“Oh, sweetheart…”

Johnny was a panting mess above you, leaning up on his elbows on the bed and watching your every move as you took his cock deeper and deeper down your throat. You looked up at him through your long eyelashes, taking in the fucked-out look on his face.

He was looking down at you with his face screwed up in pleasure. His toned chest heaved with his breaths, a whining moan at the end of each one.

His cock was hot and heavy in your mouth, throbbing between your swollen lips. Precum leaked from his tip, the heady taste on your tongue every time you swiped over his slit, which drove him crazy. His head would loll back on his shoulders as a low groan tore its way out of his chest.

You splayed your hands across his thick thighs, bobbing your head a little faster, making sure to give every part of him plenty of attention. He loved when you were sloppy on it like this. Johnny raked his hand through your hair, pushing you down all the way and holding you there until you couldn’t breathe.

“God-“ he choked, his eyes falling closed. “Oh, jesus baby, that’s- h-oh- oh, god-“

He let go and you pulled off of him, gasping for air. You took only a moment to compose yourself before you were sinking back onto him, sending Johnny flopping back onto the pillows with a groan.

You cradled his balls in your right hand, gently massaging them as you took him down slowly, focusing your tongue along the underside of his cock. His thighs trembled, muscles clenching.

“Fuck,” he whined. “Sweetheart, I- I’m so close, I’m so close. Wanna be inside you. Please.”

You lifted off of him with a pop, his cock twitching weakly as it was left wanting. Your lips were shining, wet with saliva. “Well, since you asked so nicely…”

Johnny laughed breathlessly and reached for you, pulling you on top of him and drawing a giggle from your lips. Your naked body landed on top of his, your chests pressed together as he tangled his hand in the back of your hair and dragged you down into a playful kiss.

Your lips moved together like they had always known one another. You straddled Johnny’s waist, legs on either side of his hips as you kissed him. His free hand rubbed down the smooth skin of your back and gripped your ass, making you gasp into the kiss. He chuckled.

“You’re perfect, y’know that?” he said quietly against your lips. He licked into your mouth, tasting a hint of the wine you’d had together, now forgotten across the room. A moan rumbled from his chest and against yours as your tongues rolled together, his cock pressed right up against what he wanted more than anything.

“You’re too sweet, Johnny,” you said as you broke the kiss and sat up. You rolled your hips experimentally, his cock dragging through your soaked folds. Johnny gasped, his hands flying to grip your hips tightly.

“Shit,” he hissed. “I can’t take it anymore. I need to fuck you right now.”

You moaned, you could feel his impressive length pressing insistently against you. He needed it bad tonight - you loved it when he got like this. Sometimes he was so needy and desperate, sometimes he was dominant and in control. Tonight was the former, and you weren’t complaining. “D’you want me to ride you, baby?”

He nodded. “Yeah. Fuck yeah.”

You lifted yourself up on your knees and Johnny reached beneath you to line his cock up with your hole. His thick tip was pressed tight against you, his blue eyes looking up into yours with so much fiery lust behind them it took your breath away.

You mentally prepared yourself, then lowered, sinking down onto Johnny’s thick cock slowly. His head dropped back and he let out a loud groan - you wouldn’t be surprised if the whole Baxter Building could hear him. Johnny was never shy about letting you know how good you felt.

He rocked his hips up into you right away, feet planted on the bed and his thigh muscles working as he pumped up into you. He was so deep already, your head tossed back as you cried out.

“Johnny! Oh my god-“

He was fucking you so hard from beneath you, you forgot you were supposed to be doing the work, too lost in your own pleasure. Eventually Johnny tugged on your hips, encouraging you to move. “Ride me, sweetheart. Please.”

You rocked your hips slowly at first, grinding down against him. You rested your hands on Johnny’s chest, rolling against him, the hair at the base of his cock rubbing against your clit just right. It felt incredible for you, but he needed more. He grabbed your ass in each of his large hands and started guiding you up and down, lifting you before letting you fall back down onto him.

The first drop back down onto him made Johnny’s back arch, a loud moan filling the air. The muscles in his neck and shoulders were straining, his pink, kiss swollen lips parted in a pretty O. Oh, he was needy.

You set a steady pace bouncing on his cock, Johnny watching your every move with intense focus. Your tits bounced with your movements - he couldn’t decide whether he’d rather look at that or the way his cock was disappearing inside you.

“Jesus,” Johnny groaned. “God, yes, keep riding me like that. You’re so tight around me, so fucking hot and wet- oh-“

“Feels so good, Johnny,” you cried, your voice higher than usual. He guided you a little faster, needing more, needing to fuck you deeper and harder. His cock felt so good with you wrapped around him - he’d never felt anything so good. He thought he could stay there indefinitely.

He sat up, burying his face in your bouncing tits and groaning as he groped them with his large, warm hands. His thumb swiped over the nipple of one while his hot mouth wrapped around the other, making you gasp. He moaned unabashedly, deep and low and drawn out, loud enough for the whole city to hear.

He fell back against the pillows and grabbed onto your hips again, guiding you faster. He was getting close, you could tell by the way his muscles were clenching, the way he needed more more more, the way he started whining and babbling and praising you like you were some deity bestowing upon him pleasures like he’d never before experienced.

“That’s it, that’s it sweetheart, keep riding me like that, keep- keep- fuuuuck- oh god-“ He was gasping, whimpering, losing control as his orgasm crept up his spine like electricity. “Need you to cum, baby, because I’m not far off.”

“‘m close, Johnny,” you whined, falling down onto his cock over and over, your head tilted back, his tip pressing so deep inside you - it was sending you reeling. When he moved a hand from your hip to rub quick, small circles on your clit with his thumb, it nearly made you scream. The coil in your belly tightened and tightened and tightened-

Your pussy clenched around Johnny again and again as you came, which was almost his undoing. You were screaming and moaning his name and Johnny was trying to hold it together just a little bit longer, just a little more, he didn’t want it to be over yet but-

Flames crackled on his skin as he let out a roar of a moan, planting his feet and thrusting his hips up into you as hard as he could. You gasped, surprised by the actual fire flickering along his arched body - but you were too fucked out with his cockhead currently buried as deep in you as possible while he held you there, his cum dripping out of you and down the sides of his shaft.

You were both shaking hard as you came down. The flames disappeared and you were left with your normal not-flaming boyfriend, still holding onto your hips while he tried to catch his breath, his chest shining with sweat.

“Jesus,” you finally said, laughing lightly. Johnny joined you, breathless but chuckling at the situation. He helped you carefully pull off of him, more of the cum he’d given you dripping from your hole. His eyes zeroed in on it, and you thought you heard him whimper.

“That was incredible,” Johnny said. He reached for his bedside table and grabbed a water bottle sitting there, opening it and taking a long drink.

“Do you usually catch on fire when you have sex?” you teased.

“Only when it’s fucking incredible,” he said, giving you that charming Johnny Storm smirk. He leaned in and pressed a kiss to your lips. “You’re incredible. I love you.”

“I love you too, Johnny.” You kissed him again. You cuddled up to his side on the bed. “Is it okay that you…y’know…” Johnny had never cum inside of you like that before. Usually you used condoms, or he pulled out. 

“I can get you a morning after pill if you’re nervous,” he said quietly. “But with my powers, my DNA mutation - I’m not even sure if I can have kids. Reed and Sue have wanted them for ages and it never happened.” He shrugged sadly, still a hint of a smile on his face. “Kinda sucks, because I really wanted kids one day.”

The idea of never being able to have children with Johnny made you sad. It made your heart ache. You knew any child would be the luckiest in the world to have Johnny as their father.

“You don’t have to,” you said. “I know it's unlikely.”

Johnny kissed your temple. He knew how badly you wanted children, and he felt terrible he couldn’t give them to you. “I love you, sweetheart,” he said simply again. “I’m always gonna take care of you.”

“I love you too, Johnny.” You nuzzled into his neck, slumber catching up to your aching body. “I’m gonna take care of you, too.”

He chuckled, his chest vibrating beneath your head. He stroked your hair as you laid together and held you close.

“You are everything to me.”

“I can’t believe she’s having a baby,” Johnny laughed as you closed the door to your bedroom, still wrapping his mind around the news of his sister being pregnant. He was thrilled, that much was clear. Sue was happy, he was happy - he knew Reed would take good care of both of them. That wasn’t even a concern. They’d wanted a baby for so long. He shook his head with a smile, running a hand through his blonde hair.

“Yeah,” you said, trying to muster up as much enthusiasm in your voice as you could. “It’s really exciting!”

The truth was, your stomach was buzzing with nerves. You were beyond happy for her, but Sue announcing a pregnancy was the last thing you expected tonight - 

You had been planning an announcement for Johnny yourself.

Now, you weren’t sure what to do. You didn’t want to take over Sue and Reed’s baby news, especially with how long they’d been waiting for this. And sure, Johnny was over the moon about becoming an uncle - but how would he feel about becoming a dad? Right now?

Johnny gave you a strange look as he sat on the end of the bed, removing his shoes. “You okay? You seem…weird.”

“I’m fine!” you exclaimed, maybe with a little too much energy. “Seriously, I’m fine. It was just…a big evening.”

“Yeah,” he agreed. “But…something’s off. Are you not happy?”

“No!” you blurted too quickly. “I mean, yes, I am. It’s not that, I swear.”

You had begun to pace, fingers tangled together. Johnny was properly concerned now, leaning on his knees as he watched you. When he couldn’t take it anymore he reached out, grabbing your hand and stopping you. “Sweetheart. What’s bothering you? You know you can tell me anything.”

Unable to keep pacing with your hand in his, you felt like the news was going to burst out without your permission. “It’s nothing, Johnny, I promise.”

He pulled you down onto his lap, his arms wrapping around your waist. “What, do you want a baby now that it’s on the table?” he asked, his tone teasing. Your stomach clenched in a knot, your skin like ice.

“What?” you asked, your laugh too high, too awkward to be casual. “What are you talking about?”

“Did my sister’s announcement give you baby fever?” he teased you even more, oblivious to your internal panic. “We’ll have one one day, baby. I wanna get married first, wait until things feel…right.”

That made you feel even worse. Would he not want the baby now? The way he’s talking now makes it sound like he doesn’t want one. But you were pregnant. It was happening whether it was the right time or not.

You felt tears brimming in your eyes. Your gaze was locked on the floor, avoiding Johnny entirely. When you didn’t laugh or joke back, he moved to look at your face better, seeing your wet eyes and trembling lower lip.

“Jesus, baby, what’s going on?” he asked, placing his hands on either side of your face. “I was just messing around. What’s bothering you so much?”

Your hormones were really getting to you. You weren’t much of a crier, not usually, which was what had Johnny extra freaked out as you sobbed in his lap. He rubbed your arms up and down soothingly, his warmth transferring to you. “Baby, please. Just tell me what’s wrong so I can help. I hate seeing you like this and feeling helpless.”

You shook your head. “I can’t. I…I can’t.”

“You can’t what?” The longer you went without just telling Johnny what was wrong, the worse his panic got. “Sweetheart, please. Just tell me, you- you can tell me anything, you know that.”

“I just…” you sniffled, wiping at your eyes. Johnny wiped a stray tear away with his thumb. “This isn’t how I wanted this to go.”

“How you wanted what to go?” He was so lost. “Baby, please, just tell me. I’m so confused. You know I’m not good at…figuring feelings out. If I did something wrong, please just tell me.”

You shook your head. “You didn’t do anything wrong, Johnny.” You met his blue eyes, your own red and puffy. It broke his heart. “I just…I’m sorry. I’ve had a lot going on.”

“Like what?” he asked. “Let me help. Please. You don’t have to do anything alone.” He squeezed your hip. “I’m your family. We’re your family now.”

A deep breath. You had to tell him. And he knew enough now to be scared - it had to be now. “Johnny…”

“Tell me, sweetheart,” he said. He was looking right into your eyes, you were surprised he couldn’t read your thoughts straight out of your head. Those eyes were so intense, they could have fooled you. “Let me in.”

“I…” He squeezed your hands in his. You took comfort in his touch. “Johnny, I’m pregnant.”

It was like time stopped. Neither of you moved an inch - or even breathed. Johnny just kept staring at you as if you hadn’t said anything. Then, finally - “Are you serious?”

You nodded. You were terrified as you watched him, waiting for his reaction. He looked like he was processing the words, like they hadn’t fully set in yet. Then-

“Really? A little Storm baby? Right now?” he grinned - but his mouth dropped when something else occurred to him. “And they’ll have a built-in best friend!”

“You’re happy?” you asked. Relief flooded your veins, but you were still shaking from the anxiety. “You want this?”

“What do you- of course I want this,” he said, laughing like he couldn’t believe what you’d said. He rubbed your upper arms, warming your entire body. “Who cares if we’re not married yet? This is the best news. We’ve gotta tell everyone right now.”

“Hold on,” you said, laughing lightly. Johnny had surprised you - he looked ecstatic. You had been worried for nothing. “Sue just announced, I don’t want to take away from her moment. They tried for a long time.”

Johnny considered your words. “She’s going to be happy for us,” he said.

“I know she will be.” His blue eyes were shining, the excitement physically visible in them. “But this is her moment. I don’t want to take that away from her and Reed.”

Despite your words, he still couldn’t wipe the huge grin off his face - he was happy enough at the idea of becoming an uncle, but a father too? This was one of the best days of his life. “Okay. We’ll wait. But this is the best. Who could have predicted me and my sister having babies at the exact same time?”

“It is pretty crazy,” you said, your voice nervous. You were still wrapping your mind around the situation yourself. You’d only known for two days, and had spent those worrying yourself sick over Johnny’s reaction. You had finally worked up the courage, but the news of Sue’s pregnancy coming out at Sunday dinner was the last thing you expected.

You knew that, eventually, this would be amazing. Two cousins so close to the same age were bound to be close. But you worried about how Sue and Reed would feel. Would they be hurt? Would they resent you and Johnny for getting pregnant so easily? By accident?

The anxiety made you sick. Even when you changed into your pajamas and climbed into bed with Johnny, your boyfriend spooning against your back with his hand already resting protectively on your stomach - you worried. Johnny snored softly in your ear and you thought about how you might have just ruined everything in your new family.

It was two weeks after telling Johnny about the pregnancy, and Sunday dinner had once again rolled around. You were content to keep the secret for a while longer still, but Johnny was driving you crazy about it. Every day he asked when you could announce, every day he begged you to say yes.

You’d finally agreed. Now Johnny was practically bouncing off the walls, excited for dinner. He was dressed handsomely, a button down shirt with dark blue pants. You had been suffering from the worst morning sickness the past week, and only had the energy to dress in an oversized t-shirt and leggings.

He couldn’t wipe the smile off his face as you ate, and the others definitely noticed, looking at him strangely. Finally, as dinner was wrapping up, Sue spoke up.

“What’s got you smiling like that?” she asked her younger brother as she helped gather dirty plates, Johnny trailing behind her with more dishes. “You look like you have some good news.”

Johnny beamed at you - you mustered up a half hearted smile in return, but in reality your heart was beating out of your chest, your throat felt like it was closing. You’d hardly said a word all evening and didn’t have much of an appetite, most of your plate untouched. With the moment now here, you thought the little you had eaten might make a reappearance.

“I do, actually,” Johnny said, grabbing the box of Lucky Charms off the counter despite having just eaten. He grabbed some and popped them in his mouth.

Sue, Reed, and Ben looked at him with more concern than anything, exchanging a look with their eyebrows drawn together. That made you even more sick.

“What is it?” Reed asked. Johnny had everyone’s full attention now.

“Well,” he said, trying somewhat to contain his face-splitting smile. He sat the box down and walked back to where you sat, standing behind you. He placed his hands on the back of your chair. “We have something exciting to tell you guys.” He glanced down at you, then back at his family. “We’re having a baby.”

It was so silent, only the soft whirrs of Herbie as he bustled around filled the air. Reed and Ben looked at Sue - it was tense. Johnny’s smile began to falter.

“Wow,” she finally said, and it was obvious that was the last thing they expected Johnny to say. Her face was stone, and you felt your heart actually crack when you noticed her eyes becoming glassy. “That’s…wow.”

Reed reached over and took his wife’s hand, looking at her like he wanted to read her mind. She was unreadable, however.

You looked up at Johnny. He looked back down at you, the sudden understanding of your concerns now all over his face. He looked back at his sister, eyes darting to Ben and Reed before meeting hers again. “Are you…upset?”

“No!” she said quickly. “No. I’m not upset. It’s just…you know, it’s a lot.” She smiled, although it seemed a little forced. She let go of Reed’s hand and stood, approaching her brother and wrapping him in a tight hug.

Johnny glanced at you, but hugged her back. “Are you sure you’re okay?” he asked her quietly.

“Of course I’m okay,” she said. “I just…Johnny, I can’t believe it.” They parted and she looked at each person in the room. “What are the odds, huh?”

“A little reckless maybe, don’t you think?” 

You all looked at Reed. He wasn’t smiling. The look on his face was completely unamused, serious. “Was it an accident?”

No one said anything. The question hung in the air, although each person there already knew the answer.

“Why does that matter?” Johnny finally asked.

“Have you even thought of the repercussions? The potential consequences? Dangers?” Reed asked. He gestured to you, towards your belly, and you covered it with your arms. “The child’s father has cosmically compromised DNA. You have powers, and she doesn’t. Have you thought of what might happen to her carrying your child?”

Silence. Neither you nor Johnny had even considered that. Johnny looked down at you with something a little like panic in his eyes.

“That- what do you mean?” he stuttered. “Could something happen to her?”

“We don’t know what could happen,” Reed said. “That’s why you were reckless.”

“We just don’t know if we’re going to have a fire baby to worry about,” Ben said lightly. The idea made you cringe.

“You don’t know what’s going to happen with two parents with powers, either,” Johnny said. “This is new territory for all of us.”

“I know,” Reed said. “I’ve been developing a device to scan the baby and check for abnormalities.” He nodded to Sue, then you. “I can check them both.”

Johnny looked at you. The sweat on your brow and the trembling in your hands were immediately noticeable - you were scared shitless. He crouched down next to your chair, speaking quietly for you only. “Are you okay, sweetheart?”

“Could something really happen?” you asked him. “To the baby? To me?”

His mouth opened to tell you no, of course not. You’re safe. I would never let anything happen to either of you. But the truth was that he had no idea - no one did. And if something bad did happen, he thought, it would be his fault. He did this to you.

“I don’t know, baby,” he said. “But I can promise you I will do everything in my power to keep you both safe. And Reed is gonna make sure there’s nothing going on while that little Storm’s brewing.” A goofy grin took over his face as he placed a hand on your belly.

“Oh, come on,” Ben groaned, unamused by the pun.

Johnny stood. “Whatever you have to do to make sure she’s going to be okay,” he said to Reed, “that they’re both going to be okay- do it. I can’t lose-“ He stopped, taking a deep breath. “I can’t let anything happen to her.”

“Getting this machine built is my top priority,” Reed said. “I promise you, I’m going to do everything I can for both of them.”

You were relieved when everyone started returning to their rooms. You were exhausted, still felt sick, and were now stressed beyond belief. Johnny gave Herbie a scratch on the head - “Night, Herbert.” - to which he beeped contentedly.

As you were about to leave with Johnny, Sue stopped you. She hurried over, but once she reached you, she wasn’t sure what to say. Eventually, she smiled at you apologetically, grabbing your upper arms and running her hands down until they rested on your elbows.

She said your name, then looked at Johnny, giving him a look that said Some privacy, please? Johnny held his hands up, backing away.

Sue’s attention now fully on you, you felt nervous once again. You’d always liked Sue - you and Johnny had been dating a year now, and she had been nothing but kind to you since you’d known her. But this was a different circumstance entirely.

“I wanted to tell you congratulations,” she said. “And apologize for the way I reacted when you told us the news. It just- it shocked me. It was a shock. Reed and I- well, you know.” She smiled softly. “But I really am happy for you and Johnny. He’s going to be a great dad. I should have told him so.”

Warmth spread through your veins, comfort - like a hug from Johnny himself. Relief. “You don’t have to apologize,” you assured her. “I understand how you felt. I’m sorry we kind of…made you share the most important event of your life.” You grimaced - you felt horrible about it, even though you hadn’t in any way meant to get pregnant.

“I don’t mind sharing with you and my baby brother,” she said. “Don’t worry, I’ve shared a lot with him over the years.”

You laughed lightly. “Thank you, Sue. And I am really, really happy for you. I know you’ve wanted a baby for a long time.”

“Thank you.” She pulled you into a tight hug. “You’re going to be an incredible mother.”

With the news out amongst the family and your bumps becoming increasingly difficult to hide, it was time to come out and tell the press. You announced with a spread on a magazine cover, the Four with two empty baby seats.

The public debated whether you and Sue would have boys or girls. Most seemed to think you were both having boys, but whatever the stance, everyone was passionate about theirs. There were articles, polls, bets being exchanged.

“The countdown continues as the Fantastic Four prepare to welcome two new members to the family,” the reporters were saying. “Preparations inside the Baxter Building are well underway!”

And they were. Herbie was busy baby proofing the entire building, flitting around and making sure everything was safe for the new arrivals. He was just as excited as the rest of you. He put plug covers in all the sockets, moved sharp objects out of the way, installed locks on the cabinets, placed baby gates - much to Ben’s annoyance.

“The question on everyone’s mind is - will the babies be born with superpowers?” 

It was true - everyone wondered. Even you. Even Johnny.

You thought back to Ben’s joke. What if you really did have a little fire baby to worry about? The idea of your child bursting into flames terrified you - it was still weird enough when Johnny did it.

The public wasn’t quite as nice to you as they were to Sue and Reed. Between a married couple who had been hoping for a baby for years, and a couple who had been dating for a year and got pregnant by accident - yeah, it wasn’t hard to imagine who they favored. As if it were a competition and not your family.

Gossip magazines had a lot to say about you in particular. Johnny was beloved, but you? You were just some girl who came out of nowhere, took the world’s most eligible bachelor off the market, then overshadowed the pregnancy of everyone’s favorite family.

There was a lot said about your intentions, like that you were only with Johnny for money and fame. They speculated that Sue secretly hated you. They implied you had trapped him with this pregnancy. How could the public be so happy for Johnny while being so cruel to you?

Johnny always told you to ignore it, that it wasn’t worth even keeping up with what those people were saying. But that was impossible for you - it’s like you had to know. Every time you passed a gossip mag at the store, you had to read the cover. You couldn’t help it.

“Those people don’t know anything,” Johnny would say. “Seriously. They have nothing better to do but make up fake drama. It’s sad. Please don’t pay attention to them, sweetheart.” A lopsided grin. “You’re my future wife. The love of my life. The mother of my child. No one is going to change that.”

You got to where you didn’t even want to leave the building anymore because you’d be followed by reporters. You were already struggling enough with the way your body was beginning to change, the last thing you needed was an unflattering photo of yourself ending up on the cover of another magazine, speculating if you’re having twins based on the size of your bump.

Johnny hated to see you isolate yourself. He was constantly trying to convince you to leave the building, to at least go on a walk with him. You’d agree some of the time, but not as often as he’d like.

“You and the baby need fresh air,” he’d plead. “It’s not good to stay cooped up in here all day.”

You would be cuddled in bed like a burrito at 2pm. “I just don’t feel up to it, Johnny.”

Johnny frowned. “It hurts to see you like this,” he said softly. “You’re depressed, sweetheart. I hate that these people are getting to you. It makes me so…” He looked away from you, flames combusting on his skin. You jumped - it was still so strange.

“Sorry,” he said, the flames disappearing. He smiled sheepishly at you. “It’s just…I wish I could do something. I wish I could do more. I’m not used to feeling helpless.” He rubbed his hand over your back, and you let out a deep sigh. “Just want my girl to be happy and safe.”

The gossip slowed down eventually as your pregnancy progressed, much to your relief. Despite the way they’d treated you, the public was absolutely beside themselves at the thought of Johnny and Sue both having babies. You were even asked to do a photo shoot with her for a magazine - that was completely out of your depth, but you’d done it.

You felt so small standing next to Sue Storm. Like, who cares about me?

Your family did, and they showed you that every day. Before long, you were feeling more like yourself again, walking around in public with your bump proudly visible, hand on it protectively. The public warmed up to you. You were really becoming a part of the family - in everyone’s eyes.

“Can I carry that for you, sweetheart?”

You turned, seeing Johnny jogging up to you. He reached for the laundry basket in your hands.

“Oh, sure,” you said, handing it off to him. He grinned - he always did have the most charming smile. It made your stomach fill with butterflies, just like the first time you’d seen him in person.

He followed you back to the bedroom with the basket, placing it down on the bed. He lifted a shirt from the top of the pile and began folding it.

“Babe, you don’t have to do that,” you said, placing your hand on his arm. He turned to look at you, those blue eyes so close to your own, it nearly took your breath away.

“I don’t mind,” he said. “I don’t want you to have to do it. You should rest. You’ve still been so sick.”

“That’s sweet, Johnny, but no, seriously. Herbie usually does it.”

Johnny stopped, his cheeks tinged pink. “Oh. Yeah. That’s right, isn’t it?”

You giggled. “What’s gotten into you?”

Johnny sat on the bed, reaching for your hand and pulling you down to sit on his lap. His hand settled on your four months pregnant belly. “Nothing,” he said. “I just wanna take good care of my girl. You know there’s two things I love-“

“Yeah, yeah, Johnny loves space, Johnny loves women,” you teased. Johnny chuckled.

“Johnny loves you,” he said. “He loves his girl,” he rubbed his hand across your small bump, “and he loves whoever this one is going to grow to be.”

“Will this tell us if everything’s okay?” you asked, standing nervously in Reed’s lab. Sue stood to the side, there for moral support - they were all concerned about you especially.

“It should,” Reed said. “I’ve developed and tested it extensively, and ran some tests on Sue just this morning.” He looked at his wife. “It did not detect any anomalies.”

That was a relief - but it didn’t mean you would have the same result.

You wished Johnny was there. But he was busy, and he had been bugging Reed about the new space suits so relentlessly, you know he certainly didn’t miss him.

“Everything is going to be fine,” Sue said softly, sitting her hand on your shoulder. “It’s quick and painless.”

You nodded. You were scared, but you would also do absolutely anything this baby needed. You laid down on the cool table. There was nothing visibly interesting about it - it was a flat white table with a piece that arced over your stomach.

Sue stood by as Reed worked the machine. It emitted a bright light, scanning over your stomach. The machine began printing all kinds of…graphs and measurements. You had no idea what you were looking at. You often felt a little inadequate in a family full of geniuses. You were just…you. No powers, no fancy degree. Never been to space. Just a girl who’s boyfriend/baby daddy flies and occasionally combusts.

Reed and Sue both examined the results that were printing rapidly. Reed wrote some things down, while Sue pointed over his shoulder, saying some things too quietly for you to hear. It made you nervous.

They still hadn’t told you anything when Reed shut the machine off. You looked at both of them. “So? Is the baby…is everything okay?”

They exchanged a look. “There’s…some kind of anomaly,” Reed said carefully. Your body went cold. “I don’t know what it is. I’m going to have to do more tests, but for now, I need you to relax. I don’t see anything that has me immediately concerned.”

“But you just said-“

“I know.” He looked at you seriously, Sue hovering behind him. “Just because there’s some kind of anomaly doesn’t mean it’s necessarily…bad. The baby’s father is an anomaly himself.” He smiled in a way that felt like he was trying to comfort you. “I don’t want you to worry. I’m going to keep running tests.”

Your mind was spinning for the rest of the day. When you saw Johnny that evening, his brow immediately creased, knowing something was on your mind right away. “What’s going on? You look…bothered,” he asked as he ate Lucky Charms straight from the box. You hadn’t even had dinner yet.

“It’s just…” you sighed. “Reed said he found some kind of anomaly on the test.”

His concern visibly deepened. “What kind of anomaly?”

“I don’t know,” you said. “That’s all he said. That there was an anomaly but not to worry about it because he’s going to run more tests.”

Johnny looked lost deep in his own head. His brow was furrowed as his mind filled with a million thoughts you’d never understand. Suddenly, he stood. “Stay here. I’ll be right back.”

“Where are you going?” you asked him - he was already at the door.

“To the lab,” he said simply.

And he was gone.

“What do you mean there are anomalies?” Johnny asked his brother in law as he stormed into the lab. Reed turned from the chalkboard, only mildly surprised. “What does that mean? What kind of anomalies?”

Reed sat his chalk down. “Hi, Johnny. Good to see you.”

Johnny looked at the machine as he passed it, his hand rubbing over the top of it. He picked up a long strip of paper with your results on it, but he wasn’t sure what exactly he was looking at. He looked back at Reed. “What kind of anomalies?” he asked again. “Reed, be straight with me.”

Reed sighed. “I don’t think it’s anything too serious. I want to start with that,” he said. “But there’s something…off. I need to do more tests, that’s the truth. I don’t have any concrete answers for you. I’m sorry.”

Johnny shook his head. “What about Sue?”

“I haven’t detected anything from Sue.”

“So it’s just my child,” he said bitterly. “Two parents with two different powers are fine, but my powers alone are enough to mess things up?”

“We don’t know that anything’s messed up,” Reed explained patiently. “I need you to calm down, Johnny. There’s no reason to panic right now.”

“Right now?” he said. “So I panic later?”

“That’s usually how it goes,” Reed joked - but Johnny was unamused. “Look. If I find something that seriously concerns me, you two will be the first to hear it. I promise. For now, I need you to trust me.”

Johnny hated feeling helpless. Even now, he wasn’t angry - he was scared. Terrified. But what could he do besides trust his brother?

“Okay,” he conceded. “I’ll try.”

Reed clapped him on the shoulder. “Fatherhood is terrifying,” he said. “Super powers or not. You’re right where you’re supposed to be. Worrying about your family is normal. I know you love them both.”

“More than anything,” Johnny said quietly. “I love them so much it…” He rubbed his chest. “God, it hurts.”

A knowing smile crossed Reed’s face - because he knew the exact feeling.

“Shit,” Johnny hissed, sucking his pinched finger into his mouth. “Baby, can you hand me the screwdriver?”

You leaned over, hand on your swollen belly as you grabbed the screwdriver from the floor with great effort. You were huffing by the time you handed the tool to your boyfriend, and he turned around, giving you a winning smile.

“We could have let Herbie do this, you know,” you said. “That’s what Reed did.”

Johnny waved you off. “I’m going to put my own child’s crib together myself.” He nodded towards the rocking chair in the corner. “You should sit down.”

He didn’t have to tell you twice. Your feet were killing you. You waddled over to the glider, sitting down carefully. Your feet up on the foot stool, you watched Johnny building the baby furniture.

“Only a couple months left,” Johnny mused. “Getting close.”

“Yep,” you agreed. You looked down at your round bump as you rubbed your hand over it affectionately. “Are you coming with me to the lab after this for Reed’s test?”

“Of course,” he said instantly. “I feel bad I haven’t made the others.”

The thought filled you with a mixture of excitement and anxiety. It was still such an abstract thought, the baby in your belly. You knew they were real, and they were growing and healthy - you could feel them most of the time, sticking an arm against your spine or kicking you so hard in the bladder you had to run - it was a comfort, although uncomfortable.

“Are you nervous?” you asked him. He screwed in the leg of the crib and turned back to face you.

“To have the baby?” he questioned. “Honestly? Yeah. I’m scared out of my mind. But I’m excited.” His blue eyes glittered with it. He was practically buzzing out of his skin - you were surprised his hair wasn’t on fire.

“I hope they look like you,” you said lightly, your fingers dancing over the bump ever so gently, lost in the cloud of your thoughts.

“Me?” He gave the railing of the crib a shake, making sure the finished thing was sturdy before he looked at you again. “Why?”

You looked at him like he was dumb. “Have you seen yourself?”

Johnny’s cheeks tinted pink. “Okay, Ms. Flaming Hearts Club,” he teased. “Were you the one who kept sending me those filthy love poems with the lipstick prints?”

“You caught me,” you grinned.

Johnny shook his head, laughing. Unfortunately, you remembered those poems from his mystery admirer vividly. They were far from family friendly.

He stood, moving to a box next to the completed crib. He opened it and started pulling out space themed decorations - a mobile of the planets, glow in the dark stars, a blanket printed with constellations. You stood with some effort and joined Johnny by the side of the crib.

He lifted the mobile, installing it above the crib. You watched him work quietly - he was careful and precise. When it was hung perfectly, he smiled down at you.

“It’s coming together,” you said. Almost all the baby prep tasks had been completed - the Baxter Building was completely prepared for the two newest members.

Johnny looked a little pale. “Yeah,” he agreed. “Almost time.” He was quiet. He rested both hands on your bump, now large and very much in the way. His thumbs rubbed over it while he looked down with all the affection in the world on his face.

“I hope they don’t have powers.”

The statement caught you off guard. Johnny had never said anything like that before, and you had just assumed he’d want the baby to be like him. But now his words told a different story, one coming from a place of love - and anxiety.

“Why?” you asked softly. You got the vibe it was a sensitive subject for him.

“I just…” he sighed. “I want them to have a normal life. Having powers…it comes with an expectation, a responsibility. I didn’t ask to have powers. It just happened to me.” You were quiet. You hadn’t known Johnny before the accident, and he had never talked about it. You let him continue.

“I don’t want their life decided for them like that,” he went on. “I want them to be able to do and be whatever they want to be. Not born in a Fantastic Four suit.” He smiled crookedly. “Metaphorically speaking, of course.”

“I can understand that,” you said. The baby moved beneath Johnny’s hand, giving him a strong kick. He smiled. “I just want them to be healthy and happy. And if you think having powers would prevent that, then I agree with you.”

“I do think that,” he said, quiet. You wondered if he had thoughts about his own powers he’d never spoken aloud. “I want them to have a good life. An easy life.”

He gazed into your eyes, like he was reading you from the inside. His hand came to rest on your cheek. “You’re going to be the best mom, you know,” he said, so quietly. “I know we didn’t mean for this to happen right now…” He traced his thumb over your bottom lip, and you let out a short gasp. “But there is no one I’d rather be having a baby with. This baby is going to be so lucky to have you.” 

Herbie hurried in at that moment with a basket of freshly washed and folded baby clothes, saying a little “Hello,” as he sat the basket down and began putting the clothes away. Johnny scratched the robot on the top of the head.

“Thanks, Herbert, you’re a lifesaver,” he said. Herbie happily beeped in response.

“Ready?” Johnny asked you as Herbie continued his work, hand on your lower back. “Let’s go check on this baby.”

Laying on the table in Reed’s lab once again, the machine doing its job, you watched Johnny’s anxiety manifest by being as annoying to Reed as possible.

“So is this test gonna give us answers this time or what?” he asked, pacing next to where you laid. He was giving you anxiety with the way he wouldn’t stay still. Reed was trying to ignore him, Sue standing and reading the results over her husband’s shoulder.

“It should tell us more, yes,” Reed said, distracted, but he’d already been over this. He was being remarkably patient with him. But the longer he focused on the endless graphs and lines, the more nervous you and Johnny became.

Reed gripped the paper in his hands, staring at it intently. He was reading quickly, clearly thinking a thousand miles a minute. The look on his face made you nauseous - he was concentrating, and if something was going on to make Reed act like this, it was something.

“…What is it?” Johnny asked, his heart beating uncomfortably hard. “Just tell me. Is something wrong?”

“It…” Reed stopped himself, looking back over the paper. Johnny stopped next to you, and you reached for each others’ hand. “It appears as if their DNA has also been…altered,” Reed mumbled.

Quiet. “What do you mean?” Johnny asked, his voice dead serious. Not a hint of his usual goofy personality.

Reed looked up at Johnny - then at Sue, back to his paper, to you, and finally Johnny again, who was waiting. “They’ve inherited the father’s mutated DNA. They have the X-gene.”

Johnny’s eyes went wide. You looked at everyone, but no one was explaining anything. “What does that mean?” you asked, anxiety rising in your voice. Reed was about to answer, but Johnny wasn’t even looking at you. 

“So - a mutant,” Johnny said.

Another exchange of looks between Reed and Sue. “By definition…yes.”

“A mutant?” you asked, sitting up on your elbows. “What does that mean? Will they be-“ You didn’t even know what you were asking. You didn’t know what any of this meant, if it was bad news or not.

“It means they will develop powers at some point in their life,” Sue explained. “They have the X-gene exclusive to mutants.”

The information sent your head spinning. Your child would have powers after all. You hadn’t thought news like that would have upset you, but after your conversation with Johnny, you saw things a different way.

Speaking of Johnny, you looked up at your boyfriend, who was still staring at Reed, his face hard as stone. “They have powers.”

“They will,” Reed confirmed. “I don’t know when they’ll appear, or what they’ll be, but…”

Johnny abruptly pulled a chair out, sinking into it. You didn’t notice how he was shaking until he was sitting next to you, his hands intertwined in front of his mouth. He was thinking.

“It’s nothing to panic about,” Reed said. “We’ve been living with these powers for years now, and I will be performing further testing-“

“I just didn’t want this,” Johnny said simply. His words echoed through the room in the silence.

Reed closed his mouth, going back to the results, giving Johnny time. You didn’t know what to say either - was there anything you could say to make anything better? You didn’t think so. Not right now.

It was Sue who stepped forward, her left hand resting on her baby brother’s back and her right on her stomach. Johnny looked at her, and it was like they were communicating something to each other by nothing but their eyes.

“Would it make you feel better if you could see the baby?” she asked him gently.

Your lips parted in surprise - she could make that happen? - but Johnny looked up at his sister like she’d just uttered the secret to the universe. “You’ll do that for us?”

“Of course I will,” she said. She was looking at Johnny with so much love, it made your chest feel warm. They both turned to look at you. “Would you want that?”

It took you a minute to catch up to the conversation. “What? To…see the baby?”

Sue and Johnny nodded.

“Will it…hurt?”

Johnny chuckled. “No, sweetheart. I promise it won’t.”

You laid back down on the table, your head slightly inclined. Reed and Sue moved in close on your left side, while Johnny was on your right. You didn’t know what to expect.

Carefully, Sue laid her hand against the bottom of your belly, yours resting on top. It was just a minute of anticipatory silence, and then - your body, your stomach, became invisible, revealing the baby curled snugly inside.

“Oh my god-“

The choked words, like holding back a sob, were the first thing you heard. Johnny had covered his mouth with his hand, his blue eyes wet and shining in the light of the lab. His forehead was creased, and his eyes were locked on your stomach - at the baby inside. He looked like he was about 2 seconds away from losing it.

You were right there with him. There really was a baby in there - the thoughts you’d had the past months about not being able to wrap your mind around it were out the window with the vision in front of you. That was your child. The baby’s head was pressed right against where your hand rested. They were curled up in a little ball, eyes closed. Their nose reminded you of Johnny’s. Your heart was beating out of control, and you hadn’t even noticed the tears that had spilled down your face.

Reed and Sue let the two of you take your time. Sue cradled your belly like it was the most precious thing as she used her powers on you for the first time. She was the baby’s aunt, and she had so much love for them already, it was clear in her expression.

You looked at Johnny again. He was looking at your stomach with absolute awe - you wished you could hear what he was thinking. Slowly, like he was scared, he reached out and gently laid his palm on your stomach.

“See?” Sue said “There’s nothing wrong. Nothing to worry about.” She rubbed your stomach affectionately. “She’s perfect.”

“She,” Johnny repeated, his voice a mere whisper. You hadn’t even caught that yourself, hadn’t been able to think any deeper than seeing your child finally in front of your eyes. “She.”

It hadn’t even occurred to you that with seeing your baby, you’d be finding out what you were having. That wasn’t just the baby - that was your daughter. You were lost in your own thoughts when you heard a voice next to you that surprised you.

“Hey,” Johnny said quietly. He and his daughter might as well have been the only ones in the room. “Hey, baby girl. It’s your daddy.”

Reed and a teary-eyed Sue exchanged a look.

“I can’t wait to meet you,” Johnny continued. “You have the coolest family ever. You’re going to be the coolest person ever. And…” he was quiet for a moment. “And I’m going to teach you everything I know. One day, you’ll see space, too.”

Before you could completely burst into tears, Johnny turned to look you in the eyes. There was so much unspoken between you, it felt like something tangible taking up space and air. He surged forwards and kissed you, then pressed your foreheads together.

“I love you,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “I’ve never loved anyone like I love the both of you.”

At eight months pregnant now, you were starting to really be over the whole thing. You were aching, swollen, tired, and irritable, and it felt like Sue was handling pregnancy with a lot more grace than you were.

Not only did she come across as significantly less miserable - usually dressed nicely with her hair and makeup done while you could barely handle getting out of bed and throwing some sweatpants on - she was also just lucky. She didn’t have the crippling morning (all day) sickness like you did, and her bump was small and cute, nothing like how huge you were. You knew every pregnancy was different, but it seemed a little unfair.

Johnny had been doing everything in his power to cheer you up. He took care of you, rubbed your back and feet, put lotion on your belly, and kept you company when you were too miserable to leave the building. However your pregnancy hormones were raging, and he often got snapped at - followed by a tearful apology.

He never minded.

You were looking for him now, waddling throughout the house with a hand on your stomach for support. Something you hadn’t been prepared for was your sense of gravity being thrown off - that was strange.

He wasn’t in the kitchen, and you had just left Reed’s lab after another scan - nothing new to report. Baby girl was totally healthy and not throwing you any more shocks. She was getting so big - she’d be there before you knew it.

You huffed as you dragged yourself up the stairs, getting plenty of use out of the handrail. By the time you reached the top you were breathing heavily, having to take a minute to lean against the wall at the top and catch your breath. Finally, you made your way to the bedroom.

There he was.

Johnny stood across the room at the window. His back was to you, so you didn’t even know if he knew you were there. He was staring out, the longing nearly radiating off his body. He was looking at the spaceship.

You walked up behind him, your feet sliding against the plush carpet. He didn’t turn, which was odd - you weren’t trying to be quiet. He only got like this when he had a lot on his mind.

And he did have a lot on his mind. Now that the due date was getting closer and closer, he knew he was running out of time to be ready to be a father. This baby girl was coming whether he liked it or not. The Baxter Building would be a much different place when the babies arrived.

He thought to his own parents. After the death of his mother, his dad had tried his best with Sue and Johnny, but he saw how hard it was for him. Being a parent isn’t easy at all, and now he was about to become one. Very soon.

The thought of the baby being here filled him with an overwhelming anxiety. What if he didn’t know the first thing about being a dad? What if he was an awful one? What if he screwed his kid up? What if he got killed on a mission and left you both on your own? What if-

“Do you miss it?” you asked.

Johnny startled, snapped out of his spiraling thoughts, but he smiled when his eyes landed on you. “Space?” he asked, looking back out the window. “God, yes.”

He gestured you over, putting an arm around you. You looked out the window with him - the ship was a sight. It was massive, and it was in your backyard. Johnny looked at it often. It was his favorite part of this room.

“I always loved space,” he said. “It’s like nothing else. The most beautiful thing you’ll ever see in your life.” He looked back down at you, giving you a wink. “Well, one of them.”

You scoffed a laugh, and Johnny squeezed your shoulder. “Do you think you’ll go back one day?”

“Absolutely,” Johnny answered right away. “If I thought I would never see space again…I don’t know what I’d do.”

Space had been his first love. You had to respect it.

“Are you okay?” you asked him. “You just seem like you have a lot on your mind.”

Johnny didn’t say anything at first. You weren’t sure if he was going to answer you, but finally he sighed deeply and his lips parted, as if he was about to speak but lost the words.

“I’m okay,” he said. “We’re just, y’know, about to take a big step together. We’re about to be thrown into something we know absolutely nothing about. And it’s scary.” He chuckled lightly. “It scares me.”

“It scares me too,” you admitted. “But I know you’re going to be the greatest dad. Do you know how cool she’s going to be at school? Her dad is the Human Torch.”

Johnny laughed at that. The thing is, you weren’t wrong. These babies were being born into a family of celebrities - being born into celebrities themselves. His smile faded a little as he thought of that.

“I just…” He sighed as he thought. “I wanted her to be her own person.”

You leaned your head on his shoulder. “She will be,” you promised him. “Her life isn’t over just because she’s going to have powers. And who’s to say if she didn’t have them, she wouldn’t wish she did?” 

Johnny hasn’t considered that. “I guess that’s true.”

“The point is,” you said, “everything about parenthood is…uncertain. We don’t know who she’ll be or what she’ll be like or who she’ll grow into. But I know she’s going to love her daddy with her whole heart.” Johnny’s cheeks flushed at the title - he still wasn’t used to it yet. “She’s going to be strong and, more than anything, loved.”

He nodded, and you thought you saw him sneakily wiping his eyes. “You’re right,” he said. “I’m doing what I said I didn’t want to happen. I’m deciding what she wants for her.” He scoffed lightly. “Is it always going to be this hard?”

“Harder, I think,” you said jokingly - but it was the truth. Parenthood would only get more and more challenging. “Who knows. Maybe one day she’ll be on that ship with you.”

Another thought that Johnny hadn’t even allowed himself to consider. But with the idea in his head, he couldn’t help the smile that spread across his lips. “That would be…”

“Your dream?” you teased. “She’ll probably end up a genius like the rest of her family and leave me the only normal boring human.”

Johnny turned to you swiftly, placing his hands on either side of your face. “Don’t talk about yourself like you’re nothing special,” he said firmly. “Because that’s not true. You are smart. You don’t have to be a damn scientist or astronaut for me to think you’re one of the smartest people I’ve met.”

You looked at him skeptically, your eyebrows raised. “You know how many scientists, engineers, and physicists you know?”

He smiled. “That doesn’t mean anything. Doesn’t mean they’re smart.”

“Kinda does.”

“You’re missing the point.” He kissed your forehead. “I don’t want to hear you talking like you’re nobody. That couldn’t be less true. You’re everything.”

You looked down. “It’s just hard not to feel useless in a house full of superheroes and a very productive and cute robot.”

“Well, I can say for certain that you’re cuter,” he said. You giggled as he leaned in abruptly and kissed your cheek, his fingers tickling your sides. You laughed, fighting him off, pushing him away as he only pulled you closer. He covered your face in kisses when he finally caught you.

“I love you,” he said. “God, I love you. You’re the most incredible woman I’ve ever met. I can’t believe you’re mine.”

Later that day, you were in the kitchen with the family. Herbie carved a pumpkin, Ben was working on a meringue, and you were helping Sue set the table.

You looked up as Johnny stormed in, grabbing a box of Lucky Charms. He was clearly in a bad mood.

“Hey,” Ben greeted him, before noticing his demeanor. “Why the long face? Your 2:15 with Reed didn’t go well?” Johnny said nothing, which was answer enough. “I’m sorry, pal.”

“Hey, I’m fine, you know, I don’t mind. It’s just that-“

“We’ll go to space again,” Ben said.

“Yeah, we will.” Johnny said it with confidence. He pulled the toy out of the box of cereal. “Oh! Nice!”

He pointed the little figure at Ben, pressing the button - “Flame on! Flame on!” Ben took the toy and crushed it in his hand, blowing the dust back in Johnny’s face. You shook your head, but stifled a laugh.

After messing with Ben a little longer, Johnny made his way over to where you stood. He placed his hand on your belly and leaned in for a kiss.

“You sure you’re okay, honey?” you asked him quietly. You knew he’d been looking forward to this meeting with Reed for a while - he had really been hoping.

“I’m okay,” he said, smiling at you like he wanted you to believe it. “Ben’s right. We’ll go back. I just…need to wait.”

The last person to arrive to Sunday dinner, Reed walked in and straight to his wife. As he spoke to her and Johnny stood with you, hand caressing the bump, sirens went by outside - that was unusual.

Reed motioned you all out to the balcony. Johnny led you out, hand on your lower back as you all walked out the glass doors.

“For the last few months,” Reed said, “I’ve been tracking a small number of criminal organizations.”

You peeked over the balcony - there was a police presence all over the city. Your eyes widened in shock.

“A small number, huh?” Ben said.

“47,” Reed said. He pointed out some specific organizations, pointing at different spots in the city. Often left in the dark about these things, you didn’t even realize there were that many in the city.

“You baby proofed the world,” Ben said.

“It’s a sweet gesture,” Sue grabbed Reed’s hand. You agreed - you wouldn’t complain about the city being safer for the babies.

“It’s a thorough gesture,” Ben continued. “But, uh, I like punching.”

“You mean clobbering?” Johnny goaded him.

“No, I mean punching.”

“Hey, what time is it?” he asked as Ben turned to go back inside the house.

“It’s dinner time.”

“You sure it’s not clobbering time?”

“Stop it.”

At that moment, as the five of you were turning to leave, the Four’s alarms began going off. You all turned to see some kind of explosion in the sky - fire and flashing lights. Johnny placed a hand on your shoulder, a silent You better be in this exact spot when I get back, and then he was gone - a creature of flame, taking off into the sky and directly into the heart of the danger.

You grabbed Sue’s hand as he went. “What’s going on?” you asked her weakly, hand protectively over your stomach. She placed a comforting hand on your back, but didn’t turn away from the sky.

“I don’t know,” she said. She turned to you. “But we’ve got to go. I need you to stay here.”

Once again reminded of your uselessness - you could do nothing but nod. What else could you do? Get in the way? Put yourself and your child in danger when there was nothing you could do to help?

You watched on with worry as Reed, Sue, and Ben left the building as quickly as possible, leaving you with Herbie. When they were gone, you watched the commotion through the window - until you ran to the TV and turned it on, wondering if anyone was reporting. You didn’t have to look far.

“Breaking news from Times Square.”

You watched on as a woman - an alien? - stood before the city. You clutched your chest with one hand and protectively held your bump with the other. You could see the Four standing, watching. Seeing Johnny safe sent relief flooding your veins.

“Are you the protectors of this world?”

“Yes, we are,” Sue said, standing with confidence.

“Your planet has been marked for death.”

You barely even processed anything she was saying after that. Marked for death? Fear struck into your very soul.

“I herald your end.”

When Johnny and the others returned, you ran into his arms. He held you tightly - this was his first time facing galactic danger while having a child and you to worry about. He found it made him feel sick, an unfamiliar kind of worry and uncertainty he wasn’t used to.

They all went straight to the lab upon return to the Baxter building - there was no time to waste. The fate of everyone was quite literally in their hands. You joined them, despite feeling like you had nothing to contribute.

Reed was tracking where the herald had been. He found at least five planets, destroyed - and she was at every one. Galactus could and would do exactly what she said.

The herald had spoken to everyone, but she had spoken only to Johnny directly. He was hung up on it - what had she said to him? It was in her native language, but, he thought, there had to be some way to decode it.

After the herald, Johnny became obsessed with solving the message. He was making progress, too - he discovered transmission recordings that were the same language. Whenever Johnny got like this, it was cute. You loved seeing him in his element, even if it meant he had less time for you. The baby prep was done, there was nothing more to do but wait for her to arrive. 

You were relaxing in the bathtub, the hot water soothing your aching muscles, while Johnny was in the bedroom, listening to the recordings. You gave him his space.

Sue walked in as he was working. “Okay. So she spoke to you, yeah? And?”

Johnny played her the recordings. “I don’t know who they are or what they’re saying, but this? This is the same. This is her language.”

Sue looked at her younger brother, impressed. “Okay. Maybe that is something.”

He held up his hand for a high five. “Reed wants to see you in the lab,” she said before slapping his hand.

She didn’t have to tell Johnny twice. He hurried straight there. “You summoned me?”

“I finally knocked it off the list,” Reed said.

Johnny furrowed his brow. “What?”

“The new space suits.”

He turned to see four brand new space suits, all set up and ready to be worn. Johnny was barely even listening to Reed as he examined the suits, then he pulled his brother into a hug. “I take back every single bad thing I’ve been saying about you. To myself. In private.”

Reed didn’t acknowledge the comment. “Are you ready to go back?” he asked.

“Of course,” Johnny said immediately. “I’ve missed it every day.”

“Even if it means leaving your family behind?”

Johnny hesitated. That was true. He thought of you, and your baby girl who would be here so soon - what if he missed the birth entirely? What if you needed him and he wasn’t even on the planet? What if something happened and he wasn’t here to protect you?

“I can see you thinking,” Reed said. “It’s a lot to take in, I know. You’ve been excited to go back, but things are…different now.”

Johnny nodded. Reed was exactly right. It was an unfamiliar feeling for him, to have something here that made Earth a place that was more like a true home. “Can I ask you a question?”

Reed was slightly taken aback. “Of course.”

Johnny sat the suit down and sunk into one of the chairs sitting around the lab. Reed sat across from him - he could tell Johnny had a lot on his mind.

“How are you so calm?” he finally asked his brother in law.

Reed shook his head with a light laugh. “I’m glad you think so, but I certainly don’t feel calm.”

That surprised Johnny. “You don’t?”

“No, of course not,” he said, shaking his head. “Are you kidding? I’ve been panicking for eight months.”

“Seriously?” Johnny asked with a laugh. “You could have fooled me. I’ve been wondering what the hell I’m doing wrong compared to you.”

“You’re not doing anything wrong,” Reed assured him. “You’re going great. I can already see it in you - you’re a dad now.”

That hit Johnny like a shot to the chest. He jerked back in surprise. “What? You think so?”

“I can see it in you clearly,” Reed continued. “You’ve been making the transition since you found out. You take care of both your girls like there’s nothing more precious in the world. You put the crib together yourself - I can’t say I did the same,” he chuckled.

“Yeah, but you were in here building that,” Johnny motioned towards the table you’d laid on countless times by now. “You made that to make sure the babies are safe.”

“I did,” Reed agrees. “Sue would have liked me to build the crib.”

Johnny laughed. He was feeling looser, the longer he sat and talked to Reed. Two soon-to-be fathers. The only other man who knew what Johnny was going through right now.

The atmosphere turned quiet. There was something in the air just waiting to be spoken.

“I’m terrified to leave her,” Johnny finally says. “Both of them. I’m scared out of my mind. What if she goes into labor without me?” The thought made his chest hurt. “You know, I’ve waited so long to go back to space, and now I’m going - have to go back - and here I am, wondering if I really want to.”

“You’ve never had something you cared about like this here.”

That was true, Johnny realized. “Yeah,” he said. “You’re right.” He rubbed his hand over his face. “I don’t…I don’t know how to handle it.”

“There’s no easy way,” Reed said - that wasn’t exactly what Johnny had been hoping to hear. “Being in love is irrational and all consuming.”

Being in love.

It hit him like a ton of bricks. He was in love with you. Yeah, he knew that - but did he know it? You hadn’t been together that long, hadn’t even known each other that long before you got pregnant, all things considered. Now, for the first time, he was struck with the uncontrollable urge to run out and buy a ring, to make you his wife, Mrs. Storm.

He had never had those thoughts about anyone before.

“Johnny?” Reed asked, sensing the emotional turmoil in the other man’s head. “You alright?”

Johnny nodded, distracted. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m alright.”

“What’s going on in there?”

Johnny thought for a moment. Then - “Do you want to go on an errand with me?”

You weren’t completely surprised when you got out of the bath and Johnny was gone. There was a mess around the bedroom, all the transmissions Johnny was going through scattered around the turntable. You didn’t touch them - there was usually a method to his madness.

You went through your post-shower routine, doing your hair and putting lotion on your skin - and Johnny still wasn’t back. That was a little strange. It was late.

You were in your pajamas (an oversized shirt and panties), about to go to bed without Johnny at all, when he came abruptly through the bedroom door. The nervous energy was coming off of him in waves - it was clear there was something going on.

“Baby,” he said, moving straight to sit next to you on the bed. He was dressed in his F4 t-shirt and pants from earlier.

“Johnny?” you said, confused and bleary eyed. You waited for him for so long, you were about ready to pass out for the night. “Where were you?”

He held your hands, his thumb rubbing the back of one of them. “Reed wanted to see me,” he said. “He finished the new suits. We’re going to space, to try to negotiate with Galactus.”

The news both did and didn’t come as a shock. You’d known this was inevitable from the night the herald came, but it hadn’t been set until now. “When?”

“Soon,” he said. “I don’t know. Very soon.”

“I can’t go to space with you?” you asked, only half-joking and looking at him with big sad eyes. “Both of us?” You took his hand and laid it over the bump.

Johnny chuckled, looking affectionately down at where his hand rested. He rubbed circles against your belly. “I wish you could,” he said.

You sat in a comfortable silence for a minute.

“Do you think it’s going to work?” you asked him nervously. “Do you think there’s hope of getting through to this…Galactus? Of saving Earth?”

“I’m not going to let anything happen to anyone,” Johnny said firmly. He looked you directly in the face when he said it, flames flickering in his blue eyes.

You trusted him with your whole heart. You knew if Johnny said he was going to make something happen - or keep it from happening - he was going to keep his word.

“I don’t want you to get hurt,” you said.

“That’s not gonna happen.”

“You don’t know what’s gonna happen,” you reminded him gently. His hand stayed protectively where it sat, while your hand rested on the side of his face. He tilted his head, leaning into your touch, letting you cradle his handsome face.

“I just want to know if the surfboard is part of her body,” he said like he was dead serious, and you burst into laughter.

“Johnny Storm, do you ever take anything seriously?” you teased. 

He smiled, turning his head to place a kiss on your palm. “Just you.”

Your chest felt warm. You could feel your love for Johnny spreading through your body like the very flames that lived within him.

“There was…” Johnny began, but stopped himself. You didn’t interrupt, wanting to know where he was going. “There was something I wanted to say. Or…ask you?”

Your brows furrowed. “What?”

He gave your belly one last caress before he let go. He stood, pulling your weary body to sit on the edge of the bed in front of him. You were confused, but watched him with an anxious excitement anyway.

Johnny looked nervous. You waited as he stood there, gathering his thoughts - you could practically see the steam coming off his head.

Finally, he said your name. “I just…had something to say.”

“Say it,” you encouraged, laughing lightly - nervous.

He smiled softly at you. “Do you know how much I love you?”

The question caught you off guard. “I think so?” you said - because what kind of question was that really?

“I’m in love with you,” Johnny said, looking at you so intensely it nearly took your breath away. “Completely, wholeheartedly, in love with you. I’ve known for a long time, but it didn’t hit me until today, not- not like this. It’s been there, I just never saw it for what it was.”

“Johnny…” you whispered. “What-“

“I needed to say it,” he said. “I know we haven’t been together that long, all things considered - and I knew I love you, I know we’ve been saying it for a while - but it hit me today, hard, like Ben punched me in the chest or something. Like I’d never known anything, nothing has ever made more sense, than how much I love you. Both of you.”

You were in shock, tears welling up in your eyes. The things he was saying were overwhelming, and completely out of nowhere.

“I just had to do this before we leave.”

“Do what-“

You cut yourself off with a gasp as Johnny dropped to his knee in front of you. He reached his right hand into his pocket and pulled out a small black velvet box.

“Johnny-“ you gasped, your hands flying up to cover your mouth, your eyes wide.

“Marry me,” he said, flipping the box open to reveal a beautiful (way too expensive looking) diamond ring. His deep eyes bore into yours, and it’s like he was communicating every ounce of love in his body to you. It left you shaking. “Be my wife. Spend the rest of forever with me- as a family. My family.”

You were so stunned, the words didn’t come right away. Johnny reached forward with his free hand and wiped the tears you hadn’t noticed off your cheeks with his thumb. “Will you marry me?” he asked, softer this time, his eyes almost pleading.

You nodded. Slowly at first, then faster as more tears spilled down your face. You were pretty sure you would be sobbing even without the extra hormones. “Yes. Oh my god. Are you serious? Yes.”

Johnny’s face broke into a huge grin. He took your shaking left hand in his and slid the ring on your finger - a perfect fit. How did he know?

“You have made me,” he began, “the happiest man in the universe.”

You laughed through the tears, wrapping your arms around Johnny and pulling him into you. He hugged you back with just as much love, lifting you with little effort and spinning you in a circle. You couldn’t stop giggling, the joy overflowing from within you.

He wrapped his arm around your lower back and dipped you backwards as he kissed you passionately, something like from one of those romantic movies you used to watch. You cradled his face with both hands while he held you, communicating just how happy you’d made him by the way he kissed you breathless.

When he stood you back up, his arms still wrapped around you, you laid your foreheads together, just looking into each other’s eyes. You could have gotten lost in that sea of blue.

Mrs. Storm had a ring to it.

You couldn’t wipe the smile off your face after the proposal. The ring glittered on your hand like a star plucked directly from the sky, just for you. You knew that’s exactly what Johnny would have done if it were possible.

You waddled out into the kitchen, the pancake craving striking once again. It was a good day - you felt light as air, metaphorically at least. It was a low pain day, the baby didn’t have a foot shoved into your spine, and you had an appetite.

Too busy mixing the batter together, you didn’t hear Sue come in. She startled you a little when she came up next to you, and you both laughed.

“Sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“It’s not your fault,” you said. “I was too preoccupied by the pancakes.”

“Craving?”

“Oh yeah.”

Sue smiled. “It’s been pretzel sticks for me, can you believe that? I probably eat a bag myself every couple of days.”

You laughed - it was relatable. “Sounds like Johnny with his Lucky Charms.”

“That’s what I said!” she smiled. She moved around you, grabbing a couple of plates. “Make me some too, would you?”

“Yeah, of course.” You made a little extra batter, mixing it up well before dumping the first pancakes into the pan.

A few minutes later, you and Sue were both leaning against the counter holding a plate of steaming pancakes doused in syrup. You took the first bite and closed your eyes, an unintentional moan escaping your lips. “God. So good.”

“They are,” Sue said after swallowing her first bite. “You make a mean pancake.”

You chatted lightly with Sue until you’d both finished your plates. She helped you wash them up, then leaned back against the counter. She smoothed  her hand over her belly as she looked at some papers she had brought with her before putting them away.

“Where’s Reed?” you asked, just wanting to break the silence again.

“Lab,” she said. “Working on things for the mission. I was just about to head down to join him.”

You nodded. “Johnny wanted to work on his cars today. I told him go - it’s not like he’ll have much time for them for a little while.”

Sue smiled at you. “You’re really good to him, you know that?”

You were surprised, both by the randomness of the comment and the sentimentality of it. She had never said anything like that to you before.

“You- you think so?” you asked, unsure of what else to say. You certainly weren’t close with Sue - she was older than Johnny, and was usually too busy to sit and chat with you outside of group settings.

“I can see it,” she said. She sighed. “You know, Johnny…after our mother died, I helped raise him. He’s my closest family - he’s important to me. I always wanted to see him find a girl to settle down with, to be happy with…I’m glad he found you. I’m glad it’s you.”

Utterly speechless, you gaped at her, your eyes teary. Hadn’t you done enough crying? When you finally picked your jaw up off the floor and shook yourself out of it, you spoke. “I- thank you. Johnny means everything to me, I- I want to make him happy.”

Sue reached forward and took your hand in hers. She held it under the light, the ring shining, and smiled. “He loves you,” she said. “I know you know this, but…I don’t know if you understand how much without knowing him the way I do.”

Your heart thudded. You thought of Johnny - and how you loved him, too. How he had told you just how much he loved you last night - and showed you after. “I love him too,” you said. “More than anything. Him and the baby.”

“He’s going to be the best dad, you know,” she smiled, dropping your hand. She looked down at your stomach now - you were standing practically bump to bump. 

You felt a strong kick at that moment. You gasped, placing your hand over the spot where you’d felt it - and noticed Sue had done the same thing to her own belly.

“You felt that too?” she asked, her eyebrows raised.

You still felt it. It’s like she was trying to get comfortable in one specific position. You took Sue’s hand in yours and placed it where the movement was for her to feel.

She looked up at you, her expression unreadable. Leaving her hand on your belly, she took your hand with her free one, and pressed it against the same exact spot on her own body. There was nothing from either of you, and then-

A kick. Two kicks. One from each side at the exact same time. Your wide eyes met Sue’s own.

“How interesting…” she finally said as you parted, as if in total awe.

“The cousins are excited to meet each other, it looks like,” you said lightly with an awkward laugh, but even you knew that was bizarre.

“Yeah, must be,” she said - but it was clear her mind was working. A moment later, she seemingly shook it off. “Anyway…that’s what I wanted to say, because I haven’t said it enough. You’re my sister. You’re good for my brother. You make him happy- he loves you, and I love you.”

She pulled you into a hug. “Welcome to the family, officially.”

The day of the launch came upon you faster than you expected. You woke up that morning sick to your stomach, and it had nothing to do with the baby. But you knew this had to be done - they were saving the world.

You had spent the night before wrapped in Johnny’s arms. He’d wanted to make love to you, as he put it, wanted to be as close to you as possible before he left. He didn’t get as much sleep as you would have liked him to before the launch.

Johnny held you on the bottom floor of the Baxter Building, dressed in his spacesuit already with the helmet sitting by his feet. He kissed you with every bit of passion in his body - which was a lot. You were going to miss your fiancè so badly, you didn’t care what anyone thought about the two of you practically making out in front of everyone.

Reed walked by, tapping Johnny on the shoulder to let him know it was time to go. He pulled back, his lips kiss swollen and pink. He grinned at you, but there was sadness behind his eyes. You couldn’t muster up as enthusiastic of a smile.

“Everything is going to be okay,” Johnny said. “You’re going to be fine. Herbie is going to take care of you, you have a whole team-“

“I’m not worried about me,” you cut him off. “I’m worried about you.”

“You don’t have to worry about me,” he said. “We can take care of ourselves, I promise you. We’re going to go fix this mess.” He pulled you back into another lingering kiss. “I love you.”

“I love you too, Johnny,” you said. You rested your hands on his cheeks, the diamond on your finger flashing. Reporters ran over to start taking photos - you knew that would be in the magazines tomorrow. You didn’t pay them any mind. You and Johnny might as well have been the only people in the room.

He placed both hands on your 8 months pregnant stomach, looking down at it. “Please take care of yourself. If anything is weird, tell Herbie and he’ll call your doctors.”

“I got it, Johnny,” you said. You’d been over this countless times in the days leading up to this. “I’ll be careful. I’ll be alright.”

Johnny nodded. Then he knelt down on the ground, surprising you. The camera flashes kept going off as he kissed your bump, still holding it with so much affection it nearly took your breath away - and completely distracted you from how much attention was on the two of you.

“I love you, baby girl,” he said to your belly. “You better stay cookin’ in there for me. Don’t come out until Daddy gets back from space, okay?” She kicked his hand and he smiled.

You giggled. “I think she hears you.”

Johnny stood and wrapped his arms around you again. He pulled you into one final kiss, full of emotion and want. “I’ve gotta go,” he said, once he’d reluctantly parted from you. “Please be safe. I love you. Both of you. I’ll be back as soon as we can manage.”

You nodded, tears brimming in your eyes. “I love you too, Johnny.”

He kissed you on the forehead and then he was picking up his helmet, walking backwards for a little while to look at you as long as he could. He smiled, waved, then turned and joined the others, leaving you alone.

Well, ‘alone’. You were surrounded by people. You joined the crowd, carefully making your way to somewhere you could have a good view.

Johnny, Sue, Reed, and Ben walked the walkway to the spaceship. This was your first time seeing Johnny go to space since you’d been together, and as much as you missed him and didn’t want him to go, it filled you with pride. Your Johnny really was incredible, super powers or not. You held your bump protectively as you watched.

They were being filmed as they made their way onto the elevator. At the top, they walked onto the ship. Johnny paused right before boarding - he looked around until he found a camera. He stared directly into the camera and mouthed your name, with a blown kiss and an emphatic I love you.

The crowd awwed, and you could hardly see Johnny disappearing onto the ship through the tears in your eyes. You rubbed your belly - You see that, little one? Your daddy loves us more than anything.

The countdown began, and your stomach tightened in knots. You knew how dangerous launches and landings could be.

“3…2…1.”

The ship took off, rising into the air. Your heart ached as you watched them go, knowing it would be a long time before you saw Johnny again. You would see him again - you weren’t entertaining any other possibilities.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we’ve had a successful launch.”

You couldn’t believe he was gone, they were really gone. Before you could dwell too much on their absence and how much you would miss every one of them, you turned and let Herbie lead you out of the crowd and back upstairs.

It wasn’t hard to find Galactus, not really. They were able to track the herald straight to him.

Upon arrival, she greeted them on their ship.

“Galactus will see you. All of you…you should not have come.”

Now, standing before Galactus - a giant, possessing more power than they had even pictured - they attempted to negotiate. But some prices are too high to pay.

“I will spare your world,” Galactus said with finality, “in exchange for both the boy and the girl.”

“What?” Sue said, incredulous. “No.”

“Absolutely not,” Johnny said, looking around at the others for validation that they agreed. “No. No way.”

“They are connected. They both possess the power of cosmic, and they together will inherit this cursed throne.”

What?

“They’re just- they’re normal,” Reed lied nervously. “We would know. I tested them myself.”

Galactus leaned in, eyes glowing purple. Sue grabbed her stomach at that moment, groaning in pain. She looked around at the others in a panic - and for once, Johnny’s blood went cold with fear.

“What are you doing to her??” he yelled.

“You won’t have our planet,” Reed said, “and you will never have our children!”

But it was happening. Whatever Galactus had done - Sue was in labor.

The pain came when you were home alone. You’d been in the kitchen, mixing up the batter to make your biggest craving - a chocolate cake. You felt fine, good even - but then a horrible pain stretched across your stomach.

You wrapped your hand around it, holding onto the counter for support as you cried out. Herbie sped into the room, making what you could best describe as concerned beeps.

“Herbie,” you said, your voice strained. “I think- I think something’s wrong. I think we need to call somebody.”

Herbie beeped again, then took off - contacting your medical team, you hoped. The pain was getting worse, coming in fast. You figured you had to be having contractions at least once every two minutes - this was the real deal. And Johnny was gone.

You couldn’t help it - you panicked. You lowered yourself to the floor amidst the pain of another contraction, and you sobbed. You were terrified. Of all the scenarios you’d come up with, doing this alone hadn’t been one of them.

It was only minutes later when a team of medical professionals came bursting into the room - Johnny and Reed had left you with a team ready at a moment’s notice in case of emergencies. It was a coveted position - every medical professional in the city wanted to be involved in the birth of the two newest Fantastic Four members. You didn’t like your child being seen as a spectacle.

You were screaming through another contraction, a white knuckled grip on the side of the counter as it passed through you. The doctors and nurses got to work fast. It was humiliating having a stranger up your skirt, but you had to have a cervical check.

It hurt, but the pain was already everywhere. It was the look on the nurse’s face after she checked you that scared you, though.

“The baby is coming right now,” she said. “We have to do it here.”

Back on the ship, things were progressing. Sue was in the back, laboring in zero gravity. Ben was steering the ship while Johnny and Reed helped.

“Do you think-“ Johnny asked Reed quietly, but he didn’t even have to finish his question.

“She might be,” Reed said seriously. Johnny felt like he might throw up. 

“We need to strap her down,” Reed said, back into action, moving through the ship towards his wife.

“Strapping her down,” Johnny moved to help.

“Do not strap me down!” she yelled, pushing Johnny away - who quickly backed off.

“You need gravity to push,” Reed told her, helping her lay back on the table.

“This is not how it’s supposed to be,” she said, breathing through the pain. Sue was remarkably brave, but right now, she had to admit she was scared.

“I know, but we’re gonna make it work.” Reed helped to hold her down, multitasking while he helped Ben and Johnny, concerned they didn’t have enough fuel to make it home. Their only option was a slingshot maneuver - which they put into action. 

“He’s coming,” Sue announced. “He’s coming.”

Her pants kicked off, it was time to start pushing. She pushed and pushed as the ship made its journey.

Sue became invisible. Reed held her - it was silent. She reappeared, and-

A cry sounded through the air. A tiny little hand raising high - and a beautiful baby boy curled in Ben’s hand. He held him out to Reed, who took the precious little guy in his arms - bringing him to his mother. Sue held her baby boy in her arms, Reed cradled around them both.

Johnny came floating back from the front of the ship. His blue eyes were wide as he saw his nephew for the first time - a perfect baby.

He thought of you. He thought of his daughter. And he prayed you were both okay, that he hadn’t missed the birth. That Galactus didn’t want his daughter or his nephew. That he’d get home and you’d run into his arms, healthy and still pregnant.

But for now, he caressed the chubby cheek of the baby with his index finger, and looked into the exhausted eyes of his sister - one of the strongest women he’d ever known.

Franklin Richards was here.

The only coherent thought you could muster was I wish Johnny was here. It repeated through your head, like a prayer, like the ship might descend that very second and he’d come running to your side if you wished for it hard enough.

But you were on your own, about to give birth on the living room floor without your boyfriend. In a room full of strangers looking at your most intimate parts, Herbie was your only friend. He stood nearby, attempting to be a comfort. It worked somewhat.

“It’s time to push,” the doctor said between your legs. “I need you to push hard on every contraction.”

You nodded. You could do this. You may not have been a superhero, or a genius, but you were strong and you could get through this, with or without Johnny. You felt angry in that moment, angry at Johnny for not being here, angry at him for leaving you, angry at him for getting you pregnant in the first place. It wasn’t rational, but it was there.

At the start of the next contraction, you gritted your teeth and pushed. You pushed with everything you had, the pain shooting through your body like electricity. When you couldn’t take it anymore you let go, falling back against the pillows they had put behind you and breathing heavily.

You’d heard pushing could last for an hour or more sometimes - but that wasn’t the case here. This baby was coming now. Another contraction flared and you pushed down again, screaming though the pain and the pressure.

Three pushes later, and the doctor spoke up excitedly from below. “She’s crowning,” she said. “Just one more good push for me, you’ve got this.”

The next contraction crashed into you and you mustered up every bit of energy in your exhausted, sore body to push as hard as you could. You screamed through it, a deep, primal scream.

The pain was gone. An immense relief left behind, you fell back against the makeshift bed and breathed. You opened your teary eyes, a nurse using a cloth to wipe the sweat off your brow.

Then you heard it. A cry. Your heart stopped in your chest as the doctor handed the bundle to you.

You took it, pushing the blanket down below her little chin to see her full face. She was gorgeous. Johnny’s little twin for sure. She opened her blue eyes and looked up at you - you swore you had never felt love in your life like you did in that moment.

Celeste Storm was here.

Early days with Celeste were difficult, yet blissful. You only wished for Johnny, that he could be there to experience it with you (and help a bit). Herbie was a great help, essentially waiting on you hand and foot while you recovered.

It has been a month since the births when the ship descended back home.

Johnny had been in a perpetual state of anxiety since Galactus. He was worried sick about you, to the point that Reed, Sue, and Ben were worried about him.

His stomach was in knots as they descended, and not just from the motion of the spacecraft. As they landed, he could see the crowd running to greet them, and he wondered where you were amongst it. You had to be here, right?

People were running from all over the city to see their return. There was no way you weren’t part of it. His eyes scanned the crowd who still looked like ants, as if he could see you from this distance.

“She’s okay,” Sue assured Johnny, placing her hand on his arm while the other cradled baby Franklin. “She’s a strong girl. She’s okay.”

Johnny just nodded. He wanted to believe his sister, because he wanted that to be true more than anything.

They rode the elevator down together. He had never been so quiet before - his mind was running too quickly to speak. Reed patted him on the back from behind him.

When the elevator landed, they could hear the deafening cheers. Ben walked off first, then Johnny, who scanned the crowd immediately. He didn’t see you - but maybe you were waiting inside where they would stop to speak? Yeah, that made sense.

Reed and Sue were behind him with Franklin, and the crowd went crazy the second they saw them. They smiled politely at the crowd, Sue holding the baby close to her chest while Reed had his arm around her.

They were led into the Baxter Building where the press were waiting. They mobbed them, and Johnny was so overwhelmed by the flashing lights, yelling voices, and no sight of you even in here, that he started to feel panicked.

“Give them space!”

“They’re ready for you,” Reed was told, with a gesture towards the podium. None of them wanted to speak. There was no good news to share. All Johnny wanted to do was see his fiancée.

Reed took the podium, glancing back over his shoulder at the rest of the team. Johnny continued scanning the crowd, not seeing a single sight of you. He was feeling more sick by the second. Where were you? It wasn’t like you to miss this. What if something had happened to you while he was gone and no one told him?

Something was wrong.

“I’m sorry we don’t have a prepared statement,” Reed said, sparking unrest in the crowd. Everyone raised their hand for a question.

“Welcome back,” one of the reporters said. “Can you walk us through how you defeated Galactus?”

It was silent.

“Um…” Reed said, looking back to Johnny and Ben for some kind of help.

“We didn’t,” Ben said simply.

“Not…yet!” Johnny said, with little enthusiasm. “Not yet, we didn’t.”

The crowd murmured. This wasn’t going well.

“What do you mean you didn’t?”

“We attempted to negotiate,” Reed said. “But Galactus…he asked too high a price.”

“Well, what does he want?” “What did he ask?”

Reed felt sick. Johnny really thought he might be. They exchanged a look - fear, in both of their eyes. Would this put a target on their backs? On their children’s backs? Reed looked back out into the crowd.

“He asked for our children,” he said, gesturing to Sue and Johnny. Sue stood behind, holding Franklin protectively as more worry spread through the crowd. “He said give us both children, and I will spare the Earth.” A murmur rose in the crowd. “We said no, obviously. We said no.”

Everyone started speaking at once.

“You said no?”

“Would giving Galactus the children save us?”

Done with this and with fire burning beneath Johnny’s skin, the four turned to leave.

“Wait, just answer this, answer this!” someone called. They stopped and turned. “Are we safe?”

“Are we safe?” Reed repeated. “I don’t know.”

The crowd began speaking at once again, upset. Ben waved Reed off and they left the room, the reporters yelling after them.

“She wasn’t there,” Johnny said to the others once they were safely on the elevator. “She wasn’t…there.”

“She’s probably in the house,” Sue said gently. “Maybe she isn’t feeling well, or couldn’t come down in time. Herbie has her.”

Johnny nodded, but he didn’t feel much better. 

With the spacesuit stripped off, he was left in his F4 t-shirt and sweatpants. When the elevator doors opened to the house, Johnny rushed in, looking for any sign of you.

It didn’t take him long.

You sat on the couch, a blanket wrapped around your lap. The TV was on to the news broadcast of the landing. You looked up at him and the others as they entered, a teary smile on your face.

“Johnny,” you said, your voice thick with emotion.

But it was the bundle in your arms that stopped him short. Slowly, cautiously, almost like he was scared, he approached you.

And he fell to his knees.

The baby girl in your arms opened her blue eyes and peered over at him. She was beautiful - more beautiful than he ever could have pictured. Perfection. He reached out a shaking hand and laid it on her, like he couldn’t believe she was real.

“…Oh my god,” he said.

Totally forgotten by him, Reed, Sue, and Ben stood behind, watching the moment. Johnny leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to the baby’s head, before looking up at you with wonder in his eyes.

“She’s here,” he said, like he was trying to wrap his mind around it. Saying it didn’t make it feel any more real - he felt like he was dreaming.

“She was born about a month ago,” you said gently, softly running your fingers over the baby’s fine hair. “Shortly after you left.”

“A month?” Johnny asked. He turned to look at the others - who seemed to be thinking the same thing he was. Galactus.

Turning back to you, Johnny rested a hand on the side of your face and pulled you into a gentle kiss. Then he was focused on the child again, his child, his baby girl. He was in awe.

“She’s beautiful,” he said, his fingertips just barely trailing over her smooth skin. She shifted, reached a little hand up, and wrapped her fingers around one of Johnny’s. His heart stuttered, and he choked out the quietest sob.

“I’m so sorry,” he said, looking up at you. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know, I- if I had known this would happen I wouldn’t have left you, I swear.”

“It’s okay, Johnny,” you said softly. You ran your fingers through his blonde hair. “You couldn’t have known.”

He laid his head against you, gazing down at his daughter. She really was incredible - he’d gotten to see her the one time, but it was nothing like this. It was nothing like seeing his child, here, earthside.

“Do you want to hold her?” you asked him. It seemed like he was too stunned to ask himself.

He looked at you with his blue eyes wide. “Really?”

You laughed. “Johnny, she’s your daughter.”

He nodded. Yeah, she was. And he could do this. You lifted her towards him and he slowly reached out, taking the bundle from your arms. The transfer was so slow and careful, and once he had her he cradled her close to his chest. Johnny held her, his strong arms now so delicate with his baby girl. A single tear trailed down his cheek.

They gazed at each other, both mesmerized by the other. Celeste cooed softly, making her little baby noises, and Johnny’s heart cracked. Oh, she had him wrapped around her little finger from day one.

“Hi, baby girl,” he said quietly, only for her. “I’m…I’m your daddy. I can’t believe you’re here. I’ve been so excited to meet you.”

Celeste cooed again, her little arms moving jerkily, still not used to moving her own body. She looked all around, but kept returning to Johnny’s face. She reached up and touched his nose, and he chuckled.

He was a natural with her. He looked back over his shoulder at the others finally, who all looked like they might also cry. He waved them over. They approached the three of you, peering down at the baby.

“Oh, she’s perfect,” Sue said.

“Nice job,” Reed said, patting Johnny on the shoulder with a brotherly smile.

“Hi there,” Ben said, looking down at her. She gave him the biggest smile that he couldn’t help but return.

But baby Franklin was watching her closely. Johnny turned her so she could see her cousin, and the babies reached for one another. Sue and Johnny held them closer as they reached for each other, fingers brushing together. Like they had a connection of some kind, drawn together.

“Interesting,” Reed mumbled. He would need to run some tests - there was a link here, and he needed to find out what it was.

After the tearful reunion, everyone returned to their own quarters. They were all exhausted and relieved to be back home. Johnny sat on the bed, holding baby Celeste while she slept. You moved throughout the room, gathering pajamas and a clean diaper.

“The surfboard is not part of her body, by the way,” Johnny said randomly.

You laughed - “What?”

“I just needed to know! I was curious.”

You smiled as you moved back over to the bed. “Well, I’m glad you found out,” you said. Johnny chuckled.

He told you all about their trip while he helped you change Celeste and put her to bed. He told you everything - the flight, seeing Galactus, chasing the herald and running away. Galactus wanting the babies - which you’d heard on the broadcast. It worried you sick, but he promised there was nothing to worry about.

He wouldn’t let anyone touch a single hair on Celeste or Franklin’s heads, that was for sure.

In the days after their return, everyone was hard at work trying to figure out what was to be done about Galactus. Johnny didn’t want you and Celeste out of his sight, so you spent a lot of time sitting in Reed’s lab with the baby girl on your lap, or doing tummy time on the floor with Franklin.

The truth was, they didn’t know what to do. Giving the children to Galactus was completely off the table, obviously, but so was putting Earth in danger. They suggested blowing the ship up, and running, but neither would work. There had to be something to be figured out. You just wished you could be more help.

“Reed, you wanna take us through what you have?” Sue asked.

“What I have?” he turned. “What I have is nothing.”

“Nothing? Did you say nothing?” Johnny asked. He glanced at you where you sat feeding Celeste.

“I have the samples from Galactus’ ship,” Reed said, handing out some papers for you all to see. “All evidence suggests he predates our universe, our reality. You could take 10 years to understand his composition, let alone his existence.”

“So you’re talking about a god?” Sue asked.

“I’m talking about something beyond our experience. An unknowable life, who imagines Franklin and Celeste as his successors in possessing some kind of cosmic power.”

“That can’t be true, right?” Ben asked, looking at the others. “You ran all those tests.”

“I have, but I don’t know what can or can not be. I’m not sure of anything.” He was getting frustrated. “Celeste has the X-gene, Franklin does not - at least, not that I saw.” He turned, walking back to the chalkboard. “I have nothing. I have nothing!”

You had never known Reed to have nothing. The idea scared you more than you wanted to admit. No one had anything, no one knew how to keep the babies and Earth safe.

Since the trip, Johnny had spent every moment he wasn’t with Celeste hard at work trying to decode the herald’s language. He knew that could give them answers, and that’s what they needed more than anything.

You spent your days caring for Celeste while the Four were hard at work. Johnny spent as much time as he could with the two of you, and it killed him to be away from her, but you both knew the fate of the world hung in the balance.

Reed ran seemingly endless tests on both Franklin and Celeste. No new answers were coming forth.

“It’s getting bad out there,” Ben said one night as the family was in the living room together. Johnny held Celeste, who was wearing a little Flame on! onesie. Ben turned the TV on.

“It seems to me they have no plan for Galactus,” some idiot on a talk show was saying. “We as a society have to reckon with the idea that the Fantastic Four could save us today, but they choose not to. The idea is simple - Reed Richards and Sue Storm, and Johnny Storm and that girl of his, hand over their babies and we all live.”

Sue blew the TV up. No one had a problem with that. Out on the balcony, there was a mob visible right outside the front doors.

“Give us the babies!”

“They’re scared,” Reed said.

“Who isn’t scared?” Johnny asked. He pointed with his thumb over his shoulder as he patted a sleeping Celeste on his chest. “That…is scary.”

Everyone was stressed. The discussion was constantly going in circles, no one coming up with anything new.

“Right now we don’t have a workable plan, and the clock is ticking. So their plan looks good. It’s…available,” Reed said.

“What are you saying?” Sue asked.

“I’m not…saying anything.”

The baby monitor lit up as Franklin started crying. Sue left to go attend to him, Reed following behind her. You were left at the table sitting silently with Johnny and Ben.

“Let me take her,” you said gently, taking Celeste from Johnny’s arms. He let you take her, although he was reluctant to let her go. He never felt like she was properly safe unless she was in his arms.

You were in the kitchen, making yourself busy, when Sue approached you with Franklin in her arms. 

“Come with me,” she said.

The mob outside was angry. They held anti-F4 signs, yelled horrible things, demanding the babies. 

And you followed Sue through the crowd, Celeste clutched tightly to your chest and Franklin to hers. You knew Sue wouldn’t let anything happen to any of you. Everyone stared as you walked through, making it to the middle where you stood together.

The crowd looked at the two of you expectantly. You weren’t sure where Sue was going with this, but you trusted her.

“I wanted to introduce you to someone,” she began. “This is our son, Franklin. And this is his cousin, Celeste. There’s been a lot of talk about both of them.” She stopped to compose herself. “Most of you know me. You know my story. When Johnny and I were kids, our parents were in a car crash. Our dad was driving, and he lived, but our mom didn’t. I know what it’s like to be a part of a family that was torn apart. Our dad wasn’t always a great father, but he wanted to be. He did his best. He wanted us to be together because that’s what a family is. It’s about fighting for something bigger than yourself. It’s about connecting to something bigger than yourself.”

Celeste wiggled in your arms. You and Sue both turned, seeing Johnny, Reed, and Ben coming out behind you. You smiled tearfully at Johnny - and he looked at you like he was proud.

“It’s about having something bigger than yourself,” Sue continued. “And the four of us already do because we have you. You know, our mom always used to say, Susie, for you, I would move heaven and earth. And we would do that for you. We will not sacrifice our children for this world. But we will not sacrifice this world for our children. We will face this together. We will fight this together. And we will defeat this together. As a family.”

The crowd clapped, and you wiped a tear away. Sue’s speech had been beautiful, and it seemed to have gotten through to everyone. You were filled with relief for Celeste - you’d barely slept an hour since the public turned on you all, terrified someone would manage to break in.

As soon as he could, Johnny had his arms back on you, leading you back inside. 

“That was amazing,” he said, “and so, so reckless.”

“But it worked?” you offered. He smiled at you, leaning down and kissing you.

“Yeah. Looks like it did.”

You were walking back to the elevator as a family when Reed spoke up.

“Archimedes,” he said. You all turned. “The law of levers. Give me a lever and a place to stand and I will move the earth. We are going to move heaven and earth.”

That was something. You took a step closer to him.

“Well, just earth,” he continued. “Sue…you solved it. We are going to move earth to a place that Galactus will never find us.”

With an idea, plans were underway. It would take the cooperation of the entire globe to pull off - but they thought it could work.

You spent as much time with Johnny and Celeste as you could. He was an incredible dad, truly. He spent most of his time preparing to put the plan into action, but his favorite time of the day was when he could relax in bed with you.

He laid back, Celeste sleeping on his shirtless chest. He was drowsy himself, his eyes half lidded as he slowly rubbed her back. Fresh out of your shower, you joined him on the bed.

“Ready for me to put her in bed?” you asked him gently.

He cracked an eye open to look at you. “Not just yet. I wanna hold her a little longer.”

You smiled. “Okay.” You laid down on the bed next to him. You looked at the clock just in time to see it strike 8pm, and all the power went out. The global power curfew was in effect to conserve what the bridges would require.

In the dark, you laid your tired head on Johnny’s shoulder. He felt content for the first time in a long time - his family together, a plan in motion. Hope for the future.

He may not know how things were going to turn out, or who Celeste would grow up to be. But he knew as long as he was with his family - they would be okay.

He would make sure of it.

reblogs and comments are so so appreciated!!

tag list

Scratch that—right here, where every few days, some inexplicable, monstrous creature appears out of the blue and starts tearing through everything that gets in its way, like Metropolis is a giant city made of Legos.

And yet, you can’t help but drown in self-doubt. The worst part is how suddenly it all hits you. There’s no warning or mercy. One moment you’re fine—functioning, even laughing—and the next, something inside you flickers and dies. The illusion of confidence crumbles, and you're left looking for the broken pieces, wondering when you’ll finally figure out what’s wrong with you. 

If only there were a way to cut it out, the rot, and replace it with something clean. Something shining. Something better.

The day you’re accepted for an internship at the Daily Planet, you stare at your reflection in the bathroom mirror and try to tell the girl in the fogged glass something that sounds like hope:

It’s going to be okay. You’re capable of this. Just show them your potential.

But the voice in your head isn’t convinced. It places an imaginary hand on your shoulder, deceptively gentle, until its fingers dig in, cold and burning all at once. It leans in, just behind your ear, and hisses the thought you’ve been trying to avoid: 

It’s only a matter of time before they realize they could’ve chosen someone better.

Just so much for a girl in her twenties.

You squint at the girl on Jimmy’s phone.

She’s beautiful. Blonde. The kind of effortlessly pretty that feels unfair. If you didn’t know her from these selfies, you would’ve thought she was some kind of model. Tall, blue-eyed, glowing with confidence. She even looks like the type of person who’d throw a tantrum if someone accidentally stepped on a cat’s tail.

Picking at your nails, your eyes flick from the screen to Jimmy. Then back again. Jimmy. Blonde girl. Jimmy. Blonde—

“She’s super pretty,” you say finally, handing the phone back to him over the desk divider.

He stands up with a smug little shrug, grinning as if he’s about to accept an award. “What can I say? Ladies just seem to love me.”

At that moment, Lois passes by right on cue, bracing herself on your desk and leaning toward Jimmy with a certain look that usually comes before total verbal destruction. “I’m still trying to figure out why,” she mutters dryly. “Guess I know what my next article’s gonna be about.”

A giggle catches in your throat, too fast to stop, and you mask it with a fake cough.

Jimmy eyes you like you’ve betrayed his loyalty. “You’re supposed to be on my side. Proximity makes us allies.”

“I’m sorry. I just can’t resist a good joke,” you mumble, lifting your hands in mock surrender, earning an exasperated sigh from him.

Lois high-fives you without missing a beat. “You can always change seats.”

With a scoff, he declares, “Traitors. Both of you.”

As he launches into a dramatic defense of his dating history, Lois unwraps a candy bar, taking a bite before giving voice to her thoughts. “Honestly, I don't know why Clark gets away with disappearing for an hour and a half during lunch. I miss one deadline, and I’ve got Perry breathing down my neck.”

“Ever heard of this revolutionary thing called… privacy?” Jimmy asks her, raising his eyebrows in her direction.

She rolls her eyes, gesturing with the candy bar. “If I find out he’s out there eating real food while the rest of us are surviving on vending machine snacks, I’m suing.”

You're about to jump in with an equally sarcastic remark when the elevator dings.

The doors quietly slide open, and there he is.

Clark Kent. Carrying a cardboard tray of four coffees, his tie slightly crooked and hair looking like the wind styled it for him on the way in. There's a coy tilt to his smile, like he knows he’s late but hopes this peace offering makes up for it.

“Hey,” he says warmly. “Thought we could all use a little caffeine. Fuel for the hardest part of the day.”

Lois lifts her chin. “Look who finally decided to rejoin society.”

Balancing the tray in one hand, he straightens his glasses. “I brought bribes.” He hands hers over first, the corner of his mouth quirking up. A second later, Jimmy’s follows, and he gives Clark a quick pat on the back.

Then, to your complete surprise, Clark holds one out to you. No matter how many times he does it, you still get excited by his thoughtfulness.

You blink owlishly. Your name's neatly written on one side of the cup with a permanent marker, just above your order: two creams, two sugars. He still remembers your order and has never gotten it wrong. You take it calmly, like it might vanish if you move too fast, struggling to fight the smile wanting to break free. “Thanks, Clark.”

He bows his head, scratching the back of his neck, and looks up to meet your pleased gaze, studying how your expression softens. “You know there's a legal limit to how many times you can say thank you in a day, right? Pretty sure you’ve already gone over it.”

No clever, witty comeback comes to mind, so you turn back to your monitor, hoping the screen hides the heat crawling up your neck. Still, you can’t help whispering a very soft, “Thank you,” just before Clark turns on his heel and walks away.

He pauses for a split second, long enough to glance over his shoulder. His eyes land on yours again briefly, like he’s trying to find a hidden answer in your features, and he gives the smallest nod, almost imperceptible, continuing toward his desk, the hem of his coat swaying with each step.

Your heart flutters in your chest as you chew on your bottom lip, twisting your ankles together beneath the desk to keep from fidgeting, hoping you’re playing it cool.

“Jeez,” a familiar voice mutters nearby. Jimmy’s shaking his head, arching a knowing brow. “You’re down bad.”

“Shut it.”

“I swear to God, if you’d just admit it—”

You lob a yellow highlighter at him, managing to hit him squarely on the shoulder with a satisfying thwack. He opens his mouth to protest, but you cut him off with a pointed finger. “Keep your voice down. There’s nothing to admit. I’m just happy I have something to sip while I work. That’s all.”

Spinning lazily in his chair, he folds his arms behind his head like a painting of a man at peace. “I’ve got to hand it to you—it’s adorable, watching you try to lie to me. I’ve been sitting across from you for what, a month now?”

A faint line appears between your brows, and you catch the highlighter as he tosses it back your way.

He grins. “I’ve grown familiar with all your faces, young lady. And that dreamy look? The puppy eyes? That little tight-lipped smile?” He props his chin on his hand, his voice descending to a murmur. “Yeah. Those aren’t for public consumption. That’s VIP treatment.”

Fighting Jimmy is pointless. He’s the kind of guy who never loses an argument—mostly because he talks over you until you forget what your point even was.

He just doesn’t get it. You can find someone attractive without liking them, right? It’s just a stupid crush. A stupid work crush, to be precise, which is significantly worse than a normal one, because now the object of your hopeless affection walks past your desk on a daily basis like it’s nothing.

At some point, you stop being sure if you're trying to convince Jimmy or yourself.

Your brain whirs back to your very first day at the Daily Planet. You remember being led around by a chatty woman from HR, who kept smiling at you with what appeared to be feigned sympathy. She pointed out the break room, the vending machine, and in the end brought you to your new, empty desk right across from a redheaded guy who immediately stood and extended a hand.

“James Olsen,” he commented. “Welcome to hell.”

Before you could respond, he waved Lois over from a few desks away. “Lois, come meet the new intern.”

You told them your name, attempting to seem casual while subtly folding your arms across your chest like a human shield. You didn’t mention you already knew who they were, or the fact that you’d read Lois’s columns like gospel. Some things were better kept to yourself.

Then, along came Perry White. The Perry White. It only took you one glance at the man to recognize him: the iconic gruff editor-in-chief with a permanent scowl and a cigar that looked surgically attached to his mouth. He stomped over, barely glancing your way.

“Where’s Kent?” he grumbled, words muffled by the cigar between his lips.

Lois and Jimmy exchanged a look. Silence. Apparently, no one felt like volunteering information.

Kent, as in Clark Kent. The name alone triggered something weird in your stomach. He was the guy who somehow landed exclusive interviews with Superman like it was no big deal, most of which you’d devoured in one sitting.

In the nick of time, as if he’d heard his name from afar, Clark entered through the elevator, brushing his fringe to the side with one hand. Slung over one of his shoulders was a worn satchel bag, and in the other, he carried a cardboard tray, loaded with steaming coffee cups. He spotted Perry and made his way over, towering over pretty much everyone in the immediate vicinity.

“I know, I’m late again. Sorry, Perry,” he apologized, already reaching into the tray. “Maybe a hot coffee will help start your day?”

Perry grunted, took a cup, and walked away without another word. Clark contemplated him as he got farther and farther away, and once he was gone, turned back to the rest of you with a quiet exhale. “Really glad I bought an extra one today.”

Only two cups of coffee remained. He handed Jimmy and Lois theirs, then scanned the tray, his brows snapping together. His gaze landed on you, standing just a little behind the group, hands clasped awkwardly in front of you. That was when it hit him.

“Oh, I’m—” he stammered, fixing his posture. “I didn’t know there would be someone new. I’m so sorry, I would’ve brought you something too.”

“This is the new intern,” Jimmy supplied casually, taking a trial sip of his drink. “Started today. Doesn’t bite, probably. Has a name and everything.”

You offered a nervous little smile, giving Clark your name.

Clark repeated it under his breath, as if he was trying to memorize it. His attention flicked back to the empty tray, later returning to you. “Next time, I’ll make sure to bring you one. What do you usually get?”

Shaking your head, you tried to wave it off. “No, really, it’s okay. You don’t have to—”

But Clark shook his own head right back, stubborn and visibly determined. “I insist.”

Jimmy leaned in, elbowing him. “No, for real—he insists.”

Lois smirked into her cup. “He's going to agonize over this all day.”

Clark’s ears reddened as he cast a glance at you again. “Just... let me know. So I get it right.”

Ultimately, you ended up telling him your order: two creams, two sugars. He nodded seriously, and repeated it: “Two creams, two sugars.”

“Better write it on your arm or something,” Jimmy interjected, sitting down on his chair. “In case it comes up in your next Superman interview.”

The next morning, you were late. Disastrously, embarrassingly late. Not just five-minutes-past-start-time late. More like why-even-bother-showing-up late.

You burst through the front doors of the Daily Planet like a fugitive fleeing a crime scene, lungs clawing for air, sweat clinging to your lower back and pooling around your temples. The last ten blocks had been a blur of dodged pedestrians and half-choked apologies, and every eye in the office felt like it had turned your way.

Avoiding eye contact, you slid into your seat. It was only your second day, and already you’d earned a reputation: the intern who can’t be punctual. What would be next? Forgetting your name? Accidentally setting the printer on fire? Calling Perry “dad”? You were so far inside your own head you barely registered the beverage sitting on your desk.

A lone paper coffee cup. You froze.

It was from the café around the corner, the same one Clark brought coffee from yesterday. An orange Post-it was stuck to the side, curling slightly at the corners, your name written just beneath it.

Hope you have a good time here. The handwriting was clean and tidy, with no signature, though you knew who had written it.

Your fingers brushed the cup tentatively, and the warmth seeped into your fingers, anchoring you in a moment that felt strangely tender. It was a small gesture, but it had found you when you were at your most unravelled, and somehow, that made it hit harder than it should have.

Glancing up, you noticed Clark was already seated at his desk, typing with ease. When your eyes met, he didn’t look away, just lifted a hand in a soft wave.

Before you could even process it, Jimmy bent over the partition, nodding at the cup. “Wow,” he uttered, pressing a hand to his chest. “On day two? Must be nice to be his favorite.”

“Excuse me?”

“Next thing you know, he’s bringing you lunch and rescheduling your dentist appointments.”

“It’s just coffee,” you retorted, but your hands didn’t loosen around the cup, clutching it like it contained the secret to world peace.

“Observe: the flustered intern in her natural habitat, attempting to rationalize a clear romantic gesture—”

“Don’t you have any photographs to take?”

His nose crinkled. “Don’t worry, I’ll keep your tragic office romance off the record. For now.”

To shut him up, you took a long sip, and immediately burned your tongue. Of course. When you glanced over again, Clark was observing you with mild alarm, eyes wide, like he wasn’t sure if he should intervene. But then he returned to his screen, his shoulders just a little stiffer than before, and you looked back down at the cup. The note.

You weren’t saying that was when the crush started. But it sure didn’t help.

Fast forward to the present day, your fingers have been levitating over the keyboard for an embarrassing amount of time, the blinking cursor taunting you like it knows. You just hope nobody’s noticed the light leaving your eyes as you spiraled into a memory that felt much warmer than the air-conditioned newsroom.

You turn your head to the left for what you swear will be the last time today, though deep down, you know that’s a lie. A practiced one at this point. Clark is already typing, posture relaxed but focused, forearms braced against the desk. He’s moved his chair today, and the faint movement of the muscles beneath the back of his white shirt makes you blink hard, as if that might reset your brain.

“Perv,” Jimmy interrupts your thoughts in a sing-song voice, not even bothering to look up from his computer.

You jab the side of his ankle with your shoe.

He hisses, eyes squinting shut. “Tell me I’m wrong.”

You don’t. What frightens you the most is that perhaps he has clocked you right. Straightening in your chair, you roll your shoulders back like you can shake it off. Crushes pass. This one will as well. Maybe by the time your internship’s ended.

Taking a sharp breath, you decide you need to get back to work. You can’t afford another mistake just because Clark Kent exists in the same room as you.

An email lands in your inbox. It’s one of many, the kind you handled almost without thinking twice. The task in it was far from difficult: skim the article, fix the typos, clean up the formatting, and make sure the version that goes online looked as polished as something with your name near it should. Routine. Safe.

At first, you don’t even flinch. You’re wearing headphones, the world on mute, until Jimmy taps your shoulder and motions for you to take them off. The moment you do, the noise rushes in. You register the low hum of tension in the room, and then comes the voice of one of your coworkers, shouting across the bullpen that an unedited version of an article had been published.

Silently, heads begin turning to find the culprit. And still, you don’t let yourself panic. Not until you hear the title.

Beneath the Streets, Above the Skies: The Creatures We Can’t Explain.

It’s yours.

Goddammit.

Your stomach flips as you scroll through the now-public piece on the Daily Planet’s website. It’s all there: the all-caps notes left by the writer mid-draft, barking out instructions to a future editor.

[FIX THIS. TOO WORDY.]

[DELETE — USE STAT FROM EARLIER DRAFT?]

[MAYBE CHOOSE A STRONGER QUOTE HERE.]

You’d sent the wrong version. Drafts mixed up, tabs blurred together, one careless attachment. And worst of all? You weren’t the one to catch it. By the time someone did, it had already been up long enough to embarrass the paper.

The article is eventually pulled, of course, but it had already been read by others.

A few people come to your rescue, trying to comfort you with those well-meaning phrases that sting more than they soothe.

It’s fine. Happens to the best of us.

Don’t beat yourself up over it.

It’s just one article.

Lois, in a moment of impossible generosity, offers to buy you an entire chocolate cake if it’ll get you to smile. She says it with a lopsided grin, trying to lighten the mood, but you can see it in her face, the silent sympathy. The confirmation that… yes, it had been bad.

What makes it worse is that it confirms what you already suspected about yourself: you’re not good at this. The little voice in your head, the one that is usually subdued by the clack of keyboards, is now screaming. You can hear going insane it in the spaces between your thoughts and heartbeats.

You had one job. You’ve been here for over a month, and you still managed to screw it up.

Panic blooms in slow, suffocating waves, rising behind your ribs and poisoning your bloodstream. You walk to Perry’s office on numb legs that barely feel like they are attached to the rest of your body. Your name had been called moments before. Knocking once, you step inside, your back flat against the cool surface of the door.

He doesn’t even look up right away. Just keeps reading something on his screen. “Something bothering that young brain of yours?” he asks without turning. “Because if you’re not going to be focused, I need to know. I don’t do hand-holding. This could’ve been a disaster.”

Your heart pounds so loudly you’re surprised he doesn’t pause to comment on it. When he finally decides to spare you a glance, it isn’t anger you’re met with. He looks tired, and even irritated, that he has to explain these things to you at all.

“Don’t be sloppy. I don’t like sloppy. Got it?”

Fervently nodding, you say, “Yes, sir.” You might grant him a smile, or perhaps something close enough to one, anyway. Then you leave, holding yourself together, and storm out of his office.

The newsroom is all windows and noise, impossible to disappear into, but taking the elevator isn’t a viable option at the moment. The stairwell, by contrast, is dim and forgotten, since no one uses it unless the elevators break down. That makes it a perfect place for you to hide.

You sit on the concrete steps and fold in on yourself, allowing yourself to cry. Sweaty palms pressed to your face, tugging at your hair like it might anchor you in your body. Silent sobs wrack your chest, and tears slip down your face, pooling at the edges of your mouth, making their way towards your chin and neck. Your knees draw to your chest, and you let yourself dissolve into shuddering breaths.

You aren’t just crying over the article, or the look Perry gave you, or the shame you saw in every pair of eyes that passed your desk.

You’re crying because at some point, without you even noticing, you’d let yourself believe that maybe—maybe—you were starting to belong here. That maybe you weren’t a complete fraud. It turns out it doesn’t take much to unravel those thoughts. Just one mistake. One article. One email you should’ve double-checked.

A couple of minutes pass, and you hear the door being opened and then shut. You’re too far gone by then: cheeks damp, fingers gripping your knees, shoulders drawn tight toward your ears. The sound of someone’s footsteps approaching you makes your stomach lurch, and instinctively, you swipe at your face, trying to clean yourself up with the heel of your palm as if that could erase the fact you’ve been crying.

You hear it. His voice.

“…Hey.”

Clark.

You rub your eyes, keeping your gaze fixed on a chipped bit of concrete near your foot, your throat too raw to answer.

There’s a pause. You don’t even hear him move, yet you feel him there, not close enough to crowd you, but not far enough either. He waits. It’s his thing, apparently.

Before you can stop yourself, you speak. “I’m fine,” you croak, too quickly. A reflex.

He doesn’t reply right away. A beat slides, and he mutters, “Didn’t ask.”

That earns a weak exhale from you. Not exactly laughter, but akin to it. You rest your forehead on your knees, and because you can’t help it, because it’s bubbling up and there’s nowhere else for it to go, you start talking. More like rambling, actually.

“I was tired, and I was trying to finish it fast, and I thought I’d already attached the right file, and—” You stop, inhaling sharply. “God, I’m pathetic.”

Clark still says nothing. You risk a glance in his direction and find him standing just a few steps down from you, one hand loosely resting on the railing.

You interpret his demeanor as an invitation to go on. “It’s so stupid. Everyone’s supposed to make mistakes. That’s what they say. But this doesn’t feel like a mistake. It feels like confirmation. That I shouldn’t be here. That I’m playing pretend, and now everyone can see it.”

It’s only a matter of time before your voice cracks, and you suck in a breath like it might steady you, but it only makes your chest hurt.

Gently, without needing to say anything, he sits down beside you, leaving just enough space so you don’t feel boxed in. You feel the warmth radiating off his body even through the distance. A comforting kind of heat.

“I didn’t want anyone to see me like this,” you croak. “It’s miserable.”

“It’s not.”

You shake your head, and the tears come back again for a second round, your whole frame shaking. More tears. You thought you were done.

That’s when you feel it. The hesitant pressure of his hand between your shoulder blades. He doesn’t move it, just lets it rest there, warm as you continue to cry your heart out. You’re pretty sure he must think you’ve gone mental. Once he notices you’re not backing away from his touch, he begins rubbing your skin in small, slow circles. No pressure. No expectation.

Eventually, after long minutes of trying to even your breath, you shift toward him on instinct, and he opens his arms, enveloping you. You fold into the space he makes for you, still trembling, trying to convince yourself this isn’t humiliating. His chest is solid against your cheek, and he smells like cologne and paper and something sweet you can’t quite place.

You don’t ask why he came. You believe you already have your answer. Lois probably saw you bolt. Maybe Jimmy sent him. Maybe he drew the short straw.

It turns out you say it out loud, because Clark speaks gently into your hair. “No one sent me.”

You choke on your own saliva.

“I just noticed you’d been gone for a while,” he adds. “That’s all.”

Pulling back a little, just enough to look at him in the eye, you find his expression to be unreadable in that Clark Kent way. “I didn’t even realize I was gone that long,” you admit.

He smiles, barely. “I know.”

A long silence hangs in the air between you. Not uncomfortable, but thick with things unsaid.

Then he asks, almost like he already knows what you’ll respond next: “Why are you so hard on yourself?”

You laugh, though it comes out watery and bitter. “I don’t know how else to be.”

He watches you for a moment. The world outside the stairwell feels a thousand miles away.

“I think,” Clark begins carefully, “you hold yourself to this impossible standard. You think if you slip up, everyone will rub it in your face.” You stare at him, swallowing hard. “But no one’s waiting to punish you,” he explains. “They already like you. I already—” He stops himself mid-sentence. “You don’t have to earn that every second.”

His hand is still on your back. You don’t know what you’re supposed to say to that, so you just sit there with him. With yourself, and with everything you’re carrying. The silence lingers, suspended in time, and you can’t help but sniff after all that crying. You’re certain your eyes must be far beyond puffy and red-rimmed, your face blotchy, and you don’t even want to think about what your mascara’s looking like right now.

“Was it—” You hesitate, keeping eye contact. “Was it a lot? That I hugged you?”

Clark’s brows bump together in a scowl. “What do you mean?”

“I mean—” You gesture vaguely between your chests. “It was a full, like… torso-on-torso kind of hug. Which feels very much like a panic-hug. And I’ve only been working here a month, and you’re… you.”

His smile widens, carving those charming, endearing hollows into his cheeks. “I don’t mind.”

“Yeah, but I do. You probably have, like, policies about emotionally unstable interns clinging to you.”

“If there’s a policy, I haven’t read it.”

“Figures. Of course, you read everything except the employee handbook.”

Playfully surrendering, he snorts. “Guilty.”

There’s a beat. He looks like he’s considering something as those blue eyes of his map your face.

“Want to hear something that’ll make you regret hugging me at all?”

You scratch your nose. “Sure?”

“What do you call a dinosaur with an extensive vocabulary?”

“…No.”

He grins, too pleased with himself. “A thesaurus.”

“Oh my God.”

“I warned you.”

“No, but—a thesaurus?”

“What do you mean? It’s a classic!”

“I should’ve hugged Perry instead. Or the janitor. Literally anyone else.”

“That hurts. I opened my arms to you.”

“I did the arm-opening,” you shoot back. “You were just conveniently located.”

He’s chuckling, but his expression softens again when he sees you swipe under your eyes. You try to smile. You try. And it almost works, until your voice comes out small again. “I just didn’t want to mess up. I wanted to be good at this.”

“You are. Messing up doesn’t make you less good. You’d never say that to another human being.”

You look at him. The way he says it makes you understand he believes it. You’re not used to that. Most people say things like that with ifs and buts tacked on. Clark doesn’t. He just lets the truth sit there between you. Pressing your lips together, you gape at your lap, and then back at him.

“…Okay,” you whisper.

“Okay,” he echoes.

A pause.

“Wanna hear another one?”

“Clark, please—”

“What do you call fake spaghetti?”

“I don’t even want to think about that one.”

“An impasta.”

You groan louder, forehead tipping dramatically against his shoulder. “Just fire me already.”

Clark giggles, not moving an inch. “Can’t. I’m just the delivery guy.”

“Of terrible puns?”

“Of coffee and emotional support.”

You laugh, this time for real, short and soggy and kind of breathless. In this tiny stairwell, with your head spinning and your chest still aching, this had been exactly what you needed.

By the time you’re both standing again, your eyes feel like they’ve been rubbed back and forth with sandpaper. You wipe at your face with the sleeve of your cardigan, though Clark hands you a tissue without saying anything. You take it, thanking him while intending to fix your appearance in the reflection of his glasses.

“You always carry tissues with you?”

“A man needs to be prepared.”

He doesn’t rush you, although both of you know that eventually you have to go back. “Ready?” he asks gently.

You nod like a liar, returning to the office. Jimmy spots you the second the door to the stairwell opens. He stands near the copy machine, holding a mug shaped like the Daily Planet’s globe, and raises his eyebrows like he’s seeing something scandalous. Lois leans out of her cubicle and gives Clark a slow look, then swings her gaze to you.

“Well, well,” she murmurs, wrapping a loose strand of hair around her finger. “We thought you’d fled the country.”

Jimmy snorts into his coffee. “I must confess I’ve never tried stairwell therapy. Sounds very promising.”

Clark clears his throat, cheeks just slightly pink. “She was just upset. That’s all.” Inching toward you, he whispers into your ear, “You sure you’re okay?”

You nod, and this time, it’s not entirely a lie. Your chest twists a little: not from embarrassment, but from the warm way everyone seems to be looking at you. You sit back at your desk, and Jimmy passes you a couple of snacks wordlessly, winking at you.

Lois throws a scrunchie at your head, giving you a thumbs up. “Fix your face,” she says. “If you cry again, you’ll dehydrate and die. And I don’t have time to explain that to Perry.”

Your throat tightens again, but for entirely different reasons.

You like Lois.

You really, really do.

She’s sharp-tongued and sharp-minded, the kind of journalist who could scare a senator into answering a question they’ve been dodging for a decade. She doesn’t soften herself to fit the room. If anything, the room adjusts to her. You admire that. You admire her.

You trust her, too, in the weird way you trust people after you decided not to trust them at all.

Which is why it catches you off guard, the quiet pinch in your chest when you see her standing next to Clark, cackling. And him, tittering the way he does when he’s truly listening, the corners of his eyes crinkling just barely behind his glasses.

They look like puzzle pieces that have known each other forever.

In your defense, this was all supposed to be a harmless observation. You’re standing next to the copier, waiting for it to spit out your stack of edited pages.

All of a sudden, the copier beeps, and you jerk away.

“Hey.” Jimmy materializes out of nowhere behind you, nearly making you drop your stack. “You okay? You look like you just found out your favorite character dies in the end.”

You force a laugh, too high-pitched. “No, I was just…thinking. That Clark and Lois would make a good couple. Like, objectively. They’re very…compatible.”

Jimmy blinks.

Then blinks again.

Then tilts his head as if you’re announcing you’re moving to Mars. “What—why would you say that?”

You stare at him, and the weight of what you’d just admitted out loud hits you like a train.

“I’ve picked up this terrible habit of saying my thoughts out loud,” you half-whisper, burying your face in the warm papers you’ve just printed. “You didn’t need to know that.”

“Hold on, hold on.” Jimmy steps in front of you, looking way too interested. “Back up. You think Clark and Lois are compatible?”

The copier makes an unholy crunching noise, and you yank the paper tray open, because you don’t want to meet his demanding gaze. “I meant it like…as a neutral statement,” you lie, badly. “A purely objective, journalistic observation. A general public-interest…thing.”

“Like you’re a neutral third-party scientist, observing the wild mating rituals of the office?”

“Exactly.”

“You’re so not a neutral third party. That might be the worst save I’ve ever heard.”

“Give me a break.”

“No, seriously, this is interesting. Tell me more about this neutral thought process. Was it before or after you began looking at Clark like he personally invented gravity?”

“Drop it, Jimmy.”

Jimmy looms closer the copier, puffing out his chest, looking way too smug for someone who sometimes accidentally deletes half his own files. “Listen. I love Lois. Everyone loves Lois. But Clark and Lois? No way.”

You glanced at him. “What do you mean ‘no way’? They’re…they’re them.”

“You said it yourself. I’ve seen Clark, a grown man, blushing when someone compliments his tie. You think Lois has time for that?”

You don’t answer right away. Your gaze drifts back to Clark, who’s now scribbling into his notepad while Lois steals the last bite of his muffin, and you force yourself to avert your attention from that scene. What you believe to be the truth sits heavy in your stomach, even as you joke around.

Because here’s the thing: this isn’t Lois’s fault. You’d fight anyone who said a bad word about her—so why does it still sting? Why does some ugly voice in your head start listing every way you fall short in comparison? This profound ache that you feel isn’t about her, not really. It’s about you: about how you always seem to be two steps behind the version of yourself you’re supposed to be.

Comparison is a cruel game, especially when the other player doesn’t even know she’s on the board.

Jimmy nudges your arm, the teasing gone a little softer. “Hey. Don’t overthink it.”

You’re fiddling with an old bracelet that dangles from your wrist. “You’re only about thirty years too late.” Gathering your pages, holding them a little too tightly, you take a step back. “I should get back to work.” You choose that to be your response, given it’s easier than saying I don’t want to feel like this, or I wish I didn’t care, or I think I’m falling for him, and I don’t know how to stop.

And because the alternative is staying here and letting Jimmy be right.

Again.

They arrange the plan casually, almost in passing. Someone mentions something about finally clocking out, someone else brings up the bar a few blocks away from the building, and then Lois chimes in with, “We’re all going, no excuses,” unwilling to take no for an answer.

And somehow, that settles it.

The sun dips low as the office empties, everyone spilling into the street with sleeves rolled and voices louder than they’ve been all day. You walk a step behind Jimmy, who’s listing the bar’s drink specials like he’s memorized them for a play he forgot to audition for.

The night has that kind of electricity. The possibility of being something good. Memorable.

The bar’s noisy in the comforting way only post-work places could be: the hum of old songs, clinking glasses, the rise and fall of casual arguments about baseball, or film, or whether Perry White had once owned a parrot (Jimmy swears yes, Lois says no, and Clark just answers “I’m afraid I have no parrot knowledge”).

You don't mean to drink your first cocktail that fast. You just... forget to pace yourself, but it helps, giving you permission to just exist. Laugh at Jimmy’s impressions. Pretend you’re not glancing at Clark more than you should.

The group is gathered near a back booth when Clark slips away. You only notice because it’s like a light flicks off inside you. When you spot him through the bar window—outside, on the sidewalk, phone pressed to his ear, fingers pushing through his hair—you follow without thinking.

You don’t hesitate, slipping through the crowd and nudging the door open, letting it swing closed behind you.

He half-turns at the sound, catching you in his peripheral. A tiny smile lifts the corner of his mouth. He raises a single finger as if to say: One sec. So you lean against the wall beside the door, letting the cool air cling to your skin, internally cursing yourself for not putting on your coat before going out.

“Okay, Ma. Yeah, I’ll give him a call tomorrow. No, I promise, it’s fine. Yeah. Yeah, love you too. Sleep tight,” he says into his phone, ending the call and tucking the device into the pocket of his black slacks. “Sorry. That was my mom. Sometimes she calls without checking the time first. She gets all excited.”

You smile, your mouth twitching. “That’s… adorable.”

He shrugs, glancing down at his feet, almost bashful. “She’s always worried I’m working too much.”

“Well, are you?”

His eyes find yours, and for a second, he doesn’t answer. At long last, he retorts, “Maybe.”

You study him—the way his posture seems to be at ease out here, how the line of his shoulders relaxes in the quiet. There’s something about him that always feels held back, as if he’s managing himself carefully, like he’s afraid of taking up too much space.

Which is funny, considering how much space he’s been occupying in your thoughts lately.

“Are you annoyed?” you ask.

His smile fades. “What?”

“You seemed… I don’t know. Off.”

“No,” he says, seemingly caught off guard. “Not annoyed.” You nod slowly, unsure if that’s a real answer or the kind people give when they don’t want to be asked twice. “I just needed some air. That’s all.”

You let that sit between you. Let the quiet stretch a little. The last thing you want is to pry, but there’s something you want to know. It seems that lately you always want to know more with him, even when you’re afraid of the answers you might receive.

Next thing you know, your brain, being the traitor it is, decides now would be the perfect time to blurt: “So, uh… are you and Lois a thing?” It comes out too fast and loud, way too sincere. You immediately want to grab the words midair and cram them back into your mouth.

Clark straightens so quickly it’s like someone snapped a rubber band on his arm, his jaw clenching. “What?” The pitch of his voice cracks up a little, like his vocal cords haven’t gotten the memo that he’s supposed to be cool and composed.

“You and Lois?” you repeat, trying to style it as harmless curiosity. You throw in a half-shrug that feels more like a full-body spasm. “I mean… it’s not a crazy question. She’s Lois Lane. Beautiful woman, insanely good hair. I’d date her.”

“She’d eat you alive.”

“Yeah, but it’d be an honor.”

“Lois and I are just friends. Really good friends. We’ve been through a lot together, but… it’s never been like that.”

Looking down, you nod in agreement, peering at your heels. Did they always have that much shine? You shift your weight, unsure where to put your hands. “Great,” you reply. “I wasn’t trying to make things weird. It’s just—people talk, you know? Office gossip. Background noise. Someone had to ask.”

Clark cocks his head to the side, his forehead creasing. “Someone?”

“Yeah. I was just the unfortunate soul selected by the people. Took one for the team.”

He smiles then. “The team.”

“Yeah. Julie from Sports. And, uh… Carl.”

“Caro?”

“Yeah,” you say, faking confidence. “He’s new. Big into Hawaiian shirts. You’d remember him if you’d seen him. That dude’s hilarious.”

“Right.” He huffs out another quiet laugh, gesturing vaguely toward the bar. “Wanna go back inside?”

You shake your head. “Actually... I think I’m heading home.”

“Oh. You sure?”

“Certainly. I’m just tired. It’s been a long week. Brain soup.”

“I get that,” he says, softer now. But he doesn’t move. “Do you want me to call you a cab?”

“Relax. I can get one myself. Last time I checked, I still owned a phone.”

He still doesn’t budge. “Or… I could walk you home.”

“You really don’t have to.”

“I know.” He’s already turning toward the door. “Wait here. I’ll grab our stuff.”

And just like that, he disappears inside, the door swinging shut behind him with an almost faint thud.

The moment he’s gone, you let your head fall back against the bricks and close your eyes. It hadn’t been in your plans to ask about Lois. Actually, you hadn’t planned for any of this. You just saw him step outside and followed like gravity stopped being theoretical.

But sometimes, he looks at you like he sees something you don’t, which is the part that terrifies you.

The door creaks open behind you. You straighten quickly, trying to shake off whatever expression you were wearing. Clark has your bag slung over one shoulder and your coat draped carefully over his arm. He looks absurdly responsible.

“You really didn’t have to do all that,” you say as he hands everything over to you.

“Too late,” he replies. “Chivalry wins again.”

You walk the first few blocks in companionable silence. The city has started to go quiet, and even though the night is soft, your brain isn’t.

Then, because the world is poetic when it’s inconvenient, your heel catches a crack in the pavement and you go down like a cursed fairytale. “Shit—damn it!”

“Whoa—got you,” Clark huffs, catching you just in time. His hands are at your waist, strong and certain, and you hate how easily your pulse betrays you.

You wince. “Ankle. Ow.”

He guides you down to sit on the front steps of a random building, pursing his lips. He crouches, eyes scanning your foot like he’s searching for something under the skin. “Probably just a twist. You should be alright.”

“How do you…?”

“What?”

“How do you know it’s not swelling?” you ask, scrutinizing him. “You barely looked. Didn’t even check it properly.”

“Just… a hunch, I mean—” His mouth opens, then closes, and then opens again with a whole new sentence. “Look, I didn’t hear anything snap, so... unless your bones are stealthy...?”

“That’s not exactly how ankles work.”

“I mean, you haven’t turned purple. That has to be a good sign.” He laughs, tight and awkward, and you snort despite yourself. His hand rakes through his hair. “Sorry. Just trying to be optimistic.”

“You sure you weren’t a paramedic in a past life?”

“Oh, no. I’d be terrible at that.”

Still, you watch him a second longer. He looks... nervous, like he’s afraid he said too much.

He kneels with his back to you. “Here. Get on.”

“Excuse me?”

“Piggyback. Let’s not make it a thing.”

“It’s already a thing. A humiliating one.”

“Let me reframe it: this is me being chivalrous, and you being temporarily horizontal.”

“That is not how that word works.” You sigh, dramatic. “Fine. Just… please, don’t drop me.”

As you climb onto his back, his hands reach back to catch the backs of your knees, and when his palms find skin—warm where your skirt’s ridden up slightly—it short-circuits something in your chest. It’s not even overtly intimate. It’s just… contact. Unflinching contact. You feel it like a current, a hot spark that rushes up your spine and settles somewhere inconvenient.

“Have I already mentioned this is embarrassing?” you mutter, resting your chin lightly against his shoulder.

“You say that like I’m not honored.”

“I’m a grown woman. You’re carrying me like a backpack.”

“You are basically a human backpack,” he quips back. “And kind of a noisy one.”

You smack his shoulder gently, making him laugh. You let your eyes drift closed for a second, his back is broad under your touch. You become aware of how safe it feels, how easy it is to trust him.

“Clark?”

“Hmm?”

“You didn’t even blink when I said I hurt my ankle. Like you already knew it wasn’t serious.”

He pauses. “I had a feeling.”

You lean back slightly to see his face, though the angle mostly gives you a view of his glasses and the top of his cheekbone. “You’re weird.”

Smirking, he glances sideways just enough for you to catch it. “Takes one to know one.”

You let it drop, at least out loud. But your brain doesn’t. It files this away with the other strange Clark Kent moments—the way he sometimes seems to flinch at distant sirens, or how you’d swear he once turned around because someone two desks over whispered his name.

By the time you reach your apartment, your ankle has started throbbing again, a dull ache radiating up your calf. Clark shifts slightly to let you down as you fumble for your keys.

You aren’t exactly drunk, but your head definitely feels funny. “Here we are,” he says, and you slid off his back and onto the ground like a sack of potatoes with a master’s degree.

“Thanks,” you mumble, trying to stand in a way that suggests grace and control. “You can, um. You can go be normal now.”

He sticks his hands in his pockets. “I was normal before.”

“That’s debatable.” You finally open the door, triumphant, but instead of going in, you linger in the doorway, facing him. “Thanks for the rescue. Again. I’ll see you Monday?”

“Yeah,” he says softly. “Goodnight.”

He doesn’t move, and neither do you. Your fingers tighten around the doorknob.

There’s an unexpected pull in your chest. The way his collar is rumpled. The way his hair curls behind his ears. The way the night had been soft, and the sidewalk felt warmer when he walked beside you, and—

An unbeatable desire to kiss him invades your whole being. You want to touch his jaw and feel the shape of his mouth and know what it would be like to exist under his hands. To be held by Clark Kent.

He finally steps back, appearing reluctant. “You might want to put some ice on it. Maybe take something for the pain?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And give me a call if it gets worse.”

“Only if I want to be carried again.”

“Happy to oblige.”

And then—finally—he walks away. You close the door behind you, pressing your forehead to the wood, heart knocking hard against your ribs.

You’re beyond head over heels.

Another Monday at the Daily Planet. It’s 8:56am, and as the elevator doors open with a cruel little ding, you carefully step out, checking your surroundings.

Everything looks the same—the hum of all those computers, some colleague having a hard time with the copier, Perry barking out unintelligible orders in the distance—but you are not the same. Not since last Friday.

Your ankle’s still a little sore, you haven’t been sleeping well, and Clark Kent could be somewhere in this building, existing like a real person with real hands and a real mouth you definitely didn’t imagine kissing at least ten times this weekend.

You weave through desks, praying for invisibility, when—

“Morning, sunshine,” Jimmy sing-songs from his chair, already halfway through a bagel, a smile plastered on his face. “How’s the foot?”

“Clark told you,” you say flatly.

Jimmy gives you a look, his eyes going round with faux innocence. “Who, me? No! I just assumed you mysteriously developed a limp and Clark suddenly discovered how to piggyback people from years of quiet farm strength.”

“I cannot believe he told you.”

“Oh, come on. It’s adorable.” Jimmy leans back in his chair, using his feet to make it spin. “You? Carried through the city like a Victorian maiden? I wish I had footage. I’d set it to music.”

“I hate you.”

He stops spinning to point his bagel at you. “You say that, but I think you secretly love being the main character.”

“Do I look like someone who enjoys attention?”

“Not attention in general. Just his.”

You don’t dignify that with a response. Mostly because he’s not wrong, and your face is already betraying you. Sliding into your chair, you pretend to focus on your monitor like it contains NASA launch codes.

Maybe if you don’t look up, you’ll avoid—

“Morning,” Clark says gently, materializing beside your desk. You look up, and there he is. Soft smile. Soft eyes. Probably soft everything.

You panic and blurt the most neutral, irrelevant thing your brain can conjure: “Did you see that viral video of the goose chasing the guy through Centennial Park?”

Clark blinks. “I haven’t.”

“Crazy stuff. Nature’s relentless.”

“...Okay.”

You clear your throat, willing yourself not to combust.

“Anyway,” Clark continues with his inquiry, “I just wanted to check in. How’s the ankle doing?”

“Fine! Yep. Great. I can do five jumping jacks. Not that I have, but I could.”

He raises his eyebrows, visibly amused. “That’s good to know.”

“Cool,” you reply, cringing on the inside. “Cool, cool, cool, cool.”

And then you both just stand there, marinating in awkward silence. Eventually, Clark raises a hand in greeting and excuses himself to his desk, not before placing your usual coffee next to your keyboard. You thank him without managing to meet his eyes.

Your fingers hover near the cup, though you don’t pick it up right away. The warmth radiates against your skin. You’re aware of everything—your pulse, your breath, the tight flutter in your chest.

You try to return to your work. Really, you do. It’s just that your thoughts don’t seem to line up in a straight line today, and somehow English doesn’t even feel like your mother tongue anymore.

Then Jimmy slides a folder across your desk. “Perry wants you to proofread this by noon. No pressure. Except all the pressure.”

You sigh, taking a sip of coffee and trying to remember how to be a functioning adult. You’ve got a job to do, feelings to repress, and exactly three hours until lunch.

Later that day, after a full shift spent second-guessing every adjective you typed and rereading all those drafts like they were confessionals, you finally make it home.

Shoes abandoned by the door. Work shirt flung somewhere in your hallway. The glow of your laptop waits on the coffee table, your latest half-thought article still open, the cursor blinking, mercifully patient.

You settle into the couch with a sigh and think: this, at least, is something.

And then—you notice it. A crucial absence.

Your charger.

Still plugged in beneath your desk at the Daily Planet like it’s mocking you. Of course. Of course the universe wants you to suffer. As you reach for your phone, ready to spiral, it buzzes in your hand.

Jimmy Olsen.

You answer blandly. “If this is about that goose video again—”

“Relax. It’s not.” He speaks as if he’s chewing something. “Although, side note, there’s a new edit where the goose honks to the beat of Eye of the Tiger and—anyway. That’s not why I’m calling.”

“Then what, Jimmy?” You drag a hand down your face, dreading every second of the call.

“You left your charger here—”

“Don’t even get me started on that.”

“—but I already gave it to Clark.”

Silence. Heavy, jagged silence.

“You what?”

“Gave it to Clark. Figured he could drop it off, since he already knows where you live.” He pauses, then adds, in the world’s most audible smirk: “Wink wink.”

“You didn’t actually wink just now, did you?”

“Oh, I did, physically. With both eyes.”

“Jimmy—”

“You’re welcome. He said he was heading that way anyway.”

The line clicks dead. You stare at your phone for a moment longer, and then, because there’s nothing else to do, you stand.

You wander to the balcony, scanning the street in search of a man you know very well. There’s no way you’re mentally or emotionally prepared for this. Murmuring something unspeakable, you dart to the bathroom mirror. It’s too late to fix anything. Nevertheless, you splash cold water on your face, wiping under your eyes and blinking at your reflection like that’ll make you look alive.

Three polite, measured taps on your door have you looking at the doorway with utter fear, and that’s when you consider faking your death.

In the end, you open the door. Clark’s wearing a big coat that makes his shoulders look broader than human decency allows, holding your charger like it’s something precious.

“Hey. Delivery service. Courtesy of Jimmy Olsen.”

You draw in a long breath. “Thank you. I—I’m sorry you had to do that. He really didn’t need to drag you into—”

He shakes his head before you get to say more. “It’s no trouble. I was happy to.”

You step back, thumb tapping the edge of the door. “Do you wanna come in for a minute? I mean, you don’t have to. Obviously. But if you want water or—tea? Bad tea. That’s all I’ve got.”

He smiles, stepping inside as if he were trying not to track in mud. “Water’s perfect. Thanks.”

You leave him in the living room while you hunt down a clean glass, and as you pour, you curse yourself for the mess of dirty dishes on the counter. Once you come back, he’s not moving. Just standing by the couch, staring. At your laptop.

“I didn’t mean to meddle in your stuff,” he says gently. “But… were you writing something?”

You make your way around the couch. “Oh. Yeah. No. It’s nothing.”

He sits after getting rid of his coat, seemingly not believing your words. “Can I ask what it’s about?”

Placing the glass on top of the table, you take a seat beside him, your knees folding under you, fingers worrying at the seam of your pants. “It’s kind of dumb.”

“I doubt that.”

“It’s just—something I started on Saturday night. I don’t know. It’s not an article, really. Not for the paper. Just… thoughts. About Superman. Or not him exactly. More about what he means to people.”

He says nothing. So you keep going.

“I guess I’ve been thinking about why people need something to believe in. Like a… structure. A symbol. Something to hang all their hope on. And for some people, that’s Superman, even if he’s flawed. He gives people permission to believe the world isn’t doomed.”

You pause. “And Perry would throw it in the trash if he ever came across it,” you add, bitterly. “So. Doesn’t matter.”

Clark’s gdoesn’t tear his gaze away from you. “I’d like to read it.”

You blink. “What?”

“If you’re okay with it,” he says, nodding toward the laptop. “I’d really like to.”

Hesitating for a second longer, you eventually slide the laptop in his direction. He adjusts on the couch as he leans forward, careful with the device, treating it as something delicate.

“Brace yourself for excessive metaphors.”

“Oh, I love metaphors. The more excessive, the better.”

And so he begins to read.

You try not to stare. At him, at the screen, at anything. You focus on the ticking of a clock you didn’t even know had batteries, wondering if Clark will also think that what you wrote is too silly. Too emotional or abstract. Perhaps he'll want to know why you were writing about Superman in the first place.

There’s a sudden shift in his demeanor. It’s subtle, barely anything. His shoulders drop a fraction, and when you take in the full sight of him, he’s grinning, reading all the way through.

“This is good,” he says, still concentrated on the screen. “Really good.”

“You don’t have to say that just to be nice.”

He shakes his head once, firm. “No—I mean it. The structure’s clean. You build your argument gradually, but it doesn’t drag. Your transitions are solid. And your tone—” He glares at you now. “—it’s vulnerable without tipping into sentimentality. There’s conviction in it, but you don’t preach. It feels like a conversation.”

Your mouth opens, but nothing comes out. “It’s not finished yet,” you manage eventually, voice tight. “I still have to go over the middle section. I think I wasn’t that clear once I got into the part about collective memory—”

“Even so. You’re onto something. If you let me, I’d love to help you get it in front of Perry.”

Your eyes bore into his, edging closer to where he’s located. He looks entirely sincere. A sharp pressure envelops your chest, and you want to thank him for his kindness, but what comes out instead is a hoarse: “Really?”

“Really. We could try and talk to him one of these days.”

Before you can stop yourself, you lean in and hug him.

You don’t even think about it—your body just does it, and then you’re flushed against him, arms around his neck, your face tucked against the warm fabric of his coat. He smells like paper and some brand of laundry detergent you don’t recognize.

He hugs you back, and it’s not one of those loose, polite things. His arm curves around you like he means it. You close your eyes, just for a second, just long enough to remember what it feels like to be held like that.

“I keep doing this,” you utter, voice hushed by how near he is. “Randomly hugging you.”

“I don’t mind it. Not at all.”

When you pull back, you’re still half in his space, breathing a little faster than usual. The relief is short-lived.

You ask for the antidote to the ache that keeps you up at night, something to quiet the want that only he seems to understand. “Can you please do it?”

“Do what?”

Does he want you to say it?

You stare at him, and something in your stomach dives. “Please, kiss me,” you plead, your voice barely rising above the hush of breath between you, and yet it seems to echo in the small apartment. Your cheeks feel burning hot, but you don’t, can’t, won’t look away. Not now. Not with him so close you’re convinced your skin might start fusing with his.

That seems to shake something in him. It might be the first time you’ve seen him truly stunned. His lips part slightly, eyes flicking from yours to your mouth, trying to make sense of the fact that this is real. That you want this from him.

One hand lifts reverently and settles along your jaw. The pads of his fingers cradle the hinge of it like you’re beyond fragile, afraid of pressing too hard. His thumb barely skims the corner of your mouth, and you perceive a jolt going down your spine.

His touch is featherlight, but his breathing is not. It’s affected, perhaps as much as yours. “You really want me to?”

You nod. Or try to. It comes out more like an eager lean into his palm, your body already answering before your mouth does. It’s been too long since you’ve been touched this way, like you mattered.

Your thighs press against his, knees brushing the outside of his, as if you were nearly straddling him. When your hands move instinctively to his chest, you see it: the first button of his shirt undone. The faint rise and fall beneath it.

You glance up, asking without words. He doesn’t back away, and you press your fingertips lightly there. His pale skin feels smooth to the touch, and his heartbeat flutters beneath your fingertips, stuttering out of rhythm.

He wants this as much as you do. The human body doesn’t lie. It can’t. It doesn’t pretend to want something it doesn’t crave.

“I do,” you insist, the words catching faintly at the back of your throat, transfixed in a whirlwind of emotion. “I need you to do it.”

A shallow breath leaves him. There’s a thin, glowing ring of blue circling his pupils, his gaze so dark it nearly swallows the light. His other hand slides around to the nape of your neck, achingly gentle.

Clark pulls you in, and his lips meet yours.

At first, it’s a series of tender collisions, just the press and lift of mouths, as if he’s testing the shape of you against him, trying to memorize it in pieces. One kiss. Another. And another. They don’t last long because they don’t need to.

It’s when you tilt your head and open your mouth to him that he gives in. That’s all it takes.

He deepens the kiss instantly, as if he’s been waiting for that signal all along. His mouth claims yours with an urgency that feels both new and inevitable. His lips are plush, cool with mint, probably the vague trace of chewing gum still clinging from earlier.

Your hands fist the fabric of his shirt like a lifeline, his glasses knocking into your nose once, twice. Your body shifts, and then you’re fully perched in his lap, thighs spread over his. His arms adjust around your waist, steadying you there, holding you like he can’t bear the idea of you leaving. One of his hands slides to your lower back, while the other, still at your neck, traces along your jaw, then behind your ear, fingers tangled in your hair.

Sighing into him, your breath gets caught in the cavern of his mouth. The world gets smaller, somehow quieter. Just the sound of his breath mixing with yours, the thud of your pulse in your ears, the heat pooling between you like a live wire.

And even through it, he never stops being gentle. He doesn’t rush it. Doesn’t push too hard, though his body trembles beneath you every time he elicits a new sound out of you.

At some point, your lungs scream for oxygen, having grown unaccustomed to the sheer indulgence of kissing for several uninterrupted minutes. You pull back only enough to press your forehead to his, gasping his name. You’re kissed raw, lit from the inside out, and the only thing anchoring you is the reassuring pressure of his arms, still wrapped around your frame.

Your lips linger over his, and when you open your eyes, you find his still closed. Neither of you speaks for a moment. His thumb traces a distracted path across your lower back.

Then:

“You should start forgetting your charger more often,” he murmurs, voice a little raspy.

That alone has you focusing on evening out the creases of his shirt with your palm, mostly to avoid combusting. “I swear it wasn’t on purpose.” His finger gently lifts your chin, coaxing you to meet his gaze. The quiet ache of tenderness in his eyes nearly does you in. “Hey.”

“Hey.”

The words you’ve been actively trying to cage in for months fall out of your mouth without permission, but you don’t regret them. “I like you.”

He gathers you tighter against his chest. “Well, I can’t say I’m not flattered,” he says, teasing, that crooked half-smile already returning. A laugh bubbles out of him—but it’s giddy, boyish. You cut him off by covering his mouth with your palm.

“Don’t make fun of me. I’m trying to have a moment here.”

He gently peels your hand away, lacing your fingers with his instead, and brings them to rest against his chest. “I’ve probably been dreaming about this since your first week at the office,” he admits.

You glance up and notice his glasses have slipped down the bridge of his nose. Carefully, you push them back up with a fingertip. “I was always looking at you, you know,” you confess, quieter now. “Couldn’t help it.”

“You talk like I didn’t bring you coffee on your second day,” he teases, brushing his nose against yours. Leaning back just enough to take you in, his eyes sweep slowly across your face. “I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you.”

The words melt straight into your spine, and before you can think better of it, you surge forward and kiss him again. He meets you without hesitation, and when you break away, you leave a trail of humid kisses across his cheeks, down the line of his jaw, until your mouth finds the curve of his neck.

“I think my kissing might be a little rusty,” you croak into his skin. “Could probably use some improvement.”

“You’re kidding? It was fantastic. What are you—oh.” A beat. Then: “Oh. Sure.” He’s grinning like an idiot now, draping an arm around your waist. “I mean, I can help you with that. Practice makes perfect.”

“How noble of you, Kent.”

Your first kiss (kisses, plural—you lost count around the third) marks a shift in the fabric of everything. You’d seen it coming, even gave yourself a pep talk in the mirror that morning.

But then Clark sets a coffee on your desk, just as he always does, and says, “Hope you have a really good day today,” and suddenly your pep talk is useless. You’re smiling like someone who knows something others don’t. Because you do.

Together, you find a rhythm. You don’t talk about what this is—yet—but something’s shifted. No overt PDA. Not even flirtation, not really. Just… little things. Things that no one else clocks. The way he passes you a folder with an unnecessary brush of fingers. The way he saves you a chair in meetings and pulls it subtly closer to his, so that your knees bump under the table.

It’s the kind of thing that would be completely invisible to anyone else, but to you, it’s everything. It’s a love letter made of glances and millimeters, what you replay at night before bed, giggling at your ceiling like a fool.

Weeks pass in a blur of late nights and whispered conversations in elevators, and work has never been this motivating. Even Perry has stopped looking at you like you’re one bad coffee spill away from being escorted out by security.

One of Clark’s articles makes the front page—again—and when Jimmy sees it, he promptly rolls up the newspaper and smacks Clark in the arm with it. “Alright, headline hero. At this point, you’re just showing off.”

Clark ducks his head with a laugh, caught mid-fumble with his bag, a coffee, and what looks like three different folders sliding out from under his arm. You want to help him, but instead you just stand at your desk, watching like an idiot, warm with the kind of affection that makes your hands feel too light.

Lois arrives like she’s been summoned by sarcasm. She chews the end of a pen and corners Clark against his desk, watching him try to stack his chaos. “You know, Kent, I find it fascinating. You always seem to be conveniently nearby when Superman’s handing out interviews like candy on Halloween.”

He doesn’t look up, adjusting his monitor as if that could save him. “What can I say? Maybe I’m his type. We haven’t kissed yet, if that’s what you’re wondering.”

She narrows her eyes. “Don’t try to be clever with me. What do you give him? Why does he only let you interview him?”

“Have you considered he just… likes my writing?”

“So now you’re accusing him of bad taste?”

Jimmy slides into frame, palms raised. “Okay, okay. Time’s up, guys.” He puts both hands on Lois’s shoulders with exaggerated care. “You, my friend, are tense. Breathe. Maybe try yoga. Or tequila.”

Blowing air through her cheeks, she finally peels away, muttering, “I just wish Superman would leave his favoritism aside.” Before heading to her desk, she gives Clark one final, mysterious look.

Jimmy drops into his own chair dramatically, putting his feet over his desk. “Well, at least I tried.”

The day presses on. When lunch rolls around, you’re still grinning. You spot Clark at his desk, half-eaten sandwich in one hand, the other scrolling through something on his monitor, glasses barely askew. You approach with your hands clasped behind your back, adopting a mock-serious tone.

“Mr. Kent.”

His eyes flick up, and he swallows a bite too quickly. “Oh. Hi. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

You tilt your chin toward the newspaper near his bag. “Just wanted to congratulate you on the article.”

He lowers his voice until it’s almost inaudible, cheeks going faintly pink. “Thank you, baby. I would've hugged you the second I saw it, but, you know…”

“To celebrate… I was thinking dinner? I could make homemade pasta.”

“Gosh, I’d love that. Your place?”

“Yeah.”

“I wish I could kiss you right now,” he murmurs, gaze soft and so full of feelings it nearly unmoors you. “You look beautiful today.”

It hits you in the ribs, the way he says it. You offer him your fist. “Fist punch?”

His smile is half laughter, half reverence. He bumps your knuckles with his own, his fingers linger a beat longer than necessary.

As night folds in around your apartment, you’ve been stirring the sauce for the past twenty minutes, though it’s been done for at least ten. The smell of garlic and basil lingers in the air, the wine is uncorked, and the candles you lit—just two, nothing too obvious—are dripping lazy wax trails down their sides and onto the counter.

Your phone buzzes where it’s propped upright beside the sink.

Clark: Hey, I’m so sorry. Something came up. Can we rain check dinner? Promise I’ll make it up to you.

You just stand there, wooden spoon in hand. No call or explanation. Just the same vague apology he's given you three times now, each time with a different flavor of excuse. Each time with the same effect: you, left waiting with something you didn’t mean to take so personally.

There’s an answer teetering on the edge of your tongue. You even type, It’s alright! :-), with the smiley face and all, mostly to seem breezy. Effortless. But your thumb pauses, then backspaces slowly until the message disappears, and you leave him on read. Not as a form of punishment, but because you don’t know what else to reply.

You try to be patient. Try to be the kind of person who shrugs things off, who doesn’t take a rain check as anything more than bad timing. The problem’s that you’re not wired that way: you feel too much. You think too much.

Turns out, keeping your brain from imploding is the hardest part. You’ve even been practicing it lately, this thing of not jumping to the worst-case scenario. Telling yourself not everything is a sign, and that people get busy and have lives.

The thing’s that your brain has a voice of its own. A mean one, which sounds an awfully lot like yours.

Maybe he kissed you because he felt like he had to.

Maybe he doesn’t know how to say it, but he’s changed his mind.

Maybe he never wanted something serious, and you’re the only one building stories out of crumbs.

Dragging your feet back to the living room, you sit down in the nice pair of clothes you’d chosen for the occasion, and blink at the empty coffee table. As your body sinks into the couch cushions, the fatigue of disappointment sinks deeper than any full day at the Daily Planet. The TV throws shadows on the walls, some sitcom playing to an invisible audience.

And when your eyes finally close, you let sleep take the shape of mercy.

The pasta incident, when the spaghetti went cold and your heart even colder, wasn’t the last time he left you waiting.

Almost two weeks later, it plays out again.

The door clicks open an hour and a half past when he said he’d be here. You don’t greet him. Instead, you remain in the kitchen, back precisely angled away from the entrance, pretending to be focused on dinner even though it’s gone cold.

Clark’s footsteps are calculated, a careful shuffle across the living room carpet, testing the silence. He pauses just inside the kitchen's threshold. “Hey, honey,” he says, a little too bright, a little too loud, his greeting threading through the stillness. “Sorry I’m late. There was something I had to take care of.”

You crane your neck slowly. His hair is damp, curling at the edges, exactly as it does after sweating. His shirt is inside out, rumpled, the collar a crumpled mess. His cheeks are flushed, a deep, uneven red, and his chest rises and falls in quick, shallow breaths, as if he sprinted the last few blocks. He looks utterly disheveled.

You don’t ask where he’s been. Not yet. “Your shirt's backwards,” you retort instead, the words flat, neutral.

Startled, he bows his head, looking down and letting out a short, forced puff of air as he rubs the back of his neck. “My bad. I didn’t even notice.” His eyes, meeting yours, hold a flicker of surprise, quickly veiled.

“Yeah. You seem… in a rush.”

He doesn’t contradict you, just watches, completely tongue-tied, his posture subtly tightening. You drop your gaze back to the casserole dish—stuffed eggplants, roasted earlier in the day—and put it back into the oven, hoping it’ll survive the fifth reheat of the night.

Behind you, you feel him inch closer. A familiar warmth spreads across your back as his body presses gently against yours. His arms wrap around your waist, his hands resting lightly on your stomach, chin settling onto your shoulder while he brushes his lips against your cheek. “You’re quiet.”

You lift your shoulder in a half-shrug. “And you’re late.”

His hold around you tightens, rocking both your bodies back and forth before spinning you around to face him. His eyes, filled with longing, seek yours. “I missed you.”

If only that could be enough. You wish you could live off the sound of his voice and the weight of his hands on your body, letting his presence fill all the empty spaces, though you can’t help craving the one thing he won’t grant you: clarity.

Clark kisses you hungrily, a low, frustrated sound catching in his throat the moment you open to him, your tongue clashing with his. His cold hands glide up your back, slipping beneath your shirt to find bare skin, and you gasp as his fingers knead your lower back, the swift curve of your spine.

In one seamless motion, he lifts you onto the counter, and the kiss evolves into one heated and consuming, more of a desperate embrace. It's almost like he’s trying to make up for every second he’s missed, every moment of absence now erased by the force of his presence. Your fingers tangle in the damp hair at his nape, giving it a firm tug. That has him groaning against you, stepping further in between your knees, pressing flush against you.

His kisses deviate, trailing south, turning sloppy. "It’s been two months since our first kiss," he rasps against your throat, lips dragging over your damp skin, leaving open-mouthed kisses and a trail of heat.

For a moment, you let yourself vanish into him, surrendering to the overwhelming sensation, the promise of fleeting oblivion. You swallow hard, a whine bubbling up in your chest as his hips grind into yours with rhythmic pressure.

A sharp sizzle coming from the oven cuts through the haze.

You stiffen, hands finding his chest, pushing against him, breathless. "The eggplants."

He lets out a dazed breath, his forehead still resting against your clavicles before you manage to slide off the counter. You crack open the oven just in time, a cloud of smoke puffing out.

Plating the food, you meticulously avoid his gaze. The comfortable intimacy of moments before has been shattered. “You could’ve let me know you’d be arriving this late.”

“I told you—”

“I know,” you cut in. “Something came up.”

He exhales, planting hands on his hips. His body remains a few feet from you, a physical barrier building. “Okay. So you’re mad.”

“I’m not mad.”

“Disappointed, then?”

“Clark, it’s not even about tonight.”

“Then what is it about?”

You hesitate, picking up both your plates. Then: “Where were you?” The silence that follows stretches too long, and he merely stands there, observing you “Right.”

“I don’t want to fight.”

“I’m not fighting. I’m just… tired.”

He takes a single step closer, his brow furrowed. “You don’t believe me.”

You glance at him, quietly. “Should I?”

That hits him like a slap. “I told you I liked you, that I care about you. About us. I’ve shown you that.”

“But then you vanish,” you say in rejoinder, voice trembling. “You show up looking like you’ve just escaped a fire. You don’t answer calls. You don’t explain anything. Don’t you think that drives me crazy?”

“I’ve been telling you—”

“Clark, it’s not about you saying it! It’s about me believing it. And you don’t exactly make that easy.”

“The real problem here is that you don’t trust me.”

“You think I want to be like this? You think I like doubting people when they’re kind to me? Well, I’m sorry,” you snap, the words coated in sarcasm, a desperate defense. “Would you like me to book a therapy session mid-dessert?”

“Maybe you should,” he agrees—and the moment he does, his shoulders slump, a quiet wave of regret washing over his face.

Biting your tongue, you carry your plates to the table, placing them down on the wooden surface. He stays in the kitchen, breathing hard.

“I’m sorry,” he says again, softer now. “I just— I don’t know how to do this when you already assume I’m going to leave.”

“I’m not assuming,” you say, barely a whisper, sitting down at the table. “I’m just preparing for what usually happens.”

“You’re staring at me like I’m about to vanish.”

You blink, wounded by his accuracy. “Because people do. They do that.”

“I’m not people!” he exclaims, suddenly louder, cracking with what you perceive as frustration. His fists clench at his sides, knuckles white, though he remains rooted in place. "I’m me. And I’m standing right here, aren’t I?"

“For now. Who knows if something else will come up?”

Something cracks in him then. He exhales a sharp sound of utter defeat. His blue eyes dart around the kitchen, looking everywhere but at you, like he suddenly doesn’t know where to put his hands. With a jerky motion, he turns abruptly and moves to the couch, grabbing his bag, and after a quiet clink, he places the set of keys you gave him—your apartment keys— on the table.

He doesn't look back at them. Or at you. “Okay,” he mutters under his breath. “Okay.”

“Clark—” you start, a desperate plea forming in your throat.

“Thank you for the food,” he says, slinging the bag over his shoulder. “I’m sure it’s great.”

Then the door clicks again, and he’s gone.

The Daily Planet office, once a source of nervous excitement, now feels like the perfect stage for an excruciating play, where every creak of a chair, every muffled phone call, and every far-off laugh from the newsroom, feels amplified.

One day bleeds into the next. Two become three. Three into four. Time unspools in quiet, colorless strands, and you and Clark don’t speak.

You develop a radar for him. The way his broad shoulders appear in the periphery of your vision when he walks past your desk. The clean scent that lingers for a moment too long in the air after he’s been near. The rustle of his coat, the click of his shoes.

Each tiny signal sends a fresh jolt through you, a cocktail of longing, hurt, and a futile sense of hope that he might just look at you differently.

He never does. His gaze, when it lands anywhere near your orbit, can be described as nothing more than fleeting. His profile, when you cast him a quick glance, is unreadable, stony. He still places your usual coffee beside your monitor. The one you haven’t asked for. The one you don’t touch.

It’s the careful avoidance of two people who know too much about each other, and yet, not enough.

Jimmy, bless his usually boisterous heart, is the first to notice the shift. The absence of his jokes feels heavier than any of his previous teasing. He watches you some mornings when you walk in—does a quick, puzzled double take—then looks away with a frown you’re not supposed to catch.

Your new routine includes staying late at the newsroom. Not because you’re more productive, but because being alone in the office feels better than being alone in your apartment. You stare at the same document for hours while words blur and sentences unravel in front of you.

But when your mind finally stills, it drifts to the article. The one you wrote about Superman. The one Clark urged you to show Perry.

You’d written it during a different time. A better one. It had come from a place of awe, from a belief that Superman was more than a shiny cape and strength—that he was what Metropolis aspired to be: a symbol of better days, of striving, of hope.

Now, hope feels like a language you’ve forgotten how to speak.

Today, you don’t believe in hope. You believe in a man who held you like he meant it, once, and can’t meet your eyes now.

Nevertheless, you print the article, not really knowing why. Maybe because it’s the only thing in this building that still feels like it belongs to you.

Gathering the pages, you breathe in, hold it, let it out. Outside Perry’s office, you linger for a full minute before knocking.

His office is its usual chaos: tottering stacks of newspapers, coffee cups in varying states of decay, and the smell of old cigar smoke clinging to the walls like wallpaper.

“Well, don’t just stand there,” he grunts. “What’ve you got?”

You step inside slowly, article in hand, your grip faltering slightly as you set it down on his desk. “I know this isn’t what I was assigned, but I’ve been… working on something for the past weeks.”

He squints at you. “You been using our electricity for your side projects?”

“No! I—I wrote it at home. I swear.”

He huffs, puts on his reading glasses, and begins scanning the first page. You try not to stare at him, but it’s impossible. Your eyes cling to every twitch in his jaw, every slight narrowing of his eyes.

His face gives away nothing, and you brace for the worst. That it’s too sentimental. Too soft. Too young.

Finally, he leans back, lifting his chin and pinning you with a piercing look. “Do you like it?”

You blink owlishly. “Why are you asking me?”

“Because I want to know.”

“It’s not up to me,” you deflect. “You’re the one who decides if it runs.”

“I know that. But you wouldn’t bring me something you didn’t believe in. So I’ll ask again: are you proud of it? Do you think it belongs in the columns of this paper?”

For a moment, your throat closes up. You hadn’t realized how deeply you’d buried your own opinion. You’d been so focused on disappearing, on not making noise, not taking up space—especially this week—that you forgot to consider what you thought of your own work.

Perry’s looking at you like he’s not going to breathe until you answer.

So you speak, nodding in agreement, and right after adding, “I believe people will find it comforting.”

“Then you know what comes next.”

Your confidence may not be at its best, neither is your hope, but this is enough. At least to keep writing, to walk back to your desk.

It’s enough to make it to tomorrow.

Sleep won’t come.

You’ve tried everything: writing until your hand cramped, scrolling endlessly, even lying on the floor like a starfish, begging the ceiling to knock you out. Meditation felt like self-punishment tonight. Silence only made the memories louder.

So you call him. Once, twice, but you’re met with nothing else than his voicemail. You don’t leave a message. What would you even say? Hi, I know you said you cared about me and then walked out of my apartment looking like you were breaking from the inside out, but I miss you and I can’t breathe right now, and can you please just—

You decide to hang up, tossing your phone onto the couch and flicking on the television. Static. Infomercials. Cartoons. Some old film from the 1940s.

And then—Lois Lane’s voice. The screen flickers to life, showing a live, chaotic feed. A shaky handheld shot from a rooftop shows a scene near Metropolis General Hospital. A glowing creature, a blur of silver and blue and fury, throws what looks like an empty city bus like it’s paper. A streetlamp explodes and sirens scream in the distance.

It all makes you wonder where Superman is.

He’s not flying in for a rescue, not beaming reassuring smiles, not waving at kids from the sky. He’s in the dirt, bloodied at the temple, gritting his teeth as he lifts a half-crushed ambulance off the street.

You sit up straight, your heart climbing to your throat.

Lois’s voice crackles through the footage: “—been a difficult few weeks for Metropolis’s hero. Fans online have pointed out the change in his demeanor: less smiling, more… focused. Almost withdrawn. We’ve reached out to the authorities—”

It’s physically impossible for you to hear the rest because you’re entranced watching him. He’s moving like someone who hasn’t slept in days. Fighting like he doesn’t care if he gets hurt.

You can’t look away.

The camera pans wildly as Superman lunges forward, slamming his shoulder into the creature’s ribs with a sound that resembles crumbling concrete. There’s a fresh gash across his cheekbone, his hair disheveled, not in the windswept, magazine-cover kind of way, but genuinely messy: flattened in places, curling in others, soaked with sweat.

For the first time, you’re not watching Superman. You’re watching someone else. Someone who looks like—

No. No, that would be insane. The idea is so preposterous, your mind rejects it, but the seed of recognition has been planted. It can't be. Not him.

Once again, Lois’s voice cuts through the footage, her tone sharper now, edged with that reporter’s concern she usually hides under cool professionalism.

“Superman was spotted fighting alone for nearly half an hour before backup arrived. And while officials say the Justice Gang is expected to contain the situation soon, many are asking the same question: what happens when Superman is no longer invincible? What happens when he burns out?”

Staring at the screen, you contemplate his eyes flickering up for a second—just a second—like he’s heard something above the noise. And they’re blue. The exact kind of blue that’s filled your mornings for the last three months.

Your breath stutters. The camera angle shifts. This time, it shows his jaw flexing as he takes another hit, wiping the blood from his lip with the back of his hand.

You’ve seen that gesture. Too many times. “No,” you whisper out loud. “No, that’s not possible.”

You’re already moving, with your heart in your mouth. You don’t even know what you’re reaching for at first, until your hand brushes something at the back of the drawer beneath your TV. It’s a pair of old prescription glasses you never quite got used to, the ones you always said gave you headaches.

Holding them up, you hover them in front of the TV, and your world rearranges itself.

There he is.

Clark.

Clark, with that same square jaw, that same tilt of his mouth when he’s gritting through something.

Clark, who stammers when he’s nervous, who brings you coffee even when you won’t drink it.

Clark, whose shoulders you could rest your whole weight on—not only because he’s strong, but because he’s been carrying the sky for so long and somehow still made room for you.

Clark, who sat next to you on the stairwell that day when you felt like quitting.

Clark, whose kindness never felt performative, who looked at you like you were worth listening to even when you were barely making sense.

Clark, who vanishes into smoke and ash and headlines. Who leaves through the fire escape and returns hours later. Who smiled at you across the office like it meant something, and maybe it did, maybe it always did—but now you know the cost of that smile.

If you lower the glasses, he’s Superman again.

If you lift them… it’s the Clark you know.

They’re the same man. Two halves of a single truth.

“Oh my God,” you whisper again, this time not out of disbelief, but something much deeper. Something hollow and shattering.

Lois’s voice keeps going, but it’s background noise now, a murmur beneath the ringing in your ears.

You sit back on the couch, eyes locked on the screen, heart thudding like a trapped bird. Every memory starts to rearrange itself, clicking into a terrifying, undeniable pattern. His sudden disappearances. The uncanny way he knew you weren’t hurt that night at the bar. The tension in his voice each time he apologized for being late. The way he’d always kiss you like it was the last time he’d ever get to.

The truth has slipped through a crack you never saw until now, and there’s no unseeing it. He was lying to you, but not in a cruel way. He was just trying to protect you.

The monster finally goes down in a shuddering collapse of concrete and bone. The camera shakes violently, jolting as dust swallows the scene, and then steadies just in time to catch Superman—or Clark—landing hard on one knee.

Green Lantern, Mr Terrific and Hawkgirl all converge around him, bruised and dust-streaked, checking in on each other. But your eyes won’t leave his face. There’s a scratch across his brow along with many others. His mouth twitches into a faint smile as the crowd outside the hospital begins to clap, nodding at them. He doesn’t need to say anything, at least not right now.

For one suspended second, his gaze falls directly into the camera lens, and it’s not the kind of look meant for press or headlines or statues carved in his honor. It’s private, and heavy, and it feels like he’s looking straight into your apartment, straight through the screen.

Straight through you.

Lois’s voice snaps back into focus: “Metropolis, you can rest easy tonight. For now, Superman and the Justice League have subdued the threat.”

You press a hand to your mouth, the glow from the television casting his silhouette across your walls, larger than life, yet so impossibly familiar now it almost hurts to look.

He steps away from the others. Sirens flash red against his suit, casting ripples of color through the smoke. A few children break from the crowd, darting past yellow caution tape, their small arms wrapping around his legs in awe-struck gratitude. He kneels momentarily, accepting their hugs with the kind of gentleness that breaks you open.

You can’t hear what he says to them, but it softens their faces. One of them gives him a flower. Another just holds his hand.

Then, without fanfare, he lifts off the ground, launching himself into the sky. The wind kicks up rubble, camera crews duck, the picture shakes, and he vanishes into the sky like he was never really there.

Gone.

You stare at the empty space he left behind on the screen, breath snagged in your lungs.

“Where are you going?” you mumble, reaching for the screen. “Where are you—”

The muted clatter of ceramic on concrete interrupts your rambling.

Slowly, you turn your head to your balcony, afraid of what you’ll find. Out past your window, a potted lavender plant lies cracked and wilting. Clark’s standing there, just outside the glass. “I’m sorry,” he says, voice muffled, wincing is he gestures to the shattered pot at his feet. “I didn’t calculate the landing right.”

Rooted to the floor, as if your feet have been sealed to the carpet, you stare at him through the glass as if he’s a hologram. A turbulent mixture of strange feelings clashes inside you, and you fight them back, stepping to the side as you open the window. His boots scuff against the floorboards, dragging slightly as he steps inside

At first, he can’t seem to bring himself to look at you directly. He paces around the living room, running his hands through his hair, sighing like someone who’s rehearsed this moment a thousand times and still doesn’t know where to begin.

“Clark—”

“This is why I disappear all the time,” he blurts, abruptly stopping in front of the television. “Why I cancel our plans. Why I show up late, or leave before I’m supposed to, or text you lame excuses like ‘Sorry, got held up’ when I’m halfway across the planet.”

It’s hard to make the connection. The leap between the man who fumbles with his tie and tells bad puns over takeout, and the mythological figure on screen who bends steel and outruns storms, whose every move seems broadcast across the globe.

They’re two versions of a whole you never imagined could overlap. And yet… it makes sense, somehow. Of course Clark would be Superman. A man so genuine, so generous, who expects for nothing and finds the way to see beauty in rusted scraps and broken things—who better to carry the weight of hope?

“I should’ve told you sooner. God, I meant to. I wanted to, I swear. I was going to, that night after I read your article. You were sitting there, talking about Superman like he was some kind of miracle and I just—” He breaks off, shaking his head. “It got too easy to pretend I could have both. Be with you. Protect you. Keep it all going without having to risk what we had.”

Interrupting him now would feel like an act of pure cruelty. You see the disoriented anguish in his gaze, the way his fists clench and unclench with each passing second, how desperately he seems to need to unburden himself.

You wonder what would’ve happened if, instead of crashing onto your balcony and shattering a pot in the process, he had simply returned to his own apartment. Would the love you hold for him feel so present in any other scenario?

“I know this is a lot to process, but I came to understand something about you.” His voice holds such certainty it frightens you, because lately it feels like everyone else can decipher what’s happening to you except for yourself. “You think you’re just this temporary thing, because you don’t see yourself the way I do. That’s why you’re always bracing for things to fall apart.”

You want to explain yourself, to give a reason for your not-at-all-desirable behavior, but you realize you can’t in this moment. Not when honesty radiates from him like heat.

In the blink of an eye, he’s holding your hands in his, his grip gentle yet firm, and he brings them to his lips to press a short, tender kiss to the back of them.

“I can’t seem to make sense of it. I’ve tried. But it’s been impossible for me to find a single reason why you should believe that about yourself.” You brush a tentative finger along his injured cheekbone, stopping just before you swipe dried blood, though he still offers a soft smile. His gaze is so profoundly tender you wonder if this is the first time you're truly contemplating the depth behind them.  “I’m in love with you. And if I could show you your reflection through my eyes for one day, you’d understand why you’re the first thing I think about when I wake up and the last thing before I fall asleep.”

You never thought this type of experience could be granted to you. The belief that such moments were reserved for certain people feels now demystified. Perhaps no other moment in your life could’ve prepared you for this.

Of all the unrealistic scenarios you'd concocted over the years, mostly in your adolescence, when fantasies of a pure and overwhelming love did nothing but numb you, you never would’ve imagined someone would love you in this way, declaring their love for you so sincerely.

The need to get rid of the blood on his face gnaws at you, and you find yourself gently tugging him towards the kitchen, neither of you saying a word. You search for a clean dishcloth in some forgotten drawer, holding it under the faucet for a few seconds. Once it’s dampened, you press it softly against the bruised areas on his lip and cheek.

He tries not to move, placing both hands flat on the counter behind you, caging you with his whole frame. This scene reminds you of the last time you were both here, the day that marked two months of seeing each other.

A day to forget, actually, because it devolved into a complete disaster.

“I got used to living with this voice in my head that sabotages me. I don’t know when it started. Part of me thinks it’s always been there. Sometimes it’s quieter. Other times, it’s so loud I can’t think straight. But I’ve never been able to shut it up completely.”

You take a shaky breath, putting down the cloth once it’s no longer useful. Clark doesn’t pull away, nor does he move closer. He remains right where he is, poised, his entire being waiting for what you’ll say next.

“I never feel like I deserve the good stuff that happens to me. I wish I did. God, I do. Perry even said he’s publishing the article I wrote and I still have to convince myself he’s not just doing it out of pity—”

His eyebrows lift, and he can’t help but cut you off. Wait—really? He’s publishing it?” A broad, genuine smile blooms on his face, almost illuminating the dimness of your apartment.  “That’s amazing!”

“Thank you. I was planning on telling you, but—you know.” Your gaze drifts to the symbol on his suit, and you trace it with a tentative finger, the synthetic material feeling utterly strange under your touch. “The thing is I overthink everything. Always have. And I don’t know if you’ll think I’m crazy or exhausting or whatever, but I can’t control it. I wish I could. So every time you went away, when you started canceling plans or looking at me like you were somewhere else entirely, I got scared.”

So this is what it feels like to truly open your heart to another soul.

“I thought that voice was right, and that you were pulling away because you regretted it because you’d realized I wasn’t worth the trouble. And maybe you just didn’t know how to tell me, since we work together, and we share the same friends. Plus, things between us have been—” Once again, your words tangle, and you internally blame the raw emotionality of the moment.  “I can’t get away from myself, Clark. But other people? They can walk away. And I thought that’s what you were doing.

There’s a pause, and his advice seems to be: “Don’t trust your brain.”

“What do you mean—”

“Don’t believe everything it tells you. I mean it. If you need me to tell you I love you, I will. If you need me to tell you how beautiful and sweet you are, I’ll do that too, and happily. Because I want to help you. It’s not like I can spare you from those thoughts—believe me, I would’ve if there were a way. The least I can do is make you realize that voice in your head isn’t always right.”

Some things cannot be put into words, and you simply have to act in their name. You kiss him, your arms finding their way around his neck, pulling him as close as possible as you smile against his lips, trying not to generate any pressure where he’s hurt as you say, “Shit, I love you so much.”

It’s incredible how one can transition from immense sadness to something that must closely resemble the deepest tranquility ever known to humankind. He holds your face between his hands, his thumbs caressing your cheeks with such fondness it could make you sick. You don’t know how someone can look so happy and so overwhelmed at once. “Say that again.”

“I love you.”

“Again. Please.”

You kiss him between each word, letting them stretch longer and deeper until your mouths can’t bear to part. “I. Love. You.”

He tilts your face toward his, his hand cradling the back of your head as if he’s afraid you’ll float away. “Please tell me your brain’s not saying anything right now.”

“It’s been surprisingly quiet.”

“Then let’s keep it that way.”

You make a strangled noise as the kiss turns fierce, not knowing exactly where to put your hands. There’s so much you want to do, so much of him you want to touch and skin to trace with your fingers. That simmering desire had grown between you both, never quite breaking through the surface. Not because you didn’t one want it, but because you'd asked him to hold back.

Remember that tiny voice in your brain? The mean one? That one had told you several times that you had to wait a certain amount of time before sleeping with him. Because if you didn’t, if you got too close too soon, he might realize he wasn’t into you. Physically speaking. And you had done just that: waited.

But now, all patience shatters. There’s no room for cautious stretching of things anymore, not when the man you love, the one you’ve been pining for months, stands before you

He doesn’t get the hint when you kiss back or when your teeth nip at the skin of his throat, not until you take his hands, which are resting politely on your lower back, and push them lower, guiding them up to cup your ass through the layers of clothing.

You hear the way he breathes out, a grunt caught somewhere between surprise and shock, as you shift even closer and speak softly over his lips. “I want to do it. Tonight.”

“Are you sure? Because we could totally—”

“Clark, stop being such a gentleman.” You tug him toward the couch and fall back onto it, kicking your shoes off without grace or ceremony, your heart gallops with anticipation as you stretch out, swallowing hard.“I’d like you to touch me, then I’d like to return the favor, and then I want you to fuck me. In that specific order,” you admit. So as not to lose the habit, you whisper the word that never fails to soften his expression: “Please.”

You notice the impressive bulge straining at the front of his suit, and he nods his head in earnest, one of his large hands pushing your thighs open. “Yeah. I can do that.”

Electricity now runs through your veins, each part of you igniting under his hands as he touches you. He doesn’t rush. Doesn’t rip your clothes off or fall into cliché. He wants to take his time with you, grazing the soft curve where your neck meets your shoulder. As his hair slips through your fingers like silk, you clutch at him, sighing into his touch. Your eyes flutter open to ask him: “Does the suit stay on?”

“Well, that depends,” he replies, lifting his head and meeting your wanting gaze. “Does it—turn you on?”

A low fire spirals in the pit of your stomach, your chest heaving with a shaky inhale. “It’s certainly doing the job.”

“So first you write about Superman like a professional journalist…” he trails off, his palm smoothing his palm over your stomach to undo the button of your jeans with ease, lowering the zipper of your jeans millimeter by millimeter, “... and now you get wet for him?”

Wiggling your hips to help him peel off your pants more easily, you gape at the ceiling momentarily. “I’m sorry. Do my inappropriate thoughts bother him?”

“I actually believe he’d very pleased, to be fair,” he murmurs, settling on the couch beside you. His hand returns, slower this time, tracing over the cotton that clings to your heat. “You see, he’s a simple man. Safe to say he’d really like you.”

Clark teases his thumb to your clit through the cotton and your back arches from the couch. “Clark, I—”

“I’ll go slow.” He presses his lips against yours briefly, running the length of his nose along yours, your skin buzzing where it brushes his. “Do you trust me?” You nod, unable to speak, struggling to keep your eyes open. He presses against you again, this time with purpose. Slow, deliberate circles over your clit, his free hand curling around your waist to keep you steady as you writhe beneath him, holding you down to the earth. “Then relax. I’ve got you.”

You weren’t a virgin, but he’s making you feel like one. Or maybe something even more tender than that, like you’re being touched properly for the first time in your life. Every graze of his fingers sends heat crawling under your skin, his ministrations alone having you whimpering into his neck, tugging at his hair.

“Take them off,” you beg, your hips bucking up to meet him, chasing his hand every time he attempts to pull away, needing more. It’s more of an instinct at this point.

He doesn’t make you ask twice, your underwear being gone in a flash and ending up dangling from one foot. He parts your folds, and you see his eyes darken with unfiltered awe, staring for a beat longer than expected. “Jesus,” he mutters, almost to himself. “You’re gorgeous

Clark spreads your slick across your swollen flesh, his long fingers reverent in their exploration, never faltering. When he circles your clit again, raw and bare now, you jolt, the pleasure pulsing bright and fast, like you’re going to blow up at any given moment.

He seems to enjoy watching you squirm, listening to the whimpers torn from your throat. “You’ve got no idea how hot you look right now,” he pants beside your ear, voice ragged and affected by the noises he keeps pulling out of you. His own hips grind lazily against your thigh, the pressure of his cock unmistakable, rock hard behind the fabric. “I want to see you come.”

“Just—keep doing whatever you’re doing,” you gasp, clinging to his arm and biting back a moan when he kisses you languidly. A new wave of warmth runs under your skin, and you swear you can feel your blood rushing south. “Clark, I’m—don’t you dare stop.”

Your words spur him on, and he tightens the circles, faster now, his other hand closing around your inner thigh for leverage. That ache in your belly sharpens to a desperate pressure, and your whole body looms into him as if drawn to gravity itself.

“Oh my God—Clark—” You grip his shoulder, nails scrapping against the harsh material of his suit. It’s too much and not enough, and every time he flicks just right, you’re launched impossibly higher. You’re a panting mess, legs starting to tremble as pleasure coils tight in your gut.

“Come on, you’re almost there,” he encourages you, kissing your sweaty forehead. “You’re doing so good. Let go, baby.”

You break. It starts at your core, deep and volcanic, spreading like a spark catching on dry leaves. Your thighs clamp around his hand, head thrown back as the orgasm ripples through you, crying out his name with a sound borderline raw and unrestrained. He doesn't stop until your hips stop jerking and your back settles against the couch again, twitching with aftershocks.

You’re left gasping, eyes blurry, vision haloed in white. “I—” you try to speak, but your voice fails, coming out broken. Instead, you let out a sigh. “Jesus.”

He presses a kiss to your shoulder, then slowly works his way up to your mouth.  “I came as well. Mentally.”

A disbelieving laugh bubbles out of you, and you swat at his face, covering your eyes with your forearm. You’re about to sit until you feel his breath ghost across your belly, shoving your shirt further up. You rake your hand through his fringe, brushing it back, hissing when his lips graze the patch of skin just above your clit. “Are you—”

“It’d be stupid not to take the opportunity.” He finds your legs and places them over his shoulders, effortlessly dragging your body to the edge of the couch, kneeling by the carpet and between your thighs, his large hands framing your hips.

Clark licks a broad stripe up your folds, collecting your arousal on his tongue, and you cry out, shoulders slumping forward from the overstimulation, still sensitive from your first orgasm. Yet he peers up at you with feigned innocence, kneading the flesh of your thighs. “I can stop if you want me to,” he says, a husky edge to his usual tone.

“Don’t want you to,” you purr, guiding his mouth to where you need him the most. “Make me feel good.”

Devotedly, devastatingly even, he takes your words to heart, lapping at your clit with careful, coaxing pressure, sometimes flicking with the pointed tip of his tongue, sometimes flattening it to trace languid strokes. He groans at the taste of you, sinking a finger into your heat and making you clench instinctively around the intrusion.

“It’s tight in here,” he ponders aloud, not sparing you a single glance, much more preoccupied with the way you’re squeezing him. “We’ll have to see if I’ll fit.”

You mean to laugh, but it comes out as more of a sob the moment he adds another finger to the equation, and you can hear every single squelching sound your cunt makes in response to his movements.

“God, it feels—” Your voice cracks as his lips seal over your clit again, drawing firm circles around it, the pacing of his digits inside you forcing you to alternate your attention. “So good, Clark. You’re being so good to me.”

It’s not that you’re just saying these things out of pocket. You’ve noticed he likes it, likes being praised. Not only in this context, where he has his head buried between your legs, but it usually happened whenever he did something right, and you would be there, praising him, telling him he’d done a great job.

His pupils would dilate a little, and he’d always shut you up with a kiss, but he can’t right now. He seems to be destined to hear and acknowledge your words, nearly rutting into the edge of the couch the more you say. His desperation sets something alight in you, and it only makes you want to explore that side of him even more.

“If you make me come again, I’ll suck your cock,” you mumble, dragging your nails lightly along his scalp. You don’t miss how his shoulders stiffen through the suit, and he pushes his face deeper into your core. “I can’t wait to have you in my mouth,” you add, smiling through the haze.

“What’s got you this chatty, huh?” He pumps his fingers deeper, faster, a relentless rhythm designed to shatter your composure. His teeth scrape along the inside of your right thigh, seemingly enjoying the noise that reverberates in your chest as he bites gently on it. “You have Superman right here with you and all you do is talk.”

Three of Clark’s fingers stretch you out and you can’t no longer think straight. Neither can you breathe, having utterly forgotten how consonants and vowels combine to form words.

This, it seems, is precisely what he intended: to have you reduced to a writhing, desperate mess that can’t stop mewling his name over and over. The questions, the teasing, all of it is obliterated by the rising tide of pure sensation as your world narrows to his touch and everything it means.

When you tell him you’re close, the ache coiling tight in your belly for the second time in the night, every nerve in your body lights up. He’s a man on a quest, who whimpers in unison with you the more your breath staggers.

He asks you to come on his tongue, because he wants to know exactly what it tastes like. Because he simply must. He’s been fantasizing about this, he confesses, about touching himself thinking of you, about how soft your skin looked in your work clothes, about—

Your orgasm tears through you, fast and overwhelming, and you cling to his shoulders, riding out the tremors. His fingers remain deep inside you, and he curves them to hit that sweet spot one last time before you tell him it’s too much. His hair is mussed where your fingers yanked it, his chin glistening with your essence, and you tug him closer to kiss him, tasting yourself in the aftermath.

Somehow, without even breaking the kiss, he manages to peel the suit from his body, letting it fall in a heap beside your shoes on the floor. All that’s left is the snug fabric of his underwear, and the sight of him nearly steals the breath from your lungs.

You trail a hand down his abdomen, fingertips brushing along the faint trail of hair beneath his navel until they meet the solid outline of his cock. You palm him softly through the fabric, feeling the twitch of need under your touch.

Now that he’s bare before you, no more slouchy coats hiding him away, you take in the rest of him. The defined lines of his chest, the softness at his waist, the tension coiled in his thighs. It takes everything in you not to outright stare, not to drool, although your mouth waters anyway.

By the time he’s lying back on the couch, you’ve taken his place, kneeling between his legs. He laces his fingers behind his head, muscles taut like he’s trying to anchor himself there, to stop his hips from jerking up on instinct.

You start slow, teasing. Your fingers wrap around his shaft, stroking him lazily as your lips press hot kisses to the tip. You circle your tongue around it, dipping into the slit just to hear what kind of sound you can pull from him.

He exhales like he’s in pain. Beautiful, tortured pain. You hesitate for a split second, uncertain—was that too much?

“Do it again,” he breathes, voice wrecked, his chest rising in uneven pulls of air. “Please… that—Jesus, that feels really good.”

And you want to please him. You want to give him everything, so you do it again.

The head disappears past your lips. He groans as you sink down a few inches, his hips tensing immediately, and you hum in satisfaction at the sharp hiss he lets slip. You take more of him, then a little bit more, until you’re jerking the rest of him off with your hand, saliva slicking your chin, your throat fluttering and eyes stinging every time he brushes the back of it.

Swallowing around him, your nails scratch the line of dark hair that leads below his navel. There’s nothing delicate about this. Not right now, not when he’s chanting your name like a prayer, not when you’re dizzy from the taste of him. His breathy moans echo in your ears, more intoxicating than anything else you’ve ever heard.

At some point, you glance up, and the eye contact nearly undoes you. Clark looks ruined, entirely entranced. His brow is furrowed tight, a deep crease between his eyes that might’ve read as frustration if you didn’t know better.

To some stranger, he might even appear to be angry. His jaw is clenched, lips parted as if he’s struggling to form coherent thoughts. His hips tremble under your palms, twitching like every nerve in his body is firing at once. He’s holding himself still with impossible effort, his thighs taut, hands clawed into the couch cushions to stop from thrusting up into your mouth.

“Perhaps—” His voice is hoarse, and he swallows hard. “Perhaps we should stop.”

You slow your pace but don’t let go.

“I don’t want to finish yet,” he groans, neck strained, his composure cracking under the tension. “Not this fast. I want to last. I want—” He cuts himself off with a hiss when you press a wet kiss to the flushed head again, pulling back the foreskin. “God, I just want more time with you like this.

You keep your hand wrapped around him, dragging your palm slow and tight from base to tip, letting your thumb swirl over the sensitive slit. His hips twitch again, betraying how close he really is.

“But can’t Superman come twice?” you ask, tilting your head to the side. He blinks, dazed, not fully registering the meaning of your words at first. You give him another firm stroke and watch his brows knit in pleasure. “It’s been a hard day.”

“Baby, I swear—”

“Didn’t you save an entire hospital tonight?” you whisper, leaning in to mouth at his hipbone. “Kept it from collapsing?”

“Yeah,” he grunts. “Yeah, I—yes.”

“Then you deserve it.”

“But twice?”

“You heard it right. Once in my mouth, just like this, and then again inside me.”

Clark makes a sound that’s somewhere between a gasp and a whimper. His arms collapse from behind his head, hands flying to his face, shielding himself from how hard words just hit him.

“Oh my God,” he mumbles, palms pressed to his eyes. “You can’t say things like that.”

“Why not?” you inquire, jerking him a little faster now. “You’re blushing.”

“I’m not—” he lies, breath catching when your lips part around his cock once again, still not getting used to the feeling. “I just—I’m so close.”

One of his hands finds your hair, smoothing it back from your face with a gentleness that makes your heart ache. He cups the back of your head as if he’s holding something sacred, brushing his thumb along your temple as his other hand clenches the couch cushion.

“You’re unreal,” he murmurs, eyes locked on your movements, still stroking your hair. “You don’t—you don’t even know what you do to me. You’re gonna be the death of me.”

Your hand tightens around his base just a little, urging him closer to the edge. He grits his teeth, unable to hold on any longer.

“I’m sorry—be careful, I’m gonna—”

He empties his load into your mouth, hips stuttering in jerky thrusts. His entire body tenses beneath you, trembling as the pleasure crashes through him, head tipped back against the couch. Clark comes for what feels like ages, pulse after pulse of heavy release filling your mouth, and you take it all, letting the salty taste land on your tongue and flood your senses.

Shortly after, everything moves in a blur. Clark insists that the couch isn’t ideal for what’s about to happen. Something about angles, support, long-term consequences for your spine. You, naturally, insist you’re perfectly fine where you are.

In the end, the one with super strength settles the debate. Which is to say: he wins. He lifts you effortlessly into his arms and carries you to the bedroom like it’s the most obvious solution. The couch had been fine. Serviceable, even, but it was time for an upgrade.

Now, sprawled across your bed, you kiss beneath the warm press of blankets. Pre-cum smears over your stomach, leaking from him in needy dribbles as he hovers above you, holding his weight on his forearms, cradling your face between his hands.

His voice is low.  “Just to be clear. We’re not using a…?”

“Condom?”

He nods, cheeks flushed. “Yeah.”

“I told you you could come inside me.”

That stuns him into silence. “Are you sure? Want me to—go buy some?” he manages, faltering a little.

“Some?” you echo, amused. Your gaze dips down his body, landing on the leaking head of his cock, his hips twitching as if straining to stay still. “I’m on birth control,” you murmur.

He blinks, his Adam’s apple bobbing. You can almost hear the gears in his head grinding, trying to decide whether or not you’re serious.

“I mean it. It wasn’t for sexual purposes in the beginning. I’ve been on the pill for years. But if it makes you uncomfortable—”

“What exactly makes you think I don’t want this?”

“Say that to your face. You’re looking at me like I just proposed a blood pact.”

Huffing a breath, he pulls back enough to meet your eyes. “So… we’re doing it. Like this.”

“Yes.”

“Bare.”

“Would you like to see my birth certificate?”

He lets out a strangled laugh, one hand sliding down to part you gently. His fingers glide through your folds, collecting your slick to lube himself up. Just as he’s about to wretch your entrance, he pauses, brows drawn tight. “Ready?”

“I’ve been ready since we left the couch.”

“You can’t be joking when I’m this close to being inside you.”

“Clark,” you plead, lifting your hips. “Please, just—”

He pushes in.

At first, it’s just the tip. The stretch is instant, unavoidable, and you throw your head back, nearly knocking into the headboard.

“Easy,” he grits out. “Be careful.” His thighs tremble where they cage you in, and he slides in another inch, groaning through clenched teeth.

“Th-that’s—fuck—” Your mouth hangs agape briefly before you shut it again. You can’t even think, eyes landing on where your bodies meet, and his whole frame looks huge on top of you, the sight alone making you whimper. “Clark, please—”

“Wait.” He stills, tearing his gaze away from you, squeezing his eyes shut. “I need a second.”

“Want me to kiss you?”

He lifts his head slightly. “Are you the devil?”

You bite your lip, fingers digging into the muscles of his lower back. “What are you doing? Counting?”

“To a million.” He buries his face in your neck, forehead damp against your skin, feeding the rest of himself into you in shallow thrusts, and the final stretch burns as he bottoms out. “You’re impossible sometimes,” he growls against your skin, groaning as you clench around him. “Jesus, you’re still so tight. I don’t even—I don’t know how to move.”

A desperate sound slips from your lips when his mouth brushes behind your ear. His hand strokes up your thigh, bending you slightly beneath him, folding you open. “You’re so big.”

His arm trembles beside your head. A bead of sweat trails down his temple as you comb your fingers into his hair. “Don’t say that,” he pants.

“Why not?”

“Because—” he pulls back, just the head left inside, “—you’re playing with fire.” And then he slams his hips forward, hard, drawing a strangled cry from your throat. “I usually like how you always have something to say, but right now? I just want to fuck you. If that’s okay with you.”

It’s official: your long, unplanned celibacy ends here. Courtesy of Superman himself.

As if he’s learning you by heart, each thrust is measured and unhurried, his hips rolling into yours with a careful intent and setting their own tempo, savoring the way your bodies fit, the subtle give and take of your curves.

Your breath hitches when he finds it: that angle, that precise, exquisite spot inside you, and your legs instinctively tighten around his waist in response. A groan slips from him when your walls flutter around him in gratitude.

He starts to unravel. His body writhes against yours with an instinct he hadn’t dared show before now, his muscles working as he moves deeper, hungrier, shedding the last vestiges of his gentle restraint. You press your chest to his, fingers splayed across the flex of his back, memorizing the slope of his spine, the tremble in his arms as he struggles to hold himself back. Every sound he makes, every choked whimper, every whine he later tries to mask, you trap in your memory like precious treasure.

The moment he buries himself to the hilt, you swear you’re going to snap in half. The fullness is dizzying, and you cry out his name in a quiet plea. His lips graze your cheek, his hand smoothing your hair as he whispers something you can’t quite catch, lost in the roar of blood in your ears.

It’s not rushed at all. He’s learning you second by second, mapping your responses, and each time he shifts the angle or tilts your pelvis just so, it steals another moan from you. He knows now. Where to press, where to grind, where to thrust until your feet curl and your throat aches from trying to hold in the sounds.

“Clark,” you mewl, voice torn and trembling. A strand of his hair, dark and damp, sticks to the shell of your ear. He shifts to kiss you there and then stills, forehead resting against yours.

“I thought I’d lost you,” he chokes out, the words raw and fragile in comparison to your heated skin.

The confession pierces you with more precision than anything else tonight. Your body is still pulsing around him, hips still twitching and asking for more, but your heart stutters, aching with sudden clarity.

You don’t know if he means that night you stopped talking, the agonizing silence between you. If he means the days you went quiet and he watched from afar. You cradle his face in both hands, your thumbs tracing the sharp lines of his cheekbones, forcing him to peer down at you. His pupils are blown, his mouth swollen from all the kissing, and you feel a pang in your chest because he’s never looked so vulnerably human.

“You didn’t. I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.”

His throat bobs, and pushes in again, quivering, a silent affirmation of your words.

It’s like something breaks open inside him. The last of his control gives way.

His thrusts get rougher, more insistent, his mouth finding yours mid-moan, and you kiss him through the frantic rhythm, through the way his hand slides between your sticky bodies to circle your clit, hoping to make you fall apart. He needs this—needs you to come around him, to feel you clench and call his name and prove to him you’re his. That you chose him. That you’re still here. That you're real.

You’re close. So close that the precipice looms. “Don’t stop,” you gasp, clawing at his shoulders, needing something to hold onto.

“I won’t. I won’t—” His groan catches in his throat, escaping as a raw whisper. “You feel so good. You’re perfect. Can’t believe you’re letting me do this to you.”

The pressure builds so fast it becomes borderline unbearable. Heat coils in your belly, every muscle taut as a bowstring, straining toward release.

“I—Clark—I—” Your body arches, back lifting off the bed.

“Come on,” he begs, short of breath, his hips grinding relentlessly. “Come for me. I want to feel you.”

And when it hits, it crashes. Your orgasm blindsides you, flashing behind your eyelids, and your mouth falls open in a silent scream, body trembling violently under him as incandescent pleasure tears through you like a searing current. Your walls spasm around him, squeezing, and he cries out a primal sound of absolute abandon before surging forward with a final thrust and spurting his release inside you.

It’s messy. It’s beautiful and overwhelming and glorious.

He collapses, half on top of you, still deeply buried, his body spamming in unison with yours. You’re both left shaking and sweating, but in the most magnificent way.

Clark plants a series of tender kisses to the valley between your breasts, the soft underside of your jaw, the corner of your mouth. “I didn’t know it could feel like this,” he murmurs, awe coloring every syllable.

You press your nose to his hairline, drawing in the scent of him. “Me neither,” you reply, contentment curling in your chest.

He simply stays there, wrapped around you, his weight a comforting anchor. The moment stretches and neither of you dares speak too loud for a while. It’s the kind of silence that means everything.

Eventually, he lifts his head just enough to meet your gaze. His lashes are damp, a quiet sigh leaving him, and with an almost reluctant pull, he finally shifts, easing himself out of you. The sudden emptiness is palpable, an ache that makes you want to reach for him again, but he’s already moving, surprisingly graceful as he rises. He glances around your bedroom, then towards the bathroom.

“Want me to get a towel?” he asks, gesturing vaguely between your legs. “A wet one, ideally.”

You blink, chest lifting with a giggle. “Oh, right. Yeah, bathroom cabinet, bottom shelf.” You watch him disappear, the absurdity of the moment deeply endearing. He emerges a moment later, a small hand towel clutched in his fist, already damp, and he kneels back between your legs, cleaning you.

The warm cloth against your skin sends a fresh shiver through you, but it’s his focused, unselfconscious tenderness that melts your insides. He looks up, an apologetic grimace on his face. “I just realized I don’t exactly have a change of clothes on me.”

You trace his jaw, the curve of his ear. “Well, I mean,” you muse, a playful smirk tugging at your lips, “we could always see how you look in my pajamas. I’m sure my oversized college sweatshirt would be… form-fitting.”

“I don't think you’re ready for that sight.” He pats your inner thigh, then rises, tossing it to the side. “Come on. Let’s get into bed.”

You slide under the blankets, the silk against your bare skin a welcoming sensation. He joins you immediately, the mattress dipping under his weight, and pulls you close, your bodies spooning, limbs tangling. His arm finds its way around your waist, his hand splayed flat against your stomach. Your fingers twine with his, and your leg hooks over his, pressing your hip to his.

There’s a moment in which you turn your head on the pillow, meeting his eyes in the dim light. He now lies on his side, facing you, one hand tucked beneath his head.

“I love you,” you say again, the words unbidden.

A smile spreads across his face, lighting up his tired eyes. He pulls you impossibly closer, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead, then looks down at you. “You know those people who use songs as their alarm?”

“What does that have to do with what I just said?”

“They say you should always choose a song you’ll never get tired of.I don’t think I’ll ever get tired of hearing you say those words.”

“That… was a weird route to get there.”

He kisses the tip of your nose, lingering on your lips shortly after. “I’m just saying. You could say it every day. Every hour. And I’d never get sick of it.” His thumb strokes your hand and you melt into him, every molecule of your being sighing in tranquility. “By the way,” he says, his tone sounding hesitant, “I told my parents about you.”

You pull back, just slightly, enough to stare up at him, your eyebrows shooting to your hairline. “Wait. What?”

“It was like a week ago.”

“We weren’t even speaking.”

He lets out a small, sheepish chuckle. “I know. But I still thought about you all the time. My mom scolded me through the phone for not telling you the truth sooner.” His nose crinkles, probably remembering the call. “They said they’d really like to meet you someday.”

“So, our first trip together is going to be… Kansas?”

“Smallville,” he corrects proudly. “What can I say? I’m a traditional guy.”

“Well, to be a ‘traditional guy,’ you haven’t even asked me to be your girlfriend yet.”

“Oh. Right. I guess I—”

“Are you going to?”

“I—would you want to?”

You laugh, pulling him into a kiss. “You’re such a dork.”

When you break apart, he’s smiling—really smiling, the kind that lights up his whole face and carves deep dimples into his cheeks.

“So is that a yes?”

“Yes, Clark. I’ll be your girlfriend.”

“Okay. Good. Because I’m already very emotionally invested.”

At that moment, you snort into his chest. Sleep begins to pull at your limbs, heavy and soft, and your eyes flutter closed without resistance. His arms tucks your head beneath his chin, his breath steady against your hair, and for the first time in what feels like forever, your mind is quiet. No anxious spirals. No fear of him vanishing now that you’ve let your guard down. Just stillness.

Maybe it’s true, what the wise ones say: you’re never too much in the hands of the right person.

Somehow, it feels even truer in his.

“No,” you said, lips twitching. “I just wanted to know what it felt like to wear the most iconic glasses in Metropolis.” You tilted your head playfully, giving him a mock serious expression. “Do I look like a hard-hitting reporter now?”

He stared for a second longer than necessary, like his brain had short-circuited. “You… actually look really cute.”

“Cuter than you when you wear them?” you teased.

Clark laughed softly and shook his head, cheeks faintly pink. “You’re impossible.”

“Correct,” you replied without missing a beat.

He leaned across the table and carefully took the glasses back from you, brushing his fingers along your temple in a gentle, practiced way. Then, as if it were completely normal, he kissed you right on the nose.

You blinked, stunned into silence, while he settled the glasses back on his face like he hadn’t just short-circuited your nervous system with a barely-there kiss and an overly sincere smile.

And that was the beginning of it.

You started doing it all the time — at home, at the office, in line for coffee. You’d steal his glasses during movie night on the couch, or lean across your desks at work and swipe them with a grin. Clark would always blink, confused and squinting, and then smile like he’d been waiting for it. He’d take them back gently every time, with a kiss to your nose or cheek or forehead. It became a quiet ritual, something soft and wordless that filled the spaces between you. He never told you to stop.

What you didn’t know was that he loved it.

Every time you wore them, looking slightly ridiculous in frames too big for your face, he couldn’t look away. He thought you looked adorable — like a mischief-maker playing dress-up, like the person he loved most in the world, wearing a tiny piece of him. It made him feel seen. Known. Yours.

So when he came home one quiet Friday night, saw you curled on the couch in one of his flannels and his glasses perched on your nose while you scrolled through his laptop, something warm and uncontainable filled his chest.

“Hey, Smallville,” you said with a smirk, barely glancing up.

Clark walked in slowly, loosening his tie and setting his briefcase down. “Again?”

“Journalistic research,” you said, still clicking around his article drafts. “I’m checking for typos. Also, for potential puns. You committed at least three crimes of headline punning this week.”

“I thought I was getting better,” he said, slipping beside you on the couch. His hand found your knee, rubbing gentle circles.

“You are. But ‘Krypt-onite to Crime’ is a stretch, baby.”

“I was proud of that one,” he said with mock offense.

You grinned and adjusted his glasses on your nose. “By the way, these things still slide off my face. I’m beginning to think you’ve got superhero ears holding them up.”

He leaned in, brushing your hair back with a quiet smile. “They’re not built for someone as perfect as you.”

“You trying to butter me up so I’ll give them back?”

“Would it work?”

You turned toward him, eyes locked. “…Maybe.”

He leaned forward and, as always, kissed your nose before gently removing the glasses. You sighed dramatically and let him take them, your fingertips grazing his.

“You’re such a dork,” you murmured affectionately.

“You love it,” he replied, pressing another kiss to your temple.

The next morning, you woke up slowly, warm and heavy with sleep. Clark was already gone from bed, but a note lay folded on your pillow in his neat, careful handwriting.

“Stay in bed. I’m making breakfast. Don’t worry — I didn’t burn anything. Yet. Love you. — C”

You smiled and padded into the kitchen, still in his T-shirt, hair a mess and eyes half-open. The smell of pancakes and something sweet filled the air. Clark stood by the stove, humming quietly, dressed in pajama pants and a hoodie, spatula in hand and flour on his cheek.

“You’re domestic,” you said, leaning on the counter.

“You’re early,” he teased. “I was going to bring it to you.”

“You’re covered in flour.”

“I got ambitious,” he admitted with a grin. “Banana chocolate chip pancakes. I even used the good syrup.”

“You’re trying to win Best Boyfriend 2025, aren’t you?”

“I already won,” he said, kissing your forehead and handing you a mug of coffee.

As you wandered into the living room with your cup, something on the coffee table caught your eye — a small, black velvet box tied with a red ribbon.

You blinked, heart picking up pace. “Clark?”

“Yeah?”

“What’s this?”

He glanced over from the stove. “Open it.”

You sat slowly on the edge of the couch and untied the ribbon, fingers brushing the soft velvet as you opened the box. Inside, wrapped in a soft cloth, was a pair of glasses — not his, not exactly. The frames were a familiar dark tortoiseshell, stylish but classic — just like his — but smaller. Made for you, lenses perfectly clear.

Beneath them, folded neatly, was a note in his handwriting.

“So I can always picture you in my heart.”

P.S. These ones won’t slip down your nose.

Your breath caught.

He walked over quietly, pancakes forgotten, watching you with that earnest, gentle look that always undid you. “You always borrowed mine,” he said. “And I loved it — I loved how you looked in them, I loved how it felt, watching you wear something that’s so… me. Like you were saying without words that you’re mine, and I wanted to give you a pair that’s just yours. But still… a little bit mine, too.”

You looked up, heart thudding, holding the glasses like they were made of crystal. Slowly, you slid them on, and he stared like he couldn’t breathe.

“Well?” you said softly. “Do they look okay?”

He stepped closer, hands sliding around your waist. “You look like everything I’ve ever wanted.”

You kissed him then, slow and sweet, letting the glasses press lightly against the bridge of your nose as you leaned in. He tasted like syrup and safety and a hundred mornings you wanted to spend just like this. His hands found the small of your back, pulling you closer until you were wrapped around him, smiling against his mouth.

When you pulled back, you rested your forehead against his. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Guilty,” he murmured.

“And romantic.”

“Also guilty.”

“And completely, hopelessly mine.”

“Always,” he whispered, brushing your cheek with the back of his fingers.

You spent the rest of the morning wrapped in each other’s arms on the couch, your legs tangled beneath a blanket, pancakes balanced on your laps, your new glasses perched on your nose. Clark kept sneaking glances at you, grinning every time like he couldn’t help it. He didn’t say much, but his eyes said everything.

Later, when he thought you weren’t looking, you caught him taking a photo of you — soft lighting, sleepy smile, coffee in hand.

“You trying to blackmail me with cuteness?”

“No,” he said quietly, setting his phone down. “I just want to remember the first time I saw you like this.”

“Like what?”

“Like you really believe it,” he said. “That I love you.”

Your throat tightened. You reached for his hand, lacing your fingers through his.

“I do believe it,” you said. “More than anything.”

He smiled, brushing his thumb across your knuckles. “Good, because I don’t plan on ever stopping.”

You leaned into him, warm and full and entirely at peace, the soft frames of your new glasses slipping just slightly as you buried your face in his chest.

And for once, he didn’t reach to straighten them.

It shouldn’t surprise you, it really shouldn’t. Though this was supposed to be your first date, it isn’t the first time Clark has mysteriously canceled plans, or promised to meet you somewhere and not shown, sending a text instead to say he can’t make it.

Like clockwork, you hear your phone buzz. You don’t even grace it with a glance. You know it’s Clark, apologizing for needing to cancel. It’s fine.

It probably wasn’t even meant to be a date, it just seemed like it might be. It was the first time the plans included him picking you up rather than the two of you meeting somewhere. It was the first time a reservation had been made at this tiny little restaurant the two of you always passed together and always said, “We should go in there.” It was the first time he had said, though you thought it was kind of a joke, or at least not totally serious because it is a phrase people use without meaning it literally, “It’s a date.”

You grab your tub of ice cream from the freezer and a spoon, not even bothering with a bowl. You step out onto your fire escape and plop down, stabbing the ice cream with your spoon.

On the next escape over, your neighbor’s orange cat licks his paws, ears perking when he hears you. 

“I sure know how to pick ‘em, eh, Lou?” you scoff, licking the ice cream off your spoon. “Why can’t I just sleep all day like you?”

Lou trills and lays his head down with a big sigh. All you can think is me too, buddy. Me too.

You eventually drag yourself inside after eating half the tub, figuring you shouldn’t eat all of it tonight. Clark will be at work tomorrow and you’ll have to face him -- and his apologies, that are, frankly, starting to get old -- so you’ll probably want that other half tomorrow night.

Before you crawl into bed, you finally give your phone a look, seeing it’s just as you expected. Clark is apologizing. Apparently Superman was fighting something and wrecked Clark’s route to get to your place. Rain check? He asked. And then, just a few minutes ago, Please?

You read them but you don’t reply. You don’t have it in you.

It’s always Superman. 

That’s his excuse. It’s always Superman did this or Superman did that, and you honestly think you’ve reached your limit for Superman-related excuses. You mean, sure, the guy has saved the city countless times, and he makes sure there is minimal damage both to civilians and to the city, but why is Clark always bringing him up? He’s always interviewing him, too, and you have no idea how, because as far as you’re concerned, Superman just shows up when the day needs saving.

Not that you’re complaining, because you’re not. You’d much rather the day be saved than some monster from another planet destroy everything you’ve ever loved. You just.

You’re not jealous of a superhero. You are not.

And yet, the more you try to tell yourself that, the more it seems like you’re not convinced at all. 

You bury your face into the pillow with a groan. You can’t compete with Superman. You’re you. No wonder Clark is always making excuses to cancel on plans with you. If the options were you and Superman, you’d pick him, too.

God, how did you not see it before? You never thought Clark was interested in men, but clearly he is -- which is fine, you have no problem with it, you just wish he had said it to your face instead of these vague messages and signals.

Or maybe they haven’t been that vague, you’ve just been too blind to see it. Maybe the excuses were his way of trying to politely and gently tell you he wasn’t interested, and you just weren’t getting it. That doesn’t seem like something Clark would do, because he does seem the type to tell you to your face in a direct, but not unkind, way. But still. Maybe he’s been trying to let you down easy this whole time, and you’ve been a fool, believing his excuses, and thinking nothing of them.

You can be so ridiculous sometimes. 

+++

You barely sleep. Between crying and being frustrated with yourself for it and tossing and turning every five seconds, you think you manage a measly four hours of actual sleep. You know you look a complete state, but after half an hour of trying to mask it with makeup, you give up.

You stop for coffee on your way in, grabbing one for Lois too, because the coffee at The Daily Planet is…well, it’s really not coffee at all. You feel like you’re insulting all coffee by calling it that. You can hardly stomach it even with all the sugar Lois pours in it.

“Rough night?” the doorman asks when he sees you still have your sunglasses on.

You flash a tight smile, knowing he means well. “Yeah, you could say that.”

He winces. “I’m sorry, kid.”

“It’s alright,” you wave him off, handing him a doughnut. You had meant to eat it, but truthfully, you’re already feeling nauseous. “Here.”

He accepts it with a smile. You head into the newsroom, spotting Jimmy hunched over his desk and Lois looking up at you with a smile that quickly morphs into an alarmed expression.

You, like a fool, had told her about your “date” with Clark. And you, like an idiot, had forgotten until this exact moment that you had told her.

God, you should’ve called in sick.

“Hey,” she says gently, joining you at your desk. “How’d it go last night?”

You let out a weak laugh. “It didn’t, so.”

Her eyes widen. “What happened?”

You hand off her coffee to her with a shrug. “He canceled. Said something about Superman fighting something, I don’t know, I--” You shake your head, bringing your coffee to your lips. “I didn’t answer his texts.”

“He didn’t even call?”

You shake your head again, finally working your sunglasses off the bridge of your nose. “Be honest, how red do my eyes look?”

Lois tilts her head with a sad smile. “Noticeable.”

You snort. “Thanks, Lois.” You expected nothing less from her. “Do me a favor, when he comes in-- if he comes in, tell him I lost my voice or something?”

Her eyes dart to the side and she grimaces. “I don’t think that’ll work. What about if I punch him instead?”

You let out another laugh. Thank God you have Lois. “Why not? Go for it.”

She doesn’t, though the look she gives Clark might as well be lethal when he comes silently walking over to your desk, looking every bit the role of a kicked puppy.

“Hi,” he says quietly. He’s well over six-foot tall, but right now he looks half that. You don’t know if you find comfort in it or not. “Apology coffee? You’ve already got one, but I thought…well, I know you like it, so, here.” He places it on your desk. “I have an apology croissant, too, if that’ll help, I just-- I’m really sorry.”

You offer a smile, but it doesn’t reach your eyes, and it kind of hurts to even pretend. “Thanks. Don’t worry about it.”

He makes a pained noise, opening his mouth, his lips already forming your name, but you shake your head at him. Jimmy calls out to him with some joke and you focus back on your notes, hoping he’ll get the hint. He does.

You watch out of the corner of your eye as Clark crowds into his desk chair, and you try to get some work done.

Every word you write sounds wrong, and even the edits you make to Jimmy’s piece are complete crap -- and you tell him so in your apologetic email back to him. He asked for your help and instead he got…whatever that was.

It doesn’t help that you can practically feel Clark looking at you all wistful and sad, and you really don’t understand it. Why is he so bothered by your mood if he’s seeing someone else? Shouldn’t he be relieved that you finally got the hint? It only took it being a bright neon sign smacking you square across the nose, but you’ve got it now. Clark just doesn’t see you in that way, and that’s fine. You just wish he had enough guts to say that to your face, but it’s fine. It doesn’t really matter. The date never happened, so the two of you never “dated,” therefore he owes you nothing. It’s fine.

Except, it’s not fine, because your eyes are burning from never moving them from your computer screen, your head hurts from having only had caffeine all morning and no food, and you really wish Clark would stop looking at you.

Lunch is a nightmare, but the food does help. Clearly your blue mood has gone noticed by, well, everyone because Jimmy buys your sandwich and Perry gives you an extension on the piece you should’ve turned into him by the end of today. Lois acts a bit like a protective shield, talking to you about her piece and asking Very Important questions, even glaring at Clark when he tries to interject.

The end of the day can’t come fast enough, and you’re gathering your things and scrambling out of there before anyone can catch up. You think.

Because then you’re halfway down the sidewalk and you hear someone calling your name, someone whose voice sounds suspiciously like the person you least want to speak to right now.

Tears are springing to your eyes because they’re burning from staring at a screen and you’re just so tired. You just want to eat the rest of your ice cream and go to bed. You just want to ignore Clark for the rest of the week, or at least until he admits to your face that he’s seeing someone else and didn’t know how to let you down easily. You just want this day to be over.

“Wait! Wait up! Ple-- Sorry! Please!”

You stop dead in your tracks in the middle of the sidewalk, tilting your head toward the sky. You compose yourself and turn around just in time to see Clark dodging all the people and nearly tripping and falling over in the process of trying to reach you. He exhales in relief when he sees you’ve stopped to wait for him.

“Hey,” he breathes, pushing his glasses up onto his nose as he skids to a stop in front of you. “Are you-- Did you see my messages last night?”

You chuckle without meaning to, and his eyebrows furrow. “Yeah, Clark, I saw them.”

All around you, people move on the sidewalk, heading home, parting for the two of you when you wish they’d carry you away like a riptide.

“Can we-- Sorry,” he steps out of the way of someone else, moving closer to you in the process. “Can we try again? Tonight?”

It’s tempting, you admit, to agree and go somewhere with him right now. Because he’s right in front of you. Because you know he’d make it if you two go right now, together.

But you know it’s not where he really wants to be.

“No,” you shake your head. “It’s okay. We don’t have to.”

He frowns, adjusting the strap on his bag. “But I want to.”

Do you? You want to ask, but you don’t. Instead, you give him a sad smile. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Clark. Have a good night.”

Just like that, you disappear into the crowd, and even with all his might, Clark can’t seem to find you.

+++

Things go back to normal. Kind of. Mostly. Sort of.

Clark keeps bringing “apology coffee” as he calls it, and if it weren’t for the jet fuel they try to say is coffee at Daily Planet, then you might tell him to stop. But you don’t. You accept each cup with a smile, and dodge all of his questions expertly.

He still comes in late, and he still blames it on Superman. The two of you have a standing hang out at a museum in the city every month, but this time you cancel before he can. It feels cruel, doing it when you have no real reason to, but you can’t bring yourself to leave your apartment and hang out with him when your feelings are so obviously unrequited.

He does another interview with Superman. You try not to turn your nose up at it.

It’s awkward, this new air about your friendship with Clark. It’s tense. You can tell he wants to ask you about it, to ask about another raincheck maybe, but he never does. You don’t know what you’d say if he did.

It comes to a head when you cancel on yet another standing hang out the two of you have, using feeling sick as an excuse this time, and Clark just won’t let it go.

Can I bring you some soup? Tissues?

I’m fine, you tell him. Just need to sleep, that’s all.

He texts something else, but you don’t reply. You lay on the couch in front of your TV and shovel pretzels into your mouth in between sips of coffee -- that you definitely shouldn’t be drinking this late, but you don’t care.

You’re jolted from your stupor when you hear knocking on your door. Knocking that you know, unmistakably, is Clark.

You debate faking sleep until he goes away. But you can’t quite bring yourself to do it.

So, you wrap a blanket around your shoulders and answer your door.

“Clark?” you croak. It’s a weak -- and honestly awful -- attempt to fake being ill, but it’s all you’ve got. “What are you doing here?”

“I brought soup,” he says innocently, holding up the takeaway containers. “Your favorite, from the place down the street. And some, ah, bread, tissues, pain medicine, cough syrup-- You didn’t answer, so I went a little crazy at the store,” he says with a sheepish smile, holding up the grocery bag that is nearly bursting with cold remedies. “Can I come in?”

“Sure, but I’m just,” you clear your throat, half from your act and half from emotion clawing at your windpipe from him being so sweet, “watching TV and dozing.”

“I won’t stay long,” he promises. “Just want to make sure you’re okay.”

“I’m fine, Clark.”

He narrows his eyes in what you hope is a playful manner. “I don’t believe you.”

You let him inside with a sigh, retreating to the couch. He can probably tell you aren’t really sick, and he’s probably just being nice by not calling you out on it.

You hear the rustling in the kitchen as he puts things away and then as he pours a glass of water that you think is for himself, until he sets it down in front of you. He sits in the chair beside your couch, clasping his hands together and looking at the floor instead of you.

“You’re not really sick, are you?”

His voice is timid, and a bit hurt. Like he’s upset you’re lying to him and he can’t figure out why you’re doing it, but he sort of has an idea.

“What gave me away?” you chuckle bitterly. “My brilliant acting?”

“You never drink coffee when you’re sick,” he says seriously, nodding to your cup. “It’s how I know when you’re not feeling good.”

You blink. You hadn’t expected that answer, let alone the fact that he would notice something like that. “Oh.”

“What’s going on?” he asks desperately, finally looking up at you, and why are his eyes glassy? “I miss my best friend. We used to talk every day, but ever since that dinner--”

“That you stood me up for,” you remind him, the words leaving your lips before you can stop them and, as a result, having a bit more heat behind them than you want them to.

“I know, but I--” He wrings his hands, the words getting caught in his throat. “I’m sorry, I-- It was Superman! He was fighting, and it was everywhere--”

“Oh my God, Clark, it’s always Superman,” you laugh, not necessarily at him, but maybe you are. It’s cruel, but it hurts, the way he keeps dragging this out. “It’s always Superman destroyed the train or Superman--”

“Because he is! He’s keeping the city safe, but sometimes that means he’s--”

“Clark, stop it,” you turn your entire body toward him, giving him a look. “I know.”

He freezes, stutters, starts. He pushes his glasses up on his nose, his blue eyes wide behind the lenses. “You know?” 

You nod. “You don’t need to keep lying to me. I’ll keep your secret. I just wish you had told me first, you know?”

He chuckles awkwardly, shaking his head. “I just-- I wasn’t sure how you’d react, and--”

“I don’t care that you’re dating him, Clark,” you interject, a small smile creeping onto your lips. “It’s cute, actually.”

He blinks, opens his mouth, shuts it again. Opens it. “Wait.” He tilts his head, smiles a little. “You-- What?”

“Come on, it’s obvious!” you start to grin from the sheer absurdity of it. “You’re always getting interviews with him when he won’t do an interview with literally anyone else! And you’re always talking about him, always defending his actions and defending him when Jimmy makes a joke about him! You don’t need to be ashamed of it, I mean, I know the two of you probably can’t be public about your relationship, obviously, but--” 

Clark says your name, tries to get a word in, tries to tell you to stop and that you’ve got it all wrong, but you keep going. “Seriously, it’s fine. You don’t need to hide it, not from me at least.”

“Right. Um.” He shakes his head, laughs. “I should-- I’m gonna go.”

“Go,” you shoo him away. “I’m fine, seriously. Go spend time with your hot superhero boyfriend.”

Clark’s cheeks go pink at that, which is basically all the confirmation you need, and you giggle after him, feeling much lighter now that the truth is finally out in the open.

Once Clark leaves, you finish your coffee and search your freezer for some more ice cream. Thankfully, you have a little bit left -- you sort of stocked up on it when The Incident happened -- and you head out onto the fire escape to enjoy the night air.

“Well, hello there,” you reach down and pet Lou’s head. He rarely sleeps on your fire escape, but today is one of those days.

He’s not all that interested in the space once you’re sharing it with him, though, so you watch him scurry away to your neighbor’s fire escape and you roll your eyes after him. Typical.

It’s strange, being on the other side of it now. Sure, it still stings a little, but come on, you can’t compete with Superman. And Clark seems happy. As his friend, you should want nothing more than to see him happy.

And you do. You do want that. Even if it’s a little sad that he can’t be that happy with you. But you’re sure the sting of it will go away in time, as will the crush you have on him.

You’re enjoying the sunset and your ice cream, still laughing to yourself in slight disbelief about Clark and Superman when the latter flies in front of you.

Your spoon clatters onto the metal stairs, scaring Lou and yourself shitless. Superman, however, floats in front of you, unfazed.

“Um,” you come up empty in the words department. You have no clue what to say to your friend’s boyfriend who is also a metahuman who you also, up until about half an hour ago, felt ridiculously jealous of. “Hi?”

“Hello,” Superman replies, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips. He gestures to the empty space beside you. “Do you mind if I…?”

“Oh! Not at all.” You stand up and step to the side, and Superman takes up every bit of the free space. “Look, if this is about you and Clark--”

Superman laughs, the sound light and airy coming from such a large man. “It’s not about me and Clark-- Well, I guess it kind of is.”

“I won’t tell anyone, I promise!” You hold up your right hand as if you’re swearing before a court, your left hand still holding onto the now-melting ice cream. “Actually, should we go inside? Should we be, you know,” you lower your voice, “talking about your relationship out in the open?”

He chuckles again. “Sure, let’s go inside, if that’s okay with you?”

If that’s okay with you. Of course it’s fine, even if a bit weird, and where is Clark? If he went and told Superman that you know about them, why didn’t he just come back with him?

“Sorry for the mess,” you call out as you head through the living room into the kitchen to put the ice cream away. “I wasn’t feeling well,” you grimace, the lie just sounding stupid now, but you’ve said it, so.

You shut the freezer and spin around to find Superman standing in your kitchen, and on the counter next to him are…Clark’s glasses?

You roll your eyes, muttering, “Did he seriously leave these here?” But you swear you saw him leave with them on. “Wait. Is he here?”

“He is,” Superman replies, picking up the glasses and opening them. He laughs, almost only to himself, before working the frames onto the bridge of his nose.

“What are you--?” You blink and narrow your eyes, watching Superman’s face become…Clark’s? That makes no sense. Those are Clark’s glasses, and this is Superman standing in front of you. Two completely different people. “Wait, but--”

“I’m not dating Superman,” Clark, or Superman, says with an amused smile. “I am Superman.”

“But you--” You shake your head, still reeling from the fact that Clark’s face is on Superman’s body. “But you said--”

“I didn’t think you’d believe me without the suit,” Clark explains, dragging the glasses off his nose and setting them down. “You seemed pretty convinced that I was dating him.”

“What else was I supposed to think?” you cry. “You stood me up and blamed it on him!”

Clark-- Superman’s face twists up in genuine remorse. “I know, I’m sorry, and I wanted to make it up to you, but you just kept getting further and further away, until I didn’t even know if you wanted to be my friend anymore.”

“Of course I want to be your friend, Clark, I just,” you shake your head, a bout of dizziness coming over you. You rub your forehead with your fingertips. “Sorry, I don’t--”

“Shoot, no, I’m sorry, here, let’s get you to the couch.”

You have no clue what he’s sorry for, but you let him help you over to the couch all the same. The dizziness passes and you look up at him, at the bright red and blue of his suit, and the fact that he looks like Clark but doesn’t at the same time.

“I don’t usually take them off and on so much around people,” he explains. “They’re these glasses that Four made for me, so I could still have a normal life. They make my face look a little different.”

You nod slowly, because sure, yeah, makes sense, why not?

“I’m really sorry I didn’t tell you sooner,” he says, cramming himself into the same chair he was in before, but somehow, now it looks like he doesn’t quite fit. “I thought I was keeping you safe by not telling you, but then I saw how sad you were, and--” He cuts himself off, shaking his head. “I don’t ever wanna be the reason you’re crying, or frowning, or anything like that. I wasn’t thinking.”

You stare at him, at your best friend, at Superman sitting before you with such an obvious ache in his chest over you being sad, and you can’t help but smile.

“Come here,” you tell him, patting the open space next to you on the couch. 

Timidly, he stands and walks over to join you, just narrowly avoiding knocking over the coffee table. 

“Sorry,” he whispers, plopping down beside you with a giddy, albeit sheepish, smile.

You throw your arms around his neck, clinging to him, taking a deep breath into his neck. He smells the same as Clark, but slightly different. It’s the suit, you think, but regardless, he smells good. Familiar. Safe.

“I take it you’re not mad at me anymore?” he asks, his arms finally tightening their hesitant hold on you when you don’t let go.

You snicker into his hair, pressing a kiss to his cheek before pulling back to look at him. “I was never mad at you, Clark. It’s impossible for me to be. I was just…sad. I thought we were finally going somewhere, finally getting over ourselves and going on a date, so when that didn’t happen, I just…” You shrug, realizing now that just because he’s told you the truth about who he is doesn’t necessarily mean the two of you are going to date.

He frowns again, one hand coming up to cup your jaw, thumb stroking your cheek. “I’m sorry,” he says again, fingertips grazing your own frown lines and furrowed brows. “I should’ve told you a long time ago.”

“It’s fine,” you murmur, peeling yourself off of him with a little smile that can’t figure out if it wants to be sad or not. “I can’t imagine that you’ve told anyone else.”

“Ma and Pa know,” he says. Then, with a grimace, he adds, “And…Lois.”

“Lois?” you lean away from him. “Lois knows?”

“Only because she figured it out and confronted me one day after work!” he rushes to explain. “She had connected the same dots as you did, except,” he pauses to laugh, “instead of assuming I was dating him, she figured we were the same person. But I told her she couldn’t tell anyone, no matter what.”

You understand that. It’s his secret to share after all, but still. She didn’t even try to defend him once when you told her that he stood you up. She seemed so angry with him on your behalf that you assumed it was for that reason alone.

“If it helps,” Clark lets out a sheepish chuckle, scratching the back of his neck, “she threatened me quite a lot when I told her I hadn’t told you yet.”

That causes you to bark out a laugh. “Why?”

“Because she knows I like you. A lot. It’s embarrassing, honestly, or she tells me it is,” he smiles. “Apparently I uh, looked like a kicked puppy when you wouldn’t talk to me that day.”

You giggle at that, having had the exact same thought. “Yeah, you did.”

“Well,” he breathes, like he’s psyching himself up. “Can I have that raincheck now?”

You hum, trying and failing to tuck the stray curl on his forehead back with the rest of his hair. When it falls back down defiantly, you smile. “Depends. Can we work around your saving-the-world schedule?”

“We can,” he says with a firm nod. “I can be flexible. Can I ask another question?”

You lean your arm onto the back of the couch, your palm cradling your head. “Sure.”

“Can I kiss you?” he asks softly. “Or should we wait until after our date?”

You shake your head. “I don’t think I can wait that long.”

“Thank goodness,” he breathes, leaning forward, one arm snaking around your waist. “Me either. But if you had wanted to, obviously I would’ve, I just wanted to ask first--”

“Clark,” you laugh.

“Yeah?”

“Just kiss me.”