nor

it’s impressive, honestly. you’ve seen politicians less reactive.

“oh—no, i—um. it’s nothing,” he says, and ducks his head, eyes flickering anywhere but your face.

you take the notebook from him. your fingers brush his, and he freezes.

you clock it immediately. the stiffness. the hesitation. the way his breath seems to stutter.

interesting.

“thanks, country,” you say brightly. “you just saved democracy. or at least my grocery list.”

he lets out a small, startled laugh, like he didn’t expect his body to make that sound.

and just like that, the dynamic is set.

you’re everything he isn’t.

you’re loud in the newsroom. not obnoxious—just alive. you talk with your hands. you argue like it’s a sport. you laugh like it’s a dare. you’re confident, unapologetic, and allergic to shrinking.

clark, meanwhile, writes like he’s trying not to be noticed. his articles are devastatingly precise. humane. kind. brutally honest in a way that never feels cruel.

he never raises his voice. he never interrupts. he never makes a scene.

and yet—somehow—you keep ending up assigned to the same stories.

“partner up,” perry orders one morning, waving his hands. “kent, you handle background. you—” he points at you, “—bring the heat.”

clark nods immediately. “yes, sir.”

you flash him a grin. “ready to bring the heat, smallville?”

he nearly drops his pen.

“i’m—not—uh—” he clears his throat. “yeah. of course.” he sounds like he’s bracing for impact.

which, honestly, is fair.

you notice things.

you notice how clark listens to you like you’re the only sound in the room. you notice how he laughs quietly at your jokes, even when you’re pretty sure they weren’t that funny. you notice how he turns red when you stand too close. you notice how he never quite meets your eyes when the conversation turns personal.

and, maybe most interestingly, you notice how careful he is with you.

not in a patronizing way. not in a fragile way.

more like he’s holding something precious he doesn’t believe belongs to him.

you’re working late one night, the newsroom dim and humming with that low electric fatigue that settles in after midnight.

clark sits across from you, sleeves rolled up, tie loosened. he looks more like himself this way, slightly less put together, slightly more real.

“you’re staring,” you mutter without looking up.

his pencil stops moving. “i—sorry. i wasn’t—” he falters, then admits softly, “you just… work very intensely.”

you glance up, smirking. “is that a complaint?”

“no!” he says quickly. “no, not at all, it’s—um—it’s impressive.”

that word lands heavier than it should.

you lean back in your chair, studying him. “clark kent, are you flirting with me?”

he goes scarlet.

“i—what? no. i wouldn’t—i don’t—” he looks like he might short-circuit. “i’m sorry. i didn’t mean—”

you laugh. “relax. i’m teasing. mostly.”

he tries to smile. it comes out crooked, shy, sincere.

you realize something then.

he’s not oblivious, he’s terrified.

there’s a rhythm to the way you work together.

you chase leads. he verifies facts.

you kick down doors. he makes sure no one gets hurt in the process.

you call sources at reckless hours. he sends follow-up emails that somehow sound like handwritten letters.

sometimes, your leg bumps his under the conference table, and he stiffens like he’s been struck by lightning. sometimes, you catch him looking at you when he thinks you’re not paying attention. sometimes, you wonder what would happen if you asked him, point-blank, what he feels.

you don’t.

not because you’re scared.

but because it’s… fun. the tension. the slow burn. the way he seems to hover at the edge of saying something and never quite steps over the line.

one evening, after a long assignment, you end up walking out together.

metropolis hums around you. neon. sirens. wind curling down the streets.

“you ever get tired of this?” you ask him, gesturing at the city. “the noise. the chaos. the pressure?”

he thinks for a moment. “no,” he says quietly. “it reminds me that people matter.”

you blink at him.

god, he’s earnest.

“that might be the most clark kent answer in history,” you say, smiling.

he chuckles softly. “and is that… bad?”

“no,” you hum. “it’s refreshing.”

there’s a beat.

you catch him glancing at you, then looking away again like it physically pains him to hold eye contact.

“you know,” you say casually, “most people would’ve made a move by now.”

his heart stutters so hard you swear you can see it.

“a move?” he echoes.

you tilt your head. “yeah, you know coffee? dinner? a risky workplace flirtation? you’ve had plenty of openings.”

he swallows. “i didn’t want to make you uncomfortable,” he admits. “or assume anything.”

you soften despite yourself. “that’s considerate,” you say gently. “but you’re allowed to want things, clark.”

he looks at you like that sentence is brand new. “i do,” he murmurs before he can stop himself.

your breath catches.

he looks horrified at his own honesty.

“i mean—i—what i meant was—” he stumbles, face burning. “i’m sorry. i shouldn’t—”

you step a little closer.

“hey,” you say quietly. “if you’re too shy… you can just say so.”

his eyes flicker up to meet yours for half a second longer than usual.

“i’m… working on it,” he says.

and something about the way he says it makes your chest feel too full.

later that night, lying in bed, you think about clark kent.

the way his voice softens when he talks to you. the way he holds doors open like it’s a sacred duty. the way he looks like he’s constantly trying not to take up space, despite being physically incapable of doing anything else.

you wonder what it would take to make him brave. you wonder if he’s thinking about you too. you suspect he is.

he’s not very good at hiding it.

you start noticing how close clark kent stands to you.

not close close. never anything bold. never anything that could be called intentional. but closer than he stands to anyone else. close enough that you can feel the warmth of him when you lean over a document together. close enough that your elbow brushes his sleeve more often than coincidence would allow.

he always freezes when it happens.

not like he’s offended.

more like he’s afraid of what might happen if he doesn’t freeze.

you find that strangely compelling.

the story that really bonds you happens in the rain.

a whistleblower. corporate corruption; the kind of thing that makes people nervous, that makes phones go silent, that makes editors suddenly careful.

you and clark spend days chasing leads, cross-referencing financial trails, knocking on doors that open only a crack.

you work like a storm. he works like a steady current.

together, you’re dangerous.

late one night, soaked from a sudden downpour, you duck under the overhang outside the daily planet. your jacket is damp, hair frizzing, pulse still buzzing from adrenaline.

clark stands beside you, rain clinging to the shoulders of his coat.

“you okay?” he asks quietly.

you exhale a breath that feels like steam. “exhausted, wired... ready to flip a table.”

he smiles, soft and private. “you always look like that right before you publish something incredible,” he says.

you blink. “that’s oddly specific.”

“i pay attention,” he says before he seems to realize how that sounds.

he goes red.

you laugh, gentler than usual. “you’re allowed to look, clark.”

“i know,” he says. then, quieter, “i just don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

you tilt your head. “and if i told you i wasn’t?”

he looks at you. really looks at you.

for a heartbeat, he doesn’t look away.

rain rattles against the pavement. the city hums. the world keeps moving, oblivious to the small, electric moment happening between you.

“i’d still be careful,” he says.

something in your chest tightens.

“why?”

“because,” he says, voice barely above the rain, “i care what you think.”

the words hang there.

you feel them settle under your ribs.

you start texting more.

at first it’s strictly work. links, deadlines, notes.

then it’s memes. headlines that make no sense. a blurry photo of a terrible vending machine dinner.

clark replies faster than he probably should.

sometimes his responses are overly formal. sometimes they’re unexpectedly dry. occasionally, he makes a joke so quiet and sharp you wonder how many people miss it.

late one night, you send: ‘ur still up?’

a pause. ‘yes. i couldn’t sleep.’

you consider your next message, then type: ‘me neither. wanna admit why?’

three dots appear. disappear. reappear. ‘because i keep replaying conversations in my head.’

your breath hitches. ‘with who?’ though you already know.

a longer pause. ‘you.’

you stare at the screen, smiling like an idiot. ‘u know u can just say things the first time, right?’

a moment later: ‘i’m afraid i’ll say the wrong thing.’

you type: ‘try me.’

another pause. this one stretches.

Finally: ‘i like you. i just don’t always know how to exist near you without feeling like i’m doing something wrong.

your heart stumbles.

you type slowly this time. ‘you’re not doing anything wrong. you’re just being you.’

three dots. ‘that’s what scares me.’

in person, it gets harder.

you catch him glancing at you when you laugh. when you argue. when you concentrate so hard your tongue peeks out between your teeth.

once, you lean over his desk to grab a file, and your shoulder brushes his chest.

he inhales like the air just vanished.

you pull back, studying him. “clark?”

he swallows. “yes?”

“you okay?”

“yes ma’am,” he says too quickly.

you step closer, lowering your voice. “you don’t have to flinch every time i get near you.”

“i’m not flinching,” he says, but it sounds like a confession.

you soften. “you look like you think i’m going to disappear.”

he meets your gaze, tentative and open. “sometimes,” he admits, “it feels like you belong to a world that moves faster than i do.”

you smile gently. “so keep up.”

“i’m trying,” he murmurs.

there’s a night when the power flickers in the newsroom.

backup generators hum. screens glow. outside, thunder mutters like distant applause.

you’re both still working. of course you are.

you bring him coffee. he thanks you like you’ve given him something sacred.

you sit on the edge of his desk.

“so,” you say lightly, “why haven’t you asked me out yet?”

he nearly chokes. “i—i didn’t think—”

“you didn’t think i’d say yes?”

“i didn’t think it was appropriate,” he says carefully. “or fair. or—”

you swing your legs slightly. “clark. look at me.”

he hesitates. then he does.

you hold his gaze, refusing to let him look away.

“do you want to ask me out?” you ask.

he breathes in, slow and controlled. “yes,” 

you grin. “then ask.”

he pauses. looks terrified. then, quietly, honestly: “would you… like to get dinner with me sometime?”

there’s nothing flashy about it. nothing smooth. no bravado. 

it’s perfect.

“i would,” you smile. “very much.”

his relief is immediate and almost heartbreaking.

he smiles like he’s been given permission to breathe.

later, as you pack up to leave, he walks beside you again.

the city feels different now. brighter. expectant.

at the corner, you stop.

“hey,” you say softly.

he turns to you.

“if you ever feel too shy,” you say, “you can let me know.”

he smiles, warm and bashful and real. “and if i do?”

“then i’ll meet you halfway.”

his voice is steady when he replies, “i think… i’d like that.”

clark kent treats your first date like it’s a diplomatic summit.

he arrives early. of course he does. he’s wearing a suit that looks like it’s been pressed within an inch of its life, tie straightened three times too many, hair just slightly more tamed than usual.

you show up five minutes late on purpose, because you refuse to let him think this is an interview.

when he sees you, his breath stutters like he forgot how lungs work.

“you look… incredible,” he says, immediately flustered by the fact that he said it out loud.

you grin. “you clean up like a man trying very hard not to cause property damage.”

he laughs, relieved.

the restaurant is warm and dim and humming with soft conversation. candlelight glows between you. every little sound feels louder than it should—the clink of silverware, the low murmur of voices, the quiet hum of the city outside.

clark sits across from you, posture careful, hands folded like he’s afraid to knock something over.

you rest your chin in your hand. “you always this nervous smallville?”

he considers lying. he doesn’t.

“yes,” he says simply. “around you.”

your chest tightens. “that’s not exactly a reason to be afraid,” you say more gently.

“i know,” he says. “but it feels… important to get this right.”

“you don’t need to get it right,” you say. “you just need to get it honest.”

his eyes lift to yours. “okay,” he says quietly. “honest, then.”

conversation comes easily, which almost feels unfair given how tense the air between you is.

you talk about work. about your childhood. about the first stories that made you want to chase stories of your own.

clark listens like every word is something he intends to keep.

when you talk about ambition, he watches you with something like awe. when you talk about fear, he watches you with something like devotion.

at some point, you realize his knee is almost touching yours under the table.

not quite, but close enough to feel the heat.

you wonder if he notices. you suspect he notices everything.

after dinner, you walk.

metropolis at night feels like a living thing. lights pulsing, trains roaring, wind tugging at coats and hair.

clark keeps pace beside you, hands in his pockets, shoulders relaxed but alert, like he’s constantly bracing for something.

“you know,” you say lightly, “you’re allowed to flirt.”

he nearly trips. “i—i don’t know how,” he admits.

you step a little closer. “try.”

he thinks for a long second. “you… um… make the world feel louder,” he says. “in a good way.”

you stop walking.

turn to face him.

“that might be the most clark kent flirtation i’ve ever heard,” you say softly.

he blushes, but he doesn’t look away this time. “i meant it,” he says.

you hold his gaze.

for once, he holds yours back.

you end up on a quiet street corner, traffic distant, the city’s noise softened into a low, steady hum.

the moment stretches.

you can feel it pulling tight between you.

“so,” you say quietly, “is this the part where you overthink everything?”

he smiles ruefully. “usually.”

“and?”

“i’m trying not to.”

your heart thrums.

he looks at you like he’s standing at the edge of a cliff.

“i’ve wanted to do this for a while,” he admits.

“do what?” you whisper.

he hesitates. then steps closer.

not rushing. not overwhelming. just enough to close the space he’s been so afraid to claim.

his voice is low. “be brave.”

you tilt your head slightly, giving him the opening without forcing him to take it.

his hand lifts, hovering like he’s unsure whether he’s allowed.

“may i?” he asks.

your pulse spikes.

“yes,” you say.

his fingers brush your cheek. he looks like he might fall apart.

slowly, carefully, he leans in.

the kiss is soft.

not urgent. not hungry.

just warm and tentative and full of everything he hasn’t known how to say.

when he pulls back, he looks stunned by his own courage.

you smile. “well,” you murmur, “you survived.”

he lets out a breathless laugh. “barely.”

later, actually walking you home instead of wandering aimlessly, he keeps glancing at you like he’s trying to memorize the fact that this is real.

at your door, he hesitates again.

“thank you,” he says. “for… being patient with me.”

you step closer.

“clark,” you say gently, “if you’re too shy—”

he smiles. “—i’ll let you know,” he finishes.

“exactly.”

he leans in and presses another soft kiss to your cheek this time, lingering just a second longer than necessary.

as he walks away, you watch him go, heart buzzing.

you know this is only the beginning.

he’s still holding back; still keeping secrets, still afraid of taking up space.

and you’re already wondering what will happen when he finally stops.

dating clark kent feels like discovering a hidden room in a familiar building.

everything is quieter. softer. more deliberate.

he opens doors for you. walks on the street-side of the sidewalk. remembers the exact way you take your coffee, the story you once mentioned in passing, the song you hummed absentmindedly while fact-checking.

he never rushes you. he never assumes.

and yet, the longer this goes on, the more it feels like he’s holding back something enormous.

you notice it in the pauses.

in the way he sometimes goes still when sirens echo in the distance. in the way his jaw tightens when the news mentions disasters, crime, people in danger. in the way he sometimes looks at the sky like he’s listening for something only he can hear.

once, in the middle of a conversation, he just… vanishes.

you blink, check the hallway and the stairwell.

thirty seconds later, he returns, breath barely altered.

“everything okay?” you ask.

“yes,” he says too quickly. “i just… needed a moment.”

you believe him. you also know there’s more to it.

the feelings deepen anyway.

you sit on the newsroom roof one evening, city lights spilling out below you like stars that forgot how to behave.

clark brings takeout. you bring sarcasm.

“you ever think about the future?” you ask, leaning back on your hands.

he follows your gaze across the skyline.

“all the time,” he says.

“does it scare you?”

“only when i think about losing people,” he admits.

you glance at him. “people like me?”

his breath catches.

“yes,” he says without hesitation.

the honesty knocks the air from your lungs. you smile to hide it. “smallville, you’re getting bolder.”

“only because you make me feel like i’m allowed to be,” he says.

you almost call him out on it.

on the strange disappearances. on the impossible timing. on the strength he pretends not to have when he lifts things that should strain him.

but you don’t.

not because you don’t notice. because you trust him.

and because part of you wants to see if he’ll tell you on his own.

one night, the tension spikes.

a major story breaks. chaos, sirens, helicopters. the newsroom turns into a battlefield of ringing phones and shouted updates.

you’re chasing leads when the building shudders.

distant explosions. screams somewhere outside.

you feel fear curl in your stomach.

before you can even turn, clark is at your side.

“stay here,” he says urgently.

you grab his sleeve. “clark—”

his eyes lock onto yours, blazing with emotion he can’t quite hide. “i promise,” he says, voice low and steady, “i will come back.”

then he’s gone.

minutes pass. then more.

your heart hammers against your ribs.

when he finally returns, his hair is wind-tossed, his glasses slightly askew, suit rumpled in a way that makes no sense.

“you’re okay,” you breathe.

“yes,” he says softly.

but he looks like someone who just carried the weight of the world.

later, when the adrenaline ebbs, you corner him near the empty copy room.

“clark,” you say quietly, “what aren’t you telling me?”

he stiffens.

“i’m not—”

“you disappear. you come back shaken. you act like the city’s pain is personal,” you press gently. “i’m not asking to accuse you. i’m asking because i care.”

he looks like he might break.

“i want to tell you,” he admits.

“then do it.”

he hesitates, voice trembling. “i’m afraid if i do… you’ll see me differently.”

you step closer.

“clark kent,” you say softly, “i already see you differently. that’s the point.”

his eyes shine with emotion he rarely lets surface. “you make me want to be honest,” he whispers.

“then be honest.”

he almost does.

you can feel it—right there, hovering on his tongue.

but fear wins.

“soon,” he says instead. “i promise.”

you nod.

“soon,” you echo.

the romance deepens anyway.

soft kisses at crosswalks. hands brushing in elevators. late-night phone calls where his voice sounds lower, more unguarded.

once, half-asleep, he murmurs, “you deserve someone brave.”

you smile into the dark.

“then keep practicing,” you whisper.

you don’t find out on a quiet day. of course you don’t.

you find out on a day when the sky fractures.

a crisis erupts downtown—panic, collapsing scaffolding, screaming sirens, people flooding the streets in fear. the newsroom explodes into motion, and so do you.

you grab your coat, your phone, and your resolve.

and then you realize clark is gone.

again.

you don’t think. you just move.

outside, wind howls between buildings, carrying dust and debris. emergency crews shout over one another. somewhere above, something massive groans under strain.

you push through the crowd, heart racing.

“clark?” you breathe, like the city might answer.

and then, 

a shockwave.

the world lurches. people scream. you stumble backward as part of a structure gives way overhead.

you brace for impact.

it never comes.

instead, arms catch you mid-fall. strong, unyielding, impossible.

you gasp as you’re lifted effortlessly out of harm’s way.

you look up.

clark.

not hunched. not hiding. not shrinking.

he stands full-height, coat torn at the shoulder, tie gone, the left frame of his glasses shattered. his face is tilted away, but you could recognize that tie anywhere—the one martha bought for him when he first got hired at the planet, the tie you used to tease him for. wind presses against him like it means nothing.

his face is bare of pretense. his looks… unmasked.

“clark?” you whisper.

he looks at you with something like fear and relief and love tangled together. “i’m sorry,” he says softly.

behind him, metal groans and settles. sirens wail. people stare.

you stare back at him.

and suddenly, everything makes sense.

the disappearances. the timing. the restraint. the weight he carries like it’s a duty carved into his bones.

“you’re—” your voice trembles. “you’re him.”

he doesn’t pretend not to understand. “yeah,” he says.

you laugh once, breathless and stunned.

“of course you are,” you murmur. “clark kent, mild-mannered reporter, secretly the literal impossible.”

he winces like he deserves that.

“i wanted to tell you,” he says. “but can we talk about this later, baby? please?”

“what’s there to talk about?”

“i have to much to tell you, i promise. i just… i was afraid.”

you search his face.

“afraid of what?” you ask quietly.

“of losing you,” he admits. “of you thinking everything about me was a lie.”

your chest tightens. “you idiot,” you whisper, voice thick. “the only thing that would’ve hurt is you thinking i couldn’t handle the truth.”

he looks at you like that sentence might shatter him.

later, when the city settles and the adrenaline fades, you sit with him on a quiet rooftop.

the skyline stretches around you like a held breath.

he stands at the edge, wind tugging at his hair, looking like a man who has carried too much for too long.

“i never wanted to deceive you,” he says. “clark kent is still me. i just… didn’t know how to be both with you.”

you step closer. “you’ve always been both,” you say. “you’re gentle. you’re kind. you’re awkward. you’re brave. you’re infuriatingly self-sacrificing.”

a faint smile flickers over his face.

“and i like all of that,” you add.

he turns to you fully, eyes bright with emotion.

“you’re not afraid?” he asks.

you shake your head.

“i’m not afraid of you,” you say. “i’m afraid for you.”

he exhales shakily.

“i’ve wanted to be honest with you for so long,” he admits. “but i didn’t think i deserved someone who could see all of this and still stay.”

you reach for him, resting a hand over his heart.

“you don’t get to decide what you deserve,” you say softly. “that’s my call.”

he laughs quietly, teary and relieved.

“you’re incredible,” he murmurs.

you tilt your head. “and you’re still too shy,” you tease gently. “even when you can literally lift a building.”

he smiles more fully now. “i’m braver with you,” he says. “you make me feel like i’m allowed to want things.”

“good,” you say. “because i want you.”

the words feel like stepping into open air.

he looks stunned. then certain. then impossibly tender.

he cups your face and kisses you like he’s finally stopped holding back.

not rough. not consuming.

just honest.

“hey, you,” he says one night, during a slow period where only two tables were busy and you were overstaffed, leaning against the hostess stand like he’s been rehearsing the pose in a mirror. “you busy?”

you glance at your tablet. “always.”

he nods like that confirms a theory. “coolcoolcool. same.”

he does not elaborate. he never elaborates. he just stands there, rocking on his heels, eyes bright with a sort of contained excitement, like he’s waiting for fireworks only he can see.

you wait. he waits.

eventually he gives you a thumbs-up and walks away.

you stare after him, trying to decide whether to laugh or scream.

you choose neither. you choose longing. regrettably.

the vigilante rumors start as background noise.

you hear them in passing: on the radio, from coworkers gossiping, from strangers whispering at bars. a masked man. brutal methods. crime scenes that feel more like statements than accidents.

you don’t pay much attention at first. that’s gotham’s business. that’s the city’s endless appetite for theatrics and violence.

until it brushes too close to you.

the first incident is small.

you’re walking home from work, keys threaded between your fingers because you’re not stupid, when you notice police tape blocking off a nearby alley.

red and blue lights smear across wet pavement.

(morbid) curiosity gets the better of you. it always does.

you step closer. inside the alley, it's a mess. but nothing is splattered. nothing is random. it's careful. deliberate.

someone—vigilante, you assume, because he’s known for his creative and messy violence—has written your initials on the brick wall.

there’s a heart around them.

your stomach drops through the floor.

you stare, breath shallow, pulse in your throat. it feels like the world narrows down to those letters, that shape, that impossible implication.

an officer notices you hovering. “ma’am,” he says, gentler than he has any right to be, “you shouldn’t be here.”

you nod mutely and back away, but the image brands itself behind your eyes.

your initials. a heart. blood.

that night, you sleep with the lights on.

the second incident is worse.

you wake up to a news alert on your phone. another understood criminal dead. another theatrical scene. another moral argument splashed across headlines.

a blurry photo accompanies the article.

you zoom in.

carved into a wooden surface—maybe a crate, maybe a wall—is your name.

not initials this time. your full first name.

there’s a little heart carved at the end of it, the lines uneven like someone rushed.

you feel sick. you tell yourself it’s a coincidence. you tell yourself it’s paranoia.

you tell yourself that in a city of thousands, the odds of this being personal are microscopic.

still, you start locking your doors twice. you start jumping at footsteps behind you. you start feeling watched in ways that don’t feel like imagination.

at work, adrian is oblivious. or if he’s not, he’s doing a terrifyingly good job pretending.

“morning, sunshine,” he says one day, handing you a cup of coffee you absolutely did not ask for.

you blink at it. “did you steal this?”

he gasps. “steal is such a harsh word. i prefer reallocated.”

you almost laugh. almost. instead, the words spill out before you can stop them. “adrian… have you heard about vigilante?”

his reaction is immediate. too immediate. his posture straightens like a soldier hearing a code word. his eyes sharpen, something electric passing behind them.

“yeah,” he says lightly. “cool guy. not that i know him or anything, because i personally am nothing more than a measly bus boy… but yeah, no, totally know of him.”

your mouth opens. closes. “cool?” you echo weakly.

he nods, grinning. “total badass. real romantic type, too.”

you stare at him like he’s grown a second head. “romantic,” you repeat. “he writes people’s names in blood.”

adrian winces. “okay, when you phrase it like that, it sounds bad.”

“it is bad.”

“well…” he leans closer, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “sometimes love makes people do big gestures.”

you recoil before you can stop yourself. “big gestures,” you say flatly, “should not involve murder.”

he considers that. “huh,” he says. “agree to disagree?”

you look at him with a look that screams, ‘what the fuck?’

he looks pleased with himself.

you don’t mean to tell him. it just… happens.

one afternoon, when the office feels too bright and your nerves feel like overexposed film, you let it slip.

“the vigilante thing,” you say quietly, eyes on your keyboard. “he’s been… doing stuff. surrounding me.”

adrian freezes. “what kind of stuff?” he asks, voice suddenly too careful.

you swallow.

“he wrote my initials at a crime scene,” you admit. “in blood. i mean, i think they were mine because then it was my full name. carved. i don’t know why. i don’t even know him. i don’t—”

your voice cracks, and you hate that it does. you hate that fear sounds like weakness.

adrian’s expression shifts.

guilt. panic. something almost… wounded.

“he’s probably just,” adrian says, scrambling, “uh. you know. trying to be nice. my mom always said when boys are mean, it’s because they like you—not that he’s being mean! but you know… yeah.”

you blink at him. “nice.”

“yeah,” he insists, nodding too hard. “he’s… misunderstood. he’s probably, like… really into you.”

your laugh is sharp and humorless. “if he’s into me,” you say, “i’m terrified.”

adrian hesitates. 

“…he’d never hurt you,” he says, too fast.

you finally look at him. “why are you so sure?”

for a moment, he looks like he might actually tell you the truth. instead, he grins.

“because i’m a great judge of character. like a wounded puppy”

you stare. “that’s not—”

he gives you finger guns.

you consider filing a formal complaint against reality.

that night, you dream of blood turning into ink. you dream of hearts sketched in red. you dream of a voice whispering your name like it’s sacred.

and somewhere in the city, adrian chase puts on a helmet, stares at his hands, and wonders how to love you without terrifying you.

he is… not doing a great job.

after you tell adrian, you start noticing the way he looks at you.

you don’t realize it at first. you’re too busy being afraid. too busy flinching at sirens, double-checking locks, memorizing escape routes in grocery stores.

but slowly, the pattern emerges.

he watches you like he’s trying to memorize you in case you disappear.

when someone startles you, he’s instantly at your side. when your voice shakes, his softens. when your smile falters, his does too—like it physically hurts him to see.

it unsettles you.

it also makes your chest ache.

one evening, you leave work late.

the back office is quiet, fluorescent lights buzzing like insects. you sling your bag over your shoulder and head for the side door, hoping to beat the weight that settles on you every night.

“hey,” adrian calls.

you turn.

he’s jogging toward you, jacket half-zipped, hair messier than usual.

“you okay walking home alone?” he asks.

you try for a joke. “are you offering to escort me like a medieval knight?”

he smiles, but it wobbles. “yeah. something like that.”

you hesitate.

you don’t want to be a burden. you also don’t want to be alone.

“…okay,” you decide after a moment of silence.

he brightens instantly, like the sun came out just for him.

outside, the city feels sharp-edged. streetlights halo puddles. somewhere far away, sirens cry like wounded animals.

you walk side by side, shoulders almost brushing. almost.

“you’ve been quieter,” adrian says gently.

you shrug. “i’m fine.”

he doesn’t accept that. he never does.

“you’ve been scared,” he says instead. “about vigilante.”

your jaw tightens.

“i don’t know why he picked me,” you whisper. “i don’t do anything special. i’m not… important. i don’t deserve that kind of attention.”

adrian stops walking. you stop too, startled.

he looks at you like you’ve just insulted something holy.

“don’t say that,” he says, voice low.

you blink. “say what?”

“that you’re not important.”

something raw flickers in his expression.

“you matter,” he says. “more than you think.”

the way he says it—like it’s personal, like it costs him something—makes your throat burn.

you look away. “…thanks,” you murmur.

the word feels too small.

later that night, vigilante strikes again.

you don’t see anything about the scene itself. you see the message.

someone uploads a photo before the police scrub it from the internet. it spreads anyway. it always does.

carved into metal this time, jagged and uneven: YOU DESERVE BETTER. 

there’s a heart next to it.

you stare until your vision blurs.

you should feel flattered, maybe. you should feel protected.

instead, you feel hunted.

the next morning, you confront adrian.

you corner him in the break room, heart hammering like it’s trying to escape your ribs.

“he did it again,” you say.

adrian’s jaw tightens. “what’d he do?”

“he left another message,” you say bitterly. “he keeps… centering me in his violence. i don’t want that. i never asked for it.”

adrian looks like he’s trying not to break in half.

“he probably thinks he’s helping,” he says carefully.

you laugh without humor. “by attacking people?”

“…yeah.”

you stare at him.

“why are you defending him?” you demand. “it’s disturbing. it’s scary. it’s—” your voice falters. “it makes me feel like i don’t have a choice,” you finish quietly.

adrian flinches like you slapped him.

“i don’t want to feel owned by some masked stranger,” you say. “i want to feel normal. i want to feel safe.”

he looks at you like he wants to confess to a crime. “you are safe,” he says softly.

“not like this.”

silence settles between you. thick. heavy. charged.

you realize, suddenly, how close he is. close enough to see the faint scar near his eyebrow. close enough to notice how his hands tremble when he tries not to move them. close enough to feel the heat of him.

your crush tightens into something sharper. something dangerous.

“i don’t think he’s a monster,” adrian says finally. “i think he’s just… bad at love.”

your heart stutters. “you think attacking people for someone is love?” you whisper.

he hesitates. “i think,” he says quietly, “he’s trying to say something he doesn’t know how to say.”

“…what?”

adrian’s gaze drops to your mouth. then lifts to your eyes. “i think he’s trying to say he’d die for you.”

the words land between you like a live wire.

your pulse goes wild.

“that’s not romantic,” you say weakly. “that’s terrifying.”

“i know,” he says. “but some people only know how to love in extremes.” his voice cracks on the last word.

you don’t know why, but it makes your chest ache.

over the next few weeks, your fear and your feelings twist together until you can’t separate them.

adrian starts bringing you lunch when you miraculously get scheduled in mid-morning. saving you a seat in the breakroom. walking you home whenever he can.

he never pushes. never crosses the line. never says what you suspect is sitting on the tip of his tongue.

sometimes, though, you catch him staring at you like he’s memorizing a goodbye.

it makes you want to grab him by the collar and demand answers.

it also makes you want to lean in.

one night, you almost get hurt. key word is almost.

it doesn’t last long. vigilante appears like a nightmare in motion—brutal, efficient, terrifying.

when it’s over, the man is unconscious, without a doubt down for the count (you hardly think he'll ever attempt anything even slightly criminal ever again). and you’re shaking so badly you can barely stand.

vigilante steps toward you. you flinch. he freezes.

for a moment, he looks less like a myth and more like a person who has no idea what to do with his hands.

“you’re safe,” he says. his voice is distorted, but there’s something underneath it that sounds… familiar.

you hug your arms around yourself. “stop,” you whisper. “please. just… stop doing this for me.”

he stiffens. “i can’t,” he says.

“why?”

he swallows hard. “because i love you.”

your breath punches out of you.

the confession feels like being struck by lightning.

“you don’t even know me,” you say.

“i do,” he insists. “i know more than you think.”

tears sting your eyes. “i’m scared of you,” you admit.

the words seem to physically wound him.

“…i know,” he says. then he disappears before you can say anything else.

the next day, adrian looks wrecked. dark circles under his eyes. jaw tight. smile forced.

“you okay?” you ask softly.

he nods. “always.”

you don’t believe him.

“you don’t have to protect me,” you say quietly.

his voice comes out raw. “i want to.”

the way he says it—like a confession, like a promise—makes your heart twist painfully.

you realize something terrifying: you’re falling harder. and you don’t know which version of him you’re more afraid of losing. the adrian who walks you home, the sweet boy with the wire-framed glasses who tells you (incorrect) animal facts. or the adrian who defends the man who terrifies you out of something close to love, but nearing worship.

you start dreading the sound of his voice.

not because you don’t want to hear it.

because you want to hear it too much.

every time adrian says your name, it feels like pressing on a bruise you refuse to admit exists.

he keeps hovering—careful, gentle, orbiting you like you’re something fragile he might shatter if he moves too fast.

you don’t know how to tell him that sometimes, the gentleness hurts worse than distance.

you stop sleeping.

every time you close your eyes, you see violence arranged like love. you hear vigilante’s distorted voice telling you he loves you, like it’s a vow carved into bone.

you wonder what kind of person inspires that. you wonder what kind of person deserves it. you wonder if you’re a terrible person for wishing it wasn’t happening.

at work, you snap at adrian for the first time.

he brings you coffee. you don’t take it.

he asks if you’re okay. you tell him to stop asking.

he tries to joke. you don’t laugh.

you watch the hurt flicker across his face, quick and sharp and hidden, and guilt coils in your chest.

“sorry,” you mutter later.

he shakes his head immediately. “you don’t have to apologize. you’re allowed to feel messed up.”

you look at him. “are you ever messed up?” you ask quietly.

for a second, his mask cracks.

“constantly,” he says.

it sounds like a confession. maybe it’s closer to a plea.

the messages escalate.

not just names anymore. not just hearts. now there are sentences.

NO ONE WILL EVER LOVE YOU LIKE I DO,

I’D BURN THE WORLD IF YOU ASKED,

YOU’RE SAFE WITH ME. ALWAYS.

you read them with shaking hands.

they don’t feel like gifts.

they feel like chains.

you break down one night on your apartment floor.

your phone is face-down. your lights are off. your chest feels like it’s caving in.

the words you could never speak hurt more than anything else.

the next day, you accidentally say them out loud.

you and adrian are alone in the break room. the air smells like stale coffee and burnt toast.

“i wish,” you say bitterly, “i could just like some normal guy who doesn’t scare me, and have him like me back.” the second the words leave your mouth, you want to swallow them back.

adrian goes very still. “…yeah,” he says after a moment. “that’d be nice.”

but something in him goes quiet. you feel like you’ve just stepped on something alive.

he pulls away after that.

not dramatically. subtly.

he still smiles. still helps. still shows up.

but the warmth dims. the closeness retreats. the way he used to look at you—like you were a miracle he didn’t deserve—goes carefully blank.

you didn’t realize how much you relied on it until it’s gone. 

you miss him immediately. you hate yourself for it.

one night, vigilante finds you again.

you’re on your way home, rain soaking through your jacket, when you sense him before you see him.

he steps out of the shadows like he was carved from them.

you don’t scream this time. you’re too tired.

“you need to stop,” you say flatly.

he looks like you just stabbed him. “i’m protecting you,” he insists.

“i don’t want your protection,” you snap. “i want my life back.”

his voice trembles.

“your life is my life.”

“that’s the problem,” you say, and it comes out crueler than you mean. “i don’t want to be someone’s obsession.”

the word hangs between you. obsession.

it devastates him.

“i’m not obsessed!” he says, too quickly. “i just… love you.”

“love shouldn’t feel like a cage,” you whisper.

he looks like he might fall apart right there in the street. “…i don’t know how to love quietly,” he admits.

your heart twists painfully. “i don’t know how to live loudly,” you reply.

you walk away before he can answer. you don’t look back.

the next morning, adrian looks like he hasn’t slept in a year.

you catch him staring at you like he’s bracing for impact. you finally break.

“did i hurt you?” you ask softly.

he laughs, but it’s hollow. “you could never hurt me.”

you shake your head. “that’s not true.”

you step closer, lowering your voice. “i said i wanted someone normal,” you admit. “that wasn’t fair. i wasn’t talking about you specifically. i didn’t mean—”

he cuts you off, voice tight. “you meant it.”

silence stretches between you.

“you deserve normal,” he says. “you deserve someone who doesn’t… complicate your life. not the way vigilante does.”

your chest aches. “i deserve you,” you almost say. but fear blocks the words.

later that week, vigilante disappears from your life.

no new crime scenes. no new messages. no new hearts carved in red.

you should feel relieved. instead, grief settles into you like poison.

you catch yourself staring at adrian’s busboy station, waiting for him to look at you the way he used to.

he doesn’t.

you realize something too late.

you didn’t just lose a terrifying admirer. you might have lost the one person who loved you more than he loved himself.

vigilante doesn’t come back into your world.

days pass. then weeks.

no blood-written hearts. no warped love letters carved into walls. no sense of being watched with feverish devotion.

he’s still around, still taking out bad guys. just not for you. there’s no reverence in his attacks, no veneration.

the city keeps breathing without him. you don’t.

you start to realize the terror was tangled with something warmer. something validating. something terrible and tender and overwhelming.

you were someone’s entire universe. and now you feel like an abandoned planet. you hate yourself for that.

adrian keeps his distance. he’s still kind. still helpful. still there. but there’s a careful emptiness in him now. where there used to be longing, there’s restraint. where there used to be warmth, there’s politeness. where there used to be love, there’s silence.

you miss it so much it feels like withdrawal.

you try to pretend you’re okay. you laugh at the right times. you answer calls. you make small talk. but inside, you keep replaying everything you said.

you wonder how those words sounded to someone who loved you like oxygen. you wonder if you carved them into him.

one evening, the employee door gets stuck. if the building manager actually liked the employees, you’d be allowed to leave out the main door. but the alarm goes on automatically after closing, and you don’t have the patience to turn it off.

so now it’s just you and adrian. fluorescent lights. a soft mechanical hum. nowhere to run.

you stand on opposite sides of the doorway like you’re afraid of contaminating each other.

the silence grows unbearable.

“did he stop because of me?” you finally whisper. “you don’t have to act like you don’t know him, adrian. it’s obvious.”

adrian doesn’t pretend not to understand. “…yes,” he says.

the word lands like a punch to the gut.

your chest tightens. “is he… okay?”

for a moment, adrian looks like he might lie. then he exhales. “he’s barely holding it together.”

your throat burns. “i didn’t mean to hurt him.”

“i know,” adrian says softly. “i mean, he knows. i just know that you’d never hurt anyone…” the sadness in his voice ruins you. “but you managed hurt him anyway.”

you close your eyes. “i was scared,” you whisper.

he nods. “he knew that.”

“then why does it feel like i abandoned him?”

adrian’s jaw tightens. “because,” he says quietly, “to him, your fear mattered less than your comfort. and he would’ve destroyed himself to give you peace.”

tears gather whether you want them to or not. “that’s not healthy,” you murmur.

“no,” adrian agrees. “but it was real.”

the door finally gets unjammed, your manager standing on the other side giving the both of you an expectant look.

neither of you moves at first.

then adrian steps out like he’s walking away from something he’s already lost.

that night, you dream of vigilante sitting on a rooftop alone, helmet in his lap, hands shaking as he tries to convince himself he deserves the pain.

you wake up crying.

the next week, you finally snap.

you find adrian in the parking lot after work, staring at the skyline while sitting on the hood of his car. he looks like he’s considering vanishing into the atmosphere.

“tell me the truth,” you say breathlessly.

he turns. there’s a guardedness in him now that wasn’t there before. “what truth?”

“you are him,” you say.

silence. the city hums around you. wind tugs at his jacket.

finally, he nods. “…yeah,” adrian admits. “i am.”

your heart cracks straight down the middle.

everything reframes at once: the coffee, the concern, the hovering, the hearts, the messages. the way he looked at you like you were sacred.

you stagger back a step. “you—” your voice breaks. “you were writing my name in blood!”

he flinches like he deserves it. “in my defense, i thought it was romantic,” he whispers miserably. “i thought if i went big enough, you’d feel how much i cared.”

“i thought i was being hunted.”

his voice trembles. “i would’ve died before letting anyone hurt you.”

“that’s not love,” you breathe, voice low and eyebrows furrowed.

“i know,” he says. “now.”

you drag a hand over your face. “i liked you,” you admit, voice shaking. “at work. adrian. the real you.”

he laughs bitterly. “he’s the real me too.”

“i still want you,” you admit helplessly. “whoever—whatever—you are.”

the confession tastes metallic, like iron in your mouth. he looks at you like that’s the cruelest thing you could possibly say.

“you don’t get to say that now,” he murmurs. “not after i taught myself how to stop reaching for you.”

your heart splits open.

“i don’t want you to stop,” you whisper.

he steps back.

“i have to,” he says, voice breaking. “because loving you like i do isn’t fair to you.”

tears spill freely now.

“so i just lose you?” you ask. “because you loved me wrong?”

he looks wrecked. “you lose me,” he says softly, “because i loved you too much.”

for a moment, it feels like you might collapse.

“please,” you whisper. “don’t disappear.”

he almost breaks. “i won’t,” he promises. “but i can’t be what you want.”

you don’t fix anything. you don’t even try.

he walks away.

and now you have to live with the version of him who learned how to love you from a distance.

you don’t talk for a while after the truth.

not because you don’t want to.

because you don’t know how to exist near each other without reopening something raw.

at work, you become careful. polite. measured. gentle in a way that feels like handling glass.

he doesn’t hover anymore. doesn’t bring coffee. doesn’t look at you like you’re oxygen.

and you learn, quietly, how much that absence hurts.

you start therapy.

you don’t call it because of him, but it is.

you talk about fear. about intensity. about how love can feel like drowning if it doesn’t come with air. you talk about guilt, too. because you never stopped caring. you just didn’t know how to survive the way he cared.

adrian starts trying—awkwardly, sincerely—to become someone safer. not smaller. not less. just gentler.

he cracks fewer crazed jokes. he reins in the impulsiveness. he listens more than he speaks.

sometimes you catch him pausing before acting, like he’s asking himself: will this scare her? will this hurt her? will this be too much?

it softens something in you.

one day, you stay late again.

he’s there too.

the back office is quiet, rain ticking against the windows like a second clock.

he clears his throat, “i’ve been trying to… get better,” he says.

you look up. “better how?”

he shrugs, embarrassed. “less intense. less… me at my worst.”

you smile faintly. “i don’t want you to erase yourself,” you say. “i just want to feel safe standing next to you.”

he nods. “that’s fair.” there’s a pause. “…do you feel safer now?” he asks.

you consider it honestly. “a little,” you admit. “yeah.”

the relief on his face is small but real. like a win.

outside, he offers to walk you home again. not like a knight. not like a guardian. just like someone who cares.

you say yes.

your hands brush once on the sidewalk. you both freeze. neither of you pulls away immediately.

the contact is brief, but it lingers—warm, careful, almost sacred.

later that week, vigilante returns to your life.

not with an overwhelming presence. not with hearts. not with messages carved into walls.

he stops a robbery quietly. leaves no signature. no theatrics. no trace of you. but you know it’s him, and you know it’s for you.

when you see it on the news, your chest tightens—but not with fear this time.

with pride. with relief. with something soft and aching.

you run into adrian the next morning.

“you’re acting different,” you say gently.

he smiles, a little shy. “i’m trying to love you in a way that doesn’t hurt you.”

your heart twists.

“that means more than you think,” you whisper.

he hesitates.

“…does it mean there’s still a chance?” the question is quiet. vulnerable. unarmed. you don’t answer immediately.

“i don’t know,” you say honestly. “but i want to find out.”

the hope in his eyes is cautious. earned. earnest.

“slow,” he says. “we can go slow.”

you smile. “i’d like that.”

over time, you relearn each other. as two flawed people trying to build something healthier than what came before.

he asks before stepping closer. you speak when something scares you. you both apologize more than you used to.

sometimes it still hurts.

sometimes you still flinch. sometimes he still worries he’s too much. sometimes you still worry you’re not enough.

but now, the pain feels like a healing cut.

the healing isn’t dramatic.

it doesn’t arrive with speeches or sudden certainty. it happens in small, almost invisible ways.

in adrian asking, “is this okay?” before sitting closer. in you saying, “that scared me,” instead of swallowing it. in both of you choosing honesty even when it feels uncomfortable.

you don’t fall back into each other. you walk. step by step.

you start doing normal things together. coffee after work. late-night movies. sitting on opposite ends of the couch until one of you drifts closer without realizing.

there’s still history in the air.

sometimes you catch a flicker of the old intensity in his eyes—and your chest tightens. sometimes he catches the old fear in your posture—and he backs up without being asked.

you’re learning each other’s edges. you’re learning how not to cut.

late one night after a particularly brutal shift, you find yourself on the rooftop of his apartment, the city spread out below like a living heartbeat, the two of you sitting side by side.

your knee brushes his. this time, neither of you flinches.

“i used to think love had to hurt to be real,” he says softly. “that’s what my friends said. what my parents showed.”

you tilt your head. “and now?”

“i think love should feel like safety,” he murmurs. “even when it’s intense.”

your chest warms. he looks at you like that whatever look you’re giving him has rewrote his entire life.

“…can i try something?” he asks.

your pulse picks up.

“what?”

he swallows.

“can i hold your hand?”

the request is simple. the meaning is not.

you hesitate only a second before nodding.

“yes.”

his fingers brush yours first—tentative, almost reverent—before threading through them.

his hand trembles. so does yours.

but neither of you lets go.

you sit like that for a while. breathing. listening. existing together without fear.

finally, he whispers, “can i kiss you?”

not like a demand. not like an impulse. like a promise he won’t break.

your heart beats slow and full.

“yes,” you whisper back.

he leans in carefully.

not rushed. not desperate. not overwhelming.

his lips meet yours like he’s afraid to bruise you.

the kiss is soft.trembling.a little unsure.

but it doesn’t hurt.

it feels like a wound closing. it feels like forgiveness. it feels like choosing each other, again.

when you pull back, his forehead rests against yours.

something akin to hope ignites itself in your chest.

love won’t erase what happened. it can’t. but what it can do is grow around it.

like ivy climbing a cracked wall. like skin knitting over an old wound. like a heartbeat that learned a new rhythm.

you and adrian can’t ever pretend the past didn’t exist. but you can refuse to let it own the future.

mornings become a quiet ritual.

you wake to sunlight pooling across tangled sheets. adrian is usually half-awake already, blinking blearily at his phone, hair a mess, face relaxed in a way that once felt impossible.

“morning,” he murmurs.

“morning,” you reply.

sometimes he kisses your forehead. sometimes he’ll be overly talkative, spewing off random animal facts that you’re fairly certain can’t be true (octopuses definitely don’t have eight hearts, but he’s adamant they do). sometimes he bumps his shoulder into yours. sometimes he just watches you like he’s still amazed he gets to be here.

you like all of it.

he still goes out at night sometimes. but vigilante is different now. no fear-inducing messages. no theatrics. no obsession carved into crime scenes.

he moves quietly. protects without spectacle. leaves no trace of you behind.

when he comes home, he doesn’t look haunted anymore. he looks tired. looks human. looks like someone trying.

and you meet him at the door with warm light and steady arms.

one evening, you sit on the couch together, legs tangled, a movie playing neither of you is watching.

he absentmindedly traces circles over your knuckles. “do you ever regret it?” he asks quietly.

“…regret what?”

“giving me another chance.”

you consider him.

the man who loved too loudly. the man who learned to love gently. the man who chose to change instead of clinging to being right.

you smile.

“no,” you say. “i regret that we hurt each other. but i don’t regret choosing you.”

his eyes shine.

“good,” he murmurs. “because choosing you is like, my favorite thing.”

at work, you’re known as the calm one. the grounded one. the one who smiles more than she used to.

and adrian—still weird, still awkward, still unmistakably himself—walks beside you without hovering.

when coworkers tease, he laughs. when things get hard, he steadies himself before reacting. when he looks at you, it’s no longer like you’re a miracle he’s terrified of breaking. it’s like you’re a partner.

sometimes you talk about the old days.

not with shame. not with fear.

with honesty.

“i was scared,” you admit once.

“i was too much,” he replies. “like, way too much. in my defense though, chris told me chicks dig violence, and they like men to be protective, so i totally thought that—”

you squeeze his hand. “we grew,” you say.

he nods. “together.”

one night, back on the rooftop where everything once shattered, he laces his fingers through yours.

“you’re not afraid of me anymore,” he says softly.

you lean into his shoulder.

“no,” you answer. “i’m not.”

he exhales, like a prayer finally answered. “and i’m not afraid of loving you wrong,” he adds. “because now i know how to love you right.”

you tilt your head up and kiss him—easy, warm, certain.

the city glows beneath you.

the past stays where it belongs.

and the future feels wide open.

years from now, love won’t look like panic or obsession.

it will look like grocery lists. inside jokes. hands brushing in the kitchen. quiet kisses before bed.

it will look like scars that don’t ache anymore. it will look like a man who learned how to hold without hurting. it will look like you. 

it’s late in your shift—almost three in the morning—when the automatic doors slide open and let in a man who looks like he took a wrong turn somewhere between cosplay convention and midlife crisis. he’s tall, broad-shouldered, dressed casually but strangely—like he dressed himself in the dark and decided confidence would carry him the rest of the way. he doesn’t look hurt. he doesn’t look sick.

he looks curious.

he approaches the desk with an easy grin, rests his elbows on the counter like you’re already friends.

“hey,” he says. “quick question.”

you blink. “are you a patient?”

“not right now,” he says cheerfully. “but, let us just say hypothetically—”

you sigh internally. hypotheticals never end well. “what’s your question?” you ask anyway.

he leans closer, lowering his voice like he’s about to tell you a secret. “which artery makes people bleed out the fastest?”

you stare at him.

he watches you stare. completely unbothered.

“…excuse me?”

“like,” he continues, gesturing vaguely with his hands, “if someone were to get stabbed—accidentally, obviously—where would be the worst place? time-wise.”

your mouth opens. closes. opens again. “sir,” you say carefully, “if you’re asking about harming someone—”

“no, no,” he interrupts. “not harming. research.”

“research for what?”

he thinks about it for a moment, then smiles wider. “writing, in a mary shelley-esque bet.” that tracks, somehow.

you give him a flat look. “we can’t answer questions like that.”

“oh. okay.” he nods, unfazed. “what about freezer burn?”

you pause. “…what about it?”

“what temperature does it start at?”

you rub your temple. “why?”

“details matter.”

you consider calling security. but evergreen trauma medical center doesn’t really have security—just a bored cop who naps in his cruiser outside the diner. and the man in front of you doesn’t feel threatening. he feels… earnest. like a golden retriever with homicidal curiosity.

“i can tell you about frostbite,” you say. “freezer burn isn’t something we covered in school.”

“perfect.”

and just like that, you’re explaining tissue damage and temperature thresholds to a stranger whose eyes light up every time you say something technical. he listens like it’s the most fascinating thing he’s ever heard, nodding along, asking follow-up questions that are way too specific for comfort.

when you finish, he beams. “you’re really smart,” he says.

“…thanks.”

“i’m adrian,” he adds, holding out his hand.

you hesitate, then shake it. “you can’t keep coming in here just to ask questions.”

he grins. “watch me.”

he leaves a few minutes later, waving like he’ll see you tomorrow.

you assume you won’t.

you’re wrong.

adrian becomes a fixture.

he always comes in late—after the rush, when the ER is quiet enough that you can hear the heart monitors beep in rhythm. sometimes he brings coffee. sometimes he brings pastries from the bakery downtown. he never pretends to be a patient. he never crosses a line.

he just asks questions.

sometimes they’re harmless.

“what happens if you stay awake for too long?”

“can adrenaline really make you lift a car?”

“do people feel pain differently when they’re scared?”

other times… not so much.

“how long can someone survive with internal bleeding if they don’t know it’s happening?”

“what’s the difference between a bruise from a fall and one from being grabbed?”

“is it possible to snap a neck without killing someone?”

you start answering selectively. carefully. you tell yourself he’s a writer. a true crime author, maybe. or a screenwriter. you’ve met weirder. hell, you’ve dated weirder.

you don’t notice when the ER starts to feel… safer.

it was always safe, technically. evergreen doesn’t see much violent crime, aside from the random attacks from the masked crusader who calls himself vigilante (who names themself after their job?). but little things change.

dr. shen mentions a patient who made a crude comment, who lingered too close, who made her uneasy in a way she can’t quite explain. you nod sympathetically, offer solidarity. a few weeks later, you see his face on a missing person poster taped to a lamppost outside the grocery store.

you feel a flicker of discomfort. then you shrug it off. people leave town all the time.

nurse callahan complains about a regular who gets handsy when he’s drunk. you roll your eyes with her, promise to keep an eye out next time. there is no next time.

the woman with the bruises—the one who always says she fell, who avoids eye contact, who comes in every few weeks like clockwork—stops coming in altogether. months pass before you see her again, laughing in a coffee shop, hair freshly cut, eyes bright. she tells you her husband left town suddenly. just packed up and vanished.

you smile. wish her well.

your mother’s voice echoes in your head: bad things happen to bad people.

you don’t connect the dots. you don’t notice the red visor watching from rooftops when you clock out at ungodly hours after swapping shifts with other nurses.

you don’t notice how adrian’s posture changes when you vent about a patient who scared you. you don’t notice how carefully he listens.

but adrian notices everything.

you start to look for him without meaning to.

it’s subtle at first—just a flicker of disappointment when the doors don’t slide open at the usual time slot, a moment of anticipation when they do. adrian never comes in during chaos. he always waits until evergreen settles into its nightly hush, when the ER lights feel too bright for how empty the waiting room is.

tonight, he’s late.

you’re halfway through charting when you hear footsteps and glance up instinctively. he’s there, leaning against the counter like he belongs behind it, not in front of it. he’s wearing a hoodie tonight, sleeves pushed up, hair a mess like he ran his hands through it too many times.

“hey,” he says.

you relax without realizing you were tense. “you’re late.”

“yeah.” he grins. “got… held up.”

you don’t ask by what.

he peers past you at the quiet ER. “slow night?”

“always,” you hum in response. “that’s evergreen for you.”

“good,” he says softly. then, louder: “so! question.”

of course. you close the chart and face him. “if this is about arteries again—”

“nope.” he raises his hands in surrender. “this one’s about bruises.”

you pause. “bruises.”

“yeah. like—” he gestures vaguely at your arm. “how long does it take before they show up? after someone gets grabbed.”

your stomach tightens. “depends,” you say slowly. “force, location, the person. why?”

he shrugs, too casual. “just wondering how people miss them.”

you don’t like the way he says that. like it’s personal.

before you can respond, dr. shen walks past, clipboard tucked under her arm. adrian’s gaze flicks to her automatically—sharp, assessing. noticing the way her shoulders stiffen when she spots him, the way she speeds up.

he notices things.

“you okay?” he asks you, eyes still tracking her retreat.

“yeah,” you say, though you’re not sure why he asked. “why?”

he hums. “she seems… tense.”

you snort. “that’s residency.”

“mm,” he says, unconvinced.

he asks a few more questions—lighter ones this time, about sleep deprivation, about why some people faint at the sight of blood and others don’t. eventually, your shift ends.

“you walking out?” he asks.

you nod, grabbing your bag. “yeah.”

“i’ll walk with you,” he says, like it’s a given.

outside, the air is cool and still. the parking lot is mostly empty, streetlights buzzing softly. you don’t think twice about letting adrian fall into step beside you. he keeps a respectful distance. always does.

“you ever feel unsafe here?” he asks suddenly.

the question catches you off guard. “what?”

“in evergreen,” he clarifies. “at work.”

you think about it. about missing posters. about hands that lingered too long. about bruises explained away.

“…not really,” you say. “why?”

“no reason.” he smiles. “just curious.”

he stops at the edge of the lot. watches you unlock your car.

“night,” he says.

“night, adrian.”

you don’t notice the way he waits until you’re inside before he leaves.

the first time you almost connect the dots, it’s because of nurse callahan.

she corners you in the break room, eyes wide, voice low. “did you hear?”

“hear what?”

“that guy,” she says. “the drunk who kept grabbing me. they found his car abandoned outside town.”

your heart stutters. “what?”

“yeah. keys still inside. wallet too.” she shivers. “creepy, right?”

you force a laugh. “guess he skipped out on some debts or something.”

“guess so,” she says. then, quieter: “good riddance.”

that night, adrian comes in whistling.

you watch him more closely than usual as he leans on the counter, asks you about concussions. he seems lighter. happier.

“busy night?” you ask.

“nah,” he says. “pretty productive, though.”

your pulse ticks up. “productive how?”

he grins. “oh, you know. got some stuff done.”

you study his face. there’s no guilt there. no hesitation. just an easy warmth directed entirely at you.

you tell yourself you’re imagining things.

it becomes a pattern.

every time someone at work scares you—really scares you—something happens to them.

a man who threatens a tech disappears.

a belligerent drunk who throws a chair gets arrested for something unrelated and never comes back.

you never see adrian do anything. you never hear him confess. but he always seems to know.

“you okay?” he asks one night, after you finish recounting a patient who made your skin crawl.

“yeah,” you say, tired. “just… people suck sometimes.”

“they don’t have to,” he says mildly.

you laugh. “that’s optimistic.”

he tilts his head. “is it?”

there’s something in his eyes then. something sharp behind the friendliness. like a blade wrapped in velvet.

you should be afraid.

instead, you feel safe.

the night everything clicks is quiet. too quiet.

you’re walking out later than usual, parking lot empty, when you hear footsteps behind you.

you tense.

“hey,” adrian says quickly. “sorry! didn’t mean to scare you.”

you exhale, embarrassed. “you didn’t.”

he falls into step beside you, closer than usual. you can smell metal on him. iron. 

blood.

you stop.

he stops too. instantly.

“adrian,” you say slowly. “are you hurt?”

he blinks. “what?”

“you smell like blood.”

a beat. then he smiles. “oh,” he says lightly. “yeah. that!”

your heart starts pounding. “that what?”

he studies your face, something calculating flickering behind his eyes. then he sighs. “i was hoping you wouldn’t notice yet.”

your breath catches. “notice what?”

he steps closer. not threatening. intimate. “that i take care of things,” he says softly. “for the doctors and nurses here. for you.”

the parking lot feels suddenly very empty.

“what does that mean?” you whisper.

he reaches out—slowly, giving you time to pull away—and brushes his thumb against your wrist, right over your pulse.

“it means,” adrian says, voice warm, reverent, “that nobody who hurts you gets to keep doing it.”

the world tilts.

“you’re joking,” you say. “this is—this is some writer thing, right?”

he chuckles. “oh, i am a writer.”

your stomach drops. “of what?”

“justice,” he says brightly. and then, like he can’t help himself, he adds: “also murder.”

your pulse is a roar in your ears. “you’re serious?” you breathe.

he nods. “yeah.”

silence stretches between you.

“you’ve been watching me,” you say.

“protecting,” he corrects. “there’s a difference.”

“there really isn’t.”

he shrugs. “agree to disagree.”

you should run. instead, you ask, “why me?”

his expression softens in a way that’s almost frightening. “because,” he says, like it’s obvious, “you save people. you care. you listen. and the world keeps trying to hurt you anyway.”

he leans closer, forehead nearly touching yours.

“i won’t let that happen.”

your knees feel weak.

“you’re not scared,” he observes, delighted.

“i should be,” you whisper.

“but you’re not.”

“no,” you admit. “i’m not.”

his smile is slow. possessive. “good! because i really like you.”

you don’t sleep that night.

you lie in bed staring at the ceiling, replaying his words over and over until they lose meaning and then regain it all at once.

“i take care of things for you.”

every instinct you have—every training, every ethical boundary—screams that you should report him. that you should quit. that you should run as far away from evergreen as possible.

but another part of you, quieter and far more dangerous, keeps inventory.

you’ve walked to your car alone for months without fear. no one touches you at work anymore. the people who made your skin crawl are gone.

and adrian never once crossed a line with you.

when he shows up the next night, you’re already waiting.

he hesitates when he sees your expression—guarded, serious, no hint of your usual tired amusement.

“...okay,” he says carefully. “you look like you’re about to either punch me or ask me out. i’m hoping for the second one.”

“sit,” you say.

he does exactly as you tell him to. he always does.

you fold your arms. “how long?”

he exhales. “how long what?”

“how long have you been doing this,” you say. “for me.”

he doesn’t joke. doesn’t deflect. he looks at you like this matters.

“a few months,” he admits. “since the guy who cornered you by the supply closet.”

your stomach drops. “you saw that?”

“i heard it,” he says. “your voice changed.”

that sends a chill straight through you.

“you followed me,” you say.

“i watched,” he corrects. “there’s a difference!”

“stop saying that.”

he winces. “okay. yeah. fair.”

you lower your voice. “how many people, adrian?”

he tilts his head, considering. “that’s… a loaded question. i mean, i've got a bet going with my friend about who can get the coolest one, so i keep trying stuff. and because i’ve liked, saved the world a couple times, and i’ve been to alternate dimensions—”

“answer it.”

“do you want the number,” he asks gently, “or do you want to keep sleeping at night?”

your jaw tightens.

“that’s what i thought,” he murmurs.

you should feel disgust. horror. fear.

instead, you feel something dangerously close to relief.

“you don’t get to decide who lives or dies,” you say, even as your voice wavers.

he nods. “you’re right.”

that surprises you.

“i don’t want to,” he continues. “but someone has to. and i’m really good at it! it’s like a total win-win situation for everyone.”

you swallow. “what if you’re wrong?”

“i’m not,” he says immediately. then softer: “but if i ever was… i’d stop.”

you meet his eyes. “for what? or even who?”

“for you.”

the weight of that settles heavy in your chest.

“you scare me,” you admit.

his mouth quirks. “yeah, no, that tracks. like, i totally see where you’re coming from. i’d honestly be a little more worried for you than usual if you weren’t scared of me!”

“but,” you add, barely audible, “you make me feel safe.”

something in adrian’s expression breaks open at that—something raw and unguarded. “i work really hard at that,” he says quietly.

silence stretches between you, thick with everything unsaid.

“you can’t keep doing this,” you whisper.

“i can,” he says. “but i won’t if you tell me not to.”

you search his face for a lie. find none.

“…i don’t want to know,” you say finally.

his brows knit together. “what?”

“i don’t want details. i don’t want names. i don’t want blood on my hands by association.” you steady yourself. “but i won’t turn you in, because you’re him aren’t you? you’re that vigilante guy. you take down the actual bad guys.”

relief floods his face so fast it almost knocks him over.

“also,” you continue, heart pounding, “if i say someone scares me—really scares me—you don’t act unless i ask. those are my terms.”

he nods immediately. “deal.”

“you swear?”

“i swear,” he says. “on… you? i really hate my mom, so if i swear on her that means nothing. but on you, it means something.”

that shouldn’t mean anything.

it does.

evergreen never notices the difference.

that’s the thing about safety—it’s invisible when it works.

life settles into something that almost looks normal. you work. you sleep. you come home. adrian starts showing up at your place with alarming regularity, like a stray cat that figured out your schedule and decided it lived there now.

he learns your routines.

which mug you always reach for first. how you kick your shoes off by the door. the way you hum under your breath when you’re exhausted but trying not to be.

“you know,” you tell him one night, watching him fold laundry like it’s a sacred ritual, “most people would find this creepy.”

he glances up, visor-less, soft-eyed. “most people don’t deserve you.”

you snort. “that’s not how that works.”

“sure it is,” he says. “you’re the baseline.”

he makes dinner. nothing fancy—pasta, mostly—but he insists on cutting vegetables with surgical precision. you watch his hands more than you should.

“you ever wish things were simpler?” you ask.

he considers. “no.”

“really?”

“simple usually means someone’s lying,” he says. “this is honest.”

that shouldn’t be comforting. it is.

the first time you come home shaken—really shaken—you don’t even have to explain.

adrian’s already there, sitting on your couch, helmet resting beside him like a promise. he looks up the moment the door opens.

“what happened?”

you drop your bag. your hands are trembling.

“new attending. he grabbed me,” you say. “not—bad. but enough.”

his jaw tightens.

“i told him to stop,” you add quickly. “he laughed.”

adrian stands slowly. carefully. like he’s afraid sudden movement might scare you. “what do you need?” he asks.

the room feels very still.

you think of ethics. of rules. of the version of yourself that existed before adrian chase. then you think of walking to your car alone.

“i don’t want to see him again,” you say.

adrian nods. once. “okay.”

you don’t ask questions.

the next day, the man doesn’t show up for his shift. or the next.

or the next.

you feel the familiar twist of guilt—and the equally familiar release that follows.

some nights, adrian comes back bloodied and buzzing with energy, curls up beside you like nothing happened. other nights, he stays home, lets the city fend for itself.

those nights are your favorite.

you lie in bed together, his arm heavy around your waist, your fingers tracing absent-minded patterns into his skin.

“you ever think about stopping?” you ask once.

he hums. “do you want me to?”

you consider it. the quiet. the safety. the way the other women at work suddenly have nothing to fear either. “no,” you admit.

“then no,” he says simply.

he presses a kiss to your temple. “i’m yours. that’s the rule.”

you should argue.

instead, you smile and close your eyes.

evergreen remains peaceful.

the ER stays quiet.

and sometimes—when you leave work late and the night air feels too open—you catch the faint reflection of red in a darkened window. watching.

guarding.

loving.

you don’t wave. you don’t have to. adrian already knows you’re safe.

clark has been in love with you for two years, three months, and eleven days.

he doesn’t keep track on purpose. it just… sticks. some moments lodge themselves into him deeper than others, impossible to shake loose. the first time you laughed at one of his stupid puns during a late deadline night. the way you say his name when you’re tired—dragging the a just slightly, like you’re leaning into it. the way you always steal his pen and then deny it with a straight face.

he knows better than to hope for anything more.

because you talk about him.

the doofus.

you never call him that, of course. you call him by his name, with that same softness you never quite aim at clark. you tell clark everything—how exciting it felt at first, how unpredictable, how passionate. you use words like intense and complicated like they’re virtues instead of warning signs.

clark listens.

he always listens.

he listens when you call him from the planet’s stairwell, whispering because you don’t want lois to overhear you crying over someone who very clearly does not deserve it. he listens when you sit across from him at lunch, poking at your salad and asking if you’re “being dramatic,” and he lies through his teeth and tells you you’re not.

because he’s a sucker.

for anything that you do.

the newsroom is chaos, as usual.

phones ringing, keyboards clacking, perry barking about deadlines while jimmy nearly trips over a cable again. you’re perched on the edge of clark’s desk, legs crossed at the ankle, spinning one of his pens between your fingers.

“you’re gonna break that,” clark says mildly.

you grin. “relax! i’ll buy you a new one.”

“you say that every time.”

“and yet,” you reply, tapping the pen against his notepad, “you keep letting me steal them.”

clark smiles, helpless. “yeah. i guess i do.”

you don’t notice the way his shoulders tense when your phone lights up. you don’t notice how his smile fades just slightly when he sees the name on the screen.

you hop down from his desk. “it’s him,” you say, unnecessarily, already stepping away. “i’ll be right back.”

clark nods, because that’s what he does.

he watches you walk toward the elevators, already answering, already softening your voice.

he tells himself—like he always does—that he’s just being a good friend.

you call clark later that night.

of course you do.

it’s nearly midnight, metropolis quiet in that way that only exists between sirens, and clark is sitting alone in his apartment with an untouched mug of tea when his phone lights up again.

your name.

his heart stutters, traitorous thing.

“you okay?” he asks immediately, sitting up straighter.

you laugh, but it cracks halfway through. “wow. you didn’t even let me say hi.”

he exhales. “i take that as a no.”

and then you’re crying.

full-on, breathless, hiccupping sobs, like you’ve been holding it together all day and now there’s nothing left to brace against. clark closes his eyes, jaw tightening, as he listens to you unravel.

“he says he needs space,” you say, voice thick. “that he’s not in the right headspace for a relationship. and i just—clark, what does that even mean?”

it means he doesn’t deserve you, clark thinks.

out loud, he says, “it means he doesn’t know what he wants.”

you sniff. “so it’s not me?”

“no,” clark says immediately. too quickly. “it’s not you.”

you breathe out, like that’s something you needed permission to believe.

“he says he still cares about me,” you continue. “that this hurts him too.”

clark’s grip tightens around his phone. “does it?” he asks gently.

you hesitate.

“i don’t know,” you admit. “he sounded… distant. like he was already gone.”

clark leans back against his couch, staring up at the ceiling.

you end up crying.

and he ends up lying. “it’s gonna be okay,” he tells you. “you’re gonna get through this.”

you sniff again. “you always say that.”

“because it’s true.”

there’s a long silence on the line. not awkward. just heavy.

“thank you,” you say finally. “for being a friend.”

the words land like a bruise.

“always,” clark replies, because he doesn’t know how to be anything else.

when the call ends, he stays there, phone pressed to his ear long after the screen goes dark.

going in circles. 

again.

the next few days blur together.

you’re quiet at work, distracted, staring at your screen like the words might rearrange themselves if you look hard enough. clark brings you coffee without being asked. you accept it with a tired smile.

“you’re too good to me,” you say.

he laughs softly. “it’s just coffee.”

but it’s not. it’s everything he can give without crossing a line you haven’t invited him over.

you vent to him between assignments, voice low and furious now instead of broken. how he didn’t text back. how he left you on read. how he posted like nothing was wrong.

“he treats you so bad,” clark says before he can stop himself.

you glance at him, surprised.

he clears his throat. “i mean—anyone would be upset.”

you sigh. “i know. i just—clark, why does it hurt so much when i know i deserve better?”

because you’re still hoping he’ll change, clark thinks.

because you haven’t looked at the person standing right in front of you, another voice adds, traitorous and aching.

he swallows. “because you cared,” he says instead. “and caring always costs something.”

you study him for a moment, expression softening.

“you’re really good at this,” you say. “talking me down.”

he smiles, small and sad. “lots of practice.”

you call him again that night.

and the night after that.

sometimes it’s tears. sometimes it’s anger. sometimes it’s just silence, punctuated by the sound of you breathing on the other end while clark stays awake, listening, anchoring you without asking for anything in return.

“i’ll call you tomorrow,” you say one night, voice sleepy. “like… ten?”

clark glances at the clock. 2:13 a.m.

“yeah,” he says. “ten’s good.”

when the line goes dead, he stares at his phone and lets himself imagine—just for a second—what it would be like if someday you called him first because you wanted him, not because you were hurting.

sometimes he’s so close to confession it scares him.

but you’re not ready.

and he knows it.

so he waits.

you don’t expect him to show up. that’s the thing—you never do.

you’re sitting on your couch in yesterday’s clothes, phone facedown on the coffee table like it personally betrayed you, when there’s a knock at the door. not loud. just firm enough to be real.

you almost don’t answer it.

when you do, clark is standing there with a paper bag in one hand and that same careful expression he always wears when he’s not sure how fragile you are.

“hi,” he says.

you blink at him. “clark?”

“i—” he clears his throat. “it’s eleven-thirty. you didn’t answer your phone.”

you glance over your shoulder at the couch, the blanket, the mess you haven’t had the energy to clean. “sorry. i just… forgot.”

he hesitates, then lifts the bag slightly. “i brought food. and, uh. coffee. decaf. i remembered.”

something in your chest cracks open.

you step aside without thinking. “you didn’t have to do that.”

“i know,” he says gently. “i wanted to.”

you let him in.

clark’s apartment has always been immaculate when you’ve visited. your place is… not.

there are tissues everywhere. a half-empty glass of water sweating onto your table. the quiet is thick, broken only by the hum of the city outside.

clark sets the bag down and takes it all in without comment. no judgment. just presence.

“you wanna talk?” he asks.

you shrug. “not really.”

“okay.”

you wait for him to push. he doesn’t.

he sits beside you instead, close enough that you’re aware of the warmth of him, the solidness. it’s grounding. infuriatingly comforting.

minutes pass.

then: “he texted me,” you say suddenly.

clark’s jaw tightens. you don’t see it. “yeah?”

“he said he misses me.” you laugh, sharp and humorless. “isn’t that hilarious?”

clark exhales through his nose. “what did you say?”

“nothing. i haven’t replied.”

a beat.

“i’m proud of you,” clark says.

you glance at him, surprised. “really?”

“yeah,” he says. “that takes strength.”

you swallow. “it doesn’t feel like it.”

“it will,” he promises.

you lean back against the couch, eyes burning. “i don’t understand how he can just… walk away. like i didn’t matter.”

clark turns toward you fully now. his voice is steady, but there’s something underneath it—something restrained.

“you mattered,” he says. “you still do.”

you shake your head. “then why wasn’t i enough?”

clark almost says it.

the words are right there. you were enough. you still are. you’re just looking in the wrong direction.

instead, he says, “sometimes people don’t know how to hold onto good things.”

you close your eyes, and without really meaning to, you lean into him.

clark freezes.

your shoulder presses into his arm. your head tips closer, resting just beneath his collarbone. it’s such a small thing. such an intimate thing.

he doesn’t move away. he doesn’t pull you closer either. he lets you decide.

you start doing things together that aren’t strictly necessary.

late-night walks, because you “can’t sleep.” grocery runs, because you “don’t trust yourself not to buy ice cream for every meal.” you sit beside each other on the planet’s roof during lunch breaks, watching helicopters drift by.

people notice.

jimmy raises his eyebrows one afternoon. “you two dating now?”

you laugh. “what? no.”

clark’s smile falters for half a second before he schools it. “just friends.”

“oh,” jimmy says, unconvinced. “cool. cool cool.”

lois notices too.

she watches the way clark tracks you across the room, the way you lean toward him without realizing. one evening, when you’re not around, she crosses her arms and looks him dead in the eye.

“you’re in love with her,” she says flatly.

clark sighs. “i know.”

“and she has no idea.”

“she has an idea,” he corrects. “she just… doesn’t see it that way.”

lois softens. “you gonna tell her?”

clark glances toward your empty desk. “not like this.”

“why?”

“because she’s hurting,” he says quietly. “and i don’t want to be the guy who waits for her to break so i can swoop in.”

lois studies him for a long moment. then: “you’re too good.”

he smiles faintly. “yeah. i hear that a lot.”

you call him at exactly ten the next night.

“i’m not crying this time,” you announce.

clark laughs. “i’m glad.”

“i might scream, though.”

“still counts as progress.”

you pace your apartment, phone tucked against your ear. “he keeps liking my posts. is that a thing? is that a sign?”

clark bites his tongue.

“no,” he says carefully. “it’s a breadcrumb.”

“a what?”

“something small enough to keep you hoping,” he explains. “but not enough to mean anything.”

you’re quiet. “that sucks,” you say eventually.

“yeah,” clark agrees. “it does.”

you hesitate. “clark?”

“mm?”

“why are you always so… good to me?”

he stops dead in his tracks.

because i love you.

“because you deserve it,” he says instead.

you hum, thoughtful. “you know, if i ever date again, i want someone like you.”

clark closes his eyes. “that’s… nice,” he manages.

“but,” you add, oblivious, “i don’t think i could ever date you. it would be weird.”

weird.

the word settles between you like a verdict.

“oh,” clark says. “yeah. totally.”

you don’t hear the way his voice dips. “you’re my best friend,” you continue warmly. “i don’t want to mess that up.”

“of course,” he says.

after the call ends, clark sits in the dark for a long time, staring at nothing.

stuck.

again.

the breaking point comes on a thursday.

you show up at work late, sunglasses on, jaw tight. clark notices immediately.

“what happened?” he asks, low.

you shake your head. “i don’t wanna talk about it.”

he lets it go—for all of ten minutes.

when he finds you in the stairwell again, hands shaking, phone clenched in your fist, he doesn’t ask.

he just opens his arms.

you walk into them.

this time, he holds you.

really holds you—one hand steady at your back, the other resting carefully against your shoulder. you bury your face into his chest, breathing him in, and for the first time in weeks, you feel safe.

“he told me he’s seeing someone else,” you whisper.

clark’s heart breaks quietly, efficiently.

“i’m sorry,” he murmurs into your hair.

“he said it just happened,” you choke out. “like i was nothing.”

“you’re not nothing,” clark says fiercely, before he can stop himself.

you pull back just enough to look at him. your eyes are red, searching. “then why does it feel like i am?”

clark’s hands tighten just slightly.

because he treats you so bad, and i’m so good to you. because i’m right here. because i can take away your hurt.

he swallows. “you don’t belong to the people who hurt you,” he says slowly. “you belong with someone who chooses you. every day.”

something shifts in the air between you.

you stare at him, breath hitching, like you’re seeing him for the first time—not as the safe place to land, but as a possibility.

“clark,” you whisper.

he holds your gaze, heart pounding. this is it. the edge. the moment he’s been waiting for and dreading all at once.

but you pull back.

“i’m sorry,” you say suddenly. “i—this is too much. i need some air.”

you slip past him before he can respond.

clark stays in the stairwell long after you’re gone, hands still curved like they remember the shape of you.

someday, he tells himself.

someday it’s going to happen.

you don’t sleep.

you lie on your bed staring at the ceiling, replaying the look on clark’s face in the stairwell over and over until it stops being background noise and starts being… something else.

the way he held you. the way his voice changed when he said you weren’t nothing. the way his hands lingered like he didn’t quite trust himself to let go.

you sit up.

because suddenly, it feels obvious.

every late-night call. every coffee. every time he showed up without being asked. every careful step he took around your feelings, even when his own were clearly bleeding through the cracks.

you think of all the times you cried over someone who couldn’t even text you back—and the one person who never failed to answer.

“oh,” you whisper to the empty room.

oh.

clark doesn’t come into work the next day.

you notice immediately.

you tell yourself you’re not panicking. you’re just… concerned. because he’s reliable. because he always texts if he’s running late. because he would never leave you hanging.

you text him first. ‘hey. everything okay?’

three dots appear. disappear.

then: ‘yeah. just took the day off. needed it.’

your chest tightens. ‘do you want company?’

a pause. longer this time. ‘you don’t have to do that.’

that’s not an answer.

‘i want to,’ you type.

another long stretch of silence.

‘okay,’ he finally replies. ‘yeah.’

clark’s apartment looks exactly like you remember it. clean. quiet. safe.

he opens the door and for a second you just stand there, staring at each other like neither of you is quite sure what rules apply anymore.

“you okay?” you ask softly.

he nods. “yeah. just… tired.”

you step inside anyway.

you don’t sit on opposite ends of the couch this time. you sit close—close enough that your knee brushes his. neither of you moves away.

“i owe you an apology,” you say suddenly.

clark blinks. “you don’t owe me anything.”

“yes, i do,” you insist. “i’ve been… using you. not on purpose. but still.”

he exhales. “you were hurting.”

“i know. but you were hurting too.” you swallow. “weren’t you?”

clark looks at you for a long moment. “i didn’t mind,” he says finally.

“that’s not the same thing,” you reply.

silence settles, heavy but honest.

“clark,” you say. “why didn’t you ever tell me?”

his hands tighten together. “because you weren’t ready.”

you shake your head. “you don’t know that.”

he looks up at you then, eyes open and unguarded. “i do. because i’ve been waiting.”

the word lands between you, soft and devastating.

“how long?” you whisper.

he smiles faintly. “a while.”

you laugh weakly. “you’re ridiculous.”

“yeah,” he agrees. “i’ve been told.”

you take a breath. “say it.”

he freezes. “say what?”

“the thing you’ve been biting your tongue over,” you say gently. “the thing you never let yourself scream out. the thing we both know you want to say.”

clark closes his eyes. when he opens them again, there’s no hiding left.

“i love you,” he says. “i have for a long time. i didn’t want to be the guy who took advantage of your heartbreak. i just wanted to be here—until you didn’t need me anymore.”

your heart aches at the words.

“what if,” you say slowly, “i don’t want to stop needing you?”

clark’s breath catches.

you reach for him then, fingers curling into the fabric of his sleeve like you’re afraid he might vanish.

“i kept looking at the wrong person,” you continue. “i kept chasing someone who never chose me. and you were right here, choosing me every single day.”

his voice is barely above a whisper. “you don’t have to say this just because you’re hurting.”

“i know,” you say. “that’s how i know it’s real.”

you lean in—not rushing, giving him time to pull back if he wants to.

he doesn’t.

when you kiss him, it’s gentle. careful. like both of you are afraid of breaking something fragile and precious. his hand comes up to cradle your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek like it’s something sacred.

when you pull away, you rest your forehead against his.

“i think,” you murmur, “you might be my cure.”

clark laughs softly, breath warm against your lips. “yeah?”

“yeah.”

it’s not fireworks right away.

it’s better than that.

it’s late-night talks that don’t end in tears. it’s hands brushing in daylight. it’s realizing that love doesn’t have to hurt to be intense.

one morning, weeks later, you wake up tangled in clark’s arms, sunlight spilling across the room.

“you know,” you say sleepily, “i used to think love was supposed to feel like heartbreak.”

clark kisses your hair. “i’m glad you were wrong.”

you smile, eyes closing again.

because this time, you finally see the truth.

he was right here.

that’s the thing about you: you listen. you always have. you absorb things the way other people deflect them. you don’t interrupt. you don’t escalate. you don’t announce yourself. you just stay.

people mistake that for indifference.

adrian doesn’t. at least, he says he doesn’t. but sometimes, late at night, when the others are gone and the city hums low through concrete walls, you can see the doubt itch under his skin.

you feel it now, in the way he lingers instead of leaving, in the way he watches your hands more than your face.

he leans back against the table. “so… you and chris were talking earlier.”

you finally glance up. just once. “we were arguing.”

“uh-huh.” he nods, lips pressed thin. “sounded friendly.”

“it wasn’t.”

“you laughed.”

you frown slightly, searching memory. “he said something stupid.”

“yeah, that tracks.”

you go back to your blades. adrian doesn’t move.

the silence stretches. you know better than to rush it. adrian fills quiet the way water fills cracks—eventually, inevitably.

“you like him?” he asks.

the question is casual. too casual. thrown like it doesn’t matter. it does.

“no,” you say.

he lets out a breath you don’t think he realized he was holding. “cool. coolcoolcool. because, you know, he’s kind of the worst. he’s my best friend, but i know the dude isn’t the greatest person. i mean... his dad is, well, you know. his dad is his dad.”

“i know.”

“also emilia might literally kill him.”

“yes.”

“and she’s your best friend.”

“yes.”

“and they’ve been doing that weird almost-dating-not-dating thing for, like, forever.”

“yes.”

he squints at you. “then why does it feel like you like him?”

you pause. not because you don’t know the answer—but because you do. “i don’t,” you say finally. “i listen.”

adrian blinks. once. twice. “…oh.”

you risk another glance at him. he looks almost startled, like something just clicked out of place.

“that’s it?” he asks. “you just... listen?”

“yes.”

“huh.” he rubs the back of his neck. “okay. well. that explains… some stuff.”

you wait. you always do.

he doesn’t elaborate.

later, when the team breaks for the night, you head for the roof.

you like the city from above. it feels honest up there: ugly, and glowing, and endless. painted faces, fill the places you can’t reach. you lean your elbows against the ledge and let your gaze drift downward, counting lights, counting breaths.

you don’t hear adrian approach. you rarely do. he’s quieter when he wants to be. “can i ask you something?”

you nod. 

“why do you never… react?”

you tilt your head. “react to what?”

“anything.” he gestures vaguely. “me. missions. chris being a dick. people almost dying. like—don’t get me wrong, you’re great in the field. scary, actually. but off-mission you’re just… flat.”

you consider this. “i don’t feel things loudly,” you say. “that doesn’t mean i don’t feel them.”

he watches your face, searching for something. “do you feel me?”

the question lands heavier than he intends. you don’t answer right away.

you think about the way he always sits next to you in the van, even when there are other seats. about how he talks at you because he knows you won’t shut him down. about how he notices when you’re tired before you notice yourself. you think about the way he jokes when he’s scared. the way he gets reckless when he feels invisible. you think about the wars he wages inside himself, shaping something like poetry out of noise and blood and need.

“yes,” you say. it’s quiet. honest. unadorned.

adrian laughs—but it comes out wrong. too sharp. “right, sure.”

you turn to face him fully. “i mean it.”

he shakes his head. “you say that to everyone.”

“i don’t.”

“you listen to everyone.”

“i don’t.”

he scoffs. “you literally listened to chris rant for twenty minutes about tactical formations like he invented them.”

“because emilia needed me to,” you say. “she asked.”

that stops him. “…she did?”

“yes.”

“oh.” his shoulders drop a little. “okay. that makes sense.”

you watch him process. you don’t rush him.

he stares out over the city now, jaw tight. “sometimes it feels like i’m screaming into the void,” he admits. “like—i do all this stuff. i joke, i talk, i bleed. and nobody actually sees me.”

you swallow. “i see you,” 

he laughs again, softer this time. “yeah, but you see everyone.”

“that doesn’t make it less real.”

he looks at you then. really looks. the words echo somewhere between you, unspoken but heavy. “i just want you to notice me,” he says, voice barely above the wind. “like—notice me.”

you don’t reach for him. you don’t make grand declarations. that’s not how you love. 

instead, you stay.

you stand there beside him, shoulder to shoulder, listening to his breathing even out, memorizing the way the city reflects in his eyes.

you hope—quietly, fiercely—that it’s enough.

the next mission goes sideways in the first three minutes.

it’s supposed to be a simple extraction—warehouse, low-level metahuman smugglers, grab the asset, get out. you’ve done worse half-asleep. but something is off the second your boots hit concrete.

you feel it in your chest before you see it.

“too quiet,” you murmur into comms.

“wow,” adrian says from somewhere to your left, voice bright through the channel. “look at you using words.”

you ignore him. you always do—until it matters.

chris barrels ahead anyway. he always does. big presence, big voice, bigger ego. emilia is covering the rear, tense and focused, and you know—you know—that’s the only reason she’s letting him take point.

“chris,” you say. “slow down.”

he doesn’t.

adrian clicks his tongue. “man has the situational awareness of a drunk raccoon.”

you almost smile. almost.

the ambush hits fast. gunfire ricochets, shrapnel screams, and the quiet shatters into noise and motion. you move without thinking—drop, roll, fire, advance. your world narrows to angles and timing and breath.

you register adrian at your side, fluid and reckless, knives flashing. you register chris taking a hit he shouldn’t have. you register emilia swearing viciously over comms.

you don’t register the way adrian keeps glancing at you until later. until after.

when it’s over and the warehouse smells like smoke and copper, chris is patched up and loud about it, emilia is pretending she wasn’t scared, and adrian is… quiet. that’s when you worry.

he’s sitting on a crate, helmet off, elbows on knees, staring at the floor like it personally offended him. blood streaks one side of his jaw—someone else’s, you think. his hands are shaking.

you crouch in front of him.

“adrian,” you say.

he flinches. “oh. hey,” he says, too fast. “we done?”

“yes.”

“cool.”

you wait. he doesn’t look at you.

“chris almost got himself killed,” he mutters.

“yes.”

“and you ran to him.”

you replay the moment in your head. the calculation. the choice. “he was exposed,” you say. “you weren’t.”

“uh-huh.”

“you had cover.”

“right.”

“you were not in danger.”

he finally looks up at you then, eyes sharp and hurt and a little wild. “so you picked him.”

“no,” you say. “i picked the problem.”

his jaw tightens. “funny. feels personal.”

you search his face, slow and careful. “this isn’t about the mission,” you deduct.

he laughs, brittle. “wow. you’re so observant.”

“adrian.”

“what?” he stands abruptly, pacing. “you always do this. you say everything like it’s a report. like it doesn’t matter.”

“it matters.”

“does it?” he gestures toward where chris is loudly recounting his near-death experience. “because you seem pretty invested in him.”

“i am invested in the team.”

“see?” he throws his hands up. “that. that right there. you hide behind that.”

you stand too, matching his space but not his volume.

“i don’t hide,” you say. “i prioritize.”

“then prioritize me!” he snaps.

the words hang between you, raw and unfiltered.

emilia glances over, concern flickering. chris doesn’t notice. he never does.

you lower your voice. “this isn’t the place.”

“that’s convenient,” adrian says. “it never is.”

you don’t argue. you just step closer—enough that only he can hear you.

“i listen to you,” you say. “every time.”

he swallows. “you laugh at chris’s jokes,” he says quietly.

“they’re not jokes,” you reply. “they’re complaints.”

“that’s worse.”

you almost smile again. almost.

back at the video store, the tension doesn’t dissipate. it clings, heavy and sour.

adrian avoids you. he’s never done that before.

you notice it in the way he sits across the room instead of beside you. in the way he talks around you instead of at you. in the way his jokes sharpen, turn outward, aimed at anyone who isn’t you.

it feels wrong.

you don’t chase him. you don’t corner him. that’s not how you care. you wait.

it happens on a night that should have been calm.

no mission. no alarms. just the low hum of the video store settling into itself—emilia curled up on the couch with her knees tucked in, pretending she’s not watching chris pace; chris pretending he’s not watching her back. the air is thick with everything no one is saying.

adrian is perched on the arm of a chair, spinning a knife between his fingers, restless. too restless.

you notice. you always do. “you’re going to drop that,” you say.

he grins without humor. “you worried?”

“yes.”

that earns you a look—sharp, searching. he opens his mouth to say something, then stops.

chris chooses that moment to speak. “hey,” he says, gesturing between you and adrian. “you two good? you’ve been weird all night.”

adrian stiffens.

you answer calmly. “we’re fine.”

chris snorts. “you say that about everything.”

emilia shoots him a warning look. “chris.”

“what? i’m just saying—” he shrugs. “it’s hard to tell with her. she doesn’t exactly wear her heart on her sleeve.”

the words aren’t cruel. they still cut.

adrian’s knife stops spinning.

you feel it then—that subtle shift, like the moment before a storm breaks.

“i think,” adrian says lightly, too lightly, “that’s kind of her thing.”

chris raises his hands. “didn’t mean anything by it, man.”

“i know,” adrian says. “you never do.”

emilia stands. “okay, that’s enough. i mean ‘she’ is right here—” but it’s already too late.

“you ever notice,” adrian continues, eyes locked on chris now, “how she listens to you like you’re saying something important? like you matter?”

your chest tightens.

chris frowns. “what’s your problem?”

“my problem?” adrian laughs. “my problem is you always get all the attention and what do i get? i mean, c’mon man... no one takes me seriously. no one notices me!”

the room goes quiet.

you step forward. “adrian.”

he turns on you, hurt flashing into something sharper. “no—don’t. don’t do that calm voice thing. not right now.”

chris looks between you, confused. “is this about me?”

“yes,” adrian snaps. “no! i don’t know.”

emilia moves closer to you instinctively. “adrian, breathe.”

he doesn’t. “i’m tired,” he says, voice breaking through the bravado. “i’m tired of being the joke. of being the loud one. of watching her choose everyone else and pretending it doesn’t kill me.”

you flinch.

chris scoffs. “she doesn’t choose me.”

“she runs to you,” adrian fires back. “she laughs with you.”

“i don’t—” chris stops, glances at you. “do you?”

you don’t answer him. you’re watching adrian unravel, and you know—you truly know—if you don’t act now, you might lose him to the noise in his own head.

“i choose emilia,” you say suddenly.

everyone freezes.

you turn to chris. “she's my best friend, and you hurt her. constantly. whether you mean to or not.”

emilia sucks in a breath.

chris pales. “i—”

“i listen to you,” you continue, steady but firm, “because she needs me to. not because i want you.” then you turn to adrian. “i choose you because i want to.”

silence.

adrian’s eyes are wide, unguarded. “say that again.”

you step closer, placing yourself directly in front of him. no shields. no distance. “i choose you,” you repeat. “i always have.”

his laugh comes out broken. “then why does it feel like i’m begging?”

“because you don’t trust quiet love,” you say. “and i don’t know how to be loud.”

he stares at you, chest heaving. “i just want to be somebody to you.”

“you are,” you say. “you’re the one i notice first. the one i listen for. the one i wait with.”

something in him finally cracks.

he covers his face with his hands, shoulders shaking. you don’t hesitate—you reach out, anchoring him, fingers curling into his sleeves like you’re afraid he’ll disappear.

“i’m ready now,” he whispers. “i’ve been ready.”

you rest your forehead against his. “i know.”

the room exhales.

emilia turns away, discreet. chris looks like he’s been punched in the gut.

later—much later—when the video store is quiet and the city hums beyond the windows, you and adrian sit on the roof again.

this time, he leans into you without asking.

“hey,” he murmurs. “if i’m too much—”

“you’re not,” you interrupt.

he smiles into your shoulder. “you’re still kind of cold.”

“yes.”

“but you stay.”

“...yes.”

he hums, content. “i could use somebody like you.”

you close your eyes, listening to the rhythm of him, finally certain he feels heard.

the city never really sleeps. it just lowers its voice.

you notice that more after adrian starts staying the night on the roof with you. not every night. he’s still restless, still kinetic, still full of sharp edges—but some nights, when the noise in his head gets too loud, he finds you without saying a word.

and you let him.

tonight is one of those nights.

he’s stretched out beside you on the concrete, hands folded on his chest, staring up at the sky like he’s trying to read something written there just for him. you sit with your back against the ledge, knees drawn in, listening to his breathing sync with the city’s pulse.

“you ever miss home?” he asks suddenly.

you consider the question. “sometimes.”

“was it loud?”

“no,” you say. “it didn’t need to be.”

he smiles faintly. “figures.”

silence settles again—not awkward, not heavy. familiar. “i used to think,” he says after a while, “that if i didn’t make noise, i’d disappear.”

you glance down at him. “you don’t.”

“yeah. i know that now.” he turns his head toward you. “because you still see me when i’m quiet.”

you nod once. that’s your confession.

he sits up, leaning closer, elbows on his knees. “can i ask you something else?”

“yes.”

“do you ever want more?” his voice is careful, hopeful without pushing. “or is this—” he gestures vaguely between you. “—enough?”

you don’t answer immediately. not because you’re unsure—but because you’re precise.

“i want consistency,” you decide. “i want someone who stays. who doesn’t need to be louder to feel real.”

he swallows. “i can try.”

“you already do,” you reply.

he laughs softly. “god, you make everything sound like a vow.”

you look at him then, really look. the mess and the sincerity. the boy who made himself a weapon because he was afraid no one would hear him otherwise.

“i don’t say things i don’t mean,” you tell him.

his expression shifts—something warm and stunned and reverent. “okay,” he says quietly. “then… i mean it too.”

he reaches for your hand, slow enough that you could pull away. 

you don’t.

his fingers curl around yours, warm and solid. he squeezes once, like he’s grounding himself in the fact that this is real.

“i’ve been roaming around,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “always looking down at all i see.”

you tilt your head, listening.

“and i didn’t realize,” he continues, “that the person i needed was the one who never looked away.”

your thumb brushes over his knuckles. it’s small. intentional.

he closes his eyes.

“you ready?” he asks.

“yes,” you say. “i’ve been ready.”

he smiles—soft, unguarded, finally at ease—and leans in. the kiss is gentle, unhurried, like something earned instead of taken. no spectacle. no urgency. just two people choosing each other in the quiet.

when you pull back, he rests his forehead against yours.

“promise me something?” he whispers.

you nod.

“if i get loud again—if i spiral—remind me that you’re still here.”

you press a kiss to his temple. “i won’t need to remind you. i’ll just stay.”

he laughs, breathless and happy. “yeah. that tracks.”

you sit together until the sky begins to pale, until the city starts to wake again. when the others join you later, nothing looks different.

everything is.

because love doesn’t always announce itself. sometimes, it just listens.

mornings with adrian are louder than nights.

he hums when he brushes his teeth—off-key, committed. he narrates his every movement in the kitchen like he’s hosting a cooking show no one asked for. he argues with the coffee machine like it can hear him.

you sit at the small table, legs tucked beneath you, watching steam curl from your mug. you listen.

“okay, see, this is why i don’t trust technology,” he says, slapping the side of the machine. “back home i had a percolator that loved me.”

“it didn’t,” you reply.

“it did. it knew my vibes. hated my mom, but she’s also a bitch, so that makes sense.”

you sip your coffee.

he grins at you over his shoulder. “you’re smiling.”

“i always smile.”

“no, you don’t,” he says, triumphant. “that was a me smile.”

you don’t deny it.

he brings you breakfast—toast slightly burnt, eggs overcooked, presentation chaotic. he sets the plate in front of you like it’s an offering.

“fuel for the emotionally reserved,” he declares.

“thank you,” you say sincerely.

he softens every time you say it like that.

later, you sit on the couch while he cleans his weapons at your feet, helmet discarded, focus intense. he talks—not because he needs noise, but because he wants to share.

you listen—not because you have to, but because you choose to.

emilia drops by unannounced, takes one look at the two of you, and smirks. “wow. he’s… domesticated.”

adrian scoffs. “i am feral.”

“you folded his laundry,” she says.

“that was a tactical decision.” you hide your smile behind your mug.

at night, when the world goes quiet again, he curls into you like it’s instinct. his head fits under your chin perfectly, like he was made for this exact space.

“you still here?” he murmurs sometimes, half-asleep.

“yes,” you answer every time.

and he always relaxes. every time.

because he doesn’t need to be loud to be seen anymore. because you never stopped listening. because some love doesn’t shout.

it’s subtle—blink-and-you-miss-it subtle—but you’ve worked beside him long enough to notice the way his shoulders go rigid, the way his hands hover uselessly over his keyboard like he’s forgotten what they’re for.

you watch him swallow.

someone turns up the volume on a laptop. tinny alien acoustics fill the room—crystalline echoes, a language that isn’t meant for human throats. subtitles crawl along the bottom of the screen.

—to fulfill his destiny— —earth will kneel— —he will lead them—

a nervous laugh breaks out near the copy desk. someone mutters, “well. that’s not great.”

clark stands so abruptly his chair skids backward.

“i—uh,” he says, already grabbing his coat. his voice cracks, just a little. “chief probably wants—”

“clark,” perry calls from his office doorway, phone already glued to his ear. his gaze flicks to you, sharp and knowing. “don’t go far.”

you and clark lock eyes for half a second.

something passes between you then—panic, maybe, or something quieter and worse. a shared understanding that the ground just shifted and neither of you knows where it’s going to settle.

you’ve taken walks around the world with him before. late nights, stakeouts, quiet coffee runs where the city feels like it’s holding its breath. you’ve watched him carry the weight of things he never talks about. you’ve watched him watch the world like he’s afraid it might slip out of orbit if he blinks.

you feel it now, that same slow pull toward the dark side of the moon.

and there’s nothing you can do.

an hour later, you’re rushing to the rooftop of the daily planets, emotions so jumbled inside you feel like you might spontaneously combust.

the city sprawls beneath you, loud and alive and utterly unaware of how fragile its faith is.

superman lands behind you without a sound.

you don’t turn right away. you already know he’s there—the air changes when he arrives, like the world is paying attention.

“thanks for agreeing to this,” you say instead, steady. professional. you hold your recorder like a shield.

“you asked,” he replies. it’s clark’s voice, stripped of softness. lower. measured. every syllable carefully weighed like it might be used as evidence later.

you turn.

he looks the same. of course he does. blue suit, red cape, emblem bright against his chest like a target. but there’s something in his eyes tonight—something raw and unsettled, like a fault line just under the surface.

you’ve seen him upset before. controlled anger. righteous fury. this is different.

this is hurt.

“let’s get into it,” you say, because that’s your job, and because if you hesitate you might never start. “earlier today, a recording surfaced—”

“i’ve seen it,” he says quickly.

you nod. “the video appears to show your biological parents claiming they sent you here to dominate earth. people are scared.”

his jaw tightens.

“are you?” the question slips out before you can stop it.

he studies you for a long moment. when he speaks again, it’s quieter. “no,” he says finally. “i’m not scared. i’m angry.”

you inhale slowly. “because it’s not true.”

“because they’re wrong,” he says, heat flashing now. “because they don’t get to decide who i am.”

the wind tugs at his cape, restless.

you glance at your notes. you already know what’s coming next. the questions people are asking. the ones trending. the ones no one else will dare ask to his face.

you brace yourself.

“people want to know,” you say carefully, “what would happen if the video was true.”

his eyes snap to yours.

“what if,” you continue, heart hammering now, “you woke up one day and decided humanity wasn’t worth saving anymore?”

a muscle jumps in his cheek. “i wouldn’t,” he says immediately.

“but what if you did?”

silence stretches between you, thin as wire.

“i’ve spent all these years, saving metropolis and other cities and countries, proving that i won’t,” he says, voice tight. “why is that not enough?”

you hate this part. you hate that you’re the one holding the knife. you hate that he’s looking at you like you’re the one twisting it. “because people are asking if your morality is conditional,” you say. “if it depends on how we treat you. on whether we disappoint you.”

“i’m not a god,” he snaps.

the sound echoes off the buildings below.

you don’t flinch—but something in your chest does. “i never said you were.”

“no,” he says bitterly. “but they do. every day. either i’m their savior or their executioner. there’s no room for anything in between.” he turns away from you, hands clenched at his sides.

you watch him like this—broad shoulders bowed just slightly, like the weight finally got to him—and something in you aches.

you remember the way clark once stayed up all night helping you fact-check a piece that wasn’t even his. the way he brings you coffee exactly how you like it without ever asking. the way he listens—really listens—like every word you say matters.

you took those things for granted.

“so let me ask you this,” you say softly. “if the world turns on you… if they decide you’re a threat—”

he laughs, sharp and humorless. “they already have.”

“if they push you,” you press, “and they push you… what happens when you finally break?”

he spins back toward you. “is that what you think?” he asks. “that i’m one bad day away from becoming a monster?”

the question lands hard.

you meet his gaze and don’t look away. you’re not sure what to say at first. how do you talk to a god that won’t accept he is one? a god that you can only see as your sweet, nonviolent coworker? “i think you’re strong,” you decide. “and i think you’re human in all the ways that count. and that means you can be hurt.”

his expression falters.

“i think,” you continue, quieter now, “that scares people more than anything.”

the city hums below you. traffic. sirens. life going on, blissfully ignorant.

he exhales, long and shaky.

“i’ve saved this world more times than i can count,” he says. “i’ve picked it up and put it back on solid ground when it stumbled. and still—” his voice breaks. “still they’re asking if i’m their doom.”

you step closer without thinking.

“if you go crazy,” you say, the words trembling on the edge of something too personal, “will you still be superman?”

he looks at you like you’ve just reached inside his chest. “and if i’m alive and well,” he asks quietly, “will you still look at me the same way?”

your heart stutters.

this is the part you’re not supposed to cross. the line between reporter and subject. between truth and something far more dangerous.

you lower your recorder.

“i already do,” you breathe.

for a moment, the world holds its breath.

then—somewhere far below—a cheer rises. someone’s seen him. someone still believes.

superman closes his eyes.

and you realize, with startling clarity, that you might be the only thing keeping him tethered right now.

not his strength.not his powers.

you.

the interview detonates exactly the way you knew it would.

by the time you get back to the daily planet after your break, the building is vibrating—phones ringing off the hook, producers shouting from screens, interns sprinting like they’ve been drafted into a war they didn’t sign up for.

your byline is everywhere.

SUPERMAN DENIES LEAKED KRYPTONIAN CLAIMS: “THEY DON’T GET TO DECIDE WHO I AM.” 

you don’t read the comments. you don’t need to.

you can already hear them in your head.

what if he snaps? what if he’s lying? what if we’re already doomed?

clark is at his desk when you step off the elevator.

clark kent. rumpled suit. glasses slightly crooked. mild-mannered, kansas-born reporter who spills coffee and apologizes too much.

no one is looking at him. no one connects him to the man whose voice cracked on a rooftop an hour ago. that’s the thing that makes your chest ache the most.

you pass his desk without stopping. if you look at him—if you really look—you’re not sure you’ll be able to pretend. and pretending is the only thing keeping him safe.

“hey,” he says softly anyway.

just your name. quiet. almost lost under the noise.

you stop.

from the outside, it probably looks like nothing. two coworkers pausing mid-chaos. a beat too long, maybe—but no one’s counting.

you turn just enough to face him.

his eyes search your face, blue and worried and unmistakably clark, not superman. not the symbol. not the headline.

you lower your voice. “you okay?”

a pause. then, just as quietly: “are you?”

you almost laugh. you almost cry. “i did what i had to,” you sigh.

“i know,” he replies.

the way he says it—no accusation, no resentment—hits harder than if he’d been angry. you grilled him on a rooftop in front of the world. you asked the questions that made his hands shake. and he still trusts you.

that trust feels heavier than anything you asked him to lift.

lois lane materializes at your side like she always does when things get interesting.

“well,” she says, eyes sharp, voice breezy, “you officially broke the internet. again.”

you glance at her.

she’s watching clark too—not like the others, not casually. there’s calculation there. knowing. she knows. she’s known for a while now. longer than you have.

“you didn’t go easy on him,” she adds, tone carefully neutral.

you don’t look away. “i couldn’t.”

clark swallows.

lois studies your face for a second longer, then nods once. approval. or maybe understanding.

“perry wants a follow-up,” she says. “later. not today.”

she turns to clark. “you good?”

he forces a smile. “yeah. just—processing.”

lois squeezes his shoulder, quick and familiar, then walks off.

when she’s gone, the space she leaves behind feels too exposed.

clark clears his throat. “listen, about earlier—”

“don’t,” you interrupt, too fast. you soften your tone. “we can’t. not here.”

his mouth tightens in agreement. he glances around the bullpen, at the oblivious coworkers, the glowing screens, the normalcy that feels almost obscene now.

“tonight?” he asks. “the roof?”

you hesitate.

that rooftop is dangerous. it’s where the masks come off. where you stop pretending he’s just your coworker and you’re just doing your job.

but he looks like he’s barely holding himself together, and you know—you know—that he won’t let anyone else see it.

“tonight,” you agree.

the city is quieter after everyone has returned to their homes.

the roof smells like rain and concrete and ozone, like the air after something powerful has passed through.

clark is already there when you arrive. 

not superman. just clark. no cape. no boots. just a jacket pulled tight against the cold, hands tucked into his pockets like he doesn’t know what to do with them.

that’s what guts you the most, every time.

the world thinks superman doesn’t need anyone.

clark kent looks like he needs you desperately.

“they’re still running it,” he says without turning around. “every channel. every site.”

you step up beside him, careful to keep space between you. “they will for a while.”

“i know.” he exhales. “i just didn’t realize how loud it would be.”

you watch the city lights flicker below, like a galaxy turned upside down.

“i keep thinking about what you asked,” he admits. “about breaking.”

you say nothing.

“if i did,” he continues quietly. “if something inside me, you know, changed.” he swallows. “would you be afraid of me?”

the question lands soft and devastating.

you turn toward him fully now. “clark.”

he flinches at his name—not because it hurts, but because it means you see him. not the myth. not the power.

“you’ve been called strong,” you say. “you’ve been called weak. you’ve been called everything in between.”

he lets out a shaky breath.

“but i know your secrets,” you continue. “and i’ll keep them. not because you’re superman—but because you’re you.”

he finally looks at you.

up close, his eyes are glassy. tired. human.

“you took for granted all the times i never let you down,” he says softly, like he’s confessing something. “and i didn’t even realize it.”

“you never let me down,” you say.

his laugh is quiet and broken. “you grilled me and then published an article within an hour.”

“and i still stood by you,” you reply. “both can be true.”

something shifts between you then. the tension that’s always been there—the glances held too long, the conversations that drifted dangerously close to personal—tightens, sharp and electric.

“you’re my anchor,” he says before he can stop himself.

the words hang there, fragile.

“you’re not supposed to need one,” you say, unsure of what else to add on. no words feel adequate at the moment.

“i know,” he replies. “that’s what scares me.”

he steps closer. not touching. never crossing that final line. but close enough that you can feel the warmth he gives off, steady and impossible.

“if i go crazy,” he murmurs, barely audible now, “will you still call me superman?”

you don’t answer right away. you reach out instead—slow, deliberate—and take his hand.

it’s warm. solid. real.

“if you go crazy,” you say, “i’ll still call you clark.”

his breath catches.

“and if i’m alive and well?” he asks.

you squeeze his hand. “i’ll be right here. holding on.”

for the first time since the video leaked—since the world tried to shove him into a destiny he never chose—clark kent leans into you like he’s allowed to rest.

and you realize, with a quiet, terrifying certainty, that you’re his kryptonite.

not the thing that kills him.

the thing that keeps him human.

the first crack happens three days later.

it’s small. practically microscopic. the kind of thing only people who are looking for failure would notice.

superman is pulling a collapsed commuter train out of the river when his grip slips. just for half a second.

no one dies. no one is even seriously hurt. the train scrapes the concrete embankment harder than it should, metal screaming loud enough to rattle windows six blocks away. a dozen phones catch the moment from different angles—his jaw clenched, his arms shaking, the unmistakable hitch in his motion.

by the time he sets the train down safely, the damage is already done.

SUPERMAN STUMBLES DURING RESCUE. FIRST SIGN OF FRACTURE? IS HE LOSING CONTROL? IS OUR CAPED CRUSADOR NOW A DANGER TO US ALL?

you read the headlines from your desk, stomach hollow.

across the bullpen, clark spills coffee all over his notes.

“sorry—sorry,” he murmurs, blotting at the paper like it personally offended him.

no one notices. no one ever does. that’s the cruelest part.

they’re dissecting superman’s body language on every screen in the office—slowing the footage down, circling the slip in red like it’s a crime scene—while clark kent sits ten feet away, quietly unraveling.

lois drops into the chair beside you, expression tight.

“he didn’t lose control,” she says under her breath.

“i know,” you reply.

“he hesitated,” she continues. “that’s different.”

you glance at her. “you think they’ll care?”

lois exhales sharply. “no. i think they’ve been waiting for this.”

across the room, perry barks orders into a phone. “no speculation—stick to verified facts—no, i don’t care what the blogosphere is saying—”

your screen lights up with a dozen emails at once.

what if the video is true? what if he’s weakening? what happens when superman decides we’re the problem?

you close your laptop. you already know who’s going to answer those questions.

and you already know how much it’s going to cost him.

he doesn’t text you. he doesn’t call.

by the time night falls, the silence is so loud it feels intentional.

you find him anyway.

the roof is empty when you arrive—too empty. the air feels wrong, like a held breath that’s gone on too long.

“clark?” you call softly.

nothing. then—wind.

not the dramatic kind. not the thunderous arrival metropolis is used to. just a quiet displacement of air behind you.

“i didn’t want you to see that.”

you turn.

superman stands a few feet away, cape hanging heavy from his shoulders like it’s soaked through. his hands are clenched, knuckles white.

“see what?” you ask.

he laughs, short and bitter. “that.”

he gestures vaguely. at the city, the headlines, himself.

“i froze,” he says. “for a second, i froze. and all i could think was: they were right.”

you step closer. “no, they weren’t.”

“i’ve never hesitated before,” he insists. “never. and now? after the video… after the questions—” his voice drops. “what if something did change?”

your chest tightens. “you didn’t freeze because you wanted to hurt anyone,” you say. “you froze because you were afraid of proving them right.”

his eyes flick to yours. “and that’s better?”

“yes,” you respond immediately. “because it means you care.”

he looks unconvinced. “i keep hearing your voice,” he admits. “on the roof. asking me what happens when i break.”

you swallow. “clark—”

“what if that was it?” he interrupts. “what if that moment, that slip, that was the beginning?”

he looks enormous standing there, impossibly strong, and somehow more fragile than you’ve ever seen him.

you reach for him before you can talk yourself out of it.

your hand lands on his arm. he stills instantly.

you’ve touched him before—accidentally, casually—but this is different. intentional. grounding.

“you’re not breaking,” you say firmly. “you’re hurting. there’s a difference.”

his breath stutters.

“you don’t get to decide that alone,” you continue. “not when the rest of us keep putting the weight of the world on your shoulders and calling it destiny.”

for a long moment, he says nothing.

then, quietly: “i don’t know how to do this without being superman.”

the confession slices straight through you.

“you don’t have to do it without being him,” you say. “you just don’t have to be only him.”

his eyes search your face like he’s looking for permission. for something dangerous.

“i’m so tired,” he whispers.

you step closer. close enough now that the space between you feels meaningless. “i know,” 

his forehead drops forward until it rests against yours.

the city disappears.

there’s no symbol. no headlines. no destiny written in alien glass.

just two people standing on a roof, holding each other up.

“if i lose them,” he murmurs. “if the world decides i’m the enemy—”

“then i’ll still be here,” you say. “and lois will. and the people you’ve saved who don’t have platforms or hashtags.”

he lets out a shaky breath. “you shouldn’t have to do this.”

“too late,” you reply softly. “i already am.”

his hands hover at your waist—not touching, always careful.

“you’re dangerous,” he says, almost smiling. “you know that?”

you huff quietly. “funny. they say the same about you.”

“no,” he says. “you’re worse.”

you raise an eyebrow.

“you make me want things,” he admits. “normal things. impossible things.”

your heart pounds. “like what?”

he hesitates. “like staying,” he says. “like choosing.”

the word lingers between you, electric.

before either of you can say more, his head snaps up.

sirens. far off—but urgent.

he pulls back, duty already reclaiming him.

“i have to—”

“i know,” you sigh.

he looks at you like he wants to apologize for a hundred things he hasn’t done yet.

“i’ll be back,” he promises.

you nod. “i’ll be here.”

he hesitates one last time.

then—so gently it almost doesn’t count—he presses his forehead to yours again.

and he’s gone.

the next morning, perry assigns you another superman piece.

you argue. briefly. futilely.

“they trust you,” he says. “whether they should or not.”

you sit at your desk afterward, staring at the blinking cursor.

across the room, clark types furiously, jaw tight, eyes rimmed red like he didn’t sleep.

no one connects the dots.

except lois, who watches you both like she’s counting heartbeats.

your phone buzzes.

‘did i mess everything up?’

you type back without hesitation. ‘no. you picked people over fear.’

a pause. then: ‘is that enough?’

you look up at him. at the man pretending to be ordinary. at the god pretending not to hurt.

you type: ‘it always has been.’

he looks at his phone. then, just for a second, he smiles.

and you realize the world may never stop testing him.

but as long as he keeps choosing humanity—as long as he keeps choosing you—he won’t float away to the dark side of the moon.

the leak hits at 9:12 a.m.

it’s not alien footage. it’s not another think piece dissecting superman’s microexpressions. it’s worse because it’s human.

ANONYMOUS SOURCE QUESTIONS SUPERMAN’S DUAL PRESENCE AT RESCUES AND DAILY PLANET. COINCIDENCE OR COVER? 

you feel it before you understand it. that cold, instinctive drop in your stomach. the kind that comes from knowing someone tugged the wrong thread.

across the bullpen, clark’s fingers stop moving.

he doesn’t look at the screen. he doesn’t have to. you can see the tension coil through him, sharp and immediate, like a muscle memory from disasters no one else remembers.

lois is on her feet in an instant.

“that’s thin,” she snaps, already skimming. “circumstantial at best.”

“it’s enough,” perry mutters from his office doorway. “enough to make noise.”

the article doesn’t say clark kent is superman. it doesn’t have to.

it points out overlapping timelines. near misses. a reporter mysteriously absent during three major incidents. it suggests—not accuses—that superman might have a “civilian anchor point” in metropolis media.

you close your eyes.

someone, somewhere, is learning how to look.

clark finally exhales, slow and controlled. he pushes back from his desk and stands.

“i’m grabbing coffee,” he says mildly.

no one questions it.

you’re on your feet before you realize you’ve moved. “i’ll come.”

from the outside, it looks normal. coworkers. friends. two reporters escaping the chaos for caffeine. but when the elevator doors close, the air shifts—heavy, electric.

“that was close,” you murmur.

clark stares at the floor. “too close.”

“you’re still safe,” you say quickly. “they don’t know. they’re guessing.”

“guessing turns into patterns,” he replies. “patterns turn into certainty.”

the elevator dings.

you don’t go to the cafe.

you go to the stairwell instead, pushing through the door and into the echoing quiet. the concrete walls smell faintly of dust and oil, the city muffled to a distant hum.

clark stops two steps in.

“i can’t keep doing this,” he says.

the words hit harder than any headline.

you turn to face him. “doing what?”

“lying,” he says. “hiding. watching you take hits meant for me.”

“that’s not—”

“it is,” he insists. his voice isn’t loud, but it’s shaking now. “every time you write about me, every time you defend me, you’re standing in front of the world while i stay behind the curtain.”

“that curtain keeps people alive,” you say.

“it’s starting to get people hurt,” he counters. “what happens when they connect you to me instead?”

the thought twists your chest. “clark,” you say softly. “look at me.”

he does.

“you are not ruining lives by existing,” you tell him. “you’re not betraying anyone by protecting yourself.”

“i’m tired of being afraid,” he admits.

the confession cracks something open between you.

you step closer. “then don’t be afraid alone.”

he laughs weakly. “that’s the problem. i don’t want you anywhere near this.”

“and yet,” you say, “here i am.”

he watches you like he’s memorizing your face. “if i stopped,” he says quietly. “if i walked away from being superman—”

your breath catches. “you can’t mean that.”

“i do,” he says. “at least for a while. let them breathe. let the noise die down.”

“and what about you?” you ask. “what happens to the part of you that needs to help?”

his jaw tightens. “i don’t know.”

you reach out, fingers brushing his sleeve. “running won’t make them stop,” you say. “and it won’t make you happier.”

he closes his eyes at the touch. “you’re my weakness,” he murmurs.

you smile sadly. “no. i’m your reminder.”

he opens his eyes. “of what?”

“that you get to choose,” you say. “not krypton. not earth. you.”

for a moment, it looks like he might kiss you. the tension is unbearable—every unsaid thing vibrating between you, dangerous and inevitable.

then lois’s voice echoes faintly from the stairwell above. “kent? you vanish again and i start assuming secret tunnels.”

clark exhales, stepping back.

the moment slips through your fingers like sand.

that night, superman doesn’t appear.

not when a bridge locks up during rush hour. not when a warehouse fire eats half a block. other heroes respond. planes divert. systems compensate.

but the absence is louder than any cape.

WHERE IS SUPERMAN? HERO NOWHERE TO BE SEEN—HAS HE ABANDONED US? DID HUMANITY PUSH HIM TOO FAR? 

you watch the city from your apartment window, phone clenched in your hand.

no texts. no calls.

you try not to imagine him somewhere alone, wrestling with the kind of silence that eats people alive.

when the knock comes, it nearly stops your heart.

you open the door.

clark stands there, soaked to the bone, glasses fogged, hair plastered to his forehead like he ran through a storm instead of flew above it.

“i needed—” he stops, swallowing. “i needed to see you.”

you pull him inside without a word.

the door clicks shut. the world narrows.

he paces once, then stops, hands braced on the back of your couch like it’s the only thing keeping him upright.

“i didn’t go,” he says. you can hear the guilty clinging to his words.  “i heard the calls. i felt them. and i stayed.”

your chest aches. “why?”

“because i was angry,” he admits. “because part of me wanted to prove i could walk away.”

“and?”

“and i hated it,” he says. “every second.”

you step closer.

“i kept thinking about what you said,” he continues. “about choosing. about not being only one thing.” he looks at you then—really looks—and something decisive settles in his expression. “i don’t want to stop being superman,” he says. “and i don’t want to keep pretending i don’t need anyone.”

your heart pounds.

“i don’t want to lose you,” he finishes.

the words are quiet. terrifying. honest.

you close the distance between you. “then don’t.”

he reaches out, tentative, like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he moves too fast. his hand cups your cheek, warm and steady.

“tell me to stop,” he whispers.

you don’t.

when he kisses you, it’s not explosive—it’s reverent. like he’s afraid this moment might shatter if he breathes wrong.

you kiss him back anyway.

he exhales against your mouth, relief and longing tangled together, and for the first time since the video leaked—since the world tried to rewrite his story—clark lets himself be held.

later, when he rests his forehead against yours, you feel the weight shift again.

“tomorrow,” he says softly, “i go back.”

you nod. “tomorrow, i write the truth.”

more than that—somehow, you work well.

“okay,” adrian says one night, crouched beside you on a rooftop, peering through binoculars that absolutely do not need binoculars attached to them, “so fun fact—bald eagles actually steal food from other birds a lot. like, aggressively.”

you sigh, pulling your jacket tighter around yourself. “that’s not fun. that’s just capitalism with feathers.”

he considers this. “wow. yeah. that tracks.”

below you, evergreen hums—too loud, too alive, too ready to go wrong. you scan the street for threats that may or may not exist, heart already braced for disaster.

adrian hums beside you.

you glance at him. “you’re going to get us killed one day.”

he beams. “statistically, probably! but not tonight. tonight i triple-checked the exits.”

you blink. “you did?”

“yeah,” he says, proudly. “you always do that, so i figured i should too.”

something in your chest tightens. you ignore it.

everyone else sees it before you do.

they see the way adrian always positions himself half a step closer to you in fights. the way you unconsciously track him even while insisting you don’t trust anyone. the way your pessimism and his optimism don’t clash—they interlock.

you call him reckless. he calls you thorough. chris calls it “painfully obvious.”

the bar is loud, sticky with old spills and newer laughter. the team is scattered across mismatched stools and booths, unwinding after a job that went mostly right (which, in your experience, is suspicious).

you nurse your beer like it might betray you while adrian is animatedly explaining something, hands moving wildly.

“it’s about birds,” emilia murmurs to chris.

he grunts. “of course it is.”

she smiles, nursing her own drink softly. “they’re quite the pair, aren’t they?” she hums, watching you two.

chris leans in, as if proximity might help him understand her any better. “those two? what’s so great about them? i mean—adrian and i are a good pair. you and i are a good pair.”

emilia doesn’t look away from you and adrian.

“half-doomed and semi-sweet,” she says.

chris frowns. “which one’s which?”

she finally turns, lips quirking. “take your guess.”

you look over at the two gossiping, eyebrow cocked as if suspicious. you were always suspicious of everything. all the time.

“hey!” adrian says, recapturing your attention. he’s far too cheerful for a man who was shot at an hour ago. “do you think pigeons judge us?”

you stare at him. “i think pigeons would survive the apocalypse.”

he lights up. “right? that’s what i’m saying!”

you take a long sip of beer.

you do not notice the way his smile softens when he looks at you.

the job that changes things don’t look special at first. they never do.

it’s supposed to be simple—intel retrieval, minimal resistance, in and out. you say this out loud, which immediately makes adrian nervous.

“you shouldn’t say that,” he says. “that’s like saying ‘quiet night’ in a hospital. ‘macbeth’ before opening night.”

“exactly,” you mutter. “we’re doomed.”

“you always say that,” he says fondly.

“and i’m usually right.”

you split up inside the building—him taking the stairs, you taking the hallways. standard. efficient. safe. until it isn’t. when the gunfire starts, it’s too close. too sudden. your comm crackles, half-static.

“—rian?” you snap. “adrian, respond.” nothing. your stomach drops like the floor vanished.

you move before you think, heart pounding, mind screaming this is it, this is where it all goes wrong. you find him pinned behind cover, bleeding but grinning when he sees you.

“hey!” he smiles. “good timing.”

you nearly shake him. “you didn’t answer.”

“sorry,” he says sheepishly. “radio got shot. which is rude, by the way.”

your hands hover, unsure where to touch, how bad it is, how close you came to—

“you okay?” he asks, suddenly serious. “you look… really freaked out.”

you swallow. “don’t scare me like that.”

he blinks.

“oh,” he says quietly. “okay. i won’t.”

the promise lands heavier than it should.

later, when the mission ends and the adrenaline fades, you sit on the curb outside the video store, staring at nothing.

adrian sits beside you, shoulder brushing yours. for someone who hates contact, he always does sit a centimeter too close.

“you know,” he says gently, “the world isn’t always out to get us.”

you snort. “that’s optimistic.”

he smiles. “that’s me.”

you don’t argue. and for the first time, you wonder—just briefly—if maybe the reason the world hasn’t swallowed you whole yet is because someone keeps standing beside you, humming bird facts into the void.

after the mission, they put you and adrian on desk duty. which is, objectively, a crime.

“you’re grounding us,” you tell emilia flatly as she hands you a tablet. “we almost died. this is when we should be allowed to brood.”

emilia smiles the way someone does when they know something you don’t. “you’re on recovery rotation. two weeks.”

adrian perks up. “oh! does that mean snacks?”

“yes,” she says patiently. “it means snacks.”

he fist-pumps. you consider faking your own death.

desk duty means proximity. proximity means noticing things. noticing things is a gateway drug to feelings, which you have carefully avoided cultivating for most of your adult life.

adrian hums while typing. not quietly. not tunefully. just… earnestly.

“you’re doing it again,” you mutter.

“hm?” he swivels his chair toward you. “oh! sorry. it helps me focus.”

“it helps me spiral,” you reply.

he grins. “teamwork.”

you glare. it doesn’t work. it never works.

you learn, against your will, that adrian chase is deeply considerate.

he brings you coffee without asking how you take it—and somehow gets it right. he notices when you stop joking and starts talking more, gently, like he’s coaxing you back from somewhere dark. he always walks on the side of the street closer to traffic, even when there’s no logical reason to.

you chalk it up to him being like that. chris does not.

“you know he likes you, right?” he asks one night while you’re cleaning weapons.

you don’t look up. “everyone likes me.”

chris snorts. “not like that.”

you pause. slowly. “like what?”

“like—” he gestures helplessly. “like a guy who memorized your coffee order but still doesn’t know how to flirt.”

you scoff. “adrian memorizes everything.”

“that’s worse,” chris argues.

you ignore him. you are very good at ignoring things that might hurt.

adrian, meanwhile, is having a crisis.

it manifests as him being even nicer. nicer than anyone thought he was possible being.

“hey,” he says one afternoon, poking his head into the doorway where you’re hunched over a map. “do you wanna take a break? you’ve been staring at that like it personally wronged you.”

“it has,” you say darkly. “this alley has no cover.”

he steps closer, peering at the map. “oh! yeah, that’s bad. but if you angle the entry point—”

your shoulders brush. you freeze. he freezes too. for a heartbeat, neither of you move.

“oh,” he says softly. “sorry.”

“it’s fine,” you say too quickly.

he steps back. you immediately miss the warmth. neither of you mention it.

the next job goes worse.

not catastrophically—just enough to rattle you. you get cornered. the exit you planned collapses. panic claws up your spine, loud and familiar.

this is it, you think distantly. this is where it goes wrong.

then adrian is there.

he doesn’t joke. he doesn’t chatter. he plants himself in front of you like an unmovable thing, eyes sharp, voice steady.

“hey,” he says. “i’ve got you. breathe with me, okay?”

you do.

later, when it’s over, your hands shake. adrian notices. of course he does.

“you did great,” he says.

you laugh, brittle. “i nearly lost it.”

“so?” he replies. “you didn’t. that counts.”

you stare at him. “you’re really bad at being scary,” you tell him.

he brightens. “thank you!”

that’s when it hits you—not fully, not consciously, but enough to ache. adrian chase believes in you. not in a vague, team-approved way. in a steady, unwavering way. like it’s obvious. like it’s fact. you don’t know what to do with that.

the bar again. because of course.

you sit beside adrian this time. it happens naturally, like gravity.

he’s telling you about owls. something about neck rotation. you nod, pretending to listen.

“you okay?” he asks suddenly.

you blink. “what?”

“you’re quiet,” he says gently. “quiet-quiet. not grumpy-quiet.”

you huff a laugh. “i didn’t realize there were categories.”

“there are,” he says. “i have a spreadsheet.”

you snort despite yourself.

across the bar, emilia and chris watch you.

“they still don’t know,” chris mutters.

emilia smiles. “they will.”

you lean into adrian without thinking. just a little. just enough.

he stiffens—then relaxes, careful not to startle you.

“hey,” he says softly. “if the world is ending… we’ll deal with it.”

you close your eyes.

“promise?”

“promise,” he says. like it’s easy. like it’s true.

and for the first time, you believe him.

the problem with believing the world is out to get you is that sometimes it proves you right.

the mission is supposed to be routine—intercept, extract, disengage. you say nothing this time, which feels like tempting fate in the opposite direction.

adrian jogs beside you, practically vibrating with enthusiasm.

“okay,” he whispers into the comms, “so statistically speaking, this building has terrible ventilation, which means if anyone deployed gas—”

“adrian,” you murmur. “focus.”

“i am focused,” he says earnestly. “this is my focus.”

you shake your head, but there’s affection in it now. that realization sneaks up on you like a trap you forgot to mark.

inside, everything goes sideways.

explosions. shouting. smoke choking the air. your plan fractures into instinct and reaction, and the exits you catalogued vanish one by one.

you lose sight of adrian. your chest constricts. you tell yourself not to panic. panic helps no one. panic gets people killed. but your hands are shaking as you clear rooms, voice tight in the comm.

“adrian,” you snap. “respond.”

static.

no. not again.

you move faster, recklessness clawing past caution, fear sharpening into something feral. you find him in a stairwell, bloodied, helmet cracked, breathing hard.

“hey,” he says weakly, like this is normal. “you should see the other guy.”

you don’t laugh. you drop to your knees in front of him, hands hovering, heart pounding loud enough to drown out the sirens outside.

“you scared me,” you say, voice breaking despite yourself.

his grin fades.

“oh,” he says softly. “i didn’t mean to.”

“i know,” you snap. then, quieter: “i just—don’t do that.”

he watches you carefully. “do what?”

“disappear.” the word hangs between you, heavy and unmissable.

adrian’s expression shifts—not panic, not fear. understanding. “oh,” he says again. different this time.

you pull your hands back like you’ve touched something dangerous.

“we should get you out of here,” you say. “before this place collapses.”

he nods, still watching you like you’re the one bleeding.

recovery is slow.

you sit beside his bed more than necessary. you tell yourself it’s professional. someone has to make sure he doesn’t rip his stitches doing something stupid.

he chats anyway.

“you know,” he says one afternoon, “this reminds me of the time i broke my arm falling out of a tree.”

you deadpan. “why were you in a tree.”

“eagle reasons.”

“of course.”

he grins. then grows quiet.

“hey,” he says. “can i ask you something kind of… important?”

your shoulders tense. “define important.”

“like,” he says slowly, choosing his words with a care that knots your stomach, “do you always expect people to leave?”

you swallow. “yes,” you say honestly.

he nods, like that confirms something. “okay.”

“that’s it?” you ask, irritated despite yourself.

“yeah,” he says gently. “i just wanted to know.”

you look at him, heart racing. “why?”

he hesitates. “because i don’t want to.”

the room goes very still. you laugh, sharp and disbelieving. “you say that like it’s a choice.”

“it is,” he says. “for me.”

you stare at him, mind scrambling for a way out of this conversation. “you’re hurt,” you say finally. “you should rest.”

he doesn’t push. he never does. but you don’t miss the way his eyes soften when you leave.

the team notices everything.

emilia brings you tea without asking. chris stops making jokes about it because it’s no longer funny—it’s inevitable.

“they’re orbiting,” he mutters one night.

“like doomed planets,” emilia replies fondly.

you break first.

it happens quietly. terrible. over something stupid.

adrian shows up late to a briefing, apologetic and flustered.

“sorry! i got distracted—did you know octopuses have seven hearts?”

“you can’t keep doing this,” you snap.

the room goes silent.

adrian blinks. “doing what?”

“acting like nothing matters,” you say, the words spilling before you can stop them. “like you’re not risking everything every time you walk out the door.”

his smile falters. “i do know,” he says softly. “i just don’t want to live like i’m already dead.”

you flinch. “that’s not fair,” you whisper. “you don’t know what it’s like to lose—”

“i know what it’s like to choose joy anyway,” he says. not angry. just true.

you stare at him, chest tight, throat burning. “i can’t lose you,” you say.

the words are out before you can stop them. the room is silent enough to hear your heartbeat.

adrian’s eyes widen. “oh,” he says, barely audible.

you close your eyes. 

yet, world doesn’t end.

you don’t sleep after that.

not really.

you lie in bed staring at the ceiling, replaying the sound of your own voice saying “i can’t lose you” like it’s evidence in a trial you didn’t know you were participating in. your brain does what it always does—catalogues worst-case scenarios, drafts eulogies for possibilities that haven’t happened yet.

adrian doesn’t avoid you.

which is, frankly, rude.

he shows up the next morning like usual, helmet under his arm, hoodie zipped wrong, holding two coffees.

“i wasn’t sure which one you wanted,” he says. “so i got both.”

you sit up straighter. “that’s inefficient.”

“yeah,” he agrees cheerfully. “but comforting.”

you take the coffee. your fingers brush. he doesn’t flinch. neither do you.

the silence stretches—not awkward, just charged, like the air before a storm you’ve been predicting your whole life.

“so,” he says eventually. “about yesterday.”

there it is. you brace.

“i didn’t mean to ambush you,” he continues. “or make you feel cornered. i just—” he scratches the back of his neck. “i’m not great at pretending things aren’t happening.”

you laugh weakly. “i’m excellent at it.”

“i know,” he says gently. “that’s kind of the problem.”

you stare at him. really stare. at the earnestness, the open concern, the complete absence of expectation in his posture.

“you didn’t freak out,” you say.

he blinks. “why would i?”

“most people do,” you reply. “when they realize how much damage they could do just by existing near me.”

adrian frowns. actually frowns.

“that’s not—” he stops, recalibrates. “okay, that is how you feel. but it’s not how i feel.”

you wait for the punchline. it doesn’t come.

“you’re not a curse,” he says instead. “you’re just… cautious. and sad sometimes. and really smart. and you make sure no one gets blindsided.” he smiles, small and fond. “i like that about you.”

your chest aches. “i don’t think liking me is safe,” you say quietly.

he nods. “yeah. i figured.”

you blink. “you did?”

“mm-hmm,” he says. “but i don’t really make decisions based on safety.”

that tracks.

the confession doesn’t happen all at once.

it unfolds in pieces.

in the way adrian always checks in before missions now, not out of procedure but care. in the way you stop pretending you don’t wait for his footsteps in the hall. in the way the team starts leaving the room when conversations turn softer, heavier.

it finally happens late one night on the roof. economos is drinking with chris—frankly, it’s the only time chris is able to socialize without being overly cruel to the man—and emilia is off somewhere else with adebayo, gossiping about whatever it is they gossip about.

the city sprawls below you, loud and indifferent. you sit with your knees drawn up, beer in hand, staring at the glow.

“i’m bad at this,” you say suddenly.

adrian tilts his head. “at what?”

“letting people stay,” you say. “believing they won’t leave.”

he thinks about that for a long moment. “i don’t know how to promise forever,” he says carefully. “my mom say’s i’m not good at lying. but hey, she’s also a major bitch.”

you huff. “figures.”

“but,” he continues, “i can promise to choose you. repeatedly. even when it’s scary. especially then.”

you turn to look at him. he isn’t smiling. he isn’t joking. he’s steady.

“you don’t have to be less doomed,” he adds. “i can meet you where you are.”

your throat tightens.

“and i don’t need you to be less… you,” you admit. “i just—” you exhale. “i don’t want to imagine a future where you’re not in it. that’s stupid to say, isn’t it?”

adrian’s eyes soften. “oh,” he says quietly. “that’s not stupid… i mean, that’s like, the opposite of stupid. that’s good. because i already did.”

you laugh, breathless. “that’s terrifying.”

“yeah,” he agrees. “but kind of nice.”

you lean into him first this time. he wraps an arm around you like it’s instinct. like it always was.

later, at the bar—because once again, of course—the team watches you sit pressed together, your shoulder tucked under adrian’s chin like it belongs there.

emilia smiles into her drink.

“they figured it out,” she murmurs.

chris squints. “finally.”

“half-doomed,” 

“and semi-sweet,” he replies. “which one’s which?” he asks, grinning.

he doesn’t say it like that, of course. bruce wayne does not articulate devotion so plainly—not out loud. but he shows it in the way he watches you string lights along the bannister of wayne manor, fingers careful, expression intent, as though this is a mission that matters. he shows it in the way he adjusts the thermostat before you even comment on the chill, or how a mug of something warm appears at your elbow without you ever asking. he shows it in how, somehow, december never ends.

it starts in november, because you start humming before thanksgiving even passes. softly at first, unconsciously—tunes that carry bells in their bones, melodies that feel like snowfall. bruce notices immediately. he always does. he catalogues the shift the way he does everything else: the way your shoulders relax when the first wreaths go up in gotham, the way your eyes linger on storefront windows glowing gold against early night.

“you’re early,” alfred says mildly one evening, when you’ve already begun pulling boxes from the storage closet.

you grin, unapologetic. “christmas waits for no one.”

bruce watches from the doorway, jacket still on, tie loosened. something in his chest tightens—not painfully, just enough to remind him that he is alive, that there are things in this world that do not require armor. he makes a mental note.

that night, while you sleep curled against his side, he is awake long enough to order new lights. warmer ones. softer. he has alfred move the schedule around so the tree arrives sooner. he reroutes a charity gala so it doesn’t conflict with the night you like to bake cookies, because you mentioned—offhand, weeks ago—that last year you missed it. bruce wayne does not forget offhand comments.

by the time december actually arrives, wayne manor has transformed.

there are garlands draped along the railings, evergreen and silver and deep red. candles glow in every room (electric, flame-less, safe, because bruce worries even when he pretends he doesn’t). the tree in the main hall reaches nearly to the second floor, branches heavy with ornaments collected over years you didn’t even realize were becoming traditions.

some are old—dick’s first clumsy ornament from when he was small enough to sit on bruce’s shoulders. jason’s is darker, sharper, something handmade that still bears the faint scars of anger and survival. tim’s are clever, mechanical little things that spin or click if you touch them just right. damian’s are… precise. meticulous. there is one shaped like a tiny sword, and bruce pretends not to notice the way it makes you smile.

you add your own touches everywhere. ribbon tied where it shouldn’t be. a snow globe on the piano. a knitted throw tossed over the arm of bruce’s favorite chair.

bruce lets you rearrange everything.

this is not something anyone would expect of batman. but you are not anyone.

family starts arriving in pieces, like chapters returning to the same book.

dick comes first, sweeping in with cold air and laughter and a hug that lifts you briefly off your feet. “you made it snow in here,” he says, eyes wide as he takes in the decorations. “big man’s gone soft.” bruce doesn’t argue.

jason shows up late one night, unannounced but expected. he lingers in the doorway, helmet tucked under one arm, eyes flicking over the lights, the tree, the quiet warmth of the manor. 

you’re the one who steps forward first, handing him a mug without comment. “thought you might be cold,” you say.

he stares at you for a moment, then exhales. “yeah,” he mutters. “thanks.”

tim arrives with a duffel bag and a laptop and a look of fond disbelief. “you know,” he says, glancing between you and bruce, “this place used to feel like a museum in december.”

bruce lifts an eyebrow. “used to.”

damian is already home, of course—hovering at bruce’s side like a shadow that has learned how to smile when you ruffle his hair. he pretends to scowl every time you insist on including him in cookie decorating, but he always chooses the most elaborate designs.

every night feels like something sacred.

there are dinners that stretch long past midnight. arguments and laughter and stories retold for the hundredth time. you sit at the table beside bruce, your knee brushing his, and every time you lean in to say something quietly to him, he listens like the world has narrowed to your voice alone.

later, when the manor grows quiet again, bruce finds you in the living room, curled on the couch beneath a blanket, tree lights reflected in your eyes.

“too much?” he asks quietly.

you look around. the warmth. the glow. the unmistakable feeling of being held by something larger than yourself. “never,”

bruce nods, as though confirming a hypothesis.

from that moment on, he stops pretending this is temporary. if christmas makes you feel safe—if it makes you feel full, and loved, and alive—then bruce wayne will give it to you. every day. and if the world insists on moving forward, on hard edges and dark nights and battles that never quite end? bruce will make sure that when you come home, it is always december.

by january, gotham has moved on.

storefronts shed their lights. trees disappear from curbs. the city exhales, weary and gray, returning to itself like it always does—sharp edges, colder nights, the unspoken understanding that hope is a seasonal luxury. wayne manor does not follow.

you notice it first in the mornings.

the kitchen still smells faintly of cinnamon when you come downstairs, even though alfred insists it’s just habit now. a small wreath remains on the pantry door. the lights on the bannister don’t come down—they simply dim, warmer, subtler, like a secret meant only for those who know to look.

bruce watches you notice. he watches the way your steps slow, the way your mouth curves into something softer than a smile. he files it away with the same precision he uses for patrol routes and emergency protocols.

if it makes you linger, it stays.

you find him one afternoon in the study, papers spread across the desk, cowl nowhere in sight. he looks… peaceful, for once. when you lean against the doorway, he glances up immediately.

“what?” he asks.

you gesture vaguely. “it still feels like christmas.”

he studies you for a long moment, unreadable. then: “is that a problem?”

you shake your head, laughter quiet. “no. it’s just… nice.”

that’s all it takes.

bruce wayne does not do things halfway.

by february, it’s deliberate.

he schedules family dinners on sundays, regardless of how busy gotham gets. he makes sure dick is invited even when blüdhaven needs him, that jason knows he’s welcome even if he never rsvp’s, that tim doesn’t forget to sleep, that damian has something resembling a normal childhood—even if it’s wrapped in discipline and expectations.

you sit at the head of none of it and somehow at the center of all of it.

bruce notices how you thrive when the house is full—how you move easily between conversations, how you listen more than you speak, how you remember things about each of them that even bruce sometimes misses. you are the connective tissue, the quiet warmth holding sharp, complicated people together.

he doesn’t say thank you. he shows it.

there are mornings when you wake to find the curtains already open just enough to let the light in the way you like it. there are evenings when the fireplace is lit before you even mention being cold. once, you come home late, exhausted, and find the living room transformed—candles glowing, soft music playing, a mug waiting for you on the table.

“bruce,” you say, half-laughing, half-overwhelmed. “it’s march.”

he shrugs out of his jacket, gaze never leaving you. “did you have a bad day?” you nod. “then it’s december.” he says it like a fact.

songs start following you after that—not audibly, not quite. more like a feeling. a rhythm beneath your days. the way joy becomes sustainable when it’s not rationed, when it’s allowed to exist on ordinary tuesdays and not just special occasions.

spring comes to gotham whether bruce wants it to or not. the snow melts. flowers bloom in the gardens outside the manor.

bruce keeps the lights.

he takes you out less in public now, not because he wants to hide you, but because he’s learned that you prefer the quiet. instead, he brings the world to you. private ice skating sessions—synthetic rink installed in one of the lower levels because you once admitted you’d never learned. movie nights with old black-and-white films dusted in fake snow. a record player he restores himself, just because you like the crackle.

“you don’t have to do all this,” you tell him one night, fingers laced with his as you sit by the fire.

bruce turns to you fully. his expression is bare in a way few ever see—guard lowered, eyes soft, the man beneath the armor entirely present. “i want to,” he says. it’s not dramatic. it’s not loud. it’s everything.

the boys notice, of course.

dick teases him first. “so,” he says one evening, kicking his feet up on the coffee table, “are we just… living in a hallmark movie now?”

jason snorts. “don’t knock it. place hasn’t felt this good in years.”

tim watches bruce watch you and smiles to himself.

damian, ever observant, says quietly, “father is happier.”

bruce does not deny it.

because the truth is—this isn’t about christmas. it never was. it’s about you loving something without reservation, and bruce learning—slowly, carefully—that he is allowed to love you the same way. unconditionally. every day.

and as the months pass, and the calendar insists on moving forward, bruce wayne keeps proving one thing over and over again: if christmas is the season where you feel most yourself—then he will make sure you never have to leave it.

summer in gotham is unforgiving.

heat presses down like a second atmosphere. nights buzz with unrest, tempers short and shadows restless. batman’s work never slows—if anything, it sharpens, demanding more of bruce than it ever has.

and still, every morning, you wake to something gentle.

the curtains drawn just enough. cool air circulating before the heat can reach you. a glass of water on the nightstand, already chilled, because bruce knows you forget to hydrate when you’re distracted.

you don’t ask how he manages it all. you just live in it.

by june, the family is scattered again—dick back in blüdhaven, jason gone for stretches at a time, tim juggling school and responsibilities that would crush anyone else, damian attending summer training programs bruce pretends are normal.

you and bruce are alone in the manor more often now.

it’s quieter. intimate.

you catch him watching you when you think he isn’t—when you’re reading on the couch, when you’re barefoot in the kitchen, when you hum softly to yourself without realizing it. his gaze follows you with the same intensity he gives to the city from the batmobile—but softened, reverent.

one afternoon, you find him in the batcave earlier than expected.

you’re used to the cave—its shadows, its hum, its weight. still, this is different.

there are lights strung along the edges of the platforms. subtle. warm. impossible. a small tree stands near the computer bank—not evergreen, but something metallic and modern, decorated with silver ornaments that reflect the cave’s glow like stars.

you stop short. “bruce.”

he steps closer, suddenly uncertain in a way that disarms you. “you said once,” he begins, “that summer makes things feel… temporary.”

you did. months ago. barely a thought, barely a confession.

“i don’t want you to feel that way,” he says quietly.

your chest tightens. “you put christmas in the batcave,” you say faintly.

“i put you in the batcave,” he corrects. you laugh, breathless and a little overwhelmed, and before you can say anything else, he reaches for your hand—grounding, steady, real. “you make this place lighter,” he says. “you make me lighter.”

bruce wayne does not speak lightly.

the next time the family is all together, it’s your fault.

or rather—your idea.

you mention, half-joking, that summer holidays should exist. that joy shouldn’t be limited to one season. that maybe people would be kinder if they remembered what it felt like to be held by something warm and familiar.

bruce hears a plan.

in july, wayne manor hosts the most absurd event gotham has ever seen.

the grounds are transformed overnight. lights strung through trees. artificial snow drifting lazily from hidden machines. long tables set with comfort food and desserts and hot cocoa—even in the heat. music floats through the air, gentle and nostalgic.

a banner hangs at the entrance: CHRISTMAS — NO DATE REQUIRED

dick laughs so hard he nearly falls over. “you did this,” he accuses you, delighted.

jason shakes his head, grinning despite himself. “this is unhinged.”

tim is already calculating the logistics. “the energy output alone—”

damian stands beside bruce, arms crossed, eyes bright. “it is… acceptable.”

bruce watches you the entire night.

he watches the way you move through the crowd, glowing, at ease. the way laughter comes easily to you here, the way you look like you belong—like you’ve always belonged.

at some point, you find bruce standing apart from the noise, watching. “you okay?” you ask.

he nods. “i am.” he means it.

later, when the night winds down and the family drifts inside, bruce stays with you beneath the lights. Gotham hums in the distance. snow melts harmlessly into the grass.

“thank you,” you say softly.

“for what?”

“for loving me the way i love things.”

bruce turns to you then, fully. his voice is low, steady, certain. “you taught me how.”

he kisses you beneath artificial snow in the middle of summer, and it feels like a promise—not fleeting, not fragile.

permanent.

and when august arrives, and the world insists again on heat and noise and inevitability, bruce wayne remains unmoved.

because as long as you are beside him—it will always feel like christmas.

autumn arrives softly, the way it always does—without asking permission.

the air sharpens. leaves turn and fall. gotham exhales heat and inhales something quieter, heavier. it’s your favorite kind of in-between, and still, something in you tightens. you don’t say it out loud.

but bruce notices. he notices the way you linger by the windows longer. the way you grow thoughtful when the nights come earlier. the way your smile falters, just barely, when someone mentions how fast the year has gone.

bruce wayne does not miss what hurts.

one evening, you’re curled on the couch, blanket pulled tight around your shoulders, the house dim and calm. a soft instrumental plays somewhere in the background—something nostalgic, something that feels like memory without pain. bruce sits beside you, close but not pressing. he waits.

“what happens,” you ask quietly, eyes fixed on the fire, “when christmas comes again?”

he turns fully toward you. “what do you mean?”

you swallow. “what if… what if it stops feeling special? what if i’m just chasing a feeling that can’t stay?” the words tremble, betraying more than you intend.

bruce’s chest tightens—not with fear, but with resolve. “you think i’ve been doing this because it’s seasonal,” he says gently.

you don’t answer. you don’t have to. 

bruce reaches for your hands, thumbs brushing warmth into your skin. his voice lowers, steadies.

“you’re not loving christmas,” he says. “you’re loving constancy. safety. belonging.”

you look at him then, really look.

“and so am i,” he continues. “you just learned how to name it sooner than i did.”

you blink, emotion rising fast and unguarded. “bruce…”

“i don’t replicate december because you like decorations,” he says. “i do it because when the world is gentle, you are gentle with yourself. and i want you to have that every day.”

you breathe out, shaky.

“you are not a season,” he says firmly. “you are my life.”

the words land with the weight of a vow.

that weekend, the family comes home again.

dick brings cider. jason brings pie he definitely did not bake himself. tim brings research he absolutely doesn’t need to share but does anyway. damian brings you a scarf he pretends he didn’t choose specifically because it reminded him of you.

you sit together in the living room, autumn light slanting gold through the windows, fire crackling low.

dick watches bruce watch you and finally says it. “you know,” he says lightly, “this isn’t subtle anymore.”

bruce doesn’t even pretend not to understand. “good.”

jason smirks. “about time.”

tim smiles, soft and knowing.

damian studies you for a moment, then speaks clearly: “you are part of this family.”

your throat tightens.

bruce reaches for your hand—not to steady you, but to share the moment. his thumb brushes your knuckles, grounding, certain.

later that night, when the manor is quiet again, bruce leads you outside.

the garden is transformed—not with lights this time, but with lanterns glowing softly among the trees. autumn leaves crunch beneath your feet. the air smells like earth and warmth and something deeply familiar.

“you once asked me,” bruce says, stopping beneath a tree heavy with amber leaves, “if i ever get tired of carrying the weight of things.”

you nod. you remember.

“i don’t,” he says. “not when it’s worth it.” he turns to face you fully, eyes dark and unwavering. “you are worth every version of the future,” he says. “every season. every day.”

he presses his forehead to yours, breath warm against your skin.

“i will give you christmas,” he murmurs, “as long as you want it. but even when the lights go out, even when the year turns again—” his hand tightens gently around yours. “i will still be here.”

you lean into him, heart full and aching and safe all at once.

december comes back gently.

not with urgency, not with spectacle—just a quiet inevitability, like something returning to where it belongs.

the first snow falls overnight, dusting gotham in white. you wake before bruce, padding barefoot to the window, breath fogging the glass as you watch the world soften. for a moment, you’re twelve years old again in your heart—hopeful, open, believing without shame.

behind you, the bed shifts.

bruce wraps himself around you without a word, chin resting against your shoulder, arms solid and warm and unmistakably real.

“it’s back,” you whisper.

he nods against you. “it never left.”

wayne manor blooms again—but this time, it feels different. not bigger. not brighter. deeper.

the decorations return with familiarity instead of urgency. the tree goes up slowly, deliberately, each ornament placed with care. you catch bruce holding one in his hand longer than necessary—a small, simple piece you bought together months ago, unremarkable except that it is yours.

he hangs it near the center.

the family comes home, as they always do.

dick arrives first, snow in his hair, joy in his grin. jason follows, quieter but present, staying longer than he ever plans to. tim settles in like he never left, half-work, half-home. damian is already there, proud and composed and unmistakably bruce’s son—your son, too, in all the ways that matter.

dinner is loud and warm and imperfect. there’s laughter, and teasing, and arguments that end in smiles. you sit beside bruce at the table, his hand resting on your knee like it’s always been there, like it always will be.

at some point, dick raises a glass. “to… whatever this is,” he says, gesturing around. “to family. and to making it work.”

“to christmas,” jason adds, smirking.

tim smiles. “all year.”

damian lifts his glass last. “to home.”

bruce looks at you. his eyes say everything.

later, when the manor grows quiet and the world feels hushed beneath falling snow, bruce leads you back to the living room. the tree glows softly, lights reflected in the dark windows like constellations.

“you’re thinking,” you hum.

he nods once. “i usually am.”

you turn to face him fully. “good thoughts?”

“the most important one i’ve ever had.” he reaches into his pocket—not hurried, not dramatic. Just steady.

your breath catches anyway.

bruce kneels—not because he feels he has to, but because he wants to meet you where you are. the ring is simple. elegant. timeless. something chosen with intention, not excess.

“you once told me,” he says quietly, “that christmas feels like a promise. rhat it reminds you the world can be kind if people decide to be.”

your vision blurs.

“i can’t promise you a world without darkness,” he continues. “i can’t promise you safety every second of every day.” he takes your hands, grounding, certain. “but i can promise you this,” he says. “i will choose you. every morning. every night. in every season.” his voice softens—not weak, never weak, just honest. “i will give you warmth when the world is cold. light when it’s dark. and when christmas fades everywhere else—” he squeezes your hands gently. “i will keep it alive with you.” he looks up at you, bruce wayne laid bare. “stay,” he says. “for the whole year. for all of them.”

you laugh through tears, heart breaking open in the best way. “yes,” you breathe. “always.”

he stands and pulls you into his arms, holding you like something precious, something permanent. outside, snow falls heavier, blanketing gotham in quiet.

bruce presses a kiss to your temple.

mistletoe appears later—alfred swears it was always there.

the days that follow are full and slow and real. baking. decorating. quiet mornings and loud evenings. bruce beside you in every moment, never distant, never halfway gone.

on christmas morning, you wake to sunlight and laughter and the smell of coffee. bruce is already awake, watching you like this is the gift he’s been waiting for.

“what?” you ask softly.

he smiles—a rare, unguarded thing. “this,” he says. “this is what i was fighting for.”

and you realize something then, standing in the warmth of wayne Manor with snow at the windows and love in every corner:

christmas was never about the day. it was about being chosen.

about being held. about knowing that no matter how the year turns, no matter what darkness waits beyond the door—you will always come home to light.

thor, somewhere behind you, laughs thunderously and says something about midgardian festivities. natasha mutters a curse under her breath. steve just looks… fond, like this is a postcard come to life.

you land badly, catching yourself on one knee. snow—actual frozen water crystals, still a marvel to you—flakes against your gloves. you stare down at it, briefly stunned.

“it’s… everywhere,” you marvel.

“that’s kind of winter’s whole brand,” tony says. “overachiever. seasonal commitment issues.”

you stand slowly, flexing your fingers. your homeworld has storms, sure—electric skies, dust cyclones that scream like living things—but never this. never silence that falls in white layers. never cold that settles.

never wonderland.

the mission is routine. hydra remnant. alpine hideout. very dramatic. you do your job the way you always do: fast, precise, a half-step ahead of everyone else. you’re at tony’s side when the turrets light up. you shield him when the ceiling collapses. you don’t even notice you’re doing it anymore.

the others do.

“you know,” clint says later, as you regroup inside the ruined base, “if i didn’t know better, i’d think you were stark’s personal guardian angel.”

you blink at him. “he is… fragile.”

tony scoffs. “excuse you. i am durable.”

natasha arches a brow. “you materialized next to him three times.”

“he was in danger three times.”

“and yet,” she says lightly, “you weren’t nearly as close to me.”

you open your mouth, then close it. the truth is simple and unspeakable: tony stark pulls you like gravity. not the crushing kind. the steady, inevitable kind. you orbit. you always have.

tony, for his part, pretends very hard not to notice.

peter parker, however, notices everything.

he’s the one who clocks how tony’s helmet retracts a second too slowly when you’re nearby. how his voice softens in that infuriating, unconscious way when he says your name. how he finds excuses to stand closer to you in briefing rooms, like the floor might tilt if he doesn’t anchor himself.

peter watches this like it’s a sitcom where the laugh track has been removed.

by the time december rolls around, the tower looks like it’s been swallowed by tinsel. stark industries goes all in—floating lights, holographic snowflakes, a tree that’s probably powered by an arc reactor. tony claims he’s “ironically festive,” which is a lie.

you’re standing in front of a window, watching the city blur under snowfall, when peter sidles up next to you.

“so,” he says casually, way too casually. “you ever been to a winter market?”

you tilt your head. “a… market?”

“yeah, like—food, lights, hot chocolate, people pretending it’s not freezing because vibes.” he grins. “very earth.”

you consider this. “is it… dangerous?”

peter pauses. “emotionally?”

“yes.”

“…also yes.”

you nod solemnly. “then no.”

“cool, cool,” peter says. “hypothetically, though, if tony stark asked you to go—”

“he would not,” you say immediately.

peter beams. “interesting answer. not ‘i wouldn’t go.’ just ‘he wouldn’t ask.’”

you frown. “why would he?”

peter shrugs, a terrible liar. “no reason. just—he likes winter stuff. i mean, he pretends not to, but he does. and you’ve never seen it. and he’s, like, i don’t know… into you.”

“that is inaccurate.”

peter makes a face. “wow. you’re wrong. in two galaxies.”

before you can respond, tony appears like he’s been summoned, coffee in hand, sweater criminally soft. he stops short when he sees you and peter together.

“am i interrupting a conspiracy?” tony asks.

“yes,” peter smiles. “but in a good way.”

tony squints. “that’s never been true.”

peter claps his hands. “anyway! mr. stark, you asked me to tell her about the thing.”

tony freezes. “i did?” he says carefully.

“yep,” peter says, nodding emphatically. “the winter market thing. tonight. you said you needed someone to—uh—translate winter.”

tony stares at peter like he’s calculating murder probabilities.

you look between them. “you are attending a market.”

tony exhales. “apparently i am.”

“with me,” peter adds helpfully.

tony’s gaze snaps to you. “no—i mean—only if you want to. this is not—kid, why are you smiling like that?”

peter backs away. “gotta go! homework. city in peril. you know.” he disappears before either of you can stop him.

silence stretches. outside, bells ring somewhere in the city. you watch snow drift past the glass, soft and endless.

“you don’t have to,” tony says finally, quieter now. “he’s… enthusiastic.”

you study tony stark—the man in armor, the man without it, the man who looks at you like you’re something he’s afraid to touch. “i would like to see winter,” you decide.

tony smiles, slow and stunned, like he’s just been given something fragile and bright.

“okay,” he says. “then—yeah. let’s do that.”

somewhere in the tower, a song starts to play—something about sleigh bells and wonderlands.

you don’t know it yet. but you’re already inside it.

tony stark does not dress for winter like a man who respects it.

you realize this the moment you step out of the car and the cold hits you like a living thing—sharp, immediate, invasive. your breath fogs. the air bites. you straighten instinctively, senses flaring, ready for impact that never quite comes.

tony, beside you, shivers dramatically.

“this is hostile,” he announces. “this weather has personal issues with me.”

“you were warned,” you say, pulling your coat tighter. the fabric is stark-tech, layered and adaptive, something he insisted on making himself. “you chose aesthetics.”

tony looks down at his own outfit—long coat, scarf that is absolutely for show, gloves he keeps forgetting to put on. “i look great,” he says. “if winter wanted me to survive, it shouldn’t have made hypothermia so unfashionable.”

the market sprawls ahead of you, glowing. strings of lights loop from stall to stall like constellations dragged low to earth. wooden booths steam with food and sugar and spice. bells ring. somewhere, someone laughs—full-bodied, careless.

snow crunches underfoot. you stop walking.

tony notices immediately. he always does. “hey,” he says, softer. “too much?”

you shake your head, slow. “no. i just—” you search for words that don’t exist in your language. “it is… loud. but quietly.”

he smiles at that. “yeah. that’s winter. sneaks up on you.”

people brush past, bundled together, hands tucked into sleeves or wrapped around cups that steam like little suns. you watch them the way you watch unfamiliar stars—carefully, reverently.

tony stays close. not touching. just near enough that you can feel the warmth he gives off, human and steady. “you okay?” he asks again.

“yes,” you say. “i am… learning.”

you drift toward a stall glowing amber, something sweet and buttery in the air. you peer at the sign, letters curling in a language you still stumble over.

tony reads it instantly. “fresh pastries. deep-fried. absolutely illegal in several states.”

“what are they called?”

“depends on the country. depends on how bad you want it to be for you.” he grins. “want to try one?”

you hesitate. “is it customary?”

“it’s practically a treaty.”

you nod once. “then yes.”

he orders without asking your preference, hands moving with practiced ease. when he passes you the pastry, it’s warm through the paper, almost hot.

you take a bite. your eyes widen. “oh,” you say, very quietly.

tony watches your face like it’s the whole point of the evening. “good?” he asks.

“this should not exist,” you say reverently. “on my planet, this would start a war.”

he laughs—full, bright, unguarded—and the sound settles into you like another layer of warmth.

you wander deeper into the market. music drifts from somewhere unseen, familiar and unfamiliar all at once. a song keeps returning, looping through the air like a promise.

you pause again, watching a group of children packing snow together, stacking it into something vaguely human. they argue cheerfully, mittens flashing, noses red.

“what are they doing?” you ask.

tony follows your gaze. “that’s a snowman. he’s… mostly decorative. symbolic.”

“symbol of what?”

tony considers. “togetherness. boredom. the human refusal to let weather win.”

you watch as a scarf is added, then a crooked smile. something tightens in your chest.

“they create life,” you say slowly, “that will melt.”

tony’s expression shifts. “yeah,” he says. “that part’s less cheerful.”

“but they do it anyway.”

“humans are big on temporary things,” tony says. “we like knowing something’s fragile. makes it feel… earned.”

you look at him then. really look. the lines at the corners of his eyes. the way he keeps glancing around like he’s on watch, even now. the man who builds things to last because he’s terrified of how easily everything breaks.

“you are like winter,” you say without thinking.

tony blinks. “i—wow. okay. i don’t know if that’s a compliment or a threat.”

“you are harsh,” you continue, earnest. “but you make people gather closer.”

something in his face stills. before he can respond, a voice cuts in—too loud, too cheerful.

“oh my god, mr. stark! This is such a good date spot!”

peter parker appears out of nowhere, wearing a beanie that does not fit him and holding two cups of something steaming.

tony groans. “you have got to be kidding me.”

peter beams. “what? i was just—coincidentally—in the neighborhood. with hot chocolate. for both of you.”

you look at the cups. “is that… liquid?”

“yes,” peter says solemnly. “but emotionally.”

tony pinches the bridge of his nose. “peter… that doesn’t even mean anything.”

peter hands you a cup before tony can stop him. “careful, it’s hot. like—really hot. like feelings.”

you take a cautious sip. sweet. rich. comforting in a way you didn’t know you were missing. “this is good,” you say.

peter nods. “right? anyway, i’m gonna—go! not spy on you. definitely not report back to literally everyone.” he skitters away, already texting.

tony sighs. “i’m so sorry.”

“for what?” you ask.

“for him. for… this. for dragging you into earth nonsense.”

you cradle the cup in your hands, letting the warmth seep into your palms. snow settles into your hair. you don’t brush it away.

“i chose to come,” you say. “with you.”

tony’s breath fogs. he looks at you like he’s trying to memorize this moment without daring to name it. “yeah,” he says softly. “you did.”

the song swells again around you, bells and voices and promises made in cold air.

you don’t know how this ends. but for now, the blue of lonely winter feels very far away.

the first thing you learn about earth: winter at night? it changes its mind.

the air grows sharper as the market thins, stalls closing one by one, lights dimming into softer halos. snow falls slower now, heavier, as if it’s thinking about where it wants to land. the song still drifts through the speakers, looping endlessly—winter wonderland, cheerful and unafraid of repetition.

you walk beside tony, cups empty, fingers numb in a way that is almost pleasant. he offers you his gloves without a word. you take them. they are warm in the way that suggests he’s been clenching his hands too long.

“your circulation is bad,” you say, observational.

“my circulation is stressed,” tony replies. “it’s been through a lot.” you almost smile.

the crowd thins enough that you can walk without brushing strangers. snow crunches. somewhere nearby, laughter echoes, then fades. the city feels hushed, like it’s holding its breath.

“you okay?” tony asks again. it’s his favorite question. he asks it like a habit, like a shield.

“yes,” you smile. “are you?”

he hesitates. “i— yeah. i mean, yes. i’m… good.” the lie is small. it still lands between you.

you stop beneath a string of lights draped between two bare trees. the bulbs glow gold against the dark, reflecting in tony’s eyes. you turn to face him fully, snow gathering at your shoulders.

“you are not,” you say gently.

tony exhales, long and slow. “you’re really bad at letting me get away with stuff.”

“i am very good at noticing patterns,” you say. “you avoid them. you deflect. you joke.”

“hey,” he says lightly. “joking is a coping mechanism.”

“so is silence,” you say. “you use both.”

he laughs once, soft and rueful. “wow. you sound like my therapist. except… nicer.”

the song swells again, louder now, the lyrics drifting clearly through the cold air.

you glance back toward where the children were earlier. the snowman is gone now—collapsed, half-melted, already forgotten.

“tony,” you say. his name still feels strange in your mouth, too intimate for public air. “peter told us a lie.”

tony stiffens. “he did, didn’t he.”

“he said you wished to attend this market. with me.”

tony’s gaze drops to the snow between your feet. “yeah.”

“did you?”

he’s quiet long enough that you think he might not answer. then: “yes. i did.”

your chest tightens.

“but,” he continues quickly, “not like that. i mean—yes, like that, but also—peter exaggerated. i didn’t—this wasn’t a setup. i mean, it was, but not mine. i didn’t want to—”

you reach out before you realize you’re doing it, fingers brushing his sleeve. he stills instantly, like the world has narrowed to the space between you. “i am not angry,” you say.

tony looks up. “you’re not?”

“no,” you say. “confused. curious.”

he swallows. snow dusts his lashes. “okay,” he says. “then… ask.”

“why do you look at me as if you are waiting for something to end?”

the question lands heavy and precise. tony’s mouth opens, closes. he laughs weakly. “you don’t miss much, do you?”

“i miss many things,” you say. “i have never seen winter before today.”

he nods slowly. “right. of course.” another pause. longer. the song shifts to its bridge, hopeful and dangerous. tony huffs a humorless breath. “i don’t—do relationships very well.”

“i am aware,” you say.

“that’s not—i mean.” he rubs a hand over his face. “i ruin things. i overthink, i under-commit, i build armor instead of… actually saying what i feel.”

you tilt your head. “what do you feel?”

tony looks at you then—really looks—and the air between you feels thinner. “i feel,” he says carefully, “like winter showed up just to prove a point.” you wait. “i feel like you walked into my life and suddenly everything i built to keep the cold out doesn’t work anymore.” your breath fogs between you. “and,” he adds, quieter, “i feel like if i touch this—whatever this is—it’s going to melt. or break. or hurt you.”

you consider this. the snow. the market. the temporary things humans build because they want to feel something before it’s gone.

on your world, nothing ends like this. nothing fades so gently.

you step closer.

“on my planet,” you say, “we do not have winter. we do not have seasons that kill the land and bring it back again. we do not practice loss.”

tony’s voice is barely a whisper. “and here?”

“here,” you say, “you make something knowing it will not last. and you love it anyway.” you reach up, brushing snow from his collar, slow and deliberate. “this is not weakness,” you say. “it is bravery.” tony’s breath stutters. “you don’t have to promise me forever,” you continue. “i would settle for now.”

for a moment, he looks like he might break.

then his hand comes up—hesitant, reverent—and cups your cheek. his glove is warm. his touch is careful, like he’s afraid of doing harm just by being real.

“now,” he says softly. “i can do now.”

the song swells around you, bells bright and fearless.

somewhere in the distance, peter parker is absolutely losing his mind.

the snow thickens without warning, flakes falling faster, heavier, until the market lights blur into halos and the city sounds fade beneath the hush. wind slips through streets like a living thing, curling around corners, tugging at scarves and coats.

tony notices before you do.

“okay,” he says, shifting closer, instinctive. “this just went from hallmark to survival.”

you lift your face to the sky, letting snow land on your lashes. it melts instantly against your skin.

“it is beautiful,” you laugh.

“it is aggressive,” tony counters. “there’s a difference.”

he guides you—hand light at your back—toward the edge of the market, where a narrow side street opens into quieter dark. the lights are fewer here, but still strung overhead, a path of gold through white.

you shiver. tony feels it immediately.

“hey,” he murmurs, shrugging out of his coat. “nope. don’t argue.”

you start to protest, but the coat is already settling around your shoulders, heavy with his warmth. it smells faintly like metal and ozone and something softer you can’t name.

“you will be cold,” you say.

tony smiles, teeth chattering just slightly. “i’m always cold.”

you pull the coat tighter, then—without quite meaning to—step closer. the snow hushes the world around you. it feels like the universe has politely turned away.

“you said,” you begin, “that winter proves a point.”

tony nods. “yeah.”

“what is the point?”

“that you can’t stop everything,” he says. “that sometimes the only way through is… together.”

you absorb this. on your planet, togetherness is survival. here, it seems to be choice. 

“and now,” he adds suddenly, “i’m standing in a snowstorm i didn’t plan for, freezing, wearing bad shoes, yet i’ve never felt more… here.”

your hand finds his, bare fingers brushing glove-less skin. He inhales sharply but doesn’t pull away.

“you are afraid,” you say absentmindedly.

“constantly,” tony admits. “it’s kind of my thing.”

you lace your fingers with his, grounding. “so am i.”

that surprises him. “you are?”

“yes,” you say. “i am afraid this is temporary. that i will return to the stars and winter will remain here without me. that this—” you gesture between you, small and infinite “—will become a story you tell. like rhodes at the parties.”

tony squeezes your hand. “hey.”

you look at him.

“i don’t want you to be a story,” he says. “i want you to be… ongoing.”

the honesty in his voice is the bravest thing you’ve ever seen.

the wind howls. snow piles against your boots. somewhere, a bell rings—sharp and clear. you laugh suddenly, surprised by the sound of it.

tony blinks. “what?”

“this planet is absurd,” you hum. “it freezes itself and calls it magic.”

he laughs with you, relief and wonder tangled together. “welcome to earth.”

the cold finally overwhelms you—not painful, just too much, pressing in on all sides. tony notices the moment your steps falter.

“okay,” he says decisively. “that’s it. we’re calling it. you’ve conquered winter. no need to die for the aesthetic.”

he guides you toward a small café tucked between buildings, windows glowing warm and amber. inside, heat rushes over you like an embrace.

you stand just inside the door, snow melting off coats and hair, the storm muffled to a whisper behind glass.

tony turns to you, cheeks flushed, eyes bright.

“so,” he says, suddenly nervous again. “this part’s usually where—”

you rise onto your toes and kiss him. it’s soft. careful. a question more than a statement.

tony answers immediately, hand coming up to your waist like it’s always known where it belongs. the world outside continues to fall apart in white silence. when you pull back, his forehead rests against yours.

“well,” he murmurs. “that’s… new.”

you smile. “on my planet, this is called beginning.”

outside, the storm keeps falling. inside, you are warm.

the next morning, the tower smells like coffee and victory.

you learn this quickly: the avengers are incapable of subtlety.

steve notices first. he always does.

you’re standing at the kitchen counter, hands wrapped around a mug tony made for you—custom, temperature-regulated, impossible to spill—when steve pauses mid-sip.

“you’re wearing tony’s sweater,” he says. his voice isn’t accusatory, just pointing out a fact.

you glance down. oversized. comfortable. familiar already. “yes.” tony nearly chokes. “it was cold,” you add, helpfully.

natasha doesn’t even look up from her tablet. “you kissed.”

tony stares at her. “how do you—”

“your heartbeat spiked,” she says. “you’re glowing through your shirt. also, you’re terrible at acting normal.”

clint grins from where he’s perched on a stool. “called it.”

bruce smiles, gentle and knowing. “i’m happy for you.”

tony opens his mouth, then closes it. “this is harassment.”

peter appears like a summoned spirit, sliding into the room with a grin so wide it’s practically illegal. “so,” he says. “how was the winter market date?”

tony glares. “you lied to us.”

peter nods. “correct.”

“you manipulated the situation.”

“also correct.”

“you could’ve just… asked.”

peter tilts his head. “would you have gone?”

tony hesitates.

“…no.”

peter beams. “you’re welcome.”

you watch them with quiet amusement, something warm blooming in your chest that has nothing to do with climate or atmosphere. this—this mess of people and noise and affection—is a kind of wonderland too.

later, when the tower settles into its usual hum, tony finds you by the window again. snow still drifts over the city, lighter now, almost thoughtful.

“you okay?” he asks, softer than ever.

“yes,” is all you say at first, pausing before opening your mouth again. “i was thinking.”

“uh-oh.”

you smile. “on my planet, we measure time by stars. long arcs. predictable returns.”

“and here?” tony asks.

“here,” you say, “you mark time by moments. songs. weather.”

he steps closer, slipping an arm around you like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“is that… bad?”

“no,” you say. “it is terrifying. and beautiful.”

outside, someone has built another snowman. it leans a little, already imperfect.

tony presses a kiss to your temple. “you know winter ends, right?”

“yes,” you say. “that is what makes it matter.”

he exhales, resting his forehead against yours. “then… stay for it. for as long as you want.”

you look at him—genius, hero, man who learned to love temporary things—and nod.

his voice cuts through your thoughts like a thrown knife—too loud, too cheerful for the hour. you don’t have to turn around to know it’s him. adrian chase, vigilante, menace to teamwork everywhere.

you drop your bag onto the desk harder than necessary. “i was already here when emilia texted,” you say flatly. “some of us actually show up on time.”

“yeah, but you could’ve left,” adrian says, spinning lazily in his chair to face you. he’s already ditched half his gear, helmet tucked under the desk, boots kicked off like this is his living room. there’s a bandage peeking out from under his sleeve, and you hate that your eyes go straight to it. “i mean, desk duty is technically optional if you pretend your phone died.”

“it’s not optional,” you say. “she literally locked our access badges to the building.”

“oh.” he blinks. then grins. “classic emilia.”

you glare at him. he doesn’t notice—or he does and doesn’t care. that’s the thing about adrian. he’s either oblivious or immune to irritation. possibly both.

desk duty. you still can’t believe it.

one screwed-up mission—his screwed-up mission—and suddenly you’re both benched, bruised, and sentenced to paperwork purgatory while emilia harcourt makes a point about consequences. you’d almost respect it if it didn’t mean spending another night trapped in a room with him.

he clears his throat. “hey, uh, for the record—again—i’m really sorry about earlier.”

you don’t look at him. you log into your computer, fingers moving out of muscle memory. “you’ve said that.”

“i know. i just want to make sure you know i mean it.”

“you also said that.”

“i just—” he stops, scratching the back of his neck. the chair squeaks as he leans forward. “i really didn’t mean for you to get hurt. i thought i had the angle right.”

“you never have the angle right,” you mutter.

“ouch.”

you glance over despite yourself. he’s smiling, but there’s something tentative about it, like he’s bracing for a hit you never quite deliver. he always looks like that after missions go bad—like a dog expecting to be kicked and not understanding why it hasn’t happened yet.

it’s infuriating.

you sigh, rubbing your temples. “adrian. i’m not mad that you messed up. i’m mad that you never think before you act.”

“that’s not true,” he says quickly. “i think all the time.”

you raise an eyebrow.

“okay,” he amends, “i think after i act. but sometimes that’s better, right? like jazz.”

“this is not jazz,” you say. “this is getting stabbed because you charged in without backup.”

“i said i was sorry,” he repeats, softer now.

the room falls into an uneasy quiet. outside, the snow thickens, flakes swirling sideways past the glass. the weather app on your phone buzzes, ignored in your pocket.

you shake your head and turn back to the screen. “just… drop it. we’re alive. emilia didn’t kill us. let’s get through the night.”

he perks up at that. “so we’re cool?”

you hesitate. then: “we’re… fine.”

his grin returns, full force this time. “awesome! best friends survive another mission.”

you snort despite yourself. “we are not best friends.”

he looks genuinely surprised. “really? huh. i mean, we hang out all the time. we fight crime together. we almost died together. that’s like… best-friend stuff.”

“that’s coworker stuff.”

“agree to disagree,” he says cheerfully, spinning back toward his computer. “anyway, snowstorm, huh? very hallmark.”

you glance at the windows again. the storm is picking up fast, the city disappearing under layers of white. there’s something oddly peaceful about it, the way the world seems to slow when the snow gets heavy enough.

your phone buzzes again. this time you check it.

SEVERE WEATHER ALERT: BLIZZARD CONDITIONS. TRAVEL IS NOT ADVISED.

you swallow. “looks like we’re stuck.”

adrian swivels back around. “what?”

“blizzard warning,” you say. “roads are closing. public transit’s already shut down.”

he blinks. then, slowly, a smile spreads across his face. “you’re saying we’re snowed in.”

“i’m saying we’re trapped in a crappy, old building with bad heating and worse company.”

“wow,” he says, hand to his chest. “and here i was thinking this could be fun.”

you roll your eyes. “you would.”

he shrugs. “hey, if the fire’s warm—”

“there is no fire.”

“—let it snow,” he finishes anyway, completely unfazed.

you freeze. “...did you just quote ‘let it snow’?”

he grins, delighted. “yeah! you know that song? ‘the weather outside is frightful, but the fire is so delightful’? classic!”

“you are unbelievable.”

“i’m festive,” he corrects. “there’s a difference.”

you turn back to your screen, trying very hard to ignore the way the snow makes the lights softer, the building quieter. trying not to think about the fact that there’s nowhere else to go tonight.

behind you, adrian hums under his breath, off-key but enthusiastic.

“let it snow, let it snow, let it snow…”

you grit your teeth. this is going to be a very long night.

the first thing that goes is the heat.

you don’t notice it right away—just a creeping chill that settles into the room like an unwanted guest. the vents cough once, twice, and then fall silent. the hum you’d grown used to disappears, leaving the bullpen eerily quiet.

you pause mid-typing. “did you hear that?”

adrian looks up from his screen. “hear what?”

“that,” you say, just as the lights flicker.

once. twice. then they stabilize.

adrian’s grin is instant. “ooooh. spooky.”

you glare. “don’t say that.”

“what? i love spooky. spooky is fun.”

“this is not fun. this is the building’s ancient infrastructure finally giving up.”

right on cue, your computer freezes. the cursor stops blinking. you tap a key. nothing. “no,” you mutter. “no, no, no—”

the lights flicker again, longer this time, and then—

darkness.

the emergency lights kick in a second later, bathing the room in a dull red glow. somewhere deeper in the building, an alarm chirps halfheartedly and then dies.

adrian lets out a low whistle. “okay. that one might be on me.”

you pinch the bridge of your nose. “how could this possibly be on you?”

“i don’t know,” he says. “bad luck aura? narrative tension?”

“you’re not funny.”

he squints at you. “you’re shivering.”

“i am not.”

“you are,” he insists, already standing. “here. sit.”

“i don’t need—”

he drags one of the spare chairs closer to the emergency heater unit near the wall. it’s barely functioning, but it’s something. you open your mouth to argue and then close it again when a wave of cold seeps through your jacket and into your bones.

fine.

you sit.

adrian crouches in front of the heater, smacking it lightly with his palm. “come on, buddy. work with me.” the heater rattles, then emits a weak puff of warm air. “yes!” he pumps a fist. “see? teamwork.”

“congratulations,” you deadpan. “you’ve successfully bullied an appliance.”

he beams like you’ve paid him the highest compliment.

you shrug your coat tighter around yourself. the storm outside is relentless now, snow plastered against the windows so thick you can barely see the city beyond. it feels like being underwater—cut off, suspended.

your phone buzzes again. no service.

adrian checks his own and groans. “dang it. emilia’s gonna be pissed if we freeze to death.”

“she’d be pissed if you survived,” you say. “this would just complicate the paperwork.”

he laughs, then winces, hand drifting to his side. the movement is subtle, but you catch it.

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

he freezes, then nods quickly. “yeah. totally. just… sore.”

“you’re bleeding,” you say flatly.

“what? no, i—” he looks down and swears. a dark stain is spreading through the edge of his bandage. “oh… huh. guess i reopened it.”

you stand with a sigh. “sit down.”

“i’m already sitting.”

“adrian.”

he knows that tone. he always does. with exaggerated slowness, he perches on the edge of the desk chair. you grab the first aid kit from the wall, kneeling in front of him.

“this is your fault,” you mutter as you peel back the bandage.

“which part?” he asks. “the getting stabbed or the making-you-play-medic part?”

“all of it.”

“worth it,” he says automatically, then stops. “—i mean. not worth you getting hurt. that part sucked.”

your hands still. you glance up at him. he’s not smiling now. his eyes are earnest, almost too open, like he doesn’t know how to hide what he’s thinking even if he wanted to.

“i really am sorry,” he says quietly. “i keep replaying it. if i’d waited two seconds—”

“you didn’t,” you say. “and we’re alive. let it go.”

he exhales, shoulders slumping. “you’re really bad at holding grudges.”

“i’m great at holding grudges,” you correct. “i just don’t want to babysit your guilt tonight.”

He huffs a weak laugh. “best friend privileges.”

you press gauze to his wound harder than necessary. he yelps.

“we are not best friends.”

“okay! okay,” he says, biting back a grin. “frenemies. with medical benefits.”

you finish rewrapping the bandage and sit back on your heels. for a moment, neither of you moves. the emergency lights cast strange shadows across his face, softening the sharp lines you’re used to seeing in the field.

outside, the wind howls.

adrian breaks the silence. “you ever notice how quiet snowstorms are?”

“you mean how loud they are?” you ask.

“no,” he says. “like, everything else shuts up. it’s just the storm and whatever’s stuck inside it.”

you consider that. “i guess.”

he hums again, softer this time. “when we finally kiss goodnight…”

you groan. “please, stop.”

“what? it’s thematic!”

“it’s annoying.”

“you love it.”

“i do not.”

he leans back, eyes flicking toward the windows. “you know, the song’s about being stuck somewhere you can’t leave. and instead of freaking out, they’re like—eh. guess we’ll make the best of it.”

“that is not what it’s about.”

“it totally is,” he insists. “snowstorm trapping people together. romance. hot cocoa. probably a couch.”

you snort. “we’re in an old video store with no power and an idiot.”

“hey,” he says mildly. “i prefer ‘charming wildcard.’”

you roll your eyes, but your annoyance feels… thinner now. blunted by exhaustion, by the quiet, by the way the storm presses in from all sides.

your phone buzzes again—one bar of service flickers to life just long enough for a text to come through. it’s emilia. ‘roads are shut down. you two are stuck there until morning. don’t break anything’.

you show adrian the message.

he grins. “sleepover!”

“this is not a sleepover.”

“it is absolutely a sleepover.”

you glance around the empty bullpen, at the chairs and desks and one sad heater struggling against the cold. “we’re not sharing a bed.”

he pauses. “…there’s a bed?”

“no.”

“oh.” he brightens anyway. “cuddle for warmth, then.”

“adrian.”

“i’m kidding!” he raises his hands. “mostly.”

you shake your head, fighting a reluctant smile. 

outside, the snow shows no signs of stopping.and inside, with nowhere else to go, the space between you feels smaller than it ever has.

the power doesn’t come back.

an hour passes. maybe two. time stretches and blurs in the way it only does when there’s nothing to mark it—no clocks, no screens, no outside world to measure against. the emergency lights eventually dim to nothing, surrendering the room to shadows and the thin, silvery glow of snowlight filtering through the windows.

it’s colder now. the heater gives up with a sad, rattling cough.

“well,” adrian says into the dark. “that’s ominous.”

you pull your coat tighter around yourself. “you say that like you’re enjoying it.”

“i’m coping,” he replies. “there’s a difference.”

you can hear him shifting, fabric rustling as he shrugs out of something. a moment later, he clears his throat. “hey. you’re still shivering.”

“i’m fine.”

“you’re literally lying,” he says, and then something warm settles over your shoulders.

you stiffen. “what are you doing?”

“jacket,” he says simply. “i run hot. occupational hazard.”

you glance down. it’s his—heavy, worn, still faintly smelling like gun oil and winter air. and him. you hate that you recognize that part.

“i don’t need—”

“you do,” he interrupts, gentler than usual. “and if you argue, i will start singing again.”

you close your mouth. “…thank you,” you mutter after a beat.

he brightens instantly, like you’ve flipped a switch. “you’re welcome.”

you sit in silence for a while, the storm outside relentless, snow tapping against the glass like fingertips. without the usual noise, the building feels too big, too empty—like you’re the only two people left in the world.

adrian breaks the quiet again, voice lower. “you scared me, earlier on the mission.”

you glance at him. “i was the one bleeding.”

“i know,” he says. “that’s not— i mean, yeah, that too. but when you went down… i didn’t like it.”

the admission hangs between you, fragile.

“you’re not supposed to like it,” you say carefully.

“still,” he shrugs. “didn’t stop my brain from doing that thing where it shows you every possible terrible outcome.”

you study him in the half-light. this version of adrian—quiet, stripped of bravado—is rarer than he thinks. “you’re not responsible for everything,” you say. “even if you really want to be.”

he laughs softly. “you say that like it’s a flaw.”

“it is when it gets you stabbed.”

“fair.”

another pause. the cold creeps back in, seeping through layers.

without looking at you, adrian asks, “can i sit closer? strictly for survival reasons.”

you hesitate. then nod.

he moves carefully, settling beside you on the floor, backs against the desk. his shoulder brushes yours, tentative at first, then steady. heat radiates from him, undeniable.

you tell yourself it’s practical. necessary.

still, you’re painfully aware of every point of contact.

outside, the storm howls louder, wind rattling the windows. adrian hums again, quieter now, almost absentminded.

“when we finally kiss goodnight…”

you don’t tell him to stop this time. “why that song?” you ask instead.

he shrugs. “my mom used to play it when it snowed. said if you can’t go anywhere, you might as well be warm and not miserable.”

you huff softly. “you’re still miserable. and you hate your mom.”

“yeah,” he agrees. “but less miserable i guess.”

your arm brushes his. he doesn’t pull away.

the silence stretches, comfortable in a way that makes you uneasy. you’ve always known how to push him away—sarcasm, sharp edges, irritation. you don’t know what to do when he meets you without flinching.

“you know,” you say slowly, “you drive me insane.”

“i know.”

“you don’t listen. you act before you think. you treat life like it’s a game you can reload.”

“i know,” he repeats, softer.

“and yet,” you continue, “you keep showing up. you take the hits. you apologize when you mess up.”

he glances at you, eyes searching. “is this where you tell me you secretly like me?”

“this is where i tell you not to interrupt.”

“sorry,” he whispers, biting back a grin.

you exhale. “i don’t know what to do with you.”

he leans his head back against the desk. “you don’t have to do anything. i’m pretty low maintenance. just… don’t make me go away.”

there it is. the thing he never asks for outright.

you swallow. the storm outside feels endless, the world narrowed to this moment, this warmth, this too-honest quiet.

“i wasn’t going to,” you say.

he smiles—not wide, not joking. just real. his shoulder presses a little closer to yours.