:p

ERIS

An entire week passed.

Eris spent every night waiting long into the night for her, hoping against hope she’d appear. She never did. Each passing night only deepened the panic and concern that plagued him.

Training had become unbearable, watching her go through the motions like she no longer cared. Gone was that fierce determination and grit. What was left in its place was a female even worse off than the version of her he’d first met.

It was worse because now he had the knowledge of just how much she could brighten a space, fill his day…hold his heart.

The mating bond raged in him. That bond, that damned bond—the one he’d spent so long ignoring, assuming it was more manageable that way—only made itself more known. He walked around constantly feeling like the air was being squeezed out of his lungs and that his heart was being sliced apart, slowly.

She’d made herself practically unreachable—and not just physically. He felt the emotional distance, the wall she’d built around herself—like a blade to his chest.

A blade to his chest would’ve hurt less.

Eris felt helpless. He yearned to help her, but had no idea how he could. He didn’t even know what was wrong. What sort of mate could he be if he couldn’t even tell what was wrong with her?

Old anger flared again, reminiscent of the early days after meeting her. This time, it wasn’t directed towards her, but at the situation. But Eris quite literally felt angry with the world nowadays. It didn’t help that he was constantly on edge, irritation flaring in him at his inability to be useful.

Every time her gaze passed over him like he wasn’t even there, a physical ache went through him. He’d experienced so much in his centuries alive—enough to leave scars—but nothing left him feeling as raw as this had. The absence of her in his normal routine hadn’t helped matters either.

He knew there were parts of her he didn’t know, hadn’t been privy too, but he also knew this version of her was wrong. Amidst all of this, he still felt the nagging worry that he’d caused all this. That his inability to control his selfish desires had scared her off, pushed her away.

Left with no answers was dangerous for Eris, especially as a male that thrived on certainty.

That bond pulled even more taut as the days passed, like a string pulled far too tight. He halfway wondered if it was capable of snapping in half. It only furthered his agitation.

Though he managed to mask his rising panic well—with his usual cool indifference—it wasn’t enough for everyone else that surrounded them to quickly notice something was amiss.

One morning he said her name as she passed, itching to reach out and touch her, something. She didn’t bother to slow or even glance at him as she walked by—the most concerning part being that it seemed like she hadn’t even heard him.

Whatever world she’d been pulled into, the horrors that lurked within, had trapped her, causing her to retreat to a place that he couldn’t reach. The incident had made his jaw tighten and hands ball into fists beneath his folded arms.

One morning, Cassian finally broached the subject as it neared a week of complete silence from her.

“Is something the matter?”

“Other than it being scorching out today?” Eris drawled, unimpressed—and very unwilling to divulge.

“For a male who wields fire, I’d assume you’d be fine with a little heat.”

Eris cut the Illyrian a glare, both at him pressing and the double meaning to his little comment.

“He won’t ask, so I will,” Azriel cut in, having joined them just as Cassian voiced his previous comment, “Did you say something to her?”

Eris knew irritation flashed on his face, flames likely sizzled in eyes at the insult.

“How easy it is to assume I’m the one at fault,” he sneered.

“Answer the damn question,” Cassian bit out.

Eris’s anger flared, but he reined it in, dropping his crossed arms and standing straighter.

“I have as little knowledge of what’s troubling her as you do,” Eris answered stiffly, “Unless you know something I do not.”

Both males’ protective anger seemed to bank then vanish entirely as it morphed into wary confusion.

“We just assumed…”

“It’s been no secret that you and she seemed to be…acquainted,” Azriel hedged, cutting Cassian off.

Eris snorted, but didn’t answer.

“I don’t know what you’ve done—”

Eris was seconds away from shooting a derisive look towards the shadowsinger but the male continued.

“But I’ve never seen her more alive than she has been in these last few months,” Azriel finished.

He faltered at that, the harsh edges of his irritation softening just slightly. To know that he’d had such an impact on her…

Eris studied the males, contemplating what to say when he finally settled on, “I truly do not know what’s wrong and I find myself…troubled by that fact.”

Cassian looked over to where a group of the females had gathered around the water ewer, chatting as they got a much needed drink. Nesta was among them, a serious look on her face as she listened to something one of the priestesses was telling her, nodding in answer. The General of the Night Court turned back to him before speaking.

“I think the most important thing is not to give up on her. Wherever she’s retreated to, she’s going to need your help climbing out.”

Which was exactly why Eris found himself sitting under the moonlight again that night—night seven of this. He’d never intended to give up on her, but he couldn’t help but wonder if it was a fruitless effort. Even worse, he feared she’d never return.

He sat staring at the archway that led to the stairs like he could will her into existence. He could almost picture her walking through it, that sly smile on her face, the barely contained amusement blooming over her features as she took in his presence. Something in his chest twisted when he was only met with silent night air.

He missed her greatly—and he didn’t know what to do with that fact.

Stiff from hours of sitting, he finally stood, deciding to call it a night. He couldn’t force her to meet him or even talk to him. He looked around the shadowy space, sighing deeply, resigned as he winnowed back to the Autumn Court.

Maybe he’d try again tomorrow.

He had no way of knowing that only moments after he’d departed, a lonely, broken priestess had just cleared the archway into a dark and empty training ring.

•••

You were the most horrible person alive.

The lone thought cycled through your head in the week that’d followed. The days of your past and present bleeding together—when you’d feared Eris to be no better than Finneas—were long gone. Though you no longer thought the Autumn male to be anything like the one who’d destroyed your life, something still held you back.

You weren’t even sure if you were okay. You didn’t quite know what you were, truth be told. You’d fallen into a state frighteningly similar to how you’d been in your early days after arriving at the library.

The nightmares still continued—all pertaining to that final night with Finneas. It sent you to a dark place of despair with worrying speed.

You hadn’t intended to punish Eris, to push him away and avoid him, but you hadn’t wanted him to see you like this. You were too ruined, too imperfect for someone like him to care about. If he knew the horrors that lived in your head—what had happened to you—he’d never look at you the same.

So as the nightmares continued hounding you, you pulled further into yourself and kept on ignoring Eris. Ignoring everyone. Gone was the female you’d felt like you’d started rediscovering. All the hope and joy you’d once felt seemed to have vanished. You pulled further into yourself, narrowing your world back to just you, alone. After all, you could only count on yourself.

Your days had turned into the monotony of training, returning to the library for your work and crawling into bed. You skipped services, you skipped dinners most evenings and you definitely didn’t venture up to the roof to meet Eris.

He’d probably forgotten all about you anyway. You’d likely only been a way to pass the time. Whatever had been between the two of you was only meant to be short lived, you were sure. You never had figured out why he’d been so taken with you and for so long.

You’d been foolish to think you ever deserved even a modicum of happiness.

As dark circles started reappearing under your eyes and your spirit plummeted even more, you found yourself feeling like you were drowning again. Finneas’s words echoed in your head, along with your other doubts.

Maybe he’d been right when he’d said no one would love you or want you. You were but a shell, so broken that some days you felt like you were made of nothing but jagged shards of glass.

It was Clotho that noticed your deteriorating mindset, first.

You were busy placing books on the cart one afternoon, four days after you’d stopped meeting Eris, when you heard the familiar sound of a pen scratch.

You’re quieter than usual.

You shrugged, picking up another book and placing it on the cart. You were organizing the books by levels so it would be easier when it came time to shelve them later.

“Just tired is all.”

You waited for her enchanted pen to stop moving.

Your eyes tell a much different story.

You let out a long breath, a strand of hair fluttering out of your face in reaction. You had no idea where to even begin on what you truly felt. Clotho wrote again.

We are never meant to traverse life and its challenges alone. Sometimes it’s a blessing to let another person carry some of the load.

Clotho was dangerously close to the truth of what Eris had become to you lately. Even if there were still parts of you he didn’t know, he’d provided stability and familiarity—comfort—in a way you hadn’t been expecting.

Somehow, over the months, he’d started filling the lonely cracks that had been gaping open in your chest for far too long. Nightly meetings with him had even seemed to chase the nightmares away at one point. He’d become a constant in your life as you’d begun to grow and heal. A lot of that had come from your own determination, but he had played a significant part in who you’d started to become.

“Sometimes people disappoint you,” you finally spoke aloud.

Which wasn’t fair to say. Eris had done nothing to make you question that—certainly not in the ways Finneas had. Even if you’d been the one to pull away from him—in fear, hopelessness and despair—you still missed him. He’d snuck into your life so craftily that you found you now missed the place he’d so easily occupied. This last week had stretched on endlessly while you’d walked around with an aching hole in your chest.

This hurt felt different from the types you’d experienced before though. Instead, this felt like an intricate part of you had gone missing, the dull ache only growing as the days passed.

Clotho seemed to be studying you from under her hood. For a concerning moment, you were afraid she could read all your vulnerable thoughts. The enchanted pen wrote again.

Is it others that frightens you? Or yourself?

“If I didn’t know you were High Priestess, I would think you were my counselor,” you mumbled.

A breath of amusement fluttered from beneath the hood as the paper returned to her to continue the conversation.

It has been nice to see you full of life lately. Whatever—or whoever—has caused that deserves to have a place in your life.

“Maybe,” you answered, noncommittally.

Even if she wasn’t daemati like the High Lord and High Lady of this court were, Clotho always seemed to possess an unnervingly excellent ability to read individuals. She’d always been able to when it came to you. You knew she meant well and cared about your wellbeing, but you couldn’t bring yourself to explain the raw feelings you’d carried with you this week.

For once, thoughts of Eris and Finneas intertwined for a different reason, though it hadn’t been unusual for the past and present to bleed together. But now, the stark differences between the males were more apparent.

Eris was the present, potentially a future, the male of such unexpected kindness and good intentions hidden beneath a deceptively cold face. Finneas was the past, the male who had actually possessed such cruelty beneath a friendly face.

Even still, the hesitancy and apprehension remained in you.

Sometimes, the heart knows before you do.

Your mind filled instantly with images of familiar amber eyes, pale skin, a curtain of red hair—of a male with such a sharp mind and keen talent of perception. One who had a unique sense of humor, tinged with arrogance and snark, yet who concealed a compassionate, good male, beneath it all. The very same male that, at first glance, seemed cold and calculating—unfeeling—but who had instead spent time with you in the most vulnerable of ways, even sharing pieces of his dreams for his court with you.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” you finally answered, placing the last book on the cart, “I better get busy returning these books. I’ll see you later, Clotho.”

With that, you left the High Priestess, pulling the cart of books behind you as you went, her advice echoing in your mind and heart as you went.

That night, Gwyn found you in front of one of the fireplaces of the library—where you once regularly found yourself when you couldn’t sleep.

“I thought I’d find you here.”

You started, not having heard her approach.

“What are you doing here?”

It was late, close to midnight by your guess. Far too late for Gwyn to typically make a visit.

“I had Azriel drop me off. I wanted to find you. May I?”

She motioned to one of the comfortable velvet chairs that sat in front of the fire. Specifically the unoccupied one right next to you. You nodded and she took a seat next to you.

“You wanted to find me?” you prompted.

“Yes.”

The pretty, freckled face of your friend was tight with concern and you had good sense to know where this conversation was heading. But she didn’t launch into demanding an explanation or prying questions like you’d anticipated.

“I’ve been worried about you.”

You shrugged halfheartedly, peering down into your lap.

“I’m fine.”

Gwyn was silent for a moment before answering.

“I used to say the same thing as well—in that exact same tone.”

You bit your lip, tears unexpectedly springing to your eyes. Just her confession alone had something unraveling in your chest—the knowledge that you weren’t the only one who’d been in this same place.

The truth was you weren’t fine. The past had ensnared you again but in a new and bigger way, making you afraid to live again—to have a future. It was doing its best to convince you that you didn’t deserve one.

“I recognize drowning when I see it,” Gwyn said so gently that your eyes squeezed shut, willing the tears away.

It wasn’t as if she hadn’t seen you cry before, that wasn’t it. You were just so tired—of the shame, the fear, the thoughts that kept your head too loud. You’d been foolish to believe healing and making positive progress meant this part was over.

“I thought I was finally okay,” came your broken whisper.

You hadn’t known what would come out when you finally allowed yourself to talk about this. You’d kept it locked up inside of you all week—the storm of emotions only gaining in strength rather than disappearing. You hadn’t expected that to be the first words off your lips, but you knew they carried so much truth to them.

Gwyn didn’t comment and you took the invitation to continue.

“I was finally stepping out of the shadows and into the light for a change—quite literally,” you huffed a humorless laugh, “I started waking up looking forward to the days ahead instead of dreading them. I no longer felt that heavy weight that once seemed to try to pull me down. I felt like I was capable of…anything. But perhaps I was fooling no one but myself.”

Your friend was contemplative in her silence, not rushing to agree or to reassure you, letting your feelings and words settle in the air between the two of you. You were so emotionally fatigued you weren’t even sure what you wanted anymore.

“Did something happen? With Eris?”

Her pleasant voice filled you with such comfort, reminding you of all the times she’d spent helping you in the past. But the mention of his name sent a dull ache through you. The male had become so deeply tangled in emotions surrounding a situation he had no knowledge of. While that was no fault of his own, it only made things more confusing for you.

“No. Yes. I don’t know.”

“Well, at least that covers everything,” Gwyn responded wryly.

You exhaled a half laugh, her attempt at humor making you feel lighter for just a moment. You heaved a deep sigh, knowing Gwyn was someone you could trust and were comfortable with being vulnerable with. After all, she was your friend.

“He didn’t do anything. He didn’t do anything at all,” you answered her earlier question.

“Well…” she hesitated, “It has been rather jarring to notice how the two of you went from rather familiar with each other to impersonal almost overnight.”

Your eyes slipped shut again, guilt flooding you.

“That was all my fault.”

Again, she waited for you to continue, not filling the silence with unnecessary commentary. You toyed with the edge of the blanket that was folded neatly and resting over the sidearm of the chair.

“When I first met him, I didn’t trust him,” you stated simply as you finally turned back to face her.

Both of her copper brows rose in surprise.

“You see, the male— with my past—”

You cut yourself off and took a steadying breath. Even if you didn’t intend to share your entire history with Gwyn, just sharing this was difficult enough.

“I unfairly assumed his intentions were the same. I only expected the worst because I had been taught to be on my guard in all the wrong ways. You know how he is—how he appears. That didn’t help matters.”

Gwyn’s lips twitched in answer, like yes, she was more than familiar with the front Eris showed the world.

“But somehow, that changed. I found myself more intrigued by him and less frightened. You remember how I told you about the time he found me on the roof? Well, those nightly meetings became something I looked forward to. I don’t know if it was just the company or what, but somehow we formed this—”

You paused, searching for the correct word.

“Understanding,” you concluded.

“So what changed?” came her soft inquiry.

Images of that last night with Eris flashed behind your eyes—his vulnerability as he told you what he wanted to accomplish as High Lord, the way he’d looked at you.

“Last week, after the last rooftop meeting with Eris, I started having nightmares again. It was like being back there, living through it once more. My head got…loud again. I—I can’t explain why I pulled away, from him, from everyone.”

“You were scared,” she said.

She made it sound so simple, but in all truthfulness, it rang the most true.

“He scares me,” you admitted softly.

“He does or what he represents?”

Your brow furrowed in confusion.

“What do you mean?”

“Safety. Happiness. Closeness. Is that not what you’ve felt with him?” she asked, ponytail shifting as she tilted her head in curiosity.

She wasn’t analyzing you, but merely questioning, assessing where your head was while simultaneously allowing you to come to your own conclusions.

“It is not unusual to be haunted by your past—I still live with memories of my own. But it’s not fair to yourself to let it hold you back in life. I know what it’s like to live with shame of what you’ve survived and the fear that happiness doesn’t last for long. For far too long, I held myself back from embracing all life had to offer me. I don’t want to see you make the same mistake.”

“It seems safer to rely on only myself though.”

For you had started to trust Eris, rely on his companionship. Old habits made you fearful that something so precious could easily be taken away. Especially now that you were beginning to realize just how much you cared about him.

“Is that fair though?” she asked, “Rather than try and fail—you would take the safe road? Is it living to take the safe road?”

You didn’t have an answer for her. Gwyn’s words were firm, but heartfelt as she continued.

“The male in your past wins if you let what happened to you continue to have this power over you. The pain will always linger in some sense, but it becomes more manageable over time—easier to live with. It’s a matter of learning how not to be swept away with it when it sometimes does return.”

She reached out, grasping one of your hands in both of her own.

“I realize I have no knowledge of what you endured, but what I do know is that I’ve watched you grow and change—in a positive direction—so much over these last few months. Words cannot describe how proud of you I am, for all that you’ve already accomplished. That female is still within you—she’s always been in you—she’s just buried right now in uncertainty.”

A tear finally slid free and you let it roll down your cheek as her words sank in, a balm to all the fears you’d been harboring throughout the past week. Blunt honestly came slipping from your lips in a whisper.

“I think—I think I found myself caring about him in a way I never expected.”

A small smile played on Gwyn’s lips like she wasn’t all that surprised by the revelation.

“I think he’s also seen more of me than I’ve shown anyone and that became terrifying too. I’m afraid he’ll see me differently when he eventually learns about my past.”

Gwyn’s features softened as she listened to your fears.

“While frightening, that sounds like a risk worth taking, don’t you think? Especially if he’s someone you’d like to remain in your life.”

You knew she was right, even though your heart pounded at the thought of being so vulnerable. But he had shared things with you, perhaps it was only fair you finally returned the sentiment.

Gwyn let you ruminate in the silence, turning over everything in your mind as she gave your hand a squeeze before pulling away.

“Tomorrow’s a brand new day. I think it’s time for that strong and fierce female we’ve come to know to make a reappearance, don’t you think?”

Her smile was bright as she stood, making you feel lighter than you had all week. Between Gwyn’s words now and Clotho’s from earlier in the day, resolve settled over you—determination to once again fight for the life you wanted to live. One that came with all the good and bad.

As she bid you farewell—letting you know she’d see you in the training ring in the morning—you knew what you needed to do. Pushing up out of the chair you’d been settled in, you headed to the stairwell that led to the roof.

What you hadn’t expected was to find it completely empty, devoid of the presence that knew how to fill a space. Your eyes were met with only shadows as they roamed the darkened training ring.

The other thing you hadn’t anticipated was the disappointment that settled deep within your chest—or the realization that you couldn’t bear losing him.

•••

ERIS

Once again, something had changed. But this time, it was for the better.

Eris watched her put all her determination and energy into training the following morning. She completed her warmups early, did them harder, faster. She hit all the marks in the sword lessons of the day, her footwork precise, her body perfectly aligned with every turn.

She pushed herself hard through the hours long lessons and by the end of it, she was panting, hairline soaked with sweat as she pulled off the jacket of the leathers she normally donned every day now.

He couldn’t help the relief that flooded him to see her will returning, but something like sadness tugged in his chest momentarily. He hated feeling it, but it gnawed at him that he hadn’t been able to help her—couldn’t pull her out of whatever had been bothering her.

She fanned herself, her face sweaty and flushed as she retrieved a drink of water. He tried not to be too obvious as he watched her every move, assessing to make sure that somehow she truly was doing better.

She flashed one of the priestesses—Deirdre, he recalled—a pretty, bright smile in response to something the female had said. His heart stuttered at the reappearance of the smile that had gone missing for over a week.

While a hint of that smile lingered on her lips, her eyes flicked his way, holding his gaze. Her face turned a shade more serious as something charged hung in the air between them—oddly similar to that instance when he’d felt the mating bond snap into place.

The spell was broken by Azriel calling his name, pulling him into a conversation with the shadowsinger—one that had Eris’s back turning to the females. When it wrapped up a few minutes later, Eris was surprised to turn and find her waiting for his attention to free up.

Up close, he realized that while her demeanor had improved, there were still dark smudges under her eyes, shadows lingering within the gaze that peered up at him. He could tell the difference between her behavior as of late and now, but even then he knew she wasn’t fully alright.

“Tonight? Same time?”

The sound of her soft voice was music to his ears. It felt like he hadn’t heard it in centuries. The hope that bloomed in him at this turn of events sent his pulse skittering.

“Yes—of course.”

She merely dipped her chin in a nod before turning to leave.

The day passed dreadfully slowly and Eris found himself closest to fidgeting than he ever had been. For someone who knew how to handle unease and anticipation, without displaying a single indication of what he was feeling, he was struggling with the skill today. The minute he was free of his duties back home, he escaped to his chambers, winnowing to Velaris practically the moment his door closed behind him.

Despite arriving a tad earlier than usual, he was surprised to see her sitting in the middle of the training ring, cross-legged. She was back in the pale blue priestess robes, her hair loose and fluttering gently in the warm summer night. Her head turned as he approached silently, head tilting up to look at him.

Wariness lined her features, a sort of defeated look about her. Her eyes weren’t empty as they had been previously, but he could see the exhaustion in them—an exhaustion that wasn’t physical.

“There’s something I want to tell you,” she said, hesitation thick in her words.

“Alright,” he said, sitting down next to her, so close that their shoulders almost brushed.

Her fingers tapped nervously against her leg before she caught herself, curling them into her hand. His eyes took in how her nails dug into her palms. She took an audible breath—her chest expanding with it—and blew it out slowly. Eris waited patiently, though concern tugged at his ribs, right at that strange place that seemed to wait for her.

“Five years ago, I was brought to this library.”

Eris’s spine stiffened and he automatically sat up at the severity in her voice. He hadn’t known what to expect by her greeting, but he hadn’t considered it would be this—that she would be sharing the story that had impacted her life so greatly.

“Rhysand found me in the alley behind Rita’s, bleeding, half frozen, left for dead.”

Anger, nothing but pure anger flared through him, followed by an overwhelmingly sickening sense of horror at what she’d just said. She gave a humorless laugh.

“I probably should start at the beginning.”

Eris only tensed further, irrational protectiveness flooding his senses as he tried to prepare himself to hear a story that he knew had to be incredibly difficult for her to share.

“Five years ago, I knew a male by the name of Finneas. He was beautiful—practically perfect—the kind of male that one could only dream of. I think I fell in love with him from the first moment I laid eyes on him.”

Eris scolded himself for the momentary envy that slid through him, oily and wrong—especially at such an inopportune time. But something in him still reacted to hearing her talk of another male in such a way. He inhaled through his nose quietly, trying to rein in the absurd reaction that he had no control over.

“You see, I used to own a bookstore—here in Velaris. It was my dream to own one, ever since I was a child. I didn’t own it long, just over a year, but the short time I did have it are some of the happiest moments of my life.”

Surprise filled him at the discovery of this piece of her history, a brief smile appearing. Somehow it didn’t surprise him to know that she’d once owned a bookstore. It seemed that no matter where she’d been in life, she always managed to end up surrounded by books. He made a mental note to ask her more about it at a later date.

“He came into my store one day and the rest was history. Unfortunately.”

The last word sounded like it came with much regret, the weight to it so heavy he felt the air around them shift with the severity of the moment.

“He told me he was the son of a lesser lord and that he was estranged from his parents—though I’m still to this day unsure if that was the truth or another one of his lies. He claimed the aristocratic world was far too formal to hold his attention for long. Thinking back now, I realize I truly knew little about him or his life. I don’t even know where he hailed from—whether it was from Prythian, the Continent or even other faraway lands. All I knew was that he was a handsome High Fae male with the palest of blonde hair and striking green eyes and had a penchant for traveling. I’d always assumed he had ancestry from the Spring Court. I don’t even know if his parents were alive. Guess that should’ve been my first warning, huh?”

Eris felt a sense of dread creep over him as she spoke, not entirely knowing what to anticipate, but knowing it couldn’t be good. He didn’t speak, his eyes focused wholly on her as she spoke, though her gaze stayed elsewhere.

“At first he was charming, so incredibly charming. He said all the right things, complimented me endlessly and just showered me with attention, appreciation and even gifts. It was overwhelming in the best of ways—I thought I was the luckiest female alive.”

“I take it that didn’t last long,” Eris rasped, a statement more than a question.

She shook her head, a halfhearted exhale escaping her—one that sounded like it was meant to be a self-deprecating laugh.

“No, it did not,” she answered, “But, thinking back, I feel like it was a distraction of sorts—a sleight of hand, if you will. His attempt to preoccupy my attention so I would never anticipate his true intentions.”

She nervously tucked a piece of hair behind an arched ear, attempting to steady the shaking of her hands. Eris noticed every small movement, his chest aching at the sight. He resisted the urge to reach out and take her trembling hands in his broad ones.

“It didn’t happen quickly—the changes. In fact, it was so subtle I didn’t even realize it when it was happening. It seemed to be a series of strange moments, ones where he acted oddly. But I kept brushing them off, explaining them away.”

Eris didn’t know whether he should let her talk or say something, but the question came out before he could stop it. If anything, at least it proved that he took this incredibly seriously and that she had his full attention.

“Such as what?”

She shrugged, glancing over at him quickly before looking back towards her lap.

“He’d start criticizing me over the strangest things—what I wore, a decision I made about the store. I figured he was just strongly opinionated. Then it escalated in frequency to the point where I was second guessing myself and my abilities.”

Her robes rustled as she shifted into a more comfortable position.

“Then came the possessiveness and the irrational jealousy. He’d make me feel guilty if I had other plans with anyone other than him. He’d get irrationally angry if a male was even kind to me, automatically jumping to the conclusion that he was flirting with me. Then he’d turn around and accuse me of being far too friendly with them. Little by little he narrowed my world until it was only him in it. I trusted him and relied on him, I even thought I was in love with him.”

His jaw clenched but he kept on listening.

“I don’t know how it really started. I know there was a distinct moment it began, but in the plethora of bad memories, I don’t remember it. You think I would recall what led to it, wouldn’t you?”

It was a rhetorical question and he didn’t answer, just waited, tensely, as that sense of dread grew, positive he knew exactly what was coming.

“The first time he hurt me he gripped my wrists so tightly that I had bruises for days. He slammed me into a wall with such force, my teeth rattled. I was left with a knot on the back of my head after that incident.”

Her voice was so small, so quiet, filled with so much shame. Eris wasn’t sure he was breathing. The female that had been made for him—the one that the Mother had tied him to—had experienced such horrors so similar to his own, to what his own mother had endured. That quiet place that only answered to her seemed to roar again, fury and agony entangled.

Amongst those reactions laid a sense of astonished awe at the irony of it all. Every iota of him loathed that she had to experience even a fraction of the sort of physical abuse he’d been subjected to, but in the same breath he knew that those shared tragedies allowed him to understand her far more deeply than she realized.

Another realization struck him. That deduction of his—when he’d first noticed how she’d flinch around males—had been absolutely correct. She’d been on edge for far longer than she should’ve been—always anticipating a strike or explosive anger because of invisible scars this piece of shit had left on her.

“Besides his words, his fists were his favorite way to hurt me,” she uttered, beginning to sound detached, “But of course I was naive and a damn fool for thinking things would eventually improve.”

“You were never a fool for thinking you could trust someone that was supposed to care for you,” he said, perhaps a tad sharper than he meant to.

Her eyes lifted to his again and he didn’t think his chest could ache any more than it did in that moment. In the moonlight, he saw the deep pain etched into her face. That haunted look had returned to her face, mixed with grief, despair and regret. Whatever his own expression beheld apparently gave her the strength to continue her story.

“He always apologized—every time, actually—said he was sorry and it would never happen again.”

“I take it that was far from the truth.”

Eris barely bit back the grimace at his inane and very obvious question, though she didn’t give him any grief for it. She pulled her legs to her chest as if trying to shrink herself, make herself less vulnerable in this situation as she continuously exposed herself.

“You would be correct,” she said flatly, “I’m sure you can guess what the rest of the story is like. The brutality continued and I learned to become smaller, never too much, fearful of upsetting him or triggering his anger. I thought I didn’t deserve any better. I lived in such a state of constant fear that it’s a wonder that didn’t kill me before he tried to.”

Every muscle in his body tensed in reaction. He heard her take in a shuddering breath as she prepared to voice what he assumed to be the hardest part of her story. Without even thinking of what he was doing, he laid his hand—palm up—on the ground between them. She’d once offered him reassurance in a small touch, he could offer her the same courtesy.

The motion caught her eye as she glanced down and saw his silent offering—support, strength, and comfort in the gesture. All to let her know she wasn’t alone, not now or ever. One hand fell from where she gripped her legs, reaching out for his hand, her fingers just barely curling around his.

“One night he went too far,” she breathed into the night air.

Eris felt the pain in every syllable. His fingers twitched against hers.

“Similarly to what led to the first time he put his hands on me, I don’t recall what led to this night either. All I remember was pain and paralyzing fear.”

He squeezed her fingers gently in silent encouragement, giving her the needed courage to continue.

“Rhysand said I had a black eye, broken nose, busted lip, several broken bones—including a few ribs—and a massive head wound that had left me so bloody and broken he later admitted that, at first sight, he’d been terrified I was already gone.”

Wrath raced through his bloodstream, nothing but pure wrath. High Fae were harder to kill, yes, but he also knew the strength they had. If that brute force had been taken out on an individual…it would very much leave them in a state just like she’d described. His eyes closed briefly—not only to settle the intense emotions swirling in him—but because of all she’d just revealed.

He couldn’t bear to imagine the female sitting in front of him—the same he’d seen display such fierceness and strength—reduced to nothing, physically and emotionally.

“Finneas left me for dead in that alley behind Rita’s. That’s where Rhysand found me. He healed me as best as he could before he brought me to the library—where others like me resided. Ones who experienced such unimaginable horrors. This is where I’ve been for the last five years.”

There was still one question that nagged him, that he knew he needed the answer to. If only to calm the rage that made his blood boil.

“What happened to him,” Eris snarled through clenched teeth.

“Rhysand hunted him down and looked into his mind to see what he’d done—to avoid me having to relive it by telling him. Then he killed him.”

Eris was of the mind to consider the male lucky because with the way he was feeling, he knew he would’ve done the same thing if he was still alive and breathing.

As he studied her, in the aftermath of sharing all that she had, he realized how much of it made sense now. Her reluctance around males, the confidence that had been shredded to pieces, the haunted look in her eyes that first night he’d found her up here. That was why she’d looked like a frightened animal when he’d unintentionally startled her.

It was also the explanation as to why she’d been in the library for so long. Not because she was weak, as he’d once assumed, but because her life had been so brutally interrupted that rebuilding it was no simple matter. He’d been an asshole about it—questioning why she was still living there—all because he was furious at fate.

He had just opened his mouth to apologize for that encounter, once again, but apparently there was more she felt the need to share.

“I started having nightmares again last week. It pulled me back into such a dark place that I felt I could no longer maintain the female I thought I was becoming. I was terrified of you seeing me like this too, afraid when you inevitably discovered the truth you’d see me differently or think me foolish for allowing this to happen to me—”

He said her name so sharply that her eyes instantly flew to him. She’d been staring at where their hands were still loosely connected as if he was the only thing grounding her in reality.

“The only way I see you is as a female who finally decided to take her life back after some asshole tried to crush her spirit,” he said vehemently, “You are not lesser for what you’ve had to endure, you hear me?”

She managed a small nod, tears finally flooding her eyes. That tugging pain in his chest returned as the tears began to fall down her cheeks.

“I think I knew for a while I wanted to tell you, I was just so scared that when you knew the truth…you’d leave too. I was forced long ago to believe that I could count on no one but myself—that getting too close to people would only end badly.”

The painful truth was that she had no idea just how much he understood that sentiment. All the instincts he’d been pushing down for months swelled again and this time, he didn’t ignore them as gently he pulled her into his arms.

He found himself surprised at the gesture because this wasn’t how he usually offered reassurance, but then again it was rare he offered it to begin with. With her though—with her, it felt natural as she fit perfectly in his arms, against his chest. His arms settled around her, one broad hand flat against the center of her back, thumb brushing soothing strokes back and forth.

The tears weren’t the dramatic sobs he’d half expected, but more quiet. As if something within her was fracturing but rebuilding stronger—a healing of sorts. More than a small part of him hoped that even sharing her story with him would go a long way in her healing.

Her arms stayed bent against his chest, pressed between both of their bodies as her own expelled all the pain and grief of the last week—and likely far longer. Between quiet gasps of breath and sniffles, he felt her fingers tangle in the lengths of his hair, as if they’d always belonged there. He said nothing though as he sat and held her, content to be there for as long as she needed.

If only to let her know that she’d never have to be alone again.

•••

You didn’t know how much time passed or how long Eris sat holding you in his arms. You felt so incredibly raw and exposed, bordering on feeling shameful and embarrassed by not only your past, but your reaction to it.

You briefly thought about apologizing for your dramatics when the rumble of his voice in his chest made you pause. But it was the words that stopped you cold.

“I’ve been tortured by my father more than I care to admit.”

You stiffened, the words clanging through you with such strength you struggled to make sense of them. Slowly, so incredibly slowly, you pulled out of his arms. His grip loosened as you sat back to look up at him.

His face gave nothing away, the tenderness and concern of earlier completely replaced by cold indifference—distance. His mouth was set in a straight line, jaw tense, eyes devoid of any of the warmth you knew they’d been capable of in the past. Of mere moments before.

“What?”

Your voice absolutely cracked around the word. You couldn’t explain why, but it felt like a fist had reached into your chest and ripped your heart out, straight through your ribs, the pain and panic that flooded you, instantaneous and irrational.

“As you’ve probably gathered, my father isn’t a pleasant person. I’ve long known what sort of creature he is.”

His touch slid from your body, the loss of the comfort and warmth leaving you cold—almost as cold as his confession had. He rubbed his jaw nervously, the first time you’d seen him so ruffled, if you were honest.

“I understand what you’ve endured more than you realize,” Eris finally said, anger flashing in those amber eyes.

You gasped softly as flames sparked to life in his eyes at the first sign of his anger. You’d halfway noticed it and dismissed it earlier, too focused on getting what you needed to say out. But now, you could see the golden flames sizzling in his eyes. His eyes closed and he took a deep breath before opening them again, the flames having vanished as he reined his emotions in.

“I understand because my father is exactly the same kind of male as the one that hurt you.”

You once didn’t think you could take anymore pain, that nothing could hurt worse than the suffering you’d survived. But somehow, this was a new kind of torture. You wanted to scream, cry, howl in reaction to what Eris was telling you, you hurt so deeply for him.

You knew how horrible it was to experience what you had, so to know Eris had far too much experience with similar things—things that nearly broke you—almost shattered you into a million pieces.

“Do you recall how I mentioned Lucien once got along with the lesser faeries of Autumn?”

You merely nodded, still unable to find the words to say.

“Unfortunately, he fell in love with one of them—Jesminda. My father—” he sneered at the word, “—took it upon himself to display just how much he disapproved of his son falling in love with a female not good enough for a High Lord’s son. He had her executed in front of Lucien.”

You gasped, horror making you recoil slightly.

“Beron also delights in putting his hands on my mother—and me.”

His jaw worked as he looked away from you. Your heart pounded, unable to process fully what he was saying.

“Myself? I can deal with that. But my mother?”

Barely restrained fury rippled his body.

“She deserves none of that,” he said, voice so cold you had the good sense to know that one day he would make the High Lord of Autumn pay for his actions.

“Eris.”

His name seemed to rip from your throat. His gaze had gone distant as he’d stared out across the darkened training ring. At the sound of his name on your lips, his eyes slid to yours.

“What do you mean he tortures you?”

His answer was so blunt it made you want to vomit on the ground you sat on.

“He’s been known to dose me with Faebane—to keep me weakened and slow the healing—then inflict pain on me, leaving injuries that take twice as long to heal. The reason why differs between him wanting information from me to pure enjoyment, depending on the day.”

A broken sound escaped you. He must’ve seen how pale you’d turned, how sick you probably looked in response. He ran a hand through his hair—the first time you’d ever seen him do such a thing, his fingers tangling in the lengthy strands. He looked as rattled and off balance as you felt, the emotional maelstrom of the night seemingly taking a toll on both of you.

“I’m sorry. I probably should be more tactful while telling you such things. You’ve already experienced enough of such horrors.”

“There is no nice way to phrase things like this,” you whispered.

“No,” he murmured, eyes meeting yours, “There isn’t.”

“I am so sorry,” you breathed.

It wasn’t pity you were expressing—after all, you knew you’d abhor pity as well—but sheer understanding and empathy you were trying to convey.

“I shared this because I wanted you to know that I understood. Especially the part about not being able to rely on others.”

You opened your mouth—to say what exactly, you didn’t know—but he continued, as if he knew how much at a loss for words you were.

“I learned long ago that relying on others was dangerous.”

Your face tightened with concern, the ache within you spreading. You knew what that was like—the fear and hesitancy that came with putting your trust in someone enough to depend on them. But Eris was also a male positioned to inherit a throne, you could only imagine how much deadlier his circumstances were, in comparison to your own.

“The world I was raised in values power more than anything. Affection becomes leverage. Weakness becomes entertainment. The only person one can count on is oneself. Which was why you came as such a surprise.”

You blinked, surprised. You didn’t miss how Eris appeared like he wished he could take the words back—like he’d said too much.

“Me?”

“Yes,” his voice was rough, gravelly, “I think, with you, I started to learn what trust looks like—what it should look like.”

You realized he had done the exact same thing for you, without you even being aware. Gratitude towards the male in front of you rushed through you like a gentle caress. Your eyes traced the pattern of the splattering of freckles across his cheeks before your eyes returned to his amber gaze—where it was already steady on you.

“I’m sorry for what you had to endure,” Eris murmured, “But I’m very glad I met you.”

You didn’t break his gaze as you answered.

“I am too,” you whispered, not wanting to break the precious moment, but adding, “And I, too, am sorry for what you endure, Eris.”

You knew words wouldn’t be able to soothe the hurts caused. You didn’t even think you had the appropriate words. So you did what he had for you earlier in the night, laying your hand on the ground between the two of you—palm facing the sky—giving him the option to reach out for you if he wanted it.

His eyes dipped to the gesture and a beat later, his warm hand covered yours, fingers lacing through your own. It didn’t make things better, didn’t erase the horror either of you had experienced. But as you leaned into him, your head gently resting against his shoulder, his hand interwoven with yours, you realized just exactly what it was.

It was an, I see you.

•••

ERIS

“Tell me about your bookstore.”

Though life continued on after the night he’d bared his soul to her—after she had to him—he was still shaken after hearing her story.

He watched her differently now during training sessions, understanding the importance of taking back the power, building her strength and resilience after such horrible circumstances had tried to knock her down permanently. It hurt every part of him so much to hear what sort of brutality she had endured—from someone she thought she could trust, too.

He watched her carefully when they were alone up on this rooftop, just as he was tonight.

He hadn’t initially planned on sharing about his own grievances—hadn’t wanted pity. But somehow, the words had come tumbling out. It was odd how she always seemed to put him at a sense of ease without even trying.

She’d offered him no pity though—just mere understanding and her presence. Somehow, that night, a solidarity had formed between them during their shared tales and the quiet moments in between.

Once, a few nights after their conversation, he could tell she had been hesitant to ask what lingered on her mind. They hadn’t spoken much of his own set of circumstances and he’d appreciated that she hadn’t made a big deal of it. But still, she asked.

“You’ll tell me if it happens again, won’t you? I refuse to let you deal with that alone,” she’d said with such determination, her chin titled in defiance, shoulders straight, that he couldn’t refuse her request.

“I will,” he’d promised.

He’d meant it too.

Beron was never one for predictability. There were some periods he went months—even years—without resorting to brutal tactics to keep him in line. Sometimes, it happened more often in a shorter timespan. Currently, it’d been a while since he’d borne the brunt of his father’s wrath.

But Eris knew when the inevitable came, thoughts of her would be the only thing to get him through—and as much as every fiber of him wanted to protect her from such cruelty, he knew he’d keep his promise to her. He’d come to realize she was much stronger than he’d initially assumed.

Now, tonight, under the full moon, he sat, once again playing chess with her.

She moved her knight forward toward the center of the board and his eyes sparked with knowing. His gaze scanned over the chess pieces, spotting the damning move plainly. He wondered if she did, too.

She’d positioned all her pieces in the middle of the board like he’d taught her to and had also prioritized moving only some of her pawns out early—a common strategy as it wasn’t wise to advance them all too quickly. After getting her knights and bishops in play, she’d begun to make the more tactical moves.

His eyes roamed the board and saw all her pieces carefully positioned in a way that had his king trapped. He saw the exact move she could make to checkmate him.

But he hadn’t spoken now in an attempt to distract her, but out of mere curiosity. The little piece of her history that he hadn’t known had stuck with him, intrigued him.

She smiled faintly at the pleasant memories he was sure surfaced.

“It was just a small shop,” she brushed it off with a modest shrug, “It was a place of peace at one point. Then again, I think I’ve always been happiest if I’m surrounded by books.”

He smiled at the sentiment—one he shared wholeheartedly.

“You still have fond memories even with him so entangled in them?”

Her shoulders stiffened and he bit back a curse. It had been careless to ask such a thing—even more so in the tactless way he’d done it. But then he watched her instantly relax again, as if she’d begun realizing that she wouldn’t shatter into pieces every time the horrible male of her past was mentioned. He studied her as she worried at her lip, studying the chess pieces. He wasn’t sure if she was actually focusing on the game or her answer to his question.

“Yes, I do,” she eventually responded, “Because my love for books is something so grand that no one has the power to take that away from me.”

His chest warmed again—it’d been doing that a lot here lately, annoyingly so. The very present bond still very much hidden inside of him had become harder to disassociate from.

“I’m happy to hear that,” he murmured.

“Isn’t it ironic though?”

“Hm?”

She laughed, pushing strands of her long hair over her shoulder and out of her way.

“That even here, I somehow managed to end up surrounded by books.”

He was sure that amusement showed on his face because he’d had the same thought.

“What did you call it?” he asked.

“Don’t laugh,” she pointed at him seriously.

He arched a brow.

“I promise I won’t.”

“Under The Stars Bookshop.”

He blinked at her, the irony enough to make a short burst of disbelieving laughter to escape.

“You said you wouldn’t laugh!” she huffed, exasperated, “I know, it’s a little on the nose, but I liked how it sounded.”

“It’s not that,” he grinned, “It’s just…rather appropriate, don’t you think?”

His gaze tilted upwards to the opening of the training ring, the stars twinkling bright, high above them.

“You know, since you’ve become rather acquainted with the stars, lately,” he quipped.

“Is this your way of calling yourself the moon to my stars?” she teased.

She said it so playfully, but the question settled between them, making him pause. In a way, she had become like the stars, shining in an immortal life—his life—that had become so dark. She, herself, had emerged from darkness with a light that refused to dim, no matter how much the world tried.

It reminded him of the warmth in his chest that had only grown stronger in her presence as of late.

“Yeah,” he murmured, “Something like that, actually.”

“It is rather interesting how the threads of life seem to weave together so seamlessly, isn’t it?”

That internal thread seemed to flutter in response. As he watched her return her gaze to the chessboard—likely contemplating her next move—realization dawned on him slowly. The truth washed over him, undeniable. His eyes followed as fingers tucked loose strands behind her arched ear.

These nights of companionship hadn’t been out of duty or obligation—even if they’d initially been born from that. They had continued because he’d enjoyed them. Because, somewhere along the way, he’d begun to look forward to them. The temporary absence of them had left him at a loss—affecting him far more than he cared to admit.

He pushed the thoughts down, tucking them away. Close—too close to something he couldn’t afford.

Instead of answering her question, he asked one of his own.

“How are you? Has it been a good day today?”

He’d fallen into the habit recently of checking in with her—questioning if it had been a good or bad day for her. It settled something inside of him to know the good days far outweighed the bad.

“It has,” she smiled, “I think it’s about to get even better though.”

His mouth quirked to the side.

“Is that so?”

“Oh, yes,” she answered, nonchalantly, moving her bishop in just the precise move his knowing eyes caught earlier, completely trapping his king.

“Checkmate, Eris.”

She was beaming so brightly that he couldn’t help but smile back at her, pride welling in his chest. She radiated excitement and joy at finally beating him.

“Well deserved, I do believe,” he bent his head in recognition, the smile still lingering on his face.

She was resetting the board, putting the pieces back on their rightful squares when her soft, hesitant comment floated into the air between them.

“What about you?”

He cocked his head in confusion.

“What about me, what?”

“Is it a good day for you?” she bit her lip as she looked back up at him.

He wasn’t stupid. He knew by the look in her eyes, the things she said—and didn’t say—that she was concerned for him. He wasn’t purposely trying to brush her off, but he knew there wasn’t much he could say to soothe any of her worry due to his own circumstances. It was what it was.

“It’s always a good day when I get to see you,” he crooned.

She huffed a laugh, shaking her head. But she was persistent and didn’t give up—not that he expected her to.

“I’m serious, though.”

The smirk tugged at his lips.

“So am I, priestess.”

“Eris,” she gave him an exasperated look.

He didn’t think he’d ever tire of hearing his name on her lips. It was hard to believe not too long ago he didn’t care if he ever did or not. Curious how drastically some things could change.

“You’d let me know if there was anything I could do for you, right? I mean after all you’ve done for me…”

“Your company is more than enough,” he assured, falling serious for a moment.

She didn’t look entirely satisfied with the answer. It was strange, he had to admit, to have someone care so deeply they were offering up more than they even had the capacity to give—all in the name of compassion.

“You know what could make my day better?” he prompted.

“What?”

He jerked his chin towards the wooden pole where the ribbon hung from. He knew she’d been avoiding it. In fact, she hadn’t even attempted to cut it since before that black hole of despair had nearly swallowed her again.

A few more in the class had managed to cut it, though she and a handful of other priestesses were still left. She just scowled at his silent request.

“I hate that thing,” she muttered.

“You’ve never struck me to be a quitter,” he drawled.

Anger sparked in her eyes. Good. Strong emotions were typically the best motivators.

“Because I’m not,” she shot back.

“Then why haven’t you cut the ribbon?”

He sat back, folding his arms across his chest as he studied her. Her lips pressed together as her own arms crossed—more in a defensive and protective way than his change of position had been.

“I can’t do it—I’ve tried.”

“Can’t? Or won’t?” he pressed.

As a result, something in her seemed to snap.

“I’ve failed at too much in my life—protecting myself, ignoring what was right in front of me before it was too late, not being able to heal. This is just another thing I’ve failed at. I can’t even be a good friend to you! At least not in the way you have been to me.”

Her chest heaved, breath fast and uneven, clearly overwhelmed from the torrent of emotions that had just struck her.

“I need you to listen to me,” he said so quietly that her shoulders stiffened in response.

It was the deadly quiet, severe voice he used as a courtier—the one that let others know he meant business.

“You have not failed at anything in your life. You have not failed me. But right now, the only mistake you’re making is not letting yourself have the opportunity to prove yourself—and others—wrong. The tragedy here is you giving up on yourself, nothing else.”

She was quiet, teeth worrying the corner of her bottom lip as her gaze avoided his. He knew well enough that she was processing his words though.

What if I can’t do it?” she asked, voice so small it made his previous stern demeanor soften considerably.

No, she wasn’t a female who gave up easily. But she was also a female that had been beaten down by life far too many times. Even though she had shown remarkable bravery and determination in the time he’d known her, he knew it wasn’t unusual for her to doubt herself and her capabilities too.

“I did this,” she motioned around them to the training ring, “So he wouldn’t win—I can’t let him win. I was so tired of being weak and afraid. But I can’t even do something as simple as cutting a damn ribbon.”

She watched warily as he stood, brushing off the legs of his finely tailored pants. Rounding where the chessboard lay, he slid a hand under her arm and pulled her to her feet—not roughly, but with enough strength and ease that she knew he was serious.

“Come here.”

She followed after him silently as he led her across the ring to in front of the wooden beam. He paused there and pointed to it.

“You are not doing this because of him. You’re not doing it for me. You’re not doing it for Cassian, Azriel, Gwyn, Nesta, Emerie or any of the other priestesses. You are doing it for yourself.”

She stayed quiet, watching him as he spoke to her—to the soul that was still fragile despite the progress she’d made.

“This is only a small part of what you’re facing. It’s a challenge but it’s not impossible—and I know you realize that too.”

Her head turned to peer back at the ribbon—the daunting truth dangling before her. He took in her profile as she did so. His stomach clenched as the dangerous truth that’d struck him earlier once again attempted to claw its way to the forefront of his mind.

Instead, he did something unusual. He didn’t think twice about it as his hand lifted and he gently grasped her chin in his thumb and forefinger, turning her face towards him. He’d rarely been so bold in touching her. Once, he’d been apprehensive of startling her. The last time he’d touched her was that night they sat in the moonlight, their hands connected as their own personal histories tangled in the air between them.

Her eyes met his, her lips parting in surprise at his unexpected gesture, but she did not look afraid.

“He will never win because you’re far stronger than you give yourself credit for,” Eris whispered, “The moment you picked up that sword—the moment you stepped into the training ring—the moment you made the decision to no longer fear, that is when he lost.”

She stared up at him, utterly silent. The look of vulnerability and trust that shone in her eyes was enough to undo him completely.

“You once chose to fight for yourself—to take back your life. I want you to see it through.”

He didn’t intend to do it, but his thumb brushed her jaw lightly—just once—before his touch fell from her face. His gaze remained steady on her even as the corner of his mouth twitched upwards, playful.

“For what it’s worth, I believe in you.”

A beat passed, the air between them taut as their gazes remained locked. She seemed to turn over his words in her mind. He was the first to break the connection, eyes dropping away as he cleared his throat. He stepped away, momentarily, walking to the weapons rack. He pulled a sword free, carrying it back to her. He held it out towards her for her to take.

“Why don’t you try to cut it, and we can walk through it step by step? Maybe then we can figure out—together—what’s holding you back.”

She watched him curiously, newfound determination in her eyes. Still, she reached out and took the blade from his hands. As she settled it in her grasp, she finally responded to him. He didn’t expect the words that followed though.

“It’s okay to believe in yourself too, Eris.”

His eyes met hers once more, quiet acknowledgement in them—letting her see his appreciation for her belief in him, even when they’d been discussing her. A slight dip of his chin was all the response he gave before he stepped backwards, prepared to observe.

“Now, show me what you’ve got, priestess.”

•••

One test remained.

Months ago, you’d left the library for the first time in five years. You’d begun exceeding in your training, you’d even beaten Eris at chess—though that wasn’t something you’d ever expected to do.

Now, you stood in front of the ribbon.

You knew Eris was present—could sense him nearby. But for the moment, all of your focus was trained on the strip of white.

Flashes of all the horrible things that had led you to this moment appeared in your mind. You saw all the times Finneas had struck you, the times you felt you’d never heal from wounds so deep, the female you’d once been.

Never again. You owed it to yourself to leave that version in the past—to thank her for leading you here, all while acknowledging she wasn’t who you were meant to be forever.

It had been a dark place you’d emerged from the day you’d set foot in the training ring—but what you hadn’t realized then was it had marked the beginning of something new. While those experiences would always be a part of your story, that broken version of yourself no longer defined you. New images replaced the ones that flashed in your mind.

The group of females you’d spent countless hours training beside, through rain or shine.

The pride you’d felt when you’d mastered your first combination of sword movements.

The joy on Gwyn’s and Clotho’s faces as your life began to take new shape and you’d begun to thrive.

A male who had once put you on edge, only to become a familiar and welcome presence in your life.

Red hair and a scattering of freckles across a pale face. The way amber eyes brightened ever so slightly when a smile graced his lips. Soft chuckles. Laughter. Encouraging words that had been shared many a night.

Mostly, you remembered the feeling of power that came with each accomplishment, especially when you’d thought it impossible. You’d approached numerous hurdles such a way, healing and training being the two biggest.

But somewhere along the way, you’d learned you could do these things for yourself. Had been encouraged by such an incredible group of individuals—all who were standing and watching you take this step.

Varied encouragements were spoken aloud to you from your sisters, Gwyn included.

“You can do it,” she said to your left.

“You got this,” Nesta added, tone serious but genuine in her own encouragement.

“We believe in you!” Emerie chirped, excitement tinging her voice.

For what it’s worth, I believe in you.

The words floated through you like a phantom wind—as if he were right next to you, speaking the words aloud.

With a deep inhale, you lifted the sword—ready to face the ribbon once and for all.

•••

ERIS

Eris could feel it in his bones that today would be the day.

A few nights ago, they’d run through all of her positionings and movements, and had broken it down to each minute movement. He hadn’t been able to detect anything amiss—she was hitting every mark perfectly.

Deep down, he wondered if it was a mental block and not one stemming from her physical form. He’d noticed in that period, when she’d almost fallen back into the pit of despair, that she’d stopped attempting to cut the ribbon at the beginning and end of training as they all had been doing.

Perhaps mentally she had thought she wasn’t capable of it.

But Eris knew she could. He’d known it before she’d proved it to him that night—when he’d watched the way her movements had flowed as smoothly as silk, as easily as waves of the sea.

In the days since, the rest of the females left had faced the ribbon and cut it. Now, it was her turn.

She stood before the white ribbon, her blade in hand. Concentration was etched deep on her face. Every muscle in her body was taut, primed for the strike. She stared down the ribbon like one would their opponent.

He stood on the edge of the ring with Azriel and Cassian, his arms folded over his chest as he watched. The other females were gathered around her, in solidarity, already figuratively cheering for her as if she’d already cut the ribbon. Clearly they had just as much belief in her as he did.

Similar to the way she’d joined training, she was the last one who’d yet to cut the ribbon. Though she may be last, she wasn’t any less important. Her accomplishment would be just as impactful as everyone else’s—especially to him.

She lifted the sword in both hands, held near her right shoulder as she took in the white ribbon that fluttered before her.

Time seemed to slow as the sword left her shoulder. She stepped forward, her weapon arcing through the air a heartbeat later. As it approached the ribbon, her wrist turned slightly, angling the blade perpendicular to the hanging fabric. In the last second, she twisted her body just slightly, adding power to the cut.

The sharp blade cut cleanly through the middle of the ribbon and Eris watched as the bottom half fluttered to the ground. A symphony of cheers broke out around the training ring as she realized what she’d done.

Overwhelming pride filled him as he watched the way the females ran to hug her—the last sister to finally achieve the title of Valkyrie. Her expression of shock made a smile tug at his lips.

He’d always known she could do it.

It was Gwyn who bent to the ground, picking up the scrap of ribbon, tying it across her brow—just like every other female in this ring had been crowned in their victory. He saw the female’s teal eyes shining with delight even from where he stood.

“Valkyrie,” the red-haired female whispered.

She smiled brightly as fingers touched the silk on her brow. The joy that lit her entire demeanor made something in him sing, glowing so brightly in answer that the words came unbidden to the forefront of his mind.

His mate.

The words clanged through him in a way not unlike the way the mating bond had. It was the first time he’d truly acknowledged who she was to him without any sense of anger, hesitancy or fear.

He was proud to call her his mate. In fact he was even prouder to be her mate. The truth from the other night returned with an undeniable force as he gazed upon her celebration.

He was in love with her.

She finally turned his way, her eyes catching his, a small huff of laughter escaping her—as if she couldn’t believe the reality. Then she did something he didn’t see coming.

His mate rushed from where she’d been across the ring and launched herself into his arms.

She threw hers around him as she hugged him tight. The force of her impact caused him to stumble half a step backwards but he exhaled a small laugh of his own as he wrapped his arms around her body. He knew everyone was staring but he couldn’t be bothered to care as he stood there, holding the female that had been created perfectly for him.

His equal. His mate.

She had done it.

•••

The fire in you lasted for days, to the point you felt like you floated through the world. There was such lightness to your steps—to your entire existence if you were honest.

You hadn’t needed the ribbon test to prove that you were capable or were worth it. You hadn’t needed the validation that you were as much of a warrior as your sisters, but accomplishing it had proven something to you.

Fear no longer gripped you. The empowerment that you’d felt in the months of training—all the friendship and support you’d found along this journey—had gotten you to this point. You’d never imagined you’d be a female that felt so strong, so certain about her place in life, but here you were.

You weren’t completely healed, no, but this had shown you that healing was far more achievable than you’d once thought it to be.

You showed up every morning for training, genuine joy in your heart and an eagerness to learn more—to push yourself harder. It was made even better knowing Eris was there. Often, lately, nightly discussions turned to training—positions and movements—now that your knowledge had expanded enough to have conversations on the matters.

Training didn’t cease simply because everyone had now cut the ribbon, thus earning the title of Valkyrie. Cassian, Azriel and Eris still had much to teach you—throwing everything they had at you. There was still much to learn, they'd said.

And all the females had been eager to learn more.

Life, while remaining busy, seemed to fall into an effortless routine. Training in the mornings, your normal job of assisting Clotho, priestesses services and nightly rendezvous with the heir of Autumn. You had begun seeing your counselor again, eager to utilize the services once more, motivated more than ever to continue the journey of healing. There’d even been some brief talk of one day soon leaving the library, if you chose to.

While your future still seemed to be up in the air, it was comforting to have stability in your every day routine—the privilege of being able to rely on familiar things.

Such as Eris.

It had been odd, recently, how you seemed to light up from within every time your eyes landed on him. When he was around, your heart seemed to sing. A smile would find its way to your lips at the mere thought of him.

So it wasn’t unusual when you had found him on the roof as per usual. But today had been a tad different. You’d felt an unexplainable pull upwards—a desire to ascend the steps a few hours earlier than you usually had. Following that instinct had come with the pleasant surprise of finding Eris already waiting for you.

The two of you had been out here since sunset—Eris having winnowed the both of you to the exact spot he once had for the both of you to watch the sunrise, so long ago. The daylight had softened into hues of pink and orange as nighttime rapidly approached.

As the sun slowly slid beyond the horizon, the sky became painted in vibrant shades of orange that bled into golden yellows, a soft pink blurring the edges where the sunset met the quickly fading blue of day. You and Eris sat in companionable silence as the darkening sky overwhelmed the last of the sunset, the dazzling palette finally surrendering to night.

Late nights with Eris, as of late, had come with more variety than ever. Some involved chess games, others came with sitting and talking as usual. Occasionally, both you and he would grab a sword and you’d get to practice your newfound skills while sparring against him. You’d come to look forward to those instances the most.

The stars were finally winking into existence when you broke the comfortable silence.

“Living doesn’t seem as hard anymore,” you mused aloud.

You hadn’t meant for the sentiment to slip out, but something about the peace that surrounded the two of you—that filled you entirely—left you feeling more honest than normal.

When you looked over at Eris, you found him already studying you, as if digesting your statement.

“I’m glad to hear that,” he eventually responded, earnestly.

“Taking it a day at a time helps, I think.”

You turned back to the starry sky, your eyes full of wonder at the sight. It was strange, yet remarkable, how the world seemed to hold much more beauty and brightness now that you felt lighter. It was as if your eyes had at last opened to all the world had to offer.

When Eris didn’t answer, your gaze slid back to him at your side. You found him still staring at you, as if he hadn’t torn his eyes from you for several minutes. Your heart fluttered at the intensity in those amber eyes. They seemed to swirl with so much emotion that he didn’t know how to convey.

“What?” you breathed, curious about his attention.

He seemed to be turning his answer over in that sharp mind of his, lips pursing slightly as he pondered. Mother help you, your eyes definitely caught that tiny shift, and you quickly dragged your attention away from that particular distraction.

“You look different these days,” he observed, “Calmer. Steadier. Happier.”

“I think I am,” you smiled, feeling that sense of contentment settle in your chest again, “And you? Are you happy?”

For all your happiness, you weren’t exactly sure why you felt such a need to know that he was okay too. He wasn’t one to speak much about his own grievances—nor did he want pity, which you understood well. But you also knew he was aware he could talk to you if he ever needed to. You believed his initial promise to tell you if anything changed.

You took that as a good sign that it hadn’t yet. Mentally, you sent a wish to the Mother, herself, that she protect him. Eris had done so much for you—he deserved peace and happiness as well.

You expected a teasing smile or a snarky comment in response to your question. Instead, his face remained carefully neutral, though you saw softness in his eyes. That intense fluttering sensation returned, stronger this time.

“I think I’m the closest to experiencing happiness that I’ve ever been.”

His normally deep voice, tinged with the smoothness and easy charm of a courtier and heir, was softer now, roughened around the edges. Truth laced his every word. The honesty of the moment surprised you so much that a teasing remark slipped from your lips for a change instead of his.

“Well of course, I’m delightful,” you parroted his teasing remark from a long ago training session.

He laughed, realizing it as well. The smile remained on his lips as he took you in.

“You’re definitely different than the female I first met.”

“You’re different than the male I first encountered,” you teased, smile faltering for a moment, “For a while, initially, I had far too much fear that you were just like…him.”

While you’d acknowledged he’d forever be a part of your history, you no longer felt the desire to say his name. It was a little thing, but not naming him gave you the ability to bury him—leave him behind—like he’d always deserved to be.

“I don’t know whether to be insulted or concerned,” he replied dryly.

You huffed a laugh, shaking your head at your past self.

“Well for one, he was a lord’s son—you’re a High Lord’s son. You both had that same intensity. And it didn’t help that you walked around with such a cold demeanor that one might’ve thought you hailed from the Winter Court. Not to mention, from the moment we met, it seemed like you took an unusual interest in me. It was unsettling at first. It made me think perhaps the same pattern that happened with him was repeating itself.”

His amusement from a moment earlier vanished, face tightening in concern and regret.

“I apologize—as it was never my intention to make you fearful of me.”

But the truth had eventually made itself clear. Eris had never been like him. Eris had been the one to show you what it meant to trust again—something so precious after it had once been ripped from you. The realization hit hard enough that you couldn’t contain it. You knew you needed to tell him.

“You could never be like him, Eris. Or your father for that matter.”

You didn’t regret the last part that slipped out, unvetted. But the surprise that lit his face made your unexpected declaration that much more worth it. You had the feeling very few had ever said such a thing to him. Deciding to push your luck, you made sure he knew the depth of your sincerity.

“You’re a better male than they’ll ever be.”

Eris had never been one to be vulnerable, easily, you’d learned. So it surprised you when he actually responded to the declaration of his character.

“I appreciate you saying that,” he said, quietly.

It wasn’t overly exposed, but you picked up on the sincerity.

You and he had been sitting shoulder to shoulder since he’d winnowed the both of you up here, but now he shifted, stretching his legs out. One booted foot drifted toward yours, nudging it lightly—almost imperceptibly—before speaking again.

“I’m proud of you. You’ve come a long way.”

Your chest warmed at the compliment, one corner of your mouth tilting upwards.

“I’m proud of myself too.”

You turned contemplative, finally deciding to voice something that had been turning over in your mind for weeks now. It had been even more persistent lately—ever since you’d cut the ribbon. Your gaze momentarily turned back to the sparkling night sky.

“It’s strange. It almost feels as if I was always meant to cross paths with you.”

You turned back to him, fully prepared for him to scoff at your silly comment, perhaps even laugh it off. Instead, you discovered he’d shifted closer to you—closer than he’d been a moment ago. Your voice gentled even further as you found the bravery to continue your line of thought.

“Almost like fate or the Mother willed it. I think—” you paused as you gazed up at him, “I think I was always meant to end up here.”

Something flickered in his eyes—perhaps an acknowledgement of sorts. It was there and gone too quickly for you to decipher. You forgot your desire to a heartbeat later when his eyes dipped to your lips.

“Yes,” he whispered, “I believe you were.”

He was close enough that you could count every single freckle that dotted his skin. He was beautiful—you’d always thought so. Even when you’d been unsure of him, it had been something you couldn’t deny, down to your very core.

The pull that tugged you forward felt similar to the one you’d felt earlier when you’d found him on the roof. It was oddly akin to the one you’d subtly felt around him all along. You didn’t spend energy on it as you closed the distance, your lips brushing the warm ones awaiting yours.

Something exploded in your chest, a mixture of happiness and golden light that you couldn’t see but could sense. You felt gentle fingers brush your jaw as hesitancy faded into certainty and the kiss deepened.

A sense of rightness settled over you the moment your lips had connected to his. It came with a sense of belonging—as if you’d truly found where you were meant to be all along. As your hands found his chest, fingers tangling in the ends of his long locks, you felt something tug at your rib—almost like the foreign object wrapped around it—before it settled deeply into your heart.

Much too soon, he was pulling away, but was clearly unable to resist leaning back again as his lips met yours a second time. His hand finally cupped your face in his large palm, touch so tender against it that it made you melt further into the kiss.

You couldn’t stop—didn’t want to stop—as his tongue swept into your mouth, a soft sigh escaping you. One hand slid past the curtain of his hair and curled around the back of his neck. His skin was so soft—as soft as his lips beneath yours.

Your mind was a haze of bliss as lips parted and met repeatedly—a series of kisses tumbling one after another. He tilted your head ever so slightly as he gave you one last lingering kiss, enough to steal the breath from your lungs.

He pulled away so achingly slow—though that may have been due to how you missed his lips already. It took a moment for your eyes to flutter open and you found the familiar amber gaze waiting for you.

Realization slammed into you—as if you’d known all along but was just catching up, your soul just now clueing you in. Your gasp was quiet, though not dramatic, nothing but pure surprise filling you. You weren’t sure what your face conveyed, but it was as if he knew exactly what was happening.

Questions seemed to flood your mind, dangle off the tip of your tongue, but they suddenly seemed less than important. His hand still caressed your face, his thumb moving in the barest hint of a stroke across your cheek.

“You’re right where you belong,” he murmured.

In hindsight, it was so obvious. The ease and comfort he’d always provided you. The protectiveness you’d been feeling towards him. The inexplicable intrigue—that tug. All the pieces fell into place in an instant as your eyes remained on his.

Somewhere along all the nights spent together you’d fallen in love with Eris. All this time, you’d been falling in love with him.

A plethora of small moments, interwoven perfectly, had led you here—led you to the very training ring you sat above right now. An intrinsic part of you had always known—always recognized him, it seemed.

A soft, fond smile spread across his lips as he watched the realization dawn on you fully. For the first time in a long time, you felt whole. As you leaned forward and kissed him again, the thought came to you, unbidden.

Borne out of darkness, you’d found healing, growth and most importantly, your mate.

***

He didn't even get to his desk when Perry called him into his office. He might be late for the fifth time this week, but he had to step in and stop a runaway city bus from ploughing into traffic.

It was unavoidable.

He rushed over, almost tripping over his feet, before he entered.

“Kent,” Perry started, fixing that sharp gaze on him he has become all too accustomed to. 

“I know, I’m late, I—”

Perry turns his monitor toward Clark. “What do you know about her?”

His ready-made excuse went out the window as he looked at the screen and saw you.

He had seen you popping up on social media and in local papers for months now, always paired with the tagline, Love is my business.

“Not a whole lot,” Clark admitted slowly, “but I hear she’s the city’s most sought-after matchmaker. Her clients swear she’s never wrong.”

“Yes,” Perry said, leaning forward, “and I want you to run a story on her. Find out what makes her tick, how she does it. You know, get the human angle.”

“Are you sure I’m the person for the job?” Clark asked, brow furrowing slightly.

“Half the office is buried in the Metropolis mayoral scandal,” Perry cut in. “You’re it, Kent.”

And Clark knew there was no arguing with that.

***

Amoré Co. was a pretty building. Right in the centre of Metropolis and even across from one of Clark’s favourite parks. 

The building itself was an elegant old stone structure, its columns draped in twisting vines that bloomed into soft pastel flowers. Warm afternoon light glimmered off the polished windows, like something out of a dream. Rent must cost an arm and a leg.

Clark paused at the base of the steps, taking it in for a moment before pushing open the heavy glass door.

The moment he crossed the threshold, it felt as if he had stepped into another world.

The city’s noise fell away in an instant. The air was warm, carrying the soft scent of fresh flowers, jasmine, he recognised on second thought.

The place was perfectly curated, down to its very last detail. No wonder it's so popular.

Clark stepped up to the front desk, opening his mouth to introduce himself, only to be cut off by a burst of noise coming from down the hall.

Before he could even process what was happening, the source of the commotion came into view.

You.

You were storming toward the lobby at high speed, face full of frustration as your assistant trailed behind you, looking frazzled. 

And he couldn't help but notice that you're wearing a pair of oversized white wings. The poor thing struggled to keep up, clutching a gold-painted bow in one hand and an arrow tipped with a foam heart in the other.

“It’s just one picture for Instagram!” your assistant pleaded breathlessly, like she had been chasing you for an hour, which he did not doubt was the case.

“The bow and arrow are overkill!” you shot back without slowing down, your voice sharp with indignation.

“It’s thematic!”

“Erin. It’s humiliating! I am running a serious business here, not a circus!” you snapped, practically speed-walking now in a desperate bid to escape both the conversation and any further loss of dignity.

Your focus was entirely on making a clean getaway, which was why you didn’t notice the tall man stepping out from the front desk area until you collided with him, full force.

“Oh—!” The breath whooshed out of you as you stumbled backwards, only to find a pair of strong hands catching you by the elbows before you could fall.

You blinked repeatedly, wondering if you had fallen into a new reality as you teetered on your heels. Your life was well and truly in this man's (firm but gentle) grip.

“Are you alright?” he asked with genuine concern.

For a heartbeat, the world seemed to still.

Your hands had landed against his chest without meaning to, and for some inexplicable reason, you didn’t immediately pull them away. You looked up—and up—and up, finally meeting his gaze.

“Yeah, I’m just…” You trailed off, words evaporating as your mind went completely blank. Everything that had just happened vanished like smoke.

Your feet returned fully to the ground, and you suddenly became hyperaware of how warm and safe his hands felt. “Who are you?”

“Oh. Right.” He adjusted his glasses, “Clark Kent. I believe I have an interview scheduled.”

“Clark Kent,” you repeated slowly, tasting the name on your tongue. Then it clicked. “Oh! The journalist. Right, right—I thought you looked familiar.”

You took a half-step back, smoothing your expression into something professional as best as you could. Can't be caught slipping.

“Follow me,” you said briskly, turning sharply on your heel.

Clark fell into step behind you with that quiet, easy stride of his. Despite his size, he didn’t make a sound. No heavy footfalls, no shuffle of clothing, which, frankly, only unsettled you more.

As you moved through the sleek, carefully curated hallways of Amoré Co., you caught movement out of the corner of your eye.

Erin, your endlessly meddling assistant, had taken out her phone and was sneaking a few candid shots of you and Clark walking together.

You didn’t stop waking, but your voice cut through the air like a whip. “Erin.”

The phone vanished so fast it was almost as if it was never there.

“Yes, boss?” she said innocently, flashing a smile that was all teeth.

“If you post any pictures before I approve them, you’ll be updating your résumé before the end of the day.”

Erin’s grin didn’t falter, not one smidge. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

You shot her a look that very clearly said I am not joking, then quickened your pace, Clark easily keeping up beside you.

For a brief moment, you caught Erin’s amused smirk out of the corner of your eye, and you realised with a sinking feeling that she was already mentally writing captions like: Our fearless leader and who? 👀

You shut the office door firmly behind you, cutting off any chance of Erin barging in with a camera, a prop, or some wild idea for “brand engagement.” 

The last thing you needed was your assistant turning this interview into a publicity stunt. An interview you're not quite sure you want to be doing anyway.

Your office was a carefully curated space, just like the rest of the building. 

Every detail, from the soft amber lighting to the single plush chair positioned just a little too low, was designed with intent. Comfort bred complacency, and you were anything but.

You slid gracefully into your seat behind the desk, folding one leg over the other. Clark, meanwhile, lowered himself into the guest chair opposite you. 

It made him look slightly awkward and very much too large for the space. 

Perfect.

You rested your chin on your hand, watching him in silence for a moment.

Already, your instincts were running wild, logging every detail and filing it away for later. His posture was slightly hunched and unguarded, but not careless. His eyes are warm, kind… and yet there was something you couldn't quite put your finger on.

“I’ve read a few of your articles,” you said finally, leaning back in your chair.

Clark’s face lit with genuine interest, his brows lifting slightly. “And what did you think?” he asked, like the answer truly mattered to him.

You tilted your head, considering him. “You’re… quite talented,” you admitted, the words reluctant but honest. He wrote about things that mattered and did it with integrity, you could respect that.

A small, pleased smile curved his lips. “Thank you. That means a lot.”

You narrow your eyes slightly, not liking how easily he disarmed you. “Don’t get too comfortable, Kent. I just like to read up on who I’m dealing with.”

“So you’ve done your homework on me.”

“Of course,” you said smoothly, though a flicker of frustration sparked in your chest. Homework implied you’d learned something useful, but Clark Kent had given you nothing but perfectly ordinary facts. Kansas upbringing. Journalism degree. A job at the Daily Planet.

“But enough about you,” you said, lifting a hand dismissively. “Unfortunately, you’re here to learn about me.”

Clark’s lips curved into an amused smile. “I wouldn’t say it’s all that unfortunate. You’re building a real empire here, after all. People want to know who the woman behind it is.”

“Oh, you mean the enigmatic businesswoman who’s somehow convinced an entire country she can find them the love of their life?”

“Something like that.” His teasing tone made you feel tingly. You're not quite sure how to combat that.

You leaned back slightly, folding your arms. “I don’t know if it’s much of a mystery. I see through all the confusing shit and guide them to love. Even though, in my personal experience, it’s…” You trailed off, catching yourself before you said too much. Though it might already be too late.

Clark tilted his head, studying you with that disarming sincerity of his. “So you believe in love for everyone else, but not for yourself.”

“Yes,” you said simply.

Clark’s brows knit together, but he didn’t interrupt as you continued. “I’m convinced it’s not for me. If it were, I definitely would have found them by now.”

You paused, thinking out loud quizically, “Unless they’re not from this planet.”

Out of the corner of your eye, you see him crack a smile. “Don’t include that in your article. It’s off the record, okay?”

“I won’t, I won’t. I just find it interesting.”

“That I think the love of my life is probably from outer space?”

“No, well, on second thought, yes, that wasn’t what I was focusing on. I just find it interesting that you’re quiite cynical for a matchmaker,” he said at last.

“I'm not cynical, just realistic. I have to be practical, Kent. Can’t let myself get swept up in the… whimsy of all this “love business”.”

“That’s a shame,” he said softly. “I quite like whimsy.” 

You studied him for a long moment; his response was what you expected from what you had gathered already. He sat there in his slightly rumpled suit, shoulders a little curled in like he was trying to take up less space and not just because of the ridiculous chair you put him in. In his massive hands, the small leather notebook he carried looked absolutely tiny. 

And yet there was something about the picture he painted in your mind. It was charming, though you didn’t want to admit that. 

“Of course you like whimsy.”

You kept looking at him. Longer than you should have, longer than was strictly professional.

At first, you told yourself it was just curiosity, or maybe a simple case of trying to size up a new client, or in this case, a journalist. But deep down, you knew better.

Then it hit you like a ton of bricks.

You couldn’t read him.

Your breath caught, a cold ripple of unease sliding down your spine. It was like sweeping your arm around in the dark for a familiar light switch and finding nothing.

Since you were a kid, you’d lived with this strange, extraordinary gift. The ability to see emotions, if you're putting it simply. 

Everyone's emotional auras, threads of connection between people, were on display for your eyes only. You could see who was compatible, and who might one day fall in love.

It was why you’d built Amoré in the first place. Why you could sit across from two strangers and know if they had a future together. The barista at your favourite café, a soft green glow of calm. The skateboarder you’d watched faceplant in front of your building last week, radiating a bright yellow of embarrassment.

Everyone had a pattern. Everyone except… him.

Clark Kent sat across from you like a blank canvas. 

“Huh,” you breathed before you could stop yourself.

Clark tilted his head, adjusting his glasses slightly. “Is something wrong?”

You froze, forcing a polite smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes. “No, it’s just… there’s something different about you. Something I can’t… read.”

Your voice wavered, just enough to betray how unsettled you felt. You blinked, thrown completely off your game. You never got knocked off balance like this. And yet here you were, fumbling for an excuse you didn’t have.

“I, uh…” you scratched the back of your neck, looking almost sheepish, a very uncommon look for you. “I’m so sorry to do this, but… could we reschedule? Something’s come up.”

“Oh. Uh—yes, of course,” he said quickly, though he seemed a little worried for you.

“You'll be shadowing me for a while anyway. We’ve got all the time in the world.”

“All the time in the world,” he echoes softly, the words sticking in your throat.

“Great.”

As he stands to leave, you sit there in silence, staring at the space he’d occupied.

For the first time since you discovered your gift, you wondered if you’d finally met someone who wasn’t part of your map at all.

***

You can't sleep, and it's all Clark Kent's fault.

Just when you thought you’d finally fall asleep, there he was again, frolicking through your mind. Literally. You had imagined him in a field with a white, billowy shirt and everything.

It had you pacing back and forth in your office like a caged animal. You arrived at work at the crack of dawn and proceeded to drive yourself mad.

In all your time matchmaking and breathing the intricate, impossible web of human emotions, you had never been stumped like this.

This was your job, for goodness sake! 

You took the chaos of emotions and made it make sense. 

But him? Clark Kent was an anomaly. And you hated anomalies.

So you did what you always did: research. The same ritual you’d performed countless times before for countless clients. Background checks, old photographs, school records, the usual. 

“Clark Kent,” you repeat to yourself for possibly the thousandth time, eyes burning from the glow of your laptop screen. “Born and raised in Kansas. Studied journalism at Metropolis University. Works at the Daily Planet…”

You knew all this before you met him, but now it felt like a taunt that you couldn’t find out anything out of the ordinary. Days had passed since you last saw him, and you had gained no new insights into him. Maybe you needed to hire a private investigator. 

A knock at your office door startled you. You blinked and looked up to find Clark himself standing there, a picture of peace, while you were buried under a mess of papers and half-drunk coffee cups. 

You looked at the clock, blinking slowly. 

12:00 PM.

How did that happen?

“Are you okay? You look like—” he began.

“That’s right, I haven’t slept,” you cut in, your voice sharp.

You pushed back from the desk, standing up to give him a piece of your mind. How dare he plague your mind like this? 

“I have spent hours, no, days, trying to understand the… phenomenon that is you. And do you want to know what I came up with?”

“Yes?” He replied, sounding only a little scared.

“Absolutely nothing,” you groan, the lack of sleep evident in your voice. “I have never failed to read someone, not once. People are equations to me. Messy, emotional equations, but solvable nonetheless. But you?”

Your hands shook as you pointed at him, almost accusingly. “With you, there’s nothing. That's literally impossible, Kent!”

You were sure you looked like a mad woman, stark raving mad. Though if you did, Clark didn’t let on.

“Who are you, Clark Kent?” 

The question was more for yourself than for him if you were being honest. You didn’t even know what you would want to hear from him. 

That he was synthetically created in a lab, and that’s why he’s off your radar? That he was actually a figment of your imagination created by sleep deprivation? That you were actually still dreaming right now?

Clark cleared his throat before you could continue digging the hole you were already in. 

I think you should take a break. Get some food to clear your head? I think it’ll do you a whole world of good. My treat.”

He wants to buy you food? The idea startled a laugh out of you. The man who had driven you to madness wanted to buy you food? Though what better way to figure him out than to study him up close. 

…Plus a little food wouldn’t hurt. 

“I’d… I’d like food,” you mumbled, like you were admitting defeat.  

He didn’t press or ask any questions. Instead, he grabbed one of your jackets off the hook and put it over your shoulders. 

“Let’s go.”

***

It was nothing short of a miracle that you’d managed to drag yourself away from your desk. 

And all because Clark Kent had convinced you to get lunch.

You hate to admit it, but you needed this. The simple pleasure of stepping outside, breathing fresh air, and eating something that wasn’t coffee and sheer willpower.

The first bite of the sandwich was heavenly. The kind of perfect combination of flavours that made you wonder why you’d ever let yourself live on takeout salads and protein bars. You closed your eyes briefly, savouring it.

God, this hit the spot.

“See?” Clark jests, with a light nudge. “Told you it’s the best sandwich in town.”

“Perhaps,” you allowed, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a full victory.

Clark just grinned at you, that quiet, boyish smile that was far too distracting for your own good. Deciding that staring at him would only make things worse, you swept your gaze around the cosy little restaurant instead.

That was when your senses prickled, your Cupid senses, as Erin dubbed them.

The threads in the room shifted, glowing faintly at the edge of your vision. Conversations blurred, footsteps faded, and suddenly you were aware of a moment about to unfold.

“You see that girl over there?” you murmured, tilting your head toward a young woman perched nervously in a café, fiddling with her drink.

Clark followed your gaze, his brow furrowed. “Yeah.”

“Right now, I’ve seen… oh, let’s say a dozen different versions of the same event play out in my mind. Everything hinges on whether she bumps into the guy three seats over.” You sipped your drink like it was nothing extraordinary, though the weight of what you’d just said hung between you.

“And?” Clark prompted carefully.

You smiled faintly. “From what I can see,  they'll have enough similarities to keep them connected, but enough differences to keep things interesting.”

“So you think they’ll… fall in love?” he questions.

“They will,” you said with certainty. “If they talk today, there’s an 86.75% chance they’ll stay together. At least for a couple years.” 

“86.75?” Clark questions the specificity.

“Let's round it up to 87%.”

He stared at you like you were psychic. “How do you…?”

“It’s a secret. If I told you all my secrets, then I’d be out of a job. And without a little mystery…” You let him fill in the blanks. 

Clark leaned forward, hunched like he was sharing a secret or trying not to get caught sneaking a cookie out of the jar. A small smile finds its way onto your face. It's frustratingly endearing. “So, are you going to… intervene?”

“Oh, no. I don’t think I’m meant to intervene. Besides…” You swirled the ice in your glass, the sound sharp in the quiet moment between you. “I’d be out of business if I kept matching people for free.”

As if on cue, the girl stumbled slightly, bumping into the man three seats down. Their eyes met, and just like that, a new thread came to life, visible only to you.

“See? I'm good, right?”

***

“Where are we going now?” Clark asked, falling into step beside you as the two of you boarded the bus.

“Nowhere in particular,” you said lightly, slipping into a window seat. “Clearing my head like you told me to.”

The truth was, you just needed to move. To keep from sitting still long enough to think about him too hard.

Clark sat down next to you, shoulders brushing. The bus rumbled to life, lurching forward as the cityscape rolled past in blurred streaks of light and colour. Evening crowds packed the aisle, voices overlapping in a warm, chaotic hum.

It was… alive in here. Threads were all over the place, silver lines only you could see, stretching between people like spider silk. Some threads were strong, others frayed and just about ready to snap.

Halfway through the ride, an older couple boarded. The man’s hand trembled slightly as he clutched the railing. You and Clark immediately stood to offer your seats. 

“Please,” Clark said with a warm smile. “Sit here.”

The couple thanked you, and as they sat, you felt their bond brush against your senses.

Huh. 

“It’s beyond logic,” you murmured, half to yourself. 

Clark turned, brow furrowed. “What is?”

You gestured subtly toward the couple. “They don’t make sense on paper. From the looks of it, completely different lifestyles and opposing temperaments. By every measurable standard, they shouldn’t work. And yet…” You paused, watching as the man reached for the woman’s hand, his thumb stroking her knuckles like it was a habit. “They fit. Perfectly.”

Clark’s gaze softened at the gesture and your eyes. “That’s beautiful. You make it sound like an art.”

“It is an art,” you admitted. “Though, most days, it feels more like math.”

You noticed his eyes on you, smiling even though you felt he had no reason to be.

“What is it? You want to use it as a quote for the story?”

You let out a big languid sigh, “We shouldn't be focused on me, just the business.”

“Well,” Clark said gently, leaning slightly forward, “the story isn’t just about your business. You are the story.”

You blinked at him, taken aback by the unexpected honesty in his words. For a moment, you felt uncharacteristically exposed.

“There’s not much to tell about me,” you said quietly, almost to yourself. “I mean… I’ve never been in love.” The confession slipped out before you could stop it. “And no one has ever loved me.”

“But… how do you know that?”

“Because if someone loved me, I’d know. Trust me. It’s my job to know.”

He wanted to ask more, to get down to the bottom of this. It was a journalistic instinct, you supposed. 

You shifted gears before he could press further. “What about you? Clark Kent, journalist extraordinaire…” You gave him a sly look. “Superman’s confidant…”

Clark almost choked, adjusting his glasses yet again, a nervous habit you'd noticed. “Confidant? I think not,” he said with a sheepish chuckle, a little too quick to deny it.

You leaned closer, studying his face. “Are you unlucky in love, too?”

“I wouldn’t say that.”

“Want a free consultation?” you teased, your voice playful, though your chest felt strangely tight. Something told you that you wouldn't like setting him up with someone, and not just because you couldn't read him.

He smiled politely and shook his head. “No, I’m… if I find love, I think it’ll happen naturally.”

“Like a meet-cute in a bookstore? Or a fateful meeting after a missed train?” The idea amused you, though it did fit your image of him. Something so… classic, or cliché. “You a hopeless romantic, Kent?”

“Something like that,” he admitted, a soft smile tugging at his lips.

You hesitated, then asked more quietly, “Have you ever been in love before?” Your tone was different now, softer, as if afraid of the answer.

“Something like that,” he said again, but this time there was a weight to it. His gaze shifted, distant, like he was seeing something far away, or someone.

You studied him closely, but there was nothing. No thread. No spark. Just the infuriating emptiness that surrounded him. And yet… the way he looked in that moment made you feel something.

“How did it feel?” you asked before you could stop yourself.

He didn’t answer right away. When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet, almost reverent. “Like coming up for air after being underwater for a very, very long time.” The words sank in like a wave, washing over you, leaving you breathless. You wished that you could feel what he had felt.

“You’re pretty good with your words,” you mutter, looking down at your feet.

“Well, I am a journalist.”

They’re fast approaching the East side of the city when Clark asks, “Can I take you somewhere?”

***

“How did you even find this place?” you asked. To you, this was a treasure trove, and you were only slightly (very) jealous that you hadn’t found it before him. 

“I was wandering, taking some time to clear my head after a tough day, when I stumbled across this cafe.”

He remembers the day well. He had just saved a collapsing bridge as Superman. He had been stretching himself thin at that time, not taking care of himself the way he knew he should. His parents were fussing over him even on the phone, but he pushed the tiredness aside until he couldn’t anymore. 

He didn’t know what you were going through, not really, but he recognised your exhaustion, the stress. And if he could give you even a fraction of the peace he’d found that day, sitting in a corner with a warm cup and no one asking anything of him, then maybe that would be enough.

“The owners have been here for over ten years. They say a little bit of love goes into every bite,” he continued.

“How romantic.”

The familiar jingle of the door announced your entry into the shop, and the scent hit you immediately. This is heaven. You could practically taste every cookie in the display case just by looking at them.

Clark chuckled softly at you, and it was a sound that made your chest flutter. All sorts of fluffy and just as sweet as the pastries you were gaping at.

“Clark!” a cheerful voice called from the back, cutting through the warm cafe hum. You looked up to see a friendly woman emerging, wiping flour from her hands. Clearly, she knew him well.

“You’ve finally brought your girlfriend by,” she remarked, oh-so incorrectly.

“Oh, no, she’s not—” Clark started, his hands starting to fly about as he tried his best to explain. 

“She’s a real beauty. You are a lucky guy,” she added.

You blinked at them both, scrambling for words. Clark’s girlfriend? Your mind raced faster than your mouth could form a sentence.

“She’s not my girlfriend,” Clark said patiently, giving you a reassuring look, “she… uh… she’s a friend.”

The woman behind the counter didn’t look convinced. A cheeky smile played on her lips as she leaned on the counter slightly.

“Did Clark tell you I’m something of a matchmaker?” she asked.

“Oh really?” you replied, eyebrows raised. Maybe you had some competition. 

“Yes,” she continues, tilting her head. “I can tell. I see a spark between the two of you. If you're not dating yet, you will be soon.”

You couldn’t help but chuckle at her assertions, but then you looked at Clark to find him looking more tomato than man. You notice the flush creeping up his neck, spreading all the way to the tips of his ears. He wore it well. 

“I see couples come through these doors all the time,” she says, all self-assured. “I know chemistry when I see it.”

“How about we just… pick something and buy it?” Clark suggested, struggling to steer the conversation away from the matchmaking remarks. He cast a quick glance at the woman behind the counter, hoping for mercy.

The woman relented, letting him breathe for a moment. Clearly, not wanting Clark to die of embarrassment right there in the cafe.

“What would you like?” he asked, his tone careful, polite, and slightly amused.

Your eyes immediately landed on a giant cookie, the kind that practically radiated warmth and sweetness. Your Cupid senses were telling you there was a thread linking you to that oversized cookie. It’s fate.

“The big cookie,” you said without hesitation. You had your eyes on that beauty, and it was going to be in your stomach no matter what.

Clark melted at that little determined look on your face, not that you saw. He stepped forward and paid for it, regaining his composure.

You both found a small table in the corner of the cafe by the window. Clark slid the cookie onto the table between you, the aroma of chocolate and warm dough filling the air.

“It looks… delicious,” you murmured, practically cooing.

You dug in and munched like it was your only source of joy. This was exactly what you needed. You wonder how he knew. Maybe he could read you in ways you can't read him.

You looked up, crumbs still clinging to the corner of your mouth, only to find Clark already watching you.

“What?” you asked, words slightly muffled by the cookie.

“There’s…” he started, but resorted to gesturing toward your face. You tried to wipe at the crumbs yourself, but you couldn’t quite get all of them.

“May I?” he asked softly.

You nodded, thinking nothing of it. But the moment he touched you, you were done for. 

Your vision of him turned pink, a soft, rosy hue washing over him like sunlight through stained glass. Everything else blurred, images meshing into one except him. He was crystal clear.

Your heart thumped in a way that made your chest ache, and for a moment, all the logic you’ve been nattering on about went POOF.

You had no words for this feeling.

A simple brush of his thumb had you in tatters.

He just smiled, as if he could feel it too, this feeling that you couldn’t name. Or rather, refused to. 

For the first time in your life, you didn’t analyse it. 

You simply felt it.

***

Clark Kent was keeping you up at night, but in a very different way now.

Before, he had been an enigma, a void. You couldn’t see an emotional aura when you looked at him. That blank canvas frustrated you, made your gift feel useless.

But now…

Now, it was as if you had been hit with a wave of roses and sunshine the moment his thumb brushed your face a few days ago. You almost wished you could go back to the blank canvas, instead of the beautiful, rose-hellscape you were living in when you so much as thought of the man. 

The memory lingered in your brain, the slightest whiff of a cookie sending you into a love coma.

You tried to focus, follow your instincts and rationalise the hell out of what was happening to you. But your heart had other ideas. It was being uncooperative and stubborn. Racing at the thought of him, even though you explicitly told it not to. 

To be betrayed by your own heart, how poetic. 

It was… unfamiliar. Undoubtedly terrifying, but in the stillness of the night, when you let your guard down for but a moment, you can admit that it felt…good.

You tried to temper your excitement, to remind yourself that he was just a journalist writing a story about you. In a week, he’d be out of your life, a fleeting curiosity, and you’d return to your orderly world of probabilities.

And yet… something about him refused to be ignored.

It was like being swept off your feet.

You and your brothers had been escorted by several yearning guards who all wanted to be the first one to report your arrival to the prince. They practically tripped over one another trying to all pile into the darkly lit room. You walked in last, hoping that maybe they could not see you.

All you could see was Dunk. And the last look on his face when he was dragged away by the guards. No words left his mouth, but you could feel the deep betrayal in him. The image stuck, unmoving, no matter how hard you tried to look away. There were so many thoughts left in your brain, unsaid feelings, and questions you wished to shout at the man.  And yet, when his eyes were on you for the last time, you couldn't even meet his gaze. 

You killed him, and you couldn’t even give him the decency to look him one last time in the fucking eyes.

Maybe you should take his place.

Maekar’s booming voice pulled you out of your trance. The room seemed to shrink around him before he even spoke. “Why weren’t my children brought to me at once when I asked?” he yelled. The words cracked through the chamber, sharp enough to make even seasoned men flinch.

“There was too much commotion, my prince. We apologize,” one of the knights said, head bowed as if he was scared of poking the dragon.

Maekar’s gaze shifted from steaming anger to landing on the three of you. He studied you all closely, the drawn lines on delicate skin, exhaustion etched in your brows and shoulders carrying the weight of the whole world. He was particularly stricken by the bloodied faces of you and Aerion. His eyes also lingered on the disguises of you and Egg.

But for the first time, you could not read what he was thinking. Only then did he shift back to anger and bark out for all the guards to get the fuck out. Leaving the three of you alone in a den with a wild animal.

When the three of you stayed silent, Maekar spoke for you. “Well, someone explain!” he shouted.

Explain? Where to even start? 

The three of you all spoke in unison, shouting several different accounts of the events that took place in the spacious puppet tent. Maekar tried to make you quiet down again and again. After the fifth shout, your ramblings collapsed into silence.

“Silence! From all of you. I will no longer hear this buffoonery.” He gritted his teeth.

He focused on the youngest.  “Aegon.” The name made the little boy stiff, even though it was his own; he had tried not to think of the name for so long. “Go. I will deal with you later.”

Egg looked up at him, stunned wide. “But—”

“Now, boy. The maids will show you.” The tone left no room for argument. Egg hesitated only a moment longer, sparing one last glance in your direction. You could see the fear in his eyes, the unspoken apology. Then he turned and walked out of the room as the door closed softly behind him.

Maekar’s brows scrunched at the two of you, sharp and accusatory. “Why? Why is it always you two?”

You tried not to audibly shriek at the way he roped you in with your brother. 

“Because he never stops,” you said, voice low. “He struck a woman!” 

Aerion scoffed, though there was a flicker of something uneasy beneath it. “She was a threat,” he said. “Anyone who dares to bring down our nam—”

“You don’t care about that!” you snapped. “You only care about yourself, how she made you look small.”

That one landed. You saw it. Just for a second. 

“You came at me with a dagger,” Aerion shot back, “and sent your beast on me.”

Your head whipped toward him. “That’s a lie.”

“Aerion struck Tanselle first,” you said, forcing the words steady despite the heat rising in your chest. “She did nothing,” you went on, louder now. “She didn’t fight you. She didn’t touch you. She begged you to stop.” You swallowed, but didn’t stop your rant. “And you broke her fingers anyway.”

Aerion’s jaw set. “I will not be made a fool of by common—”

“You made a fool of yourself,” Maekar cut in. The words cut him further than any punch Dunk threw at him. “You name every slight a threat,” he continued, each word measured. “You turn sport into spectacle, and spectacle into scandal. Do you think the realm blind? Do you think they will not speak of what they saw? I will not have my children running wild through tourneys in disguise, striking at puppeteers and performers, and calling it justice.”

Then his lecture stopped. He ran a hand through his beard. You waited for something, anything, a sign that this was not simply going to slide. “I care little for which of you struck first,” he said at last. “What I see is disorder. So fix it.”

You watched him, really watched him this time. The way his anger bent, not toward what had been done, but how it had been seen. The way Aerion still stood, unbowed, unbroken, and unafraid. He wasn’t going to punish him. Not truly. Not for this.

The realization settled warm in your chest.

Your voice, when it came, was quieter than before, but it carried. “After all of this? Where is his punishment?”

Aerion’s head turned toward you sharply, but it was Maekar who answered first, his expression hardening at the challenge. “You presume much—”

“Oh, I think it’s quite clear,” Aerion cut in smoothly, stepping forward just enough to draw attention back to himself. There was something eager in the way he spoke now, sharpened by the opening. “There will be punishment.”

You didn’t like the sound of that.

Maekar’s eyes narrowed. “What now?”

Aerion’s lips curved, faint and cruel. “The man who aided her,” he said. “The hedge knight. He raised his hand against a prince of House Targaryen.”

Your stomach dropped.

“He will answer for it,” Aerion continued, almost lightly. You already knew. Before he said it. 

“As any traitor would, with death.” The words rang in the room like a sentence already passed.

You stepped forward without thinking. “He defended—”

“He struck a prince,” Aerion snapped, the edge breaking through now. “Before witnesses. That alone is enough.”

“You speak as though the judgment is yours to give.” Maekar let out a sound that could've doubled as a laugh.

Aerion stilled.

“It is not,” he finished. The words were quick, but absolute. “You do not decide who lives or dies,” Maekar continued. “Not here. There will be a council held.”

Aerion’s jaw tightened, something frustrated flashing beneath his composure. “What?” he yelled.

Something in you snapped. This still was not good enough.

“You may not give him the power,” you said, your voice tight and body trembling, “but you’ve never taken it from him either.” Maekar’s gaze shifted to you slowly. That was your warning. You didn’t take it. “You ask why it is always us,” you went on, the words coming faster now, sharper. “It is because you let it be.”

Aerion let out a quiet, disbelieving breath. “Careful—”

“For years,” you cut over him, “you’ve let him do as he pleases. Call it temper. Call it pride. Call it anything but what it is.”

Maekar went very still. “And what is it?” he asked.

Your hands trembled, but you didn’t stop. “Unchecked foolishness. It festers,” you said. “Because you allow it.”

The room felt smaller now. Dangerous.

“You look at what happened today and see embarrassment,” you continued, your voice unsteady but unyielding. “You see whispers, and witnesses, and shame to your name.”

His expression hardened.

“But you do not see what he’s done,” you finished. “Not to them. Not to me.”

Aerion’s head turned toward you, almost giddy that you were about to set your father up and face the consequences. Maekar’s voice, when it came, was quieter than before. “Choose your next words carefully.”

You met his gaze anyway. “When has it ever mattered what he does?” you asked.

Your voice faltered, just for a second.

Not from fear. From something older. 

“You didn’t even care when it was me.”

Silence, complete and suffocating silence.

For the first time, there was no quick answer. No immediate anger, just stillness.

A command left your father's mouth with swiftness. “Leave.” You flinched, thinking his words were thrown at you. But they weren't, for the first time, your father picked.

Aerion blinked, caught off guard and disappointed for no fight. “Father, what?”

“I said leave,” Maekar repeated, sharper now. “Go anywhere but here.”

The finality in it landed. For once, Aerion did not have an immediate retort. His jaw tightened, eyes flicking between you and Maekar, searching for something, an opening, a challenge, anything to regain footing.

There was none, since the room no longer belonged to him.

“…As you command,” he said at last, though the words were tight with restrained frustration. He turned sharply, his outfit shifting with the motion, and strode from the room. The door shut harder than it needed to.

The two of you stood there, alone now. 

Maekar let out a groan. “What in the seven hel—”

“What are you going to do with him?” you blurted out. The words burst free before you could stop them.

“With whom?” he asked, genuinely confused.

“With Ser Duncan, the knight.”

He threw his hands up in frustration. “I don’t fucking know yet! I am more concerned about why my own children are sneaking out and causing problems.”

Despite his anger, you kept calm. “It wouldn’t have been a problem if not for Aerion,” you said quietly.

“Speak up, girl.”

You cleared your throat, heart pounding. “I said it wouldn’t have been a problem if not for Aerion. He always ruins everything. I mean, he thinks of himself as a dragon.”

“Aerion is no longer of your concern; he is gone,” he barked. “The concern lies with my daughter disobeying me. You were told to stay at Summerhall.”

“I had to do something!” you cried out.

“You shouldn’t even be here!” The words hit harder than a blow.

“Is that all you care about?” you demanded. “What rules have I broken when a man is now being imprisoned, and a woman’s fingers are broken? All because that idiot took her craft as a snide against House Targaryen?”

“It’s your fucking house!” he shouted.

“This hasn’t been my house,” you said, voice shaking with fury. “Not for a long time.”

Maekar stood rigid near the hearth, broad shoulders tense, his shadow stretching long and crooked across the walls. He had always been loud when angered, sharp and cutting. But where others bowed and withered under his fury, you only grew brighter, hotter, and more defiant.

After all, you were your father’s daughter.

The words tore out of you like something breaking. “I will not hear this anymore!”

He turned on you sharply. “You will? You will?” he snapped. “I am your father. What you will do is listen to me. Heave my words into that thick, stubborn skull of yours.”

Your hands shook, fists clenched so tightly you drew blood. “I care for him,” you choked out, the truth scraping your throat raw as it escaped.

For one fragile heartbeat, Maekar froze.

Then his face twisted, disgust curling through his expression. “Care? What is this? Love?” he scoffed. “What do you know about love, girl? You are a foolish child who believes desire is destiny, who thinks she can force the world to bend simply because she wants it to.”

Something inside you fractured.

“I know enough about love,” you said, voice trembling but rising, “to know I have not felt it from you in years.”

The room seemed to contract, the fire dimming low.

“Ever since Mother died,” you went on, the words coming faster now, harder to hold back, “you shut me out. You vanished into grief and left me to pick up everything you dropped.”

Maekar’s jaw tightened. “That is not—”

“I was a child,” you cut in, sharper now. “Barely old enough to understand what death was, and suddenly I was expected to run a household.”

You took a step closer.

“The feasts. The guests. The expectations. All of it.” Your voice wavered, then steadied. “And I did it without you.”

He said nothing.

“I raised them,” you continued, quieter now, but no less fierce. “Egg. Daella. Rhae.” Your throat tightened, but you pushed through it.

“I was the one who put them to bed. The one who dried their tears when they cried for a mother who wasn’t coming back. I taught them their letters. I braided their hair.” A breath. Sharp. Unsteady.

“They won’t remember her,” you said. “Not really. Just pieces. Stories.” Your gaze didn’t leave his.

“Stories I had to tell. Because you wouldn’t.” Silence pressed in around you. “I was a child,” you said again, softer this time, but it cut deeper. “And you left me alone.”

“I will not hear another word,” Maekar growled, teeth clenched. 

“Why?” you demanded, stepping closer, the space between you suffocating. “Why must I always be quiet? Why do you never want to hear me?”

He turned away from you then, already moving toward the door, as though your pain were something he could simply walk away from, as he always did.

“Maekar!” you cried. “I am standing right in front of you. Listen to me.”

His hand closed around the latch.

Something desperate and dangerous rose in your chest. “Or you will never see me again!” you shouted, the words tearing free. “I will leave, and you will never see me again. You will hear of me only through others… and songs for the rest of your life.” Your voice echoed violently against stone and timber, louder than you had ever spoken, louder than you ever thought you could. The castle itself seemed to shudder beneath it.

For the first time, you realized that no matter what he chose, something between you had already been irrevocably broken.

Maekar stood at the door with his back to you, hand braced against the latch as if it were the only thing keeping him upright. The silence stretched, heavy and suffocating. You could almost hear him breathing, slow and uneven, as if he were forcing himself not to turn around.

When he finally spoke, his voice was low and rough, scraped raw by restraint. “There are chambers set up for you,” he said. “Go to them, and fucking stay there.”

The words were not shouted. That almost made them worse. Then, quieter still, thick with bitterness and something dangerously close to care, “And wipe that muck out of your hair.”

He did not look at you. He did not say your name. You stood there for a moment longer, chest aching, then turned away before he could see what his words had done. The door remained closed behind you.

Not slammed.

Just shut.

Tears would not come. Not for him. They had not for years. Whatever had once existed in you had long since run dry. But your breath caught, and you folded in on yourself, shoulders caving as the sound tore out of you anyway, raw and broken, nearly choking you where you stood.

Blood started dripping again from your nose, warm and persistent as it slid past your lips and down your chin, each drop landing softly against the stone beneath you in a rhythm that felt far too loud for how distant everything else had become.

You did not wipe it.

You kept walking.

The hallway stretched endlessly ahead, torchlight bending and warping against the walls as if the castle itself was shifting around you, and for a moment, you thought you recognized where you were, until you turned a corner and found yourself staring at the same tapestry you were certain you had already passed.

Or maybe you hadn’t.

It was hard to tell.

Your hand drifted outward, fingers brushing along the cold stone as you moved, grounding yourself in something solid while everything else felt just slightly out of place, like your body was moving a half step behind your mind. The ringing in your ears had not stopped since the hall, a low, constant hum that swallowed the edges of every sound around you, turning voices into distant murmurs and footsteps into dull vibrations beneath your feet.

You turned again, slower this time, your steps faltering as something inside your chest tightened, not sharp, not sudden, but steady, pressing inward as if the weight of everything was beginning to settle all at once.

The pain followed.

Your nose throbbed first, then your ribs, then something deeper that you could not name, each ache arriving dulled and delayed, as though your body had been waiting for you to notice it.

You exhaled slowly, though it did nothing to steady you.

Shadows moved at the edge of your vision, figures passing you in the corridor, their presence marked only by the faint shift of air and the suggestion of motion. Someone spoke, perhaps to you, perhaps not, but the words slipped past before they could take shape, leaving only tone behind, soft and uncertain.

You kept walking.

Or tried to.

At some point, your steps slowed without your permission, your body lagging as if wading through something unseen, until you stopped entirely, your hand pressing more firmly into the wall beside you as the stone seemed to tilt beneath your touch.

That was when they approached.

Three girls, their movements quick but careful, their expressions shifting the moment they took you in, the blood, the bruising, the way you swayed slightly where you stood, as though even remaining upright required more effort than it should have.

“My princess—”

The words reached you this time, though faintly, as if carried from a distance too far to matter.

Another voice followed, overlapping, softer but more urgent, and though you could not catch the meaning, you understood enough from the way their hands hovered near you before settling lightly at your arm.

You did not pull away.

Not out of trust.

Simply because the effort of resisting felt too far removed from where you were.

They guided you forward, their touch careful, almost tentative, as though you might break beneath it, and you let them, your steps falling into place beside theirs without thought as the corridor shifted again around you, unfamiliar doors and dimmer light replacing what had come before.

Voices grew clearer, then blurred again, questions asked and left unanswered, your silence passing unnoticed or unchallenged as they led you somewhere warmer, somewhere quieter, where the air did not feel quite so sharp against your skin.

You blinked,

and the space had changed.

A washroom now.

You did not remember entering.

Their hands lingered a moment longer, one of them reaching for you again, more hesitant this time.

“My princess, you should—”

“No.”

Your voice came out low, flat, but it was enough.

They stilled.

You moved past them without looking, stepping toward the basin as your fingers curled around its edge, gripping it tighter than necessary while the room swayed faintly around you.

Then, without allowing yourself to think, you lifted it and poured the water over your head.

The cold struck immediately, sharp enough to force a breath from your lungs, dragging you back into your body with a suddenness that almost hurt, and for the first time since leaving the hall, something felt real.

You filled it again.

And again.

Each time the water ran heavier, soaking through fabric and skin alike, dripping from your hair and pooling at your feet as the world narrowed to the simple, repetitive motion of lifting, pouring, breathing.

Your fingers moved next, scrubbing harshly at your arms, your neck, your scalp, nails dragging across your skin as if you could strip away more than just the dirt and sweat that clung to you. Dark streaks began to run with the water, curling and twisting as the dye bled free, staining the floor in uneven patterns that thinned with each passing moment.

You did not stop.

Not when your hands reddened.

Not when the skin beneath them began to sting.

Only when there was nothing left to take.

The movement slowed, then ceased entirely, your hands falling still at your sides as the last traces of color slipped away, leaving only pale strands clinging wetly to your shoulders.

For a moment, you did not look.

You only stood there, water dripping steadily from your frame, your breath uneven, your body suddenly too light without the weight of what you had been hiding behind.

Then your gaze lowered.

The reflection wavered in the shallow water below, distorted at first, then slowly settling as the ripples stilled.

White.

Not pale.

Not faded.

White, bright, and unmistakable, catching what little light remained and holding it there.

Silver, just as your father’s had always been.

Your throat tightened, a small, involuntary hitch of breath breaking the quiet before you could stop it, and though you blinked quickly, something still slipped free, vanishing the moment it fell.

The door opened behind you, softer this time.

They had returned.

You did not tell them to leave.

Hands found you again, gentler now, more certain in their movements as they worked in practiced silence, drawing dry fabric over your shoulders, guiding your arms when needed, careful not to jostle what was already bruising beneath your skin.

You let them.

The resistance you might have offered before never came, not because it had been taken from you, but because you could not find it within yourself to reach for it.

They moved around you with quiet efficiency, tending to what they could, drying your hair, smoothing oil into your skin, their touch light but steady, as though trying to ground you in a way you no longer seemed able to do on your own.

You barely registered it.

The warmth.

The closeness.

It passed through you without settling.

By the time they finished, the room felt dimmer, the candle they had lit casting long, wavering shadows along the walls as they guided you toward the bed, their presence lingering only a moment longer before slipping away entirely.

The door closed.

Silence returned.

You lay back without remembering the moment you decided to, your body sinking into the mattress as you stared up at the ceiling, the faint flicker of light above you the only indication that time was still moving at all.

You were tired.

You could not sleep.

Your thoughts did not come all at once, but in pieces, slow and uneven as they found their way back to you.

Egg, somewhere in this castle, alone.

Dunk.

That thought did not continue, catching too quickly, too sharply, leaving behind only the image of stone and iron, of space too small and too dark, of him held somewhere you could not reach. Your hand shifted slightly against the bedding, searching without thinking, your fingers brushing space where your dagger should have been.

Gone.

You felt that absence more than anything else, your hand curling faintly against the sheets as if holding onto something that was no longer there.

The room remained still around you, unmoving, unfamiliar in a way that settled deep beneath your skin. And when your mind drifted, it did not linger here.

It returned to the road.

To uneven ground and open air, to the crackle of a small fire and the quiet weight of Dunk’s presence beside it, to Egg’s voice cutting through the night with something bright and unguarded.

Simple things. Clear things. Things that had felt solid beneath your feet. You held onto those small, steady memories for as long as you could. But the quiet stretched too far.

It settled into something familiar in a way that made your chest tighten, something you had felt before, long before the road, long before Dunk and Egg, back when silence did not mean peace but absence, when rooms full of people could still leave you entirely alone.

And without meaning to, your thoughts shifted again.

Not to the road.

To a table.

To a hall filled with voices that had never once been meant for you.

Aerion’s boot found your foot beneath the table, not by accident, never by accident, pressing down just enough to make your toes ache before easing away, only to return moments later, measured and deliberate, as though he were testing the boundaries of your patience, or perhaps simply reminding you that he could.

The red dress did not help.

It clung where it should not, tight across your ribs when you tried to breathe too deeply, the fabric heavier than anything you would have chosen, thick and warm beneath the candlelit heat of the hall, its color impossible to ignore even when you wished to disappear into the background like you usually could.

You never wore your house colors.

Never allowed yourself to be wrapped so plainly in what you were meant to represent, but tonight there had been no avoiding it, no slipping past the expectation, only careful hands pulling you into something presentable, something proper, something that sat on you like a lie the longer you remained still in it.

A perfect princess, if anyone cared to look closely enough.

Aerion’s boot pressed down again.

Above the table, he ate without restraint, chewing loudly, wet and unrefined, as though he took some quiet pleasure in fouling the air itself, in making his presence unavoidable in every possible way.

You kept your gaze fixed ahead, on your uncle as he spoke, forcing yourself to follow the shape of his words even as their meaning slipped past you, your focus pulled again and again to the pressure beneath the table, to the slow, deliberate way it returned.

“Sit still,” Aerion murmured, not looking at you. “You make it obvious when you twitch.”

You stilled.

You had been looking forward to this night. Foolishly. Tomorrow, you will ride to Ashford. There would be banners, horses, a tourney held in honor of Lord Ashford’s daughter, a girl you knew only through stories, spoken of as something gentle and kind, something untouched by the sharp edges you had grown used to.

The thought of her had stayed with you. A small, fragile thing. Proof that the world could be something else.

All you had to do was endure this. That had never been difficult before.

You knew how to sit quietly, how to fold yourself inward, how to let discomfort pass without acknowledgment. You had done it for years.

But Aerion did not tire of testing that control. Everyone knew it. They saw enough to understand what he was, even if they chose not to name it. Most of all, your father. You had told him. More than once.

Aerion did not simply provoke you. He lingered where he was not wanted, broke what was not his, turned your chambers into something you could not recognize when it suited him. He struck your attendants when they displeased him. He laughed when they flinched.

And those were only the things spoken aloud.

His hand brushed your leg beneath the table, light at first, then firmer, lingering where it should not have been, and your entire body went rigid.

“If you speak,” he said quietly, “they will only hear you making noise.”

Above the table, his voice lifted easily moments later, answering a question with practiced ease, as though nothing at all had changed.

You stared at your plate until your vision blurred. This was the only meal you were required to attend. One evening, before you could return to your chambers, to quiet, to something that belonged to you.

One night.

Your breath came shorter without your permission, your fingers tightening slightly against the edge of the table as the pressure beneath it shifted again, more deliberate now, more certain.

The hall seemed to tilt. Candlelight wavered, stretching and bending at the edges of your vision. When his hand moved higher, something inside you faltered.

You stood abruptly, your chair scraping sharply against the stone. The sound cut through the hall. Voices faltered. Heads turned. Not in concern. In interruption.

“Little sister,” Aerion said lightly, almost amused. “Have you forgotten yourself?” 

The name settled cold in your chest. Your pulse hammered, too fast, too loud, your thoughts slipping just out of reach as you turned, not to him, but to your father.

“Father,” you said, forcing the words out through a tightening chest, “the hour has grown late. I am spent from your talk of battles and knightly deeds, and I would retire.”

“Sit.”

He did not raise his voice.

He did not need to.

For a moment, you only stared at him, disbelief rising slowly and heavily in your chest.

“I—”

“Sit down,” Maekar said, irritation threading through the words now. “You are not dismissed.”

You lowered yourself back into your seat, slow and controlled, moving as far from Aerion as you could manage without drawing further notice.

“Good,” Aerion murmured beside you. “You remember.”

The hall resumed as though nothing had happened.

Conversation returned. Cups were filled. No one spoke of it.

No one asked.

Your uncle glanced toward you once, something tightening briefly in his face before he looked away, as if even that small acknowledgment was more than he could afford.

You picked at your food until it went cold, untouched, your appetite gone entirely, leaving behind only a hollow, uneasy weight in your stomach that had nothing to do with hunger.

Perhaps it was over.

Perhaps he would tire of it.

He did not.

His hand returned, slower this time, deliberate in a way that left no room for doubt.

Your palms struck the table before you fully understood that you had moved, the sound cracking through the hall, sharper than it should have been.

“That is enough.”

Your voice carried, strained but steady.

“Father,” you said, more tightly now, “I will leave.”

“No.”

The word came heavier this time, edged with annoyance.

“But Aerion.” Your voice lowered, controlled in a way that felt fragile, as though it might splinter if pushed even slightly further. “You know his behavior. Everyone does. I will not sit here and be treated as though I am something to be handled at his leisure.”

Then, quieter, more dangerous, “I am done enduring it.” You said.

Aerion let out a soft breath beside you, almost amused.

“What is she speaking of?” he asked mildly. “I have done nothing.”

“You are lying!” The words slipped out before you could stop them.

“Always so certain,” he said. “And yet never correct.”

“I have had enough of you,” you said, the restraint in your voice beginning to splinter. “Enough of this fucking table, this fucking silence.”

“I have had enough of both of you,” Maekar cut in, his hand striking the table hard enough to still what little movement remained. “Cease this fucking arguing or starve.”

He looked at you when he said it.

Aerion smiled.

Something in you gave way, not slowly, not in pieces, but all at once.

You seized his goblet and threw it over him, the red wine soaking into his pale hair, running down his face in uneven streaks that looked almost like blood.

“You insufferable, miserable creature,” you said, your voice breaking where you had meant it to hold.

Aerion wiped at his face slowly, unbothered.

“There,” he said softly. “Now they will remember you.”

You turned before anything else could be said, moving toward the doors, your pulse still racing, your hands shaking despite yourself.

“Come back,” your father called after you.

You did not stop.

“I choose to starve,” you said, not turning. 

Laughter followed you.

Aerion’s.

“Let her go, Father. She was never suited for this. No man would take her as she is. Might as well send her to the Silent Sisters before she worsens.” 

You stopped.

Your hand tightened against the door.

For a moment, you stood there, the distance between you and him stretched thin, your breath uneven, your body held in place by something that had not yet decided what it would become.

Then you turned.

The space closed quickly.

Your fist connected with his jaw, the impact sharp, immediate, reverberating up your arm in a way that felt almost grounding.

For a heartbeat, the hall froze.

Then it broke.

Voices rose, chairs scraped, Daeron laughed too loudly for it to be anything but a spectacle as Aerion staggered, then straightened, blood and wine mixing as he reached for the nearest cup and threw it back at you, soaking you in turn.

“Better,” he said. “Now we match.”

You were on him before the guards could react, striking again and again, each blow landing harder than the last, the force of it carrying something you had not been allowed to release before, something that refused now to be contained. He couldn't even shake you.

Hands grabbed at you.

Pulled.

Shouted.

You fought against them, even as they dragged you back, your breath ragged, your vision narrowed to him and nothing else.

He laughed. Spitting blood.

They tore you away. For a moment, everything fractured into noise and motion, hands still gripping your arms as you fought against them, your breath coming sharp and uneven, your pulse loud enough to drown out the first few words thrown your way.

“Have you lost your mind?” Maekar’s voice cut through it, not concerned, not even surprised, but furious in a way that made it clear the offense was not what had been done to you, but what you had done in return.

“Unhand me,” you snapped, twisting against the grip on you, the fabric at your shoulders pulling tight as you struggled, the dress biting where it had already begun to strain.

Aerion laughed again, not even shaken.

“You see?” he said, dragging a hand back through his hair, pushing it out of his face only to smear the last of the wine further along his temple. “You can lace her into silk, sit her at the table, teach her which fork to use, and still this is what comes of it.”

“Enough,” Maekar said sharply, though his gaze stayed on you. “You will hold your tongue.”

Aerion tilted his head slightly, as though considering that, but did not stop.

“Though I suppose we should not be surprised,” he went on, his tone turning almost thoughtful, as if he were making an observation rather than an accusation. “Some things do not take, no matter how much effort is spent trying to make them fit. Blood will show itself in the end.”

A chair shifted softly along the stone.

One of the ladies lowered her gaze to her plate, adjusting her sleeve as though something about the fabric required her full attention, while a knight further down the table reached for his cup without looking up, his posture settling into something deliberately neutral, as if stillness itself might keep him from being drawn into it.

No one spoke.

No one asked him to clarify.

They did not need to.

Your hair had come loose in the struggle, pins slipping free one by one until it fell unevenly around your shoulders, strands sticking where the wine had soaked into the fabric at your collar, where sweat and heat had undone whatever careful work had been done to make you presentable.

You could feel it, the difference. The unraveling.

“Look at you,” Aerion said more quietly now, his gaze moving over you with something like quiet satisfaction. “All that effort, and it slips the moment you are pressed.”

Maekar said nothing. He did not look at Aerion. He did not correct him.

His attention remained fixed on you, hard and unyielding, as though you were the only part of this that required discipline.

Something in the room settled again, not into comfort, but into understanding, into something unspoken that passed easily between them all, as though a question had been answered without needing to be asked aloud.

Your grip on the moment slipped. The hall, the voices, the hands on your arms, all of it began to pull away from you, not all at once, but in pieces, like something receding just beyond your reach.

A strand of silver hair caught against your lips when you tried to breathe. You did not move to fix it.

Morning came without ceremony, and you woke into it already in pain, not the sharp kind that demanded immediate attention but the deep, spreading kind that had settled into your body overnight, lingering in your knuckles where they had struck harder than they should have, in your ribs where each breath pulled a little too tightly, and behind your eyes where the world felt slightly misaligned, as though you were still half a step out of place in it.

You lay there for a moment without moving, staring at the canopy above your bed as if it might offer something recognizable, but all it gave you was stillness, and the faint pressure of sunlight pressing through narrow windows that had already begun to warm the stone of the room, turning it from cold to indifferent.

When you finally sat up, it was not with urgency but with the slow acceptance of something already decided for you, and only then did you notice the clothes laid out across the foot of the bed. 

Carefully prepared in a way that made it clear this morning had been arranged without your input, the riding dress already pressed and waiting, boots placed side by side as though you would simply step into a role that had been set for you in advance, your cloak folded with precise attention to the colors of your house, bright and undeniable in a way you never dressed yourself.

It was wrong, sitting there like that, too intentional, too composed, as though nothing had happened at all, as though you had not spent the previous night shouting until your voice broke and your hands bled, and yet the castle itself seemed to insist on continuing forward as if you had never stepped out of line.

You dressed because there was nothing else to do, each movement slow and quiet, the fabric of your clothing feeling unfamiliar against your skin after everything that had been stripped away from you, and when you finally stepped into the corridor, the emptiness of it was the first thing that struck you, not just quiet but emptied in a deliberate way, as though the life of the castle had been carefully removed rather than simply absent.

There were no voices ahead of you, no distant arguments, no footsteps of attendants or guards shifting in their routes, only the long stretch of stone and the echo of your own movement, and it did not take long before you understood why.

They had already gone.

The realization did not arrive as anger, not yet, but as something hollow and weightless that settled in your chest and stayed there, unmoving, as if your body had accepted it before your mind had fully caught up.

You made it halfway down the stairs before a servant appeared at the base of them, hurrying toward you with visible hesitation, his hands restless at his sides as though unsure where they were meant to rest, his expression carefully neutral in the way of someone delivering something they did not wish to be responsible for.

“My princess,” he said quickly, eyes fixed somewhere just past your shoulder rather than on you, “I was told to find you.”

You stopped, though not because you expected anything good.

“Told by whom?”

“His Grace, the prince, Maekar,” he replied, swallowing once before continuing, “I am to speak in his place.”

That, more than anything, told you everything you needed to know.

“Well,” you said, your voice even in a way that felt distant from you, “speak.”

He hesitated only briefly before reciting what had clearly been given to him word for word, the cadence of it rehearsed and stripped of warmth, telling you that in light of your conduct the previous night and in consideration of what was appropriate for ladies of the realm, you would remain at Summerhall while the rest of the court departed for Ashford.

There was no softness in it, no pause that suggested uncertainty, only the clean delivery of something already decided, and when he finished, the silence that followed felt heavier than his words had.

Then, as if remembering something secondary, he reached into his sleeve and produced a small parcel wrapped in plain cloth, holding it out toward you with visible reluctance, as though even this gesture felt misplaced.

“And from Prince Baelor,” he added more quietly, “he says happy name day.”

The words did not land immediately, not as meaning, only as sound, until they slowly gathered weight and became something sharper, something that did not belong in the same space as the message you had just been given.

Your name day.

The thought of it surfaced belatedly, disjointed from the rest of the morning, and with it came the realization that the clothes, the preparation, the careful arrangement of your chamber had not been for nothing, but for something you had been excluded from before it even began, remembered only enough to be acknowledged after you had already been left behind.

You took the parcel because there was nothing else to do with your hands.

It was light.

Almost carefully so.

The servant lingered for a moment longer, then bowed with something that might have been discomfort or pity or simply the desire to leave quickly, and when he finally spoke again, it was no longer part of his message but something that escaped him despite it.

“I am sorry, my princess,” he said quietly.

Then he turned and left you standing there alone in the corridor, still dressed for a journey that no longer existed, holding something meant to soften an absence that had already taken shape around you.

You remained there for a long moment, listening to the quiet settle properly into the castle, and somewhere beyond its walls, far enough that it no longer mattered whether you heard it or not, hooves had already begun to fade into the distance toward Ashford, carrying with them every sound that should have included you.

And you were still at Summerhall, in the highest, hidden tower of the castle.

Egg pushed open the large oak doors, the hinges creaking softly against the stillness of the chamber, and he came in with the kind of urgency that did not belong in a place like this, his steps uneven and too quick for his small frame, as though he had been running long before he reached you and only just remembered how to be careful once he arrived.

“Sister,” he said, and then again, faster this time, “sister, please, please say something.”

It took you longer than it should have to understand that he was speaking to you at all, because for a moment the room still felt slightly unreal, like you had not fully returned to it yet, like your thoughts were still catching up to the fact that there was a floor beneath you and air in your lungs that required effort to use properly.

When you did breathe, it came uneven, too shallow at first, as though your body had forgotten how to regulate itself in the absence of violence, and you only slowly became aware of Egg standing near your bed, hesitating in that way he always did when he wanted to be close but was not entirely sure he was allowed to be.

You noticed the clothes then, belatedly, the way the maids had dressed him in black and red without explanation, as though color alone might prepare him for something they had not told him about, and yet it only made him look more exposed, more like a child being fitted into a role that had not been designed with him in mind.

He climbed onto the bed without fully asking, but in a way that made it clear he did not expect permission anymore, not from you, not from anyone, and his hands were already reaching for your cloak before he even spoke again, clutching at it as though it might tether you both to something stable.

“Please,” he said, voice breaking now, “please come with me. We have to go to Dunk.”

The name did not strike as it had before.

It settled instead, heavier, slower, as though it had been waiting in the background of everything else and had only now been allowed to exist fully in your mind.

What followed was not a memory so much as a layered awareness of absence, of where he was not, of what had been taken out of your hands before you had been given any real chance to understand the shape of it, and you felt the weight of it without needing to see it again.

“I can’t,” you said, though the words did not feel like refusal so much as delay, as though your mouth had spoken before your mind had agreed.

Egg shook his head immediately, too fast, too desperate to accept it.

“He doesn’t hate us,” he insisted, voice rising in a way that made him sound even younger than he was. “He can’t. He wouldn’t. We just have to explain it. We just have to fix it before Father—before he decides anything.”

His grip on your cloak tightened as he spoke, fingers curling into the fabric as if it might anchor him, and only then did you realize how hard he was trying not to fall apart in front of you, how carefully he was holding himself together because he believed you were still the one who could steady him.

And then his voice faltered, just slightly, as if something in him had finally caught up to itself, and you saw it clearly then, not just his fear for Dunk, but the strain of being the one who had come to find you instead of the other way around.

“Egg,” you said quietly, and he looked up immediately, as if your voice alone could change direction.

For a moment, you hesitated, not because you did not know what to say, but because you were suddenly aware of how small he still was compared to what he was trying to carry.

“Are you okay?” you asked, softer now, and it did not feel like a question you expected an answer to so much as something you needed to say out loud so he would not forget he was allowed to be more than the messenger of something breaking.

He blinked at you, caught off guard by it, and the urgency in him faltered for just a moment as he tried to process it.

“I’m fine,” he said too quickly at first, then quieter, more honest without meaning to be, “I just don’t want him to get hurt.”

That answer did not fully hold.

But it was enough to show you what he was doing with himself.

So you let your hand rest against his head again, slower this time, grounding him as much as yourself.

“I’m here,” you said after a moment, though it felt more like something you were reminding both of you of rather than a promise.

He nodded quickly, but did not let go of your cloak.

“Then come on,” he said, voice still unsteady but determined in a way that did not match his size. “We have to help him. You always know what to do.”

That should have made something in you tighten.

Instead, it only made the silence inside you shift, as though responsibility had simply changed direction rather than disappeared.

You stood slowly, not fully because you were ready, but because staying still no longer felt like something you were permitted to do, and when you reached for your cloak properly this time, it felt heavier than it should have, as though it understood more than you were willing to say aloud.

“Go on,” you told him quietly. “Put on something heavier, it's cold.”

He obeyed immediately, too quickly, as if afraid you might dissolve again if he waited.

When he returned, you followed him out.

The corridor beyond your chamber felt narrower than it should have, though you knew it was not, the stone walls closing in with every step as though the castle itself had begun to adjust to the weight of what had happened within it, and the quiet that followed you was no longer peaceful but deliberate, almost watchful, as if even sound had learned to move carefully around you.

Egg walked ahead, but not far ahead, always close enough that you could see the tension in his shoulders, the way he kept glancing back at you without meaning to, as though he needed confirmation that you were still there, still moving, still something he could rely on to remain steady even when he was not.

The stairs came sooner than expected, or perhaps you simply had not noticed reaching them, because one moment you were walking level ground and the next you were descending, the angle of the world shifting underfoot in a way that made your stomach tighten, and the air grew colder almost immediately, as though the castle was pulling warmth away from you with every step downward.

Stone replaced stone, but it no longer felt like passage, only repetition, the same turn of corridor, the same narrowing light, the same weight pressing in from all sides until even Egg’s small footsteps began to sound louder than they should have, echoing too sharply in spaces that felt too enclosed to properly contain them.

At some point, a guard passed you without speaking, his eyes lowering too quickly, not in respect but in avoidance, and that small refusal to acknowledge you at all lingered longer than it should have, settling into the space between your thoughts as another confirmation that the world above had already made its decision and was no longer interested in revisiting it.

Egg did not notice.

Or if he did, he chose not to stop.

He kept going.

Always forward.

Always downward.

Until the light behind you had thinned into something distant and unreliable, and the only remaining certainty was the sound of his voice when he finally spoke again, quieter now, as though even he understood that raising it too much might disturb something he could not see.

“It’s just down there,” he said, and it was not really reassurance, only direction, as if naming the destination might make it less frightening for both of you.

The air changed again as you reached the lower levels, becoming damp and still, carrying the scent of stone that had not seen sunlight in a long time, and the walls here were closer now, not visibly but perceptibly, as though the castle had forgotten how much space was necessary for comfort and had begun to prioritize containment instead.

Every sound felt absorbed before it could fully form.

Even your own breathing seemed muted.

Egg slowed without meaning to, his steps shortening as the corridor ahead grew darker, and for the first time, he did not look back immediately, as if whatever lay ahead required more attention than reassurance, and that small shift in him made something in your chest tighten without fully becoming fear.

You did not speak.

There was nothing to say that would not change what came next.

So you followed him into the narrowing dark, where the castle stopped feeling like a place you were moving through and started feeling like something you were being lowered into instead.

The only thing separating you from Dunk was a guard and a kitchen servant bringing his meager dinner. The food was gruel fit for the lowest kitchens, thin enough that even from a distance it looked like it would not hold a man upright for long, and the sight of it made something in your chest tighten in a way that had nothing to do with hunger and everything to do with what it meant to be kept here like this.

Egg did the talking, his small voice steady in the way it only ever became when he was afraid but refusing to show it. 

Explaining carefully that you were there on official business from the crown, that there was no need for disturbance, no reason for alarm. The men at the door exchanged glances that lingered just long enough to make you feel it, that subtle shift of recognition that did not quite settle on you as a person, but on something more distant, something half-real, like a story being repeated rather than a presence being acknowledged.

Royals, yes.

But not one they had expected to see in a place like this.

And then they let him pass.

You pulled Egg aside before he entered. “Talk to him first,” you said gently. “I’ll go in after.” The boy nodded, taking a deep breath before opening the dungeon door and stepping inside. 

The door closed again, and the sound of it felt heavier than it should have, like something had been sealed rather than opened. Suddenly, there was only the corridor, the dim torchlight, and the realization that you were still standing on the outside of something you had already set in motion.

You did not move at first.

In that gap, in that thin stretch of waiting that had no structure to hold it, your thoughts began to press in on you more sharply. Not in words, but in implications, in the slow awareness of what could happen behind that door without you, of how little control you actually had over anything once it was out of your sight.

Your breath came uneven again, and you found yourself staring at the seam where stone met iron, as though watching it closely might prevent it from becoming something irreversible.

Time did not feel like it was passing correctly.

It felt like it was gathering.

Each second stacking without release, without sound, until even the corridor behind you seemed too narrow to stand in, as if the space itself had begun to lean inward.

When Egg finally came back out, it was so sudden you almost stepped forward without thinking, your body reacting before your mind had fully caught up, but he was already there. Wiping at his face in a way that did not fully hide the relief in him, the kind that came from a tension finally loosening rather than a fear worsening.

“What happened?” you asked immediately, voice sharper than you intended.

He sniffed once, then steadied himself.

“He’s ready for you,” he said. “I will be here.”

There was something in the way he said it that made it sound like a promise he was offering you rather than something you had asked for.

You hesitated only a moment longer, because the thought of stepping through that door did not feel like movement anymore but like consequence, like entering a space where every decision you had made so far would finally stop being theoretical and become real in front of you.

Then you drew a breath that did not fully settle your nerves but forced your body forward anyway.

And with one last moment of stillness at the threshold, you stepped inside.

The first thing Dunk noticed when the door swung open was that you were not a guard telling him it was time to die. You were yourself, but different. Smaller somehow, drained of color, silver hair loose around your frame as if whatever had been holding you together had finally stopped doing its job, and the dress you wore did nothing to keep the cold from reaching you. And yet it was still you.

Neither of you spoke at first. The silence did not feel calm, only uncertain, like neither of you trusted what would happen if you filled it too quickly. Dunk stayed seated, rigid in a way that suggested he had been holding himself still for far too long, while you stood near the threshold longer than necessary, as if crossing it meant committing to something that could not be taken back.

When you finally moved, it was careful, almost hesitant, as though even your steps were asking permission.

You did not sit immediately.

Instead, you hovered near him, hands twisting into your cloak, and when you spoke, your voice came out thin, strained by something you were still trying to keep under control.

“Are you alright?”

Dunk let out a breath through his nose, not quite a laugh, but something tired. “I’m alive.”

That should have been enough to settle something. It wasn’t.

You swallowed and tried again, quieter. “Did they hurt you?”

“No.”

A pause.

“Have you eaten?”

“Yes.”

Another pause, heavier now, stretching until it became uncomfortable.

“Has anyone told you what happens next?”

“No.”

Each answer made the space between you worse instead of better, because there was nothing in them to hold onto, and your chest tightened as you realized how much of this had been decided without either of you being allowed to speak inside it.

Dunk shifted slightly, the scrape of chains or restraint faint in the background, and when he finally looked at you again, there was something more fragile underneath his earlier anger.

“I do not understand this,” he said, voice rougher now. “I do not understand how I go from standing for your honor to sitting here like this while you walk in and look at me like I am already something you are trying to fix.”

Then his voice sharpened slightly, not angry yet, but worn at the edges. “What is this supposed to be?”

You hesitated. “I had to see you.”

That earned you a look, not cruel, but searching. “Had to,” he repeated.

And something in that made your chest tighten.

Because it sounded wrong out loud.

Like everything else.

Your fingers tightened in your cloak. “I needed to make sure you were—”

“Safe,” he finished for you, but there was something guarded in the way he said it.

That word pressed harder than the rest. And suddenly the air felt too thin to hold your thoughts.

“I do not know how to do this,” you admitted, voice breaking slightly at the edges. “I do not know how to explain it in a way that makes sense because nothing about this should exist in the first place.”

Dunk’s jaw tightened. “Then explain what you can.”

And that was where it cracked. Not loudly. Not all at once.

Just enough that everything you had been holding behind your ribs began to press outward.

“I did not want this,” you said, and your voice wavered before you could stop it. “I did not want any of it. I did not want the court, or the name, or the way everything I do becomes something someone else decides for me.”

Your breath hitched.

“And I did not want you in this,” you added, softer now, more broken. “I did not want you dragged into something that started because I exist in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

Dunk frowned slightly. “That is not how it happened.”

But you were already shaking your head, the thought turning inward before you could stop it.

“It is,” you whispered, and then it came out worse, more fragile. “If I had never met you, none of this would have reached you. None of this would be sitting in a cell because of me.”

Your voice cracked fully then.

“And I keep thinking that maybe I am just… a curse that follows people until it ruins them.”

The words landed in the space between you as something dropped too hard.

Dunk went still.

Not softened yet. Not comfort yet. Just still.

Your fingers tightened into the fabric at your chest, like you were trying to hold yourself in place.

“And I did not want to lose you.”

That last part came out smaller.

More honest than you intended.

Dunk exhaled slowly. Then, quieter, sharper in refusal than argument:

“No.”

You flinched anyway.

Dunk leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees, eyes fixed on you now in a way that did not let you disappear into your own thoughts.

“That is not how this works,” he said more firmly now. “I chose to step in. I chose to act.”

Then, slightly lower, less about logic and more about truth:

“And I do not like the idea of you being anywhere near that man without someone making sure you are safe.”

That part lands heavier than the rest.

You shook your head again, but weaker this time. “You would not have been there if not for me.”

“And I would have been somewhere else,” he cut in, sharper now, but not unkind. “Getting myself into trouble in some other way, because that is what men like me do.”

That pulled something out of you that you were not ready for. A broken sound that was almost a laugh, but not quite. Almost a sob.

“I cannot keep pretending I am fine,” you said, quieter now, but unstable. “I cannot keep doing this and acting like I am not breaking every time I am alone.”

You did not speak clearly after that anymore, only fragments of breath and pressure, and Dunk did not force you back into words.

Dunk’s expression shifted, something in him loosening, not in relief but recognition.

“You are not the only one carrying it,” he said finally, lower now, more grounded. “I am not angry at you. I was angry because I did not know what I was supposed to do with all of this. With being taken, with being used like a point in something bigger than me.”

His jaw tightened slightly.

“And because I do not like the idea of you being anywhere near that man without someone making sure you are safe.”

Dunk exhaled slowly, then added, more quietly, “I came here thinking I was going to lose something I did not even understand I had yet. That is what scared me.”

Your hands came up to your face before you could stop them. The sound that left you next was uneven, torn between relief and grief, because it was not just about him anymore; it was everything that had been sitting behind your ribs for too long, finally finding somewhere to go.

Dunk moved immediately as you lost yourself, crying uncontrollably.

He reached for you and pulled you in, steady, anchoring, his presence solid in a way the rest of your world had not been.

“Hey,” he said quietly, closer now, voice rough but not unkind. “Dry your eyes, sweet girl.”

That was all it took to make it worse and better at the same time.

Because now you could let it happen. Now you were not holding it alone.

You clung to him without thinking about dignity or titles or anything that had been built around you, and he held you there like it was not something unexpected, like it was not something dangerous, just something real that had finally stopped being denied.

And after a long moment, when your breathing began to slow again, Dunk spoke again, lower, steadier.

“I am not letting you walk into whatever this becomes alone,” he said. “Not if I have anything to say about it.”

It wasn’t a promise of certainty. But it was a promise of presence. And that mattered more.

Neither of you moved after that. Not because there was nothing left to say, but because anything spoken now would have felt too loud for the space between you. Dunk’s hands were still steady where they had settled around you, not holding tight anymore, just there, as if he had forgotten the exact moment he was supposed to let go.

And you had not moved away. Not even slightly.

It took a moment for you to notice that.

The silence stretched, but it was no longer empty. It felt like something suspended, like time itself had stopped asking either of you to make a decision too quickly.

Dunk looked at you then.

And something in his expression shifted in a way that did not belong to anger, or confusion, or duty anymore. It was quieter than all of that. Present in a way that made your breath catch without warning.

You realized you were looking back.

And neither of you corrected it.

You should have looked away. You did not.

The distance between you had not changed, but it felt smaller now, like it had been worn down by everything that had already happened and simply forgotten how to stay large.

Dunk’s voice came low, uncertain in a way you had never heard from him before.

“You are still shaking,” he said.

“I know,” you whispered.

Neither of you moved after that, either.

But the moment did not break.

It deepened instead, quietly, as if it had found somewhere to settle.

His gaze flicked once, briefly, to your mouth, then back to your eyes, as if he had not meant to do it but also could not pretend he hadn’t.

That small moment changed something.

Your breath slowed without permission. Dunk didn’t speak again. He didn’t need to. And then, very quietly, as if neither of you had fully decided to allow it, the space between you stopped feeling like distance.

It stopped feeling like anything that could be maintained. 

He kissed you, as if it had been decided long before either of you spoke. 

Everything went still in a way that felt almost unreal, like the world had paused mid-breath and forgotten to continue. When he pulled back, it was only slightly, as if even that distance felt uncertain now. Neither of you spoke. Dunk looked at you like he was trying to understand what he had just done without undoing it.

“I am so sorry. We shouldn’t,” he said quietly. But he didn’t move back. 

“I don’t care,” you admitted, barely above a breath. “Just you and me, together.” You pulled him back in.

It shocked him at first, he expected to be slapped or yelled at. But when you kissed him like you needed his air to breathe he pulled you in closer. If that was even possible.

The two of you pulled and pawed at each other like youd be gone if you stopped kissing. It was so intense that you, too, flopped over. You land back first on the cold ground, with one of his hands shielding your head from it slamming.  All while still grabbing at each other, even here, he still protected you.

You only pulled apart to reposition yourself, and then went back in. He moved his affection from your lips to your neck as he began to kiss down your body. Hands roaming to hold onto your thighs, stopping only when the sound of knocking was heard.

You were in a dungeon, don't forget

It was Egg who was knocking. He said that it had grown quiet and that he was coming in.

The two of you halted. Slowly, Dunk adjusted your dress and cloak to make sure everything looked right. But it could not fix the way your body flushed against his, and your chapped lips. It was enough for Egg not to say anything, though.

“Prince Baelor request your presence.” The boy looks at the two of you. “Sooner than later.”

There were no escorts as you walked back down the hallways of the cobblestone castle. Egg’s words weighed heavy on your chest. The crowned prince is requesting you, in all of this.

Still, you followed.

By the time the doors opened, you had already braced yourself. For more judgement, more words you would have to learn how to let slip down your brain.

The first thing you noticed was how warm the room was. It was almost comforting. The exact opposite of how it had been when you and your father stood in here together.

It instantly seeped into the cold of your bones. Light from the calm fire caught onto dust in the air, softening the edges of the room, making everything feel quieter than it should have been.

Baelor did not loom. He did not fill the space with his voice or force. He sat writing as if he hadn’t noticed your presence at all.

“Uncle?” you croaked, the word feeling foreign in your throat.

He said your name—your true name—softly. His face almost brightened when he looked up at you, but it settled quickly when he saw you still standing there, unmoving.

You weren’t sure what to do. How this conversation was going to go. If you needed to keep track of the door behind you.

“Please, take a seat.” He gestured to the chair in front of his desk. “I assume you’re confused as to why I called you here.”

“Forgive me, Your Grace. I just… I already spoke to Prince Maekar. My words have lost their emphasis.”

Baelor’s brow lifted slightly at your formality.

He paused before answering, studying you for a moment longer than expected. “You are still my niece, yes? No matter what you present as?”

You looked anywhere but at his mismatched eyes. “Well ye—”

“Then why do you speak to me like this?” he interrupted, not sharply, but firmly. “We are family. I did not call you here to make you explain yourself again.”

The words struck something deep in your chest.

“Then why am I here?” The question came out sharper than you meant it to.

“This situation is less than ideal—” he began.

“The situation?” you cut in, something hot rising up before you could stop it. “This situation… it’s not new, Uncle.”

The words hung there.

Baelor did not snap back. He did not raise his voice.

He simply waited.

And somehow, that was worse.

“I was not called here for this,” you said, your voice tightening despite yourself. “If this is about Aerion, then you already know what he will say. What everyone will say.”

Still, he said nothing.

Your hands curled at your sides.

“You all do,” you added, quieter now. “You always do.”

Baelor set the quill down carefully. Not rushed. Not startled. Deliberate.

“I know what has been reported to me,” he said. “That is not the same as knowing.”

You let out a sharp breath, something between a laugh and disbelief. “And what difference does that make?”

“A great deal.”

Silence stretched again, but it did not feel empty. It pressed, gently, insistently, until something in your chest gave way.

“You ask why I did it,” you said, your gaze fixed somewhere just past him. “Why I left, why I interfered, why I put myself there.”

A pause.

“No one else was going to.”

The words landed heavier than you intended.

Baelor’s expression shifted, something quieter settling behind his eyes.

“No one?” he repeated.

You swallowed.

“That is not how it works,” you said quickly, like you could reshape it into something safer. “People don’t step in. They watch. They always watch.”

Your voice faltered slightly on the last word.

“And you have learned that from us.”

It was not a question.

Your throat tightened again, but you did not answer.

Baelor leaned back slightly, his gaze still on you, but different now. Not distant. Not weighing.

Trying to understand.

“That is my failing,” he said quietly.

The words did not make sense at first.

You blinked. “What?”

“My failing,” he repeated, more firmly this time. “Not yours.”

You stared at him.

“I have no daughters…” he began, the words slower now, less certain. He paused briefly, as if searching for the right way to say it. “Maybe one day. But until then, I told myself that meant I did not know how to guide you. That your father would. That your brothers would. That the household would.”

A faint, humorless breath left him.

“I see now that I used that as an excuse to stand at a distance.”

Something in your chest shifted, uncertain and sharp.

“When your mother died,” he went on, quieter now, “I told myself grief was a private thing. That it was not my place to intrude.”

Your hands trembled slightly. You stilled them quickly.

“When Aerion’s cruelty began… I told myself it was a matter of temper. That boys grow cruel in ways they must unlearn.” He paused again, jaw tightening faintly. “I thought it would pass.”

It didn’t. You both knew that.

“When you were given responsibilities beyond your years,” he continued, “I told myself it was because you were capable.”

Each word felt placed carefully between you, like something fragile that might break if handled wrong.

“I watched you carry all of it,” he said. “Silently. Without complaint. Without asking anything in return.”

Your vision blurred, but you refused to let it show.

“And I thought that meant you did not need anything from me.”

That hurt more than anger ever could have.

Baelor’s gaze returned to you fully.

“I was wrong.”

The room felt too warm all at once. Too small.

“You should not have had to step into that situation today,” he said. “Not because you were wrong to see it for what it was, but because you should have believed—known—that someone else would stop it before it came to that.”

His voice lowered slightly.

“That is what we failed to give you.”

We.

Not you. Not just him.

Your breath came unevenly now, something fragile cracking under the weight of it.

“I did not—” you started, then stopped.

You didn’t know how to finish that.

Baelor did not rush you.

“I think,” he said carefully, “that we have mistaken your silence for strength, and your endurance for willingness.”

Your throat tightened painfully.

“They are not the same thing.”

No. They weren’t.

You had just never been given the space to separate them.

Baelor straightened slightly, though his voice remained gentle.

“I cannot undo what has already been done,” he said. A pause. “But I can do better than I have.”

Another pause, quieter this time.

“If you will allow me to.”

The words settled somewhere deep, unfamiliar.

“I… don’t know how,” you admitted, your voice quieter now, stripped of its edge.

That seemed to settle something in him.

“Then we will learn,” Baelor said. “Both of us.”

Silence followed again, but it felt different now. Less like something to endure.

You dragged a hand down your face, exhaling a quiet, frustrated sound, as if your body did not know what to do with everything that had just been placed into it.

“What is to happen now?”

Baelor did not answer immediately. He stood, moving around the desk slowly, as if giving both of you space to step out of what the conversation had been.

“As you know, Aerion would like Ser Duncan’s head for what he did.” He grimaced faintly. “He will not have it.”

You looked up at him, something sharp and desperate in your eyes. “How do you know that’s true?”

“I will do everything in my power to stop it,” he said. “For honor, for sacrifice… for you. But I cannot deny him a trial.”

You could finally breathe.

Relief came sharp and sudden, like something you had been holding back without realizing.

“There is one other matter,” Baelor added, his tone shifting slightly.

You stilled.

“Daeron has claimed that Ser Duncan kidnapped you from Summerhall, and the boy from the inn. A desperate attempt, I think, to cover his own failings.”

You were on your feet before you fully realized it, the chair scraping harshly behind you. “That’s blasphemy. Dunk would never—”

Baelor’s brow lifted slightly at your openness.

“I mean—Ser Duncan,” you corrected quickly.

Even so, you did not take it back.

You swayed slightly, and this time when Baelor stepped forward, there was a pause—just enough to notice—before his hands settled carefully on your shoulders.

Warm. Steady.

You stiffened for half a breath.

Then… didn’t pull away.

“That is where you come in,” he said, his voice gentler now. “An eyewitness. The court will not favor him otherwise.”

His hands dropped after a moment, giving you space again.

“I will personally see that you are present when decisions are made. You will speak the truth of what happened. And we will see it set right.”

You shook your head slightly, uncertainty creeping back in. “But… what if—”

“I’m afraid we can only act on what is right, not what is feared,” he said quietly. “We will face the rest when it comes.”

You nodded slowly, drawing in a deeper breath than before, forcing something steadier back into yourself.

“I will do all I can.”

Baelor studied you for a moment longer, then nodded once.

“He has only one other option, if punishment is to be avoided,” he said more quietly. “So I will ask you this.”

A small pause.

“How good of a knight is he?”

You took a step back, but this time it was not out of fear. Something in you had settled. Something certain. There was no hesitation when you answered.

“The best.”

There was something steadier in your step as you made your way back through the halls. Not lighter, not easier, but steadier in a way that felt unfamiliar. Baelor’s words still sat heavy in your chest, the weight of what was to come pressing at the edges of your thoughts, but it no longer felt like something you had to brace against. It felt like something you could carry.

By the time you reached your chambers, your hands had stopped trembling.

The door closed softly behind you, sealing you into a quiet that felt almost unnatural after everything. No voices. Just the stillness of the room and the sound of your own breath as you stood there, unmoving for a moment, letting it all settle into place.

Your gaze drifted toward the wardrobe, looking for something else to wear other than your nightgown. Your fingers brushing across fabrics. Soft colors, simple cuts, pieces that allowed you to exist without being seen too closely. They could have been enough before. They could have been safe.

Not now.

You pushed further into the wardrobe, shifting past what you knew until something darker caught your eye. The black stood out immediately, deep and rich, threaded through with gold that caught the light in sharp, deliberate glints. 

It demanded to be noticed.

You stilled, your hand hovering over it before finally pulling it free. The fabric was heavier than what you were used to, structured in a way that held its shape instead of falling away from it. It felt different in your hands, like it carried expectation within it.

It wasn’t yours. Who’s was it? You tried not to dwel.

For a moment, you hesitated.

Then the memory of Baelor’s voice returned, quiet and certain in a way that left no room to retreat from it. He had not raised his voice. He had not demanded anything of you. You could fully trust him, he was safe. 

You tightened your grip on the dress.

Let it be known.

Today.

They would see you.

You dressed slowly, more deliberate than you had ever been before. Each movement felt intentional, every adjustment made with care until the fabric sat properly against your frame. It felt strange at first, the way it held you upright, but as you settled into it, the unfamiliarity began to shift into something else.

When you turned toward the mirror, it took you a moment to recognize what you were looking at. Not because it was unrecognizable, but because it was not what you were used to seeing. There was something sharper there, something more defined, like the version of you that had always been expected but never fully realized.

You looked amazing.

You reached for the brush next, dragging it through your silver hair with more care than usual. Each pass smoothed something out, not just the tangles but the lingering hesitation that still clung to you. You did not rush it. You did not avoid your reflection. You watched yourself as you worked, as if trying to understand this version of you as it formed.

Your eyes caught on the small items left on the table.

A pot of rouge. A small glass vial of perfume, the scent faint even from where you stood.

You hesitated again, your fingers hovering before slowly reaching forward. There was something strangely intimate about it, about taking what was not yours and making it part of yourself, even for a moment. 

You pressed the color lightly onto your lips, then your cheeks, the warmth of it bringing life back into your face in a way you were overly noticing was missing. The perfume followed, just a touch at your wrists, your neck. Something soft, something that lingered without overpowering.

You stepped back from the table slowly, your hands falling to your sides as you took yourself in again.

Different.

Not someone else. Not something false.

Just… more.

Your thoughts drifted then, pulling you somewhere you wish you could go back to/

To him.

Dunk.

The way he had stood between you and the world without hesitation, as if there had never been a question in his mind. The way his voice had sounded when he said your name, not careful, but certain in a way that had caught you off guard.

And when he kissed you.

Your breath caught slightly, the memory sharper now that you allowed yourself to linger on it. It had not been soft or hesitant. There had been nothing uncertain about it. It had been sudden, unguarded, something that had broken through every wall you had carefully kept in place.

You had not stopped it. That thought lingered longer than the rest. Your hand lifted slightly, as if you could still feel it, before you forced it back down..

A knock sounded at the door, pulling you back into yourself.

“My princess,” the maid’s voice came, gentle but firm. “It is time.”

Finally

You closed your eyes briefly, drawing in a slow, steady breath, letting it settle deep in your chest. When you opened them again, there was no hesitation left in you.

“Thank you,” you said, your voice louder than usual, but no less certain.

When you stepped through the door, you did not pause.

You stepped back into the hallway with your head held just slightly higher, the weight of the dress grounding you, the warmth of the room still lingering faintly against your skin.

This time, you were not walking toward something waiting to judge you. You were walking toward something that would have to hear you.

Tag list:

It’s not your fault. Really, it’s not- nothing was going right to begin with, and the outfit you’d initially planned on wearing ended up hanging off your body like loose rags. You had to change three separate times, and still, you aren’t too pleased with how you look today.

The day is miserable- all rain and clouds and grey skies.  There isn’t an ounce of sunshine to be seen, not even in you, because your typically upbeat personality has been taken and held hostage by the city around you.

“Perry’s gonna kill you.” Clark greets you, umbrella clutched in his free hand that he immediately holds over you as you join him. He slings your bag smoothly off your shoulder, hooking it over his own instead.

Together, you walk in unison; quick, and sharp, your shoulder bumping into his arm due to the height difference.

“Then we better hurry up, Kent.” you say back, earning a chuckle from him.

You walk through the rain, and you don’t notice the way he ducks his head outside of the umbrella completely. How you don’t veer off the jagged path ahead even though it usually pains you to walk in a straight line, because his hand is hovering on your lower back, careful, steady.

You don’t even question why, when you finally get through those double doors, Clark’s curls are almost soaked and you’re bone-dry.

The elevator ride to the top is comfortable, like it always is with Clark.

“How was your evening?”

“I ate ice cream for dinner,” you tell him absentmindedly, “And I rewatched The Devil Wears Prada.”

His eyebrow quirks up, “Must have missed my invite.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. Were you not in a different city last night fighting an intergalactic threat?”

“How’d you know that?”

“I watch the news.”

Clark smirks slightly. Never arrogant or cocky, just knowing. “I still would have come.”

You don’t say anything, busy straightening your shirt and wrapping your coat even tighter around you. When the elevator finally reaches the top of the skyscraper, you’re the first to step out, Clark directly in tow.

Your heels clack against the linoleum floor with a precision that can only come from someone with something to prove; in this case, the fact that you’re late for a good (nobody has to know the truth) reason. Lois looks up for a split second, nodding at you in acknowledgement.

Beside her, Jimmy grins. “What time do you call this?” he jokes.

“Got held up,” Clark lies. You smile inwardly, knowing he was perfectly on time; it was you who couldn’t decide on what to wear this morning, on what rings to pair with what necklaces.

You’d told Clark to go on; I’ll be like, thirty more minutes. I’ll just see you there! You’d said, but of course he refused to listen.

Someone barks your surname. They also bark Clark’s. You don’t even have to turn around to know who it is.

“Sorry, Perry.” You and Clark say in unison, his cheeks flushed crimson, yours still cold from the wind. Thankfully, Perry White seems to be in a good mood today; he just shakes his head in exasperation, a small mutter akin to tweedle-dee and tweedle-dum leaving his lips as he places another cigarette between them and turns around.

Clark pulls your chair out for you, waiting for you to sit before he does the same.

“Close call.” he mumbles, and you stifle a laugh.

It’s a busy day; one that stretches for far too long. You type until your eyes blur and you drink coffee until you can’t even taste the bitter burn of it anymore, but you’re focused.

You’re a great journalist, and you’ve chalked that down to be the very reason why Perry gives you so much grace. Why being late is a bump in the road instead of a fireable offense like it is for most people.

It’s Clark you have to thank for that; being his best friend certainly has it’s perks. He knows better than anyone how to charm the Planet’s infamous grump. Over time, you’ve learnt how to mimic him; be bashful when confronted about tardiness, especially by someone like Perry White, and you’re good to go.

After a couple hours of head-down, zipped lipped quiet, he finally breaks the silence.

“How you holding up?” Clark asks you, head hidden behind his own screen. You can’t see him, but you can envision his lips parting as he speaks, eyes trained on whatever word document he currently has open.

“Surviving. You?” you mumble, fingers wrapped around a yellow highlighter that has yet to land on the page. He lets out a chuckle.

“Counting down the seconds until lunch.”

“Are we going out today?” you pop your head around your monitor then, and Clark doesn’t skip a beat before doing the same.

The sight of him- especially after a long 121 minutes without it- makes something flutter dangerously in your stomach. His curls are unruly, piercing blue eyes only the slightest bit red as he looks at you.

You blink the feeling away, willing it to disappear and not come back for at least a little while.

“You want to? Or I could just grab us those bagels you like from the place ‘round the corner?”

“I can come with you,” you offer, but Clark shakes his head, the corners of his mouth upturned.

“No need. I’ve got you.”

You nod, a thankful smile spreading across your lips as you turn back to your desk. Of course, Clark does the same, and under the table you feel the tip of his shoes nudging against your foot.

Your smile only widens, though you try to hide it with a purse of your lips and a clench in your jaw.

It’s not that you have a crush on your best friend- absolutely not. Crushes, you’ve always believed, are for high schoolers; teenagers in faux love who believe that big, ugly bouquets mean romance, and cheesy, outlandish prom-posals equate to a lifetime of happiness.

No, you’re a little more pessimistic than that. And you’re a lot deeper in than that, because unfortunately for you, Clark Kent continues to be a shining example of the world’s most perfect boyfriend.

Minus the kissing. And the holding hands. Also the freakier stuff like sharing a bed, and hugging each other regularly- who ever said being in love was rational?

He’s kind. He’s patient. He waits hours for you to get ready and doesn’t even scold you for wasting his time, just smiles and stares at you like you’ve already done him the biggest favour by simply existing.

He knows your coffee order off by heart, grabs you a couple of sugars every time even though it’s sweet enough- just in case, he always says. He knows you like your bagels from Leon’s on Tuesdays but every other day, it’s Liberty’s or nothing.

Clark remembers. He cares. So deeply.

He is also in love with someone else.

“Just waiting for her to realise, I guess.” he’d told you once, when you asked him why he hadn’t dated anyone since Lois- all while holding a box of Christmas baubles you were picking from.

And he'd told you that he didn't need to date, not unless it was the person he wanted to be with forever. Clark Kent didn't do casual. To him, time was precious, and he simply had no interest in 'playing the field'.

Though even you had to admit; no matter how big the field, it would be very difficult for anyone on Clark’s future roster to compete with the brilliant Lois Lane.

“What if she never does?” you asked, gesturing for him to pass you another bauble to add to the tree.

It was mid-November, and a random chill in the air had you fixated on getting your decorations up ASAP. Naturally, Clark agreed, even playing pack-mule with you in the store as you collected everything caked in artificial frost and tinsel- even a brand-new tree that he held tucked under one arm as you ran up and down the aisles.

Clark simply smiled, eyes holding a shine as he watched you examine a fragile looking ornament, fingers twirling it in the light.

“She'll figure it out. She always does,” he’d said confidently, “One day.”

“What if she takes forever?”

Clark remained unfazed, “Then I’ll wait.” you just raised an eyebrow, dropping the topic immediately and trying to forget how deliciously romantic he sounded right then and there.

That, was six months ago.

And Clark has yet to introduce you to this mystery girl, has yet to even give you her name; you don’t even know what she looks like.

You supposed it was for the best. For now, you were happy living in blissful ignorance. Just until you got over this silly little love-crush of yours. Or, until you pushed yourself to finally start dating again and could finally forget about this whole thing.

You continue typing, the words blurring together incoherently. By the time 12:30pm comes around, your stomach is grumbling and it’s only the noise of everyone packing up for lunch that breaks your concentration.

Clark is already standing up from his desk, stretching those muscles of his that never go stiff, yet he does it anyway because it’s what everyone else does.

You lock eyes with him as he makes his way around the edges of the table.

“The usual?” he asks. You nod with a grateful smile.

“Please. Take my card-“ you’re already fumbling for your wallet, but Clark shakes his head firmly.

“No need. I’ll be back in ten.” He tells you, and before either of you can register what happens next, he leans down. Smoothly.

And gives you a peck on the lips.

It’s quick. It’s over within a split second. But it still happens; and when Clark pulls back without so much of a stunned look or an apology on his face, you swear you can still feel the plush skin of his lips on yours.

“Text me if you think of anything else you want.” he says coolly, as if he didn’t just short-circuit your entire being.

And he’s gone.

Just like that; he turns on his heel, nods goodbye to a gobsmacked Jimmy Olsen, and heads for the elevator. Leaving you; stunned, shocked, baffled, detonating in your seat.

You don’t move. For a long while, Jimmy mimicks you, eyes wide as his gaze darts between the elevator where Clark was and your desk, where you currently still are. And probably will be for days to come.

Eventually, he wheels his seat over to you.

“What was-“

“I don’t know.”

“Why did he-“

“I don’t know,” you swallow, and with a disbelieving shake of your head, you turn back to your desk, palms flat out on the table as a way of anchoring yourself to it. For a long while, Jimmy doesn’t speak, silently begging you to.

But you can’t. You physically can’t. Because it may have been an accident- it’s not unusual for Clark to give you a kiss on the forehead, an occasional one on the cheek if he’s feeling extra gratuitous. But on the lips?

Maybe he missed. Maybe, you turned your head without even realising it- and maybe, right now, he’s on his way to Liberty’s trying to come up with ways to end your friendship because he definitely knows now, if he didn’t before.

He knows, and he’s disgusted, and you wouldn’t be surprised if he came back with your bagel in a bag and a stern talking to about how you shouldn’t move your head when people lean in for cheek-kisses.

You decide you will never eat another bagel ever again in your entire life. You will be bagel-less and Clark Kent-less and best friend-less for the rest of time and it’s all because you couldn’t control yourself.

But you know you’re being stupid, because Clark is many things. Superman being the most important one of them- he catches rolling pencils before they can fall to the floor, nudges you gently out of the way when rain falls off outer stall canopies so you won’t get wet. He has reflexes that the normal man doesn’t. If you were to turn your head, he’d know, and he’d stop.

So why didn’t he stop?

You’re still frozen by the time he gets back. He has your bagels in their usual printed takeaway bag and he’s flushed from the cold, tie slightly crooked, glasses foggy and slipping down his nose.

He forgets to steady them, the grin on his face pointed so directly towards you that it distracts him completely.

Your eyes widen, hand shooting up instinctively just as they’re on the cusp of clattering to the floor. You push them up for him, the tip of your middle finger barely brushing against the bridge of his nose.

He smiles, crooked. Out of the corner of your eye, you can see Jimmy’s jaw on the floor.

“Thanks,” Clark says softly, and because your heart is going a million miles per minute, you just nod a reply back.

He sets the bagels on your desk, pulls his chair around to sit next to you.

“So,” he starts, getting the food out like he always does. You, first; he unwraps your bagel, sets your sauces out, and drapes a tissue across your lap. “What ice cream did you have last night?”

You tell him, carefully at first, reluctantly, like it wasn’t just vanilla and caramel. But Clark doesn’t catch on.

He just nods, attentive as always. He laughs when you make a joke, tells you in a hushed tone about his new friend in Gotham, Bruce Wayne. He’s an alright guy, bit serious though. And he wipes the corner of your mouth when you get a bit of ketchup on it. But he doesn’t bring up the kiss.

So, neither do you.

Clark keeps kissing you.

And you, well- all you can do is keep pretending you’re not actively malfunctioning every single time it happens.

At first you assume it’s a one-off. A strange, meteorological anomaly- like those fish that sometimes fall from the sky. Weird, very rare, and inexplicable.

But then he does it again the next day.

It’s the same routine: lunch break, Clark grabbing the food, you offering to pay, him refusing like always. Except now there’s a new beat to the choreography; one that involves him leaning in, cupping the side of your elbow like you’re made of spun glass, and giving you a very deliberate, very real peck on the lips before leaving. It’s gotten deeper since the first, you realise.

And every single time, you just sit there like someone unplugged you from the wall.

Jimmy has stopped pretending he isn’t watching. He mostly just gasps now. Out loud. Very dramatically.

Thursday, Clark arrives with two macchiatos and a cinnamon walnut pastry you mentioned liking once. You’re about to thank him when he dips forward and presses- there it is again- a warm, soft peck to your lips.

“Be right back,” he murmurs, like that is the casual part of this exchange.

This time, your confusion is so loud it actually echoes. Beside you, Jimmy drops his pen, and it rolls for three desks.

By Friday, you try to mentally prepare. You puff your cheeks out, slap them lightly, tell yourself that if he does it again, you will absolutely ask him what on earth is going on.

But of course, you don’t. You don’t ask your best friend anything.

Because the second he leans down and those soft lips brush yours in that infuriatingly tender, maddeningly gentle Clark-Kent way, your brain promptly ejects itself out the window.

He walks off, humming, as you slowly rotate in your chair like a malfunctioning Roomba.

Your head is foggy, filled with so many unanswered questions that somehow, feel so far from being said out loud.

Nothing’s changed, oddly enough. Clark still walks you home. Still hovers over your desk, helping you with rewrites and amendments. He still brings you lunch and spends Wednesday evenings watching re-runs with you in your apartment.

He just… kisses you, now. Pecks you, more like, like it’s the most normal thing in the world.

And before you know it, days pass. Days turn into weeks, and naturally- predictably- it gets worse.

Or better. Or whatever this is.

Because now- now, Clark starts doing it not just before lunch. He no longer limits himself, and you still say nothing.

He kisses you goodbye when he heads home for the night.

Kisses you hello when you meet at the elevator in the morning.

He kisses you when he hands you a report you asked for.

And, he even kisses you when you complain about the printer.

Tiny, sweet, blink-and-you’ll-miss-it pecks. Like he’s testing you. Like he’s waiting; for what, you don’t know, but what you do know is that you are very close to the brink of explosion.

By the time a whole month passes, your confusion has reached clinically concerning levels. Your Google search history is comical, an amalgamation of confusion and shock before you swiftly swapped to incognito;

do best friends kiss on lips??

signs of short term memory loss

am I hallucinating long-term?

long term hallucination symptoms

group long term hallucination

do kryptonian people greet each other with kiss

You search with a slight hunch, your entire body covering your phone screen in both fear and shame of someone seeing. You’re desperate; completely at your wits’ end, and Clark seems to be none the wiser.

But then, comes the moment everything changes.

It’s late. Everyone else has gone home, and the newsroom is buzzing only with low lights and the distant hum of the city outside.

It’s just you and Clark, finishing up an article he’s been helping you with.

You’re buried in revisions, your brains working in sync as you push through the exhaustion of the last few weeks. You and Clark had gotten better about leaving on time, but with deadlines closing in, staying late wasn’t really optional tonight.

You’re tired, very much so- to the point where pretending like you’re not bothered is a feat in itself. Clark is focused, glasses sliding down his nose as he leans over your shoulder to point at something on the screen.

And then- like it’s the easiest thing in the world- he tilts your chin gently with two fingers and gives you a slow, lingering kiss on the lips.

Not a peck this time. Not a blink.

A kiss.

A real, life-altering, friendship-make-or-breaking kiss that injects electricity in your veins and brings all your dead senses back to life. It’s wonderful. It’s passionate. And above all, it is scary.

You freeze. But instead of pulling back like he usually does, Clark stays there, lips pressed softly to yours, patient as ever. Waiting. Wanting in silence, for you to respond.

So, you do.

Your body moves before your brain can protest, before any part of you testifies against the very notion of giving in- your hand curls into the front of his shirt, you tilt upward, and suddenly you’re kissing him back.

Your lips are slow as they move together; at first, awkward. Then, the awkwardness melts into something familiar, something warm.

And finally, it turns absolutely, heart-stoppingly illegal.

Just waiting for her to realise, his words play over and over- incessant, like a broken record- in your mind.

One day.

You fit together perfectly, you and Clark. Your lips do all the work while your minds fight to catch up. He makes a tiny noise- a surprised, happy sound- and you swear you can feel his smile against your mouth.

You pull back first, breath uneven, eyes wide and stunned in a way you can’t even hide. Your hands are still fisted in the front of his shirt like you forgot to let go.

Your grip doesn't loosen on the fabric, too afraid to disrupt the moment you’re both suspended in.

Clark doesn’t move. He just watches you, chest rising slowly, hope written all over him. You can't speak, so you don't.

But something in your face- the shock, the realisation trying to break through and finally shake some sense into you- makes him smile.

It softens as he looks at you, folding into something heartbreakingly tender.

“I told you…” Clark murmurs softly, brushing a strand of hair from your face with the gentlest touch. His eyes graze your lips again, already hungry for more, “that you’d figure it out.”

So when your mom’s car comes screeching into the lot, you know this is going to hurt worse than anything that happened inside the mall.

She’s out before the car even stops moving. Her shoes slap against the pavement, her voice carrying above the noise:

“Oh my God—oh my God—”

Then she’s there, grabbing you, wrapping her arms so tightly around you that your ribs protest. You can feel her heartbeat racing against your cheek, and it’s a kind of love that hurts—panicked and heavy, her hands trembling as she pulls back just enough to check you over.

“What happened? What caused the fire? Everyone’s saying—oh, honey, you could’ve—”

Her words start breaking apart. You shake your head because you can’t answer her, not with the truth.

“The—uh—fire department doesn’t know yet,” you stammer, the words tasting wrong in your mouth. “It—it was sudden. Everyone just… ran.”

She stares at you, searching for something real, something solid. But there’s nothing solid left. Just smoke and lies and the hollow echo of what you’ve seen.

Then, over her shoulder, you see him.

Steve Harrington.

Sitting alone on the bumper of an ambulance.

His head’s down, elbows resting on his knees. The EMTs have cleaned up the blood, but his face is still a mess of swelling and purple bruises, one eye nearly closed. There’s a thin smear of dried blood near his hairline. He’s holding an ice pack that’s melting against his cheek, droplets running down his wrist.

He looks like he’s somewhere else entirely.

Not here. Not in this parking lot. Not in this world.

“Mom,” you say quietly, your voice muffled against her shoulder. “I’ll be right back, okay?”

She tries to pull you closer. “Where are you—”

But you’re already slipping out of her arms, turning before she can stop you. You hear her calling your name—sharp, panicked—but then she sees where you’re headed, and the sound softens into silence.

You cross the parking lot, your shoes slapping against the wet pavement where the firefighters’ hoses have run off. It’s like walking through the aftermath of a nightmare you can’t wake up from.

Steve doesn’t look up until you’re standing right in front of him.

“Hey,” you say softly.

He blinks, like pulling you into focus takes effort. Then his mouth twitches into something that could almost be a smile, but it never makes it that far.

“Hey.” His voice is hoarse, scraped raw. “You okay?”

You almost laugh, because you should be the one asking him that.

“I was about to ask you the same thing.”

He shrugs, wincing at the motion. “I’ve been better.”

There’s a pause. The kind that feels too heavy for words. You study him—his bruised knuckles, the bandage on his arm, the way he keeps blinking like the world’s still tilting under him.

“Robin’s over there,” you say after a moment, nodding toward the next ambulance. “They’re saying she’ll be fine.”

He follows your gaze. His expression softens a little at the sight of her sitting on a stretcher, a blanket draped around her shoulders, laughing weakly at something one of the medics said.

“That’s good,” he murmurs. “That’s really good.”

When Robin spots you two, she gives a tired wave and then walks over, moving gingerly. She looks just as wrung out as you feel—eyes red, hair damp, still wearing that ridiculous “Scoops Ahoy” uniform like a war survivor in polyester.

“You good?” she asks you first, and you nod. Then her eyes shift to Steve. “You sure you’re okay?”

He grunts something noncommittal. She sighs.

“I’m heading out with my folks,” she says, pulling her blanket tighter. “Do you—uh—need a ride?”

Steve shakes his head. “I’ll figure it out.”

“Steve,” she says gently, “you can barely walk straight.”

“I said I’ll figure it out.”

The words come out sharper than he means them to, and guilt flashes in his eyes right after. Robin just nods. She knows him well enough not to push.

“Okay. Fine. Don’t bleed to death or anything,” she mutters, squeezing your shoulder as she passes. “Make sure he gets home, would you?”

You nod again, even though you haven’t agreed to anything yet. When she’s gone, you turn back to him.

“So… do you actually have a ride?”

He stares down at his hands. “Not really.”

You glance toward your mom’s car, where she’s pacing near the hood, watching you both with a furrowed brow.

“Come on,” you say quietly. “You’re coming with me.”

He starts to protest. “You don’t have to—”

“Yeah, I do.”

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭

Your mom doesn’t even hesitate when she sees Steve limping toward the car beside you.

“Oh, Steve, honey, get in,” she says immediately, opening the back door. “Are you hurt? Do you need—oh my goodness, your face—”

“Just a little… mall fire,” he says weakly.

She doesn’t laugh, but she doesn’t press either. She just looks relieved to have both of you in one piece. The car smells faintly like her perfume and smoke.

Your mom’s car hums quietly under the low growl of the engine. The air conditioner rattles weakly against the smell of smoke and melted plastic still clinging to your clothes. Nobody speaks.

Outside, Hawkins slides by in a blur—empty streets, porch lights flickering like the town’s trying to pretend nothing happened tonight. Your mom keeps glancing at the rearview mirror, her eyes finding Steve slouched in the back seat. Every so often, he blinks hard like he’s fighting sleep, but you can tell it’s not sleep he’s fighting—it’s the crash after everything.

The closer you get to his neighborhood, the quieter he gets. The glow of the ambulance lights fades behind you, and all that’s left is that hum of the tires on the road and the slow, shaky rhythm of his breathing.

When your mom finally turns into his street, it’s so still it almost doesn’t feel real. Every house looks like it’s holding its breath. His, especially. Big, dark, silent—like it’s been waiting a long time for someone to come home and stopped believing they ever would.

She pulls up to the curb and puts the car in park. For a long moment, no one moves.

“Well,” she says softly, twisting in her seat to face him. “Here we are, sweetheart.”

Steve nods, eyes on the house. His jaw tightens. “Yeah. Thanks for the ride.”

But he doesn’t reach for the door handle. He just sits there, staring. The porch light’s burned out, and the house looms like a shadow, windows black, driveway empty except for a thin layer of dust on the pavement.

Your mom waits a few seconds, then tries again. “Do you—uh—want me to walk you up?”

He shakes his head almost immediately, but still doesn’t move. His hands twist together in his lap, knuckles white.

You glance at him from the passenger seat. “Steve?”

He swallows hard, eyes still fixed ahead. When he finally speaks, his voice is barely a whisper.

“I can’t.”

You turn fully toward him. “What?”

“I can’t go in there.” The words come out quiet but certain, like they’ve been sitting heavy in his chest for a while. “Not tonight.”

Your mom starts to say something, but he keeps talking, his voice trembling just a little.

“It’s just—” He exhales shakily, running a hand through his hair. “They’re not home. They’re never home. And I don’t…” His throat tightens, and he stares down at his hands. “I don’t want to be in there by myself. Not after—”

He cuts himself off, eyes squeezing shut like he’s trying to force back something he doesn’t want you to see. His shoulders rise and fall with a shaky breath.

Your mom’s expression softens immediately. The kind of softness that only comes from a parent who’s seen too many kids who look too old for their age. She opens her mouth, then closes it again, glancing at you.

You can feel the weight of his words sitting between the three of you, thick and aching. He’s not saying it outright, but you hear what’s underneath. The house isn’t just empty—it’s lonely.

You twist in your seat until you’re facing him fully. “Then don’t,” you say quietly.

He looks up at you, eyes glassy under the dim dome light. “What?”

“Don’t go in there,” you repeat. “You can come with us.”

He hesitates, searching your face for something—pity, maybe, or obligation. He doesn’t find either. Just the truth of it.

Your mom reaches across the seat and touches his arm gently. “Honey, you can stay at our place tonight. No trouble at all. You shouldn’t be alone after what you’ve been through.”

Steve lets out a shaky laugh that isn’t really a laugh. “I don’t want to—burden anyone.”

“You’re not,” you say before she can. “You’re not, Steve.”

He stares at you for a long moment. Then his shoulders drop, just a fraction. “Okay,” he whispers.

Your mom doesn’t say anything. She just puts the car back in drive, giving a little nod like it’s already decided.

You glance back once more as you pull away—the house shrinking in the rearview mirror, a dark silhouette against the faint orange sky. You think about all the times you’ve seen him drive away from that house alone, the way he joked about it like it didn’t matter. But tonight, it’s different. Tonight, he doesn’t even pretend.

He leans his head against the window, eyelids fluttering shut, whispering so softly you almost miss it.

“I hate that place.”

You look over your shoulder at him, voice low. “You’re safe now.”

His lips part like he wants to say something—thank you, maybe—but all that comes out is a quiet sigh.

For the first time all night, his shoulders unclench just a little.

And when your mom’s car turns the corner and the Harrington house disappears completely from view, he doesn’t look back.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭

He barely makes it up the stairs when you get home.

Your mom’s gone to bed, but she left the hallway light on and a blanket folded neatly on the couch—just in case. You guide Steve into the bathroom instead, where the tile’s cold against your bare feet and the light is too bright, showing every bruise, every cut.

He leans heavily against the sink, watching you gather the first aid kit. His reflection in the mirror as bad as he probably feels—pale, battered, eyes rimmed with exhaustion.

“I can do it,” he mutters when you try to clean the scrape on his jaw.

“You’re literally swaying on your feet,” you say gently.

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not.”

He stares at you for a long moment, then drops his gaze. “Guess not.”

So you do it for him—quietly, carefully. You dab at the cuts that had started bleeding again, peeling off the bandages the EMTs slapped on too quickly. You work slowly, methodically, like if you go too fast, he’ll crumble.

Every time he flinches, you pause. Every time he mumbles an apology, you tell him to stop saying sorry.

“You don’t have to take care of me,” he says finally, voice barely above a whisper.

You glance up, meeting his tired eyes in the mirror.

“Yeah, I do.”

He tries to smile, but it doesn’t quite make it.

When you finish, you tell him to sit while you fetch him water. By the time you return, he’s half asleep against the wall, head tilted back, mouth slightly open. You nudge him gently.

“Come on,” you whisper. “Let’s get you to bed.”

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭

Your room’s dim, lit only by the glow of the hallway light seeping through the cracked door. He hesitates in the doorway like he doesn’t belong there, like stepping inside might break some unspoken rule.

You pat the bed. “It’s fine, Steve. You’re not sleeping on the floor.”

He sighs, giving up, and sinks down onto the edge of the mattress. When he pulls off his shoes and uniform, his movements are slow, clumsy, like his body isn’t quite his own yet.

You crawl in on the other side, careful not to bump him. The sheets smell like detergent and smoke and the faint trace of your shampoo. You lie there in the quiet, both staring at the ceiling.

For a long time, neither of you say anything. The silence isn’t awkward—it’s heavy, but full of something tender. The kind of stillness that settles between people who’ve seen too much and don’t have the words for it yet.

After a while, you hear him whisper, “You know… I used to think I had everything figured out.”

You turn your head toward him. His eyes are open, fixed on the ceiling.

“Like, I thought I knew what kind of person I was supposed to be,” he continues. “Cool guy. Good hair. The one who always gets the girl. But now…”

He laughs softly, the sound small and sad. “Now I’m just the guy who couldn’t get into college, got beat up by Russians and can’t walk in his own house without having a panic attack.”

You reach out, finding his hand in the space between you. It’s warm, trembling slightly. You squeeze.

“You’re more than that,” you say quietly. “You always were.”

He turns his head, eyes meeting yours. There’s something raw there—something that looks a lot like disbelief.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

A pause. Then he whispers, “You’re the only one who talks to me like that, you know.”

“Like what?”

“Like I’m still… me.”

Your throat tightens. “That’s because you are.”

He watches you for a long time after that. His expression softens, like maybe he believes you, or wants to. The silence stretches until it’s almost unbearable, and then he moves—just a little, enough to close the space between you.

His hand finds your jaw, tentative, fingertips tracing the line of your cheek. You feel your breath catch.

“Steve…”

He shakes his head. “Don’t. Just—”

And then he kisses you.

It’s not desperate. Not rushed. Just slow and warm and trembling, like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he presses too hard. His lips taste faintly like ash and blood, and you can feel his heartbeat under your palm when you touch his chest.

For a moment, you freeze—because maybe it’s the drugs still in his system, or the exhaustion, or the aftermath of too much pain in one night. Maybe he just needs comfort. Maybe this is what survival looks like when you’ve both lost too much.

But then he exhales softly against your lips, a sound that feels like the truth breaking loose.

And you realize—it’s not just desperation.

He means it.

You pull back just far enough to see his face, eyes half-lidded, a quiet kind of peace there for the first time all night.

He looks at you like he’s finally home.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭

It started with that dream. The one that's been recurring for about a week, enough that you remember the details down to where the specks of dust will end up as they float through the air. 

The one where you find him sitting at the front of the school bus, saving a seat with that beat-up backpack decorated with Mighty Crabjoys pins and patches. Sun already high up, and it’s balmy inside, the smell of old vinyl upholstery and seat cleaner already soaking your clothes while the driver skips to the next song on his Johnny Cash CD. 

Clark is wearing a bright, dorky grin on his face. Says something over the loud rumble of the engine like: ‘Gosh, we have a test—I know, why on Monday—but you will knock it outta the water. Here comes the sun!’ 

Or, if you’re going by last night: ‘Seize the day!’ 

And last Friday: ‘Strike while the iron’s hot,’ which might’ve come from one of those Shakespeare playbooks on his shelf. Probably the one with the deepest stress lines on the spine, because that’s just how he is. 

Not like you know, though. Shakespeare has always been Clark’s specialty. 

Your heart flutters. 

You laugh and ruffle your hands in his downy black hair, and he doesn't do anything to fix it (even when you aren't looking) and you get off a stop before school so he can break his lunch sandwich in half. 

Then, you spend the last twenty-odd minutes scuffing sneakers against the dusty sidewalks, sun warming your backs, talking about the latest music and baseball games, the who likes who and the I like— 

The bed creaks when you prop yourself up on your elbows. 

Your head spins, still stirring and cottony with the last of deep sleep, and your phone alarm is trilling incessantly on your nightstand. 

It’s weird how these things have been happening more frequently. Especially considering you’re fresh out of a breakup, if being ghosted and then dumping the guy a week later over voicemail could be considered one. 

You thought of it as more of a casual fling, really. A talking stage, as some would call it—a date here and there, just getting to know each other. 

Been seeing might be a misleading way to put it. That implies a certain threshold of intimacy, one you hadn’t passed. 

He’d fallen silent once you started talking about Smallville. About your best friend, who’s six-four and raised on Kansan corn, a gentle giant you followed to the city and kind of planned to keep in your life. 

(He ghosted you the next day. But just to one-up him, you think you might’ve started thinking about canceling the next date when he asked just how important Clark was over anybody else.) 

Eyes dry and bleary, your lips are chapped because you somehow started drooling at midnight. Air conditioning’s still on—you always forget despite the nightly reminder text Clark sends you—and you’re shivering under your blankets, hair a mess and plastered to your forehead. 

Your Queensland Park apartment is dark and blue with the morning haze, save for the tiny sliver of light shining through your bedroom door. It’s from the lamp you leave on in the sitting room. Ma Kent lent it to you—something to have from home, as if you didn't take her overgrown son with you. 

The shade is stained glass, like those ones you find at an old library. Simple and cerulean and rimmed with tarnished brass, and the slightly greenish tinge from the glass color superimposing on the warm lightbulb greets you every day without fail. 

So does Clark, with his good morning motivational texts—exactly at seven-thirty, even on weekends. 

It’s clockwork. Expected. The same exact time those bus doors would open and wash you in a wave of exhaust and vinyl. 

Once, it was ‘Sun’s up, guns out!’ with a photo attachment. 

It was him on the front page, framed in a way you know for a fact that Jimmy Olsen got the photo credit in the byline. 

He was in his suit, all blue like your lampshade and red like the color of the flannels he left in his wardrobe drawers in Smallville, and he was holding a semi-truck over his head. Biceps straining against the seams of his costume, dark hair windswept in the way his Internet fangirls go crazy over. 

You snorted at it. Alright, you...giggled, and maybe you had a pep in your usual morning slouch, but that’s all there was to it. Seriously. 

It’s just so endearing that in the lifetime you’ve spent with him, Clark has never run out of cheesy things to say. 

You reach across your tangled blankets and wrinkled pillows, grasping clumsily for your phone on the nightstand. You swipe up on the screen, shut off your alarm, and immediately pull into the last message he sent you. 

Two minutes ago: ‘Hit a home run like Clark.’  

He’s added that stupid bobblehead of Chicago's eponymous cub mascot you got him as a gag gift one Christmas, way back in grade school. The one with the left ear chipped off and a poorly painted Meteors logo over the red and blue C.  

A small, fond grin blooms on your face, uncontrollable. 

You weren’t aware that he kept it. Hell, you didn’t even know that he brought it to Metropolis. 

But that’s just how Clark is. Thoughtful at his core. Kind and sentimental. Actions speak louder than words and the whole works. 

He’s tucked himself neatly into your breast pocket. The edges of you line up like the stars, and you house every little thing he’s done in the space between your heart and lungs. 

And it’s the steadiness of that which grounds you here. 

When things inevitably go wrong, you call him first. CLARK KENT, branded in big letters on your phone screen. 

He’s down for anything. Picking you up after a bad day at work, killing (sorry, escorting out) the cockroach that mysteriously found itself in your apartment, helping fold your fitted sheets because you can never do it quite like he and his Ma do. 

That’s the kind of man your childhood best friend is, in all his messy-curl, soft-sighed glory. Crooked glasses that he didn’t start wearing until high school, suits by the day and flannel pajamas by night. Blushes if you stare at him for too long, earnest in everything he does. 

Consistent. Cerulean sea glass patiently shaped by the test of time. 

You like his message and swing your legs onto the floor. The hardwood is cold beneath your feet, and you pad over to the thermostat, turning down the AC and wandering into the bathroom while you think up some witty response. 

A pun is too cringy to send. You could just prattle off the date of the next Cubs v. Meteors series, but Clark probably already has a season ticket, so there’s no point. 

Your phone buzzes, twice. 

Daily Planet newsletter | Friday, April 27 

REMINDER: 4th date, Matthew 

You grimace at the second pop-up banner. 

You still haven’t cleared your calendar of pre-planned dates. 

In your sleep-smudged state, you had forgotten. You were lucky enough to score a job that lets you leave early on Fridays, so you just set the afternoon as your go-to day for completing your miscellaneous tasks before the weekend. 

Chores, laundry, dates. 

You worry the inside of your cheek between your molars. 

You decide to blame it on the dream, and the fact that you were immediately greeted by Clark’s text. 

Over-optimistic, typed out in that cheery voice you know he intended to send it with even though you can’t possibly hear it. You can hear it in your head though—how it squeaks slightly, pitches up in the way it does when he’s excited. 

You really haven’t spent much time with Clark recently, you realize. Seeing him doesn't count, because technically, everyone in Metropolis sees him, even if it’s a red blur rocketing around the stone corner of an Art Deco high-rise. 

You’ve just...been busy. With work, and your broken electric kettle (right, you have to fix that before you do something rash at work), and your unlucky streak in relationship business. 

He’s definitely busy with balancing Superman and his articles too, but... 

That’s a silly thing to worry about, isn’t it? 

Making time is practically enshrined in his philosophy, his raison d'être. And if not today, then tomorrow, or some other day. You know Clark Kent well and long enough to understand that he’s superb at making up for things.  

Maybe you should take a page out of his book. 

TO: clark kent  u busy tonight?  we should bring back friday dinner for good lol  but at ur place, mines messy 

Delivered with a whoosh. 

You put your phone face down onto the bathroom counter and wrench the sink on, cupping your hands beneath the rapid stream. Frigid water splashes onto your face. 

Pressing your wet fingers against your eyelids, stars bloom in your vision. Two breaths, in-out. Long inhale, short exhale. 

Like this is just an exercise. Like your heart didn’t stammer for several beats after you punched the send button. 

He’s probably on his way to work right now. Gets up early like he’s still in the heartland. Like he has cows and crops to tend to instead of interviews and articles. 

All things considered though, Mr. Kent wouldn’t be happy if his son was always tardy or MIA to farm work like he is in the city. 

A quiet laugh bubbles in your stomach. You wonder how he even gets in and out of the Planet in that ridiculously bright suit. 

You swipe your hands on the soft fibers of a hand towel and pick your phone up again. 

He’s in the middle of formulating a message, three dots dancing after each other in the text bubble. 

You press the first letter of what you want to say on the keyboard. There’s no going back now. 

TO: clark kent  my boyfriend said so btw 

Nice to let him know, right?  

(You hope he remembers the joke.) 

Clark’s dots disappear for a moment. You imagine him pondering in the way you know so well: cheek sucked in and caught between his teeth, eyes wandering to zone out at the ceiling. 

Then they start again, bopping along in consecutive order. 

Three buzzes, muted against the cradle of your palms. 

FROM: clark kent  Haha, ok.  I’m not flying tho  and I don't have melon pops. 

A snort finds its way out of your nose. You feel warm despite the cold water still beading on your face. 

He remembers. 

Which is sweet on its own, referencing those two times he’s come to your rescue in times of love-life crisis. 

Which goes back to how making time (be there in a jiffy) and giving thoughtful gifts (thought you might like these flowers) and comforting you when you need it most (oh, sunshine, if you wanted someone to dote on you, you could’ve just asked me) practically runs in his blood. 

And he’s right. It’s pretty doting—and dare you suggest—boyfriend-like already. 

…Oh. You freeze. 

It dawns on you then that a sappy, sickly smile that’s strikingly close to a lovesick one has been creeping onto your face. 

Oh, no. 

—

Your first heartbreak comes during your eighteenth summer in Smallville. 

Well, it’s less heartbreak and more embarrassment. 

Turned to face the popcorned wall of the general store, you wait for the line to connect. The retro payphone handset is cold in your hand, just like how it’s cool in here, the barest respite from the hell on earth outside. 

Of all days to fall for something stupid, you chose Senior Ditch morning. You should have just lazed around at the Kents’ like Clark asked you to. 

The fan in the far corner rattles in the way it has since before you were even born, paper streamers dancing on the metal grate. The dial tone finally starts droning—ouurrrrr. 

You worry your bottom lip between your teeth, index finger tangled in the cord. Please don’t be mad. 

He picks up on the first ring—click! Waits in silence for another second before finally addressing the elephant in the cornfield with his usual cheery voice, “So. Nate's a jerk, isn’t he?” 

Sighing, you rub your thumb over your eyelid, press the speaker closer against the shell of your ear. “Yeah. Sorry.” 

“’S fine.” You can see him in your mind, flattening his mouth into that weirdly reassuring upside-down smile. “We all learn some way, right?” 

“Mhm,” you swallow and do a quick check of your surroundings. 

Eddie the clerk is wiping down the counter—milkshakes sold out today—and Mr. Stone is getting ready to set up today’s round of rummy in the back. 

No sign of that asshole Nate. 

No sign of anyone, really. Kind of stupid now that you think about it, setting a ditch day during the peak of a heat wave. 

“Just say it.” You lean your shoulder against the wall and look out the windows. The white backside of the painted GENERAL STORE letters glare back at you. You pitch your voice down, “Told you so, sunshine.” 

Clicking his tongue, “I don’t sound like that.” 

“Your Ma would disagree.” 

“Well, I didn’t tell you so, sunshine,” he sighs. You can hear the small smile bleeding into his voice. “I just said that the grass isn’t always greener on the other side.” 

“Right.” You draw out the word, honey-slow on the ‘i’.  

“Right?” Clark laughs, a windchime sound. Your tone has completely passed over his head. “I only meant you might enjoy your day off more if we were polishing off a pint of Neapolitan and binging Star Wars instead of going on a date.” 

You stay silent for a heartbeat. Wheels spin in your head—why the hell are you calling him anyways? 

Clark should be mad. That you brushed off his advice, that you woke up early to walk to town instead of his house. That you ditched him for some boy who couldn’t even care for you like he does. 

But he isn’t. He’s so water-under-the-bridge forgiving and sweet and— 

Fuck, if you aren’t sorry for being stupid. It might be the embarrassment or the sting of slapping yourself mentally or even the heat, but you’re half-desperate when you say: 

“Please pick me up.” You blurt it so fast that you think the words muddled into one. Silence. Static over the line. “Clark? Hey, you know I’m sorry for—” 

You hear a faint jingle over the staticky line, then a far-off yell, “Pa! I’m going out!” 

“Drive safe!” Another beat. “Darn boy left the phone hangin’ again. That you, sunny?” 

You bring your hand up to your mouth and stifle an amused exhale against the back of it. “Yeah, it’s me, Mr. Kent.” 

He clicks his tongue, a mannerism that’s almost identical to the way Clark does it. “Mm, way he was lookin' all concentrated, I knew it had to be you. What’re you doin’ out in this heat anyway?” 

You set your mouth into a flat line. “...Things.” 

The bell to the store rings, and Eddie choruses a ‘hey, Mr. Morris’ without even looking up from the counter. 

Mr. Morris nods to Eddie, waves to you and then tilts his head with a frown. He’s been coming here long enough to know where you take your usual perch with Clark, so it must be strange to see you without the Kents’ awkwardly big son. 

You point to the phone, and his frown relaxes with an oh. 

“Things, you say,” rumbles Mr. Kent. You could probably see his greying beard fluffing up if you squint hard enough. “Does this have something to do with Clark bein’ all mopey this mornin’?” 

“Um,” you stammer, swallowing. You wince. “Maybe. I...well, a guy asked me to meet him.” 

“Oh. See, I’d say if a boy doesn’t show up to take you himself, he in’t worth chasing, but I think you heard enough of that from Clark,” Mr. Kent drawls. Your nose furrows, deepening your grimace. “Well, I hope that works out for you someday. If you need to find me—prob’ly in twenty minutes if my boy is abiding the speed limit—I'll be in the barn.” 

He lets out a hearty laugh. You echo him, albeit weaker and half-awkward. 

“Yeah, Mr. Kent, I—I'll see you ‘round.” 

You hang your head and hook the handset back onto the payphone. 

Main Street is distorted by heat waves. The cracked asphalt wobbles along with the fading white paint dividing the lanes, and you think about Clark. 

Tearing down the roads at a speed of exactly 30 mph, hands tapping at nine and three on the sunwarmed wheel.  Skipping to the next Rascal Flatts song on the CD that never leaves the truck, like it’s just another day. 

Mr. Kent said that Clark was looking all concentrated on the phone. You know that look like the back of your hand: lashes resting against his cheeks, eyes trained down and glasses sliding to the tip of his nose. Tongue caught in the pocket of his cheek, dimple pressing in as he mulls over whatever is playing out in his head. 

And then you wonder when was the last time he cut his hair—it's gotten quite long, enough that when he tugs a cap on, his curls stick out of the back—and if he managed to get the magnitude of his laser vision right this morning because last week, he burned himself shaving. 

You lean your head against the pane, graciously cold on your cheek. 

The heat must be playing tricks, you think, with a superimposition of Clark swimming on the glass. 

(Or it might just be that you kind of, maybe, really miss him and whatever weird thing he’d randomly blurt out if he was here.) 

Smallville Giants cap snug over his head, downy hair curling out of the snapback in the way you imagined it to be. The brim is low over his forehead, shadow making the blue of his eyes shine out in that somewhat off-putting way they do in the dark.  

He grins in that lopsided, downturned way that reminds you of the Kents’ border collie, Shelby, thumping her tail against the ground. A laugh escapes you in a small exhale through your nose, and you brush your fingertips against the window. 

And then he taps the glass. 

Real. Solid. Smile widening to show teeth with a double-exposure in the reflection. 

Your heart leaps into your throat as you spin around. It really is him, arms firmly crossed over a white-shirted chest and charming dimples shining at full force. 

“What—Clark!”  

You must look like a fool right now, limbs all frozen up in surprise and eyes wider than the fine china saucers Mrs. Kent likes to display in her dining room. Eddie laughs from behind you, slapping a rag onto the metal counter. 

“Hi!” Your best friend’s broad hand is a blur as he waves, voice muted by the glass. “I think you ordered a chauffeur?” 

You quickly stride over to the door, pushing it open. The bell rings with a clear, windchime sound; a blast of searing, humid hellfire presses down on you. Sweat begins to bead at your neck. 

“Very funny.” Still, you’re helpless to the fond smile that tugs at your face. Clark strides over, freckled cheeks slightly pinkened, thumb pressing into the palm of his other hand. 

The left side of his mouth quirks up at the same time he shrugs his shoulders. “I came, you called.” 

Letting the door shut, you step out into the Kansan summer and stand under the shade of your abnormally tall friend. You’re earnest, from the bottom of your heart, when you say, “Thank you, Clark.” 

A nervous scoff skips out of his mouth, and he palms the back of his neck. “It’s nothing. Come on.” 

He urges you to a nearby alley—strange. 

You don’t remember hearing the truck, and there’s no sign of it on the street either. Getting from the farm to town in the time between Mr. Kent picking up the phone and you hanging up would be impossible unless he was breaking the sound barrier. 

You let him walk ahead of you, lengthening the gap between your and his strides. 

“Wait,” you start, steps stalling, “how did you...?” 

Clark freezes and slowly pivots to face you, mouth twisted in a way that screams guilty. “Okay, don’t be mad.” 

“Dude—” 

“—I flew here because I didn’t want you getting heatstroke—” 

“—I’ve been waiting for you to fly me since forever.” 

He pauses, mouth mid-word and his index finger in the air, like this is a debate rebuttal and not a page out of your wildest dreams. 

Clark didn’t take the truck. He’s going to fly you back home. 

Like they do in the fucking Titanic, but in the air. Where the birds fly. Where you can look down and see the rippling fields and the cows that look like brown and white clouds in the grass. 

Pinching his lips till they turn white, he wipes his hands on his blue-jean thighs and stares at you in that absent, froggish way. “Sure, I guess that works out.” 

You bound over to him, stomach bubbling with a schoolgirl-giddiness you only remember feeling when he does something so thoughtful and sweet. Which is every day. 

So maybe that’s not normal. You should probably seek medical attention. 

You circle around him and reach to grip his shoulders—they're firm beneath your hands, conditioned by years of helping out on the farm (and also a little bit of alien genetics). 

Clark obliges, almost mindless, bending his knees by a fraction to let you jump onto his back. 

He smells like hay and sunshine and a long day at the lake. Fresh, clean linen, a faint tang of salt next to a braid of sweet corn silk. 

Like the same citrus soap he's used since forever, and the old books at the library. Like a thread of oak wood—same as the tree in his backyard and the walls of his bedroom. 

It’s more comforting than any cologne or Mrs. Kent’s stew. 

You know it now. Clark Kent will always be someone you can run home to. 

You dig your chin into the crook of his neck and shoulder, sighing. “Have I ever told you how much I love you?” 

Clark cranes his head back, trying to get a glimpse because of course he does. He’s always a stickler for eye contact when talking—it's inscribed into his heartland manners. 

The tips of your noses brush, two compasses crossing. 

“Hmm,” he hums, weak, “I don’t know. Maybe last week, when I let you copy my physics homework.” 

“Helped me, you mean.” 

“Yeah…” 

You flick the tip of his ear, already red and warm like someone tried to tear it off. 

“You’re mean.” 

“I love you too, by the way,” he quips, pushing off the floor gently. 

Then he starts floating, legs unfurling as he drifts up. Your laugh is light as you tighten your arms around his neck, him holding you close to his warm back. 

That shouldn’t make you feel the way it does. Like he believes in it, a hundred percent. Like he isn’t just saying it because he loves you like he loves everyone else. 

“C’mon.” You tap his collarbone. He hooks his acquiescing arms under your knees. Squeezes your calves once with his broad palm, reassuring. 

You push down the odd feeling swelling in your chest as the wind starts to comb its fingers through your clothes. 

It’s okay like this. 

Comfortable, steady. Held by your best friend. Soaring above the little town that Clark makes feel like the whole world has been singled to this hundred-thousand-acre plot. 

“Just this once, okay?” Clark says, though the way he says it with a wobbly face makes you think that he wouldn’t mind a round two. “Because we’re already skipping school.” 

“Right,” you nod, grin widening, “and we should totally be back in time to finish up Porter’s final essay.” 

He pinches his mouth. “What do you mean you haven’t finished?” 

“Okay, I only need my thesis.” You press your ear to his shoulder and look down at the quickly shrinking Smallville. “...And everything else after that.” 

The wind, mercifully cooler, whistles around you. Oh, there’s the windmill, and the winding road, and the golden, rippling fields for as far as the eye can see. A soft sigh leaves you. 

You’re going to miss the cornfields and the lightning bugs. The way the air smells slightly heavy when a storm’s approaching. How everyone is so well-knit with each other, how things are easy and unthinking. 

Automatic, the most natural thing in the world. 

“Sunshine, you—” he sputters, breaking you from your spiral. You’ve stopped just beneath the clouds, moisture wetting his curls till they’re pitch dark and plastered to his forehead. 

He cranes his head down to rest his chin on your forearm. Sighs, resigned. 

“That’s barely the introduction.” 

—

By some stroke of luck, you bitterly break up with your first long-term boyfriend at the same time Clark gets his first apartment. 

It’s small in here, still bare and honest. Ceiling popcorned and a little warmer than eggshell white like a small-town general store. The carpet is light brown, and you’re sure there’s a strange stain in some dark corner. 

And if you had to be honest, you think Clark chose this place specifically because it was ugly. He always puts his highest hopes in even the smallest and most shriveled of things. Even in Lex Luthor, that miserable eggshell of a CEO. 

(But it’s all in typical Downtown fashion. At least he isn’t settling in the snazzy, gentrified Upper East Side. 

This is temporary, he said, ‘till I can find a place in Midtown. But that’s for when the rent there miraculously dips, which is likely never unless metahumans start shooting lasers out of their eyes in front of the Daily Planet. 

Wait...) 

The temperature doesn’t work, either. 

Well, it does. Kind of.  

But it’s confined to just a small unit attached to the wall, so you can’t even feel it if you’re more than five feet away. 

His bedframe sits in the corner disassembled, futon rolled out over a full-sized mattress that’s been plopped in the middle of the room. He could’ve fixed that, given his super speed and strength and whatever else he has. Even could’ve done his entire studio in a day, but he didn’t. 

Because he was ‘waiting for you’. For two weeks. To come over to help him set up and have a little housewarming party after, just like the movies. Junk food and sodas and all. 

You think back to how you got here. 

Soaked to the bone. Shivering. Clothes vacuum sealed to your body and umbrella inverted in your clenched hand. 

What a day for your boyfriend to be an asshole and give you an ultimatum: break up, or cut your last root from Smallville. 

Ergo, you did what any best friend would do. 

You chose Clark, because it has always been that way. 

Clark doesn’t give ultimatums. Doesn’t get insanely, obsessively overbearing when you talk to other guys and absolve himself of any wrongdoing if you catch him staring at a girl. 

He’s forgiving. Concerned, yeah, but not authoritative. 

For god’s sake, he exclaimed ‘what in tarnation’ when he cracked open the weathered door and saw you dripping all over the hallway. 

“My boyfriend sent me here,” you told him, gaze downturned in guilt, and his face softened from surprise to wordless understanding. 

That’s how things have always been between you. Wordless. A language of eyes and gestures you’ve been fluent in since your formative years. 

You squelched inside like your feet had cephalopod suction cups on the bottom of them. Clark helped with shucking off your heavy jacket while you mumbled through the long story (not so) short. 

The ultimatum. 

How you realized in the moment that your now-ex was trying to isolate you from your friends.  

How that jerk—you refrained from asshole or motherfucking egotistical dickwad because a certain someone would cough—was so gung-ho about being the guy for you. 

The first one you had to call.  

As in, expected you to overhaul your pre-established laundry list of speed dials. Like he wanted to be the one you called at midnight to hide a body (Lana and Pete) or the one you relied on if you were, god forbid, stranded in Blüdhaven (Clark). 

As if, when you did call him, he actually came to your rescue instead of smacking his lips and saying, ‘Um, sorry babe, I’m a little busy.’ 

And maybe as you kept going on, it started to dawn that you weren’t really bitter about breaking up. 

You were more bitter about being stupid enough to stay with him for so long. For just pushing the little icks to the side, all ‘cause he might’ve been a little pretty and he made you feel okay every three or four days. 

Clark had been sifting through a box while you explained. Rain still pattered outside, racing down the window, but it was lighter than the absolute storm that had slammed into you on the way here. 

He paused, turned a little pink at the ears, and handed over a haphazardly folded towel like he was consciously controlling his actions. 

Which was weird. Because he’s always meticulous about his laundry. 

“Wait, sunshine,” he stuttered before you disappeared into the bathroom. “The plumbing’s opposite. Cold is hot and hot is cold.” 

“Thanks, Clark.” 

And then you unfolded the towel, and there lay a neatly creased pair of your underwear. Clean. Clothesline scented. 

You remembered this one. 

Late night, big calculus test the next morning. Cramming in his dorm, and you brought an extra change of clothes that you ended up using. You probably dumped your stuff into his hamper by mistake. 

You laughed, a little too loud. Clark heard you, and you heard him plead don’t say anything in a low, defeated tone through the thin wall. 

You didn’t push. Didn’t pry. Because Clark’s just like that. 

Sentimental. Plan A to Z. Keeps your stuff in case you need it ten years down the line. 

And besides, you’re here now. That’s better than spiraling into a self-beatdown or throwing darts at a picture of your ex’s face. 

You stop at the doorway of the bathroom with your eyes still itching and red-rimmed, a towel wrapped around your body. 

The apartment is eerily still, frozen in a moment. 

Everything in this 400 square foot place is raw. 

Exposed. Naked. White painted brick on the windowed side, stucco boxing the rest in. 

Like all of Clark’s life has been dwindled down to a couple boxes and furniture bought off Craigslist. A couple white-painted nails sticking out of the wall and a broken outlet, as if that’s fine. 

It is, for a fresh graduate who’s paying rent off savings and an entry-level salary from the Daily Planet. 

(Thank god for that full-ride scholarship he managed to snag four years ago.) 

Plus, you trust that Clark has his priorities straight, because according to the to-do list endearingly taped to the mirror, the fridge is installed and working, and he’s already deep cleaned every surface. 

Dust specks float past you, and there’s a breeze—slightly clammy from the aftermath of a storm—circulating from an open window. 

Widening patches of sky peek out from the clearing clouds. The air smells wet, in that good, after the rain way. A tad salty from the bay, too, with a hint of chill. 

The rays of a New Troy golden hour paint the room in faint, honeyed gold, and the ceiling fan in the main room is spinning in languid circles, droning on with a rusted noise that’s starting to grate on your nerves. 

You can hear the metro rattle by below, the foundation of the complex shivering slightly as it rumbles on the tracks. There’s a tune playing from another door down, jazzy and vague. 

You take two steps out of the bathroom, bare feet padding from old tile to worn carpet fibers. You peek around like some cartoon character, searching for a telltale sign of Clark. 

Empty. His gingham beige-brown curtains, same as the ones from Smallville, flutter with a gentle breeze. 

But laid on top of his futon-mattress combo is one of his old shirts—you stifle a laugh, it’s the Crabjoys one that shrunk in the dryer—and the pair of shorts you left with your underwear. 

Small miracles. 

You pull the shirt over your head. Smells like Clark, all citrus shampoo and line-dried cotton. Comforting, in the way he’s so familiar that he feels like home. 

The tide of self-deprecation in you subsides. 

You dig into the freezer next—because ice cream makes everything better, obviously—kitchen tiles warm against your soles as a geyser of cold air billows up. Not frigid. Just cold, like it’s barely working. 

There’s a pint of Neapolitan, which has maybe a single, pathetic, half-scoop left in it. 

You move on. 

The frozen custard that you vividly remember him buying and sending you a picture of two days ago is in the same state as the pint. And—even worse—there's a frustratingly empty box of ice cream sandwiches. 

Prodding further, pushing aside frozen food and ready-to-microwaves... 

Oh, a box of honeydew cream popsicles! 

And there’s one left. It’s semi-melted in your hand, barely holding onto its shape. 

You get that he’s all corn-fed and trying to bulk, but how much sugar does Clark need to consume in a day? 

A flutter of movement catches your eye just as you’re ripping and crumbling the cold, plastic wrapping into your fist. 

Right. Old building like this—there's a fire escape. 

You find Clark slumped against the raw brick on the rusted landing, bones loose under the tangerine sky and curls ruffled by the evening breeze. Well, less slumped and more crumpled. 

Legs pretzeled at an awkward angle to fit on the escape landing. Shoulders hunched so he can fit. New glasses folded up and tucked into the collar of his pajama shirt—Crabjoys again, this time the right size. 

(You don’t want to know how many of those shirts he has.) 

An open book is flattened against his stomach, browning page corners dog-eared and well loved. 

Tom Sawyer. Of course. 

An old bedtime story turned favorite book. Vaguely, you remember that Mrs. Johnson in third grade chastised him for writing multiple book reports on it, even if they were completely different and lent a new perspective each time. 

(She eventually gave up. Clark Kent continued to write his weekly reports on The Adventures of Tom Sawyer until his Pa caught on and introduced him to Huckleberry Finn.)  

Chipped paint rasps at your bare shins, and your shorts hitch up as you duck out the open window. The grate is hard beneath you when you drop next to him with the iced treat in hand; it's already half-slush, coating your fingers with sticky, melon-flavored cream. 

"Didn't get one for me?" he croaks, rolling his head to face you. The shadow of a passing flock of geese dances over his face; a shift in the wind, and his eyes are clear and soaked in golden hour light. 

"Last one in the freezer, cowboy," you tell him, offering the popsicle. He presses the flat of his tongue against the syrup rivulets on the back of your hand—you wrinkle your nose. "You're gross." 

"And you're the one who's stealing my last melon pop.” 

He sinks his teeth into the soft cream, and you bite after him.  

“How’d you dry the rain off the grate?” you ask, fingers curling around a rough bar. It’s weirdly warm against your skin. 

Doesn’t feel gritty like the fire escape in your apartment does. Your hand comes away without a smudge. 

Wow. He really meant it when he crossed off deep clean on that to-do list. 

“Heat breath.” 

Perks of being superpowered. “Huh.” 

You take turns like this, switching bites until only the wooden stick remains. You leave it between your teeth, leeching the last of the cold into your mouth and letting your sticky hand dry in the wind. 

Below is a street you don’t remember the name of, jam packed with the post-workday rush. Taxis, trucks, and bikes splash through shallow puddles.  

A cat yowls across the street, and the middle-aged guy busking beneath the awning on the corner is ripping a riff on his trumpet. 

The traffic song wraps around you, rhythmed in a syncopated hymn that drowns out the rush of blood that comes to your ears. 

"I've been reading up on the area," Clark starts. "There's this bodega, right down the block. Oh, and the bakery on 38th and Scott, we could try their brownies if we line up at six." 

"Big city plans for a small-town guy," you say, droll, chewing absently on the wooden stick. The back of your head lazes against the auburn rough of the bricks, and a gentle breeze sifts between the buildings. 

Clark scoots closer, shoulder to shoulder with you. He's a furnace like always, skin pinkened and glowing in the way it does when he’s in the sun. 

He puts his chin on your shoulder, looks at you real closely—eyelids at half-mast, mouth pressed into the shape of mischief. You give him a sidelong stare, holding the blue of his pupils. 

In them—cloud swirls, the shadow pattern of the birds above soaring by with a breeze that trails its fingers down your spine. 

You feel a little warm under his stare, blood rushing to your head. "What?" 

"We're gonna have so much fun here," he finally says, smile breaking out on his face. "Smallville One and Two, reporting for duty!" 

You let out a wheezing laugh, looking up at the clouds. There's one shaped like a flying man, puffy marshmallow limbs stretched in a starfish. "And let me guess, you're One, and I'm Two." 

"Fine, Smallville Half and Half." 

"But which Half comes first?" 

"Doesn't matter," Clark grins. Knocks his knee against yours, reassuring in that way you know so well. "They come in pairs. Do not separate." 

You shove his shoulder—doesn’t budge. His deltoid is hot beneath your hand, though you aren’t sure if it’s really him or you that’s warmer.  

“Cheeseball,” you mutter. Eyes rolling, even with the grin tugging incessantly at your mouth. 

He laughs with the odd, boyish charm he’s never really grown out of. It tickles something in your brain, how he starts off with a quick scoff that devolves into full-bodied hiccups. 

You want to hear it forever. 

You want to stay here forever with your legs cramped together side by side on the hard fire escape. Skyscrapers and stone for as far as the eye can see, cut by the grid of streets that beat with the heart of Metropolis. 

“Oh!” Clark straightens like he’s been struck. Reaches into his pocket, draws out his phone. He taps around the screen and then shows you a video. “Look, Pa sent me this.” 

It’s home in the Kents’ backyard. Rippling gold fields and heavy panicles of grain, a soft static that used to lull you right to sleep. Old, metal-wood fences and the cry of cicadas. 

You squint at the screen. 

Cows graze like little brown and white clouds in the sea of green. It might be Linus yonder by the leftmost fence, and Franklin flicking his tail next to Patty. Or is that Shermy and Lucy? 

You can’t tell them apart like Clark can. 

There’s an irregular shape shadowed by Franklin’s back leg. He zooms in for you without asking and oh—it’s a calf. 

Fluttering ears. Big, softhearted eyes. Fluffy brown coat. Reminds you of Clark, in a way. All earnest and new to everything. 

The bottom barrier of their fence is still broken, you notice. It’s just a small tear, probably from the time his powers started developing. 

He had torpedoed—yes, like a missile—out of the back door and banged his head into the base of the fence before the screen door could rattle back into place. 

Guess that crack there serves as a reminder: no flying on the farm.  

“Cute,” you say. “We should go back sometime soon.” 

He smiles in agreement and reaches back to place his phone on the windowsill. His arm flexes in front of your eyes—hard lines and veins rising beneath tan skin—and you suddenly get why the freezer is so empty. 

You clench your jaw and duck your head. 

“Anyways” —he cuts himself off, tucking his lips between his teeth as he thinks. “Uh, I got my suit in the mail, too. Been hiding it in the closet, ‘cause I haven’t set up my bedframe yet.” 

You keep your eyes trained on your knees but let a smile pull at the corners of your mouth. He was waiting for you. “Can I be the first to see?” 

He scoffs in amusement, dimples sinking in easily. It never fails to amaze you, how they’re so ready to just appear even when he’s only talking. 

“Don’t be silly, I know you were peeking when Ma was making it.” 

“Thank you for the astute observation,” you mumble. Unneeded heat gathers in your cheeks. 

“A-S-T-U-T-E.” Clark is unfazed as you stare at him blankly. He shrugs, corners of his mouth pulling down like it’s no big deal. “It was in the crossword this morning.” 

Eyes flicking up, you plant your palm on the side of his face and hold him away. “Okay, third place winner of Smallville Middle’s spelling bee.” 

“Well—! Most sixth graders would stutter on perspicacious too,” he stammers, words smushed by your hand to his cheek. 

You mumble, “Apparently not Loretta and Marcie.” 

“I’ll have you know that I could spell the first-place word.” Swatting your hand off with a flippant wave, Clark plucks Tom Sawyer off his chest and sits up properly, letting it flop onto the grate. “Bouillon: B-O-U-I-double L-O-N. Because Ma always uses it in her stew.” 

You know. You were there, waiting for him by the steps with a rented movie you don’t remember anymore and chips in case he was hungry. So sure he would win. 

And if you still call Marcie ‘Marcie-Farcie’ in your head? Well, Clark doesn’t have to know that.  

Reaching around him (and ignoring how solid and furnace-hot his chest is in your arms), you lean into him with a fake-coy smile. “Hey, could you spell loquacious for me right now?” 

“Lo...?” Clark’s brows furrow with that faint wrinkle between them. You kind of want to smooth it out with your thumb. “Oh, don’t be mean. And—hey is for horses.” 

You blow a short raspberry. “You’re no fun.” 

“I’m very fun,” he stammers, voice pitched high. “I wear trunks on the outside. I—I like Neapolitan ‘cause I get to eat all of my favorite flavors.” 

“Right,” you say, nodding politely. You press your mouth tight, trying not to laugh as Clark returns the hug and holds you tight. “Right.” 

“And I can fit a hundred lollipops in my cape, isn’t that great? Oh—and I can recite all of Romeo and Juliet.” 

He clears his throat. Steadies himself, posture straightening. Slips into that tone he's been practicing, dubbed the Superman Voice. “Two households, both alike in dignity. In fair Verona—” 

A short laugh leaves you, uncontrollable. Joy sloshes around in your chest. “Alright, alright, you’re fun.” 

“I knew it,” Clark says, giving you a pointed look. Eyebrows raised and clear blue eyes shining with something you can’t name. 

The breath in your lungs unravels to the quick.  

You still haven’t pulled away, arms tight around his chest. He’s warm, alive, grounding. 

Safe, in the way he’s always been. 

And on a more bitter note, in the way your ex hated. With a capital H. 

In that what’s so great about him way. In that maybe you should stop seeing him way. 

It never made any sense. 

Clark’s nothing but honest. Soft. A sweet, heartland, golden retriever to the core who names his parents’ cows after Peanuts characters. 

The thought of liking someone while they were in a relationship wouldn’t cross his mind. Hell, the thought of even liking you, single or not, wouldn’t either. 

…Would it? 

Clark coughs, untangling himself with a long inhale. “We—should start. Um, on my furniture. Like I said, we’re gonna have so much fun once we settle in.” 

“Dude, you make it sound like we’re gonna live together.” You ignore how that idea makes your chest feel odd. 

Like your heart’s about to leap out and crack your sternum. Like waking up to the sight of your sleep-soft best friend making breakfast is a perfectly fine thing to think of. 

“I mean…” He shrugs, lips pinching and angling downward as if he’s truly considering it. “You honestly slept at my parents’ house more than your own.” 

Your throat runs dry, caught. “Your—well, your bed’s just comfier.” 

“Yeah, it’s ‘cause Shelby farted on it.” 

“Ew.” 

—

The thing about lightbulbs is: they aren’t the same as before. 

Older lightbulbs take some time to light up. Flip the switch, open the circuit. Gentle buzz, and the filaments catch with a current, every second stretching into the next before the brightness flickers and then peaks. 

Those were the bulbs in Smallville and Clark’s old apartment. 

Newer lightbulbs are instantaneous. Snap of the finger—flick and light, like a Zippo. And that’s you right now, standing in the shadow of a pent-up tsunami of realizations that’s about to hit you full force. 

This is familiar. 

Standing in front of the door to Clark’s apartment, bag heavy on your shoulder and shifting on your feet as you wait for him to answer your knocks. 3-D glares back at you on the golden plate, bright against the dark, polished wood. 

Familiar, but not the same. 

For one, his old apartment was chipped white paint and Downtown charm. This one’s Midtown class, all dark marble and crisp navy blue. 

And for another, you’re nervous beyond reason, and you’re seriously considering just finding a hole to wither in. 

Your heart is stuttering. Knocking around between your lungs, tapping at the underside of your sternum in a way Clark’s super-hearing is sure to pick up on. 

Long inhale, short exhale. This is just dinner, just like the million others you’ve had. 

Except, you’re kind of dolled up—as in, a smidge more makeup than you’d usually wear around him (which is close to none, because he’s seen you in middle school with acne and that terrible haircut). As in, you fixed your sweater for glaring wrinkles in the elevator and made sure your jeans didn’t have lint on them. 

Except, over the course of the very short workday you spent mulling over your bad decisions, it started to wash over you that blaming everything on that dream would technically be blaming your own subconscious. 

“One sec,” you hear, muffled by the door. The latch clicks, and there’s Clark, warm smile on his face, dimples like gentle craters in his cheeks. “Hi.” 

Your stomach somersaults and lands with a pathetic hop. 

Which is bad. You think you need an icepack, or medical attention, or frankly, anything to peel your mind off the sight of Clark in his white button-up, undershirt visible beneath the fabric. First two buttons undone, sleeves rolled up to reveal the veins nestled in the crook of his elbow, glasses half-buried in his combed-down curls and slacks sinfully tailored to his thighs. 

The smell of bagel crumbs floats around him, weirdly. Toasted, fresh, with a hint of…vanilla bean, which isn’t his usual vanilla. Not that you mind; you briefly consider just pulling him in by the lapels of his shirt and—no. 

You think of him agonizing over two bottles—extract or bean syrup—in the grocery store before your mind scrubs itself blanks. Whiteboard clean. Nothing rattling around if you shook your head. 

Like when the tide pulls all the way back from the beach. Like when you’re staring down at the plain of barren, sandy dunes below your feet, look up, and stare into the face of a hundred-foot-wave question of oh, when did he suddenly become attractive to you? 

Sure, you might have realized that what you’ve been missing in other guys has been lurking in your golden retriever of a best friend for eternity. That no other guy would treat you so sweetly like he did. 

But that’s different.  

That’s pining and idealistic stuff.  

This is insane. Mentally. Physically. Hormonally. Gripping the table’s edge-y. 

It’s one thing to want someone emotionally, but physicality is a completely different thing. And now, two seconds deep into a miles-long stare, you’re suddenly aware of just how badly you'd want Clark if he wasn’t your best friend. 

In the same way he was in that picture of him lifting a semi-truck like a fucking paperweight. Damn Jimmy Olsen for always getting Superman’s best angle, so much that you’ve developed a peeve for when the random people in your feed start gushing paragraphs about taking off their pants or whatever. 

(Of course, if someone caught wind of that, they didn’t hear it from you…) 

Or the same way he was in the aftermath of that first real heartbreak of yours. When you dripped all over his welcome mat looking like a sad paper-maché of a freshly broken-up and bitter barely-graduate, and then helped him move into his apartment and totally didn’t stare when he did all the grunt work for the heavy furniture. 

Or—you dread to think—Smallville. 

When he was still sort of skinny and awkward and a fish out of water. Still being fed corn from sunrise to sundown, winning the runner-up to half his contests, and accidentally melting a hole through a lab table in chemistry and giving you that sheepish, smile-wince look of endearing guilty apology. 

Oh. 

The wave crashes over you. Burning cold. Startling. Dreadful. Heart entering freefall. 

You maybe. Might. Probably. Definitely. Have harbored a secret, heavily denied and-or repressed crush on Clark Kent. 

Corn-fed and six foot four Clark Kent. Academic whiz and full-ride merit scholarship recipient Clark Kent. Who unironically finds it beautiful to say things like ‘what the hay’ and ‘oh, sakes alive.’ 

The Clark Kent who waited two weeks for you to help him move in when he could’ve done it himself in two minutes. The same guy who dropped everything to pick you up after you were stupidly pranked. 

Your childhood best friend. Whose name is synonymous with ‘no.1 most dependable and would die for you.’ Whose toddler pictures you’ve had a guest-starring role in. 

You barely register Clark tilting his head, brows furrowing in mild confusion. “Sunshine?” 

“Hi,” you blurt, a little flat. “Clark.” 

You’re sure your mouth is at an awkward, slightly sour angle, because he studies you before slowly stepping back to let you in. You’re half-ready to run to his bathroom and bang your head against the mirror. 

He just. Looks at you. Lips set in that slight pout of consideration and his right-hand dimple shifting. 

You avoid his eyes, feigning interest in his doorframe. Dark wood, solid, and ridiculously small when Clark is filling out the space inside. 

“Are you okay?” 

“Yeah,” you breathe, shifting on your feet. “Never better.” 

“Okay,” he says. Simple, short. Like he’s not going to think deeper into it—at least you hope he won’t. He flashes a small smile, “I’m making bagels.” 

You shove down the urge to snort at how in character that is for him. 

Here you are, freaking out over the newfound discovery that you were none the wiser to secretly yearning for Clark since high school. And he’s unconcerned, shifting his mouth to and fro in the expressive way you know so well and making fucking bagels for dinner. 

“Seriously?” 

“Yeah.” Clark lets an easy grin rise on his face, and he reaches to grab the strap of your bag, reeling you into his apartment. You echo him, a light laugh escaping as you kick off your shoes and let him take your things. 

He nudges the door shut with his heel and peers into your bag, surprise etching into the line of his brow. 

“Woah.” Reaches in, pulls out a bottle of wine by the neck. It’s ridiculous how your stomach starts simmering with want when you see how big his hand is compared to the glass. “So, I’m guessing you bought this to make up for my lack of ice cream?” 

You blink, twice. Takes a moment for you to eke out a squeaky, “Uh, sure.” 

Too casual to be innocent, you dig your hands into your pockets and stroll into the kitchen with uptight leisure. You exchange stiff pleasantries while you avoid his eyes—how’s work and you won’t believe what the media’s saying about you right now. 

Orange-yellow light spills out from inside the oven. Clark’s bagels, slightly more malformed than the ones you’d find at a coffee shop, have just started baking, still pale and lumpy. 

His apartment has changed slightly since the last time you saw it; the sitting room is still straight ahead, tall glass and blinking city lights; hallway to the right, the faint outline of doorways visible despite the lights being off. 

But there’s frames on the wall now, glass panes glared by the amber light coming from the lamp next to the TV. The couch is different—more sunken in, like it’s seen its fair share of nights crashing onto the cushions in exhaustion. 

And there’s stuff pinned to the fridge door. Mismatched magnets from Jitters Coffee and some touristy store in Gotham (though you didn’t know they even existed), and random sticky notes taped to the metal. 

CALL MA and Crabjoys reunion ticketing: Apr20 are the ones that really get you. Remind you that some things never change. 

You zero in on a photo strip painstakingly centered in a magnetic frame, long sandalwood beams squared around four snapshots of you and Clark. 

Together. Pinching each other’s cheeks with one of those dumb filters from the photobooth in Metropolis Uni’s gift shop. You remember this one. 

Spring semester of junior year, wide smiles full with the relief of surviving midterms week. The booth had been so small that you had to sit in his lap. He was warm when he wrapped his arms around your waist to keep you steady. 

Your core stirs. Unintentionally, of course. But still enough to send a violent wave of rapid-firing neurons into a massive short-circuit. 

It doesn't help that Clark is radiating that same heat when he comes up behind you. Sidles up next to your arm, setting his hand on the blue cabinet above and kneading his cheek between his teeth. 

“Uh,” he starts, quiet like the subtle hum of the oven’s fan, “are you hungry?” 

It’s barely five. You’re still lingering on the photo strip, studying the way Clark’s watching you in that long-ago moment. Eyes soft, smile angled downward in a manner you’d call adoring. Like he’s in love. 

Not that love you usually practice. The one where you kid with each other and battle in footsie under the dinner table. The one you’ve been swimming in since childhood, when he slept with a Meteors poster under his pillow to manifest their next win. When you made eyes at other boys and he had to remind you to pay attention in class. 

But one where he looks like he wants to take you by the collar of your shirt too. Lean into you, full tilt and without hesitation, like he’s yearning to become one under your skin and carve his name into the underside of your ribs. Like he’s got a spark of desire flickering in his chest. 

Or not. You could be delusional. 

You remind yourself to inhale. “No, I—I’m good.” 

“Okay,” he says, voice rumbling low. Your knee twitches—the barest, involuntary spasm of a muscle in reaction to the sparks setting off behind your ribs. “Because I think we need to talk.” 

You go ramrod-stiff so quickly that you swear one of your joints cracks. A thrill runs through your heart—fuck, he definitely caught on. If there’s one thing about his policy of making time, it’s that establishing clear communication is included. 

Pitched in a somewhat sheepish tone, “What?” 

“I mean,” he ducks his head down, shoulders tight as he gestures between the two of you with a finger. Looks back up at you with earnest eyes, blue so clear you can see yourself in the glassy reflection. “You’re acting weird. Did I do something?” 

You shake your head, immediate. Relief courses through you, but it’s quickly replaced with a wave of guilty heartache. Here is a man who only wants to be sweet and care about you, and you’re thinking you might want more. Want him to kiss and touch and say, I’m in— 

“No, it’s not you—I’m just…” you fish for an excuse “…a little stressed.” 

“Well.” Clark does a short, dorky side-to-side, shoulders more relaxed. “Talk to me.” 

Your throat feels full when you swallow. Pulse thundering, you tap the picture with your finger. “You kept it.” 

He looks a little stunned, head listing to the side owlishly. “Why not?” 

You shrug. Stupidly, “Dunno.” 

A smile breaks on his face, tender as a rising sun. Certain, too, like he needs to remind you that duh, “It’s my favorite picture.” 

Oh. 

You didn’t know that. He keeps the most romantic (arguably) picture of you and him on his fridge, where it’s impossible to not pass by on the daily. That’s fine. 

Your stomach clenches in a way that makes you feel stricken and stupidly, ridiculously heartsick. 

“You’re kidding.” 

“Not,” he huffs, shifting to lean against the fridge. He’s almost the same width—god—and you’re a little too distracted with the solid shape of his bicep tightening under his sleeve and the barest dip of muscle before his elbow. “You still haven’t answered the question.” 

Frowning, “What question?” 

“What you’re so stressed about,” Clark says. 

Pinching his mouth to the side, his dimple winks as he studies you. He’s been doing that a lot—new nervous habit, you suppose. “Does it have something to do with your text this morning?” 

Your jaw clenches, caught. “Maybe...” 

He knows you too well. 

Clark does that thing again—tilts his head, going from one side to another. Like he’s trying to gauge you from every angle. You fiddle with a loose string in your sleeve. 

He blurts, “I didn’t like Matthew, by the way.” 

Which—okay. Valid. Clark is honest as always, and he’s entitled to his own opinions, which you agree with, because looking back, Matthew was pretty unlikeable. 

He insisted on splitting the bill—not that you’re salty about needing to pay, for god’s sake, you have a job and a fair amount of disposable income, but because he was just cheap. Like he needed someone to pick up his slack and excused it with, ‘well, everyone’s all about equality these days, right?’ 

And he only wore a faint, sneerish smile as if he was embarrassed to appear more than nonchalant. Chewed cinnamon gum like it was his second job, rolled his eyes at the slightest thing. 

Never laughed, unless it was in derision when a kid tripped over their own feet, or something. And he was addicted to wired headphones. And pretended to be an avid reader—you know he was acting, because he couldn’t tell you who narrated The Great Gatsby despite it being opened to the last chapter in front of him. 

You might’ve overlooked a lot of things about Matthew because he was cute. Baritone and solemn dimples and curly black hair and eyes that curved into crescents at the slightest twitch of his mouth. 

And, alright. Just for the sake of adding it to the pile of late revelations that have dawned upon you during this hour: 

You probably swiped right on him because he resembled Clark. 

Not a little. A lot. In an almost eerie way. 

Like he was his evil twin from Park Ridge or something, but skinnier and vampirish, and lacking freckles and that eclectic, heartland music taste. 

But enough about that. You never told Clark you were shooting your nth shot with another guy and hoping he’d be the one. He shouldn’t know who Matthew is. 

There are probably a hundred thousand Matthews in Delaware, but only one Matthew the Clark Clone. 

(How long has he been listening in on you?) 

You blink at Clark for a few seconds. His ears start flushing pink the longer you stare, you notice. 

“Yeah, I didn’t either,” you mumble through the words, pausing between syllables like it needs some effort to force out. 

“I know it’s not my place to say,” he sighs, looking down at the cool tile beneath your socked feet. “But...maybe you haven’t gone the best way around finding love.” 

“Why, you jealous?” You mean it as a joke. A flippant, throwaway line to tease. 

But Clark looks at you hard. Plucks his glasses off his head and sets them down on the counter, serious.

Faint frown lines surface on his face, eyes suddenly sharp. Then he blinks, and he’s back to normal, pretending the wall is so interesting. “…No.” 

You poke his cheek. It’s warm; a current of sparks runs up your arm and into your heart. “Admit it. You already know you could do better than half the guys I’ve cried to you about.” 

His eyes flick to the ceiling momentarily before meeting yours again. Stammers over his own breath and squeaks as he asks, “Just half?” 

Oh, he’s jealous. 

You can see it, clear as day. Clearer than Clark’s pretty eyes. That maybe you aren’t alone in this. That just like always, you’re on the same page as your best friend. 

“Okay,” you say, leaning closer to him in challenge. “So, what’s your advice, Mr. Kent?” 

He allows himself an inhale—one he doesn’t really need, being superpowered and all—and purses his lips. 

He’s blushing in the way you know so well, the way he does when you look at him for too long. Like some shy bastard. Like he isn’t aware of what’s starting to brew between you. 

The thing about Clark is that he wears his heart on his sleeve. Sometimes literally, like when a kid slapped a heart sticker onto his supersuit. 

But he’s so open about his desires that it’s sometimes hard for him to hide them. Like now—standing with his shoulders bunched up and tense, practically holding his breath as his pretty ocean eyes drift around and eventually land on your lips. 

His lashes flutter. Exhales stutters a little, let out slowly. 

Says under his breath, “Well, sunshine, I think more organic relationships have better benefits in the long run.” 

“Uh-huh.” You’re helpless to the slow, amused grin bubbling onto your face. “Elaborate.” 

Clark keeps on rambling, eyebrows shooting up as he explains, “Like, you hardly know anyone on a dating app, right?” 

“Right.” 

“And—you know, romantic feelings can develop elsewhere.” 

“Really?” 

“Yes!” he exclaims, gesturing wild nonsense with his hands. “For example, Cat’s really into this whole friends to lovers thing, and honestly, I think she’s got a point.” 

You fold your lips inward, holding them between your teeth as you try not to laugh. 

“See, she says that people benefit from already knowing their partner,” Clark says, gaze trailing down without a thought. “That ultimately, friends sometimes feel the most fulfilling love. And it’s easy for them, to communicate their desires” —he finally catches himself, eyes wide and blinking quickly— “and stuff.” 

You open your mouth, running dry from nerves. Quiet and sheepish, still unsure despite seeing all the signs, “Wanna put that to the test?” 

The way his inhale quivers should be illegal. “I—don’t know what you mean.” 

“I mean,” you say slowly, surprising yourself with how steady you feel despite the uproar rioting in your chest, “maybe—you know, Cat’s theory. Maybe I do need someone who knows me.” 

Clark’s eyelids flicker, and then finally squeeze shut. His voice is tight when he murmurs, “Yeah, yeah.” 

You say his name. Soft. Quiet. Like a Friday night in Smallville at the Kents’. Like the aftermath of a dinner get-together, when you used to sit on his bed and cover your face with a comic instead of talking with the neighbors in the living room. 

He makes a small noise of response, a gentle hymn that comes with the smallest up-tilt of his head. A couple curls fall loose over his forehead and without thinking, you brush them to the side with a trembling finger. 

Some things between you don’t need words. Like when you’re hungry and find an orange already peeled. Or when you glance at each other during a movie and find that the other is also trying not to laugh. 

But this needs words. Need the confirmation that yes, Clark Kent can make time, but he can also make a different space in his already big heart for you, too. 

“Sunshine?” His whisper is vulnerable, cracked wide in the middle. “I can hear your heartbeat, y’know? It’s the one where you’re planning something.” 

Fuck. You can’t take it anymore. 

“I like you.” It spills out without a second thought, but you steamroll on, fingers dragging from his hairline and down to cup his cheek. 

You sound like a damn teenager professing her undying love when you say it again. “I like you. Since Nate, when your Pa said you dropped everything to get me. And I just— 

I realized nobody loved me like you,” you choke out. And it feels so free to say that, as if some vice you didn’t know was clenched around your heart has released itself. “And I took that for granted when I should’ve—” 

“Sunshine,” Clark cuts in, breaking your laundry list of guilt. Says it with that heartland twang you’ve been missing from his voice because he changes it slightly to fit in with Metropolis. 

He doesn’t say more. Just leans in. Places a peck to the corner of your mouth. 

And you stare at each other for seconds. Eyes wide. Something you can’t name shooting through your heart and oh. 

Oh, it feels like you’re finally on the right side of heaven to wrinkle his stiff workshirt in your fists and pull him in for a real, dizzying kiss. 

One you know you can’t turn back from. One that makes your body feel so viscerally alive, like livewire has been activated under your skin. 

You’re going to feel this for days, you think. 

Clark moves his lips over yours like he has all the time in the world. Like he’s really going to savor the seven-odd years you spent oblivious to your own feelings. 

Your chest is vibrating with anticipation, core growing warmer and warmer until you realize that there’s a hot wetness growing between your legs. And of course Clark decides that now is the perfect fucking time to wrap his arms around you and lift. 

You think he was made for this. To hold you like you’re made of foam. To be so strong and tender at the same time, cradling you closer like he’s trying to fuse into your skin.  

Wouldn’t mind, a thought smears by in your mind. 

He sets you down on the counter, which is cold and hard beneath you. Breaks away for a split-second to angle his head differently, catching you with your mouth still parted. Sweeps his tongue leisurely along your bottom lip, nips and sucks as he plants a large, burning palm on your knee and shifts it to the side with a light but firm push. 

You swear a star sparks in your skull and starts bouncing around the cavity of your chest. 

He kisses you deeper. Hungrier, like you’re the most precious thing he’s ever held. Corralling you between the wall and himself, hands coming up to graze from your waist around to your back, thumbs caressing in circles over the bare sliver of skin beneath your sweater, which you didn’t know until now had ridden up. 

“Should’ve” —a soft sigh unfurls in you as he peels himself off, only to attach himself to your jaw, taking his time as he blazes a shallow line of kisses to your ear— “done this sooner.” 

“Well,” his voice is rough, mouth forming a simper against the underside of your jaw’s hinge—kisses there, and then closer and closer to your throat. You bare your neck to him, easy and unthinking; the ceiling spins above you. “Better late—” sucks at the sensitive, tender spot just beneath your chin, fuck “—than never.” 

You register that he’s sliding his hand under the back of your sweater, pressing hot skin along your back. Fingers skating over the divots in your spine, he drags himself back up and waits there with his nose beside yours like he’s asking for permission. 

His eyes are closed, the corners of his mouth barely lifted up, a smile about to unfurl. You plant a chaste kiss on his lips, and as you pull away, he lurches forward, as if he’s trying to chase another hit. 

“Wait,” he mumbles, some dreamy look surfacing on his relaxed face—brows floating up slightly, seam of his pink and swollen lips parting. “Come back.” 

“I’m gonna pass out if you keep kissing me like that,” you say, tone whispered.

Even then, you might be understating yourself. You feel like you’re teetering on the knife’s edge of sanity. 

You run your hand down his chest and pinch the fabric just above his belt, untucking it absently and looking down at him through your lashes. You don’t even know why you lament honestly, “And then I can’t take this off. And then we can’t fuck.” 

Clark frowns, opening his eyes to look at you in that upturned, tragically kicked-puppy way that makes you ache. In your chest, at the crux of your thighs. 

Too fast? You avert your eyes in shame. 

“I prefer the term making love.” His lashes flit in a way that would make some of the women at your workplace envious, and he’s holding your eyes in his pretty blue ones. Reminds you of the sky in the countryside, just after the last raincloud has cleared up, the scent of petrichor still heavy in the air. 

You nudge yourself forward and brush your mouth over his upper lip. Salt and sugar blooms on your tongue. “Oh, I forgot that you talk like a geriatric. We should stop before your knees crack.” 

“Ah, we can’t have that,” he hums, genuine concern blooming on his face, just beneath that stupid, bright tipsy-flush on his cheeks that make you feel something weird. 

Slips his hand out from under your shirt, gently takes your chin in his grip and rubs his thumb over your spit-slick bottom lip, all while brushing his mouth over his ministrations. Pouts like he’s the one being subject to the hormonal mutiny that’s making you feel so violently alive.  

You want, want, want. 

Tugging at his shirt, abandoning your restraint to push your hips forward and against his solid stomach and fuck, a sound escapes you that sound suspiciously like please? and he breaks into a breath-stealing smile like a coy cat that just got the cream. 

It’s no surprise that you barely blink before you find yourself lying supine and sinking into his mattress. Smells like that damn vanilla, and sandalwood, and the wind of Smallville. As if he flies back just to dry his laundry on the porch clothesline. 

The blankets are peeled back neatly. Fitted sheet soft to the touch—you curl your fingers in the cotton for something to ground yourself with, because apparently Clark isn’t enough. 

Pillows plush and considerately placed beneath your head, the mattress dips for the weight of Clark settling on his knees between your legs.  

He sort of hangs there for a second as you catch your breath and reel in the uncountable minutes of insanity that have just passed. Scrutinizes you with gentle, earnest eyes, cupping the back of your clothed knees with broad, kind hands. 

He presses his thumb into the outside of your knee, right in the faint divot where the cap sits over bone, tendon, and muscle. You swallow, watching him as he traces his eyes up and down your body—collected, steady. 

Safe in the way he has always been. Clark squeezes the top of your calf once before letting his hands slide up—a line of flinty sparks follows him—to cup your hips.  

“Sunshine,” he rumbles, soft eyes meeting yours. Tilts his head, loose waves of inky hair falling over his forehead. Adam’s apple bobbing, he lets go of your hips and holds your hands instead, all earnest and somewhat guilty. “Do you mean it?” 

You blink up at him, confused. “Huh?” 

“That you like me.” He turns over your hands so he can press his thumbs into your palms. “That you want this.” 

A small, almost disbelieving laugh scuffs out of your mouth. Of course he’s double and triple checking. 

“Silly,” you say, curling your right-hand fingers around his thumb. “I can’t lie to you.” 

“Can you say it again? Just to be sure.” 

“Clark.” You lift his hand toward your face. Kiss the back of it softly, and smile at how comforting the feel of his skin is. You’re all innocuous and doe-eyed when you say, “I want you to fuck me. I want you to fuck me and make me feel it for days.” 

His breath stammers in a way that makes you flush. All barely-held restraint and trembling like you’re doing something to make him weak. 

He gives you a tight, downturned smile once he settles himself, the same one that would flash across his face to reassure you. 

Except, it’s a little different now. Except, there’s something terrifyingly raw swimming in his—you've just noticed—unnaturally dilated pupils, and you’d be wrong not to call him lovesick or fond. 

Maybe he’s always looked at you like that, all benign and wanting, and you didn’t realize until now. The thought of beating yourself up over wasting so, so much time when Clark was right in front of you flickers through your head, but it’s quickly wiped away when he gently lets go of your hands and starts undoing his button-up. 

You’re fixated on the way his fingers work the buttons—nimble, with just the right application of pressure to pop it open. You follow them all the way down to the last, where the hem you untucked earlier hangs over the tent rising in his slacks. 

He’s big, the crotch of his pants tight. The outline of his cock is visible through the dark fabric. Holy shit. 

Your chest tightens for a breath.  

Unconsciously, your thighs squeeze tighter in search of friction. 

Futile. Clark nudges his knees wider to stop you as he shrugs away his shirt and then strips off his undershirt. 

You hope your eyes aren’t bugging out. 

He’s sculpted like a goddamn Greek statue—solid muscle, defined pecs and shoulders—yet soft at the same time. A thin layer of fat hugs his abdomen in true farmer fashion, mellows out his broad frame and you suddenly want to wrap your arms and legs around him and maybe just let him fuck you animalistically like that. 

“C’mere,” he says, syllables muddled together with his eyes all fluttering and mouth loose like that, like he’s drunk off desire. Like he’s also noting how heavy the air has gotten, hazy with lust. Takes your fingers in his again, draws it toward the center of his bare chest. 

His skin is blistering under your palm. A furnace almost; your neck prickles with heat as another wave of arousal tides over you. 

And then you feel it. Pounding hard enough to pulse like it’s right under the first layer of impenetrable skin and not buried beneath layers of fat, muscle, and bone. A strange, not-quite-human thrum that kisses your fingertips. 

Clark takes a steadying breath, pitches himself down to kiss you all while holding your touch firmly over his heart. 

His lips slide over yours—longing, like the short minute that’s passed since he last kissed you was an eternity. 

And his heartbeat jumps. 

Actually. Speeds up to thunder at what seems like a hundred miles an hour, strong and loud and trying to leap into your palm. Stays like that for the honey-slow seconds that your mouths lazily dance, and for another ten after he ducks his flushed face into the right side of your neck. 

He smells like an underlayer of woodsy cologne and flour. Like the faint, diluted scent of corn ripening in the wind. Like home. 

“You make me so nervous,” Clark finally says, voice lilting into borderline self-amusement. “God, sweetheart, you have no idea.” 

His lips press over your jugular, feeling the pulse there. Eyelashes flutter on your skin as he nips your skin, not hard enough to hurt but enough to know that your blood will darken the surface later. 

Somehow, in the smudged haze of craving and teeth, he finds his way to the button of your jeans. Pauses there, forefinger picking at the overlap of denim. 

Your breath freezes in the same moment as his. 

“Please?” he asks so sweetly. You cant your hips up in response. 

His exhale hisses out all at once, almost a gasp. Cheek searing where it lays on your neck, deft touch working the button out of its nest and zipper rasping as he opens it. 

The sound of it is so loud in his otherwise still bedroom. 

Your breath shudders when he slips your jeans down, over the curve of your ass and down your legs. Cold air hits your clothed cunt, cooling the wetness that’s gathered in your panties. 

Your jeans get stuck around your left ankle, to which he giggles boyishly to himself between breaths, and oh, your heart swells so much that you feel too small for the mush of endearing-lovey-sweet churning in your chest. 

You tug at your sweater, pulling your arms out of the sleeves and wrestling the lump of fabric over your head. Takes a minute, because you’re a little shaky and practically bursting at the seams with anticipation. 

Then you’re laying there and letting Clark take you in, all vulnerable with your undergarments mismatched (gosh, maybe you really should have picked underwear that matched your bra) and clothes discarded out of sight. 

And it’s stupid, really. How your inhale hitches. A little stall, if you will, at the dawn of an aching expression on his face, looking at you. Really looking at you. 

Like he wouldn’t have this any other way. Like he’s trying to find the best way to get under your skin, just like how he inspects a chessboard to make his next move. Like he already knows what’s going to make you twitch, or clench, or come so hard that you see the pearly gates. 

Fast and unprepared and in his own bed, fitted sheet already wrinkled while you try not to squirm because you’re a little embarrassed that your bra is black and your panties are white with navy polka dots. 

“Don’t stare,” you whisper, though it comes out as more of a mortified squeak. 

“Why not?” Clark just smiles. Easy. The most natural thing in the world, when he grazes his fingertips over the waistband of your panties. “I'm just admiring the most beautiful woman.” 

You scoff, crossing your arms over your bare stomach. “Yeah. My eyes’re up here, you know.” 

“Really,” he protests. Dips his fingers beneath the elastic of your panties. “Or as Ma would say, I’m happy as a clam.” 

Draws the smallest tension and lets the band snap back against your hip, because he just has to be cheeky and tease. 

“Oh,” he gasps in revelation, heartland twang starting to bleed back into his low, baritone words, “or that’s a sight.” 

Your skin burns, feverish from your soaked cunt to your head. 

Then Clark shifts himself down to nuzzle the damp gusset, applying the barest feather of pressure over your clothed clit. He shudders. Wraps his arms around your thighs so he can hold you closer as he starts laving over the thin fabric. 

A soft sigh spills out of your mouth, helpless. Nakedly sweet and honest in a way you didn’t expect yourself to be. 

Uncontrollable, your fingers thread into his downy hair and tug lightly. 

He groans quietly but doesn’t listen, mouth instead moving back up to your stomach. 

Clark buries his nose just under your navel. Breathes you in, solid biceps tightening slightly around your thighs. Exhales with a muffled, broken sound that echoes your own and your heart flips. 

“Baby, you’re so soft,” he mumbles, head angling down to start blazing a trail of hot, open-mouthed kisses back down your stomach, up the delicate inside of your right thigh. Presses himself close to your skin, licks over where your pulse thrums between your legs and sucks. 

You inhale sharply, shifting your hips, now aware of just how empty you are. 

He hums in response, teasing the same spot on the other side of your cunt. You wriggle a little more, trying to get his mouth where you want it. 

Impatience burns behind your ribs. You want it, you want it so fucking bad that the need cuts you open and raw, like barbed wire drawn taut over your sternum. 

“Please,” you breathe. Can’t even recognize your own voice now, all breathy and desperate. Looking down at him through your lashes, you dart your tongue over your bottom lip. Tastes like salt, and him. “Clark, please.” 

Eyes flicking up to yours, he hums in low question. Tilts his head, so his curls tickle your inner thigh. “Patience is a virtue, y’know.” 

You swallow, going still for a fractured moment. You come up blank, like a reel left out so long that all the fish of your thoughts know it’s bait. “I...” 

A gentle smile rises to his face. “’S alright,” he says, all saccharine and forgivingly merciful. Water under the bridge, you think to yourself. “I’ll remind you.” 

Slips his fingers under the elastic of your waistband again, pulls down your panties as a flare of sudden, sharp need rips through you. Curves his smile a little sharper when the gusset sticks to your cunt for a moment, tacky with your arousal. 

The flimsy little piece of fabric lands somewhere out of sight, too, and Clark lets a nearly disbelieving sigh puff out from his mouth as he stares at your naked sex.  

You watch, mesmerized and head floating in a near-dream state, as he lowers himself flat onto the mattress—you don’t miss the subtle way he grinds his hips down—and lays his head against your thigh. 

“Should—should I tell you now that I’ve never done this before?” 

Curse your stupid, big mouth. 

Clark stiffens. Stares at you with eyes unblinking and wide. “What?” 

Your stomach drops in panicked freefall. “No—fuck. Not like that.” 

“I’m gonna need some clarification,” he says, propping himself up on his elbows. 

“I’m not a virgin,” you blurt. “If that’s what you think. I just...” 

He blinks at you, finally. Questions in that earnest, pleading voice, “No, that’s—sunshine, are we going too fast? We can stop right now.” 

A wave of heavy embarrassment crashes down on you. 

Your palms slap onto your face, eyes squeezing shut at the mortifying, humiliating fact that— “I’ve never had a guy go down on me!” 

“And” —you have to fight yourself to be honest about this— “half the time, I don’t come anyway.” 

Clark just sort of twists his mouth, looking at you with those melancholic eyes, dimples shifting as he processes. 

Just zones out a bit. As if he isn’t laying stomach-down on the bed, extremely eager to eat you out two seconds ago. Okay, maybe he is still a little eager, just toned down. 

But you can see it. In the way he blinks, up at your eyes and down to your navel. In the way his hand is still resting on your thigh, ready. 

He wets his bottom lip. Says, in a hoarse, choked voice like he really can’t believe it, “But you’re okay?” 

“Yeah,” you breathe, peeling your fingers off your face, “more than okay. So you better ruin it for everyone else.” 

He smiles, dorky and charming, face all ruddy. You lament—oh, you feel like a fucking travesty with the way his dimples make your heart somersault like that. 

“So,” he starts, pitching his head down to study your sex. Trailing his fingers from your thigh to your folds, he wets himself with the slick arousal already there. “What even happens after you have sex with other guys? When you aren’t satisfied?” 

You try not to worm around as Clark gently strokes the tip of his middle finger up your seam. You shiver, though, when he pauses just below your clit and drags back down. 

“Just…I take care of myself after. Obviously,” you mumble, restraining the urge to lift your hips just so and let his thick fingers fill your aching cunt. But patience is a virtue, and you’ll be damned if you don’t find out what Clark’s whole reminder is about. “Lots of sore wrists and stuff.” 

An easy grin blooms on his face again. Start pumping the tip of his finger into you, slowly working you open. 

“Like this?” he asks, once the second knuckle of his finger has been swallowed by your cunt. Thicker than you thought it would be. Which makes you wonder about and crave the stretch of two. 

“Yeah,” you try to keep your voice from squeaking, but it does anyway. You cover your mouth with the back of your left hand and card the right into his silken, messy waves. “I just—god, you’re thick.” 

“Easy, honey,” he shushes. Kisses the top of your mound, to which you respond with a soft, open sound. Takes his mouth lower, minuscule centimeter by minuscule centimeter, until he’s pulling out his one finger and stretching you out with two, just as he latches his scorching mouth around your clit and sucks.  

You moan. Loud, embarrassing, pitched up at the end. 

The feeling of being so full aches in you. Feels like he’s penetrating your entire body. Like he’s going to live in the cavity of your chest forever, and right now you’re more than willing to keep him warm. 

He laps at you all while rocking his fingers, getting your parted folds all sticky and slick with saliva and arousal. Detached himself with a tacky string of viscous liquid, eyes rolling up before they shut, forehead nuzzling into your stomach. 

“Did you do it like this?” He crooks his fingers, thick and hot in your cunt, presses into a spongy spot that makes you tug at his hair for more. You whine a little. “Or that?” 

Slides impossibly deeper into you, bypassing that first spot and nudging his fingers into a place that shoots white-hot pleasure ripping up your spine, and his tongue swipes searing over your clit and you think you fucking gush a little down to his wrist. 

“God,” you choke out, and Clark just keeps teasing that spot, moaning softly into your cunt and stroking and rocking his touch until your stomach starts to tighten, all raw and urging. “There, there, shit.” 

It’s like a switch has flipped in you. 

You’re fucking ruined for life. Hips rutting up to chase the next thrust of his fingers, the next flick or swipe of his tongue as your neurons go into overdrive. Sobbing: “Oh, Clark—baby, fuck, that’s—good, so good, Clark, please—” 

He rolls his tongue hard over your sensitive clit, upping the intensity at which his digits are fucking into you—a filthy push-pull that you can hear, lewd noises of your cunt spasming in as he bullies that bundle of nerves inside you. 

“C’mon,” he groans, a desperate sound vibrating into you. Kisses your clit again, and you feel another surge of wetness coat your inner thighs when he shoves his fingers in deep to keep stimulating your g-spot. Sounds all wrecked and wanton when he rumbles, open-mouthed over you, “That’s it, honey. Keep doing that. Make you feel better than all those jerks, yeah?” 

You keen, high-pitched. Hips rutting up into his face, unabashed, muscles gradually tightening until you’re all wound up. 

It’s getting to be too much, like you’re being filled to the brim and then some. Like you’re about to spill out of your own skin, all ‘cause of your best friend’s ministrations. His tongue. The way he stuffs a shallow, wanting moan into the crook of your inner thigh and cunt. How he’s shifting his hips into the mattress, how the bedframe is creaking slightly from the movement. 

Your pulse is pounding. Like you’re trying to mimic the way his heart was when he let you feel it, and your head is spinning with it, too. 

And then Clark dips the tip of his tongue low, tasting you from the top of the opening of your sex—fucking gasps with a sound that almost cries and drags the flat of his tongue hot up to your clit. Wraps his plush, sweltering lips around it and starts laving with abandon, grinding his fingertips into your g-spot. 

It’s not the way he’s lapping at you that makes you break. It’s not even his thick, full fingers stretching you out in a way that burns so sweetly in you. 

It’s just Clark. 

He reaches for the hand you have buried in his hair. 

Wraps his warm, gentle palm around your wrist. Squeezes you once, firm enough to ground you by a thread-thin tether. Kneads his thumb over your pulse point and looks up at you through his lashes, eyes out of focus and so honest. 

Starbursts pop in your vision. 

You swear you black out for a second as you come, moans shaky against the back of your hand. 

Your orgasm hits you hard and soft at the same time. Crests and crashes with a tidal wave of wetness that dribbles out of your cunt, soothes over your head as bliss fills your body. Your ears are ringing, hearing smudged and cottony like you’ve been dunked in the pool and someone’s trying to talk to you from above the surface.  

You quiver, helpless as you chase the aftershocks against Clark’s eager mouth. 

There’s a trembling sincerity when he slowly pulls his fingers from you, like he’s reluctant. He’s still guiding you down from the last ripples of ecstasy, tongue undulating over the still-twitching seam of your cunt, whispering pleasant nothings between each lick like he’s found an altar between your thighs. 

But he doesn’t bring you down. Doesn’t let you stray far from that high-up edge, nose now pressed into your clit as he wraps his thick, solid arms under your legs, then over your stomach to lock you in place. 

“Clark,” you sigh, squirming from the stimulation. You can hardly recognize your voice, all tender and soft and pitched. “Clark.” 

His lips make a wet, lewd sound when he reluctantly draws himself away from your cunt. Leaves a web-thin, almost star-spun string of slick connecting you to him, panting so feverishly that he pushes your legs closer to your chest. 

He hums, looking a little dazed. Eyes unfocused, tongue darting out to taste that string of fluid, which breaks and dribbles down his chin in a way that makes your stomach riot with butterflies. 

"Going somewhere?” he rasps, and god, if that doesn’t make your heart leap for the chance to give him another and then some. 

“No,” you mumble, heat prickling under your skin. 

Clark blinks at you, cheek squished to your inner thigh. Lets his eyes roll closed when you stroke your fingers through his hair, exhale balmy on your bare skin. 

“Okay,” he says, quiet. 

This time, he’s slow with it. Takes his time, languid and sensual flicks and laves meant to wriggle between your seams and pick you apart from the inside.  

Tides you through your refractory period, sighs when you start to tighten your thighs around his head again. Lights that spark in you once more, using his drenched, arousal-shiny fingers only to play with your clit while his tongue slips into your throbbing cunt instead. 

You don’t know how much time has passed. You only know this: back arching and hips twitching as Clark guides you toward another orgasm, skillfully fucking you with his tongue like this is his last meal and he needs to savor it. 

You feel a telltale tingle in your core again. Coils up tighter, raw, wrings you dry until you’re rocking your hips and pushing at his head to go deeper, faster, harder. 

Faintly, you register his bedframe creaking. Clark moans—loud, honest, fervent, broken in a way you’ve never heard—right into your folds and— 

Your inhale catches. Stammers as your high starts to crest, and you whine, pliant and helpless, fuck— 

Clark stops. Retracts himself, tongue sweeping over his swollen bottom lip to gather your wetness. Swallows, and your eyes follow the motion of his Adam’s apple. 

He looks more wrecked than you feel. Looks like he’s the one dangling on the precipice of coming, like he’s the one who’s been licked within an inch of his life. 

He sits up, kneeling between your legs and shit, he’s blushing all the way down to his chest. Pink from head to pec, hair plastered to his forehead from what you assume is the humidity between your thighs. 

“Gosh,” he pants. Long inhale, short exhale. He closes his eyes like he’s tasting the last of you lingering on his tongue. “Gosh, I’m so sorry, sunshine.” 

You prop yourself up on your elbows, panic spiking in your chest. “What’s wrong?” 

He groans. Folds himself back down by the waist and buries his burning face into your sternum. Kisses the skin there, and drags his fingers up your spine to dawdle on the clasp of your bra. 

“Not you,” comes his muffled murmur, still pressing sincere, reverent kisses on your chest. “Just—you taste too good.” 

You pause. Process the fact that Clark had to take a second because he was enjoying himself too much. And a laugh spills out of your mouth. 

You comb your hands through his hair, making him shiver when your nails scrape on his scalp. “I was about to come again, you know.” 

He groans, mortified, and presses his forehead harder against your sternum. 

“Gosh,” he stutters, and you’re pretty sure that’s his word of the day, “I’m sorry, I couldn’t take it.” 

“Take what?” You cup your hand to his warm, flushed cheek, tilt his head up to look at him. 

He stares back at you, mouth glistening and parted, eyes flicking down to your lips. He swallows. 

“I think—well, I almost,” he squeezes his eyes shut, “I didn’t want to come yet. And uh, I don’t have a condom.” 

You guess he’s your best friend for a reason. 

Here you are, looking each other up and down and realizing that you’ve both unwittingly edged yourselves. Get a load of this fucking comedy. 

You huff, amused. Squeeze his cheeks in your palms, and your heart flutters when he smiles, bashful. “You’re funny.” 

“Sure, sunshine. I'll make that up to you,” he says, shifting his fingers on your back and undoing your bra. “So just to be sure—” 

“Yes, Clark,” you grumble, tangling your fingers in his curls and tugging. Hard. You swear his eyes roll into his skull a little. “We can fuck without a condom.” 

“You’re so crass,” he chides, and cool air hits your breasts. 

Your bra lands somewhere soft, cushioned, and when you look, you find that he’s thrown it and the rest of your clothes—with terrifying accuracy—into his hamper. 

That cracks something wide open in you. It blooms in your chest, unfurls like the first thaw of spring. 

He’s so sweet. There isn’t another word for how he makes you feel. It’s just a something, somehow, stitched together with a lifetime of bandaids and inside jokes. 

And you mourn. Even though the space between your bodies is so tight that your skin is sticky with humidity, even though his belt is clicking and he’s asking again, because he’s got that devastating habit of being a quintuple-checker: 

“Will you let me have you?” 

Not can I. Will you. 

You snap out of your daze, heart still sighing dreamily as you practically leap to help tear his belt out of the loops. 

“Is that a yes?” he wonders out loud, laying his forehead on yours. He squeezes his eyes tight when you unzip his fly and relieve a little more pressure from his hard cock. Chokes out, “For the record—oh, god—I’m a yes. Please.” 

Clark kisses you with undisguised desire when you palm him over his underwear. He’s scorching in your palm, weighty when you try to grind the heel of your hand on it. 

He whimpers. Honest to god whimpers, a ruined sound that whistles in the miniscule space between your open mouths, and your arm jerks, startled by how sudden and unexpected and hot that is. 

Clark does it again, louder this time. Your core throbs.  

“Baby,” he groans, furrowing his brows in concentration, “as much as I like that—” 

“Yeah,” you breathe, steadier than you expected yourself to be, with your throat running dry and heart pounding in your throat. “Yeah, I want—” 

“I know,” he says. Gently nudges your hand off his clothed erection, crowds you up against the headboard. Then he takes you by the knee, hand blistering up your thigh, and delicately guides you to lay on your back. 

Your head lolls to the side, nose pressing into one of his pillows. Smells like home in a way you can’t really explain beyond the faint scent of sleep and lemon detergent. Smells like him, in the purest sense possible; all wool-soft and mellow, like the kindest comfort during a winter storm in Smallville. 

He shimmies out of his pants. His cock bobs up, all eight inches and girth standing at attention, the head deeply flushed and pearled with pre. It slaps lightly against his navel, leaving behind a thread of slick that breaks quickly, and you burn white-hot and raw with lust.

Clark slides a plush pillow under your hips. Gazes down at you through his lashes, eyes shining with a light that makes your chest ache. Whispers, almost to himself, “You’re so pretty. My pretty girl.” 

You don’t remember how you respond to that. 

Because Clark is taking his cock in his hand, and that has the audacity to make his size look normal, and he strokes himself slowly as he guides himself toward your soaked cunt. You think you lose your breath. 

He breaches you with a single, slow thrust, with an open-mouthed stammer of breath, and there’s so much of him sliding forward that you don’t even try arching your back to let him go deeper. And he just waits there, to the hilt, girthy and heavy and pulsing in time with your dripping, stretched cunt, and you’re so fucking full of him that you think you won’t be able to get up tomorrow. 

Good thing it’s Friday, is the last thing that runs through your mind before he bends over and takes you with him, folding your legs against your chest like you’re one of those fucking origami cranes he makes in his free time.  

(Yes, you’ve seen the box under his bed. No, not the one with his suit. 

The one with a thousand colorful, paper cranes he folds at his desk when anonymous tips are slow and takes the time between work and alien invaders to painstakingly link them all up onto a thread of fishing line. The one he brings to a thrift shop every time he finishes a string, just so a lucky someone passing by could have a little goodness in their day.) 

And Clark fucks like this means more than the world to him. Slow, sensual, with purpose. Grinds the searing head of his cock into the spot that made you see starbursts on his tongue earlier, cloistering his chest against your shins like he needs—not wants, but needs, desperately, more than air or sun—to live in your skin. 

He moans in time with you, breathes out in a voice that sets you ablaze, “God, you’re so tight—sunshine, you’re perfect.” 

He’s everywhere. Whimpering with his mouth over yours. Slipping his thumb expertly over your twitching clit over and over until you’re trying to arch into him, but you can’t, because he’s fucking you with his entire weight behind each world-stopping thrust and oh— 

You get why he says ‘making love’ like an old-fashioned loverboy. 

Because he is. Because he’s pushing and pulling into your cunt like he’s promising, like he’s revering. Heavy and softhearted and caressing the outside of your hip with a warm, soothing hand, and you understand. 

“I love you,” you gasp. Just feels like the right thing to say, head spinning and mouth wet with his and your spit. Tastes like salt, and yourself. “Clark, please.” 

“I can hear you,” he chokes out in the middle of an aborted whine. Ducks his nose behind your ear, breathes in the scent of your skin, all flushed with heat and thinly veiled with sweat. “Your heartbeat, it’s—so fast.” 

He jerks up into your walls with a calamitous, devastating grind. Makes that same gush of wetness drool out of your spasming cunt, and when he plunges in you again, his pelvis slaps into the fat of your ass with a sound so tacky your ears burn, all shameful and alive. 

“You liked that,” Clark gasps, taking your bottom lip in his mouth and sucking. Lets go after a moment when he’s satisfied with how swollen and pliant you are and rolls that bundle of sparking nerves between your thighs. You clench around him, uncontrollable, legs bucking up to no avail. “Holy—I love you, too. Gosh, I love you so much for so long, you’ve no idea—” 

You can’t recall when your orgasm started cresting. It had just built slowly like one of those soda bottles that used to explode in Clark’s face randomly, creeping up on you like all this. 

The realization that you are deeply, raptly in love with your best friend. That you want with him what all the people in the movies have—being late for your train because you get coffee together in the mornings; finding sweet, handwritten notes on his fridge, right next to your photobooth strip; passing each other in the hallway like two familiar ships, exchanging an earnest kiss before he runs off to fold the laundry and you to take inventory of the groceries. 

And you want him forever. Yours to kiss. Yours to curl up to when the night gets too cold for even his thick, pillowy duvet, for him to hold you close and mumble his thoughts against your cheek. 

A ruined whine rips through your lungs. You’re so close, teetering on the edge of the precipice. 

He starts the hand holding your hip, dragging it up your side, over your ribcage. Traces the space between your bones, splays his hand wide for a moment between your breasts. Pushes down slightly, and you can feel your own heart leaping to try and touch him. 

Oh. This is proving to be too much for you. 

And then he reaches up to take one of your hands still tugging at his hair, threads his fingers between yours. Holds on tight, grounding. 

Clark kisses your cheek. Chaste and sweet compared to the downright filthy way his cock is sparking the live wire under your skin. 

Locks your eyes with his unfocused ones, and all you see in your smudged, pleasure-sick vision is the way he’s looking at you with something between disbelieving awe and endearment. 

You come with his name already in your mouth and sugar-salt on your tongue. 

He works you through the aftermath, rolling his hips with a gentle, powerful grace as you shiver and sigh brokenly against him. Makes love with a trembling, earnest sincerity, until you’re melting and he’s approaching his orgasm. 

Clark doesn’t slow when he lowers your legs. Your thighs are a little sore, and you’re still rushing with your own high when he holds you tight in his solid, secure arms until your breasts are flattening against his chest. 

It isn’t long until his rhythm is stammering like your poor heart, until he’s following you close over the edge, stuffing a low, warm, quivering moan close to your ear and spilling hot ropes deep into you like this has been his life’s mission all along. 

—

You wake with the moon kissing your back and the AC kicking on. 

Mouth dry, because it somehow found itself open, and there’s a spot of drool crusting on your cheek. You’re hungry, and it’s late by the analog display blinking from the top of the nightstand. 

The clock sits just under a lamp. Familiar, like a second home. Blue-glass shade, tarnished brass. 

And then you remember that this isn’t your apartment. You’re waking up in Clark’s bed, soft sheets pooling around your hips, and he’s done the favor of cleaning you up and putting out an old, threadbare shirt and a pair of shorts at the foot of the bed. 

Crabjoys and college shorts. Of course. 

The door creaks, letting a rectangle of golden-warm light stretch across the floor. 

He’s standing there, in pajamas patterned with little brown cows and glasses hanging off the collar of the worn-thin shirt tight on his biceps and chest, and he’s balancing a little plate with a sliced bagel and condiments you can’t see well. 

His curls are egregiously messed up. The back of his hair sticks up at an odd angle, presumably from your incessant tugging in the throes of pleasure (your stomach warms at the reminder), and his ears are bright red in the dim light. 

Your heart swells for a sigh. There he is. Your best friend. 

“Hi,” he breathes, shuffling into the room. He’s wearing tattered bunny slippers that squeak a little. “Good thing I set a timer on the oven. Could’ve burned our breakfast for dinner.” 

“You spoil me,” you say, sitting up to reach for the shirt. You pull it over your head and he’s there before you when you emerge from the worn cotton, pressing a grateful kiss to your temple. 

“That’s because you're the best thing in the world,” Clark rolls his eyes, smoothing his thumbs over your cheeks. 

He’s so gentle. Intimately familiar. 

You’ve already loved him for a lifetime. 

You wouldn’t mind one more. 

You grab out your gun, aim it right over his shoulder, and shoot. 

The last swamp monster thuds into the water, and Dean stares at you with wide eyes.

“Uh, how close was I to bein’ a swap snack?”

You shrug, giving him a small smile. “Don’t undervalue yourself, dude. You would have been swamp dinner.”

Dean snorts, wading through the water to your side, and rests his hand on your back. There’s no real reason for him to do that. You’re standing up just fine. No serious injuries. No panic. 

He’s just touching you. Casually. The way he always has, without thought, because he trusts you enough not to turn around and try to cut off his hand. 

And it’s always driven you out of your mind. 

Dean’s casually put his hand on your body since you met him. Since the first hunt, where he and Sam saved the helpless little vampire victim, and you tried to shoot them because you didn’t know that the people carrying machetes were the good guys. Dean had put his hand on your upper arm and lower back, helped you to your feet, and been the most beautiful thing you’d ever seen. 

You can still feel where he touched you, all those years ago. It’s branded a level right under your skin, the lightening and fire sensation of a broad, rough hand being so gentle on your skin. And every time he’s touched you since, you’ve still been able to feel it. Sinking deeper and deeper, spreading and growing with every accidental brush of his hand and shoulder bump and time you’ve been pressed right against him on a hunt. It’s going to burn forever. You don’t want it to go out, even if it drives you out of your mind. 

Days the bunker is empty, and you lock the door to your room with your legs spread. Whenever he makes you—and Sam, but that’s not important—breakfast. If you’re watching a movie, and he puts his arm over your shoulder because he’s comfortable. Every time he whispers a joke in your ear, grins so wide when you laugh. Every fucking night you have to spend in the same room with him, pretending you don’t feel like you’re burning alive with a light that won’t flicker out. 

Most motels don’t offer three beds. So there are times where the couch fits Dean—never Sam, and you’re not allowed to sleep on the couch because they’re dumbasses who think they’re gentlemen—and times where you just have to suck it up and share. 

Sharing with Sam is fine. You can’t grind into the sheets as the fire sweeps into your core—Dean likes to walk out of the shower without a shirt, and he might hate you—because fucking Sam is right on the other side of the bed. 

When you share with Dean, it’s… different. 

You can’t fuck yourself then, either. But it becomes unbearable. Your body seems to ache, just to touch him. Sometimes the light will be angled just right through the window, and you’ll be able to watch the passing headlights of the cars drift over his pretty face. 

Because Dean’s face is still so fucking beautiful. It’s one of those few things you know will never change. 

But you don’t want anything to change. Change is the thing that leaves you alone, dead in the water, trying to use the stars to guide yourself when the sky is pitch black. You’ve never been good at it. When you joined hunting, it took months for you to fully adjust just to living in the bunker. 

Dean had gotten you through that. Made you comfortable. Taught you how to hold a gun, and throw a punch, and made you waffles when you’d finally managed to knock him on his ass. 

“I know you went easy on me,” you’d told him, spraying the whip cream on your plate, and he’d chuckled. 

“Don’t know what you’re talking about, sweetheart.”

“It’s okay,” you’d shrugged. “Next time you can go all out, and I’ll still win.”

Dean had grinned at you, and you’d felt that heat rising to your cheeks. It wasn’t fair how he could do that. How you’d gotten so good at being around him and not acting like just one word in your direction made you feel high. At this point it had just been a crush, on the big handsome man who saved your life. 

Even then, it had still felt like a massive, consuming type of crush. The kind like a tree, that wouldn’t stop rooting into your heart and growing. The kind that you’d known would get you in trouble, if you weren’t careful. 

“Sure you will.” Dean had reached for the whipped cream can, and you’d whacked his hand with it. “Hey, c’mon-“

“I’m not done.” You’d finished the pile with a little swirl, and passed him the can with a smile. 

He’d stared at you, then the whipped cream mountain. “You trying to drown yourself?”

“Maybe.” 

Dean had reached forward, taken some on his finger—ruining the artwork, but it had been Dean, so you were never mad—and dabbed it on your nose. He’d laughed at your glare, and you’d tried to bite his finger. 

It had just made him laugh harder. 

“You look cute.” He’d said, lookin back to his own waffle, and it had been like being shot up with fire. 

He thought you were cute. Dean thought you were cute. And he’d touched you again. And maybe if you’d asked him to, he could have kissed you and you could run your hand through his hair and taste the salt of his sweat, and he could show you how to do a few other moves, right here at the table, and- 

“You good?” He’d asked you, and he’d sounded concerned. Not starved for you, just worried. Like a friend would be. 

And you didn’t want anything to change. This was already better than you could have dared to ask for. 

So you’d smiled at him, and nodded. 

And nothing ever had to be different.

Friends. 

You were so fucking lucky just to be his friend. The one-night stands came and went, and you were still here, with Dean. You could take that. 

Take it, and use it to kindle all that heat in your body. Burn it and burn it until it was ash. 

Keep pretending that your hunger and fever for Dean would ever go out, when you know that this is forever. 

You’ve known it was love since you were in a diner, almost a year ago, and he made the waitress get you the children’s coloring mat, because it had crossword puzzles and you didn’t want to ask. 

“Don’t bother her, Dean

“I’m not bothering her, sweetheart, it’s asking her to carry freakin’ paper-“

“No, it’s stupid, I’ll get a newspaper-“

“We’ll get you a newspaper after.” He shrugged, giving you a shockingly serious look. “But it’s not stupid. You’re not stupid. We’re getting that kids mat.”

You’d flushed, and nodded. And you loved him. 

Love him. 

Now, even in the swamp monster mess, his touch and attention do the exact same thing to you. It’s going to drive you out of your mind, one day. But you don’t want to try and stop it. 

That would mean moving yourself away from Dean, where he couldn’t touch you. And it might not even do anything, but make you miss him. Make things change. 

So you’ll lean slightly into his touch—just in case—and smile at him in the dark. 

When he smiles back, it’s like the whole world lights up. 

And you never want that to change either. 

“You think we need to clean this shit up?” He nods around you, making a face as a fresh wave of swamp-stench drifts through the air, and you shake your head. 

“Can I suggest an alternate plan?”

Dean nods. “You know I love a backup, sweetheart.”

You flush again, bowing your head to make sure he won’t see. “I vote we just blow it up.”

“That’s a plan.” He bumps your shoulder, and you can hear the joy in his voice. “I’m team blow it up.” He pauses. “Can I-“

“Yeah.” You smile at your feet. “You can do the work.”

“Awesome.” He starts to walk towards the exit, and all you can do is follow him. “Then we’ll get all this shit off us.”

You hum an agreement, and try not to pick apart his happiness too much. It’s always good when Dean is happy, but you’ve developed a bad habit of trying to pinpoint why. If he gets excited when you buy him pie because you bought him pie, or it’s pie. If he grins at you when he sees you because he’s happy to see you, or just to see a friend. 

If he just wants to use his grenade launcher, or if he’s happy you gave him a reason to. 

It never gets you anywhere, to think of that. And no matter what conclusion you draw, it’s never going to change anything.  

But it’s still a fun way to torture yourself. Watching him with a smile as he blasts the old cabin, and the whole thing goes crashing down. Returning his thumbs up with a smile, and giving him a high five when he walks back to the car. 

“Another monster, ganked.” He puts the launcher back in the truck, and you hum. 

“And it’s a swamp monster. Big day for you.”

He chuckles, shaking his head. “Yeah, guess it is. Didn’t really think about that.”

You blink at him. “Really?”

“Yeah.” He shrugs, giving you an odd smile you don’t really understand. “Guess I was worrying about other shit.”

“Other-“

“C’mon.” He raises his voice over yours, grabbing your arms and starting to herd you towards the passenger’s seat. “We gotta get you back to the motel. You’re gonna catch a cold.”

“Me?” You frown at him. “You’ll get one too, Winchester-“

“Nah. I don’t catch colds.”

You snort as he closes the door behind you. You wait for him to get behind the wheel before you’re leaning forward, raising your brows. 

“Everyone gets colds, Dean.”

“Not me.” He winks at you, turning on the engine. “I run hot, baby.”

Jesus. 

That’s like being doused in gasoline and struck with a match. It is freezing outside—swamp monsters somehow ended up in Montana—and you are drenched in something worse than water, but all you can feel is the wired heat under your skin, as you play that over and over in your head. 

It’s just another moment, that means nothing to Dean and everything to you. 

But there are so many of them. They make up the tapestry of Dean, that lines your ribs. Remind you over and over that you love him, and every bit of his happiness—whether you’re the direct cause or not—is a rare, priceless gift he gives to so few people.

Dean does love you. 

As a best friend. 

You really can pretend that’s enough, just as long as it never has to change. 

Dean opens the door to the motel room for you, with a wide, smug grin. “You want first shower?”

“Sure, but-“ You flick a chuck of Swamp Monster off his shoulder with a pointed look. “I think you need it more.”

“I’ve been covered in worse.” He shrugs. “You go, I gotta call Sammy and give him the update.”

“Dean, he’s on vacation, don’t bother him-“

“He can pick up the damn phone at the beach.” Dean rolls his eyes. “Eileen won’t care. Go shower, sweetheart.”

You sigh, but give in. Once Dean decides something like that—you aren’t holding your pee for the rest of the drive, they will find a diner that serves Sam’s stupid rabbit food, this place does have a broken heater and Dean’s going to goddamn fix it—there’s no talking him out of it. 

And the shower is nice. Warm. The motel shampoo actually smells like something for once—flowers, nice, sweet flowers—and they water is loud enough that, if you lean against the wall and let your hand wander between your legs, Dean won’t be able to hear it. 

He never hears it. He doesn’t know that you’d get on your knees for him, if he ever asked. That you’d sleep in his bed and hold him through every nightmare, if he let you. 

Dean doesn’t know that you have to bite your tongue to swallow moans, as you think of his hands so easily on your body, and the deep sound of his voice as he said baby, and his eyes, shining on yours. You’ve pictured them above you too many times. Glinting and blown out, as he unravels you below him. Or under you, fluttering and squeezing tight as you ride him. And he’d buck his hips up into you, driving deeper and deeper, and when you moan his name he’d drag you down into a kiss, and all this heat would finally burst into a firework-

You shake, tossing your head back as your release hits. It’s a small one. You’re too tired to do anything properly, and even angling your clit under the water didn’t do as much as you wanted it to. You don’t manage to swallow the squeak of Dean, but the water is still running. You barely heard it. ‘

And as you walk out of the bathroom, Dean’s still on the phone. 

You’re in the clear. 

He scans over you with a tight frown, and you raise your brows. He just shakes his head, pointing to the phone, and you nod, shuffling over to the bed.

“Listen, uh- Sammy. Sam.” Dean shoots you another look. “I gotta go, man, shower is open- No, I’m not gonna- Sam.” His voice lowers to a hiss, and you smile to yourself. That’s the shut your face voice. Sam’s probably trying to convince him to do something. “No, I ain’t calling you after, bitch, I don’t- Fucking Christ. Yeah. I know.”

He hangs up, and you glance at him, having settled on your bed with a book.

“Not saying bye?”

“He doesn’t deserve it.” Dean grumbles, moving to his feet. 

“What did he do-“

“Don’t worry about it.”

“Well,” you wrinkle your nose, leaning forward. “Now I am worried.”

He sighs, running a hand over his face. “It’s not a big thing, sweetheart. I’ll tell you tomorrow.”

“Or, you could tell me now.”

“I, uh- gotta shower.” He makes for the bathroom, and you raise your voice after him. 

“Dean-“

“Tomorrow!” He calls over his shoulder, and closes the door behind him. 

You sigh, looking back to your book. It’s probably nothing. Dean doesn’t keep big secrets, not from you. If it was something for you to be worried about, he’d probably have told you already, to try and convince you to lay low at the bunker while he and Sam handled it. Your bet is on another hunt, that Sam’s trying to send you on. 

Nothing big. 

Just more time you get to spend, only you and Dean. 

Dean mutters your name from the doorway, and when you look up, your breath hitches in your throat. 

There’s steam, billowing out of the bathroom and casting in a halo-like light. His hair is damp and spikey and soft looking, his bare chest looking almost golden—you don’t know how he tans, when you all live in a fucking basement—and water running over his muscles. And you’ve dreamed about pressing your face into his pecs, or scratching at his abs while he kisses you, or kissing over that V before he grabs your hair and pulls you back and stuffs your mouth with- 

You cough, and force your attention back to your book. You can’t look at him too long, or you’ll do something really stupid like beg him to fuck you stupid. 

“Yeah, Dean?” Your voice isn’t steady, but he doesn’t seem to notice. 

“I, uh-“ Dean coughs, and you risk a glance up to see him scratching the back of his neck. “You know we ganked those gross assholes real fast. Thought we’d be here longer. And Sam says there’s a story coming, tomorrow, so we’re gonna have to hit the road in the morning.”

“Storm? What storm?” You frown at him, and he gives you an oddly sheepish grin.

“Snow-storm. Supposed to be bordering on a blizzard or something. ‘Less we wanna be stuck here for least a week, we should haul ass soon.”

“Oh.” A week stuck in a motel with Dean doesn’t sound that bad. It would be torture, but the kind of torture that you’d get a thrill out of. The kind that could fuel a lot of dreams for months to come. 

Or everything could get fucked up. He’d get sick of you. You’d moan his name in your sleep. Too many things could change, if you were stuck together. 

It’s best if you go in the morning. 

“I, um-“ You bite on your inner cheek, watching him carefully. “Is that was you were talking to Sam about?”

Dean blinks at you, then nods slowly. “Yeah. Sure.”

“Sure?”

“Sure.” He shrugs. “That’s what we talking about, sweetheart. The storm.”

You narrow your eyes at him—he’s being weird, and you don’t believe him—but Dean only clears his throat and gives you another grin.

“And since we gotta go in the morning, I was ho- Uh, wondering. If you’d wanna get a drink.”

You frown at him again. “We have beers in the fridge, Dean.”

“Yeah. We do.” He mutters, throat bobbing, and you’ve never seen him like this. Looking at the floor a lot. Not walking around with a puffed-out chest and mastered, cowboy swagger. Like he knows how pretty he is, and he’s using it as a shield. Trying to flash bright enough that people won’t see anything but that smooth voice and boyish, charming grin.

You’ve been allowed to see beneath it. Because he’s your friend. Because he’s not trying to impress or trick you. Not trying to sell himself to you, even though you’re kind of already his. He doesn’t care if he gets your love or affection. Some part of you always wonders if he knows he already has it, and that’s why you get to know Dean, the perfect, sweet, broken but strong man, instead of Dean, the sex-god and hunter legend. 

And you don’t want to go out drinking with him. You love him. But if you have to watch him flirt with someone else the whole night, you’re going to go find another swamp monster and let it eat you.

You don’t get to open your mouth and tell him that, before he’s continuing on. 

“There’s kinda this bar I’ve been dying to check out, since we pulled into down.” His gaze feels like it’s buzzing over your skin. “And we should celebrate. So. Drinks.”

“Drinks.” You repeat, tilting your head at him. He gives you a crooked half-grin and nod, and you pull your lip between your teeth. 

He’s being so fucking weird.

“You can go yourself, Dean-“

“No.” He shakes his head, standing up a little taller. “You saved my life tonight. I’m getting you a drink.”

“You’ve saved my life more. And I never buy you a drink.”

“That’s different.” He dismisses you quickly, and you frown.

“How-“

“C’mon,” he drawls your name, his tone almost challenging. “One drink.”

Fuck. 

He’s got you. He must know he’s got you, otherwise he wouldn’t have pushed it. All he has to do is poke you, and you cave. Give a mumbled nod and agreement, and trying not to burn from within at his happy grin. 

And you don’t know if he’s happy because you said yes to getting drinks, or because he’s getting drinks. 

It doesn’t matter. 

He’s still happy. 

It’s a quick drive, from the motel to the bar. And it’s nice, but not the kind of place you think Dean would be dying to see. It’s just like all other bars you’ve seen, in every corner and county of America. Posters on the walls, dartboards and pool tables, and jukebox that really should be out of commission by now, and dirty, chipping wood tables. The drinks are strong, but no stronger than any other drinks. They’ve got pretty good maraschino cherries, and the bartender doesn’t seem to judge you when you ask for them—which is a plus—but there’s also a gaggle of girls in cowboy hats at the other end of the bar, and you know how this night is going to end. 

Or you thought you did.

But they’ve been giggling and shooting looks at Dean all night, and he hasn’t so much as turned around. 

“What else do you have on your list?” You ask him, playing with the stem of a cherry, and he frowns at you.

“My list.”

“Your bucket list.”

“I don’t have a bucket-“

“Don’t lie to me, Winchester.” You kick his shin lightly, with a small grin. “It’s not befitting of a lady.”

He snorts. “That’s rich, coming from you.”

“I’m not the one being questioned.” 

“Oh, I’m bein’ questioned?” He grins, leaning a little closer, and he smells like pine trees. You never should have gotten him that body wash, but you’d also found out he hadn’t been using body wash, and you couldn’t just let that slide. “What’re the charges, sweetheart?”

You shrug. “Lying about your bucket list.”

He opens his mouth, and you give him a flat look. 

“I saw it, Dean. You keep it at the bottom of your bag.”

“You-“ He shakes his head. “Why the hell were you looking in my bag?”

You flush, staring down at the cherry stem. The knot won’t stick. “You said I could use your shirt. When mine got vamp blood on it.”

“Right.” He gives you an odd look. “Y’know, I never got that shirt back.”

“Sorry. Forgot.”

You didn’t forget. You keep it in your drawer and sleep in it when you haven’t seen him in a few days. He doesn’t need to know that. 

Dean shrugs, taking a swig of his beer. “It’s whatever. I got other shirts.” He gives you a small grin. “You remember what else was on that list?”

“Um,” you wrinkle your nose at the air, biting on your lower lip. “Meet Burt Reynolds, save his life. Give Baby guns. Try an Oreo pizza.” You swallow, keeping your gaze fixed firmly on your hands. “Have the sex.” You can’t look at him. Not right now. “Dean, I’m pretty sure you’ve had sex before.”

“Yeah. But this is, uh-“ He coughs. “Special sex.”

That makes you look at him. He’s picking at the label of his beer, a deep frown on his face. He doesn’t want to talk about this. Not with you.

“Well,” you mumble, tugging on your cherry stem. “I think you’ve got three options, if you want to go for that one.”

He glances at you, brow drawn. “What?”

“The cowgirls behind you.” You’re going to rip the stem in half. “I think they’d be down to have the sex with you.”

It’s meant to come out as a joke, but you mostly sound bitter. It’s sour on your tongue, because you hate being jealous. It’s not Dean’s fault he doesn’t see you like that. And you can’t place any claim over him, or even blame the cowgirls for taking him away from you. If you saw Dean in a bar, you’d do the exact same thing. And maybe then he’d give you the lazy, hungry smirk he always gives everyone else. If you could just be a pretty face. 

There’s a hollow, vile sneer in the back of your head that reminds you he might not even think you’re pretty, and that’s why you never stood a chance. You’ll drink it away, when he leaves you at the bar.

But he doesn’t. Dean doesn’t even look at them. 

He just keeps watching you. 

“Nah.” He shrugs, and you blink at him. 

“Nah?”

“I got better things to do, sweetheart.” 

You stare at him. “Like?”

Dean just grins at you, and that’s not fair. It’s making you feel molten and important, and he doesn’t even mean it like that. 

“Alright.” You let out a soft laugh, and that sounds bitter too. “Who even are you?”

“I dunno, sweetheart.” He shrugs. “You tell me.”

“I- I’m-“ You take a sharp drink of your own, giving him a tight-lipped smile. “So you’re not going to flirt with them.”

He shakes his head. “You’re not going to flirt with the dudes watching you.”

You snort. “There are no dudes watching me-“

“Yeah.” His tone has changed. Gotten firmer. Deeper. “There always are.”

“Dean.” 

“It’s true. You just never freakin’ see it.”

“What, and you do?”

His jaw tics. “Yeah. I do. Beard and flannel, 2  o’clock.”

You look before you can stop yourself, and he’s right. Over your shoulder is a broad, bearded man, wearing a green flannel and looking right at you. He winks, when you meet his gaze, and you swallow. 

“I, um-“ You look back to Dean, who looks oddly annoyed for having pointed the guy out to you. “That’s different.”

Dean let out a dry laugh. “Yeah, okay. Sure.”

“It is. I don’t do… that.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah-“

“So what do I do, sweetheart?”

He’s staring at you, something behind his voice that sounds like it’s important. It’s written all over his face, as well. He still hasn’t looked at the cowgirls. You’re not sure what the fuck is happening.

“I don’t know, Dean.” You murmur, wrapping the stem around your finger like a ring. “What do you do?”

He doesn’t answer immediately. And when you look back up at him, that strange expression has returned. You wait. You’d wait forever. 

And you don’t want to say the wrong thing and fuck this—whatever the hell this is, because he’s never looked at you like that before, but it feels like you’re being turned into starlight—up.

“We, uh-“ He cuts himself off with a frown. “You and me. We’ve known each other a while.”

You’ve felt like you’ve known him your whole fucking life. You felt like that almost the first time you saw him. Sort of like you’d looked at him, and known that this always ends with you falling in love. 

Another thing he doesn’t need to know. 

So you just nod. 

“Right.” He glares at the bottle, like it’s personally responsible for something bad happening to him. “And we’ve been through some shit together. I mean, mostly me. Causing you problems-“

“You don’t cause me problems.” You say before you can stop yourself, and he chuckles.

“I know. You always say that. But, uh- I got news for you, sweetheart. I cause you a lot of problems. And,” he raises his voice before you can protest again. “You never give up on me. Shit, I might of given up on me, but you didn’t. You’re always- No matter how shit this gets, it feels alright long as I got you.”

He’s looking at you like you’re supposed to know what that means. When you stare at him back, he just clears his throat. 

“You mean a lot to me.” He mutters. “You- Your trust means a lot. More than anyone.”

“Oh- okay.” You feel kind of dizzy. “Cool.”

He swallows. “Yeah. And I know I do go home with other chicks, uh, I- It’s not. It never means anything. They know that. And a lot of them have been in…” His ears go slightly red, his voice dropping lower. “Situations. And that ain’t for to them, or- Yeah. And I always go back in the morning.”

You’re lost. “What?”

He sighs. “I always head back to you, sweetheart.”

“I know, Dean, we live together-“

“No- I mean, yeah, but-“ He sighs, running a hand over his face. “You’re kinda the best friend I’ve ever had,” he grunts your name, and you sit a little taller. “I don’t tell you that enough. And I was- Uh, I’ve been thinking- A lot.”

You’re going to chew through your tongue. “About?”

He stares at you, mouth hanging slightly open, and you wait. 

Dean takes a deep breath, his gaze darting over your shoulder, and he shakes his head. 

“Nothing, sweetheart. Never mind.”

You frown. This doesn’t feel like a never mind. “Dean-“

“You want some help with that?” He nods to your cherry stem, giving you a bright grin. “I can do it with my tongue.”

His tongue. He can do things with his tongue. And it’s flicking out over his lips, and he’s grinning at you, and you’re the best friend he’s ever had. 

Friend.

Best friend.

“I’m okay.” You mumble, fiddling with the stem and dropping it in your glass. “Thank you, though.”

His jaw twitches again, and he opens his mouth, then closes it. The cowgirls seen to have wandered off to another corner of the bar. The music is playing quietly in the background, and it’s not a bad song, but it feels like nail scratching your ears. You just don’t want to hear anything right now, other than what Dean decided not to tell you. 

You know he wasn’t building up to the fucking cherry stem. But if you ask, that would be pushing it. And it might not be something you want to hear. 

So you let it go, and give Dean a small smile as you stand up.

He frowns. “Where’re you-“

“Bathroom.” You shrug. “Be right back.”

Dean’s hand flexes, like he’s going to try and reach for you. But he doesn’t. So you walk away. 

But you smile at him, because you’re pathetic. Smile and squeeze his bicep. 

You’d like to run your hand through his hair. 

That’s not a friend thing. 

The bathroom of the bar is just what you’d expect. Flickering lights, cheap looking stalls, a toilet seat that you’re careful to wipe down, because you really don’t want to round all of this off with an infection. 

It hasn’t been the most shit week. You got the monster. Hung out with Dean. Broke your own heart over it, almost every second, but that’s nothing you haven’t been doing for years. And maybe he’s not going to tell you whatever the hell he was building up to, but maybe it’s another thing that’s just not about you. Dean’s being weird because he and Sam are fighting about something stupid. Dean had sounded tense on the phone, earlier. 

So it’s not about you. Tomorrow, Sam will probably call you bitching about Dean, and ask you to talk some sense into him. Sam seems to be under the impression that you’re the only person in the world that Dean listens to without question, but you’ve been in multiple situations where that proved not to be true. The time he wouldn’t let you hunt alone, when you asked him to borrow the car to go into the city—which is something he lets Sam do all the time—the kitchen indecent, when he wouldn’t let you help him figure out how to bake a cake for your birthday, the other time he wouldn’t let you hunt alone- 

“You should totally go talk to him!” A girl’s voice cuts through the air, and you freeze. 

You’d sort of forgotten other people could, hypothetically, use the bathroom. 

“No, it’s okay. There are plenty of hot guys in the world, right?” Second voice. Different girl. 

“Not hot like that.” The first girl says again. “I mean. He looks like he fell right out of the fucking sky. That’s once in a lifetime hotness.”

Dean. They’re talking about Dean.

Fuck.

You should make your presence known. You should just cough, or say yeah, he’s hot, but he’s got a weird penis. Which would just be possessive—which you’re not doing, you’re not—and a straight up lie. You’ve heard the reviews, from girls in the morning. You’ve heard the sounds, when he used to get separate rooms just to rail women in. Sam would put in headphones with a sigh, and you’d try to pretend it wasn’t happening until you’d heard screams of Dean, and you’d decided to find whatever bar was closest and had the highest cut off.

These girls could be the ones screaming, tonight. 

Unless you embraced the jealousy thing, and told them he has a weird penis-

“Yeah, he’s hot, but the woman he was with,” the second girl sighs, and you freeze. Too late to make yourself known. “I think she’s like his girlfriend or something.”

You gape at nothing, and third girl pipes up. 

“No, actually, I agree with that. Don’t talk to him, he’s got a girlfriend.”

“Are you kidding me?” The first girl scoffs. “That was not his girlfriend.”

You scowl. She didn’t have to say it like that. She’s right, but she might not have been, and She didn’t have to be rude about it-

“Why not?” 

“Because if that’s your boyfriend, you don’t leave him alone in a bar.”

The other two girls make sounds of disagreement, and that shouldn’t make you feel as good as it does. 

“No,” the third one says. “Maybe he’s just like, a loyal guy. And she trusts him.”

“Please,” girl two laughs. “Men who look like that aren’t loyal.”

That almost makes you stand up. Dean’s loyal. Arguably, it’s his worst quality, because it’s nearly given both you and Sam multiple aneurysms. You manage only to curl your fists, though. And the second girl continues. 

“Like yes, she was really pretty too. And they looked to be having a serious conversation-“

“Which isn’t what people just hooking up do-“

“I know that. But like, he wasn’t touching her. Maybe they were sitting really closer together, and he ordered her those cherries before she asked-“

“That was really cute-“

“Yeah, but, maybe they’re just like friends!”

“Kaylee.” The third girl says, voice flat. “Did you see how he looked at her?”

“No. You’re the one who pretended to go the jukebox.”

“Well, it was like a puppy dog face. He love loves her.”

You feel like you’re being shot. The girls don’t stop talking. 

“Are you sure?”

“Oh, yeah, just pretend to walk past them later. It’s super obvious.”

They leave a few minutes after that. And you have to remember how to move your legs, but a lot of things are crashing around in your brain. You’re pretty. You and Dean look cute together. 

Dean looks at you like he loves you. 

It feels like you’re floating, when you make your way back to the bar. Dean’s fidgeting with his sleeves, mostly staring at his bottle, and when you tap his shoulder, he looks up at you with a frown. 

It quickly turns into a grin. And he holds up your folded cherry stem with a proud grin, puffing out his chest. 

“Did it while you were gone. In one shot, by the way. You can, uh- Keep it? I dunno. Didn’t think past doin’ it, I guess.”

You give him a softer smile, and tuck the cherry stem into your pants. “I’ll keep it. Thank you.”

“Course.” He shrugs, glancing around the mostly empty bar. 

The cowgirls are watching you. 

Dean’s hand is resting on your wrist. You’re not sure if he knows he’s doing it, but it’s warm and electric over your whole body.  

And when you scan over his face, there’s nothing on it that screams he loves you. That’s just Dean’s face. Maybe the third girl just had too much to drink, or is rooting for him to be in love with you, which is very sweet but overall useless to you-

“You wanna head back?” Dean squeezes your wrist, giving you another easy, causal grin. “We should get our three hours, before we beat the storm.”

You sigh, giving him a tight smile. “It’s eight hours.”

“Yeah, if you’re a health nerd.”

“Dean-“

“It’ll be six hours, if we go now.”

You wrinkle your nose at him, and he just grins back. It really is the same grin he’s always given you. But you hear the cowgirls giggling, when you pass them. They’re probably reading into Dean’s hand, on your back, way too much. You know you have.

But reading too deep into things is what you’re best at. 

And now that they’ve mentioned how Dean looks at you, it’s impossible stop. 

You’re picking it apart, for the rest of the night. For the entirety of the drive, as you analyze every shift in his face, when he glances your way. How he smirks at you, when he opens your door with a dramatic, sweeping gesture. How he laughs when you roll your eyes, and the face he makes when you mumble that you’re getting changed. Then the face when you come back, and he looks up from the TV. 

“Dean.” You lean over the back of the couch, making your voice as firm as possible. “Six hours. You promised.”

He groans, but turns off the TV, and flicks your nose. “After all I do for you, sweetheart, you’re gonna make me sleep?”

“Yep.” He’s so close. You can see every handsome feature of his face. “Go to bed, Dean.”

He grunts and his gaze is trapped right on yours. His eyes are so fucking green, and they’re shining on yours. His breath is warm on your face, and in the cold of the night, it’s impossible to ignore. How all the heat is coming from Dean. You could move. Just an inch. Press your lips against his, and see what it does. Maybe he’d pull you over the couch and into his lap, kiss you until he’s all that you can feel. Until you’re burning alive, but he’s burning with you.

Or it could change everything. And you’d lose your best friend. 

You pull back. And don’t look at Dean again, as you go to bed. You need to stop torturing yourself. You’ll do it enough on the car ride tomorrow. 

Dean’s true to his word. He goes to the bathroom, takes another shower, then gets into bed right after you. Enough for six hours, even if he’s up first. 

He doesn’t wake you up, as he gets ready to go. Packing his bag, then yours, then the remaining supplies. You mostly just drift in and out, listening to him shuffle around the room, pause, then move again. At one point, after you hadn’t shifted around in a while, his hand rests on your brow. And because he thinks you’re just sleeping, you nuzzle into it. 

He lingers. 

Fingers trace over your face. Your cheeks and nose and eyebrows, then up into your hair. 

He sighs, and moves away, and there’s another thing to over think. He could be disappointed in you. Annoyed with you. Tired of you. Just tired overall, and that was a yawn. But Dean doesn’t really yawn.

He also doesn’t just touch people’s faces. 

But- 

“Son of a bitch?”

Your eyes shoot open, and you sit up in a second, reaching for your gun. No one seems to be in danger. Dean’s glaring out the window. 

You rub your eyes, pushing up to your knees. “Dean, what’s wrong?”

“Come look.” He mutters, and you shuffle to your feet, peering out the window.

“Oh.” You whisper, and he chuckles.

“Yep.”

You didn’t beat the storm. 

The storm beat you. The world is all gray and white, falling snow and sheets of white over the whole world. 

So you’re trapped in the motel. With Dean

———

“We did try to leave early.” Dean grunts into the phone and you sigh, holding your knees to your chest on the bed.

It took five hours for the storm to clear enough that Dean could call Sam. Another hour for Sam to pick up, because he is on vacation. 

And you’re not sure how you’re going to survive this. 

Not the storm. The storm will be easy. You’re what Dean’s called paranoid—but is proving itself to just be prepared—and there’s no possible way you’re going to run out of food. The water is still running, as it electricity. The heater did break again, but Dean’s spent the last two hours on his knees, trying to fix it.

Most of his tools are both for cars, and in the car. 

He’s improvised. 

And he’d given you this big, boyish and proud grin, when he’d realized he could use the wire hooks without being electrocuted. And that’s why you’re not going to survive this. 

You’re trapped with Dean. And his smiles and voice and body and general everything. It’s one room—two if you count the bathroom—and it’s just you and Dean. No buffer to stop you from saying something stupid, like how you love him. No distractions, because the electricity is working but this motel only has cable, and that’s down. Just you and Dean.

“Fuckin’ Christ.” Dean mutters under his breath, shooting you an odd look.

You mouth what back at him. 

He rolls his eyes, and mouths back Sam, before speaking aloud. “Yeah, I know how waitin’ out storms works, Sam, I freakin’ taught you- We ain’t gonna run out of water, this isn’t a drought, we can drink the snow- I’m not drinking it right now.”

You giggle, and Dean gives you a flat look. You only shrug in return, and that eye roll is for you, but you don’t really care. At least it’s for you.

“No.” Dean turns back to the heater, his voice having dropped. “I ain’t doing that. No- Sam. Shut your face or I’m calling Eileen and telling her she’s got a funeral to attend. Not mine-“

Dean groans, running a hand over his face, and you climb out of the bed. The blankets have to stay wrapped around you—it’s fucking freezing—but you can still help. You kneel down at his side, holding out your hand and nodding to the hanger. Dean frowns at you and shakes his head, and you flex your fingers, giving him a pointed look. 

He pulls the phone away, covering the speaker—Sam’s voice muffled through his hand—and grunts, “I got it, sweetheart. Go back to bed.”

“Dean.” You sigh, just grabbing it out of his hand. He doesn’t fight you, just staring as you shift on your knees. “Finish your phone call.”

He opens his mouth to say something, then sighs, and nods. He squeezes your shoulder, as he moves to his feet, and you watch him walk to the other side of the room. 

You’ve been studying his face all morning. The cowgirl’s words haven’t stopped replaying. He looks at you like he loves you.

But you really don’t think he does. 

He’d given you tight smiles all morning, until you’d finished sorting the supplies and decided that you’d easily survive this without eating each other. 

“If we don’t have enough,” he’d said, hanging over your shoulder. “I want you to eat me.”

You’d sighed, and whacked his thigh. Better not think about how firm it had been. How if you turned your head, you would have been at perfect eye level with his bulge. And it had been freezing, but that was the kind of heat that was going to kill you just as much as it made you come alive. Now, trapped in a motel during a blizzard, was not the time to test the waters of how much Dean would want you. You’d rather turn to ice than have to spend a whole week, awkwardly pretending you hadn’t come onto Dean and gotten rejected.   

“I’m not going to eat you, Dean.” You’d muttered, and he’d shaken his head. 

“I’m telling you to eat me, sweetheart.” He’d dropped at your side, and you’d focused on your sorting. If you looked at Dean, you’d stare and try to figure out if he loved you. “It’s my last wish. You not gonna honor a dying man’s last wish.”

“No.”

“That’s pretty damn rude-“

“You’re not dying.” You’d looked at him, because you’re weak. No promise you ever made yourself about Dean lasted more than about twenty minutes, because most of them were don’t look at him or don’t talk to him, and actually committing to that would mean more change. 

He hadn’t been looking at you like he loved you. 

It had just been the same way he always looks at you. Open, handsome, with a small grin and light in his eyes. 

That’s just his stupid, pretty face. And it had been hard to keep pretending to be annoyed with him, when this was the first real smile he’d given you all morning. 

“We’ve got enough.” You mumbled, your eyes seemingly trapped on his. “I- I won’t need to eat you.”

“Awesome.” He’d grinned at you, and you’d swallowed, and nodded. 

That was just another expression he always made. It didn’t mean anything. 

He is scowling at the air, now that he’s focused on his phone call. He hasn’t looked at you like that, ever. But you also haven’t been saying anything to piss him off. 

It’s very rare, that you actually do piss Dean off. 

But you’re his best friend, so that can’t mean much. 

You have to drag your gaze back to the heater. You’re going to drive yourself out of your mind, before you even hit day five. 

Dean keeps talking, and it sounds like a serious conversation—serious enough that you’re not allowed to hear it, which you’re trying and failing not to read into, but it can just be another way to fucking torture yourself—when you hear the rattling buzz from the heater that means it’s working.

You turn to Dean with a wide grin, sitting up straight and making a ta da gesture to your work, and he grins at you again. Gives you a thumbs up, even his brows remain furrowed at whatever Sam is saying.

“Sam.” He grunts, walking towards you. “I’m going.”

There’s a sound of protest from the other end of the line, and you bite your lip to stop yourself from laughing again. 

“I know how rationing works, Sam, I taught you that shit, too- No, we’re not fuckin’ talking about that- Bye.”

Dean hangs up, Sam’s voice dying mid-sentence, and you give him a curious look.

“Not talking about what?”

“Don’t worry about it,” Dean mutters your name, crouching down at your side and scanning over the heater. “Nice work.”

That shouldn’t make you flush as much as it does. But Dean’s really close, and he’s praising you, and suddenly the room has spiked from freezing cold to almost insufferably hot. 

“Thanks,” you mumble, and Dean just shrugs, clapping you on the shoulder. The way he would a friend.

“No problem. So.” He scans around the room, and his brow pinches together the moment he’s not looking at you. 

He’s thinking. That’s all it means. 

“We got food, water, heat, shelter.” Dean says, mostly to himself. “Overall we’re not half fucked.”

“Only a quarter.” 

Dean snorts, and his brows un-pinch as he looks at you.

Which still probably means nothing. 

“What do you think that quarter fucked is, sweetheart?”

Him. Being trapped with him. Already starting to spiral about what everything he does and says means, if this is going to make things change, if he’s going to get sick of you, if he does look at you different. You really can’t tell anymore. You might have already gone mad, or the heat is just getting to your brain. 

Making you hallucinate how close he is. How his attention on you is undivided, how his thumb is rubbing small circles where it’s still resting on your shoulder. 

That’s your quarter fucked. 

But you also know what Dean’s is, so you say that instead. 

“No TV.” You give him a mock pout, and he lets out a dramatic groan. 

“It’s not funny, sweetheart-“

“Yeah, it is.” 

“You’re saying that now, but what are you gonna do when you get sick of talking to me?”

You frown at him. “I won’t get sick of talking to you.”

He scoffs. “Sure-“

“I’m serious, Dean.” You lean forward, which is a mistake. He steadies you with a hand on your knee. He’s still like a furnace. You’re going to catch his heat and melt into nothing. “I won’t get sick of you. Are-“ You swallow. You shouldn’t ask it. “Will you-“

“No.” He mutters, scanning over your face. “But I still miss TV.”

You give him a small smile, a weightlifting off your chest. “It’s been like, twelve hours.”

“Fifteen.”

You laugh at his grumpy face, and his lips twitch.

“We’ll find something to do, Dean.” You cup his face as you move to your feet. He might have leaned into your touch. Another thing to pretend not to think about. “I promise.”

———

“Checkmate.”

Dean groans, leaning over the board with a glare. “No, that’s- Son of a bitch.” He looks up at you with wide eyes. “I fuckin’ had it, sweetheart, what the hell.”

You shrug, starting to reset the pieces. “You never had it, Mr. Winchester. You’re a fool and your knowledge of the gentleman’s game is weak.”

He snorts. “I think you’re just cheating.”

“Maybe.” You grin at him. “But if I am, you haven’t caught me.”

“So you have been-“

“Do you have proof?”

Dean sighs, and grumbles, “No.”

You hum. “Innocent until proven guilty.”

“Or until you admit it.”

“I’ve never admitted anything. In my life.”

Dean raises his brows. “Half an hour ago, you told me you used to sing lyrics to classical music.”

You flush, and throw a pawn at his face. “That was a secret-“

“I haven’t told anyone! I’m just sayin’ back to you what you said to me-“

“Well, you used to name your toy cars after different cartoon characters-“

“Hey.” Dean wields the pawn at you like a knife, narrowing his eyes. “Don’t bring She-Ra the Pontiac into this.”

He glares at you, you glare right back, and there’s only a beat of silence before you both burst out laughing. 

This has been most of the last two days. You’d raided the entire room, to see exactly what type of amenities were provided, and found mostly paper, meaning that you and Dean spent most of last night playing drawing games. He drew genuinely the worst tiger you’ve ever seen, and you drew a snake so worm-like he spent twenty minutes laughing on the ground. This morning—before you got up—he went outside during a brief lull in the storm, grabbed your playing cards from the trunk of Baby, and raided the lobby for board games. 

He beat you at two-person poker, twice. You won gin rummy, and cribbage, so he insisted on a third poker round. You know he just wanted it to win again. But you love him—and his stupid, dopey grin whenever he does something well—so you let him have it. And he did win. But you kicked his ass in Candyland. 

Dean said this one was a kid’s game, so it didn’t count.

You’d pulled out the chess, after that.

This is your fifth win in a row. And you’re not cheating. 

But Dean is adorable when he’s grumpy. And just for now, you’re giving up on trying not to look at him too long. You won’t mess up, because this is already such a fragile situation. You’re on a high alert to not do anything too obviously in love with him. And already spent all of last night with the sheets tangled between your legs, looping over and over how Dean had made you dinner. Stared at you when you’d come out of the bathroom in a towel and coughed. Talked to you until two in the morning, because for once neither of you had anywhere to be in the morning.

In a very, very strange way, this feels like a vacation. A precarious one, where you’ve sealed over half the things you want to say to him—I love you, Dean, I want you, I spent that whole shower thinking about what it would feel like if you were with me, on your knees or behind me or anything, I’d take anything—and allowed yourself to look at him to keep it together. To keep him from noticing.

It would be suspicious, if you didn’t look at him. And it’s quelling that unending heat, in your body. 

You’re going to get through this. Walk out the other side, with only good memories, and nothing changed. 

You’re probably going to be trying to figure out how Dean looks at you forever, but that’s only hurting you, so it’s fine.

It’s all just fine.

“No more chess.” Dean grumbles, grabbing a rook out of your hands and bumping it on your nose. You blink at him kind of stupidly. He doesn’t seem to notice. “Let’s go back to cards.”

You take the rook back, poking it into his chest. “Why, so you can win poker?”

He shrugs with a grin, and you sigh. 

“How about war? No skill. Just luck.”

Dean frowns. “I got shit luck, sweetheart.”

“And I don’t?”

“Better than mine.” He mutters under his breath, and you frown. 

There’s something heavy to his tone that you don’t understand. But before you can try and find the words to ask him about it, he’s moving on. 

“One poker game, just to level out the field. C’mon. I’ll make you lunch?”

“And- Do I not get lunch if I say no?”

“No, but this doesn’t work if you keep bringin’ reason into it, sweetheart.”

“Sorry.” You pick at your nails, giving him a small smile, and he sighs. 

“It’s alright, sweetheart. But if we play war, I’m shuffling.”

You nod, giving him a wider smile, and his jaw twitches. It’s been doing that a lot, today. You spent most of breakfast staring at it, trying to figure out what it meant. Probably just that he’s tense, from the stress of the situation. Even though it started last night. And overall, the situation hasn’t been all that stressful. 

Again. Trying not to think about it. 

“Deal.” You hold out your hand, and Dean shakes it. His hand fits perfectly, in yours. It always has. You’ve had a lot of fantasies about just Dean’s hands, alone.

And it’s impossible not to stare, as he shuffles. His fingers have always moved so deliberately, with such exact, measured movements, and they’re big and thick and rough, and when you passed him the cards, he’d touch your forearm and you felt like you were going to fly out of your skin- 

“Ready?” Dean nods to the pile of cards in front of you, and you blink. 

Right. 

The game.

“Ready.” You mutter, sounding breathier than you meant to, but you’d also worked yourself into a small frenzy, thinking about his hands. His smirk isn’t helping. 

You really don’t think he knows, exactly what he does to you. 

But if he does, this is downright cruel. 

“Alright,” he drawls your name, picking up his own deck with a dramatic roll of his shoulders. “Let’s skirmish.”

You laugh—it’s stupid, but you always laugh—and Dean’s grin widens.

It’s not clear if he’s smiling because you laughed, or just he got a laugh. 

You really have to stop picking yourself apart like this. 

The first few flips run by, and soon you’re not even counting down to flip anymore. You and Dean have gotten somehow merged your game brains, and you’re flipping in perfect sync. You’re winning most of them. Dean hasn’t seemed to notice yet. 

“Would you rather be attacked by a duck, or a hippo.”

You blink at him, flipping over another card. “What kind of question is that, obviously-“

“Wait.” He grins at you. “The duck has a gun, and the hippo is a baby.”

“Oh.” You tilt your head at the air. “Does the duck know how to use the gun?”

“Sure.”

“Okay, and is the hippos mom around?”

Dean frowns. “Why does that matter.”

“Mothers are incredibly aggressive when their babies are threatened, Dean. A grown mom hippo kill me.”

“Huh. Well, we don’t want that.” His brow furrows, and you try not to let that make you feel too gooey. “Let’s call it that the mom hippo is around, but far enough that she won’t know if you’re careful.”

“Careful? The hippo is attacking me-“

“So you gotta kill it.”

You gape at him. “I’m not killing a baby hippo, Dean.”

“Fair.” He nods, flipping over a nod. “So you’re going Gun Duck.”

“Do I get a gun?”

“If you can take his.”

“I can do that.” You watch him grab the cards he won. He’s rolled up his sleeves, so you can see his forearms. It’s distracting. “What would you choose?”

“Gun Duck.” Dean shrugs. “I think I could take that mama hippo, though.”

You snort. “No, you couldn’t.”

He gives you a mock look of offense. “Sweetheart, I’ve fought the Devil-“

“Hippos kill 500 people a year, Dean.”

He scoffs. “So?”

“So there are about 180 plane crashes a year.” You give him pointed a look and he gulps, going a little pale. 

“Good point. No hippos.”

You hum, pulling more of your own cards forward. “Would you rather live on the moon, or underwater?”

Dean pauses, thinking about it as you both flip. “The moon. Space would be pretty awesome. Can I guess your answer?”

You nod, a little desperate to know what he thinks you’re going to say, and he grins at you.

“Underwater.”

You keep your face perfectly neutral. “Why?”

“Because you think space is scary.”

“The bottom of the ocean is scarier.”

“Yeah, but you wouldn’t live at the bottom of the ocean.” He gives you a look like that’s obvious, and sighs when you just stare at him. “I think you’d be like, a lady of the lake or whatever.”

“A-“ You blink at him. “Like in King Arthur?”

“Yeah.” He grins at you, wide and toothy. “I’d be a pretty awesome King, right. I’d get to sit at the round table.”

“Sure,” you return his grin, setting out three cards. “What are your stances on tithes and feudalism?”

“Uh.” He makes his tight, adorable thinking expression—the one where he’s really trying, but doesn’t have a fucking clue what you’re talking about—and you want to kiss him all over his stupid face. “Anti?”

You hum and nod, and he raises his brows.

“Was that right?”

“I don’t know, you’re the King.”

“Yeah, but you’re my- Lady advisor.”

You snort. “Lady Advisor?”

“The- Guinevere lady-“

“That was Arthur’s wife.” You say, and it’s really hard to sound causal about that. “And she cheated on him with his best friend.”

Dean recoils slightly, shaking his head. “Okay, so you ain’t that.”

You give him a cautious look. “Do I have to be something, in your fantasy land?”

“Course you do, sweetheart.” He says that like it’s obvious, too. “It ain’t a fantasy land if you’re not there.”

You flush, and Dean sits a little taller, clearing his throat. You don’t know if he meant it like that. He probably didn’t. But now he’s not looking you in the eyes, and he probably thinks he’s leading you on—even if he doesn’t know he doesn’t need to put you on a leash or offer you a reward, you’d follow him to the end of the earth no matter what—and things are going to change-

“I’m the Lady of the Lake.” You mumble, folding a card between your finger and giving him a small smile. “Of course I’m in your fantasy.”

He coughs, but grins at you, and he’s ears are red again.  

Don’t think too much into it. 

“Awesome.”

———

It’s only been three days.

You’re falling into a far too comfortable pattern. 

Dean makes you breakfast, you do lunch, he does dinner. You play card games and talk, Dean goes out to check that nobody’s stolen Baby—it doesn’t matter how many times you tell him that won’t happen, he has to do it anyway—and you make him hot chocolate for when he gets back. You spent most of today talking about superheroes, Dean hanging your paper stars on the ceiling because he’s perfect, and you don’t know how you were ever supposed to not fall in love with him.

“Can I have the purple?” You ask, and he passes the marker to you with a small grin.

“I still don’t understand why you these in the car, sweetheart.”

“For organizing. Duh.”

“Right. Duh.” He chuckles, nudging your side with his foot, and you squeak. 

“Dean-“

“Sorry.” He laughs above you, and he kind of looks like a God. Big and strong and handsome, so far above you, so untouchable, but offering you more with his joy than you can understand. 

Because you haven’t seen Dean this happy in years. He’s fully relaxed, he’s not scanning around every few seconds to check that everyone is safe, and he’s still sleeping with his gun under his pillow—that’s never going to change—but when you woke him up this morning, you didn’t end up with the barrel in your face.

It’s probably because there are no threats. 

It’s getting harder and harder to think it’s not about you.

“Can you pass me my book?”

“Sure.” He shuffles away, and your body seems to want to follow him, which isn’t fair. “What, you gonna use the pages to make more stars?”

“Don’t joke about that.” You mutter, frowning at the star in your hands. “I just want to use this one as a bookmark.”

Dean just hums, and the book is passed into your hands as he sits at your side. “You, uh- Liking it?”

You angle your head to see him, and he’d grabbed a beer while he was getting your book. He’s picking at the label again. His jaw is ticking. 

You really don’t know how to ask him what that’s about. 

“The book.” He adds—after you’re quiet for a beat too long—giving you a sheepish grin. “How are you liking the book.”

“Oh. It’s- Good. I’ve always wanted to read it, and I- yeah.” He’s sitting too close. It’s making you short circuit. 

Dean just nods, turning the bottle in his hands. “So it’s on your bucket list?”

He gives you a half-grin, and that makes you almost go limp. He’s smiling at you like it’s a secret. Like it’s something only you get to know about, even if it was because you accidentally snooped. 

You smile back. It always makes his grin wider, and his shoulders relax, and that could be about you-

No. 

You’re not doing that. 

“Maybe.” You shrug, and he raises his brows.

“You gonna tell me what else is on there?”

You sit up, holding his gaze. Your knees are bumping together. You could swear his eyes widen slightly. 

“The sex.” You whisper, and he groans, shaking his head and looking back to his bottle with a tight smile as you giggle. 

“Bet you’re proud of that one.”

“I am.” You poke his thigh, lying back down as his nostrils flare, and he gives you an odd look.

“You should write one.” He says suddenly. “We got a shit ton of paper. Sammy says they’re good for you to do. Reckon with your own mortality or something.”

You snort, fiddling with one of the stars. “Like you’ve ever reckoned with your mortality-“

“I’m serious,” he says, and when you look back up, he’s staring right into you. “It’s useful. Sammy’s usually out of his freakin’ mind, with that therapy bullshit, but-“ He sighs, tipping his head back to rest against the bed. “It’s not half bad.”

He glares at the ceiling, as if he can’t believe what he’s saying, and you take a risk. It won’t change anything. You’ve comforted him before, and he’s comforted you, so this won’t change anything.

“Dean.” You murmur, resting your hand on his thigh. “I believe you, I just- I don’t want that many things.”

“Everyone wants things.” He mutters, and you shake your head. 

“Not me.”

He finally looks at you, and that strange expression has returned. His eyes lock onto yours, and there seems to be a heaviness to him that you’ve never really seen before. You smile at him gently, and his lips only twitch. He’s looked at you like this before, as well. In the dead of night, when he woke up shouting and you were the only one who heard. 

But you’ve never seen it in the light before. 

And it’s the way he always looks at you, but more. His eyes are softer, but his jaw is clenched so tight you’re worried he’ll hurt himself. There are deep lines on his face that you want to trace with your fingers, and his lips are in a tight line you want to pry open with your tongue. 

“Nothin’ you want, huh.” his voice is deeper than only a moment before, almost a little hoarse.

You sigh, your eyes darting to your hand, still resting against him. “Nothing I can have.” 

He gives you a curious look. “What, going back to civilian life?”

“No. Never.” You bite on your inner cheek, playing with the fabric of his jeans. “You’re stuck with me, Winchester. Sorry.”

He lets out a low laugh, leaning back once more. “Don’t worry about me, sweetheart. I think I’ll live.”

———

Dean taps on the top of your head, and you look up to find him grinning down at you, holding your book. 

“What-“

“I read it.” He stands a little taller, seeming to puff out his chest. “You were right, sweetheart, it’s pretty good.”

“It’s- The book?” You blink at him. “You read the book?”

“All of it. Except the acknowledgments.”

“Yeah, you don’t really have to read the acknowledgments-“ You shake your head, chewing on your tongue. “Why did you read the book.”

“I dunno. You,” he gently bops your head with the book. “Fell asleep early. And you didn’t stop reading it yesterday, so- I dunno. Wanted to see what the big deal was.”

You nod, watching him carefully. “And you liked it?”

“Sure.” He pauses. “Did you like it?”

“Yes.” You whisper, and you’re not sure why this is hitting you in the chest so hard. It’s just a book.

But he read it for you. 

And he’s been looking at you all week. Laughing with you. Not pushing you away or shutting you out when the conversations get too serious. Acting like you’re the only two people in the word, which is what it feels like. 

It’s just you and Dean. In this room, and—even though you know that it’s not true, that he’ll probably turn around and walk right into another bed when you’re free—in the whole fucking universe. 

It’s really impossible to think that none of this is about you, now. It probably isn’t, but playing pretend is getting easier and easier. You’re not getting sick of him. He’s not getting sick of you. 

And if you never had to leave, you might ask him. If he’s happy here with you, or just happy here. If he thinks he looks at you differently, if there was any truth to what the cowgirls said. 

If he really was never going to go home with them. 

What the hell he was going to tell you, at the bar.

If he can feel how humid it is, here. How outside, the storm is still raging, but in here your skin is hot and sweaty because Dean’s been pulling your legs over his lap when you’re on the couch. And the steam keeps following him out of the shower and into your dreams. 

Last night you had to take an emergency shower, because you’d had a fucking wet dream. It had been all hands and lips, everywhere over your body at once. Soft on sensitive skin and rough on your neck and tits and between your legs. You’ll woken up with your hair stuck to your brow, and your hips grinding into the mattress. Chasing release in nothing, until you’d scrambled into the bathroom, turned on the water, and finished where he wouldn’t hear you. 

Couldn’t hear you. 

Didn’t hear you. 

Dean couldn’t have heard you. If he had, he wouldn’t be looking at you right now. He’s been trying to let you down gently, instead of sitting right next to you. Waiting for your attention. Pressing his thigh into yours. 

Best friend. 

He’s comfortable with you because you’re his best friend. And you’re getting really, really bad at remembering that. 

But he’s really not making it easy. 

“You- Uh-“ He clears his throat. “You ever think about how Sammy’s doing?”

“Like- Emotionally?”

“No, like-“ Dean lets out a slow breath, watching you so carefully it feels like he’s pulling you apart. “With this life he’s got goin’ for himself. Less hunting, more time with the missus. Thinking about that white picket fence, payin’ taxes, apple pie shit. You ever think about that?” 

You swallow, and speak slowly. This sort of feels like a warzone. You don’t want to misstep. 

“Sometimes.” With you. “I- I mean, I have the dream.”

“The dream?”

You nod, and he frowns.

“I thought you didn’t want things.” 

“I don’t want things I can have.” You correct, and Dean raises his brows.

“It’s a dream, sweetheart. Doesn’t gotta be something you can have, think that’s the whole freakin’ point.” He pauses. “I’ve told you about my dreams.”

Fuck. 

“I- Don’t know.” Your gaze drops to your hands, but Dean’s gaze keeps searing over your skin. “It’s dumb.”

“Nah. You’re never dumb.”

Fuck. “Dean-“

“You don’t have to tell me.” He mutters, something oddly edged in his tone. “But I’m here. If you wanna-“

“I’d like it.” You cut him off softly, and he stills at your side. “What Sam’s doing. I mean- Not exactly that. But we- I would kind of want both, I think. Keep helping, even if it’s mostly research. Having something good, my way.” 

You give Dean a small, nervous smile, and his mouth is hanging open. He’s closer than he was, only a second ago. You could lean forward and bump your noses together, if you tried. 

And you want to. 

But Dean’s just staring at you, and your knees are starting to feel weak, despite sitting down. 

“Why isn’t that something you can have?” Dean’s voice is so low you can almost feel it in your chest, and he only seems to be getting closer. 

“Because there’s no one I can do that with.” You say, before you can think about it, and Dean’s jaw twitches. 

He’s so fucking close. You can really smell that pine tree wash. Your heartbeat is in your ears, along with a strange rattle that’s bouncing around your skull with every heated thought—his hand wandering up your leg and between your thighs, his body covering yourself, his lips wherever the hell he wants them, as long as it’s on your skin—and most of your brain is just a haze of Dean. 

But you can’t move first. Things can’t change, when this inevitably ends. 

The rattling sound is getting too loud to just be the hunger, bouncing around your ribs.

“The heater is making noise again.” You whisper, and Dean licks his lips, his voice still low and hoarse. 

“It’ll be fine,” he mutters. “You fixed it.”

That is not a good enough reason for it to be fine, no matter how confident and smooth Dean says it. Even if it ignites in your lower gut, and spreads humid between your thighs. “But-“

“You want dinner?”

You frown. “It’s my night-“

“It’s fine.” He moves to his feet suddenly, rubbing the back of his neck. “Uh- Pasta. And those frozen meatballs, we haven’t used them yet.”

“At least let me help.” You try to stand up, but Dean just blocks you, shaking his head. “Dean-“

“I got it, baby. Don’t worry about it.”

You don’t argue with him after that. Not because he’s right—he’s not—but because you’ve forgotten how to walk. Or talk. Or do anything at all. 

Baby.

Dean called you baby. 

———

He doesn’t do it again. Not for the rest of the night, or in the morning. The next day is mostly spent making up a new card game, that’s mostly based on you and Dean yelling at each other, and trying to steal cards. At one point he tackles you, starting a mock wrestling match, and it’s like being tossed into a wildfire. You giggle too much. Give in too fast. 

Dean stands abruptly, and goes to the bathroom for twenty minutes after that. 

You don’t think that’s about you. Not when he immediately drags you to your feet and announces that he’s ready to learn how Zodiac signs work. If he was pissed at you—if something had changed—he wouldn’t be talking to you at all. But he doesn’t move from your side for the rest of the day.  

So the heat doesn’t die. 

Not until you crawl into bed, and the heater stops rattling.

Stops all together. 

And everything starts to freeze. 

For the first hour, you try to just bundle yourself as tight as you can, burrowing yourself in the blankets and curling up in a ball. But the temperature drops faster and faster, and these are motel sheets. Thinner than they should be, a little itchy, and not made to withstand the cold of a blizzard. Your fingertips start to go numb, and you can feel the cold almost in your bones, until you have to clench your jaw to stop your teeth from chattering. 

Dean’s snoring soundly, in his own bed. You don’t even think he’s realized how cold it’s gotten. 

But the man runs like a furnace. A warm, big furnace that could wrap around you, and make you warm, so fucking warm- 

You sit up, and stare at him in the dark. Just as handsome as always, with all the panes of his face cast in sharp long shadows that only make him more beautiful. You could easily lose yourself kissing along his jawline or running your finger through his hair. Sitting in his lap and pressing your face into his chest, just feeling him until the whole world is lighter.

And this isn’t about that. 

It can’t be. You roll out of bed—keeping the blankets wrapped around you—and this isn’t about how you’re in love with Dean. If it becomes that, you’ll spiral into what every single brush of his skin and breath means. You’ll stare at him all night instead of sleeping, and he’ll notice, and you’ll ruin everything. 

So it’s just about heat. 

You nudge his arm, and drop your voice to a loud whisper. “Dean.”

He grunts, and you sigh, poking him again. 

“Dean.” 

He rolls over, making a low sound like your name, and his hand rests over yours as his eyes flutter. He looks so comfortable. Peaceful. At complete ease, in a way you’ve almost never seen. 

It’s so fucking selfish to wake him up, just for you. 

But another chill runs through your body, and you don’t have another choice. 

“Dean.” You shove him gently, and he makes an adorable grumbling sound, slowly opening his eyes. 

“What- What’s’a matter.” He frowns around the dark, then up at you. His hand over yours tugs you a little closer.

It doesn’t mean anything. 

“I’m cold.” You whisper, he frowns, and this was stupid. “Never mind. I’m sorry, I just- I’ll go back to bed-“

“Wait, just-“ Dean pulls you back with a small yelp, and his hand rests over your brow. “Son of a bitch, sweetheart, you’re freezing.”

“I- I know.”

“Well, we gotta-“ He cuts himself off, scanning over you carefully as his nostrils flare. 

You just stare at him back, and whatever he can see on your face, it’s what he wants.

Dean gives you a tight nod, and throws open his blanket. “C’mere.”

“No- It’s okay- I’ll be fine-“

“You’re already not fine-“

“But you don’t have to-“Dean grunts your name, and it’s a good thing he can’t see the flush of your cheeks. “Get in the fuckin’ bed. Please.”

Please.

He did say please.

You crawl onto the mattress, and before you can build any sort of safety barrier between your bodies, Dean’s pulling you right into his chest. And that’s enough to make the heat spike and return, stronger than before. But then he bows his head so his lips brush over your hairline, and his hands dive just under your shirt to rub your skin, and his legs tangled with yours until all you can feel is Dean. 

Hot. 

So fucking hot, you’re worried you’re going to evaporate and turn into nothing but steam. 

“Relax.” He mutters, deep and right in your ear, and you almost go limp in his arms. “There you go. Warmer?”

You hum—speaking feels like a taller order right now—nodding against his shoulder, and Dean lets out a slow breath. 

“Good. Go to sleep, sweetheart, I’ll fix it for you in the morning.”

He’ll fix it. For you. Dean will fix it for you. 

That’s about you. 

And he’s fixing it now. But not in the way he probably thinks.