em

So, he never pulled on your hair. He’d pick little wildflowers and weave the tiny stems through your braids because they looked pretty. You’d smile and tell him how much you liked the little blossoms, and he’d smile because he made you happy. He did a good job, he was kind. You were beautiful. 

It extended into his teen years, too. Always one to be a shoulder to cry on, or offering up help with homework, or making sure to bring his lawnmower over to anyone’s home who needed a hand. Your parents commented on it the summer you’d gone on your annual visit to Smallville, sitting around the table with Mrs. Kent.

“That Clark is growing up to be a good boy,” your mom mentioned, spotting him out in the yard with his Pa and your dad. He lifted the tractor while his Pa reached up with his tools to fix something. “Very helpful.”

“He likes to make sure everyone’s taken care of.” Mrs. Kent grinned.

You leaned up a little, watching Clark for a moment. He’d always been sweet, and very friendly. It was almost odd to see someone so soft spoken and almost shy to display that kind of otherworldly strength. You’d known about it forever. Your parents and the Kents were long-time friends, and they were the only ones to know about the circumstances of Clark’s… adoption. A tiny, little baby who’d dropped from the sky. 

You parents hadn’t believed it at first until they’d seen the spacecraft for themselves. 

Your dad had gaped, then easily went to help Mr. Kent drag it to an old shed and out of the sight of any potentially-prying eyes. Your mom stared down at little Clark in Mrs. Kent’s arms, her hand placed gently on the swell of her stomach, thinking of her own baby, soon to be born. It was shocking.

More shocking when Clark started growing into his powers.

Now? He seemed to be able to lift anything without a second thought. As evidenced by his casual hold on the giant tractor.

“He’s always been sweet,” you comment softly, not noticing the soft look between your mother and Clark’s ma. 

Yours and Clark’s parents had sensed something for years.They’d always thought you two were just the most darling pairing as young kids: sleeping in the same crib as babies, sharing toys as toddlers, splashing in a tiny pop-up pool as a couple of rowdy six-year-olds.

They watched you as teenagers, always glued together when you thought nobody was paying any attention. Even when you’d both graduated high school, you still always came back to the Kent’s farm every summer on your own volition.

By the time you’d each left college, the summer you were pressed to each other’s sides with a couple glasses of wine on the front porch, they were certain of it: you’d end up together.

“So, what have you been doing lately, honey? I hear you're thinking of moving out to Metropolis by our Clark,” Mrs. Kent said, a soft, excited smile on her lips.

You chuckled once. “Yeah. I think I’m going to finish out the year at my job now, and then… yeah. I mean, there are so many great opportunities in Metropolis for writers. Clark is evidence of that.”

“Technically, I’m a journalist,” Clark added with a small smile.

“Dork.”

He just grinned, taking a big bite of his mashed potatoes. Your parents all shared some knowing glances, looking between the two of you. Twenty four years in the making, you would finally be in the exact right position for everything to work. Your mom was practically floating at the idea of planning a wedding. Mr. and Mrs. Kent were buzzing with the notion of grandbabies. Your dad was just happy you’d end up with someone he knew would treat you right. So, it was no surprise that they all felt like the floor had been swept out from under them when you spoke again.

“I’m thinking of it, too, because… well,” you paused for a moment, the whole room seemingly holding their breath. “I mean, my boyfriend has been talking about it, and I think we’re starting to get more serious, actually.”

Murmured questions and half-hearted congratulations were drowned out by Clark hearing his own heart beating in his chest.

Both of your folks had clearly been invested in the idea of the two of you forever. But Clark? He’d never thought to entertain the idea of you being with anybody. He supposed it made sense. You were friendly and beautiful and one of the funniest people he’d ever met. Lovely and, in his eyes, perfect. He’d been telling everyone at work that his life-long family friend was probably going to move nearby soon. He’d been planning in his head all the places he’d get to take you to in the city. Maybe even get your opinion on the suit his Ma was making for him to help people. He still hadn’t decided on a name for this alter-ego yet, and he thought you’d probably have some great ideas.

He’d built it up in his head so much that he’d never factored in that you might have someone besides him in the city. He just plastered on a smile that he hoped you wouldn’t see through and told you he was happy for you. A boyfriend. How… exciting.

January came around quickly. Clark trudged through the snow, finally getting to the door of his apartment building. He got in, shaking the snow off of his clothes and out of his dark hair before taking the elevator up to his unit. 

He liked winter. The snow was pretty, he got to go home for Christmas, and crime rates went down a bit in Metropolis. He had some time to relax. 

He peeled off his outer layers, setting his glasses careful on the kitchen counter. A warm shower and a cup of chamomile tea later, and he was sitting in his small living room watching an old movie re-run on cable. His phone started buzzing on the table, and he sighed. Duty calls, probably.

He looked down at the screen, and his mood flipped in an instant. He grinned widely when he saw your name flash on the screen, hitting the green answer button.

“Hi!”

He heard you laugh on the other end, it warmed his heart. “Hey, stranger. How’s it going?”

“Good! Y-yeah, good. Watching the snow fall in my apartment right now, it’s so pretty.”

“I bet.”

“Yeah…” he smiled, sinking back into his chair. “Uh, well, how are you? What’s the occasion?”

“I have to have an occasion to call you?”

He chuckled, the sound low and deep in his chest. He felt his cheeks warm. Whenever he talked to you, he often felt like he was still a teenager watching you try and fail to milk his favorite cow on the farm. He could still see you in his mind’s eye, still feeling that soft, fluttering feeling in his chest. Still realizing that you weren’t just a friend, you were a girl. A really pretty girl. A girl that made him feel things that a gentleman could certainly never voice.

“No. You don’t. You just usually do.”

“Touché,” you murmured, sighing softly on the other end of the line. “Well, I just wanted to let you know that I just signed a lease in Metropolis. I’m officially coming to the city.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.” He could hear the smile in your voice. “Yeah, Sam and I are gonna be moving in two weeks.”

“Oh. You and… you’re moving in together, huh?”

“Yeah. He’s been asking for a little while now, and I finally gave in.”

He heard you chuckle, but he couldn’t bring himself to smile about it. He didn’t know Sam. He had no real reason to hate him. But he did.

He’d seen pictures of him on your social media. He’d been caught by his Ma during Christmas zooming in on the man in one photo you’d posted. She just rested her hand on his shoulder, saying something about making him a cup of hot chocolate. Far too much pity in her voice.

“It’s fine, Ma. I’m fine,” he sighed, shutting off his phone.

She just looked at him for a moment. “You were zooming in awful close for someone who’s ‘fine’.”

He huffed. “She always said she didn’t like blonde guys. He’s blonde.”

His Ma did him the service of turning before she let herself chuckle a little. She wasn’t happy about this turn of events either, but… you were happy. She loved you like her own, and couldn’t bring herself to feel too sour about your recent relationship development. She reserved those feelings for whenever your mom brought it up first on their phone calls.

“I was just hoping maybe you could pick me up at the airport?”

“Y-you and Sam?”

“No, just me. Sam is gonna be a few days behind.”

“Oh. Yeah, I can do that. Of course.”

Clark begrudgingly took you to your new apartment two weeks later, helping you unpack and put up your furniture. He wasn’t upset to be helping you, of course. He loved helping you. He’d do anything you asked. He was grumpy about it because your boyfriend couldn’t be bothered to set up the apartment with you. He was supposed to be a few days behind you to tie up some things with his job before he left for Metropolis. But then, he had to spend an extra few days to go see his family out of the blue, and sent you a measly text asking you to unpack everything on your own.

Clark frowned the second you told him that you’d be doing it all yourself with that easy smile. He ignored your honey-sweet voice telling him he didn’t have to stay with you. Yes, he did. If your boyfriend couldn’t be bothered to help set up the apartment you’d share together, Clark certainly wouldn’t let you do it alone.

He felt your eyes on him as he sat on the ground, putting together your coffee table. He ignored it for a while, but eventually he broke down.

“What’re you looking at?” His voice was soft, the smallest twitch of his lip upward giving him away.

“You’re just… you’re a really good guy, Clark. I’m really happy I came here.”

“I’m happy you’re here, too. I’ve missed you,” he mumbled softly, finally looking up to meet your eyes. “It’ll be nice. Seeing you more than once or twice a year.”

You smiled, and his heart beat a little faster again. “Yeah, my mom has been over the moon about it. I think she’s just happy you’ll be around to protect me if I ever need you.”

“Aw, come on. I’m always around when you need me. I can fly anywhere, you know?”

You laughed. “I know. You’re closer now, though. Maybe we can spend more time together, too. That’d be fun.”

“Yeah. I’d like that.”

“You and Sam will totally get along.”

Clark’s expression fell a little as he got back to work. Sam. He promised himself he’d be nice and give the guy a chance, for you. But he already wasn’t too sure about the guy for a number of reasons. Mostly that he got to you before Clark could work up the nerve. But Clark would be nice. He’d be good.

He was good, he was good, he was good. He told himself over and over again as he sat across from you at your parent’s home. He’d been invited over for a small party for your birthday with your family and his. Your aunts and uncles asked him about his job as a reporter in Metropolis. Your little cousins were drawn to him. Despite not knowing he was the new ‘Superman’, he always seemed to have a pull with kids. Almost like they could sense he was a protector through and through. Normally, he’d be happily indulging all their requests for him to push them on the swings, and he’d chat at length about your aunt’s latest paint-by-numbers piece she was working on. But he was distracted. Horribly and frustratingly distracted.

He watched you as you smiled at Sam, talked to his Ma, listened to your dad’s work stories… but he was spiraling under the surface. One little thing had entirely thrown him off course and had him incessantly reminding himself that he was a kind and rational man. But it was almost like it was staring at him, reminding him that even though you’d grown even closer since you’d moved to his city last year, he was too little too late. A pretty little diamond on your finger.

He glared at it all night. Every time he caught a glance, it filled his chest with something angry and ugly and possessive. Which, of course, only made him feel worse. You weren’t his. You never were. He had no right to be jealous, and yet…

“Engaged, huh?” he said softly, walking up to you as you sat by yourself out on the back deck.

“Huh? Oh. Yeah,” you replied with a soft smile.

He nodded once, sitting next to you on the step. He sniffed, looking up at the sky. 

“Stars are really pretty tonight.”

You hummed in agreement. “Yeah. They’re so bright out here. Not like at the farm, but definitely more than Metropolis.”

He let himself smile once. “Well, if you ever want to visit the farm, say the word. You happen to be friends with a human airplane.”

You laughed at that, touching his forearm. He felt his chest squeeze.

“As much as I appreciate it, I don’t think Sam would be too keen on Superman literally sweeping me off my feet.”

“You could just tell him we were taking a road trip.”

“He wouldn’t like that, either.”

He frowned. “Why not?”

You shrugged, not meeting his eyes. “He’s… I don’t think he likes how close you and I have gotten.”

“We’ve been friends since we were babies.”

“I know, Clark. It’s just… We’ve definitely gotten closer since I moved to Metropolis.”

“And that’s a bad thing?”

“No. No, of course not. I think he’s just… maybe a little bit jealous.”

Clark snorted, but secretly he preened at that. He liked the idea that he was a threat to your boyfriend. Or– fiancé. He’d never dare admit that. It wasn’t right, and it wasn’t kind. But it was the truth.

“Jealous?”

You rolled your eyes. “Come on, Clark.”

“What?” He grinned.

“Like you don’t know.”

His smile faltered for just a moment, shaking his head. “No, I… I actually don’t.”

You sighed. “You’re… you. Like you said, friends since we were babies. We’ve gotten even closer now. You’re… Superman.”

“He doesn’t know I am.”

“No, but he knows you’re huge and attractive–”

Attractive? Clark blushed. He opened his mouth to try and respond without sounding like his stomach was doing cartwheels. But the back door opened.

“Babe?”

You looked up at Sam as he walked out, eyeing you and Clark suspiciously. He frowned at you after a second.

“Hey, honey.”

“You said we could leave at nine. It’s nine.”

Clark raised a brow, finally looking at Sam. He wasn’t too sure about the tone he’d just taken with you.

“Okay, yeah. I just lost track of time, I guess.”

Sam crossed his arms. “Uh huh.”

“Hey. Good to see you again, Sam,” Clark said, rising to his feet, helping you up before he reached out to shake Sam’s hand.

Clark sized the man up as Sam attempted a hard handshake. Clark almost smiled as Sam squeezed his hand in a faulty show of dominance. It wasn’t his fault, of course. He didn’t realize he was trying to intimidate Superman himself. He could see the frown forming on Sam’s face as his hand was practically engulfed by Clark’s. 

You raised a brow, seeing your fiancé clearly annoyed by the man you’d grown up with. You weren’t particularly keen on a dick-measuring contest starting up, so you touched Sam’s shoulder.

“Baby, can you go start the car? I’m just going to say bye to everyone real quick.”

He huffed, muttering something you didn’t quite catch under his breath. It wasn’t long before you were settling into the passenger seat, clicking your seatbelt in an uncomfortable silence. You probably should’ve known better than to ask, but you couldn’t help yourself.

“Is everything okay?” You spoke up once he pulled onto the road, driving towards the hotel.

He let out a harsh breath. “You really have to ask?”

“I don’t–”

“Seriously?” He shook his head, gripping the steering wheel. “You were alone with him. Again.”

“Wh– Clark?”

“No, your dad,” he snapped, sarcasm dripping from his voice. “I don’t like the guy.”

“He’s a good person.”

“He wants to fuck you.”

“Sam.”

He shot back with your own name, then fell silent for a moment. You twisted the ring on your finger. He’d proposed only a few days ago, shortly before your flight out here. You were elated, so excited to tell your family. You didn’t think the night would end like this.

“I don’t get why you insist on being around that asshole. He clearly wants to get in your pants, and you just– You obviously don’t respect me. Why do you need to be around him? Am I too boring for you?”

“What? No, of course not–”

“I’m not tall enough? Not build like a fucking building, so you have to entertain the guy who is? Let him think that he has a shot so you can stare at him and fantasize about fucking a guy with muscles? Is that what it is?”

“Baby, no. Please.”

He shook his head. “You said you liked how I look.”

“I do. That has nothing to do with this at all.”

“I get it. You’ve only dated taller guys, bigger ones. Maybe this wouldn’t be an issue if you lost a little weight.”

You scoffed in disbelief, tears pricking your eyes against your wishes. He’d been mean before. He was sensitive and sometimes said stuff he didn’t mean during arguments. But that felt like a line being crossed.

“Sam.”

“I’m just saying. I’m not a fucking body builder, but I’m not weak. You’re just–”

“Don’t you dare finish that sentence.”

He huffed, muttering under his breath, “so fucking sensitive.”

You were quiet for a minute. “Clark is my friend.”

“Sure he is.”

“He is.”

“Have you two fucked?”

You frowned, lip quivering. “No.”

“I don’t believe that.”

“Why are you being like this?”

“I don’t want to marry a fucking slut, is why! I put that ring on your finger, and days later I find you alone with the guy you know I have a problem with.”

You felt the tears before you could stop them. You stopped talking, sitting silently with your thoughts as he turned up the music to drown out the sound of your crying. It wasn't until you reached the hotel that he finally turned down the music, huffing a sigh as he looked at you.

“Why are you crying?”

You looked at him incredulously. “You called me a slut.”

“No, I said I didn’t want to marry one. Babe…” he groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I wouldn’t call you that. You’re putting words in my mouth, and I really don’t appreciate that.”

“I don’t… I just don’t understand why you’re being so mean to me.”

“I’m not being mean. I’m asking you why you insist on hurting my feelings. I don’t ever go sneak off behind your back with other girls, so why do you think it’s okay to do that to me?”

“I wasn’t sneaking.”

“Oh, well sorry for not using perfect fucking wording. You know what I mean.”

You let out a slow breath. “He’s just a friend. He’s always been a friend.”

“I’m going to be your husband. Is that not more important, or am I fucking stupid?”

“Sam–”

“Just… whatever. Fine. Do what you want, but don’t pretend you wouldn’t be all pissy if the roles were reversed. Maybe I’ll reconnect with my high school girlfriend, since she was such a good friend when I was a kid, too.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Oh, now you’re sorry? Now that I’m proving that you’re being inconsiderate?”

“I just said I’m sorry. Can we not do this anymore?”

“Uh huh. Get all weepy and apologetic now that you feel caught.”

You jumped as he slammed his door shut after telling you to go to the room when you were done crying. You stared at the hotel building for too long, trying to make yourself stop. It would be fine, you kept telling yourself it would be totally fine. He’d been angry before and gotten over it. He didn’t mean everything he said, he was just upset and probably feeling a bit insecure. You took some deep breaths, steeling yourself against the emotions that choked you up and threatened to steal away all of your air supply. You’d be fine. It would be fine.

Clark stopped seeing you so often after the night of your birthday dinner. He figured it was probably because you were engaged now. Planning a wedding was a lot of work, and you… You had different priorities now. You had a fiancé, he wasn’t just a boyfriend anymore. Things were different.

He took in a small breath, gathering all of the courage he could manage when he showed up at your apartment with a gift basket in hand. He realized he’d never properly congratulated you two, too caught up in the sick feeling brewing in his stomach the moment he had seen your ring for the first time. He rang your doorbell, waiting patiently for a while before the door got flung open.

“What are you doing here?”

Clark blinked, a bit surprised at the aggressive tone in Sam’s voice as he stood in the doorway. He cleared his throat, looking past Sam to see into the apartment, hoping to catch a glance of you instead of the guy who clearly didn’t like him.

“Uh…” Clark looked back at Sam, lifting up the basket. “Brought a gift. To congratulate you two on the engagement. There’s, like, muffins, a fancy soap, wine, some other stuff–”

“Great. Thanks.”

Sam grabbed the basket, and started shutting the door. Clark’s brows shot up, his hand pressing against the wood before he could think twice about it. Sam scoffed, looking up at Clark like he’d just personally kicked him in the shins.

“The fuck are you–”

Clark just mumbled out your name. “Is she home? I haven’t seen her in a while.”

“She’s in the shower.”

“Oh. Could you maybe ask her to just… Just text me?”

Sam huffed once. “Who the fuck do you think you are?”

“Pardon me?” Clark looked at him, astounded.

“Take a hint, Kent. She’s mine.”

“I–” Clark shook his head, profound confusion taking over any urge to be angry. “What are you talking about?”

“She doesn’t want to see you. Newsflash, dickhead–”

“Sam,” you stated, staring at him with wide eyes as you cut in. 

He turned, rolling his eyes at the intrusion. He hadn’t heard you come out of the bathroom, and the glare he leveled at you as you stood there in your towel had you nervous.

“Go put some fucking clothes on. He was just leaving.”

“Don’t talk to her like that,” Clark snapped, then looked at you, bewildered you’d be with someone like him. Your name fell softly from his lips. 

You sniffed, hurt and embarrassed. “Sam, stop it.”

He slammed the door in Clark’s face, just before tossing the gift basket on the ground. Clark swallowed, flinching as he heard Sam’s raised voice through the door. He didn’t know what to do. He couldn’t just barge in. But he couldn’t let this keep happening to you, and he had a bad feeling Sam wasn’t doing this out of nowhere.

He made a decision. If he couldn’t get to you as Clark, he knew how he could.

You walked out of your building, about to head off on your walk to work. It was sunny and beautiful out, but it was torture against your tired eyes. You started trudging down the sidewalk when there was a sudden shadow.

You looked up to see bright blue and red clouding your vision.

“Ma’am.”

You frowned, looking up at him with furrowed brows as he descended, his feet hitting the sidewalk. “What are you doing?”

He dropped his Superman voice, leaning in a little closer. “I just wanted to see you.”

“Cl–Superman. I can’t. Not now,” you muttered back, glancing towards your apartment building like you were about to get into trouble.

“After work. I’ll wait outside. Just… just for a little bit?”

You begrudgingly agreed when he assured you it wouldn’t take long. So, you found yourself sitting next to him on the rooftop of the Daily Planet. He was quiet, but you knew better. Through the silence you could practically hear the gears turning in his head.

“Why are you with him?” He finally asked, voice soft.

“I love him.”

Clark felt his jaw tick. “He treats you like garbage.”

“You just caught him in a bad moment.”

“Every one of his moments are bad, from what I’ve seen.”

You crossed your arms. “We’re engaged. I’m not just going to break things off cause he was kind of mean to you the other day.”

“I don’t care how he treats me. He was awful to you.”

“I… I know, okay? I get it. I just…”

“I miss you.”

“Clark.”

“I mean it. August is just around the corner. Ma says you don’t plan on coming back to the farm this summer,” he mentioned, fiddling with his hands.

You swallowed. Okay, now you felt caught. 

“Sam has a work thing.”

“And you have to stay behind for that?”

He had a point. You knew he did. But you’d never had a serious relationship before this. You’d dated, sure. Had some long-term things, but they never lasted. They never ended in an engagement. Legally, you weren’t locked in yet. But it still felt like you had an obligation. It was… complicated. Sam had a way of making you feel like you should stay.

“He didn’t want me going alone.”

“You wouldn’t be alone.”

“Being with you wouldn’t exactly ease his nerves,” you mutter.

He reached over, taking your hand in his. You knew you shouldn’t let him, you knew it felt too good. It made your heart beat in a way it shouldn’t. But you couldn’t bring yourself to move. You looked up at him, his face unobscured by those silly frames he always had to wear now. Your eyes traced the familiar slope of his nose, the hue of his eyes, the way his jaw moved when he was holding back from saying more.

“Please?” Clark whispered, giving you those puppy dog eyes that you’d always given in to since you were little.

After several arguments with Sam, and a hell of a lot of convincing that it was just because your parents wanted to see you, you were walking up to the front door of the Kent’s farm house. You swallowed, shoving down the nerves that you’d somehow incur your fiancé’s wrath just by standing there. You reached up to knock, but the door opened before you had the chance. Mrs. Kent smiled brightly at you as she pulled you into a tight hug.

It felt like home, being at the Kent’s for the summer again. Even if the ‘summer’ was really just a week or so. Your parents were happy to have you around again, especially since you hadn’t visited much since you’d moved to Metropolis. Mrs. Kent had a million questions about your upcoming wedding and your fiancé, and Clark bit his cheek to avoid telling everyone how he acted behind closed doors. 

But the second he got you alone again, he couldn't help himself any longer.

“You can’t marry him,” he said with a sigh, leaning on the doorframe of his childhood bedroom. You always stayed in his room, and this time, instead of sleeping on the floor next to his bed, he took the couch in the living room.

You glared at him. “Clark.”

“I’m trying to look out for you, here.” His shoulders dropped as he walked in, watching you unpack your things in the top two drawers of his dresser as he sat on the edge of the bed. “You deserve to be happy.”

You were quiet, turning that over in your head several times before you found your voice again. You turned around, leaning against the dresser as you looked at him.

“It isn’t that simple.”

“You didn’t say any vows yet. It could be that simple.”

“But it isn’t,” you assert with a groan. You sit next to him on the bed. “I made a commitment. Sure, it’s not on paper just yet. But I’m not a quitter, and Sam… You don’t get it. I can’t just leave him.”

He sighed softly, just looking at you. He always looked at you like that, you realized. Like he was trying to memorize every square centimeter of your face. You breathed gently, chest rising and falling with each inhale. It was… quiet. In a good way. It always felt that way with Clark.

“I’m happy I came,” you say, changing the subject.

He looked a little disappointed, but nodded. “I am, too. Thank you. For coming.”

“Thanks for convincing me, Superman,” you said, nudging his shoulder with a small smile.

“Oh, quit.”

“What?”

He smiles when he sees you grinning back at him. “You keep making fun of the name.”

“It’s kinda silly, to be fair.”

“Alright, alright. It’s a little silly. But totally true,” he muttered with a wide grin, subtly flexing just to make you laugh.

“Cocky bastard,” you chuckle.

He hummed once, happily. This felt normal. Right. Like it should. He felt a funny feeling in his stomach when your head dropped carefully on his shoulder, and he let his hand rest on your knee in return.

“I’ve really missed you.”

“We still see each other,” you said, glancing up at him.

“I know, but… Not enough. It’s like right when we started really getting close and spending more time together, you… you kinda disappeared on me cause of him.”

“I didn’t disappear.”

“May as well have.”

You sat with that for a few moments, then lifted your head. You looked at him, close enough to really see each and every little fleck of gold in his bright blue eyes.

“I’m sorry.”

He shook his head. “It’s not your fault.”

“Kinda is.”

“No. It isn’t,” he reaffirmed.

You took in a slow breath. It felt nice, good even, not to be blamed. You’d grown too accustomed to taking the hit for everything that could feasibly be pinned on you. Even some things that didn’t seem like they made much sense ended up being your fault. Talked into blame over and over. You let your eyes trail over Clark’s face again. You’d always cared about him. Always had a crush. But it never seemed to go anywhere. Every lingering glance, every time you’d spent your evening laying together under the stars in the summertime, those few times during the year he and his parents would drop by for a surprise visit… It never led to anything.

Butterflies in your stomach, Clark’s blushed cheeks, and your mom asking what you two had talked about on your trip to the swimming hole. That’s all it ever amounted to. He never made a move. You never worked up the courage to tell him you liked him. Now, you were constantly under surveillance from your fiancé, noticing that you two were close. Maybe you stayed with Sam because underneath it all you were guilty. Or maybe he was just there when nobody else was a couple years prior. You didn’t really know why you stayed, only that you promised you would.

It didn’t feel like enough at that moment, though.

You leaned in before you knew it, lips pressing to Clark’s like you’d always wanted to. You heard him make a soft, surprised noise. But he didn’t pull back. Not right away.

You let yourself melt into it, hand against his stubbled cheek.

He pulled back first, his eyes wide and shocked, muttering apologies as if he’d been the one to kiss you first. 

You had a long week after that.

It was almost a month before you spoke again. One text from him, simply checking in. Neither of you talked about the kiss after it happened, but you never stopped thinking about it. But that one text turned to at least a handful every day. A quick hello turned into meeting up at cafés, telling Sam you were going out with a girl friend from work. Shared glances turned into hugs that lingered for far too long in Clark’s living room.

You sat on the chair in his apartment, and he leaned back on his arms on the ottoman across from you. You laughed, sharing stories from childhood and nightmares you’d dealt with at work. You finally picked up a few freelance ghost writing gigs on the side, but you were still stuck peddling wedding dresses on the side at a local boutique. Clark had really made his way at the Daily Planet. You were proud.

“You really need to get an actual couch. This sad, lonely chair in front of the tv just screams single-guy bachelor pad,” you mentioned with a snorted laugh.

“To be fair, I am a single guy.” He chuckles.

“Mm…” you hummed softly, nodding once as your smile faltered a little. Right. Single guy friend. Available guy friend. Just not to you. “I told Sam I was with Rebecca tonight, but honestly I don’t think he even listened.”

Clark swallowed. His guilt built and built every time Sam was brought up. He couldn’t stop thinking about you kissing him in his childhood bedroom. He’d always wanted to kiss you, he’d wondered what it would feel like since forever. He just didn’t expect it to happen while you were engaged to somebody else. He couldn’t stand Sam at all, but he didn’t feel right about moving in on you while you were with somebody. It wasn’t right. 

But you were so sweet. So pretty. So… taken.

“Maybe you shouldn’t keep lying to him. About where you are.”

You raised a brow. “Clark. Come on, he’d never let me out of the house again if he found out I was hanging out with you.”

“That’s not right.”

“Just… let me have this. It’s working. He’s been… happier. I get to see you. It’s a win-win.”

“But you’re lying to him.”

“Why does that matter?”

He let out a breath, his jaw clenching. He wished he had a good answer to that. One that you would listen to. But if he did get through to you and make you listen, he might not see you again. He couldn’t risk that. 

He scooted closer, holding out his hands until you placed yours in his. His thumbs brushed over your knuckles, one of them snagging on the diamond on your hand. He looked at it, twisting it a little.

“Can’t believe you’re gonna get married.”

“It’s… so weird. We were like five years old yesterday.”

He huffed a short laugh. “Yeah. Now you’re… all grown up.”

“So are you.”

He smiled a little, looking up at you. He tried, he really tried not to let his eyes drop. But you were looking at him the same way you did when you’d kissed him. His gaze fell to your lips, a sinking feeling in his stomach and a stirring in his pants made his heart race a little faster.

But… no.

He couldn’t.

You left not long after with a smile that covered up your disappointment. You didn’t exactly go over to his place with the intent to cheat on your fiancé. You knew that was wrong. You knew you should end things. But… Sam had a way of making you feel like you couldn’t leave. He’d all but said so with how many times he reminded you how lucky you were that he was so forgiving, that he put up with you and your mood swings. You knew you shouldn’t put up with him, but how do you get out from under someone's shoe? You hadn’t yet figured it out.

How do you leave someone you thought would be your forever?

How do you tell the person who’s always been there that you really want them?

Does it make you a bad person for not wanting to have to think about it? It certainly didn’t feel good or right, that much you knew. But you also knew that kissing Sam had never felt like kissing Clark.

Months passed. You still couldn’t stay away from him. At every chance you were making some excuse to sneak out of the apartment to meet with Clark. He’d bring you to all of your favorite places, never letting you pay a dime. He rationalized that if he did, you risked Sam finding out. If he paid, it wouldn’t be reflected on you at all. 

It helped that Sam had taken a third shift position. His pay increased, which was great for him. He was around a lot less, which was great for you. It started getting riskier, though. You’d begun inviting Clark to your apartment, and he’d only slip away once you fell asleep against his chest. You’d wake to Sam barging into your bedroom rather than Clark’s head on the pillow next to yours, trying to mask the obvious disappointment you felt each time it happened.

Things with him hadn’t gotten better. Less frequent, sure, with him being gone more often. But he was a master at picking fights, and at winning them. Each time you so much as suggested something he didn’t like, it was your fault. You were unkind, inconsiderate. He’d thrown around insults, but never directly. It kept the blame off of him on a technicality. It was exhausting.

So you’d hide away in your mind, covering up your sorrow using Clark’s arms as a shield.

But everyone has their breaking point.

“I just don’t know what to do,” you sighed, leaning into Clark’s side on your couch.

Clark glanced at you out of the corner of his eye. “You know what would change things.”

“You can’t expect me to do that.”

“You’re miserable.”

“Not when I’m with you,” you try a small joke.

He doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t even smile. “I just wish you’d… I wish you would move on. You deserve better than him. He doesn’t treat you well.”

You reached for his hand, playing with his fingers. He watched you do it, trying not to focus on the ring that was still ever-present.

“Are you really going to marry him?”

You didn’t answer. He looked at you.

“I don’t know. You could always object. It would be super dramatic.”

He huffed once. “That isn’t funny.”

You shrugged, tracing his face with your eyes yet again. As always, the gaze settled on his lips. He wet them once, drawing your attention even further. But the moment you leaned in, he backed away.

“Don’t.”

You went to protest, but he wouldn’t hear it. He stood, hands on his hips as he paced in your living room. It’s not that he didn’t want to kiss you, he just didn’t want it to happen because you were sad. He wanted you to kiss him because you loved him. He lingered in front of the door of the balcony. You called his name once, but he didn’t respond.

His back was turned, his eyes on the city below. It always needed him, there was always a way he could pick up the pieces for Metropolis. He didn’t know how to pick up the pieces for you without crossing some kind of line that he wasn’t sure he could live with.

He wanted you. More than anything. But not if he couldn’t keep you.

You watched him as he went through it all in his head. The way he tensed and relaxed as the thoughts cycled through. His back a wide expanse that covered your view from the door of your balcony. You were on the verge of begging. You weren’t above the action. You just needed something, needed him. So you sank to your knees silently, looking up at him.

“Clark,” you whispered, eyes trained on the back of his head.

“Yeah?”

You didn’t answer, just knelt there, waiting. He finally turned, his throat bobbing as he looked down at you. You stared up at him with wide, wanting eyes. On your knees like it was a form of worship. He opened his mouth, but words never came.

“Please.”

A short, breathy sound escaped his lips. “Honey, don’t–”

“Please. Please, Clark. You’ve always been there for me.”

He watched in awe and horror as you crawled closer, hands on his thighs with your wide, sparkling gaze on his.

“We can’t,” he whispered back as if it hurt him to say. You noticed the way his eyes went glossy. “I can’t. Not like this.”

“I need you.”

“No.”

“Yes.” You nuzzled your cheek against his leg, his body tensing as he tried to will away the erection straining against his jeans. “You’re always so sweet to me. You always have been. You always look out for me and you protect me and–”

“And I can’t help you cheat on someone.”

“You think what we’ve been doing already is totally kosher?”

He froze, looking down at you with a furrowed brow. He hadn’t touched you, he hadn’t crossed that line other than one measly kiss that he hadn’t even initiated. What had he done? Why was it wrong to be there for you? Someone had to make you feel special. To be considerate, to make you laugh, to hold you when you needed it. It wasn’t romantic. Not overtly. 

“Wh-what do you mean?”

“Clark,” you said with a soft voice, shaking your head. “You can’t seriously tell me all of this hasn’t meant anything.”

“Not… not nothing. Just not that.”

“So you don’t like me? I’ve seen the way you look at me. The way you lean into me at every chance. We’ve practically been dating the past few months. I think we already crossed that line.”

He murmured your name with closed eyes, his jaw tense. He didn’t want to think about that. He wasn’t that kind of person. He wouldn’t ever help someone cheat.

But he had.

He didn’t want to admit it, but you were right. The way he held you, the way he spoke with you, the way he looked at you… none of it had been friendly as of late. But if he never touched you, did it really count? He wished it didn’t. He wished it had happened in a different way. That you were single and free, and he had swept you off your feet. That he’d have kissed you on the first date, not that you’d leaned in first in his childhood home because you were lonely and desperate and knew he wouldn’t back away. He’d have taken you to bed after the fifth or sixth date, making sure you felt as special as he believed you to be. He’d have gone home to his parents, telling them he finally got the girl.

He didn’t think it would be like this. He didn’t feel like the good guy this time.

“I can’t do this. I can’t. You’re right, it’s gone too far already, and I can’t cross this line.”

Your lip quivered, face still pressed to his thigh as your eyes closed. You were broken down, tired, hurt… and you wanted this more than you’d wanted anything before. You wanted to feel loved. Not blamed.

“I’m so tired, Clark.”

“I know. I know you are,” he mumbled, voice low. He sank down with you on the floor, gathering you into his arms. “I know, but I can’t do that. You can’t ask me that.”

A rattling breath left your lungs, your face pressed to his neck. “I… I’ll leave him.”

Clark paused, stilling entirely. He hardly took a breath.

“You’ll…what?”

“I’ll leave him. I promise I will.”

His eyes found yours, searching them for something. Some kind of confirmation that you weren’t lying. That you’d actually do it. 

“You will?”

“Yes. I promise I will, I just… Give me a reason to.”

He nearly whimpered, pressing his forehead to yours silently. He sniffed, feeling the tears on his cheeks before he really realized he’d begun crying. He didn’t mean to. He was just overcome with emotion. Guilt, joy, need, love.

“Promise?”

You nodded, reaching up to wipe the tears from under his eyes. “Promise.”

He finally gave in. His hands framed your face as his lips met yours. You weren’t in the clear yet, but you promised you would be. He held onto that promise with an iron grip. He let you lead him to the bedroom you’d shared with your fiancé. He wondered how many times he’d taken you here. If you even enjoyed it, or if you faked it and had to take care of yourself later in the shower. He tried putting it all out of his head as he watched you sprawl out on the bed, peeling off your clothes. He blindly tugged all of his off, spurred on once you were bare, your legs spread for him. Just for him.

He felt himself puff up with pride when your eyes locked onto his length, throbbing and leaking for you. Begging to be inside of you. But not yet.

His eyes were locked on your face, your chest, your neck. He watched your every movement and every small breath from between your legs, grinding himself against the bed as he tasted you. He couldn’t get enough. He knew you’d be perfect, but this was like heaven. His eyes fluttered when your hands tangled in his hair, pushing him further into your cunt. 

He moaned, circling your entrance with one thick finger. He teased until you were whining and whimpering so much he was sure you’d start crying at any moment from wanting. The feeling was mutual for him. He finally sunk his finger inside of you, eyes locked on your face as you gasped and writhed under him. He groaned into you when you moaned out his name over and over. He liked that. He liked being the one you were begging for.

He fit another finger into you, trying to prepare you for his cock. He wanted it to feel as good as possible, to leave a stellar first impression. He hoped you’d let him reshape you to every vein and ridge and inch of him over time. He hoped you’d never take anyone else.

It wasn’t long before you were over the edge, body convulsing and soaking his face as your orgasm hit you hard. He sucked hard on your clit, forcing it out of you with such tender care that you were certain you saw the light. You pushed his head away from you after a moment, sufficiently overstimulated.

“Good?” He looked at you, face searching for approval.

You nodded easily. “So good. Need you.”

He let out a breath, accepting a condom you’d pulled out of your nightstand. It was a tight fit, but he managed to get it on, gazing down between your legs, so wet and inviting, drawing him in. He dragged himself through your wetness, his tip leaking precum into the condom already. He almost lost himself when his eyes trailed up your body, landing on your face.

“Please,” you whispered.

“Almost there, baby. Almost. Gotta go slow.”

“You’re so big.”

“I know, honey. Shh…”

He pressed his tip in, a choked sound in his throat as he watched you swallow him. Your soft, needy sounds were music to his ears. He pushed in further, little by little, torn between watching your face and your cunt. He was halfway in when he collapsed on top of you, wrapping your legs around his waist, his face in your neck. His lips left sloppy kisses along the slope of your shoulder, shallow thrusts beginning to open you up for him. 

“Oh, fuck… just like that, Clark.”

“Okay,” he whispered back, nodding.

He tried keeping it slow, only pushing in further when he was sure you could take it. He was almost seated entirely when you both heard a soft snapping noise.

You looked confused for a second, but when you noticed the shocked expression on Clark’s face, it was no longer a mystery: the condom broke. But he didn’t stop. His moans grew louder, needier, as he felt all of you. Your warmth choking out his length.

“M’sorry. I’m sorry, it feels too good. Don’t hate me,” he whined, sheathing himself fully as he continued pushing against you despite the break. His hips moved faster, each thrust pushing your body into the mattress. “So good.”

You moaned in the back of your throat, hands moving over his shoulders and back, scratching your nails through his hair. He shuddered against you as he felt the sharp drag against his scalp, cock jumping inside of you.

“Baby, m’sorry,” he repeated, his tears soaking your skin. He didn’t just mean the condom breaking. He was sorry for all of it. For not being with you sooner. For being the other man. “I’m sorry.”

“D-don’t. Fuck. Don’t be sorry, Clarkie. Don’t be. This is perfect. I need it. I need you.”

He let out a shaking breath as he ground his hips against yours, relishing in the way your walls clung to him. He felt locked inside of you, like he couldn't escape you if he tried. Maybe he couldn’t. He’d always wanted this, to be close to you. He dreamed of it more times than he could count, ruining his sheets by the time he woke up, his skin burning with the ghost of your hands on him. Nothing compared to the real thing.

The sound of your soft breaths, tiny, sweet noises falling from your lips every time he thrusted into you. It was everything he wanted, and it was all wrong. He groaned, dragging his teeth up your neck. His hand pushed your arm up onto the pillows beneath your head, his eyes glancing upward. His thrusts became a little sharper when he saw that terrible little ring on your finger sparkling at him.

“Clark…” you moaned, head thrown back and eyes squeezed shut.

He looked down at you, a soft whine in the back of his throat. The girl he’d loved forever. He finally had you, but… he didn’t. Not yet. He swallowed, kissing your lips once before he moved his hand over yours. He felt for the stone sticking out on the band of the ring, closing his fingers around it. He tugged, putting in a little effort to pull it off of your finger. You opened your eyes, seeing his brows furrowed after he’d taken your ring off. Oh.

You watched, only a few moans leaving your throat instead of words that probably should’ve told him to stop as he tossed the ring towards your closet. 

“Tell me I’m better.”

“What?” 

He grunts. “Tell me I’m better. I know you better, I can please you better than he can. I know I can. I kn–oh. I know it. Am I bigger?”

“Y-yeah. Yes, you’re bigger.”

“I’m better?”

“So much better, baby.”

Soft groans left him. He fucked into you faster, harder, but still like he loved you more than anything. He blinked away tears again, his hands bracketing your face as he kissed over your cheeks and lips.

“M’close,” you breathed out.

“I know. I can feel it. I can hear your heart.”

“Gonna cum.”

“I know, baby.”

He moved his hips more intentionally, trying hard to hit that soft spot in you each and every time. His breathing sped up, his lips parted as he watched you come undone from his cock. He couldn’t imagine anything better than this.

“M’gonna cum,” you moaned again.

“Yes. Yes, you can cum, baby. Cum for me. Please, I want to feel you.”

You whined, voice loud and broken as you finished for the second time that night, squeezing his dick hard. He gasped, eyes fluttering as he watched your face twist in pleasure. Pleasure he gave to you. You’d never felt anything quite like it. Not like this. 

“Baby… shoot. I’m…”

“Don’t pull out.”

Clark’s eyes fell to yours, shining. “What?”

“Don’t pull out, please.”

“The condom broke.”

“I know.”

Clark shattered, tears falling again, the drops landing on your face as he held himself up above you, his forehead pressed to yours. You felt him tense, spilling inside of you with a cry of your name over and over again. You tasted the salt of his tears on your lips, his hips still grinding against yours.

“Oh… I… I love you. I love you.”

“What?” you whimpered.

Shit. Clark shuddered, finally stilling on top of you. He hadn’t meant to say that out loud. Not right now.

You breathed heavily under the weight of his body, hands still around his shoulders.

“Clark?”

“I–I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to say that.”

“You… did you mean it, though?”

His lip was pulled between his teeth as he leaned back up, looking at you flushed and gorgeous underneath him. Of course he meant it.

“Yes. I mean it.”

“Oh.”

“I didn’t mean to say it, though, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry. It’s okay.” You smiled, brushing a few stray hairs from his forehead.

He sighed against your lips as you kissed him again, letting himself melt into your touch.

He spent the next few days in a flurry of emotions. He hardly slept, he was sloppy at work, distracted as Superman. He told you he loved you, and you kissed him. But you didn’t say it back. You told him you’d break things off with Sam, but he didn’t know if you actually had or not. He couldn’t stop thinking about what it had felt like to touch you.

He waited almost a week before he heard from you again. His phone rang in his pocket on his walk home, and he quickly fished it out. He breathed out your name as he answered, pressing the device to his ear. You greeted him back.

“We should… we should talk. If you’re free tonight.”

He gulped. “G-good news or bad news?”

“Your place? Around eight?”

He agreed, his stomach doing cartwheels. He didn’t know what to make of this. He hoped that you were coming to tell him it was over with Sam. He was terrified that you would tell him you couldn’t. 

He did his rounds after work as Superman, intervening in every tiny dispute he heard across the city just to kill the time. To try to not think about it. He finally got home, cleaned every square inch of his apartment, and took a long shower.

It seemed like forever before he heard your soft knock on the door of his apartment. He rushed over, pulling the door open quickly. A hard breath left his mouth when he looked down to see you toting along a duffel bag and a suitcase.

“Oh, thank goodness,” he breathed, pulling you into his arms. “You did it?”

“Yes.”

He tilted your head up, lips against yours before you could blink twice. You let him pull you inside, his arms around your waist to hold you against his body. Your arms circled his neck, your bags left by his front door that he kicked closed.

His entire being was consumed. All he could feel and think was you, you, you. Over and over again. All night long. 

You woke to the sun streaming through the window, groggy and mentally preparing for the slam of a door invading your ears. But it never came. What did come was Clark’s arms around your waist, his chest pressed to your back.

“Good morning,” he whispered, hearing your breathing shift as you woke.

You turned in his arms, kissing him. “Good morning.”

“A-are you okay?”

“I’m so… so happy.”

He smiled brightly, kissing you once more. You leaned back, watching his face for a minute. He looked at you in the softest way imaginable. Like he loved you. Because he did.

“I don’t want to be presumptuous, but… would you maybe want to go out with me?”

You chuckled. “Yeah. Yes, I’d really like that.”

“Good,” he said, his voice dreamy and deep. “I’ll, uh… I’ll go make us some coffee, okay?”

You nodded. “Okay.”

He started moving, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed.

“Clark?”

He stopped, turning his head towards you. “Yeah?”

“Why?” You question slowly. Your eyes briefly fly to Ben who’s scribbling on the coffee table, he looks up curiously when he sees the familiar face.

“Uncle Scott,” he beams in greeting.

Scott matches that expression, the sweetest he’s ever looked, as he comes over and ruffles his hair. “Hey, big man, what’re you working on?”

“Me, mom, and dog.”

“Dog, huh?” he chuckles, “I’m sure we can arrange that.”

Ben brightens, hopeful eyes turning to you. You’re going to strangle this man. “Let’s talk about it after dinner, bud.” Your narrowed eyes switch over to Scott. “A word?”

He confidently strolls back over to you, disregarding your glare as he begins to pull out all sorts of things. Mushrooms, vegetables, packs and packs of meat. USDA Prime. Jesus Christ— “What are you doing?”

“Unpacking groceries.”

You pinch his side. He’s built like a brick wall, he doesn’t even flinch. “Scott.”

He says your name in response. A teasing lilt hanging to each letter.

“Why are you here? What is all this?”

“Groceries.”

“Don’t be an ass. Why did you extend your trip?”

“To spend time with you.” He begins to organize your fridge. Worst part? He knows exactly how you like your fridge arranged so he’s putting all the things in all the right places.

“I’m serious,” you hiss.

“What makes you think I’m not?”

You swallow, gaze flying to Ben again who’s back to drawing out his dream dog. It looks more like a deformed puppy but you get the gist of it. “We can’t—” you take a deep breath, “Listen, Ben is young. He’s going to latch onto you if you keep coming around.”

“Would that be so bad?”

The question infuriates you. You scowl, “Are you fucking kidding me? That would be a nightmare. What happens when you leave? He’s going to be asking around for Uncle Scott who will never come around again. There’s a reason why I don’t bring around just anyone to meet him.”

Scott’s eyes tighten almost imperceptibly, but you know him better than that. “You bring others around to meet him?”

“I— no, that’s not what I meant. Jenna’s really the only person who comes over other than my mom. The staff at the hospital know because he pops by time to time. I don’t— I’m careful about who I expose him to. I don’t want to have to answer questions about where someone went or pick up the pieces of a boy who shouldn’t have his heart broken because people disappear on him.”

He seems to mull over this for a moment. His next question sends a shock through your system.

“Who says I’m leaving again?”

Your heart slams against your ribs. Traitorous little thing is getting excited for nothing. “What’re you talking about?”

“Storm Par is set up and running. We have a good team down in Oklahoma always collecting data. I’ve been managing mostly strategy and investor relations.” He looks a little too pleased when he says, “I need to be closer to potential funders anyway, a lot of them are in the northeast.”

“You’re not—” Your breath hitches in your throat, “you’re not considering moving back, are you?”

A proud look settles on his face. “Just signed for a sublet for the next couple of months while I look for a more permanent apartment. How’s this neighborhood? I don’t remember it being particularly nice, but it seems good. How do you feel about moving?”

“Scott,” you snap. “That’s insane. You can’t just— that’s crazy. You were literally supposed to leave today. Suddenly, you’re deciding to stay here? On a whim? What’s wrong with you?”

“Not a whim, I’ve been thinking about it. I’ve… just decided it’s the right move.”

“In one night?”

“I don’t need more time than that.”

You give him a look. “That’s stupid.”

“It’s efficient decision-making.”

“Scott.”

“What’s for dinner? Does he have any allergies?”

“Scott.”

He takes a deep breath, sapphire eyes dulled out as he looks up at the ceiling, praying for some lord almighty to save him. “We can spend all night arguing about this but it’s a done deal. I like Boston, I’ve decided to come back. Is that so hard to believe?” Before you can say yes, absolutely, Scott continues, “I’ve thought about this for a while. Trust me when I say I am not doing this impulsively and I’m not just going to change my mind.”

The two of you are locked in a stare-down, neither budging. Two stupidly stubborn fools.

Scott’s eyes are jagged when they first land on yours, sharp in a way that could cut. But the longer he looks at you, the more they thaw, like ice melting in the changing of seasons. It’s a soft transition that warms your frozen heart.

However, then his gaze trails to your mouth, the way they’re parted, teeth peeking out in aggravation, tongue pressing against your teeth as your jaw is clenched. His eyes go molten, scorching as they sear into your skin, tracing your bare shoulders, the length of your neck, exposed collarbones.

“Should put more on you,” he mutters.

“What?” You jerk back, confused.

“Nothing. Dinner? I don’t know how to cook.”

“Then get your own damn dinner, I’m not cooking for you.”

He challenges you with a raise of his eyebrow. “But I bought groceries.”

“That I didn’t ask for.”

“I fuckin’ forgot how bull-headed you are sometimes. Arguing for the sake of arguing.” He huffs a laugh through his nose, hip leaning against your counter, eyes sparkling. “If you wanted to fuck, just say so.”

His voice is low, low enough that you know Ben doesn’t catch it over the sound of the television, but it still puts you on high alert. “Can you not say insane things when my son is around?”

“Always picked a fight when you wanted a fuck,” he smirks.

Your lips part, ready to tell him off, but he turns to the sink instead, beginning to wash his hands.

“Now, what do you need help with?”

Scott’s reappearance has thrown your life for a loop, adding this new, uncontrolled variable that you’re not sure how to handle. He drops you off and picks you up from work. The moment he heard that you’ve been taking the train an hour each way to work, he made that call with no room for argument. He refuses to even drop you off a block away from the hospital so you end up with your coworkers’ curious eyes on you when you’re pulling up every morning in Scott’s stupidly shiny car.

“Have a good day at work, honey,” he would call out obnoxiously through the open window.

The furious glare you throw his way does nothing to deter this behavior. Now, you’re bombarded with questions about him every time you have a moment to yourself, which means you no longer have a shred of peace at work.

He comes by nearly every evening; you say nearly because you had to cut him off, tell him that he cannot show up every single day.

“Why not?”

“Scott. You can’t just come here everyday, he’s going to get confused. You are not family.”

“Yet.”

“What?”

“Fine. Every other day, but full weekends.”

It’s a compromise that you tried to negotiate down, but he refuses to budge on.

The worst part is that Scott is terrific with Ben.

He’s smart and answers all of Ben’s questions with tact. The moment your son learns that Scott works with tornadoes, chasing after them and being smack dab in the middle of the action, he’s absolutely enthralled. You have to emphasize to Scott that you will murder him if Ben ever tells him that he wants to be a tornado chaser.

“I’ll protect him, don’t worry,” is all he says.

You still worry.

Beyond that, Ben seems to enjoy his company, has started asking when Uncle Scott would be coming around again so he could show him the progress he’s made on the massive Superman LEGO set that Scott had gotten him.

“You can’t spoil him too much,” you frown when he pops by on his assigned day, a gift box in hand. It’s the fourth in two weeks.

“He’s a kid. He likes toys.”

“You can’t spoil him,” you mutter.

Your worry is partially rooted in the fact that you can’t just give Ben whatever he wants, whenever he wants, but it also stems from your guilt for not being able to provide all this. It’s not as if you’re not making money; you save enough from your salary, but Boston is an expensive city.

Scott seems to understand this. He dials it back, but you know that he’s itching every time Ben mentions something new he’s curious about. He just picks and prioritizes what he gets him.

Otherwise, he’s good. Too good even. That seems to be a pattern when it comes to him.

You tell yourself it’s because he doesn’t know he’s the father. It’s less commitment, less pressure. He plays the role of a cool uncle who showers Ben with gifts and attention.

Scott has pressed again, of course — who’s the father, when did this happen, do I need to have a conversation, you could fight for child support — to which you answer no repeatedly. An easy denial to give him none of the answers he’s looking for. It never stops him from asking again; he thinks he’ll wear you down eventually.

Truth be told, you think that Scott will bore himself soon. He can’t possibly be serious about permanently moving back to Boston. You’re convinced that in the next couple of weeks, he’ll realize that this pretend domesticity isn’t the life he wants, and he’ll pack up his bags again and leave. When that day comes, you won’t be disappointed.

As long as he never finds out Ben is his son, you’ll be fine.

(Maybe if you repeat it enough times, you’ll actually believe your own words.)

However, you seem to have a knack for putting your foot in your mouth and speaking too soon, because your worst nightmare comes to fruition one day when you let your guard down. Usually, you do a pretty good job of keeping track of their conversations, making sure they stay on safe territory that gives away nothing. Ben has zero clue about his father anyway, so there’s nothing really to give away.

Or so you think.

You’re caught up trying to balance sending work emails and batting away your mother’s efforts to inquire more about Scott. She’s been badgering you nonstop to learn more about your history, prodding Scott whenever she’s here to share more, even going as far as to drop the most obvious hints.

“You know, she is very single. Incredibly single.”

“Mother!”

“I’m aware,” Scott smirks. “Refuses to let me change that.”

You don’t appreciate the way he’s looking at you now, how your body is tingling all over from the memories. The press of his fingers on your hip, how his mouth feels mapping out the curve of your breasts, the burn between your legs when he pushes himself in with a hungry groan.

Heat unfurls across your face and you’re quick to turn away, missing how your mother and Scott share knowing looks.

But now that she’s not here, she’s still torturing you with incessant, inane questions about him. The only thing you manage to catch in the midst of your stress is Scott saying, “Your birthday’s in Decem—”

You don’t think much of it. Not for a moment. Until it hits you.

By the time you look up, Scott’s already directing his eyes towards you. Your blood runs cold.

It’s not a question. He knows. He’s not a fool.

Born the December in the year that you graduated college, it’s not difficult to do the math on when Ben was conceived. If you retrace your steps, it’s not difficult to know who had done the conceiving.

The two of you don’t address it, not out loud. Not yet. Your brain is short-circuiting, trying to configure an excuse or a lie that would work in this instance. You’re running on empty, especially when your heart is beating straight out of your chest. Everything feels hot, your body can’t seem to handle this stress very well.

You have maybe an hour left before Ben’s due for bed and you’re half tempted to keep him awake because that means keeping Scott’s anger at bay. You can feel it roll off him in waves, crackling energy that zaps you even from this distance.

The minutes tick down much too quickly and, before you know it, Ben is yawning on cue and you’re getting him ready for bed. You spend a little longer than necessary tucking him in, reading him his story, all the while Scott is standing in the doorway watching the two of you.

He’s being considerate of Ben, maintaining his distance before he probably rips you a new one. You appreciate it, but you press an extra kiss or two onto your son’s face before you exit the room — for good luck.

When the two of you are back in the living room, Ben completely out cold to the world, Scott doesn’t ask. He simply states the irrefutable truth.

“He’s mine.”

You clear your throat. “Technically, he’s mine.”

“Don’t fucking act cute with me right now,” he snarls, jabbing his finger in the direction of the hallway both of you just left. “That’s my kid in there. Are you fucking kidding me?”

Wincing, you take a step away from him. “Can we not do this?”

“Like hell I’m letting this slide. You’ve got to be shittin’ me. That’s my kid. Ben is mine.”

The pulsing in your head only worsens the harder he glares, the more he seethes. “You’re the father. Doesn’t make him yours.”

You hear the sharp intake of breath. The confirmation landing firm in his chest. “Why the fuck wouldn’t you tell me?”

“Why does it matter?” You snap, throwing his irritated look right back at him.

“You’ve got to be on another fucking level of insane to think it doesn’t matter.”

“I was going to,” you begin, “tell you, I mean, but the timing never felt right.”

Scott looks at you, completely aghast. “Timing never felt right? You knew. You knew before I left, before we graduated. All those times you didn’t want to drink, didn’t want to eat sushi, this was why. You had all the fucking time in the world to tell me.”

“Would it have changed anything?”

“It would’ve changed everything!”

Your lungs feel devoid of oxygen as you look at Scott, his frustration palpable. Fury is carved into the lines of his face, eyes blazing with the sort of anger you’ve never seen on him. However, in between the twist of his lips and the fire in his gaze, you see a flicker of something warmer. Softer.

Hurt.

The kind of hurt that comes with a betrayal that you cannot take back.

Scott breathes out. “I would’ve been here for you.”

“I never asked you to.”

“You never asked,” he spits out, “you never let me make that decision for myself. Instead, you let me believe that I had fucked up something between us. You cut me off and I didn’t even know why.”

“It would’ve been selfish,” you argue.

“It would’ve been fair,” he insists. “You should’ve trusted me to make my own judgment call.”

Your fingers wring together in front of you. Is this it then? The point of no return. You can’t seem to find the words to say to remedy the situation.

“I didn’t want you to have to choose,” you murmur. “Between me and your dream.” The unsaid words being I didn’t want to watch you choose your dream over me.

Scott has always been larger than life. He is meant for greater things, to innovate and create. He has gone so far since you first met him. He’s become an even bigger person than you could’ve imagined.

What right did you have to hold him back from all that?

“Again, that’s not for you to decide,” he sighs, “Have you ever considered they’re one and the same?” Your gaze flies up to meet his weary one. “You’re an idiot,” Scott mutters. “So fuckin’ stupid.”

You press your lips together into a thin line. “Thanks a lot, asshole.”

“Does he know?”

With a shake of your head, you lean back. “No, he’s been… pretty good at not asking too many questions about who his dad is. It’s only a matter of time before that curiosity grows though, especially once he starts school and the other kids will undoubtedly ask him.”

“I can help you with all that, you know. I am his father after all.”

Wincing, you swallow thickly. “You don’t have to, Scott. It was my decision to go through with the pregnancy. You don’t have to feel like you have to participate.”

“Why do you keep saying it like that?” He lets out an exasperated sound. You frown in question. “Like I don’t want to be here. For him. For you.”

“I— I just don’t want you to feel pressured to—”

“Sweetheart,” he begins and your heart feels like it’s been dipped in syrup, “I don’t do anything I don’t want to do. I’ve been present, haven’t I? And that was before I even knew he was mine. What makes you think I’m going to change my mind?”

“It’s different! Being here to support me as a friend and being here as— as his dad! As a parent.”

Scott looks up to the ceiling again, inhaling deep through his nostrils. “Tell me how it’s different.”

“A fun uncle is not a co-parent.”

“So I want to co-parent.”

“You don’t know what that means.”

“It means being here for you, for him. It means having equal responsibility and stakes in raising him. It means you’re not doing this alone.”

A lump grows in your throat as you look at him. His determination is evident.

“So I’m going to need you to get it through that thick skull of yours that I’m not going anywhere. I’m going to piss you off, you’re going to piss me off, but we’ll make it work.”

You laugh, tears pricking the corner of your eye. “Maybe if we don’t kill each other first.”

His lips curve into a smirk. “You can’t kill me. I’m your baby daddy after all. Fucked you so hard that your birth control didn’t work.”

You almost choke on your own spit. “You’re such a piece of shit.”

He laughs. “Don’t forget the father of your child.”

Your fingers are itching to make contact with his cheek. He really can be such an asshole sometimes. He knows exactly which buttons to push. Repeating the fact that he’s Ben’s father, reminding you again that he knows your big secret now. The worst part is you know that he’s doing it intentionally; the more irritated he gets you, the better the sex. He likes it when you fight back, when you push him.

He likes it when he can put you in your place.

“Some friend you are,” you grunt.

Scott’s rising to his feet, moving towards you. With every step he takes forward, he backs you up until your lower spine lands against the kitchen counter.

“Let’s get one thing clear,” Scott says low, coming up to press you against the solid surface. With both hands planted on either side of you, he leans towards you. Your breath catches. “We’re not friends. We haven’t been for a while.”

“That’s… mean,” you whimper.

“The things I want to do with you — to you — they’re not things friends do.”

There’s a promise in his gaze that has your heart fluttering, your stomach curling with desire as heat builds between your legs.

It’s hard to breathe when he’s this close. Hard to even think. Your palm flattens against his firm, broad chest, applying pressure in a feeble attempt to put some distance. Except now you can’t help but feel the way his pecs feel underneath your fingers and you can picture yourself on top of him, sinking down on his cock while your hands are planted on his skin.

Heaven have mercy.

“Things are different now,” you gulp.

“You think I still can’t make you cum three times in a night?”

Your lips part. “That’s not—” Heat climbs up your throat. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

Scott chuckles. “I hope you know that this only makes me want you even more. You’re stupid if you think I’m ever letting you out of my sight again.”

“Just because you want to be here and be a father does not mean that it changes anything between us.”

His joy quickly morphs into irritation again. “Why not?”

“Because Ben will always come first and we can’t… just keep fucking.”

“Again, why not?”

Because I’m in love with you. Because I’m going to get my heart broken again.

“I want to maintain some boundaries. It’ll be better for us that way.”

Scott is quiet, thoughtful as he regards you, before he straightens. “Okay then. You do that. You maintain your boundaries.”

“Thank you.”

“Doesn’t mean I’ll be helpin’ you do that,” he laughs, bitter as he smiles at you. A threat laced into his expression. “Better prepare yourself, sweetheart. I’m not here to protect your walls. I’m here to break them down.”

“We should go out.”

Your gaze lifts from your laptop, eyes instinctively wandering down the hall to Ben’s room where he’s safe and sound asleep, then back to Scott who’s on his own laptop on the dining table. “Like to get groceries?”

“No, for dinner.”

You look over your shoulder, to the take-out menus stuck to the fridge with a mismatched set of magnets. “There’s a pizza place Ben likes down the street. We could go tomorrow.”

“Finally letting me in two days in a row?” Scott cocks an eyebrow.

A glare is all he gets in return.

“I meant us. Just the two of us.”

Your fingers stop, hovering over the keyboard. “Why?”

“So I can take you out.”

“Why?”

“To spend some time together. You know, outside of parenting.”

Parenting still sounds foreign on his tongue, at least to you. Scott seems to have settled in comfortably with the title, taking on the mantle even without the official acknowledgment. The two of you agreed to ease Ben into it; he seems to have taken a liking towards Scott so at least telling him may be easier than you initially anticipated.

However, considering the situation at hand, you can only ask, “Why?”

“How old are you?” Scott snaps.

“I don’t think we need to do anything together outside of parenting.”

“Why not?”

It’s your turn to give him a look. “We are two people who happen to be raising a child together. Somewhat.”

“But we’re friends first.”

“I think co-parenting supersedes the friend label now, which means I can’t be doing that with you. Not alone.” 

He knows you’re being obstinate for the sake of it, pissing him off just because you can. However, he doesn’t take the bait. 

“You know what, you’re right, sweetheart. Let me rethink this.”

Scott was never one to give up easily. On the contrary, when presented with a challenge, he rises to the occasion. He goes above and beyond.

It starts off innocuous enough, subtle that you nearly think that all of it is accidental. When he’s trying to help around the kitchen and he reaches across you, arm brushing your breasts. Your nipples perk up on instinct, seeking the familiar warmth of his touch like you’ve been trained. He doesn’t say a thing so you brush it off as inconsequential. His hand on your hip when he’s excusing himself behind you. His eyes on you when he licks his thumb clean off the brownie batter you’re making.

It doesn’t matter. It shouldn’t matter. These tiny touches, interactions that shouldn’t mean anything. You shouldn’t be reacting this way. You tell yourself it’s because it’s been a while since you got laid last — unfortunately, by none other than the source of your frustrations.

But then the touches become firmer, intentional in a way that you can’t miss. He’s slipping an arm around your waist when he picks you up at the hospital, head ducking to press a kiss to the side of your head, all the while you’re mid-conversation with a coworker who then scurries away under Scott’s glare. In the car, he’s sliding a possessive hand over your thigh, squeezing when he asks you about your day. He has a hand pressed against your lower back at all times, practically manhandling you when you move around different spaces.

And god do you fucking love it. Maybe it’s because you’ve been deprived of physical touch for so long, you haven’t had anyone in your corner reminding you that they’re there. But you also know yourself better than that and the only reason all of this works is because it’s Scott and you were in love with Scott.

You tell yourself it’s all in the past. This is the remnants of your feelings long forgotten from your more youthful self.

But then it all disappears. The touches. The fleeting glances. The flirty smiles. The difference is jarring and you can’t help but notice the extra space he puts between the two of you when you’re walking with Ben, keeping him in between you two. Or how he moves away from the kitchen when you enter it, and again when you move into the living room. Or how his question actually sounds polite when he asks you how work went.

How he doesn’t even blink twice when you tell him a colleague — that same one that he had scared away — had asked you out to dinner.

The frustration builds inside of you, like he’s crafting a wall with the distance brick by brick. You find yourself leaning towards him only for him to shift in his seat and away from you. The inches between you on the couch feel like they stretch for miles, his arm extended on the other side instead of behind your back.

You feel like an addict seeking a fix, constantly chasing after him — subtly, not enough for it to be obvious, but certainly enough for him to notice.

So, by the time he suggests it again, he’s Pavlov’d you to seek his attention. Fucker.

“Do you want to spend the day together?”

You grit your teeth. Somehow, Scott has conspired with your mother that she whisked Ben away early this morning for a trip to the zoo and you end up with this asshole at your front door with a smirk on his face, shoulders squared, chin tilted up like he’s done something good.

“You did this on purpose.”

“What did I do?”

He knows exactly what he did. “All of it.”

“Come on. Get dressed.”

“You haven’t even told me where we’re going,” you snap.

“Nowhere you need anything fancy,” he says before steering you by the elbow out the door.

You allow yourself to be pushed into the car, he even straps your seatbelt in for you, before he’s driving. Destination still unknown. You try to ask and Scott tells you to just relax, tells you that you’re wrung up too tight.

Then he stops and you look quizzically out the window.

“I got you a massage appointment.”

You nearly break your neck at the speed you whip around to look at him. “What? Why?”

“Thought it would be a nice thing to do. You used to gather knots like you were starting a collection and I had to press all of that out for you. Figured, with all the years of build up and I highly doubt you’ve been smoothing those out, a professional could do a better job.”

At a loss, you find yourself only staring at him. He looks cocky, so damn proud that he’s done something right — that he knew exactly what you needed.

“Now get going, they’re not gonna find another timeslot for you.”

With your mind in a blur, you exit the vehicle. The spa is nice, a mix of lavender and eucalyptus in the air that has you relaxing almost instantly. The experience is… divine to say the least. For once, you have not a single thought in your mind and you find yourself melting into the table during your two-hour long session.

By the time you step back outside, after the people inside tell you that it’s been paid for, Scott is waiting out front. In a daze, you slip back into the car.

“Good?” is all he asks.

You nod slowly.

“Good,” he smiles, “now, let’s get you ready for dinner.”

Scott tells you that he’s taking you somewhere casual, but nice. Nice enough that you end up spending a bit of time washing your hair, doing your makeup, even fixing your hair a little bit. When you spritz on perfume, you tell yourself that it’s for your sake.

But you can’t deny that when you see Scott drink you in — how his blue eyes go ten shades darker, how his lips part when he gets a whiff of the florals clinging onto your skin — that it might’ve been for him too.

You would think a man like Scott would take you somewhere nice, somewhere you’re going to be gawking at the prices all night, wondering if you should even be in a place like that. But when he pulls up to a quiet corner in Cambridge, an Italian restaurant that seems all too familiar, you find yourself caught off guard.

“What? You would’ve preferred steak and fries at Del Frisco’s?” He’s chuckling quietly to himself, knowing full well what your answer would be.

Before you can reach for your door, Scott’s rounding the car and pulling it open, even going as far as to offer a hand.

He’s a perfect gentleman the entire night. When you hesitate on ordering because of the prices, Scott — the condescending prick that he is — orders for you, except he orders right. You’ve been eyeing that dish but you couldn’t do the math fast enough to figure out your budget for the month. He orders a bottle of red, your favorite — it’s nothing fancy, but it had been a step up when you felt like splurging in college. The food is delicious, reminiscent of the old days when he would treat you to a meal to make you feel better, right after he fucked you seven ways to Sunday.

You’re warm, body buzzing with your fill of food and wine. For the first time in a while, you feel a little lighter, like the world isn’t weighing down on your shoulders. Scott drives you back home and he stops right in front of your apartment building.

You know what’s coming. A proposition — as always. You’re going to say yes — as always. He’s always been a snake charmer, saying and doing all the right things to get one into bed with him. It worked on you for months. It used to work on all the ladies before he stopped using it on them.

It still works on you, considering you’re feeling that warmth between your legs. That anticipation humming in your veins. You can practically taste his mouth on you, the tartness from the wine mixed with the gelato you ordered for dessert. You take a breath in eager hopefulness.

However, when he walks you to the apartment entrance, he only kisses the back of your hand. “Have a good night, sweetheart.” Then he’s slowly making his way down the steps, leaving you completely gobsmacked.

You find yourself saying, “Wait,” before you can even think twice.

Scott halts, turns, a knowing smile dancing on his lips.

You should have more self-restraint. But when he’s looking at you with those bright blue eyes and an expression that promises you a good time, you’re only human.

“What is it?”

You fidget with the handle of your purse. “Where are you going?”

“Home,” he drawls, tilting his head like he’s waiting to see your next move.

“You’re not gonna stay?”

Scott’s lips quirk up, shfiting into a look too cocky for your liking. “Do you want me to stay?”

“Don’t be a dick.”

“Doesn’t sound like you do,” he makes a face, raising his shoulders in a shrug as he pretends to slowly turn back around.

You should let him go. You hope he has fucking blue balls tonight. However, that also means you’ll be left alone with your thoughts in an empty apartment and your vibrator on a Saturday night, and that sounds a heck of a lot less fun than getting your brains scrambled by the one man who knows exactly how to do that.

“Do you want to come up?”

It’s comical how quickly he whirls around to say, “Don’t mind if I do.”

The ride up the elevator is weighed down by tense silence. Your heartbeat echoes in your ears in time with the numbers that climb, a beep in rhythm to each floor. Scott stands next to you, hands planted on the railing casually, but you hear the impatient tapping of his shoe. When the elevator finally dings, he lets you leave first and you feel the burn of his gaze on your back, trailing the length of you down to the curve of your ass where the silk of your dress rests.

Your fingers are barely functional as you clumsily dig through your purse to open the door. It’s one thing to have someone watching you, it’s another to have Scott staring at you. The hungry look in his eyes, the way you can practically feel the heat radiate off him.

You don’t even get a chance to properly set aside your bag before Scott is pressing you up against the wall. He drinks in your surprised little gasp, your instinct to move away from him only has him backing you up against your kitchen counter. With you half-seated on it, Scott’s hands slide around your neck, cupping your cheeks so he can lick into your mouth. He takes the chance to slip his tongue in between your little gasps, tasting that sugar on your tongue.

“Fuck, sweetheart, been waiting to do that all night,” he groans as his mouth travels towards your neck instead, sucking on the delicate skin until you feel the sting spark every nerve inside your body. He does it over again, like he’s zapping you with electricity every time he leaves a new mark on your body.

You’re no better, your hands immediately crawling up his chest to find his buttons and fumble with them, slipping them out one at a time until you can shove his shirt off his shoulders. God, how is it possible that he seems even broader than before? Your palms explore his biceps, feeling the way they flex beneath your fingertips, muscles tensing into a firm surface for you to hold onto.

“You got… bigger,” you note in a daze. It’s ridiculous how drunk you feel right now and it’s certainly not from the wine. It’s his scent — masculine and clean. Like rain on freshly mowed grass, earthy in a way that grounds you. You can’t help but breathe him in, making a mental note that he still uses the same shampoo.

“A lot of time lugging around equipment out there,” he mutters. As if to prove a point, he lifts you up to the counter and wraps your legs around his waist. “Always getting drenched in the storms.”

Fuck. Terrible visual. You imagine him in a white short-sleeve shirt, the fabric soaking up all that rain and clinging to every inch of his muscles and leaving nothing to the imagination. His dusky nipples poking through the fabric. Curly brunette hair with droplets, that one stray hair on his forehead whenever it gets too humid. You can practically see the light smattering of hair on his chest, a path leading down to his navel.

God forbid that the women in Oklahoma have seen him like that. That’s a visual you’d rather keep to yourself.

Scott distracts you again when he brings his face back to kiss you. He kisses like he’s inhaling you, stealing every hitched breath from your lungs. His mouth is ravenous as it moves against you, teeth grazing your bottom lip lightly in a tantalizing threat. He finally nips and you let out a little whine that he laughs lightly at as he kisses you harder. Firmer. Soft lips, only slightly chapped, as they relearn what it is exactly that makes you moan down his throat.

“Love kissing you,” he mutters, “missed doing this. I want to do this everyday.”

You’re about to tell him why that would be a bad idea but you sigh dreamily instead, tipping your head back when he begins trailing wet kisses along your jawline again.

His hands wander to your back, dragging the zipper down quietly until your dress pools on the floor. His thumb brushes over your nipples peaking through the lace. “Missed these pretty tits too. Couldn’t get enough of them last time.” He ducks his head and tugs one free from your bra, lips closing in around your nipple in a wet heat. His groan reverberates straight through you, tongue laving around your pert nipple like he’s trying to coax it out.

As he does so, his other hand reaches for the clasp of your bra until you hear the little sound before it slides down your shoulders.

“Hands on the counter.”

“Bossy,” you murmur, but do so anyway.

Scott looks mildly surprised at your obedience and you can’t even bring yourself to care. You lean back slightly and spread your legs wider to let him step in between them, his mouth warm and sweet on your tits. He mouths hungrily at your breasts, biting, squeezing, until you’re a moaning mess arching into his touch. One of his hand slides down to your lower spine to yank you closer to him, pressing your core against the thickness in his pants.

“I’ve been hard all night lookin’ at you in that pretty dress,” Scott growls, “knew exactly what you looked like underneath it, couldn’t wait to take it off you.”

You appear to have lost your entire vocabulary when he slips that hand from your back to the space between you, two fingers against the panties that’s quickly gathering moisture. The whine that is pulled from your lips is instinctual. Pure primal need.

“Imagining you stretched out on that massage bed, naked, slicked up in oil. Fuck, I had to drive around and keep myself busy for two hours so I didn’t go back and do the job myself,” he huffs a laugh as he begins rubbing your clit over the material, arousal easing the slick of his fingers even with one layer between the two of you.

A gasp is wrenched from your throat as you stare at him, wide-eyed. “That’s— that’s ridiculous.”

Scott hums, shaking his head, pressing harder, pulling out another needy sound. “Stop bein’ so tense. You’re undoing all of that woman’s hard work.” Your eyes light up briefly. “I wasn’t going to let some other man touch you. I’m not an idiot.”

“You’re such a possessive asshole,” you let out a breathless laugh, “it’s just a massage.”

“Doesn’t matter. I’m going to be the only one that gets to touch these pretty tits. Not to mention, this—” he slides his fingers under your panties, gathering up the arousal from you slick folds on his fingertips and listening to the lewd squelch as he dips his fingers in just a tad. “You’re so goddamn wet.”

Instead of clamping your legs shut, embarrassed like you always have been, you can’t help but let your thighs fall apart further, giving him room to give you the pleasure that you so badly needed.

“You’re so much easier when you’re not stressed.”

That snaps you awake. “Oh, fuck you.”

Scott pushes two fingers in, the slide is swift and wet. “Just like that,” he grins as he slowly drags his fingers out only to shove them back in. He’s rough and he’s messy, you can hear how wet you are as he watches you come undone, thumb against your clit like he has something to prove. “Shit, sweetheart, you’re dripping all over the counter. You’re so messy, pretty girl.”

“S-Scott,” you moan, fingers wrapping around his wrist. “I c-can’t, mmm, please.”

“I know, I know, still so tight, aren’t you? I don’t want to hurt you,” he says as he slowly sinks to his knees. You look down to find him with his starry eyes looking right up at you as he sticks his fingers in his mouth. You can see the moment his eyes flutter shut as he tastes you, tongue lecherously poking out to lick his fingers clean. “Better than dessert.”

“You’re so corny—” your words split off into a choked gasp when Scott dives in between your legs. His tongue drags all the way up to your clit until you’re bucking against his mouth. He licks and devours, the roughness of his tongue sliding up your slick folds, lips closing in around your core, your clit, to suck until you’re shuddering against him. “Fuck, Scott, wait, slow down.”

Scott leans away, giving you a brief moment of reprieve — except, when you look down at him, his bottom half is glistening in the moonlight that spills across your floors. His eyes return to your pussy, just beneath your stomach that’s rising and falling with your labored breaths.

His index and middle fingers rest on each of your lips as he slowly pries them apart, your pussy pulses and there’s no doubt that he catches that movement. The slight tensing, squeezing, inside of you. “Look at this pussy spreading so wet and easy for me. She’s droolin’, sweetheart.”

As if he can sense another argument on your lips, Scott leans forward again to press kisses onto your inner thigh, blooming warmth with every spot he touches. He kisses up and up until he’s back with his face between your legs, your thighs closing in around his head until he’s practically suffocating in your cunt.

It’s the way he likes it though. His hands on your ass to drag you forward so he can tongue-fuck you faster, knowing full well you’re enjoying it when you’re grinding against his face with tears leaking from your eyes and his name said in prayer.

That pleasure coils humiliatingly fast in your stomach. You can feel your climax, long abandoned, surfacing quickly. God, it feels so good, his mouth — it’s only gotten better. You hate to think if he fucked anyone else while he was away, because — of course he did, he was a hot young bachelor in bumfuck Oklahoma. He was probably the hottest shit down there.

Scott scowls up at you, “You’re tensing up again, what are you thinking about?”

“Nothing,” you blurt out, pressing your lips together.

He rises to his feet, fingers catching your chin. “Tell me.”

“There’s nothing to tell,” you snap irritably. Great, now you’re thinking about some cute girl in a cowboy hat he’s probably fucked the same way he did you.

“You just stiffened up again. Either you tell me, or I won’t fuck you.”

You roll your eyes, “Holding sex hostage? Real mature.” Well, two can play that game. “If you won’t fuck me, I’m sure I’ve got a few people on my dating apps that have been begging to.”

Scott’s eyes flash, your heart palpitates a little too aggressively. “Yeah? You wanna try that again with me?” Your mouth dries. “Sweetheart, you’re cute if you think I’m letting anyone else near this pretty pussy of yours. You think anyone can get you off?”

Your teeth sink into your bottom lip.

“You’re mine,” he breathes out, catching your lips again. You can taste yourself on him, his moan vibrating against your mouth.

But you can’t deny his words. Instead, you let him pick you up and carry you all the way to the bedroom. He doesn’t stop kissing you the entire way, stealing your breath every chance he gets. Your back lands on the mattress, Scott climbing over you and pressing your legs into your chest.

“Love fucking you just like this,” he murmurs, applying just a little more pressure. “Maybe I can put another baby in you.”

“Scott!” You gasp.

“Fuck, I wasn’t even around when you were pregnant. I’d do it right this time. Make sure you’re taken care of — however that may be. Heard the first trimester’s roughest, probably needed a cock to fill you up, hm? Fill you up and get you so stupidly cockdrunk you won’t have the mouth to talk back to me.”

Another protest sits on your tongue but then Scott’s unzipping his pants and his cock, thick and throbbing, is in his hands, tip sitting at your entrance. You can feel your pussy dripping onto him, a trail of slick that slides down the length of him.

“I could fuck you, cum in you as much as I want — not like I didn’t already,” he chuckles, “no more risk of getting you pregnant twice. God, I could do that to you, sweetheart. Want another kid with me?”

“You’re— fuck, you’re insane.”

Scott only grunts as he begins pushing into you. “So fuckin’ tight. I need to teach your pussy how to take me again. You were so sweet and loose for me back then, we fucked so much, your cunt was shaped to my cock. Can’t wait to do that again.”

The ache burns between your legs as Scott stretches you out, your pussy opening up painfully slowly for him. You hold your breath, tensing up as he whispers for you to relax, to just keep your legs open and let him take what he needs. Your eyes roll when he finally buries himself all the way, the head kissing the deepest parts of you.

“S-shit, fuck, that feels so good. You feel like heaven.”

“Please, please just move,” you whine.

“I know, baby, but I can’t fuck you too fast, gonna hurt you. My cock barely fits in this tight pussy of yours,” Scott coos, dragging back his hips and slowly coaxing you open with a push of his cock. “I gotta go easy on her. She’s not used to being filled up, is she?”

You call him an asshole in your head, because you don’t trust your voice not to break in the haze of your pleasure.

“Pretty girl hasn’t had anyone taking care of her in a while.”

“I can take care of myself just fine,” you defend with a snap.

“Yeah? What? Those vibrators I see you hiding? Doesn’t feel the same, does it? You needed someone to fuck you properly.” Scott smirks, “Maybe I should’ve given you a dildo shaped to my cock. That way you could fuck yourself on it whenever you missed me. I’d make you call me when you do that, wanna hear you beg for my cock while you push it inside you. Better yet, I want to see you while you ride it and realize it ain’t the same as the real thing.”

“You’re so fucking gross,” you hiss and, sure enough, it melts into a moan when Scott drives into you again, and again, and again.

“What does it say about you when I can feel you chokin’ out my cock at the thought of it?” He laughs, taunting. “You’re as fucked up as I am, sweetheart. How do you think we made a baby in the first place?”

Oh fuck, Scott feels you open up to him, mold around him. That pain dulls into a throb that only serves to weave desire between your legs. You clench around him, pussy pulsing with his every word, as he fucks deep inside of you. He pushes you back into this mating press, groaning when he feels himself reach deeper inside you.

“Shit, baby, this pussy is fucking unbelievable. I can’t believe I gave this up for years. Missed fucking this gorgeous cunt so bad,” he swallows. That vein on his neck goes taut as he tries to stop himself. “You still on the pill?”

You nod weakly, fingers digging into his biceps as he pounds into you, his hips jerking faster and harder.

Then he laughs and it sounds mean and your stomach twists. “Didn’t do us much good last time though, huh? It’s alright, sweetheart. If you get knocked up again, I’ll be here. I’ll be here to fuck all that stress out of you, give you all the massages that’ll end with my head between your legs. Get you all your cravings so you can show your appreciation with your mouth on my cock.”

It’s disgusting, The thought of returning favors when he’s the one who gets you pregnant, but something about it has you tightening, punched in the stomach with a level of arousal that you can’t seem to contain.

“Don’t need to use this pretty brain of yours, baby. Just gonna have you barefooted waddling around and you can let me take real good care of you,” he pants, sweat beading his forehead as he fucks into you faster, holding himself back harder. “Make sure you and our baby are good. Don’t you worry.”

“F-fuck you,” you stutter as he drives back into you.

The bed creaks under the pressure of his thrusts, you’re getting fucked into the mattress that you can feel your body imprinting onto the bed. “That’s right. Good girl. Gonna make you a mommy again, sweetheart. Gonna put another baby into you. You’re already so cockdrunk, you won’t even know. I’m not letting you out of here until it takes.”

That knocks all the oxygen from your chest. “Shit, Scott— hold on.”

“Can’t do that,” he grunts, “pussy feels too good. Can’t get enough of this hole. I’m going to fill you up, baby. You’re gonna be leakin’ my cum for days. Maybe I’ll send you to get another massage and they’ll see you dripping my cream.”

Scott pounds into you, each word filthier than the next. He’s driving himself and you into a frenzy as his thrusts get sloppier, wetter, squelching bouncing off your four walls.

“I’m gonna print my cock in your pussy so nobody else can touch you.”

“Breed this pussy so good, keep you plugged up with my cum for days.”

“This pussy was meant to be fucked, sweetheart. You don’t need princess treatment, just need to be fucked like you need another baby in you.”

It’s filthy. It’s demeaning. It’s a fucking turn-on.

“‘M gonna— shit, Scott, hnnng, please, gonna cum.”

“Yeah, you wanna cum, pretty girl? You wanna cum around my cock?”

You can only nod in your haze, desperate, eager.

“Cum around me, sweetheart. I wanna feel that cream coating my cock. I wanna feel that stickiness, feel what it’s like to have my girl feel so good because of me.”

Scott pounds into you faster, deeper as he fucks you harder into the mattress. He presses you further in this position, tilting your hips up until you’re climbing and climbing and falling apart around him with a loud whine. Your body trembles with the force of your orgasm, legs quaking around him as he drags out your climax with every thrust until he himself is spilling warmth inside you. You can feel the mess in your insides, feel it slosh around, feel it leak from where you two are joined.

“Fuck,” he groans, “cumming so much, sweetheart. Fillin’ her right up.”

Your heart slams against your chest as you feel exactly that.

Scott’s hips are still jerking with his cum spurting right into you. He refuses to budge, staying there until he’s sure everything’s out. Even then, he nudges his hips a little deeper, like he’s making sure his cum stays in there.

He eases out of you slowly, but he doesn’t let go of the pressure on your legs, keeping your hips up as he watches his cum ooze out of you. His brows pucker in annoyance as he uses two fingers to push it back into you.

You wince, pussy sensitive from the friction earlier. “Gross.”

“You like it.”

You do. It’s stupid but you do. Something about him staking his claim, leaving a part of him inside you, it’s just the kind of thing that has you squeezing around his fingers again.

Scott smirks. “Do you want me to clean you up?”

Your stupid, traitorous, dysfunctional brain says no. For some reason, you really like feeling his cum inside you. But you know that the correct answer is— “Yes.” It’s the only reason Scott asks – because he knows.

His eyes scan you for a moment, as if he’s trying to decide whether you’re telling the truth. Then he sighs and lets your legs down gently as he disappears, coming back only when he has a damp cloth in hand. It’s so strange for him to be so familiar with your place to know where things are.

At the same time — so right.

He wipes you clean, murmuring to himself about how pretty you look with his cum inside you. You try not to let your lips stretch too wide with the heat rolling across your face.

When he’s done, Scott slides himself in next to you, pulling you close.

That’s when you freeze because — what is this? What are you? The panic sinks in fast and you feel fear claw at your chest. You have a son. You can’t be doing — whatever the fuck this is — with his dad, who he doesn’t even know is his dad.

“Scott—”

“Sleep.”

“Go home.”

“No.”

“Are you shitting me?” You hiss, “You can’t be here when Ben comes home tomorrow morning.”

Scott exhales long and hard, like he’s had enough of your shit. “Why not? I get full weekends, don’t I? That includes mornings. Now sleep.”

“Sleep in your own home! You can come back tomorrow.”

Before you know it, you’re back on your back and Scott’s on top of you, pinning you down with a glare. “Sweetheart, it seems like I didn’t fuck you hard enough. If I did, then you wouldn’t be thinkin’ whatever the fuck is going through that big head of yours right now. So, I’m going to fuck you again, and I’m going to keep fucking you until you stop treatin’ me like I’m some shameful one-night stand. I’m the father of your child — our child. So take your pick — do you want me to fuck you again until your head’s too full of cock to argue, or do you want to sleep?”

You open your mouth. Sleep is on the tip of your tongue, but then you feel him and his gaze warm on you and your legs press together on instinct.

He chuckles, dipping his head to press a chaste kiss onto your lips. “Good answer.”

Sure enough, he keeps his promise and you only find yourself falling asleep when he gives you your third orgasm of the night.

There is no monumental shift. Scott acts the same way he always has — at least around Ben.

He tries to maintain some level of distance but you can tell that he’s getting a little antsy about his own son not knowing who he is. Every time he asks you, you have to shoot it down, mainly for Ben’s sake.

But you also know that you raised a good, smart kid, which means it’s not surprising when Ben asks, “Who’s Uncle Scott really?”

“He is—” you pause, “—a friend.”

“Boyfriend?”

Fuck.

“No, he’s just a friend — like the kind you’ll meet in school.”

Ben looks at the television where there’s an interview of Scott playing, the one from a local station talking about his startup. “You love him?”

Your heart slams against your ribs. Warmth creeps up on you and Ben must notice it because he’s smiling softly, patting your hand.

“I like him,” Ben gives his nod of approval before turning back to the LEGOs in front of him.

A four-year-old just reassured you that he likes his dad. His dad that he still doesn’t know about. You know it isn’t fair and you will tell him at some point, you’re just not sure how to have that conversation yet — not when Scott’s time here is uncertain, despite what he says.

Still, while Scott keeps things steady with Ben, he switches tactics with you. His hand is always touching you — your hip, your back, your shoulders. Subtle touches like a reminder that he’s here. It’s oddly comforting and you find yourself seeking his touch more than before.

Around your son, he still maintains some distance, even when you can tell he’s itching to get closer. The two of you are at the grocery store, you’re driving the cart while Ben runs ahead, giggling and pointing at everything he wants — which is really anything with at least twenty grams of added sugar.

Scott has an amused smile on his lips as he watches him.

“Think he could be a runner someday. Has the makings of an athlete. Maybe football,” he says, almost proudly with his chest puffed up.

You roll your eyes, “I’d rather avoid my son getting his head knocked around.”

“Or entrepreneur, he has a way with making you do things, you know. Smart. Manipulative.”

“Where do you think he got that from?”

Scott only smirks.

You’re scanning through your list when you realize, “Shit, I forgot to grab butter and it’s up the aisle.”

“I’ll grab it,” he says, squeezing your hip, “just get what you need here.”

Ben insists on getting chocolate milk, mainly because he’s convinced the chocolate cow on the box is real. You tell him that you could get the smaller version and that you’ll take him to a farm one day and realize that there are no cows that produce chocolate milk.

“With Uncle Scott? In Oka— Okla—” He struggles, frowning when he can’t remember.

Oh. “Oklahoma,” you add, “maybe. I’m sure there are closer farms.”

His mouth opens in a bright grin.

When you finally cave and put both the chocolate milk and the regular milk in the cart, you look back down the aisle to see Scott standing there.

Talking to a woman.

A woman who was very much his type before he met you.

Your chest pinches with an unfamiliar feeling. It’s understandable that Scott has seen and is probably still seeing other women. The two of you don’t have a label on things, nothing you can tape to his forehead that says off limits.

She looks young, sweet, dressed like she has a life. She’s smiling up at him, giggling at something he’s saying in a way where you know it’s not because he’s funny. She reaches up to touch his arm and he takes a step back, a polite smile in place, then he’s saying something and looking at you. And then she’s looking at you too, face souring.

Alright then.

You turn away again, continuing to push the cart as Ben sets his mind on cereal next. He’s been on a Lucky Charms kick and you desperately need to move him off it. It’s all sugar and food coloring.

Scott appears next to you, a hand on your lower back as he puts the butter box in the cart. He peeks at your list. “Cereal next?”

“Um, yeah,” you say, eyes going over your shoulder to catch another glimpse of that woman. “She was cute.”

“Yeah, she was.”

Your lips immediately curl and Scott catches it before you can school your expression. “Didn’t get her number?”

“Told her I’m with my wife and kid,” he smirks.

Wife and kid— you’re not even sure how to respond to that, so you resort to clearing your throat with a deadpan look. “Glad to hear we can be used to avoid women you don’t like.”

“Well, I was only half lying, wasn’t I?” He huffs as the two of you turn the corner, finding Ben already with a box of Lucky Charms in hand. You sigh as Scott mutters under his breath, “Not too late to make it all completely true though.”

You try to convince Ben that cornflakes are much more fun, which is the least convincing argument you can make, until Scott steps in and says that cornflakes make him super strong like the rooster on the cover. So Ben swaps out his pick for a box of Froot Loops and declares that he wants to be strong like this bird instead.

It isn’t until the two of you are unloading groceries into his car that it hits you, and the bag nearly slips from his fingers.

Make it all completely true. Wife and kid.

“Took you long enough,” Scott chuckles smugly. “Give it some thought. Maybe we can stop by the jewelers on the way back.”

Scott is relentless to say the least. He has increased the frequency of touching, has made it all the more obvious in front of everyone. Your coworkers all know him by name, chatting with him when you wrap up work late. Sometimes, he’s the one who picks Ben up from your mom’s and brings him to meet you at the hospital.

Your mom, of course, is over the moon. She can’t stop gushing over him, telling you how he helped her fix her leaky faucet, how he’s always on time to pick up Ben even when he’s still in the middle of work, and “Did you know he was featured in Forbes?”

He finally invites you and Ben over for dinner in his new apartment. It’s much more spacious, a two-bedroom that’s twice the size of yours — one of which he has set up for Ben. So Ben is also over the moon when he sees how massive his bedroom is. He asks if the two of you can stay and you only manage a tight-lipped smile before you redirect your glare towards Scott.

“Your place too,” Scott says casually, handing you an extra set of keys. “In case you ever need some more space.”

Later, he also shows you that he’s left most of the closet empty in the master bedroom. “In case you need to stay over.”

It’s sweet. It’s thoughtful.

It’s too much.

You don’t even know where you stand with him. He takes you out again and then another time; you tell yourself that this is just friends hanging out, but you know it’s different when you end up in his bed at the end of the evening. The first time you slept with him at his and tried to leave after, you realize that your shoes are nowhere to be found.

“Where are my shoes?”

“I knew you were going to pull some stupid shit like this. So I hid them.”

“What the fuck? Are you four?”

“No, but our son is. Now get your ass back into bed.” You cross your arms over your chest, planting your foot down in protest. Scott regards you coolly. “You either come here on your own accord or I’m throwing you over my shoulder.”

He doesn’t make threats lightly, so you stomp all the way back to his bedroom where Scott proceeds to fuck you over again and makes sure that you have no energy left to move.

Things are… good.

For the first time in years, you feel almost at peace. Ben’s a good kid, raised right, adored by all around him. He’ll start school next year with a stronger support system, what with Scott vowing to attend every parent-teacher conference and other events that require his presence. The two of you agree to tell Ben in a month — a month to prepare for the conversation.

You can’t even imagine what it’s like — living four years of your life never seeing your father and then suddenly dropping one in his lap. Well, you suppose it isn’t very sudden considering Scott’s been around more often than not. Part of you hopes that Ben is hopeful about Scott, it’ll make the conversation easier.

That being said, your work schedule has been atrocious which means you haven’t had the chance to really sit down with him and have a conversation on how to broach the topic with your son. The one time you finally manage to get off work early, you decide to swing by Scott’s; he works from home and you figured all three of you could do dinner together at that pizza place.

The key rests between your fingers, pinched tight as you stare at it.

You should just ring the doorbell. Right? It isn’t your home. But Scott gave you a key and what if he’s still in the middle of something? What if he has someone else in there? No, you shouldn’t use the key. Then again, he shouldn’t have given you a key if he would be doing anything he wouldn’t want you to see.

The internal debate persists until you decide fuck it and push the key into the lock. You open the door slowly, quietly, nothing like your own creaky one. Scott’s nowhere to be found in his giant living room with his giant television. You look at that giant screen with envy, thinking about how wonderful movie nights would be with that setup. Scott has already insisted on doing movie nights at his instead, stocking up on popcorn and sugar, and you’re tempted to agree.

Muffled voices carry down the hall. He’s probably in the bedroom so you silently make your way over in case he’s on a call.

“Yeah, I’ll be back next week, alright,” Scott says, sounding agitated. You get a peek through the bedroom door and find him pacing.

An open suitcase in front of him.

Your heart drops. The scene is all too familiar. It’s like you’re twenty-two again, left behind in this town while he goes off to chase his dreams — only this time, he had promised you he would stay. Only this time, it won’t only be your heart he’ll break.

“I know it’s takin’ me a while,” he grunts, scrounging his hand through his hair, “no, I still need to pick up my shit.”

You can’t hear the person on the other end of the line but it’s clear that he doesn’t seem very pleased. A sigh heaves from his chest as he looks out the window, a mournful expression painted onto his face.

“I have to tie up some loose ends.”

Loose ends? You swallow thickly. That’s— is he talking about you? About Ben? He’s supposed to be back in Oklahoma next week. No doubt whoever is on the other side is someone at work. But he had promised you he would stay — right? He had said that he would be sticking around. Why else would he get an apartment? Why would he set the bedroom up for Ben otherwise?

But your mind has spiraled beyond the point of reason. Your survival instincts kick in again; you never want to be the person left behind. Not again. Not after that first time. So you should leave first. It’ll make it easier for the both of you.

Scott won’t have to break the news and you — you can let that hope quietly slip away.

All you can do now is… leave.

So you do. You take one step back then another and another until you’re in his kitchen. You open one of the drawers and tuck the extra set of keys he gave you inside; after all, you won’t be needing those anymore. Then you’re out the door.

You’re functioning numb as you get home. Ben greets you with a big smile and so does your mom. You force yourself to smile too and ask if the two of them want pizza for dinner. Your mom looks at you with a silent question asking where Scott is. You only shake your head.

When Scott calls you as you’re getting ready to leave for the restaurant, you don’t pick up.

Not feeling so hot.

His face appears on your screen as your phone vibrates with the incoming call. You curse yourself for texting so quickly.

“Hey,” you try to rasp.

“What is it? A cold? A fever? I can grab medicine and dinner on the way there. Maybe that wonton noodle soup from—”

“No, don’t,” you blurt out, “I, uh, don’t want to get you sick.”

“I don’t give a shit about that.” You can practically imagine his annoyed scowl. He’s probably shrugging on his jacket, you can hear the jingle of his keys as he heads to the door. “What do you want to eat? You like that wonton soup right? It’s on the way to yours.”

“Scott, please.”

“Sweetheart,” he sighs.

“I’ll be fine,” you insist, “just give me a few days to recover and I’ll text you, okay.”

Silence on the other end means that he’s giving it actual thought. Then you hear the long exhale. “Fine. Call or text me if you need anything. Seriously.” He clears his throat, “You know, your mom could also take Ben for a few days. I’ll come take care of you.”

You bite your tongue, blinking away the tears as you stare up at the ceiling. You can’t get used to this, can’t get used to someone checking in on you, putting you first. This isn’t the kind of thing that lasts.

“No, I promise I’ll be okay.”

You call in sick for work, which shocks your entire team because you’re the type to drag yourself out of your deathbed to make sure you don’t miss a day. You’re not sure you like this reputation.

Jenna calls your bullshit out immediately. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing,” you mutter, picking on the lint on your pajama pants. You’re waiting for Ben to wake up so the two of you can spend the day together. He’s a little confused why you’re at home for a few days, but he certainly isn’t complaining.

“Does it have something to do with hottie Scottie?”

You wince, “That’s a gross nickname. Never say that again.”

“So it does, what did he do?”

It’s not what he did. It’s what he’s about to do. “It’s not a big deal. I just needed a break. Gonna spend some time with Ben.”

“Well, Ben loves her cool Aunt Jenna so I’ll swing by after with fried chicken?”

Your lips twitch. She always knows the right things to say. “Sounds good.”

On the other hand, you spend the rest of the week dodging Scott’s every attempt to come visit. You tell him that your cold has only gotten worse (you’re fresher than a spring chicken), that your mom is taking Ben for a few days (he’s sitting at the dining table), and that you are doing fine otherwise (your heart is splintering in your chest).

He sounds frustrated over the phone and, when he does visit, you pretend that you’re too sick to see him, refusing to let him through the door.

“This is fucking ridiculous. You have a cold. I’ll be fine,” he snaps through the front door. “Will you just let me in?”

Once again, you emphasize that that’s not good practice and colds are highly contagious. You can hear Scott’s feet shuffling outside, his annoyed grunts.

“Can you just let me in?” He breathes out deeply, “Please. I haven’t seen you in days and I really want to. I just want to make sure you’re good.”

Your forehead presses against the cool door. You tell yourself to stay strong. Don’t give in so easily. So again, you deny him entry and he finally leaves.

On Sunday, he calls and you at least pick that up. “I have to fly out to Oklahoma for a few days,” he mutters, “I’ll be back. Call me, text me, fucking email me if you need to — if you need anything at all, alright.”

“I’ll be fine,” you whisper.

You’re tying up those loose ends for him.

Scott goes radio silent for the first half of the week. You think this is finally it. He’s finally cutting you loose and maybe he’s simply going to fade into a distant memory. You’re back at work when he leaves Boston, your coworkers peppering you with questions about your absence. Jenna keeps the wolves at bay, telling all of them to give you some space.

“You need to talk to me at some point,” she gives you a look.

You lick your lips, mouth trembling as you finally say the words you’ve been too afraid to say. Because it’s one thing to think it, it’s another to admit it aloud. “Scott’s gone.”

“What?” She jerks back, “What do you mean he’s gone?”

Pushing around your peas, you sigh. “He’s in Oklahoma.”

“Temporarily right?”

You shrug. “Feel like it might be for good.”

“Did he tell you that?”

No, but you heard his conversation and it’s all about the words that are said behind your back that matter, right?

“Hon, listen to me. I’ve never seen a man more obsessed in my life. That guy’s in love with you.”

To that, you laugh, heart a little lighter for some odd reason. “He’s just being a good friend. He probably felt guilty after — you know — finding out that he knocked me up.”

She gives you a look. “If you seriously believe that, I’m going to have to take you up to neuro to get your head checked.”

On Thursday, you’re finally settling with the possibility that this really is it. You’ll be okay; you survived once without him, you can do it again. Instead, you focus strictly on work, drowning in the mountains of paperwork and unfinished studies. While you’re doing all that, your phone lights up with Scott’s name.

You don’t pick up. The last thing you need while you’re stressed out of your mind is to hear him apologize, hear him tell you that he’s changed in his mind. You can have your heart ripped out of your chest later.

Blissful ignorance is better than blatant rejection, that’s always been your motto.

You’re ready for a night of full decompression, which means you’re going to cuddle up with your baby and maybe fall asleep on the couch after a filling dinner of grease. “I’m home,” you call out.

The sight before you has you freezing. Scott’s on the couch — your couch — with Ben on his lap. They’re reading one of Ben’s favorite books and your son is giggling uncontrollably. Now, he is facing the front which means he can’t see Scott’s expression.

And that is a look that has your entire body stiffening in the doorway. You’re almost tempted to run again, but how could you abandon your son? So you try to ignore your buzzing nerves.

“Mom!”

“Hey, buddy,” you smile weakly, closing the door behind you. “Where’s, uh, my mom?”

“She left earlier, said I should spend some time with Ben and you,” he smiles. It’s sweet. It’s a sickeningly sweet smile, which means you know better than to trust it. “Ben here was just telling me about all the fun you had last week. All week in fact. Said you weren’t going to work so you two could spend all day together. Outside.”

Well.

“We watched a baseball game and then got ice cream!” Ben announces cheerily. Then he begins to list down everything you did last week — everything — and he is completely unaware that he’s digging a deeper grave for his own mother.

“That so?” Scott chuckles, patting his head. “Your mom’s a real miracle worker, isn’t she? Real healthy and spry to be doing all those things.”

The evening is tense, mostly for you. Your back is ramrod straight as Scott insists on cooking dinner and you have to keep a close eye to make sure he doesn’t add anything to your food. There are smarter ways to take you out, none of them ideal for you. Ben seems to sense the thickness of the air, eyes darting between the two of you.

Of course, neither of you show a thing but the anger that rolls off Scott is nothing short of obvious. So Ben then proceeds to declare that he wants to sleep early.

He never sleeps early. He’s just hit you with a second strike.

You busy yourself with getting him ready for bed, staying for as long as you can. You’re glued at the hip while he brushes his teeth, while he picks out his pajamas at an alarmingly fast speed. He doesn’t even want a bedtime story, telling you that he’s knackered from the long day.

And he goes straight to sleep. Traitor.

You were hoping Ben could buy you more time to come up with some sort of explanation for your behavior, or at least figure out a way to turn the conversation back to him because — what’s he doing back here? Isn’t he supposed to be in Oklahoma?

When you finally step out of Ben’s room, Scott looks noticeably ticked off.

His jaw is squared tight, dimples that are usually so endearing appearing more menacing in this light. “You wanna tell me why you lied about bein’ sick?”

You shift back on the heels of your feet. “I just needed some me time.”

“Bullshit,” he spits out, “you know I would’ve given you that if that’s what you wanted. Try again.”

While you’re usually better at thinking on your feet, the glare he’s pinned you with has your brain completely scrambled. You’re coming up with nothing. Zero. Zilch. Nothing even remotely close to being sufficient for your lie.

“Can’t think of anything, can you? Now that I’ve caught you.”

“Scott…”

“What was it?” He grunts, “What fucking spooked you?”

You press your lips together. “What are you talking about?”

“You’ve never been good at commitment, sweetheart. Been runnin’ since the day I met you. So tell me, what fucking scared you?”

A protest sits on the tip of your tongue, ready to fall from your lips. Defensive. But Scott’s looking at you wearily, a five o’clock shadow that’s rarely ever there dusted across his face.

“You were going to leave,” you murmur.

He frowns at that. “When the hell did I say I was gonna do that?”

“You didn’t have to tell me,” you sigh, “I heard you on the phone.”

His eyebrows jump, surprise coloring his expression. If that isn’t confirmation, you don’t know what is. “What’re you talking about?”

It’s your turn to look irritated. How is he going to play dumb when he’s been caught red-handed?

“I heard you — you were going to head back Oklahoma, that you needed to pack your stuff and—” the last part has your throat constricting, you’re blinking back tears as you look at him. “—that you needed to tie up loose ends.”

Scott looks far from appeased from your explanation. “Yeah, and?”

“Are you shitting me?” You hiss, “If you were going to leave again, were you ever going to tell me? Were you just going to disappear? Leave me here alone again.”

“That’s not fucking fair,” he snaps right back, “I reached out to you. Multiple times. I called and texted and you disappeared. So don’t turn this shit around on me like I intentionally left you.”

“How was I ever supposed to tell you, Scott? I’m pregnant, can you stay here with me instead?”

“Yes! Exactly like that,” he snarls, “it’s as simple as that. But instead, you stopped responding to me. You left me.” That shuts you up, your breath catching in your throat. “So don’t be a hypocrite.”

“It would’ve been selfish of me — to tell you,” you gulp, chest tight, “you would’ve stayed because that’s who you are. That stupid sense of responsibility despite you being irresponsible enough to go out there and chase goddamn tornadoes. I couldn’t do that to you.”

“I know, because that’s who you are,” he mutters, “you think you gotta do everything on your own. You think I don’t hear things? Your mom and Jenna told me plenty about how tough things were for you. How do you think that makes me feel? I’m the asshole that left you.”

“You didn’t know,” you breathe in shakily.

“Doesn’t change the circumstances, does it?” He snips. His face softens then, melting slightly as he sees you curling into yourself. “But I really need you to get your head checked. Something ain’t right up there if you think for a second I could really ever leave you again.”

You look up at him and he’s already taken a step towards you. His hand slides up your neck to cup your cheek, his warm blue eyes on you.

“I was wrapping things up in Oklahoma so I can move here for good. I needed to deal with some paperwork and all the transition for the fieldwork. We’re not short-handed but, you know how it is with leadership.” He pauses, searching your face for any reaction. “I couldn’t just leave my team hanging out to dry so I had to finalize everything before I officially moved here.”

Well. Your voice is quiet when you ask, “So you weren’t going back to Oklahoma for good?”

The aggravation returns to his face. “You’re shittin’ me right? Have I not been telling you for weeks that I’m here to stay?”

“I just thought you meant temporarily,” you sputter, “who picks up their entire life on a fucking whim?”

“It’s not a whim! I was planning to move back here, focus more on raising funds with investors. That was, if I managed to find you!” That has you jolting back in surprise. “I came here to look for you. Properly this time. Fuck, and I told myself that, if I found you, I wasn’t gonna get you walk away from me again.”

“You— really?”

He rolls his eyes, lips tugging up. “Yeah, really. Let go the love of my life once, ain’t doin’ that again.”

“Love of your life?” You squeak.

Scott looks up at the ceiling, praying to some almighty up there to lend him some patience. “Thought that was fuckin’ obvious,” he mutters, “for someone so fuckin’ smart, you can be real stupid.”

“That’s so rude,” you frown.

“Apparently, I have to be if I need you to get your head out of your ass.”

You lick your lips, face flushing with heat. “So, uh, love of your life? Can I get some clarity on that?”

“How can I be any clearer?” He snaps, “If you’re gonna ask me since when, you really think I’d keep fucking you back then if I wasn’t in love with you?” Your jaw practically drops. “You’re the idiot that didn’t want anything real.”

“You were fucking everything that moved!”

“Until I met you!” He shakes his head. “Jesus, you really— I don’t know how you got me wrapped around your finger all this time.”

You huff, “Are you gonna keep insulting me all night?”

“Are you not gonna tell me you love me?”

A laugh bubbles up your throat. “What makes you think I love you?”

“I don’t think, I know, sweetheart,” Scott grins, arm stretching to pull you towards him. He tucks you in close, your breasts against his chest as your palms land on his shoulders, fingers scratching the hair at the nape of his neck. He lets out a quiet little moan. “Come on, say it. I know you’ve been dyin’ to for years now.”

With a roll of your eyes, you puff out, “I love you.”

He grunts, leaning down to tease you. “Don’t think I heard you.”

“I love you, Scott Miller. Now will you shut up and kiss me?”

“Never could say no to you, sweetheart.” 

+ sam: thank you so much if you've made it this far!!! you've finally seen the inner workings of my mind when i'm truly hyperfixating. please know that i appreciate every single piece of engagement but i especially love to hear what you think of the story, your fave parts, etc.!!! <3

scott is yearning for (taglist): @unabashedlyinlovewithyou @eiaf4uwn @thebabykashmere @nbhrhn @w1nchesterfiles @ae1szn @pinksplace @stanmarvelous @coffinlolz @chloluvsdilfs @athenxt @xreader1989 @theonlyaphrodite @wowitsafemale @yagurlannastasia @lettucel0ver @velvetnightmoonsandbows @tushy4toot @hoodharlow @lichi-dunkera @mansaaay @yagurlannastasia @fruitypebsworld @solynoche @thedarkseidofthemoon @burrowedinmyheart @annabethboleyn @lil-mann @magicwithaknife @kissmekissme5 @moonlightspencie @shoutingcardinal @youotterbekiddingme @potter-solomons @victoriuhmm @effyssky

story taglist: @reepicheeps-blog @coolvoidfire @lmaolmaos @garfieldsladybird

He’s fucking Superman, shouldn’t he be able to be here within a millisecond?

You sigh softly, shaking your head at the thought. He can't drop everything to come over every single time you text.

Man, the heat is really getting to you...

The lock clicks a couple minutes later and you turn to look back at the front door, seeing a familiar figure as he steps inside. 

“Golly,” Clark says, closing the door behind him. “It’s hot in here.”

You chuckle dryly, continuing to fan yourself.

“Yeah, no shit. I think I’ve called every single fucking store that sells window air conditioner units in Metropolis and no one had any.”

Clark nods, being somewhat cautious as he approaches the couch. He knows how you can be when you’re in a mood like this.

“If it makes you feel any better, it’s not that much cooler at my place, and the building has central air. With everyone using it at the same time, the airflow is terrible.”

“It actually doesn’t make me feel better,” you say, your eyes following him as he walks around and takes a seat beside you. “You’re lucky you’re Kryptonian and you can handle extreme temperatures.”

He keeps a bit of distance between you two, both because of the heat and not wanting to upset you even more. His head turns and he looks you over for a moment, taking in the way your legs look in those sweet little boyshort underwear you like to wear around the apartment. 

They’re the pair with the corny cartoon Cupids and hearts all over, which are the ones you hate most. Must’ve been the only pair you could find in what he assumes was a desperate rush to strip down to the lightest layer of clothing possible.

You’re wearing a thin tank top, too, and he can tell that there’s nothing beneath it. Your skin has a beautiful sheen to it, and he watches as a bead of sweat trails down from your neck to between your breasts. 

A soft groan leaves your lips as you shift positions, stretching yourself out more to try and find a cooler part of the couch. He curses himself for being this turned on by your obvious suffering.

But then, an idea comes to his head, one that sends a little shiver down his spine.

“Come here for a minute.”

You look over at him, your eyebrows furrowing slightly. “What?”

His gaze, now tinged with the slightest hint of hunger, meets yours.

“Come here,” he says again. “I know a way to cool you off.”

“I’m literally sitting right here.”

He chuckles, reaching out to touch your hip with his hand.

“I need you closer.”

“Clark, how in the world is getting closer to you going to cool me off?”

He grips your hip lightly, pulling you towards him. Is this a bad idea? Probably. Having you closer will certainly make keeping himself at bay a bit harder, but he genuinely wants to help you.

“Trust me.”

You sigh, letting him pull you closer before he situates you on his lap. He leans in and blows gently on your neck, using his arctic breath to instantly cool your skin. You gasp softly, head instantly tilting back, and Clark has to stop himself from groaning at the sight.

“Fuck…that’s good.”

He hums, bringing his mouth to the other side of your neck, giving it the same attention. Your nipples have hardened beneath the tank top, and his mouth waters at the thought of getting his lips on them.

Experimentally, he presses a kiss to your neck between cold breaths, testing the waters. You seem to have no problem with it, so he presses another one. Then another. And another, until you let out a soft sigh, your back arching slightly.

You like it. Thank goodness.

“Mmm,” he hums, kissing along your jaw, then down to your throat, making sure to use his frosty breath at the same time. “Feels good?”

Wordlessly, you nod, your hands coming to rest on his shoulders.

“Yes.”

His mouth continues down over your chest, and when he reaches your spaghetti straps, he tugs them off of your shoulders with his teeth. You shudder at the light scrape against your skin, and he smiles, making a mental note of that.

Finally, finally, he pulls your tank top down, exposing your delicious breasts to his starved eyes. He licks his lips in anticipation, but barely gives you a moment to process before he’s teasing your nipple with his teeth, his tongue, alternating between the two. 

Your eyes roll back in your head at the sensation, and when he exhales against your bud, the sudden rush of cold makes you jump in his lap with a gasp. 

“F-Fuck!”

Soon, your fingers weave through his hair and give it a gentle pull, pulling him away from your breasts for a moment. You look at him, resting your forehead on his.

“I need you, Clark.”

His cock twitches against his thigh at your words, at the desperate look in your eyes. 

“Then you’ll have me,” he says, leaning up to kiss you properly. “Whatever you need right now.”

That’s how he always is, wanting to make you feel good. It’s in his nature as both Clark and Superman, one of many things that makes him such a great friend and friend-with-benefits.

You nip at his bottom lip with a smile as you reach down to start undoing his pants. He lets out soft exhales each time your hand brushes his erection, which makes you chuckle.

“It’s the boyshorts, isn’t it?”

He smiles. “It’s you…but I can’t say the shorts and tanktop didn’t play at least a small part.”

His words make your heart skip a beat, and you smile softly.

“Even though they’ve got the cheesy Cupids on them?”

“Is this a safe space to admit that I kind of like—?”

“Nope,” you cut him off with a grin, kissing him again. “Not a safe place at all.”

He smiles against your lips, wrapping his arms around you to keep you close. His breath catches when your hand dips beneath the waistband of his boxers, wrapping around his hardening cock. You give a few slow, long strokes, and Clark’s head tilts back with a sigh.

“You’re already so worked up,” you chuckle, biting your lip when his hands come up to touch your breasts, thumb teasing your hardened buds.

“I know. You’ve got me this way.”

His hands smooth down to rest on your hips, then dip down beneath the waistband of your shorts to give your ass a firm squeeze. When he pulls his hands back, he lets one of them slip down between your legs, feeling the damp fabric resting there.

Your breath catches when his thumb presses against your clit, rubbing the fabric over it, creating the most delicious sensation. Every time the fabric pulls tighter against your core, you gasp, hips rocking forward.

“You look beautiful like this,” he whispers, unable to stop himself.

A small smile tugs at your lips, your cheeks heating up a bit as he leans forward and starts kissing at your jaw again. He lets out soft grunts in response to your hand stroking him to full hardness. 

Soon, you pull your hand away and get off his lap, pushing your boyshorts down before getting back on top of him. He reaches down to line himself up with your entrance while his other hand rests gently on your hip.

You let out a shaky breath as you begin to sink down on his shaft, your walls stretching open around him. He leans back against the couch, his eyes glued to your expression, making sure that you’re not showing any signs of pain.

“S-Shit.”

Clark sighs when you stop about halfway down, both of his hands now on your hips, giving them a squeeze.

“You okay?”

You nod. “Yeah. Just…still a bit of a stretch for me.”

He nods, his cock twitching as your walls tighten and loosen around him. It’s so hard not to move, but he holds off, wanting to make sure you’re comfortable first.

After another moment or two, you rise up slightly and sink back down, letting a soft moan slip from your lips. His eyes flutter shut, head tipping back for a moment at the feeling of your wet heat surrounding him.

“Golly,” he breathes, his grip tightening to help you move up and down. “Gosh, you feel…so tight…s-so good…”

“Mmm, Clark,” you sigh, your body beginning to bounce with the rhythm of your movements. “Love when you’re inside of me.”

His hips buck up slightly at your words, and when you tense slightly, his stomach drops. He hurt you.

“I-I’m so—“

“Do that again,” you gasp, looking down at him with a wild fire in your eyes. “Fuck, that felt amazing.”

He nods and bucks his hips up again, and again, and again, watching in fascination as you begin to move faster on top of him. Your breathing is short and you let out little whimpers and gasps each time his cock nudges against your g-spot. It drives Clark wild, and he quickens the movement of his hips to meet your pace, groaning softly when your insides grips him tighter.

“I’m getting close,” you breathe, your legs beginning to burn with the effort of moving on top of him, but you try to push through. “Touch m-me, Clark. Please.”

Of course, because he knows you so well, Clark can tell that you’re beginning to tire out. He hums, promptly resting his hands over your seat bones, giving your skin a squeeze.

“Do you want me to take over?”

You nod quickly, and he smiles, using his strength to move you up and down in the same rhythm while you settle your weight onto his hands.

“Is this better?” He asks, looking up at you with those baby blue puppy dog eyes of his.

“Y-Yes,” you breathe, nodding as you reach down to start touching yourself. “Oh god…Clark…”

“I know, I know…keep touching yourself, just like that,” he says, feeling his own orgasm quickly rising. “Love watching you make yourself feel good.”

His words send a jolt through your body, and you whimper softly, touching yourself faster. When your orgasm finally comes, your entire body tenses, and you let out a long moan as you hold onto his broad shoulders tightly to steady yourself.

“Ohhhh fuck!”

“Good girl.”

Clark keeps moving you up and down, taking you through your powerful peak, just barely holding back his own orgasm. But then, your constant clenching becomes too much, and he lifts you up off of him just before a groan escapes him. 

You reach down to wrap your hand around him once more, and his eyes widen, breath hitching just before he falls over the edge. You watch with a small smile as his release paints your hand and arm with glorious streaks, enjoying the grunt that you earn with each stroke.

He shudders when he begins to come down, head falling back against the couch cushions. Your hand slows to a stop and you lift it up, admiring the unique pattern on your skin before your tongue trails each streak, humming at the taste of him.

“G-Gosh…”

You smile, leaning down to kiss him once he sets you back down in his lap, and he groans at the taste of himself in your mouth. When you pull back, Clark reaches up to wipe a bit of sweat from your forehead.

“I didn’t do a very good job of helping to keep you cool,” he says, smiling. 

A soft, breathy chuckle escapes your lips, rocking your hips forward teasingly.

“I guess you’ll just have to try again, then…”

Clark’s smile widens at that. “I guess so.”

(daily planet divider by saradika-graphics here on tumblr!)