silly goofy mood

You sat on your fire escape, knees drawn up, and your sketchbook balanced precariously in your lap. You’d always been fascinated by monochrome sketches, the way simple lines and shades of grey could capture so much. Colour, you decided long ago, was a luxury you didn’t need.

Your fingers were smudged with graphite, but the page was mostly blank.

Superman landed a few feet away, quiet as a sigh.

You didn’t startle. You never did anymore.

Instead, you shifted over, making room for him as he adjusted his cape and sat down beside you, careful as always. You could feel the air shift as he settled, like gravity remembering itself.

“I figured you’d be up here,” Superman said, the warmth in his voice settling over you like the last light of day. The sound seemed to vibrate just beneath your skin. You felt a shiver run through you, quick and light, but you didn’t let it show.

“I figured you’d come and find me,” you answered, letting an easy smile tug at your mouth.

You looked up from your sketchbook and your heart hitched.

Superman’s face was all clean lines and impossible symmetry—like someone had drawn him with perfect intent. His jaw was strong, but not unkind, balanced by the slight softness around his mouth, where the colour settled in a gentle pink. His hair, dark and wind-swept from flight, curled just slightly above his brow, like even the sky didn’t want to let him go.

But it was his eyes that held you still: clear blue and startling in the dusk, like a patch of summer sky had settled into them and stayed. The light caught them in ways that didn’t feel entirely natural. 

Superman didn’t glow, exactly. It was subtler than that. 

He absorbed the light around him, like it belonged to him, and then gave it back. It clung to the high points of his face, softened at his throat and temples, bled golden into the deep blue of his suit. He looked like he’d stepped out of the sun itself.

You didn’t know if it was the hour or the way he always seemed to arrive at the cusp of it, but something in you responded every time. It was as if your body recognised his light before your mind did. Like you were meant to bask in it.

“You’re getting predictable,” Superman teased, resting his arms on the railing with a quiet clink of something solid against metal. “Should I start bringing snacks?”

“If you brought snacks, I’d never leave,” you said, giving him a wry look.

“I don’t know,” he replied. “Pretty sure there’s a strict no-picnics-on-fire-escapes policy in the Metropolis city code. Article Five, Section Twelve, right after the clause about not feeding pigeons hot dogs.”

“Hey, that was one time,” you joked, even though you’d never so much as tried to feed a pigeon.

Familiar with your banter, Superman quipped, “One time too many.”

You rolled your eyes, but the warmth in your chest stayed.

If someone had told you a few months ago that you’d be exchanging jokes with Superman almost every night, you would have called them crazy. And yet here you were.

“Maybe you’re the one who’s getting predictable,” you shot back softly. “You’re the superhero. I thought you’d have something more interesting to do on a Friday night.”

He gave a shrug—one that somehow managed to look self-effacing, even though his shoulders could probably carry the sky. “Some of us like routine,” Superman said. “Besides, you’re a pretty good Friday night.”

Then he shifted slightly, settling onto the narrow fire escape. Despite the awkward fit, his body language was open and relaxed. He leaned back, arms loose, head tilted just enough to catch the last light.

His comfort didn’t come just from the sun setting above him. It also came from being here with you.

You watched the sun catch the side of his face. Since getting to know him better, you had come to the conclusion that there was something different in the way light moved around him. You thought the sun was just a little slower to let him go than other people.

To distract yourself, you glanced back down at your sketchbook. Still blank.

Superman knew you too well. His eyes followed, his brow lifting just slightly with quiet notice. “You haven’t drawn anything,” he observed.

“Not yet.” 

Superman glanced at you sideways, his voice gentle, easy. “Is that a creative choice, or a mood?” 

You rolled a red pencil between your fingers and shrugged. “Both, maybe?”

“What about your latest piece? How’s it coming along?”

You hesitated, then flipped the sketchbook around to show him the incomplete drawing of a building collapsing—just like it had at Metropolis University half a year ago—coming undone like a ball of yarn.

“No progress,” you lamented.

Superman made a sound, half-laugh and half-sigh, low and warm in his throat. “I know the feeling.” His voice was a little rough around the edges tonight.

“Bad day?” you asked, your brows pinched just slightly. 

He shifted beside you, the fire escape creaking faintly beneath his weight. Superman’s gaze swept out over the horizon. His voice was quieter now, soft enough that it felt like it belonged just to you.

“The city never really sleeps,” he declared. “Neither do I, sometimes.”

You nodded. “I can’t even imagine.”

Superman turned to you. “How about you? What’s going through your mind tonight?”

You brushed your fingers over the pencil again. “I don’t know. I used to like shadows and shading, but these days I’ve been drawn to colour, for the first time since I was a little kid.”

“You always liked greyscale,” Superman recalled. “You said it was honest.”

You blinked, though you shouldn’t have been surprised that he remembered. Superman remembered everything you said, even the details that most people would deem inconsequential.

You caught the last of the sunlight flickering over his defined cheekbone, painting gold onto skin that already held so much warmth.

“It felt safer,” you confessed. “Easier. But you’re making me reconsider.”

Superman reached out, fingers brushing yours as he shifted closer. Your hand moved almost on its own, tracing the curve of his shoulder, the way his red cape folded near his collarbone, the light pooling beneath his jaw. The red pencil stayed steady in your fingers.

Like you often did on nights like these, you reached up and smoothed the one errant curl that had fallen onto his forehead, brushing it back into place with the rest. Superman’s eyes fluttered shut for a moment, but he didn’t move. You lingered just long enough to feel the warmth of his skin beneath your fingertips before your hand drifted down, flattening the edge of his cape where it creased at his shoulder.

“I haven’t used red in years,” you admitted softly. The implied, and I haven’t wanted to, not until I met you, dangled between you. 

The softness in Superman’s stare made the edges of his usually steady expression blur. His eyes dropped to the pencil resting between your fingers, the deep, rusted red of it sitting pretty against your skin.

For a moment, you wondered what your face looked like reflected in his eyes, and whether he could see the colour steeping back into you.

“Is that new?” Superman prompted, nudging his head towards the red pencil.

You shook your head, your heartbeat in your ears. “Old. Just forgotten.”

The line of Superman’s mouth thawed into something gentler than anything you were used to seeing from him in public. “I’m glad you remembered it.”  

You didn’t answer. 

There were too many things you hadn’t admitted—not to your friends, not to your professors, not even to yourself. Not about the way your chest tightened whenever you saw Superman above the city. Not about how you’d started feeling the urge to use colour around the same time you met him. Not about what that might mean.

The sun dipped lower, and you swore you could see it sinking into him. His body absorbed the light like it belonged to him.  

The colours of the sunset around you faded.

Superman didn’t say goodbye when he left. He never did. But you always felt the shift in the air, the way the warmth lingered just a little longer before it slipped away.

And when you looked down, the red pencil was still burning—like it had touched the sun and remembered how to glow.

Six months ago

The first time you met Superman, you were pinned under a science building at Metropolis University. It was a structural collapse—sudden, loud, and courtesy of a low-level alien threat. You were walking back from a foreign language class and hadn’t even seen Metropolis’s hero fight the extraterrestrial.

It was silent when you came to. Not peaceful, just eerily quiet.

Dust hung thick in the air, filtering the sky into a flat, formless grey. One of your legs was trapped beneath something heavy, and even though you couldn’t move, that was the worst of it. You didn’t feel any pain, just a persistent pressure.

And a terrible headache, but that was probably just a concussion.

It was dark, just rubble and smoke. Sunlight tried to pour through a fractured wall but didn’t quite reach you. Everything felt far away, like you were underwater, or dreaming.

Then a shape moved through the dust.

You didn’t see his face, not then. Just the outline of him, backlit and glowing—shoulders broad, red cape rippling in the ruined air. He stepped forward, and the light seemed to follow him.

Superman.

You might have been amazed to see him if you had the energy. But all you felt was a sudden warmth, spreading slowly through your chest like someone had struck a match inside you.

He knelt beside you. His eyes scanned you carefully, pausing on the wound at your temple where you were bleeding.

“Can you hear me?” Superman asked. “Can you tell me your name?”

You tried, but your mouth was too dry.

He murmured something reassuring. Checked your pulse with a touch so careful you barely felt it.

“It’s alright,” Superman said. “You’re okay. I’m getting you out of here.”

He moved the debris as if it weighed nothing. His hands glowed faintly golden where they touched the stone—or maybe that was just the sun catching on his skin.

You only remembered flashes: the sky starting to turn blue again, the shout of a paramedic nearby, the call of your name from a friend and classmate who recognised you.

Somewhere between paramedics lifting you onto a stretcher and checking your eyes, you whispered, “I want to go home.”

Then arms stronger than anything you had ever felt cradled you against his chest. You must have blacked out again, because the next thing you remembered was cool air against your face, and Superman’s voice asking gently, “Where do you live?”

He must have gotten the okay from the paramedics, because there was no way Superman would let you go home without getting checked first.

You blinked blearily, lifted a hand toward your building, and slurred your address and something about always leaving your fire escape unlocked.

Superman paused. “You really shouldn’t do that, it’s not safe.” It might have been a scolding if he hadn’t sounded so worried.

You didn’t answer.

Superman carried you up anyway—slow, like he didn’t want to jostle your head. The metal grates of your fire escape creaked under his red boots when he landed. Your fingers curled lightly into the symbol at his chest. You were too fatigued to let go.

He laid you gently on the couch inside. The blanket he pulled over you had been left crumpled over the armrest the night before by your best friend. He hoped its familiarity would ease some of the day’s wreckage.

Superman hesitated, just for a moment. He wasn’t supposed to linger after someone was safe, not once the danger had passed. But he crouched beside you and checked your pulse again, just to be sure. He brushed the hair from your forehead, revealing the band-aid the paramedics pressed over your cleaned wound.

His hand stilled there, fingers resting lightly against your temple. Something in his chest ached; sudden and sharp and human.

You didn’t remember much, only that when you opened your eyes later, the light outside your windows was golden. And your chest felt warm, like something small had caught fire there.

A couple of nights later, you couldn’t sleep.

You planned to sleep before the sun even went down to capitalise on the fact that you needed rest, but you couldn’t.

According to the note Superman left you, the paramedics had told you to take it easy, let the concussion settle, which you had. Mostly. But that night, just as the sun began setting, the stillness of your bedroom was too quiet, the air too stale. So you’d crept up to the fire escape with a mug of hot cocoa, the steam soft and curling as it caught the breeze.

You perched with your favourite blanket, crossed your legs, and watched the city glow below.

This high up, in this quieter part of the city where university housing clustered under decades-old brickwork, the skyline appeared as if the sunset had dyed it pink and gold.

You liked the way the evening air nipped at your skin, how the mug kept your hands warm. It was the first time you’d been outside since the building fell, and Superman reached out and pulled you into the sunlight.

You didn’t feel the subtle ripple in the air. Superman landed silently, but you still flinched in surprise. Most of the cocoa sloshed out of your mug, and you mourned the loss of it with a quiet gasp.

He raised both hands in a silent gesture of apology as he slowed his approach.

“Sorry,” Superman said quickly. His voice was almost as delicate as you remembered it being when he saved you. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“It’s okay,” you assured him, then blinked. “Um, hi.”

Superman raised a hand in a small wave, a sheepish smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. And there they were—devastating dimples you hadn’t known he had, deep and boyish. A warm, open grin that reached his eyes. 

One perfect black curl had fallen loose from the rest, trailing down onto his forehead, and you had the sudden, silly urge to reach up and brush it back. 

You gaped at Superman, stunned, your breath caught before you could form a word. It was the first time you’d seen him clearly and not in dust and silhouette, or in a memory softened by dizziness and daylight.

Superman stood tall, his cape fluttering behind him. His suit was slightly more muted than you’d expected, deep sky blue with bright reds and golds, as if it were designed to shimmer when the light hit just right.

You found yourself cataloguing him the way you might study a figure for a life drawing class. The sweep of his jaw, the balance of his features, the way his eyes, so vividly blue they almost glowed, tilted slightly downward as if he were always on the verge of concern. 

Superman didn’t look real. More like something sculpted, idealised, rendered in impossible light. And yet he was standing there, shoulders hunched like he didn’t want to take up too much space. 

As human as anyone you had ever met. 

You kept trying to find a flaw that would make him easier to look at, but he didn’t seem to have one. There was a softness to him that felt at odds with the weight of his legend. 

You couldn’t stop staring. And Superman looked right back.

“I wasn’t sure you’d be awake,” he said after a moment. “I’ve been checking in.”

You swallowed, trying to get your voice back. “Checking in?” you echoed.

Superman nodded. “Discreetly.” A faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Didn’t want to intrude.”

Something about the earnest way he said it made your stomach turn. You tucked your legs under yourself and blinked, trying to keep your voice steady.

“I didn’t think you made house calls,” you commented. “I thought you just rescued people and flew away.”

Superman’s smile was a little sheepish. “I usually do.” He glanced down at his boots, trying not to fidget. When he looked back up, his eyes lingered on yours only briefly before flicking to the side again. “This was different.”

Different. 

You weren’t sure what he meant, but you nodded anyway.

“How are you holding up?”

You shifted your mug in your hands, the ceramic cool against your palms since its contents were emptied when he startled you.

“Better, I think,” you admitted after a pause. “The concussion made everything feel foggy for a while, like the whole world was muffled.” You glanced down at your blanket-draped knees, then back at the superhero. “But the headaches are easing now. I’ve been sleeping more. Or at least trying to.”

Superman nodded, his gaze almost cautious. His hands rested lightly on the fire escape railing, but you could see the way his fingers curled—like he was holding himself back from reaching for you.

“And the rest of it?” he asked gently. “Any anxiety, or panic attacks? Aftershocks like that can take time to develop.”

Superman’s expression wasn’t clinical; it was vulnerable and concerned. It struck you, in that small, quiet second, that this wasn’t some routine check-in. He cared. Not as an obligation. Not as Superman. Just as someone who had carried you out of the rubble and stayed.

Your voice dipped. “Sometimes. I still jump when something falls too loud. Or when I hear sirens. And I’ve been having dreams, or, I guess, nightmares. They’re not bad, but they make me feel like I’m back under that rubble.”

Superman listened like every word mattered.

“But I think,” you continued, “I felt safe once you were there. When I saw you, I stopped panicking.”

His gaze was steady in a way that felt real. You couldn’t believe he was a superhero, not at that moment. If anything, he just seemed deeply, comfortingly normal.

“You stayed. I remember that. Everyone else had to keep moving, but you stayed with me.”

Superman’s eyes didn’t leave yours. There was a faint crease between his brows, like he wasn’t used to hearing what came after the rescue.

“I’m just glad I got there in time,” he said, his voice quieter than before. Then he looked down and rubbed the back of his neck with one hand, a sheepish gesture that made something flicker and fold inside your chest.

You hesitated, then said softly, “I’m glad, too. Thank you.” Your eyes met his, steady and sincere. “I saw on the news later that I was barely under there for four minutes. Without you, I don’t know what would’ve happened.”

Superman shook his head, almost dismissively, but there was something humble in the way he spoke. “I just did what I had to. What anyone would have done, really.”

You smiled. “No, you did more. I would’ve been much worse off if you hadn’t gotten me out so fast. You saved my life.”

For a short moment, the city fell away. There were no sirens, no wind, nothing but the soft hum of Metropolis evening traffic. The sky above the rooftops had faded to pink and violet, losing its golden sunset gleam.

The last trace of the sun lingered at Superman’s shoulder, and you thought that he looked like he belonged in light. Like sunlight had created the shape of him and breathed him into being.

Then his gaze dropped down, and his brows lifted again, this time with a hint of curiosity and something almost amused. “Did I make you spill that?”

You blinked, suddenly aware of the dark stain spreading over your blanket: your spilt cup of cocoa, its warmth soaked slowly into the fabric.

“Oh.” You gave a small, sheepish laugh. “Yeah. A little. I wasn’t expecting to see you—or anyone, really—on my fire escape tonight.”

Superman’s eyes flickered with genuine apology, his voice lowering. “I’m sorry about that.”

You shook your head, already pushing yourself up. “It’s okay,” you said quickly, a flutter of awkwardness settling in your stomach. “I’ll make another and, um—I could make you one too, if you want.”

His eyes lifted slowly to meet yours, gleaming in surprise. “You don’t have to—”

“I know,” you cut in, voice firmer than you felt. “But I want to.” Your lips curved in a teasing grin. “Maybe then we can call it even?”

You watched Superman closely as he shifted his weight, a genuine smile tugging at his lips. The way the fading sunlight caught the strands of his hair made them look like a halo you wanted to reach out and touch, or capture in paint. 

It felt ridiculous, but you found yourself imagining what it would be like to try to translate the warmth you felt from Superman into something you could hold.

When you returned from your kitchen, you carried two mismatched mugs, steam rising in lazy spirals that caught the last glow of daylight. You held one out to the superhero on your fire escape.

“I added marshmallows,” you said, your voice gentle but steady.

Superman accepted the mug with both hands. The porcelain looked almost comically small, cradled between his fingers, but he didn’t seem to mind. He looked up at you then, stared warm and steady, and just beamed.

It wasn’t the kind of smile you saw on magazine covers or in news headlines. It was quieter, sparkling a gentle heat somewhere in your chest. 

You settled back down and invited him to take the seat beside you. Superman took a careful sip of cocoa, then winced at the heat. Tried again, slower this time. You laughed softly into your own mug, thoroughly charmed.

A tiny flame bloomed inside you, threatening to grow into something warm enough to burn.

You took a slow sip of your cocoa, the rich sweetness grounding you in the fading light. The quiet between you felt easy, but you couldn’t shake the pull to know more.

“So,” you began, voice soft and a little hesitant, “what’s it really like? Having all that responsibility. Saving people, carrying the weight of the city? And the whole planet, sometimes.”

Superman blinked, as if the question caught him off guard, and then looked out toward the skyline. 

“It’s… a privilege,” he said, after a pause. “Mostly. It’s what I was made for. Makes me feel human, like I’m a part of something bigger. Sometimes it’s just helping someone cross the street, or fixing a roof after a storm.” Superman glanced at you, a hesitant little laugh bubbling from his lips. “And occasionally making house calls to people’s fire escapes.”

You grinned, and he seemed quietly pleased with himself.

“Does it ever feel like it’s too much?” you asked.

Superman got more comfortable on the fire escape, and you shared your blanket without him having to ask. His eyes flicked down to his cocoa, and he plucked a marshmallow from the surface, popping it into his mouth and chewing thoughtfully.

“Sometimes,” he admitted, once he swallowed. “But those moments are rare. I guess I crave stillness more than most people might expect. It’s in those quiet in-between moments that I feel most like myself.”

You let your gaze drift to the soft glow of the city, blending with the comforting weight of Superman’s presence beside you. “Kind of like right now,” you offered, your voice almost a whisper.

He turned toward you, the corner of his mouth lifting in a genuine smile. “Exactly like right now.” Superman’s eyes caught the last of the sunset, and you saw a flicker of relief on his face.

You shifted a little closer, enough to feel the edge of his arm against yours through the blanket.

“Do you ever feel drawn to something that might burn you?” you asked, words slipping out before you could stop them. “Like a moth to a flame?”

Superman’s eyes flickered with something intense beneath the calm. His smile faded, replaced by something more fervent.

“More than I probably should,” he said, voice low. “But I keep flying toward it anyway.”

Superman never knocked or let you know he was coming. He just landed on your fire escape and made himself at home.

You got used to the sound of it—the faint ripple in the wind, like the shift of a wing or the rustle of fabric. Sometimes you heard it when you were already reaching for the window, like you’d felt him coming. Other times, you’d turn and see him there, silhouetted against the early evening sky, just waiting. 

Always waiting for you.

In the six months you’d known him, Superman never asked to come inside. But sometimes he stayed on the fire escape or the roof. Just close enough to talk.

He didn’t share much about himself. But you learned to watch him closely—how his shoulders dipped slightly when he was tired, how his jaw set when something troubled him. You discovered that he didn’t talk unless he meant to, and that his eyes could be impossibly calm even when the world was spinning around him.

One morning, just before dawn, you stood beside him on the roof of your apartment building. The air was still, clinging to the last chill of night, and Superman was silent beside you, shoulders slightly hunched, forearms resting on the parapet. 

He always seemed more human when he stood like that, like the sky was a place he visited, not where he belonged.

You glanced sideways and caught the faint mark on Superman’s cheek—a shadowed bruise, purpling against his skin. 

By the time the first edge of sunrise crested over the horizon, you saw the colour begin to lift from the bruise, healing as gold spilt across his face. His lashes caught the light, and his whole body seemed to exhale.

You stared. “You heal like that?” you whispered.

Superman nodded once, still looking forward. “I get my powers from the yellow sun,” he explained.

You tilted your head. “You told me that before,” you said slowly, the memory surfacing like something from a dream. “After the building collapsed.”

He turned toward you, eyebrows lifted in pleasant surprise. “Yes, I did.”

“You said, ‘The sun always makes me feel better.’” The words rose in your throat like they’d been waiting the whole time.

Superman grinned then, all teeth and bright blue eyes. “Yeah. That sounds like me. It’s a bit dramatic, but I stand by it.” You let out a quiet chuckle. “Though I should clarify, it’s mostly ultraviolet radiation, technically. Very romantic.”

You huffed another laugh, but before you could reply, he turned a little more toward you, the humour softening in his eyes. “But also, you,” he said, like it was the simplest thing in the world.

You jolted. “What?”

“The sun heals me,” Superman repeated, this time with a shrug so casual it was almost bashful. “And so do you.”

There was a beat of quiet before you let out a small, startled giggle. “I’m nothing like the sun.”

“You are to me,” Superman said. He snuck a glance your way, unsure if he had said too much.

You raised your eyebrows, half smiling.

His gaze dropped to his hands, a little flustered. “I mean, I’m the one who can fly and shoot lasers out of my eyes,” Superman teased. “I feel like I’m allowed to stretch the metaphor.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Look, I know it’s corny, but things get quieter when I see you. I feel like I can breathe easier.”

Your heart stumbled over itself. You reached out and let your fingers meet his. Superman didn’t pull away. He curled his hand gently around yours, his palm warm and steady, holding you with quiet care. It was a touch you were familiar with by now.

“Ultraviolet radiation,” you echoed softly, tugging your joined hands in a quiet invitation.

Superman nodded. Then, in one smooth, easy motion, he wrapped his arms around you and pulled you in like gravity had finally given up pretending.

“Healing properties,” he murmured, voice low near your ear. “Very effective.”

Your head rested against his chest as Superman gathered you closer, like you weighed nothing at all. Your body folded into his without protest. And still, he held you like he couldn’t believe you’d actually let him.

Superman was warm. Not just body heat, but warm like the morning itself.

He gave a soft breath of a laugh. “You should probably come with a warning label.”

You tilted your head, not moving from the comfort of his chest. “Oh yeah? What would it say?”

“Caution: May cause accelerated heart rate, spontaneous honesty, and temporary flight.”

You let out a quiet laugh into Superman’s collarbone. “Temporary flight?”

“Well, you are kind of sweeping me off my feet here.” Superman grinned as your laugh deepened, his arms tightening just slightly like he wanted to memorise the sound. “Side effects may include goofy behaviour, emotional vulnerability, and excessive metaphors.”

You looked up at him, smiling. “I think I can live with that.”

Neither of you moved until the rooftops turned gold.

When the sun fully blanketed Metropolis, you asked, “Do you have a real name?”

Superman paused. The wind stirred his dark curls. You could see the sunlight touching his hair, gold glinting at his temple like a halo.

“I do,” he said eventually.

You waited. Superman didn’t offer more. You nodded, the corners of your mouth lifting faintly.

Trying to keep your voice gentle, you whispered, “Okay.”

You loved him like this, in the light, with your body encircled by his. You loved the way he watched the sunrise, like it healed him. You loved the heat in his voice when he said your name.

But you didn’t know where Superman went when he left you. You knew he had another life, somewhere beyond the skies and the city. A version that woke up, dressed in ordinary clothes, talked to people on the street, and had a name that wasn’t Superman.

You didn’t ask again, but the question lingered. Because you were falling in love with someone who felt like the sun, and half of him still lived in shadow.

You started painting again. You told yourself it had nothing to do with Superman, but the colours said otherwise. Warm reds. Quiet golds. The occasional streak of blue you couldn’t seem to keep out of the frame. You painted the horizon the way it looked from your roof when he sat beside you—lit by something more than just sunlight.

It was nearly midnight, and the lamplight spilt across your apartment floor in quiet gold. You’d left the window cracked open just in case, even though you told yourself you were only airing out the smell of oil paint.

When Superman landed on the fire escape, his steps were slower than usual. He moved like he was made of something heavier than muscle, like the weight of the day hadn’t left him yet.

You opened the window all the way, stepping back to let him in. “Rough night?”

Superman didn’t answer right away. He ducked inside your apartment, his boots soundless against the floor. When his eyes found you, they were slow and tired. Not the kind of tiredness that came from a long day of work, but the kind that settled in your bones. The kind even sleep couldn’t cure.

You both sank to the floor, shoulders brushing. Superman reached for your hand before either of you said a word, like muscle memory. His fingers wrapped around yours and held on. He rubbed his thumb along the back of your hand, leaving slow, warm traces over the dried paint smudges.

Red, blue, yellow.

Superman noticed. You saw it in the flicker of a smile blooming on his face. He didn’t ask why you chose those colours; he didn’t have to. Your fingers curled around his, matching his pressure.

“You’re still covered in paint,” Superman murmured, voice more adoring than usual.

“I haven’t been able to stop lately,” you replied. After a pause, you added, “It’s kind of weird, actually. Almost like I can’t help but think in colour now.”

His hand tightened around yours just a little. It was like your confession was more than he deserved; it both steadied him and split him open.

Superman turned, eyes half-lidded but still painfully blue. “I shouldn’t keep doing this,” he said finally, hoarse. “Coming back here, letting myself forget about the rest of the world for a while…”

You turned your head, just enough to see him from the corner of your eye. “But you do.”

His smile was faint, barely there, but genuine. “You make it hard to stay away,” he argued.

Then Superman turned fully toward you, and everything in his posture affirmed his admission. One of his hands rose to cradle your head, adoring, almost aching with attentiveness. His forehead met yours. The closeness wasn’t new, but tonight it felt like a held breath. 

The silence returned, and it didn’t push against your chest like it used to.

Your free hand hovered just above his chest, paint-smudged fingers trembling. You remember asking him the night he first visited you: Do you ever feel drawn to something that might burn you? Like a moth to a flame? You wanted to touch him. You didn’t.

You shifted your fingers a little closer, almost close enough to touch the emblem on Superman’s suit.

He looked down at your hand, then back at you. “Are you warm?” he asked softly.

You paused. “Why?”

Superman’s eyes flicked upward, toward the soft yellow glow of the lamp overhead. “Even in the dark,” he murmured, “you feel like daybreak.”

Your breath caught, not from surprise, but from recognition.

Superman lifted his hand—the one still cradling the back of your head—and guided your fingers the rest of the way, placing your palm over the crest on his chest. The warmth of him seeped into your skin and spread outward, curling through your arms, your ribs, your lungs.

His eyes fluttered shut for a moment, as though he felt it too. When he opened them again, he looked a little dazed.

Superman leaned in slowly, giving you time to pull away. Your foreheads touched, and you felt the brush of his lips as they hovered—his final act of restraint.

He whispered your name, and then you kissed him.

Not hesitant. Not sweet. Not polite. Something in you gave way, something you’d kept sealed for too long. The contact wasn’t sharp or urgent; it was complete.

The moment his lips touched yours, every tether gave way.

You kissed Superman like you’d been waiting forever, and he kissed you like he couldn’t believe you’d let him.

His hand rose to your face, thumb sweeping your cheekbone. The other found your lower back, pulling you in until every point of contact felt like ignition. Heat curled through you, low and insistent. The kiss deepened.

You didn’t realise how breathless you were until you had to stop. You pulled back an inch, lips still grazing his.

“I don’t want to fall too fast,” you whispered.

Superman exhaled like he understood too well, almost like he wanted to say, me too, but couldn’t bear the sound of it. His hand stayed at your cheek, the other drawing slow, grounding circles against the bare skin of your back under your shirt. 

He couldn’t make himself let go.

“Then fall slowly,” Superman begged. “But please don’t stop.”

He kissed you again. 

It was dizzying. Your breath caught in the back of your throat as your hands rose to tangle in his hair, fingertips threading through the soft dark strands. His mouth claimed yours with a hunger that didn’t quite match the quiet of the room. 

Superman’s hands cradled your jaw, but there was no caution in the way he kissed you. He tilted your chin up, drew you closer, and kissed you like he couldn’t bear to hold back a second longer.

His thumb stroked down your throat gently as your lips parted for him, and he kissed you deeper.

You made a sound against Superman’s mouth, faint and involuntary, and that was all it took. He lifted you, arms firm around your waist, lifting you to perch on the back of your sofa with a gentleness that barely contained the force behind it. 

His body pressed into yours between your knees, solid and real and warm, and the world narrowed to the feel of his hands, the taste of his mouth, and the blazing heat of sunlight in the dark.

Superman held you like he didn’t trust the moment to endure, as if he might burn straight through you if he wasn’t careful.

At some point, he pulled back just far enough to catch his breath—though he kept his arms locked around you like he had no intention of letting go. His nose bumped carefully against yours. His smile was a little crooked. 

“I should probably—uh—mention something,” Superman said, his voice low and a little sheepish.

You blinked, still catching your breath. “What?”

He hesitated, then blurted it out with the sort of rush you’d expect from someone confessing to a petty crime, not saving the world every week: “My name’s Clark.”

You stared at him, echoing, “Clark?”

“Clark Kent,” he added quickly, like maybe the full name would help. “I mean, technically Kal-El, if you want to get all Kryptonian about it, but that feels kind of formal right now, and—” He stopped himself, realising he was rambling, and gave you a lopsided grin. “Sorry. I just figured you should know who you’re kissing.”

You blinked again. Kiss-drunk, stunned, still slightly out of breath, and then a laugh burst out of you, bright and incredulous and full of joy. 

“Oh my God,” you said, grinning so hard it actually hurt. “Of course, your name is Clark.”

He looked a little defensive, but mostly delighted. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

You shook your head, still beaming. “It’s perfect. You’re perfect, Clark Kent.” The moment his real name left your lips, it sparked something in both of you—soft and giddy, like butterflies waking up all at once.

And Clark just stood there for a second, heart tripping over itself, arms full of the person he loved. He was totally, completely, unequivocally done for. 

Because it was happening. This was real. You were warm against him—flushed and glowing and laughing like he’d just handed you the moon—and every single ridiculous, hopeless, too-big-for-his-own-good feeling he’d been carrying came surging up at once.

You thought he was perfect, Clark realised. You were smiling like that because of him. What should he do with his face? Where should he put his hands? Had breathing always been this difficult?

He’d flown through supernovas, stood inside hurricanes, and heard the heartbeat of the earth. None of it came close to this.

You felt like the yellow sun—no, better than that. Like Kansas in July, like his favourite meal made by Ma Kent, like home and comfort and every love song Clark had ever heard.

He couldn’t help it. He beamed. You caught the expression and softened instantly, eyes warm and open.

Clark looked like he was about to say something else, but you didn’t let him. 

You kissed him, over and over, slow and then desperate. You kissed him until you didn’t know who had reached for whom first.

And it wasn’t a descent. It wasn’t dangerous. It was a surrender. 

Strap the wings to me, you thought. Let it melt. Let it catch fire. If Clark Kent is the sun, then let me fly to him.

Because for once, this wasn’t the story of Icarus falling. It was the moment just before. The moment he left the ground. The moment the sky opened and everything turned to gold.

The front door creaked open with the quiet click of a key turning in the lock.

“You used the front door again,” you called without looking up, brush still in hand.

Clark stepped inside, closing the door behind him with his usual soft care. “Some people think using doors is polite,” he reminded you.

You glanced over your shoulder, letting your eyes linger on how good your boyfriend looked in his work clothes. “I kind of miss the dramatic entrances,” you admitted.

“Oh, you mean the part where I tripped on your curtain rod that one time?”

You grinned. “Exactly!”

Clark walked toward you, still in the button-down he always wore to work at The Daily Planet, sleeves rolled up, tie askew like he’d tugged it loose the second he left the newsroom. You were standing barefoot in your living room, a half-finished painting drying in front of you. Your fingers were smudged with gold and soft blue, and you wore one of Clark’s old Smallville football t-shirts, now covered in streaks of red, yellow, and cobalt.

Clark paused when he saw it. His brow softened, and something in his chest gave a quiet little tug. You looked like a memory he didn’t know he’d already made—sunlight and colour and home, all rolled into one.

“You know,” he said, brushing his knuckles lightly over the painted hem of his t-shirt, “you really bring out the primary colors in me.”

You snorted. “Wow. You’ve been waiting to use that one, haven’t you?”

He looked mock-offended. “That was off the cuff! I’m a journalist. We’re good with words.”

“Oh, you’re great with words,” you agreed, looping your arms around his shoulders. “Like the time you called me ‘a phenomenon of gravitational significance.’”

Clark beamed. “You are one.”

You rolled your eyes, turning back to your canvas. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”

Clark’s arms circled around your waist like this was what he’d been made to do. He fit against you like gravity, always had. “Whatcha painting?”

“You,” you said, not even a little shy.

He blinked. “Oh?” Clark knew you had been inspired to start painting again because of him—and you gravitated towards Superman’s colour palette more than anything else these days—but you had yet to actually paint him.

“I decided to bite the bullet and give it a try. Everything else I painted’s been alluding to this, you know? Light through clouds. Rooftops catching fire in the evening. The color the sky turns when someone you love walks through the door.”

Clark let out a quiet breath. He pressed a kiss to your head, exactly where your minor head wound had been the day he saved you. 

“I think you’re my favorite subject,” you added, “even when you’re not wearing the cape.”

His smile widened. “I thought I was your favourite, especially when I’m not wearing the cape,” Clark teased. “Or, you know, wearing anything.”

You made a face like you were disappointed by the crude joke. “Oh, you’re impossible,” you scoffed, trying and failing to keep the laughter from your voice.

“Very likely,” Clark said, unperturbed by your response.

You leaned into him. He was so warm it made you ache. Your free hand reached up, paint-streaked fingers brushing through the hair at the nape of Clark’s neck. 

He dipped his head toward you, and you met him halfway—lips parting in a kiss that was immediate and unthinking. It was the kind of kiss you gave someone you’d missed all day, the kind that left no room for doubt. Clark kissed you like he meant it, like he always meant it, one hand steady at your waist, the other slipping up your back until you were pressed against him, breathless.

When you finally pulled apart, he rested his forehead against yours, breathing in like he was trying to hold the moment inside him.

“You know,” you murmured, “you used to land on my balcony like you’d burn the whole sky behind you.”

Clark huffed a laugh. “Yeah. You never blinked.”

“It made me think you were the sun,” you said. “Too bright. Too far away.”

“I used to think the sun was something I could never touch,” Clark said quietly. “Something I had to chase, or carry, or be. But with you, I finally feel like I can stand still in it.”

The sky outside is an inky black and the library is quiet except for your frustrated huffs. It’s Saturday night. The rest of campus is indulging in cheap beers at Barney’s, slinking along Greek Row, or enjoying tonight’s episode of Saturday Night Live. It’s time to get out of here and crawl into your soft bed. Torturing yourself with Stats homework will be just as painful on Sunday.

“If I buy us a pint of chocolate chip cookie dough, can we blow this off and hang out back at the dorms?” Anna is nodding before you’ve even finished. Stuffing notebooks into backpacks and capping pens low on ink, you’re strolling down the library stairs not even five minutes later.

As the balmy evening campus air hits your face, you already feel fresher. Campus is quiet, late enough that most people are settled into their Saturday night plans. As the two of you near Greek Row, there’s a comfortable silence as you appreciate the breeze through the trees and the warm glow of campus housing windows.

That is, until a low whoop rings out. An undercurrent of boisterous cheering and what sounds like stomping feet. You exchange eyes with your roommate. What is that?

As if summoned, a group comes galloping through the neatly trimmed cypress trees around the corner. They’re stomping their feet in a rhythm, hands held mid-air to imitate holding reigns. Drunken laughs ring out between cries of “Whoa!” and “Steady there, Lucky!” To round it off, the leader of their horse play (literally) is full-on cosplaying as a cowboy, his jeans tucked into boots and a Stetson perched atop his head. 

Wait, is he holding a hobby horse? It’s been decades since you’ve seen those horse heads stuck on a stick. The stuffed felt Appaloosa head is reigned in the cowboy’s hands, where he pretends to spur it back into action. 

Just when you think you’ve seen it all.

The group continues its way toward you and you’re equally secondhand embarrassed and amused. As they grow closer you recognize a few guys from the Pi Kapp house and wave. But it’s Anna who makes the most shocking discovery when Mr. Cowboy tilts his brim up.

"Is that Bob from Stats?" 

It takes a second to look past the brown felt hat and the hobby horse he's taking for a spin, but that's definitely the same pink-cheeked Bob Floyd who has lent you a pencil all semester. 

“Howdy, ladies.” He tips his hat to you, all toothy grin and droopy drunk eyes. "Can I offer you a ride?"

You stare open-mouthed. Shocked. That slow rancher drawl is new. The unbridled confidence is new. Actually, the entire getup is new. For nine weeks you’ve seen him in the same trucker hat and sweatshirt combo while going over homework answers together. What is going on?

He’s clearly in the middle of his house party crawl, bright blue eyes half open behind his metal frames. Just as gorgeous as ever as a tendril of sandy hair curls against his forehead. Normally your reaction to him is tender, a puppy dog crush. But this wild, inebriated version of him? You’re hot under the collar.

“You think there’s room on your horse?” Ever since that first Stats class he’s made your brain feel like it’s on RedBull. The way he noticed you missing a writing utensil and offering you his extra. His kind smile when you get a homework answer completely wrong. Anna hasn’t noticed your crush, but it feels obvious with the way you can barely keep eye contact with him yet are unable to look away. Especially with that stupid cowboy hat on.

He bites his lip, considering your response, and his buddies all razz him as he drawls out, “There will be if we squeeze in.”

The wink makes your mouth dry.

Someone from the back of the group complains of the cold and the group prepares their steeds to head back to Pi Kapp. Anna explains you’re headed back to the dorms, tone deaf to the sexual tension, and Bob nods with his brow furrowed. 

“Another time then.” His white tshirt practically glows in the moonlight. “Have a good night, chickadees. Get home safe!”

With another tip of his Stetson to you, Bob Floyd gallops away toward another keg. 

You’re sprinting across campus, cursing how late your meeting with your advisor went. There was ten minutes to get across campus and he had spent four of those questioning whether you really needed another semester of French. You make it into the lecture hall with a minute to spare, finding your preferred spot in the lower rows where you can actually see the board. Right in front of Bob.

“What? No cowboy hat for class?” His cheeks flame red, the hope you’ve forgotten about his Saturday antics lost. He looks like himself today, his signature trucker cap keeping the hair off his face. Those friendly ultramarine eyes shyly focusing on his notebook because god forbid he makes eye contact after you’ve seen him gallop across campus on a fake horse. 

He rubs the back of his neck over his soft-looking crewneck, an awkward smile playing on his lips. “It’s at the cleaners.”

You give him an amused grin before settling yourself into one of the classically uncomfortable lecture seats. Anna waves to you from where she’s rushing in, historically always late. The professor is shuffling notes at the podium as she collapses into the seat next to you, nodding her head in greeting to you and to Bob. She raises her eyebrows to you, a “remember when Bob was dressed as a cowboy” gesture, and your lips twist happily. 

“Alright, class, who’s ready to talk probability?” The collective groans and hollers mark the start of lecture. You flip open your notebook and start digging around for a writing instrument in your bag. Like usual, you seem to be missing a pen or pencil when you need one most.

A tap on your shoulder. You turn and lock eyes with the frat boy-turned-cowboy with the shy smile. He holds out a pencil to you. Taking it sheepishly, you mouth a thank you and turn back to lecture. After nine weeks it shouldn’t be this embarrassing, but every week he’s given you a pencil since you whispered shoot! a little too loud on Week 1.

Risking a quick glance back at him, engrossed in the Empirical Law of Averages while he twirls his pencil, you’re not sure you can survive the rest of the semester.

By the end of the Stats lecture on Thursday, you have one brain cell to your name and seven pages of notes. What a brutal class. Midterms were quickly approaching and not a single professor had any mercy. As you pack up your stuff - including the borrowed pencil that would promptly disappear before next class - you make a study plan with Anna for that evening. She brings the chips, you’ll supply the vodka.

“Are you two not hitting the houses tonight?” He looks uncomfortable having interrupted the two of you.

Bob shifts his backpack to his other shoulder, adjusting the collar of his navy blue sweatshirt. Other than when he’s kindly exchanged homework answers before class - or been drunkenly galloping across campus - the two of you don’t speak much. The odd quip here and there, but overall the two of you exist in pencil-sharing quiet. “Everyone’s having pre-midterm parties before buckling down to study.”

“Oh, that sounds fun!” You look at Anna encouragingly. As needed as a vodka-infused study session was, one night out couldn’t hurt. And it was Thursday. No classes tomorrow meant you had three days to buckle down and attempt to understand anything you’ve learned this semester. 

She eyes you warily, but agrees that Greek Row sounds like a better option than highlighting textbooks. Bob flashes you his timid smile beneath the brim of his cap. “It’ll be a fun night. Maybe I’ll see you? If not, have a good weekend!” 

As he starts to walk out, a feeling takes over you. “Bob?” You watch him slow down and turn, wide blue eyes watching you from behind those unconventionally cute glasses. “You’ll be at the Pi Kapp house, yeah?” He nods. “Cool. See you around!”

Despite standing next to it the entire conversation, neither of you notice the pencil sitting on the desk, left behind as you head out for your respective weekends.

“What did you say?” You’re practically yelling to be heard over the EDM that Sigma Chi is blaring. They’ve turned their house into a rave with glow sticks, body paint, and music so loud your eardrums must be burst. The beer is warm, your arm has supernaturally purple paint smeared across it, and Anna has been unsuccessfully telling you a story for ten minutes.

Huffing, she grabs your arm and drags you toward the entrance, tossing your cups onto a random hallway table where a heated makeout session is taking place. They move out of the way just enough so the two of you can slip out of the old colonial house and out into the cool night. The ringing in your ears subsides slowly as you lean against the columns of the front porch. 

“House number three? Also sucked. Three strikes and you’re out? Can we go home?” Anna grabs your wrist and pouts. She wanted movie night with vodka and a pizza from Pietro’s. You wanted to blow off steam.

But Alpha Sig had mostly been freshman and Phi Delt, while not a terrible party, had the most smarmy men on campus. The bleeding eardrums of Sigma Chi was preferable to pushing off men in polos just to grab another drink. You just wanted a semi-decently flavored alcoholic beverage - maybe three - while chatting with some friends. You weren’t asking for much.

Allowing Anna to drag you in the direction of the dorms, ready to admit defeat, you slow to a stop seeing the bricked entrance to Pi Kappa Phi. Bob’s fraternity. A few minutes wouldn’t hurt, right?

It takes a little convincing, but soon you’re in the warmly lit foyer of the Pi Kapp house. The vibe is more relaxed than Sigma Chi, with a keg in the corner, an array of liquor bottles in the kitchen, and hip-hop softly filling the house. You’re impressed they’ve even gone the extra mile with multi-colored string lights across every surface to brighten up the otherwise dark house. 

“Yooooo, how’s it going?” A drunken loaf of snapback and Deep Eddy envelopes you in a hug. It’s Tyler, one of your freshman seminar PK friends. Exchanging pleasantries - the best you can with someone that far gone - he drags you further into the house. Miscellaneous groups of Greek and geed litter the hallways. Anna sees her friends from Delta Gamma and ditches you, promising to get home safe. Tyler continues on his mission to god knows where.

At least he’s considerate enough to stop in the kitchen so you can grab a whiskey lemonade to sip.

Eventually you’re spat into a sitting room of sorts, groups crowding the ring of sofas while drunkenly jeering at the game. You set yourself on the arm of one, trying to make sense of the theatrics. The latest victim laughs out a “Truth!” before everyone giggles wickedly. Are they playing truth or dare? 

Your eyes gloss over the group, trying to figure out who else you know. A few PK’s you recognize, a girl who smiles but looks unfamiliar, and…a cowboy hat that is a dead giveaway.

Standing up and walking around the group, you tap him on the shoulder. The biggest blue eyes meet yours, a surprised smile splitting his face. 

“You made it!” That deep drawl is back and that tingle reappears on your spine. Bob jumps up from the couch, beer bottle dwarfed in his hand, and comes to stand with you. “You having a good night?”

Ironically, your night is much better now that you’ve found him. He’s back in his cowboy gear, a worn denim shirt tucked into his jeans and those same cowboy boots scuff against the hardwood. You’re tempted to steal the felt hat from his head just so he looks a little bit more like Bob from Stats. 

Squeezing your eyes shut, letting the alcohol be an excuse, you succumb to the obvious question. “I need to know - what’s with the…cowboy?” You gesture up and down, drawing a chuckle from him.

He blushes under the felt brim. “You know I have a slight accent, yeah?” You attempt to stifle your laugh as he incidentally talks in a thicker accent. “When I was a pledge they started calling me cowboy. Saw the hat while I was in town one week, ended up leaning into the joke.”

“And the hobby horse?”

He beckons you closer, bringing his lips to your ear. “Stolen from my little sister over summer break.”

There’s that wink again making your knees weak. He pushes his glasses back up his nose and takes another sip from his beer. Despite the party raging around you, nothing else seems to exist past him asking about your night and if you want another drink. You’re wrapped in the warmth of his words, itching to snuggle into his broad chest. 

The spell is broken when “Cowboy Bob!” rings out from the crowd. The entire room is turned to you two. “Truth or dare, man?”

In the background of your intimate conversation with Bob, the truths and dares have reached full raunchiness. People have been stripped of clothes and dirty secrets. A bead of sweat gathers at Bob’s collar, aware that neither option is safe. 

His worried gaze flits to you, as if you hold the correct answer, before tipping his hat back and exhaling, “Dare?” 

It’s gutsy, but if there’s one thing you’re learning about the quiet guy from Stats, he’s full of surprises. The crowd bubbles with excitement, anticipating what dare will be dealt out. Next to you, the wannabe cowboy looks more annoyed than anything. He was enjoying talking to you not in a classroom and with a little liquid courage.

An evil smile crosses the dare-dealer’s face. He knows Bob and isn’t blind to what’s going on. He’s gonna help his buddy out on this one.

His arm stretches out and he points (with the red plastic cup in his hand) to the coat closet at the end of the hall. “Hmmmmm, I dare you to, hmm, play Seven Minutes in Heaven with…” It’s no surprise when the cup-turned-pointer lands on you.

Ice water down your back wouldn’t be as panic inducing. It’s hard to tell who swallows harder, you or Cowboy Bob. Every instinct is telling you to run, but that little voice in the back of your head wins out. As Bob starts to tell you it’s okay, they’re joking, you don’t have to, you grab his thick wrist and give him a nervous smile. You don’t even care what the punishment is for not completing a dare, this stupid drunken game has given you an opportunity.

The dealer of the dare follows the two of you down the hallway, leading the whoops and wolf whistles. Bob’s cheeks flame scarlet in the low light. You keep your chin high and eyes forward. He can definitely feel the way you’re trembling around his wrist.

Whether in anxiety or excitement it’s hard to tell.

The inside of the closet is dark, the faint light under the door casting only the faintest of shadows. Your heart is pounding, blood pulsing through your ears. Bob rubs his lips together nervously. It’s all you can do to not run your tongue along them. 

“We don’t have to do anything, we can just talk.” The way he prioritizes your comfort makes heat pool between your legs. The brim of his hat is as far back as it can go, his eyes tracing the lines of your face as he gauges your emotions. He’s welcome to figure them out, you’re unsure of them yourself. 

His large, warm hand rubs your forearm comfortingly, your skin too cold without his touch. You’re suffocating under his sweat-and-bergamot scent, citrusy and warm.

You bite the bullet. “What if I want to?”

His breath stops. Fingers find yours in the dark, interlocking on either side of your hips. Eyes you know are the deepest blue lock onto your gaze, a million emotions passing behind his irises. Face descending upon the space between you, tentatively showing his intentions. You meet him in the middle, caution out the window.

The kiss is gentle, puzzle pieces slotting together for the first time. He tastes like malt sugar and peppermint. Mouth warm and soft, enveloping you fully in his comfort. It’s even better than what you’ve imagined for the past nine weeks.

Bob begins to pull away, ever the gentleman. Your hand finds his collar, holding him in place. “Not yet, we still have, like, five and a half minutes.”

Despite the low light, his smile lights up the closet.

His lips return to yours in a rush, swallowing your mouth in a passionate heat. The press of his body to yours is delicious. Hands previously at your side meet your hips, lightly squeezing as you moan into his mouth. You reach up and hold the back of his neck, bringing him even closer as your lips toy with the tiniest bit of stubble along his jaw.

“You know,” he starts, holding the moan in the back of his throat. “I’ve wanted to kiss you since September.”

You pull back momentarily, a crinkle upon your brow. “Bob, we didn’t start Stats until January.”

He kisses the confusion from your face, his hands wrapping further around your body. “And you looked very pretty in that green dress at the homecoming barbecue.”

Bless your love of school spirit and free food. “Why didn’t you? Kiss me?”

“I don’t normally make a habit of kissing girls I don’t know. And clearly it takes an entire fraternity for me to get you alone.” The way his chuckle bounces against your skin has you squirming. Your schoolgirl crush on him wasn’t one-sided, and suddenly you’re hot for teacher. 

You capture him in another kiss, tongue searching the seam of his lips for entrance. He obliges immediately, groaning as you explore his taste. Four hands roam skin, finding purchase in anything and everything. Your body has a mind of its own as you press against him, chest heaving with your passion. The right shift of fabric on fabric reveals that he’s equally as affected by the chemistry.

Reluctantly, he pulls away once more, threading his fingers across the back of your neck. Takes a moment to capture his breath as he sees the lust in your eyes. A deep breath. “As much as I like you, I don’t want to do anything if you’re drunk.”

Soft fingers follow the line of his arm to where it wraps around your waist. How is he this impossibly sweet? Thoughtful, respectful, and looking hot as sin with swollen lips. It’s unfair.

“I promise I’m not.” You stroke the back of his hand. “Please kiss me?”

His large hands unwrap from your waist and travel down, shifting behind your legs and pulling you up, resting your back against the wall. You tangle your legs around his waist as best you can in the small space, relishing his firm body pressed deliciously close, warm and solid. Kisses smeared across lips and jaws as noises crescendo. You’re panting as you trail down to his impossibly long neck, desperate to cover it in affection.

You’ve barely explored the expanse of skin when the door flies open, the boisterous party sounds flooding in. Reality strikes like a slap across the face. The truth-or-dare ringleader takes you in - legs wrapped around Bob and hands creeping toward your ass - and whoops in delight. Who knew Cowboy Bob had it in him!

“Time’s up, lovebirds!” He crows and reaches forward to slug Bob lightly on the shoulder. 

Not skipping a beat, Bob shoves his friend back and throws up his middle finger. “Fuck off, Milburn.” 

The closet door slams shut, blanketing you again in the intimacy of the moment. You’re looking at him with unsure eyes and he’s praying the moment hasn’t been ruined. He’s waited seven calendar months for this opportunity and his fingers are so close to enjoying the plump squeeze of your ass.

“We can go back to the party if you want?” Your voice is so small, nervous outside of those bold seven minutes. Tentative breaths exist between you. 

In lieu of an answer, he bows his head to give you a searing yet gentle kiss.

That cramped coat closet suddenly is an inferno, his tongue slipping inside your mouth and groaning at the burning sweetness of your taste. Your hands grip his shoulders as you fight for dominance, fingers tangling in denim. Hips brushing together, still clinging to the idea of this being innocent. 

An innocence immediately lost when Bob strikes up the courage and palms your ass. Soft and pliable and perfect to squeeze in his palms. He remembers the exact day you came to class in the tightest jeans known to man (laundry day) and the way he had dug his pencil in his palm to avoid a semi as your curved ass met the lecture seat. Something unavoidable now as you squirm against him, moaning your pleasure against the pulse in his neck.

Nothing has ever felt as good as rubbing against Bob Floyd’s clothed bulge. One glance down and you’re dizzy with arousal. Rutting yourself against him as best you can with your limited mobility, sloppy kisses exchanged as the two of you can barely keep your mouths closed. It feels so good, too good. 

Lost in the moment, one hand slips below the hem of your skirt, warm skin on skin. Any noise from outside the closet dims to a hum. Two hearts beating rapidly as desire fully consumes, directing lips to too hot exposed skin. You murmur your need in his ear. You don’t care where you are, you need him.

Bob tucks a finger under your thong, feeling the slick coating your folds. The whine that leaves him is desperate and gruff. He groans against your throat. “Shit, I don’t have a condom.”

Undeterred, your lip catches between your teeth, core muscles contracting as you grind your hips forward. “Doesn’t mean I can’t go for a ride.”

He’s immediately on board, teasing you briefly before extricating his hand to support you better against the wall. His hands practically swallow your ass, flooding you with lust. You thrust your chest against him, desperate to touch every spot on his handsome body as your hips begin to grind. 

His hands are sweltering as they trail down, effortlessly clutching the back of your thighs to give you leverage. Your clit finds friction against his jeans and your mouth hangs open as you buck frantically into him.

“Look at you move, cowgirl,” he breathes out, infatuated. The nickname spurrs you on, whimpering against his lips.

One hand clutching his bicep, holding on for desperate life, while the other snakes its way atop the damned cowboy hat that’s stayed on the entire encounter. Gripping the top of it and holding fast as you ride his clothed bulge with everything you’ve got. Denim and lace against your clit, rubbing deliciously as your brain fuzzes. His hot mouth focused at the hinge of your jaw, sucking soft bruises into the skin; moaning when you brush him just right. 

“I’m close,” you whisper against his cheek. Time has stood still, but it’s embarrassing how close he’s gotten you to orgasm with just his clothed cock and strong hands. 

He ruts his hips forward, meeting your thrusts in heavenly synchronization. You’re panting as the pressure on your clit catapults you, so close to the ultimate prize. Whispers of you can do it, cowgirl, cum for me, doing so good riding me, just a bit more, cowgirl fizzle your senses. 

“O-oh!”

It’s intense, the blinding pleasure coursing through your body. Prolonged by the thick bulge still rutting against you, ready to burst itself. Lips tickling your ear as he praises you. You want to live in this perfect moment of bliss. A moment only perfected when Bob’s fingers grip too hard and his hips stutter up into yours. His all-consuming orgasm only muffled by the skin of your shoulder as he rides it out. 

The rhythmic slowing of your breaths is all you can focus on. You breathe in, he breathes out. Small smiles and a blush barely visible in the low light. 

Delicately, like he knows you might break, he releases you back to the ground; taking his time to smooth down your skirt and straight out your top. Your own hands reach up to his chest, fixing the fabric that had bunched up in your passion. Adjusting his fogged glasses to look into his beautiful eyes.

It doesn’t matter how much you clean up, one look at you two and anyone would comment you’ve been ridden hard and put away wet.

With one final kiss to your lips, you feel something land on your head. The brown cowboy hat with the rip along the edge. Cowboy Bob showing off his cowgirl.

You tentatively open the closet door, eyes adjusting to the normal light. Painfully aware of the wet splotch on the obvious front of his jeans, Bob holds your body against him as a human shield. The party is still going strong - your antics have not interrupted anything - and you slip toward the front door without notice. Well…mostly, as a few wolf whistles reach your ears.

“It’s not that late, you want to go back to mine? I’m just off Thornton. It’s quiet since everyone is here.” His eyes are so hopeful in the dark night. So desperate for you to say yes. For you to be his cowgirl beyond tonight.

You wrap your arms around him and pull him close, careful to avoid the spot where your bodily fluids have drenched his jeans. “I’m in.” Your smile is blinding. “We have about nine weeks of Stats to make up.”

The brick is uncomfortable behind your back, but it’s hard to care when his lips feel so good. Broad shoulders shielding you from the hallway, trucker hat turned around and glasses in his pocket so there’s not an inch between your faces. Agreeing to meet outside before lecture was such a good idea.

Despite spending most of the time between Thursday night and Tuesday afternoon in Bob’s apartment trying every position in the book (with teasing hollers from his Pi Kapp roommates adding to the soundtrack) you can’t help but steal these five minutes. He looks so cute, to not kiss him would be a crime.

Bob squeezes your hips, lips trailing down your jaw. “What’s on your mind, cowgirl?”

“I’m trying very hard to convince myself that we pay a lot of money to attend this school and should go learn about statistics. Even though I really only want to head back to my dorm and see how sturdy that loft bed is.”

From where his nose traces your ear, a guttural whine leaves him. “You can’t say something like that and expect me to go to class.”

You pull back to look at him, fingers tickling the close cropped hair at his neck. God, he makes it so hard to want to be responsible.

“Let’s make a deal, okay? We’ll go to class, learn, and tonight you come over and for every study guide question you get right I’ll take off a piece of clothing. Sound good?” He’s practically panting as he smothers your mouth in another kiss. He’s really good at Stats. A steady stream of students files past Bob’s back, a sign that class is about to start.

You press another kiss to his lips. “Let’s go or we’ll miss out on seats. Plus I need to dig through my bag for a pencil.”

“Do you think you actually have one today?” He smirks, amused. The eighteen pencils he’s lent you say otherwise.

Your cheeks are hot under where he kisses them. “Uh…if I don’t can I borrow one? If you have one, that is.”

He lets out a soft chuckle and holds you closer, rubbing your noses softly.

“You do realize I’ve been buying pencils all semester just to give to you, right?”

Turning his cap around - insides fully melted - you know you’re in this rodeo for the long run.

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You had moved into the tidy bungalow just under a year ago, placing a potted fern on the doorstep and painting over the dated beige walls. It was finally starting to feel like a home. Now with the holidays approaching (as reminded by the entirely too jolly Santas everywhere in town) you were excited to start new traditions in your humble home. And it started with putting twinkling lights on the house, lights currently tangled in the cardboard box you haphazardly threw them in twelve months ago. 

Threading out another knot, you give him a playful smile. “How do you know I don’t have a ladder?”

“Lucky guess?” He’s not going to admit he’s scanned and memorized nearly every inch of your garage.

The day after the moving truck came and went, you were thrilled when your first new neighbor rang your doorbell. While you had expected some middle aged woman with a plate of brownies and a plea for babysitting, you were pleasantly surprised at the man in a flight suit (Lt. Robert Floyd according to the stitching) with the striking blue eyes who stood there instead. He didn’t have brownies, but he happily gave you the lowdown on the neighborhood as you sat amongst moving boxes drinking lemonade out of paper cups. 

As the months passed, an easy friendship had developed amongst neighbors. In the morning before making his way to base, Robert would scoop up your morning paper and walk it up the seven steps to your porch. The paper boy always threw it short. And despite numerous pleas to leave it be - you didn’t mind the short walk - every morning when you went for the paper, there it sat neatly on your mat along with any misdelivered mail.

And when he wasn’t saving kittens from trees in his free time, Robert was a shining example of a great neighbor. Driving his truck for a trip to get plants at the nursery, lending his mower when yours broke in the heat of July, cleaning your gutters when the leaves fell…you shouldn’t be surprised he’s now offering up his ladder so you can enjoy your Christmas lights. Looking down at the tangled mess, you hadn’t even thought about how you were going to get them actually on the house. Nails? Did you even own nails?

Not even an hour later you’re standing on the sidewalk facing your home with a hot cup of coffee in your chilly hands. Propped up on a ladder with detangled lights in one hand - and a tool belt around his waist like your personal Mr. Fix It - Robert hums to himself as he hammers nails into the trim before wrapping the first strand of lights in place. 

You had accepted his ladder graciously, but mentioned you needed to hit the hardware store first for nails. With a nod of his head he left your garage and you continued on the lights. It was a tedious project, but rewarding once the final strand lay flat against the concrete floor. You were digging around in boxes for tools when your neighbor reappeared. He had a ladder and his tool belt, a full box of nails clutched in his large hand. Cheeks warm, you assured him you would buy your own. He let out a playful pfft.

“Nonsense. It’s Saturday, the hardware store will be packed. Consider them an early Christmas gift.”

You couldn’t help but smile. “Let me at least trade you for them? A cup of coffee?”

“Do you still have those Kona beans?” His ocean blue eyes are hopeful.

Your smile widened as you nodded. The overpriced beans you had expensively shipped every month were a favourite of the weapons systems officer. Last month you had hosted the homeowners association meeting (for the first and hopefully only time) and Robert had raved about the coffee you served. He was used to the basic stuff they made on base, his own home brewing not much better. Your coffee was the best.

When you came back to the garage after whipping up a carafe - hot mug in hand - you shouldn’t have been surprised to see your neighbor already up the ladder, deep into the project.

You holler up to him. “Robert, get down! You don’t need to do that!”

But he waves you off, insisting that he had already started and might as well finish the job. He would just drink your delicious coffee once he was done. And so you were relegated to the sidewalk to make sure everything looked straight from the street. 

From this distance you could admire him innocently. The military-issue wire frames that catch the morning sun. Broad shoulders under the neat canvas barn coat he recently replaced when the corduroy collar ripped. His strong hands shielded from the chilled wind under his workman’s gloves. Because someone like Robert Floyd follows safety precautions and owns workman’s gloves. 

At this angle you can see the slight smile on his lips as he strings lights along your porch. For the next hour you watch him put up lights, him occasionally turning back and asking you how they look.

“Are you sure they’re straight?” You promise him they are, but he meticulously checks his work anyway. He wants your house to look perfect. 

The wind has tinged both your cheeks a deep pink and the cold is starting to seep through boots. Robert has nailed the last of your lights to the trim and deemed them faultless. He comes down the ladder and walks to stand beside you to admire his handiwork. Hands on hips - with that damn tool belt still astride his waist - he turns to you beaming at a job well done. It’s impossible not to beam back, thinking how long it would have taken you to do even a job half as good.

“Thank you for putting up the lights. You didn’t have to, but I appreciate it.” He isn’t sure whether your cheeks are red from the cold or something else. “I’m so lucky to have you as a neighbor.”

His smile is permanently stuck at your compliment. He opens his mouth to make a joking comment about the coffee you owe him - anything for more time together - when he feels the telltale buzz in his pocket. Pulling it reluctantly out after shedding a glove, he sees it’s Phoenix and is only semi-annoyed. They have lunch plans, which he’s running late for. And while he’s sure his front seater would approve of him blowing her off for the neighbor he can’t stop talking about, he’s a better friend than that.

Turning back to you, where you’re enjoying your freshly strung twinkling lights, Robert rubs the back of his neck awkwardly. “I have to head out…lunch plans. Rain check on that coffee?”

Nodding through your disappointment, you help him gather up his ladder and assure him that coffee is his whenever he wants.

The following morning you pad toward your front door, eyes bleary from a deep sleep. The house was cold and you pull your robe tighter around you. Through the glass panel in the door you can see your paper on the mat, as always, ready for you to consume over coffee and toast. As you open the oak door and scurry to shut it with the paper secured, something - or rather someone - catches your eye. 

Robert stands in the doorway of his own bungalow, calmly watching the neighborhood. The thick fair isle sweater covering his wide shoulders looks incredibly cozy, and he nurses a mug between both hands. He exists in that moment without worry, and you’re envious. 

His placid expression is broken when he feels your eyes, turning his head to see you, bedhead and newspaper clutched in your fist. His lips turn in a warm smile and he raises one hand in a slow, friendly wave. Your heart flutters, utterly taken away with how surely he carries himself, how sweetly he treats others. An emotion quickly squashed when you realize you are still standing in a bathrobe and knobby socks, flying back inside and shutting the door with heated cheeks. 

As you go about working on your Sunday chores, you keep picturing Robert’s face, that small happy smile you can’t get out of your head.

Later that night, after hours of tossing and turning in the sheets unable to find peace, you finally trudge down the hall into the living room, settling under blankets on the plush couch with a cup of chamomile. You’ve lost details of the plot of the movie you started, brain racing as your fingers fidget with the mug. 

The faint trill of your phone on the coffee table breaks you from your thoughts.

“Hello?”

“Hi. It’s Bo-Robert…from next door?” You yawn a hello while checking the clock. It was nearly one in the morning. “I just wanted to check if everything was alright? Noticed your lights were on.” 

A warm feeling spreads through your chest at his concern. Picturing him peering out his kitchen window with the striped cotton curtains, filling up his own kettle, distressed that your house lights were on so late. You’d like to think he wore tartan pajamas, neatly buttoned. Those would suit him. 

You settle back into the cushions as you reply. “Everything’s fine. Just couldn’t sleep.”

His thoughtful nod can practically be heard through the phone.

“Better question is, what are you doing up so late?” 

The whistle and clink of boiling water and china crash over the line. A sigh pulled from his lips before responding. “I was going to make myself a cup of tea while I finished some reports, but appears that I am out.”

You glance down at your own mug of tea. It’s late, but not that late.

“What kind of tea do you like?” He muses on about his lack of preference - an equal opportunity tea lover - before admitting he was looking forward to a cup of peppermint. You make your way to the kitchen, phone pressed to your ear as you both open your cupboards. Your voice feels small as you offer, “I think I might have some.”

A silence lingers on the line. An unspoken late night implication that neither of you knows what to make of it. Your fingers flip through boxes of tea that take up too much cupboard space. Pomegranate, green, oolong. You don’t even drink tea that often. But right as you think you have too many white teas, you see the striped box of peppermint tea, one lone bag waiting for its turn.

You empty the box and walk to the window in your kitchen, where you can see the faint light on through his curtains. You clear your throat. “Look out your kitchen window.”

To your disappointment, Robert does not wear tartan pajamas to sleep. Although you are delighted to see his shirtless chest, defined from years of Navy training. He waves at you through your respective kitchen windows, holding up his mug of hot water. You lift up the tea bag, and his face splits into a toothy smile.

Before you can offer to bring it to him, he’s already turning toward his front door, speaking into the phone, “I’ll be over, just a minute. Need to find my coat.”

By the time there’s a soft knock on the door, you’ve turned on the kettle and gotten a fresh mug for him. You open the door, greeted by the tip of his nose and ears a merry red, the cold kissing his features. He’s been outside all of a minute. You usher your neighbor in, watching him observe how you’ve put up garlands and festive knickknacks in the entry since his last visit.

He slips off his boots, bare feet settling on the cold hardwood, and fingers the collar of his canvas barn coat. In his rush to come over he’d thrown his coat on forgetting his bare chest. It feels obnoxious to be half naked in your home, so he keeps his coat on and follows you to the kitchen. 

“Peppermint still good?” You tease, the packet of tea leaves in your hand. He nods, slightly distracted by how cozy you look in your soft loungewear and the robe from this morning. Dunking the bag into the hot water, you search for a topic to pass the steeping time. But when you turn to talk to him, words catch in your throat because he’s right there.

Eyes so blue the sky is jealous. Shy smile so friendly it warms the room. Your thoughts dirtily flit to the tool belt around his waist on the ladder, fingers adeptly wielding a hammer. Fingers that brush yours in the proximity. He’s so close and your brain blanks as bodies simultaneously take action.

Your mouths find each other effortlessly, bodies pressing together as if they know the moves the two of you were just figuring out. The low-lying tension building for the past year breaking the surface as the dark of the house gives you both the bravery needed. His hands are cold as they find your waist, your hands too warm on his chilled jaw.

His mouth is all soft lips and hard pressure, the faint hint of toothpaste in his taste. It’s exactly as you imagined, but better.

Lips become more desperate the longer you connect, your back suddenly against the counter as he presses into you. This moment has been building since he’d watched you first walk up the front steps with that too big moving box. A hand slips into his sun-bleached locks he always has so perfectly combed. He moans into your mouth, a sinful noise in the quiet kitchen. 

Before sense can interrupt, you’re reaching for the zipper of his coat, revealing every inch of his toned pale chest as the zipper slowly comes down. You slide a hand over the skin, a low gasp slipping out at the strong muscle. You’ve been attracted to his mind for so long, it feels unfair his body should be attractive too.

He shrugs out of the barn coat and follows you to the lowly lit living room, where the couch is softer on your back than the counter edge. Sitting side by side, knees knocking, he’s more hesitant to touch you in this context. Despite his body screaming to explore every inch of his pretty neighbor’s mind and body, he knows he’s basically barged into your home and immediately stuck his tongue in your sweet mouth. You get to set the pace. 

“This okay?” His hand encompasses your knee, thumb rubbing smoothly through the fabric. You nod, tilting your head toward him to continue kissing. He’s warmed up now, your home and body bringing him to temperature. Robert smiles into your kiss. You can’t get enough of him, wanting to consume him fully. He’s delicate with you in the most delicious of ways; gentle kisses pressed to your soft lips before sliding his tongue across to politely ask for access.

Your mouth can’t open fast enough.

You place you hand on his hip, enjoying the warm skin and lean muscle beneath your fingertips. Groaning lightly into your mouth, he blindly reaches for your hips to bring you into his lap. His tongue takes its time to taste you, learn every intricacy of your flavor. Administration so thorough your eyes roll back in your head. The sounds escaping you music in the darkened room.

Fingers dance across skin, finding purchase on thighs, shoulders, chests. You can’t get close enough to him, resting one hand on the back of his neck as your swollen lips press harder to his. Robert loves the way your thighs straddle him as he leans against the couch cushions, his warm, large hands along your back bringing you closer to him. Your sharp inhale as one hand toys with the waistband of your lounge pants.

When his lips trail down your neck, praising the delicate skin, you can’t hold back your declaration any longer. “I…I’ve wanted this for a while.”

His lips pause, brow furrowed. “This?”

“You.”

That gratified smile will forever be imprinted along your neck. “I’ve wanted you since the day you moved in.”

The whimpers that rip through you when he nips the thin skin behind your ear have him grabbing your chin and swallowing your sounds. Reveling in the shared passion you’ve both had simmering beneath the surface. Can’t help his hips rutting up into yours, glorious friction he’s been craving satisfied. You giggle through a moan against his lips.

“So, we could have been doing this all year long? What a shame, lieutenant.” 

You ground down in his lap, running your own tongue along his lips and savoring his taste. Thoughts of what he tastes like after his peppermint tea have you wrapping your arms tighter around his bare shoulders. Behind his head, outside the window, the faint glow of the Christmas lights he strung up shines in the winter night. How did you find this perfect man, and how is he your neighbor?

You express your gratitude for him with your mouth along his jaw, licking along the skin while he deliciously whimpers in your ear.You can only take so much before you’re sealing your lips over his again, inhaling his every breath.

As lips finally reach exhaustion - brains well past tired as the clock strikes a new hour - Robert and you pull apart with content smiles. Already cold without his warmth, you immediately lean back into him. He’s practically a furnace now under your ministrations. Unspoken words pass between as you invite him to sleep on your couch with you. A throw blanket produced from the nearby chair as the two of you tangle your limbs. There’s something comforting in the way he rests your head upon his arm, your knee upon his thigh. Again, it’s like your bodies know the actions like they’ve been waiting for you to finally figure them out.

You’ve just settled your head upon his warm chest when a thought strikes you, prompting you to lean up to look at those sleepy cerulean eyes. The small curious smile he gives you melting your heart.

“Did you still want your tea?” 

He shakes his head with a chuckle, using the last of his energy to tuck the blanket tighter around your body. “It’s okay. I got what I really wanted.”

Your heart feels two sizes too big as he presses a kiss to your temple before sleep takes you both. 

When the winter sunrise streams through your curtains the next morning, you refuse to get up. Perfectly warm wrapped up in the thin throw and your neighbor’s arms, you are purely too content. When Robert blinks open his eyes and gazes at your face, he sees the same placid smile he wore the morning before. The same one he’s had since you moved in next door. 

Despite both being all too happy to remain entangled on the couch, sharing small kisses on any skin within reach, the responsibilities of Monday morning dawn and you must get up. Reluctantly you release him, watching him fold the throw neatly upon the sofa arm before helping you stand. Warmth blossoms down your spine the more you’re in Robert’s presence, the little things he does meaning so much to you. Especially as he strides through your home shirtless, musing about the whereabouts of his coat on the kitchen floor.

Your eyes flit to the cold mug of abandoned peppermint tea as you offer him coffee. But he’s intent on getting home for his flight suit, the drive to base longer than he’d like. Of course, he would ideally spend the morning drinking your expensive delicious coffee and listen to you go on about the neighbors down the street with the atrocious holiday decorations. If you’d let him, he would spend every morning like that for the rest of time. But his admiral would put him in drills all week if he was any later.

You walk him to the door, robe pulled tight across your chest to keep out the cold. He’s pulled on his boots for the short walk and wraps his arms around you in an intimate embrace, disappointed this perfect night must come to an end. You bury your nose in his jacket-covered chest to enjoy the last of his herbal and citrus scent, hands reluctantly slipping from his middle. He turns to leave and both your hearts pang.

When Robert reaches the end of your path, he bends down and picks up the paper, thrown too short as always. He turns around and retraces his steps, walking back up the steps and straight up to where you reside in the doorway still. Fingers brush as he hands you the newspaper, saving you the walk as he always does. Only this morning he tips his head to press a kiss to your lips.

You’re already adding peppermint tea to your shopping list as you walk back into the house. Just for him.

____________________________________________

“Mom, can I ask you something?”

You hummed as you looked up from the article you were reading on your phone and smiled softly at your ten year old daughter, Kennedy. Kennedy nervously fidgeted with her hands as she waited for your response, copying your own nervous habit of biting the inside of your cheek whenever there was a discussion you were scared to have. 

“Do you think Bradley would mind if I started calling him “dad”?” Kennedy’s voice was quiet, her eyes shifting their gaze to the floor as she waited for your response.

You and Bradley had dated since Kennedy was 5, she knew a life before he came along, and she’d always called him Bradley - when she was younger, it was simply out of ease for the two of them. You didn’t want to complicate things or pressure her or Bradley into forming a father-daughter relationship that they may not have wanted, especially if anything had broken down between you and Bradley. The last thing you wanted was to leave Kennedy with the sting of two father figures walking out of her life, even though part of you always knew that, had you and Bradley ever split up, he’d never just walk away from Kennedy. Despite the first-name basis your daughter was on with him, he adored her like she was his own. He was there for every moment he could be from the day he met her, wanting to make sure she had the father he didn’t growing up. He wanted to be everything his dad would have been to him, and being that for Kennedy meant the world to him. 

“I think he’d love that, sweetheart, do you want to start calling him that?” You nodded your head, raising an eyebrow at your daughter as you sipped your coffee.

“I do. I, uh, hmmph,” Kennedy frowned, clearly struggling to find the words she was looking for, “I talked to Dad last weekend about it,” she finally said, nodding her head slowly as she spoke.

Kennedy and her biological father had a strained relationship, Kennedy only visiting him due to the court-ordered custody arrangement in place governing visitation rights until she reached 12 years of age. Kennedy hated leaving to go stay with him, she never felt comfortable being with her father’s new family that he’d replaced her and her mom with, but she did it reluctantly every weekend, after a chat with Bradley reminded her that despite everything that had happened between Kennedy’s biological parents, her father still deserved to see her once in a while, until Kennedy was old enough to make that choice for herself. 

“You talked to your dad? How did that go?” 

“Well…I told him that I wanted to start calling Bradley my dad too, he was sort of ok with it, but, I also told him that, I, uh…” Her voice trailed off again as she chewed the inside of her cheek once again, to the point where you were almost concerned about how nervous she was. 

“Kennedy, baby, this is about more than just asking to call Bradley your dad, isn’t it?”

Kennedy slowly nodded her head and pulled out a stack of papers from her school notebook before setting them on the table in front of you. Your eyes skimmed over the words typed out across the page, a State of California emblem emblazoned on the top. 

“Kennedy, where did you get these?” You said slowly, trying to process what your daughter was hinting at.

“The internet. It’s not hard to find them. I want Bradley to sign them for me. Dad said it was ok.”

“Your father ok’d this?” You raised your eyebrows in disbelief as you read the paperwork over once more.

“He said if it would make me happy, then he was ok with it,” Kennedy stated matter-of-factly as she nodded her head.

“Mom, I want Bradley to adopt me.” 

You bit your lip and nodded your head, fighting back tears that threatened to spill from your eyes as you listened to your daughter. A smile formed on your face as you made eye contact with Kennedy, whose own eyes were starting to fill up with tears as she waited for your reaction.

“Kennedy, you know Bradley would be honoured by that,” You finally said, pulling Kennedy in tightly for a hug.

“Do you think I should give them to him as a Christmas present?” She said thoughtfully, pulling her head back to look at you for a moment. 

“I think that might be the best Christmas present you could give him, Kennedy.”

 A few weeks later, Kennedy proudly stuck a gift box under the tree for each of her parents. She grinned over at her mother as the pair waited for Bradley to come down the stairs after his usual morning shower. Kennedy took her seat on the couch with her stocking in hand as she began unwrapping the items inside, waiting not-so-patiently for Bradley to emerge in his sleep pants and sweatshirt. Finally, you could hear his heavy footsteps coming down the wooden stairs, the stairs making their usual creaking sound under Bradley’s frame as he bounded down them. You kissed his cheek and handed him his coffee before smiling at him. Bradley looked at you both, his lips curling up into a grin from under his mustache. 

“There’s my two favourite girls. Get anything good in your stocking from the Big Guy, Kennedy?” Bradley chuckled as he raised his coffee mug in gesture to the stocking at Kennedy’s feet.

“Braaaaaadleeeeeyyyy,” Kennedy groaned as she huffed and rolled her eyes, “I’m not a little kid, I know it was you who put the stockings out.”

“Me?!” Bradley exclaimed in faux-surprise, “Trust me, I may fly a jet, but I’m no Santa.”

You and Kennedy rolled your eyes in unison as Bradley grinned at you from behind his coffee cup, taking a sip of the warm, creamy brown liquid as he watched Kennedy open a gift. Bradley took his usual seat - his favourite old worn-out lazy boy recliner chair that he’d brought with him when the two of you moved in together. At first you’d protested its mere existence in your home, but, Bradley had insisted you’d grow to love it, and naturally, he wasn’t wrong. It was the chair he and Kennedy used to snuggle up in when she was small, where he’d teach her the rules of baseball and football as they watched games together. Where he’d sit to read to her each night when she was little, proudly taking on the role of professional storyteller for the household. It was the chair where he sat every birthday and every Christmas morning, watching Kennedy open her presents expectantly, watching in anticipation for her reaction every time.

Finally, after the number of presents remaining unopened under the tree had dwindled to just one, Kennedy looked to you with a smirk before scooping the box up in her hand and passing it to Bradley with a grin, trying her best to keep herself from giving the gift away with her reaction alone.

“Here, Bradley, this one’s for you!” She said as she nodded her head, stepping back for a moment as Bradley opened it.

“It’s…an envelope?” Bradley laughed softly and raised his eyebrow, “Kiddo, you got me an envelope? How did you know I needed one of these?!” He teased as he gave her a playful pat on the arm.

Kennedy rolled her eyes and laughed as Bradley opened the envelope. He paused for a moment to read the papers in his hand. As the realization hit him Bradley quickly raised his hand to his face, using a finger to wipe away a tear. He looked up at Kennedy in disbelief and shook his head as he began grinning at her.

“Kennedy, kiddo, you mean it? You want me to adopt you?” Bradley’s voice cracked as he spoke. He was never overly emotional like this, but, you knew that the little girl he’d practically raised for the last five years asking him to adopt her would be one of those few instances that would evoke tears from him. 

“I mean it…Dad.” 

Bradley set the envelope down on the table in front of him and threw his arms around Kennedy, pulling her in for one of his famously tight hugs. He pressed his lips to her forehead in a gentle, nurturing kiss before looking down at her. 

And you still remember your very first encounter as if it were yesterday — the pair of you at an old, run-down dive-bar near home base, naïve and unassuming, a day away from beginning your naval training.

He’d swaggered over to your lone barstool with a toothpick between his pearly whites, liquor-heavy lips pulled up into a devious smirk. Jaw rough and chiseled, green eyes full of mirth. This was a guy that was aware of his roguish charm; knew exactly the sort of effect that he had on women.

It had you circumspect, on guard from the moment he’d sauntered into view.

And he’d pulled up another stool without so much as asking for permission, his heavy gaze skating over your figure with indulgence.

“Well hello there, darlin’.” He’d used the pet-name without hesitation. You remember the low, Southern twang as he’d done it; the way it’s timbre liquefied around the edges, slurring a little. “Don’t often see pretty things like you ‘round these parts.”

And you’d sent him a wary sideways glance in response, eyebrows raised as you swirled the contents of your glass. Melting ice-cubes clinked ominously against the edges, a thick, lemon rind sinking lower as the straw nudged it. “You know there’s a Naval school around the corner, right?”

“Oh, I see,” he’d drawled back, his stupid smirk widening. “Visiting some lonely lover boy, are you?”

You’d blinked. “No. I’m about to start there.”

“You?” And the way he’d faltered, that incredulous look he’d sent you, it was seared into your skull — a harsh reminder of the kind of guy he was. “Look, with all due respect, sweetheart, I don’t think TOPGUN is something you’re quite equipped to handle.”

The glare you’d sent him, cruel and poisonous, had branded his brain in a similar manner; it was the beginning of this frustrating, never-ending feud, and he was doomed to relive it in his mind henceforth. “Watch me.”

And he had, of course he had, all thirteen of his TOPGUN weeks spent staring, and antagonising, and staring some more. A lot of staring. At your slender form and effortless technique, the soft crease between your brows, the way your skin glows with sweat after a long day of drills. That glossy balm you daub on that makes your full lips shine. So maybe Jake Seresin was guilty of a bit of deflection — could you blame him? The promise of your proximity at TOPGUN hindered his ability to handle it.

Not that he’d ever admit it.

The crowd thins considerably, and you roll your eyes as his figure registers; he’s with Javy Machado, an aviator you recognise as his friend, the pair of them ragging on another, mystery man. The conversation has evolved from conquests to ribbons — Jake is, of course, taking the lead on the latter, his impressive list of achievements appearing to shroud every other.

“That’s gotta be a mistake,” he decides firmly, his voice low and gravelly, exactly as you remember it. “Ain’t no way your call sign’s your name.”

He pauses, raising his eyebrows. “You sure you trained TOPGUN, Bob?”

The man named Bob appears to balk at the insinuation, and you share a knowing look with Bradley, shaking your head at Jake’s callousness.

“Yeah?” He answers bemusedly, scratching the back of his neck.

“Hm.” Jake cocks his head to one side appraisingly, sending Bob a faux-meaningful glance. “Tell me, Bob. You get many bitches with a name like that?”

Your bright eyes flare angrily, and the shared look before an unimpressed glower. “God,” you mutter, making a face. “Guess some things truly never change.”

Bradley looks over your features with something akin to mild amusement, raising his eyebrows. “Did you really expect anything different?”

“No,” you reply grimly, furrowing your brow. “But…”

Bob’s quieter voice remains out of earshot, but Jake’s response to his imperceptible answer rings through the air, loud and clear as he drawls, “Seriously? Even though you’re a part of the armed forces?”

“…come on,” you finish severely, sending Bradley another weighty glance. “Let’s go shut him up.”

Bradley hesitates, eyeing the empty bar wistfully. “Don’t you want a drink?”

“Fucking fine, you stay,” you say, rolling your eyes faux-indignantly. “I’ll deal with him myself.”

Bradley grins handsomely. “As if you’ve ever needed any help doing that.”

“I have, though,” you argue, frowning defensively. “He isn’t capable of taking me seriously.”

“Right,” he responds, and then he pauses, a mirthful glint in his eye. “Because he’s tremendously down bad.”

“God.” You try for a disdainful grimace, as if your traitorous heart isn’t leaping at the thought. “As if.”

It isn’t that you’re particularly vying for Hangman’s affection, but you’d be lying if you said a small part of you didn’t find him attractive.

Again, infuriating. He’s nothing but a glorified douchebag with broad shoulders and a chiseled jaw.

That’s tried to hit on you once. But you digress.

You manoeuvre your way through the clamour until you’re well within earshot, Jake’s broad back to you, his torso folded over the pool table.

“You realise the whole bar can hear the bullshit you’re spouting, right?” You accuse, not ask.

Jake’d recognise your voice anywhere. Though it’s hidden beneath an armour of austerity he knows well, there’s a sweet inflection there, soft, a little fond. It makes his heart bound forth, ribcage shrinking.

But Jake Seresin is nothing if not an expert at maintaining disinterest. He swivels around with a cool air of nonchalance, torso angled back, heavy gaze drinking you in indulgently. You’ve opted for a crop-top and shorts ensemble over uniform, a wafer of bare waist on display in between them. It glows lemon-yellow as the sunlight folds over it, your smooth limbs bathed in a similar hue. Soft, untouched. This is going to be harder than he’d anticipated.

He forces his gaze to move up to your features, taking in your stern expression, lips pulled down in a scowl. He grins roguishly. Somewhere between your bruise-able neck and exposed legs, he’d forgotten how fun it was to antagonise you.

“Oh, I’m sorry, sweetheart,” he drawls smoothly, furrowing his brow in mock concern. “Are we offending you?”

“When are you not, douchebag?” You return grimly, folding your arms over your chest.

Jake’s eyes drop with the movement, drinking in your now-exposed cleavage. He licks his lips absently. “Hard to say.”

Your expression hardens as his lewd manner registers, and your limbs fall back to your sides with a furious huff. “You’re unbelievable.”

“I’m Hangman, actually,” he returns easily, gaze lifting to your face again. “You’re Jinx,” he jerks his thumb toward Javy, “this is Coyote,” at the man named Bob, now, his thick lenses distorting his gaze, “and this is Bob. You got all that, sweetheart?”

You glower at him before turning to the latter, your pretty features softening as you offer an outstretched hand. “Nice to meet you, Bob,” you greet, smiling affably. “Call me Jinx. I presume you’ve arrived on Admiral Simpson’s instruction?”

“Uh huh,” Bob answers, grinning in tandem. A short distance behind him, you catch a glimpse of another group of naval officers in uniform.

“Oh shit!” You exclaim then, wolf whistling approvingly. “So we’re all here tonight, huh?”

Jake raises his eyebrows, sliding his tongue over the toothpick at the corner of his mouth absently. “Christ, I’ll never get used to that.”

You eye him warily, your features hardening some. “What?”

“The fact that you look like such a delicate little thing,” Jake answers matter-of-factly, not trying to hide the way his gaze moves over your figure. “But act like the exact opposite.”

“Well get used to it,” you throw back, narrowing your eyes menacingly.

Jake cocks his head to one side, taking a calculated step toward you. An inch between your figure and his, now, fresh leather and musk cutting through the Deck’s air. “Or what?”

You glare up at him, refusing to acquiesce. “Or I’ll make this mission a living Hell for you, Hangman.”

“Aw, just for me?” He splays his palm over his chest faux-sincerely, pretending to look affected. “I’m touched.”

“Don’t be.”

“C’mon, Jinx,” he goads, the corner of his mouth pulling up into a crooked grin. “You couldn’t make it a living Hell even if you wanted to.”

You fold your arms across your chest, frowning. “And why’s that?”

“Because you’re a part of it,” he answers, his smirk widening. “And you already know how much fun we have together.”

“Right,” you snort.

“Act a fool all you want, sweetheart.” He teaches up and bumps your chin fleetingly, a quick jolt of static. “But we love to hate each other, plain and simple.”

“Alriiiiight,” Bradley says then, bringing up your rear and throwing his arm around your shoulder. He cuts Jake a warning look before glancing down at you, sticky beer sloshing over the rim of his glass as he raises it toward the aforementioned group of naval officers. “Time for some icebreakers?”

—

“Dare,” you declare loudly, your voice deliquesced by the booze.

“Alright.” Javy leans in conspiratorially, raising his eyebrows. “I dare you to plant one on Seresin.”

You blink. “Plant one?”

In hindsight, Truth or Dare probably wasn’t the best choice of icebreaker.

Though the drinking games had started off perfectly innocent at the beginning, the blue sky had long since given way to velvet dusk, amaranth hues bleeding into the horizon. Harder liquor was flowing. The Hard Deck was clamouring with intoxicated patrons, music loud and buoyant, any prior inhibitions melting away with every round shouted.

“You know — kiss, neck, smack lips with,” Javy explains matter-of-factly, a hush falling through the air. “Unless,” he pauses, the corner of his lip quirking, “it’s too much for you, of course.”

You know what that means. The rules of Truth or Dare are resolute. Follow through with the aforementioned proposition or buy a drink for every single one of your colleagues.

It seems an awfully large price to pay when compared to a simple, chaste kiss. Your gaze flits to Jake’s figure fleetingly, anger and disdain giving way to something else, something more subtle. Your stomach lurches. A simple, chaste kiss. It’s nothing. You’ve hooked up with your best friend, Rooster, for God’s sake, let the liquor get the best of you one fated night in your youth. And it wasn’t the end of the world; Hell, the pair of you look back at it and laugh, nowadays. This doesn’t have to be a big deal. One kiss. One tiny, make-out session with a guy that you detest.

Right?

So caught up in your own head as you psych yourself up, you don’t register Jake’s silence in tandem, the helpless glare he cuts his friend.

“See? Best wingman in the West,” Javy mouths through a pleased smirk, discreet enough to slip under the radar.

Jake shakes his head ever so slightly, trying to communicate to Coyote that no, he absolutely isn’t, his first kiss with you wasn’t meant to happen like this.

And he’s even about to mutter something of equivalence under his breath, when you break the silence with a sigh, deftly downing your drink.

“Fuck — alright, whatever,” you say with a scowl, trying to ignore the traitorous jolt of your pulse. You stand up and gesture for Jake to do the same, rounding the table until you’re standing in front of him, an inch of tantalising space between your figure and his.

And as he looks down at you, something soft, almost fond, about his gaze, all prior reluctant melts away. Who cares, he thinks, as if only just realising how badly he wants this. A kiss is better than no kiss. Of course it had to happen this way.

You glance up at him and almost startle at his expression; the way it’s softening a little, making it difficult to concentrate. You scowl harder to compensate.

“Stop looking at me like that,” you mutter.

“I’m not looking at you like anything.” Lie. “You trying to prolong this on purpose, sweetheart? Can’t wait to make out with the most talented guy on the Force?”

“Fucking hell,” you roll your eyes, throwing an arm around his neck and pulling him in. “Do you ever fucking shut up?”

Jake’s rough hands find purchase on your waist without meaning to, your noses bumping clumsily as you press your lips over his. It’s a fleeting pressure, a little demure, though the way that he keeps you in place is less chaste. No way he’s letting you go now that he’s had a taste. He reattaches his mouth to yours with enough urgency to make your cheeks burn, a terrifying emotion searing through your chest as his tongue slides in, his fingers bruising bare skin. He kisses you hard, like it’s going to take everything in him to pull away. Like he’s furious about how much he’s enjoying this, how long he’s had to wait.

It’s dizzying. You’re privately grateful for the firm hold he has on your waist; he tastes of warm beer and the bitter tip of a toothpick, his cologne folding over your figure like an embrace. You wouldn’t mind staying in his arms forever. God knows he’d keep you there. The feel of your lips, your bare waist, your chest against his, he wants it to scorch his skin — create a you-shaped imprint.

Your eardrums vibrate with adrenaline, muffling the voices of the group. Faintly, you think you can hear a stream of approving wolf-whistles; there’s a loud whoop or two that interrupts it, a roar of applause, some sniggers as people cheer.

When you do pull away, the words become clearer.

“Well shit,” Bradley says, dapping Javy up reverently. “Coyote, you’re officially my idol.”

Jake grins down at you fondly, thumbing over your saliva-glossed bottom lip. “Huh. Who would’ve thought I’d enjoy that so much?”

“Everyone?” The group answers in unison, sounds a little incredulous. You grimace.

“No seriously,” Phoenix adds meaningfully, accepting a wad of cash from Payback on her left. “Quite literally, everyone.”

“God,” you groan abashedly, burying your head in Jake’s chest. “You guys were making bets?”

“Oh cheer up, sweetheart,” Jake teases then, reaching up to bump your chin. “Just means everyone ‘round here’s obsessed with what we have.”

“What we have?” You repeat, narrowing your eyes faux-menacingly. “Careful, Hangman. This doesn’t change anything.”

Jake raises his eyebrows. “No?”

“No,” you return, shoving him away playfully. “I still hate you.”

“Love to hate me,” Jake corrects.

He’s right. Not that you’d ever admit it. “Same difference.”

—

—