Too Many Hobbies- i believe in the reblog button

You make it through two full months with nobody finding out about you and Brendon, everybody in on it keeping their lips zipped and everyone else happily oblivious, but that changes one random day when you wake up feeling like shit.

“You should just stay home, baby,” Brendon murmurs as he watches you slog through getting dressed, clearly exhausted and feeling off. “The ED can survive without you for one day.”

You shake your head and insist, “All I need is breakfast and a coffee and I’ll be all set. Just didn’t sleep well.”

“Alright, I trust you,” he sighs, dropping down so he can tie your shoes the way he has every morning for more than 3,000 days. “Take it easy though. For me. There’s that nasty bug going around and if this is the start of it-”

“I’m fine, Bren,” you assure as he stands up. “You worry too much.”

He kisses your forehead and murmurs, “I know. I’m sorry.”

“You’re sweet,” you reply, nudging up to kiss him softly. You know he only worries about your health so much because he had to watch you nearly lose your life a few years ago; you’re sure you’d be ten times as bad if the roles were reversed. “Let’s go get the kids up, yeah?”

He nods solemnly. “I’ll start pancake duty.”

You pat his ass and push him toward the bedroom door. “Good boy.”

Annoyingly, though, you really aren’t feeling better by the time you’ve had your coffee and breakfast and snuggles with your mama’s boy. Still, you take a deep breath, get the little ones in their car seats, and head to the hospital with a determination to get through the day since you have the next two off.

You don’t even make it to lunch.

Your breakfast decides to make a dramatic reappearance out of nowhere, sending you running to the staff bathroom at code speeds. After puking, your skin is about ten shades grayer than usual while you slide down the wall next to the bathroom trash, head spinning and forehead shining with sweat.

The next person to push inside the bathroom is Dana, having watched you hustle away with an expression every mom recognizes when there’s a bug going around. When she spots you, she immediately drops down and touches the back of your clammy forehead. “You don’t feel feverish, but, Jesus, you look terrible.”

“Thanks for that.” You grimace as she grabs one of the little paper cups and fills it with water for you to sip on.

“You’ve gotta go home; you look like you’re gonna pass out. Can I call someone for you?”

Shit, you left your phone in your locker this morning. You manage to mumble out as much to her and say, “If you have your phone, I can tell you my husband’s number.”

He picks up on the last ring after excusing himself from supervising a more-than-capable resident, knowing an unknown number could easily be the kids’ school or daycare. “Hello?”

Your voice creaks through. “Hi, hon, I left my phone in my locker. Borrowing Dana’s. I think I’ve got the bug that’s going around. I’ve been throwing up for like half an hour.”

“I’m so sorry you’re sick, sweetheart,” he soothes softly. “You need me to come down and take you home?”

Dana’s head cocks to one side. That’s a familiar voice, but she can’t quite place it because she’s never heard it sounding sympathetic before.

“Yeah, I think so,” you reply, feeling defeated and exhausted. “This thing’s really knocked me on my ass. Literally, actually. I’m on the bathroom floor.”

Brendon’s voice gains intensity as it lowers in volume. “Are you okay? How serious is this?”

“I’m alright,” you reassure him, “just needed to sit down somewhere cool and quiet. Dana’s here with me being amazing. You’ll come down soon?”

“Yeah, baby, of course,” he sighs tenderly. You hear him shuffling things around, already reorienting his day at the first sign of you needing him. “I’ve got one more quick post-op and then I’ll grab you, okay? Can you find somewhere to hang tight until then?”

“Mhm,” you offer queasily. “I’ll wait for you in Occupational Health, maybe? I can lay down and get some meds there at least.”

“That’s a good idea. Tell them I want blood and cultures. Don’t forget that you want trimethobenzamide, not Zofran, for the nausea. Zofran always makes you too fatigued.”

“Yes, doctor,” you reply with an eye roll. But when the eye roll makes the world spin which makes your stomach flip, you groan, “Thanks, Bren.”

As she puts all the baffling dots together, Dana steps in and tells him, “I’ll bring her up to OT. She looks like she could go down any second, so I’m gonna stick with her.”

Brendon sighs. You know he’s pinching the bridge of his nose to stop himself from getting too upset that he can’t fix everything right away. “Thanks, Dana, I’ll see you both soon.”

Dana manages to get you to Occupational Health without catching any stray questioning stares. After being briefed on your symptoms, the OT nurse gives you a sympathetic smile as she preps her kit. “It’s probably the flu, but we’re going to draw some blood and take a couple cultures just to be safe, alright?”

Dramatically presenting your arm for the poke, you murmur, “As if my husband would let me leave without a battery of tests for a seasonal virus half a Pittsburgh has.”

She smiles knowingly. “Park definitely seems like the protective type.”

“Park the fuckin’ Shark,” Dana sighs, still disbelieving, as she shakes her head. “So tell me: Was he nice when you first met or were you mean?”

Seeing Brendon’s broad form in the corner of your eye, you turn toward him and sigh romantically, “He’s always nice to me.”

The moment he catches your eye, Brendon’s expression softens. Dana’s never seen that before. He strides quickly to your side and takes your free hand as the nurse does your blood draw. With a quick squeeze to your palm, he asks gently, “How’s the patient feeling?”

You tilt your head back and pout. “Supremely crappy. Sorry, baby, I know you told me to stay home this morning.”

Brendon shakes his head and presses his lips to your hair. “Never apologize for needing my help; that’s the job. You’ve been nauseous half of your adult life and you’re used to pushing through it. Shit happens. Let’s just get you home, baby.”

Dana watches the exchange with  befuddled eyebrows. Suddenly the mountain of a frown she’s come to know is a gentle giant, his eyes concerned and his expression tender. He’s had baby blue eyes this whole time? Jesus. She never would’ve guessed after avoiding eye contact so long. She gestures broadly and half-laughs as she asks Brendon, “You’re telling me all those precious angels she’s got covering the inside of her locker belong to you? The meanest man in the hospital?”

“Guilty as charged,” Brendon confirms as he once again kisses the top of your head. He’s rubbing your back, too, unable to stop touching you as a way of grounding himself. “We’ve been together almost ten years now.”

She whistles, impressed. Turning to you while the nurse disappears with your tests, she asks, “Any reason you don’t talk about him at work besides the fact that he’s undeniably awful?”

“I talk plenty about my husband,” you laugh softly, not able to muster much energy to tease, “you all just don’t think my cute stories could be about him.”

Suddenly recontextualizing countless adorable accounts, Dana disbelievingly says, “Brendon Park takes his girls to their father-daughter dances every year in a tie that matches their dress. Brendon Park writes notes for his kids’ lunchboxes and takes them all on dad dates so they don’t miss out on quality time with him.” She shakes her head and laughs, “No wonder he keeps his family a secret; I think you might be the sweetest man in the world, Dr. Park. I’m never gonna look at you the same way again.”

“That’s all hearsay,” Brendon snaps back through a chuckle. Then he sighs and tells her, “Look, surgery may be my life, but those kids are my world. Family’s everything.”

Dana can’t help smiling. “God, now I’m gonna be sick.”

You make kissy lips at Brendon and say, “I tell you guys all the time: My husband’s a huge softie.”

Brendon shakes his head and jokingly covers your ears with his hands. “She’s delirious; don’t listen to a word she says.” Then, while you get cleared to leave, he nudges Dana on the arm and adds, “Hey, don’t tell anyone about us, alright? We’ve got a whole bet going.”

And she gives the only response heard in the Pitt: “Can I get in on the action?”

Just as you’re about to go home after your first shift back a few days later, feeling much better after resting and hydrating as with Brendon’s mom coming over to dote on the kids, Dana touches you on the shoulder. Her eyes are sharp and her voice is low. “Do you have a few minutes?”

You glance at your watch. Brendon’s grabbing the boys from daycare, so you can spare a few minutes. “Now?”

She nods and you can see something serious hiding behind her eyes. Immediately you worry about the particularly fragile patient she assisted you with a few hours ago. “No time like the present.”

“Um, yeah, alright.”

She leads you into a private room and closes the door behind her. Inside, she picks up a chart and a few packets of paper she had waiting.

Swallowing hard as your mind easily supplies all sorts of horrible news, you check, “Is this about a patient?”

“Ah, kind of,” she replies, gesturing for you to sit on the bed. You hop up and she steps closer. After a deep breath, she hands over the clipboard – your chart from your visit to OT last week – and says, “No point beating around the bush, I say. You’re pregnant.”

The floor falls out from under you.

Your ears start to ring. Staring down at the litany of blood tests, your eyes settle on that firm POSITIVE next to a sky-high hCG level.

While your heart thuds its way into your throat, Dana adds softly, “I’m guessing you’re already well into your first trimester based on those numbers. Maybe 10, 12 weeks.”

Not quite processing, you blink fast and ramble out, “I- I’m so good about my birth control pills. Same time every day. Never miss them. With five kids, you don’t miss your birth control.”

“I read over your chart, honey,” she explains, standing next to you now so she can place a hand on your upper back. “One of the medications you’re on – the modafinil, for your sleep issues – reduces the effectiveness of hormonal birth control.”

Tears sting at your eyes as you scoff, feeling stupid and confused and jarred, “How did I not know that? I’m a fucking doctor.”

“You’re not a psychiatrist. If they didn’t tell you that, you should sue as far as I’m concerned.” She hands you a couple stapled packets of paper and a pamphlet. Studies, you realize. “Look, take a day and talk about it with your husband, whatever you need to do, but if you decide to stay pregnant, you’ll need to stop taking it because first trimester exposure can cause some complications and malformations.”

If the floor fell out of you at the first news, it’s the ceiling flying off this time. Your hand goes over your mouth as you choke back a sob. “Oh, god.”

“Don’t go panicking yet,” she soothes, rubbing your back how your mother would when you were little. “The chance is still low and you know as well as I do there are things we can screen for and most of them are fixable, treatable, or manageable even if they’re present. All your numbers look fantastic and you’ve got a nice long history of healthy pregnancies, right?”

You wipe the tears from your cheeks and take a deep breath, steadying yourself as much as you can. “Right. Right, yeah. Okay. Everything’s okay.”

Dana gives you a sympathetic, understanding smile. “Do you want a minute alone? Or I can walk you out to your car?”

You sniffle and try to force your face into a grateful expression, genuinely thankful she’s being so kind and taking the time to be supportive. “That would be nice.”

With her voice low and her arm slung protectively around your shoulder, Dana guided you out of the back entrance and to your waiting car. She says goodbye with a tight hug that lingers, promising you everything will be okay.

Then, alone in your car, your mind finally settled enough to relax, you feel that tiny little spark.

Underneath the shock, underneath the panic, underneath the confusion, peeking out like a sprout growing through a crack in the concrete, there’s that familiar bloom of pure love. That soft, sacred, quiet thing that grows unrelentingly inside of you when everything else threatens to crumble.

Love without boundaries, without conditions, without a name. The same love that has you sewing custom Halloween costumes, baking preschool graduation cakes, and wiping sniffly noses all cold season long. A love made from you and the man who’s rerouted and dedicated his entire life to making sure you and your children are safe and adored.

As you turn over the engine, you touch your lower abdomen and murmur softly, “We’re doing this again, aren’t we?”

You hate to say it, but you’re grateful when Brendon is pulled into an emergency surgery at the end of the day, sending his mom to pick up the boys at daycare. It’s nice to have some time to think while you make dinner and help the older ones with homework.

While everyone settles into the evening, you catch yourself watching the kids playing with each other, leaning in the doorway with a soft, far away expression. You’d felt so finished having kids after Felix, but suddenly you can see another baby to bounce as you chase the others around. You can see it so clearly that your eyes sting with tears. Even when you imagine that baby with any myriad of complications, you love it. You want it.

Late that night, all the kids in bed save your littlest one, Felix is half-asleep on your chest, his thumb in his mouth while you watch the TV on low. You just can’t bear to stop moments like this when you know they’re so fleeting. Running your fingers through his hair, just like Brendon’s downy waves,  you murmur, “What do you think about becoming a big brother, little man?”

He stirs slightly and gives you a heavy-lidded smile. With a half-giggle that always melts you, he muses, “Baby sister?”

“Baby something,” you confirm gently. “I just have to tell daddy.”

He nods as if knowingly, nestling his forehead into your side. “Daddy happy.”

“I hope so.”

“Know so.”

You’ve convinced yourself that you’ll manage to wait to tell Brendon until after he’s had a solid night’s sleep. But then he comes home. And, in a matter of minutes, you remember it’s impossible for you to keep a secret from him, especially one this big. That’s the problem with being married to your best friend; he’s the one person you want to talk about everything with, even when it’s not the best time.

“I got my bloodwork back,” you tell him tentatively as you watch him go through his bedtime routine from the bed, “and I don’t have the flu.”

After he finishes flossing, he heads into the closet and asks, “Norovirus?”

Your hands start to sweat. This feels very, very different from your other pregnancies. The shadow of Felix’s birth clouds you both. You swallow hard and squeak out, “Not quite.”

Stepping out in nothing but his boxers, a few droplets of water still on his chest from his recent shower, Brendon sits next to you on the bed and cups your cheek. With a furrowed brow, he urges, “I can read you like a book, angel. Spit it out.”

Searching his blue eyes for any islands to rest away from your anxiety, you whisper, “I’m pregnant.”

Every time you’ve told him before, he’s scooped you up into his arms and spun you around and celebrated. This time, the blood drains from his face. His palms go clammy. The world stills.

After a minute, he asks in a voice that’s jumbled up with fear and grief and love and hope and desperation, “You want us to keep it?”

“I think so,” you reply quietly, “but not if you don’t want another-”

“I’d raise as many kids as you’d give me, baby, that’s not what I’m nervous about.” Brendon turns to you, clutches your hands in his, and shakes his head like he’s trying to clear an Etch-a-Sketch. Through tears that just won’t stop falling, he whispers, “After everything last time, after almost- almost fucking lose you, I don’t know if I can- if I can handle it.”

You rush back, “That won’t happen again, Bren.”

“You can’t know that for sure.”

Brushing his wet cheeks with your thumbs, you remind him, “I can know it to 99.99994 percent based on the latest research. We both know the odds are astronomical that that complication would happen more than once.”

Unable to speak, Brendon buries his face in your shoulder and takes a deep breath. His arms wrap around your waist and he pulls you effortlessly into his lap to hold you as tight to him as possible.

You massage his scalp with your fingertips and soothe, “I’m okay, Bren. I’m just pregnant.”

“I know, baby, I know.” He pulls back and kisses your hand over and over with his eyebrows pinched together. “But you’re older now, and-”

“Sweetheart, I’m not even thirty,” you chuckle and shake your head. “The average woman hasn’t even started having babies by my age.”

“You’re really on one with the statistics tonight,” he half-laughs, wiping his tears and taking a deep breath. After a minute of studying your features the way he always has when he wishes he could read your thoughts, he checks, “Are you sure?”

You nod and give him the first secretive smile. “Completely.”

Brendon hugs you close once again and sighs out all his fears with his next breath. “Then I’m sure with you.” Sliding his strong arms beneath your ass, he offers a mischievous smile and asks, “Feel secure?”

You roll your eyes and grin and nod – and he hoists you up into the air. Letting out a needed laugh, you lock your legs around him and kiss him hard as he spins you around. With your forehead pressed to his, you giggle out, “We’re gonna have a baby.”

“I love you so fucking much,” he says, kissing across your cheeks. Once he’s got you laughing and thrilled, he flops you back on the bed and kisses your stomach. Finally, propped on his elbows next to you, that boyish smile of his blooms in full force. He says seriously, “At least this means we have some wiggle room for our ultimate frisbee lineup. Margot’s not exactly shaping up to be an athlete with all her musical theater.”

You snort run your fingers through Brendon’s hair as he rests his head on your stomach, eyes closed reverently as he once again reimagines his future with another baby. “Hear that, kiddo? Daddy’s gonna teach you to throw as soon as you’re out of there. Work extra hard on building up that right hook.”

“Nah, we need a Southpaw,” he corrects with the most adorable smile you’ve ever seen. Then he just shakes his head happily and snuggles closer to you, the picture of domestic bliss. As he softly kisses anywhere he can, he muses, “We’re gonna have to go ring shopping again.”

You poke him in the pec and balk, “You want me to wear a six carat diamond? My hand will fall off, Bren. We could send one of the kids to college with that.”

He holds up his hand to stop you in your tracks. “One carat per baby; that’s been my rule for a decade and I’m not about to betray my values now.”

With a snicker, you reach back and turn off your bedside lamp, getting cozy under the covers together. “I can’t even wear my ring to work.”

He counters, “But I like when you wear it on dates.”

“Because you like to show me off like some trophy wife.”

Dramatically, he sighs out, “God forbid a man be madly, spectacularly in love with a gorgeous woman and want everyone in a ten-foot radius to know.”

“Fine,” you relent, unable to stop smiling even in the dark, “six carats it is.”

Your pager went off mid-sip.

The page had come in as “urgent” which, in hospital terms, usually meant one of the doctors couldn’t figure out how to access their records without their badge automatically logging them in. 

It was one of those calls that could be quickly fixed if they bothered to remember their hospital-given access codes.

You grabbed your coffee, badge swinging against your chest as you made your way down to the ED.

The second the elevator doors slid open, the chaos hit you. Phones were ringing, stretchers rolling in, voices overlapping. All of it made you grateful to be hidden away in a room for most of the day.

You made your way to the nurses' hub; it was bound to be the location of the confused doctor. 

“Someone called for IT?”

“That would be me.”

You followed the voice to find Dr. Trinity Santos sitting there, staring at a frozen screen as if it had personally betrayed her.

“I’ve been trying to fill out charts forever,” she huffed. “Damn thing kicked me out.”

You stepped in beside her, setting your coffee down carefully before leaning over the keyboard.

“Let me guess,” you said, already reaching for the mouse. “ You tried a couple of passwords, got locked out, and now it's not letting you in.”

Santos pointed at you as you’d just insulted her personally. “First of all, I tried multiple passwords. It’s the damn computer that won't take them.”

“Incorrect passwords are still incorrect to the computer,” you mention lightly, finger moving across the keys as you pull up the backend system. 

She groaned, dropping back in her chair. “I swear, technology has it out for me.”

You smiled to yourself, suppressing a laugh. “Technology is a neutral party, but user error isn’t, however–”

“Don’t,” she warned, though there was no real heat behind it.

You hummed, still working. “Alright, I’m going to unlock your account. It might take a couple of minutes.”

She leaned back in her chair, eyes catching on your ring while you typed. 

“That’s a really nice ring.”

You glanced down, almost like you’d forgotten it was there, your thumb brushing over the band without thinking.

“Oh yeah, thanks,” you said, a small smile slipping through. “My husband actually picked it out on his own.”

“Did he?” Santo leaned forward slightly, interest replacing her earlier frustration. “Damn girl, he must make a pretty penny. That’s a good choice.”

You laughed at her comment, a grin spreading. “He’s a doctor.”

Santos blinked. “Of course he is.”

“How do you even make that work?” she continued. “I barely have time to see my fling that works here, let alone manage to date or marry anyone.”

“You get used to it.” You shrugged, “Schedule lines up sometimes. Other times you just make time even if it's not very long.”

“That sounds way too functional,” Santos muttered. “Are you sure he’s actually a doctor?”

“Pretty sure.”

“Does he work here?” she asked, curiosity creeping in now.

You tilted your head, like you were considering whether to answer, before just focusing back on the screen. “Try logging in again in a minute.”

Santos huffed, watching you work. “You computer people are too calm. If my job locked me out of patients, I’d lose it.”

“You are losing it,” you pointed out.

“Fair.”

There was a pause while you worked, the hum of the ED filling the space.

“So,” she said again, clearly not done talking, “married life.”

You glanced at her briefly. “What about it?

“How long have you been with Mr. Fancy pants?”

“A while,” you said vaguely.

“That’s not an answer,” she said immediately, narrowing her eyes at you.

You smiled slightly. “It’s a safe answer.”

“You’re funny. I like you.”

“Dangerous combination,” you muttered.

​​She ignored that. “Okay, seriously though, what’s it like being married to a doctor?”

You leaned back in the chair, still working as you spoke, as the words came easily now.

“It’s kind of funny, actually,” you started. “We met here at the hospital. I was fixing a printer no one wanted to deal with, and he was hovering like I was about to make it worse.

Santos snorted. “That tracks.”

You smiled slightly, shaking your head. “I thought he didn’t trust me at first. Kept asking if I knew what I was doing.”

“Please tell me you humbled him.”

“Oh, immediately,” you said. “I finally turned around and snapped at him, told him if he was that concerned, he could fix it himself.”

Santos let out a sharp laugh. “No—”

“Yeah,” you nodded, smiling a little at the memory. “And he just” you paused, mimicking it slightly, “kind of froze for a second.”

“Shut up.”

“I’m serious,” you said. “Then he goes all quiet and goes, ‘I just figured you might need help lifting it…’”

Santos blinked. “…lifting what?”

“The bottom panel,” you said, gesturing slightly. “The paper tray was jammed. He thought I wouldn’t be able to lift it.”

There was a beat.

Then Santos’ face lit up.

“Oh my god,” she laughed. “He was trying to help you.”

“Yeah,” you said, taking a sip of your coffee. “Just… very badly.”

“And you snapped at him?”

“I didn’t know,” you defended, smiling. “He was hovering.”

“That is so much worse for him,” she said, shaking her head. “He tried to be nice and got told off.”

You hummed. “To be fair, I fixed it without his help.”

Santos let out a quiet laugh, shaking her head. “Wow.”

She leaned forward again, interested now. “Does he still work here?”

You hesitated just long enough to be annoying on purpose. “Sometimes.”

Before she could even question it, a voice cut in from behind you both.

“Dr. Santos, trauma room four needs your signature before we can send the patient home.”

You didn’t look up right away, your gaze still on the computer loading screen, fingers idly tapping against the desk.

Santos did. “Yeah–got it, I–”

She stopped mid-sentence because Dr. Jack Abbot was standing right next to you, tablet in hand.

He was calm, as usual, not caring that he just walked into the middle of someone's conversation.

You finally glanced up, meeting his eyes for half a second.

It was hard to notice, but the small shift at the corner of his mouth gave him away. Quick enough that anyone not paying attention would’ve missed it, he added the slightest wink to match.

Your fingers stilled for just a second against the desk before you picked your coffee back up, as if nothing had happened.

Santos definitely didn't miss that.

Her brows pulled together instantly, eyes flickering between the two of you.

You, who suddenly looked just a little too composed.

Him, who was already looking back at her like nothing had happened, one hand resting against the counter just beside yours. Close enough that if either of you moved an inch, you guys would touch. 

Her eyes slid back to you. Then to your ring.

Then to him.

And something clicked.

Her posture straightened just a little too much.

You took a slow sip of your coffee, unbothered.

Jack didn’t help her either.

Santos looked between the two of you one more time.

Her eyes widened.

“No way.”

You set your coffee down, pushing your chair back just slightly like you were getting ready to leave.

“Try logging in now,” you said casually.

She didn’t move.

Her mouth opened slightly. “…that’s your husband.”

You tilted your head, a small smile pulling at your lips.

“You asked if he worked here,” you reminded her lightly. “You managed to answer your own question.”

For a second, Santos just stared at you. Then at Jack. Then back at you.

Her jaw dropped.

She just stared at the two of you, eyes wide, as her brain had stalled completely.

You stood, grabbing your coffee like nothing had just happened.

“You’ll be fine, Dr. Santos,” he said evenly. A beat. “Try not to make it a department event.”

That made it worse.

Santos made a strangled sound, still staring between you and him like her brain refused to cooperate.

You stepped back from the desk. “Try logging in now,” you said, already turning away.

Married life with Clark was bliss. He was the definition of dream husband. Recently you had both moved to a bigger house with a beautiful garden , which had a big pool, loads of land and was fenced off for privacy.

The neighbourhood was the sweetest!

Today it was brutally hot, you and Clark were laying on a double sun Lounger he invested in, you were wearing a two piece red bikini and he was wearing pineapple shorts that he was very very proud of.

Humming to yourself you were applying some sun screen to your stomach and arms and he was watching with a grin his wedding ring shining in the sun.

"Baby can you help me with my back?" You asked softly looking at him and he smiles nodding holding his hand out for the bottle and you pass it to him.

He squirts some onto his hand and you gasp feeling the cold on your back.

"Oops! Sorry honey !" He coos kissing your shoulder and rubbing the cream into your back and you sigh tilting your head back and he presses a gentle kiss to your lips.

"Got the prettiest wife in the world" You look at him and he grabs your hand kissing your wedding band before returning to sit back down on the Lounger his head propped up.

"You want some baby?" You offered , the sun making your head foggy until you realise he really doesn't need it. He was kryptonian for fuck sake.

"No baby I'm- you know what sure! My chest could do with a tan !" He grins like a smug idiot.

"Oh sure. Is that what we're calling it now Clark. Real fuckin slick" you roll your eyes at him and he pats his lap.

"Oh and I conveniently need to be on your lap for it Mr Kent?" you raise an eyebrow already straddling him and grabbing the sunscreen and putting some on your hands. His hands glide up your waist , the cold of his wedding band pressing into your skin.

"Wanted to be close to my wife Mrs Kent" He grins a boyish grin as the heat from the sun glares on your back. You slowly hum dragging the cold sunscreen along his abs gently and he groans at how gentle your hands are. The little shit was enjoying this.

You hum rubbing it more into him and glide your hands up his chest and then lean down to slide your hands up his neck to kiss his lips. He chuckles against your lips and slides his tongue into your mouth wrapping both arms around your waist.

He pulls away looking like he's planning something.

"Pass me the sunscreen baby" He coos and you tilt your head confused at him passing him the bottle.

"Baby you already put it on me-" But you're cut off by his hands cupping your ass and lathering it all over your cheeks.

"You're such a Perve!" You scold him and he gasps acting offended and pouts.

"Just don't want my wife's ass getting sun burnt" He tuts shaking his head and you lean down and kiss him again , this time it was a lot deeper , he's grabbing at your ass and guiding you to grind on his hardening dick ; you gasped into his mouth but pull away.

"Baby we're outside the neighbours can hear!" But despite it you were letting him drag you against his dick whining.

"First of all honey. The fences are high nobody can see a thing, second of all I know you can be quiet , there's nobody outside right now... if you want to of course"

How the fuck could you say no to that? He shimmied out of his pineapple shorts revealing his thick leaking dick ; he pumps himself a few times carefully pushing your bikini aside lifting you onto his dick making you whine as he stretches your sopping pussy inch by inch until he bottoms out with a gentle groan.

"Shh shhh honey bee ... you're so beautiful" he pulls you into his chest so you're laying on him almost legs either side of his.

He kisses you lazily letting your tongue glide into his mouth this time. His hands around your waist and slowly rolling his hips inside you hitting that spot.

Suddenly you hear a door opening and Clark stops moving inside. You hear a "nice weather today isn't it?" The neighbour chirps cheerfully.

Clark mouths "he can't see us." And you clear your throat to answer him. "Y..yeah s'real nice Brent!" Clark gives a warning roll of his hips and you swat his arm.

He grins just pulling you to lay on him completely still inside you.

You tried not to move , so did he. It made it more agonising as you throbbed around him and a groan almost slips from his mouth until you slap a hand over it. He kisses your wedding ring again.

“You kids stay hydrated yeah? And don’t forget sunscreen!” He chuckles softly , he was lovely , the best neighbour anyone could ask for.

“Oh we are sir!” Clark chuckles back and his dick inside you was now even more drenched by your wetness seeping out of you and you bit your lip hard quietly moving your hips but he wraps his arms around you even tighter pushing you down in place mouthing “hypocrite be a good girl.”

You heard the creaking of Brent probably getting into his own sun lounger.

A few seconds later and you hear snoring. And Clark? the little shit? Wastes no time now grabbing your ass and fucking up into you like he was an animal and kisses you deeply and grunting softly.

Your pussy gripped him as he hits your spot with every brutal thrust.

“Shhhh shit sorry baby.. it’s now or never .. you’re doing so good”

You kissed him even deeper and it was such a sloppy kiss. Spit stringing everywhere tongues lashing and his thrusts getting sloppy and deeper and he grunts.

“S’alright if I cum in you baby?” He holds off until you nod at him with sweet eyes. “Of course baby.. can’t waste it.” He slams into you one more time shooting his cum deeply inside you his head throwing back in pure bliss.

You reached your own high at the exact same time your fucking neighbour woke up from his sunny slumber.

“I don’t think it’s been this hot in a while …”

“FUCK YES!” You screamed out your coil tightening soaking his dick and leaking out of your hole and the combination of your orgasm and the heat made you dizzy. Clark pulls out , his cum leaking out of you , he reached down spreading it across your ass like he was rubbing it in just like the sunscreen. Oh he was disgusting. “Can’t waste it” He coos

“Sorry Brent.. she gets real enthusiastic about the weather” Clark chuckles and you smack his arm and he blows a kiss and mouths “I love you.”

“No worries ! It’s nice to see your generation enjoy the weather .. however it’s too much for me, have a good one kids” Brent chuckles and his door shuts.

“Clark you have actual issues baby” you tut at him and he grabs a towel cleaning you up. “Just loving on my wife baby” He coos peppering you in as many kisses as he can.

You grab his face and kiss him “I love you Mr Kent” He really looks at you before clearing his throat

“Now I’m gonna get my pretty girl a pretty cocktail..gotta keep you all hydrated hmm?”

Oh he loved you.

☆🧴☆☀️ ☆🧴☆☀️☆🧴☆☀️☆🧴☆☀️ ☆🧴☆☀️ ☆

OH HE NASTYYYYY!!

hi!! :)) as promised .. husband Clark!!

AS ALWAYS

ty for support and lmk what you think:))

It was no one’s fault. Clark was just an extraordinarily affectionate guy. From the moment he laid eyes on you, he was unstoppable; a hand on your back, his mouth on your temple, his nose nudging your jaw, his arms looping you in like a net. He stuck to you like you were made of honey. There wasn’t much to be complained about there, because it felt good to be loved. Even the part of you that felt embarrassed when he was over the top sort of loved the attention… to have a guy as handsome as Clark hanging off you, incapable of leaving you be, following your trail like you had bacon in your pocket? Who wouldn’t want people to see that? Who wouldn’t want to be the object of that kind of affection?

It was coming up on a year of being loved and loving. You practically had to swat Clark off of a proposal, insisting that you move in first, that it shouldn’t be rushed, but it was hard to resist the pull. He frequently joked that you had the opposite of the Medusa effect, he said, meaning that to look away from you even for a second would kill him. He settled to keep the ring he bought away for a while longer, but in exchange, you went everywhere with him and you lived life conjoined at the hip. It was a happy compromise, but not everyone saw it that way. 

Your friends were Clark’s friends, and for the most part, they found you two sweet. Pete was always easy when it came to being happy for his buddy, and Lois could roll her eyes however much she wished, but she admired his passion for you. Oliver offered nothing but brotherly claps on the back that made you scoff, and Jimmy was humorously jealous that Clark had managed to get his smartest friend to love him while Jimmy couldn’t even get a date. Lana and Lex cooed over you frequently, having the hindsight of their own love to keep them objective. But Chloe struggled to stomach it sometimes, and it was harder to hide the longer you two stayed together. 

Chloe had always been sweet, but you knew about her past feelings for Smallville’s golden boy. She had known Clark long before you– you were only as old as his life at the Daily Planet. Her claim was staked when they were middle schoolers, and the fire of her love was stoked over and over again for years. Both she and Clark led each other on in the past, and even while growing up and dating other guys, Chloe harbored a tiny bit of uncontrollable passion for her best friend. She couldn’t seem to shake it, no matter how much she pushed it down, and seeing him drool over you in the way she wished he would for her for so long was starting to eat at her. It wasn’t healthy or fair, and she knew that, but she couldn’t stop the jealousy. It was her fatal flaw. 

Take tonight, for example. It was happy hour at the bar across the street from the Planet, and Oliver was buying with the bonus he wrangled out of a merger deal earlier in the day. Around a high top, you stood with Clark curled around your back like a clam, chin tucked over your shoulder, in a circle with Oliver, Lois, Jimmy, Chloe, and Pete. As you nursed a beer, you kibitzed with Pete over some story from his recent roadie adventures. You felt Clark’s fingers fiddling with the buttons on your cardigan, tracing shapes against the soft pudge of your tummy through your top. Your stomach fluttered, but you learned to listen to people even with his hands on you. He was even distracted in conversation with Lois, and you could feel the rumble of his soft, deep laugh between your shoulder blades. Two intertwined vines, just like always. But you could feel eyes on you– a familiar feeling, a nerve-wracking one. You glanced beside Pete to see Chloe sipping her beer and staring at Clark’s hands around your body, and you flushed a bit. You finished off your last swing and patted his arm. 

“I’m gonna go grab another. Who wants more? Should I get a round?”

Clark hummed softly and kissed your cheek, and then seemingly got dragged in, giving you three in a row– and then one of your lips. “I’ll go for you, bunny, you want the same thing?”

You wiped your mouth with a sheepish hand and nodded. “Seriously, I can–”

“It’s fine, baby, I’ll get you a fresh one. I could use another. Guys?”

You watched him poll the table, and he didn’t step away until he kissed you one more time. Your hands stayed intertwined until he was too far to hold on, and he gave you one of those quiet winks that promised he’d hurry back before turning to look at where he was going. You shifted back to the table and smiled loopily, grabbing up a few empty bottles. “I’ll toss these. Be right back.”

The trash was only a few feet away, which would have been convenient if all was in order. But as you stepped off to throw away the empties, you heard something over the thumping of the bar music and drunken voices bouncing off the walls. 

Back at the table, a familiar feminine voice complained: “This doesn’t bother you guys? Seriously? He’s all over her.”

“They’re in love, Chlo, it’s sweet. You know how much Clark adores her,” a male voice interjected. Low, smooth. Oliver.

“I mean, come on, though. Her? He acts like he’s possessed or something. She must be a witch, honestly. I don’t see how he could be so enamored with her like he is. She’s not all that.”

“Come on, Chloe, don’t be an asshole.” Snippy. Lois. 

“I’m not! I’m just being honest. It beats me…”

When you stepped back to the table, it was clear on your face that they hadn’t been quiet enough. You were pale under the skin and your eyes didn’t lift to look at them. Not even when Clark came back holding a fresh round. He passed you a new beer and rubbed your hip, tugging you into his side and kissing your head. “Here, bunny girl. Just how you like. I had them put the lime in for you.”

Your stomach churned and you took the bottle, and you stared into the condensation running down the amber glass. You saw the reflection of your face in the glimmer, and in the back of your head you heard her again: She must be a witch, honestly. I don’t see how he could be so enamored with her like he is. She’s not all that. 

Chloe’s eyes were wide, darting around the table with guilt. The guys immediately shut their mouths with beer, but Lois stood there with her arms crossed, giving Chloe a harsh glare. Leave it to the cousin to reprimand her. 

“Baby? You okay?”

You blinked and looked up at Clark, and in a split moment of impulse, you gently pulled yourself free from his grasp. His face fell, and as he moved to drag you back, you muttered, “Just… cool it, Clark, please.”

Clark stared down at you like you had just shot him in the chest. Cool it? Don't touch? Since when? He frowned deep, the little lines of his forehead wrinkling to match, and your heart sank. 

“What’s the matter?” he inquired, brushing some hair back from your face. “Do you feel sick or something?”

“I’m fine. I just… the… the PDA is a little much for me tonight,” you whispered, chewing on your nail. You looked back down at your beer, and Clark felt the air shift in the bar. 

“What do you mean? You don’t like it? I thought you liked it.”

“I– it– it’s not that, Clark, I just…”

Around the table, his friends stood and gawked at him as if they knew something he didn’t. They must have, because nobody was talking, and this was notoriously a group of people who never shut the fuck up. He furrowed his brow and crossed his arms, scanning over Oliver’s avoidant eyes and Lois’ overt glances at her cousin. After a moment of silence, he cut through the music with a sharp, “What happened?”

Jimmy shook his head and shrugged. “What? Nothing. Nothing happened. Everything is great. This beer is great. Thanks, man.”

Your cheeks flushed with embarrassment. You had thought about this a million times– about the possibility of talking to Chloe, or at least bringing it to Clark’s attention how she made you feel. You didn’t want to step on toes or hurt anyone’s feelings. You knew what it was like to be passed over for another girl, and now that you were the other girl, you had a lot more sympathy than she probably knew; but you also loved Clark, and you didn’t want to offend him. It wasn’t your place to make a conflict out of a friendship that came before you. But it was these moments, these little passing comments about how it seemed wrong or unbelievable Clark could love you this much that made everything harder. You already had the voice in your head trying to convince you that it was true. You spent more time reminding yourself that he adored you for real than anyone could possibly imagine, and now you knew that other people were thinking it and saying it behind your back. Your friends.

You cleared your throat and patted his arm. “I just feel a little sick, um… I’m gonna get some fresh air, okay? I’ll be right back, Clarkie.”

Clark didn’t stop you. In fact, he stood right in his place and watched you go with a shocked, slacked jaw. He tracked your soft frame as it slipped out the front door of the bar, and when it shut behind you, his heart twinged with discomfort. You being far felt like losing a limb. 

Chloe scratched her head, because everyone was staring at her now. She saw frustration and embarrassment like a wall before her. She swallowed thickly and traced a wet ring on the table. 

Clark followed the visual trail and said, “Chloe?”

“Hm?”

“What happened?”

Chloe glanced up to see her best friend watching her with suspicion. It made her lungs squeeze. His big, blue eyes seemed so disappointed, and she hated that look. It was never the one she wanted. But she couldn’t help but admire him for it. She hated how much she looked up to him sometimes, because it made her quick to justify his feelings, even if they were directed at her. Any attention was good attention if it came from Clark, in her book.

“Nothing happened.”

“Somebody upset her,” Clark crossed his arms, his gaze darkening. “And one of you is going to tell me what happened.”

“Clark–”

“Tell me,” he ordered, and just about every spine around the tabletop stiffened. 

Chloe flushed and mumbled, “It wasn’t anything bad, seriously, she just… I made a joke about you two and I think she heard it. It was stupid.”

Clark cocked his head, expressionless in a way that nobody liked, not one bit. “What did you say?”

“I… it… it was just, like, a joke about you. How you’re so obsessed with her. I said something about her being a witch or something, because how else would you be so into her, or whatever. Like I said, it was stupid–”

“You said that? That came out of your mouth? Are you serious, Chloe?”

“I didn’t mean for her to hear me, Clark, it was just a–”

“And you guys let her say something like that?” Clark surveyed his friends, and watched each of them shrug and look down, avoiding his judgement. “Why would you even let that happen? Why would you say that?”

“I mean, you’ve gotta admit that you are all over her. Like, all the time. It gets obnoxious after a while,” Chloe blurted, clenching her beer bottle in apprehension. 

Clark paused and clenched his palms. Something hot and sick rushed over him, and the struggle to keep his calm was one of the worst he’d ever fought. Worse than kryptonite. Worse than anything. He thought of you standing outside on the sidewalk, cold and alone, mortified at having overheard something so ridiculous, something that suggested for even a second that his love for you was anything less than real. He thought of how many nights he kissed you quietly, shushed your worries about his intentions, his emotions. He thought of how beautiful you looked when you let go of the insecurity and believed him. He thought of how you loved him and all his overbearing touches, and he raised an accusatory eyebrow at the blonde across the way, who looked as though she already knew where this was going. 

“She’s my girlfriend. I think I’m well within my rights to touch her when I want.”

“I’m not telling you to stop, I was just joking about how it’s a little excessive sometimes, Clark.”

“And you get to make that judgement? I’m happy, Chloe. She makes me happy. Does everybody have a problem with how I act around my own girlfriend?”

As Clark glanced around the table, he was met with a variety of expressions– shrugs, shaking heads, sorry eyes– and his jaw clenched harder. 

“Nobody has a problem with it, Clark,” Lois added, trying to soften the blow, “and Chloe said it was a stupid joke. No need to get angry.”

“It’s a little late for that, Lois,” Clark scoffed, running a hand down his face. “You know what? I can’t believe you. All of you, actually, that you would let her get away with saying something so insensitive. All she has ever done is be kind to you. Come out to your bar nights, your parties, run your articles, bake for you, bring you coffees. That girl bends over backwards to be a good friend, and more than that, to be a part of our lives. She loves you guys! She looks up to us and the work we do. She loves me. She’s the most precious thing I have, and this is how you treat her? You alienate her the second I’m not around to hear it, like a bunch of cowards, is that how you act without me?”

Chloe paled. “I think you’re taking this a little far!”

“Oh, I’m taking it too far? Christ, Chloe, that’s rich coming from you! You called her a witch!”

“Yeah, well, at least I didn’t call her a bitch!”

It was common for Chloe to lose her temper, but the second the words fell from her lips, everybody seemed to stop breathing. Chloe winced at her own mistake, and Clark seethed. 

You were outside in the cold, and all he wanted was you. Even more than he wanted to throw this sticky tabletop into the wall. So, he took a deep breath, and then grabbed his coat, your coat, and your purse off the stool before him. 

“Are you seriously leaving?”

“You know, Chloe, it’s the weirdest thing. I feel this crazy urge to go out and kiss my girlfriend. Maybe she put a spell on me,” he deadpanned. 

“Clark,” Chloe groaned. 

“No, Chlo. You crossed a line.” Clark walked around the table, and then he paused to point at her. His voice was so soft that it made her shiver. “Don’t you ever do this again. Don’t joke, tease, talk about her again. If I find out you did, or that any of the rest of you allowed it or do it yourselves, you’ll be lucky if I leave you with functioning tongues.” After seeing her remorseful eyes flicker over his face, Clark added, “She is the love of my life. She deserves more respect from you, and so do I. I expect you to apologize and mean it, but not tonight. I think you’ve done enough damage for one day. Got it?”

Chloe just kept her mouth shut and nodded, feeling her chest tighten. The regret coursing through her veins was enough to make anybody feel nauseous, and it only grew more potent as Clark walked out of the bar, leaving the group to their own devices.

Lois sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose. “One of these days you’re going to have to deal with your shit, Chloe.”

“Oh, so this is all my fault now?”

Pete huffed and grabbed his jacket. “No. It’s our fault for letting you keep it up.”

Chloe’s cheeks deepened to a mortified rose as her best friends gathered their things and threw down cash to cover the tab. “You’re seriously mad at me? He’s the one who blew up on us!”

“Goodnight, Chlo,” Oliver urged, and the rest followed him as the first to leave. Chloe stood at the table, tracing the rim of her beer bottle with a shaky finger and wishing she never said a word. 

Outside on the sidewalk, Clark tugged your jacket over you and cradled your face. His hands were so warm. He was always hot as a heater. You leaned into the touch, and he pressed sweet little kisses all across the plane of your forehead. 

“How about I take you out somewhere, just you and me, huh? Get you a better drink? Something sweet?”

“Yeah,” you nodded, closing your eyes. “Please. Just you.”

“Just me, baby,” he promised, and he coaxed his fingers through your hair. Clark studied the cherubic curve of your cheeks and the pout in your lips, and every inch of him seemed to buzz with love. “I’m so sorry they hurt your feelings. If it helps, I yelled. And I never yell.”

You left out a soft chuckle and gazed up into his eyes, reached out to brush a stray lock from his lashes. “You yelled? My mild-mannered reporter yelled?”

Clark flashed a sharp smile and kissed your nose. “Mhm. Like a real adult.”

“I wish I had been there.”

“No you don’t. You hate confrontation.”

You giggled a bit, blushing. “I do. You know me too well.”

“I know you because I love you,” he murmured.

You bumped your nose against his, and he leaned over you like a blanket, pressing you against the side of the building. The cold night chill had nothing on him. He smooched your cheek, and then your eyes, and then your mouth, one, two, three times. Your hands curled in his button down and you smiled, all echoes of earlier escaping into the night. Nothing mattered– not words, not opinions– when Clark touched you. You loved the PDA and you loved him. Nothing felt better, safer, more right than him. 

“Mm,” you hummed against his lips, “if I was a witch, I would be a good one, if I got you to want me this much.”

Clark grinned and nipped your bottom lip. “If you were a witch, you wouldn’t even need a spell. I’d love you in every lifetime, no matter who you were.”

Your body melted like mush for him, and he scooped you up into a pressing hug, lifting you off the ground. You laughed and wrapped your legs around his hips, and Clark started off down the sidewalk holding you like a monkey. You peppered his cheeks with kisses. “Thank you for standing up for me.”

“Pssh,” he teased, scrunching his nose, “please. I’d do it again in a heartbeat.” 

“I love you so, so much, Clarkie,” you pledged. “I always will.”

"One more," she whimpered, kicking a foot under her comforter in frustration.

The aching desperation in her voice tugged painfully at his chest. She was exhausted. He could see it in her glassy eyes, in the way she kept rubbing at them with the sleeve of her pjs. In the back of his mind, he wondered if she was keeping watch - trying her best to wait up until you returned home. 

To make her happy, and to provide as much comfort as he could, of course he’d read as many as she wanted. That wasn’t a problem, he just didn’t want it to come at the price of her not getting a restful night’s sleep. 

He reached over and grabbed the next book from the stack you’d prepared before leaving, all of Ellie’s favorites. 

"Okay," he agreed, and he felt Ellie instantly relax beside him. "One more."

"Dad," Jack whispered, quietly from beside him. 

Aaron looked over, catching the smile Jack was unsuccessful in fighting back.

“She’s hustling you," he said, his voice playful. Brotherly teasing.

"It’s fine," Aaron said amidst a chuckle, turning to the first page.

Halfway through, Ellie interrupted.

"That’s not how Mommy does the bear voice." She stated, slight offense in her voice.

"Well," he said carefully, "Mom’s better at bear voices than me. How does she do it?"

"She makes him sound grumpy." Her eyes narrowed, as if emphasizing her point. "'cause he's a meanie old bear."

"Meanie old bear, got it." Aaron backtracked, deepening his voice for the bear's dialogue. It seemed to suffice; she remained quiet as she listened along, her cheek smushing against his arm.

Aaron found himself settling into it more than he expected. The steady rhythm of his voice, the weight of her small body tucked against him, the way she went quiet just a little longer each time he turned a page.

It stirred something deep in his chest - the quiet familiarity of a bedtime routine he’d missed while being away. Moments like this made him wish he could be here for more of it.

And every so often, a brave little sniffle left her, a small sign of all the sadness she was trying to hold back from missing you. Her little body could only hold so much, after all.

From the corner of his eye, he could see Jack watching too, quieter now - no teasing. Just a kind of reluctant patience as the stack of books beside them slowly shrank.

Aaron turned a page, only to realize Ellie hadn’t interrupted in a while.

Glancing down, he found that her eyes were finally closed, lashes still damp against her cheeks, one small hand fisted tightly in the fabric of his shirt like she didn’t trust him to stay otherwise. Even asleep, every now and then her brow twitched faintly, like she was still upset somewhere deep in her dreams.

"Is she asleep?" Jack whispered from beside them. His own voice was groggy too, as if the stories were slowly luring him to sleep as well.

"I think so," Aaron murmured, switching off the lamp on her bedside table, enveloping the room partially in darkness. He was gentle with his movements as not to nudge or awaken Ellie, especially due to her death grip on him.

So he stayed, even after Jack had retreated to his room, trapped beneath blankets and books and the weight of her tiny hand holding onto him. Until the sound of rolling tires on the driveway signaled your return, and you entered Ellie's room shortly after.

"Hey." You whispered in greeting, a small, sleepy smile tugging at your lips, still carrying the warm, loose ease of a good night out. It softened even further at the sight of them, Aaron cramped awkwardly on the bed with Ellie fast asleep against him.

You are an adult, a respected professional of the FBI, but sometimes you can’t even make eye contact with him. That has to do with the fact that ten months before you joined the team, you had a one night stand with him. You didn’t know him as Supervisory Special Agent Aaron Hotchner, Unit Chief of the BAU and one of the most intimidating men in the bureau. He had just been a very attractive stranger in a hotel bar in Georgetown. 

You finished undergrad early and already had your academy acceptance and spent the night celebrating with friends. You saw his frown across the bar and made it your mission to make it go away. He was recently divorced and you talked long enough that your friends moved on to the next bar. You made him laugh and you could tell he hadn’t done that in a long time. 

He looked at you with the warmest eyes and such want that he knew he shouldn’t crave. You could see him fighting it, the age difference likely plaguing his mind but the concern made you want him more. Once he got his hands on you, it would’ve taken everything to stop. You didn’t want him to. So he didn’t. 

It was supposed to be one night. One reckless, stupid, amazing night. 

Months later when you walked into the BAU and were introduced to the team you would be joining and your new boss you nearly died on the spot. You had thought about the mystery man from the bar a handful of times, but never thought you would actually see him again.

Now in the past two years, neither of you have ever spoken of it once. Not a single time. Instead the two of you exist in some weird purgatory of prolonged eye contact and way too much tension. 

“So, drinks tonight?” Morgan asks, spinning around in his seat to face everyone. 

“Please, god yes.” Emily sighs, closing her eyes. 

JJ nods, “I’m in.” 

“We know Garcia will come.” Morgan nods obviously, “Kid?”

He looks at you and you finally look up from your computer. 

“Is Rossi buying the first round?” You tease, calling up to his office and he raises a thumbs up. 

Morgan turns toward Hotch’s office, “Boss man, you too.” 

Your chest immediately stalls. He doesn’t usually come with for team outings, he usually spends any free time with Jack so his answer surprises you.

“I’ll be there.” 

You think about it the rest of the afternoon until everyone is eventually grabbing their bags and packing up. Everyone breaks off with the plan of meeting at the usual bar in an hour. It gives you enough time to change and freshen up a little. 

You were regretting your decision to come the second you walked through the door. You know what going out for drinks after a case typically led to. No one was allowed to have secrets, dignity, or peace. You know tonight will be no different. 

The group had managed to secure the big corner booth and you can tell as you walk up that you’re the last one to arrive. 

“Come on, kid.” Rossi stands, “Now that you’re here, help me get the first round.” 

“Gladly.” You smile, following him to the bar. He knew everyone’s order already and you add yours to the list. He passes you drinks and you balance the first few in your hands and Rossi stays behind to wait for the rest. 

“Don’t spill, kid.” He calls and you roll your eyes. 

You head back toward the table and nearly make it when a tall man in his late twenties steps in front of you. He’s handsome but his face is showing the kind of confidence that tells you he doesn’t get a no very often. 

“Hey,” he says with an easy smile, “You look like you could use some help with those.” 

You smile back politely, “I’m good, but thanks.” 

“Maybe I could buy the next round instead?” 

He steps closer and you have to admit he’s smooth. On another night you would’ve at least entertained it for fun, but with your entire team and Aaron somewhere in your peripheral vision, absolutely not. 

You shift the drinks in your hands, “That’s sweet, but I’m here with people.” 

“Boyfriend?” He grins. 

“Federal agents, actually.” You cut, “Much scarier.” 

He laughs and holds up his hands in surrender.

“Noted. I’ll back off, but come find me if you change your mind.” 

You walk away without missing a beat and set down the drinks at the table behind him like nothing happened. The team very clearly had not missed a second of it. Morgan leans back, his grin already forming. 

“Well, well. Pretty boy at twelve o’clock. You work fast, why turn him down?” 

You roll your eyes and shake your head, passing out the drinks to the correct person. 

“Not interested.” 

“That’s the problem, you need to get some.” 

JJ nearly chokes on her drink and your jaw falls slack. 

“Subtle.” Emily shakes her head. 

You laugh, “Absolutely not.” 

“She has standards.” Garcia corrects. 

“Very high ones.” JJ adds. 

Morgan frowns, “What does that even mean?” 

Rossi returns with the rest of the drinks. You wish the ground would swallow you whole. 

“You don’t know about her rule?” Emily asks, raising her brows. 

You simply close your eyes, a hand on your forehead.

Morgan looks even more confused, “What rule?” 

“Y/n doesn’t sleep with men before at least three dates.” 

Morgan just blinks a few times, you can’t bring yourself to look at Hotch but you can feel his eyes on you. 

“That’s insane.” He shakes his head, “Three dates?”

“Hey, I wish I did that.” Emily defends, pointing at Morgan directly. 

“Thank you.” You laugh, “Men are terrible. They need a screening process.” 

Garcia raises her glass, “To quality control.” 

Everyone clinks glasses but Aaron hasn’t moved a muscle. 

Morgan still shakes his head, “So you’re telling me you’ve never broken this rule?” 

You hesitate. 

“Well…”

The hesitation was your mistake. 

“What?” Garcia shakes your shoulder aggressively.

“Oh my god!” JJ covers her mouth. 

You clear your throat, “Every rule gets broken at some point.” 

The table bursts out, all of the girls talking over each other and pulling for more details. In all of their girls' nights you’ve never fessed up for breaking the rule once. You take the opportunity to take a long sip of the your drink.

You hold up your hands in self defence while they continue to badger, “It was one time!” 

“And you never told us?” Garcia shrieks. 

“You were withholding information.” Emily accuses. 

JJ leans forward, “So, who was he?” 

Oh no. 

“Was he hot?” Garcia asks. 

“Well obviously he was, look at the guy she just turned away.” Emily rolls her eyes. 

You can feel a blush taking over your face and take a moment to finally look over at Aaron. His eyes were still on you and you would swear that there was the faintest smirk on the corner of his mouth. To everyone else it looks like he’s enjoying the chaos, but you know the truth. 

“He must’ve made quite the impression.” He finally speaks up. 

The table softens, turning back to you. Your eyes are still locked with his, there it was again. The same impossible and undeniable tension that stretched tight across the two of you for years. All of it stemming from one unforgettable night. You force yourself to stay calm, leaning back against the booth. You can see that Aaron is enjoying this, and hold his stare.

You shrug, “Something like that.” 

The table eventually moved on, sadly Reid became the next target of the group interrogating, focusing on giving him unsolicited dating advice. Garcia was in the middle of explaining how relevant astrology is, but you weren’t actively listening. You can physically feel him staring at you across the booth. 

“Kid, do me a favor.” Rossi reaches out his platinum card to you, “Get us the next round going.” 

You let out a dramatic sigh, ready to complain about doing it alone but you don’t get far. 

“I’ll help.” Aaron says quickly, already moving to slide out of the booth as well.

You take the last sip of your drink before looking up at him. 

“Let's go.” 

The walk to the bar was quiet, and somehow familiar. You can feel his presence close behind you and then at your side once you're actually at the bar. You fold your arms loosely, tapping Rossi’s card on the counter absentmindedly. 

“I didn’t know about the rule.” 

You let out a short laugh, turning to look at him. He’s standing closer to you than you thought he would. 

“That’s your takeaway?”

You raise your brows and he seems unfazed. His gaze is still studying you. 

“You said three dates.” 

You lean against the bar and lower your voice, leaning in closer. 

“You’re really not letting this go?”

“I’m asking a question.” He insists. 

“No,” you say, “You’re interrogating.” 

He hesitates, you see him swallow. 

“Yes, I am.” 

God, that should not be attractive.

You shake your head, smiling despite the situation.

“We’ve worked together for almost two years, Aaron.”

His eyes dart between yours, “And?”

“And we have never once talked about the fact that we slept together.” 

There it is. Out loud in public. The world did not end because you finally said what you had both been refusing to address for years. The world did not end, he didn’t even flinch. 

“No, we haven’t.” 

You give him a look, “That seems insane, doesn’t it? Now you want to talk about it?”

“Yes-” 

The bartender finally approaches and you order quickly. You rattle them off, choosing to focus on that rather than the fact that he’s somehow another half step closer to you. As the bartender gets to work on the drinks, you turn your attention back to him. 

“Now, that’s cold.” A voice cuts in. 

You turn to see the guy from earlier standing next to the two of you. 

“Excuse me?” You raise your brows.

“I thought you said you weren’t here with your boyfriend.” 

You open your mouth, but Aaron beats you to it. He uses the terrifying voice that he uses right before suspects start crying, too calm and flat. 

“No, she said she was with federal agents.” 

The guy blinks a couple times, the silence is palpable. You have to stop yourself from laughing, watching a range of emotions flash across his face. Aaron wasn’t even trying to look particularly threatening, but this was far scarier than the jealous boyfriend act. 

The guy straightened, “...Right.” 

Aaron gives him a single nod and he walks away, going back to wherever his friends are. You continue to stare at him as he reaches for the drinks. 

“What?” He finally asks. 

You grin, “That was incredibly subtle.”

“I thought so.” He finally looks back at you. 

“You were jealous.” You comment, loving every second of this. You know the second you return to the booth it’ll all be over. 

“I was not.” He disagrees. 

You nod, but it’s clear that you don't believe a word. You grab the rest of the drinks, looking back up to follow his lead back to the booth. 

“I didn’t like the way he was looking at you.” He admits, his voice dangerously low. 

You manage a smile, “Good.” 

-

The walk back to the table felt like miles. Morgan immediately reached for his drink and you both slide back into the ends of the booth. 

“Took you two long enough.” Morgan grins, “You start another investigation without us?”

You set Rossi’s scotch in front of him. 

“Yeah, actually we solved the mystery of why men need to be screened.”

Emily snorts into her glass. 

“Groundbreaking.” JJ shakes her head. 

“Please tell me you humbled him again?” Garcia practically begs. 

You nod in Aaron’s direction across the table, “No need, Hotch had him.”

Apparently now, Aaron Hotchner is deciding to be chatty. Not normal person chatty, but Hotch chatty. You noticed, and you’re sure that others did too. Morgan was halfway through telling a ridiculous story involving a case in Miami when Aaron interrupted with a sarcastic detail. The entire table was stunned. Morgan stuttered for a half second before continuing. 

Garcia was leaning over Reid to explain to him what his type was while you sit there trying hard not to think of Aaron and how close he was at the bar. The low tone of his voice when he told you he didn’t like that man was looking at you. It warmed you all the way to your core. 

You turn to laugh at something Emily says and when you do you can see Aaron is already looking at you. He doesn’t pretend otherwise when you catch him and it makes your smile falter. His did too, just barely. 

Somehow what had been avoidance for years, it felt like it was turning into anticipation. Admitting your history out loud to each other cracked open just enough between you two to let something warm back in. 

Hours later, everyone slowly starts to trickle out to go home. Rossi declared himself too old, JJ was missing her boys, and everyone eventually made their way out. You could tell the team noticed Hotch get up after you did, insisting he was tapping out as well and would walk you to your car. You spot Garcia and Emily exchange glances. 

The air outside was cooler, it was a needed relief for how flushed you felt at this point. Maybe the two of you were just two coworkers walking to their cars. You know absolutely no one who would actually believe that. 

“They’ll talk about this.” You break the silence. 

“They talk about everything.”

“True.” 

Your steps slow as the two of you get closer to your car. 

“You didn’t have to walk me to my car.” 

“I know.” He looks down at the ground briefly, “I wanted to.” 

The parking lot felt very quiet. You could hear your own heartbeat, which was annoying. You tilt your head slightly while still looking at him. 

“So, what now? You get jealous when guys hit on me and walk me to my car?”

His eyes drop to your mouth for a second before meeting your gaze again. 

“That depends.” His voice dropping low again. 

“On?”

“Whether this is still a bad idea.” He admits, reaching out bravely to tuck your hair back behind your ear. 

“Oh it’s definitely a bad idea.” You smirk. 

“Good.” 

He uses the hand that was in your hair to pull your face into his. He kisses you like he had been thinking about it for years, and maybe he had. His other hand finds your waist, pulling you in closer. Your hands find his jacket and grip it instinctively with just as much need. 

Neither of you hesitate for a second, just years of tension finally snapping all at one. He presses you lightly against your car, his mouth still on yours. It feels so familiar like that first night, but somehow it’s entirely different. 

This time it isn’t two strangers, this isn’t one reckless mistake. He knows exactly who you are and you know exactly who he is. You’re sure it makes you want him even more now. You fingers slide up the back of his neck and his breath catches. It’s dangerous information you’ll burn into your memory, it makes you smile against his lips. 

He manages to kiss you deeper now, slower this time. It’s like he’s trying to make up for lost time. Trying to make up for every moment over the last two years that didn’t exist. You eventually pull back to get a real breath. 

“Well,” You pant, “that seems like an answer.” 

For the first time all night he is openly amused. 

“Apparently.” He actually smiles. 

You smile back, his thumb brushes against your side. 

“This is still a terrible idea.” 

“Yes.” 

“Potentially career ending.” You continue. 

“Potentially.” He agrees. 

“Totally complicated.” 

“Absolutely.”

You look at him, openly studying him. His calm reactions to everything you keep adding, the fact that his grip hasn’t lessened any. 

“Okay, just checking”

His lips chase yours immediately, pressing you back against your car again. You're already breathless again when your car alarm goes off causing you both to jump apart. 

“So… this is the part where I usually make the responsible decision.” You admit. 

He nods, taking a step back but you can tell it takes some serious effort to do so. You miss the heat of his body on you instantly. 

“I completely understand.” 

Aaron, ever the gentleman. 

“But I think we’ve already established that you’re the exception to the rule.” You roll your eyes, watching him light up. 

-

Your keys hit the floor the second Aaron kicks the door shut behind you two. You’re pulling him by his jacket, eventually pulling it off his shoulders and dropping it too. The two of you are a lot less careful in the privacy of your apartment. 

Your heels are somewhere in the hallway. You tug on Aaron’s tie, loosening it and ditching it. His fingers slide under the hem of your shirt, sliding up your sides. Your top lands on a lampshade. You’re working on the buttons of his shirt while he tugs your skirt down your hips. 

There was a trail of professionalism all the way from the front door to your bedroom. 

He’s still kissing you like he had been holding it in far too long. Your hands are in his hair again, eliciting a groan. The back of your knees hit your bed and you pull him down with you. He pulls back just enough to look at you, both of you still panting. His thumb passes over your bare hip, grounding both of you. 

“Are you sure?” He asks softly. 

You offer him a certain smile, sitting up so you can press a quick peck to his lips. 

“Aaron, if you stop touching me now, I’ll lose it.” 

For the first time in a long time, he really truly laughed. The same laugh that charmed you all those years ago. At the time you had no idea how rare it was. It was honestly unfair how attractive it was. 

He reconnects your lips again and it silences your whine when he slips his hand under the waistband of your panties. The two of you feel the same as you did all those years ago, but somehow it’s better now. It’s better now that you actually know him and he knows you. Every touch. Every moan. Every time he said your name. 

It was sinful. You’re not sure you’ll ever be able to hear it the same way from him. He nearly combusts the first time you let ‘sir’ slip out. Both of you can see what it does to the other and it doesn’t take long for both of you to finish, multiple times over. 

“I can’t believe we made it two years without doing that again.” You huff, turning to look at the man laying next to you still fighting to catch his breath. He generously gives you another rich laugh, reaching out to pull you closer. You rest your head on his chest and can feel how fast his heart is racing. 

His face looks softer than you’ve ever seen it. 

“Never again.” He mutters, leaning down to press a kiss to your hairline. 

“Thank god.” You chuckle. 

He clears his throat and his hold on you tightens slightly, you look up at him noticing the change. 

“I’ve been lying to myself the past two years.” He admits, “When you joined the team I told myself that night was a mistake we would leave in the past. But it’s something I’ve replayed in my mind over and over.” 

“I’m glad I wasn’t the only one suffering.” You steal another hungry kiss, “So, what now?”

“Now I owe you a date, or three of them?” He smirks, “Or is it six now? How exactly does that work?” 

You love that he’s teasing you. His face is so relaxed and carefree. You swing a leg over his lap to straddle him, feeling him harden underneath you. 

“Keep counting, I’m not done with you yet.” 

-

Your mind rakes its memory for the last time you even had your glasses on and you move to the kitchen, unsuccessful.

"Oh my god, what's even the point anymore," you move on and start rifling through the couch cushions, " I wouldn't be able to see it anyways."

You sink from your seat on the couch, melting into the floor, breathing into the hand covering your face.

"Whatcha doing down there?"

A small peak between your fingers reveals the outline of Clark, brushing his teeth, standing above you. Probably laughing at your predicament and dramatics.

"I'm looking for my glasses."

"I don't think you glasses would be underneath the couch."

A long noise of frustration is pulled out of you as you grip your face tighter.

"Clark, I found my glasses in YOUR briefcase before." A small, gurgled chuckle is pulled out of him, making you weakly kick his shins in return.

You're pretty sure you hear him say "Wait, give me a sec, need to spit" as he walks off.

You really need to put a tracker on them or something. This was becoming the most consistent and unhelpful routine you've managed to fall into. Sure, you can remember exactly what your best friend ordered at an ice cream shop four years ago or even remember the exact times Clark came back from work the first week you became roommates, but sure, the one thing you need everyday to actually navigate the world is the only thing you manage to forget.

You can't help the groan that comes out of your mouth as the alarm screams at you to get a move on, you've only got twenty minutes.

A sense of impending doom flashes as you psych yourself up to get ready for the day, not ready to peel off the floor. Guess this is why I got contacts, you think mournfully as your brain immediately goes to the worst scenario as it calculates the cost of your next pair of glasses. It starts bringing up the fact that you need to get an updated prescription first — it being over a year since your last appointment— when you do have to get new glasses and deductibles start zooming in your brain as Clark appears back in your line of view. Admittedly extremely blurry.

"You're gonna find them, stop thinking about insurance," he grabs your arms in an almost practiced manner. "This happens almost every week and guess what? They always turn up."

"Yeah, and I always turn up thirty minutes late to work."

Even at an arms length away, Clark's micro expressions still aren't in full focus as he continues to give you a teasing look. He pushes his glasses further up his face as he pulls you to your feet, somehow making the space between your eyebrows even smaller than before.

The space between the two of you dissipates as his face finally comes into focus infront of you. Maybe it was better for your brain if you weren't able to see him without the natural blurriness. And probably even better if you could step back before you did something stupid.

"Here, you just get ready and I'll find your glasses," his stupid dimples made themselves known as you were turned around and pretty much herded back into your room.

It was almost infuriating how put together and perfect he looked at 7:30 in the morning.

Almost half of your clothes sit wrinkled in a basket at the corner of your room, sitting there waiting for you as you are all but herded back into your space. Clothes start ending up on the floor, right next to the mess you left earlier, and kicked around because you couldn't find the button up you were determined to wear today.

You can feel his warm, grounding presence linger around you as you scurry all around your bedroom to get ready. You start to slip on the bottoms underneath your humongous sweater when your ears perk at the sound of his voice.

"Um, did you check your desk?"

"Yeah, that was literally the second place I checked before I destroyed my bed."

"Well…" Turning your head towards his, a piece of paper is picked up from the clutter of your desk, revealing your glasses to the both of you.

You start to grumble, striding across the room and snatching it from the desk with a low "thank you." More incoherent mumbles and grumbles of "This is the worst", "Why the fuck am I like this," and even "Of course it was on the desk" came spewing out your mouth as you push Clark out the room —low, infuriatingly attractive chuckles came rolling out of his mouth— so you could get changed.

Jack had been married to you long enough to know the difference between reading and reading.

This was the second kind.

He knew because your breathing changed.

Not much. Anyone else would have missed it. But Jack had spent years learning the language of you in quiet rooms: the small catch before you tried to pretend you were unaffected, the way your shoulders softened into the pillow, the tiny sigh you let out when a scene got good enough to make you forget you were not alone.

He knew you read smut.

That was not new information.

You had never hidden it from him, and Jack had never been the kind of man who got delicate about his wife reading dirty books. He had seen the covers. He had seen the dramatic titles. He had watched you tuck paperbacks into beach bags and nightstand drawers and the side pocket of your work tote like they were perfectly normal household items.

What he had not known, until tonight, was the level of commitment.

You were curled against the pillows on his side of the bed, which you always claimed was accidental, and he always let you believe he bought. One knee was tucked beneath the blanket. Your hair was piled messily on top of your head. One of his old PTMC shirts had slipped off your shoulder, soft from years of washing, the hem riding high on one bare thigh beneath the quilt.

The book in your hands was angled just slightly away from him.

Not enough to be obvious.

Enough to be suspicious.

Jack sat beside you, shirtless, reading glasses low on his nose, gray sweatpants loose at his hips. His prosthetic rested neatly beside the bed, exactly where he could reach it in the morning. He had an article about hospital staffing shortages open on his phone and one hand wrapped around your ankle beneath the blanket, his thumb moving absently over your skin.

You turned a page.

Then, after less than ten seconds, you turned it back.

Jack’s thumb paused.

You bit your lip.

Jack’s eyes shifted from his phone to your face.

You did not notice.

Or you pretended not to, which was almost the same thing and significantly more interesting.

The room was quiet except for the low hum of the heater and the faint patter of rain against the window. The lamp on your nightstand threw warm light across the bed, catching on the glossy cover of your paperback and the little forest of colored tabs sticking out from the edges.

Jack had seen the tabs before.

He had never asked about them because he assumed he knew.

You were a woman with color-coded calendar reminders. Of course, you tabbed books.

He thought he knew your system. Yellow for quotes. Blue for sad parts. Green for whatever fictional man had finally learned emotional accountability. Red for important.

He was about to find out that he was right.

Just not in the way he thought.

You turned the page again. Then you sighed. Softly. Barely. But enough.

Jack lowered his phone to his chest. “Good part?”

Your eyes stayed on the page. “Maybe.”

Jack watched your mouth soften around another tiny, betraying breath.

His thumb stilled against your ankle. “That was a yes.”

You turned the page with great dignity. “You don’t know that.”

Jack’s mouth curved. “I know exactly that.”

You glanced at him then, eyes bright in a way he knew entirely too well. “Do you?”

Jack set his phone face down on the nightstand. “I know when you’re reading the good stuff.”

Your eyebrows lifted. “The good stuff?”

Jack nodded toward the book. “Your breathing changes.”

Your face did not go red. Your eyes did not dart away. Instead, your mouth curved like you were deciding whether to reward him for paying attention.

“You monitor my breathing while I read?” you asked.

Jack’s fingers resumed their slow movement over your ankle. “I notice things.”

You looked back down at your book. “That sounds like something a nosy man would say.”

Jack’s mouth twitched. “An observant man.”

You turned another page. “A nosy, observant man.”

Jack let his eyes drop to the paperback. “What are you reading?”

You did not hesitate. “Smut.”

Jack blinked once. Then he laughed under his breath. “Just like that?”

You kept your attention on the page. “You asked.”

Jack’s hand tightened slightly around your ankle beneath the blanket. “I did.”

You smiled at the book. “And I answered.”

Jack’s gaze moved over the cover. “Is this the shadow one?”

You finally looked offended. “That is not the title.”

Jack’s mouth curved. “But there are shadows.”

You tilted the book away from him. “Sometimes.”

Jack glanced at the dramatic cover. “And a twenty-two-year-old with emotional damage and a jawline?”

Your lips pressed together, fighting a smile. “Possibly.”

Jack’s gaze lingered on the red tabs along the side. “You have a system.”

You gave him a look. “Obviously.”

Jack nodded toward the book. “Should I be concerned?”

You turned another page with deliberate calm. “Depends on how flexible you are.”

Jack went still for half a second. Then his eyes lifted to your face.

You did not look at him. You did, however, smile.

Jack’s voice lowered. “That so?”

You closed the book around one finger and shifted, stretching your leg beneath his hand. “I’m making tea.”

Jack watched you slide out of bed. “Convenient timing.”

You reached for the mug on your nightstand and found it cold. “My tea is cold.”

Jack’s gaze followed the hem of his shirt as it shifted over your thighs. “Tragic.”

You pointed the mug at him. “Don’t start.”

Jack lifted both hands, innocent except for his face. “I didn’t say anything.”

You narrowed your eyes. “You said it with your eyes.”

Jack leaned back against the headboard. “My eyes are honest.”

You stepped toward the door. “Your eyes are a menace.”

Jack’s gaze dropped to the paperback the second your back was turned.

You stopped in the doorway and looked back at him. “Leave my book alone.”

Jack raised his brows. “I’m offended you feel the need to say that.”

You shifted the mug to your other hand. “You look curious.”

Jack picked up his phone again, but his eyes stayed on the book. “I am curious.”

You pointed toward the paperback. “That’s exactly why I’m saying it.”

Jack looked up with the mild patience of a man who had absolutely already made his decision. “Make your tea.”

You studied him for one more second. Then you disappeared into the hallway.

Jack waited.

He gave it a full ten seconds, which felt generous under the circumstances.

The kettle clicked on in the kitchen.

Jack looked at the book.

The book looked back, if a book could look guilty.

He reached for it.

Not because he was snooping.

Snooping implied shame.

Jack had been an attending for too many years to ignore a pattern once he saw one.

This was clinical curiosity.

Marital clinical curiosity.

He turned the paperback over carefully, keeping one finger tucked between the pages where you had left off. The cover featured a man who looked deeply underemployed for someone with that much confidence, surrounded by dramatic shadows and what Jack assumed was mist.

Jack glanced toward the hallway.

The kettle hummed.

He opened the book where your finger had been.

He read one line. Then another. His eyebrows lifted.

Jack muttered, “Christ.”

You had not been kidding about the smut.

He read another few lines, mouth twitching despite himself. Then his eyes caught the red tab closest to his thumb.

Red.

Bright. Neat. Placed with intention.

Jack slid his thumb under the red tab and flipped to it.

At first, he smiled.

Then he stopped smiling.

His eyes moved over the page once.

Then again, slower.

A throne.

A woman was placed on it, as if the entire point of the room was her pleasure.

A man on his knees in front of her, all control and devotion, looking up like there was nowhere else he would rather be.

Not just heat. Not just sex. Worship.

Jack’s gaze lifted from the book to the dark hallway.

At the end of that hallway sat his home office.

His chair.

His very practical, ergonomic black office chair.

The one with lumbar support.

The one with the locked wheels.

The one you had walked toward three weeks ago, wearing his shirt and a look he still thought about when he was supposed to be doing discharge summaries.

Jack looked back down at the page. His mouth parted slightly.

Jack said softly, “Well.”

The kettle clicked off. Jack did not move. His thumb slid to the next red tab.

He should have stopped there.

He did not.

The next page was a different scene. Different chapter. Different kind of heat.

Jack read two lines. Then three. His eyes narrowed.

He turned to the next red tab. Another scene. Another category altogether.

His gaze flicked from the page to your nightstand, where two more paperbacks sat stacked beneath a half-empty water glass. Both were tabbed. Both had red markers sticking neatly from their edges.

Jack stared at them. Then back to the book in his hand. His mouth curved, but it was slower this time. Not amused exactly. Impressed. Concerned. Deeply, deeply interested.

Jack murmured, “Fuck.”

You returned a minute later with two mugs of tea, steam curling upward in soft white ribbons.

You stopped in the bedroom doorway.

Jack was sitting against the headboard, shirtless and far too calm, with your book open in his hands.

Not casually.

Not idly.

Like the paperback had just told him something about his own marriage.

Your eyes dropped to the red tab beneath his thumb. Then, to the two books on your nightstand. Then back to his face. You did not blush. You did not gasp. You did not lunge for the book.

You just lifted your eyebrows. “Ah.”

Jack looked up slowly. “Red tabs.”

You walked toward the bed, completely calm. “Yes.”

Jack glanced down at the page. “Not quotes.”

You set his mug on the nightstand beside him. “Some of them are quotes.”

Jack tapped the page once. “Not this one.”

You set your own mug down and climbed back onto the bed. “No. Not that one.”

Jack’s eyes narrowed slightly.

You tucked your legs beneath you and met his gaze without apology.

That was the first thing that got him.

Not the book. Not the tab. Not even the very vivid memory that was currently rearranging itself in his head.

It was you sitting there in his old shirt, warm from bed, bare-faced and calm, looking at him like yes, he had found the thing, and no, you were not going to perform shame for him.

Jack looked back at the book. Then toward the hallway again. Then back at you.

Jack’s voice was even. “My chair.”

You took a sip of tea. “You made it feel like a throne.”

Jack looked at you over the top of the paperback.

The teasing in his face shifted into something quieter. 

“That’s what you wanted?”

You set the mug down. “That’s what you gave me.”

Jack glanced back down at the page. “He had actual stone architecture.”

You smiled. “You had lumbar support.”

His mouth twitched. “Romantic.”

“Practical.” Your smile widened by a fraction.

He pointed at the page with one finger. “This.”

You set your mug down on your nightstand. “Inspired by this.”

Jack repeated the word slowly. “Inspired.”

You nodded. “Yes.”

Jack closed the book around one finger, keeping the red-tabbed page marked. “You walked into my office.”

You leaned back against the pillows. “I did.”

Jack’s gaze flicked to the shirt slipping off your shoulder. “You were wearing my shirt.”

You looked down at yourself. “I do that a lot.”

Jack’s eyes moved over you in a way that made the room feel warmer. “I’m aware.”

You smiled. “You like it.”

Jack held your eyes. “I’m aware of that too.”

The air shifted. Only slightly. Enough.

Jack glanced down at the page again, and the corner of his mouth twitched.

“He’s twenty-two?”

You picked up your tea again. “Fictional.”

Jack looked back at you, expression calm but deeply unconvinced. “Honey, you know I’m fifty, right? We’re clear on that?”

You lowered the mug. “Very clear.”

Jack’s gaze flicked toward the prosthetic beside the bed. “My leg is off.”

You followed his glance, then looked back at him. “I noticed.”

He lifted the book slightly. “This man has shadows.”

Your mouth curved. “You have other qualities.”

Jack paused. “That was vague.”

You smiled. “It was not meant to be.”

Jack lifted the book slightly, glancing between you and the page. “Do I need to be worried here?”

You blinked. “Worried?”

Jack looked back down at the paragraph, then toward the office. “I’m trying to decide if I should be jealous, grateful, or offended.”

You set your mug down, amused now. “Those are your options?”

Jack’s gaze lifted to yours. “I’m open to guidance.”

You shifted closer beneath the blanket. “Grateful.”

His mouth twitched. “That was quick.”

You shifted closer under the blanket and rested your hand against the center of his bare chest. “You don’t need to be jealous.”

Jack’s gaze dropped to your hand, then lifted back to your face. “No?”

You shook your head. “He gave me the idea.”

His hand stilled on the book.

You smiled. “You were the one I wanted.”

Jack went quiet. Then his mouth curved faintly. “That helps.”

You let your thumb move once over his skin. “Good.”

Jack glanced down at the page again. “Still don’t like that he’s twenty-two.”

You laughed softly. “Noted.”

His gaze shifted toward the office again. “And the idea was my chair.”

You shook your head. “The idea was worship. The chair was just available.”

Jack’s teasing expression did not vanish, exactly, but something under it shifted.

You felt it in the way his hand stilled on the paperback.

In the way his eyes came back to yours.

In the way the room seemed to quiet around the rain and the warm lamp and the books scattered near your nightstand.

You kept your hand on his chest. “The books aren’t replacing you, Jack.”

His mouth softened, but his eyes stayed sharp. “I didn’t say they were.”

“No,” you said. “But you’re wondering where you fit.”

Jack went still.

You held his gaze. “The books give me ideas. That’s true. Sometimes they make me think about something I want to feel. Sometimes they make me curious about something I want to ask for.”

His hand settled at your waist, warm over the old cotton of his shirt.

You smiled, but it came out softer than teasing. “But sometimes they make me think about you.”

Jack’s thumb paused at your waist.

“About what I want to do to you,” you said. “About what you like. About how you look when you stop trying to be composed for five minutes.”

His jaw shifted.

“That’s part of it too.”

Jack did not blink.

“It’s not just about me getting what I want,” you said. “I mean, yes, obviously, I like that part.”

Jack’s mouth twitched.

“But I like wanting you too.” You let your palm rest flat over his heart. “I like making you feel good. I like being brave enough to take the initiative. I like being confident enough to say, I want this, or I want to try that, or I want to see what happens if I ask you for something new.”

His thumb moved once at your waist.

You looked down at the red-tabbed book, then back at him. “The books make wanting feel normal. They make asking feel less embarrassing. They make desire feel like something I’m allowed to have and something I’m allowed to give.”

Jack’s teasing had gone completely still now.

You kept your hand on his chest. “But the best part isn’t the book.”

His voice came out lower. “No?”

You shook your head. “No. The best part is exploring it with you.”

Jack’s eyes stayed on yours.

“Because I trust you,” you said.

His hand stilled at your waist.

You felt the change in him, the way those words landed somewhere deeper than the joke.

“I’ve never had that before,” you said. “Not like this. Not with someone I could ask clearly. Not with someone who would listen and check in and still make me feel wanted instead of foolish.”

Jack’s eyes lowered for half a second.

Then they came back to yours.

“You make it safe to want things,” you said. “And you make it safe to want you.”

Jack was silent for a long moment.

Then he closed the book carefully and set it on the nightstand.

“It’s the trust,” he said.

Your breath caught. “What?”

His hand slid from your waist to your hip, grounding but gentle. “That’s what gets me.”

Your throat tightened.

Jack’s eyes held yours. “The books are hot. The ideas are…” His mouth curved faintly. “Often athletically unreasonable.”

You laughed under your breath.

His expression softened again. “But the trust is what gets me.”

You looked at him, suddenly less sure how to breathe.

Jack’s thumb moved once over your hip. “You can always ask me. For what you want. For what you want to try. For what you want to give.” His voice dropped. “All of it.”

Your smile turned a little unsteady. “Even if it comes from a twenty-two-year-old with shadows and a jawline?”

Jack looked toward the book.

His face went dry again. “I’m choosing gratitude.”

You laughed.

He glanced at the stack of books on your nightstand. “Under protest.”

Jack’s gaze shifted back to the nightstand. To the books. To the tabs. The red tabs. There were a lot of them.

His eyes returned to yours. “How many?”

You blinked. “How many what?”

Jack lifted the book. “Marked pages that became my problem.”

You laughed softly. “Your problem?”

Jack’s voice went dry. “My privilege.”

You smiled.

He held the book between you like evidence and invitation. “How many?”

You took the paperback from him, your fingers brushing his.

Jack let you have it, but his hand settled back at your hip the second the book left his grip.

You looked down at the red tabs, then at the two other books stacked on your nightstand, then back up at him.

“You really want to know?” you asked.

Jack’s gaze moved over your face, then to your mouth, then back to your eyes. “Yes.”

You shifted closer under the blanket and opened the book to the first red tab.

Jack’s hand stayed on your hip. His thumb moved once.

You tapped the page. “Start there.”

Jack glanced down at the red tab.

Then back at you.

His mouth curved faintly. “The chair.”

You nodded. “The throne.”

Jack’s hand stayed at your hip beneath the blanket, his thumb moving once over the soft cotton of his shirt.

He looked too calm. Too interested. Too Jack.

You rested the book open in your lap. “That’s the latest one.”

Jack’s brows lifted. “Latest.”

You gave him a look. “You asked how many.”

“I did.” His eyes dropped to the page again. “I’m beginning to understand that was a loaded question.”

Your mouth curved. “Very loaded.”

Jack’s thumb paused at your hip. “We covered the chair.”

“We covered the chair,” you agreed.

His gaze came back to yours. “What we didn’t cover is what you were asking for.”

The teasing in the room softened. Not disappeared. Never disappeared entirely, not with him. But it shifted into something quieter. You looked down at the page, at the red tab marking the scene that had made you sit very still with your pulse too loud and your whole body full of want you had not known how to explain until the book gave you the shape of it.

“It wasn’t really about furniture,” you said.

Jack’s expression barely changed, but his hand stilled at your hip. “No?”

You shook your head. “It was about worship.”

Jack went quiet. Not dramatically. Not enough that someone else would have noticed.

But you noticed. His eyes stayed on yours, steady and dark and suddenly very still.

“That was what I wanted to try,” you said. “Being wanted like that. Being the whole focus.”

Jack did not interrupt.

You let your fingertips rest on the red tab. “The book made me brave enough to ask for it.”

The office had been lit by one desk lamp and the pale blue glow of Jack’s computer. His shoulders had been tense from a long shift, his reading glasses low on his nose as he scrolled through an email he had already complained about twice. You had stood in the doorway wearing his shirt, the marked page still open on your nightstand and your pulse beating too hard in your throat. Jack had looked up. His attention had changed immediately. Not loud. Not obvious. Just total. Like whatever had been on that screen stopped existing the second you stepped into the room. Jack had taken in the shirt first. Then your bare legs. Then your face.

His voice had gone lower. “What?”

You had held onto the doorframe for one breath longer than necessary. Then, because the book had made you brave and because Jack had always made bravery feel safe, you had said it.

“I want to try something.”

Jack had gone still. Not tense. Present. He had closed the laptop slowly. “Tell me.”

Your face had warmed, but you had kept going.

“I want…” You had glanced at his chair, then back at him. “I want you to put me there.”

Jack’s eyes had flicked to the chair. Then back to you. “In my chair?”

You had nodded. “And I want it to be about me.”

Something in his face had changed. Softened first. Then sharpened.

You had rushed on before you could lose your nerve. “Not just sex,” you had said. “I mean…”

Jack had waited. He was so good at waiting.

You had swallowed and made yourself say it clearly. “I want to feel wanted. Like, really wanted. Like you can’t look anywhere else.”

Jack had taken one slow breath.

Then he had reached up, removed his glasses, and set them carefully beside the keyboard.

“Close the door.”

You had.

By the time you turned back, Jack was already standing. He had crossed the room slowly, giving you every chance to smile it off, to change your mind, to say never mind. You hadn’t. He had stopped in front of you, his hands warm and careful at your waist.

“Here?” he had asked.

You had nodded. Jack had guided you backward until the chair touched the backs of your knees, then he had helped you sit, as if he were placing you somewhere you belonged.

Not rushed. Not careless. Not like the chair was furniture. Like it was an altar.

Your breath had caught. Jack had seen that too. His thumb had brushed once over your waist.

“You want my full attention?” he had asked.

You had nodded, throat tight.

His mouth had curved, but his eyes had been serious. “You have it.”

And then he had lowered himself in front of you with a steadiness that made your whole body go quiet. 

The book had given you the image. The chair. The devotion. The idea of being worshipped.

But Jack had given you the rest. His hands. His voice. The warmth of his mouth against your knee before anything else. The way he looked up at you like he loved you so much it had nowhere to go except into touch.

“Look at me,” he had murmured.

You had tried. God, you had tried.

Jack’s hand had slid over your thigh, grounding and reverent.

“That’s it,” he had said, voice rough in a way that made your chest ache. “Let me take care of you.”

And you had realized, somewhere between the patience in his hands and the heat in his eyes, that what you had wanted from the book was not the throne.

It was this. Being wanted like you mattered. Being touched like love could become physical if someone was careful enough with it. Being looked at by your husband like pleasure was not something you owed him, but something he was honored to give.

Back in bed, Jack’s hand had gone still at your waist. You looked up from the page. His eyes were on you. Not the book. You.

Jack’s voice was quiet. “That’s what this was?”

You nodded. “That was the idea.”

His thumb moved once. “The worship.”

You held his gaze. “The book gave me the image. You gave me the feeling.”

For a second, he did not say anything. Then Jack’s hand tightened at your waist. Just once. Enough.

“Okay,” he said.

You smiled a little. “Okay?”

His eyes stayed on yours. “That one matters.”

Your chest softened.

You closed the book carefully around your finger. “It does.”

Jack’s gaze dropped to the red tab. “But it’s the latest.”

You nodded. “Not the first.”

His eyes moved toward the stack on your nightstand. “There’s a first.”

You slid out of bed, the hem of his shirt shifting over your thighs. “There’s a whole timeline.”

Jack sat up straighter against the headboard. “Of course there is.”

You crossed toward the bookshelf. “If we’re doing this, we’re doing it correctly.”

His brows lifted. “There’s a correct way?”

You pulled one paperback from the lower shelf and tucked it under your arm. “Chronological order.”

Jack dragged one hand over his mouth. “Fuck.”

You pulled another paperback from the shelf above it. “You asked.”

Jack watched the second book join the first under your arm. “That is a different book.”

You glanced back at him. “Yes.”

His eyes narrowed. “Completely different book.”

You smiled. “Yes.”

You crouched beside the bed and reached underneath it.

Jack leaned forward, staring at you. “Why are you looking under the bed?”

You emerged with another paperback and held it up. “Strategic storage.”

Jack stared at the red tab sticking from the pages. “There is smut under our bed.”

You stood with the book in hand. “There are sneakers under our bed too, but you don’t sound this scandalized about those.”

Jack pointed at the paperback. “Those sneakers have not been giving my wife ideas.”

You looked down at the book, then back at him. “No, they have not.”

You scooped one more paperback from the nightstand.

Jack’s gaze followed it. “That one too?”

You added it to the stack. “That one too.”

His gaze shifted to your work tote slumped beside the dresser.

You followed his eyes and smiled.

Jack sat forward. “No.”

You walked to the tote and pulled a paperback from the side pocket. “I bring books to work.”

Jack stared at you. Then, at the red tab sticking neatly from the pages. “That one has a red tab.”

You tucked it into the stack. “It does.”

His eyes narrowed. “And it was in your work tote.”

You smiled. “It was.”

Jack dragged a hand over his mouth. “I’m not drawing conclusions yet, but I hate that I have options.”

You crossed back to the bed with the growing stack. “Very wise.”

Jack watched you climb onto the bed and settle beside him with the books gathered against your chest.

The pile landed on the comforter between you, soft covers and bent corners, and color-coded tabs scattered across the bed like evidence.

Jack looked at them. Then at you. “My wife has a library.”

You arranged the books in a line across the quilt. “I have range.”

Jack stared at the stack. Then back at you. “That,” he said, “is somehow worse.”

You laughed and touched the first book in the row. “This is the first one.”

Jack looked down at it. “The beginning.”

You opened it to the red tab. “Pool house.”

His expression changed immediately. His mouth stayed relaxed, but his eyes sharpened.

Jack’s voice went lower. “When you wanted your hands over your head.”

Heat moved up your neck. You did not look away. You held the book open on your lap. “Yes.”

Jack’s thumb went still at your waist. “That was a book?”

You glanced down at the page. “There was a scene where she asked him to hold her still.”

Jack’s gaze held yours. “And you wanted that?”

You nodded. “I wanted to know what it felt like to ask for it.”

The pool house had smelled like chlorine and warm tile. Jack had followed you in from the patio, hair wet, towel slung around his hips, amusement already tucked into the corner of his mouth because he had seen you watching him come out of the water. You had been reading on the lounge chair all afternoon with the red-tabbed book tucked into your beach bag, pretending the scene you’d reread twice had not done permanent damage to your ability to behave. Jack had leaned against the tiled wall, arms crossed over his chest.

His mouth had curved. “You need something?”

You had kissed him first. Then you had pulled back before your nerve could abandon you. 

You had looked at his mouth instead of his eyes. “I want you to hold my hands above my head.”

Jack’s face had changed. The teasing had faded, replaced by the kind of focus that made you feel both exposed and safe.

Jack’s voice had softened. “Yeah?”

You had nodded, your cheeks hot. Then you had forced yourself to say the rest. “And I want you to tell me not to move.”

Jack had searched your face for a long second. Then he had stepped closer. His answer had been quiet. “Okay.”

He had turned you carefully against the tile, one hand closing around both your wrists and lifting them above you with controlled ease. His other hand had settled at your waist, firm and steady.

Jack had checked once. “Like this?”

Your breath had caught. “Yes.”

Jack had leaned in, his mouth close to your ear.

His voice had gone low. “Then stay still for me.”

You had tried.

Jack had noticed every second you failed.

Back in bed, Jack’s mouth curved like he knew exactly where your mind had gone. His hand slid from your waist to the outside of your thigh beneath the blanket, warm and slow. “You were terrible at staying still.”

You gave him a look. “You didn’t seem disappointed.”

Jack’s thumb moved over your skin. “I was not disappointed.”

You let out a breath that was almost a laugh. “Good to know.”

Jack looked down at your mouth. “I think you knew.”

You set the pool house book aside before he could make that worse.

Jack’s eyes flicked to the next red-tabbed paperback. “And then?”

You picked up the book from under the bed. “Vacation fireplace.”

Jack looked at the book in your hand with fresh suspicion. “That’s the under-bed one.”

You opened it to the red tab. “It was a strong chapter.”

His gaze returned to your face. “The cabin.”

You nodded. “The night it snowed.”

Jack’s hand stilled on your thigh. “The waiting.”

Your pulse kicked once.

You held his eyes. “Yes.”

The cabin had gone quiet after the snow started, all frosted windows and creaking wood and the kind of silence that made every breath feel closer than usual. Jack had built the fire while you sat curled on the couch, your book face down beside you, a red tab sticking out near the middle like a dare.

He had looked over his shoulder once. Then again. By the third time, he had stopped pretending not to notice.

Jack had turned from the fireplace. “You’ve had that look for twenty minutes.”

You had folded your hands in your lap, heart pounding like you were about to confess something impossible. You had lifted your chin. “I want to try something.”

Jack had turned fully toward you. His face had stayed calm, but his attention had sharpened. Jack had said, “Okay. Tell me.”

You had looked at the fire, then back at him. Your voice had come out quiet but clear. “I want you to make me wait.”

Jack had not moved. Not right away. You had forced yourself to keep going.

You had gripped the edge of the blanket. “I want you to be in control of when I get to finish.”

His eyes had darkened, but his voice had stayed even. Jack had asked, “And if you change your mind?”

You had answered immediately. “I’ll tell you.”

Jack had crossed the room slowly and crouched in front of you, one hand warm over your knee.

Jack’s thumb had moved once over your skin. “Good. Then I need you to keep telling me the truth.”

You had nodded. 

Jack had kissed your temple. His voice had softened. “That’s my girl.”

And then, in front of the fire, he had taught you exactly how much you trusted him.

In the bedroom, Jack inhaled slowly through his nose. You noticed.

His eyes narrowed when he saw your smile. “Don’t.”

You tilted your head. “Don’t what?”

Jack’s voice roughened. “Look pleased with yourself.”

You rested the book against your lap. “You liked that one.”

Jack’s jaw flexed once. “Yes.”

You smiled wider. “A lot.”

Jack looked toward the rain-dark window, as if considering whether denial was worth the effort.

Then his eyes returned to yours. 

“A lot,” he admitted. The honesty in his voice softened the teasing.

You reached out and brushed your thumb over the center of his chest. “That one was about trust.”

Jack looked down at your hand. “I know.”

You kept your touch there. “That was why I asked you.”

Jack’s gaze lifted. For a second, neither of you spoke. The heater hummed. Rain tapped the glass. His hand rested on your thigh beneath the blanket, warm and still. Then Jack glanced at the line of books across the bed, and his mouth curved.

“So far,” he said, “I’m developing mixed feelings about this archive.”

You laughed softly. “Mixed?”

Jack lifted one shoulder. “Professionally, I have concerns.”

You let your fingers move over his chest. “Personally?”

Jack’s eyes dropped to your hand. “Personally, I’m listening.”

You picked up the next book. “Bar bathroom.”

Jack went still. Not entirely. But enough that you felt it.

His eyes lifted slowly. “The sundress.”

You smiled. “The sundress.”

Jack stared at you. “No underwear.”

You held his gaze. “No underwear.”

Jack closed his eyes for half a second. When he opened them again, his expression was controlled in a way that made heat pool low in your stomach.

His voice was rough. “That was from a book?”

You shrugged one shoulder. “The risk was.”

Jack’s gaze dropped to your bare thigh beneath his shirt. “The dress?”

You smiled. “That was for you.”

The bar had been too crowded, too loud, too warm. Jack had worn black. That was the first problem. The second problem was the sundress. Soft. Pretty. Innocent enough to pass in public. Dangerous because you knew exactly what you were not wearing underneath it. Jack had noticed the dress as soon as you walked in. He had noticed the way it moved around your thighs. He had noticed the way you kept crossing and uncrossing your legs beneath the table. He had noticed everything except the secret.

Not until you leaned close at the bar, lips near his ear. You had whispered, “I’m not wearing anything under this.”

Jack’s hand had gone still around his glass. Slowly, he had turned his head. His voice had dropped. “Say that again.”

You had smiled like you had any business being innocent. You had kept your mouth near his ear. “I want you to take me somewhere we shouldn’t.”

Jack’s eyes had held yours. For one second, the noise of the bar seemed to fall away.

Jack had asked, “You sure?”

You had nodded. Jack had set his glass down with careful precision.

“Bathroom,” he had said.

You had laughed under your breath. “Bossy.”

His hand had found the small of your back.

Jack had leaned close enough for his mouth to brush your ear. “You asked.”

In the narrow hallway outside the bathrooms, music had thumped through the wall. Someone laughed too loudly near the pool table. The whole world had been close enough to hear if either of you stopped being careful. Jack had braced one hand beside your head after the lock clicked.

His mouth had hovered over yours, not quite touching.

“If you’re going to start something in public,” he had murmured, “you’re going to have to be quiet about it.”

Your knees had nearly betrayed you before he even kissed you.

Jack’s hand tightened on your thigh in the present. You looked down at it. He noticed and deliberately loosened his grip, thumb smoothing over the place he had held too firmly.

You smiled. “You loved the sundress.”

Jack’s voice was low. “I loved the sundress.”

You leaned closer. “You loved the no underwear.”

Jack’s eyes held yours. “I loved the no underwear.”

You glanced down at the book. “You loved the bathroom.”

Jack’s mouth twitched. “I will deny that in a court of law.”

You laughed. “This is not a court.”

Jack looked at you, dry and warm and deeply affected. “Then yes.”

Your pulse fluttered. Jack saw. His mouth curved. You put the bar book down and reached for the paperback from your work tote.

Jack watched your hand move to it.

His eyes narrowed. “The tactical hospital smut.”

You lifted the book. “A normal paperback.”

Jack nodded toward the red tab. “That one looks guilty.”

You opened the book. “It earned the tab.”

His expression shifted immediately when he saw the page. The teasing dimmed. Not gone. But tempered by memory.

You tapped the paper. “Supply closet.”

Jack went still. “Hospital?” he asked.

You nodded. “After the double.”

Jack’s gaze searched your face. “Praise?”

Your cheeks warmed, but you held steady. “Praise.”

The hospital supply closet had started in the hallway after a brutal shift. You and Jack had been moving around each other all night, too close and not close enough, brushing hands over charts, catching each other’s eyes across trauma bays, saying nothing because there were always people nearby. When the hall finally emptied, you caught his wrist. Jack had looked down at your hand. Then at your face.

“What?” he had asked.

Your cheeks had burned, but you did not let go. “I need five minutes,” you had said.

His expression had changed instantly. “With me?” he had asked.

You had nodded.

The supply closet door had clicked shut behind you less than thirty seconds later. Fluorescent light buzzed overhead. Metal shelves pressed close on either side. Jack’s hand slid behind your head before you could bump it, careful even when the rest of him was anything but.

“Tell me what you need,” he had said.

You had swallowed.

You had looked at his collar instead of his eyes. “I want you to talk to me.”

Jack’s thumb had brushed your waist. “How?”

Your voice had come out quieter. “Praise me.”

Jack had gone very still. 

Then his mouth had softened against your temple.

“Such a good girl,” he had murmured.

Your whole body had answered before your pride could stop it.

Jack had felt it. Of course, he had felt it.

His voice had dropped. “Oh,” he had said. “That’s what you needed.”

In the bedroom, Jack’s mouth curved slowly.

You pointed at him immediately. “Do not get smug.”

Jack’s eyes were bright. “Too late.”

You shut the book halfway. “Jack.”

Jack leaned closer. “That line was mine.”

You sighed. “Yes.”

Jack looked deeply satisfied. “Not the book.”

You rolled your eyes. “No, the praise scene gave me the idea.”

Jack’s hand slid from your thigh back to your waist. “But the line was mine.”

You gave him a look. “Yes, the line was yours.”

Jack’s smile widened. “Good.”

You shook your head. “Your ego is exhausting.”

Jack leaned in, voice low near your ear. “Apparently, it’s also effective.”

Your breath caught before you could stop it. Jack pulled back just enough to see your face.

His voice softened. “There.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Don’t.”

Jack’s thumb moved over your waist. “Still works.”

You lifted the book like a shield. “Next one.”

Jack’s laugh came out low and pleased. “Coward.”

You reached for a darker paperback from the line. “This one was later.”

Jack’s eyes followed your hand. “Define later.”

You opened it to the red tab. “Bedroom.”

The humor in his face softened. He knew before you said the word.

“Begging,” you said.

Jack went quiet. The word changed the room. It took the humor and folded something vulnerable into it.

Jack’s eyes lifted to yours. “After my shower.”

You nodded. “After your shower.”

The begging one had surprised you because it required the most honesty. Not because of the act itself. Because of how hard it was to say what you wanted out loud. You had read the scene twice, shut the book, and waited on the edge of the bed while Jack showered. When he came out with a towel low on his hips and water still clinging to his shoulders, he knew immediately.

His steps had slowed. “What?” he had asked.

You had inhaled. “I want you to make me ask for it,” you had said.

Jack’s expression had shifted. He had stayed where he was, giving you room to take it back.

“Ask for what?” he had asked.

Your face had warmed, but you held his gaze. “For what I want,” you had answered. “Clearly. No hiding.”

Jack had crossed the room slowly and knelt in front of you, one hand warm over your knee.

His voice had gone quiet. “You don’t have to be embarrassed with me.”

Your throat had tightened. “I know,” you had said.

His thumb had moved once over your skin.

“Then tell me.” Jack had said.

You had swallowed. “You don’t give me anything unless I ask for it.”

Jack’s eyes had darkened, but his voice had stayed gentle. 

“Good,” he had said. “Then I’ll listen.”

Back in bed, Jack was very still. You did not joke this time. Neither did he. His hand moved from your waist to your knee, warm and grounding.

“That one mattered,” Jack said.

You nodded. “Yes.”

His gaze stayed on yours. “Because you asked.”

You breathed out. “Because I asked.”

Jack’s thumb moved once over your knee. “And because you knew I’d listen.”

Your throat tightened.

You smiled, softer now. “Yes.”

Jack looked down at the book, then back at you. “That’s what I like.”

You tilted your head. “The begging?”

His mouth curved faintly. “I’m not against it.”

You laughed once.

Jack’s hand tightened gently over your knee. “But no.”

Your smile softened.

His voice stayed low. “I like that you trust me enough to ask clearly.”

The heat in your chest changed shape. Still want. Still tension. But warmer now. Deeper.

You closed the book and set it between you. “I do trust you.”

Jack looked at you like that was not a small thing. Like he knew exactly how much it meant.

Then his gaze moved to the last book in the line. “One more?”

You glanced at the red tab sticking out near the middle. Your face warmed.

Jack noticed. His mouth curved. “That one.”

You gave him a look. “You’re enjoying this.”

Jack’s eyes moved over your face. “Very much.”

You picked up the final paperback and opened it to the red tab. “Hotel mirror.”

Jack’s teasing faded. His whole face quieted.

“Green dress,” he said.

You nodded. “Green dress.”

The hotel mirror had not been about the book by the end. It had started that way. A marked page. A scene that made your chest feel too tight. A heroine being made to see herself the way the hero saw her, wanted, beautiful, and impossible to dismiss.

You had packed the green dress because of that chapter. Jack had not known that. He only knew that when you stepped out of the bathroom, he stopped buttoning his shirt.

Completely.

His eyes moved over you once.

Then again, like the first look had not been enough.

“Jack,” you had said.

He had crossed the room without saying anything.

You had felt brave for about two seconds before his attention made you shy. 

Then you had turned halfway toward the mirror and forced yourself to say it.

“I want you to help me see it.”

Jack’s face had softened. “See what?” he had asked.

Your fingers had tightened at your sides. “What you see,” you had said.

For a moment, he had not moved. Then his hands had come carefully to your waist. He had stepped behind you, his chest warm at your back, the mirror catching both of you in the dim hotel light.

“Look,” Jack had said.

You had started to glance away.

His voice had lowered, steady and certain. “No. You asked me to help.”

Your breath had caught.

His thumb had brushed your waist. “So look,” he had said.

You had. At yourself. At him behind you. His hands holding you like something worth taking time with.

“That is what I see,” Jack had murmured near your ear.

Your throat had tightened.

His fingers had spread over your waist.

“Beautiful,” he had said.

You had wanted to look away. He had not let you. Not because he held you there. Because he made you believe him. 

The bedroom was quiet when the memory ended. Jack’s eyes stayed on you. You set the book down slowly.

You looked at the stack between you. “That one wasn’t really about trying something kinky.”

Jack’s hand came to your waist again. “No?”

You shook your head. “It was about wanting to feel beautiful without apologizing for it.”

Jack’s face changed. Small. Devastating.

You rested your palm on his bare chest. “The book gave me the idea.”

Jack covered your hand with his.

You looked up at him. “You made me believe it.”

Jack was quiet for a long moment. Then his voice came out rough. “You are beautiful.”

Your smile wobbled. “I know.”

Jack’s mouth curved. Not smug. Proud. “Good,” he said softly.

You laughed under your breath. “That might be your favorite answer.”

Jack’s thumb brushed over your knuckles. “It’s up there.”

The red-tabbed books lay scattered across the bed between you. The rain kept tapping at the window. Your tea had gone mostly untouched. Jack looked down at the line of books. Then back at you. His expression was dry again, but his eyes were warmer than before.

“So,” he said, “the archive is chronological.”

You nodded. “Mostly.”

Jack glanced toward the first book. “Restraint.”

You smiled. “Pool house.”

His eyes moved to the second. “Control.”

“Fireplace.”

He tapped the third. “Risk.”

“Bar bathroom.”

His gaze flicked to the work-tote book. “Praise.”

“Supply closet.”

His hand came to rest over the darker paperback. “Asking clearly.”

“Bedroom.”

Then his eyes moved to the mirror book. “Being seen.”

You nodded. “Hotel mirror.”

Jack’s gaze shifted toward the first book again, still sitting open where the red tab marked the throne scene he had found.

Then his eyes returned to yours.

“And worship.”

Your chest warmed. You nodded. “Your chair.”

Jack’s mouth curved, slow and quiet. “My chair.”

You let your hand rest against his chest. “My throne.”

His eyes darkened.

“Careful,” Jack said.

You smiled. 

He looked at the books again, then back at you. For one second, you thought he was going to make another joke. Instead, his hand found your waist and stayed there.

“Thank you for trusting me with all that,” he said.

Your breath caught.

Jack’s thumb moved once over your side. “I mean it.”

You looked at him, throat tight. “I know.”

His mouth curved faintly. “Good.”

The quiet held. Warm. Charged. Tender enough to hurt. Then Jack glanced back at the books with a look of dry resignation.

“That said,” he added, “some of these authors have a reckless disregard for joint health.”

You laughed, startled and bright.

Jack’s expression warmed as he watched you.

You leaned closer. “Please. You loved every single one.”

His eyebrows lifted. “Every single one?”

You smiled. “Every single one.”

Jack’s gaze dropped to your mouth. “That is a dangerous amount of confidence.”

You let your fingers trail once over his chest. “I learned from the best.”

Jack went still for half a second. Then his mouth curved. “Get your shoes.”

You blinked. “What?”

Jack’s hand stayed at your waist. “Get your shoes.”

You sat back on your heels, laughing. “Why?”

Jack looked at the books. Then at you. “I’m taking you to the bookstore.”

Your smile spread slowly. “Now?”

Jack’s eyes moved over your face, warm and dark and entirely serious. “Now.”

You tilted your head. “Talk dirty to me, Dr. Abbot.”

Jack’s mouth curved. “Hardcover budget is flexible.”

Your stomach flipped. You pressed a hand dramatically to your chest. “Filthy.”

Jack reached for his prosthetic beside the bed. “I’ll carry the tote bag.”

You laughed. “Obscene.”

Jack looked up at you, one hand braced on the mattress, eyes steady.

“And when we get back,” he said, “you’re going to show me which marked pages require my professional opinion.”

Your breath caught.

His smile deepened.

“There,” he murmured. “That look.”

Later That Night…

The book was open somewhere near Jack’s hip.

Face-down.

Spine bent.

One red tab crumpled slightly from having been handled with less academic care than usual.

You were going to complain about that eventually.

Probably.

When your lungs worked again.

For now, you were sprawled across the bed with one arm thrown over your face, hair tangled across Jack’s pillow, skin damp, chest rising and falling as if you had just survived a hurricane.

Beside you, Jack was somehow worse.

Flat on his back. Hair wrecked. Chest shining faintly with sweat. One arm bent over his head, the sheets twisted low around his hips, his prosthetic still exactly where he had left it before he had crawled back into bed with you and a paperback held in one hand like a man prepared to conduct research.

He had conducted research.

Thoroughly.

For a long moment, neither of you said anything.

The room was quiet except for your breathing and his, uneven and heavy and slowly beginning to settle.

Then Jack laughed. Not loudly. Not even fully. Just one dazed, disbelieving breath of sound. 

“That was incredible.”

You turned your head against the pillow and looked at him.

His eyes were still on the ceiling.

You smiled, lazy and exhausted. “It was.”

Jack nodded once. Then, after a beat, he said again, “That was incredible.”

Your smile widened. “I heard you.”

Jack blinked at the ceiling like he was trying to remember what words were. “No, I know.”

You waited.

His brows drew together faintly, genuinely focused.

Then he added, “I’m saying it again because it was.”

A laugh slipped out of you, and your whole body protested.

Jack turned his head toward you slowly. His eyes were heavy-lidded. His mouth was parted slightly. His face had the stunned, softened look of a man whose soul had been briefly separated from his body and returned with notes.

You reached over and brushed damp hair off his forehead. “You okay over there?”

Jack stared at you. Then he nodded. Once. Very seriously. 

“Yeah.”

Your mouth twitched. “Convincing.”

His gaze drifted over your face, then down to your mouth, then back up again, as if the movement took effort.

“Just need a minute.”

You smiled. “Take your time.”

Jack looked back at the ceiling. A second passed. Then another.

His voice came out rough and amazed. “Jesus Christ.”

You laughed again, softer this time. “Still incredible?”

Jack lifted one hand weakly, palm up, as if the evidence spoke for itself. “I don’t have other words yet.”

That made you grin. You rolled carefully onto your side, your hair falling over one shoulder in a ruined tangle. “That’s new.”

Jack’s eyes moved to you again. Slowly. His face changed by degrees: dazed first, then warm, then pleased in a helpless way that made something in your chest squeeze.

“You’re very pretty,” he said.

You blinked. Then your smile softened. “Thank you.”

Jack seemed to consider this. Then he corrected himself, still staring at you like he had just discovered language and wanted to use it responsibly.

“No.” His brow furrowed. “Not pretty.”

You raised your eyebrows. “No?”

“Wrong word.”

You waited, biting back a smile.

Jack looked deeply invested in the problem.

“Beautiful,” he decided.

Your throat warmed.

Then he nodded to himself, satisfied. “Yeah. That’s the word.”

You reached over and touched his chest, feeling the wild, slowing beat beneath your palm. “You’re a little gone right now.”

Jack covered your hand with his. His fingers were warm and loose over yours. “Maybe.”

You nodded, “You have post-book clarity.”

Jack’s mouth twitched. Then he looked toward the paperback lying half-open near his hip.

His expression went solemn. “I owe you an apology.”

You laughed into the pillow. “For what?”

Jack’s eyes stayed on the book. “Doubting the process.”

You pressed your lips together. “The process?”

He nodded, still too dazed to fully locate his usual sarcasm. “The red tabs.”

You lifted your head. “You respect the red tabs now?”

Jack looked back at you.

His eyes were warm, unfocused, and devastatingly sincere.

“I respect the hell out of the red tabs.”

You laughed so hard you had to drop your forehead against his shoulder.

Jack’s arm came around you automatically, pulling you closer even though he still looked like he was operating on a two-second delay.

You tucked yourself against his side, your cheek settling over his chest.

His heartbeat was still too fast.

You smiled against his skin.

For a while, neither of you moved.

The sheets were tangled around your legs. The books were scattered across the bed and floor, red tabs flashing in the lamplight. Your tea had gone cold a long time ago. Jack’s hand moved slowly up and down your back, absent and steady.

Then he spoke again, voice rougher and quieter.

“That was incredible.”

You lifted your head just enough to look at him. “Jack.”

His eyes shifted to yours.

He looked almost offended by your amusement.

“What?”

“You’ve said that four times.”

Jack considered that. Then he nodded once. “Still true.”

Your face softened. You reached up and brushed your thumb along his jaw. “You really liked that one.”

Jack’s eyes held yours.

For a second, the daze cleared just enough for something deeper to come through.

“I liked that you showed me.”

Your chest tightened.

His thumb moved against your back.

“I liked that you asked,” he said.

You swallowed.

His gaze flicked briefly toward the open book, then back to your face. “I liked that you trusted me with it.”

The humor slipped into something warmer. Still breathless. Still messy. Still half-lost in the aftermath. But real.

You leaned down and kissed him once, soft and slow.

When you pulled back, Jack looked at you for a long second.

Then he exhaled.

“That was also incredible.”

You burst out laughing.

Jack’s mouth curved, lazy and pleased.

“There she is,” he murmured.

You dropped your forehead to his chest again. “You’re ridiculous.”

His hand moved into your hair, gentle now, untangling one ruined strand from your cheek.

“I’m enlightened.”

You laughed against him. “By smut?”

Jack’s fingers kept moving through your hair.

“By my wife.”

That stole the breath from your chest.

You lifted your head.

Jack was still looking at you like he was dazed, yes, but not only from sex now. Like the entire night had settled somewhere deep in him: the books, the red tabs, the trust, the fact that you wanted him and trusted him and chose him again and again.

His thumb brushed your cheek.

“You can always bring me the red tabs,” he said.

Your throat tightened. You leaned into his hand. “I know.”

Jack nodded once, like that mattered.

Then his gaze drifted back to the book near his hip.

His mouth curved faintly. “Especially that one.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Do not get attached to page two hundred and twelve.”

Jack blinked slowly. Then he looked back at you, still wrecked, still breathing too hard, still clearly not fully functioning.

“Too late.”

You stared at him.

He nodded again, solemn as anything. “Page two hundred and twelve changed me.”

You laughed and reached for the pillow behind your head.

Jack saw it coming and did absolutely nothing to defend himself.

You hit him with it.

He laughed, low and breathless, and caught your wrist before you could swing again.

Then he pulled you back down against him, smiling into your hair.

After a long, quiet minute, Jack murmured one last time, softer than before, “Incredible.”

You smiled against his chest.

“Yeah,” you whispered. “It was.”

“you know,” you mumble, stealing his mug, “sometimes i wish you were taller.”

clark blinks. “…taller?”

“just a little,” you tease. “for dramatic purposes.”

he gives this soft, confused laugh, ducking his head. “i’m six foot three.”

“yeah, but like. emotionally.”

that gets a real laugh out of him, warm and helpless and so pretty it almost distracts you from the fact that his hand has slid onto your waist without him even seeming to notice.

“emotionally taller,” he repeats.

“exactly.”

“i’ll work on that.”

you grin, expecting him to move on. instead he looks thoughtful. actually thoughtful, like a baby discovering ice cream for the first time.

his thumb rubs absent circles against your side while he stares somewhere over your shoulder, like he’s genuinely considering the logistics of becoming taller for you.

“clark,” you laugh, “baby, i’m kidding.”

his eyes flick back to yours at the word baby. god. that expression should be illegal.

soft blue eyes behind glasses. pink mouth slightly parted. giant farmboy build practically folding around you in this tiny kitchen while his entire attention locks onto you like you hung the moon.

“right,” he says quietly. “kidding.”

but he still looks weirdly determined.

the next morning, you find him standing straighter. you notice immediately because of course you do. “are you —”

“good morning,” he says very quickly.

you narrow your eyes. “clark.”

“yes?”

“ youre standing like a victorian man posing for a portrait.”

“i’m not.”

he absolutely is.

his posture is ridiculously perfect. shoulders back. spine straight. chin lifted. he’s somehow making himself look even broader than usual, which should honestly be impossible considering the man already looks unfair in sweaters.

today’s sweater is dark blue. you hate him a little.

“did my joke actually get to you?” you ask.

“no,” he says. pause. “maybe a little.”

your heart immediately melts into soup. “clark—”

“i know i’m not…” he rubs the back of his neck awkwardly. “you know. huge.”

you stare at him. this man could probably bench press a pickup truck without breathing hard. “you are objectively huge.”

“not compared to some people.”

you burst out laughing because oh my god. “are you comparing yourself to bruce wayne.”

clark goes silent which is answer enough.

you actually have to sit down. “that is insane behavior,” you wheeze.

“he’s taller.”

“by like an inch.”

“it’s still taller.”

“clark, sweetheart, i promise i do not spend my time wishing you resembled a haunted cryptid billionaire.”

he smiles despite himself.

then quieter, almost shyly, “you promise?”

and that’s the thing about clark.

under all that strength, all that impossible goodness, there’s still this softness in him. this quiet want to be enough for the people he loves.

especially you.

you walk over slowly until you’re right in front of him.

“clark kent,” you murmur, sliding your hands up his chest, “do you have any idea what you do to me.”

his breath catches instantly.

every single time.

it’s unfair how reactive he is to you.

“you bend down every time you kiss me,” you whisper. “you block the whole damn sun when you stand in front of me. your hands are so big they practically cover my waist.” your fingers curl into the front of his sweater. “and when you lean over me at my desk? i literally forget my own name.”

his cheeks go pink.

pink like he isn’t built like every single fantasy you’ve ever had.

“really?” he asks softly.

you just stare at him. “clark. be serious.”

his hands settle carefully on your hips like he’s handling something precious. “you said you wanted taller.”

“i said sometimes.”

“that implies recurring thoughts.”

you laugh so hard you nearly snort and apparently that does something to him too because his eyes suddenly darken in that way they do when he gets overwhelmed by affection.

“c’mere,” he murmurs.

before you can answer, he’s lifting you effortlessly onto the counter.

you squeak. “clark!”

“what?” he says innocently, stepping between your knees. “thought maybe this would help with the height issue.”

you stare down at him now eye level. “oh my god.”

his mouth twitches. “better?”

“a little.”

“good.”

and then he kisses you.

slow at first. warm.

the kind of kiss that melts through you piece by piece because clark kisses like he’s terrified of not loving you enough. one hand cradling your jaw, the other spread against your thigh while he tilts his head deeper into it.

you can feel him smiling when you kiss him back harder.

“still wish i was taller?” he murmurs against your mouth.

“mm. maybe.”

his eyebrows lift.

you grin lazily. “might need a better demonstration.”

“yeah?”

“yeah.”

he gives you this look.

this devastatingly fond, slightly heated look that makes your stomach flip.

then suddenly he’s crowding closer, big hands gripping the counter beside your hips, effectively trapping you there while his chest presses against yours.

and god there it is. that impossible size difference. the sheer warmth of him. the way his body surrounds yours so completely it makes your head fuzzy. “how’s this?” he asks quietly.

your brain completely stops functioning.

because clark kent — sweet, gentle, unbearably polite clark — absolutely knows what he’s doing right now.

especially when he ducks his head to kiss the corner of your mouth and murmurs, “feel pretty small from this angle.”

you make a sound that is genuinely embarrassing.

his smile turns smug. smug. on clark.

“okay,” you whisper faintly. “you win.”

“i know.”

“don’t get cocky.”

“too late.”

and then he kisses you again like he’s very pleased with himself.

How was he supposed to? You were practically begging to be stared at. Your hair had that natural crimp in it from always being tucked behind your ear, and so when it fell loose, it made this gorgeous swoop over your cheek. Your eyebrows gathered up all pinchy when you got confused over the equation before you. You chewed on the inside of your cheek, the tips of your teeth sinking into your bottom lip. You shifted in your seat every few moments, the soft pudge of your tummy and back twisting with your discomfort, the cute little fold of your chin rolling when you pulled back in confusion. You hummed under your breath to help you think, for gods sake. There was no focusing when you looked so beautiful. All he saw when you sat so prettily was your face, and then the memory of your face twisting and back arching and voice cracking, and he became a lost cause. 

Clark took on the gargantuan task of tutoring you in calculus because you struggled so adorably in the seat next to him, and for a college girl who maintained A averages, he couldn’t let you sabotage yourself. That English-geared brain needed to survive calculus so it could keep reading books. Plus, you always seemed to be looking at him instead of the board, so maybe by combining the two, you would find some focus.  

But the problem was that you were a good student. A smart girl who wanted to get things right. So, as cute as he was, you unfortunately took this very seriously– he sometimes ended up sitting with you for hours, practicing derivatives over and over until you finally got it. It was torture. College tutoring sessions were supposed to end in him bending you over a table, not in you crying over difficult questions and him coaxing your hair back and kissing your temples. Sure, he got a few smooches here and there, but you were very strict. Only kissing outside of tutoring hours. He had to go alllll the way to your dorm just to touch you. O, the inhumanity!

Tonight was like the others as you poured over a word problem that was entirely simple to him, but gibberish to you, and so he sat and stared while you tried to stubbornly work it out on your own. But Clark was withering away, and he needed you. 

His probing finger traced the curve of your shoulder as he leaned in and nosed at your cheek. “Why bother? I could just take the test for you.”

You grumbled and pushed his face away like a puppy. “I’m trying to focus.”

“C’mooon. You’ve been at it for an hour. Pay attention to me.”

“Clark,”

“Bunny,” he pouted, pressing his forehead to your arm. 

“Clarkie, I can’t focus with you interrupting me,” you whined, and you rubbed your eyes. “Great. Now I lost my train of thought.”

The boy huffed softly at your look of disdain, and he rolled his eyes. He was a total sucker. Clark smoothed the paper out and took your pencil, tipping your chin up with it. “Fine. I’ll be good. Listen, okay? I’ll explain it.”

You perked up as he put on his teacher's voice, and you rested your chin in the palm of your hand as Clark began to unpack some ridiculous collection of symbols that meant nothing to you. This, of course, was equally not useful. Clark had this way of talking that just… hypnotized you. His soft lips, the pretty dip of his cupid’s bow, the absolutely criminal flutter of his lashes over those baby blues when he flicked between one side of the equation and the other. How was anyone supposed to focus when their tutor-turned-boyfriend had a face like that? It was like if Patrick Swayze was trying to teach you how to dance. They made a whole movie about how that was impossible– look where it got Baby. 

Clark smirked and stopped talking when he realized you weren’t listening. When he leaned in and kissed you, you weakly protested, “Mm.. but m’studying…”

“No you’re not,” he purred, “you were staring at my mouth.”

“S’a pretty mouth.”

“You’re a pretty mouth,” he blabbed, collecting your soft body and hoisting you from your chair into his lap. 

You hummed in satisfaction as he wrapped his arms around you like a boa constrictor and squeezed, sinking into the strong warmth of his chest. You pushed and pulled at his hair, sticking it up on all sides, and he happily smeared your jaw and neck with sloppy kisses, breathing you in like a hungry puppy. 

“M’gonna fail calc,” you frowned, gasping when he nibbled on your ear.

“You won’t fail a thing, baby, you’re a genius.”

“I suck at math, Clarkie.”

“You suck at nothing," he chuckled, pulling back to kiss your nose. “You just need a break.”

You nudged his nose. “A break…”

“Yeah, baby. You want a break? You did some good work today… you deserve a reward, honey, for being so smart.” 

You blushed, smiling knowingly, falling for the age-old classic Clark trick. He loved to baby you, and you ate up the pampering like no other. “Mhm.”

“My good girl,” he cooed, nipping your lip. “What do you want, huh?”

“Right here, in your lap,” you mumbled, ducking your head to kiss his Adam's apple.

“Yeah? Wanna sit in my lap? My bed’s right there, honey,” Clark tipped his head back for you, glancing at his dorm mattress. His hands snuck under your shirt to smush the softness of your back between his fingers. 

Your hands roamed the broad, tan expanse of his biceps, and you leaned down to teeth at one. “Mm… right here.”

Clark’s heart swelled at your bites, and he brushed your hair back. “You just wanna be in my arms, don’t you?”

You came back up for another kiss and smiled, grinding your hips down against his. Clark swallowed a broken grunt and yanked you close, hands smoothing up your back.

“Want me to take my time, or you just want me?”

“Just you,” you breathed, nipping at his cheek.

Clark couldn’t help the groan that escaped him. You got so needy when he collected you into his grasp. He let you busy yourself with his mouth, kissing and sucking dutifully on his bottom lip as he freed his cock from the fly of his jeans, shoving them down just enough. There was no use for decorum or fuss when you both were buzzing like this. Clark smiled sweetly as he smacked it lightly against your thigh, seeing how you squirmed and pouted for it. 

“Say the words, honey,” he coaxed.

You cupped his jaw and planted lipstick prints across his chin. “Pretty please, Clarkie.”

“Mm… try a little harder, baby. I want you to mean it.”

You whimpered and ground against the hard muscle of his thigh. “Pretty, pretty please, baby…”

His cheeks tinted pink as you begged, and it was certainly enough. He never liked to string you out. Clark made good on his word– he tugged the hem of your dress up and simply snagged your panties to the slide, and he notched the head of his cock between your puffy folds, not yet sinking inside, but teasing you with it. Your frustrated face melted into desire as he caught your clit, and he whispered, “That’s my girl, yeah… my smart girl.”

“Clarkie,” you moaned.

“You gonna bounce for me, bunny, or do I have to do all the work?”

Your skin flushed red from your ears down to your neck, and you stiffened as he prodded your entrance. “Can hop, I can,” you swore.

Clark smirked at your eagerness, and he curled his long fingers over the handlebars of your hips to remind you to sit still and sink down. You drew in a deep breath as you carefully sheathed his cock inside of you, feeling the delicious stretch between your walls; an embarrassing whimper spilled out as you crumpled in his lap, hips rocking against the intrusion. Clark’s eyes fluttered shut at the tight, familiar heat of your cunt, vision fuzzing out. He watched you slowly rise and drop your hips, giving your best effort, but you never could follow through when you were this needy– you laid on him like a rag doll, moaning and suckling at his neck, and he had to pump you up and down for him. A low grunt escaped his chest as you obediently hopped with his help, watching his length disappear inside you. By the way your eyes rolled back and you soaked his hips, he knew you needed it, and he was obliged to give it to you. You were just so gorgeous when you finally focused on something you cared about. 

Clark kneaded the pudgy flesh of your ass and murmured into your ear, “Feels so good, baby, you’re doing so well… such a smart girl, makin’ me feel so good…”

You whined and swallowed him whole, in and out over and over, laying all your weight on his shoulder as he used his big paws to fuck you. Heat burned low in your tummy, low and fast. As he began to meet your manufactured bounces with his own bucks, he groaned with pleasure against your cheek.

“Good girl… take it… Always such a high achiever, bunny– Jesus– sometimes you gotta let me take care of you.”

“I… oh, Clarkie… feels so…”

“I know, baby, I can feel you,” he crooned, licking your bottom lip before kissing you. “Cum whenever you want, bunny. Feel good. It’s your reward.”

“S’gonna be messy!” you warned as you dropped down on his cock another time, feeling the soft throbbing of the muscle against your constricting walls. Your hands fisted in his shirt for a tether.

Clark’s eyes nearly rolled back in his head at how tight you could grip him. Sometimes he was somewhat worried that your cunt would squeeze so hard he would never get out, like a chinese finger trap. He pressed a palm to your lower back hard enough that it stopped you rocking, and you whined petulantly. He praised, “Shh, be a good bunny, hm?” before he started drilling into you from below. 

A squeak of surprise escaped you before you disassembled against his chest, grunting with the exertion of being jackrabbited like a toy. Clark moaned pathetically into your neck as he thrusted deep and fast, battering into the velveteen muscle that had you writhing and begging for just a little more, just a little faster. He gave you everything you asked for until you couldn’t even form the words.

“Gonna– gonna-!”

“I got ‘ya, honey, cum for me… c’mon, give me a good one, bunny,”

The coil snapped inside your gut as he shoved himself as far inside as it was possible to go, and you spasmed into a trembling orgasm, arms around his neck, clinging on for dear life. Clark bullied your cunt happily, refusing to stop until he came, too– which was barely seconds later. The way you cried into his shoulder from overstimulation made him dizzy, and before he knew it, he was flooding your womb with sticky spend, bucking erratically to give it all away. He grunted in breathless victory as pretty little rings of creams coated him, and he gently eased you back down, squeezing your hips as he let you sit on his cock and settle. 

Your face was slack and pressed to his neck, hands scratching at the nape of his neck like a kitten; little puffs of exhausted air left you as your lashes fluttered and the feeling tamped down. Clark made little promises against your shoulders and neck.

“That’s it, bunny… so good, love, you took it like a champ… just like a good student should, right? At least you can pay attention to something…”

Your skin flushed brutally hot and you burrowed into the hiding spot of his collarbone. “Don’t be mean.”

“I’m not,” Clark chuckled, gently cradling the back of your skull and using our hair to tug your head back. “Just happy you finished a lesson.”

You gazed up at his sleepy eyes– that face that got him anything he wanted– and you chewed the inside of your cheek. “Think I might need another if I’m gonna finish that homework…”

Clark poked your cheek affectionately. “Baby, if I fuck you again, there won’t be any homework.”

You grinned, “Good.”

clark will always recall the way the whole room went quiet. jimmy had blinked like he had something in his eye as he squinted. even lois, who wasn't even looking at clark swung her entire head towards him. perry, who had secretly been eaves-dropping the entire time, nearly dropped the coffee he was making.

"girlfriend." jimmy repeated, fucking gawking.

clark turned a shade scarlet. "yes, my girlfriend."

"what's her name?" lois asked.

"y/n."

"pretty name," jimmy said after some silence.

"yeah, she's an extraordinarily pretty girl."

there was some silence again before perry moved over and slapped clark so sharply against his back that the poor man almost flinched. "crude sense of humour, boy, but i appreciate the effort."

clark hadn't even managed to scrounge up a wrinkled eyebrow and a question forming around his lips before the room dispersed. mainly, he presumed, to talk about the confident "joke" he had just made.

that night, when he comes home to you, the shy, farmer boy facade wiped off completely, he slides next to you in the bedsheets as you nestle against his bicep.

"how was work today?" you ask.

"good." after some silence where you just run your hand over his face, he adds, "they don't believe me."

"about?"

"us. that i have you."

you laugh, resting your cheek against his skin as you look up at him. "really?" he nods, brushing his fingers against your cheek. but you don't think much about it.

clark, on the other hand? well, he tries not to, but it's pretty hard when jimmy slides by him the next day and prods him a little too hard in the ribs and makes a joke about saying you have a woman just because you want them.

nor does lois, who talks to jimmy again about it and talks a little bit too loud about her partner.

"i'm not lying," clark says a little aggressively, the next week, at lunch, through gritted teeth as another jab is once again made. "i have a girlfriend."

"sure." perry says without missing a beat, stirring his coffee. "and you're superman."

well.

after about a few months of this banter, clark asks you to walk him to the daily planet that morning with his said reasons, and you're more than happy to obey.

when lois spots clark standing next to you, she thinks for a second that he's helping a very pretty lost woman even despite their proximity.

until he bends down and kisses you.

lois's jaw drops open as she swivels her head to perry, who seems to be seeing the same thing.

"am i? am i?" perry blinks, coffee long abandoned.

clark tries to act nonchalant about it while he introduces you to them, hand around your waist. and when jimmy appears, seeing you extend your hand to your lois while clark's nose is close to your temple which he can't even pass as friendship, well he almost faints.

oh, just wait until they found about who clark really was.

his breath catches as you drop to your knees unceremoniously, the gentle press of your lips to his knee turning him rigid instead of its intended effect.

"you're gonna give me a complex." he comments, petulantly, rolling his shoulders in an effort to soothe his nerves.

you shoot him a grin, thumb circling his forearm, "have i told you how much i love you?"

his head tips with an unimpressed look, "only when you want me to do absurd things like this."

"well!" you rise up to sit on your thighs, "i gotta take measurements for before. and then after. some self-control?" you point out, with your hands tugging at his waistband.

"telling me to have self-control with you on your knees like that is a big ask. but wait. before and…after? after what?"

"measuring you when you're soft, and when you're rock hard." you say simply.

"oh good gosh. you've thought this through. don't tell me there's a chart?" the prospect of it horrifies him, but it’s strangely arousing all at once.

gently, you guide clark's very soft cock out, teeth caught on your lower lips, all eager with anticipation. at the very first glance, you're mesmerised.

"whoa…i've never seen it close up this soft before."

clark lets out a sharp exhale at the sudden brush of cold air, body tensed like a rod as you make your initials observations. "yeah, well…it isn't exactly a state i…would prefer to show off."

you hold the hefty weight to your palms, tilting it, "mhm.."

clark's hips involuntarily jerk at your touch, gripping tight around the vinyl, "geez…you're staring at it like it might grow two legs and walk off."

"i mean..it's really pretty." you mumble, thumbing gently over the skin covering his shy tip, to the veins that were visible down his length, "well, in the general baseline as far as dicks go."

he twitches in your palm, and you shoot him a warning glare. "easy there, tiger. i need the before measurement."

clark groans audibly, jumping at the sound of the measuring tape being expanded. you thoughtful angle it flattened onto your palm, "five…six…wow! not as big as i expected."

"hey!" he bleats, cheeks flushed even more, "i-it's cold, you're staring, i demand a re-measure in more…favourable circumstances."

you snort, "that defeats the purpose. it's supposed to be smaller when you're soft, dummy."

clark lets out a pained sigh, finding the entire situation a fate he'd eventually accepted. "you know what i meant."

"oh come on. now's the fun part. right?" you shuffle closer between his parted thighs, pressing a kiss to his soft tip. "we gotta wake him up."

he winces, letting out a low curse. "that's…hardly 'waking up.'"

you look up at him through your lashes, a grin curling at the corner of your lips. "greedy." his cock twitches in your hold at your tease, and you lower your head, kitten-licking along his length.

the tape measure remains forgotten next to you as you devote your attention to him. but after a good amount of effort, "huh. you don't usually take this long to get hard."

he gasps, offended. "really? you're measuring my…my junk out in the open. it's hardly a turn on. confusing, sort of…hot? but mostly confusing."

"if it's hot then get hard."

clark's jaw steadily flexes at the slow dribble of your spit, coating the base of his cock as you pump it up his tip. his head falls backwards onto the headrest, breathing turning more strained.

"okay. okay…it's…working."

"good?"

"m-mhm. yeah. real…good."

your eyes glint at his visual appraisal, and you wrap your mouth around the tip of his cock. the reaction is instant, hips jumping, bucking further into your hot, warm mouth.

"sh-shit. definitely, definitely working."

he's fully hard in your mouth now, thick and heavy against your tongue. the wet, drag of your tongue along his veins has him lifting off the chair. panting harder, "o-oh gosh, like that, not gonna…l-last—"

as quickly as his bliss had come, you'd cruelly pulled away with a loud pop! clark blinks at you, eyes hazy with frustration, confusion, and a dawning reminder as you pick the tape back up. but all he can focus on were how you lick his pre from your lower lip.

"seriously? now?"

"it has to be when you're still hard!" you counter.

"it's not a one-time-thing," he rasps, flinching as the cool metal tip meets his skin once more. he's breathing hard, chest rising and dipping in the wake of his arousal. gaze pleading for you to hurry up.

"mm. seven…eight," then, you gasp suddenly, "whoa! almost nine inches."

clark's head snaps down, in equal disbelief. "wait, really? no way."

you pause, frowning at him, "why the hell are you surprised. it's your dick." you angle him slightly with the measuring tape, "8.7 inches. that's…fully hard."

"i…i don't know. it's not like i actively measure myself. and —" he lifts his gaze, only to see your deeply perplexed one.

"are you…upset?"

"this is what's been in me the entire time," you begin, accusative, "no wonder i'm always fucking aching!"

clark straightens, his mouth agape in shock, "you're actually upset."

"no shit! i wanna go back to when i thought you were just six inches."

he slumps back in a long-drawn-out groan. with his cock painfully throbbing against his abdomen, he was certain this opened pandora's box was about to be a pain in his ass.