roha 🦌🪽

Fourteen days.

Fourteen days that Dean Winchester has to be off his feet. Fourteen days that he can’t walk, can’t run, and can’t drive Baby around like a maniac. Fourteen days that he can’t hunt. 

Hell, that’s fourteen whole days that he’ll need crutches to even go piss without assistance.

Sam had called you early in the evening, his voice tight, but clearly trying to sound casual, the familiar rumble of the impala cutting through every pause. You could hear the hesitation between every word. The way his voice dipped low, undoubtedly apologetic, almost mumbled like a kid waiting to be scolded. The way he repeated his ‘sorry’s far too many times to count, and how the line went uncharacteristically silent for a moment after you’d picked up on the third ring.

He explained Dean’s little problem—nothing dramatic, he’d insisted, just a bad fall after tripping over a footstone—but enough to make getting around just about impossible, and to put hunting on hiatus until further notice. It really didn’t come as a surprise when he’d ended his ramble session with a question, one spoken through a sigh: can we crash with you?

For fourteen days.

Of course, you’d said yes without wasting a breath. You’ve never quite had a back bone when it came to the Winchester brothers, and, hey, the company could be nice. Maybe. As long as you can survive the bickering.

It’s nearing eleven when the impala’s tires crunch over the long, twisty gravel driveway of the Singer’s house. You hear it before you see it, purring low like a cat (or, as Dean would say, a lion), sleek black frame blending into the twilight. 

You’d just finished tucking the corners of the stubborn new sheets on your fathers bed when the sound finds your ears, and you slip from the room just in time to hear the engine go idle, one hand swinging the door open before either man can even slide out of the car. 

Sam rounds the impala first, slamming the door to the driver’s side shut with a bang, helping a grumbling Dean out the other side. He looks, put lightly, absolutely miserable. You’re not sure you’ve ever seen the older Winchester look so defeated, which is really saying something—not to mention the silly looking cast on his right foot, and the too-short crutches that he practically throws off the impalas bench. 

“Took ya’s long enough,” you call, leaning against the doorframe, the humid night air already clinging uncomfortably to your skin, cicadas buzzing in the tall sea of grass. You hear Sam huff a laugh, and Dean shoots you a look, just as he slaps Sam’s outstretched hand out of the way. 

Miraculously, he manages to hobble towards the deck without tripping, but once he reaches the bottom of the stairs, he accepts defeat long enough to sling an arm over Sam’s broad shoulders.

“That’s ‘cause Sam drives like a freakin’ grandma in a school zone,” he complains, and Sam sends you a tired look, one that both says ‘please help’ and ‘I’m so sorry’ at the same time. You can’t help but snicker. 

Once all three Winchester boots hit the worn wood of the porch, Dean practically shoves Sam off of him like a petulant child. You have to fight off a snort. “How’re you, uh. How’re you feeling, Dean-o?”

“Peachy,” the man gripes, limping past you when you step back from the doorframe, appearing about two inches shorter from just how hunched over those damn crutches he is. He manages to make his way to a chair, some old leather thing that’s peeling on the arms, and he plops himself onto it gracelessly. An irritated huff of air escapes his chest as he props his foot up on the coffee table.

“Just… peachy.” He glares at the offending appendage like it’s personally insulted him, and you grimace, before redirecting your attention back to the door, where Sam’s hauling two duffels up the stairs that probably weigh about as much as a small child. 

Sam, the sweetheart, lingers there for a moment like he’s afraid of tracking mud on the floor. He gives you that lopsided smile of his, soft, tired, and just a touch apologetic, before stepping inside. He scuffs his boots on the mat, setting the bags by the door, his arm brushing your shoulder as he moves past you.

He stands… closer than he usually does. Close enough that you can feel the heat radiating off of him, and you can practically taste his scent. Not in an overwhelming, cool-it-with-the-axe way, but in a holy-shit-you-smell-like-heaven way. 

You’re not sure which is worse.

He bows his head towards you, hair falling over his eyes. It’s longer again, parted in the middle, tousled from travel or sleepless nights or Dean clunking him on the head for ‘hovering’. His flannel is unbuttoned too far at the top, probably because of the blistering heat that’s been plaguing the country for the past week, sleeves pushed up to reveal forearms dusted with faint freckles and old scars. 

“Hey,” he says, gentle, simple. Quiet just for you to hear, like anything louder would cause you to shatter. “I’m sorry about… uh,” he gestures towards Dean, “…yeah. Sorry.”

You snort, shrugging, and you look towards Dean again: a stupid little pout on his face that reminds you of when you were kids. 

“Don’t be sorry. Things are quiet around here. I could use the entertainment,” you tease, turning back to Sam. He’s still looking at you. His expression is a little hard to decipher; warm, tired, and so agonizingly soft that your stomach just about flips. 

“You’ll be sick of it by tomorrow. Trust me,” he tells you, face cracking into a grin. It’s one of those rare, unrestrained ones that crinkles at the corners of his eyes, and makes his dimples pop adorably.

“Probably. Can’t throw him out now, though. I did up Dad’s room for him, since he’s away on a hunt. Said he won’t be back for a few weeks.” You nod your head towards the hall, before glancing up at him with an expression that’s nothing short of mischievous. “…He even has shower rails in the bathroom. Planning to tell Dean I installed them just for him.”

Sam tries to hide his snicker by coughing into his hand, a soft sound that’s more adorable than it has any right to be. He nudges you, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper as he leans in, just a little closer than probably necessary.

 Interesting.

“Oh, I’m sure he’ll have plenty of colourful ways to say thanks,” he murmurs, amusement thick in his tone. He pulls back just enough to look down at you, his lips quirking again when he catches your smile. He stares, then must realize it, because you swear his cheeks turn a shade of pink. He swallows a little awkwardly, almost like he’s gone all nervous—his palms sliding against the denim of his jeans.

Dean’s groan cuts through the moment like a freshly sharpened blade.

“Alright, what’re you two whispering about?” he demands, squinting suspiciously between the two of you. Sam straightens up, still smiling, but he clears his throat, holding his hands up in mock surrender. You flick your attention to him, raising a brow.

“You’re bunking in my dad’s room. Bathrooms attached, close to the kitchen, Sam and I only a yell away. Sound good?”

Dean’s expression flickers, green eyes narrowing with a funny mixture of irritation and resignation, before he slumps back with an exaggerated sigh.

“Yeah, yeah. Sounds fantastic,” he mutters, before gesturing vaguely at his plaster-covered foot. “Just gotta figure out how to get there.” He shoots Sam a pointed look.

Sam, who was still hovering close enough for his elbow to brush your arm, rolls his eyes, exhaling through his nose. How he’s so patient, you have no damn clue.

“C’mon,” he deadpans, crossing the short distance to his brother, and hauling him up with a grunt. He grabs the crutches, which Dean had tossed to the side like they aren’t a hundred goddamn dollars, pushing them against his chest. “Let’s get you to bed before you get us kicked to the streets for being a smartass.”

You watch them bicker for a moment, face twisted in a look of pure amusement, as Sam begins to guide him down the hall. 

You busy yourself by poking through the linen closet, yanking out a blanket that doesn’t smell like dust and death, tossing it onto the long, worn couch. You even slip up to your room just long enough to grab a pillow, one that’s not lumpy on one side, chucking it onto the makeshift bed. 

In the back of your mind… you hope it smells like you.

You make your way to the kitchen, pouring a glass of water, just as Sam’s finished wrestling Dean into the bed. He joins you with a sigh that sounds a lot like a father who’s just talked down his toddler from a tantrum. His palms together, a soothing gesture, and he leans against the counter with a tight-lipped smile that says ‘see what I have to deal with?’

The look you shoot him then is a little sympathetic, but mostly delighted.

“Sounds like you’ve had a fun week,” you tease, lifting the glass to your lips for a quick sip. “Can’t say I blame you for wanting to enlist some help.”

Sam exhales sharply through his nose, not quite a laugh, born out of sheer exhaustion, and he scrubs a hand over his face.

“Fun,” he echoes, voice low, tired, and fond all at once. His eyes flick towards the closed door, Dean’s quarters for the next two weeks, before settling back on you. The way he softens is visible. “Yeah. That’s one word for it.”

He crosses his arms over his chest, buttons of his shirt straining (not that you’re looking, or anything), and his shoulders slump, like he’s finally letting himself relax. Really relax. The kitchen light catches the earthy green flecks in his eyes when he tilts his head at you, gaze gentle in a way that almost makes you squirm.

It’s warm. Steady. He looks at you like he’s tracing the shape of your face, and burning it into his memory. Not in a greedy, or outwardly obnoxious way; but in a way that makes your stomach swirl, and your throat feel strangely dry, and has you taking another sip from your glass. Silence stretches, and when he breaks it, it almost looks like he has to force himself out of his own head.

“…I owe you for this. Really,” he murmurs, voice low, thick like sticky-sweet honey. “It means a lot. I don’t know how to—”

“Sam. You don’t need to thank me,” you cut him off, maybe a little too quickly, but his expression remains sheepish. Like he doesn’t quite believe you. Like it’s been trained into his soul that being there for him is a burden, not a blessing. “I miss having you guys around. Just like the old times.”

That earns you a smile.

“…Yeah. Like the old times.”

By day three, you’ve already adapted to your new routine.

Dean’s still whiny. He still yells for Sam every time he has to move so much as an inch, despite the crutches, which he insists were invented by the devil himself. He complained to you about the water pressure on day two, then again because his cast got a little wet, even though he’d wrapped it in some plastic bag you found under the sink. He even tried to scold you for feeding him ‘rabbit food’ after you’d put some tomato in his burger.

As for Sam… if anything, he’s only gotten sweeter.

It’s grown impossible for you to perform any household task without the younger Winchester offering his assistance. He’s got his hands full with Dean, that much is clear, and yet? The second you step into the kitchen to wash up the dishes, he’s placing a big, warm hand on your wrist, and insisting you go sit down.

He helps with laundry. He sets the table before you eat. He wakes up extra early to brew coffee exactly the way you like it, and he apologizes each time Dean makes a snarky comment. 

Even when Dean shoots him a look, one that you can’t quite decipher, and he turns an adorable shade of pink. 

The day had gone by quick. It rained, for the first time in nearly a week; meaning you spent most of it inside, with some old book open over your thighs, your legs kicked up on the edge of the couch. Dean stayed in his room—probably watching some stupid movie (one that hopefully wasn’t erotic, for your sanity)—while Sam kept you company. 

And by keeping you company, you mean stealing glances at you over a book of his own every thirty seconds.

It was nice. Comfortable. Almost domestic, in a way. You’d slipped away to your room around ten, tucking yourself in bed with a racing heart and buzzing mind… only to be woken up at a quarter to two by the obnoxious sound of your phone ringing.

Unfortunately, for both you and your old man, he’d found himself in a rut on his hunt. The irritation in his tone was palpable as he described the sigil he’d found carved into the floor of some abandoned factory. You’d done up a quick sketch in your notebook as he spoke, his words painting a picture, just as he shoots you a blurry image with the instruction of ‘it’s in one of my books, go find it.’

Great. Just great.

You migrate to the dining room, sitting at the table with eye bags that would make a raccoon jealous, a lukewarm cup of coffee, and a stack of lore books taller than you. One second, you’re squinting at the faded ink of some obscure Enochian ward, pen tapping on the page. The next? There’s warmth at your back, and a big shadow leaning over your shoulder. 

“You always up this late?”

“Jesus—!” Your entire body jolts, your pen clattering to the table, hair on your neck standing tall, heart pounding a mile a minute, the whole nine yards. But the second you turn your head, finding the tired, worried, (and apologetic) puppy eyes of Sam Winchester, you relax.

Completely.

You laugh, an embarrassed sound, dragging a clammy hand over your face, like that’ll do anything to scrape off the exhaustion. “Sorry, didn’t mean to… ‘m not used to company while Dad’s away.”

“No, I’m sorry,” he smiles, sheepish now, eyes laced with sincerity. “Didn’t realize you were so jumpy. Bobby doesn’t sneak up on you enough, huh?”

“You say that like he could. He walks like his feet are made of lead.”

Sam snickers, taking your newfound relaxation as a sign he can lean in closer. Close enough that you can smell the faded, masculine scent of his soap, the hint of minty toothpaste in his breath, and feel the warmth of his skin radiating through his thin t-shirt. 

“What’re you doing, anyway?” His hand settles lightly on the back of your chair, fingers brushing your shoulder by accident (or not), as he squints at the page, a frown pulling at his lips. “You’re not… you’re not hunting, are you?”

You cock your head to the side, just enough to look at him.

“No. Well, not me. My dad called. He’s at a dead end, n’ wants my help figuring out the origin of these sigils.” You nudge your journal towards him with your index finger, and he hums. He’s so close you can almost feel the vibration. “…Only problem is that he’s a fuckin’ lore hoarder. I don’t even know where to start.” 

“Oh.”

His brow furrows, silence falling between you for a fleeting moment. His eyes narrow.

“That’s… not Enochian,” he murmurs, shifting his weight, his chest pressing against your back for just a second before he catches himself, and pulls back. “…Uh. Sorry.”

His fingers tap absently against the chair, restless, thinking, maybe a little indecisive, before he exhales sharply, dragging a chair up beside you. His knee bumps yours as he folds himself next to you, elbows braced on the table, eyes scanning the symbols with quiet intensity. 

You tilt your head, opening your mouth to speak, but he’s faster.

“These letters look more like Latin to me. Maybe even some Hebrew,” he muses, turning to look at you. That sharpness in his gaze seems to soften almost immediately. “…You need some help?”

His voice is soft, careful, like it’s not just an offer. Like he wants to stay.

“You sure? It’s late. You don’t have to—”

“I’m sure,” he states, thumb skimming the edge of those yellowing pages of the book spread open in front of him like he needs something to fidget with. His voice drops, quiet, warm, into something so gentle that your heart just about skips a beat. “…You’re exhausted. Let me help. Please.”

Yeah.

It’s not quite possible for you to say no to that. 

You don’t respond right away, not with words, at least. If the conflict shows on your face, Sam doesn’t mention it. He doesn’t scoff, or even look annoyed. No, instead, he simply… watches you. His eyes are soft, encouraging, expression warm with lingering sleep. 

And when you finally nod, leaning back in your chair, he smiles. Not wide, or with teeth—more of a quiet, gentle thing, that makes his face light up in the best way, and displays those sweet dimples when the light hits his face just right.

He moves slowly, turning your journal back towards you, his shoulder brushing yours as he leans in.

It’s electric. 

“See how the letters curve here? It’s more like a hook, rather than a smooth arc.” He traces the shape lightly, his fingertip just hovering over your work, like he’s afraid to smudge the ink. “…That tells me it’s not Enochian. The Enochian alphabet is more… round. I’m thinking this is ancient Hebrew—” he points at a letter, “—and see these circles? There’s even some Malachim script.”

You hover as he explains, nodding, and… yeah. He’s right. Of course he is. Your lips part in an inaudible ‘ohhh’, your own hand moving to follow his in its silent trace, fingers brushing his. 

He pauses. You see it, or, more accurately, you feel it. The way his breathing seems to freeze for a moment, before coming out in a jagged exhale that fans over your cheek, his body pressed so close to yours. He shifts, knee brushing yours again; to move away? To get closer?

You can’t be sure. 

“…So, not Enochian. A combination of other things. You’re thinking, what… The Lesser Key?” 

“Yeah. Maybe,” he murmurs, “or some kind of interpretation. Mind if I…” He trails off, long arm stretching over you to brush the worn leather spine of a book stacked next to you. His touch is careful. Thoughtful. And when you nod, he hums gratefully. 

You watch as he pulls the book from the pile, already flipping ahead to the intended section like he’s read it a thousand times before. Two long fingers trace the faded ink over each page, each one silverfish bitten, bleached with time, his soft eyes searching. And when he finds what he’s looking for, he stops abruptly, pressing his fingertips over a pale illustration. 

“There.”

And there it is.

Maybe not exactly. Some of the letters look reversed, like they were intended to be written backwards. A couple of the symbols etched into the sigil are written cleaner, sharper, but… yeah. The main idea is there, and that’s enough for you.

“Well, holy shit.” You huff an impressed laugh, settling just a little closer to him. “Thanks, Sam. You’re good. Really good,” you nudge him with your shoulder, “I see why Dean keeps you around.”

He chokes out a laugh of his own, soft and surprised, and ducks his head, rubbing at the back of his neck like he’s suddenly shy. His fingers linger there, tapping over his nape, but he’s not looking at the book anymore.

He’s looking at you.

“Yeah, uh. Anytime,” he murmurs, simple, but sincere. His eyes flicker over your face, lingering on the tired shadows under your eyes, before he finally moves, extending his free hand out to hold the back of your chair. Those pretty fingers twitch, like he wants to go further. Be bolder. Run his palm over your back, touch, comfort you the way he’s wanted for years. 

But he doesn’t. Not yet.

“It’s not an exact match. But I’d guess it’s the same demon, or same category, at least,” he adds, a sweet flush creeping up his neck, like your sudden silence is suffocating him. “I can keep digging if you want. Find something more accurate.”

“No.” You cut him off quickly, and he frowns, face twisting into an expression that reminds you far too much of a kicked puppy. It’s both adorable, and a little heartbreaking. “You’ve just saved me about six hours of staring at lore until my eyes fall out of my skull. It’s two in the morning. Go to bed, Sammy.”

The corner of his mouth quirks, and you swear he looks even more embarrassed than before. Of course, though, because he’ll never quite let it go, he still mumbles out a near-silent, “it’s Sam.” 

He lingers like he’s seconds away from arguing with you. Fortunately, you win in the end, and he pushes up from the table, stretching his arms behind his back with a quiet groan. His shirt rides up just slightly, just enough for you to catch a glimpse of skin above his waistband (again, not that you’re looking), and when he lowers his arms—he places his palm on your shoulder. Squeezes. Even when his face heats up, and his pulse races so quick, he wonders if you can feel it.

“Fine. But… get some sleep, okay?”

He doesn’t wait for an answer. Instead, he pads silently back towards the couch in the other room, leaving that undeniable warmth to prickle beneath your skin. 

It takes until day six for Dean’s constant complaining to claw its way beneath your skin, and in your defence, half of it was because of the heat.

As it turns out, the rain had served to be nothing but a short-lived sense of false relief, because not a day later, another blistering heatwave hit. Full force.

More than hot enough to make your shirt cling to your body like a second skin, for the horizon to look all hazy like you’re staring at it through clear water, and to make the older Winchester’s whining just that much more irritating. Thankfully, both for your well being and Deans, you’d plotted your escape to the junkyard—because that way, you could strangle the fucked-up wiring in your old Trans Am, instead of his sweaty throat.

You stand half hunched over the open hood of the car, damp tank top rubbing uncomfortably against your sticky skin. Your sweaty hands fumble with the socket wrench as it slips from your grasp, hot metal heating your palms like it just wants you to snap. Your molars dig into your cheek, knuckles white, fingers already grease stained, a string of curses slipping out between irritated puffs of breath. Nothing about it should be difficult, you’ve disconnected a thousand batteries before, but there’s something about the goddamn heat that has your jaw tensing and your fist tightening.

“You sound just like your father.”

You hadn’t even heard Sam approach, curse his stealth, his voice cutting through your exasperation with a jolt. Luckily for you, you don’t startle quite as hard as the other night (and if you had, you surely would’ve clunked your head on the hood), but you still let out a groan, bowing your head with an exaggerated shake.

“Do you take pride in your ability to scare the living hell out of me, Winchester?” you tease, cocking your head towards him, pointing the offending socket wrench in his direction.

Sam grins, bright and very unapologetic, the bastard, as he comes just a little closer. He leans against the fender, his arms crossed over his chest. He has the sleeves of his flannel rolled up to mid forearm, revealing freshly sun-kissed skin, and a glittery sheen of sweat.

“Maybe,” he admits shamelessly, tilting his head, which earns him a playful glare. His hair sticks to his forehead slightly, damp from the heat, and he shakes his head absently to swipe it back. “You’re the one who keeps letting me sneak up on you, though.”

You roll your eyes, finally laying down that stupid wrench, and Sam takes the opportunity to just… look at you. Really look at you. His gaze flicks over your face, lingering at the sweat beading at your temple, before dropping to the way your tank top clings to your shoulders, the smudges of grease that stain your arms. 

The moment you catch him, though, you swear his cheeks turn just a little more red, his brows furrowing into something almost sheepish.

“I, uh. Here,” he chokes the words out, extending his arm towards you in a stiff, mechanical motion, a cold plastic water bottle clutched in his hand. 

The sight damn near brings you to your knees.

You take the bottle with a blissful ‘thank you’, the icy condensation soothing your overheated palm like balm to a wound. Still, you don’t drink right away. The water has a faint sheen to it, almost cloudy, and you lift a brow, amused.

“You druggin’ me?”

Sam’s eyes shoot open comically wide, his head shaking before your words even fully land, and you can’t help but laugh at the look of sheer horror on his face. 

“What? No—God, no,” he blurts, just as you twist the cap open with a quiet snicker. “It’s… electrolytes. That powder stuff, y’know? It’s hot, ‘n I figured you wouldn’t be drinking enough ‘cause you’re so damn stubborn. I thought about making you something else, like, a smoothie, since you love fruit, but I didn’t know where you kept the blender—”

“Sam.” You cut him off gently, taking a swig. “Thank you. You’re sweet.”

For a moment, he just blinks at you, like he’s unsure of how to respond to the praise. Then he clears his throat, an awkward, punched out sound, before he jerks his head towards the engine.

“…Need a hand?”

He doesn’t wait for an answer before stepping up beside you, nudging your knee with his as he peers under the hood. His arm brushes yours, warm and solid, as he hums thoughtfully, like he has any clue what he’s looking at.

He doesn’t.

You take another sip of your drink before setting it to the side.

“Y’ever replace an alternator, Sam?” you ask, and the crooked smile you receive is answer enough. Dean? Sure. He knows his way around an engine. And as for you, you’ve been tearing your way through your father’s junkyard since you could walk. But Sam?

Yeah. No. 

“I mean, uh. Y’know, I’ve...” He tilts his head, considering the mess of bolts and wiring before him, before shooting you a sidelong glance, pretty eyes crinkling at the corners. “…No.”

You snicker, picking the socket wrench back up, tightening your grip on the hot metal with slippery fingers.

“But I’ve been told I’ve got a real talent for holding a flashlight,” he offers, voice dropping into that low, teasing tone that never fails to make your stomach flip. “And I won’t complain like a certain individual back in the house. Promise.”

A soft smile tugs at your lips, and for the first time in hours, you don’t feel two seconds away from strangling someone. 

“Ah. There’s your real motive. Trying to avoid your brother so you don’t bite his head off,” you joke, and he shrugs noncommittedly, telling you all you need to know. “No need for a light, though. Not at this time of day.”

His smile falters.

You regret your words instantly. You didn’t mean it like that—God, no, not like you were brushing him off—but he looks almost hurt, and those puppy eyes are just lethal.

“Why don’t I teach you?” you suggest quickly. Surprise flickers across his face, and the sight makes your heart stutter. “It’s pretty easy,” you add, softer now, “and you’re a real quick learner.”

“…Yeah?” he questions gently, almost like he’s expecting you to take it back, before the corners of his lips quirk right back up in a quietly pleased grin. He shifts closer, hovering over the engine, his hand sliding from the fender to rest just above the grille. 

He doesn’t look back at the car right away, though, no; he just… watches you for a second. He lingers on the small smudge of grease on your cheek, the little crease between your brows that always forms whenever you’re focused, the way your tongue swipes across your lower lip… before ducking his head with a nod.

“Okay.”

He exhales, almost a laugh, like he’s shaking off nerves. Rolling his sleeves up just a little higher over his elbows, he exposes the lean muscle of his forearms when he braces his palms back on the edge of the engine bay. The sun catches his tan skin, warm and shining under the golden light.

You swallow. Hard.

“…Walk me through it?” he adds after a moment, breaking your trance, and you have to shake your head lightly to refocus, before nodding as your confidence slips back in place. You tilt your wrist forward, pointing at the battery. 

“Alright. We’ve just gotta take out the battery first. Don’t wanna fuck up the electrical, or give yourself a nasty shock. You just have to disconnect the cables. This one first—” you gesture towards the back cable, Sam humming thoughtfully, “—negative. That’ll break the ground circuit. Then you can take off the red one next, remove the hold-down clamp, and lift it out. You with me?”

Sam makes a low, affirmative sound, his brows drawing together in concentration. He follows along, he really does—but when his eyes drift, he seriously can’t help it. He takes in the cables first, committing them to memory, but his eyes wander to trace your fingers, up to the soft angle of your wrist before he can catch them. 

And then he’s just looking at you. 

“Yeah,” he says. “I think so.”

You smile before continuing. “Once the battery’s out, you’ve got to remove the serpentine belt. That’s not too bad. Loosening it can be a bitch, though.” The metal wrench tinks against the tensioner as you point, your head tilting towards him. “Then you can start working on the alternator. But that’s hands-on work. Can’t really explain it.”

You don’t move to demonstrate. No, instead, you extend the socket wrench out in your overheated palm. An offer.

“Have at ‘er.”

Sam hesitates, a brief moment of almost-panic flickering over his face, breaking through his newfound ease. For a second, he just stares at the tool, at your outstretched hand, like he can’t quite believe that you’re handing him the task. Like it’s some sort of test.

“Me?” he questions, stunned, and when you nod, he takes an extra beat to move. 

His fingers close around the handle tentatively, warm and calloused, and you swear he has the slightest tremor. His thumb brushes yours as he takes it, a fleeting touch that sends a spark up your arm despite the sweltering heat; and this time, he lets it linger. Just a little. 

He clears his throat softly before turning back to the mess of cables, rolling his shoulders like a pitcher getting ready to throw.

“You’ve got a lot of faith in me, I mean, if you ever want this thing on the road again.” He laughs, but the hesitation is still present, threaded with just a touch of Sam-Winchester-self-depreciation that twists at your heart. 

You don’t entertain it. Not this time. Instead, your hip drops to lean against the bumper as you turn your body towards him, arms folded across your chest.

“Nah. I trust you.”

And for a heartbeat, Sam just freezes. The wrench hovers in his grip like he’s suddenly forgotten what to do with it. His lips part slightly, like he’s going to say something. But for once? He doesn’t have a smart remark. He doesn’t have a dumb joke to deflect with. He just blinks once, twice, gaze so damn soft it makes something deep in your chest ache. 

Then, without a word, he leans forward, and gets to work. 

The wrench clicks into place on the first bolt, his grip steadying, instinct taking over. He ratchets in careful yet powerful strokes, confidence surfacing, piece by piece. You watch closely: the way his bangs fall over his forehead, each quiet puff of his breath, the way the tendon in his forearm jumps with each back-and-forth pull. Sam’s in his element, working, learning, and if it gives you a bit of a show?

Well, that’s just a bonus. 

On day ten, you finally crack open your first beer.

The living room glows with the soft light of a single lamp in one corner, the one that’s bulb has gone a faded shade of orange, and that flickers every few moments. Empty glass bottles and half-full longnecks scatter the coffee table, Dean’s cast covered foot thrown haphazardly next to them, one good kick from sloshing foam onto plaster.

The three of you are sprawled out easily in the room, Dean in that old chair he’s claimed as his own, tipsy fingers picking leather from the armrest, while you and Sam share the tiny couch, close enough to feel the brush of his knee every time his leg bounces restlessly. Laughter flows freely through loose lips, paired with the heavy bass of some old rock track booming through your ancient speaker, filling the usually quiet room with a new kind of comfort.

“Oh, come on, Dean. Load is good!” you manage between snickers with impressive seriousness, your heated debate about Metallica albums becoming equally as important as monster talk to your intoxicated mind. 

“Good?” Dean drawls, who’s already had double yet is somehow half as tipsy, voice thick with playful disdain. “That shit is not Metallica. They went mainstream, I’m telling you.”

He takes another swig from his bottle (his eighth? Ninth? Who even knows), and levels a glare at you like you’ve just taken Baby for a joyride.

Sam, meanwhile, is slumped against the loveseat, warm and heavy in that almost-drunk Sam way where he leans into you just a little more than usual, like it’s as simple as breathing. One arm is thrown along the backside of the couch, fingertips tapping along to the beat, brushing your shoulder every so often when his hand slips limply. The other stays in his lap, fingers idly twisting around the neck of an open bottle. 

He almost looks a little lost. Happy lost, you note, if that dimpled smile is saying anything. 

“Seriously?” you groan, albeit dramatically, but there’s no mistaking the way the corner of your lips curve upwards.

You take a sip of your beer, the liquid fizzing pleasantly on your tongue. The cold stings your teeth in a way that should be uncomfortable, but instead, seems to be just right. 

“You’re only sayin’ that ‘cause it’s newer. You’re blinded by the classics,” you accuse, jutting out one finger from around the neck of your bottle, pointing it in the older Winchester’s direction, before sparing a glance at Sam. “Help me out here, would ya?”

Sam blinks, slow, buzzed, like the words take a moment to travel from his ears to his brain. 

For a second, he just stares, lips slightly parted like he’s forgotten what the argument was about. His cheeks are flushed a pretty pink from the beer, warm from the golden glow of the lamp, his hair a little messy from running his fingers through it all night.

When he snaps out of it, finally, a lazy grin spreads across his face, and your stomach seems to flip even more than usual. He lifts his beer in some sort of salute, before taking a swig.

“It’s not… bad,” he says carefully, ever the mediator, wiping his lips with the back of his hand. 

His eyes flick to yours as he says it, as if searching for some sort of approval, and he sure as hell gets it—you flashing him a triumphant smile, landing your obnoxious ‘aha!’. Dean rolls his eyes so hard, you think they might fall out of his skull.

“Dude, you always take her side,” he complains, hardening his gaze into something that’s probably supposed to be scrutinizing.

“No I don’t,” Sam defends, sounding almost pouty, but it’s weak. Really weak.

“It’s ‘cause I’m always right,” you butt in, giggling all over again, Sam’s soft smile growing at the sound alone.

“Yeah, no,” Dean decides, eyes flicking between you and his brother. “That’s not why. Wanna know why? It’s just ‘cause he…” he trails off, slowly, voice dipping into something uncharacteristically quiet, and you feel the way Sam stiffens by your side. Hard. 

They exchange a look, one you don’t quite understand. Sharp, quick, silent Winchester communication—like they know something you don’t. And when Dean speaks again, he waves his arm as if to brush you off.

“…Whatever. His opinions invalid, anyway. He likes freakin’ Bon Jovi.”

For a beat too long, you don’t respond. Long enough to make the air in the room feel slightly unnatural, like it’s suddenly gotten thicker, grown from an easy flow to something a little suffocating. Dean’s words still hang between you, unfinished in a way that somehow makes them worse. He left space, too much space, leaving room for you to fill in blanks that you don’t quite understand.

Your mind should be racing to reach it. Should be grabbing onto something, anything, but instead, every thought drifts lazily past, tangled and unhelpful, like puzzle pieces that almost fit together but never quite click.

And God, Sam… Sam looks a little like he’s about to bolt.

That snaps you out of it, quick, your brain catching a thought, flipping it over, and blurting out a response before it really settles. 

“Dean, even I like Bon Jovi.”

Dean’s gaze flicks back to you, thrown off just enough for some of that smothering tension to crack, even just a fraction. He looks at you, then Sam, then back to you—like he’s trying to gauge if opening his mouth will get him punched or not—before giving you another scowl.

“Yeah, well,” he mutters, rubbing the back of his neck in an attempt to shake off some of the pressure. “That’s his influence.”

He sticks the neck of his bottle in Sam’s direction, who seems to have relaxed a little, but just barely. 

“His poor, poor influence.”

“Poor? You could argue that Bon Jovi’s classic, too,” you challenge, tilting your head, a half-smile tugging at your lips again. You’re still trying to keep it light, even if something in the room still feels a little off.

Even if that something is right next to you, knee to knee, and radiating an intense amount of heat that you have to fight yourself not to lean into.

Dean opens his mouth, closes it, then huffs. 

“Very poor,” he lands on, weakly. “Jovi is the pop of rock. Nothing about that is classic, ‘n you know it.”

You scoff, which almost earns you a smirk, but it doesn’t stick. Not really.

Because Sam still hasn’t said anything.

You glance over at him, and yeah. Definitely off. He’s stiff, posture tight like his muscles are locked in place, his shoulders just a touch too taut. His jaw’s set hard enough to hurt, and his eyes are fixed somewhere past Dean like he’s trying to become one with the couch, or maybe just disappear entirely.

“Sammy.” You nudge him with your elbow, a quick, gentle motion, and he startles like you’d jammed a knife between his ribs. He bows his head to look at you, loopy-eyed from that alcohol induced haze, cheeks still a flustered red. 

He doesn’t even correct you this time.

“…Hm?”

“Are y’going to defend yourself,” you ask, voice tipping into a more teasing register, watching him just a little closer, “or just let him slander you?”

Sam doesn’t respond right away. His grip on his bottle loosens just a touch, thumb dragging lazily along the peeling label as his gaze flickers down, then back to you. Then he huffs. Shakes his head. And suddenly, a small, familiar smile tugs at his lips again, dimples creating pretty little indents on his still pink cheeks.

“…You love ‘Livin’ on a Prayer’, Dean.”

You snicker, Dean groans, and Sam seems to relax in a way that helps you breathe easy again. The tension doesn’t disappear, not entirely anyway, but it loosens, unwinding like a knot pulled in the right direction. And when Sam takes another sip of his beer, eyes flicking to you, there’s something softer in it now. Something that wasn’t there a moment ago—or maybe something he just couldn’t quite hide this time. 

“Yeah, yeah,” Dean concedes, waving both of you off, planting his now empty bottle on the coffee table with a heavy thud. “You’re both still wrong. I’m just outnumbered.”

“Right…” you drawl, still giggling, and Sam lets out a real laugh this time. The kind that lights up his entire face, and makes your chest tighten without even realizing it. 

The music hums into another solo, the room settling back into something familiar. Sam shifts, just slightly, and his fingertips brush your shoulder in soft, rhythmic circles where his arm’s draped along the back of the couch.

And this time, he doesn’t pull away at all. 

On day fourteen, it’s your turn to scare the soul clean out of Sam’s body.

You wake up early, too early for most, before the sun has even fully breached the horizon. The sky is still a faded pink, the world sitting quietly, where everything feels as though it’s paused and waiting. The air’s already warm, already heavy, but it’s not suffocating yet; it’s gentle. The kind of warmth that settles over your skin just right, or glows through your kitchen blinds as you brew a pot of rich coffee.

When you shake Sam awake, he startles. Of course he does. Hunters never quite wake easy. There’s a flash of immediate alertness in his eyes, maybe a little bit of panic, before it fades into soft recognition. And as it turns out, it doesn’t take much convincing, if any at all, to get him to follow.

And so your short journey begins.

You walk side by side in an easy, peaceful quiet, the kind that doesn’t really need any filling. The fields stretch endlessly around you, overgrown grass tickling your legs, the odd car or rusted-out part scattered around every corner. Remnants of old memories, of laughter-fueled moments that you hold oh so close to your heart. 

Then the trees cast cool shadows as you move through the woods, ducking under low branches that force Sam to practically fold himself in half, step over fallen logs, and push through bushes that scrape your knees, practiced like you’ve done it a thousand times before.

Because you have.

Eventually, you reach it. The two of you lie out the old blanket you’d packed, right where the trees clear out, a quiet lake opens up, and the land dips into something almost hidden just for you. It’s the kind of place no one would ever find unless they really went looking. The place that was always just… yours. Yours and Sam’s. 

You lean back into the blanket, your hair fanning across worn fabric as you let yourself relax, flipping open your journal, graphite smudging against the curve of your palm as you begin to sketch. Sam settles beside you, the movement quiet, unhurried, and so damn familiar. Neither of you speak, not at first, and neither of you really have to. 

The lake is still, in that glassy, undisturbed sort of way, except from the occasional ripple from a fish breaching the surface, or a leaf falling from a nearby tree. Morning light cascades over it in pretty golds and soft blues, shining in a way that makes everything feel a little softer around the edges.

It’s all so… familiar.

Every rock, every tree, every incline in the field has a memory attached. It’s the place you used to go all the time as kids, after school or when the pressure at home got too heavy. Escaping out to the hills like you weren’t the children of hunters, but two regular kids who liked skipping stones and splashing water, or two teenagers who would sneak a couple beers from your fathers fridge. The place that held all of your goodbyes, before John would snatch the boys away for months, and you wouldn’t hear a thing until they returned just a little older, a little rougher. 

It makes this feel like goodbye all over again.

Next to you, it seems Sam might be thinking just the same thing. He doesn’t say it out loud yet, but he just breathes it all in, mapping the space around him like a trail he knows better than the back of his hand. He watches the birds fly from tree to tree, takes in the scent of damp earth and wild flowers, listens to the way your pencil scratches lightly against your paper. 

Eventually though, he turns to look at you instead. 

His gaze lingers in a way that shouldn’t feel as heavy as it does. He doesn’t look at your journal, or the way your hands grip your pencil. No, he stares at your profile. Your relaxed expression. The way your hair frames your face, the slope of your nose, the soft bow of your lips. A soft smile tugs at his own as he quietly slips down to his elbow beside you, closing some of that space so naturally it could be framed as unintentional.

But now, you know better than that.

Your pencil glides across the paper in deep strokes, before your fingertip darts out to smudge the graphite, blending it into something softer. You try to ignore his gaze. You really do. But you can feel it—and it makes your heart thump like a drum against your ribs, flutter in a way you can feel up in your throat. 

Slowly, so slowly as to not break the quiet, your pencil lowers to rest between the pages, as you turn your head gently to the side. 

“…You okay there, Sam?”

His expression does something a little complicated when you speak. It softens into something sweet, the way it always does when you meet his gaze, but at the same time, it almost gets heavier. He gives you that damn look, that puppy-eyed stare, the one that makes your chest warm with affection so intense, it’s near impossible to stifle.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, his voice still a little rough from sleep, or maybe just emotion he hasn’t quite faced. “Just… thinking.”

His knee brushes yours as he shifts, bending it where it rests over the blanket so he can look at you more fully. It doesn’t feel like an accident, not this time, and he certainly doesn’t rush to pull it away. 

“Thinking?” you echo. “About what?”

Sam exhales, a quiet, shaky breath, like the question weighs on him.

“About… this. Staying here. How it’s coming to an end.” His voice comes out careful and almost measured, too measured, like he’s trying to mask that undercurrent of sadness that’s already starting to ache. “I could’ve sworn two weeks felt so much longer when we were kids.”

Fourteen days was never meant to last forever. You knew that. And yet, sitting by the lake, surrounded by old memories, it feels a little like time has slipped through your fingers like the sunrise melting into noon. 

Your relaxed smile fades into something a little more sullen, even as warmth clings to your skin, both from the sun, and the barely-there touch of his knee.

“Yeah. It did.” You swallow, forcing yourself to look away briefly, like that’ll do anything to loosen the pressure in your chest. You sit up a little further, pushing onto your elbows, and your journal slides off your lap, pencil rolling into the overgrown grass. 

“…You know you don’t need a reason to just… visit, right?”

For a moment, the words just… sit. And you’d expected just that.

Because the Winchesters don’t do things like that. They don’t go on hunt-free road trips, or lazy Sunday afternoons, or spontaneous visits unless blood is involved. Their lives are simple, that of a hunter’s: case files, salt rounds, and constant movement from crisis to crisis with no room for reunions. 

And you know that. You really do. And yet…

“I just mean… you don’t need to be hunting. Or injured.” Your fingers curl into the blanket below as you find his eyes again. “You don’t need to justify it. You can just… come.”

His throat works as he swallows hard, and he turns towards the water for a fleeting second, like he’s anchoring himself against a wave of emotion threatening to spill over all at once.

“I don’t want to impose,” he lands on, slowly, spelling out the syllables. Bracing for rejection. “This is Bobby’s place. Your place. It’s safe. I’m not… Dean and I can’t just…”

He huffs, frustrated, shaking his head. 

“Sam,” you start again, still gentle, voice so low, it almost gets lost in the passing breeze. “I’m saying I want you guys here.”

Silence falls. The trees sway with a soft gust of wind, and the pages of your journal flip by your side, but you don’t worry yourself about losing your place. You don’t tear your gaze away. You can’t. And when you speak again, your voice comes out more firm than before.

“I’m saying I want you here.”

He doesn’t respond right away, barely even blinks. Your own gaze finally slips away from his, dropping to your lap, then back out to the lake ahead—and you let out a breath that’s almost as frustrated as his own.

“I meant what I said when you first got here. I miss having you guys around. So much,” you whisper, and the words seem to catch in your throat, shaky and thick enough to ache. “I don’t… I don’t want this to be goodbye for the next six months. I don’t want to watch the impala pull onto the road and wonder when I’ll see your face again. I don’t—God, Sam, I don’t… I can’t—”

“Hey.” His voice slices through your words like the world’s softest blade.  

“Yeah?”

“…Can I kiss you?”

You don’t answer right away. You think you do—your brain sends the signal, your lips part—but nothing actually comes out. The moment hangs there, frozen, like you’d pressed pause on the world, and forgot to press play again. 

The words seem to replay in your head on repeat. Not once, not twice, but over and over and over, as you stare at him like if you look hard enough, the universe will rewind like some cruel joke. Because this is Sam. 

This is Sam, and he’s just asked if he could kiss you. 

You’re not sure how long your hesitation lasts, but it’s long enough for Sam’s eyes to widen. For his muscles to go tense. For his face to crumble like he’s just fucked up, really fucked up, and for him to lean away like he’s about to pull back. You don’t let him. 

Because when your response finally comes, it has nothing to do with words. 

You surge forward, capturing his lips with so much intensity that you get the brick wall that is Sam Winchester to sway. He inhales into it like he wasn’t expecting it, like it takes a moment to register, but once it does, he melts. Completely.

It’s like every nerve lights up all at once. Warm and electric and so damn right that your head spins, and your stomach flips.

It’s sweet. So damn sweet.

He kisses you back slowly, cautiously, like he’s terrified of messing things up; but with so much tenderness that it steals the air straight out of your lungs. There’s no rush, no urgency, just quiet wonder. Like the moment is fragile, and all either of you want to do is preserve it forever.

And when he finally pulls back, just enough to suck in a deep, lingering breath, he rests his forehead against yours. His eyes half lidded, and so full of adoration that it would bring you to your knees if you weren’t already so reclined. 

“…You okay?” he questions, voice barely above a breath, as he searches your face for even the smallest ounce of doubt. He doesn’t find any.

“Perfect.”

He nods, and then he’s leaning in this time. Every muscle in your body relaxes the moment his lips slot against yours again, giving way to something warm and almost pliant. His hands rise, slow and tentative at first, before he cups your jaw with infinite gentleness. Two warm palms brush your cheeks as he tilts you impossibly closer, his fingers spanning the length of your face, his thumbs brushing sweetly over the delicate curve of your cheekbone in a clingy way that just about makes your eyes water.

And for a while, that’s all there is. You, him, the quiet rhythm of your breathing as your lips collide, the breeze ruffling through the field, and the soft rippling waves in the lake.

When you pull back again, it’s not that either of you want to, and you can feel it in the way he hesitates. The way his thumb traces your face, the way his lips linger a fraction too long before parting from yours. He doesn’t go far. He stays close enough for your noses to brush, for his bangs to tickle your forehead, and one of his hands never leaves your cheek.

There’s a faint, disbelieving huff of a laugh that comes from him, and after a moment of shock—one of your own follows.

“Okay,” he murmurs, like he’s trying the words out, testing his reality. Testing if this is all real. “Okay.”

Your lips curve into a smile despite yourself. “…Yeah?” you whisper, and you don’t say much else, at least not for the moment. Because if you do, you almost worry you’ll say something cheesy. Something cliché, like ‘you have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do that.’

Because it’s true.

Your hand shifts where it rests between you, brushing against his wrist. He stills for a second at the contact, instinctive, and you feel his hesitation in his breath. But then he softens. Turns his hand. And finally, he slides his palm just enough so his fingers can lace between yours. Careful, so careful, like he’s still not quite sure if he’s allowed.

You squeeze, and he squeezes back.

“I’m not… good at this,” he admits, gaze dropping briefly to stare at your interlocked fingers, and his thumb brushes gently over your knuckles. “Showing up just because. Having a life off the road.”

Your smile lingers, but your gaze searches his, just for a second. “You don’t have to be good at it. But… I’ll say it a thousand times if I have to. I just want you here. I want… all of it.”

“All of it,” he echoes, and he lifts his head again, expression so warm, you feel like you could melt. His hand lifts from your cheek, only to tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear, holding just a moment longer than necessary. “…I’m not good at this, but I want to try. For you.”

“For us,” you correct, and he smiles so hard, the golden shine of the sun catches on his dimples. 

“Yeah. For us.”

AN: HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO SAMMY 🎉🥳 as a gift to all the Sam lovers, here is almost 10K words of pure fluff.

This one is pretty different from my other work, honestly, lol, and I made up some demonology here that’s definitely inaccurate, so enjoy being thoroughly confused there (I was too). But I hope everyone’s had a great Sam day 🖤

You must have something. Everyone has something. But it is impossible to find that something, when you’re always launching LuthorCorp missiles at him and threatening him with lab grown kryptonite. Clark didn’t even know that stuff could be grown in a lab, until he landed down in your labs for some run-of-the-mill standoff, and found himself face to face with your pretty eyes, and a gun, loaded with kryptonite bullets.

Not that you’re pretty. You’ve got objectively nice features, and Clark is far from blind, but beauty does not speak to character.

Not that you’re beautiful, either. And even if you are, it’s rotted away by whatever is on the inside. Whatever runs so deep, he can’t find that tiny blossom of good, no matter how hard he tries.

“You don’t want to do this.” He’d told you, that day in the lab.

When you’d smiled, it had reminded Clark of the wolves that used to hunt Ma and Pa’s sheep. The ones that hadn’t been afraid of him, and had gnashed and snarled until he dropped them miles away from the farm.

“You don’t know anything,” you’d drawled. “About what I want to do.”

That had seemed fair. He really didn’t. “There would be a death on your conscious-“

“This wouldn’t kill you, you fucking pussy.” You’d rolled your eyes, and Clark had blinked.

“That language doesn’t seem necessary-“

“Oh, I’m sorry, boy scout.” You’d smirked. “It wouldn’t kill you, you flying, caped, monkey-squirrel, sweet baby of justice.”

“I-“ That had been strangely hurtful. “I’m just here to turn off Luthor’s reactor, okay-“

“It’s not Luthor’s reactor.” You’d snapped. “It’s mine.”

“I hate to break it to you, but it kind of says Luthor on the side-“

“I’m well aware of what it says.” Your lip had curled, and Clark had tilted his head.

“You know, this thing is probably going to blow and take out the whole city.”

You’d scoffed. “No, it won’t.”

“I have friends who are professionals in this kind of thing, they say it will.”

“Your friends are wrong.”

Clark had shrugged. “Maybe you’re wrong.”

“I’m never wrong.” You’d raised your chin, and his lips had twitched slightly. He towered over you—he towered over everyone—but watching you trying to be taller was like some puffed up, feral cat. He’d pick you up with one hand and not even blink.

Not that he’d try to pick you up. You were a lady, and a human.

Although lady was by the loosest definition.

“Everyone is wrong sometimes,” he’d said gently, and you shrugged.

“I’m not everyone.”

“There’s nothing wrong with being like other people-“

“I know.” You’d smirked. “But I’m not.”

This had been deeply frustrating. “Okay, just- Look, I really need to turn off your reactor-“

“And I’m really going to shoot you if you do that.”

Clark had rubbed a hand over his face. “I mean- I’m really asking you not to-“

“That’s not how shooting someone works. This,” you’d waved your gun. “Isn’t a mutually consenting act.”

“It’s- You’re going to kill thousands of people! Let me-“

“No.” You’d hissed when he took a step forward. “It’s perfectly safe, and you’re not touching it.”

“If it was perfectly safe, would Lex Luthor have funded it?” Clark had challenged, hoping he didn’t sound as desperate as he felt. “Would he have really taken a chance on something that’s actually going to help people besides himself?”

Your eyes had narrowed, and for a brief second, Clark had thought he’d gotten through to you. It had been a glorious second. He’d decided that you really were pretty, and beautiful, and all the other adjectives to describe someone who had a face like the moon.

Then you’d shot him. Point blank in the chest.

Clark had been shot a lot before. He’d been exposed to kryptonite a lot before, as well.

That had maybe been the first time he’d thought he was dying. When he’d woken up, Gary told him he’d been groaning a woman’s name in his sleep.

Your name.

Clark had decided he didn’t like you. Maybe you weren’t a bad person—he was clinging to the idea that deep, deep, deep down you’d shot him because you were being blackmailed, or were deep undercover, or Lex had you under some kind of mind control—but Clark didn’t like you. It wasn’t even the shooting thing. It was something deeply you, that wiggled into him like a worm in an apple, and made his blood pressure rise at the sound of your name.

And you’d been right. The reactor hadn’t blown up. But that was luck from a very thin draw.

Next time, Clark would stop you. Then he’d tie you to a chair and have a very long, in-depth conversation where he figured out something to like about you, then everyone could move on.

Lois has a new informant. She won’t say who it is, no matter how much Clark causally pokes.

“Confidentiality, Kent, you know I can’t tell you.”

“Yeah, but- It’s me. You know me, Lois, I’m not going to tell anyone-“

“It doesn’t matter that it’s you.” Lois sighes, giving him a pointed look. “I promised her I’d keep it between us, and that doesn’t mean turning right around and telling anyone. I worked really hard to get her to trust me. I’m not blowing that for anyone.”

Clark raises his brows. “So it’s a woman?”

“I- Yes. But that,” she points a finger sternly, giving Clark a firm glare. “Is all you get.”

“Well, do you at least really trust her?” He braces his hands on his hips. “If she’s informing you on Lex Luthor, that means she’s close, and- You know I think anyone can change, but you should always be careful with Luthor’s people.”

You.

Clark is thinking, very specifically, of you.

Because nobody moved on, and Clark has not stopped you.

If anything, he’s found more and more reasons to dislike you. And Lois insists her new informant is reliable, but now Clark is also worried that you’re going to find this mystery woman, and do something to her. You’re everywhere like that. He thinks you might be more dangerous than Luthor.

And you were always hovering somewhere behind Lex now, pretty and sharp-tongued and annoying. Clark couldn’t fight Lex when you were always just there watching. It felt like you were judging him, which he didn’t care about, but he still didn’t like.

Every time he slipped up in a fight, he could see you in the corner of his eyes, tilting your head like you were about to dissect him. If he was trading remarks during a fight and you were there, it was always impossible to find something smoother and more confident than whatever slipped like music from your lips. When it was your invention he was on, he’d started bringing back up in case you tried to shoot him again, but instead—in a much more inconvenient fashion—you’d decided to find a new way to evade him, every single time.

“You’re five minutes late.” You’d drawled a few months ago, not looking up from your desk as Clark and Guy landed in your lab.

Usually, by now, Clark had put a villain through at least three lab rebuilds. He liked seeing what they did with the new place, how they’d improved on it from the old one that he’d either wrecked in a fight, or gotten them kicked out of for committing a multitude of crimes.

You’ve had the same lab, the whole time. He was getting sick of its soft colored walls and clean floors, of all the strange clutter you kept between parts on the desk. It was mocking him.

“I didn’t know we were on a timer,” he said your name, and you hummed.

“You don’t know a lot of things, Superman. And I doubt Guy Gardener is going to help you fill in the gaps.”

Next to him, Guy had scowled. “How the hell did you know-“

“I have security, you know.” You’d spun in your chair, giving them a flat look. “And you’re the only one he hasn’t tried to use yet.”

You’d smiled, and it had been all full-lipped and sweet. Your hair had fallen a little over your face. You never smiled at Clark like that.

He’d felt kind of sick. You smiling just seemed to have that effect on him.

“I think you know why I’m here-“

“Of course I know why you’re here.” You’d cut Clark off with an insulted glare. “And you know what I’m going to say, and we both know how this is going to end. We can catch up first, if you want. I’ve been getting really into baking, since we last caught up.” You’d spun in your chair, and now you were smiling at Clark, but it was colder. Mocking. “My friend is having a baby, so I’m making cookies.”

Guy had frowned. “For… A newborn baby?”

“For her, dumbass.”

He’d blinked. “Wow, you’re- Mean.” Guy had grinned, and Clark remembered why he’d decided to bring him last. “I like it. Question, what are your superpowers again, and do they come out in any weird sex ways.”

You’d snorted. “No.”

“No, no superpowers, or no sex stuff-“

“Yes.”

Guy had frowned, looking down at his outfit like that was why he might be getting rejected. Clark had cleared his throat, saying your name in the way he always forced himself to. Gentle. Like he was talking to a rabid animal.

“We’re going to take the code to the beacon, now-“

“Supes.” You’d sighed, kicking your feet lazily. “You don’t need to do the whole thing anymore. It’s just me.” You’d smiled. “Come fight, and lose.”

Clark’s jaw had ticked. You said it so goddamn confidently, and once again, you were right.

He and Guy had given it their all, but you’d been ready. You were always ready, and always smiling, and always right, and it made Clark want to beat his own head against a wall.

“Bye!” You’d waved cheerfully when he’d retreated, beaming all bright and pretty. “You’ll get me next time, big guy!”

There had been a fever like feeling in his body, when he’d flown away. You hadn’t even shot him this time.

“What’s that girl’s deal.” Guy had grumbled while they patched up, scowling at the air. He’d gotten the worst of it.

“I don’t know. She just… Showed up one day.”

And like a weed, he hasn’t been able to get rid of you since.

It was driving him out of his mind.

Clark was running out of people to back him up. He was getting more and more distracted by your presence, and he was starting to recognize your smell. There was this cinnamon-apple candle you lit to stem off the chemical lab smell, and you used a similar kind of perfume, and every time he smelled it that fever returned. It got to the point that he’d smell the air for you like a dog, the second he touched down in a fight.

He’s worried it’s turning into an obsession. He even asked Luthor about you. About where you came from, why he hired you, anything to help him understand exactly what made you so… you.

“Why, Superman?” Luthor had smirked. “You like something you’re seeing? Because let me tell you, she’s more than worth the purchase, if you’ve got the money. Or you could just pick her up and carry her off, like the ogre brute that you are-“

Clark had knocked him out. He wasn’t going to entertain that.

But he still started watching closer, the way you and Luthor interacted. It was more than boss and employee. You smiled at him. He’d defend you in a fight, which was never a good sign.

Clark didn’t think he’d ever felt sicker, than when he pictured you and Luthor.

Together.

You smiling at him. Quipping at him without any venom or mockery in your voice. Tossing your air and batting your eyelashes, and-

He actually had no idea how you’d flirt. Clark pictured it something similar to a predator corning prey, but there was no bigger apex in this ecosystem than Luthor himself.

That was what Jimmy called a power couple.

Clark didn’t like it.

He didn’t like that, like that weed, no matter how he tried to pick away his thoughts of you they always grew back. You were stuck to him like a plaque, like a moss, like a parasite. You took his attention, his energy, a lot of his pride, every time you knocked him down without lifting one finger, your hair never even getting messed up in the fight.

Clark doesn’t like you.

He thinks he might hate you. He’s never really hated someone before, and he doesn’t like that either.

But he’s trying, so hard, to find something for you. And there’s nothing.

And he hates you even more, for that. For shaking him, and everything he knows. For getting such an iron hold on him without trying, digging your fingers in and leaving marks so deep, they don’t even fade when he doesn’t see you for months.

He hates that he still looks for you in those months. That it’s not relief when you’re gone, but something cool and light in his chest when you’re back. He tries to ignore it, just like he tries to ignore the fever. They’re not useful feelings, in dealing with the everything about you. He thinks they’re just byproducts of the hate, because he never feels them with anyone else.

Clark’s a grown man. He thought he’d felt most things.

And now you’re here.

And he’s really never hated anyone more.

“Kent.” Lois taps his desk, her voice a hushed whisper. “I need a favor.”

Clark looks up from his desk with a frown. Lois doesn’t ask for favors a lot. Lois doesn’t ask for anything a lot. ”What’s wrong?”

“Remember that informant I’ve been working with? The one who helped me break the piece about LuthorCorp and the animal experimentation?”

Clark nods. He remembers that clearly. Just as clearly as he remembers your lab, and all the super-powered bears that attacked him in your defense.

“Well, she told me she thinks Luthor is onto her. And I know he’s onto me.” Lois sighs, glancing over her shoulder. “I’ve had someone following me all week. My phone isn’t bugged, but I never let it leave my pocket, and- I checked my laptop. Someone installed a malware, it’s been downloading my emails to an off-bank server.”

Clark’s hands curl on his keyboard. “You think they’ve gotten to your woman-“

“No. She’s smart.” Lois frowns. “She’s been using some kind of extra-burner email? I don’t know. She explained it, I didn’t really follow. You’ll see.”

“Okay, that’s good.” Clark pauses. “I’ll see?”

“Yeah. That’s the favor.” Lois pats his shoulder. “You’re taking over for me.”

“Lois, I-“

“Look, she’s got a lot of information. I can’t tell you anything specific, but this is the best source I’ve gotten, maybe ever. I’m not losing her.”

“Well, you and I- We’re different.” Clark leans back in his chair with a pleading expression. It’s not that he doesn’t want to help. He’s just worked with Lois’ informants before, and they’re all very disappointed he’s not Lois. “Did you ask her, if she’d be fine with me taking over-“

“Oh, I told her everything. And don’t worry.” Lois smiles. “She’ll go easy on you.”

“Easy?” Clark laughs nervously, adjusting his glasses. “I mean, It’s just a meeting, right?”

“Sure, buddy. Just a meeting.”

Lois is good at a lot of things. She isn’t good at being reassuring. 

But Clark can’t say no. Not to her. Not when it’s something that’s going to help people.

He’ll meet the informant. Maybe she’ll be able to help him take down Luthor for good.

And, a tiny, bitter little voice crows from the back of his head, maybe she’ll be able to help him take you down.

Clark needs to stop predicting things. He’s bad at it.

He walks into the library at noon on a Wednesday, just like Lois told him to. He sits in the romance section, his posture straight, his expression perfectly approachable as he scans politely over the titles on the shelf. His One Desire. Her Sin. The Roses In Lace. Lost at Sea. Found at Sea. Lost in Him. Found in Him. There seems to be a pattern, and he wonders about the overlap between stories. The informant is running late. Maybe she decided she didn’t want to work with him. Clark’s never loved these romances, but there must be some appeal to them if they’re so popular. Reading is always good for you, and—as he takes one of the books off the shelf—he decides there isn’t really a better way to kill the time.

It’s a bit of a drudge. The prose is lacking, and the two characters seem to have less chemistry than the cows back home. Clark re-reads a few sentences over and over—the word cock is used quite a lot, and it’s starting to sound fake in his head—and the positions they’re getting into can’t be physically sound. Maybe he’s imagining them wrong.

“You’re amazing.” She whispers, her lips tinkering over the soft, meaty flesh of his ear.

This man must have big ears. And Clark pauses, because there’s a faint smell of vanilla and apple, and it makes him look up with a frown.

He must be imagining things. Or maybe his brain just associates you with meaty ears. Brains are strange like that. And you are haunting every facet of his life.

“I want you.” He growled. “You are the sexiest thing I’ve ever fucking seen. My whore.”

Clark’s frown deepens. He doesn’t think this book is for him.

“That one is bad.”

Clark looks up from the book, and his jaw drops.

You’re standing across the table from him, your head tilted slightly, eyes locked onto his.

“The sequel is better.” You hum, pulling out a chair. Sitting down. “I think the author really took the criticism of this one into consideration. She stopped using the word meaty so much.”

Clark blinks like an idiot. He doesn’t think he’s ever actually been this close to you before. You’re wearing normal-people clothing, instead of a lab coat with the LuthorCorp brand logo. You’ve got sunglasses on the top of your head, and your face is open and relaxed, but that might just be your inherent smugness.

Whatever perfume you use is suffocating him. Clogging his thoughts, smoking out everything but the ringing song of your name.

“Are you the bird?” You ask him, still tilting your head, and it’s kind of like how you look at him during fights.

You know. A loud alarm blares in his head. You know he’s Superman.

Clark laughs weakly, adjusting his glass. “I- Uh- I’m a human man.”

Why the fuck would he say it like that. He never says it like that. He’s been lying about his identity his whole life, and he’s never been such a fool to call himself a ‘human man’-

“Congratulations?” You look like you’re trying not to laugh, and Clark feels his face heat.

There’s the fever again. Your attention is searing, and it’s winding his muscles so tight his hand has to curl into a fist on his knee. Maybe it’s your perfume. Maybe it’s some kind of secret pheromone.

“Are you, um-“ He looks around the empty shelves. “Are you looking for something?”

You tilt your head again. Clark swallows.

“I, uh- I can help you find it.”

“No.” You lean forward, and Clark is frozen in his seat. “I think I found it myself.”

Oh.

No.

The bird. Lois told him her informant would ask for the bird, and he’d have to say he was still growing wings. He remembers the conversation clearly. He even told Lois he thought that was a little convoluted, and she’d laughed.

But now you’re in front of him. And you always make his—incredibly controlled—thoughts all scrambled and messy.

He adjusts his glasses again, clearing his throat. “I’m not a bird.” He says slowly. “I’m still growing wings?”

You smile.

And that’s not the smile he’s seen on you in the lab, or the saccharine, almost siren-like one you gave Guy.

It’s real. It’s a real smile, that makes your eyes shine like stars. The light pours out over you, and you look even more beautiful than before, and Clark didn’t think that was possible.

He didn’t think he’d find himself leaning forward, instead of away. His body drawing itself forward like a boulder being dragged out to sea. He’s not a movable man. He’s trained himself to think and restrain his every movement, every craven or hungry desire, for the safety of everyone around him.

But you smile.

And he can’t do anything but move.

“I’m Clark Kent.” He sticks out a hand, and you glance down with an unreadable glint in your eyes.

“Clark Kent.” You echo, and he nods.

“Sorry I’m not Lois.”

You smile again, at that. It sends a rush through Clark like a drug.

“I’m not.”

You take Clark’s hand. He’d always thought your skin would be cold and scaly, like a crocodile.

It’s warm. Soft and warm, your fingers brushing over his wrist. His head spins, and he swallows on his own, bubbling, confusing thoughts. They’re more bursts of emotion. Sparks you’re making fly through his body, and a sticky feeling over his heart that oozes like honey.

You say your name, and Clark bites down an I know.

I know you. You’re the bane of my existence, and I think you might’ve put Lois under a spell. You’re putting me under one now. Let me go, because I know what you are.

He’s so sure, that he knows what you are.

But you settle into the seat, and smile again, and Clark doesn’t think he knows anything at all.

The first interview goes well, if not a little awkward. Clark stumbles over his words, and finds himself staring at you a little longer than normal. Worse, you don’t seem fazed by it, just smiling right back and batting your eyelashes like some kind of doe he knows is made of teeth.

That’s the truly confusing part. Clark knows you. He thinks he knows you. He was pretty sure, that he knew you.

And the woman sitting across from him at the table is not you.  

“How’d you meet Lois?” He asks casually, as you’re wrapping up. It’s a reasonable question. Naturally curious for anyone, not just Clark, who might have a pit growing in his stomach, that can only be fed by knowing more about you. “I mean- I’ve seen you on the news. You’re close with Luthor. She said she had an informant-“

“Didn’t think it would be me?” You smile again, and he coughs.

“Didn’t think it would be anyone close to him.”

“Well.” You shrug, sliding your sunglass back over your brow. “Close is a very strong word.”

You don’t offer him more than that. He doesn’t get a chance to ask.

When you leave, he stands in the romance section for about three minutes, trying to figure out what just happened. Trying to make sense of a world that’s flipped, and constant in his life being changed.

He hates you. It’s been about a year and a half since you showed up, and Clark has become very certain in the fact that he doesn’t hate anyone, expect for you. Lois would call that an exception that proves the rule.

And suddenly, you’re splitting the rule clean down the middle, with a single smile.

When he gets back to the Daily Planet, he relays almost everything that happened to Lois. He leaves out how he’d stared, and how pretty your eyelashes were, and how when you laugh for real it’s a musical sound. Like a bird, ringing through the air and calling everything else in response. Clark swore he felt a dizzying cloud form in his chest, when he heard your real laugh.

But that’s not something Lois needs to know, so he doesn’t tell her. He doesn’t tell anyone.

He just thinks about it. Over, and over, and over again. He put your next meeting on the calendar. He stares at the date, and finds that pit in his stomach trying to gnaw at time. To get you closer again.

When the day comes, he goes early with an extra coffee in hand. He decides he’s trying to test how much you really trust him. Most villains never accept food or drink from anyone. They’re too paranoid.

The first part of his plan goes wrong when you’re there first. Waiting at the same table as before, reading one of the romance books off the shelf. You don’t look up, when Clark sits across from you.

His foot bumps yours, under the table. He forces himself to ignore how the small touch shakes him like lightning.

“You’re early.” You say, and he smiles.

“We’re here at the same time.”

“I know.” You glare at him over your book. “And I’m early. But I’m always early.”

“You were late last time.”

“I was testing you last time.” You shrug. “I wanted to see if you’d give up, and leave.”

Clark blinks. He’d suspected that. It had been another part of his plan, to try and make you admit that everything you do is calculated and crude in some way.

He really hadn’t expected you to just… admit it.

“Did I pass the test?” He asks, a little stupidly. You finally set the book down, and smile.

 “I don’t know yet.”

“Oh.” He swallows. “Can I ask what my grade is right now? If I’m still being tested?”

Your smile widens. It’s an enchanting sigh. “I’m still here, aren’t I?”

“Yeah. You are.”

Clark wishes he knew what that meant.

He wishes his own plan was better, too. He offers you the coffee, and you take it, but maybe you just like free coffee. He did get it from the fairly expensive place down the street.

Your fingers brush, when you take the cup from his hands. It’s worse than the foot. He’s almost stunned for a second, his eyes locked onto you like you’re a magnet.

He learns nothing. You’re just as restrained and open as the first time, when he finally remembers he’s supposed to be interviewing you. He asks about Luthor’s plans down at the harbor, and you tell him about the deep-sea mining and threat to the environment. He asks if Luthor knows about the risks. You laugh, and it’s a little dry, but still one of the most beautiful sounds he’s ever heard.

“You think he cares?”

Clark knows he doesn’t. He’s just surprised you know, too.

“Well,” he clicks the recorder off, and you raise your brows. “You do work for him. You know him better than I do.”

“Hm.” You take a long sip of your coffee. “I don’t think that’s true.”

“It has to be, doesn’t it?”

“Maybe. But I don’t think it is.”

It’s good to know that, even when you’re being nice, you’re still infuriating. “You’re the closest member of his inner circle.” Clark argues. “You have to at least know a little about him. I only interview him.”

“You interview me. And Superman. Do you not know us?”

Clark swallows. “I know Superman. But- We work closer on things.”

“Things?”

“Yeah. I can’t say anything else.” He sits up a little. “Superhero business.”

You just give him another strange look. “Does he ever talk about me?”

Clark blinks. He thought you just forgot he existed, every time he flew away. “Uh- No?” He’s worried if he talks about you once, he’s never going to shut up. “Why? Do you- What do you think of him?”

“Of Superman?”

Clark nods, and he has to drag himself back from leaning over the table. He doesn’t know why he’d let himself ask that. But it’s too late to take it back.

“I work for Lex Luthor.” You shrug, turning your coffee in your hands. “Opinion is a luxury I’m not afforded.”

He frowns. “Everyone gets an opinion. You can have it privately, but you still must have one.” You must think of me too.

“Maybe I do.”

“So you do.”

“Maybe.”

“You can tell me, if you agree with Luthor that he’s a- a plague sent to destroy humanity-“

“I don’t think that.” Your voice is suddenly harsh, and Clark blinks.

“Then what do you think?”

You tilt your head at him, pulling your lower lip between your teeth. Clark snaps a pencil between his fingers.

Your gaze drops down to the fractured pieces, and you smile again. Clark realizes his breathing is shallow, because—for reasons he’d rather not thing about—this matters. You matter.

“I think he’s good man.” You say slowly. “And I think he’s a hopeful fool, and- Dangerous. To me.”

Clark swallows. He can’t think of anything to say, so he just nods, and goes back to his pre-planned questions.

He thinks about your answer, for the rest of the week. It plays over and over in his mind, and he writes it on scraps of paper at his desk. It should make more sense. He should be able to let it go.

But it’s a part of you. And Clark’s never been good at letting you go at all.

Clark’s dependent on the pheromone theory now. Because if you’re just like this—if you just consume his thoughts and follow him into his dreams, all on your own—he thinks he might be screwed.

He’s screwed.

Clark counts down the days until you meet, and tries to talk to you as much as he possibly can when you’re there. He wants to understand, how you can be the impossibly enchanting woman across from him at the table, and the crude shell of a person who hovers behind Luthor at every press event and meeting.

The woman you are here is good. Amazing. Still made of some barbed wire, but Clark’s getting better at weaving through it. And it’s not even that he’s uncovering that rot he’d always thought you to be made of. You’re just… Not made of it. Not here.

Here, you’re made of flowers and honey and soft, summer fire. Here, Clark can picture you laughing with wind in your hair, teasing him without any venom all the time. He likes everything he learns about you here.

He doesn’t understand how you’re the same person.

“Do you like these books?” He asks, nodding to the shelves of romance, and you shrug.

“So what if I do?”

“Nothing. Everyone- They can like whatever they want. I just… Didn’t peg you to enjoy The Summer of Sin.”

Your face relaxes slightly. “Why not? Do I not look like a romantic?”

Clark swallows. He thinks you look like everything. He barely knows better than to say it. “I’ve imagined you’re more of a nonfiction enjoyer.” He settles on smoothly.

There’s a glint in your eyes. He knows immediately he’s made a mistake.

“You’ve imagined me?”

All the time. Most of his thoughts circle around you, and it’s even worse than before. Clark’s found himself memorizing every detail about you he can scrape, weaving them together like a gorgeous, puzzled tapestry of a woman he knows he’s obsessed with. There’s no use fighting it anymore, when he wakes up and wonders what you’re doing. When he wanders through the day seeing you in every ray of sunlight through the windows and longer shadow on the floor.

He’s hoped, at some point, that he’d find the string of you that unravels the whole thing. That tells him he was right the first time, and you’re no work of art. Just so shiny he’d been blinded, and everything he’d thought the first time had been right.

But that string isn’t coming. And the more Clark learns about you, the more every color he’d painted you with become inverted.

You’re not shiny up close. You’re just… Glorious. Like water catching on the ocean, exposing the glittering rocks and life below.

“I- I don’t- Not in- I think about you, yes, but-“

“What do you think about me?”

Clark’s face must be burning red. He really wishes you’d stop looking at him. “A lot of things.”

That unreadable look flashes over your features. “Are they good?”

There’s something oddly heavy, in your voice. Clark can almost feel it in his hands, fluttering and delicate.

“Mostly. Yes.” He tries to offer you a smile. “But you are strange.”

You scowl. “I am not strange-“

“You like romance books-“

“Which is very normal.” You raise your chin, and Clark grins. It gets cuter every time. “They’re fun, Clark. Sometimes, you just need fun.”

“What’s fun about them?” He really wants to know. He wants to understand you.

“I- I don’t know.” You glare down at your hands. “It’s escapism. You get to imagine that you’re a princess or something, instead of- Just another fucking person.”

Clark frowns. “I don’t think you’re just another person.”

You snort. “Yeah. I know.”

“I’m serious, you- You’re a genius-“

“I’m tired.” You say firmly, and Clark realizes that you are.

There are bags under your eyes, almost perfectly covered by concealer. Your lips aren’t chapped, but there’s a little puff on the lower one from chewing, and your shoulders slumps. He doesn’t know how he never noticed before.

Maybe you just never showed him. Never let him see.

“I know,” you speak slowly, not looking him fully in the eyes. “That these books are stupid. But I like them. They- They help.”

“Help? With-“

“Everything.”

“Oh.” He swallows. “I could help. If you ever- Needed it. With anything.”

And he means it. He really would.

You smile at him, and he wants to ask if you think about him too. Not Superman—a hopeful fool, dangerous to me—but just Clark.

Instead, he just smiles back, and reveals in the way he sees your gaze relax.  

He likes you like this. You’re really not that different, when he thinks about it, and he doesn’t understand how he was ever so wrong.

Clark is beginning to give up on understanding.

He just wants to know you.

He’s back in your lab, for the first time since he took over for Lois. It’s about the docks, and the deep-sea mining, and the pump that you told him—told Clark, at least—was going to be put in the water. Jimmy found out that the pump was going to be filling the bay with a toxic chemical that’s been compared to a truth serum.

Clark can’t understand why you’d tell him, if it was your design.

And he doesn’t understand why you’re just lying on the floor of your lab, scrolling on your phone when he arrives.

He clears his throat, and you sigh, craning your neck to frown at him.

“You’re here.”

“You and Luthor are going to pump the water with chemicals that will alter the free will of the people in Metropolis.” He’d been rehearsing, on the flight over. He’s trying to sound more heroic, and not dwelling on why. “Hand over the pump, and we can do this the easy way.”

Your lips twitch. “You mean the way where I kick your ass, and then walk away untouched.”

“I don’t know if you kick my-“

“Yes, I would.”

Yes, you would. “Just- Tell me where the pump is, please.”

“Oh, there’s no pump.”

Clark blinks. “What.”

“I don’t have a pump. I made that up.”

“Wha- Why would you do that-“

“I was testing something.” You shrug, patting the floor next to you. “Sit down.”

Clark squints at the floor next to you. There’s nothing under it. When he looks at the ceiling, there’s nothing there either. You’re just… Asking him to sit down.

He pulls his cape behind him, and sits with his legs crossed at your side. You flop back down, your knees pulling up and your arms around your stomach. Clark doesn’t expect the silence to last so long. He’s not sure what to do with his hands, especially as they start to itch. Something about you is magnetic. There’s a wrinkle in your brow he wants to soothe with his thumb, but that might end with him getting shot again-

Your eyes suddenly lock onto his, and Clark swallows. In the low light, they glow like gemstones. He thinks he could get lost in them, if he was allowed to. Even if he wasn’t really sure what he’d been diving into, he’s come to find that you don’t exactly fall into predictably.

He likes trying.

Clark thinks he might want to learn everything about you, until he’s the only person in the world who understands.

“Hi.” You whisper, your eyes still locked onto his.

Your voice is softer than he’s ever heard it before. It’s unsettling, like silence before a storm.

“Are you alright?” He asks kindly, and your eyes narrow.

“Should I not be?”

“I don’t know. That’s kind of why I’m asking.”

He tries to smile at you, welcoming and warm. Your lips twitch. That’s better than nothing.

Even if you sigh, and look back up to the ceiling. Leaving Clark leaning a little forward, wondering if it’s wrong to lean closer, and try to drag your attention back.

“Is there something you need help with?” He offers, and you let out a soft, huffing laugh.

“No. Not that you can help with.”

He frowns. “I don’t know. I- I’m actually pretty good.” He clears his throat. “At helping with things. It’s my job, in case you didn’t know.”

You laugh, and this time it’s a little louder. “You know what, I think I’ve heard.”

“You think?”

“I watch the news.”

“Ah.” Clark tries to read further into your expression. He doesn’t think he’s very good at it. “And what do you think, when you’re watching the news?”

“Of you?” You’re looking at him again. He sits up. He doesn’t want you to look away.

Clark nods. “I, um- I know they do a lot of pieces on me.” He clears his throat. “I read the Daily Planet.”

“Oh, you read it?”

“I’m not a big TV person.” He shrugs lamely, and you laugh again.

“Sure.”

The silence lingers, but it’s not uncomfortable. Just… Odd. Clark doesn’t think he’d ever been in your lab this long without suffering an injury. It’s kind of nice. When he looks up at the ceiling, he realizes there are stars painted all over the tiles. That must be new. He would’ve seen it before, if it wasn’t-

“I had a bit of an… episode.” You murmur, and he thinks you might be reading his mind. “Last night. I started doing that, and couldn’t stop, and now…”

You trail off, and Clark takes a deep breath through his nose. He can only smell you, and that intoxicating perfume. “You air out the paint already?”

“I used a spray.”

“That you… invented?”

You smile. “That I bought from Costco.”

“Oh.” He’s making himself an idiot again. “I didn’t know you could paint.”

“I don’t anymore.” You’re silent for another moment, and Clark tracks your every breath. “You know, you’re from there.”

You point at the ceiling, and Clark cranes his neck to see the sky. You’re pointing to a cluster of stars a few tiles over, and it takes him a second to understand what you mean. You didn’t just paint the sky.

You mapped it. The constellations, accurate to the clear nights in Kansas he remembers so well.

And it feels like you mapped a part of him.

Clark looks down at you, and finds you watching him silently. He lays down slowly, just so your shoulders are brushing. When he offers you another smile, you return it.

He looks back to the sky, and lets himself exhale.

You’re not going to attack him, and he’s not going to ask why.

He’s just going to lie here, and watch the unmoving stars.

“I wanted to be an alien when I was a kid.”

Your words are sudden. As far as Clark had known, you’d been talking about LuthorCorp coverups. “Huh?”

“When I was like, five.” You cross your arms, leaning back in your chair. “I wanted to be an alien.”

“Oh.” Clark blinks. “Why?”

“Because I wanted to be something.”

“You are something.”

“Well, I wanted to be more.”

“What, an evil scientist?”

You go silent, and Clark wants to kick himself. That was rude, he’s never rude like that, you just- You do something to him. You make his brain fuzzy and his manners fade, clinging with sunken claws for control of his tongue and hands. He’s been thinking about touching you a lot. About grazing his hand over the small of your back when you walked by, or hugging you before you leave, to see how you’d fit in his arms.

He thinks you’d fit well. That whatever is making you tired and sad, he’d be able to wrap over you and fend it away. He’d keep you afloat like a lifejacket.

If you dragged him down with you, he might let you do that too.

He doesn’t think you would. Right now, you’re staring at your hand, lips pressed in a tight line, and Clark feels like a jerk.

“I- I didn’t mean-“

“It’s okay.”

“No, I’m sorry-“

“It’s fine.” You snap, and Clark swallows. “I’m fine.”

“You, um- You kind of don’t sound fine.”

“Well, I am.”

Clark doesn’t know how to push against you. He has all the strength in the world, but you’re the most immovable things he’s ever seen. “Okay.”

“Okay.”

You’re silent again, and Clark adjusts his glasses. Lois is going to kill him, if he just ruined this. And he won’t even fight back. He’d deserve it, for making you look so sad.

“I’m not evil.” You mutter, and Clark sits up.

“I know-“

“But I’m not-“ You shake your head, still looking at your hands. “I’m not you.”

Clark frowns. He doesn’t understand what that means. “I mean… Yeah. You’re not Lois either. Or Luthor.”

You laugh, but it’s not full. It’s that hollow laugh you use, when Clark doesn’t understand something. “No. I mean- Yes, but that’s not what I meant.”

“What did you mean?” He asks quickly.

You stare at him. For a long, long moment, you’re looking right at Clark, and he’d swear the world stopped spinning if he didn’t feel the ground slipping from under his feet as his body tries to crash, face-first, into yours.

“I don’t know.” You say softly. “But- I wanted to be an alien.”

The words are supposed to mean something to him. He can hear it, ringing in your tone.

But either he’s not smart enough to understand, or you’re too smart, and you’ve dumbed it down for him so much it means nothing anymore.

“I didn’t want to be an alien.” He says carefully, trying to test the waters. “But- I wanted to be a farmer. Like my parents.”

You tilt your head at him, and Clark clears his throat.

“I think you’d be a good farmer. You’d like the sky. The quiet. You- You’d like it.”

He doesn’t think you’d like the bugs or the mud, but he doesn’t say that. That’s not important.

All that matters is your small smile, and the way you relax again.

And Clark thinks this really might be something big. Bigger than just an obsession.

He feels his whole world ease, when you smile. And he thinks it might be love.

He goes to your lab, for no good reason. There’s nothing for him to fight you about, no false plans to investigate. He just wants to see you, and he thinks he might be welcome.

He still hovers outside the window for five minutes, just to talk himself into it. Last time might have been a fluke, and he’s about to get shot again.

Clark decides that it’s worth the risk.

“Why were you outside for so long?” You’re lying on the floor again, and Clark sighs.

“Cameras?”

“Mhm.”

He smiles to himself, sitting at your side. “I was trying to figure out if you’d try to kill me again, if I came inside.”

You scoff. “I have never tried to kill you.”

“I have injuries that say different-“

“If I wanted to kill you, you’d be dead.” You look right at Clark as you say it, and he balls his hand into a fist.

He wants to trace the line of your teasing smile. He wants to memorize it.

It’s one of the last things he has to memorize about you. The most forbidden thing.

And he wants it more than anything.

“I believe that.” He says, and your smile widens.

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” Clark lies down, and you turn your head to hold his gaze.

Your breath is warm, fanning over his face. Your hands are crossed over your stomach, and there are tiny little divets in your face that Clark is only able to really notice this close. Your eyes are a little uneven, and your teeth a little crooked, and it’s all perfect.

“Can I ask you something?” You breathe, and he nods without thinking.

“Anything.”

You hum, fidgeting with your fingers as you look back up to the ceiling. “What do you think of me?”

It’s not what Clark expects, but you have such a habit of stunning him, he’s learned to recover fast. Clark clears his throat, watching your profile like if he stares enough, he’ll close his eyes and see you clearer than he does in his dreams.

“You don’t have to answer-“

“I think you’re a good person.” Clark murmurs, and you look back to him with wide eyes. “And I think you’re angry, and you should be, but- I think you’re a threat.”

“A threat?” Your brow furrows, and Clark shakes his head.

“To you.”

“You think I’m a threat to myself-“

“And to me.”

“I- But not anyone else?”

Clark shakes his head. “No. Not to anyone else.”

You laugh that hollow sound, and look back to the ceiling. “Someone once told me I was evil.”

Clark cringes. “He was an idiot-“

“He was right.”

You look to him, and there’s something so sad and heavy in your eyes, Clark is sure the only way to get rid of it is to burn it away. 

But all he can do is shake his head. “No. He wasn’t.”

“I’m a threat to you.”

“I know.”

“You’re Superman.”

“I’m aware.”

That gets a tiny smile. “Historically, threats to Superman are evil.”

Clark pretends to consider your words for a second, even though he already knows his answer.

“There are different ways to be a threat. There’s offensive, and defensive, and- Distractions.”

“Is that what I am? A distraction?”

Clark lets himself smile at that. You have no idea.

“I’m here, aren’t I.”

You laugh softly, your eyes still not leaving his.

“I read a romance book last week,” he adds, trying to get you to understand without spooking you away.

“Did you like it.”

“It was enlightening.”

“What,” you snort. “About sex?”

“No.” He snorts. “I’m- I know about that.”

“You’re a boy scout, Supes, it’s not insane-“

“I have everything humans do.” He gives you an amused look, and suddenly, you’re silent, your eyes shining in the dark.

“Yeah?” Your voice is barely a breath, and Clark shrugs.

“Yep. There were just some things in that book I don’t think anyone can do. Or- I guess, but it would take a lot of work. And most human men don’t have that stamina.”

He’s expecting a little, smart remark of and what, you do? But you’re just silent. Gaping at him, your face softly flushed. Clark isn’t sure what he did.

But he likes how relaxed you look. If it’s because of his conversation, he’s more than happy to offer more.

“I might read another, if you have any recommendations.”

“Really?”

He nods. “I didn’t like it a whole lot, it was very… explicit. But I’d read another.”

He doesn’t say for you.

But with the way your eyes widen slightly, he thinks you understand just fine.

“I’ll bring you some on Wednesday.” You whisper, and Clark grins. Gifts. That’s progress.

It’s only hours later, when he’s alone in his apartment, that he realizes what he said.

How, just like always, you scrambled him. You blurred lines.

Superman doesn’t know about the romance books. Clark does. But he just slipped into you like always.

Clark doesn’t swear, expect under two circumstances.

Sex, and when he’s really fucked up.

And when he realizes he’s all but told you he’s superman, there’s only one thing he can think.

Shit.

You’re not there, the next day.

Clark goes to the usual section, and you’re not there waiting for him. He waits until the librarians start to look at him weird, then he sends you a short, worried email, and leaves.

You don’t respond. He’s checking every five minutes, and the hours creep slowly as he refreshes, over and over and over, hoping this time he’ll just get a sign that you’re alive.

He doesn’t think you’d turn him over to Luthor. You’ve been working against Luthor for a while, with Lois, and even if you wanted to—which you wouldn’t—you’d have to admit that you’d been meeting him as Clark, and letting him into your lab.

Or you could just lie. You’re quite a good liar.

No.

You wouldn’t tell Luthor.

Clark still feels like his skin his trying to crawl off his body, the longer he waits. He considers asking Lois if you ever stood her up, but he already knows the answer.

You know. You know.

And now, you’re gone.

Clark drags his feet home. He’d flown to your lab after leaving the Daily Planet, and you weren’t in your lab, or any of the LuthorCorp building. Some part of him should be glad, if you just picked up and ran. Maybe you can find a farm, far away from Luthor, and live a nice, quiet life.

But most of him just misses you. And is worried, and wants you to come back. It would be creepy, to scour the whole planet to try and find you. And it would probably take a few days, if he’s really looking. But he could do it.

He’s trying to remember how much PTO he has banked, when he climbs the stairs to his apartment. You can’t have gone that far, unless you used a portal. Then you could be anywhere. If you’re on another planet, that’s going to take weeks, and if you’re in another galaxy that might be months-

You’re on the couch.

Clark opens his door, and finds you on his couch.

You smile at him, like you didn’t just break into his apartment. “Hi.”

“I- What are you-“

“I didn’t want to show up at the Daily Planet. Would have been asking for open fire.”

“Asking for- What the heck are you talking about-“

You pull up your oddly dirty shirt, and Clark feels his bones get heavy and cold. There’s a pattern of deep, purpling bruises all over your stomach.

You’re hurt. He’d been so stupefied by your presence, he somehow hadn’t noticed you were hurt.

His bag slips from his hand, as he rushes to your side. You wince, hissing through your teeth when his fingers graze one of the marks, and Clark swallows down his blurred anger and panic.

“You- Who-“

“Luthor.” You mutter. “Turns out he also has cameras.”

Clark’s gaze shoots up, and he finds you already watching him. “And he did this.”

“He got angry I wouldn’t tell him who Superman is.” You say flatly. “When we were clearly so cozy.”

His hands fist. If he went now, he’d be back within ten minutes, and Luthor would be chained to the top of the Eiffel tower, his bald head freezing off.

But you’re in front of him now. And that’s what needs to matter.

“Okay. We- We need to get you in a bath. I have a bath.”

“Wow, aren’t we fancy.”

He gives you a flat look. “Don’t sass me. I can leave you on the couch, you know.”

You tilt your head at him, and smile. “No, you won’t.”

Clark stands up, braces his hands on his hips, and glares at you. You glare right back, and he doesn’t know why he thought he’d ever possibly win this.

He groans, ducks down, and picks you up. You smile at him, and he sighs.

“I know. Don’t- You don’t have to say it.”

Your smile just widens, and Clark thinks he can lose a lot of fights, if they make you smile.

While you take the bath, he waits in his kitchen. You’re going to need to ice that, but he doesn’t actually have ice packs. He’s never needed them.

He flies up a little north to get them. You’ll be fine on your own for five minutes, and he doesn’t want to accidentally get you ice that melts too fast, or isn’t cold enough, or anything less acceptable than you deserve.

It’s a welcome distraction, too. From thoughts of you, in his bathtub. Naked and breathing slowly, your thighs pressed together underwater, or spread wide, baring you up to be seen-

Clark sticks his face in the snow. This is the last bit of control he’s managed to keep, the last leash he’s still on. He won’t let it slip now.

You’re wrapped in a towel on the couch, when he gets back. Clark frowns, and opens his mouth.

“I’m not made of glass.” You snap before he can speak, and he sighs.

“I know, but you are injured. It’s not good to put extra strain, when your body is already trying to recover-“

“Are you a doctor now, too?”

Clark stares at your scowl, and it slides off in a second. You look back to your hands, your voice turning into that smaller one he doesn’t think you use with anyone else.

“Sorry.”

“It’s okay, you’ve had a long day-“

“No. I- I was- I’m sorry.” You glare at him again, like you’re challenging him to try and refuse the apology again.

He wouldn’t dare.

“Okay.” He approaches you slowly, holding up his makeshift ice. “I- I got this for you.”

You frown at him. “A wet hand?”

Clark follows your gaze, and groans. He’d spent too long staring at you, and forgotten to wrap it in cloth. The ice melted.

“Alright, I’ll just go get more-“

“Don’t you have frost breath.”

Oh. He does.

But he wishes he protested more about that being a bad idea. It means he has to kneel down in front of you, very carefully open up your towel, and pretend he can’t see the underside of your breast as he blows on your stomach. Your whole body twitches under his hands, pinning you gently to the couch.

He’s still in control.

“How’d you know where I live?” He asks between breaths, and you grunt.

“I looked it up the day after we met.”

Clark looks up at you in surprise. “What? Did you do that with Lois-“

“No. Lois isn’t Superman.”

His fingers curl on your sides, and you blink at him with an oddly soft shine in your eyes.

The day you met. The day.

“You’ve-“

“Yeah.”

“But- I was wearing the glasses-“

“I know.” You smirk. “How ever did I figure it out.”

Clark rubs a hand over his face. “No, you don’t understand, they have this- It’s like a magic trick, that’s literally supposed to be impossible.”

“Shit.” You laugh weakly, your body curving from the pain. “I think you should ask for a refund.”

Clark chuckles, pinning you a little tight to the couch. He doesn’t want you to be able to move too much. You might get more hurt.

“Was it something I said?” He asks, and you shake your head.

“I- I just knew, okay? That’s it. It doesn’t have to be a big thing.”

Clark thinks it does have to be a big thing. It should be a huge thing, that you’ve known the whole time, and just… said nothing.

But you’re still injured. And Luthor might be looking for you.

So he just sighs again and blows on your stomach. Your back arches into him, this time. If he couldn’t see the flutter of your eyes and ripple of your body under his hands—clearly trying to react as little as possible—he’d think you were torturing him on purpose.

“You should stay here.” He mutters. “Until it’s safe.”

You scoff. “No. I’m not doing that.”

Clark frowns. “Luthor isn’t going to let up until he finds you-“

“I can disappear-“

“Not right now. Not like this.” He grazes his thumb over your bare skin, and a noise awfully close to a moan escapes your lips.

“Clark, fuck-“ Your head tips back, your hand shooting into his hair, and that was a really bad idea.

Your moan might be the most addictive sound he’s ever heard. That’s a selfish thing for his focus to be, right now.

“You’re staying here.” He says firmly, then pauses. “Or- Lois can take you. If that would be more comfortable.”

He doesn’t want it to be. He wants you here, where he can keep you safe himself, and talk to you all the time. But it’s not about him. 

“No.” You snap. “I’ll go in the morning-“

“I’m not letting you do that.”

“Oh, you’re not letting me-“

“I’m not just- Just going to sit here and let you walk out, only to find out that Luthor grabbed you and now I have to go save you!” Clark’s voice is rising, but you don’t balk. You just roll your eyes, and lean your head back on the sofa.

“Please. You- You don’t have to do that.”

“Do what? Stop you from getting yourself hurt?! You work with Luthor, you know what he’s capable of-“

“You know what I’m capable of.” You hiss, and Clark shakes his head.

“And I know you’re a better person than he is, you won’t go to the same- The same insane extremes-“

“Won’t I? You said it, you said I’m an evil scientist-“

“You know I didn’t mean that-“

“Don’t I?”

“Yes, you do-“

“Do I-“

“Stop doing that!” Clark shouts, and your mouth snaps shut.

He doesn’t know when, but he’d risen up on his knees. Your faces are only inches apart, your eyes wide and lips parted, and for once Clark’s got you completely quiet. He grabs your knee lightly. He doesn’t want you to go away. 

“You are infuriating.” He mutters, holding your gaze. “And confusing, and I- I don’t understand howsomeone so… So-“ He shakes his head. “So you ended up with someone like Luthor. But I know that you’re not evil. And I know that Lex- He doesn’t forgive grievances. He won’t just let you go, and I’m not letting you get hurt.”

You stare at him for another handful of minutes. When you speak again, your voice is small. “Why?”

“Why?”

“Why would you care.” You whisper. “I- I know what I’ve done-“

“It was never really you-“

“Then what I helped do, and I- I was just young, and stupid, and I didn’t have a lot of choices and he listened but- I still-“ You reach up, grabbing the collar of his shirt. Like he’s the last thing you have to hold onto in the world. “You stopped. You stopped asking me to stop, and you- I thought you gave up.”

Clark’s lips twitch despite himself. In way, he had given up.

He’d stop trying to convince himself there was anything about you that needed to be fixed.

“You’re not exactly a moveable person,” he mutters your name, leaning a little closer. “And I- I guess I just decided I didn’t care.”

“You didn’t care-“

“What you were doing. Or- Why. I trusted you.” Clark swallows. Your noses are bumping, and your skin is warm under his hands. “And I want to help. Let me help.”

You stare at him, and for a second, he thinks you’re going to try and pull away. So he says the only thing he’s been able to think of you, letting it fall from his lips with ease.

“I love you.” Clark strokes his thumb over that furrow in your brow, and your breath hitches. “Please. Let me help.”

Silence lingers again. It’s the loudest he’s ever heard.

And this time, you don’t break it.

You just nod.

Your eyes fall to Clark’s lips, then dart back up. Your breathing is coming shallow, and your skin is getting warmer. Clark’s drowning in you, in being this close, and then he smells it.

Need.

You need him, and he wants to give. To show you that something can be soft, that you’re worthy of every bit of care he has to offer. He leans in, just enough to brush his lips over yours.

You open for him in a second, a moan falling from your lips.

And Clark lets everything in him snap.

He surges up. Grabs your jaw to keep you steady, and kisses you with everything he’s let wind up inside him for months. His lips move against yours in a smooth rhythm, his tongue tracing over the line of your teeth before pressing down your throat. He can’t find himself to have enough of you, doesn’t think there can be enough. You taste a little salty, and your moans are soft and loud, and it’s just as addictive as the rest of you.

Clark presses over you, careful that his weight doesn’t crush you. You tip your head even further back, until your eyes are fluttering whenever he pulls away to catch the shortest breath. The kisses are sloppy, like neither of you can bear to pull apart for a second. His hand on your thigh wanders up, tracing over soft, hidden skin under your towel, and you shiver. For a second he’s ready to pull back, check that he’s not hurting you more, but you’re kissing him with the same desperate fervor as before. You let out a sweet little gasp when Clark squeezes your thigh, and his lips twitch.

You like.

You like this plenty.

Clark tips your head a little to the side, dragging his lips down your throat, letting his hand knead against your skin. You’re reactive, every light touch making your whole body shake. Clark has to bite down a groan, as the smell of your arousal starts to flood his senses. He nips under your neck, and a breathy whine leaves your lips, one hand shooting into his hair.

“Clark- Oh- Oh my god-“

“I know.” He mutters, sucking on the small hurt. “You got no idea, how long I wanted this. Thought I was going crazy, sweetheart, you have no idea-“

You make a mumbled sound, pulling on his hair, and Clark glances up to find you staring at him with shining, doe-like eyes. It knocks the air out of him, and that’s not supposed to be possible.

But you defy a lot of things, for him. What’s just one more?

“You,” he drops his brow against yours, and your hands press flat on his chest. “You are beautiful.”

Your lower lip wobbles, and Clark kisses you slowly. Lazily. He’s got you, pliable and wanting below him. If he’s taking anything he’s offered, he’s doing it for you, not to you.

And it pays off immediately, when you start to work yourself up. Your kisses turn frenzied, your hips rolling up into his hand, and Clark’s fingers brush against wetness, dribbling down your thighs. He groans against your lips, and is rewarded with another high, breathless plea.

“Want you.” He mutters, keeping his hand firmly planted down, closer to your knee. “I’ll be gentle, swear it, just- Want you-“

You nod, your mouth slack, and Clark pulls up with a small frown.

His hand on your head drags down to cup your jaw, his thumb tracing over your swollen lips. They hang open, and he has a feeling if he pressed his thumb forwards, you’d take it with shiny eyes and a moan.

But you’re just staring at him. All your bravado is gone, and you’re just blinking at Clark with a glazed, lustful expression.

“Can you say you want this?” He rasps, pressing his brow lightly over yours. “Tell me, baby. I can give you anything, but- You gotta tell me.”

You nod again, and Clark gently taps your lips.

“Words.”

“Yes.” You whisper, your fingers digging against his skin. “Clark, please, yes. I- I want you, want you so bad, please-“

Clark kisses you again, a little worried if he lets you keep going, you’re not going to be able to stop. You moan happily against his lips, and whine when he pulls away again.

He presses his brow back against yours, and lets his gaze drag slowly down your body. The towel has fully fallen away, exposing you to the room, and he thinks he’d be drooling, if he had a little less self-control.

“Holy…” He drags one hand slowly down your bare side, feeling the blood rush into his cock. “Fuck, baby, you’re- You’re amazing.”

Clark expects a teasing response, about the swearing. Instead he only gets silence, and when he glances back up, you’re staring at him with the widest, most flustered expression he’s ever seen. He squeezes your waist, and your hand flies up to cup his cheek. Clark smiles, and kisses the inside of your wrist, watching your breath catch from such a small touch.

Just to test, he moves his hand from your thigh to just under your breast, cupping your ribs and letting his thumb graze over your nipple. The reaction is immediate. You shudder, eyes batting and a long, musical whine filling the room.

Clark raises his brows, and your flush deepens, your eyes darting away. He can’t have that.

He mutters your name gently, and you shake your head, still avoiding his gaze.

“I- I’m fine-“

“You don’t look it.” He says, rising fully up so no matter where you try to look, you’re going to see him. “Sweetheart, I need you all into this-“

“I am all- You know-“

“I don’t. And you’re not looking at me.”

You sigh, dragging your face back, but keeping your eyes squeezed shut. Clark frowns, worried that your injuries are worse than he thought, and you’re trying to push through it for his sake when he should be taking care of you and letting you rest-

“I’m not…” You take a heavy breath, your nose scrunched in the most adorable way he’s ever seen.

Clark says your name, and you shake your head, your arms wrapping around your stomach.

“I don’t do this.” You blurt, body curling into the cushion. “I don’t- I- Sex isn’t- I have a job.”

He blinks at you. “I… Also have a job-“

“You have a life.” You cut him off with a mumble. “I- I work. And I go home. And I look at the internet, then I work again, and I- I don’t- This.” You gesture between your bodies. “I don’t do this.”

Clark stares at you for a second. Your flustered, embarrassed expression, your heartbeat pounding in his ears. “Do you… Want to-“

“Yes.” Your eyes shoot open, pleading on his. “But- I just-“

You shake your head, looking back to some random spot on his shoulder.

“I’m not- I’m not good at it.” Your voice is small. “And you’re- You’re-“

Just to test something, Clark squeezes under your ribs again. A loud moan falls from your lips, your eyes wide on his as your whole body grinds up in response to the touch.

“Clark…” You whine, and he grins, ducking down to kiss you, slow and soft.

You melt right into him, another pretty sound escaping when he moves his full hand to palm at your breast.

“Oh- Oh my-“

“I’ve got you.” He kisses away your flustered pleas. “I can take care of it, baby, you don’t need to do anything.”

Your nose scrunches again, and Clark thinks you’d protest if you weren’t already so dazed from light touches.

He needs to work you up as much as he’s allowed. Needs to see what you’re like when you’re nothing but putty in his hands, because he loves your smart mouth, but he also loves the softness that only he gets to see.

This part of you, molten and writhing as the kisses grow more intense, is all Clark’s.

He drops one hand, keeping the other firmly planted on your breast, and starts to tease over your soaked folds. You arch into him, and he presses back down gently, giving you a stern look.

“I’ve got it.”

“Clark-“

He kisses your neck and you moan, your fingers tangling in his hair.

“Let me, baby.” He mutters against your skin, his thumb dragging over your clit. “Please.”

You nod, your body already going limp under his hands, and he grins.

Clark starts to kiss down your body, letting his hand against your core slowly work you up.

“You’re soaked.” He open-mouth kisses your neglected breast, petting your pussy with two fingers, letting them dip into your fluttering entrance with every touch. “You like me this much, sweetheart. ‘Cause I know how much I like you.”

He slaps your cunt lightly, and grins at the loud whine of delight that tears from your lips.

“There you go.” He slides two fingers slowly inside you, biting back a groan at how easy they go in, your walls fluttering around him. “That’s it.” He licks your nipple, scissoring his fingers slowly, stretching you open. “That’s a good girl, takin’ it so good for me.”

Oh, you like that. Your clench tight around him, dripping down his fingers, and Clark groans against your skin. Just the smell of your need is intoxicating, he needs to taste you or he thinks he might go mad.

“Lookin’ so pretty for me, sweet girl.” He kisses down your stomach, careful of your injuries. “Shit, your pussy is tight, bet it’s gonna feel so good ‘round my cock-“

You moan loudly, and Clark grins, tongue tracing over your hip bone as his fingers drag over your walls, looking for that gummy spot that’s going to give him what he wants. He finds it fast, and marvels in the way your whole body trembles, your fingers pulling weakly at his hair like you’re not sure what to do with the pleasure he’s giving you.

He watching your mouth hang open, as he crooks his fingers and starts to rub inside of you. Another lewd sound falls from your lips, and it’s the best thing Clark’s ever heard. He kisses the inside of your thigh, then the opposite thigh, then right over your clit. He keeps himself feather light and teasing, watching your body quiver with anticipation. He presses hard inside you, hovering his lips right over the little button, and grins.

“Relax for me, baby.” He orders, and you whine, but try. Clark can see how much you’re trying, but he’s already wound you up too much.

“I need- Clark-“

“I know. I’ve got you.” He uses his free hand to pull your pussy lips over from your clit, exposing the swollen nerves fully.

He blows on it once, starting to rub his fingers furiously inside you, and that’s all it takes.

The sight of you coming might be the best thing he’s ever seen. You’re gorgeous, shaking and writhing above him, the sound leaving you sounding like a siren call, his name the only word possible to make out between your moans. He needs more. He needs all of it.

Clark starts to lick your clit, light and fast, and your orgasm drags on. You won’t stop spasming around his fingers, still working you open, and your eyes get impossibly wide as you realize what he’s doing.

“Clark- Fuck- Oh-“ Your head throws back, your thighs wrapping tight around his head. “Oh- Oh- Oh my god-“

He doesn’t need to come up for air. He doesn’t need air anymore, not when he has this. He shoves his face fully into your pussy, starting to pump his fingers in time with the work of his tongue, and in no time your thighs are trembling, your body limp from the second orgasm he drags out. You’re gushing all over his face, your pussy so oversensitive that when he pulls out and just traces his fingers over your hole, your body arches like he’s fucking you into the couch.

You’re more than ready for him, but he still takes his time. He was right. You taste better than you smell, and he thinks he could get drunk on it. Clark drags his tongue down to your entrance, letting himself lap up your release with a loud moan. He’s so hard it hurts, and you’re so perfect, he might be about to blow it in his pants.

It’s an effort, but he pushes himself back up over you. You’re blinking at him all doe-eyed again, and he smiles. When he leans down to kiss you, you’re somehow more desperate than before.

“That good?” He asks softly, and you nod.

“So good.” You moan. “So- Oh my god-“

Clark’s fumbling with his belt buckle as you scratch at his chest, and you whimper against his lips as he drags the head of his cock against your puffy pussy. He marvels at the way you’re already trying to relax, your hips angling up to invite him in.

“You that desperate for some cock, baby?” He teases gently, and you nod like a bobblehead. “You want me to fill this pussy up, fuck you ‘till you can’t walk?”

“Fuck,” you breathe out, your head tipping back like you don’t even have the strength to keep it up. “Clark- I- I-“

He kisses you deeply, muttering against your lips. “Say it. Say you want me, sweetheart, beg for me-“

“Clark-“

“You can do it,” he taps the head of him against your clit, and you squeak. “You’re so smart, you know how to say please-“

“Please.” You breathe, your eyes glossy, voice barely a breath.. “Please, please, fuck- please, I love you, I need you so bad-“

Clark slams over you, his head getting clouded as it absorbs your words. You love him. You love him.

He’d give you the world.

“Good girl.” He grunts, just to see you get all pretty and flustered about it, even as his dick grinds against your drenched cunt. “That’s my good girl, love you so much- You- Fuck- You have no idea-“

And he feels a swell of pride, at how well you’re reacting just to his words. You’re restless below him, not taking anything but just silently begging, and he’s going to give you it all.

“Lie down,” he kisses you lightly, guiding you onto your back in the cushions, hiking one leg up over his shoulder and pressing the other back into your chest. You pussy is on full display, letting his rub it gently as you settle into the folded position. He looks up to find you gaping at his cock, and he grins.

“You- You’re-“

“I know.” He clears his throat. He tries not to think about it. It’s far from the most important thing about him. “I’m gonna be gentle-“

“I- I don’t know- I don’t think I can take it-“

“Yeah, you can.” He leans down, kissing you sweetly. “You will.”

You whine doubtfully, but Clark knows what he’s doing. He keeps his lips working against yours, his thumb rubbing your clit slowly as he starts to slowly push himself inside. Your mouth falls into a pretty little O, and he chuckles, kissing the corner of your mouth.

“I know.” He coos, rubbing a little firmer. “You’re doin’ so good for me, sweet girl, taking me-“ He bites back a groan as you wrap around him, warm and gummy and perfect. “You’re takin’ me so well, you’ve got it, almost there.”

You moan beneath him, and the sound vibrates around Clark’s dick. He has to bite his tongue, to stop himself from coming right there. He’s really not sure how long he’s going to last, but nobody can blame him.

Not with you, cockdrunk and gaping under him. He lets you adjust, when he bottoms out, and your breathing is shallow and breathy in his ear. He coos the best praise he can, while also trying to drag himself back under control.

When he rises up, dragging his hips slowly back, your arms wrap around his neck, and he groans.

“You feel so good.” He groans. “So fuckin’ good, I- Jesus.”

He pushes forward again, and you look up at him like he’s more than a god. More than the hero.

You look at him like he’s the sun itself, and he’s shining just for you.

He thinks he is.

So again, he lets himself snap.

Clark starts his pace slow and lazy, making sure he’s angled to drag over your g-spot with every thrust. He keeps his voice low, kissing all over your face, helping you through it.

“That’s it.” He mutters. “That’s a good girl, all pretty and dumb for me, you’re letting it feel good, aren’t you sweetheart?” He taps your cheek, pressing forward a little harder, and grins at your whimper. “Come on, you’re so good at telling me what you’re thinking-“

“More.” You breathe out, and Clark swallows. “More, Clark, more-“

“Yes, ma’am.” He grunts, slamming his lips over yours, and maybe another time he’ll be able to find it in him to tease you.

Today, he just needs to give.

He picks up pace without any further warning, and finds his own words slipping away fast. You squeeze around him, every time he bullies that soft spot inside of you, and the sound of your breathless gasps mixed with his cock slamming in and out of your cunt is almost too much for him to bear. He busies himself with kissing you everywhere he can reach, letting his hands wander to memorize every spot that makes you arch further into him, making the angle deeper, until he’s pressing against your cervix.

“Shit,” he groans, pressing his face deep into your neck. “Gonna cum, baby, need- Where do you-“

You don’t answer with words. You lock your arms around him tighter, rolling your hips up and keeping him thrusting, shallow and rough, against you. He’d laugh if his head wasn’t fogged with your touch, your body moving so well against his.

Clark pushes his hand between your bodies, rubbing your clit back and forth as fast as he can. You shriek, overwhelmed by the sensation, and try to crawl away, but Clark pulls you tight into his chest.

“Can’t- Can’t take another-“

“Yes, you can.” He grunts, kissing your open mouth. “You can do it, baby, do it for me, come on-“

You cum with a scream of his name, and Clark feels something hot and wet flooding over his dick, as you contract tight around him. You’re squirting, gushing over his cock, and it drives him right over the edge. He feels himself snap, his balls slapping against your ass as he fucks into your through his release, your name falling from his lips like a prayer.

When he’s done, you’re trembling beneath him, your lips brushing over his jaw like you’re trying to kiss him, but don’t have enough strength. Clark takes over for you, turning his lips to capture yours in a lazy, loving kiss.

He grabs his shirt off the floor, along with a blanket tossed onto the coffee table, and uses them to cover you while he gets a cloth to clean you up with. You’re limp on the couch, staring at the ceiling with a dazed smile, and Clark feels that pride blooming back in his chest, knowing he made you feel so good. You don’t fight it, when he dabs away your mixed releases, then pulls you into his arms. Brings you to the bathroom, waiting patiently while you pee before carrying you to bed.

If you need, he’ll sleep on the couch. But you’re getting the bed.

You sit in his lap, face pressed into his neck, and he drags his hand up and down your spine. You’re so soft, and his.

Like this, you get to just be his.

“You really love me?” You breathe against his ear, and he nods.

“Yeah. A whole lot, actually.” He pauses, then mutters, “And you-“

“Really.” You tilt your head, giving him a tiny smile. “So much.”

He chuckles, kissing you gently again. He’s never going to get tired of it. Never going to get tired of you.

“Stay here.” He mutters against your lips. “With me. If- If you want to, of course-“

“I do.” You breathe. “I want to.”

Clark leans back, cradling your face in his hand. “Really.”

You nod nervously, and he grins.

You smile back, tentative but real, and Clark presses back down into a kiss.

He doesn’t think there’s anything that’s quite as good as this.

As good as you, content and happy in his arms.

A sigh leaves perfectly glossed lips- yours, with a hint of slight shimmer, that faint red that always has Clark Kent looking at you a bit longer than he should. You slathered a thick coat of it on this morning; puckering slightly in the mirror, giddy at the thought of his flushed cheeks and stammer.

"You look... uh, really good today." you imagined him saying. You swooned at the thought of his smile, that farmboy curl that never failed to sweep you off your feet. "Beautiful. You look beautiful." big hand wrapped around his order, broad like the rest of him.

And you imagined yourself giggling back; one manicured hand poised strategically in front of the gloss like it was a privilege for him to see. Even when you smelled like Arabica and five different milk alternatives. Even when your hair was knotted into a careless bun, and you hadn't a single clue what day it even was.

Somehow, Clark had a way of making you feel nothing short of gorgeous.

"Then why haven't you asked me out yet?" you dreamt about asking him that too, watching his eyes go all wide and sparkly, stunned by your boldness.

You thought about the different ways you could bring it up, maybe take the leap yourself;

"The usual? Black, extra hot, one ice cube? I'll throw in my phone number too, for good luck."

"Morning, Kansas! Got your order right here. Doing anything after work today?"

"Hi, Clark. What can I get for you today? Large black coffee? I know you usually don't take sugar, but I'm free tonight and I've been told I'm quite sweet after a couple drinks..."

Stupid. So, so silly and so, so stupid. You hit the steam wand with an exasperated sigh.

Your friends call you obsessive. Kal refrains from using such harsh words, but you know he's thinking the same; his eyes never lose that amused sparkle, no matter how harshly you smack him on the arm.

A few of your coworkers find it cute. Once, Lorna dug a sharp elbow into your arm the second Clark walked into the building, silently swapping out her role at the tillpoint to let you have your brief, passionate, five-minute interaction.

"Go get him, beauty." she coaxed.

But you refrained from thanking her, not wanting to accept it for what it was; that you were totally, helplessly, irritatingly, crushing on a coffee shop regular.

"It's a right of passage." Claire said ominously.

"It's not that bad," someone else quipped.

"It's pathetic." Michael patted you on the shoulder once, pursed lips clamped in place to stop himself from spewing out any more hurt. "You've got it bad, kid."

"It's sweet!" Lorna cried, "I think it's adorable. Oh, you guys. Let her have her fun."

You thanked them all with a grimace and a swift exit to the back, clammy hands wiped down the sides of your milk-stained apron.

Clark comes in every day.

Typically. His routine is simple; easy-going for a man so chronically late and so unapologetic about it.

He bustles into the café at precisely 8:55am every morning, despite work starting at 9. Sometimes, he gets a large black coffee; other times, a caramel macchiato that he tells you solemnly is for his friend Jimmy.

You're always there to greet him, all smiles and nonchalance and small-talk that you have to fight to keep under wraps.

"Front page, again," you'd grinned once, revelling in the way his cheeks reddened as you swilled oat milk around a jug. "Very well deserved, Mr Kent."

"You read 'em?" he asked you shyly.

"How could I not?"

"I don't know. You seem like a busy girl,"

"Never too busy for an article on Superman." you joked. You made a mental note to never replay the full conversation to Kal, ever; his ego simply didn't need that boost.

He cracked a small smile, slipping his faded leather wallet back into his slacks pocket with ease. You couldn’t help but take note of the little planet emblem on the front, the scuffed gold detailing on the corners.

Because for some reason, when it came to Clark, you noticed everything.

"Means a lot. Thank you," he sipped his drink, eyes relaxing at the taste, "This is great. Really great. I- you... you've got talent,"

"If you can count squeezing water through some beans as talent, then sure," you giggled. He laughed with you. "But thanks. Have a good day, Clark."

"And you, sweetheart."

He raised his coffee cup to bid you farewell, and you almost collapsed backwards into Claire.

"Easy, girl." she'd said warily. You apologised though you didn't mean it, and she told you to take five to compose yourself.

So, compose yourself you did.

You went out to the back, fingers already itching to make the call. You hit your most frequently used number and waited impatiently; teeth gnawing on your bottom lip in a way concerning to the twenty-dollar lip balm slathered across it.

Eventually, he picked up.

"Hel-"

"Kal. You need to come get me and fly me to Missouri."

No warning, no greeting. Neither was needed. Metropolis' sweetheart knew you well enough for neither to be necessary.

On the other line, Superman paused.

And then, he burst out laughing.

"Kal!" you stomped your foot, though he couldn't see you and was probably very busy, because you could hear the hustle and bustle of a large crowd in the background. Was he walking? "I'm being serious. I don't even know where Missouri is, but you need to take me there and leave me there,"

"Now, hang on just a moment," he chuckled. You burned holes into the pastry oven in front of you. "What's happened now?"

"Why do you assume something happened?"

"You sound like you're going to pass out,"

"No. I sound like I need to take a super long vacation to some city I've never been to,"

"Missouri is a state."

"Oh, my god. I'm calling Kara." you warned, taking the phone away from your ear and tapping it around to prove a point. You could hear him apologise in between laughs, urging you to bring the phone back.

When you finally did, the bustle behind him had quietened. You snapped, jokingly, "What do you want?"

"You called me, little lady."

"Because I am going through a crisis," you cried dramatically, before pausing and lowering your tone, "He came in again, Kal."

"Oh," you could envision his grin now; amused, as well as slightly bewildered. "Ah. The reporter.”

"He called me sweetheart. And I think I said something about squeezing a wet bean? God, I don't even know,"

"You said that?"

"I said that. So, are we going to Missouri or not?"

Ever so level-headed, Kal-El ignored your somewhat childish plea, instead focusing on the bigger picture with another heroic chuckle. "Isn't this what you wanted?"

"What? To tell Clark Kent that I squeeze my bean to the thought of him?"

"Woah. Think we missed a couple chapters there."

"Well, I might as well have," you folded your arms, leaning against the fridge and staring absentmindedly at the notes that scattered it. "You should have heard me. I think my voice went up four notches and my mouth still hurts from smiling."

Not missing a beat, Kal said, "He probably thought it was cute."

"You think?"

"Sure."

You groaned. Superman laughed again. Then, Claire popped her head through the doorway and very patiently beckoned you back outside.

"I'll call you later, Kal."

"Look forward to it."

And that was that. You slid your phone into your back pocket mindlessly, ready to tackle the fifteen backed-up orders that appeared out of nowhere during your not-so-short break.

The day flew by in a blur of spilled coffee beans and burnt milk. You tried very hatd to busy yourself with other things; orders, deliveries, stock-take. Anything to keep your mind off of the man in the too-big blazer that had yet to show you the least bit of interest.

You ended up being very grateful for the one person in your life that could tolerate your miniature spirals about the opposite sex. The one man on planet Earth that was far too kind to be disgusted, too noble to be embarrassed for you.

Your sinful thoughts of Clark shifted; forming into something much sweeter, as you thought of Kal-El and the bewilderment that came from just knowing him.

Your friendship with the last son of Krypton began... oddly.

Unusual, to say the least.

He saved you from a burning building one time. Okay, maybe not from the burning building itself- he saved you from your apartment block that stood directly across the one that was actually burning, at risk for being crashed into; absolutely perplexed when he found you sat cross legged in a your bedroom, eyes closed, the baffling epitome of ill-timed meditation.

You'd shrugged when he asked you why you didn't evacuate when the sirens went off; squirmed out of his grasp when he attempted to hoist you upwards. Sirens deafened you both, loud and shrill and persistent.

"Ma'am-"

"It's my time, Superman." you'd said solemnly, turning your face to the ceiling in a way that threw him, "I've lived a good life."

"It's... the building next door, miss." he deadpanned.

You ignored him.

"…Leave me be."

Kal just paused. Raised an eyebrow. Then eventually, he sighed, and with no word of warning- scooped you up and flew you to safety in less than six seconds.

You slapped him in the arm when he finally put you down, glared even harder when he stuttered apologies about how he had to, he couldn't just leave you there.

Eventually, you let up with a distracted pause; tilting your head to the side before gallantly stating, "You're a lot prettier than in the tweets."

That was the first time you ever made Superman laugh, and he's been coming back to laugh ever since.

At first, he came to visit under the guise of simply checking in on you. But it snowballed after that, random check-ins turning into unprompted nightly traditions.

He'd land on your fire escape at precisely 11:07pm every evening, suit scuffed, mind battered from a day of patrolling and doing lawful good. You'd offer him a tea or coffee, and it would always be in that chipped red and blue mug you were gifted years ago and somehow just never got rid of.

Naturally, the mug became his; never to be touched by any of your other friends or guests. It seemed like the more it was used, the closer you became.

"How was your day today?" his fingers would wrap around it gratefully, the colours of his suit camouflaging against the drink.

"It was good. Got my nails done and bought a new lip balm. Wanna see?"

"Sure."

It was different, how it began. Even weirder the way it continued.

Because for an invincible superhero that the whole world relied on, Kal-El wasn't some stuck-up, government clone that lived to serve and nothing else. He was a person. Human in the ways that mattered, even if his biology didn't agree.

He had a dog- a foster situation, he called it. He liked flying through the air and making shapes with the clouds. He hated when you swore, saying that the word fuck was both overused and crass. He loved breakfast, falling in love with it even more when you'd shown him that it could also be a contender for dinner, too.

"This is amazing." he'd said once, mouth full of bacon and eggs and hashbrowns. His entire figure swamped your cosy little kitchen stool, cape brushing languidly against the ground.

You just laughed, wiping a smidge of ketchup from his face as he blushed profusely and fought to look away.

"You're getting it all over you."

"Sorry." he mumbled, words slurred through a mouth of grease and goodness.

But, of course, there were certain things you didn't know about him. Couldn't know. He'd explained it to you over and over and over again, your persistence making him smile but ultimately, was also causing his heart to break.

"It wouldn't be safe for you to know." he always said, softly, gently, as though he didn’t believe you could take it.

And you- though stubborn to the core and relentless to no degree- somehow understood the severity of that alone.

It still didn't stop you from trying to get it out of him, though.

"Do you have a day job?"

Kal-El squirmed uncomfortably, "No."

"Do you have an alter ego?"

"...No."

"Do you think me and your alter ego would be friends?"

His eyes softened then. Your eyebrows quipped. "...Yes. If I had one."

You learned very quickly that Kal-El didn't have many friends.

It didn't surprise you. Every photo of him standing next to the Justice Gang looked edited; every headline of his solo. He told you stories of the people he'd saved, how he remembered their faces and how their heartbeats raced, but could never quite stick around long enough to find out more.

It was bitterly unfair, you noted, how someone so good could be so alone.

After a couple of months, you found out that he lived somewhere in the Antarctic. A freezing cold spire coded to his DNA was what he called home, had always called home, one filled with working robots and the occasional super-dog.

"I'll take you there sometime." he'd promised.

But here, in Metropolis, Kal housed a spacious penthouse with floor to ceiling windows. You'd been there more than a handful of times now; always through the window and never through the lobby. You didn’t even know what his building looked like, wouldn’t be able to pick it out of a line up.

But it was really one of the only few places you could go where the threat of being taped and posted all over the internet didn't loom; as long as you promised not to tell anybody.

That, he was quite stern about. He claimed it was more for your protection than it was to keep himself hidden- I can move anywhere, anytime. You can't.

It had you asking him where his deep trust in you came from, though you couldn’t deny the way it filled your chest with warmth. Even you had to admit- you weren't exactly the quietest, calmest, most reserved person to ever grace his life.

But Kal just chuckled. His shoulders nudged yours, smile boyish and shy, "I'm a pretty good judge of character." and that was that.

Your friends and co-workers knew him simply as your friend Cal. C instead of a K, so no-one had the chance to piece it together. They never saw him, just heard about him through stories you dulled down for the sake of secrecy.

If Superman flew you over the stratosphere the other day before taking you back to his apartment, your favourite hot chocolate already on the counter, then Cal drove you around on Monday to test out his new car, and you had drinks at his place before he took you back home.

It was all very calculated. But you supposed it had to be; being Superman's best friend was never going to be easy. Not even when he did everything he could to keep you safe, including (but not limited to) answering even the stupidest of phone calls, where all you did was gush and cry and freak out about the infamous Clark Kent.

You remembered the day you saw him for the first time.

It was the Monday after a painful weekend. Most of Sunday was spent face-down in your pillow, mumbling about how life wasn't fair and you were probably going to be a single old hag until the day came that you finally died.

On your phone, Kal-el was rolling his eyes; giving you a sweet, lopsided grin as he told you to stop being so dramatic.

"You're not going to die old and alone," he'd said amusedly, throwing a ball for Krypto to fetch and destroy somewhere in the Antarctic. "Your person will come. Just… gotta be patient."

You asked when, voice muffled. He just told you to wait.

And then, like the world had heard your silent pleas and Kal's contained agitation, Clark Kent stumbled into your life (and cafe) the very next day.

All sweet and shy and knocking into coats that hung off of the backs of chairs, apologising profusely like they had brains and hearts that beat. His curls, unruly as always, flopped comically over his forehead; the crook of his glasses taking your breath away with every slight, nervous scrunch of his nose.

He was the most beautiful man you had ever seen- familiar in a way you couldn't place, yet so unlike anyone else you'd ever met before.

You couldn't look away, no matter how hard you tried. Whether it was love at first sight or just pure, unfiltered obsession- you weren't too sure.

"Hey... hi. Please may I get a coffee?" he'd asked.

"Hi, hey. Which coffee can I get you?"

The tips of his ears reddened. Your stomach fluttered in agony. "Just a black coffee, please." then, he paused, eyes flickering from the menu to the far too large top hanging off your frame, "I like your shirt."

You thanked him, quietly finding it hilarious that the top you'd worn to work that day actually belonged to your dear friend Superman. Yet another thing you weren't willing to tell him, in fear of his already too big ego inflating even more.

You made Clark's black coffee. His fingers brushed against yours as he took it, gaze lingering a beat too long. Then, you called Kal and got sent to voicemail immediately after; leaving him a very passionate message about the man you were pretty sure was the love of your life.

Clark came in every day since.

Apart from today.

"Don't be so sad, sweets," Lorna nudges a bag of opened candy your way, brows quirking up with the movement. "He probably just got held up somewhere."

It's laughable. Pathetic. You shouldn't be this sad, this ridiculous, over someone you don’t even know, but you can’t help it.

You feel everything tenfold, and the droop in your expression is unmistakable- even when Michael taps you gingerly on the shoulder; knowing brow quirked, something square and leather clutched in his free hand.

A wallet.

With little gold detailing pinching the corners, and a tiny little planet stamped on the front.

Your world stops spinning, and you fall within the split-second of static as Michael hands it to you like it’s a personal gift from the Gods.

“No wonder your boy couldn’t make it today,” he grumbles. Your entire body goes cold with anticipation, “Probably spent all day looking for that thing- Claire found it wedged between the seats. Do with that what you must.”

And that's how, a full five days later, you find yourself buzzing into a swanky looking apartment building; Clark’s wallet clutched tight in one hand, a boiling hot black coffee in the other.

You feel weird. You feel intrusive. On the way here, you decided that if you were ever to be asked what fictional character you relate to the most, it would be the delusional, disgusting Joe Goldberg.

But you don’t turn around. You refuse to- it’s been days since he left his wallet at the café, and you just couldn't take it anymore. It's been sat untouched in Michael’s office, already collecting dust, calling out your name alongside a plea of return me, return me!

“Just do it, dear God,” Michael had groaned, flinging it towards you with two tattooed fingertips pressed against his temples, “I can’t take this anymore. Take it back and stop moping.”

You thought about swinging by the Planet and dropping it off there. But questions would be asked, eyebrows would be raised, and you didn’t really want to step into Clark’s place of work smelling like milk and tea and coffee granules- so, you opted for the next best thing instead.

You took his driving license out. Jotted down his address. Then, before anyone could convince you not to, you made your way straight there.

The woman at the shiny desk tells you that Clark’s apartment is on the very top floor.

In all honesty, that surprises you. You weren’t too sure how much journalists made, but the sum must be great for him to be able to live in such a fancy building. Most of the walls are made of glass, and the doorman even tilted his hat towards you when you stepped inside.

The elevator ride to the top is quick. You can’t remember the last time you were ever up this high- not unless you can count the nights spent zipping through the empty Metropolis air with Superman holding you close.

The thought of Kal-El makes you smile, but a pang of guilt also hits your chest at the lie you told him today. He’d asked you if you were free to come over, and you simply couldn’t find it in you to tell him the truth- that you were blowing him off to find Clark.

“I’ve got my mug and yours, and I even bought those little marshmallows you like,” Kal had said, very triumphantly, over the phone. You’d been busy stacking the dishwasher at the time to feel the full weight of guilt, but you were definitely feeling it now. “Thought we could watch that film you were talking about the other day. What was it called, again…?”

“I am so sorry, Kal,” you mumbled, wiping your soapy hands on your apron as you struggled to close the washer, “I’ve, uh… got plans. Tonight.”

“Tonight?”

“Mhm.”

“Oh.” Although he tried to hide it, you could sense the disappointment in his voice from a mile away. “Oh, well- that’s alright. Will you be safe tonight? Wherever you’re going?”

You cracked a small smile, nodding to nobody but yourself. “Of course,”

“And you’ll call me if you need anything?” his voice lowered then, one filled with a silent plea for you to promise.

You nodded again, “Always.”

“Alright, then. See you soon?”

Your smile widened. There was something about how much Kal treasured you that hit something deep within your chest; blossoming a far-too familiar feeling that you had to force straight back down.

“See you soon, Superman.”

A steady ding sounds your arrival, ripping you out of the early memory with ease.

The top floor of Clark’s apartment building looks eerily familiar.

You pause the second you step out of the elevator; brows falling into a furrow, lips pursed. The once slightly-warm coffee in your hand is now threatening to burn a hole through your palm, and you just can’t shake the feeling that you’ve been here before.

But that’s stupid. Because you haven’t. And nobody in their right mind- not even you, in all of your whimsy and caffeine-fuelled delirium- would ever dare be deluded by that fact.

The hallway is quiet. Plush carpet, low lighting, floor-to-ceiling windows lining one side like a gallery of stars.

That’s what stops you. Completely.

Metropolis stretches out beneath the glass in a way that steals the breath straight from your lungs- all glittering veins of light and distant sirens, the river a dark ribbon cutting through the city. You drift closer before you can stop yourself, forehead nearly brushing the cool pane.

You’ve seen this view.

Not like this- not standing, no- but you’ve seen it. From higher, from warmer air, from the safe circle of an arm at your waist as the city unfolded below you like something made just for the two of you.

Your chest tightens, but you can’t place it. So you shake your head as if that alone might dislodge the feeling.

This is ridiculous. Clark Kent does not share a penthouse view with Superman. And if he did, then Kal would be cruel- truly cruel- not to tell you that the man you were probably falling in love with lived just next door.

Still, your fingers curl a little tighter around the coffee cup.

You force yourself away from the window and down the hall, counting your steps until you reach the door at the very end. It’s unassuming and plain, a dark wood coated in a glossy finish, handle a deep metal blue. Clark’s name is neatly printed on a label beneath the peephole, and your eyes rake over it hesitantly.

You lift your hand to knock, ready to either take the leap or embarrass yourself completely- but the door swings wide open before your knuckles ever have the chance to make contact.

"Oh-"

An apology tangles itself up in your throat as the man in front of you fills the doorway. Your restless eyes fight, wearily, to tear themselves away from the attractive ridges of his body.

Smart dress shirt, sleeves rolled to his forearms. Those delicious slacks that cling to him just right. A press badge swings, still clipped at his waist, crooked like he’d forgotten it was there entirely.

His tie hangs loose, collar open- stance just a little too assertive to be Clark, a little too relaxed to be anyone else.

“Hi,” you breathe, relief washing through you so fast it almost makes you dizzy. Your eyes don't meet his. Your fingers fumble for his wallet in your pocket, your body ablaze underneath his stunned stare as you look anywhere but him, "Clark. Sorry, I-"

It takes a second longer than it should.

You look up, meeting his gaze halfway- and the double take is so quick, your neck clicks with the movement.

Time freezes. You almost choke on an inhale.

Because something is missing.

Something isn't right.

No glasses.

And the person looking right back at you isn’t the same person you thought you’d see tonight.

His eyes meet yours, blue and open and devastatingly familiar. The tilt of his head, the softness in his expression as recognition dawns- not confusion, not surprise, but something bordering on the painful edge of realisation.

A breath catches in your throat.

He says your name- softly, gently, as if not to startle you. But you're not paying attention, because your focus is on something else.

In his right hand, he clutches a mug.

Familiar, bright- formally yours.

Red and blue ceramic.

Drank from through laughter, sipped through conversation, put through endlesss nights spent at his and evenings spent at yours. It’s either unmistakable, or it’s uncanny.

Whatever it is, it’s slightly chipped on the rim.

Steam curls from it gently, the scent of hot chocolate filling the air between you. On top of the drink- floating in a neat little cluster of sugar and gelatin- are those little white marshmallows that you like best.

The world seems to tilt on its axis. Your fingers go numb.

And suddenly, a weight vanishes from your hand, the full coffee cup clattering at your feet; a warm overspill that stains your shoes a dark brown hue.

And Kal-El- Clark- moves without thinking.

His eyes are wide as he reaches for you, desperately, one step forward causing you to take three steps back.

His free hand reaches out.

But you’re already gone; turning sharply and bolting down the hall, heart racing, thoughts fracturing with every step, his broken voice swallowed by the echo of your footsteps.