A mess of fandoms, but what's new tho

Clark would never do that to you. In the short amount of time you've known the man, he's never once left a text unanswered, a missed call slip by, a date forgotten. He always brought you flowers, always made plans with you, and was always there when you needed something. 

If anything, Clark Kent was the dream guy every girl fantasied about. He was unabashedly caring and kind, handsome in every aspect, thoughtful and funny. He wore a smile brighter than the sun, sang pop songs with no embarrassment, and gave compliments like they held the weight of the world. 

Clark was a dream. Your dream. 

But no dream was perfect. 

You sigh, glancing at your phone for a text, a missed call. Nothing. This wasn't the first time Clark had been late for a date. In fact, it wasn't even the third or fourth. As thoughtful as Clark was, the man had a horrible habit of being late.

Time management always seemed to slip by for the ever busy reporter. A column that needed some extra editing, research that took a little longer than anticipated. Interviews he just couldn't miss. 

As you open up your phone, googling the latest news you see it. The first headline from that evening, “Superman Spotted in Downtown Metropolis: Another Metahuman Brawl”. 

Ah. That explained it. Wherever Superman was, somehow Clark wasn’t far behind, ready to swoop in and get the latest scoop on the metahuman. You bite your lip, looking around. 

Maybe you should just go. Call it a night and reschedule. Because as much as you wanted to wait, you were starving. And you didn't know how much longer you could pretend you didn't notice the pitying glances of the waiters and the whispering customers. 

If not for your pride then at least to bring your boyfriend dinner. He never seemed to remember to eat or breathe when Superman was involved. 

You're half way out of the restaurant when you see him. His hair is a mess of curls, black framed glasses askew; his dress shirt half buttoned, like he’d run out the door. Clark’s face is apologetic, his eyes glassy with guilt as he approaches. 

“I’m sorry. I’m late again, and I had promised-.” 

“An hour,” you huff, crossing your arms. “You're an hour late, Clark.” He sighs, running a hand through his dark curls. 

“I know. I know and I’m sorry. I just got tied up with some things at the office… a last minute piece- no edit…” Clark rambles and you sigh, tired of the same stories he gave. The same half-truths you could see through. The lies he could never quite tell. 

“Did you eat at least?” he asks. You shake your head. 

“No, I was waiting for you.” Clark frowns, reaching out to touch your shoulder. 

“Honey, you should have gone ahead-” 

For a second you want to brush him away, a flash of anger coursing through you. You felt like yelling at Clark, felt like crying. Because you didn't understand. There were always excuses. Always long winded stories about why he was late. About why plans changed. But they always came too late. Always after the fact. 

Like you were just a second hand thought. 

But the anger vanishes before it can fully form. Because you knew Clark loved you. You knew he would have been on time if he could. You just wish you knew why. 

Why the secrets and the excuses. Why he couldn't trust you. 

Clark’s hand is warm against your collarbone, his touch comforting as he pulls you into a hug. You sigh, burying your face into his chest, your fingers gripping his shirt tight. 

“I really am sorry hon. I should've called, given you a heads up I might be late.” You sniff, nodding against his chest. Clark cards his fingers through your hair, and he presses a kiss to the top of your head. “Let me make it up to you?” 

“Clark…” You pull away slightly, trying to get him to look at you. He doesn't, his eyes closed as he continues to ramble. 

“Please”, he grips your hand tight, like he's afraid you'll run away. “Please, I know I’m a jerk for my tardiness. But I really do want to make it up to you. Let me get you dinner, dessert, coffee? Anything. Let me get you something- I don't want you going hungry cause I’m an idiot-” 

“Clark.” He finally looks down at you. You give him a soft smile, the anger leaving you. “It's okay. I already got something.”

He frowns, watching as you rifle through your tote bag (the big creme canvas bag Clark had gifted you a week after you’d started dating. The daily planet’s logo printed on the side, “so you have a reminder of me to take wherever you go…”). 

You pull out the brown paper bag with takeout and Clark’s eyes widen. 

“I figured you'd be hungry after your Superman thing. And I didn't know if you'd show up at the restaurant or go straight home… ” 

Clark blanches a little. 

“Superman?” His voice is strained, like he's nervous. Your brows furrow, a little perplexed by his reaction. 

“Yeah, I saw the fight on the news. I figured that's why you were late.” He blinks, glasses sliding down the bridge of his nose a little. “Cause of those interviews you usually do.” 

“Right,” Clark nods. “Yeah, that's right; Superman.” 

You bite the inside of your cheek, trying to fight the feeling Clark was hiding something. 

“Did you get an interview?” 

“Uh, yeah. Just a short thing. You know Superman… always someone to save or protect.” You nod. “So, what'd you get?” Clark points at the bag. 

You smile, genuine despite your perturbed mood. Because Clark definitely knew what was in the bag. 

“Something you love.” 

“Uh-huh.” He steps closer, his hands moving back to the space they always drifted to, resting on the dip above your hips. “Something I love?” 

“Something like that breakfast plate you love. Waffles and eggs and bacon. Those hashbrowns you like so much.” Clark groans, eyes closing. 

“I really am a world class jerk. You didn't have to do that.” You shrug. 

“I wanted to.” Clark peers down at you from behind his black frames, giving you that bright smile, dimples marking his glowing cheeks. The smile which always made you forget you were mad at him, the one which made you forget the secrets he was hiding, the half-truths and evasive questions. “Besides, it's too hard to stay mad at you, Clark. I don't know how you do it.” 

Your free hand finds its way up his collar, tugging him closer. 

“Must be the dimples,” he half whispers. 

“Must be,” you laugh quietly, eyes flickering down to his mouth.

Clark gently pushes forward, filling the space between you and pressing his lips against yours. It’s a reverent mixture of gentleness and passion. An apology and expression of gratitude all wrapped in the feeling of Clark flush against you. He pulls away first, breathing heavy. 

“I don't deserve you.” 

You just smile. 

------------------------------------------------------

There’s a loud clanking sound, metal grinding. And then a thump. 

“Gosh darn it.” 

You glance over the back of the couch, finger marking the spot of the book you were reading. From just beyond the living room, you can see Clark hunched over in the hall closet by your bathroom, his long torso hidden in the bowels of your washing machine. 

“Are you okay in there?” There's another thump.

“Ow,” Clark rubs his forehead where he’d just banged it. “Yeah, I’m okay.” 

You stand up with a stretch, bare feet padding softly against the carpet as you move towards Clark. He looks comically oversized in the small hallway, his curly hair almost grazing the frame of the door. The tool he clutches in his hand is limp by his side as he smiles at you, his free hand brushing against the small of your back. 

You lean over the washer, looking inside. “Did you fix it?”

“I think so,” Clark leans over with you, his glasses sliding on the bridge of his nose. “It shouldn’t make any weird sounds now. We have a pact; I won’t hit it anymore with this,” he lifts the wrench, “if it promises not to annoy you anymore.” You giggle, shaking your head with amusement.

“Thank you Clark,” you say with a contented sigh. “I can’t wait for the peace and quiet of laundry day again.” Clark chuckles, pressing a kiss to your temple before he moves back to the living room.

Your washer had been moaning and groaning for the past couple weeks, screaming with mystery whenever you used it. Of course, the minute you offhandedly mentioned the matter, Clark had perked up, ready to help you fix it. He was always offering to fix things for you. 

He’d helped you put together the new bed frame you’d gotten a few weeks ago, fixed your kitchen cabinet when the door had fallen off the hinge, unclogged your coffee machine when you couldn’t figure out what was wrong. Even now, after fixing your washer, he was eyeing your apartment for anything out of shape. Any hole in the wall to patch, any lightbulb to change. 

Clark slides the wrench into the bag he’d brought over, brows furrowing as he glances at your window. He turns to you slightly, pointing at the latch. 

“Has this always been like this?” You follow him into your living room, observing the window curiously. 

“I guess. I don’t know, I haven’t really paid attention.” Clark’s fingers trace the edge of the window’s frame, tugging gently. The latch on the lock pulls, and you watch as a screw lifts slightly. 

“You should get this fixed,” he murmurs. “Someone could break in easily.” You snort. 

“I live on the fifth floor. Who’s going to break in?” Clark sighs, giving you an unamused look, like he couldn’t believe you weren’t taking your safety seriously. 

“It’s Metropolis. We’ve got Metahumans and aliens who visit every week. All it takes is one slip up-”

“Clark, I think you’re overreacting.” He shakes his head, curls bouncing. Clark reaches out for you, pulling you into his arms

“I just want you to be safe, hon. I care about you.” You roll your eyes, looking down at your toes, fingers loosely gripping the back of his shirt.

“I know,” you sigh into him. Clark did care about you. 

But you can’t stop the doubt that tugs at the back of your mind. The memory of earlier that week, when he’d abruptly told you he had to leave for a few minutes, claiming he forgot something in his car. He’d left you in the middle of your lunch date inside the small shawarma shop. And when he’d returned, you had asked what he’d forgotten, noting his very empty hands. Clark had given some excuse, a rambled story that somehow ended with him kissing you senseless. It hadn’t stopped you from wondering though. 

Especially with the new bruise he’d tried to hide, purple creeping beneath his rolled up sleeve. The bruise that had magically appeared while he was gone. The bruise which marvelously was absent now. 

Clark looks down at you, cupping your face and kissing you. "You're so pretty." You flush, ready to give a fluster inducing comeback when you hear it.

A loud noise from outside, a roaring scream, high pitched and angry. You feel Clark’s tense around you, both of your heads turning as you take in the sight. An alien-like creature darts across the sky, Green Lantern and Hawkgirl hot on its tail. 

“Never a dull moment in Metropolis,” you mumble. Clark nods, squeezing your biceps as he backs away. 

“Yeah. I should… um, I should- I just remembered a thing I have to do...” You frown, watching as Clark backs away slowly. 

“A thing you have to do?”

“Yeah. A piece Jimmy wanted me to go over. Perry wants it before tonight, and he needs my help,” Clark shrugs. You narrow your eyes, crossing your arms as Clark gathers his sweater lying on the couch, stuffing it into his bag. His eyes flicker between the window and his bag as he rifles through its contents mumbling. “I should probably go. Just let me know if there’s any more trouble with your washer.” 

You watch him, a pit growing in your stomach.

There it was. The way his eyes didn’t quite meet yours. The bobbing of his adam’s apple, like he was swallowing truth. Like he was keeping something from you. Like there was something he wasn’t telling you.

Clark moves back towards you, leaning down to kiss you goodbye. But you take a step backward, eyeing him carefully. He frowns, hands falling to his sides. 

“What?” He asks, confused. 

“Clark…” you look up at him nervously, unsure if you really wanted to start this. 

“What is it? I know I’m leaving earlier than I’d like, but I’ll see you tomorrow.” You shake your head, a sad smile tugging at your lips. 

“I just don’t get it Clark.”

“Get what?”

“I- this,” you gesture between the both of you. “I don’t get this. What we have.” His frown deepens, and he shifts his bag, glancing out the window again. 

“I don’t understand.” 

“You do all these wonderful things. You say you love me and all, you’re there when I need you. But… I don’t know. Sometimes, it feels like you’re hiding something from me.” 

“Hiding something from you?” 

“You’re always disappearing, Clark. Always have an appointment you missed, an edit you forgot about. You show up late, you leave early. It’s like you only give me half of yourself. Like you don’t really want to be here.” The words hurt as you say them out loud. The doubts you had pushed down for weeks now. You know they’re not true. You hope they’re not. 

Clark had been there for you like no other guy had. He made you laugh. He made the most mundane things seem magical. You were falling for him faster than you ever thought possible. And it hurt you to even think any of this because you loved him so much. 

Clark’s eyes are glued to you as he takes in what you’re saying. He looks torn. Sad. guilty. 

“Hon-”

“I just want the truth, Clark. Is there something you’ve done?”

“No-”

“Someone else?”

“WHAT, NO! No I would never do that to you,” he shakes his head, eyes darkening at the suggestion.

“Then what! What is it? What don’t you trust me with?” He swallows. 

“I trust you.” 

"Then what can't you tell me?" you breathe, eyes warm and wet with emotion. Clark groans, fingers rubbing his eyes beneath his glasses.

"It's complicated."

"Complicated how?"

“I just… there are things in my life I can’t share. Not yet. And I know it’s hard to understand, but I need you to know I’m giving you all I can.” Clark glances outside once more and you snap, all the frustration which had built up spilling out.

“Will you stop looking outside and listen to me!”

“I am!”

"No! I'm trying here Clark. I'm trying to look past all of this. Because I love you and I want this to work. But it's hard. It's so hard when I have to pretend like I don't know you're lying to me-"

"I haven't lied!" Clark says, exasperated. He runs a hand through his curls. "Not about loving you. Not about having to leave."

"But you're not exactly telling the truth. Like right now when you said you had to go help Jimmy. I could see it on your face. You're a terrible liar Clark."

Clark just looks at you, torn between multiple emotions. “I just-" he glances outside again, the superhero meta humans still going at it with the alien. "I'm sorry. I have to go.”

“Clark-” your stomach falls. He wasn't going to tell you.

“You have to trust me when I say I want to tell you. Just not yet.” He looks at you with a pained expression, like a kid caught doing something bad. He turns and heads for your door and you feel yourself growing angrier. 

“I- so that’s it. You’re leaving.” 

He glances back at you, eyes glassy with guilt. “I wish I could stay, but I have to go. I promise I’ll explain-”

"You have to go? Have to go where Clark? Not to help Jimmy."

"Look, I'm sorry if you're upset I have to leave early-"

"It's not that," you groan, pinching the bridge of your nose. "I just wish I knew why! I don't understand why you can't tell me."

"It's not that simple."

"I have the time-"

"I can't tell you," he says, exasperated.

You have so much you could say to him. How awful it feels to be in the dark. How it was unfair he expected you to go along without explanation. How you wondered if it was even worth staying.

But you don't say any of it. The only sane part of your mind not focused on the hurt and possibilities reminds you this was just your frustration. Both of your frustrations.

You take a slow shuddering breath and push past Clark, opening your front door. You refuse to look at him, licking your lip.

"I don't want to say anything I'll regret. so... go on. If you have to leave so bad, just go."

Clark’s shoulders droop, the realization dawning on his face that this had turned into something more than just an argument. 

“Honey-”

“Now Clark. Just leave.” 

“Okay.” He stops just before you, his hand briefly squeezing yours. You look up, lip quivering as you feel a tear threaten to spill from your lashes. Clark gives you that look. The one so overwhelmingly caring and loving. The one which made you feel special. The one which hurt so badly to see now.

He leans down, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear and pressing a kiss to your cheek. An apology. "I'm sorry I can't explain now. But I will. I just need you to trust me."

You feel like crying, and all you can do is swallow the lump in your throat. "Please. Just go," you whisper.

And he does.

------------------------------------------------------

Your apartment is still, just the faraway sounds of the streets below melding with the whirring click of your washer and dryer. You frown, sitting against the lower cabinets of your kitchen, the tile cold beneath your thin pajamas. The screen of your phone remains unchanging.

Still no text or call. 

Not that Clark had to say anything to you. Not after you blew up on him like that. But you had really hoped he would say something. Anything. You should get over yourself and just apologize. Tell him it really wasn’t that big of a deal. 

You hadn’t even been dating that long. Who were you to expect him to open himself up to you like that. Everyone had their secrets. Even you. There were things you weren’t ready to share yet. So why were you being so hard on Clark? 

You sigh, opening up your phone, fingers hovering over the keys as you stare at Clark’s last texts. 

We’ll get your washer sorted. And then maybe mine will mysteriously break ;)

Love you <3 

There it was. Love you.

At the core of it, that was why you stayed. Why you forgave him over and over. Why you hoped Clark would be able to forgive you. Because you loved him. You wanted to make it work. Even if you had to rely on trust like an anchor.

Your heartbeat is loud in your chest, a lump in your throat. You sit and type your message a myriad different ways, unsure of how you should broach the subject. Start with an apology? Or something more mild, like asking to meet for coffee? Or at his place? Ask him to call you? 

Eventually, after your hands have grown numb, tingling from the lack of movement, you groan, dropping your phone in your lap and running your hands down your face. Maybe you should just go to his apartment and face him there. It seemed disingenuous to do this over the phone. You really did miss Clark. And you needed to make things right. 

Your phone pings and your heart jumps. You move to see if Clark had messaged you, fingers scrambling to open the text. But it wasn’t your boyfriend. It was Jimmy.

Hey, have you heard from Clark? Saw this and wanted to make sure he was okay. 

You hold your breath as you open the link he sent, your stomach dropping as you register what you were seeing. There, on your screen, was the man of steel. Superman fighting an oversized reptilian monster, fire and rubble raining down on the buildings behind them. But not just any buildings. 

That was Clark’s apartment. 

And Superman had just been thrown through five floors of the building. 

You stand, moving quickly as you pull your long coat on over your pajamas, stuffing your socked feet into your boots. You're a flurry of movement as you grab your keys, fingers working to dial Clark’s number. 

“Come on Clark. Pick up. Please pick up.”

He had to be okay. He had to be. 

You hurry out of your apartment, practically tripping over your half tied laces as you run down the carpeted hall. 

“Please pick up Clark. Please-”

“Hey dude! This is Clark. Obviously not able to take your call now but leave a message-” you hang up, dialing again. 

“Please Clark.” 

You barely register the burn in your thighs as you take the stairs two at a time, leaping over the cracked step and hurrying into the lobby. The receptionist and residents lingering in the main lobby give you strange looks as you run out the rotating doors, boots hitting the wet pavement with a flurry. 

Your arms pump as you run, tears pricking the corners of your eyes as you make your way down Metropolis’ downtown. You can see the smoke billowing a few blocks away, can see the top of the reptile’s scaly head. The ground shakes even from here, and you gasp for breath as you round the corner, heading towards Clark’s apartment. 

When you're just a few streets away, you take in the red and blue of the police cars, the bright yellow of caution tape running between buildings. Cars honk angrily in the street, people in the apartments peering out of their balconies and windows, curious. You run, an officer immediately heading your direction. 

“Miss, we can’t let you through,” he says sternly, your chest heaving as you try to get past him. 

“Sir, you don’t understand. My boyfriend lives there-”

“I’m sorry sweetheart. It’s too dangerous right now to let you through-”

“But he’s there! He could be in his apartment right now! And Superman-”

“Is taking care of things. We’re doing our best to clear all residents out of the buildings. And our job would go a lot faster if we didn’t have to worry about you trying to tear through.”

You sob, biting your bottom lip. The officer’s face softens and he tells you to take a deep breath, a hand coming to rest on your shoulder in an attempt to comfort you. You try your best, inhaling deeply and exhaling slowly, your lip trembling. 

“Go home sweetheart. I’m sure your boyfriend would want you worrying about him in the safety of your apartment. Not here, where you could be trampled.” You nod, voice cracking as you mumble an okay. The officer was right. Clark would throw a fit if he knew you were so close to the action. To the danger. He was always worrying about your safety, always ready to protect you. 

But you needed Clark to be okay. You needed him to be alright.

------------------------------------------------------

The walk back to your apartment is long and cold. The adrenaline coursing through your body dwindles as your remaining tears dry up, leaving you shivering and trudging through the misty evening.

Your phone pings multiple times, messages from Jimmy and Lois, asking about Clark and sending you updates. Superman had finally defeated the creature, leaving multiple apartment buildings damaged, a couple of cars flattened and only two injured. 

But still. No word from Clark. 

You drag yourself into the creaky elevator in your building, the metal box shaking to a stop after what seemed like ages. The bell dings and the doors slide open to your floor, boots heavy against the hall carpet once more. All you could do was hope Clark was okay. Hope that it wasn’t too late to say what you needed to say. To apologize. To tell him just what he meant to you.

The lock of your apartment clicks open, your keys jingling as you step inside. But something is off. The back of your neck prickles with gooseflesh at the freezing temperature, as if the window were open-

You better get this lock changed. Someone could break in.

It seemed insane. To break into the fifth floor, to scale a building. But then again, you’d just witnessed a flying man with the power of the sun take down an over sized lizard. You set your keys down quietly on your entryway table, fingers grabbing the closest metal object near you, a large water bottle. 

You creep carefully into the dark living room, curtains fluttering where the window is cracked open. Your heart pounds in your throat, eyes darting between the shadows trying to spot movement. Finally you see something shift behind your recliner. The back of a head, the lifting of a hand. 

“Stop right there!” You yell, raising the water bottle. You’re about ready to throw the thing and run when you hear a voice- a voice you know like the back of your hand. 

“It’s me.” The relief that floods your body is overwhelming. 

“Clark,” you breathe. “You’re okay.”

“Yeah,” his baritone voice echoes quietly. “Yeah, I’m okay.” You can hear him shift in the chair, a wince following. You set down your bottle, mind moving at lightening pace as your try and figure out what to do. 

“I- what are you doing here? How’d you even get in?”

“I used the window-” You barely register what he’s said, squinting to try and see him in the dark.

“Window? Why are you in the dark? Turn on the light,” you move to reach for the lamp when Clark inhales sharply. 

“Wait stop!” You recoil. You hadn’t ever heard him raise his voice like that. Hadn’t heard him stern. Scared. 

“Clark?” you whisper, confused and nervous. 

“I… there’s something you should know. The thing I've been keeping from you. ” You swallow thickly, trying to make out Clark in the dark. You hear him stand, his breath labored as he takes a step towards you. You can feel him beside you, his large hand reaching for yours, his palm warm against yours. “I just need to warn you. It might be a lot."

"Clark, what are you talking about?" He squeezes your hand.

"Just, don’t freak out on me. Okay?” 

It takes you a moment to answer, your brain trying to catch up with what was happening, heart hammering in your chest.

“Okay.” 

You squint as he turns on the light, blinking as your eyes adjust to the orange glow. Clark stands beside you, his face serious, glasses missing, curly hair unusually slick with sweat. There was something different about the way he looked, his face sharper, more defined. As if this were the first time you were really seeing him. And then you glance down.

You stop breathing for a second as you see it. The red and yellow symbol you were faced with everyday on the internet. The blue suit and red cape you’d seen on news feeds and posters and fan accounts. The man Clark spent his whole career writing about. Superman. 

“You- your,” you start, at a loss for words. He seems so much larger now, taller and more regal. This wasn’t the Clark you’d known for the past couple months. The sweet and clumsy man who spent his time bent over his computer, drinking too hot coffee with too sweet pastries. The man who took you out on lunch dates and helped move your furniture in your apartment because you were bored. 

This was Superman, the hero who saved Metropolis from danger every day. Who shot red hot beams from his eyes and breathed air colder than the arctic. Who could punch through buildings like they were toy blocks, who could fly higher than the largest skyscraper in the city. 

Who was currently bleeding in your living room. 

“You’re hurt.” You reach out for his side, eyeing the way Superman- Clark- the way Clark was clutching his side, blood oozing between his fingers. “I thought Superman was invincible?” 

Clark chuckles dryly, his dimple popping and bringing you back to the reality that your boyfriend was really Metropolis’ most popular metahuman. 

“I’m a quick healer. Not invincible.” 

“Sit down,” You help him back over to the chair he was occupying before, Clark slumping into the leather seat with a pained huff.

You kneel next to him, trying to comprehend was happening.

"You're Superman." He nods, watching you carefully. "Wow. I- I mean, wow. I never would have thought..." Things begin to click in place. Your mind working your memories like a puzzle, the picture you thought was right shifting into something completely new.

"You okay honey?"

"Um, yeah. It's just a lot." You stand, wringing your fingers. “Can I get you something? Water? Pain meds? Do those even work on you?”

“Just water. That’s fine.” Clark looks up at you, his eyes heavy with emotion. With nerves and anticipation. With relief. “I don’t use medication. I’ll heal by the time the sun rises, don’t worry.” 

“Okay. Okay, I’ll go- I’ll go get you some water.” You head towards the kitchen, a little dazed. Clark Kent. Superman.

Clark Kent was Superman. Your boyfriend was Superman. 

And suddenly you felt like an idiot. As you pull down two glasses and fill them, you think about everything. About Clark’s tendency to show up late, his rambly excuses, the occasional cuts and bruises which seemed to heal overnight. It all made sense now. The clumsy and sweet and terrible liar that was Clark Kent was also the serene and stoic and strong Superman. 

No wonder why he had such a hard time telling you. Why he couldn’t tell you. Because this wasn’t just a secret. It was a whole reality shift. You weren’t just dating the Daily Planet’s lovable reporter. You were dating the planet’s protector. 

You step back into the living room cautiously, aware of how the air had shifted with this new development. You hand Clark the glass of water, slipping your boots off and sitting across from him on the couch. 

Clark takes a careful sip of his water, his eyes glancing between you and the floor, like he was unsure if he should speak first or not. You bite the inside of your cheek, finally looking up at him after staring at your socks.

“I didn't meant to-” “I shouldn’t have pushed-”

You both flush as your words tumble over each other. Clark shakes his head, gesturing to you. 

“You first.” You shake yours.

“No you go. I’m sure you have a lot to say.” Clark takes another sip of his water, setting it down with a grunt. He’s silent for a moment, eyes glassy as he stares at you. 

“I wanted to tell you. I really did. I hated every time I had to disappoint you or run late. But I told myself I couldn’t. I couldn't put you in that kind of danger, knowing who I was.

“Being Superman… it puts a target on everyone I care about. And I didn't want you to get hurt."

“Clark,” you begin, but Clark shakes his head, looking at you with such intensity.

"No, I need you to understand. I was wrong," you swallow, watching as he takes a shaky breath. "I didn't tell you, because I didn't want you getting hurt. I didn't want to make you a target for the media or for the bad guys. But in doing so... I ended up hurting you."

You can feel a lump forming in your throat, tears welling up again.

"Clark... I was so scared tonight. When I saw Superman- when I saw you fighting by your apartment, I thought maybe I'd missed my chance."

"Your chance?"

"To apologize. To say I'm sorry for pushing. I was just scared Clark. I want this to work, I want us to work," you look at him seriously, eyes shimmering with tears. You sniff, "I get it now. I understand why you didn't tell me. And I'm sorry-"

Clark gives you an incredulous look.

"Honey, you shouldn't be sorry. You were worried. Rightfully so. I know how I can come across." He leans over the coffee table, reaching for your hand. You take it, his hand warm, fingertips calloused from the years he'd lived on the farm- or from the battles he'd fought, you now add.

You both look at each other with a new understanding. A new layer of trust. Of love. Clark's eyes slide down to your pajamas, the coat you still hadn't taken off. He frowns.

"Wait," he looks up at you, mouth agape, as if he was putting something together. "Wait you said you saw... did you go to my apartment?"

You clear your throat, not meeting Clark's expectant stare. "I tried to. The police had the streets blocked off." Clark squeezes your hand, face pained.

"Why would you do that?" You sigh, hand raised in exasperation.

"I was worried Clark! I didn't know you were the one fighting the monster-"

"Alien-"

"Alien, whatever. For all I knew, you could have been hurt really bad, or knocked out, or," you swallow. "Or dead."

Clark presses his lips into a firm line. "You could have gotten hurt. And it would have been my fault."

"You can't blame yourself for doing what you thought was right. You just wanted to keep me safe. And I wanted to make sure you were safe." You slide your fingers up his arm, cupping his cheek.

You're silent for a moment, letting your confessions settle before you ask your next question. The one which had been ringing in your mind since you'd first entered the apartment.

"Why'd you come here tonight Clark?"

“Because I didn’t know where else to go. I couldn’t go to my apartment. There were reporters everywhere and I got this," he gestures to his wounded side. You nod. 

"But why come here? Why change your mind about telling me?"

Clark swallows thickly, letting go of your hand and sighing. He looks so sad. So guilty. And you realize this has been eating at him. This second half of his life he's had to hide. How tired he must be, having to cover it up all the time.

He's quiet for a moment, leaning back in the chair with an aching stillness.

"I came here because I trusted you. Because I want you to trust me. I don't want you to worry all the time or to be in the dark confused. I didn't tell you about being Superman because I wanted to spare you from danger. I told myself I couldn't tell you. Not without it meaning something." Clark stands, his towering stature slightly bowed as he clutches his still injured side.

"It had to mean something. And you mean so much. After our fight, I realized how much I want this to work. I want to come here and know you don’t have to worry whether I’m lying or trying to hide something. I don’t want secrets or miscommunication. I want you. And I want you to have me. All of me.” 

Clark's eyes glimmer in the dark, brimmed with tears.

Your breath catches in your chest and you sit, shell shocked. It was deeper than any love confession you’d ever received. More meaningful than any note Clark had passed you or kiss he’d pressed to your temple. It was the truth. And not just the truth, but trust. 

He trusted you. He’d always had. 

“Oh Clark,” you push yourself off the couch, throwing your arms around him in a tight embrace. He wraps his arms around you, your feet lifting off the floor as he hugs you back just as tightly, his face finding refuge in the crook of your neck. Your fingers run through his dark hair, your lips pressing gentle kisses to his cheek. “I love you, you know. I love you so much…” 

“I know,” he whispers into your hairline, his lips capturing yours roughly. “I know.” 

He holds you tightly, a weight lifted from both of your shoulders. There was still a lot to be explained. A lot to talk about.

But for now, you were content with being on the same page. Of being in the know. No longer guessing or worrying. Clark no longer hiding or guilty.

You finally break away, fingers lingering on Clark’s jaw as you look at him. He looks so different without his glasses. You smile as a thought enters your head. 

“You know, Jimmy was pretty worried about you. I think he’s going to have an aneurysm if we don’t tell him you’re okay.” Clark sighs, eyes closing. He looks exhausted, tired after the fight and revelations of the night.

“I know. I don’t know what I’m going to tell him. He thinks I’m at my apartment.” You hum, thinking. 

“Well, just tell him you stayed over.” Clark clicks his tongue, hands coming to rest on his hips. 

“You want me to stay?” You nod, Clark’s eyes wide with disbelief.

"I'm not going to be known as the girl who kicked Superman out of her apartment." Clark groans a little, chucking. "You need to rest. And besides, I make pretty good pancakes for breakfast."

He smiles softly, dimples popping. "I love you."

Your heart is light the rest of the night, your smile only turning softer and more content as you lay a blanket over a passed out Clark. He looked ginormous on your couch, his arm raised over his head, legs dangling over the piece of furniture. Clark had a look you hadn't seen before, one of total peace. Of comfort.

He was no longer holding back. No longer keeping his secret or holding back. With you, he didn’t have to hide anymore. 

Clark takes a shuddering breath, relaxing deeper into the pillow you’d let him borrow, mumbling softly in his sleep. You kiss his cheek, thumb brushing against his hairline.

“Thank you for trusting me Clark.” You whisper, softly. 

------------------------------------------------------

Bonus: 

The sudsy water is hot against your hands as you scrub, the scent of lavender detergent permeating the bathroom air. You dip Clark's Superman suit back into the tub, water sloshing onto your forearm as you scrunch the fabric.

There's a loud clang behind you, and Clark sighs. You glance at him, smiling amusedly as he leans over the washing machine, a frown lining his face.

"I don't understand. This should be working."

"You know it's not a big deal to get someone to look at it Clark. I can make a call tomorrow for a maintenance guy."

Clark shakes his head, padding into the bathroom, his bare foot nudging your thigh for you to scoot over. He sits beside the tub arms draped over his crossed legs.

"No way you're calling someone. I promised I'd fix it, and I will. Or I'll call someone if I can't fix it."

"Thanks," you glance at him, focused on his face. He wasn't wearing his glasses. He hadn't been since you'd found out he technically didn't need them. Clark catches you staring and chuckles.

"What?"

"Nothing. You just look so different without the glasses." Clark shrugs.

"They're simple but effective."

Effective? Very. Clark was practically a different person without his glasses. An annoyingly handsome and dashing (albeit still sweet and clumsy) person who looked way too good in plaid pajama pants.

"Right," you smile. You reach over the tub to grab Clark's cape, beginning to wash it. "So... I have another question." He nods.

"Shoot."

"Why the red shorts over the suit?" Clark's ears grow red and you laugh.

"It makes me more approachable with the kids." Of course he'd want to be a comforting figure to kids. You kiss his cheek, smiling fondly.

"You are so cute."

"Yeah, well, it makes them happy."

Eventually you both get off the floor, Clark helping you hang his suit up to dry over the curtain rod after he'd rung it out. You were trying to be very normal about watching his strong hands wring the fabric.

You throw his red shorts up, Clark watching you.

"Hey," he takes a step closer, turning you to him. "I'm really glad you know." You nod, fingers caressing Clark's forearms.

"Me too." Clark presses a kiss to your forehead, giving you that sweet and loving look, his dark curls hanging low over his forehead. You brush the curls out of his face. "So... you're sure there aren't any other super secrets you've been keeping?"

Clark looks away too quickly for your liking, biting the inside of his cheek.

Though, this particular Friday is a bad day for ogling Jimmy Olsen from across the room. Eve's first rollout of curated pieces launches in an hour, and that means you'll be holed up in Meeting Room A with your team.

And Jimmy, well, he's on the verge of a story. 

Perry is in the bullpen when you walk in, sitting on your chair that's been pulled in front of Lois’ murder board. 

She's old school that way, which you can't help but let your police procedural-loving heart jump at the sight. Jimmy stands next to her as she leads Perry through their discovery. 

You pause on one side, eyes flicking from the chair under Perry and your desk. 

Perry notices, causing Lois and Jimmy to turn to you. He doesn't offer the chair, doesn't acknowledge you except for the raise of an eyebrow as if waiting for you to tell him what you want. 

“Nothing,” You answer his silent question, suddenly feeling ridiculous. “Nevermind. That's not even my chair—who cares? Have—have fun!”

Lois gives you a pitying smile, Perry just huffs and returns his attention to the board. 

Jimmy stifles a laugh, and you look back at him. He looks so—boyish like that, almost giggling, shooting you a grin and a small wave in greeting. 

When you reciprocate his smile gets brighter. 

You leave before you can make more of a fool out of yourself, taking your brand new Daily Planet-sanctioned laptop and your pink thermos to Meeting Room A. Where it's safe. 

You don't see Jimmy again until lunch time, at the deli you and Cat like to go to. 

“So,” He drawls, “I heard from a little birdie you're hosting a little party tomorrow night.”

“Is that little birdie named Cat Grant?”

Because after the numbers on the screen hit 2,500 clicks on Eve's special landing page on the Daily Planet website within the first two hours, you were riding a high that made you susceptible to any suggestion. Including Cat's idea to throw a celebration for all the milestones you've hit this month alone. 

And naturally, since your place is the biggest amongst the team (and Cat's place is off limits—you think because she's hiding a sex dungeon), you'd be hosting. 

“I'm not revealing my sources,” He grins, all toothy and bright. “Am I invited?”

“It's not a party, Olsen,” You finally turn to him. He's already grinning at you. “It's just food, drinks, and probably Flip 7, with like, six people.”

“Seven, with me.”

“If you're coming then I'll have to invite Clark and Lois, too.”

“Then nine,” it almost sounds like a whine. “We’re in the middle of some serious scandal at the City Hall, Simba. We’ll make the front page tomorrow, trust.”

Your eyes narrowed. He is right, you know he is right because Lois has been giddier than usual. Even giddier than when Clark and her celebrated their first anniversary. You purse your lips, watching Jimmy’s grin widen in real time because he knows he got you.

“If your name is on the front page tomorrow, on the by line for the article, not just the picture, then you three musketeers can come.”

With a smile impossibly blinding, he says, “See you tomorrow!”

Jimmy Olsen (Personal)

What are you doing this fine morning?

You

pre-party errands, obv

Jimmy Olsen (Personal)

Ha! So it is a party

What kind of errands?

You

trying to assemble an extra chair I got from IKEA

since, u kno, I have 3 extra unplanned guests.

why r u up in my business at 9am u stalker???

Jimmy Olsen (Personal)

And she has seen the article! I win!

Just curious

Was hoping to take you out before

If you want to, of course

You

impatient, r we?

i  have to get everything ready before 5

cuz i need to make lasagna, per cat’s request

which i still need to shop for so

Jimmy Olsen (Personal)

I didn’t read a no

You

Jimmy.

Jimmy Olsen (Personal)

Capitalization and punctuation. Scary.

You’ve been staring at the mess you made for too long. Loose screws on the floor, lopsided quarter of a chair in your living room. On the coffee table is today’s paper, bold headline written: BACKDOOR DEALS IN CITY HALL, COST CITIZENS MILLIONS, and in the by-line, Lois Lane and Jimmy Olsen. 

His name written twice, another one under the picture of the Mayor with Kyle Fielder, taken months before.

A story about how the Mayor’s Chief of Staff is taking the fundraising money from the game and countless others to fund tax breaks for private companies. A stray comment made during a press briefing sent Lois to the trail like a bloodhound, accidental photo evidence by Jimmy, and three whistleblowers later, there you are.

Thirty minutes later since you received that text, there he is, a box and an iced peach matcha oat latte in his hands.

You are covered in sweats of frustration, fingers smelling like metal and hopelessness. 

“Well don't you look pretty in the morning,” He grins, handing you the matcha. 

The speed at which you snatch it out if his hand is alarming. The moan you let out once the cold liquid hits your tongue is downright pornographic. 

Jimmy clears his throat. “Okay—just—have you had breakfast?”

“No,” You take the bag out of this hand, finding two cups of Portuguese egg tarts. “I have things to do today. Things. I have to skip gym because of that stupid chair!”

You sit back on the floor, back against the back of your couch. Jimmy follows suit, taking off his jacket and settling next to you. “Did you buy a whole new chair for this party?”

“This gathering,” you correct, taking a bite out of one of the tarts. “And yes, I did.”

“Can I ask why?”

“I don’t have enough chairs, duh,” you gesture towards your apartment. “This is sort of like, the first time I have had people over.”

Jimmy turns to you, eyebrows shot up to his hairline. “Even Cat?”

“Even Cat,” you confirm. Jimmy pauses, holding himself back from asking the confirming question. You roll your eyes, “Yes, you’re the first non-tennant person to cross this threshold. Happy?"

“A little,” a slow gin grows on his face. “Now, pass me the Allen key, please.”

“The Allen key?”

“Yes?”

“What is that?”

“The hex key,” he says, palm facing up. “The wrench that comes with it for the hexagonal screws.”

“Oh,” you grab the wrench, handing it to him. “I thought the guy said it’s the L key. Y’know, cause it’s shaped like an L.”

It feels oddly domestic, as Jimmy starts (re)assembling the chair. You watch as his tongue sticks out in concentration, occasionally asking you for a screw that you have misplaced. 

You watch the muscles on his arms bulge, as he moves the half-done chair around, straining underneath his white t-shirt. His eyebrows are furrowed ever so slightly, freckles catching light from the sun. 

Dear god. You know he's hot. You've admitted that you find him not. But this? This is beauty in a different realm altogether. 

There's something about the way he's crouching how, thigh all flexed, on one knee, as he starts to screw in the backrest that has you clenching your thighs together. 

“You are surprisingly good at this,” You say, needing to distract yourself from all the ogling you do. 

“It's a set of instructions, Simba, they spell it out for you,” He smiles teasingly, eyes flickering to you in a split second. Then, he nods towards the half-eaten tart in your hand. “Those any good?”

“They are, actually. Excellent choice.” You hold out your hand towards him. “Here, it's not too eggy and see the pattern on the bottom? That means the puff pastry was rolled—”

Jimmy, instead of taking it from your hand as expected, leans down and takes a bite from your hand. His lips graze your thumb as he does, eyes staring lazily into yours. 

Your breath stutters. Your heart skips. 

The expression on your face must be ridiculous, really, because he leans back slightly, trying to hold a teasing smile as he chews. “You're right, they're delicious.”

“If this is how you flirt with girls, no wonder they're so obsessed with you,” You say, and give yourself a pat on the back for not cracking. 

He tilts his head with a smile. “Are you saying you're obsessed with me?”

And, just because you want revenge, you swipe your free thumb on his bottom lips, catching stray puff pastry crumbs. You feel him stop breathing, then he lets out a choked sound as you bring your thumb between your lips, sucking it slightly. 

“That's—that's cheating,” He stutters, shaking his head, before finishing the chair with a beet red face. 

You smile triumphantly. 

It turns into a competition of who can get the other flustered more. You are one to one. 

Jimmy stands beside you, hands behind his back after he hands you salt instead of sugar in an attempt to help you prepare a batch of panna cotta. You begin to scoop the heavy cream mixture into the Martini glasses you got at the thrift store yesterday, making it all pretty. 

“It smells so good already,” He whines. “Are you sure we have to let them sit in the fridge? Why can't we have them now?”

“Because gelatin needs time to set, Jimmy.”

“I bet Superman can make them set faster,” He says thoughtfully. “With cold breath and everything.”

You pause. “I'm not sure it works that way.”

“Why not? Gelatin needs to cool down, right?”

“Yes, but I don't think the rapid cooling down will create the same delicate bonds between the proteins,” You ponder. “It needs to be gradual, I think. Now you've made me curious. Next time we meet Superman, I'll ask him to do this for me.”

You feel his gaze then, on the side of your face. Your eyes flicker to his. It's soft, his eyes—paired with a dopey smile you love on him. 

“What?” You ask, a small smile on your lips in anticipation. 

Jimmy shrugs. “You're hot when you know stuff.”

Jesus. Jimmy, two— you, one. 

What annoys you is that it's a line that's tried and true and you're not the exception. Any guy can say that to you at a bar and at the very least you'll shoot him a pretty smile. But when Jimmy says it? You feel naked. Like you've been stripped bare and just about to let him do anything to you. 

You can only manage an eye roll as a response. 

Jimmy arranges the ten Martini glasses on a tray, setting it next to your fridge to cool down before you put them in. 

“So what's next on the list?” He asks. 

You pause, then turn to him. “Did you come here just to help me run errands, Olsen?”

“Well, no—yes,” He sighs. “I didn't get to see you as much yesterday so I want to spend time with you—doesn't matter what we're doing.”

Your breath is caught on your throat. “You'll see me tonight anyway.”

Jimmy rubs his neck then, sheepish. “I kinda want you all to myself, Simba, in case I haven't made that clear.”

Dear our Lord in heaven—help your heart and your pussy. Jimmy, three, in rapid succession, no less. 

“Okay, well, we have time before we need to shop,” You face him fully. “What do you want to do?”

Jimmy ends up sending you back to your room to clean up and change. When you come back out, the panna cottas are in the fridge, the dishwasher is run and loaded. Your kitchen is free from the spilled milk and sugar. 

You are this close to tearing his clothes off in your kitchen. 

It's a casual place, the restaurant he takes you to, with green tiled tables and a one-page menu. The lamps hang low from the ceiling, off because the natural light comes in with zero restrictions. Some lo-fi music plays in the background. A farm-to-table concept with an ever-changing menu—you have been meaning to go here. 

“Nice pick,” You say knowingly, a smirk in acknowledgement. You know you have this place ad on TikTok saved and reposted, at some point. 

Jimmy shrugs. “I take your wish list and recommendations seriously.”

“Careful, Jimmy, you are walking into love-bomb territory, here.”

You expect him to stutter, or at least lose his composure for a second, but he just leans back, at ease, with a smile. “I've been holding back for a year, Simba. It feels freeing now I get to do this publicly.”

“Do what?” You ask, a little breathless. 

“Crushing on you,” He starts. “Liking you, obsessing, worship—”

“Okay, okay, I get it!” flustered, you wave him off. Four for Jimmy. You clear your throat, “Is that why you didn't tell me my thermos is from you instead of Clark? Because you've been holding back?”

Now that flusters him—freckles against pink cheeks. He sits up straight. “Shit. He told you about that?”

You can only nod, biting your smile. Jimmy three, you, two. 

Jimmy's eyes fall to your lips for a split second. “I didn't know how you'd react if you knew it's from me.”

“Really?” you drawl. 

“What am I supposed to say?” He laughs. “Hey, I know you hate me but I'm jealous that some stupid guy gave you his number on your cup. Here's a reusable travel mug so it doesn't happen again.”

“You're right. I would've hit you with the thing,” You grin at him. “But I never hated you.”

“You definitely did.”

“It's more like an annoyance,” You giggle. Fuck. You're giggling.

“That's the same thing!”

“No, it's different!”

Jimmy leans forward, grinning. “How?”

You pause to think. “I would—not have unplugged your life support to charge my phone.”

“Thanks, thank you, really.”

The meal continues like that, with jokes and stories and gossip. It is so easy to sit there and laugh over sourdough French toast and brioche burgers and sparkling water with Jimmy. 

No performances, no façade, because, you realize, he knows you. He knows your drink order that changes every time, but always matcha with oat milk. He knows the music to play in the car. He knows your favorite spots and knows when a spot is going to be a favorite. 

He knows you, just as you know him. 

You know the air freshener scent in his car is the same as the ones he put inside his closet. You know he claims his signature scent is some musky Versace, but you know his favorite is something a little fresher, crisper. You know the kind of camera he uses, the lenses, and the type of roll he likes for his analog ones. 

You are, for lack of a better word, screwed. 

The two of you end up at a Whole Foods aisle, with Jimmy pushing the cart. 

“How many types of herbs can you need in a lasagna?”

“As much as you can fit in.”

“And this is enough ground beef?”

“Hm,” You inspect the containers in Jimmy's hands. “We can add another packet, since I can't add sausages.”

“Why not?”

“Farah and Gian—two people from my team—one's halal and the other kosher,” You explain. “Speaking of which, that's the specific brand I wrote down, right? They're halal certified.”

Jimmy nods. “Exactly as you wrote. I do not dare to stray even one letter.”

You are well aware that your standards are low—the devil is playing tinikling with the bar—but Jimmy who listens, who is observant and can follow simple instructions is really doing it for you. 

Especially when he offers to do the dishes after the lasagna is in the oven, allowing you to change and freshen up before guests start arriving. 

It takes everything in your power not to start—ahem—pleasuring yourself, moaning his name, in your bathroom. Because shit, he's been driving you crazy all day and now you just gotta, what, exactly? Play host? With him making eyes at you every chance he's got? 

Shit. Fuck. 

“Well, Olsen, don't you look giddy!” It's Lois. Of course it's Lois who's all smirks and shining eyes and hair full of secrets. 

“How can he not be?” Cat smirks at him. “I saw that story Simba posted. Reaaal cozy at Whole Foods.”

It's a simple selfie of you, really, with him barely in the picture except for a watch-adorned arm and a wisp of his red hair. 

It flusters him nonetheless. At this rate, you'll definitely be catching up to him soon. Especially in that backless top you wear, paired with a pair of jeans that hug your ass just right. 

You know what? Jimmy's going to give it to you—that top flusters him, definitely. 

He's still got the leg up, but the night's still young. 

You're talking to your team, whose party he, Clark, and Lois crashed. Gale, he thinks, one of the newer recruits, is leaning too close for Jimmy's comfort. 

“He's gay and is dating someone from IT,” Cat says, rolling her eyes when she notices that no, Jimmy is not listening to her and Lois, and yes, Jimmy is sheeting with jealousy. 

Jimmy visibly relaxes that it's almost comical. 

You catch his eyes from across the room, raising an eyebrow in question like, “why the hell are you staring at me?” 

Jimmy can only smile and raise his hand in a small wave. 

“Okay yep, no, this is too pathetic,” Cat groans, walking away to join you instead. 

She says something to you, making your eyes flicker back to Jimmy before letting out a laugh. 

What the hell is Cat saying—

“Olsen,” Lois slaps a hand on his shoulder, getting his attention. “Get it together, damn!”

Clark walks in just before the game starts, smelling vaguely like smoke and ash. Flip 7, as you promised, and Jimmy learned that it's some team bonding activity that you and Cat and Vicky play every time your team onboards someone. 

Much to his chagrin, Jimmy sits the opposite of you, allowing himself to stew with his feelings. 

But fine, it's worth it because he gets to see every expression you make, every smile, every groan. He likes this competitive version of you, he decides. 

He likes that he gets to learn more about you from the members of your team. He likes learning how you work, because he technically only worked with you once and he was too busy spiralling then. 

He likes every side of you he's seen.

“Clark, what the hell, you win, again!” You turn to Clark in awe, as he's the only one who's still in the game, along with the most combined score. 

The big guy shrugs, sheepish. “I just don't like to gamble?”

The game changes after Clark wins yet again. It's a game Farah sort of invented, where you go with another person, flip open a card, and say a word that starts with the same letter as the number on the card. 

It goes well halfway to the first run, until Cat flips an eight and Lois yells, “Fuck!”

And Cat yells, “Coke!”

Then the spiral begins. You pull a one and Jimmy yells, “Eggs!”

Clark pulls a seven and you yell, “Superman!”

Which is correct, but it startles Clark so much that the deck in his hand flows apart. Jimmy watches as he tries to save face, but ends up laughing at his flustered skin anyway. 

It slowly dissipates after that, with your team leaving first, followed by Lois and Clark, and then Cat, when she realizes she's third wheeling you and Jimmy. 

Jimmy lingers in the kitchen, pre-washing the dishes as an excuse to stay longer even though you told him not to. Once the dishes are all loaded up, he starts to wipe down the counter with a kitchen towel. 

He's starting to feel ridiculous, really, doing all this just to get a little bit more attention from you. Like he didn't spend the whole day with you before all this. 

He plans it in his head—your first date. Jimmy will take you to an exhibition and then dinner. Then he'll drop you off at your door and kiss you goodnight, if he's lucky, then he'll see you at work and take you out for lunch. 

But you walk back to the kitchen with a bag of trash, chucking it in your bin. 

“That was really fun,” You comment, leaning against your kitchen island, across from him. “I didn't expect journalists would be that bad at playing a word association game.”

He mirrors your pose, smiling. “We are, after a couple of drinks and a gambling game.”

After a long day, Jimmy should be tired. He should be exhausted, really, or at the very least, recognize that he needs to conserve his energy for the drive back to his place. 

But standing in your kitchen, he never felt more alive. Every nerve is on fire, his eyes cataloging microscopic movement from you. 

He remembers that night, when you kissed for the first time. You're sitting on the exact counter he's leaning against, your position exactly where he was. He wants to walk over and kiss you senseless, exactly like he did before, but this time, he'll know exactly how to savor it. 

“Thank you—”

“I just want—”

You both start speaking at the same time, laughing when you realize. It's heavy, the air, and he can see it chokes you both. 

Jimmy smiles, nudging your stretched feet with his. “You go first.”

You rest your slippers-clad foot against his, grinning. “Thank you for today. It was really fun. Especially when you built me a chair before our first date.”

His heart leaps. 

“Date?” He says, teasing. “No, sweetheart, that wasn't a date. Trust me, when we go on our first date, I'll pull all the stops—flowers, reservations, kiss you at your door.”

You move, then, slowly, deliberately trying to push him over the edge, he swears. He watched the way your back flexes as you take two water bottles from the fridge next to him. 

You hand him one, and he holds them dumbly in his hand. He watches as you take a sip, watching as water dribbles a little from the corner of your lips. 

Head on the fridge door, body facing him, hands crossed over your chest, you smirk. “Bold of you to assume I'll let you kiss me on the first date.”

You're close now, so close he can see the way your lashes flutter against your cheeks. So close that he can smell your perfume that sends him crazy every time. So close that he can recreate the color of your irises by their hex codes. 

“You're not gonna let me kiss you on our first date?” He asks, voice nothing but a hoarse whisper, thick with desire he barely tries to hide. 

You lean closer, just a breath away now. “What if I don't want to wait until our first date?”

You're going to kill him. You have maimed him. His armor of defense has been stripped bare with just a look and a smile from you. 

Jimmy tries to physically swallow his wants. “I want to do this right.”

A hand on his cheek. He's burning up under your touch. You blink up at him. “This doesn't feel wrong.”

He calls your name, a desperate plea to give him the mercy he doesn't deserve. 

“What were you going to say?” You ask him. Earlier. It's your turn now.”

It takes him a second to remember what you're talking about. 

“I just want to tell you that you look beautiful,” He says, bashful. Jimmy closes his eyes. “You always do but this top—”

He trails off, catching his stray hand from caressing the exposed skin of your back. His fingers curled on themselves mid air, millimeters away from waist. 

“Jimmy?” You call him, his eyes snap back open. “Kiss me.”

The thread that hangs his resolve snaps into oblivion.