˗ˋˏ Here we go again ˎˊ-

The thing is, for all of the barbs and hatred and vitriol that they’ve expressed between each other both verbally, physically—morally—perhaps—they always meet once a month for cards. Blackjack, specifically.

It’s the one that Matt can determine the braille on the embossed side the easiest, without giving away the game to Frank and Dex.

And for some reason, once you catch wind of it, the next thing on Frank’s mouth is “why don't you come along with us?”

“Who, me?” You ask with a wry grin. “I’m no good at betting games.”

“Don’t have to play—just keep Red company,” Frank jerks with his head over to Matt, who reclines on an armchair with a grimace of being caught out. “‘Specially when me and Dex wipe the floor with ‘im.”

“Gambling is not one of the virtues upheld by Catholics,” Matt mutters back in good-natured defense. You watch Frank chuckle at the gun he’s swabbing loose powder from.

“Yeah, neither’s dressin’ up at night and beating the fuck outta criminals,” Frank grins at you—you can’t help but resist a small smile of your own—“—But I don’t see you talkin’ bout that in your conversations with God.”

“Different strokes,” you suggest back with a chuckle as Frank sends you a knowing wink. You like him the best out of Matt’s alter-ego friends—something so bracing and without airs that he puts on for you.

“So, how’s about it?” Frank asks. “We’re meetin’ up tomorrow. Maybe it’ll get our third to stop runnin’ his mouth for a second.”

You doubt it—and yet here you are, sitting by the edge of the table, watching as the three of them exchange cards. Surprisingly—the fact that a veneer of civility is exchanged between the three of them is astounding to you, given the history.

Frank sits opposite you, working a stogie in the champ of his teeth that issues that acrid smoke in wreathing manner around his frame. He’s the dealer, interestingly enough. But you suppose neither Dex nor Matt would trust each other enough to let the other dole out the cards.

“Didn’t know Matt had a good luck charm,” you hear that husky, unfamiliar voice croon across the distance of the table—and so you turn to your left to look at the demon near-perched on your shoulder.

Watch the languid yet stiff way that he reclines at his straight-backed chair, his eyes watching you carefully. Perceiving everything that you do as you observe the nuances of this peace-time game.

“Gotta have something in his favor,” you send back easily, trying not to obviously bristle under that unnatural stare. There’s something uncanny in that handsome pair of eyes, in that set of that jaw that works rabid grin. He’s sizing you up.

“Yeah, I’ll bet,” Dex sends back, and finally his eyes drag off of yours to look across the table, to your right. “Wouldn’t wanna go home with his tail between his legs.”

At this, you finally turn to settle your gaze to Matt, who sits in unnaturally cool repose, a jaunty smirk that works over his face as he return ire of gaze in directionless sights.

“Don’t mind him—”—Matt says your name with a slant of possessiveness that even in this smoky room you cannot ignore—“—When we go home, you can tell me your honest opinion of him.”

When we go home—staking territory not quite claimed, cutting lines into the sand between you and Dex. It’s such a startling overture that you can’t help but cock up an eyebrow in game surprise, though you don’t correct him. Though Dex already is making suffused chuckle between his teeth as he lounges back in his seat.

“No need to lie to me, sweetheart,” Dex croons back, in bid to make you return your attention back to him, “I don’t get my feelings hurt too bad.”

“Is that so?” You ask calmly, pressing your cheek into the curve of your palm. “I find that a little hard to believe.”

He displays teeth at this, impressed by your advancing offense. His reply is calm, collected.

“The packaging the words come in make a lot easier to hear,” he sends back, and when his eyes trail hot fire down the length of your body, you have to ignore the tactile goosebumps that are sent up it.

You can feel the way that Matt bristles besides you, take in the sharp albeit subdued intake of air that he makes—and you find yourself stymied without word to defend yourself with.

“Alright, ladies,” Frank cuts in, finally removing the cigar from his mouth with forefinger and thumb, “Let’s go ahead and play real nice now, okay?”

Dex retreats against the plateau of his chair with a smirk; in your periphery, you’re aware of the smile that grows on Matt’s own face, though it appears to be little more than rictus in imitation of the expression.

And you sit on the high-legged stool that you’ve taken grounding in to be witness to this tableau before you.

“I can if you can, Dex,” Matt replies back with same composed litigational intonation you’re used to hearing. You just don't usually hear the inlaid threat that comes carried in this one.

“No problem, Murdock.” Dex says. You catch the way that his eyes dart back over to you in interest, before working to accept the cards that are sent careening in direct arc from the deal of Frank’s hands.

For a second, there’s only a brief moment of contemplation as they take straight-faced observation over their cards. Dex looks at the card that is paired with his ace—Matt stares in unyielding fashion across the plateau of the table, his thumb working over the card that matches his King.

Frank takes a sizzling drag, issuing thick, arterial smoke that further clouds the heady atmosphere of the room.

“What’re we thinkin’, fellas?” Frank asks, once he deems that enough appropriate time has elapsed for them to have decided their strategy.

“Hit me,” Matt says without hesitation—Dex appears a little more reticent before he holds up an index to summon his own. Frank dutifully doles out the gold-backed cards for them to accept, as they consider the merit of their choices or not.

It’s here that Dex speaks. “How about a wager?”

“What kind of wager?” Matt asks with such immediacy that you wonder if it’s been premeditated. Or, if he is just simply expressing outward tension that he’s seemed to carry since the onset of this meeting. You watch as his knuckles jut through the housing of his skin, white-hot and clenched as they hold the cards he has yet to reveal.

“Think you know what I’m bettin’, Matt,” Dex returns back. There’s something hooded in the shadows that fall over Frank’s eyes as he takes reckoning of this. “But because I know you’re nervous about losin’ em, I’ll start small.”

Losing ‘em? What does that mean? You think across the perimeter of the table where a chain reaction seems to begin; how Matt’s shoulders bristle and tick out in barely-restrained ire seething beneath the surface. Frank makes a knowing chuckle at this, exhaling gust of excess into the dissipating air, Dex’s grin grows a little wider at the reactions instigated.

“I win next round,” Dex says in such velvet manner, and he says your name without even looking so that you’re slow to react, slow to realize what part you play in this, “—Takes a seat on my lap for the round.”

“No. Absolutely not,” Matt grinds through his teeth, so averse to the idea that you can’t help but be rendered immobilized by this wager made without even your input. Thankfully, Frank intercedes, holding out a broad hand that wields still-lit cigar, embers fading into the darkness that seems to swallow up the table.

“Easy, girlies,” Frank cuts in, “Think we oughta hear if they wanna piece of whatever dick-swingin’ you’re doin’.”

And at this, three pairs of eyes drag over to you; Matt’s head swivels to you with immediacy, Frank keeps level stare opposite you, Dex’s eyes slink over like glittering snake in the grass. All three waiting to hear your contribution to this discussion of rights to you, now that you’ve been given entry into the game.

You don’t know what you’re thinking, save for the electric heat that is thrumming through your body, through the charter of your veins, in the pulse between your legs. Matt draws still—and you wonder if he has already sensed what you have yet to confess.

“I get to decide if I’m okay with what you want me to do,” You say with stilted, halted thought conjured on spur-of-the-moment, “And in the meantime—I sit on Frank’s lap.”

At this, you see ripple of emotion work through the trio: Matt seems to bear resignation, Dex smug victory that spirits over his face—and Frank hoots aloud at the debacle.

“Don’t mind if I do, honey,” Frank pushes back from the table with a screech upon the linoleum, clapping a hand to the meat of his thigh. “Why dontcha come over and keep ol’ Frankie company from these two idiots?”

“Gladly,” you say, and when you stand, you hope that no one notices the tremble that your leg bears as you find your footing. As you walk over to Frank’s awaiting lap with a hand that lingers past the taper of Matt’s back, something coaxing and reassuring that makes him settle only a little.

“Happy you joined the party, sweetheart,” Frank says as he ticks out his leg for you to seat yourself upon. And do so with ease, feeling yourself conforming to the shape of his toned body, the scalding heat that seems to roil off of him, tasting the motes of cedar and teak that his cologne makes in dizzying olfactory blend.

You, for your part, play along, trying not to openly exude the anxiety that is leaching out of your body as you take comfort in Frank’s body.

“Are they usually this…adversarial?” You ask as Frank makes motion to re-collect the cards. Matt and Dex both do so obediently as they share the heat of exchanged stares. Frank chuckles, and the laugh roils through the the two of you.

“Usually. But they don’t have such high stakes on the line like this.” With one hand, you watch as he takes the 52-pickup and works it in the machinations of his fingers; the other hand takes steadying buoy on the meat of your bicep, rolling a soothing thumb up and down the skin.

You can’t help but melt into the touch, to which you receive a chuckle from Frank that goes to all the accessible parts of your body it can.

“That so?” You ask as he places the deck face down, the crook of his wrist displaying expert flex of fingers and muscle. The cards are dealt out again. Matt accepts. Dex gloats. Both of them bear kings.

“Feelin’ lucky, Matt?” Dex asks as he spares no more than instantaneous glance to his concealed card. Matt keeps impartial expression, neutral as he rolls his thumb over the embossed braille.

“Do you?” Matt asks back, and there’s a type of confidence that he bears in his voice. He does not move.

“Any of you girlies need another card?” Frank asks. You find yourself needing to wrap an arm around his torso as he leans over. Something odd is taking tumultuous flip in the pit of your stomach as they both stare each other down.

“Easy, hon,” Frank grins down at you as you tick your arm round the span of his back, “Might not wanna letcha go, you keep hangin’ on like that.”

“Can’t help it,” You mutter back; again, you’re rewarded with thundering rumble of laugh as he takes another drag of his cigar.

“I don’t need another card,” Dex returns with such smug, slick reassurance that you can’t deny the way that your heart begins to uptick in tempo.

“Neither do I.” Matt says—Dex’s teeth show in baring of canines.

“Alright. Read ‘em and weep, kiddies,” Frank says, his hand bracing as he holds you to him. And both of them reveal their cards—for brief second, you forget rules of the game as you comprehend the numbers, calculate the totals.

Dex bears King and Ten: 20. Matt bears King and ace: 21.

“No fuckin’ way,” Frank chortles. Matt’s real, genuine smile finally breaks dawn on the horizon of his face. And something releases tension in the length of your body. But Dex still continues to grin as his eyes find visual purchase upon you.

“Go find yer man,” Frank directs, clapping you gently on the shoulder to coax you up and off the safe ledge of his leg. There’s something buoyant that makes the tread of your walk light as you round the footage of the table, pausing right before Matt who beams up at you.

“Hi there, stranger.” You greet. “Mind if I sit on your lap?”

“Been waiting for you to say that for a while now,” Matt returns easily as he scoots back. When you ease down upon him, there’s something that feels so oddly fitting about the way that you relax against the plateau of his chest.

His hand settles in careful anchoring against the slope of your waist. And how easily your legs intersect in the spread of his own as you thank your good luck.

In the midst of the cozy atmosphere, Dex accepts the new cards that Frank has metered out to the two of them; Matt has to accept his one-handed as he holds you like prized possession you are.

The careful tempo of his heart thrums through you in careful deliberation, rooting you back into the moment.

“Next wager,” Dex says in easy deliberation, without looking at his second card, “They give a kiss.”

You will yourself to stay calm in the safe harbor of Matt’s arms, keep your heartbeat steady. You can already feel the possessive clutch of fingers that are working over your flesh, kneading you in mooring rhythm.

“Didn’t know you wanted to try it that bad.” You reply back, more self-assured as you take residence in Matt’s arms. As he chuckles something relaxed into the press of your shoulder.

“Whatever’s good enough for him is good enough for me,” Dex sends back without preamble. “And I want a taste.”

“Yeah, well—”—Frank cuts in as Matt’s fingers clutch tighter at the statement. As Dex gives you smug grin that he takes aim with salacious wink at you—“—Gotta win first, Dex.”

“Hit me,” Matt says as he contemplates his cards—you can’t look. There’s something better, you think, in the privilege of not knowing until final moment. Dex again signals for another and appraises the score as Matt does similar.

“Any other takers?” Frank asks, Matt makes a jutting nod of his jaw as he rubs his hand up your forearm, letting you sigh into him.

“Didn’t know you were so good at this,” You murmur to him. “Holding people.”

“Comes with the LSAT prep,” Matt sends back; you can’t help but giggle at this admission. Dex sits across the table, stewing in myriad of indiscernible emotion.

“We ready?” Frank asks, taking silence as consent. “Show ‘em.”

Matt reveals the cards: a Jack, a five, a four. 19. Dex shows his hands: 10 and 10. Twenty.

“Think I want that kiss, sweetheart,” His voice drawls in cool tether that drags across the table. Urging you to come pay your dues.

You sit in the comfort of Matt’s lap for a solid second, still reeling over the shock—and find yourself moving against your own accord. Matt's hand clenches along the surface of your body for as long as able moment is given, until you have made free work of his grasp.

And then you cross the table, making way to those eyes that hunger after you with thirst yet to be slaked.

“Hi, sweetheart,” Dex taunts, his legs schooling wide for you. “Been waitin’ for this.”

“Yeah?” You ask as you find yourself sitting down on the firm musculature of his thigh. God, there’s not an ounce of give or fat on him—he’s corded steel in every inch of his body. “How’s that work?”

His arm encourages its way around your back, slinking to get access around your waist, your thigh, sending scald wherever his fingers reach. “Well, I hear Murdock talk about you so long—”

His thumb darts over the full of your bottom lip. “I can’t help but want to see you for myself.”

“Taste me, you mean?” You ask, arching your brow. There’s that flicker of that snake in the grass again, in the span of his eyes.

“Yeah,” He chuckles, “Somethin’ like that.”

When he kisses you, it’s like making contact with marble that breathes flesh and blood. His mouth slots against yours with such intense hunger that you can’t help but try to rise to the challenge, your hands digging into his scalp as his own ruck around your hips.

When his tongue presses against the territory of your mouth, you can’t help but give it back, working to establish the hierarchy of your own against his, tasting blood. Something in your roars for more.

He groans at this, at the adversarial nature of the kiss, at the way that you fight back. His tongue licks slow and leisurely against the landscape of your teeth, leaving after-taste of that iron that loiters on your soft palate.

And when he finally pulls away, there’s something glassy-eyed in the arc of his gaze. Something still hungering, but still momentarily sated as he regards you.

“Just like I thought,” Dex says—and someone snickers from behind.

You’re fairly certain it’s Frank, for you can all but feel the burgeoning hatred that radiates from Matt’s corner, where you can’t bring yourself to look.

“How about we up the stakes, Murdock?” Dex asks, and you finally bring it in yourself to use reserves of courage to look back to Matt, where he sits at full attention.

Where his jaw is set, his brow is knit, his knuckles clenched over span of table as he bears murderous thought all-but-verbally-articulated as he looks at you both.

“Name it,” Matt says, and Dex navigates his hand down the slope of your thigh so that he can track the nuance of your skin with his fingers. You swallow down whatever shiver your body wishes to make on instinct, ignoring the heat that is growing to life in marked pulse at junction of your legs.

“Whoever wins the next one gets to leave a mark on them.” Dex says.

“You can’t hurt them.” Matt warns. Something akin to adrenaline begin to resurface through your body at the notion—but Dex makes quiet noise of amusement. This does little to reassure you, as his hands keep that slow specificity of motion on you.

“Didn't mean knives,” Dex gloats, “I was thinkin’ more of a love bite, if you catch my drift.”

His free hand ghosts over your pulse, the rough pad of his thumb scraping to mark territory yet-claimed. “Right here.”

Matt looks at Dex, at you—and then turns to Frank. “Deal me in.”

“Thought so,” Dex says in such audible fashion that only you at close proximity—and Matt—can hear. Frank’s eyebrows, which have made slow ascent up the real estate of his forehead, finally settle down as he deals out this round.

It’s done in silence that is only demarcated by the pounding of your heartbeat in your ears, and the subtle rasp of Dex’s fingers over your body. They both accept the cards without hesitation.

“Hit me,” Dex says, and Matt requests for similar. Again, you look away, finding something of comfort in the way that Frank levies arch of brow at you—but you shake your head in imperceptible fashion.

“Anyone else?” Frank asks. There’s no request given. “Alright, ladies—for all the money—”

Dex flips first. Ten, five, five. Twenty. Matt reveals his: ten and ten. Twenty.

“Fuckin’ tie,” Frank claps a hand to the table, “All my fuckin’ days—”

“I can share if you can, Murdock,” Dex says, but makes no indication to release you from his tenterhooks. If Matt wants to savor the delight of this draw—he must come to you. To him.

Matt draws up with such silent deliberation that you’ve never witnessed before: taking smart, deliberate strides over to the two of you. Looking down to you as you stare back up to him.

Dex tugs down the loose collar of your shirt with impatient insistence, his breath ghosting over your collarbone, hot and heavy.

“Hi, stranger,” You greet him weakly. Matt’s hand finds your chin as he gives you reconciliatory smile: no ill will borne this way. Only a need to make it right.

“Better dive in,” Dex warns, and then his mouth latches on the sensitive skin with such ferocity that you can’t help but whimper out a breathy moan at the drag of teeth, the lave of a needy tongue.

Matt is soon to follow, leaning down to the pulse that he exposes with the tilt of your head, drawing that vulnerable access of your body into his mouth with intensity that grows the longer he works against you.

And you, sandwiched in between the middle of them, as Dex marks claim on you he is happy to leave, the rugged scuff of his teeth; as Matt grates tongue against your neck to worship sanctity of the column of your throat—as you moan at the attention both of them are determined to win on the terrain of your body.

As you let yourself be lost to sensation, you know one thing: no matter who’s won, you’ve lost.

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The sparkling blue of the sea is almost the same colour of Dick’s eyes as he peers at you over the brim of his sunglasses. He’s grinning, head cocked slightly to the side, mess of dark waves falling into his face. Sunlight falls over his skin, catching on his freshly applied sunscreen and shimmering.

“Come on, sweetheart.” He pleads, “just for five minutes.”

Your answer comes in the form of you kicking yourself further back on your chair and spreading the pages of your book further.

“I mean,” he crouches to sit in the sand next to you, “what’s the point of coming to the beach if you’re just gonna read?”

Dick Grayson, as per usual, is absolutely relentless. He leans closer to you, sun-warmed skin tan and warm against yours. He squints to make out the words on the page you’re currently reading, eyebrows raising.

“I’m relaxing,” you say simply.

“You’ve got to be dying of heat. Come on,” he reaches for your free hand, “just take a dip with me.”

You dogear the page and set your book between your legs. “I know you, Grayson. It’s never ‘just a dip’ with you.”

His smile only spreads, a knowing look on his face. “What’s so wrong with that?” And as if knowing you’re halfway to caving, he rises to his feet, making a big show to stretch his arms over his head. His biceps curl, muscles reflecting the golden sunlight. You can’t help but look, can’t help but trace your eyes up from the tanned muscle of his thigh, to the defined look of his abs, to the shiny white of his teeth.

You sigh. It’s the greatest curse, and blessing, that you happen to have the hottest boyfriend on the planet.

“Okay.” You officially concede, ditching your stuff on the chair and rising to your feet. “Five minutes.”

Dick’s quick to run up to you and wrap his arms around you, squeezing you tight against his muscled chest. “You’re the best.”

“You’re relentless.”

“You love it.”

And unfortunately for you, you really really do.

Dick laces his fingers through yours and tugs you after him, the two of you making your way through the hot sand to where the shore meets the water. Gentle waves lap at the wet sand, your toes sinking into the soft ground. 

Dick wastes no time in running ahead and executing a perfect dive into the water, his body arcing and making a big splash as he hits it. You, not nearly as showboaty as Dick Grayson, slowly wade your way into the water until it’s up to your chest.

Dick surfaces, shaking his wet hair out like a dog. “The water is amazing.”

He leans in so close you can see the water droplets running down his face and purses his lips, pressing them against yours. The cold water on his skin rubs against you and soothes the heat that’s soaked into you throughout the day.

“You’re getting me wet,” you cringe.

“It wouldn't be the first time, right?” You smack his bicep. “Shut up.”

10k event | dc masterlist | navigation

CLARK KENT

Sunlight through glass - @cherryysunshine Mama, a bald man behind you - @stcrgazerlily Title of your sex tape - @annaevermore superman day - @kryptidfiles have you raised a ticket? - @devisedplan

JASON TODD

lipstick and a split lip - @batwngs like father, like trouble - @arfemiz Coffee Shop Revelations - @fanfictionwarrior-chills Just us and your friend roy - @fleurmarjorieargent Baby - @brucewayneisavirgin knight in shining armor - @vianawaits you melt up my body and all my heart - @flimsily-flimsy arkham knight - @torupng

DICK GRAYSON

you wake him when the baby is being fussy - @sakunai between the lines - @oncasette Background arobatics - @fancy-possum House tour - @ghxstrobins the proposal - @gglouise23

ROY HARPER

nothing seems to walk the same - @waltzingphantoms Iris - @amoebadue fratboy! Roy Harper - @moviecritc

CASSANDRA CAIN

first kiss - @kooriandr

TALIA AL GHUL

morning lights - @cherryvvave

STEPHANIE BROWN

girl, so confusing - @froggibus

KARA ZOR-EL

Rockstar! Kara - @pixelbfs

SUPERBOY PRIME

for research purposes - @athenxt

MULTI

pillow talk - @brinawing A little favour - @gothamorphosis Who is this ? - @dontyouworrydaddy

MISCELLANEOUS

Pretty isin't pretty - @crookshanks-07 thinking about teen!nanami meeting gojo's childhood best friend for the first time.- @irisgrrl

KYLE RAYNER

Sunsets and honest opinions - @iridescentlightshow (platonic)

DIANA PRINCE

bicep shots - @sozzoe

The woman at the front desk smiled down at her computer. “Welcome. We’re so happy to have you with us for the wedding weekend. I see we have you and Mr. Whitaker in an ocean-view king.”

There it was, not a knife exactly, but the universe tapping one perfectly manicured nail against a bruise.

“Just me,” you said.

The receptionist looked up. She was good at her job, which meant she did not wince or ask questions. Her smile only softened by half a degree, which was somehow worse because it was tasteful.

“Of course,” she said. “I’ll update that for you.”

“Great. Thank you.”

You were being very mature. You were being elegant. You were not going to cry in a lobby that had a signature scent.

The receptionist glanced back at her screen. “There’s also a couples’ welcome package attached to your reservation. I can have that removed.”

A couples’ welcome package. Of course.

Champagne, probably. Strawberries. Maybe something involving rose petals. Maybe a massage voucher with both your names printed in resort calligraphy, because apparently heartbreak needed stationery.

You opened your mouth, though you had no idea what was going to come out.

“Keep the champagne,” someone said behind you. “Lose the man.”

You turned.

Clark Kent stood a few feet away, holding an iced coffee and looking unfairly comfortable in a pale blue linen shirt with the sleeves rolled to his forearms. His hair was a little wind-tossed. His smile was warm enough to make your carefully assembled composure wobble.

Beside him, Bruce Wayne lowered his sunglasses just enough to look at you over the frames.

Bruce Wayne, because apparently the resort had decided to start throwing hazards at you in pairs.

He was dressed in white linen and dark trousers, because of course he was. Billionaires did not simply attend destination weddings. They appeared in them, already lit correctly, as if the sun had been briefed on their angles beforehand.

Clark smiled. “You made it.”

You stared at him for half a second too long, then remembered you were supposed to be a person. “That depends. Is there still time to flee?”

“Technically, yes,” Bruce said. “But Maya would hunt you down in bridal shapewear, and nobody wants to see that.”

The laugh came out before you could stop it. It was real, and Clark’s face did something soft and pleased that made you immediately regret giving him anything so vulnerable.

The receptionist looked between the three of you with professional discretion and the unmistakable glimmer of someone who had just been handed better gossip than the room upgrade situation.

“Would you like the package adjusted?” she asked.

“Yes,” you said.

“No,” Bruce said.

You turned to him.

He slid his sunglasses into his shirt pocket. “The champagne can stay. The strawberries can stay. Anything monogrammed can be burned.”

“That seems dramatic.”

“It’s a destination wedding. Drama is included in the resort fee.”

Clark stepped closer and reached for one of your suitcases. “We’ll walk you up.”

“I can carry my own bags.”

“I know.”

“That usually means you let me.”

“Not today.”

The way he said it was gentle, but there was something underneath it that was not pity. It was interest. Attention. The kind of attention that made your stomach flip before your brain had time to file a complaint.

Bruce took the garment bag from your arm as if you had handed it to him.

“I didn’t agree to this,” you said.

“No,” Bruce said. “But you were about to, and I’m saving us all time.”

Clark gave him a look. “That sounds less charming out loud.”

“It sounded charming enough.”

“To you.”

“To several people.”

“You cannot count people who are paid to agree with you.”

Bruce glanced at you. “Would you like to be the deciding vote?”

Instead, you said, “I think I need the champagne.”

Clark’s smile deepened.

Bruce looked satisfied. “Good answer.”

The elevator was mirrored on three sides, which felt aggressive. You stood between them with your arms empty for the first time since leaving the airport and tried not to look too closely at the reflections: Clark’s shoulders, Bruce’s profile, your own oversized T-shirt hanging halfway to your thighs, loose pants wrinkled from the flight, and the obvious fact that both men had arranged themselves around you like this was normal.

“You know this is going to start rumors,” you said.

Bruce pressed the button for your floor. “Good.”

Your head turned. “Good?”

“People ask fewer sad questions when they have interesting answers to invent.”

Clark sighed. “What Bruce means is that if anyone sees you arriving with us, they may be less likely to corner you about your ex.”

“That is what I said.”

“That is absolutely not what you said.”

“It was the streamlined version.”

“It was the scandal version.”

Bruce’s gaze met yours in the mirrored wall. “Do you object to scandal?”

You felt heat climb your neck. “I object to becoming wedding gossip before I’ve unpacked.”

“Reasonable,” Clark said.

Bruce did not look convinced. “Ambitious.”

Your room was beautiful because, apparently, the resort had committed to being emotionally inappropriate in every possible way. The balcony opened onto a sweep of blue water and white sand; the bed was enormous, and directly in the center of everything sat a tray of chocolate-covered strawberries beside a card that said, “Welcome, lovebirds.”

“Oh, go to hell,” you said.

Clark made a small, startled sound that was almost a laugh.

Bruce crossed the room, picked up the card, and turned it face down. “I’ll have that removed.”

“It’s paper. I can survive paper.”

“I have no doubt.”

“You’re still glaring at it.”

“It knows what it did.”

This time, you did laugh. It made the room less awful. The champagne remained. The strawberries remained. Your ex’s absence remained too, sitting invisibly on the other side of the bed like a suitcase nobody wanted to unpack, but Clark was placing your luggage by the closet with careful hands, and Bruce was inspecting the welcome tray as if it had personally offended him.

Clark turned back to you. “The welcome lunch is in an hour.”

“Wonderful.”

“That sounded like you’d rather walk into the ocean.”

“I packed a swimsuit. I like to keep my options open.”

Bruce glanced down at his phone. “Maya is currently interrogating the wedding planner about the florist, so you have at least forty minutes before anyone notices you’re not downstairs.”

“Why do you know that?”

“Daniel texted for help.”

“And you came here?”

“Exactly.”

Clark coughed. “In fairness, Daniel’s exact text was ‘Please distract Maya’s bridesmaids so nobody else asks about the ceremony fans.’”

“That makes no sense.”

“He’s under a lot of stress,” Clark said.

“He’s marrying Maya. Of course he is.”

Bruce looked up. “You helped make the seating chart, didn’t you?”

“I helped color-code the emotional risk levels.”

For the first time since you entered the room, Bruce looked genuinely delighted.

“Did you,” he said.

You narrowed your eyes. “Do not make that voice.”

“What voice?”

“The voice of a man who has discovered a new way to be insufferable.”

Clark looked between you, smiling into his coffee. “This is nice.”

For a moment, nobody said anything. The room felt warmer than it had a second ago.

Bruce broke it first. “We’ll let you change.”

“That is the first reasonable thing you’ve said.”

“Don’t get used to it.”

Clark lingered at the door after Bruce stepped into the hall. “We’ll see you downstairs?”

You glanced at the bed, the champagne, the facedown card. The weekend waiting for you downstairs felt large and loud and packed with people who would be kind in ways you might not survive. Then you looked at Clark, who seemed genuinely hopeful that you would let him sit beside you.

“Yeah,” you said. “You’ll see me downstairs.”

He looked pleased enough that your stomach performed a small, embarrassing acrobatic maneuver.

🦇 🥂 ☀️

By the time you arrived at the welcome lunch, you had changed into a sundress, repaired your makeup, and decided that spite was a perfectly respectable form of self-care. If you were going to be newly single at a destination wedding, then you were going to be newly single with lip gloss, earrings, and a dress that made you look like you had not cried once in the past seventy-two hours.

This was, technically, false advertising. You supported it anyway.

The lunch was held on an open terrace shaded by white umbrellas, with the ocean glittering beyond the railings and Maya glowing near the head table like a woman who had spent eighteen months planning a wedding and was now vibrating at a frequency only brides and small dogs could hear.

“You’re here,” she said, rushing toward you.

“I’m here.”

She hugged you carefully and tightly at the same time. “I’m so glad.”

“I would have come even if I had to crawl through customs.”

“You looked like you did.”

“Thank you. I suffered for your love story.”

She laughed, then pulled back and did the thing with her face. The soft thing. The “oh, honey” thing.

You pointed at her. “Do not.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You were about to.”

“I am allowed to care about you.”

“Not in public. You’ll ruin my mascara and your own wedding timeline.”

Maya pressed her lips together, trying to behave. “Fine. I will care about you later in a controlled environment.”

“Thank you.”

Her eyes slid over your shoulder. You did not have to turn around to know who had arrived behind you. You could tell by the way Maya’s face changed. She looked like a woman who had just remembered she loved romance, chaos, and being right.

“Interesting,” she said.

“Maya.”

“What?”

“Do not say “interesting” like you’re about to make it everyone’s problem.”

She smiled sweetly. “I would never.”

Clark appeared at your side with a glass of something cold and citrusy. “Peace offering.”

You accepted it. “For what?”

“Whatever Maya just said.”

“I said nothing,” Maya said.

Bruce joined you, sliding his sunglasses into his pocket. “A rare and commendable choice.”

Maya pointed at him. “You. Be nice.”

“I’m always nice.”

Everyone looked at him.

Bruce sighed. “I am frequently useful.”

“That is more accurate,” Clark said.

Maya’s gaze moved among the three of you, delighted in a way that made you nervous. Then Daniel called her name from across the terrace, and she turned instantly from meddling friend into bride with a mission.

“I’ll be back,” she said.

“That sounded like a threat,” you said.

“It was.”

Lunch should have been awkward. Wedding people loved questions. They loved “how did you get in,” “where are you staying,” “are you excited,” “who did you come with,” “how do you know the couple,” “isn’t this place romantic?” It was like being pecked to death by well-meaning birds in cocktail attire.

But Clark sat on one side of you and Bruce on the other, and the awkwardness kept turning into something else.

Clark leaned in when you spoke. He laughed at your jokes. He reached past you for bread and let his arm brush yours, then looked not remotely sorry when you glanced at him. Bruce was worse, because he acted like he was above flirting, which meant every time he did it, he made it sound like a legal ruling.

When Maya’s aunt leaned across the table and asked, “And where is your young man, honey?” Bruce picked up his wine glass and said, “Regretting his choices, presumably.”

Clark nearly inhaled his water.

You stared at Bruce. “That is not an answer.”

“It is the most generous one available.”

Maya’s aunt blinked, then looked at you, then at Clark, then at Bruce. Her expression changed so quickly that you could almost hear the social math happening.

“Well,” she said, lifting her glass with a tiny smile. “His loss, then.”

You should have wanted to sink under the table. Instead, you took a sip of your drink and said, “I’m becoming more comfortable with that interpretation.”

Clark looked at you like he was trying not to grin. Bruce looked proud.

By dessert, you were almost having fun. Actual fun. Maya was glowing. Daniel was emotional and pretending not to be. Clark was telling a story about Daniel in college that involved a laundry room, a missing shoe, and a campus security officer named Brenda who apparently held grudges, while Bruce added occasional details with the air of a man fact-checking a congressional hearing.

When lunch ended, people scattered toward the beach, the bar, and the pool. Clark came to stand beside you near the terrace railing.

“Do you swim?” he asked.

You looked at him. “Is this a pickup line?”

His ears went faintly pink. “Maybe.”

You felt your smile happen before you could stop it. “That was honest.”

“I panicked.”

“Adorable.”

Bruce appeared on your other side. “It was not.”

Clark gave him a look. “You weren’t invited into this conversation.”

“I was standing eight feet away.”

“That doesn’t make you invited.”

“It often does.”

You looked between them. “Do you two always bicker like this?”

“Yes,” Clark said.

“No,” Bruce said at the same time.

Bruce adjusted one cuff. “Only when he is wrong.”

Clark smiled at you. “So yes.”

The thing you had noticed before but never allowed yourself to examine sat down between the three of you and made itself comfortable. There was something between Clark and Bruce. History in the way they irritated each other, affection in the way they pretended not to soften, and a charged familiarity that made every argument feel like it had another conversation tucked beneath it.

You had wondered. Of course you had wondered. Anyone with eyes would have wondered. You just had not expected to be standing between them while they wondered back.

Bruce nodded toward the pool. “I reserved a cabana.”

“Of course you did.”

“It has shade.”

“I gathered.”

“And champagne.”

“You are making a strong argument.”

Clark smiled. “You don’t have to come.”

Bruce looked at him. “Don’t undermine the champagne.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

You finished your drink. “I’ll come for the shade, the champagne, and the opportunity to watch you two argue in swimwear.”

Clark’s mouth opened, then closed.

Bruce looked delighted. “Excellent.”

🦇 🥂 ☀️

The poolside cabana was absurd. It had gauzy white curtains, thick cushions, a low table covered in fruit, chilled towels, bottled water, champagne, and a small vase of flowers that seemed wildly unnecessary unless the cabana was planning to propose. It sat at the far end of the pool, private enough to feel exclusive and public enough that everyone could absolutely see who had been invited into it.

You stopped just inside the shade. “Did you buy the pool?”

Bruce took off his sunglasses. “Only temporarily.”

Clark set his bag down with the air of someone who had given up apologizing for Bruce Wayne in public. “He’s joking.”

“Is he?”

Clark paused. “Probably.”

Bruce smiled.

You changed in the pool house, which was tiled in white and blue and smelled faintly of coconut sunscreen. For a moment, you stood in front of the mirror with your bikini in your hands and stared at yourself.

It had been a long time since you had dressed for the possibility of being wanted. That thought was so sad and so irritating that you almost laughed. You had dressed up plenty in the last four years, but somewhere along the way, being seen had become something you did for photographs rather than pleasure.

Outside, Clark Kent and Bruce Wayne were waiting in a cabana Bruce had probably acquired with one phone call and zero shame.

If they were going to look, you decided, they could look.

When you came back, Clark was pretending to listen to Daniel.

That was flattering.

Bruce noticed you first. He was stretched out in the shaded cabana with a drink in one hand, sunglasses on, looking like the sort of man who had never once had to fight for a pool chair in his life. When he saw you, his conversation with Maya’s cousin died so abruptly that Maya’s cousin turned to see what had happened.

Then Clark turned too. His eyes moved over you once, quickly enough to be polite and slowly enough to be honest. Then he looked back at your face with the expression of a man who had just remembered he was standing in broad daylight at someone else’s wedding.

You hooked a finger under the strap of your bikini, adjusting it mostly because your hands needed something to do. “Subtle.”

Clark blinked. “I didn’t say anything.”

“You didn’t have to.”

Bruce lifted his glass. “In Kent’s defense, he forgot how to speak.”

Clark glanced at him. “You stopped mid-sentence.”

“Yes, but I did it with dignity.”

“You absolutely did not.”

You stepped into the cabana, trying not to smile and failing badly. “Is this where I’m supposed to thank you for the shade?”

Bruce’s gaze dropped briefly to your mouth. “Eventually.”

Clark made a sound that might have been a cough if either of you felt like being charitable.

You took the lounger across from Bruce and pretended your skin was not warm from anything except the sun. Clark sat beside you, leaving a polite amount of space that somehow made the space feel less polite.

Bruce reached for a bottle of sunscreen from the table and held it out to Clark. “Before you start twitching.”

Clark looked offended. “I was not twitching.”

“You were spiritually twitching.”

“I’m from Kansas, not a public health campaign.”

“You once lectured Daniel for fifteen minutes about UV index.”

“He was turning red.”

“He was bored before he was burned.”

You accepted the sunscreen from Bruce, laughing. “Thank you. I think.”

You started with your arms, then your shoulders. The angle at your back was awkward, and you felt Clark’s attention land there so quickly it was almost funny.

“Do you want help?” he asked.

Bruce leaned back, one arm stretched along the back of the lounger. “There it is.”

Clark ignored him.

You held the bottle out. “Sure.”

Clark’s expression changed. It was such a small thing, just a slight pause before he took the sunscreen, but it sent a ridiculous flutter through your stomach. You turned and gathered your hair out of the way, grateful for the chance to look somewhere other than his face.

His fingers touched your shoulder.

Warm. Careful. Larger than they had any right to be.

He spread sunscreen over your upper back in slow, even strokes. It should have been ordinary. It was sunscreen. It was daylight. It was a pool full of wedding guests and Maya’s second cousin yelling about margaritas somewhere near the bar.

It did not feel ordinary.

Clark’s hands moved over your skin with concentration that made your toes curl against the stone. His thumbs swept along the base of your neck, then down your spine, stopping at the line of your swimsuit. He was being respectful. Maddeningly respectful. You were beginning to resent him for it.

Bruce watched from across the cabana. He had taken off his sunglasses, which seemed important.

You looked at him while Clark’s hands moved over your back, and Bruce’s mouth curved as if he knew exactly what he was doing by letting you see him watch.

“You’re enjoying this,” you said.

Clark’s hands paused. “Me?”

“Both of you.”

Bruce lowered his glass. “Yes.”

Clark laughed, soft and slightly embarrassed. “Bruce.”

“What? She asked.”

“You could pretend to be normal.”

“I could also buy a vineyard. Neither seems relevant.”

You turned back around when Clark finished and took the sunscreen from him. “Thank you.”

His eyes flicked once to your mouth. “Anytime.”

Bruce stood. “Pool.”

You looked at his offered hand. “That was not a request.”

“It can be.”

“Can it?”

His smile widened slightly. “Would you like me to ask?”

You put your hand in Bruce’s. “I’m curious now.”

Bruce’s fingers closed around yours. “Dangerous.”

The water was cool enough to make you gasp when you stepped in. Bruce kept hold of your hand until you were steady. Clark followed a moment later, and if you had thought Clark in linen was a problem, Clark wet was an emergency requiring federal coordination.

You leaned back against the pool wall. “This wedding is becoming hazardous.”

Clark pushed water out of his hair. “Because of the sun?”

“No.”

Bruce settled on your other side, close enough that the water shifted warm between you. “Because of the champagne?”

“Also no.”

Clark’s smile went slow. “Because of us?”

You looked from him to Bruce. Both of them were watching you now. Openly. In broad daylight. While wedding guests played drinking games twenty feet away and Maya’s aunt pretended to read a magazine from behind sunglasses.

You should have felt cornered. You felt adored.

“That is a leading question,” you said.

Bruce’s knee brushed yours beneath the water. “Answer it anyway.”

Before you could, Maya appeared at the edge of the pool wearing a sunhat, a linen wrap, and the expression of a woman who had decided bridal power could and should be used for evil.

“There you are,” she said.

You blinked up at her. “I’m literally in the pool.”

“Yes, and I have been extremely generous in allowing whatever this is to continue uninterrupted for twenty-seven minutes.”

Clark coughed.

Bruce looked at her over the top of his sunglasses. “Whatever this is?”

Maya pointed at him. “Do not billionaire your way around me. I have a rehearsal schedule.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.”

“You absolutely would.” She turned to you, and her smile became terrible. “You look relaxed.”

“I was.”

“Good. Stay that way for another hour, then come to the ballroom so we can practice walking in a straight line.”

“I have many skills, Maya.”

“Yes, and based on what I’m seeing, standing between groomsmen is apparently one of them.”

“Maya.”

“One hour,” she sang, and left before you could splash her.

Clark laughed first. Then you did. Even Bruce smiled, small and private and pleased in a way that made your heart do something deeply inconvenient.

🦇 🥂 ☀️

The rehearsal itself was supposed to be simple. It was not.

You were paired with Clark for the processional, and Maya had not apologized for that either. Bruce, who had been paired with another bridesmaid, looked at the wedding planner’s clipboard as if it had betrayed him.

By the third rehearsal walk, Daniel looked ready to elope retroactively, Maya was whispering threats at a bouquet made of ribbons, and Bruce had apparently decided that being separated from you by eight feet and one bridesmaid was a personal insult.

When the wedding planner called for another reset, he stepped into your path before Clark could offer his arm.

“Balance,” Bruce said.

The planner looked up from her clipboard. “Excuse me?”

“The aisle may photograph better if the groomsmen are rearranged by visual weight.”

Clark’s mouth twitched. “That is not how photography works.”

“It might.”

“It does not.”

The wedding planner stared at Bruce. “Mr. Wayne, unless you are the bride, the groom, or the person signing my invoice, you are with bridesmaid four.”

Daniel lifted a hand. “Technically, he may be signing—”

Maya turned on him. “Daniel.”

Daniel lowered his hand. “I support the clipboard.”

You looked at Bruce. “Rejected by democracy.”

Bruce returned to his place with great dignity and absolutely no grace.

Clark leaned closer as you took his arm. “You’re enjoying his suffering.”

“I am.”

“Good.”

🦇 🥂 ☀️

That night, the rehearsal dinner glowed.

There was no other word for it. The courtyard had been strung with lights, candles flickering on every table, flowers spilling out of low glass vases like the resort had decided subtlety was for city halls. Everyone looked prettier than they had at lunch because sunset was generous and champagne made people forgive each other for travel delays.

You wore a slip dress the color of late summer and told yourself it was for you.

That was mostly true.

Then you walked into the courtyard and saw Clark lose the thread of whatever Daniel was saying.

He stood near the bar with Daniel and two other groomsmen, laughing at something until he saw you. The laughter fell away, his face softening into naked appreciation before he caught himself. Bruce noticed Clark first, then followed his gaze to you.

Bruce did not forget how to speak. Bruce became quiet, which was worse.

You crossed the courtyard toward them with your pulse too high and your dignity operating on emergency power.

Daniel grinned. “You look amazing.”

“Thank you.”

Clark opened his mouth.

Bruce said, “Careful. Full sentences are difficult for him right now.”

Clark shot him a look. “I was going to say she looks beautiful.”

“Eventually.”

You looked at Clark. “Were you?”

His gaze warmed. “Yes.”

That should not have affected you as much as it did, but Clark had a gift for making sincerity feel like a hand at the small of your back.

Bruce leaned closer, his voice dropping. “And if I said it?”

“I’d assume you had an ulterior motive.”

“I usually do.”

Dinner passed in candlelight, champagne, and the kind of speeches that made half the table cry before dessert. Maya cried into a napkin before the salads were cleared. Daniel cried during his own toast, which made Bruce look briefly panicked, as if public joy were a natural disaster he had not been warned about. Clark passed him a napkin without looking.

Your place card was between theirs again.

You did not ask who had done it.

By dessert, you had accepted that the rumors were no longer a side effect. They were part of the entertainment. People kept glancing over. Maya’s aunt watched like she had subscribed to a premium channel. It should have been mortifying. Instead, it felt like sunlight after being cold too long.

After dinner, people drifted toward the beach for the bonfire. You meant to go with them. Truly, you did. Then Bruce stopped near the passage that led to a side terrace and said, “Come here.”

You looked toward the beach. “The bonfire is that way.”

“Yes.”

You looked at Clark. “Do you have anything more helpful to add?”

Clark’s smile was gentle and entirely unhelpful. “The terrace has a better view.”

“Of the ocean?”

“Among other things.”

The terrace was tucked along the side of the courtyard, shielded by vines and open to the water below. The bonfire glowed down on the beach, laughter lifting into the night in soft bursts. From here, the wedding felt close enough to return to and far enough away to become someone else’s problem.

You leaned against the railing. “Is this the part where one of you explains what this is?”

Clark joined you on one side. Bruce on the other. There it was again, that warm impossible sense of being placed exactly where they wanted you.

Bruce rested one hand on the railing near yours. “That depends.”

“On?”

“Whether you want us to explain or keep flirting enough that everyone else figures it out first.”

You laughed. “At least you know you’re flirting.”

Clark glanced at him. “He knows everything he’s doing.”

“Not everything,” Bruce said.

It was meant lightly, maybe, but the air changed.

You looked between them, at Clark’s careful smile and the sudden stillness in Bruce’s hand. That history between them, the one you had felt all day, seemed to pull itself closer.

“You two,” you said.

Clark looked at Bruce before he looked at you. “Yeah.”

It was such a simple answer for something that clearly was not simple at all.

“Yeah?” you repeated.

Bruce’s mouth curved, but his eyes stayed serious. “We’ve known each other a long time.”

“That is the kind of answer people give when they want to avoid a better one.”

Clark laughed softly. “It is.”

Bruce tilted his head. “We’re private.”

“You’re complicated,” Clark said.

“We’re private and complicated.”

“That,” you said, “I believe.”

Clark’s shoulder brushed yours. “We weren’t planning this.”

“Were you not?”

Bruce did not even pretend. “Not in detail.”

Clark gave him a look.

Bruce’s expression remained shameless. “What? You asked Daniel twice whether she was still coming.”

“You asked Maya.”

“You were too slow.”

Your stomach flipped. “You asked about me?”

Clark’s ears went pink, but he did not look away. “Yes.”

“And you?” you asked Bruce.

Bruce’s gaze dropped to your mouth, then returned to your eyes. “Yes.”

It would have been easier if this had started as pity. You knew what to do with pity. Want was more dangerous. Want asked you to admit you had wanted back.

“I was with someone,” you said.

“We know,” Clark said softly.

“We also knew he wasn’t making you happy,” Bruce added.

You stared at him.

Clark sighed. “Bruce.”

“What? It was a relevant observation.”

“It was also an intrusive one.”

“He didn’t notice when she left rooms,” Bruce said, looking at Clark now, and the sharpness in his voice made your breath catch. “He noticed when he needed her beside him in them.”

For a moment, the terrace was quiet except for the ocean below.

Then you said, “That is…uncomfortably accurate.”

Bruce looked back at you, and something in his expression gentled.

Clark touched your hand, careful and warm. “We didn’t do anything because you were with him.”

“But now I’m not.”

“No,” Bruce said. “Now you’re not.”

You looked down at Clark’s fingers near yours. “And now?”

Clark’s thumb brushed your knuckle. “Now we’re asking.”

Your breath caught.

Bruce stepped closer. “If it’s unwelcome, say so.”

“It isn’t.”

Clark went still.

The admission should have terrified you more. Instead, it felt like setting down a heavy bag you had been carrying through three airports.

“It probably should be,” you said, looking at them both. “I got here today. I am technically emotionally unstable. I am wearing waterproof mascara as a precaution.”

Clark smiled, soft and bright. “Very practical.”

“But I noticed you before this weekend,” you continued. “Both of you. I just wasn’t allowed to do anything with that noticing.”

Bruce’s eyes darkened. “And now?”

“Now I’m noticing very loudly.”

Clark laughed under his breath, delighted and a little wrecked.

Then he touched your cheek.

He moved slowly enough that you could turn away if you wanted. You did not. His fingers rested warm against your skin, and when he leaned in, your eyes closed before his mouth touched yours.

Clark kissed like sunlight through curtains. He was warm, gentle at first, his thumb brushing your cheek as if he were trying not to startle you. Then you leaned closer, and something changed in him. His hand slid to your waist. His mouth opened against yours, soft and hungry, and the sound he made when you touched his chest went straight through you.

When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours. “Okay?”

“Yes.”

Bruce’s fingers curled around yours.

You turned to him.

Bruce looked composed right up until he touched you. Then the composure became something else entirely, a thin silk wrap over heat. He cupped your jaw and kissed you like he had waited all day and disliked waiting on principle.

His mouth was firm, controlled, devastating. The kiss was not rough, but it had certainty in it. You made a small sound before you could stop yourself, and Bruce’s hand tightened at your waist.

Clark’s breath caught behind you.

Bruce broke the kiss and looked past your shoulder. “Kent.”

Clark moved closer.

You watched Bruce reach for him, watched Clark go willingly, watched their mouths meet with the kind of familiarity that made your knees feel decorative. It was not a performance. That made it hotter. Bruce kissed Clark like he knew exactly how Clark would open for him. Clark’s hand closed at Bruce’s waist like he had been wanting to touch him all day too.

When they separated, Clark looked at you. “Too much?”

Your voice came out softer than you intended. “No.”

Bruce’s thumb stroked once along your jaw. “Use your words.”

Your pulse jumped. You were beginning to understand that Bruce liked certainty spoken aloud. Not because he doubted what he saw, but because he wanted consent with edges, clean and unmistakable.

“It’s not too much,” you said. “I want this.”

Clark’s eyes darkened.

A burst of laughter rose from the beach below, followed by someone calling Daniel’s name, and the world returned with horrible timing.

Clark stepped back first, though he looked deeply unhappy about being reasonable. “We should go back.”

You stared at him. “Should we?”

Bruce’s mouth curved. “She has a point.”

Clark looked between you with visible effort. “Tomorrow is the wedding.”

“I’m aware.”

“You’re a bridesmaid.”

“I’m also aware.”

Bruce leaned closer, his mouth near your ear. “He’s right. Unfortunately.”

A shiver moved through you.

Both of them noticed.

Clark looked like he was reconsidering every responsible decision he had ever made.

Then he kissed your hand, lingering just long enough to make it worse. “Tomorrow night?”

Your throat went dry. “Is that a promise?”

His smile turned slow. “If you want it to be.”

Bruce’s hand settled at the small of your back as he guided you toward the courtyard. “She does.”

You did not argue.

🦇 🥂 ☀️

The wedding day began with hairspray, steam, and the specific collective panic of women trying to make a schedule happen around one bride, six bridesmaids, two mothers, three opinions about lipstick, and a photographer who spoke in gentle tones but had the soul of a general.

Maya’s suite had become a bridal war room by nine in the morning. Dresses hung from every available surface, makeup bags covered the vanity, and someone was crying because the vows were beautiful even though Maya had not read them out loud yet.

You sat near the balcony doors in a robe, holding Maya’s bouquet while she had her lipstick touched up.

“You look different,” Maya said.

“It’s the lashes.”

“It is not the lashes.”

“Then it’s the emotional devastation. Very slimming.”

Maya’s eyes softened. “Are you okay?”

The answer was complicated. You were not over the breakup. Four years did not evaporate because two beautiful men kissed you on a terrace and made the world feel less humiliating. You were still hurt, still angry, still dreading the apartment you had to go back to and the conversations waiting beyond the resort.

But you were better than you had expected. You were wanted. That did not fix everything. It did, however, look very good in the mirror.

“I am,” you said. “Somehow.”

Maya squeezed your hand. “Good. Also, Bruce and Clark are orbiting you like very polite sharks.”

“They are not orbiting.”

Maya gave you a look.

You looked away first.

She smiled. “Oh, that’s interesting.”

“I hate you.”

“You love me.”

The ceremony was beautiful. Maya had planned every detail with devotion and just enough terror to keep the vendors honest. The aisle was lined with flowers, the ocean moved behind the arch in great blue folds, and the sun had softened into late afternoon gold by the time the music began.

You walked down the aisle with Clark. Maya had not apologized for that either.

His arm was warm beneath your hand. He wore a gray suit that fit him perfectly, and when you reached the front, he gave you a small smile before taking his place with the groomsmen. Bruce stood one person beyond him, also in gray, also watching you with an expression that made the vows feel less like the only significant thing happening under the arch.

Maya cried. Daniel cried. Clark’s eyes looked suspiciously bright, which Bruce noticed and pretended not to.

Then came photographs. So many photographs. Eventually, the photographer pointed at you, Clark, and Bruce.

“You three,” she said. “Together.”

You almost laughed.

Clark moved to one side of you. Bruce took the other. Their hands found you with the ease of men who had decided pretending was no longer interesting. Clark’s palm rested at your waist. Bruce’s fingers brushed the bare skin of your arm.

The photographer lifted her camera, then paused. “A little closer.”

“Of course,” Bruce said.

Clark’s hand tightened as you moved in.

You kept your smile fixed. “This is subtle.”

Bruce leaned closer. “Subtlety was abandoned by the pool.”

Clark’s breath warmed your temple as he laughed. “He’s not wrong.”

The camera clicked.

🦇 🥂 ☀️

The reception took place on a terrace overlooking the water, beneath strings of lights and a sky slowly deepening into violet. Dinner was candlelit and loud. Speeches were given. Champagne was poured. Maya laughed with her whole body, bright and happy and so loved that for a little while, everything else became secondary to the joy of witnessing it.

Then the dancing began.

Clark asked first.

He held out his hand as the band shifted into something slow enough to be dangerous but not so slow that anyone could accuse him of intent. His tie was gone, his collar open, and there was a warmth in his expression that made your answer obvious before you gave it.

You took his hand. “You planned this.”

“I waited for a good song.”

“That is not a denial.”

“No,” he said, leading you onto the dance floor. “It isn’t.”

Dancing with Clark felt like stepping into a steadier rhythm than your own. His hand rested on your back, warm through the thin fabric of your dress, his other hand holding yours with easy care. He simply kept you close enough that conversation became private.

“You look happy,” he said.

“I am happy.”

His smile softened. “Good.”

“You sound surprised.”

“I know you had reasons not to be.”

The sweetness of that nearly hurt. You looked over his shoulder toward Maya and Daniel dancing at the center of the terrace, wrapped around each other like they had forgotten everyone else was there.

“I thought it would be worse,” you admitted.

“The weekend?”

“Being here. Being alone.” You looked back at him. “Then I wasn’t.”

Clark’s thumb moved once against your hand. “I’m glad.”

“You’re also responsible.”

“Partly.”

“Very modest.”

“I’m trying.”

You smiled. “Bruce would never.”

“No. Bruce would accept full credit and then pretend he didn’t care about it.”

Your laugh came easily. Clark looked at you as if he had earned something.

The song ended too soon. You expected him to let you go, but he held your hand for a moment longer, his gaze dropping briefly to your mouth. Then Bruce appeared at your side.

“My turn,” he said.

Clark looked at him. “You could ask.”

Bruce turned to you. “May I?”

You should not have found that as attractive as you did.

“Yes.”

Clark released you with a small smile, his thumb tracing once over your knuckles before he stepped away. Bruce took his place as the music shifted into another slow song, this one darker, smoother, with a rhythm that seemed to enter your body through the floor.

Bruce was a good dancer. Of course he was. Bruce Wayne probably had lessons in everything, including how to hold a woman in public while making it feel like a private act.

“You’re quiet,” he said.

“I’m concentrating.”

“On dancing?”

“On not letting you know how good you are at this.”

His mouth curved. “Too late.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“You keep saying that.”

“You keep being insufferable.”

His hand shifted slightly at your waist, and the small pressure sent a spark through you. “And yet.”

You looked up at him. “How long?”

His gaze did not waver. “Longer than we should have.”

“You knew I was with someone.”

“Yes.”

“So you asked anyway?”

“We asked Maya if you were happy.”

Your breath caught.

The dance carried you through another turn before you answered. “What did she say?”

“That it wasn’t her place to tell us. She also said that if either of us interfered with your relationship, she would make our lives unpleasant in ways money couldn’t fix.”

You laughed softly, but your chest felt tight. “That sounds like Maya.”

“So we didn’t interfere.”

“Until now.”

His eyes darkened. “Now there is no relationship to interfere with.”

The bluntness should have hurt. Instead, it steadied you. “No,” you said. “There isn’t.”

Across the dance floor, Clark watched the two of you with a glass in his hand and something unmistakable in his face.

Bruce followed your gaze. “He worries.”

“About me?”

“About everyone.” A pause. “But yes. About you.”

“And you?”

“I plan.”

“That isn’t an answer.”

“It is my answer.”

You smiled. “Terrible.”

Bruce’s expression softened by a fraction. “I want you. I want him. I want to find out whether the three of us can exist somewhere that isn’t a resort full of champagne and poor judgment.”

Your breath caught.

“There,” he said. “Better answer.”

“Much.”

Near midnight, after cake and toasts and enough dancing to leave your feet aching, you stepped out onto a side balcony for air. The music softened behind the closed doors. The ocean moved below in silver-black lines.

Clark found you first.

He came through the balcony doors carrying two glasses of water. His tie was gone, his sleeves rolled, and his hair had fallen slightly out of place.

“You keep rescuing me with water,” you said.

“It’s important.”

“It’s very sexy.”

He laughed, ducking his head. “I’ll take it.”

You accepted the glass and drank because he was right, unfortunately. “Where’s Bruce?”

“Giving Daniel a final warning about not losing Maya’s passport before the honeymoon.”

“That sounds romantic.”

“Bruce expresses affection through logistics and threats.”

“I’m starting to notice.”

Clark leaned beside you on the railing. For a moment, you stood together in quiet, watching moonlight break over the water.

Then he said, “I meant what I said yesterday. By the pool. On the terrace. All of it.”

You looked at him.

“I don’t want you to think this is only because of what happened with your ex,” he said. “You don’t owe either of us anything because we showed up at a convenient time.”

“I know.”

“I need you to really know that.”

The care in his voice moved through you more deeply than seduction could have. You set your water on the railing and turned to face him.

“I spent four years being faithful to someone who made me feel lonely while I was standing next to him,” you said. “I noticed you before I knew what to do with that noticing. I noticed Bruce too, which was extremely inconvenient.”

Clark’s mouth twitched. “Extremely?”

“He’s very annoying.”

“He is.”

“And beautiful.”

“He knows.”

“And kinder than he wants people to think.”

Clark’s gaze softened. “He knows that less.”

You looked down at your hands. “I’m not trying to use either of you to prove something.”

Clark’s knuckles brushed yours. “Then what are you trying to do?”

You looked up at him. “Choose something because I want it.”

The balcony door opened before he could answer. Bruce stepped outside with his jacket gone and his sleeves rolled to his forearms. The sight of him slightly undone by the long evening made something low in your stomach tighten.

He took in the distance between you and Clark, the glasses on the railing, the conversation still alive in the air. “Am I interrupting?”

“Yes,” Clark said.

“No,” you said at the same time.

Bruce’s brows lifted.

Clark looked at you with affectionate disbelief. “That was very telling.”

“I panicked.”

Bruce closed the balcony door behind him. “Should I leave?”

“No,” you said, too quickly again.

His attention sharpened.

You turned so your back rested against the railing, and you could see them both. “I want this. I want both of you. I wanted you before the weekend became complicated. The fact that you’ve been making it easier is wonderful, but that’s not why.”

Clark’s voice was rougher when he spoke. “Why, then?”

You looked at him. “Because you look at me like you’re glad I’m here.”

Then at Bruce. “Because you look at me like you’ve already decided I belong.”

Bruce’s jaw tightened.

Clark inhaled slowly.

Bruce stepped closer. “If we leave this balcony, we're going somewhere private. We will keep asking. You will keep answering honestly. If the answer changes, everything stops.”

Clark nodded. “And tomorrow, we talk. We don’t pretend it didn’t happen.”

“That sounds very reasonable.”

“I am capable of that,” Clark said.

Bruce glanced at him. “Occasionally.”

Your laugh came out unsteady.

Bruce’s fingers brushed your wrist. “Say it clearly.”

You met his eyes, then Clark’s. “I want to go with you.”

Clark’s smile was small, relieved, and heated enough to make your knees feel unreliable.

Bruce took your hand. “Good.”

They got you out of the reception with almost insulting efficiency. Clark spoke briefly to Daniel, who looked from him to Bruce to you, and with visible effort, chose the path of marital peace. Maya caught your eye from the dance floor. You expected questions, or at least a threat. Instead, she looked at the three of you, lifted her champagne glass in a tiny salute, and turned back to her husband.

🦇 🥂 ☀️

Bruce’s suite was larger than your room, because of course it was. It occupied the corner of the top floor, with a sitting room that opened onto a private terrace and a bedroom visible through double doors left ajar. The lights were low. The curtains moved in the ocean breeze. Somewhere below, the reception continued without you.

The door closed.

For a second, nobody moved.

The nerves arrived all at once. You wanted this. You wanted them. But wanting on a moonlit balcony was different from standing in a private room with Clark watching you like tenderness had teeth and Bruce looking as if every bit of restraint he owned had just been asked to justify its continued existence.

Clark noticed first. “Hey.”

You looked at him.

He came closer slowly. “Talk to us.”

“I want this,” you said at once.

Bruce’s expression softened by a fraction. “That was not in question.”

You took a breath, then another. “I haven’t done anything like this before.”

Clark’s mouth curved gently. “A destination wedding?”

You huffed out a laugh. “You know what I mean.”

“I do.” He reached for your hand and held it loosely, giving you the option to pull away. “Neither of us is in a hurry.”

Bruce came to stand behind you, close but not yet touching. “And neither of us is interested in making you perform confidence you don’t feel.”

The words steadied something in you.

“You always sound like you’re in a board meeting,” you said.

“I’ve been told it’s part of my charm.”

“By who?”

“People on my payroll.”

Then Clark kissed you, and your smile dissolved against his mouth.

There was less hesitation now, though no less care. Clark cupped your face with both hands, drawing you into him as if he had spent all night waiting to do it again. When Bruce touched your waist from behind, you gasped against Clark’s mouth.

Bruce paused. “Still okay?”

“Yes.”

Clark’s lips brushed your cheek, your jaw. “Tell us if that changes.”

“It won’t.”

“Tell us anyway,” Bruce said.

You nodded.

Bruce’s mouth touched the side of your neck, barely a kiss, but it went through you with embarrassing force. Clark felt your reaction and smiled against your skin before kissing you again. Bruce’s fingers tightened at your waist, and between the two of them, you forgot what you had been nervous about.

They undid you slowly. Clark drew the zipper of your dress down while Bruce kissed your shoulder. The fabric loosened and slid lower, catching briefly at your hips before Bruce helped it fall to the floor. You stood between them in your underwear and heels, your pulse racing as both men went still.

Clark’s gaze moved over you with open reverence. Bruce’s was darker, more controlled, but not less affected.

“You’re staring again,” you whispered.

Clark swallowed. “I’m trying not to overwhelm you.”

“You’re doing a terrible job.”

His laugh was unsteady. “Sorry.”

“I didn’t say stop.”

Bruce’s hand slid around to your stomach, pulling your back lightly against his chest. His mouth brushed your ear. “There’s that honesty.”

Your eyes fluttered.

You reached for the open collar of Clark’s shirt and tugged.

He came willingly.

The kiss turned deeper at once, your fingers slipping beneath the open collar of his shirt before fumbling with the remaining buttons. Clark took pity on you after the second one and finished the rest himself. Bruce’s hands moved up your ribs, stopping just beneath your breasts.

“Touch me,” you said.

Bruce exhaled against your neck. “Where?”

You turned your face enough to see him. “You know where.”

His mouth curved. “I want to hear you say it.”

Heat flooded your cheeks, but you had come too far to retreat into shyness. “My breasts. My waist. Between my legs. Anywhere.”

Clark’s eyes darkened.

Bruce’s hands slid up and cupped your breasts through the thin lace of your bra. You arched back against him, a soft sound slipping out before you could stop it. Clark kissed the sound from your mouth, his own hands settling at your hips as Bruce’s thumbs dragged over your nipples.

“Beautiful,” Clark murmured.

Bruce’s mouth returned to your neck. “Very.”

Your bra did not last long after that. Clark removed it with hands that trembled once, barely, and Bruce noticed because of course he did. You knew by the curve of his mouth against your shoulder. Then Clark lowered his mouth to your breast, and you stopped caring who noticed what.

He was gentle at first, lips and tongue and warmth, one broad hand across your back while the other curved around your waist. Bruce held you steady from behind, his fingers teasing your other nipple, his mouth on your neck. Pleasure gathered slowly, then faster, every point of contact becoming part of the same unbearable current.

Bruce was close enough behind you that you could feel the hard line of him against your ass before you reached back and found his thigh.

His breath caught. 

The sound made you bold enough to press back more deliberately.

Bruce’s teeth grazed your shoulder. “Careful.”

Clark lifted his head, lips parted, eyes fixed on your face. “What happens if she isn’t?”

Bruce’s hand slid down your stomach. “Then we find out how much trouble she wants.”

Your knees weakened.

Clark caught you at once. “Bed?”

Bruce did not release you immediately. “Words.”

“Yes,” you said, breathless. “Bed. Please.”

That did something to both of them.

By the time the back of your knees hit the mattress, Clark’s shirt hung open, and Bruce’s was loose at his shoulders. You sat because your legs had given up the argument. Clark stood between your knees, looking down at you with an expression so tender and hungry that your chest hurt. You touched his stomach, then his chest, feeling the heat of him beneath your palms.

“You’re unfairly pretty.”

Bruce made a sound behind you that might have been agreement.

Clark’s ears went faintly pink. “Pretty?”

“Gorgeous. Handsome. Devastating. Pick one.”

His smile flickered. “You still nervous?”

“A little.”

He bent and kissed your forehead. “Good nervous or bad nervous?”

“Good.” You looked at Bruce over Clark’s shoulder. “Very good.”

Bruce removed his shirt entirely. “Then keep going.”

You reached for Clark’s belt, but his hand closed over yours.

“Not yet,” he said.

Then he sank to his knees.

Bruce moved behind you on the bed, one knee bracketing your hip, his hands grounding you as Clark lifted one of your feet and slipped off your heel. He pressed a kiss to your ankle before setting it aside, then did the same with the other. The gesture should not have been erotic. It was. It was horribly erotic, made worse by the fact that Clark seemed entirely sincere about taking his time.

“You both have a patience problem,” you said.

Bruce’s mouth touched your shoulder. “You’re the first person to accuse me of that.”

Clark smiled against your knee. “We’ll try to do better.”

Then his hands slid up your thighs, and you forgot how sentences worked.

He looked up at you from between your knees. “Can I?”

Your breath hitched.

“Yes,” you said. “Please.”

Clark drew your panties down slowly, pressing kisses to your thigh, your knee, your calf as he went. Bruce’s mouth found the side of your neck again. By the time Clark settled between your legs, you were shaking.

His mouth touched you, and the room slipped sideways.

Clark ate you out like he had all the time in the world and every intention of using it well. Slow at first, maddeningly gentle, his tongue dragging through you with enough pressure to make you gasp. Then he learned you: the angle that made your thighs tense, the rhythm that made your breath catch, the place that made you reach blindly for him.

Bruce held you through it, one arm wrapped beneath your breasts, the other hand sliding down to part you more for Clark’s mouth.

“Look at him,” Bruce said, voice low at your ear.

You opened your eyes with effort.

Clark looked up at you from between your legs, mouth wet, eyes dark, one hand gripping your thigh. The sight tore a moan from you before you could swallow it.

Bruce’s hand moved between your legs, two fingers spreading you gently while Clark’s tongue circled your clit. “He likes hearing you.”

Clark made a rough sound of agreement against you.

Your hips lifted.

Bruce held you down. “I’ve got you.”

Pleasure built, deep and bright and impossible to outrun. Bruce’s mouth was at your ear, saying things you only half understood. Good girl. Let him. That’s it. Clark groaned against you when you started to shake, and the vibration pushed you over the edge.

You came with your head tipped back against Bruce’s shoulder and Clark’s name on your tongue.

Clark rose slowly, pressing kisses up your body as he came. When he reached your mouth, you tasted yourself on him and made an unsteady sound. Bruce’s hand slid into Clark’s hair and tugged him closer, turning the kiss briefly into something less coordinated and more desperate.

You blindly reached behind you for Bruce. “You’re wearing too much.”

His breath left him in something like a laugh. “Am I?”

“Yes.”

Clark looked down at you, still breathing hard. “Bossy.”

“You like it.”

His smile softened into heat. “Yeah. I do.”

They undressed with less patience after that. There was something surreal about seeing them like this, two men you had spent years admiring from safe distances suddenly bare and wanting in the low light of a resort suite.

They looked at each other too. Clark’s gaze moved over Bruce with familiarity and hunger. Bruce let him look for three whole seconds before catching his jaw and kissing him.

This time, there was nothing brief about it.

You watched them kiss at the foot of the bed, Clark’s hand closing around Bruce’s waist, Bruce’s fingers at Clark’s throat, and desire moved through you so sharply that you pressed your thighs together.

Bruce noticed. Of course he did.

He broke the kiss and looked at you. “Impatient?”

“Yes.”

His smile was dangerous. “Good.”

Clark came back to you first, settling his weight carefully over you. Skin against skin was different. Hotter. More intimate. Your legs opened around him without thought, and his breath caught when his cock brushed against your thigh.

Bruce opened the nightstand drawer and set condoms on the bed within reach.

Clark kissed you again, and this time there was a tremor beneath his control. He reached for a condom, then paused when you took it from him and rolled it on yourself, his head bowing as if the sight might kill him. When he settled between your legs and held himself there, waiting, Bruce moved beside you, one hand on your thigh.

“Tell him,” Bruce said.

You looked up at Clark. “I want you inside me.”

Clark’s eyes closed briefly. “Damn.”

He pushed in slowly.

The stretch stole your breath. Clark went still at once, his jaw tight, one hand fisting in the sheets beside your head. You clung to his shoulders, overwhelmed by the heat of him, by Bruce’s hand steady on your thigh, by the fact that both men were watching your face as if nothing mattered more than what they found there.

“You okay?” Clark asked, voice strained.

“Yeah.” You shifted beneath him. “Just go slow.”

He nodded and kissed your cheek, your mouth, the corner of your jaw. “Slow.”

Clark filled you inch by inch, pausing whenever your nails dug into his back, whispering praise against your skin until you were not sure whether you were melting from pleasure or tenderness. When he was fully inside, he rested his forehead against yours.

For a moment, there was only breath.

Then you moved your hips.

Clark groaned. “Careful.”

You smiled faintly. “Everyone keeps saying that.”

Bruce’s hand slid higher on your thigh. “You keep ignoring it.”

Clark began to move, slow like he had promised and deep enough that each thrust made your breath catch. Bruce’s hand slipped between your bodies to find your clit, and the first touch made you jerk.

Clark stopped. “Too much?”

“No,” you gasped. “Don’t stop.”

Bruce circled gently. “Like this?”

“Yes.”

It became a rhythm between the three of you: Clark moving inside you, Bruce touching you, your body stretched and filled and coaxed toward the edge again before you had fully come back from the first time. Bruce kissed Clark over you, and Clark groaned into his mouth, the sound vibrating through his chest and into yours.

That was what did it.

You came around Clark with a cry you could not contain. Clark followed almost immediately, burying his face in your neck as his body shuddered through release. Bruce kept his hand on your thigh, grounding you both, his mouth pressed to Clark’s shoulder for one strangely tender second.

Clark was careful when he withdrew, careful when he disposed of the condom, careful when he came back to you and kissed you softly enough to make your eyes sting.

“You okay?” he whispered.

You nodded. “Very.”

Bruce lay beside you, propped on one elbow. His expression had gone quieter.

You turned your head toward him. “You’re thinking.”

“I often do.”

“Dangerous habit.”

Clark laughed weakly and dropped his forehead to your shoulder.

Bruce’s fingers traced your hip. “Do you need a break?”

The question settled low in your stomach.

Clark lifted his head, gaze moving between you and Bruce. “You don’t have to decide now.”

You were tired. You were sensitive. You also wanted Bruce with a clarity that felt almost unreasonable.

You reached for him. “Come here.”

His eyes darkened.

Clark shifted to make room, but he did not move away. He lay beside you, one hand stroking slowly along your side as Bruce kissed you. Where Clark had been warmth, Bruce was heat under pressure. He took your mouth like he had been waiting through every second of Clark touching you and had counted each one.

“Still want me?” Bruce asked.

“Yes.”

“After him?”

You heard the question beneath the words, something older and sharper than jealousy.

You touched his face. “Because of him. Because of you. Because I want both.”

Clark’s hand stilled against your side.

Bruce looked past you at him. Whatever he saw there seemed to settle something in him. He kissed Clark over your shoulder, slower this time, almost bruisingly intimate. Then he turned back to you.

“Hands and knees,” he said.

Clark helped you turn, pressing a kiss to your shoulder as you shifted onto your hands and knees. Bruce knelt behind you, his hands smoothing over your hips, your lower back, your ass. Clark settled in front of you, bare and beautiful, one hand cupping your cheek.

“You still with us?” Clark asked.

“Yes.”

Bruce’s hand slid between your thighs, checking you with careful fingers. You shivered.

“She is,” he said.

Bruce rolled on a condom, positioned himself behind you, and paused with the head of his cock pressed against you.

His hand settled at your waist. “Say it.”

You looked at Clark, who watched you with heat and tenderness in equal measure.

“I want you to fuck me,” you said.

Bruce groaned softly. “Good girl.”

He pushed inside.

The angle was different like this, deeper almost immediately, and your arms nearly gave out. Clark caught your face in both hands, kissing you through the first overwhelming stretch as Bruce worked in slowly. You were still sensitive from Clark, still open and aching, and Bruce felt impossibly good, pausing whenever your breath changed.

“That’s it,” Clark murmured against your mouth. “You’re doing so well.”

Bruce’s fingers dug into your hips. “Kent.”

“What?”

“You’re going to make this very difficult.”

Clark looked past you, and whatever expression he gave Bruce made the man behind you inhale sharply.

“Good,” Clark said.

Bruce’s control slipped.

His next thrust was harder, not careless, but enough to push a broken sound from your throat. Clark swallowed it with a kiss, his hands steady on your face as Bruce found a rhythm behind you. Each thrust rocked you forward into Clark’s hands, into his mouth, into the heat of his body kneeling before you.

You reached for Clark, fingers sliding over his thigh. He was hard again, or still, and he shuddered when your hand closed around him.

“You don’t have to,” he said tightly.

“I want to.”

Bruce’s hand slid up your spine. “Let her.”

Clark groaned as you stroked him, your rhythm uneven because Bruce was fucking you too thoroughly for coordination. It didn’t seem to matter. Bruce reached over you to drag him down into another kiss, and Clark’s hand slipped between your legs, slick fingers finding your clit.

You liked it so much you could not answer.

Clark touched you steadily, and Bruce thrust deeper, and the last of your strength deserted you. Your forehead dropped against Clark’s abs as you came again, shaking so hard Bruce had to hold your hips steady through it.

Bruce followed with a low, controlled sound that broke at the end.

The three of you stayed like that for a moment, breathing hard, tangled and sweat-warm and stunned into silence. Then Bruce withdrew carefully, and Clark helped lower you to the bed.

You were not breakable. You were, however, boneless.

Clark laughed softly when you said so into the pillow.

Bruce left and returned with warm washcloths and water because apparently even sex did not stop him from being logistically aggressive. He cleaned you gently, and Clark held the glass so you would drink, then kissed your forehead when you glared at him for making you prove you could finish it.

“You’re both very smug,” you mumbled once you were tucked between them beneath the sheet.

“I’m not smug,” Bruce said.

Clark glanced over your shoulder. “You are extremely smug.”

“I’m happy.”

“That’s worse.”

You smiled into the pillow. “You two always like this?”

“Yes,” Clark said.

“No,” Bruce said at the same time.

Clark’s hand warmed your stomach. “We’re worse when we’re nervous.”

Bruce scoffed.

“You are,” Clark said.

“I don’t get nervous.”

“You reorganized the minibar before she got here.”

You turned your head slowly toward Bruce. “You what?”

Bruce’s expression remained composed. “The resort had stocked inferior gin.”

Clark laughed into your shoulder.

You stared at Bruce until his mouth twitched. Then the laughter got you too, quiet at first and then harder, until Clark was laughing with you and Bruce was pretending not to, which only made it worse.

Eventually, the laughter faded.

Clark kissed your shoulder. “Stay?”

Your chest softened painfully.

Bruce’s fingers paused at your wrist.

You could have made a joke. You could have said your room had a better view, though it did not. You could have pretended this was only about exhaustion and convenience.

Instead, you said, “Of course.”

🦇 🥂 ☀️

The next morning, the resort knew.

Technically, this was impossible. No announcement had been made. No one had seen you sneak out of Bruce’s suite because you had not snuck out of Bruce’s suite. The wedding guests were hungover, sunburned, emotionally depleted, and scattered across breakfast, the beach, and checkout. There was no reason for anyone to know anything.

And yet.

The room service waiter arrived at nine with coffee, fruit, pastries, and the expression of a man whose professional discretion was fighting for its life. His eyes flicked once to Clark, who answered the door in pants and nothing else. Then to Bruce, who was on the phone in a robe. Then to you, sitting cross-legged on the bed in Bruce’s shirt.

The waiter’s face did something heroic and blank.

“Breakfast,” he said.

Clark tipped him enough to buy silence or encourage folklore.

By ten, Maya texted you.

Maya: Alive?

You: Alive. Brunch. Don’t ask.

Maya: I am the bride. I can ask whatever I want.

Then, after three dots appeared and disappeared twice:

Maya: Actually don’t answer over text. I want facial expressions.

You groaned and dropped the phone onto the bed.

Bruce handed you coffee. “Congratulations. You have become the morning entertainment.”

“This is your fault.”

“My fault?”

“You said rumors would save time.”

“They did.”

Clark sat on the edge of the bed beside you, smiling into his coffee. “He’s not wrong.”

You pointed at him. “Do not side with him while shirtless. It’s manipulative.”

Clark’s smile widened. “Should I put on a shirt?”

“No.”

Bruce’s mouth curved against his cup.

Brunch was held on the same terrace as the welcome lunch, which felt excessive in a way that made you suspect the resort had a narrative department. You arrived between Clark and Bruce wearing sunglasses, a sundress, and the fragile composure of a woman who had discovered there was no graceful way to walk into a room after spending the night with two groomsmen everyone had already suspected you were spending too much time with.

Maya saw you immediately. Her eyes moved from you to Clark to Bruce and back again. Then she smiled slowly.

You mouthed, Don’t.

She mouthed, Later.

Maya’s aunt was less discreet.

“Well,” she said as the three of you approached the table. “You look rested.”

You choked on air.

Clark coughed into his hand.

Bruce pulled out your chair. “She slept well.”

You sat down hard. “Bruce.”

“What?”

Maya made a strangled sound into her mimosa.

By noon, checkout had begun. Your original return flight was not until the next morning, a final cruelty from the old itinerary. When you had first arrived, that extra night had looked like punishment: one more evening alone in an ocean-view room designed by people who thought heartbreak needed mood lighting.

Now, for the first time all weekend, the empty room did not feel like a verdict.

You stood on the path near the beach while the wedding party said slow, messy goodbyes around you.

Maya hugged you last.

“I’m proud of you,” she said quietly.

“For surviving your wedding?”

“For showing up. For letting yourself have something good.” She pulled back and studied your face. “It is good, right?”

You looked across the path.

Clark was helping Daniel load luggage into a shuttle, laughing at something he said. Bruce stood nearby in sunglasses, holding Maya’s bouquet because she had shoved it at him ten minutes earlier and he had accepted it with the grim resignation of a man who negotiated with senators but lost to a bride.

Your heart did something complicated.

“Yes,” you said. “I think it is.”

Maya squeezed your hand. “Then don’t turn it into punishment just because it came after something bad.”

Your throat tightened. “When did you get wise?”

“I got married yesterday. It came with the paperwork.”

You laughed and hugged her again.

After she left, the resort felt quieter. Guests disappeared into shuttles and taxis. Staff dismantled floral arrangements. The terrace where you had been photographed between Clark and Bruce looked almost ordinary in daylight. It was strange how quickly a wedding became evidence of itself: petals on stone, empty champagne crates, ribbon caught in a hedge, a life-changing day reduced to cleanup and invoices.

You returned to your room because you technically still had one. The couples’ welcome package was gone. In its place sat a small plate of fruit and a note from the resort manager apologizing for the reservation error. Bruce’s doing, probably. Or Clark’s. Or both, in their very different ways.

You stood in the middle of the room and tried to decide what came next.

That was when the fear returned.

It had waited until you were alone, which was considerate of it. You had wanted them. You still wanted them. But wedding weekends were strange little islands outside ordinary life. Tomorrow, Clark would return to Metropolis. Bruce would return to Gotham. You would return home to an apartment that still held the ghost of a relationship you had ended but not yet escaped.

A knock sounded at the door.

You opened it and found Clark.

He had changed into a white shirt and dark pants, his hair still damp from a shower. He took one look at your face and stepped inside without a joke.

“What happened?”

“Nothing.”

He closed the door behind him. “Okay.”

“I mean it. Nothing happened.”

“I believe you.” He came closer. “That doesn’t mean you’re fine.”

You huffed a humorless laugh. “You’re very annoying.”

“I’ve heard.”

“From Bruce?”

“Mostly.”

You sat on the edge of the bed. Clark crouched in front of you instead of sitting beside you, which was unfair because it put his face level with yours and made it harder to hide.

“I don’t know what this is once we leave,” you said.

Clark’s expression softened. “That’s what scared you?”

You looked down at your hands. “I don’t want to be the wedding story.”

“You’re not.”

“Clark.”

“You’re not.” His hands covered yours. “Last night wasn’t a favor. It wasn’t stress relief. It wasn’t us getting carried away because there were flowers and champagne and everyone was emotional.”

“It was a little champagne.”

“A little,” he admitted. “But I knew what I wanted before the champagne.”

Your eyes lifted to his.

Clark’s thumbs moved gently over your knuckles. “I wanted you at Maya’s birthday dinner last year when you spent twenty minutes arguing with Bruce about public transit and he looked happier than I’d seen him in months. I wanted you at Daniel’s promotion party when you fell asleep on the couch with your head on Maya’s lap and got embarrassed because I brought you a blanket. I wanted you when you belonged to someone else, and I hated myself enough for that to keep my distance.”

Your chest ached.

“Clark.”

“I’m not saying that to pressure you.” His voice remained steady, though his eyes were anything but. “I’m saying it because this didn’t start yesterday for me.”

The room blurred slightly.

You blinked hard. “Oh.”

His smile was small. “Yeah.”

The door opened.

Bruce walked in using the spare key card he absolutely should not have had.

You stared at him. “Did you just let yourself into my room?”

“Yes.”

Clark looked over his shoulder. “Bruce.”

“What?” Bruce closed the door. “She gave me a key.”

“I gave you a key last night because you said you’d have my dress sent up from your room.”

“And I did.”

“That is not blanket permission.”

Bruce considered this. “Noted.”

Clark sighed, but he was smiling.

Bruce’s gaze moved between you, taking in Clark crouched in front of you, your hands in his, your expression. The amusement faded.

“What happened?”

You looked at Clark. “Do you two rehearse this?”

“Yes,” Clark said.

“No,” Bruce said.

You let out a small laugh, and some of the tightness in the room loosened.

Bruce came closer, but unlike Clark, he did not crouch. He sat beside you on the bed, close enough that his knee touched your thigh.

“Kent gave the earnest speech,” he said.

“I did.”

“So I assume it was thorough.”

“Pretty thorough.”

Bruce nodded. “Good. I’m worse at those.”

You looked at him. “Are you?”

“Yes.”

Clark stood, but he stayed close.

Bruce’s hand rested on the bed beside yours. “I don’t know what this is outside of here either.”

That was not what you expected him to say.

He looked at you directly, no performance, no polished charm. “I know what I want. I know I’m not interested in pretending last night was only for one night. I know Clark will overthink this from every morally defensible angle, and I know you have an apartment to go back to and a life to rearrange because someone was careless with your heart before we ever touched it.”

Your breath caught.

Bruce’s fingers brushed yours. “I also know I would like to see you next weekend. And the weekend after that. Somewhere without a seating chart.”

Clark looked at him.

Bruce glanced up. “You too.”

Clark’s mouth twitched. “Good to know.”

“You were included.”

“You didn’t say it.”

“I implied it.”

You started laughing before Clark could answer.

Bruce looked offended for half a second, which only made it worse. Clark sat on your other side, his shoulder shaking against yours. You laughed until your eyes burned, and then you were crying a little too, which was embarrassing but apparently allowed because neither of them made a fuss. Clark wrapped an arm around you. Bruce took your hand.

For a while, the three of you sat on the edge of the bed in your too-beautiful room at a resort designed for people who arrived in pairs, and you let yourself be held by two men who had decided the math was better with three.

Later, when the sun began to sink again, and the last of the wedding guests had gone, you walked down to the beach with them.

The resort was calmer now. The ocean rolled in soft, foaming lines across the sand, erasing footprints almost as soon as they appeared. Clark carried his shoes in one hand. Bruce had complained about the sand once, then stopped when you looked at him. You walked between them near the waterline, your dress moving in the breeze, your fingers laced with Clark’s on one side and Bruce’s on the other.

“So,” you said, looking out at the water. “Next weekend.”

Bruce’s hand tightened around yours. “Yes.”

“Is this going to involve a private jet?”

“That depends.”

“On?”

“Whether you object to the private jet.”

Clark groaned. “Bruce.”

“What? It’s practical.”

“It’s excessive.”

“Those are not mutually exclusive.”

You looked at Clark. “Do you object to the private jet?”

Clark sighed. “Morally, sometimes. Practically, less often than I should.”

Bruce smiled. “He’ll be there.”

“I didn’t say I wouldn’t.”

“You rarely do.”

Clark looked over your head at him. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet.”

“And yet,” Clark agreed, softer now.

You looked between them, at the affection tucked inside the argument, at the history you had stepped into and somehow not disrupted. The fear had not disappeared entirely. You suspected it would return later, when you packed, when you went home, when real life asked what shape this was supposed to take.

But for now, Clark’s thumb moved over your knuckles, and Bruce held your hand like letting go was not under consideration, and the resort staff near the beach bar were absolutely whispering.

Bruce glanced toward the bar, then back at you. “They’re talking about us.”

“I know.”

“Does it bother you?”

Yesterday, it might have.

Yesterday, you had arrived alone and braced for pity. You had walked into a resort built for couples with one name too many on your reservation and a hollow place beside you where someone else was supposed to stand. You had expected sympathetic looks. Awkward questions. A weekend spent pretending not to care.

Instead, Clark lifted your hand and kissed your knuckles.

Bruce watched you with a smile he did not bother to hide.

You looked at the two of them and felt the bright, impossible shape of the rumor become something closer to truth.

“No,” you said. “Let them talk.”

🦇 🥂 ☀️