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i kinda imagined this as taylor + travis’s wedding, but that’s not explicitly stated so you can kinda imagine it however you want lol. enjoy <3
The venue was gorgeous. The branches of trees laced with string lights hanging over a dancefloor lined with tables, each covered with vibrant, huge bouquets of flowers. The guests milled about, most already pretty tipsy from the open bar, and having the times of their lives as the music blasted. The moon was high, the stars splashed across the deep blue of the late night sky. Despite the late hour, the night was still very much young.
Y/n was out on the crowded dancefloor, dancing with a friend of hers as they each nursed their own glass of champagne— which definitely wasn’t their first of the night. Joe was just off to the side, standing at one of the high top tables with some other football players that happened to be attending the same wedding. They were chatting about pre-season lineups, and Joe really was trying his best to listen and engage, but kept finding his eyes and thoughts drifting over to y/n on the dancefloor.
He watched as she swayed her hips side to side, tossing her head back to sing as the chorus of the song hit its crescendo. She always looked beautiful— oftentimes frighteningly, overwhelmingly so— but underneath the lights and with a wide smile on her face, she looked positively radiant. She was enchanting, each tap of her foot and twist of her body pulling him in closer and closer. He found his eyes remaining on her, but his mind began to drift to thoughts of her dancing again on a dancefloor, but this time a white dress billowing around her and a glimmering diamond on her finger. She’d spin, letting out a giggle as—
“Joe?” A voice drew him out of his thoughts. He blinked, clearing his head before focusing back on y/n as she stood in front of him. He straightened, the corner of his mouth quirking up into a smile as he looked over her before meeting her eyes. The previously loud, booming music had slowed to a gentle piano partnered with soft vocals.
“Y–yes?” Joe asked, taking a quick sip of his drink before setting the glass down.
“Dance with me?” Y/n grinned. The corner of his eyes cringed slightly at the question, more on instinct than genuine annoyance.
“Y/n…” Joe sighed, his cheeks already flushing with preemptive embarrassment at the prospect of making a fool of himself on the dancefloor.
“Please.” Y/n hummed, her lips turning downward in a dramatic pout— a dramatic pout that immediately made Joe crumble as he offered his hand out to her. Just as quickly as the pout had come, it was gone as the two of them made their way out onto the dancefloor.
The two of them found their place amongst the sea of couples swaying gently. Joe’s hands fell to her hips, pulling her closer as she laced her fingers behind the nape of his neck. The two of them swayed quietly, Joe trying his best to correctly time his steps while simultaneously stealing glances at y/n as she looked around the venue. He was doing an alright job until he mistimed one of his steps, stepping on y/n’s toe for a split second as she let out a surprised yelp.
“Shit, sorry.” Joe said, biting at his lip as he gazed down at her foot with a hiss. She’d barely faltered as she continued into their next steps. Y/n laughed, reaching to brush away one of Joe’s stray curls that refused to stay swept back with the rest of his hair.
“It’s alright.” Y/n grinned. “You’re a football player, not a dancer. I knew what I was getting into when I asked you to dance.”
Joe chuckled, shaking his head to himself as his eyes met hers. The corner of her eyes crinkled as she smiled up at him in a way that made him want to grab her by the face and kiss the hell out of her— but he quickly remembered they were at a public, formal event and instead opted for pressing a kiss to her forehead. She smiled up at him as he pulled away before she moved to rest her cheek against his chest. Underneath the fabric of his dress shirt she could hear the steady thrum of his heart even over the music. When she inhaled, she could smell his cologne. It was a perfect moment, one both of them wanted to capture and etch into their very bones.
Eventually, the music slowed before fading out. Y/n lifted her head, looking up at Joe who was already gazing down at her.
“You’re so perfect.” He murmured, his eyes full of nothing but total love and admiration. Y/n felt her cheeks warm as she let out a flustered giggle.
“And I’m the luckiest woman alive.” She said in response, rising up onto her tip toes to press a kiss to Joe’s jaw before resting back down on her high-heeled feet. The two of them stepped apart, one of Joe’s hands remaining carefully splayed along her hip as they turned to listen to the DJ as he spoke into the mic.
“Alright, gents, it’s time to clear the floor for the bouquet toss.” The DJ said, ushering for the bride to come over. She held a large, elegant bouquet and a wide smile on her face. Joe turned towards y/n, who shooed him away playfully. He rolled his eyes before obliging, stepping off the checkered dancefloor but keeping his eyes focused solely on her.
Y/n crowded in with the other women, laughing to herself as a couple eager girls clamored to the front. Y/n remained just off to the side, close enough to the group without having to worry about being shoved by an aunt or cousin.
“Alright,” the bride said, turning her back to the women.
“3…2…1!” The bride and crowd counted down. As she reached one, the bride tossed the bouquet behind her, the flowers sailing through the air for what felt like an eternity until landing squarely in y/n’s arms.
“Oh my god!” Y/n let out a surprised yelp, fumbling with the flowers as the women let out excited squeals. Her head whipped around to find Joe, who was staring back at her with a shocked smile as the men began to mob him, jostling him around by his shoulders.
“Congratulations, we’ve got a future Mrs Burrow here.” One of the women teased, causing y/n to let out a flustered chuckle. At the sound of “Mrs Burrow”, Joe quirked up a teasing brow and smirked that annoyingly handsome smirk of his.
Based on the excited look on y/n’s face, it was safe to say Joe had found the right time to put the diamond ring he’d been keeping in his drawer for months to good use.
Sinopsis: Three weeks into their fake relationship, the line between acting and reality begins to blur. As feelings grow stronger and the truth becomes impossible to ignore, both you and Clark must decide whether to let the lie end—or finally admit what has been real all along.
Warnings: Workplace Harassment, Stalking Behavior, Emotional Distress, Anxiety, Self-Doubt, Fear of Rejection
WC: 8,400 words approx.
Three weeks.
They had been doing this for three whole weeks.
And Clark had made those weeks so charming that sometimes you forgot it was all a lie.
For a moment, when he smiled at you from across the desks, or handed you a freshly made coffee without you even having to ask, or when his fingers laced with yours as you walked down the stairs, it felt real.
Like you were actually dating.
Like you actually cared about each other.
Like all of this would actually last forever.
But then you remembered it was a favor.
That Clark was kind to everyone.
That there was nothing special about the way he treated you.
And the cold returned.
They had thought a month would be enough.
One month of lies.
One month of fake kisses and intertwined hands.
And Benjamin would get bored and finally leave you alone.
That had been the plan.
But Benjamin didn't get bored.
Benjamin didn't give up.
If anything, the lie seemed to entertain him even more.
Because now he wasn't just bothering you.
Now he was making jokes.
And his jokes weren't funny.
They were the kind of jokes that made you freeze.
The kind that stole the air from your lungs.
The kind that made you grit your teeth to stop yourself from saying something you'd regret later.
One day, while everyone was at their desks, you and Clark were drinking coffee and Lois was flipping through a newspaper a few desks away, Benjamin approached with his mug in hand and that smile you hated with every fiber of your being.
He leaned casually against your desk.
Right in front of you.
And spoke loudly enough for everyone nearby to hear.
"Well, when Clark breaks your heart, please come to me. I actually know how to treat a woman."
He laughed as if he had said something incredibly clever.
And your blood ran cold.
Lois looked at him with such obvious irritation that it seemed like sparks might shoot from her eyes.
She opened her mouth, undoubtedly preparing a very colorful insult.
But she never got the chance.
Because at that moment, you felt your chair move.
Clark had grabbed the backrest and gently pulled you closer to him, as though it were the most natural thing in the world.
Then you felt his hand settle against your waist.
His palm rested there, fingers spread, firm but never tight.
The warmth of his touch traveled through your clothes and straight to your skin.
It was a calm touch.
The kind that didn't say you're mine.
The kind that said,
It's okay. I'm here.
And it worked.
Every time Benjamin tried to make you uncomfortable, Clark appeared with a gesture like that.
And it felt as though the fear slowly dissolved.
Like a reward after a long week.
Like an unexpected gift that made you smile inside.
But it wasn't a possessive touch.
Clark never took advantage.
Never put his hands where they shouldn't be.
Never held you too tightly.
Never lingered longer than necessary.
It was simply a hand on your waist.
Steady.
Comforting.
The kind of touch that said,
I'm here. You're not alone.
And even though you knew it was part of the act—
Even though you knew he was only doing it to make Benjamin leave—
You still liked it.
Far too much.
"Then you'll have to wait a little longer," Clark said.
His voice was so calm it sounded as though he were discussing the weather.
"Maybe a few more months. Or years. Unless we end up getting married, of course."
The sentence made you go pale.
Married.
He had said married.
Your heart lurched so violently you thought it might leap right out of your chest.
You stared at Clark with wide eyes.
But he was still looking at Benjamin with that polite smile that wasn't entirely polite.
From Jimmy's desk came an explosive coughing fit, as if someone had choked on their own breath.
Benjamin's eyes widened too.
And for a second—
Just one second—
You saw him caught completely off guard.
Speechless.
Clark didn't give him time to recover.
He turned toward you.
Leaned slightly closer.
And looked at you with such gentle eyes that they almost hurt.
"Ready for lunch?" he asked.
With his free hand, he brushed a loose strand of hair away from your face.
Then tucked it behind your ear with a tenderness that sent a shiver across your skin.
"Yes," you answered.
Your voice came out much higher than you intended.
But you smiled.
A real smile.
The kind that appeared without permission.
You grabbed your purse with trembling hands.
Clark took your hand.
He held it as naturally as though he'd done it a thousand times before.
And perhaps he had.
Three weeks of holding your hand had already turned into habit.
The habit of taking your hand.
The habit of walking beside you.
The habit of making you feel safe.
He pulled you gently to his side and draped an arm across your shoulders in a loose embrace.
Then he walked away with you toward the elevator.
Benjamin remained behind.
Coffee mug still in hand.
Expression twisted.
But you didn't look back.
You didn't want to see him.
You only wanted to leave with Clark.
When the elevator doors closed behind you and you were finally alone, Clark immediately stepped away.
It was almost as though he had been waiting for privacy to drop the act.
One step.
Then another.
He adjusted his glasses with a finger.
His cheeks were slightly pink.
And his smile looked much more shy than before.
"I hope I didn't overwhelm you," he said immediately, speaking a little faster than usual.
"The marriage thing, I mean. That was too much, wasn't it? I'm sorry. It just slipped out. I wanted him to leave already, and I couldn't think of anything else to say, and—"
"If this lie keeps going," you interrupted, a laugh escaping your chest, "we're going to have to adopt children and pretend they're ours."
Clark looked at you with wide eyes.
For a second, you worried you had said something incredibly stupid.
But then he laughed too.
A soft, warm laugh.
And his entire face relaxed.
"We could name the girl Sophia," he suggested, as though he were being completely serious.
You laughed.
A real laugh.
The kind that bent your body forward and made your stomach hurt.
"Sophia?" you repeated between giggles.
"It's a pretty name," Clark said with a shrug.
"And if it's a boy," you replied, wiping a tear of laughter from your eye, "we can name him Derek. Like Derek Shepherd."
Clark nodded.
His smile was so wide that dimples appeared in his cheeks.
"Derek Kent," he said, testing the name despite the fact that it didn't sound quite right.
He was obviously lying.
And you laughed again.
"Sounds good."
"We still have time to think about it," you suggested.
And both of you smiled.
Neither of you willing to admit how frighteningly easy it was becoming to imagine a future that was supposed to be fake.
Then came the newsroom party.
Clark told you about it the day before, during your "fake couple dinner", because that was normal now, wasn't it?
It was normal for the two of you to leave work together and go to the Italian restaurant afterward, to ask for the same table as always, to share pasta and talk about your days as if you had been doing it for years.
It didn't even feel strange anymore.
It was part of the routine, like going down to the editors' floor or getting coffee from the machine in the hallway.
But that night, while you watched Clark move the silverware with his large hands, something wouldn't leave you alone.
Something had been eating away at you from the inside for days, and you knew you had to say it.
"Clark," you began, letting your fingers fall onto the table, gently tapping the checkered tablecloth. "Do you think this is still okay?"
He lifted his gaze from his plate.
There was a little sauce at the corner of his mouth, barely visible, and you thought you should tell him so he could wipe it away, but you didn't.
You just kept looking at him.
Waiting.
"Because at the end of the day, we're..." You tried to find the right words, the ones that wouldn't sound so harsh, the ones that wouldn't make him defensive.
But you couldn't find them.
So you told the truth, even though the truth hurt a little.
"Lying."
Clark didn't say anything at first.
He only placed his silverware on the table, slowly, and leaned back against his chair.
He looked at you with those clear eyes that seemed to see beyond what you wanted to show him.
And you felt your stomach twist, because yes, of course you were lying.
Pretending was hard.
It was hard to wake up every morning and remember that everything you did, every kiss on the cheek, every hand held, every time he brushed your hair away from your face, was part of a show.
The hard part wasn't acting for everyone else.
The hard part was acting for yourself.
Because that lie was starting to make you feel strange around Clark.
But not strange in an uncomfortable way.
Not the kind that made you want to run away.
It was a different kind of strange.
The kind that made you wonder things you shouldn't be wondering.
Like whether Clark could ever truly fall in love with someone like you.
Because sometimes, in the way he looked at you, in how gentle his voice was when he asked how you had slept, in how natural it felt to have his hand on your waist, for one second you believed it was real.
You believed he felt something too.
But then came the question.
The question that always arrived like a cold shower:
And you? Did you believe Clark could fall in love with you?
The answer was no.
You didn't believe it.
Because Clark was kind to everyone.
Because Clark treated the cleaning lady with the same sweetness he showed you.
Because Clark didn't see you as someone special, only as one more person on his list of people to help.
And you weren't a reporter.
You didn't have interesting opinions like the people who wrote articles did.
You didn't know how to talk about politics or economics or the important things happening in the world.
You only took pictures.
You hid behind a camera and captured moments, but when someone asked for your opinion, when someone asked what you truly thought, your words got tangled and you either said something silly or stayed quiet.
You didn't have a well-formed opinion, and that made you feel strange.
As if you didn't quite fit there.
As if you were a guest who had stayed longer than she should have.
So continuing with that lie could only hurt you.
You knew that.
Every day you spent with Clark, every kind gesture he made for you, every time you laughed together, you were digging a deeper hole.
A hole that would hurt to climb out of later.
Because the lie was going to end.
It had to end.
And when it ended, Clark would still be Clark, kind to everyone, and you would be just another coworker.
A photographer he had once pretended to date.
And nothing more.
Clark smiled.
Despite everything, he smiled.
And that smile broke your heart a little because you couldn't read what he was feeling.
It was impossible.
His face was like a closed book, one with no title on the cover.
Did he feel anything after pretending for so long?
Or was this just another favor to him, like helping Steve with an article or walking Zoe to the printer?
You didn't know.
And not knowing was the worst part.
"Then we won't go to the party together," Clark said, and his voice sounded different, lower, as if he had made a decision that cost him something.
You stared at him with wide eyes.
You hadn't expected that.
You thought he would say you should keep pretending a little longer, that you should endure it until Benjamin finally got tired.
But no.
He chose the first option.
Separation.
And that hurt more than you wanted to admit.
"Well..." you began, but the words got stuck in your throat.
And then you knew.
You knew that what you were about to say was probably the reason you had decided to end all of this.
Because you couldn't keep going.
Because every day you spent falling a little more in love with him, every fake caress that made your heart race, was a broken promise.
And you didn't want to reach the point where you couldn't look at him without crying.
So you took a deep breath, clenched your hands under the table so he wouldn't see them trembling, and said it.
"I heard Sarah say she liked you."
Clark went still.
He blinked twice.
Three times.
As if he hadn't heard you correctly.
His lips parted slightly, but no words came out.
You felt your throat burn, but you continued, even though it hurt to say, even though every syllable felt like swallowing ground glass.
"The other day, in the break room. She was talking to Marta and said she's wanted you for a while."
You lowered your gaze to your plate, to the pasta you barely wanted to eat anymore.
"Maybe you should invite her. To the party, I mean. Or out. Whatever you want."
Clark didn't answer right away.
He looked at you with an expression you couldn't decipher, something between confusion and surprise.
Then, after a silence that felt eternal, he spoke.
"So soon?" he asked, his voice strange, as though he were thinking out loud.
You lifted your head and looked at him in confusion.
"Soon?"
"Yes," Clark said, shaking his head as though what you had just said was absurd. "We're supposed to be breaking up today, aren't we? So... finding a date for Saturday's gathering wouldn't be very appropriate. Especially if I'm going to be devastated over you."
You laughed.
You couldn't help it.
A small, trembling laugh that came from deep inside your chest.
It made you laugh that he said "devastated," as if he were a character in an old movie, as if it truly mattered to him that people didn't think badly of him.
But you also laughed because it was sweet.
Because even though everything was fake, even though there were no real feelings behind his words, he wanted to be loyal to you.
He wanted to protect the lie until the very last moment, for you, so you wouldn't look bad.
And somehow, that hurt more than if he had said yes, that he was going to invite Sarah.
"Are you going with someone?" Clark asked, tilting his head to one side.
You shrugged, pretending you didn't care, even though inside you felt as if something you couldn't name was collapsing.
"Well, I can be the one who cries over you. That way you can invite whoever you want without it looking bad."
Clark frowned slightly, as though he didn't like the idea.
"Besides," you continued, speaking faster so you wouldn't have time to regret it, "I've already interfered enough in your life. Sarah probably wanted to go out with you for a while, and because of me, because of my lie, she couldn't. It isn't fair to her. Or to you."
"No," Clark said suddenly, with a firmness that surprised you.
He shook his head from side to side, and his eyes locked onto yours with an intensity that stole the air from your lungs.
"You can't cry over a man. I mean... you're far too beautiful to cry over anyone."
He fell silent as soon as he finished the sentence, as though he had only just realized what he had said.
His cheeks turned red.
Truly red.
He pushed his glasses up with a trembling finger.
Looked down.
Looked up.
Looked down again.
And a quiet, awkward "right?" escaped his lips in a whisper.
You laughed.
Again.
But this laugh was different.
Softer.
Warmer.
You laughed because Clark had blushed like a teenager, because he had said something so lovely without meaning to, because for one second, just one second, it seemed like his words weren't part of the show.
But then you thought you were exaggerating.
That surely he was just being kind.
That you shouldn't read more into it than there was.
So you stored that sentence in a secret place inside your heart, in that little drawer where you kept the things that made you happy but that you couldn't take out.
"Then we'll just go separately," you said, shrugging again as if it were the simplest thing in the world. "That way everyone will know we've broken up. And that's it. End of the lie."
"And what will happen with the editor?" Clark asked, his voice turning serious again. "Benjamin. Once he knows we're no longer together, he'll start bothering you again."
"I guess I'll face it," you said, and this time you didn't laugh.
Because that wasn't funny.
"And if it gets worse, I'll tell Perry. I don't know if anything will come of it, I don't know if they'll believe me, but maybe that's better than always dodging him, hiding behind other people, feeling afraid all the time."
Clark nodded slowly, his face serious.
He said nothing, but his eyes stayed fixed on yours for a long while, as if he were committing your face to memory.
"Thank you, Clark," you said, and this time your voice came out steadier.
A smile formed on your lips, the kind that appears when something hurts but you're still grateful.
"It was the best fake relationship I've ever had. Better than the real ones, even."
Clark smiled too, and that smile reached your soul.
It was sincere, the kind that crinkled his eyes and made people look even more beautiful.
"I only did the basics," he said, shrugging as if it wasn't a big deal. "What every man is supposed to do. Treat a woman well, take care of her, listen to her. I didn't do anything extraordinary."
You laughed softly and shook your head.
"To you, it's basic. To others, it isn't. To others, that's too much."
Neither of you said anything else after that.
You finished dinner in silence, but it was a comfortable silence, the kind that didn't need words.
Clark paid the bill, as always, and walked you to the entrance of your building.
You walked slowly, without rushing, your hands tucked into your pockets so you wouldn't be tempted to hold them.
Because there was no need anymore.
The lie had ended.
When you arrived, Clark stopped on the sidewalk, right before the steps leading up to your door.
He slid his hands into his pants pockets and looked at you with a slightly sad smile.
Or maybe that was your imagination.
Maybe you were only seeing what you wanted to see.
"Well," Clark said, moving his head as though he didn't quite know what to do with his body now that he couldn't kiss you goodbye. "Take care. And if anything happens, if Benjamin bothers you again, tell me. It doesn't matter if we're not a fake couple anymore. Tell me anyway."
"Okay," you said, a knot in your throat making it hard to speak properly. "Thank you for everything, Clark. Truly."
Clark nodded.
He took one step back.
Then another.
And turned to leave.
He walked a few meters away, hands still in his pockets, head lowered.
You stayed there watching him, watching as he moved farther away, as he became smaller in the empty street.
Your heart was beating hard.
Too hard.
And something in your chest begged you to call out to him, to tell him not to leave, to tell him you didn't want it to end.
But you didn't.
You stayed silent, arms crossed over your chest, watching Clark disappear around the corner.
And when he finally vanished, when only the echo of his footsteps remained on the asphalt, you felt the cold again.
The same cold as always.
Only bigger.
Heavier.
As if the entire winter had settled inside you.
You climbed the stairs on unsteady legs, opened the door to your apartment, locked it behind you, and collapsed onto the couch without even turning on the light.
The darkness wrapped around you like a blanket.
And you stayed there, staring at the ceiling, thinking about Clark.
About his smile.
About his hand on your waist.
About the way he said your name.
About how he had told you that you were far too beautiful to cry over anyone.
And then, before you could do anything to stop it, one tear slipped from your eye.
Then another.
And another.
You cried over Clark, even though he had told you not to.
You cried because the lie had ended, but the real feelings were still there, large and heavy and impossible to ignore.
You cried because you liked Clark.
Because you had liked him since the first coffee he offered you.
And now, after a month and two weeks of fake kisses and held hands, you liked him even more.
Then came the newsroom party.
Clark told you about it the day before, during your "fake couple" dinner, because that was normal now, wasn't it?
It was normal for the two of you to leave work together and go to the Italian restaurant afterward, to ask for the same table as always, to share pasta and talk about your days as if you had been doing it for years.
It didn't even feel strange anymore.
It was part of the routine, like going down to the editors' floor or getting coffee from the machine in the hallway.
But that night, while you watched Clark move the silverware with his large hands, something wouldn't leave you alone.
Something had been eating away at you from the inside for days, and you knew you had to say it.
"Clark," you began, letting your fingers fall onto the table, gently tapping the checkered tablecloth. "Do you think this is still okay?"
He lifted his gaze from his plate.
There was a little sauce at the corner of his mouth, barely visible, and you thought you should tell him so he could wipe it away, but you didn't.
You just kept looking at him.
Waiting.
"Because at the end of the day, we're..." You tried to find the right words, the ones that wouldn't sound so harsh, the ones that wouldn't make him defensive.
But you couldn't find them.
So you told the truth, even though the truth hurt a little.
"Lying."
Clark didn't say anything at first.
He only placed his silverware on the table, slowly, and leaned back against his chair.
He looked at you with those clear eyes that seemed to see beyond what you wanted to show him.
And you felt your stomach twist, because yes, of course you were lying.
Pretending was hard.
It was hard to wake up every morning and remember that everything you did, every kiss on the cheek, every hand held, every time he brushed your hair away from your face, was part of a show.
The hard part wasn't acting for everyone else.
The hard part was acting for yourself.
Because that lie was starting to make you feel strange around Clark.
But not strange in an uncomfortable way.
Not the kind that made you want to run away.
It was a different kind of strange.
The kind that made you wonder things you shouldn't be wondering.
Like whether Clark could ever truly fall in love with someone like you.
Because sometimes, in the way he looked at you, in how gentle his voice was when he asked how you had slept, in how natural it felt to have his hand on your waist, for one second you believed it was real.
You believed he felt something too.
But then came the question.
The question that always arrived like a cold shower:
And you? Did you believe Clark could fall in love with you?
The answer was no.
You didn't believe it.
Because Clark was kind to everyone.
Because Clark treated the cleaning lady with the same sweetness he showed you.
Because Clark didn't see you as someone special, only as one more person on his list of people to help.
And you weren't a reporter.
You didn't have interesting opinions like the people who wrote articles did.
You didn't know how to talk about politics or economics or the important things happening in the world.
You only took pictures.
You hid behind a camera and captured moments, but when someone asked for your opinion, when someone asked what you truly thought, your words got tangled and you either said something silly or stayed quiet.
You didn't have a well-formed opinion, and that made you feel strange.
As if you didn't quite fit there.
As if you were a guest who had stayed longer than she should have.
So continuing with that lie could only hurt you.
You knew that.
Every day you spent with Clark, every kind gesture he made for you, every time you laughed together, you were digging a deeper hole.
A hole that would hurt to climb out of later.
Because the lie was going to end.
It had to end.
And when it ended, Clark would still be Clark, kind to everyone, and you would be just another coworker.
A photographer he had once pretended to date.
And nothing more.
Clark smiled.
Despite everything, he smiled.
And that smile broke your heart a little because you couldn't read what he was feeling.
It was impossible.
His face was like a closed book, one with no title on the cover.
Did he feel anything after pretending for so long?
Or was this just another favor to him, like helping Steve with an article or walking Zoe to the printer?
You didn't know.
And not knowing was the worst part.
"Then we won't go to the party together," Clark said, and his voice sounded different, lower, as if he had made a decision that cost him something.
You stared at him with wide eyes.
You hadn't expected that.
You thought he would say you should keep pretending a little longer, that you should endure it until Benjamin finally got tired.
But no.
He chose the first option.
Separation.
And that hurt more than you wanted to admit.
"Well..." you began, but the words got stuck in your throat.
And then you knew.
You knew that what you were about to say was probably the reason you had decided to end all of this.
Because you couldn't keep going.
Because every day you spent falling a little more in love with him, every fake caress that made your heart race, was a broken promise.
And you didn't want to reach the point where you couldn't look at him without crying.
So you took a deep breath, clenched your hands under the table so he wouldn't see them trembling, and said it.
"I heard Sarah say she liked you."
Clark went still.
He blinked twice.
Three times.
As if he hadn't heard you correctly.
His lips parted slightly, but no words came out.
You felt your throat burn, but you continued, even though it hurt to say, even though every syllable felt like swallowing ground glass.
"The other day, in the break room. She was talking to Marta and said she's wanted you for a while."
You lowered your gaze to your plate, to the pasta you barely wanted to eat anymore.
"Maybe you should invite her. To the party, I mean. Or out. Whatever you want."
Clark didn't answer right away.
He looked at you with an expression you couldn't decipher, something between confusion and surprise.
Then, after a silence that felt eternal, he spoke.
"So soon?" he asked, his voice strange, as though he were thinking out loud.
You lifted your head and looked at him in confusion.
"Soon?"
"Yes," Clark said, shaking his head as though what you had just said was absurd. "We're supposed to be breaking up today, aren't we? So... finding a date for Saturday's gathering wouldn't be very appropriate. Especially if I'm going to be devastated over you."
You laughed.
You couldn't help it.
A small, trembling laugh that came from deep inside your chest.
It made you laugh that he said "devastated," as if he were a character in an old movie, as if it truly mattered to him that people didn't think badly of him.
But you also laughed because it was sweet.
Because even though everything was fake, even though there were no real feelings behind his words, he wanted to be loyal to you.
He wanted to protect the lie until the very last moment, for you, so you wouldn't look bad.
And somehow, that hurt more than if he had said yes, that he was going to invite Sarah.
"Are you going with someone?" Clark asked, tilting his head to one side.
You shrugged, pretending you didn't care, even though inside you felt as if something you couldn't name was collapsing.
"Well, I can be the one who cries over you. That way you can invite whoever you want without it looking bad."
Clark frowned slightly, as though he didn't like the idea.
"Besides," you continued, speaking faster so you wouldn't have time to regret it, "I've already interfered enough in your life. Sarah probably wanted to go out with you for a while, and because of me, because of my lie, she couldn't. It isn't fair to her. Or to you."
"No," Clark said suddenly, with a firmness that surprised you.
He shook his head from side to side, and his eyes locked onto yours with an intensity that stole the air from your lungs.
"You can't cry over a man. I mean... you're far too beautiful to cry over anyone."
He fell silent as soon as he finished the sentence, as though he had only just realized what he had said.
His cheeks turned red.
Truly red.
He pushed his glasses up with a trembling finger.
Looked down.
Looked up.
Looked down again.
And a quiet, awkward "right?" escaped his lips in a whisper.
You laughed.
Again.
But this laugh was different.
Softer.
Warmer.
You laughed because Clark had blushed like a teenager, because he had said something so lovely without meaning to, because for one second, just one second, it seemed like his words weren't part of the show.
But then you thought you were exaggerating.
That surely he was just being kind.
That you shouldn't read more into it than there was.
So you stored that sentence in a secret place inside your heart, in that little drawer where you kept the things that made you happy but that you couldn't take out.
"Then we'll just go separately," you said, shrugging again as if it were the simplest thing in the world. "That way everyone will know we've broken up. And that's it. End of the lie."
"And what will happen with the editor?" Clark asked, his voice turning serious again. "Benjamin. Once he knows we're no longer together, he'll start bothering you again."
"I guess I'll face it," you said, and this time you didn't laugh.
Because that wasn't funny.
"And if it gets worse, I'll tell Perry. I don't know if anything will come of it, I don't know if they'll believe me, but maybe that's better than always dodging him, hiding behind other people, feeling afraid all the time."
Clark nodded slowly, his face serious.
He said nothing, but his eyes stayed fixed on yours for a long while, as if he were committing your face to memory.
"Thank you, Clark," you said, and this time your voice came out steadier.
A smile formed on your lips, the kind that appears when something hurts but you're still grateful.
"It was the best fake relationship I've ever had. Better than the real ones, even."
Clark smiled too, and that smile reached your soul.
It was sincere, the kind that crinkled his eyes and made people look even more beautiful.
"I only did the basics," he said, shrugging as if it wasn't a big deal. "What every man is supposed to do. Treat a woman well, take care of her, listen to her. I didn't do anything extraordinary."
You laughed softly and shook your head.
"To you, it's basic. To others, it isn't. To others, that's too much."
Neither of you said anything else after that.
You finished dinner in silence, but it was a comfortable silence, the kind that didn't need words.
Clark paid the bill, as always, and walked you to the entrance of your building.
You walked slowly, without rushing, your hands tucked into your pockets so you wouldn't be tempted to hold them.
Because there was no need anymore.
The lie had ended.
When you arrived, Clark stopped on the sidewalk, right before the steps leading up to your door.
He slid his hands into his pants pockets and looked at you with a slightly sad smile.
Or maybe that was your imagination.
Maybe you were only seeing what you wanted to see.
"Well," Clark said, moving his head as though he didn't quite know what to do with his body now that he couldn't kiss you goodbye. "Take care. And if anything happens, if Benjamin bothers you again, tell me. It doesn't matter if we're not a fake couple anymore. Tell me anyway."
"Okay," you said, a knot in your throat making it hard to speak properly. "Thank you for everything, Clark. Truly."
Clark nodded.
He took one step back.
Then another.
And turned to leave.
He walked a few meters away, hands still in his pockets, head lowered.
You stayed there watching him, watching as he moved farther away, as he became smaller in the empty street.
Your heart was beating hard.
Too hard.
And something in your chest begged you to call out to him, to tell him not to leave, to tell him you didn't want it to end.
But you didn't.
You stayed silent, arms crossed over your chest, watching Clark disappear around the corner.
And when he finally vanished, when only the echo of his footsteps remained on the asphalt, you felt the cold again.
The same cold as always.
Only bigger.
Heavier.
As if the entire winter had settled inside you.
You climbed the stairs on unsteady legs, opened the door to your apartment, locked it behind you, and collapsed onto the couch without even turning on the light.
The darkness wrapped around you like a blanket.
And you stayed there, staring at the ceiling, thinking about Clark.
About his smile.
About his hand on your waist.
About the way he said your name.
About how he had told you that you were far too beautiful to cry over anyone.
And then, before you could do anything to stop it, one tear slipped from your eye.
Then another.
And another.
You cried over Clark, even though he had told you not to.
You cried because the lie had ended, but the real feelings were still there, large and heavy and impossible to ignore.
You cried because you liked Clark.
Because you had liked him since the first coffee he offered you.
And now, after a month and two weeks of fake kisses and held hands, you liked him even more.
The next day, you arrived at the Planet.
The building looked the same as always, with those high walls and that smell of paper and coffee you already knew by heart.
You rode the elevator up, clutching your purse against your chest, feeling the eyes of people coming in and out on every floor.
You were calm.
Or at least, you were trying to be.
Inside, you still had that knot in your stomach, the one that didn't go away no matter how deeply you breathed or how hard you tried to think of pretty things.
The elevator opened on the top floor.
That was where they usually placed the crowded tables for social events, those folding metal tables that were always scratched and covered in coffee stains.
But not today.
Today, everything was different.
The tables were large and round, covered with white tablecloths that fell all the way to the floor.
There were flowers in the center.
Real flowers.
The kind that smelled lovely and clearly cost money.
The chairs had fabric covers and bows tied around the backs, and small lights had been hung on the walls, twinkling like stars.
Everything looked elegant.
Beautiful.
As if someone had spent the entire night decorating the room.
You walked through the entrance, and everyone looked at you.
There was curiosity in their eyes.
It was obvious from miles away.
Some people arched their brows.
Others whispered something into the ear of the person beside them.
And a woman from accounting looked you up and down as though she were doing mental calculations.
You knew why.
You knew it was obvious what had happened when they saw Clark hadn't arrived with you.
It gave the impression that a breakup had occurred.
So you sighed, squared your shoulders, and walked toward the table with the drinks and food.
You weren't going to hide.
You weren't going to give them the satisfaction of seeing you uncomfortable.
There was everything on the table.
Sandwiches cut into triangles, cups filled with colorful juices, trays of cookies and little cakes, and a pile of fried things you absolutely loved.
You grabbed a plastic plate, one of those thin white ones that bends if you put too much weight on it, and served yourself some chopped fries.
You looked at them for a moment, took a bite of one, and chewed slowly as you watched the people around you laugh and talk.
"I knew it," a voice said beside you.
Your heart dropped straight into your stomach.
You knew that voice.
You hated it with your entire soul.
You turned your head, and there was Benjamin, wearing his gray suit and that crooked smile, leaning against the table as if he owned the place.
You looked at him without speaking, only with your eyes, and felt the fries get stuck in your throat.
"It's just that you weren't Kent's type," he said.
His eyes moved over your face, up and down, as though he were measuring you, as though you were a trophy he had lost.
"You're more... I don't know. He seems nerdier, more boring. I told you I could be more fun."
He took one step closer.
Then another.
His voice became lower, more intimate, as if the two of you were alone in the room despite the hundreds of people around you.
You felt your skin prickle.
Felt your hands begin to tremble.
But this time, you didn't freeze.
This time, you moved your foot.
One step back.
Then two.
You moved away from him as if he were fire that could burn you.
"Benjamin," you said, and your voice came out firmer than you felt, "even if I left Clark and every man in the world disappeared, I would never, not even if I were born again, go out with you. So please, be more professional."
The man stared at you.
He blinked twice, as if he couldn't believe what he had just heard.
Around you, a few people turned to look.
A girl from human resources stopped eating her little cake and stared.
A guy from sports raised an eyebrow.
You had drawn attention.
But you didn't care.
You weren't going to stay quiet this time.
"You've become quite insolent," Benjamin said, and his voice was no longer soft.
It had an edge now.
A sharpness that made you clench your teeth.
"Do you call a woman insolent for trying to stop being harassed by a man who refuses to leave her alone?" you asked.
And even though you were trembling with fear inside, even though you felt like your legs might give out beneath you, you kept talking.
He couldn't do anything to you.
Not with so many people around.
Not in the middle of the party.
Maybe on Monday.
Maybe on Monday, when you were alone, he would find a way to retaliate.
But not today.
Today, you were safe.
"What a strange concept of kindness you have."
Benjamin smiled.
But it wasn't a pleasant smile.
It was the kind of smile people wear when they're planning something ugly.
He crossed his arms and leaned slightly toward you, just enough for you to feel his breath.
"Did creating a fake relationship with Clark Kent make you think you could make me jealous?" he asked, his voice a venomous whisper. "You're a—"
He never finished the word.
"Corvin."
Clark's voice arrived like thunder in the middle of the silence.
You turned your head and saw him walking toward you with long, firm steps.
He was wearing his blue suit, the one that suited him best, and his glasses caught the light from the party.
He wasn't smiling.
His face was serious.
More serious than you had ever seen it.
He came to your side, and his hand found your waist, right where he always placed it, but this time the touch wasn't for pretending.
It was to protect you.
You felt it in the way his fingers tightened slightly.
In the way he pulled you against his side as if to say,
This girl is with me.
"It's rude to disrespect a woman," Clark said, his voice calm but firm.
He wasn't shouting.
He didn't need to.
His height and serious expression were enough.
"Disrespect her with the truth?" Benjamin asked, shrugging one shoulder as if he couldn't care less. "I was only telling her things as they are."
"Well," Clark said.
And then he smiled.
But it wasn't a kind smile.
It was a knowing smile.
The kind of smile someone wears when they have an ace up their sleeve.
"You said the same thing to your secretary. And to the editor under your supervision. And to Lily's photographer. And to the receptionist downstairs."
Benjamin went pale.
His eyes widened slightly, and his mouth twisted as though he had bitten into a lemon.
"And it seems the complaints increased since yesterday," Clark continued, without dropping his smile. "Perry received all of them. Every single one. Signed and dated."
You looked at him in confusion.
Complaints?
What was he talking about?
Benjamin clenched his fists and opened his mouth to say something, but Clark didn't give him the chance.
"Now, please," he said, his voice turning colder, "show some respect to my girlfriend."
He held you by the waist and guided you away from there.
You walked quickly toward a corner of the room, behind a column where the others' gazes couldn't reach.
You were silent, your heart pounding in your ears, trying to process what had just happened.
"Clark..." you said when you finally stopped.
He positioned himself in front of you, blocking your body with his, and although his face was serious, his eyes held a different kind of brightness.
He was still looking toward where Benjamin had remained, with an anger he could barely contain.
"They're going to fire him," Clark said, his voice lower now, as though he didn't want anyone else to hear. "Starting tomorrow. Perry received the complaints from every woman he harassed. Not just the ones from the Planet, but also from other places where he worked before."
You stared at him, unable to understand.
Your eyes widened, and your mouth went dry.
"I spoke to each of them," Clark continued.
And now he did look at you, directly in the eyes.
"I convinced them to file harassment complaints. I told them they weren't alone, that if they all spoke together, nobody would be able to silence them. Cat and Lois are handling all the paperwork for the formal reports."
You drew in a breath.
The air entered your lungs as though you were breathing for the first time in months.
"Yours is still missing, of course," Clark said, his voice softening a little. "Only if you want to file it. I'll be your witness. I saw everything. I heard everything. I was there."
"Thank you, Clark," you whispered.
The words came out small, almost voiceless, because your throat had tightened again.
But this time, it wasn't from fear.
It was from relief.
From a happiness so enormous it almost hurt.
"I guess there's no need to pretend anymore."
Clark nodded.
A small smile appeared on his face, but his eyes were still serious, as if he were waiting for something else.
"Now you can go out with Sarah," you added.
And you meant it.
It hurt to say, but it was the right thing.
The lie was over.
Clark no longer had any obligation to you.
He could live his life.
Go out with whoever he wanted.
Be happy without having to worry about inventing fake kisses and embraces.
But Clark tilted his head.
He wrinkled his nose as though he had smelled something unpleasant, and his brows drew together in a small gesture of confusion.
"Pretend?" he asked, as if the word didn't make sense.
You stared at him, not understanding.
And then he took a deep breath, pushed his glasses up with a trembling finger, and continued speaking.
"I... didn't pretend."
Your heart stopped.
Or maybe it started beating far too fast.
You weren't sure.
"We pretended to have a three-month relationship," Clark said, his words coming slowly, as if he were choosing each one carefully. "That's true. But I didn't pretend when I said I liked you in front of everyone. That... that was true."
You opened your mouth, but no sound came out.
Clark looked down for a moment. He adjusted his glasses again even though they didn't need adjusting, and when he looked back at you, his cheeks were red.
Red like the flowers decorating the tables.
"I just didn't want you to feel uncomfortable," he continued, his voice so quiet it was almost impossible to hear. "I waited for all of this to be over so I could... so I could tell you. So you'd know it wasn't just a favor. At least not for me. That I..."
He paused.
Swallowed hard.
You watched his lips move, and suddenly it felt impossible to breathe.
"I like you," he finally said. "Not since a month ago, when we started all of this. No. I..."
He closed his eyes for a moment, as if remembering something.
When he opened them again, there was a light in them you had never seen before.
"Four months ago," he said precisely.
The certainty in his voice stole your breath away.
"Exactly. Monday, June 5th. You were sitting at your desk, and I was walking by to take some paperwork to printing. You looked at me and said you liked my glasses."
A smile slipped onto your face.
You remembered that day.
It had been a rainy Monday, one of those days when everything seemed to go wrong. You had arrived soaked and in a terrible mood.
But Clark had walked over with his glasses slightly crooked, and without thinking, you had told him they looked good on him.
That they suited him.
That was all.
Just a silly comment, the kind people make without giving it any importance.
But he had remembered it.
Four months later.
With the exact date and everything.
"I wasn't sure if you were just being nice," you said, your voice rough, as though you were about to cry, but not from sadness. "I thought there was no way you could like me. That you were too good for someone like me."
"Oh, Clark."
This time your eyes filled with tears.
Good tears.
"I like you so much. So, so much."
Clark's eyes lit up.
They became bright, as though someone had switched on a little light inside them.
His hands trembled slightly at his sides, as if he didn't know what to do with them.
Carefully.
So incredibly carefully.
As though you were touching something fragile.
You tugged lightly on his jacket.
Your fingers curled around the lapels, pulling him gently toward you.
Clark understood.
Clark leaned down.
Slowly.
Very slowly.
Until his nose brushed against yours.
His eyes were still open, staring at you as though he couldn't quite believe this was happening.
And then his lips touched yours.
It wasn't one of the quick kisses you exchanged for Benjamin's benefit.
It wasn't a polite brush against your cheek.
It was a real kiss.
The kind of kiss given wholeheartedly.
The kind that carried every feeling that had been left unsaid.
Clark's hand returned to your waist, but this time it wasn't to protect you from a harasser.
It was to keep you close.
To hold on to you.
And you wrapped your arms around his neck, threading your fingers through the short hair at the nape of his neck, letting yourself melt into him.
Maybe, after all, neither of you had ever been pretending.
Maybe all this time, without realizing it, you had been building something real.
A relationship that had begun quietly.
The kind that grows slowly, like a plant putting down roots long before anyone notices the flowers.
A relationship that was now, finally, more real than any relationship you had ever had before.
Clark pulled back just enough to catch his breath.
Then he looked at you with a smile so wide that dimples appeared in his cheeks.
"So," he said, his voice slightly rough, "am I still your boyfriend?"
You laughed.
A laugh that came straight from your soul.
Bright.
Free.
"Yes," you said.
And then you kissed him again.
"Yes. Of course you are."
And behind the column, while the lights twinkled overhead, while people laughed and music played softly in the background, the two of you stayed wrapped in each other's arms for a long time.
i can’t believe she’s married… like my day one artist getting her happy ending is making me feel very emotional and parasocial……. contact me in 5-7 business days
c/w ❀.ೃ࿔ angst, silent treatment, he logs into reader’s IG, hurt/comfort, miscommunication, #male tears, groveling, one-sided voicemails, make-up sex, oral (fem receiving), unprotected p in v, praise, jersey stays on, creampie, spanking, pet names (baby, princess, sweetheart, angel, pretty + no y/n) + rafe climbs onto reader’s roof ❀⊰ *
By the seventh day, Rafe had officially decided something was wrong with your phone.
Not because you never got mad at him—you absolutely did—but because this wasn’t how you fought. You’d tell him exactly what he did wrong. You expected him to listen. You expected the two of you to work through it together. But seven straight days without a single word? That wasn’t you.
He’d texted enough times that your conversation sat permanently pinned to the top of his messages. Half of them had gone unanswered. The other half were just him talking to himself because apparently he couldn’t stop.
Links to TikTok edits that reminded him of the two of you. A screenshot of some guy getting absolutely leveled during practice because he knew you’d laugh. A question about how much sugar he needs for those cookies he loves.
Then the inevitable spiral. You okay? Baby? You still mad? Can you at least tell me if you’re still alive? Nothing.
His foot bounced impatiently against the hardwood while he stared at his phone for what had to be the fiftieth time that afternoon. One more text couldn’t make it any worse than it already was.
. ݁₊ ⊹ 📱.ᐟ.ᐟ 𝚁𝚊𝚏𝚎: 𝙱𝚊𝚋𝚢?
He watched the little “Delivered” appear underneath it. Still nothing.
Rafe dragged a hand over his face before opening Instagram instead. He was running out of places to check.
Maybe you’d posted something. Maybe you’d liked somebody’s story. Hell, maybe you’d accidentally give him some tiny sign you weren’t planning on pretending he didn’t exist forever.
Your profile loaded. Then it disappeared. He frowned, searching for your username again. Not found.
He closed the app and opened it again.
Nothing.
His eyebrows pulled together as he leaned back against the kitchen counter, thumb tapping impatiently against the side of his phone. He muttered to himself, shaking his head.
You, meanwhile, had just finished throwing a load of towels into the dryer when your own phone buzzed across the kitchen island.
Hadn’t you blocked him? You distinctly remembered pressing the button. You’d even smiled a little afterward because you knew it’d drive him insane. You opened his profile. Sure enough. Following.
You scowled, blocked him again, tossed your phone back onto the counter, and went back to the towels.
Three minutes later it buzzed again.
˗ˏˋ ꒰ ✉︎ ꒱ ˎˊ˗ 𝚁𝚊𝚏𝚎 𝙲𝚊𝚖𝚎𝚛𝚘𝚗 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚢.
This time you stopped folding altogether. “…Absolutely not.”
You opened Instagram again. Your blocked list was empty. Completely empty.
You stared at the screen for a long second before another thought crossed your mind.
Slowly, you reached for your laptop instead.
Two minutes later you were staring at your account activity, and there it was. One active login. MacBook.
Your eyes narrowed. “Fucking asshole.”
You didn’t even hesitate this time, changing your password completely, logging out of all devices, adding two-factor authentication as a giant fuck you.
Your phone started ringing before you could even set it back down. ˗ˏˋ ☏ ˎˊ˗ 𝚁𝚊𝚏𝚎 𝙲𝚊𝚖𝚎𝚛𝚘𝚗.
You watched it buzz until it stopped. Then it started again. And again. By the fifth call your curiosity finally got the better of you. You answered without saying a word, lifting the phone to your ear while you folded another towel.
“Baby? Holy shit. Hi—Hey,” his voice cracked nervously, fumbling over his words. You stayed silent, folding your laundry, listening to his heavy breathing on the other end of the phone. “Sweetheart?”
You let the washer lid fall with a clap, giving him the only sign of life he deserved for the moment.
“Uh… did you…” He cleared his throat. “Did you change your Instagram password or somethin’?” he asked casually, like that’s a normal thing.
You smoothed the towel across the counter, stacked it neatly with the others, and reached for another. Rafe let out a long breath through his nose, his frustration building on the other end.
“Princess?”
Silence.
“Angel?”
Still nothing.
“Are you for real?” he asked, his voice tightening with frustration. “I know I pissed you off. I deserve some of this, alright? But all of it? Why are you shuttin’ me out?” He lets out another breath. “Please, baby.”
You stopped for half a second before reaching for another towel.
“Yell at me… Tell me to fuck off. At least tell me to stop calling. Just talk to me—” You hear commotion on the other end of the phone—Kelce and Topper walking through the kitchen, talking about who knows what, JJ yelling about his blue tie and where the fuck it was.
Rafe clears his throat, forcing some of the softness out of his voice before Kelce or Topper can hear it. Even though this weeklong silent treatment had lasted six days and twenty-three hours too long, he still knew you’d be at his game.
You always come.
So he keeps grabbing onto that instead.
You’ll yell at him after if you want. Hell, maybe you’ll wait until they’re back at the house and tear him apart in private. He can live with that.
Silence leaves too much room to think, and every time he lets himself, he ends up somewhere worse than before.
“I love you, baby. I’ll see you tonight, alright? I left the tickets like always. Just—give me something. Wish me luck. Tell me to fuck off. Anything.” Click.
You hang up before you can give him what he wants, already picturing the look on his face.
The ride to the arena feels longer than usual because pretending he isn’t worried in front of the boys is harder than he thought it’d be.
The locker room is loud, music echoing off the concrete walls while sticks clatter against the lockers, equipment bags unzipping and dropping to the floor, the conversations he should be paying attention to like static.
He sits at his stall, staring at his phone one last time before dropping it into his bag. Nothing. No texts. No missed calls. No miracle message telling him to quit overthinking it. You’ll be there after the game.
His fingers fumble his helmet strap twice before it finally clicks into place. He mutters under his breath, frustrated by a task that should’ve been simple. Kelce finally nudges him. Rafe ignores it, so the second one comes a little harder.
“You good?” Kelce asks through a weak laugh, searching for Rafe’s eyes.
“Yeah,” he hums.
“Everything alright?”
“Great.”
Kelce snorts out a laugh, leaning into a locker, arms crossing over his chest. “…Everything good with your girl?” he asks. “Feels like I haven’t seen her around.”
The words hit harder than Rafe expects, and for half a second, he nearly tells him—says he hasn’t heard your voice in almost a week. No texts. Nothing but one-sided voicemails and desperate pleas for anything. That you blocked him. That he got himself kicked out of your Instagram twice before you changed your password.
That he’s one missed hockey game away from driving to your place and refusing to leave until you look at him.
“‘Course it is. She’s just…” Rafe shrugs without looking up. “She’s got a bunch of shit goin’ on with school. Just busy.”
“Yeah?” Kelce tears a fresh piece of hockey tape between his teeth, glancing over. “Doesn’t seem like her.”
No, it doesn’t.
Rafe can’t even come up with something in reply.
“We’ll catch up with you guys after the game. We just got into it a little bit. Stupid shit. Nothin’ serious.”
Kelce nods, the answer believable enough to let it go for the moment.
The team skates onto the ice to the roar of the crowd, lights flashing around the arena while the student section pounds against the glass.
Rafe skates his usual lap, eyes drifting toward the section where you always sit. The girls you usually come with are already there.
Your seat is empty.
His stomach sinks and by the time they line up for the national anthem, Rafe catches himself looking over a third time before forcing his eyes back toward center ice.
The puck drops, and from the first shift he knows he’s in trouble.
Every decision feels a stride behind. His reads come just a little too late. By the second period he’d taken an interference penalty trying to recover from another mistake, left sitting in the box staring at the far end of the rink while the game carried on without him.
The scoreboard keeps getting uglier. Four goals against, then five. Every time he hops over the boards he tells himself to wake the fuck up, and every shift somehow ends worse than the one before it.
The final horn sounds sixty miserable minutes later, leaving the team with a six-to-one loss. He barely remembers lining up to tap gloves with his teammates before they drift toward the tunnel. Barely remembers skating off the ice.
Rafe drags both hands over his face, standing in front of his stall as the room empties around him like he’d forgotten what he was supposed to do next. He’s exhausted, pissed off, embarrassed as fuck, and somehow still thinking about you instead of the scoreboard.
He wants to be mad at you. He really does. It would be so much easier. Instead, all he can think about is the fact that if he’d acted right in the first place, none of this would’ve happened. Whatever the hell he did, it was bad enough to make you do things you normally wouldn’t. Hell, Kelce said it best. “This isn’t like you.”
His phone is already in his hand before he’s even halfway down the hallway, thumb hitting your contact out of muscle memory more than anything else. The call doesn’t even get a chance to ring.
Straight to voicemail.
His jaw flexes, nostrils flaring as his grip tightens around the strap of his hockey bag. Water wicks off his hair, not even bothering to fully towel off before running out the door.
Another call. Another voicemail.
The doors slide open and cold night air hits his soaked skin as he steps into the parking lot. The other team filters toward their bus, still laughing about the game as Rafe fishes his keys from his bag without slowing down.
“Rough one tonight, Cameron,” an enforcer from the other team hollers lazily, tossing his bag into the side of the bus.
Rafe ignores it—ignores the snickering that follows from the opposing team. Kelce yells something back in Rafe’s defense, but he barely hears it over the pounding in his head.
“Guess somebody forgot how to play defense.”
“Fuck you,” Rafe barks and Kelce grabs him by the shirt, holding him where he is with a heavy hand.
“Let it go, alright?” he says calmly. “You got shit you wanna do, yeah?”
The chuckles die down, but his blood is still simmering. Kelce nods toward his Jeep to Topper and JJ. Something ugly climbs up the back of his throat before he can swallow it down.
He presses your contact again as he sinks into his car. This time, he can’t hold it in. When the beep comes, the frustration that’s been building for a week finally boils over.
“So that’s it, huh? You’re seriously gonna keep doin’ this? Blocking me, changing your password, ignoring my texts—what, now you can’t even pick up the fucking phone?” His voice comes out sharper than he intends, the words practically tripping over each other.
He turns over the engine, letting out a humorless laugh. “Grow up. If you’re pissed, use your fucking words. Tell me you never wanna see me again. But quit pullin’ this silent treatment bullshit because it’s driving me fuckin’ insane.”
His foot slams on the gas, his car screaming toward the exit as he peels out of the lot, breathing so heavily he can hear it in the receiver of his phone.
“You don’t get to disappear when you’re angry. That’s not how this works.” Beep.
The silence afterward is deafening, weighing heavy on his shoulders. It barely has time to settle before his stomach turns and the guilt washes over him like a wave.
The second the adrenaline starts bleeding off, he knows none of that was what he wanted to say. Not a single fucking word.
You hadn’t screamed at him. You hadn’t called him names. You hadn’t done anything except refuse to answer him.
And he’d just repaid that by leaving the kind of voicemail he’d hate hearing from anyone he loved.
His eyes sting with unfallen tears, his chest aching as his speed creeps higher than it should while the phone rings and rings.
“…Hey,” he breathes, emotion clinging to his words. “So… That last voicemail…” He rubs the heel of his hand across his forehead, dragging away the sweat as he turns into the gas station a block away from your place.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers, stepping out of the car. “I shouldn’t have talked to you like that.”
He drags the sleeve of his sweatshirt across his eyes, turning his hat to the front—lower than before, head down as he grabs a bouquet of flowers.
“And I know I said you disappear when you’re angry. That’s not fuckin’ true. You don’t do that. I know that—you know that. This—this isn’t like you, and I still talked to you like it was.”
He walks up to the register, pinning the phone between his shoulder and cheek as he fumbles for his wallet, hand trembling as he flips past the picture he has of you tucked inside, grabbing his card, jogging out as soon as “approved” flashes across the screen.
“That game, baby… That was the worst game I’ve played since I’ve been here. Got yelled at by Coach for a half hour. Got chirped by those fuckers from the other team on the way out,” he mutters as he pulls out onto your street. “I took it out on you. I’m pissed off. I’m embarrassed. None of that’s your fault and I made it your problem.”
The phone stays pressed against his ear, capturing the silence. The wordlessness was never the problem. The two of you had always been good at that. But now every time he glances toward the passenger seat, it’s dark and empty. That little smile that’s always waiting for him when he looks over is gone.
And he still doesn’t have an answer.
He’s gone looking for it more than once this week.
He knows where you study and where you stop for coffee between classes. He knows which parking lot you leave your car in during the afternoons.
And somehow all of that only makes it worse. It’s painfully obvious you’re avoiding him.
He’s driven past your house enough times this week to notice you finally fixed the little porch light that used to flicker above the front door.
Every time he gets close, he talks himself out of it. The texts and phone calls already feel like they’re pushing the line. Showing up uninvited means admitting this isn’t just another argument.
It means admitting he might actually be losing you.
If you wanted him there, you’d open the door.
His throat tightens and his hands curl around the steering wheel. “Don’t…” The words scrape past his lips into the phone, so soft and broken you probably won’t even catch them when you play the voicemail back—if you play it back. “Don’t fucking cry.”
His head falls back against the headrest, his arms going rigid as he stares through the windshield. His mind circles the last few weeks again, picking through every conversation, every plan, every promise he’s made.
And still, nothing.
What the fuck did I do, baby?
His thumbs tap nervously against the steering wheel as he pulls up to your house.
For the first time all week, your bedroom window is glowing in the dark.
“I’m here. I’m gonna figure out what’s wrong. I’m gonna apologize. And, I’m gonna make it right, alright? I’m a fucking mess without you.” Beep.
He kills the engine, grabs the flowers, and climbs out into the cool night air. Gravel crunches beneath his shoes as he makes his way up the sidewalk, every step giving him another opportunity to rehearse what he’s going to say.
By the time he reaches the porch, his heart is pounding hard enough to feel it in his throat. He shifts the bouquet into one hand and knocks twice against the front door, the sound echoing through the quiet neighborhood before everything falls still again.
Rafe waits, listening hard—nothing. No footsteps. No doors. No muffled voice telling him to give you a second. Just silence.
His stomach twists as the realization settles in. You heard the knock. You heard the bell. And, even though you know exactly who’s standing on your front porch, and you’re choosing not to answer.
Maybe it was the voicemail sitting in your phone. Or, maybe that was just a new addition to the laundry list of bullshit that got him to this point.
He lets out a long breath through his nose before stepping off the porch, backing into the yard so he can see your window a little better.
“Baby!” His voice carries through the stillness of the neighborhood before fading away.
Nothing.
He bends down, picking up a rock, rolling it once between his fingers, before he tosses it. Pop. The little stone kisses the glass with a soft tap before bouncing harmlessly away, clicking against the siding and falling back to the pavement below.
His eyes stay fixed on the window.
The flowers hang forgotten at his side while he waits. “C’mon, baby. Please,” he mumbles under his breath.
What the hell happens after this? Sleep in his car? Sit on your porch until sunrise? One more try.
His fingers close around the smooth stone, drawing back, but something catches his eye. The window—cracked open just enough that he barely notices it.
You can ignore his calls. You can ignore the doorbell. You can ignore the knocks and rocks, but he isn’t going home knowing you’re twenty feet away with your bedroom window open. Absolutely not.
The thought of leaving after the week he’d had, the voicemail he wishes he could take back, and the worst game of his career makes his chest tighten all over again.
He looks up, your bedroom turning glassy behind the tears gathering in his eyes.
He pinches his tear ducts between his big fingers, blowing out a breath. His eyes drift toward the side of the house, to the old wooden lattice that climbs to the roof—thick vines and bright flowers—something he’s seen a hundred times over but never seriously considered climbing it.
Because he’d always assumed he’d be welcome through the front door—climbing to your bedroom was never supposed to be the easier option.
He walks toward the lattice, staring down at the flowers for a second, before he lifts the cellophane-wrapped stems to his lips, biting down before he starts to climb.
The wood protests, letting out a long creak that sounds like a warning. A sharp snap echoing through the breezeway when he doesn’t listen, then a sharp crack that has him looking down at just how far he made it.
By the time he finally hauls himself to the roof, he’s sweating and panting, letting the flowers tumble from his mouth into his limp hand. He lifts his hand, tugging his hat from the front to the back, mentally preparing for whatever happens next.
Rafe steadies himself against the old shingles before carefully making his way across the shallow slope of the roof—shoes scraping against the weathered surface while his hand trails along the siding for balance.
His hand finds the window frame before his eyes do.
You’re curled up in bed, laptop glowing softly, lighting up the space around you. You’re facing away from the window entirely, watching some old movie on the network he knows airs right after his game.
You snuggle a little more into your blanket, Rafe’s away jersey draped over your frame, just a pair of little black panties peeking out the bottom. He exhales through his nose, taking in the rest of your room, following the little trail that got you there—your discarded jeans, sneakers, your jacket, and at the very end of the line your keys.
You were supposed to be at the game.
You made it right to the point of cracking before talking yourself out of it because you were still too angry to watch him play.
His stomach twists. He’d spent the last seven days missing you, but somehow knowing you almost came hurts even worse than if you’d never considered it at all.
Rafe doesn’t think. He reaches forward and wraps both hands around the edge of the window, the old frame sliding upward with a rough scrape.
“…Don’t you fucking dare, Rafe.” Your voice cuts through the silence, making him flinch, his feet stumbling a little on the roof.
He lets out a short, disbelieving laugh, shaking his head once as though maybe he’d misheard you.
“Just leave.”
“Well…” He gestures helplessly toward the open window, still trying to smile through the knot twisting tighter in his stomach. “You’re talking to me now… so?” His shoulders lift in a helpless shrug. “Why the fuck would I leave?”
Your eyes don’t leave his as you slam your laptop shut and step off the bed. “Yeah?” you ask quietly, the softness in your voice somehow making him more uneasy than if you’d screamed. “And why the hell would you listen to me?”
Rafe’s eyebrows pinch together, his heart ramping up at your words. Without another word, Rafe lets go of the window frame completely.
Even though he doesn’t fully understand what he did, he knows whatever it was, he’s still doing it.
He lowers himself until he’s sitting on the roof beneath your window, his back settling against the old siding with a dull thud.
He stretches his long legs out in front of him, setting the bouquet beside him, dragging his clammy hands down his thighs.
Rafe finally clears his throat, his voice coming out rough enough that it barely carries through the open window. “Please.” He swallows hard, fingers knotting together between his knees. “Please just talk to me, baby. Please.”
The silence stretches in the space he’d hoped you’d fill.
“I miss you,” he whispers. “I need you.” He rubs a hand over the back of his neck before tipping his head against the siding, finally finding the nerve to look back through the window. “I… I don’t know how to fix this. But I’ll figure it out.”
He watches your face for any sign at all that you’re softening, finding none. The uncertainty in his chest only grows heavier before he speaks.
“You’re killin’ me.”
Rafe blinks at you through the window as you look back at him like you’re trying to decide whether this conversation is even worth having.
“Baby—”
“Don’t ‘baby’ me,” you mumble, grabbing the frame to shut it, but he rests his fist down, not letting it fall.
“Can’t,” the word breaks past his lips. “I know I fucked up. I know I don’t get to tell you when to forgive me. But I can’t do another night of this. I’m not gonna climb through your window. It’s clear you don’t want me in there. I’m not forcing anything. I’m just sitting here begging you to talk to me.”
“Fucking finally, Rafe.”
“Tell me what the fuck I’m missing, baby,” his voice breaks.
“Stop calling me baby right now. I’m not—I’m your baby when it’s convenient for you.”
“What?” he asks, the crease between his brows deepening. “What does that even mean?”
“Why do you suddenly care?”
“I’ve always cared about you.”
“Always?” you ask with a breathless laugh.
“Yes, always. When haven’t I?”
“Making reservations because my boyfriend couldn’t be bothered to call the restaurant when you told me you’d handle it—”
“I—”
“You forgot. So I made them.”
“Okay,” he answers, shifting on his forearms, desperate to get closer, but the glass stays between you. “Okay… I know. I just… fuck. I don’t know. I’m sorry.”
“I'm not done.”
His eyes widen on yours, taken aback, his big frame seeming to shrink a little. “Of course,” he assures you quickly.
“I waited all week for you to do it yourself. When I finally called, they told me you never did. So I did. I did my hair. I put on that dress you said you liked. I sat there waiting for your text after the game.”
Rafe’s stomach twists because he already knows where this is going. Before he’d texted you, he’d already assured the boys you wouldn’t mind—speaking for you. Without you.
“You texted me let’s go to The View House.”
“Okay,” he whispers, careful not to cut you short this time.
“And then you said we'd swing through there on our way out.”
“I remember,” he breathes.
“Do you think an Italian restaurant is open after bar close?”
He looks down at your hands braced on the window, his heart breaking even more seeing how much you don’t want him inside.
“No. I think they’d be closed, honey. I’m sorry.”
“Of course they would be. You know what I ate for dinner that night?” you ask, and he purses his lips because honestly he doesn’t know.
“What did you eat?” he asks softly.
“Dry cereal after you passed out when you were done fucking me. Alone in your fucking kitchen after I was done playing captain’s girlfriend all damn night.”
His stomach sinks and the blood drains from his face. “Woah—hey, sweetheart. C’mon,” he panics. “That’s not what this is—”
“I kept telling myself it wasn’t a big deal. Hockey season. Captain stuff. Team bonding.”
“You know I wasn’t trying to—”
“I’ve done every single thing you’ve wanted to do because I wanted to spend time with you. I asked for one dinner. One.”
He swallows hard, lashes fluttering as he nods, because for the moment that’s all he can manage without breaking completely before he speaks.
“I wanted you there. That’s why I kept asking you to come. I didn’t know it felt like that. I don’t even like half these fuckin’ people, and somehow I made you think they mattered more than you.”
“I keep telling you what I want, and you keep telling me how it’s going to work. You don’t listen to what I want.”
“I’m sorry, sweetheart.”
“So I stopped…” you whisper, voice tight as you see his eyes shimmer with tears. “I stopped asking. I stopped texting. I stopped calling.”
Rafe lifts the sleeve of his sweatshirt, wiping the wet away after it tumbles down his cheeks.
“It took me disappearing for you to finally care.”
He can’t even defend himself anymore because every single thing you’ve said is true—cancelled plans, “let’s do this instead,” “after practice,” “just one beer.”
Every promise turned into another night surrounded by hockey while you quietly lowered your expectations.
“And look,” you whisper, your voice fraying at the edges. “Look how much time you have when you think you’re gonna lose something you love.”
“I didn’t know what to do. I just needed you to talk to me. I didn’t know what I did. I was just—”
“How’s it feel?” you ask, cutting off his rambling, nodding at the bouquet.
“What?” he asks.
“Desperately fighting for someone’s attention?” you whisper, your eyes lingering on the little white tag still hanging from the plastic wrap before you look back at him. “I wouldn’t even say you’re there yet. Tag’s still on them, Rafe. $2.99? Really?”
He opens his mouth to apologize again, but you don’t let him.
“This probably wasn’t even a part of your gameplan. You didn’t plan anything because you didn’t think you had to.”
Your voice stays level, but every word lands with more weight than the last.
“You thought I’d be in my seat like I always am. You thought I’d meet you after the game like I always do. You thought you’d say you’re sorry, I’d forgive you because I always have, and we’d move on.” You give a small shake of your head. “You didn’t plan for me not to show up.”
He looks away, unable to face you for the moment, gathering the courage to look back at you, drawing in a shaky breath.
“That’s why you’re here, Rafe,” you say softly. “Not because you had some grand gesture planned. Because the bare minimum stopped working.”
“It’s been fucked lately. I know that.” He scrubs a hand over his face, dragging it down his jaw before looking back at you. “But how the hell did we get here?”
His eyebrows pull together as he searches your face, trying to make sense of something that suddenly feels obvious. “This summer…” He lets out a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “Half the time I’d tell the boys no because I wanted to stay with you, and you’d practically push me out the damn door.”
“Rafe.”
“No, seriously,” he insists quickly. “You were always tellin’ me to go. ‘Go hang out with your friends.’ ‘Go be with the boys.’ You kept tellin’ me not to worry about you for five minutes.”
“That was the summer,” you answer quietly.
“…What?”
“That was the summer,” you repeat. “Before hockey started.”
His mouth falls open just enough to catch a breath before it closes again. He stares at you through the window, replaying the last few months so fast it almost makes him dizzy.
“I…” His jaw flexes. “Fuck.”
You don’t say anything.
“You stopped tellin’ me to go,” he whispers, finally putting it together.
“Because I shouldn’t have had to anymore.” Your eyes stay locked on his. “I never wanted you to stop being my boyfriend, Rafe.”
He drags a hand over his mouth, shaking his head.
“It’s just been hockey.” His eyes search yours desperately. “We get through this season and everything goes right back to normal.”
A laugh escapes you before you can stop it, and Rafe knows it’s the wrong answer.
You shake your head slowly, looking down at your hands before meeting his eyes again. “I’m not waiting for an entire hockey season to get my boyfriend back. I’m not gonna do this—”
“No. No, hey. I thought you were just giving me the silent treatment,” he blurts, voice shattering around the admission. “Please don’t…” He shakes his head, whatever composure he’d been clinging to finally slipping away. “Don’t break up with me. Please.”
“We’re still together.”
He swallows hard, nodding as his head hangs between his shoulders, tears slipping off his cheeks onto the shingles. “Thank you.”
“You asked me to put our relationship on hold until hockey’s over, and you don’t even realize that’s what you said.”
“… Yeah,” he whispers.
“I don’t want the version of you that’s available when the season ends. I want the one who’s supposed to be my boyfriend while it’s happening—and before you even get it into your head that I’m asking for too much… I’m not. And, it wasn’t just this. It was a bunch of little moments exactly like this.”
He nods in agreement, waiting for more.
“I’m asking for a date once in a while, Rafe.”
“Done. That’s done, princess.”
“I’m asking for a night where I don’t have to split my boyfriend with twenty hockey players. And, I’m asking that you stick to that plan. Three things. That’s it. If you can’t manage that…” you say quietly, “…then that’s okay.”
“What?” he asks, moving closer like he heard you wrong because nothing about this situation is okay.
“Really. It is. Just means you can’t handle being in a relationship right now. Maybe that’s where you’re at, and I’d respect you a hell of a lot more if you just admitted it.” The words land squarely between the two of you. “Because I’m not spending the few months letting you decide everything we do before summer starts.”
“Of course.”
“And if you can’t give me that, then you can’t handle me.”
Rafe bites his cheek, nodding as he takes in every word.
“This summer was amazing… you’re right. Why do you think I’m still here?”
“‘Cause you love me?” he asks pathetically.
“Obviously.”
“I know. I love you too,” he mumbles.
“I know who you are, Rafe. That’s why this hurts so much.” You gesture between the two of you. “Because I know you’re capable of loving me better than this.”
His eyes fall to the shitty bouquet by his side, the ones he bought in a panic, his brain on autopilot. The sale sticker covering the barcode only adding insult to injury—the fact that it’s your least favorite color landing like the final nail in his coffin. He pulls the little price tag off the plastic wrap, crumples it into his fist.
“I hate that these still got the fuckin’ tag on ’em,” he says weakly. “Not… Not because you called me out for it. No, you’re right… Just proves exactly what you’ve been trying to tell me all night.”
He nods, rolling everything over just like he has all week, finally seeing what he’d been missing.
His eyes shut softly, thinking about the last weekend, the sound of your voice when you called him between classes, letting him know you made the reservation and the—subtle sound of your disappointment when he yelled over the locker room noise that you should go to the bar instead.
His mind lingers on the look on your face at the bar as you smiled for the boys, picking through the bar peanuts as they broke down the game to exhaustion. The way you fucked him just like he liked and then kissed him goodnight. How you were gone when he woke up to piss and he didn’t think twice about it. Just thought maybe you had gone downstairs to get water.
And now, he knows you were all alone.
And this was just a moment, in a collection of moments just like this for you.
His lips tremble, wishing he could rewrite what’s happened but he can’t. And even though you’d said you’re not breaking up, he feels like you have every right to end it—and he can’t risk not telling you everything he wants to say.
“I stopped on the way here because I panicked. I didn’t stop because I planned something. I didn’t stop because I thought about what would actually make you happy.” He pinches his eyes shut—letting the tears fall freely—his pride long gone by now. “I stopped because I realized I was about to lose you.”
He lifts a finger, tapping it against the glass like he’s trying to close a little of the distance between you.
“You’re right about everything… I was counting on you coming.”
He shakes his head, hating what’s going to leave his lips next. “You asked me earlier how it feels. It feels fucking awful.” He laughs but there’s nothing funny about it, he’s just hysterical at this point, leaving it coming out hollow. “I’ve been losing my goddamn mind.”
Your lips draw to the side as you fold your arms across your chest. He doesn’t take this time. His fist slips away from the glass, leaving the space between you completely open—and the next move entirely up to you.
“I got too fucking comfortable.” The words come out, without hesitation. “Not because I stopped loving you. Don’t ever think that. You just—you’re the one thing I never worried about losing. I treated you like you’d always be there.” His eyes fall for a second, picking at a wilted petal nervously. “That wasn’t me loving you the way I should’ve.” He shakes his head. “That was me taking you for granted. You’re right—you’re right about everything.”
You take a step forward, fingers wrapping around the window’s edge, lifting it higher, dropping down to the windowsill yourself.
He takes a breath, blowing it out through his nose. Every instinct tells him to reach for you, but he holds himself back, settling for leaning a little closer instead.
“You asked me if I can handle you.” His eyebrows pull together. “And, baby—Sorry…” He stops himself after the name leaves his lips, shaking his head with a weak laugh. “Just… habit. I’m sorry.”
“Rafe—”
“Please,” he stops you cautiously. “Can I… I’m—I’ve got a little more to say. Just…” the word cracks and he lets out a breath, watching as you rest your hand on the roof, so close he can feel his hand tingle.
“Go ahead,” you whisper.
“I don’t want someone easier. I want the woman that tells me when I’m bein’ an asshole… even if I don’t like hearin’ it. I want you. I can handle you. I just need to stop acting like having you means I don’t have to try.” He nods with absolute certainty. “I should’ve been handling this relationship with the same care I’ve been giving everything else.” His voice trembles. “I can’t undo this hockey season with one apology.” He reaches a little, palm open, asking for yours. “But I swear…” His eyes shine under the street lights. “If you give me the chance to prove that I heard every single word you said tonight… we’ll never have to have this conversation again. I promise.”
You rest your hand in his and he closes his around you quick like you might change your mind. His eyes cut away for a moment, the contact alone threatening another wave of tears. He takes a deep breath, his shoulders falling.
“You hate this color. Jesus Christ, I’m sorry. I know that,” he mutters, tossing them out toward the driveway, the discount bouquet hitting the hood of his car with a thump. “Shit’s so fucking embarrassing, dear god.”
He hangs his head for a moment, his thumb rubbing absently over your knuckles.
“Tonight is shot,” he says quietly. “Tomorrow, right? Just… Please go out with me tomorrow. Let me make up for a little bit of anything you deserve.” He looks back at you, head resting heavy against the side of your house. “Good flowers, pretty dress, dinner, dessert—I know exactly where you wanna go. Just, please. I’m begging you. And, I know I’m telling you what to do. I’m sorry if you already have plans—”
“I don’t,” you answer with a soft smile. “Seven?”
“I’ll be outside at five. I’m so serious. I heard seven. I did—I’m fucking miserable,” he answers breathlessly, leaning in as you lean in too, your lips meeting with a desperate kiss.
He grabs you, hauling you closer, pulling you into his lap as your fingers slip into the hair at the nape of his neck.
“Tell me you still want me here,” he mumbles between kisses, his voice rough enough that you almost don’t hear it, your thumbs brushing the tears off his cheeks.
“I want you here.”
“Please, baby, just let me in,” he whispers against the corner of your mouth. “Either I’m sleeping out here or I’m coming through the window. Don’t make me sleep on your roof. You know I’m crazy about you. I’m just… I can’t end tonight without holding you.”
“You can ask me sweeter than that, Rafe Cameron.”
“Please, baby… Let me come in,” he mumbles, his lips brushing softly against yours. “I’ll be good. I swear to God, I’ll be good. I missed you so much.”
“Yes,” you whisper.
Rafe’s feet hit the floor a heartbeat later, every bit of tension he’d been carrying for the last seven days finally unraveling. He buries his face against your neck, breathing you in like he’d almost forgotten what it felt like before finally looking back at you.
“Promise me something,” he says as he carries you toward the bed.
You pull his hat free, tossing it somewhere behind you before your fingers disappear into his hair. His eyes close for a second, a tired smile finding its way across his face the moment you scratch lightly at the back of his head.
“Okay,” you breathe.
“Tell me next time. Anything. Right away. Don’t let me keep getting it wrong again.”
“Promise,” you whisper.
“One more promise,” he asks, his voice softer than before.
“Depends,” you whisper teasingly, feeling his trembling lips curl into a little smile.
“Unblock me.”
“Right now?” you whisper through a breathy laugh.
“No—We’re busy. So, so fucking busy,” he hums, holding you a little closer. “Just whenever you get a chance.”
“I promise,” you whisper.
“Thank you, baby.”
“I’m glad you came.”
“Should’ve come earlier,” he says before you can answer. “But I want you to know… I heard every word you said out there.”
He shakes his head once before speaking again.
“I don’t wanna be the guy that only listens after he fucks up.” His thumb brushes across your cheek. “I don’t want you to play captain’s girlfriend. I want you to feel like you’re mine. You shouldn’t have to question where you come in my life. I can tell you—words don’t mean shit. I don’t want you to have to worry about making plans for us ‘cause you’re afraid I won’t.”
“Thank you,” you whisper.
“I’m gonna listen when it’s inconvenient. When hockey’s good. When hockey sucks. When I’m tired. When I’m stressed. When I’m bein’ an idiot…” A weak smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “Which apparently is more often than I thought.”
“I love you,” you murmur.
His eyes close as he sits with those words for a second. “Jesus…” he breathes, shaking his head. “Love you so much.” He sets you on the bed, one hand gripping the jersey on your body as the other cradles the back of your neck.
“Stay?” you ask and he tilts closer as you pop open the button of his pants. “Sleep here.”
He chuckles deeply against your lips before stripping off his hoodie and tugging off his shirt. Your hands rest on his strong chest, feeling his heart bang beneath your palms.
“Yeah?” he asks, his hands finding you again, moving up your arms, over your shoulders, to the sides of your neck, cradling your face like he can’t get close enough.
“I only shoved you out twice, by the way,” you whisper and he rolls his eyes, the corner of his lips curling into a smirk. Your eyes narrow on his, waiting for a response. “Rafe Cameron.”
“I know.” He scoffs, rubbing his thumb against your cheek. “That was dramatic.”
“A little?”
“You know how I get.”
“I do,” you whisper.
“Just didn’t think I was gonna get this again,” he breathes as his breath mingles with yours. “Thought I lost you.”
“You didn’t lose me,” you whisper, tracing along the top of his jeans lightly with your nails, feeling him shiver.
You lower his zipper slowly and he tugs down his pants, the buckle landing with a thump to the floor, waiting for you to decide what you want from him.
He sucks in a breath as you cup his thick cock through his boxers, a smile spreading a moment later when you squeeze just enough to make him groan for you.
You pinch the cotton between your fingers, tugging his boxers down, teasing inch by stiff inch until you catch his tip on the waistband. His cock springs out—long and hard, blood pumping through him as you hold his length in your hand.
You stroke slowly, watching precum bead at the tip as your thumb drags through it, teasing both of you.
“Fuck me,” he breathes, his head tipping back toward the ceiling, his big hands rubbing over his eyes as he laughs breathlessly.
He lifts you easily, your legs curling around his waist. He smiles against your mouth as he eases you back onto the sheets.
You reach for him, drawing him back down, kissing him harder, fingers twisting into his hair. His chest rises and falls against yours, breath ragged.
“Keep this on for me,” he whispers as he lifts the front of the jersey over your chest, dipping down to kiss higher and higher. “Please,” he mutters, voice rough against your skin when you whimper.
Your breath catches and a moan spills from your lips when his weight presses you into the mattress, voice husky as he mumbles praise into your skin, gripping your thighs, making your pussy throb.
“Been so lonely,” he sighs, mouth moving across your chest, catching your nipple between his lips. “Dreaming about this—I swear to god.”
“Yeah,” you whisper as his big hand slides up your side, squeezing your breast as he sucks your bottom lip slow enough to make you tremble.
“Yes,” he hums. You gasp as his hand slides down between you, cupping your pussy, making you moan for him. He chuckles deeply, fingers dragging up the wet fabric between your thighs.
“I need you,” you whisper, lips grazing his.
“I’m gonna take care of you. I promise.” He circles his fingers over your clit—your hands squeezing around his big biceps, feeling them swell and soften with each movement. “I’d eat it through your panties if that’s all you’d give me… gladly.”
“Don’t tease me,” you whisper.
“I hear you, baby,” he sighs, tugging your panties to the side, rough fingers tracing around your entrance.
Rafe’s breath catches as you reach between you, your hand wrapping around the base of his cock, drawing a low groan from deep in his chest.
You stroke your hand up, gliding to his fat tip, watching precum glisten and leak out of his slit onto your body.
You grab his neck, pulling him down to your lips, bringing him in closer as he plunges two fingers into your soaked core, making you throw your head deep into the pillow.
Rafe kisses your chest as he starts to fuck his fingers into you, wrapping his lips around your nipple, sucking harshly, making your back arch off the mattress.
His long fingers curl deep inside you, coaxing out breathless moans with nothing but the movement of his hand. He watches you for a moment—your chest rising, lips parted, his name half-caught in your throat—and then he lowers himself between your thighs.
Rafe trails slow kisses down your body, your heart racing wildly the lower he goes. When your thighs start to tense, he looks up at you, his cool chain dragging unintentionally up your slit, making your breath hitch.
He presses your thighs down, spreading you open with a firm grip as his eyes fall to your soaked pussy, lowering himself between your legs without taking his eyes off you. His tongue flicks against you with a soft, deliberate taste.
“Yes, baby,” you gasp, with a half-laugh, half-moan—right before he wraps his biceps around your legs, forcing you to his mouth with purpose.
He kisses your clit, then seals his lips around it, sucking gently as you thread your fingers through his hair, yanking him closer. One hand drops from your thigh, sliding between your legs again, and you gasp as his fingers push back into you—working in perfect rhythm with his mouth.
Your body arches off the mattress. Everything blurs except the heat of his tongue, the stretch of his fingers, and the relentless pace of it all.
“I’m gonna cum,” you whisper, already trembling.
He groans into your pussy, the vibration pushing you over the edge instantly. You come hard, clenching around his fingers, stars bursting behind your eyes.
He doesn’t let up—his mouth seals tighter, his fingers working you faster, deeper, until your whole body twitches with overstimulation and your eyes sting with tears.
“That was so fuckin’ pretty,” he murmurs against your dripping center, planting lazy kisses on your clit that make you jolt with every touch.
“Rafe…” you breathe out, glancing down at him, reaching for him as your breath shakes. “I need you inside me.”
Rafe’s eyes roll back at your words, your taste lingering on his tongue. His hands settle on your hips, turning you to your hands and knees, lifting your ass into the air.
He spanks you, the loud crack of his palm against your supple flesh filling the room. You arch your back, making him release a desperate groan as his eyes drop to your slick, watching your wetness leak down your inner thighs.
Rafe wraps a hand around himself, slapping his dick against you, running his velvety head up your thighs, sopping up the mess.
Your breath catches as he presses his tip in, feeling him stretch you out already.
Rafe pushes in, inch by inch, making your mouth fall open as your body stretches around him.
“You feel so perfect around me, baby,” he mumbles as he presses his body flush with your ass when you’ve finally taken all of him.
You circle your hips, adjusting to his size, feeling his thick dick hit all the right spots. “Feels so damn good—”
“Yeah? Takin’ me so good, princess?” he groans. “This body’s mine.” He pulls his hips back, drawing out nice and slow, letting you feel every ridge and vein as his hands work up your back, pushing the jersey all the way up until Cameron is all that’s left, stitched between your shoulders. “All of it.”
“Yes.”
“Made for me, weren’t you?”
“Yes, fuck!” you whine as he snaps his hips forward, the two of you moaning in unison as your pussy sucks him in.
Rafe moves inside you, listening to every sound that falls from your lips. He works you just like you like, until your body melts into the mattress.
“Right there, baby,” you whisper and Rafe picks up the pace, hitting your sweet spot again and again.
“Yeah, sweetheart? Right there?” he asks through a smirk. “What else does my girl want, huh?”
“Harder,” you whimper.
“Shit, baby,” he laughs breathlessly as he rolls his hips.
Your fingers claw at the sheets as you feel yourself just seconds away from your climax.
“Play with your pussy for me,” he whispers, the way you squeezed around him feeling like he might fall apart himself if he doesn’t get you there fast.
Your fingers press against your clit and your thighs quake, his cock stretching you and filling you as your fingers work in tight little circles.
“Rafe—” you gasp, fluttering around his dick as you fall apart.
“Fucking hell,” he moans, dragging out the words as his cock shines creamy white with your release, each push of his hips making it gather in a ring around the base of his hard skin.
Rafe pulls out fast, making you gasp as he tosses you to your back, thrusting himself back in before you can even come down from your high.
“I fucking missed you,” he whispers against your lips and you gasp as his fingers press against your clit, too, rubbing messily as he strokes, your nails digging into his muscular back as he pounds your wet cunt.
“Shit,” you squeal, letting out a choked sound as he grabs your knees, pulling and pressing them up to your chest, making him stroke impossibly deep.
“One more time,” he whispers. “Want you to cum with your lips on mine.”
Your eyes roll back as you climax, Rafe moaning your name, his muscles strained when he cums deep inside, swallowing each sound that leaves your lips.
Rafe moves inside you slow, covering you with the warmth of his big body, his hot skin pressed flush to yours as he lowers your thighs slowly.
You trace the edge of his jaw, feeling him smile under your touch, his nose brushing against yours, and you know there’s no way he’s going to give you an ounce of room tonight—but after a week without this man, that’s the last thing you want.
For the first time in a long time, it feels like you got your Rafe back. Relief settles over you, heat building behind your eyes as you hold back happy tears. He sees it.
“Yeah?” he asks, seeing how much you needed this too.
You bite your cheek and nod. He can’t help but bury his face into your neck, pressing a kiss against your skin before whispering, soft and sure, “I love you, baby.”
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The four hour car ride from Charleston to Asheville, where Drew had grown up and his parents lived now, was eerily silent.
Christmas music played gently from the radio as Drew drove, his eyes trained on the road. He wore his glasses— which he rarely did but y/n thought was so unbelievably sexy— as he gnawed on his thumbnail. The air outside was cold, with the occasional Christmas light covered house whirring by as Drew and y/n drove throughout the countryside.
The sun had long set when y/n and Drew finally pulled into the gravel driveway of the Starkey family’s home. The cars of Drew’s three siblings lined the sides, acting almost as guards posted outside the home, instilling fear in y/n’s bones.
Suddenly her sweater felt “too ugly”, her hair felt “too sloppy”, her shoes felt “too much” as Drew shifted the car into park. He turned to her, a gentle look on his face.
“Y’good?” He asked with a quirk of his brow. Y/n let out a long exhale, smoothing her sweaty hands down her jeans.
“Mhm.” Y/n hummed without looking up from her lap.
“Baby… are you nervous?” Drew asked lowly. Y/n swallowed harshly before slowly picking her head up to meet Drew’s eyes. She didn’t have to say a word, her nerves were already evident on her face.
Drew frowned, reaching across the console to take y/n’s slightly shaking hand. He lifted it up, pressing a long kiss to it before meeting y/n’s eyes again.
“You have nothing to be worried about, I promise.” Drew murmured lowly. “They’ve already met you—”
“But that was before—” Y/n cut in.
“And they already love you.” Drew finished, raising his eyebrows.
“But that—” Y/n began again.
“Y/n.” Drew said firmly. Y/n let out a small whine, her head falling back against the carseat as she tried to calm her worrying mind.
“You have nothing to worry about.” Drew whispered, gently running his thumb along the back of y/n’s hand. “I mean, if anyone has anything to worry about, it’s me.”
Y/n’s brows furrowed as she peered over at Drew. His face was a bit blank, the skin around just about all of his fingers gnawed off. She had been so focused on herself and all her nerves surrounding this meeting, she hadn’t even thought about the fact that Drew could be nervous.
“But Drew, they’re your family.” Y/n said with surprised scoff.
“Yeah, that’s why I’m nervous.” Drew chuckled lowly. “I don’t want them to scare you away.”
Y/n let out a little giggle despite herself. Even the slight lifting in her mood causing a small smile to spread across Drew’s face.
“Impossible, they gave me you. They can’t be too bad.” Y/n said, giving Drew’s hand a gentle squeeze back. Drew let out a long exhale, his eyes skimming over the woman in front of him. He was in complete awe of her— of just how her presence itself could act as a soothing relief to any sort of worries that could’ve made its way into his head.
“You always know just the right thing to say, y’know that, right?” Drew quirked a brow.
“I’m just perfect, I guess.” Y/n said with a completely deadpanned expression. Drew chuckled.
“See, nothing to worry about.” Drew said, reaching up to smooth his hand over the back of her head. “Just be your normal, perfect self and you’ll have nothing to worry about.”
“Just be your normal, perfect self and you’ll have nothing to worry about.” Y/n said back, quirking her brow. Drew let out a long sigh, internally mulling it over, before giving y/n a terse nod.
“Ok, well…” Drew turned to face the front door, noticing the multiple pairs of eyes peeking out at them through the nearby window, “we should probably head in before my siblings come out here and drag us inside.”
Y/n let out a low, still certainly nervous, laugh before opening the door to Drew’s car. Drew followed suit, the two of them rounding the car to open the trunk. Drew pulled both of their suitcases out. Y/n took hers as Drew piled as many gift wrapped boxes and bags on his arm as he could— only allowing y/n to carry one of the smaller gifts they’d bought for Drew’s sister, which she did with only one dramatic eyeroll.
The two of them made their way up to the front door, y/n taking extra care with each and every step towards the door and each and every breath that filled her lungs. Before Drew could even raise his fist to knock on the door, it was thrown open… and chaos ensued.
“Y/N!” Drew’s sisters shouted in unison before quickly converging on y/n, practically tackling her over on the porch. She had spent plenty of time with Drew’s siblings, somehow perfectly falling in with their sibling camaraderie before her and Drew’s relationship had even begun.
“Oh my—” Drew stammered, the boxes in his arms wobbling as his brother Dylan ruffled his hair before joining his sisters in squishing y/n in a giant hug. Y/n let out a giggle as the three of them eventually let go of her, wide smiles on their faces.
“We are so, sooo happy you guys are finally together.” Drew’s sister, Mack, squealed. His other siblings nodded enthusiastically. It was no secret the Starkeys, the Y/ln, and practically everyone else on the planet had been not-so-quietly rooting for the two of them to get together since the moment they met.
“I swear we were telling Drew he better hurry up and ask you out before—” Brooke began.
“Y/n, sweetheart!” Drew’s mom swooned, coming up to give y/n a hug. Drew furrowed his brows, watching his entire family bypass him for his girlfriend.
“Hello Mrs Starkey.” Y/n smiled politely.
“Oh, nonsense, call me Jill.” Drew’s mom says quickly, pulling away to smile at y/n brightly. “We are so happy you’re here, sweetheart. We’ve been trying to tell Drew he needed to ask you out for—”
“Oh my gosh, guys!” Drew suddenly snapped, causing everyone's attention to (reluctantly) shift from y/n to Drew’s flushed expression. Y/n turned to him with a quirk of her brow.
“You’re gonna suffocate her.” Drew said with an exasperated chuckle.
“Shush, you’re just jealous.” Brooke said, waving her brother off before turning back to y/n.
“No, I’m just worried you’re gonna scare my girlfriend off—” Drew began.
“Oh my gosh, he said ‘girlfriend’!” Drew’s mom swooned, causing y/n to let out a giggle and Drew to dramatically roll his eyes before looking at y/n.
“This is exactly what I was worried about.” Drew said with a huff.
“What? That we like your awesome girlfriend too much?” Mack asked with a quirk of her brow.
“Well— I’m just— you guys are being a lot and I don’t want you to scare her away.” Drew grumbled, giving his family as stern of a look as he could muster.
“Aww, it’s ok.” Y/n said with a dramatic hum. She crossed the front porch they were still standing on to give Drew a hug. His tense shoulders immediately loosened as she perched up onto her tiptoes to wrap her arms around him. She eventually went back down onto her feet, keeping an arm slung around Drew as she turned to look at his family.
“I love your family and they’re definitely not gonna scare me away.” Y/n said, a wide smile spreading across her face as she turned from Drew’s family to Drew. His face had gone softer as he swallowed harshly before a similar smile spread across his own face. He nodded, looking over at his family as they watched the two of them with total adoration. Drew almost swore he could see tears brimming in his mother’s eyes.
“We’re not just Drew’s family anymore, sweetheart, we’re yours too.” Drew’s mom said with a slight sniffle. Y/n immediately folded, pulling Drew’s mom into a big hug. Without a word, Drew’s siblings joined in. Drew stood there with the same gentle smile on his face, admiring how y/n loved his family just as much as he did… and they loved her (almost) as much as he loved her.
The venue for Drew’s little sister, Mack’s, wedding was absolutely gorgeous. It was in a family friend’s barn, complete with vaulted ceilings and huge barn doors that opened the beautiful interior out into the beautiful exterior. Guests lined the aisle, sitting excitedly as music began to play gently throughout the venue.
Y/n hadn’t seen Drew since early that morning when the two were forced to go their separate ways for the wedding party. Y/n’s alarm clock went off, signalling it was time to get out of bed and head over to the venue to begin the long process getting ready with her fellow bridesmaids. Before she could climb all the way out of bed, Drew’s arm quickly tightened around her.
“No, don’t go.” Drew grumbled into the pillow. His face was smushed against the pillow, his shaggy hair sticking up at about eight awkward angles.
“Drew I have to—” Y/n began, only to be cut off as Drew let out a long groan before hauling himself upright.
“I know, I know.” Drew sighed, snaking his arm higher to cup y/n’s jaw. He blinked at her, a smile spreading across his face as his vision adjusted and he saw her more clearly. He smoothed his thumb along her jaw
“I just wanted to get one last look at you.” Drew murmured, causing y/n’s cheeks to warm. “It’s gonna be a long time until I see you again tonight.”
Y/n chuckled, rolling her eyes playfully. Drew grinned before leaning forward to press a long kiss to her lips.
“I’ll see you later.” Drew whispered as he pulled away. Y/n pushed a piece of his bed-ruffled hair back.
“See you later.” Y/n said, giving Drew one last quick peck. “Love you.”
“Love you.” Drew grinned and fell back onto the bed. “Can’t wait to see you.”
“I haven’t even left yet.” Y/n laughed as she stood up from the bed.
“Miss you already.” Drew sang as he rolled back onto his stomach, face now smushed into y/n’s pillow. Y/n gave him one last gentle look before heading out the door.
It had already been a long day by the time the time for the wedding had finally rolled around. Y/n had spent a few hours getting her hair done, before spending a few more hours in the makeup chair, all while keeping a steady stream of champagne flutes coming. As it finally came down to crunchtime, y/n slipped into her bridesmaid dress. It was a vibrant orange color, the satin material going perfectly with the bouquet of orange and white wildflowers they held in their arms. All of the bridesmaids gathered outside the bride’s quarters, patiently waiting for the groomsmen to show up and for Mack to give them their first official look at her wedding dress (y/n had seen it via numerous photos, but in her opinion, that didn’t count).
“Oh my gosh, y/n, you look hot!” Drew’s other sister, Brooke, gushed. She wore a similar dress, differing just enough to allow for each bridesmaid to stand apart.
“Speak for yourself, look at you!” Y/n gasped. The two girls let out flustered giggles before pulling each other in for a long hug. As they pulled away, Brooke gave her one more onceover before her smile widened even more.
“Drew is going to freak when he sees you.” Brooke said with a wiggle of her eyebrows. Y/n felt her cheeks warm, sparing a quick glance down at her high-heeled feet before looking back up at Brooke. As she did, she noticed Brooke’s eyes drift over her shoulder before a smirk spread across her lips.
“Speak of the devil.” Brooke murmured, nodding her head over y/n’s shoulder. Slowly, nearly like a scene from a movie, y/n spun around just as Drew and the other groomsmen stepped into the room. A small smirk-smile adorned his lips as he looked around the room before his eyes finally fell on y/n. His face immediately fell, his blue eyes widening in complete awe as he saw the gorgeous woman in front of him.
“Hi, handsome.” Y/n chuckled lightly, feeling her cheeks warm under his intense gaze. He took another step forward, unable to look away as he continued to stare at her in a stunned silence. Now that he was a bit closer, she could see his tan suit— and the orange butaneer— more clearly.
“I— I just—wow.” Drew stammered, running a hand through his messy-but-somehow-styled hair. Y/n wiggled her eyebrows at him as she let out a playful giggle at his blushed appearance.
“You look… amazing.” Drew murmured lowly before his hand went up to cup her face.
“Don’t mess up her makeup!” Brooke quickly cautioned as Drew went in, ignoring his little sister's warning and planting a kiss on y/n’s lipstick-covered lips. He pulled away with a large smile, his lips now smeared in a bit of light pink lipstick.
“Drew, that took me like two hours—” Brooke whined.
“Shush.” Drew quickly snapped with the light-tone only a brother could muster, causing y/n to smile. She reached up, wiping most of the lipstick on him away with her thumb.
“Are you guys ready?” Mack suddenly shouted from the set of doors she was hiding behind within the bridal quarters.
“YES!” The wedding party quickly shouted, crowding around the door between them and finally seeing the bride on her wedding day. Drew stood closely behind y/n, his hands tracing lightly against the soft orange fabric draped along y/n’s lower back. He looked at the door— because he was excited to see his sister on her wedding day— but kept finding his attention being drawn to y/n.
Slowly, the door to the bridal quarters opened. Mack stepped out, smiling widely in her beautiful wedding gown. She looked absolutely gorgeous, practically glowing as the wedding party immediately let out a barrage of cheers. Y/n clasped her hands, pressing them against her chest as she tried to fight back the happy tears threatening to spill out at the sight of Drew’s sister— who had also become like a sister to y/n herself.
Drew’s face widened, his eyes crinkling as he smiled at his sister… before his gaze drifted to y/n. The pure awe on her face, the tears in her eye at the realization of all the love and joy in the room. At that moment, there was no doubt that she was already a member of the Starkey family… now it was just time for Drew to propose, and by the look on y/n’s face and how beautiful she looked, he knew he had to do it very, very soon.
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Sinopsis: After Clark pulls away, you try to convince yourself you can live without him. But jealousy, fear, and one emergency with Eloise finally force both of you to confess what has been left unsaid.
Maybe you decided too quickly. You didn't realize it until the third day.
The first day without Clark was fine. You tidied up the apartment a little, the baby slept most of the day, and you thought that maybe it was nice having the space all to yourself.
The second day started to feel strange.
The couch was empty.
There was no freshly brewed coffee in the morning.
The kitchen was clean but quiet, without the sound of Clark moving pots around.
The third day was worse.
You missed his presence already.
Not just his help, but his company.
The sound of his breathing from the other room.
The way he held the baby and spoke to her softly, as if she could understand him.
The way he glanced at you when he thought you weren't looking.
You told yourself it was pregnancy sensitivity.
Or postpartum hormones.
That you were emotional, that everything felt bigger than it really was.
But no matter how many times you repeated that to yourself, the sadness wouldn't leave.
It was a small thing, but irritating, like a pebble trapped inside your shoe.
You missed him.
And you didn't know whether it was love or habit, but you missed him.
That night, the baby cried through the early hours of the morning.
It wasn't the kind of soft cry that could be soothed with a lullaby.
It was loud.
Desperate.
The kind of cry that breaks your heart because you don't know what else to do.
You picked her up and rocked her.
You sang to her.
You nursed her.
You changed her diaper.
Nothing worked.
The baby kept crying, and you felt like you were about to cry too.
It was two in the morning.
You hadn't slept at all.
Every time you closed your eyes, she started screaming again.
Moonlight streamed through the window, illuminating your exhausted, desperate face.
You sat on the bed with the baby in your arms, and suddenly, unable to stop yourself, you started crying.
Heavy tears rolled down your cheeks and fell onto the little girl's head.
With a trembling hand, you grabbed your phone from the nightstand.
You unlocked it and searched for Clark's name.
You typed quickly, without thinking:
"Can you come over?"
But before you could send the message, you heard a noise at the window.
You looked up and saw him.
Clark was already there, floating outside your window in the blue-and-red suit he wore when he flew.
He slipped through the frame like a shadow, barely making a sound.
You stared as he stepped inside, concern written all over his face, his eyes immediately searching the baby, then you, then any sign of danger.
"What happened? Are you both okay?" he asked hurriedly, still adjusting his cape.
"The baby's fine," you said, and the moment the words left your mouth, you cried even harder. "She won't stop crying, Clark. I don't know what to do. I barely got her to sleep a little while ago, and now she's awake again. I think I'm not good at this."
Clark smiled.
It wasn't a mocking smile.
It wasn't pity.
It was the kind of gentle smile that says, It's okay. Everything's going to be alright.
He approached slowly so he wouldn't startle you and wrapped his arms around you.
He held you carefully, as if you were a crystal glass that could shatter.
One hand rested against your back while the other gently stroked the baby's head.
"It's part of the process," he said in his calm voice. "Babies cry. They don't know how to talk, they don't know how to point at things. They only know how to cry when something feels wrong. It's not your fault."
"But I don't know what's wrong with her," you sobbed against his chest.
"I'm going to buy everything that might help," Clark said. "A wipe warmer, some drops for colic, one of those pacifiers everyone recommends, a white-noise machine. Don't worry. I'll take care of it."
And while he said that, he was already thinking about everything he had read online during those two weeks, every product parents recommended for babies who cried for no apparent reason.
Clark pulled away just enough to cup your cheeks in his large, gentle hands.
Slowly, with his thumbs, as if he had all the time in the world, he wiped away your tears.
His fingers were warm, and the touch made you feel a little less alone.
"Actually," he said, "I'll leave when she starts sleeping through the night and you're able to get proper rest. Until then, I'm staying."
You looked at him, your eyes still wet.
Meanwhile, the baby had calmed down a little, only whimpering softly against your chest.
You knew Clark was doing a lot for you.
Maybe too much.
And it hurt to say it, but you said it anyway.
"But it's not your responsibility. You're only the donor."
Clark nodded because it was true.
He was only the donor.
But he was also something more.
Something he didn't dare say out loud.
The father.
The man hopelessly in love with you.
"But I'm your friend," he said instead, "and I'd love to help you. Really. Not because I feel obligated. Because I want to."
That word—friend—settled in your chest like a warm coat in winter.
It wasn't what you might have wanted to hear.
But it was exactly what you needed in that moment.
Someone who would stay without asking for anything in return.
You hugged him, squeezing the baby safely between the two of you, and Clark closed his eyes and took a deep breath.
I wish this moment would never end.
I wish I could stay like this forever.
Clark guided you gently back to bed.
First, he made sure the baby was completely asleep and settled her into her bassinet with a small blanket wrapped around her.
Then he returned to you.
"Let me check your incision," he said.
Even though it made you a little embarrassed, you nodded because you knew he only wanted to help.
You lay back against the mattress and lifted your shirt slightly.
Clark knelt beside the bed and, with extreme care, examined the C-section scar with the tips of his fingers.
It was pink.
Healing well.
No signs of infection.
"It's better than last week," he said quietly, almost as if he were speaking to himself.
He took the opportunity to use his special vision, just in case there was something that couldn't be seen with the naked eye.
Everything looked fine.
Clark also started hugging you more.
At first, they were quick hugs, the kind people give when saying hello or goodbye.
But then they became longer.
Tighter.
More necessary.
He knew you were still sensitive from the C-section, that sometimes your back hurt or you felt tired for no reason.
And he had discovered that when he hugged you, you relaxed.
That your body softened against his, as if his arms were the only place where you could finally lower your guard.
So he started hugging you for no reason.
In the kitchen, while you waited for the food to heat up.
In the living room, while the baby napped.
By the entrance, before he went out to buy something.
And you, without thinking too much about it, leaned into his chest.
Closing your eyes and resting your head against his shoulder had become a habit.
And many times, without even realizing it, you fell asleep like that.
Standing.
Wrapped in Clark’s arms.
He would feel you grow heavier against him, hear your breathing become slower and deeper, and then he would carefully carry you to the couch or the bed.
He would lay you down gently, cover you with a blanket, and stay there for a while, watching you sleep.
He used those moments to stroke your hair, running his fingers through your strands as if they were silk.
It was his favorite moment of the day.
When you didn’t have to pretend anything.
When you didn’t have to be strong.
When you were just you, sleeping peacefully, and he could love you without anyone seeing.
That was when Clark realized that maybe Clark Kent could have the life he had always longed for.
The life of a normal man.
A home.
A woman waiting for him.
A daughter who smiled at him when he came back from work.
The kind of life people had in movies, with family dinners and unhurried weekends.
And he could hide it.
He could keep being Superman when the world needed him, and still come home before dawn.
He could have both.
Because seeing you there, with the baby in your arms, was enough to make him want to try everything.
But he was afraid.
That fear wouldn’t leave, no matter how hard he pushed it away.
It was like a shadow following him everywhere.
And it wasn’t a small fear.
It was a large, heavy fear that tightened around his chest when he least expected it.
The little girl was growing.
Every day, she was stronger.
More alert.
More beautiful.
She learned how to smile.
How to crawl.
And as he watched her grow, he thought about all the terrible things that could happen.
A villain discovering he had a daughter.
Someone following them to your apartment.
The little girl inheriting his powers and not knowing how to control them.
Hurting herself.
Or worse, hurting someone else by accident.
Those images haunted him at night, when everything was dark and his mind refused to stop spinning.
One day, without saying anything, Clark made a decision.
He went back to his apartment.
It wasn’t a goodbye.
It wasn’t a fight.
It wasn’t a door slammed shut.
It was an, “I’m going home to sleep, I’ll be back tomorrow,” that turned into, “I stayed behind to take care of a few things, I’ll come by over the weekend.”
And then into an entire week without him crossing your doorway.
You didn’t say anything to him, because what could you say?
It was his home.
He had every right to be there.
But you missed him.
You missed him the way people miss the sun in winter.
The bed felt bigger and colder.
The empty couch seemed to stare back at you accusingly.
The baby turned her head toward the door every time she heard a sound, as if she were waiting to see him walk in.
And so did you.
Even if you refused to admit it.
You knew he had to keep living his life.
You couldn’t keep him locked inside your apartment forever.
It wasn’t fair.
Besides, you started thinking things that hurt.
What if he truly loved someone else?
What if, someday, he met a woman who didn’t have a recent C-section scar and a crying baby at two in the morning?
What if he wasn’t afraid of anything with someone else?
And then forgot about you?
That thought pierced your chest like a thorn.
You tried to pull it out, but it kept coming back again and again.
You shouldn’t be angry if that happens, you told yourself.
He was only a donor.
He wasn’t your boyfriend.
He wasn’t your husband.
He hadn’t promised you anything.
He was just a friend who had been very generous.
And if one day he fell in love with someone else and left, you would have to accept it.
You would have to smile and wish him the best.
Even if your whole world collapsed inside you.
Even if you didn’t want that.
Even if you wanted the exact opposite.
When the little girl turned seven months old, you went back to work.
Not at the Daily Planet.
Not yet.
You worked from home.
Editing articles.
Correcting drafts.
Sending emails to journalists so they would rewrite entire paragraphs.
It was tedious work, invisible work, but someone had to do it.
Perry valued your work because it was still excellent, even if you were doing it from the dining table with the baby crawling between your feet.
He called you once a week to ask how you were, and he always ended up saying, “Whenever you want to come back, your position is here.”
That made you feel good.
It reminded you that you weren’t just a mother.
You were also an editor.
You also had a life.
Clark, for his part, didn’t disappear completely.
He was still present, but in a different way.
On Fridays, after work, he knocked on the door.
He didn’t knock loudly.
He didn’t make noise with the knocker.
Just two gentle taps with his knuckles, as if he didn’t want to disturb you.
You opened the door and he was there, with a tired but sincere smile, his hands full of things.
He picked up the little girl immediately.
He took her into his arms as if it were the most natural thing in the world, lifted her above his head, and the baby let out a contagious laugh.
A laugh that made even the plants in the apartment want to dance.
The little girl knew him very well.
She recognized his scent, his voice, the tickle of his beard when he brought her close to his cheek.
And Clark loved that child with an intensity he could barely contain.
His entire face lit up when she grabbed one of his fingers with her tiny hand.
You hesitated whenever you watched him holding her.
Whenever you saw him laughing with her, spinning her in the air, blowing raspberries against her little belly.
Something moved inside you.
Something you didn’t know how to name.
You wanted him there every night.
Not just on Fridays.
Not just once in a while.
You wanted him every day.
Every hour.
Every minute.
But you knew that wouldn’t happen.
You couldn’t ask that of him.
It wasn’t fair.
And besides, what were you supposed to say?
Stay with me because I can’t bear it when you leave?
It sounded insane.
It sounded like someone in love.
Clark looked at you and smiled.
That quiet smile of his, the one that always disarmed you.
But there was something in his eyes too.
Something you didn’t know how to read.
Something that seemed to say, I miss you too, but in a language neither of you dared to speak.
He never arrived empty-handed.
He brought gifts for the little girl.
A new rattle.
A cardboard book with animals.
A soft stuffed toy the baby sucked on until it was soaked with drool.
And for you, dessert.
Always something different.
Flan.
Rice pudding.
A slice of apple pie.
Bread pudding.
Or sometimes, when it wasn’t dessert, he brought flowers.
A small bouquet, the kind sold on the corner, tied with a simple ribbon.
You placed them in a glass cup because you didn’t have a vase, and you looked at them for days, until they withered.
You never said anything to him.
But every time you saw those flowers, your chest filled with something warm and sweet.
And then, as if it were nothing, Clark stayed.
He stayed to clean up the kitchen.
He washed the dishes from lunch, wiped down the counter, put the milk back in the fridge.
Or he went to pick up something from the dry cleaner’s that you had left there because you hadn’t had time to go.
Or he fixed the squeaky closet door.
Or changed a lightbulb.
Always with an excuse.
Always with something to do.
Because the truth was that he looked for any reason to come back to you.
Any excuse to be near you.
He didn’t know how to tell you.
He didn’t dare stay completely.
But he couldn’t leave entirely either.
So he lived in that middle place.
That limbo of Fridays, desserts, and flowers.
And you let him.
Because even though you never said it, you also looked for excuses to make him stay a little longer.
Just a little longer.
Always a little longer.
Until the night grew late and he said, “Well, I should go,” and put his shoes on by the entrance.
And you, sitting on the couch with the baby asleep on your chest, could only manage to say, “Take care.”
When what you really wanted to say was, Don’t go.
You found a caregiver to look after little Eloise.
That was the girl’s name.
Eloise.
A soft name, like something from a fairytale princess, one you had chosen because it sounded beautiful and because you didn’t know anyone else with that name.
Clark had nodded when you told him.
And later, when she was already a few months old and you called her by name, he would say, “Eloise,” in a voice so tender it was as if the name melted in his mouth.
The caregiver was an older woman, the kind with gray hair gathered into a bun and hands that were soft but firm.
Her name was Rosa, and she had years of experience taking care of babies.
She had raised five children of her own and nine grandchildren, so she knew more about diapers and colic than all the books in the world.
Clark found her after interviewing seven people.
He investigated her without her knowing.
He used his hearing to listen to her conversations from far away and his eyes to see if she was hiding anything bad.
He made sure she was truly a good woman, not just someone who appeared to be one.
And Rosa was.
She arrived on time every morning, wearing her white apron and her grandmotherly smile, and stayed with Eloise while you went to work.
The baby loved her from the first day, maybe because Rosa smelled like bread and lavender soap, or maybe because babies know how to recognize good people.
So you went back to the Daily Planet.
On the first day, you woke up nervous, as if it were your first day at work instead of your return after many months away.
You put on a shirt that fit you well, a pair of pants you could finally button again, and stared at yourself in the mirror for a long while.
“I’m the same person I was before,” you told yourself. “I’m a good editor. I can do this.”
You kissed Eloise on the forehead, left a bottle ready for Rosa, and walked out the door with your heart pounding in your chest.
But the first day wasn’t what you expected.
You arrived at the Daily Planet, and the smell of paper, ink, and old coffee hit you like a hug from a friend you hadn’t seen in a long time.
Typewriters clattered.
Phones rang.
Journalists rushed from one side to the other with papers in their hands.
Everything was the same.
Everything was exactly as you remembered it.
Lois welcomed you the way she always did, with a big smile and a shove to the shoulder.
“Finally! I was getting tired of being the only sensible woman in this place,” she said, and you laughed because Lois was anything but sensible.
Jimmy hugged you, a strong and quick hug, and then looked you in the eye and said, “Where’s the baby? I miss her more than I miss you.”
And you laughed again.
They both knew your little girl, and they loved her.
They had visited her several times.
They had fought over who got to hold her longer.
They had bought her dresses and stuffed animals and books she still couldn’t read.
They were family too.
They made coming back feel safe.
But then Perry called you into his office.
It wasn’t his usual desk anymore, because now he had a bigger office, with windows overlooking the street and a plant dying in the corner because no one watered it.
You sat across from him, and he smiled at you with that grumpy old-man face that, deep down, belonged to someone good.
“I have a surprise for you,” he said, and pressed a button on his phone. “Send her in.”
The door opened, and a woman walked in.
A blonde woman.
The kind of blonde who looked as if she had stepped out of a magazine, with long, shiny hair that seemed like it had been straightened that very morning.
She had green eyes, a pale green like moss after the rain, and a beautiful smile.
The kind of smile that made you want to smile too, even when you didn’t feel like it.
Perry introduced her to you.
“This is Lexie. A new editor,” he said.
And you looked at her.
Measured her from head to toe without meaning to.
And something in your stomach tightened without you knowing why.
Perry kept talking, but you were no longer fully listening.
“She’s been working with Clark these past few months,” he said, as if it were an insignificant detail. “I placed her as a staff writer first, but I think she has editor potential.”
You smiled.
You made the automatic gesture of nodding and extending your hand to greet her.
“Nice to meet you,” you said.
And your voice sounded normal, even though inside, you felt very far from normal.
Because then you remembered something.
You remembered how Clark, in the last few weeks before you returned to work, sometimes spent time on his phone with a smile.
A strange smile.
One that wasn’t for you, or for Eloise, or for anyone you knew.
He would be sitting on the couch in your apartment, the baby asleep against his chest, and suddenly his phone would vibrate.
He would look at it and let out a tiny smile, the kind that slips out before someone can stop it.
You hadn’t given it any importance then.
You thought maybe it was a message from Lois, or an article that had turned out well.
But now, with Lexie standing in front of you, blonde and beautiful and smiling, Clark’s smile took on another meaning.
Clark had never mentioned there was someone new.
Of course, he didn’t have to.
You weren’t a couple.
You didn’t owe each other anything.
He could work with whomever he wanted.
Talk to whomever he wanted.
Smile at whomever he wanted.
There was no agreement.
No promise.
No rule saying he had to tell you about every new person who showed up at the newspaper.
Although he did know you were coming back.
He knew you would return.
And still, he hadn’t said anything.
Maybe because it wasn’t important.
Maybe because it meant nothing.
Or maybe because it did mean something, and he didn’t want you to know.
You lowered your gaze for a moment.
Your shoes, black ones you had worn to feel more serious, suddenly seemed ridiculous.
You went back to your place, the desk you had left empty for so many months.
Someone had cleaned it.
There was no dust, no old papers.
Everything was tidy, as if they had been waiting for you.
But something had changed.
Lexie was seated in front of you now, at the desk across from yours, right where there had been no one before.
Now she was there, with her blonde hair and her smile and her green eyes, arranging her things as if she had belonged there all her life.
You looked at Clark.
He was standing beside his desk, a few feet away.
He saw you looking at him and smiled at you, that smile of his that used to calm you and now did something strange to your chest.
“Welcome home,” he said softly, as if nothing had changed.
As if you were still the same people you used to be.
You nodded.
“Thank you,” you said, and turned back to your chair.
But everything felt different.
More distant.
As if there were an invisible pane of glass between you and the rest of the world.
The sounds of the newsroom seemed muffled, the familiar faces blurred, and every time you looked up, Lexie was there.
Typing.
Laughing.
Leaning over to speak to someone.
And you had no right to any of it.
You had no right to feel jealous.
No right to be angry.
No right to ask Clark why he hadn’t told you anything.
Because he didn’t owe you explanations.
Because he was free to live his life.
Because you yourself had told him, through your actions, that you didn’t need him.
When he left your apartment after the birth.
When you let him pull away.
When you did nothing to keep him there.
You had told him without words that it was fine for him to leave.
And he had left.
Not completely.
But enough for there to be room now for someone else.
You watched them joke around.
Clark and Lexie.
They were standing near the coffee machine, she with a cup in her hand, he with his arms crossed.
Lexie said something.
Clark laughed.
And you saw the way he tilted his head toward her, as if to hear her better.
Inside jokes?
Jokes only the two of them knew?
The weeks she had spent working with him, those months when you hadn’t been there, had created something.
Something you hadn’t watched grow.
Something that was now right there, in front of your eyes, and you couldn’t ignore it.
You looked away.
You looked at your computer, the screen glowing white, the cursor blinking as it waited for you to write something.
Anything.
A headline.
A correction.
Whatever.
You told yourself it was foolish.
That Clark had left your apartment because maybe he felt too obligated.
Maybe he felt trapped.
Maybe he didn’t want to be the donor who stayed forever because that wasn’t what you had agreed on.
Maybe he needed his space.
His life.
His friends.
Maybe you had been a burden without realizing it, and he had simply been too kind to tell you.
Maybe Lexie was everything you couldn’t be.
Lighter.
Easier.
Without a baby waiting for her at home every night.
Without a C-section scar that still hurt sometimes.
Without a pile of diapers and bottles and sleepless nights.
So you focused on your work.
You opened your pending emails, reviewed the articles that had been assigned to you, and began correcting the first one.
It was a piece about a gas leak in the south of the city.
You read every word.
Corrected commas.
Rearranged a few paragraphs.
You did everything right.
Everything professionally.
But every two or three minutes, unable to help yourself, you looked up.
Clark was still there, talking to Lexie.
She was laughing, running a hand through her hair, and Clark was smiling.
It wasn’t a huge smile.
It wasn’t a burst of laughter.
It was a comfortable smile.
The kind someone gives to a person they know.
To someone who doesn’t make them feel self-conscious.
And from your desk, you felt like a stranger in your own place.
As if the months you had spent away had erased something that used to exist.
Something that maybe had only existed in your head.
You said nothing.
You couldn’t.
You had no right.
Clark wasn’t yours.
He never had been.
He was only the friend who had donated his sperm to you.
The friend who had stayed for two weeks taking care of you.
The friend who was now smiling at another woman while you watched from far away.
And that empty feeling in your chest was nothing more than the memory of something that had never happened.
Or that was what you tried to make yourself believe as you typed “revise” beside the article’s headline and pressed your lips together to keep a sigh from escaping.
The weeks passed.
And it wasn't easy.
You couldn't stop yourself from crying, and you hated yourself a little for it.
Because you cried in the newspaper's bathroom, with the water running so no one would hear.
You cried in your car before starting the engine.
You cried in the shower, when no one could see you.
It was stupid, you knew that.
It was stupid to cry over someone who had never been yours.
Now you had your daughter, a beautiful little girl who looked at you with those huge eyes and filled your heart in a way no one else ever could.
You couldn't compare yourself to Lexie.
You couldn't compete with her.
Because this had been your decision.
You had decided that Clark was only a donor.
You had decided that the two of you wouldn't be a couple.
You had decided that he could leave whenever he wanted.
So you had no right to feel bad about seeing him with someone else.
And yet, you felt terrible.
You felt so terrible that sometimes it was hard to breathe.
So you focused on the only thing you could control: your daughter.
Every afternoon when you got home, happiness hit you in the face the moment you opened the door.
Because Eloise would see you, stretch her little arms toward you, and make that sound that was almost "ma-ma," though she still couldn't quite pronounce the "m."
You would pick her up, hold her tightly against your chest, and for a few seconds, everything else disappeared.
Lexie disappeared.
Clark disappeared.
The office, the looks, the inside jokes—everything faded away.
There was only you and her and the baby scent that had soaked into your clothes.
Clark still came to your apartment.
But not like before.
Not with the same frequency.
He showed up on Fridays, sometimes Wednesdays, always with some excuse.
He brought something for Eloise: a new book, a toy, a blanket.
But you no longer looked at him the way you used to.
Before, whenever he walked through the door, your whole face lit up.
Now you greeted him with a short, "Hi," and went back to whatever you were doing.
You didn't offer him coffee.
You didn't sit beside him on the couch.
You didn't rest your head on his shoulder while the baby slept.
You had built yourself a shell.
An invisible suit of armor that wouldn't let him get close.
He noticed, of course.
Clark noticed everything.
But he didn't say anything, because he didn't know what to say either.
And the worst part was that you had started cutting phone calls short too.
When he called, you let it ring a few times before answering with a curt, "What is it?"
You talked only about what was necessary.
The baby.
The caregiver.
Some paperwork.
And when there was nothing left to discuss, you would say, "Alright, see you..." and hang up before he could answer.
You didn't want to hear his voice any longer than necessary.
Because if you listened to his voice, your heart softened.
And you couldn't allow that.
Not again.
You felt guilty.
Terribly guilty.
Because Clark hadn't done anything wrong.
He had simply continued living his life.
He had simply gone to work and met someone new.
He wasn't a traitor.
He hadn't betrayed you because he had never belonged to you in the first place.
Because you had never been together.
And yet, you treated him as if he had stabbed you in the back.
Every time you hung up without a proper goodbye, you stared at your phone afterward and thought:
I'm an idiot.
But you couldn't stop yourself.
Something stronger than you kept pushing you away from him.
Kept telling you to protect yourself.
To avoid giving him the chance to hurt you.
Even though he wasn't even trying to hurt you.
At the Daily Planet, no one besides the people closest to you knew that Clark was Eloise's father.
To the rest of the newspaper, you were simply a woman with a baby.
The father was a mystery.
An anonymous donor.
A "none of anyone's business."
Lois and Jimmy protected the secret as if it were treasure.
They never mentioned it out loud.
Never made comments that could raise suspicion.
So when Lexie arrived, she had absolutely no idea what had happened between you and Clark.
She didn't know he had slept on your couch.
She didn't know he had bought the crib.
She didn't know he had wiped your tears away in the middle of the night.
To Lexie, you were simply the editor who had returned after maternity leave.
And Clark was simply her coworker, the one who had shown her how everything worked during those first few months.
But Lexie, without knowing any of that, began making you feel awful.
You didn't know whether it was intentional or simply her personality, but her words pricked at you like tiny needles.
The kind you barely notice until your skin is covered in punctures.
One afternoon, in the newspaper kitchen, while you were heating water for tea, she approached with her mug and her perfect smile.
"So you really have a baby?" she asked, as though she had only just found out.
You nodded, smiling as politely as possible.
"Yes. Her name is Eloise," you said.
Because she was your daughter, and you were proud of her, even if talking about her with Lexie made you uncomfortable.
Lexie nodded, wearing an expression that suggested she was thinking something over.
"Hmm... and if you have a baby, wouldn't it be better to stay home?" she asked. "I mean... I feel like women who become mothers aren't as dedicated to work as they used to be because they have other things to focus on."
She said it softly.
As if it were a sincere concern.
As if she were doing you a favor by saying it.
You looked at her.
You felt the blood rush into your face, but you refused to let it show.
You stood there with your mug in your hand and took a slow breath before answering.
"I used to think the same thing," you said, with a calmness you didn't actually feel, "until Perry called and told me he needed me back. I guess he still hasn't found anyone better than me."
Then you smiled.
But it was a sharp smile.
The kind that cuts.
And you walked away before she could respond.
You didn't want to hear another word.
You moved quickly down the hallway, your eyes burning.
You didn't want to cry in front of her.
You didn't want to give her that satisfaction.
You entered the women's restroom, locked the door behind you, and leaned against the wall while taking deep breaths.
The tears came on their own.
Just like they always did these days.
You wiped at your eyes with the back of your hand, but more tears followed.
"I'm a professional," you repeated to yourself.
"What that woman said is ridiculous."
"I'm good at what I do."
"I have a daughter, and I'm good at what I do."
But tears never listened to reason.
That was when your phone rang.
It vibrated in your pocket, and you pulled it out quickly, assuming it would be Lois or Jimmy.
But it was Rosa's number.
“Rosa? Yes?” you said, trying not to let it sound like you'd been crying.
Rosa's voice was worried.
She didn't waste time getting to the point.
The baby had a fever.
Not a very high one, but she was restless, crying more than usual, and Rosa thought she should be seen by a doctor.
Your heart dropped straight to the floor.
You hung up without a proper goodbye, shoved your phone back into your pocket, and hurried out of the restroom, almost running.
You went straight to Perry's office.
You didn't look around.
You didn't notice Clark and Lexie in the distance, laughing about something again.
You didn't care.
Nothing mattered more than your daughter at that moment.
You reached Perry's door and knocked.
“Come in,” he called from inside.
You entered and explained what was happening, your voice shaky but determined.
Eloise had a fever.
Rosa was worried.
You needed to leave.
Perry looked at you over the rim of his glasses, frowned for a moment, then nodded.
“Go,” he said. “You've been doing good work since you came back. Don't worry about things here.”
You thanked him and left without looking back.
As you walked down the hallway toward the exit, you heard hurried footsteps behind you.
“What happened?”
Clark's voice.
He had followed you.
Of course he had.
He always noticed when something was wrong, even when you didn't want him to.
You stopped.
Closed your eyes for a second.
You could have told him the truth.
You could have accepted his help.
You could have let yourself fall into his arms the way you had so many times before.
But no.
Something inside you hardened.
Hardened like stone.
No.
No, no, no.
You couldn't keep doing this.
You couldn't keep depending on him.
You couldn't keep needing him.
You couldn't keep feeling like he was the only person capable of holding you together when everything was falling apart.
Because he wasn't yours.
He belonged to no one.
Or maybe he belonged to Lexie.
Or maybe to whoever he wanted.
But not to you.
“Nothing,” you said, your voice sounding angrier than you intended.
But angry was better than broken.
Angry was better than letting him see how badly you were falling apart.
Clark took a step closer.
His face was full of concern, the kind of expression he wore whenever something happened to you and he didn't know how to fix it.
“But something happened. I saw you leave Perry's office with—”
You paused.
Took a deep breath.
And in that moment, you understood that this wasn't fair.
He didn't owe you anything.
You had no right to treat him badly just because you were hurting.
Clark had been good to you.
Kinder than anyone had ever been.
And you were repaying him with silence and slammed doors.
But even then, you couldn't let him get close.
Not again.
Because if he got close, you would fall again.
And falling a second time hurt too much.
You looked into his eyes.
Those blue eyes you had always liked.
Those blue eyes you still liked.
“Eloise has a fever. I'm going home,” you said.
More calmly this time.
But with a distance that hit him like a punch.
“I'll come with you,” Clark said instantly.
He didn't hesitate for even a second.
His body was already moving toward the exit as if accompanying you was the most natural thing in the world.
But you stopped him.
You lifted a hand between the two of you, as if that gesture alone could keep him away.
“No,” you said.
And the word came out stronger than you intended.
“You keep living your life. I'll take care of my daughter.”
My daughter.
Not ours.
It wasn't a mistake.
You did it on purpose.
Because you needed him to understand that boundaries existed.
That the two of you had created them.
And that they had to be respected.
You walked away.
You headed for the exit without looking back.
But if you had looked back, you would have seen Clark standing in the middle of the hallway with his arms hanging limply at his sides and his expression shattered.
You would have seen him drag a hand over his face as if sadness could be wiped away like dust.
You would have seen him open his mouth to say something.
And then close it again because he couldn't find the words.
You would have seen a man in love.
Alone.
Standing in an empty hallway.
Watching the woman he loved and his daughter walk away from him without being able to do anything to stop them.
Because he knew he had no right.
Because he felt guilty too.
Because every night he told himself the same thing.
You can't put them in danger.
You can't love them the way you want to.
Keeping your distance is what's best for them.
And now that you were giving him that distance, it hurt as though someone had ripped a piece of his chest away.
But you didn't look back.
You walked out of the Daily Planet, the afternoon sun warming your face, and got into your car.
And as you drove home, toward Eloise, you cried again.
You cried because your daughter had a fever.
You cried because of what you'd said to Clark.
You cried because you missed him.
You cried because you didn't know how to be angry and heartbroken at the same time.
You cried until there were no tears left.
You arrived home with your heart lodged in your throat.
You climbed the stairs without even feeling your feet, your keys clenched tightly in your hand so no one would see them shaking.
You opened the door, and the first thing you did was search for Eloise.
Ready to run to her.
Ready to pick her up.
Ready to hold her until the fever broke.
But you didn't see her.
She wasn't in her bassinet.
She wasn't on the blanket where you usually let her crawl.
She wasn't anywhere.
The silence frightened you even more.
“Rosa,” you called, your voice trembling.
The caregiver appeared from the kitchen wearing a calm smile that made no sense.
She didn't look worried.
She didn't look frightened.
She looked calm.
Far too calm.
“She’s already with her father,” Rosa said, as though it were the most normal thing in the world.
“Mr. Clark calmed her down.”
You froze.
Clark.
He had arrived first.
Of course he had arrived first.
He must have used his speed to get there before you.
To be there while you were still in your car, driving through your tears.
He had flown.
Or run.
Or whatever it was he did to move faster than any normal human being.
And instead of feeling angry, you felt a wave of relief so intense it almost hurt.
Because he was there.
Because he had come.
Because he always came.
You entered Eloise's room quietly.
The door was slightly open, and you pushed it wider with your fingertips.
There was Clark.
Standing beside the crib.
His eyes fixed on the baby.
He saw you enter, and his face immediately filled with sadness.
Not guilt.
Not pride.
Only sadness.
As if he already knew you wouldn't welcome his help, but had given it anyway.
“I heard her heartbeat from the Planet,” he said softly, almost whispering.
“It was too fast.
Much too fast.”
You looked at him, not fully understanding.
Rosa hadn't realized it, but things had been more serious than they appeared.
The temperature had been very high.
Dangerously high.
The kind of fever that could become dangerous in a baby.
The kind that could rise quickly and cause harm before anyone noticed.
Clark had arrived just in time.
“I... used the cold to help regulate it,” he said, gesturing gently toward Eloise.
“My breath. Ice. Things like that.”
And she fell asleep.
He looked at her for another moment.
Those eyes of his swollen from worrying.
From watching.
From feeling too much.
Then he carefully settled her into the crib and tucked a thin blanket around her so she wouldn't be too cold or too warm.
The baby took a deep, peaceful breath.
As if the danger had never existed.
Clark turned toward you.
He took a step forward.
Just one.
With the intention of getting closer.
Maybe to hug you.
Maybe to say something.
But you lifted your hand.
And placed an invisible wall between the two of you.
“Go back to the Planet,” you said.
Your voice came out harsher than you intended.
“I can handle this on my own.”
You left the room before he could answer.
You needed air.
You needed space.
You needed not to fall apart in front of him.
In the living room, Rosa was waiting with her purse in hand, ready to leave.
You gathered what little strength you had left, wiped your face with your sleeve even though you weren't crying yet, and smiled at her.
A fake smile.
The kind that hurts because it takes so much effort to hold in place.
"See you tomorrow," you said, trying to make your voice sound normal. "Clark already calmed her down, and we'll take her to the doctor."
Rosa smiled in relief, nodding.
"That's good."
She blew a kiss into the air in farewell.
You opened the door, watched her disappear down the stairs, and when the sound of her footsteps faded away, you closed it again.
You rested your forehead against the cool wood of the door and closed your eyes.
Behind you, Clark was still there.
You could feel him.
You could feel him without looking at him, the same way you can feel someone's gaze on the back of your neck.
"I don't understand," he said.
His voice wasn't angry.
It wasn't even sad.
It was tired.
The voice of someone who had spent days, weeks, months trying to understand what had happened.
"What did I do wrong for you to treat me like this? What do you want from me?"
You turned around.
You looked at him angrily, but it was the kind of anger that hurt more than sadness.
There were so many things you wanted to tell him that they all crashed together in your throat.
You lowered your gaze to the floor because you couldn't hold his.
Your shoes—the same ones you'd worn to work that day—suddenly felt like the only real thing in the middle of all that chaos.
"You're not the problem," you said.
And your voice cracked.
"It's me. Just... go away, Clark."
Clark took a step forward.
Not a threatening step.
The step of someone who wasn't willing to leave without fighting for an answer.
"Why?" he asked.
And that single word carried more weight than any other word he'd spoken in his life.
You looked at him.
You couldn't hold it back anymore.
Tears filled your eyes, and one escaped, warm against your skin, rolling down your cheek to your chin.
"Because it was a mistake," you said.
The words barely made it out of your mouth.
A mistake.
Two words capable of changing everything.
"Eloise is the best thing that's ever happened to me in the entire world, but... having your genes..." You swallowed hard. "At first, I thought it would be the most beautiful thing in the world."
You looked at him angrily.
But it wasn't anger directed at him.
It was anger at yourself.
At your own stupidity.
At believing you could have him without actually having him.
"My God," you continued.
The words rushed out as though you were afraid time was running out.
"The only reason I even had that thought was because I liked you. Having a child with the person you're in love with is a dream. But... I can't demand anything now that Lexie is there. God, that woman is..."
You stopped.
Took a deep breath.
Tried to calm yourself.
"I can't even insult her because I'm the one who said we were nothing. That nothing would happen. That you'd only be a donor. And now I'm jealous because you acted like we were something ever since I got pregnant and..."
Your voice broke completely.
You couldn't continue.
You covered your face with your hands as if you could hide from him.
From your own words.
From everything you had just confessed.
You cried openly now.
Your shoulders trembling.
Your fingers pressed tightly against your face.
"You didn't tell me about Lexie," you managed between sobs. "And I know that's your right, and... it hurts so much. Just... please go away, Clark."
And then you felt arms wrapping around you.
His arms.
Clark hugged you.
It wasn't a hesitant hug.
It wasn't brief.
It was a full embrace.
The kind that completely surrounds you.
The kind that presses you against a warm chest and makes the entire world stop for a moment.
You cried against him, soaking his shirt with every tear you'd spent weeks holding back.
And he didn't let go.
He didn't tell you to stop crying.
He didn't tell you to calm down.
He simply held you.
One hand cradling the back of your neck.
The other resting against your back.
As if he wanted you to know that he would never let you fall.
"Are you jealous of Lexie?" he asked softly.
His voice was so close that you felt his chin brush the top of your head.
You didn't answer.
You couldn't.
All the words were gone.
But he didn't need an answer.
He already knew.
"If you had told me you wanted me to stay, I would have."
Clark's voice trembled slightly.
"I would've done it without hesitation."
You looked up at him through tear-filled eyes.
Your vision was blurry.
But you could still see him clearly.
As if the rest of the world had turned gray and only he still had color.
"You said it yourself two years ago, Clark. You didn't want anything serious."
The words came out wrapped in a knot of pain.
You had carried them for so long.
Turning them over and over in your mind.
Trying to understand them.
Trying to accept them.
Clark cupped your face in both hands.
Slowly, he wiped away your tears one by one with his thumbs.
His fingers were warm.
Gentle.
The touch made you tremble.
"I didn't want to hurt the woman I love," he said.
And those words, spoken so plainly, struck your chest like lightning.
You stared at him.
Confused.
"What?" you whispered.
Because your brain couldn't process what it had just heard.
Clark smiled.
A sad smile.
A tender smile.
The smile of someone who had waited a very long time to say something and had finally found the courage.
"I thought having a child with you would at least give me the chance to stay close to you."
His thumb brushed away another tear.
"Without having to fear someone hurting you just to find out where Superman is."
Another tear.
Another gentle touch.
"Just to stay close to you."
You stared at him, eyes wide.
"What?" you repeated.
Because there was no other word left in your mind.
Clark laughed.
A small laugh.
A nervous laugh.
The laugh of someone risking everything.
"If you tell me to stay right now, I will."
His voice softened.
"Because there hasn't been a single woman I've loved since the day you walked into the Planet who wasn't you."
He paused.
Swallowed hard.
"And Lexie is just another person who works in the same building, just like the dozens of women I pass in the hallway. And I haven’t even glanced at any of them, because my head is filled with thoughts of you. I haven’t done anything with anyone else. I haven’t wanted to do anything. I’ve just been working, and I’ve stayed at the office until my eyes hurt, because coming home without you breaks my heart. I prefer the noise of the office to the silence of a house that no longer feels like mine."
His eyes locked onto yours.
Blue.
Deep.
Like entire oceans.
"Because at the end of the day, you are and always will be the woman I’ve loved and will love for the rest of my life."
The words settled between you.
Heavy.
Certain.
Real.
"And if you want me to stay, I'll do everything I can to protect you. I'll never let anyone hurt you. I won't be afraid of having a family anymore."
His voice almost broke.
"But I need to know."
He waited.
Silence stretched between the two of you.
Growing larger.
"Do you want me to stay?"
You looked at him.
And you cried.
But these weren't tears of sadness anymore.
They were the kind of tears that come when something broken for a very long time finally begins to heal.
Clark saw you crying.
And something in his face dimmed slightly.
As if he thought you were going to say no.
As if he were already bracing himself for the impact.
But you weren't going to say no.
You could never say no.
"Don't leave again," you whispered.
Barely louder than a breath.
And you threw yourself into his arms as if your life depended on it.
You clung to him.
His arms.
His back.
His shirt.
Everything.
Clark let out a breath.
Not an ordinary breath.
A huge one.
A breath of relief.
The kind released by someone who has been holding it for years.
He took your face in his hands again with a tenderness so overwhelming it nearly broke you apart.
And he kissed you.
Not on the lips.
Not yet.
He kissed your tears.
Your wet cheeks.
Your closed eyelids.
He kissed every tear as if he could erase them with his mouth.
And while he kissed you, he spoke between each kiss.
His voice broken.
But steady.
"No. I'm not leaving."
A kiss.
"I'm not leaving anymore."
Another kiss.
"Never again."
Another.
"I'm staying."
His forehead rested against yours.
"With you."
A kiss.
"With Eloise."
Another.
"I'm staying for as long as you'll let me."
His voice shook.
"And if you throw me out, I'll come back."
A kiss against your temple.
"And if you push me away, I'll crawl back."
Another.
"But I'm not leaving."
His eyes closed.
"Not again."
His hand trembled against your cheek.
"Not you."
And you held him tighter through your tears and uneven breaths.
And for the first time in months—
For the first time in so many months—
You felt like you could breathe.
Because Clark was there.
Because Clark was staying.
Because Clark—the good, quiet man who had loved you in silence for so long—had finally said everything he needed to say.
so..... my temp full-time job is actually ending this week and i will (hopefully) have some more time to write while i'm looking for a permanent position/doing grad school part-time. here is a lil snapshot of asks, requests, and ideas i've been compiling---- let me know if you want to see any of these or if you have any other requests <3
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no matter how many times that steve harrington had played at wembley stadium, it still felt like the very first time. he still got nervous, still felt his stomach turn when he heard the buzz of the crowds as the stadium filled up. but since becoming team captain at the start of this season, he got a little better at managing his nerves but still—his leg bounced nervously as he sat on the bench in the locker room.
because truthfully, steve harrington couldn’t relax before a big match until he saw you.
“harrington,” the coach calls and steve looks up so quickly it was a wonder he didn’t get whiplash. “your girl’s here.”
steve bolted out of the locker room. his teammates didn’t bat an eyelid—so used to steve leaving as soon as you turned up.
“you made it,” steve grins widely when he sees you just outside the locker room before pulling you into his arms. his body almost instantly relaxing, burying his face into your hair and inhaling. that sweet vanilla scent from your perfume soothing him in a way that even science couldn’t explain.
“course i did,” you murmur back, voice slightly muffled against his chest. “wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
steve smiles against you, pulling away only to press a kiss to your forehead. “thank god. don’t know what i would do without my favourite good luck charm.”
summary ⊹ even on one of the most star-studded nights in the world, joe can only look at you.
pairing ⊹ actress!reader x joe burrow
wc ⊹ 2.6k words
themes ⊹ you’re stunning & joe’s down bad, art history mention, cliffhanger, cringe reply guy comments, vague concepts of the met gala
a/n notes at the end of the fic!
🎶 ⊹ get you - daniel caesar, kali uchis
the met gala — one of the most prestigious nights in fashion. a night that proves fashion is a driving force to be reckoned with, its influence and beauty contained into one magical night with stunning stars and icons.
it’s a night that joe still can’t process he’s at, convinced that he sticks out like a sore thumb. regardless he moves in stride, knowing that he represents a small demographic in this space.
he enters the red carpet, flashing cameras and hollering paparazzi immediately greeting him into the metropolitan museum of art. he’s cool, calm and collected under the immense pressure – he’s used to the overwhelming environment around him, moving around the space like he owns it.
but the moment joe spots you at the red carpet, he’s completely and totally captivated by you — like his world has rocked. he feels the world silence around him, eyes only seeing you and you only. the way your eyes shimmer under the flashing lights, how your dress gleams whenever you move, all of it. he’s stunned. he makes a mental note to make sure to talk to you tonight — even if it’s just a ‘hello.’
unfortunately, you two are being thrown around from interview to interview, and he hardly has the chance to talk to you until you both enter the main room. and even if he did, everyone would make a whole deal about it, and he assumes both of you probably wouldn't want that. but yet, it took one interview with you in the background for fans to start entertaining the idea of you two.
user: wait is that who i think it is in the back…
> (1.2k likes, 22 replies)
user420: omfg it’s Y/N L/N behind JOE MF BURROW 😭 DOES HE KNOW HE’S BREATHING THE SAME AIR AS MY ICON
> (23.1k likes, 56 replies)
user3: wait they don’t look bad together 👀 but hey what do i know
> (57.8k likes, 80 replies)
in each interview clip that’s posted, fans notice that he tries to sneak a glance at you as much as he can without making it obvious. it got to a point where an interviewer has had to snap him out of his down-bad daze. the moment he snaps back into reality, he remembers that there’s a phone to his face and a mic near his lips, and probably millions of people who definitely know that he’s starstruck.
“joe?” she asks, trying to get a read of what’s going on with him.
"hm? i’m sorry, i didn’t catch that. what did you say?” he feels the tips of his ears turn red, and he can’t help but feel bad for the poor interviewer for catching him in this state.
"is there anyone you’re excited for tonight? any looks that have caught your eye?" she asks with a glint in her eye, as she tries to egg him on to say names, brands or anything that can be used as a clip or a headline. joe tries to gather his composure as he prepares one of his most media-trained responses of the night.
"i mean — i’m just excited and grateful to be out here tonight," he eloquently answers, smiling at the interviewer. "it’s a huge honor and i’m excited to meet as much people as i can." he feels himself take a sigh of relief, but tries not to make it incredibly obvious.
"all right, we’ll leave you to it. enjoy your night, joe!" she smiles back at him as she sends him on his merry way.
"thanks, you too." he walks away, shoulders loosening up from tension. he’s a hundred percent aware that he made a fool of himself, and the consequences will bite him in the ass tomorrow morning, not just from his teammates or his parents.
user4: props to joe shiesty for saving all 45 of my cats from a tree
> (1.1 likes, 14 replies)
user85: thank you joe for letting me borrow your rolls royce, left the keys on the table 🫂
> (851 likes, 14 replies)
user67: joe ty for saving my family from that burning building
> (187 likes, 4 replies)
user69: shoutout to joe burrow for lending me a million dollars, appreciate it big guy
> (651 likes, 8 replies)
joe notices you from across the room, in awe of the scenery. your eyes twinkle in wonder, mouth agape at the beauty around you — and not just the amazing outfits tonight. he glances over to your arm linking around your manager’s (he assumes) for the majority of the night, staring at the luxurious and exquisite decorations strewn around the hall, with you in deep conversation about the grand displays. he’s incredibly starstruck, which says a lot for a guy like him. your beauty and charm enchants him, and he’s absolutely positive he hasn’t felt this way for someone in a while – that “love-at-first-sight” feeling where you try to steal as much glances as possible, your heart rate picking up at the idea of them, and even envisioning a future with them.
he musters up the guts to approach you (and if he’s lucky, hopefully he’ll get your number), but ayo edebiri gets to you first before he can and he almost gives up on talking to you completely. he tries to play it cool and talk to the people around him, trying to make small talk as much as possible. as the night progresses and the conversations become more and more repetitive in his ears, he feels himself getting antsy and itching to leave the place. preferably with you, though.
meanwhile on your end, you pay attention to a man in a navy suit trying to approach you the entire night, with his gaze burning into your skin as you try to catch up with ayo, and introduce yourself to another actress. you observe him trying to walk up to you, but someone taps his shoulder and then he’s pulled away to make yet another connection. throughout the night, you can’t help but steal glances at the mystery man in blue. you try to ask your manager, val, who he is — but to no avail.
“you sure you haven’t seen him anywhere? he isn’t from a show i haven’t seen? a singer with an album that i haven’t heard? an athlete—“ you list off potential careers for the mystery man, trying to see which one will stick in her brain. she has a moment of realization, eyes wide and brows raised.
“oh, that’s where i think he’s from – sports!”
"sports. you know him from sports." you say, deadpanning.
"yes, sports! i don’t really know which, but i’m sure it’ll come to me later tonight."
"girl, whatever. i’ll be right back." you lie with a smile on your face, untangling your arm from val and trying to sneak off into the exhibitions without getting caught by any wandering eyes. you attempt to make yourself small despite your extravagant appearance, and duck under any wandering staff members.
joe notices you wandering off from across the room, and tries to excuse himself from a conversation with lewis hamilton. (“...i need to walk my goldfish.”) he tries to follow your lead, but the crowd of people — and your impressive stealth, given the outfit you’re wearing — makes it difficult to see where you headed off to. he’s almost convinced that you’re only a woman in his dreams, and not one of reality.
–
as you rid yourself from the chaotic party atmosphere, you walk into the spacious exhibit and take a look at the painting in front of you.
venus and the lute player.
you stare longingly at the painting, taking into account every single detail — the wreath of flowers, cupid, the intricacy of the curtain, the unfinished background. you take a step further to get a better look of the painting as much as possible while holding your breath, when all of a sudden—
“i had a feeling i’d find you here.” you jump at the voice behind you, and you turn around to see the culprit. alas, it’s the mystery man in blue who held his gaze towards you the entire evening. you take a solid look at him — kind eyes, well-built frame, beautifully-swept hair. he looks like a storybook prince come to life.
“you had a feeling?” you smile, the tension now lifting from your shoulders. he nods, finally getting a hold of you after hours of tireless socializing and nonstop photos. he feels the tips of his ears flush, now realizing he’s in the presence of a stunning actress. a stunning actress that he’s only met tonight, but sees himself with her forever.
“it’s getting crazy out there – i’m guessing you needed a breather?”
“yeah,” you admit, twiddling your thumbs. “it’s not really my scene, but the met is just breathtaking. i try to stop by museums when i’m back home, but i’m always doing something for a movie or an event. they just hit different in new york. times like these are really the only chance i get to take it all in — especially without getting hounded by the press or strangers.” you explain.
“i get it. especially in a city as big as new york, it’s probably suffocating,” he sympathizes, completely understanding where you’re coming from. “it gets exhausting knowing that every time i go out, someone assumes one thing about me or my life. but you must have it rough, though.”
“i mean — don’t get me wrong, i love new york — but it gets tiring sometimes. eyes always on you wherever you are and all that. but i still say i’m from here. i don’t really take pride in hollywood as much,” you ramble. when you stop talking, you feel his gaze burn into you. he lets out a chuckle, and you realize that his eyes have never left you.
“oh my god, i’ve been complaining this whole time that i never asked for your name, or what you do!”
"it’s okay. i’m joe," he introduces, extending a hand towards you. you return the favor, introducing yourself back with a beautifully manicured hand. "quarterback for the cincinnati bengals."
you smile back, keeping a mental reminder for val. you know for sure she’ll ask about every single detail about him.
“i’m y/n. i act, been in a couple movies.” he chuckles at your introduction, knowing damn well that you’ve totally undersold yourself. he sits on a bench near the painting, gesturing you to sit. following him, you sit and take into account the sheer size of him. you look back at the painting, now staring at it from a distance.
"i think just ‘acting’ is underselling yourself — my teammates and their partners love your work," he muses, now getting a better look at your face. "pretty sure they told me to find you tonight. admittedly i have yet to see a film from you, but i’d love to get a recommendation." he says bashfully, rubbing behind the back of his head.
“okay, but you’re in the freaking nfl! that’s a big deal – i don’t know a lick of football – but i’d love to hear about it from the best of the best!”
“i mean – you’re ‘hollywood’s darling,’ or so they say,” he air quotes. “i think hollywood beats football.” you giggle at his comment, feeling the intensity of the evening ease off of your shoulders.
“let’s just settle on the fact that we’re both good at what we do.” you finish, joe’s hands raise in defeat and a smirk on his face.
for the rest of the evening, you converse and get to know each other. you learn about the worlds you both live in — his being football, and yours being hollywood and acting. you’re both cracking jokes and learning about each other’s passions outside of your careers, and what drives you both to do your best. it leaves you shocked by the end of the night to completely let go of your anxieties in front of a stranger. but little did you know, joe felt the same exact way.
you’ve rocked his world.
–
you stand up from the bench to continue to admire the painting and its beauty, but also to secretly hide your blushing face. you don't typically get nervous, but his intense gaze has you feeling like the only woman in the world.
”whatcha lookin’ at?” joe asks, standing as well to try to get a better look at the painting from behind you, eyes traveling around the painting but immediately returning his gaze to you.
”venus and the lute player, made by titian. venus — the goddess of love — is being crowned by cupid,” you explain, gaze fully locked onto the painting and hands gesturing around the painting. “titian was known for making female subjects’ personalities more complex at the time. in this case, venus is more than the object of desire.” you pause. you start to realize how close he is to you.
“she’s a symbol of the power of women,” you finish, taking a deep breath. “sorry — i tend to ramble. i think this stuff is really cool to me.” you apologize.
“don’t be sorry. i like that you like art history, it’s cool. i’m not super familiar, so it’s good to start somewhere.” he smiles, noticing your cheeks blush at the compliment. now your heart is beating loud and fast. maybe it’s the close proximity between you two or how much he cares about your interests, but you can’t help but revel in this moment as much as you can before you’re swept back into the chaos of the met gala, and later the real world.
“really?” you whisper, as you turn around and look up into his eyes. he can’t help but notice the way your eyes twinkle under the museum lights.
“i could hear you talk about it all night if i could.” he answers, trying to savor this moment as well. he feels the world around him tune out, especially when his broad chest is so incredibly close to yours. his head ducks down to ghost his lips onto yours, as one hand snakes onto your hip and the other making its way to your cheek. you two move dangerously closer, looking at each other’s lips and almost closing the distance between each other–
“there you are,” val says, standing under exhibit entrance. “been looking for you everywhere! this place is massive!” you and joe immediately separate and distance yourselves from each other, snapping you two back into reality. the room now feels colder, like a bucket of ice water has been dumped on you. val glances over to joe, trying to figure out what his deal is.
“you found me,” you smile defeatedly, watching val walk up to you as she grabs your hand and drags you back into the main hall. as you cross the middle of the exhibit, you halt. you turn back to joe, whose blue-eyed gaze hasn’t left you at all. you jog (with your best attempts) back to him and quickly shove your phone towards him. he looks at you with confusion, and then gets the hint.
“quick, put your number in before my manager asks too many questions.” you whisper, with joe snatching your phone at lightning speed and texting himself back. you stare up at him in the meantime, trying to capture his visuals as much as you can before it’s all reduced to a daydream.
“y/n?” val asks, now looking back at you with confusion.
“be there in a minute!” you passively respond. you grab your phone back from joe’s hands and you scurry back to her, now leaving the exhibit. you try to get one last look at not only joe, but the painting as well.
joe feels his heart sink, like he just woke up from a dream he refused to wake up from. he stands in front of the painting, the closest thing he has to you. he leaves the exhibit promptly after, the exchange replaying over and over in his head.
˚₊‧꒰ა ♡ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚
a/n ⊹ super super late met gala fic! i don't know if i'll post a pt. 2 bc i've been at an impasse with this for months butttt if there's enough hype then maybe! i lowkey have more after this but i kinda hate it LMFAO i've been hella busy but would love to build around this world or something tho hehe, i hope u enjoyed! feel free to send asks my way abt this bc i def need inspo to keep this universe alive hehe
janainaart
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