bug

You narrow your eyes slightly, watching the way he moves toward you, because there’s something off in the best way. Not tense, not distracted—if anything, the opposite. He’s too relaxed, too aware of you, like he walked in already tuned to your breathing, your position, the shift of the couch cushions under your weight.

“Distracted,” you repeat, drawing the word out as he comes closer. “That sounds suspicious.”

“Does it?” He tilts his head just slightly in your direction, that faint, knowing curve at the corner of his mouth. There’s a quiet rustle when he adjusts his grip on something in his hand, and only then do you notice the bag hanging loosely from his fingers.

You sit up a little, interest catching. “What’s that?”

“Nothing dramatic,” he says easily, stepping into your space without hesitation. He stops close enough that you can feel the warmth of him, close enough that his knee brushes the edge of the couch. “Just saw something and thought of you.”

“That’s even more suspicious,” you say, eyeing the bag now. “You don’t ‘just see things.’ You’re a man who wears the same three shirts on rotation.”

“That’s efficient,” he replies without missing a beat, holding the bag out toward you.

You take it, the paper crinkling softly in your hands, and glance up at him for a second longer before peeking inside. For a moment you don’t fully process what you’re looking at, just a glimpse of dark fabric, something delicate, the faint sheen of lace under the low light. Then it clicks, and your brows lift immediately.

“Matt.”

“Yeah?”

You pull the edge of it up just enough to get a better look, and there’s no mistaking it now. It’s not subtle, not practical, not anything close to the comfortable things you usually reach for without thinking. It’s bold in a way that feels intentional, the kind of thing that’s meant to be seen, not just worn.

“You went out,” you say slowly, “and bought lingerie.”

He doesn’t look even slightly thrown off by your tone. If anything, his expression settles further into that quiet amusement, like he’s been waiting for this exact reaction.

“I did,” he confirms.

You glance back down into the bag, taking in more of it—the cut, the color, the way the fabric looks like it would sit against your skin. It’s… nice. More than nice. It’s the kind of thing you’d stop and look at in a store window, maybe even pick up and consider, and then put back because it feels like too much, too indulgent.

Your gaze flicks back up to him, suspicion creeping in alongside the warmth curling low in your stomach. “How did you even—?” You cut yourself off, gesturing vaguely with the bag. “Matt, this is not exactly your area of expertise.”

“I had help,” he says, calm as ever.

“Oh, I’m sure you did,” you mutter, shaking your head a little as you look back inside. “Some poor sales associate just got interrogated by a blind lawyer about lace and… whatever this is.”

His smile widens just enough to be noticeable. “She was very nice, actually.”

“Uh-huh.”

“And very patient.”

“I bet she had to be.”

You pull the fabric out a little more this time, letting it drape over your hand, and your thumb brushes over it almost absently. It’s soft, lighter than you expected, and the realization settles in more fully now that this wasn’t just a random purchase. He didn’t grab something off a rack and hope for the best, this looks chosen. You glance at him again, narrowing your eyes just slightly. “You’re being weirdly confident about this.”

“I usually am,” he says, shifting closer still until his hip nudges the edge of the couch. His hand finds the back of it, fingers curling there, grounding himself as he angles toward you more directly. “Try it on.”

You let out a short, incredulous laugh. “You’re not even going to pretend to be subtle about it?”

“Wasn’t planning to,” he replies, the honesty of it landing somewhere between disarming and unfair.

You look down at the lingerie again, then back at him, weighing the moment. There’s curiosity there, definitely, and something warmer threaded through it, something that makes it hard to just toss the bag aside and ignore it. The way he’s standing there doesn’t help, either—close, attentive, like he’s already picturing the outcome.

“You’re unbelievable,” you say, but there’s no real bite to it as you push yourself up from the couch, bag still in hand.

“I’ve been called worse.”

“Stay here,” you add, pointing vaguely in his direction as you step past him. “And don’t… I don’t know. Smirk like that.”

“I’m not smirking.”

“You are absolutely smirking.”

His quiet chuckle follows you as you head off to change, the sound of it lingering just long enough to make the whole thing feel even more intentional than it already does.

The bathroom door clicks shut behind you, muting the quiet sounds of the apartment and, more importantly, the steady presence of Matt just on the other side of the wall. You set the bag down on the counter and pull the pieces out properly this time, laying them out in front of you instead of just sneaking glances like you had in the living room.

“Okay,” you murmur to yourself, turning one of the pieces over in your hands. “What exactly did you buy?”

Up close, it’s even more detailed than you thought—lace layered over something softer, structured in a way that looks complicated enough to be annoying. You eye it for a second longer, then start changing, half expecting to immediately run into some issue.

“Of course there’s like… five different straps,” you mutter, working through it step by step. “Why are there always so many straps?”

There’s no answer, obviously, but the familiar rhythm of figuring it out settles your nerves a little. You adjust one side, then the other, reaching back to fasten it, then pausing when something feels… off. Not wrong. Just—

You shift your shoulders, then your hips, testing it. “…Wait.”

You turn slightly toward the mirror, angling yourself to get a better look, fingers brushing along the edge where the fabric meets your skin. It sits exactly where it should, not digging in, not loose, not doing that annoying thing where it gaps in one place and pinches in another.

You tug lightly at the waistband, then let it fall back into place, watching how it settles against you. “No way.”

You lean in a little closer, adjusting the straps at your shoulders out of habit more than necessity, and even that feels… unnecessary. They’re already right—the support is right, the way it lifts and holds is right, the way it sits against your ribs without pressing too tight is right.

You press your lips together, then let out a quiet huff of disbelief. “Matt,” you say under your breath, shaking your head as you smooth your hands down over your waist and hips, feeling the fabric move with you instead of against you. “What the hell.”

You shift your weight from one leg to the other, watching how it fits from a different angle, then reach back again just to check the clasp, as if it might somehow be a fluke. It isn’t. Everything lines up too perfectly for that. “This fits better than anything I own,” you mutter, more to the mirror than anything else.

You pause for a second, hands resting at your sides, then glance toward the door like you can see through it. “How did you even—”

The question trails off, unfinished, because you already know the answer isn’t going to be simple. You glance back at yourself one more time, taking in the full picture now that you’re not distracted by figuring it out, and a different kind of heat settles in your chest.

“…You’ve got to be kidding me.”

There’s a beat where you just stand there, processing, fingers idly tracing the edge of the lace at your hip before you finally shake your head and push away from the counter. “Yeah, no,” you say, grabbing the edge of the door handle. “We’re talking about this.”

And with that, you pull the door open and step back out toward him, the question sitting sharp and ready on your tongue now that the initial shock has settled into something much more focused.

You don’t rush back out like you’re trying to get it over with, because that would make it worse, and you don’t linger in the bathroom either because you can already picture Matt sitting out there with that calm patience of his, like he has all night. You square your shoulders, smooth your hands once over your hips out of habit, and step into the living room with a steadier pace than you feel.

Matt is exactly where you left him, angled toward the couch as if he’d been listening to the TV and not to every small sound you made behind the bathroom door. He’s taken his jacket off, sleeves rolled up now, the white of his shirt catching the lamplight. When you come into the room his head turns immediately, precise, and his expression shifts the same way it always does when he’s focusing on you, that quiet attention tightening into place like a thread pulled taut.

You stop a few feet in front of him, letting yourself be seen—letting yourself be sensed, really—and you put one hand on your hip like you’re braver than you feel.

“Well,” you say, leaning into the teasing tone before you can overthink it, “how do you like my outfit?”

The corner of his mouth lifts before you even finish the sentence. His head tilts slightly, like he’s taking in the whole shape of you through sound and air and the faintest changes in your breathing, and when he answers he does it without a second of hesitation.

“You’re hardly wearing anything.”

It lands exactly the way it should: confident, amused, warm enough to make your pulse jump, like he’s pleased with himself and pleased with you all at once. He doesn’t say it like a complaint, either, he says it like an observation he’s enjoying, like he’s cataloging details you can’t hide from him even if you tried.

You make a face, but your mouth is already fighting a smile. “That is not an answer. That’s commentary.”

“It’s an answer,” he says, and he’s still smiling, still angled toward you like he can feel the space between you as clearly as if he could see it. “I like it.”

“Mm,” you hum, dragging the sound out like you’re considering whether he’s earned the right to say that. “You like it because it’s scandalous.”

“I like it because it’s on you,” he corrects, the warmth in his voice sharpening into something more intimate. “The scandalous part is a bonus.”

You roll your eyes, but you don’t step back, and he must hear that you don’t, because his smile deepens again as he reaches a hand out—not blindly, not searching, just extending his fingers toward where you are like he knows exactly where you’ll be.

You hesitate for half a second, then move closer, just enough for his hand to meet your waist. His palm settles there with easy familiarity, fingers spreading as if he’s checking that you’re real, that you actually did it, that you actually walked out here wearing what he bought. His touch is gentle, but there’s nothing uncertain about it.

“Matt,” you say, the warning in your voice weaker than it should be, because his hand is warm and the lace is doing something unfair to your confidence.

He doesn’t let go. He drags his thumb slowly along the side of your waist, just enough to make you inhale a little sharper, and his head tilts again like he heard it and liked it. “You sound like you’re about to scold me,” he says, voice soft, almost amused.

“I might,” you reply, trying to hold onto the playful tone even as your face feels warmer. “You can’t just… do this.”

“Why not?” he asks, and the question is simple, but there’s a familiar edge to it that makes it feel like he already knows you’re going to fold.

You open your mouth, then close it again, because the obvious answer is that you can’t explain why not without admitting you like it, and you’re not ready to give him that satisfaction yet. So instead you go with the thing that’s been simmering on your tongue since you looked in the mirror. “How,” you say, narrowing your eyes even though you know it doesn’t matter, “did you manage to buy something that fits this well?”

His smile changes immediately, turning a little smug, a little too pleased with himself, and his hand stays on your waist like he’s anchoring you there while he answers. “You’re wearing it,” he says, as if that explains everything.

“That’s not an answer,” you shoot back, but your voice breaks into a laugh at the end because he’s impossible.

“It fits,” he continues, calm as ever, and now his fingers move, tracing lightly along your side like he’s outlining the answer directly onto your skin. “That was the point.”

You put your other hand on his forearm, not pushing him away, just holding him there, because you need to feel steady for a second. “It fits better than my own bras,” you tell him, and you hear the disbelief in your own voice. “So unless you secretly got a degree in lingerie engineering, you’re going to explain yourself.”

Matt’s grin widens, and he shifts closer, enough that his chest is almost brushing yours. “I didn’t guess.”

“That’s not what I’m asking,” you shoot back, brows lifting. “Because there is no universe where you walked into a lingerie store and went, ‘hello, yes, my girlfriend is approximately this shape,’ and then it just worked out.”

He hums like he’s considering your argument, then shifts his hand slightly, sliding it from the side of your waist to the front, fingers spanning across your stomach with that calm, familiar confidence. “You’re shaped like you,” he says simply, as if that’s the most obvious thing in the world.

You stare at him. “That is the least helpful answer you’ve ever given me.”

“It’s not,” he argues, and he sounds genuinely amused about it. “You’re acting like this is complicated.”

“It is complicated,” you insist. “It fits like it was made for me. The straps aren’t weird, it doesn’t gape, it’s not digging into my ribs, it’s not—” You cut yourself off before you list every petty complaint you’ve ever had about underwear, then narrow your eyes at him again. “Matt. How?”

He tilts his head, and you can tell he’s enjoying this, which immediately makes you more determined to get the truth out of him. “I know,” he says.

You blink. “You know what?”

“I know your measurements.”

You let out a sound that’s half laugh and half offended noise. “No, you do not.”

“I do,” he says, still completely calm.

“That’s insane.”

“It’s not insane,” he replies, and now his fingers move again, spreading at your waist as if he’s proving a point. “It’s… information.”

“Information,” you repeat flatly. “You’re calling my body ‘information.’”

He gives a small shrug, the movement subtle under your hand. “You’re the one who asked.”

“I asked how you bought something in my size,” you correct him, “not whether you have some secret spreadsheet in your head labeled ‘girlfriend.’”

“I don’t need a spreadsheet.”

“That’s not comforting.”

His mouth quirks, and then he speaks like he’s explaining something simple, like you’re the one being dramatic. “I know how your waist fits under my hands. I know where your hips sit because I’ve held you there a hundred times. I know how wide you are at your ribs because I’ve had my arms around you. It’s not… complicated.”

You stare at him harder, because the way he says it makes it sound so casual, so normal, like every boyfriend has a mental record of the exact curve of their girlfriend’s body. “You just said that like it’s an everyday thing,” you accuse.

“It is,” he says, and then, like he can’t help himself, his hand slides a fraction higher, fingers splaying against you with the lightest pressure. “For me.”

Your breath catches on the edge of annoyance and something warmer, and you tighten your grip on his forearm like you can physically hold onto your composure. “So what?” you say, narrowing your eyes again, “you walked into the store and told them my measurements?”

“I did,” he replies, and there’s a hint of pride in it now.

“You did not.”

“I did,” he repeats, and he sounds more amused the more you argue. “She asked what size you were. I told her.”

“Matt,” you say slowly, voice dropping into the tone you use when you’re trying not to laugh, “you’re telling me you confidently told a stranger my bra size.”

“She wasn’t a stranger for long,” he says, deadpan. “We talked for several minutes.”

“Oh my God.”

“She was very nice,” he continues, like you didn’t interrupt him. “Older woman, maybe late fifties. She had a perfume on that reminded me of my aunt, and she kept calling you ‘sweetheart’ even though she’s never met you.”

You blink again, because of course he noticed that. Of course he cataloged it like it mattered. “And she just… believed you?” you ask, incredulous.

There’s a beat, and his mouth tilts into something almost smug. “At first she didn’t.”

You point at him immediately. “Aha.”

“She asked if I was sure,” he admits, and then his thumb strokes lightly at your waist, slow enough to feel like a distraction and deliberate enough to feel like one too. “I told her I was.”

“You told her,” you repeat, “that you were sure.”

“I was sure,” he says.

“Did you say it like that?” you ask, tilting your head. “‘I’m sure,’ in your lawyer voice, like you were cross-examining the lingerie rack?”

He lets out a quiet laugh. “Maybe.”

“And she didn’t think you were full of it?”

“She thought I was… very confident for a man shopping alone,” he says, and now you can hear the smile in his voice more clearly. “She asked if I wanted to call you to confirm.”

You widen your eyes. “Oh, absolutely not.”

“I told her I didn’t need to.”

Your jaw drops a little. “You told her you didn’t need to.”

He nods once, the motion small. “I said I knew. I said I knew because I touch you.”

Heat shoots straight up your neck so fast it’s almost comical. “Matt.”

“What?” he says innocently, and the innocence does not match the way his hand settles a little more firmly on your waist, like he’s anchoring you while he says it. “It’s true.”

You press your lips together, trying to find a response that doesn’t make you sound flustered, but it’s difficult when he’s standing there acting like he didn’t just say that out loud. “And what did she say to that?” you manage.

“She paused,” he says, the amusement in his tone returning. “Then she said, ‘well… good for you both.’”

You groan, tipping your head back for a second. “I can’t believe you.”

“She helped,” he continues, as if you didn’t just implode a little. “She picked out a few options, asked what kind of fabric you like, what you’d actually wear. I told her you don’t like anything that scratches and you hate straps that slip.”

You freeze. “I have never told you that.”

“You have,” he says, gentle but certain. “Just not with words.”

Your gaze snaps back to his face, and his expression softens slightly, less smug and more quietly sincere, like he’s aware of the effect he’s having now and he’s not trying to make you uncomfortable.

“I know you,” he says, voice lower. “That’s all.”

You swallow, then huff a laugh to break the tension before it swallows you whole. “You’re impossible.”

He smiles again, warm and pleased. “And you’re wearing it.”

You glance down at yourself, then back up at him, pointing at his chest again like you can still salvage the argument. “You realize this means you can never pull the ‘I don’t know what to buy you’ card again, right?”

“I never did,” he replies, and his thumb traces one more slow circle at your waist. “You just didn’t believe me.”

Matt’s thumb stills at your waist like he’s made a decision, and then he steps closer—not fast, not like he’s pouncing, but like he’s closing a door you didn’t realize was open. His other hand comes up to your lower back, fingers spreading there with a quiet firmness that pulls you in an inch at a time until your body has to acknowledge his.

“You’re standing very straight,” he says, voice low with amusement.

“I’m standing normally,” you argue, but it comes out a little breathier than you meant it to.

He smiles, small and private, and his hands shift as if he’s getting comfortable. One stays at your waist, grounding. The other slides up your side, slow enough that you can feel every change in the lace beneath his fingertips, the way it gives and springs back. His touch doesn’t wander aimlessly; it maps you, confident and familiar, like he’s checking the fit the way he promised he would—except the way he does it makes your knees want to misbehave.

“It’s softer than I thought,” he murmurs, thumb brushing along the seam at your waist. “The lace is… good. Not scratchy.”

You swallow. “You said the lady helped.”

“She did,” he agrees, and his fingers drift higher for a moment, stopping just at the edge where the fabric meets skin. His head tilts slightly, as if he’s listening to something only he can hear. “Your heart’s faster.”

“It’s not,” you lie immediately.

His mouth quirks. “It is.”

“Maybe it’s because my boyfriend is conducting a full-body inspection in the living room,” you shoot back, trying to sound offended and not like you’re enjoying this.

He hums, pleased, and his hands move again. The one at your waist slides around to your hip, palm cupping it with a familiarity that makes your stomach flutter. His other hand follows the line of your ribs, then eases down over your side again, tracing the fabric like he’s learning it. When his fingers reach your hip, he pauses, pressing lightly as if confirming the exact curve he’d described earlier.

“Perfect,” he says quietly, and it isn’t a compliment tossed out for fun. It sounds like certainty.

You scoff, mostly to cover the way it lands. “You’re saying that like you’re grading a test.”

“I’m saying it because it’s true.” His hand drifts lower, gliding over your hip and down your thigh, the lace brushing under his fingers and then giving way to warm skin. He doesn’t squeeze, doesn’t grab; he just traces, slow and deliberate, and you can feel the careful attention in the way he moves, like he’s paying attention to the places you tense and the places you soften.

You try to keep your voice steady. “You’re enjoying yourself.”

“I am,” he says simply, and then his hand on your lower back tightens just enough to pull you closer. Your front brushes his shirt, and you feel the quiet heat of him through fabric, the solid line of his body where he’s holding himself very still.

His fingers sweep back up your thigh, and you have to bite the inside of your cheek when they graze the strap near the garter. He pauses there, just for a second, like he found something interesting.

“What?” you ask, suspicious immediately.

He smiles again, slow and patient. “Nothing.”

“That’s never ‘nothing,’” you say, and you shift your weight as if you can shake his attention off of it.

You can’t, he follows the movement easily, fingertips returning to the strap with precise certainty, like he can feel the exact point where it rests against your skin. He hooks a finger under it gently, testing the tension without pulling hard enough to hurt, and his head tilts again like he’s listening to your breathing change.

“You’re doing that on purpose,” you accuse, but the accusation doesn’t have much bite when your voice is doing that thing where it softens at the edges.

“I’m touching my girlfriend,” he replies, innocent in tone and absolutely not innocent in practice. His hand slides back up to your hip, thumb stroking there while his other hand glides up your side again, settling higher on your waist like he’s framing you.

You lift your chin, trying to reclaim the upper hand. “Okay,” you say, forcing a steadier tone, “so you bought it. You measured me. You’re very proud of yourself.”

“I am,” he agrees, far too easily.

“Fine.” You give him a look he can’t see and somehow still reacts to, because his smile deepens. You place your hand against his chest, fingers splaying over the fabric of his shirt as if that will make you feel more in control. “You sure you can get it off?”

Matt goes still in a way that makes the air feel heavier. His hands pause at your waist and lower back, holding you in place, and for a heartbeat he doesn’t answer. The silence stretches just long enough to make you regret asking, just long enough for your pulse to jump again.

Then he leans in slightly, close enough that his breath warms the corner of your mouth when he speaks. “I can take anything off,” he says, voice low, confident, and calm in a way that makes it sound like a promise.

Your throat goes dry. “Is that right?”

“It is.” His fingers slide down, and without hesitation he finds the garter strap again, like it’s been lit up for him the whole time. He hooks it with two fingers, pulls it back just a fraction, and lets it snap lightly against your thigh.

The sting is more surprise than pain, more playful than cruel, but it shoots straight through you anyway. You gasp, and his smile turns instantly smug, like he was waiting for that exact sound. “Matthew,” you breathe, warning and complaint tangled together.

He chuckles under his breath, and his hand returns to your lower back, drawing you closer again as if he can’t resist. “Careful,” he murmurs, tilting his head like he’s listening to your heartbeat race. “You keep challenging me like that, I’m going to start thinking you want me to prove it.”

You swallow, trying to recover your composure, but his hands are still there—one firm at your back, the other resting on your waist, thumb making slow circles like he has all the time in the world.

“I didn’t say that,” you manage.

“No,” he agrees softly, and the warmth in his voice is almost unfair. “You didn’t have to.” Matt doesn’t give you time to build another argument. His hand at your lower back tightens, drawing you in until your breath catches against his shirt, and then his mouth finds yours like he’s been thinking about it since the second he walked through the door.

The kiss is slow at first, deliberate, like he’s taking his time on purpose. His lips tilt with that quiet confidence of his, and you feel it in the way he holds you—steady hands, no hesitation, like he’s grounding both of you to the same point. When you part for air, he stays close enough that his forehead brushes yours.

“You’re shaking,” he murmurs.

“I am not,” you whisper back, even though it’s an obvious lie and you both know it.

He smiles against your mouth and kisses you again, softer this time, a gentler press that makes your shoulders drop without you meaning to. His hands slide down, settling at your hips, thumbs stroking lightly as if he’s reassuring you with touch alone.

“Better?” he asks, voice low.

“Maybe,” you answer, and it comes out quieter than you intended. You nudge his shoulder with the faintest shove, mostly for dignity. “You’re still being smug.”

“I’m not smug,” he says, and then his mouth curves. “I’m satisfied.”

You let out a breathy laugh that dies halfway when his hands shift. One palm slips under your thigh, the other mirrors it, and he lifts you like it’s nothing—like you don’t weigh anything at all to him. You squeak, grabbing at his shoulders instinctively, and he steadies you immediately, calm and solid.

“Matt—”

“Wrap your legs,” he says, like an instruction he expects you to follow.

You do, because his hands are already there, warm against your bare thighs, fingers spanning skin like he’s memorizing it again. The lace brushes his knuckles as he adjusts his grip, and his thumbs stroke slow lines as if he’s checking that you’re comfortable.

“Is this okay?” he asks, quiet, the teasing gone for a second.

Your throat tightens in a way that’s annoyingly tender. “Yeah,” you say, and you lean forward to kiss him before you can get embarrassed about how quickly you answered. “It’s okay.”

His mouth lifts against yours, pleased, and he turns without any clumsy searching—just walks, sure-footed, carrying you down the hall. The bedroom door is already half-open. He nudges it wider with his shoulder and you huff a small laugh. “Show-off.”

“You like it,” he replies, and the way he says it is gentle, like he’s not trying to win, just telling the truth.

He steps to the bed and lowers you onto it slowly, careful and unhurried, hands still on your thighs until you’re settled. He doesn’t let go immediately, either. He stays between your legs, palms resting warm and steady, like he’s anchoring you again.

For a moment you just look at him—his face angled toward you, expression softened, mouth still a little swollen from kissing. He reaches up, brushing his knuckles along your cheek like he’s checking where you are, and then he leans in and kisses you again, slow and deep enough that it makes your hands fist lightly in his shirt.

“You’re dangerous,” you murmur when you can breathe.

He smiles, just a little. “I know.”

“You’re enjoying this way too much.”

“I bought you a gift,” he says, voice warm, and he kisses the corner of your mouth. “I’m allowed to enjoy it.”

You roll your eyes, but your hands slide up his shoulders, pulling him back in. He follows easily, kisses turning softer again, more lingering than hungry. His hands move from your thighs to your hips, then up your sides, thumbs tracing along your ribs with that same precise care that started this whole thing.

“Still fits,” he says quietly, like he’s confirming the result to himself.

“Stop saying that,” you whisper, laughing under your breath.

“Why?” he asks, and his mouth moves to your jaw, kissing there, then just below your ear. His voice drops lower. “It does.”

You inhale sharply when he shifts his weight and kisses down your throat, unhurried, like he isn’t rushing toward anything. One hand slides back to your thigh again, fingers pressing warm and steady, while the other drifts higher, pausing at the edge of the bra as if he’s asking without words.

You answer anyway, voice soft. “You’re being ridiculous.”

“I’m being honest,” he murmurs, and he kisses the top of your chest where the lace frames you. His lips linger there, then trail lower, and you feel the brush of his breath as he dips beneath the line of the bra, the contact gentle enough to make your head tip back into the pillow.

Your fingers thread into his hair, holding him there for a second, and he hums softly like he approves. He lifts his head just enough to speak, mouth close to your skin.

“You know what I like?” he asks.

You manage a shaky laugh. “Do I get a choice in hearing it?”

“No,” he says, the smile obvious in his voice. His hand squeezes your thigh, grounding, affectionate. “I like that you still try to act like you’re not affected.”

You open your mouth to argue, but he kisses you again—one slow kiss placed right over your pulse like he can feel it racing under his lips.

“Matt,” you whisper, half warning, half plea.

He lifts his head, expression softening as if he heard everything you didn’t say. His hand slides up from your thigh to your hip again, steadying you, and he leans in close enough that his forehead touches yours.

“I’ve got you,” he says quietly. “Okay?”

You exhale, letting the words settle. “Okay.”

He kisses you once more—slow, deliberate—and then he shifts lower again, mouth returning to your chest with the same patient attention, hands warm on your thighs as you pull him closer. The room narrows down to the feel of his touch and the quiet sounds he draws from you, and when his voice murmurs your name like it’s something precious, you stop thinking about anything else at all.

The rest of the night can wait.

everything: @clxt-lamb1 @person-005 @bookoffracturedescapes @macbaetwo @demiebarnes

if you start to spiral, he doesn't just ask what’s wrong. he uses his tactical training to ground you. he’ll have you name five things you can see in the room, three things you can hear, etc. his voice stays completely level, like a lighthouse in a storm.

dex is very big on physical grounding. if you’re having a panic attack, he’ll sit behind you and pull you back against his chest, wrapping his arms around you with just the right amount of firm, steady pressure until your heart rate matches his.

he has a specific, soft way of tapping your knuckles twice to ask if you're okay without making you speak.

because he’s always fighting his own internal static, he never makes you feel "crazy." he just sits in the dark with you until the world feels safe again

"the noise is loud today. i hear it too. we’ll wait for it to pass together."

he never leaves you guessing. he texts you exactly when he’s leaving and exactly when he’ll be home because he knows uncertainty is a trigger.

if he sees you picking at your skin or hair, he’ll gently catch your hand and kiss your palm. he doesn't say anything; he just holds your hand until the urge passes.

if he feels you tensing up while holding his hand, he’ll just start slowly tracing the bones of your wrist with his thumb. it’s a repetitive, rhythmic motion meant to pull you back into the present.

"you’re doing fine. we’re just sitting here. no pressure."

this is actually my first time writing relationship hcs (as you can probably tell lol), so please be kind.

Their teasing continues, but Clark barely registers it. He hasn’t heard a word since the moment you walked through the door—hair mussed from the wind, a binder hugged tight to your chest. Perry intercepted you immediately, stopping you at the front desk to talk about the article you submitted late last night. Clark only knows this because he can hear every word from across the newsroom—the warmth in your voice, every shift and cadence he’s memorised over the years. 

It’s not an accent or a twang. It’s just you. 

The voice that lingers in his dreams, that echoes in the back of his mind whenever he’s flying through the sky, wondering if you’re thinking about him too. 

It’s always you. 

“Morning, team!” you greet cheerfully, dropping your bag and binder onto the desk opposite Clark’s. 

Jimmy smirks, his gaze flicking toward Clark before settling on you. “Good morning, hot shot. What was all that with the boss about?” 

Clark is staring—he knows he is—but he can’t help it. You’re just so goddamn beautiful. You have been since the day he first met you, and no amount of superhuman restraint has ever dulled the way you affect him. If kryptonite is his greatest weakness, you’re a very close second. 

“Didn’t you hear?” you tease Jimmy. “I’m the new headliner.” 

“Front page?” Jimmy’s brows shoot up. “Already? Wow. I’m impressed.” 

You grin, pretending to flick your hair off your shoulder with mock dramatics—and that’s when Clark notices it. The change. The subtle way your body reacts. 

Your heartbeat picks up, quick and sharp against his ears. He can see it now—literally see the steady thump of your heart beneath your ribs, see the way the muscles in your chest tighten and your breath catches ever so slightly. 

But why? 

The question lodges in his mind like a splinter. Is it Jimmy? Is it something Jimmy said? Does he make you nervous? Does he make you excited? 

Do you... like him? 

Clark’s brow furrows. He tracks the heat rising under your skin, the almost imperceptible tremor in your hand as you lower it to lean on your desk—and then he freezes. 

Oh, God. He’s staring directly at your chest. Through it, technically, but from the outside no one else would know the difference. His face heats, and he blinks hard, forcing himself to stop—to look away before someone notices. 

“Better watch out, Kent,” Lois says, smirking over the rim of her coffee cup. “You might’ve just convinced Perry to hire your biggest competition yet.” 

Clark clears his throat, pulling his gaze up to your face where it belongs. “Yeah, I think I did.” 

You give him that cheesy little smile—the one where your nose scrunches up, your cheeks flush pink, and his heart stops—the one that slips into his dreams every damn night. He loves that smile. He loves your face. He loves you—and God, he hates that he’s too much of a coward to say it out loud. 

He wishes he wasn’t. 

He wishes—of all the powers in the universe—that he had the ability to rewind time. Then, he’d go back to college, back to the late-night study sessions and coffee runs and the years of friendship and banter. Back to that night, right before graduation, when he told you the truth about who he really is. 

If he’d been half as brave as everyone thinks he is, he would’ve said— 

I’m Superman. And by the way, I’m in love with you. Wanna make out? 

Maybe then things would’ve been different. Maybe if he tacked it on to the big reveal, you would’ve fallen for him too—charmed by the whole ‘superhero’ thing. 

And maybe by now you’d be doing everything and more than just making out. Because yeah, he wants to do a lot more than that. A lot more. Which is a real problem, because just thinking about having you—really having you—makes him dizzy enough to fly straight into a building. 

He isn’t joking when he says you affect him like kryptonite. He doesn’t know why, but when it comes to you, he’s helpless. Powerless. He’s always felt things more deeply than most—because he isn’t like most—but with you? It's something else entirely. 

He knows for a fact he couldn’t live without you. That’s why he convinced you to stay in Metropolis after college. Why he’s never stopped being your best friend. Why he got you the job at the Daily Planet—because weekends with you weren’t enough. He needs you every single day. 

And that’s also why he’s never told you how he really feels. Because the way he loves you scares him—and if it scares him, what would it do to you? Probably terrify you. Maybe even drive you away. And he can’t risk that. 

He can’t risk losing you. 

So here he stays, hopelessly stuck in the friendzone, listening to you chat animatedly with Cat about some loser you met on Hinge who you’re going out with tomorrow night. 

“His profile says he’s into hot yoga and smoking meats,” you say, holding your phone up for Cat to see. 

It takes every ounce of—superhuman—self-control for Clark not to scoff. 

“Baby girl, it also says he collects limited edition knives,” Cat points out, her brows drawn. “Are you sure you want to go on a date with this guy?” 

You roll your eyes. “I appreciate the concern, but he’s the only half-decent match I’ve had in weeks.” 

Cat blinks at you. “Seriously? But your profile is perfect. I made sure of that myself.” 

“I know,” you sigh, your gaze sliding toward Clark—who’s very conspicuously looking anywhere but at you. “But I left my phone unattended on my desk a couple weeks ago, and someone thought it’d be funny to change everything so the only matches I got were Arkham escapees.” 

Jimmy snorts at his desk, but his eyes stay glued to his screen like he isn’t blatantly eavesdropping. 

“Clark,” Cat says, her glare narrowing at him. “Messing with her dating profile? Really?” 

Clark’s head snaps up—blue eyes wide and full of faux-innocence. “It was Jimmy’s idea.” 

“Dude,” Jimmy says, swivelling in his chair, “you really don’t want to start pointing fingers. Because I won’t hesitate to—” 

“Okay!” Lois cuts in, standing from her desk with her empty mug in hand. “I’m going to need you all to shut up and get some actual work done before I lose my mind.” 

Jimmy chuckles and turns back to his desk. Cat sighs, handing your phone back with a dramatic shake of her head. Clark glances toward Lois, mouths a quiet thank you, then lets his gaze drifts back to you—only to find you already watching him. 

You’re wearing a that half-scowl, half-smirk look that makes his stomach flip like he’s been caught doing something he shouldn’t. He feels seen. Exposed. Almost like you’re the one with x-ray vision. Or worse, maybe you can read his mind. 

He raises a brow. “What?” 

“No snide comment about my hot-yoga-loving, knife-collecting, entrepreneurial date?” 

His lips twitch. “Oh, he’s an entrepreneur? That’s impressive. Really sounds like you found a winner.” 

“Entrepreneur is just code for broke,” Jimmy mutters. 

You ignore him, your eyes staying locked on Clark. “So, you’re not going to warn me against going on this date?” 

Clark shrugs, leaning back in his chair like he’s not affected. “Why would I? He sounds great.” 

“He collects knives, Clark,” you say, tilting your head just enough to make it feel like a challenge. “Doesn’t that seem a little… murder-y?” 

Clark smiles, leaning forward again until his elbows rest on the desk. “For your sake, I hope he’s not.” 

“But if he is...” you press, voice dropping low. “You think there’ll be anyone around to save me?” 

The way your lips curl, the glint in your eyes, that soft, sly note in your voice—it’s enough to make Clark feel uncomfortably warm. He always runs hot, but looking at you now? Teasing him like this? It feels like you’re daring him to lose control. 

God, the things he’d do if you weren’t looking at him like that in the middle of the goddamn newsroom. 

“You mean Superman?” he asks, his voice low now, matching yours. “I’m sure he’s got better things to do on a Friday night.” 

Your brows shoot up. “Better things?” 

“Maybe,” he says with a nonchalant shrug, but his throat feels tight. 

“Well,” you murmur, leaning back in your chair, “you’d know. Considering how close you and Superman are. All those exclusive interviews…” 

Jimmy snickers quietly, but neither of you spare him a glance. 

“I hope he doesn’t, though,” you add, tone light but loaded, your smile lingering as your gaze slides toward your computer screen. “I hope he’s got nothing better to do. I hope he’s hanging around, just in case my date is a psycho and I need saving.” 

Clark opens his mouth to reply when Steve walks by, cutting in like a brick through glass. 

“Haven’t you been saved by Superman, like, five times already?” 

Your cheeks heat, and Clark hears your heart pick up—a sound so sweet it nearly undoes him. Because he knows it's for him. Well, Superman technically, but Clark Kent is taking this win. 

“It was once—maybe twice,” you say quickly. 

“Actually,” Jimmy chimes in, “I think it was more—” 

“Oh my God,” you cut him off, flustered. “Why is everyone so chatty this morning? Can we please just work?" 

Steve rolls his eyes and keeps walking. 

Jimmy frowns. “You and Clark were the ones—” 

“Jimmy,” Clark says, his voice clipped in a way that makes Jimmy blink. “Seriously. Work.” 

Jimmy throws his hands up in surrender and spins back to his screen. Clark waits a beat, then glances up over the low partition between your desks. The second your eyes meet his, he can’t help the small, smug curve of his mouth. You roll your eyes but can’t hide your own grin, and suddenly it feels like the whole newsroom has faded into background noise. 

Because you’re looking at him like that—with those eyes—and lousy date or not, you still know exactly who’s going to show up if you need saving. 

The rest of the day goes by like any other. Everyone gets lost in their work, debates flare and die out, coffee is chugged like it’s oxygen, and Perry yells at someone for a misspelled headline at least once. It’s fair, though—journalists should at least know how to spell. At least. 

By three p.m., Clark can tell you’re deep into that afternoon slump—when the sunlight pouring through the big glass windows feels too warm, your last coffee was too long ago, and you’re one sigh away from curling up at your desk for a nap. 

Clark secretly loves this time of day. He doesn’t get the same crash as everyone else, so it’s the perfect time to spoil you without you—or anyone else—raising an eyebrow. He lives for the way you give him that sleepy, dopey smile whenever he drops a chocolate bar on your desk, grabs something from the front desk for you, or—his favourite—when he walks down the block to get you a real coffee from your favourite café instead of the sludge in the breakroom that Perry insists on calling coffee. 

He’s just about to do exactly that when he sees you drag your tired feet into the printer room and start stacking cartons of paper reams like some kind of reckless architect. 

He stops at the doorway, brows furrowed. “What are you doing?” 

You glance over your shoulder as you drop a third box onto the wobbly stack. “Building. What does it look like?” 

“It looks like you’re five seconds from filing for workers’ comp,” he says, stepping into the small room. 

The space is cramped, mostly taken up by the oversized printer and a few sad piles of paper—some blank, some the casualties of misprints. The back wall is lined with floor-to-ceiling shelving crammed with office supplies and random junk that no one has bothered to sort since, well, ever. 

“Don’t be ridiculous,” you say with a small smirk. “I can still type with a broken neck.” 

Clark is about to argue when you bend over and press your palms flat against the top box to test its stability. His words die in his throat. His eyes—traitorous, shameless—drop to the curve of your ass, barely two feet in front of him. He’s staring—again. He knows he’s staring, but he can’t stop—because apparently, all it takes to unravel Superman is you in a pair of fitted grey office pants. 

Then you plant one foot on the unsteady tower like you’re about to climb Everest, and something in him snaps. 

“Woah, no way,” he says, stepping forward in a blur. 

Before he can think better of it, his hands are on your waist—warm, firm, and holding you steady as he pulls you back down to the floor like you weigh nothing. 

The heat of you bleeds through the thin fabric of your shirt, and it’s dizzying. You’re too soft, too precious, and he has no business touching you like this. His breath snags in his chest, sharp and unsteady. He’s hugged you before—plenty of times—but this? This is different. This feels dangerous. 

Then, of course— 

“What’s going on in here?” Jimmy asks, grinning like an idiot as he leans against the doorframe. 

“I was just trying to—” you start.  

“She was just—” Clark says at the same time. 

And then he hears it—your heartbeat, skipping once before it kicks into overdrive. Your body grows even warmer beneath his hands, and you step away quickly, like his touch was too much. His stomach twists. 

You’re flushed. Flustered. Because of Jimmy? 

The thought hits him like a punch to the gut. It has to be. What else could it be? You’ve never looked at him like that. Not Clark. Not the way you look—the way your body reacts—when Jimmy appears, always wearing that lazy grin, the one that apparently drives women wild. 

“Hey, I’m not judging,” Jimmy says, raising his coffee cup in a mock toast. “The printer room is a classic. Just don’t let Perry catch you—he almost had a coronary when he found me in here with someone.” 

Then he winks and walks away, strolling across the newsroom toward his desk. 

For a second, Clark just stands there, jaw tight, the faint sound of your too-quick heartbeat still humming in his ears like static. He wants to say something—ask why you get all warm and pink every time Jimmy walks into a room—but he swallows it down. This isn’t the time. He doesn’t have the right. 

Instead, he clears his throat and turns back to the shelf, reaching easily for the toner cartridge on the top shelf. 

“This what you were risking your life for?” he asks, holding it out to you. 

You sigh dramatically as you take it. “Yes, that. Don’t look so smug just because you’re freakishly tall.” 

“Sorry,” he says, tone dry, “next time I’ll let you make the ER trip.” 

You scowl up at him, lips twitching like you’re trying not to smile. “Well, not all of us can be eight feet tall and built like a Greek god.” 

A slow smile tugs at his mouth. “Seven and a half, tops.” 

You roll your eyes, but your cheeks are still pink. “You’re impossible.” 

“And you’re reckless,” he fires back, soft but certain. 

There’s a beat—a pause thick enough to feel. Your eyes hold his, that half-challenging, half-teasing look that makes his pulse thud a little harder. Clark’s not sure if you know what you’re doing to him or if you’re just being you, but it’s suddenly too much. Too warm. 

Jimmy’s stupid grin flashes in his mind. He can still hear the way your heart had jumped when he appeared, the way you’d flushed—warm and flustered in his hands, but not because of him. 

Clark clears his throat and steps back, shoving his hands into his pockets to keep from reaching for you again. “Try not to give yourself a concussion while I’m gone,” he says, trying for light, but it comes out a little too clipped. 

You blink. “Gone?” 

“Coffee run,” he mutters. “You look like you could use it.” 

“Oh. Thanks,” you reply, with that soft, tired smile—like it’s just another small kindness between friends. 

And it kills him. Because he doesn’t want to be just friends—not when Jimmy’s grin gets that kind of reaction out of you. He wants that reaction. He wants to be the one who makes you smile, who sets your cheeks on fire, whose presence throws your heartbeat off balance. 

By the time he’s back out in the newsroom, his chest is tight and his jaw aches from clenching so hard. Jimmy is laughing with Cat at his desk, and Clark can’t help but picture you grinning at him like that. Laughing like that. 

He swallows hard, grabs his jacket, and heads for the elevator before he does something stupid. Like break the sound barrier just to get to your favourite café and back, because apparently, that’s the only way he knows how to compete. 

The walk helps. A little. At least enough for him to stop replaying the printer room in his head like it’s a crime scene and he’s looking for evidence of when, exactly, he lost his mind. He forces himself not to rush, because it’s not like you’re going anywhere. Most of the Planet’s staff will be chained to their desks until well after sunset—you included. Then he’ll walk you home like he always does, listening to you rant about something dumb Perry said or the latest atrocity the breakroom coffee has committed. God, he loves your voice when you’re like that—sharp, alive, unfiltered. 

It’s pathetic, he knows—just as Jimmy had so graciously pointed out this morning—but Clark couldn’t deny it even if he wanted to. Because aside from saving the planet and doing as much good as one man—one Kryptonian—possibly can, he lives for you. 

He hasn’t thought much about what he’ll do when you inevitably find someone. Someone who isn’t him. Maybe he’ll move to a red sun planet and sulk until he withers away. Or move to the moon and mope for all eternity. Or, hell, maybe he’ll just swallow a chunk of kryptonite and be done with it. 

Because the truth is, he doesn’t think he’d survive it. Losing you to someone else would tear him apart in ways nothing else could. It’s the second-most painful thought in his head—the first being losing you in the other sense. The permanent, irreversible sense. Which is exactly why he should be trying to keep his distance. Why he shouldn’t need you like this, so badly it scares him. 

But every time he’s tried to warn you, every time he’s told you that being close to him is too dangerous, you’ve just looked him in the eye and said you don’t care. That you need him. 

And God help him, because hearing you say those four little words—I need you, Clark—is enough to bring Superman to his knees. In more ways than one. 

“Uh, Clark?” Lios asks, head tilted, one arm holding the elevator doors open. “Plan on moving any time soon?” 

Clark blinks, hard, and realises he’s back at the office. In the elevator. Holding your coffee in one hand and a paper bag with two warm pastries in the other. 

“Sorry,” he mutters, shaking his head. “Daydreaming.” 

Lios smirks as she steps aside. “Wonder what about.” 

Clark steps out of the elevator and—of course—his eyes go straight to you, all the way across the bullpen. You’re at your desk, typing away with that little furrow between your brows, the one he could sketch from memory. 

“I swear you’ve got a sixth sense just for her,” Lios says as she steps into the elevator. “Doesn’t matter where she is—you always know. Like your compass doesn’t point north. It points to her.” 

Lios is a journalist, Clark knows that. Words are her weapon. But the truth of them still hits him square in the chest. He doesn’t mind the teasing, but he hates how transparent he is—how anyone can look at him and just see. 

“You should just ask her out,” Lios adds lightly. “Put us all out of our misery.” 

Before he can find an answer, the elevator doors slide shut and she’s gone—taking her sharp words and knowing smirk with her. 

Clark waits a moment, draws a deep, steadying breath, then crosses the newsroom toward you. He can see the exposé you’re working on, the one you’ve ranted about a hundred times, and he can practically feel the focus radiating off you. It almost makes him hesitate—almost. 

“Coffee,” he says, placing the cup on your desk. “And pick a pastry. Or we can split them both.” 

You flinch slightly before glancing up at him with that dopey, tired grin. Your bottom lip is swollen and raw from chewing on it, and the sight alone makes something stir in his chest—and lower. 

“Where’s my coffee?” Jimmy calls, spinning lazily in his chair. 

Clark hears it again—your heartbeat, stuttering once before racing fast—and his chest tightens. He doesn’t want to regret getting you this job, but he’s starting to think he might have been better off leaving you at Metropolis Mail. You hated it there, but at least you didn’t have a crush on any of the old, sleazy men you worked with. 

“Clark doesn’t like you like he likes me,” you tease, eyes narrowing at Jimmy. 

Jimmy snorts. “And you know what? I’m grateful that he doesn’t. Otherwise, we’d have to—” 

“Jimmy,” Cat interrupts from across the bullpen, “don’t finish that sentence unless you want me to staple your mouth shut.” 

Clark settles at his desk, watching as you reach for the bag of pastries. Your cheeks are still pink—flustered, again—and he can hear your pulse humming too fast. 

“Okay, we’re halving these,” you declare. “I’m not choosing between a chocolate croissant and a cinnamon roll.” 

He smiles softly as you tear open the bag and flatten it on your desk. You split the croissant, then the cinnamon roll, eyes flicking between the halves before—like always—you pick the smaller pieces for yourself. He knows you do this every time you share food, even when it’s something you love. He’s only asked you about it once, and you’d just shrugged, saying he’s bigger so he gets the bigger piece. 

But no matter how many times you do it, it still makes him feel special. 

Then—before Clark can even think about standing up to grab his halves of the pastries—you lick your fingers. Slowly. A low hum vibrates from your chest, the sound unexpectedly loud in the unusually quiet newsroom. 

Clark’s breath catches. His eyes flick up, locking on to the way you drag your fingers between your lips. It’s a simple gesture—intimate but mundane—except somehow, it’s not. It’s you, and suddenly the air feels charged—thick with something electric, something that has Clark’s body reacting before his brain can catch up. 

He shifts in his chair, suddenly aware of how uncomfortably tight his trousers have become. 

Jimmy snorts quietly at his desk, barely suppressing a giggle. Even Cat, a little further away, throws Clark a knowing smirk, eyebrows raised like she’s watching a sitcom. 

Clark clears his throat, trying to focus on his screen but failing spectacularly. This—this slow, deliberate lick of your fingers—is a distraction he doesn’t want but absolutely can’t resist. 

And today is the longest Thursday ever. 

- You - 

It’s not often you’re at work early, especially on a Friday, but this morning you woke up at six a.m. and couldn’t get back to sleep. No matter how many times you tossed and turned or fluffed your pillow. So here you are, chewing on the cap of your pen and glaring at the empty desk across from you—Clark’s desk. 

He’s not always on time—extracurricular activities and all—which is something you should be used to by now. But you’re not. You still worry every time he’s not where he’s supposed to be, and you know it’s ridiculous, but you just can’t help it. 

“Relax,” Jimmy says, startling you as he drops his bag onto his desk. “He’s just late, not dead.” 

You shoot him a glare. You want to say you don’t know that, but you also don’t want to put that kind of energy into the universe. So you settle for sticking your tongue out like the mature, well-adjusted adult you are. 

Jimmy chuckles. “Seriously, I don’t know how you two keep this up. It’s exhausting.” 

You roll your eyes and turn back to your computer, not yet caffeinated enough to have this argument. Again. 

“Why won’t you believe me?” he presses. “He’s into you. I know he is. Why would I lie—” 

“Would you keep your voice down?” you hiss, brows pulling together. “I don’t need the entire bullpen hearing about my pathetic crush on my best friend slash coworker.” 

Jimmy snorts. “But you’re fine with the entire bullpen seeing it?” 

Your chair squeaks as you whip around to face him. “What do you mean, see it?” 

“The way you two are constantly falling all over each other,” he says, eyebrows raised as he drops into his chair. “I mean, come on. The man brings you coffee—good coffee—twice a day, gets you snacks, picks up your mail, walks you home every night, gives you his jacket when it’s cold or rainy. And newsflash—most friends don’t hold each other by the waist in the printer room.” 

Your cheeks go hot, your pulse skipping once before slamming into a frantic rhythm. The memory of Clark’s hands—big, warm, wrapped around your waist like they belonged there—flashes through your mind. The press of his fingers, the solid weight of him so close, the ghost of his breath against your neck. It’s enough to make you squirm, thighs squeezing together as you hope to hell that Jimmy doesn’t notice the way you shift in your seat. 

“That’s just… Clark,” you argue. “He’s nice. He was raised well. He’s a gentleman, Jimmy. More than anyone can say about you.” 

Jimmy’s brows shoot up. “Okay, I’m ignoring that insult because I know you’re just deflecting, and you know I’m right.” 

“I know you’re delusional.” 

“Why are you so stubborn?” 

“Because,” you say, sitting up straighter, “Clark knows I have a crush on him. Okay? He knows. So if he liked me as anything more than a friend, he’d ask me out. But he doesn’t. Obviously. And I’m fine with that.” 

Jimmy frowns, leaning back in his chair with his legs stretched out. “He knows?” 

You nod. “He knows.” 

“How do you know he knows?” 

Well, that’s… complicated. 

You can’t exactly say oh, because I’m pretty sure Superman can hear my heart go feral whenever he so much as looks at me. Or that he can probably see it pounding and feel the heat rushing through your veins. Or—hell—you wouldn’t even be surprised if he’s picked up on other… reactions. Like that first time you saw him in the suit up close. Or the time he came over to help you move furniture wearing just a tank top and shorts, and—okay, you need to stop thinking about that before you pass out in the middle of the newsroom. 

“I just know,” you mutter. “Intuition. Or whatever.” 

Jimmy groans and tips his head back like he’s talking to the ceiling. “You know, for journalists, the two of you are really bad at using your words.” 

You glare at him—eyes narrowed, jaw tight—wishing you could come up with something snarky to snap back with. But you can’t. Your brain is a mess of Clark’s big hands, his broad shoulders in a tank top, and the way that goddamn suit hugs his thick thighs. 

So, with a frustrated huff, you turn back to your computer and try to focus on work. You finish your first cup of the Planet’s signature sludge by the time Cat breezes in, giving you a wink and a smile before settling at her desk. Lois is next, muttering to herself as she drops into her chair and starts furiously typing whatever it is she’s afraid she’ll forget. 

Your eyes flick up to Clark’s desk every few minutes, and occasionally, you make the mistake of glancing at Jimmy, who is watching you with a very amused grin. He raises his brows, smirking, like he’s daring you to admit that he’s right. You try to ignore him, but after the third look, you can’t stop yourself from scowling and mouthing at him to fuck off, when— 

“You’re very late this morning,” Lois says. 

Your head whips back toward Clark’s desk—eyes wide, heart thudding—and there he is. 

You think you’d be used to him by now. Those bright blue eyes, the unruly curls, the dimples framing those full, stupidly pretty lips. But somehow, every time you see him—which, by the way, is a lot—you feel like you can finally breathe again. Like you’ve been holding your breath without realising it, and now that he’s here, smiling sheepishly and looking perfectly dishevelled, your lungs remember how to work. 

“Yeah, I overslept,” he says, voice low and still a little rough with sleep. 

Your heart stutters when his gaze lands on you, and it’s moments like this that make you wish you could control your own damn body—because how could he not know? Your entire nervous system launches into full red alert whenever he’s within fifty feet of you. And you know he can see, hear, feel everything. 

“Overslept but still had time to pick up coffee?” Jimmy asks, grinning as he swivels in his chair. 

Clark’s eyes flick to him, his brows drawing just slightly, but he doesn’t answer. Instead, he grabs one of the two coffees he’d set down and steps toward you, holding it out. 

Your fingers brush his as you take it—just for a second—but it’s enough to make your breath hitch. His skin is warm, steady, and now yours feels like it’s buzzing. You pull back quickly, your traitorous heart hammering like it’s trying to tell on you. 

“Thanks, Kent,” you mutter. 

He smiles—soft and quiet, blue eyes sparkling behind his glasses—and you try not to melt. Or stare. Or do anything suspicious, like sigh wistfully and start fanning yourself with a stack of misprints. 

“So,” Jimmy says, still grinning and clearly unperturbed, “excited for your date tonight?” 

You take a sip of coffee—good coffee—and sigh. “Nope. Cancelled.” 

“What?” Cat pops up at her desk, frowning. “Why?” 

You shrug. “Apparently something came up.” 

Clark raises his brows, but his eyes stay glued to his screen. “Like a prior conviction?” 

You give him a flat look. “Funny.” 

His gaze flicks up, lips twitching. “I’m just saying. Your taste in men is—” 

“Very inconsistent,” Jimmy cuts in, smirking at you. 

Your cheeks heat—you know what he’s trying to say—but you ignore him. Your eyes stay locked on Clark. “What’s wrong with a guy who sells hand-forged artisanal blades?” 

“Where? From the back of his van?” Clark asks, the corner of his mouth curling. “Nothing wrong with that. Sounds very entrepreneurial.” 

You narrow your eyes, running your tongue across your top teeth as you fight back a smile. Because how is it fair that he looks this goddamn cute while mocking you? While teasing you for getting dumped by some knife-collecting ex-con you met on Hinge. 

“At least you’re giving Superman the night off,” Steve mutters, appearing beside your desk with a half-eaten bagel and a mug that says World’s Best Grandma. 

You turn to him, brows drawn. “Okay, for the last time, I have not been saved by Superman that many times.” 

“Um,” Jimmy says, “yeah you have. You’re Metropolis’ most high-maintenance citizen.” 

Lois spins around in her chair. “Yeah, what are we up to now—like, five or six?” 

“I thought it was five,” Steve says around a mouthful of bagel. 

“Actually,” Cat pipes up, “I think it’s more than that.” 

“It’s not that many!” you argue. “I counted last night—it’s only been four.” 

Everyone stops, eyes flicking toward you. 

There’s a beat of silence. 

Lois frowns. Jimmy raises a brow. Cat giggles. And Clark looks... smug. 

You blink. “What? What’s everyone looking at?” 

“You counted?” Lois asks. 

Clark smirks—he actually smirks. “You keep track?” 

Your eyes go wide. Your whole face catches fire. 

“Oh God,” Jimmy sighs. “Don’t tell me you’ve got some weird crush on Superman.” 

“No,” you reply, too fast. “What? No, I—obviously not. Why would I—?” 

“Oh, yeah,” he chuckles. “That’s real convincing.” 

You groan and drop your face into your hands. “I do not have a crush on Superman.” 

“Oh, come on,” Cat says brightly. “There’s no shame in it. The guy’s built like a Greek statue and has the jawline of a god.” 

“And the thighs,” Steve adds. “Don’t forget the thighs.” 

“I’ve never even looked at his thighs,” you lie, still mumbling into your palms. 

There are a few snickers. Jimmy mutters something to Steve about, “Thighs? Really, man?” And then— 

Clark coughs. Once. Loudly. 

You swallow hard and peek through your fingers, just in time to see him lift his coffee to hide a smile. 

“Wait,” Lois pipes up, her tone light but undeniably playful, “didn’t you say the other day when we were watching that live feed of him saving those puppies that you needed to go home and take a cold shower?” 

Clark chokes. Your heart stops. 

He coughs into his fist, turning away slightly like that’ll help disguise the pink creeping up his neck—and the ridiculous grin stretching across his lips. 

Jimmy bursts out laughing. “Oh my god, that’s right. I heard that.” 

“It was a joke,” you say quickly. “I was joking. And I only said it to Lois—” 

Lois grins. “You also said, and I quote, ‘he could break your back and you’d say thank you’.” 

Your eyes go wide. Your pulse spikes. You feel like you might faint. 

And across from you, Clark is coughing harder. 

“Oh no,” Cat gasps, rushing toward him. “Clark, are you okay?” 

He’s hunched over now, still trying to hide his face. “I—I’m fine,” he manages. “Just... swallowed wrong.” 

“Wow,” Jimmy sighs, leaning back in his chair with a wicked grin. “I guess you don’t really have a type then.” 

God. If only he knew. 

“It was a joke,” you say again, sharper now. “It was late, we were all mad about staying back, the breaking news started playing and I made a joke to lighten the mood, okay?” 

Steve snorts. “Then why are you so defensive?” 

Your eyes snap toward him. “Why are you still here?” 

He holds his bagel up like a white flag and turns back to his desk. 

Then Perry’s voice booms across the newsroom, calling Jimmy into his office, and the buzz of conversation quickly dies. Lois spins back to her desk, Cat returns to her phone, and the bullpen slips back into its usual rhythm—paper rustling, keys tapping, the occasional frustrated sigh from someone fighting a deadline. 

With a deep breath, you sit up straighter and try to focus on your inbox. But it’s hard. Because across from you, Clark—apparently recovered from his dramatic coughing fit—is sipping his coffee like nothing happened, eyes fixed on his screen... but there’s something suspiciously smug about the set of his mouth. 

When his gaze flicks up to meet yours, you lift an eyebrow. “You good?” 

His lips twitch. “Didn’t realise Superman made that kind of impression on you.” 

Your breath catches. There’s a spark behind his glasses, barely-there but undeniably real. A little teasing. A little warm. A little dangerous. 

You clear your throat and look back to your screen. “I really was joking.” 

“I know,” he says softly, but you’re not convinced he means it. 

Because for the rest of the morning, his eyes keep finding you. And you can feel it. The weight of his gaze is heavy—too deliberate to ignore—and you can’t help but meet it. Every time. Even when you’re halfway across the newsroom chatting with one of the copy editors, or heading to the breakroom for your third—or fourth—cup of coffee. 

By lunchtime, you feel wired. Not from caffeine or overtiredness, but from the way Clark Kent hasn’t let your heart settle all goddamn morning. And if he smirks at you one more time, you’re pretty sure you’re going to go into cardiac arrest. 

“You busy?” Perry asks, startling you as he appears beside your desk. 

You clear your throat and glance up at him. “Always.” 

“Good. Then you’ve got time to help me.” 

You want to roll your eyes, but you don’t. You haven’t been here as long as the others, but you’ve pretty much clocked Perry—and when he’s in one of these moods, it’s best not to argue. 

“City Council’s pulling the same shit they tried back in ’07, and I need ammo,” he says. “Go find Mick Reynolds’ notes from the Wallace campaign exposé. Should be in the election coverage boxes—second shelf, far back. Try not to get lost in there.” 

Then he’s gone, and you’re left staring blankly across at Jimmy—who is chuckling and shaking his head. 

“Right,” you mutter, pushing up from your chair. “And I’m assuming he means second shelf, far back... in the archives room?” 

Jimmy nods. “Yeah. Down the hall, past the printer room, last door on the right.” 

“Great. Thanks.” 

You tuck your phone into your pocket—just in case you do get lost—and head toward the archives room, without looking back at Clark. 

You reach the end of the hall, just as Jimmy had instructed, and push open the last door on the right with a loud creak. It’s dim inside, with no windows and only half of the overhead fluorescents working—some of them flickering ominously. Metal shelving units packed with labelled boxes line the room, everything smelling faintly like dust and yellowed paper. 

You take a deep breath—then immediately regret it, coughing softly as you start down the first aisle. Your eyes skim the labels on the boxes, your brain trying to decode whatever terrible filing system is in place. It’s not alphabetical, not by date, not even by section. You can’t make any sense of it— 

“It’s chronological.” 

You yelp, spinning around just as you reach the end of the aisle. 

“Jesus Christ, farm boy,” you gasp, pressing a hand to your chest. “Why would you sneak up on someone in a creepy room like this?”  

Clark chuckles quietly. “I wasn’t sneaking.” 

“You didn’t knock.” 

“I figured you’d hear me.” 

“Well, I didn’t.” 

He tilts his head, lips curling, dimples creasing. “Probably because you were muttering to yourself.” 

You roll your eyes and turn back to the shelves, trying to ignore the way your pulse is still climbing. “Whatever. It’s not chronological, though. These dates don’t make—” 

“Based on when the reporter started the investigation, not publication date,” he says. 

Your jaw drops. “You’re kidding?” 

He shakes his head, chuckling again. “Nope.” 

“Oh my God,” you sigh. “Whoever decided that is evil. Why doesn’t Perry fix it?” 

Clark turns toward the shelves and shrugs, his arm brushing yours—just barely—and it takes everything in you not to flinch, or lean in, or breathe weird. 

“I think he secretly enjoys torturing us,” he says, glancing sideways. “Plus, who has the time to reorganise the entire archives room?” 

Your traitorous eyes drop straight to his mouth, watching his tongue drag across his bottom lip. Your breath stutters. You’re not even standing that close—it’s just too quiet in here. Too dim. And he’s far too pretty to be looking at you like that. 

You clear your throat. “Yeah—uh, I guess. I mean, we could volunteer Steve. Not like he does much anyway.” 

Clark huffs a laugh. “Hey. Steve does an excellent job of eating other people’s lunches and leaving greasy fingerprints on things.” 

“That’s true,” you say with a soft laugh. “I mean, he’s kind of a catch. Don’t you think?” 

You turn and continue around the shelves into the next aisle. 

Clark follows. “So, Steve is your type then?” 

You give him a flat look. “Don’t.” 

He presses his lips together to contain whatever smug grin is threatening to break free. “Don’t what?” 

“Don’t bring up the goddamn Superman thing,” you say, turning back to the shelves in the hopes that he can’t see the colour crawling into your cheeks. “It was a joke. And Lois… ad-libbed. She made it sound way hornier than what I actually said.” 

He lifts a brow, leaning his shoulder against the shelf. “What did you actually say?” 

You pull out a box and blow the dust away to read whatever’s scrawled across the top. Not that you’re really paying attention. Your brain is fried—too aware of the huge man standing beside you, watching you with such intensity you feel like his stare could brand your skin. 

And, well, it could—technically. 

“I said that half of Metropolis is going to need a cold shower after seeing Superman save some puppies,” you lie—through your teeth. “You know, the female half—and gays. I mean, anyone who is attracted to men, really. Because Superman is a man. A big man. And he was saving puppies, so… yeah.” 

You peek out the corner of your eye as you pull out another box. He’s full-on grinning now—that cheeky grin he gets when he thinks he’s said something hilarious, or knows he’s winning one of your petty arguments. 

“What about the back breaking?” he asks. 

You fumble the box in your hands and it falls to the floor, papers scattering everywhere. 

That is not something you ever thought you’d hear Clark Kent ask you. And those words—in that voice—have completely short-circuited the connection between your brain and your motor function. 

“Shit,” you mutter, dropping to your knees. 

Clark crouches beside you and starts gathering the papers just out of your reach. 

“I meant—” you start quickly, keeping your eyes on the scattered pages. “The back-breaking thing wasn’t, like... literal. I meant emotionally. You know, like... he could ruin me—anyone, he could ruin anyone… metaphorically.” 

He pauses, then glances at you. “Metaphorically?” 

“Yeah. Like, Superman, the idea of him, this gorgeous—” you hesitate, almost choking on your words, “objectively gorgeous guy who’s too good to be true. I mean, he could ruin anyone, right?” 

Clark frowns. “Right.” 

“Besides,” you add quickly, “I have to try and say things that make it seem like I don’t really know Superman because he’s saved me so many goddamn times.” 

He chuckles quietly. “That’s just because you’re near him all the time, and he has to get you to safety before all hell breaks loose.” 

“Okay,” you mutter, stacking the pages with unnecessary focus, “but you don’t need to mention it in every article you write.” 

He shrugs, handing you the papers he’d collected. “Superman likes talking about the people he’s saved.” 

“Clark,” you sigh, reaching for the stack of pages. 

Your hand brushes his, and your breath catches. You both freeze. 

You swear you feel a pulse of heat where your fingers touch—and you know it’s ridiculous, but it doesn’t stop your heart from thudding, or your skin from flushing. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. 

And then— 

“Hey guys,” Jimmy’s voice cuts through the tension. “I hate to break up whatever’s going on in here, but Perry’s about ready to rip heads off if he doesn’t have those notes soon.” 

You jump up so fast you nearly knock another box off the shelf. “Shit, I—um—” 

“Mick Reynolds’ notes from the Wallace campaign, right?” Clark asks, his eyes scanning the room. 

You know what he’s doing, and it’s at times like this that you’re incredibly grateful for his superhuman abilities. 

You nod. “Yep. Perry said they should be in the election coverage boxes—second shelf, far back.” 

He steps away, walking along the back of the room before disappearing down a far aisle. 

Jimmy grins and wriggles his eyebrows like an idiot. “The archives room, huh? Pretty cozy in here. Tall stacks to hide in.” 

“Shut up,” you mutter, shoving the box you dropped back onto the shelf. 

Clark returns a few seconds later, holding up a file. “Reynolds’ notes, ’07.” 

“I don’t know how you do it, man,” Jimmy says, shaking his head. “No one can find anything in here except this guy.” 

Clark just smiles, and you roll your eyes. Jimmy takes the file, shoots you a cheeky wink—as if he has any clue about what’s going on—and heads back out the door. 

You turn to Clark, brows raised, lips twitching. “How do you do it, Clark? How do you find things in this terribly organised filing system?” 

The corner of his mouth quirks. “Dumb luck?” 

“Hm,” you narrow your eyes playfully. “I think you’ve got a secret, Kent.” 

You can almost swear you see him blush, but the room is too dark to tell—and you have to look away from his stupidly gorgeous face before you forget how to act like a normal human being. 

He doesn’t reply, he just follows you out of the archives room—flicking off the barely-working lights on the way—and up the hall toward the newsroom. You’re just passing the printer room, trying very hard not to think about the way his hands had felt on your waist, when he finally speaks. 

“I was thinking,” he says, “movie night tonight, at my place? You know, since your date bailed.” 

You glance over your shoulder at him. “Sure you don’t have better things to do on a Friday night?” 

“Nah,” he replies with that small smirk—the one that makes your heart stutter. “Metropolis’ most high-maintenance citizen is giving me the night off.” 

You roll your eyes. “Okay, for that comment, you’re paying for takeout.” 

He chuckles. “I always pay for takeout.” 

“Yeah?” You stop just outside the breakroom door. “Well, I’m ordering extra this time.” 

“Extra food that I’ll end up eating because you always order too much,” he teases. “Of course. It’s tradition.” 

You shake your head, biting the inside of your cheek to keep from grinning. “Whatever. I’m still ordering it.” 

And then—before he can see just how much he’s affecting you—you slip into the breakroom and let the door fall shut behind you. 

You turn, grip the edge of the counter, and exhale like you’ve been holding your breath for ten straight minutes. Because what the fuck is going on? His voice, his smile, his face, his everything—he’s not even trying, and you’re already halfway to a heart attack. 

You’ve known Clark for years—you’ve been best friends for years. And yeah, he’s always had… an effect on you. But this? This is something else entirely. Being around him this much is starting to feel dangerous. Like the longer you stay in his orbit, the closer you are to coming undone. Every glance that lingers. Every touch that means too much. Every smile that knocks the air clean out of your lungs. You keep pretending it’s fine—but something has shifted. And whatever it is, it’s getting harder to ignore. 

Jimmy’s words echo in your head, and for one traitorous second, you almost believe them. Almost believe that there might be something real behind the way Clark looks at you. 

But no. Surely not, right? That’s not how this works. He’s Superman. He saves cities before breakfast. He could have any woman he wanted. 

And you? You’re just the friend. The one who gets takeout with him on Friday nights because he feels bad that your date bailed. The one he teases in the bullpen. The one trying not to fall apart every time he gets too close. 

You press your palms harder into the counter, as if you can steady yourself with pressure alone. But your heart’s still racing, and your lungs won’t quite fill. 

You cannot keep doing this. Not like this. 

Because one of these days, you’re going to look at him and forget how to pretend. 

- 

You never thought you’d be happy about a hectic Friday afternoon, but today, the distractions are doing a better job than your self-control ever could. 

Perry is hell-bent on nailing this latest City Council scandal, and he’s got the entire bullpen scrambling to publish before the end of the day. Cat is helping Jimmy track down incriminating photos, sift through old campaign trail shots, and monitor social media for real-time fallout. Clark’s stuck on the phone with whistleblowers and trying to pin down a statement from any councilmember who’ll take his call. Steve’s out on the street gathering public reaction—loudly complaining the whole time that his Knicks column is getting bumped. And you’re at Lois’s side, helping her fact-check quotes and comb through timelines while she tears through the main exposé like a woman possessed. 

It’s chaos—in the best way. Because everyone here does their best work under pressure, with ten empty coffee cups on their desk. And the best part? You’re too busy to risk another lingering moment with Clark. Too distracted to spiral. Too occupied to feel anything. 

It’s perfect. 

Right up until five p.m., when Perry signs off, Lois hits publish, and everyone starts packing up for the weekend. 

“Coming straight over, or are you going home first?” Clark asks, shrugging into his jacket. 

From the corner of your eye, you see Jimmy’s head snap toward you—and your cheeks heat immediately. 

“I’ll head home first,” you say, trying to keep your voice quiet. “Change into something comfortable before I come over.” 

It’s no use though—Jimmy hears everything. 

“You know I’ve got a whole drawer of your clothes at my place, right?” Clark says, blue eyes flicking—just briefly—toward Jimmy, who is inching closer on the wheels of his chair. 

You let out a small, nervous laugh. “It’s not a whole drawer. Is it?” 

“Oh, it is,” Clark replies. “Though I think half of it’s just my old college stuff. Pretty sure you stole more than Ma ever got the chance to donate.” 

Jimmy gasps—he actually gasps—like a dramatic little asshole watching his favourite soap opera play out live. 

Both you and Clark turn toward him. He’s still sitting in his chair, halfway between his desk and yours, glancing between the two of you with wide eyes. You’re scowling. Clark just looks mildly sceptical. 

Then, after a beat, Clark shakes his head and turns back to you. “Anyway. You want me to walk you home?” 

“No,” you say—way too fast. “I mean, I’m good. I’ll catch a cab.” 

He nods. “Okay. Let me know when you’re on your way?” 

“Okay,” you echo, giving him a tight smile. 

He tucks his chair under his desk, gives Jimmy a polite—but vaguely curious—goodbye as he steps around him, and walks off through the newsroom toward the elevator. You watch after him until the doors slide shut and the numbers above begin to light up as the lift descends. 

Then you turn back to Jimmy, who has now scooted right up to your desk. Arms crossed. Eyes narrowed like a man who’s just connected the final thread on a conspiracy board. 

“You’re pranking me,” he says flatly. 

You close your eyes, breathing deeply. “Jimmy, just… don’t.” 

“You have a drawer. Of clothes. At his apartment.” 

You open your mouth, but he holds up a hand. 

“No—no. Don’t talk. I need to process. I’m having, like, a full-on event.” 

You frown. “An event?” 

“You wear his clothes!” he hisses, loud enough to make your pulse spike. “You hang out at his place constantly. You’re going over tonight, after your date bailed—on a Friday—and you just casually told him you were gonna ‘change into something comfortable’ like that’s not the sexiest sentence ever uttered in this newsroom!” 

Your face burns even hotter. “It’s not—I didn’t mean it like—” 

He gasps again—loudly. “Do you have a drawer of his clothes at your place? If you say yes, I’m pitching Cat a column on office romance and you two are going to be my lead sources.” 

“Well—I mean, yes, but—” 

“Oh my God. You’re basically a couple without the sex!” 

You scowl. “Jimmy—” 

“I’m just saying!” He throws his hands up, wheeling backward like he needs a full-body reset. “You’re over there more than his landlord. You do Friday night takeout. You have drawer rights. He gives you heart-eyes every time you speak. And you’re both still pretending this is all just… platonic?” 

You stare at him, mouth dry. 

“Please,” Jimmy says, softer now, scooting forward again and leaning his forearms on your desk. “Don’t make me live through an unnecessary slow burn. I’m too young to suffer like this. Just jump him.” 

You groan and cover your face with both hands. “Oh my God.” 

“You don’t even deny that you want to,” he says, grinning now. “You’re just too scared to actually do it.” 

You peek at him through your fingers. “Can you please shut up?” 

“Nope,” he says brightly. “I’m way too invested now. I’m not going to shut up until I have proof that you two have finally boned.” 

You drop your hands from your face with a sigh and push back from your desk. “Okay,” you mutter. “I’m leaving now.” 

Jimmy just watches you—arms crossed, smug as hell, like he knows something you don’t. You pull your jacket on, pack your bag, and sling it over your shoulder. 

“Just do yourself a favour,” he says. “Stop pretending this isn’t exactly what it looks like.” 

You give him a look. “Jimmy—” 

“Trust me,” he says, rolling back toward his desk. “You don’t end up with a drawer at someone’s place and standing Friday night plans by accident.” 

You roll your eyes. “It’s not like that.” 

“Sure it’s not,” he chuckles. 

You huff and hitch your bag higher. “I’m leaving now.” 

He turns to face his screen, still grinning. “Have fun, and don’t be shy. You might be… surprised.” 

You stand frozen for a second—heart pounding, thoughts tripping over themselves—then spin on your heel and walk away before you can say something you’ll regret. Before Jimmy’s cryptic nonsense makes your brain explode. 

He’s just messing with you, obviously—he’s teasing, making things up. Because there’s no way a drawer and some clothes and a Friday night movie night means anything more than friendship. 

Right? 

It’s just takeout. Just TV. Just Clark. 

You jab the elevator button harder than necessary, tapping your foot impatiently while you wait for the doors to open. The second they do, you slip inside and start digging through your bag for your headphones. You need distraction—a podcast, an audiobook, something. Anything to stop thinking about Clark fucking Kent before you’re sitting beside him on the couch. 

A breath apart. Bodies warm. Pulse thrumming. 

God. You are so monumentally screwed. 

As soon as you get home, you head straight for the shower, hoping the hot water might help rinse away all your spiralling thoughts. You take your time washing your hair—twice—and exfoliating everything before simply standing under the spray, trying to remember how to breathe. How to be human. How to stop over-analysing every little thing Clark has ever done for you. 

Curse Jimmy Olsen and his stupidly smug words and overly supportive encouragements. 

By the time you step out, you smell like coconut, vanilla, and just a hint of panic. You quickly dry off before picking out a soft pair of sweats and your favourite movie night hoodie. Then you open your underwear drawer—and pause. 

You stare at the unorganised mess of cotton and lace for almost two full minutes. 

It’d be ridiculous to put on something cute. Right? This is just movie night. With Clark. The same Clark who’s seen you eat popcorn off your hoodie while ugly crying over Marley & Me. There is absolutely no reason to wear something small or uncomfortable or even remotely pretty. 

Tonight isn’t special. Nothing is going to happen. 

But then Jimmy’s stupid voice echoes through your head, making everything feel a little less certain. 

“Ugh. Fine,” you mutter, grabbing a pair that could generously be described as a little nicer than usual. 

They’re not scandalous—or over the top—just better than the ones you wouldn’t want found on your body if you got hit by a bus. Which, honestly, is a pretty low bar, but whatever. 

After getting dressed, you quickly pack your bag—keys, wallet, snacks—and slip on the first pair of shoes you can find before heading out the door. 

You’re halfway across the lobby when your phone buzzes with a text—from Clark: 

Something came up. Spare key is under the mat. Won’t be late. 

Before you can question it, a breaking news alert flashes across your screen: 

BREAKING: Robot Attack in Downtown Metropolis 

Authorities are responding to a violent incident involving an unidentified mechanical threat near the 6th & Hadley tech district. Witnesses report strange gas emissions and widespread damage. Superman has been spotted at the scene. Officials urge residents to avoid the area until further notice. More to come. 

You quickly hail a cab, fall into the backseat, and bring up the live feed of the attack downtown. There’s not much to see from the helicopter camera—just the blur of scattered civilians, crumbling storefronts, and a distant flash of red and blue cutting through the smoke. 

Your chest tightens. Your heart starts pounding harder. You know he’s Superman, and he literally does this kind of thing at least twice a week—but still, every single time, you worry. 

What if this is the one time things go wrong? 

What if this is the time he doesn’t get back up? 

What if you lose him before you ever get the chance to tell him how you feel? 

Thankfully, you don’t live far from Clark, and it isn’t long before the cab pulls up just outside his apartment building. You pay the driver, slip out, and hitch your bag higher on your shoulder as you approach the front door. 

You’re here so often that the lobby staff don’t even bat an eye as you walk past. You slip into the elevator, ride it up, and walk the hallway like you know this building better than your own. Then you stop at his door, lift the welcome mat, and spot the little silver key that had been tucked beneath it. 

Of course Clark Kent is naive enough to leave a key under the mat—like that’s not the first place a burglar would look. He’s lucky he doesn’t live in Gotham. You know for a fact he’d have been robbed at least once by now—probably more. 

You step inside and try not to breathe in too deeply like a total creep, but it’s hard not to when the whole place smells like him—familiar and clean, with the faint, crisp edge of cold air from his frequent trips to the Antarctic. 

You kick your shoes off, drop your bag on the kitchen counter, and head into the lounge room to flick on the TV. You settle on the couch and flip through channels until live news coverage of the attack pops up. 

“We’re receiving confirmation that the area has now been cleared of civilians, and that Superman has successfully neutralised the mechanical threat responsible for tonight's attack,” the female news anchor reports. 

You let out a breath you didn’t realise you were holding. 

“Authorities remain on the scene, working to identify the strange gas released during the incident. While it appears to be non-lethal, several sources—including a spokesperson from the fire department—have confirmed that individuals exposed to the gas are experiencing some unusual side effects.” 

You lean forward, the curious journalist in you coming to life. 

“In what can only be described as one of the stranger developments this year, witnesses and responders alike seem to be... unable to lie. More than that, they’re being compelled to speak—blurt out personal details, opinions, even long-held secrets.” 

You frown. “Like... a truth serum?” 

“We now go live to Darren McMillan, reporting live from the scene. Darren—what more can you tell us?” 

The feed cuts to a man in a plain surgical mask—which you doubt is doing anything—standing outside a half-burnt bakery. 

“Thanks, Elsie. I’m just outside the perimeter, where hazmat teams and emergency services are still assessing the area. The good news is, no major injuries have been reported. And while the gas remains unidentified, officials say there’s currently no evidence of toxicity or long-term danger.” 

The camera pans out slightly. 

“That said, the psychological effects are harder to pin down. One first responder told me he hasn’t been able to stop talking about his childhood hamster for twenty straight minutes. Another admitted—without prompting—that he once embezzled over four thousand dollars from his mother-in-law. And personally, I—uh—” 

The reporter freezes, eyes wide as he makes uncomfortably direct eye contact with the camera. 

“—I think I might be in love with my barista. Also, I’ve been cheating on my girlfriend with someone from accounting.” 

There's a split-second of stunned silence, then the camera wobbles—and the feed cuts back to the studio. 

“We... seem to have lost Darren for the moment,” the anchor says awkwardly. “We’ll continue following this story as it develops. In the meantime, residents are advised to avoid the area until the all-clear has been given.” 

You snort a laugh as you push off the couch and wander back into the kitchen. You reach for a wine glass from one of the higher cupboards, then spot a bottle of red sitting by the stove—Clark might be immune to alcohol, but he always keeps a bottle around just for you. 

You crack the lid and start to pour—only to somehow misjudge the angle and splash red wine all over your hoodie and down the front of your sweats. 

“Shit,” you mutter, quickly setting the bottle back down on the bench. 

With a sigh, you peel off your hoodie and make your way toward Clark’s bedroom, ignoring the way your heart does that annoying little flutter when you step inside—even though you’ve been in here a hundred times before. 

You go straight to the second-top drawer of his dresser, where he keeps the clothes you usually wear, and grab a pair of old sleep shorts and a threadbare Metropolis University shirt—both clearly his. He wasn’t kidding when he said you’d stolen most of his college wardrobe. 

You change quickly and throw your wine-stained clothes into the hamper by the door on your way out. You know he won’t mind. He never does. Then back in the kitchen, you mop up the spilt wine before pouring yourself a generous glass and leaning back against the counter to scroll through your phone. 

You’re mid-sip when you hear the soft thud of feet on the balcony.  

You glance up, heart hammering, and see Clark step inside. His face and suit are streaked with ash, hair wind-tousled, eyes dark and unreadable. He’s looked better, but he’s definitely looked worse—and for the first time since that breaking news alert popped up on your phone, you feel like you can breathe again.  

“Clark,” you say, stepping forward. “Are you—”  

“Wait,” he says—not loud, but firm.  

You freeze.  

He takes a breath, jaw tense. “You shouldn’t be here.”  

You blink. “What? But you told me to—”  

“I mean,” he says quickly, “it’s not that I don’t want you—” He cuts himself off, mouth twitching like the words are fighting their way out. “It’s... not advisable.”  

“Clark,” you say slowly, “are you okay?”  

He nods—then immediately shakes his head. 

“Are you hurt?” you ask, setting your wine down on the counter. 

“No,” he replies. “But the gas—the stuff from the attack—it has... some kind of neurological effect. I don’t know how long it’ll last.”  

Your brows lift. “Wait... it affected you too? But you’re—”  

“I know,” he says with a small, strained smile. “I’m trying to fight it.”  

“Oh. So,” you step forward, lips twitching, “you’re telling me you can’t lie right now?”  

He nods again. “Yes, but it—it’s more than that. I—” His voice catches, his hands curling into fists at his sides. “I want to say things. I want to just blurt everything out.”  

Any trace of amusement falls from your face, and your eyes go wide. “Oh, shit. Like—you feel like you’re just going to fly out there and tell the world that Clark Kent is Superman?”  

He huffs a soft laugh. “Not exactly what I’m worried about—”  

“Wait,” you cut him off. “Okay, first, we need to lock the doors. I know you’re you, so it doesn’t make much of a difference, but I’ll still feel better if they’re locked, okay?”  

You don’t wait for him to reply—you just start moving through the apartment, slamming shut every window, locking the balcony door, then the front door, and double-checking each one. Twice. 

When you return, he’s still standing exactly where you left him—caught between the lounge room and the kitchen, jaw tight, shoulders stiff. 

“I swear I’m going to do everything I can to help you,” you say, your hands starting to tremble. “I know I can’t actually stop you from flying through the window, but—I’ll try.”  

He lets out another soft laugh, low and a little tense. “I’m not going to—”  

“How do we get this out of your system?” you ask, stepping in close and crossing your arms over your chest. 

Clark opens his mouth—then hesitates. His eyes flick down, and his brow furrows, like he’s only just noticed what you’re wearing. 

“That’s—um. That’s my shirt.” 

You glance down. “Oh. Yeah. I spilled wine on mine.” 

He nods, slowly, jaw clenched like he’s physically holding back the rest of the words—but then his eyes drop lower, and his voice slips out before he can stop it. “You look good in my clothes.” 

Your heart stutters. “What?” 

He visibly winces, because he definitely hadn’t meant to say that out loud. “I mean—you always wear my stuff, I know that, I just—” He stops and takes a deep breath. “Forget I said anything.” 

You take a step back, flustered, hoping he’s too distracted to notice the heat creeping up your neck. “Okay. Um. What do you need? Should you eat something? Try to sweat it out? Or—I don’t know, take a cold shower?” 

He doesn’t answer. He just keeps standing there, stiff and quiet, like if he says even one word, the rest might follow whether he wants them to or not. 

Your arms fall to your sides as you let out a soft, breathless laugh. “Well... at least we don’t have any secrets.” 

Clark huffs—one breath, sharp and low. “Just one,” he mutters. 

You blink. “What?” 

But he’s already turning away, scrubbing a hand down his face. “I’m gonna take that shower.” 

And then he disappears into his room without another word, leaving you dazed, confused, and—yeah—a little horny after seeing him in that goddamn suit. 

As soon as you hear the shower start running, you turn and scull the rest of your wine—wincing as it burns your throat. You set the glass back down on the counter with a soft clink, then brace your palms against the cool marble and draw a few deep breaths, trying to stop your thoughts from spiralling. 

Just one. 

Just... one? 

What does that even mean? What kind of secret? Something big? Something small? Something life-ruining? Oh God—what if it’s something serious? What if he’s dying? Or secretly married? Or, like, used to be evil? 

You groan and drop your forehead to the counter. 

No. You need to stop. This is ridiculous. 

It’s normal to have secrets. Everyone has things they keep to themselves. That doesn’t make it shady—or bad—or dangerous. It’s probably just something awkward. Or embarrassing. Or, knowing Clark, so deeply uncool that it makes him cringe to even think about it. 

Yeah, that’s it. That’s definitely it. 

He’s not dying or secretly married or evil—he’s just Clark. 

And he doesn’t owe you everything. He doesn’t even owe you anything. 

You’re lucky to have as much of him as you do. You don’t need to know every little thing. Besides—he’s got a secret. So do you. And despite Jimmy’s encouragement, you’re pretty damn sure you’re never going to tell him. 

Okay. You need to stop freaking out. 

You need to focus on helping Clark through whatever this is before he accidentally tells all of Metropolis that he’s Superman. You need to find a way to flush this toxin—or whatever it is—out of his system. 

And if you can’t do that? 

Then you need to distract him until it wears off. 

By the time Clark’s bedroom door cracks open, you’re back on the couch. The news is still playing, volume low now. The anchor is saying something about clean-up efforts and eyewitness accounts—but you’re not listening. You can’t. Not when Clark Kent is walking toward you in a pair of low-slung dark blue sweats while he’s halfway to pulling a shirt over his head. 

It’s not like you’ve never seen him shirtless before—you have, occasionally. When you went to the beach together. During that horrible June heatwave. That time he spilled hot soup on himself. 

But still. Seeing him like this, fresh from the shower, curls damp and clinging to his forehead—it hits different. It makes your breath hitch, your skin flush, and that spot behind your hipbones ache. 

“Hey,” you say quietly. “Feeling better?” 

“I feel cleaner,” he mutters, dropping onto the opposite end of the couch—as far from you as it’ll allow. 

You swallow hard and shift a little, turning more toward him than the TV. 

“Okay,” you start, “first—I just want to say, I totally respect you having secrets. It’s normal. I mean, Lois and Jimmy are always joking that we’re too close, but we still have things we keep to ourselves. Not full-on secrets, but—like—it’d be weird if we knew every single thing about each other, right? No—wait, that’s not a question.” You let out an awkward laugh. “I swear I’m going to respect your privacy. I’m not going to ask any questions you don’t want to answer. And I’m sorry—I know I’m rambling. But—” you take a breath “—I was thinking, if you can’t just sweat it out or whatever, then we need to keep you distracted. Stop you from flying out there and announcing your secret identity to half the city. So… what if we just talk? Anything. Everything. No secrets. Just... stuff I might not know. Like—I don’t know—when did you first figure out you could fly?” 

Clark just stares at you for a moment—unblinking, brows raised, the slightest twitch pulling at the corner of his lips. He looks a little less wrecked than he did earlier, a little amused, and there’s something else in his eyes you can’t quite place. A look you only catch sometimes—fleeting, private—one he’s usually quick to hide. 

But not tonight. 

“Uh,” he says eventually, voice a little hoarse. “Okay. Flying was… weird. At first.” 

You tilt your head. “So, you just—what? Floated off the ground one day?” 

“Pretty much,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “I was in high school. Fourteen, maybe fifteen. Hard to say—everything was happening at once.” 

You snort softly. “Puberty was a little rougher on you, wasn’t it?” 

“Yeah,” he chuckles. “It was.” 

“Do you know what triggered it?” 

“The microwave,” he mutters. 

Your brows rise. “The microwave?” 

“It kept burning my popcorn.” His expression turns sheepish. “I yelled at it and then, next thing I knew, I was on the ceiling. Ma screamed so loud I thought I’d broken something. Which—I did. I crashed into the dining room light trying to get down.” 

You bite your lip to hide your grin. “That’s actually adorable.” 

He shrugs, gaze dropping to the floor. “I’m pretty sure I cried. I, uh… cried a lot back then.” 

Your throat tightens and that soft ache in your chest sharpens. “Clark.” 

“No, really. I was a very emotional child. Also, kind of flammable,” he says with a tight smile. “The heat vision was a nightmare. Powers come first, control comes later.” 

“Oh my God.” 

“There’s a reason I was homeschooled for two years.” He pauses, his smile softening. “Well. That, and I had a crush on my tenth-grade teacher and Ma said I was dangerously distracted.” 

You laugh again—quietly—and drop your eyes to your lap, hoping Clark doesn’t notice the way your body flushes with heat. Because seriously, who gets jealous of their best friend admitting he had a crush on his teacher over a decade ago? 

“Okay,” you say, eyes flicking back up. “This is good. Is it working?” 

“Yeah,” he says. “A little.” 

“Good. Next question, then.” 

He lets out a low, quiet laugh and leans back, eyes fluttering closed for a second. “Alright. Hit me.” 

You clear your throat, shifting to face him more fully. “What do you think about when you’re flying? Just flying—not in the middle of a fight or racing back to your fortress to heal. Just... in the air.” 

He opens his mouth. Pauses. Closes it. Opens it again. His expression twists, jaw tightening like he’s trying to hold it in—like whatever he’s trying not to say is fighting its way out. 

You open your mouth to tell him he doesn’t have to answer when— 

“You,” he says, voice strained. 

You blink. “What?” 

“And—and my parents,” he adds quickly. “When I can see Kansas. I think about work, too. A lot of things. But I think about you a—” He cuts himself off, hands curling into fists in his lap, brows furrowing. “I think about you a lot.” 

Your breath catches. The room feels suddenly very, very still. Your pulse is loud in your ears—too loud—drowning out the sound of the TV and your own uneven breathing. 

He thinks about you. A lot. 

What does that even mean—and what the hell are you supposed to do with it? 

“Ask me another question,” he says abruptly, almost desperate. “Please.” 

You blink at him. “What?” 

“Just—change the subject. Anything else.” 

You panic. Your thoughts scatter. Your mouth opens, closes—opens again, and then—God help you—you blurt out the first thing that hits your tongue. 

“Are you a virgin?” 

Clark makes a sound halfway between a cough and a gasp. “What?” 

“I don’t know!” you exclaim, throwing your hands up. “I panicked! And—and I’m just curious because... you’re Clark. I mean, you’re so kind, and sweet, and polite—and you’ve never even had a real girlfriend the whole time we’ve been friends, so I just—” 

“Yeah,” he mutters, tone dry. “Funny, that.” 

You frown, heat creeping up your neck. You want to ask what the hell he means by that—but you know you can't. Not right now. 

“I wasn’t trying to be rude,” you say instead, softer now. “I’m sorry. It’s just—it’s a thought I’ve had for a while, and it sort of just... slipped out.” 

“No,” he says, voice steady. “I’m not a virgin.” 

You nod, lips parting like you might say something—maybe to apologise again, maybe to change the subject—but nothing comes out. Your brain short-circuits. You feel warm all over. Too warm. 

Clark clears his throat. “Still trying to distract me?” 

“Yeah—” you reply, blinking fast. “Yes. Of course.” 

He gives you a lopsided smile—shy, but trying. “Then ask another question.” 

You hesitate, voice catching as your conscience flares to life. He seems almost normal now—still a little flushed, a little off—but mostly back to himself. Maybe his metabolism is quickly burning off the effects of the gas. Maybe he’s not feeling so compelled anymore. 

Maybe you should take advantage of this while you still can. 

No secrets. Just one question. The one that’s been burning a hole in your chest for years. 

“Okay,” you say quietly. “Have you ever been in love?” 

The second the words leave your mouth, you want to take them back. Clark stiffens—not in a sharp, startled way, but more like someone trying to hold back a shiver. 

“Yes,” he says, immediately—because he couldn’t stop himself if he tried. 

Your mouth goes dry. You want to ask who, but you’re not sure you could survive the answer. 

“What about you?” he asks. 

Your breath catches. “Me?” 

He nods. 

“I—I’m not the one in the hot seat right now, I—” 

“Is it Jimmy?” 

Your eyes go wide. “What?” 

“Are you in love with Jimmy?” he presses, brows pulling tight. 

You just stare at him, stunned, voice caught somewhere in your chest as your brain struggles to catch up. 

“It’s fine,” he says, gaze dropping to his lap. “I get it. You spend a lot of time with him. You’re always talking about him. He makes you laugh. Your pulse goes crazy whenever—” 

“Clark,” you cut in, sharper than you mean to be. “I’m not—what? No. I’m not in love with Jimmy.” 

Clark blinks at your denial like he doesn’t quite believe you. Like maybe he wants to—but can’t. 

“Wait,” you say suddenly, narrowing your eyes. “You said—my pulse. You listen to my pulse?” 

He tilts his head. “I can’t really help—” 

You frown. “I know you can hear it, Clark, but I’m asking if you actively listen to it.” 

“Yes,” he mutters—even though it’s obvious he didn’t want to say it. 

Your cheeks burn. “How often?” 

“I don’t know.” He shifts awkwardly in his seat. “Some—most of the time.” 

You blink. “What? So you just... tune in? Like I’m a podcast or something?” 

He groans, dragging a hand over his face. “Please stop.” 

“No,” you fire back. “I’m not stopping. Because you just accused me of being in love with Jimmy fucking Olsen. And then you admitted you listen to my pulse like it’s your own personal metronome. And before—” You stop, heart pounding so hard it feels like it might crack a rib. “Before, you told me I looked good in your clothes. Clark, I’ve been wearing your clothes since college, and you’ve never said that to me.” 

He meets your stare—eyes wild, jaw tight, brows drawn. He looks like he’s on the verge of saying something he’s not sure he’s allowed to say. And maybe that’s exactly what you need him to do. 

“I know we’ve always been close, but—but working together—” Your voice shakes. “It’s different now. We’re too close. Something’s shifted, and I don’t know what. Yesterday in the printer room. Today in the archives. You’re acting weird. I’m acting weird. Everything is weird. And now, somehow, you think I’m in love with Jimmy?” 

“Your heart beats like crazy whenever he’s around,” he says, the words falling out fast, like he’s been holding them in for too long. “You—your whole body flushes. Your hands start trembling. I can see it, hear it, feel every reaction you have when he’s around and it—it—” He cuts himself off, raking a hand through his still-damp curls. 

You watch him for a beat—heart racing, skin burning. The silence stretches between you, taut and heavy. It feels like the same tension that clung to the air in the printer room. And in the archives. Palpable. Suffocating. 

“Jimmy?” you say softly. “Whenever I’m around... Jimmy?” 

He nods, stiff and careful. Like opening his mouth might let too much out again. 

You take a deep breath, shifting a little closer on the couch. “Then tell me, Clark…” Your voice drops, quieter now. “What am I feeling right now?” 

His eyes flit over your face, searching. You watch him track your expression, the set of your mouth, the line of your shoulders. Like he’s trying to solve you. Like he already knows—but doesn’t understand. 

“You’re... flushed,” he says first, voice low. “Your skin’s hot. Your pupils are huge. You’re... you’re breathing hard.” 

He swallows, brow furrowing in concentration. 

“You shifted closer, too. You do that when you’re comfortable, or—or trying to be comforting, but—” His gaze flickers downward. “Your hands are shaking.” 

You don’t answer. You just watch him. Let him keep going. 

“I can hear your pulse in your throat,” he says, eyes there now. “It jumped the second I started talking. And it hasn’t slowed down. Not even now.” 

He shifts, clearly flustered, and you swear his gaze flicks to your mouth before he catches himself and looks away—back to your lap, your hands, your shoulders. Anywhere but your eyes. 

“I—I don’t know what you’re feeling,” he says finally, and he sounds so lost—so completely confused—you almost feel bad. “I know what your body’s doing, but I don’t know what it means.” 

You blink at him. “You really don’t?” 

He exhales, voice dropping low. “I don’t want to get it wrong.” 

That’s it. That’s all it takes for your last thread of patience to snap. Your pulse is a drumbeat in your ears—your whole body humming, trembling—and still, he just sits there blinking at you like he’s never once considered the most obvious thing in the world. 

“God,” you mutter, pushing to your feet with a frustrated huff. “Clark—it’s you. It’s not Jimmy, it’s not even Superman. It’s you. I react like this around you.” 

His eyes widen—just slightly. He blinks up at you—once, twice—like his brain is buffering, trying to reboot. 

You let out a breathless, incredulous laugh. “I cannot believe after all these years, you’ve only just figured it out. And you thought it was because of Jimmy?” You tip your head back, squeezing your eyes shut to keep the emotion from spilling over. “I thought you fucking knew.” 

“You thought I knew?” he asks, his voice low, rough—a little wrecked. 

You look at him again, expression tight. “Yes, Clark. I thought you knew. I thought it was obvious—because every time you look at me, my heart races and my whole body gets hot and—Jesus Christ. It doesn’t even matter, okay? You’re you, and I’m me, and none of this makes sense, so just forget it.” 

You move past him—but his hand catches yours before you can get too far. It’s gentle, but there’s tension in it. 

You freeze. 

“Wait,” he breathes. “Please.” 

You take a breath—but before you can fully turn around, he tugs. Hard. 

Suddenly you’re off balance—caught, pulled, guided down into his lap like gravity made the decision for you. Your knees hit the couch on either side of his thighs, your hands braced against his chest, and the space between you disappears. 

Your breath catches. His does too. 

You’re so close you can feel the shape of his next exhale against your lips. His hands hover at your waist like he’s not sure he’s allowed to hold you. 

“I’m not lying,” he says quietly, eyes locked on yours like you’re the only thing that matters. “I mean—I can’t. I just… I never thought you could feel that way about me. Never even considered it. Not after all these years. Not until thirty seconds ago when you told me—because I’m an idiot.” 

For a moment, he just stares at you—like he can’t quite believe that you’re real. That you’re here, straddling his lap, flushed and breathless and saying all the things he never let himself hope to hear. 

And then— 

He grins. 

Not the awkward, bashful one you’ve seen a hundred times before. Not the polite press of lips he gives strangers on the street or the sheepish half-smile he shoots you across the bullpen when you catch him watching you. 

This one is brighter. Slower. Wider. It blooms across his face like a sunrise—like he’s seeing you clearly for the first time and can’t quite handle it. His eyes crinkle at the corners, blue as heaven, and the dimples in cheeks deepen in a way that makes your stomach flip. It’s the kind of smile that punches you in the gut. The kind that says you are everything. 

It steals the breath from your lungs. 

You don’t even realise you’re leaning in until his hands finally cradle your waist—steady, warm, reverent. 

“Can I—?” he murmurs, voice barely above a whisper. 

But you’re already nodding. Already closing the gap. 

And then he kisses you. 

It starts soft—tentative, like he’s afraid he’ll break you. But it only takes a second for instinct to take over. His hands slide down to your hips, pulling you in closer, tighter. His mouth moves with yours like he’s learning, adjusting, finding his confidence with every brush of lips, every quiet breath shared between you. 

You feel him exhale through his nose—shaky, relieved—like he’s never been this close to peace before. Then his hands glide up your sides and back down again, broad and warm and possessive. The kiss deepens. The tension that’s been wound tight between you for years finally begins to unravel. 

His tongue flicks against your bottom lip, and you open for him without hesitation. A soft moan breaks from you—and a ragged one answers from him. He kisses you harder, needier. His fingers flex at your hips, anchoring you, dragging you impossibly closer. 

“I used to dream about this,” he breathes against your mouth. “Every night. You. This. Just… you.” 

You whimper—actually whimper—and grind down against him before you can stop yourself, chasing the pressure, his voice, his hands, him. 

He groans—loud and helpless—his grip tightening until you gasp. 

He pulls back, just barely, his lips parted and kiss-bruised. His eyes scan yours like he’s checking for damage, guilt flooding in. 

“I’m sorry,” he says hoarsely, breath hot against your cheek. “I didn’t mean to—” 

“Clark.” You cup his jaw. “Tell me what you want.” 

He stills beneath you, swallowing hard. 

Your voice drops. “The truth. Say it.” 

His breath catches—your thighs tight around him, your chest rising and falling against his. His fingers dig in again. 

“I want…” His voice cracks. “I want you to stay right here. I want to kiss you. I want to feel you—all of you. I want you to keep grinding on me just like—” 

You do—grinding down, slow and precise. 

He groans—chokes on it—his head tipping back, eyes fluttering shut. “Gosh.” 

You lean in, lips brushing the line of his jaw. “What else?” 

“I want to touch you,” he breathes, helpless. “I want to hear all the sounds you make. I want—” 

You press your hips down again. 

“Please,” he whispers. 

“Tell me.” 

He looks at you—eyes blown wide, voice nothing but want. “I want to fuck you.” 

You gasp, your mouth falling open in stunned silence. 

Clark Kent just said a bad word. 

Your brain stalls. It short-circuits. You blink down at him, lips parted, heartbeat pounding somewhere in your throat. In all your years of friendship, you’ve never heard him swear. You’ve barely heard him curse—maybe the odd Jesus Christ or damn it—but a full-on fuck just fell from those perfect, full lips. 

“Did you just say… fuck?” 

His cheeks turn pink—he actually blushes—and he ducks his head with a low groan, hiding his face against your neck like he might disappear into your skin. You feel the grin spreading slowly across your throat before his lips press there—soft and reverent, trailing heat as he speaks again. 

“I—” He lets out a breathless, choked laugh. “I can’t lie right now. It’s not fair.” 

You bite back a grin, drunk on the heat of him. “Are you accusing me of taking advantage of you, Kent?” 

His mouth finds your neck again—slow and sure, like a secret—and he hums against your skin. “You’re absolutely taking advantage.” 

You laugh—quiet and shaky—and curl your fingers into his hair, gently tugging until he looks up at you again. His eyes are blown wide, dark with need, but still soft around the edges—Clark, always Clark. 

And you love him for it. 

You want him for it. 

You need him. 

“Come on, then,” you murmur, brushing your thumb along his cheek. “Show me what you’ve been holding back, farm boy.” 

His breath catches. His hands tighten at your hips. 

“You sure?” 

You barely have time to answer before his hands slip lower—and then he’s moving. Effortless. Strong. He rises to his feet with you in his arms like it’s nothing, like you weigh nothing at all. 

You yelp, startled, arms flying around his shoulders. “Clark!” 

He grins again—that Clark Kent grin—bright and wide and unfairly charming, even with kiss-swollen lips and pupils so blown you can barely see the blue. “I thought you liked being carried by Superman.” 

You narrow your eyes. “Do not start.” 

His smile only widens as he carries you toward his bedroom like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “What? I think it’s cute that you have a crush.” 

Your mouth drops open in mock outrage. “I told you that was a joke.” 

“Oh, come on.” He’s laughing now—full and warm—and you hate how much you love it. “What was it you said? That he could break your back and you’d say thank you?” 

You slap his shoulder. “I cannot believe you’re bringing that up right now.” 

He just shrugs, eyes sparkling. “You said it. In front of several witnesses.” 

“You’re the worst.” 

“And you,” he murmurs, voice dipping low as he nudges the bedroom door open with one foot, “have been in love with me this whole time.” 

You open your mouth, but no words come out. He’s still grinning—but it softens the second he lays you down, slow and careful, like you’re something priceless. Then he settles between your legs. 

Your breath catches at the sight of him. On top of you. And then— 

“Favourite colour?” you blurt, just to feel steady again—just to see if he still can’t lie. 

He blinks. “Blue.” 

“First thing you ever noticed about me?” 

“Your laugh.” 

“What’s your biggest fantasy?” 

He groans. “You. In this bed. Right now. Can you—can you not?” 

You smirk. “Ever jerk off thinking about me?” 

He flushes scarlet. “Yes. Obviously.” 

“Say something filthy.” 

He makes a strangled sound, then mutters, “I want to come with your thighs around my head.” 

You blink, stunned—and a little breathless. 

He groans again and buries his face in your neck. “Stop taking advantage of me,” he mumbles against your skin. 

You laugh—helpless, delighted. “I literally can’t. This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.” 

His mouth finds the curve of your throat again—hot, open-mouthed, worshipful—and his hands tighten where they’re splayed across your hips. The teasing slips, melts away, becomes something quieter. Something serious. 

“I mean it,” he whispers, lifting his head, his gaze burning into yours. “I want you. Not just right now. I want you. Forever.” 

The words hang in the air between you, soft and searing, and for a moment, all you can do is stare at him—this man, this impossibly good man—whose weight is pressed heavy and solid between your thighs like he belongs there. 

Because he does. He always has. 

Your fingers slide up his neck, into his hair, pulling him down again until his mouth finds yours—hot and slow, like he means to burn the shape of it into his memory. His body moves with yours, a slow, rolling grind of heat and muscle and want. There’s no rush in it. Just need. 

He kisses you like he’s waited a lifetime. Like he’s going to spend the rest of it making up for lost time. 

When he breaks away, it’s only to press his lips to your cheek, your jaw, the hinge of it, then lower—trailing kisses to your throat like he’s tasting every inch, like he’s been starving for it. For you. 

“I used to lie right here and imagine this,” he breathes, voice cracked and close, hot against your skin. “You. Under me. Wanting me.” 

You gasp when his teeth graze your pulse, when he suckles gently at the spot. Then he soothes it with his tongue and lifts his head—eyes dark, full of heat and something more dangerous now. Something utterly undone. 

“I have to get you ready for me,” he says softly, almost apologetic—but his hands are already moving, slow and sure, slipping beneath the hem of your shirt. “I don’t want to hurt you.” 

Your breath stutters. Your thighs squeeze tighter around his hips. 

God, Clark Kent is going to ruin you. 

“Take your time,” you whisper, voice barely there. “I’m not going anywhere.” 

He smiles—something small, crooked, adoring. And then he leans down, kissing you again, deeper this time, while his hands begin to explore. 

He pushes your shirt up inch by inch, his palms dragging over your ribs, your sides—careful and reverent, like he’s learning, memorising, all of it. Like this is something sacred. His breath hitches when he bares your chest—and the lacy, nothing bra you’re wearing—and for a second he just stares, like he just can't believe you’re real. 

“You’re beautiful,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “Gosh, you’re—” 

You pull him back down to kiss you, fingers fisting in his hair, and he moans into your mouth as your hips rock up, seeking friction. His hands bracket your ribs, firm and warm, steadying you—grounding you—and when he pulls back again, it’s just far enough to press his lips to the centre of your chest. 

“I want to make you feel so good,” he says, kissing lower. “I want to hear all the sounds you make. I want to watch your face when you come.” 

You shudder, eyes fluttering closed. 

“And I want—” He kisses your sternum. “To take my time.” Another kiss, lower. “So slow you beg.” One more, right above the waistband of your underwear. “So deep you scream.” 

You gasp, your whole body arching up into his mouth—and he smiles against your skin, sweet and filthy and so, so in love it makes your head spin. 

One of his hands slides under your thigh, lifting it gently, while the other tugs your shorts—his shorts—and panties down with aching care. He kisses the inside of your knee. Then the top of your thigh. Then a little higher. 

You can barely breathe. 

When he finally settles between your legs, he looks up—blue eyes blown dark but still so brilliantly, impossibly Clark—and the heat in them nearly knocks the wind out of you. He looks at you like you’re the only thing that’s ever mattered. The only thing he’s ever needed. 

“Okay?” he murmurs, voice wrecked and low. 

You nod—frantic. “Yes. God, yes.” 

And then he lowers his mouth to you. 

You cry out, fingers flying to his hair, hips jerking before you can stop yourself. His tongue moves slow at first, like he’s savouring the taste, mapping you out, learning every reaction. You feel his groan vibrate against you—feel the subtle roll of his hips into the mattress, like he’s not even aware he’s doing it. 

Holy shit. 

Clark Kent is between your legs. Clark Kent is making you feel like this. You can barely comprehend it. You’d laugh if you weren’t already half-shaking. 

He hums again when you tug at his hair. His hands tighten on your hips like he’s grounding himself, like he needs you to stay still so he doesn’t lose control. You can feel it now—just beneath the surface—something wild and aching in him, restrained only by the thinnest, fraying thread. 

And when you look down again, his eyes are still on you—bright blue, locked with yours, so full of hunger and wonder and want that you can’t breathe around it. 

“Clark,” you whisper, almost a prayer. 

His eyes flutter shut. He groans into you like the sound of his name on your lips might be his ultimate undoing. 

And then he starts to really eat. 

There’s no other word for it—he devours you. All soft lips and filthy tongue and low, guttural sounds that vibrate straight through you. His hands are everywhere—steadying you, spreading you open, holding you down like he’s afraid you’ll disappear. 

You feel like you might pass out. Like your whole body has been waiting years for this—desperate, unsatisfied, quietly starving—and suddenly it’s too much. He’s too much. Too strong, too good, too fucking Clark. 

You’re gasping his name on a loop, tugging at his hair, barely holding on—and then you feel it—the sharp, sudden snap of your bra giving way. 

You startle. “Did you—?” 

“I’m sorry,” he mutters against your cunt, voice rough with need. “I’ll buy you a new one.” 

And then he’s back at it, moaning into you like he needs this more than the goddamn sun. Like he might die without it. 

Your head tips back, a choked sound leaving your throat. You’ve pictured this. A thousand times. In a hundred different ways. But your imagination was subpar at best—because nothing, nothing, could’ve prepared you for the reality of Clark Kent between your legs. 

Those bright blue eyes flicker up at you—needy, glassy, reverent—and the second your gaze locks, he groans again, fucking into you with his tongue like he’s trying to ruin you. The sight of him like this—desperate and devout—makes you shudder. 

And then he gives you more. 

One of those impossibly large hands curves up over your chest, thumb brushing your nipple, and the other slides between your legs—slow and careful, but sure. His fingers are thick, coaxing, stretching you open with gentle precision, and the pressure of them alongside his tongue makes you keen, hips lifting helplessly into the rhythm he sets. 

“You feel…” he breaks off, voice muffled against you, breath ragged. “You feel so good. You’re so perfect.” 

You can barely think. His mouth is relentless, his fingers maddening, and he’s everywhere—too much and not enough all at once. He groans again, this time deeper, more desperate, like he’s unravelling by the second. 

“You’re so tight, sweetheart,” he murmurs, the words slipping out like he couldn’t stop them if he tried. “I need you to be ready for me. I—I’m trying to take my time, I swear—” 

He’s losing it. You can feel it in the way his hand tightens on your breast, in the way his hips grind slowly down against the mattress, seeking friction. Superman, falling apart. Big, strong, godlike Clark Kent on his knees for you, coming more and more undone with every breathless moan you make. 

You thread your fingers through his dark curls, tugging, trembling. “Clark—oh, fuck—please—” 

“I’ve got you,” he breathes, voice wrecked. “I’ve got you. Just let go for me.” 

And with his fingers curling just right, his mouth wet and hot and hungry, you do. 

You come with a gasp and a full-body jolt, your hands in his hair, your thighs clamped around his head—but Clark doesn’t stop. Not even a little. His tongue keeps moving, slow and thick and dizzying, and his fingers never falter. You're writhing under him, trembling, oversensitive—but he’s got you. One hand bruises into your hip, fingers curling, holding you down like you weigh nothing at all, and his other forearm braces across your pelvis, anchoring you to the mattress as your body bucks helplessly against his mouth. 

“Clark—please—” you gasp, too gone to string anything else together. 

He’s whimpering into you now, low and desperate, hips grinding down against the bed like he needs something—anything—to keep from falling apart completely. 

“Gotta get you ready,” he mumbles, voice deep, breath hot against you. “Need you open for me. You taste so good, sweetheart—so good—” 

Another breathless moan spills from your throat. You’re shaking under him, thighs trembling, vision going a little white around the edges—but his mouth is still on you, relentless, adoring, starved. 

You twist a fist in his hair and pull—hard—and he groans at the sting, finally lifting his head. 

“Clark.” Your voice breaks—your whole body is flushed and ruined, but still you want more. “You said you wanted to fuck me.” 

His eyes flicker—wide and dark and frantic. 

“So fuck me.” You tug again, urging his face up toward yours. “I’m begging you. Fuck me.” 

His restraint snaps with a full-body shudder, and suddenly he’s surging up over you, mouth crashing into yours, and it’s wild. Nothing soft about it. It’s teeth and tongue and groaning, desperate need, like he’s been holding this back for as long as he could—and now there’s no going slow. 

He pulls back just enough to look at you—barely—but his hands are already moving. You can see them tremble as he pushes his sweats down his hips and kicks them off, like he’s barely holding on to enough control to get undressed. You glance down and instantly gasp. 

“Oh my God.” 

He chokes on a laugh—flustered, flushed scarlet—but it doesn’t slow him down. His chest heaves as he settles between your thighs again, mouth brushing yours with a shaky sort of reverence. 

“You—you okay?” 

“Take your shirt off,” you whisper, dizzy with need. “Please.” 

He fumbles it over his head, tossing it aside in one swift movement—and you’re left blinking up at him, dazed and desperate, with nothing but his bare skin and broad chest and huge arms above you. He’s gorgeous. Flushed and beautiful and too damn much, and he’s yours. 

“You’re staring,” he murmurs, a little breathless. 

“You’re massive.” 

His breath stutters at that, and he grins—but it’s helpless, strained, the kind of grin that says he’s one second from losing all control. “Yeah, I—should’ve warned you.” 

“You kind of did,” you murmur, legs wrapping around his waist. “You said you had to get me ready for you.” 

“I did.” His voice drops to a rasp as the head of his cock drags against your slick. “You feel—gosh, you feel like a dream.” 

You blink. “Gosh?” 

He groans, forehead dropping softly against yours. “Sorry. I’m—” 

“Say it dirtier, Clark.” 

“What?” 

You grin, wild and breathless. “Come on. Tell me something filthy. I know you can do it. Just let go.” 

He hesitates, clearly fighting every instinct in his wholesome Kansas-raised body—but then he curses under his breath and mutters, “You’re so fucking tight, I’m gonna lose my mind. I want to fuck you so deep you forget your own name.” 

Your breath catches. “See?” you whisper. “That’s more like it.” 

“I blacked out a little,” he mutters, still flustered. 

“Say something else,” you breathe. 

He groans again—almost a whine—his whole body practically trembling with restraint. “You’ve tortured me for years. Every time you smiled at me. Every time you touched me. Every time you fell asleep on my shoulder—I wanted this. You. All of you.” 

And then he’s reaching between you, holding himself against your entrance with shaking fingers. You both gasp when the tip pushes in—just that—and it’s already too much. 

“Oh my God,” you whisper again, clinging to his shoulders, the stretch impossibly intense even before he’s really in. “You’re not gonna fit.” 

“I—I can stop—” 

“No.” You’re shaking your head, eyes wide. “Don’t you dare. I want you. I want all of you.” 

He lets out a soft, strangled moan, almost losing it then and there. “I’ll go slow. Just—just breathe.” 

And then he starts to push in. Inch by slow, burning inch. His hands firm where they cradle your hips, his breath ragged against your cheek as your body tries to take him—tries to stretch around something impossibly thick, impossibly deep, impossibly Clark. Because of course this gorgeous, sweet nerd has an enormous cock. 

You keen, nails digging into his back. “Jesus Christ—” 

“Tell me if it’s too much,” he pants, voice cracking. “Tell me to stop and I will. Just—ugh, you feel so good. So perfect. I don’t want to hurt you.” 

“You’re not,” you whisper, eyes glassy. “You’re ruining me, but you’re not hurting me.” 

He lets out a shuddering groan and kisses you—soft and aching and full of so much love you could cry. “I don’t want to ruin you.” 

“Too late.” 

You both laugh—helpless, breathless—and then he slides in just that little bit deeper, and the sound turns to a moan. You’re gasping, trembling, stuffed full, but you don’t want him to stop. Not for anything. 

He kisses you through it—your mouth, your jaw, your throat—whispering apologies between every shuddering breath. His hands roam your body like he’s trying to worship it, like he’s trying to ground himself in the feel of your skin, your warmth, your everything. One hand splays across your ribs, thumb brushing the curve of your breast, the other grips your thigh, gently coaxing you open as he sinks deeper. 

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs again, wrecked. “You feel so good, I can’t—I’m trying—gosh, I’m trying—” 

You can tell. Every inch he gives you is slow, reverent, but barely leashed—like his self-control is hanging by a thread and the only thing keeping it intact is you, trembling beneath him, arms locked around his neck, whispering please into the shell of his ear. 

His nose nuzzles your cheek, your temple, his breath hot and uneven. “Tell me if I hurt you.” 

“You’re not,” you gasp, even as you clench around him, every muscle taut and trembling. “You’re perfect. Just—just keep going.” 

He kisses you again, deeper this time, a soft groan rising from his chest as he finally presses all the way in. 

Your body tries to adjust around him, stretched and aching and overwhelmed, but all you can feel is him. Every solid inch. Every trembling breath. Every whisper of your name like a prayer. And then—he stills. 

Buried to the hilt. Inside you. 

Clark Kent, inside you. 

You can feel his heartbeat against your chest. Feel him shaking, still trying not to move. 

And then, in the quiet between two shared, ragged breaths, you realise—he’s crying. 

Just a little. Just barely. But it’s there, glittering at the corners of his impossibly blue eyes as he looks down at you like you’re something he never thought he’d be allowed to touch. 

“I love you,” he breathes. “I’ve always loved you.” 

Your heart cracks open at the sight of him—this incredibly strong, impossibly good man trembling above you, full to bursting with love. You reach up, fingers brushing the corner of his eye, wiping the tear before it can fall. 

“Clark,” you whisper, your own vision blurring. “I love you too.” 

His breath hitches again, and for a second it feels like the whole world stills—just the two of you, wrapped in each other, like everything is finally aligned. 

You cradle his face in your hands and press a soft, lingering kiss to his lips. Then another. Then you press your forehead against his and whisper, “Now fuck me like you promised, Kent.” 

His eyes flutter closed, and a groan tears from his chest. 

“I can take it,” you murmur, arching into him, your body already pulsing around the impossible stretch of him. “You’re not going to hurt me, so stop holding back.” 

He pulls back just far enough to look at you, gaze wild and reverent all at once. “You—you’re sure?” 

You nod, fingers threading through his hair, grinning now. “Fuck me.” 

And just like that, whatever thread of control he was clinging to snaps. 

He moves—finally, fully—and the sound he makes is feral, low and broken in the back of his throat. His hips snap forward once, then again, rough and barely restrained, and your whole body jolts beneath the force of it. He’s huge, maddeningly deep, the stretch still toeing the edge of unbearable—but you don’t want him to stop. You want more. 

You rake your nails down his back, gasping as he fucks you with slow, jolting thrusts, like each one is him trying not to break—but the way his breath catches says he’s not going to last much longer. He’s flushed and wrecked and shaking, sweat collecting at his temples, strands of dark hair clinging to his forehead. 

And he’s so fucking pretty. 

That face—those big, blue eyes gone half-lidded and dazed, those kiss-bruised lips parted with every gasping moan he tries to bury in your neck. The muscles of his back flex beneath your hands, corded with tension. His shoulders shake. His grip bruises—literally—where he holds you. 

He’s trying. Trying so hard to be careful. 

But you don’t want careful. 

“Clark,” you gasp—and his head lifts instantly, eyes locking with yours like he needs you to ground him, to steady him, to keep him from flying apart. 

Your hands slide down his chest, nails dragging lightly over sweat-slicked muscle, and the sound he makes is barely human. The stretch still burns—you’re trembling, gasping—but you love it. You love him. You dig your heels into the backs of his thighs, pull him deeper. But it’s still not enough. 

You lean up, mouth brushing his ear. 

“Stop being careful,” you whisper. “Stop pretending you haven’t been dying to fuck me since the day we met.” 

That’s all it takes. 

He shudders—like the breath has been ripped from his lungs—and then he really snaps. Gone. Whatever shred of control he had left disintegrates, and he drives into you like it’s instinct, like it’s prayer, like he’s been holding this back for too long and can’t any longer. 

“Sweetheart—” he chokes, forehead falling to yours as his hips pound into you, rough now, relentless. “You have no idea. I’ve wanted this—I’ve wanted you—for so long I thought I might lose my mind.” 

His voice is thick, shaking. And his hands don’t stop moving—sliding up your ribs, cradling your breast, gripping your hip tight enough to leave marks like he still can’t believe this is real. 

And all you can do is take it. Take him. Let him love you like this—with every shattered breath, every desperate thrust, every reverent inch of him finally, finally letting go. 

He’s everywhere. Surrounding you, filling you, pressing you so deep into the mattress you don’t know where you end and he begins. 

His mouth finds yours again—hungry, open, all tongue and teeth and need—but there’s nothing rushed about the way he kisses you. Even now, even like this, he still tastes you like you’re precious. Like you’re some kind of miracle. 

And he won’t stop touching you. His hands roam your body like they’re mapping it, like he’s waited a thousand lifetimes to commit every inch to memory. One cups your breast, thumb circling your nipple until your whole body arches into him. The other drifts down your side, over your thigh, then back up again, everywhere at once, like he can’t bear not to be touching you. 

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs, his voice low, wrecked—soaked in worship and disbelief. “You always have been.” 

He thrusts deep, a little slower, and your breath catches. His name tumbles from your lips again, desperate. 

“I’ve thought about this so many times,” he confesses, hips rocking into you with aching precision. “But nothing… nothing ever came close to this. You—” he groans, kisses the corner of your mouth, your jaw, your throat “—you feel like heaven.” 

You cling to him, your fingers tangled in his hair, your legs wrapped around his hips. “Clark,” you breathe. “You’re gonna make me—” 

“I know,” he whispers, kissing the tear that slips from the corner of your eye. “Me too. I’ve got you. I’ve always got you.” 

And then he changes the angle—just barely, just enough—and you both feel it. You cry out, clutching at him as your whole body starts to shake. His rhythm falters for a second, stutters with the force of how much he’s holding back. 

“I—I’m not gonna last,” he pants, burying his face in your neck. “You feel too good. You feel too good.” 

“Don’t,” you whisper, heart pounding. “Don’t hold back.” 

He lifts his head to look at you—his face so full of love it hurts—and then he kisses you like he’s saying goodbye to every year he had to pretend that he didn’t want this. That he didn’t want you. 

And then he starts to move again—harder, rougher, deeper—and the heat builds sharp and fast, curling low in your belly as the whole world narrows to him. His body. His mouth. His voice rasping your name like it’s a holy thing. 

You’re close. So is he. And you can both feel it. 

But then he shifts—sits up on his knees, never slipping out of you—and the new angle punches a gasp from your throat, your back arching hard against the mattress. 

“Clark—” 

His hands find your waist, and his breath catches. For a second, he just stares—like he’s not sure he’s seeing right. Then one of his palms flattens against your lower belly, fingers trembling. 

He can see himself—a thick, impossible bulge stretching you from the inside out. 

“F—fuck, sweetheart,” he groans, voice wrecked, “I—I didn’t think…” He trails off, too far gone to finish. Too undone by the sight of what he’s doing to you. 

The thrusts are deeper now, angled just right, and every drag of him against your walls you makes your vision go white. You’re a mess beneath him—head thrown back, hands tangled in your hair, then palming at your own breasts, too overwhelmed to know what to do with yourself. 

And he’s watching all of it. 

“You’re gonna break me,” you gasp, almost sobbing on a moan. “You’re gonna—Clark, I can’t—” 

“Yes, you can,” he pants, dragging his thumb over your nipple, thrusting harder, faster, like he’s chasing something just out of reach. “You’re perfect. You’re so perfect—look at you—look at you.” 

Your body starts to lock up, the orgasm barrelling toward you like it’s being pulled from your soul. You try to fight it—try to hold on for him—but he hits that perfect spot again and it breaks you. 

You shatter around him with a scream, legs shaking, fingers digging into your thighs to ground yourself, and he feels it. Feels the way your body clamps around him, fluttering and pulsing, and it sends him reeling. 

His thrusts lose rhythm. His hands clamp down hard—one gripping your hip, the other braced behind him—and he’s trying to hold back, trying so hard. 

You force your eyes open just in time to see it happen. 

His mouth falls open. A breathless moan rips from his chest. And his eyes—his bright blue eyes flare molten red for a half-second before he squeezes them shut and throws his head back, like he’s afraid of what’ll happen if he keeps looking at you. 

A raw, animal sound tears out of him as he comes—deep inside you, again and again, his whole body shaking with it. 

He’s trying not to break the bed. Trying not to break you. 

And the heat of it—him, all of him—it feels endless. 

Then finally, he stills. 

You don’t know how long the silence lasts. 

Long enough for your pulse to slow, your body to stop trembling, for your senses to crawl their way back into place—though you still feel wrecked, in the best possible way. 

Clark leans over you, his body a trembling wall of heat. His arms are braced on either side of your head, eyes still squeezed shut, and his jaw is slack, like he’s still riding the aftershocks. 

Then he exhales a shaky breath, nuzzles into your cheek, and whispers, “Are you okay?” 

You hum, blinking up at him. “I think I saw God.” 

That makes him laugh—soft, breathless, a little stunned. He presses a kiss to your temple, then your cheek, then the corner of your mouth. 

“Sorry,” he murmurs, still catching his breath. “I was trying really hard not to… you know. Lose control. Burn a hole through the ceiling.” 

You smile, boneless and glowing beneath him. “I think you did great.” 

He kisses you again, then slowly, carefully, pulls out—and you both gasp. The stretch, the ache, the sudden emptiness—it makes your hips jolt, your fingers curl, and Clark wince in concern. 

“Sorry—sorry—” he breathes, already reaching to cradle your waist, pulling you gently into his arms. He shifts you both onto your sides, wrapping around you protectively, like he’s trying to shield you from the whole world. 

You melt into him, sighing as your limbs tangle together, his bare chest warm against your back, his hand stroking lazy circles over your belly. 

After a minute, he presses a soft kiss behind your ear. “I think the gas has worn off,” he says quietly. 

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah. I mean—” he trails off, then grins against your skin. “I still want to say filthy things, but I'm not being compelled to.” 

You giggle, turning in his arms to face him. His cheeks are flushed pink, his hair a mess, his blue eyes so soft you could cry. Again. 

“You’d say them anyway?” you tease. 

He brushes your hair back from your face, thumb tracing the curve of your cheek. “If you asked nicely.” 

You pretend to consider it. “What if I get on my knees and beg?” 

A groan vibrates in his chest. “You're a dangerous woman,” he murmurs. “I’m in so much trouble.” 

You lean in and kiss him—slow and lingering, tasting the smile he can’t seem to get rid of. And then you whisper against his mouth, “I’ve been in love with you since the day we met.” 

He pulls back just enough to look at you—eyes wide, like he still can't believe what you’re saying. 

He cups your face, forehead resting against yours, and whispers, “Good. Because I’ve been in love with you for years.” 

You blink up at him, smiling. “Years?” 

“I told you,” he breathes. “You’ve been torturing me.” 

You kiss him again, a little giddy now, your whole body aching and your heart so full it might burst. 

And then, nestled against him, sleep starts to pull at you, but you fight it long enough to mumble, “Clark?” 

“Yeah?” 

“Do you think it’s too late for pancakes?” 

He chuckles softly, tugging you closer. “You really are perfect.” 

- 

You spend the entire weekend at Clark’s apartment. Mostly in his bed—sometimes on the couch, or the kitchen counter, or in the shower. And once in the hallway, because you simply couldn’t make it any further without having him inside you. 

By Sunday night, you finally tear yourself away—because you know you can’t show up to work Monday morning wearing a pair of his old boxers and a threadbare Metropolis U shirt. 

You make it exactly twelve minutes at home, by yourself, before you’re packing a bag and heading right back to his place—relieved to find he’s just as desperate to have you back in his arms. 

On Monday morning, you both wake up with every intention of being on time for work—but it doesn’t quite happen. Because when Clark steps out of the shower, fresh and steamy and completely naked, you can’t help yourself. And you’re starting to realise that he has a very hard time resisting you too. 

So, after yet another mind-blowing, back-breaking orgasm, you both finally force yourselves to get dressed and head into the office. 

“They’re going to know,” Clark mutters as the elevator doors slide shut. 

There’s only one other person inside—an intern whose name you’ve forgotten. 

You glance up at him. “How will they know?” 

His lips twitch. “Well, for one, you’re limping.” 

You bite your cheek to keep from grinning. “I can’t help that. Blame your Kryptonian physiology.” 

“Now you’re blushing,” he murmurs, voice low enough for only you to hear. “Your heart’s racing. Your pupils are blown.” His eyes flicker down. “Your hands are trembling, and you’re—oh.” 

His breath hitches slightly. You’re not sure if he can see it, feel it, maybe even smell it—but he knows. He knows exactly what you’re feeling right now. And if this poor intern weren’t in here, you’d probably both be halfway to naked already. 

Your eyes lock—those ridiculous glasses framing that stupidly gorgeous face, blue eyes dark with want—and the moment stretches taut between you. You’re staring so hard, so heavy, that the soft ding of the elevator startles you. 

Clark chuckles, stepping aside to let you exit first. 

You try not to limp through the newsroom—but it’s hard. Your thighs are shaking. Everything aches. And you can feel every single bruise his mouth and hands seared into your skin. 

“Well, well, well,” Jimmy says, scooting back from his desk with that stupidly wide grin. “Look who finally decided to show up—together.” 

You roll your eyes. “We live in the same neighbourhood.” 

Jimmy snorts. “Right. And I’m Superman.” 

Clark coughs into his fist, clearly trying not to laugh. You shoot him a warning glance. 

“I’m serious,” you add, dropping your bag beside your desk. “Same subway line. Total coincidence.” 

“Mmhmm.” Jimmy swivels to follow your path, eyes tracking you like a hawk. “And the coincidence wore off on both your faces.” 

You frown. “What does that even mean?” 

You wince as your ass hits the chair—too fast, too sore. You try to cover it with a cough, but it’s too late. Clark is biting back a smile, and Jimmy’s eyebrows are practically in his hairline. 

“You’re blushing,” he says. “Kent is glowing. And unless my hearing’s gone, you just whimpered when you sat down.” He leans forward, bracing his elbows on his knees. “Please tell me I don’t have to pretend I didn’t hear that.” 

“You didn’t hear anything,” you mutter, shifting awkwardly in your seat. 

He’s about to respond when he pauses—squinting at something. His grin widens, eyes locking on to something near the collar of your shirt. 

“Oh my God. Is—is that a hickey?” 

You slap a hand over your neck. “No.” 

Clark chokes on nothing. 

“It is!” Jimmy exclaims, jumping up from his chair to get a better look. 

“No,” you say again, firmer. “It isn’t. It—it’s a burn. I burnt myself.” 

Cat pops up from her desk, squinting. “Looks like a hickey to me.” 

Lois spins around in her chair, smirking, arms crossed. “You burnt your neck?” 

“It happens,” you mutter, fumbling for your phone to check the damage. 

Clark gives you a helpless look over the top of his glasses, mouth twitching with a suppressed smile, cheeks red. And if he didn’t look so goddamn cute, you’d probably hurl a pen at him for leaving a mark so high. 

“You’re seriously denying this?” Jimmy asks. 

“I’m not denying anything,” you say. “I don’t have to deny it, because it isn’t anything. It’s just a bruise.” 

Lois tilts her head. “You mean burn?” 

“Yes—burn,” you say quickly. “Whatever. It’s still nothing. Now can we please—” 

“Kent!” Perry’s voice booms across the bullpen. “My office. Two minutes. Bring your notepad.” 

Clark nods once and scrambles to grab a pen and paper. Jimmy sighs—giving up for now—and collapses back into his chair. Cat drops down at her desk. Lois flicks her gaze from you to Clark, then slowly spins back around. 

You sink lower into your chair as your monitor wakes up. You can see Clark collecting his things, tucking in his chair. He starts toward Perry’s office—then stops beside right your desk, and leans in. 

You glance up just in time to catch the soft smile on his pretty mouth, his eyes sparkling behind his glasses. Then he reaches out—one hand gently cupping the back of your head—and presses a kiss to the top of your forehead. 

It’s so sweet, so simple, it makes your chest ache. You almost—almost—forget where you are. 

Until— 

“I knew it!” Jimmy shouts. 

Cat’s head pops up again. Lois spins around. Even Steve cranes his neck from across the bullpen. 

“I was right,” Jimmy goes on triumphantly. “You two finally boned!” 

“Olsen!” Perry shouts. “Watch your language.” 

“Sorry, Chief,” Jimmy says—though still grinning like the smug little shit he is. 

Your face burns as the bullpen erupts around you—laughter, gasps, even a slow clap from Steve. You sink deeper into your chair, wishing it would swallow you whole. And Clark—that traitor—just gives a soft chuckle, his shoulders shaking as he walks off toward Perry’s office, not even trying to hide the smug little smirk on his face. 

You glare daggers into his back. He doesn’t turn around, but you swear he knows—you can feel it in the satisfied roll of his stride. 

“I knew it,” Jimmy says again, practically vibrating with glee. “I called this weeks ago. Honestly, I feel vindicated.” 

You groan, covering your face with your hands. “Jimmy, please.” 

“I’m just saying!” he says, unrepentant. “You two have been doing the will-they-won’t-they tango since the Reagan administration. It was painful.” 

You peek at him through your fingers. “You're being dramatic.” 

“You weren’t even alive during the Reagan administration,” Lois states dryly. 

“Exactly,” he says, grinning. “It’s been that long.” 

You drop your hands, lips twitching despite yourself. “You’re impossible.” 

He shrugs. “It’s a gift. Besides, I had a bet going with Cat, and this definitely means I win.” 

“You didn’t win,” Cat calls. “You bet that we’d catch them making out in the office, and that was a forehead kiss.” 

You groan again. “You’re the worst.” 

“And yet,” Jimmy leans forward, cocking a brow, “I’m still your favourite.” 

You open your mouth to argue—but hesitate. 

His grin softens. “Seriously, though? I'm happy for you. Both of you.” 

You blink. 

“Clark’s a good guy, and you…” He nods at you meaningfully. “You deserve someone who looks at you like he does.” 

Your throat goes tight, caught off guard by the sincerity in his voice. You swallow. 

“Thanks, Jimmy.” 

He gives you a mock salute, then leans back in his chair with a dramatic sigh. “Superman’s gonna be crushed, though. His favourite civilian, officially off the market.” 

You snort. “I think he’ll survive.” 

“Will he?” Jimmy muses, hands clasped behind his head, feet up on the desk. “I don’t know. He always seemed very invested in your wellbeing.” 

You shake your head, cheeks still pink as you turn back to your monitor, heart thudding a little too fast in your chest. 

Across the bullpen, just before Perry’s office door swings shut, Clark glances back at you. 

And smiles. 

“So, this is where Clark Kent grew up, huh? I can see it now, you’re running in that field, yelling at your dad on the porch, sneaking a nudie mag in your backpack through that door—”

A large palm flattens over your mouth, muffling your next words. Slumping your shoulders dramatically, you look up with mirth in your eyes. 

Clark is standing in front of you, his expression defeated. It’s clear he’s half-regretting inviting you to house-sit for his parents with him for the week, but the flush on his cheeks indicates that your teasing isn’t all bad. 

“I’ll have you know I never had any magazines that weren’t PG-13.”

He speaks with a mock-injured tone, hand slipping down to rest on your back as he guides you through the screen door into the old-fashioned living room. 

“What kind of degenerate do you think I am? Ma raised me right.”

You should be teasing him further. If you had your wits about you, you would. It’s unfortunate that the feeling of Clark’s hand on your lower back makes you go a little loopy. You’re lucky he hasn’t caught on to what his touch does to you, or you’d be screwed. 

Flushing slightly, you dance out of his grip, running a finger over the shelves. 

“So, are you gonna, um, give me a tour? Lots of anecdotes, I want the true Clark Kent experience.”

His low chuckle is indulgent, a finger hooking into your belt loop as a means of tugging you towards the door. 

“If you want it, you’ll get it. Just don’t be mad at the tour guide when this takes a while.”

You have to shake the daze from your eyes before you can hear the story he’s telling about accidentally cracking the kitchen countertop.

The Kent house is exactly how you’d expect it. It’s quaint, the decor reflecting the cozy tastes of his parents. Each room has a reminder of Clark though, whether intentional or not. 

The doorway to the bathroom has markings of his growing height in childhood, including the five-month period where he went from 5'8" to 6’3”. The office has a dent in the wall, where Clark sheepishly tells you he kicked a soccer ball by accident when he was ten. It leaves you feeling as if you knew him when he was young, by proxy of the many scrapes he got himself into. 

Nothing does it like his bedroom, though. The final stop on his tour, Clark forgoes any preamble, simply opening the door and letting you wander in. 

It’s a stark contrast to the rest of the house, the brown paneled walls plastered with various posters and pictures. You can’t help but grin, seeing the trophy case with all his football awards near the window. 

“Wow, Kent. Didn’t realise you were Boy Wonder, too,”

You cross the room, immediately fiddling with the academic awards that are hanging on the far wall. 

“I mean, is it even fair at this point?”

You can hear him huff out a deep breath, picturing how he’s surely lifting one large hand to rub the back of his neck, his flannel straining against the bulge of his bicep and—

“It really wasn’t that big a deal, Smallville’s got a pretty good high school for the area.”

His voice cuts through the static in your brain, the barely-there heat of his chest radiating towards your back snapping you into reality at once. Humble bastard.

Turning to face him, you step as close as you can, hands finding their rightful place on his shoulders. 

“I think you’re selling yourself short. Besides, it’s better for me if you’re exceptional. I get to pat myself on the back for locking you down.”

You go in for a quick peck, pressing your lips to his slightly-chapped ones for a brief moment. Parting from him, the two of you seem transfixed by each other’s eyes, Clark leaning back in for another when a distinctive poster catches your eye, making you turn your head.

Clark’s lips land on your cheek as you rile yourself up for more teasing. 

“Clark! The Mighty Crabjoys? Are you kidding?”

He lets out a groan, hands settling at your waist as he attempts to turn you back toward him. 

“Yes I did listen to them, yes I was an insufferable poser as a kid, yes you would have mocked me relentlessly, now please?”

His lips seek yours, molding against you for another moment before you pull back again. 

“No, wait, don’t distract me. That’s there unironically? Like, you listened to them, and listened to them so much that you just had to—”

You’re cut off again, tasting the cornbread you’d had earlier on his tongue as he laves it over your bottom lip. Suddenly you’re not all that bothered with the poster anymore. 

It’s his turn to talk now, it seems.

“Can we please stop talking about the poster?”

His voice has deepened a few octaves, sounding eerily similar to his Superman voice. It’s doing bad things for your panties, feeling your thighs rub together involuntarily. You’re rendered mute, nodding wordlessly up at him. 

A self-satisfied smile settles on his face, using his grip on you to walk you backwards until the backs of your knees hit the bed. 

“Thank you, honey.”

He’s pushing you down softly, lowering you until you settle against the plaid sheets. You’re given absolutely no time to register anything else about the bed, not when he’s settling over you, all broad chest and thick thighs and beautiful face. 

“Clark…”

“Yeah? What is it?”

It seems like he’s relishing the opportunity to get you back for all your teasing, leaning on an elbow resting near your head as his other hand slips down to grip your hip. It’s unfair how he gets to you. 

“I want… You know what I want.”

You can barely stand to look at him, his eyes are so big and kind. You could get lost in him, drawn in by his gravitational pull. 

“Yeah, I do know, don't I? You want your clothes off, sweetheart?”

Your head begins to nod before you even register it, making Clark laugh as he sits up to tug off your clothes. 

Once you’re sufficiently undressed, you’re feeling a little unfair. He’s still wearing so much. Clumsy hands fly to the hem of his shirt, pushing it up gently. 

“You too, Clark. Not going to let me be the only one in their birthday suit, right?”

He blushes, but follows the movements of your hands, shucking off his shirt and jeans, although the black boxers he’s got on remain there, much to your dismay. The moment he’s bare enough, he’s climbing right back over you, lips pressing to yours with insistence. 

Clark generally lets you take the lead with kissing, letting you explore his mouth with as much zeal and vigour you can muster. He’s content to moan into your mouth, hands running wild over all the newly-exposed skin at his disposal. 

Rough fingertips travel up to your hair, smoothing it back as your tongue brushes against his. A soft squeeze to your breast when you gasp for air before diving right back in. Slowly, slowly, he begins to make his way down your body.

You falter a little as he lingers over your stomach, rubbing a thumb over your lower belly, feeling yourself ache for him. Your own hands spring into action, caressing over the planes of his abdomen as you move lower and lower. 

However, a hand encircles your wrist before you can reach his boxers, Clark’s abashed face looking at you.

“Not yet, baby. Can’t—oh, gosh,”

He throws his head back in pleasure when you forge forward, boldly gripping him through the thin fabric. 

“Clark, please. You said you’d give me what I wanted.”

He seems to falter, but his touch doesn’t move, redirecting your hand to rest on his shoulder. 

“You know we can’t… yet. I don’t want to hurt you, sweetheart.”

Damn it. Damn his big fucking eyes and his honeyed voice. You can’t complain, no matter how much you’d want to. Not when he’s looking at you like that. 

With a sigh, you slump a little, voice slightly petulant. 

“Fine.”

He sees right through it, of course he does. 

“Oh, I know. It’s so hard, isn’t it, letting me touch you?”

You’d have a cutting reply on the tip of your tongue if his hands weren’t roaming again, his left cupping the back of your head as the right makes its way down to where you’re dripping. 

Your legs spread automatically, letting his fingers brush against your soaked folds. You have to moan, the feeling of his larger fingers always overwhelming at first. 

He swipes through your folds, once, twice, until his index finger is covered in slick. You’d be embarrassed, but it’s hard to feel anything but pleasure when Clark is touching you. Slowly, he brings his index up to your hooded clit, pressing down on it with practised precision. 

It’s like he’s feeling it too, the way he starts to pant at the sight of you getting enveloped in bliss. This is a part of your routine because you need to be worked open, yes, but it’s also selfishly for Clark’s own satisfaction, you both know it. 

The pleasure arcing up your spine has you arching your back, right leg jerking involuntarily. It only seems to spur him on, index leaving your clit. 

Acknowledging your whine with a kiss to the temple, Clark moves his hand slightly, positioning his finger a little lower. 

“Here we go, honey.”

He pushes further, thick finger brushing your gummy walls deliciously. Every time Clark fingers you, you worry that you’ll never be able to go back to your own fingers again. His are like the rest of him, broad, work-worn and skilled. The way he slowly increases the pace of his movements have you squirming under him, hands scrabbling at his shoulders. 

“Doing so good for me, baby. Take it like a champ, every time.”

His hushed praises are sent straight to your core, hot breath fanning over your cheek as he adds another impossibly large finger to the mix. 

The stretch burns, in the way that has you gushing around his digits. You’re openmouthed, unable to stop the endless torrent of moans and whimpers that leave you. 

“Clark—!”

He smiles a little, watching how your hips are starting to grind down on his palm. 

“Yeah, honey? Feeling good?”

You nod frantically, staring wide-eyed up at him.

One more finger joins the two already plunging in and out of you, and the staggering onslaught of sensations pushes you over the edge. 

A final brush of his palm against your clit and you fall apart, choked moans spilling into the air as your hips stutter.

“Oh my god, ohmygod, Clark!”

He knows to work you through it, slowing his pace until the wave has crested, and you’re looking up at him with big, wet eyes. 

Pulling his hand away from you, he dips down, capturing your lips with his. 

“How’re you feeling, honey? Want to stop?”

You’d rather die. You tell him so, reveling in the shock on his face. He seems to forget how badly you want him until it's shoved in his face, so you do just that.

Snaking a hand between your bodies, you brush the waistband of his boxers again. 

“Please, Clark? You know I can take it. Just wanna feel you.”

He’s a sucker for you, you both know it.

That’s what has him shoving down his boxers with graceless hands, what has him blushing when you compliment his cock for the umpteenth time. 

He’s hovering back over you, the mattress dipping by your head and hip, where he’s braced himself with a hand and knee. His other hand has found purchase on your thigh, kneading at the plush flesh idly. 

You wonder absentmindedly if there will be any marks left later. He’d be mortified. You’d love it.

“Sweetheart, you ready? Gotta take this slow,”

He’s let go of your thigh, gripping his cock at the base so he can swipe through your folds. You both let out guttural moans, laughing at each other when the pleasure subsides. 

“Yeah, Clark. I want it.”

He’s embarrassed by your confession, like he always is, but that doesn’t stop him from pressing his hips forward a fraction. The blunt tip of his cock pushes past your entrance, the stretch causing another moan from the both of you. 

You’ll never get used to it, the all-encompassing pleasure that comes with the first few inches of him. 

He’s slow, taking his time as he groans word salad into your ear. 

“Feels so—so good, baby. Always so good for me, aren’t you? Does it— oh, god— you feeling okay?”

His voice is hoarse, as if he’s been yelling for days. You can’t help but feel a little satisfaction at how thoroughly you seem to wreck the Man of Steel. 

“Yeah, Clark… Keep going.”

He nods, pushing even further. The tip of him reaches somewhere deep in you, somewhere only he’s ever been. The heady haze in your mind can’t dissipate, not when he’s making you feel like this. 

It feels like an eternity, but finally, his hips meet yours. You’re feeling obscenely full, like you could never live without him in you like this. It has you whining sharply when he pulls himself out slightly. 

However, the feeling of him pushing back in sends any thought of complaining flying out of your head. He’s swift in finding that perfect pace — somewhere between stuffing you as full as you can be and providing the friction he craves. 

Throwing your head back, you see his right hand hover in the air, as if he’s unsure what to do with it. It seems as though he’s decided when it grips the headboard behind your head, but a splintering sound has you pushing past the daze to warn him.

“Can’t— Don’t break the headboard—” You’re cut off by a moan, unable to stop yourself. He seems suitably chastised though, his hand balling into a fist and pressing into the mattress instead. You feel a distant hope that he won’t punch through that, somehow. It’d be a hell of a story to tell his parents why you had to replace it.

His left arm has slid under your shoulders in the meantime, holding you as close to his chest as possible. You’re sure he gets some pleasure out of it, but you know he does this for you. 

He knows you like to be overwhelmed by him, surrounded by his touch and smell and words until every thought’s been chased from your mind but him. He won’t let you run away from the excruciating pleasure, and you’re grateful. It’s even more wonderful here, in this single bed that forces you even closer to him than normal.

The brutal pace he’s set has you floating up to the sky in no time, head in the clouds as you let him hold you close. 

It could be a lot of things, but you’re getting close after only a few short minutes. It could be the deep groans that he’s letting loose in the air between your mouths. It could be the tight grip he’s got you in. It’s probably the incessant grinding of his pelvis against your clit when he drives home. 

Whatever it is, your arms around his neck tighten as you attempt to tell him. 

“Clark— Clark, m’gonna…”

He nods, smiling breathlessly down at you, knowing you want reassurance. 

“Me too, baby. Go ahead, you can come.”

Something about his gasped-out words has you spiralling, your climax hitting you at once. Walls spasming around him, his hips falter in their speed, slowing to a more languid, leisurely pace as he works you through it. 

“Good— good girl, honey. Feel so good.”

He lets you pull him in for a filthy, openmouthed kiss, pressing his pelvis against yours. 

One final grinding motion, and he’s gasping into your mouth. The blooming heat inside you has you shuddering with an aftershock of pleasure, moaning one final time. 

He remains pressed against you for some time, his arm holding you slightly off the bed as your chests heave. Only once he catches his breath (annoyingly quickly) does he settle you back against the sheets.

The next few moments are a blur, Clark kissing you one moment, softly wiping at your pussy with a cloth the next, and finally bringing a glass of water to your lips. 

“Feeling okay? Tired?”

“Yeah, a little, but a quick nap, and I’ll be ready.”

He looks at you quizzically, tilting his head in a way that reminds you of Krypto.

“What, you don’t have more in you? C’mon, Superman, we’ve got to wear you out at some point.”