:)

The fourth one watched you.

You did not say anything. It was not proof of anything, a man looking. You were born to this forest, and you knew its people. You understood that grief did strange things, made people reach for things that felt solid. You had been patient. You had been kind in the way you were kind to all newcomers, no more and no less, and you hoped he would understand the shape of it.

He had not understood the shape of it.

-

It happened at the edge of the eastern grove, late in the afternoon when the light came through the canopy in long golden columns and the rest of the clan was occupied with evening preparations. You had gone alone to collect certain roots that only grew there, particular things Mo'at used in the healing rites. You had been focused on your work and not expecting company.

He appeared between the trees like he had been waiting.

You straightened slowly. Kept your face even.

"I have been trying to speak with you," he said.

"I know," you said. You kept your hands busy, crouching back to your work. "I have been busy."

"You have been avoiding me."

"I have been busy," you said again, and kept your voice even, and did not look up, and hoped he would take the shape of that and go.

He stepped closer. The undergrowth shifted under his feet. "You are courting the Olo'eyktan."

It was not a question. Something in the way he said it carried an edge beneath it that made the back of your neck go tight.

"Yes," you said.

"He is not Na'vi." Another step. "Not truly. He came from the sky people. He wears a body that is not his own. You are Omatikaya born and raised, you have roots in this forest that go deeper than his ever will, and you are wasting—"

"I would ask you to stop there." You stood, and turned, and met his eyes, because you had learned from watching Jake that some conversations required you to take up your full space.

"What I choose is not something I need counsel on. I am spoken for. I am not interested. I say this without cruelty and with respect for what you have lost, but I will not say it again. Go back to the village."

Something shifted in his face. Something that had been beneath the surface the whole time, waiting.

"You do not dismiss me," he said, low.

"I am not dismissing you. I am asking—"

His hand closed around your wrist.

Not gently. A hard grip, the kind that said he did not intend to let you finish the sentence or move away from him, and something cold moved through your chest that you recognized as fear. You did not feel fear often. You were Omatikaya. You had grown up in this forest and learned its dangers and faced them without flinching, and the fact that fear was what moved through you now, here, among your own trees, made something underneath the cold go very, very still.

"Let go of me," you said, quietly.

He did not let go.

You did not think after that. Your free hand came up and struck across his face, open-palmed, the heel of your hand connecting hard enough to snap his head to the side, because you had been trained since childhood and you were not without your own strength and you were not going to stand in your own forest and be held against your will.

He turned back to you slowly.

His expression was the last thing you saw clearly before everything moved very fast.

-

You walked back to the village with your arms wrapped around yourself, your eyes fixed on the path, and your jaw set in the way your mother had always said meant you were trying not to feel something.

Your lip had split. You could taste it, copper and salt. The left side of your face held a heat that pulsed with your heartbeat and would be something worse by morning. Your wrist, where he had grabbed you first, ached in the low, steady way that meant bruising was already happening beneath the skin. When you looked at your wrist, the marks of his fingers were already visible, dark against the blue of your skin.

You stopped walking and looked at it for a long moment.

Then you looked up and kept going.

You did not go to the healers. Ralu would ask questions and her voice would carry and by nightfall the whole clan would know and it would become large and loud when all you wanted was for it to be small and contained and manageable.

You did not go to Neytiri, who would read it in your face before you said a word and whose reaction would be immediate and thorough and would involve her mother and her bow.

You did not go to Jake.

You went to your own kelku and sat down against the far wall in the dark and wrapped your arms around yourself and breathed steadily. The way your mother had taught you when you were small, and the world felt too large. You were fine. You were home. You were safe in your own walls.

You told yourself this and waited for it to become true.

-

Jake found you the way he always found you, without particular effort, like something in him simply oriented toward you without being asked.

You heard his footsteps on the path and knew them immediately, two years of listening, and you turned your face toward the wall before he came through the entrance. You arranged yourself into something that looked like tiredness and kept your voice ready and told yourself the kelku was dim enough.

"Hey, baby." His voice was easy, the low comfortable register he used when the day was done and nothing was required of him. The voice that meant he had come just to find you, no reason, just because you were where he wanted to be. "Didn't see you at the fire. Neytiri said you came back early."

You kept your face toward the wall. "I was tired. It's been a long day."

A pause. Shorter than you wanted it to be.

"Yeah?" He came further into the kelku. His footsteps slowed. "You eat anything?"

"I'll eat in the morning."

Another pause. Longer.

Then, quietly: "Hey. Look at me."

"I'm fine, Jake. I just need to—"

"Look at me."

Not loud. Not sharp. Just steady and immovable in the way Jake was immovable when he had decided something, and you knew that voice, had heard it across battlefields and council fires and every kind of hard moment, and you knew it would not move.

You didn't move either. You kept your eyes on the woven wall and your breathing even and hoped.

Then he crossed the kelku and crouched down in front of you, bringing himself to your level, and you could feel him looking at the side of your face even with your eyes turned away. He didn't reach for you. He just waited, down there on your level, patient and present and not going anywhere.

"There it is," he said, very quietly. Not to you. To himself. Like he had already seen enough from the angle he had.

"Jake—"

"Look at me." Said so gently this time that it undid something in you completely.

Your eyes filled before you turned your head. You hated that. You turned anyway, slowly, and he was right there, close, his expression doing the thing it did when he was holding something very tightly inside himself so that you wouldn't have to see it yet.

His hand came up slowly, giving you every chance to pull away, and his fingers curled beneath your chin, and he turned your face toward the faint light from the entrance with a care so deliberate it made your throat ache.

He looked at your lip. Your cheek. He reached out and, with the back of one finger, moved your hair away from the bruising along your jaw.

The silence was the worst part. Jake loud was manageable. Jake quiet like this was something else entirely.

"Who did this to you," he said.

"I didn't want you to see it like this, I was going to—"

"Who did this to you."

Low. Flat. Patient in a way that had nothing to do with calm.

Your eyes spilled over before you could stop them, which you resented deeply, and the whole thing you had been holding in the walk back from the eastern grove came loose at once.

"Kertan," you said. "The lowlander. He followed me to the eastern grove and I told him to go back and he grabbed my wrist and I hit him and then he—" your voice held steady through sheer discipline, "—he did not take that well."

Jake's jaw shifted. A small movement. Controlled.

"Your wrist," he said.

You held it out. He took it in both hands and turned it over in the dim light and the bruising that had darkened there, the clear distinct marks of fingers, made his hands go very still around yours for one long moment.

"Anywhere else," he said.

"My arms. My face. Jake, I'm alright, I handled myself, he just—"

"You're sitting alone in the dark with your face turned to the wall." Said without judgment. Just plainly, the way he stated things that were simply true.

You had nothing to say to that.

He was quiet for a long moment. You watched him breathe, in and out, steady and measured, the kind of breathing that meant he was deciding something very carefully.

"I'm going to go to Mo'at," he said, still crouched in front of you. "Get what she has for the bruising. I'll be back."

"You don't have to—"

"I'll be back." Quieter. He reached out and took your bruised wrist in both hands, carefully, and turned it over. Then he lowered his head and pressed his lips to the inside of it, so gently you felt it everywhere. He held it there for a moment before he let go.

Then he leaned in and pressed his lips to your forehead. Stayed there. His eyes were closed.

He pulled back and looked at you.

"Stay here," he said. "I mean it."

You nodded.

He left.

He did not go directly to Mo'at.

He told himself he would. He walked the path toward the healer's dwelling with every intention of doing exactly what he had said, and then his feet took him past it, toward the outer edge of the village where the newcomers had been given shelter, and he did not correct them.

Tsu'tey was coming the other way on the path.

He stopped when he saw Jake. His eyes moved over his face, took in the set of his jaw and the direction he was walking, and that was all he needed. He didn't ask. He turned and fell into step beside him without a word, and Jake didn't look at him, and neither of them spoke, because nothing needed to be said. They had come out the other side of enough together that this was simply what it was.

Kertan was awake when they came through the entrance.

Jake looked at him for a moment. Kertan looked back, and started to speak, and Jake crossed the space and hit him before he finished the sentence. He went down hard and Jake stood over him and waited until his eyes focused again.

"You put your hands on her," Jake said. Low. Quiet. The voice that had nothing left in it but the thing itself. "In her own forest. You grabbed her wrist and when she defended herself you made her bleed." He crouched down, bringing himself level, and his voice dropped further. "She walked home alone and sat in the dark. That is what you did to her."

He let that sit for a moment.

"She is mine," Jake said. "I am hers. That is not a small thing and it is not something you were ever going to change." He stood, slowly. "I am Olo'eyktan of this clan. Every woman, every hunter, every child in it is under my protection. That does not stop at the edge of the village and it does not have exceptions." His voice stayed level and it was worse for it. "You will stand before this clan at dawn and answer for what you did. And then you will be gone."

He held Kertan's gaze for a moment longer. Then he stepped back.

Tsu'tey had not moved from the entrance the entire time. He looked at Kertan once, a single sweep that conveyed everything Jake had said and several things he hadn't, and turned and walked out.

When they left, Kertan was awake but had decided lying very still was his best option.

Jake went to Mo'at.

She was awake, as Mo'at always seemed to be when something had happened, and she looked at the state of his hands without expression and waited.

"One of the lowlanders," Jake said. "He followed Y/N to the eastern grove. Grabbed her wrist, wouldn't let her go. She hit him and he—" he stopped for a moment. "Her face. Her arms. She came home alone and sat in the dark."

Mo'at was quiet.

Mo'at looked at him for a long moment. "She has always carried things quietly," she said. "It is her way. It does not mean she should carry them alone." She turned to her stores and began gathering what was needed, her hands moving with unhurried efficiency. "You found her."

"Yeah."

"Then she did not carry it alone." She pressed the salve and the cloth into his hands and met his eyes. "She is well?"

"She will be."

Mo'at held his gaze, reading whatever was in it with those pale eyes that never seemed to miss anything. Then she glanced at his split knuckles, and back up at his face, and the look she gave him was not quite approval and not quite reprimand and contained both entirely.

"Good," she said, and went back to what she had been doing.

-

You were where he had left you when he came back, which meant you had actually listened to him, which meant you were more shaken than you had let on and you both knew it.

He sat down beside you without ceremony, close, his shoulder against yours, and opened the small pot Mo'at had given him. The salve inside was dark green and smelled of things that grew deep in the forest, cool and sharp and familiar.

"Give me your wrist," he said.

You did.

He applied the salve with the same deliberate care he'd used when he'd turned your face to the light, working it gently into the bruised skin, and you watched his hands and tried not to think about how much of yourself you had handed over simply by letting him in tonight.

He moved to your cheek next. Your jaw. The split of your lip, barely a touch, careful as anything.

When he was done you looked at his hands properly for the first time and saw the split knuckles. Two of them, on his right hand, the skin broken in a way that had not been there when he left.

You reached out and took his hand before he could put the salve away.

He let you.

You worked the salve into his knuckles in silence, and he sat still and let you do it, and neither of you said anything for a while. The forest moved outside, soft and dark and alive.

"He's still breathing," Jake said, eventually.

"I know," you said. "Or you wouldn't be here. You'd be in front of my father explaining yourself."

Something shifted in his face that was almost a smile and didn't quite make it. "Tsu'tey helped."

"Of course he did."

"He was already waiting."

"Of course he was."

Jake exhaled. You finished with his knuckles and held his hand a moment longer than necessary and then let go. He looked at you, and then without a word he shifted, lying down on your sleeping mat and opening his arm in the way that asked without demanding. You settled against him, your head on his chest, and his arm came around you and held on.

You leaned into the warmth of him and felt the tension still in his body, contained, managed, Jake carrying what remained of the night so you didn't have to.

"I didn't want you to see it," you said, quietly. "I didn't want it to become this."

"I know," he said. "I'm glad I saw it."

You were quiet for a moment. "What are you going to do. Tomorrow."

"What needs to be done," he said.

You thought about that. Felt something loosen in your chest that you hadn't fully realized was still wound tight.

"Good," you said.

He pressed his lips to the top of your head and held them there. "Sleep," he said. "I've got you."

You closed your eyes and listened to his heartbeat and let the warmth of him and the smell of the salve and the familiar sounds of the forest do what they did best, and sleep came faster than you expected.

-

Jake did not sleep for a long time after.

He lay still with your head on his chest and listened to your breathing slow and even out against his collarbone and stared at the ceiling of the kelku and tried to let the night settle into something he could hold.

He watched your chest rise and fall. The slow, steady rhythm of it. Up and down. Up and down.

He looked at the bruising along your jaw in the dark, the faint shadow of it visible even now, and he made himself look at it, made himself sit with it instead of looking away, because looking away didn't help anybody and he had learned that a long time ago.

You were here. You were breathing. You were warm against his side and your face was relaxed in sleep and you were safe in your own walls.

He told himself this several times. Let it work on him the way the salve had worked on your skin, slow and quiet, doing its job in the dark.

He thought about two years. About every morning you had found each other. About the way you looked when you were about to say something you found funny, about how you had never once made him feel like less for being in a body that wasn't born here the way yours was. About how you were the first thing he wanted to find at the beginning and end of any given day.

He looked at your face in the dark and felt something so large move through him that it was almost hard to hold.

He was still awake when the forest shifted from night to the earliest grey suggestion of morning. Only then did he finally let himself close his eyes.

-

He was up before you woke.

When you opened your eyes the kelku was full of pale early light and Jake was sitting beside you freshly returned from the river, and on the ground next to you was your water vessel, filled, a portion of food from the morning preparations, and the salve pot left open in case you needed it.

You looked at all of this for a moment. Then at him.

"Morning," he said.

"Morning." You sat up slowly, and before you could say anything else he was already reaching for you, his fingers gentle at your jaw, tilting your face toward the morning light the same way he had the night before. He looked at your cheek. Your lip. Your wrist where the bruising had deepened overnight into something dark and visible.

"How are you feeling," he said.

"Sore," you admitted. "Better than last night."

He looked at you for a moment longer, reading something in your face that satisfied him enough. He reached for the salve pot and worked a little more into your wrist without being asked, careful and unhurried, and then he handed you the food he had brought and stood.

"Come on," he said, holding out his hand. "You should be there."

The clan gathered the way it gathered for all things that required witness, drawn by the quiet word that had moved through the village since first light. You stood beside Neytiri, who had taken one look at your face that morning and gone very still in a way that meant she was only keeping herself together for your sake, and her hand found yours and held on.

Jake stood at the center of the gathering space. Tsu'tey stood slightly behind and to his right with his arms crossed and an expression that could have curdled water.

Kertan was brought forward.

He looked at Jake and then at the assembled clan and at the faces around him, and whatever he had thought the morning might hold for him, you could see it revising itself in real time.

Jake waited until it was fully quiet.

"You came to this clan with nothing," he said. His voice was not even now, it had an edge to it, controlled but present, the kind that made people go still. "You were given shelter. Food. Safety. The welcome of the People, which is not a small thing and is not given without thought."

He paused, and when he continued, his voice had dropped into something quieter and more dangerous. "You repaid that welcome by following a woman of this clan into the forest. By putting your hands on her. By leaving marks on her."

A sharp intake of breath moved through the gathering. Then murmurs, low and angry. Someone hissed, and it was not alone.

Jake let it settle.

"She came home alone and sat in the dark." The pause that followed was short and sharp. "She should never have had to do that."

The murmuring deepened. Around you people shifted, drew closer together, and Neytiri's hand in yours tightened.

"You are no longer welcome here," Jake said. "You will leave today. You will not come back." His eyes held Kertan's and did not move. "If I ever see your face at the edge of this forest again, you will regret it. That is not a threat. It is the only warning you will get."

The silence that followed had weight to it.

Kertan looked at Jake with something that had nowhere left to go and nothing left to stand on.

Then the eldest of the three remaining lowlanders stepped forward from the edge of the gathering. She held herself straight, her hands open at her sides, and when she spoke her voice was clear enough for the whole clan to hear.

"We ask to speak," she said.

Jake looked at her. Nodded once.

"What he did does not represent us," she said. "It does not represent our clan, or the people we were taught to be, or the gratitude we carry for the welcome we were given here." She looked briefly toward you where you stood beside Neytiri, and her expression was pained and genuine. "We are sorry. We are deeply sorry that this happened in a place that was made safe for us. It should never have happened."

The other two echoed it, quiet and sincere, heads lowered.

Jake looked at them for a moment. When he spoke again the edge was gone, replaced by something steadier.

"What happened here is not on you," he said. "You have conducted yourselves with nothing but respect since the day you arrived. The choices he made are his alone, and they will follow him alone." He held the eldest woman's gaze. "Your uturu stands. You are welcome here for as long as you choose to stay. The People do not punish the honorable for the failures of those beside them."

Another murmur from the clan. This one warmer.

Tsu'tey smiled. It was not a warm smile. It was the smile of someone who had been waiting for exactly this and found it satisfying in every particular.

Kertan left before midday.

Tsu'tey was the one who watched him go.

You found Jake at the edge of the village afterward, looking out at the forest with his arms loose at his sides and his shoulders finally down from where they had been all morning.

You came up beside him and he turned his head and looked at you, really looked, the way he had in the kelku last night with your face tipped toward the light, like he was checking that you were still whole.

"Hey," he said, quietly.

"Hey," you said.

He opened his arm and you stepped into his side without needing to be asked, and his arm came around you and held on, and for a while neither of you said anything. The forest moved around you, green and endless and breathing, entirely yours.

"You didn't have to do it publicly," you said.

"Yeah," he said. "I did."

You looked up at him.

"You tried to make it small," he said. "So it wouldn't cost anyone anything. So nobody would have to make a fuss." His arm tightened around you. "It needed to cost him something. In front of people. So everyone in this clan knows what it means to be one of them."

You held his gaze for a moment, and something in your chest that had been carefully wound since yesterday afternoon finally, fully let go.

"Thank you," you said.

He pressed his lips to the top of your head and left them there for a long moment.

"Always, baby," he said, soft and easy, the human words slipping out the way they did sometimes when it was just the two of you and he forgot to translate himself. "Always."

You leaned into him and let the forest hold you both.

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

They are all here. James lies on his bed, his arms behind his head, his eyes fixed upward as though the ceiling might offer him an answer he has not yet found.

Remus stands near the window, his shoulders tight, arms folded across his chest. Sirius sits on the edge of his mattress, hunched forward, head resting heavily in his hands. 

The silence in the room isn’t normal. 

The joy within you is too fresh,and it pulses insistently through your body like a secret desperate to be shared.

“I finally did it,” you say, nearly breathless with excitement, your smile unfaltering. “That ridiculous elemental incantation Flitwick said we’d maybe manage by NEWTs if we were lucky? The one I’ve been practicing every single night, the one that nearly scorched my eyebrows off last week? That one. I got it!”

You don’t yet register the way James shifts only slightly, his eyes flicking sideways toward Sirius as though bracing for an aftershock. Nor do you catch how Remus exhales, not in amusement or pride, but in something resigned.

You step toward Sirius, drawn to him without thinking, your joy still undiminished.

“You remember, don’t you? You told me I was rushing the second syllable, that I needed to breathe through it more gently—”

“Could you fucking shut up?”

His voice cuts through the room with such clarity and force that it steals the breath from your lungs.

You freeze.

He does not look at you. His hands fall from his face, but he does not raise his eyes. They remain fixed on the floor as though his anger has rooted him there, refusing him even the small grace of meeting your gaze.

Then, all at once, he stands. The motion is sudden and graceless, and your outstretched hand — the one you had extended instinctively— is knocked aside, brushed away as though it meant nothing at all.

“For fuck’s sake, do you ever shut up?” he snaps, voice cracking with the weight behind it. “Every time you walk into a room, it’s like it has to be about you. You talk and talk like nothing’s wrong, like the rest of us don’t even exist!”

Remus is out of his chair in a heartbeat, the wooden legs screeching against the floor with such force that it sounds almost like a protest. 

He places himself between you and Sirius with no hesitation. His face is pale with anger, jaw tight, eyes ablaze with something you rarely see from him — not frustration, not even disappointment, but true, quaking fury, pulled taut by a restraint that is already beginning to snap.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Remus shouts, loud and shaking with rage. His hand slams hard into Sirius’ chest, shoving him back a step. “You don’t get to talk to her like that! You don’t get to talk to anyone like that! Not here, not while I’m fucking standing here—what the bloody hell is up with you?”

Sirius doesn’t flinch. If anything, he stands taller, jaw tight, hands curled at his sides. He starts pacing, back and forth in short, jerky lines like he needs to burn the anger off before it eats through him. 

“Oh, spare me the fucking lecture, Remus,” he spits, his voice cracked open at the edges. “Not tonight. You think you’re so bloody noble, don’t you? Always ready to play the saint, always ready to jump in and protect the one who needs saving. You never miss a chance to be the hero.”

“I’m not trying to be anything,” Remus shouts back, louder now, all restraint gone. “I’m standing here because you screamed in her face. And I’m not going to let you pretend that’s just something we let slide.”

“You think I planned that? You think I wanted to be like—”

“Sirius,” James says, quiet but firm from the corner.

Sirius falters for the briefest moment. His hands clench at his sides. His chest rises and falls too quickly, as though he is losing the rhythm of his own breath. But the moment passes, and he sets his jaw again, a wounded animal dressing itself in anger because it has nothing else left to wear.

“Right,” he says flatly. “Because you two are always right. Always calm and rational.” He turns his gaze to James for only a second before looking back at Remus. “Must be easy for the two of you, always thinking the same thoughts, always knowing where you stand. I wonder what that feels like.”

Remus takes a single step forward. “I’m not ganging up on you,Sirius,” he says, his voice low, firm. “I’m calling you out. There is a difference —one you used to understand.”

Sirius scoffs, sharp and cruel, like he wants it to cut. You flinch instinctively, even though it’s not aimed at you. He spins on his heel and storms off, the slam of the door rattling the frame behind him like the final punch of a fight.

You’re frozen in place. You hadn’t noticed how quiet it had gone until now, the only sound left is the soft buzz of tension still lingering in the air like static. Remus and James both turn slowly to face you.

And then they see you.

Your lips part slightly, as if you’re trying to draw breath through the tight knot choking your throat. Your eyes burn, vision already hazy, and then—like a thread finally snapping—you start to cry. It is the kind of sob that tears through you without warning, as if it had been gathering in your chest all day,waiting for this very moment to break free.

James reacts first. “Hey—hey, love—oh, sweetheart—” he says, crossing the room in three strides, already pulling you into his chest. His arms wrap around you instinctively, strong and steady.

You don’t even remember moving, but suddenly you’re curled into his chest, clutching his jumper with shaking hands and sobbing hard enough that your whole body trembles. Your voice is muffled against him, broken up by hiccups and sharp gasps between tears.

“I—I'm sorry,” you stammer, barely getting the words out. “I didn’t know—I didn’t know I was bothering him—I didn’t mean to.”

“Hey, hey—shh, no. No, none of that,” James murmurs into your hair, pressing a kiss to the crown of your head, and then another. “You are not bothering anyone, love. You hear me? Sirius is being an arse today, yeah? He’s being a bloody prat. That’s on him. Not on you.”

You just keep shaking your head into his chest, as if you can argue with him by movement alone. Your voice is raw when you try again. “But I came in laughing—I didn’t know you were fighting—I was being loud, I was just—”

“Sweetheart, no. You weren’t doing anything wrong,” he says firmly, almost fiercely. “You came in happy. You didn’t know. You were being you, and that’s never a bad thing, alright?”

“I should’ve seen it—he didn’t even look at me, James, he just—he looked at me like I was—” Your voice breaks again. “Like I was a burden. Like he didn’t even want me there.”

James pulls you tighter, almost rocking you now. “He doesn’t think that, love. Not really. He’s just… he’s angry, and he’s hurting, and he’s taking it out on the wrong person. Which is not okay. But don’t you dare start thinking it’s because of you.”

“I know,” you whisper weakly. “I just… today’s hard for him. It’s the day he left Grimmauld Place, remember? It’s been a year. He always gets like this, and I should’ve been more careful—”

“No.” James tilts your chin up, gently but firmly. “No, we are not doing that. You don’t have to tiptoe around him just because it’s a hard day. It doesn’t give him the right to hurt you. He’s not a bloody storm you have to weather. He’s supposed to be your boyfriend, not some landmine.”

You try to wipe at your tears, but they’re falling faster than you can stop them. “He’s just—he’s never looked at me like that before.”

“I know,” James says softly, brushing a few strands of hair from your face. “And I’m going to have words with him about it. You didn’t deserve that.”

Behind him, Remus has sat down on the arm of the couch, his breathing still shallow, a hand pressed to his side where the worst of his post-moon aches usually settle. His gaze is tired, but gentle when it meets yours.

“He’ll come back when he’s cooled off,” Remus says, voice rough but steady. “And when he does, he’ll have some explaining to do. But James is right, love. This isn’t on you.”

You nod, barely, your fingers still clutching at James’s jumper like letting go might break you.

James pulls you back into his chest, pressing kiss after kiss into your hair. “C’mere. No more tears now, yeah? I can’t bear seeing you like this. He’s not worth your tears today.”

You sniff, managing a breath that doesn’t quite catch. “Sorry. I just—I didn’t mean to ruin everything.”

“You didn’t ruin anything,” James says firmly. “You’re the best part of this bloody day, alright? And I won’t hear another word otherwise.”

He leans back just enough to smile gently down at you, thumbing a tear off your cheek. “Now—tell me about that spell you were working on. You said you finally got it right, yeah? What’d you do?”

Despite the ache in your chest and the weight of Sirius’s silence, a faint, tear-wet laugh escapes you.

You don’t quite recall when the conversation shifted—from laughter at some ridiculous comment James made about Filch to the quiet companionship that settled between you both. 

You find yourself now, a few hours later, slouched beside him on the common room floor, wrapped in the soft stillness of the late hour. The fire has faded to glowing embers, casting a warm amber light across James’s glasses, which slip down his nose each time he tilts his head in amusement.

But even through the warmth of it, you could feel the weight pressing down beneath the laughter. James’s smile did not quite reach his eyes. There was a faint tremor in the way he exhaled, a hitch that never used to be there. 

His eyes kept flickering toward the staircase as if expecting a particular someone to come storming in, grinning and reeking of cigarette smoke. But the staircase remained stubbornly empty, and Sirius remained nowhere to be found.

Deep down, you knew James was trying. Trying to distract you, to fill the growing silence with noise and nonsense and jokes he did not believe in, because it was easier than admitting how much it hurt. 

And you, ever so foolish, let yourself believe it for a while. Let yourself be pulled under by the laughter like it could somehow drown out the ache blooming like rot in the hollow of your chest.

But Remus was not so easily deceived.

He had excused himself hours ago, saying something about needing rest, though you all knew it was more than that. He simply did not have the energy to pretend tonight. 

He curled up on one of the beds with his back to the room, his breathing shallow and uneven in that way that told you he was not quite asleep but trying hard to be.

The truth was plain between the three of you, though no one had dared voice it: Sirius had been awful today. A bitter edge to every word, sharp where he usually was quick, reckless in a way that no longer felt charming. 

Still, as the clock crept past eleven and into the deeper folds of night, your heart began its quiet unraveling. James had dozed off on the couch barely twenty minutes ago, one arm thrown over his head, mouth slightly parted. 

You turned to glance toward the boys’ dormitory bed where Remus lay in unsteady sleep. He had not stirred in four hours. For a moment, you wished you could lie down beside him and let unconsciousness take you too. But you knew yourself too well.

You were not going to sleep tonight.

So you pulled on your shoes, fingers fumbling clumsily with the laces. You wrapped a scarf around your neck—thick enough to hold back the midnight chill—and slipped out of the common room without a sound.

The halls of the castle were as silent as a graveyard, shadows stretching long across the stone floor like they, too, were searching for something they could not find. You moved quickly and quietly. You knew exactly where to go.

The Astronomy Tower.

There had only ever been one place Sirius went when he was like this. When the weight of the world pressed down too heavily on his shoulders. 

You climbed the last steps with your breath held in your throat, heart pounding.

And there he was. Sitting near the edge, back turned, limbs sprawled with a kind of exhausted elegance that only Sirius could pull off. He was staring into the dark, but not at anything in particular. His head was tilted slightly down, as if in conversation with someone you could not see.

You stepped forward softly, your footfalls just audible enough to betray your presence.

“Just go away, Remus.” His voice was low, nearly hoarse, as if strained from crying.

You smiled despite yourself, though it felt like trying to catch sunlight through a cloudy sky. You folded your arms gently across your chest, steadying your breath as an uneasy thought settled in: you were here alone with him. And for the first time, you weren’t quite sure how to feel about that.

You knew Sirius cared for you deeply. Still, there was something unfamiliar in the quiet between you—a chill of distance, a restless tension you hadn’t felt before. It wasn’t fear of him, but of walls he built around himself when things got too heavy.

That uncertainty was new to love. Yet it lingered quietly in your chest, impossible to ignore.

Your voice came out soft, almost uncertain. “I’m not Remus.”

He turned quickly, eyes widening in surprise that you were the one standing there. You watched as his expression shifted—confusion, then recognition, and finally something raw he tried to conceal.

He blinked as if unsure whether he was really seeing you. The moonlight painted silver into the hollows of his cheeks, the tired beneath his eyes, the bruised curve of his mouth.

You sit down next to him slowly, like you’re unsure if you’re allowed to. He doesn’t look at you right away, just stares out ahead, jaw clenched, hands limp between his knees. You part your lips to speak—

“Sirius—”

“I—”

You both pause, voices overlapping in the quiet like a tangled thread. There’s a beat of stillness before the corner of his mouth twitches. You let out a breathy laugh, and so does he. It’s soft, but real.

Then, finally, he turns to look at you, properly. His grey eyes are tired in a way that makes your chest ache. “I’m sorry.”

You nod. “I know.”

“No, no—don’t do that,” he says quickly, the words catching on something raw. “Don’t do that thing where you—where you say ‘I know’ like it’s nothing.”

“What thing?”

“That. That thing where you just—nod and understand like I didn’t fuck up, like I didn’t snap at you when all you were doing was—being good and sweet and you.” He blows out a shaky breath, fingers carding through his hair in a frustrated, frantic motion. 

“And I—God, I was a complete arsehole. Not just to you, but also to James and Remus. And you just…” His voice trails off, and he shakes his head with an incredulous scoff. “You act like it’s fine. Like it's nothing. Matter of fact, this is breakup-worthy and you’re still here, and it’s—”

“I’m not breaking up with you, Sirius,” you cut in gently, your voice soft but sure, as certain as the way your fingers curl into the fabric of your coat to keep them from trembling.

His head snaps up at that, eyes wide, almost hurt by your forgiveness. “I know!” he blurts, almost like it’s an accusation. 

His voice falters on the edge of cracking. “That’s the worst part! You should be mad. You should be screaming at me, throwing shit, telling me I’m a bastard and that you deserve better because you do—you do.”

His hands tremble slightly in his lap as he goes on, a little breathless now. “And instead you’re here, looking for me, when I should be the one crawling on my fucking hands and knees trying to fix this.”

You don’t speak immediately. You just let the heat of his self-loathing rise and settle. The quiet between you stretches only as long as it needs to, and then you sigh—softly, almost like it escapes you by accident.

“I am mad,” you say finally, lifting your gaze to meet his. “Just… not in the way you want me to be.”

He shakes his head before you’ve even finished. “No, not mad enough. You’re not—God, you’re not even reacting. You’re just so fucking calm and—kind—and I don’t deserve that from you. I keep being… awful. And you keep loving me like I’m not. It doesn’t make sense!”

You shift a little closer without really thinking about it. Your knees bump his, and he doesn’t flinch. Just watches you warily, like he still doesn’t understand why you’re here.

“You think I’m not reacting?”

He’s startled into silence, eyes caught on yours.

You exhale, but your breath shakes this time. You can feel the lump in your throat rising like floodwater, but you press forward anyway.

“You don’t know what it’s like, Sirius. Walking in and feeling everything in the room shift. The silence hit me like a slap. I knew something had happened. I could feel it.” Your voice thickens slightly. 

“And my first thought was—what did I do? Was I too loud? Did I say something wrong? Was I too happy today when you weren’t? Did I annoy you without realizing it?”

He opens his mouth, eyes softening with horror, but no words come out.

You keep going, voice lower now, but steady. “I tried to ignore it. Told myself to just be normal. That maybe if I was just… me, it’d go away. That maybe you’d come around if I stayed out of your way. And then you snapped. And for a second, I thought you—” you pause, because it still stings, “—I thought you hated me.”

His entire expression folds like paper. You see it all over him—the guilt, the shame, the way regret buries itself deep.

“But then,” you add, and your tone shifts, gentler, “I remembered what today is.”

He closes his eyes tightly like hearing that physically hurts him.

“I remembered what it means for you. What it always has. And I knew it wasn’t just about me. That it couldn’t be. The way you were cold, distant… it wasn’t about something I’d done. It was about something you were feeling. Something bigger than either of us. And yeah, it hurt. It still does. But I chose not to throw it back at you, I chose not to escalate it.”

You breathe slowly, not even sure if you’re trying to convince him anymore or just saying what’s been sitting on your chest since this afternoon.

“It’s not that I didn’t feel it. I just… didn’t want to make things worse.”

He stares at you like he’s trying to memorize your face, as if committing you to memory will somehow absolve him.

“And it’s not just you and me,” you say, your voice softer now, edged with a quiet kind of certainty. “It’s you, me, Remus, and James. I’m part of this. But I’m not the only part. I know that when you go back, Remus and James are going to give you an earful. Probably more than that. I mean—Remus might even greet you with his infamous disappointed silence.”

Your lips quirk. “And James is going to throw an absolute fit. I’m honestly surprised he didn’t already drag you by your hair back to the dorm.”

Despite himself, Sirius lets out a hoarse laugh. His eyes are still glassy.

“I just thought,” you say, shrugging, “maybe I don’t need to pile on. Maybe what you needed from me wasn’t anger.”

His laugh slips into something more fragile. He wipes at his eyes quickly, like pretending he’s fine will keep the weight of it all from caving in.

“You make it really hard to hate myself when you’re like this.”

You lean your shoulder against his. “Good.”

He looks at you like you hung the stars. His voice breaks a little as he speaks.

“I don’t deserve you.”

You roll your eyes, but your heart aches. “That’s not up to you.”

He shakes his head. “You’re going to make me cry, and I hate crying.”

You laugh, and it’s soft and real. “Sirius, I’m not not mad. I’m just… mad in a way that still loves you. Mad in a way that says, ‘Don’t do that again.’ In a way that wants you to talk to me before it gets that bad. And I just really want you to feel safe enough to say, ‘I’m hurting,’ instead of pushing everyone away. You get that?”

His fingers find yours slowly, weaving them together. He holds on like he’s afraid you’ll disappear.

“I get it,” he whispers.

You reach out and gently squeeze his hand, your touch steady and grounding. “I know some days carry heavy meanings, many days, in fact. I know those days bring back memories that hurt—memories you don’t want to face. But I think, instead of making those days harder on yourself, you could let us in. Let us be there for you.”

He nods once, quickly, like if he speaks he’ll lose it again. “I’m sorry.”

“I know.”

After a moment, he speaks again, his voice so low it’s barely a whisper.

“Do you think they hate me?”

“Remus and James?” you ask quietly. “I think they’re probably worried sick and probably mad. But hate you? Never.”

He stares down at your hands like they’re the only thing tethering him to the ground.

“They’ll come around. We all do. You’re not quite easy to hate, Sirius Black.”

He snorts quietly, a hint of a smile tugging at his lips. “Thanks.”

“But you’re worth it.”

His eyes flutter closed, and he leans into you, head resting lightly on your shoulder, like he’s finally letting himself exhale.

“Stay with me a little longer?”

You don’t even have to think about it. “Always.”

He exhales slowly, as though the air inside him has been waiting for this moment to be let go.

The silence has softened now, no longer brittle with hurt, only heavy with the aftertaste of it. 

“I’m sorry,” he says again, voice quieter than before, almost reverent. “I know I already said it. But I am. I shouldn’t have raised my voice. I shouldn’t have looked at you like that. It wasn’t about you. It never is. You just… walked in at the wrong time, and I lost control.”

You gently cut him off, your voice soft but firm. “Sirius, it’s okay. You already apologized.”

He shakes his head, voice stubborn but honest. “No. I need you to hear it. I need you to know I mean it.”

You nod gently, your fingers brushing his wrist in a silent reminder that you’re still here.

“I need to do better,” he continues, looking down at the floor. “I don’t want to be the kind of man who takes his anger out on the people he loves. I’ve seen what that turns into. I won’t become that. I promise you.”

His eyes meet yours, unwavering. 

“I need you to promise me something too, though,” he says, the ghost of a smile playing on his lips. “Next time I do something like that—anything close to it—I want you to slap the shit out of me. And I mean it. Don’t forgive me until I’m grovelling. Make me work for it. Make it hurt.”

A surprised laugh escapes your mouth before you can stop it. He smiles at the sound, a genuine one this time, laced with relief.

“Hopefully,” you murmur, nudging his shoulder, “there won’t be a next time.”

He lifts your joined hands and presses his lips to your knuckles. “Hopefully.”

By the time the conversation has exhausted itself into something tender and quiet, the room is dipped in deep night. It’s already two in the morning. Sirius rises first and holds out his hand.

“Come on,” he says softly, “let’s get you back.”

You take his hand and let him pull you upright. His lips find yours for a moment, the kiss gentle and unhurried, like a secret kept between just the two of you.

As you pull away, a wide, helpless yawn escapes you. He laughs softly, warm and low, and draws you gently into his arms.

“Yeah,” he murmurs against your hair. “Me too, baby. I’m sleepy too.”

You rest your head against his shoulder as the two of you walk slowly down the corridor, your body leaning into his like gravity has made its choice. Your steps falter more than once, your eyes fluttering closed between blinks. 

By the time you reach the door to the dormitory, you are half-asleep, barely upright.

But the moment the door swings open, the haze is shattered.

James is pacing by the desk, arms crossed, jaw set. He looks up sharply at the sound, his expression a storm just barely contained. Across the room, Remus is already seated on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, his eyes locked on Sirius with a gaze so serious it slices through the room like a blade.

He doesn’t yell. He doesn’t even raise his voice. He just says, in a voice far too calm to be anything but furious—

“Sit down, Sirius. We need to talk.”

The sleep drains from your body like a bucket of cold water. Sirius stiffens beside you. You feel him swallow, his hand tightening slightly around yours.

✧ sweetheart needs looking after // You were warned not to be a brat today, but when you start to feel unwell, how will the boys react when they mistake your behaviour for being a brat? (fluff, angst)

✧ The boys always cause trouble. // The boys were infamous around Hogwarts for their pranks, but what if they do it to the wrong people one day, and you get hurt in revenge? (fluff, smut, angst, dark)

✧ good morning // You loved waking up in the arms of the boys, but today, James has other plans for the morning. (smut) 

✧ the duelling club // You were tasked with practising your defensive skills, but when you are paired with your worst nightmare, how will the boys react to watching you duel their enemy? (fluff, smut, angst)

✧the full moon (ch.1) (ch.2) (ch.3) // The full moon was approaching, only a few days away, and the effects were slowly starting to take over Remus. But there’s nothing you can do as you watch him turn from the soft-loving boyfriend to the possessive and rough werewolf to hide from. (fluff, smut, angst, dark)

✧ showing off // The boys love goofing around, but what happens if it brings the attention of the Slytherins? How will the boys react when they find out you’ve been harassed? (fluff, smut, angst)

✧let me calm you // It was the last Quidditch match of the year, and James’ nerves were getting the best of him, so you did your best to calm him down. (fluff, smut)

✧we'll sort this later  // The boys had left you being edged all day until you couldn’t take it anymore. (smut)

✧ safe & sound // The sound of thunder ripped you from your sleep. Luckily, the boys are there to comfort you. (fluff)

✧a bad day // You have a bad day, so the boys try to make you feel better. (fluff, smut, angst)

✧breakfast in bed // You were in subspace and had a panic attack, and the Marauders tried to calm you down. (fluff, smut, angst)

✧you’re safe // You have a nightmare, and the boys do their best to comfort you. (fluff, smut)

✧happy halloween // You were your own worst enemy. The boys surprised you by changing their looks for the Halloween party, but you can't decide whether you're highly aroused or intimidated by their new looks. (fluff, smut, angst)

✧ aftercare - kinktober // How the boys look after you after a heavy nightly session. (fluff, smut)

✧they are mine // They were harmless, they just wanted to be friends with the Marauders, nothing more... right? What happens when three Ravenclaws become suspiciously too close to your boyfriends? (fluff, smut, angst)

✧i need to feel you // Waking from a lust-filled night, you were feeling slightly needy. (fluff, smut)

✧ red // The word 'red' kept flashing into your mind, but it wasn't something you'd ever had to say before. How will the boys react when you're forced to say it? (fluff, smut, angst)

✧first time // You were simply four friends at the beginning, but how did you all become more than this? (fluff, smut)

✧pain over pleasure // It was very important that you kept clear communication with the Marauders during your most intimate moments, but when you failed to do this, you had to suffer the consequences you'd been warned about. (fluff, smut, angst)

✧ horny little devil // There you were, tied to the bed, wishing to be touched, but Sirius and Remus ignored you, continuing on with their own pleasures. Thankfully, James has returned from Quidditch practice. He'll help you, right? (smut)

✧ how far is too far? // James had discovered a new spell that is supposed to give you the most blissful pleasure imaginable. However, not everything goes to plan. (fluff, smut, angst) 

✧ what are you wearing? // The latest lingerie trend did not look comfortable, but you still fell for the marketing and purchased your own, assuming the boys would want you to dress like everyone else. However, when you decided to show off your outfit to Sirius, his reaction was anything but positive, as he saw how uncomfortable you were (fluff, smut, angst) 

✧ working hard // You're working hard, maybe too hard, as you have neglected to care for yourself. You end up fainting, hitting your head and having a seizure and needing the boys to look after you. (fluff)

✧ spanking/flogging - kinktober // Sirius, ever the one to explore the kinky side of life, has bought a new toy about which you're a little apprehensive. (smut)

✧ bondage - kinktober // Trying something new included trusting your boyfriends to restrain you in the middle of an empty classroom. (smut)

✧ coercion/blackmail - kinktober // They were waiting for the ideal chance to find you alone, and the perfect opportunity arose when they saw you on the Marauder’s map sneaking around the restricted section of the library. (Dark!marauders // smut, dark!!)

✧ Family // Sirius Black, the usually happy prankster within Hogwarts, had a special skill for hiding his emotions. Until one day, he's forced to face the realities of the troubles with his family. (smut, angst, fluff)

✧ Say My Name // It was an uncommonly tranquil night for you and Remus, as James and Sirius had gone out to attend a party. The reason you and Remus decided not to accompany them was quite simple: the Full Moon was approaching. This meant that your otherwise calm boyfriend would become fiercely possessive and feral. (Smut, fluff)

✧ Not today, Please. // Why is it fair that every month, you have to experience agony for multiple days at a time? The boys hate seeing you suffer with your period and take it upon themselves to try and make you as comfortable as possible. (Smut, fluff)

✧ Prong's Day // James was having one of the best days of his life, and what better way to celebrate it than in the arms of the ones he loves? (Smut, Angst, fluff)

✧ Beneath the Bubbles // A playful bet between her three boyfriends turns an innocent pool day with friends into a secret game of distraction, control, and quiet desperation—and she has no idea she’s the prize. (Smut)

✧ The Forbidden Room // A forbidden part of Hogwarts calls to the Marauders. What starts as curiosity quickly turns into something deeper, darker. The room gives them what you desire… but it takes just as much in return. A dark, magical descent into pleasure, pain, and love that refuses to break—even when everything else begins to. (dark, angst, Smut)

✧ sticky fingers // Sirius had his little stash of enchanted sweets that he always claimed were "too strong for you." But you want to feel what he feels, to have fun like they do when they're soft and floaty and grinning. So when you’re left alone and curious, you make a mistake, eating an entire magical aphrodisiac meant to be split between four. What follows is hours of heat, begging, and unbearable need. (darkish, angst, Smut)

✧ tipsy // After a night out with the girls, you return home to the three men who adore you. They warned you to behave, but you might have had a drink too many. Now, it’s time to be reminded of what happens when you push too far. ( Smut)

✧home // Nothing is as nerve-wrecking as meeting your boyfriend's parents, let alone during such a wholesome time like Christmas. (fluff, Smut)

✧ let them hear // After Quidditch practice, James and Sirius overhear crude locker room talk about you that leaves them raging. When they tell Remus, his temper snaps, and by the next practice, the team learns exactly why you’re untouchable. (angst, Smut)

“Oh.” James looks down. You see him follow the trail with his eyes. “Yeah, sorry.” 

“It’s fine.” 

You hate yourself as soon as it’s out of your mouth, because that’s exactly the sort of thing you’d say if it wasn’t fine. And yeah, you’re a bit peeved that he’d track mud inside after you’d mopped the floors just yesterday, but you know he wasn’t thinking about it and you’d promised yourself just this morning that you were going to be nicer to him and now he’s sitting on the floor looking like his day is getting worse instead of better. 

You try again. 

“Um, I made dinner.” You step over him awkwardly, setting a hand on his head to help yourself. James doesn’t shrink from the touch, but he doesn’t lean into it like you could swear he used to either. The stove turns off like it’s relieved to do it, having idled for close to a half hour while you waited for James to get home. You wanted to try and eat together tonight; you used to do it all the time, but lately you’ve been having too many couch dinners by your lonesome. “Macaroni and cheese, is that alright?” 

“Yeah, thanks.” You jolt a little at James’ hand on your back as he reaches around you for a bowl, and he looks at you, lips quirking like you’re funny. 

You find yourself smiling back by muscle memory, a reflex almost forgotten. It lifts your heart. 

“So, how was practice?” 

James glances up at you, then goes back to filling his bowl. “I’ve already told you,” he says. “Rough.” 

“Oh, right.” You huff out a little laugh. He passes you the spoon, and you take it without really looking at him. “Sorry.” 

His answering smile is weaker this time. More a press of his lips than anything. 

“Don’t be.” He kisses you on the cheek, then goes, pulling out his chair at the table. 

You take your seat, too. A lot of these base routines have begun to feel empty lately. They used to be an assurance for you, like if you always wore your same paths into the carpet you’d become so entrenched in this house, in James’ house, that neither he nor it could ever let you leave. You loved knowing that if he was back from his run when you woke up in the morning, there’d be a glass of orange juice waiting for you on the counter. That when the flowers on your kitchen table started to wilt you’d come home to a fresh bunch, and that if you called and told him you were having a bad day lunch from your favorite sandwich shop would miraculously show up at your work. Those things used to make your heart feel full to bursting, because they meant he was thinking of you. 

Now you’re not sure what they mean. They seem like things James does because he’s supposed to, like part of a script, a routine. Chores. 

As soon as he’s sat down, he’s digging into his dinner. James eats like a boy. Wolfing, like someone’s going to take it away from him. You hope it means he likes it. 

“What’d you do today, m’love?” he asks through a mouthful.

And see, he says things like that. Calls you his love, asks about your day. It’s all started to fall flat. You know he’ll take whatever answer you give him, because you’ve begun to suspect he doesn’t really care. 

“Nothing crazy,” you answer honestly. “Shayna’s baby came early, so I’m taking on a bit more at work until they can find someone to fill in for her. So that’s a bit stressful, but it’s not awful.” 

“Mm.” James nods, but doesn’t offer more than that. His mouth seems to be perpetually full. 

You fork a macaroni noodle, pretending you have more appetite than you do. Truthfully, you’ve felt weird and off and vaguely nauseous all day. 

Last night had been a bit of a breaking point for you. It came on rather suddenly. You’d gone to bed long after James, but you couldn’t sleep. You couldn’t seem to tear your eyes from him, the way the moonlight snuck in through the slats in your blinds to fall across his sleeping face. He was so beautiful, and you loved him so much you didn’t know what to do with it all, and then you were crying. 

You’d wept silently, wishing James would wake up, but you were unwilling to rouse him and he wasn’t going to do it himself. Eventually, you’d fallen asleep with your pillowcase damp and cold under your cheek and woke to find James’ side of the bed empty as usual. Orange juice on the counter. 

“I was wondering if you might want to watch a film tonight,” you say lightly. “I saw they’ve put that sci-fi one you like back on Netflix.” 

“Ah, have they really?” James swallows, forks another bite. “Wish I could, but I’m supposed to meet everyone at Spoons in a few minutes here.” 

Oh. The realization hits you like a dull thud, smack in the center of your chest. He’s not eating quickly because he likes your food; it’s because he wants to leave. 

“Can’t you stay here?” Your voice is small. James looks at you like he’s not sure what to make of it. 

“Not tonight, sweetheart.” He offers you a smile. His fork clinks in the bottom of an empty bowl, and his chair screeches as it’s pushed back. James brushes his lips across your cheek as he goes by. “We’ll have to do it this weekend, though, definitely.” 

You know by now these sorts of promises aren’t meant to keep. They come written in disappearing ink.

He heads upstairs to change, and desperation grips you. It forgets he’ll be home later and puts you hot on his heels, your own dinner left on the table barely touched. 

“Jamie, wait.” He pauses with his shirt half off, looking over at you in the doorway of your bedroom. “Don’t you feel like we’ve not had much time together lately?” you ask. 

The plea is naked in your tone, and James’ eyes soften. He tugs his shirt off, straightens his glasses.

“I haven’t had time for much of anything lately,” he says, shrugging good-naturedly. 

It’s true. He’s been busy. His new coach seems to think the team has nothing but time, and as captain James is expected to commit even more than most. When he’s not at training, he’s keeping fit on his own or running errands for his mum or sleeping it all off in your bed. 

“But you should come tonight,” James goes on brightly. “Dorcas and Marlene will be there, it’ll be fun.” 

He tosses his clothes in the laundry bin and makes his way over to the dresser. You cross your arms, then uncross them. Parse your words. “I don’t…I just feel like you hung out with your friends last night.” 

“You could’ve come then, too,” he says, stepping into a pair of jeans. “They all love you, you know that.” 

“I don’t want to hang out with your friends.” It comes out sharper than you intend, though still less sharp than the look James gives you. He’s finished getting dressed but doesn’t make to leave. “That’s not what I mean. I like your friends, but it’s not…the same as spending time with you. It doesn’t count, for me.” Your voice softens on the last two words, knowing that for James, it might very well count. 

For him, you’ve gathered, social time is social time. So long as you’re there, he’ll feel just as connected to you as if you were curled up on the couch together having a private conversation. You wish your brain worked the same way, but it doesn’t. 

He’s looking at you with something like trepidation now, so you state it plainly. 

“I really miss you, Jamie.” A blockage rises in your throat. You swallow it back down. “I feel like…I don’t know what’s going on with us lately.” 

“We’re the same as we have been.” He looks confused, worse when your face pinches painfully. 

“And that’s all?” You try to blink them away, but tears burn in your eyes. “This is just what we do now?” 

“No.” James looks appalled, but you catch the quick glance he gives to the digital clock on his nightstand. “It’s only for now, just until the season’s over and Coach mellows out. Where’s this coming from?” 

You blink hard, angling your head away from him. “Nothing, sorry. I’m just being emotional.” Your breath scrapes on the way in. You pretend it doesn’t. “It’s okay if you have to go.” 

He shakes his head, and when you start back towards the stairs anyway, he says, “No, come on.” In a few long strides, he’s got your elbow. He tugs you gently back into the room. “Let’s sit down, okay? What’s going on?” 

“Sorry.” Your voice is pitchy and tight. You think you hear James inhale softly before he’s drawing you into a hug. It doesn’t feel quite like it used to, but it’s still warm, still nice. 

He sits you both down on the edge of your bed, arms still wrapped loosely around you. “What are you sorry for, baby?” 

“I was going to try not to make your life harder today,” you laugh wetly, pulling back from him to swipe under your eyes. 

“You don’t make my life harder,” James says, somewhere near to dismayed as he slides his hand to your shoulder. “Of course you don’t.” 

You give him a look meant to say, Oh, come on, but you’re not sure how it comes off with your face blotchy and snot starting to run from your nose. You take in a big breath.  

“I think I’ve made it harder more than I’ve made it easier lately,” you admit, looking at your bedcover and also at nothing at all. “I didn’t even really realize until recently, but I’ve just felt so…disconnected from you lately. It’s like even when you’re here, I’m just around you and not with you, and—” Your voice catches. You inhale again. “And I know you’re really busy, but I’m just trying to find ways to fix it.” 

James’ hand drops from your shoulder, into his lap, and you lift your gaze. He looks crestfallen. “What do you want me to do?” he asks quietly, his own voice starting to sound raw. “I can’t control these things. And we live together, I see you all the time. It doesn’t seem fair to ask me not to see my mates.” 

“I’m not asking you to do that.” You’re horrified. “But that’s just it, Jamie, it’s like we only live together anymore. Saying hi when you come in, waving when you go back out, those don’t count as quality time for me. And I wish I could get the same feelings from being in a big group that you do, but I can’t.” 

James looks at you helplessly. You shrug, just as powerless. 

“I know it’s not your fault,” you tell him. A tear drips off your chin. “I don’t know what to do, either. I just want you to know that I’m trying, okay?” 

James nods for a minute. Thoughtful, heartbroken. He lets out a big breath. Your arms come around each other at almost the same time, so in sync you can’t be sure who reaches for the other first. You’re trying not to get snot on his fresh shirt, but he palms the back of your head, pressing your face to his shoulder. 

“Okay,” he says quietly. “You’re right, we should both be trying more. I think I’ve let myself get so overwhelmed that I’m not…I’m almost not even thinking throughout the day, but that’s no excuse. I’m sorry you’ve been dealing with all of this by yourself.” 

“It’s not your fault,” you repeat, and a little laugh rumbles through James’ chest. He hugs you tighter. 

“It is a little bit, though, isn’t it? I haven’t been paying attention. But okay, let’s make a plan for now.” His hand splays out between your shoulder blades, and you clutch at the material of his shirt, both of you wordlessly trying to get closer as if you can make up for lost time. “Come with me tonight, please.” You go still, but James goes on, “I know it’s not a solution, but I can’t back out and I’d really feel so much better if you were there. Please, angel. And tomorrow, we’ll stay in and watch something. Not a film only I like,” he gives your back a teasing little squeeze, “but something we can both enjoy. Or we can just talk, or play a game, I don’t care. Tomorrow is our night, yeah?” 

“Yeah,” you sniff, nodding and pulling away slightly so you can wipe your face. James joins in, pinching your nose clean for you and wiping the snot on his jeans carelessly. “Yeah, okay. I’ll try to clear my busy schedule.” 

He smiles. It’s like the sun beaming through clouds. “I’d appreciate that. Really hard to get ahold of you these days.” You let out a little laugh, and his grin spreads. “Good. So that’s for now, and at training on Friday I’m going to talk to Coach about cutting down on our hours.” 

You feel your eyebrows pinch. “Jamie, you don’t have to—” 

“I do,” he says. “I’ve been a wuss about it, but everyone on the team is miffed and it’s really my job to handle it. Coach doesn’t know everything yet, so I can at least give him some advice about how we operate best.” 

James palms the back of your neck, pulling you towards him and meeting you halfway. His forehead presses against yours. 

“I’m really glad you said something. Thanks for being the smart one, as usual.” Your smile is small at first, but James nudges his nose against yours until it blooms in full. “We’re gonna make it better, okay?” 

You swallow thickly. “Okay. Thanks, Jamie.” 

“Don’t thank me.” His voice takes on a tender quality, and you push your forehead into his. He palms your cheeks in response, stamping his lips to your forehead. “Love you, sweetheart.” 

“I love you, too.” 

“I think we should…take a break,” he said, voice flat. Detached.

She laughed. It was quick, sharp, and automatic. “A break from what? Fish and chips? I thought this was your favourite.”

He didn’t smile at her joke. The silence that fell between them was loud. She could hear the ticking of the enchanted clock on the wall, the low creak of floorboards as one of them shifted their weight. Her heart beat like a drum in her ears.

“No,” she said, suddenly still. “No. Don’t do that.”

“Do what?” he asked, stepping away from the counter.

“Say things you don’t mean. Fred, if this is about the shop, or the war, or whatever you’re dealing with, just talk to me about it. I’m not stupid.”

“I’m not saying it to hurt you,” he said, but his voice was tighter now, strained. “I’m saying it because it’s true. My feelings have…changed.”

She recoiled like he’d slapped her. “Bullshit.”

Fred blinked, caught off guard. He almost flinched.

“You love me. Don’t pretend you don’t. You’ve never been able to lie to me, Freddie.”

He ran a hand through his hair and looked away. His shoulders were tense, bunched high around his neck. He didn’t answer.

She stepped forward, close enough to touch him. Her hand hovered, fingertips just inches from his chest, but she couldn’t bring herself to close the distance. He looked like he’d shatter. Or maybe she would.

“Is this because of what you’re about to do?” she asked softly. “Because I know.”

He looked at her then, sharply. “You what?”

“I know what you’re planning. Going on the run. The secret radio broadcasts you’ve been fiddling with when you think I’m asleep. I’m not an idiot, Fred. I know you. And I’m coming with you.”

“No,” he said instantly. “Absolutely not.”

“Yes. Yes, I am.”

“You’re not,” he snapped. “You’re not coming.”

“Why not?”

“Because I need you safe!” he shouted suddenly. The walls seemed to echo with it. The rain outside went quiet for a moment, like the world had paused to listen.

She stared at him, wide-eyed, chest rising and falling fast. “Then just say that,” she whispered. “Say you love me but you’re scared. Don’t lie to me to try and push me away.”

He looked at her like he was drowning. Chest heaving. Hands shaking. His mouth opened, then closed again. The fight in his shoulders collapsed.

“I—” he started, voice breaking. “If you go with me, I won’t be able to protect you. I’ll be distracted. I’ll worry. And that’s dangerous. You don’t understand. I love you too much to lose you.”

“But not enough to not let me go,” she added.

Fred exhaled shakily. His jaw tensed. “I do love you,” he grits out. “More than anything. That’s why I’m doing this.”

She stepped forward, eyes flashing. “Don’t. You don’t have to lie to push me away like I’m some helpless—”

“I’m not lying,” he snapped. Too quickly, too sharp.

She closed the gap between them in two fast steps. “Yes, you are. You’re a shite liar, Fred Weasley. You’re trying to make me hate you so I don’t follow you.”

His breath stuttered as her face inched closer, challenging him. Her voice softened, eyes locking on his. “But I’m not going to hate you. I’ll just hate being without you.”

Fred’s jaw twitched. He couldn’t look her in the eye anymore. Her hands reached up, fingers curling into the collar of his shirt. He didn’t have the strength to stop her.

“We’re partners, Freddie.” she whispered. “You and me against everything.”

The air seemed to rush from her lungs at once. And then he was in her arms. Or maybe she was in his. She couldn’t remember who moved first. They kissed like it was the last breath before drowning. Frantic. Desperate. Her hands were in his hair. His arms around her back. They stumbled toward the bedroom. It wasn’t soft. It was devastating.

Their mouths crashed together again and again. Her hands fisted in his shirt, dragging him closer, and Fred let out a groan like he’d been holding his breath for hours. He grabbed her waist, backing them into the wall, kissing her like he was starving and she was the only thing that could ever satiate the hunger.

But it wasn’t enough. Not nearly enough.

She broke the kiss just long enough to gasp against his lips, “Tell me you don’t love me.”

Fred’s forehead rested against hers. His voice was wrecked with emotion, chest heaving. “Don’t make me lie again.”

She kissed him harder this time, hands slipping under his shirt, palms pressing to his chest like trying to memorize the feeling of his heartbeat against her palm. He gripped her hips, fingertips leaving a trail of bruises like he was afraid she’d vanish. But still he murmured between kisses, “You don’t know what you’re asking for.”

“I do,” she rasped. “I’m asking you to let me love you. Even if it’s dangerous.”

He shook his head, desperate, lips grazing her jaw. “You could die. You’ll follow me and—”

“I’d never leave you.”

Those words shattered him to splinters. He lifted her suddenly, and she wrapped her legs around his waist instinctively. They stumbled toward their bedroom, colliding with the edge of the sofa, knocking over a chair. Fred cursed under his breath, laughing brokenly into her neck.

“I’m a right bastard for this,” he confessed. “I should’ve stayed cold. I should’ve let you hate me.”

Her hands were in his hair now, tugging as her lips brush his ear. “Too late.”

He kicked the bedroom door open blindly with his foot, guiding her through the frame without ever pulling away. They crashed into the edge of the bed, falling with a gasp and a tangle of limbs and desperation.

Clothes begin to peel away like secrets. His shirt, her sweater. Her hands dragged down his belt as he kissed her feverish skin like it was the last time he’d ever be allowed to.

His mouth found hers again, slower this time, more reverent, as his hands framed her face like he was memorising every detail.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled into her skin, voice cracking. “I’m sorry.”

She cupped his jaw gently, her thumb brushing the curve of his cheekbone. He kissed her again before he could say something he’d regret. It was urgent, frantic, but laced with sorrow. With love. With the kind of longing that only came with knowing the clock was ticking.

———————————————————————

The room was still, dim, and warm with the ghosts of the night before.

She stirred under the tangled covers, her arm reaching instinctively toward the familiar dip in the mattress where Fred always slept. Her fingers brushed only cool linen.

She blinked, disoriented for a moment, the pale light filtering through the half-closed curtains casting a soft grey wash over the room. Morning, but early. The kind of hour where dreams clung too tightly to the edges of reality. Her hand slid across the sheets again.

Nothing but a cold expanse of sheets was there to greet her wandering fingertips.

“Fred?” she murmured, voice rough from sleep and something deeper. Her heart fluttered, unsure.

There was no answer.

She sat up slowly, the sheet slipping from her chest and pooling at her waist. A chill crept over her bare skin. A quiet unease settled into her bones. Something was off.

The apartment - the place that had been theirs for so long - was too quiet. No clatter from the kitchen, no half-muttered curses over burnt toast. No footsteps. No kettle. No Fred.

She rose from the bed, pulling a blanket around her shoulders, and stepped onto the cool wood floor. Her feet moved on their own, down the narrow hallway.

The bathroom door hung open. The mirror was clear. No fog, no damp towel, no half-used shaving cream. Empty.

Her chest tightened. She padded into the kitchen, heart pounding harder with each step. It was clean. Unusually clean. No half-drunk tea, no crumbs, no trace of him having been there at all. Their abandoned fish and chip dinner from last night was still siting exactly where she’s left it. Cold on the counter.

She turned slowly, eyes flicking toward the coat rack. His coat - the brown one with the crooked stitching on the sleeve - was missing. The space beneath the bench by the door, where his boots always waited, was empty. Gone.

Her stomach dropped. Her hands trembled as she turned back down the hall, stepping quickly now, ignoring the sharp ache in her knees as she crashed back into the bedroom. She opened his drawer only to find it was half-empty. Most of his things were missing. The wand holster that usually lay tossed beside the bed was gone too.

Her heart pounded against her ribs like it was trying to warn her.

“No,” she said aloud, voice cracking.

She dropped to her knees beside the bed, gripping the edge of the mattress, eyes wide and stinging. “No, Fred, please—”

She pressed her face into the sheets. They smelled like him. Like cinnamon and firework powder, like skin and home and warmth.

A sob ripped out of her before she could stop it. It came from deep inside, raw and choked and broken. She curled in tighter, fists twisting the blankets, teeth clenched to try and stop the sound but failing miserably.

He had left.

He’d held her like she was all he had left in the world, kissed her like he couldn’t breathe without her, and then left.

Her mind spiralled, replaying how he’d kissed her against the wall, how he’d let her fight for him, how he’d finally given in and made love to her like he meant it. Like she was enough.

He’d let her believe she’d won. And then he’d slipped away. Silent. Cowardly. Or was it brave?

The tears came harder now, thick and hot, rolling over her cheeks as she let herself collapse onto the bed. Her face buried in the pillow that still held the indent of his head, her hands clutching the cooling warmth where his body had lain only hours ago.

He didn’t leave a note. He didn’t say goodbye. He hadn’t even looked her in the eyes and told her the truth.

Because she would have stopped him. She would have followed. And he knew it. So he broke her instead.

She shook, breath hiccuping through sobs she couldn’t control anymore. Her chest ached in a way she didn’t have words for. Something hollow and sharp all at once, like a cracked ribbed cage barely holding in the ruin of her heart.

The light crept brighter through the window, illuminating the half-empty room.

The silence pressed in.

Fred was gone.

And she was alone.

———————————————————————

The jumper was too big, the sleeves swallowing her hands and the hem hitting nearly to her knees. But it was his, and it still smelled like him.

Smoke and sugar. That faint trace of fireworks and the piney scent of the forest behind the Burrow. It had faded over time, but she pressed her face into the wool anyway, hoping the memory of him would cling longer if she just held still enough.

The bed was too big without him. Always had been. The left side remained untouched, the pillow still fluffed, a silent monument to where he should have been.

She lay curled on her side, knees tucked to her chest, one arm curled beneath the jumper and the other resting over the battered wireless radio on the nightstand. Her fingers ghosted over the knobs, tuning slowly. Carefully. As if she’d done this a hundred times before. Because she had.

The static crackled softly, gentle white noise hissing through the speakers as she adjusted the dial. A sliver of some old warbled melody flickered into being. The end of a big band waltz. She turned past it. Another station boasted the distant echo of a WWN talk show, too cheery, too alive. Her wrist paused, fingers twitching.

She tapped the radio gently. Her wand, always within reach, slipped into her hand with muscle memory. She brought the tip to the side of the dial and whispered, just barely audible, “Albus.”

The word lingered in the air like a prayer. The static hiccuped - once, twice - then resumed its soft hiss.

No signal. No voice. No update. Not tonight.

Her chest tightened, but she didn’t sigh. Sighing meant admitting it was hopeless. Sighing meant moving on. So instead, she stayed still. Listened. Waited. Just in case.

Because sometimes, rarely, the radio crackled to life. And for five, ten, twenty minutes, Fred’s voice would filter through the static, joking too loudly, sometimes with Lee, sometimes alone. Their secret pirate transmission. For anyone who was listening. For her, if she could find it in time.

She hadn’t heard him in two weeks.

Her eyes burned, but she blinked the tears back and buried her face deeper into the sleeve of his jumper. Then a knock came alive at the bedroom door.

Her whole body tensed, instinctively shrinking deeper under the covers. She didn’t move.

The knock came again. Harder this time. More insistent.

She stared at the radio. Don’t go away, she thought. Please. Just one word tonight. One breath. Something.

The knock stopped. A beat passed. Then the door creaked open anyway.

“Don’t ignore me, you antisocial lump,” Angelina Johnson’s voice rang through the quiet.

She didn’t look up. Footsteps padded across the carpet, stopping beside the bed. The mattress dipped slightly as Angelina placed a tray down. A single plate with a slice of toast, scrambled eggs, and a mug of tea, still steaming.

“I brought you food. Eat it.”

“Not hungry,” she mumbled, eyes still fixed on the radio, her wand tapping gently against its side. “Go away.”

“Right,” Angelina said flatly. “Because wasting away under a jumper like a ghost is so helpful. You’ve gotta eat. That’s non-negotiable.”

The bed dipped again as Angelina sat beside her. The radio kept hissing. Angelina didn’t flinch at the static. She knew the ritual. She’d walked in on it enough times.

“I tried the password,” she said quietly. “There’s nothing new. I’m sorry.”

“I know,” she whispered. “I tried too. You should still eat.”

Her stomach turned at the thought. But Angelina didn’t relent. She didn’t yell, didn’t plead. She just sat there. Her silence heavier than most people’s words. Admittedly, Angelina’s company had been a great comfort over the past months. In Angie, she’d found strength and comfort, and understanding. George had left her too, in the middle of the night with no warning. Both brothers were gone. Angelina and George might not have been together as long as she and Fred had, but they still loved each other deeply. Only, Angelina seemed to turn to keeping herself busy to avoid the loneliness and sorrow that crept in.

Eventually, she rolled onto her back and pulled herself up to sit, her limbs sluggish and heavy like she was moving through wet cement. Angelina handed her the toast. No fuss. Just held it out until she took it.

She bit into it mechanically. Chewed. Swallowed. Sipped the tea. Let the warmth linger in her throat a second longer than necessary.

Angelina smiled, soft and satisfied like someone who’d just won a quiet battle. But the peace was brief.

“You need fresh air,” she said, gently but firmly. “Just a walk. Around the block. We don’t have to talk. We can come right back—”

“No. I’m not leaving.”

“Babe, you can’t—”

She shoved the tray away, not hard, but with finality. “I said no, Angelina. What if the radio comes on while we’re gone?”

She turned back to the radio, hand trembling now as she picked up her wand again. She tapped the side once more. “…Albus.”

The same static greeted her.

Angelina stood, her expression unreadable. Her voice was soft as she gathered the tray. “You’re not the only one who misses them, you know.”

“I know,” she said.

But her voice cracked on the second word. Angelina lingered at the door for a moment. Her eyes softened, but she didn’t argue again.“I’ll be in the spare room if you need me.”

The door shut with a quiet click. The silence returned.

She curled back into herself, wrapped in wool - in memories. Her wand still rested on the radio, her thumb running over the wood like a rosary.

One more try. “Albus.”

Nothing but static. But she waited anyway.

———————————————————————

The morning light didn’t reach their bedroom the same way anymore.

It used to pour through the window in warm golden streaks, catching on the dust motes in the air and warming the floorboards beneath her bare feet. Now it felt colder, thinner. Pale and disinterested, like even the sun had begun to forget the shape of his body in the bed they used to share.

She stood at the edge of the room in her underwear, arms folded tight over her chest as she stared at the open dresser.

Most of the drawers were empty now. She’d steadily worked through all of his clothes until the smell of fireworks and candy had faded from each piece. But one drawer had remained mostly untouched.

She’d been rationing it. Wearing Fred’s things in secret rotations. A T-shirt here. The flannel he always wore while tinkering in the shop. The socks she used to tease him about when he wouldn’t admit they were actually George’s. But now, even those were losing his scent.

She pulled open the last drawer, slow and deliberate, half-expecting to find it empty too.

But there, shoved to the back beneath a pair of mismatched wool socks and a faded Quidditch jersey, was an old jumper she instantly recognised.

It was the burnt orange one, pilling at the sleeves, neck slightly stretched, with a frayed patch on the right elbow from where he’d snagged it climbing the orchard fence. He used to wear it constantly that summer before sixth year. The summer they stayed at the Burrow together.

She reached out and touched the jumper with careful fingers, like she was afraid it might dissolve if she held it too tightly. As she lifted it from the drawer, the weight of the memory struck her with unexpected force.

She closed her eyes. And when she opened them, it was like she was seventeen again.

The field behind the Burrow buzzed with late-summer crickets, and the grass, still warm from the day’s heat, tickled her ankles as she crept barefoot through the tall stalks.

“Fred, where are we going?” she whispered, laughing breathlessly as he pulled her hand through the darkness.

“You’ll see,” he whispered back, glancing over his shoulder with that glint in his eye that meant trouble.

He wore that orange jumper. The one she always teased him about. The color clashed horribly with his hair, but he’d insisted it was “bold, not bad,” and she couldn’t argue when it smelled like him and felt like home when he hugged her in it.

They broke through the edge of the field and came out into a small clearing. The stars above were spread out like a quilt. Endless and soft and shimmering. Fred let go of her hand only to drop a blanket down onto the grass.

“Ta-da,” he grinned, flopping down. “Best view in all of Ottery St Catchpole.”

She sat beside him, still catching her breath. “Not bad.”

“Not bad?” He gasped, hand over heart. “I drag you out here, impending a probably punishment for breaching Mum’s curfew, risk getting hexed by gnomes, and you give me ‘not bad’?”

She laughed, eyes glittering. “Alright, it’s beautiful.”

They lay down beside each other, arms touching, eyes fixed on the sky. For a long time, neither of them spoke.

The sounds of the night wrapped around them like a lullaby. Wind rustling the trees, the hoot of an owl somewhere near the garden, and the distant creak of the Burrow settling into sleep.

He shifted slightly, turning to look at her. “Do you ever think about next year?” he asked softly. “Everything changing?”

She blinked, surprised by the sudden seriousness in his voice. “All the time.”

“George and I…we might not be going back. We’ve got plans. The shop, a flat in Diagon Alley…Mum’s going to lose her mind.”

She smiled faintly. “I bet Filch’ll be glad you two won’t be running around Hogwarts.”

He laughed, but it faded quickly. “And you’ll still be there. Without me.”

Her throat tightened. “You’ll visit. On Hogsmead weekends. And you’ll write to me.”

“Not the same.”

“No,” she whispered. “It’s not.”

He reached over, brushing a piece of hair from her face. “I don’t want you to be alone.”

“I won’t be,” she said. “I’ll have the others. Angelina. Ginny. School.”

He didn’t answer right away. Then, quietly, “That’s not what I meant.”

She turned her head, meeting his eyes. There was something raw there. Something wide open and unguarded.

“I don’t want to be without you,” he said again, “because…I love you.”

It was so simple. So honest, and the first time he’s said it. She stared at him, the weight of the words settling around her like stardust. She’d imagined hearing them. Had whispered them in her head so many times. But this wasn’t in her imagination. This was real. Her Fred. In an orange jumper. Lying in a field with his heart in his hands.

“I love you too,” she whispered, voice trembling.

He smiled brightly, the kind that crinkled the corners of his eyes. Then he kissed her. And the stars kept spinning above them, but it felt like they’d frozen in time.

The jumper was still in her hands. The same one he’d worn that night. She lifted it slowly, pressing it to her face. It smelled like old woodsmoke.

And something sweeter. The cologne he wore back then, before the war, before things got complicated. It was faint now, but still there, woven deep into the fabric. She held it to her face and broke.

The sob crawled up from her ribs, raw and unsteady. Her shoulders shook, hands fisting in the wool, her body curling over like the grief might split her in two. But she didn’t let go. She couldn’t.

Because for a moment, just a moment, it was like he was there again. Lying beside her in the dark, whispering I love you beneath the stars.

———————————————————————

The crooked silhouette of the Burrow stood in front of her like a memory too bright to look at directly. Leaning slightly to the left, held together by magic and love, it had always looked like it might collapse under its own weight, and yet somehow, it never had. Just like Molly, and Arthur. Just like all of them.

She stood at the gate, her wand-hand trembling slightly at her side, the fingers of her other hand curled around the thin strap of her worn bag. Her boots were caked with the dry dust of May, the remnants of the battle still embedded in every seam. She hadn’t worn anything fancy. Just jeans and a jumper that used to belong to her father. She’d long since run out of clothes that smelled like Fred. It had been over a year, after all, since she’d last seen him. A year of flying under the radar. A year of living with Angelina. A year of not knowing when life would return to normal, or if it ever would.

An anxious knot tightened in her chest as she stood there. This was a terrible idea.

Molly’s owl had come two days after the last funeral. Not Fred’s, thank Merlin. But others. So many others. The names she didn’t even know she’d memorised: Colin Creevey. Lavender Brown. Remus. Tonks. Some gone in fire, some in flash, some in silence.

But Fred had lived. He was home. That was the line she couldn’t stop returning to. He was alive.

And she was angry.

The kind of anger that fermented in the gut, bitter and slow. Not the firestorm rage that burned hot and fast. No, this was the cold, aching anger that came from months of waiting. From empty beds and unanswered letters. From the nights she’d fallen asleep to static on the radio, whispering passwords into darkness just to hear his voice. And when she’d needed him most, when the world had been ending, he hadn’t been there. Not for her.

She raised her hand and knocked once before she could change her mind. The door flung open faster than expected.

Ginny launched forward and wrapped her in a fierce hug, nearly knocking her off the step. “You came!”

She managed a breathless smile, gripping Ginny just as tightly. “Molly invited me. I…I didn’t want to be rude.”

“You’re family,” Ginny said fiercely. “It would be rude if didn’t come.”

From behind Ginny, others followed. George clapped her on the back like no time had passed, Percy gave her a solemn nod that meant more than a thousand words. Ron and Harry smiled and called her name like they hadn’t just survived a war. Hermione hugged her too tightly. Angelina, who was already there, gave her a look of quiet understanding.

And then there was Fred.

He stood near the far corner, his arms crossed over his chest, his expression unreadable. He hadn’t moved. His hair looked longer, as if he hadn’t had time or inclination to cut it. There was a shadow under his eyes that hadn’t been there before, or maybe she just hadn’t seen it. Maybe she’d refused to look.

She caught his eye, just for a second, and it sent a jolt like a bit of lightning through her core. Neither of them smiled. The silence between them felt like its own kind of spell. A barrier. A wound. She looked away first.

“Molly,” she said, her voice cracking just slightly, “can I help with the table?”

“Of course, dear,” Molly said, bustling over and placing a hand on her shoulder. “I’ve already set out the plates, but the glasses and napkins are still in the cupboard.”

She nodded gratefully, stepping past Fred without a word, her shoulder brushing the doorway. She didn’t look back.

———————————————————————

Dinner at the Burrow had never been quiet. Even in the worst of times, this place had a pulse, a rhythm. Like a heartbeat too stubborn to stop. Laughter still lived in the walls, soaked into the wood of the kitchen table, and even if it was quieter tonight, even if there was something unspoken tugging between the adults and the younger faces alike, there was still warmth. Still food.

Molly had made shepherd’s pie, roasted pumpkin, and steamed greens. There were platters of rolls charmed to stay warm and a pot of treacle tart just waiting for dessert. It smelled like comfort. It smelled like home. But she couldn’t taste any of it.

Fred sat across the table from her, two seats down, beside George. He hadn’t spoken to her. Not once.Every time she looked up, he was already looking at her. He wasn’t smiling.

She turned instead to Angelina, seated beside her, and managed a whisper. “I can’t do this.”

Angelina squeezed her knee under the table. “You can. And you’re going to. Eat your bloody pie.”

It was the only thing that made her smile all night.

The tension between her and Fred was palpable, like the moment before a wand duel when your fingers flex just slightly, your heart hammering, your eyes locked on someone who could destroy you. She kept catching herself tracing the rim of her goblet, shredding her napkin with slow fingers. Every nerve in her body told her to look at him again. To yell. To cry. But she didn’t.

Instead, she listened as Harry tried to explain Muggle car maintenance to Arthur, who was eating it up with wide-eyed curiosity. George cracked a joke that made Hermione groan. Ginny kicked Ron under the table.

And she smiled at all the right times. Laughed when expected. But her eyes kept sliding back to Fred. He was quieter than she remembered. That unsettled her more than anything.

She wondered if he was still angry. If he thought she had moved on. If he’d ever meant it, when he’d said his feelings had changed. When he’d said goodbye. When he’d left her, sleeping and trusting and in love.

When the meal finally ended and plates began vanishing with quick cleaning charms, she stood quietly and slipped out of the room. No one stopped her when she climbed up to Ginny’s room and pretended to go to bed.

———————————————————————

Slowly, one by one, Ginny, Angelina and Hermione had joined her. All three had since drifted off to sleep. But she was still wide awake, eyes screwed shut as a flow of memories played before her eyelids. There was no way she’d be getting a wink of sleep here. Not when she knew Fred was in the room below her. Not when she knew the trek to it so well. When she’d made that journey many a night before.

Letting out an exhausted and irritated breath, she climbed out of the makeshift bedding on the floor. Stepping lightly over the creaking floorboards, she made her way out into the hall and then descended down the staircase. Her eyes were instantly drawn to Fred and George’s shut bedroom door. Her stomach flipped but she forced herself to walk past it and continued to the ground floor of the house.

The living room was empty now, chairs pushed back and a few half-empty wine goblets left on the mantle. The fire had burned low, casting orange light against the walls. She padded into the kitchen.

She opened a cupboard, pulled out her favourite mug - the blue one with the tiny chip near the handle - and filled it with water, whispering a quiet charm to warm it. Her hands trembled as she added a spoonful of honey and a crushed bit of dried chamomile from Molly’s neatly labeled jars.

The tea leaves hadn’t even begun to diffuse when the floorboards behind her creaked again. She didn’t turn. She didn’t need to. She recognised the weight of those footsteps. The lanky gait.

“Couldn’t sleep either?” Fred asked quietly.

Her breath hitched but she still didn’t turn. “No,” she said. “Too many ghosts in this house.”

Fred didn’t reply for a long moment. Then he stepped closer, but not too close. “Thanks for coming,” he said.

“I didn’t come for you.”

“I know.”

Another defeaning silence rose quickly. Then she turned, ever so slowly, and looked at him fully for the first time in nearly a year.

He hadn’t changed that much. Still lanky, still handsome in that infuriatingly charming way. His jaw was sharper, though. He looked like someone who had learned to live on half-slept nights and hard decisions. There was an ache in her chest at the sight of him. One she hadn’t felt since the day he left.

“You didn’t write,” she whispered.

“I couldn’t.”

“You didn’t have to lie to me, Fred.”

He swallowed, looking away, his voice tight. “I did. If I hadn’t, you would’ve come with me. I wasn’t going to risk anything happening to you.”

“I should have come with you,” she snapped, stepping closer now, tears welling. “We promised each other—”

“I kept you safe,” he said, voice harsh. “That was the promise I kept.”

Her breath caught in her throat. She clenched her fists. “And what about me?” she asked. “I didn’t want to be kept safe. I wanted to be with you. And you left me. For a whole year!”

He looked at her now, and in his eyes, she saw every sleepless night, every regret, every almost. “I know,” he said. “And I’ve thought about it every single day.”

“You think I haven’t?” She blurted. “Do you think a day went by when my thoughts weren’t consumed by you? When I wasn’t worrying about where you were. What you were doing. If you were even still alive out there.”

“Better than having to be there,” he insisted. “Better than having to worry about me while being hunted by snatchers and dueling with death eaters.”

She had no response for that. The mug in her hand had gone cold, tea forgotten the moment he entered the room. Fred stood there, blocking the doorway like the ghost of every memory she’d fought to survive. He still looked at her like she was something he’d dreamed up. Like she might vanish again if he blinked too long.

“It’s still hard for me to believe this is real. That it’s not a dream and you’re really here,” he murmured, as if the words had to be tested aloud to be believed.

Again, she didn’t answer. Just stared at him. Her fingers wrapped tightly around the ceramic mug as if it were the only thing anchoring her.

Fred stepped closer, slowly, eyes flicking from her face to the chipped rim of the cup in her hands. “I thought about this moment so many times,” he said quietly, almost like he was ashamed of it. “What I’d say. What you’d say. Whether you’d slap me or hex me or just walk away.”

“You forgot the part where I say nothing at all,” she said, voice tight. “Where I just sit at dinner like a guest and not the woman who lived with you. Loved you. Waited for you.”

He flinched. “You’re not just a guest.”

“Felt like one.”

“I did it to keep you safe—”

“Oh don’t you dare,” she snapped, stepping toward him, placing the mug down hard on the countertop with a dull thud. “Don’t you dare keep pulling the noble sacrifice card. I fought. I was there. At the Battle of Hogwarts. You weren’t there keeping me safe, Fred. I handled it on my own. No, this whole mess is because you were to afraid to keep me close, so you pushed me away.”

He ran a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply. “Maybe you’re right. I didn’t handle it the way I should have. But you have to understand, I couldn’t watch you die.”

“And I couldn’t watch you walk away. But I had to.”

There was a pause, long and aching. Then he stepped in close, so close she could feel the heat of him, the familiar smell of something smoky and warm that always clung to his shirts. “I missed you every single day.”

“I don’t care,” she whispered. “I’m still mad at you.”

“Good,” he said. “Because that means you still feel something for me. And I’m still in love with you.”

Her mouth found his before her brain could catch up. The mug was left abandoned on the counter, forgotten like everything else except the way his hands curled around her waist and hers fisted in the collar of his old shirt.

They crashed together like magnets snapping back into place. It was urgent, desperate, and breathless. He kissed her like he was trying to make up for every second they’d lost, mouth moving hungrily over hers, fingers tracing her jaw, her neck, her back. She moaned softly into his mouth as he walked her backward, bumping into the pantry door, then the edge of the bench, sending a jar of sugar nearly tumbling.

“Fred! Fred, we can’t. Not here,” she gasped against his lips, pushing lightly against his chest even as her hands tugged him closer. “Your family’s upstairs.”

He smirked into her skin as he kissed down her neck. “Didn’t stop you last time,” he muttered.

She pulled back just enough to raise a brow. “What are you—?”

But she knew exactly what he was talking about. That very same summer before sixth year. The whole house was sleeping. She’d been tiptoeing down for a drink, only to find him already in the kitchen, shirtless and smiling in the golden candlelight. They’d kissed in front of the pantry, just like this. Hands roaming. His mouth hot and reckless against her throat. They’d nearly been caught when the stairs creaked and Molly stirred. She’d giggled into his chest, both of them ducking behind the table, biting back laughter and hunger alike.

“I cannot believe you remember that,” she whispered, breath shaky, face hot.

“Could never forget it,” he said, pressing her up against the cupboard again, voice low and rough. “Especially the part where you said, and I quote, ‘if we get caught, I’ll tell them you seduced me.’”

She laughed, short and breathy, even as her nails dragged lightly down his chest. “Sounds like something you’d do.”

“Merlin, I missed that laugh,” he murmured before capturing her mouth again.

Clothes began to shift and fall between kisses. Her shirt lifted over her head, his hands slipping beneath the waistband of her jeans. He touched her like he’d been starved for the feel of her skin, like memorising her all over again was the only way he’d survive.

She pulled back only when her knees hit the cupboard door behind her, breath ragged. “Fred, we can’t—”

“I need you,” he said simply. “Not just tonight. Not just here.” His lips ghosted over her collarbone, his hands stilling just beneath the hem of her top. “I need you back in my life. Every damn day.”

She searched his face, stunned by the ache in his eyes. “Don’t say that unless you mean it.”

“I do,” he whispered.

Then, he dropped to one knee. Her pulse stuttered. “What—”

“I’m not joking.” His voice dropped to something tender. “I’ve had the ring since before I left.”

He pulled back just slightly and reached into his pocket, fingers trembling just a little. Her eyes welled up as he held out a small, well-worn box. It was scuffed from being carried everywhere for months. He opened it, revealing a ring so beautiful and perfect that it made her breath catch in her throat.

“You were going to propose before? Before everything?”

He nodded, throat tight. “I wanted to. I had this whole plan. Candles. Music. Something sappy. But then the war got worse, and I couldn’t risk you following me. I thought I’d lose you.”

“You nearly did,” she whispered.

“But I didn’t,” he said, stepping closer. “You’re still here. Still mad at me. Still perfect. I know I don’t deserve it, but I love you. I’ve always loved you. I don’t have a fancy set up. I don’t have a speech. I don’t even really have a job anymore unless we can get the shop up and running again.” He laughed, dry and nervous, eyes flicking up to meet hers. “But I have a whole future in my head. One where we don’t let the world get between us again. One where we do things right.”

She stared at the ring, then at him. Then laughed, watery and disbelieving. “What am I meant to tell people when they ask how you proposed?”

Fred smirked and pulled her into his arms again. “Tell them it was during the most passionate night of our lives. In my mum’s kitchen. While half-dressed and furious.”

She stared, heart racing, hands trembling. A choked sob bubbled from her throat, even through the tears burning behind her eyes. “You want that to be the story?”

“Best proposal story ever,” he grinned, rising to his feet again and kissing her softly. “Unless you’d rather tell them it happened under the stars. Or on a broomstick. Or in front of a bloody hippogriff. We’ve got options. I’ll do it again, and again, until I get it right.”

She shook her head, pulling him in again, her lips brushing his. “You’re an absolute buffoon, Fred Weasley.”

“I am,” he murmured. “But you’ve never let that stop you before.”

She pressed her forehead to his, voice thick and trembling, but certain. “Yes. I’ll marry you.”

———————————————————————

The scent of sizzling bacon and freshly baked bread drifted up the stairs, sunlight spilling through the curtains in lazy golden streaks. She stretched beneath the duvet, sore in a lovely, familiar way, and for the first time in what felt like ages, her body didn’t ache from sadness or tension. It just ached from being alive and in love.

She padded barefoot down the stairs, wearing an oversized jumper - Fred’s, again, obviously - and soft flannel pyjama shorts. Her hair was still mussed from sleep, and she hadn’t bothered with much more than washing her face and brushing her teeth. The usual morning chaos echoed from the kitchen: George arguing with Ron over toast, plates clinking, Ginny muttering something about Harry drinking all the pumpkin juice.

But the moment she walked in, the noise dulled. Everyone turned. She blinked tiredly. “Morning.”

No one responded right away. Fred, standing at the end of the table putting down a tray of pancakes, looked up the moment he heard her voice. His entire expression softened into something that made her stomach do that awful, fluttering thing it always had when he looked at her like that. As if she’d just walked into a room and turned on all the lights.

Without a word, he crossed the kitchen, placed a steaming mug of tea in front of her, and leaned down to press a soft kiss to her forehead. “Just how you like it,” he murmured.

She smiled into her cup as she cradled it, eyes fluttering closed for a second.

“What on Earth,” Percy muttered, a bewildered expression taking over his features.

“Were you two not at war last night?” Ron asked, halfway through a mouthful of toast.

Arthur glanced between them, bemused. “Did I miss something?”

“You definitely missed something,” Angelina said, eyes narrowing suspiciously.

She tilted her head, smirking over her mug. Fred looked far too smug as he sat beside her, arm casually draping along the back of her chair like they hadn’t spent the previous day avoiding eye contact at this very same table.

And then Ginny gasped loudly. “Oh my Godric! Is that a ring on your finger?!”

All eyes dropped to her left hand, which was still curled around the tea mug. The delicate gold band sparkled like it knew exactly what it was doing. She looked at Fred. He looked at her. They exchanged a shared, secretive smile.

Then she raised her eyebrows, teasing. “So…do you want to tell them, or should I?”

Fred turned to the stunned table with a wicked grin. “We’re engaged.”

The reaction was instantaneous. Ginny shrieked. Hermione let out a dramatic “What?!”Ron dropped his toast. Arthur’s mouth fell open in genuine surprise. And Molly…Well Molly burst into tears and screamed in delight. “OH, MY STARS!”

Chairs scraped back so fast it was a wonder no one toppled over. In seconds, she was being swept from her seat, hugged, kissed, and congratulated in loud, overlapping bursts of joy.

Fred was pulled from one sibling to the next, everyone clapping him on the back and demanding to know when, how, where.

Molly cupped her hands over her mouth, eyes watering. “I knew it! I knew it! Oh, sweetheart, welcome to the family!”

“I thought I was always part of the family,” she laughed as Molly crushed her into a hug.

“Yes, but now it’s official,” Molly cried. “Oh, look at that ring! Fred Gideon Weasley, I swear, you’re lucky she said yes after all you put her through!”

He smirked from over her shoulder, and as the Burrow filled with laughter, joy, and the sound of everyone trying to talk over each other, she looked around the table and felt something settle in her chest. Life was finally as it should be. As it had been once, long ago.

Fred caught her gaze from across the room. Lifted his brow. Gave her that crooked smile that still made her knees go weak. She smiled back.

Molly was already rattling off plans for an engagement dinner, Ginny cooing over the ring, and Arthur trying to discreetly ask Fred about the proposal while still grinning ear to ear.

Fred had just managed to wrap an arm around her waist and pull her back to his side, beaming proudly, when George leaned lazily against the counter with a very smug expression and said, loud enough to cut through the noise, “Well I already knew. Hard to miss, considering I couldn’t even sneak downstairs for a glass of water last night without nearly being deafened by the sound of impending nuptials happening in the bloody kitchen.”

Percy choked on his tea.

Ginny squealed in horror. “GEORGE!”

“Merlin’s beard!” Arthur gasped, looking everywhere except at the couple.

Molly looked like she might faint. “In my kitchen?!”

Fred clapped a hand over his face, muttering, “You were supposed to be asleep.”

“I was!” George shot back. “Until I woke up to the sound of the spatula drawer being assaulted.”

“Fred!” Molly shrieked.

“It was a passionate moment!” he defended, turning pink.

“It was also a health code violation!” George yelled, waving his arms dramatically.

She was blushing so hard she nearly dropped her tea, clinging to Fred’s jumper for balance as he groaned into her shoulder.

“Worst part is,” George added, “now every time I try to make a sandwich in the middle of the night, I’ll have to ask myself, Has this counter been—”

“GEORGE!” came the collective scream from the entire table. But George only grinned wider, completely unbothered.

“I’m just saying,” he muttered, lifting his hands innocently, “some of us didn’t need a formal announcement.”

Fred shook his head, pulling her closer with a groan. “Welcome to the family, love. Hope you like oversharing.”

She just buried her face in his chest, laughing, the ring on her finger catching the light as Fred pressed another kiss to her hair.

And amid the chaos, the teasing, and the scandalised gasps echoing through the Burrow, she had never felt more loved, or more at home. It was going to be chaos. It was going to be messy. But it was them. And it was perfect.

———————————————————————

Alicia’s brow shot up. “Never?”

“Not once.” You shrugged like it was obvious, but your cheeks warmed under their scrutiny. “Fred doesn’t care what I wear. He’s…Fred. He’s usually too busy planning how to explode dungbombs in Filch’s office to worry about whether my jumper has a low enough neckline.”

“As if,” Katie scoffed. “Boys are always weird about it at some point.”

“Not him,” you insisted.

Angelina narrowed her eyes, that mischievous spark lighting in them. “Maybe it’s because you don’t wear anything he’d notice.”

You gasped. “Excuse me?”

“Oh, come on,” Alicia laughed. “You’re hardly parading around in scandalous outfits.”

You threw your pillow at her. “I do too!”

“Not really,” Katie sing-songed, grinning.

You were spluttering for a comeback when Angelina leaned forward, smirk turning downright devilish. “Alright, then. Prove it. Wear something a little…naughty, tomorrow. See what Fred does.”

Your jaw dropped. “You’re joking.”

“Deadly serious,” Katie said, her eyes sparkling. “We’re making this an experiment.”

“Oh, this is going to be good,” Alicia chimed in, clapping her hands together.

“Absolutely not,” you said flatly, trying to bury your burning face in your pillow.

“Yes,” Angelina countered, already buzzing with excitement. “Think of it as…research. For science.”

“Science?” you echoed, incredulous.

“Mm-hm,” she said, utterly serious. “The science of male idiocy. We need to know if Fred is some rare exception to the jealousy rule or if he’s just very, very good at hiding it.”

The chorus of agreement rose around you, their voices overlapping until you groaned.

“Please, you lot are ridiculous—”

“Please?” Katie clasped her hands together dramatically. “Do it for us. Do it for womankind.”

“For womankind?” you repeated, laughing despite yourself.

“Yes,” Angelina said solemnly. “Besides, you’ve already got the perfect test subject. He’s besotted with you, which makes him ideal.”

Your cheeks warmed at the word besotted, though you tried to hide it behind another groan. “You’re not going to let this go, are you?”

“Not a chance,” Alicia said.

Angelina grinned triumphantly. “So it’s settled, then. Tomorrow, you wear something short. Skirt, dress, doesn’t matter. See what happens.”

You buried your face in your pillow and muffled, “I hate you all.”

Their laughter rang through the common room, bright and victorious, and you knew - even as you sat there swearing up and down you wouldn’t do it - that you were already doomed to cave.

———————————————————————

The next morning, you sat on the edge of your bed with your head in your hands, glaring at the traitorous garment lying across your knees. A skirt. A short one.

Angelina, Katie, and Alicia were sprawled dramatically across the other beds, watching you like a panel of judges.

“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” you muttered.

“You agreed,” Angelina sing-songed.

“You forced me!”

“We encouraged you,” Alicia corrected sweetly, propping her chin on her hand. “There’s a difference.”

Katie grinned. “Oh, this is going to be brilliant. I want front-row seats to Fred’s meltdown.”

“There won’t be a meltdown because nothing is going to happen,” you said firmly, but the way your stomach squirmed as you stood and pulled the skirt into place betrayed your nerves.

It was shorter than you usually wore - just grazing your mid-thigh - and paired with a slouchy jumper, you felt both ridiculous and exposed. You smoothed your hands down the fabric, cheeks hot. “I look stupid.”

Angelina sat up and whistled. “You look hot. Fred’s going to trip over his own feet.”

Your pulse jumped.

The common room was buzzing with early risers when you descended the stairs. Fred was leaning against the back of the sofa, head thrown back in laughter at something George was saying, that familiar freckled grin lighting up his whole face.

You swallowed hard.

“Alright,” you whispered to yourself. “Here goes nothing.”

Fred spotted you almost instantly, grin widening as he pushed off the sofa and came striding toward you. His long legs made it impossible to escape, and before you could even brace yourself, he swooped in and pressed a warm kiss to your cheek.

“Morning, love,” he said brightly, arm looping around your shoulders. He smelled faintly of cinnamon and sugar, like always.

You braced for the comment - for the frown, the teasing, something - but instead, he launched right into a story.

“So George and I were in Zonko’s yesterday, and wait ‘til you hear this! We’ve finally cracked the spell formula for the trick wands. Oh, you’re going to love it—”

And that was it.

He didn’t look twice at your legs. Didn’t even blink. His arm around you was easy and comfortable, and his laugh was so carefree it made you want to scream. By the time you reached the Great Hall for breakfast, you were seething quietly.

That night, you reported back to the girls, sprawled across your blanket fort once more.

“Nothing?” Katie asked, incredulous.

“Not a word?” Alicia echoed, eyes wide.

You shook your head miserably. “Not a single bloody thing. He just told me about joke wands for ten minutes.”

Angelina groaned and flopped back on her pillow. “He’s either completely blind or completely unfazed. And I don’t know which one is worse.”

Katie narrowed her eyes, determination sparking. “Alright. Time to up the stakes.”

You groaned into your pillow. “Oh, for Merlin’s sake.”

Alicia’s grin spread. “Skirt didn’t do it? Next time…jeans. Tight ones. And a top to match.”

The girls giggled, already plotting, and you couldn’t help but feel the creeping dread in your stomach.

Because if Fred really didn’t care what you wore…what did that mean?

———————————————————————

By the time the next Hogsmeade trip rolled around, you were regretting everything.

Katie had all but shoved the outfit into your arms. Tight, low-rise jeans that clung to your hips in a way that made you blush just looking at them, and a snug, low-cut top that left very little to imagination.

“I can’t wear this in public,” you hissed, staring at yourself in the mirror of the girls’ dorm.

Angelina leaned against the bedpost with her arms crossed, smirk firmly in place. “Yes, you can. And you will. Because this is science.”

“For womankind,” Alicia added solemnly, which made Katie snort.

You groaned and covered your face with your hands, but five minutes later you found yourself tugging your cloak around your shoulders and heading down the stairs, praying the ground would open up and swallow you.

Fred was waiting for you in the common room, hair still damp from a shower, grinning wide the moment he saw you.

“There she is,” he said, bounding over. His eyes flicked down instinctively as you reached him - just for a split second - but you missed it, too busy tugging the hem of your top (which was riding up your stomach) back down.

“Ready?” you asked quickly, desperate to deflect.

“More than ready,” he said easily, slinging an arm over your shoulder as you walked toward the portrait hole. His hand slid down to your waist as you moved through the crowded staircase, fingers pressing just a little firmer when a group of boys shoved past.

Your heart stuttered, but you chalked it up to Fred being Fred - always casual with touch, always without thinking twice.

By the time you reached Honeydukes, he was still his usual self. Joking, laughing, buying you your favorite sweets like he always did. Not a single comment about the outfit. Not even a raised brow.

At one point, as you leaned over the counter to inspect a jar of Fizzing Whizzbees, Fred’s gaze lingered, jaw tightening briefly before he looked away. But you didn’t see.

“Alright,” he said later, as you strolled back up toward the castle with bags of sweets swinging from your hands. “Now be honest. Between you and me, do you reckon George could pull off selling Canary Creams at Slughorn’s dinner party?”

You tripped on a step. “What? Fred, I…are you seriously thinking about pranking Slughorn right now?”

He grinned, utterly unbothered. “Always thinking about pranking Slughorn.”

You gaped at him, exasperated, and that was the moment you knew.

He really didn’t care.

Back in the dorm later that night, the girls were waiting like vultures.

“So?” Katie demanded, practically bouncing on her bed.

“Spill,” Alicia added.

You collapsed onto your pillow with a dramatic groan. “Nothing.”

Angelina sat up so fast her blanket fell to the floor. “Nothing? You were practically falling out of that top.”

“Tell me about it,” you muttered, cheeks heating.

“Unbelievable,” Alicia said, flopping back against her cushions.

Katie narrowed her eyes, wicked grin spreading. “Alright then. If the skirt didn’t work, and the top didn’t work…there’s only one thing left.”

You raised a wary brow. “…What?”

“The LBD,” Angelina said with a flourish, as if the three letters explained everything.

“The what now?” you asked.

They groaned in unison.

“Little. Black. Dress,” Alicia said slowly, as though speaking to a child.

You blinked. “That’s a thing?”

Katie threw a pillow at your head. “Of course it’s a thing! It’s the thing. The ultimate test. No man alive can ignore a girl in a little black dress.”

Angelina smirked, eyes gleaming. “And lucky for you…Gryffindor’s throwing a party next weekend.”

Your stomach dropped. “Oh no.”

“Oh yes,” they chorused.

———————————————————————

The dormitory was a war zone of fabric.

Angelina had practically raided her trunk, Alicia had added jewelry to the pile, and Katie was sitting cross-legged on your bed holding up a pair of knee-high boots like they were sacred relics.

“This is ridiculous,” you muttered for the hundredth time, glaring at the dress laid out in front of you. Black. Tight. The neckline plunged lower than you’d ever dared. The hemline…well, calling it “modest” would’ve been a straight up lie.

Angelina grinned like a cat. “It’s perfect.”

“It’s indecent,” you shot back.

“It’s science,” Alicia countered with what had become their tagline.

“For womankind,” Katie cheered dramatically.

You groaned into your hands, but twenty minutes later, there you were in front of the mirror. Dress on, boots hugging your thighs, hair tamed just enough to look intentional. Your reflection stared back, wide-eyed and flushed.

“You look…” Angelina tilted her head. “…dangerous.”

“Like a heart attack waiting to happen,” Alicia added approvingly.

Katie wiggled her brows. “Fred’s not going to survive the night.”

The common room was already pulsing with music and laughter by the time you descended the stairs. Red and gold banners hung from the ceiling, butterbeer bottles clinked, and students filled every corner.

But the moment you stepped into view, the air shifted. Heads turned. Conversations stuttered. A whistle cut through the noise.

Your face burned. You kept your chin high, forcing yourself to stride through the crowd until your eyes found the only person you cared about.

Fred.

He was across the room, laughing with George, a butterbeer in hand. But then his gaze landed on you.

For a fraction of a second, his grin slipped. His eyes darkened, flicking down your figure with a heat that made your knees wobble. His hand tightened around the neck of the bottle.

Then, just as quickly, the easy smile returned. He passed the drink to George, wove through the crowd with that infuriatingly confident stride, and slipped an arm around your waist like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“There you are,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to your cheek. “Come dance with me.”

No comment. No raised brow. Nothing.

On the dance floor, his hand stayed firm at your waist, thumb brushing slow circles against the fabric of your dress. Once, when a Ravenclaw boy’s gaze lingered a bit too long, Fred pulled you closer, his smirk sharpening. But he said nothing.

You felt your frustration boil under your skin. Didn’t he notice? Didn’t he care?

By the time the party had started to wind down, you couldn’t take it anymore.

You tugged Fred toward the stairs, heart pounding. He followed easily, brows lifting in amusement. “What’s this then? Sneaking me away for a midnight snog?”

You whirled on him, arms crossed, trying to mask the twist in your chest. “Why don’t you care what I wear?”

He blinked, caught off guard. “…What?”

“The skirt. The jeans. This dress! I’ve tried everything. And you don’t even blink!” Your voice cracked, equal parts embarrassment and anger. “Everyone else’s boyfriends get jealous or at least say something, but you—”

Fred’s smirk curved, slow and dangerous, as if the pieces had finally clicked. He stepped closer, gaze fixed on yours.

“You think I haven’t noticed?” His voice was low, teasing but warm.

You faltered. “Well, you don’t act like it.”

“That’s because,” he murmured, brushing his nose against your temple before pressing a kiss to your forehead, “you can wear whatever you want, baby. I can protect what’s mine.”

The words sank into you like honey, melting every knot of frustration until your knees felt weak.

When he pulled back, that cocky grin was in place again, but softer now. Tender.

From across the room, the girls - watching unabashedly from their blanket pile - sighed in perfect unison.

And then he kissed you, properly this time, leaving no room for doubt at all.

———————————————————————

Tag list: @vivianette @ellouisa17 @wisp1q @divineani @cattleray @billieeilishkisser @lupinsweater @allielovesstars @starryeddie @adhxmoony @jaredcadillaci

———————————————————————

BONUS SCENE:

The next morning, sunlight spilled through the tower windows, warming the common room in a way that felt almost cruel after last night’s chaos. Empty bottles and crumpled banners littered the floor, evidence of a Gryffindor party well-celebrated.

You shuffled into the girls’ corner still in your pajamas, hair messy, eyes heavy with sleep. But the second you sat down, three sets of eyes locked on you like you were a mouse cornered by kneazles.

“Well?” Katie demanded.

You buried your face in your pillow. “Don’t start.”

“Don’t start?” Alicia gasped, clutching her blanket dramatically. “You basically set the bar for dramatic boyfriend declarations. Protect what’s mine? Merlin’s beard, we nearly fainted.”

Angelina was already grinning like she’d won a bet. “I knew it. I knew he was holding out on us. That boy’s got steel nerves. He noticed from the start.”

You peeked out from behind your pillow, cheeks hot. “He…he really didn’t say anything, though. Until I practically started a fight.”

Katie flopped back on her bed with a sigh. “Because he’s Fred. The man thrives on winding people up. He probably loved every second of watching you spiral.”

“Ugh,” you groaned, but there was no real bite in it. Because they were right. Fred had loved it. You’d seen it in his smirk, in the way his eyes danced when you finally cracked.

Alicia leaned forward, smirking. “So? Be honest. Did the line make you melt?”

You threw your pillow at her. “Shut up.”

Angelina caught it before it hit, tossing it back at you with a cackle. “She melted. Absolutely puddled.”

Katie sighed dreamily, hugging her knees. “Honestly, I don’t blame you. If my boyfriend ever said that to me, I’d swoon on the spot.”

You groaned again, flopping back dramatically against the cushions. “He’s insufferable.”

“Insufferable,” Angelina agreed, smirk tugging at her lips. “And absolutely perfect for you.”

Across the common room, Fred lounged with George near the fire, pretending not to listen but clearly tuned in, his ears just a little too pink to be casual. When your eyes met his, he sent you a shameless wink, mouthing, Told you so.

Your stomach flipped, traitorous and warm, and despite yourself, a smile tugged at your lips.

You’re roused by someone kneeling between your legs. His long cock, slick with his own spit, prods at your entrance. Slowly sinking into your warm and welcoming hole.

A low whine stirs in your throat, and you’re not quite awake enough yet to open your eyes. You’re disoriented, lost in a dream-drunk haze, making it ever so hard to make sense of the warm sensation between your legs. All you know is that it’s divine.

“Shh, darling,” he whispers, pressing sweet, soothing kisses to your lips. He stills his hips, allowing you a moment to adjust both to his size and the morning light.

“Rem,” you moan, recognizing him by the feeling of his lips on yours, and how deeply his cock spears you. Your voice is hoarse with sleep, which he finds adorable, his heart swelling with affection.

Your eyes flutter open, meeting Remus’s warm brown irises and even warmer smile. Messy strands of his mousy hair fall over his forehead as he leans over you, half concealing the faint crinkle at the corner of his eyes.

“G’morning,” he murmurs, beginning to slowly rock in and out of you. Heat rushes to your core, and you start to breathe in pants as the delicious grind of his hard cock against your gummy walls fully drags you out from your slumber.

Remus supports his weight with his forearm pressed into the mattress by your head, his hand lovingly cradling your face. His other arm snakes beneath you. With his palm flat against your lower back, he presses your naked body firmly into his. Your arms wrap around his middle, too, your nails lightly scratching at his skin.

Remus grunts, slowly picking up the pace of his thrusts. He drops his head to your shoulder to nip at your collarbone. Over his head, you see James watching from the bathroom doorway as he brushes his teeth. When his hazel eyes meet yours, he winks. Shortly after, he disappears into the bathroom to rinse his mouth.

Later, Remus finishes inside you as your walls clench around him, pulsing from your first—and definitely not your last—release of the day.

Remus cradles you against his chest, whispering sweet praise and inviting you to go back to sleep. But he’s woken you up now, and you can hear the shower running. The warm water calls to you, so you leave Remus with a chaste kiss on his lips.

“Jamie?” you murmur as you stumble into the steamy bathroom. He’s already on you by the time the first syllable slips past your lips, tugging you by the wrist under the spray of the shower with him.

“Hi, love,” he says, grinning. He hugs you tightly from behind, his chin resting on your shoulder. You lean your head back to look at him, and he plants a minty kiss on your lips. “Moony didn’t wake you too early, did he?”

“No, ‘m fine,” you sigh, content. The warm water feels wonderful on your skin, and so do James’s hands as they skate across it, tracing arbitrary patterns.

“I bet you are,” James hums teasingly. One of his hands slowly drifts south. You gasp as his fingers part your folds. Remus’s cum is still warm inside of you, and James groans as he spreads it around, his fingers brushing over your clit with every pass.

Whiny, helpless little noises slip past your lips as James teases you. You’re still sensitive from when Remus fucked you mere minutes ago, which James considers, but ultimately it only makes him want you more.

He spins you around to face him, and he walks you back until your skin comes into contact with the shower tiles. You suck in a sharp breath through your teeth because the smooth tiles are unexpectedly cold, but James quickly distracts you from it.

He hikes one of your legs around his hip and continues playing with your clit with his thumb.

“You’re so pretty,” he says, eyes raking over your bare body, mesmerized. Water droplets glisten on your skin as he watches the heavy rise and fall of your chest.

He guides his cock between your folds, circling the head around the sensitive bud before burying himself in your sweet pussy. You moan his name as he begins pounding into you, and you’re glad Remus had you first. Remus is long, but James is thicker, and having him first made it easier for your walls to accommodate James’s girth now, especially with how ruthless James is in his movements.

James has you in the shower until the water runs cold, your fingers have shriveled up like raisins, and the noises you make are nothing but whiny babbles. He has a hand pressed against your pelvis, and his thumb is rubbing tight circles on your clit. It’s already made you cum for him once, and he’s yet to stop. It’s a little overwhelming, enough to make your legs shake.

You bury your hands in his wet mop of hair as he wraps his lips around one of your nipples, sucking greedily. The combined sensations draw out another orgasm from you.

“Gonna fill you up, love,” he grunts, hips stuttering as he nears his own release.

A broken “please” falls from your lips, and with one final, powerful thrust, his hips stall, and you feel his warm release coat your inner walls.

“Fuck,” he groans, lifting his head to press a kiss to your temple. “So good.”

He helps you clean up under the water afterward. It’s slightly uncomfortable since it’s no longer warm, which is why he works quickly, but gently, so that he can wrap you in a fluffy towel and warm you back up with fast strokes of his hands over your goosebump riddled arms.

James continues to take care of you. Applying your morning skincare while you sit on the sink, styling your hair while shooting you occasional warm smiles in the mirror, and even dressing you. He picks out a flowy little dress for you to wear, and that’s it. Wearing short dresses around your home, with nothing underneath, is something you’ve grown accustomed to. It stirs up a certain warmth in your tummy, and your boys love it. Easy access, and all that.

“Beautiful,” James murmurs, pressing a kiss to your cheek before leading you to the kitchen. He sits you down on one of the stools while he starts preparing breakfast for the four of you. Remus is in the kitchen too, brewing James’s coffee and putting a kettle on for himself.

You squeal when a pair of arms suddenly wrap around your waist. Sirius tucks his face into the crook of your neck, attacking you with kisses.

“Good morning, baby,” Sirius says, his voice muffled by your neck.

You giggle, the vibrations from his words against your skin tickling you.

Sirius lifts you from your stool, planting your feet flat on the ground next to it. His hands roam your body, running up and down your sides, massaging your shoulders a bit, sharply smacking your ass.

Your yelp prompts James to cast him a sideways glance. “Careful with her, Pads. She’s had quite the morning already.”

“Yeah. I heard,” Sirius smirks, and a heat to rushes to your cheeks. You’re sure overhearing Remus and James have their ways with you is what has Sirius so worked up—a little jealous, probably—as he pushes your dress up and over your hips. “Bend over for me, sweetheart,” he instructs, and you do as he says. Bracing yourself over the counter.

Remus keeps his eyes on you the entire time Sirius fucks you, casually sipping his morning tea as if he’s not rock hard in his trousers. You try your best to hold that eye contact, even with your cheek smooshed against the granite by Sirius’s hand in your hair.

Sirius angles his hips so that the thick head of his cock bumps into that sensitive, spongy spot with every thrust. Your legs shake violently, and if it weren’t for the counter and Sirius’s bruising hold on your hips, you’re not sure you’d still be standing.

An arm circles your waist. Sirius’s fingers dip between your folds, and you cry out in pleasure as he circles your clit.

“Gonna cum for me?” Sirius asks in that heady voice that makes you feel dizzy.

James is finished cooking breakfast by then. He passes by with plates of food, placing them on the wooden table in the corner of the room. On his way back, he stops at your side, leaning down to press a kiss to your cheek. When he straightens back out, Sirius grabs him by his shirt and tugs him into a sloppy kiss. James threads his fingers through Sirius’s dark hair, pulling on it sharply. Sirius promptly cums inside of you, and your orgasm follows shortly after.

James has a smug little smirk on his lips as he finishes setting the table, but Sirius is only focused on watching his cum leak down your thighs.

With two fingers, he collects the creamy liquid and stuffs it back in your poor, overused hole.

A broken whine parts your lips, and Remus, still watching, frowns. Sirius’s fingers brush across your oversensitive clit, and your whole body shudders violently.

Sirius chuckles, but Remus takes pity on you.

“Enough teasing her,” he says, putting down his mug.

“She’s still eager for it, the way she’s squeezing my fingers,” Sirius responds, pumping them inside you again.

Remus sighs. “Come here, lovely,” he says in a gentle command, opening his arms.

Sirius is quick to let you go, knowing it’s a command for him as much as it is for you. You melt into Remus’s embrace, his long arms enveloping you in his warmth.

Remus presses his lips to the crown of your head. “That true?” he murmurs. “Still want more after we’ve all fucked you?”

You hide your face in his chest, embarrassed. A low chuckle rumbles through him.

Remus guides you to the table to enjoy the delicious breakfast James made for everyone, and to sit you down on his cock, hard still from watching you take Sirius’s.

As you sit pretty on Remus’s length, your boys dote on you. Remus rubs any tension from your shoulders, peppering little kisses on the back of your neck as he does. Sirius whispers sweet nothings to you as he massages your scalp. The sensation is so delightful, you have to fight your eyes from rolling back so you can focus on the breakfast James feeds you. And the syrupy kisses he gives you between bites of pancake.

It’s pure bliss, and whether or not you’ve always been a morning person, you sure are now.

every reblog and comment means the world <3 i’d love to hear your thoughts

You met him on your third and a half day at the Daily Planet.

He spilled coffee on you. A full cup. Right down the front of your blazer. Frothy iced caramel latte catastrophe. He panicked immediately—rushed through an apology so fast you barely caught the words—then offered, in complete earnestness, to dry-clean your coat. Not send it to the dry cleaner. Do it himself. Like it was the gentlemanly thing to do. You just stared at him, dripping, blinking. “Are you okay?” you asked, because someone had to.

He nodded—too fast—then proceeded to trip over the recycling bin just trying to get you napkins.

You’ve been friends ever since.

It’s not the cleanest origin story.

But over time, somehow, Clark became your person.

Not in the “call-at-3-a.m.-while-sobbing” kind of way (that’s Jimmy), or the “bring-wine-and-insult-your-evil-ex” kind of way (also Jimmy). 

But in a steadier, quieter way. You write your little articles; he helps edit them. You fight with your sources on the sidewalk; he bakes them apology muffins the day after to make sure they don't contact Perry. You cover Metropolis politics like it’s trench warfare, and he smiles across the bullpen at you like you’re doing God’s work even when you're calling the mayor a “power-drunk thumb in a trench coat and a receding hairline you can see from space.”

He’s your constant. Steady and reliable and always five degrees too soft for this world.

Which is exactly why it doesn’t make sense.

Why, one night, it all… shifts.

.

You’re soaked.

Not in the steamy, sexy way. Not even in the Charli-XCX-Spring-Breakers kind of soaked.

Just: wet. Unpleasantly. In that half-drenched, trench-foot, what-is-my-life kind of way.

The weather app lied again (seriously, Metropolis Weather has one job), and your jacket is now suctioned to your body like a bad ex. Your boots have crossed the line from “water-resistant” to a really bad “Swamp Thing cosplay,” and your tote—home to your press pass and a sad little Tupperware of soggy couscous—is dripping like it’s auditioning for a plumbing ad.

So when Clark offers his place—soft-voiced, ever-accommodating, all that big dumb golden retriever energy—you say yes.

Not because you’re weak. Please.

Because he lives closer.

Logistically. Geographically.

(Okay, maybe emotionally, too, but you’ll unpack that when your socks aren’t squelching like a really bad porno.)

So now you’re in his apartment. Standing in the entryway. Leaving a trail of water on his hardwood floors while he gently, gently hands you a towel and fiddles with the thermostat and says things like, “You’re going to catch a cold if you don’t change out of those clothes.”

And you, being the self-possessed adult that you are, snort and say, “Thank you, Mom.”

Clark blushes.

Actually blushes. Like a cartoon character. Like a man who has never, in his life, imagined someone undressing in his home, which is hilarious, given that you’ve seen the size of his arms. 

“Sorry,” he mumbles, rubbing the back of his neck. “I just meant… yeah. You’re soaked.”

His place smells like cinnamon and laundry detergent. There’s a candle burning on the kitchen counter—one of those $9.99 specials from Bath & Body Works. You imagine him in the store, earnestly reading the label on something called "Warm Vanilla Sugar" while the cashier tries to upsell him on a five-for-fifteen deal.

The image makes your lips curl. Your mascara's halfway down your cheekbones, your calves are cramping from the walk, and you should really, really, really just go take a hot shower and crash on his couch.

Instead, you look at him.

And he’s looking back.

Not like most men do—not the bar-stool inventory of what you are and aren’t. Not a scan. Not a question. More like a memory. Like he’s already filed you away in some quietly treasured part of his brain and he’s just taking the time to make sure the details are right. Like you are known.

You don’t think. You don’t make a plan. You just move.

Step forward. Grab the lapels of his flannel like it owes you money. Pull him down. Kiss him.

It’s not graceful. Not choreographed. You catch his chin at a weird angle, and your nose bumps into his, and the kiss lands too sharp, too fast. Like you’re trying to stun him. Like you’re trying to win a fight.

But then, he exhales.

And he melts. Not urgently. Not hungrily. Just… fully.

Like this is the thing he’s been waiting on for months, and now that it’s finally happening, he’s scared to spook it. His hands hover for a beat, like he’s making sure it’s real, and then one comes to rest lightly on your waist—tentative, patient. The other curls around your jaw with all the softness of a man who has no business being this gentle.

You break the kiss first, of course.

Because you always break things first.

When you look at him, he's staring at you like you invented language. Like he doesn’t know what to do with his hands, so they hover awkwardly at your sides, respectful, warm, and shaking just a little.

Which is when the panic crashes in.

He’s not supposed to look at you like that. Like you hung the stars. Like he knows you. Like he loves you.

Because if he does. If he really, truly does. Then eventually, he’ll stop.

They always stop.

People love you in the beginning. They love your bite, your snark, the way you know which part of a politician's background are most incriminating. They love the thrill of earning your attention. They love that you make them work for it. But eventually, the charm fades. The sharp edges cut a little too deep. 

You forget to text back. You overshare. You undershare. You get tired. You get real.

And they get bored.

You’ve never wanted to risk that with Clark. He’s been yours—just yours, in the safe way—for too long.

You step back like the floor might collapse under you. 

Put space. Just… anything between your body and the soft burn of his flannel. Try not to think about how fucking warm he was. “Shit—uh. You don’t have to say anything,” you blurt, voice too fast, too thin. “We can pretend it didn’t happen. Go back to normal. That’s fine.”

Clark’s brows knit, not in offense, just concern. He doesn’t look hurt. He looks… steady. Like he expected this part. “Are you sure?”

The way he asks it is soft. Unhurried. Like it’s not some ultimatum. Like it’s okay if you're not sure.

You open your mouth. Close it. Swallow.

“I just—” You press your fingers to your temple, like maybe that might just reorganize your entire internal filing system. “You know I don’t do relationships.”

“I know,” he says, without hesitation.

You study him—really study him—like you’re trying to find the catch. Some hint of disappointment or wounded ego. But it isn’t there.

He reaches up slowly and tucks a damp strand of hair behind your ear, his touch feather-light. “You don’t have to do anything you’re not ready for.”

You blink. “Even if I’m the one who kissed you?”

Clark smiles, just barely. “Especially then.”

His hand lingers near your cheek, but he doesn’t push. He’s patient in that maddening, disarming way. Waiting, always, for you to meet him halfway.

“Whatever you want,” he says again, quiet. “I’m good with that.”

You stare at him. “You’re really not gonna argue?”

“Nope.”

“Not gonna psychoanalyze me? Tell me I’m avoidant or emotionally stunted or terrified of my own vulnerability?”

He huffs a small laugh. “Already did. Long time ago.”

Your lips twitch despite yourself. “And?”

He shrugs, like it’s the easiest truth in the world. “You’re complicated. But you care. A lot. More than you let people see.”

And damn it, you hate how much that lands. How much he lands. You hate that he’s always been able to see through you, gently, without ever demanding more than you could give. And you hate—more than anything, more than all of that—how badly you want to kiss him again.

So you do.

Maybe to prove a point. Maybe to blow it all up before it can settle. Maybe because you’re already in too deep and part of you is tired of pretending you’re not.

You didn’t plan for it to go further. You didn’t plan anything, really. 

But your hands slide up into the open collar of his flannel, and he stumbles a little as you back him into the bookshelf. His glasses tilt when your fingers brush his temple, and you pull them off carefully, gently, like they’re the only thing tethering you both to whatever was before.

His eyes are wide. His mouth already parted. And when he looks up at you like this—flushed, breathless, undone—you think, mine.

And it’s terrifying.

Because it means it’s real.

It happened.

God.

It happened.

.

You strip him out of that worn flannel with a kind of sick, obsessive care. Button by button, like you were unwrapping a gift, like you were unearthing something you’d been searching for in every bad date, every failed talking stage, every mediocre bar makeout that had ever left you cold.

His flannel hit the floor. He doesn't say a word.

Not until you settle into his lap, thighs on either side of his. Then—quietly, like he wasn’t sure if it was okay to want anything—he says, “You… you don’t have to be gentle. Just, just in case. So you know.”

But you are. Because he is. 

Because even now, even with your mouth to his, your hands fisted in his curls, his hands stay light on your hips. Like he doesn't want to take more than you’d give. Like he's still giving you the option to leave.

He makes a sound when your hips tilted forward. Not a groan, not exactly. Something deeper. A noise from his chest, halfway between a gasp and a plea. You kiss more of it out of him, mouths clumsy and desperate, fingers scrabbling at the hem of his undershirt, and it feels like breathing.

His breath's caught between his teeth when you rip a condom wrapper in between yours, slotting it onto him with shaking, shaking hands and trying not think about how he's probably the biggest you've ever had.

Lord have mercy.

You ride him like your life depends on it.

You get a thigh cramp halfway through—let out an annoyed groan and tried to keep going—and he, sweet, precious idiot that he is, sits up and says your name like it hurt. Voice quivering like he wants to stop, wants to help, wants to make sure you're okay.

Absolutely no way in hell you wanted that to happen.

“Clark,” you hissed. “Chill. I'm okay, dude. I’m fine.”

“Okay,” he said, dazed, grinning. “Just—didn’t want you to get hurt. I mean. You’re, uh. You were very intense. Just now.”

“Yeah, well, you’re the one with the dick that's slowly rearranging my guts,” you mutter, and he laughs so hard his shoulders shook.

And worse—goddamn it, worse—he looks at you the whole time.

No games. No posing. Just Clark. Holding your hips with those hands—god, those hands, unfairly big and warm and steady—and looking up at you like he meant it.

You’d told him once, over shitty fries past midnight on the curb at McDonald's, that you didn’t trust men who made eye contact during sex. Called it performative. Manipulative. 

“Like they’re trying to Jedi mind-trick you into thinking it’s love,” you’d scoffed, and he'd gone quiet in that way he does, not sulking, just thinking. But that he was filing it away.

So of course—of course—when you're bare above him, hair a mess, mascara still clinging to your cheekbones, all vulnerable and exposed and teetering over the edge because his dick was doing wonderful, amazing things to your insides and making you melt—

He looks up at you with that open, earnest face and asks, softly:

“Do you want me to close my eyes?”

You freeze. Like an absolute idiot. Like prey.

And you say no.

"No."

Never.

He nods. “Okay.”

Then he kissed the inside of your wrist—just because it was there—and you lost ten entire emotional minutes and your grip on reality, grinding down on him like your life depended on it.

You come so hard you forgot your name. 

Forget what you were supposed to be protecting yourself from. Forget every lie you’ve ever told yourself about  the depth of your feelings for him.

It was insane. Deranged.

(Perfect.)

Later, three orgasms later, you collapse over him in a ridiculous heap of limbs and half-dressed post-coital delirium, forehead pressed to his shoulder, chest still heaving.

And he whispered something into your hair—something low and steady and not quite the word love, but so close it that it scraped through your head.

Then he hums.

You don’t recognize it at first—just the vibration under your cheek, the low murmur of a tune, warm and unassuming. You’re half-asleep, boneless, and not fully aware he's still inside of you, pulsing, your fingers curled around his neck.

But you listen.

“You humming Dolly right now?” you murmur, voice hoarse.

Clark hums a little louder. “‘Here You Come Again.’” Then, almost shy, “She’s good. What?”

You groan into his chest. “You absolute dork.”

“I like her,” he says, defensive. “She’s smart. You know she gave away, like, a million books to—wait, are you laughing?”

You are. Full-on giggling into his shoulder now. Giddy and too full and sore in all the best ways.

.

And you really don't mean to keep it going in the morning, let alone  in the shower.

Truly. 

You're just trying to get clean. 

Wash off the evidence of the night before—sweat and come and a whole life’s worth of repressed emotional distress—but then, Clark steps in right behind you, warm and quiet and too gentle. 

And suddenly it was over for you. Just absolutely fucking over.

He offers to join, sheepish and bashful, eyes flicking away like he hadn’t just had his face between your thighs just a few hours ago. “Just to save water,” he says. “'Cause of the environment… and all that.”

And sure, Clark. You absolute liar. The environment.

Except the second he steps in behind you—naked, dripping wet, glasses still off so he looked all boyish and wreckable—your resolve crumples like wet newspaper.

He reaches around you for the body wash and that was your downfall. Arm flexing around your waist, that goddamn baritone rumble in your ear as he asks, “This one okay?”

Like you're supposed to just—what? function when his voice was doing that thing? That was supposed to be okay?

But then his hands are on your hips—steady, huge—and you tilt your head back just enough to graze his jaw. He flinches. Or maybe you do. And before either of you could process it, your palm's flat against the tile and Clark was slowly pressing himself against your back.

“Okay?” he asks, voice a little too hoarse, a little too human.

You nod. “Yeah. Just—don’t be sweet about it.”

“But I'm always sweet about it,” he mumbles, and then he was, dragging a hand up your stomach, brushing your wet hair off your neck, mouthing at the base of your spine like he was making a wish.

He moves inside you slow. 

Like he means it. Like he thinks he’d scare you off if he went too fast. And it was disgusting, really, how good it felt. How intimate all of this was.

Your knees nearly buckle. You have to brace yourself with both palms on the glass, forehead pressed against fogged-up safety plastic, biting down on your own goddamn fist to keep from crying out his name like something from a romance novel.

(You still did, eventually. He made sure of that when he pressed one large hand up against your stomach so you can feel him, really feel him, and another down your front, rubbing at your clit like it was a lifeline until you saw stars.)

"Clark. Clar—fuck, baby, I'm almost—Jesus Christ—oH!"

When it was over—when your legs were jelly and your throat was raw and your spine was doing that post-orgasm melt thing—you turn to rinse the shampoo out of your hair, and he just… helped. Without you even having to say anything.

He lathers it for you, clement and thorough, massaging your scalp. His cheeks are pink. His mouth is pink. You think about biting him. Maybe.

But instead, you let yourself lean into his chest while the water poured down over both of you, and you didn’t speak, because if you spoke, it would become too real.

So, you just let him wash your back.

He didn’t ask you to stay.

You didn’t ask if he wanted you to.

But when you wander out of the bedroom ten minutes later—half-wet, flushed, wearing his old Central Kansas A&M hoodie like it hadn’t just been folded neatly in a drawer—you find him in the kitchen, humming again. 

Making pancakes.

“You want blueberries in yours?” he asks, like he didn’t have his dick in you in the shower ten minutes ago.

And you—traumatized, horny, emotionally compromised—you say, “Sure."

Then, because your brain has finally rebooted just enough to return to its default defense mechanism:

“Also, we need to talk.”

Clark pauses mid-pour, then turns around, spatula still in hand. “Okay,” he says, unbothered. His voice is calm, casual. Like you didn’t almost combust from having maybe, four—no, five or six orgasms in his arms over the past twelve hours.

You cross your arms over your chest, over his sweatshirt. “Last night—and this morning was great. I mean, objectively. A solid eight out of ten. No complaints.”

He looks amused. “Only eight?”

“I’m leaving room for improvement,” you say, defensive. “But I just want to be clear again that this isn’t… this isn’t a thing.”

Clark nods. “Okay.”

You squint at him. “You’re not going to ask what I mean by that?”

“Well,” he says, lips twitching, “I—uh, I figured I’d let you finish your prepared statement first.”

You gape at him. “I knew I was giving Perry's press conference energy.”

“You’re even holding your coffee like a mic.”

You glance down. You are. Damn it.

He walks over, sets your pancake on the table next to you, and then settles into the armchair across from the couch. His legs are way too long. He has to fold them a little awkwardly, which should be goofy, but somehow only makes him look more like someone who could carry you up a mountain and apologize for the inconvenience while doing it.

You sip your coffee. Clear your throat. “So. Ground rules.”

He raises his brows. “Rules?”

“Yes. Rules. Guidelines. Frameworks for how this… goes.”

Clark tilts his head. “You mean for… us?”

“No, for NATO,” you deadpan. “Yes, us.”

He tries to cover a laugh with a sip of his own mug, but you see the dimple twitch. Smug bastard.

You forge ahead. “Okay. Rule one: this is casual. Very casual. Like… like ‘you can sleep with other people’ casual.”

Clark nods, slow. Thoughtful. “Do you want to sleep with other people?”

“No,” you admit. Then scowl. “But I want to have the option.”

“Right,” he says, nodding. “The illusion of freedom.”

“Exactly. Wait—"

He’s smiling at you now. Soft and fond and dangerously amused.

You plow on. “Whatever. Rule two: no romantic stuff. No dates. No—like—Valentine’s Day cards or surprise cupcakes or, God forbid, foot rubs.”

“You’re really against foot rubs?”

“I just think they set a tone.”

Clark looks at his plate. “What if I just make you pancakes sometimes?”

You narrow your eyes. “Pancakes are a gray area. I'm only allowing it this time."

“Noted.”

You tuck your feet under you. “Rule three: no falling in love.”

He looks up.

There’s a pause. A beat of silence so thick it fills the whole room.

You add, quickly, “I know that sounds dramatic, but I’ve seen what love does to people, and it’s terrifying. They lose brain cells. They post Instagram captions like ‘my forever’ with sparkly emojis. They start making weird couple TikToks where they throw cheese slices at each other’s heads. I can’t be part of that kind of ecosystem. I'm lactose intolerant."

Clark’s smiling again. Not in the ha ha you’re sooooo funny way. In the I think you’re the best thing to ever happen to me way, which is very much against the rules.

“Are you even taking this seriously?” you demand.

“I am,” he says, clearly lying. “You’re very intimidating.”

You roll your eyes and gesture wildly. “I’m just saying! I don’t want this to become something that implodes because I—God, because I can’t remember your favorite pizza topping one day and suddenly we’re—we're not friends anymore and splitting custody of houseplants and  fucking Cat is stuck writing a gossip column about it.”

Clark chuckles. A pause. “well, for the record? My favorite pizza topping is mushrooms.”

You wrinkle your nose. “That’s a red flag.”

“You’re the one writing up a treaty before brunch.”

“Exactly,” you say, triumphant. “See? We’re incompatible.”

Clark leans forward slightly. 

The sunlight from the window cuts across his glasses, but you can still see his eyes, warm and impossibly blue, locked on yours like you’re the only person in Metropolis who matters. “I think you’re scared,” he says gently. “Which is okay. I just want you to know… I’m not going anywhere. Rules or not.”

And that—

God. That should not make your eyes burn the way it does.

You shake your head, fast. “Don’t say stuff like that. It’s dangerous. You’ll trick me into liking you more.”

“I’m just being honest.”

“Well, stop.”

He raises a brow. “What do I do if I want to kiss you?”

You freeze.

Your heart does a complicated backflip-kick into your ribs.

“...well, that's allowed,” you mutter.

He smiles again, dimple sinking deep.

And then, because he’s a menace with zero self-preservation, he leans in.

You meet him halfway.

And it’s soft this time. Sweeter. Slower. No rain, no adrenaline, just his hand cradling your jaw and your fingers twisted in the hem of his t-shirt like you’re trying to anchor yourself to something real.

.

It's been months now of your little arrangement. And you're already destroyed by the time he even speaks.

Not because he’s touched you yet. Not really. He’s just there, mouth warm against the inside of your thigh, hands stroking the back of your knees like you’re something delicate. Something precious.

Which is so fucked. You are not precious.

You told him that that, breathless and still shirtless and sitting on his kitchen counter at midnight while he gently fed you the leftover peach cobbler Martha left for the two of you straight from the fridge.

He just nodded. Wiped away the crumb left on the edge of your lip. Said, “Okay.”

And then he kissed the inside of your wrist again and said, “You’re still allowed to want things, you know.”

Which is—god, so not fair. 

Now he’s between your legs, kissing a line up your thigh like he’s praying. He’s been taking his time. Like the goal isn’t to get you off, but to study you. Like he’s memorizing the exact way your breath catches and the little twitch of your fingers every time he licks just close enough to your center, but not quite.

You’re panting. Whimpering. Biting your lip so hard you’re pretty sure you taste blood.

And he’s grinning. Not cocky—just happy. Which is so much, so much worse.

“You’re staring at me again,” you breathe.

Clark hums, kissing just below your hip. “I just like looking at you.”

“That’s crazy,” you whisper. “You’re crazy.”

“Probably.” He kisses your navel. “Do you want me to stop?”

You whine. You actually whine. You feel like you've just set feminism back by centuries. “No.”

“Didn’t think so,” he murmurs, nuzzling into your skin. And then, because he’s the devil in a button-up: “You know, the way you objectify me is honestly very inappropriate. I’m not just a—just a piece of meat, you know.”

You bark out a laugh, head tipping back against the pillow. “So bad news, you're actually a mountain of meat, man.”

“See? Objectified.” He presses a kiss just below your ribs. “Reduced to my—”kiss“—ridiculous shoulders—”kiss“—and tragic dimples—”kiss“—and stupidly proportionate thighs—”

“I didn’t say anything about your thighs—”

“Oh, but I think you were thinking it.”

You giggle, delirious. Drunk on this man. “God, shut up and fuck me.”

Clark goes still.

Not awkwardly—this isn’t early-days Clark, the one who used to stammer when you wore red lipstick when you came over and knocked over his own coffee trying to offer you a napkin. 

This Clark—the one under you now, hands broad and firm against your thighs, spine pressed into the worn couch like it’s the only thing keeping him from rising into the sky—this Clark is different.  

He’s grown into himself. Into this. Into you.

Not cocky, not exactly. But assured in a way that makes your stomach clench and your mouth go dry. You’ve seen it happen slowly. Like the sunrise—you didn’t notice until the whole room was full of it.

This Clark doesn't flinch when you flirt, doesn’t panic when your mouth goes sharp or your eyes go guarded. He just… waits. He sees it all. Lets you burn yourself out. And then lays a hand on your cheek like you’re made of something precious.

Still, he doesn’t move.

And that’s what sets you off.

You squirm, shifting your weight in his lap, irritated now. “What?”

He looks up at you, his jaw tight, hands still splayed over your thighs like he doesn’t know whether to hold on or let go. There’s something in his eyes, sharp, patient, impossibly tender, and it makes your chest ache in a way you refuse to name.

“You really want that?” he asks, voice low.

You roll your eyes. “You think I climbed onto your face to do taxes?”

“That’s not what I asked.”

Your stomach flips. You hate when he does this. Gets all serious and calm and measured while you’re flailing, clearly two seconds away from combusting. You cross your arms over your chest—petulant, defensive. “Clark.”

“You say stuff like that,” he murmurs, one hand dragging up the back of your thigh, “but then you pull back like I’ve asked for your soul.”

You glare at him. “I’m not pulling back.”

He lifts a brow. “You haven’t even kissed me yet.”

You scowl. “I was about to, but you’re being annoying.”

His smile is crooked, lazy, maddening. “Yeah? Gonna punish me for it?”

Your heart skips. You hate that you love it when he talks like that. You hate that he’s right—that you’re the one drawing lines in the sand and then pretending you don’t care when he steps over them.

You lean down, hover over his mouth. “I swear to god, if you don’t do something soon, I’m walking out that door.”

He catches your jaw in one hand, gentle but firm. “You won’t.”

“Watch me.”

His thumb drags over your bottom lip. Lets it pop out just a bit, so you can feel the way the wetness drips over your chin. “You always say that. You never do.”

Your breath stutters. Your spine goes stiff. You hate how much he knows you. You hate that he’s always so calm about it, so damn tender, even when he’s calling you out.

“I’m not just a warm body, you know,” he says after a beat, the faintest furrow between his brows. “If that’s what you wanted, you should’ve picked someone who doesn’t look at you like I do.”

You blink. “And how is that?”

Clark tilts his head, eyes never leaving yours. “Like I actually see you.”

You hate him for that. A little.

But you kiss him anyway.

Hard. Sharp. Like a warning.

And then he flips you—effortless, smooth, like it doesn’t take more than a breath. One of his hands pins your wrists above your head. The other trails slow up the curve of your thigh. His mouth finds your neck, and you gasp—not in surprise, but because it’s too much. He’s too much.

“You keep asking me to take you apart,” he murmurs against your skin, “but you never let me show you what it actually means.”

“Oh my god,” you groan, shivering under him. “You are so fucking—”

“What?” he interrupts, dragging his mouth back up to yours. “Soft? Serious? A buzzkill?”

You don’t respond. You’re too busy squirming, too busy arching into him, because he’s right. Again.

“Too bad,” he murmurs, smiling like a secret. “You don’t get to run the show tonight.”

And you're already clawing at his back by the time he finally pushes in. And god, fuck, it’s—

He’s so much. Too much. Even now, even after months of attempting to get used to him, after a minimum of one hour of foreplay every time, hours spent fingering you open and devouring you whole and it still makes your spine tingle in the best way possible. The push and pull of it every time, the struggle, the way he looks at you so, so proudly when he's bottomed out and your smiling from under him like you've just won the lottery.

You make a sound—something small, strangled, "Clark."—and he doesn’t shush you this time.

He smiles.

“There it is,” he murmurs. “Now we’re being honest.”

.

Then one day, Clark cancels a lunch.

That’s it. That’s all. Not the end of the world.

He texts you a sweet apology. Too many words, as always, classic Clark, something about a lead on some money laundering story and “I’ll bring dinner to make up for it, promise, anything you want, even that overpriced pasta from the place with the weird chairs.” He adds three emojis. Two are completely nonsensical (a chicken and a rain cloud?). One is a little heart. You stare at it longer than you should.

You text back something breezy. Casual. “You’re the one missing out on my lunchtime TedTalk about corrupt city councilmen and their tragic toupees.”

He doesn’t respond until hours later. Just a thumbs-up emoji.

You tell yourself it’s fine. You tell yourself you don’t care.

.

Then it happens again.

This time, you're already standing outside the Planet, coffee lukewarm, watching a construction crew down the block try to maneuver scaffolding around a new billboard. It’s another Superman PSA—third this month. Something about disaster preparedness and blood drives. His cape’s caught mid-whip, expression noble and inhumanly calm. You roll your eyes, but your stomach tugs a little. Something about the stillness in his posture—it looks almost familiar.

Your phone rings.

Clark.

You answer with a smirk, trying to make it light. “Should I be worried you’ve joined a pyramid scheme? Please tell me you’re not selling supplements.”

There’s a pause, then his voice, warm but ragged around the edges: “I’m so sorry. Something came up. Can I explain later?”

You make some offhand joke about mafia debt collectors and say, “No worries,” even as your stomach twists.

He sounds tired. Tired in a way Clark never really gets. You’re the one who burns out, who rants and paces and flirts with deadline-induced breakdowns. He’s the one who shows up with coffee and an extra pen. Always.

But now his voice has this roughness to it. Frayed edges. Like he’s trying not to breathe too hard into the receiver. Like he just ran here. Or ran away from somewhere.

“Are you okay?” you ask, before you can stop yourself.

Another pause. “Yeah,” he says, and he softens, like he always does when he hears your voice. “I will be.”

.

By week three, he’s dodging plans like it’s his new hobby. You’re not hurt, obviously. You’re busy too. You have other friends. You go to bars. You flirt with bartenders you’ll never text back. You have a whole life outside of this whole thing with Clark.

It’s not a relationship. It’s just a thing. A nice, dependable, sometimes pantsless thing.

That’s all.

But still, there’s this night.

You’re at your apartment. There’s an old movie playing, something black and white and miserable, and Clark was supposed to be here an hour ago.

You’d ordered his favorite takeout. You’d even found that dumb craft soda he likes, the one that tastes vaguely like melted gummy worms. You told yourself you just wanted someone to share the noodles with.

He doesn’t show.

No call. No text.

You sit through the entire movie. Alone.

And when your phone finally buzzes—close to midnight, just his name and a short, “I’m so sorry. Can we talk soon?”— you stare at it for a long moment.

Then you flip your phone over, face-down.

And in the dark, you think, Shit. This is how it starts. The distance. The shift. The slow pulling away.

You’ve done it to people before.

You just never thought you’d be on the receiving end.

Not from him.

Not from Clark.

.

Around 11:30, you open Twitter out of boredom. You don’t cry. That would imply something was wrong. That you were hurt. You’re not. Obviously.

You’re just a little annoyed.

And maybe, just mayb, you’re thinking about how Clark used to be your safest person. Your sure thing. Your just-text-me, just-call-me, just-walk-right-in-without-knocking guy.

And now he’s something else. Something slippery. Something you have to squint at sideways to understand.

Your thumb scrolls through the usual mess. Politicians being embarrassing, memes you’re already tired of, some half-hearted discourse about whether the Metropolis skyline is over-designed or “delightfully optimistic.”

Then: a video clip.

No sound. Just shaky phone footage.

A blur of red and blue moving fast—streaking through the air over Hobbs Bay, pulling someone from a collapsed scaffolding, leaving behind a wake of stunned bystanders and bent steel.

You pause. Watch it again. Retweets piling up.

BREAKING: Superman saves construction worker after scaffolding collapse.

You stare at it for a second longer than you mean to, then snort under your breath.

Must be nice, you think. Some people get rescued. Some other unlucky fuckers just get ghosted.

.

The message comes on a Thursday. One of those weirdly warm spring evenings when Metropolis smells like asphalt and deli grease and the last ten years of your bad decisions.

Hey. You free tonight?

You stare at it for a moment too long. Thumb hovering.

Then:

yeah. yours?

A pause.

If you want.

God, he’s infuriating. Polite even now. Careful with you, like you’re made of something breakable. Like you haven’t already cracked half a dozen times this month alone.

Still, you go.

.

It’s not tense at first. It’s easy. Familiar.

Clark opens the door wearing one of those threadbare t-shirts that should be illegal, sleeves barely containing his biceps, neckline just a little too stretched from use. His hair’s damp. There’s flour on his cheek.

“You baked?” you ask, stepping past him before he can do that thing where he tries to gauge your mood like a barometer.

He shrugs. “Felt like it.”

There’s banana bread cooling on the counter. Two plates. One knife. He’s already sliced yours and left the end piece—your favorite—on the left, like always.

You want to be mad. Or suspicious. Or anything that would make this easier to navigate. But it’s hard to keep your footing when he’s being like this. Soft. Normal. Like he didn’t flake three times last month. Like you hadn’t spent the last few nights half-dressed and overthinking on your bathroom floor

But them again, you could never really resist him for that long.

So maybe it’s no surprise that your dress ends up pooled around your ankles. The lamp’s still on. Your mouths are moving like they’ve done this a hundred times—because you have, but it's not enough, will never be enough—and you’re both pretending it’s still casual. Still nothing.

Except it doesn’t feel like nothing.

And then Clark pulls back.

Not sharply. Not like he’s been burned. More like he just remembered something, which, again, not unusual. You’ve seen that look before. That oh shit look.

But tonight, he doesn’t immediately jump up. 

He doesn’t mutter something about needing to check in with Perry or help Lois edit her headline.

He just… stares at you.

And not in the usual way, not with those soft, soft eyes like you’re something he stumbled across in a field and decided to treasure. He looks—serious. Scared, even. His hand is still on your hip, but his other is twitching slightly at his side like it doesn’t know what to do with itself.

“We need to talk,” he says.

You still have one shoe on. You don’t even remember kicking the other off.

You blink at him. “I—what?”

He licks his lips. His glasses are smudged. He doesn’t take them off.

“Something’s been—there’s something that I need to tell you,” he says, slower now, like he’s rehearsing this in real time and trying not to panic.

And that—that is when your stomach drops.

Because you know this script. You’ve seen this scene. The music swells, the camera pans in, the guy who smells like safety and Sunday mornings says he “needs to talk,” and then boom. Heartbreak, cut to black, roll credits.

You hold up a hand before he can say anything else. “Wait. Just… don’t. Yet.”

Clark pauses. He blinks at you.

“Look,” you say, backing up a step, scanning the room like you’re looking for your dignity. “If this is about how I’ve been kind of, I don’t know, evasive or inconsistent or, like, deeply emotionally unavailable, I just want to say — I know. Okay? You don’t have to do this so gently.”

His face twists. “What?”

“You’re trying to break things off,” you continue, steamrolling him, your voice way too steady for the freefall happening inside your chest. “And I get it. I do. You’ve been pulling away for weeks, you disappear all the time, you don’t sleep anymore, you look like you’ve been hit by a truck most days, which I assumed was just bad reporting hours, but who knows, maybe it’s metaphorical.”

Clark tries again. “I’m not—”

“It’s fine,” you say, voice louder now. “It’s fine if you met someone. You don’t have to pretend it’s not happening.”

“I didn’t—”

“You’re allowed to outgrow this. Me. Whatever this is.”

Your dress is still on the floor, and you suddenly want it back on like it’s armor. You crouch to grab it, clumsy with urgency, your hands all wrong.

“I should’ve seen it coming. You were too good to last. Guys like you don’t stick around for girls like me.”

“Hey,” he says sharply, stepping forward, but you back away before he can reach you.

“Don’t,” you say, holding your dress to your chest like a shield. “Don’t be nice to me about it.”

Clark runs both hands through his hair. He looks like he’s short-circuiting. “You’re not even letting me—I’m not trying to end this with you.”

You stare at him, lips parted.

He’s breathing hard now. His glasses are askew. His shirt’s wrinkled, and his jaw is clenched like he’s holding something back with both hands.

“I was going to tell you something,” he says, voice raw. “Something real. Something I’ve never told anyone who didn’t already know.”

You freeze.

Because that doesn’t sound like cheating.

That sounds like confession.

“What,” you whisper, suddenly breathless. “Like a dark secret? You have a kid? You’re actually married? Are you part of a mafia? Are you—Oh my God. Are you a stripper?”

“What?” he blurts, completely thrown.

“I don’t know, Clark!” your voice spikes, hands flying up. “What the hell could you possibly say right now that starts with ‘we need to talk’ and isn’t a relationship guillotine?”

His eyes flick to the window. Just for a second. A glance, like instinct. And then right back to you.

And for the first time, you see it.

The quiet panic. The way his entire body is buzzing like a live wire under skin.

Like he’s not scared of you.  He’s scared for you.

But it’s too late. You’ve already built the wall and bricked yourself in.

You grab your dress, yanking it on with the dignity of a raccoon being evicted from a trash can. Somewhere behind you, Clark says your name again, gentle, like a bruise he’s afraid to touch. You ignore it.

Instead, you just start collecting your things like a squirrel in crisis.

Because—and this is humiliating—you’ve essentially moved into his place over the last year in the slowest, most passive-aggressive way possible. Not officially. Not “hey, should we get you some keys?” But enough that the signs are there. 

Enough that you now have to do this, which is to say the break-up equivalent of packing a go-bag in the middle of a fire drill.

You grab the mug with the faded “Central City Gazette Student Press 2013” logo you refuse to drink out of at home because it’s chipped, but which you do drink out of here, because Clark always makes tea the right way — hot, strong, too much honey. You grab the copy of Tomorrow, and Tomorrow, and Tomorrow you stole from his shelf three months ago and meant to pretend was yours all along. The sweatshirt he “forgot” you left here, that you “forgot” he noticed you wore to bed six times in a row.

You jam it all into your work tote like it’s a goddamn body bag.

Then there are the smaller things. The stupid things.

The half-used notepad from a city council meeting where someone tried to blame vigilante-induced infrastructure damage on solar panels. The disposable camera from that one weekend in Smallville — the one you never developed because the idea of seeing his parents smile at you felt too dangerous, too much like you might belong there.

And then you eye the drawer next to his bed. Your drawer, to get that clear, which was never explicitly claimed but which somehow holds one (1) pair of fuzzy pink handcuffs, two (2) half-empty bottles of lube, and three (3) protein bars, one of which is probably from last fiscal year. You shove it all into your bag, zipper groaning like a sad, sad accordion.

Clark’s still standing near the window, looking bewildered. Like he walked into the scene five minutes late and can’t tell who started the fire.

“Wait—are you leaving? You don’t have to—just—can we talk? Please?”

You don’t look at him.

Instead, you gesture vaguely at your bag. “This is just me doing a quick inventory of my terrible judgment. Don’t mind me.”

“Can you stop for two seconds and just let me—”

“Clark,” you say, and your voice comes out quieter than you meant it to. “It’s okay.”

It isn’t. But you’re trying to win the emotional Olympics in the “cool and detached” category, and you’re not about to blow it with something as devastating as eye contact.

You sling the bag over your shoulder and pause by the door. 

You consider saying something devastating and poetic. Something from Hamlet, maybe. You’ve always liked the line about cutting love out with a knife and it still bleeding. But instead, you give him a big, fake smile and an inexplicable hand up, like a contestant leaving Rupaul's Drag Race in disgrace.

“No harm, no foul,” you say. “Tell whoever you're seeing that I say hi.”

And then you leave.

.

You are, in every measurable way, unwell.

You don’t call it a breakup.

That would imply there was something official to break. That you were ever really together. That there was something solid under your feet to begin with, instead of months of teasing the edge, hovering over the line like two people too chicken to admit they’d already crossed it.

So, no. Not a breakup.

Just—a recalibration. A pause. A hot minute.

You say this to Jimmy, who narrows his eyes and says, “You’re holding a spoon like a murder weapon right now, so I’m gonna circle back on the ‘hot’ part of that minute.”

You even say it to the woman at the corner bodega—the one who always gave Clark an extra packet of honey for his tea and once slipped you a protein bar when you looked particularly anemic on a deadline.

She glances up from restocking the gum and says, “He’s okay? The tall guy? With the glasses and the very... polite shoulders?”

You blink. “Sorry, what?”

“He always said thank you. For the bag. Like, sincerely.” She squints at you. “You were good together.”

You make a sound of vague agreement and exit before she asks if you want your usual. (You do. But the idea of holding a wrap in your hands right now makes your stomach lurch.)

You take your PTO. Two weeks. You don’t tell anyone where you’re going, mostly because you’re not going anywhere. You lie in bed. You eat cereal out of a mug. You watch a three-hour documentary about the collapse of a bridge in Gotham and cry when a random city engineer says, “We tried our best, but it wasn’t enough.”

You don't let yourself think about that… that stupid drawer by Clark’s bed.

Or the banana bread.

Because there is banana bread.

It shows up on your doorstep the morning of Day Three, wrapped in wax paper and still warm. No note. Just a faint imprint where a palm must’ve rested on the foil, like he wasn’t sure if he should knock. You don’t bring it inside right away.

You stare at it. Then the door. Then back at the bread like it might explode.

Eventually, you take it in. Set it on the counter. Eat half of it standing over the sink with your fingers, because you don’t trust yourself to not drop it.

He texts you the next day. Just your name. Then a minute later: Just wanted to check in. Hope you’re doing okay.

You stare at the dots blinking at the bottom of the screen until they disappear.

You don’t answer.

He calls a few times, a few days later. Your phone lights up with his name, and you let it ring out. Not because you’re angry—okay, maybe you are, a little—but because you know the sound of his voice will wreck you. Because if he says your name in that soft, patient, Clark way, you’ll crack like a fucking fault line.

He doesn't leave a voicemai any of the times l. Just hangs up.

(You spend the rest of the night clutching a throw pillow to your stomach like it’s a life raft.)

You tell yourself this is temporary. You’ll get it together tomorrow.

And then tomorrow happens.

And then the next day.

And then—on the seventh day, like Jesus, you rise.

Kind of.

You pull on the ugliest hoodie you own, some too-large sweatpants with a questionable stain, and a pair of knockoff Crocs. Your hair is doing something that technically defies gravity, and you haven’t worn deodorant since Tuesday. Your soul is gone. Your standards are lower. All that remains is one singular thought:

Hotdog.

.

Which is how you find yourself under the flickering fluorescent lights of a 7/11 at 1:42 a.m., perched on the curb out front like a feral raccoon, holding a lukewarm hotdog in one hand and a Red Bull in the other, actively disassociating while Whitney Houston’s I Will Always Love You plays through a tinny outdoor speaker with all the emotional resonance of a dying Roomba.

You stare off into the distance.

Which is, of course, exactly when Clark walks up.

You see him in your periphery first. Hear the crunch of gravel, the telltale weight of his sneakers.

“No,” you say, out loud. “No. No. Absolutely not.”

Clark stops short. “Hi,” he says, voice soft. A little nervous.

You hold up the hotdog like a loaded gun. “Turn around.”

“I—”

“I swear to god, Clark.” You don’t even look at him. “I am mentally and spiritually clinging to life by the barest thread, and if you say something kind to me right now, I will vomit on the pavement.”

He nods. Raises both hands. “Okay. Not saying anything.”

You stare at him. His flannel is wrinkled. His hair’s sticking up at the back. There’s a scuff on his glasses like he’s been rubbing at them all day.

Goddammit. He looks like home.

You turn your burning eyes back to the pavement and try to focus on your dinner. Try to remember how this whole dignity thing works.

“Why are you here,” you say finally, flat.

He swallows. “Because I needed to see you. Because I’ve been calling, and—”

“Right,” you cut in. “The calls. That I didn’t answer. On purpose.”

“I know.”

“And you took that as a challenge?”

Clark exhales slowly. He takes a tentative step closer.

“I’ve tried everything else,” he says.

You roll your eyes. “Maybe that’s because you’re not supposed to fix this. Maybe this is just what it is now.”

“That’s not what I want.”

You shrug. “And? Sometimes we don’t get what we want. That’s life. Welcome.”

He’s quiet. Long enough that you glance sideways and catch him staring at you with a look you can’t name. Doesn’t defend himself. Just stands there, quiet, while a beat-up minivan idles past the edge of the lot and the Whitney Houston outro fades into static. And you’re just about to tell him to cut it out—whatever this whole tortured-eyes, kicked-puppy thing is—when he steps forward.

One arm wraps around your waist.

And then—

You are no longer on the ground.

You shriek like a B-movie scream queen, clutching your 7/11 hotdog in its sad foil wrapper like it might save your life. “WHAT THE FUCK,” you yell. “WHAT—ARE YOU KIDDING ME—WHAT IS HAPPENING.”

“I’m sorry!” Clark yells over the wind.

“ARE YOU—IS THIS YOU?! ARE YOU—”

“Yeah!” he shouts. “Hi! Surprise!”

“SUPERMAN?!”

“…Yes!” he calls back, cringing midair.

“YOU’RE SUPERMAN?!”

Clark doesn’t answer that. Just… grimaces. Flying sideways. His arm tightening around your waist like he’s half-expecting you to elbow him in the ribs and wriggle free.

You might, honestly. As soon as your brain catches up. You’re only just vaguely aware of your Croc flying off somewhere over a used car dealership.

“My toothbrush is still at your apartment!” you shriek.

“I know!”

“I HAVE A TOOTHBRUSH AT SUPERMAN’S APARTMENT!”

“I know! That’s why I—listen, I panicked! You weren’t picking up! You blocked me on like, four platforms—”

“I BLOCKED YOU BECAUSE I THOUGHT YOU WERE GHOSTING ME FOR ANOTHER GIRL, NOT MOONLIGHTING AS A NATIONAL TREASURE.”

The wind roars past your ears. Your teeth are chattering. You’re barely holding onto the last few shreds of coherence. And Clark—no, Superman, apparently—he’s not even breaking a sweat.

“You couldn’t have called?” you snap.

“I did!”

“WITH WHAT, MORSE CODE?”

“I showed up at your apartment!”

“With a cape, Kent?!”

“No! No, the cape’s new—look, I didn’t know what else to do. You wouldn’t talk to me. Jimmy said you took PTO and haven’t left your apartment in four days and I just—I needed you to see me. To listen.”

You make an inhuman noise, somewhere between a wail and a curse. “So your solution was to airlift me like a stolen asset out of a CIA bunker?!”

“I checked to make sure no one was looking!”

“YOU TOOK ME HOSTAGE.”

“I swept the parking lot, I swear! The cameras at 7/11 are fake, and there was one guy but he was busy dropping a Big Gulp.”

You blink at him. Wind in your eyes. A foot still bare. There’s an onion from your hotdog stuck to your shirt. Your heart does a slow, brutal somersault.

“…Okay,” you breathe. “Okay, so this is real.”

“It’s real,” he says.

“Like, capital-R Real.”

“Yeah.”

You shake your head once, sharp. “Jesus Christ.”

And then something in you quiets. Something that’s been vibrating with panic for days—for weeks—sputters out like the end of a bad engine. You’re too tired to scream again. You’re too wrung-out to cry.

So you just say, quietly: “I'm sorry. For not listening. Or giving you the time to explain. But, what the fuck, dude.”

Clark swallows. His eyes flick to your mouth, then away. He nods—once.

“I didn’t want to lie to you,” he says again, quieter now. “I hated it. Every second of it.”

His breath fogs slightly in the night air. He still won’t quite meet your eyes.

“I thought I could keep it separate. You and… that part of me. I thought if I just kept my head down and made you pancakes and let you call me out when I forgot to text back, it’d be enough.”

He runs a hand through his hair, still wind-tossed from flight. “But then it wasn’t. Because I started… I don’t know, noticing stuff. Like the way you always get a little mean when you’re scared. Or how you never remember to lock your front door but you’ll glare at me for refusing to jaywalk. And every time I had to run off and I saw the look on your face—I wanted to tell you. I almost told you, like, like, forty darn times.”

His voice cracks a little. He’s still not looking at you.

“I kept thinking, if I say it out loud, you’ll leave. Or worse—you’ll stay, but only because you think you owe me something. Because I have the suit. Because I can lift a building. But I don’t want you to be impressed by me. I just want you to look at me the way you used to. Like I’m just… Clark.”

He laughs, sudden and shaky. “God, I sound insane.”

You say nothing. You’re not breathing very well.

And then, softly, finally, like he’s pushing it out before he loses the nerve: “I love you. Not in a heroic, save-the-day kind of way. Just—I love you. I think I’ve been in love with you since you made me help you tail that councilman with the suspicious hair plugs. And you made fun of me the whole time, but you still brought snacks.”

He swallows. “I don’t need anything from you. I just wanted you to know.”

The wind whips gently around you both now, slower, softer. Like the world has dialed down to listen in. 

Clark hovers easily in place, arms strong around you, careful and warm, like he’s afraid you’ll wriggle free again and drop straight through the clouds.

He’s flushed. Nervous. He looks like he’s trying to prepare for every possible version of the moment after this. Every soft or horrible thing you might say. Every joke you might make to dodge the weight of it. Every silence.

You lean back a little to look at him.

And then, honestly, you just kiss him.

Because it’s easier than saying the whole thing. Easier than listing every moment that’s led to this, every reason you tried not to fall for him and did anyway. 

The time he walked (not flew) across the city in the rain because you forgot your keys. 

The fact that he never interrupts when you’re spiraling, just waits it out, steady and warm and right there. 

The way he let you drag him into that adult store and joked around and made him blush with the pink handcuffs, and then he bought them for you anyway.

 The banana bread. 

“I love you too, you idiot.”

His whole face crumples. And then he laughs, messy and relieved and a little helpless, like he wasn’t expecting you to say it back. Like he wasn’t hoping.

“You do?”

You nod, eyes stinging. “Yeah. In every kind of way.”

And Clark—not Superman, Clark Kent, the world’s most ridiculous man, the guy you’ve known and kissed and run from and found again—leans in and kisses you silly again.

.

You’re still smiling when he stumbles through your front door with you in his arms.

Not gracefully. Not like some poised, soap-opera seduction —more like the two of you crash through the threshold like a couple of drunk fucking idiots who forgot how to use their limbs. You reach back and slap the door shut, barely catching the knob, breathless from altitude and adrenaline and everything that’s been boiling under your skin for months.

Clark kicks over your shoe rack by accident. It topples over with a loud bang and suddenly, all your shoes are on the floor.

“Sorry,” he says, half-choking on a grin, already pressing you to the wall. “I’ll—clean that up—later—”

You cut him off with your mouth. Sloppy, desperate. Fingers tangling in his curls, tugging just to feel him gasp against you. You can feel the way he hardens close to you, and you're really, really liking where this is going.

It’s not like you didn’t know he was strong. 

You’ve seen his biceps. You’ve felt the hand at your back steady you when a cab came too close. You’ve watched him shoulder his way through panicked crowds, through chaos, through life, always quietly making space for you.

But this is different.

This is him holding your entire body like you weigh nothing. Like physics doesn't apply to you anymore. Like his hands were made to carry you and his mouth was made to ruin you.

“Clark,” you gasp, because you don’t know what else to say. Your hoodie’s already halfway up your torso. His hands are under it, up your ribs, one squeezing your thigh like he’s staking a claim and the other splayed wide across your spine. “You’re—fuck—”

“I know,” he pants, nosing down your throat, licking into the hollow like he’s starving for it. “I know, baby. You’re—God, you’re actually killing me.”

He lifts you—actually lifts you—like you’re nothing, just sweeps you up with one arm under your ass and carries you toward the bedroom, leaving a trail of your jacket, your hotdog wrapper, and one of your slippers behind. 

You claw at his shirt, frantic, trying to get it off. Buttons ping off somewhere near the kitchen island and you both flinch, then laugh again, dizzy with it.

He drops you on the bed and follows fast, crawling over you, shedding the remains of his flannel and undershirt like he’s being hunted for it. 

"Fuck, fuck—take this off," and yank off your hoodie and he groans at the sight, like the skin of your chest is some sort of a revelation, like he hasn’t had it memorized since the first time he saw you in a tank top at work and forgot what day it was.

His mouth is everywhere. On your collarbone, your shoulder, between your breasts. 

Hot and open and eager, tongue twisting ruthlessly around your nipples. He’s making sounds now, those broken, happy little gasps like he’s surprised every time you let him touch you again.

You’re squirming under him, soaked and breathless, tugging at the waistband of his pants like it might save your life.

“I am gonna ruin you,” you manage to say. "Baby, let me fucking ruin you."

Clark laughs again, the kind of laugh that goes straight to your core, deep and bright and boyish, and then he flips you effortlessly onto your stomach, pushing your thighs apart with his knee, dragging his mouth down your spine like he’s tracing poetry there.

“Oh yeah?” he murmurs, low and smug. “Get in line, pretty girl.”

He pushes into you with one smooth, slow thrust, so much of him, too much, your jaw goes slack, and he just stays there for a moment, his hand curled over yours, forehead pressed to the back of your shoulder.

“I love you.”

Your breath stutters.

He doesn’t give you time to recover, emotionally or physically. Doesn’t let you laugh it off or throw up your usual wall of flippant sarcasm. He kisses your shoulder again, hips moving deeper, more purposeful.

You twist beneath him, trying to turn over because as much as you love doggy, you can't bear to not look at him right now. 

But his hand presses gently between your shoulder blades, grounding you. “Wait,” he murmurs, and you freeze. You’re still so full of him you can barely think. “Just let me—can I just—”

He grinds forward, pushing all eight inches of him inside, and you choke on a moan. You’ve never heard him like this. Not just desperate, not just lost in it — but open.

“I love you when you’re mean,” he pants, voice fraying around the edges. “I love you when you roll your eyes at me in meetings and mutter under your breath during interviews. I love you, God, you're so tight," another thrust. "—when you wear those socks with the tiny dogs on them and try to pretend you’re not soft.”

You turn your head, mouth parted, eyes wide. “Clark—”

He leans down, kisses your cheek, your temple, the place behind your ear that makes your thighs shake.

“I love you when you’re being impossible. When you steal my flannels. When you pretend you don’t care. When you kissed me for the first time and then gave me a whole spiel about it.”

“Stop—”

“I love you,” he says again, brokenly this time, like it’s being torn out of him. “I love you even when I’m scared you’ll leave. Even if this is all I get.”

You turn fully this time, eyes glassy, fingers curling around the back of his neck to drag him in.

And you kiss him.

Hard.

Hungry.

Grateful.

“I love you,” you whisper against his mouth. “I love you, you wonderful, wonderful man.”

Clark lets out a sound that’s not quite a laugh and not quite a sob.

Then he flips you under him and fucks you like it’s a promise.

You say it again when you come the second time, breathless, high-pitched, hands clutching at his shoulders, and again when he follows with a low, shuddering groan, spilling into you like he’s got nowhere else he’d rather be.

.

The car smells like spearmint gum and way, way too much coffee. Clark’s got one hand on the wheel and the other laced through yours like it’s always been there. Which, lately, it has.

You’re about halfway to Smallville.

“So,” you say, tapping his knuckles with your thumb. “How many embarrassing baby photos am I being subjected to this time? Just give me a ballpark.”

Clark chuckles. His dimples show. “Oh, uh… probably all of them. Again."

You groan. “Even the corn maze one?”

“There are multiple corn maze ones,” he corrects gently. “There’s one where I’m dressed as a scarecrow.”

You stare at him.

He nods solemnly. “With face paint.”

“Oh my God,” you wheeze, turning toward the window. “I don’t know if I’m emotionally prepared for that.”

“Don’t worry,” he says, squeezing your hand. “Ma loves you. You could commit tax fraud in front of her and she’d ask if you wanted seconds.”

You snort. “That’s very comforting.”

He shrugs, smiling again. “It’s true. She already set up the guest room.”

You blink at him.

“…The guest room?”

A pause. Clark glances over. “Well, I didn’t want to assume we’d—uh—share a bed. With my parents in the house.”

You raise a brow. “Clark. We had sex in a supply closet at the Planet.”

“That was—okay, yes—but that was under different circumstances.”

“We are dating.”

“I know.”

You lean your head back against the seat, grinning. “You’re so weird.”

“You love it,” he mutters, cheeks pink.

You do.

God, you do. You love him.

It still sneaks up on you sometimes. The clarity of it. The quiet, persistent fact of Clark Kent: the man who once made you blueberry pancakes the morning after you nearly ran out on him, who kissed your wrist like it meant something, who never—not once—looked away. Who told you he was Superman in the middle of a 7/11 parking lot, like some fucking lunatic.

And now here you are. In his car. On the way to meet his parents.

Officially.

Not just as the girl who sleeps over sometimes. Not as the coworker who won’t stop pretending she doesn’t care. Not as the idiot who thought she could get away with loving him and not doing anything about it.

No. Now, you’re his girlfriend.

Which means this is real. Which means you’re going to their farmhouse in Smallville. And Martha is probably going to offer you pie. And Jonathan is probably going to show you Clark’s fifth grade spelling bee trophy like it’s the most precious thing in the world.

Which should terrify you.

(And maybe it does, a little.)

But mostly—mostly it feels like the best thing you’ve ever said yes to.

Clark clears his throat. “Hey.”

You turn.

He’s watching you with that expression again. That soft, unguarded, ruined look like he still can’t believe you’re real. It’s so sincere it nearly undoes you.

“I’m really glad you’re coming,” he says. Quietly.

You look at him. You squeeze his hand back.

“Me too, Michigan.”

His ears go a little red. “Don’t call me that.”

“Oh? I thought you liked when I objectify you by state.”

“I like it slightly less when it happens in front of a rest stop attendant while you’re holding beef jerky and winking at me. And when it's the wrong state."

You smirk. “Not my fault you were born with that jawline and a humiliation kink.”

Clark coughs through a laugh. “God help me.”

He reaches across the console, dragging his thumb lightly over the inside of your wrist. The same spot he kissed that night. The one you think might still hum a little under your skin.

You let your head fall against his shoulder, smile tucked into your cheek.

“Wake me when we’re ten minutes out?”

“You sure?” he murmurs, already lowering the volume on the radio.

“Mhm.” You close your eyes. “I gotta mentally prepare myself for the scarecrow photos.”

You feel the press of his lips against your knuckles. Gentle. Familiar.

“You’re gonna be fine,” he says. “They love you, you know that. I do too."

You smile.

You met him on your third and a half day at the Daily Planet.

He spilled coffee on you. A full cup. Right down the front of your blazer. Frothy iced caramel latte catastrophe. He panicked immediately—rushed through an apology so fast you barely caught the words—then offered, in complete earnestness, to dry-clean your coat. Not send it to the dry cleaner. Do it himself. Like it was the gentlemanly thing to do. You just stared at him, dripping, blinking. “Are you okay?” you asked, because someone had to.

He nodded—too fast—then proceeded to trip over the recycling bin just trying to get you napkins.

You’ve been friends ever since.

It’s not the cleanest origin story.

But over time, somehow, Clark became your person.

Not in the “call-at-3-a.m.-while-sobbing” kind of way (that’s Jimmy), or the “bring-wine-and-insult-your-evil-ex” kind of way (also Jimmy). 

But in a steadier, quieter way. You write your little articles; he helps edit them. You fight with your sources on the sidewalk; he bakes them apology muffins the day after to make sure they don't contact Perry. You cover Metropolis politics like it’s trench warfare, and he smiles across the bullpen at you like you’re doing God’s work even when you're calling the mayor a “power-drunk thumb in a trench coat and a receding hairline you can see from space.”

He’s your constant. Steady and reliable and always five degrees too soft for this world.

Which is exactly why it doesn’t make sense.

Why, one night, it all… shifts.

.

You’re soaked.

Not in the steamy, sexy way. Not even in the Charli-XCX-Spring-Breakers kind of soaked.

Just: wet. Unpleasantly. In that half-drenched, trench-foot, what-is-my-life kind of way.

The weather app lied again (seriously, Metropolis Weather has one job), and your jacket is now suctioned to your body like a bad ex. Your boots have crossed the line from “water-resistant” to a really bad “Swamp Thing cosplay,” and your tote—home to your press pass and a sad little Tupperware of soggy couscous—is dripping like it’s auditioning for a plumbing ad.

So when Clark offers his place—soft-voiced, ever-accommodating, all that big dumb golden retriever energy—you say yes.

Not because you’re weak. Please.

Because he lives closer.

Logistically. Geographically.

(Okay, maybe emotionally, too, but you’ll unpack that when your socks aren’t squelching like a really bad porno.)

So now you’re in his apartment. Standing in the entryway. Leaving a trail of water on his hardwood floors while he gently, gently hands you a towel and fiddles with the thermostat and says things like, “You’re going to catch a cold if you don’t change out of those clothes.”

And you, being the self-possessed adult that you are, snort and say, “Thank you, Mom.”

Clark blushes.

Actually blushes. Like a cartoon character. Like a man who has never, in his life, imagined someone undressing in his home, which is hilarious, given that you’ve seen the size of his arms. 

“Sorry,” he mumbles, rubbing the back of his neck. “I just meant… yeah. You’re soaked.”

His place smells like cinnamon and laundry detergent. There’s a candle burning on the kitchen counter—one of those $9.99 specials from Bath & Body Works. You imagine him in the store, earnestly reading the label on something called "Warm Vanilla Sugar" while the cashier tries to upsell him on a five-for-fifteen deal.

The image makes your lips curl. Your mascara's halfway down your cheekbones, your calves are cramping from the walk, and you should really, really, really just go take a hot shower and crash on his couch.

Instead, you look at him.

And he’s looking back.

Not like most men do—not the bar-stool inventory of what you are and aren’t. Not a scan. Not a question. More like a memory. Like he’s already filed you away in some quietly treasured part of his brain and he’s just taking the time to make sure the details are right. Like you are known.

You don’t think. You don’t make a plan. You just move.

Step forward. Grab the lapels of his flannel like it owes you money. Pull him down. Kiss him.

It’s not graceful. Not choreographed. You catch his chin at a weird angle, and your nose bumps into his, and the kiss lands too sharp, too fast. Like you’re trying to stun him. Like you’re trying to win a fight.

But then, he exhales.

And he melts. Not urgently. Not hungrily. Just… fully.

Like this is the thing he’s been waiting on for months, and now that it’s finally happening, he’s scared to spook it. His hands hover for a beat, like he’s making sure it’s real, and then one comes to rest lightly on your waist—tentative, patient. The other curls around your jaw with all the softness of a man who has no business being this gentle.

You break the kiss first, of course.

Because you always break things first.

When you look at him, he's staring at you like you invented language. Like he doesn’t know what to do with his hands, so they hover awkwardly at your sides, respectful, warm, and shaking just a little.

Which is when the panic crashes in.

He’s not supposed to look at you like that. Like you hung the stars. Like he knows you. Like he loves you.

Because if he does. If he really, truly does. Then eventually, he’ll stop.

They always stop.

People love you in the beginning. They love your bite, your snark, the way you know which part of a politician's background are most incriminating. They love the thrill of earning your attention. They love that you make them work for it. But eventually, the charm fades. The sharp edges cut a little too deep. 

You forget to text back. You overshare. You undershare. You get tired. You get real.

And they get bored.

You’ve never wanted to risk that with Clark. He’s been yours—just yours, in the safe way—for too long.

You step back like the floor might collapse under you. 

Put space. Just… anything between your body and the soft burn of his flannel. Try not to think about how fucking warm he was. “Shit—uh. You don’t have to say anything,” you blurt, voice too fast, too thin. “We can pretend it didn’t happen. Go back to normal. That’s fine.”

Clark’s brows knit, not in offense, just concern. He doesn’t look hurt. He looks… steady. Like he expected this part. “Are you sure?”

The way he asks it is soft. Unhurried. Like it’s not some ultimatum. Like it’s okay if you're not sure.

You open your mouth. Close it. Swallow.

“I just—” You press your fingers to your temple, like maybe that might just reorganize your entire internal filing system. “You know I don’t do relationships.”

“I know,” he says, without hesitation.

You study him—really study him—like you’re trying to find the catch. Some hint of disappointment or wounded ego. But it isn’t there.

He reaches up slowly and tucks a damp strand of hair behind your ear, his touch feather-light. “You don’t have to do anything you’re not ready for.”

You blink. “Even if I’m the one who kissed you?”

Clark smiles, just barely. “Especially then.”

His hand lingers near your cheek, but he doesn’t push. He’s patient in that maddening, disarming way. Waiting, always, for you to meet him halfway.

“Whatever you want,” he says again, quiet. “I’m good with that.”

You stare at him. “You’re really not gonna argue?”

“Nope.”

“Not gonna psychoanalyze me? Tell me I’m avoidant or emotionally stunted or terrified of my own vulnerability?”

He huffs a small laugh. “Already did. Long time ago.”

Your lips twitch despite yourself. “And?”

He shrugs, like it’s the easiest truth in the world. “You’re complicated. But you care. A lot. More than you let people see.”

And damn it, you hate how much that lands. How much he lands. You hate that he’s always been able to see through you, gently, without ever demanding more than you could give. And you hate—more than anything, more than all of that—how badly you want to kiss him again.

So you do.

Maybe to prove a point. Maybe to blow it all up before it can settle. Maybe because you’re already in too deep and part of you is tired of pretending you’re not.

You didn’t plan for it to go further. You didn’t plan anything, really. 

But your hands slide up into the open collar of his flannel, and he stumbles a little as you back him into the bookshelf. His glasses tilt when your fingers brush his temple, and you pull them off carefully, gently, like they’re the only thing tethering you both to whatever was before.

His eyes are wide. His mouth already parted. And when he looks up at you like this—flushed, breathless, undone—you think, mine.

And it’s terrifying.

Because it means it’s real.

It happened.

God.

It happened.

.

You strip him out of that worn flannel with a kind of sick, obsessive care. Button by button, like you were unwrapping a gift, like you were unearthing something you’d been searching for in every bad date, every failed talking stage, every mediocre bar makeout that had ever left you cold.

His flannel hit the floor. He doesn't say a word.

Not until you settle into his lap, thighs on either side of his. Then—quietly, like he wasn’t sure if it was okay to want anything—he says, “You… you don’t have to be gentle. Just, just in case. So you know.”

But you are. Because he is. 

Because even now, even with your mouth to his, your hands fisted in his curls, his hands stay light on your hips. Like he doesn't want to take more than you’d give. Like he's still giving you the option to leave.

He makes a sound when your hips tilted forward. Not a groan, not exactly. Something deeper. A noise from his chest, halfway between a gasp and a plea. You kiss more of it out of him, mouths clumsy and desperate, fingers scrabbling at the hem of his undershirt, and it feels like breathing.

His breath's caught between his teeth when you rip a condom wrapper in between yours, slotting it onto him with shaking, shaking hands and trying not think about how he's probably the biggest you've ever had.

Lord have mercy.

You ride him like your life depends on it.

You get a thigh cramp halfway through—let out an annoyed groan and tried to keep going—and he, sweet, precious idiot that he is, sits up and says your name like it hurt. Voice quivering like he wants to stop, wants to help, wants to make sure you're okay.

Absolutely no way in hell you wanted that to happen.

“Clark,” you hissed. “Chill. I'm okay, dude. I’m fine.”

“Okay,” he said, dazed, grinning. “Just—didn’t want you to get hurt. I mean. You’re, uh. You were very intense. Just now.”

“Yeah, well, you’re the one with the dick that's slowly rearranging my guts,” you mutter, and he laughs so hard his shoulders shook.

And worse—goddamn it, worse—he looks at you the whole time.

No games. No posing. Just Clark. Holding your hips with those hands—god, those hands, unfairly big and warm and steady—and looking up at you like he meant it.

You’d told him once, over shitty fries past midnight on the curb at McDonald's, that you didn’t trust men who made eye contact during sex. Called it performative. Manipulative. 

“Like they’re trying to Jedi mind-trick you into thinking it’s love,” you’d scoffed, and he'd gone quiet in that way he does, not sulking, just thinking. But that he was filing it away.

So of course—of course—when you're bare above him, hair a mess, mascara still clinging to your cheekbones, all vulnerable and exposed and teetering over the edge because his dick was doing wonderful, amazing things to your insides and making you melt—

He looks up at you with that open, earnest face and asks, softly:

“Do you want me to close my eyes?”

You freeze. Like an absolute idiot. Like prey.

And you say no.

"No."

Never.

He nods. “Okay.”

Then he kissed the inside of your wrist—just because it was there—and you lost ten entire emotional minutes and your grip on reality, grinding down on him like your life depended on it.

You come so hard you forgot your name. 

Forget what you were supposed to be protecting yourself from. Forget every lie you’ve ever told yourself about  the depth of your feelings for him.

It was insane. Deranged.

(Perfect.)

Later, three orgasms later, you collapse over him in a ridiculous heap of limbs and half-dressed post-coital delirium, forehead pressed to his shoulder, chest still heaving.

And he whispered something into your hair—something low and steady and not quite the word love, but so close it that it scraped through your head.

Then he hums.

You don’t recognize it at first—just the vibration under your cheek, the low murmur of a tune, warm and unassuming. You’re half-asleep, boneless, and not fully aware he's still inside of you, pulsing, your fingers curled around his neck.

But you listen.

“You humming Dolly right now?” you murmur, voice hoarse.

Clark hums a little louder. “‘Here You Come Again.’” Then, almost shy, “She’s good. What?”

You groan into his chest. “You absolute dork.”

“I like her,” he says, defensive. “She’s smart. You know she gave away, like, a million books to—wait, are you laughing?”

You are. Full-on giggling into his shoulder now. Giddy and too full and sore in all the best ways.

.

And you really don't mean to keep it going in the morning, let alone  in the shower.

Truly. 

You're just trying to get clean. 

Wash off the evidence of the night before—sweat and come and a whole life’s worth of repressed emotional distress—but then, Clark steps in right behind you, warm and quiet and too gentle. 

And suddenly it was over for you. Just absolutely fucking over.

He offers to join, sheepish and bashful, eyes flicking away like he hadn’t just had his face between your thighs just a few hours ago. “Just to save water,” he says. “'Cause of the environment… and all that.”

And sure, Clark. You absolute liar. The environment.

Except the second he steps in behind you—naked, dripping wet, glasses still off so he looked all boyish and wreckable—your resolve crumples like wet newspaper.

He reaches around you for the body wash and that was your downfall. Arm flexing around your waist, that goddamn baritone rumble in your ear as he asks, “This one okay?”

Like you're supposed to just—what? function when his voice was doing that thing? That was supposed to be okay?

But then his hands are on your hips—steady, huge—and you tilt your head back just enough to graze his jaw. He flinches. Or maybe you do. And before either of you could process it, your palm's flat against the tile and Clark was slowly pressing himself against your back.

“Okay?” he asks, voice a little too hoarse, a little too human.

You nod. “Yeah. Just—don’t be sweet about it.”

“But I'm always sweet about it,” he mumbles, and then he was, dragging a hand up your stomach, brushing your wet hair off your neck, mouthing at the base of your spine like he was making a wish.

He moves inside you slow. 

Like he means it. Like he thinks he’d scare you off if he went too fast. And it was disgusting, really, how good it felt. How intimate all of this was.

Your knees nearly buckle. You have to brace yourself with both palms on the glass, forehead pressed against fogged-up safety plastic, biting down on your own goddamn fist to keep from crying out his name like something from a romance novel.

(You still did, eventually. He made sure of that when he pressed one large hand up against your stomach so you can feel him, really feel him, and another down your front, rubbing at your clit like it was a lifeline until you saw stars.)

"Clark. Clar—fuck, baby, I'm almost—Jesus Christ—oH!"

When it was over—when your legs were jelly and your throat was raw and your spine was doing that post-orgasm melt thing—you turn to rinse the shampoo out of your hair, and he just… helped. Without you even having to say anything.

He lathers it for you, clement and thorough, massaging your scalp. His cheeks are pink. His mouth is pink. You think about biting him. Maybe.

But instead, you let yourself lean into his chest while the water poured down over both of you, and you didn’t speak, because if you spoke, it would become too real.

So, you just let him wash your back.

He didn’t ask you to stay.

You didn’t ask if he wanted you to.

But when you wander out of the bedroom ten minutes later—half-wet, flushed, wearing his old Central Kansas A&M hoodie like it hadn’t just been folded neatly in a drawer—you find him in the kitchen, humming again. 

Making pancakes.

“You want blueberries in yours?” he asks, like he didn’t have his dick in you in the shower ten minutes ago.

And you—traumatized, horny, emotionally compromised—you say, “Sure."

Then, because your brain has finally rebooted just enough to return to its default defense mechanism:

“Also, we need to talk.”

Clark pauses mid-pour, then turns around, spatula still in hand. “Okay,” he says, unbothered. His voice is calm, casual. Like you didn’t almost combust from having maybe, four—no, five or six orgasms in his arms over the past twelve hours.

You cross your arms over your chest, over his sweatshirt. “Last night—and this morning was great. I mean, objectively. A solid eight out of ten. No complaints.”

He looks amused. “Only eight?”

“I’m leaving room for improvement,” you say, defensive. “But I just want to be clear again that this isn’t… this isn’t a thing.”

Clark nods. “Okay.”

You squint at him. “You’re not going to ask what I mean by that?”

“Well,” he says, lips twitching, “I—uh, I figured I’d let you finish your prepared statement first.”

You gape at him. “I knew I was giving Perry's press conference energy.”

“You’re even holding your coffee like a mic.”

You glance down. You are. Damn it.

He walks over, sets your pancake on the table next to you, and then settles into the armchair across from the couch. His legs are way too long. He has to fold them a little awkwardly, which should be goofy, but somehow only makes him look more like someone who could carry you up a mountain and apologize for the inconvenience while doing it.

You sip your coffee. Clear your throat. “So. Ground rules.”

He raises his brows. “Rules?”

“Yes. Rules. Guidelines. Frameworks for how this… goes.”

Clark tilts his head. “You mean for… us?”

“No, for NATO,” you deadpan. “Yes, us.”

He tries to cover a laugh with a sip of his own mug, but you see the dimple twitch. Smug bastard.

You forge ahead. “Okay. Rule one: this is casual. Very casual. Like… like ‘you can sleep with other people’ casual.”

Clark nods, slow. Thoughtful. “Do you want to sleep with other people?”

“No,” you admit. Then scowl. “But I want to have the option.”

“Right,” he says, nodding. “The illusion of freedom.”

“Exactly. Wait—"

He’s smiling at you now. Soft and fond and dangerously amused.

You plow on. “Whatever. Rule two: no romantic stuff. No dates. No—like—Valentine’s Day cards or surprise cupcakes or, God forbid, foot rubs.”

“You’re really against foot rubs?”

“I just think they set a tone.”

Clark looks at his plate. “What if I just make you pancakes sometimes?”

You narrow your eyes. “Pancakes are a gray area. I'm only allowing it this time."

“Noted.”

You tuck your feet under you. “Rule three: no falling in love.”

He looks up.

There’s a pause. A beat of silence so thick it fills the whole room.

You add, quickly, “I know that sounds dramatic, but I’ve seen what love does to people, and it’s terrifying. They lose brain cells. They post Instagram captions like ‘my forever’ with sparkly emojis. They start making weird couple TikToks where they throw cheese slices at each other’s heads. I can’t be part of that kind of ecosystem. I'm lactose intolerant."

Clark’s smiling again. Not in the ha ha you’re sooooo funny way. In the I think you’re the best thing to ever happen to me way, which is very much against the rules.

“Are you even taking this seriously?” you demand.

“I am,” he says, clearly lying. “You’re very intimidating.”

You roll your eyes and gesture wildly. “I’m just saying! I don’t want this to become something that implodes because I—God, because I can’t remember your favorite pizza topping one day and suddenly we’re—we're not friends anymore and splitting custody of houseplants and  fucking Cat is stuck writing a gossip column about it.”

Clark chuckles. A pause. “well, for the record? My favorite pizza topping is mushrooms.”

You wrinkle your nose. “That’s a red flag.”

“You’re the one writing up a treaty before brunch.”

“Exactly,” you say, triumphant. “See? We’re incompatible.”

Clark leans forward slightly. 

The sunlight from the window cuts across his glasses, but you can still see his eyes, warm and impossibly blue, locked on yours like you’re the only person in Metropolis who matters. “I think you’re scared,” he says gently. “Which is okay. I just want you to know… I’m not going anywhere. Rules or not.”

And that—

God. That should not make your eyes burn the way it does.

You shake your head, fast. “Don’t say stuff like that. It’s dangerous. You’ll trick me into liking you more.”

“I’m just being honest.”

“Well, stop.”

He raises a brow. “What do I do if I want to kiss you?”

You freeze.

Your heart does a complicated backflip-kick into your ribs.

“...well, that's allowed,” you mutter.

He smiles again, dimple sinking deep.

And then, because he’s a menace with zero self-preservation, he leans in.

You meet him halfway.

And it’s soft this time. Sweeter. Slower. No rain, no adrenaline, just his hand cradling your jaw and your fingers twisted in the hem of his t-shirt like you’re trying to anchor yourself to something real.

.

It's been months now of your little arrangement. And you're already destroyed by the time he even speaks.

Not because he’s touched you yet. Not really. He’s just there, mouth warm against the inside of your thigh, hands stroking the back of your knees like you’re something delicate. Something precious.

Which is so fucked. You are not precious.

You told him that that, breathless and still shirtless and sitting on his kitchen counter at midnight while he gently fed you the leftover peach cobbler Martha left for the two of you straight from the fridge.

He just nodded. Wiped away the crumb left on the edge of your lip. Said, “Okay.”

And then he kissed the inside of your wrist again and said, “You’re still allowed to want things, you know.”

Which is—god, so not fair. 

Now he’s between your legs, kissing a line up your thigh like he’s praying. He’s been taking his time. Like the goal isn’t to get you off, but to study you. Like he’s memorizing the exact way your breath catches and the little twitch of your fingers every time he licks just close enough to your center, but not quite.

You’re panting. Whimpering. Biting your lip so hard you’re pretty sure you taste blood.

And he’s grinning. Not cocky—just happy. Which is so much, so much worse.

“You’re staring at me again,” you breathe.

Clark hums, kissing just below your hip. “I just like looking at you.”

“That’s crazy,” you whisper. “You’re crazy.”

“Probably.” He kisses your navel. “Do you want me to stop?”

You whine. You actually whine. You feel like you've just set feminism back by centuries. “No.”

“Didn’t think so,” he murmurs, nuzzling into your skin. And then, because he’s the devil in a button-up: “You know, the way you objectify me is honestly very inappropriate. I’m not just a—just a piece of meat, you know.”

You bark out a laugh, head tipping back against the pillow. “So bad news, you're actually a mountain of meat, man.”

“See? Objectified.” He presses a kiss just below your ribs. “Reduced to my—”kiss“—ridiculous shoulders—”kiss“—and tragic dimples—”kiss“—and stupidly proportionate thighs—”

“I didn’t say anything about your thighs—”

“Oh, but I think you were thinking it.”

You giggle, delirious. Drunk on this man. “God, shut up and fuck me.”

Clark goes still.

Not awkwardly—this isn’t early-days Clark, the one who used to stammer when you wore red lipstick when you came over and knocked over his own coffee trying to offer you a napkin. 

This Clark—the one under you now, hands broad and firm against your thighs, spine pressed into the worn couch like it’s the only thing keeping him from rising into the sky—this Clark is different.  

He’s grown into himself. Into this. Into you.

Not cocky, not exactly. But assured in a way that makes your stomach clench and your mouth go dry. You’ve seen it happen slowly. Like the sunrise—you didn’t notice until the whole room was full of it.

This Clark doesn't flinch when you flirt, doesn’t panic when your mouth goes sharp or your eyes go guarded. He just… waits. He sees it all. Lets you burn yourself out. And then lays a hand on your cheek like you’re made of something precious.

Still, he doesn’t move.

And that’s what sets you off.

You squirm, shifting your weight in his lap, irritated now. “What?”

He looks up at you, his jaw tight, hands still splayed over your thighs like he doesn’t know whether to hold on or let go. There’s something in his eyes, sharp, patient, impossibly tender, and it makes your chest ache in a way you refuse to name.

“You really want that?” he asks, voice low.

You roll your eyes. “You think I climbed onto your face to do taxes?”

“That’s not what I asked.”

Your stomach flips. You hate when he does this. Gets all serious and calm and measured while you’re flailing, clearly two seconds away from combusting. You cross your arms over your chest—petulant, defensive. “Clark.”

“You say stuff like that,” he murmurs, one hand dragging up the back of your thigh, “but then you pull back like I’ve asked for your soul.”

You glare at him. “I’m not pulling back.”

He lifts a brow. “You haven’t even kissed me yet.”

You scowl. “I was about to, but you’re being annoying.”

His smile is crooked, lazy, maddening. “Yeah? Gonna punish me for it?”

Your heart skips. You hate that you love it when he talks like that. You hate that he’s right—that you’re the one drawing lines in the sand and then pretending you don’t care when he steps over them.

You lean down, hover over his mouth. “I swear to god, if you don’t do something soon, I’m walking out that door.”

He catches your jaw in one hand, gentle but firm. “You won’t.”

“Watch me.”

His thumb drags over your bottom lip. Lets it pop out just a bit, so you can feel the way the wetness drips over your chin. “You always say that. You never do.”

Your breath stutters. Your spine goes stiff. You hate how much he knows you. You hate that he’s always so calm about it, so damn tender, even when he’s calling you out.

“I’m not just a warm body, you know,” he says after a beat, the faintest furrow between his brows. “If that’s what you wanted, you should’ve picked someone who doesn’t look at you like I do.”

You blink. “And how is that?”

Clark tilts his head, eyes never leaving yours. “Like I actually see you.”

You hate him for that. A little.

But you kiss him anyway.

Hard. Sharp. Like a warning.

And then he flips you—effortless, smooth, like it doesn’t take more than a breath. One of his hands pins your wrists above your head. The other trails slow up the curve of your thigh. His mouth finds your neck, and you gasp—not in surprise, but because it’s too much. He’s too much.

“You keep asking me to take you apart,” he murmurs against your skin, “but you never let me show you what it actually means.”

“Oh my god,” you groan, shivering under him. “You are so fucking—”

“What?” he interrupts, dragging his mouth back up to yours. “Soft? Serious? A buzzkill?”

You don’t respond. You’re too busy squirming, too busy arching into him, because he’s right. Again.

“Too bad,” he murmurs, smiling like a secret. “You don’t get to run the show tonight.”

And you're already clawing at his back by the time he finally pushes in. And god, fuck, it’s—

He’s so much. Too much. Even now, even after months of attempting to get used to him, after a minimum of one hour of foreplay every time, hours spent fingering you open and devouring you whole and it still makes your spine tingle in the best way possible. The push and pull of it every time, the struggle, the way he looks at you so, so proudly when he's bottomed out and your smiling from under him like you've just won the lottery.

You make a sound—something small, strangled, "Clark."—and he doesn’t shush you this time.

He smiles.

“There it is,” he murmurs. “Now we’re being honest.”

.

Then one day, Clark cancels a lunch.

That’s it. That’s all. Not the end of the world.

He texts you a sweet apology. Too many words, as always, classic Clark, something about a lead on some money laundering story and “I’ll bring dinner to make up for it, promise, anything you want, even that overpriced pasta from the place with the weird chairs.” He adds three emojis. Two are completely nonsensical (a chicken and a rain cloud?). One is a little heart. You stare at it longer than you should.

You text back something breezy. Casual. “You’re the one missing out on my lunchtime TedTalk about corrupt city councilmen and their tragic toupees.”

He doesn’t respond until hours later. Just a thumbs-up emoji.

You tell yourself it’s fine. You tell yourself you don’t care.

.

Then it happens again.

This time, you're already standing outside the Planet, coffee lukewarm, watching a construction crew down the block try to maneuver scaffolding around a new billboard. It’s another Superman PSA—third this month. Something about disaster preparedness and blood drives. His cape’s caught mid-whip, expression noble and inhumanly calm. You roll your eyes, but your stomach tugs a little. Something about the stillness in his posture—it looks almost familiar.

Your phone rings.

Clark.

You answer with a smirk, trying to make it light. “Should I be worried you’ve joined a pyramid scheme? Please tell me you’re not selling supplements.”

There’s a pause, then his voice, warm but ragged around the edges: “I’m so sorry. Something came up. Can I explain later?”

You make some offhand joke about mafia debt collectors and say, “No worries,” even as your stomach twists.

He sounds tired. Tired in a way Clark never really gets. You’re the one who burns out, who rants and paces and flirts with deadline-induced breakdowns. He’s the one who shows up with coffee and an extra pen. Always.

But now his voice has this roughness to it. Frayed edges. Like he’s trying not to breathe too hard into the receiver. Like he just ran here. Or ran away from somewhere.

“Are you okay?” you ask, before you can stop yourself.

Another pause. “Yeah,” he says, and he softens, like he always does when he hears your voice. “I will be.”

.

By week three, he’s dodging plans like it’s his new hobby. You’re not hurt, obviously. You’re busy too. You have other friends. You go to bars. You flirt with bartenders you’ll never text back. You have a whole life outside of this whole thing with Clark.

It’s not a relationship. It’s just a thing. A nice, dependable, sometimes pantsless thing.

That’s all.

But still, there’s this night.

You’re at your apartment. There’s an old movie playing, something black and white and miserable, and Clark was supposed to be here an hour ago.

You’d ordered his favorite takeout. You’d even found that dumb craft soda he likes, the one that tastes vaguely like melted gummy worms. You told yourself you just wanted someone to share the noodles with.

He doesn’t show.

No call. No text.

You sit through the entire movie. Alone.

And when your phone finally buzzes—close to midnight, just his name and a short, “I’m so sorry. Can we talk soon?”— you stare at it for a long moment.

Then you flip your phone over, face-down.

And in the dark, you think, Shit. This is how it starts. The distance. The shift. The slow pulling away.

You’ve done it to people before.

You just never thought you’d be on the receiving end.

Not from him.

Not from Clark.

.

Around 11:30, you open Twitter out of boredom. You don’t cry. That would imply something was wrong. That you were hurt. You’re not. Obviously.

You’re just a little annoyed.

And maybe, just mayb, you’re thinking about how Clark used to be your safest person. Your sure thing. Your just-text-me, just-call-me, just-walk-right-in-without-knocking guy.

And now he’s something else. Something slippery. Something you have to squint at sideways to understand.

Your thumb scrolls through the usual mess. Politicians being embarrassing, memes you’re already tired of, some half-hearted discourse about whether the Metropolis skyline is over-designed or “delightfully optimistic.”

Then: a video clip.

No sound. Just shaky phone footage.

A blur of red and blue moving fast—streaking through the air over Hobbs Bay, pulling someone from a collapsed scaffolding, leaving behind a wake of stunned bystanders and bent steel.

You pause. Watch it again. Retweets piling up.

BREAKING: Superman saves construction worker after scaffolding collapse.

You stare at it for a second longer than you mean to, then snort under your breath.

Must be nice, you think. Some people get rescued. Some other unlucky fuckers just get ghosted.

.

The message comes on a Thursday. One of those weirdly warm spring evenings when Metropolis smells like asphalt and deli grease and the last ten years of your bad decisions.

Hey. You free tonight?

You stare at it for a moment too long. Thumb hovering.

Then:

yeah. yours?

A pause.

If you want.

God, he’s infuriating. Polite even now. Careful with you, like you’re made of something breakable. Like you haven’t already cracked half a dozen times this month alone.

Still, you go.

.

It’s not tense at first. It’s easy. Familiar.

Clark opens the door wearing one of those threadbare t-shirts that should be illegal, sleeves barely containing his biceps, neckline just a little too stretched from use. His hair’s damp. There’s flour on his cheek.

“You baked?” you ask, stepping past him before he can do that thing where he tries to gauge your mood like a barometer.

He shrugs. “Felt like it.”

There’s banana bread cooling on the counter. Two plates. One knife. He’s already sliced yours and left the end piece—your favorite—on the left, like always.

You want to be mad. Or suspicious. Or anything that would make this easier to navigate. But it’s hard to keep your footing when he’s being like this. Soft. Normal. Like he didn’t flake three times last month. Like you hadn’t spent the last few nights half-dressed and overthinking on your bathroom floor

But them again, you could never really resist him for that long.

So maybe it’s no surprise that your dress ends up pooled around your ankles. The lamp’s still on. Your mouths are moving like they’ve done this a hundred times—because you have, but it's not enough, will never be enough—and you’re both pretending it’s still casual. Still nothing.

Except it doesn’t feel like nothing.

And then Clark pulls back.

Not sharply. Not like he’s been burned. More like he just remembered something, which, again, not unusual. You’ve seen that look before. That oh shit look.

But tonight, he doesn’t immediately jump up. 

He doesn’t mutter something about needing to check in with Perry or help Lois edit her headline.

He just… stares at you.

And not in the usual way, not with those soft, soft eyes like you’re something he stumbled across in a field and decided to treasure. He looks—serious. Scared, even. His hand is still on your hip, but his other is twitching slightly at his side like it doesn’t know what to do with itself.

“We need to talk,” he says.

You still have one shoe on. You don’t even remember kicking the other off.

You blink at him. “I—what?”

He licks his lips. His glasses are smudged. He doesn’t take them off.

“Something’s been—there’s something that I need to tell you,” he says, slower now, like he’s rehearsing this in real time and trying not to panic.

And that—that is when your stomach drops.

Because you know this script. You’ve seen this scene. The music swells, the camera pans in, the guy who smells like safety and Sunday mornings says he “needs to talk,” and then boom. Heartbreak, cut to black, roll credits.

You hold up a hand before he can say anything else. “Wait. Just… don’t. Yet.”

Clark pauses. He blinks at you.

“Look,” you say, backing up a step, scanning the room like you’re looking for your dignity. “If this is about how I’ve been kind of, I don’t know, evasive or inconsistent or, like, deeply emotionally unavailable, I just want to say — I know. Okay? You don’t have to do this so gently.”

His face twists. “What?”

“You’re trying to break things off,” you continue, steamrolling him, your voice way too steady for the freefall happening inside your chest. “And I get it. I do. You’ve been pulling away for weeks, you disappear all the time, you don’t sleep anymore, you look like you’ve been hit by a truck most days, which I assumed was just bad reporting hours, but who knows, maybe it’s metaphorical.”

Clark tries again. “I’m not—”

“It’s fine,” you say, voice louder now. “It’s fine if you met someone. You don’t have to pretend it’s not happening.”

“I didn’t—”

“You’re allowed to outgrow this. Me. Whatever this is.”

Your dress is still on the floor, and you suddenly want it back on like it’s armor. You crouch to grab it, clumsy with urgency, your hands all wrong.

“I should’ve seen it coming. You were too good to last. Guys like you don’t stick around for girls like me.”

“Hey,” he says sharply, stepping forward, but you back away before he can reach you.

“Don’t,” you say, holding your dress to your chest like a shield. “Don’t be nice to me about it.”

Clark runs both hands through his hair. He looks like he’s short-circuiting. “You’re not even letting me—I’m not trying to end this with you.”

You stare at him, lips parted.

He’s breathing hard now. His glasses are askew. His shirt’s wrinkled, and his jaw is clenched like he’s holding something back with both hands.

“I was going to tell you something,” he says, voice raw. “Something real. Something I’ve never told anyone who didn’t already know.”

You freeze.

Because that doesn’t sound like cheating.

That sounds like confession.

“What,” you whisper, suddenly breathless. “Like a dark secret? You have a kid? You’re actually married? Are you part of a mafia? Are you—Oh my God. Are you a stripper?”

“What?” he blurts, completely thrown.

“I don’t know, Clark!” your voice spikes, hands flying up. “What the hell could you possibly say right now that starts with ‘we need to talk’ and isn’t a relationship guillotine?”

His eyes flick to the window. Just for a second. A glance, like instinct. And then right back to you.

And for the first time, you see it.

The quiet panic. The way his entire body is buzzing like a live wire under skin.

Like he’s not scared of you.  He’s scared for you.

But it’s too late. You’ve already built the wall and bricked yourself in.

You grab your dress, yanking it on with the dignity of a raccoon being evicted from a trash can. Somewhere behind you, Clark says your name again, gentle, like a bruise he’s afraid to touch. You ignore it.

Instead, you just start collecting your things like a squirrel in crisis.

Because—and this is humiliating—you’ve essentially moved into his place over the last year in the slowest, most passive-aggressive way possible. Not officially. Not “hey, should we get you some keys?” But enough that the signs are there. 

Enough that you now have to do this, which is to say the break-up equivalent of packing a go-bag in the middle of a fire drill.

You grab the mug with the faded “Central City Gazette Student Press 2013” logo you refuse to drink out of at home because it’s chipped, but which you do drink out of here, because Clark always makes tea the right way — hot, strong, too much honey. You grab the copy of Tomorrow, and Tomorrow, and Tomorrow you stole from his shelf three months ago and meant to pretend was yours all along. The sweatshirt he “forgot” you left here, that you “forgot” he noticed you wore to bed six times in a row.

You jam it all into your work tote like it’s a goddamn body bag.

Then there are the smaller things. The stupid things.

The half-used notepad from a city council meeting where someone tried to blame vigilante-induced infrastructure damage on solar panels. The disposable camera from that one weekend in Smallville — the one you never developed because the idea of seeing his parents smile at you felt too dangerous, too much like you might belong there.

And then you eye the drawer next to his bed. Your drawer, to get that clear, which was never explicitly claimed but which somehow holds one (1) pair of fuzzy pink handcuffs, two (2) half-empty bottles of lube, and three (3) protein bars, one of which is probably from last fiscal year. You shove it all into your bag, zipper groaning like a sad, sad accordion.

Clark’s still standing near the window, looking bewildered. Like he walked into the scene five minutes late and can’t tell who started the fire.

“Wait—are you leaving? You don’t have to—just—can we talk? Please?”

You don’t look at him.

Instead, you gesture vaguely at your bag. “This is just me doing a quick inventory of my terrible judgment. Don’t mind me.”

“Can you stop for two seconds and just let me—”

“Clark,” you say, and your voice comes out quieter than you meant it to. “It’s okay.”

It isn’t. But you’re trying to win the emotional Olympics in the “cool and detached” category, and you’re not about to blow it with something as devastating as eye contact.

You sling the bag over your shoulder and pause by the door. 

You consider saying something devastating and poetic. Something from Hamlet, maybe. You’ve always liked the line about cutting love out with a knife and it still bleeding. But instead, you give him a big, fake smile and an inexplicable hand up, like a contestant leaving Rupaul's Drag Race in disgrace.

“No harm, no foul,” you say. “Tell whoever you're seeing that I say hi.”

And then you leave.

.

You are, in every measurable way, unwell.

You don’t call it a breakup.

That would imply there was something official to break. That you were ever really together. That there was something solid under your feet to begin with, instead of months of teasing the edge, hovering over the line like two people too chicken to admit they’d already crossed it.

So, no. Not a breakup.

Just—a recalibration. A pause. A hot minute.

You say this to Jimmy, who narrows his eyes and says, “You’re holding a spoon like a murder weapon right now, so I’m gonna circle back on the ‘hot’ part of that minute.”

You even say it to the woman at the corner bodega—the one who always gave Clark an extra packet of honey for his tea and once slipped you a protein bar when you looked particularly anemic on a deadline.

She glances up from restocking the gum and says, “He’s okay? The tall guy? With the glasses and the very... polite shoulders?”

You blink. “Sorry, what?”

“He always said thank you. For the bag. Like, sincerely.” She squints at you. “You were good together.”

You make a sound of vague agreement and exit before she asks if you want your usual. (You do. But the idea of holding a wrap in your hands right now makes your stomach lurch.)

You take your PTO. Two weeks. You don’t tell anyone where you’re going, mostly because you’re not going anywhere. You lie in bed. You eat cereal out of a mug. You watch a three-hour documentary about the collapse of a bridge in Gotham and cry when a random city engineer says, “We tried our best, but it wasn’t enough.”

You don't let yourself think about that… that stupid drawer by Clark’s bed.

Or the banana bread.

Because there is banana bread.

It shows up on your doorstep the morning of Day Three, wrapped in wax paper and still warm. No note. Just a faint imprint where a palm must’ve rested on the foil, like he wasn’t sure if he should knock. You don’t bring it inside right away.

You stare at it. Then the door. Then back at the bread like it might explode.

Eventually, you take it in. Set it on the counter. Eat half of it standing over the sink with your fingers, because you don’t trust yourself to not drop it.

He texts you the next day. Just your name. Then a minute later: Just wanted to check in. Hope you’re doing okay.

You stare at the dots blinking at the bottom of the screen until they disappear.

You don’t answer.

He calls a few times, a few days later. Your phone lights up with his name, and you let it ring out. Not because you’re angry—okay, maybe you are, a little—but because you know the sound of his voice will wreck you. Because if he says your name in that soft, patient, Clark way, you’ll crack like a fucking fault line.

He doesn't leave a voicemai any of the times l. Just hangs up.

(You spend the rest of the night clutching a throw pillow to your stomach like it’s a life raft.)

You tell yourself this is temporary. You’ll get it together tomorrow.

And then tomorrow happens.

And then the next day.

And then—on the seventh day, like Jesus, you rise.

Kind of.

You pull on the ugliest hoodie you own, some too-large sweatpants with a questionable stain, and a pair of knockoff Crocs. Your hair is doing something that technically defies gravity, and you haven’t worn deodorant since Tuesday. Your soul is gone. Your standards are lower. All that remains is one singular thought:

Hotdog.

.

Which is how you find yourself under the flickering fluorescent lights of a 7/11 at 1:42 a.m., perched on the curb out front like a feral raccoon, holding a lukewarm hotdog in one hand and a Red Bull in the other, actively disassociating while Whitney Houston’s I Will Always Love You plays through a tinny outdoor speaker with all the emotional resonance of a dying Roomba.

You stare off into the distance.

Which is, of course, exactly when Clark walks up.

You see him in your periphery first. Hear the crunch of gravel, the telltale weight of his sneakers.

“No,” you say, out loud. “No. No. Absolutely not.”

Clark stops short. “Hi,” he says, voice soft. A little nervous.

You hold up the hotdog like a loaded gun. “Turn around.”

“I—”

“I swear to god, Clark.” You don’t even look at him. “I am mentally and spiritually clinging to life by the barest thread, and if you say something kind to me right now, I will vomit on the pavement.”

He nods. Raises both hands. “Okay. Not saying anything.”

You stare at him. His flannel is wrinkled. His hair’s sticking up at the back. There’s a scuff on his glasses like he’s been rubbing at them all day.

Goddammit. He looks like home.

You turn your burning eyes back to the pavement and try to focus on your dinner. Try to remember how this whole dignity thing works.

“Why are you here,” you say finally, flat.

He swallows. “Because I needed to see you. Because I’ve been calling, and—”

“Right,” you cut in. “The calls. That I didn’t answer. On purpose.”

“I know.”

“And you took that as a challenge?”

Clark exhales slowly. He takes a tentative step closer.

“I’ve tried everything else,” he says.

You roll your eyes. “Maybe that’s because you’re not supposed to fix this. Maybe this is just what it is now.”

“That’s not what I want.”

You shrug. “And? Sometimes we don’t get what we want. That’s life. Welcome.”

He’s quiet. Long enough that you glance sideways and catch him staring at you with a look you can’t name. Doesn’t defend himself. Just stands there, quiet, while a beat-up minivan idles past the edge of the lot and the Whitney Houston outro fades into static. And you’re just about to tell him to cut it out—whatever this whole tortured-eyes, kicked-puppy thing is—when he steps forward.

One arm wraps around your waist.

And then—

You are no longer on the ground.

You shriek like a B-movie scream queen, clutching your 7/11 hotdog in its sad foil wrapper like it might save your life. “WHAT THE FUCK,” you yell. “WHAT—ARE YOU KIDDING ME—WHAT IS HAPPENING.”

“I’m sorry!” Clark yells over the wind.

“ARE YOU—IS THIS YOU?! ARE YOU—”

“Yeah!” he shouts. “Hi! Surprise!”

“SUPERMAN?!”

“…Yes!” he calls back, cringing midair.

“YOU’RE SUPERMAN?!”

Clark doesn’t answer that. Just… grimaces. Flying sideways. His arm tightening around your waist like he’s half-expecting you to elbow him in the ribs and wriggle free.

You might, honestly. As soon as your brain catches up. You’re only just vaguely aware of your Croc flying off somewhere over a used car dealership.

“My toothbrush is still at your apartment!” you shriek.

“I know!”

“I HAVE A TOOTHBRUSH AT SUPERMAN’S APARTMENT!”

“I know! That’s why I—listen, I panicked! You weren’t picking up! You blocked me on like, four platforms—”

“I BLOCKED YOU BECAUSE I THOUGHT YOU WERE GHOSTING ME FOR ANOTHER GIRL, NOT MOONLIGHTING AS A NATIONAL TREASURE.”

The wind roars past your ears. Your teeth are chattering. You’re barely holding onto the last few shreds of coherence. And Clark—no, Superman, apparently—he’s not even breaking a sweat.

“You couldn’t have called?” you snap.

“I did!”

“WITH WHAT, MORSE CODE?”

“I showed up at your apartment!”

“With a cape, Kent?!”

“No! No, the cape’s new—look, I didn’t know what else to do. You wouldn’t talk to me. Jimmy said you took PTO and haven’t left your apartment in four days and I just—I needed you to see me. To listen.”

You make an inhuman noise, somewhere between a wail and a curse. “So your solution was to airlift me like a stolen asset out of a CIA bunker?!”

“I checked to make sure no one was looking!”

“YOU TOOK ME HOSTAGE.”

“I swept the parking lot, I swear! The cameras at 7/11 are fake, and there was one guy but he was busy dropping a Big Gulp.”

You blink at him. Wind in your eyes. A foot still bare. There’s an onion from your hotdog stuck to your shirt. Your heart does a slow, brutal somersault.

“…Okay,” you breathe. “Okay, so this is real.”

“It’s real,” he says.

“Like, capital-R Real.”

“Yeah.”

You shake your head once, sharp. “Jesus Christ.”

And then something in you quiets. Something that’s been vibrating with panic for days—for weeks—sputters out like the end of a bad engine. You’re too tired to scream again. You’re too wrung-out to cry.

So you just say, quietly: “I'm sorry. For not listening. Or giving you the time to explain. But, what the fuck, dude.”

Clark swallows. His eyes flick to your mouth, then away. He nods—once.

“I didn’t want to lie to you,” he says again, quieter now. “I hated it. Every second of it.”

His breath fogs slightly in the night air. He still won’t quite meet your eyes.

“I thought I could keep it separate. You and… that part of me. I thought if I just kept my head down and made you pancakes and let you call me out when I forgot to text back, it’d be enough.”

He runs a hand through his hair, still wind-tossed from flight. “But then it wasn’t. Because I started… I don’t know, noticing stuff. Like the way you always get a little mean when you’re scared. Or how you never remember to lock your front door but you’ll glare at me for refusing to jaywalk. And every time I had to run off and I saw the look on your face—I wanted to tell you. I almost told you, like, like, forty darn times.”

His voice cracks a little. He’s still not looking at you.

“I kept thinking, if I say it out loud, you’ll leave. Or worse—you’ll stay, but only because you think you owe me something. Because I have the suit. Because I can lift a building. But I don’t want you to be impressed by me. I just want you to look at me the way you used to. Like I’m just… Clark.”

He laughs, sudden and shaky. “God, I sound insane.”

You say nothing. You’re not breathing very well.

And then, softly, finally, like he’s pushing it out before he loses the nerve: “I love you. Not in a heroic, save-the-day kind of way. Just—I love you. I think I’ve been in love with you since you made me help you tail that councilman with the suspicious hair plugs. And you made fun of me the whole time, but you still brought snacks.”

He swallows. “I don’t need anything from you. I just wanted you to know.”

The wind whips gently around you both now, slower, softer. Like the world has dialed down to listen in. 

Clark hovers easily in place, arms strong around you, careful and warm, like he’s afraid you’ll wriggle free again and drop straight through the clouds.

He’s flushed. Nervous. He looks like he’s trying to prepare for every possible version of the moment after this. Every soft or horrible thing you might say. Every joke you might make to dodge the weight of it. Every silence.

You lean back a little to look at him.

And then, honestly, you just kiss him.

Because it’s easier than saying the whole thing. Easier than listing every moment that’s led to this, every reason you tried not to fall for him and did anyway. 

The time he walked (not flew) across the city in the rain because you forgot your keys. 

The fact that he never interrupts when you’re spiraling, just waits it out, steady and warm and right there. 

The way he let you drag him into that adult store and joked around and made him blush with the pink handcuffs, and then he bought them for you anyway.

 The banana bread. 

“I love you too, you idiot.”

His whole face crumples. And then he laughs, messy and relieved and a little helpless, like he wasn’t expecting you to say it back. Like he wasn’t hoping.

“You do?”

You nod, eyes stinging. “Yeah. In every kind of way.”

And Clark—not Superman, Clark Kent, the world’s most ridiculous man, the guy you’ve known and kissed and run from and found again—leans in and kisses you silly again.

.

You’re still smiling when he stumbles through your front door with you in his arms.

Not gracefully. Not like some poised, soap-opera seduction —more like the two of you crash through the threshold like a couple of drunk fucking idiots who forgot how to use their limbs. You reach back and slap the door shut, barely catching the knob, breathless from altitude and adrenaline and everything that’s been boiling under your skin for months.

Clark kicks over your shoe rack by accident. It topples over with a loud bang and suddenly, all your shoes are on the floor.

“Sorry,” he says, half-choking on a grin, already pressing you to the wall. “I’ll—clean that up—later—”

You cut him off with your mouth. Sloppy, desperate. Fingers tangling in his curls, tugging just to feel him gasp against you. You can feel the way he hardens close to you, and you're really, really liking where this is going.

It’s not like you didn’t know he was strong. 

You’ve seen his biceps. You’ve felt the hand at your back steady you when a cab came too close. You’ve watched him shoulder his way through panicked crowds, through chaos, through life, always quietly making space for you.

But this is different.

This is him holding your entire body like you weigh nothing. Like physics doesn't apply to you anymore. Like his hands were made to carry you and his mouth was made to ruin you.

“Clark,” you gasp, because you don’t know what else to say. Your hoodie’s already halfway up your torso. His hands are under it, up your ribs, one squeezing your thigh like he’s staking a claim and the other splayed wide across your spine. “You’re—fuck—”

“I know,” he pants, nosing down your throat, licking into the hollow like he’s starving for it. “I know, baby. You’re—God, you’re actually killing me.”

He lifts you—actually lifts you—like you’re nothing, just sweeps you up with one arm under your ass and carries you toward the bedroom, leaving a trail of your jacket, your hotdog wrapper, and one of your slippers behind. 

You claw at his shirt, frantic, trying to get it off. Buttons ping off somewhere near the kitchen island and you both flinch, then laugh again, dizzy with it.

He drops you on the bed and follows fast, crawling over you, shedding the remains of his flannel and undershirt like he’s being hunted for it. 

"Fuck, fuck—take this off," and yank off your hoodie and he groans at the sight, like the skin of your chest is some sort of a revelation, like he hasn’t had it memorized since the first time he saw you in a tank top at work and forgot what day it was.

His mouth is everywhere. On your collarbone, your shoulder, between your breasts. 

Hot and open and eager, tongue twisting ruthlessly around your nipples. He’s making sounds now, those broken, happy little gasps like he’s surprised every time you let him touch you again.

You’re squirming under him, soaked and breathless, tugging at the waistband of his pants like it might save your life.

“I am gonna ruin you,” you manage to say. "Baby, let me fucking ruin you."

Clark laughs again, the kind of laugh that goes straight to your core, deep and bright and boyish, and then he flips you effortlessly onto your stomach, pushing your thighs apart with his knee, dragging his mouth down your spine like he’s tracing poetry there.

“Oh yeah?” he murmurs, low and smug. “Get in line, pretty girl.”

He pushes into you with one smooth, slow thrust, so much of him, too much, your jaw goes slack, and he just stays there for a moment, his hand curled over yours, forehead pressed to the back of your shoulder.

“I love you.”

Your breath stutters.

He doesn’t give you time to recover, emotionally or physically. Doesn’t let you laugh it off or throw up your usual wall of flippant sarcasm. He kisses your shoulder again, hips moving deeper, more purposeful.

You twist beneath him, trying to turn over because as much as you love doggy, you can't bear to not look at him right now. 

But his hand presses gently between your shoulder blades, grounding you. “Wait,” he murmurs, and you freeze. You’re still so full of him you can barely think. “Just let me—can I just—”

He grinds forward, pushing all eight inches of him inside, and you choke on a moan. You’ve never heard him like this. Not just desperate, not just lost in it — but open.

“I love you when you’re mean,” he pants, voice fraying around the edges. “I love you when you roll your eyes at me in meetings and mutter under your breath during interviews. I love you, God, you're so tight," another thrust. "—when you wear those socks with the tiny dogs on them and try to pretend you’re not soft.”

You turn your head, mouth parted, eyes wide. “Clark—”

He leans down, kisses your cheek, your temple, the place behind your ear that makes your thighs shake.

“I love you when you’re being impossible. When you steal my flannels. When you pretend you don’t care. When you kissed me for the first time and then gave me a whole spiel about it.”

“Stop—”

“I love you,” he says again, brokenly this time, like it’s being torn out of him. “I love you even when I’m scared you’ll leave. Even if this is all I get.”

You turn fully this time, eyes glassy, fingers curling around the back of his neck to drag him in.

And you kiss him.

Hard.

Hungry.

Grateful.

“I love you,” you whisper against his mouth. “I love you, you wonderful, wonderful man.”

Clark lets out a sound that’s not quite a laugh and not quite a sob.

Then he flips you under him and fucks you like it’s a promise.

You say it again when you come the second time, breathless, high-pitched, hands clutching at his shoulders, and again when he follows with a low, shuddering groan, spilling into you like he’s got nowhere else he’d rather be.

.

The car smells like spearmint gum and way, way too much coffee. Clark’s got one hand on the wheel and the other laced through yours like it’s always been there. Which, lately, it has.

You’re about halfway to Smallville.

“So,” you say, tapping his knuckles with your thumb. “How many embarrassing baby photos am I being subjected to this time? Just give me a ballpark.”

Clark chuckles. His dimples show. “Oh, uh… probably all of them. Again."

You groan. “Even the corn maze one?”

“There are multiple corn maze ones,” he corrects gently. “There’s one where I’m dressed as a scarecrow.”

You stare at him.

He nods solemnly. “With face paint.”

“Oh my God,” you wheeze, turning toward the window. “I don’t know if I’m emotionally prepared for that.”

“Don’t worry,” he says, squeezing your hand. “Ma loves you. You could commit tax fraud in front of her and she’d ask if you wanted seconds.”

You snort. “That’s very comforting.”

He shrugs, smiling again. “It’s true. She already set up the guest room.”

You blink at him.

“…The guest room?”

A pause. Clark glances over. “Well, I didn’t want to assume we’d—uh—share a bed. With my parents in the house.”

You raise a brow. “Clark. We had sex in a supply closet at the Planet.”

“That was—okay, yes—but that was under different circumstances.”

“We are dating.”

“I know.”

You lean your head back against the seat, grinning. “You’re so weird.”

“You love it,” he mutters, cheeks pink.

You do.

God, you do. You love him.

It still sneaks up on you sometimes. The clarity of it. The quiet, persistent fact of Clark Kent: the man who once made you blueberry pancakes the morning after you nearly ran out on him, who kissed your wrist like it meant something, who never—not once—looked away. Who told you he was Superman in the middle of a 7/11 parking lot, like some fucking lunatic.

And now here you are. In his car. On the way to meet his parents.

Officially.

Not just as the girl who sleeps over sometimes. Not as the coworker who won’t stop pretending she doesn’t care. Not as the idiot who thought she could get away with loving him and not doing anything about it.

No. Now, you’re his girlfriend.

Which means this is real. Which means you’re going to their farmhouse in Smallville. And Martha is probably going to offer you pie. And Jonathan is probably going to show you Clark’s fifth grade spelling bee trophy like it’s the most precious thing in the world.

Which should terrify you.

(And maybe it does, a little.)

But mostly—mostly it feels like the best thing you’ve ever said yes to.

Clark clears his throat. “Hey.”

You turn.

He’s watching you with that expression again. That soft, unguarded, ruined look like he still can’t believe you’re real. It’s so sincere it nearly undoes you.

“I’m really glad you’re coming,” he says. Quietly.

You look at him. You squeeze his hand back.

“Me too, Michigan.”

His ears go a little red. “Don’t call me that.”

“Oh? I thought you liked when I objectify you by state.”

“I like it slightly less when it happens in front of a rest stop attendant while you’re holding beef jerky and winking at me. And when it's the wrong state."

You smirk. “Not my fault you were born with that jawline and a humiliation kink.”

Clark coughs through a laugh. “God help me.”

He reaches across the console, dragging his thumb lightly over the inside of your wrist. The same spot he kissed that night. The one you think might still hum a little under your skin.

You let your head fall against his shoulder, smile tucked into your cheek.

“Wake me when we’re ten minutes out?”

“You sure?” he murmurs, already lowering the volume on the radio.

“Mhm.” You close your eyes. “I gotta mentally prepare myself for the scarecrow photos.”

You feel the press of his lips against your knuckles. Gentle. Familiar.

“You’re gonna be fine,” he says. “They love you, you know that. I do too."

You smile.

December 1st: Max Verstappen

holiday stress · hurt feelings · soft apology

December 2nd: Lando Norris

spoiled presents · frustration · soft surprise

December 3rd: Oscar Piastri

gingerbread carnage ⋅ soft competitiveness ⋅ holiday boyfriend energy

December 4th: Charles Leclerc

found family ⋅ homesick comfort ⋅ honorary Leclerc

December 5th: George Russell

holiday overwhelm ⋅ found comfort ⋅ passenger princess vibes

December 6th: Carlos Sainz

family pressure ⋅ shattered ornament ⋅ new traditions

December 7th: Kimi Antonelli

holiday pressure ⋅ mistletoe magic ⋅ new traditions

December 8th: Ollie Bearman

matching brain cells ⋅ festive fluff ⋅ goofy sweetness

December 9th: Max Verstappen

scrooge boyfriend ⋅ stubborn love ⋅ christmas comfort

December 10th: Lando Norris

lonely december · faded joy · misread feelings

December 11th: Oscar Piastri

holiday loneliness · found family · mama piastri to the rescue

December 12th: Charles Leclerc

holiday angst · found family · soft reconciliation

December 13th: George Russell

burnout · reassurance · domestic softness

December 14th: Carlos Sainz

festive habits · unspoken hurt · soft apology

December 15th: Lewis Hamilton

family tension· soft reassurance · tender aftercare

December 16th: Alex Albon

quiet christmas · accidental traditions · gentle romance

December 17th: Max Verstappen

snowstorm scare · miscommunication · protective instincts

December 18th: Lando Norris

streamer boyfriend· accidental softness · festive chaos

December 19th: Oscar Piastri

miscommunication · emotional neglect · soft apology

December 20th: Charles Leclerc

holiday fluff · handwritten love · soft charles

December 21st: George Russell

spoiled reader · playful banter · christmas gifts

The bunker felt quieter than usual that evening, the weight of another hunt lingering in the air like a faint echo. Sam had just returned from a solo supply run, his broad shoulders filling the doorway as he kicked off his boots.

You were in the kitchen, stirring a pot of pasta sauce, trying to make the place feel a little more like home. It had been two weeks since you'd both decided to explore something new in your relationship—something intimate, vulnerable, and exciting. Anal play. The idea had come up during one of those late-night talks, bodies tangled in sheets, whispers turning into shared fantasies. Sam, ever the patient lover, had insisted on taking it slow, preparing you properly so it would be nothing but pleasure.

He'd started the training that very night, his voice low and reassuring as he outlined the plan. "We're gonna do this right, baby," he'd said, pressing a kiss to your forehead. "No rushing. I want you to feel safe and good every step of the way." And he had. Over the next 2 weeks days, Sam had guided you through a progression of toys, each session building trust and sensation, always with plenty of lube, his gentle words, and his fingers or mouth on your clit to keep the arousal high.

The first night, after dinner, Sam led you to the bedroom with a small black bag in hand. The room was softly lit by a bedside lamp, casting warm shadows over the king-sized bed you'd claimed as your sanctuary. He sat you down, his large hands cupping your face.

"You sure about this?" he asked, green eyes searching yours. You nodded, heart racing with a mix of nerves and anticipation. He kissed you deeply, tongue sliding against yours, before pulling back to undress you slowly, peeling off your shirt and jeans, leaving you in just your panties.

From the bag, he pulled out the smallest plug—a sleek, tapered silicone one, no bigger than his thumb. It was beginner-friendly, with a flared base for safety. "This is just to get you used to the feeling," he murmured, grabbing the bottle of lube from the nightstand. He squeezed a generous amount onto his fingers, warming it between them before parting your legs. You lay back on the pillows, knees bent, as he settled between your thighs. His free hand stroked your inner thigh soothingly. "Relax for me, sweetheart. Breathe deep."

He circled your tight entrance with one slick finger, pressing gently until the muscle gave way. You gasped at the intrusion, but it was more strange than painful. Sam leaned down, his breath hot against your skin. "That's it, good girl. You're doing so well." He worked his finger in and out slowly, adding more lube as needed, until you adjusted. Then came the plug. He coated it liberally, the cool gel making you shiver. "Push back against it, like you're letting me in," he coached. As the tip breached you, he brought his other hand to your clit, rubbing firm circles that sent sparks through your core. The dual sensation made you moan, your body loosening around the toy. He twisted it gently, easing it deeper until the base nestled against you. "Look at you, taking it like a champ. Feels good, doesn't it?"

You nodded, hips rocking slightly as his fingers on your clit built the pressure. He kept you plugged for about twenty minutes that first time, talking you through every twitch and throb, praising your bravery. When he finally removed it, washing it carefully in the bathroom sink, he rewarded you with his mouth between your legs, licking and sucking until you came hard, his name on your lips.

The next few days followed a similar rhythm. Mornings were for quick check-ins—Sam would kiss you awake, his hand slipping under the covers to tease your ass with a lubed finger while he fingered your pussy. "Gonna keep you prepped all day," he'd whisper, leaving you buzzing with need. Evenings were dedicated sessions. By day three, he introduced a slightly larger plug, still small but with a bit more girth. This one vibrated on a low setting, which he controlled with a remote.

You were on all fours this time, ass up, face buried in the pillow. Sam knelt behind you, pouring lube over your hole until it dripped down your thighs. "So pretty like this," he said, voice husky. "My perfect girl, opening up for me." He pressed the vibrating plug in slowly, inch by inch, his thumb finding your clit immediately to counter any discomfort. The buzz against your sensitive walls made you whimper, and as it settled, he turned up the intensity just a notch. "Feel that? It's gonna train these muscles to relax around something bigger." He fucked you with it shallowly at first, then deeper, all while rubbing your clit in tight circles. Your pussy clenched around nothing, aching for more, but Sam focused on the back, his free hand massaging your lower back. "You're soaking wet, baby. Love how your body responds."

That plug stayed in longer—half an hour—while he edged you with clit stimulation, denying your orgasm until you begged. When he finally let you come, it was with the toy still buzzing inside, waves crashing over you as you collapsed forward.

Week one progressed steadily. By day five, Sam switched to a set of graduated anal beads—three silicone spheres, starting small and increasing in size. He loved the way you could feel each one pop in and out. "This'll help stretch you gradually," he explained, lubing the string generously. You were on your side, one leg hooked over his hip as he lay facing you, intimate and close. He kissed your neck, murmuring, "I got you. Just focus on my voice."

The first bead slipped in easily, followed by the second. By the third, larger one, you tensed, but Sam's fingers danced over your clit, pinching lightly before soothing with strokes. "Breathe out, sweetheart. Push against it—yeah, like that." The bead sank in, filling you more noticeably. He tugged the string slowly, letting each bead exit with a pop that made you gasp. "Fuck, you're tight. Can't wait to feel you around my cock." His words heated your blood, and he kept the play going, inserting and removing the beads multiple times, always with fresh lube and constant clit attention. Your arousal built until you were grinding against his hand, the beads stimulating from within. He pulled them out fully just as you tipped over the edge, your orgasm milking the sensations as you cried out.

Sam was meticulous about aftercare—cleaning you up with warm cloths, holding you close, feeding you snacks in bed. "Proud of you," he'd say, tracing patterns on your skin. "One step closer."

Into the second week, things intensified. Day eight brought a medium-sized dildo, realistic and veined, about four inches insertable. Sam wanted to simulate the real thing. You showered together first, his soapy hands exploring every curve, fingers dipping into your ass to loosen you with lube. "Gonna fuck this pretty hole with the toy today," he growled playfully, nipping your earlobe.

Dried and on the bed, you straddled his lap facing away, giving him full access. He slathered the dildo with lube, then worked two fingers into you first, scissoring gently. "So responsive. Listen to how wet you are." His other hand reached around to your clit, rubbing in time with his thrusts. The dildo followed, pressing against your entrance. "Relax, baby. Let it in." You sank back slowly, the stretch burning sweetly as the head popped past the ring. Sam praised nonstop: "That's my girl. Taking it so deep. Feels amazing, doesn't it?" He thrust it in shallow pumps, building to fuller strokes, his fingers never leaving your clit. The fullness made your pussy throb, and you rode the toy as much as he guided it, chasing the building climax.

He kept you going for forty minutes, varying speeds, adding a twist here and there. When you came, it was intense, your walls clenching around the dildo as juices slicked your thighs. Sam held you through the aftershocks, whispering how beautiful you were.

The days blurred into a haze of anticipation. Day ten: a vibrating dildo, larger still, with a suction base that Sam stuck to the headboard for you to back onto while he watched, then joined with his hands. "Ride it for me," he'd say, lubing it up and guiding your hips. His mouth on your clit that time, tongue flicking relentlessly as you impaled yourself. Day twelve: large anal beads, warmed by lube, Sam tugged gently, fucking you with all three while vibrating your clit with a bullet toy.

By day thirteen, the largest toy yet—a thick plug with a wide bulb, prepping for his size. You were nervous, but Sam's sweet talk melted it away. "You've come so far, love. This is gonna make tomorrow perfect." On your back, legs over his shoulders, he eased it in with copious lube, three fingers on your clit rubbing fast. The stretch was intense, but the pleasure overrode it, leading to a squirting orgasm that soaked the sheets.

Now, two weeks in, Sam decided tonight was the night. You'd aced the final training session that afternoon—a full dildo fuck while he ate you out, coming twice before he stopped. As he entered the kitchen, his eyes locked on yours with that knowing heat. "Hey, beautiful," he said, wrapping arms around you from behind, lips brushing your ear. "Sauce smells good, but you smell better." His hand slid down, cupping your ass possessively.

Dinner was tense with anticipation, stolen touches under the table, his foot nudging your leg open. Afterward, he carried you to the bedroom like you weighed nothing, laying you down gently. "I think you're ready," he said, stripping off his shirt to reveal the hard planes of his chest. "Wanna feel me inside you?"

"Yes," you breathed, already stripping. Naked, you knelt on the bed, presenting yourself. Sam groaned, shedding his jeans, his cock springing free—thick, long, veined, and hard for you. He grabbed the lube, pouring it over his length first, stroking himself as he watched you. "God, look at you. Been dreaming about this."

He joined you, kneeling behind, hands spreading your cheeks. More lube dripped directly onto your hole, cool and slick. "Gonna go slow, okay? Tell me if it's too much." His tip pressed against you, firm but patient. You pushed back, relaxing from all the training, and the head breached you with a pop. A burn spread, but it faded quick as Sam reached around, fingers finding your clit. "Fuck, you're tight. So hot, squeezing me like this." He inched forward, sweet words flowing: "That's it, baby. Taking my cock so well. Love you like this."

Halfway in, he paused, letting you adjust, rubbing your clit faster. Your pussy wept, arousal dripping as the fullness hit deep. "More," you moaned, and he obliged, bottoming out with a grunt. "That's all of me, sweetheart. Feel how deep I am?" He started thrusting—slow, shallow at first, building rhythm. Each slide was lubed perfection, his balls tapping your pussy.

His fingers worked magic on your clit, pinching, circling, making stars burst behind your eyes. "Come for me, let me feel you clench around me." The pressure built, anal sensations blending with clit pleasure, and you shattered, crying his name as your body spasmed. Sam groaned, thrusting through it, prolonging your high.

He flipped you onto your back then, legs over his shoulders for deeper access. More lube, and he sank back in, eyes locked on yours. "Beautiful. My perfect girl." He fucked you steadily, hand between your legs again, thumb on your clit. The angle hit new spots, making you arch. "Gonna fill this ass up soon. You want that?"

"Yes, Sammy, please." His pace quickened, grunts mixing with praises: "So good for me. Love fucking your tight hole." Your second orgasm hit as he rubbed harder, walls milking him. He followed seconds later, cock pulsing as he came deep, hot spurts filling you.

He stayed buried a moment, kissing you softly. "You okay? Was it good?"

"Amazing," you sighed, pulling him close.

You look up, smiling brightly.  “Hi,” you squeal as you stand up to kiss him. Your lips on his ease his annoyance by a little but he still feels the aggravation boiling in him. As much as he tries, he just can’t figure out what’s upsetting him so much and the guilt he feels over his reaction doesn’t help.

“You forgot your bag,” he says, holding out the item. Your smile doesn’t drop – it fades. 

You mutter an apology and then add, “I missed you so much. You’re pretty late.”

He doesn’t want to roll his eyes but he does.

What the heck is wrong with him?

“Yeah,” he mumbles and sits down only to steal a cheese slice from your plate.

No ‘I missed you, too.’ No ‘How was your day?’

Clark just sits there, eyes half closed as he chews and the discomfort of the silence chases goosebumps up your arms. 

“Are you alright?” you ask, keeping your voice soft. Small. 

“Yes.” The single word carries more bite than you have ever heard from him before. He regrets it instantly but he doesn’t have the energy to ask for your forgiveness. Not now. 

“Are you sure?” you question timidly. You begin to reach out, wanting to rest your hand on his, maybe knead out the stress while you’re at it, but he pulls away.

“I’m just- I’m tired and I wanna take a shower. I hate to ask because I know it’s late, but can you make food? Like real food?” He eyes your plate critically and you swallow.

He feels like such a jerk and knows that his ma would give him one hell of a talk for being so gruff with you. He’d like to put himself in timeout. 

“Sure, I… yeah, any specific request?”  You’re so sweet about it even as Clark hears the uncertainty in your voice. 

“No, just… just food, okay?”

He barely waits for your nod before he bolts for the bathroom. The ache in his bones is something utterly unfamiliar, just like the anger threatening to spill over.  Clark showers quickly, hoping the cold water will soothe his tightly drawn muscles and cool his head at the same time. 

Tall as he is, he struggles to fit all of himself under the spray. He cramps himself into the small space and knocks over your shampoo and conditioner in the process. The liquids spill and a sigh of pure frustration parts his lips. 

“Jeez,” he mutters. As he cleans up the mess, he makes a mental note to buy you replacements but when? He’s been busy all week, more assignments in his planner than work hours, and all he wants is to go to sleep. 

A soft knock on the door follows and then your voice carries through the wood, “Are you okay in there?”

“Yes,” he bites and steps onto the bathmat. He’s sure there’s still soap clinging to his back. As he wraps a towel around his hips, you speak up again, “I thought I heard something fall.”

“Gosh, can you just- yeah, I dropped your dang shampoo stuff! I’m sorry, ok?”

Clark rips the door open, his chest heaving. 

You stand there, one hand still raised in the ghost of your knock. Your eyes are wide, searching his face. 

He is about to say something, maybe find a way to fix the situation, when a strange smell wafts through the apartment. 

“What the-,” Clark sprints into the kitchen to find smoke curling from the oven. It reaches out with tiny claws, slowly darkening the room. 

“Stay back,” he calls out as you follow him, your expression torn between guilt and… and fear. 

He quickly shuts off the heat and opens the oven to let the smoke escape.

“Open the window,” he instructs and you quickly walk over to do so. 

Once the smoke clears, he leans against the counter, rubbing a hand across his face. He doesn’t look at you once, just stands there and frowns. 

“I’m sorry, Clark, I- I didn’t think I turned up the heat so much. I was gonna… I’m really sorry,” you stutter. 

If he had looked at you for a second, he would have seen the way your hands shook, the way you curled into yourself, trying to take up less space.  But he doesn’t look. He just keeps his lips pressed together tightly, trying to swallow his frustrations and bite back any anger. 

“Clark-“ you begin again but he interrupts. 

Your name falls from his lips in a tone you had never heard from him before.

He doesn’t yell. Not exactly. But a man his size has a voice to match it. You know he doesn’t mean to scare you, he would never do that intentionally. But the word spill out with such irritation that you take a step back. 

It’s not a way of deescalating the situation, not a conscious decision to give him space. It’s fear that draws you away from him. 

At first, he doesn’t notice. He hears you walk out of the kitchen and his first instinct is to feel relieved. At least until he picks up on your heartbeat.  It’s fast, much too fast. The irregular rhythm, the hiccups and then the muffled sound of your hand pressed against your lips as you try to keep yourself from crying – it breaks his heart. 

All anger dissipates and is instead replaced by a mountain of guilt. 

Clark pushes away from the counter and follows you slowly.  “Sweetheart?” he calls out to you. 

You’re standing in your shared bedroom, your back to him. He sees your trembling shoulders and his stomach drops. 

He says your name once. You flinch. 

“Baby,” he whispers as he steps closer.  Cold fear runs through his veins when you don’t turn around. 

Clark doesn’t know whether he should reach out. He doesn’t want to scare you any more than he already did but he needs to see your face. 

“Baby, can you please look at me?” he requests, keeping his voice gentle. 

Slowly, you turn around, your eyes downcast. Small streaks of tears glisten on your cheeks, the low lighting catching in them. 

“I’m sorry,” you blurt pitifully, “I’m sorry for burning dinner. I’m sorry that I annoyed you. I’m sorry-“

Every other word is followed by a hiccup as your voice trembles. You sniffle, trying to pull yourself together and it pains Clark to see you like that. 

“No, darling, I’m sorry,” he mumbles. He softens his posture, tilts his head. His hands are raised slightly, as if to say, ‘I won’t hurt you’.  “Gosh, I- I’m the one who needs to apologize. I shouldn’t have raised my voice like that.”

You peer up at him slowly, your gaze still unsure. 

Clark reaches out, hoping you’ll meet him halfway. Your hand trembles as it finds his. But then you step closer, and he opens his arms in which you let yourself be enveloped. 

Your tears drench the crumbled cotton of his shirt as he strokes your back. “I’m so sorry,” he whispers again, “I’m not mad, I promise.”

He softly pulls away to face you, his heart cramping as he watches the salt stream from your eyes.

“You were so angry when you came home,” you mumble, your voice thick with tears, “And my bag- I shouldn’t have left it there, I should have hung it up, I’m sorry, I-“

He shushes you gently.  “It’s just a bag. It’s okay. You don’t need to apologize. There was no reason for me to get so upset.” His palm travels up and down your spine, soothing away the rest of your tears. 

“Are you still angry with me?” you ask quietly. 

Clark shakes his head.  “I was never angry with you in the first place. I’m just stressed. I had a long day but that’s not a reason to take it out on you.”

He cups your chin and gently raises it so you meet his eyes.  “Please, can you forgive me?” he asks. His hand tenderly strokes your cheek.

When you nod, he lets out a sigh of relief. Clark pulls you closer and presses a kiss to the crown of your head. 

“Sorry for being such a jerk,” he whispers into your hair.

“I’ve already forgiven you,” you answer but he shakes his head.  “Doesn’t matter,” he mumbles, “I’m still a jerk.”

You chuckle softly and glance up at him. “That almost qualifies as a cuss word, Clark.”

It was one of those date nights that always started innocent and never stayed that way for long. You'd taken your time getting ready, slipping into the short red dress that hugged your curves like it was made for you.

The deep V-neckline gave the perfect tease, just enough for Clark to lose his train of thought whenever he looked at you.

Around your neck hung the small gold necklace Lois had given you an “S” pendant glinting softly against your skin. A secret only the three of you shared. (Clark had practically forgotten how to breathe when he first saw it.)

You dabbed on perfume, combed your hair, and checked yourself in the mirror one last time. You were almost ready to go when your phone buzzed.

Lois ❤️: Check your third drawer where we keep our things. I left something for you, honey.

Your pulse spiked instantly. That drawer. You knew it far too well. Stuffed with all sorts of things Lois had “introduced” you to, and Clark pretended to be scandalized by before inevitably giving in.

You opened it slowly, already smiling, half nervous, half thrilled. Whatever was inside, it was bound to make you blush. And Lois, of course, would love every second of it.

Inside was a small box with your name written across the top in Lois’s looping cursive. You laughed softly, picking it up. Nestled beneath a short note on cream paper

“For our baby — C + L.”

Inside was a pair of bright blue panties. If you could even call them that. The fabric was thin, delicate, tied at the sides with satin ribbon that matched Clark’s suit a little too perfectly. You picked them up and your breath caught when you noticed the small, sleek device attached inside. A vibrator, both discreet and deadly, positioned to press right against your pussy.

You glanced back at the box, already knowing what you wouldn’t find: the remote. That was long gone. And if you had to guess, it was probably already sitting in Lois’s purse next to Clark’s strong, unsuspecting hand, waiting for the perfect moment.

You slipped the blue panties on, adjusting the ribbons until they rested just right against your hips. The hidden weight of the tiny device made your skin tingle, nestling snugly between your legs.

You could already imagine Lois’s smirk when she saw you and Clark’s expression when he finally put the pieces together. The satin rubbed softly with every step as you finished getting ready, a constant reminder of the game about to unfold.

By the time you arrived at the restaurant, the city was glowing under a canopy of stars and neon lights. Lois was already there, legs crossed, lipstick perfect, the very picture of calm control. Clark sat beside her, his broad shoulders filling out his suit jacket, his hand resting on the table until Lois brushed her fingers over it a silent cue that made his eyes flick up to meet yours as you approached.

When your eyes met hers, she gave you that smile. The one that promised trouble.

You took your seat across from them, the cool leather of the booth pressing against your thighs, the vibrator shifting slightly and sending a spark of anticipation through your core.

Trying to focus on the menu, on the soft jazz music drifting through the air, on anything but the memory of that drawer, you scanned the options. Then Lois leaned in, her perfume warm and familiar, wrapping around you like an embrace.

“You look beautiful, honey,” she murmured, just loud enough for you to hear. “Clark thinks so too.”

He cleared his throat, cheeks pink, his gaze dropping to the pendant at your neck before trailing down the V of your dress. “You always do.” His voice was rougher than usual, laced with that quiet hunger he tried so hard to rein in.

The air between the three of you shifted—not yet crossing the line, but full of quiet understanding.

Every look, every brush of fingers beneath the table carried its own voltage. Dinner became a dance of glances, laughter, and promises not yet spoken.

Clark's foot nudged yours accidentally (or not) under the table, his warmth seeping through your heel.

Lois's eyes sparkled as she steered the conversation to work stories, her hand occasionally grazing Clark's thigh, drawing his attention while she watched you squirm ever so slightly in your seat.

The waiter brought appetizers crisp calamari and chilled wine, you sipped slowly, the cool liquid doing little to temper the heat building low in your belly. Lois's fingers toyed with her glass, her pinky ring catching the light, and you wondered if the remote was hidden in her palm, ready to strike.

And that’s when she pressed it, keeping it on the lowest setting so as not to scare you, just to keep you wanting more.

The sudden hum vibrated against your clit, a gentle pulse that made your thighs clench instinctively. You grabbed Lois’s hand across the table, squeezing it gently as you gasped, closing your eyes for a moment, taking in the bliss before reality came crashing in on you.

You weren't in the comfort of your own home, on Clark’s bed or Lois’s. You were as exposed as could be, surrounded by the murmur of other diners, the clink of silverware, the city's hum filtering through the windows. Keeping a secret about what was happening only between the three of you—i guess you were Superman in this moment, holding it together under pressure.

The silent hum continued between your legs, it wasn't too much to distract you completely from the conversation and your surroundings. Clark watched you the entire time with a soft smile on his face; you looked beautiful blissed out like this, your lips parted slightly, a faint sheen of sweat on your collarbone.

He leaned back in the booth, his arm draped casually over the seat behind Lois, but his eyes were fixed on the way your chest rose and fell a little quicker.

Lois squeezed your hand back, her thumb stroking your knuckles in slow circles, mirroring the rhythm between your thighs. “Everything okay, honey?” she asked innocently, though her gaze dipped to your lap for a split second.

You nodded, forcing a smile as the vibration coaxed a trickle of wetness to soak into the thin fabric. “Just... perfect,” you whispered, your voice breathy. Clark's smile widened, his free hand disappearing under the table—probably to adjust himself, the bulge in his pants straining against the zipper as he imagined what you were feeling.

The main course arrived—steak for Clark, pasta for Lois, salmon for you—and you picked at it, each forkful a challenge to stay composed. The toy buzzed steadily, building a slow burn that made your pussy throb, your nipples hardening against the silk of your bra. Lois chatted about a recent story, her words flowing effortlessly, but every so often, she'd glance at you, her expression a mix of pride and mischief.

Clark joined in, his deep voice rumbling as he described a lead on LexCorp, but his knee pressed firmer against yours now, a deliberate anchor. Under the table, his fingers brushed Lois's thigh, and she bit her lip, passing the remote subtly to him with a nod. His eyes locked on yours as he took it, thumb hovering over the button.

Dessert was torture—a shared tiramisu that Lois fed you a bite of, her fork lingering on your lips while the vibration ticked up just a notch, making you stifle a moan into the creamy sweetness. Clark's gaze darkened, his cock visibly twitching in his lap as he watched your reactions, the secret weaving tighter around you all.

Finally, the bill came, and Lois slid the remote back into her purse with a wink. “Time to head out,” she said, her voice casual, but the promise in her eyes was anything but.

The three of you stepped into the cool night air, the city's pulse matching the one thrumming through your body. Clark's hand settled at the small of your back, guiding you to the car parked a block away—a sleek black sedan that screamed understated luxury. Lois walked ahead, her hips swaying in her fitted black dress, keys jingling as she unlocked it.

You slid into the back seat first, the leather cool against your flushed skin, the movement shifting the toy deeper against your slick folds.

A soft whimper escaped before you could catch it. Lois climbed in beside you, her thigh pressing immediately against yours, while Clark took the driver's seat, adjusting the rearview mirror to catch your eye.

The engine purred to life, and as Clark pulled away from the curb, the city lights blurring into streaks, Lois's hand found your knee. “You did so well back there,” she murmured, her fingers tracing upward, slipping under the hem of your dress. The vibration was still going, low and insistent, making your pussy clench around nothing, aching for more.

Clark's eyes flicked to the mirror again, his grip tightening on the wheel. “Couldn't take my eyes off you,” he admitted, voice gravelly. The remote was in his hand now, clipped to the visor where he could reach it without looking. He pressed a button, and the hum intensified, pulsing in waves that made your hips buck involuntarily.

“Oh god,” you gasped, head falling back against the seat as Lois's hand cupped your mound over the panties, feeling the buzz through the fabric. Her fingers tugged at the satin ribbons, loosening one side just enough to expose the toy, her thumb circling your clit alongside it.

“That's it, honey,” Lois breathed, leaning in to nip at your earlobe. “Let go now. No one's watching but us.” Her other hand slid up to your breast, pinching your nipple through the dress, rolling it until you arched into her touch.

In the front, Clark groaned, his cock hard and pressing against his slacks as he navigated the streets. “Fuck, you two... keep it up and I won't make it home.” He amped the vibration higher, the toy thrumming relentlessly against your g-spot now, slick sounds filling the car as your arousal dripped down your thighs.

You grabbed Lois's wrist, not to stop her but to urge her on, your free hand reaching forward to graze Clark's shoulder. “Clark... please,” you begged, the words tumbling out as the pleasure coiled tight in your belly.

He glanced back briefly, eyes burning. “Touch yourself for me. Show us how wet you are.”

Lois helped, pulling the panties aside fully, the toy buzzing exposed against your swollen pussy. Your fingers dove in, circling your clit while she fucked you shallowly with two fingers, curling them just right. The car swerved slightly as Clark hit a red light, his hand abandoning the wheel for a moment to palm his cock through his pants, stroking himself to the sight in the mirror.

The light turned green, and he accelerated, the motion jolting the toy deeper, pushing you closer to the edge. Lois captured your mouth in a fierce kiss, tongues tangling as she swallowed your moans. “Cum for us, baby,” she whispered against your lips. “Right here, in the back seat like the good slut you are.”

The orgasm crashed over you, your pussy spasming around Lois's fingers, walls fluttering as waves of heat pulsed through you. You cried out, nails digging into her arm, body shaking as cum soaked her hand and the seat beneath you.

Clark growled from the front, his strokes quickening on his bulge. “That's my Superman... so fucking gorgeous when you cum.” He eased off the remote, letting the aftershocks hum softly, drawing out your whimpers.

Lois licked her fingers clean, savoring your taste with a hum of approval, then tucked the toy back into place, retying the ribbons with a possessive tug. “Home's just a few minutes away,” she said, settling back with a satisfied smile, her hand resting warmly on your thigh.

Aaron was getting desperate.

He was fucking into you nice and slow, trying desperately to focus his mind on anything else besides his beautiful girlfriend beneath him. The sight of your tits bouncing with each thrust, the sound of your little gasps and moans, and the feeling of you, wet and hot, clenched around his cock had his head spinning. It had only been a few minutes and he was already so close. It had been so long since he was able to touch you, so the moment he was home from the last case, he was on you. He needed your soft touch, your warmth, your comfort. He’s realizing now he was overeager because he’s about to cum and he never finishes before you. It’s an unwritten rule he had sort of given himself at the beginning of your relationship. The sight of you coming apart for him was so erotic, he never wanted it to end. Not to mention, you’re a fair bit younger and possessing of more stamina than he does at his age. You could cum 10 times in one session, you have, but when he finished, it was basically over. And he was not ready for it to be over, not now, not when you hadn’t cum yet.

He was running out of time as he felt his orgasm building up, so in a last-ditch effort to try and outlast you, he brought a hand to your clit and started rubbing at a furious pace.

“Fuck, Aaron!” you cried, lurching upward from the sudden intense stimulation. The sex had been feeling amazing, it always did, but you hadn’t been anywhere close to the edge yet. Your boyfriend was changing that fast with his movements on your most sensitive part. Your cries tumbled out of you freely and unrestricted, your orgasm was building up at a record-breaking speed, threatening to burst forward, when you felt that somewhat familiar feeling in the pit of your stomach, spreading fast and hot to your vagina.

You were going to squirt.

You’ve only ever done it a few times before, with the help of your most intense vibrator, and you’ve never talked about it with Aaron. You had no idea how he would react. You feared he would be grossed out and angry when you involuntarily sprayed him, but you couldn’t warn him in time.

“Aaron, Aaron, I’m sorry, I’m gonna-“

The dam burst and the hot splash of squirt sprayed out of you, drenching Aaron’s stomach and hips. You watched as it dripped from his short, dark pubic hairs when his hips stuttered and stilled, filling you up with his hot cum.

“Fuck…” he murmured as he examined the mess you made.

“Aaron, I’m so sorry, I know I squirted and made a mess, I couldn’t help it, please don’t be mad,” you whimpered.

He just gazed down at you with his big brown eyes, jaw slack.

“That was…” he laughed breathlessly. “That was the most erotic thing I’ve ever seen.”

You blushed, embarrassed, and covered your face with your hands. Aaron wasn’t having any of that. He pulled your hands away from your face and pulled his cock out of you slowly before repositioning you both in the bed, with him sat against the headboard and you sat between his legs, not even bothering to clean up.

“Aaron, what are you doing?” you asked. He slipped his hand back between your legs and resumed his brutal pace on your clit.

“I’m seeing if you can do that again.”