always Love You plays through a tinny outdoor speaker with all the emotional resonance of a dying Roomba.

You stare off into the distance.

Which is, of course, exactly when Clark walks up.

You see him in your periphery first. Hear the crunch of gravel, the telltale weight of his sneakers.

“No,” you say, out loud. “No. No. Absolutely not.”

Clark stops short. “Hi,” he says, voice soft. A little nervous.

You hold up the hotdog like a loaded gun. “Turn around.”

“I—”

“I swear to god, Clark.” You don’t even look at him. “I am mentally and spiritually clinging to life by the barest thread, and if you say something kind to me right now, I will vomit on the pavement.”

He nods. Raises both hands. “Okay. Not saying anything.”

You stare at him. His flannel is wrinkled. His hair’s sticking up at the back. There’s a scuff on his glasses like he’s been rubbing at them all day.

Goddammit. He looks like home.

You turn your burning eyes back to the pavement and try to focus on your dinner. Try to remember how this whole dignity thing works.

“Why are you here,” you say finally, flat.

He swallows. “Because I needed to see you. Because I’ve been calling, and—”

“Right,” you cut in. “The calls. That I didn’t answer. On purpose.”

“I know.”

“And you took that as a challenge?”

Clark exhales slowly. He takes a tentative step closer.

“I’ve tried everything else,” he says.

You roll your eyes. “Maybe that’s because you’re not supposed to fix this. Maybe this is just what it is now.”

“That’s not what I want.”

You shrug. “And? Sometimes we don’t get what we want. That’s life. Welcome.”

He’s quiet. Long enough that you glance sideways and catch him staring at you with a look you can’t name. Doesn’t defend himself. Just stands there, quiet, while a beat-up minivan idles past the edge of the lot and the Whitney Houston outro fades into static. And you’re just about to tell him to cut it out—whatever this whole tortured-eyes, kicked-puppy thing is—when he steps forward.

One arm wraps around your waist.

And then—

You are no longer on the ground.

You shriek like a B-movie scream queen, clutching your 7/11 hotdog in its sad foil wrapper like it might save your life. “WHAT THE FUCK,” you yell. “WHAT—ARE YOU KIDDING ME—WHAT IS HAPPENING.”

“I’m sorry!” Clark yells over the wind.

“ARE YOU—IS THIS YOU?! ARE YOU—”

“Yeah!” he shouts. “Hi! Surprise!”

“SUPERMAN?!”

“…Yes!” he calls back, cringing midair.

“YOU’RE SUPERMAN?!”

Clark doesn’t answer that. Just… grimaces. Flying sideways. His arm tightening around your waist like he’s half-expecting you to elbow him in the ribs and wriggle free.

You might, honestly. As soon as your brain catches up. You’re only just vaguely aware of your Croc flying off somewhere over a used car dealership.

“My toothbrush is still at your apartment!” you shriek.

“I know!”

“I HAVE A TOOTHBRUSH AT SUPERMAN’S APARTMENT!”

“I know! That’s why I—listen, I panicked! You weren’t picking up! You blocked me on like, four platforms—”

“I BLOCKED YOU BECAUSE I THOUGHT YOU WERE GHOSTING ME FOR ANOTHER GIRL, NOT MOONLIGHTING AS A NATIONAL TREASURE.”

The wind roars past your ears. Your teeth are chattering. You’re barely holding onto the last few shreds of coherence. And Clark—no, Superman, apparently—he’s not even breaking a sweat.

“You couldn’t have called?” you snap.

“I did!”

“WITH WHAT, MORSE CODE?”

“I showed up at your apartment!”

“With a cape, Kent?!”

“No! No, the cape’s new—look, I didn’t know what else to do. You wouldn’t talk to me. Jimmy said you took PTO and haven’t left your apartment in four days and I just—I needed you to see me. To listen.”

You make an inhuman noise, somewhere between a wail and a curse. “So your solution was to airlift me like a stolen asset out of a CIA bunker?!”

“I checked to make sure no one was looking!”

“YOU TOOK ME HOSTAGE.”

“I swept the parking lot, I swear! The cameras at 7/11 are fake, and there was one guy but he was busy dropping a Big Gulp.”

You blink at him. Wind in your eyes. A foot still bare. There’s an onion from your hotdog stuck to your shirt. Your heart does a slow, brutal somersault.

“…Okay,” you breathe. “Okay, so this is real.”

“It’s real,” he says.

“Like, capital-R Real.”

“Yeah.”

You shake your head once, sharp. “Jesus Christ.”

And then something in you quiets. Something that’s been vibrating with panic for days—for weeks—sputters out like the end of a bad engine. You’re too tired to scream again. You’re too wrung-out to cry.

So you just say, quietly: “I'm sorry. For not listening. Or giving you the time to explain. But, what the fuck, dude.”

Clark swallows. His eyes flick to your mouth, then away. He nods—once.

“I didn’t want to lie to you,” he says again, quieter now. “I hated it. Every second of it.”

His breath fogs slightly in the night air. He still won’t quite meet your eyes.

“I thought I could keep it separate. You and… that part of me. I thought if I just kept my head down and made you pancakes and let you call me out when I forgot to text back, it’d be enough.”

He runs a hand through his hair, still wind-tossed from flight. “But then it wasn’t. Because I started… I don’t know, noticing stuff. Like the way you always get a little mean when you’re scared. Or how you never remember to lock your front door but you’ll glare at me for refusing to jaywalk. And every time I had to run off and I saw the look on your face—I wanted to tell you. I almost told you, like, like, forty darn times.”

His voice cracks a little. He’s still not looking at you.

“I kept thinking, if I say it out loud, you’ll leave. Or worse—you’ll stay, but only because you think you owe me something. Because I have the suit. Because I can lift a building. But I don’t want you to be impressed by me. I just want you to look at me the way you used to. Like I’m just… Clark.”

He laughs, sudden and shaky. “God, I sound insane.”

You say nothing. You’re not breathing very well.

And then, softly, finally, like he’s pushing it out before he loses the nerve: “I love you. Not in a heroic, save-the-day kind of way. Just—I love you. I think I’ve been in love with you since you made me help you tail that councilman with the suspicious hair plugs. And you made fun of me the whole time, but you still brought snacks.”

He swallows. “I don’t need anything from you. I just wanted you to know.”

The wind whips gently around you both now, slower, softer. Like the world has dialed down to listen in. 

Clark hovers easily in place, arms strong around you, careful and warm, like he’s afraid you’ll wriggle free again and drop straight through the clouds.

He’s flushed. Nervous. He looks like he’s trying to prepare for every possible version of the moment after this. Every soft or horrible thing you might say. Every joke you might make to dodge the weight of it. Every silence.

You lean back a little to look at him.

And then, honestly, you just kiss him.

Because it’s easier than saying the whole thing. Easier than listing every moment that’s led to this, every reason you tried not to fall for him and did anyway. 

The time he walked (not flew) across the city in the rain because you forgot your keys. 

The fact that he never interrupts when you’re spiraling, just waits it out, steady and warm and right there. 

The way he let you drag him into that adult store and joked around and made him blush with the pink handcuffs, and then he bought them for you anyway.

 The banana bread. 

“I love you too, you idiot.”

His whole face crumples. And then he laughs, messy and relieved and a little helpless, like he wasn’t expecting you to say it back. Like he wasn’t hoping.

“You do?”

You nod, eyes stinging. “Yeah. In every kind of way.”

And Clark—not Superman, Clark Kent, the world’s most ridiculous man, the guy you’ve known and kissed and run from and found again—leans in and kisses you silly again.

.

You’re still smiling when he stumbles through your front door with you in his arms.

Not gracefully. Not like some poised, soap-opera seduction —more like the two of you crash through the threshold like a couple of drunk fucking idiots who forgot how to use their limbs. You reach back and slap the door shut, barely catching the knob, breathless from altitude and adrenaline and everything that’s been boiling under your skin for months.

Clark kicks over your shoe rack by accident. It topples over with a loud bang and suddenly, all your shoes are on the floor.

“Sorry,” he says, half-choking on a grin, already pressing you to the wall. “I’ll—clean that up—later—”

You cut him off with your mouth. Sloppy, desperate. Fingers tangling in his curls, tugging just to feel him gasp against you. You can feel the way he hardens close to you, and you're really, really liking where this is going.

It’s not like you didn’t know he was strong. 

You’ve seen his biceps. You’ve felt the hand at your back steady you when a cab came too close. You’ve watched him shoulder his way through panicked crowds, through chaos, through life, always quietly making space for you.

But this is different.

This is him holding your entire body like you weigh nothing. Like physics doesn't apply to you anymore. Like his hands were made to carry you and his mouth was made to ruin you.

“Clark,” you gasp, because you don’t know what else to say. Your hoodie’s already halfway up your torso. His hands are under it, up your ribs, one squeezing your thigh like he’s staking a claim and the other splayed wide across your spine. “You’re—fuck—”

“I know,” he pants, nosing down your throat, licking into the hollow like he’s starving for it. “I know, baby. You’re—God, you’re actually killing me.”

He lifts you—actually lifts you—like you’re nothing, just sweeps you up with one arm under your ass and carries you toward the bedroom, leaving a trail of your jacket, your hotdog wrapper, and one of your slippers behind. 

You claw at his shirt, frantic, trying to get it off. Buttons ping off somewhere near the kitchen island and you both flinch, then laugh again, dizzy with it.

He drops you on the bed and follows fast, crawling over you, shedding the remains of his flannel and undershirt like he’s being hunted for it. 

"Fuck, fuck—take this off," and yank off your hoodie and he groans at the sight, like the skin of your chest is some sort of a revelation, like he hasn’t had it memorized since the first time he saw you in a tank top at work and forgot what day it was.

His mouth is everywhere. On your collarbone, your shoulder, between your breasts. 

Hot and open and eager, tongue twisting ruthlessly around your nipples. He’s making sounds now, those broken, happy little gasps like he’s surprised every time you let him touch you again.

You’re squirming under him, soaked and breathless, tugging at the waistband of his pants like it might save your life.

“I am gonna ruin you,” you manage to say. "Baby, let me fucking ruin you."

Clark laughs again, the kind of laugh that goes straight to your core, deep and bright and boyish, and then he flips you effortlessly onto your stomach, pushing your thighs apart with his knee, dragging his mouth down your spine like he’s tracing poetry there.

“Oh yeah?” he murmurs, low and smug and reverent. “Get in line, pretty girl.”

He pushes into you with one smooth, slow thrust, so much of him, too much, your jaw goes slack, and he just stays there for a moment, his hand curled over yours, forehead pressed to the back of your shoulder.

“I love you.”

Your breath stutters.

He doesn’t give you time to recover, emotionally or physically. Doesn’t let you laugh it off or throw up your usual wall of flippant sarcasm. He kisses your shoulder again, hips moving deeper, slower.

You twist beneath him, trying to turn over because as much as you love doggy, you can't bear to not look at him right now. 

But his hand presses gently between your shoulder blades, grounding you. “Wait,” he murmurs, and you freeze. You’re still so full of him you can barely think. “Just let me—can I just—”

He grinds forward, pushing all eight inches of him inside, and you choke on a moan. You’ve never heard him like this. Not just desperate, not just lost in it — but open.

“I love you when you’re mean,” he pants, voice fraying around the edges. “I love you when you roll your eyes at me in meetings and mutter under your breath during interviews. I love you, God, you're so tight," another thrust. "—when you wear those socks with the tiny dogs on them and try to pretend you’re not soft.”

You turn your head, mouth parted, eyes wide. “Clark—”

He leans down, kisses your cheek, your temple, the place behind your ear that makes your thighs shake.

“I love you when you’re being impossible. When you steal my flannels. When you pretend you don’t care. When you kissed me for the first time and then gave me a whole spiel about it.”

“Stop—”

“I love you,” he says again, brokenly this time, like it’s being torn out of him. “I love you even when I’m scared you’ll leave. Even if this is all I get.”

You turn fully this time, eyes glassy, fingers curling around the back of his neck to drag him in.

And you kiss him.

Hard.

Hungry.

Grateful.

“I love you,” you whisper against his mouth. “I love you, you absolute fucking idiot.”

Clark lets out a sound that’s not quite a laugh and not quite a sob.

Then he flips you under him and fucks you like it’s a promise.

You say it again when you come the second time, breathless, high-pitched, hands clutching at his shoulders, and again when he follows with a low, shuddering groan, spilling into you like he’s got nowhere else he’d rather be.

.

The car smells like spearmint gum and way, way too much coffee. Clark’s got one hand on the wheel and the other laced through yours like it’s always been there. Which, lately, it has.

You’re about halfway to Smallville.

“So,” you say, tapping his knuckles with your thumb. “How many embarrassing baby photos am I being subjected to this time? Just give me a ballpark.”

Clark chuckles. His dimples show. “Oh, uh… probably all of them. Again."

You groan. “Even the corn maze one?”

“There are multiple corn maze ones,” he corrects gently. “There’s one where I’m dressed as a scarecrow.”

You stare at him.

He nods solemnly. “With face paint.”

“Oh my God,” you wheeze, turning toward the window. “I don’t know if I’m emotionally prepared for that.”

“Don’t worry,” he says, squeezing your hand. “Ma loves you. You could commit tax fraud in front of her and she’d ask if you wanted seconds.”

You snort. “That’s very comforting.”

He shrugs, smiling again. “It’s true. She already set up the guest room.”

You blink at him.

“…The guest room?”

A pause. Clark glances over. “Well, I didn’t want to assume we’d—uh—share a bed. With my parents in the house.”

You raise a brow. “Clark. We had sex in a supply closet at the Planet.”

“That was—okay, yes—but that was under different circumstances.”

“We are dating.”

“I know.”

You lean your head back against the seat, grinning. “You’re so weird.”

“You love it,” he mutters, cheeks pink.

You do.

God, you do. You love him.

It still sneaks up on you sometimes. The clarity of it. The quiet, persistent fact of Clark Kent: the man who once made you blueberry pancakes the morning after you nearly ran out on him, who kissed your wrist like it meant something, who never—not once—looked away. Who told you he was Superman in the middle of a 7/11 parking lot, like some fucking lunatic.

And now here you are. In his car. On the way to meet his parents.

Officially.

Not just as the girl who sleeps over sometimes. Not as the coworker who won’t stop pretending she doesn’t care. Not as the idiot who thought she could get away with loving him and not doing anything about it.

No. Now, you’re his girlfriend.

Which means this is real. Which means you’re going to their farmhouse in Smallville. And Martha is probably going to offer you pie. And Jonathan is probably going to show you Clark’s fifth grade spelling bee trophy like it’s the most precious thing in the world.

Which should terrify you.

(And maybe it does, a little.)

But mostly—mostly it feels like the best thing you’ve ever said yes to.

Clark clears his throat. “Hey.”

You turn.

He’s watching you with that expression again. That soft, unguarded, ruined look like he still can’t believe you’re real. It’s so sincere it nearly undoes you.

“I’m really glad you’re coming,” he says. Quietly.

You look at him. You squeeze his hand back.

“Me too, Michigan.”

His ears go a little red. “Don’t call me that.”

“Oh? I thought you liked when I objectify you by state.”

“I like it slightly less when it happens in front of a rest stop attendant while you’re holding beef jerky and winking at me. And when it's the wrong state."

You smirk. “Not my fault you were born with that jawline and a humiliation kink.”

Clark coughs through a laugh. “God help me.”

He reaches across the console, dragging his thumb lightly over the inside of your wrist. The same spot he kissed that night. The one you think might still hum a little under your skin.

You let your head fall against his shoulder, smile tucked into your cheek.

“Wake me when we’re ten minutes out?”

“You sure?” he murmurs, already lowering the volume on the radio.

“Mhm.” You close your eyes. “I gotta mentally prepare myself for the scarecrow photos.”

You feel the press of his lips against your knuckles. Gentle. Familiar.

“You’re gonna be fine,” he says. “They love you, you know that. I do too."

You smile.

You nod, lips parting slightly. He hums.

“Start with your tongue. Just light strokes along the tip,” he taps the head of his cock against your tongue, eyes locked on yours— “That’s it…”

You swirl your tongue, tentative. He groans, low and sharp.

“Good,” he says, voice gone gravel rough. “Now kiss it.”

You press your lips against the head, just once, and he breathes out a broken little laugh.

“You kiss prettier than you pray,” he mutters. “Go on. Take a little more.”

You open wider, sliding down slowly, carefully. His hand’s in your hair, not forcing but guiding. You gag too early, and pull back with a cough, eyes watering.

He doesn’t mock. Doesn’t scold. Just strokes your cheek with the back of his fingers.

“Slow, baby. I ain’t goin’ nowhere.”

You try again. Better. Deeper. And this time when your lips seal around him, he twitches, a curse slipping past clenched teeth.

“That’s it,” he breathes, hips rocking just once, not rough, but heavy. Needy. “You learnin’. I’ll make you good at this if it’s the last thing I do.”

You hum around him, and that’s what snaps it— his restraint, his silence. His jaw locks tight, and he growls low in his chest.

“Fuck. Just like that. Keep goin’, sugar.”

His fingers grip your hair tighter, anchoring you there, guiding you down his length until your nose brushes his skin.

You trace your fingers down the side of Lion’s face. He looks so peaceful while he’s sleeping, hugging the pillow tight. Early morning light pours in through the slotted blinds of your apartment windows, giving your man a golden, glowing halo.  

“Lion,” you murmur.

He hums in response, but you know he’s not awake yet.

“Hey, baby,” you coo.

He looks up at you and blinks slowly.

“Wha’ time s’it?” 

“Gym time, pretty boy.”

He smiles at you, his eyes closed. Until the first two words set in and he groans, face in the pillow.

“Big fight on Friday,” you remind him.

“Quit that. You sound like Stan.”

“Lion, brother, c’mon,” you mock Stan’s voice, pushing his shoulder. 

He rolls onto his back and you lean over him, already dressed.

“Now?”

“Your brother’s meeting us there at nine.”

“Are you gonna be nice?”

“To Stanley? No, never.”

“Baby-”

“But I’ll be civil.”

Lion’s been living at your place for eight months now. He was hesitant at first, but when you put yourself between him and Stan and told his brother off, he agreed to move in. You both found Stan a place to stay and made the brothers agree to have another set of eyes handle their finances.

“I’m sore,” he complains.

“Aw, I’m sorry,” you coo at him, kissing his cheek.

“I don’t like it when you do that ‘oh, poor baby’ voice.”

“You love it.”

“No, I don’t.”

You turn to look at the tented bedsheet and turn back, smirking at him.

“That’s not- that’s morning wood, not you.”

“Yeah?” 

He’s squirming already at the way you husked that out.

“You get dressed and I’m gonna make you breakfast.”

“And coffee?”

“Yeah, baby, I’ll make coffee.”

You press a soft kiss to his lips and he sighs happily, his eyes closed. 

At the gym, you stretch your hamstrings on a mat as you watch Lion and Stan train.

You can see Lion getting frustrated with his brother’s nonstop talking. You stand, offering his bottle.

“Water break?”

“Yeah,” he mutters, stalking over to you. 

He takes a drink and sighs, wiping his mouth.

“I like those electrolytes.”

“Yeah, they’re pretty good.”

His stomach growls.

“Did you bring any food?”

“Mhm. I brought you a protein bar, you want that?” 

“Yeah, please.” 

“Are you two lovebirds done?” Stan calls.

Lion blushes and you roll your eyes. 

“Stan, lemme just… just hold on, okay?”

You hand him the bar.

“Thank you, baby” he says, pecking your cheek and tearing the wrapped and biting into the bar. “Fuck, fank you,” he groans with his mouth full.

You giggle at him and feel a little fire in your tummy. That’s exactly how he sounds when he eats you out. 

“Lion, let’s go,” Stan urges. 

“Can you let him take a break?” you shoot at him.

Lion gives you a look.

“I’m his trainer, last time I checked. So, I don’t need your input.” 

You feel that rage bubbling up inside of you.

“He’s been at it for a fucking hour, let him breathe.” 

He finishes his bar and tosses the wrapper in the bin, shaking his head as he joins Stan again. He says nothing to either of you, he can’t stand the way you bicker.

You can’t believe you ever gave that shithead any attention. 

Thirty minutes later, you walk over with your gym bag.  

“Lion.”

He looks over at you.

“I gotta go to work.”

He takes out his mouthguard and walks over, eager for your directions. 

“Um…” you think of anything you need to tell him. “There’s chicken in the fridge, if you want that. And I put a menu for that Chinese place on the counter.”

“I’ll probably just have what you made.”

“There’s some clean laundry in the bin but I’ll get to it. Oh! I’m going to really, really try to remember to water the plants but can you check for me when you get back? And if they’re dry can you water them?” 

“Sure.”  

“Thank you.”

You kiss him sweetly.

“Okay. I’ll see you at home.”

“See you at home.”

Lion loves saying that. He loves living with you, the stability and the comfort.

“Bye, sweetheart,” Stan snarks. 

You glare at him and turn on your heel, walking out. Lion watches your ass in your yoga pants and the way your hips move when you walk. Stan pats him on the back.

“You’re a lucky man, brother.” 

“Gross.” 

“I wasn’t saying- whatever, she’s nice, that’s what I mean.”

Lion shakes his head and drinks from his water bottle.

“Even if she has a fucking mouth on her-”

“Stop it, Stan. I want you two to stop fighting. Fuck.” 

“She’s the one picking fights. She’s always starting shit.” 

Lion and Stan train for another hour, Stan riling Lion up about you.

She’s always talking about you “needing breaks”. What, she thinks you’re weak? You can handle your own shit.

And she treats you like you’re her fucking girlfriend!

Fucking folding her laundry. Watering the plants. You’re totally whipped, brother.

Look, man, she can be a bitch sometimes.

Lion rides home on the metro. His phone lights up with a text from you.

My Girl ❤️

don’t open this on the train 😘

My Girl ❤️

Attachment: 1 Image

Lion gets home to the apartment alone and slumps down on the couch. He checks on the plant on the side table and sees the soil is dry.

He scrubs his hands down his face, groaning. He wants to ice his hands and take a hot shower, not do chores. Stan’s words ring in his ears and he leaves his phone on the couch, grabbing a bag of ice from the freezer.

You tap your foot at the club as you wait for Lion to pick up.

“This is Lion. Leave a message or try Stan.” 

You huff, not even wanting to leave him a voicemail. You’re tempted to unsend that sexy selfie you sent earlier, but you leave it. You look at his contact.

big cat 💞

The photo is a back camera flash selfie of the two of you that you had taken after a fight, his nose bloody and cheek bruised. He grinned and kissed you, smearing blood on your face. You didn’t even care. 

He’s tired, you remind yourself. And you were a little too abrasive at the gym today. Stan just gets on your fucking nerves. 

“Hey, doll,” one of the girls greets you, coming to get some water. 

“Hey.”

“You okay?”

“Fine, yeah.”

“You sure?”

“I think my boyfriend’s mad at me.”

“He doesn’t seem like an angry guy.”

Lion meets you here and walks you home plenty of nights. And on the very desperate ones, Stan comes to get you and you sit one seat apart on the train. 

“I was an asshole to his brother today.”

“But his brother’s an asshole to you, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Well… manifesting a good angry fuck for you,” she jokes with her fingers crossed. 

You sigh, looking at your phone again.

Lion falls asleep on the couch waiting for you until his alarm goes off.

He pulls on his ratty hoodie and sniffles, grabbing his keys and heading to the metro station to go and get you. He’s still mad, and sore, and tired.

He sees you waiting outside of the club, and sees a guy talking to you.

You laugh politely and look at him.

“Hey,” he greets you.

“Hi.”

“You ready?”

“Yeah.”

Lion gives the man a look and you follow him to the metro. It’s quiet and tense. He shifts away when you try to lean on him. 

You get back to the apartment and pout at him.

“Lion,” you start.

“What?”

You’re taken aback by how harsh his tone is, but you’re a big girl. You can apologise and own up. 

“I’m sorry about today. I… I have my own feelings about your brother but that doesn’t mean I get to put you in that position. He’s really good at pushing my buttons, but I lost my temper today and I’m sorry.” 

Lion softens.

“Thank you,” he croaks out.

He should expect this from you. You’re emotionally mature, unlike Stan, and you can admit fault. He feels like an asshole for being upset with you.

“It’s okay that you’re upset, Lion. Stan’s…” you trail off, not wanting to fuel the fire, “he’s a lot to deal with.” 

He nods absently and you squeeze his bicep, kissing his cheek.

“I really love you, okay? And I’m willing to… to deal with Stan because I love you. I just wish he would play nice like I do.” 

“I do too,” he mumbles, his voice breaking. 

“Lion,” you murmur, hugging him. He hugs you tight, tucking his head in your shoulder.

“Missed you.”

“Missed you too, big cat.”

That’s his happy place, buried in the fabric that smells like your perfume and hearing your heartbeat pulse against his ear. 

“I love you, Walter,” you say softly, holding his face. 

“Love you,” he breathes, his head turning to kiss your palm. 

“Did you eat?”

He sniffles and shakes his head.

“Um, no. I fell asleep.” 

“Let’s eat dinner, okay? And we can go to bed.”

“This is so weird, but I was like… kinda hoping you were more mad at me.”

“What? Why?”

“I dunno. I guess my other boyfriends have just been total dickheads. I just remember like… this old routine of coming home and screaming at each other and… fucking each other’s brains out.”

“I can do that.”

“I know.”

“I can fuck you however you want.” 

“I know, baby. It was just like, the… that energy, that pissed-off sex.”

You exhale.

“Ugh, that’s so toxic that I want that.” 

“I’m mad at Stan, does that count?”

“Why are you mad at Stan?”

“Cause he was shit talkin’ you the whole time.” 

You sit up and narrow your eyes.

“He was what?”

“Yeah, he was-”

Lion sees your eyes and swallows.

“Sayin’ you… you think I’m weak. You think I can’t train like he wants me to.”

You scoff.

“Because I think you need a break after an hour straight? What else did he say?”

“Baby, I don’t wanna-” 

“What else did he say, Lion?”

He looks at his hands. 

“He said you… you treat me like I’m your girlfriend. Y-you make me do everything and I’m whipped.”

You suck your teeth.

“And what did you say?”

Lion doesn’t look at you.

“So you just… stand around and let him talk shit about me?”

“No-”

“Does that happen every time I’m not there?”

“Stan has a lot to say, you know that. Baby-”

“Oh, fuck off.” 

You get up and he follows you to the bedroom.

“Don’t follow me-”

“I’m sorry!”

“Lion-”

“Stop! God, what are you actin’ so fuckin’ crazy for?” 

You turn your head around and glare at him.

“Crazy?” 

“I-I didn’t me-”

“You want to see crazy? Because I’ll show you fucking crazy, Lion.” 

You see his hands clench into fists and he growls.

“Stop it! Stop, I don’t wanna fight with you!”

“No, you just want to call me a bitch with your dumbass brother all day!” 

“I would never call you that!” 

“Stan would. I fucking bet he did today. Tell me he didn’t.”

You stare at each other, breathing heavily. Your body is hot, you’re so fucking angry. 

“I’m sorry, okay? I’m sorry. I hate it when he talks about you like that, it’s just… easier to ignore him.” 

“What, you can’t even stand up for me to your own brother? You’re such a pushover, Lion!” 

“I’m not- you know how Stan is!” 

“Yeah, I do! And I want him out of our lives! He just-”

“Clings on.”

Lion takes a shaky breath.

“And ruins shit.” 

You soften and wrap your arms around him. He holds you close and once again hides in your shoulder.

You kiss his temple and feel him squeeze you as he tries not to cry.

“You can cry. It’s okay.”

His grip on you tightens and a sob racks through him, making him tremble. You gently lead him to the bedroom and sit the both of you on the bed.

“I’m so-rry,” he hiccups, hiding his face in his hands. 

“I know you are. I know, baby. It’s okay. Just let it out.”

Lion bawls like he’s a little kid. He cries for so long, so hard, he feels like a deflated balloon by the end of it. Finally he sniffles and pulls back from you, wiping at his eyes.

“You wanna wash your face?”

“Yeah,” he croaks. 

He steps into the bathroom and splashes some water over his face, patting it dry with a towel.

He sighs, padding over to you and flopping on the bed. He lays his head in your lap and you brush your fingers through his hair. 

“You okay, big cat?”

“Yeah, but I feel like shit.”

“I’m so sorry, Walter. I didn’t mean for that to be… such a big fight.”

“Don’t be sorry. I don’t want us to get… all pent up about shit. I don’t want to yell at you either, but… y’know. I’d rather talk it out.” 

You glance at your alarm clock on the nightstand.

3:36 AM

“I bet the neighbours hate us.”

You lean over and kiss his forehead.

“I love you.”

“Love you so much, baby,” he murmurs, his face squished against your thigh

“Maybe we can make it up to each other?”

“Can you give me like, five minutes? I think I just lost five pounds of waterweight.”

You laugh at that and he chuckles softly.  

You stay like that for a little while, combing his hair with your nails and murmuring to him until he sits up slowly. He stretches his back and you nod to the pillows.

“Sit back.”

Lion props himself up against the headboard. On your knees between his legs, you kiss him sweetly. 

“So handsome,” you murmur.

He makes a soft noise, reaching for you. You thread your fingers with his, which he can’t bend in all the way. You press a kiss to his jaw and he whines. Your lips chart a path down his neck, his chest, his abs– that little spot by his hip that makes his hips buck hard– leaving little love bites as you do. 

“I-I got a fight,” he reminds you in a whimper when you pull from his skin with a wet pop!

“Yeah, and everybody is gonna know you’re mine, pretty boy.” 

His cock twitches at your words. He realises your final destination when you fiddle with the ties on his gym shorts.

“Oh, fuck,” he whispers, covering his face.

You hook your fingers into his waistbands and tug them down, his cock springing free. Your slow, sloppy kisses have left him achingly hard, and he can feel your breath as you hover over his cock. You wrap your fingers around him, kissing the tip like you had kissed his lips a moment earlier, all sweet and loving.

“Don’t tease me, please, I-I’m gonna fuckin’ scream,” he begs you.

“I gotta take care of my man.”

You see him twitch when you say that.

Before Lion has something else to say, his cock is in your mouth. Hand gripping what you can’t take as you swirl your tongue around the head of his cock.

He gasps, one hand over his eyes and the other fisting the bedsheet.

“Talk to me, baby,” you purr, kissing the side of his shaft.

“S’good- ngh- so good, fuck…”

You hum as you take him in your mouth again, your other hand coming up to cup his balls. 

His head falls back and meets the headboard with a soft thud, mouth open, sweat on his brow, chest expanding with his heavy breaths.

“You close, baby?”

You stroke him with both hands and move down to mouth at his balls.

“Oh, f-fuck… w-wait- wh- fuck, baby, sl-slow down-”

You slow yourself to an agonizing pace and Lion makes a choked noise. His hand falls, so you can see his expression. Fucking wrecked, the way you like him. 

Your hand splays on his tummy, the way he does to yours when he’s buried deep inside. You’ve found that treating Lion like a girl in bed works pretty well. Using all the tactics your old boyfriends used to get you squirming makes him squirm a little more but cum a little harder. One of his big paws cradles the crown of your head, not pushing or grabbing your hair, just resting there gently. 

He gasps one more time, his hips jerking as you swallow the load he shoots down your throat. You don’t stop, still bobbing your head up and down his length even as he slowly softens in your mouth. 

“Oh, fu-! Fuck, y-you can’t just ke-! Keep sucking like that, please, ba-! Baby,” he begs and hiccups, trembling under your touch. He pushes on your head and you know he could shove you off but he doesn’t want to, his thumb rubs loving little circles on your scalp. 

You finally pull off of him, pressing kisses to his pelvis as you look up at him. He shudders and you let him catch his breath.

“Was that good?” you punctuate, squeezing his arm.

He nods, dazed and totally drained. You giggle and he winces.

“Don’t laugh at me.”

“You’re just so cute, Lion, I can’t help it.”

You perch on your knees next to him.

“I watch you in that ring and I see you fight… you’re such a badass. But I know you’re my good boy who begs so nice… makes me so wet.”  

He makes a little squeaky noise, shifting to sit up. He puts a hand on your thigh. 

“Baby, I wanna… can you, please?”

“Can I what?”

“I want you to just… just use me,” he confesses without meeting your eyes. 

“Use you,” you repeat, swinging a thigh over his lap. 

“I love watchin’ you r-ride me… I want you t-to feel good…”

“My own personal fucktoy,” you giggle. 

Lion’s breath hitches and you smirk at him. 

You push him to lay down, and he shimmies down the bed to put his head on the pillows. He kicks off his shorts and underwear, watching you undress like he’s never seen it before. When you’re bare before him he’s wide-eyed with that loverboy gaze you adore so much. 

You take his hand and bring it to your mouth, slipping his two middle fingers past your lips and wetting them.

“Fingers first.”

He nods obediently and you bring his hand between your legs. He spreads that slickness from your hole to your clit, brushing that nub lightly before sliding a finger in. You’re so wet, so fucking on that he can slip another in without much fuss. He watches your face change, the way your muscles relax at the feeling of being filled.

You ride his fingers, he pumps and curls to the best of his ability but with his creaky joints he mostly just watches you go for it. He angles his hand for you to grind your clif against the heel of it, his own hand crushed between your cunt and his thigh. 

“Love you, love your pussy so much, fuck… ri-ridin’ my fingers, y-you’re so fuckin’ hot,” he babbles in a whisper, feeling the blood rush from his head to his cock as he watches the way your eyes close. It’s focus and pleasure, and he’s twitching again already just thinking about being inside of you. 

He tries to reach to the nightstand for a condom. You grab his wrist. 

“But we-” 

“Lion,” you breathe. “I want it raw.”

He swallows hard and nods. You keep grinding on his hand until you dig your nails into his thigh, making him hiss. 

“Yes, yes, yes,” you chant, gripping his wrist between your legs. “Fuck, good boy, Lion, you’re so fucking good with these fingers- shit!” 

Your hips buck and you shiver as you cum, soaking Lion’s fingers. You paw at his wrist and he pulls his hand away, looking up at you. 

“Oh, look who got all hard again,” you joke breathlessly, nodding to his painfully hard cock. 

You move yourself over his cock, and he grips himself at the base to line up with your dripping cunt and slide in.

“Fuck, ba-by,” he moans, feeling your ass against his bare thighs. They flex, raising you up an inch.

“Yeah, feels good?”

“Feels s-so good…” 

You lift yourself up, with Lion’s help, and slide back down. You watch his eyes go unfocused and laugh. You grab his face between your hands as his paw at your waist uselessly. 

“C’mon, talk to me, big cat. Talk to me, baby, tell me how you want it.” 

“Wan’… want you bouncin’ on it…” 

You speed up gradually, hands planted on his chest as he holds onto your waist for dear life. He’s fighting overstimulation like you are. 

“Is this what you wanted?” 

“Yes! Yes, baby, fu-ck…” his voice shakes with the rhythm you bounce on him, like you’re driving over speed bumps. 

“That’s my good boy,” you purr, making him whimper and throw an arm over his eyes. 

It’s a bumpy fucking ride toward the end, you’re grinding on him more than anything, chasing that release so he can cum feeling your cunt squeeze the life out of his cock. 

“C’mon, baby. C’mon, Lion, cum with me.” 

“Fuck, baby, I-I’m so close, please,” he cries.

You honestly didn’t think he had any tears left in him.

“Fuck me. Fuck me, Lion, flip me over.”

He does what you say instantly, turning the both of you over and driving into you, your thighs hooked over his hips.

“Yeah, you wanna cum in me?”

He nods feverishly, holding you like he might fall apart if he doesn’t. 

“Yes! Yes, please!”

You circle your own clit with a rough touch, 

“Yeah? You wanna fill me up, big cat, you fucking fill me up, baby. You’re my man, Lion, c’mon, fill me up- oh, shit,” you gasp, digging your nails into his shoulders and dragging them down as your orgasm rips through you. 

It feels like the ground is shaking, not just your body. Lion cries out, his hips stuttering as he sobs and leans over you, spilling deep inside of you. You kiss, hot, wet, sloppy, absolutely in love. 

“I love you, I love you so much,” you say it like you’re praying, kissing his cheek. 

He pulls you close into a tight hug, kissing your shoulder. 

“I’m sorry for shoutin’ at you, baby, I love you so much…”

“Apology accepted, fuck.” 

He pulls out with a whimper and you feel his cum dribble out of you. 

“Fuck. I just washed these sheets…”

“I’ll go to the laundromat tomorrow.”

He helps you to the bathroom and you both wash up, half dressing in your pajamas. 

He slumps over you again, kissing your neck as he buries his face in it.

“I love you. Let’s run away and not tell Stan and just fuckin’… just be in love.”

“Yeah?”

“We can start our own laundromat and… do whatever. Have some kids,” he says in a much smaller voice.

“Maybe a dog first,” you admit softly. 

“Yeah, I want a dog.”

“We can go to the shelter on Friday if you win.”

He chuckles.

“And if I lose?”

You run your fingers through his short hair. 

“Ice cream.”

“Fuck, ice cream sounds really good.”

You kiss again, holding his face. He rests his head on your chest, listening to the bass tone of your heartbeat. 

“You wanna stay up and watch the sunrise or you wanna go to sleep?”

“Whatever you want, baby,” he murmurs, half asleep already.

“Okay, big cat.” 

“Luh’ you.”

So, it was no surprise that you found yourself as another lonely wanderer through the vast Western frontier. You’d slipped out the back door of his farmhouse that had never been a home. And considering there hadn’t been a single sign of a search for you in the past five years, clearly, you weren’t missed. Maybe you’d been presumed dead.

It was no matter to you now. Courthill was long behind you, and living on your own as a young woman in the West had taught you more than your father ever had.

You’d done bad things, but no worse than any man. You’d killed, but no more than a woman’s survival called for.

Now, as you found yourself wandering in some forsaken town during the hottest month of the summer, you couldn’t help but remember your father’s words. There was no telling if you were even in Texas anymore. Your only possessions consisted of a sack swung over your shoulder carrying spare clothes and a canteen.

The scorched dirt crunched underneath your boots. This town wasn’t yours and you weren’t about to stroll around it like it was, but no matter how low you held your head, you felt the glare of cautious, watchful eyes.

It wasn’t everyday someone would see an alluring woman like you dressed in her father’s trousers—a few sizes too big—boots that were stuffed at the toe to fit, and a gambler hat faded by the sun. The most noticeable accessory was the silver pistol on your belt. But it wasn’t the stolen clothes that gave it away.

It was your hair. Uncut and hanging just above your waist. And the fact you hadn’t made an attempt to hide it under your hat showed you weren’t trying to be someone you weren’t.

You were just another runaway.

There were whispers, none of which you could make out, but enough to know you weren’t exactly welcome in this place.

You had to leave. Soon. But the next civilization wasn’t for another eight miles—too far to go on foot in this heat.

“Who is that?” A young boy asked his mother; she shushed him, and turned him away.

Like the sight of you was a walking sin.

The rim of your hat hid your eyes as you walked past them. A sharp turn to your right led you to another street lined with wooden buildings bent from the Western wind. This road was quieter and emptier; you preferred it that way.

Then, like a miracle, you heard the sound of a deep, throaty snort. Your gaze shifted to an alley between a small house and the telegraph office where a hitching post stood in the dirt. Tied to it was a black mare, standing strong despite the sun beaming down on her.

Bullseye.

You were careful not to make any sudden sounds as you approached the post. She shifted her weight, head hung low just like yours as steam faintly curled from her nostrils.

“Easy, girl,” you hold your hand out gently.

On her back was a worn leather saddle and two sacks hung over her hips. Braided reins wrapped around her snout. This one belonged to someone, and as a stranger to this town, you had no place in taking her.

A girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do, you thought to yourself.

Once you were close enough, you set your hand on her cheek, gently rubbing the soft fur with your thumb. “Long day?” You half-cooed, scratching underneath her chin. The mare snorted in response.

Looking over your shoulder to see that no one had noticed you yet, you began to sort through the sacks. An empty canteen. A couple of golden, shotgun shells. A stale, half-eaten piece of bread wrapped in cloth. A handful of silver dollars. You took the money, but everything else was nothing of value to you. You threw the sacks to the ground so the dust floated in the air like a cloudy sky you hadn’t seen in days. A bead of sweat dripped down your cheek as you hurriedly tied your own bag to the saddle, moving to undo the knot around the hitching post.

If your heart hadn’t been beating so hard that you could feel it in your eardrums, you might’ve heard the quiet footsteps behind you.

“Afternoon, ma’am,” a low, gentle voice called out to you.

You almost gasped, your fingers still fumbling with the reins. Turning on the heel of your boot, you noticed the figure at the end of the alley.

A man dressed in black half-smiled at you.

“Afternoon, sir.”

“Is there, uh,” he began to slowly approach you, and you readied yourself to pull the gun from your side. “something I can help you with?”

Perhaps he was just a kind man looking to help a random woman in trouble. But you didn’t plan on finding out.

“Oh, not at all,” you smiled warmly. “Thank you.”

You finished untying the knot of the reins, quick to get out of this town as soon as possible.

But before you could secure it in your hand, the man behind you clicked his tongue against his teeth. In almost an instant, the mare rushed to him, the reins slipping from your hands with a burning sensation. You hissed at the feeling and immediately pulled the pistol from your hip.

The horse stopped by his side. The man looked over to see your gun pointed directly at his chest. Aimed for his heart.

Roy Goode had met a lot of strange people in his life. He’d been to a lot of strange places, and never had he met such a woman like you—standing in your stolen boots and holding your pistol at him; you could take his life in an instant, and he doesn’t doubt it. He takes the reins in his hands and twists it around his palm.

“Thieves don’t do too well here,” he said, though it didn’t feel like a threat.

Dust swirls in the space between you. “I didn’t know it was yours,” there’s an edge of defensiveness and even shame to your voice. “I’ve stolen worse from worse men.”

There’s a ghost of a smirk on his face. The man studies you for a moment and nods once. “That why you’re out here alone?”

If you had thought of something clever enough to say, you would’ve, but your mind draws a blank. You’re fixated on the pair of blue eyes watching you. Without noticing, you’ve lowered your weapon to your hips already.

“What’s your name?”

You glared at him for a moment. “And why should I tell you?”

He smiles. “It’d be kind, at the very least. Wanna know who I’m talking to.”

“(y/n). (l/n).”

The man nods. “Well, Miss (l/n), horses aren’t just toys to be stolen,” he says, gently petting the mare’s chin and running his fingers through her mane. “You want something that runs, you earn it.”

“And how would I do that?” You tilt your head.

The man mounts the horse with an impressive ease. He settles into the saddle like he’d been doing it his entire life. Now, the tilted smirk on his face widens. “Don’t suppose you’re any good with a rifle?”

You glance off in the distance for only a second.

You could bolt off right there and then. It’d probably earn you a bullet in the leg, but you were quicker than you looked.

Most men in the West would have shot you on the spot for messing with what was theirs. Not this one. You clicked your teeth at the realization that your options were severely outweighed.

Any good with a rifle? “Good enough.”

Whoever this man was, he wasn’t completely with the law.

Yet, he didn’t seem to think himself above it. You nearly objected when he paid a rancher on the outskirts of town for a horse, saddle and all, but who were you to deny a gift? Besides, it had a lovely chestnut coat that you admired.

The town was far behind you as you slowed the horses’ galloping to a gentle stroll beside one another. To anyone who didn’t already know you, the two of you actually made quite a nice-looking pair.

Canyon walls surrounding you stood tall, practically glowing a golden rust in the late afternoon sun. Gravel and dirt crunched underneath the horse hooves; small songbirds gently chirped off in the distance; the dry air whistled a tune. The sweet music of the West.

Neither of you spoke much.

There was a polite “thank you” for the horse and a brief conversation about sunburn, but other than that, you were complete strangers. Perhaps it was a way of leaving the scenery undisturbed, or maybe it was that you didn’t have anything to say until one of you was sick of the silence.

Fortunately, he gave in first. “So what’s a young lady such as yourself doin’ in these parts?”

“I’m not a lady,” You had no qualms against this man, but a part of you scowled at him. It wasn’t the first time someone thought they’d figured you out because of what was between your legs. “And I’m from Courthill. Texas.”

He whistled. “You’re a long way from home.”

“How long?”

“About two weeks that way.” He pointed to the left.

For the past few days, you wouldn’t have been able to pinpoint your location on a map if it was laid out in front of you. It was odd to think that home—a place you never wanted to see again—was so close yet so far.

He spoke again. “I don’t suppose you made the whole journey by foot.”

You scowled, turning your head so he wouldn’t notice it. As of now, he’d only shown you kindness. You couldn’t shake the stubborn, defensive barrier that came with being a woman on her own.

“I had a horse,” you shifted the reins in your hands to avoid a large rock in the path. “Couldn’t keep it fed, so I sold it to a woman who could. A Miss Alice Fletcher.”

A brief silence settled between you before he broke it.

“Surely, there’re ways for a- uh, woman to, uh,” he cut himself off, gently stumbling on his words. You knew damn well what he was going to say. “You know…”

“Do I look like a prostitute to you?”

If your hair had been tied up, or you’d worn a thicker jacket to cover up the curve of your chest, Roy would’ve fairly assumed you were a thieving, conniving, worn-down man like him. But you weren’t. And he enjoyed seeing you in pants rather than a skirt. He didn’t even try to picture the latter.

There was dirt on your cheek. Mud smudged over the knees of your slacks. A small, red scar on your collar bone.

“No, ma’am.”

Good. That’s that. But he spoke again, just above a mumble like it was only meant for himself.

“You’d make good money as one.”

You sighed. A spiteful grin on your face. “So, would you.” It was meant to be offensive, something degrading and sarcastic. He hardly took it as one.

“Why, thank you.” He perked. You shook your head at your lame insult.

Then, he motioned to the hat on your head and the boots on your feet. “So I’m guessin’ those ain’t yours?”

Well, you’d hoped it wasn’t noticeable that they were a size too big. Your eyes trailed across the scenery, an embarrassingly obvious way of forming a quick lie. “A farmer from Oklahoma gave them to me.”

Of course, he saw right through it. “That don’t look like a farmer’s hat to me.”

“I didn’t realize I was being interrogated.”

“You did try to steal my horse.”

Touché, unfortunately. Without a moment to spare—because you really didn’t feel like opening yourself up to this man—you changed the subject. “Why’d you bring me along?”

He cocked his head. “Is it my turn now?”

You ignored the smirk on his face.

With a shrug, he continued, “There’s a man I’m lookin’ for, lives down in Tucson.” That nearly knocked the air out of your lungs. You pulled back on the reins and he turned at your sudden halt in the path. “Somethin’ wrong?”

“I don’t even know who the hell you are,” you sighed. It might’ve been better to speak a little quieter in a valley where anyone could be hidden, but you weren’t exactly aiming for security. “Look, I appreciate the horse, and I’m sure it’s a lovely ride to Tucson. This has been fun and all, but I’ve got other matters to deal with. You can’t even tell me the man’s name and I’m supposed to shoot him down for you?”

He didn’t necessarily smile at you; his lips only tilted slightly. It was his eyes that looked amused at your sudden burst.

The world you lived in wasn’t kind to women who used their mouths. You’d learned that the hard way from your father first. There were plenty of men down the line who’d shown you as well, mostly with their fist to your cheek. You weren’t wrong to feel angry or misled, but you hadn’t meant to raise your voice with a stranger.

Maybe he’d shoot you right there. Leave you for dead in the middle of nowhere.

But there was no firm slap across your face nor the ringing of a gun piercing a bullet in your side.

Just the surprisingly gentle tone of his voice.

“Now, that’s a mighty fine stallion, so you’re welcome for the horse. And yes, it is a lovely ride to Tucson. I think you’ll enjoy it. I wouldn’t say this has been fun—is this what you consider fun?” You scowled. “But I enjoy the company. And seein’ that you’ve made no attempt to outrun or rob me—again—I don’t think you do have other matters to attend to.

“The man’s name is Les Moore. He’s a banker-turned-bandit. We’ve got unfinished business I don’t plan on disclosin’, but I do plan on shooting him myself. I simply need someone to watch my back. And my name is Roy.”

He paused again, but this time, it left a noticeable weight in the air.

“Roy Goode.”

You knew that name. There wasn’t a soul throughout the West that didn’t know that name. You’d heard it in folktales and stories around campfires, seen it written in thick, blank ink on wanted posters across a hundred different towns.

Even further, you knew that the man it belonged to had a certain friend you didn’t want any association with.

“If you’d like to go your own way, be my guest.” He continued. “But you don’t seem to know these parts and a lot of men stronger than you have died here. It’s up to you…ma’am.”

A long silence followed.

Your teeth dig into the inside of your cheek because, deep down, you know he’s right. And you hate being wrong. The two of you stood still in the middle of the canyon. Even your horse sighed with impatience, but Roy kindly awaited your response.

“Fuck,” you said under your breath.

Then loud enough for Roy to hear, “Fine. But know this, Roy Goode,” You clicked your heels against the stallion’s belly. “Ain’t no man in the West who’s stronger than me.”

Not a single bone in Roy’s body doubted it.

“Careful, now.”

You clenched your jaw so visibly that Roy could see you were in no need of his advice. The rifle rested so comfortably in your hands, he had to wonder how many times you’d done this.

“I know how to shoot, Goode.”

“I believe you,” He dryly chuckled. “So take the shot.”

He had a point. It only pissed you off more. You shifted quietly enough that the small, dirt-colored rabbit off in the distance never noticed your presence. At this point, it would’ve been Roy’s voice that gave it away.

“Shut up,” you hissed.

With your left eye squeezed shut, you focused your sight on the rabbit. Not even your heart could beat hard enough to throw off your aim, but a gentle breeze blew a strand of hair into your face and ruined your line of vision.

“Let me do it,” Roy moved to take the pistol from his side before a shot rang from beside him.

The rabbit dropped to the ground with a gentle thud.

You grinned at your new partner in crime. “You were saying?”

An hour passed before the sun sat low in the sky, just above the line of the land, casting a golden hue across your surroundings. The rest of the sky was somehow an inky shade of black, illuminated with more stars than you’d ever seen in your life. Strange you thought to yourself. Embers from the small fire Roy had started with spare branches and weeds floated above you, glistening amongst the stars.

He watched you take the blade hidden in your belt, dragging it against the rabbit’s fur and pulling its skin from the meat. The women he knew would’ve gagged at the sight of blood or ran at the simple thought of killing an innocent animal.

But not you.

“Now, where’d you learn to do that?”

You chuckled, a faint smile coming to your face, at a memory. “I can’t go givin’ you all my secrets.”

There was something about you that knew survival. It was gritty and dark, and though he would never admit it, Roy ached to know more.

He hung the meat above the flames on a spit, gently twirling it so the skin had an even, roasted color all over. Your mouth watered at the sight of it. Once it was ready, the two of you ravaged it with desperate fingers like starving wolves. It was, in no way, a good meal. Dry and flavorless, and split between the two of you, one rabbit was hardly enough. But it was the first time in days that your stomach had been able to settle over anything.

“I lived off of lizards for a time,” Roy said once there were only bones left. The two of you wore soft, tired smiles that came with good food and good company. You’d licked your fingers clean and now used your leather sack as a make-shift pillow. “Can’t shoot the fuckers. I had to chase after them with a blade.”

You laughed softly. Roy enjoyed the way a smile—not a flashy, pretty one put on to appease the men around you, but a distant, reminiscent one—looked on you.

“I’ve been there. I was near Mexico when all I had were tree leaves and cactus meat. Boiled it with river water.” Roy hummed a chuckle. The horses, tied to a withered tree, shuffled nearby. You glanced over your shoulder at them. “I like to think they’re talking to each other.”

“They are,” he said, throwing the last of the bones into the dirt. “June’s got a lot of stories to tell him.”

For a brief moment, you thought it odd that he referred to the horses like they were the same as him—or that he was one of them.

You arched a brow, “You named her June?”

Roy could see that you were amused. “Thought it was pretty.” He almost shrugged.

You hummed in fairness. Glancing back at your horse, you realized it didn’t feel right to leave him nameless. And despite Roy having bought it, the stallion was yours. “Johnny.” You said plainly.

“Come again?”

“I’ll name him Johnny.”

Now you were talking like you were one of them too.

Roy wondered then who Johnny was to you. Or maybe it was someone from a past life. He gazed at the remains of the fire before glancing over at you.

Maybe it was the gentle light in the vast darkness, but there was a newfound softness in your face. He could see the tiniest of imperfections—small scars won in battle, a minuscule bump on your chin—of which most women would cover with powder.

But not you.

He’d seen beautiful women before. Plenty of them. And here you were, resting near the flickering fire and under the iridescent moonlight, forcing him to question if he’d ever really understood beauty before he saw you.

“Johnny and June.” He said out loud in thought.

You met his eyes, unaware of how long he’d been looking at you. “It has a nice ring.”

Roy nodded. “That it does.”

Three days of riding had taken the two of you to a small town called Tombstone, just a day’s journey to Tucson. Roy’s name was known around here, but, thankfully, his face wasn’t.

With a pair of crinkled, ten-dollar bills, he reserved two separate rooms in a lodging above the general store. As he paid, the clerk didn’t miss her chance to shoot a half-confused, half-cautious glare your way. “Each room’s got a tub,” she noted, motioning to the smudged dirt on your cheek.

You gave her a tight smile. “Thank you, ma’am.”

Roy handed you a key and kept one for himself as the two of you scaled the stairs to the second floor. “Hungry at all?”

“You got the money for dinner?”

He shrugged, “Enough for more than rabbits and lizards.” You reached a long hallway. He pointed to the second to last door marked with a 6. “I think that’s your room there.”

“This says four,” you read the engraved number on the key. The correct door was only two away. Roy only hesitantly chuckled to himself. You glanced at his key, “And you’re three.”

“Right,” he said, awkwardly but gratefully nodding. He seemed to know numbers well enough when it came to money.

Without saying more, you started to fumble with the keyhole of your door. The lock clicked open before Roy spoke again. “There’s a saloon on the corner. Meet me there a little after the sun sets? Give you some time to rest up.”

You were surprised to instantly nod at his request. “Sure,” you smiled before you went your separate ways.

The room wasn’t much by anyone else’s standards, but it was more than you’d seen in weeks. A wire-framed bed with two quilts and an oil lamp sat to your right; a wardrobe for clothes you didn’t have stood tall in the corner. A metal basin in the other one. The windows were adorned with dusty lace curtains that filtered the sunlight into the room.

You locked the door behind you and tossed the sack on the ground, immediately collapsing onto the bed. The springs squeaked underneath your body, but the mattress was comfortable enough.

Better than rocks and dirt.

Before you let your eyes close, you watched the ceiling, noticing the slight cracks in it. They began to form a shape, soon morphing into a familiar face. Blue eyes that always seemed to gaze at you when you weren’t looking. A pair of soft lips that hardly ever smiled, but on the canvas of the ceiling, they did.

You laid on your side and forced your eyes shut.

But even in the darkness of your mind, a place of purgatory between dreams and wake, you saw him.

When you woke, you swore you could feel something grazing your arm. But you turned over to see that you were still alone in the room. The sweet, golden light of day was gone now, replaced by the ghostly, glowing moon. A gentle hue of purple sat over the horizon.

It hadn’t been dark for long. You thought this while mentally praying you hadn’t kept Roy waiting too long.

You hurried to grab your hat and leave the room, rushing down the stairs and out the door. Just as he’d said, a saloon stood tall on the corner of the street. A few men grouped together with smoke curling from their mouths watched as you approached the entrance.

“Evening…ma’am,” they said hesitantly at your appearance. You only nodded.

With one step into the bar, you seemed to catch the attention of nearly everyone inside. You noticed then that there didn’t appear to be a single woman. Even the man at the piano stopped playing his song, only missing a beat before starting again.

Silence. Your boots clicked against the wood floor.

You glanced around the room for your traveling companion before a man with a thick beard approached you. His broad frame seemed to block you from entering further.

“Ma’am.” He grinned, revealing yellow teeth and two silver caps. His eyes drifted up and down your figure. “I think you may be in the wrong place. Sally’s cafe down the street doesn’t close for another hour.”

You tightly smiled back. “I assure you, sir, I’m in the right spot.”

You began to move forward again before his firm hand pressed itself over your stomach. The contact, unexpected and unwelcome, made you suddenly feel trapped.

“Good men don’t go puttin’ their hands on young women,” a voice said from behind you.

The man slowly dropped both his hand and his grin. You turned to see Roy standing just as he had back in that alley. He offered you a small smile.

“You with him?” The man sneered, glancing back and forth between you and Roy trying to discern the dynamic. You shook your head.

“He’s with me.”

As the man backed away, retreating to his spot at the bar with his friends, Roy’s footsteps halted at your side. He pulled out a chair from a table nearby and held his hand out like a gentleman. You kindly took the seat.

Roy sat across from you, placing his hat on the table. “Two whiskeys,” he ordered once a server came by. “What’s your finest meal?”

“I’ve got a beef and bean stew.” The server offered.

“Two of those,” you smiled. He turned away, leaving just you and Roy alone again.

And despite the other men in the room cautiously eyeing you, not a single soul seemed to exist then. The server returned with two glasses of whiskey before the bar guests called him back over.

“That happen anytime you go somewhere?” Roy asked with the whiskey at his lips.

You twirled your glass, careful not to spill a single drop. “For the most part,” you shrugged, though you don’t appear to be at all fazed from the gentle smile you wore. There was a distant, amused gleam in your eyes where Roy could see a thousand thoughts running in your mind.

“I don’t need saving, you should know,” you added a little quieter.

Roy wasn’t offended. Not at the very least, but he thought it odd that you hadn’t fully appreciated his incursion. Now that he considered it more, he would’ve liked to see you handle yourself.

“Well, I respect that,” he said. You nodded in gratitude and he blinked.

“You’re a respectable woman, Miss (l/n).”

Your body froze as whiskey hit your throat like flames. “What makes you say that?”

He gave a small shrug. “There aren’t many women out in the West who carry themselves with…strength.” He held his hand up defensively and chuckled. “I mean no offense, I think all women are respectable. More than any man, that’s for sure. Hell, my mother died when I was young, but I knew she was formidable.”

You knew that kind of pain. Your heart clenched, but your expression didn’t change.

“I guess, you somewhat remind me of that about her.”

You’d been complimented before, much more in regards to your looks, but there were many who’d commended your skills with a pistol or aptitude for words. No one had gone so far as to say you were formidable.

And deep down, you’d always considered yourself so.

But it was different to finally hear it from someone else. Someone other than your mind who could see you for what you were.

You knew you were strong. And Roy Goode knew it too.

“My mother died when I was young, as well,” you added. “Don’t remember her much, and my father didn’t like to talk about it.”

He studied you for a good moment. Then, knowingly, “You ran away?”

“As soon as I was eighteen,” you hummed. “Should’ve done it sooner. Woulda saved me a lot of trouble.”

The subject of parents was a risky place to go with someone like Roy Goode, but there wasn’t a bone in your body that was afraid of it. “What about you,” you amused. “Mama died and you come across Frank Griffin?”

His eyes snapped up to yours like a threat, but you weren’t afraid of him. At all.

“Everyone knows who Frank Griffin is,” you downed the rest of your drink. A little more would go to your head soon. “I’m not stupid.”

Then, Roy’s eyes softened.

“You can read,” was all he said.

“What?” Did he even hear you?

Roy quickly caught himself and shook his head. “Nothin’.”

The server returned to the side of the table and refilled your glasses. Once he was out of earshot, Roy rested his elbows on the table. “I met Frank when I was younger. He and his brother saved my life.”

You arched a brow. “Frank Griffin saved your life?”

“Careful, ma’am,” he finished his second glass in one gulp. “Don’t go sayin’ his name too many times, or you’ll summon someone worse than the devil.”

“Guess he can’t be too bad if you’re with him.”

Although you expected Roy to chuckle, or at the very least smile, at your comment, he didn’t. He instead thickly swallowed as if he’d suddenly gone nervous. You could see his knuckles tense.

It was maybe a miracle when the server then arrived with two steaming bowls of stew. The smell that it emanated was that of bitter salt and old potatoes, but as you dragged your spoon in it, it looked fine enough to consume. The two of you hesitantly and simultaneously took one mouthful before furrowing your brows in thought.

After a moment, you set the spoon down and shook your head.

Roy’s lips curled in disgust. “I think I almost prefer the rabbits and lizards.”

You instantly broke out into a synchronous chuckle, one that almost made your smiles reach your eyes. He tried to take another bite before swearing it was poison. A few other guests at the bar sent some questionable glares your way—your laughter was nearly louder than the piano.

But the two of you could hardly notice anyone else when you had the other right across the table.

It was surely late enough to retire back to your rooms by the time you’d finished at the saloon, but the combination of your earlier rest and the whiskey running through your veins left you both awake.

The street lamps had been lit as the two of you strolled down the side, passing by the few townspeople who’d decided to enjoy the pleasant evening air.

For the first time in a while, it wasn’t blistering hot, even with the moon in the sky.

Your conversation from dinner hadn’t ended for a single moment during your walk. “You’re some kind of horse whisperer, then?” You asked after Roy had told you he ‘understood them’.

“Maybe I am,” he chuckled, hands lazily in his pockets. “Maybe we share the same kind of brain. I can hear them.”

You shook your head with a grin, the whiskey still hot in veins. “You’re something else,” you mumble. “You got June well-trained, I’ll say that.”

But Roy tutted. “It’s not ‘trained’—your first mistake.” You nodded for him to continue. “I respect her and she respects me. It’s a relationship.”

“She respects you?” You asked in amused disbelief.

He hummed. “It’s a balance, like an exchange.”

Though you can still sense the humor in your voice, you momentarily ponder that what Roy said was deeply beautiful. You’d never given it much thought, but riding a horse was much more than mounting it and yelling at it until it went.

Roy had a profound tenacity for kindness that you hadn’t encountered in very many, if not any, men. In a way, it puzzled you. He was a complicated, tangled string that became a fascinating image in all of its knots. You were vexed by it just like the constellations in the sky as the two of you gazed up at the end of the road.

“I do hope Heaven is real,” you say out loud. You didn’t actually mean to.

But Roy knew exactly what you meant.

“Me too,” he said softly, carefully shifting his gaze to you for only a moment—taking in how perfectly moonlight hit your skin, shadowing and highlighting all of the right parts.

You were the type of woman someone carried a picture of with them for the mere hope they’d see you again.

He looked down at his boots in the dirt. “Doubt I’d make it there.”

You turned to him. “You don’t think so?”

“Well, bad men seem to do well enough down here,” Roy smiled softly to himself. “I don’t think I know anyone who’d make it up there. Good, bad…I used to think there was a difference. It’s just two ends of the same spectrum.”

“And what about me?”

Roy looked at you then, almost puzzled. Bewildered. “What?”

“You said you don’t know anyone who’s good enough for heaven.” The slight tilt of your lips was more intoxicating than the whiskey. “What about me?”

Despite the burning in his pulse, Roy held himself back from saying what he wants: Wherever it is, I hope it’s with me.

Instead, he professed, “Well, you just might be an exception.”

And for the first time since you met Roy Goode, you let yourself feel the blood in your body rush to your heart. It moved to your cheeks, and you mentally thank God that it was too dark to see how red they’d turned.

But there were worse matters on hand than the flush on your face. It was the horrible ache between your legs that hadn’t been relieved in…too long.

“C’mon,” you mused. “We should get back before it’s too late.”

His bashful smirk matched your own.

Roy’s eyes don’t pull from your figure for a single second as he follows you up the stairs…the sway of your hips with each step, how you glance over your shoulder to see if he’s close behind.

And each time you look, he’s exactly where you expect him to be.

The sound of your boots comes to a halt as you stop at the door marked four, your fingers brushing over the handle. Roy’s presence lingered behind you like a ghost.

“Today was a hot one,” he says quietly, as if anything too loud would have you running away. “Left me feelin’ grimy.”

Like you’d said: You weren’t stupid. “Best to wash it off, then.”

He nods back slowly with a soft smirk you haven’t seen him wear yet. You wonder then what it’ll be like to undress it.

You push the door open with a sudden ease from Roy’s weight pressed against you. His hand graces over your hip as he closes the door witht the heel of his boot. Once his touch becomes firmer—but still respectful—you speak again.

“You’ve helped me an awful lot these past few days.” You didn’t expect yourself to speak so softly. His other hand sets his hat on the side of the bed. “Buying me that horse, this room…”

In the corner, the large metal basin sits empty. Waiting.

“You treat every girl who robs you like this?”

A quiet chuckle comes from the depths of his chest. “Just this one.”

Your eyes glance at his, before drifting downwards to where your hand ghosts over his belt. A shaky, almost inaudible breath falls from his lips. “I almost feel like I owe you.”

“Oh, no,” he drawls. “Darlin’, you don’t owe me nothin’.”

He tilts your chin upwards so your eyes meet his again. You don’t even notice you’ve taken your bottom lip in between your teeth, and he nearly moans just at the sight of that.

“I’m a giver,” he says softly, his thumb dragging over your lip. The metal in his belt clanks as you fumble with the buckle.

He leans in even closer. “And I could give you something more.”

So close. Close enough that he can undo each button of your blouse, so slowly you swear he’s trying to make your skin crawl. Close enough that he can feel your lips brushing over the corner of his mouth.

It’s not an invitation. It’s a seal of approval.

And so with it, Roy lets his body move before his mind can stop him—not that it ever would. You mold so perfectly against his lips like he was made to kiss you and no one else. It’s warm and wet when he drags his tongue, brushing over your teeth and finding your own.

You’ve been kissed before, but never like this. Never so sweetly yet vigorously. He pulls your top from your shoulders and lets it fall to the ground, your trousers soon after. You toe your boots off before unbuttoning his own shirt.

He pulls from the kiss to drag his lips across your jaw, grazing over your neck.

“Been wonderin’ what was underneath all this.”.

“You like what you see?” You giggle.

He stands back, and you’re left vulnerable and naked. The air is cold without his touch. You almost feel unsure of yourself.

Then you realize he’s looking at you with the hunger of a starved wolf.

“Darlin’, I ain’t sayin’ I’m gonna ruin you—would never ruin you,” his chest rises and falls with a heavy, steadying breath. “But you just might beg me to.”

Your knees almost buckle. He moves to switch on the faucet to the tub, and you take the moment to appreciate the parts of him you can see. His belt hangs slightly open, the zipper of his jeans pulled halfway down.

You run your hand through the water once it reaches a high level in the tub.

“‘S perfect,” you hum, a warm smile on your face that soon disappears when Roy lifts you from your feet.

He sets you inside the tub, leaning over the edge. Cupping the water with his hands, he runs it over every inch of your body, making sure there isn’t a single dry spot apart from your face. When his fingers graze your skin, you shudder.

“Aren’t you gonna join me, Goode?” You ask with a tempting smile.

“Lady’s first.” He takes a soft rag by the side of the tub and lathers it with a citrus soap, rubbing it smoothly over your figure.

You sigh contently. “No point in washin’ the sin off me now if we’ll be making more later.”

Your eyes meet his. Temptation mounted his face with an alluring darkness settling over his eyes.

A pressure began to build in the space between your legs before you realized it was no phantom feeling, but instead Roy’s two digits submerged under the water. He’d dropped the towel in the water with his mind focused on something else now. His fingertips brushed over your pearl before completely pressing against it.

He acted as if there was no time to waste, setting a consistent, circular motion over your clit. Your eyelids fluttered close blissfully.

“Fuck,” Your brows knitted together, a soft, restrained curse fell from your lips.

Then, he pulled his hand away.

Your eyes shot open again to meet his. He warned, “Don’t hold back from me now, baby.”

You nod as he pressed a little harder against you. You swear his hand is made of iron—hot, smooth metal that knows just how to perfectly work the most beautiful sounds from you.

As you writhe in the water, eyes squeezed shut with your mouth gaped open, Roy’s eyes remain on you.

“Someone’s gonna hear you, honey,” he presses his forehead against your temple. “They don’t deserve to.”

You instinctively lean against him, grinding your hips into his hand. The pads of his fingers drift down to your puckering hole, but no more than that.

“Please, Roy,” your hand reaches out of the water to curve around the back of his head, pushing his mouth closer to yours.

He chuckles. “I told you, you’d be begging for me.”

Then, like he was trying to make you cry, he pulled away and rose to his feet so he towered over you. His bottom lip, swollen from your kisses, hung heavy and glistened with your drool as Roy’s hands pulled his belt from the loops. It fell to the ground with a loud clatter, his jeans following soon after.

You stood from the tub and reached for him, your hands drifting down to the last thing covering him from you. And once he was fully bare, the two of you stood still for a moment.

Shamelessly, you drifted your gaze down his body, taking in what it was like to see Roy Goode in all of his glory.

Glorious was the right way to put it, for sure.

He smiled as he watched you scan him before taking your lip in between your teeth again.

“C’m’here,” he says softly, taking your hand in his.

You stepped out of the tub, dripping water on the wood floor. It’d surely leak through to the ceiling above the poor woman downstairs.

Before you could say anything, Roy’s mouth landed on yours again, his fingers running through the dry roots of your hair.

“Can’t get enough of you.” His words came out muffled and broken through the kiss.

“It’s yours,” you say, placing your hands on his chest and breaking the kiss. A small, gentle push has him settling on the floor, and you’re quick to take your seat on top of him.

His eyes softly close when your folds envelope his cock with an insatiable warmth.

“I’m yours. From the moment you showed me,” you relax and feel his solid shaft right under that swollen pearl. “Kindness when I did you wrong.” Your fingers lace with his. “I’m all yours, Roy. So take it.”

His right hand lifts your hips the slightest bit, allowing him space to take his cock in his left hand. He strokes it gently with a tight fist. The tip of it bumps against your hole, and you can feel it leaking against you.

“You ain’t real,” he whispers, eyes focused on where you two touch. And in a moment, you become connected. “Are you?”

One swift move of his hips pushes his full length past your folds. Your jaw drops open, but it’s the overwhelming feeling of him splitting you open that leaves you surprisingly quiet.

Roy doesn’t seem happy at that. He juts his hips upwards at a different angle so a sweet yelp cuts through the air. “Fuck, that’s good,.” He pulls you so close that your flesh nearly melts around the bone. You’re putty in his hands. “Pretty cunt’s grippin’ me like a vice.”

Everytime Roy’s hips draw from you, only to vigorously push themselves into you again, you swear you see God.

The skin on your knees splits against the splinters of the floorboards. A pleasurable pain. You steady yourself with your hands on his chest.

“‘S my turn, now,” your words slur together, eyelids heavy from how sweetly the tip of him kisses your cervix. “Gotta give you something too.”

He doesn’t object. His hands settle like a loose weight over your hips as you start to move yourself. Your hips grind against him, letting his cock rub against every inch inside of you. The motion is too familiar. For a second, you swear you’re riding off into the sunset with heaven in your pocket.

Your eyelids flutter close when you begin to bounce. And though you can’t see it, Roy can. His chest under your hands lets out heavy breaths as he gazes at how you swallow his entire length like it’s nothing.

But he knows it’s not. “That’s it, sweetheart,” he feels his body go loose. He lets himself give in to you. “Ride it.”

Gravity pushes you down just for you to lift yourself back up again. Your tits bounce in the most mesmerizing way, and Roy’s hand reaches up to grab the flesh of them. His thumb rolls over your nipple.

“You’re beautiful,” he grunts out, bending his legs so you can rest your back against them. But your movements don’t stop.

And neither does the way Roy looks at you like you’re the only thing worth living for.

When you catch his eyes on you, you clench around his girth, pulling another sharp moan from him. Suddenly, his hips begin to meet yours in a pleasurable rhythm; the sounds of skin slapping, heavy breaths, and your delicate yet guttural moans make the most beautiful music.

“Don’t stop, sweetheart,” Roy pleads.

Your mouth curls, “Who’s begging now?”

He chuckles. A soft tension around his cock grows into a desperate need to finish off how good you feel around him.

“You got it, baby.” His drawl leaves your hips stuttering, and he can tell from how you’ve tightened around him, you’re feeling just the same as him. “Make yourself feel good on it, just like that. Wanna see you turn to pieces all over me.”

Suddenly, your head is too heavy to hold upright. It lulls back onto your shoulders, all of your energy going towards the way you ride him.

“You feel it? Gonna make a mess for me?”

You nod, rapidly and loosely.

“We’ll just have to clean you up all over again.” He mutters to himself, and you can hear the smirk on his face. It stays there even as his brows furrow together, a mixture of bliss and pressure.

You feel the pad of his thumb press against your clit again. You instantly break at the contact. He feels your orgasm wash over him, a lush shower of warmth that brings his own release.

It mixes together inside of you like the sunrise bleeding into the remainder of the night outside your window. It’d be illogical to sleep now, but you can’t find it within yourself to keep your eyes open as your cheek rests against Roy’s chest.

His hand lazily rubs over your spine. “S’pose Les Moore will have to wait to die another day,” he whispers.

You chuckle, “Don’t waste your bullets on that man. I’ll do it myself.”

Roy cocks his head. A few days ago, you would’ve protested at any mention of doing his bidding. And here you were, now, ready to make yourself a wanted woman.

There were many women he’d slept with. Many women who’d opened their doors, shared their beds, held him in their arms. Many women who’d sing him to sleep thinking it’d make him maybe even love them.

And sure, he’d been with whores. He’d paid good money to see fine women dance like there was no God above. Maybe even paid them off enough so they wouldn’t have to suffer under any more men with a heavy fist.

Many women who’d liked the color of his eyes. Who’d gasped and shuddered at the sound of his name. Who’d fawned over the sight of him.

But never a woman like you.

He tells himself to remember that forever as he carries you to the bed.

You’ll wash in the morning he thinks when he pulls the covers to your chin. And when Roy moves to draw his own bath, he hears your tired voice from behind.

“Don’t go,” you call out to him.

He hums. “I’m only right here, darlin’.”

Your eyes are closed shut, lost in a dimension between sleep and wake. “Here,” you say softly, motioning to the spot in the bed next to you.

He ignores the sheer layer of sweat clinging to his skin. He ignores that there’s still dirt in his hair from earlier in the day. He ignores the grimy feeling underneath his nails and the ache in his feet. Roy carries himself to the side of the bed.

The sheets are cool against his skin as he takes the spot beside you. Then, he feels the warmth of your arm draped over his chest. He stills.

“You never held a woman, Roy Goode?” you tease with a tired smile.

“Sure, I have,” he says. “First time it’s felt right, though.”

You move your head so he can tuck his arm underneath it. He feels your soft, mindless clouds of breath against his skin.

This is it he thinks. Heaven.

You knock an arrow in your bow, back against the trunk of a tree. You can feel the crags and knots of the wood even through your thick jumper and your sturdy jacket. 

You shouldn’t be here. Not alone. 

You and your cousin Thomas went foraging for baby supplies three days ago. He’s not really your cousin, just the son of a woman who was once a dear friend of your mother. She took you in after your mother passed, and Tom’s been like a brother to you ever since. His girlfriend Liv is pregnant and he wanted to surprise her. 

But you kept being pushed out further and further from the causeway, from safety and home.

You know the rules. 

Poor Tom, you think, looking wistfully at the trees where you put an arrow through his eye. 

“Nock an arrow, duck.” 

“No, no, Tom, please-”

“Nock an arrow, now.”

“Tommy, I can’t-”

“You shoot me right fuckin’ now!”

And so you did. 

It hurt for a moment, but then you had to run. So you took his quiver and his knife and ran. 

You found a moment of peace, able to transfer his arrows to your own quiver and secure his knife to your belt. 

He had carved a little smiley into it, and it made you sniffle. But then you heard a twig crack in the distance.

So here you are, scanning the treeline as you prepare to send an arrow at whatever comes running. 

You take a sharp breath. Your lungs burn from running and your body is hot, though the air of October is cold. 

You see one body and aim, then see another. Two more. Three more.

Run.

You bolt in the opposite direction, bow over your shoulder as you weave through trees. You come around a rocky corner and find yourself blocked by a rock-covered knoll you would have to climb.

“Ooh, look what I found, Jimmy,” a voice calls. You see a blonde girl in a tracksuit on the ridge.

“Please, help me up!”

Another blonde girl in another tracksuit kneels down and grabs your hand to yank you up as your legs try to aid her, pushing with your boots. You look back.

You run together until you find an old barn. The three of you scramble up to the loft and wait ford the infected to shamble by. You take a shaking breath and look at them.

“Thank you,” you whisper. “I really thought that was it.”

“You all alone?”

“Now I am,” you admit.

The two look at each other.

You give them your name, puffed out in a quick breath.

“Jimmy Ink,” the one in red tells you.

“Jimmy Jones,” says the orange one. 

“You’re… both called Jimmy?”

“We’re all Jimmy, babe,” Jimmy Ink says, eyeing you.

“Y-you’re from a village?”

“Not far from here,” Jimmy Jones supplies with a smirk. 

“Please, c-can I come with you? I brought some food, I can trade-”

“Ah, you gotta see the boss about all that.”

“The boss?”

They just grin at you, and don’t elaborate.

You don’t have much to trade anyhow. You’d picked up a crinkly baby toy and a milk bottle with the tip. An absolute score for your cousin’s girlfriend, who’s five months pregnant. 

The three of you try to fall asleep together. The two of them are snuggled up, but not like they’re in love. More like the way you would’ve slept next to your cousin. For warmth and comfort. 

In the night you hear them talking.

“Fuckin’ killer find, Inky. He’s gonna go mad.”

You wake up in the morning to a gentle hand on your shoulder.

“Let’s go,” Ink says. 

You nod, gathering your things and following them. You meet another tracksuited individual, this one clad in black and white.

“He’s called Jimmy Snake.”

You wave nervously. You continue on the road, collecting more Jimmys until you’ve got a veritable clan of them. Blonde hair, matching brightly coloured tracksuits, funny names. You wonder if maybe you’re having a nightmare, and you never really left Lindisfarne in the first place. Maybe you’ll wake up in bed, cozy and safe. And you’ll make breakfast for Liv and talk about what “baby” wants to eat. 

“Ah, she’s a bit rough, but she’ll do,” Jimmy Fox mutters to Jimmy Shite. 

“Strong though,” he responds.

“Yeah, but he don’t like ‘em strong,” Jimmima adds.

You follow them over a hill and to a derelict abbey. Your ma was religious before the virus, but not much after. Your aunty told you she was a kinder woman. The world around her made her rougher. You think about your aunty and Liv back on the island all alone. Without Tom, without you. 

One of them whistles from behind you, and Jimmima takes your hand, tugging you forward as you enter the cold and empty courtyard, a fountain full of murky water at the center. 

“Oi, you didn’t find her,” Jimmy Jones hisses, wrenching your hand away. She and Jimmy Ink lead you forward. 

A figure appears. Blond, tracksuit clad. Fingers littered with rings, cross chain around his neck, and a tiara perched in his white-gold hair.  

The Jimmys crowd around you, like they’re presenting you to him. 

“Oh, my,” he murmurs, approaching you.

He smiles, showing that he’s missing a tooth.

“Now where did these mad cunts find you?”

“I-I was running, um-”

“Me ‘n Inky helped her out,” Jimmy Jones chirps. 

“Oi. Don’t interrupt our guest,” he chides gently. “Ye come with me, love.”

It’s a command, not a request or an invitation. He says it sweetly, though. 

He takes your shaky hands in his, leading you to the church. The Jimmys don’t dare follow. 

He takes your hand and presses a kiss to your knuckles.

“I’m Sir Jimmy Crystal.”

You give him your name as you sit in a pew. He repeats it. He says it like he’s always known it, like it’s a realisation. Or a prayer. 

He gestures for you to continue your explanation.

“I… I was out scavenging… we were looking for…”

You choke on the words. You went out to look for any baby supplies. Liv is still pregnant. Still alone. Still waiting. 

“We?” 

“My cousin, he… I had to-”

He clicks his tongue, shaking his head.

“Awful shame, that.” 

He leans in.

“Lookin’ for what?” he murmurs, brushing hair from your face.

“B-baby supplies,” you manage to say, tears pricking at your eyes. “His girlfriend, she’s pregnant.”

You don’t notice Jimmy’s eyes lighting up at that word. 

“What a gift that is, to be with child.” 

“Oh, God,” you cry, all your feelings hitting you at once.

Jimmy cradles you in his arms, and you cry into the soft, worn fabric of his tracksuit. You feel the cool metal of the cross touch your temple and feel shameful suddenly, pulling back. You shouldn’t let a stranger hold you like that. 

“I’m sorry, I-I’m so sorry, y-you don’t even know me-”

He says your name again, taking your hand. 

“So, yer only owed comfort if I know ya?”

You sniffle. He wants an answer.

“Well, n-no-”

“Right. You stay here with me and my lads, eh? Get ye right. Patch up that cut.”

“Cut?”

You reach up and touch your hairline, feeling a sticky lukewarm substance you realise is your own blood. You spy a bloodstain on the white vest under his tracksuit where your forehead touched.

“I’m so-”

“Ye apologise again and I won’t let ya stay,” he jokes. 

“Thank you, Sir-”

“Just Jimmy’s alright, lassie.”

“Thank you, Jimmy.”

He grins at you.

“Can’t leave a thing like you out there in the cold ‘n wet.”

His knuckle brushes the side of your face.

“Yer too pretty for all that.” 

Jimmy leads you to a room, watching as you take every step. You peek into the Jimmys’ rooms, seeing that each of them sticks to their colour coordination very strictly. 

You look around corners and glance behind yourself every so often. He knows the lads can judge correctly. 

Not predators, scavengers. 

That’s what you are. Cautious, calculated. Precise. 

“No infected here, love,” he says, almost teasing you.

You let out a small laugh and pause before you apologise again.

“I…”

He raises his brows and you press your lips together.

“I’m used to being alert if I’m not home.” 

“I’m sure ya are,” he hums, eyeing you as you walk forward. 

You both turn into a simple room.

“This’ll do for now,” he says. 

For now. You don’t seem to catch it. 

“It’s all mine?” you ask softly.

“Unless ye want company,” he flirts. 

“I’ve never had my own room.”

You always shared. First with Tom as kids, then with your aunty after Liv moved in. 

The admission makes Jimmy’s head tilt. He has to hide a smirk. An animal that’s used to the storm goes mad when it’s calm.

“Well, I’ll leave you to it.”

“To… what?”

Jimmy looks at you funny. The lads are always begging him for a break. 

“Don’t you wannae… rest?”

“Oh, I feel rested. I’d like to help, if I can.”

He leans in the doorway, crossing his arms. 

“What can you do?”

“I can sew and I can cook. Very well, actually.”

“We need sewin’. Ye would think those lads run through barbed wire half the time.” 

“Are they… what are you?” you ask cautiously. “To each other, I mean?”

“They’re my flock. This is my parish, I’m their shepherd.”

“And you’re all Jimmy?”

“Right.”

“Why?”

“Why not.” 

You blink at him.

“Can ye read?”

You nod.

“We have a school in my village.”

“School,” he repeats. “What do ya learn at school?”

“To read and write. We learn maths and we learn how to kill infected.”

That catches him off guard. Maybe you are a hunter. 

“Have ye read the Bible?”

“I’ve never read it, but I know the stories,” you offer.

He hums and pushes himself off of the doorframe. 

“Right then. Follow me.”

You can’t shake the feeling of emptiness here. There’s no old people, no babies, no dogs or sheep. It’s like time is standing still, with just these strange track-clad people moving about in their trainers. 

You’re left to sew quietly, meticulously patching their suits. They were very particular about the scrap fabric matching the original colour as best you could. You see a few shirts stained with blood and you ask a passing Jimmy— the lad unfortunately called Jimmy Shite— and he and Jimmy Fox bring you a washbasin you can clean in.

Jimmy Crystal watches you from a distance. You’re so domestic. Women in this world don’t have the luxury, but here you are. Sewing, patching, doting over his flock. 

The word Madonna runs through his mind, only interrupted by you pricking your finger with the needle.

You wince and suck your finger in your mouth. He could almost groan at the sight. 

“What happened?” he coos, waltzing over like he wasn’t just watching. 

“I-I just pricked myself. It’s nothing.” 

“Let me see,” he says with the firmness of a father, extending his hand. He sees a tiny drop of blood on your index finger and clicks his tongue. 

He presses his thumb to it with a slight pressure that makes you squeeze your eyes shut.

“Ow…”

“Not used to pain?”

“I’m not used to any of this,” you admit to him.

“Any of what?”

“This.”

You gesture around you.

“I live on an island, we don’t go anywhere.”

“Ah, but ya did.” 

“I shouldn’t have. I’m not… I can shoot, yeah, but I’m no hunter. I’m a nurse, mostly. Or a midwife, whatever you’d call it. I help the pregnant ladies, the mothers with babies and wee ones. It’s been a long time but we have a few babies now. More than we have supplies for. I just… didn’t want Liv to be left out. She’ll be such a good mummy, I just know it.”

You’re sweet. He almost can’t believe it.

“And you’ll be an aunty?”

You smile at the thought, looking at your handiwork.

“If she’ll have me.”

“Ah, she’d be mad not to.”

That makes your cheeks heat. He takes away his hand. Blood has smudged on the pad of your finger, but stopped beading. 

“Voila. All better.”

“Thank… you,” you say softly, trailing off as you watch him lick his thumb clean. 

“You feel like cooking for us?”

You nod, still a little dazed. 

“Lovely.”

After dinner, which was met with glowing praise in the form of mouth-full compliments from Jimmy and his Jimmys, you retire. 

Jimmy walks you to your room and you thank him again before settling in to sleep. 

You’re cozy. You’re warm. 

You’re not freezing or soaked to the bone or terrified like last night. 

But you can’t sleep. You can’t sleep because nobody you love is in this church. 

Nobody you know, nobody who cares for you.

Jimmy lays back and sighs, his hand undoing the ties of his tracksuit. 

You’re perfect. He’ll have to find some way to reward the lads for finding you. 

You’re kind, you’re gentle. You can cook and sew. You help mothers with babies.

He’ll make you the Mother of the flock. The lads are itching to worship you, and so is he.

He spits in his hand, jerking himself as he imagines you doing it. He imagines your soft hand on his cock as he pushes two fingers into your soaking cunt. He imagines leaving marks on you, showing the lads and the universe that you’re his.

He brushes his thumb over the tip and hisses, palm to his face.

“Fuck, yes, c’mon,” he growls. 

He can imagine you on top of him, knelt at the altar as he baptises you in sweat and tears. 

He can almost hear your cries, feel your hands pressed to his chest as you take what you need from him. When you cum for a second time he’ll finally turn you over and drive his cock into you.

“Fuck, fuck,” he mutters, shivering. 

He’ll fill you with his seed again and again, he’ll tell you how beautiful you are and what a good girl you are. And you’ll thank him for it, because you’re just that sweet.

You are salvation, rebirth.  

You are the mother they need. 

You have a fitful sleep. You thrash under your blankets and kick them off. You dream of blood and drowning on the causeway and bodies running at you.

You wake in a cold sweat. You’ve been crying too, you find as you sit up and sniffle.

A knock at the door startles you.

“It’s me,” Jimmy says.

You don’t have your trousers on, and you had taken off your jumper before bed. 

“Erm… hold on,” you call. 

You pull on your clothes again and open the door, sock clad feet on the stone floor.

“Sleep well?”

“Not at all,” you answer honestly, shaking your head. 

Your candor surprises him.

“Why’s that?”

“It was too quiet. And… I had a nightmare. Or three, I suppose.”

“I’m sorry,” he coos at you. “You’re welcome to keep sleepin’.” 

You shake your head.

“I can’t.”

You sniffle.

“If I was home, I could just go help with the babies. They’re always awake, crying and wanting to be held.” 

“Would you ever want one?”

You nod.

“I just haven’t been lucky finding someone. The men on the island… they’re strong men, good men. They keep us safe. But they’re brutish.” 

You look at your hands.

“Fathers should protect, but… they should be gentle, too.”

“Aye. They should,” he lies.

He eyes you.

“Care to go for a walk?” 

You follow Jimmy over the grassy hills behind the abbey. You stop to look out at the world that seems to go on forever. He looks back at you and sees your eyes wide and full of wonder. 

“It’s so big,” you whisper. “I can’t even see the water.” 

“I’m sorry we can’t take you home,” he starts.

“No, I… I couldn’t put you lot in danger like that. Any of you.”

You sniffle.

“It’s my fault. I’m stuck out here.”

You catch his eye.

“I don’t mean to sound ungrateful” 

You wipe at a rogue tear and shake your head.

“I’m just homesick.”

“Maybe we can find somethin’,” he tells you softly, putting a hand on your shoulder. He reaches up to touch your face, swipes the hair away from your cheek and brushes his thumb over your cheekbone. You shift in place, but you let him.

You let him, he thinks. 

“Hm? Tell us what’d make this feel like home,” he murmurs, smiling at you.

He has to subdue the roll of his eyes as he talks so sweetly.

You sniffle.

“It’d be stupid to say babies,” you laugh weakly. “There’s so many children on the island.” 

“Oh, no. We want that. We want a community, a real village with families.” 

“That’s not such an easy thing to get.” 

You think for a moment, trying to visualise your room. You have a toy rabbit made of some previously scratchy half-plastic fabric that has softened over the years.

You don’t want to sound like a child, though.

“A fresh jumper?” 

“Fresh jumper,” he repeats, his eyes on your lips. “What else?”

“I-I don’t need-”

“I’m not askin’ about need.”

He cups your cheek in his hand.

“Want isn’t a sin, love. It’s human to want. It’s natural.”

In the next few weeks, you fit well into this little group. You are not a Jimmy. He makes that clear.

You do not get a tracksuit or a name or a special weapon. You don’t go out when the lads go scavenging or hunting or whatever it is they do out there. They always return dirty. He doesn’t want you leaving at all. Not without him. He takes you around the hills by the abbey, into every room. You’re even allowed into his room.

He brings you that jumper, and so much more. Little toys and trinkets, jewelry, books, even a nice dress. He tells you how much he wants to see you wear it, and you set out to repair it and make it nice. 

He is very hands-on. He’s always got a hand on your shoulder, guiding you with his hand on the small of your back. He likes kissing your hands, like he did when you first met. He’ll sit by you and listen to you read or watch you sew.

You sit by him, reading an article from an old magazine the Jimmys managed to find mostly in-tact.

“I wonder what I’d look like with that stuff on,” you say, pointing to the model with the strange paint on her face.

“You don’t need it.” “I still wonder.”

After dinner one night, after everyone says their prayers and goes to bed, Jimmy catches your wrist.

“Is yer dress finished?” You nod, smiling at him.

“I think I did a good job.” “I’m sure ya did.”

You hesitate and feel your heart beating. “Do you… would you want to see it?”

He tilts his head, grinning at you.

“Well, of course I would.”

You take him back to your room and show him the dress, holding it up. You point out the imperfections, and alterations you made and the patch you put in at the back.

“Would ye wear it for me?”

You blink at him.

“Erm… now?”

“Why not now?”

You shed your jumper and avoid his eyes as you undo your pants. You hesitate pulling them down and turn around to take off your shirt, left only in your bra.

“You don’t have to hide from me, love,” you hear him say. 

It only feels wrong for a second. Then your skin feels hot. You shove down your pants and step out of them, stepping into the dress. Jimmy watches you do up the buttons at the back and struggle with the one at the top of your back. He’s behind you instantly, his fingers brushing the nape of your neck as he buttons it. 

“Look at ye,” he murmurs, taking your hand, lifting your arm and spinning you around.

“It looks nice.”

“Ye look nice.”

Your face heats and you smile nervously.

“Thank you,” you answer his compliment quietly.

“Yer fittin’ right in. Most other people we meet don’t mesh with the lads so well.”

“They’re not as bad as they look. They need…”

You trail off, seeing his gaze. He looks so wanting.

“They need what?” he asks, tracing your face with his knuckles.

“A mother, I think. They’re like little children. They… do their chores and they scuffle and they shout and cry like children. They listen to father,” you explain, gesturing to him.

“They listen to ya, too.” “Oh, they’re just being nice.”

“They are not nice. They’re dirty fuckers, they fight like hell and love every second of it. They want you to be their mother.”

You blink at him, lost again.

“I’m not-”

“Ye could be,” he offers, meeting your eyes. 

He holds your face. 

“Y’like it here, eh?”

“I do…”

“Don’t you wannae stay?”

“Well… o-of course I do. I thought-”

“Yer such a good help, love. But a man has urges.”

You pause. You can do everything else. Cooking, sewing, playing nursemaid. Playing wife would be different.

Your eyes flick down quickly and see a sizable bulge in his pants. 

You try to move away from him, but your face is in his hands.

“You wannae stay or not?”

“I can help,” you offer him weakly.

“Oh, I don’t know if ye would be any good-”

“Let me help you, please.”

You’re getting teary-eyed, which makes his jaw clench.

“Can ya be a mama?”

You nod, tears rolling down your cheeks.

“Please, I want to stay,” you cry, shaking your head in his grasp. “Don’t make me go out there all alone, I-I’m not strong enough-”

He shushes you, his thumb wiping the wetness from your cheek.

“So pretty. Wouldn’t ye just be so lovely with a baby?”

“Your baby?” you ask him, sniffling.

“Well, who else?” he jokes, grinning at you.

He leans in closer, his breath puffing against your lips.

“I’d never make ya leave, love. Ye would stay right here in this wee sanctuary.”

You’re so cute, pouting as you think about it. He wants you so full of him that you can’t think anymore. You’ll say yes. 

You nod, eyes closed as you sniffle again.

He kisses you, and you don’t expect it. The feeling of his lips crushing against yours and the firm grasp he has on your head make you wince. 

He pulls back to admire you for a moment.

“I’ll find you some more dresses.”

Jimmy claps to get the attention of the Jimmys. 

“Lads, I’ve some news for you.” 

They gather around him and he grins.

“Our lovely guest has agreed to play mother for you terrible cunts.” 

They grin and clap, cheering and whistling.

“Right, shut up. Now… everyone is gonnae fuckin’ behave tomorrow, that clear?”

They nod. 

“Good lads. We’ll have a new member joinin’ us very soon.” 

The next day, you’re told that Jimmy wants you to wear your dress again. 

You do, but you pull on the too-big, plum-coloured jumper Jimmy gave you— because, of course, it matches his own tracksuit— over it. You walk to Jimmy’s room and knock on the door, trying to keep yourself from tearing up again. You fiddle with your sleeves and wait for him to answer.

“Come,” he calls. 

You push the door open and avoid his eyes. His smile falls when he sees you in the jumper. 

“Why are ye coverin’ your dress?” 

“It’s cold…”

He’s done being nice to you. He knows what he wants and he’s going to get it. 

“Take it off.”

You grip the hem and pull it off, holding it. He takes it and tosses it onto his bed. 

“There she is,” he coos, grabbing your face again. “Can’t ye just see it?”

He presses one hand to your stomach.

“All round… full of life.”

He grins at you.

“You’ll be makin’ new life in this world. Isn’t that a blessin’?” 

He kisses you, then your cheek.

“I’ll bless you, love,” he murmurs, kissing your temple. “I’ll bless you a hundred fuckin’ times.”

His hand moves from your stomach and undoes your buttons behind you. Unsure of what to do with your hands, you shakily reach for the zipper of his tracksuit.

“Needy girl,” he chides you in a husky tone.

Your dress becomes loose around your shoulders and it slips down your body.

You undo his zipper, allowing him to shrug off the jacket, leaving him in that same white vest. You see a little pink spot where you had bled on him the first day.

He follows your eyes.

“That’s where ye marked me, remember?”

He smirks. 

He sits on his bed, tugging you down and settling you on his thigh, slotted between your legs as you kneel on the bed. 

You gasp, feeling the pressure increase when he flexes his thigh.

“Keep making noises like that and I won’t last long,” he chuckles, cruelly joking with you.  

His big hands grip your waist and you feel him push you down.

“Oh…”

“Been a while?”

You really can’t help the tears this time. 

“I-I… I’ve never-”

He sits up straight, cradling you.

“Never?”

You shake your head.

“Oh, why didn’t ye say so? I have to make it special for ya, love,” he coos, sickly sweet as he sits you on the bed.

“Never been fucked… the lads have really got a keen fuckin’ eye. Lay back.”

You do as he says, staring up at him. He kneels at your feet and his hand skims up the side of your leg.

“I’m gonnae make ye a temple,” he vows, leaning down to kiss your knee.

He moves up your legs, knuckles tracing a winding path his lips follow diligently. 

“An altar to worship at…”

His eyes flick up as he kisses your cunt over the fabric of your underwear. 

“Don’t ye wannae be worshipped?”

You swallow hard, panting as you do.

“Say, ‘yes, Jimmy’,” he directs you, mocking a high voice. 

“Yes, Jimmy.” 

“Say ‘thank you, Jimmy’,” he mocks again.

“Th-thank you, Jimmy…” 

“Good girl,” he murmurs. 

He kisses your stomach.

“Gonnae put a baby in here. Fill you up right.”

He continues pressing sloppier kisses up your body, unhooking your bra and tossing it behind him. He groans, squeezing your breast with his hand and licking your nipple, biting the skin around it.

You yelp, jolting.

“Just imagine these all… all fulla milk,” he can hardly get the words out. “Leakin’ when the baby cries…” 

He groans, and you can feel his hips rocking against your leg. 

“Fuck…” he mutters.

He sucks on your other nipple, lifting your hips up and putting them in his lap.

He tugs off your panties and holds them up to his face. He inhales deeply as he grunts, bucking his hips into you.

“So sweet. Yer gonnae be so sweet for me… with your cute round belly…” 

He slips two fingers between the folds of your cunt and drags them up and down, collecting the slickness from your hole.

You cry out, covering your face with your hands.

“Cover up again and I won’t be so fuckin’ nice,” he snarls at you.

Your hands dart down and rest on your core, which tightens up as he pushes one finger into your now soaking hole. He moans, his eyes closing. 

“So tight, love. Gonnae hafta stretch you out real good.” 

“J-Jimmy-”

He adds another finger and you wince, twisting your upper body like you’re trying to crawl away from him.

As if he would let you. 

His cross dangles over your face as he pushes his hips against his hand, fucking his fingers into you. 

“Look at me,” he commands.

You don’t listen and he mashes his thumb against your clit. You sob, your hips bucking away from his touch. 

“Fuckin’ look at me.” 

You turn over again and meet his eyes, crying as you see his cruel smirk.

“So fuckin’ pretty when ye cry… you’ll be a weepin’ mess the whole time ye got my baby in here,” he presses a hand to your tummy, making you moan at the extra contact and pressure. 

“This cunt is a bloody weepin’ mess too, fuck me.”

You feel him spread his two fingers and stretch you, making you whine and squirm in his grasp.

“Th-that hurts…”

“Only for a second. Then it’s gonnae feel like heaven.”

You grip the blanket on his bed as you cry, tears rolling down the sides of your face. His thumb brushes your clit again, gentle this time. 

“Sweet thing,” he coos at you. “Yer gonna be such a good mama.” 

His thumb rubs tight circles on your slick clit, making you mewl and gasp for air. You hiccup as he fucks his fingers into you rapidly, pushing your frame into the squeaky spring mattress each time. The idea that the Jimmys can hear you is mortifying, but you can hardly feel shame when all you feel his Jimmy curling his fingers to stroke a spot inside of you that makes your vision white out. You scream— worries for the Jimmys be damned— and scramble for purchase, something to grab. You grab his forearm and your nails poke into his skin as he grunts, still fucking you through your orgasm.

He grins at you and pulls his fingers out. You wince at the empty feeling, quickly satiated by the grind of his clothed cock against your clenching cunt. He licks his fingers clean, sucking on them and moaning at the taste of you.

“Fuck, you’re so sweet, lovey… I’m gonnae fuck ya so good, sweet thing. Yer not even gonna know yer own name after.” 

He laughs cruelly, eyeing your body with a greedy hunger. 

“Ye can have mine if ya like,” he teases. 

After shoving down his waistbands and freeing his cock, harder than he’s been in years and red at the tip, leaking precum as he slips it through your folds.

“Ye want it?”

If he asked you that before this moment, you would have cried and said no. But you need it. You’re desperate, your body is screaming at you.

“Yes, yes! Please, God- please, Jimmy,” you beg him, knowing that’s what he wants to hear. 

He chuckles and lines himself up, pushing into your virgin cunt.

A new sound rips through your throat. Something animal and unnatural at the same time. You sound wounded. You feel wounded, the stretch is a searing pain. 

Until it’s a warm and welcome sensation. 

“Ah, yer so fuckin’ tight,” he pants, his hot breath on your neck. 

He doesn’t slam in, he fucks in and out as he works his cock into you inch by inch. 

It pushes whiny, breathy noises out of you each time he buries himself in, and finally bottoms out with a particularly hard push, his balls meeting your ass in his lap. 

He leans over you and snickers at the way your mouth falls open.

“So big, huh?” he teases. “So fuckin’ big. Feel me right there, lovey?”

He presses a hand over your tummy and thrusts out, then in— feeling a slight change against his hand.

“That’s where I’m puttin’ the baby.”

You’re so sensitive and he’s fucking you raw and hard, not caring about the way you cry out and grip his bicep.

“You keep cryin’ I’ll fuckin’ give you somethin’ to cry about,” he threatens you, making you squeak and pout.

He scoffs. 

“Oh, is Daddy bein’ mean to Mama?” 

He sees something in your eyes change, hears your breath hitch.

“Did ye like that, Mama?” 

You moan, feeling him push in all the way again. He laughs at you, full-chested and mean. 

“Fuckin’ look at ye. Beggin’ to get bred. Look, yer fuckin’ keenin’ for it! Ye want my cum? Ye want Daddy to fill up yer cunt?”

You can’t speak, your mouth open as he fucks you, watching your breasts move as he slams into you again and again.

But Jimmy expects an answer. 

“Yes, Daddy,” you breathe, reaching for him. 

He scoops you up in his arms, holding you close as he fucks into you. He kisses your collarbone, which is almost tender. 

“Ye needed this, didn’t ya? A daddy to take care of ye.” 

He kisses you. It’s sloppy and wet, and a string of spit connects you when he pulls away.

“And I needed a mama just as much. The lads just know the boot. They need some love.”  

“Jimmy, I-I’m- ngh-”

You bawl, thrashing in his arms as you cum a second time. He continues to fuck you, his eye twitching at the feeling of you milking his cock. 

He stares at your stomach again, biting his lip at the visual of you pregnant, your belly swelled with his child. His hips stutter and he grits his teeth, pushing in as deep as he can as he jerks forward, cumming inside of you.

You feel the spurt of hot seed against your cervix, making you whine. You have little energy left and your cunt is a livewire, sparking and shocking you as his rough strokes don’t stop.

He keeps rocking until he twitches inside of you and pulls out.

“Look at that,” he murmurs, watching his cum dribble out of your hole. 

He pushes it in with two fingers. You make a desperate noise, trying to twist your hips away. 

“No wastin’ all that. That’s fuckin’ salvation, love.” 

Your head is swimming.

“Huh?”

“Fuckin' salvation and rebirth.” 

You try to sit up and he pushes you down.

“We’re not done.” 

“B-but-”

“We’re done when I put a baby in there.”

He leans down to give you a wet kiss on your cheek.

His words echoed in your mind, while his kisses covered every part of you. His touch, different than before on the couch, grew more urgent and slightly more dominant. Between shared whispers and moans, Carmen delved into every inch of your being, his thrusts maintaining a slow, deliberate rhythm that heightened the intensity.